“You could have given Gideon up,” the Duke suggested, “and saved both Richard and yourself. Or didn’t you know about the part Gideon played, and only find her after he had gone?”
“No, it wasn’t quite like that.”
“Does it distress you to talk about it?” De Richleau inquired kindly. “If so, let us say no more.”
“No—oh no,” she smiled faintly. “It’s rather a relief, really—now I know that I can’t be arrested. That’s been the worst part, in a way, not being able to talk to anyone about it. If I tell you, I think I shall be able to put it in the back of my mind.”
De Richleau nodded. “I should be most interested to hear.”
She gave a little cough. “Well, it was this way. It was all through that telephone call of Mr. What’s-his-name—the polite young man. I’d been sitting in the sewing-room where I always sat, ever since Richard and his mother had gone into her bedroom. I didn’t hear Richard let himself out, but I did hear the telephone go, and I was just coming along the passage to answer it, when I saw Gideon. He slipped out of the bathroom across the passage to the lounge where the telephone was and I knew he’d answered it because it stopped ringing.
“I was so surprised to see him, thinking that he was out at one of his banquets, that I just stood where I was. Then, just as I had made up my mind to go down the passage and see why he’d come back so early, he popped out again, slipped down to the end of the hall and opened the front door a little; after that he ran back to the bathroom. You’ve no idea how quiet and quick he was for such a big man. He had a habit of moving very quietly—you could never tell when you were going to come upon him suddenly in the flat; I found it most upsetting. Well, as I was saying, he’d only just got to the bathroom door again when a door opened somewhere; it must have been one of the maids going to her room, or from the kitchen to their sitting-room, I don’t know—it was just round the corner of the passage from where I was standing, but he heard it, and quick as quick could be he’d closed the bathroom door again, and slipped back into the lounge. That was all I saw of him.”
The Duke leaned forward. “Yes,” he said. “Yes. But I wonder greatly that he never saw you. Please go on.”
“He was so intent the whole time, I think that was partly the reason. Then you know how long that passage is, don’t you; there was only the one light on by the hall door, and my end was in complete darkness; besides, I had on my black frock and was standing almost round the corner. He only gave one quick look in my direction, just once when he heard the door open. I’m quite sure he had no idea I was watching.” She paused thoughtfully.
“What happened then?” the Duke prompted her.
“Well, you see, I thought something strange was going on as you may say, so I walked down to the lounge to ask Gideon what he was doing, but he wasn’t there. I was ever so puzzled because that room only had one door, and I knew he hadn’t come out into the passage again. I didn’t know what to think.”
“He was, of course, going down the fire-escape.”
She nodded. “That’s what I came to think myself, when I was wondering about it afterwards, and that’s how they said it was at the trial, didn’t they? But at the time I just couldn’t imagine what had happened to him, so I went into the bathroom.”
“By the door in the corridor, or the door from Lady Shoesmith’s bedroom?” asked the Duke.
“By the door in the corridor, and that was another strange thing. Only those two ever used that bathroom, so the door in the passage was always kept bolted. I thought about that afterwards, too, and I think he must have slipped the bolt back himself that evening when he had his bath, so that he could come upon her from behind, if you take my meaning.”
“Of course,” De Richleau agreed. “Seated in the bath she would have her back to that door. I imagine that she never even saw him. He must have timed it well, but that would not be difficult since he knew her habits, and before he went in, I don’t doubt that he listened to hear the water splashing, to make certain that he would be able to take her unawares…. But tell me what happened when you went in?”
“I found her lying in the bath, her eyes were shut, and she was groaning, she—she wasn’t dead then.”
“She would probably have died of her injuries,” De Richleau suggested comfortingly. “Those blows upon the head were heavy ones, so heavy, in fact, that for that reason I knew you could not have delivered them.”
Miss Eaton shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said in a whisper. “I should like to think so.” She paused for a moment and then went on more evenly. “Elinor was a hard woman. I could have had this cottage years ago if it hadn’t been for her. She made my brother leave her everything, not a penny for me or the boy, and she kept me running—morning, noon and night with all her little fads, just as the price of a roof over my head—that’s what made me do it. I was so tired of it all, her tempers, and her always changing her mind, so when I saw her like that, I wasn’t sorry, not a bit. I only just thought it was a chance to escape from it all, so I turned on the tap.”
They sat silent for a while in the gathering darkness; at last, Winifred Eaton spoke again; “I don’t think there’s much else to tell. I went into the bedroom for a few moments while the water was running in, and when I came back to turn off the tap, the water was over her mouth and she was quite still; that’s the only thing that worries me a little now, I don’t like the sound of running water—but otherwise I’m very happy here.”
“It happened much as I had imagined,” said the Duke gently, “and I don’t think you have any real cause to reproach yourself. I think we may consider it certain that Lady Shoesmith would have died in any case.”
“Thank you,” said Winifred. “I’m glad you think that.”
6
Ten o’clock came and shortly afterward Simon Aron returned from London. If there were to be a wedding, he had determined that he would do his utmost to make it as like a proper one as possible.
Having made special arrangements with the Rector, he held one of his short jerky conversations with the Duke’s chauffeur. There was vague talk as to what the Hispano could do—more particularly in the hands of a good chauffeur, who understood Hispanos as opposed to one who did not. Further there was talk of journeys which Simon had accomplished in Hispanos with French and Spanish chauffeurs—whereby the element of patriotism was aroused. A complete guarantee of immunity in case of accidents was given, Aron pledging his word for the Duke. A time was mentioned—and a bet offered and accepted, in which the odds were at the unusually long figure of ten shillings to fifty pounds; with understanding that any unforeseen delays were not to be counted in the time concerned—and finally a trust was placed as between friends, whereby the chauffeur became of the convinced opinion that the Jewish gentleman was “a rare fine sport.”
As a result, therefore, of some seven minutes’ expenditure of time, they fled to London as though all the devils in Hell were after them—a roaring comet of speed and light. Simon was enabled to spend over two hours in the West End, and having carefully planned his campaign on the way up he was enabled during that time to deal with a multitude of affairs; and with a dozen well-placed telephone calls, he had sent as many people upon his business, reopening their shops and scouring their hotels.
He arrived with a carload of boxes and packages; a wedding breakfast for half a dozen people, a couple of cases of champagne, flowers by the basketful, masses and masses of them, a wedding-cake and silver horseshoe confetti; he had even tucked away in a special box for Felicity a little white satin bed-jacket to be a wedding dress and a fine piece of old Brussels lace to be a bridal veil. Nor had he forgotten a wreath of orange blossom for her hair; but his triumph of triumphs was that at his side he brought Maestro Gian Capello, the world-famous violinist, and upon his knees Maestro Capello carried his precious violin.
“Why did you do all this, my friend?” De Richleau asked seriously as he watched the unloading of the boxes and the baskets.<
br />
Simon gave his nervous little laugh, then he looked up quickly. “You know as well as I do,” and that was all he said.
After that all was a bustle of preparation. The choir-master arrived with his boys as Simon had arranged; they were to be stationed beneath Felicity’s window, and then the Rector came, a little fussed and worried about the unusualness of everything, but reassured after a few moments’ conversation with the Duke.
Everything was arranged so that Felicity should be disturbed as little as possible. At a few moments before twelve the doctor, together with a nurse that he had brought back with him, and Miss Eaton, raised Felicity a very little on her pillows, draped the little coat about her shoulders and the veil with its crown of blossoms upon her head. Then a table already disposed as an altar was carried in, and all the flowers that Simon had brought back from London, already arranged in vases. In a surprisingly short time the preparations had been completed.
At a signal from the window the fresh young voices of the choir rang out, the Duke gave the bride away and Simon acted as best man. Miss Eaton was the only bridesmaid, and the doctor and nurse all the congregation. It was a strange wedding, but so it was that Lady Felicity Standish married her big American.
The service was the shortest possible, and there was no address, instead the divine music of Capello’s violin filled the summer night.
When the service was over, for a few moments only the newly-married couple held a reception. The cake was carried in and cut beside Felicity’s bed, and she was allowed half a glass of champagne. Capello played again, and after that everything was quickly cleared away, so that before half past twelve Rex and Felicity were alone once more.
“Oh, Rex, darling,” she smiled as the door closed softly behind the doctor, who was the last to go, “aren’t people marvellous?”
He grinned. “Marvellous, honey, why yes, I suppose they are.”
“Of course they are, Rex. Think of that boy, Simon, going all the way to London and finding Capello, and the wedding-cake and the flowers and everything. I think he must have known.”
“Known what, sweet?”
“Don’t you know, Rex?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Surely you didn’t think I’d let you marry a girl who was going to be a cripple all her life, did you?”
A shade of fear crossed his face. “Just what d’you mean, Felicity?”
“I’m going to die, dear.”
“You’re not, Felicity, you’re not.”
“Yes, sweet.” She smiled again. “People who’re going to die can tell, you know, and I don’t think I’ll be very long, that’s why I wanted to be married tonight.”
7
Downstairs they drank champagne and ate caviar sandwiches, but quietly, because of the invalid above. The parson was a jovial man and liked his glass. Capello at times could be a wit; but the doctor, the Duke and Simon were only putting up a show—they knew.
As soon as was consistent with decency they got rid of the Rector, who promised to find Capello a bed, and took the great musician with him; Miss Eaton was persuaded to retire to her own spare bedroom.
“How long do you think she will last?” De Richleau asked the doctor.
“Not long at this rate,” the other shook his head.
“She’ll go some time tomorrow, maybe tonight. The moment I saw her I knew it was useless to get anybody down from town. I wonder if we ought to tell him?”
“Ner,” said Simon Aron. “Kinder not.”
“Poor child, do you think she’s in much pain?” asked the Duke.
“Not much,” the fresh-faced doctor replied. “I’m managing to keep it under pretty well. Of course that will shorten things if I go on, but then I’m no believer in torturing hopeless cases for the sake of keeping them alive, I learnt that in the War.”
The others nodded silently as the doctor glanced at his watch. “Think I’ll go up now and give her another shot.”
8
For some time Felicity had been lying pale and silent, but after the doctor had gone again she spoke once more.
“Rex.”
“Yes, sweet?”
“I’ve been thinking, you were right about things yesterday—I mean today—it was possible that we might have made a do of it—but with chaps like us the odds were all the other way. I’m awfully lucky really. I’ve had all the fun there was to have and I’ve even got married after all—but I shall never see you running after another woman—and we shall never be divorced. I’ve eaten my cake and kept it, too. Isn’t life fun?”
The doctor was taking a nap in the hall; the nurse sat knitting on the landing outside the bedroom door, ready for any emergency. The Duke and Simon sat alone, they were half-way through a bottle of old brandy, which was one of the things that Simon had brought back from town.
De Richleau had been giving the details of his conversation with Miss Eaton.
“And who do you really think was—er—responsible?” Simon asked.
The Duke lifted his fine head to exhale a cloud of tobacco smoke from the fragrant Hoyo de Monterrey that Simon had given him.
“My friend,” he replied slowly, “there can be no doubt whatever that it was Sir Gideon’s intention to murder his wife, but your telephone call arrested him in the act. Afterwards, he returned, undoubtedly to finish what he had begun, but he was disturbed again by the opening of a door, and he had to leave the thing half done. Miss Eaton arrived on the scene when there was still life in Lady Shoesmith’s body; quickly and effectively she extinguished that life.” He shrugged eloquently. “To take life so is murder in the first degree.”
Simon nodded his head up and down. “Yes,” he agreed. “But—er—tell me—how did you tumble to it?”
“It wasn’t difficult,” the Duke smiled. “You see, I did something which nobody else thought to do. Almost immediately I arrived on the scene I was puzzled by the amount of steam, and when I put my hand in it, the unusual heat of the bath water, therefore I took the temperature. It was 112 degrees Fahrenheit.”
“Really? Wouldn’t have meant anything to me,” said Simon.
“Well, it did to me. I happen to know that the ordinary temperature for a bath is blood heat, that is to say round about a hundred. After that, if you have never tried, I think you would be amazed and interested to discover how with every extra degree water becomes almost unbearably hotter. Few people, I believe, would care to get straight into a bath at a temperature greater than, say, one hundred and five, or remain in it for long having gradually brought it up to one hundred and ten. I realised at once, therefore, that as a certain allowance must be made for cooling since the bath had been filled or replenished by the dead woman, some person had added hot water after the murder had been committed. If there were finger-prints upon the hot tap, therefore, they might tell a tale.”
Simon grinned. “Clever!” he said with a chuckle, “Oh! clever! I suppose you got the prints from Scotland Yard—Miss Eaton’s?”
“Exactly,” smiled the Duke.
“But—er—wait a minute now; why didn’t you tell us, or the Superintendent?”
“Because that alone was not sufficient explanation. Miss Eaton lacked the physique to have given those blows to the head, and I will confess I was a little sorry for Miss Eaton, therefore I kept that little piece of information in reserve hoping that we should discover fresh evidence. The moment we had Sir Gideon I saw everything, excepting only if they had acted separately or together.”
“Clever,” said Simon Aron, chuckling into his hand. “Oh, clever!”
10
“Darling,” whispered Felicity, some little time later.
“Yes, sweet?” said Rex.
“I’m so sorry for you. You won’t worry too much, will you? All—all this is rotten luck on you.”
He shook his head slowly. “Don’t worry about me sweet.”
“But I do, darling—I—I’m not worried about myself. After all, death i
s the great adventure, isn’t it? Tomorrow there’ll be nothing—or else I’l know all about everything…. Oh, Rex, isn’t death fun!”
She gave a little sigh and lay very quietly for a while. And then the gallant spirit of Lady Felicity Van Ryn went out into the bird song of a summer dawn.
A Note on the Author
DENNIS WHEATLEY
Dennis Wheatley (1897 – 1977) was an English author whose prolific output of stylish thrillers and occult novels made him one of the world’s best-selling writers from the 1930s through the 1960s.
Wheatley was the eldest of three children, and his parents were the owners of Wheatley & Son of Mayfair, a wine business. He admitted to little aptitude for schooling, and was expelled from Dulwich College, London. In 1919 he assumed management of the family wine business but in 1931, after a decline in business due to the depression, he began writing.
His first book, The Forbidden Territory, became a bestseller overnight, and since then his books have sold over 50 million copies worldwide. During the 1960s, his publishers sold one million copies of Wheatley titles per year, and his Gregory Sallust series was one of the main inspirations for Ian Fleming’s James Bond stories.
During the Second World War, Wheatley was a member of the London Controlling Section, which secretly coordinated strategic military deception and cover plans. His literary talents gained him employment with planning staffs for the War Office. He wrote numerous papers for the War Office, including suggestions for dealing with a German invasion of Britain.
Dennis Wheatley died on 11th November 1977. During his life he wrote over 70 books and sold over 50 million copies.
Discover books by Dennis Wheatley published by Bloomsbury Reader at
www.bloomsbury.com/Dennis Wheatley
Duke de Richleau
Three Inquisitive People Page 25