by G. Roy McRae
Having decided, they followed in his wake and made for the hall. And Inspector Brent of Scotland Yard was one who was amongst them.
On the face of it theirs was a quite natural proceeding, for the wide Tudor hall was furnished as a lounge or sitting-out apartment, and here drinks were dispensed and the men might smoke their cigars and become bluff, unaffected males as was their natural wont.
As they came into the hall they greeted Alec with a great show of geniality, and he, who had been standing moodily near the fireplace, roused himself to play his part. He was not sorry for the interruption, for his thoughts were bad.
Siphons fizzed, and hearty voices and laughter warmed the place. Alec had perforce to unbend, which he did fairly creditably, for in the company of others a man momentarily loses the sharp perspective of his own affairs.
But the men were not to shake themselves free from the skirts of the womenfolk for long. The curtains parted, and through them there came the sheen of silk, the glisten of white arms and the flash of jewels to startle and confuse Alec as he looked up. He had just had the idea of finding forgetfulness in this strange business of drinking hard and quickly, an experiment he had never so far in his lifetime attempted.
Zephyrs of music came in from the ballroom, but there were still a few more couples who had evidently decided to sit out that dance, and they drifted in and found themselves seats.
The curtains parted, and Eleanor came into the hall with her dancing partner, Captain Firsk. A tall man of the true army type, he looked a splendid animal in evening coat-tails. His teeth were gleaming in a white bar under his trimmed moustache as he smiled at her. He was in the seventh heaven of bliss.
Eleanor had pleaded a violent headache. But Captain Firsk simply would not believe it. His experience was that such an excuse meant his partner was not averse from sitting out the dance with him.
He was a personable youngster, fresh and lonely from barrack life, and he hardly knew or cared who she was; it was enough for him that she was charming.
Eleanor had expected a deserted hall, and she threw up her arm as if to ward off a blow as Alec Portal half started up, his face grim. The sight of her seemed to act on him as a rag does to a bull.
Like a child that has been severely punished she slowly dropped her arm, and gazed beseechingly at her husband. Very dainty, very ravishing she looked as she stood there in her white frock with its bell-hoop effect and tiny tuckered sleeves. Her hair was like spun gold, and her distress was surely real enough to melt the heart of the most adamant.
Alec drew himself erect, and recognising that she actually was almost at the end of her tether, he came to her rescue. But there was a biting savagery underlying his tone.
‘You are still unwell?’ he said in inquiry. And then to the company at large: ‘It is most unfortunate, but Eleanor has one of her violent headaches. It is advisable that she should retire for a little while. I do hope you will excuse us. I am sorry, but I know how terrible these headaches are.’
There were instant and polite murmurs of regret.
‘The only thing for a crushing headache,’ said one amiable woman, ‘is to lie down and rest. Don’t I know it?’
‘I—I think I will go,’ Eleanor said in a small voice, and there was poignant pain and despair in her sweet face.
‘But … Oh, I say, you know—’ dissented Captain Firsk, following her to the broad staircase. It was a fact about Tommy Firsk, one that his intimates persistently and publicly proclaimed: his brain was an almost complete vacuity.
Alec Portal interposed between. ‘My wife is really unwell,’ he said coldly and flatly, and when the youngster had retired discomfited, he turned again to the staircase. Eleanor had halted, and their eyes met. Hers were filled with unspeakable anguish and pleading. Plainly they sent him a mute, terrified message—a message he could not, or would not, read. Inspector Brent read it, however, and in his heart there sounded a tocsin call of fear and warning. She was hardly responsible for her actions.
But Alec Portal’s eyes were stony. They stared a negative to her wild appeal, for he believed her guilty of breaking that commandment which civilisation holds in most solemn awe.
She had done it … somehow she had done that devilish thing. Poison! In his horror he dared not allow his thoughts to dwell on it: how she had done it, with what cunning and preparation.
He turned from her slowly and deliberately; and with a little half-articulate sound of despair, Eleanor went up the staircase.
Colonel Haddington, the local M.F.H., unconsciously relieved the tension. He was utterly oblivious of all save his favourite topic. Hunting! He stood with his feet astraddle, and his hands behind his back, laying down the law.
There was polite, but bored agreement at intervals to his words, while fans tapped impatiently and cigar smoke spiralled fantastically to the ceiling.
Yet the feeling of suspense was instinct amongst that little company. Even the less acute could feel it, and knew that something was going to happen.
And then, quite suddenly, crashing into Colonel Haddington’s voice, there came a sharp, imperative knock at the hall door.
The guests looked at one another. Colonel Haddington ceased speaking. His face became redder, and he stroked his white walrus moustache. A reception hall, even if it is in the Tudor style, has its disadvantages if it abuts on the front door and late callers are permitted to interrupt a masterly monologue.
Alec Portal rose quickly, and went to the door himself. Curiously enough he had become calm, momentarily. He had his finger on the pulse of the company, and he knew it had become jumpy, nervy. He regretted his own passionate gestures of the early evening, and saw himself as a swash-buckler of emotions.
His situation called for a frozen calm.
It was just the sordid problem of a wife he did not want. Lawyers and people could arrange for a separation. He’d treat Eleanor generously—
Thinking in this wise he threw open the front door. And his thoughts performed quick gymnastics. For a shadow fell athwart the wall; the shadow of a man, very erect, who wore a soft velour hat and pince-nez spectacles on a black cord.
The staring guests saw only the shadow, and there was something in the sombre orthodoxy of that silhouette that set them on tenterhooks of expectation. But Alec Portal saw Mr Quinn in the flood of light from, the hall, and he had a flash back of memory, quick, elusive, tantalising. It came and it was gone. It left him with the baffling conviction that he had seen this man before some time long ago. But he could not quite remember.
‘Good Heavens, man!’ he exclaimed sharply; ‘what are you doing abroad at this time of night? I told you to go to bed. Why, you’re ill—very ill!’
‘Something called me here,’ came Mr Quinny’s voice. ‘Voices called. They told me I had some affairs to put in order. It may be that I am ill … the fever! But I had to come.’
‘You’d better come in,’ Alec said quickly.
Mr Quinny came in, shaking, yellow, his eyes the miserable abashed eyes of the human derelict who shuns society. The sight of him came as a shock to the guests, who exclaimed in horror. Mr Quinny had become oblivious of them, however. He was peering through his black-rimmed spectacles at the walls and up the broad staircase to the balcony above, hung with exquisite oil paintings and tapestries, and presently a bitter smile formed on his lips.
The palsied figure brushed past Inspector Brent without seeing him. The Yard man stood back, very distinguished in his evening clothes, a figure of solid impassivity. But his eyes under their heavy-lidded droop of mastery flickered over the company, and settled always on Mr Quinny. Even Inspector Brent, the self-appointed sentinel, was uneasy.
Amid a tense silence Alec Portal piloted the human wreck to a settee, and seating him, he poured out for him a stiff measure of spirits. This the palsied man accepted with a courteous little inclination of his head, and carrying it shakingly to his lips, he gulped it down.
He seemed to relax into apathy then, staring a
t the floor with the empty glass in his trembling hand, his mouth twitching convulsively. His yellow, fever-ridden face was in the last stage of emaciation, but he was certainly more creditably groomed than on the last occasion Alec had seen him. His linen was clean, and so were his long tapering hands, and a desperate effort had evidently been made to polish his rough boots. His landlady was even then wringing her hands over Mr Quinny, who had departed her cottage almost in a state of collapse, but with some feverish obsession in his brain.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Alec said quietly, ‘Mr Quinny is an unfortunate gentleman who has contracted a hectic fever in Africa. It is now in its remittent stage, and I am sure you will sympathise with him deeply.’
Murmurs of condolence arose. One or two Women got up and left hastily with their escorts, unable to endure the ghastly appearance of Mr Quinny.
It was Colonel Haddington, Master of the Hounds, who, once again, came to the rescue.
‘Africa, eh?’ he boomed. ‘May I inquire, sir, if you had any sport out there? I mean that kind of thing,’ and he waved a hand largely towards the trophies that decorated the walls.
‘Big game hunting?’ said Mr Quinny listlessly, and without looking up. ‘Yes; I have done some of it.’
‘Aha!’ exclaimed Colonel Haddington in derision. ‘Nothing like the sport in this country, sir, the joy of the chase, the—’
‘By Jove!’ interrupted Tommy Firsk, in sudden interest. ‘I remember now. The owner of this place used to be a big game hunter. Didn’t he quit the country after that murder trial over Professor Appleby? He was in love with the woman, or something. I remember it was quite a sensation. A beautiful woman, by gad I and everybody was glad she got off scot-free.’
A hush fell on the company. It was a long-sustained and painful silence. Never in all his irresponsible career had Tommy Firsk produced such a profound sensation. Metaphorically he had flung a flaming torch to a stream of petrol.
Women fidgeted, and one man coughed. None dared look at Alec, who stood like, a statue, his face gray and creased. But the battery of outraged eyes that was turned on Firsk informed that gentleman that he had committed some terrible faux pas.
‘I mean to say, you know,’ he stammered, plunging in still further, ‘it’s all jolly interesting. No one ever cleared up the mystery.’
It was then that Mr Quinny spoke. His voice was listless, loaded with lethargy, and his vacant gaze was still fixed on the floor.
‘The police blundered badly,’ his voice droned. ‘The murderer of Professor Appleby should have been unmasked on the night of the crime, and justice done.’
Inspector Brent was suddenly goaded past himself. ‘I don’t know who you are, sir,’ he cut in incisively, ‘but you have once before hinted that you could throw light on this matter. I deeply regret that the subject has been brought up, but since it has, I think you should explain yourself more fully.’
Mr Quinny looked up and stared at him across the space that divided them.
‘Your words were deliberately meant as an affront to me,’ the inspector added angrily. ‘Let us hear your solution of the case then. Let us see whether your amateur theories can enlighten professional experience.’
Mr Quinny shook his head slowly. ‘Experience is the schoolmaster of fools, inspector,’ he said dispiritedly.
‘I think I could trace that epigram to another author than yourself, sir,’ sneered the inspector bitterly. ‘So far you are not original.’
‘Why bicker?’ Mr Quinny said wearily. ‘It is probable that there are many variations of the saying, which goes to prove that it is old and a truism. I blame you, inspector. I blame you deeply for not catching the murderer of Professor Appleby red-handed and fixing the guilt beyond all shadow of doubt. It was so easy for you to have done so.’
Alec Portal sprang forward, his handsome face convulsed. He could no longer stand the strain of the ordeal.
‘You can tell me something,’ he cried hoarsely, grasping Mr Quinney’s shoulders with a strength he did not suspect. ‘You can tell me beyond all shadow of doubt who—who murdered Professor Appleby?’
Mr Quinny slowly lifted his livid face, but the peering eyes behind the spectacles went past Alec to the balcony above. There sounded a little gasp up there, and a woman’s white gown whisked out of sight. But no one appeared to observe it, save, perhaps, Mr Quinny.
His head sunk again. ‘I can name the murderer,’ he said listlessly, ‘and I can produce complete evidence of his guilt.’
Alec Portal gazed at him in horror and fear, not daring to ask the question that trembled on his lips. And suddenly a spark of vitality animated Mr Quinny. He lifted his head.
‘Please sit down, and let me tell the story from the beginning,’ he said quietly.
And when Alec had obeyed him he fumbled in his pocket and produced a piece of paper. ‘I will be as brief as possible,’ he said with a queer huskiness suddenly catching his voice. ‘To begin properly, I would remind you of the terrible existence that the unfortunate lady, who is really the subject of this discussion, led with her husband, Professor Appleby. He was a meglomaniac of cruelty. The greatness that had come to him had partially unhinged his brain. He dealt in subtleties. He liked to see things suffer … and the chief object of his cruelty was his extremely lovely and innocent young wife.
‘Imagine her tortures,’ Mr Quinny went on, ‘the suffering that gradually brought her to snapping point … Well, I think some of you know.
‘On the night of the tragedy, Eleanor Appleby, as she was then, was almost overcome by terror. Her husband’s cruelty had reached its zenith. It seemed that he had crossed the border line at last, and had become a coldly raging maniac, whose only idea was to hurt her—to bring her to the same state as himself.’
Mr Quinny paused and peered round at the company. No longer was his voice at variance with his hectic flush and glittering eyes, for it had taken on a vibrant tense note.
‘In her desperation that night she did a mad thing,’ he went on. ‘She wrote a letter to another man who loved her, asking for his help. Ah! you didn’t know that, Inspector Brent. That letter was never produced at the trial. There it is—read it!’ And he feebly tossed the piece of paper he had been holding from his hand so that it fell to the carpet.
Alec with a sharp cry made to procure it, but Inspector Brent was before him, and snatched it up almost from under his hand. A primitive, lawless instinct seemed to have broken loose in the room, for the guests now got to their feet and crowded round him, trying to read it over his shoulder.
The C.I.D. man’s face was thunderous as he read that letter. In a hoarse, low voice he repeated aloud the damning phrase Eleanor had written.
‘He is not fit to live. If I had the pluck I believe I should kill him myself.’
‘This letter should have been produced at the trial,’ he said harshly, as he held it up. ‘Where did you get it? Who held it back?’
Alec said nothing. He was staring at Mr Quinny as if at a ghost, wondering how he had lost that letter, wondering how it had come into the mysterious stranger’s possession.
‘Inspector, you will begin to understand why I say you have blundered,’ Mr Quinny went on. ‘That was one important piece of evidence missed at the trial.’
The Yard man drew a deep breath. ‘If this is genuine,’ he said slowly and sternly, ‘it is certainly very incriminating.’
Mr Quinny, sitting huddled on the settee, suddenly lifted his head. ‘Who does it incriminate?’ he asked sharply.
The Yard man forgot all judiciousness in his chagrin, for now he, too, thought he had been tricked. ‘It incriminates Eleanor Portal,’ he returned angrily.
As if he had been struck a blow, Mr Quinny turned his twitching features up to the balcony. Up there he caught a glimpse of her who had been named; he heard a broken cry in a woman’s voice, and hurrying footsteps.
‘You fool! You fool, Inspector Brent!’ he suddenly cried, his whole frame shaking. ‘All through this cas
e you have flown a kite without a tail, and allowed it to rush where it will in the winds of prejudice, ignorance and hasty reasoning. Doesn’t that letter tell you more than that? Look, man! Look to whom it is addressed.’
A sudden stupefied expression crossed Inspector Brent’s face. He stared at the letter again, and his lips voicelessly framed the words:
‘Derek Capel!’
‘The man who loved her,’ said Mr Quinny, his voice suddenly intensely vehement, charged with scorn and loathing, ‘The man who posed to himself that he would have died for her! And yet he allowed her to be crucified while he watched with closed lips. He could have told so much at the trial. And yet he kept silent. And afterwards he made good his disappearance from the country. Why?’ Mr Quinny leant forward, his yellow face dank, his eyes glittering behind his spectacles. ‘Because Derek Capel was the murderer of Professor Appleby!’
His listeners drew sharp breaths. Though they had half expected it within the last few seconds, they were curiously horrified to hear the broken man utter that blistering denunciation. Yet his words held terrific conviction.
Suddenly he relapsed. He stared at the floor, trembling violently again, a prey to the terrible malady that had him in its grip.
‘You thought it was Eleanor,’ he muttered. ‘I could have told you. I could have told you. She was as innocent as a babe newly born, poor child. And then when the parlourmaid gave her stupid and bigoted evidence, and proved herself a barefaced liar, you turned suspicion on her. But you were afraid to prosecute. And the real murderer escaped. Would to God you had caught him!’
Alec started forward, and caught at Mr Quinny’s arm. ‘You mean that?’ he asked hoarsely. ‘You mean that—Eleanor is innocent?’
Mr Quinny peered up through his spectacles. ‘My friend,’ he said sadly; ‘how can you, of all men, think otherwise.’
A hot flush of shame crossed Alec’s face. He clenched and unclenched his hands. ‘I don’t know,’ he said wretchedly. ‘God help me, I don’t know what to think!’
