House in Charlton Crescent

by Annie Haynes

  “Outside?” Lady Anne raised her eyebrows. “Really, I do not think that is necessary, Mr. Cardyn. The outside staff have no possible means of access—”

  “It is not so much the outside staff that I am thinking of, though I shall give them a little attention, too, but I want any communication that the people inside the house have with outsiders carefully watched. In some cases, too, there will be probably shadowing to be done. But you have given me carte blanche, Lady Anne, though I will not trouble you with the details of my precautions, I want you to feel that you are perfectly safe. For a few days I am going to ask you to eat only at meal-times, when there can be no certainty beforehand who will partake of the food. Eschew all odd cups of milk, even your morning tea, until the assassin is found. I will get your prescription made up at the chemist’s myself, if you will permit, and give the medicines into your own hands. While you will, I hope, keep them all locked up and allow no one to have access to them.”

  “I dare say I can manage it,” Lady Anne said doubtfully. “But I am afraid Pirnie will be offended. She is my confidential maid, you understand, and the most faithful, the most honest creature in the world. For me even to say that she is entirely beyond suspicion is absurd.”

  Bruce Cardyn coughed.

  “Nevertheless, even the most confidential of maids must be suspect until we have discovered the guilty person. I must ask you to adhere strictly to this rule, please, Lady Anne.”

  “Well, well, leave it in your hands,” Lady Anne conceded. “Only make me safe, though I dare say you are thinking it is an unnecessary bother to make about an old woman.”

  The detective got up.

  “I will safeguard your life as I would have done my own mother’s, Lady Anne.”

  He took a few steps up the room looking grave and preoccupied.

  “Of course it is my duty to tell you that it is my opinion that the only way to make you absolutely safe is for you to leave this house, letting no one know where you go or how long you will be away, taking no one with you, and of course not returning until we have discovered the identity of the would-be assassin.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t do that,” Lady Anne said in her most positive tone. “My good man, I have long since given up going away for change of air, as they call it. I can get all the change of air that I want in London, and an invalid is best by her own fireside. So, if you cannot make me safe here—” Her gesture was expressive.

  “I feel no doubt but that we shall be able to do so,” Bruce Cardyn said quickly, “only I was bound to lay the other possibility before you.”

  Something like a grim smile passed over Lady Anne’s countenance.

  “Well, you have put it before me and I refuse to have anything to do with it; therefore the responsibility is off your, shoulders. In an hour, then, I shall expect you, Mr. Cardyn. By the way, under what name shall you pass as my secretary?”

  “Oh, Cardyn, please,” the detective said at once. “Of course, in any mention of our work officially, we are called by the name of the firm, and even that is not as well-known to the criminal classes as I should like it to be.”

  “As you wish.” Lady Anne touched the bell and the footman appeared to show Cardyn out.

  The detective glanced at him keenly. “A young man from the country,” he decided.

  Soames, the butler, was hovering about in the hall, a benevolent-looking, elderly man, whose bland face and dignified, stately manner might have been those of a Bishop or a Minister of State.

  Cardyn took a taxi back to his office. As he let himself in with a key his partner looked out of the adjoining room—a keen-faced, clean-shaven man, a few years older than Cardyn.

  “Well!”

  “Well!” Cardyn responded in a non-committal voice.

  The other laughed.

  “Is it to be you or me?”

  “Me, I think!” Cardyn’s voice was firm. “For the reason I told you I wish to undertake the work.”

  CHAPTER III

  “Monsieur Melange is with her ladyship, sir.”

  “Monsieur Melange!” Bruce Cardyn repeated with a doubtful glance at Soames’s placid face.

  “The French gentleman to see the miniatures, sir,” the butler went on, his manner as gravely respectful to the secretary as though the young man had been Squire Daventry himself. Soames’s manners were always perfect. Somehow he conveyed the impression that they were something demanded by his self-respect, and quite irrespective of the person whom he was addressing.

  “Yes, sir. His lordship and Lady Barminster are coming to lunch. They are coming over with Miss Fyvert and Mr. John Daventry.”

  “Is that so? Mr. Daventry is Squire Daventry of the Keep, isn’t he?” Bruce questioned.

  “Yes, sir. Though it seems strange to think of him there, and the old Squire and both his sons gone.”

  “Oh, well, times change and we change with them,” Bruce said as he went on.

  The butler looked after him with an indulgent smile. Bruce Cardyn in his character as secretary had been a week at the house in Charlton Crescent, and he appeared to be gaining golden opinions from the household, including the mistress. There was something so boyish and attractive about his personality. It is probable that the dignified Soames would have received the shock of his life if he had been told that the young man was a private detective. But so far Bruce Cardyn was obliged to confess to himself that he was not making the progress he had hoped for.

  He went straight to Lady Anne’s sitting-room. He did most of his work in the room adjoining, and it was here, as he expected, that he found her with her visitor.

  Monsieur Melange was not an imposing looking person. He was not very tall, and looked shorter by reason of his bowed shoulders; he had a shock of grey hair that was longer than English fashion allowed, and his round glasses were smoke-tinted. His voice, as Cardyn caught it, was soft and pleasantly modulated, and though he apparently spoke English well it was with a French turn of expression, and a particularly foreign accent.

  “Yes, my Lady Anne,” he was saying as Bruce closed the door, “it is a very fine one by Coros—Philippe Coros who died in 1754, and painted many of the beauties of the pre-Revolution period.”

  He laid the miniature on the table before him as he spoke, a table on which were arranged several boxes and cases.

  “Yes. We have quite a collection of Philippe Coros’ work. They are supposed to be rather characteristic specimens, but I shall leave Mr. Cardyn to show them to you,” Lady Anne said, as she got up, helping herself by the table and her walking-stick. “If you want further information I shall be in my room until lunch, Mr. Cardyn.”

  Bruce Cardyn helped her to her usual seat near the window, then, closing the door, came back to Monsieur Melange.

  That gentleman during his absence had undergone a momentary metamorphosis. He had taken off his smoked glasses, pushed back the grey wig, and the tone in which he spoke to Cardyn as he laid the miniature back in the case had lost all trace of accent.

  “Well, made any discoveries?” he questioned, his voice easily recognizable now as that of Frederick Misterton, the senior partner in the firm of Wilkins and Alleyn.

  Bruce Cardyn took the chair opposite.

  “Nothing! A faint suspicion I entertained has been done away with by the fact that there is no motive. Nay, if there was any motive it would seem to be the other way—rather to keep Lady Anne alive. You have got the information I wanted?”

  “Yes. The person principally benefiting by Lady Anne’s death would undoubtedly be John Daventry, as you said. Most of the Daventry money which was left to her as the Squire’s wife will revert to the head of the house at her death, the rest goes to the heirs of his daughter, Marjorie, should there be any. I have made a few inquiries about the young man, who only succeeded after the death of his cousins, Lady Anne’s sons. He distinguished himself by great personal bravery during the war, gaining the D.S.O. and being mentioned in despatches. After his return and accession to the estate
, there was some talk of wild oats and it was rumoured that he was heavily in debt, but of late he is reported to have turned over a new leaf. It is said that there is an understanding with Miss Dorothy Fyvert, Lady Anne’s niece, but there is no talk of any definite engagement, nor is it thought very likely that unless Lady Anne paves the way there can be any thought of marriage, as death duties have pressed heavily upon him.

  “H’m!” Cardyn drummed restlessly on the table with his fingers. “As you say, so far as we can see, the motive in this case is the strongest—perhaps the only strong one. But the ordinary well-born young Englishman does not commit murder, even to marry the girl of his choice. Besides, I think the hot milk rather puts him out of count.”

  “He might have an accomplice,” Misterton suggested. “We can’t afford to discard any possibilities, Cardyn; what is Miss Dorothy Fyvert like?”

  “I haven’t seen her yet,” Bruce Cardyn said slowly. “She has been away since I came. I have just heard, however, that she will be at home to lunch to-day, and that Mr. Daventry will be with her. They have both been staying at Barminster Towers.”

  “You must get me an invitation to lunch,” Misterton said at once. “I want to have a look at Daventry, and it may be instructive to see them together.”

  “That can easily be managed,” said Cardyn quietly. “But I want a few inquiries made in another direction. Cable to Messrs. Gage Bros, of Sydney. A Miss Margaret Balmaine sailed from that town in the S.S. Thapaluca on September the 8th last year. I want them to look into her past and to let us know all particulars as soon as possible. Bid them spare no expense. And please see that the return cable is delivered to me personally as soon as it arrives.”

  “I will see to that,” Misterton said curtly. “Now, with regard to the servants, they have all been shadowed for the past week, but so far nothing suspicious has been observed with regard to any of them.”

  “I don’t suppose there would be,” Bruce said thoughtfully. “And a legacy, not likely to be an inordinately large one, seems an inadequate motive for a secret poisoner. No, the only person who has any strong reason to desire Lady Anne’s death is John Daventry. But—”

  He stopped and began apparently to trace out the pattern of the table-cloth before him. Misterton’s eyes strayed to the open window, thence to the garden below. Presently he started and leaned forward.

  “Who is that girl, Cardyn?”

  Cardyn’s eyes followed his.

  “Miss Margaret Balmaine,” he said quickly.

  “Phew!” the other drew his lips together in a whistle. “H’m! good-looking girl enough. But she would look more in accordance with her surroundings in the chorus of an opéra bouffe than in Lady Anne Daventry’s house. Yes, I should say an inquiry into her past might be interesting.”

  There was a strange gleam in Cardyn’s eyes as he stood up and watched the movements of the tall, golden-haired girl, who was moving about, in and out among the flower-beds on the lawn. She wore a short, straight, white silk frock, much abbreviated as to the skirt, practically sleeveless and low-necked. The lines of her slim figure, thus revealed, were beautiful, so was also the shape of her boyish-looking shingled golden head. Her hair was of the gold beloved by artists, but it, as well as the pink and white complexion and the lustre shaded eyes, owed much of its beauty to art. Opposite to her, flashing about with something in her hands, which she was refusing to give up, was a child, a long-legged girl, about twelve, who, in her frock of bright delphinium-blue looked like a butterfly among the plants.

  “Maureen Fyvert, Lady Anne’s younger niece,” Cardyn explained. “She is a terribly spoilt child. And I believe one of her principal delights is teasing Miss Balmaine, who doesn’t understand chaff in the least. I hope her sister will be able to keep her in better order when she comes.”

  “I fancy the sister must have arrived,” Misterton said, listening.

  They heard Lady Anne go out of her room by the door in the corridor. Downstairs in the hall people were talking loudly. Cardyn unlocked a drawer, took out a fat notebook with a patent clasp, and handed it to Misterton.

  “I want you to glance through this and see what have been doing. All in cipher, of course.”

  Just at this moment there came a shriek from the garden:

  “No, no! you shall not have it! I am going to show it to Dorothy.”

  “Give it to me this minute, you naughty child!” There was an unmistakable sound of tears in Miss Balmaine’s voice.

  Cardyn saw that Maureen was brandishing a piece of paper about, while taking care to keep a flower-bed between herself and Miss Balmaine.

  “I should like to look at that,” he said quickly. He hurried out of the room and downstairs to the garden.

  There was a group of people in the hall, but he did not turn his head as he ran through. Outside he caught the child, Maureen, from the back and snatched the picture from her hand almost before she knew he was there. He had time to see that it was a sketch of a fair-haired girl in water-colours, who bore a striking resemblance to Miss Balmaine, and underneath was written in a clear masculine handwriting, with which he had become oddly familiar of late, “Daisy Melville, April, 19—”

  It was only a glance he had as he went forward, while Maureen, with an angry exclamation sprang up trying to tear it from his hands.

  “This is your property, I believe, Miss Balmaine,” he said as he held it out over Maureen’s head.

  That young lady gave a howl of rage.

  “I call that frightfully mean of you, Mr. Cardyn!”

  She wriggled away from Cardyn and ran towards the door.

  “Anyway, he had a good look at it before he gave it to you,” she called back mischievously. “I believe he is in love with you, Margaret! He is always asking questions about you!”

  Then, a most unusual thing with Bruce Cardyn, he suddenly lost his temper.

  “Damn!” he exclaimed. “I beg your pardon, Miss Balmaine, but really that child—”

  “Please say it again for me.” Margaret Balmaine laughed. She had rapidly recovered her self-possession, though her breathing was still quickened, and her blue eyes were sparkling with anger. “Maureen is simply intolerable. Any language about her is excusable. Lady Anne ought really to get a holiday governess for her if she stays away from school. She is always about with the housemaid, Alice, which is not good for her. But I suspect she will be better when Dorothy is at home.”

  She broke off as Maureen came out again, clinging to the arm of a tall girl at sight of whom Bruce Cardyn rubbed his eyes in amazement. A tall girl in a long motoring coat, a pull-on hat over her chestnut-hair—hair which had been bobbed once and which was now allowed to curl at its own sweet will round the pretty smiling face with its brown eyes and its colour coming and going; and there was, in spite of the difference in everything—age, expression and colouring—a distinct likeness to Lady Anne.

  The eyes opened wide now with an expression as astonished as those of Bruce Cardyn. She did not even glance at Miss Balmaine who had rolled up the sketch in her hand and was now coming towards her.

  “You!” she exclaimed. “You!”

  “You!” Bruce Cardyn echoed blankly. “I did not know that you—”

  “I am Dorothy Fyvert.” The girl held out her hands to him with a pretty welcoming gesture. “And you—”

  “I am Bruce Cardyn—Lady Anne Daventry’s secretary,” the man interrupted as he bent low over the outstretched hands.

  “But, Dorothy, Dorothy, do you know him?” Maureen burst in, shaking her sister’s arm up and down in her excitement. “Because, when I told you I did not like him—not even as well as I had liked Mr. Branksome—you never said—”

  Miss Fyvert touched her small sister rebukingly. “Hush! Maureen, darling. It is not at all kind to say you do not like people. And you will have to like Mr. Cardyn very much because he saved my life once!”

  “O—h!” Maureen’s eyes were wide with excitement now. “Dorothy, you don’t mean—yo
u can’t mean that he is the man who climbed up and got you out of the fire!”

  “At Lady Barminster’s—yes!” Dorothy answered, her pretty eyes smiling at the young man. “How often I have wanted to thank you!” she went on. “It does seem strange that we should meet at last—here—like this!”

  “It does, indeed!” Cardyn responded, thinking she little knew how strange.

  “I am so glad—” Dorothy was beginning when she was interrupted by a cry from the house.

  “Dorothy! Dorothy! where are you?”

  “Here, here!” the girl called back. She smiled again at Cardyn. “At any rate I shall see you again soon. We shall not lose sight of one another now.”

  Cardyn saw that quite a crowd of young people seemed to take possession of her altogether.

  He felt a curious sense of depression as he followed more slowly and made his way back to the little study where Monsieur Melange was still poring over the miniatures.

  “Zis—zis, is very fine. I see too a likeness—a resemblance to ze Lady Anne,” he said as Cardyn came in.

  The younger man realized at once that some one was in Lady Anne’s room. He sat down and hastily scribbled a line on a scrap of paper and handed it to Monsieur Melange.

  “Find out as soon as possible what is known of the past of a young actress called Daisy Melville, probably playing in Sydney in the summer of last year.”

  CHAPTER IV

  “This is my new secretary, John—Mr. Bruce Cardyn.”

  “How-d’ye-do.” John Daventry shook hands heartily, as they sat down to the luncheon table.

  Bruce Cardyn glanced keenly at the young man who was now taking the place opposite Lady Anne.

  There was nothing very remarkable about John Daventry. He was just the ordinary well set-up, well-dressed young Englishman, with a rather unusually attractive expression, perhaps. Certainly no one could have looked less like a murderer, above all a secret poisoner, Bruce Cardyn decided as he studied the fair, regular features, the sunburnt skin telling of an outdoor life as the regular white teeth and bright dark eyes spoke of perfect health.