“As Mrs. Greenhow says, ‘we have had so many disappointments,’” he said sadly, as he took his place at table. “So many false clues—false scents started. Ramsay has at once put himself in communication with the police at Boulogne and Calais, as well as at Dover and Folkestone. We can only pray that something may come of it!”
“And dear Lord Guilleroy,” chimed in Mrs. Greenhow, in her soft, purring voice, “has started for Paris immediately. The young man has such a vast amount of energy, and thinks he can do the work of the police better than they can do it for themselves.”
“That’s hardly a fair way of putting it, Clare,” interrupted Mr. Golding irritably; “he is working heart and soul with the police, and thinks it advisable that some one representing me should be in Paris, in case an emergency should arise; also he wants himself to question Dulau respecting my daughter’s sudden appearance and disappearance in the Paris streets. Guilleroy,” here he turned to Loveday, “is devotedly attached to my daughter, and—why, Dryad, what’s the matter, old man? down, down! Don’t growl and whine in that miserable fashion.”
He had broken off to address these words to the Newfoundland, who, until that moment, had been comfortably stretched on the hearth-rug before the fire, but who now had suddenly started to his feet with ears erect, and given a prolonged growl, that ended in something akin to a whine.
“It may be a fox trotting past the window,” said Mrs. Greenhow, whipping at the dog with her lace handkerchief. But Dryad was not to be so easily subdued. With his nose to the ground now he was sniffing uneasily at and around the heavy curtains that half draped the long French windows of the room.
“Something has evidently disturbed him. Why not let him out into the garden?” said Loveday. And Mr. Golding, with a “Hey, Dryad, go find!” unfastened the window and let the dog out into the windy darkness.
Dinner was a short meal that night. It was easy to see that it was only by a strong effort of will that Mr. Golding kept his place at table, and made even a pretence of eating.
At the close of the meal Loveday asked for a quiet corner, in which to write some business letters, and was shown into the library by Mr. Golding.
“You’ll find all you require here, I think,” he said, with something of a sigh, as he placed a chair for her at a lady’s davenport. “This was René’s favourite corner, and here are the last flowers she gathered—dead, all dead, but I will not have them touched!” He broke off abruptly, set down the vase of dead asters which he had taken in his hand, and quitted the room, leaving Loveday to the use of René’s pen, ink, paper, and blotting-pad.
Loveday soon became absorbed in her business letters. Time flew swiftly, and it was not until a clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour—ten o’clock—that she gave a thought as to what might be the hour for retiring at the Hall.
Something else beside the striking of the clock almost simultaneously caught her ear—the whining and scratching of a dog at one of the windows. These, like those of the dining-room, opened as doors into an outside verandah. They were, however, closely shuttered, and Loveday had to ring for a servant to undo the patent fastener.
So soon as the window was opened Dryad rushed into the room, plastered with mud, and dripping with water from every hair.
“He must have been in the stream,” said the footman, trying to collar the dog and lead him out of the room.
“Stop! one moment!” cried Loveday, for her eye had caught sight of something hanging in shreds between the dog’s teeth. She bent over him, patting and soothing him, and contrived to disentangle those shreds, which a closer examination proved to be a few tattered fragments of dark blue serge.
“Is your letter-writing nearly ended, Miss Brooke?” asked Mr. Golding, at that moment entering the room.
For reply, Loveday held up the shreds of blue serge. His face grew ashen white; he needed no explanation; those shreds and the dripping dog seemed to tell their own tale.
“Great heavens!” he cried, “why did I not follow the dog out! There must be a search at once. Get men, lanterns, ropes, a ladder—the dog, too, will be of use.”
A terrible energy took possession of him. “Find, Dryad, find!” he shouted to the dog, and then, hatless and thin-shoed as he was, he rushed out into the darkness with Dryad at his heels.
In less than five minutes afterwards the whole of the men-servants of the house, with lanterns, ropes, and a ladder long enough to span the stream, had followed him. The wind had fallen, the rain had ceased now, and a watery half-moon was struggling through the thin, flying clouds. Loveday and Mrs. Greenhow, standing beneath the verandah, watched the men disappear in the direction of the trout stream, whither Dryad had led the way. From time to time shouts came to them, through the night stillness, of “This way!” “No, here!” together with Dryad’s sharp bark and the occasional distant flash of a bull’s-eye lantern. It was not until nearly half an hour afterwards that one of the men came running back to the house with a solemn white face and a pitiful tale. He wanted something that would serve for a stretcher, he said in a subdued tone—the two-fold oak screen in the hall would do—and please, into which room was “it” to be brought?—
On the following evening Mr. Dyer received a lengthy dispatch from Miss Brooke, which ran as follows:—
“LANGFORD HALL.
“This is to supplement my telegram of an hour back, telling you of the finding of Miss Golding’s body in the stream that runs through her father’s grounds. Mr. Golding has himself identified the body, and has now utterly collapsed. At the present moment it seems rather doubtful whether he will be in a fit state to give evidence at the inquest, which will be held to-morrow. Miss Golding appears to be dressed as she was when she left home, with this notable exception—the marquise ring has disappeared from the third finger of her left hand, and in its stead she wears a plain gold wedding-ring. Now this is a remarkable circumstance, and strikes a strange keynote to my mind. I am writing hurriedly, and can only give you the most important points in this very singular case. The maid, Lena, a reserved, self-contained woman, gave way to a passion of grief when the young lady’s body was brought in and laid upon her own bed. She insisted on performing all the last sad offices for the dead, however, in spite of her grief, and is now, I am glad to say, calmer and capable of a little quiet conversation with me. I keep her continually in attendance on me, as I am rather anxious to keep my eye on her just now. I have telegraphed to Lord Guilleroy, asking him, in spite of the terrible news which will in due course reach him, to be good enough to remain in Paris awaiting directions from me, which may have to be carried out at a minute’s notice. I hope to have further news to send a little later on.”
Mr. Dyer laid aside the letter with a grunt of dissatisfaction.
“Well,” he said to himself, “I suppose she expects me to be able to read between the lines, but I’m bothered if I can make head or tail of it all. She seems to me to be going a little wide of the mark just now; it might be as well to give her a hint.” So he dashed off a few brief lines as follows:—
“I suppose you are concentrating now on finding out what were Miss Golding’s movements while absent from her home. It seems to me this could be better done in Paris than at Langford Hall. The ring on her finger necessarily implies that she has gone through a marriage service somewhere, and as she was seen in Paris a day or two ago, it is as likely as not that the ceremony took place there. The Paris police could give you ‘yea or nay’ on this matter within twenty-four hours. As to the maid, Lena, I think you are laying too much stress upon her possible knowledge of her mistress’s movements.
“If she had been tied down to secrecy by promise of reward, she would naturally, now that all such promises are rendered futile, reveal all she knows on the matter—she has nothing to gain by keeping the secrets of the dead.”
This letter crossed on its road a telegram from Loveday running thus:—
“Inquest over. Verdict, ‘Found drowned, but how deceased got into th
e water there is no evidence to show.’ Funeral takes place to-morrow; Mr. Golding delirious with brain fever.”
On the day following Mr. Dyer received a second letter from Loveday. Thus it ran:—
“The funeral is over; Mr. Golding is much worse, I have dispatched Lena to Paris, telling her I require her services there to follow up a clue I hold respecting Mr. Gordon Cleeve, and promising her rewards commensurate with the manner in which she carries out my orders. I have also written to Lord Guilleroy, telling him the sort of assistance I require from him. If he is the man I take him for he will be more useful to me than all the Paris police put together. I will answer your letter in detail in a day or two. The neighbourhood is still in a state of great excitement, and all sorts of wild reports are flying about. Ramsay and Dulau have traced a lady, dressed in dark blue serge, and answering in other respects to Miss Golding’s description, from the Gare du Midi, Paris, step by step to her arrival at Langford Cross, whence, poor thing, she must have walked through the pouring rain to the Hall. I do not see, however, that this information helps us forward one step towards the solution of the mystery of the girl’s disappearance. Ramsay is a little inclined to criticize what he calls my ‘leisurely handling’ of the case. Mrs. Greenhow, who is a terribly empty-headed, but at the same time essentially hard-natured little woman, appears disposed to follow suit, and has more than once thrown out hints that my stay in the house is being unnecessarily prolonged. As there is practically no further necessity for my remaining at the Hall, I have told her that I shall to-day take up my quarters at the Roebuck Inn (by courtesy hotel), at Langford Cross. I believe she is unfeignedly glad at what she considers the ending of the affair. The imperious yet fascinating young lady no doubt ruled her and the household generally with a rod of iron, and the little woman, I feel sure, if she had dared, would have ordered bonfires and a general rejoicing on the day of the funeral. Well, I have not much sympathy with her, and am preparing for her a shock to her not too-sensitive nerves which she little suspects. My chief anxiety at the present moment is Mr. Golding, who still remains unconscious. I have requested the doctors to send me two bulletins daily of his condition, which I fear is a most serious one.”
There could be little doubt on this head. The doctors’ verdict on the day that Loveday left Langford Hall for “The Roebuck” was: “Absolutely no hope.” The bulletin brought to her on the following morning was “Condition remains unchanged.” On the third day, however, the report was “Slight improvement.” Then followed the welcome bulletins of “Improvement maintained,” and “Out of danger,” to be followed by the most welcome report of all: “Is making steady progress towards recovery.”
“It is Mr. Golding’s illness that has kept me here so long,” said Loveday to Inspector Ramsay, as if by way of apology for her continued presence on the scene. “I think, however, I can see my way to departure now. Going to Paris? Oh, dear me, no. I have telegraphed to Mr. Dyer to expect me back the day after to-morrow; if you will like to come to me here, or will meet me at Langford Cross Station, I will give you a full report of all I have done since I took the case in hand. Now I am going to the Hall to ascertain at what hour to-morrow it will be convenient for me to say good-bye to Mr. Golding.”
More than this Ramsay was unable to extract from Miss Brooke. His open strictures upon what he called her “leisurely handling of the case” had put her upon her mettle, and she had decided that Ramsay and his colleagues should be taught that Lynch Court had a special way of doing things, and could hold its own with the best.
On her way to the Hall Loveday called at the post-office, and there had a letter with a London postmark handed to her. This she at once opened and read, and then dispatched a reply to it by telegram. The reply was an enigmatic one to the village post-master, for Loveday, after a few casual questions as to his knowledge of Continental languages, chose German as her medium of communication. The address, however, “to Lord Guilleroy, at Charing Cross Hotel,” was plain reading enough.
At the Hall Loveday found Mrs. Greenhow in an active state of mind. Mr. Golding, she informed her with a sweet effusiveness, would come downstairs for a short time on the following day, and she was doing all that lay in her power to put out of sight anything that might awaken painful recollections. “I have had dear René’s harp removed to a lumber room, her portrait taken down from the library wall,” she said, in her usual purring tones; “and her davenport is being wheeled into my own sitting-room. Poor dear René! If only she could have been taught to govern her willful temper a happier fate might have befallen her. What that fate was I suppose we shall never know now.”
Loveday’s only reply to this was to ask for an exact report of the doctor’s opinion of Mr. Golding’s condition. Mrs. Greenhow put her handkerchief to her eyes as she answered that Doctor Godwin’s opinion was that, so far as bodily strength was concerned, he was considerably better, but that his mental condition was a serious one. His brain appeared to be in a state of semi-stupefaction, which it was possible might be indicative of the softening of its tissues.
Loveday expressed a wish to see this doctor—to time her farewell visit to Mr. Golding on the following day with Dr. Godwin’s daily call. In fact, she would like a little private talk with him before she went in to see his patient.
To all this Mrs. Greenhow offered no objection. Lady detectives, she said to herself, were a race apart, and had a curious way of doing things; but, thank Heaven, she would soon see the last of this one!
The stormy autumnal weather had given place now to a brief spell of late summer sunshine, and on the last day of her visit to Langford, Miss Brooke had a cheerier view of the Hall and its surroundings than she had had on the day of her arrival there. The trout stream had retreated to its natural proportions, and showed like a streak of molten silver—not a grey, turbid flood—in the bright sunlight that played at hide-and-seek between the branches of the stript elms. Even the old rooks seemed to have a cheery undernote to their “caw, caw” as they wheeled about the old house; and Dryad himself, as he once more came bounding forth to greet her, appeared to her fancy to have a less dolorous ring in his noisy bark.
“That dog is a perfect nuisance—has been utterly spoilt. I must have him chained up,” said Mrs. Greenhow, as she led the way into a room where Dr. Godwin sat awaiting Loveday. She introduced them one to the other. “Shall I remain, or do you wish to converse alone?” she asked.
And as Loveday answered with decision “Alone,” the little woman had no choice but to withdraw, wondering once more over the vagaries of lady detectives.
Half an hour afterwards the doctor, a clever-looking, active little man, led the way into the library where Mr. Golding was seated.
Loveday was greatly shocked at the change which a few days’ illness had wrought in him. His chair was drawn close to the window, and the autumn sunshine that filled the room threw into pitiful relief his shrunken frame and pallid face, aged now by about a dozen years. His eyes were closed, his head was bent low on his breast, and he did not lift it as the door opened.
“You need not remain,” said Dr. Godwin to the nurse, who rose as they entered; and Loveday and the doctor were left alone with the patient.
Loveday drew near softly. “I am going back to town this evening, and have come to say good-bye,” she said, extending her hand.
Mr. Golding opened his eyes, staring vaguely at the extended hand. “To say good-bye!” he repeated, in a dreamy, far-away tone.
“I am Miss Brooke,” Loveday explained. “I came down from London to investigate the strange circumstances connected with your daughter’s disappearance.”
“My daughter’s disappearance!” He started and began to tremble violently.
The doctor had his hand on his patient’s pulse now.
“I have conducted my investigations under somewhat disadvantageous circumstances,” Loveday went on quietly, “and, for a time, with but little result. A few days back, however, I received important information f
rom Lord Guilleroy, and to-day I have seen and communicated with him. In fact, it was his carriage that brought me to your house this afternoon.”
“Lord Guilleroy!” repeated Mr. Golding slowly. His voice had a more natural ring in it; recollection, although, perhaps, a painful one, seemed to sound in it.
“Yes. He said he would wander about the park until I had seen and prepared you for his visit. Ah! there he is coming up the drive.”
Here she drew back the curtain that half draped the open window.
This window commanded a good view of the drive, with its overarching elms, that led from the lodge gates to the house. Along that drive two persons were advancing at that moment in leisurely fashion; one of those two was undoubtedly Lord Guilleroy, the other was a tall, graceful girl, dressed in deep mourning.
Mr. Golding’s eyes followed Loveday’s at first with a blank, expressionless stare. Then, little by little, that stare changed into a look of intelligence and recognition. His face grew ashen white, then a wave of colour swept over it.
“Lord Guilleroy, yes,” he said, panting and struggling for breath. “But—but who is that walking with him? Tell me, tell me quickly, for the love of Heaven!”
He tried to rise to his feet, but his limbs failed him. The doctor poured out a cordial, and put it to his lips.
“Drink this, please,” he said. “Now tell him quickly,” he whispered to Loveday.
“That young lady,” she resumed calmly, “is your daughter René. She drove up with me and Lord Guilleroy from Langford Cross. Shall I ask her to come in and see you? She is only waiting for Dr. Godwin’s permission to do so.”
Time to grant or refuse that permission, however, was not accorded to Dr. Godwin. René—a sadder, sweeter-faced René than the one who had so impetuously discarded home and father—now stood outside in the “half-sun, half-shade” of the verandah, and had caught the sound of Loveday’s last words.
The Experiences of Loveday Brooke, Lady Detective Page 18
