by Annie Haynes
“A—h!” Célestine held up her hands. “But the other day when the fire was not so large as this Miladi say that it was huge, that it would give her the fever. But, see, Miladi, it will soon burn up, be as big as Miladi likes.”
She deftly applied wood, piled up small coal, and presently the fire showed signs of becoming large enough to satisfy her mistress’s requirements. Judith watched her with wide-open, miserable eyes. At last she said wearily:
“That will do, Célestine, I feel warmer already. Now perhaps I shall sleep.”
“But I hope so, Miladi.” The maid stood up and looked with distaste at her blackened fingers. “And if Miladi want anything she need not exert herself to ring the bell; if she would just speak one little word, I am at my needlework in the dressing-room, I shall hear.”
Judith raised herself on her elbow. “No! No! I can’t have you in the dressing-room, Célestine; I can’t sleep if anyone is moving about.”
The maid looked aggrieved. “But I will be as quiet as a mouse, Miladi. And I am putting on the lace of Miladi’s heliotrope satin. If miladi should want it.”
“I shall not want it,” Lady Carew said decisively. “We are going down to Heron’s Carew directly, Célestine. Dr. Martin says the quiet will be the best thing—best for me.”
Célestine held up her hands. “Ma foi, it is a triste place, that Heron’s Carew,” she grumbled discontentedly. “Naturally Miladi does not require her magnificent toilettes there. Me—I expect always to die of megrim at Heron’s Carew.”
“That will do!” Judith said wearily. “You understand, Célestine, I am not to be disturbed until I ring.”
Left alone she waited a while until the fire had burned up briskly, until there was a glow in the hot coals beneath that scorched her face as she sat there. Then she got up, rallying all her self-control, walked across to her jewel-case, and took out her little key. Holding it she paused a moment undecidedly; then with a gesture of infinite loathing she turned to the small wardrobe and opened the door.
She averted her face shudderingly, as she thrust her arm into the well, and brought out the skirt she had thrown over the tell-tale tea-gown. Laying it on the floor beside her she put her hand in again; then, with a quick, startled exclamation she turned, peered into the well, pushed her hands from side to side—the tea-gown was gone!
She sat back on the floor and stared at the empty well. Where—how had it gone? The wardrobe had been locked, the key of the jewel-case had never been out of her possession; she went back feverishly, tore all the things from the hooks, and scattered them around her on the floor, only to make more certain of what had been obvious from the beginning—the tea-gown was gone!
With a slow movement of despair she got up, her knees shaking under her, cold beads of perspiration breaking out on her forehead. Who could have learnt of its presence in the wardrobe—who could have obtained possession of it?
At last her lips moved mechanically, they framed words.
“They—they spoke of a clue to be produced at tomorrow’s inquest,” she whispered hoarsely. “Was it this? My God, was it this—was it this?”
CHAPTER VIII
Heron’s Carew was a big imposing-looking building, standing on the top of the hill, looking down to the Heron’s moat. It had no pretensions to any kind of architectural beauty. In ancient time, rumour had it, the old house had stood lower down and the Heron’s moat had surrounded it; some vandal of a Carew had pulled it down to build the newer edifice on the top of the hill. Of the house that had been built originally on the hill, much was destroyed by a fire in the days of the first George, the residue formed the kernel of the present Heron’s Carew; but to it had been built by different Carews such additions as took their fancy, a new wing here, a large dining-room thrown out there, bedrooms built over any spare space. Time had mellowed the whole, had thrown over the heterogeneous mass a kindly veil of ivy, ampelopsis and other climbing plants. The Carews, every one of them, loved Heron’s Carew, but it is to be doubted whether any of them had loved Heron’s Carew with a greater love than Judith, the wife of the present owner.
It had meant safety to her, the old house, when she came to it. It was there that she had first dared to dream tremblingly that Anthony cared for her, it was there that the golden days of her early married life had been spent, there that her little son had been born—it was small wonder that she loved every stone of the grey walls.
Already, though they had been back only a week, Heron’s Carew was beginning to exert its spell over her. Some of the fret and the worry had smoothed itself out of Judith’s face; she was looking stronger and better as she sat in her lounge chair beneath the shade of the big cedar.
Paul, fresh and rosy from his afternoon’s sleep, was on the rug at her feet playing with a big woolly lamb, and emitting every now and then a satisfied chuckle.
A couple of footmen came down from the house bringing the tea-things; Sir Anthony followed them, a bundle of papers in his hand. He sat down in one of the wicker chairs and smiled at Paul, who was trying in his own fashion to attract his attention.
“Well, young man, how are you? Judith”—a slight subtle change in his voice as he addressed his wife—“you heard from Peggy this morning, didn’t you? What did she say to you? Did you gather that she is enjoying herself with Alethea?”
“Oh, enormously, I think.” Judith hesitated a moment, and coloured, bending over the baby to hide her confusion. She was conscious that Peggy’s letter had received but scant attention. “Lady Leominster is taking her out everywhere, and Peggy is getting lots of admiration, as she was sure to.” Judith finished with a smile; her pretty young sister-in-law was very dear to her.
“Did she say anything about this new Lord Chesterham to you?”
“New Lord Chesterham?” Judith wrinkled up her brows. “I don’t remember. No, I feel sure she did not mention Lord Chesterham. Why do you ask?”
Anthony drew a letter from his pocket. “I have just heard from Alethea. She says—oh, here it is. The new Lord Chesterham was at the Westropps’ the other night. Peggy made quite an impression upon him, I think. It was easy to see he was attracted and, knowing how near Chesterham Castle is to Heron’s Carew, my mind could not help glancing at certain possibilities. But it is early days for such speculations yet, so I will say no more. That is all.” Sir Anthony folded the letter up and glanced meditatively at it.
“Lord Chesterham!” Judith repeated. “That is the one who has just come into the title, isn’t it?”
Sir Anthony nodded. “He didn’t bear the best of reputations before he succeeded either, from what I hear. I am sorry Peggy has met him. I should have thought Alethea was to be trusted to look after her. But she seems quite pleased with this,” tapping the sheet with his hand. “However, as Peggy says nothing about the man herself, I expect it is all right. She would have been certain to tell you if there had been anything in it.”
Judith did not answer as she busied herself about the tea-urn. With her surer knowledge of a woman’s heart, she was inclined to think that Peggy’s silence might be a bad sign.
“It is time Chesterham came down here,” Sir Anthony presently went on, “the estates are going to rack and ruin, but there never was any Chesterham of the lot that troubled about that as long as there was money to pay for their pleasures.” He laid Lady Leominster’s letter, together with a pile of others, on an empty chair beside him as he spoke, and caught up his heir: “Well, Master Paul, come and tell me what you have been doing with yourself.”
Judith watched them with fascinated eyes. To her, after the ceaseless nervous terrors of the past six weeks, it was something like happiness to be here in their own grounds, safe from intrusion, alone with her husband and child. Sir Anthony, too, had seemed more like himself since their return to Heron’s Carew. Nevertheless Judith was conscious that the barrier between them remained, that the perfect confidence that formerly subsisted between them was now a thing of the past. Suddenly at the bottom of the
pile of letters she caught sight of the evening edition of a London paper. She drew in her breath sharply. The inquest on Cyril Stanmore had been adjourned until this morning—was it possible that there could be any news of it yet? Public interest in the West End flat murder, as it was called, had flagged a little of late.
The disappearance of her tea-gown had thrown Judith at first into a perfect frenzy of alarm; but as the time wore on and she heard nothing of it, her fears began to subside, though the occurrence remained as mysterious as ever. Questioned, Célestine had obstinately denied all knowledge of it.
Her hand stole towards the paper; Anthony was still absorbed by the baby; he would not see her. She drew it out quickly, and opened it with as little rustle as possible. Yes. There it was on the space reserved for intelligence received on going to press.
WEST END FLAT MURDER—INQUEST AND VERDICT
“The inquest on the man known as C. Warden was resumed this morning before Mr. Gwynne Bargrave. No further evidence was offered by the police, who stated that, so far, the clues in their possession had led to nothing tangible. The jury returned a verdict of ‘Wilful murder against some person or persons unknown.’”
That was all.
Judith drew a long breath of thankfulness. She had but little knowledge of the law’s procedure in criminal cases; and it seemed to her that the Leinster Avenue case was finished now, that she had nothing more to fear.
She let her clasped hands fall on the paper with the gesture of one who had escaped from an intolerable bondage; then, looking up, her eyes met Sir Anthony’s. He had the baby on his knee still, but over its fluffy yellow head his eyes were watching Judith eagerly, with a certain furtiveness. He dropped his heavy lids, but not before Judith had surprised an expression of keen watchfulness. It had the effect of a sudden shock upon her, it was as if he had purposely placed the paper there, as if he had been waiting to see the result upon her.
The next minute he had risen with Paul in his arms; he was tossing the delighted child in the air. Judith told herself that she must have been mistaken, that her nerves were overstrained, that she was foolishly fanciful, but the unpleasant impression remained.
She got up and crossed the lawn hurriedly. As she neared the house, Jenkins, the urbane, appeared, preceding a black-robed figure.
“Lady Palmer has called, my lady. She asked to see both your ladyship and Sir Anthony.”
“Lady Palmer!” Judith repeated in a puzzled tone, then her face altered. How could she have forgotten? This was the widowed Lady Palmer, the Sybil Carew of Anthony’s youth—free, now, while he was bound.
The slender graceful woman in black came up to her quickly. Both Judith’s hands were caught. Two liquid brown eyes gazed into hers.
“You are my cousin Anthony’s wife, I am sure. How—how beautiful you are! You must forgive my frankness. Anthony will tell you I am nothing if not unconventional.”
Judith felt suddenly tongue-tied. She had heard much of Sybil Palmer, of her, beauty, of Anthony’s mad love for her. She had heard that the breaking off of his engagement had embittered all his early manhood; she knew that the meetings between the two had since been few and far between. She knew also that her husband had written to Lady Palmer on hearing of her husband’s fatal accident.
“You will give me a welcome, won’t you?” the sweet pathetic voice went on wistfully. “Ah, there is Anthony.” With a final lingering pressure Judith found her hands dropped, and Lady Palmer turned to Sir Anthony, who was coming across the lawn towards them, Paul perched on his shoulder.
“Sybil!” he uttered in an amazed tone. “Hoy in the world did you come here? We had no idea—”
“I know you had not.” Lady Palmer’s beautiful eyes grew moist; her sweet tones were reproachful. “But I was staying with the Wiltons, and I told them I must come over. I thought you would give me a welcome, Anthony, for the sake of old times.”
The last words were uttered in a low voice, but they reached Judith’s ears as she waited.
“Of course we have a welcome for you—of course we are delighted to see you,” Sir Anthony answered, a certain breeziness in his voice that contrasted curiously with Lady Palmer’s languid tones.
“Ah, things have altered since we last met,” she went on with a little catch in her breath. “Then my dear husband was with me, do you remember? And it was before your marriage. Now you have your wife, your child, and I—I have lost everything.”
“I was—we were so grieved to hear of your loss,” Sir Anthony said with some embarrassment.
Judith, waiting, felt with a vague tinge of wonder, that Sybil Palmer was an absolute surprise to her. She scarcely realized as yet the subtle charm of the deep brown eyes, of the transparent pallor of the skin, of the pathetic curves of the lovely mouth.
“Oh, what a beautiful boy!” Lady Palmer was trying to coax the child to come to her arms.
Judith felt an unreasonable thrill of pleasure when Paul, usually so good with strangers, turned obstinately away and held out his tiny arms to his mother. “Mum, mum!”
“Ah, well! he will make friends with me later. Children always do,” Lady Palmer said easily, though Judith saw that she did not look quite pleased as she turned back to Sir Anthony. “Dear old Heron’s Carew! How often I have dreamt of it! The love of it is in the Carew blood.” She sighed. “Dear Lady Carew, I know you will let me ask my cousin’s advice, you will not grudge it to poor little me, for I am in such trouble now, Palmer made such a complicated will. You will help me, won’t you, Anthony?”
“If I can, I shall be delighted,” Sir Anthony said courteously, but with a certain reserve in his tone. His gaze had wandered from the eyes raised so appealingly to his, to his wife’s graceful figure.
Lady Palmer’s eyes followed his. “How lovely she is,” she murmured. “An ideal Lady Carew, Anthony. And yet, and yet—” she broke off musingly.
“And yet?” There was a slight touch of hauteur in Sir Anthony’s voice.
Lady Palmer bit her lip, and then laughed. “How absurd of me! I was trying to think—I fancied I had seen her before. I remember now, it was at Monte Carlo. We were there, Palmer and I, and there was a terrible scene. A young man was missed, he had shot himself.”
“And there was somebody there who reminded you of my wife.” Sir Anthony frowned as he looked at her.
Lady Palmer laughed. “Well, yes! I did see a face that reminded me of Lady Carew’s. At least I thought so at first, the resemblance is not quite so striking now when I see more of Lady Carew. Do you know Monte Carlo, Lady Carew?”
“No!” But if Lady Palmer could have seen the face bent so closely over Paul’s head, she would have noticed that it turned several degrees paler.
The flute-like voice trickled off into laughter. “But of course it could not have been you; I must have been mistaken, though at first I thought it was the same face.”
“Of course you were,” Judith said hurriedly. “Of course you were mistaken.”
CHAPTER IX
“My lady said she expected to be home next week, but perhaps Miss Peggy might stay awhile longer with Lady Leominster. I was to be sure and write back soon and tell her how your ladyship was looking.”
Judith smiled. “You must tell her that the air of Heron’s Carew has quite set me up.”
“I was saying so to Célestine last night,” said Gregson.
“Was Célestine down here last night?” Judith enquired with a little air of surprise. “I thought she went down to the village.”
“Oh, no, she didn’t, my lady.” Gregson’s pleasant old face, that always reminded Judith of a wholesome winter apple, grew suddenly grave. “Célestine generally goes off to the Spring Copse nowadays; she just looked in on me in passing. I have said myself that I didn’t believe your ladyship knew what she was doing.”
Something in the old woman’s tone arrested Judith’s attention. “Why, what is she doing, Gregson? If she likes to walk in the Spring Copse, instead of in the village
, I can’t see that it matters.”
“Not if she walked alone,” Gregson said significantly. “I have heard say that Célestine meets a young man there, my lady—not that I have seen it myself.”
“A young man!” Judith repeated slowly. “Oh, well, you know, Gregson, there is nothing very surprising in that, is there?”
“Perhaps there isn’t, my lady,” Gregson returned. Her expression was uncompromising. She had been the Dowager Lady Carew’s confidential maid, then she retired to the nursery when Peggy was born, finally she had accompanied Lady Carew to the Dower House. She had known Judith as Peggy’s governess before she became the wife of the owner of Heron’s Carew, and it was no small tribute to Judith’s charm of manner and natural dignity that Old Mrs. Gregson always spoke of her as a real lady and the right wife for Sir Anthony.
“I say nothing against Célestine having a young man,” she said now after a pause. “As your ladyships says, that is natural enough, and when it is all open and above board, I should be the last to make any objection, but when it is meeting after dusk, and in woods and such places, why it seems to me that nothing but harm can come of it.”
“Oh, well, I don’t know,” Judith said with a slight smile. “I fancy Célestine can take care of herself. But I will give her a hint. Good-bye, Gregson; I shall write to Miss Peggy and tell her all her pets are going on well.”
Gregson curtsied. “Yes, my lady, we take good care of them, but they miss her bright face sorely, as we all do.”
Judith was looking much better now. The air of Heron’s Carew and its restful atmosphere had done wonders for her, though her beautiful eyes still held the shadow of a terrible dread. She made her way through the Home Wood. Already it was brilliant with the promise of early summer.
Absorbed in her own thoughts, as she reached the gate leading to the park, she did not heed a faint rustle of the undergrowth; she caught no faintest glimpse of the two men who, hidden behind the budding rhododendrons, were peering out after her. She walked quickly up the hill to the house. As she turned across from the avenue, however, and made her way to the rosery, she caught the sound of voices, and paused with a quick throb of disappointment. Anthony was there, and a visitor!
