Down To The Abbey (A Jules Poiret Mystery Book 12)

by Frank Howell Evans

  “You know how to time your visits well, doctor!” she said. “I’m thoroughly bored.”

  The doctor knew better, but he smiled pleasantly and said, “Perfectly so!”

  “Yes,” continued the countess, “my husband slipped on the stairs and hurt himself. Our doctor says it’s nothing, but I put little faith in what doctors say.”

  “I know that by experience,” replied Willoughby.

  “Well, now that you’re here, I’m half inclined to ask you for your advice.”

  “I trust that you’re not suffering.”

  “No! I have never had any cause to complain of my health, but I’m very anxious about dear Felicia’s state.”

  The doctor smiled inwardly at her feigned motherly feelings for her daughter.

  “I was shocked, doctor, at the change in her appearance.”

  “Did you ask her what ailed her?”

  “Of course and she said, “Nothing,” adding that she was perfectly well.”

  “Perhaps something upset her?”

  “She used to be one of the happiest young women in London. I want you to see her, now.” She rang the bell as she spoke and as soon as the butler made his appearance, said, “Biggleswade, ask Miss to have the goodness to come downstairs.”

  “Miss has gone out, Milady.”

  “Indeed! How long ago?”

  “About three o’clock, Milady.”

  “Who went with her?”

  “Her maid, Georgette.”

  “Did Miss say where she was going to?”

  “No, Milady.”

  “Very well, you can go.”

  Even the imperturbable doctor was rather surprised at a young woman of eighteen being allowed so much freedom.

  “It is most annoying,” said the countess. “However, let us hope her illness will not prevent her marriage.”

  Here was the opening, which Willoughby desired.

  “Is Miss going to be married?” he asked with an air of respectful curiosity.

  “Hush!” replied Countess Burgh le Marsh, placing her finger on her lips. “This is a secret. But I feel that I can trust you.” She moved closer to the doctor. “Let me whisper to you that it is possible that Felicia will be Mrs. Ingoldmells before the close of the year.”

  Willoughby did not possess Berrick’s courage. Actually he was frequently terrified at his confederate’s schemes, but having given his word, he could be relied on and therefore he didn’t hesitate for a moment.

  “I confess, Milady, that I’ve heard this mentioned before,” he said cautiously.

  “And, pray, who was your informant?”

  He had come to say certain things in a certain manner. Nothing that the countess would say would prevent him from following his script.

  “As a doctor, I’ve encountered many strange family secrets. I have often found myself in a very delicate position, but never in such an embarrassing one as now.”

  “You alarm me,” said the countess, dropping her haughty tone.

  “I wish I was mistaken,” he said. “Rather that than reopen old wounds.”

  “Don’t be afraid, doctor. Speak up,” she said.

  “Then I will begin by asking you if you have any memories of a young man named Lord Martin Yelvertoft.”

  The countess leaned back in her chair, contracted her eyebrows and pursed up her lips as though vainly trying to remember the name.

  “Lord Martin Yelvertoft?” she repeated. “No, I can’t say that I can recall any such person to mind.”

  The doctor knew that he had to give a jolt to her suddenly rebellious memory.

  ”He has a brother, Alfred, whom you certainly must know, because this winter I saw him at Countess Kelvedon’s soiree, dancing with your daughter.”

  “You’re right. I remember the name now.”

  Her manner was indifferent and careless as she said this.

  “Then perhaps you also remember that some twenty-five years ago, Martin Yelvertoft vanished suddenly. His disappearance caused a terrible commotion at the time and was one of the main topics of society.”

  “Indeed,” mused the countess.

  “He was last seen at Stonnard’s Restaurant, where he dined with some friends. About nine he stood up to leave. One of his friends proposed to go with him, but he begged him not to do so, saying, “Perhaps I will see you later on at the opera, but don’t count on me.” The general impression was that he was going to some love tryst.”

  “His friends thought that, I suppose,” said the countess almost inaudibly.

  “Yes, because he was dressed with more care than usual, though he always was one of the best dressed men in London. He went out alone and was never seen again.”

  “Never again,” repeated the countess, a slight shade passing across her brow.

  “I heard all the rumors at the time, Milady and they were only brought back to my memory this morning. All were meticulously documented as part of an investigation into the affair by Scotland Yard.”

  Countess Burgh le Marsh inadvertently shivered at the memory of two young policemen interrogating her at the time. One was a young inspector with Scotland Yard. The other one was French. He was immaculately dressed, looking almost ridiculous in his clothes, if it was not for his piercing eyes and tricky questions.

  The doctor continued, “The first theory was suicide. Martin might have gone into some lonely spot and blown out his brains. But there was no reason for that. He had ample means and always appeared happy. Then it was believed that a murder had been committed and fresh inquiries were instituted, but nothing could be found.”

  The countess faked stifling a yawn and repeated like an echo, “Nothing.”

  “Three months later, when the police had given up, one of Martin Yelvertoft’s friends received a letter from him.”

  “So he was not dead after all?”

  Dr. Willoughby smiled inwardly. The countess was not without courage.

  “The envelope bore a French post-mark. In it Martin declared that he was going on an expedition to the Amazon River and that no one need be anxious about him. People thought the letter highly suspicious. A man does not start on such an expedition without money and it was conclusively proved that on the day of Yelvertoft’s disappearance he had not more than a thousand shilling on him. Half of which he had won at whist, just before dinner. The letter was therefore looked at as a trick to turn the police off the scent. Scotland Yard’s experts even asserted that the handwriting belonged to a woman.”

  As the doctor spoke, he kept his eyes fixed on the countess, but her face was impenetrable.

  “Is that all?” she asked calmly.

  Dr. Willoughby paused a few moments before he replied, “A man came to me yesterday and asserted that you can tell me what became of Martin Yelvertoft.”

  A man could not have displayed the nerve shown by this woman. At the mere name of Lord Dulverton the count had staggered, as though hit by a sledge hammer. The countess, however, burst into laughter, apparently perfectly frank and natural, which prevented her from replying.

  “My dear doctor,” she said at last, “your tale is highly amusing, but I really think that you ought to consult a clairvoyant and not me about the fate of poor Martin Yelvertoft.”

  But the doctor, who was ready with his answer, sighed as though a great load had been removed from his heart and with an air of extreme delight screamed, “Thank Heaven! Then I was deceived.”

  He said these words with such sincerity that the countess fell into the trap.

  “Come,” she said with a winning smile, “tell me, who said I know so much?”

  Willoughby shrugged. “What good would that do? He’s made a fool of me and caused me to risk losing your friendship. Hurling baseless accusations should have consequences. I will talk to my solicitor.”

  “That would not do,” answered the countess quickly, “because that would change a nothing into a matter of importance. Tell me the name of your mysterious informer.”

  “
You would learn nothing from his name, Milady. He’s a man I once helped. He’s called Old Man Davidson.”

  “A mere alias?”

  “The old idiot said to me, “Countess Burgh le Marsh knows all about the fate of the lord and this is clearly proved by letters that she has received from him, as well as from the Count of Sissinghurst.”

  This time the arrow hit home. She grew deadly pale and sprang to her feet with her eyes wide with horror.

  “My letters?” she screamed hoarsely.

  Willoughby appeared overwhelmed by this display of consternation.

  “Your letters, Milady,” he replied with evident hesitation, “this scoundrel is saying that he has them in his possession.”

  With a cry like that of a hurt lioness, the countess rushed from the room. Her rapid footsteps could be heard on the stairs and the rustle of her skirts against the banisters. As soon as he was left alone, the doctor stood up with a cynical smile on his face.

  “You may search,” he thought, “but the birds have flown.” He walked up to one of the windows and drummed on the glass with his fingers. “What a shameful business we’re carrying on!” he said, “Someday we will meet someone stronger than ourselves and then the inevitable will ensue.”

  The reappearance of the countess broke the chain of his thoughts. Her hair was disturbed, her eyes had a wild look in them and everything about her betrayed the state of agitation she was in.

  “Robbed! Robbed!” she cried, as she entered the room. Her excitement was so extreme that she spoke aloud, forgetting that the door was open and that the servants in the hallway could hear all she said. Luckily Willoughby didn’t lose his presence of mind and closed the door.

  “What have you lost?” he asked innocently.

  “My letters, they’re all gone.”

  She staggered on to a sofa and went on, “These letters were in a safe, the key of which never leaves me.”

  “Good heavens!” screamed Willoughby. “So Old Man Davidson spoke the truth.”

  “He did,” answered the countess hoarsely. She hid her face in her hands as though her pride sought to hide her despair. “I’m lost,” she cried. “In my younger days I had no experience. I only thought of vengeance and it’s turned against me.”

  Willoughby didn’t attempt to stem the torrent of her words, because the countess was in one of those moods of despair when the inner feelings of the soul are brought into the open, as during a violent storm when the weeds in the ocean are hurled up to the surface of the troubled waters.

  “I would sooner be in my grave,” she wailed, “than see these letters in my husband’s hands. Poor Bernard! Have I not hurt him enough already without this added to it?” She seemed to suddenly realize the purpose of his visit. She raised her head and looked at Dr. Willoughby with thinly veiled contempt. “So I see! Well, Dr. Willoughby, what do you want? Of course money is required. Tell me to what amount?”

  The doctor shook his head. Willoughby, unlike Berrick, sometimes pitied his victims, but he showed no sign of these feelings now and went on, “I’m just here to help. The compromising letters will be placed in your hands on the day on which your daughter marries Sir Alfred Yelvertoft, the brother of Lord Martin Yelvertoft.”

  Countess Burgh le Marsh’s surprise was so great that she stood frozen as though petrified into a statue. She suddenly crossed the room, faint and dizzy and rested her head on the cold marble mantelpiece.

  “What you ask me to do is impossible. Go, doctor and tell the villain, who holds my letters that he can take them to the count.”

  The countess spoke in such a decided tone that Willoughby was taken aback by the sudden change.

  “Can it be true,” she continued, “that scoundrels exist in our country, who are viler than the most cowardly murderers. Do the miserable wretches think that I will tremble before them? I fear nothing, not even death!”

  She spoke like a woman bereft of hope, who had resolved on the final sacrifice. Her clear voice rang through the room. Willoughby turned pale. “Down to the Abbey we go,” he thought sarcastically, “For a wedding? For a funeral!”

  Countess Burgh le Marsh was about to flee from the room, a situation he had not foreseen. The doctor knew he had to act fast to salvage what he could. He moved quickly and took a hold of her by both wrists and pushed her back onto the sofa.

  “In Heaven’s name, Milady,” he whispered, “for your daughter’s sake, listen to me.” The countess perked up. The doctor continued trying to reassure the countess where he had previously tried to terrify her. Soon he saw Countess Burgh le Marsh listening to his flow of words, slowly feeling calmer as he went on.

  “It’s a nefarious plot,” said the countess at last in a tone, which was unmistakably one of resignation, to the doctor’s relief.

  “So it is, Milady, but the facts remain. Do you have any special objection to Mr. Yelvertoft paying his addresses to your daughter?” asked Willoughby. “He comes from a good family, is well educated, handsome, popular and only thirty-four. They say that he is deeply in debt, but then your daughter has enough for both.”

  The countess sighed. “The count will not accept this,” she said and shook her head.

  Dr. Willoughby knew he had her hooked. He had to allow her to come to terms with the new situation in private. Besides, the count might enter at any moment or a servant might come in to announce dinner. He took his leave, worn out by the severe battle he had waged with the countess.

  Will Platts descended the stairs after his conversation with Berrick had been concluded. The sudden and unexpected good fortune, which had fallen so opportunely at his feet had for the moment absolutely stunned him. He was now taken from a position which had caused him to gaze with longing on the still waters of the Thames to one of comparative affluence. “Berrick,” he said to himself, “has offered me an appointment bringing in twelve thousand shilling per year and the first month’s salary in advance.”

  Certainly it was enough to bewilder any man and Will was dazed. He went over all the events that had occurred during the day. He was in no particular hurry to get back to the boarding house on Pollard Street. A feeling of restlessness had taken a hold of him. He wanted to spend money and have a good time. He didn’t know where to go, because he had no friends. Searching his memory, he remembered that when poverty had first overtaken him, he had borrowed twenty shilling from a young gentleman of his own age, named Robert Crawley. Some coins still jingled in his pocket and he could have a thousand shilling for the asking. Would he not be well-received if he were to go and pay this debt? Unluckily his creditor lived a long distance off in New Burlington Street. He hailed a passing cab and was driven to Robert Crawley’s address. The young man was only a casual acquaintance, whom Will had picked up one day in a small pub to which he used to take Selma when he first arrived in London.

  Robert Crawley was an ornamental sculptor of those wonderful decorations on the outside of houses in which builders delight. But all the money he earned went in the study of the painter’s art, which was his secret desire. When the cab stopped, Will threw the fare to the driver and asked the clean-looking landlady, who was polishing the brass work on the door, if Mr. Robert Crawley was home.

  “He is, sir,” replied the old woman, adding loudly, “and you’re likely to find him in, because he has work. He’s such a good and quiet young man. I don’t believe he owes a penny in the world. He has very few acquaintances, except for one young lady, whose face for the month past I have tried to see, but failed. She wears a veil, when she comes to see him, accompanied by her maid.”

  “Good heavens, woman,” cried Will impatiently, “will you tell me where to find Mr. Crawley?”

  “Fourth floor, first door to the right,” answered the landlady, angry at being interrupted and as Will ran up the stairs, she said, shaking her head, “A young man with no manners!”

  Will found the door and rapped on the panel. He heard the sound of a piece of furniture being moved and the jingle of rings
being moved along a rod then a clear, youthful voice answered, “Come in!”

  Will entered and found himself in a large, airy room, exquisitely clean and orderly. Sketches and drawings were hanging on the walls. There was a beautiful carpet from China and a comfortable sofa. A mirror in a carved body, which would have gladdened the heart of a connoisseur, stood on the mantelpiece. An easel with a painting on it, covered with a green curtain, stood in a corner. The young painter was in the center of his studio, brush and palette in hand. He was a handsome young man, well-built and proportioned, with close-cut hair and a curling beard flowing down over his chest. His face was full of expression and the energy and vigor imprinted on it were a marked contrast to the appearance of Will. Will noticed that he didn’t wear the usual painter’s blouse, but was carefully dressed. As soon as he recognized Will Robert Crawley came forward with extended hand. “Ah,” he said, “I’m pleased to see you, because I often wondered what had become of you.”

  Will was offended at this familiar greeting. “I’ve had many worries and disappointments,” he said.

  “And Selma,” said Robert Crawley, “how is she?”

  “Yes, yes,” answered Will impatiently. “I’ve come to repay your loan with many thanks.”

  “Oh!” answered the painter. “I never thought of the matter again.”

  Again Will felt annoyed, because he thought that under the cloak of assumed generosity the painter meant to humiliate him.

  He said, “I’m all right now, having a salary of twelve thousand shilling.”

  He thought that the artist would be dazzled and envious. Robert Crawley, however, did not reply and Will was therefore obliged to continue with the lame words, “At my age I’m not doing so badly.”

  “Would I be indiscreet in asking what you’re doing?”

  The question was a most natural one, but Will felt as angry as if the painter had insulted him.

  “I work for it,” he said, straightening himself up with such a strange tone in his voice that Robert could not fail to notice it.

  “I have to work very hard,” continued Will, “because I don’t just get money like you.”