The Classic Mystery Novel

by Dorothy Cameron Disney

  “Who’s going to tell him about Phil?” Gladys asked in consternation when I read her the message. We were getting on so comfortably without my brother that I think the natural affection of us both was tinged with resentment that he was returning by an earlier boat than he had threatened.

  “As you are the offender,” I pointed out.

  “You were responsible for me.”

  “Why not leave it to Phil?” I suggested, with my genius for compromise.

  “That’s mean.”

  “Well, will you tell him yourself? No! I decline to be mixed up in it. I shan’t be here. The day your parents land, I shall shift myself bag and baggage to an hotel. Isn’t the simplest solution to break off the engagement? Well, you’re very hard to please, you know.”

  I really forget how we settled the question, but the news was certainly not broken by me. The Seraph dropped in to dinner on the last night of my guardianship, and I asked him whether he thought I could improve on the Savoy as my next house of entertainment.

  “But you’re coming to stay with me,” he said.

  “My dear fellow, you’ve no experience of me as a guest. I don’t know how long I’m staying in London.”

  “The longer the better, if you don’t mind roughing it.”

  I knew there would be no “roughing it” in his immaculate mode of living, but the question was left undecided for the moment as I really felt it would be better for us both to run independently. Ten weeks of domesticity shared even with Gladys gave me a sensation of clipped wings after my inconsiderate, caravanserai existence, and—without wishing to be patronising—I had to remember that he was a man of very moderate means and would feel the cost of housing me more than I should feel it myself. The following afternoon I called round at Adelphi Terrace to acquaint him with my decision, but something seemed to have upset him; he was gazing abstractedly out of the window and I had not the heart to bother him with my own ephemeral arrangements. At the door of the flat his man apologetically asked my advice on the case; his master was eating, drinking, and smoking practically nothing, wandering about his room instead of going to bed, and gazing out into space instead of his usual daily writing.

  I thought over the symptoms on my way to the Club, and decided to employ a portion of the afternoon in playing providence with Sylvia. It is a part for which I am unfitted by inclination, instinct, experience, and aptitude.

  Some meeting of political stalwarts was in progress when I arrived at Cadogan Square, but I was mercifully shewn into Sylvia’s own room and allowed to spend an interesting five minutes inspecting her books and pictures. They formed an illuminating commentary on her character. One shelf was devoted to works of religion, the rest to lives and histories of the world’s great women. Catherine of Siena marched in front of the army, Florence Nightingale brought up the rear; in the ranks were queens like Elizabeth, Catherine of Russia, and Joan of Arc, the great uncrowned; writers from Madame de Sévigné to George Eliot, actresses from Nell Gwyn to Ellen Terry, artists like Vigée le Brun, reformers like Mary Woolstonecraft. It was a catholic library, and found space for Lady Hamilton among the rest. My inspection was barely begun when the door opened and Sylvia came in alone.

  “’Tis sweet of you to come,” she said. “Have you had tea? Well, d’you mind having it here alone with me? I’m sure you won’t want to meet all father’s constituents’ wives. I hope I wasn’t very long.”

  “No doubt it seemed longer than it was,” I answered. “Still, I’ve had time to look at some of your books and make a discovery about you. If you weren’t your father’s daughter, you’d be a raging militant.”

  From the sudden fire in her eyes I thought I had angered her, but the threatening flame died as quickly as it had arisen.

  “There’s something in heredity after all, then,” she said with a smile. “Do I—look the sort of person that breaks windows and burns down houses?”

  So far as looks went the same question might have been asked of Joyce Davenant. That I did not ask it was due to a prudent resolve to keep my friendship with Rodens and Davenants in separate watertight compartments.

  “You look the sort of person that has a great deal of ability and ambition, and wants a great deal of power.”

  “Without forgetting that I’m still a woman.”

  “Some of the militants are curiously feminine.”

  “‘Curiously,’ is just the right adverb.”

  “Joan of Arc rode astride,” I pointed out.

  “Florence Nightingale didn’t break windows to impress the War Office.”

  “As an academic question,” I said, “how’s your woman of personality going to make her influence effective in twentieth-century England?”

  “Have you met many women of personality?”

  “A fair sprinkling.”

  “So I have; you could feel it as if they were mesmerising you, you had to do anything they told you. But they’d none of them votes.”

  The arrival of tea turned our thoughts from politics, and at the end of my second cup I advanced delicately towards the purpose of my call.

  “You like plain speaking, don’t you, Sylvia?” I began.

  “As plain as you like.”

  “Well, you’re not treating the Seraph fairly.”

  I leant back and watched her raising her little dark eyebrows in amused surprise.

  “Has he sent you here?” she asked.

  “I came on my own blundering initiative,” I said. “I don’t know what the trouble’s about.”

  “But whatever it is, I’m to blame?”

  “Probably.”

  Sylvia was delighted. “If a man doesn’t think highly of women I do like to hear him say so!”

  “As a matter of fact I’m not concerned to apportion blame to either of you. You’re both of you abnormal and irrational; as likely as not you’re both of you wrong. I wanted to tell you something about the Seraph you may not have heard before.”

  In a dozen sentences I told her of my first meeting with him in Morocco.

  “Thanks to you,” I said, “he’s pretty well got over it. Remember that I saw him then, and you didn’t; so believe me when I tell you he was suffering from what the novelists call a ‘broken heart.’ He won’t get over it a second time.”

  “You’re sure it was broken?” she asked dispassionately. “Um. It sounds to me like a dent; press the other side, the dent comes out.”

  I produced a cigarette case, and flew a distress signal for permission.

  “I should like you to be serious about this,” I said.

  “I? Where do I come in?”

  I searched vainly for matches, and eventually had to use one of my own.

  “He’s in love with you,” I said.

  Sylvia dealt with the proposition in a series of short sentences punctuated by grave nods.

  “Gratifying. If true. Seems improbable. Irrelevant, anyway. Unless I happen to be in love with him.”

  “I was not born yesterday,” I reminded her. “Or the day before.”

  “You might have been.”

  I bowed.

  “I mean, you’re so deliciously young. Do you usually go about talking to girls as you’ve been talking to me?”

  I buttoned up my coat, preparatory to leaving. “Being a friend of you both,” I said, “if a word of advice—”

  “But you haven’t given it.”

  Literally, I suppose that was true.

  “Well, if your generosity’s greater than your pride, you can apologise to him: if your pride’s greater than your generosity, waive the apology and sink the past. I’ve a fair idea what the quarrel’s about,” I added.

  “I see.” Sylvia brought flippancy into her tone when speaking of something too serious to be treated seriously: the flippancy was now ebbing away, and leaving her implacable and unyieldi
ng. “Is there any reason why I should do anything at all?” she asked.

  I stretched out my hand to bid her good-bye. “I’ve not done it well,” I admitted, “but the advice was not bad, and the spirit was really good.”

  “Admirable,” she answered ironically. “I should be glad of such a champion. Have you given him any advice?”

  “What d’you suggest?”

  Sylvia knelt on the edge of a sofa, clasping her hands lazily behind her head.

  “I ride in the Park every morning,” she began. “I ride alone because I prefer to be alone. My father objects, and Phil doesn’t like it, because they don’t think it’s safe. I think I’m quite capable of taking care of myself, so I disregard their objection. Your friend also rides in the Park every morning, sometimes with a rather conspicuous woman and the last few mornings alone. I don’t know whether it’s design, I don’t know whether it’s chance—but he rides nearer me than I like.”

  I waited for her to point the moral, mentioning incidentally that England was a free country and the Park was open to the public.

  “He may have the whole of it,” she answered, “except just that little piece where I happen to be riding at any given moment.”

  “I’m afraid you can’t keep him out of even that.”

  Her eyes broke into sudden blaze. “I can flog him out of it as I’d flog any man who followed me when I forbade him.”

  There was nothing more to be said, but I said it as soon as I dared.

  “We’re friends, Sylvia?” She nodded. “And I can say anything I please to you?”

  “No one can do that.”

  “Anything in reason? Well, it’s this—you’re coming a most awful cropper one of these fine days, my imperious little queen.”

  “You think so?”

  “I do. You’re half woman, and half man, and half angel, and three-quarters devil.”

  Sylvia had been counting the attributes on her fingers.

  “When I was at school,” she interrupted, “they taught me it took only two halves to make a whole.”

  “I’ve learnt a lot since I left school. One thing is that you’re the equivalent of any three ordinary women. Now I really am going. Queen Elizabeth, your most humble servant.”

  Her hand went again to the bell, but I was ready with a better suggestion.

  “It would be a graceful act if you offered to show me downstairs,” I said. “It’ll be horribly lonely going down two great long flights all by myself.”

  She took my arm, led me down to the hall, and presented me with my hat and stick.

  “Are you walking?” she asked as we reached the door. “If not, you may have my private taxi. Look at him.” She pointed to an olive-green car at the corner of the Square. “I believe I must have made a conquest, he’s always there, and whenever I’m in a hurry I can depend on him. I think he must refuse to carry any one else. It’s an honour.”

  I ran through my loose change, and lit upon a half-sovereign, which I held conspicuously between thumb and first finger.

  “He’ll carry me,” I said.

  “I doubt it.”

  “Will you bet?”

  “Oh, of course, if you offer to buy the car!”

  “You haven’t the courage of your convictions,” I said severely. “Good-bye, Queen Elizabeth.”

  It was well for me she declined the wager. I walked to the corner and hailed the taxi; but the driver shook his head.

  “Engaged, sir,” he said.

  “Your flag’s up,” I pointed out.

  “My mistake, sir.”

  Nonchalantly pulling down the flag, he retired behind a copy of the Evening News. I was sorry, because his voice was that of an educated man, and I am always interested in people who have seen better days; they remind me of my brother before he was made a judge. I had only caught a glimpse of dark eyes, a sallow complexion and bushy black beard and moustache. England is so preponderatingly clean-shaven that a beard always arouses my suspicions. If the wearer be not a priest of the Orthodox Church, I like to think of him as a Russian nihilist.

  After dinner the following night I mentioned to the Seraph that I had run across Sylvia, and hinted that his propinquity to her in the Park each day was not altogether welcome.

  “So she told me this morning,” he said.

  “I thought you wouldn’t mind my handing on an impression for what it was worth,” I added with vague floundering.

  “Oh, not at all. I shall go there just the same, though.”

  “You’ll annoy her.”

  He shrugged his shoulders resignedly. “That’s as may be. This is not the time for her to be running any unnecessary risks.”

  “You can hardly kidnap a grown woman—on horseback—in broad daylight—in a public park,” I protested.

  “The place is practically deserted at the hour she rides.”

  The following day the Seraph rode as usual. Sylvia entered the Park at her accustomed time; saw him, cut him, passed him. For a while they cantered in the same direction, separated by a hundred and fifty yards; then the Seraph gradually reduced the distance between their horses. His quick eyes had marked a group of men moving furtively through a clump of trees to the side of the road. Their character and intentions will never be known, for Sylvia abruptly drew rein—throwing her horse on his haunches as she did so—then she turned in her own length, and awaited her gratuitous escort. The Seraph had to swerve to avoid a cannon. As he passed, her hand flashed up and cut him across the face with a switch; an instinctive pull at the reins gave his horse a momentary check and enabled her to deal a second cut back-handed across his shoulders. Then both turned and faced each other.

  Sylvia sat with white face and blazing eyes.

  “It was a switch today, and it will be a crop tomorrow,” she told him. “It seems you have to be taught that when I say a thing I mean it.”

  The Seraph bowed and rode away without answering. Physically as well as metaphorically he was thin-skinned, and the switch had drawn blood. Three weeks passed before his face lost the last trace of Sylvia’s castigation. A purple wale first blackened and then turned yellowish green. When I saw him later in the day, his face was swollen, and the mark stretched diagonally from cheekbone to chin, crossing and cutting the lips on its way. He gave me the story quietly and without rancour.

  “I can’t go again after this,” he concluded, “but somebody ought to. If you’ve got any influence with her, use it, and use it quickly. She doesn’t know—you none of you know—the danger she’s in at present!”

  He jumped up to pace the room in uncontrollable nervous excitement.

  “What’s going to happen, Seraph?” I asked, in a voice that was intended to be sympathetic, sceptical, and pacifying at one and the same moment.

  “I don’t know—but she’s in danger—I know that—I know that—I’m certain of that—I know that.”

  His overstrung nerves betrayed themselves in a dozen different ways. It occurred to me that the less time he spent alone in his own society the better.

  “I’ll see if I can do anything,” I said in off-hand fashion. “Meantime, I dropped in to know if your invitation held good for a bed under your hospitable roof-tree.”

  “Delighted to have you,” he answered; and then less conventionally, “it’s very kindly intended.”

  “Kindness all on your side,” I murmured, pretending not to see that he had plumbed the reason for my coming.

  The old, absent thought-reading look returned for an instant to his eyes.

  “All my razors are on my dressing-table,” he said. “Don’t hide them. I shan’t commit suicide, but I shall want to shave. I never keep firearms.”

  I had intended to supervise my removal from Pont Street in person; on reflection I thought it would be wiser to send instructions over the telephone, and give the Seraph t
he benefit of my company for what it was worth.

  CHAPTER IX

  The Third Round

  “When we two parted

  In silence and tears,

  Half broken-hearted

  To sever for years,

  Pale grew thy cheek and cold,

  Colder thy kiss;

  Truly that hour foretold

  Sorrow to this.”

  —Lord Byron

  When We Two Parted.

  Though the flat in Adelphi Terrace became my home from this time until the end of my residence in England, I saw little of the Seraph for the week following my change of quarters. I think he liked my company at meals, and whenever we were together I certainly worked hard to distract his mind from the unhappy quarrel with Sylvia. But I will not pretend that I sat by him day and night devising consolatory speeches; I am no good at that kind of thing, he would have seen through me, and we should speedily have got on one another’s nerves. For the first day or two, then, I purposely measured out my companionship in small doses; later on, when he had got used to my presence, I became more assiduous. Those were the days when I could see reflected in his eyes the fast approaching nightmare of his dreams.

  My one positive achievement lay in persuading him to resume the curious journal he had started at Brandon Court and continued in Oxford. I called—and still call—it the third volume of Rupert Chevasse’s life, or, more accurately, “The Child of Misery”; for though it will never be published, its literary parentage is the same, and its elder brothers are Volumes One and Two. I count it one of the great tragedies of the book-world that—at least in his life-time—the third volume will never be given to the public; in my opinion—for what that is worth—it is the finest work Aintree has ever accomplished. At the same time I fully endorse his resolution to withhold it; it has been a matter of lasting surprise that even I was allowed to read the manuscript.

  He worked a great many hours each day as soon as I had helped the flywheel over dead-point. Half-way through the morning I would wander into the library and find a neat manuscript chapter awaiting me; when I had finished reading, he would throw me over sheet after sheet as each was completed. It was an interesting experience to sit, as it were, by an observation hive and watch his vivid, hyper-sensitive mind at work. I had been present at half the scenes and meetings he was describing. I had heard large fragments of the dialogue and allowed my imagination to browse on the significance of each successive “soul-brush.” Yet—I seemed to have heard and seen less than nothing! His insight enabled him to depict a psychological development where I had seen but a material friendship. It was one-sided, of course, and gave me only the impression that a vital, commanding spirit like Sylvia’s would leave on his delicate, receptive imagination. When at a later date Sylvia took me into her confidence and showed me reverse and obverse side by side, I felt like one who has assumed a fourth dimension and looked down from a higher plane into the very hearts of two fellow-creatures. It was a curious experience to see those souls stripped bare—I am not sure that I wish to repeat it—there comes a point where a painful “study of mankind is man.”