Abbey Court Murder: An Inspector Furnival Mystery: Volume 1 (The Inspector Furnival Mysteries)

by Annie Haynes

  She brushed on, mechanically. Her thoughts were back at the flat; what was happening there? she asked herself. Had the dead man been discovered?

  What would the other man do—he who had met her on the stairs—when he heard what had happened in the flat that night? Would he denounce her, set the police to search for her?

  Long fits of trembling shook her from head to foot. She tried to tell herself that it was impossible that anything should connect her with the dead man—that as Lady Carew she was safe, all links with the past destroyed; she felt that she was standing on a powder-mine, that at any moment the explosion might come, and this late-found happiness, at which she had snatched, be taken from her.

  Presently there were sounds in Sir Anthony’s dressing-room; she could hear him walking about, opening and shutting drawers. A passing wonder that he should be at home so early struck her—that he had not come in to ask how she was. Then a swift remembrance of the revolver she had taken from his room flashed across her mind. She had left it in the flat. Would he find out its loss? A sudden revelation that it must have been with this weapon the fatal shot was fired came to her! She recollected that it was on the table where it had been thrown when she groped for it. The murderer must have found it there, must have used it.

  The horror of the thought drew her to the closed door. She tried it—it was locked.

  “Anthony!” she said very softly. “Anthony!”

  Apparently he did not hear her; there was no answer. She listened; he was still walking about the room. She heard him go to his wardrobe; she heard him give the little cough that was so familiar, the sound of his breathing. Suddenly she was reminded of the darkness of that room in Cyril Stanmore’s flat, of the breathing she had heard as she waited and listened—the thought of it sickened her.

  She turned and tottered back to her couch.

  CHAPTER V

  The blind was up, the morning light was streaming in through the window.

  Judith raised herself in bed, leaned forward clasping her arms round her knees, and stared straight before her, in miserable, dazed bewilderment. All night long she had been tossing and turning in bed, going over again that dead and buried past, dreading the present—the future.

  But this morning as the bright sunshine streamed into the room, it seemed impossible that yesterday’s—that last night’s happenings could really have taken place.

  It was—it must be—she told herself, some hideous dream.

  In her ordered life, of late, that past in which Stanmore played his part had seemed so very far away, she had been trying to teach herself to forget it.

  Was it possible, she asked herself shudderingly, that it was she, Anthony Carew’s wife, who had gone to Stanmore’s flat last night, who had stood there, panting like some caged wild creature, while that terrible deed was done?

  Was it, could it, be a dream? She slipped out of bed, and stood for a moment with her bare feet on the Persian rug at the side.

  She unlocked her jewel-case, and took out the key of the small wardrobe, then, crossing the room quickly with trembling footsteps she thrust the wardrobe door back and felt inside the well. Yes! Yes! there was the dress she had worn last night—as she had known too well in her heart it would be.

  Shutting her eyes, she could recall the very shape of those horrible stains, those dull crimson splashes. There was no mistake; she had known all along there could be none.

  She stood still until at last some sound from Anthony’s room roused her. She started and listened, the colour flashing into her cheeks. She told herself that she could not speak out about last night’s doings, as her better angel had been counselling her. She was tied and bound by the cords of Anthony’s love, by Baby Paul’s tiny hands.

  Then, shivering, she got back into bed again.

  She could hear her husband moving about in his room for some time; then she heard his door close, and realized with a curious sense of bewilderment that he had gone down without coming to inquire how she was.

  At last Célestine appeared with the tea. The sight of it was very grateful to Judith’s parched mouth; she drank it eagerly.

  The maid uttered a little shocked exclamation as she saw her mistress’s face.

  “But Miladi has surely the influenza,” she cried. “Miladi must remain in bed and summon the good Dr. Martin, is it not so?”

  “Certainly not!” Judith negatived decidedly. The very notion of lying in bed longer was hateful to her. I am quite well. Get my bath ready, Célestine. I shall get up at once.”

  She felt a little better when she had splashed in and out of her bath, when Célestine had arranged her hair in its usual golden crown, but she turned with loathing from the white morning gown the maid brought her. She would never wear white again, she thought with a shudder. Yet when her blue serge was fastened she wondered whether her white face did not look more colourless by contrast. She rubbed her cheeks rosy before she went downstairs.

  Sir Anthony was standing at the table when she entered the breakfast room; he was apparently absorbed in his correspondence, a great pile of letters lying at his right hand—the papers were on the fender. He looked critically at his wife as she came in.

  “How are you this morning, Judith?” he asked quietly.

  He hardly waited for her answer. There was a new, almost an antagonistic note in his voice. Judith was conscious of it, without in any way realizing its significance. Her brain was obsessed by a fresh thought, the papers on the floor had riveted her attention. What would they say about last night’s tragedy?

  Sir Anthony looked at her. “Do you want anything over here, Judith?” he asked.

  Judith had little thought to spare for anything this morning, or she would have seen that his face was pale beneath his tan, that there were new stern lines round his mouth, that his eyes were cold and strained.

  “The paper, please.”

  Sir Anthony’s eyes scrutinized her coldly as he passed her the paper, noted the two red spots that were beginning to burn on her cheeks, to tell of her inward excitement.

  She ran her eyes down the different columns. No! There was no mention of the Abbey Court flat—of its terrible secret. Evidently nothing had been discovered.

  She pushed her untasted egg from her, with a feeling of sick loathing, as she realized that the dead man must be there now, alone in his flat, his eyes still staring glassily.

  Sir Anthony was to all appearances still occupied with his letters, but over the top of the sheet his eyes were furtively scanning her, watching her every movement.

  Suddenly there was the sound of voices in the hall. Judith started and flinched visibly, then her face cleared, and she looked round with relief as there was a cry, “Judith! Judith!”

  Sir Anthony threw down his paper. “Peggy! What in the world is she doing here at this time in the morning?”

  “Why, Peggy has come to ask how Judith is, to be sure,” the young lady answered for herself as she appeared in the doorway. “We were so sorry you weren’t well enough to come to the reception yesterday afternoon, Judith dear,” stooping to kiss her sister-in-law, “but you look as fit as a fiddle this morning, real country roses in your cheeks. I am so glad,” with another kiss.

  Peggy Carew was not like her half-brother, Sir Anthony. She did not in the least resemble her mother, Theresa, Lady Carew, who since Sir Anthony’s marriage had removed to the Dower House. A friend of Peggy’s had once said there was nothing in the world she was like, unless it were a dewy wild rose picked from an English hedgerow.

  This morning her cheeks were flushed by exercise, her great brown eyes were full of laughter, her young red lips were smiling, the fluffy brown hair was curling in pretty disorder round her white forehead.

  “Stephen came with me,” she went on with a laugh. “He wanted to know how you were too.”

  The dark clean-shaven man who had followed her into the room, and who was obviously considerably her senior, shook hands with Lady Carew with a smile.

&
nbsp; “When you were not at the Denboroughs’ Peggy and I made up our minds to pay you an early visit.”

  “Oh, I am quite well again this morning,” Judith answered, forcing a smile to her stiff lips. “Last night I had a headache.”

  “Oh, last night she was absolutely hors de combat,” Sir Anthony interposed. “I had to exercise my authority, and tell her she really must stay at home.”

  As he spoke, Stephen Crasster, catching a glimpse of his face in a distant glass, was surprised to see that an odd mocking smile was twisting his mouth beneath its drooping dark moustache. Anthony Carew and Stephen Crasster had been friends ever since their college days. That their paths in life had since lain far apart had not in any way lessened their affection for one another. Carew of Heron’s Carew was a rich man, Stephen Crasster had had until six months ago to work hard, to make a name and a living at his chosen profession, the law. Then an old uncle in Australia, of whom he had known nothing, had died and left him a considerable fortune. So far the bequest had apparently affected his career but little; he worked as hard or harder than ever, but he himself was fully conscious that life now held certain sweet possibilities at which he had never hitherto dared to glance.

  Noting his expression as he watched Peggy, remarking how constantly he was in attendance on the girl, Judith had come of late to guess the direction his hopes had taken, and to rejoice that her young sister-in-law had won the love of so true a man.

  But Peggy was still unconscious; there could be no doubt of that. To her Stephen Crasster was merely her oldest friend—it was obvious that she regarded him as set—both by age and experience—on a very different plane from herself and the young people who were wont to surround her at her parties and dances.

  “Lord Milman was at the Denboroughs’ last night,” Stephen said, addressing himself to Anthony. “He was disappointed not to meet you.”

  Judith looked at her husband in surprise.

  “But, Anthony—the Denboroughs’—surely you went?”

  Sir Anthony looked away. He picked up one of his letters and slipped his paper-knife under the flap absently.

  “I thought it better not to go. I sent excuses for us both.”

  “You did not go,” Judith repeated in consternation. “Oh, Anthony, I am sorry. Where did you—” A swift wave of colour flooded her face as she stopped short. She looked at him anxiously, timidly. It was not possible that he had remained at home last night—that he had even seen her go out?

  There was no response in his eyes as he met hers. “I am very glad I did,” he said dryly. “It enabled me to go over to see Venables. I had been trying to get it in for some time.”

  Judith breathed more freely. “Still, I am very sorry my stupid headache should have come on that very day. Peggy, is your mother going to—”

  She paused. Jenkins, the butler, had appeared in the doorway.

  “If you please, Sir Anthony, Inspector Furnival, of Scotland Yard, wishes to speak to Mr. Crasster on the telephone.”

  “Does he, indeed!” Crasster’s keen, dark face lighted up. “You will excuse me, Lady Carew. This may be something of importance; they must have put him through from my place.”

  The telephone stood immediately opposite the door in the hall.

  The three left in the breakfast room could hear him speaking plainly.

  “Hello! That you, inspector?... Yes, I remember you promised… Yes, yes, quite right; where is it?... Leinster Avenue… Right. I will be with you as soon as possible.”

  Leinster Avenue! Judith caught her breath; her face was as white as death when he came back.

  But Crasster had no attention to spare for her; he had eyes only for Peggy, who was now teasing her brother to take her to Ranelagh on Saturday.

  Sir Anthony looked up. “Nothing wrong, I hope, Crasster?”

  “Nothing at all!” Crasster returned heartily. “Only that I must get back as soon as possible. Peggy, are you going to give me the pleasure of driving you home?”

  “Oh, I don’t know; I think you are very tiresome! I wanted to play with Paul. Why must you go?”

  There was a smile in the man’s eyes as they looked down at her petulant face. “It is all in the way of business, Peggy. But if you don’t want to come, I will leave the car for you and get a taxi.”

  “I will take Peggy home.” Sir Anthony got up, tearing several of his letters up and tossing them into the waste-paper-basket. “I want to consult Mother about something, so you will be free, old man!”

  Crasster hesitated a moment; he looked at Peggy, but the girl kept her face averted.

  “Well, it is from Furnival,” he said apologetically. “Probably he is about the keenest-witted detective they have at Scotland Yard. He makes a point of letting me know if anything interesting turns up, and he has often been good enough to say that I have been of real assistance to him. And since the unravelling of mysteries is part of my profession—”

  Peggy hunched up her shoulders. “I didn’t know you were a policeman.”

  Carew laughed outright. “A barrister is next door to one. Come, Peggy, don’t be cross; I will take you for a long ride another day.”

  “Where are you going?” Peggy was only half-appeased.

  “To Leinster Avenue,” Crasster answered, “Furnival tells me that there has been a”—he hesitated a moment—“a curious occurrence at a flat in Leinster Avenue. He is very anxious I should go, but—”

  “Of course you must go,” Peggy said with restored good humour; her fits of petulance were never of long duration. “And I—perhaps I will come out with you to-morrow, Stephen, if you are good, and ask me prettily.”

  “What is the name of the flat?” In Judith’s own ears her voice sounded loud.

  Stephen looked a little surprised as he turned courteously.

  “Abbey Court,” he answered.

  CHAPTER VI

  “Do you think I look nice, Judith?” Peggy executed a pirouette before her sister-in-law.

  “Very nice,” Judith said absently. Her whole being was absorbed in waiting, listening.

  The hours that had passed since Stephen Crasster had been summoned by Inspector Furnival that morning had stretched themselves out into an eternity of suspense and anguish. She had not known what the next moment might bring forth.

  “Madame Benoit has a very good cut,” Peggy went on, twirling herself about in an attempt to get a good view of the hang of her skirt behind. “I believe Mother would like me to wear nothing but white, but one gets tired of always having the same colour. And blue always suited me. It is Stephen’s favourite colour.”

  “He is late.” Judith’s attention was caught by the sound of Crasster’s name. Her eyes barely glanced at Peggy’s pretty, graceful figure; they watched the clock with unconcealed impatience.

  Peggy looked a little disappointed at her lack of interest. “Oh, no! I came early because I wanted a nice long talk with you, and I must see Paul. Come, Judith,” putting her arm through her sister-in-law’s, “he looks such a darling in his cot.”

  Lady Carew yielded. It was not worth while to resist, and it was better to do anything—anything rather than to sit there watching the clock, and waiting. The sisters-in-law looked a strange contrast as they left the room together, Peggy looked the very personification of youth and spring. Judith, with her white face, drawn under her eyes, and new strange lines of pain furrowing her brow, might have sat as a model for care or guilt.

  Sir Anthony liked best to see her in white, and to-night, remembering this, Judith had put aside her own shivering distaste, her shuddering remembrance of the dress huddled away in the well of the wardrobe, and allowed Célestine to array her in a gown that she had carefully chosen, in accordance with her husband’s taste, in Paris. It was of oyster-white satin, but satin of so soft and supple a texture that it might have been drawn through the proverbial ring—satin, moreover, that merely formed the background for the most exquisite embroidery of seed pearls and crystals. It was too magnificen
t a toilette for a partie carrée, such as had been arranged for this evening—just Stephen Crasster, Peggy, Anthony and herself—but they were going on to a gala performance at the theatre, given in honour of a foreign royalty who was visiting London.

  Paul was awake as it happened; he was sitting up in his cot laughing and chuckling to himself, and obstinately refusing to go to sleep. Peggy adored her small nephew; she ran forward and picked him up, regardless of her finery.

  “Kiss Auntie Peggy, Paul.”

  Paul lifted his rosy mouth pursed up into a round O, but his big grey eyes had seen somebody dearer than Peggy, he held out his arms to his mother.

  “Mam, mam, dad, dad,” he gurgled.

  Judith took him almost mechanically, but the pain that had been pulling at her heart-strings all day seemed lulled a little, as the baby nestled his soft downy head into the curve of her neck.

  They made a pretty picture, the tall, lovely mother, her eyes softened, her mouth relaxing into a smile, and the bonny, laughing boy. Peggy admired them in her honest, whole-hearted fashion, as she tried to make the baby look at her.

  Somebody else was admiring the group, too. Peggy looked up, her ear caught by a slight sound. Outside in the day nursery, looking at them through the open door, stood her brother, Anthony, and Stephen Crasster. Stephen was smiling openly. The gloom of the morning was gone from Anthony’s expression as he watched his wife and child. He came forward. She turned, holding the chuckling baby towards him, then, as she caught sight of Crasster behind, her whole face seemed to wither and alter. Stephen Crasster hesitated.

  “I must apologize for this intrusion, Lady Carew, Anthony would bring me to have a look at my godson. He is a fine fellow.”