THE BLOOD-RED CROSS
L. T. MEADE AND ROBERT EUSTACE
In the month of November in the year 1899 I found myself a guest in the house of one of my oldest friends—George Rowland. His beautiful place in Yorkshire was an ideal holiday resort. It went by the name of Rowland’s Folly, and had been built on the site of a former dwelling in the reign of the first George. The house was now replete with every modern luxury. It, however, very nearly cost its first owner, if not the whole of his fortune, yet the most precious heirloom of the family. This was a pearl necklace of almost fabulous value. It had been secured as booty by a certain Geoffrey Rowland at the time of the Battle of Agincourt, had originally been the property of one of the Dukes of Genoa, and had even for a short time been in the keeping of the Pope. From the moment that Geoffrey Rowland took possession of the necklace there had been several attempts made to deprive him of it. Sword, fire, water, poison, had all been used, but ineffectually. The necklace with its eighty pearls, smooth, symmetrical, pear-shaped, of a translucent white colour and with a subdued iridescent sheen, was still in the possession of the family, and was likely to remain there, as George Rowland told me, until the end of time. Each bride wore the necklace on her wedding-day, after which it was put into the strong-room and, as a rule, never seen again until the next bridal occasion. The pearls were roughly estimated as worth from two to three thousand pounds each, but the historical value of the necklace put the price almost beyond the dreams of avarice.
It was reported that in the autumn of that same year an American millionaire had offered to buy it from the family at their own price, but as no terms would be listened to the negotiations fell through.
George Rowland belonged to the oldest and proudest family in the West Riding, and no man looked a better gentleman or more fit to uphold ancient dignities than he. He was proud to boast that from the earliest days no stain of dishonour had touched his house, that the women of the family were as good as the men, their blood pure, their morals irreproachable, their ideas lofty.
I went to Rowland’s Folly in November, and found a pleasant, hospitable, and cheerful hostess in Lady Kennedy, Rowland’s only sister. Antonia Ripley was, however, the centre of all interest. Rowland was engaged to Antonia, and the history was romantic. Lady Kennedy told me all about it.
“She is a penniless girl without family,” remarked the good woman, somewhat snappishly. “I can’t imagine what George was thinking of.”
“How did your brother meet her?” I asked.
“We were both in Italy last autumn; we were staying in Naples, at the Vesuve. An English lady was staying there of the name of Studley. She died while we were at the hotel. She had under her charge a young girl, the same Antonia who is now engaged to my brother. Before her death she begged of us to befriend her, saying that the child was without money and without friends. All Mrs. Studley’s money died with her. We promised, not being able to do otherwise. George fell in love almost at first sight. Little Antonia was provided for by becoming engaged to my brother. I have nothing to say against the girl, but I dislike this sort of match very much. Besides, she is more foreign than English.”
“Cannot Miss Ripley tell you anything about her history?”
“Nothing, except that Mrs. Studley adopted her when she was a tiny child. She says, also, that she has a dim recollection of a large building crowded with people, and a man who stretched out his arms to her and was taken forcibly away. That is all. She is quite a nice child, and amiable, with touching ways and a pathetic face; but no one knows what her ancestry was. Ah, there you are, Antonia! What is the matter now?”
The girl tripped across the room. She was like a young fawn; of a smooth, olive complexion—dark of eye and mysteriously beautiful, with the graceful step which is seldom granted to an English girl.
“My lace dress has come,” she said. “Markham is unpacking it—but the bodice is made with a low neck.”
Lady Kennedy frowned.
“You are too absurd, Antonia,” she said. “Why won’t you dress like other girls? I assure you that peculiarity of yours of always wearing your dress high in the evening annoys George.”
“Does it?” she answered, and she stepped back and put her hand to her neck just below the throat—a constant habit of hers, as I afterwards had occasion to observe.
“It disturbs him very much,” said Lady Kennedy. “He spoke to me about it only yesterday. Please understand, Antonia, that at the ball you cannot possibly wear a dress high to your throat. It cannot be permitted.”
“I shall be properly dressed on the night of the ball,” replied the girl.
Her face grew crimson, then deadly pale.
“It only wants a fortnight to that time, but I shall be ready.”
There was a solemnity about her words. She turned and left the room.
“Antonia is a very trying character,” said Lady Kennedy. “Why won’t she act like other girls? She makes such a fuss about wearing a proper evening dress that she tries my patience—but she is all crotchets.”
“A sweet little girl for all that,” was my answer.
“Yes; men like her.”
Soon afterwards, as I was strolling, on the terrace, I met Miss Ripley. She was sitting in a low chair. I noticed how small, and slim, and young she looked, and how pathetic was the expression of her little face. When she saw me she seemed to hesitate; then she came to my side.
“May I walk with you, Mr. Druce?” she asked.
“I am quite at your service,” I answered. “Where shall we go?”
“It doesn’t matter. I want to know if you will help me.”
“Certainly, if I can, Miss Ripley.”
“It is most important. I want to go to London.”
“Surely that is not very difficult?”
“They won’t allow me to go alone, and they are both very busy. I have just sent a telegram to a friend. I want to see her. I know she will receive me. I want to go tomorrow. May I venture to ask that you should be my escort?”
“My dear Miss Ripley, certainly,” I said. “I will help you with pleasure.”
“It must be done,” she said, in a low voice. “I have put it off too long. When I marry him he shall not be disappointed.”
“I do not understand you, I said, but I will go with you with the greatest willingness.”
She smiled; and the next day, much to my own amazement, I found myself travelling first-class up to London, with little Miss Ripley as my companion. Neither Rowland nor his sister had approved; but Antonia had her own way, and the fact that I would escort her cleared off some difficulties.
During our journey she bent towards me and said, in a low tone:—
“Have you ever heard of that most wonderful, that great woman, Madame Sara?”
I looked at her intently.
“I have certainly heard of Madame Sara,” I said, with emphasis, “but I sincerely trust that you have nothing to do with her.”
“I have known her almost all my life,” said the girl. “Mrs. Studley knew her also. I love her very much. I trust her. I am going to see her now.”
“What do you mean?”
“It was to her I wired yesterday. She will receive me; she will help me. I am returning to the Folly tonight. Will you add to your kindness by escorting me home?”
“Certainly.”
At Euston I put my charge into a hansom, arranging to meet her on the departure platform at twenty minutes to six that evening, and then taking another hansom drove as fast as I could to Vandeleur’s address. During the latter part of my journey to town a sudden, almost unaccountable, desire to consult Vandeleur had taken possession of me. I was lucky enough to find this busiest of men at home and at leisure. He gave an exclamation of delight when my name was announced, and then came towards me with outstretched hand.
“I was just about to wire to you, Druce,” he said. “From where have you sprung?”
“From no less a place than Rowland’s Folly,” was m
y answer.
“More and more amazing. Then you have met Miss Ripley, George Rowland’s fiancée?”
“You have heard of the engagement, Vandeleur?”
“Who has not? What sort is the young lady?”
“I can tell you all you want to know, for I have travelled up to town with her.”
“Ah!”
He was silent for a minute, evidently thinking hard; then drawing a chair near mine he seated himself.
“How long have you been at Rowland’s Folly?” he asked.
“Nearly a week. I am to remain until after the wedding. I consider Rowland a lucky man. He is marrying a sweet little girl.”
“You think so? By the way, have you ever noticed any peculiarity about her?”
“Only that she is singularly amiable and attractive.”
“But any habit—pray think carefully before you answer me.”
“Really, Vandeleur, your questions surprise me. Little Miss Ripley is a person with ideas and is not ashamed to stick to her principles. You know, of course, that in a house like Rowland’s Folly it is the custom for the ladies to come to dinner in full dress. Now, Miss Ripley won’t accommodate herself to this fashion, but will wear her dress high to the throat, however gay and festive the occasion.”
“Ah! There doesn’t seem to be much in that, does there?”
“I don’t quite agree with you. Pressure has been brought to bear on the girl to make her conform to the usual regulations, and Lady Kennedy, a woman old enough to be her mother, is quite disagreeable on the point.”
“But the girl sticks to her determination?”
“Absolutely, although she promises to yield and to wear the conventional dress at the ball given in her honour a week before the wedding.”
Vandeleur was silent for nearly a minute; then dropping his voice he said, slowly:—
“Did Miss Ripley ever mention in your presence the name of our mutual foe—Madame Sara?”
“How strange that you should ask! On our journey to town today she told me that she knew the woman—she has known her for the greater part of her life—poor child, she even loves her. Vandeleur, that young girl is with Madame Sara now.”
“Don’t be alarmed, Druce; there is no immediate danger; but I may as well tell you that through my secret agents I have made discoveries which show that Madame has another iron in the fire, that once again she is preparing to convulse Society, and that little Miss Ripley is the victim.”
“You must be mistaken.”
“So sure am I, that I want your help. You are returning to Rowland’s Folly?”
“Tonight.”
“And Miss Ripley?”
“She goes with me. We meet at Euston for the six o’clock train.”
“So far, good. By the way, has Rowland spoken to you lately about the pearl necklace?”
“No; why do you ask?”
“Because I understand that it was his intention to have the pearls slightly altered and reset in order to fit Miss Ripley’s slender throat; also to have a diamond clasp affixed in place of the somewhat insecure one at present attached to the string of pearls. Messrs. Theodore and Mark, of Bond Street, were to undertake the commission. All was in preparation, and a messenger, accompanied by two detectives, was to go to Rowland’s Folly to fetch the treasure, when the whole thing was countermanded, Rowland having changed his mind and having decided that the strong-room at the Folly was the best place in which to keep the necklace.”
“He has not mentioned the subject to me,” I said. “How do you know?”
“I have my emissaries. One thing is certain—little Miss Ripley is to wear the pearls on her wedding-day—and the Italian family, distant relatives of the present Duke of Genoa, to whom the pearls belonged, and from whom they were stolen shortly before the Battle of Agincourt, are again taking active steps to secure them. You have heard the story of the American millionaire? Well, that was a blind—the necklace was in reality to be delivered into the hands of the old family as soon as he had purchased it. Now, Druce, this is the state of things: Madame Sara is an adventuress, and the cleverest woman in the world—Miss Ripley is very young and ignorant. Miss Ripley is to wear the pearls on her wedding-day and Madame wants them. You can infer the rest.”
“What do you want me to do?” I asked.
“Go back and watch. If you see anything to arouse suspicion, wire to me.”
“What about telling Rowland?”
“I would rather not consult him. I want to protect Miss Ripley, and at the same time to get Madame into my power. She managed to elude us last time, but she shall not this. My idea is to inveigle her to her ruin. Why, Druce, the woman is being more trusted and run after and admired day by day. She appeals to the greatest foibles of the world. She knows some valuable secrets, and is an adept in the art of restoring beauty and to a certain extent conquering the ravages of time. She is at present aided by an Arab, one of the most dangerous men I have ever seen, with the subtlety of a serpent, and legerdemain in every one of his ten fingers. It is not an easy thing to entrap her.”
“And yet you mean to do it?”
“Some day, some day. Perhaps now.”
His eyes were bright. I had seldom seen him look more excited.
After a short time I left him. Miss Ripley met me at Euston. She was silent and unresponsive and looked depressed. Once I saw her put her hand to her neck.
“Are you in pain?” I asked.
“You might be a doctor, Mr. Druce, from your question.”
“But answer me,” I said.
She was silent for a minute; then she said, slowly:—
“You are good, and I think I ought to tell you. But will you regard it as a secret? You wonder, perhaps, how it is that I don’t wear a low dress in the evening. I will tell you why. On my neck, just below the throat, there grew a wart or mole—large, brown, and ugly. The Italian doctors would not remove it on account of the position. It lies just over what they said was an aberrant artery, and the removal might cause very dangerous haemorrhage. One day Madame saw it; she said the doctors were wrong, and that she could easily take it away and leave no mark behind. I hesitated for a long time, but yesterday, when Lady Kennedy spoke to me as she did, I made up my mind. I wired to Madame and went to her today. She gave me chloroform and removed the mole. My neck is bandaged up and it smarts a little. I am not to remove the bandage until she sees me again. She is very pleased with the result, and says that my neck will now be beautiful like other women’s, and that I can on the night of the ball wear the lovely Brussels lace dress that Lady Kennedy has given me. That is my secret. Will you respect it?”
I promised, and soon afterwards we reached the end of our journey.
A few days went by. One morning at breakfast I noticed that the little signora only played with her food. An open letter lay by her plate. Rowland, by whose side she always sat, turned to her.
“What is the matter, Antonia?” he said. “Have you had an unpleasant letter?”
“It is from—”
“From whom, dear?”
“Madame Sara.”
“What did I hear you say?” cried Lady Kennedy.
“I have had a letter from Madame Sara, Lady Kennedy.”
“That shocking woman in the Strand—that adventuress? My dear, is it possible that you know her? Her name is in the mouth of everyone. She is quite notorious.”
Instantly the room became full of voices, some talking loudly, some gently, but all praising Madame Sara. Even the men took her part; as to the women, they were unanimous about her charms and her genius.
In the midst of the commotion little Antonia burst into a flood of tears and left the room. Rowland followed her. What next occurred I cannot tell, but in the course of the morning I met Lady Kennedy.
“Well,” she said, “that child has won, as I knew she would. Madame Sara wishes to come here, and George says that Antonia’s friend is to be invited. I shall be glad when the marriage is over and I can get
out of this. It is really detestable that in the last days of my reign I should have to give that woman the entrée to the house.”
She left me, and I wandered into the entrance hall. There I saw Rowland. He had a telegraph form in his hands, on which some words were written.
“Ah, Druce!” he said. “I am just sending a telegram to the station. What! do you want to send one too?”
For I had seated myself by the table which held the telegraph forms.
“If you don’t think I am taking too great a liberty, Rowland,” I said, suddenly, “I should like to ask a friend of mine here for a day or two.”
“Twenty friends, if you like, my dear Druce. What a man you are to apologize about such a trifle! Who is the special friend?”
“No less a person than Eric Vandeleur, the police-surgeon for Westminster.”
“What! Vandeleur—the gayest, jolliest man I have ever met! Would he care to come?”
Rowland’s eyes were sparkling with excitement.
“I think so; more especially if you will give me leave to say that you would welcome him.”
“Tell him he shall have a thousand welcomes, the best room in the house, the best horse. Get him to come by all means, Druce.”
Our two telegrams were sent off. In the course of the morning replies in the affirmative came to each.
That evening Madame Sara arrived. She came by the last train. The brougham was sent to meet her. She entered the house shortly before midnight. I was standing in the hall when she arrived, and I felt a momentary sense of pleasure when I saw her start as her eyes met mine. But she was not a woman to be caught off her guard. She approached me at once with outstretched hand and an eager voice.
In the Shadow of Agatha Christie Page 18
