by Annie Haynes
But the girl’s eyes did not meet his. She drew away into the corner of the taxi.
“I don’t know,” she said lamely. “I can’t even think of things now. I can’t decide anything.”
She sprang out of the taxi, pushing aside Cardyn’s proffered hand, and hurried into the hotel. Cardyn followed more slowly. She did not pause in the lounge, but almost ran upstairs.
Bruce stood looking after her for a minute, then as he turned he met the quizzical gaze of Inspector Furnival.
“The young lady seems to be in a hurry. I am glad to see you, though, Mr. Cardyn. You will be quite valuable as an assistant at the interview I have arranged.” He glanced at his watch. “Yes, I thought the time was getting on. Come along, Mr. Cardyn, the scene is set for the first scene in the final drama.”
He turned to the staircase, Bruce accompanying him, then stopped and beckoned to a man standing near the door, a man whom Bruce recognized as one of the inspector’s satellites. He was carrying an oddly shaped parcel, wrapped carelessly in brown paper.
The thought struck Cardyn that it looked like an old countrywoman’s luggage. Rack his brains as he would he could not make out what it contained.
The three of them proceeded up the stairs and a little way along the corridor at the top. There the inspector opened the door of a small sitting-room—evidently private, and, motioning Bruce to enter, took the parcel from his man, at the same time saying a few words in an undertone. Bruce caught the last sentence—“As soon as it comes, mind. Let there be no mistake.”
CHAPTER XXIII
Dorothy Fyvert walked quickly into the room. Cardyn got the impression that she had waited outside lacking the courage to enter, and then, rallying her self-control by a supreme effort, had come in with a rush. He made a step forward, but she did not glance at him. Her brown eyes sought the inspector’s and, meeting his, stayed there with a terrified expression.
“You wanted to speak to me?” she said nervously.
The inspector did not answer for a minute. Apparently he was listening to some distant sound. At last he spoke.
“Yes. I wished to speak to you and to Miss Balmaine. A certain piece of new evidence has been obtained which might bear distinctly on the matter of Lady Anne Daventry’s death, and I should like to know what you both have to say about it.”
“What is it?” Dorothy questioned curtly.
“You shall know in a minute,” the inspector promised. “Miss Balmaine will be here directly. We will wait for her.”
As he spoke his eyes strayed to the brown paper parcel which he had deposited under a small table and of which only one corner was to be seen.
He had scarcely finished speaking when Margaret Balmaine opened the door. She looked a curious contrast to Dorothy, whose pallor and general look of anxiety had been accentuated by the inspector’s note. Miss Balmaine had returned to the make-up which she had temporarily discarded at the time of Lady Anne’s death. She was wearing to-day a frock of pale grey marocain, exquisitely embroidered in silver beads, and caught up at one side with an old silver and crystal clasp. The gown was very short as to sleeves and skirt, very low as to neck, but the throat and arms so generously revealed were beautifully modelled, the legs and feet in their nude silk stockings and grey suede shoes were without flaw. But Cardyn could not help feeling as he had often felt before that it was a thousand pities that Margaret Balmaine with undeniable good looks should resort to such very obvious artificial means to enhance them. The pink and white of her cheeks, the darkness of her eyebrows and eyes, even the sheen of her shingled golden hair were all, quite evidently, due to art. Yet in spite of everything, in spite of the ready smile with which she greeted the inspector, Cardyn could not help fancying that he saw some intangible traces of disturbance on her face.
“Well inspector,” she began, in her old half defiant manner. “What is this very serious business that you want to see me upon? Have you found out who killed Lady Anne, or who abducted Maureen?”
“Both, I hope, Miss—er—Balmaine,” the inspector answered her quietly, the gravity of his tone contrasting curiously with the lightness of hers.
Meeting his eyes, it seemed to Cardyn that the girl visibly winced.
“I am very glad to hear it!” she said in the same tone. “You have been long enough about it, have you not? And who is guilty, inspector?” This time the anxiety in her tone was obvious.
The inspector did not choose to satisfy it.
“All in good time! All in good time! I have just a few questions to ask you young ladies now before we say any more.”
“Oh, but, inspector,” Dorothy interposed, “if you have found out about Maureen—I—really must know—”
“Oh, well, the Brighton police traced that without much difficulty,” the inspector answered. “It seems that Alice Gray got into conversation with some young man on the esplanade. There were some travelling musicians on the beach and a gipsy fortune-teller with a van behind, and little Miss Maureen began to dance to the music with the other children. Of course, trained as she had been she attracted the notice of the fortune-teller, who appears to have thought there was money to be made out of abducting her. She persuaded her to get into the van and drove off. Then, learning from the papers later who the child was, I suppose she thought more money would be obtained by waiting—or she fancied she would be safer if the girl were dressed up as a boy. She came up to London to some horrible haunt in the East End, and I suppose the child escaped from there and managed to find her way back to Charlton Crescent. The shock of it all acting upon her when she was already in bad health seems to have been too much for her brain. That is what I make of it. But of positive ill treatment there was none.”
“Thank you.” Dorothy turned away to the window. The inspector’s words had relieved her of a horrible dread.
Margaret Balmaine waited. Her head was thrown back. Cardyn saw that one of her hands, hanging down by her side, was clenching and unclenching itself nervously.
The inspector, too, waited for a minute. His face was very stern as he glanced from one girl to the other. At last he seemed to be satisfied.
He drew from its hiding-place the brown paper parcel that he had brought into the room, and set it on the table. Dorothy turned towards him, moving slowly as if drawn against her will, staring at the parcel. Margaret Balmaine’s eyes followed his every movement as if fascinated. The inspector took a knife from his pocket and, opening it, set about cutting the string and unwrapping the paper with exasperating slowness.
Cardyn scarcely knew what he expected, but certainly he was not prepared to see the inspector lift out with meticulous care just a milliner’s cardboard box and then from that an old-fashioned black silk bonnet. Inspector Furnival held this up in his hand for a minute, apparently surveying it with the greatest interest, while from beneath his lowered eyelids his keen little eyes went from one to the other of the motionless faces of the girls before him.
“Very like a bonnet of Lady Anne Daventry’s,” he shot out a last. “But—not Lady Anne’s!”
Dead silence followed. Neither girl moved. At last Dorothy drew a long breath. Margaret Balmaine might have been carved out of stone, so absolutely motionless was she. The inspector’s eyes relaxed their scrutiny. He made another dive into the box and produced a white wig, evidently dressed in imitation of Lady Anne’s own beautiful snow-white hair. At sight of it Dorothy shuddered violently and clutched at the table, shivering from head to foot.
“Oh, what does it mean? What does it mean?” she cried.
Not one muscle of Margaret Balmaine’s face stirred. Even the hand by her side was still now. Cardyn’s eyes watching closely saw that the knuckles were showing white through the tightening skin. Then he looked away from her to the girl he loved. There could be no doubt that Dorothy was frightened—horribly frightened. Her pretty brown eyes were wide open, dilated and staring at the mass of hair in the inspector’s hand with a horrible fixity. Her mouth was twitching, too; more t
han once she moistened her dry lips with her tongue. Cardyn made a step towards her, as if to range himself on her side to protect her. But she put out her hand and motioned him back imperatively.
“What does it mean?” she questioned hoarsely. “I—I can’t understand.”
There was another pause. Then the inspector said in the quick curt tones that cut across the tragic atmosphere of the room like a knife:
“It means that we have always suspected, that undoubtedly some one has, on one occasion, if not more, successfully impersonated Lady Anne Daventry. I asked for this interview in order to see whether either of you two ladies could help me to discover the guilty person.”
“Of course we can’t—we told you we knew nothing about the theft of the pearls,” Dorothy said, that painful twitching of her mouth extending to her throat, the straining of her muscles plainly visible.
Margaret Balmaine stepped quietly to her side.
“Do not frighten yourself, Dorothy. Don’t you see that the inspector—knows? May I ask Inspector Furnival how long it has been allowed to introduce the customs of France into our judicial procedure? Though I believe that in the neighbouring country the examination takes place before a magistrate, so that there is at least some semblance of fairness. But here you try to frighten two defenceless girls into incriminating themselves. Take away your pieces of accusation, inspector”—pointing to the wig and the bonnet—“you will not find out anything here.”
The words were a defiance, her manner, her gesture were superb. In spite of all that Cardyn knew, in spite of that further at which he only guessed, he felt a quick throb of admiration as he looked at her, at the small, uplifted star-like head.
It was evident that her colour beneath her makeup had not varied. Her eyes were clear and steady and full of scorn as she looked at the inspector.
“Well, what are you going to do? It does not seem to have struck you that there have been other well-dressed old ladies in the world besides Lady Anne Daventry, and possibly those things”—pointing at them contemptuously—“have been worn to impersonate someone quite different. Or they may just be ‘properties’ worn by some actress.”
“I fancy they were,” the inspector interposed quietly.
He moved nearer the two girls as he spoke. Dorothy backed against the wall. The horror in her eyes had deepened during the inspector’s brief colloquy with Margaret. She gazed helplessly from one to the other.
“Where did you find those things?” Margaret questioned him.
“Ah I thought that might interest you,” the inspector answered as he put his hand into the box again and drew out this time a strange, staring-looking object—a rough mask, such as are worn on Guy Fawkes day. From it there dangled long wisps of dirty white muslin.
“Another property,” he observed dryly. “You do not seem interested, Miss Balmaine. And yet you would like to know where the wig and the bonnet were found. Well, I have been searching in strange places. The first two properties”—repeating the last word with sarcastic emphasis—“were found—” He stopped, and this time his gaze was fixed wholly upon Margaret Balmaine.
The tenseness of her attitude did not alter, but Cardyn caught a momentary flicker of her eyelids.
“Where were they found?” she questioned.
“In an apartment house in Ilford Road, Fulham,” the inspector finished. “In a room occupied for the time being by Lady Anne’s late secretary, Mr. David Branksome.”
There was no mistaking the effect his words produced. A sort of quiver of relief passed over Dorothy’s face. Some of the tension and the strain died out, a faint tinge of colour came back; to the pale cheeks.
Margaret Balmaine started, for one second she set her small white teeth hard in her lip. Then she passed her handkerchief over it quickly.
“I don’t believe it!” she flashed out.
The inspector shrugged his shoulders.
“I am afraid that belief or unbelief cannot affect hard facts.”
Miss Balmaine flashed an angry glance at him. She had begun a defiant rejoinder when there was an interruption. There was a loud, insistent knock at the door.
Cardyn was about to open it, but the inspector was before him. A waiter with a familiar-looking yellow envelope on his salver stood in the passage.
“Telegram, sir, just come!”
The inspector took it and with a word of thanks shut the door. Then he tore the envelope open, while the other three stared at him breathlessly. An expression of relief was on his face as he glanced up.
“This is from North Hackney,” he said quietly. “David Branksome was arrested there at four o’clock this afternoon.”
CHAPTER XXIV
“Arrested! It is not true!” Margaret Balmaine’s voice rang across the stillness that followed the inspector’s words like a trumpet.
“Quite true!” said the inspector blandly. “Why do you say it is not?”
“Because he is not guilty. I know he is not,” the girl said hotly.
“And how can you know that?” the inspector went on.
“Because he was miles away! I know he was!” Miss Balmaine reiterated.
“Miles away from—where—when?” the inspector questioned incisively.
Looking at him, his subordinates would have said that he was getting dangerous now.
“From that house in Charlton Crescent where Lady Anne Daventry was killed.”
“Ah!” said the inspector quietly. “But I did not say anything about the house in Charlton Crescent or Lady Anne Daventry’s death, I think. David Branksome has been arrested for stealing Lady Anne’s pearls, not for being concerned in her death.”
“He did not!” Margaret Balmaine’s voice was as clear as ever.
“How do you know he did not?” The inspector’s tone was as determined as hers.
Dorothy and Cardyn looked on much as the seconds in a duel might.
“I know he is innocent—that he did not steal the pearls. Because”—the girl paused and gulped something down in her throat—“I stole them myself!”
“You stole them, Miss Balmaine?” The tone was expressive of nothing but well simulated surprise.
“Yes. I did steal them,” Margaret Balmaine reiterated. She stood as she had stood throughout the interview, her head held up defiantly, her clenched hand hanging by her side, the other steadying her against the table behind. “I stole the pearls, I wore your properties”—pointing contemptuously to the wig and bonnet—“I impersonated Lady Anne and got the money from Spagnum’s. Now, what are you going to do, Inspector Furnival?”
“Why did you do it?” the inspector questioned, his quiet tone in strong contrast with the fire of hers.
She threw out her hands.
“Can’t you see, man? I wanted the money. I have always wanted money, more than I ever had all my life. Here was a chance to get it, to help myself, and I took it. Now, I ask you again, what are you going to do with me? Arrest me, do what you like, only let David Branksome go free.”
“I see.” The inspector looked at her consideringly. “But this does not account for the bonnet and wig being found in Mr. David Branksome’s lodgings or for the footsteps in the flower border. How do you explain these things, Miss Balmaine?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, her white fingers clutching one another in an agony. “I do not believe in your footmarks at all. I know David Branksome was far away from Charlton Crescent when Lady Anne was murdered. As for the wig and bonnet, he found out what I had done and took them away so that no one would suspect me. Why he kept them I don’t know. Now—now you must let him out.”
The inspector shook his head.
“I have no power to do that. And—I do not know—I doubt whether any jury would believe your story. They would say, I am afraid, that you had invented it to save your lover—”
“How dare you!” the girl interrupted passionately. “It—it had nothing to do with David. I did it on my own. The pearls were of no use to Lady Anne. She nev
er wore them. Very often she told us that she would never wear any jewellery again. She seldom even looked at them. They were shut up in that secret hiding-place in the escritoire—no use to anyone. While to me they meant just—salvation. I took them. I got myself up to look like Lady Anne—I had always been good at theatricals—and was most successful in deceiving Spagnum’s.”
“How did you manage to get to the escritoire? And without leaving any marks?” the inspector questioned.
“Oh, well!” she hesitated and bit her lip. “After all, most things are possible with skeleton keys.”
“A skeleton key would not open or show the secret of the springs,” the inspector said dryly. “You will have to think of something else, Miss Balmaine.”
“I will not!” she flashed hotly. “I did take them—that is enough for you. I will tell you nothing more. I did take the pearls. How I got them is my own business.”
“Yours and Mr. Branksome’s,” the inspector suggested.
With a glance of supreme contempt Margaret Balmaine turned her back upon him and addressed herself to the other two.
“You do see, don’t you, that I did take the pearls? I must say so now that David is arrested. It—it was a sudden temptation. I wanted to have some money while I was young enough to enjoy things. Lady Anne was old. But I wish now that I had not taken her pearls. I would never have touched her to hurt her. Nor would David. You do believe me, do you not?”
“Qui s’excuse, s’accuse,” the inspector murmured softly.
Dorothy cast a reproachful glance at him as she laid her arm caressingly round the other girl’s back.
“Certainly I believe you, Margaret. I am sure you would not have hurt Lady Anne and I know what temptation is. I—I might have yielded to this myself, if my need had been as great as yours.”
“One question,” interposed the inspector. “The price of the pearls was paid to you by Spagnum’s under the belief that you were Lady Anne Daventry. So much we have discovered, so much you have acknowledged. Now, will you tell us how it was that Miss Fyvert paid the dressmaker’s bill with one of the notes you received?” For the first time Margaret Balmaine’s eyes fell before his, and a dull flush of shame made itself visible through her powder. She turned from the detective to Dorothy’s pitying eyes.