by Annie Haynes
“No,” Carew answered slowly, “though I see it now that I hear you speak of it. You are very like him. I suppose it must have been that after all. Or possibly there is a resemblance to the last lord. I believe there is.”
He relapsed into silence as Peggy claimed Chesterham’s attention.
The lovers strolled away and walked up and down under the trees.
Left alone, husband and wife sat silent, constrained. Judith told herself that she would have told Anthony everything, that she would have thrown herself upon his mercy and trusted to his love to understand and forgive, if she had not found that incriminating paper in the secret drawer of his dressing-case, if she could have rid herself of the horrible doubt its possession implied. She watched Anthony furtively from under the shadow of her long lashes. He for his part was stirring up the contents of his tea cup, and gazing at them in a gloomy abstracted fashion. Suddenly he started and uttered a sharp, inaudible exclamation.
Judith raised her eyes. “What is it?”
Sir Anthony did not answer. He was looking across at Chesterham. At last he turned his eyes back to his wife. Their expression was so curious, such an odd mixture of accusation and yet of horror that Judith involuntarily shrank from him.
“It was nothing,” he answered her slowly at last. “Only a stitch in my side. I have had several lately. I was just thinking that undoubtedly Lord Chesterham is very like some of his family portraits. That was why”—with a slight stammer—“his face and figure seemed vaguely familiar to me at first.”
CHAPTER XIII
The Wembley Horticultural Show, and the athletic sports, which were held together in the Wembley People’s Park, was a very great event to the country folk around Wembley. It would be a particularly brilliant function this year in the estimation of the country people, since not only was Lady Carew to distribute the prizes to the successful competitors, but of course the new Lord Chesterham would be there in attendance on his fiancée, Miss Peggy Carew.
Sir Anthony Carew, in his position as Peggy’s guardian, had insisted that there should be no recognized engagement, no talk of a wedding for at least a year. He had declared that Peggy was too young to know her own mind, that the year would give her breathing space, and also allow them an opportunity of knowing something of Lord Chesterham, who was at present practically a stranger to them all. That Peggy, as well as her mother and her lover, thought this absolutely unreasonable, went without saying.
The morning of the Wembley Show dawned fine and clear; as the day wore on, it became almost oppressively sultry; Sir Anthony and Lady Carew motored over, arriving on the scene in good time. Stephen Crasster was with them, and they were soon joined by General Wilton and his family, and Lady Palmer.
In the tent given over to the exhibition of table decorations they encountered the Dowager Lady Carew and Peggy, with Lord Chesterham in attendance. His stepmother attached herself to Sir Anthony now in her gentle wavering fashion. Peggy turned eagerly to Stephen, and Chesterham managed to place himself by Judith.
She was wearing an exquisite gown of painted muslin, her leghorn hat, with its bunch of feathers and big brilliant buckle shaded her face, and a long veil of exquisite Chantilly lace was thrown behind.
“Have you seen to-day’s papers?” Chesterham asked with apparent carelessness.
“No!” Judith turned paler. “Why, what do you mean—is there anything about the—?”
Chesterham slowly unfolded a piece of paper. “I thought you would be interested, so I cut this out, in case you had not seen it.” He handed it to her, and she read:
THE ABBEY COURT MURDER
“It is understood that within the last few days the police have made an important discovery with regard to this case. They are, naturally reticent, but it is rumoured that further developments are expected hourly, and that an arrest will be made very shortly. Report has it that the suspect is a person of good family, moving in the highest social circles.”
“Well,” Chesterham was smiling as she looked up.
She put the paper back in his hand, with a gesture of despair.
“The hopes of the police seem to be rising, do they not?” he went on in a conversational tone. “It will be quite a cause célèbre. I wonder whether you have noticed one thing, it says ‘a person’; now hitherto it has always been assumed that the Abbey Court murderer was a woman. Does this vagueness mean that the police have changed their minds, I wonder?”
Judith gazed at him, a nameless fear gripping her heart. In the days immediately following the murder, and their first return to Heron’s Carew, it had seemed to her that she had sounded every depth of misery; but since she had found the paper in her husband’s dressing-case she had discovered that there were yet unknown abysses of woe, into which she might be plunged.
“Have you heard something? What do you mean?” she questioned hoarsely.
The smile in the man’s mocking eyes deepened. “Well, you know I have been thinking over what you told me the other day,” he said slowly. “I was rude enough to doubt it at the time, but when I thought it over later I saw a certain possibility that had not occurred to me before. It was possible that—some one might have overheard your appointment with Cyril, or have discovered it in some way; that this person—if we use the newspapers’ judicious phrase—might have followed you, and fired the fatal shot. It is possible that this theory has occurred to the police. In this latter case”—his voice becoming softer, more persuasive—“don’t you see how valuable the evidence I could give might become, as proving the person’s identity?”
Judith opened her lips, but for a moment she literally could not speak, no sound would come from her dry parched mouth. Chesterham was folding the paper, placing it in his pocket-book; his expression as he turned to her was one of evil triumph.
“Do you think that Sir Anthony is quite in a position, all things considered, to place obstacles in the way of my engagement with Peggy? I think I shall have to ask for an interview, and put matters plainly before him.”
“You—you couldn’t!” The cry burst from Judith’s tortured heart. In truth it did seem to her that the refinement of cruelty suggested by his words would be impossible even to the man before her.
His look at her, as he raised his brows, made her feel that he would stand at nothing to obtain his ends.
“I had hoped that you would spare me the trouble?” he said, in a quite unemotional voice. “But I want you to understand definitely, Lady Carew, that my silence is only conditional.”
“Conditional!” Judith repeated. “What is the condition?” she questioned, with the same odd feeling that nothing mattered much; yet, though her voice was perfectly steady, her face, her lips, had faded to an absolute pallor, her eyes had a fixed ghastly stare.
“My condition is Sir Anthony Carew’s free consent to my marriage with his sister,” Chesterham said in his slow level voice, with its grim undertone of rigid determination.
CHAPTER XIV
Judith got up quickly, the scene around her was growing dimmer, the only thing, it seemed to her, was to get away, to be alone. But Chesterham rose too. He overtook her and walked beside her, his long legs keeping pace with her hurrying footsteps without difficulty.
People were gathering round the cricket ground now; Judith and Lord Chesterham made their way behind them quickly.
An old woman separated herself from the crowd, and came towards them, an old woman with a withered face that still bore traces of past comeliness, with white waving hair and big sunken eyes. She put herself directly in their path, curtsying deeply.
“Sure and your lordship hasn’t forgotten old Betty Lee?”
Judith moved aside and went on quickly.
For an instant Chesterham stared at the old woman, then, as their eyes met, he smiled and held out his hand.
“Why, no! of course I have not forgotten my old friend, long as it is since we met. How has the world been using you, Betty?”
The old woman started a litt
le as she heard his voice.
She peered forward and looked up into his face, then she curtsied again with a little cackling laugh.
“I have nothing to complain of, my lord; a little rheumatism now and then, and a cough in the winter.”
“And how is my friend Ronald? You see I haven’t forgotten him, either.”
“No!” Again the old woman gave that cackling laugh. “No, I see you haven’t, my lord. But”—her keen eyes watching the relief in the man’s face—“he is dead, young Ronald is—years ago; or it is a proud man he would have been to-day, to see his old playmate come back the lord of Chesterham.”
“Ronald dead!” Was it sorrow or relief in Chesterham’s eyes. “Why, I had not heard. I must come up and have a crack with you over the old times, Betty. Are you living alone?”
“I have got my son Hiram with me, my lord.” The old woman bent forward gazing apparently at the man’s hands. “You’ll remember Hiram maybe, Hiram that used to take you and Ronald out fishing? You’ll have the Chesterham star, my lord?”
The sudden question seemed to take Lord Chesterham aback. He stared at her a minute without answering, then his face changed, his eyelids flickered. Without speaking he moved up his right cuff, and showed a blue mark, star-shaped, just above the wrist.
Old Betty’s expression altered almost to fear as she stared at it. “Your lordship will forgive me—if I have been too free.”
The man smiled with a furtive glance at her withered face, as he pulled his cuff down. “Free! Not a bit of it; I am glad you spoke to me.” He gave her a smiling nod as he walked away.
Old Betty stared after him, amazed look on her wrinkled face. Her lips moved slowly. “It seems I were wrong, and yet I could ha’ took my oath to it!”
The smile was still lingering in Chesterham’s eyes as he strolled back to the tents.
Judith had not lost a moment when old Betty stopped them. She hurried onwards, intent only on getting away, on hiding herself from this mocking fiend of a man. She scarcely recognized Stephen Crasster as he crossed the soft turf to intercept her.
“Lady Carew, Peggy wants you to see the roses from the Dower House. She declares that they have beaten Heron’s Carew. But what is the matter. You are ill,” as he saw Judith’s ghastly face.
Judith put out her hand. Stephen Crasster had never been wholly her friend; she had always felt that Anthony’s marriage had disappointed him, that in some way he disapproved of her. But she was thankful to see him now, at any rate he would protect her from Chesterham’s insolence.
“It was the heat that was too much for me, I fancy,” she said incoherently.
“But Chesterham,” Stephen looked bewildered.
“He went to speak to somebody, I think.” Judith said vaguely. “Mr. Crasster, I must go home. I am not well enough to stay. Make my excuses for me.”
Stephen turned with her. “I am exceedingly sorry. Won’t you take one of the seats? And I will bring the motor round.”
“No, no,” Judith contradicted him feverishly. “I am going there to it, and indeed you must not leave the others. Don’t let them know I have gone if you can help it.”
“You must at least let me see you to the car,” Stephen said gravely.
Towards six o’clock the Wembley Show was at its height. The people from the surrounding villages were pouring in, eager to see the sight, to discuss the quality of the exhibits, and to congratulate the prize-winners. The prizes were to be distributed in front of the grand stand on the sports ground at seven o’clock. It had been decided that, as Lady Carew was unfortunately indisposed, her place should be taken by her young sister-in-law, and, as the time grew near, Peggy made her way to the centre of the stand in a flutter of excitement tempered by nervousness. Her brother and mother were with her, and Stephen Crasster and Chesterham stood behind.
Lady Palmer was there, and glanced at General Wilton with a smile, but he, too, was watching Peggy, and with a little sniff of superiority, Lady Palmer leaned back in her chair.
Two ladies passed. Lady Palmer leaned forward and looked at them earnestly. She saw a pretty fair-haired girl, and with her was a slight graceful woman with silver hair. Her face seemed familiar, but for a moment Lady Palmer could not place her. A moment later, however, her face cleared, and she put out her hand.
“Mrs. May, how stupid of me not to recognize you before!” She drew her skirts aside. “Do come and sit down. Is this one of your girls?”
“No, this is a little niece who is staying with us, Sophie Rankin, Lady Palmer.” Mrs. May hesitated a moment. Good vicar’s wife as she was, she had thought Lady Palmer haughty, disagreeable; to-day she came to the conclusion that she had sadly misjudged her. She took the chair next to her, and sat down, Miss Rankin remained standing, biting her full underlip, her eyes misty.
Lady Palmer glanced at her. “Won’t your niece sit down?” she asked sweetly. “She looks in trouble. Is there anything the matter?”
“She has had a little disappointment, poor child,” Mrs. May said with slight reserve. “And she is young and shows it, that is all.”
Lady Palmer looked again at the girl standing up beside them.
“What was the disappointment?” she asked lightly.
The girl’s lips quivered. “I had been looking forward to seeing Lady Carew. I used to be so fond of her.”
“Were you really? Ah, well, you must see her some other time,” Lady Palmer responded with seeming indifference. She turned to her host. “I’m sure you remember Mrs. May, general,” she said sweetly.
The general turned somewhat unwillingly from his admiration of Peggy.
“Why, bless my soul, of course I do. Is your husband here, Mrs. May? I wonder what he thought of my exhibits? I always like to know his opinion.”
Mrs. May smiled with much gratification. “I am sure, general, he would be delighted.” This was Lady Palmer’s opportunity; she knew the general. She felt certain that Mrs. May would not get away from him very easily, now that he was once launched on the topic of his hothouse and gardens, with a fresh auditor. She turned to the tall, fair girl who was leaning forward, as if trying to catch a glance of Sir Anthony Carew.
“Come and sit here, my dear, we must have a little talk together, I am so sorry you are disappointed.” She spoke lightly, and motioned the girl to sit beside her.
Sophie’s face brightened as she took the vacant seat.
“I am sure Wembley Show is delightful,” she said shyly. “It is only that I have been looking forward to it so tremendously, because I heard that Lady Carew was expected to give the prizes away, and when I knew that she was not coming I was so dreadfully disappointed. I am afraid you will think me a terrible baby,” she finished with a sigh.
“Indeed I don’t!” Lady Palmer smiled, with well assumed quasi-maternal interest. “Do you know Lady Carew very well?” She could not help the undertone of deep interest that crept into her voice.
But Miss Rankin apparently noticed nothing. “Isn’t she a darling?” she cried enthusiastically. “I always adored her. And I believe really I was her favourite, though we were all fond of Miss Latimer.”
“Miss Latimer,” Lady Palmer repeated, raising her eye-brows. “Then it was before her marriage that you knew my cousin. But of course, I believe I have heard her mention your name”—mendaciously—“of course you are—I mean, you were—”
“Yes! She was our governess,” Sophie Rankin said eagerly. “And you have really heard her mention us, Lady Palmer. I wonder what she said?”
Lady Palmer’s eyes had narrowed, her mouth was smiling still, but her expression had altered. A touch of subtle triumph mingled now with its sweetness. Fate itself must have sent Sophie Rankin to her at this particular moment, she thought.
“She has not said very much, naturally,” she said slowly. “But she has always spoken of you as if she was fond of you.”
Sophie clasped her hands, her blue eyes lighted up. “Oh, she was—I know she was. Nobody shall ever
make me believe she was not.”
Lady Palmer glanced at her quickly. “But of course she was fond of you,” she observed with decision. “Who can possibly try to make you think she was not?”
“It is Mother,” Sophie said confidentially. “She thinks Lady Carew does not wish to remember us because she has not written to us since her marriage. She wrote me that my aunt was not to take me to Heron’s Carew. I was not to seek out Lady Carew in any way. And of course I haven’t. But I thought I shouldn’t be putting myself in her way,” continued Sophie, “if she had been here to-day, just to stand somewhere where she could have seen me; and then perhaps if she would have remembered me—she would have spoken to me!”
Lady Palmer laughed. “Of course Lady Carew would have spoken to you. Now I have been thinking, I will take the responsibility. As Lady Carew is ill, it would be no use going to Heron’s Carew to-night, she would not be able to see us, but to-morrow, if Mrs. May will spare you, I will drive over with you. I know the dear general will let me have his carriage.”
Sophie’s ingenuous countenance turned pink all over. “Oh, how kind you are, and how I should love to come, but it is impossible; I am going home in the morning.”
“I am sorry,” Lady Palmer’s tone showed that she meant what she said. “Couldn’t you possibly put off your journey for a day?”
Sophie shook her head. “Mother has already let me stay a week longer than my original invitation. I must go back to-morrow, but thank you very much for thinking of it, Lady Palmer, all the same.”
Lady Palmer’s active brain was busy. Even to herself she would hardly have acknowledged that her dislike of Judith Carew lay in the fact that the latter was her cousin’s wife. That, as Sybil Carew, Lady Palmer had made a big mistake when she threw over her cousin Anthony for Lord Palmer, she had long known; but for the presence of Judith at Heron’s Court, she felt certain that her mistake might have been repaired. Lady Palmer had watched her cousin’s wife. She had seen the beautiful eyes darken with fear. She had seen her start and glance round at any sudden noise, as though haunted by some never-ceasing dread. More and more was she convinced that Judith’s past held some secret; more and more determined did she grow to find it out, to use it to her own advantage.
