She Painted Her Face

by Dornford Yates

  Copyright & Information

  She Painted Her Face

  First published in 1937

  © Estate of Dornford Yates; House of Stratus 1937-2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The right of Dornford Yates to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  This edition published in 2011 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

  Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

  Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

  Typeset by House of Stratus.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

  EAN ISBN Edition

  1842329812 9781842329818 Print

  0755127013 9780755127016 Kindle

  0755127226 9780755127221 Epub

  This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  www.houseofstratus.com

  About the Author

  Born ‘Cecil William Mercer’ into a middle class Victorian family with many Victorian skeletons in the closet, including the conviction for embezzlement from a law firm and subsequent suicide of his great-uncle, Yates’ parents somehow scraped together enough money to send him to Harrow.

  The son of a solicitor, he at first could not seek a call to the Bar as he gained only a third class degree at Oxford. However, after a spell in a Solicitor’s office he managed to qualify and then practised as a Barrister, including an involvement in the Dr. Crippen Case, but whilst still finding time to contribute stories to the Windsor Magazine.

  After the First World War, Yates gave up legal work in favour of writing, which had become his great passion, and completed some thirty books. These ranged from light-hearted farce to adventure thrillers. For the former, he created the ‘Berry’ books which established Yates’ reputation as a writer of witty, upper-crust romances. For the latter, he created the character Richard Chandos, who recounts the adventures of Jonah Mansel, a classic gentleman sleuth. As a consequence of his education and experience, Yates’ books feature the genteel life, a nostalgic glimpse at Edwardian decadence and a number of swindling solicitors.

  In his hey day, and as testament to his fine writing, Dornford Yates’ work often featured in the bestseller list. Indeed, ‘Berry’ is one of the great comic creations of twentieth century fiction; the ‘Chandos’ titles also being successfully adapted for television. Along with Sapper and John Buchan, Yates dominated the adventure book market of the inter war years.

  Finding the English climate utterly unbearable, Yates chose to live in the French Pyrenées for eighteen years, before moving on to Rhodesia (as was), where he died in 1960.

  ‘Mr Yates can be recommended to anyone who thinks the British take themselves too seriously.’ - Punch

  ‘We appreciate fine writing when we come across it, and a wit that is ageless united to a courtesy that is extinct’ - Cyril Connolly

  Dedication

  To my beautiful dog, ‘The Knave’, who, in his short life, gave me all that he had, and, by so doing, left behind him a bankrupt who can never be discharged.

  1: The Unfinished Statement

  I became a beggar when I was twenty-two.

  The blow was as heavy as swift, for till then I had always been given the best that money could buy. From the day I was born I had wanted for nothing at all, and, though my parents were dead, I had never been led to expect any other estate. And then, one fair June morning, when the sills of the windows of Oxford were gay with flowers, I learned that my sole trustee had gambled my fortune away.

  By the help of the Dean of my College, I soon obtained work in London for which I was paid just thirty-five shillings a week, and though I believe that I might have done better than that, in my efforts to rise I met with so much unkindness that I presently withdrew from a battle for which I was ill-equipped.

  I had another reason for staying in Red Lead Lane.

  I had a companion in misfortune – a man of some fifty summers, who, too, had seen better days. His name was Matthew Gering – or so he said: for though he looked English enough, his speech sometimes betrayed an alien blood. That he was of gentle birth was unmistakable and I think that he may have been gifted – till misery dulled his wits. He seemed the better for my coming to share his lot, and after two or three months I moved to the humble lodging at which he had lived by himself for thirteen years. It was soon after this that I knew that I could not leave him, if only for pity’s sake.

  This was the way of it.

  The manager of the warehouse at which we were used as clerks was a man upon whose vitals class hatred seemed to feed. Disappointed of bigger game, he preyed with a bitter fury on what he had. For fifteen years poor Gering had been his butt, enduring ‘the slings and arrows’ of what I can only describe as ‘a mind diseased’: but my arrival did something to take the strain, for he had to divide his attentions if I was to have my share of inhumanity.

  And so I stayed where I was for nearly two years, when two things happened together, to set me free.

  One gusty, April morning poor Gering could not rise, and when I had brought him a doctor, against his will, the latter told me plainly that he was a dying man.

  “He has no resistance,” he said. “A chill could have put him out – and this is congestion of the lungs.”

  Of course I did what I could, but when I came back from my work on the following day, I knew at once that Gering had seen his last dawn. And so did he.

  “Not very long now,” he said quietly…

  It must have been near ten o’clock, and we had spoken no word for nearly an hour, when he put a hand under the blankets and drew out a sheet of foolscap, folded in four.

  “I would like you to read this,” he said. “I wrote it down years ago. But no one has ever read it. It – it would not have been well received. I have even considered all day whether I should show it to you – you who have done so much for a broken man. You see, I am like a dog that has been ill used for so long that he is suspicious of kindness and ready to bite the hand that makes to caress his head.”

  With his words he began to cough, and the paroxysm which followed frightened me out of my life. At least five minutes went by before the seizure had passed, and this left him so weak and shaken that even a child would have known that the end was at hand. Indeed, I had forgotten the paper, when his trembling fingers thrust it against my sleeve.

  I sat back on my heels and read the following words:

  My true name is Rudolf Elbert Virgil and I am the ninth Count of Brief – an ancient Austrian House. My mother died when I was three. Her only other child was my twin-brother, born half an hour after myself. He was, as they say, a bad hat. In 1910 I married an English girl and a daughter was born to us in 1912. We lived with my father at Brief, which stands to the east of Innsbruck, from which it is distant a hundred and twenty miles. In the spring of 1914 my father received some news from the English police. My twin-brother was under arrest on a charge of forgery. I left for England that night to see what could be done. Arrived in London, 1 sought a solicitor, and, on my going surety, my brother was admitted to bail.

  The case was unanswerable. And from what the solicitor said it was perfectly clear that if Ferdinand stood his trial, he would be sent to prison for several
years. When we were at last alone, my brother fell on his knees and begged me in the name of our mother to help him to make his escape. Like a fool, I agreed to do so.

  The day was Thursday. Early on Friday, I left my brother in my rooms and went out to make arrangements for him to leave. All I did, I did surreptitiously. A ship was to sail for South America at noon on the following day. I booked his passage in an assumed name. I procured him an outfit and had the things sent on board. That evening I returned to my rooms to tell him that all was well. A telegram from Brief was awaiting me. My father and wife were both dead. They had been killed that day…in a car…on the Innsbruck road. The news stunned me. As a man in a dream, I did as my brother said, for now it was I that was helpless and he that took charge. All I knew was that I must get back…

  That night he packed for me and told me what he had done. I was to leave the next day by the two-o’clock train. He had arranged everything. All that I had to do was to go to the Bank the next morning and draw for him the money which he was to have. That he dared not do, though I gave him my cheque. And when I had drawn the money – five hundred pounds – I was to bring it to the station from which his train would be leaving at half-past ten.

  As he said, so I did. I had no brain to argue. The only thing I could see was the Innsbruck road.

  They arrested me on the platform…

  They thought I was Ferdinand. I do not blame them at all. You see, he was my twin-brother. Only my wife and my father could tell us apart. AND THEY WERE DEAD.

  When they searched me, they found the money – and Ferdinand’s ticket for the boat. Unknown to me, he had put this into my pocket – to gain his terrible ends. And he had left for Innsbruck whilst I was still at the Bank, by an earlier train, of course. He was across the Channel before I went to my cell.

  So he and I changed places.

  He took my father’s title and all that was mine, and I was sent to prison for seven years.

  My daughter became his daughter, my life became his life. You see, it was so easy. Only my wife and my father had known why I went to England. For the rest, I had gone away and now had come back. If my manner seemed in any way strange, the double loss I had suffered was blamed for that. And Ferdinand was careful. He even denied my cheque for five hundred pounds. He said that I had forged it.

  Seven years is seven years. By the time I came out of jail, my cause, which had always been hopeless, was dead and buried as though it had never been. So I changed my name and sought work – I had to have bread.

  That is my story. I cannot prove it, of course. I can only say it is true.

  MG

  As I folded the paper, the dying man caught at my arm.

  “Do you believe it?” he whispered.

  “Every word, sir,” said I. “I wish you had told me before. I’m young and I might have done something—”

  “Listen. I say in that statement that I have no proof. But I have. I have always had it – a proof that I could not use.”

  Shaking with excitement, poor Gering raised himself up, and, since it seemed best not to thwart him, I put my arm about him to lend him strength.

  “The House of Brief has a secret – which has passed from time immemorial from father to son. Only two persons know this: and they are the Count and his heir. Ferdinand cannot know it: but I who was the first-born – I know the secret of our House. And to you, who have been my son, I will pass it on. It may be that you can use it, but I cannot see so far. By rights, Elizabeth – that was my daughter’s name…”

  And there his voice faltered and died, and the light in his eyes slid into a sightless stare, As I made to lay him back on his pillows, he lifted a trembling hand, to make the fretful gesture of a man who would brush aside something that spoils his view.

  “I am losing control,” he quavered. “Old visions I have not summoned are closing in. What was it that I was saying?”

  “Never mind, sir,” said I. “Let it go. When you have rested a little—”

  “No, no,” he cried, starting up. “I know that it was important. What was it, Exon? What was it?”

  He was breathing hard now, and the sweat was out on his face. To bring him peace at the last, I did as he said.

  “You spoke of a secret, sir. The secret of Brief.”

  “Yes, yes. That was it,” he gasped. “Listen. The great tower of Brief – the great tower. There is a doorway there which no one would ever find. You must go up, counting your steps. And when you have…”

  And that was as far as he got.

  For a moment the poor jaws worked. And then the head fell sideways and the body went slack in my arms.

  So died the ninth Count of Brief. And the secret of his House with him.

  Two days later I learned that an uncle of whose existence I had been hardly aware had recently died in Australia, leaving me all he had. And he was a very rich man.

  Though my adversity lasted no more than a short two years, it would have been strange indeed if it had not altered my outlook for good and all. My values were radically changed, and I found not worth the picking nine-tenths of the fruit which was once more within my reach. I cared for none of those things which had lately seemed to me to compose a young man’s life. For the ways of the world of fashion I had no use, and all my pleasure was in the countryside. Only the company of Nature seemed to be able to banish the spectre of Red Lead Lane; and the song of a bird succeeded where costly distractions failed. Indeed, for the whole of that summer I moved in the English country from inn to inn, spending not a tenth of my income and every day more thankful for my deliverance.

  With the approach of winter, I grew more self-possessed, and before November was in, I had settled down in a very pleasant manor, which had been a famous seat, but was now an hotel. The peace and dignity of my surroundings, the beauty of the old building and the gentle breath of tradition, with which every chamber was quick, did much to complete my cure by recommending to me the work of men’s hands; and I think I can say that with the new year I entered the plain state of mind in which, for better or worse, I have been ever since. This was reserved and sober, but not unnatural. I did not shun, though I never sought company. Extravagance made me uneasy, whatever its guise. And if I could help it, I never spent a night in town.

  It must not be thought that I had forgotten Gering or the statement of his which I held. I remembered him constantly, and more than once I wondered if it was not for me to take action upon the facts which I knew. And then it always seemed best to let sleeping dogs lie. I had looked up the House of Brief and had found two things – first, that the pseudo-Count was still a widower and, secondly, that on his death the title would pass to his daughter, the Lady Elizabeth Virgil, now twenty-four years old. The dreadful injustice, therefore, was over and done: it had in fact come to an end with Gering’s death: and though the wicked flourished, the good was beyond his reach. In a word, there was no wrong to be righted. There was, of course, a scoundrel who richly deserved the fate which parricides used to meet: but, if I were to publish the truth and be believed, the scandal would cost the daughter extremely dear. But if I let things alone, she would in due course succeed to the dignity which was hers. In due course… That was the fly in the ointment with which I salved what sense of duty I had. In fact, she was the Countess. When Gering died in my arms, the Lady Elizabeth Virgil became the Countess of Brief.

  And then a strange thing happened.

  Summer was coming in, and I had been out in my car for the whole of the day. I entered my rooms in the evening, to bathe and change, when I saw upon my table an envelope covering something, but not addressed. Opening this, I found a passport within – and knew at once that some servant had made a mistake. A guest had arrived from abroad and the office had asked for his passport, from which to fill up the form which the police required. And now it had been returned – to me, instead of to him.

  The passport was that of Percy Elbert Virgil, born in London in 1910, and domiciled at Brief. And the face
was the face of a clever unscrupulous blackguard, with as close-set a pair of eyes as ever I saw.

  I sent the passport back to the office, lighted a cigarette and sat down to think things out.

  Unknown to Gering, before he had been arrested, his brother had had a son. That son was now twenty-six and dwelled in his father’s house. And father and son were both evil. How did the Lady Elizabeth fare between two such wolves?

  Her position was ugly. I mean, she stood in the way. Ferdinand’s secret was safe – at the price of allowing his niece to sit in the seat of his son…and heir…I found it hard to believe that there were not times when he found that price very high. The wicked seldom care for the children of those they have wronged, and when they are bound to prefer them before their own flesh and blood…

  I began to feel ill at ease.

  It was, of course, none of my business. I happened to know the truth, but that was all. Gering had made no request: he had simply told me his tale. But then he had not been aware that his brother had a child of his own: and he had not expected that I should ever be free. For all that, it was none of my business.

  I put out my cigarette and began to change.

  Even if I made it my business, what could I do? It had never entered my head to doubt the truth of the statement which Gering had made. But how on earth could I prove it? By declaring the existence of some secret I did not know? By alleging the existence of a doorway ‘which no one would ever find’? The thing was absurd. I had no proof. Gering himself had done nothing, because he had known very well that there was nothing to be done. And yet…

  If I did not like Percy’s portrait, the moment I saw him that evening I liked him less. Not at all resembling his uncle, he was a tall, dark man, over-dressed and scented, old for his age. His supercilious air denied the dignity which it was meant to boast: his elegance of gesture was vulgar: but the way in which he treated the servants was offensive beyond belief. His mouth was big and unkindly, and now and again a curious glint would enter and leave his eyes. But he looked a capable man: more than capable – shrewd. I could see him committing crime, but I could not see him arrested for what he had done. It occurred to me that his mother must have been wise. She had had no truck with Gering. After all, a rich brother-in-law is of very much better value than a penniless husband in jail.