In the Shadow of Agatha Christie

by Leslie S. Klinger

  “This is charming, Mr. Druce,” she said. “I do not think anything pleases me more.” Then she added, turning to Rowland, “Mr. Dixon Druce is a very old friend of mine.”

  Rowland gave me a bewildered glance. Madame turned and began to talk to her hostess. Antonia was standing near one of the open drawing-rooms. She had on a soft dress of pale green silk. I had seldom seen a more graceful little creature. But the expression of her face disturbed me. It wore now the fascinated look of a bird when a snake attracts it. Could Madame Sara be the snake? Was Antonia afraid of this woman?

  The next day Lady Kennedy came to me with a confidence.

  “I am glad your police friend is coming,” she said. “It will be safer.”

  “Vandeleur arrives at twelve o’clock,” was my answer.

  “Well, I am pleased. I like that woman less and less. I was amazed when she dared to call you her friend.”

  “Oh, we have met before on business,” I answered, guardedly.

  “You won’t tell me anything further, Mr. Druce?”

  “You must excuse me, Lady Kennedy.”

  “Her assurance is unbounded,” continued the good lady. “She has brought a maid or nurse with her—a most extraordinary-looking woman. That, perhaps, is allowable; but she has also brought her black servant, an Arabian, who goes by the name of Achmed. I must say he is a picturesque creature with his quaint Oriental dress. He was all in flaming yellow this morning, and the embroidery on his jacket was worth a small fortune. But it is the daring of the woman that annoys me. She goes on as though she were somebody.”

  “She is a very emphatic somebody,” I could not help replying. “London Society is at her feet.”

  “I only hope that Antonia will take her remedies and let her go. The woman has no welcome from me,” said the indignant mistress of Rowland’s Folly.

  I did not see anything of Antonia that morning, and at the appointed time I went down to the station to meet Vandeleur. He arrived in high spirits, did not ask a question with regard to Antonia, received the information that Madame Sara was in the house with stolid silence, and seemed intent on the pleasures of the moment.

  “Rowland’s Folly!” he said, looking round him as we approached one of the finest houses in the whole of Yorkshire. “A folly, truly, and yet a pleasant one, Druce, eh? I fancy,” he added, with a slight smile, “that I am going to have a good time here.”

  “I hope you will disentangle a most tangled skein,” was my reply.

  He shrugged his shoulders. Suddenly his manner altered.

  “Who is that woman?” he said, with a strain of anxiety quite apparent in his voice.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “That woman on the terrace in nurse’s dress.”

  “I don’t know. She has been brought here by Madame Sara—a sort of maid and nurse as well. I suppose poor little Antonia will be put under her charge.”

  “Don’t let her see me, Druce, that’s all. Ah, here is our host.”

  Vandeleur quickened his movements, and the next instant was shaking hands with Rowland.

  The rest of the day passed without adventure. I did not see Antonia. She did not even appear at dinner. Rowland, however, assured me that she was taking necessary rest and would be all right on the morrow. He seemed inclined to be gracious to Madame Sara, and was annoyed at his sister’s manner to their guest.

  Soon after dinner, as I was standing in one of the smoking-rooms, I felt a light hand on my arm, and, turning, encountered the splendid pose and audacious, bright, defiant glance of Madame herself.

  “Mr. Druce,” she said, “just one moment. It is quite right that you and I should be plain with each other. I know the reason why you are here. You have come for the express purpose of spying upon me and spoiling what you consider my game. But understand, Mr. Druce, that there is danger to yourself when you interfere with the schemes of one like me. Forewarned is forearmed.”

  Someone came into the room and Madame left it.

  The ball was but a week off, and preparations for the great event were taking place. Attached to the house at the left was a great room built for this purpose.

  Rowland and I were walking down this room on a special morning; he was commenting on its architectural merits and telling me what band he intended to have in the musicians’ gallery, when Antonia glided into the room.

  “How pale you are, little Tonia!” he said.

  This was his favourite name for her. He put his hand under her chin, raised her sweet, blushing face, and looked into her eyes.

  “Ah, you want my answer. What a persistent little puss it is! You shall have your way, Tonia—yes, certainly. For you I will grant what has never been granted before. All the same, what will my lady say?”

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  “But you will let me wear them whether she is angry or not?” persisted Antonia.

  “Yes, child, I have said it.”

  She took his hand and raised it to her lips, then, with a curtsy, tripped out of the room.

  “A rare, bright little bird,” he said, turning to me. “Do you know, I feel that I have done an extraordinarily good thing for myself in securing little Antonia. No troublesome mamma-in-law—no brothers and sisters, not my own and yet emphatically mine to consider—just the child herself. I am very happy and a very lucky fellow. I am glad my little girl has no past history. She is just her dear little, dainty self, no more and no less.”

  “What did she want with you now?” I asked.

  “Little witch,” he said, with a laugh. “The pearls, the pearls. She insists on wearing the great necklace on the night of the ball. Dear little girl. I can fancy how the baubles will gleam and shine on her fair throat.”

  I made no answer, but I was certain that little Antonia’s request did not emanate from herself. I thought that I would search for Vandeleur and tell him of the circumstance, but the next remark of Rowland’s nipped my project in the bud.

  “By the way, your friend has promised to be back for dinner. He left here early this morning.”

  “Vandeleur?” I cried.

  “Yes, he has gone to town. What a first-rate fellow he is!”

  “He tells a good story,” I answered.

  “Capital. Who would suspect him of being the greatest criminal expert of the day? But, thank goodness, we have no need of his services at Rowland’s Folly.”

  Late in the evening Vandeleur returned. He entered the house just before dinner. I observed by the brightness of his eyes and the intense gravity of his manner that he was satisfied with himself. This in his case was always a good sign. At dinner he was his brightest self, courteous to everyone, and to Madame Sara in particular.

  Late that night, as I was preparing to go to bed, he entered my room without knocking.

  “Well, Druce,” he said, “it is all right.”

  “All right!” I cried; “what do you mean?”

  “You will soon know. The moment I saw that woman I had my suspicions. I was in town today making some very interesting inquiries. I am primed now on every point. Expect a dénouement of a startling character very soon, but be sure of one thing—however black appearances may be the little bride is safe, and so are the pearls.”

  He left me without waiting for my reply.

  The next day passed, and the next. I seemed to live on tenter-hooks. Little Antonia was gay and bright like a bird. Madame’s invitation had been extended by Lady Kennedy at Rowland’s command to the day after the ball—little Antonia skipped when she heard it.

  “I love her,” said the girl.

  More and more guests arrived—the days flew on wings—the evenings were lively. Madame was a power in herself. Vandeleur was another. These two, sworn foes at heart, aided and abetted each other to make things go brilliantly for the rest of the guests. Rowland was in the highest spirits.

  At last the evening before the ball came and went. Vandeleur’s grand coup had not come off. I retired to bed as usual. The night was a stormy on
e—rain rattled against the window-panes, the wind sighed and shuddered. I had just put out my candle and was about to seek forgetfulness in sleep when once again in his unceremonious fashion Vandeleur burst into my room.

  “I want you at once, Druce, in the bedroom of Madame Sara’s servant. Get into your clothes as fast as you possibly can and join me there.”

  He left the room as abruptly as he had entered it. I hastily dressed, and with stealthy steps, in the dead of night, to the accompaniment of the ever-increasing tempest, sought the room in question.

  I found it brightly lighted; Vandeleur pacing the floor as though he himself were the very spirit of the storm; and, most astonishing sight of all, the nurse whom Madame Sara had brought to Rowland’s Folly, and whose name I had never happened to hear, gagged and bound in a chair drawn into the centre of the room.

  “So I think that is all, nurse,” said Vandeleur, as I entered. “Pray take a chair, Druce. We quite understand each other, don’t we, nurse, and the facts are wonderfully simple. Your name as entered in the archives of crime at Westminster is not as you have given out, Mary Jessop, but Rebecca Curt. You escaped from Portland prison on the night of November 30th, just a year ago. You could not have managed your escape but for the connivance of the lady in whose service you are now. Your crime was forgery, with a strong and very daring attempt at poisoning. Your victim was a harmless invalid lady. Your knowledge of crime, therefore, is what may be called extensive. There are yet eleven years of your sentence to run. You have doubtless served Madame Sara well—but perhaps you can serve me better. You know the consequence if you refuse, for I explained that to you frankly and clearly before this gentleman came into the room. Druce, will you oblige me—will you lock the door while I remove the gag from the prisoner’s mouth?”

  I hurried to obey. The woman breathed more freely when the gag was removed. Her face was a swarthy red all over. Her crooked eyes favoured us with many shifty glances.

  “Now, then, have the goodness to begin, Rebecca Curt,” said Vandeleur. “Tell us everything you can.”

  She swallowed hard, and said:—

  “You have forced me—”

  “We won’t mind that part,” interrupted Vandeleur. “The story, please, Mrs. Curt.”

  If looks could kill, Rebecca Curt would have killed Vandeleur then. He gave her in return a gentle, bland glance, and she started on her narrative.

  “Madame knows a secret about Antonia Ripley.”

  “Of what nature?”

  “It concerns her parentage.”

  “And that is?”

  The woman hesitated and writhed.

  “The names of her parents, please,” said Vandeleur, in a voice cold as ice and hard as iron.

  “Her father was Italian by birth.”

  “His name?”

  “Count Gioletti. He was unhappily married, and stabbed his English wife in an access of jealousy when Antonia was three years old. He was executed for the crime on the 20th of June, 18—. The child was adopted and taken out of the country by an English lady who was present in court—her name was Mrs. Studley. Madame Sara was also present. She was much interested in the trial, and had an interview afterwards with Mrs. Studley. It was arranged that Antonia should be called by the surname of Ripley—the name of an old relative of Mrs. Studley’s—and that her real name and history were never to be told to her.”

  “I understand,” said Vandeleur, gently. “This is of deep interest, is it not, Druce?”

  I nodded, too much absorbed in watching the face of the woman to have time for words.

  “But now,” continued Vandeleur, “there are reasons why Madame should change her mind with regard to keeping the matter a close secret—is that not so, Mrs. Curt?”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Curt.

  “You will have the kindness to continue.”

  “Madame has an object she blackmails the signora. She wants to get the signora completely into her power.”

  “Indeed! Is she succeeding?”

  “Yes.”

  “How has she managed? Be very careful what you say, please.”

  “The mode is subtle—the young lady had a disfiguring mole or wart on her neck, just below the throat. Madame removed the mole.”

  “Quite a simple process, I doubt not,” said Vandeleur, in a careless tone.

  “Yes, it was done easily—I was present. The young lady was conducted into a chamber with a red light.”

  Vandeleur’s extraordinary eyes suddenly leapt into fire. He took a chair and drew it so close to Mrs. Curt’s that his face was within a foot or two of hers.

  “Now, you will be very careful what you say,” he remarked. “You know the consequence to yourself unless this narrative is absolutely reliable.”

  She began to tremble, but continued:

  “I was present at the operation. Not a single ray of ordinary light was allowed to penetrate. The patient was put under chloroform. The mole was removed. Afterwards Madame wrote something on her neck. The words were very small and neatly done—they formed a cross on the young lady’s neck. Afterwards I heard what they were.”

  “Repeat them.”

  “I can’t. You will know in the moment of victory.”

  “I choose to know now. A detective from my division at Westminster comes here early tomorrow morning—he brings handcuffs—and—”

  “I will tell you,” interrupted the woman. “The words were these:—

  “‘I AM THE DUGHTER OF PAOLO GIOLETTI, WHO WAS EXECUTED FOR THE MURDER OF MY MOTHER, JUNE 20TH, 18—.’”

  “How were the words written?”

  “With nitrate of silver.”

  “Fiend!” muttered Vandeleur.

  He jumped up and began to pace the room. I had never seen his face so black with ungovernable rage.

  “You know what this means?” he said at last to me. “Nitrate of silver eats into the flesh and is permanent. Once exposed to the light the case is hopeless, and the helpless child becomes her own executioner.”

  The nurse looked up restlessly.

  “The operation was performed in a room with a red light,” she said, “and up to the present the words have not been seen. Unless the young lady exposes her neck to the blue rays of ordinary light they never will be. In order to give her a chance to keep her deadly secret Madame has had a large carbuncle of the deepest red cut and prepared. It is in the shape of a cross, and is suspended to a fine gold, almost invisible, thread. This the signora is to wear when in full evening dress. It will keep in its place, for the back of the cross will be dusted with gum.”

  “But it cannot be Madame’s aim to hide the fateful words,” said Vandeleur. “You are concealing something, nurse.”

  Her face grew an ugly red. After a pause the following words came out with great reluctance:—

  “The young lady wears the carbuncle as a reward.”

  “Ah,” said Vandeleur, “now we are beginning to see daylight. As a reward for what?”

  “Madame wants something which the signora can give her. It is a case of exchange; the carbuncle which hides the fatal secret is given in exchange for that which the signora can transfer to Madame.”

  “I understand at last,” said Vandeleur. “Really, Druce, I feel myself privileged to say that of all the malevolent—” he broke off abruptly. “Never mind,” he said, “we are keeping nurse. Nurse, you have answered all my questions with praiseworthy exactitude, but before you return to your well-earned slumbers I have one more piece of information to seek from you. Was it entirely by Miss Ripley’s desire, or was it in any respect owing to Madame Sara’s instigations, that the young lady is permitted to wear the pearl necklace on the night of the dance? You have, of course, nurse, heard of the pearl necklace?”

  Rebecca Curt’s face showed that she undoubtedly had.

  “I see you are acquainted with that most interesting story. Now, answer my question. The request to wear the necklace tomorrow night was suggested by Madame, was it not?”

>   “Ah, yes—yes!” cried the woman, carried out of herself by sudden excitement. “It was to that point all else tended—all, all!”

  “Thank you, that will do. You understand that from this day you are absolutely in my service. As long as you serve me faithfully you are safe.”

  “I will do my best, sir,” she replied, in a modest tone, her eyes seeking the ground.

  The moment we were alone Vandeleur turned to me.

  “Things are simplifying themselves,” he said.

  “I fail to understand,” was my answer. “I should say that complications, and alarming ones, abound.”

  “Nevertheless, I see my way clear. Druce, it is not good for you to be so long out of bed, but in order that you may repose soundly when you return to your room I will tell you frankly what my mode of operations will be tomorrow. The simplest plan would be to tell Rowland everything, but for various reasons that does not suit me. I take an interest in the little girl, and if she chooses to conceal her secret (at present, remember, she does not know it, but the poor child will certainly be told everything tomorrow) I don’t intend to interfere. In the second place, I am anxious to lay a trap for Madame. Now, two things are evident. Madame Sara’s object in coming here is to steal the pearls. Her plan is to terrify the little signora into giving them to her in order that the fiendish words written on the child’s neck may not be seen. As the signora must wear a dress with a low neck tomorrow night, she can only hide the words by means of the red carbuncle. Madame will only give her the carbuncle if she, in exchange, gives Madame the pearls. You see?”

  “I do,” I answered, slowly.

  He drew himself up to his slender height, and his eyes became full of suppressed laughter.

  “The child’s neck has been injured with nitrate of silver. Nevertheless, until it is exposed to the blue rays of light the ominous, fiendish words will not appear on her white throat. Once they do appear they will be indelible. Now, listen! Madame, with all her cunning, forgot something. To the action of nitrate of silver there is an antidote. This is nothing more or less than our old friend cyanide of potassium. Tomorrow nurse, under my instructions, will take the little patient into a room carefully prepared with the hateful red light, and will bathe the neck just where the baleful words are written with a solution of cyanide of potassium. The nitrate of silver will then become neutralized and the letters will never come out.”