Smart glanced at Ronald for advice.
“I think it would be better for Diana to hear,” he said firmly.
“I am afraid, then, I have some serious news to tell you. It is not merely a fainting fit from which Mr. Shepherd is suffering. He is in a very precarious state. I am going to telephone at once to Dr. Simpson. It is necessary that he should come. I would not take the responsibility myself alone.”
“But what is the matter?” Ronald asked with growing alarm.
Diana had come forward and was leaning on Ronald’s shoulder, her breath coming quickly, and her face deadly white.
The doctor spoke with grave deliberation.
“It is difficult to tell you without using technical terms. The heart is weak — what is called a fatty heart, and that undoubtedly caused the seizure, but there is something more deep-seated. Simpson will be able to say — he shall examine him alone. There appears to be some mental trouble, which is all against his recovery.”
“His recovery?” Diana gasped. “Is there danger, then?”
“I fear there is, but you must not take what I say as final — all doctors are liable to err. Excuse me, I will telephone at once.”
Diana took him to the ’phone, and gave him the number, her faculties numbed by this unexpected blow. There was something which was being kept from her, she was sure of that. Ronald slipped up to his uncle, who was lying with his eyes closed, as though asleep. At Ronald’s entrance he opened his eyes, and slightly turned his head.
“Your friend Smart,” he said slowly, “has examined me all over and tells me I must stay in bed. He was very thorough, and most kind. I don’t know whether he is right, but he says I must see Simpson . . . Ronald, I am not a fool. I know when a doctor wants a second opinion, he takes a serious view . . . I was worried about finance, and then this other business suddenly cropping up, I suppose it knocked me over . . . I must see my lawyer. And — ”
He paused so long that Ronald thought he had gone to sleep — he bent over the bed and waited.
“I feel weak — very weak, Ronald. I thought I was much better. Perhaps I should not have taken food. I sat up and started to write a full statement. I wanted you to take it to Scotland Yard. The matter is too serious to keep to ourselves . . . Get the best opinion. I’ll finish it later.” He closed his eyes again. Ronald waited, but he gave no sign of speaking further.
By the side of the bed Ronald found a pad and fountain-pen. His uncle had started to write a document in quavering sentences unlike his usual bold handwriting.
Only half a page had been written dealing with his brother’s first marriage. It was practically in the same words which he had used the night before. Ronald picked it up — fearful lest Diana should see it and ask questions.
Simpson came in unannounced as a family friend, and was introduced to Dr. Smart.
“I’m very sorry to hear about Shepherd,” he said. “We’d better see him, eh?”
“I want you to take a rather unusual course,” Smart said. “Will you examine him first yourself — before I say anything of my diagnosis? Afterwards we can have a consultation. I may be all wrong — I am not in regular practice.”
Half an hour passed before Simpson came down from the sick-room, and Smart joined him in the study.
“Well?”
“I am completely nonplussed — there is every sign of myocarditis. Shepherd has done himself well, and taken little exercise for years. I should say there is liver trouble, but we must have a thorough test. His blood-pressure should be high, at his age and condition, but I find it extraordinarily low. There’s something strange here.”
“Exactly — that’s why I sent for you. I found the same — and the pupils distended.”
“He is unconscious now. No, I don’t like it. I gave him an injection. Strychnine. We’d better send for a specialist, I think. Sir John Barclay. You know him?”
“I know of him. You could not do better. I shall be interested to hear from you. Ronald is a great friend of mine, and Miss Shepherd is a charming girl. It would be a catastrophe — ”
“Tragedy. Their father, you remember, only died a few months ago.”
“I know — that’s how I came to know them. Look here, Simpson, you better tell them what you think. They are both stout-hearted. Of course, I only came because young Ronald asked me as a personal favour — no slight to you, but Shepherd refused to see a doctor.”
“I quite understand — it was most good of you.”
Meanwhile, in the restaurant which had belonged to Ganzani — or someone else — Sinclair was entertaining Carstairs to lunch.
“I say, Sir Arthur — you know you haven’t told me about last night yet. Was it all a joke? You made me infernally cold in that garden. I think I am entitled to share the jest.”
“It was no joke, I assure you. Some time back Mr. Shepherd gave a party, and that night there was an attempt at burglary. The burglar came through the garden. The police are investigating it, and had reason to think the experiment might be repeated. As I know the family, I decided I would see it through myself, and I thought you would be more use in the garden than a policeman, even in plain clothes.”
“I see,” Carstairs said doubtfully, “but why the disguise?”
Sinclair smiled. “Every criminal in London knows me by sight. No. I just hung about outside in the road. So that both sides of the house were watched. Either it was a false alarm, or they were scared off. Perhaps they saw you in the garden.”
“The joke was on me then — or would have been if someone had plugged me from behind.”
“I was quite sure these burglars would not use firearms,” Sinclair said emphatically.
“You’re a rum bird. It must be rather fascinating in the Force — or I should prefer the Secret Service, I think.”
“Why don’t you have a go? Liqueur brandy — two, please, waiter. I often wonder why you don’t do something — travel, or take up a job.”
Sinclair lit a cigar.
Carstairs’ handsome face hardened. Lines — strange in so young a man — appeared on his face. A sudden change seemed to have come over him. “I have a task to accomplish. No, I can never take a job, as you call it. Fate has placed — ” he stopped suddenly in confusion. Sinclair appeared to notice nothing, he was watching a ring he had blown from his cigar.
“Yes?” he said casually.
“Nothing. I sometimes get like that — I’ve got ambitions — stupid of me, but talking with a brilliant man like you takes one out of oneself. I must go — thanks for the lunch — we must repeat the dose some day.”
Ganzani’s successor came bustling down the room when Carstairs had gone. “You know Mistaire Carstairs, then, sir?” he asked.
“Very well, indeed, he’s a great friend of mine,” Sinclair remarked heartily.
“Ah then, of course, you know he used to own this place — you were what you call pulling my leg, is it not so?”
“Exactly,” Sinclair replied, “I was just pulling your leg, and you see it came off in my hand.”
The waiter from Pollini’s laughed boisterously.
CHAPTER TWELVE
DEATH STRIKES
R. Reginald Shepherd never recovered consciousness. He slowly sank, the heart-beats became feebler, and at the deadly hour of four o’clock in the morning when vitality is at its lowest ebb, breathing ceased, and Simpson, who had watched for twelve hours with hardly a break, rose from his cramped position and bent over the lifeless body.
Diana was kneeling by the bed sobbing quietly. Ronald looked a question at the doctor, who nodded gravely. They had both been summoned to the bedside by the doctor.
“Take your sister away,” he whispered. “I’ll fetch the nurse.”
Ronald gently lifted Diana, and led her from the room. In the glare of the electric-lighted study, her face looked ghastly. She was calm now; only her great blue eyes were feverishly bright in her white face.
“You’ve had nothing to eat all day,”
he said. “You must try.”
“I’ve only you, now, Ron,” she said. “Only you; you must look after me.” He was startled — did she know anything?
“I knew it,” she went on in the same dreary voice. “It hasn’t come as a shock now. From the moment you told me he was ill — I had an instinct — a queer feeling that he would — die,” she stumbled over the word. “And when I have had a moment’s sleep — all those horrible dreams have come back. Do you know what I feel?”
He stroked her hair tenderly. “Don’t worry now, you must have some food and then try and sleep. The doctor will give you a sleeping draught.”
“No — I must tell you. I’ve felt all these three days that three people have died because of me.”
“What on earth do you mean?” he cried, startled by her words.
“My mother, and father, and uncle,” she answered without emotion.
“Di, you’re overtired — of course, that’s nonsense.”
“Ron, I’m afraid — ” she nestled close to him as he sat on the arm of her chair. “Dreadfully afraid — for you . . . You. Three already — if you should be next — it’s awful.”
“Don’t, Di, please. This terrible thing has got on your nerves. We’ve got to pull ourselves together.”
“Send for Sir Arthur Sinclair in the morning. He may help us.” She shivered violently and closed her eyes.
Simpson came in, and insisted on immediate hot soup and bed for Diana. He had known them since childhood and his authority compelled obedience.
Ronald drew back the blind. A faint greenish light showed where the dawn was breaking. He threw the window open, and breathed the cold night air, and leant on his arms. In the stillness a thought came to him. He had forgotten it till now, owing to the revelation of that night, but now he went over each detail. His uncle had been sitting in that chair, he remembered, looking over a list of stocks or something. He himself was upset about his quarrel with Diana. In a subconscious way his uncle’s face came back to him. Then he remembered.
The attack was coming on before Ganzani came. Now he was sure, the whitey yellow face and shaking hand. Either one of two things were possible. His uncle knew Ganzani was coming, or something else had already upset him.
His mind was active now. The night air and the tension of the last few days seemed to have quickened his faculties.
The fifty thousand pounds which Ganzani had placed on the table! His uncle had surely never touched them, yet they were gone.
He went to his uncle’s desk and tried the roll top. It was not quite closed, and he slid it up. Inside, as though carelessly thrown down, was a large envelope sealed up as though for postage. Ronald opened it, dreading the contents. Within were the vile notes — the price of his sister forsooth! Then with a pang he recalled she was not his sister. He had no right to her. Perhaps some relation would come forward and claim her.
Besides the money there was a scribbled note which his uncle must have written while he was out of the room.
“Keep these for Diana — you may need them soon, badly.”
There was no signature. He shook the envelope, and a document fell out folded in two. It was the very paper his uncle had been studying — he recognised the jumble of figures.
He placed all these in his own desk and locked it up.
It was midday when Ronald, having had a bath and a change, came to the dining-room to find Simpson there as alert and keen as though he had had a good night’s rest. He had been busy all the morning with those sad details which are necessary when “Pallida Mors” has struck his blow at the castle of the rich or the cottage of the poor.
“Sit down and have coffee — your sister will be here soon. I have seen her.”
Diana came in and greeted them with a wan look on her face. She passed Ronald’s chair and stooped down to kiss him. Then she gave her hand to Simpson.
“We can never repay you for all you have done,” she said simply.
“Nonsense, my dear,” he answered brightly — he wasn’t going to let them get morbid. “I wish I could have done more,” then hurriedly he went on: “Leave everything to me. If anyone calls in sympathy, I will see them for you. Here is one already, by the ring.”
He went out to see the visitor. The door opened again quickly and he returned bringing in Sir Arthur Sinclair.
The sudden relief at his presence almost made Diana want to cry. Ronald sprang up with an exclamation of joy. There was something in this man that did more than inspire confidence. One felt here was a rock of support, with a brilliant mind to scheme and plan, and iron determination.
Half the burden of sorrow seemed to be lifted at his presence.
Even Dr. Simpson, a strong man himself, had fallen under Sinclair’s dominating influence.
“First, I have some rather bad news,” he said when they were seated. “To most people it would be a severe blow, but I know you two and I don’t think you will worry much. Mr. Dighton, your uncle’s lawyer, has absconded, and there is a warrant out for his arrest.”
“How does that affect us?” Ronald asked innocently.
“Very much. I expect your poor uncle had left his fortune to you. From what I hear at the Yard where I made enquiries, I do not fancy that there will be much left.”
Dr. Simpson became attentive. “Then that was probably the cause — ” he began.
“Exactly,” Sinclair answered. “Mr. Shepherd had his suspicions and was investigating that night.”
“For my part I am not sorry,” Ronald said. “If having money means getting on with people like the Gorringes and the rest, I’d rather work.”
“Let’s go abroad, Ron,” Diana exclaimed impulsively, “and get out of all this — just you and I.”
Sinclair exchanged glances with Ronald. He saw the expression of suffering — and he alone knew the cause.
He hurriedly went on.
“I have a graver matter about which to talk to you. Miss Diana, you must be prepared for a shock. We have not told you before, but certain events have happened which have made me come to the conclusion that the wisest course is to do so now.
“There is a danger hanging over you — all the more hard to combat, because it is intangible. We — Ronald and I — have been doing our best to guard you.”
Diana rose from her chair and faced Sinclair. He marvelled at the exquisite beauty of the girl, clothed in deep black which she had worn for her father only a few months ago.
“I knew it,” she said quietly. “It does not surprise me. Ever since I was frightened in the woods years ago — I could feel something — that man who came in the night — and my dreams . . .”
There was no hysteria — rather a tone of relief in her voice.
“I fancied you would take it like that,” Sinclair said, taking her hand. “You must not be frightened.”
“But what is this danger? Can’t we get police protection?”
Simpson’s practical mind led him to say:
“We have nothing on which to go. Even I, as a late member of the Force, would be laughed at. A few suspicions — a link here and there, vague suggestions — that’s all. It’s the most baffling problem I have ever had to solve, and that’s saying something.”
“But why have things become more acute: is it because of Uncle?” Ronald hesitated.
“No. You know the reason. For some cause they could not strike till the purchase price had been paid. Now the crisis is acute.”
“Can’t you tell me more?” Diana asked. “I might be better able to face the danger.”
Sinclair told her of Ganzani’s visit — and the payment of the money, but nothing more. The rest must not be told.
“For some reason — that we have to find out — they want to get hold of you. One point at least you can be reassured — they don’t want to murder you.”
A look of horror was growing in Diana’s eyes, which Sinclair read. “No — it’s not that — we’ve got to look much deeper than a mere sordid abduction. Now,
listen to me. Suppose I asked for police protection — they would say ‘from what?’ Could we say from an Italian who is already being hunted by the police at my request on other charges? If we said a burglar had tried to get into the house — where is the description? And the moment we did so they would be making a hunt through the criminals who are known to the police, which would be useless, and perhaps dangerous.
“This is what we must do. It’s very irksome for you, but I have hopes that it may not be for long. You must never go out alone, Miss Diana. When you cannot be with Ronald,” he gave a look of sympathy at him, “you must have someone with you — perhaps Dr. Simpson would help?”
“Certainly, I will do all I possibly can, as far as my practice will allow. They shall both come and live with me if that will help.”
Diana unexpectedly burst into tears.
They waited silently till she brushed them aside angrily.
“How good you all are to me . . . I’m sorry, I’m all right now. But you are like the knights in the Middle Ages, all sworn to protect a girl — I feel so — grateful. You, Sir Arthur — and you, Doctor, and dear Ronald. Please go on — I won’t be silly again.”
“Do you know, Di,” Ronald said, “that Sir Arthur, ever since we came to London, has been watching over you? Night after night he’s prowled round the house, and when you did your shopping he followed you in a taxi.”
“It’s nothing,” Sinclair said hastily — he hated praise of all kinds.
He went on:
“Above all — take no notice of telephone calls — telegrams or any messages. If you go to a theatre — take a box if money allows, and when you come out — don’t take the taxi driver who offers himself Walk down the road and pick one yourself. Trust no one.”
“But surely it would be better for these two to go abroad somewhere?” Simpson asked.
The Yellow Mistletoe Page 9
