Man with the Dark Beard

by Annie Haynes

  Dr. Blathwayte’s consulting-rooms were in Wimpole Street, and Miss Lavinia had chosen a quiet hotel in Marylebone as their headquarters.

  An appointment had been made for Fee for their first morning. Dr. Blathwayte, a tall dark man, with thin capable-looking fingers, made a thorough examination of the boy and professed himself more than hopeful of effecting a cure. But it would be lengthy and far more expensive than either Hilary or Miss Lavinia had dreamed of, and would necessitate a long stay in a nursing home under the doctor’s own supervision, with a further sojourn abroad that might last a year.

  Hilary and her aunt had a long consultation over ways and means when they got back, and Miss Lavinia, while promising all the help she could, made it evident that to pay for the whole or even half would be quite out of her power.

  Sir Felix, after a talk with Fee and another with the doctor, came to Hilary.

  “Well, Blathwayte seems to take quite a cheerful view of Fee’s case,” he began. “Why, what is the matter, Hilary? You look worried. I expected to find you delighted.”

  “I feel worried,” Hilary acknowledged. “Because – though you have not told me much – I do know enough of our affairs to be sure that this treatment is quite beyond us.”

  Sir Felix laughed. “Perhaps your knowledge is not accurate. That will be all right, Hilary. You are not to bother your little head about such things.”

  “But can we afford it really?” Hilary questioned.

  Sir Felix looked the other way. “Of course we can. It will be quite easily arranged.”

  “And out of our own money?” Hilary persisted.

  “Well – er – most of it,” Skrine answered. “And you must remember Fee is my godson, Hilary, as well as my ward. It is my business to arrange these matters.”

  “No,” Hilary said firmly, “we can’t allow that, Sir Felix. “But you know we do not really care for Rose Cottage, either of us. If we gave that up and Fee went into the nursing home, and then abroad which Dr. Blathwayte seems to think would be the best thing for him, we might store the furniture and I could look out for some work. I believe I should be quite a decent secretary. I can type and I have learned shorthand too, though I haven’t much speed at present. That would come with practice.”

  “Perhaps!” Sir Felix said with an enigmatic smile. “How would you like to be my secretary, Hilary? I pay well, but Miss Houlton scornfully declined the post when I offered it to her. I hope you will be kinder.”

  Hilary flushed.

  “Oh, I don’t think I should like that at all Sir Felix. I think it is always better not to work for friends.”

  “Do you? I should have thought quite the opposite,” Sir Felix said, coming nearer. “But it is not as a secretary I want you, you know, Hilary. Come to the Manor as my wife. You will be able to do what you like for Fee and –”

  Hilary tilted her small chin upwards scornfully.

  “I am not to be bought, Sir Felix – or bribed.”

  Sir Felix frowned heavily for a moment. His blue eyes were like steel. So had he looked on the rare occasions when he had lost a big case at the Law Courts.

  “Nor would I buy you – or bribe you, Hilary,” he said at last. “My wife must come to me willingly or not at all. But some day –”

  “Never. I shall never alter my mind,” Hilary interrupted him passionately. “Sir Felix, I love Basil Wilton. I must ask you –”

  “So much wasted loyalty!” the lawyer said beneath his breath. “I believe Basil Wilton to be constitutionally incapable of being faithful to any woman, Hilary. And he –”

  Hilary stamped her foot. “I will not hear another word, Sir Felix. If only Dad were here he would tell you –”

  A curious change passed over the lawyer’s face, his blue eyes grew misty.

  “If he could speak to you, what do you think he would say, Hilary?”

  CHAPTER 12

  “Ready for church, Hilary? No? Well, hurry up, then, or we shall be late.”

  Miss Lavinia was pulling on her gloves as she came into the sitting-room at the private hotel.

  “I don’t feel like going to church this morning, Aunt Lavinia,” Hilary returned lazily.

  She was sitting beside Fee’s couch at the window, watching the passers-by in the street.

  “Well, whether you feel like it or not, you are coming,” Miss Lavinia retorted brusquely. “You don’t intend to have me go to church by myself, I presume?”

  Hilary looked disinclined to move.

  “If I come with you, Fee will be all alone. And I never knew you were fond of going to church, Aunt Lavinia.”

  “I dare say you didn’t. But then you don’t know everything about me,” her aunt replied. “I was a most regular church-goer when I was young. And now, with all the bother about this deposited prayer-book, I think it my duty and the duty of all Church people, to go and enter their protest.”

  “Aunt Lavinia,” interrupted Fee, “why do they call it the deposited prayer-book?”

  “Oh, ask me another, child!” the spinster retorted. “Because they have stuck it down somewhere or other, I suppose. But I don’t pretend to understand the ways of the modern parson. Long may their blessed book remain deposited. That is all I have to say.”

  “Don’t you like it?” questioned Fee with interest.

  “Like it!” Miss Lavinia uttered scornfully. “When I go to church I like to hear the words I have always heard and that my father and mother and their fathers and mothers heard before me. I don’t want to hear the service mumbled and jumbled by a lot of popinjays got up to look like mediaeval saints, which they are not – anything but, most of them, from what I hear. Bowdlerizing the marriage service too! As if the present-day young woman with her bare back, tearing off to immoral plays and reading indecent books, couldn’t stand a few home-truths when she got married. But I have found a quiet little church I like and I am going to it, and so are you, Hilary. The parson behaves like a reasonable man. So make haste and get your hat on.”

  Hilary was still smiling when she obeyed. Miss Priestley was as good as a tonic to her.

  But Hilary’s mourning was by no means satisfactory to Miss Lavinia. She sniffed audibly as she looked at her niece. Hilary’s black frock was lightened by a collar of tucked valenciennes, and her silk stockings and suede shoes were of the palest shade of grey. She wore a pale grey chiffon scarf too, and her small black hat had a large chou of grey velvet ribbon at one side. Grey, also, were the gloves she was wearing.

  But though every line in Miss Lavinia’s countenance was expressive of disapproval, she made no remark upon her niece’s get-up as she turned to the door.

  “Well, good-bye, Fee,” she said as she motioned to Hilary to precede her. “We shall not be long and soon you will be coming out with us.”

  “Aunt Lavinia,” Hilary said reproachfully as they went downstairs, “what is the good of saying things like that to Fee? Even if Dr. Blathwayte’s treatment were able to effect a cure, which I cannot help doubting, I don’t think we could possibly afford it. I can’t see a chance of it.”

  “My good girl, if you used your common sense, Blathwayte’s expenses would soon be paid,” Miss Lavinia remarked shortly. “But we will not discuss that now. We must get on as fast as we can to St. Alphege’s or we shall be late.”

  Somewhat to Hilary’s surprise, in the lounge her aunt told the porter to summon a taxi.

  “False economy to walk to church, especially if there is any prospect of rain,” Miss Lavinia remarked as they got in.

  There did not appear to be any prospect of rain, so far as Hilary could see, but she made no comment.

  She thought St. Alphege’s a dull, bare-looking edifice, and marvelled at her aunt’s taste in churches, as they were marshalled into a narrow, straight-backed seat. The service strictly followed the lines Miss Lavinia had indicated. The organ was badly played, the choir sang out of tune, the parson had a dull voice and read with a lisp. Hilary was not surprised the congregation was small
almost to vanishing point. In the lessons her attention wandered and she gave herself up to blissful day-dreams of a future to be spent with Basil Wilton.

  From it she was abruptly roused by the parson’s voice when he had regained his reading desk after the second lesson.

  “I publish the banns of marriage between James Williams, widower, of the parish of Brentfell in the county of Durham, and Mary Sophia Freeman, spinster, of this parish. This is for the second time of asking. Also between Basil Godfrey Wilton, bachelor, and Iris Mary Houlton, spinster, both of this parish. This is for the third time of asking. If any of you know any just cause or impediment why these persons may not severally be joined in holy matrimony ye are now to declare it.”

  The dull, old church seemed to rock with Hilary. For a moment everything went dark before her eyes, then she rallied her pride to her aid and rose, her head erect, with the rest of the congregation. But of the remainder of the service and of the laboured, stuttering sermon she heard nothing, though she looked as usual, save that her colour was a little higher.

  At last it was over and like an automaton she followed her aunt into the sunlight outside.

  Miss Lavinia hailed a passing taxi.

  “I see why you like St. Alphege’s, Aunt Lavinia,” Hilary said with a fine smile when they had settled themselves.

  Miss Priestley had the grace to look ashamed of herself.

  “Well, my dear child, I knew it was no use my talking. You would never believe a word I said against Wilton. So I thought you should be convinced by the evidence of your own ears.”

  “How did you know?” Hilary asked.

  “A – a friend of mine who is a member of the St. Alphege’s congregation told me. It – it was the fact that both the names had been mentioned in the papers of late and their proximity here that made them noticeable of course. Otherwise we might never have heard anything until the marriage had taken place.”

  “That wouldn’t have mattered,” Hilary said quietly. “I think it would have been better to have been quite open with me, Aunt Lavinia.”

  Miss Lavinia made no rejoinder. But Hilary was not minded to let the rest of the drive pass in silence. She talked away in a fashion that her aunt had not heard since Dr. Bastow’s death. When they reached the hotel, however, Hilary sprang out with a feeling that an intolerable strain was over.

  As she turned to make some remark to her aunt, she collided with a man passing on the pavement.

  He raised his hat with a murmured apology, then paused with a sharp exclamation of surprise.

  “Miss Bastow!”

  Hilary’s recognition was instantaneous, in spite of the alteration the past few weeks had made in the dark face of the man hesitating before her.

  “Dr. Morris!”

  “Yes,” he said quietly.

  He did not attempt to shake hands, but his eyes wandered from the girl’s face to Miss Lavinia’s, then with a gesture that was very familiar to Hilary he snatched off his concealing glasses.

  Seen thus Hilary had often observed how beautiful his deep-set eyes were. Today they had something of the wistful, appealing expression of a dog’s. His face was quite noticeably thinner than at the inquest, but the pallor of the lower part which had attracted attention then was wearing off now. Meeting his gaze momentarily Hilary forgot the horrible suspicion that had been thrown upon him and remembered only that he was one of her dead father’s oldest and dearest friends. She stretched out her hand.

  “Dr. Morris, you look ill. I am so sorry!”

  “I have been feeling ill,” the man responded. “But the touch of your hand, the sound of your voice will do more than anything to help me, Miss Hilary. They show me that you do not – cannot believe –”

  Miss Lavinia’s first glance had been distinctly hostile, but something in his tone, in his words, touched her heart, which was soft enough in spite of her hard exterior. She, too, held out her hand.

  “You look as if country air was what you needed, Dr. Morris. You are shutting yourself up too much in smoky London, I expect. I have found the difference myself since we came up from Rose Cottage. But now, Hilary, we must not keep Fee waiting.”

  Sanford Morris was quick to take the hint. The look of gratitude in his dark eyes was pathetic as he turned away.

  Miss Lavinia and Hilary went to the sitting- room in silence. At the door Hilary paused.

  “I will be back in a minute when I have taken my hat off, Aunt Lavinia. In the meantime perhaps it would be as well if you told Fee why you wanted me to go to church.”

  She went on to her own room. Hardly knowing what she was doing, she closed and bolted the door, and then stood absolutely motionless staring straight in front of her. Certain words seemed to beat upon her brain like hammers.

  “Basil Godfrey Wilton, bachelor... Iris Mary Houlton, spinster... If any of you know just cause or impediment...”

  But of course it was not just cause or impediment that Basil Wilton had asked another girl to marry him, that he had betrayed her faith – he was free, quite free to marry Iris Houlton if he liked. And he was going to. He cared for Iris Houlton. He had forgotten her – Hilary. Or stay – had he forgotten? Or had Iris Houlton’s money tempted him – who was it who had said that she was very rich? She had not been rich when Hilary knew her; she had been poor and sly – oh, very sly! Hilary had always felt that. Then, as she stood there, one little corner of the curtain of thick fog that seemed to have descended on her brain was lifted for a moment and she visualized the future. Always when she had pictured the long years ahead of her she had seen herself as Basil Wilton’s wife, and the life had been enwrapped in a golden haze. Now, now she must put even the very thought of Basil from her – not only would he never belong to her but he would belong to another woman – body and soul. Standing there a sudden wave of passion surged over her. A couple of hours ago she would not have believed herself capable of the feelings that possessed her. Her brown eyes were wide open and the pupils were dilated until the whole eye looked black. Her lips were pressed tightly together, while her nostrils were quivering like those of a thoroughbred horse.

  There came a tap at the door. Her aunt’s voice:

  “Hilary! Hilary!”

  She tried to answer, but for a time no words would come from her dry, parched lips. The knocking went on, the insistent calling, Miss Lavinia’s voice growing alarmed as she received no reply. At last with a hoarse indrawing of her breath Hilary recovered her voice:

  “What is it, Aunt Lavinia? What do you want?”

  “Sir Felix is here,” Miss Lavinia answered in a voice unusually shaken. “He wants to see you, to talk to you about Fee.”

  CHAPTER 13

  “Terrible Murder in the West End! Bride found dead in flat. Disappearance of Bridegroom.”

  “Good God!” Miss Lavinia uttered a sharp exclamation of horror, threw her copy of the “Daily Wire” on the floor, and sat back in her chair, her face for once noticeably paler in hue.

  Hilary looked up from her toast and marmalade.

  “What is the matter, Aunt Lavinia?”

  The two were at breakfast in the cosy little dining-room at Rose Cottage. They had come back to Heathcote the week before. Nothing had yet been settled with regard to Fee’s cure, which seemed to become more expensive in prospect every time it was mentioned.

  Dr. Blathwayte himself had suggested the return to the country. Fee was in no condition to undergo his very strenuous treatment yet, a few months in the pure country air were needed to establish the boy’s health before anything could be attempted. So that now a change had come over Fee. Instead of declining to go into the garden at all, he insisted on sitting on the lawn all day, and even on days which Hilary considered risky.

  Miss Lavinia was apparently too much overcome to speak for a minute; she pointed dramatically to the paper lying on the table in front of her.

  “It – it is the girl!” she ejaculated at last.

  “What is the girl? Who do you mean? Mary An
n Taylor – what has she been doing?” Hilary demanded.

  “Not Mary Anne Taylor – Iris Houlton. She has been killed –murdered – in her flat at Hawksview Mansions,” Miss Lavinia gasped. “I – I never heard of such a thing! What are we coming to, I should like to know?”

  “What!” Hilary, who had been coming round to her aunt, caught the paper up from the floor. “She – she cannot be –”

  “Terrible Murder in the West End!” The headlines loomed large on the front page, and with a sickening feeling of dread Hilary read on.

  Late last night a terrible discovery was made in Hawksview Mansions, a fashionable block of flats in the West End. A maid, living with a young, recently-married couple named Wilton in a large self-contained flat on the second floor, found herself unable to get in or to make anybody hear on her return from her day out. She informed the porter who, while stating that he had seen nothing of Mr. and Mrs. Wilton going out or coming in, advised her to wait, as they had probably come down without his observing them, and gone to some theatre or dancing place. The girl took his advice, after stating that, as Mr. Wilton was more or less of an invalid, she should have thought they would have been more likely to spend a quiet evening at home. But as time went on and there was no sign of the missing couple, the maid, Alice Downes, began to get seriously alarmed. The porter went off duty at 10.30, and before leaving he went up to the flat with the girl. At the flat door nothing could be ascertained but that the flat was apparently empty, since there came no reply to their loud knocking and ringing. At last, the porter, putting his eye to the keyhole to try whether anything could be seen of the interior of the flat, made the discovery that the key was in the lock on the inside. The caretaker was at once summoned and the police were rung up. Without further delay the door of the flat was forced and in the drawing-room, a room to the right of the entrance, the body of Mrs. Wilton was found lying on the hearthrug. It was thought at first that death was the result of an accident, as the head was lying on the steel curb and blood had apparently flowed freely on to the tiled hearth, but the medical evidence showed that Mrs. Wilton had been shot twice, once from the front, the bullet from this passing through the body without killing the victim, who probably fell backwards, hitting her head on the curb. Seeing that his terrible work was still unfinished, the murderer appears to have deliberately shot her through the ear. Death, according to the reports, must have taken place soon after five o’clock, directly after the maid had gone out. An extraordinary feature of the case is that the husband, Mr. Basil Wilton, has apparently disappeared, and, at the time of going to press, no clue to his whereabouts has been discovered. Portraits of the victim and of the scene of the tragedy are on the back page.