by Annie Haynes
“Talgarth,” Stephen Crasster repeated. “Who are you speaking of, general?”
“That fellow that has been staying at the Carew Arms,” the general repeated. There was a lull in the conversation round, his voice sounded unusually loud. “Barker, he called himself, and gave out that he was an artist. Been round everywhere; wanting to make sketches. But he did not take me in; the fellow is no more an artist than I am.”
“Not an artist?” Sir Anthony leaned forward. “I think you must be mistaken, general. He took several sketches round Heron’s Carew.”
“Did he really?” The general laughed until his mirth threatened to become apoplectic. “Don’t know whether you will be so flattered by his attentions, Carew, when you hear what he is; he is a private detective.”
“A detective!” Stephen Crasster looked up quickly. A momentary sight of Lady Carew’s face caught his attention. It was not only that it had turned absolutely white, but that it had a look of unmistakable fear. Forgetful, he stared at her in surprise.
Chesterham leaned over the table; for one instant Crasster fancied he intercepted a glance of warning, the next he told himself that he must be mistaken. Chesterham was speaking lightly.
“You remember the aquamarines you were speaking of the other day, Lady Carew; I have been fortunate enough to pick up some wonderful specimens. Peggy must show them to you after dinner.”
“I must ask her.”
Judith’s eyes met his for a moment. Then she pulled herself together and turned to her right-hand neighbour with an easy question. Stephen told himself that of course he was mistaken.
For Judith, smiling and talking as she compelled herself to do, it was veritably a time of torture, a nightmare from which she rose with relief at her mother-in-law’s signal. But in the drawing-room she endured a perfect torment of anxiety. What had the general meant about the detective who was staying at the Carew Arms? If a detective was staying in Carew Village, what was his business in the neighbourhood? Was it—could it possibly be connected with the flat murder? Judith’s cheeks blanched anew as she asked herself the question.
Her mother-in-law drew her on to a great roomy couch. “The child is so happy now that Anthony has given way,” her eyes growing wistful as she looked at her pretty, tall girl. “And it is nice to think she will be settled near me.”
“Yes!” Judith said slowly. She shuddered to think of Peggy as Chesterham’s wife, in Chesterham’s power, yet with a terrible cowardice she shrank from the only course that could save Peggy.
Lady Palmer crossed the room to them with her graceful, undulating step. “May I make a third on your delightful couch, Aunt Geraldine?” she asked the dowager with her melancholy smile.
The Dowager Lady Carew did not look quite pleased as she made room for her. She had never altogether understood Sybil, or forgiven her her share in the past wrecking of Anthony’s life.
Little as Judith cared for Lady Palmer, she was inclined to welcome the interruption. It seemed to her that anything was better than sitting there tête-à-tête with her mother-in-law, discussing Peggy’s engagement, Peggy’s prospects of happiness.
Lady Palmer began by offering profuse congratulations; then, gliding gracefully from the subject of the engagement, she turned to Judith. It is such a pleasure to see you so fully recovered tonight, dear Judith; we were all so anxious about you on the day of the show.”
“You are very kind.” There was a faint touch of amusement in Judith’s eyes as she glanced at the speaker.
“One poor little girl was frightfully disappointed,” Lady Palmer went on sweetly. “She had been looking forward to seeing you so much, an old friend of yours. I consoled her as well as I could, but I am afraid she found me a very inefficient substitute for you.”
Judith drew her level brows together in a puzzled fashion. “An old friend of mine? How unfortunate I should have missed her. But you are a little vague, aren’t you, Sybil? You haven’t told me her name.”
“Her name was Miss Sophie Rankin!”
A soft little breath escaped from Judith. “Sophie Rankin. Ah! You mean my old pupil. How extraordinary that she should be at Wembley Show. And how sorry I am that I missed her. I used to be very fond of Sophie.”
In spite of the fact that her tone was one of ordinary polite interest, that she met Lady Palmer’s gaze smilingly, the latter had an instinct that in some way she was nearing that secret of the past that she had set herself to discover.
As she paused before speaking again she could see that, as Judith waited, an expression of being on guard settled on her face, that her smile was purely mechanical.
“Poor little girl! She seemed to have quite a romantic attachment to you,” Lady Palmer proceeded in soft purring tones. “And I fancy you have ill requited it, Judith dear. She complained that you had never written to her since your marriage.”
“Since my marriage. Oh, surely Sophie exaggerates,” Judith said quietly, her eyes turning to the door as the voices of the men became audible outside.
With the entrance of the men Lady Palmer’s opportunity of questioning Judith had for the moment departed.
She turned to her cousin with a smile as he sat down near her. Nor did she manage to get near Judith again that evening. Sir Anthony was determined to leave early, making his wife’s recent indisposition the excuse, nor was Judith by any means loath.
In the earlier happier days of their married life, it had been the Carew’s custom to walk up to Heron’s Carew from the Dower House, but of late both had dreaded the lengthy tête-à-tête it would have involved. To-night, by some mistake, the carriage instead of the motor came for them. Sir Anthony frowned as he saw it; he objected to his horses being brought out at night. Yet as he took his seat beside his wife, as he felt her nearness in every pulse of his being, as the faint undefinable scent from the flowers she wore was wafted to him, he could have found it in his heart to bless the mistake that had prolonged their drive together.
He glanced sideways at Judith; in the bright summer moonlight it was possible to watch her face almost as closely as in the daytime. He could see the pure pale profile, the droop of her eyelids, the exquisite curved lips that were quivering ever so slightly.
Some subtle sense told Judith that he was moved. She turned her face towards him, her breath quickened, she swayed nearer, her ungloved hand touched his. Her husband’s arms closed round her like a vice. “Judith!” he murmured, “Judith, my wife!”
Judith did not speak; she rested motionless, silent in his clasp. By-and-bye two big tears forced their way through her closed lids, and trickled slowly down her cheeks. It was rapture to her, after their long sad estrangement, to be once more in her husband’s arms, to know that for the time being, at all events, all that had divided them was forgotten and forgiven.
But all too soon, like most of the perfect things of earth, the drive was over, the carriage stopped at the door of Heron’s Carew. As Anthony helped his wife out she saw that his face was very pale, that there were dark rings round his eyes. He drew her into the morning-room and closed the door, then standing on the great white bear skin before the fire-place, he took her hands in his. “Judith! Judith!” he questioned, his strong voice breaking in a note of appeal. “You are mine; you care for me.”
Judith’s soft fingers held him tightly, her strange, beautiful eyes met his. “You—you know, Anthony;” she murmured. “I love you.”
Sir Anthony drew her to his breast.
Judith looked up at him, she touched his cheek with her hand. “You are ill, Anthony! You are shivering, and yet your hands and face are burning.”
Sir Anthony’s clasp loosened a little. “I am all right, child, but I am worried. I wish I knew what to do for the best; this engagement of Peggy’s is all wrong like everything else. I feel I ought to have prevented it, and yet what can I do? Peggy and her mother, and even Stephen Crasster, are all against me.”
They were standing a little farther apart now; involuntarily when he
mentioned Peggy’s engagement, Judith shrank from him. Anthony’s eyelids twitched as he noticed her movement.
“There was never a Chesterham of them all that was any good,” he said bitterly. “The Chesterham star is a sure sign of the rottenness in their blood.”
“The Chesterham star!” Judith repeated, her voice curiously lowered. “I don’t understand what you mean. What is the Chesterham star, Anthony?”
Anthony’s grey eyes were moody now; the change in her expression had not escaped him. “A blue mark something like a star,” he answered slowly. “I saw it on this fellow’s arm to-night. General Wilton asked him about it.”
All the happy light had faded from Judith’s eyes, from her face now; she was staring at her husband, a frozen horror dawning in her gaze.
“A blue mark like a star,” she repeated. “Where did you say—on the arm?”
Her husband was looking at her curiously. “Of course. All the Chesterhams have it on the right arm just above the wrist.”
“Ah!” Judith drew a long fluttering breath. The light in the room was growing very dim. She could see nothing, not even Anthony’s face. It could not be true—this monstrous thing that had entered her brain? The darkness was rising nearer, she swayed to one side with a hoarse sob. Sir Anthony sprang forward in time to catch her in his arms before she sank in a dead swoon to the floor.
CHAPTER XVII
“Ah, yes, Miss Peggy, she is a lucky girl!” Célestine said reflectively. “Milord Chesterham is a fine man—a very fine man! And he have taste too! He is not like Sir Anthony, who looks at you as if you were wood—so! Milord Chesterham, he is always polite very.”
Mr. Lennox laughed. He was leaning over the stile that gave access from the Heron’s Carew footpath to the Home Wood. “But who would not be polite to you, mademoiselle?”
Célestine humped up one shoulder. “But lots of people, I assure you, monsieur. They are not all so agreeable—your compatriots.”
“Are they not?” Mr. Lennox questioned. “I am sorry to hear that. But it is you that I want to be agreeable this afternoon, mademoiselle.”
“Does Monsieur mean that usually I am disagreeable?”
Célestine demanded, glancing at him coquettishly.
Mr. Lennox lifted his hands in protest. “You know that I think you are all that is most charming, mademoiselle. How can you pretend to misunderstand me? But to-day I want to show you—you remember I told you I was a collector?”
“But certainly, monsieur.” Célestine’s black eyes watched his face.
“Well, latterly I have been getting together a few things that I think would interest you. I want to show them to you, for I know you are an expert, and it strikes me that I have a collection of fans, ancient and modern, that it would be hard to beat.”
“Fans, monsieur.” Célestine looked eager. “But of course I shall be delighted.”
“I have got them down here,” Mr. Lennox said, indicating the Carew Arms with a backward jerk of his head. “Some of them are inset with jewels, some of them are made of ivory and rare old lace, one or two are painted. One in particular, said to have belonged to Marie Antoinette, has a pretty little scene by Watteau upon it.”
“A—h! How I should like to see them.” Célestine’s eyes were sparkling. “I love fans. Miladi has some of the most superb. She too, had a Watteau painted one, but it is lost, alas!”
“Lost! That is a pity,” Mr. Lennox said quietly, though there was a gleam of interest in his large blue eyes. “Well, mademoiselle, I should like to ask you whether it beats mine, not that I can part with it even to replace Lady Carew’s. How did she manage to lose it?”
Célestine held up her hands. “Ma foi, but I do not know, monsieur! Truly such carelessness would be impossible to me. Miladi had it put to wear with her magnificent gown for Lady Denborough’s; then, she did not go, but she lie on the sofa and fan herself with it, that is the last I know. A day or two afterwards, when I am looking for it she tell me she has lost it.”
“Nice piece of carelessness that,” Mr. Lennox commented. “Mademoiselle, you will walk up to the Carew Arms with me and look at my collection? I have got a private room.”
“Monsieur!” Célestine gave a slight scream. “But that would not be convenable—not at all! Even in your England a young lady cannot do that.”
Mr. Lennox leaned a little farther over the gate; his tone grew more persuasive.
“You know I would not ask you to do anything I would not like my own sister to do, mademoiselle. Why should you not walk up to the Carew Arms with me? I have got a delightful little sitting-room looking upon the garden, or if you don’t like to come into my room”—as Célestine emitted another little shriek—“I dare say they would let us have the bar parlour. You know Mrs. Curtis, don’t you?”
“But a little,” Mademoiselle answered, a trifle haughtily, shaking some dust from her skirts as she spoke.
“She has been like a mother to me,” Mr. Lennox went on obtusely. “And she would get you some tea; no, not tea, coffee—real continental coffee, mademoiselle. I have taught her how to make it myself, I tell you what, mademoiselle, I dare say she would let us have it out in the garden, and I might bring my fans out and show them to you in the summer-house. The most prudish person couldn’t see any harm in that, could they?”
Célestine was inclined to think they could not. After a little more coquetting she yielded the point.
The footpath to Carew village was a short cut from the Home Wood. The Carew Arms stood at the near end of the village street, a big old-fashioned hostelry, facing the village green on the one side, with its large well-stocked garden on the other. Mr. Lennox, mindful of the proprieties, did not go in by the open door under the porch, but turned instead to the garden gate. The arbour stood at the bottom of the rough lawn, and thither Lennox and Célestine made their way. Lennox busied himself carrying the chairs and table into the open.
“There now, mademoiselle, now you will be comfortable, while I go and see about the coffee,” he said, as he dusted them with his handkerchief.
Célestine seated herself with a simper. She felt that after this there could not be much doubts as to Mr. Lennox’s intentions as she watched him walk up the path. It was evident, too, that he was well off; the match would be a good one, and Célestine lost herself in rosy visions of the future.
Presently a smiling country maid appeared with the promised coffee, and Lennox followed, a large wooden box in his arms. “Just the cream of the collection, as it were, mademoiselle,” he said, as he deposited it on the grass beside her. “I couldn’t think of troubling you with the whole lot.”
He did the honours of the coffee, and some small wafer-like biscuits he had imported from town, and Célestine, feeling exceedingly comfortable, sank back in her chair and allowed him to wait upon her.
But at last the alfresco meal was over, and Lennox turned back to his fans. He lifted the box on to the table and opened it carefully.
Célestine uttered a little cry of surprise as she saw the glitter of jewels on the handle of the first one; she bent over it carefully.
“But it is all that there is of the most beautiful, monsieur, it is superb! Miladi herself has nothing finer.”
“Hasn’t she really?” Lennox questioned as he went on raising the layers of tissue paper.
“But, monsieur”—Célestine leaned forward with a quick motion of surprise—“what is that you have in your hand now—that painted one? It is precisely like Miladi’s, the one she lost that I was telling you about.”
“It is a beauty anyway.” Lennox was holding it in his hand now, he was moving it backwards and forwards. “I like it the best of them all myself.”
Célestine stood up and put out her hand. “One moment, monsieur. Yes,” turning to the ivory sticks, “it is the very same. It is indeed Miladi’s fan that she lose—it is marvellous—extraordinaire! How did you come by it, monsieur?”
Lennox looked at her in apparent amazement. “
It was brought to me by a dealer, a man who knows I am always on the look-out for such things. But about it being Lady Carew’s—I can’t believe that, mademoiselle. You must have made a mistake.”
“I have not,” Célestine affirmed positively. “See you here, monsieur, there are the Queen Marie Antoinette’s initials, in diamonds, do you see? And there beneath is a tiny diamond bee, which is of the most recent. Sir Anthony, he had that put there to show it is my lady’s.”
Mr. Lennox stared at the bee in the most obvious astonishment. “Are you sure, mademoiselle? That bee—but it is a most marvellous coincidence!”
“Most marvellous, monsieur!” Célestine agreed, twisting the fan about. “And yet I suppose it is not so, for if it were stolen the thief would take it to a dealer. I expect Miladi would give a good deal to get her fan back, monsieur.”
“She must not get it back,” Lennox returned with real alarm. “It is the gem of my collection, I would not part with it for untold gold. See you, mademoiselle, there is no need for you to say a word about it—it is just an accident that you recognized it. Promise me that you will not mention it.”
Célestine revolved the situation rapidly in her own mind. After all it was as Mr. Lennox had said—it was pure accident that she had recognized the fan. Lady Carew was already reconciled to its loss. Moreover, the probability was that if she spoke of her discovery she would offend Lennox and destroy those golden châteaux en Espagne that she had been so busy building of late.
Her mind was made up; she flashed a captivating glance at Lennox, who was watching her, with more anxiety than seemed quite necessary.
“Very well, monsieur, I cannot say you no, it shall be as you wish. It shall be our little secret—yours and mine.”
Lennox’s smile and quick look of relief repaid her; he took out one of the fans not yet unfastened and handed it to her.
“If you will honour me by accepting it, mademoiselle.”
Célestine gave a gasp of delight as she unfolded it and noted the exquisite carving of the ivory, the beautiful old lace.
