The Master of the Priory

by Annie Haynes

  She smiled now as Maisie nestled up to her with a demand for another story, and laid her hand on the child’s curls lovingly. Just then Lady Treadstone came into the room.

  “I want you to read this, Rosamond,” she said, handing her a letter. “Maisie, your father is asking for you. He has been into Porthcawel, and I think he has some sweets for a good little girl.”

  The child ran away and Lady Treadstone turned back to her stepdaughter.

  “You see. Barbara wants to pay you a visit. Frank and she will be quite near. You will let them come, won’t you, Rosamond?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so.” The girl shivered among her cushions. “Barbara was very good to me, but it would bring all that dreadful time back.”

  “I am sorry, dear,” Lady Treadstone said regretfully. “I think it would do you good to see a fresh face, but—” She turned aside and began to arrange some flowers she had brought in.

  Rosamond’s lips quivered.

  “She was very kind to me but it was for Frank’s sake and because she is an angel of pity. She thought me guilty, every one did. Even you sometimes, mother—” with a quick glance.

  “Oh, Rosamond!” Lady Treadstone dropped her flowers, her eyes filled with tears.

  “Didn’t you?” Rosamond asked quietly.

  “Never! Never!” Lady Treadstone said passionately. “I always said to myself that your father’s little Rose must be innocent. If I have doubted you once or twice, oh, forgive me, child, it has only been a passing thought.”

  “I knew it,” Rosamond said softly. She drew her stepmother’s face down to hers, and kissed it gently. “You have been so good to me mother. And how could you help doubting? Why sometimes”—with a terrified look round—“when I have wakened in the night in the dark, I have even doubted myself. All sorts of fears and fancies have crowded into my brain.”

  “Ah, well! It is all over now,” said Lady Treadstone, stroking the girl’s hair. “And you do forgive me, Rosamond?”

  Rosamond turned her lips to the soft hand. “Forgive you my more than mother! I shall be grateful for your kindness all the days of my life.”

  Lady Treadstone was about to make some rejoinder when Sir Oswald’s step was heard in the passage and she turned to meet him.

  “Wish me good luck, dear Lady Treadstone,” he said as she smiled at him.

  “The best of luck,” she said, pressing his hand.

  He went straight across to Rosamond. “How are you to-day, sweetheart?”

  A faint pink flushed the white cheeks at the tender word.

  “A little better, I think,” she answered uncertainly. “At least, I don’t know, I think Maisie does me good.”

  “Dr. Spencer says you are better, much better,” Sir Oswald said, taking the chair behind her. “I have just been talking to him and he says that, now you are well enough to travel, we should lose no time in getting you away. I want you to come with me.” His tone was quite matter of fact, Rosamond looked at him half uncomprehendingly. “I want you to come with me,” he repeated. “Dear, I have been very patient, but now I want a wife.”

  Rosamond’s colour deepened, but her grey eyes met his unfalteringly.

  “Impossible! I shall never marry. Can’t you see that?”

  “No, I can’t,” said Sir Oswald sturdily. “In the Sunny South you will soon get well and strong.”

  “It isn’t only a question of health,” Rosamond said quickly, “though no man wants an invalid wife, but—”

  “I want this invalid,” he interrupted her fondly.

  “But there is everything else,” she went on as if she had not heard him. “How would you like it to be known—how would you like Maisie to know—that you had married John Winter’s widow?”

  Sir Oswald leaned forward.

  “I should not mind one atom,” he said easily. “You silly child, so that is the phantom that has stood between us, that has been worrying you all this time, as for what the world knows or guesses, it does not matter that”—snapping his fingers—“and people don’t trouble about it as much as you think. They haven’t time to bother about such things nowadays. As for Maisie, if she knew her dear Miss Martin’s identical with that of the wonderful new mother she is going to have, she would be overjoyed. As for myself—” he paused, and looked at her steadily. “For your sake, dearest, I wish you had not made a mistake in the past. I hate to think you were once Winter’s wife, as I should hate to think you ever belonged to any man but me, but I would not on that account forgo one moment of the golden future we are to spend together. I grudge every little bit of it that you pass away from me.”

  Rosamond pushed her curls back from her brow wearily.

  “I wish I knew what I ought to do. But I am so tired I don’t seem able even to think. But something tells me it isn’t right.”

  Sir Oswald took both the thin, hot hands in his and held them in his strong, firm clasp.

  “And I tell you it is right, most divinely right,” he said, in his clear, decided tones. “You must let me do the thinking for you. You must forget the past, it is over and done with. The present is ours, and the future, the happy future that we are going to spend together. And you must not keep me waiting long. I want to take you away before the real winter begins. Can you be ready in a week?”

  “A week!” Rosamond lay still and looked at him. “You must be dreaming. It is impossible!”

  “I don’t think so,” he prisoned both her hands in one of his, and passed his other arm round her amid the cushions. “I am going to settle things my own way,” he added masterfully. “You have been an autocrat long enough. We will be married on Monday week, and my yacht will be waiting to take us to Madeira. What do you say to that?”

  Rosamond glanced at him as she met the look in his eyes, hers veiled themselves in their long lashes.

  “It doesn’t seem much use my saying anything,” she said, a tiny smile stealing round her mouth, “since you have made up your mind.”

  Sir Oswald and Lady Davenant have been married some years now, and Rosamond’s identity with John Winter’s widow has never been discovered. In the peerage the entry runs: “Rosamond Elizabeth only daughter of the seventh Lord Treadstone, born May 1st, 18—; married 19— to Sir Oswald Davenant, Bart., of Davenant Priory.” And so the history of that first terrible mistake of hers has never leaked out.

  The change in her hair and appearance was so great when she went back to the Priory as its mistress that even the Dowager Lady Davenant never discovered that she was the pseudo-governess. Sir Oswald had taken care that almost all the servants were new; only two of the old ones were left, the butler and Latimer, and if those two have ever suspected anything—and sometimes a hazy doubt that they may have done so has crossed Rosamond Davenant’s mind—they have never breathed a word of it.

  Sir Oswald and his wife pass most of their time at the Priory, for that time of stress and trial through which they have passed has left its mark to some extent on both of them. Sir Oswald’s eyes, though sufficiently serviceable, will never be quite what they were before his accident, and Rosamond, though her splendid health and vitality have reasserted themselves in a greater degree than the doctors at one time dared to hope, is to some extent a sufferer from nerves, and is happiest in the country with her husband and their children.

  For there are other children at the Priory now; though Maisie remains the only daughter, there are three big, bonny boys in the nursery—three boys who have their mother’s lovely colouring and their father’s strength and length of limb, and who are the pride of their father’s heart. Rosamond is rather glad they are all boys; she does not want any other girl to take Maisie’s place, and Maisie, for her part, is devoted to her beautiful stepmother and her little brothers. Quite the fastest friends of the Davenants are the Carlyns. Every year the latter come to the Priory for a long visit. The Davenant boys are devoted to Barbara’s little girl, and sometimes, Rosamond, looking into the distant future, fancies she sees a vision of wha
t one daughter-in-law will be like.

  Sybil Lorrimer is dead. She married an officer and was killed in a carriage accident a year later. Her coadjutor, Marlowe, is still with Gregg and Stubbs, but he has not risen in his profession as he hoped to do.

  THE END

  About The Author

  Annie Haynes was born in 1865, the daughter of an ironmonger.

  By the first decade of the twentieth century she lived in London and moved in literary and early feminist circles. Her first crime novel, The Bungalow Mystery, appeared in 1923, and another nine mysteries were published before her untimely death in 1929.

  Who Killed Charmian Karslake? appeared posthumously, and a further partially-finished work, The Crystal Beads Murder, was completed with the assistance of an unknown fellow writer, and published in 1930.

  Also by Annie Haynes

  The Bungalow Mystery

  The Abbey Court Murder

  The Secret of Greylands

  The Blue Diamond

  The Witness on the Roof

  The House in Charlton Crescent

  The Crow’s Inn Tragedy

  The Man with the Dark Beard

  The Crime at Tattenham Corner

  Who Killed Charmian Karslake?

  The Crystal Beads Murder

  Annie Haynes

  The Bungalow Mystery

  “He had his tea as usual; when I knocked at the door with the tray (he always had afternoon tea), I found him—like this.”

  Dr Roger Lavington is dreading his debut performance with the village amateur dramatic society. But real-world drama takes over when Lavington’s neighbour, a reclusive artist, is found murdered in his own sitting room. Also found on the scene are a lady’s glove, a diamond ring, and a mysterious young woman who begs Lavington for his protection. Her safety will depend on her ability to take a role in the forthcoming village play—but is Lavington sheltering a wronged woman or a clever murderess?

  The Bungalow Mystery (1923) was the first of Annie Haynes’s golden age crime novels, and announced a major talent. This new edition, the first in over eighty years, features an introduction by crime fiction historian Curtis Evans.

  “The ingredients in this story are skilfully mixed.” Times

  “Contrived and worked out with considerable craftsmanship—drawn with sympathy and power.” Sunday Times

  “Contains many cunning devices.” Outlook

  “The mystery is a real mystery.” Guardian

  “Plenty of mystery and drama.” Queen

  “This author has a sure hand at a crime story…strongly recommended to every type of novel reader.” Liverpool Courier

  Chapter One

  “What a nuisance this confounded play is! What a fool I was to promise to take part in it!” Dr. Roger Lavington flung the paper-covered book in his hand on the ground, and then aimed a kick at it as a further vent to his feelings.

  Miss Minnie Chilton—the maiden aunt who had been acting for the past three months as his housekeeper—looked at him in mild surprise.

  “Really, Roger—”

  “I am sick of the whole thing,” the doctor went on, in a much exasperated tone. “Here I come in, wet and tired from a long day’s work and, instead of a little peace, I have to learn these wretched lines, and I suppose to-morrow when Zoe arrives there will be nothing but rehearsing. Plague take it all!”

  Miss Chilton went on with her knitting.

  “I was afraid you would find it a bother, Roger. I told you so when the idea was first mentioned, if you remember?”

  This well-meant remark only had the effect of deepening her nephew’s irritation. He rose.

  “Well, anyhow, I am not going to bother any more about it to-night. There’s a new article in the Lancet I must look at.”

  “Roger”—Miss Chilton’s subdued, rather plaintive voice stopped him before he reached the door—“I suppose Zoe is sure to be here in time for lunch to-morrow?”

  “I suppose so. By rights she ought to have come to-night. One day won’t be enough for getting her part up, and so I told her; but one may as well talk to the wind as to Zoe, when she has made up her mind.”

  He did not wait for any of the further questions which he saw coming, but made his escape with all possible speed and betook himself down the long passage that led to his consulting-room.

  Dr. Roger Lavington had only been settled in the village of Sutton Boldon for the past six months, but he was already beginning to doubt whether he had made a wise choice of a locality in which to begin life on his own account, and to think regretfully of the time he had passed in the metropolis, with his uncle, Dr. Lavington, Zoe’s father, when he was at the hospital.

  The village folk were inclined to look askance at the young doctor, and to regard his new-fangled theories with suspicion; he found it difficult to contend with their ignorance and apathy. Of late a new factor had been added to the situation; an old college friend of his—the Rev. Cyril Thornton—had been presented to a living a few miles away, and had brought his sister to keep house. Somewhat against his will Lavington had found himself drawn into the little circle of gaiety which had been created by the advent of the new clergyman. Thornton was so determined to have him that he told himself it was really less trouble to give way than to refuse; some amateur theatricals in aid of the building fund were the young vicar’s latest idea, and he had not rested until he had obtained Roger Lavington’s unwilling promise to help.

  Only five days before that fixed for the performance, a great misfortune had befallen the little band of performers; the girl who was to take the second lady’s part—one on which, in a great measure, the success of the whole thing depended—had fallen suddenly ill, and it was impossible on the spur of the moment to supply her place from the neighbourhood. In her despair Elsie Thornton had appealed to Lavington; she had often heard him speak of his cousin’s powers as an actress; she begged him to ask her to come to their assistance now. Lavington had yielded unwillingly, and Zoe had promised to do her best; but she had delayed her arrival until the day of the performance itself, and the rest of the troupe were in despair, fearing that the one complete dress rehearsal—which was all that was possible under the circumstances—would be altogether inadequate to their needs.

  Lavington himself was by no means word perfect; but, as he lighted his pipe and turned to his writing-table, he resolved to put the whole matter out of his mind, philosophically concluding that he would manage to get through somehow.

  He was deeply immersed in the records of a case which was interesting him considerably, when there was a knock at the door. His strongly marked eyebrows nearly met in a frown as he called out:

  “Come in!”

  “I shouldn’t have ventured to disturb you, sir, only; being as it was marked ‘Immediate,’ I thought—” the house-parlourmaid remarked apologetically as she handed him a letter on a salver.

  “Quite right!” he said, as he took it, his scowl deepening as he saw that the bold black handwriting was that of his cousin Zoe.

  “More directions, I suppose,” he ejaculated, sotto voce, as he tore it open and the servant withdrew. “I really wish Zoe—What the deuce!” He stopped short and stared blankly at the note in his hand.

  Miss Zoe Lavington’s communication was characteristically brief:

  “DEAR ROGER,

  “I am sorry that I am unable to come to you to-morrow, as I am down with the flu. You will have to get some one else to take the part. I am very much disappointed.

  “Your affectionate cousin,

  ZOE LAVINGTON”

  Lavington gave a long whistle of dismay.

  “What on earth is to be done now? They can’t get anybody to take the part at a moment’s notice, that’s certain. The whole thing will have to be put off, and Thornton and his sister will be frantic. Well, I suppose”—hoisting himself out of his comfortable chair with a sigh—“I must go and break it to them.”

  He went over to the cupboard, and, taking out a box of ci
gars, filled his case; as he did so he heard footsteps hurrying up the gravel walk leading to the surgery door, and a loud clamouring ring at the bell.

  He threw the door open; a woman, hatless, her uncovered grey hair floating wildly about her face, her eyes wild and frightened, almost flung herself upon him.

  “You’ll come, sir—you must come at once!” she cried, catching desperately at his arm as if afraid he would escape her, her breath breaking forth in long strangulating sobs between her words, as she tried to pour out her story. “It—it is the master—he is dying—dead! Oh, hurry, hurry!”

  In an instant Lavington became the brisk business-like doctor.

  “What is the matter?”

  “I—I don’t know!” The woman shuddered, casting furtive, frightened glances into the shadows around. “He was quite well at tea-time. But now he is lying on the floor—and there is blood—”

  Her voice died away in a wail of anguish.

  “Ah!” The doctor turned quickly to an open drawer and took out lint and bandages, together with a case of instruments and a small portable medicine-case. “Now, my good woman, calm yourself,” he said authoritatively. “Where is your master?”

  The woman looked at him in astonishment.

  “I thought you would know, sir,” she said in a more natural tone. “He—he is next door—at The Bungalow.”