Who?

by Elizabeth Kent

  CHAPTER III

  THE TRIBULATIONS OF A LIAR

  While Crichton was dressing he glanced from time to time at his valet.Peter had evidently been deeply shocked by the incident at the railwaystation, for the blunt profile, so persistently presented to him, wasausterely remote as well as subtly disapproving. Cyril was fond of theold man, who had been his father's servant and had known him almost fromhis infancy. He felt that he owed him some explanation, particularly ashe had without consulting him made use of his name.

  But what should he say to him? Never before had he so fully realised thejoy, the comfort, the dignity of truth. It was not a virtue he decided;it was a privilege. If he ever got out of the hole he was in, he meantto wallow in it for the future. That happy time seemed, however, stillfar distant.

  Believing the girl to be innocent, he wanted as few people as possibleto know the nature of the cloud which hung over her. Peter's loyalty, heknew, he could count on, that had been often and fully proved; but hisdiscretion was another matter. Peter was no actor. If he had anything toconceal, even his silence became so portentous of mystery that it couldnot fail to arouse the curiosity of the most unsuspicious. No, he mustthink of some simple story which would satisfy Peter as to the proprietyof his conduct and yet which, if it leaked out, would not be to thegirl's discredit.

  "You must have been surprised to hear me give my name to the young ladyyou saw at the station," he began tentatively.

  "Yes, sir." Peter's expression relaxed.

  "Her story is a very sad one." So much at any rate must be true, thoughtpoor Cyril with some satisfaction.

  "Yes, sir." Peter was waiting breathlessly for the sequel.

  "I don't feel at liberty to repeat what she told me. You understandthat, don't you?"

  "Certainly, sir," agreed Peter, but his face fell.

  "So all I can tell you is that she was escaping from a brute whohorribly ill-treated her. Of course I offered to help her."

  "Of course," echoed Peter.

  "Unfortunately she was taken ill before she had told me her name or whothe friends were with whom she was seeking refuge. What was I to do? Ifthe police heard that a young girl had been found unconscious on thetrain, the fact would have been advertised far and wide so as to enablethem to establish her identity, in which case the person from whom shewas hiding would have taken possession of her, which he has a legalright to do--so she gave me to understand." Crichton paused quite out ofbreath. He was doing beautifully. Peter was swallowing his taleunquestionably--and really, you know, for an inexperienced liar that wasa reasonably probable story. "So you see," he continued, "it wasnecessary for her to have a name and mine was the only one which wouldnot provoke further inquiry."

  "Begging your pardon, sir, but I should 'ave thought that Smith or Joneswould 'ave done just as well."

  "Certainly not. The authorities would have wanted further particularsand would at once have detected the fraud. No one will ever know that Ilent an unfortunate woman for a few hours the protection of my name, andthere is no one who has the right to object to my having done so--exceptthe young lady herself."

  "Yes, sir, quite so."

  "On the other hand, on account of the position I am in at present, it ismost important that I should do nothing which could by any possibilitybe misconstrued."

  "Yes, sir, certainly, sir."

  "And so I told the doctor that the young lady had better not be calledby my name while she is at the home and so--and so--well--in fact--Igave her yours. I hope you don't mind?"

  "My name?" gasped Peter in a horrified voice.

  "Yes, you see you haven't got a wife, have you?"

  "Certainly not, sir!"

  "So there couldn't be any possible complications in your case."

  "One never can tell, sir--a name's a name and females are sometimes notover-particular."

  "Don't be an ass! Why, you ought to feel proud to be able to be of useto a charming lady. Where's your chivalry, Peter?"

  "I don't know, sir, but I do 'ope she's respectable," he answeredmiserably.

  "Of course she is. Don't you know a lady when you see one?"

  Peter shook his head tragically.

  "I'm sorry you feel like that about it," said Crichton. "It neveroccurred to me you would mind, and I haven't yet told you all. I notonly gave the young lady your name but took it myself."

  "Took my name!"

  "Yes. At the nursing home I am known as Mr. Peter Thompkins. Pray that Idon't disgrace you, Peter."

  "Oh, sir, a false name! If you get found out, they'll never believe youare hinnocent when you've done a thing like that. Of course, a gentlemanlike you hought to know his own business best, but it do seem to me mostawful risky."

  "Well, it's a risk that had to be taken. It was a choice of evils, Igrant you. Hah! I sniff breakfast; the bacon and eggs of my countryawait me. I am famishing, and I say, Peter, do try to take a morecheerful view of this business."

  "I'll try, sir."

  Crichton was still at breakfast when a short, red-haired young manfairly burst into the room.

  "Guy Campbell!" exclaimed Cyril joyfully.

  "Hullo, old chap, glad to see you," cried the newcomer, pounding Cyrilaffectionately on the back. "How goes it? I say, your telephone messagegave me quite a turn. What's up? Have you got into a scrape? You look ascalm as possible."

  "If I look calm, my looks belie me. I assure you I never felt less calmin my life."

  "What on earth is the matter?"

  "You won't have some breakfast?"

  "Breakfast at half-past eleven! No thank you."

  "Well, then, take a cigarette, pull up that chair to the fire, andlisten--and don't play the fool; this is serious."

  "Fire away."

  "I want your legal advice, Guy, though I suppose you'll tell me I need asolicitor, not a barrister. I wish to get a divorce."

  "A divorce? Why, Cyril, I am awfully sorry. I had heard that yourmarriage hadn't turned out any too well, but I had no idea it was as badas that. You have proof, I suppose."

  "Ample."

  "Tell me the particulars. I never have heard anything against yourwife's character."

  "You mean that you have never heard that she was unfaithful to me. Bah,it makes me sick the way people talk, as if infidelity were the onlyvice that damned a woman's character. Guy, her character was rottenthrough and through. Her infidelity was simply a minor, thoughculminating, expression of it."

  "But how did you come to marry such a person?"

  "You know she was the Chalmerses' governess?"

  "Yes."

  "I had been spending a few weeks with them. Jack, the oldest son, was afriend of mine and she was the daughter of a brother officer of oldChalmers's who had died in India, and consequently her position in thehousehold was different from that of an ordinary governess. I soon gotquite friendly with Amy and her two charges, and we used to rag abouttogether a good deal. I liked her, but upon my honour I hadn't a thoughtof making love to her. Then one day there was an awful row. They accusedher of carrying on a clandestine love affair with Freddy, the secondson, and with drinking on the sly. They had found empty bottles hiddenin her bedroom. She posed as injured innocence--the victim of a vileplot to get her out of the house--had no money, no friends, no hope ofanother situation. I was young; she was pretty. I was dreadfully sorryfor her and so--well, I married her. As the regiment had just beenordered to South Africa, we went there immediately. We had not beenmarried a year, however, when I discovered that she was a confirmeddrunkard. I think only the fear of losing her position had kept herwithin certain bounds. That necessity removed, she seemed unable to putany restraint on herself. I doubt if she even tried to do so."

  "Poor Cyril!"

  "Later on I found out that she was taking drugs as well as stimulants.She would drink herself into a frenzy and then stupefy herself withopiates. But it is not only weakness I am accusing her of. She wasinherently deceitful and cruel--ah, what is the use of talking about it!I hav
e been through Hell."

  "You haven't been living together lately, have you?"

  "Well, you see, she was disgracing not only herself but the regiment,and so it became a question of either leaving the army or getting her tolive somewhere else. So I brought her back to Europe, took a small villanear Pau, and engaged an efficient nurse-companion to look after her. Ispent my leave with her, but that was all. Last spring, however, she gotso bad that her companion cabled for me. For a few weeks she wasdesperately ill, and when she partially recovered, the doctor persuadedme to send her to a sanitarium for treatment. Charleroi was recommendedto me. It was chiefly celebrated as a lunatic asylum, but it has anannex where dipsomaniacs and drug fiends are cared for. At first, thedoctor's reports were very discouraging, but lately her improvement issaid to have been quite astonishing, so much so that it was decided thatI should take her away for a little trip. I was on my way to Charleroi,when the news reached me that Amy had escaped. We soon discovered thatshe had fled with a M. de Brissac, who had been discharged as cured theday before my wife's disappearance. We traced them to within a few milesof Paris, but there lost track of them. I have, however, engaged adetective to furnish me with further particulars. I fancy the Frenchmanis keeping out of the way for fear I shall kill him. Bah! Why, I pityhim, that is all! He'll soon find out what that woman is like. He hasgiven me freedom! Oh, you can't realise what that means to me. I onlywish my father were alive to know that I have this chance of beginninglife over again."

  "I was so sorry to hear of his death. He was always so kind to us boyswhen we stayed at Lingwood. I wrote you when I heard the sad news, butyou never answered any of my letters."

  "I know, old chap, but you must forgive me. I have been toomiserable--too ashamed. I only wanted to creep away and to beforgotten."

  "Your father died in Paris, didn't he?"

  "Yes, luckily I was with him. It was just after I had taken Amy toCharleroi. He was a broken-hearted man. He never got over the mess I hadmade of my life and Wilmersley's marriage was the last straw. He broodedover it continually."

  "Why had your father been so sure that Lord Wilmersley would nevermarry? He was an old bachelor, but not so very old after all. He can'tbe more than fifty now."

  "Well, you see, Wilmersley has a bee in his bonnet. His mother was aSpanish ballet dancer whom my uncle married when he was a mere boy. Shewas a dreadful old creature. I remember her distinctly, a great, fatwoman with a big, white face and enormous, glassy, black eyes. I wasawfully afraid of her. She died when Wilmersley was about twenty and myuncle followed her a few months later. His funeral was hardly over whenmy cousin left Geralton and nothing definite was heard of him for almosttwenty-five years. He was supposed to be travelling in the far East, andfrom time to time some pretty queer rumours drifted back about him.Whether they were true or not, I have never known. One day he returnedto Geralton as unexpectedly as he had left it. He sent for me at once.He has immense family pride--the ballet dancer, I fancy, rankles--andhaving decided for some reason or other not to marry, he wished his heirto cut a dash. He offered me an allowance of L4000 a year, told me tomarry as soon as possible, and sent me home."

  "Well, that was pretty decent of him. You don't seem very grateful."

  "I can't bear him. He's a most repulsive-looking chap, a thoroughSpaniard, with no trace of his father's blood that I can see. And as Imarried soon afterwards and my marriage was not to his liking, hestopped my allowance and swore I should never succeed him if he couldhelp it. So you see I haven't much reason to be grateful to him."

  "Beastly shame! He married Miss Mannering, Lady Upton's granddaughter,didn't he?"

  "Yes."

  "She is a little queer, I believe."

  "Really? I didn't know that. I have never seen her, but I hear she isvery pretty. Well, I'm sorry for her, brought up by that old curmudgeonof a grandmother and married out of the schoolroom to Wilmersley. Shehas never had much of a chance, has she?"

  "There are no children as yet?"

  "No."

  "So that now that your father is dead, you are the immediate heir."

  The door was flung open and Peter rushed into the room brandishing apaper.

  "Oh, sir, it's come at last! I always felt it would!" He stuttered withexcitement.

  "What on earth is the matter with you?"

  "I beg pardon, sir, but I am that hovercome! I heard them crying'hextras,' so I went out and gets one--just casual-like. Little did Ithink what would be in it--and there it was."

  "There was what?" Both men spoke at once, leaning eagerly forward.

  "That Lord Wilmersley is dead; and so, my lord, I wish you much joy anda long life."

  "This is very sudden," gasped Crichton. "I hadn't heard he was ill. Whatdid he die of?"

  "'E was murdered, my lord."