“And I ask you another question,” Hanaud interrupted with authority now rather than patience ringing in his voice. “Had the bed of Madame Devenish been slept in?”
The question took all who were in the room aback, and no one more so than Marianne. She looked at Hanaud with a little respect. She replied in a humbler voice.
“See, monsieur! As I have told you already, this is a busy day for everyone. It is very likely that Madame Devenish thought of it, knowing what idle good-for-nothings all the young girls are today. She may well have said: ‘Ah, that poor Marianne, today I must help her.’”
“Which means that the bed had not been slept in,” Hanaud insisted.
“No, monsieur, it does not,” cried Marianne, beginning to get red again. “It means that when I went into her room this morning the bed was made.”
Hanaud accepted the correction meekly, but to Mr. Ricardo’s thinking no one who was at all acquainted with Evelyn Devenish could agree with Marianne’s explanation for a moment. Evelyn Devenish was not the kind of person to give a thought as to whether Marianne’s fingers were worked to the bone or not. Nor could he imagine her springing out of her bed in the early morning to help the peasants to strip the grapes. The story was altogether too thin.
“It is enough, I think, that the bed was made,” said Hanaud. He was very grave, very reluctant to speak more openly. He looked at Herbesthal, and Herbesthal, with an inclination of the head, returned the look.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes. The fine feelings — we cannot all the time consider them. I give you the word, Monsieur Hanaud!”
The Commissaire, magistrate though he was, was happy to pay deference to the great man from Paris.
Diana made a restless movement. She was not only distressed; she was puzzled too.
“I beg you not to keep us in suspense,” she cried nervously. “Suspense is worse than the worst of news.”
Even then for a moment Hanaud hesitated. He was uneasy. It seemed that he had a premonition that he was now being definitely committed to an inquiry which would open up a pit of monstrous iniquity from which even he shrank back.
“Very well,” he said at length. “At seven o’clock this morning a large dress-basket was seen floating up the Gironde on the flow of the tide by two boys belonging to the village of St. Yzans-d’Houlette, Albert Cordeau, aged fourteen, and Charles Martin, aged thirteen and five months. The village of St. Yzans-d’Houlette lies on the same bank as the Chateau Suvlac, but six miles nearer to the mouth of the river. These details are important. The dress-basket was carried by a current nearer and nearer to the shore, and the tide running then very slowly, the two boys were easily able to keep up with it. It grounded gently in a tiny bay in a lonely reach half a mile from the village. There were the low slope of grass bank, a strip of meadow, a hedge of brambles behind the meadow, and the village a hundred yards behind that. The two boys dragged the basket out of the water with difficulty. For it was almost too heavy for their strength. They found that it was fastened securely with a thick rope, and that attached to the rope at the bottom of the basket was a fragment of a small- meshed net — a sinister little circumstance, For it looked as if a weight intended to sink the basket had proved too heavy for the net and had torn itself free. The boys, excited at this discovery, sawed through the rope with a pocket-knife and, raising the lid, were horrified to see a body wrapped in a piece of fine linen. They lifted the edge of the linen, and found a girl stark naked, with the knees drawn up towards her chin. They were too frightened to make any closer examination. They replaced the linen, and whilst one, Charles Martin, ran to St. Yzans-d’Houlette with the news, Albert Cordeau closed the basket and remained on guard beside it. The body still huddled inside the basket was then taken to the mortuary at Villeblanche.” He mentioned the little town which was the seat of the local administration. “It happens,” he resumed, “that I was at Bordeaux engaged upon some troublesome business, of which this affair of the basket may, or may not, be a development.” Hanaud at this point received such a glare of reproach from Mr. Ricardo that he was at pains to soften down his neglect of his friend’s neighbourhood.
“Business, I should add, which forbids me seeking advice, however valuable.” And he had the satisfaction of seeing Mr. Ricardo’s self-esteem restored. “Monsieur Herbesthal did me the honour over the telephone to inform me of this discovery and to invite my help. The medical officer, the Doctor Brune, made his examination in our presence. The body is that of a young lady, careful, even fastidiously careful, of her beauty and appearance. There is no mistaking the evidence of a hand in a matter of this kind. But everything — the delicate whiteness of her skin, the gloss of her hair — indicated that she was one who had the time and the inclination to give to herself the most meticulous attention.”
“She was dead?” Diana interrupted in a low voice.
“According to the Doctor Brune, she had been dead for some six hours.”
“Drowned? In that basket? Horrible!” said Diana, and with a shudder she suddenly pressed her hands over her face.
“No, mademoiselle, not drowned,” Hanaud answered. “She had been stabbed through the heart. There was no mark of pain upon her face, nor any contortion of fear. She cannot have known what was happening, so completely was she at peace;” and having thrown all the emphasis of which he was master into those consoling words, he went on slowly: “But there is one perplexing and dreadful detail in this crime. For crime, of course, it is. After she was dead, her right hand had been hacked off at the wrist.”
A wave of horror swept over everyone in that room. For what purpose could mutilation have been added to murder? It spoke of a hatred at once implacable and monstrous, a vengeance which sought to glut itself even beyond the grave. A cry broke from the trembling lips of Diana. Mrs. Tasborough was crying and moaning. Robin Webster, his face troubled and disordered, exclaimed; “Why? In God’s name, why?” Mr. Ricardo alone was silent, with a horrid fear growing in his mind. He sank down into a chair and sat and stared at the floor.
Meanwhile Hanaud went on. “There was no mark whatever by which this young victim could be identified — not a bracelet on the wrist, not a chain about the neck — nothing. But Monsieur Herbesthal and the Doctor Brune thought it most likely that we should learn more at the Chateau Suvlac, since it was the rule of mademoiselle to entertain a house-party for the vintage. So we came here at once, and here we find that a guest is missing. I shall beg Mr. Ricardo, whom I know, to drive back with me to Villeblanche, and I shall hope, but without much confidence, that he will not recognize her. Until he returns I must ask that none of you leaves the house.”
Mr. Ricardo, however, did not reply. He sat still and stared at the floor, as though he had not heard.
“You will come?” Hanaud insisted. “It is a thankless office, I know very well.”
Still Ricardo never spoke, never changed his attitude. Robin Webster’s shoulders worked uncomfortably. Then he said reluctantly: “Of course, it is my duty more than anyone’s.”
Before he could say more, Hanaud interrupted. “No! I thank you, but it is Mr. Ricardo whom I want.”
Then at last Mr. Ricardo found a voice to speak with, though it was a dull one and toneless, and quite unrecognizable as his own.
“Before I go,” he said, still staring at the floor, “I think that someone should hammer at Miss Whipple’s door and make very sure that she answers.”
At once Mr. Ricardo became the cynosure of all that sad company; and for once he took no joy in his unusual position. But then the glances directed at him were without any friendliness. No one had given a thought to Joyce Whipple during the last tense minutes. Hanaud’s story linked itself so closely with Evelyn Devenish’s disappearance that the proposed journey to identify the body became the mere fulfilment of a formality. Yet now suddenly here was a new suggestion, as vague as it was alarming.
“No — no!” Diana cried sharply. She was not so much opposing Mr. Ricardo’s demand, as refusing
to allow that yet another mystery should add to the torture of her nerves.
“I think so,” said Mr. Ricardo, never lifting his eyes from the floor, and his odd attitude somehow convinced everyone that he was right. Hanaud turned towards Marianne, who all this while had been standing apart, and nodded his head. Immediately she went out of the room, leaving the door open, and no more words were spoken. Her shoes were heard ringing on a flight of stone steps a short distance away, and then a loud rapping on a door. In a dreadful suspense the assemblage in the drawing-room listened for the opening of the door, for the welcome sound of Joyce Whipple’s clear voice. They heard only the rapping repeated, more insistently; and again there was no answer.
Mr. Ricardo lifted his head now in a sort of listless bewilderment, and broke the silence.
“Miss Whipple sleeps upstairs?”
“Yes,” answered Diana.
In one of the two turret-rooms, then!
“And Mrs. Devenish?” he asked.
“In the wing opposite to yours.”
“I see.”
What window was it, then, which he had knocked upon at two o’clock that morning, behind which he had seen the light so furtively extinguished? He was very soon to know. Marianne was heard to knock again, to cry out Joyce Whipple’s name; and then she came clattering back to the room, her bosom heaving, her face distorted with fear.
“Mademoiselle’s door is locked, and there is no key in the lock,” she stammered.
Hanaud put a question to Diana: “Have you another key to that door?”
“Any key will open it. All the locks are upon one pattern.”
“All of you, then, will stay here.”
Hanaud whipped out of the room. They never heard his step upon the stone stairs, but they did distinctly hear the grinding of a key as it shot back a bolt; and again there was silence. But for once silence became intolerable.
“Joyce! Joyce! Oh!”
The name broke from Robin Webster’s lips in a long-drawn little cry of utter misery. It was an appeal to her to answer, to appear in all her radiant youth in the midst of them, and an expression of a belief that she never would. Mr. Ricardo saw Diana slowly lift her eyes to Robin Webster and let them dwell upon his twitching troubled face with a curiously intent look; and in a moment Hanaud was back again in the salon.
“Her room is empty,” he said gravely. “Her bedclothes were tumbled and dragging on the floor. But that had been done deliberately. Madame Devenish, Mademoiselle Whipple — neither of them slept in her bed at the Chateau Suvlac last night.”
Suddenly his face changed. “Wait! Wait!” he cried, and sprang forward. He had seen Diana Tasborough sway like a sapling in a wind. Her face took on a sickly pallor. “It’s horrible! Horrible!” she whispered. Hanaud was only in time to break her fall. For she slipped through his arms and lay quite still upon the floor.
CHAPTER 6
THE PICTURE ON THE WALL
HANAUD STOOPED, RAISED her shoulders, and finally stood erect, holding her in his arms very tenderly, as though she were nothing more than a big baby.
“I was rough — yes, you shall reproach me,” he said remorsefully. “In my profession, alas! one grows hard. One sees so much of the brute in man. However, I make what amends I can for my clumsiness. I carry this young lady to her room.”
Mr. Ricardo was not moved by this remorse. He was never so suspicious of that inspector of the Surete, as when he displayed his tenderer moods. He slipped them on like a pair of gloves. He was so kind and so human and so gentle up to the last grim moment when he towered, the avenger of broken laws. Mr. Ricardo, accordingly, felt the prickliest sensations running up and down his spine when he saw his large friend holding the dainty slip of a girl within the prison of his strong arms. Was he a Samaritan or an animal of prey? A friend or a jailer?
Marianne, however, cherished obviously none of Mr. Ricardo’s doubts. She crossed at once to the windows and opened them wide.
“This, monsieur, is the nearest way, if you will be so amiable. The poor lamb! She has had enough for one day.”
She stepped out on to the terrace with Hanaud upon her heels, and turned to the left past the windows of the library. It was Diana’s room, then, which bowed out upon the terrace in the lower story of the turret. It was upon her window that Mr. Ricardo had knocked. Mr. Ricardo hurried out after Hanaud in a condition of extreme bewilderment. So many questions rapped upon his brain for an answer, even as Marianne had rapped upon Joyce Whipple’s door. Joyce Whipple had occupied the room above Diana’s, and some time during the night Joyce Whipple had gone from her room and vanished. It was in her room, then, if in any room, that a light might be expected to burn at so unlikely an hour. And, after all, why had Diana made not the least smallest inquiry as to who it was that had come beating upon her window in the dark of the morning? Had she, too, been away from the house last night?
Mr. Ricardo saw the tail of Hanaud’s coat as he disappeared with his burden between the glass doors of the turret-room. Mr. Ricardo was not very sure that he would be civilly treated if he followed. But he simply had to follow. He crept into the room timidly, just as Hanaud was gently lowering Diana upon her bed at the back of the room; and he stood aside out of the light at once, making himself very small.
“A glass of water, Marianne,” said Hanaud, straightening his shoulders. “There is no great harm done to mademoiselle, I think. Look, even now her eyelids are fluttering.”
Marianne hurried to the washstand and poured out a glass of water, whilst Hanaud stood by the bedside, his eyes now looking down upon Diana Tasborough, now sweeping the room with a careless glance which Mr. Ricardo had long since learnt not to belittle. He gazed at the door of a wardrobe, at a mirror, at Mr. Ricardo, at the carpet and the chairs. But where his eyes rested, there as a rule there was nothing to see. Suddenly he dropped upon his knee. Diana’s lips were moving. But she only murmured:
“I was a fool! — Nothing happened — nothing — or I should remember.” It seemed to Mr. Ricardo that Hanaud’s head went forward, as though he were about to whisper some question in Diana’s ear, in the hope that she would answer it, whilst still her mind was dim. But Marianne the next second was at his side, and in the most natural manner he took the glass from her and held it to Diana’s lips.
“So — so — That is better,” he said, rising to his feet. He came across to Mr. Ricardo. “You and I, my friend, we are not wanted here, whereas we are wanted at Villeblanche.”
He took Ricardo by the arm and led him out again on to the terrace. But there was a change in him now. He was quietly alert, with a bright questioning glint in his eyes, and an odd little smile about his mouth.
“I tell you,” he said in a low voice. “Very curious things have been happening in this house. Miss Whipple and her letters. I am thankful that I did not make light of her fears.”
Mr. Ricardo raised his forefinger and announced: “You saw something in that room.”
“Yes. A bed, a young lady in a swoon, a servant, a glass of water.”
“More than that.”
Hanaud threw up his arms. “I was there but for a few seconds. During those seconds I was occupied.”
Mr. Ricardo shook his head sternly. “That won’t do for me, I’m afraid.”
Hanaud gave in with a gesture of despair and a look of regretful admiration. “It is true. I, like this Miss Diana, confess that I was a fool. I should have known better. A secret! Ha, ha! Conceal it if you can! The cunning Mr. Ricardo is after it straight as the cock crows!”
Ricardo was in the habit of foolishly correcting his friend’s admirable English idioms, but preening himself upon this admission of his perspicacity, he allowed the unfortunate form in which it was expressed to pass. Hanaud took him by the arm and led him out of everyone’s hearing to the very edge of the terrace.
“Yes. I saw something in that room,” he said in an important voice. “I shall tell you what it is. A little picture. It hangs upon the wall above th
e bed. I saw it as I laid that poor young lady down. You must look at it when you get the chance. You will see just what I saw. Meanwhile, however—” And he laid a finger meaningly upon his lips.
Mr. Ricardo was thrilled to his marrow at being made a participator in this mystery. “I shall not say a word about it,” he said reassuringly, and Hanaud without a doubt was immensely relieved. He was turning away when now Mr. Ricardo caught him by the arm.— “Before you continue your work,” he said with a new but tiny touch of patronage in his voice — he was always anxious to reward one of Hanaud’s rare confidences— “I must warn you. You betray yourself, I think, a little more than you used to. So far it is not very serious. But the defect will grow unless it is very carefully watched.”
Hanaud was aghast. “I betray myself!”
“Twice this morning.”
“It is clear, then.” The detective threw up his arms in despair. “Hanaud grows old. Twice! Twice in one morning you catch me bowing.”
“Bending,” said Mr. Ricardo. “But, at the best, it is a vulgar phrase.”
“Twice!”
“Yes.”
“Once when I see the little picture on the wall?”
“Yes.”
“And the other time?”
“Earlier — in the drawing-room. Your regrets that you had so terrible a story to tell, your compassion — on the whole they were very well done.”
“Thank you,” said Hanaud meekly. “Praise from Sir Herbert!”
“Hubert,” said Mr. Ricardo. “Yes, they were well done up to a point. The point when you used one brutal word, and used it brutally, to describe the severed hand.”
All the mischief died out of Hanaud’s eyes. He looked at Ricardo in the oddest way; like some fencer when a despised antagonist slips through beneath his guard.
“Go on!” he said, and Mr. Ricardo was only too pleased to go on. “The sympathy, the gentle remorse that your rough world of crime must break in upon the elegance of that drawing-room — and then suddenly the crude word spoken violently, like a blow— ‘hacked’. ‘Hacked off at the wrist’. My friend, you looked for some reaction — yes — some definite reaction from someone in that room.”
Complete Works of a E W Mason Page 92