"She'd often said she might And now she had.
"I turned around and flew into the sitting room. The electric lights were still blazing there—she'd have left them on, of course—and I saw the ashes of a big fire in the grate. I had one more chance to make sure.
"Margot always kept a diary. She wrote pages and pages and pages; I can t think how; I could never keep a diary myself. It was always there, in a big locked book, in a Chinese Chippendale desk in her sitting room. I found the book, unlocked; but the diary for all the year had been cut out. In the fireplace . . .
"I remember noticing, in a vague kind of way, that among the fire irons there were now two pokers: one of them brass handled, from among the fire irons in Margot’s bedroom. But there wasn't anything left of the diary. It was all powdered ash, burnt page by page, on top of the other ashes.
"She was still being respectable, you see. She didn't want anybody to know. I looked around the room, white-satin and gold, with the dark-red carpet and the crimson curtains, and I saw that chaise longue. It was over there, you know, that Thorley tried to strangle her.
"A kind of craziness came over me then. I raced out of the sitting room, through the old-rose bedroom where Margot was lying dead, and into the bathroom again. I felt I must, I must - must be certain that poison bottle wasn't in the medicine cabinet. I started to go over the bottles again. But this time my hands were shaking. Down came one bottle, then another and another, crash bang clatter into the wash basin, with a noise that filled the place and deafened you.
"I looked up. And there was Thorley, standing in the doorway to his bedroom, with his left hand gripped around the sill of the door, looking at me.
"In the bathroom there's a high-built swing-together window of colored glass, that never would latch or fit together properly; I remember feeling an icy-cold current of air against the back of my neck.
"Thorley said, in a high voice: 'What the hell are you up to?'
"I said, 'You did this.' And then, as he just looked at me and took a step forward from the door, I said, 'You killed her with the way you treated her, just as surely as though you'd given her that poison yourself. And I'll pay you back for it, Thorley Marsh.'
"All of a sudden his left hand swung back, and he banged it against his razor strap hanging on the wall beside the wash basin.
"And I said, 'Go on. Hit me with that razor strap, just as you did Margot. But I won't take it meekly, like Margot. You'd better understand that'
"For a second he didn't answer anything; he only breathed. Then—which was what made me sick—he smiled. He smiled under all that stubble on his face: a really gentle, affectionate, martyred kind of smile. You'd have sworn butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, and he'd fly straight up to heaven among the holy angels.
"He said: 'Celia, you're upset Go and get dressed.' And he went back into his bedroom, and closed the door."
Again Celia paused. All this, even the account of her conversation with Thorley, had been delivered in the same cold, level, unemotional tone. In conclusion, as she kicked out at the sand, her voice was almost casual.
"Margot was buried in the new family vault in Caswall churchyard. Do you remember, Don, how Mammy Two always said she wanted to be buried in the new vault, because the old one was so crowded?"
"Yes. I remember."
"Mammy Two never did get her wish," said Celia. "The new tomb wasn't finished until after her death. But, a day or so before Margot's funeral—because, mind you, Thorley said it would add sanctity and solemnity and I believe he added 'swank' to the new vault—some coffins of the old, old Devereuxs were carried down to it and interred there. Even in death Margot isn't with Mammy Two, or our own parents. Ob, no! She's with ..."
Here Celia's voice did change, in fury and anguish. She sprang to her feet, stepping back out of the sandbox, and stood breathing hard and fast
"Dr. Shepton," she pleaded, "you were the one who attended Margot. Can't you say something?"
"Yes, Doctor," Holden agreed grimly. "I was about to ask you the same question."
Dr. Shepton, with a grunt and shamble, also got to his feet. Holden followed him. Automatically Dr. Shepton adjusted his pince-nez. His broad face, with the fringe of white hair fluffed out round the bald head, wore a benevolent air as he turned to Celia.
"Well, my dear?" he asked pleasantly.
"Well—what?"
"Don't you feel better?" inquired the doctor. Celia stared at him. "Yes. Of c-course I feel better! But . . ."
"Exactly!" Dr. Shepton nodded. "Thafs where the Roman Catholic Church is so wise in the matter of confession; though, of course," his broad face wrinkled up in half-humorous apology, "nowadays we add frills and give it some scientific name. Now, Celia, as an old friend of your family for many years, I want you to do me a little favor. Will you do it?"
"Yes! Certainlyl If I can."
"Good!" said Dr. Shepton. He reflected. 'Tomorrow, as I understand it, you're going to Caswall for a few days. I— er—believe Mr. Marsh wants to look over the property with a view to selling it."
Holden saw Celia's start, though this was evidently not news to her. But Dr. Shepton's attention was occupied with other matters.
"We-ell!" said the doctor, waving his hand tolerantly. "That's all right! A few days in the country; country air; bit of a holiday; can't stand London myself. It's when you come back to town, Celia, that I want you to do this favor."
Her voice was rising. "What favor?"
Dr. Shepton carefully felt in his upper left-hand waistcoat pocket, then in his upper right-hand pocket, before producing a visiting card. He examined it closely, with a happy and gusty sigh, and handed it to Celia.
"When you get back to town, my dear, I want you to go and see the man whose address is on that card. Mind you! He's a fully qualified medical man, admirable in his own right, as well as being an analyst. I want you to tell him ..."
This was the point at which Don Holden felt he had received a physical blow in the face. The effect on Celia must have been even worse.
'That’s the psychiatrist," Celia said. "You came to London to see him about me. You—you still don't believe a word I've been saying!"
"We-ell, nowl" mused Dr. Shepton, and pursed up his hps. "As a famous character said on a certain occasion, what is truth? The matter . . ."
"Doctor," said Holden, and tried hard to keep his voice from shaking with rage, "you might be good enough to answer one straight question. We've just been listening to a forthright and convincing narrative of facts. Do you, or don't you, believe what Celia says?"
Dr. Shepton considered this.
"Let me answer that question,'' he suggested, "by asking Celia another. Eh?" He addressed Celia persuasively. "Lefs suppose (for the sake of argument, mind!) that Mrs. Marsh did kill herself. Let's suppose Mrs. Marsh was driven by her husband's brutal treatment to take her own life."
"Well?" asked Celia, with her eyes glistening under the long lashes.
'What could you gain, what could you possibly hope to gain, by creating an unpleasant scandal and even (heaven help us!) wanting a post-mortem? The law could take no action against Mr. Marsh. You must see that, my dear. Legally, you couldn't touch him.''
No," Celia answered calmly. "But I can ruin him. I can puncture his thick hide at last. I can ruin him. And I will"
Dr. Shepton was gently shocked. "My dear girl! Come, now!"
"What’s so wrong with it?"
"My dear girl! That would be merely vindictive, don't you see? And in all the years I've known you, my dear, I've never once known you to be vindictive. You wouldn't like to start now, would you?"
"It isn't question," Holden cut in, "of being vindictive or anything else. If s a question of plain justice!"
"Ah, yes. No doubt. Do you believe Mrs. Marsh committed suicide, sir?"
"No," answered Holden.
"You don't believe it?"
"No. I think she was deliberately murdered."
The Panama hat dropped out of
Dr. Shepton's big-knuckled fingers, and rolled over wabbling in the sandbox. Clearly the word "murder" had never occurred to him. He bent over, grunting, to retrieve the hat; and then straightened up again.
"You think it was murder, eh?" he ruminated. "Dear, dear, dear!" The dryness of Dr. Shepton's tone, the hint of irony, at once infuriated Holden and shook his confidence.
"Doctor, listen! May even a layman ask how some perfectly healthy person can die of cerebral hemorrhage with no contributing cause?"
"I’ll tell you what I’ll do,"- offered Dr. Shepton, smiling man to man and extending his hat. "I had—er—intended to return to Wiltshire by the first train tomorrow moming. But I'll tell you what I'm staying at a little hotel in ... where is It? Ah, yes. Welbeck Street. Welbeck Street! Why not come round there and see me tomorrow morning? Say ten o'clock."
"No!" cried Celia. Her eyes appealed to Holden, with the whole strength of her nature in that appeal. "Don't go, Don! He—he wants to see you alone. He wants to tell you things about me, when I'm not there to defend myself!"
"Easy, Celia!"
"You won't go, will you?"
"Doctor," said Holden, "I thank you for your very kind offer. I'm afraid I can't accept. Only: could you answer, here and now, the question about Margot Marsh's death?"
‘I could, sir," Dr. Shepton retorted. His eye strayed toward Celia. "But I don't propose to do so."
"Very well. Then we know where we stand. Celia, she tells me, has already written the police ..."
Dr. Shepton's stooped shoulders quivered. "She's written to the police?"
"The day before yesterday," Celia told him.
"And in any case,' Holden was desperately trying to make this interview friendly, when he could see it was reaching a dangerous pitch of tensity, "tomorrow morning I intend to go to Scotland Yard. I also have a friend at the War Office, Frank Warrender, who may be able to pull a few strings."
"Young man," quavered Dr. Shepton, with age and weariness breaking through that formality, "you don't understand what you're doing. You're in love. It's bad for the judgment "This is a tragic affair. A very tragic affair."
"I quite appreciate that, Doctor. I was very fond of Margot myself."
"Are you forcing me to tell you, in this young lady's presence, something that concerns her? Something that can only cause you pain? And that will distress her stfll more?"
Holden was taken aback. "Well! If you put it like that..."
"I force you," Celia interposed clearly.
From somewhere close at hand, yet muffled by trees and hedges, there rose up at that moment a calling and clamoring voice. It was so close, indeed, that they could also hear the noise of heavy footsteps clumping on gravel in the path outside the playground: footsteps starting, stopping uncertainly as though someone were peering around, and moving on. What the apprehensive voice kept crying was:
"Miss Celia! Miss Celial Miss Celia!"
It was Obey’s voice.
Holden would have known it anywhere. Obey, surname remotely rumored to be O'Brien, but long since lost to any trace of Irish speech; Christian name unknown, but never called anything except Obey since either of the Devereux children could speak. Obey, short of breath, her hair still done in the style of the First World War, who loved Celia and Margot as she had loved no other persons on earth.
"Yes," announced Celia, as the voice called out. "It’s Obey. Thorley's got her to such a state, unfortunately, that she's alarmed if I even go for a walk. Don't answer her," and then, as Holden was about to protest, "don't answer her, I tell you! She may not think of the playground. Dr. Shepton!"
"Well, my dear?"
"Didn't you have something to tell Don?"
"If it will stop Scotland Yard and the other powers that be," returned Dr. Shepton, wiping his sleeve across his forehead, "very well. Celia has told you, young man, about Mr. Marsh's brutality toward his wife? How this went on and on? How, on one occasion, she saw Mr. Marsh attack his wife and try to strangle her?"
Holden flung the answer back at him.
"Celia's told me that, yes! What about it?"
"Only," said Dr. Shepton, "that there is not one word of truth in the whole story."
"Miss Celia! Miss Celia! Miss Celia!" Dinning against the stillness, as Dr. Shepton's words dinned into Holden's ears, the wailing cry still rose.
Dr. Shepton held up a hand, palm outward.
"Mr. Marsh," he stated, "never did any such thing. On the contrary. I am in a position to testify that his conduct throughout the whole distressing affair was that of," the old voice shook, "what my generation would have called a perfect gentleman. Toward his wife he was kindness itself."
"Miss Celia! Miss Celia! Miss Celia!"
"Next, young man, there was the so-called attempt of Mrs. Marsh to kill herself by means of 'strychnine poisoning.' It never occurred. Nobody had any strychnine; nobody took any strychnine. I tell you that simply."
‘'Miss Celia! Miss Celia! Miss Celia!"
"For God's sake," said Holden, suddenly whirling round in the direction of Obe/s voice, "will somebody shut that woman up?" He inflated his lungs for a shout "In here, Obey! In the playground!" He whirled back to Dr. Shepton, taking a step forward and almost pitching headlong into the sandbox.
"Mrs. Marsh's complaint on the occasion referred to," continued Dr. Shepton, "was a simple illness. I attended the case. You will concede that I ought to know. The strychnine was a sheer delusion of Celia's.
"If," he added, "it had been only that!" Dr. Shepton fumbled at his watch chain; he sounded even more troubled. "If it had been only that I mightn't have taken the romancing so seriously. For it's true that once or twice there may have been . . . well, certain unavoidable misunderstandings."
"Ah!" said Holden. "Misunderstandings! So we're hedging, are we? We now admit that there may have been something to misunderstand?"
"Sir, will you allow me to finish?"
"Go on."
"Celia's delusion that Mrs. Marsh actually died from some unnamed poison, out of a bottle which (I assure you) did not exist grew out of the other fancies. It was caused by them. It's dangerous."
"To Thorley Marsh?"
"To herself. Nor, unfortunately, have you heard the worst. Has Celia told you about the night immediately after her sister's death, when she saw ghosts walking in the Long Gallery?"
Again a silence, painful to the eardrums, stretched out into hollow night.
"Well!" said Dr. Shepton. "It was probably caused by those infernal murderers' masks, which made so deep an impression on her at the Lockes'. But—has she told you?"
"No," said Holden.
Celia, with a convulsive movement turned her back.
"My dear girl!" Dr. Shepton exclaimed unhappily. "Nobody's blaming you. Don't think that You can't help yourself. That's why we want to cure you. And I," his big face wrinkled up, "I'm only an old-fashioned country GP. I'm certain this gentleman, when he gets the rage out of him, will agree with us. What do you say, Miss Obey?"
"Yes!" muttered Holden, and snapped his fingers. 'Yes! Yes! Obey!"
A few steps behind him, her red face showing grayish in this light, her eyes popping, the wheezing of her breath rising from a vast bosom, hovered Obey.
"Look at me, Obey!" Holden said. "Do you recognize me?"
"Mr. Don!" She first gulped, and then was reproachful. "As if I wouldn't know you! Besides, Mr. Thorley told me you were here. He—oh, dear!" Obey clapped her hands to her mouth. "Mr. Thorley told me I was to be sure to call you 'Sir Donald,' because he was going to do a business deal with you and we'd got to play up to you. Oh, dear, that's worse than ever! If you'll excuse me, now, sir, I really must get Miss Celia home and . . ."
"Listen, Obey." His gaze stopped her, as though she had run into a wall. "I'm not sure how much you've heard of this poisonous nonsense Dr. Shepton has been talking. But I know how you feel about Celia. I know how you've always felt. I trust you. What Dr. Shepton says isn't true, is it?"
; The trees whispered; one of the swings stirred with faint spectral creaking; and Obey whimpered like a hurt animal. But she could not, physically could not, turn away from his gaze.
"Yes, Mr. Don," she said brokenly. "It's true."
CHAPTER VII
HIGH grew the grass in the fields round Caswall Moat House, at Caswall in Wiltshire, on that following evening of the eleventh of July.
It was no longer necessary, after another day of fiery sun, to stand in the shade of one of the few beech trees in the field on the south side or front of the house. But Don Holden still stood there, his back propped against the tree, a twentieth cigarette between his lips, trying to think.
Rich land, watered by underground springs, stretched away in thick grass exhaling summer drowsiness. Westward, where the trees of the carriage drive curved up from the south not quite to the main door, the sky was pale gold. Caswall, low and dun-colored, prepared for sleep.
It was not really a vast place, consisting only of narrow galleries built on two floors round and above an inner quadrangle where the cloisters lay. But, its long twinkling-windowed court of what had once been stables, bakeries, and brew houses, westward, shut off and for many years disused, added length to make it seem vast. And around everything, placid as it had lain for seven hundred years, stretched the moat.
Seven hundred years.
No stone, no arrow of war, had fallen into that moat since the forceful Lady D'Estreville, in the thirteenth century, had turned an already-old building into an abbey. For who attacks a religious house? The nuns, shuffling to orisons through semi-underground cloisters, had kept carp in the moat for fast days. But the Reformation attacked religious houses; and down the immensity of time strode William Devereux, rattling a well-filled purse, to bedeck Caswall with furniture out of Italy and pictures out of Flanders.
If there were any ghosts here...
Holden, so utterly dispirited that he had let his thoughts stray into a murky past, started as though stung at that word "ghosts." He straightened up from leaning against the tree, and flung away his cigarette.
"Stop this!" he said to himself. "Stop thinking! It won't do any good. You've just got to believe."
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