by Annie Haynes
Thus dismissed the maid had no choice but to depart. When the door had closed behind her, Sophie turned, and swiftly, noiselessly, almost threw herself on the tumbled white frock! Yes, she had made no mistake. Right in front, just where the silver girdle was caught up by a buckle of brilliants, a reddish brown stain ran almost down to the hem. She put out one finger and touched it – it was dry, quite dry. But there wasn’t one minute to lose. At all hazards that ghastly stain must be done away with. She tore at it with her small, strong hands, but though the silk was soft it was tough, and she could make no impression on it. She caught up a pair of nail-scissors and cut and jagged ruthlessly. Then when she held the long, ragged strip in her hand, she gazed at the remains of what had been one of her prettiest gowns, in despair.
What on earth would Forbes say? But there was no time to think of that now. She caught up the remains of the frock and running into her dressing- room thrust it deep down into the well of the great wardrobe that took up all one side of the room. Then she crammed other things on the top and shut the door firmly. Later on she must think of something to tell Forbes, for now there was nothing to be done but to go on as usual until – She went into her bathroom, crushing up the piece of silk she had torn off in her hand.
She splashed in and out of the warm, scented water, then, when she had rubbed herself down, she lighted a match and tried to set the silk on fire. In vain, it would do nothing but smoulder and make a pungent, acrid smell of burning. What in Heaven’s name was she to do? She dashed open the windows as far as they would go; she unstoppered one of the great bottles of scent on the dressing-table and flung the contents about bathroom and bedroom. Then a sudden inspiration came to her.
Inside the dressing-case, with its wonderful gold and jewelled fittings, which had been one of her husband’s wedding presents, there was a secret drawer. She ran across, put the silk in the drawer, fastening it with a catch of which she alone knew the secret.
She rang for Forbes. The maid came in, wrinkling up her nose.
“Such a smell of burning, my lady!” Her beadlike, inquisitive eyes glanced round the room.
“I don’t notice it,” said Sophie. “Perhaps the gardeners are burning weeds outside. Give me my things quickly, Forbes; I must not be late for breakfast. Sir John means to start early.”
The maid said nothing, but her sniff became accentuated as she went on with her mistress’s toilet, set the soft shingled hair, and finally brought out the gown of grey marocain which Lady Burslem had decided to wear for the races.
Sophie let herself be dressed as if she had been a lay figure. All the while she was listening, listening. At last she was dressed, and her maid clasped a short string of pearls round her neck in place of the long necklace she generally wore.
She glanced at her reflection in the mirror. So she had seen herself look a hundred times – and yet would not the first person she met see the horror shadowing her eyes?
She went down to the breakfast-room. Everything was just as usual. A pile of letters lay beside her plate. Sir John’s letters and The Times, folded as he liked it, lay by his. She went round the table and sat down. The very orderly, everyday aspect of the room held something sinister, some suggestion of evil to her jaundiced mind.
Though she drank a cup of tea feverishly and played with an omelette, she could not really eat anything. Presently she heard a knock and a ring at the front door.
She caught the echo of a voice in the hall. It sounded like that of her sister Clare – Mrs. Aubrey Dolphin. She was going with them to the races, of course, but She listened again. Another moment Clare came quickly into the room. With a word to the manservant she closed the door behind her. One look at her face told Lady Burslem that the supreme moment for which she had been waiting was here at last.
Clare came swiftly across the room and caught her sister in her arms.
“Sophie, darling, I bring you terrible news. You must be brave, dear, for all our sakes.”
Sophie tried to free herself from the encircling arms. “What is it?” she questioned hoarsely. “Not Dad!”
Mrs. Dolphin would not let her go.
“No, no, my darling. It is John –”
“John –”
If there had been one drop of colour left in Sophie’s face it was all drained away now.
“Ill,” came slowly from between her stiffening lips. “Ill, Clare, not – not –”
“Ah, dearest, he would want you to be brave for his sake. He – he met with a terrible accident last night, Sophie, dear. And, you see, he was not quite a young man, he could not rally –”
“Why did they not send for me?” Sophie gasped.
“Dear, there was not time. He – he died before they could do anything!”
“He died – John died –”
This time all Mrs. Dolphin’s strength could not hold her sister up. A dead weight, Lady Burslem sank through her arms and collapsed in a heap on the floor.
• • • • •
Meanwhile from all parts of England a great crowd was making its way to Epsom. It was the people’s holiday and the people were bent on making the most of it. All night long, gipsies and parties of nomads had picnicked near the course. This morning the tipsters were busy. For threepence you could learn the winner of every race. Not of the Derby itself. Nobody wanted a tip for that! It was Peep o’ Day’s Derby. Had not owner and trainer and jockey all agreed that Peep o’ Day could not lose the Derby?
Peep o’ Day! Peep o’ Day! You heard it on all sides. Peep o’ Day, the most popular favourite since the war! Peep o’ Day! the crowd exulted.
And over by Peep o’ Day’s box his trainer, Matt Harker, was standing with bowed shoulders, and Howard Williams leaning up against the door would not have been ashamed to confess that there were tears in his eyes. Champion jockey though he was, he had never yet ridden a Derby winner; Matt Harker, though all the other classics had been taken by his stable, had never yet trained a Derby winner! All of them had been confident that today their ambitions would be realized.
And now Peep o’ Day was scratched for the Derby!
CHAPTER 3
The inquest on the body of Sir John Burslem had been opened at the Crown Inn at Hughlin’s village, but only formal evidence of identity and medical evidence had been taken, and it had been adjourned until the following week, so that the police might have time for further inquiry. Stoddart and Harbord came out last. Stoddart’s brows were drawn together in a heavy frown. Looking at him, his assistant felt sure that the case was troubling him more than he would have cared to confess. Somewhat curtly he declined the local superintendent’s offer of hospitality, and motioned! Harbord into the run-about.
He did not speak until they had left Hughlin’s Wood far behind, and were rapidly nearing London. Then he tossed an envelope over to Harbord.
“Think that can throw any light on the mystery?” Harbord opened the envelope and took out the contents. They consisted of various cuttings from newspapers. He read the first: “Burslem, Sir John, first baronet, born 18 –, eldest son of John Victor Burslem; married first Emma, daughter of Robert Somerville, by whom he had issue one daughter – Pamela Mary; married secondly the Honourable Sophie Charlotte Ann, younger daughter of the fourth Viscount Carlford. Residences: Greystone Hall, Meadshire, and 15 Porthwick Square. Clubs: Carlton Junior; Arts; St. James’s.
Harbord put this back in the envelope and took out the smaller one; this was marked “From the Morning Herald”: “A marriage has been arranged, and will shortly take place between Captain Charles Stanyard, second son of Sir William Stanyard of Wilton Hall, and Sophie Charlotte Ann, youngest daughter of Viscount Carlford.”
Clipped with this was another: “The marriage arranged between Captain Charles Stanyard and Miss Sophie Carlford will not take place.”
As Harbord put these back in the envelope he saw that there was yet one more. He picked it out: “A marriage has been arranged between Sir John Burslem, the well-known financier a
nd racehorse owner, and the Honourable Sophie Charlotte Ann Carlford, younger daughter of Viscount Carlford. The marriage will take place early next month at St. Margaret’s Westminster.”
Harbord put it with the other and gave them to Stoddart.
The inspector looked at him. “You read a story there?”
“Yes and no,” Harbord said slowly. “You don’t mean –”
“I mean nothing, I think nothing,” the inspector interrupted him. “How often am I to tell you that. It is my business to look for facts and to find them. Did you hear what won the Derby yesterday?”
Used as he was to the rapid workings of his superior’s mind, Harbord looked his surprise at this change of subject.
“I don’t take much interest in racing, sir, except that I have been hearing of nothing but Peep o’ Day since we came here yesterday. But I did hear last night – yes, wasn’t this Derby won by Perlyon, the second favourite. I thought I heard folks say he would not have stood a chance against Peep o’ Day had he run.”
“That’s as it may be,” the inspector observed sententiously. “I have known these hot-pots run nowhere more than once. But do you know who owns Perlyon?”
Harbord shook his head. “Haven’t the slightest idea.”
The inspector looked at him. “Sir Charles Stanyard, Captain Charles Stanyard – the sporting baronet, they call him. He came into the title on his father’s death last year. His elder brother was killed a few months before in the hunting-field.
Neither of the men spoke again for a few minutes; at last Harbord said:
“Peep o’ Day’s scratching must have meant a good deal to him. But –”
“Thousands,” said the inspector laconically. “Heard there was a row between two men at Wilton’s the other night?”
“No. I was hard at work at the Barber-Astley case,” Harbord answered, his interest growing.
“Well, there was a jolly row,” Stoddart informed him. “And the two men who had it were Sir John Burslem and Sir Charles Stanyard, the sporting baronet. Ostensibly the quarrel was over the merits of their respective racehorses – Peep o’ Day and Perlyon. In reality, rumour has whispered that the cause was very different. Therefore there are two things we must do to-day. First, we must ascertain, if we can, something of Sir Charles Stanyard’s movements on the night of June 2nd and the early morning of June 3rd. Secondly, we must see Lady Burslem and hear what she can tell us of that night’s tragedy; or perhaps we had better reverse the proceedings and see the lady first. We will drive straight to Porthwick Square.”
He did not speak again as he steered the car carefully through the crowded roads as they entered London and made their way with all speed to Porthwick Square.
Drawn blinds shrouded the inhabitants of No. 15 from the public eye, but the inspector frowned as he saw the crowd outside. That the police were moving people on apparently made no difference. They merely went round and walked back another way.
The butler came forward when the door was open.
“Lady Burslem has promised us an interview this afternoon,” Stoddart said, entering and beckoning to Harbord.
“Yes, her ladyship is expecting you, inspector,” the butler said at once. “I was to take you to her directly you came. But I heard nothing of this – this –”
He glanced at Harbord as though hesitating as to what description must apply to him.
“That is quite right – I am answerable,” the inspector said shortly. “Please to inform Lady Burslem that we are here.”
The butler departed, looking as though the foundations of the earth must indeed be shaken when he had to take orders from a mere policeman. He returned immediately.
“Will you come this way, please.”
He led them to a small room on the first floor.
Lady Burslem came to them at once. She walked very slowly; her slim shoulders were bent as if under an intolerable burden of grief. There was not one touch of colour in her face – cheeks and lips were alike ashen. There were great blue half-circles beneath her eyes, and her eyes themselves looked only about half their usual size. The eyelids were swollen, and drooped as though the young widow had cried until she did not know how to open them.
There was a great pity in the inspector’s eyes as he watched her. He drew forward one of the big easy chairs and she sank into it wearily. Was it force of habit that made him place her so that the light fell on her face, Harbord wondered.
“You – you wanted to see me?” she said, her eyes not looking at him but wandering to the window which looked on to the Square garden and so was without the concealing blind.
“If you please, Lady Burslem.”
The inspector went over and stood by the mantel piece, one arm resting on the shelf. Harbord waited; nearer the door.
“You will understand that, while we are anxious to spare you in every possible way, it is absolutely necessary that we should hear all that you can tell us of what took place the night before last.”
“Yes, of course?”
Lady Burslem looked at him with wistful, tragic eyes. “Only there is so little I can tell you,” she said, feverishly. “I can’t understand it, and wonder and wonder until I think my brain will turn and that the mystery of it will drive me mad.”
Her words, slow at first, began to come faster, her breathing grew more rapid; she twisted her hands together.
“I understand,” the inspector said soothingly. “And that is where we want to help you. Now, if you would just tell us when you saw Sir John last!”
“Why, when we came home,” Sophie Burslem said quickly. “We – we had been over to Oxley, you know. It was a lovely night and we had nothing particular on. At least, we had dances and receptions and things, but we made up our minds to go over to Oxley in the two-seater and see how Peep o’ Day was getting on. So – so –”
Her voice failed. She fumbled in her bag, bringing out a small handkerchief, and began to dab her eyes.
“Yes?” the inspector prompted, after a pause. “Matt Harker has told us about your Oxley visit. You found Peep o’ Day at the top of his form, I think? ‘Fit as a fiddle,’ Harker said.”
“Yes, he was,” Lady Burslem assented, apparently controlling her voice by a supreme effort. “Sir John was so proud of him. He used to say that when Peep o’ Day won the Derby his greatest ambition would be realized. Now – now –”
The inspector coughed. “When you left Oxley, where did you go?”
“Why, we came straight home,” Sophie said simply. “It was late, of course. We had stayed so long at Oxley, but we had told Ellerby and Forbes, my husband’s man and my maid, not to sit up for us. We were never people who wanted a lot of waiting on. We always liked to do things for ourselves.”
“What time was it?”
“I do not know – exactly.” Sophie hesitated. “I should think it was between one and two. I know Sir John wanted James, the second footman, who sat up for us to sign some paper and he said it must be dated June 3rd.”
“To sign a paper?” For once the inspector was betrayed into showing some surprise. “What sort of a paper?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Lady Burslem let her hands drop helplessly on her lap. “He signed it too – Sir John. Then he gave it to me and told me to take care of it.”
The inspector did not speak for a minute. He took out his notebook and made a hieroglyphic entry.
Lady Burslem leaned back in her chair motionless, her hands lying very still before her. And yet the inspector had an odd fancy that from beneath the heavy, swollen lids the brown eyes were furtively watching him.
At last he spoke:
“Could we see the paper, Lady Burslem? It might help us – might throw some light on the mystery.”
“You can’t see it just now,” Lady Burslem said apathetically, “because I have not got it here. Mr. Weldon, the lawyer, came in this morning and took it away with him. He said it might be important.”
The inspector drew his brows together. “I m
ust see Mr. Weldon. In the meantime, when the paper was signed what did Sir John do?”
“As I told you, he gave me the paper,” Lady Burslem said tonelessly. “Then we went into the library and we both had some of the things they had put ready for us. Then – then” – the tears sounded vibrant in the sweet voice – “he – Sir John – went out to take the car to the garage. I thought he would be only a few minutes; but now I shall never see him again.”
“Why did Sir John take the car to the garage himself, instead of sending one of the men?” the inspector inquired brusquely.
For a moment he fancied that a faint smile glimmered on the pale lips.
“He – he would not have trusted any of them. He was so proud of the two-seater. It had all the latest improvements. He would not let anyone drive it but himself.”
The inspector nodded. That there were men and women too who would not let anyone else drive their car, as there were people who would not allow their pet horse, their bicycle to be ridden by anyone else, he knew. But it seemed to him rather a curious fancy on the part of a millionaire, like Sir John Burslem, to insist on taking the car to the garage himself.
“But he did not take it to the garage,” he said, rather as if he were answering his own thoughts. “He never went near the garage. The car has been found, you know, Lady Burslem.”
“No, I did not,” Lady Burslem said, with a momentary accession of interest. “I never heard anything about it. Where was it? Where – where he was?”
“No,” the inspector answered bluntly. “It was found on a piece of waste ground on the other side of the river that is used as a parking ground sometimes.”
“How did it get there?” Lady Burslem’s voice dropped almost to a whisper.
“That,” said the inspector grimly, “1 should very much like to find out.”
He opened his notebook again. “Has Sir John any enemies?” he asked, fixing a piercing glance on Lady Burslem.
“No, I am sure he had not,” she said firmly. “Everybody liked him. He was a general favourite. He was so kind to every one.”