The Blue Diamond

by Annie Haynes

  There was a moment’s silence, followed by a medley of negatives, in the midst of which the head housemaid’s voice made itself heard:

  “We have been in every room on the first and second floor, Sir Arthur, but there isn’t as much as a sign of her.”

  “It is quite evident that I shall have to look for her myself,” Sir Arthur said, with an attempt to laugh that ended in a failure. Truth to tell, the affair was beginning to puzzle him more than he would have cared to confess, and his face, as he turned down the passage leading to the small library, wore a distinctly uneasy expression.

  There was a general move to follow him, but he held up his hand.

  “Not every one, please! You, Jenkins—and Parkyns. Mother, if you could persuade Mavis to go to Dorothy—”

  “Yes, Mavis dear, and see how that poor thing is getting on. Take care she suspects nothing of this, or she will be very upset.”

  Somewhat unwillingly, Mavis obeyed, and Lady Laura joined her son.

  “The morning-room first, Arthur. You have not turned the lights off, I hope, Jenkins? Really, this search is making me feel quite creepy.”

  “No, my lady,” the butler responded. “As soon as Minnie told me the nurse couldn’t be found, and that it was your ladyship’s wish that she should be looked for, I concluded that it would be better that the lights should be left on.”

  “Quite right, Jenkins,” Sir Arthur assented as he threw open the door of the morning-room and looked in.

  Certainly there was no trace of the missing nurse to be seen in the cheerful, modern-looking room with its bright fire, its carefully-shaded lights and pretty bright furniture. Nevertheless, the young man went in and looked under the big Chesterfield, behind the heavy velvet curtains and the heavier pieces of furniture.

  “Nothing here—so much is certain. Now for the small library,” he said. “Lock this door, Jenkins. Nobody is in there now, and nobody shall go in there until I have finished looking round.”

  The small library was at the end of the short passage out of which the morning-room opened. A door opposite to that of the latter room gave easy access to the still-room and the housekeeper’s apartments.

  Sir Arthur touched the handle doubtfully.

  “Could she have made a mistake, gone through here and got bewildered among the passages at the back?” he debated.

  “I could stake my oath she never came through there, Sir Arthur,” Mrs. Parkyns took the answer upon herself. “I was there in my room with the door open for above an hour just about that time.”

  “Still, if you had your back to the door and she passed quickly,” Sir Arthur argued. “However”—as she sniffed displeasedly—“that can wait; every passage in the house will have to be looked through presently if we don’t find her.”

  He went into the library; its severely plain furniture and book-lined walls afforded little scope for concealment of any kind. Sir Arthur glanced under the table, and then moved towards the door at the other end of the room, stumbling over some small object on the floor.

  “Hallo! What is this?” he exclaimed as he picked it up. “To whom does this belong?”

  It was an ordinary tobacco-pouch with a spray of flowers worked across. Jenkins shook his head.

  “I couldn’t say, Sir Arthur. Perhaps one of the gentlemen’s.”

  “At any rate, I suppose Nurse Marston doesn’t smoke tobacco, so it has nothing to do with her,” and he threw it on the table.

  The second door into the room led into the conservatory. It was standing ajar now, and Sir Arthur turned to it. “I say, mother, perhaps, thinking you were keeping her waiting a long time, she went through here to the drawing-room.”

  Lady Laura stiffened perceptibly.

  “She would hardly do that, Arthur, when I was engaged with my guests.

  “Or she has gone for a walk. By Jove, I dare say that is the explanation of it all!” Arthur went on, improving his opportunity.

  Jenkins stepped forward.

  “If you will allow me, Sir Arthur-— No, I felt sure I was not mistaken; the door into the garden is bolted inside and locked. Her ladyship bade me always see that it was fastened at six o’clock, to prevent tramps getting in, and I don’t believe there has been a day that I have been a quarter of an hour late. She couldn’t have gone out this way, Sir! Arthur, without leaving the door open behind her.”

  This argument was unanswerable, and with a cursory glance round the drawing-room Sir Arthur led his mother back to the hall.

  “Do you see the time, mother?” he said glancing at the big clock at the foot of the stairs. “A quarter to two. Time you were in bed, or we shall be having you laid up. Jenkins and I will have another look round and then I shall turn in myself. One of the maids will sit up in the nurse’s place, I dare say.”

  “I will myself, Sir Arthur,” volunteered Mrs. Parkyns. “It will be just the same to me, my lady. I shouldn’t get a wink of sleep if I went to bed, I know that.”

  “I do not believe that I shall, either,” said Lady Laura, hesitating as her son bent to kiss her. “Arthur, where can she be? You don’t think anything has happened to her?”

  “Happened to her, not it!” her son said reassuringly. “Don’t you get nervous, mother. She has gone out for a walk or something. Back to her mother’s in a huff, I dare say. Jenkins’ bolts and bars won’t convince me.”

  Lady Laura looked somewhat comforted.

  “Don’t you think it would be better to send to her mother, Arthur?”

  “It might frighten the poor old thing into a fit,” her son said lightly, though over her head his eyes met the butler’s meaningly. “I will walk down the first thing in the morning, if you like. Good night, and don’t alarm yourself, mother.”

  An hour later there was a light tap at Sir Arthur’s door. He opened it instantly.

  “Any news?”

  “No, Sir Arthur. Her mother has not seen her since she came up, and is sure she had no intention of leaving.”

  “Um! The mystery thickens! What do you make of it yourself, Jenkins? Is it possible that there is a young man in the question?”

  The butler glanced away from his master’s face into the lighted room beyond.

  “I never heard of one, Sir Arthur. The Marstons have always been folks to keep themselves to themselves. I have been wondering”—he flicked a speck carefully from his immaculate waistcoat—“whether it would not be as well for me just to go over and speak to Mr. Davenant first thing in the morning.”

  “Why Mr. Davenant?”

  “Well, sir, he—they have always been great friends, Sir Arthur—was talking to her in the avenue this afternoon for some time. It is possible that she gave him some hint of her intentions, sir.”

  There was a pause. Then Sir Arthur said as he turned to close the door:

  “I do not think that is at all likely, Jenkins. Had Mr. Davenant known anything of the kind he would have informed us.”

  The butler bowed.

  “Naturally he would, Sir Arthur.”

  “Good night.”

  “Good night, Sir Arthur.”

  Chapter Six

  “SUPERINTENDENT Stokes would be glad if you could spare him a few minutes, Sir Arthur.”

  Sir Arthur tossed aside his palette impatiently.

  “Show him into the small library and say that I will be with him directly, James.”

  “Yes, Sir Arthur.”

  The young man rumpled up his fair hair with a sigh of despair as he stood up and surveyed his morning’s work. His great canvas was pretty well covered—the accessories, the towers of Camelot, Arthur and Guinevere, and the knights and ladies of their court were all completed, even the costume of the “lily-maid” as she lay in her golden barge. But Elaine’s face remained a blank—Arthur’s most strenuous efforts had failed to transfer to canvas the lovely features that, once seen, had made so strong an impression upon his imagination, and anything else would, he felt sure, only fall short of his ideal.

&nb
sp; With an impatient shrug he told himself that he was a failure from an artistic point of view, and the next moment dwelt with a ray of hope on the possibilities of obtaining future sittings.

  Before he left the room he glanced carelessly at the sketches lying on a stool beside him; all of them had the same fair, clear-cut features, the same large deep-blue eyes, but none of them, as it seemed to him, did anything like justice to the flawless perfection of the face that for one minute had lain on his breast. He glanced irresolutely at the fireplace, half inclined to burn them all, and then, changing his mind, threw them upon a small table already littered with half-dried tubes of paint and with brushes and tins of turpentine.

  There was a step outside and Dr. Grieve’s voice hailed him through the open door.

  “Good morning, Sir Arthur. I am glad to tell you that the patient is doing better this morning—decidedly better.”

  Sir Arthur’s face lighted up. For the week that had elapsed since he was called in, Dr. Grieve had insisted upon keeping his patient in bed. The young man began to hope that the improvement he spoke of might be the beginning of better things and to dream of the sittings for the Elaine for which he was longing.

  “I am very glad to hear it,” he said heartily. “The memory, doctor, how is that?”

  The doctor’s suave countenance became momentarily overclouded and he shook his head.

  “No better, Sir Arthur, I grieve to say; I can see no improvement there at all. There is nothing for that but to trust to time. You have heard nothing as to her friends yet, I presume?”

  “Nothing at all,” Sir Arthur replied gloomily. “I really hardly know what to do about it, doctor. One naturally hesitates about calling the police to our aid, but so far the guarded advertisements that we have caused to be inserted have met with no response, and we have relied upon her memory’s returning before long. I presume you think it is sure to do so eventually?”

  The doctor spread out his hands.

  “My dear Sir Arthur, this is just one of those cases in which it is impossible to predict the future with any degree of certainty. You see, we are working in the dark, as it were. If we had any idea of the nature of the predisposing cause, so to speak, the matter would be so much simpler. If some overwhelming shock, for instance, had set up the cerebral excitement which is undoubtedly present, then possibly another shock might bring about a reaction. In any other event one can but hope that with returning bodily health the memory may strengthen.”

  Sir Arthur did not reply immediately; his face, as he turned to accompany the doctor down the corridor, was grave and preoccupied.

  The doctor went on:

  “This continued absence of Nurse Marston worries her, no doubt. Lady Laura tells me that she is continually inquiring whether the nurse has returned. I can’t make that affair out myself at all, Sir Arthur. It is as great a mystery as that other one—how on earth this poor young lady, in the state she was, came into your park. I can’t see daylight in either matter at all.”

  “Nor I,” Sir Arthur acknowledged as he paused at the foot of the stairs. “My mother may have told you that we have sent for Superintendent Stokes this morning. I hear great things of his ability and possibly he may be able to suggest something in the matter of Nurse Marston.”

  “No, Lady Laura didn’t mention it,” the doctor replied, drawing on his gloves. “But I think you are right, Sir Arthur. I quite think you are right. If only for her mother’s sake, one would wish to elucidate the mystery that hangs over her departure and discover her present whereabouts.”

  “Naturally,” Sir Arthur assented. “Will you come and help to interview Stokes, if your time is not too valuable this morning? He is in the small library now.”

  Dr. Grieve’s eyes sparkled. An arrant old gossip, he asked nothing better than to make a third at the interview. Nevertheless, for professional reasons he thought it best to dissemble a little. Drawing out his old-fashioned repeater, he sounded it.

  “Ah! I have no appointment this morning until noon; that gives me an hour to place at your disposal, Sir Arthur, I am sure that any advice or assistance I can give is at your service.”

  Sir Arthur led the way to the small library, Superintendent Stokes was standing near the window. He was a big, burly man, who had been only recently appointed to the Lockford constabulary, but he came with a great reputation from his preceding post, and was reported to owe his rapid rise from the ranks entirely to his cleverness in solving difficult cases, though, looking at his self-satisfied countenance, Sir Arthur was inclined to fancy that his abilities must have been considerably over-rated.

  A keener observer, however, might have noted that the small, deeply-set eyes had a trick of glancing at most things, that the full-lipped mouth was not without a certain measure of shrewdness.

  He saluted as Sir Arthur entered.

  “Good morning, Sir Arthur.”

  “Good morning, Stokes,” the young man returned genially. “I suppose you have been over the house? I told Jenkins to show you round. Sit down.”

  “Thank you, Sir Arthur, thank you,” the superintendent replied as he took the chair the baronet indicated. “Yes, I have just looked about me a bit.”

  “What do you make of things?”

  Superintendent Stokes glanced idly through the window.

  “It is early to form a definite opinion, Sir Arthur. The only point I am clear about is that some one who was in your house that night, either guest or servant, knows where Nurse Marston is to be found, or how she left the house.”

  “You think so?” Arthur’s tone betrayed some surprise. “The servants have all denied it most positively. As for guests, they are out of the question, certainly.”

  “Certainly, Sir Arthur.”

  To Dr. Grieve, looking from one to the other of the speakers, the superintendent’s tone hardly suggested complete acquiescence with this view. He waited, eagerly on the alert for any suspicion of scandal.

  Superintendent Stokes stroked his clean-shaven chin and looked at the fireplace.

  “As for the servants denying it, Sir Arthur—well, if they had their reasons no doubt they could keep their own counsel. There is one other possibility, however. Could she have slipped out when your guests were leaving? Mr. Jenkins is very positive she did not.”

  Arthur shook his head.

  “I think that is improbable in the extreme. James would be at the door, and Jenkins and Charles, as well as myself, a good deal of the time in the hall. No, I think that idea must be dismissed at once.”

  “Then there is nothing to fall back upon but the other theory—a confidant—that I can see. Mr. Jenkins tells me he fastened all the doors and French windows himself that night at six o’clock. It is an early hour for closing, Sir Arthur.”

  “It is,” the young man assented, “and an inconvenient one. It is a fad of Lady Laura’s. You may have heard that some suspicious looking characters got in the house through one of the side entrances about six months ago, and the affair naturally alarmed my mother; this early closing”—with a laugh—“has been the result.”

  “Ah, yes, I think I heard of that affair!” Superintendent Stokes said thoughtfully. “I have made a few inquiries on my own account since you spoke to me, Sir Arthur, but so far I have not discovered anything calculated to elucidate matters. Take it altogether, it is one of the queerest cases I have ever been engaged upon. That disappearance of the tobacco pouch, now, what do you make of that? It might have given us a clue.”

  “Oh, I scarcely think so! It might have been there for days.”

  “Or it might not,” the superintendent remarked sapiently. “At any rate, I should have liked to have had a look at it. Worked with flowers, your butler tells me.”

  “Oh, yes. Just an ordinary-looking pouch, I have seen hundreds like it,” Sir Arthur replied carelessly. He was inclined to think Superintendent Stokes something of a Jack in office. “I threw it down on the table, and the next morning it could not be found. Still, its loss can
scarcely be regarded as of any importance.”

  The superintendent made no further comment. He apparently waited for further information, and his eyes glanced indifferently round the room.

  Dr. Grieve leaned forward.

  “I must protest against that tobacco-pouch being regarded as having any bearing on the case whatever,” he remarked fussily. “Nurse Marston and her mother have been known to me for years—respectable, well-conducted women, both of them. The idea that is apparently gaining ground in some quarters that a clandestine love affair is at the bottom of the girl’s disappearance is, I am persuaded, entirely without foundation.”

  The superintendent slowly brought his eyes back from the survey of the room and fixed them on the doctor’s face.

  “I hope you may be right, sir, I am sure. You see, I have not been long at Lockford, and the opinions of a gentleman like yourself, who has known the folks all their lives, must be invaluable to a stranger such as I am. The young woman came here on your recommendation, I understand, sir?”

  “Certainly! I knew her to be a thoroughly capable and conscientious nurse, and when her name was mentioned to me by Mr. Garth Davenant I had no hesitation in agreeing with him that she was an eminently suitable person to undertake the case.”

  The superintendent stroked his chin once more thoughtfully for a moment.

  “Ah, Mr. Garth Davenant spoke of her!” he repeated. “I don’t know that gentleman very well, but I happened to be in Exeter some little time ago, and I think I saw him walking with this very young woman.”

  “In Exeter? Scarcely, I should imagine,” the doctor remarked.

  “I hardly think I was mistaken,” Superintendent Stokes went on deferentially. “Still, if you—”

  “Old Mrs. Marston was years in the employ of Lady Davenant; she nursed both of the sons, and I know that Lady Davenant has the highest opinion both of Mrs. Marston and her daughter,” Sir Arthur interposed haughtily. He was inclined to resent the present trend of the conversation. “I know that Sir John Davenant and Garth respect her very highly, and her daughter also.”