The Classic Mystery Novel

by Dorothy Cameron Disney

  “I suggest no reason,” he said at last.

  Nigel’s examination closed, and I thought it prudent to ask for a window to be opened and water brought for the Seraph. Sylvia’s eyes melted in momentary compassion. I walked over and sat beside her at a discreet distance from her mother.

  “Not worth saving, Sylvia?” I asked.

  A sceptical chin raised itself in the air, but the eyes still believed in him.

  “How did they get hold of me?” she asked, “and how did he find me? How could he, if he didn’t know all along?”

  “Remember Brandon Court,” I said.

  “Why didn’t he mention it?”

  I pointed to the Bench.

  “My dear child, look at them! Why not talk higher mathematics to a boa-constrictor?”

  “If he can’t make them believe it, why should I?”

  “Because you know.”

  “What?”

  “Everything. You know he’s in love with you, and you’re in love with him.”

  “I’m not!”

  Her voice quivered with passion; there was nothing for it but a bold stroke. And one risk more or less hardly mattered.

  “Can you keep a secret, Sylvia?”

  “It depends.”

  “No. Absolutely?”

  “All right.”

  I lowered my voice to a whisper.

  “There was a woman in his rooms last Wednesday, and she is the woman I am engaged to marry.”

  Her look of scorn was caused less by concern for my morals than by pity for my simplicity in thinking she would believe such a story.

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “You must. It’s your last chance. If you let him go now, you’ll lose him for ever, and I’m not going to let you blight your life and his, if I can stop it. You must make up your mind now. Do you believe me?”

  Her expression of scorn had vanished and given place to one of painful perplexity.

  “I’m not.…”

  “Do you believe me, Sylvia?”

  She hesitated in an agony of indecision, until the moment was lost. The water had arrived, and Arthur was dismissing me from the Presence.

  “You’re not going to arrest us, then?” I said.

  “I reserve perfect freedom of action,” he answered, in the Front Bench manner.

  “Quite right,” I said. “I only wish you’d reserved the inquisition till this boy was in a better state to receive it. Would it interfere with your liberty of action if I asked you to say a word of thanks either to Aintree, myself, or both? I believe it is usual when a man loses his daughter and has her restored to him.”

  A few minutes more would have tried my temper. Arthur sat down again at his table, opened a drawer, and took out a cheque-book.

  “According to your story it was Aintree who was chiefly instrumental in making the discovery?”

  “That was the lie we agreed on,” I said.

  Arthur wrote a cheque for two thousand pounds, and handed it to the Seraph with the words—

  “That, I think, clears all obligations between us.”

  “Except that of manners,” I exclaimed. “The House of Commons—”

  But he had rung the bell, and was tidying his papers into neat, superfluous bundles.

  Philip had the courage to shake me by the hand and say he hoped to see me again soon. I am not sufficiently cynical to say it was prompted by the reflection that Gladys was my niece, because he was every whit as cordial to the Seraph.

  I shook hands with Sylvia, and found her watching the Seraph fold and pocket the two thousand pound cheque.

  “He’s taking it!” she said.

  “Your father should have been ashamed to make the offer. It serves him right if his offer’s accepted. Don’t blame the Seraph. If Nigel and your father proceed on the lines they’ve gone on this afternoon, one or both of us will have to cut the country. The Seraph’s not made of money; he’ll want all he can lay hands on. Now then, Sylvia, it’s two lives you’re playing with.”

  She had not yet made up her mind, and indecision chilled the warmth of her eyes and the smile on her lips. I watched the effort, and wondered if it would suffice for the Seraph. Then question and answer told their tale.

  “When shall we see you again?” I heard her ask as I walked to the door.

  “I can hardly say,” came the low reply. “I’m leaving England shortly. I shall go across India, and spend some time in Japan—and then visit the Islands of the South Seas. It’s a thing I’ve always wanted to do. After that? I don’t know.…”

  CHAPTER XIV

  Through a Glass Darkly

  “The instant he entered the room it was plain that all was lost.…

  “‘I cannot find it,’ said he, ‘and I must have it. Where is it?… Where is my bench?… Time presses; and I must finish those shoes.’

  “They looked at one another, and their hearts died within them.

  “‘Come, come!’ said he, in a whimpering miserable way: ‘let me get to work. Give me my work.’

  “…Carton was the first to speak:

  “‘The last chance is gone: it was not much.…’”

  —Charles Dickens

  A Tale of Two Cities

  As I helped the Seraph out of the house and into a taxi, I was trying to string together a few words of sympathy and encouragement. Then I looked at his face, and decided to save my breath. Physically and mentally he was too hard hit to profit by any consolation I could offer. As a clumsy symbol of good intention I held out my hand, and had it gripped and retained till we reached Adelphi Terrace.

  “Never mind me,” he said, in a slow, sing-song voice, hesitating like a man speaking an unfamiliar language. “It’s you and Joyce we’ve got to consider.”

  “Don’t worry your head, Seraph,” I said. “We’ll find a way out. You’ve got to be quiet and get well.”

  “But what are you going to do?”

  “I’ve no idea,” I answered blankly.

  The Seraph sighed and lifted his feet wearily on to the seat opposite.

  “You played that last hand well, Toby. I’m afraid you’ll have to go on playing without any support from me. I’m dummy, I’m only good for two possible tricks.”

  I waited to see the hand exposed.

  “I can’t find Mavis,” he went on. “You see that?”

  “I do.”

  “You must ask Joyce to tell you. She spoke a few words this morning, and she’s getting stronger. If she refuses … but she won’t if you ask her.”

  “If she does?”

  “You must go on bluffing Nigel. He doesn’t know who’s in the flat, and old Roden doesn’t know either. They’d have searched three days ago, they’d have arrested us today on suspicion if they hadn’t been afraid of making fools of themselves. Keep bluffing, Toby. The keener you are to get the search over and done with, the more they’ll be afraid of a mare’s nest.” The words trailed off in a sigh. “If there’s anything I can do I’ll do it, but I’m afraid you’ll find me pretty useless.”

  “You’re going quietly to bed for forty-eight hours,” I told him.

  He raised no protest, and I heard him murmur, “Saturday night. Sunday night. Monday night. It’ll be all over then, one way or the other.”

  On reaching the flat I carried him upstairs, ordered some soup, and smoked a cigarette in the hall. Maybury-Reynardson was completing his evening inspection, and when he came out I asked for the bulletin.

  “It’s in the right direction,” he told me, “but very, very slow. The mind’s working back to normal whenever she wakes, and she’s been talking a little. I’m afraid you must go on being patient.”

  “Could she answer a question?”

  “You mustn’t ask any.”

  “I’m afraid it’s absol
utely necessary.”

  “What d’you want to know?”

  “The police will search this flat on Monday if we don’t find out before then where Miss Rawnsley was taken to when she disappeared.”

  Maybury-Reynardson shook his head.

  “You mustn’t think of bothering her with questions of that kind. If you did, I don’t suppose she could help you.”

  “But you said the mind was normal?”

  “Working back to normal. Everything’s there, but she can’t put it in order. The memory larder is full, but her hands are too weak to lift things down from the shelves.”

  “It’s a matter of life and death,” I urged.

  “If it was a matter of eternal salvation I doubt if she could help you. Do you dream? Well, could you piece together the fragments of all you dreamt last night? You might have done so a moment after waking, little pieces may come back to you when some one suggests the right train of thought. That’s Miss Davenant’s condition. To change the parallel, her eyes can see, but they see ‘through a glass darkly.’”

  I thought the matter over while he was examining and prescribing for the Seraph.

  “We’re in a tight corner, Seraph,” I said when he had gone. “I don’t see any other way out, I’m going to take the responsibility of disobeying him.”

  He offered no suggestion, and I walked to the door of Joyce’s room and put my fingers to the handle. Then I came back and made him open his eyes and listen to me.

  “I’ll take the blame,” I said; “but will you see if you can make her understand? She’s known you longer.”

  It was not the true reason. When I reached the door I was smitten with the fear that she would not recognise me, and my nerve failed.

  We explained our intentions to a reluctant nurse; I fidgeted outside in the hall and heard the Seraph walk up to the bedside and ask Joyce how she was.

  “I’m better, thanks,” she answered. “Let me see, do I know you?” There was a weak laugh. “I should like to be friends with you, you’ve got such nice eyes.”

  The Seraph took her hand and asked if she knew any one named Mavis Rawnsley.

  “Oh, yes, I know her. Her father’s the Prime Minister. Mavis, yes, I know her.”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  “Mavis Rawnsley? She was at the theatre last night. What theatre was it? She was in the stalls, and I was in a box. Who else was there? Were you? She was with her mother. Where is she now? Yes, I know Miss Rawnsley well.”

  “Do you know where she is now?”

  “I expect she’s at the theatre.”

  She closed her eyes, and the Seraph came back to the door, shaking his head. I tiptoed into the room, looked round the screen and watched Joyce smiling in her sleep. As I looked, her eyes opened and met mine.

  “Why, I know you!” she exclaimed. “You’re my husband. You took me to the theatre last night, when we saw Mavis Rawnsley. We were in a box, and she was in the stalls. Some one wanted to know where Mavis was. Tell them we saw her at the theatre, will you?”

  She held out her hand to me; I bent down, kissed her forehead, and crept out of the room. The Seraph was lying on the bed we had made up for him in my room. I helped him to undress, and retired to the library with a cigar—to forget Joyce and plan the bluffing of Nigel.

  My first act was to get into communication with Paddy Culling on the telephone.

  “Will you do me another favour?” I began. “Well, it’s this. I want you to get hold of Nigel and take him to lunch or dine tomorrow—Sunday—at the Club. Let me know which, and the time. When you’ve finished eating, lead him away to a quiet corner—the North Smoking Room or the Strangers’ Card Room. Hold him in conversation till I come. I shall drop in accidentally, and start pulling his leg. You can help, but do it in moderation; we mustn’t make him savage—only uncomfortable. You understand? Right.”

  Then I went to bed.

  On Sunday morning I started out in the direction of Chester Square, and made two discoveries on the way. The first was that our house was being unceasingly watched by a tall Yorkshireman in plain clothes and regulation boots; the second, that the Yorkshireman was in his turn being intermittently watched by Nigel Rawnsley. His opinion of the Criminal Investigation Department must have been as low—if not as kindly—as my own. On two more occasions that day I found him engaged on a flying visit of inspection—to keep Scotland Yard up to the Rawnsley mark and answer the eternal question that Juvenal propounded and Michael Roden amended for his own benefit and mine at Henley.

  Elsie received me with anxious enquiries after her sister. I gave a full report, propounded my plan of campaign, and was rewarded by being shown the extensive and beautiful contents of her wardrobe. I should never have believed one woman could accumulate so many clothes; there seemed a dress for every day and evening of the year, and she could have worn a fresh hat each hour without repeating herself. My own rule is to have one suit I can wear in a bad light, and four that I cannot. With hats the practice is even simpler; I flaunt a new one until it is stolen, and then wear the changeling until a substitute of even greater seediness has been supplied. My instincts are conservative, and my hats more symbolical than decorative; for me they typify the great, sad law that every change is a change for the worse.

  My only complaint against Elsie was that her wardrobe contained too much of what university authorities would call the “subfuse” element. The most conspicuous garments I could find were a white coat and skirt, white stockings and shoes, black hat and veil, and heliotrope dust coat. I am no judge whether they looked well in combination, but I challenge the purblind to say they were inconspicuous. To my eyes the tout ensemble was so striking that I laid them on a chair and gazed in wondering admiration until it was time to call up Gartside and warn him that I stood in need of luncheon.

  Carlton House Terrace had a depressing, derelict appearance that foreboded the departure of its lord. All the favourite pictures and ornaments seemed to have been stowed away in preparation for India, neat piles of books were distributed about the library floor, and every scrap of paper seemed to have been tidied into a drawer. We sat down a pleasant party of three, and I made the acquaintance of Gartside’s cousin and aide-de-camp, Lord Raymond Sturling. An agreeable fellow he seemed, who put himself and his services entirely at my disposal in the event of my deciding to come for a part or all of the way. I could only avail myself of his offer to the extent of sending him to see if Mountjoy’s villa at Rimini was still in the market, and if so what his figure was for giving me immediate possession.

  Gartside himself was as hospitable as ever in offering me every available inch on the yacht for the accommodation of myself and any friends I might care to bring with me. I ran through the list and found myself wondering if Maybury-Reynardson could be persuaded to come. I had hardly known him long enough to call him a friend, but he had gone out of his way to oblige me in coming to attend Joyce, and on general principles I think most big London practitioners are the better for a few days at sea at the close of the London season.

  I called round in Cavendish Square for a cup of tea, and told him he was pulled down and in need of a change.

  “Look at the good it did my brother,” I said. “Just to Marseilles and back. Or if you’ll come to Genoa and overland to Rimini, I shall be very glad to put you up for as long as you can stay. It’s Gartside’s own yacht, and I’m authorised by him to invite whom I please. He’s a capital host, and you’ll be done to a turn. The only fault I have to find with his arrangements is that he carries no doctor, and I’m sufficiently middle-aged to be fussy on a point like that. Anybody taken ill, you know, anybody coming on board ill, and it would be devilish awkward. I shall insist on a doctor. He’ll be Gartside’s guest, but I shall pay his fees, of course, and he can name his own figure. What do you think of the idea? We shall be to all intents and purposes a bachelor party.”


  When Maybury-Reynardson’s name was first mentioned to me on the evening of Joyce’s flight, the Seraph had justly described him as a “sportsman.” Under the grave official mask I could see a twinkling eye and a flickering smile.

  “It depends on one case of nervous breakdown that I’ve got on hand at present,” he said. “If my patient’s well enough.…”

  “She’s got to be,” I said.

  “When do you sail?”

  “Friday.”

  “You can’t make it later?”

  “Absolutely impossible.”

  “This is Sunday. I’ll tell you when we’re a little nearer the day.”

  “She must be moved on Thursday afternoon.”

  “Must? Must?” he repeated with a smile. “Whose patient is she?”

  “Whose wife’s she going to be?” I asked in my turn.

  “I suppose it’ll be pretty hot,” he said. “First week in August. I must get some thin clothes.”

  “Include them in the fee,” I suggested.

  “Damn the fee!” he answered, as we walked to the door.

  Paddy Culling had arranged to give Nigel his dinner at eight. I had comfortable time to dress and dine at Adelphi Terrace, and nine-thirty found me wandering round the Club in search of company.

  “Praise heaven for the sight of a friendly face!” I exclaimed as I stumbled across Paddy and Nigel in the North Smoking Room.

  “Where was ut ye dined?” asked Paddy, as I pulled up a chair and rang for cigars. To a practised ear his brogue was an eloquent war signal.

  “In the sick-house,” I told him, “Adelphi Terrace.”

  “Is ut catching?” he inquired. “It’s not for my own self I’m asking, but Nigel here. I owe ut to empire and postherity to see he runs no risks.”

  I reassured him on the score of posterity.

  “He’s just knocked up and over-tired,” I said, “and I’m keeping him in bed till Wednesday or Thursday.”

  “Then he’ll not be walking ye into the Lake District to find Miss Mavis for the present,” Paddy observed with an eye on Nigel.