by Annie Haynes
“Ah, well! You are only in the same boat as the rest of us, Soames,” Daventry said with a grim humour that was new to him. “We are all thieves and murderers in the eyes of the police.”
“You always will have your joke, sir,” Soames said with a sickly smile. “But, if I could have given it over to you, Mr. John, or to you, Mr. Fyvert, sir, instead of to the police, I should not have minded half so much. But to the police!”
“Well, well! Buck up, Soames, you will have to get over it. After all, it is left to different people, so you would have to part with it anyhow,” Daventry went on. “But about yourself, Soames. What are you going to do, old chap? One doesn’t like to think of you with anyone else, after all your years of faithful service with the Daventrys. But we have got old Grieve at the Keep, and my mother won’t hear of anyone in his place.”
“No. Nor is it right that she should, sir, if you will excuse me,” Soames said respectfully. “But, if you would allow me, sir, I did hear when old Mr. Blount of the Daventry Arms died, that the widow wasn’t going to keep the house on. If you would let it to me and speak a good word for me with the magistrates—”
“Oh, that would be all right, of course. Though I don’t know how far my words would go with the magistrates nowadays. I am likely to find that out for myself soon, I fancy,” John Daventry said with sardonic humour. “And of course we should love to have you at Daventry, old chap. But it will run into a good bit of money. Mrs. Blount wants to sell the furniture with the house, and there will be the transfer of the licence and Heaven knows what. Do you think you will be able to manage it?”
“I hope so, sir. I have always had good money, as you know. And I have been a thrifty man and put by a little each year, so with what her poor ladyship left me, I am quite well off. Besides—” he paused, smiling and looking sheepish.
“Besides what?” cried Daventry. “Upon my word, I believe you are going to be married, Soames! Who is it, man? Out with it—who is the lucky lady?”
“I look upon myself as the lucky one, sir,” said Soames, striving to recapture his usual manner and failing signally. “But we have walked out for years, though nothing binding between us, and now we are thinking of spending our old age together. I speak of Miss Pirnie, sir—her late ladyship’s maid.”
“Pirnie, by Jove!” For once John Daventry’s laugh rang out almost as free from cares as ever as a vision of the lady maid’s mincing affectation, and her elaborately coiffured dyed hair, rose before his eyes. Then he held out his hand. “I wish you the best of luck, Soames, both of you. You may depend upon me about the Daventry Arms. We should like to have you settled near as neighbours of ours.”
“Thank you, sir. Thank you, sir!” There were real tears in Soames’s eyes as he pressed John’s hand and then turned to press that which the rector of North Coton extended in congratulation. “You are very kind. And if you ever want a hand at the Keep, sir, why, we shall always be pleased to do what we can, speaking for Miss Pirnie and myself, for we shall always look upon ourselves as the Daventrys’ servants.”
When he had bowed himself out, John Daventry looked at Mr. Fyvert.
“Good old Soames! Well, I am glad Aunt Anne’s money is going to make those two good souls happy.”
“Indeed, yes!” responded the rector. “Soames belongs to the old-fashioned class of servant—a type that is rapidly becoming extinct nowadays.”
CHAPTER XII
Mosswolds’ was one of those very small, ultra-smart, restaurants that are to be found tucked away in side-streets all about the West End; mostly perhaps in the region of Bond Street and the shops. No band played. Mosswolds’ did not cater for the class of person who takes tea to the accompaniment of a jazz band. But the table linen and the china were always fresh and dainty. Flowers from the country came up every morning to Mosswolds’ and were set in crystal vases on every table. Above there was plenty of space. The tables stood in corners, or by the windows, or in the middle of the room, but always the customers could talk without fear of being overheard. To-day at four o’clock, there were very few people in the room, but then Mosswolds’ was never: crowded. The waitresses wore a particularly becoming uniform of pale almond green, with cream-coloured mob caps and dainty coquettish aprons. The frocks were short enough to show silk stockings of the same shade of green, and suede shoes to match with Louis Quinze heels and paste buckles. Report had it that all the waitresses at Mosswolds’ were ladies. However that might be, they were generally remarkably good-looking girls.
This afternoon, as business was slack, one of them was talking to a customer who had just come in. A well-dressed woman of middle-age who seemed to be waiting for some one. Presently a young man entered; a tall, rather good-looking man with fair hair and a monocle screwed into his left eye. He selected a table near the window and sat down.
The woman who had been talking to the waitress moved to a table at the other side of the room, quite out of earshot, but from whence a good view of the second customer’s table could be obtained.
Then she ordered tea, and, taking out a book, began glancing at it in an absent fashion.
The young man, too, ordered tea, and then began to watch the door. Quite evidently he was expecting some one; more than once he glanced impatiently at the clock. At last a girl in deep mourning came quickly through the swing door, He rose quickly and went forward to meet her.
“My darling, I thought I was never going to see you again!”
“Oh, Davy dear, you know it hasn’t been my fault!” the girl said quickly. “And even now I can’t stop long. But—is this safe?” She looked round doubtfully. A few people sat about at distant tables. Just opposite was the friend of the waitress. Upon her the girl’s glance rested longest. “You are sure she can’t hear?”
The man laughed. “Quite, quite sure. Come along, sweetheart, we are as safe as houses here. And I have promised the waitress a considerable douceur not to let anyone come near us.”
They sat down and began to talk, leaning forward and looking into each other’s eyes in a fashion that made the waitress giggle. The woman at the opposite table smiled a little too, as she put down her book and began to attack the pile of buttered toast she had ordered.
The two at the table went on talking.
“Why didn’t you come to the old place yesterday or the day before?” the man questioned.
“Because that horrid detective was prying about,” answered the girl, whom the distant watcher had no difficulty in identifying as Margaret Balmaine. “He is always popping up somewhere, just in the last place one expects him. It is a marvel I have been able to get away from him today. Even now I shouldn’t be surprised if he were the next person to come through that door. Davy, are we going to North Coton to-morrow?”
“So I have heard. At least I know you are leaving town to-morrow. Your destination is at present a secret, so far as the press is concerned. You will be glad to get away, darling!”
“Glad!” the girl echoed. “Oh, Davy, life at Charlton Crescent just now is nothing but hell! Picture it. Every one looking at every one else, wondering who is guilty—who may be the next one to be killed. And detectives all around us spying, trying to find out the smallest thing to tell them who the murderer is.” She bit her lip. “I don’t know what to do—I’m frightened! Frightened. And—and, Davy”—her voice dropped to the faintest whisper—“suppose they suspect us?” A great pity dawned in the man’s eyes. Ordinarily David Branksome’s face was hard, his expression unsympathetic. Only one woman ever saw the softening in his eyes, heard the tenderness in his tone.
“They couldn’t suspect, my darling—you—we are safe enough. And very soon we shall be away from it all, alone together, just you and I.”
A new light dawned in the girl’s eyes. She bent a little nearer.
“Ah! yes! think of that time, Davy, dream of it. And yet”—her face clouding over as suddenly as it had brightened—”something seems to tell me that it will never come, that he—that man wi
ll find out. Oh, Davy, Davy, in spite of all we have done, all our precautions, suppose he—he finds it out. What will they do to me if he does?” She broke off with a gasp of horror.
The man leaned over and laid one hand on hers. “They won’t find out,” he said tenderly. “They can’t, I have been much too careful, and—and if the very worst came, should speak out, I should not let you suffer.”
The girl gazed at him with terrified eyes. “But—but don’t you know that that would be worse than anything for me—that I would a thousand times sooner bear the penalty myself. Oh, Davy, Davy, will you never understand?”
“I know that you have always been far too good for me,” the man said, his hard voice breaking. “Ah, darling, if you had never met me how different your life might have been.”
“No life would have been life to me without you!” the girl said unsteadily. “I don’t mind anything, Davy, if they don’t separate us.”
“They shall not!” the man assured her. But somehow his confident tone did not ring true. “Be brave just a little while longer,” he went on, “it can hardly be a week or two now, and then think of the reward. I keep it before my eyes always.”
“So do I!” the girl whispered. “But—but I don’t know how long it will be, Davy. I can’t get Mr. Fyvert to tell me even when he thinks things will be settled up. He keeps saying that the manner of Lady Anne’s death complicates matters. I believe the police tell him to. Davy, you will come to see me at North Coton?”
“I—don’t know!” the man hesitated. “We shall have to find some means of communication, of course. But there is always the possibility that our being seen together may delay matters, or even bring about—discovery!”
“I don’t see why it should!” the girl said obstinately. “It is bad enough being alone among strangers, knowing what I know. But to be there, to look at one another, to catch some one looking at you sideways. Oh, Davy, Davy, never can you imagine the horror. Often I think I shall go mad, shall tell them—”
“Oh, no!” The man’s eyes narrowed; he drew his thin lips together. “You must be my own brave girl to the end. Think what it means, darling. The success, the reward of all our efforts. No more struggling. No more separation. And it will not be for so long as you fear. Did you tell Mr. Fyvert that you wished to go back to Australia?”
“Yes, yes, did, but it was of no use,” the girl said wearily. “I do not think he would mind me realizing my share and going back. But at the present time the police would not allow anyone to leave the country—anyone, that is to say, who may be wanted as a witness at the inquest, or any subsequent proceedings.”
He drew his brows together. “That cannot go on for ever. The English law would not give them the power to keep you indefinitely, I am certain. And the moment they have paid the money over—”
“But—but if we do get away,” the girl whispered. “If—if they find out anything afterwards nowadays they could follow us to Australia. There is the wireless and aeroplanes and all sorts of things, we shouldn’t be safe anywhere.”
The man dropped his voice to a caressing murmur. “Only we shouldn’t go to Australia! What a little goose you are, darling; I know the sweetest spot on earth and all my arrangements are made. When our—I shall say our—honeymoon is over, I wonder how you will like to be a farmer’s wife?”
The girl’s face lighted up momentarily. “I think, perhaps, I might like it very much—if you were the farmer,” she confessed.
“It won’t be as dull as it sounds,” the man went on. “We shall have our gay times and life can be very jolly in those southern republics.”
“Gaiety—gaiety! I only want safety—and you!” the passion in her voice quickening. “But, Davy,” coming nearer and speaking so that he could only catch the words with difficulty—“will you tell me if you—whether you—”
“Hush!” The man’s voice broke sharply across her hesitating speech. “Don’t ask—don’t want to know anything. Remember that walls have ears—”
The girl stood up shivering, drawing her furs more closely round her.
“Then—then I must go now. I have been longer than I ought. Suppose Dorothy has finished with her dressmaker and gone home?”
“Does she know?”
The girl shook her head. “No! But I think perhaps she guesses a little. She was busy looking at patterns and I just slipped away and left her a message saying I had a bad toothache and had gone to get something for it. Still I think she will wait. She is not a bad sort—Dorothy. And some day I hope things will be straight for her.”
“Of course they will,” the man assented. But his eyelids flickered curiously, his narrow lips curled in an unpleasant fashion as he spoke. He pushed his chair back. “And I suppose I must not even see you home, Margaret?”
“No! No! somebody might recognize us and guess!”
She looked very attractive standing there, her heavy furs drawn closely round her shoulders, her throat gleaming white between, the deep red gold of her hair just peeping out from beneath her cloche hat, her eyes looking all the bigger and clearer for the dark half circles beneath them, for the touch of lassitude and fatigue that gave her face the look of pathos that enhanced the beauty that was at times hard and unsympathetic. Her breathing had quickened; despite her furs one could see her breast rising and falling, even the plentiful use of her lipstick could not altogether spoil the perfect curves of her mouth—the shape of her pretty lips.
The eyes of the man watching seemed to drink in every detail of her loveliness. “Darling!” he said hoarsely at last. “Don’t forget, child. Don’t let John Daventry—”
The girl drew up her small golden head. “John Daventry is nothing to me,” she said icily. “If, after all, you do not trust me, Davy!”
“I trust you with everything,” the man said with sudden fire, “even with life itself.”
Several people were coming in. A little group gathered in the middle of the room and obstructed the view of the watcher on the side opposite. When once more she could see clearly the girl had gone, the man was sitting alone at the table. He beckoned to the waitress and put the bill into her hand with what was evidently an unusually liberal tip, to judge by her expression.
The watcher got up and paid her modest account.
“I shall always be thankful that my mother made me learn the lip language when was a child,” she said to herself as she went out.
CHAPTER XIII
“And now,” said Inspector Furnival, “there is a little hard work before us, Mr. Cardyn, if we want to elucidate the mystery of Charlton Crescent.”
Bruce Cardyn did not attempt to answer this thrust. Of late he had not been thinking so much of the dead Lady Anne Daventry as of the live Dorothy Fyvert. For Dorothy had been as good as her word. Ever since she had discovered Cardyn to be a detective she had deliberately cold-shouldered him, she had never spoken to him unless absolutely compelled, and she had taken pains to express her contempt for his chosen calling, whenever possible. Yet for that very reason perhaps Cardyn’s thoughts dwelt on her persistently. She had dominated them more or less ever since the night of the fire; he had not realized himself to how great an extent until he met her again in Charlton Crescent. Then what had been heretofore a cherished memory became a living, breathing reality—the goddess of his dreams had become a very woman.
Inspector Furnival smiled as he looked at him.
“Come now, Mr. Cardyn, you must rouse yourself. There are just a few questions I should like you to consider with me before we set to work. I wonder if you can form an idea what they are.”
Cardyn shook his head wearily. “Probably my ideas would not coincide with yours.”
“Well, come in here and I will show you my list. You can see how you would answer them.” The inspector opened the library door as he spoke.
The house was now entirely in the hands of the police. They had just watched the dispersal of the household. John Daventry had gone down to the Keep in his small tourin
g car, taking with him Soames who was about to apply for the transfer of the licence of the Daventry Arms. Mr. and Mrs.
Fyvert had been accompanied to North Coton by their two nieces, with Margaret Balmaine and their respective maids. The other servants had dispersed in different directions, all leaving their addresses with the police. Though none of the furniture had gone the house looked cold and dismantled in the absence of the life and movement that had so recently pervaded it.
Cardyn shivered as he followed Inspector Furnival. The library was the only room in the house that looked much the same as usual. Since Lady Anne’s death it had become the headquarters of the police, and Inspector Furnival’s papers were strewn about, while books, presumably on subjects in the inspector’s mind, lay on the table.
The inspector took his favourite chair, and, drawing a sheet of foolscap towards him, wrote:
“Question 1. Did Lady Anne Daventry herself sell her pearls to Messrs. Spagnum, or did some one impersonate her sufficiently cleverly to deceive their manager?
“Question 2. Who engineered the man at the window?”
Cardyn bent forward as the inspector’s capable fingers wrote down the second.
“Engineered?” he questioned.
“Yes—um, well, yes!” The inspector tapped his lip with his pencil. “Perhaps ‘engineered’ is not the proper word, and yet it describes what I mean better than ‘managed’ or ‘helped.’”
“But do you mean that some one in the house knew—helped?” Bruce questioned.
“In the house or not—I do!” the inspector said firmly. “Why, put it to yourself, Mr. Cardyn. How could any man get up to that window and get away again without being seen unless he had the help of some one! How he did it is sufficiently difficult of explanation, even with the help.
“Question 3. Who made the footmarks on the border, under the window at the back of the hall?