The Incredible Crime

by Lois Austen-Leigh

  “You’ve seen Mary, I suppose?” he said. “Did she talk to you much?”

  “Yes, I’ve seen her, she was unpacking for me; she wasn’t as full of chat as usual. She somehow managed to convey that I had failed in my duty in not coming here this summer. I felt, anyhow, that something was wrong.”

  Wellende didn’t speak for a moment, then he said suddenly: “The ghost has been heard again, with the inevitable trouble with the servants.”

  “Never!” exclaimed Prudence, looking up with surprise and interest. “The old thing, I suppose—footsteps?”

  “Yes,” said Wellende, “and the sound of animals scurrying about which have always been heard, you know. I have moved the servants out of that wing; only Mary sleeps there now, she doesn’t mind; and I have locked up all the cellars. If it worries you at all, Prue, you can have another room, but Mary was indignant when I suggested it. I suppose it is insulting to suppose that you, with your intellect and education, believe in ghosts; but I don’t know,” he continued with a grin, “you fairly legged it when a rat came along, and you may have a whatever-you-call-it against ghosts.”

  “But I do believe in places being haunted, Ben—with my intellect I’d be a fool if I didn’t; but that’s not saying I believe a person with armoured feet really walks about this house. Everyone but you believes this place is haunted.”

  “I’m like you, I don’t say ghosts are impossible; I only have to take that line because of the servants. On the other hand, it would be very hard to say in this house what was ghosts and what was not; the wind here is enough to account for anything, and I have noticed, too, that through all the years when the ghost has been heard or seen it’s always been when there’s a howling gale. I have come down myself at night, perfectly certain that I heard someone cutting glass in the library below me, only to find it was the wind just beginning to get up and whistling round the buttress outside; there’s no sound invented that can’t be heard some night or other, when there’s a wind.”

  “It’s getting up a bit now,” said Prudence. “There’s one sound I always connect with Wellende, and that’s the extraordinary draught that comes up the wastes of the baths.”

  “Yes,” said Wellende, “I don’t think they managed them very well. I don’t get it much in my bath-room, but I have noticed it whistling up the others.”

  “To-night, as I lay in my hot bath,” said Prudence, “I could almost hear the cold seawater of the creek flapping against the walls of the house. One gets one’s enjoyment so much by contrast, and that sound made my bath seem warmer and more comfortable than ever!”

  Chapter IX

  In spite of talk about ghosts, in spite of a windy night, Prudence’s slumbers were unbroken and untroubled. She awoke next morning to hear her curtains being drawn and to see the sun pouring in.

  “It’s a glorious day for a hunt, Mary,” said Prudence.

  “It’s a fine morning, miss,” said Mary, “and Dunning asked me to say what would you take out in your flask, and he would send it round to the stables for you.”

  “A little water and a lot of sherry, tell him,” said Prudence, “and I shall come home early whatever happens.”

  She dressed, and came down to breakfast to find Lord Wellende already at it. Dressed in white breeches, slippers, and an old Norfolk jacket, he was discussing a large helping of kidney and bacon.

  “How is it,” said Prudence, “that in pictures men are always to be seen sitting about the house in their pink coats, either before or after hunting? I never met a man yet that kept his coat on a moment longer than he need.”

  “How is it,” replied Wellende, with his mouth full, “that women in story-books always come down to breakfast in top-boots and breeches, dressed like a man? I am so glad, Prue, you don’t ride astride.”

  “I’m sure you are, old thing,” laughed Prudence. “But I don’t believe you ever read a ‘story-book,’ and the only reason I don’t ride astride is because I can’t stick on. However, I may outrage all your feelings to-day; I’ve a lovely pair of new top-boots, and if I can manage it, I am going to take a toss into a ditch, and remain on my head for a few moments with my legs sticking up in the air, so that everyone can see the glories of my boots.”

  “If you can do it without breaking your neck,” said Wellende, “I have no objection.”

  All the meets were some way from the Hall, which lay on the edge of the hunting country, and the cousins motored there. Prudence met various old friends, with whom she had to have a few words, but once mounted, her attention was very fully taken up by her mare, who was fresh and fidgety. For the first hour hounds hunted round and round a large covert, the fox declining to break. Then in the far distance came that soul-stirring screech of “Gone away!” Prudence hurried at once to where the cry had come from, to get there in time to see the huntsmen making a cast in a ploughed field. There was a little pause, then one hound whimpered, two spoke to it, and then, encouraged by the huntsman, there was a sudden crash of music, and the whole pack went away at a racing speed on the line.

  “My word,” thought Prudence, “the scent must be good, at the pace they are going,” and she sat down in her saddle to do her best.

  A fast ten minutes, to Prudence’s infinite relief, ended in a check; she had only just time to get her breath, and off they were again across a grass field. They hunted the same fox backwards and forwards for some time, till at last, when he headed straight away, Prudence, who was not yet in condition, gave up and turned for home. Her mare was tired and steadied down now, so she threw one leg over the saddle astride, and began on the sandwiches. The sound of the hunt soon died down in the distance, and Prudence was left to the peace and quiet of the country-side, the hot smell of her horse mingled with the reek of a chemical manure on the field near by. The clucking of chickens, the occasional barking of a dog, blended with the soughing of the wind in the trees.

  Presently she heard the “clop, clop” of a horse behind her, and turned to greet an old friend, Laura Heale, the wife of the local doctor. Mrs. Heale was the essence of the country; she had no children, but she had dogs and horses; she wore thick boots and had a weather-beaten face; she probably got astride a horse six days of the week, all the year round, and if her man was out with the doctor, she thought nothing of grooming her own horse after a day’s hunting herself. She liked and admired Prudence, but from the bottom of her heart she believed that life in Cambridge was stagnation, and that Prudence didn’t begin to live until she got to Wellende and on a horse again.

  “My horse cast a shoe—isn’t it infernal luck! And I haven’t another one out this mornin’. But what are you doin’, goin’ home in the middle of a run?”

  “My dear Laura,” said Prudence, “remember you don’t know what it is to be out of condition. This is my first day. I haven’t even been out cubbing.”

  “No,” said Mrs. Heale, “it’s an unnatural life you have to lead in Cambridge, and no one with any sense or knowledge in the place.”

  “Oh, I don’t know so much about that,” demurred Prudence.

  “My dear Prudence,” said Mrs. Heale, “I met one of your professors the other day, and I give you my word for it, he was mad.”

  “Yes,” said Prudence equably, “heaps of them are, you know. I wonder who it was you met?”

  “I thought as I listened to him talkin’, if this is a specimen of the men Prudence has to live among, I wonder she has any sense left. I asked him if the Trinity Beagles had moved their kennels, and he said he didn’t know. I asked him how many times a week they hunted; he didn’t know. I asked him if he knew anythin’, and he said ‘Very little’; then, though you’d hardly believe me, he said: ‘Let me see, what do the beagles do, do they look about till they think they see a hare’!”

  “Think they see a hare!”—indignation at the very memory of it left Mrs. Heale speechless. Prudence laughed.

 
“My dear old Laura, he was having you on. He saw you thought him a fool, you aren’t very good at concealing your thoughts, you know, and so he pretended to be one. I dare say half was ignorance and the other half pose.”

  “It was ignorance, all right,” replied Mrs. Heale. “Here, Prudence, ride on the other side of me, I want to get my horse on the grass.”

  Prudence did as she was requested.

  “There’s a story, you know,” she said, “that an American dining at the high table in Trinity, asked how many wives Henry VIII had had. They’ve a picture after Holbein of Henry VIII hanging there, and though there were several Fellows present, no one knew, and the head waiter supplied the information. Now, I can well believe that story is true. Out of the eight, say, who were there, five probably really didn’t know, and the other three were posing. Same with your professor; he pretended to be more ignorant than he was.”

  “I don’t believe that,” said Mrs. Heale shrewdly. “He wasn’t the sort to be humble about anythin’. Why, he had the beastly cheek to correct somethin’ Ben said about injectin’ dogs against distemper, and Ben’s about the best vet. in England, and so I let him know.”

  “I wonder who he was. Probably not a professor at all. Where did you meet him, Laura?”

  “At Wellende, he was some sort of relation of Ben’s, though I’ve never seen him before.”

  “You don’t mean—it can’t have been Professor Temple?” exclaimed Prudence in great surprise.

  Mrs. Heale thought for a moment. “I really don’t remember ever hearin’ for certain what his name was, only that he was a cousin of Ben’s, and I think they called him doctor.”

  “Was he a tall, dark man with whiskers?”

  “That’s him, and nasty whiskers, somehow,” said Mrs. Heale. “He hadn’t been groomed for a week, and he looked as if he’d murder you for twopence; fact is, I didn’t like that man.”

  “Well,” said Prudence, “I am surprised. I can hardly believe it really was him. There was a family quarrel and I have never known him come to Wellende.”

  “If I was Ben,” said Mrs. Heale, “the family quarrel would go on. I didn’t like that man!”

  The friends parted soon, and Prudence jogged on home alone, thinking over the news she had just heard. As long as she could remember there had been a quarrel between Lord Wellende and his cousin, Professor Temple. She had never known what about, and now she came to think of it, she hadn’t the least idea why; she supposed it was something really serious or she would have known. She made a mental resolve to ask her father, it would be better than asking Ben.

  She slid stiffly from her saddle in the stable-yard, and crawled slowly up to her room. There she found a good fire and Mary. Her dressing-gown was laid out across a chair, and bedroom slippers, looking so comfortable and soft after top-boots, were warming in the grate.

  “Now you get into your bath, miss,” said Mary, “and I’ll go down and get you a nice cup of hot strong tea, that’ll do you good.”

  The bath done, the tea arrived, and Prudence settled herself with a sigh of comfort and fatigue in her soft chair. Mary, with the privilege of an old friend, sat down too.

  “I rode home with Mrs. Heale,” said Prudence. “She told me she had met a man here who sounded like Professor Temple. Has he stayed here?”

  “Yes, miss,” said Mary, “and I’ll be bound Mrs. Heale didn’t take to him.”

  “No,” said Prudence, “she did not; but you know, Mary, appearances are against him. He’s not so bad when you really get to know him.”

  A mulish expression overspread Mary’s homely face. She looked almost grim.

  To Prudence’s surprise, she made no reply; she got up, opened the door, and shut it again firmly, and then did the same by the large cupboard door; then she came and sat down.

  “There’s something I’ve ’ad on my mind I must say to you, Miss Prudence. ’As ’is lordship said anything to you about them attacks of sickness ’e’s ’ad of late?”

  “No,” said Prudence in surprise. She also noticed that all Mary’s h’s were gone, which only occurred when she was frightened or angry.

  “’E’s never ’ardly ’ad a day’s illness in his life, but ’e’s ’ad three attacks of sickness lately, and each one ’as been after that there doctor ’as been ’ere.”

  “What do you mean, Mary?” exclaimed Prudence in real consternation. “Do you realize what you are implying?”

  “I know what I’m saying, miss, well enough, and that’s what’s true. That doctor’s been here three times, and each time ’is lordship ’as been unwell afterwards—though he’s mighty put out if anyone says anything to him of it. Says it’s nothing, and don’t you let on to his lordship I’ve said a word to you about ’is being unwell, only I had to do it.”

  This last all came out in one breath. Prudence saw that Mary was genuinely moved, but the inference she was making was so preposterous she hardly knew how to deal with it. “It can only have been chance, his being ill like that each time,” she said helplessly. Then again: “Do you mean you don’t want me to mention it to his lordship at all?”

  “Not his being ill, miss, but you can mention the professor, or doctor, or whatever he is, being here.”

  Chapter X

  There was a long pause. Years of experience of Mary’s determined character had taught Prudence the uselessness of just pooh-poohing any idea she might have got into her head, and what else was she to say, except that it was utterly ridiculous?

  Mary, keeping a vigilant eye on Prudence to see how she was taking it, went on:

  “There’s more to it than just that, miss. Do you know what it was they quarrelled about years ago?”

  “No,” said Prudence, and then with a sudden sense of caution: “What makes you think there was a quarrel?”

  “You forget I was here at the time, miss. The last time the doctor came he was only Mr. Francis then; it must be nigh on thirty years ago, and something happened. It was ’ushed up, and Mr. Francis, as he was then, left the Hall very sudden.”

  “I haven’t the least idea what they quarrelled about,” said Prudence. “I don’t think I ever asked, but what was it you were going to tell me—something else you said?” for Prudence suddenly felt there might be things about the family which she did not want to discuss, even with a faithful old friend like Mary. She must ask her father about that quarrel.

  “It’s this, miss. You know his lordship sometimes gets coal and wood up to the house by water?”

  “Yes,” said Prudence, “I think I knew it.”

  “Well, miss, the last barge-load of wood that came up was while the doctor was here; and there was a young chap unloading I ain’t seen before. He wasn’t one of the woodmen. I was standing at the library window, wondering how a cobweb had got there. The doctor was sitting on that garden-seat smoking, and the young man I see walked along, passed ’im, and without stopping as he walked by I ’eard ’im say to the doctor, ‘I landed your lot where you told me without being seen, sir.’ If I ’adn’t been in the window no one would have suspected ’im of ’aving spoken, and I ’eard it, miss, for certain I ’eard it.”

  “I must get this straight,” said Prudence. “You mean Dr. Temple was sitting smoking on the bench on the terrace and you heard this young man say that sentence as he walked by without stopping?”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “You’re quite certain those were the words?”

  “I am absolutely certain, miss.”

  “But what was the man doing on the terrace?”

  “There were three men on the barge, and they had come up that way to the bailiff’s room to be paid.”

  Prudence thought deeply. “Did you see the others pass too?”

  “I didn’t actually see the first, and after the young man passed, the doctor went away. I saw the skipper, as they call him, but the do
ctor was gone then.”

  Prudence couldn’t make head or tail of it. Mary was a person of no imagination whatever; she simply hadn’t the wit to invent such a tale, therefore she probably had heard it. How, then, to account for such words, let alone the manner in which they had been delivered?

  “Eh, but it’s my lamb I’ve had since a baby,” came the cry, and quite suddenly Mary, the self-contained, precise, undemonstrative Mary, broke down and wept. The bent figure, in her black dress and white apron, the old hands, knobbly from hard work, pressed shaking against her face—the heartfelt cry of love for her baby—made a pathetic appeal indeed. Prudence knelt on the floor by the old woman and put her arms round her.

  “My dear, dear old friend,” she said, “it’s not that—it’s not what you think.”

  She soothed the poor old woman for a bit, and then got up, rinsed out her cup, and made Mary have a drink of her own beloved beverage, hot and strong.

  “There,” said Prudence soothingly, “there’s nothing like a good cup of strong tea if you’re upset,” quoting the words she had so often heard Mary use.

  “There ain’t, miss, and that’s a fac’,” and then she added more shakily: “I am fair ashamed of myself, but I’ve had no one I could speak to about it; I couldn’t go to Mrs. Sims, I couldn’t speak about the family like this to no one but you, miss.”

  “I should think not, indeed,” said Prudence; “but I still think the best thing is to go straight to his lordship and tell him everything.”