“I had a theory,” said Anthony. “But it didn’t work out according to plan.”
He told Battle of Virginia’s recognition of Michael. Battle nodded his head.
“Oh, yes, no doubt as to his identity. By the way, that old Baron has a very high opinion of you. He speaks of you in most enthusiastic terms.”
“That’s very kind of him,” said Anthony. “Especially as I’ve given him full warning that I mean to do my utmost to get hold of the missing memoirs before Wednesday next.”
“You’ll have a job to do that,” said Battle.
“Y-es. You think so? I suppose King Victor and Co. have got the letters.”
Battle nodded.
“Pinched them off Giuseppe that day in Pont Street. Prettily planned piece of work, that. Yes, they’ve got ’em all right, and they’ve decoded them, and they know where to look.”
Both men were on the point of passing out of the room.
“In here?” said Anthony, jerking his head back.
“Exactly, in here. But they haven’t found the prize yet, and they’re going to run a pretty risk trying to get it.”
“I suppose,” said Anthony. “That you’ve got a plan in that subtle head of yours?”
Battle returned no answer. He looked particularly stolid and unintelligent. Then, very slowly, he winked.
“Want my help?” asked Anthony.
“I do. And I shall want someone else’s.”
“Who is that?”
“Mrs. Revel’s. You may have noticed it, Mr. Cade, but she’s a lady who has a particularly beguiling way with her.”
“I’ve noticed it all right,” said Anthony.
He glanced at his watch.
“I’m inclined to agree with you about bed, Battle. A dip in the lake and a hearty breakfast will be far more to the point.”
He ran lightly upstairs to his bedroom. Whistling to himself, he discarded, his evening clothes, and picked up a dressing gown and a bath towel.
Then suddenly he stopped dead in front of the dressing table, staring at the object that reposed demurely in front of the looking glass.
For a moment he could not believe his eyes. He took it up, examined it closely. Yes, there was no mistake.
It was the bundle of letters signed Virginia Revel. They were intact. Not one missing.
Anthony dropped into a chair, the letters in his hand.
“My brain must be cracking,” he murmured. “I can’t understand a quarter of what is going on in this house. Why should the letters reappear like a damned conjuring trick? Who put them on my dressing table? Why?”
And to all these very pertinent questions he could find no satisfactory reply.
Twenty-one
MR. ISAACSTEIN’S SUITCASE
At ten o’clock that morning, Lord Caterham and his daughter were breakfasting. Bundle was looking very thoughtful.
“Father,” she said at last.
Lord Caterham, absorbed in The Times, did not reply.
“Father,” said Bundle again, more sharply.
Lord Caterham, torn from his interested perusal of forthcoming sales of rare books, looked up absentmindedly.
“Eh?” he said. “Did you speak?”
“Yes. Who is it who’s had breakfast?”
She nodded towards a place that had evidently been occupied. The rest were all expectant.
“Oh, what’s-his-name.”
“Fat Iky?”
Bundle and her father had enough sympathy between them to comprehend each other’s somewhat misleading observations.
“That’s it.”
“Did I see you talking to the detective this morning before breakfast?”
Lord Caterham sighed.
“Yes, he buttonholed me in the hall. I do think the hours before breakfast should be sacred. I shall have to go abroad. The strain on my nerves—”
Bundle interrupted unceremoniously.
“What did he say?”
“Said everyone who wanted to could clear out.”
“Well,” said Bundle, “that’s all right. That’s what you’ve been wanting.”
“I know. But he didn’t leave it at that. He went on to say that nevertheless he wanted me to ask everyone to stay on.”
“I don’t understand,” said Bundle, wrinkling her nose.
“So confusing and contradictory,” complained Lord Caterham. “And before breakfast too.”
“What did you say?”
“Oh, I agreed, of course. It’s never any good arguing with these people. Especially before breakfast,” continued Lord Caterham, reverting to his principal grievance.
“Who have you asked so far?”
“Cade. He was up very early this morning. He’s going to stop on. I don’t mind that. I can’t quite make the fellow out; but I like him—I like him very much.”
“So does Virginia,” said Bundle, drawing a pattern on the table with her fork.
“Eh?”
“And so do I. But that doesn’t seem to matter.”
“And I asked Isaacstein,” continued Lord Caterham.
“Well?”
“But fortunately he’s got to go back to town. Don’t forget to order the car for the 10:50, by the way.”
“All right.”
“Now if I can only get rid of Fish too,” continued Lord Caterham, his spirits rising.
“I thought you liked talking to him about your mouldy old books.”
“So I do, so I do. So I did, rather. But it gets monotonous when one finds that one is always doing all the talking. Fish is very interested, but he never volunteers any statements of his own.”
“It’s better than doing all the listening,” said Bundle. “Like one does with George Lomax.”
Lord Caterham shuddered at the remembrance.
“George is all very well on platforms,” said Bundle. “I’ve clapped him myself, though of course I know all the time that he’s talking balderdash. And anyway, I’m a Socialist—”
“I know, my dear, I know,” said Lord Caterham hastily.
“It’s all right,” said Bundle. “I’m not going to bring politics into the home. That’s what George does—public speaking in private life. It ought to be abolished by Act of Parliament.”
“Quite so,” said Lord Caterham.
“What about Virginia?” asked Bundle. “Is she to be asked to stop on?”
“Battle said everybody.”
“Says he firmly! Have you asked her to be my stepma yet?”
“I don’t think it would be any good,” said Lord Caterham mournfully. “Although she did call me a darling last night. But that’s the worst of these attractive young women with affectionate dispositions. They’ll say anything, and they mean absolutely nothing by it.”
“No,” agreed Bundle. “It would have been much more hopeful if she’d thrown a boot at you or tried to bite you.”
“You modern young people seem to have such unpleasant ideas about lovemaking,” said Lord Caterham plaintively.
“It comes from reading The Sheik,” said Bundle. “Desert love. Throw her about, etc.”
“What is The Sheik?” asked Lord Caterham simply. “Is it a poem?”
Bundle looked at him with commiserating pity. Then she rose and kissed the top of his head.
“Dear old Daddy,” she remarked, and sprang lightly out of the window.
Lord Caterham went back to the salerooms.
He jumped when addressed suddenly by Mr. Hiram Fish, who had made his usual noiseless entry.
“Good morning, Lord Caterham.”
“Oh, good morning,” said Lord Caterham. “Good morning. Nice day.”
“The weather is delightful,” said Mr. Fish.
He helped himself to coffee. By way of food, he took a piece of dry toast.
“Do I hear correctly that the embargo is removed?” he asked after a minute or two. “That we are all free to depart?”
“Yes—er—yes,” said Lord Caterham “As a matter of fact, I ho
ped, I mean, that I shall be delighted”—his conscience drove him on—“only too delighted if you will stay on for a little.”
“Why, Lord Caterham—”
“It’s been a beastly visit, I know,” Lord Caterham hurried on. “Too bad. Shan’t blame you for wanting to run away.”
“You misjudge me, Lord Caterham. The associations have been painful, no one could deny that point. But the English country life, as lived in the mansions of the great, has a powerful attraction for me. I am interested in the study of those conditions. It is a thing we lack completely in Amercia. I shall be only too delighted to accept your vurry kind invitation and stay on.”
“Oh, well,” said Lord Caterham, “that’s that. Absolutely delighted, my dear fellow, absolutely delighted.”
Spurring himself on to a false geniality of manner, Lord Caterham murmured something about having to see his bailiff and escaped from the room.
In the hall, he saw Virginia just descending the staircase.
“Shall I take you in to breakfast?” asked Lord Caterham tenderly.
“I’ve had it in bed, thank you, I was frightfully sleepy this morning.”
She yawned.
“Had a bad night, perhaps?”
“Not exactly a bad night. From one point of view decidedly a good night. Oh, Lord Caterham”—she slipped her hand inside his arm and gave it a squeeze—“I am enjoying myself. You were a darling to ask me down.”
“You’ll stop on for a bit then, won’t you? Battle is lifting the—the embargo, but I want you to stay particularly. So does Bundle.”
“Of course I’ll stay. It’s sweet of you to ask me.”
“Ah!” said Lord Caterham.
He sighed.
“What is your secret sorrow?” asked Virginia. “Has anyone bitten you?”
“That’s just it,” said Lord Caterham mournfully.
Virginia looked puzzled.
“You don’t feel, by any chance, that you want to throw a boot at me? No, I can see you don’t. Oh, well, it’s of no consequence.”
Lord Caterham drifted sadly away, and Virginia passed out through a side door into the garden.
She stood there for a moment, breathing in the crisp October air which was infinitely refreshing to one in her slightly jaded state.
She started a little to find Superintendent Battle at her elbow. The man seemed to have an extraordinary knack of appearing out of space without the least warning.
“Good morning, Mrs. Revel. Not too tired, I hope?”
Virginia shook her head.
“It was a most exciting night,” she said. “Well worth the loss of a little sleep. The only thing is, today seems a trifle dull after it.”
“There’s a nice shady place down under that cedar tree,” remarked the superintendent. “Shall I take a chair down to it for you?”
“If you think it’s the best thing for me to do,” said Virginia solemnly.
“You’re very quick, Mrs. Revel. Yes, it’s quite true, I do want a word with you.”
He picked up a long wicker chair and carried it down the lawn. Virginia followed him with a cushion under her arm.
“Very dangerous place, that terrace,” remarked the detective. “That is, if you want to have a private conversation.”
“I’m getting excited again, Superintendent Battle.”
“Oh, it’s nothing important.” He took out a big watch and glanced at it. “Half past ten. I’m starting for Wyvern Abbey in ten minutes to report to Mr. Lomax. Plenty of time. I only wanted to know if you could tell me a little more about Mr. Cade.”
“About Mr. Cade?”
Virginia was startled.
“Yes, where you first met him, and how long you’ve known him and so forth.”
Battle’s manner was easy and pleasant enough. He even refrained from looking at her and the fact that he did so made her vaguely uneasy.
“It’s more difficult than you think,” she said at last. “He did me a great service once—”
Battle interrupted her.
“Before you go any further, Mrs. Ravel, I’d just like to say something. Last night, after you and Mr. Eversleigh had gone to bed, Mr. Cade told me all about the letters and the man who was killed in your house.”
“He did?” gasped Virginia.
“Yes, and very wisely too. It clears up a lot of misunderstanding. There’s only one thing he didn’t tell me—how long he had known you. Now I’ve a little idea of my own about that. You shall tell me if I’m right or wrong. I think that the day he came to your house in Pont Street was the first time you had ever seen him. Ah! I see I’m right. It was so.”
Virginia said nothing. For the first time she felt afraid of this stolid man with the expressionless face. She understood what Anthony had meant when he said there were no flies on Superintendent Battle.
“Has he ever told you anything about his life.” the detective continued. “Before he was in South Africa, I mean. Canada? Or before that, the Sudan? Or about his boyhood?”
Virginia merely shook her head.
“And yet I’d bet he’s got something worth telling. You can’t mistake the face of a man who’s led a life of daring and adventure. He could tell you some interesting tales if he cared to.”
“If you want to know about his past life, why don’t you cable to that friend of his, Mr. McGrath?” Virginia asked.
“Oh, we have. But it seems he’s up-country somewhere. Still, there’s no doubt Mr. Cade was in Bulawayo when he said he was. But I wondered what he’d been doing before he came to South Africa. He’d only had that job with Castle’s about a month.” He took out his watch again. “I must be off. The car will be waiting.”
Virginia watched him retreat to the house. But she did not move from her chair. She hoped that Anthony might appear and join her. Instead came Bill Eversleigh, with a prodigious yawn.
“Thank God, I’ve got a chance to speak to you at last, Virginia,” he complained.
“Well, speak to me very gently, Bill darling, or I shall burst into tears.”
“Has someone been bullying you?”
“Not exactly bullying me. Getting inside my mind and turning it inside out. I feel as though I’d been jumped on by an elephant.”
“Not Battle?”
“Yes, Battle. He’s a terrible man really.”
“Well, never mind Battle. I say, Virginia, I do love you so awfully—”
“Not this morning, Bill. I’m not strong enough. Anyway, I’ve always told you the best people don’t propose before lunch.”
“Good Lord,” said Bill. “I could propose to you before breakfast.”
Virginia shuddered.
“Bill, be sensible and intelligent for a minute. I want to ask your advice.”
“If you’d once make up your mind to it, and say you’d marry me, you’d feel miles better, I’m sure. Happier, you know, and more settled down.”
“Listen to me, Bill. Proposing to me is your idée fixe. All men propose when they’re bored and can’t think of anything to say. Remember my age and my widowed state, and go and make love to a pure young girl.”
“My darling Virginia—Oh, Blast! here’s that French idiot bearing down on us.”
It was indeed M. Lemoine, black-bearded and correct of demeanour as ever.
“Good morning, madame. You are not fatigued, I trust?”
“Not in the least.”
“That is excellent. Good morning, Mr. Eversleigh.”
“How would it be if we promenaded ourselves a little, the three of us?” suggested the Frenchman.
“How about it, Bill?” said Virginia.
“Oh, all right,” said the unwilling young gentleman by her side.
He heaved himself up from the grass, and the three of them walked slowly along. Virginia between the two men. She was sensible at once of a strange undercurrent of excitement in the Frenchman, though she had no clue as to what caused it.
Soon, with her usual skill, she was putting him
at his ease, asking him questions, listening to his answers, and gradually drawing him out. Presently he was telling them anecdotes of the famous King Victor. He talked well, albeit with a certain bitterness as he described the various ways in which the detective bureau had been outwitted.
But all the time, despite the real absorption of Lemoine in his own narrative, Virginia had a feeling that he had some other object in view. Moreover, she judged that Lemoine, under cover of his story, was deliberately striking out his own course across the park. They were not just strolling idly. He was deliberately guiding them in a certain direction.
Suddenly, he broke off his story and looked round. They were standing just where the drive intersected the park before turning an abrupt corner by a clump of trees. Lemoine was staring at a vehicle approaching them from the direction of the house.
Virginia’s eyes followed his.
“It’s the luggage cart,” she said, “taking Isaacstein’s luggage and his valet to the station.”
“Is that so?” said Lemoine. He glanced down at his own watch and started. “A thousand pardons. I have been longer here than I meant—such charming company. Is it possible, do you think, that I might have a lift to the village?”
He stepped out on to the drive and signalled with his arm. The luggage cart stopped, and after a word or two of explanation Lemoine climbed in behind. He raised his hat politely to Virginia, and drove off.
The other two stood and watched the cart disappearing with puzzled expressions. Just as the cart swung round the bend, a suitcase fell off into the drive. The cart went on.
The Secret of Chimneys Page 18
