by Annie Haynes
They looked in the direction he pointed. A faint worn path zigzagged about among the tombstones until it reached a wicket in the wall.
Hilary’s eyes were moist as she turned away after slipping a shilling into the ancient’s hand.
She walked by her aunt’s side down the slanting path for some time, but just before they reached the waiting car she drew a long breath.
“Poor Lady Skrine! I used to be very fond of her. I think that was why Sir Felix gave me her pearls. But I wonder sometimes whether she would really have liked him to do so.”
Miss Lavinia emitted one of her snorts.
“Well, I suppose you can hardly imagine she will expect him to take them with him when he is joined to her, as he calls it, again!”
CHAPTER 9
“Good morning, Mr. Wilton.” The speaker came to a direct standstill.
Basil Wilton hesitated quite an appreciable time before answering. For a minute he did not recognize the fashionably dressed young woman who had stopped him.
“Good morning, Miss Houlton,” he said at last. “Really, I hardly knew you!”
“Rather gauche, isn’t it, to tell me that?” the girl rejoined, but the bewildering smile she bestowed upon him undid the effect of her words. “I suppose you would like to say that ‘fine feathers make fine birds,’” she went on.
“I hope I’m not so gauche as that,” laughed Wilton, though the words rather aptly expressed his thoughts.
The contrast between the quiet little secretary and the elaborately got-up girl before him was even more marked than it had been at the inquest. For Miss Houlton had discarded her black garments.
She wore to-day a frock of delphinium blue. Wilton reflected that very little stuff had obviously gone to the making of it. It was extremely short. Even standing, her knees in their mastic coloured stockings were plainly to be seen. There was a large expanse of neck visible, and her string of pearls looked quite as good as those Sir Felix had given to Hilary, to Wilton’s inexperienced, masculine eyes. He had rather liked Iris Houlton when she was Dr. Bastow’s secretary. As the doctor’s assistant he had naturally seen a good deal of her work, which was admirable. And, though his love was given to Hilary, like most men he was not indifferent to a good-looking girl’s partiality for himself.
He had been genuinely pleased to hear of the good fortune that had befallen her, though when she had left Dr. Bastow’s subsequent events had driven the recollection of her and her affairs from his mind. For Hilary and Fee had made the great plunge. They were staying with friends until Rose Cottage was quite ready for them, and Miss Lavinia had escorted such of their furniture and belongings as they had decided to keep down to Heathcote.
Wilton himself was staying on for a short time with Dr. Bastow’s successor, to introduce him to the practice, and then he meant to take a brief holiday before looking out for, another job.
So much, apparently, Iris Houlton knew. After a pause she proceeded:
“I heard the other day of something that might suit you. A friend of mine, the one who got me the engagement with Dr. Bastow, wrote to ask if I knew of any young doctor who would go as assistant to an old man in a suburb – assistant first, with a view to becoming partner. I thought it might suit you.’’
“It would suit me right enough,” Wilton said moodily. “But, though I might go as assistant, I should never be able to become a partner, for that, I conclude, means putting money into the affair. And I have none, and no chance of any, except what I can get by the work of my two hands,” spreading out the members in question.
“But my friend didn’t say anything about money,” said Iris, wrinkling up her brows. “I don’t believe any will be wanted.”
“The job will be a rather unique job, then, and your old man will be rather a unique old man,” returned Wilton. “Where does he hang out, by the way?”
“Oh, Hammersmith, I think, or was it Hendon? I am sure it began with an ‘h.’ You see I don’t know him myself, only through my friend. I will let you know. But stay? was it Hounslow? I believe it was!”
Wilton could not forbear a smile.
“Rather vague, isn’t it? Perhaps it may turn out to be Halifax!”
“There! now you are making fun of me!” Iris pouted. “I can’t help having a bad memory. I tell you what, Mr. Wilton, my flat is quite near Hawksview Mansions. Come in with me now and I will show you the letter with all the particulars, and give you some tea too.”
“You are very kind!”
Wilton hesitated. Some instinct seemed to hold him back; but he brushed it aside. He had always got on with Iris Houlton. There was no reason why he should not accept her invitation now.
“I shall be delighted,” he ended at last. “But you don’t know what you are letting yourself in for, Miss Houlton. I have been walking it seems to me for hours, and you behold a very hungry man. I shall devour your substance unconscionably, I’m afraid.”
“Good gracious! Please come at once!” Iris laughed. “My maid makes delicious sandwiches. And don’t they say it is ill talking on an empty stomach?”
“I believe I have heard something of the kind,” Wilton said as he turned with her.
Hawksview Mansions were close at hand. As they waited for the lift Wilton could not help marvelling at the extraordinary change that had come over his companion’s circumstances. It was evident to the most casual observer that the flat must be a very expensive one. The locality, the lift, the porter, alike emphasized the fact, which was rendered more certain when the door of Iris Houlton’s own apartment was opened by a smart, spic-and-span maid.
“Tea, as soon as you can, Downes, please,” Iris said as she turned into the drawing-room. “And plenty of sandwiches! Now, Mr. Wilton, I am terribly house-proud. What do you think of my abode?”
“I think it perfectly charming,” Wilton replied truthfully as he glanced round. He had rarely seen a more restful-looking room. The walls were of a pale grey, the lines unbroken, save that over the high, black mantelpiece there hung a watercolour seascape, a gem in its way, signed by a famous artist, and that between the two windows which were curtained with grey damask, exactly the colour of the walls, there was a long strip of tapestry in wonderful old colours, faded now. The middle of the floor was covered by an Aubusson rug, the predominant colour of which was a subdued rose. There was not much furniture. A couple of wide, deep arm-chairs stood one on each side of the fireplace, in which, springlike as was the weather, there burned a small clear fire.
Further back there was a luxurious-looking Chesterfield, and against the wall there was a pair of spindle-legged, straight-backed chairs, quite evidently more for ornament than for use. A copper bowl on a small, solid-looking table held a wealth of roses, deepest damask, pink La France, glowing orange-golden William Alan Richardson. The rich damask of the chairs and cushions matched the curtains, and the only ornaments were of white china.
There was one curious omission, there were neither books nor papers about. The only sign of any occupation in which Miss Houlton could possibly indulge was an untidy pile of needlework thrust almost entirely out of sight behind one of the cushions of the Chesterfield.
Wilton’s masculine eyes were not experienced enough to recognize a partly made jumper.
Iris drew one of the inviting looking chairs forward.
“You look fagged to death, Mr. Wilton. Now, just put yourself back in that and don’t talk until the tea comes.”
Wilton felt no desire to be disobedient. He had not realized how tired he was until he laid his head back against the cool-looking damask.
Iris sat down opposite, crossing her slim legs in their silk stockings. She threw aside her hat and Wilton could not help admiring the shape of her small head. Her hair was shingled, and waved round her temples in tiny, bewitching curls.
They had not long to wait. The maid brought in a huge copper tray on a tripod and placed it beside Iris. It contained a dainty tea equippage, a plate of cakes, a large dish of sandwiches,
another of fruit, and a jug of golden cream.
When she had departed, Iris brought up a small table. Wilton noticed with satisfaction that it was not one of the gimcrack ones, usually associated with women’s rooms, but stood firmly on straight wooden legs.
“No, no! sit still! I know how tired you used to get in the old days at Dr. Bastow’s,” she said, giving him a little push back when he moved to help her.
“Two lumps of sugar and plenty of cream, isn’t it? I have brought tea often enough to you in the surgery, you know.”
“You have, haven’t you?” Wilton assented. “Not that we got much cream, did we?”
“No.” Miss Houlton drew her lips in.
She did not speak again until she had given Wilton his tea, and put the sandwiches beside him; then she said slowly:
“No, Hilary Bastow wasn’t much of a house-keeper, was she? But that will not matter. Sir Felix Skrine has plenty of money for housekeepers.”
There was dead silence for a minute. Wilton was stirring his tea. He went on stirring it, though every drop of blood in his body seemed to have flown to his face, in reality, his brown skin was not a degree deeper in colour, and when he spoke his voice was perfectly steady.
“You mean –?”
“That Lady Skrine will not need to be a good housekeeper. Isn’t it obvious?” Iris finished with a laugh.
Wilton drew his dark brows together. Iris Houlton was saying this purposely; she was quick-witted enough. She must have known how matters stood between Hilary and himself.
“Why do you say that?” he asked quietly. “I am sure you must know that I am engaged to Miss Bastow.”
Iris glanced at him in a curious, sidelong fashion. Then she gave a little laugh that somehow did not sound natural.
“No, indeed! I did suspect a little tendresse at one time. But when I went to say good-bye to Hilary, I found Sir Felix Skrine there, and I quite gathered –”
“You gathered what?”
Iris laughed again. She got up and moved the tea-things in an aimless way.
“Oh, well, of course, now that you tell me that things are definitely settled, I realize that I must have been mistaken in thinking I saw –”
“What did you think you saw?” Wilton’s tone denoted that his patience was becoming exhausted.
“Oh, nothing, nothing!” Iris said hurriedly. “Didn’t I tell you that I must be mistaken? Sir Felix is Hilary’s godfather, isn’t he? I expect many girls are very fond of their godfathers, don’t you?”
“I don’t know. I have had no experience of the relationship,” Wilton said curtly.
In his heart, he was inclined to resent the use of his fiancée’s Christian name. He finished his tea and set the cup on the table. Then he went over and stood beside Miss Houlton.
“Of course you did not see anything, that is understood. But what did you think you saw?”
“Oh, really, I don’t know.” The tea-cups rattled as she moved them. “Really I can’t tell you anything while you stand over me like that, Mr. Wilton. You might be Sir Felix Skrine himself. Do sit down and have some more tea or I shall not talk to you at all.”
“I have only a few minutes to spare,” Wilton said, glancing at his watch. “I’ve just remembered that I have an appointment.”
Iris’s little teeth bit sharply into her underlip.
“Well, sit down for just those two or three minutes. And now that we are comfortable again I will tell you that I didn’t really see anything. I just thought I heard rather a suspicious sound – a sort of rustling you know, and – and something else,” with a faint smile. “And when I did get in, they were standing a long way apart, and I always think myself – well, that that looks rather suspicious, don’t you?” with a demure glance at him from beneath her lowered eyes. “But, really, I don’t suppose it meant anything. It couldn’t, of course, if she’s engaged to you. I expect Sir Felix was just being – er – godfatherly.”
“Probably!”
Wilton’s tone was final and non-committal. Already he was regretting having entered into any sort of discussion of Hilary with Iris Houlton.
“Have you heard of this latest development in the Bastow Murder Case?” he asked abruptly. Miss Houlton had just taken up the tea-pot. Her fingers grew suddenly rigid as she clasped the handle.
“No, I haven’t heard anything. I hate thinking about murders.”
“One can hardly help thinking about a murder when the victim is some one you have known,” Wilton rejoined.
Iris Houlton tossed her head. On her cheeks the rouge showed rose-red, but her voice was firm.
“I wasn’t so very fond of Dr. Bastow. He was a cross old thing. I didn’t think you liked him either. I heard you both talking pretty loudly in the consulting-room the day he was murdered. It sounded to me as if you were quarrelling.”
“Well, we were not,” Wilton said repressively.
“Well, folks can only talk about what they know,” returned Iris, some of her London polish dropping off and a tiny trace of what sounded like a Midland accent peeping out. “But what was this development you were talking about?”
“It is in all the midday papers.”
“Never read them,” Iris interrupted, “unless I mean to put a bit on a horse, and want to spot the winner.”
Wilton ignored the remark. “A pistol has been found among some bushes in Rufford Square. It is supposed to be the one with which Dr. Bastow was shot.”
“Rufford Square!” Iris repeated thoughtfully. “Yes, he might go back through Rufford Square, though it’s a bit out of the way.”
“What do you mean?” questioned Wilton, staring at her.
Iris looked back at him. He could not help noticing that the pupils of her eyes were curiously dilated until they looked almost black, and the darkened eyebrows and eyelashes were obviously artificially tinted as they contrasted with the skin, rapidly whitening, despite the liberal covering of paint and powder.
“Why, Sanford Morris, of course!” she returned, and her voice had a hard and defiant sound. “Who else could it be?”
“Heaps of people,” Wilton returned. “Personally I don’t think for one moment that Sanford Morris shot Dr. Bastow. What motive could he have had?”
“What motive could anyone have had?” Iris countered.
Wilton shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t imagine. A more objectless crime I cannot conceive.”
“I don’t think so, in the case of Sanford Morris,” Iris dissented. “There is no doubt that he and Dr. Bastow had been doing research work together, and Dr. Bastow had made the discovery that they had both been so anxious about, and made it alone. I expect Dr. Morris was awfully angry and disappointed. Probably they quarrelled and he shot Dr. Bastow in a fit of temper and made off with the box which contained the papers relating to the discovery.”
“Yes, very ingenious!” Wilton returned thoughtfully. “But if there is one thing more certain than another it is that Dr. Bastow was not shot in a quarrel. His assassin stole up behind him, and shot him while the doctor didn’t know he was there probably. That rather knocks the bottom out of your theory, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t believe a man could have got in without the doctor hearing him,” Miss Houlton said obstinately. “And, if Dr. Morris was not the murderer, why did he shave off his beard?”
“You heard what he said at the inquest?”
“Oh, yes – that nobody wore beards nowadays,” Iris said scornfully. “Seems funny he should have discovered it just then.”
“You must remember that the finding of that paper with the words on it was not known until the inquest,” Wilton reminded her.
“If the chap did it himself, he knew he’d got a beard, then he thought the best thing to do was to shave it off, I expect.”
Miss Houlton’s refinement was dropping from her as she grew voluble.
“Good gracious me! What’s the matter, Mr. Wilton?”
For Wilton had got up – had suddenly swayed and a
pparently only prevented himself from falling by catching at the table by the side of him.
Iris caught his arm. “Are you ill?” she questioned quickly. “You look bad. What is the matter?”
Wilton passed his hand over his forehead wearily. “I don’t know” – a curious little hesitation coming into his voice – “I felt rather queer a few minutes ago.”
Iris pushed him back in the chair gently.
“You are overdone, that’s what it is. You will just have to rest now.”
CHAPTER 10
“I did hear that Sir Felix came to the Manor last night, miss.”
The sacking apron, tied round the waist, the coarse print frock and the wrinkled hands of the speaker proclaimed her to be “a lady who obliged.”
Hilary and Fee had been settled at Rose Cottage for the past three weeks. It appeared to be an ideal home for the two, and the man and woman who had been found for them by Sir Felix Skrine seemed ideal servants – quiet, attentive and efficient. But neither Hilary nor Fee looked happy. Sir Felix, while absolutely refusing to countenance Hilary’s engagement, had not interdicted her correspondence with Wilton altogether, and at first his letters had been frequent and affectionate, but for the last fortnight they had ceased.
Hilary’s brown eyes had a puzzled, worried expression, and the pathetic droop of her lips acquired since her father’s death was becoming accentuated. Fee was frankly bored and miserable. He hated Rose Cottage; hated the garden, above all, with its high wall set round; hated the village and its inhabitants, so many as he had seen, with their talk of the local doings and the events which seemed to the denizens of Heathcote of supreme importance. The only thing in all Heathcote, in fact, to which he extended the faintest liking was a small and friendly kitten that he had annexed at its first visit. He was nursing it now –as he lay with his back resolutely turned to the window – a fluffy black ball, it was purring contentedly as it nestled up to him and his hand moved backwards and forwards over its fur.
A certain amount of interest, however, came into Fee’s face at the charwoman’s observation, and he turned sharply to his sister.
