by Annie Haynes
After a moment’s hesitation, she held out her hand to the inspector.
He took it in his for a moment.
“We will let you know when it is desirable to offer a reward, Miss Burslem. And in the meantime let me advise you to put all these lamentable ideas out of your head. Believe me, things will not turn out as you expect.”
He opened the door and escorted her out of the building.
When he came back he looked at Harbord.
“Nice sort of young person, eh?”
Harbord waited a minute.
“Well, poor girl!” he said at last, “she is evidently overwrought and overstrained, but she has managed to pitch on the obvious clue, hasn’t she?”
“She has, but to my mind the obvious clue is generally the wrong one,” the inspector observed sententiously.
Meanwhile Pamela had dismissed her car; she felt that she must be alone to think – to try to realize this awful thing that had befallen her. She went to the Embankment and for a while stood watching the sluggish moving waters of the Thames, then almost without knowing what she was doing she turned to the right and in a few minutes found herself in St. James’s Park. She was buried deep in thought when, just as she was about to cross one of the bridges, she suddenly collided with a young man coming along quickly from the opposite direction.
He raised his hat with a murmured apology; then stopped short with a sharp exclamation:
“You!”
Pamela stared at him.
“You!” she exclaimed blankly. “What are you doing here?”
The man laughed. He was a tall, fair young man, immaculately garbed and groomed.
“I live near here, don’t you know, in Aldwyn Mansions. I am on my way home now. I have just come back from Epsom – looked out for you there, hoped I might see you – and now I meet you on my own doorstep as it were. I should like you to have seen the Derby this year.”
“The Derby – don’t talk of it!” Pamela’s eyes filled with tears. “And Perlyon, I hate Perlyon; I would have done anything – anything to stop him winning.”
“You would have liked to have stopped Perlyon winning? Why?”
Pamela did not beat about the bush. “Because Perlyon belongs to the man I dislike most on earth – Charles Stanyard.”
The man laughed, his eyes dwelling on the fair, girlish face that had haunted his dreams for the past month.
“Why do you dislike Stanyard, poor beggar?”
“He is not a poor beggar at all,” Pamela said decidedly. “He is a terrible man. He has taken care he is not poor. He has destroyed people’s lives and happiness to make himself rich –” Her voice broke.
“What?” The man started violently. “Charles Stanyard has – You are getting at me. Do you know him?”
“No, and I don’t mean to,” Pamela returned uncompromisingly. “Do you?”
“Yes, I know him rather well,” the man said after a moment’s pause. “He is not up to much, I admit, but I don’t see why you should hate him. I should have said he was a harmless sort of chap.”
“Perhaps you would not say he was a harmless sort of chap if he had murdered your father!” Pamela retorted.
“Good Lord! murdered your father!” the man ejaculated. “What sort of a story have you got hold of? I know Charles Stanyard pretty well all through, and, whatever his sins may be, I can assure you he is no murderer.”
“Well, I think he is, you see,” Pamela returned icily. “Perhaps if it were your father he had killed it would make a difference?”
“But why on earth should Charles Stanyard kill your father?”
“Well, some people would tell you because Peep o’ Day –”
“What! You don’t mean that you are Sir John Burslem’s daughter?”
“I am Pamela Burslem,” returned the girl with a little air of dignity. “Ah, now you see why I say Sir Charles Stanyard killed my father!”
“On the contrary,” the man said with a certain conviction in his tone, “I am quite positive that he did not!”
“Well, you can stick to your opinions and I can stick to mine!” Pamela finished. “Good-bye. I must go home, only” – with a quiver of her lower lip – “it is not home any longer.” She turned away for a moment.
In a couple of strides the man had caught her up. “I cannot let you go like this. You don’t know how I have thought of you – longed to meet you again ever since that night I danced with you. May I write to you?”
Just the faintest suspicion of one of Pamela’s old dimples peeped out. “You forget that I don’t know your name. I should not know who the letter came from.”
“You don’t know my name?” the man repeated in a dazed tone. “No, I was forgetting. My name is Richard Leyton – Dick my friends call me.”
CHAPTER 5
“It is a wicked will; an infamous will!” Old General Percival was the speaker. “I cannot understand my friend, John Burslem, making such a will.”
Sir John Burslem’s funeral had taken place that morning. By his own wish he had been buried by the side of his first wife in the great cemetery in North London. Neither his second wife nor his daughter had been present and there had been no flowers, by request.
There had been no communication from his brother, the explorer, and it was doubtful whether the telegram had reached him. Lord Carlford and his son, Alan, had been the chief mourners; there had been a great following of friends and acquaintances, of those who had been connected with the dead man, either in the financial or in the racing world. Crowds, full of morbid curiosity, had lined the roads and had filled the cemetery.
There had been no formal reading of the will, but a few of Sir John’s oldest friends had returned with Lord Carlford; and then Mr. Weldon had disclosed the disposal of his property, made by Sir John on the night of his death.
General Percival had been the first to break the silence that followed, and as he finished a low murmur of assent ran round the room.
At the same moment Lady Burslem and her stepdaughter, with Lady Carlford and Mrs. Dolphin, entered the room. They seated themselves at the top of the long library table.
General Percival was not to be daunted. When the little confusion caused by the entrance of the new arrivals had subsided, he began again:
“It is an infamous will! You were good enough to tell me that I was one of the executors, Mr. Weldon – I shall refuse to act! If Miss Burslem takes my advice she will contest the will.”
“I beg your pardon, general,” Mr. Weldon interrupted; “I said that you were one of the executors of the will made by Sir John Burslem directly after his second marriage. This one, drawn up by Sir John himself on the last day of his life, leaves everything to Lady Burslem, and appoints her sole executrix and residuary legatee.”
“Disgraceful!” frowned the general. “I wonder you were not ashamed to make such a will, Mr. Weldon, or to produce it now.”
“I had nothing to do with the making of it,” Mr. Weldon exclaimed. “I thought I had made it plain, general, that the whole of this will is in Sir John’s own writing. Whatever our opinion of it may be, it appears to me there is no possible ground for contesting.”
“I do not want to contest it,” Pamela said, her cheeks and her eyes flashing. “Daddy was quite right to leave his money as he liked. I do not want it; I have plenty of my own.”
There was an uncomfortable silence. Mr. Weldon fidgeted with his papers and coughed.
Pamela glanced at him. “Haven’t I?” she questioned.
Mr. Weldon looked unhappy.
“Well, my dear Miss Burslem, under your mother’s settlement – you must remember that Sir John was a comparatively poor man in those days – you come into a sum of three thousand pounds when you are twenty-one. Until then you will have an allowance of course, but –”
Pamela turned from white to red, back again to white.
“You do not mean that I have no money of my own that I can use now? But I want a lot at once; I want to engage a
smart detective to find out –”
Her voice broke in a strangled sob.
Lady Burslem leaned forward and touched her arm.
“It shall make no difference, Pam, not a bit of difference, dear –”
With a gesture of loathing Pamela shook off the caressing hand and turned away. Then like a small torrent of grief she rushed out of the room.
Lord Carlford, a gentleman of the old school, rose and took his daughter’s hand.
“Come, my dear, you have heard all that is necessary,” with a glance at his wife and elder daughter.
When they had gone Mr. Weldon looked round. “There is no more to be said, gentlemen; this is a very sad affair. Nothing can be gained by discussing it. I am sure all our sympathy goes out to Lady Burslem and her stepdaughter in their tragic bereavement.”
General Percival sniffed audibly. “I am extremely sorry for Miss Burslem,” he said pointedly; “this will is a crying scandal. When this Lady Burslem marries again – as of course she will – Burslem’s fortune will be spent on her second husband, and Burslem’s girl, who used to be the apple of his eye, will not get a penny.”
“It is scarcely decent to talk of Lady Burslem’s second husband when her first is only this day buried,” Mr. Weldon said expressively.
“Decent! I dare say it is not!” the general growled. “Precious few natural things are! But it is what the widows mostly think of, let me tell you that. Not the one they put underground, but the one they hope to find on top.”
Meanwhile the widowed Lady Burslem had walked past the drawing-room, resisting her father’s gesture towards them.
“No, you all go in there and have tea and things; I am going back to my room. I must be alone to think.”
“Well, I shall see you in, anyhow,” Mrs. Dolphin said restlessly, linking her arm in her sister’s. “Don’t be an ass, Sophie; of course I am coming in to make you comfortable. I’m not too fond of that maid of yours: she seems to me to be always watching you.”
“I don’t care much about her, either,” said Sophie listlessly. “I don’t think I shall keep her. I think I shall go abroad in a week or two, and I should prefer some one who speaks Italian.”
The door into her room stood open. Forbes was near the window, apparently holding something up to the light. She turned as the sisters entered, and for a moment Sophie fancied she looked discomposed. She recovered herself immediately, however, and came forward.
“You look tired, my lady, quite worn out. A little sal volatile and a rest in your favourite chair –”
She drew one up to the open window as she spoke.
Her tone was sympathetic, but Clare Dolphin, watching her, saw a look of triumph gleam for a moment in her eyes.
Sophie lay back in her chair and submitted to her maid’s ministrations without the protest her sister had half expected. Presently she looked up.
“I am all right now, Clare. Forbes will look after me. And then I must be alone. It seems to me that I have not had a moment to think since John –”
Mrs. Dolphin did not look quite pleased. “Oh, very well, then, if you don’t want me I will go home. Goodness knows, I have plenty to do. But I didn’t like the idea of your being alone.”
“You are very kind.” Sophie received her sister’s kisses passively, rather than returned them. “But – but, you see, there is so much that I shall have to do alone now.”
“Oh, well, I will come in again some time this evening, just to see how you are.”
She shut the door with a decided jerk as she went out.
Sophie sat up. Her languor had momentarily disappeared. “What was that you were looking at when we came in, Forbes?”
Forbes hesitated.
“Well, I had just found your frock, my lady. The one you wore for dinner on June 2nd. I found it all crushed together at the bottom of the wardrobe. It is in a fearful state, my lady. The front breadth is right out.”
She shook the dilapidated garment before Sophie’s unwilling eyes as she spoke. One glance was enough to show its hopeless condition – dirty, covered with mud-stains. There were still a few ominous dark stains left on the bodice, and the front breadth hung literally in rags.
“What am I to do with it, my lady? I really can hardly touch it.”
“It is in a terrible state,” Sophie said, staring at it with fascinated eyes. “I knew it was in a mess, but I had no idea that it was as bad as this. Of course I wore it when I went to Oxley. That, and my purple coat with the beaver collar over it. And of course we did a lot of walking in and out. They – they wanted me to see everything. Earlier in the day it had been raining.”
“Yes, of course, my lady.” But the maid was not satisfied. “Just look at the front, my lady, all in rags!”
Sophie gazed at it in silence for a minute. “It – there are lots of thorn bushes near the stables, and we left the car a little way away. I suppose I got my frock caught on the bushes going back.”
“It looks as if it had been cut, my lady, as if some one had taken a knife and hacked at it,” the maid objected, holding out one side.
Lady Burslem sat back and closed her eyes. ’ “Well, I am sure I do not know what has happened to it. Put it in the rag-bag, please, Forbes, or wherever you put such things. I don’t care what becomes of it. I do not suppose I shall ever wear white again. You can take that white and gilt frock of mine that you f liked so much when it came home last week. It will do for you when you go to a dance with your young man.”
“Oh, my lady, and you have never had it on. It does seem a shame. I shall love to have it. Not that I shall be going to any dances now. Tom and me, we lost too much over Peep o’ Day.”
“Ah! I must have a talk with you about that later on, Forbes.” Lady Burslem’s accession of energy left her suddenly. “I will have some more sal volatile, and – and then I will see you again later.”
When at last the maid had retired Sophie sat up and looked round her cautiously. Her cheeks were burning now and her eyes were fever bright. She went across to the door and locked it. Then she came slowly back, her eyes fixed on her dressing-case.
“I must!” she whispered to herself. “I must make sure.”
She opened the case. Everything looked just as usual. She felt for the spring that opened the secret drawer. Was it her fancy, or did it work more stiffly than usual? It moved with a sort of creak that she did not seem to have noticed before. And then she uttered an exclamation of horror and dismay. She had put that long strip of satin with its ugly, brown stain in the drawer. Yes, there was – there could be – no mistake about that. And now the drawer was empty!
Frantically she pulled it out. She shook it. She turned it topsy-turvy and felt behind it.
In vain – no silk was there!
CHAPTER 6
“Sir Charles Stanyard?” Inspector Stoddart said inquiringly.
“He is expecting you, sir.”
The manservant preceded Stoddart and Harbord along the passage, and opened the door at the end.
They saw a comfortable-looking room, apparently furnished as a study, and a pleasant-looking, fair, young man sitting at the top of the table. He looked up as they entered.
“Good morning, Inspector Stoddart; you wanted to see me?”
“I did, Sir Charles. I am in charge of the Burslem case.”
Stanyard raised his eyebrows. “Indeed, I fail to see the connexion. Unless, as somebody said to me plainly the other day, you imagine that I shot Sir John Burslem, so that my horse might win the Derby.”
“If I thought that I should hardly be here,” Stoddart said gravely. “But because it is my duty to trace every, even the very slenderest, clue that may help to elucidate the mystery of Sir John Burslem’s death, I must ask you to give me some account of your movements on the night of June 2nd.”
“On June 2nd.” Sir Charles Stanyard frowned, as if the effort to remember was too strenuous for him. “Well, I went over to Epsom in the afternoon. I wanted to see how Perlyon wa
s after his journey. Epsom is rather a long way from Maybank, you know, and old Tom Burton, best trainer in the world, brought Perlyon across country in a sort of glorified horse-box, wired to me that the colt was a bit nervous, so I went down to see him. I was detained on the way, so I did not get there till after six. I found Perlyon in first-rate trim, quieted down wonderfully, and as fresh as paint. Naturally I was a bit bucked, and when Tom Burton asked me to have a bit of dinner with him, and then go round and see what news we could pick up about the other gee-gees, particularly Peep o’ Day, well, I stopped.”
“Ah!” Stoddart looked at him closely. “Did you see Sir John Burslem?”
“No, I did not!” Stanyard said emphatically. “And I may tell you, inspector, that even if I had wanted to win the Derby badly enough to risk my neck for it, there was no need for me to kill Sir John Burslem. Perlyon is a real first-class colt, well bred on both sides by Crown Royal out of Irish Pearl. He could have licked Peep o’ Day hollow, given him ten pounds and beaten him. I hope they may meet as four-year-olds next year, and then you will see.”
“Well, I was only told that Peep o’ Day was the favourite,” the inspector returned phlegmatically. “What I know about horseflesh might be written on a threepenny bit. Beyond putting a trifle on the Derby, like everybody else, I never do any betting. May I ask what you did after your walk round with Mr. Burton, Sir Charles?”
“Can’t say I did much – there was not much to be done,” Stanyard responded. “Stood about, don’t you know, talked about Perlyon and Peep o’ Day and made up our minds, me and old Tom, to put the shirts off our backs on Perlyon.”
“What time did you start back?”
Stanyard got up and, standing before the empty fireplace, leaned against the high wooden shelf.
“Well, really, do you know, I couldn’t say positively – about twelve, or a little after, I should think. The beastly old bus broke down a mile or two out, and I had to spend a good half-hour tinkering at it.”