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"Death Answers the Bell," Hodder & Stoughton, London, 1931
"Death Answers the Bell," Grosset & Dunlap, New York, 1932
ON this fine May morning, which ushered in a fateful day of her life, Miss Aline Innesmore came tripping through Mayfair Row. The day seemed fraught with importance to her by reason of the fact that, somewhere between ten and eleven of the clock that evening, Lady Julia Rossway, with whom she was staying at Frant House, was to present her at Court.
Mayfair Row wears a forlorn and weatherbeaten air. The bricked-in midden dumps, the hoary granite setts, the horse rings rusting on the walls, still speak of the day when the great lords and ladies occupying the proud mansions whose sombre silhouettes rise from the adjacent square above the lowly stable roofs, stabled their horses and carriages in this placid Mayfair backwater. But now coach-house and stall have been modernized into garages and Mayfair Row, behind its battered brick and blistered paint, seems to be brooding over fallen greatness.
In the light of what took place after one would have said that, for all the May sunshine, a witch-doctor would have smelt out death as it hovered over the mews, would have shrieked out in horror on coming into sight of the house with the yellow door. But twenty-three is neither intuitive nor imaginative, and that part of the future into which young Miss Innesmore was peering centred solely about her frock, her hair and her forthcoming, appalling ordeal before the Throne of their Britannic Majesties.
She did not find the mews in the least repellent. Its homely atmosphere appealed to her with the intimacy and picturesqueness of a Dutch Old Master, rounding off, as it were, the eternal wonder which the splendours of Frant House presented to her youthful American mind. She liked the feel of the stones under her slippers, these stones worn smooth by the coach-wheels of dead and gone aristocrats, of even such splendid men and lovely women as looked down so haughtily from the walls of Frant House. The spell that enveloped her within that palatial mansion—the thrill of sleeping in a bed 200 years old, of dining in a room whose mirrors had reflected the patches and powder of General Washington's contemporaries, of passing up and down the black marble staircase which the silks and brocades of a storied past had once made vivid—this her almost daily passage through Mayfair Row would prolong until the whizzing taxis and gleaming asphalt of the busy street beyond brought her back to to-day, to modern London and to her home in still more modern New York.
No whisper of the tragedy to come made her quicken her pace as she drew level with the vivid primrose door of Barrasford Swete's abode. On the contrary, when a man, dressed in sober black, ran forth from the house and said that Mr. Swete would like a word with her, she turned at once and followed the messenger inside.
The house with the yellow door boasted a Queen Anne façade, plain and snug, in ochre brick. Right and left of the door, from which a stair mounted steeply to the flat proper, decorative windows, garnished with wrought iron bars, replaced what had been the entrances to horse stalls. For this, as Sir Charles Rossway, her host, had explained to Aline in his rather prim way, had been part of the once extensive stabling of Frant House. Towards the end of the 18th century that sporting Earl of Frant, who had been the boon companion of the Prince Regent, had sacrificed the inner stable-yard and the larger coach-house to make a royal tennis court at the back of Frant House and more than a hundred years later the then Earl had converted another section of the stables into what was now the house with the yellow door as bachelor quarters for his son and heir, Lord Ivinghoe.
There were no Frants left, they had told Aline. This Lord Ivinghoe—Eric Ivinghoe, as the Rossways called him—had been killed fighting in India and had never succeeded to the earldom. He was an only child and his father, the old Earl, lingered on, outliving a couple of heirs in the indirect line, until a few weeks after the outbreak of the World War. His heir, a distant cousin, youthful and unmarried, succeeded to the title in a dugout on the Menin Road. He was the last of the Frants and ten days later a German bullet blotted out the ancient line for ever. Nevertheless, it was the War which saved the family mansion from demolition. For the world crisis, bringing vast fortunes to British industry, enabled Sir Charles Rossway, head of Rossways Ltd., tin plate manufacturers, to purchase Frant House. It was he who had let Lord Ivinghoe's old rooms to Barrasford Swete.
"One had to have a fellow one knows and likes, living, so to speak, at the bottom of one's garden. Got to be a bachelor, too: no room for babies," Sir Charles had confided to Aline. Swete was unmarried and a close friend of the family—quite the ideal tenant, Aline would have said. The whole Rossway household was very intimate with Swete—Barry, as they called him. Before ever she met him Aline heard a lot about him from the young people at Frant House—from Rodney, the second son, and Geraldine, otherwise Gerry, married to Sholto, the elder brother, who had an estate in Kenya. Aline liked Barry Swete at once. For one thing he had lived for years in America and it formed a link between them. It was there Sir Charles had first come across him—he was advising people about their art collections—and had invited him to help with the arrangement of the pictures and furniture at Frant House.
HOW does a man appear who is marked down for imminent violent death? Looking back later, Aline Innesmore was to search her mind in vain for any presentiment of disaster she might have perceived in him, any cloud upon the mobile, attractive face. Installed in an armchair, one slippered foot propped on another chair, the morning newspapers strewn about him, Swete, cigar in mouth, was wearing a dressing-gown of plain dark-blue silk, as unostentatious and deliberately restrained as everything about him. It was the identical garment in which, ere another day dawned, she was to see him dead. But there was no premonition of his fate in the bright smile he gave her, no hint of tragedy in waiting in the pleasant room, nothing to dissipate the joy of living riotously broadcast there by the bowl of magnificent pink roses on the desk, the flood of warm sunshine streaming through the windows.
Aline loved this room. It was impregnated with personality. The cream walls, wainscotted halfway up in unstained oak, were cool and restful. They admirably displayed Swete's old Spanish furniture, black with age, only a few pieces but each perfect in form and setting; his precious Goya; his own bust by Jo Davison, a bare-throated head in bronze, forceful and muscular, enthroned on a lone pillar before one of the two windows that flanked the door. Nothing violent, nothing garish. Plain walls, a plain buff carpet. No shadow on the light beige pile of the great swart stain which, before the night was out, was to spread and spread.
Waving his cigar, he hailed her as she stood, rather timorous, on the threshold, a slim figure in a natty little walking suit of black with a ridiculous silk flower in the lapel. He seemed delighted to see her; and she felt that he was delighted. He had the knack, as she had discovered at their very first meeting, of making you feel you were the one person in the world whom, before all others, he was most anxious to see.
He had stood up and, hobbling awkwardly, brought her in.
"Whatever have you been doing to yourself?" she asked, looking at his foot.
"It's only a ligament. I tore it in the gym this morning—had to come home in a cab. The osteopath fellow says I must lay up for a day or two. That means I can't come and see you start for the Court to-night. Isn't it rotten?"
"If that isn't Barry all over!" was her grateful thought. He was a restless creature, bursting with energy, always out, always busy with his innumerable art interests. She knew it galled him to sit still for half an hour. Imprisonment in the house on a fine morning like this must be sheer martyrdom to him. Yet his first care was for her—to remember a trivial understanding between them.
"Oh, what a shame!" she said. "And the frock's a dream!"
"You got it in Paris after all?"
"Uh-huh."
"When did you come back?"
"Yesterday afternoon—just a long week-end."
"Of course. I was round in the evening but you were out dancing. Well, how was Paris?"
"Marvellous. The Chamberlains were great to me. I told Gerry she was crazy not to come."
He laughed. "Gerry's a real Londoner. She hates leaving London. Why, even Sholto couldn't keep her more than eight months in Kenya!" He stretched a muscular arm and pulled up a chair. "Sit down. You'll spare me five minutes. Hark!"
An asthmatic whirring sound drifted in at the open windows above the clatter of buckets, the snort of a motor-car, in the mews. It was the premonitory symptom of the ancient clock over the tennis court, sole survivor of the great coach-house, preparing to strike. With fractious reluctance a cracked bell began to beat out the hour.
"Twelve o'clock!" Swete announced. "Time for a small snifter. Something with orange, I think." He raised his voice to a shout. "Roberts!"
"Not for me, Barry," Aline stayed him firmly.
"Rubbish, honey! One little drink won't hurt you."
He gave her his quick, easy smile. A terribly attractive man, she had decided at their first encounter, though why she would not have found it easy to say. He was not handsome—his features were too rugged for that, with nose broad rather than aquiline, a mouth something too small for a man, but beautifully shaped, with lips that curved luxuriantly, tantalizingly, and crisp, iron-grey hair thickly clustering. Though his manner was charming and essentially flexible, she could not help being conscious of a certain adamant hardness behind it—the coldness about the eyes, the stiff jaw line, hinted at it. He made her think of a finely-tempered sword in a velvet sheath.
At first she had not been very comfortable in his presence. He had told her himself that he was fifty, though, hard as nails as he always looked, she would have given him less. But it was not the difference in their ages that overawed her. It was his commanding, nonchalant air, especially where women were concerned, his suggestion of a long record of easy conquests, that made her feel dreadfully young. And then, as a type, he was foreign to her, this debonair, highly cultivated Englishman, as she saw him against the background, arranged with perfect taste, of his own choosing.
Her male acquaintances at home—on Park Avenue and at Long Island—were mostly cheerful Philistines like her father's middle-aged golfing partners or the high-spirited, rather rowdy college boys who took her dancing. Conscious of the strange attraction that Swete had for women—the very maids at Frant House, she had remarked, had a sort of intimate, eagerly surrendering smile for him—she was also oddly afraid that he might disregard her, considering her, a mere child of twenty-three, as beneath his notice. But at their subsequent meetings he had shown himself charmingly understanding and sympathetic towards her. It touched her to find him, more than anyone at Frant House, always at pains to make things smooth for her, the American stranger, to whom so much in the little world of Mayfair was new and bizarre.
But now she stood out against his alluring smile. "Honest, I'm on the waggon until it's all over. That's definite. I'm not keen on going before Their Majesties to-night preceded by a strong fragrance of gin. Besides, what would Lady Julia say if I turned up to make my curtsey in a slightly pickled condition with my feathers over one eye?" In a burlesque gesture she cocked her hat to one side and laughed up at him.
The manservant had appeared round the Chinese screen which masked the stair descending to the kitchen. Swete waved him away.
"All right, Roberts!" He chuckled again at the thought. "You'll see her at her best to-night," he went on. "Against that kind of setting there's no one to touch her. She's superb, the real grande dame. And, God knows, there are mighty few of them left."
Aline sighed ecstatically. "I think she's simply marvellous. She tried her gown on last night and, oh, Barry, she was like a Queen. And she's so sweet to me. You'd think I was her daughter, the way she worries about my having everything right for to-night."
He nodded briefly. "Julia's a wonderful woman. You'd never think she had a son of twenty-six..."
"Is Sholto as old as that?"
"Sure. He's a year older than his brother; and Rodney's twenty-five. By the way, has Gerry heard from Sholto?"
"Not since he landed at Naples, I believe. That's a week ago. Aren't you English funny? You couldn't find a more united family anywhere than the Rossways, I suppose. And yet here's Sholto, who's been away in Africa for almost a year, wandering about Italy by himself and nobody seems to give a damn. All Rodney says is: 'Old Sholto will blow in suddenly one day!' and lets it go at that. I wish Sholto would hurry up and come home. I'm crazy to meet him. I've heard so much about him. What's he like? Is he like Rodney?"
"Not unlike in appearance though not so good-looking. But different in character. Rodney takes after Lady Julia; Sholto is more like his father, practical-minded, more of the business-man."
"He's terribly fond of Gerry, isn't he?"
"I suppose so. They've only been married a year. What are you driving at?"
The girl hitched her bag up on her lap and folded one slim leg over the other. "I'm rather worried about Gerry, Barry. Perhaps I oughtn't to tell you this, but she was crying last night."
Swete looked up quickly with a frown. "What about?"
"She wouldn't say. It's about Sholto, I think. Barry, he ought to come home. After all he's her husband and——"
"Have you mentioned this to anyone else?" Swete broke in.
"Why no..."
"Then don't. These things have a habit of adjusting themselves. Sholto has only himself to blame if he and Gerry have drifted apart. It was a crazy idea on his part to think that a girl like Gerry would stand the life in East Africa. It's a wonder to me she was able to stick eight months of it as she did. Still, it's never any good interfering between husband and wife. When Sholto gets back they'll patch things up, I dare say..."
"I hope they will," Aline agreed soberly. "You know, Barry, I like Gerry. She's such an honest person. And she has a tremendous lot of character, don't you think? Sometimes I feel she doesn't get quite a straight deal at Frant House."
"How do you mean?" Swete's dark eyes had softened.
The girl hesitated. "Of course, they're all terribly nice to her. But, well, she's an outsider... I mean, it must be difficult marrying into such a united family as the Rossways. Sir Charles worships Lady Julia: Lady Julia adores Sir Charles, while, as for Rodney, I believe he'd much sooner take his mother out for an evening than anyone else."
"Even you?"
Aline laughed her unaffected laugh. "Even me! I'm afraid I'm not a great hit with Rodney. But then I don't think anyone is. Rodney's just crazy about his mother and, by what they tell me, Sholto's just as bad."
She broke off to consult her watch. "Gracious, I must fly. I've a million things to see to."
"Hold your horses, honey," said Swete. "What about this frock of yours? Aren't I going to see it?"
Then, without waiting for her reply: "What are you doing with yourself after the Court?"
"I've got to be photographed—Gerry's going with me. Afterwards she's taking me on to the Embassy to meet the Bryces."
The man's attentive face lit up. "Splendid. She can bring you in here for a minute on your way down. I've simply got to see that frock, you know."
She laughed. "I think you're the sweetest thing. But I've got to drive Lady Julia home first. And then there's the photographer's. Won't it be too late?"
"Not on your sweet life. I'll wait up for you."
"Righty oh!"
She kissed the tips of her fingers to the man who was to die and ran down the stairs.
AS she walked back to Frant House Aline found her thoughts running on Gerry. Barry was quite right. Aline had no very clear idea of what life in Kenya was like, but it was hard to picture Gerry anywhere away from frock-shows, dance-clubs, the social round of London. Poor Gerry, so vivid, so intensely individualistic, she must have been even more of a square peg in a round hole in Kenya than she was at Frant House!
Aline was sorry for Gerry. She was so clearly the only discordant element in an almost ideally united family. For Sholto's wife, ashen-blonde, with the neutral pallor and also the hard polish of old jade, in common with most young married women of twenty-three, liked to go her own way. In discovering that Gerry's way was not always Lady Julia's way, Aline realized that, under her gentle, kindly exterior, her hostess had a will of her own.
Not that Lady Julia was ever anything but sweet to her daughter-in-law. It was obvious, however, that she secretly disapproved of Gerry's almost fanatical determination to live her own life. In suggesting to Barry Swete that Gerry was grieving for Sholto, Aline had not spoken all her mind. She suspected that Barry and Gerry were rather attracted to one another. Her question had been intended to spy out the land. Only, at the last moment, her courage had failed her to follow the subject up.
As she came round the corner of the square she saw Gerry's somewhat battered Baby Austin standing at the kerb outside Frant House. Aline sighed. Poor Gerry! One could understand anyone falling for an attractive creature like Barry Swete. He, too, she judged, was rather badly smitten. And no wonder:—Gerry was so brilliant, blonde as fine gold, vital, always perfectly turned-out.
Aline sighed again, a trifle enviously this time. It must be rather marvellous to have a man like Barry Swete in love with one.
The front door of Frant House was ajar. As she ran up the steps Aline saw Rodney standing in the hall. She would have passed him by with a wave of the hand for, of the small Rossway family circle, she found that Rodney had the least to say to her. She was not greatly drawn to him herself, perhaps, she reasoned, because she did not yet understand him—he was so definitely English.
He was extraordinarily good-looking, of course, though the proud, rather too regular features one saw in the portraits of his ancestors, struck her as a trifle sullen. He had delightful manners and was friendly enough, but with a distant air which somehow discountenanced her. Gerry said frankly that Rodney was conceited. Rodney wrote. He had published two novels which had been highly praised. Aline did not think Rodney vain. On the contrary, she was aware of a charming side to his character. If he worshipped Lady Julia, he was no less devoted to his father. Relations between father and son were delightfully intimate and cordial. Between Sholto and Sir Charles, too. Sholto and his brother called their father 'Chass,' from some joke about the old-fashioned way Sir Charles had of signing his name, 'Chas. Rossway,' and Sir Charles loved it. Aline would have liked to be better friends with Rodney, but she had an uneasy feeling that he summarily dismissed her as an uncultured American. Which was nowise to be borne. Pride of race made her always a little resentful in her attitude towards Rodney.
But as she crossed the hall the sight of his face in the old Venetian mirror hung against the tapestry made her pause. He had obviously just come in, for his hat and stick were in his hands. She had thought he was contemplating in the glass the set of the small bunch of violets which he wore in the buttonhole of his blue coat. But she now perceived that he was staring into vacancy, his forehead knotted into a brooding frown, his fists clenched at his sides.
"Gracious, Rod," she exclaimed, "whatever's the matter?"
He started out of his reverie, swung about and saw her. "Why, hullo, Aline!" he said absently.
"What's happened? You look as though you'd seen a ghost."
With the easy grace which lay in all his movements he slid his arms along the marble slab of the old Florentine table behind him. "It's nothing," he answered lightly. "I was only thinking."
She laughed her young, silvery laugh. "You poor authors! It must be simply fierce trying to pump up inspiration. Are you stuck in the new book or what?"
He smiled up into the candid blue eyes. "Something like that." He paused. "Where's Gerry, do you know?"
"Isn't she upstairs? She was going to help Cox with Lady Julia's frock. For tonight, you know."
"For to-night?"
"Don't say you've forgotten I'm to be presented..."
"Oh, Lord, so you are!"
She sighed. "I wish I could be as calm about it as you all seem to be. Rodney, I'm just terrified. I've got a heavenly gown and I think the feathers will look all right. But that curtsey stuff has me scared stiff. Lady Julia, now, she makes it look so easy. I bet I could go to a million Courts and never manage a train as beautifully as she does. Are you going to see us start? We don't have to leave until half past eight as your Mother has the entrée."
"I'm dining out, I believe." His manner was vague. "In case I don't see you—good luck, Aline. Don't tumble on your nose in front of the King and Queen!"
"Sir," she spoke ceremonially, and swept to the floor in a deep curtsey, "the honour of your house is safe in the hands of your Most Obleeged Servant!"
He burst into laughter. "Where on earth did you get that stuff?"
"Memoirs in the library," she gave him back demurely. "I'm trying to live up to the Frant House atmosphere. Is Lady Julia in, do you know?"
"She went out to lunch about five minutes ago."
Aline fluttered her hand to him and walked through the hall. As she reached the stairs, she saw Gerry coming down. She was dressed for the street in a pale green foulard and a broad-brimmed green hat. Gerry affected green—it matched her eyes.
"Oh, there you are, Aline," she said. "Francois rang up. He's coming at half-past five to do your hair."
"Righty oh." Aline turned back. "Oh, Gerry, Barry's damaged his foot."
"How do you know?" The question was blunt.
"He sent Roberts out to fetch me in just now as I came through the Row,"—thus Mayfair Row was designated at Frant House. "Barry's rather sorry for himself. He says he'll be laid up for a couple of days..."
"Oh?" The emerald eyes were cool, the face impassive.
"I promised we'd run in after the Court and let him see my frock. On the way to the photographer's, you know."
Gerry nodded absently. "I have to be at the Embassy at half-past eleven. I mustn't be late as I have to sign the Bryces in. Anyway, we'll see."
She ran down to the hall and Aline went on upstairs.
Coming out of the cloakroom where he had put away his hat, Rodney confronted his sister-in-law.
"Hullo, Rod," she cried. "I'm just dashing off. I've been arranging your Mother's train for to-night and it has made me late for lunch."
"I'd like a word with you, Gerry..."
"It'll have to keep, old boy. I'm late as it is."
He leaned against the table and mustered her rather sombrely. "You're always in a hurry when I want to speak to you nowadays. It's about Sholto. When is he coming back?"
She had turned towards the mirror and was touching her lips with her lipstick. "I'm afraid I haven't the least idea."
"Is it true that he's not returning to Kenya?"
"Who says so?"
"My Mother."
With careful composure Gerry put her lipstick away in her bag. "If I'd had my way Sholto would never have gone back there in the first place."
"Then you have made him give up the only life he cares about?"
She shrugged her shoulders and shut her bag with a snap. "Sholto can please himself."
Rodney made an effort to be friendly. "Look here Gerry, I don't want to butt in between you and old Sholto. You know the poor devil's crazy about you. Why is he loafing about the Continent instead of coming home?"
"Hadn't you better ask him that?"
"You know you've only got to say the word and he'll come back."
She shook the powder out of a new pair of gloves. "What's the use of going all over that again? None of you will ever understand. Now I really must fly..."
Rodney stayed her with his hand. "Just a minute. There's something else. Aren't you seeing rather a lot of Barry Swete?"
She stopped short before him. Her emerald eyes were rather bright. "And what's the objection to Barry?"
"Nothing. Only he's a bachelor. And Sholto's away."
She laid her gloved hand on the young man's arm. "Listen, Rodney. I've always chosen my own friends. And I propose to go on doing so."
"Friends, yes," he answered slowly. "But when it comes to..." He broke off. "Oh, Gerry," he said appealingly, "you're Sholto's wife. You've got to play the game by Sholto."
"And who says I don't?" Her voice was dangerously calm.
"Nobody yet. But sooner or later people are bound to talk. You know you spend most of your time with Barry..."
"As a matter of actual fact," she rejoined in frigid accents, "I haven't seen or spoken to Barry alone for the past three days."
He made an unwilling gesture. "What's the use of fencing with me? Barry's in and out of here all the time. If you want to see him you can see him here. Then why be idiotic about it? How many times did you lunch or dine with him alone last week?"
"Are you suggesting I'm not to lunch or dine with a man friend?"
"You know perfectly well I'm not. But why come home at three in the morning as you did when he took you to dine at Bray?"
Her laugh had a mocking ring. "My dear Rod, aren't we being a little old-fashioned?"
His face clouded over. "That sort of cheap cynicism doesn't impress me, Gerry. You and I are of the young generation: we have our own ideas about life. But you know what my people are,"—Gerry made a rebellious movement. "The mere idea of a scandal simply horrifies Mother, principally, I think, on account of Chass' position. And Chass feels the same way... on account of Mother, you know."
She assumed a resigned expression. "Well..."
"Everything else apart, I'm not going to have you scandalize Mother. She told you she didn't like your going off to Bray like that and coming in at all hours of the morning. What did you do? The very next night you let him take you to dine at some obscure joint in Soho where you thought you'd escape observation. As if you don't know that, as far as our sort are concerned, London's nothing but a big village..."
She shrugged her indifference, tugging on her glove.
"There's something else," Rodney went on, contemplating the eager face morosely. "On Saturday night, when I was coming through the Row, I saw your car outside his door..."
She had taken a cigarette-case from her bag and with it a lighter. "You know as well as I do that I always leave the Austin in the Row for Giles to put away." With a nonchalant air she sprang the lighter and lit her cigarette.
"You were there alone with Barry. I saw you come out."
"But this is impossible," she flared up suddenly. "You've no business to spy on me and I won't have it, do you hear?"
"I don't want to spy on you, as you call it," he retorted wearily. "But this hole-and-corner business has got to stop. Let's be frank, Gerry. Is Barry in love with you?"
"And if he is," she flamed back, "is that anything to do with you?"
"Yes," he riposted, "it is. A divorce would simply kill my Mother, and I intend to do my damnedest to prevent you from dragging yourself and Sholto—all of us—through the mud. If my Mother had the faintest suspicion that you're in the habit of visiting Barry at night...'
"God!" she burst out, her small hands clenched, "this house is nothing but a prison. Everything I do is misrepresented. Well, if you want to know, I did run in to Barry's for a minute the other night for a drink on the way home; and if I wanted a drink any other time, I'd do the same again. What are you going to do about it?"
"It's not good enough, Gerry," he answered hotly. "You've got to cut it out!"
She closed her bag and freed the cigarette from her lip. There was contempt in the manner in which she flung the ash away. "Do you really imagine you can give me orders?"
"No." His voice was even. "But you've got to respect what my Mother says."
She smiled darkly. "I see. Then it was Lady Julia who put you up to this?"
He evaded the question. "Mother's terribly fond of you, Gerry..."
"It doesn't prevent her from thinking the worst of me, it seems."
"She doesn't, honestly. She's only thinking of Sholto. You're Sholto's wife. She doesn't want people to go scandalmongering about you and Barry."
Gerry's pale face flamed. With a vigorous gesture she crushed her cigarette out in the ash-tray on the table beside her. "That's a matter which concerns me alone. Sholto, too, if you like. But not your Mother. And you can tell her I said so."
She gave her small head a little defiant toss and, running to the door, disappeared down the steps.
THE Court was over. Lady Julia and Aline were back at Frant House. The great brass lantern of the entrance hall, which had lit a cockpit at Trafalgar, shed its soft radiance upon a fitting background for the two shining visions of grace and beauty that entered through the lofty doors. It was a symposium of the taste and splendour of other days, blended from soft, sombre hues of Gobelins, heavy, golden pomp of the Renaissance and the frothy lightness of the rococo symbolized by the dainty sedan chair which drowsed through the years in the dim vestibule, peopling it with brave memories of scarlet heels and clouded canes. In this setting Lady Julia and her charge were like figures strayed from the pages of Grimm—the one majestic in tiara, nodding ostrich feathers and cloth of gold; the other radiant in beauty from the plumes in her hair to the ivory slippers peeping out from under her long, exquisitely-draped white satin gown.
Under the lantern's yellow ray a hundred lights danced on the delicate embroidery of Aline's presentation frock, all shimmering with pearls as though a fairy godmother had showered her. She was breathless with excitement, cheeks pink, eyes shining, her mind aflame with the colourful impressions of the evening—scarlet and gold, Beefeaters, diamonds, plumes, hushed voices, bows and curtseys, all the pomp of a fairy-tale Court.
The aroma of cigars hung faintly in the hall: there were voices in Sir Charles' study that gave off it. Servants fussed—Aline intercepted the admiring, friendly glance of Cox, Lady Julia's maid. Then she saw Mr. Murch helping Lady Julia off with her wrap. The sight of him brought Aline back to earth.
There was nothing romantic about Mr. Murch. He was Sir Charles' private secretary, an old, scrawny little man of indeterminate age, with pale hair thinly plastered across the top of a narrow head and a long neck emerging scraggily from a collar that always appeared a size too large. He lived in the house and, as it seemed to Aline, made himself more useful to Lady Julia than Sir Charles. He wrote her letters and kept her engagement book and, bowed all day over his typewriter in a corner of the study, was continually at her beck and call.
"The Admiral came across the square for a rubber," the secretary was saying to Lady Julia, "and I rang up your brother to make a fourth."
Lady Julia nodded. "I'm glad Sir Charles had his game of bridge," she said with a smile. She turned to take some letters from a salver presented by Larking, the lanky and elderly butler. Larking's venerable mien, white hair and dignified deportment, had quite enraptured Aline. "He'd make his fortune at Hollywood," she had confided to Gerry.
With Lady Julia's wrap across his arm, Mr. Murch turned to Aline. "Mrs. Sholto left a message for you. Mrs. Bryce rang up just after you'd started to say she'd got a box for the Opera. Mrs. Sholto went off to join her. You're to meet them at the Embassy."
Aline's face fell. This meant going to the photographer's by herself. Gerry, of course, had forgotten all about the appointment. That was Gerry all over. The girl hoisted her chin forlornly and glanced at the Tompion clock solemnly ticking in its long mahogany case. She was late for the photographer's already. There was nothing for it. She would have to go alone.
Lady Julia was reading her letters. Her finely-chiselled features were invested with that air of serene repose which always put Aline in mind of carved marble. Impulsively the girl threw her bare arms about her hostess.
"Good night, dear Lady Julia," she said affectionately, "and thank you for giving me such a wonderful, wonderful time."
With her charming, rather wistful smile Lady Julia returned her kiss. "You looked perfectly lovely, Aline dear. Everybody was saying you were the prettiest girl in the Throne Room. And your curtsey was beautiful. So graceful. I'm sure the Queen admired it. She always notices these things."
Aline laid her hand caressingly against the other's cheek. "Poor darling, you're looking a little pale. Are you very tired?"
"Perhaps I am a little. I was never much good at standing about. Cox will put me to bed, won't you, Cox? Good night, dear. Mind you make the photographer give you a nice dark background and spread your train out well. Don't be too late. Good night, Murchie."
With her slow, assured smile she took her wrap and long gloves from the secretary and, her letters in her hand, moved towards the great marble staircase. Mr. Murch watched her out of his pale eyes: there was an almost doglike devotion in his glance.
"Doesn't she look superb?" he exclaimed to the girl at his side. "The Admiral was saying only to-night there's not another woman in London can mount a staircase like Lady Julia." He wagged his head approvingly. "By the way, I promised the Admiral he should see your frock..."
In the study the card table was the centre of a pool of light among shadows faintly redolent of the mustiness of old calf. A solitary lamp lit the attentive faces of the players, gleaming on glazed shirt fronts, catching the sheen of Sir Charles's fine pearl studs.
Lord Blaize, Lady Julia's brother—"Uncle Eustace" to Rodney and Gerry—a small, sandy man rather like a squirrel, was the first to catch sight of the glittering apparition in the doorway. "Here comes the bride!" he exclaimed, springing up. Old Admiral Freeman spun round in his chair, displaying a purple face like the Sign of the Admiral Benbow come to life, and bellowing, "Bless my soul, it's Cinderella!" jumped to his feet and offered Aline his arm. Sir Charles, a very distinguished-looking figure with his snow-white hair and black velvet smoking jacket, started to tum-tum the Wedding March, Uncle Eustace and Murchie joined in and, a very rowdy party, they all swept into the hall.
Aline's heart warmed to them—they were all so simple and jolly. They made her repeat her curtsey there under Larking's indulgent eye, an instant to adjust her feathers before the mirror—she would not finally doff them until after the photograph had been taken—then, her train over her arm and her ermine cloak about her shoulders, she was tripping down the steps to where, at the kerb, Frank, the tall young footman, held the door of the Rolls. The tennis court clock wheezed out eleven o'clock as the car slid away.
A crowd of débutantes delayed her at the photographer's. It was twenty minutes past twelve before she was finally released. She was about to remove her feathers and train as being too conspicuous for a dance-club, when suddenly she remembered her promise to Barry Swete.
She went hot all over. The excitement of the evening had put it clean out of her head. He was waiting up for her; she couldn't disappoint him. Too bad of Gerry to have forgotten their appointment: Aline had told her of it, though she could not now remember what Gerry had said.
She would have to go anyway—she hated to break her word. Barry might not have waited up. If the flat were in darkness, she could come away. But she would have to go now, at once, on her way to the Embassy—after all, Mayfair Row was quite close. She couldn't drag Gerry away from supper, and after the party it would be too late. As she gave Giles the order to drive to the Embassy by way of Mayfair Row, she caught herself wondering, with a little palpitation of guilty excitement, what Lady Julia would say if she knew.
Oh, Hades, a man old enough to be her father! Barry wasn't in love with her. At all events, she wasn't to blame. If there was a row, it would be Gerry's fault.
The mild night, powdered with stars, rested gently over Mayfair Row. The mews was deserted, sunk in slumber, and the Rolls sent the echoes rippling silkily along the lines of silent, shuttered garages.
Barry was still up. The two long low windows of the living-room disclosed an edging of light between the curtains. The yellow door below was open.
Giles switched off the engine and the peace of the night dropped down once more upon the old-world scene. Aline slid her wrap on to the seat of the car, then, with her train folded across her arm and her long skirt gathered about her, ran lightly up the steep stairs. As she went, the tennis court clock whirred and struck a single beat—the half-hour, as she knew.
Half-past twelve:—she would only stay an instant. Her slippers pattered softly on the uncarpeted stone. Save for the light of a street lamp falling through the open door below, the stair was dark. But at the top a dim, suffused radiance, as though from a shaded lamp within the living-room, was visible in the fanlight above the flat door.
The muted trill of the door-bell fell upon the jarring echo of the belfry's stroke. Within the flat not a sound. In the ensuing silence she could hear the distant hooting of belated cars speeding over the cross-streets of Mayfair.
How tiresome if Barry had gone to bed! But the light was still on. She raised her hand to the bell once more. As she did so, she distinctly heard, on the other side of the door, a prolonged, gentle, creaking sound. It stopped abruptly, as though it had been suppressed.
Aline stepped back and glanced up at the fanlight.
It suddenly went dark.
All at once she felt embarrassed, rather frightened, too, of the stuffy darkness at the head of the stair, the indeterminate silence which, within the flat, had succeeded to that stealthy crepitation. She was irksomely conscious of her finery of train and feathers. It was too late, she told herself. Barry was going to bed and did not want to be troubled.
She turned, groping in the obscurity for the handrail. But the stone landing seemed to be slippery and one of her feet slid away from her so that, had not her hand encountered the banister, she would have landed on her knee. Recovering her balance, she hurried softly down the stairs.
As she emerged from the house she glanced up at the windows to make sure she had not been mistaken. But now the line of light had disappeared: the living-room was dark. The chauffeur's square-cut silhouette materialized out of the shadow of the house.
"Embassy, please, Giles," she said, as the man held the door for her.
Suddenly the chauffeur put out his hand. "Excuse me, Miss," he began. But at that moment a tall form stepped between them. It was Rodney, still in his day clothes and a soft felt hat, a pipe in his mouth. The scent of burning tobacco hung pleasantly on the warm air.
"What on earth are you up to here in that rig?" he said, then broke off on a sharp exclamation. "For the Lord's sake, what have you been doing to your train?"
The girl looked down. A cry of dismay broke from her lips as she snatched up the train as it lay across her arm. She held it up in the light. The pearl-embroidered edge was all daubed with something red and wettish that glistened under the lamp.
A little handkerchief was crumpled up in her hand. The two men now saw her open her fingers, dab at the train with the handkerchief, and then, with a sort of slow and fearful curiosity, examine the dainty wisp of lace. Once more she directed her gaze to the train as it hung down from her hand, all besmirched with that crimson, viscous stain, then turned back to the handkerchief again. Her blue eyes were wide with wonder as she held out the handkerchief to Rodney.
"It's blood!" she said in a puzzled voice.
"Of course it's blood," he rejoined. "Whatever has happened? Have you cut yourself or what?"
She shook her head, looking down and moving her frock this way and that to scan herself. "I'm all right. But I stumbled on the stairs. Someone must have..."
She never finished the sentence. The chauffeur's hand was abruptly thrust between her and Rodney, with finger pointing downward. "Lord, sir," the man cried hoarsely, "it's all over her shoes, too!"
Aline looked down and gave a gasp of horror.
The little ivory slippers, too, were smeared, nay, sodden, with the self-same scarlet stain.
IN the sallow ray of the incandescent burner that trembled and gurgled in the lamp above their heads, Aline's face was as white as her dress. She stood there, a bewildering apparition in her Court finery, her small hands raised in affright as she gazed blankly down at her feet.
"But where did you get it?" Rodney demanded.
Her eyes remained immovably fixed upon her shoes. "I don't know... on the stairs, I guess."
The young man pointed with his pipe at the yellow door. "Here, do you mean? At Barry's?"
"I must have..."
"You've been in to Barry's?"
"Only as far as the door. I couldn't get in. I'd promised to show him my frock. Gerry was coming with me but she let me down." She uttered a frightened little whimper. "Oh, Rod, whatever can have happened?"
"Wait!" he told her, and darted inside.
The next instant they heard him call sharply: "Giles! Bring your torch!"
The chauffeur plunged his hand into the door-pocket beside the steering-wheel of the Rolls and disappeared into the house without a word.
Fearfully Aline followed behind. From the foot of the narrow stair, looking upward to the landing outside the flat, she saw Giles's broad back mounting before her. Then the upper part of the flat door, glossily yellow like the door below, was suddenly revealed in a brilliant electric beam.
The chauffeur's bulk screened Rodney from her sight. But she caught his rasping exclamation, followed by a breathless, shocked whisper: "It's all over the landing!" and the chauffeur's awed rejoinder: "Look, sir, it's welled out from under the door!"
Thereafter Rodney's voice again, quiet but imperative: "Barry, Barry, I say! Barry, old man, wake up! It's me, Rodney. Open the door!"
The bell whirred softly—it was one of those bells which are deliberately muted—and the knocker—a bronze dolphin—Aline had often admired the charming Italian antique—was smartly plied, softly at first, then more urgently. Rodney's voice mounted a key as his alarm waxed. "Barry! Barry! I know you're there. Don't be a fool! Open the door, can't you? What's happened? Open the damned door, I say!" The hammering was louder now: Rodney was beating on the panels with his hands.
Aline heard the chauffeur's voice. "Best go easy, sir. You'll wake the whole place else. I'll nip out and fetch a copper..."
"Copper be damned!" came the young man's raucous riposte. "Mr. Swete must have had an accident: he's bleeding to death for all we know. I'm going to break down the door..."
Below, in the feeble lamplight, the girl closed her eyes and leaned back against the door-post. This was ghastly. Always she could see before her that dreadful smear across the gleaming gossamer of her train. From the landing the chauffeur's deeper tones drifted down to her as out of a dream.
"Not without you 'ave a policeman, you can't, Mr. Rodney. That's de law, that is. Let me fetch a policeman, sir: there's sure to be one handy in the Square..."
The world rocked about her. She had never fainted in her life; but, she decided, clutching desperately at her slipping senses, the sensation must be something like this.
"Don't waste time! Put your weight to mine!" It was Rodney speaking. The sharp whisper floated across to Aline on a wave of nausea. "Now!"
She made a supreme effort and pulled herself together. She opened her eyes and again peered up the stair. There was darkness once more at the top, the bright whiteness of the torch shut off. The murmur of the two men's voices had given place to a tense silence made of little, formless sounds, the rapid gasps of laboured breathing, the protesting creak of resisting wood. Giles's coughing, "She's holding by the lock yet, sir;" the other's dogged, "Keep the strain!" spoken through clenched teeth; the chauffeur's muttered, "Let me get my shoulder to it!" and Rodney's quick: "That's the style! Both together now!" A sudden rending, tearing, splintering noise, a panting of lungs straining for breath; a grunt; a pause...
The chauffeur's whisper was shrill and raucous:
"There's something a-blocking of the door, Mr. Rodney. 'Arf a tick! A-ah! Now she's clear!"
Then silence again, clammy, portentous, as palpable as the warm darkness of that narrow place. Now light, streaming from the fanlight above the flat door and from the door itself, standing half open at the head of the stair. A shape loomed large against the light on the landing; it was Giles. Without warning he came plunging down. Aline stepped out into the mews to make way. But the man streaked by, as though he had not seen her, and leapt into the driving-seat of the Rolls. Even as the self-starter whinnied and the engine's velvety throb was heard, Rodney came quickly out. He leaned to the man at the steering-wheel.
"If Pargetter's out, try Dr. Morcombe—you know, in Brook Street."
"Right you are, sir!" The car swung off in the cloud of its exhaust.
Rodney turned and saw Aline. His face was very grave. "Barry has had an accident," he said. "Giles has gone for a doctor. I tried to telephone Pargetter, but the exchange doesn't answer."
"Oh, Rod, is it... is it serious?"
But the young man went on rapidly: "Listen to me, Aline. This is important. There's going to be an inquiry into this business and it mustn't come out that you were calling on Barry alone."
She stared at him wide-eyed, a little colour creeping into her pale cheeks. "But, Rod, you surely don't imagine..."
"It's not what I imagine. It's what people will think. You're a young unmarried girl and you've got to be protected, I'm going to say that I met you driving through the mews and suggested to you that we should look in on Barry and let him see your frock. You ran up the stairs ahead of me. I've spoken to Giles and he'll back us up. So if the police ask you any questions...'
"The police?" She gazed at him aghast. "Rod, what happened up there to-night?" And seeing that he did not answer, she persisted tremulously: "Is he... is he..."
Rodney looked away, his features troubled. There was a tense pause. With fearful eyes the girl glanced down, first at her besmirched embroidery and then at her shoes. Suddenly, she swayed. Rodney caught her in his arms. Her head with its proud white feathers drooped on his shoulder. From one of the lodgings across the way a woman's voice floated, scolding, over the stagnant air: "Lot of idle, good-for-nothinks, I calls 'em, with their shampyne wine an' their women, wyking h-onest folks aht of their sleep at dead of night..."
Across the mews, a hundred yards down, a tap projected from the wall. Bearing the girl's light weight in his arms, Rodney strode to it and, with a thrust of his foot, set the water trickling. Then he gently set the girl down on her feet, supporting her about the waist and, with his free hand, squeezed out his handkerchief under the tap and moistened her forehead.
Almost at once she opened her eyes. Looking at him in dazed fashion, she struggled out of his encircling arm and stood unaided, leaning against a garage door. "I don't quite know what happened to me," she murmured rather faintly. "I suddenly felt so queer."
"The car will be back in a minute," he told her, "and Giles will take you home."
She laid her hands on his coat. "Rod," she said earnestly, "I'm all right now. Won't you please tell me what happened to Barry?"
He moved his shoulders helplessly. "He killed himself, my dear."
"How?"
"We're not sure. He has a terrible wound in the neck."
"You mean.... Oh, Rod, you don't mean he cut his throat?"
"He shot himself. The pistol is in his hand."
"Shot himself?" She was staring at her companion with eyes wide open with bewilderment and horror. "I didn't hear any shot."
"He's been dead some time. He must have done it before you arrived."
"Then who put out the light when I rang the bell?"
He gave her an astonished look. "Did anyone put out the light?"
"Yes. And I heard somebody moving about inside the flat, too."
He gazed at her in incredulous amazement. She was staring up the mews to where, on the other side, the yellow door, half open, gleamed in the wan lamplight, a single point of colour in the surrounding drabness. Above it the dark windows had the air of guarding a secret. As he looked at her, she uttered a sharp exclamation: "Rod!" she gasped, "did you see?"
He swung round to follow the direction of her eyes. But all he saw was the mews, broad and dim, stretching away in emptiness to the end.
"Someone came out of Barry's," she declared tremulously.
"You're dreaming," he told her. "There's no one in the place except poor Barry, and he's dead. And there's no way in or out except by the front door."
"I saw him, I tell you," she protested, "as plainly as I see you. He just flashed out, like... like a rabbit making for its burrow: I saw him quite clearly in that patch of light under the lamp."
Rodney took a step forward irresolutely, peering into the gloom. "He's gone, whoever he is," he remarked. "It may have been one of the chauffeurs. But we must have seen him go in. What was this man like?"
"I didn't see his face. I'm not even certain it was a man, except that he was wearing some sort of light cap and a dark overcoat."
"But what became of him?" Rodney asked. His tone was slightly incredulous.
She shook her head. "I can't tell you. He just vanished. He was there one moment and the next moment he was gone."
A long beam of light suddenly swept the low buildings and the Rolls came swiftly into sight at the farther end of the mews.
"This will be the doctor," said Rodney. "How do you feel now?"
"I'm all right," Aline replied soberly. "But I feel ridiculous in this get-up. I left my coat in the car."
He took her arm and they walked together to where, before the yellow door, the car had drawn up. A little dried-up individual in evening dress had descended.
"This is a bad business, Rodney," he observed sententiously:—his eyes, surveying Aline in her glittering attire, through horn-rimmed spectacles, showed considerable astonishment. "He's dead, the chauffeur says?"
"It looks like it to me," Rodney returned briefly.
"And you were first on the scene?"
"Yes, I was taking Miss Innesmore in to show him her court dress. He was laid up, you know, with a bad foot." He turned to Aline. "This is Dr. Pargetter, our family doctor," he explained. "Doctor... Miss Innesmore, who's staying with us."
The doctor made a stiff little bow, then turned to take the instrument case which Giles had brought from the car. "Well, we'd better go up, I suppose?"
Rodney spoke to Aline: "Giles can take you back now..."
"Oh, Rodney," the girl declared, "I'd rather wait for you, if you don't mind. Supposing they're still up at home, how am I going to tell them? Gerry must have given me up at the Embassy: she'll be coming back any minute now."
The young man nodded. "Quite right. I'm glad you thought of that. This'll be a tremendous shock to all of them. I'll have to see Chass first. It would be best if you waited for me. You could sit in the car. I don't suppose we shall be long." He hastened away and entered the house, followed by the doctor carrying his case.
Windows and doors were opening the length of the mews. It was as though, by some strange telepathy, knowledge of the thing that had befallen had penetrated into every nook and cranny of the placid Mayfair backwater. Already Giles, a little way along the mews, was the centre of a small group in summary attire. Now a large woman, her night raiment imperfectly concealed beneath an ancient black mantle bedizened with jet, came slopping over the cobbles in slippered feet to goggle at Aline's finery.
"What's amiss at Mr. Swete's, my dear?" she demanded confidentially.
"That was Dr. Pargetter as went in with the copper," a hoarse voice announced. A man with tousled hair, his bare feet thrust into his unlaced boots, had lounged up. "Wot's it all about, Miss?" He mustered Aline with marked suspicion.
"There's been an accident," Aline replied, and moved away. She went to the car and put on her wrap. Her feathers she detached from her hair and left on the seat. But when she was about to enter the car to wait, she saw that in ones and twos strangely-clad figures were trooping up, halting as they neared the Rolls to stare at her. The girl shrank away from them. It irked her, in that madly incongruous attire, to be the centre of all those curious eyes: besides, she had the feeling that the crowd was vaguely hostile. On a sudden impulse she shut the car door and entered the house.
Every light in the flat seemed to be on now. The staircase was bright with radiance streaming from the door. The door, with jamb splintered and lock hanging lamentably from its seating, was half open as though it were wedged fast by something behind it. The dark, sticky pool on the threshold was clearly revealed. Steeling herself, Aline stepped round it and went into the living-room.
The first thing she saw was the doctor. He was on his knees behind the door. With an impassive face Rodney stood at his side. The room blazed with light—sconces against the wall, a lamp on the desk and another on the table, all were lit up. For the moment Aline's entrance passed unperceived. At first the doctor's back screened from her sight what was beyond him, behind the door. But a pace into the room and she saw that over which he was crouched.
A yard from the door the beige carpet ended and into the oblong space where the door swung back a mat of coloured reed-work was fitted. Upon this mat, as to head and shoulders, and upon the carpet, as to the rest of him, still in the dark blue dressing-gown in which she had seen him that morning, the still form of Barry Swete was stretched.
He reclined with head pointed towards the door, feet towards the room. His face was pillowed on his right arm, flung forward to its full extent, the dark barrel of a pistol protruding from the clenched hand, the other arm resting pendant at his side. It seemed as though the door, as it was burst violently inwards, had thrust the body slightly to one side. Under the head and the length of the right arm a wide, discoloured patch, as dark as pitch and, like limpid pitch, stagnant and glutinous, was spread out over the greater part of the mat.
Aline uttered a little involuntary gasp. The doctor raised his grizzled head with a frown. But before he could say anything Rodney came hurrying to the girl.
"You shouldn't have come up, my dear," he told her anxiously, as he put himself between her and the stark figure on the floor.
"There's a crowd collecting outside," she answered in the same hushed tones he had used. "I couldn't stay down there."
Rodney said no more but led her to a chesterfield that stood pushed away at an angle from the fireplace. He made her sit down with her back to the room while he returned to his post beside the doctor.
With her hands clasped tightly together, Aline looked about her. Anything, anything, rather than see again that bloodless, expressionless face. It seemed impossible to believe that Barry Swete was dead, that this friendly tranquil room had been the scene of tragedy. Everything in it spoke to her of the dead man. There, facing her, in bookcases built flush with the wall on either side of the fireplace, were his beloved books, and above the left-hand bookcase, his treasured Goya, a fierce-looking and bewhiskered Spanish General in a blue and red uniform.
Her eye travelled across the cold grate to the tall, vividly-coloured screen which occupied the corner of the room. It was Coromandel work—Barry had bought it, he had told her, at Shanghai. The screen concealed from view the staircase which led down to the two ground-floor rooms and, beyond the head of the stair, the serving door which connected with the dining-room adjoining. She remembered Barry, the first time that Gerry had taken her to call upon him, coming round the screen with the cocktails on a tray.
Barely twelve hours ago she had sat with him in this very room. How attractive she had thought him! He was so empressé, so easy to get on with, she felt she had known him all her life. And now he was dead. He had killed himself, they had told her. Dear God, why had he done this thing?
Insensibly she felt her eyes drawn towards the door. She turned half round. There was the big old Spanish table he used as a desk. The light of the desk-lamp glinted on the Georgian inkstand, the great silver-bound blotting-pad, the flat marble ash-tray. All was in place, like everything else in the room. Barry was a fanatic for tidiness.
Beside the desk, on its pillar, in front of the window, his bust confronted her. She started as her eyes encountered the darkly gleaming face. It was cold and lifeless with sightless eyes, even as...
Over the doctor's shoulder now she was again contemplating that oddly limp form. The legs in their blue serge trousers, smartly creased, the feet thrust into black bedroom slippers, protruded from beneath the dressing-gown. Strangely lifelike—horribly lifelike. One would have said that he had flung himself down upon the carpet to hunt for a stud which had rolled away out of sight under the furniture while he was dressing. How pale he looked! And how tired!
The doctor had risen to his feet. A man of method, clearly, for he brushed his hands together and dusted off his trousers in the most matter-of-fact manner imaginable. Then he cleared his throat and, pushing up his spectacles, looked across at Rodney.
"This is not suicide," he enunciated in his rather formal way. "It's murder!"
WEARIED by the doctor's lengthy examination, Rodney had turned away and was standing, lost in gloomy thought, at the table. But on Pargetter's announcement he whipped about, his eyes round with bewilderment and horror.
"Murder?" he said in a deeply-shocked voice. "What do you mean, murder?"
They noticed now that the doctor was holding something wrapped in his handkerchief between his clasped hands. He unfolded them and, lifting a corner of the handkerchief, disclosed the pistol. Neither Rodney nor Aline had seen him take it from the dead man's hand.
"His gun was not discharged," said the doctor. "The magazine is full and there's a cartridge in the chamber. Besides, the bullet that killed him is very much bigger than anything that this little thing fires..." As he laid the weapon down upon a chair he lifted the white cambric again and displayed an automatic not much larger than the palm of a man's hand.
"But murder?" repeated Rodney in a dazed fashion. "Who would want to murder poor Barry?"
Aline had risen to her feet and was gazing aghast at the two men from the other side of the room. But neither paid any attention to her.
Dr. Pargetter humped his shoulders and, settling his spectacles on his nose, beckoned Rodney over. "Look here," he said. Putting his hand on the dead man's head he tilted it gently over and pointed with a probe to a dark patch of clotted blood on the left-hand side of the neck, rather high up and close to the ear. "This is where the bullet entered. I haven't been able to locate it. It's probably lodged somewhere under the muscles of the neck."
"But, doctor," Rodney exclaimed, "it isn't possible. There must be some mistake..." He broke off and looked across the room to where Aline stood like a statue, her hands clasped before her on her breast. His eyes were wide with horror and stupefaction. "Then, Aline," he cried, "that man you saw..."
At this moment came an interruption. The stair reverberated to a ponderous footstep and the form of a policeman bulked massive in the doorway. At the sight of Dr. Pargetter he touched his helmet with a slightly confidential mien, as to an old acquaintance. "You're Dr. Pargetter from Hay Street, aren't you, sir? There's a chauffeur below who says there's been a suicide... ah!"
He broke off on the ejaculation as he caught sight of the body.
"Not suicide, officer," said Pargetter crisply. "This man has been murdered."
"Murdered, eh?" The voice was toneless, the face, under the peaked helmet, impassive.
Once more the little doctor plumped down on his knees. Without comment the constable followed suit. The doctor showed him the wound in the neck. The policeman pouted his lips in a noiseless whistle as he scanned the dead man's face and the dark stain on which he lay.
"Lost a proper lot of blood, 'asn't he?" he remarked.
"Two or three pints at least," rejoined the doctor, sitting up on his heels and tapping his probe on his hand. "The main carotid's severed..."
The constable stood up. "I'd like to call the station. Is there a telephone?"
The doctor pointed to the table. "The exchange didn't answer just now when Mr. Rossway here tried to ring me up," he observed. "But you may have better luck."
"They don't 'arf take it easy at night, some of these exchanges," returned the officer dispassionately, going to the table.
With a glance at Aline, who had not moved from her position by the fireplace, the doctor crossed the room and, lifting the screen from its position in the corner, placed it round the body. His action seemed to stir Rodney into life. He came swiftly to her.
"That man you saw... I thought you'd imagined it... but I was wrong." He spoke excitedly in a rapid whisper. "Do you realize that, when Giles and I broke the door down, he must have been hiding somewhere here, in the flat?"
She nodded gravely. "Rod, it's all so ghastly. Who could it have been?"
"The murderer, of course..."
"Yes, but who?"
He shook his head. "I can't imagine. The whole thing is absolutely baffling."
He broke off, for the constable had spoken. He had apparently managed to get his communication, for he told the doctor that they were sending up a man from Marlborough Street. His eye, rather stern under the helmet, roved over the faces before him. Laboriously he tugged out a notebook from the breast pocket of his tunic. "And now," he said, "perhaps you gentlemen will tell me just what happened?" He looked at Rodney. "You're Mr. Rossway, I take it? The chauffeur told me as 'ow it was you and 'e as discovered the body."
Rodney gave his name and age and proceeded to tell his story. It was a lengthy business, for the policeman wrote it all down, word for word, in his book. Aline returned to the chesterfield and sat down with her back to the room. She felt dazed, numb. She could not bring herself to believe that this gracious room, as undisturbed, save for that inanimate object on the floor, as she had seen it that morning had been a scene of such a storm of the emotions as the taking of a human life involved.
Once more she let her glance travel round the walls. There, on the left as you came in, was Barry's bedroom, the door ajar:—she could just make out the foot of the bed. Opposite, in the right-hand wall, the dining-room door stood wide. Relucent mahogany, darkly seen, threw back the reflected light of the blaze of electricity in the room in which she sat. Now that the screen was removed the balustrade surrounding the head of the stair leading to the ground-floor rooms was disclosed, beyond it a service table with hot plates and beyond that again the service door giving access to the dining-room. Everything looked normal, normal, and yet, but a little while before, murder had cowered somewhere there, skulking, perhaps, in the bedroom or behind the dining-room door, or creeping stealthily, step by step, up the back stairs. What did a murderer look like? She tried to conjure up in her mind a clear impression of the figure she had seen. But the impression was blurred. A cap, an overcoat, the flash of a shadow—nothing more than that...
It was clear that all day long Barry had scarcely budged from his chair. The armchair in which she had discovered him that morning was where she had seen it, set beside the gate-leg table which was between the screened body and the bedroom door. Drawn up close to it was the chair to rest his foot—one of a set of four Hepplewhite chairs with tapestry seats which were ranged against the left-hand wall. Only two remained in their customary place. A fourth had been pulled out and stood, with its back to the fireplace, in front of the two chairs which the dead man had used.
Now that he was screened from her view, it was impossible to think of Barry dead. She could almost see him sitting at the table. There was his book, open upon the table, the horn-rimmed glasses he used for reading lying upon the page. There, over against his book, was his drink, as he had left it, in one of the heavy Waterford rummers she had often admired: there, on the edge of the ashtray at his elbow, his half-smoked cigar, just as he had laid it down. Looking at his empty chair she felt as though he had gone downstairs to the kitchen to find them something to eat, as had happened one night when he had met her and Gerry, walking home through the mews from the pictures, and had made them come in for a drink. She had the feeling that any moment she would hear that ringing voice of his on the stairs or in the dining-room, that any moment he would come back.
A cheerful "Good evening!" cut across her reverie and brought her eyes to the front door. She had lost all sense of time. She stood up abruptly. A square-set young man of somewhat nondescript appearance had entered the room. He glanced behind the screen, emitted a brief whistle, and was in the midst of them, casting swift glances around. With a jerk of the head he beckoned the constable over. They conversed in undertones. "You haven't touched anything, I hope, Frank?" Aline heard him say.
"Not much I 'aven't," the officer replied. "I come up pretty soon after they found him. Only the doctor"—he flicked a thumb in Pargetter's direction—"'as been over 'im so far."
"Good," said the other. "You know what Uncle George is..."
"Wot, is Uncle George coming along?" The policeman's eyes widened. "Pretty nippy off the mark, ain't 'e?"
"He happened to ring up from the Yard just after your call came through. He's only stopping to pick up young Trevor, of the Finger Prints."
With an inquiring air the newcomer looked from one to the other of the silent witnesses of this scene. He doffed his brown felt hat. "I'm Detective-Sergeant Wainwright, C Division," he announced. "Chief Inspector Manderton, from Headquarters, is on the way up now. He'll probably take charge of the case."
The constable wagged his head humorously. "'Probably' is good," he murmured to the detective. Wainwright indulged in a silent chuckle and, putting down his hat, was about to follow the doctor behind the screen when Rodney stepped in front of him.
"Is there any need for this lady to stay?" he asked.
"It was you and she and the chauffeur as was first on the scene, wasn't you?" the detective demanded. "She'd better wait and see the Inspector. He won't be long now..." The screen swallowed him up.
Rodney went to the fireplace and made Aline sit down again on the chesterfield with her back to the room. He seated himself on the arm and, without speaking, took her hand and held it. The contact comforted her, but more than this the gesture touched her immensely, bringing very near the surface the tears which pity for the dark fate of Barry Swete had not called forth. Instinctively, with her free hand, she was about to grope in the front of her frock for her handkerchief when she saw the little wisp of lace lying in the fireplace at her feet. She picked up and held it, fighting back the tears. So they sat in silence, the two of them, and listened to the murmur of voices, odd rustlings, behind the screen.
Above the murmur of the crowd outside, the throbbing of a car was audible. There were voices on the stairs. Then Giles appeared. He came quickly into the room and halted to usher in a burly individual in a brown felt hat. Behind came two men, one of them, tawny-haired and with the fresh face of youth, wearing large horn-rimmed spectacles and carrying an attaché case. The chauffeur was bursting with importance. "Inspector Manderton," he announced, with a fair imitation of old Larking's most impressive manner. Then, turning to the big man: "This here is Mr. Rossway, Inspector, as found the body along of me, and this is Dr. Pargetter."
On the newcomer's entry Rodney had started to his feet and remained standing beside the chesterfield. The doctor now emerged from behind the screen with Wainwright who, at the sight of his hierarchical chief, stiffened into deferential attention, as did the constable likewise. The Inspector favoured the company with an abstracted, even morose, nod, and advanced into the room, peeling off as he did so a pair of dogskin gloves which, together with his hat, he deposited upon a chair. For a brief instant his eye, inquiring, suspicious, rested upon the girlish figure in the snowy ermine wrap. Then he swung his glance back to the door by which he had entered and the gaudy Chinese screen beside it.
Aline was conscious of a little thrill of excitement. This, then, was "the Scotland Yard man" legendary hero of a hundred thrillers, such as would lie in stacks about her father's room in the Park Avenue apartment. Her senses, sharpened by the strain she had undergone, were quick to detect the air of authority, mingled with a suggestion of extreme, even ruthless, efficiency, which this man's personality revealed.
From the circumstance that he possessed a nickname and from the frozen deference of his subordinates, she judged him to be a personage of importance in his own line. In appearance, it is true, he scarcely came up to her mental picture of a famous sleuth. To look at, he was neither as interesting as the immortal Sherlock nor as socially presentable as the ingenious, if intolerably erudite, Philo Vance. His blue serge suit was well worn, his boots were clumsy and thick-soled, and a stiff toothbrush moustache and an irredeemably plebeian nose lent his features a definitely commonplace character. He was red of face and heavy of build, with a jutting jowl and large, red hands.
But the brief moment in which their glances crossed lasted long enough for her to perceive that the eyes were remarkable. In the first place, they had the unmistakable steady glare of reckless courage. This man was a fighter, a sticker, too. She had heard of the bulldog type of Englishman: here, she divined, she was meeting it in the flesh.
His casual scrutiny made her vaguely uncomfortable. She remembered that there would most likely be the matter of that little fib between him and her. His eyes were inquisitive and challenging, the eyes of one who is rarely content to take things as they appear, but is always bent on reasoning them out for himself. There was something rather forbidding in that gaze, a sort of underlying menace. It struck her that she had lit upon that facial expression before, quite recently, in that very room. On a sudden impulse she turned and looked up at the Goya.
It seemed to her that the brown-skinned Capitan General, cold-eyed, thin-lipped, merciless, confronted her with the same hard, hectoring glare as the Inspector.
THE big man's presence dominated the room. The young detective had lost his jaunty air, staring glassily before him; the constable stood like a rock. With a matter-of-fact air the tawny youth who had accompanied the Inspector bore his attaché case to the desk, where he proceeded deftly, noiselessly, to unpack an array of brushes and bottles.
Inspector Manderton made a brusque sign, and the constable removed the heavy screen which he folded and propped against the wall. Dr. Pargetter advanced on the detective.
"It's all quite straightforward, Inspector. Death was caused by a bullet which entered the left side of the neck, in front of the sterno-mastoid."
"A moment..." Manderton waved the doctor aside.
Pargetter bristled. "I beg your pardon..."
"I'm not ready for you yet." The Inspector dropped on one knee beside the corpse. Aline, watching breathlessly from her seat by the fireplace, was grateful that his big bulk hid that bloodless mask from her view.
The examination was very thorough. The strong hands manipulated the limp form as though it were a puppet. After closely scrutinizing the wound, the Inspector turned to the clothing, opening the dressing-gown to peer at the waistcoat and shirt underneath. Once the groping fingers paused to draw from the lapel of the dressing-gown something that, by the gesture wherewith it was lifted to the light, seemed to be a hair or a thread. Sitting back upon his heels, the detective took an envelope from his pocket and stowed his find away.
He looked up at the doctor who was eyeing him with a somewhat sour expression. "Caught the artery, eh?" The question was rapid, conversational in tone.
"The main carotid was severed," replied the doctor distantly. "He must have died practically instantaneously."
The big man nodded absently. He had lifted the trailing left hand to glance briefly at the livid nails. For an instant he retained the dead hand in his as though he would have restored it to warmth. "Quite," he remarked, "but he's not dead long."
"He had this pistol in his hand," said Pargetter, lifting the handkerchief with the automatic from the chair. Manderton snapped his fingers at the tawny youth who on the instant brought a pair of rubber gloves. These the detective donned and, picking up the automatic, raised it to his eyes to examine it closely, sniffed it, then released the charger. The charger held its full quota of five cartridges. He drew back the breech of the pistol and a sixth cartridge dropped out upon his palm.
With impassive features he replaced cartridge and magazine and placed the automatic in the chamois leather which his assistant proffered. Silently, the youth retired with the gun to his paraphernalia spread out upon the desk. There seemed to be no need of words between these two.
"In my judgment," began the doctor in his pedantic fashion, "death was caused by a projectile of considerably larger calibre than..."
"I can see that for myself, thank you, Doctor." Manderton scrambled to his feet, snapping his fingers at the constable to replace the screen round the body. "Know him?"
"Certainly I know him," retorted Pargetter testily. "It's Mr. Barrasford Swete. He's the tenant and a great friend of Sir Charles Rossway..."
"The metal man, is it?"
"Lives at Frant House in the square at the back of this, sir," the constable put in confidentially. "These 'ere premises are, as you might say, part of Frant 'Ouse—the stables, as used to be."
"A very charming and cultivated person and a great authority on art," the doctor persisted. "The deceased didn't have an enemy in the world, I should say..."
"It don't look that way to me," the detective broke in dryly. "Who found him?"
The question came quick as a pistol shot. Rodney stepped forward. "I did." And, noticing the question on the Inspector's face, he added, "I'm Rodney Rossway. Sir Charles is my father."
Again the raucous voice cut in: "What time was it?"
Rodney flashed a glance at Aline. "Half-past twelve," she said in a low voice. "I remember hearing the clock strike."
"Miss Innesmore was with me," Rodney explained hastily. "She's staying with us and my Mother presented her at the Court to-night. I was walking home from my club when she passed me in the car in the mews outside. I suggested to her that we might let Barry Swete see her Presentation dress as he was laid up with a bad foot..."
Aline's heart warmed to Rodney. It was chivalrous of him to have foreseen the peril which was only just dawning on her. As things were nowadays there had seemed nothing wrong about the idea of popping in on Barry, a man old enough to be her father, even after midnight—that jeune fille stuff went out with the War. But under the hard eye of this pitiless inquisitor, ferreting in her face, even as Rodney told his story, she began to perceive the risk she had run: cross-examination on the witness-stand, newspaper headlines, food for a vast, gloating public here and in America, always greedy for sensation. She thought of her father in New York, dear old-fashioned Daddy, so upright and God-fearing with his Middle-Western notions, who idolized her; she thought of Lady Julia and her detestation of notoriety and scandal; and she quailed before the danger from which Rodney's quick-wittedness had saved her.
Except for that little twist at the start his story was perfectly straightforward. The Inspector gave Aline the impression of listening with only half an ear, for his glance, imperious and unrevealing, kept roving round the room. But he missed nothing, as presently appeared. "I thought that Swete had broken a blood vessel or something," Rodney was saying, "and dashed upstairs without asking Miss Innesmore any questions. It was only when I came down after the chauffeur to tell him to fetch Dr. Morcombe if Dr. Pargetter was out and Miss Innesmore fainted that I discovered she had heard somebody moving about in the flat..."
Then Manderton pounced. "Wait! We'll have this from Miss Innesmore, please!"
His manner with Aline was brisk but deferential. He helped her out. She had been wondering whether, after all, this man she had seen running from the flat were not a figment of her imagination. But Manderton displayed no incredulity. He pressed her gently for details. How long was she waiting at the door? What sort of noise was it she heard—no shot, or cry, of course? This man she saw, what was he like? A gentleman, as you might say? A tramp? Young or old? Short or tall?
"He wasn't a tramp," she answered quickly. "But whether he was young or old, I can't say. I didn't see his face. It seems to me that he was tallish and he ran ever so fast: he just streaked by. And he was wearing an overcoat..."
"What kind of overcoat?"
"A darkish overcoat..."
Mr. Manderton sighed gently. "Almost all overcoats are dark."
"This one had the collar turned up. And, oh, yes, the man wore a cap, too."
"What sort of cap?" Patiently.
"Just an ordinary man's cap, I guess. Lightish, it was, Tweed, you know." Aline gave her small head a forlorn shake. "I'm sorry, but that's all I can tell you."
The Inspector turned to Rodney, mouth grim. "I suppose you realize that when you and the chauffeur broke down the door this man was concealed somewhere in the flat?"
Rodney looked embarrassed. "I didn't at the time. I do now."
"I take it you saw or heard nothing to suggest that there was anyone here but yourselves and the dead man?"
"Absolutely nothing. The place was in darkness and when we switched on the light the room looked exactly as you see it now, all except the screen, that is..."
Manderton's brooding eye contemplated the bright screen. "Where was it standing?" he rapped out. Rodney indicated its habitual station. The detective rubbed his chin meditatively, his glance upon the head of the back stairs. "It didn't occur to you to have a look round?"
Rodney shrugged his shoulders. "Why should it? I thought it was a case of suicide."
The Inspector grunted. "The fellow was watching you, of course. The moment you carried Miss Innesmore across to the tap and our back was turned to the front door, out he nips. Oh..." His eye caught Aline's and he bowdlerized the imminent expletive into a grudging, "...well...." He addressed himself to Rodney again: "What's at the back of these premises?"
"Frant House, where we live. This flat was converted out of part of the old stabling."
"I remember, the officer said something about it. I suppose this place communicates straight through with the kitchens and so forth of Frant House?"
"No, there's no way through."
"What about windows?"
"There are only two on the back, both on this floor. One in the dining-room there,"—he indicated the door—"the other in the bathroom, which leads out of the bedroom,"—he pointed to the opposite door. "They're both small windows with bars."
"Where do they look out?"
"On the tennis court roof."
"What tennis court?"
"The tennis court of Frant House. It's at the back of this: it was built on the site of the old coach-house."
Manderton was puzzled and, like most quick thinkers when they are puzzled, became irritated.
"A covered court, is it, or what?" he queried impatiently.
A high, rather drawling voice interrupted them: "What he means is a Royal tennis court, Inspector."
It was the tawny youth with the attaché case who had spoken. Aline and Rodney looked at one another in mild astonishment: for a police employee, as he appeared to be, the young man's accent was surprisingly educated.
"I've often heard of the Frant House court," the youth went on. "It's the only one of its kind in a private house in the West End."
"And what may Royal tennis be when it's at home?" growled Mr. Manderton, bending his brows at his assistant.
"It's the original form of lawn tennis," the other returned, quite unabashed. "You play in a court with a penthouse, and a grill, and, oh, all sorts of gadgets. Devilish complicated it is, too: they say it takes three years to learn to score..."
"You seem to know a lot about it, young Dene," his Chief rumbled.
"There's a court at Cambridge. I never played myself when I was up. But I've watched men playing there."
The Inspector cleared his throat. "Mr. Dene, of our Finger Prints Department, is a graduate of Cambridge University," he explained, not without a touch of sarcasm. But the glance he rested upon his aide was not unfriendly. The plain-clothes men grinned affably: the policeman shifted his large feet and fingered his upper lip in an ineffectual effort to cover up evidence of a possibly dangerous sense of humour. But the youth himself did not turn a hair. He beamed cheerfully through his goggles at Aline, whose bright eyes were contemplating him with interest, and murmured sotto voce, but loud enough for her to hear: "The boy Sherlock. And how?"
Manderton had addressed Rodney again. "How did the deceased live here? He wasn't married, was he?"
"No."
"No servants sleeping on the premises, are there?"
"No. Roberts, his man, lives out. Usually he went home as soon as Mr. Swete had dressed for dinner—Mr. Swete dined out a lot. If Mr. Swete were dining in, Roberts would stay on to get dinner and clear away."
"Mr. Swete, you say, had a bad foot?"
"Yes."
"Then he probably dined in to-night, eh?"
"I imagine so."
The Inspector glanced round the circle of faces. "Where does this fellow, Roberts, hang out, does anyone know?"
On this Giles, who had been bobbing about at the back of the group, spoke up. "He only lives the other side of Oxford Street, Inspector. I sent one of the chaps to fetch him."
"Better nip down and see if he has come then," Manderton rejoined. "You can tell the officer on the door I said for your friend to come up."
With a somewhat lagging step the chauffeur departed.
"What about this servant of his?" The Inspector's eye, darkly questing, flickered from Rodney to the doctor.
"You can leave Roberts out of this," said Rodney quickly. "He's a most reliable man who has been with Barry Swete ever since he first moved into this flat."
"When was that?"
"Let's see. It was when Mr. Swete first came home from America—about two years ago."
The detective grunted. "I have to put the question to you two gentlemen—does either of you know anything about the deceased as would throw any light on the murder?"
"It's frankly inexplicable to me," Rodney answered. "I can only imagine that some armed burglar..."
"Won't wash," was Manderton's curt comment. "This was an inside job. Just as a matter of habit I took a look at the front door as I came up. Though the lock gave when you burst the door in, there are no signs of its having been tampered with. No, whoever did this job was either let in by the deceased or by the deceased's servant, or he entered with a key." He looked across to Rodney. "Do you know whether anybody besides the deceased had a key to this apartment?"
"Roberts had one, I believe."
"Nobody else? None of you at Frant House, for instance?"
"No. I'm quite certain of that."
The Inspector was gazing round the room. "Was the deceased in the habit of keeping valuables in the house?"
"Only these few things you see here. That picture,"—he indicated the Goya—"is worth a bit, I believe..."
"No jewellery or anything of that kind? Collector, wasn't he?"
"I should have called him an art expert, rather. He was a partner of the Goya Galleries in Regent Street. He advised people about their collections, too. I never heard of his having any jewellery."
"Any money difficulties?"
"I don't think so for a moment. He always seemed to be very comfortably off."
"There is one thing..." the doctor had broken in. "He liked to carry a good deal of ready money about with him. You remember, Rod, that night at Frant House?"
The Inspector looked inquiringly at Rodney. "The doctor's right," the young man agreed. "I'd forgotten about it. It was one night at Frant House when we were settling up after bridge..."
"Well?"
"We noticed that Barry had considerably over £100 in notes in his wallet."
"Was that his habit?"
Rodney shook his head. "I don't know about that. When we chaffed him about it I remember he said he liked to carry the price of a meal on him."
"Joking like?"
"I hardly think he meant to be taken literally," said Rodney gravely. The Inspector stared at him rather hard.
Aline, looking across to the desk, saw that the graduate of Cambridge University, whose back was turned to his Chief, had placed his hands palm to palm and cast his eyes aloft in an attitude of silent and rapturous prayer. Catching her amused expression, the youth winked at her solemnly and continued to fiddle about with his brushes and bottles.
A hasty step on the stair and a fat man burst into the room. For an instant Aline failed to recognize the urbane and immaculate Roberts in this haggard, collarless creature with tousled hair, mouth open and hands trembling. He was gibbering. Words poured from him in a torrent.
"It ain't hardly possible... I run all the way from the other side of Baker Street... a kinder master man never had... I come over all queer when Joe Green tol' me... and him as bright as bright when I cleared away his dinner!"
Mr. Manderton dealt with this outbreak in characteristic fashion. "Come here, you!" he ordered sternly. "You're Mr. Swete's servant, I suppose. Stop that jabber and answer my questions. When did you last see your master alive?"
The unfortunate Roberts was like a man caught in a machine-gun barrage. A stream of questions drilled him through and through. Every attempt at digression was ruthlessly blasted away by the Inspector's incessant and insistent "Good, now tell me this!" In less than a minute the detective had the man's story. Mr. Swete had dined off a wing of cold chicken, a salad, and a small bottle of hock at half-past seven and by ten minutes past eight Roberts, having cleared away and put out the whisky and siphon, had gone off for the night. Mr. Swete had spoken of having a quiet evening at home with his book. He had not said anything about expecting a visitor. No doubt Mr. Swete sometimes had visitors after he had dismissed his servant: Roberts would find the used glasses when he cleared up next morning. The lower door on the mews was open: it always remained open when Mr. Swete was at home: he would shut it himself the last thing before he went to bed. The servant agreed it would be a nuisance for Mr. Swete, with his bad foot, to have to go downstairs to close the lower door, but he was sure that Mr. Swete had given him no instructions about it. He himself had not thought about the matter, one way or another, but had left the door open as usual. The flat door he had shut behind him—he was positive about this.
Roberts's cross-examination ended, Dr. Pargetter advanced on the Inspector, watch in hand. "It's nearly half-past one," he remarked fretfully, "and I have a consultation at 8.30 in the morning. If there were no further questions..."
But Manderton did not appear to hear him. He had left Roberts abruptly and drifted away. He appeared to be unconscious of the little group watching him, banned by his air of preoccupation in a deferential silence. The detective mooned idly about the room, now stopping at the fireplace, close to where Aline stood, to gaze into the unlit hearth, run a finger abstractedly along the mantelshelf, scowl at his reflection in the mirror which hung there and scrutinize his finger-tip with a brooding, disconsolate air. Now he was at the table, glancing down from his six feet upon the glasses, the book, the ash-tray and the other articles set out upon it, methodically, one after the other, like a man taking an inventory. Always in the same desultory fashion he lounged across to the desk and after contemplating the apparatus which Dene had put out, casually raked over the débris in the big marble ash-tray with his finger.
His peregrination having brought him alongside Rodney, the Inspector seemed to rouse himself. "Let's have a look at these windows giving on the tennis court roof," he said to the young man and to Roberts: "You come along, too. I want you to show me the downstairs rooms."
The three of them vanished into the bedroom, reappeared presently and crossed to the dining-room, which they left by the service door and descended to the lower floor. Their Chief departed, the plain-clothes men relaxed and began whispering together: Dr. Pargetter, wrapped in huffy silence, idly inspected the pictures. Up the stairs mounted the murmur of the crowd in the mews outside, sibilant, mysterious, like the surge of the sea.
Aline suddenly felt deathly tired. It was the reaction after the thrills of the night. Her throat was parched, her lips were dry. She sank down on the chesterfield, and pressed the little lace handkerchief she held in her hand to her mouth.
A faint exotic fragrance mounted to her nostrils. She plucked her hand away, staring down at the handkerchief. Then she felt in her corsage and brought away a second handkerchief. She gazed at the first handkerchief again, spreading it out upon her knee, slowly, as though reluctant to discern the initials she now knew she would find there, initials which she herself had selected, which she herself had had embroidered at the Maison de Blanc in Paris where, on her recent visit, she had ordered a dozen of these handkerchiefs as a little gift for Gerry. There, in the corner of the filmy scrap of linen, were the letters 'G.R.' daintily interlaced, exquisite work of deft French fingers, and now, as she raised the handkerchief to her lips once more, she detected the subtle blend of amber, attar of roses and sandalwood that was Gerry's individual and frightfully expensive perfume.
Aline knit her young brow. This was the handkerchief she had picked up from the fireplace, believing it to be her own. Her own had never left her corsage. There were voices on the back stairs. Hastily she put up the second handkerchief with the first. Then Rodney came up and told her he was to take her home.
GILES drove them back to Frant House. They covered the short distance in silence. Rodney sat away from his companion, staring out dejectedly into the dark and deserted streets. Aline wondered whether he repented of his earlier demonstration of sympathy. But she did not dwell on the idea. She was thinking about Gerry.
How had that handkerchief come to be in Barry's flat? Did it mean that Gerry had gone to meet her after all? If so, Gerry must have been inside the flat, must have spoken to Barry. But Gerry had gone to the Opera. If she had waited until the fall of the curtain she could hardly have reached the mews before half-past eleven. And at half-past twelve Barry was already dead, had apparently been dead for some time. She felt a chill of fear. But she roused herself up to combat it. This was Gerry's business, she reminded herself, and nobody else's. She was not giving Gerry away. She must see Gerry without delay—before questions began to be asked. She hoped devoutly that Gerry was already home—she could easily slip into her room unobserved.
At Frant House Rodney dismissed the car and fished out his latchkey. Putting the key in the lock, he said, as though he had divined Aline's train of thought: "If Gerry isn't in already, I'll wait up and tell her. You go to bed—you must be worn out."
"I don't mind telling her, if you like," Aline ventured. "That's to say, if you think she'd take it easier, coming from me. This will be a frightful shock for Gerry, Rod. She and Barry were such friends."
"So were Barry and my Father," he retorted irritably. "My Mother, too." He pushed open the front door. "You run off to bed, Aline, and leave Gerry to me."
The entrance hall was dim, deserted, its big brass lantern the only visible light in the lower part of the house. The tall grandfather clock ticked ponderously in the oppressive silence. Rodney crossed to the study, glanced in. The room was dark.
"Chass has gone to bed," he announced. "It's just as well. Time enough for them to hear the news in the morning." He flung down his hat, and his hand ruffled his fair hair in a distracted gesture. "Are you sure you're feeling all right now?" he went on, glancing into Aline's face. "You wouldn't care for some brandy?"
"No, thanks awfully, Rod."
"Then, good night."
She caught his hand. "Listen...!"
A taxi had stopped outside the house. There was the sound of a key in the front door. Gerry, her pale gold hair gleaming under the lamp, her long green dance frock glittering under her black evening coat, came in quietly, closing the heavy door noiselessly behind her. As she turned, the light fell on the charmingly piquant face, set off by the clinging whiteness of the deep fur collar of her wrap, and showed it strained with lines of fatigue about the eyes. But at the sight of the man and the girl waiting there in the hall, her expression became animated at once.
"You're a nice one," she said accusingly to Aline. "I thought you were coming on to the Embassy. The Bryces met some boys from Sandhurst, amusing lads: it was rather fun. And everybody you've ever heard of was there." She turned to knock the ash from her cigarette. "I rang up the photographer's and they said you'd left. I didn't dare ring up here—you know how Chass hates one to telephone after midnight. What became of you?"
Only then did she seem to grow aware of their awed and grieving scrutiny. With a puzzled air she looked from one to the other. "Don't say that you and Rodney have been on the loose together?" she observed to Aline dryly. Then, when still no answer was forthcoming, but only a mournful silence, broken by the inexorable tick of the clock, she raised her preposterous holder nervously to her lips, drew a lungful of smoke, exhaled and remarked brusquely: "You're both very serious, aren't you? Has anything happened?"
Then Aline spoke. Her voice was rather husky. "I went to Barry... to show him my frock. You were coming, too. Did you forget? I told you about it this morning."
Gerry's eyes, sea-green in the yellow light, were suddenly alert. It seemed to Aline that the whole face had changed its expression.
"Did you?" said Gerry vaguely. "I don't remember. When did you go to Barry's?" She flashed a searching glance at the girl from under her drooping lashes. "You aren't going to tell me you've been there all this time?" The tone was edged.
Aline cleared her throat. She was suddenly daunted by the ordeal before her and sought vainly for words. Rodney came to the rescue. "Barry has met with an accident," he announced.
"An accident?" she repeated nervously. She laughed. "Oh, you mean his foot?"
"Gerry dear," said Rodney gently, "Barry's dead."
For a moment she stared at him, wrinkling up her smooth forehead, then swung her gaze uncertainly to his companion. "Barry's what?" she questioned quickly, almost savagely.
"Barry was shot to-night," said Rodney. "The police are at the flat now."
With a gesture that was wholly automatic her fingers with the blood-red nails took the holder away from her lips and posed it carefully upon the marble slab of the hall table. An expression of blank dismay dropped down like a curtain upon the eager face, leaving the green eyes wide and staring, the scarlet lips rigid and just parted. There was an instant of absolute silence, during which the clock's pitiless tock-tick-tick-tock measured off the half-seconds. She was gazing at Rodney, but he was aware that she did not see him: her glance went through and beyond him. From the holder on the table the smoke of her cigarette mounted in a fantastically thin line.
"Shot?" she repeated dully. "How? What..."
Her voice trailed off.
"I went to show him my frock," said Aline. "I couldn't get in. So I came away. Then I met Rod. There was... oh, Gerry, it's horrible... there was blood on the stairs. Giles and Rod broke down the door." She paused, breathless from her disjointed narrative, then added; "Barry was dead behind it..."
Gerry was like one transfixed. Under its artificial colouring her face had the fragile whiteness of eggshell porcelain. One hand rested on the front of her wrap against her heart. "What... what had happened?" she asked unsteadily.
"He had been shot through the neck," Rodney answered. "He must have died instantly, Dr. Pargetter says."
Out of the corners of her eyes she stole a terrified glance about her. "I suppose they're sure it was an accident?" she questioned in a low voice.
"We thought it was at first..." Rodney began.
But she interrupted him. "You mean... it wasn't?"
A spasm contracted her features and leaning back against the table, she closed her eyes. "Do they... do they know why he did it?" she asked faintly.
Rodney cast a puzzled look at Aline. "It wasn't suicide, if that's what you mean," he said to Gerry.
"Not suicide?" Her eyes opened wide. Fear, naked and unashamed, peeped out of the green depths. "But, Rod, how... how could it be anything else?"
"He was murdered," Rodney replied sombrely.
"Murdered?" She threw her head back and laughed hysterically. "But that's absurd. Rod, Aline, you don't believe that surely?"
Rodney put his hand on her shoulder. "Steady, Gerry. We won't talk about it any more to-night. Aline's going to take you up to bed."
Her tapering fingers groped and recovered her cigarette. "I'm all right," she said tensely. "You must tell me, Rod,—why do you say that Barry was murdered?"
"Because he couldn't have done it himself. I'll tell you the rest in the morning."
"I'm not a child," she retorted. "I want to hear it now. Rod, please..."
With a glance at Aline, the young man shrugged his shoulders. "There's precious little to tell. He had a pistol in his hand, but it had not been discharged. The police have got the matter in hand."
"What time did it happen?"
"They don't know exactly. Pretty late in the evening, I should think. But, Gerry..." he folded her cloak about her—"you really must go up now."
"What time did you find him?" she persisted, twisting away from him.
"About half-past twelve." He turned to Aline with a despairing gesture. "Aline, won't you try and make Gerry go to bed?"
But with a sort of blind movement of the arm Gerry waved the girl aside. "I'll go in a minute, Rod, honestly I will. You say the police are there: surely they've got some theory as to who can have done it?" Her glance swooped to his face and hung there, feverishly entreating.
"How do I know what theories the police have?" he returned with some impatience. "All I can tell you is that, when Aline rang the bell of the flat, there was someone inside who put out the light."
At that she stared from one to the other, her eyes wide with consternation. "You mean... you mean that someone was there with Barry dead? Rod, who was it, do they know?"
Rodney was about to make a hasty answer when Aline intervened. "The police are inquiring into it now, Gerry darling, and we shan't know anything more until the morning. By that time he'll be arrested, I shouldn't wonder—I gave them the best description I could..."
Gerry swung round on her. "It was a man, then, and you saw him? Who was it?"
"I haven't a notion, honey, just a man in a cap. He came running out of the flat while Rodney was looking after me—I sort of went faint for a bit. Now, sweetheart, you must let me take you upstairs..."
The black velvet wrap had slipped and a gleaming shoulder appeared above the deep white collar. Aline's arm slid about Gerry and drew the cloak closer. Gerry remained motionless with head bowed, gazing upon the marble flags of the floor. "Come along, honey," said Aline.
At last Gerry stirred herself. With a stony face she gathered up her holder and her evening bag of beadwork that neighboured it. Instinctively, Aline stood back. Blindly, wearily, the other went forward and began slowly to mount the stairs. The tears welled up in Aline's eyes as she turned to Rodney. "Oh, Rod," she whispered impulsively, "it frightens me to see her like this. If only she'd cry or something! Is there nothing one can do to help her?"
He shook his head sombrely. "Maybe she's best alone just now. But you might just see that she's all right before you turn in."
Aline nodded. "I will." She paused. "I did a stupid thing to-night. I haven't thanked you for making up that story for the police. It was chivalrous of you to want to protect me..."
He considered her gravely. "You're our guest, I couldn't do anything else. Besides, I was thinking of my people. They'd be horrified if you were dragged into this shocking business. There's nothing I wouldn't do to save them pain."
She looked at him whimsically. He did not mean to be ungallant, she had to tell herself. But it sounded awfully grudging. She suppressed a little sigh. He had quite a Byronic air when he scowled like that, his dark eyes smouldering. "Good night," she said, and left him.
She would get into her sleeping things, she decided, before peeping in on Gerry, who slept across the corridor from her. But, greatly to her surprise, Gerry forestalled her. Pyjamaed in cerulean crêpe-de-chine, Aline was brushing her teeth in the bathroom when she was aware of a pale figure in the adjacent bedroom.
She put away her toothbrush and went in at once. The room was dark, save for some wisps of light that entered through the open windows. In a long white silk kimono that suggested a ghost in one of Lafcadio Hearn's Japanese stories, Gerry stood at the foot of the bed. The last trace of make-up had vanished from her cheeks; her rather small face was of the ivory pallor which was the foundation of her habitual complexion, lending her a wan, almost ethereal air. But she was dry-eyed, collected.
"Do you mind if we talk a little?" she said. She made Aline get into bed and seated herself at the foot. "It's damned late to worry you, but I wish..."—she twisted her pale hands together—"...I wish you'd tell me everything that happened to-night. And don't think me hard, but, please, Aline, don't... don't consider my feelings in any way. Barry..."—she paused as though to assemble her thoughts, but Aline knew it was to tighten her self-control—"Barry's dead and... and sentimentalizing about him won't bring him back to life. I want you to tell me about this as if it were the story of a play, as though it had happened to somebody we didn't... we didn't know." She gave her the ghost of a smile. "You poor kid, you've had an awful evening! Do you hate going all over it again?"
"Not a bit," Aline replied. "But before I start, I've got something of yours, Gerry dear." Though she was dogged by a sort of desperate curiosity to know how Gerry would take the news about the handkerchief, she did her best to make her manner appear natural. "It's over there, on the dressing-table, one of the hankies I brought you back from Paris. I found it to-night in the fireplace at Barry's. No one saw me pick it up and I said nothing about it."
There, it was out! From the bed Aline watched Gerry glide across the dimness to the dressing-table. She came back with the handkerchief crushed up in her hand. But features and manner were unchanged. "Thanks, Aline," was all she had to say as she resumed her seat.
She let Aline tell her story in her own way, posed at the end of the bed, nursing her knee, tense but tearless, the level regard of her flamboyant eyes watchful but inscrutable. So immutably silent was she that presently it dawned upon Aline that Gerry would not trust herself to speak. Indeed, when the tale was done, it seemed as though Gerry, a proud and oh, so lonely, figure, would have stolen back to her room without a word, had not Aline put up her arms and drawn her down.
"Oh, darling," she whispered, "I only wanted to say how dreadfully, dreadfully sorry for you I feel. You liked Barry, didn't you, and he liked you?"
For a moment the slim hands that were laid about Aline's shoulders clasped her in a sort of desperate abandon. Then Gerry's voice, sad and strangely toneless, spoke out of the dark: "He made things easier for me because he understood me. I would go to him when I felt that the atmosphere of all this,"—her hand went out in a gesture invisible in the gloom—"was bearing me down, and he always understood. Now he has gone, and it leaves me... a little... lonely." She broke off and bowed her head so that in the dark her faintly fragrant hair brushed against Aline's face and the arm that rested against the girl's body was suddenly taut and trembling as a small fist was tightly clenched. The tears sprang to Aline's eyes, but the cheek against which her face was pressed was dry. Then Gerry stood up. "Good night, Aline dear,"—her voice was calm and untroubled—"I was a beast to keep you up."
"Don't go away unless you want to, Gerry," Aline answered. "Why not lie down here? You won't disturb me."
"I shall be all right now. Good night, dear. You must try and get some sleep."
Her lips were cold as ice to Aline's kiss. As she straightened herself up, she hesitated and said: "About that handkerchief of mine—Barry must have annexed it when he was here the night you got in from Paris. I was using one of the set you gave me, I remember. Barry had a way of doing things like that." She paused. "It's of no importance, of course. Still, perhaps it was just as well to say nothing about it."
Noiselessly she moved away, faintly outlined against the dawn pallor framed in the open window. Deep down in her heart Aline could not forbear the reflection that a man who carries off a handkerchief as a love token is unlikely to leave it trailing about the floor of his apartment and that, after two days, the perfume on the handkerchief was still surprisingly fresh. But there were a lot of things she did not understand about Gerry.
She sighed as she watched her go, a slim, white wraith in the greyness filling the room.
WITH the departure of the two young people Dr. Pargetter plucked up hope. Stifling a yawn, he laid aside his paper and was about to advance upon the Inspector when he perceived that the latter had fallen into one of his brown studies. With chin pinched between finger and thumb, back to the door and legs firmly straddled, Mr. Manderton towered immobile in the centre of the room. From the fireplace Roberts, a long wisp of his spare dank hair plastered with perspiration low upon his broad forehead, contemplated the detective with melancholy eyes. The silence persisted so long that finally the doctor stole forward to see what Manderton found so absorbing.
It was the gate-leg table that neighboured the dead man's chair, or rather the objects set out upon it. In addition to the telephone and a stand containing the telephone directory and other reference books, the table displayed a plated tray with a decanter half-full of whisky (from which it was plain the glass beside the open book had been replenished), a siphon, and a clean tumbler turned downwards. A liqueur glass, a long-stemmed affair of cut crystal, which had the appearance of having been used, was near the table's rim. A flagon of Benedictine, beside the large silver ash-tray, seemed to explain the presence of the liqueur glass. A silver box, cedar-lined, stood beside it. The lid was raised. The box contained cigarettes.
Tentatively, the detective's pudgy forefinger went out and touched the half-smoked cigar which rested on the edge of the ash-tray. In the tray itself was the butt of a second cigar crushed out, and a half-smoked cigarette, the end of which had been mushroomed in extinguishing it. Without raising his head, while his finger rooted among the ash in the ash-tray, the Inspector suddenly spoke.
"You there, Roberts, or whatever your name is...?"
"Sir?" The servant's voice quavered.
"Your guv'nor was a cigar-smoker, wasn't he?"
"You may well say he was, sir. If he smoked one cigar a day he smoked..."
"Did he smoke cigarettes as well?"
"Oh no, sir."
"But he kept them for his friends?"
"Oh yes, sir. In the silver box."
"Swete abominated cigarettes," Dr. Pargetter put in. "The emblem of a decadent age, he used to call them."
The Inspector nodded absently and began to study the carpet. Head down he went forward, from the dead man's chair to the door, foot by foot, rather in the manner of a golfer looking for a lost ball. Then came an interruption. A small scrubby man with pince-nez and a harassed air, carrying a black handbag, bustled in.
Manderton glanced up. "Ah," he said briskly to Pargetter, "we needn't detain you much longer, Doctor."
He introduced the newcomer as the police surgeon. "While Dr. Warburton looks him over," he remarked to Pargetter, "you can give me the result of your examination. Then if the surgeon has any remarks to offer we can hear them." He made a sweeping gesture of the arm. "Get out, all of you. Not you, young Dene. I want you to take his prints presently to check up on that gun. Officer, you can fetch the ambulance. Stand by, you Wainwright and the other man. And let me know when the photographers come. You, Roberts, you can go home now. But leave your address with the officer. Now, Dr. Pargetter, sir!"
The room cleared. The police surgeon removed the screen and knelt beside the body. "The case is perfectly straightforward," said Pargetter stiffly—the West End physician in him resented the mere suggestion that a second opinion might be necessary. "This man was shot from the front from a distance of, at any rate, more than ten paces. The entrance wound is in front of the anterior sterno-mastoid. The track of the bullet is approximately upward and inward. The fact that I have been able to discover no exit wound suggests to me that the bullet is lodged in front of the cervical column, mushroomed. In its passage it severed the main carotid artery. The cause of death was hemorrhage and shock."
He broke off to muster the detective challengingly from behind his glasses.
"I'll just jot that down," the Inspector remarked casually, lugging a fat notebook from his pocket. "The main carotid, you said, I think? He began to write."
"One r," Pargetter put in acidly. It was the revenge of outraged science, the protest of an elderly gentleman longing for his bed.
From his knees beside the body the police surgeon looked up with a grin. Manderton's face was impassive.
"Thank you, Doctor. You haven't located the bullet?"
"No."
"Any idea of the calibre?"
"By the size of the entrance wound I should judge it to be a fairly heavy projectile, probably a .45 bullet from a large Army revolver. A nickel-cased bullet used by an automatic similar to the dead man's makes a much smaller orifice. A .45 Army revolver bullet would be uncased and would therefore flatten itself more easily against the vertebrae or the spinal column itself."
The Inspector looked up. "I see you have some knowledge of firearms."
Pargetter would not respond to the compliment. "I served for four years in the R.A.M.C. in the War," he observed distantly.
"Was death instantaneous, should you say?"
"When the main carotid is severed, it's all over very quickly, a matter of seconds almost. The blood spurts up instantly and in terrific volume—the carotid, as you probably know, is the artery which pumps the blood to the brain. If the bullet struck the top of the spine, he would have been rendered immediately unconscious..."
"Ah!" The detective seemed to pounce. "So that he wouldn't have been able to cry out?"
"For me," said Pargetter sententiously, "the resultant hemorrhage would have been sufficient to prevent him from making any sound. The craving for air—'air hunger' we call it—an invariable symptom of such extreme hemorrhage. This point, too, occurs to me. The bullet, entering on the left side of the neck, may well have destroyed the recurrent laryngeal nerve on the same side, thus paralyzing the larynx. No, I scarcely think he can have cried out."
Manderton grunted and pursed his lips. "I saw no traces of burnt powder on the skin," he remarked. "He was not shot at close quarters then. What range would you say, Doctor?"
"The length of the room. Perhaps less."
"In other words, this was no surprise attack. I mean, Swete and the murderer talked things over for a bit before the shot was fired."
The doctor nodded sagely. "Anyhow, Swete had time to grab his gun. By the way, where did he keep it?"
"I asked Roberts that when we were downstairs. He kept it in the drawer of the table there. But that's not the point for the moment. The point is, was Swete shot from the door? I suggest he was not. Look here!" He pointed to the two chairs facing one another by the table, the open book, the dead man's drink. "The deceased is resting up. The servant has gone and Swete is alone. There's a ring at the bell or someone lets himself in with a key. For the moment it don't matter who it was. We're agreed that the murdered man was not shot at close range, aren't we? Ten paces, you say. Very good. That's to say, Swete was not shot down when he went to open the door. Nor if the murderer entered with a key did he shoot Swete from the threshold or just inside the room. For why? I'll tell you. The range is too close—with arm extended, not more than four or five paces. Besides..." He broke off and beckoned the doctor with his head. "Just come here a minute, will you?"
The doctor crossed to where the detective stood between the table and the dead man's chair, gazing intently upon the floor. Manderton's finger indicated a succession of dark spots between table and door, growing in size until they merged in the spreading stain under the body.
"In my opinion," said the Inspector, "these spots show where Swete fell to the ground when shot. It may well be that he couldn't cry out, that he lost consciousness almost immediately. But it looks to me as if, in the very brief interval in which his blood was draining out of him, he tried to summon help and started to drag himself to the door." The detective moved his foot in the direction of the corpse. "The way in which his dressing-gown is rucked up under him suggests that he fell on his knees and that, in the very act of throwing himself forward, he collapsed and died, lying at full length as he was eventually found."
The doctor nodded sagely. "I daresay you're right. The air hunger alone would lead him to make for the door."
"If I am," Manderton broke in, "it means that the murderer was not between Swete and the door, for the first instinct of a man when a gun is drawn on him is to fling himself away from his assailant. Seeing that the blood track begins, as it does, immediately in front of Swete's chair, it strikes me that Swete, having admitted the murderer, had resumed his seat."
Pargetter shook his head resolutely. "He would never have had the strength to get up with his carotid severed. Or if he had, he would have collapsed in front of his chair. And in that case the chair would have been smothered in blood."
"Then let's assume that he had not sat down, or that the murderer said something which brought him to his feet," the Inspector rejoined in his placid way. "My contention is that, in all probability, the murderer fired from the other end of the room..." He pointed towards the fireplace. "The impact of the bullet slewed Swete half round as he stood at the table and knocked him down. Finding himself at his last gasp, facing the door, Swete made a supreme effort to reach it. Do you agree?"
"These surmises," said the doctor loftily, as though his former brushes with the detective yet rankled, "are outside my province. Have you any further questions which I can properly answer, Inspector?"
"How long has he been dead?"
Pargetter made an unwilling movement of the shoulders. "That is a question which no doctor can answer with any reasonable degree of accuracy."
"I suppose you can have a guess at it, can't you?" the Inspector growled.
Pargetter treated him to a glacial stare. "I prefer to base my conclusions upon my professional observations, if you don't mind."
"What time was it when you examined the body?" Manderton questioned abruptly.
"12.53 precisely. I then noticed considerable external coldness about the body and the first signs of rigor were already apparent. Judging by a considerable experience, notably in the war, I should say that at that time the deceased had been dead for a period roughly in the region of two hours."
The detective grunted. "Two hours, eh? I may take it then that at 11 o'clock, say, he was still alive?"
"You may do no such thing," the doctor riposted with asperity. "I utterly decline to be bound down to minutes in this way. It's entirely unprofessional."
Manderton laughed softly. "Oh, all right. Can we say that the man was shot between the hours of eleven and twelve?"
"I believe that to be a permissible conjecture," said Pargetter. "Personally, I should prefer to put it this way. In my opinion the deceased was killed certainly not before ten-thirty and not much later than eleven-thirty. That's the best I can do for you, Inspector. Perhaps my colleague here may prove more helpful."
The police surgeon had risen from his knees. "I find myself in complete agreement with this gentleman," he remarked, blinking through his pince-nez. "With regard to establishing the exact moment of death, this is a quiet street: somebody may have heard the shot..."
The Inspector emitted an irascible snort. "Like hell they did! A row of garages with motors running at all hours of the day and night! Still..." He crooked his finger at Dene. "Tell Mason to try and find out if anybody in the houses round here heard a shot or cry from this flat to-night. And get Wainwright to make a list of any chauffeurs who brought cars in to-night."
Dene hurried out and Manderton turned to Pargetter. "I needn't keep you any longer, thank you, Doctor. We shall want you for the inquest, of course." And with a brusque nod he proceeded to buttonhole the police surgeon and discuss post-mortem arrangements.
Dr. Pargetter picked up his attaché case and made for the door. He was past middle age and he liked a quiet life. He was not used to being hectored and bullied: at present he had the sensation of having been cudgelled black and blue. At the door he had to stand aside to make way for the irruption of two men laden with cameras and tripods. The living-room was full of noise. From the threshold the doctor's glance stole back to the still figure on the floor. He wondered, incongruously, what Barry Swete, who so greatly prized his bachelor quiet, was thinking of this turbulent invasion of his privacy!
GREY as a Banshee, the fleeing night showed its face in the windows of the house with the yellow door. The dark stain on the carpet remained but the dead body had been taken away. At the desk a flaming poll was bent over a magnifying glass upon a set of fingerprints, blurred on a sheet of headed foolscap like a sweep's sooty finger-marks on a white wall. Save for young Dene the room was empty.
"Almost through?"
Inspector Manderton's head came round the coromandel screen which had been replaced in position at the top of the back stairs.
"Yes, Chief!" Young Dene raised a cheerful face from his work. "I've identified the dead man's prints on the gun, the whisky decanter, his own glass and the Benedictine bottle. There are traces of finger-prints—not his—on the stem of the liqueur glass, but they're hard to pick up." He folded his magnifying glass and began stacking a series of official foolscap sheets away in his attaché case.
The Inspector had produced an enormous, blackened pipe and was filling it with slow, deliberate movements from his battered pouch. His red face sported a genial, almost roguish expression. "Well, young Dene," he remarked bluffly, "what do you make of it?"
"Uncle George," as they called him at the Yard, was by way of believing in young Dene, though he kept his opinion to himself. Not that the Inspector (who had served eight years in the uniformed ranks) was snobbishly impressed by the fact that the young fellow looked and spoke like a gentleman: on the contrary, if you had tackled Uncle George on the subject, he would have probably said that what he liked about Dene was the way that youth had contrived to overcome the handicaps of his education. For he discerned in his aide, in addition to a natural aptitude for the infinitely painstaking work of crime detection, a complete absence of side, suggesting grit and a laudable determination to learn everything about his job.
Promotion in the Metropolitan Police is from the uniformed ranks only. But the Cambridge undergrad had not allowed this invariable rule to interfere with his determination, in the stress of life in post-war England, to adopt crime detection as a profession. He had accordingly served eighteen months as a constable in a suburban division before being posted to the Finger-Prints Department at Headquarters, where he had come under the great Inspector Manderton's notice.
"I believe I can make something of young Dene," Uncle George had told the Assistant Commissioner, and accordingly, on Inspector Manderton's more important cases, where the services of a finger-print expert were required, young Dene was usually fetched along. Having found by experience that Trevor Dene never presumed, the Inspector was apt to relax towards his subordinate when, as now, they found themselves alone together.
The tawny youth snapped his attaché case to and stood up. "Could take a look round first, Chief?"
"Help yourself..." The detective lowered his large form into a chair. With his spry, alert air Dene stepped lightly across the carpet. "Have a look inside the notecase on the dressing-table!" Mr. Manderton called softly through the bedroom door.
The bedroom was small and plainly furnished. Almost fussily neat, too, with its heavy compacton full of suits, its mahogany tallboy, its brass-bound sea-chest doing duty as dressing-table. The window giving on the mews was open at the top. The glossy whiteness of frame and ledge exhibited no scratch.
Beside the divan bed which, his trained eye observed, rested plumb on the floor, young Dene paused to look about him. His mind was running on a pair of Starry eyes that had gazed with such sweet frankness into his. On the bed, primly turned back for the night, a suit of rich grey silk pyjamas met his gaze. They had the air of waiting. "They might wait for ever," he reflected, upon the limp form which, a little while before, he had seen bundled on to the police ambulance. Beastly to think of that fairy-like apparition in silver wantonly dragged into such a sordid and horrible killing!
This shadowy figure the girl had seen, where, the murder accomplished, had it lurked, where, in terror, had it cowered, listening while the door was broken in? One must look for traces. But—in the bedroom, at any rate—not a pin trailed out of place. And the adjoining bathroom, with its white tiling, was as clean and naked as a dairy. Dene mounted on the rim of the large porcelain bath to glance through the window that stood above it, so narrow it would scarce have given passage to a child, fitted, moreover, with bars that were solid and firm. Outside, very close at hand, a row of tall, dusty windows frowned down—the windows of the tennis court.
He had kept the dead man's wallet for the last. A costly thing of soft blue leather, gold-monogrammed and gold-bound, it lay on the sea-chest between a big leather case with two or three cigars and a sheaf of old letters and bills such as a man will carry in his pocket. Within the wallet the roughened edge of a wad of Bank of England notes was disclosed. The fair eyebrows were elevated as Dene flicked the bundle through. One £100 note, the rest in tens and fives—£185 in all. So much for the motive.
Mr. Manderton was smoking in his chair, his face tilted to the ceiling, as Dene crossed to the dining-room. Formal Chippendale, the glint of silver on the sideboard, the windows, front and back, bolted, their curtains drawn. Not a crumb on the carpet, not a speck of dust anywhere: evidently, Roberts was a retainer worth his salt.
The service door leading to the back stairs stood wide. Dene saw a small space masked from the living-room by the screen, beyond it the fireplace, flanked by the twin book-shelves. The back stairs curved down to a broad passage, lit by a naked electric bulb, at the end of which the ceiling was, as it were, abruptly sliced off by the front stairs mounting from the mews outside.
Two doors, facing one another, opened off the passage. The one—that on the right hand as you came from the stairs—led into a kitchen, long and narrow, running the whole depth of the premises. Here again the sign manual of the admirable Roberts was seen in the meticulous order prevailing, in harmony with the cream-painted wainscot, the white enamelled fittings to the well-scoured sink, the highly-polished electric cooker. Not a cup was out of place; not a foot-mark, not a match-end, marred the gloss of the spotless linoleum. The single window overlooking the ground level of the mews was protected by stout iron bars.
The door across the passage revealed a box-room of the same dimensions as the kitchen with a similar window, similarly barred, upon the mews. The solitary electric bulb, dusty and naked, which Dene switched on, illuminated the sort of litter that accumulates in such places—travel-battered luggage, cardboard boxes such as tailors and their like employ, piles of old newspapers. Against the opposite wall one or two pieces of discarded furniture were ranged, a decrepit oaken press, sections of a bed, a damaged chair. No attempt had been made to decorate the room. The paint of the wainscot had faded to a dingy buff, the ceiling was grimy and the boards were uncarpeted. But the place was orderly enough, the boxes neatly stacked. Dene turned off the light and went upstairs, scrutinizing the flight, step by step, as he went. But his quest was vain and he reached the living-room empty-handed.
Mr. Manderton had left his chair and was on his knees before the fireplace. "Well?" he barked, and stood up.
"At Mayfair Bottom the pack drew a blank and returned home after an enjoyable run," his aide remarked brightly. He dredged up a loose cigarette from the side pocket of his jacket.
"What were you looking for?"
"How he got in."
"Well?"
"He didn't. Not from the back, anyhow."
"Next?"
"Where he concealed himself."
"No need to go downstairs to look for that. What's a screen for, anyway. If young Rossway and the chauffeur had had their wits about them... What about motive?"
"Not common or garden theft, anyhow, Chief."
The Inspector chuckled. "You saw the notecase, then? What next?"
Dene snapped his cigarette lighter, lit up and drew on his cigarette to gain time. "This is how I see it," he said slowly. "Swete was spending the evening alone..."
Manderton made a movement as though to interrupt, checked himself and, knocking out his pipe on his boot into the grate, murmured, "Go on!"
"He was most probably acquainted with the murderer, for we have no less than three witnesses who declare that the front door was shut immediately before the body was discovered. Therefore, Swete must have let the fellow in."
"Unless the visitor had a key. Don't forget that!"
"Swete knew him well enough to ask him in and give him a drink, at any rate."
Uncle George nodded approvingly. "You noticed the liqueur glass then." He began to cram his pipe.
"Of course. Besides, there's this bird's fag lying in the ash-tray." He pointed to the table.
There was a chuckle from the Inspector as he cupped a lighted match to his pipe.
"'Bird' is the word, I'll say. But how do you know it's his?"
"Swete was a cigar-smoker. He was smoking a cigar. There it is, as he put it down on the edge of the tray, beside his drink:—his second cigar, after Roberts went off for the night. The stub of the other is in the tray. There are cigars in that case of his in the bedroom and cigar ash is scattered on the cushion of his chair. You can't shake me there, sir, I think?"
"All right as far as it goes." A thumb jerk. "Take another look at that cigarette end, will you?"
Dene's auburn thatch leaned over the table. "There seems to be a red mark on it." He shot an inquiring glance at his Chief. "Not blood, is it?"
"Lipstick!"
The Inspector's glare was challenging. Dene peered into the ash-tray again. "By George, I believe you're right, sir. So many women nowadays muck up their cigarettes with rouge, now I come to think of it. I say, you've got good eyes."
The Inspector simmered gently. He was seldom averse from praise. "Not at all. I happened to be looking for it. Come here to the mantelshelf, will you? What do you see there?"
In the dull gold Spanish mirror surmounting the fireplace the youth saw the detective watching him with gimlet eyes. Dene's finger went out and seemed to scrape something off the polished surface. He scrutinized his finger-tip, smelt it. "Face powder, by the Lord Harry!" He swung round, his eyes dancing. "I say, you don't miss much!"
"I happened to be looking for it," the Inspector reiterated placidly.
"You mean you knew a woman had been here?" Young Dene checked. "It's not that Miss Innesmore, is it?"
Chuckling, Uncle George tested, with probing finger, the packing of his pipe. "Nothing so definite as that. Besides, she gets out on an alibi. It was this way. The moment I stepped into this room I rumbled it was bachelor digs. The atmosphere is unmistakable. How does one tell? Old cigar smoke, the smell of leather chairs? I dunno. But what I do know is that who says bachelor also says birds—lady friends, young Dene. And to look for Swete's I made straight for the place where a woman is pretty safe to leave traces of her presence."
"You mean the mirror?"
"You can flag that as a bull. You've said it in one. The mirror. Would you like to hear what the lady looks like? Here goes. She's a blonde piece of goods—the American is a brunette, ain't she? Very well, then:—rather under medium height, and quite expensively dressed—she was in evening clothes, by the way. She and Swete were no strangers: in fact, they were pretty good pals, I'd say."
Young Dene wagged his fiery thatch forlornly. "It's no good. Whenever you go all Sherlock Holmesy, Chief, I feel I'd better go back to the old beat. 'I shall have to summons you for causing obstruction with your car': 'Run along, you boys!': 'No, ma'am, you've no right to detain the young woman's trunk'." He groaned. "I haven't spotted a damned thing, it seems to me. It's like Little Eyes and Little No Eyes. Have a heart, sir, and show poor imbecile Watson the works!"
The subtle compliment which such airy badinage signified did not fail to gratify the Inspector, knowing as he did that, in the presence of others, young Dene's attitude was correctness itself. Manderton's guffaw shook the room. "Listen," he said. "There was a blonde hair on the lapel of his dressing-gown, see? And a long white smear of powder on the sleeve. Swete was what? Five foot ten, I'll give him, and if the lady had to strain up to put her arm round his neck her head can't have come much above the level of his shoulder..."
"A powdered arm means evening dress, of course?"
"I think so. Besides, she had a fan."
"A fan?"
The Inspector inserted two fingers in the pocket of his waistcoat and drew forth a scrap of folded paper. Spreading it out he displayed a small white feather. "That lay on the carpet just behind the screen," he explained.
"It might be off a frock," said Dene dubiously. "They use feathers for trimming, you know, Chief. But I shouldn't call it a proof that she was expensively dressed. There are lots of feathers about that have never given an ostrich a pain in the tail."
"Not so fast, young Dene. I picked up three or four white hairs on the back of the chesterfield yonder. I learned a bit about furs when I was doing duty down there in Leman Street among the Jews—you want to know a bit about everything in this game, son—and these hairs are white fox, like what these society dames wear. And you don't find white fox in the bargain basements. No, this was a swell piece of skirt, all right. She sails in, slings off her coat, and after a bit of billing and cooing sits down,"—his hand indicated the third chair drawn up between the two which the dead man had used—"for a quiet smoke and a drink."
"The Benedictine, you mean?"
"I reckon so. The ladies like these sugary drinks."
Dene paused. "Do you mean to suggest, sir...?"
A large red hand went up in deprecation. "I'm suggesting nothing... yet."
"I know. But do you believe it was this woman who shot Swete? It was a man who was seen running away."
The Inspector's face had set hard. He held up two fingers at his subordinate. "If you ask me," he said, "there were two of them in it."
"A woman and a man, you mean?"
He nodded. "Look at this here!"
He had crossed to the writing-desk, a plain table of Spanish walnut with twisted legs. On it, beside an inkstand and pen-tray of silver, was a massive ash-tray of black marble. On the tray lay a cigarette and the blackened ends of a couple of very thin wax matches. The cigarette had burnt itself out. A bare half inch of paper remained—the rest was straight grey ash.
"There are three different brands of cigarettes in this room," said Manderton. "Those which Swete kept in the silver box are Savory's Virginia. But the lady's cigarette, the one with a smear of lipstick on it, is a common or garden gasper—Player's: I reckon she preferred to smoke her own. Cigarette No. 3 is here before us. Most of the lettering has disappeared but I can make out three of the letters. See, there's an 'N', and an 'A' and an 'I'—some brand I'm not familiar with. Don't know it, do you?"
Dene shook his head.
"It shouldn't be hard to establish, anyway," Manderton resumed. "You can assume if you like that the lady smoked both these cigarettes. But I don't think she did. Hers is over there at the table where she took her drink. For another thing there's no mark of lipstick on Cigarette No. 3. Lastly, there's the question of the matches."
He turned to one of the Hepplewhite chairs where the contents of the dead man's pockets had been emptied before they took him away—a gold pencil, some loose change, a strip of paper matches. Manderton took up the match-folder. The matches were pink with yellow heads. "These are the matches that Swete was using," he pointed out, "the lady, too, for all we know—there's quite a pile of them in the ash-tray on the table there. And I picked a couple out of the grate. But these matches,"—he picked up one of the thin vestas—"are found only here at the desk. Taken in conjunction with Cigarette No. 3 they corroborate the presence of a third party in the room. And that's not an English match, either: I never saw a wax match so thin."
"I have," Dene put in. "They're Continental. They sell them in France and Italy in jolly little boxes with pictures on them and snap lids."
"Is that so?" The detective's attention seemed to wander. His pipe had gone out and he was frowning down at his boots. He took a quick turn up and down the room.
"Chief..."
"Well?" the voice rasped.
"Here's a point I can't understand. Swete was dead how long before they found him? An hour, can we say?"
"Not less, anyway."
"No woman was seen to leave the flat, only this bloke in a hurry. Therefore, the woman left the scene before Miss Innesmore and Rossway arrived. You think there were two of them in it, a man and a woman. If the woman killed Swete, why did the man hang about for more than an hour? And if the man killed him, the thing is still more puzzling."
Mr. Manderton was silent for a moment. "It'll remain puzzling until we lay hands on Swete's lady friend."
"The servant, Roberts, should be able to help us there..."
"He has helped us there!"
"You mean, you know who this woman is?"
"I mean nothing of the kind. We have to begin by finding out who she isn't."
On which enigmatic remark the Inspector bade his subordinate cut along to bed and send up Wainwright who was waiting to report.
The room was rosy with the dawn.
AS from the pit of a fathomless sea, Aline came struggling up to the surface of a deep and dream-tossed sleep. She awoke with brain numb and senses astray from a bewildering, breathless flight that had seemed to take her in her Presentation frock through a labyrinth of cobbled ways with garage doors on either hand. At the end of the maze she knew, with the unquestioning assurance of the subconscious mind, that she would come upon a door, a yellow door that filled her with a nameless, unreasoning dread.
Misty figures swam towards her—Barry, gazing at her with weary, unseeing eyes: Rodney, who had nothing for her but an unfriendly stare: a burly man, whose red face touched some unpleasant chord in her memory. But none appeared to recognize her, none offered to turn back and accompany her.
As she ran on she perceived with horror that the lace of her frock was rapidly tarnishing. The silver was turning crimson and dripping as she sped. Now the yellow door gleamed through the dreamland dusk. As she approached it swung back with a snap: a pallid, faceless object grimaced and gesticulated on the dim stairs. She screamed out and awoke.
There was the rattle of a tea-tray in the room. Cox stood by the bedside. Aline, groping her way back to consciousness, clutched the maid's hand. "Oh, Cox," she gasped, "I've had such a ghastly nightmare. Whatever time is it?"
She sat up in her pillows. The softness of a muggy and sunless morning seemed to press against the window framing the listless fronds of the old planes in the gardens of the Square. The recollection of something untoward was fretting at her memory.
"It's turned half-past nine, Miss. I thought I'd let you sleep on a bit."
Turned half-past nine—these quaint English expressions. But why should Cox, this pleasant country girl, whose disposition was as sunny as her hair, why should Cox look so grave?
Remembrance came swooping back. The dark stair—that fleeing figure—Barry dead on the stained carpet—the Scotland Yard man—Gerry. Gerry. Aline felt a cold hand on her heart.
Cox was looking at her, her nice blue eyes full of commiseration. "It must have been a rare shock for you, Miss. That poor Mr. Swete! Whoever would have thought it? Her ladyship said for you to lay up and rest, Miss, if you don't feel equal to getting up."
"I shall get up," said Aline. "Lady Julia knows, then?"
"Yes, Miss, Mr. Rodney had Sir Charles out of bed first thing this morning, so the footman was telling me. Sir Charles broke the news to her ladyship."
"How is Lady Julia, Cox?"
"Bearing up ever so wonderful, Miss. But you know what her ladyship is. Her eyes were red when I took in the early tea at eight, but she never showed nothing to me,"—Cox's careful grammar slipped a cog as she ran on. "Her ladyship isn't that sort. Her class, if I may say so, Miss, always has their feelings under control." She sniffed. "Not like Cook. You never saw such a way as she took on. Not that we weren't all very attached to poor Mr. Swete in this house: a real gentleman, what you might say: gave the whole staff presents at Christmas, never missed. I don't mind owning I had a few quiet tears when Mr. Giles told us, but I hope I can carry on my duties without making an exhibition of myself. What'll you wear, Miss?"
"Anything you like, Cox. Something dark, I suppose. That black walking suit of mine. Have they found out any more about... is there any news from Mayfair Row?"
"Can't say, I'm shore, Miss," said Cox, her head in the big wardrobe. "The police is with Sir Charles now."
"The police?"
"An Inspector from Scotland Yard. Sir Charles asked for Mrs. Sholto just now. I had to go and tell her. She was still asleep."
"Where are Sir Charles and the Inspector?"
"In the library, Mr. Murch said."
"Is Lady Julia with them?"
"No, Miss. She's in the boudoir. Mr. Rodney's with her. Will you be taking breakfast, Miss?"
"I'll have some fruit downstairs, Cox. Don't you wait now."
The Scotland Yard man at Frant House and Gerry sent for:—the news oppressed Aline, as she tubbed and dressed, with a sense of foreboding. Of course, in a sense, Gerry had been Barry's particular friend: no doubt Inspector What's-his-name with the frightening glare wanted to discover whether she could throw any light on Barry's acquaintances and habits. But at the back of her mind Aline was disagreeably conscious of the handkerchief incident. What had the Inspector discovered? It was with some misgiving that she descended to breakfast.
She found Mr. Murch in sole possession of the dining-room. He had The Times (which she was learning not to call The London Times) propped up in front of a plate of his pet cereal. But he was neither reading nor eating. With an air of perplexity he was gazing out of the window.
Aline liked Murchie. She often told herself that, in a way, he was nearer to her than anyone else at Frant House. That is to say, he did not properly belong to, but, as Sir Charles's secretary and like herself, merely lodged in, the small and rather exclusive circle in which the Rossways moved. It was a bewildering milieu for a stranger, this little world of nicknames, of abbreviations, of obscure allusions intelligible only to the initiate. From the first, Murchie had established himself her guide in this restricted enclosure, piloting her deftly through the intricacies of Debrett, indefatigably interpreting the colloquialisms and slang of Eton, the Brigade of Guards, Clubland, the Turf and the hunting field. Uncle Eustace might turn a freezing monocle on Murchie when the latter interrupted him to explain to Aline in his rather squeaky voice that Toby was the Earl of Tring, Steward of the Jockey Club, which, although a club, possessed no club-house, or that by 'The Kiddies' the Scots Guards were meant, or that the City and Suburban was not a bank but a horse race. Murchie did not mind.
"It's not as if I were one of the nobs," he had confided to Aline very early in their acquaintance. "People like Sir Charles and his friends all belong to the same small set and they understand these things. But when I first came to live here I found I didn't know what they were talking about half the time. I just had to learn. I'm a provincial, I am. Castle Bromwich,"—he called it 'Cassel Brummidge'—"outside Birmingham is where I come from, the same as Sir Charles's father. And if I were to mention to Lord Blaize the name of my public school he'd ask me how to spell it. But they can't put their nonsense over on strangers. Not while I'm here, they can't. I'll see you through, Miss Innesmore. Murchie's your guide." On which he wagged his curiously-shaped head—it ran to a point, almost, like an egg—and blew his nose resonantly on one of the spotted blue and white handkerchiefs he affected.
Habitually a mass of often misdirected energy, on this misty May morning he struck Aline as being lethargic and depressed. At first he did not appear to notice the girl's entrance into the dining-room. When he did turn his gaze in her direction, as she poured herself a cup of coffee from the coffee machine, he stared at her for a full thirty seconds uncomprehendingly. Then he bounced up in his place. "Excuse me," he stammered, "I don't know what I was about. I didn't realize it was you." He dropped back in his chair. "I'm all upset. What a shocking, shocking business! The poor devil! And what a dreadful experience for you. Rodney told me..."
"Rodney was splendid," said Aline warmly.
"It's Lady Julia I'm thinking of," Mr. Murch went on. "She had a great opinion of Swete. I don't know how Sir Charles had the courage to break the news to her. Now, as if it weren't enough, there's a damned detective—oh, pardon, Miss Innesmore—in with Sir Charles. 'I'd just like a word with Mrs. Rossway,' says he. 'I understand she was a particular friend of the deceased gentleman,' he says. What was Sir Charles to do? He sends me to fetch Mrs. Sholto. She's asleep. But before she can come down, Lady Julia hears of it. Back comes Cox to me with a message from her ladyship. 'You can tell the Inspector,' she says, 'that he can see Mrs. Rossway in half an hour's time in my presence.'" Murchie slapped his hand on the table. "That's Lady Julia all over. She's not standing for any third degree nonsense from the police."
Aline felt her throat go dry. "Third degree? What on earth do you mean?"
Murchie moved restlessly in his chair. "Between ourselves," he confided in a low voice, "the police are hot on a clue. A chauffeur, a chap named Hall, who drives an Argentine woman living in the Square, has made a statement. It seems he has a garage about fifty yards from Swete's on the opposite side of the mews. He says that, as he was putting his car away round about nine o'clock he noticed a fellow hanging about looking up at Swete's windows. After a little the man went inside. That was the last Hall saw of him for soon after Hall locked his garage and went off."
Aline put down her fruit knife and fork in great excitement. "But that must be the man I saw running away!"
"Obviously..."
"But, Murchie, what's it got to do with Gerry?"
"Nothing, of course. We know that. But this Inspector chap is deuced unpleasant. He's trying to find out about Swete's private life and... well, he wants to see Mrs. Sholto."
Aline felt the colour draining from her checks. To cover up her confusion she raised her coffee-cup to her lips. But Mr. Murch had once more turned his head to stare out dejectedly into the neutral shades of the Square.
"It's disgusting for Gerry, of course," she said as bravely as she could. "But Lady Julia will look after her. I'd back Lady Julia against that old cop every time."
He sighed. "You don't understand. Mrs. Sholto can take care of herself. It's still Lady Julia I'm thinking of. She's so proud, proud of Sir Charles's great position, proud of her descent from one of the oldest noble families in Scotland. God knows, the aristocracy of this country has decayed. But she has never wavered. She knows only right and wrong: she won't compound with error. No night-club nobility for Lady Julia: no guinea-pig director business. She's proud of her race; but she knows what's expected of it. Hers is the sort of pride that kills before it breaks. I know her so well. Look here!"
He leaned forward eagerly, his watery eyes blinking through his glasses. "You've seen the beautiful things this house contains, the pictures, the old furniture? Frant House was a mere shell when Sir Charles bought it after the War—the last Lord Frant's executors sold everything up. You probably know that the portraits are not of Sir Charles's ancestors—his grandfather was a Warwickshire smith, more credit to him!—but Lady Julia's. Have you any idea why these things are with Lady Julia and not with Lord Blaize? I'll tell you. They're pledged to Sir Charles against the allowance he makes his brother-in-law to keep him out of mischief and the Blaize name out of the bankruptcy court and perhaps worse, to say nothing of the sums that Blaize has had out of him in the past. I don't know how many thousands of pounds it hasn't cost Sir Charles, God bless him, to pay this wastrel's debts. But he does it gladly because he knows Lady Julia's feelings about it. Perhaps I shouldn't have told you this, but it's the truth."
The little man pounded his palms together despairingly. "And now this! Publicity, scandal! Already the newspaper men have been at us this morning, on the telephone, at the front door. Larking says that Mayfair Row is swarming with reporters and photographers. My poor, poor lady! What wouldn't I give to be able to stand between her and this vile, gloating public!"
In a dramatic gesture he spread wide his arms as though to make a shield of that puny body, then dropping them to his sides, clawed for his gay handkerchief and emitted a single melancholy blast.
A silence fell between them. Aline was touched by the little man's loyalty; there was something characteristically English about it, she decided. She could understand it well enough: she felt that way herself about Lady Julia. That lovable disposition seemed to shed a benign ray upon everyone coming in contact with it: the whole household, from Larking down to the kitchen-maids, were Lady Julia's devoted slaves.
And yet, and yet...
Aline's private thought was that Murchie might have spared a little more sympathy for Gerry. The calm way in which he was willing to subject that vivid, strongly-marked individuality to consideration of a clan, a clique! After all it was Gerry who stood to be shot at. All the youth of Aline, all the youth of her race, rallied to Gerry. The alliance was instinctive: it did not prejudge the issue. The new generation in Aline, this curiously precocious, rebellious, post-war race, discerned in that proud, independent character, so plucky, so impatient of restraint, the spirit of the age sweeping, like a clean prairie wind, through the stagnation of tradition.
Aline pushed back her cup. All these Rossways and Blaizes, banded together, could look after themselves, or so it seemed to her. It was Gerry who was going to be short on moral support. Right or wrong, Aline said to herself, I'm going to stand by Gerry.
With a start she turned to find the lank form of Larking standing by the breakfast table. The butler's face was habitually pale, the toneless ivory tint of old age. But to-day it approached the cadaverous in hue and his eyes were apprehensive. With his lean, hairless face sloping up to a bald forehead, his high, curved nose and thin lips, his imposing presence, the major-domo of Frant House suggested a high priest of the Pharaohs or the Aztecs, advancing to consummate the human sacrifice. Aline glanced from the butler's ghastly pallor to Mr. Murch huddled up in his chair, his chin on his breast. The whole house is on edge, she told herself with a shiver, I with the rest of them.
Sir Charles was asking for Mr. Murch, Larking informed the secretary. "And her ladyship desired me to say, Miss," he went on to Aline, "that she would like to see you in the boudoir when you have done breakfast."
"Is the Inspector still with Sir Charles, Larking?" Aline asked, as Murchie hurried away.
"No, Miss." The old man's tone was frigid. "The Inspector was called away to the mews. But he's coming back."
"This has been a great upset for you, Larking, I'm afraid," said Aline, brushing a crumb off her frock.
As though from force of habit, the butler shifted a cup. "You may well say that, Miss." He moved towards the bell in the wall. "If you've finished breakfast, Miss, I'll ring for Frank to clear."
Aline stood up rather abruptly. Clearly old Larking was not disposed to be communicative. Yet at other times he had liked to gossip with her. She left the dining-room with an uneasy feeling that she had been snubbed.
IF it was the Rossway money that preserved it from the fate of so many ancient Mayfair mansions, it was Lady Julia who re-infused Frant House with the air and manner of a statelier age. Her father and the old Lord Frant had been in the Brigade of Guards together and Frant House had always been open to her when she came down for the London season from her Highland home. She had slept in the bedrooms as they had been in the old Lord's day, gaunt and uncomfortable: she had danced in the great ballroom: she had watched gallant Eric Ivinghoe, marked down for death at the hands of an Afridi sniper, at tennis in the old tennis court.
After nearly twenty years of marriage, she returned to Frant House as to a second home. The Blaize treasures, among which her youth and girlhood had been spent, strengthened this impression. True, the portraits, the Renaissance furniture, the Flemish chests, even the ancient sedan in the hall, these were, like the Rossways, intruders. But the old house had the air of welcoming them, as though recognizing that they sprang from, carried on the same tradition. No matter that the portraits which now looked down from the walls of the great staircase and the splendid reception rooms were no longer of the Frants. The buff jerkins and stomachers, the laced coats, and hooped skirts, all were part of the traditional background. "It is as though the shades of the Earls of Frant and their kinsfolk," Mr. Murch wrote in his brochure 'Frant House and its Treasures', printed for private circulation, "who reigned here supreme for two centuries, had given place, with a courtly gesture, to the Lords and Ladies of Blaize and their descendants, Lady Julia Rossway and her sons."
When, following the summons, Aline went to the boudoir and descried the tall, graceful figure in black standing by the window, she felt again, as she had felt so often in that house, how perfectly Lady Julia harmonized with her background. Apple-green wainscot, great bowls of pink roses, curiously-woven curtains of yellow and green, and the admirable feeling for line displayed in the arrangement of the few exquisite pieces of black and gold lacquer—grace, character, a love of beauty and colour, a sense of proportion, was manifest in every detail. One could diagnose only someone like Lady Julia as the possessor. The effect was effortless but none the less satisfying, like Lady Julia herself.
Aline lingered on the threshold for an instant to study her hostess. Lady Julia's beauty, like her mind, was ageless and unageing. It was beauty of expression rather than of feature, reflected in the limpid intelligence of the eye, the exquisite sensibility of the rather full mouth. There were streaks of grey in the deep waves of her dark brown hair which, irrespective of changing fashion, she wore in a loose knot somewhat after the classic style. Fashions were not for Lady Julia. Yet she always looked perfectly turned out—neither of the mode nor behind it, but something apart; and without seeming to trouble herself, like every second woman of to-day, with either diet or exercise, she contrived to remain immutably slim.
There was a sort of tragic listlessness about her pose as she stood at the window, one of her hands, as firm and as white as the hands of a girl, lightly resting on the ledge. But the face that was turned to Aline on her entry was serene, though there was that in the eyes which hinted at an inner struggle for self-control. Aline took her hostess's hand. Then suddenly the tears mounted in her throat and, flinging her arms round Lady Julia, she hugged her. "Dearest Lady Julia," she murmured brokenly, "it's all so dreadful, I don't know what to say."
She felt a soft hand stroke her hair and there was a moment's silence. Then Lady Julia's beautiful voice broke the hush. "There's nothing to say, Aline dear," she answered gently. "Life is like that, you know." She put the girl from her and drew up a chair. "Sit down there, dear, opposite me. I want to speak to you."
Aline took the chair and dried her eyes. Lady Julia sat down at her desk which was placed at an angle from the window. The desk, Aline thought, was more intimately identified with its owner than anything in the boudoir. The flat slab where Lady Julia did her writing, like the top of the nest of drawers above, was crowded with her personal belongings, souvenirs of her full and fashionable life. All were of silver, or bound in silver, crested for the most part—some, like the tortoiseshell and silver blotter and the silver pen-tray, stamped with her maiden monogram and the Blaize device—a squirrel. Many of the objects were autographed in facsimile handwriting, and the top of the desk displayed an impressive muster of photographs in silver frames.
It was all very Edwardian, Aline decided—this accumulation of possessions, this splurge of silver, this pictorial parade of friendship—photographs stiffly posed, old snapshots of race meetings and garden parties, with the men looking like undertakers in their top-hats and frock-coats, and the women in immense toques and the oddest frocks with puffy sleeves. Now as Lady Julia let her eye rove absently over the collection you would say she could see the whole of her life in retrospect. Here was a tinted photograph, her father in faded scarlet, glaring genially forth from under the plain Scots Guards bearskin, a stalking group from her girlhood days in the Highlands, a big photograph of Lord Ivinghoe in his Life Guards uniform, all cuirass and aiguillettes, an ivory miniature of a curly-headed little boy—Sholto or Rodney, Aline decided—a head of Sir Charles in crayon...
Lady Julia's lovely face was in profile now—she had turned to smooth out abstractedly the ample skirts of the Pompadour doll concealing the telephone.
"First, I want to tell you, Aline dear," she said in a low and rapid voice, "how very distressed we are, Sir Charles and all of us, that this terrible experience should have befallen you while a guest in our house..."
"Dear Lady Julia..." Aline began, but Lady Julia stayed her. "You won't blame us, I know," she said and paused. Very slowly her fingers crisped themselves upon the delicate fabric of the doll's dress. "Fate is merciless. It is no respecter of persons." Another pause. "But I feel we owe you an apology. Now," she resumed, forestalling Aline again, "there's this. Rodney has told me what happened last night—the whole story."
Aline felt her colour rising. "It was unwise of me, I know. But I didn't think..."
Her hand was gently pressed. "It's all right, dear. We all make mistakes sometimes. What I wanted to say is this. I'm afraid Gerry has been foolish, too. I've seen her and she doesn't say very much because, of course, this thing has come as a great shock to her. Barry was an attractive man and she may have had a little flirtation with him. We're all very fond of Gerry in this house and if she has been a trifle indiscreet we've got to stand by her. You understand, dear?"
"Yes, Lady Julia," said Aline rather dully—she was thinking of the handkerchief.
"I wanted to say, therefore," Lady Julia pursued, "that we would rather you didn't talk about this business outside. You may have to give evidence at the inquest, indeed, I'm afraid it will be inevitable. But after the inquest I'm going to take you and Gerry away to our country place at Broadleat for a little while. In the meantime, if I were you, I shouldn't go about much, to avoid being questioned. You understand?"
"Of course, Lady Julia!"
"I knew you would."
The door opened and Rodney came in quickly. "Hullo, Aline." He smiled at her with his eyes. "What sort of night did you have?"
"Not too bad, Rod."
He turned to his mother. "Well, he's gone. They telephoned for him from Barry's. But he's coming back. He wants to see Gerry and you, Aline..."
"I know," said Lady Julia. "He sent up word. Where's your father?"
"Cohen, Barry's partner, rang up from the Goya Galleries. He's in a fearful state. Chass didn't want him round here so he went off to Regent Street. Pretty fed up, Chass is, too."
"What about?"
"This Inspector fellow. Pumping Chass about Barry's relations with women. Chass ticked him off properly. As if Barry would have told him every time he took a bird out to dinner."
"Rodney, dear..."
"Well, that's what it amounts to. Then he had the nerve to start in about Gerry—they've been blabbing in the mews, I suppose."
"I know all about that," said Lady Julia with a warning glance at Aline. "Murchie told me."
"Aline knows as well as I do that Gerry was rather stuck on poor Barry," Rodney persisted. "But that's nothing to do with the police. Their job is to find out who this man was that Aline saw running away. You know they've got hold of a chauffeur who saw him as well?"
"So Murchie told me. What does the police officer say about it?"
"Manderton?" He laughed. "Oh, he's keeping his own counsel."
Lady Julia sighed, her chin propped on her hand. The telephone whirred under the Watteau lady's paniers. With a weary air Lady Julia lifted the receiver. "He can come up, Larking. And let Mrs. Sholto know, please."
"Manderton?" Rodney interrogated.
She nodded as, with delicate deliberation, she hung up the receiver and pushed the telephone back into its cache. She turned to Aline. "Run into my room, sweetheart, and put on some powder. We don't want the Inspector to see we've been crying, do we?" As Aline moved to obey she drew the girl down to her and kissed her affectionately.
"Now, Rod, about Gerry," Aline, passing into the adjoining bedroom, heard her say.
Her voice was firm and brisk. Aline felt a little thrill of admiration for her hostess. Obviously, where the interests of any member of her household were implicated, Lady Julia was not one to indulge her private feelings.
ALINE'S first thought, on re-entering the boudoir, was that the redoubtable Yard man was decidedly ill at ease. Inspector Manderton faced Lady Julia, clutching his hat stiffly at an angle, his plethoric countenance glowing with a duskier flush, his eyes vaguely challenging. Lady Julia, the long black sleeves of her gown drooping over her hands as they grasped the arms of her chair, was saying in her low cool voice: "This has come as a severe shock to Mrs. Rossway as, indeed, to us all. I had intended to keep her in bed to-day, but, since you wished to speak to her personally, I've sent for her..." She glanced up and saw Aline. "But here's Miss Innesmore, if you wanted to ask her anything."
"Thank you, my lady." Mr. Manderton cleared his throat and, with a brief nod of recognition to Aline, "There was a point, Miss Innesmore," he said in his deep voice. "About this man you saw leaving Mr. Swete's last night. You had the impression he was wearing a cap, I think?"
"Yes."
"It mightn't have been a hat, I suppose? A pale grey Homburg?"
Aline glanced rather nervously at Lady Julia. That still, beautiful face was as serene and unchanging as a Lalique intaglio.
"I don't believe I know what a Homburg is," she ventured.
The Inspector's wooden face broke into quite a genial smile. "A Trilby, as you might say, Miss."
"He means a soft hat," Rodney prompted from his position by the door.
Aline paused. "No, it was a cap. As I told you, the man went by in a flash. But I'm sure he was wearing a cap."
"If I told you the man you saw was small and dark, a smart-looking fellow, young, too, would that be right?"
The girl shook her head reflectively. "I don't think so. I'm a bit hazy about last night. But I seem to remember a tall man. And he wasn't very young, either."
Manderton pounced. "Why do you say that?"
"I've been thinking back a lot. It seems to me that this man, though he ran fast, ran rather stiffly like... well, like anyone who's not very active..."
"Like Sir Charles, as you might say?"
"Yes, or Admiral Freeman, or the doctor who came in last night. Besides, he wore an overcoat. A young man would scarcely wear an overcoat on a warm night like last night, would he?"
"Not unless he were in dress clothes," Rodney observed.
The Inspector gave him his quick glance and nodded sagely, but without comment. Then he looked across at Lady Julia. "You and the members of your family were pretty intimate with the deceased gentleman, I think, my lady?"
Lady Julia nodded. Her eyes were tragic. "Oh, yes," she rejoined with a little sound like a sigh. "As a matter of fact, Mr. Swete had very few close friends. He saw us more frequently than any of his acquaintances..."
The Inspector moved his head in agreement, his thick fingers drumming on his hat. "In and out a lot, between here and Mr. Swete's, I suppose you all were, in a manner of speaking?"
"Yes."
"Mrs. Rossway, in particular, I gather?"
The statuesque face before him melted into a charming smile. "I'm afraid all my young people were inclined to abuse Mr. Swete's hospitality. They used to run in on him at all hours of the day and night. He was very good-natured about it. But then, as I say, he had very few friends."
The detective was silent: it was clear to them all that the pause was deliberate. "Mrs. Rossway seems to have been in the habit of visiting the gentleman very late, my lady, that is, to judge by talk in the neighbourhood." His inquiring eye fastened itself upon her face. And stayed there.
With unruffled calmness Lady Julia met his scrutiny. Her slow smile was disarming. "Ah," she said in her pleasant voice, "young people nowadays are not kept in check the way we were in our young days, Inspector. I fear that my daughter-in-law is inclined to be unconventional. But it's the modern generation,"—she glanced smilingly at Aline—"they're all alike..."
"Do you happen to know, my lady, whether Mrs. Rossway called in at Mr. Swete's last night at any time?"
"I'm sure she didn't," was the prompt rejoinder. "Last night Mrs. Rossway went to the Opera and to supper afterwards."
"I suppose you didn't happen to look in there yourself?"
A cold expression crept into her face: "I was at the Court with Miss Innesmore."
"Then none of the ladies from Frant House visited the deceased gentleman after dinner?"
"Not until Miss Innesmore went with my son to show him her dress, I think that's quite definite. But here is Mrs. Rossway."
While she was speaking, Gerry, very simply but very elegantly attired in black, had slipped in on the wings of a faint fragrance, her pale gold hair smoothly lucent, her complexion faultless, and seated herself composedly. From the crown of her head to the soles of her neat shoes, the Inspector's basilisk stare enfolded her. Gerry remained impassive under that frigid inquisition. She had opened her bag and affected to be busy hunting for a handkerchief. Aline had the impression that Mr. Manderton's jowl was squarer set as he studied the graceful figure. The gesture with which he now peered about and plumped his hat down on a chair had a certain finality about it that was faintly menacing.
"Gerry, my dear," said Lady Julia, "this is Inspector Massingham."
"Manderton is the name, my lady," the detective amended.
"Manderton, of course. From Scotland Yard. He wants to ask you one or two questions."
Perched on the goat-leather fender seat, Gerry indulged in an almost imperceptible movement of the shoulders which was vaguely disdainful. "I shan't detain you long, madam," the detective explained. "I just wanted to ask you when you saw Mr. Swete last."
From her chair near the fireplace Aline caught the rapid, sidelong glance of the green eyes at her side. But Gerry's answer was prompt. "The day before yesterday," she said.
"Where?"
"Here." She looked up quickly at Aline. "It was the day you got back from Paris..."
"That was Tuesday," Lady Julia put in. "Mr. Swete came in for bridge. You'd gone to the theatre with the Maxeters," she added to Aline.
"You were not by any chance at Mr. Swete's last night?"
The question, uttered in a completely toneless voice, severed the thread of the digression. Gerry stirred. "Last night I went to the Opera."
"You mean, you did not go to Mr. Swete's?"
"No." His searching gaze seemed to irk her: she raised her eyes, restless, rather defiant, to his.
"What time did you arrive at the Opera?"
The question appeared to surprise her, for she repeated it. "That's what I said, madam," the Inspector replied imperturbably.
Gerry shrugged her shoulders and gave a short laugh. "I haven't the vaguest idea, I'm afraid." She let her gaze wander humorously round the circle. "What time does one go to the Opera?" she demanded flippantly.
Rodney laughed. "I may as well tell you, Inspector," he explained to Manderton, "that my sister-in-law is hopeless about time. Her unpunctuality is a standing joke in the family."
"Nevertheless, the lady must know approximately at what time she reached Covent Garden," Manderton observed with studied politeness.
"As a matter of fact," Gerry struck in brightly, "for once in a way, now that I come to think of it, I was on time last night. My clock must have been fast or something..." She laughed up at the detective, but the stern face did not relax. "At any rate, I got in just before the curtain went up. What time does the Opera start, anyway?" Once more, her spry gaze appealed to the room.
"Half-past eight, as a rule..." Rodney began. But Gerry interrupted him. "That would be right." She looked towards Lady Julia. "Mona rang up directly after you left. That was at half-past eight, wasn't it?"
"About twenty past," Lady Julia answered. "Sir Charles was fussing, so we started a little before time."
Harsh as the clang of an iron door, the Inspector's bass again shut off the imminent divergence from the theme. "But surely, after your friend rang up, you had to put on your evening dress, didn't you, madam?"
"I was already dressed," said Gerry. "Sir Charles had people coming in for bridge and I was going to supper at the Embassy, anyway."
"As soon as your friend telephoned, then, you left for the Opera, is that it?"
"Yes."
The Inspector paused, his eyes on the Persian rug. "You say you arrived just as the curtain was going up?" he asked presently.
"Yes."
"That is to say, after the overture had been played?"
He lifted his eyes swiftly to the other's face.
"I didn't know that Tosca had an overture," Gerry retorted succinctly.
"You didn't mention that Tosca was the opera, madam," said Manderton.
"I'm not aware that you asked me," Gerry replied snappishly and looked away with a bored air. "Any more questions?"
"One or two," was the impassive rejoinder. "Where did you sit at the Opera?"
"In a box—the omnibus tier."
"What number?" He had produced a notebook and was folding back the pages. His pencil hovered.
She laughed rather shrilly. "I haven't the faintest idea, I'm sorry. It was Mrs. Claud Harringay's box."
"Thank you, madam." The pencil made a note.
Restlessly, Gerry shifted her position on the fender and cast a glance round the boudoir as though to say, "When is this going to end?"
"Did you remain until the end of the performance?" The strident voice had spoken again.
"I did."
"And then you went out to supper?"
"Yes."
"Straight to the Embassy?"
"Yes." She stressed the patient note in her voice: it was plain she was growing exasperated.
"What time did you arrive there?"
"How on earth can you expect..." she began, then corrected herself. "Wait! I believe I can tell you the exact time. I asked whether Miss Innesmore had arrived and when the man at the door said she hadn't, I asked him the time. It was twenty-five past eleven."
The Inspector grunted. "You have no watch?"
"Oh yes, I have two." She stretched out a slim arm. "This, and one I wear in the evenings. But I forget to wind them mostly." She gave him her quick, wistful smile. But he remained obdurately stern.
"How did you go to the Embassy from the Opera?"
"In my friend's car."
"Who is your friend, please?"
Gerry coloured a little. "Her name happens to be Mrs. Tom Bryce." Her voice was not very steady.
"Would you mind telling me where she lives?"
Gerry's glance was indignant. "Is it really necessary to drag my friends into this?"
"Merely a formality, madam. Now then?"
"Clive Court, Sloane Street," was the sullen answer.
The detective made a note. "When you started out from this house to the Opera," he questioned with unflapping patience, "did you also go by car?"
"No. Lady Julia had taken the car. I went by taxi."
"Where did it come from?"
"You'd better ask the footman. He fetched it. From the rank in the Square, probably. Is it important?"
Her voice was harshly sarcastic. But it left the Inspector unmoved. He did not take her up. Instead: "You were in evening dress, I think you said?" he remarked.
"I did. One doesn't go to the Opera in tweeds, you know."
Aline saw one of Lady Julia's hands, as they reposed in her lap, describe an unwilling movement. Gerry caught her mother-in-law's eye and shrugged her shoulders sulkily.
"Quite," said Manderton quietly, and added: "What sort of wrap did you wear?"
She had been staring down at her trim feet. But now she looked up in a flash, the creamy pallor of her cheeks warmed to an angry redness. "Am I allowed to ask what all these questions are leading up to?" she demanded in cutting tones. "I've told you I wasn't at Mr. Swete's last night. Or is the Scotland Yard theory that I shot him?"
"Gerry, dear..." Lady Julia put in hastily.
"Mrs. Rossway," said the detective gravely. "I'm here to discover how Mr. Swete came by his death. You may take it that any question I put to you or to any other of his friends has a bearing on that point. I have my duty to perform and so have you, if I may say so, and that is to answer my questions, never mind about theories. Now then, about this wrap of yours?"
"I wore my black velvet." The answer was grudging.
"Has it a fur collar?"
"It has."
"White fur?"
"White fox." She faced him boldly.
But the other evaded her challenge. His attention appeared to be concentrated upon the toe of his large and brightly-burnished shoe. "And you carried a feather fan, I think?" he said softly.
"No."
He lifted his head sharply, eyes brightly stern. "Are you quite sure?"
"Absolutely. I don't possess such a thing."
"That was not my question. You might have borrowed one."
"I've given you your answer already. I tell you again, I don't own a feather fan, I didn't borrow a feather fan, and I didn't take a fan of any description, feather or otherwise, to the Opera. Is that good enough for you?" Her voice was raised challengingly.
Mr. Manderton frowned ponderously. He was obviously perplexed. His eyes, heavy-lidded, travelled suspiciously from face to face. When they lighted upon Lady Julia, his scowl deepened. For he saw her leaning back in her chair, laughing softly.
"It's clear to me, Inspector," she said in her agreeably modulated voice, "that we're at cross-purposes..."
Her presence, calm and authoritative, had immediately imposed itself upon the stormy scene. The Inspector grunted and, with finger thrust inside his collar, eased his neck. But he unknit his brows and considered Lady Julia with attention. From her fender seat Gerry looked from one to the other. The anger had drained out of her face: only watchfulness remained.
"Haven't you overlooked the fact that Miss Innesmore was at Mr. Swete's flat last night?" Lady Julia continued. "My son tells me that she went in to get away from the crowd in the mews and spent a considerable time there while Dr. Pargetter made his examination..."
"That's right, my lady..." said the detective briskly.
"I don't wish to be inquisitive," Lady Julia pursued, "or to ask you what is at the back of your mind. But I'd like to draw your attention to the fact that Miss Innesmore was wearing her Court dress with white feathers and an ermine coat with a fox collar." She appealed to Aline. "That's so, isn't it, Aline? You wore your ermine last night, didn't you?"
"Yes, Lady Julia." Aline's voice was rather husky. She was acutely conscious of the fact that Inspector Manderton had shifted his flinty gaze from Lady Julia to her and was eyeing her sombrely. "Humph!" he grunted at last and turned to pick up his hat. "I thank your ladyship. That'll be all for the present." His stern, strictly non-committal nod comprised the four of them in its ambit. Then he strode swiftly from the boudoir.
Rodney chuckled. "By George, Mother," he remarked, "you're a regular Sherlock Holmes. You took the wind out of his sails properly." He looked across at Gerry and frowned. "You managed to get his back up all right, I'll say that for you. You must be crazy, trying to be funny with a beggar like that. He's not a bad fellow, I'm sure, if you only take him the right way."
"I think he's odious," Gerry flamed out. "The nerve of him, as good as accusing me of telling lies..."
"You've only yourself to blame," Rodney riposted hotly. "Trying to crush him with sarcasm! Don't you realize that a man like that is suspicious of everything he doesn't understand? How the blazes do you expect a jumped-up policeman to know that Tosca hasn't got an overture? I didn't know it myself, or if I did, I'd forgotten it. Why on earth couldn't you have given him a straight answer to a straight question?"
"Because I'm sick to death of being badgered like a criminal," Gerry cried shrilly, jumping to her feet. "As if I hadn't been through enough already with this ghastly business! If that man comes near me again with his incessant, pointless questions, I'll... I'll... I don't know what I'll do, but it'll be something desperate. I can't bear any more..."
Till then, vibrant, defiant, now she suddenly swung about and broke down utterly, her whole frame torn with little, gasping sobs. Her outburst was so unexpected that they were all taken aback. Aline was the first to spring forward, but before she had reached Gerry's side, Gerry had stormed from the room.
Aline, nonplussed for the moment, turned to consult Lady Julia with a glance. Lady Julia had risen from her chair. She met Aline's unspoken question with a little shake of the head.
"Best leave her to herself, my dear," she said with rather a sad smile. "I know Gerry so well. She's upset now, poor child, and no wonder—she's going through a bad time. There's nothing to be done about it for the moment." She kissed the top of Aline's brown head. "Could you amuse yourself for a little, do you think? I want to talk to Rodney."
Aline gave her hostess a little hug and slipped away downstairs. More than ever, she admired Lady Julia. Everyday life gave one no chance of knowing people, she reflected—it was only in moments of crisis such as this that their real qualities were revealed. She knew how the tragedy had harrowed that kindly heart, yet she had seen Lady Julia lay aside her private grief to dominate the situation, handling the detective with superb adroitness and by sheer intelligence rescuing Gerry from an awkward fix.
A line of some poem—Wordsworth, wasn't it?—they had had to learn at school, drifted into her mind. "The worth of Venice did not fall below her birth"—that was Lady Julia. No good being born a great lady if you didn't live up to it. Noblesse oblige, and so on. Or better—Aline's eye rested upon the coat of arms painted in the corner of the portrait of Sholto, 8th Earl of Blaize, that hung on the drawing-room landing—'Semper idem', the Blaize family motto, 'Always the same.'
Earl Sholto, Aline mused, looking so haughty in his soldier's coat of scarlet with the deep-cuffed sleeves, might be satisfied with Lady Julia.
ALINE was just as pleased to be left to her own devices. She wanted to think. She had much to think about. Gerry was still uppermost in her mind. Had she or had she not been at Barry's on the previous night? And what did the Inspector's persistence about the evening wrap and the feathers signify? These clues, if they were clues, had been explained away. But the handkerchief, of which this highly alarming person knew nothing, remained. It was all very bewildering.
But why should Gerry lie? It was preposterous to suppose any connection between her and the two mystery men whose presence in the flat now seemed to be definitely established—the tall, oldish man in the cap, and the smaller, dark one in the grey felt, just as preposterous as to suppose that Gerry had shot Barry. The thought gave Aline a little cold feeling along the spine. Such things did happen where people loved passionately; though not habitually in the orbit of Miss Aline Innesmore, of Park Avenue and Long Island. Still, when a crime of violence did explode in the circle of a family, every member must feel incredulous about such an event occurring in their lives, she reflected, just as she felt now.
She was not very happy about the Inspector. Rodney affected to believe that Manderton had been routed: she was not so sure. She suspected that Gerry was keeping something back. But if Gerry had called on Barry—he was laid up, after all: she had a good excuse—why not admit it? She had often dropped in on him like that before. She might easily have run upstairs at Mayfair Row for a few minutes on the way to the Opera, for instance. Then why not say so, if she had?
Absorbed in her meditations, Aline had descended the great staircase. At its foot, in the rear hall, she found herself confronted by the plain cream door that gave access, by means of a corridor, to the old tennis court. At this hour, she knew, the court was always deserted: only in the late afternoon, and that rarely, Rodney and one or other of his friends would have a game or he or Gerry would give her a lesson. She went through to the court.
A narrow door at the end of the corridor opened immediately upon the covered way under the long, low penthouse. The great court, lofty, stone-floored and echoing, had a peculiar fascination for Aline. She knew its history from Sir Charles. He it was, too, who had shown her, in the Memoirs of Captain Gronow and of Henry Angelo in the library, allusions to its builder, Philip Edward, 13th Earl of Frant, that 'wicked Earl' whose swarthy, saturnine features were depicted in the print that hung in the dedans, the long, netted opening at one end of the court which was the spectators' gallery.
Every time she came here it seemed to Aline that, since the day it was built, nearly a century and a half before, time had stood still in this high-roofed, tranquil sanctuary. Dedicated to the "game of kings, the king of games"—the quotation was Rodney's—the old court seemed to wear, in this age in which so few kings survive, a curious air of desolation and abandonment. It gave her a little thrill to think that here Mad Phil, as they had called the Earl, its builder, in frilled shirt and knee breeches, racquet in hand, as one saw him in his picture, had worked off the effect of his orations with the Prince of Wales, the brilliant 'Sherry,' Beau Brummel, Doyle and the other boon companions.
Such dashing bucks the tall windows must have bathed in their steely, cold light, such oaths the grim stone walls heard! Stealing in to dream in the stagnant hush of this half-forgotten Mayfair solitude, Aline would listen in fancy to the clack of racquet on the floor, the click of the ball and its rumble as it sped round the pent, the cries of the players—echoes which she and Rodney would revive, echoes of old matches and glamorous days, echoes which, she liked to imagine, must yet cling; faintly vibrant through the years, to the high-pitched timber roof, the dark walls, grey-dappled with the impact of a hundred thousand returns, the inky black flags of the floor.
Under the combined tuition of Rodney, who was quite expert, and of Gerry, who could play a little, Aline had tried, without much success, to master the intricacies of the ancient game. Her lawn tennis was passable and she was beginning to manage to handle the odd-shaped racquet and even impart some of the requisite cut to the ball. But the complications of tennis, especially of the scoring, left her gasping. Every time she visited the court she racked her brains to recall Rodney's patient elucidations.
She went over them now as she stood under the penthouse which, like the narrow sloping roof of a lean-to, ran round three of the walls. The court, longer than it was broad, was divided into two parts by the net. That half of it which was in front of the dedans—the spectators' gallery located at one end—was the service side: you served from there, rolling the ball (if you could) along the penthouse roof. The other half was the hasard side, which she had learnt to identify by means of the so-called grill, the square opening like a shuttered window in the penthouse behind, which thumped so thrillingly when the ball landed against it (and scored 15). But there Aline's acquaintance with tennis virtually ended. All the way along the penthouse—on your left as you stood on the service side—were netted galleries, of which the significance escaped her. As for the chases—those bewildering green lines striping the floor and running up the side walls to end in a flaunting royal crown—they baffled her completely.
One hell of a game, she called it privately to herself. There was the tambour, for instance. The fourth wall—the right-hand one as you stood on the service side—had no penthouse. But, instead of running straight, about halfway down the hasard side, a few yards in front of the grill, it jutted out in a shallow buttress. The face of this buttress was sloped back so that a ball striking it, sprang off at an angle.
This angle of the wall was the tambour. Why it was so-called, nobody seemed to know. That had always been its name—thus Rodney appeared to find the answer adequate. Tradition, said Sir Charles. Aline left it at that. English life appeared to be full of bewildering things that were because they had always been, without anyone worrying about the why and the wherefore. By a play of words upon the French—this much, at least, was clear—the tambour was decorated with a sprightly representation, life-size, of a drummer in picturesque 18th century uniform.
It was a Guards drummer, Rodney had explained to Aline, a drummer of the First Foot Guards, drawing her attention to the white plume decking the bearskin cap with its metal badge. Mad Phil, who had seen active service with the regiment under the Duke of York in Flanders, had had the figure painted there. Originally the drummer must have made a brave show in his scarlet coatee with its slashed sleeves and fringed shoulder-pieces, his snowy buckskin breeches and long black leggings, drumsticks uplifted, drum on thigh. But time and the hammering of the ball had played havoc with his finery. Nevertheless, the drummer remained gay and defiant. Stippled all over with markings, as though he faced a blizzard, he stood stiffly at attention, drumsticks raised on a level with his eyes, in the act of sounding a ruffle.
Aline detested the drummer. She regarded him as her personal foe. She would drive a soft ball for the grill when crack! the tambour would intercept it. Defending the grill on the hasard side, she would be preparing to deal with one of Rodney's more merciful returns when the ball, falling foul of the drummer, would shoot away yards out of her reach. On such occasions she would seize the next opportunity to let fly at the stiffly glaring face, the faded red coat...
Where the net spanned the court, a narrow door opened in the covered way under the penthouse, giving access to the floor. This was, traditionally, the scorer's place—the marker's box, as it was called—and a stool was there for his accommodation. From here Aline now peered out upon the court. It was, as she had expected, deserted. From the opposite wall the gallant Guardsman gazed glassily across the empty space. The girl gave herself up to the peace of the place and, sitting down on the marker's stool, her neatly-shod feet thrust out in front of her, opened her bag with a view to solacing herself with a cigarette. The packet of Camels had sunk to the bottom of the bag, and she had to lift out the small diary she always carried, her vanity-case and her handkerchief, before she could retrieve it. She had the packet of cigarettes in her hand when her ear caught a step somewhere above her. Leaning out from under the penthouse she saw, high above her head on the other side of the court, a figure pass rapidly across the outside of the windows.
Away to her right, behind a frieze of coarse, brown netting protecting the succession of open galleries, the covered way stretched before her to a door admitting to the dedans. Beside this door a stair mounted. It gave access, as Aline knew, to the roof. She had been up there once with Rodney, to retrieve a ball which one of her wild drives had sent through the open window.
Instinctively, therefore, her eye turned to this stair. The next moment a pair of legs, clad in loose grey flannel, hove in sight. Tipping backward on her stool to get a better view, she perceived, advancing along the covered way, Inspector Manderton's assistant, late of Cambridge University. He was hatless and the steely light that poured through the galleries struck copper tints out of his mop of auburn hair. He recognized Aline at once.
"I hope you're none the worse for your adventures last night?" was his greeting. "I've just been having a look round. Rum old shack, isn't it? What's the date, do you know?"
Putting down her cigarettes, she had risen from her stool. To make way for him she stepped out on the court. He followed her and stood by the net, looking about him.
"Late 18th century," she answered pat.
He seemed impressed. "As old as that! What a topping place—atmosphere, what? and all that! I say, isn't the drummer amusing? That's the tambour, you know. French joke—très difficile, ha, ha!"
He gave her his cheerful grin, his eyes twinkling behind the big glasses. She looked at him coolly. It struck her that, for a policeman, this young man was a shade too familiar. He must be dealt with.
"If you knew anything about tennis," she answered freezingly, "you wouldn't find the tambour such a joke. Personally, I think it spoils the game..."
"You play?"
"Certainly."
"Yes, I suppose you would."
The young man was not so easy to deal with. Her tone might be as chilly as she pleased: he kept on breaking the ice. He was mustering her so whimsically now that she capitulated. She laughed. "Just what do you mean by that?"
"Only that I can't imagine a court like this lying idle with you around. You're a typical American, aren't you?"
"Is that supposed to be a compliment?"
"From an intelligent Englishman, always..."
Mollified, she smiled at him. "You said that very nicely."
He ran his fingers through his flaming locks. "I'm quite a nice person really... for a cop, that is," he added humorously. He glanced around the court again. "I can't get over coming upon a place like this within a stone's throw of Bond Street. From Mayfair Row one gets no idea what a lot of space there is here. This was the coach-house once, didn't Rossway say?"
"Part of it was the stable-yard, I believe. They cleared the site and built the court upon it, Sir Charles told me. Some of the stabling was left, a small coach-house and two or three lots of stalls on the mews. Sir Charles explained it to me but I didn't understand very well, I guess. I know, at any rate, that where Mr. Swete has his flat and the garage, with the chauffeur's rooms over it, next door, are part of the original stabling. That side wall"—she indicated the buttress wall—"is laid up against the back wall of Mr. Swete's. When anyone is playing on the court, you can hear the ball thudding against the wall in Mr. Swete's kitchen. At least, Roberts says you can. One never seemed to hear it upstairs..."
"You wouldn't. The wall of the upper floor is set back so as to let the light in at the windows. But you have to get out on the roof here to understand the general lay-out."
He was at the side wall now, contemplating the drummer. "He looks as if he'd been in the wars, poor lad. He could do with a coat of paint." He slapped the wall beside the tambour. "Gosh, they knew how to build in those days, didn't they? Who put up the court? One of Sir Charles's ancestors?"
"No. This was the town house of the Earls of Frant. Sir Charles bought it only after the war."
"Frant House, of course—I might have known. Let's see, wasn't there a Lord Frant killed in the war?"
"Uh-huh. And one before that—or rather he was killed before he came into the title—in some Indian war or other. Lord Ivinghoe, his name was. The family's extinct now."
He wagged his head. "Bad luck, that! Pity about these old English families, Miss Innesmore! Though, I don't know—some of these lordlings are a pretty mouldy lot."
"Lord Ivinghoe wasn't," Aline struck in. "He seems to have been quite a man, terribly popular and good at polo and all that. And marvellously handsome. Lady Julia has a picture of him, taken in his grand uniform—he was in the Horse Guards or something. In his silver helmet and breastplate, or whatever you call it, he looks simply too divine. Like Rupert of Hentzau or John Gilbert or someone. And only thirty-two when he died. I think it's too awful. It was his ancestor who built the court. The picture's hanging up in the dedans if you'd like to see it..."
This debonair young man certainly had a way with him. She felt as though they were old friends as she tripped along the covered way before him into the dedans, dank and dim and faintly redolent of cobbler's wax.
With a considering air young Dene contemplated the wicked Earl's portrait. "Looks a bit mad to me," was his comment.
"That's what they called him," said Aline. "Mad Phil. It was he who ruined the family. The last Lord Frant—the one that was killed—never had any money. When he succeeded to the title he couldn't afford to keep up this house. Mad Phil was some stepper, by all accounts. Cards, you know, and mistresses and horses..."
"General whoopee, in fact," suggested young Dene.
She simmered gently. "Sir Charles has a book of letters about him—the original letters. He bought it at the sale when the Frant House things were disposed of. The letters were written by a nephew of Mad Phil's to his father in the country—terribly quaint. Sir Charles said I was not to read them, but I took a peep into the collection one day and, well, they're pretty frank. All about the or-ghies... oh, dear, I never know how to pronounce that word..."
"The 'g' is as soft as in jujube," amended Mr. Dene gravely.
"The orgies then," she went on laughing, "that took place right in this very house. By the way, what's a pole?"
"A pole?"
"Well, it's spelt p-o-double-l, But I don't know whether it's pronounced like poll-tax or poll parrot. It's some kind of a girl, I think."
Young Dene chortled. "A poll, eh? Well, it's scarcely an expression to be used indiscriminately. It means a lady of easy virtue. Slightly archaic. Why?"
"Because one of the letters I read was all about one of these people called Meg Somebody and how she ran out into the Square with no clothes on and Mad Phil at her heels firing off his pistols. Nephew George doesn't miss a thing."
"Evidently..."
"He's a scream. As plain-spoken as James Joyce. And not nearly so dull."
"It must have been fun playing Boswell to a Regency buck," the young man observed thoughtfully. "Pretty warm, your Mad Phil, eh?"
"Red hot!" Miss Innesmore laughed. "He seems to have had rafts of fun. It was right here in the dedans where the girl friends used to sit and watch him play tennis—he was quite a player, Sir Charles says. And the Prince of Wales—the one who was afterwards George IV, you know..."
Her companion nodded sagely. "'Who's your fat friend?' eh? 'Prinny has loosed his belly and it now falls down to his knees...'"
Aline bubbled over with merriment. "You do say the craziest things."
"I don't. That's Creevey, that is. Another Nephew George, only bowdlerized a bit. Sorry I interrupted."
"Well, the Prince used to come here, too, and bet on the game with his gentlemen, the way they do at Havana on the jai alai matches, I guess. Oh, and they used to drink iced punch out of a big porcelain bowl."
Young Dene was contemplating the dimness of the dedans. From there he let his eyes travel slowly round the empty court. "Queer old place. Full of ghosts..."
"They say that Mad Phil walks here," said Aline in a thrilled voice. "Out of remorse, you know, for the ruin he brought on the family. He lost everything at cards and in the end had to run away from his creditors to France. He died there without a cent, it appears..."
"Like poor old Brummel, eh?"
"Ye-es. For years he was threatened with imprisonment for debt. There's a great deal about duns in the letters. He was always dodging duns."
"Stout lad!" Dene remarked. "What with the income tax..." His finger pushed his sleeve clear of his wrist-watch. "But it's nearly eleven o'clock. My old man will be looking for me. I left my hat in the hall." She showed him the way through the house. Now that a sort of intimacy had established itself between them, she was tempted to sound him as to the progress of the police inquiries. But it had not escaped her with what sedulous care he had avoided the subject of the murder, and to question him, she decided, would be tactless.
In the front hall, as he picked up his hat, he noticed the sedan. "I say," he said impressively, "that's a ripping old thing, isn't it?"
"It comes from Lady Julia's family," Aline explained. "Look, there's her crest..." She pointed out the squirrel emblazoned on the dainty door panel. "Isn't it pretty inside, quilted in blue satin? I often think of the lovely ladies—you know, all paniers and powdered hair and patches—it must have carried in its time."
"I'd like to see you in it," ventured her companion, with sudden and most surprising gallantry. "Why don't you try it?"
She looked at him, eyes dancing. "Do you think I dare?"
"Why not?"
She glanced along the empty hall towards the staircase, then, with a sudden impulse, laid her hand on the finely-chased door-handle between the poles. The door swung out. Aline poked her brown head inside. But then she drew back. "I guess I'd better not," she said, closing the door again, rather precipitately. "It looks too frail."
"Good gracious," the young man exclaimed, "it's as safe as houses."
At the same moment a rapid step and Rodney's voice shouting for Larking were heard on the staircase.
"I suppose I'd better go," said Dene to Aline.
They smiled at one another like old friends as she let him out by the front door.
She glanced back into the hall. From the staircase, a few steps up, Rodney was speaking to Larking who had a salver in his hand. Aline called: "Oh, Rod!"
He turned and saw her, standing by the old sedan, looking rather serious. The butler had disappeared into the dining-room. Rodney came down to Aline.
"I wanted to show you something," she said.
She opened the chair, then stood aside to let him look. "Behind the cushion," she directed.
On the sedan's narrow seat, a small cushion, quilted in blue satin like the interior, rested against the back. Rodney lifted it. A revolver lay there.
With a soft thud the sedan door snapped to. Rodney, his back to the front door, faced Aline, the revolver flat in his open palm.
"That young detective of Manderton's was with me—he'd been looking over the tennis court," Aline volunteered. "I thought I'd say nothing until you'd seen it. It seems such a funny place to keep a gun. Whose is it, do you know?"
"I haven't the least idea. I never saw it before." His expression was perplexed.
A slight sound behind her—something between a gasp and a cry—caught her ear as she stood with her back to the hall. She whipped about. Larking was there. He had laid aside his salver. With mouth open and eyes glazed with terror he was gazing past her at the revolver as it lay in Rodney's open hand.
ALINE glanced over her shoulder at Rodney. He had the revolver balanced on his palm. It was rather a battered-looking weapon with a long barrel. Rodney looked up and, catching sight of Larking, said: "What's this revolver doing in the sedan chair?"
"In the sedan chair, Mr. Rodney?" the butler repeated dully.
"Yes. You heard what I said." Then, as he remarked the expression on the old man's face, he frowned and said sharply: "But what's the matter with you? Are you ill or something?"
The butler's hand had strayed to his mouth. Tremulously he was plucking at his upper lip. The rheumy eyes were drawn by some strange fascination to the pistol.
"Can't you speak, man?"
Larking was breathing rather hard. "I'm quite all right, thank you, sir," he murmured weakly. "It's only you give me a bit of a turn, coming upon you sudden like with that great ugly thing in your hand."
Rodney bent his brows at him. "Anyone would think you'd never seen a gun before. Who put it in the sedan? Was it you?"
Larking started. "Me? God forbid, Mr. Rodney, sir!"
"Well, who did? Whose is it, anyway? Here,"—he held out the revolver—"take it yourself and tell me if you've ever seen it before..."
But the butler backed away. "For heaven's sake, be careful, sir. There's been that many accidents with loaded revolvers."
Rodney swung round to the light. His hands went down: there was a slight click. He laid the revolver on the table at his side among the hats and gloves arranged there. "Devilish queer, I call it. Whose can it be, Larking?"
"I've no idea, Mr. Rodney. I've never set eyes on it before: I didn't know we had such a thing in the house."
"But someone must have put it in the chair, man!"
"I'll inquire of Frank and the maids, Mr. Rodney. But that chair is very frail, very frail indeed, sir, and her ladyship is most particular, as you know, sir, about anyone meddling with it. I'm positive that none of the staff..."
"Better say nothing to them, Larking," Rodney struck in. "They're quite enough upset as it is. Mr. Murch may know something about it. I'll ask him."
"Very good, sir." The butler's look seemed to linger; then he padded away.
Rodney picked up the revolver and thrust it in a side-pocket of his coat. "Come up to my room, will you?" he said to Aline. "I want to talk to you."
Aline felt vaguely flattered. She had never been invited before to Rodney's sanctum where he spent most mornings writing. She had formed for herself a pretty definite picture of the sort of surroundings which such a Byronic-looking young man as Rodney Rossway might be expected to select as a workroom—shaded lights, a divan piled high with obese and polychromatic cushions, one or two geometrical designs of the Impressionist school on the walls, perhaps a faint reek of incense on the ambient air. The reality surprised her agreeably. She liked the large, unencumbered study, its spaciousness, its light. The big kitchen table, strewn with books and papers, was clearly meant for work: the bookshelves, as plainly carpentered as the table and, like it, of unstained pitch pine, were practical and unpretentious. There was a divan, of the same wood and style, of graceful line. But its few cushions were covered in drab corded velvet to match the plain carpet, and the only noticeable trace of a burnt offering was not of incense but tobacco. There were no pictures save for one of Lady Julia, in a silver frame—a print of her portrait by Sargent in the ballroom downstairs—that confronted her son at his labours. For the rest, a bowl of dark red sweet peas and one or two objets de vertu set about the bookshelves—some pieces of Copenhagen porcelain, a Chinese fish in jade, an Egyptian god in blue glaze—relieved the rather deliberate soberness of the room.
Somewhat out of breath—for Rodney's retreat was at the very top of the house, under the rafters—Aline looked about her while her companion, after closing the door, produced the pistol from his pocket.
"By Manderton's detective I suppose you meant young Dene, the Cambridge man, didn't you?" he said inquiringly.
"Yes. I couldn't remember his name. It's Dene, isn't it?"
Rodney had manipulated some catch that detached the barrel of the revolver from the cartridge drum. Now, without speaking, he clapped his eye to the barrel, holding it up towards one of the two large windows. Then his forefinger went out and explored in turn the breach and mouth of the barrel, the cartridge drum. After each operation he brought the finger away to scrutinize the tip.
"I wonder what instinct prompted you," he remarked, at last breaking the silence, "to keep this find to yourself?"
She coloured a little. "Well," she rejoined slowly, "it occurred to me that the gun could only have got into the sedan because somebody hid it there. I'm a guest in this house, Rod, and if folk choose to hide guns about the place, it seems to me it's none of my business. And, as far as I'm concerned, it's no business of the police either. Not until you've been put wise, anyway."
His quick glance was full of gratitude. "Thanks, Aline. You're a good friend." He balanced the pistol in his palm. "But the police will have to have this."
She was conscious of a dull sensation of fear. "Rod... why?"
"Because this gun has been fired. And fired recently. Look here!"
He pointed at the cartridge drum. It was made to hold six cartridges. The brass caps of only five cartridges were visible. One chamber was empty. He showed his finger-tip. It was streaked with black powder.
"But that's not all. Pargetter said that the bullet which killed Barry was fairly heavy—a point 45 bullet, I believe he called it, fired from a large Army revolver and, therefore, uncased. An automatic, you know, fires that shiny ammunition—it's shiny because it's cased in nickel. Now whether this gun takes a point 45 bullet or not, I can't say. But it's certainly an Army revolver and see here...!" He slipped a cartridge out of the drum. The dull greyness of naked lead projected above the brass container.
"Rod!" She was aghast. "You don't really think that this was the pistol that..."
"That'll be for the police to say."
"And you don't know whom it belongs to?"
"I never saw the damned thing before. The only one of us who has a gun, so far as I know, is Chass. And his is an automatic which he keeps in the drawer of his dressing-table down in the country..."
He laid the revolver down upon the table. "It isn't Larking's, I suppose?"
He glanced up quickly. "Why do you say that?"
"Well," she remarked rather slowly, "I don't believe you saw his face when he first came upon you with that revolver in your hand. Rod, he was terrified."
The young man's face clouded over. "Something certainly was upsetting the old geyser." He broke off and, pulling a pipe from his pocket, began to fill it from a tobacco jar that stood on the table. "I wonder..." he said musingly.
"Rod, you don't think that Larking did it, do you?"
She proffered the suggestion timorously. Rodney laughed and put a match to his pipe. "Hardly. The old boy's incapable of such a thing. Besides, what would be the motive?" He drew on his pipe reflectively. "But there's this. Larking has been with us, oh, for ever so many years—since before I was born, anyway—sort of regards himself as one of the family, don't you know? If he knew anything to harm us, individually or collectively, he'd keep his mouth shut, that's certain. If he didn't put this gun in the sedan chair himself, I bet he knows who did..."
"You mean... you mean, you really think it was someone in the house?"
He shifted his pipe and discharged a cloud of smoke. "It looks that way, don't you think?" He paused. "What do you make of this fellow, Manderton, Aline?"
"He scares me stiff," she said heartily.
"With regard to Gerry, I meant..."
Aline hesitated. "I think he still believes she was at Barry's last night."
Rodney nodded sombrely, his teeth gritting on his pipe. "And I'm inclined to think he's right!" He broke off.
"Let's sit down, shall we?" Aline proposed and took the divan. Stemming himself against the arm of the heavy carved chair before the writing-table, with a dour air he watched her settle down among the cushions.
"Cigarette?" He picked up a box from among the litter of books and papers behind him and set it down open beside her.
"No, thanks!" She glanced at him furtively. "Rod..."
"What?"
"About Gerry?"
His face hardened. "Well?"
"It's no affair of mine, but don't you realize that you're going to make things very difficult for her if you hand that gun over to the police?"
He nodded. "That's why I was grateful to you for keeping your discovery to yourself."
On that she suddenly seemed to take heart. "You mean you're not going to tell the police anything about it, after all?"
"That's for my Father to say. But I know what he'll decide. The police must be told. And he's right. But Chass has got an important meeting in the City to-day and won't be back until late this afternoon. In the meantime, we're going to do a bit of detective work of our own on that gun."
"Oh, but that's thrilling! How?"
Thoughtfully he drew on his pipe. "Well," he observed slowly, "I'm not quite clear as to how we're to manage it. But just as a start I believe I shall tackle Gerry...."
The memory of the handkerchief lay like a dead weight in Aline's mind. "You think she's keeping something back?" she asked uncertainly.
He shrugged his shoulders. "If she's telling the truth, it can't make any difference to her if Chass decides to hand this gun over to the police. If not..." He shrugged again.
"You don't like Gerry much, do you?" Aline remarked tentatively.
"I'd like her all right if she treated Sholto properly. He's mad about her, poor devil, and I'm terribly fond of Sholto. I can't bear to think what he'd do if he discovered that Gerry... that Gerry..."
He broke off and began to pace up and down the room. There was a moment's silence between them. Then Aline said: "Stop walking about, Rod, and listen to me!" He halted in front of her, eyes smouldering, mouth bitter. "Gerry's all right, Rod. She may have been stupid but I'm sure she's done nothing really wrong. If you want to know, I believe she's still in love with your brother, only all of you Rossways are so taken up with each other that none of you realizes it..."
"Oh, rot," he broke in angrily. "We were all only too anxious to be decent to her and treat her like one of the family. But she wants to go her own way—she always did. I know this business has given her a knock. But her present attitude doesn't make things any easier for herself or for us. If she'd only tell the truth about last night—to us, at least—we could see what there is to be done..."
"Will you let me handle her, Rod? I like Gerry: I liked her the first time I met her. If she'll talk to anybody, she'll talk to me. But only if you promise not to butt in. You always put her back up. Is it a deal?"
"She's as deep as a well," he grumbled, "and as stubborn as a mule. I know Gerry better than you do, Aline. If she's made up her mind not to talk, she won't. But if she's keeping anything back she'll be wise to own up now, before Chass hands that gun over to Manderton, or God help her! You go ahead, if you like! I won't say a word."
Quick as a flash, he dropped a book upon the revolver as it lay upon the blotter. Aline twisted round her head. Gerry had entered the room.
SHE came in with her listless, nonchalant air. There was nothing in her manner to invite sympathy or foreshadow confidences. Aline, taken by surprise, embarrassed, had stood up. Gerry put a friendly hand on the girl's shoulder and gave it a little squeeze. Then she helped herself from the box of cigarettes open on the divan and, folding her skirt about her slender legs, curled up among the cushions.
"Well, chaps," she observed, lighting her cigarette at the match Aline offered, "what's the news? What's old Rodney looking so down in the mouth about?" She expelled a jet of smoke from her freshly-crimsoned lips and lolled back provocatively.
The interview was beginning badly, Aline perceived. It was plain that Gerry was deliberately trying to exasperate Rodney. With a set face he swung brusquely away from the writing-table and went to the window where he remained, pipe in mouth, staring aimlessly out. By the way he fidgeted with his tie Aline could tell he was making an effort to control himself.
"Honey sweet," said Aline, stooping to Gerry from behind the divan. "Rod thinks that this detective guy is going to make himself a nuisance. It's pretty obvious that he doesn't believe you, don't you think?" Gerry made an impatient movement of the body. "Now wait a minute! We all know you haven't done anything wrong. But if..." She paused—"If there is anything you're keeping back, hadn't you better tell us? Otherwise, it makes it rather difficult, doesn't it?"
With a glint of small teeth Gerry smiled up into Aline's troubled face. "Aren't you the little diplomat? I suppose Rod put you up to this?" Then, remarking the rather hurt expression that had come into the girl's eyes, she added on a softer note: "There, I was only ragging. You're much too sensible to listen to Rod's nonsense, I know. Or wait!" She bounced up eagerly. "Is that hanky of mine still on your mind? Did you tell Rod about it?"
Her brother-in-law, sucking a cold pipe in a forbidding silence at the window, looked round sharply. Aline had turned aside. "You might know I wouldn't do a thing like that, Gerry," she murmured in an undertone.
Gerry's hand slid up to hers and gripped it. "All right, honey. But I don't care whether Rod knows or not." She raised her voice. "Aline found a hanky of mine at Barry's last night. How's that as a clue for your friend, Manderton, Rod?"
Rodney's glance switched over to Aline. His face was austere. "Is this true?" he asked.
"Of course it's true," Gerry broke in briskly. "Why don't you ring up Scotland Yard and tell 'em? We might get a lot of quiet fun out of it..."
"Fun!" he exclaimed passionately. "I don't see where the fun comes in. Or do you consider the fact that this poor devil has been murdered funny?"
Gerry caught her breath sharply. For an instant her impassive face was raw with pain. "That wasn't necessary, Rod. You know I didn't mean that."
"Then why the devil..." Rodney was beginning furiously when Aline chipped in.
"Oh, stop rowing, you two! Gerry was only pulling your leg, Rod. It's quite true I picked up one of her handkerchiefs at Barry's last night. But it was one he carried off with him when he was round here the other night."
"That's all very well," said Rodney heatedly. "But supposing Manderton had found it instead of you, what then? We've got to take this thing seriously." He put his pipe aside and advanced upon his sister-in-law. "Now you listen to me, Gerry..." he opened truculently. But, swift as an arrow, Aline once more intervened.
"Just a minute, Rod!" Her small hands clutched a cushion; they were gripping so hard that Rodney, halted irresolutely, could see the whiteness of the knuckles under the skin. "Gerry dear," said Aline in a breathless voice, "you may as well know—there's been a complication, rather an odd complication."
Out of their corners the green eyes glanced up into Aline's face, questioning. "Oh? What?"
"A revolver has been found..."
"A revolver?" She repeated the word blankly. "Where?"
"Here in the house. It was hidden in the sedan chair."
"In the sedan chair? Who put it there?"
"We don't know. I found it just now."
Then Rodney walked across to the table and tossed aside the book that concealed the weapon. Gerry sat up abruptly. She had plucked the cigarette from her lips and its smoke curled up from between her fingers as she clawed the cushion at her side. With a bemused, incredulous air she contemplated the revolver.
"Well," she said at length in a voice that was oddly small and husky, "what of it?" The hand that carried the cigarette to her lips shook a little.
"Only this," Rodney retorted bluntly. "One round has been fired out of it—and fired quite recently...."
He broke off. Gerry had uttered a sound like a faint moan. He saw her straining forward on the sofa, her features stark with horror, lips parted, eyes fixed upon the dark, incongruous object lying among the papers on the table.
The green stone on her finger glinted as her hand outlined a vague gesture. At the same time she turned her head aside. It was as though she would banish from her sight the firearm, long-snouted, sinister and blackly gleaming against its dead-white background. "You mean... you mean..." she stammered.
"All I know is this," said her brother-in-law curtly. "Barry was shot with an Army revolver firing service ammunition. At least, that's what Pargetter says. This"—he picked up the revolver and showed it—"is an Army pattern gun and the bullets are uncased." Perceiving that she was about to speak, he went on hastily: "There's no point in arguing about it. Once the bullet is extracted from Barry's body and this gun in the hands of the police, we shall know for certain."
"The police?" She seemed to shrink away. "Then Manderton... doesn't know... yet?" The words came jerking, staccato-fashion, from her lips.
"No. I'm going to give Chass the revolver as soon as he gets back from the City. I shall tell him how and where it was found and it will be for him to say what's to be done about it. But you know what Chass is: he'll insist on the police being informed. In the meantime... Gerry, you've seen this revolver before, haven't you?"
She nodded.
"Whose is it?"
"It's mine!"
"Yours?" He stared at her in consternation. "Then... then it was you who hid it in the sedan chair?"
She shook her head. Her voice sank to an awestruck whisper. "Something incredible, something absolutely bewildering, has happened. That revolver... I kept it at the bottom of my handkerchief drawer. It was there when I dressed for dinner last night. This morning it had gone."
"God!" Rodney ejaculated softly.
Her voice began to race. "I only discovered it this morning. I was just leaving my room after Lady Julia sent for me when I saw, lying on the toilet table, this handkerchief of mine which Aline picked up at Barry's—Aline gave it to me last night. I went to my handkerchief drawer to put it away—I have a sachet where I keep soiled lace handkerchiefs: I always wash them out myself as the laundry destroys things so. I suppose I moved the sachet: at any rate, I discovered that the revolver had disappeared."
"And you saw it last night, you say?"
"Yes, when I was dressing—as I went to take out one of my new handkerchiefs. The handkerchiefs were in their box and when I lifted the box up I saw the revolver."
"Was it loaded?"
She nodded. "Yes."
"And when you went to the drawer this morning it had gone?"
"Yes."
"That's to say that, between dinner time last night and breakfast this morning, somebody went to your room and took it?"
"I suppose so."
"But it's preposterous," he exploded. "It would have to be someone in the house, do you realize that?"
She hoisted her chin forlornly. "That's the bewildering part of it..."
His glance, heavy with suspicion, sought her face. She did not evade his scrutiny. "...and I'm not lying to you, Rod," she added.
For a spell he let his gaze linger, as though he were weighing up the point. Then his head twisted away. Noiselessly he pounded his palm. "God!" he murmured again.
He swung back. "How many people knew about this gun of yours, Gerry? I didn't for one. What about the servants? What about Cox?"
"There'd be no reason why she should know about it. I look after my clothes myself. Besides, the revolver was right at the back of the drawer—one would have to turn everything upside down to find it..."
"The drawer was unlocked?"
"Oh, yes..."
"What about Larking?" Rodney's glance flickered across to Aline.
"Larking?" She gave a contemptuous laugh. "He'd run a mile from a gun, I should say. Besides, he never comes near my room. He couldn't possibly know anything about it. No, the only person who definitely knew I had it is Murchie..."
"Murchie?"
"He came to my room with a message from Chass one day when I was packing to go down to Broadleat, and saw the revolver in the drawer. I remember him saying that he might borrow it—he was going to Albania or some such place for Chass. But the trip fell through and he didn't mention the matter again."
With a worried air Rodney rubbed his chin. Then he picked up the revolver. "I suppose there's no possibility of any mistake, is there? I mean, this really is your gun?" He held it out to her.
She seemed to wince as she took it—delicately, as she did everything—into her hands. "Of course it is. Look,"—her finger pointed—"there's the ring at the end for the string, or whatever you call it—lanyard, isn't it?—officers used to hang their pistols round their necks in the trenches. And here,"—she underlined with her scarlet nail two marks scored on the butt—"those nicks represent dead Germans. The man this revolver belonged to told Sholto he had it with him on the Somme and made a notch on the handle, or whatever it is, for each German he killed with it."
"Sholto? I meant to ask you where you got it from. Was this Sholto's gun?"
"Yes. He gave it to me when I left Kenya."
"I never saw it before. But, look here, Larking might have seen it, mightn't he? He always looks after Sholto when he's home..."
"Larking can't have seen it. Sholto only bought it this last time he went out—from some friend of his at the Club." She put the revolver back in Rodney's hand. He contemplated it gloomily, handling it in his palm.
"And you think," said Gerry nervously, flexing back her fingers and affecting to study the unsullied brilliance of her nails, "you think that Chass will insist on handing it over to this Manderton person?"
"Yes, I do," Rodney answered glumly.
She gave him a quick, sidelong glance. "But, Rod," she countered, "isn't it rather asking for trouble? I mean, we know that Barry cannot possibly have been shot with this pistol. You say it has been recently fired: there must be some other explanation. I mean, the idea that anybody in this house should have shot Barry... well, it's just crazy. We must make inquiries, ask Larking, have all the servants up, exhaust every other means of investigation, before we go to the police..." Her voice trailed off: her green eyes were fastened on Rodney's face with a look of almost anguished intensity.
Into the silence that dropped, dank and clammy as a sea mist, upon the room, the distant hammering of the lunch gong welled to a booming crescendo. His keychain in his hand, Rodney turned to the writing-table, unlocked a drawer, placed the revolver in it and locked the drawer again.
"Well?"—her voice was unsteady, its tone querulous. "What are you going to do?"
"What I told you—let Chass decide."
She made an impatient movement. "But you said yourself he'll insist on the police being told..."
"And why not? We've got nothing to hide, have we?"
"Of course not. But... but you know what it'll be—a horde of detectives searching the place, reporters, a first-class scandal in the newspapers. Do you want that?"
"Gerry," he said quietly, "I wish you'd be sensible. Were you or were you not at Barry's last night?"
She hesitated. Then her face set stubbornly. "I told you I wasn't!"
"I can understand," he went on, "that when you found your revolver missing you got rattled and were afraid to tell Manderton the truth. Isn't that it?"
"I tell you again," she retorted between clenched teeth, "I did not go to Barry's. How could I when I was at the Opera? If you don't believe me, ask Mona Bryce!"
"If you misled Manderton, I daresay I can fix it," he pleaded. "I'll think up some explanation that'll satisfy him, if only you'll be frank with me. Come on, Gerry, out with it!" He laid his hand encouragingly on her arm.
Furiously, she shook him off. "There's nothing to tell," she cried. "I never went to Barry's last night! How many times do you want me to say it?"
He sighed and shrugged his shoulders. "Have it your own way. But remember I warned you." He paused.
"One thing more—have you mentioned the disappearance of your revolver to anybody?"
She gave her head a brief shake. "No."
"Then please don't. Especially not to my Mother—I don't want her to be still further upset. It'll be time enough to tell her when we know what Chass is going to do. You understand, Gerry? And you, too, Aline? Not a word about this to Murchie or Cox or anybody. Once people start gossiping Mother will be bound to hear about it and I want to avoid that—at any rate, for the present. Is that clear?"
Aline assented with an eager, "Of course, Rod!" and Gerry with rather a sullen nod. On which they all went down to lunch.
THE three of them and Lady Julia lunched together. Lady Julia was very modish in black with a hat and wore her pearls. Murchie did not put in an appearance: he had gone to the City with Sir Charles, Lady Julia said. Looking round the table as she spooned her grapefruit, Aline felt sure that she and the other two must wear a guilty air, like conspirators: the burden of the secret they shared seemed to crush them all like a leaden weight. She even fancied that Larking, as he took the Graves round, regarded them with the furtive gaze of a confederate.
But if Lady Julia remarked anything untoward in their mien she did not show it. Indeed, she had contrived to banish from her face as from her manner all trace of the tragedy which lowered heavier than the thundery atmosphere of the day over her household. No sooner had they taken their seats at the luncheon table than she began, unostentatiously but with unmistakable firmness, to direct their thoughts into ordinary, everyday channels. She talked about the Court, made Aline tell them her impressions, sent Frank for one of the morning newspapers which contained a photograph—rather a smudgy one—of Aline in her finery, taken in the ballroom upstairs before they had started out.
It was an impressive display of self-control, of discipline, and it did not fail to achieve its desired effect. They were all on edge, Gerry particularly. She made the merest pretence of eating—a mouthful of grapefruit, a tiny morsel of sole, the lamb she left untasted—staring before her, her forehead puckered in a little V of perplexity, while she crumbled her bread until it was a mass of crumbs. Imperceptibly, and at first without much avail, Lady Julia sought to draw her into the conversation. She talked much about her plan of taking Gerry and Aline down to the country for a spell.
"You haven't seen Broadleat, Aline," she said. "The house is nothing out of the way and if you expect to see a palace like some of your millionaires' places on Long Island, you'll be disappointed. It's just an old manor-house but it's rather quaint—part of it is Tudor, you know—with a nice timbered front, and the grounds are lovely; especially the gardens. I'm rather proud of my gardens—at this time of year they're looking their best. There's a lake, too—the house takes its name from it—where you can bathe and boat, if it amuses you. I suppose, like all American girls, you swim marvellously."
Aline laughed. "Well, I like to swim, certainly..."
"So does Gerry, don't you, Gerry?" said Lady Julia.
Gerry started, and shrugged her shoulders.
"Gerry's pretty good," Rodney put in, after glancing at her. "She can start level and beat me over the length of the lake. And that's at least 400 yards..."
"There's a diving-board, too," Lady Julia went on. "Sholto made his father put that up. Sholto dives so gracefully."
"He's the star turn in our family," Rodney put in. "Gerry's the fancy swimmer. But Sholto gets top marks for diving every time."
Lady Julia smiled reminiscently. "Do you remember, Gerry, when you and Sholto were first engaged, how angry you were because Rodney soaped the end of the springboard, and Sholto landed flat on his tummy?"
Gerry nodded. "Shall I ever forget it? Poor old Sholto was so anxious to make a good impression. How furious he was! I was angry, too, when I heard what Rod had done. Sholto might have broken his neck..."
"I know he chased me for ages through the woods," Rodney said, "and chucked me in the lake with my clothes on. We've had some good times at Broadleat, haven't we, Mother?"
His mother smiled at him affectionately. But she paused before replying and let her fingers slide down the stem of her wineglass. "Haven't we, Rod? And we must give Aline a good time, too."
"Do you go in swimming, too, Lady Julia?" Aline asked.
"We've all tried to make her," Rodney rejoined, "but it's no good."
"At my time of life," said Lady Julia, "I've no fancy for paddling about among the reeds on the edge of the lake. All young people nowadays swim: they seem to be born that way, like the native in that lighthouse story of Rudyard Kipling's. But in my young days it was different. It didn't seem to occur to anybody to have girls taught to swim, and anyway, bathing dresses down to one's heels and those frightful dank and smelly bathing-machines were no inducement to learn. No, my job at Broadleat is to recline gracefully in a deck chair in front of the boat-house and watch my brood of ducklings disport themselves."
"The real reason," Rodney confided to Aline in a stage whisper, "is that Mother's knees knock like a postman's and she's afraid to show them!"
At that they all laughed and before their laughter the spectre that had been hovering behind each chair seemed to recede. By the time Larking placed the coffee machine before Lady Julia, they were all almost normal, taking their cue from her.
At the end of the meal Lady Julia was the first to rise. "I've got my sale of work at Acton," she said with a glance at her wrist-watch. "I shall have to run away."
"Oh, Mother," Rodney protested, "surely you can get out of it? You don't want to fag yourself out with this kind of thing now..."
Larking came in. "The car is there, my lady."
"I promised these people to open their bazaar," she told Rodney, "and I can't let them down. You, Gerry," she went on, turning to her daughter-in-law, "ought to rest. Why don't you lie down for an hour before tea?"
"I've got my manicurist coming. Perhaps I'll lie down after."
"I'm not going to inflict a suburban bazaar on you, Aline," said Lady Julia, smiling. "What are you going to do with yourself?"
"I thought she might come for a turn in the Park with me," Rodney replied. "What do you say, Aline?"
Lady Julia gave him a grateful glance. "I think Aline would like that, Rod. It'll be pleasant and cool under the trees. Besides, with all this... this fuss, you ought not to be away too long—you may be wanted." She turned to Aline. "Run along with Rod, dear—the fresh air will do you good."
"I'd like to," said Aline, "if Rod'll wait a minute while I go and grab a hat."
"Don't stay out too late," Lady Julia remarked to her son as he held the door for her. "Your Father will be back at six: he'll probably want to see you." She gave Aline her gentle smile and, full of grace, went out.
"Coming up?" Gerry said to Aline when Lady Julia had gone.
"Sure. I won't be a minute, Rod..."
As they mounted the dim, cool staircase side by side Aline could see what an effort Gerry was making to control herself. "Come into my room for a moment," said Gerry when they reached their floor. "Aline," she resumed when they were in the bedroom, "do you think that Rod really means to hand that revolver over to the police?"
"He said it would be for Sir Charles to decide..."
"Rodney only says that because he means Chass to do it. Chass thinks so much of Rodney: if Rodney held out about it, I'm dead certain Chass would listen. Aline, you know that Barry and I were pretty good pals. Don't you understand that, if Rodney gives Manderton that revolver and tells him it's mine, this man will never rest until he's dragged up the whole of this stupid business between Barry and me?"
Aline felt slightly shocked—it seemed callous of Gerry to speak in that fashion of her friendship with the dead man. But she contented herself with saying gently: "Don't torment yourself, honey. It can't possibly be the same gun..."
"That's not the point," rejoined the other tensely. "Only the police can decide this question. And the thing is, we can't go to the police. Rodney must be made to understand that. He's got to consider my position a little, after all. I'm married and my husband's away..." She broke off, clenching her small, fine hands.
Gently Aline slipped an arm about her. "You just lay off worrying, sweetheart. I'm going to pump some sense into Brother Rodney right now..."
Gerry gave her a little wan smile. "You are a good kid, Aline. But somehow I don't think you'll get much change out of Rod. If he had any sense he'd fall in love with you. You're chic and charming and well, if I were a man I should be just crazy about you..."
Aline laughed. "Between you and me, Gerry," she said mischievously, "I believe Rod has made up his mind to be a brother to me."
A timid tap at the door interrupted her. A voice said: "It's the manicurist, madam!"
"Come in, Miss Sykes!" Gerry called. She walked with Aline to the door leaving the manicurist, a pallid girl in a grey tailored suit, to set out her implements from the attaché case she carried. "Bye-bye, Aline. You talk to Rod like a Dutch uncle, but listen, don't say I put you up to it!"
Aline nodded. "Sure you'll be all right, sweetheart?" she asked rather anxiously.
Gerry smiled affectionately at her. "Don't you worry about me. I'm not going to think about it any more."
But the restless light in the aquamarine depths of her eyes and the dark shadows ringing them about belied her words. As Aline went off to put on her hat she found herself wondering again, with an uneasy feeling of disloyalty towards Gerry, just how much Gerry knew about the killing of Barry Swete.
GERRY was right. Rodney did not prove so easy. Under an enormous elm in the Park, tall enough and gnarled enough to be a relic of the ancient Manor of Hyde, Aline sat on the grass and argued with him, their faces turned to a splendid sweep of turf whose horizon merged in the bluish haze beneath the trees. In this quiet nook the shouts of the Serpentine bathers resounded but faintly across the grass and the sound of footsteps on the neighbouring gravel path, the barking of dogs, the chatter of sparrow and thrush, merged in the constant hum of traffic from the Bayswater Road.
"You can't do it, Rod, and you won't do it. You've got to keep Gerry out of this, do you hear?"
Rodney had flung himself down on his face and was tearing a daisy to pieces. "You're right and you're wrong. Right about Gerry, wrong about the rest. If Gerry really is in this, nothing we can do can keep her out, as you call it..."
"I'm not suggesting that she had anything to do with the murder, you know that. But you and I don't have to be told she was playing around with Barry, do we?"
He looked up at her through his eyelashes. "Were she and Barry lovers, Aline?"
She flushed up under her fair skin. "If I knew the answer to that question, I wouldn't tell you, Rod. But I don't know it. I can tell you only what I think. I don't believe Gerry's that sort. She was terribly attracted to Barry, I guess, and she's the kind that always takes a chance. But, as I told you before, I've got a hunch that she's still in love with Sholto and... oh, hell, I can't just explain it, but I guess Gerry's all right..."
"Then she has nothing to fear..."
"She has everything to fear," retorted Aline indignantly. "At present, she's regarded as just one of a household that was pretty intimate with Barry Swete. But, with that gun in his hands, the man Manderton, who has got his suspicions already, is going to start up fresh inquiries, even though it's eventually proved that Barry was not shot with this revolver at all. Just a minute," she went on, forestalling him. "Does your Father, does Lady Julia, know anything about Gerry and Barry?"
"God forbid! Mother asked me to speak to Gerry the other day about staying out late with Barry. But that was merely because she was afraid people might talk. I don't believe the notion would even enter her head, and still less my Father's, that Gerry could ever act dishonourably towards Sholto. They're like that, you know. Old-fashioned, I expect you'd call them in America; but they believe tremendously in the people they love..."
Aline nodded eagerly. "It's rather wonderful, isn't it?"
"Yes," he said, "and that's why I say Gerry has nothing to fear. I mean I'd rather die than tell either of them of our suspicions. And Manderton, of course, least of all. But he's got to have that revolver. He's got to be told whose it is, where it was found and how it was found. After that, it's up to him. Don't you agree?"
She nodded, rather crestfallen. "I suppose you're right. But, Rod, what's he going to discover?"
He began to pluck blades of grass. "That's the point, what? Whatever it may be, we've got to try and forestall him. The first thing to do, it seems to me, is to find out what everybody in the house was doing between eleven and twelve o'clock last night."
She stared at him aghast. "But, Rodney Rossway..."
His face was very grave as he answered: "That's the first thing Manderton will go for. The moment he discovers that a revolver belonging to Gerry was taken from her room last night and afterwards hidden, with one round fired, in the sedan chair, he'll begin by suspecting every man jack of us in turn, from Chass down to the kitchenmaids. That's the way the police always work, you know..."
"Sure. But there are means of telling whether a bullet has been fired by a particular gun—I've read about it in the papers, I'm certain. All Manderton will have to do will be to see if the bullet that killed Barry fits this revolver and..."
She caught an odd look in his eyes and the words died in her mouth. "But, Rod," she faltered, "you can't possibly imagine..."
"Look here, Aline," he said, "we've got to face facts. After all, that is what the courts of justice go on. Facts—circumstantial evidence, they call it. There are such things as coincidences. But coincidences are exceptions, and the only sensible plan is to rule them out until it is absolutely clear that coincidence is the only possible solution. Let's look at this thing logically." He struggled to his knees and seated himself on the turf at her side. "The weapon with which Barry was murdered has not been found. But a revolver of the same pattern as that which killed Barry is discovered, in suspicious circumstances, in Frant House. Now it's possible that somebody at home—Murchie, we'll say for the sake of argument, as he seems to be the only person who knew that Gerry had a gun and where she kept it—borrowed that revolver last night and went out in the Square and shot a sparrow or something with it and afterwards hid it in the sedan chair. It's possible, I say, but not probable. It's not probable because it would be an amazing coincidence. Until we know it to be a coincidence we are bound to admit the grave suspicion that this is the gun with which Barry was shot. Do you follow?"
She nodded, impressed, her lips tightly pressed together.
"Now then," he resumed, "if we admit this suspicion, we have to admit the natural deduction from it, and that is, that it was the murderer, or some accomplice of the murderer, who concealed the revolver in the hall. At present, one of two unknown men, or both of them, seem to be indicated as the authors of the crime. If they are strangers it is possible, but again highly improbable, that one of them should have been able to get into the house at night and hide the weapon—indeed, if he were an outsider, there's no plausible reason why he should have done such a thing. What's the conclusion, then? That either the murderer is someone in the house or that he had an accomplice in the house!"
She gazed at him in horror. "You don't really believe..."
"I don't know what to believe," he said gloomily. "I try to tell myself, as you do, that the whole thing is preposterous and that there must be some perfectly simple explanation. But one can't argue against reason, Aline, my dear. All the same, if there is an explanation—if this turns out to be merely a coincidence—I intend to get there before Manderton, short-circuit him in advance, so to speak. But until I've found the explanation, we may as well realize it, we're all in this. That's why I say we've got to find out exactly what everybody at Frant House was doing between eleven and twelve o'clock last night. In other words we've got to present Manderton with a clean bill of health for everyone... if we can. Look here, we'll start with us two. We'll cross-examine one another about our movements just as though one of us were Manderton. Me first. You be Manderton. Stick out your chest, sister, and fire away!"
She laughed, but in a bewildered way. "I'm sure I don't know where to begin."
"Well," said Rodney reflectively, "the first thing he'd ask, I imagine, would be where I spent the evening."
"Right. Where did you?"
"You'll have to be much more precise than that. What about dinner, for a start——?"
"O.K. I'm on. Did you dine at home?"
"No."
"Where then?"
"At the Bath Club."
"Alone?"
"No. I'm not a member. With George Alfriston. We'd been playing squash."
"And after dinner?"
"Went to my club. I had some reading to do in the library for this novel I'm working on."
"What next?" She pondered. "Oh, what time did you leave your club?"
"Hold on a minute! You really ought to ask me if I can prove my alibi..."
"Well, there's your friend at the Bath Club, isn't there?"
"It's my club, I meant. The trouble is I don't remember speaking to anybody there. But the hall porter must have seen me. Now I come to think of it, I've an idea he enters in a book the names of all members coming in or going out. 'Booking in' and out, they call it. I'll have to look into that. Anyway, I left the club somewhere about half-past twelve to walk home..."
"And you went straight to Mayfair Row?"
"That's right. You arrived at half-past twelve, didn't you? I turned up a few minutes later. From the club to Barry's is what? Three minutes, five minutes at the outside. If the hall porter booked me out I'm all right. Now about you? You were at the Court with my Mother. What time was it when you got home?"
"Some time before eleven."
"Can't you be more definite than that?"
"I know the time I left again. It was exactly eleven. I heard the clock strike."
"What did you do at home?"
"Your Mother and I talked to Murchie for a bit. Then I went into the library to show the Admiral my frock."
"And after?"
"I went to the photographer's..."
"What time did you leave there?"
"I don't remember quite. But I drove straight to Barry's. It struck half-past twelve as I got there."
"Can you...er...substantiate your statement?"
"No. Giles can. He drove me to the photographer's and waited for me."
"That alibi will pass," said Rodney. "Now what about the others? You were with my Mother, we'll take her first. What did she do when you came in?"
"She went to bed."
"So much for Lady J. Cox can corroborate that alibi, anyway. Chass?"
"He was playing bridge in the library. Your Uncle, the Admiral and Murchie were there, too."
"That's right. You left them to it, I suppose?"
"No. I think they'd finished. They all came into the hall to see me off."
He reflected for a moment. "What we ought to do really is to concentrate upon the people who seem to be involved..." Their glances met significantly.
"Meaning Gerry?" Aline questioned.
"Exactly. She went to the Opera, didn't she? Supposing she was at Barry's, how could she have managed it?"
Aline sighed. "It seems kind of mean to suspect her like this behind her back. After all, Rod, her husband's away—she has nobody to stick up for her..."
"As far as that goes," he retorted rather coldly, "I wired Sholto at Naples this morning to come home. He should be here the day after to-morrow by the latest. But I'm not saying anything to Gerry about it—I don't know how she'd take it. In the meantime Manderton won't spare her or any of us and we can't take any risks." He paused in thought. "She might have run in on Barry on the way to the Opera. But, no, she told Manderton she went in a taxi that Frank fetched her. Manderton could trace the taxi—she wouldn't risk it. What about after the Opera, though?"
"Would there have been time? She told Manderton she spoke to the doorman at the Embassy at twenty-five past eleven. Besides, the Bryces drove her there in their car..."
"Covent Garden isn't so far from Mayfair Row—she might have slipped out during the performance..."
"And the Bryces? Wouldn't they have missed her?"
"She might have squared them."
Aline's laugh rang disdainful. "What need was there? You and I know that Gerry has been at Barry's after dinner before. She had a perfectly good excuse, too, as Barry wasn't able to go out..."
"She might have rung them up to-day..."
"With the evening papers full of the murder? Don't be silly, Rod!"
He grinned at her. "You certainly stick up for Gerry, don't you?"
"Nothing of the kind. You're strong on logic, aren't you? I'm merely being logical, that's all."
He laughed. "We pass on then. Who's next?"
"What about Larking?" Her glance rested on Rodney's face.
"Of course. What about him?" Their eyes met.
"He was in the hall when we came back from the Court," said Aline. "I remember him handing Lady Julia the evening mail. And he saw me off with the others. Frank was there, too."
"Larking was still up, then?"
"Oh yes."
He nodded. "Murchie's last on our list of suspects," he remarked bluntly.
"Murchie?"
"He knew about the revolver, remember. What about Murchie?"
"He saw me off to the photographer's with the others."
"Then he was up and about, too?"
"That's right."
He was silent, staring across the grass and nibbling at his thumb. "What do you say to our going home now and having a word with Larking?" he proposed at length. "At any rate, he can tell us what everybody was doing after you left. It's a good moment with both Chass and Mother out of the way. And if Murchie's back we can sound him, too. Are you on?"
"Sure." He stood up and helped her to her feet. "Rod," she said, glancing at him rather timidly as they strolled across the turf in the direction of Park Lane, "I guess there's nothing much I can do. But I'd like to help you out on this, if you'd let me. I'm new to your country; I'm not one of you; I'm kind of neutral, I'll say—and outsiders are supposed to see most of the game, aren't they? What do you say? Are we in this together?"
She was in deadly earnest, her pretty face flushed, her calm eyes grave.
"Why, of course, if you like, Aline... I mean, I'd be delighted." There was not much conviction in his voice.
"No," she responded firmly, "that's not it at all. After all, as you said yourself, we're all in this together, and once the police get their hands on that gun, who knows what's going to come out? You may be suspected, I may be suspected. Well, let's tell one another everything as we go along, without sparing ourselves or anyone else. Then you and I, at least, will know where we are and perhaps in that way we may arrive at the truth. Besides, I think I have a way of helping. Shall we make a pact? Or do you think I'm horning in? If you do, say so. I shan't mind."
"Of course I don't," he said, and his voice was quite moved. "You've been splendid all through this ghastly business and honestly, I'd simply love to have this understanding with you. I've got to have someone to confide in, anyway, or I believe I'll explode or something. I've told you everything I know; have you done as much for me?"
They had reached the edge of the carriage-way curving up to the Marble Arch. He had stopped before her.
"Yes." She looked at him out of her frank eyes.
"Always barring such matters as lost pocket handkerchiefs?" he suggested mischievously.
She reddened. "You heard what Gerry said," she retorted rather lamely.
"I heard," he rejoined cryptically. She put her hand on his arm.
"Listen, Rod," she told him earnestly, "I want you to lay off Gerry. Even if she was with Barry last night, she knows nothing about his murder. If she did, she'd tell us." He nodded rather austerely, staring past her at the cars flashing by.
"I believe I agree with you. But it's devilish hard to know what to think..."
She extended a hand shyly. "Then it's a deal?"
He smiled affectionately. "Partners it is!" They shook hands solemnly.
"And now," she said, "I want to tell you that I've made a useful connection. No less than Manderton's young man."
"This fellow, Dene, you mean?"
"Yep. He shows signs of falling for me, Rod."
"Falling for you?"
Too late he realized the ungallantry of the stress in his voice. "I mean to say..." he began, but her laughter drowned his protestation.
"It's a fact," she cried. "I'm the fatal woman, didn't you know? One of the ringleaders of the revolt of young America, despatched to Europe to corrupt innocent policemen. Alas, my friend, I am not what you think me. I have been kissed by a young man in a taxi, and gin and vermouth is my secret of youth..."
"Will you shut up!" he told her, laughing. "You know I didn't mean that. I was thinking of the nerve of the fellow, that's all. A hulking detective."
"He doesn't hulk in the least. And he's very well-informed."
"Where did this take place?" The question was peremptory.
Casting down her eyes and fluttering her becomingly curling eyelashes, Miss Innesmore displayed all the conventional signs of maidenly embarrassment. "It was this morning. I walked upon the tennis court, thinking no evil, when, lo and behold, a youth..."
"Will you stop rotting, for the love of Mike, and talk sense?"
With dancing eyes she laughed crooningly, then, growing serious, told of her meeting with Dene. "It mayn't be of any importance," she remarked in conclusion. "But at least he's more friendly than his Chief."
"That wouldn't be difficult," Rodney observed rather grimly. He took her arm in protective fashion. "Come on, we'll go and put old Larking through the hoop."
His grasp was firm upon her arm, his shoulder was pressed, rather more closely than the occasion warranted, against hers, as he piloted her in and out of the whizzing traffic, across to Grosvenor Gate. Miss Innesmore responded amicably to the pressure, a little humorous gleam in her eyes. America and England might be vastly different countries, she reflected; but men were the same the world over.
IT was nearly half-past four when they got back and the house was still as a church. From behind the closed doors of the study, however, the muffled tapping of a typewriter was audible.
"Murchie's home," said Rodney in an undertone to his companion. "We'll tackle him first. Wait there for me a second while I dash upstairs and get the gun, will you? And you might tell Larking to serve tea in the study. I'll ring..."
He touched the bell-push in the wall and ran lightly up the stairs.
It was Frank who answered the bell. Mr. Larking, he explained, had stepped out for an hour or two. Aline ordered tea and, going to the mirror, put on some powder—she felt disinclined to confront Mr. Murch alone. Then Rodney came bounding downstairs and they went into the study together.
On the sound of their entrance the secretary looked up from his machine. "Ah," he said, doffing his pince-nez and wiping them on his spotted handkerchief, "I wanted to see you, Rodney. They've found the bullet."
"Oh?"
"I called in at the Goya Galleries on my way back from the City. Manderton had just left Cohen. He was telling him about it. It's a point 45 bullet, uncased, fired from a service pattern revolver, just as Pargetter thought..."
"I see," he commented.
Rodney's face was impassive.
Aline expected him to produce the revolver there and then from his pocket. But he did nothing of the sort. Instead he said casually: "You know that this fellow, Manderton, has been asking a lot of questions?"
The little man nodded. "Mrs. Sholto, you mean?" He sighed and looked at Aline. "I told you how it would be."
"Personally, I'm fed up," Rodney went on. "He almost had Gerry in tears this morning. If it's alibis he wants, he can have them. Now Manderton told Chass that, in his opinion, Barry was shot some time between eleven and half-past. I'm trying to establish where everybody in the house was at that hour or—shall we say?—between eleven and midnight. Do you follow me?"
At that moment the door was pushed open and Frank appeared, wheeling the tea-wagon. "Shall I do this?" said Aline and took the chair the footman set for her.
"Aline and I," Rodney resumed, as soon as the man had departed, "have been going over things. We've got them pretty square and shipshape up to eleven, when she left to go to the photographer's. You and Chass and the others were in the hall, she says. What happened then? How long did you go on playing bridge?"
"We'd finished a rubber just before Miss Innesmore and Lady Julia arrived back from the Palace. The Admiral felt a cold coming on, so we broke up then."
"What about Uncle Eustace? Did he stay on?"
"No, he left as well."
"And what did you do?"
"I went with them. I usually take a turn round the Square before going to bed, so I told the Admiral I'd see him as far as his front door..."
"Just a minute! What time was this?"
"Quite soon after Miss Innesmore left. Your uncle had a whisky, I remember. After we had seen the Admiral home, Lord Blaize proposed that I should take him as far as Bury Street. I was agreeable as the night was so fine. At Bury Street he wanted me to come up to his rooms for a nightcap. But I declined and walked straight home."
"What time was it when you left Uncle Eustace?"
"I didn't really notice..."
"It's important, Murchie."
"Why?"
"The time, man! Don't you see, you've a perfect alibi as long as you were with him. But once you parted company, there's a lapse until you arrive back here..."
"Your tea's getting cold, both of you," Aline interposed.
Rodney crossed to the tea-wagon and fetched Mr. Murch's cup and his own, exchanging a secret glance of understanding with Aline as he did so.
"All I know," Mr. Murch was saying in his prim fashion, "is that I was back before midnight—quite ten minutes before, I should conjecture. Sir Charles was in the study reading. I asked him if he had any letters for the post and he said no, he'd sent Larking out with them."
"Larking, eh?" Rodney observed—his eyes met Aline's as he helped himself to tea-cake.
"Yes, he goes to the post most evenings, as you know. Then Sir Charles went to bed. I had the papers for his meeting this morning to put in order, so I remained behind. I remember hearing midnight strike, and the half-hour. Pretty soon after, I went up."
Rodney nodded. "What time did Larking come in, do you know?"
"I can't tell you exactly. But on the way up to bed I suddenly saw the light in the hall, which I had switched off in passing, go up—the rear hall light, that is, near the stairs. I looked over the banisters and caught sight of Larking below."
"What was the old boy up to?"
"Nothing. He had his pipe in his mouth. He came from the tennis court corridor: I heard the door swing to behind him."
Rodney drained his cup and put it down. "He always sees that the corridor windows are fastened the last thing. Was he wearing his hat?"
"No," said the secretary. "But he had his overcoat over his arm. I took it he'd just come in." Murchie sipped his tea. "He glanced up and saw me. I said: 'Good night, Larking', and he said good night to me. Then he put out the hall light and I went on upstairs."
"You didn't happen to notice which way he went?"
With a slight whooshing sound Mr. Murch drank up his tea. "Certainly," he replied, wiping his mouth with his handkerchief. "Into the front hall."
"What, in the dark?"
"No. He had his flashlight—the beam caught my eye—and I looked over the banisters again. He always leaves the front door till the last. You know how fussy he is about the bolts and chains and things..."
"He can't have gone into the front hall to lock up," said Rodney quickly, "for the simple reason that he knew that three of us were still out. And the proof that he didn't bolt the door is that I was able to let myself in with my key when I brought Aline home an hour or two later."
Mr. Murch blinked his feeble eyes rapidly. "That's true. I didn't think of that. Nevertheless, I certainly left him in the front hall."
There was a pregnant pause. Aline was watching Rodney. He had set his empty cup down on the tea-wagon and was staring in front of him. "What time would this have been?" he asked the secretary.
"I can't say to the minute. Pretty soon after half-past twelve. Larking is sure to know. Why not have him in and ask him?"
He moved towards the bell. But Rodney cried sharply: "Just a minute!" There was an edge to his voice that caused Mr. Murch to pop on his glasses and stare at him in astonishment.
"He's not in just now," Aline remarked. She felt there was no use in alarming Murchie. "Ready for some more tea, Mr. Murch?" she asked demurely. "And, my gracious, you've had nothing to eat." She proceeded to fill Rodney's cup.
Her intervention eased the strain. "Thank you, Miss Innesmore...." The little man trotted forward with his cup and took a slice of thin bread-and-butter. He had some defect in his denture which caused the act of mastication on his part to be accompanied by a series of small clicks. Mr. Murch was gazing at Rodney rather severely, and the gently rhythmic noises his moving jaws produced had the effect of investing his steady munching with an air of protest.
But Rodney was quick to take his cue from Aline. "I didn't know that Larking was out," he said easily. "But in any case I don't want to question him for the time being. When he went into the front hall, you didn't happen to notice, I suppose, whether he opened the door of the sedan chair?" His tone was casual, but out of the corners of his eyes he was closely watching the secretary's face.
A running fire of clicks, a sibilant, susurrous gurgle as the last drain of tea disappeared down Mr. Murch's throat, a gasp of repletion as the cup was put down. The secretary made a little bow to Aline. "Thank you, Miss Innesmore." Then he adjusted his pince-nez and turned to Rodney. "I did not," he replied, "and I confess I am greatly puzzled as to the meaning of all these questions about Larking's movements. I don't need to tell you that if your Father had any idea that you were trying to cast suspicion on Larking, he would be exceedingly vexed." He cleared his throat and repeated: "Exceedingly vexed."
"I'm not casting suspicion on Larking or anybody else, you old donkey," Rodney retorted good-naturedly. "It's merely the sort of question Manderton might ask."
"Why?" said the secretary sharply. "What's the sedan chair got to do with it?"
Rodney was taken off his guard. He went rather red. "Oh, it's just an idea of mine, that's all," he answered lamely.
"Well," said Mr. Murch, buttoning up his coat with a final air, "I'll be no party to it." And he stalked out of the room.
"And that's that!" Rodney remarked as the door closed behind the little man. "What do you make of it, partner?"
Aline shrugged. "Why didn't you tell him about the pistol?"
"I thought we'd better substantiate his alibi first. Uncle Eustace is coming round this evening: I'll ask him then."
He strode away to the window and stood there, hands in pockets, legs straddled, gazing out. "Your back looks dreadfully worried, Rod," said Aline quietly.
His hand went out in a vague gesture. "We're narrowing things down, my dear, and, well, I don't like it."
"You surely don't suspect Murchie, Rod?"
"I was thinking of Larking, chiefly." He swung round. "What was he doing from the time Chass sent him to the post and when Murchie saw him on the way to bed?"
"You'll have to ask him that."
"What was he doing in the front hall?" A knuckle pressed against his mouth, he frowned. "Assuming that Uncle Eustace can substantiate Murchie's alibi, do you realize that there are only two persons whose movements we haven't accounted for?"
"There's Larking, of course. Who's the other?"
"Chass!"
She laughed. "You're crazy. At that rate, your Mother was home, too..."
"Mother was in bed. But Chass was alone in the study. There was nothing to prevent him, once the bridge-ites had gone, from skipping round to Barry's, and returning in time to send Larking out to the post, and no one the wiser..."
She gasped and flung herself back in her chair. "You British leave me guessing! Are you going to tell me you suspect your own Father?"
"Of course I don't," he said crossly. "Unfortunately, it's not whom I suspect, but whom this horrible fellow, Manderton, suspects that matters." He glanced at the lantern clock on its bracket above the fireplace. "A quarter to six! I wonder if Larking's back. I'd better see. I don't want him to spot this in my pocket, though..."
"This" proved to be the revolver. Rodney glanced about him. "What does Poe say? The most obvious place is always the safest..." He slipped the revolver in the drawer of the typing table.
He led the way across the room, helping himself to a cigarette from the box on the tea-wagon as he went. "If the old man's home he'll be in the pantry," he remarked as they traversed the hall. He pulled open a red baize door beside the entrance to the tennis court corridor. "If he's not there, we'll ring for him."
But Larking was not in the pantry. It was a narrow, rather cheerless room with barred windows, cupboards all round with drawers below and a small sink in the corner. Suspended from a shoulder on a row of hooks behind the door, Larking's dress-coat, like an ultra-attenuated version of the lanky butler himself, seemed to keep watch over his sanctum.
"Larking's pantry always brings back old days to me," Rodney observed. "Look at the old josser's taste in literature, will you?" He lifted up a copy of 'Bad Girl' from a shelf. "And his pipe!" He displayed a battered cherrywood. "At our other house in Kensington, when we were kids at school, Sholto and I used to have long cracks with Larking in his pantry. He used to let us help him clean the plate—we thought it no end of fun. Horrid young ruffians I expect we were! I wonder where the old devil keeps the matches?"
Fingering his unlit cigarette, he was ferreting round as he talked, opening drawers and cupboards. Suddenly he said: "Hullo, look at our doggy cap!"
From the open drawer before him he drew a cap and stuck it, comically, on the top of his head. Then he pulled it off again and turned it over. "Silk-lined, mark you!" He was about to replace it when Aline stopped him.
"Wait a minute, Rod!" She took the cap from him.
It was a golfer's cap of light Harris tweed, almost biscuit in hue. "You know the man I saw running out of Barry's last night?" she said. "Well, it was a cap like this he was wearing."
"So I imagined from your description." He took the cap back. Of a sudden, his face was perplexed. "But this is Chass's cap. He gets all his hats at André's—look, there's the name. It's usually lying on the hall table. I found it stuffed away under a lot of dusters. What the devil is it doing here?"
At that moment they heard Sir Charles's voice in the hall, calling for Larking.
FROM clogs to clogs, they say in Lancashire, four generations. But it is equally true that, under the British social system, advancement from the rough-and-ready surroundings of the artisan class to the refinement and luxury of the aristocracy may be a matter of no more than two. As in Frant House there fell no shadow of the thatched cottage where Sir Charles Rossway's father was born or of the forge where old John Rossway hammered out the foundations of the family fortune, so in the son there was nothing, either in appearance or manner, to jar upon his environment. To Aline, who knew nothing of the leavening influence of Rugby and Oxford, Sir Charles with his tall, vigorous frame, abundant snow-white hair and healthy complexion, his charming courtesy and authoritative air, appeared as the exemplar of a titled Englishman. He shot, he fished, he collected sporting prints, he dressed for the most part in tweeds and sat on the bench of magistrates at Broadleat. Though his title dated only from the war—a reward for his services at the Ministry of Munitions—he looked, or so it seemed to Aline, exactly as one would expect a baronet to look.
The thought came into Aline's mind again as, on emerging into the hall behind Rodney, who still clutched the cap, she saw her host glancing through a sheaf of letters.
"Where's that ruffian, Larking?" Sir Charles asked his son. "I've been stewing in the City all day and I want a whisky." His eye fell upon the cap. "Hullo, what are you doing with my cap?"
"I found it in the pantry."
"In the pantry? What the devil is it doing there?"
"I don't know. It was tucked away under some dusters in a drawer."
Sir Charles held out his hand. "Well, give it here. I wouldn't lose that cap for anything. It's a good cap, ain't it, Aline? Get me a drink, Rod, like a good chap, a stiff one."
"Right you are, Chass." Rodney hurried away to the dining-room. Aline noticed that he had not pursued the subject of the cap.
Sir Charles took her arm. "Come into the study and flirt with me, will you?" he said. "I want cheering up."
Arm in arm, they marched in. Sir Charles dropped into one of the big leather chairs and, stretching out his long legs, pressed his hands to his face. "Lord, I'm tired." He shook his head at her. "A bad business, my dear. Sorry you should have been caught up in it."
"That's all right, Sir Charles," she said, stroking his hand as she sat perched on the arm of his chair. "It's ever so much worse for you and Lady Julia."
He sighed. "My wife's a wonderful woman. But this thing has hit her deuced hard, Aline. She don't show much, but she suffers underneath—that's her way, you know. She rang me up at the office this afternoon because she knew I'd be worrying about her and, although she tried to be brave, her voice sounded desperately sad. I'd like to get her out of all this fuss and send her down to Broadleat to-night. But I doubt if I can persuade her. You might have gone as well, except for the inquest to-morrow."
"Oh, Sir Charles, I hope I shan't have to give evidence!"
"I don't think so. The Inspector seems a reasonable sort of chap, though a bit thick-headed, and I had a word with him. He's not going to call you; but he wants to have you on hand in case the Coroner wishes to ask you any questions. It's most unlikely that you'll be called, he says."
"Thank the Lord for that! Will Gerry go to Broadleat if Lady Julia goes?"
"No. Manderton wants her here. He seems to think she can throw some light on this business, heaven knows why. Oh, thanks, Rod!" He took the whisky-and-soda from Rodney, drained it and set the glass down on the desk. "I needed that."
He produced his cigar-case. "Well, what's new? Has Manderton been round again?"
"No. But they've got the bullet," Rodney replied. "It's uncased and fired from a service revolver, just as Pargetter said."
"Well," said his father, choosing a cigar, "now they've got to find the weapon."
"Chass," said Rodney rather tensely, "there's something I have to tell you."
Hastily Aline rose up from the arm of the chair. "I expect you'd like to be alone with your Father, Rod..."
But the young man signed to her to remain. "You found it. You've got to tell him yourself."
"Found what?" Sir Charles demanded. The match burned down to his fingers and he flung it away. Rodney was at the typing table, pulling open the drawer. He uttered an exclamation, then swung round to the girl.
"You saw me put it in that drawer, didn't you?"
"Why, yes!"
"Well, it's gone!"
"What's gone?" the baronet rapped out.
Aline ran to Rodney. The drawer contained a stack of typing paper, some pencils, a box of clips, but no revolver. "Perhaps Murchie took it?" she suggested.
"Took what?" cried Sir Charles irascibly.
"But he can't have: he didn't know it was there," Rodney said to Aline.
There was a roar from the armchair. "What the devil are you two jabbering about? Rod, have the goodness to pay attention to me! What are you talking about? Who's taken what?"
"It's about Gerry's revolver, one that Sholto gave her. I put it in that drawer not five minutes ago and now it's gone!"
"I didn't know that Gerry had a revolver," Sir Charles remarked. "What's there to get so excited about?"
"Someone took it out of Gerry's room last night and hid it in the sedan chair in the hall. And, Chass, one round has been fired, and fired quite recently—there are fresh powder marks in the barrel."
"I'm blessed if I can make head or tail of all this," Sir Charles rejoined irritably. "Who should want to steal Gerry's revolver and hide it?"
"Chass," said Rodney gravely, "you don't understand. This revolver of Gerry's was an Army pattern firing uncased ammunition."
The bushy white eyebrows were drawn together. A flame kindled in the keen blue eyes. "What's that you say? It's surely not... not..."
"Only the police can tell us that: they've got the bullet..."
"Does Manderton know?"
"No, Chass: I was going to wait until you came."
"You haven't told your Mother, I hope?"
"No."
"Well, don't say a word to her about it, either of you. Who else knows about it?"
"Only Gerry. And Larking."
"They must both be warned..." He broke off. "But, Rod, my boy, this is incredible! Where's Gerry? Is she in?" He pointed to the house telephone on the desk. "Get her down, will you? Now, Aline, you found the gun. Tell me about it."
"And you say you put the revolver in Murch's drawer there and that it has disappeared?" Sir Charles said to Rodney when Aline had finished.
"Yes. We went off to the pantry to find Larking—I wanted to ask him about it. We were away only a minute or two, and when we came back just now with you the revolver was missing."
"A heavy object like a revolver don't walk off by itself," snapped his father. "I expect Murch has put it away. But that's not the point. What we've got to find out now is who took the revolver from Gerry's room in the first place..." Becoming aware of the cigar in his hand, he looked for a match, found the holder beside him empty and, hoisting himself out of his chair, went to his desk, a big, florid Empire piece that stood with its back to the room. But Gerry appearing at that moment, he went behind the desk and dropped heavily into the swing-chair, his cigar still unlighted.
As though alert to the tense atmosphere, Gerry paused on the threshold long enough for her glance, of a sudden reproachful and suspicious, to search out Rodney. Sir Charles waited for her to close the door, then said brusquely: "What's this I hear about your revolver, Gerry?"
Aline, feeling horribly in the way but uncertain how best to escape, had withdrawn to the window-seat. With bated breath she watched the encounter. The man at the desk, listening to Gerry with jaw thrust out and fists planted on the blotter, was no longer the kindly host of Frant House, but Charles Rossway, captain of industry, hard-bitten, rugged and forceful. Gerry had her nerves well in hand and she was not to be shaken in her story. But her very desire to appear self-possessed lent her an almost provocative air which clearly grated upon her father-in-law. He heard her with growing impatience.
"It's all very well," he growled, "but you missed the revolver this morning, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"Then why did you wait for it to be discovered before saying anything about it?" His stern eye held her.
She wavered under his scrutiny. "I intended to mention it, of course. But that Inspector was such a beast, trying to make out I'd something to hide. I suppose I got the wind up. I'd have told you, Chass, but you were out. And I didn't like to say anything to Lady Julia..."
"I should hope not. You're not to breathe a word of this to her, do you understand that? Now look here, Gerry, I'm willing to make every allowance for you, but you're in a very difficult position. Supposing it's proved that Barry was shot with this revolver..."
Panic stared out of her white face. "It isn't possible..."
He shook his head. "We mustn't deceive ourselves, Gerry. The first question the police are going to ask is, who took the revolver from your room?"
"Then you mean to hand it over to the police?"
"Hand it over? Of course I mean to hand it over. By the way, you didn't take it out of Murchie's drawer there, did you?"
"I? When?"
"I put it there this afternoon," Rodney explained, "and it has mysteriously vanished."
"I know nothing about it," she answered sulkily. "I've been resting. I was asleep when you telephoned."
"Just a minute, Rodney," his father struck in. He addressed himself to Gerry once more. "I must warn you, Gerry. What Manderton is going to say is, if you didn't take that revolver out of your drawer yourself, who did?"
"I don't know," she cried, her voice rising plaintively. "It's the truth, Chass. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Did anybody know you had this revolver? It's the first I've heard of it."
"Only Murchie."
"Murchie? We'll have him in." He pressed the bell-push that lay beside the blotter.
With a faint shrug, Gerry turned away and sat on the settee. There was a pause. Then the door opened and Frank appeared.
"Tell Mr. Murch I want him!" Sir Charles ordered. "And hey, find Larking and send him to me."
"Very good, Sir Charles!"
With an exasperated grunt Sir Charles struck a light and began to warm the end of his cigar.
"Larking told me he'd never seen the revolver before," said Rodney.
"Well, it's his job to find out whether the servants have been up to any tricks," his father retorted irascibly and blew out a cloud of smoke. At the same instant Mr. Murch was visible in the doorway. Acquainted by long experience with his employer's moods, he hesitated before the anger smouldering in the blue eyes.
"Look here, Murch," Sir Charles began brusquely the moment the door was closed, "you knew that Mrs. Sholto had a gun, I believe?"
The secretary gulped: he looked scared. "Yes, Sir Charles."
"You haven't borrowed it by any chance?"
"Such was my intention," the secretary replied primly, "on the occasion of my projected visit to Durazzo. As things fell out..."
"I'm not talking of weeks ago. I mean quite lately. Yesterday."
The little man's denture clicked rapidly. "No, no, Sir Charles." He cast a despairing glance about him. "Why?"
"Because Mrs. Sholto's revolver vanished from her bedroom last night,"—he paused—"the night that Swete was shot, and turned up in the sedan chair in the hall this morning, with one round discharged."
Mr. Murch turned a violent scarlet and his jaw dropped. Automatically, his scrawny hands groped for his glasses. Steadying them on his nose, he gazed blankly at his employer. "For God's sake, Sir Charles," he exclaimed in an awed voice, "you're not suggesting... you're not accusing me..."
"Don't be a damned fool, Murch," roared the baronet. "I'm accusing nobody. All I'm trying to do is to get some sense into this business. You didn't take the revolver? Good. Then who did? Someone must have, damn it; things don't walk off by themselves. But if you didn't take the gun from Mrs. Sholto's room, did you remove it from that drawer of yours over there this afternoon?"
The secretary goggled at him through his pince-nez. "From my drawer, Sir Charles? Certainly not. And what's more, it was not there when I was working here this afternoon, I'll swear. Who says I moved it?"
"Nobody. Only Rodney put it there for a few minutes while he was out of the room and when he came back it was gone. Well, Frank?"
The footman had come back. His rather sharp features wore a slightly mysterious air. "Excuse me, Sir Charles," he said, "but Mr. Larking's out."
The baronet twisted his head round and surveyed the clock. "Out? At twenty-five minutes past six?"
"He came in about half an hour ago, Sir Charles. I thought he was in his pantry as I see him go upstairs, but I've looked and he's nowhere to be found. Now one of the maids says as how she saw him leaving the house by the front."
"What time was this?"
"About five-and-twenty minutes ago, Ada says." The front door-bell trilled through the hall. "All right, Frank," said Sir Charles. "I want to see Larking the moment he comes in. The old man's getting past his work," he remarked to Rodney as the door closed behind the footman. He ought to be seeing after the dinner-table by this.
There were voices in the hall. Lady Julia put her head in at the door. "Ah, Charles," she said and gave him her gracious smile. "I'm glad you're back. Could you spare me Murchie presently?—I have some cheques to send off." She nodded to them all and was gone.
"You'd better go to Lady Julia," Sir Charles told his secretary, "and harkee, Murch—not a word of this to her ladyship, do you hear?"
"I understand, Sir Charles!" the little man replied with dignity. He seemed dazed. He went quickly out as though he were glad to go.
Rodney looked at his father. The blue eyes were troubled. His white hair was ruffled up and his cigar had gone out—a sure sign that the Chief was worried, as the whole staff of Rossways Limited knew. "I can't imagine what's become of Larking," he grumbled. "I hope the old donkey hasn't got himself run over."
"Chass," said Rodney, "I want a word with you alone."
His father sighed. "Of course, old chap. Gerry, will you and Aline run away now? We'll talk about this another time."
Rodney held the door for them and they went but together, Gerry with head held high and face inscrutable; Aline rather subdued but with an understanding glance for him.
When they were gone, Rodney turned to his father with an air of suppressed excitement: "Chass," he said, "it's about Larking."
The baronet frowned. "What about him?" he asked rather ominously.
The boy hesitated. Now that it had come to the test he remembered that his father had known Larking actually longer than he had known his own sons, for Larking had entered his service when the baronet and millionaire of to-day was no more than a rather obscure, if prosperous, provincial industrialist settling down to married life in London. For an instant the boy found himself looking backward down the vista of the years. How many ties of which he knew nothing must unite these two elderly men—what memories shared of joy and grief, of hope and disappointment! He would have spared his father, his dearest, closest friend, if he could; but he had to go through with it.
"Chass," he said rather huskily, "don't you realize it can only have been Larking who took the revolver from Murchie's desk there? You heard what Frank said, that Larking came in for a moment and went out again immediately—by the front door? He must have seen me put the gun in that drawer and waited until Aline and I had gone through to the pantry to nip in and take it."
"Nonsense," snapped Sir Charles. "Why on earth should Larking do such a thing?"
"He was in the hall when Aline showed me the revolver hidden in the chair. Chass, he looked simply scared to death!"
"And quite naturally. At Larking's time of life people don't like these nasty shocks. You're letting your novelist's imagination run away with you, old chap!"
"I'm not, Chass, as you'll realize in a moment. You know that cap of yours I found hidden in the pantry? Aline says the man who ran out of Barry's last night wore one just like it. Besides, he wore an overcoat—on a warm night like last night that suggests he was in evening dress. Larking again, don't you see? That's why he's cleared out! He must have followed us to the pantry and seen me dig the cap out of that drawer. It goes back step by step. Who pinched the gun from Gerry's room? I can't tell you. But if you asked me who put it in the sedan chair I believe I can. It was Larking! Listen here!" He ran rapidly over Murch's story of his encounter with the butler on the previous night. "Larking, coming back from Barry's with the gun in his pocket, bumps unexpectedly into Murchie and shoves the thing into the first place handy. That's why the old boy was so panic-stricken when Aline found it. And that's why he has snapped up the gun and bolted now!"
"In other words," said Sir Charles sternly, "you wish me to believe that it was Larking who shot Barry? Is that right?"
"No. I don't believe that myself."
The baronet grunted. "I'm glad to hear you say that, Rod..."
"I'm just as fond of the old boy as you are, Chass," Rodney answered quickly. "And, apart from that, there's absolutely no evidence of motive. But the fact remains that, if he was at Barry's, it must have been just about the time that Barry was shot. What time did you send him to the post?"
Sir Charles reflected. "About a quarter to twelve. Or, wait, it may have been a few minutes later: I had to look for a stamp."
Rodney pursed up his lips. "There you are! The medical evidence says that Barry was killed not before eleven and not much later than half-past..."
His father shook his head stubbornly. "You'll never persuade me that Larking shot a man in cold blood. Or in hot blood either, for that matter."
"Then why should he disappear like this and carry off a piece of capital evidence?"
The baronet's blue eyes rested meaningly upon his son's face. "He might be shielding someone..."
Instinctively Rodney took a pace forward, stopped, and put out his hand. "Chass..." he said piteously.
"The old man is devoted to us all," Sir Charles went on. "And Gerry is Sholto's wife."
A wave of colour swept into the son's cheeks. Rodney gasped. Words seemed to fail him.
"Was Gerry Barry's mistress, Rod?" Sir Charles's voice was stern.
"I can't tell you, Chass."
"You mean, you won't?"
"No, Chass. I don't know."
"Did she have any men friends besides Barry, intimate friends, I mean?"
"I don't think so. Why do you ask?"
"I was thinking of this other man who was seen watching the flat. Manderton says he has an exact description. Have you any idea who it can be?"
Rodney shook his head. "He's the most puzzling feature of the whole damned conundrum. I can't even make a guess. One can only surmise that he was the murderer..."
"Then how did Gerry's revolver come into his possession?"
His son sighed and shrugged his shoulders. "I give it up. The point is now, Chass: what are we going to do?"
The telephone on the desk emitted its treble trill. Rodney answered it. With a hand clapped over the transmitter he spoke in an undertone the single name: "Manderton!"
"What does he want?"
"He says can he come up and see you after dinner?"
For a moment Sir Charles paused, biting upon the extinct stump of his cigar. Then he flung the cigar into the fireplace. "Tell him, yes!" he replied. Rodney gave the message, hung up.
"There's your answer, Rod..."
"You're going to tell him, then?"
"Everything."
Across the desk Rodney smiled into his father's face. "I knew you would. Somehow, I'm glad."
The rugged features were stern. "We can't obstruct justice, Rod..."
"I know." He paused. "For one moment I thought you were going to tell me that it was you who killed Barry—just now, when you said you thought Larking was shielding someone..."
His father's laugh was short and dry. "It's easy to see you're a writer of fiction," he said rather grimly.
TO anyone as unfamiliar as Rodney with the temperament peculiar to the average Scotland Yard man, the effect upon Inspector Manderton of Sir Charles's disclosures was distinctly disconcerting. The detective arrived towards the end of dinner and it was in the study, over the cabañas and a bottle of the 1900 port, that the baronet unfolded his tale.
He told the story in sequence, beginning with the disappearance of the revolver from Gerry's room and passing on to the slow piling-up of suspicion against Larking, which the butler's inexplicable absence seemed to corroborate. Rodney had expected that the revelation about the gun would throw the Scotland Yard man into a violent state of excitement, and he quaked inwardly at the thought of what the detective might have to say about the delay in reporting the disappearance and subsequent rediscovery of the weapon.
But the Inspector remained unmoved, listening, cigar in mouth, with careful attention to Sir Charles, only deflecting his head from time to time to sip from the glass at his elbow with evident enjoyment. When Sir Charles had finished, Mr. Manderton drew thoughtfully upon his cigar and then remarked in level tones: "You realize, of course, Sir Charles, that if the loss or even the recovery of this revolver had been promptly reported, this man would not have had time to escape?" And, without waiting for the other to reply, he went on, tugging out a notebook: "What do you know about this butler of yours?"
"Nothing but good, Inspector. Henry Larking has been with me for what——? It must be getting on for twenty-eight years, and I'd put my hand in the fire for his honesty and devotion. I regarded it as my duty to lay these facts before you, but I must tell you I find it almost impossible to believe that an old family friend like Larking could be involved in this shocking business."
"In the Rogues' Gallery at the Yard, Sir Charles," the Inspector observed quietly, "we've a whole section devoted to dishonest servants, nothing but—butlers, footmen, valets, all with criminal records as long as your arm. Aye, and many of them are in service—you'd be surprised the houses they get to. Where did you pick up this chap?"
"He came to me after the South African war."
"Ah," remarked the detective profoundly, "nothing like war for giving a crook his chance. No one asks unpleasant questions of the returned hero. Did he have a character?"
"Excellent."
"Batman, I s'pose he was?"
"Messman, to be precise."
"What was he before he joined up?"
"A footman, I believe. But I couldn't tell you where."
"Don't happen to have his picture, do you?"
"I've got some photographs somewhere—I had them taken for his passport." The baronet pulled open a drawer of his desk, rummaged and produced a small photograph which he tossed across. For the briefest instant the detective's gaze was focussed upon the picture, then he slipped it inside the pages of his notebook. "Has he got any relatives in London?" he asked.
"I think not. He has a sister married in Canada, I believe, and some nephews and nieces in Australia."
The Inspector nodded, and pensively rapped with his pencil upon the book in his hand. "Do you know whether Mrs. Rossway has any ammunition for that gun of hers?"
Sir Charles looked inquiringly at his son. "Do you know, Rod?"
Rodney shook his head. "No, Chass, but I'll ask her." He stood up but Manderton stopped him.
"One minute, sir, if you please. I'd rather you didn't do that. Would it be possible for you to have a look round her room without her knowing?"
The boy's glance consulted his father. "She'll be still at dinner," said Sir Charles. "You'd better do as the Inspector suggests, Rod."
"And now, Sir Charles," Mr. Manderton resumed as Rodney went away, "I'd be glad if you'd give me an exact description of this fellow of yours."
The Inspector was still writing in his book when Rodney returned with a small cardboard box which he planked down on the desk. Sir Charles opened the carton. It was full of loose cartridges. The Inspector had left his chair. The baronet dropped one of the cartridges into the detective's outstretched palm. His face had a strained look.
"Uncased!" said Manderton.
"The same calibre?" Sir Charles queried unsteadily.
The Scotland Yard man nodded. "I'll have the box, please, sir." His mien was impassive. The baronet replaced the lid and the carton disappeared in the Inspector's pocket. A silence fell. There was the rustle of leaves as the detective, cigar in mouth, his face screwed up to keep the smoke out of his eyes, consulted his notebook. "There were one or two questions I wanted to ask you, Sir Charles," he said at length. "Do you happen to know whether Mrs. Rossway has any friends called Leslie, or Ledlay—some name like that?"
Once more Sir Charles's glance flickered across to Rodney. "Can you help us, Rod?"
"I've heard Gerry speak of a Mrs. Leadbury," he replied slowly.
"Has she got a box at the Opera?" Manderton questioned.
"I don't know. It's possible. Why not have my sister-in-law in and ask her?" His tone was stiff.
"No," said the detective with excessive bluntness. He turned to Sir Charles and, removing his cigar, glanced at the baronet from under bent eyebrows. "I must ask you, sir, to regard all these inquiries as highly confidential. Particularly where Mrs. Rossway is concerned."
Sir Charles bristled. "You put me in a difficult position, Inspector..."
The heavy red face seemed to swell. "Not half so difficult as the position you're in already, sir. A vitally important piece of evidence has disappeared from your house. If you don't wish me to think that you yourself are a party to the obstruction of justice, you'll not put further difficulties in my way." He rounded swiftly on Rodney. "And that goes for you, sir, too." He tapped his book. "Now about this Mrs. Leadbury—where does she live?"
"In Pont Street, I believe," said Rodney and picked up the telephone book. "It's that woman who had a son in Kenya," he explained to his father. He flipped over the leaves. "Here you are..." He handed the directory open to the Inspector, his finger marking the place.
"Thank you, sir," said Manderton with careful politeness. He copied out the name and address in his book. "And this lady has a son in Kenya, you say?" he inquired casually.
"She had. He was killed on safari last year."
"Killed where?"
"On safari. Shooting big game, you know. He was a friend of my brother's."
"You have a brother in Kenya?"
"Yes. Mrs. Rossway's husband has an estate there."
The Inspector's glance, frowning, sought out Sir Charles. "I thought you told me that Mrs. Rossway's husband was in Italy?"
"I did. He's on his way home to join her."
"Was Mrs. Rossway out in Kenya with him?"
"Certainly. She came home two months ago as she couldn't stand the climate."
"I see." With lips pursed up Mr. Manderton closed his book, fastened the elastic band about it and thrust it back in his pocket. "And where is Mr. Sholto Rossway now?"
"He was at the Grand Hotel at Naples the last time we heard," Sir Charles answered. "About a week ago, wasn't it, Rod?"
"That's right."
"He's been visiting the new excavations at Pompeii," the baronet explained, "and he was hoping to get permission to see the work they're doing at Herculaneum."
"Do you expect him back soon?" said the Inspector, casually, looking about him for his hat. Rodney brought it from the chair where it was lying. "I wired for him this morning," he volunteered.
Sir Charles nodded approvingly. "I'm glad you did that, Rod."
Mr. Manderton was fiddling with his hat. "Well, I'll be getting along."
"Another glass of port?... Rod!"
"I thank you, no, sir!"
The elder man cleared his throat fussily. "I should be sorry if you were to carry away the impression that anyone in this house is trying to make difficulties, Inspector," he remarked diffidently. "I do hope you understand that I and every member of my household are at your disposal." Mr. Manderton indulged in a vague nod and fiddled with his hat. "You had other questions to put to me, I think you said?" Sir Charles added.
With a brooding mien the Inspector appeared to be lost in the scrutiny of the brim of his hat. "Only one other, Sir Charles," he rejoined impassively, "but the one answer will serve for both."
With which cryptic remark he nodded to father and son, swung on his heel and marched, massive and impenetrable, from the study.
The front door slammed.
WINDOWS jarred, pictures trembled, chandeliers tinkled to the crash of the front door that marked the detective's going.
Gerry heard the sound, seated before the mirror in her bedroom, staring with unseeing eyes at the pallid reflection in the white kimono that peered out of the dusky depths of the glass; Mr. Murch, too, banished by the visitor to his attic bedchamber to pore over the proofs of the speech delivered by Sir Charles at the meeting in the City that day. It broke in upon Lady Julia playing bezique with her brother in the great drawing-room on the first floor and into the musty, book-lined library behind it, where in a forlorn and desultory fashion her young American protégée prowled from shelf to shelf. In the servants' hall where an empty chair surveyed the staff assembled at cold meat and pickles, it cut across the argument which Mrs. Hunt, the temperamental cook, was conducting with Frank, the acting butler, and Mr. Giles, the chauffeur, who had dropped in for a glass of bitter on the way to bed, as to the relative merits of loss of memory or suicide as the most plausible explanation of Mr. Larking's absence.
Not a man or woman in the house but seemed to have ears strained for it and hearing it, to sigh with relief. One would have said the Inspector's departure lightened the house of a spell. Gerry was on her feet in a moment, green eyes wary, blonde head inclined, listening, towards the door, until the ensuing silence seemed to reassure her and she sat down again. Forthwith Mr. Murch had bundled his proofs together and, with the cat-like gait peculiar to him, was off downstairs.
Lady Julia shifted her gaze from her cards to the tall windows open upon the dusty planes of the Square. "He's gone at last," she said rather tensely. "I don't like this Inspector man, Eustace:—one never knows what he's thinking of. I wonder what he and Charles have been talking about together all this time? Run down, do you mind, and tell Charles I want to see him."
In the library Aline abandoned her idle scrutiny of the backs of books and sped to the door. Rodney would be coming up—she was waiting for his news.
In the servants' hall, Mrs. Hunt broke off abruptly to remark: "Well, he's off! I may be old-fashioned, but I never could fancy the perlice in the house," to which Mr. Larking's locum tenens added as his opinion that the parting guest was a 'regular Nosey Parker,' while Ada, the second housemaid, declared that the mere sight of him frightened her to death.
Aline saw Lord Blaize emerge from the drawing-room and go downstairs, followed immediately by Mr. Murch, descending from the upper regions. Uncle Eustace fluttered his hand to her, but the secretary did not appear to see her—she had a fleeting impression, as he tiptoed past her, that he looked upset and ill. Then Sir Charles with Lord Blaize and Rodney came up and went into the drawing-room, shutting the door. Listlessly, Aline returned to the library.
A close evening had succeeded the sunless day. Like the stuffy atmosphere which seemed to be pressing down upon her brain, she was conscious of an air of tragedy pressing down upon Frant House. She wanted to confide in someone, to thresh things out, explore, for instance, the theory that Rodney had merely touched upon, the possibility that Larking was shielding someone. But she received no encouragement. These bewildering English! To her, dinner had been a nightmare—a little shop between Sir Charles and Murchie about some company meeting in the City; some small talk, Lady Julia telling about her bazaar, Uncle Eustace and Rodney discussing horse racing; long silences during which Aline fancied she could almost hear the thoughts of the assembled company unconsciously slipping back to the mystery which absorbed them all, but to which seemingly none felt free to allude. Even Larking's disappearance was not referred to by so much as a word, and Aline left the table at the end of dinner without knowing what explanation Lady Julia had been vouchsafed to account for the butler's absence.
From bookcase to bookcase the girl in the plain black evening frock drifted aimlessly. So many books, so many she had not read, so many she would like to read:—and yet she could not settle down to one of them. Then her eye caught sight of the volumes of Nephew George's letters, two large black tomes ranged, rather inaccessibly, on one of the higher shelves. Nephew George's racy style, she decided, was just what she needed to divert her—she had only browsed a little among the letters: there must be many titbits she had missed. Sir Charles would not approve, but he was likely to be occupied for some time: besides, even if he came in unexpectedly, he had other things to think about just now—she could thrust the book out of sight before he recognized it. She looked about her for the step-ladder.
But then the door creaked behind her. She glanced over her shoulder guiltily. Lord Blaize was in the doorway, small and spruce, his monocle in his eye, a cigar between his fingers. "All alone?" he said genially.
Aline was rather partial to Uncle Eustace. She liked his easy manner. True, with his ferrety face and sparse sandy hair, it was not difficult to believe some of the gossip she had heard about him, and he was not precisely her idea of an earl. Still, he had neither borrowed money off her nor offered her worthless cheques: on the contrary, he had twice taken her to Hurlingham to see the polo and made himself most agreeable. Notwithstanding his rather unprepossessing looks, he had an air which was undeniably compelling. He was not haughty nor, on the other hand, over-effusive, neither snob nor glad-hander. He treated everybody on the same footing of equality as though, not concerned about his own valuation, he never bothered his head about anyone else's. Withal he always gave the impression not so much of owning the earth as rather of not caring a rap who owned it. She was rather at a loss to name this indefinable quality, but she fancied it must be poise.
He came in now, brisk and jaunty as he always appeared. "Well," he exclaimed, rubbing his hands together, "and what do you make of all this business, my dear?"
She smiled rather wistfully. "Don't ask me," she rejoined. "I'm sunk. What did Sir Charles fix up with the Inspector, do you know?"
"Sicked him on to Larking, of course. But,"—his eyes narrowed—"Lady Julia's not to know that, you understand?"
Her nod was rather impatient. "What have they told her about Larking?"
"Simply that he went out for a walk and never came back. Loss of memory through shock and so forth. Charles pretends that he sent for the Inspector johnny to get him to try and find Larking. Which, if you come to think of it, is rigorously accurate. Dear old Charles is quite enjoying himself. He fancies himself as a diplomat, does Charles. You ought to have heard him tackle my sister about going down to the country to-night. But he got no change out of Ju. She told him frankly she'd no intention of clearing out and leaving you girls behind, and Charles couldn't budge her. He ought to know better than to try. Lot of damned nonsense, I call it. He doesn't seem to realize that my sister has got the best head on her shoulders of anyone in this house. If I were in his place I'd tell her everything and make her take over the investigation in place of this oaf, Manderton. Don't you agree?"
"Yes," said Aline. "But I see Sir Charles's point of view. He doesn't want to upset Lady Julia—she has a simply terribly high opinion of Larking, hasn't she? I believe Sir Charles would as lief have the murderer get away with it as do anything to pain or shock Lady Julia..."
"He's crazy about her, of course; always has been..."
"Rodney's the same:—Sholto, too, Barry told me. I've never known a family to touch them. They're a regular mutual adoration society..."
Uncle Eustace nodded. "You're right. But Ju's at the core of it. She has devoted her whole life to Charles and the boys. It's not been too easy for her, either; she has had her share of trouble, you know..."
"I thought her life had been ideally happy. There's something so contented, so serene, about her, like, well, like a candle burning out of doors on a still night like this..."
"That's her sense of duty. I mean, we're an old family as families go. One of us,"—he laughed rather ruefully—"had to live up to this." A wide sweep of his arm indicated the handsome room. "But don't run away with the idea that my sister's a creature of ice. That's the side she turns to the world. Ju's full of character. She always keeps a stiff upper lip. She has had to, poor girl. But she has a store of tremendously deep feeling underneath this serenity of hers, as you call it. This Barry business, for instance, has hit her damned hard. But you have to know her as well as I do to understand just how hard it has hit her. To look at her, you'd never guess she'd had one great tragedy in her life already, would you? That's really why Charles is so fussy about her now..."
"Is it a secret, or can you tell me? I'm so interested in Lady Julia..."
"It's no secret, though Ju never talks about it. Did you know she was once engaged to Eric Ivinghoe?"
"No, though, of course, I've seen his photograph on her desk."
"They'd known one another all their lives. But old Eric hadn't a bean and my lamented parent was just as stony. The engagement was never announced: it was hopeless from the start. My Guv'nor put his foot down and Eric went to India. Stopped one in some frontier show."
"You mean he was killed, don't you?"
"That's right. Pity. Charming chap. Then Charles came along. He was twenty years older than Ju; but no one could help liking him—he always was a thundering good fellow. Still I think Ju hankered a bit after Eric. And she never quite forgave the Guv'nor... Well, Rod?"
Rodney was at the door. "Mother's asking for you, Uncle Eustace..."
"Right. How is she?"
"Worrying about Larking."
"I know. I was saying to Aline only just now that if I were your Father I'd tell her the truth."
The young man shook his head. "Not until we know it ourselves." He paused. "By the way, Murchie walked back with you last night, didn't he?"
"Yes. Why?"
"What time did he leave you?"
"About half-past eleven, I should say."
"How did he go back, do you know?"
"He said he was going to walk."
"He didn't take a taxi?"
"Not as far as I know. But why all these questions?"
"Is the unfortunate Murchie suspected?"
"Aren't we all, until we know the truth?" His voice was bitter.
Uncle Eustace tapped him on the chest. "You're letting this thing get under your shirt, old boy. Get out and forget it. There's nothing you can do. I tell you what, walk home with me presently. The air'll do you good."
"I don't mind if I do."
"Right. I'll just have a word with your Mother." The little man bustled out.
Rodney mooned over towards the bookshelves. "Well," Aline demanded breathlessly, "how did he take it?"
"Quietly. Too damned quietly. That fellow means trouble. He keeps harping on Gerry's alibi."
"Has he found out anything fresh?"
"I don't know. That's the devil of it. He tells us nothing and one is afraid to ask. Where's Gerry?"
"Gone to bed."
He hoisted his head sombrely. "I wish Sholto would come. If Manderton means mischief he ought to be here. Besides, if anyone can find out what Gerry's keeping back, Sholto should be able to." He pounded his open palm with his fist. "I'm worried about Mother. If Gerry's dragged into this, the scandal would kill her..."
Aline sighed. "Poor Lady Julia! Your uncle was telling me just now about the tragedy of her engagement. He must have been a wonderful man—to judge from his picture..."
"An absolute topper. I never saw him, of course, because he died before I was thought of. But I've talked to people who knew him and they all say he was the best-looking fellow of his time in London and quite the nicest..."
"I suppose Lady Julia was frightfully in love?"
"I imagine so. She's terribly wrapped up in Chass, of course—he's such a sahib. But I don't believe she ever quite got over Eric's death."
"So your uncle was telling me." She paused. "Did he ever marry, Rod?"
"Who, Eric? Lord, no. I mean, there was hardly time. You see, he was killed only about six months after their engagement was busted up."
"Oh, Rod, how ghastly for her! Why ever didn't they run away together or something?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. Mother never speaks of it. She's like that. She's never very demonstrative though I believe that inside she feels things more deeply than any of us. I remember, years ago, when Sholto and I were only nippers, Sholto got chucked off his pony on the drive at Broadleat and cracked his head on the mounting block. He was unconscious for a bit with blood all over his face—it really looked quite alarming. But Mother never batted an eyelid, though we were all scared to death. She carried Sholto into the house, bathed his head and brought him round and generally took charge as calmly as though she were a hospital nurse. Then when it was all over and Sholto was sitting up in bed as bright as be damned, she collapsed..."
"Fainted, you mean?"
He nodded. "She was out for I don't know how long. Chass was beside himself..."
Uncle Eustace looked in at the door. "My sister told me to say good night to you," he told Aline. "She's gone off to bed."
"Good night, Aline," said Rodney. "Once the inquest is over to-morrow I hope you'll be able to get away to Broadleat out of all this. Put out the lights when you go up, won't you? That used to be Larking's job—the Lord knows whether Frank will think of it."
"I'm going up now," she said. "Good night, Rod, good night, Uncle Eustace!"
Rodney switched off the lights in the library and she went upstairs to bed.
A SLIM, bare arm went out from under the sheet. A hand groped for the travelling clock that ticked with maddening persistency in the warm darkness, fingered a button. A little chime struck twice, then on a different note, once, and was still. The ticking raced on.
"Gosh, is that all it is?" murmured a fretful voice from the bed. The dangling cord of the bedside lamp was pulled and the light, pinkish under its silken shade, picked out the polished roundness of a shoulder which escaped seductively from the pale blue jacket of Miss Innesmore's expensive crêpe-de-chine pyjamas.
Pulling her jacket together, Aline sat up, stretched and indulged herself in a private grimace. The night was unbearably oppressive. Not a breath stirred the curtains drawn back upon the open windows.
She glanced at the clock and groaned. Only twenty minutes past two! It had seemed an eternity before she had finally fallen asleep. She had lain long awake, listening to the manifold noises of the city putting itself to bed, her mind revolving incessantly the events of the day. When sleep had come at last it had been in fitful bouts, thronged with the distorted images of her brain, from which she would start up, opening fearful eyes upon the funereal pomp of faded silk hangings and Carolean oak faintly illuminated in the glow from the street lamps in the Square. She cowered in horror to see, as she fancied, Barry in his silk dressing-gown with a livid face, regarding her from a corner near the door, while on the couch across the room a vague shape, slight and lissom as it might be Gerry, motionless and inscrutable, seemed to wait. Struggling between sleep and waking, she had to force herself to look again, only to discover that what she had taken to be Barry was her wrapper hanging on a screen while her frock, spread across the back of the couch, had, in her fevered imagination, assumed the silhouette of Gerry.
At last she gave up the unequal struggle. She was in for a bad night. The chime of the repeater, her glance at the clock-face, desolated her—she had been so sure it was almost morning. Never mind: she could write up her diary, she had not made an entry for days—and she had promised her father, who had given her the slim, elegant little book, to keep a faithful record of her doings in England.
Lazily her hand groped for her handbag in its accustomed place beside the lamp, opened it and felt for the book. It was not there. Her packet of Camels was missing, too.
She knew at once what had happened. She had left diary and cigarettes in the tennis court: she remembered taking them out of her bag just as Inspector Manderton's young man appeared. With a groan she flung herself back among her pillows. She had not even a cigarette to console her: with the convincing certitude peculiar to such tragic moments, she was aware that there was not a cigarette in the room.
She tried to go to sleep again, but the diary was on her mind. It was a record of her most intimate thoughts and she never let it out of her possession. Her impressions of Frant House and the Frant House circle were by no means for the public eye: she felt the blood rise to her cheeks at the mental picture of Rodney, for instance, reading it—she had rather let herself go about Rodney. She told herself it was absurd—Rodney would not be so dishonourable. But a servant would not have any such scruples...
And now, perhaps because human nature always craves the thing it is deprived of, she was conscious of the violent craving for a cigarette, she who, in the ordinary way, smoked so little. The more she worried about the missing diary, the more convinced she became of the impossibility of facing a wakeful night without the solace of a Camel. And at length, because hers was one of those temperaments, more common on the other side of the Atlantic than on this, with which to desire is to act, she swung her trousered legs out of bed, thrust her feet into slippers, huddled on the black and gold kimono which her father had brought her back from Japan, and unbolted her bedroom door.
It was only when she became aware of the warm, mysterious silence of the sleeping house welling up to her, that she paused to ponder on the ordeal of visiting the old tennis court—"full of ghosts," young Dene had said of it—in the watches of the night. She wavered—but only for a moment. The legend of Mad Phil's ghost had suddenly crept into her mind. But, instead of deterring her, it only steeled her resolution. Nobody but superstitious folk was scared of "h'ants," as they called them. Her sense of humour came to her aid. It would be rather fun to encounter a contemporary of Washington, even if you could see the wall through him: she wondered whimsically what Mad Phil, who had chased naked ladies round the Square, would find to say to a modern American girl. And she had to recover that diary.
She lit the candle that stood in a silver candlestick beside the bed, caught it up and resolutely slipped out into the corridor and down the marble staircase. It was as though she could sniff the odour of dead years in the faint mustiness of old furniture, ancient tapestries, that encompassed her as she noiselessly descended. About her were the faint stirrings of an ancient house at night, creakings and rustlings as though the venerable mansion was drawing deep sighs for its departed glories. Every light was doused: every door closed. Upon the hall flags the moon, shining through the fanlight above the door, cast long pencils of silver.
With her candle flinging giant shadows that reared themselves menacingly upon the hangings, she softly opened the door in the rear of the hall. Bare as a prison gallery, the tennis court corridor, with its whitewashed walls and brown matting, stretched before her. The small door leading into the court proper stood ajar. She pushed it back and the dim emptiness of the court enfolded her.
The moon must have retreated behind a cloud, for the tall windows on either side of the gaunt span of the roof were dark. Still there was sufficient light in the night sky slanting crosswise through the grimy panes, to enable her to make out the chase lines, the silhouette of the drummer beating his eternal rataplan upon the buttress across the court and, at the far end, the long narrow slit marking the dedans opening.
There was no electricity in the court, as Aline knew. The place was never used after dark; so it had not been thought necessary to wire it. There was a little current of air in the covered way under the pent and she had to shield the candle with her free hand as she raised it, this way and that, looking about for the slender, blue leather book, the familiar squat packet of cigarettes. Not finding either, she realized, with a little qualm of fear, that she would have to make her way to the dedans—she must have put her belongings down there when she took Dene to see the portrait of Mad Phil—and found herself exceedingly loth to thread the clammy darkness at the mercy of a tiny, trembling flame.
Having come this far, however, she told herself stoutly, there was no going back for her. No, sir! If her diary had not already been discovered, she was going to find it. Cupping the guttering light, she pattered softly along the matting of the covered way. As she went she became aware of a lightening in the surrounding gloom. Glancing into the court, she saw the figure of the drummer in his faded scarlet clearly revealed in a sliver of moonlight that seemed to fall through the windows above her.
Faces of dead and gone tennis worthies gazed down at her from the walls of the dedans—Cabasse, Barre, Tom Pettit. Mad Phil seemed to fix her with his cynical, quizzing glance: it made her hasten her search. But it was vain; neither book nor cigarettes was there. Someone must have taken them into the house: Frank, probably, going the rounds, "pinch hitting" for Larking, before shutting up. She swore under her breath—doggone it, she just hated to be beaten. She grabbed her candle and retraced her steps, hurriedly, not daring to look behind her. The court was dark once more: the moon had veiled its face again.
As she reached the marker's box and the door communicating with the house, she suddenly saw the missing packet, the diary beneath it. They reposed under the lip of the gallery or netted opening nearest the net on the side away from the dedans—it was not surprising she should have overlooked them on coming into the court. She pounced upon her property, thrust diary and cigarettes into the pocket of her wrapper and turned swiftly towards the door. The silence and the gloom were beginning to tell on her nerves—she had had quite enough of this ghostly spot, she told herself.
But at that moment she heard a noise behind her—a clear-cut rather hollow sound that reverberated through the court. She stopped dead, her skin prickling under her thin sleeping suit, her heart thumping. Sheer instinct made her swing about, for she was dry-mouthed and sick with fear.
The court, black and empty, confronted her. She was trembling and her heart thudded so loudly in her ears that to her its beats were like the monotonous throbbing of a dynamo in that silent place. She tried to master her terror, telling herself that the sound she had heard, which had seemed so close, must in reality have come from the mews at the back.
Of a sudden the blood seemed to curdle and freeze in her veins. The candle drooped and spilled its wax upon the matting as her hand fell away. She stood like a statue, her black wrap merged in the dark background, unable to move, unable to cry out.
The drummer had disappeared.
The surface of the tambour was smooth and unbroken, darker, as it seemed, than the surrounding wall. But the gay drummer, drum and all, was gone.
She peered into the dimness, fascinated, incredulous, raising the candle. A puff of air snatched at the trembling flame. It guttered wildly, burnt blue, went out. Yet, a remnant of courage coming to her succour, she stood her ground, staring into the gloom. She must be sure, she told herself, that her eyes did not deceive her, that this was not just one of the nightmares that had driven sleep from her pillow. But to be certain she would have to go out on the floor. Not without a light, though...
She fumbled for the matches. There had been a box in the tray of her candlestick, but it was no longer there—it must have fallen to the ground. Her fascinated gaze fixed upon the buttress, she was about to stoop and grope for the matches, when her eye caught a movement against the obscurity of the opposite wall. There was no sound but it seemed to her that a vague shape had glided across the front of the tambour. On that her nerve suddenly broke. She turned blindly, feeling for the door, lit on it, plucked it wide and sped down the corridor, burst into the hall and came into violent collision with someone who was advancing towards her. Only then did she perceive that the hall light was on. Wearing his hat, as though he had just come in, Rodney stood there, surveying her in amazement.
"Aline!" he exclaimed. "What on earth..."
"Rodney," she gasped incoherently, "someone... back there... in the tennis court... I was so scared."
"You're dreaming," he said laughing. "What have you been up to? Walking in your sleep?"
She caught his sleeve with a rather shaky hand. "Come and see for yourself. I went to look for my cigarettes. I heard a noise behind me: when I turned round, the drummer on the buttress had disappeared. Then someone, something, seemed to move across the wall. Oh, Rodney, I had such a fright. What can it be?"
Already she was drawing comfort from his presence. He looked so confident, so protective, with his alert face and pleasant laughing eyes. She felt her curiosity stimulated. There were no such things as ghosts, were there? What had she seen, anyway?
"Come on, partner," he said and clapped his arm about her. "I'll prove to you that you dreamt it all." He opened the corridor door. She shrank back.
"Oh, Rod," she murmured, "I daren't go back there!"
"Then I'll go," he rejoined cheerfully and ran lightly along the dark passage. But now, though the great brass lantern flung its rays about, she was frightened of the stillness of the sleeping house and flew after him. She caught him up as he laid hold of the door. "You'll see," she whispered as he pulled it open, "the drummer has vanished."
Bare and deserted, the court was stretched out before them. The moonlight streamed upon the floor. On the buttress, under his piebald stippling, the gay drummer flaunted it as bravely as ever, eyes bright, cheeks pinkly glazed, sticks raised stiffly above the gaudily-painted drum.
She was dumb with astonishment. Rodney laughed softly and gave her arm a friendly squeeze. "What did I tell you?" he said.
She glanced at him then back at the figure on the tambour. "Rod," she declared solemnly, "I swear to you, just as true as I stand here..."
"We'll talk about it to-morrow, shall we?" he told her soothingly. "What you've got to do now is to go straight back to bed. Do you know it's getting on for three? Mother would throw a thousand fits if she knew you were wandering about the house at this hour. Come on, I'll see you to your room."
So saying, he rekindled the candle and they went back to the house together.
FROM behind the gratifying rampart of a breakfast tray set out with such creature comforts as a glass of orange juice, thin toast, home-made marmalade and coffee in a silver pot, with the morning sunshine flooding the carpet, it is not difficult to assume a prosaic attitude towards manifestations of the supernatural. Lying back in her pillows, unrepentantly aware of the fact that the tennis court clock had lately struck ten and that she was only just awake, Miss Innesmore, glancing backward over her experience in the night, was inclined to believe that Rodney had been right and that, if she had not precisely dreamed the whole thing, at least she had walked in her sleep.
Of course, she mused as she sipped her orange juice, moonlight did play tricks with the vision, and after the excitements of the day she had been rather overwrought. The only thing to do was to put the experience out of her mind. With this resolve she poured herself out a cup of coffee and unfolded the morning paper which lay on the breakfast tray.
But when she opened it the first headline her eyes encountered was "The Mayfair Mews Mystery." There were columns of it, interspersed by a diagram of Barry's living-room, a snap of Rodney, with pipe, looking extremely fractious—"Mr. Rodney Rossway, son of Sir Charles Rossway and author of 'Hands Invisible,' who found the body, is one of the most promising of the younger school of novelists," she read—and a singularly unbecoming portrait of herself in her Court dress—"Miss Alice Innesmore"—they never got her first name right!—"who is expected to give evidence at to-day's inquest."
She put the paper down suddenly. The inquest was fixed for 2.15 that afternoon. Sir Charles had seemed to think she might be spared this ordeal; was the newspaper right? She had the haziest idea of what a coroner looked like, some terrifying personage in a full-bottom wig and scarlet robe, probably. But she was able to form the clearest picture in her mind of the part she might be required to play in the proceedings. She could hear her name called, see herself threading her way to the witness stand and waiting, amid a buzz of excitement from the crowded benches, for the first of a string of searching, bewildering questions—that, at least, was the way court scenes went in the pictures.
She felt the blood rush to her face. Bah! In four hours she would know the worst—why torment herself meanwhile? Resolutely, she switched her mind off these vain speculations—and found her thoughts once more straying about her adventure in the night.
It was useless to deceive herself. Every detail of her experience projected with startling clearness from the background of her memory. She had descried the drummer so distinctly—the moonlight had made the court clear as day; then, no less distinctly, for all that the moon had gone in, she had seen the buttress black and dark without the familiar figure. The vague shape that had seemed to cross the face of the wall might have been a trick of her imagination; but about the drummer she had no doubt.
Her plan of resting quietly in bed until luncheon suddenly seemed to lose its attraction. She told herself she must go back to the court to see whether she could not discover some simple explanation of the phenomenon....
She had asked Cox to put out a dark dress. She must be prepared to take the stand at the inquest. Simple things suited her best, she decided as, having had a hasty bath, she surveyed herself before the mirror in the plain black silk linen frock she had bought in Paris. The white linen collar and cuffs gave her a sedate, almost a Quakerish appearance—the ensemble, she thought, should appeal to a jury of Britons persuaded that the modern American girl is a jazz- and gin-crazed bacchante waving a hip-flask.
The house was quiet as she descended. In the dining-room Frank was clearing away the breakfast. The gentlemen, he said, had gone out: the other ladies were not down yet. Aline quietly slipped away to the tennis court.
The first object she perceived was a tawny head of hair that flamed against the opposite wall. Across the court young Master Dene sprawled in what seemed to be a highly-uncomfortable posture, an expression of ferocious concentration upon his ingenuous features, his ear glued to the masonry. At the echo of Aline's high heels under the pent, he shifted his head and, recognizing her, grinned his disarming grin over his shoulder, sprang to his feet and came across to where she stood.
She eyed him rather severely. She was not particularly glad to see him—she wanted to pursue her investigations. But with his customary nonchalance he disregarded the coldness of her manner.
"You're not a bit like a Conan Doyle heroine," was his greeting. "Properly speaking, you should be wearing a pork-pie hat, mutton-chop sleeves and a long train briskly hooverizing the floor—beats while it sweeps sort of thing. And, yes, I think you should carry a parasol—a green parasol, for choice—across one arm like a carbine, and you should rush up to me and seize me by the hand—both hands: the old-fashioned girl was great at in-fighting of that kind—and sigh genteelly: 'Ah, Mr. Holmes, you lift a load from my heart!'" With one hand pressed against his waistcoat, he suited the action to the word.
Aline's laugh went ringing up to the rafters. It was impossible to stand on one's dignity before that invincibly cheerful smirk. She reminded herself in time, however, that this young man was inclined to be fresh. "It's not mutton-chop sleeves," she rejoined cuttingly. "Leg of mutton sleeves, I suppose you mean!"
"Pork-pie hats, leg of mutton sleeves!" he murmured. "These analogies of the provisions department are enough to confuse any fellow!"
"And as for imagining that you resemble Sherlock Holmes..." she pursued severely.
With a fine assumption of tragic despair he smote his freckled brow. "Go on," he cried in a hollow voice. "Remind me that I'm nothing but a common cop! Throw up my past in my face! And to think I was paying you a compliment! Are you going to tell me you didn't realize that my parable was an indirect, but none the less unmistakable, allusion to the extreme—ahem!—fetchingness of your—ah!—general ensemble? Paris, I presume?"
She found his banter infectious: it was the tonic she needed to lift her spirits from the ruck of depression in which they had been plunged. A finger laid upon her nicely Guerlained lips, she made him a little bob. "I wish you'd tell me something," she said. "Do you ever stop talking?"
"Hardly ever," he rejoined brightly. "Why? Did you want to say something?"
"Only to ask you what you're doing here."
"Just having a snoop round."
The thought had occurred to her that possibly Inspector Manderton had heard from Rodney of her adventure in the tennis court. "Who let you in?" she demanded.
"I came over the roof."
"From Barry's, from Mr. Swete's, do you mean?"
He shook his head. "The flat's padlocked, with a constable on the door. And there's no way out to the roof from the flat, anyway. There's only one window on the back and it's barred. No, we have to put a ladder against the front and climb over the roof of the living-room at Swete's to the leads of the tennis court. Mucky business! Look at my hands!" He held up a pair of begrimed palms.
"But what are you looking for here?"
He leaned upon the woodwork of the gallery, his fingers playing with the meshes of the coarse brown netting. "Well," he said slowly, "it's just an idea of my own. The Chief doesn't know anything about it yet. He's been detained at the Yard this morning so I thought I'd try it out. This is an old house, isn't it? Once upon a time, before the court was built, there was a way through from the house to the stables. Sir Charles says so himself..."
"Yes, but when the court was made, the way through disappeared..."
"Quite. But suppose it didn't! Or rather, suppose that some secret way through remained—old houses often have these gadgets, you know. And people don't disappear into thin air, do they?"
Aline glanced at him rather nervously. "I don't believe I quite follow..."
Rather shyly he returned her glance through his goggles. "I don't want you to go repeating anything I tell you," he said with a touch of self-consciousness.
"Don't run away with the idea that I'm giving away police secrets, however; I'm not. But my Chief is what you'd call a realist—you've seen him, you can judge for yourself. He's a plodder, if you know what I mean. He believes that everything can be solved on perfectly straightforward, commonplace lines, if only one plugs away at it hard enough. In this case we have two identifications; one man seen to enter the flat, a second man seen to come out. The official procedure at the Yard is always to start from the presumption that by means of incessant questioning and following up the tiniest clues the obscure points of an investigation will ultimately be cleared up. What I call the short circuit method never seems to appeal to them..."
"And what just is the short circuit method?"
"Cutting through all this tangle of piffling, timewasting inquiries by a bold stroke. Take this case, for instance. Instead of fiddling about trying to discover whether anybody saw Stranger No. 1 come out and Stranger No. 2 go in, why not assume straight away that things really are what they seem? In other words, that there's a means of access to the flat unknown to us..."
Aline looked past the young man's flaming poll at the drummer on the buttress. With a little air of suppressed excitement she said: "You mean a secret passage between this house and the flat?"
He grinned up at her. "You mustn't call it that. It sounds much too melodramatic. Manderton thinks me a darned sight too melodramatic already. 'Dithyrambic,' he called me the other day. Priceless, what? I don't suppose he knows for a moment the meaning of the word. But I got back at him. I said I was only dithyrambic in a purely banausic sense. That took the stuffing out of him. All he could do was to burble 'Quite' and blow his nose. But between you and me and the bedpost, secret passage is absolutely what I mean." His eyes glinted joyously through his shining gig-lamps. He looked very young. "What a rag if we found it! This Mad Phil of yours was a regular lad, you say, making love to the ladies and dodging the duns. I should think a sort of private way out the back would have been devilish handy for him, don't you agree? Unfortunately,"—he sighed profoundly—"the whole blinking wall seems solid as rock. I've been tapping it all over and I know. I suppose we shall have to fall back upon cross-examining washerwomen in the mews. It's a pity! It was such a good theory. Well, I'd better be getting along. I left that ladder propped up against the house and if I don't get back before school is out, I shall find every kid in the mews climbing up and down it. Good-bye, Miss Innesmore! You won't betray my criminological aspirations to the old man, will you?"
It was only then, as he turned to her with his elfin smile and grubby hand outstretched, that young Dene perceived that his companion was all but unconscious of his presence. He saw her with her graceful head upraised, lips parted, eyes staring pensively into the echoing emptiness of the old court. He took a step backward, clasped his hands together, struck an attitude of mock admiration. "You'll forgive my mentioning it," he remarked in his burlesque way, "but you look exactly like 'The Soul's Awakening'!"
She started, saw him standing there and blushed, as it appeared to him, with ravishing effect. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "I guess I was thinking of something else. Must you be going?"
"I made a long and, if I may say so, rather effective discourse on the subject," he observed reproachfully. "All gone, all wasted on the desert air. No matter. His expansive smile registered forgiveness. I like talking to you even if you don't listen: I like listening to myself, anyway..."
At that she laughed outright. "You do say the most original things..."
"I'm going to be still more original, then," he riposted, and now his tone was suddenly grave, "for I'm going to be serious for once. I'm going to give you a piece of advice. You're a guest at Frant House, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"If I were you I should cut short my stay..."
"Why on earth should I do that?"
"I can't say any more than that. But if you're wise you'll get out and stay out, even if it means taking the next boat back to New York. But don't say I said so."
With that he laid hand to forehead in a grave salute and disappeared down the covered way under the penthouse in the direction of the steps leading to the roof.
SHE made an involuntary movement as though to detain him. But then, perceiving that he had gone, she resumed her meditation, standing stockstill beside the net post in front of the marker's box. Even the wheezing of the old clock and the twelve discordant strokes wherewith its cracked bell announced the hour of noon failed to sever the thread of her reverie. Once more she had turned her eyes upon the opposite wall.
But they no longer focussed the figure on the tambour, vivid against its plain greyish background. The shining surface of the wall had dissolved and in its place she seemed to see a certain yellowing page of manuscript closely covered with line upon line of a sloping, spidery hand. Her memory, not her eye, strove to pick out from the mass a certain sentence which her late companion, with his chatter of secret passages and Mad Philip's dun-dodging, had brought back to her memory.
At length she bestirred herself and went slowly forward until she was face to face with the guardian of the buttress. Her hand stole up and tentatively fingered the faded scarlet coat. The stone was dank to her touch. Her knuckles rapped the tambour and the wall beside it—the masonry was solid, dead.
Impatiently she wheeled away, brow furrowed, finger laid in thought against her small chin. "Gracious," she murmured half aloud, and the whisper went rustling through the echoing emptiness, "if only I could remember just what it said and where it came in..."
Suddenly her features lighted up and she snapped her fingers. Her hesitation slid from her like a cloak. She darted across the court and along the corridor to the house, raced upstairs to the first floor and there cautiously opened the door of the library.
She had the long, quiet room to herself. The door swung to behind her and a solemn silence seemed to swallow every sound. A short step-ladder was in the corner and she proceeded forthwith to drag it along the shelves until she was immediately beneath that upper row of books where two black tomes, lettered on the backs in gold "Frant House MSS.", stood side by side. Clutching the upright, she mounted the steps and brought down the two volumes, quarto size and bulky. Bearing them to the deep, broad couch that stood before the empty hearth, she dumped them down among the cushions and then sat down herself.
Picking up one of the two volumes at random, she began with frantic haste to flutter its yellowed and fly-spotted pages. It was a collection of holograph letters, written on square sheets of paper, each letter enclosed between folders of glossy vellum. Letter by letter, she ran her eye rapidly down the serried lines of regular, angular writing, never pausing until, the last folder reached, she laid the collection aside. Then she picked up the fellow volume and began again, bending to her task with a sort of feverish concentration. As she made headway, from folder to folder, her pace grew slower. But at the same time her attention redoubled.
Suddenly the stillness of the room was broken by a suppressed "Ah!" of triumph. The girl on the couch was stooping over the volume open flat on the couch beside her, her finger underscoring the manuscript line by line as she read. She turned the page swiftly, poring ever closer over its successor as her eye followed her travelling finger. So absorbed was she that she failed to perceive that the library door had opened.
On catching sight of her curled up on the couch, Rodney came in. "So there you are!" he said. "I've been hunting for you everywhere!"
She started and looked up. "Hullo, Rod!"
He strolled across to the couch. "What have you got hold of there? More memoirs?" He glanced over her shoulder at the book and whistled. "Nephew George, isn't it? You'd better not let Chass catch you..."
She planted her two small hands over the page she was reading. "Sit down, Rod, and keep still, will you please? I'm reading something rather interesting."
He laughed and, pulling out his cigarette-case, seated himself at her side. "I bet you are. That sanctimonious humbug has the most completely dirty mind of any man I ever came across. Or don't you think so?" He scratched a match on the sole of his shoe and lit a cigarette.
But Aline had returned to her reading. Rodney smoked placidly, contemplating with an approving eye the clustering brown hair, the pleasing curve of the face at his side. Presently Aline glanced up and said: "Rod, have you read these letters?"
"Only some of the spicy bits. I always meant to read the whole collection, but you know the way one puts things off. I don't believe anyone has been through them all, unless it's Murchie."
"Murchie?" she exclaimed. Her voice was awed.
"Murchie's the great authority on Frant House. Do you mean to say he hasn't given you a copy of his guide-book?"
"Yes, of course. I'd forgotten, I guess..." her voice trailed off.
Rodney clamped his hand down on hers. "Aren't you being rather mysterious? What's up?"
By way of reply she turned to the volume at her side, went back a couple of pages, then thrust the volume at him. "Read that, will you?" Her finger pointed at a passage.
Lifting his eyebrows, Rodney took the book and dropped his eyes to the faded, time-stained page. He read:
On my return from the play with Sir Hy. Dove and Mr. Hemingway, old Mark, who opened to us, told how, when my Uncle sat at dinner, the sheriff's officers came to take him for Mr. Dobie's debt. Old Mark and others of my Uncle's people held the officers in talk for a space so that when at length they had forced a way to the dining-room the bird was flown. At which they were mighty vexed and would doubtless have done old Mark and the others some injury, holding them to be in league with Hs. Lordship, but that, as Mark told them, they had all exits guarded in that fellows of their own were posted to keep watch upon the area while they themselves battered at the front door. Nothing would do but they must ransack the house, searching for some privy exit which they could not discover and of which, if it exist, neither I nor any at Frant House, unless it be my Uncle, have knowledge. This trick which my Uncle played upon the officers—not for the first time, 'tis said—put my companions in high good humour, Sir Hy. vowing that old Nick himself had spirited Mad Phil away and would presently go in a train of fire and brimstone and offer himself a surety to Soapy Sam (so they name the chief sheriffs officer among them). Later, when we sat at our wine, there was much talk between them of my Uncle having caused to be made a secret way out, known only to himself, against the descents of such gentry. But Mr. Hemingway gave it as his opinion that Hs. Lordship builded him a Golden Bridge by giving a fistful of guineas to the catchpoll at the area door whence he escaped to his chariot standing waiting in the Square...
On a flowery superscription the letter ended.
Rodney raised his eyes to Aline. But she, without giving him time to speak, turned over a few pages. Her finger fluttered down the lines of writing, stopped.
"Now this!" she said rather tensely. Rodney read:
This day, by the stage from Dover, a letter from my Uncle. He is off, three days since, for Calais by the "Margate Hoy." After giving me certain directions bearing upon his affair, he writes in merry mood:
"Should Soapy Sam come again to make a pother at my door, Mark shall tell him that he who would take Mad Phil must first beat the drummer at a hand of tennis. By hook or by crook, but he must best him. Here's one to cudgel thy brains with, Nephew."
The which is only to signify, the drummer Hs. Lordship speaks of being no more than an image Painted on the wall, that Mad Phil will always be one too many for the bailiffs...
"That's all," said Aline, seeing that he had turned the page. "I ran through the rest. There's nothing else to interest us." She stayed him with one hand laid on his. "Now this is what I think..."
She was eager, a little excited, engrossed in her discovery. But when she raised her eyes to his, her voice slowed down. A subtle change had come over her companion. She had been conscious of something almost affectionate in his regard as, sitting rather close to one another on the couch, they had pored over the letters; but now he seemed suddenly to have lost all interest in her. The light had faded from his eyes and his features wore an expression of bitter abstraction. With a little pang of disappointment she was aware that the old footing of friendliness between them, for some reason she could not guess, had broken down. She wondered whether he thought she had taken a liberty in prying into these old letters. She brightened. Of course he did not understand what she was driving at: as soon as he knew what was in her mind...
She snuggled up to him. With her finger she underscored the passage he had just perused. "'He who would take Mad Phil,'" she read out impressively, "'must first beat the drummer at a hand of tennis. By hook or by crook, but he must best him.'" She glanced confidingly into his face. "I think it's a what-do-you-call-it—a cipher—don't you? Look! Mad Phil himself says: 'Here's one to cudgel thy brains with.' I believe this is a key to the secret exit the other letter speaks of." She lowered her voice: "Rod, supposing there's a way, a secret way, through the tennis court wall?"
But he vouchsafed no reply, drawing upon his cigarette with a frigid and unrevealing air. His silence discomposed her, and rather stubbornly she persisted: "It would explain why no one saw Larking going into Barry's, wouldn't it?" And, seeing that he still did not speak, she ran on: "Dene has the same idea, you know..."
"Dene?" he echoed blankly.
"Manderton's assistant. I found him in the tennis court just now sounding the wall."
He turned and surveyed her with mutely questioning eyes. "It's only a private theory of his own," she explained quickly. "He's not very serious about it, really. It was only after he'd gone that I began putting two and two together. He's rather youthful, you know, with his head full of sleuths and secret passages, and all that bunk out of the crime stories. But while he was getting his theory off his chest it suddenly flashed across my mind that I'd read somewhere in Nephew George's letters about Mad Phil having a secret way out of Frant House to side-step the duns. I rushed straight up here and searched the letters through. I found the one I wanted—I seemed to remember it came after a gorgeous bit—Nephew George at his plainest—about a party Mad Phil threw after some horse race; but, going on from there, I came across a letter I hadn't read—the second one I showed you, the one that has the cipher or whatever it is. Now listen, Rod,"—she drew closer to him—"if the drummer's the key of this secret exit, doesn't that explain what happened in the tennis court last night?"
He slewed half round and gazed at her, frowning, his brows drawn down.
"You... you thought I imagined it, didn't you?" she continued rather breathlessly. "But I didn't, Rod. It's as clear as anything in my mind—every bit of it. The drummer was there, then the wall was blank—he'd vanished: yet, when we went back, he was in his old place. And I saw someone move across the buttress, I'm certain. Doesn't this show that somebody was using this secret passage, or whatever it is, last night?"
He averted his gaze, but she saw that he was watching her out of the corner of his eyes. "Did you say anything about this to Dene?" he asked curtly.
"Of course not!" Her tone was indignant. "You and I are investigating this business together, aren't we? I shouldn't dream of telling anyone but you."
He laughed—rather a forced laugh—and patted her hand. "You're letting this thing get on your nerves, aren't you, Aline?"
His manner was distant and she recoiled. "You don't think I made up this about the tennis court last night, do you?"
"Not intentionally, of course. But, like everybody else in the house, you're upset. And when the nervous system has had a shock, the imagination is apt to play funny tricks..."
She gave a little gasp. "Then you do think I imagined this experience of mine?"
"Yes," he said sullenly, "I do."
"And what about this?" She rapped the volume lying open upon his knee. "Isn't this confirmation?"
He laughed rather scornfully. "Surely you don't expect me to pay any attention to an old wives' tale like that? Don't you realize that if a secret passage of this kind existed, we should be bound to know of it? I never heard of it, and I'm quite certain neither Chass nor my Mother know of it, either." He hesitated. "Look here, Aline, I'm sure you mean well, but I hope you won't go starting hares about ghostly happenings in the tennis court at night. If you do, you'll only bring the whole pack of policemen, reporters and press photographers down on us."
"I shan't start any hares, as you call it," she said quickly, a little colour coming into her cheeks. "I'd hate you to think I was butting in, anyway."
"There's no question of that," was the hasty rejoinder. "But you're our guest, Aline: we're under a certain responsibility to your people. I've been thinking things over and I can't run the risk of seeing you mixed up in this business..."
"Isn't it a bit late to think of that?" she put in cuttingly. "It seems to me I've been mixed up in it from the start."
"That couldn't be helped," he answered impatiently. "But from now on you're going to keep out of it!"
"And what about our pact?" she demanded hotly. He shrugged and turned away. "We agreed to tell one another everything, didn't we?" She laughed rather shrilly. "It's not difficult to see why you're anxious to break it..."
"Why do you say that?"
"Isn't it obvious? You've discovered something you don't want me to know. Anyone would think you didn't want to find out who killed Barry."
She saw him flinch. "What makes you think that?" he asked doggedly.
"You know, Rod." He was silent, tense. "I'm going to show you that I'm a better sport than you," she went on. "I don't break promises just when it suits me. I've had a warning to leave your house."
On the instant he swung round to her. "A warning? Why?"
"Because there's trouble brewing..."
She had jumped to her feet, intending to leave him and so evade the further inevitable question. But the look he turned upon her was so piteous that, for the moment, she forgot her wounded pride.
"Who says so?" The words came huskily over his lips.
"Dene."
"Dene!" His voice was sombre as he repeated the name.
"Oh, Rod," she exclaimed warmly, "I hate to see you worried like this. Won't you tell me what's the matter?"
On that he stirred himself, flung his cigarette into the fireplace and, brushing some flakes of ash from his coat, stood up. "I'm all right," he answered wearily. "It's only that this police inquisition is a bit wearing." He bore the two volumes of letters to the ladder and restored them to their shelf. "It's time for lunch," he observed, glancing at his watch. "We're lunching early on account of the inquest. Shall we go down?"
He held the door for her and she sailed out of the room, her head held high, her mouth firm. She had made her offer, and it had been rejected. For all that, she told herself, she had no intention of abandoning her inquiry into the tennis court mystery, even if she had to carry it on alone. Not that, for all her show of courage, the prospect did not daunt her—not by reason of its difficulties but of what she might discover.
She found herself wondering what was behind Rodney's extraordinary change of front. What could it be he was afraid she might unearth? And then it suddenly occurred to her, as they went downstairs together, that he had made no attempt to account for his own movements on the night of the murder beyond saying he had been at his club. What was he doing in the mews, anyway, and where had he sprung from when he met her? The mysterious young man in the felt hat, who had been seen waiting about outside Barry's earlier in the evening, flashed across her mind. Rodney had been wearing a hat like that—he was slight, too, like the stranger.
She frowned in perplexity. Was this the explanation of his readiness to save her reputation? What if he had only sought to deflect suspicion from his own movements by pretending they had called on Barry together and at the same time bind her to silence by associating her with a lie?
The thought fretted at her brain. Once more she was overcome with a sense of foreboding.
IN a quiet room overlooking the wide sweep of the Thames at Charing Cross a well-groomed individual with the unmistakable air of the retired army officer was studying a collection of documents with the aid of a magnifying-glass. Through the open windows the roar of the Embankment traffic mounted incessantly, to be presently out-toned by the measured, jarring strokes of Big Ben sounding the hour of four.
A girl glided in, trim, soft-voiced, a cup of tea in her hand. "Inspector Manderton to see you, Sir Ernest!" she announced, and set the cup of tea down on the desk.
Without raising his eyes from his papers, the man with the reading-glass nodded. "Show him in, please, Miss Wilding!"
Mr. Manderton's attitude towards the superior authority was very much that of the combatant towards the staff officer. To maintain its prestige the administrative has always to condescend slightly towards the executive, and the executive retaliates by an excessive reserve which, while extremely deferential, but imperfectly conceals the belief that the executive is the only working branch of the concern. It was armed, accordingly, with his most stolid air that the Inspector entered the Assistant Commissioner's room and awaited that individual's pleasure.
"Ah, there you are, Inspector," said his hierarchical chief, laying aside his glass and stirring his tea. "Sit down! Inquest over?"
"Yes, sir," replied the detective, taking a chair.
"Purely formal, I suppose?"
"That's right, sir. Swete's brother, who had come up from Swanage, identified him: then the doctor described the wound and the cause of death; and young Rossway deposed to finding the body. Adjourned for eight days pending inquiries."
The Assistant Commissioner nodded and pulling towards him the dossier he had been examining, remarked: "About this fellow, Larking, now: he's been through our hands before, I see."
"Yes, sir. Twelve months hard for theft at Winchester Assizes in 1898."
"First offence, wasn't it?"
"That's right, sir. They didn't half sock it into them in those days. Harness, to give him his rightful name, came out in October '99, just after the Boer War started, and joined the Army in the name of Larking."
"Anything more known about him?"
"No, sir. He's not been in trouble since, as far as I've been able to ascertain..."
"You've circulated his description?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good." A pause. "Now then, Inspector, what about it? I've been thinking over this case a good deal. If Larking's our man, I'd like to hear you on the subject of motive."
"I'm not saying that Larking is our man, sir," Mr. Manderton replied cautiously. "We have the evidence of the footman, who seems a straightforward young chap, that Larking was sitting with him in the servants' hall until a quarter to twelve when Sir Charles rang for Larking, and Frank (that's the footman) went up to bed. Sir Charles states that Larking left the house to go to the post about ten minutes to twelve. But by that time Swete was undoubtedly dead. Our friend's in this all right, but it don't look to me as if he can possibly have fired the shot..."
"Then whom is he covering?"
The Inspector looked wise. "That's what we've got to find out, sir."
"We come back to the motive then?"
The Inspector crossed one leg over the other and settled himself back in his chair. "It's always a good plan to start from the motive—leastwise, that's what I've found in a pretty long experience. But it's not always possible. In such cases one has to begin by establishing the facts. If one can determine exactly when and in what conditions a crime takes place, one is apt to come across the motive, by accident as it were..."
"Well, have you established those facts?" The man at the desk began to toy with his reading-glass. "Here's a fellow murdered round about eleven o'clock at night in a mews in the very centre of London. I suppose the place is full of garages and chauffeurs' lodgings, isn't it? It ought not to be impossible to find somebody who heard the shot fired, surely?"
"Harder than you think, sir. Mayfair Row is quite small as mews go. Most of the garages are lock-ups with store-rooms above: there are not more than four or five families living there now. We've done what we could. We've interviewed every chauffeur who brought a car in last night. Between eleven and twelve no less than five cars came in—one round about eleven, three between eleven-five and eleven-fifteen, another at eleven-forty-five." His hand moved to his pocket. "I have the complete list here, if you'd care to run your eye over it..."
A brief gesture cut him short. "That's all right, Inspector."
"What I was going to say, sir—you know how it is when a chauffeur brings a car back to a lock-up: he leaves the engine running while he gets down and unfastens the door. At one time last night, between eleven-five and eleven-fifteen, three cars were being put away. A fine chance these chauffeurs or anyone else who happened to be about would have of hearing a shot! And there's this—no one lodging in a mews of this kind would pay any attention to a muffled bang, anyway: he'd just think it was another car backfiring. Of all the chauffeurs seen by us the only one who could tell us anything was this chap, Hall, who spotted the fellow in the Homburg hat dodging into Swete's earlier in the evening."
"I know," said the Assistant Commissioner shortly. "But if nobody heard anything," he persisted, "did nobody except Hall, or whatever his name is, see anything, either? There are families living in the mews, you say—what about them?"
"Hard-working, decent folks, who turn in early as they have to be up early. Wainwright and Mason between them have questioned every man, woman and child in the mews—a regular, house-to-house canvass, as you might say. Result—nix. Every blessed soul seems to have been in bed and asleep by half-past ten—or, at the latest, eleven o'clock. And of the five chauffeurs who came in between eleven and twelve, the two who live in the mews—the chap as brought his car in at eleven-five and one who arrived at eleven-fifteen—went to their rooms without hearing or seeing anything amiss. Wainwright picked up another fellow, a car-washer, name of Bird, who was in the Frant Arms, round the corner of the mews, until closing-time, which is eleven o'clock in that part of the West End, when he came home and went straight to bed."
"And he saw or heard nothing, either?"
"Not a thing."
"Is Swete's the only good-class flat in the mews?"
"Yes, sir. They're converting a garage at the corner, but it isn't ready yet."
"What about the Rossway chauffeur? He lives next door to Swete's, doesn't he? Has he got any family?"
"A single man, Sir Ernest. And he, of course, was out with the car. No, sir, short of a casual passer-by who may yet come forward, we're down to one possible eye-witness."
"And who may that be?"
"Lady Drumfield's chauffeur, chap by name of Chafe. She's got a flat in that new block in the Square and keeps her car in a lock-up a few doors from Swete's. Chafe lives out—Fulham way, somewhere. We haven't been able to lay hands on him yet—he's away from home and his wife doesn't know what's become of him. Some trouble there, I fancy. Lady Drumfield's in a nursing-home in North Wales and, as far as Mason has been able to discover, her car had no call to be out at all. At eight o'clock last night it was in the garage. But at about half-past eleven a fellow standing outside the Frant Arms, who knows Chafe, saw him pass in the car, coming from the direction of Mayfair Row, with a girl on the driving seat."
"Joy-riding, eh?"
"That's about the size of it. Off on a proper beano, I reckon. The car's not back yet, nor Chafe neither. But we're on the look-out for him. He may be a vital witness. We have evidence, of a negative kind perhaps, that nothing untoward had occurred up to eleven-fifteen when the fourth of the five cars came in. Then there's a break until eleven-forty-five. If Chafe was seen driving away from the mews about half-past eleven, it's probable that he went to fetch the car somewhere around eleven-twenty. There's a chance, therefore, that he may be able to fill this gap. I'm not banking on it, for if he had anything to report, you'd think he'd come forward."
The Assistant Commissioner nodded abstractedly. He had fallen to making desultory digs at his blotter with his large red pencil. Now he paused and, lifting the pencil deliberately, made three round blobs, set in a triangle, on the blotting-paper. "The man in the Homburg—Mrs. Rossway—Harness, alias Larking," he said, ticking off each blob in turn. "I'm curious to know how you string 'em together, Inspector. What about the young fellow to start with?"
On the instant Mr. Manderton seemed to recede into himself, like a telescope shutting up. His empurpled visage hardened and he cleared his throat raspingly. "Nothing for the moment, Sir Ernest."
The Assistant Commissioner laughed. "Meaning you've got something up your sleeve?"
The Inspector's face thawed into a bleak smile. "You know, sir, that I never like anticipating."
"Quite. How about Mrs. Rossway?"
The heavy countenance glowered. "I'm looking into her alibi..."
"You're not satisfied with her statements then?"
"Not entirely, Sir Ernest."
The man at the desk laughed again. "I've been making some inquiries about Swete. He has a good reputation. A very attractive man, they tell me."
"A regular Handsome Harry, I reckon," the Inspector growled.
"Bit of a lad, was he?"
"I wouldn't say that. He lived quiet enough. No undesirable associations, or anything like that. But he had a way with a skirt for sure: even the old faggots who lived in the mews were cracked about him, Wainwright says..."
"Humph." The red pencil prodded the blotter. "Told little Mrs. What's-her-name the tale, did he?" A pause. "There are usually letters in such cases. Find any?"
Mr. Manderton pursed up his lips in a grimace of disgust. "Not a thing."
"Any signs of a search?"
The detective shook his head. "The place was in apple-pie order, as the saying goes. There's a small wall-safe, concealed behind a picture—it's a General, or someone: the servant reckons as how it's worth a packet—but it had nothing in it but business papers, his lease, old passbooks—junk like that. The same with the drawers of the writing-table. I went through his desk at the Goya Galleries, too—he was a partner there, as you know. Nothing worth a damn!"
"What about finger-prints?"
"Na poo, Sir Ernest. Plenty of Swete's about—young Dene picked 'em up on the whisky decanter and a Benedictine bottle as well as on his glass of whisky and soda. But no others. Wait, there's a broken impression, not Swete's, on a liqueur glass. But it's not clear enough to serve, I reckon."
"What's happening at the flat?"
"It's padlocked for the moment,"—he drew something from his waistcoat pocket—"and I've got the key." He showed it. "And I'm keeping an officer stationed permanently in the mews outside—you never know, with these press photographers roaming about..."
The Assistant Commissioner drew a folder towards him as an indication that the interview was at an end. "All right, Inspector. You've got a week before you. I trust you'll have something more definite to tell me by tile time the inquest comes on again."
At that moment the telephone whirred. The man at the desk answered it. "Yes, he's with me..." Putting his hand over the transmitter he looked across at his subordinate. "It's the front hall. Wainwright's downstairs. Got a taxi-driver in tow. Wants to know if you'll see him now."
Mr. Manderton sprang up with alacrity. "You bet, sir. He can bring him to my room."
In a soft voice the message was transmitted. "I won't detain you, Manderton," said the Assistant Commissioner as he replaced the receiver. "I know you're busy."
"Very good, sir." The detective paused. "I rather think I may have some news for you before long."
The man at the desk smiled. But Mr. Manderton's mien was as stolid as ever. Nevertheless, it was with the gait of a victor that he strode from the Assistant Commissioner's room.
UNCLE EUSTACE accompanied them to the inquest and took Aline out to tea afterwards. Sir Charles and Rodney they left behind in conversation with Mr. Lamb, the family solicitor, who had met them at the court. The proceedings were very brief, and Aline was not called upon to give evidence.
She emerged from the inquest in a mood of black depression which Uncle Eustace's gallantries over the teacups at Rumpelmayer's were powerless to dispel. The coroner's court with its faint reek which seemed to be made up in equal parts of carbolic and the acrid flavour of unwashed humanity, its dirty floor and rabble of shabby, indifferent spectators, left a bad taste in her mouth. It seemed like desecration even to think of Barry Swete, suave and charming and well-groomed, in connection with this collection of frowsty people, these gabbling, ill-dressed officials, this jury of nondescripts, who seemed to gloat over that poor battered body. With a shock, she beheld a shorter, stouter and vastly more plebeian version of Barry enter the witness-box and describe himself as the dead man's brother.
Uncle Eustace had a bridge engagement after tea. He dropped her at Frant House on his way to Crockford's. She was not sorry to be rid of him, especially when, on entering the hall, she found that an American mail was in with letters and newspapers from home. There was also a cable for her. She made a face at herself in the Venetian mirror as she broke the seal of the envelope:—this was the family on the job...
GREATLY UPSET YOUR TERRIBLE EXPERIENCE HOPE YOU NONE WORSE STOP CABLE FULLY STOP YOUR MOTHER AND I BELIEVE IN CIRCUMSTANCES SIR CHARLES LADY JULIA GLAD HAVE YOU TERMINATE YOUR STAY STOP HAVE ASKED CHAMBERLAINS TO TAKE YOU AND CABLED SIR CHARLES STOP BE OBEDIENT THIS ONCE STOP I AM SERIOUS STOP FONDEST LOVE KISSES FATHER.
She sniffed. She would have to think this over. Rodney wanted to be rid of her: was she to allow the family to play into his hands like this? The Chamberlains had a suite at the Berkeley. They were dears, both of them, but... an hotel after Frant House! The matter required consideration.
Up in her room she pulled off her hat, bathed face and hands in lavender water, put on some powder and settled down to her mail. There was a bulky letter from her mother—chat about parties, about the new chauffeur, about who had died and who was getting married, clippings, one about a speech her father had made at the Bankers' Club; some bills; a wedding invitation: a "thank-you" letter from a bride, rather hurried and bored, from an hotel at Pinehurst; a cheery scrawl from a youth at Princeton. It was all very stable and normal, carrying her back to the clatter of Park Avenue, the airiness and spaciousness and comfort of their penthouse, the warm sunshine and the pleasant grassy smell of country clubs. She browsed among the picture supplements of the Sunday papers her father sent her every week, saturated herself with the eager, helter-skelter life of modern America. Frant House, and this deed of blood that hung over it, receded, the sombre furnishings of her bedroom slid away...
Of a sudden she was back in London. Someone was tapping at her door. It opened and Gerry looked in. Aline read in her face at once that some fresh development had supervened.
Gerry came in swiftly and shut the door. "Oh, my dear," she sighed, "thank the Lord you're here. Manderton's back. He's sent for me..."
"Gerry! Why?"
"To pump me again, I suppose—I don't know. He's been on to Mona Bryce and to Mrs. Leadbury—she's a woman I know who was at the Opera that night: they both rang me up to tell me. But that's not the point. Aline,"—her fingers entwined themselves in the girl's pearl string—"I'm scared stiff: I want you to come down with me. He's in the study. I shan't feel so bad if you're there: you're the only one who has stuck to me and..." Her lips trembled. Brusquely, she turned her face away.
"Of course I'll come with you, and sit right beside you..."
Gerry clutched her arm. "You won't let Chass send you out! Promise you'll sit tight? I'll never go through with it if you don't."
"I'll stick right along with you, sweetheart," Aline reassured her. She gave the other a long look. "But, Gerry girl, why not own up? You can't fool me. And I bet you can't fool that big stiff, either. If you went to Barry's that night, why not say so?"
But she shook her head, her pale face hard, secretive. "You don't understand. I've got to lie, and lie, and keep on lying."
Without giving Aline time to grasp the full purport of her words, she grasped the girl by the arm and led her swiftly downstairs.
Though it was yet broad daylight outside, the hall, shut in by closed doors and sparsely lit by the glass lantern crowning the great staircase, was already shadowy with the dusk. They heard the clock strike seven as they descended. To Aline the slow strokes were ponderous with doom. Fate was like that, she reflected, unhurried, inevitable. As the last jarring note died away in the silence, the cloying atmosphere of the house, heavy with the weight of its years, seemed to rise at her and seize her by the throat. The cloistered stillness was taut with suspense, vibrant with fear.
A cough rasped across the hush as they crossed the hall. Two men sat on the bench just inside the front door, nondescript individuals, nursing their hats in large, red hands...
As they opened the door, the Inspector's voice, strident and hectoring, welled out. "My tone is apt to be disagreeable, Sir Charles," he was vociferating, "when I find falsehoods told, evidence suppressed and my investigation obstructed...."
Mr. Manderton's massive bulk seemed to tower as, back to the door, he stood glaring down at the baronet. Sir Charles was seated at his desk, his pink cheeks flushed, an ominous gleam in his bright blue eyes. Much to her amazement, Aline perceived that Lady Julia was present at the interview. This meant—the thought flashed into her mind at once—that Lady Julia had been told about the revolver, about Larking. With quick sympathy her eyes dwelt upon her hostess. Lady Julia sat in a corner of the couch, nursing her knee, her gaze riveted upon the detective. Her face wore its accustomed expression of statuesque serenity; but there was a tenseness in her pose that Aline had never remarked before.
At the sound of their entrance the Inspector looked quickly round. The sight of Aline brought Lady Julia to her feet at once.
"You mustn't come in here, Aline dear," she said quickly.
"I asked her to come," Gerry put in with a wilful air.
"Don't send the young lady away on my account, your ladyship," Mr. Manderton interposed stolidly. "I've no secrets, and I may want to ask her,"—he stressed the pronoun—"a question or two."
Aline was looking away. She had suddenly caught sight of Rodney. Morose and moody, he was sitting with folded arms on the window-seat.
"Please let Aline stay," said Gerry.
On that, Lady Julia, with a glance at her husband, extended a hand and drew the girl down beside her on the sofa. Gerry, outwardly nonchalant and impassive, remained standing, propping herself against the head of the couch.
There was a moment's pause, during which the Inspector affected to scan the toes of his highly-polished boots. "Mrs. Rossway," he observed at last in a perfectly toneless voice, "when you were at the Opera on Thursday evening you visited a friend of yours, a Mrs. Leadbury, in her box. It was during the interval after the second act. Now I want you to tell me how long you stayed with your friend?"
Gerry hoisted her shoulders slowly. "I'm sorry, but I haven't the least idea..."
"On Thursday night the second interval at Covent Garden lasted for thirty-two minutes. That is to say,"—he consulted his notebook which he had drawn from his pocket—"the curtain fell on the second act at nine fifty and went up on the third act—the last—at ten-twenty-two. Did you spend the whole of that interval with your friends?"
Gerry hesitated, and it seemed to Aline that the green eyes were suddenly apprehensive. "No."
"How long were you in the box? Five minutes? Ten? A quarter of an hour? Come, you must have some idea."
"You were told this morning that I've no sense of time," she retorted sullenly. "I haven't the vaguest notion how long I was in the Leadburys' box. We chatted for a bit and then I went away."
"Back to your own box?" The question came quick as a flash as the Inspector leaned towards her.
She hesitated again, and this time she had to fight to retain her composure. Mr. Manderton waited, silent, motionless, his large head projecting at an aggressive angle.
"Not at once. I went out on one of the balconies of the foyer—it was such a warm evening—and I wanted a cigarette."
"I see," said the detective blandly. "I suppose it isn't any use asking you how long you remained on the balcony?"
Her slow smile showed that she had regained the mastery over herself. "You must understand that I'm really hopeless about the time. I know I stayed until after the curtain had gone up. It was nice and cool on the balcony,"—she paused—"and I met a man I knew."
"Might I have the name, please?"
A little colour warmed her pallor. "I'm afraid I don't know it. I'd met him at a dance. He came up and spoke to me. One meets such masses of people in London, one can't remember everybody's name, can one?" She had been examining her feet, very trim in their gleaming patent leather, placed demurely side by side in front of her as she stemmed herself against the settee. But now, as she spoke, she lifted her blonde head and appealed to the man before her with her eager and winsome smile.
The Inspector's expression did not alter. With the same careful politeness he had displayed throughout his cross-examination he inquired: "And what time was it when you got back to your box?"
"I'm afraid I was rather late," she answered easily. "It must have been quite half-past ten..." She broke off, then added hastily, with the same bright smile: "I remember the time, because my friend—the man I met on the balcony—told me."
Mr. Manderton shook his head slowly. "No, ma'am. I can suggest a better reason than that. The reason you remember the time is because you were watching it,"—his voice deepened—"because it was at ten-thirty that your taxi brought you back to the Opera from Mr. Swete's!"
She was shaken, but not dismayed. "I've told you I don't know how many times already," she retorted, a ring of anger in her voice, "that I was not at Mr. Swete's that night."
For the first time the Inspector raised his voice to her. "Don't lie to me!" he blustered. "You still deny it, do you? Well, we'll see about that. You've had all the rope you're going to get from me, madam, except the one that's going to hang you!"
At that her composure slipped away. She stared at him with eyes distraught, lips parted. Rocking on her feet, she put out a trembling, imploring hand. She seemed to be struggling to speak, but no words came. At this critical moment Aline, who was nearest the door, had her attention temporarily diverted. The door had opened quietly. Turning her head she saw that a young man had slipped in and was standing just inside the room. She was the only one to notice his arrival and except to surmise that the newcomer was probably one of the two rather obvious plain-clothes men she had remarked in the hall, she paid no further heed to him For Lady Julia had cried out sharply: "Charles, you must stop this!" She had put an arm about Gerry.
The baronet's cold, incisive voice broke in. "You may have your duty to do, Inspector," he said sternly. "But I' must ask you to do it in a proper way. Will you have the goodness to explain to me what these threats of yours signify?"
The detective laughed arrogantly. "Not threats, Sir Charles, facts." He bent across the desk at him, red-faced and emphatic. "Ask Mrs. Rossway there if she means to go on lying—yes, lying, sir, is the word—when I tell her,"—he cast a malignant glance across his shoulder—"that I've got the taxi-man who drove her, within a few minutes of the fall of the curtain on the second act, to Manson Street, which, as you know, runs across the bottom of Mayfair Row. Oh, she visited her friend's box all right and went out on the balcony, too, for all I know. But at ten o'clock she picked up a cab outside the theatre and it was ten-thirty before she landed back there, as I've got the Opera linkman to prove. Mrs. Rossway's very smart on the up-take, as we know, very quick to explain everything away. But let me tell her this..."
He veered about and glowered at her. "The cabman that drove her, while he was waiting for her in Manson Street, happened to take a stroll as far as the corner of the mews and saw her—about ten-twenty, it would be—coming out of a house with a yellow door. Let her explain that away. Perhaps she'll tell us that all the houses in the mews have got yellow doors—it don't matter much! Because she's coming with me now to the Yard to be identified."
There was a deathly silence. Sir Charles broke it. "Do you mean to say you're going to arrest her?"
Mr. Manderton looked at him stolidly. "For the moment I propose to detain her under suspicion."
A shrill cry from Gerry interrupted him. "Sholto!" she had screamed. The Inspector whipped about. He saw her, with the tears wet on her face, holding out her arms to a slight, sunburnt young man who stood in front of the door.
Rodney had sprung forward: Lady Julia had risen precipitately to her feet. With wide eyes and a face of marble she was staring incredulously at the newcomer as though he were an apparition. He came swiftly forward, grasped the hand that Rodney offered but did not stop. He had no eyes for any in the group, save only the Scotland Yard man—neither for Sir Charles smiling a welcome at him, nor for Lady Julia mustering him with such strange intensity, nor for Gerry who, seeing him brush past her, with an air of hopeless abandonment, had sunk her head and let her arms drop to her sides.
In a deathlike silence Sholto walked up to the detective who, firm as a rock, awaited him.
"You needn't do anything more about this, Inspector," he said crisply. "I killed Barry Swete." His hand dipped into his jacket pocket. "And here's the gun!"
He laid a revolver on the desk. In the light that fell from the window behind the desk the two long marks scratched in the pistol's butt were plainly visible.
SO Sholto had come home at last—unannounced, as Rodney had foretold. Now that the brothers were side by side, Aline could detect the family resemblance. It was a resemblance of air and carriage and voice rather than of feature or colouring, for Sholto was of the dark Celtic type, black-haired, almost swarthy in complexion, with eyebrows strongly marked—by contrast with Rodney's fairness, clearly a throw-back to the old Highland strain. He had a lean, lithe way with him that spoke of hard exercise, perfect physical fitness, and so deeply tanned was his face that his teeth, under the small, dark moustache, glinted like white porcelain.
The Inspector's first action was to snatch up the revolver, scrutinize it swiftly and then replace it slowly on the desk. When he turned to confront the intruder Aline perceived that Mr. Manderton had shed his blustering air. His eyes had lost their angry smoulder: they were keen and cool and alert. If he had been all smoke and fire before, now he was sheer ice, cold and hard and clear. His whole manner suggested concentration incarnate.
He addressed the newcomer quite impersonally. "You're Mr. Sholto Rossway, I take it?" he questioned crisply. The young man nodded indifferently. The detective extended his hand. "Might I ask you to let me see the cigarettes you smoke?"
Sholto Rossway paused while his eyes, turquoise-blue like his father's, questioned the detective's face. Silently he drew a cardboard packet from his pocket and handed it over.
Mr. Manderton slid the inner flap of the packet until the cigarettes it contained protruded. He twisted one so that the lettering on the paper came uppermost. "'Nairobi Cigarette Company,'" he read out with a meditative air. He extricated the cigarette and stuck it in the outside pocket of his coat, then returned the package to Sholto. His expression had become quite good-humoured.
"You left the butt of one of these cigarettes in the ashtray at Swete's," he explained genially. "A couple of those Italian wax matches, too. They were the first things that gave me a line on you, Mr. Rossway..."
As though stricken dumb by the force of Sholto's disclosure, the group clustered round the two figures maintained an anxious silence. Rodney, half a head taller than his brother, stood, pale and desperate, at his elbow, faintly aggressive, as though to protect him: Lady Julia, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, was on the other side with Gerry between her and the desk where Sir Charles, erect and grim, with all the gladness banished from his countenance, gazed intently at his elder son. As for Gerry, she remained staring at her husband in a sort of terrified stupefaction while down her cheeks tears rolled, slowly, unceasingly...
"You left Naples for Paris on Monday last, I think?" Mr. Manderton's tone was brisk and business-like.
Sholto shrugged his shoulders. "Do my movements matter? You've got what you wanted to know..."
"I rang up your hotel at Naples," was the impassive retort. "They told me. When did you arrive in London?"
"On Wednesday evening."
"At what time?"
"About half-past seven."
"What did you do after you arrived?"
"I dined at the station..."
"And after?"
"I walked about a bit."
"Your wife was in London: why didn't you go straight home to her?"
"That, Inspector, is my business."
A curt, unrevealing nod. "But you did go home, Mr. Rossway: else how did you get that gun?"
Sholto's manner had suddenly become cautious. "I didn't say I didn't go home, I knew my wife had a revolver: I gave it to her myself. I've still got my latch-key of the front door here,"—he pulled up a key-chain from his trouser pocket and showed it dangling on a bunch. "I waited until dinner was on, then let myself in, slipped upstairs to my wife's room and fetched the gun..."
At Aline's side Lady Julia stirred uneasily. Sir Charles, too, made an involuntary movement. It seemed to Aline that she could read the unspoken grief in their eyes at the thought that one of that devoted home circle, after months of absence, should thus creep into the house and out again like a thief in the night...
"And how did the gun come to be hidden in the hall here?" the Inspector asked.
"I'm sorry, but I can't answer that question."
"Meaning you won't?" The detective's riposte had an irascible ring. The young man remained silent. "And perhaps it isn't convenient, either, to say how it happens to have come back into your possession?"
Still Sholto remained mute. "Never mind," said the Inspector darkly, "maybe your friend Harness, alias Larking, will tell us..."
"Alias Larking?" Sir Charles broke in on a perturbed note.
"That's what I said, Sir Charles," cried Manderton, veering round to him. "An old lag, your respectable Mr. Larking. But we'll get him, don't you worry!" He swung back to Sholto. "So you've made up your mind to tell us nothing, is that it? Very good, sir, I shall now take you to Marlborough Street police station, where you'll be put up for identification, after which I shall draw up a statement of your confession which you will sign. You will then be formally charged on your own confession with the wilful murder of Barrasford Swete."
"You're mad, Sholto!" Rodney burst out violently. "You didn't do it, you can't have done it. I know you're only trying to shield Gerry..."
"Shut up, will you, Rod!" his brother flashed back at him. "I know what I'm doing."
"But it's quixotic, crazy," Rodney persisted.
The Inspector laughed shortly. "Not so quixotic as you think, sir. If it's any satisfaction to you, Mrs. Rossway was away from Mayfair Row and back in her box at the Opera before Swete was killed..."
"But... but you threatened her," Sir Charles interposed indignantly. "You called her a murderess in so many words..."
"When people tell me lies, sir," the Inspector returned sternly, "I have my own methods for getting the truth out of them. Mr. Swete was killed at eleven-twenty. We've found a witness who heard the shot." And to Sir Charles, who was about to break in, he added: "It's Lady Drumfield's chauffeur, chap by the name of Chafe. This man arrived at the lock-up where he garages Lady Drumfield's car soon after eleven-fifteen on Wednesday. He had a girl friend along, promised to run her up to York—a joy ride, as you might say, his lady being in a nursing home. Chafe's lock-up is only a few doors from Swete's and the mews was dead quiet at the time. Chafe heard the shot just above his head as clear as clear and looked at his watch. It was eleven-twenty. In the circs. he didn't want any trouble, so he just buzzed of. But we got hold of him late this afternoon and he spilled the whole story..."
The jangle of the telephone swept across the taut nerves of the little group assembled there. Sir Charles took the call. "For you, Inspector..." He handed Manderton the instrument. The deep voice shattered the ensuing hush. Broken phrases. "Yes... of course... not to-night... they wouldn't,"—disgustedly—"...the ports, naturally..."
Against the rumbling background of that harsh staccato, a rustling, hurried whisper fell upon Aline's ear. "Rod... in my overcoat... on the chair by the door... my passport... take it... get rid of it." She saw Rodney step stealthily backwards, a groping hand go out behind him. When he advanced into the circle again he carried a grey felt hat, a grey tweed overcoat.
The Inspector had finished his telephoning and was listening with an absent air to Sir Charles, who had left the desk to harangue the detective in a vigorous undertone, reinforced by emphatic gestures. Nobody else said anything. Gerry had sunk down on the settee, sobbing despairingly, her head between her hands. Sholto remained rather deliberately aloof. His face was pale and wore a strained look, but he made no effort to approach his wife. With a casual, "Thanks, old boy," he took his hat and coat from Rodney, but otherwise did not attempt to break his stubborn silence. He did not even speak to his mother, who had not moved from her posture.
Looking up from the couch where she sought to comfort Gerry, Aline was awed by the unnatural rigidity of that tall and graceful figure. Amazement, incredulity, horror, seemed to hold Lady Julia in ban.
Mr. Manderton had produced a large, clean handkerchief from his pocket and was carefully wrapping up the revolver in it. Sir Charles was whispering to Sholto: "I can't believe it... there must be some explanation... say nothing further until you've seen the solicitor... going to get hold of Lamb at once..."—Fragments of his hurried, disjointed sentences came to Aline.
Sholto's regard dwelt affectionately on the old man's troubled countenance. For a moment he let his hand rest on his father's shoulder. "All right, Chass..."
His voice was suddenly husky. Then, without so much as a glance about him, he turned on his heel and, followed by the Inspector and Rodney, led the way out. In the silence Gerry's heartbroken sobs were the only sound.
THE slam of the front door reverberated through the study. Then Rodney came back. At his entrance Gerry raised a ghastly face.
"Then he knows? He saw me there?" she said piteously.
Rodney stopped short, but did not look at her. "Who?" he flung over his shoulder.
"Sholto. He must have seen me and Barry together. That's why he won't speak to me. If I could have explained, he'd have understood. But I couldn't before that hateful man—not without making things worse for Sholto...."
Rodney had turned and confronted her. "Then you were at Barry's?"
A sob shook her. "Yes," she gasped.
"Quiet, please!" Sir Charles leaned forward to the telephone. "You must find Mr. Lamb, do you understand," he said into the instrument. "It's most urgent. He's to ring up Sir Charles Rossway, is that clear?" With a weary air, the baronet replaced the receiver.
Gerry sprang to her feet. "Did you know that Sholto arrived back on Wednesday, Rod?" she demanded tensely.
He shook his head. "No, Gerry. I had no idea until just now that he was in London."
"Why didn't he let me know? Why did he go to Barry's instead of coming to me?" Her green eyes flamed. "Rodney! you wrote and told him about Barry and me!"
"It would have been better if I had. But I didn't..."
"Then who did?"
She whipped about and confronted Lady Julia. "It was you, wasn't it?"
Lady Julia roused herself from her mournful reverie to gaze at Gerry with a bewildered air like one who wakes from sleep. "You never approved of my friendship with Barry, did you?" the girl added bitterly.
Lady Julia sighed and looked sadly away. "I wanted to prevent you from making a mess of your life. Of Sholto's, too," she said in a low voice. "You must believe me when I say I acted for the best, Gerry..."
"What does it matter?" Rodney broke in heatedly. "Sholto's the only one that matters at present. If we're to help him, we've got to know the whole truth. He won't tell us, so we'll have to discover it for ourselves. What's he hiding, Gerry? You know..."
Gerry had sunk down upon the couch. Sobs shook her as she dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief Aline gave her. Sir Charles had come forward. "Gerry, my dear," he said gently, "we're all friends here. What is there to be afraid of? Won't you tell us what happened at Barry's on Wednesday night?"
She sighed and said to Aline: "Give me a cigarette, will you?" Rodney, who had sat down at the desk, pushed the box across. "I can tell you why Sholto killed Barry, if that's any good," she said forlornly, as she took a cigarette. "But it seems to me it only makes things worse for him."
The cigarette appeared to soothe her and she was more composed when she spoke again. Scanning the end of her cigarette she said in a low voice: "Oh, I know I've been a damned fool. But I'm not such an outsider as you imagine..." Then, on a gesture of protest from Sir Charles: "Don't let's deceive ourselves, Chass. I know you all think I've given Sholto a rotten deal and I daresay you're right."
She brushed a wisp of hair from her eyes, letting her thin hand linger on her forehead as though her head were aching. "Sit down, please, Chass. I can't think with you standing there looking at me like that, and I want to tell you this my own way, from the beginning..."
The baronet drew up a chair. "Barry," she went on, "fell in love with me almost directly I came back to England—two months ago, isn't it? I'd met him before, of course, when he was arranging the pictures here—I was engaged to Sholto at the time. I liked Barry awfully." She paused and glanced rather shyly at Lady Julia. "You know what he was, his charm and all that. You probably didn't realize that he could make almost any woman fall in love with him..."
She broke off to draw on her cigarette. Aline saw Lady Julia's face contract and found herself thinking that the opening was unfortunate. It was tactless of Gerry to appeal to Lady Julia, with her tremendous sense of decorum, on such a subject.
"I was feeling pretty hipped when I came back from Kenya," Gerry resumed, flicking a speck of tobacco from her lip. "Sholto and I were quarrelling. I loathed the life and I loathed his friends—the huntin' and backin' set, gossip, messy little intrigues... I was bored and miserable and he didn't think I was giving him or the country a fair trial. He started being hateful to me and I was as bad, I expect. I was fed up with the constant scenes."
Sir Charles sighed and shook his head. "All the same, Sholto's terribly fond of you," he said sadly.
She nodded morosely. "That's the trouble with us, I often suspect. He'd have done better to have given me a damned good hiding sometimes." She shrugged. "Well, as you know, I chucked my hand in. Sholto didn't seem to give a damn one way or the other and... anyhow, I went home. Barry was waiting for me on the mat, so to speak. He was, oh, terribly attractive, and marvellously attentive—he was always doing little things that Sholto used to do but which he never thinks of any more." Her voice, on a sudden, was husky. "I lost my head rather, I admit."
Her green eyes looked away. "You probably won't understand this... but it wasn't altogether my fault. When I was away from Barry, when I was with other people, busy, having a good time, I was able to shut him right out of my mind. It was only when I was alone, worrying about Sholto, wondering when he was coming back, why he didn't write, that I began to hanker after Barry..." Her voice grew animated. "He always seemed to know what I was thinking—he understood me so well. When I met him and other people were there, when he came here, for instance, it wasn't so bad; I felt more sure of myself. But when we were alone together—well, he was almost irresistible." She clenched her fist and there was a catch in her voice. "And I couldn't keep away from him. I always had to go back."
Suddenly Aline was aware that Lady Julia was agitated. She was twisting her handkerchief in her fingers and her habitually serene expression was clouded over by a look of bitter anguish. It was easy to see that her sympathies lay with her son. "You needn't go into that, Gerry," she said in a low, hurried voice. "What we want you to tell us is whether Sholto had any real grounds for jealousy, whether..." she faltered.
In the depths of the emerald eyes something seemed to snap into flame. "Whether Barry was my lover, is that it?" Gerry cried bitterly. "I knew everybody would think that. That's why I lied and lied, and went on lying. If I could have had Sholto to myself and told him the truth, he'd have believed me. But now..." Her voice broke, died. She bowed her head in a sudden storm of grief.
Lady Julia laid her hand on Aline's. "I think it would be better if you left us," she said gently. "In any case your Father wishes you to move across to the Chamberlains at the Berkeley, and you'll want to see about your packing..."
Aline stood up irresolutely, but Gerry drew her down again to her side. "Aline can stay. She's not a child," she declared. "And she has never believed the worst of me, have you, Aline?" She groped for the girl's hand and held it in hers. "Besides, there's nothing she can't hear. If I'd been untrue to Sholto I'd say so—chastity isn't the only thing in marriage; at least, that's the way I feel about it."
"All decent people feel that it is," Sir Charles put in sternly.
"It seems to me there are lots of other things just as important," Gerry rejoined. "Things like tolerance, and sympathy, and trust."
"Must you for ever go on talking beside the point?" Lady Julia broke out tensely. "Why can't you answer my question?"
"Because I've answered it already," Gerry flamed back at white heat. "I was never Barry's mistress, if that's what you mean. Don't misunderstand me—he tried hard enough. He wanted me to get rid of Sholto and marry him or, if it couldn't be arranged in a friendly way, for us to bolt off somewhere together and take a chance; that, or just an affair on the quiet—anything to get what he wanted. Frankly, if I'd played around with Barry for a few weeks more, there's no saying what mightn't have happened," she added more quietly. "Barry had a genius for seduction...."
"You say that as if you expected us to admire him for it," Rodney vociferated indignantly.
She shrugged her shoulders. "Not in the least. It merely happens to be the fact. Barry had studied women as Chass has studied metals: he knew almost all there is to know about the subject. He could worm his way into any woman's heart—not mine, particularly, any woman's. 'Very few men realize,' he used to tell me, 'that a man who's content to wait can get any woman.' And Barry knew how to wait. He waited for me. He'd have got me except for..."
She broke off with another shrug, then added quickly: "But you mustn't misjudge him. He wasn't debauched. He wasn't even what you'd call promiscuous. There had been other women in his life, of course. But there was nobody else as long as I resisted him. And now I expect I'm going to shock you. I can talk calmly like this about Barry because he's dead and I need go no longer in fear of myself. But all the time I'm haunted by a sort of regret that I didn't... that I wasn't kinder to him..."
"And what about Sholto? Didn't you ever think of him?" Sir Charles inquired. There was a scathing note in his voice.
At that Gerry turned her head away, her long lashes drooping. "Yes, indeed," she answered, suddenly wistful. "I thought of Sholto all the time..." She swung back. "But you must let me tell this my own way, will you, please? Oh, I know it was mad of me to try and deceive a man like Manderton. But there was a reason, several reasons. Barry had been pressing me hard. He knew that Sholto was on the way home. He wanted us to confront him with the fait accompli. Last Saturday night he took me to dine at Marlow—we went in my car. When we came back I went into the flat with him for a minute..."
"What time was this, may I ask?" Sir Charles interrupted sternly.
"It was one o'clock," said Rodney. "I saw the Austin outside."
"Good God!" Sir Charles exclaimed.
"Rod knows perfectly well," Gerry struck in firmly, "that nowadays nobody minds very much what anyone does. One's morals are one's own affair, and anyway, people are not so nasty-minded as they used to be..."
"Will you understand, once and for all, that we, Lady Julia and I, object to this kind of talk!" Sir Charles interposed angrily.
She shrugged her shoulders as she crushed out her cigarette in the ash-tray. "Sorry." She helped herself to another cigarette from the box. "Anyway, Barry was pretty tiresome. He wanted me to go away with him then and there. He caught hold of me and refused to let me go until I promised to give up Sholto. I told him I'd have to think it over, that I'd let him know..." Aline's ear caught a slight, rhythmic sound. Beside her, Lady Julia's foot was softly tapping the carpet.
"That was Saturday," Gerry went on. "For two whole days I stayed away, didn't telephone him or anything. Then on the Tuesday evening he came round. I tried to avoid him, but he got two words with me in the hall. I told him that what he asked was impossible."
"And then?" Lady Julia put the question.
Gerry paused, twisting her fingers together. Her crimsoned nails were like streaks of blood against the backs of her pale hands. "I told you," she answered earnestly, "that I couldn't keep away. That night I couldn't sleep for thinking of him—he had a way of looking at one out of those eyes of his... And next day Sholto hadn't written still and Rod started preaching at me." Her hand drummed against her thigh. "Then Aline told me he'd hurt his foot and I pictured him sitting there alone in the flat wanting me..."
She pressed her little handkerchief to her lips. "It sounds terribly petty and foolish, I know. But I was jealous, too..."
"Jealous?" said Lady Julia coldly. "Of whom?"
"Of Aline!"
Aline stared at her blankly. "Of me? But, Gerry darling..."
"I knew him so well," said Gerry sadly. "No woman could withstand him when he made himself charming. And he liked you, Aline: he was always talking about you. It gave me a sort of desperate feeling to think you had been there alone with him in his room that morning and that I couldn't go. All that day I fought with myself, fought against him. But it was too strong for me. In the evening, like a wretched fool, I went...."
She paused, gazing dreamily in front of her. "I didn't give way at once. On the way to the Opera I made the taxi drive through the mews just to see if I had the strength to withstand him. I saw the light in his room, but I wouldn't stop. All through the Opera I kept thinking of him—it was like something tugging at my heart. It wasn't so bad as long as the theatre was dark and the music was on, because I didn't have to talk. But when the lights went up and people began drifting in, I thought I'd go mad. So when the second interval arrived and Mrs. Leadbury waved to me, I said I'd go and sit with her for a bit. I did go to her box, but only for a minute. After that I went out on a balcony and smoked a cigarette. And then, suddenly, something happened to me and, I don't quite know how, I found myself in a taxi..."
With a quick gesture she laid her cigarette down. "I told myself I'd only just run in for a minute, ask him how he was and cheer him up a bit, and if he bothered me about the other thing, laugh him out of it. He was so pathetically glad to see me that I was glad I'd gone... at first. I smoked a cigarette and he made me have a drink... Benedictine..."
"What time was this?" Rodney asked.
"It was ten past ten when I got there. I checked my watch by a clock in Endell Street. I was thinking about getting back..."
"Well?"
"I only stayed five minutes. He was all right until I got up to go. Then he started in about Sholto and what was I going to do about it? And before I knew what was happening I was in his arms and he was telling me he was mad about me and that if I wouldn't go away with him, he'd shoot himself. He had an automatic in the drawer and he pulled it out and threw it on the table and said: 'There! It's that or you!' I know that men who talk like that never mean it, so I told him not to be melodramatic. That was idiotic of me because he was clever enough to see he'd made a false move, and he changed his tactics at once. He said he was only joking, that he knew I'd never drive him to extremes. And then he began to plead with me, to make love—he could say things that seemed to melt one's resistance. He was so simple, so moving, like that, and I was so tired of fighting him. But when he put his arms around me and I felt myself sort of slipping, I was scared—more of myself than of him, I believe—and, well, I don't know how I managed it, but I broke away. I told him we'd got to be sensible. And I left him."
There was a moment's silence. Rodney broke it with a question. "What time was this?"
"Twenty past ten. I got back to Covent Garden at half-past."
"When you got to Barry's, you didn't notice anybody waiting about outside?"
"No."
"Sholto must have been somewhere about. He watched you go in. You realize that?"
She bowed her head without speaking.
"But why on earth couldn't you have told us this before?" he demanded hotly. "All these senseless denials! What's Manderton to think? And you'll have to tell the truth at the trial, you know: if you don't, it's perjury. Why not have confided in one of us? You may have been ill-advised to have compromised yourself in this stupid fashion, but on your own showing it was nothing worse than that..."
She raised her head. There was a shy gladness in the piquant face. "You do believe me then?" She waited for his answer with a sort of trembling eagerness.
"Yes, Gerry, I do."
She stood up and went towards him slowly and with a shrinking, timid air, and took his hand. "Thanks, Rod. But I warn you your belief is going to be tried pretty hard."
He looked at her squarely, keeping her hand in his. "What is it, Gerry?"
"I'm going to have a baby, Rod." He would have spoken, but she went on: "It's Sholto's child. When I knew—it was only the other day—I came to my senses about Barry. I haven't got any morals much, I think, but I'm not an absolute outsider. In a physical sort of way I suppose I was in love with Barry Swete and but for this, I daresay I should have ended by giving way to him. Now do you understand why I lied to Manderton? I didn't care about myself—it was Sholto I was thinking of. If I had told Manderton the truth and the fact of my visit to Barry had come out at the inquest, what would Sholto have thought, what could he have thought, when he came home and discovered I was going to have a baby?" Her voice hardened. "I realize now I might just as well have owned up from the start. Sholto believes the worst of me, anyway," she laughed bitterly. "This little complication won't make much difference." She put her hand across her eyes and bowed her head. "My God, my God!" she murmured brokenly.
The telephone bell clattered noisily in the hush that had fallen upon the quiet room. Sir Charles stepped across to the desk. A low, vibrant voice said: "Gerry!"
She turned about. Lady Julia was gazing at her with a look of infinite compassion. Silently she opened her arms and Gerry, with a little cry, ran forward and, dropping on her knees, buried her face in Lady Julia's lap.
"Thanks, Lamb," said Sir Charles at the telephone. "I knew I could count on you. At Marlborough Street, then, in ten minutes—I'll meet you there."
Lady Julia had gathered Gerry up in her arms. Now she turned to Aline. "Get the brandy from the dining-room, will you, dear?" she said in a low voice. "I think she's fainted."
BUT Gerry had not fainted. She seemed rather to have collapsed from nervous exhaustion. She reclined against the back of the settee, very white, with her eyes closed. In the meantime, Sir Charles, as one used to taking rapid decisions, asserted himself.
Lady Julia must take Gerry down to the country at once—that very night: she needed rest and quiet, and Lady Julia herself would be better for the change. Cox must go with them: the car would be ready in half an hour's time. He told Aline that the Chamberlains could not arrange a room for her until the following day: he had already spoken to Mrs. Chamberlain on the telephone. Aline could move over to the Berkeley in the morning.
Gerry protested that she did not want to go to Broadleat, she wanted to be near Sholto. But her father-in-law was adamant—it was pretty obvious that, in view of Sholto's attitude, he wanted to get Gerry out of the way.
But his manner softened when Cox, summoned by Rodney, had carried Gerry off upstairs. "My poor, poor Julie," he said tenderly, drawing his wife's hands into his, "I hate the idea of us being separated at a time like this. But to-morrow all this business will be in the papers. And, apart from the question of Gerry, I want you to be out of it."
She bowed her head in assent. "I understand, my dear."
"I'm going off to meet Lamb now," he added. "I propose to leave Rod here to deal with Manderton or any other police officials who call or ring up. If there's any question about Gerry, Rod'll have to explain to Manderton that she's very seriously indisposed, that she'd have had a complete breakdown if we hadn't sent her away. If Manderton wants her again, he'll have to go down to Broadleat, that's all. Is that clear, Rod?"
"Yes, Chass," said Rodney.
"Do you think you'll see Sholto to-night, Charles?" Lady Julia asked rather tremulously.
A spasm of pain crossed the lined, old face. "It's more than doubtful, Lamb says. He's not sure he'll get permission himself."
She gave a little fluttering sigh. "I'll say good night now, my dear," her husband continued. "You'll be gone by the time I return. I'll take the car and send Giles back. Lamb will drop me on his way home..."
"Good night, Charles..." She had put her arms about him with the slow grace that was in her every movement. But now, suddenly, she clung to him and murmured brokenly: "Dear, dear Charles!"
He drew her head down upon his shoulder and pressed his lips upon her luxuriant hair. "So brave! You make me proud of you, my Julie!"
On that, abruptly, she averted her face, and Aline saw that she was weeping. She strained away, but Sir Charles's arms held her fast. "You mustn't do that, dearest!" he said huskily. He stooped and kissed her on the mouth, then, brushing his hand across his eyes, marched swiftly out. Still as a statue Lady Julia stood. She had turned her back on the room and was gazing out into the gathering dusk of the Square. Then, with something of her old composure, she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes and, head bowed, went from the study.
Aline glanced rather nervously at Rodney. The sight of Lady Julia, who had always seemed so far above the human emotions, in tears, had suddenly brought home to her, more than anything else had done, the full realization of the tragedy which had befallen this pleasant and hospitable household. She was conscious of a sense of embarrassment: it seemed indecorous to be even the involuntary witness of the private sorrow of these loving friends of hers. Because she felt she ought to say something, she spoke. But all she could manage was: "Rod dear, I'm so dreadfully, dreadfully sorry."
He had sat down at the desk and produced his pipe. "It's pretty ghastly," he said unsteadily, staring gloomily down at the blotter. "Poor old Sholto! I can't believe it, somehow."
"Rod," she broke in eagerly, "they'll acquit him, surely? A man has a right to defend his honour..."
"But not to kill," he answered sombrely. "Not in this country, anyway. It was deliberate: he admitted it when he said he took the gun with him to the interview. God!"—he struck the desk with his hand—"you'd think he was trying to get himself hanged!" With a savage air he began to hunt through his pockets for his tobacco pouch.
"How do you suppose he got the gun back, Rod?"
"From Larking, of course. Larking must have known where he has been all along. It was obviously from Larking, too, that he heard of Manderton's suspicions of Gerry—that's why he gave himself up..."
He broke off short. He had taken from his pocket something resembling a small, very thin volume bound in dark blue. Pipe in mouth he opened the little book. Aline drew nearer—she saw the impress of rubber stamps upon the pinkish pages. "Isn't that Sholto's passport?" she queried. "I ought to tell you, Rod, I overheard him whisper to you to take it from his overcoat..."
Rodney looked up quickly. "Oh, you overheard that, did you?"
"Yes. And Lady Julia must have, too. She was standing right beside me."
But he had ceased to listen. With an air of bewilderment he was staring at the open passport. Then he glanced swiftly at the calendar that stood in a frame upon the desk and back at the passport again. "Aline," he said excitedly, "just hand me the A.B.C. behind you, will you? It's that paper book in the brownish cover."
She took from the rack of reference books on the table behind her the volume he indicated—a railroad guide, it seemed to be. He almost snatched it from her, and with feverish interest began to flutter the pages. At last he seemed to hit upon the page he wanted and there was a long silence while he pored over it. Aline did not like to disturb him. She sat very quietly in a corner of the couch, listening to the plaintive strains of a street organ jangling away at the Intermezzo in the distance, and the hooting of cars and the hollow drumming of tyres over the wood-blocks of the Square. When she risked a glance at Rodney she saw him, pipe in mouth and wreathed in wisps of smoke, elbows planted on the desk, staring before him. She held her peace and waited patiently for him to speak while the twilight deepened.
So, in a little while, Lady Julia found them. A switch clicked and the room sprang into light. She had changed into a country suit with a small hat and a scarf. Behind her the pale and bewildered face of Mr. Murch was visible.
She was mistress of herself once more, calm and gracious and self-possessed. There were voices, footsteps, in the hall, but the door, swinging to behind her, shut them out. "We're off," she said to Aline in her warm contralto. "I'm afraid it's good-bye, dear..."
"Why, Lady Julia," the girl protested, "I'm going to see you again."
With her wistful, charming smile, she shook her head. "After what's happened," she said with a little catch in her voice, "I expect your father will want you to return to New York immediately." She put her arms about her. "Don't change, little Aline. You're very sweet as you are. If I'd had a daughter I'd like her to have been like you. And remember I shall always pray for your happiness."
There was a lump in Aline's throat: she could not speak. Lady Julia might look her old proud, serene self, but her voice betrayed her. It had a tragic, hopeless ring, as though her whole being were saturated with grief. "There, there, dear," said Lady Julia soothingly, for the tears stood in Aline's eyes. She kissed the girl, and the touch of her lips was like ice. "Gerry's in the hall—she wants to say good-bye to you."
A hush fell on the study after Aline had gone out. Rodney had put down his pipe and come out from behind the desk. The passport, flanked by the A.B.C lay on the blotter. Lady Julia moved to the desk and was about to take the passport, when Rodney's hand descended and prevented her.
"It's Sholto's, isn't it?" she said, her dark eyes on his face.
He nodded. "You heard what he said to me, then?" he answered, returning her gaze.
Her "Yes" was as soft as a sigh. "Give it to me, Rod!"
"He told me to get rid of it, Mother..."
"Give it to me!"
"No!"
But she was drawing the booklet away from under his fingers. Now he resisted no longer. She gathered up the passport and, opening it, moved aside to scrutinize it.
"Mother..." said Rodney desperately, and stopped. She had not heard him. She had turned to the desk lamp, holding the passport down so that the light fell upon the page and the impress it bore.
He watched her close the passport and slip it in her bag. "What are you going to do with it?" he asked unsteadily.
Her grave regard rested upon his troubled face. "Leave that to me. But I want this to be a secret between us. Promise, Rod! And not a word to your Father, do you understand?"
He stared at her aghast. "Then you know...?"
Her face changed. "Not now, Rod dear, do you mind?" she pleaded faintly. She snapped her bag to, picked up her gloves. "Gerry's waiting, I must go," she said in a low voice. "Good-bye, Rod."
But he caught her arm as she turned away. Reluctantly at first, then, with a sudden yielding, she suffered him to draw her to him. A fugitive radiance was in her face, a faint flush of colour warmed her pallor, as she laid her cheek to his. "You've always been a comfort to me, Rod dear," she murmured. "Thank you, darling son!" She kissed him as a mother kisses, warmly, lingeringly, on either side of the mouth. Then, hand in hand, they went out to the hall where Gerry and Aline awaited them.
THE Rolls had purred away into the velvety dusk of the Square. Rodney and Aline turned away from the front door in time to catch sight of Mr. Murch, who had been with them seeing Lady Julia and Gerry off, scuttling up the staircase.
Rodney eyed the vanishing figure. "Odd..." he remarked.
"What's odd?" Aline demanded.
"Murchie. He's avoiding me. Not a word about Sholto to me, mind you. And did you see his face? It's simply green with fear. He knows something..."
Aline was demurely silent. She, too, thought that Murchie knew something, virtually convinced as she was that it was he who had been in the tennis court the previous night. But Rodney had made light of her theory: she had no intention of re-opening the subject.
Rodney seemed to read her thoughts. "I'm afraid I hurt your feelings this morning..." he began.
"Not at all," she said coolly. "You did quite right to remind me I had no business to be butting in."
"I didn't mean it that way. Honestly..."
"In any case I'm leaving you to-morrow," she went on rather hastily, "so the question doesn't arise. And now I think I'll see about my packing."
"Aline," he said and barred the way, "don't quarrel with me. I'm desperately worried and there's no one to turn to but you..."
"We were going to work on this together," she told him, bridling.
"Don't let's harp on that. This story of yours about a secret passage opened up a train of thought that drove me nearly frantic. I've tried to shut my eyes to it, but I've got to face it now. And—I know it sounds wretchedly weak—I'm funking it... alone!"
Her eyes were compassionate. "If it would help you to tell me about it..."
"I can't do that. That's the worst of it. I don't know what to do and I can't confide in anybody."
"Then of what use can I be?"
"You're sympathetic and... and sane and honest. I've got something to do and I want you to stay with me while I do it. But you must promise to ask no questions and to keep to yourself anything you see."
She contemplated him gravely. "You're going to investigate in the tennis court, aren't you?"
He nodded.
"Then you do think I saw someone there last night?"
He nodded again.
"Murchie?"
The same gesture.
"Why not ask him about it?"
"He'd only deny it. That's why he's fighting shy of me. No. I'm going to find out the truth for myself and then confront him with it." He extended his hand. "Friends?"
She made no sign, gazing down upon his long, sun-browned fingers. Only now did she realize how deeply his aloofness had wounded her. But at the same time she was conscious of a sense of lightness which the scene in the morning-room had left in her mind. Sholto's confession had, at least, cleared Rodney. And she was glad... glad. She knew now that his change of front was rooted in the suspicion, based on the clue in Nephew George's letters, that someone in the house—Murchie or even (for the first time, she faced the fact squarely) Sir Charles—was the slayer of Barry Swete.
She felt disarrayed. She had steeled herself to banish from her attitude towards him all trace of the old friendly intimacy between them. It disconcerted her to find him thus humble, eyeing her, too, with a hungry, supplicating air. And to her dismay she had discovered that, at the sight of him, harassed and wretched, all her rancour, all her wounded pride, was evaporating.
Shyly she gave him her hand—her glance was gentle. "All right," she said softly.
He kept her hand in his. "You think I give myself airs, don't you?"
She smiled at him. "No-o."
"Yes, you do. Gerry told me. And I know you've often thought me the most abysmal boor. But I'll tell you a secret. I was terrified of you..."
She laughed out loud, but did not withdraw her hand. "Am I so frightening?"
"I've met American girls before, of course. But none quite like you. You see, we're all pretty snobbish in this house—I'm a bit of a snob myself—and the people who come here are mostly of the snobbish variety—you know, vastly pleased with themselves and their own little set, and never asking questions if one has the right sort of name, knows the right crowd and does the right kind of things. I've been thinking a lot during the past few days and it seems to me that we've all been living in the past here at Frant House, slaves to a—what shall I call it?—a defunct point of view. Look at my mother—her whole life's happiness has been sacrificed to it..."
"Because she was made to give up Lord Ivinghoe, do you mean?"
He nodded. "You thought she ought to have run off with him. But all those years ago things were different—even up to now they haven't changed much in this house, it seems to me. People had their position to keep up, as they called it. Mother's family was saddled with Blaize Castle, a vast white elephant of a place in Scotland—it's been sold for a hydro. now, thank God!—and Eric's people had this house and a huge estate in Bucks besides. And both families were stony broke. We don't mention it, of course,"—his mouth was bitter—"because it's not genteel. But you may as well know that if Chass hadn't stumped up, as part of Mother's marriage settlement, Uncle Eustace would have gone to gaol—a business about a cheque it was: he didn't tell you about that, I suppose?—and my grandfather, Mother's father, by all accounts, wasn't much better. I don't say that Mother regrets her marriage to Chass, notwithstanding the difference in their ages. But looking at her with her beauty and her charm and... and her lovely grace, I sometimes think what a wonderful pair she and Eric or some fellow like him would have made."
He sighed. "The humbug of it all! That's what it is—humbug, this living in the past." He broke off, gravely looking at her. "Now you're different. You belong to the future. You're vital—alive. You see through us—you've seen through me. Don't shake your head—I've watched you summing us up. And it scared me..."
He smiled at her in the old intimate way. But her expression was grave. "You're not right really," she protested. "We Americans are different from you, of course. You have this marvellous background,"—her gesture embraced the quiet vestibule—"and you have to live up to it, I guess. We haven't any background, or not much... yet. So naturally we turn our eyes to the future. You mustn't think I haven't been very happy here, Rod, and, honest, I never meant to be critical. You make me sound pretty hateful, don't you?"
He was serious now. In repose, she reflected, his features had a look of his mother, especially the eyes, lustrous and contemplative, even as hers. "Not the way I mean it," he said huskily. "You could never seem hateful to anyone, Aline, least of all to me. It makes me happy just to be with you, even now, especially now, when I'm so utterly, so unspeakably, wretched..."
Her free hand stole out and idly fingered a lapel of his coat. "I have a confession to make too, Rod," she told him in a low voice. "In the library this morning, when you didn't want us to go on investigating any more together, I thought... I thought that you had your reasons,"—she stole a glance at him—"that you were covering up your tracks..."
"You mean you suspected me of shooting Barry?" She flushed and did not reply. "Do you still think that?"
She shook her head vigorously but did not speak.
"Even though I can't confide in you still?"
She bowed her head in silence. On that, slipping an arm about her, he drew her to him, gazing intently down into her face. "Look at me," he pleaded hoarsely.
Timidly she raised her head. The misery in his face touched her to the very heart. Then in a sort of wild abandon he caught her to him and his lips were pressed to hers. Desperately, they clung to one another. "When this horror is past," he whispered, "there's something I want to ask you. Will you wait for me till then?"
Her head pillowed against his chest, she gave his hand a tight little squeeze.
"It'll be dark in the tennis court if we don't go now," she reminded him.
It was eerie in the court in the gloaming. The whitewashed roof threw back upon the gleaming floor a few scant beams of daylight that still filtered through the dusty windows. But the corners were dark and mysterious. From the marker's box the drummer appeared as a mere blur, the dedans but an oblong rift in a dusky curtain.
"'By hook or by crook,'" Rodney repeated, when they stood before the buttress. "Well, here's a hook, anyway!"
From right to left, across one shoulder, a narrow blue and white cross-belt barred the drummer's tunic. It ended in a sort of frog boasting a hook from which, by a brass ring attached to the drum-strings, the drum was slung. Aline's hand shot out. But the hook, like the rest of the figure, was but a painted figment, concealing no catch or spring and yielding up no secret to the touch.
"Do you notice anything queer about that hook?" Rodney asked suddenly.
She considered it gravely. "Not in particular. Except that it's a bit lopsided."
"Lopsided!" he exclaimed excitedly. "Why, dash it, it's all askew! Look at the way it's bent over to the right! Why, at that angle the drum would simply slide off it! I've always understood that this figure was painted from a living model; a Guards drummer. I've often heard it said that every detail of the uniform is absolutely correct. No artist would make a mistake of this description, which an ex-Guardee like Mad Phil would spot instantly. I tell you what, it's deliberate! It's a clue. But to what?"
He let his glance travel round the darkling court—up to the last rays of light among the rafters, along the wall to where the grill peeped out like a little shuttered window, and away to the right, beyond the buttress, along the wall again to the net. "'By hook or by crook——'" he muttered. "'By hook or by...'"
Suddenly he dashed forward to the net. Now, for the first time, Aline perceived a detail which, in her utter unfamiliarity with the lay-out of a real tennis court, had hitherto escaped her. There was but a single net-post and that stood on the other side of the court, let into the floor before the marker's box. The other end of the net was supported by means of a stout brass hook attached to the wall a few yards from the buttress. This hook Rodney had seized; trying in vain to manipulate it in his fingers. The net shook to his pushings and draggings, but the hook remained firm.
"That drum-hook's a pointer, a finger-post, I swear it!" he panted over his shoulder to Aline, who had come up behind him. "But how the devil does it work?"
And then, without warning, a hollow sound went rumbling through the court. Aline swung about, recoiled. "Look!" she cried in a hushed voice, her finger pointing at the tambour.
That part of the buttress upon which the drummer was painted had swung open like a door. The drummer, now standing at an angle to the side wall, his face to the grill, was no longer visible. There was still enough light left in the court to render the cavity plainly discernible; but Aline realized that in the dark she might well have confounded it with the black surface of the surrounding wall.
The moving panel was a slab of stone solidly backed with timber, and let into the wall perhaps two feet from the ground. It was apparent that in painting the figure the artist had contrived to merge the joins of the slab so skilfully in the design that they were imperceptible. As the figure was life-size, so the opening was about the height of a man.
A sort of dusty cavern, low of roof and impenetrably black, lay beyond. Rodney struck a match and illuminated the interior. Roughly mortared masonry appeared—the cavity was a mere slot—a bare yard in depth in the thickness of the wall.
The match went out, and Rodney struck another. This time the tiny flame shone upon a dark oblong, set in the wall on the opposite side of the niche. Something round and shining showed up upon its surface—a doorknob. The match died; but Rodney did not strike another. With one foot stemmed upon the slab's seating, he leaned forward and pushed with his hand.
There was a faint click and a sliver of yellowish light struck into the hole. Beyond the door a room, dark and dusty and bare, appeared, lit by a tall, barred window set in the farther wall. A sparse radiance, as from a street lamp, fell through the window upon the centre of the floor. Some battered trunks, stacks of old newspapers were visible.
"Barry's box-room!" Rodney announced in a curt whisper. A finger to his lips, he bent his head and listened. No sound issued forth, only silence, the mournful silence of a house of death.
"There's nobody in the flat," Aline whispered. "It's locked up..."
"Are you sure?" he whispered back.
"Dene told me..."
He nodded, stepped swiftly into the niche and, stooping, for the roof seemed to be low, passed his head through the door. She heard the scratch of a match, saw his fingers rosy with the flame they cupped, saw the flame travel to this side and that as, bending, he scrutinized the floor. By the last flicker of the match she noticed that he had picked something up—but what, she could not determine, for his hand closed about it instantly. Then the match expired and he was in the court again. His hand moved to the buttress, there was a faint rumble and the slab swung back into place.
A beam of light shone out across the court. The door of the house was open. Mr. Murch stood there, silhouetted against the lighted corridor. Aline started at the sight of Rodney's face. It was ghastly: his eyes were fixed and staring.
A frightened voice ejaculated: "My God! what have you done?" The door swung to. Through the dimness Mr. Murch came running.
Rodney pounced at him, caught him by the throat. The little man seemed to crumple up. "You went through to Barry's last night?" Rodney said in a hot, angry whisper.
"No," the secretary gurgled.
"Don't lie to me. Who sent you?"
"I can't tell you... I mustn't..."
"Who sent you? Answer me, or I'll choke the life out of you..."
"It was your Mother. But Rod..."
"Why? What for?" He snarled the questions.
"To fetch a letter..."
"What letter?"
"A letter of Gerry's. It was in his book, the book he was reading when he was killed..."
With a sort of gasp Rodney released his grasp. "Where is this letter?"
"I burnt it."
"Without reading it?"
"Yes!"
"It's a lie..."
"It isn't... I swear it! It was Lady Julia's order... to burn it unread. But, Rod, for God's sake, forget about it... I gave Lady Julia my word... you've got to keep her out of this, do you understand? You've got to!"
Mr. Murch was almost incoherent. He was panting and clawing at his collar as though the other's hands were still about his throat. Rodney stood aside, looking down at his clenched right hand.
"Is that all?" he asked dully.
"That's all, I swear it!"
"Who told you how to work the trap?"
"Lady Julia..."
"How did she know?"
"I didn't ask her."
He was silent for a spell. "All right, Murchie. I'm sorry I was violent. I..." He broke off.
"Your Father rang up," said the secretary sullenly. "I came to find you. He's with Lamb and may be back late. They've identified Sholto. Hall, the chauffeur, picked him out..."
Mr. Murch left them in the hall. Rodney went upstairs with Aline. He said nothing and she, remembering her promise, asked no questions. She noticed that his right hand was still tightly clenched. When they reached the second floor, she stopped at her bedroom door. But he, without speaking, went on and entered Lady Julia's bedroom at the end of the corridor.
In a minute or two she heard his step again. It was dragging, listless. Her bedroom door was open and, standing in front of her dressing-table, she saw him in the mirror on the threshold of the room. He had a paper parcel protruding from his pocket.
"Could I have a look at the feathers you wore at the Court the other night?" he said.
"Why, yes," she answered. "They're in the wardrobe with my frock."
He came slowly into the room while she went to the big oak press where she kept her evening things. Her Presentation frock hung there swathed in a sheet. She was thankful for the sheet—she had not ventured to look at her gown since she had taken it off on that fatal night.
The three white feathers on their tulle foundation were on the shelf. She lifted them down and was in the act of handing them to Rodney when she checked herself, "That's queer!" she remarked. "I told the Inspector that I must have lost that white feather he found at Barry's. I've just remembered I wasn't wearing them at all: I left them in the car when I went into the flat after you and the doctor. And here's the proof—they're unbroken! What do you know about that?"
She had placed the feathers in his hands. Now, without a word he gave them back. He glanced at his watch, "I've got to go to Broadleat," he announced.
"To Broadleat? To-night?"
He nodded without explaining further.
"But however far is it?"
"Only an hour by car. A bit longer if I borrow Gerry's Austin."
"Shall you stay the night?"
He shook his head. "No."
She touched his sleeve. "Rod, take me with you!"
He had relapsed into his torpor. But now he roused himself. "What's that?"
"Let me come, too," she pleaded. "I should be terrified to stay in this big house by myself after all that's happened. And the Lord knows what time Sir Charles will be back..."
"I'd love you to come," he said, looking rather uncomfortable. "Only, frankly... well, you'd better not."
"Oh, be a sport, Rod," she told him. "Honest, this old house of yours just gives me the creeps. I'd adore to take this little run out into the country with you. I'll not be in the way, I swear it. I'll just sit tight in the car if you like, while you go into the house, and nobody will even know I'm there..."
"But what about your packing?"
"That can wait until to-morrow, I guess..."
"You'll have to come just as you are. It's half-past nine already..."
But she had read the signs of his surrender, and was already at one of her wardrobe trunks pulling out a tweed overcoat that hung there. She scrambled into it, snatched up a scarf and crammed a tight little felt hat over her shining brown hair.
"Do you mind if we pick up the car in the Row?" he said. "I don't want to bring it round to the house..."
"Anything you say goes with me, brother," she cried gaily, swinging round from the mirror. She held out her hand to him. "All set? Then let's go!"
They hurried quietly down the stairs together.
THE hands of Big Ben, blackly barring the illuminated clock-face, pointed to a quarter-past nine. The gentle melancholy of the Westminster chimes swelled into the nightly hush of Scotland Yard. The clatter of feet along the endless corridors, the tapping of batteries of typewriters, the jangle of innumerable telephone bells, were over for the day. But not the work. The night shift had come on. As the last traces of day melted from the sky behind the Houses of Parliament, windows at Police Headquarters began to glow. Within the great stone building the occasional opening of a door would release sounds of undiminished activity to shatter the silence of deserted passages gleaming darkly under their carefully husbanded lights.
Already on the Surrey side of the Thames the electric signs fitfully blazed and died. Their rhythmic flashing came and went beyond the drawn blinds of the Assistant Commissioner's room. Then the spasmodic radiance was blotted out as the lights in the room went up.
"Only the desk lamp, Smith," the Assistant Commissioner ordered. He was wearing a dinner-coat, and a half-smoked cigar was between his fingers. Its aroma was pleasantly fragrant in the small room. He gave the messenger his black felt hat to hang up on the stand and sat down at the desk.
"Has Inspector Manderton been asking for me?"
"He rung up a while back, Sir Ernest. He was at Marlborough Street then. He said as how he was coming round."
"I want to see him as soon as he arrives."
"Very good, Sir Ernest." The man paused. "But I was forgetting, sir; there's a lady to see you. She's downstairs now. She'd telephoned your house, she said, but they couldn't tell her where you were dining..."
The Assistant Commissioner extended two languid fingers and took the envelope from the messenger. It was sealed. He tore the end across and a visiting card dropped out with a few words pencilled upon it. Frowning, the man at the desk stared at the card. "How long has she been waiting?" he demanded abruptly.
"Not above ten minutes, Sir Ernest."
"Right. I'll see her presently."
The messenger turned to go. But at that moment the door, which was ajar, was rapped. It swung open. Sir Ernest raised his head sharply. "Come in, Manderton! All right, Smith..."
The messenger vanished silently. The Assistant Commissioner leaned back in his chair and his glance questioned the Inspector. "Well," he said, "have you charged him?"
Mr. Manderton shook his head glumly. "Not yet, Sir Ernest."
The man at the desk bent his brows. "Ah..."
"He won't come clean,"—the Inspector's tone was peevish. "I can see his game all right: wants to keep his wife's name out of the dirt. What happened is clear enough. He came over from France to catch his missus and the boy friend together, collected the gun and waited for the wife to arrive. He let her get clear, then went in and settled accounts with Swete. That's what happened, but Rossway won't admit it. He'll say nothing except that he killed Swete and lets it go at that..."
"You don't think you can charge him on his confession?"
"And if he goes back on it? The evidence against him is purely circumstantial—I'd like a stronger case, Sir Ernest, and that's a fact. So I'm holding him on suspicion for the present. I still hope to lay my hands on Larking: we'll squeeze the truth out of that bird, or I don't know my job."
The Assistant Commissioner nodded. Then he picked up from the blotter the visiting card that lay there and held it out silently to his visitor.
The Inspector's face darkened when he read the name. "And what may she want?" he growled.
Authority hoisted its shoulders. "She reminds me that we've met before. In the circumstances I think I'd better see her alone. You'll be around for a bit?"
"You'll find me in my room, Sir Ernest." Mr. Manderton's manner was distant: it was clear that he resented his exclusion from the interview.
"She probably wants me to release her son," remarked the Assistant Commissioner suavely as he lifted the telephone receiver. "You know what these women are. I'll give you a ring presently..."
"I don't know whether you have any standing in the matter," said Lady Julia. "I came to you because I wanted to speak to someone in authority, and we had met before."
He had not yet fully recovered his poise. He had expected to see her broken-hearted, hysterical, violent; but she had greeted him with the same unruffled calm as though she had merely called upon him, as the great ladies of society sometimes did, to interest him in a charity ball or bazaar. He had intended to dominate the interview, to be courteous, sympathetic even, but inflexibly firm. But her demeanour was so self-assured, her manner so graciously condescending, as she took the chair he offered and began to pull off her neat gauntlet gloves, that he had found himself stammering out an apology for keeping her waiting.
The apology must come from her, she riposted with her easy, charming smile, for disturbing him after office hours. But he would remember that they had met once or twice at dinner at Sir Roger Batling's, the judge. Of course, he agreed, and asked—idiotically, as it seemed to him afterwards—whether Lady Batling and Vera had returned from Spain.
But it was evident that his visitor had taken charge of the interview. She ignored his polite inquiry and went straight to the point. "I'm on my way to the country," she said. "They told me downstairs that you sometimes looked in during the evening, so, as it was urgent that I should see you to-night, I waited. I don't know whether you have any standing in the matter, Sir Ernest? I came to you because I wanted to speak to someone in authority and we had met before. It's about my son."
It was the chance to assert himself and he seized it. "I need scarcely tell you how deeply I sympathize with you and Sir Charles," he replied "But I have to tell you that I have no power in the matter. Your son has given himself up..."
"My boy is innocent, Sir Ernest," she interposed in a voice warm with emotion.
"You must understand that your son has confessed to the murder of Swete," he pointed out gently. "I'm sorry, but the matter is out of my hands."
"And if I furnish you with the proof that my son is not telling the truth, that he could not possibly have committed the murder?"
At that he leaned forward, his elbow propped on his knee. Lady Julia had opened her handbag. "Do I understand that you have evidence of this?"
She had taken a passport from her bag: he saw the blue cloth cover in the rays of the desk lamp. He lifted the telephone, told the operator he wished Inspector Manderton to come to the Assistant Commissioner's room at once. At the name a shadow seemed to pass across the woman's face. She was hunting through the passport. Now she laid it open upon the blotter, pointing silently with her finger to a blurred impress of a stamp above a scrawled signature.
The Assistant Commissioner turned the passport over to look at the name let into the front, glanced at the photograph inside, then, drawing the lamp nearer, fell to studying the stamp. "Where did you get this?" he asked without raising his eyes.
"My son left it behind when he came home to-night," she answered rather tensely.
Then the messenger announced: "Inspector Manderton!"
The Inspector came in at a sort of ambling trot. At the sight of Lady Julia installed in the chair beside the desk he brought up short and shot a glance charged with suspicion, first at her and then at his hierarchical Chief.
"You know Inspector Manderton, of course, Lady Julia?" Sir Ernest remarked casually—he was still poring over the passport. Mr. Manderton dipped his chin about three inches in the direction of the visitor and retired within himself, sullen and ungracious.
The man at the desk flung himself back in his chair, spinning round in it to confront the detective. "What time does the night train leave London by the Tilbury—Dunkirk route for Paris?" he asked. "Ten o'clock, is it, from St. Pancras?"
"Ten-thirty," replied Mr. Manderton with a face of stone.
"Is there a day service, do you know?"
"No, Sir Ernest. There's only the one service—at night."
"That's what I thought." He rubbed his nose. "Swete was killed on Wednesday night, wasn't he?"
"That's right, sir."
"At eleven-fifteen, wasn't it?"
"Eleven-twenty, to be correct, Sir Ernest."
The other lifted his hand which was spread palm downward upon the open passport. "Rossway's passport!" he announced. "With an entry visa affixed at the port of Dunkirk in the early hours of Thursday. If that means anything, it means that he took the train at St. Pancras at half-past ten—more than three-quarters of an hour before Swete was shot..."
"May I see, please?" said the Inspector composedly. He carried the passport to the reading-lamp. The pinkish grained paper displayed a lozenge-shaped impress, somewhat smudged, but still quite legible. "Entrée" was printed at the top and "Vu au Débarquement" at the bottom with "Dunkerque" stamped across the middle and the date below.
The Assistant Commissioner smoothed down his hair and turned a puzzled glance upon his visitor. She was sitting bolt upright in her chair, her hands clasped in front of her, in an attitude of quiet expectation. He had the impression that she wanted to say something but had not ventured to interrupt his conversation with the Inspector.
But now, with an eagerness which contrasted strongly with the rigid self-control she had up till then displayed, she hurried into speech. "You see now, don't you," she exclaimed tremulously, "my son had nothing to do with it—he left for the Continent again before Mr. Swete was shot. There's nothing against him now, is there? He can be released at once. My car is here—I can take him away with me..."
The Inspector's deep voice interrupted her. "Where did this passport come from?" he rumbled as he bent down beside the lamp.
"Rossway left it at Frant House," the man at the desk interjected. "Lady Julia found it and brought it along."
The Inspector grunted and shut the booklet with a snap. He raised himself erect. "This'll have to be inquired into," he remarked cautiously, and slipped the passport into his pocket.
"And my son?" Lady Julia questioned. "You'll release him, of course?" And seeing that the detective remained silent, she addressed herself to his Chief. "There's no question of my son remaining under arrest, is there, Sir Charles? He can be released now, can't he?"
"Not until this alibi's verified, he can't," Manderton retorted bluntly.
She rose in haste to her feet. "But you've no justification for detaining him. Do you suggest that this visa is forged?" She swung about to the man at the desk. "I appeal to you, Sir Ernest..."
Once again it was the Inspector who answered her. "I'm suggesting nothing," he rejoined. "But your ladyship must understand that before your son is released it will be necessary to establish that he used this passport himself."
"But while you re inquiring, surely my son can return home," she countered. "If it's a question of sureties, or whatever you call it, his father can give you any money guarantees that are required." And on a deprecatory gesture of the hand from the Assistant Commissioner, she went on: "I know that my son is innocent and I've brought you the proof. He must be set at liberty at once."
As she spoke she let her glance flit nervously from one to the other of her two hearers—from the dapper individual at the desk to the stalwart figure of his subordinate who, hands behind back, rocked himself on toe and heel impatiently to and fro, confronting her with a cold, defiant stare. Discerning neither sympathy nor compassion in their faces, she quailed. Distress gained on her. "Surely you don't intend," she continued, "to subject him to the disgrace of an appearance in court on such a charge, to put this shame on us when you've got the evidence to clear him?" She braced herself as anger came to her aid. "Don't you think you'd do well to consider, Sir Ernest, whether the police can afford to make a mistake like this? You can't go on with it, I tell you. You've got to release my boy..."
The Assistant Commissioner cleared his throat. "I think I should tell you, Lady Julia, that your son is at present merely detained on suspicion. He has not yet been charged..."
Her features lighted up. "Then you can release him?"
"I can't do that, I'm afraid," he told her. "The Inspector is right: this visa will have to be verified. It will take a certain amount of time. I'm sorry, Lady Julia, but there can be no question of your son's immediate release from custody..."
This was defeat: the sudden clouding over of the beautiful face, the trembling of her lips, showed that she recognized it. She bowed her head, fumbling with her gloves which she began to draw on. He took advantage of her action to rise as though to signify that the interview was at an end.
But she made a last effort. "At least you agree with me that the evidence of the passport clears him?"
"As to that," he returned stolidly, "you mustn't ask me to commit myself. But if it should, you'll appreciate the further question that arises—if your son is innocent, why did he confess?"
She sighed but said nothing, busying herself with her glove. He considered her, hesitating. "Is there nothing you can tell us to throw any light on this point, Lady Julia?"
"If only I could!" she rejoined in a low voice. She lifted her stately head and met his scrutiny. The last trace of emotion had vanished from her features: her eyes were tranquil, her expression serene. "I'm afraid," she added with a whimsical air that seemed to barb her rejoinder, "we shall have to depend on the Inspector to help us there." With her grande dame manner she held out her hand, very elegant in the fringed suede gauntlet. "Good night, Sir Ernest. Thank you for letting me see you. Remember, I'm counting on you to have Sholto released."
He bowed over her hand. "His silence doesn't make things any easier for him, or for us," he answered. "But I'll do what I can. Where can I get in touch with you?"
"Let Sir Charles know," she replied rather breathlessly. "He's worn out with anxiety. It would be good of you to telephone him at Frant House as soon as there's any news."
He nodded and touched the bell, then asked if the messenger could call her a taxi. She had her car downstairs, she reminded him. With that she picked up her bag from the desk and with her air of grave dignity followed the messenger out.
"Well, what about it?" As the door closed behind her, the Assistant Commissioner turned to Manderton. "Just as well you didn't charge him, wasn't it?"
The Inspector nodded morosely. "One has a hunch about these things."
"A clear alibi, what?"
Mr. Manderton grunted. "Looks like it. There's this about it, anyway. It tells us where Larking is..."
"You mean he's in Paris?"
"Sure. He went over to warn Rossway. And took the gun with him. That's how Rossway got hold of it."
"But, hang it all, man, whom is Rossway shielding?" the Assistant Commissioner demanded violently.
The explosion left the Inspector cold. He made no answer for a moment, seemingly rapt in contemplation of the chaste, if polychromatic, pattern of the Assistant Commissioner's carpet. At last the detective raised his head and his glance wheeled slowly to the door that had just closed upon Sir Ernest's visitor. His eyes, half-veiled by their puffy lids, had a wary glint.
"I wonder!" said Mr. Manderton softly.
THE little Austin rasped the gravel and slid to rest under the flat-spreading branch of a gigantic cedar. The engine sighed once and was still, the glare of the headlamps was quenched. At once the darkness all about was astir with the night sounds of the country—the chant of the frogs, the distant barking of dogs, the defiant shriek of an owl in a shrubbery close at hand—and a great moon, rising high in the sky, gazed shyly in at the window of the tiny saloon.
"Wait there!" Rodney's order was muted, curt. He hoisted his long legs clear of the steering-wheel. "I'm going to see if they're still up." He descended from the car, Aline heard his feet on the stones, and he was gone.
It was the first time he had spoken to her since they had started out. His voice aroused her from a reverie—she was astonished to find they were already at their destination. She had surrendered herself gladly to the exhilaration of their run through the soft summer night, watching as in a dream the blazing shop-fronts and trams, the noise and bustle of unending suburbs, give place to the solemn stillness of a great road, bare and cold and grey under the moon. After the doubts and fears and excitements she had known that day, it was a boon to be able to relax, to lean back and watch the open country slide by as their funny little car bowled valiantly along.
But here they were at their journey's end. The realization sobered her. Once or twice on the run, in a passing flare of light, she had caught sight of Rodney's face, sombre and grim and resolute behind the steering-wheel. She thought of it now as she sat in the car with the hot metal under the bonnet making little tinkling sounds against the rhythmic croaking of the frogs. Why had he come to Broadleat? His sudden decision, she divined, must be due to the discovery of the secret passage and Murchie's admission about this letter of Gerry's.
Was it Gerry he had come to see? Or his mother? Of a sudden she was very still. The incident of the feathers had come into her mind. Lady Julia knew about the secret exit from the tennis court, for she had told Murchie about it. The white feather Manderton had picked up in Barry's living-room, whose was it? she asked herself. Not hers: she had left her feathers in the car, besides, they were unbroken: and Gerry had spoken the truth when she said she had not carried a feather fan, did not, indeed, possess such a thing...
"Oh...!" She gave a little gasping sigh. What if Lady Julia had gone through to Barry's by the secret exit on the night of the murder? It would be to save Gerry, of course. And there was a secret between them—the incident of the letter which Lady Julia had sent Murchie to fetch proved that...
The thought appalled her. She felt suddenly cramped in the stuffy little saloon, reeking of warm oil. She swung back the door, stepped out.
The car was parked at the side of a grass-grown drive. The house was quite close—she could see it between the trees: a long low place of gables and climbing roses. A high, gobbling cry behind her, oft repeated, caught her ear. Cranes, she told herself, as she turned about. At the foot of a gentle slope of lawn, with great trees standing up at intervals upon it, she saw the trembling, silvery track of the moon on water.
This must be the lake they had told her of—she could make out the fantastic silhouette of a boathouse emerging from its encircling tangle of greenery all vibrant with the rhythmic chatter of the frogs. Save where the moon furrowed it, the lake was black and still and forbidding. It frightened her. The whole place frightened her. The silent house, the enormous, solemn trees, and that dark, mysterious serpentine of water below, filled her with foreboding. She had an eerie sensation as though park and lake were waiting for something to happen.
But now a bright light shone through the screen of foliage in which the house lay. She heard a whistle, the crunch of gravel, Gerry's voice calling her name. Then she saw a glint of white, and Gerry, in her ghostlike wrapper, came speeding down the drive.
"Aline darling," Gerry cried ecstatically, "if you only knew how glad I am to see you! I had such a ghastly hump that I couldn't make up my mind to go to bed. I was sitting in my room, feeling like nothing on earth, when Rod threw a stone up at the window. Come along in!"
The great oaken door, nail-studded, stood wide, spilling a gush of light from a rambling lounge. Low raftered ceiling, deep embrasured casement windows, the faint fragrance of pot-pourri. Nothing had been done to alter the character of what had clearly been the principal living-room of the old farmstead. There was a vast brick fireplace where, despite the mildness of the night, between great iron dogs a log glowed red. The furniture was of old oak, plain and massive, and from a corner a staircase with twisted Jacobean banisters mounted to the upper floors.
Gerry shut the door, installed Aline in a chair before the fire and took one herself. "Drink?" she queried. There's some whisky in that cupboard. "Or I can open a bottle of white wine—I know where it's kept..."
But Aline said she wanted nothing except a cigarette. "Where's Rod?" she asked, as Gerry gave her a light.
"He went up to Lady Julia," said Gerry. "I told him she'd gone to bed as soon as we arrived. But he insisted." She paused. "Why has he come down in such a tearing hurry? Has anything fresh happened?"
"Well," Aline replied slowly, "Sholto has been identified, you know..."
Gerry nodded tensely. "Rod told me. It was inevitable, I suppose. But he had no need to come all this way to tell us that. He could have telephoned just as well. And why did he bring you?"
"I made him," said Aline shortly. "I thought the run would do me good."
"Why has he come? What does he want?" Excitedly she clamped her hand over Aline's. "You know, don't you? You've got to tell me, do you hear?" She stole a cautious glance over her shoulder towards the stairs, lowered her voice. "Listen, Aline. Rod frightens me. He looks as though he'd seen a ghost. When I opened the door to him just now, he snapped at me, 'Where's my Mother? I want to see my Mother,' without a word of explanation, and when I asked him what had happened, he seemed suddenly to come to himself and said it was nothing—he just wanted to have a word with Lady Julia. I got out of him the fact that Sholto had been identified, and... and he wanted to know about some letter I'm supposed to have written to Barry." She paused and swallowed in her throat. "Aline, why has he come here? If you know, tell me, for God's sake. This strain's killing me..."
The girl was gazing reflectively into the heart of the fire. "Gerry," she said, "are you sure you've told them everything?"
Gerry sat up and stared. "But, of course. Who says I haven't?"
"What about this letter of yours to Barry?"
"Listen, Aline," Gerry broke in quickly, "I never wrote a line to Barry in my life. I may have made a fool of myself about him, but I wasn't such a fool as that. And he never wrote anything to me that anybody couldn't have read. As I told Rodney just now. Where does this story come from, anyhow?"
"From Murchie. He told Rodney. I heard him myself."
"But he's crazy. Barry never had a letter from me, I tell you. It's the first I've heard about it. The whole thing's a stupid invention, anyway. How could Murchie go back to Barry's after the murder? Giles says the flat has been locked up, with a policeman guarding the door downstairs ever since that night."
"There's a secret way through to Barry's from the tennis court. Rod and I discovered it to-night. Then Rod tackled Murchie and he told him this story. That's all I know about it."
Gerry gasped. "A secret passage? And nobody knew of it except Murchie?"
"Murchie didn't know it existed until Lady Julia told him..."
"Lady Julia...!"
"It was Lady Julia who sent Murchie to fetch this letter..."
Gerry stood up abruptly. Her green eyes glinted in the firelight as she turned and gazed long and anxiously up the staircase. In the silence that fell between them Aline heard the strident hoot of the owl in the shrubbery beyond the open casement. Then Gerry sat down again and drew her chair closer. She had gone pale to the lips.
"Tell me all about it from the beginning," she said in an awed and hurried whisper.
THERE was a glimmer of light under Lady Julia's door. A quick "What is it?" answered Rodney's gentle knock.
"It's Rodney, Mother," he announced, and tried the handle. The door was locked.
A slight sound within the room that might have been an ejaculation of surprise, and the door was unfastened. Lady Julia stood there. She was ready for bed, her hair gathered loosely on her neck, her feet thrust into dainty heel-less slippers that protruded from beneath the ample folds of the dark kimono she wore. Behind her was a glow of pinkish light and against it, with her unbraided hair, her bare arms appearing from her wide sleeves, and her severely simple wrap, closely moulded to her slim and lissom figure, she had the appearance of a young girl.
She stepped back without speaking and he went in. A plain bedroom. Little furniture, a gay rug or two on the floor, no pictures. Enormous beams, black with age, supported the roof-tree and broke the surface of the cream-washed walls. The narrow bed was turned back. Beyond the open casements the night was spread out, dark, mellow, mysterious. The shaded bedside lamp, which was the only light, lent the room a quiet and intimate character.
She closed the door behind them. On the click of the bolt as she shot it home he swung about at the same time as she turned away from the door. They came face to face. In a profound silence he took his right hand from his pocket, unclenched the fingers. A scrap of white feather rested on the open palm. She did not blench. In a level voice she said: "Did Manderton send you to me with that?"
He shook his head. "I found it myself." He paused, his eyes on hers. And, perceiving that she made no sign, he went on: "It was caught in the secret door in the panelling of Barry's lumber-room."
A look of apprehension crossed her face. Still she guarded an obstinate silence, staring with a fascinated air at the feather. "I found one of your Presentation feathers broken in your wardrobe at home," he said. From an inner pocket of the light dust-coat he wore he drew an elongated package wrapped in tissue paper and placed it on the table that was beside him. "If you want to see for yourself..."
But she let the package lie. She came forward, clutched the edge of the table and dropped wearily into the chair that stood before it. He then saw that he must have interrupted her at her writing. A block of the notepaper they used at Broadleat—crested, azure-tinted—was open there, her fountain-pen upon it, and there was a spatter of scraps of the same bluish paper in the wastepaper basket. Two words only had she penned on the topmost sheet of the block—he could read them in her big, legible hand from where he stood—and the ink had long since dried upon them: "My dearest..."
"You killed him, didn't you?" he said and tried to keep the hardness from his voice. She bowed her head without speaking. "Does Chass know?" She looked up at him with terror in her eyes, then shook her head. Still she did not speak.
"Couldn't you have taken one of us into your confidence?" he asked rather bitterly. "Didn't you know that Chass and I would have seen you through?"
"You would have judged me, both of you," she answered then, suddenly tense with despair. "Already you've judged and condemned me unheard, Rod..."
"How can I help it?" he cried with a break in his voice. "Isn't Sholto your son? Yet you let him take the blame for you."
She turned her sad, cold face to him and smiled. The wistfulness of that slow smile stabbed him to the heart. "You love Sholto, don't you, Rod? But I love him, too. More than ever, if it were possible, since I found out he was willing to sacrifice himself for me. Did you really think I'd stand by and see him suffer in my place?"
"Yet," he said, "he was charged with murder tonight, and to-morrow he'll be brought up at the police court."
She shook her head. "No, dear. Sholto was not charged to-night nor will he appear in court to-morrow. He'll never be charged. To-morrow he'll be free."
He stared at her aghast. "Mother, what have you done?"
"I took his passport to Scotland Yard to-night. They spoke of verifying the Dunkirk visa. But they'll have to release him."
"But don't you realize what this means? The fact that Sholto is cleared will make this bloodhound, Manderton, more than ever determined to find the..."—he boggled at the word upon his lips and substituted, "to find out the truth..."
She inclined her graceful head, her hands folded in her lap.
"I know you did it to save Gerry, to defend Sholto's name," he pursued. "But... to kill him! Was there no other way? Oh, can't you see I've got to have the whole story? Sooner or later Manderton is bound to arrive at the facts and we must be ready for him..."
On a sudden impulse, as it seemed, she stooped and, drawing him down to her, pressed her lips to his hair. Then she made him sit at her feet and, taking his hand, held it in her lap. For a moment she was silent, gazing in front of her, her smooth brow furrowed.
"I knew Barry Swete pretty well," she said at last, "the sort of man he was, the appeal he had for women. And I was afraid for Gerry—I saw the way she was throwing herself at his head. I spoke to Barry about it several times but he always laughed it off. Then, from something Giles told me, I discovered that Gerry was in the habit of visiting Barry at night. I was horrified—I had no idea that things had gone that far. I didn't say anything to Gerry for the moment, though I asked you to have a word with her—I know how headstrong she is and opposition in such matters rarely does any good; it has the contrary effect, if anything. But I wrote to Sholto to come home at once and I also tackled Barry again. I warned him that, however foolishly Gerry might be behaving, I was determined not to let him ruin Sholto's marriage, and I told him I'd sent for Sholto to come home and look after his wife. I'd intended to tell Barry this himself, on Tuesday night when he was round at the house. But he eluded me, so I sent him a letter through the post. First thing next morning—that was Wednesday, the day of the Court—when he received my letter, he rang me up. He was cynical, horrible. He said that Gerry was old enough to look after herself and that, in any case, he did not tolerate interference in his private affairs. He was angry—he scarcely gave me the chance to speak. Afterwards he... he wrote to me,"—she paused to overcome a sudden surge of emotion—"a brutal letter, an insulting letter—he blamed me, I suppose, because Gerry was avoiding him..."
She broke off and her head drooped on her breast. The figure at her feet remained impassive. "His letter was waiting for me when we came back from the Court," she resumed. "I was revolted... I was beside myself. I hardly know how I got to my room. Cox took off my frock and gave me my wrapper. But I couldn't stand her fussing over me so I said I had letters to write and packed her off to bed. I couldn't decide what to do. Then I suddenly determined to go and have it out with him there and then—Rod, how long have you known about Mad Phil's trap?"
"I only found out about it to-night," he answered briefly.
"To-night?" Her eyes were awestruck. "How?"
"It would take too long to tell you now. How did you come to discover it?"
"Eric Ivinghoe showed it to me years ago. Well, I ran downstairs, just as I was in my wrapper. The hall was empty—I could hear the men talking in the library—and I reached the tennis court unseen...."
"Still wearing your feathers?"
"No. I noticed them in the mirror as I was leaving my bedroom. I wrenched them out and managed to break one, I suppose: some pieces of feather must have caught in my hair."
"And the revolver?" he questioned. "You fetched it from Gerry's room, I suppose? Why did you take the revolver?"
She hesitated, her face averted.
"Do you want me to believe you intended to kill him?" he persisted.
She was twining and untwining her fingers. "I don't know what I meant to do. To threaten him, perhaps—he was the sort of man who would only yield to force. You've got to let me tell this in my own way..."
He made no sign and she resumed: "You know about the trap so I needn't explain that part. Barry didn't see me until I was up the stairs and in the room. He was sitting at the table with a cigar, reading. He was furious at finding me there. I told him that this business about Gerry had got to be settled once and for all. He only laughed and..." She closed her eyes in bitter anguish. "I drew out the revolver from under my wrapper. When he saw it he only laughed again and showed me his pistol on the desk—it must have lain there ever since he took it from the drawer when Gerry was with him—and... and..."
She broke off on a little moan—she was trembling all over. "He said something—it doesn't matter now what he said. The next thing I remember is my ears singing and the smell of burnt powder and, through a blue haze, Barry face downwards on the floor making a horrible bubbling noise. I must have dropped the revolver, but I don't remember anything more except, vaguely, running across the tennis court in the dark..."
"And you sent Larking back to get the revolver, is that it?"
She shook her head. "No. But I believe I know what happened. I can't have shut the trap properly and Larking must have found it open when he was going his rounds. Probably the trap closed behind him and he was locked in. The catch on Barry's side is high up on the wall and it's difficult to find unless you know where to look for it. Larking must have recognized the pistol as Gerry's and took it away with him to protect her and Sholto..." She paused and gazed beseechingly at her son. "Rod," she said piteously.
"What about this letter you sent Murchie to fetch?" he asked. She was on the instant so still that he raised his eyes to find her staring at him in utter dismay.
"Murchie told you that, did he?" she whispered.
He nodded. "Aline was in the tennis court and saw him." He paused. "Why did you tell him the letter was Gerry's?"
She had drawn back in consternation. "Gerry never wrote Barry a line in her life," he said sternly. A chill hand was laid on his to silence him. Then Lady Julia stood up abruptly and walked towards the door, clasping and unclasping her fingers, her head bent. She turned, came towards him and stood still.
"Rod," she murmured tremulously, her eyes downcast, "does Manderton know about this letter?"
He shook his head. "No. And he's not likely to...."
"Listen," she said tensely, "if this should come out, Gerry must say it was her letter, a compromising letter. She must do this much for me..."
"Why should she if she's innocent?"
"It's not for myself I ask it," Lady Julia replied in a voice vibrant with feeling. "It's for all of us, for your father, for you two boys." She lifted her luminous eyes, dark with the shadow of a great despair, to his. "The story I've just told you," she added, "is the story I shall tell Manderton..."
"You... you can't intend to give yourself up?" he faltered hoarsely.
She inclined her stately head. "To-morrow..."
He turned brusquely away. Timorously, caressingly, she laid her hand on his shoulder. "Oh, Rod," she pleaded, "be understanding and help me to tell you the truth!" She shuddered and buried her face in her hands.
Fiercely he caught her to him and held her fast. "Don't you know it's the truth I want?" he said brokenly. "Do you really imagine that I or any of us could believe that you would deliberately go and fetch a revolver in order to kill a man in cold blood? It was Sholto who took the gun from Gerry's room—you're only trying to shield him. We've always been pals, dear, you and I. Tell me the truth, Mums darling, and I'll understand."
At the sound of the old children's name for her, she looked up, a sudden gladness shining through the tears that glistened on her face. "I knew you wouldn't fail me," she said humbly. "It's better you should know because you've got to understand why we can't tell your father the truth and because you'll have to explain to your brother." Her utterance became hurried. "Did you see Sholto to-night? He wouldn't speak to me, he wouldn't even look at me—God knows what Barry can have told him." She gasped and pointed to the chair she had vacated. "Sit down there, Rod. Don't interrupt and don't... don't judge me until you've heard the whole story..."
He had grown very still. In silence, with a quick glance at her, he seated himself. She had swung away again and was restlessly pacing the quiet room.
"None of you knew," she said after a pause, "that Barry and I had met before. You remember that your father ran across him in America, two years ago, and invited him to come to London and arrange the pictures and things at Frant House. Chass must have mentioned his name but, if he did, I paid no attention to it—I was never much good at names. Actually I never realized it was Barry Swete until your father brought him to the house and we met face to face."
She paused. She had halted close to Rodney, her back towards him, her head bent.
"Barry Swete," she went on presently, "belonged to a period of my life when I was very unhappy. You must understand that all this happened long before I met your father. Eric Ivinghoe and I had been secretly engaged. The family found out about it and there was a tremendous row. He had no money and I had no money. My father and your Uncle Eustace were both up to their ears in debt and it was made very clear to me that I, as the only daughter, was expected to make a great match and retrieve the family fortunes. Eric wanted me to elope with him. If I had my life to live over again I wouldn't hesitate. But then I hadn't the nerve—I was so helpless, in those days. At any rate, I let Eric go. He exchanged to the Indian Army immediately and less than six months later was killed, as you know, on the North-West frontier."
She broke off the tips of her joined fingers pressed tight against her pale lips. Her voice rang hollow as she resumed. "When I heard about it, I was distraught. I felt that my miserable cowardice had sent him to his death. Eric was such a rare and splendid man; and we had loved one another so dearly. For weeks I wouldn't speak to my father for I regarded him as even more to blame than myself. I was bitter and despairing: I inwardly rebelled against the system that had sacrificed my life's happiness. Then, two years after Eric's death, I met Barry Swete."
A silence fell upon the room. Lady Julia walked slowly to the door, turned and came back to where Rodney sat, his eyes fixed gravely upon her. "It's not easy to explain what happened," she said. "I was a little mad, I think, and..." She paused. "Gerry's right. Barry was irresistible to women. Not merely physically, however, though Gerry's too young to understand that. He had the rarest gift, the secret of understanding, of sympathy..." her voice faltered. "Oh, Rod, I'm telling you the whole story but I do so want you to think the best of me..."
"Mother, darling..." he began. But she checked him.
"Don't speak. I'm only saying this because I can't bear the thought of your believing that I was ever the sort of person to hunt adventures..."
"How could I ever believe that of you, dearest?"
"Affairs of this kind have always seemed to me, well, vulgar. But Barry hypnotized me. He idealized our relationship—or, at any rate, was clever enough to make me think it did. To make a long story short, I went away to Paris with him." She gave him a wistful smile. "I'm not trying to make a case out for myself—I only want you to know the facts..."
"Have you got to tell me all this?" he asked miserably.
She inclined her head. "True, I didn't know him then for what he was—a mere sensualist, a cold-hearted voluptuary; and I thought he was free, though the idea of marriage never entered my head..."
"Then why did you do it?" Rodney's voice was harsh with feeling. "What can there ever have been in common between you and a man like him?"
"In character, nothing. But I was desperately miserable, torn with remorse: he understood and comforted me. And there was something else—Rod, you must try to understand this, because it explains it all. You never knew Eric, but there was something about Barry that reminded me of him—something purely physical. They had the same mouth for one thing—Eric had a beautiful mouth and so had Barry, you know—and Barry's hair grew low down on the temples just like Eric's. And Barry had the same tone of voice, the same way of saying little things, that Eric had—it was uncanny..."
Her voice trailed off and left her, as it were, abashed by the sudden realization of her animation. "I think I looked to find with Barry the happiness I renounced in letting Eric go," she put in rather humbly. "And I had a sort of satisfaction in defying the system that had robbed me of my share of love. Besides, I had made up my mind since I had not been allowed to marry the man I loved, never to marry at all. I told the family I had been invited to Paris to stay with a married woman I knew there. I was only with Barry a week. My eyes were very quickly opened to the sort of man he was and then I discovered, purely by chance, that he had a wife in London—she died later, poor thing. So I left him and we did not meet again,"—she paused to reckon—"for twenty-seven years, when your Father brought him to the house and announced, to my horror, that he had let Barry the flat in the Row. The adventure taught me that the idyllic love I might have found with Eric was never to be mine. I put Barry out of my life and thoughts and when, in the year following, I promised to marry your Father, notwithstanding my great fondness for him, or perhaps, because of it, I decided that to tell him of an incident that was over and done with would only be to cause him needless pain. God knows,"—she sighed deeply and passed her hand wearily across her forehead—"I realize now the wrong I did him." She caught her son's hand. "Rod, he must never know, whatever happens. I've had to tell you, God help me. But he must go on believing in me. You'll promise me this?"
He bowed his head. "I promise..." His eyes, luminous with compassion, looked up into hers. "Was Barry blackmailing you, Mother?"
"Not for money, if that's what you mean," she relinquished his hand and resumed her pacing. "That first day he came to the house I begged him to give up any idea of taking the flat and to go away. He laughed at me and said he'd long forgotten all his youthful follies and advised me to do the same. No argument of mine could shake him: he liked Sir Charles, the work interested him enormously and he was entranced with the flat; he intended to stay. He told me that, as far as he was concerned, that mad adventure of ours was dead and forgotten and he would never allude to it. And I must say he kept his word. He was a man of the world, you know, and as time went on, I found myself instinctively falling in with his point of view. Any sentimental feeling I ever had for him had long since vanished, but he was, as you know, an attractive companion and he still reminded me of Eric." She paused. "Then Gerry came back from Kenya and the trouble started..."
Rodney stood up and opened his arms. With a little moaning cry, she fell into them. "Oh, Rod," she whispered, "these past few weeks have been sheer nightmare! If you knew how bitterly humiliated I've been; the way I've tortured myself wondering if he'd taken Gerry as he took me. The first time I spoke to him about it, he made light of the whole affair. But when I became indignant, he hinted that I'd be wise not to interfere and eventually threatened, if I persisted in trying to come between Gerry and him, to go to your father and tell him the truth..."
Her son's face darkened. "The swine! Why didn't you let him do his worst? Chass would have stood by you."
She shuddered. "I hadn't the courage. Your father thinks the world of me—you've always spoiled me so, you three men. I humbled myself to Barry. I told him it was monstrous, after what had taken place between us, even all those years ago, to expect me to stand by and see him ruin my son's happiness. He was cynical, threatening. In that last letter he wrote me..."
She checked, closing her eyes as though to shut out that bitter memory. "That was the letter I sent Murchie to fetch. I determined to go to Barry and make a last appeal to him. When I went in to him at his flat I was angry. I flung his letter on the table and told him I refused to receive letters like that. He only laughed and put it in his book saying he was surprised to find me adopting a high moral tone. And... and he accused me of being jealous of Gerry. Oh, Rod, it was untrue, God knows it was untrue, but it was part of my punishment that it had to look like that to him. And then suddenly I saw a revolver lying on the chair beside him..."
"Sholto's?"
"Yes."
"He must have left it there..."
"I suppose so." Her voice was weary. "Barry noticed the direction of my eyes for he laughed again and, showing me a pistol he had on the desk, said he was prepared for all emergencies and—oh, it was unspeakable!—he said that it would take a gun, anyway, to get him back,"—she caught her breath—"into any old woman's arms, as Sholto knew!"
"The beast!" Rodney ground out between his teeth.
"I guessed then that he had told Sholto about us—I supposed he had written: I didn't know then that he'd seen Sholto that night—and the thought maddened me. I must have snatched up the revolver from the chair. I've no recollection of pulling the trigger, but somehow, the thing went off and..." She pressed her hands to her temples. "Now you know the whole story, Rod." Very gently she put him from her. "I'm so unutterably tired. You must let me go to bed. Perhaps I shall sleep, now that I've told you."
"How is it that none of us except you knew about the secret passage?" he asked, absently fingering the lapel of her kimono.
Her familiar, charming smile reappeared. A little colour mingled with the pallor of her cheeks. "Ah, that was an old secret between Eric and me. The very existence of this passage had been forgotten, though Eric afterwards found some reference to it, I believe, in Nephew George's letters. He only discovered the trap by chance—it was soon after his father, the old Lord Frant, had given him the rooms in the Row. I was staying at Frant House at the time and I remember Eric taking me very mysteriously into the tennis court and showing me the way through the buttress. Afterwards I had tea with him alone in his rooms, in those days—it's more than thirty years ago—a highly improper proceeding, though we were both such children: I was only seventeen and Eric two years older. Anyway, we both agreed to keep the trap a tremendous secret between us..."
Rodney smiled indulgently at her. "Was that really why you never told any of us?"
She shook her head. "There was another reason. The night before Eric sailed for India, three years later, when our engagement was broken off and we were both unspeakably unhappy, we walked in the tennis court together and talked of old times. Eric reminded me of the passage—I think I'd forgotten all about it—and said he'd never told anyone about it because that afternoon I'd been to tea with him he'd made up his mind to marry me some day and he clung to the memory of that old tête-à-tête of ours as a secret not to be shared with any human being except me. Wasn't it sweet of him? He was so odd about things like that..."
"And you kept the secret even after we came to live at Frant House?"
She nodded. "After Eric died, I wanted to forget about it. I didn't even tell your Father. Only once, when I happened to be alone at Frant House—you boys were at school and the servants were with your Father in the country: I had come up for the day—I ventured to use the passage. But the sight of Eric's old rooms, dusty and neglected, gave me such a pang that I never went back. And in time I ceased to think about Mad Phil's trap—until, the other night, I suddenly remembered it..."
Rodney gazed at his mother lovingly. "You were very fond of Eric, weren't you?" He had taken her hand in his. She bowed her head. He fondled her hand, then said: "And now, dearest, what are we going to do?"
She stroked his hair, her gaze hanging affectionately on his anxious face. "We'll talk of that to-morrow before we ring up the Inspector."
"You're going through with it, then?" he said huskily.
She met his haggard glance with something of her old composure. "Yes..."
"I wish I could be as calm about it as you," he cried desperately. She smiled at him, then, drawing him to her, kissed him on the forehead. "You'll stay the night?" she asked.
He consulted his watch. "I'd better. It's so late. I left word for Chass that I was coming down here. Aline's with me..."
"Gerry will let her sleep in the second bed in her room, I dare say. The sheets are aired—the bed only wants making up." Her voice was once more gentle and unruffled. "Good night, Rod, dear!"
"Good night, Mother!"
She held him for a moment in her arms, clasping him tight, her head on his shoulder, her eyes straying out to the dark and silent park beyond the open window. Then she stood back, gazing lovingly into his face. "Don't look so forlorn, darling, and don't grieve for me. Remember that in life there's always a way out."
"I wish I could see one here," he murmured brokenly. "I've got to think things over. You can't go through with this, you can't do it!"
On that she took his face in her hands and pressed her lips to his. "Till to-morrow, my dear!"
He turned and left her there, a slim, dark figure in the dim bedroom.
AT the brisk hammering of a motor-car outside, Aline opened drowsy eyes upon an unfamiliar bedroom, bright with shiny chintz and morning sunshine, and wondered dreamily where she was. Then she remembered—this was Gerry's room at Broadleat.
How sleepy she felt! No wonder—they had gone to bed so late, waiting for Rodney to re-appear. When at last he came down from his mother's room, he looked so pale and drawn, so clearly distrait, that even Gerry, burning with anxiety as she was to question him about the letter, held her peace. He simply announced that, as it was so late, he thought they had better stay the night—Aline could go up in the Rolls in the morning: would Gerry look after her? On that he went out under the moon to put the car away, and Gerry carried Aline off to bed.
It was nine o'clock when she awoke. The bed on the other side of the room was empty. Then on a sudden cry from the open casement she saw Gerry, pyjama-clad, spring away from it and make headlong for the door.
Aline tumbled out of bed and went to the window. The view enchanted her—dark woods all round framing a wide grassy slope sentinelled by great tall trees with, at its foot, a glint of black, glassy water—the lake. A dusty taxi throbbed violently on the drive. A young man in a grey felt hat was in the act of paying off the driver. At that moment, with a cry of "Sholto!" Gerry came flying out of the house.
The young man sprang about. It was Sholto, tired-eyed, unshaven. On perceiving his wife he drew back instinctively.
"Sholto,"—Gerry's voice was husky, tear-laden—"are you really free?"
"They let me go this morning," he returned shortly. "Where's Mother?"
"In her room, I believe." Her hands went out to him uncertainly. "Sholto, aren't you going to kiss me?"
He wavered, then enfolded her, at first, as it seemed, reluctantly but then with a sudden, hungry violence, in his arms. The taxi-driver, backing his cab, glanced up and, catching Aline's eye, winked gravely. The car whirred away. Gerry was crooning "Darling!" over and over again.
Aline withdrew from the window—she was suddenly conscious of eavesdropping. But she heard Sholto say: "Dearest, I can't stop now—I must see my Mother..."
Rodney's voice struck in: "Sholto!" Aline peered out again. Rodney, fully dressed, was there. "Mother's not up yet," he said. "She was so fagged out I told Cox to let her sleep this morning. Gerry, do you mind, I want to speak to Sholto."
"All right." Gerry was surveying herself. "I've got to put on a wrapper, anyway. I wonder what that taxi-man thought of me..."
She fluttered her hand at her husband and ran into the house. Sholto was gazing after her. "You can't take her seriously and you can't be angry with her," he remarked wistfully, and sighed.
"Gerry's all right," said Rodney. "She wants looking after, that's all."
The two brothers strolled away down the avenue.
"They came to me first thing this morning and told me I could go," said Sholto. "But they say they'll want to see me again. What does it mean, Rod?"
"Mother turned your passport over to the police last night..."
Sholto stopped dead. "You let her do that? Do you realize what it involves?"
"I didn't then. I do now. I thought you were covering up Chass: I thought Mother was in the secret, too. But now I know the truth..."
"About Barry... and her, you mean?"
"Yes. She told me herself last night."
"Then it was she who...?" His brother nodded. "I guessed right, then." He made a break. "Oh, Rod, what are we going to do? They've got Larking, you know."
"No! How? When?"
"At Newhaven this morning. He was coming back from Paris. I heard it at the Yard."
The other frowned. "Look here, Sholto, before we decide anything, you've got to tell me the whole story—your part, I mean—just as it happened..." They walked on again.
"But, Rod, what about her?"
"The facts first. We'll start with the night of the murder. What did you do after you reached London?"
"I rang you up at your club—I didn't want them at home to know I was back—but you weren't there. I had something to eat at Victoria and then went home. I thought if you were out I might have a word with Larking."
"About Gerry, you mean?"
"Yes. I wanted to make sure for myself that Mother hadn't exaggerated it all. Her letter was a regular knock-out blow. Gerry and I have had our rows, of course, but I couldn't believe that she was unfaithful. And I don't believe it of her now. Only a moment ago, when we met face to face, I was sure I was right..."
"You don't have to worry about Gerry, old man. She behaved stupidly but she didn't let you down. You've got to make allowances for her—besides, she wants all the belief and love you can give her just now—no, don't ask me to explain—she'll tell you herself. Go on with your story. You saw Larking at home, I take it?"
"Yes. I caught him in the hall. He was serving dinner, but he said he'd be free presently if I'd wait in the tennis court. It was pretty rotten of me, I suppose, but I pumped him about Gerry. The gossip was..."
"I know..."
"Rod, I was crazy with jealousy. I swore old Larking to secrecy and, as soon as I'd got rid of him, dashed upstairs to her bedroom—I had a vague idea I might find letters of his or something. I pulled open a drawer or two and suddenly came upon the revolver I'd given her. I thought Barry was the sort of fellow who'd yield to a show of force, so I snatched up that gun and went straight round to the mews, determined to make him tell me the truth about Gerry and himself..." He broke off.
"Well?"
"When it came to the point I was half afraid of what I might discover. I waited about outside for a bit, then I saw a chauffeur looking at me and I went up. Barry, damn him, was utterly shameless. He had the nerve to tell me that he and Gerry were in love with one another and that they had it all fixed up that I was to let her divorce me so that she could marry him..."
"A lie, old boy!"
"That's what I told him. But he went on to mention, quite casually, that he and Mother had been lovers for years and that if I didn't toe the line he'd start a rumpus that'd blow her and Chass and all of us sky-high..."
"The swine said that, did he? And you believed it?"
His brother seemed to wince. "On the contrary, I pulled out the gun and told him I'd put a bullet through him if he didn't retract. But he only laughed and threw a letter across, a letter he said he'd received from Mother that morning." Sholto halted and faced his brother. "Rod, it was a heart-breaking letter, a distracted letter—even now I can scarcely bear to think of it—so humble, and you know how proud she is, imploring him not to let Gerry make a fool of herself and, speaking of some threat or other, saying she couldn't believe that any man would be base enough to do such a thing. Old man, you know how fond I am of Mother. But how in heaven's name could she bring herself to write in such a strain to a man like Swete unless.... Tell me, Rod, is it true what he told me?"
"Not the way he represented it, the low hound," Rodney retorted hotly. "Years ago, before she ever met Chass, Mother had a love affair with Barry. It lasted only a week and she never saw him again until Chass brought him across from New York two years ago. The whole thing was over before Mother married. You might have known that...."
"I didn't know what to think: that letter about finished me. I felt, well, sick. I just walked out and left him there. When I got outside I found the letter in my hand—later on that night I tore it up and threw the bits in the sea..."
"And you left the revolver behind?"
"Yes. I must have put it down to read the letter and forgotten it. I was dazed. My only idea was to get away from it all. I hadn't the heart even to try and find you. I remembered there was a late train to Paris via Dunkirk and I drove straight to St. Pancras and caught it."
"And Larking?" Rodney questioned, as the brothers resumed their walk.
"He blew in on me suddenly the morning after I arrived in Paris. He'd come over by the night route—Newhaven—Dieppe..."
"How did he know you were in Paris?"
"I'd told him I'd probably be going back—with all this business about Gerry I had no great desire to hang about in London. I was at the Scribe—Larking knows I always stay there. The first news I had of the murder was from him—all the previous day I wandered aimlessly about Paris without even troubling to buy a newspaper. Larking was sure it was I who had shot Barry..."
"I knew the old chap was shielding someone. I thought it might be Chass..."
"He told me that, on the night of the murder, after going to the post, he smoked a pipe in the Square and got back home about twenty-five past twelve. He was going his rounds as usual when, switching his electric torch into the tennis court, he saw—Rod, it's incredible to me..."
"A panel open in the buttress—I know. I'll explain later. Go on!"
"Getting through to explore he stumbled, the trap closed behind him and he couldn't open it again. By this time he'd discovered that, through another panel beyond, he was looking into Barry's lumber-room. There was a light in the living-room—he could see it shining down the stairs. He called out to Barry and, getting no reply, went up." He paused. "Barry was dead on the floor. Larking immediately jumped to the conclusion that I'd done it—I'd been pretty excited when he'd seen me at Frant House. Then he saw the revolver lying on the carpet beside the screen and recognized it as mine..."
"How?"
"By the marks on the butt. You know I write to the old fellow sometimes? I'd forgotten it, but it seems that in one of my letters I spoke of buying this gun with a tally of dead Germans on the butt. The old idiot picked up the revolver and was examining it when, suddenly, there was a ring at the bell. In a panic he switched off the light and crept behind the screen. Then you came—he was hiding on the stairs when you broke the door down."
"And when he bolted out he took the gun with him?"
"Yes. He suddenly realized that he must have left his finger-prints on it. Did you know that Larking had been in prison?"
"Not until Manderton unearthed it."
Sholto nodded. "I told Larking it was bound to come out. Hullo, Cox?"
They had drawn level with the front door again as they paced the drive. Lady Julia's maid was looking out. "Good morning, Mr. Sholto," she said with her bright smile.
"Is my Mother awake yet?" he questioned.
"I was just going to ask Mr. Rodney if I should call her ladyship," the maid rejoined. "I'm sure her ladyship would like to see you, Mr. Sholto. I listened at her door just now, but I can't hear her stirring yet..."
"I think you might tell her Mr. Sholto is here, Cox," Rodney suggested.
"Very good, Mr. Rodney." The girl went into the house.
"And it was Larking who hid the gun in the sedan, then?" asked Rodney as the two brothers resumed their pacing.
"Yes. Murchie surprised him, but you know about that..."
"Why did he bolt?"
"Wind vertical. He thought he was for it. First he learned he had been seen—fright number one. It seemed he had borrowed Chass's cap when he went to the post and had hidden it afterwards in the pantry."
"I know. I found it."
"He saw you. He was in the passage—he had followed you from the study. Fright number two. He'd got the gun back—it was he who took it from the study; he was passing through the hall when you put it in Murchie's drawer. The old man realized that he couldn't give me away without giving himself away, so he cleared out and came to me to tell me his story and ask for my advice."
They perceived Cox advancing towards them across the gravel. They went to meet her. "Her ladyship's not in her room," she announced. "Nor yet in the bath. She must have slipped out for a turn before breakfast—she likes an early walk beside the lake sometimes, you know, sir."
"I wish you'd try and find her, Cox," said Sholto, "and let her know I'm here."
"Very good, Mr. Sholto." The maid crossed the drive and started off across the grass towards the water.
Sholto looked at his brother. Rodney's face was deeply troubled. "What's up, Rod?"
"It's Mother," he said in a perplexed voice. "I hope to God nothing has happened to her."
"Rod!" Sholto's voice was awed. "Surely you don't think..."
Gerry, calling from the house door, interrupted them. "Rod!" she cried. "Here! I want you."
She waited for him at the door. He discerned an air of mystery about her. She held a letter in her hand. "Rod," she said in a low voice, "this note was on Lady Julia's dressing-table... it's addressed to you!"
Rodney took the letter—he had suddenly become very quiet—and broke the seal. As he read the colour slowly drained out of his face. Then he turned to Sholto, who had come up behind him, and silently handed him the sheet of paper—it was of bluish hue and crested.
Then Gerry said in a small, awed voice: "What's the matter with Giles?"
She was looking out across the lawn. They swung about and followed the direction of her eyes. The chauffeur, a thickset figure, was running across the grass. He was in his shirt-sleeves, waving his arms and shouting distractedly. "Mr. Rodney, Mr. Rodney...!" His voice awoke all the echoes of the misty woods.
With a muttered exclamation Sholto thrust the sheet of paper into his brother's hand and sprinted across the avenue, Gerry at his heels. Rodney followed more slowly after. A strange lethargy seemed to have overcome him. Giles met them at the edge of the grass.
He was out of breath and the perspiration pearled on his broad, good-humoured face. His eyes were round with fear.
"'Er ladyship!" he coughed, his hands pressed against his ribs. "Oh, my God, 'er ladyship!"
"What's happened?" Sholto demanded.
"There's been an accident," the chauffeur panted. "'Er ladyship—she must 'ave taken the skiff out. One of the gardener's boys seen 'er go down to the lake, first thing—'ardly light, it was, at the time, 'e sez. Then not 'arf an hour since, as I was trying for a bit of fish for breakfast, I caught sight of the skiff floating upside down... I warned 'er ladyship..." He wrung his hands. "I warned 'er ladyship about that skiff—it tips over that easy."
"My... my Mother?" said Sholto hoarsely.
"In the reeds... on the far side of the leat. I saw 'er ladyship as I went out in the punt to fetch the skiff in. She must 'ave been dead for hours, the pore lady."
But now, brusquely, Sholto pushed him aside and ran forward, Gerry with him. Two men had appeared between the trees. They plodded sturdily up the gentle slope, keeping careful step, a long flat object, surmounted by a dark, shapeless bundle, between them. Cox, a slight figure in black, walked beside them, her handkerchief to her face. The sound of her helpless sobbing fell upon the deathly silence that had intervened.
Rodney remained where he stood as though changed to stone. So Aline found him when, an instant later, she emerged swiftly from the house. From the bedroom window, earlier than those on the lower level of the drive, she had descried the little procession and divined what lay beneath the chauffeur's outspread jacket.
She ran to Rodney's side. He did not appear to see her, his regard fixed upon the advancing group. She was about to hurry forward to join Sholto and Gerry when she perceived a sheet of paper lying unheeded on the turf. She stooped to retrieve it. Its single line of writing, penned in the bold, firm hand she knew so well, danced before her eyes. "I couldn't face it, Rod," she read. "Forgive me!"
With humming engine and the grate of tyres on the stones, a great car came swooping up the avenue. It pulled up with a jerk and Inspector Manderton scrambled hastily out. Two men in bowler hats descended after and remained, rather self-conscious, in an expectant attitude beside the car. The Inspector glanced sharply about him, then, perceiving Rodney, who, with his back turned to the house, seemed unconscious of the new arrivals, bustled forward. At the sight of him Aline turned to the man at her side. He paid no heed to her. He seemed to have no eyes save for the little band laboriously approaching, no ears save for the hard breathing and creaking boots of the gaitered bearers, the maid's despairing sobbing. With a swift backward glance at the Inspector, Aline crumpled the paper in her fingers into a ball and thrust it down the front of her dress.
The detective's heavy boots crunched the gravel. "Mr. Rossway," he cried in his brisk, strident voice, "I've certain questions to put to her ladyship. Will you kindly let her know that I'm..."
At the touch of Aline's hand upon his sleeve he broke off and let his eyes follow her pointing finger. Twenty yards from the edge of the drive the bearers had set the hurdle down. Sholto was on his knees beside it: Gerry stood behind, her hands pressed to her face in an attitude of mute horror.
At the sight of the hurdle the Inspector's face changed. "Not... her?" he questioned. Aline bowed her head. On that he swung round to Rodney, his glance bristling with a suspicious scowl. But when he saw the expression of mute agony on the young man's face, his regard softened and without another word, he hurried forward. The group about the hurdle parted on his approach. A brief look, and, stepping back, he slowly removed his hat.
Rodney, immobile with grief and horror and vain regrets, felt a small, warm hand shyly thrust into his. His fingers folded themselves about it and clung to it desperately while the bearers, lifting up the hurdle, resumed their slow progress towards the house.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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