Walk with Care

by Patricia Wentworth

  A fleeting look like the shadow of past bitterness crossed his face. For a moment all the lines were deepened. He looked ten years older. It passed as Rosalind’s hand tightened on his, and his own most charming smile took its place. He went on speaking.

  “I had been to see Asphodel, as Rosalind said.”

  “Why?” Rosalind’s voice was very low.

  Gilbert Denny hesitated. He looked at Garrett.

  “Some of what I am saying had better not go beyond this room,” he said. “Am I to say it, or would you rather not?”

  “Oh, say it—say it!” said Garrett.

  “Mumbo-Jumbo,” began Ananias in a whisper.

  “No—no!” said Mr Smith. Then, courteously to Gilbert, “Pray continue.”

  Gilbert Denny continued.

  “Mrs Vane, who is a cousin of mine, made repeated efforts to get me to go and see Asphodel. I should have taken no notice if it had not occurred to me to wonder why such an endeavour should have been made. It was—” He stopped for a moment, and then said, “persistent. That made me suspicious. I was being attacked from the dark. I was inclined to be suspicious. I thought I would go and see Asphodel.”

  “Well?” said Garrett.

  The shadow crossed Gilbert’s face again. The darkened room came back, and Asphodel’s face, dead white, with the pale red hair, and the voice which had changed into Rosalind’s voice, afraid and trembling over the words which spoke of a stolen paper and secrets betrayed. Almost it had persuaded him. Almost? Or, for a nightmare space which he would not willingly remember, had the “almost” been “quite”? He said, with an edge to his quiet voice,

  “She is—clever.” And then, “I’d better go on. My stroke of luck was this. After I had swum ashore I picked up the motor-bike Lester had hidden there for me, put on overalls and goggles, and rode away. The bike had a very good head-light. When I had ridden about a mile, the beam picked up Asphodel walking along the middle of the road. I was doing a good forty, and I thought I’d seen a ghost, or a devil—that’s more in her line. I was in the state of mind when one sees things. And afterwards I thought I’d make sure, and I sent Lester down to make inquiries. I kept in touch with him. He’s a first-class lad. Well, he went down to Talland, and this is what he found out. Asphodel, under the name of Miss Maud Deane, was staying as a p.g. in a cottage owned by an artist of the name of Carew. She’d been in the habit of coming down there for years—in fact it made a very convenient bolt-hole. Carew, who was an invalid and the most unpractical man in the world, had a daughter of eighteen or nineteen, a charming child. Her name is Rachel, and I gather that Jeremy has fallen romantically in love with her. Well, the connection between the Carews and Asphodel is very simple. Carew was a widower. Rachel’s old nurse, Phoebe Dart, kept house and ran the show. And before she was Rachel’s nurse she was in the service of the Reverend Geoffrey Arthur Deane. Miss Maud had her on a string—Phoebe adored her and would have done anything she told her. It suited the Carews to have a p.g., and it suited Asphodel to have a bolt-hole.”

  He turned to Garrett.

  “Remember the Vulture*, Frank?”

  Garrett uttered an exclamation.

  “Yes,” said Gilbert Denny. “You got him. But you didn’t get his right hand. Miss Maud Millicent Deane remained to carry on the good work. She specializes in the sort of blackmail they applied to me. She’s one of the cleverest forgers who have ever lived, and, as her father’s verger said, she can imitate any voice. She can also assume a new personality at will. I have seen her as Asphodel, and as Geoffrey Deane, and as a most charming and convincing old lady. If she hadn’t been startled by my head-light at Talland, I should never have been allowed to recognize her then. I don’t quite know what I did recognize—the whole outline of the face, and the fixed eyes that made her look as she did when she simulated a state of trance perhaps—I don’t know.” He paused for a moment, frowning at the fire, where Garrett’s logs were well alight and the flames leaping. After a moment he went on again. “It doesn’t take long to tell, but it took a long time to find out. I’ve only just discovered that Geoffrey Deane died nearly two years ago, and it’s only this last week that I got proof of the forgeries. I’ve been getting into the Tilt Street house at night, and that did the trick. I found out a whole lot of things. I’m a highly accomplished eavesdropper. I think I shall take up burgling as a recreation. All right, Frank, don’t frown like that—I’ll get on.”

  “Who took the Engelberg Note?” said Garrett bluntly. “There are several things I want to know, and that’s the first.”

  Gilbert Denny pulled a wry face.

  “Mimosa Vane,” he said. “All in the family, you see, Frank. She was staying with us at the time. I gather that she let the papers down on a thread out of my study window practically under my nose. They weren’t gone twenty minutes, so I never missed them. They were photographed and back again whilst she sat by the window prattling and I kept wishing to heaven she’d clear out and leave me to work. She’s been doing jackal for Asphodel for years. What else do you want to know?”

  “Where do those green clay models come in? I swear they come in somewhere. Ellinger had one, and Rosalind’s got one, and so has Jeremy Ware.”

  “Jeremy got his from Rachel,” said Rosalind quickly. “Mine came by post just after Gilbert—went.”

  “Well?” said Garrett, looking at Gilbert.

  “Carew made them. He was a genius in his way, but quite unpractical. He let Asphodel have his things for a song. Then, when she was blackmailing anyone for a really large sum, it could pass as payment for a work of art. She covered her tracks of course. Old Carew had exhibited in the Salon in his day—if he chose to ask five hundred for one of his green beasts, he could. Asphodel ran an account in his name at a suburban bank, so if the money was traced, the trail only led to Carew.”

  “And Carew is dead?” said Mr Smith.

  “Three months ago. Asphodel then took Number One Tilt Street and brought Phoebe Dart and Rachel to London. You see, Rachel at Talland was all right. but there wasn’t any money, and when Carew was gone, the girl wanted to go out and get a job. Well, Asphodel simply couldn’t afford to let her do it. She was getting a bit fussed by then. I’d been very careful, but she knew that someone was on her track. She must have been off her guard sometimes at Talland with Phoebe, and both Phoebe and Rachel knew her as Maud Deane. Phoebe Dart knew a lot more than that, and Rachel knew about the green beasts, and—well, I gathered in the course of my eavesdropping that she wasn’t sure how much more Rachel did know. And that is why we haven’t got too much time to waste. She’s getting Rachel Carew out of the country on a faked passport, and once she’s out of the country she—well, she’ll never come back. There’s enough of the Vulture’s old gang knocking about to make quite sure of that. Phoebe’s been sticking out about it, but Asphodel will take her own way.” Gilbert Denny got up. “Candidly, Frank, the girl ought to be got out of it at once. Asphodel’s rattled—I think she might bolt at any time. She got the wind up when she found someone had been making inquiries in Ledlington. Also I gather she’s been trying to involve Jeremy, and he’s been too bright for her.”

  “One moment,” said Garrett—“I want to know about Mannister. He married this woman. How far is he in with her? If he’s in with her, why did he come out into the limelight? If he isn’t, why did she let him come? He raised all this business—came to me about it—said he’d been losing papers. Why?” He shot out the last word like an express bullet.

  “I—er—told you why,” said Mr Smith with gentle firmness.

  Gilbert Denny looked from one to the other and shrugged his shoulders.

  “You’re asking something I can’t answer. I don’t know what Mannister knows. I do know that Asphodel has got him body and soul. He never was much more than a bit of sounding brass, and she plays any tune on him she likes. I don’t know how soon he found out that sh
e wasn’t Geoffrey Deane. Perhaps she knew something about him which kept him quiet until she’d got him where she wanted. After that—well, she blackmailed him mentally. I think he’d scruples about Jeremy. She played on his fears. He’d a reputation, and he stood to lose it if she came to grief and their marriage came out. She played on his infatuation.” Gilbert Denny made a gesture. “I don’t know what he knew, but he was afraid—afraid of losing her, and afraid of what might come out if he lost her—afraid perhaps of what he might have to know about her.” Gilbert’s face changed and darkened. He looked down at the floor and was suddenly silent. He knew the torture of those fears as well as any man. He said harshly, “Do you suppose he’d stick at throwing Jeremy to the wolves?”

  Mr Smith nodded.

  “That is what I thought. Someone was afraid that the Engelberg affair was in danger of being revived. Jeremy Ware was your secretary at that time. If he could—er—be involved in a new scandal over an employer’s papers, it would be readily believed that it was he who had sold the Engelberg Note. Mannister’s visit left me under the impression that it had been made for the sole purpose of focusing our—er—attention upon Jeremy Ware. And, by the way, Jeremy has been trying to ring me up. I think, Garrett—” He drew Garrett aside. They walked to the end of the long room and stopped beside the telephone.

  Ananias watched them with the closest attention. When, after a few moments of low-toned conversation,

  Garrett proceeded to dial in, he became restless and excited, and could be heard reciting in a whisper:

  “Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom—”

  Garrett began to bark into the receiver.

  “In bed? … Then he’ll have to get up! … Yes, I said up! U P—up! Tell him Colonel Garrett wants to speak to him at once! … Oh, is that you, Hawkins? I tell you I want Hawkins! I don’t care if he’s dead and buried! Somebody’ll lose their job if he isn’t on the line inside the next minute, so jump to it, my lad! … Oh, is that you, Hawkins? They said you were dead. Now look here. …” He proceeded to give a number of very succinct instructions.

  Ananias stopped reciting in order to commit to memory the peculiarly sharp tone of his voice. With one foot raised and all the claws retracted, he appeared lost in admiration.

  Garrett hung up the receiver at last and turned to the room.

  “We’re going to make a raid,” he said. “I’m banking on your evidence, Gilbert. I hope you’re sure of it. I suppose Rosalind will take the girl in if we get her away. How did you come? Have you got a car?”

  “I’ve got my taxi outside,” said Gilbert Denny. “Did I tell you I drove one?”

  As he spoke, the clock on the mantelpiece struck the hour of twelve.

  * See Danger Calling.

  CHAPTER XXXVIII

  JEREMY DID NOT FIND it at all difficult to enter the house in Tilt Street. It was perhaps ten minutes past twelve when he emerged cautiously from the stairway leading to the basement and came into the narrow hall. He had taken three noiseless steps, when something halted him. There came from overhead the sound of heavy pacing feet. He stood where he was, and heard them go to and fro the house.

  After a minute or two he moved again. He had come to look for Rachel, and he was going to look for Rachel. He had a pocket torch, and with its help he ascertained that the ground floor room was empty. It was a dining-room, and it ran right through from the front of the house to the back. He went on up the stairs past the half-landing where Phoebe Dart had sold him a water-colour sketch, and so on to the doors which opened into the L-shaped room where Asphodel had sat behind a black curtain and pretended to read his hand.

  The curtains must be drawn back, because it was in this room that the steps went heavily to and fro. They were a man’s steps, and as he listened, Jeremy thought that the man was Bernard Mannister. Once the steps halted at the window which looked upon the street. There was silence, and then a groan, and then the heavy footsteps went to and fro again.

  Jeremy went on up the stair. There were two bedrooms here, and they were empty. In the front room everything was in perfect order. The bed was made. The drawers and cupboards had been cleared. Not so much as a scrap of paper remained. Asphodel was gone, but she had not been gone for long. The soap in the soap-dish was still damp. The back room was not so neat. Phoebe Dart had packed in a hurry, but she too had taken care to leave no papers behind her.

  Jeremy went on to the top of the house, There was an empty attic that looked out to the front. And there was Rachel’s room. But there was no Rachel. There was nothing of Rachel left. Asphodel had seen to that. She took no chances and she left no clues. Jeremy stood in the little, empty room, and was racked with an agony of fear. This was Rachel’s room, but where was Rachel? This was Rachel’s room, but there was not so much as a dress, or a book, or a handkerchief of Rachel’s here. The emptiness meant that she had been taken away.

  He went back on to the landing and saw the ladder leading to the loft. He climbed into the dreary place and sent the beam of his torch flickering over the derelict baths and fenders. He even called her name, but it came back to him with a hopeless sound, and he knew that he had not expected Rachel to be here. He was numb with the realization that she was gone. Presently the numbness would pass and he would suffer, but for the moment he could feel nothing. He stood on the dark landing with the torch making a bright patch at his feet, and a curious heavy space of time went by. He did not know how long it was. It was broken upon by a loud and heavy knocking at the street door.

  Gilbert Denny had drawn up his taxi at the same corner where earlier in the evening Jeremy had walked to and fro, and for the same reason—the door of Bernard Mannister’s house and the door of the Tilt Street Row. Rachel was gone. They swore that they would find her, but where was she to-night, and in whose hands? In whose hands? He felt stiffly in his pocket, found his key, and opened the door. It opened on darkness.

  He took a step forward into the darkness and touched something—something soft. A sharp stab went through him, sheer pain and something like a terror of hope. He groped for his torch and switched it on.

  Mrs Walker’s stair ran steeply up from the door. There was just room to stand between the door and the bottom step. Jeremy stood in the narrow space, and saw Rachel on the second step with her feet drawn up under her skirt and her head against the balustrade. Her hands were folded in her lap and she was very deeply asleep, with her lashes dark upon her white cheek, and the faintest, sweetest smile just parting her lips. She looked very young.

  Jeremy let the light shine upon her face. He could only look and wonder. The light shone into the dream where Rachel walked with him and he said, “I love you, Rachel. Say you love me too.” The light shone in and waked her. She opened her eyes and saw Jeremy standing there. She said, in a happy, sleepy voice,

  “I love you, Jeremy!”

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Benbow Smith Mysteries

  CHAPTER I

  ELFREDA MOORE TURNED ROUND from the telephone with a despairing gesture.

  “Aunt Hortensia, she says she sent them off yesterday morning—she swears she did.”

  “Then she’s not speaking the truth,” said Miss Hortensia Carew. “Any time before one o’clock, and they would have been here by the first post.”

  She spoke in her most decided manner, and she could be very decided. She was small, pretty, with fluffy white hair, eyes of the brightest china blue, and a complexion which was still admired, especially by Miss Hortensia Carew. She had managed her brother and her brother’s house for twenty-two years, and now that Rose Anne was to be married, there would never be any question of the reins being taken from her hands. From this point of view the marriage had her approval. But why make such a fuss about it? Girls were married every day, weren’t they? One could have been married oneself several times over if one had wanted to.

  She put her gold-rimmed pince-nez straig
ht, and frowned at Elfreda, who continued to bleat.

  “She swears she sent them. She says they were posted before ten. Isn’t it grim?”

  The Reverend James Carew looked suddenly over the top of the Times and enquired in an irritated voice,

  “What’s the matter now? What hasn’t been posted? What hasn’t arrived? There isn’t a minute’s peace! I am reading an article about the stratosphere. Remarkably interesting—if I could get a minute’s peace!”

  “Oh, Uncle James—the bridesmaids’ wreaths. The dresses came yesterday—from Madame Frederica’s, you know—and she hadn’t put in the wreaths, and we rang up at once, and she swore she’d send them by the very next post, and they haven’t come.”

  “Your uncle is not interested in wreaths,” said Miss Hortensia acidly.

  Elfreda couldn’t believe it. You might be old, and an uncle, and a person who read articles on the stratosphere, but it wasn’t possible that you should take no interest in the wreaths for your own daughter’s bridesmaids. She said protestingly,

  “Isn’t it grim, Uncle James?”

  Mr Carew got to his feet and began to drift towards the door, paper in hand. He had the same regular features as his sister. All the Carews had regular features—it annoyed Elfreda dreadfully that she should have taken after her father’s family—but James Carew’s eyes were hazy instead of sharp, and his fair skin had gone tired and grey. His sister managed him because he had stopped taking much interest in his own life when Rose Anne’s mother died. He had a vague fondness for Elfreda though he considered her noisy. He said quite kindly,

  “The wreaths will probably come.”

  “But the last post’s in.”

  He paused at the door.

  “There will be one tomorrow.”

  “But the wedding’s tomorrow—Rose Anne’s wedding.”

  She spoke to an empty doorway. Mr Carew had disappeared.