“Better take things quietly.” It was the same voice speaking, the man’s voice. It was most, most unbelievably, Mr. Bronson’s voice. “Better take things quietly,” it said; and with the last words Mr. Bronson himself came into view and stood a couple of yards away, looking at her gravely.
“Mr. Bronson!” said Amabel.
Mr. Bronson put up a deprecating hand.
“I regret the necessity very much, very much indeed, Mrs. Grey,” he said. “I hope you will believe me when I say this.”
“Mr. Bronson, are you mad?” said Amabel. She spoke faintly. The shock, the surprise were overwhelming. Her mind refused to work. She could only look at Mr. Bronson and wonder whether the whole scene was part of an unquiet dream.
“We are all mad; but some of us have a method in our madness,” said Mr. Bronson quietly. “It was in the highest degree unfortunate for all of us that you should have discovered the passage in the wall this afternoon. You will realize how very unfortunate it was when I tell you that we were on the point of abandoning our attempts to make you leave the house.”
“Your attempts?”
“Yes, it was getting too dangerous. We hadn’t anticipated so much difficulty. Other tenants were more easily frightened away. And after Mr. Forsham began to mix himself up in the business we decided not to go on with it. You might have finished your six months’ tenancy in peace if you hadn’t stumbled on that passage by a most unfortunate accident—I suppose it was an accident?”
“Yes, it was an accident.”
Mr. Bronson heaved a sigh of relief.
“Mr. Forsham, then, knows nothing about it?”
Amabel shook her head.
“Mr. Bronson, I don’t understand—” she began.
“My dear Mrs. Grey, I wish you didn’t have to understand,” said Mr. Bronson. “The fact is that it doesn’t suit me to have the Dower House occupied, because I use the cellars for business purposes.”
“Mr. Forsham went through the cellars,” said Amabel. (What was it that Julian had said about a bricked-up door?)
“He didn’t go through these cellars, my dear lady. They were bricked up a good many years ago, as they were not considered safe. I made it my business to have them repaired, and also to put in thorough order the extremely useful passage which runs underground from this house to Forsham Old House. It only wanted a little shoring up, and it has been most useful. I may say, in fact, that we couldn’t possibly have managed without it.”
As he spoke, the door behind her opened; someone came in. Mr. Bronson looked past Amabel and asked sharply: “Well, did you manage it?” The answer came in a voice which Amabel knew, and did not know:
“Perfectly. Why not? There was nothing difficult.”
It was not Jenny’s voice: it was a deeper, more cultivated voice than Jenny’s.
The woman who had spoken came forward, and touched Bronson on the arm.
“What next?” she asked. “What next?”
Amabel stared at her. It was Jenny—and yet not Jenny. At the first glance no one would have known the difference; but after the first glance there were a hundred differences. The likeness was in the hair, the eyes, the dead white skin. The differences were innumerable. Who was it?
Mr. Bronson was speaking.
“Go up to the Old House, and wait there. When Forsham finds her gone, and knows I was the last person to see her, he’ll come up there hot-foot—bound to. Have him shown in the morning-room, and leave him there whilst you ring through to me. You’d better get along at once.”
“All right, there’s no hurry. I’ve got to get fit to be seen first anyhow.”
It was the way in which they absolutely ignored her presence that brought home to as Amabel the fact of her extreme danger. They would not speak like this, ignore her like this, make their plans for deceiving Julian in her presence, unless that presence was negligible. It came home to her with fearful distinctness that, as far as these people were concerned, she had ceased to exist. She watched the woman cross the room and stand before a mirror that hung on the farther wall—the sort of cheap, common thing that one buys in a village shop. Under the mirror stood a littered table.
The woman who wasn’t Jenny stood there, unconcernedly making her toilet. She was busy first with her face; then the red hair was all brushed up from brow, ears and neck, and pinned closely at the top of the head; finally a black wig was lifted, put on, carefully adjusted.
It was Mademoiselle Lemoine who turned round with all likeness to Jenny gone. The disappearance of the red hair took most of it. Black brows and lashes so darkened the eyes that they too lost their resemblance to Jenny’s pale, red-rimmed eyes. The change was most astonishing.
“You would not have recognized me, Mrs. Grey, would you?” said Mademoiselle Lemoine, using the trilled “r” and the slight French accent.
She did not wait for an answer, but turned and went out through a door in the right-hand wall. Amabel had a glimpse of a passage beyond. Then the door was shut, and she and of Mr. Bronson were alone again.
Amabel Grey was a brave woman. The consciousness of danger steadied her nerves and cleared her mind as perhaps nothing else would have done. As soon as the door was shut, she spoke:
“Mr. Bronson,” she said, “I don’t ask you why you have done this. But you can’t really imagine that I shall not be missed and searched for.”
“Oh, no,” said Mr. Bronson. “You will be missed, and you will be searched for—you are quite right there. Naturally, I have fore-seen all that, and have taken my precautions—my business demands a good deal of foresight and attention to detail.” He spoke in quite a natural, ordinary voice. His whole manner, in fact, was just what it had been in the impressive drawing-room at Forsham Old House. It was very difficult to realize that, though the conventional manner remained, all the sanctions, the laws which civilization imposes, had ceased to operate. Here were not Mr. Bronson and Mrs. Grey, pleasant acquaintances, but a dangerous man who had broken the law, and a woman who stood in his way as an inconvenient witness.
“If Mr. Forsham has not already returned, he will be back by half-past six,” said Amabel quietly.
“Oh, he’s not back yet,” said Mr. Bronson. “I suppose you thought he might be because of the telephone bell; but, of course you must realize that the bell was rung to get you into the bedroom—quite a simple device really. Mr. Forsham will arrive by the six-twenty, and when he gets up to the house he will find rather a shaky scrawl from you saying that you can’t stand it any longer. He will draw his own conclusions.”
Amabel cried out very sharply. Mr. Bronson’s gay talk of Angela and the games they were to play to-morrow. His “Now, you write the same sentence at the other end of the paper.” Her own thought of how appropriate that sentence was: “I can’t stand it any longer.” She saw herself writing the words with a hand not over-steady; and she saw Julian reading them. The thought hurt so much that her mind recoiled. She spoke with a sudden anger that sent a flush into her cheeks:
“You use Angela as a decoy then! Haven’t you any shame at all?”
Mr. Branson’s brow darkened; for the first time the conventional manner failed him.
“Here, none of that,” he said roughly. “None of that, or you’ll be sorry. Angela doesn’t come into this at all, I tell you. She’s as honest as they’re made. My business is my business, and she don’t know anything about it. Angela’s as good a girl as your own.”
So Angela was the vulnerable spot. Amabel looked at him with contempt, and spoke, partly of design, and partly on an impulse of real disgust;
“You say she’s a good girl, and you put her with a woman like Miss Lemoine!”
The colour rushed into the man’s face. For a moment Amabel thought he would have struck her. She saw him control himself with an effort, and heard him mutter:
“Mind what you’re saying. I won’t have it.” His voice rose. “You mind what you’re saying, and keep a civil tongue in your head. Miss Lemoine’s my wife
.”
Chapter XXXV
Julian Forsham turned from the telephone. The words F. Miller rang in his ears. Miller around whom his chief suspicions had clustered—Miller was one of Piggy’s men! From anyone but Piggy himself he could hardly have believed it. Piggy having said it, it was true; and since it was true, he must get into touch with Miller at once. He was not on the telephone, but Edward would send down a note. He crossed to the writing-table and sat down. Miller had better go to the Dower House. He himself must see Bronson, since Bronson had been the last person to see Amabel. He would see him, and then join Miller. He took pen and paper and wrote rapidly:
“DEAR MR. MILLER,”
“I owe you an apology. Julian Le Mesurier has just given me your name and referred me to you for assistance. Mrs. Grey has disappeared, leaving the enclosed note, and I am in great anxiety. Bronson saw her last, and I am going to see him now. Please meet me at the Dower House. I will come straight on there.”
He signed and addressed the note, and went in search of the Berkeleys. Two minutes later he was out in the rain on his way to Forsham Old House.
Miss Lemoine crossed the hall as the door opened to admit him. She dismissed the servant with a nod, and took Julian into the morning-room.
“Mr. Bronson is finishing some letters,” she said. “Sit down, and I will tell him you are here.”
He was still standing in frowning impatience when Mr. Bronson came in five or six minutes later.
“So sorry to have kept you waiting,” he said in pleasant apology.
“Mr. Bronson,” said Julian abruptly, “we are in distress about Mrs. Grey. She has left the Dower House suddenly, and—well, I believe you saw her this afternoon. Perhaps you can tell me whether she spoke of any such intention.”
“Dear me!” said Mr. Bronson. “I’m very sorry to hear this. No, she certainly did not speak of going away.” He seemed to hesitate.
“She didn’t speak of going to see anyone?”
“No, she didn’t. She did not, in fact, speak very much at all. I looked in with a message from my daughter. Mrs. Grey seemed depressed, I thought. She asked me to stay to tea, but I could not do so. I wish now—” he broke off and looked at Julian with concern—“Mr. Forsham, you do not think?—”
“No!” said Julian almost violently. “No no, of course not!”
When Julian had left the house, Mr. Bronson went back to his study. He found Miss Lemoine there, walking up and down with a light, uneasy step. She waited till he shut the door, and then broke out quickly with:
“What did he say? What did he want? He looked dreadful.”
Mr. Bronson raised his eyebrows.
“Do control yourself,” he said. “You’re a great deal too fond of scenes, Annie, and I simply haven’t any use for them. Mr. Forsham naturally wanted to know how I had left Mrs. Grey. I told him that she seemed very depressed.”
“Was that all?”
“Pretty well.”
There was a pause. Miss Lemoine came nearer, dropped her voice.
“Heavens, how glad I shall be to be out of this! When do we start?”
He looked at her coldly.
“When do we start? We don’t start. What are you thinking about?”
“Charles, what do you mean? We ought to get away as soon as possible.”
“I tell you we’re not going.”
“But we must, we must! Do you suppose they’ll make no search for Mrs. Grey? I tell you Julian Forsham will pull the Dower House down to find her.”
Mr. Bronson turned the key in the study door. Then he walked across to the fireplace, pressed an unseen spring, and opened a door in the panelling—all quite casually and as a matter of custom.
“I tell you he’ll find her if he has to pull the place about his ears,” she said.
“Oh,” said Mr. Bronson, “they’ll find her soon enough, my dear Annie. I’ve always intended that they should find her.”
Anastasie Lemoine, who had been Annie Brown, came quickly over to him, and looked into his face.
“Charles,” she said in a shaken voice, “what do you mean? How are they to find her? Where are they to find her?”
“In the river,” said Mr. Bronson.
Annie cried out and caught his arm. He turned an expressionless face on her.
“What else did you think, you fool?” he said.
“Not that, not that—never that! You don’t mean it—you don’t really mean it!”
“Of course I mean it. And I won’t have a scene about it either. From the moment she found the passage it was inevitable. It was her or us. What did you think?”
Annie had drawn back. She looked, not at him, but at the floor. Her hands gripped one another. Mr. Bronson shrugged his shoulders, and gave her an ugly look.
“I’m not going to have sulks any more than I’m going to have scenes.”
“I won’t have a hand in murder,” said Annie in a strange voice.
Bronson laid a heavy hand on her shoulder.
“Here, none of that! Do you hear? You’re not asked to have a hand in it. Why do you go asking questions if you’re so squeamish? There won’t be any question of murder, my dear Annie. Mrs. Grey found the Dower House very gloomy. The stories about it weighed on her mind. She became very much depressed.” He shrugged his shoulders again. “She’s found in the river, having left behind her an agitated scrawl saying that she can bear it no longer. The verdict will, I think, hardly be murder, and”—she looked up for a moment, saw his face, and shuddered—“I don’t think, no, I really don’t think that Mr. Forsham will ever get another tenant for the Dower House. It’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good, you see,” concluded Mr. Bronson.
He turned as if to go; but with a sudden movement Annie sprang between him and the open door in the panelling.
“No, no,” she said in a low, desperate voice. “No, Charles, no—Don’t do it—Don’t!”
He took hold of her roughly. All at once her manner changed. She said in a quick, sobbing whisper,
“Charles, Angela’s coming! I hear her.”
His grasp relaxed. She slammed the panel to. As he half turned to listen, they could both hear Angela’s clear, boyish whistle, her firm tread. Annie pushed him towards the door.
“Quick! Unlock it! What’ll she think?” she whispered.
Mr. Bronson could move quickly when he liked, and quietly too. He opened the door as Angela reached it, and met her with a smile.
Angela Bronson was dressed for dinner. She had on a bright blue velvet frock. She looked very large, healthy, and cheerful.
“You’ll be late for dinner, both of you,” she said with her rather boisterous laugh. “No good jawing me about punctuality, and then setting such an awful example.”
Miss Lemoine came across the room.
“Angela is quite right,” she said. She glanced at the watch on her wrist, and then held it up for Mr. Bronson to see. “Why, look how late it is. The servants will surely think that something has happened.” She passed behind Angela, and let her eyes dwell warningly on Bronson’s face. “They will certainly think that something has happened; and that will never do. Will you not finish your business afterwards? Nowadays it is necessary to consider the servants all the time.” An agonized meaning underlay the light tone.
Bronson met her glance, first with hesitation, and then with a curt nod.
“All right, let’s get dinner over. I won’t be ten minutes dressing. I suppose I must dress—eh, Angie?”
“Of course you must,” said Angela, laughing. She put her arm through his, and all three went through the hall together.
At the foot of the stairs Bronson turned back.
“Now, what does he want?” said Angela impatiently. “Mam’selle, you’re as white as a sheet—you want your dinner; and he’ll be another age, I suppose.”
But Bronson merely locked the study door on the outside, and came back with the key in his pocket.
“I’ve got a lot of papers lying a
bout,” he explained; and they went upstairs.
“He doesn’t trust me—he doesn’t trust me. He’s locked the door because he doesn’t trust me. Oh, what am I going to do?” The words went round and round in Annie’s head. They said themselves over and over whilst she exchanged a couple of laughing sentences with Angela.
“Your father says ten minutes; but I must have fifteen at least.”
When her door was shut, she leaned against it, shaken with terror, irresolute. If only he had not locked the study door, she could have made a bargain with Amabel Grey—something that would have given them a few hours’ start. But now—what to do now? She sickened at the memory of Bronson’s face when he said, “They’ll find her in the river.” Bronson’s face, and Julian’s—the two faces were before her eyes. Something rose up in her and ended the moment of wavering fear. She drew a long breath, and stood up straight. Charles would be ten minutes, neither more nor less. He must think that she was dressing. She went quickly to the bathroom that opened out of her bedroom, and set the water running. She locked the bathroom door and put the key in her pocket. Then she opened her own door a cautious inch, and looked out. The corridor was empty. Bronson’s door opposite to hers was shut; she could hear him moving about. Without the least noise she slipped into the passage, closed the door, and ran down the great staircase. There was a footman in the hall—she thought he looked at her strangely. The front door was impossible—he would think her mad. She turned at the foot of the stairs, and walked with her usual slow grace to the morning-room.
If Angela were there, what should she do? She had no plan, really—only the impulse that had risen in her and which was driving her in spite of herself. The morning-room was empty and dark; Angela was not there. The faint glow of the fire just thinned the darkness into dusk. Upstairs she heard a door shut—voices. Next moment she had crossed the room, parted the curtains, and was slipping back the bolt of the glass door behind them. The air blew in, cold and sweet. She stepped out upon the terrace and closed the window behind her.
The Dower House Mystery Page 21
