by Sax Rohmer
“Ysola was my baby way of saying it, and so I came to be called Ysola. My father was manager of one of Señor Don Juan’s estates, in a small island near the coast of Cuba. My mother” — she raised her little hands eloquently— “was half-caste. Do you know? And she and my father—”
She looked pleadingly at Val Beverley.
“I understand,” whispered the latter with deep sympathy; “but you don’t think it makes any difference, do you?”
“No?” said Mrs. Camber with a quaint little gesture. “To you, perhaps not, but there, where I was born, oh! so much. Well, then, my mother died when I was very little. Ah Tsong was her servant. There are many Chinese in the West Indies, you see, and I can just remember he carried me in to see her. Of course I didn’t understand. My father quarrelled bitterly with the priests because they would not bury her in holy ground. I think he no longer believed afterward. I loved him very much. He was good to me; and I was a queen in that little island. All the negroes loved me, because of my mother, I think, who was partly descended from slaves, as they were. But I had not begun to understand how hard it was all going to be when my father sent me to a convent in Cuba.
“I hated to go, but while I was there I learned all about myself. I knew that I was outcast. It was” — she raised her hand— “not possible to stay. I was only fifteen when I came home, but all the same I was a woman. I was no more a child, and happy no longer. After a while, perhaps, when I forgot what I had suffered at the convent, I became less miserable. My father did all in his power to make me happy, and I was glad the work-people loved me. But I was very lonely. Ah Tsong understood.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Can you imagine,” she asked, “that when my father was away in distant parts of the island at night, Ah Tsong slept outside my door? Some of them say, ‘Do not trust the Chinese’ I say, except my husband and my father, I have never known another one to trust but Ah Tsong. Now they have taken him away from me.”
Tears glittered on her lashes, but she brushed them aside angrily, and continued:
“I was still less than twenty, and looked, they told me, only fourteen, when Señor Menendez came to inspect his estate. I had never seen him before. There had been a rising in the island, in the year after I was born, and he had only just escaped with his life. He was hated. People called him Devil Menendez. Especially, no woman was safe from him, and in the old days, when his power had been great, he had used it for wickedness.
“My father was afraid when he heard he was coming. He would have sent me away, but before it could be arranged Señor the Colonel arrived. He had in his company a French lady. I thought her very beautiful and elegant. It was Madame de Stämer. It is only four years ago, a little more, but her hair was dark brown. She was splendidly dressed and such a wonderful horsewoman. The first time I saw her I felt as they had made me feel at the convent. I wanted to hide from her. She was so grand a lady, and I came from slaves.”
She paused hesitatingly and stared down at her own tiny feet.
“Pardon me interrupting you, Mrs. Camber,” I said, “but can you tell me in what way these two are related?”
She looked up with her naïve smile.
“I can tell you, yes. A cousin of Señor Menendez married a sister of Madame de Stämer.”
“Good heavens!” I exclaimed, “a very remote kinship.”
“It was in this way they met, in Paris, I think, and” — she raised her hands expressively— “she came with him to the West Indies, although it was during the great war. I think she loved him more than her soul, and me — me she hated. As Señor Menendez dismounted from his horse in front of the house he saw me.”
She sighed and ceased speaking again. Then:
“That very night,” she continued, “he began. Do you know? I was trying to escape from him when Madame de Stämer found us. She called me a shameful name, and my father, who heard it, ordered her out of the house. Señor Menendez spoke sharply, and my father struck him.”
She paused once more, biting her lip agitatedly, but presently proceeded:
“Do you know what they are like, the Spanish, when their blood is hot? Senor Menendez had a revolver, but my father knocked it from his grasp. Then they fought with their bare hands. I was too frightened even to cry out. It was all a horrible dream. What Madame de Stämer did, I do not know. I could see nothing but two figures twined together on the floor. At last one of them arose. I saw it was my father, and I remember no more.”
She was almost overcome by her tragic recollections, but presently, with a wonderful courage, which, together with her daintiness of form, spoke eloquently of good blood on one side at any rate, continued to speak:
“My father found he must go to Cuba to make arrangements for the future. Of course, our life there was finished. Ah Tsong stayed with me. You have heard how it used to be in those islands in the old days, but now you think it is so different? I used to think it was different, too. On the first night my father was away, Ah Tsong, who had gone out, was so long returning I became afraid. Then a strange negro came with news that he had been taken ill with cholera, and was lying at a place not far from the house. I forgot my fears and hurried off with this man. Ah!”
She laughed wildly.
“I did not know I should never return, and I did not know I should never see my father again. To you this must seem all wild and strange, because there is a law in England. There is a law in Cuba, too, but in some of those little islands the only law is the law of the strongest.”
She raised her hands to her face and there was silence for a while.
“Of course it was a trap,” she presently continued. “I was taken to an island called El Manas which belonged to Senor Menendez, and where he had a house. This he could do, but” — she threw back her head proudly— “my spirit he could not break. Lots and lots of money would be mine, and estates of my own; but one thing about him I must tell: he never showed me violence. For one, two, three weeks I stayed a prisoner in his house. All the servants were faithful to him and I could not find a friend among them. Although quite innocent, I was ruined. Do you know?”
She raised her eyes pathetically to Val Beverley.
“I thought my heart was broken, for something told me my father was dead. This was true.”
“What!” I exclaimed. “You don’t mean—”
“I don’t know, I don’t know,” she answered, brokenly. “He died on his way to Havana. They said it was an accident. Well — at last, Señor Menendez offered me marriage. I thought if I agreed it would give me my freedom, and I could run away and find Ah Tsong.”
She paused, and a flush coloured her delicate face and faded again, leaving it very pale.
“We were married in the house, by a Spanish priest. Oh” — she raised her hands pathetically— “do you know what a woman is like? My spirit was not broken still, but crushed. I had now nothing but kindness and gifts. I might never have known, but Senor Menendez, who thought” — she smiled sadly— “I was beautiful, took me to Cuba, where he had a great house. Please remember, please,” she pleaded, “before you judge of me, that I was so young and had never known love, except the love of my father. I did not even dream, then, his death was not an accident.
“I was proud of my jewels and fine dresses. But I began to notice that Juan did not present any of his friends to me. We went about, but to strange places, never to visit people of his own kind, and none came to visit us. Then one night I heard someone on the balcony of my room. I was so frightened I could not cry out. It was good I was like that, for the curtain was pulled open and Ah Tsong came in.”
She clutched convulsively at the arms of her chair.
“He told me!” she said in a very low voice.
Then, looking up pitifully:
“Do you know?” she asked in her quaint way. “It was a mock marriage. He had done it and thought no shame, because it was so with my mother. Oh!”
Her beautiful eyes flashed, and for the first time since I ha
d met Ysola Camber I saw the real Spanish spirit of the woman leap to life.
“He did not know me. Perhaps I did not know myself. That night, with no money, without a ring, a piece of lace, a peseta, anything that had belonged to him, I went with Ah Tsong. We made our way to a half-sister of my father’s who lived in Puerto Principe, and at first — she would not have me. I was talked about, she said, in all the islands. She told me of my poor father. She told me I had dragged the name of de Valera in the dirt. At last I made her understand — that what everyone else had known, I had never even dreamed of.”
She looked up wistfully, as if thinking that we might doubt her.
“Do you know?” she whispered.
“I know — oh! I know!” said Val Beverley. I loved her for the sympathy in her voice and in her eyes. “It is very, very brave of you to tell us this, Mrs. Camber.”
“Yes? Do you think so?” asked the girl, simply. “What does it matter if it can help Colin?
“This aunt of mine,” she presently continued, “was a poor woman, and it was while I was hiding in her house — because spies of Senor Menendez were searching for me — that I met — my husband. He was studying in Cuba the strange things he writes about, you see. And before I knew what had happened — I found I loved him more than all else in the world. It is so wonderful, that feeling,” she said, looking across at Val Beverley. “Do you know?”
The girl flushed deeply, and lowered her eyes, but made no reply.
“Because you are a woman, too, you will perhaps understand,” she resumed. “I did not tell him. I did not dare to tell him at first. I was so madly happy I had no courage to speak. But when” — her voice sank lower and lower— “he asked me to marry him, I told him. Nothing he could ever do would change my love for him now, because he forgave me and made me his wife.”
I feared that at last she was going to break down, for her voice became very tremulous and tears leapt again into her eyes. She conquered her emotion, however, and went on:
“We crossed over to the States, and Colin’s family who had heard of his marriage — some friend of Señor Menendez had told them — would not know us. It meant that Colin, who would have been a rich man, was very poor. It made no difference. He was splendid. And I was so happy it was all like a dream. He made me forget I was to blame for his troubles. Then we were in Washington — and I saw Señor Menendez in the hotel!
“Oh, my heart stopped beating. For me it seemed like the end of everything. I knew, I knew, he was following me. But he had not seen me, and without telling Colin the reason, I made him leave Washington, He was glad to go. Wherever we went, in America, they seemed to find out about my mother. I got to hate them, hate them all. We came to England, and Colin heard about this house, and we took it.
“At last we were really happy. No one knew us. Because we were strange, and because of Ah Tsong, they looked at us very funny and kept away, but we did not care. Then Sir James Appleton sold Cray’s Folly.”
She looked up quickly.
“How can I tell you? It must have been by Ah Tsong that he traced me to Surrey. Some spy had told him there was a Chinaman living here. Oh, I don’t know how he found out, but when I heard who was coming to Cray’s Folly I thought I should die.
“Something I must tell you now. When I had told my story to Colin, one thing I had not told him, because I was afraid what he might do. I had not told him the name of the man who had caused me to suffer so much. On the day I first saw Señor Menendez walking in the garden of Cray’s Folly I knew I must tell my husband what he had so often asked me to tell him — the name of the man. I told him — and at first I thought he would go mad. He began to drink — do you know? It is a failing in his family. But because I knew — because I knew — I forgave him, and hoped, always hoped, that he would stop. He promised to do so. He had given up going out each day to drink, and was working again like he used to work — too hard, too hard, but it was better than the other way.”
She stopped speaking, and suddenly, before I could divine her intention, dropped upon her knees, and raised her clasped hands to me.
“He did not, he did not kill him!” she cried, passionately. “He did not! O God! I who love him tell you he did not! You think he did. You do — you do! I can see it in your eyes!”
“Believe me, Mrs. Camber,” I answered, deeply moved, “I don’t doubt your word for a moment.”
She continued to look at me for a while, and then turned to Val Beverley.
“You don’t think he did,” she sobbed, “do you?”
She looked such a child, such a pretty, helpless child, as she knelt there on the carpet, that I felt a lump rising in my throat.
Val Beverley dropped down impulsively beside her and put her arms around the slender shoulders.
“Of course I don’t,” she exclaimed, indignantly. “Of course I don’t. It’s quite unthinkable.”
“I know it is,” moaned the other, raising her tearful face. “I love him and know his great soul. But what do these others know, and they will never believe me.”
“Have courage,” I said. “It has never failed you yet. Mr. Paul Harley has promised to clear him by to-night.”
“He has promised?” she whispered, still kneeling and clutching Val Beverley tightly. She looked up at me with hope reborn in her beautiful eyes. “He has promised? Oh, I thank him. May God bless him. I know he will succeed.”
I turned aside, and walked out across the hall and into the empty study.
CHAPTER XXXII. PAUL HARLEY’S EXPERIMENT
I recognize that whosoever may have taken the trouble to follow my chronicle thus far will be little disposed to suffer any intrusion of my personal affairs at such a point. Therefore I shall pass lightly over the walk back to Cray’s Folly, during which I contrived to learn much about Val Beverley’s personal history but little to advance the investigation which I was there to assist.
As I had surmised, Miss Beverley had been amply provided for by her father, and was bound to Madame de Stämer by no other ties than those of friendship and esteem. Very reluctantly I released her, on our returning to the house; for she, perforce, hurried off to Madame’s room, leaving me looking after her in a state of delightful bewilderment, the significance of which I could not disguise from myself. The absurd suspicions of Inspector Aylesbury were forgotten; so was the shadow upon the blind of Colonel Menendez’s study. I only knew that love had come to me, an unbidden guest, to stay for ever.
Manoel informed me that a number of pressmen, not to be denied, had taken photographs of the Tudor garden and of the spot where Colonel Menendez had been found, but Pedro, following my instructions, had referred them all to Market Hilton.
I was standing in the doorway talking to the man when I heard the drone of Harley’s motor in the avenue, and a moment later he and Wessex stepped out in front of the porch and joined me. I thought that Wessex looked stern and rather confused, but Harley was quite his old self, his keen eyes gleaming humorously, and an expression of geniality upon his tanned features.
“Hullo, Knox!” he cried, “any developments?”
“Yes,” I said. “Suppose we go up to your room and talk.”
“Good enough.”
Inspector Wessex nodded without speaking, and the three of us mounted the staircase and entered Paul Harley’s room. Harley seated himself upon the bed and began to load his pipe, whilst Wessex, who seemed very restless, stood staring out of the window. I sat down in the armchair, and:
“I have had an interesting interview with Mrs. Camber,” I said.
“What?” exclaimed Harley. “Good. Tell us all about it.”
Wessex turned, hands clasped behind him, and listened in silence to an account which I gave of my visit to the Guest House. When I had finished:
“It seems to me,” said the Inspector, slowly, “that the only doubtful point in the case against Camber is cleared up; namely, his motive.”
“It certainly looks like it,” agreed Harley. “But how
strangely Mrs. Camber’s story differs from that of Menendez although there are points of contact. I regret, however, that you were unable to settle the most important matter of all.”
“You mean whether or not she had visited Cray’s Folly?”
“Exactly.”
“Then you still consider my theory to be correct?” I asked eagerly.
“Up to a point it has been proved to be,” he returned. “I must congratulate you upon a piece of really brilliant reasoning, Knox. But respecting the most crucial moment of all, we are still without information, unfortunately. However, whilst the presence or otherwise, of Mrs. Camber in Cray’s Folly on the night preceding the tragedy may prove to bear intimately upon the case, an experiment which I propose to make presently will give the matter an entirely different significance.”
“Hm,” said Wessex, doubtfully, “I am looking forward to this experiment of yours, Mr. Harley, with great interest. To be perfectly honest, I have no more idea than the man in the moon how you hope to clear Camber.”
“No,” replied Harley, musingly, “the weight of evidence against him is crushing. But you are a man of great experience, Wessex, in criminal investigations. Tell me honestly, have you ever known a murder case in which there was such conclusive material for the prosecution?”
“Never,” replied the Inspector, promptly. “In this respect, as in others, the case is unique.”
“You have seen Camber,” continued Harley, “and have been enabled to form some sort of judgment respecting his character. You will admit that he is a clever man, brilliantly clever. Keep this fact in mind. Remember his studies, and he does not deny that they have included Voodoo. Remember his enquiries into the significance of Bat Wing. Remember, as we now learn definitely from Mrs. Camber’s evidence, that he was in Cuba at the same time as the late Colonel Menendez, and once, at least, actually in the same hotel in the United States. Consider the rifle found under the floor of the hut; and, having weighed all these points judicially, Wessex, tell me frankly, if in the whole course of your experience, you have ever met with a more perfect frame-up?”
