Crystal Beads Murder

by Annie Haynes

  “Saunderson kept no man, you say, sir?”

  “No. Just the one old housekeeper to look after things and see to his breakfast. These are service flats, so he would manage all right. I wish he had had a man, but we must see what the housekeeper can tell us.”

  There was nothing of the Spartan about Saunderson evidently. His bedroom, like the rest of the flat, was extremely well furnished. The floor was softly carpeted, a big easy-chair stood by the electric radiator, and the satin down quilt on the bed was almost as thick as a French one.

  The inspector went straight over to a small inlaid table near the window.

  “A blotter, by Jove! Just the thing I was looking for.”

  He took it up. There were no loose papers inside, but the blotting-paper had the appearance of having been fairly well used. He held a sheet up to the light. At first sight it was not easy to read anything – it was written over and criss-crossed and blotted; but at last he made out a few words – “And unless I receive it before Monday –”

  The rest was just a jumble of incoherencies. The inspector took up the next sheet. “Not with you. You must –”

  The other two sheets yielded even less.

  “Yours sincerely, Robert Saunderson … yours faithfully, Robert Saunderson … If Battledore …” That was all that could be made out. And, though, such as it was, it went to confirm the inspector’s previous opinion, in itself it proved nothing.

  “Not much good going on here,” the inspector remarked. “We will just go through to the sitting-room. And then perhaps we might have a word with the people in the restaurant. They must have known Saunderson fairly well.”

  The sitting-room was expensively furnished, but it seemed to hold even less in the way of a clue to the mystery than the other rooms. It had the appearance of a room rarely used; a bowl of faded flowers stood on the table, a comfortable chesterfield in the middle of the room appeared to have been little sat upon. There was a low book-case under one of the windows, containing a number of doubtful-looking French novels in garish covers. On the top of the case stood a couple of Oriental vases, and the photograph in a frame of beaten copper of a dark, handsome woman with unshingled hair, in the fashion of a few years previously. The inspector looked at it, then took it out of the frame and glanced at the back.

  “Taken at Southampton, and some time ago by the look of it,” he said as he set it down. “Well, she is not one of the ladies at Holford Hall. So much is certain.”

  Harbord held out a letter.

  “I found this in one of the dressing-table drawers.”

  The inspector drew his brows together as he got a whiff of the patchouli which emanated from the paper.

  “Beastly stuff! I wonder why women must put this stink on their letters. It is a woman’s writing, and I think I have seen it before,” glancing at the big square envelope. “Yes! Why, the postmark is Holford!” He drew out the enclosure and read it aloud. It was not dated and began abruptly. “He will be out from Friday to Monday. Come by the rosery entrance and up to the side door and I will let you in. Yours, M.”

  “M – Minnie, Lady Medchester,’’ said the inspector. “Well, it looks as if what London has been saying for some time – that the gossip about Saunderson and Lady Medchester had a solid substratum of fact.” He glanced again at the postmark. “This Friday that she speaks of is ten days before the murder. This makes one think. I wonder whether Saunderson went. Anyhow, he can’t tell us and I am sure Lady Medchester won’t. We shall have to make inquiries. But I don’t much like the look of things. It doesn’t seem probable that the man had two lady-loves at Holford; therefore, presumably he went there on the day of his death to meet Lady Medchester.’’

  “He may have had half a dozen – and the motive of the crime may have been jealousy,’’ Harbord hazarded.

  The inspector drew in his lips. “Only one person was likely to be jealous. Lady Medchester’s meretricious charms are scarcely likely to rouse any strong feeling nowadays, whatever they may have been in her youth.’’

  “I see what you mean,’’ Harbord said rather slowly, frowning as he spoke. “But isn’t there rather a snag there, sir? You see, this note asks Saunderson to come down on the Friday because ‘he’ will be out. Would she have asked him to come again on the evening of the murder when presumably ‘he’ would be certain to be at home as they had people coming to dinner as well as others staying in the house?”

  “It doesn’t seem likely on the face of it,” the inspector agreed. “But we don’t know what had happened. Something may have turned up that made a second meeting imperative. I think – I rather think we shall have to ask Lady Medchester for an explanation of this letter.”

  “She will probably swear it isn’t hers at all.”

  “I think the internal evidence shows plainly enough that it is. But still” – the inspector regarded Harbord with an indulgent smile – “I have no intention of going to her bald-headed with it just at present. But now we will have a word with the housekeeper.”

  The housekeeper, Mrs. Draper, came to them in the hall. She was a tall, angular-looking woman, if, with big, dark eyes that had a scared look in them as she glanced at the detectives.

  “You sent for me?”

  “Yes. I wanted to ask you a few questions.” The inspector moved a chair forward for her. “I shall keep you only a few minutes, Mrs. Draper. I understand you have been some time with Mr. Saunderson?”

  Mrs. Draper passed her apron over the chair before she sat down.

  “Yes, a matter of three years and a half. And I am sorry you gentlemen should come in to find the place all in a muddle and the London dust over everything, getting in through every chink. But if the flat being locked up directly I heard of poor Mr. Saunderson’s death I couldn’t help it.”

  “I’m sure you couldn’t,” the inspector assented heartily. “And I know what work is. I can see the place has been well looked after. Now, Mrs. Draper, can you tell us what took Mr. Saunderson to Holford?”

  The housekeeper threw up her hands.

  “Not a bit of it, I couldn’t. I knew he was to be away the night, for he said to me joking, like, when he went out – ‘You won’t see me till tomorrow morning, Mrs. Draper.’ He never was one to stay out all night without telling me, wasn’t Mr. Saunderson. But, as to where he went, that was another matter. You might have knocked me down with a feather when I heard he had been killed at Holford.’’

  “Do you know of anyone that had a grudge against him?” the inspector asked.

  “Eh, no! That I don’t.” Mrs. Draper stared at him. “He was always a pleasant, joking sort of man.”

  “You know of no quarrel of any kind? Now please do think well, Mrs. Draper,” the inspector said sternly as the woman stopped and hesitated. “We must be quite sure about this.”

  “Well, there was a bit of unpleasantness between him and a young gentleman a week or two ago,” the housekeeper said unwillingly. “But I am sure it meant nothing, and anyway it is all over now.”

  The inspector produced his notebook.

  “This young man’s name, please.”

  “A very nice young gentleman he is,” Mrs. Draper said with emphasis. “Well, then” – as the inspector moved impatiently – “it was Mr. Harold Courtenay. He was a friend of the master’s, too, except for that little quarrel, and that didn’t last, for I heard them part the best of friends last Monday. I heard Mr. Courtenay call out ‘So long, old chap!’ as he went off.”

  “H’m!” The inspector produced the photograph he had found in the sitting-room. “Mr. Saunderson was rather a man for the ladies, wasn’t he?”

  “Well, I never saw anything of it if he was,” Mrs. Draper said, pleating up the edge of her coat. “He didn’t have ladies coming here after him, or anything of that.”

  “Not even this lady?” said the inspector, holding up the photograph.

  Mrs. Draper’s change of colour did not escape him.

  “Yes, I have seen that one,�
� she said slowly. “I let her in once. And I know she was here once more, anyhow. I heard her talking. She had that loud kind of voice, you couldn’t mistake it.”

  “Did you hear her name?”

  “Well, I did hear it, but not to remember it,” Mrs. Draper said doubtfully. “Something beginning with D it was. Miss De something or other. I took the lady for an actress – or a music-hall person.”

  “I see. Well, we must look that up,” said the inspector, placing the photograph in his pocket and producing the three beads found in Saunderson’s pocket. “Was the lady wearing anything if like this when you let her in?”

  Mrs. Draper hesitated. “I couldn’t say, sir. She had a lot of dangling things on – I know that; but I didn’t look particular. I couldn’t say more than that.”

  The inspector looked disappointed as he replaced them in the little box.

  “Well, Mrs. Draper, I must take your address, and you must notify me of any change. I shall probably want to see you again before long.”

  CHAPTER 8

  “I shall never marry. I have changed my mind.”

  Anne Courtenay’s tone was dull and lifeless. She was standing in the little drawing-room of the cottage that had been General Courtenay’s home for years and stood on a corner of the estate that had once been the Courtenays’. The cottage and the land surrounding it was their last remaining possession. Anne was in mourning – just a simple black frock that suited her fair skin to perfection. That very morning General Courtenay had been laid to his rest, and his old sister, saddened and broken, had returned to her home in London. Anne was feeling lonely and frightened. Her eyes were glancing round the room now as if she feared something that might lurk amid the gathering shadows.

  Opposite to her stood Michael Burford. The famous trainer was a strong-looking man – strong-looking in both senses of the word. He was not tall; he hardly reached middle height, but on his lithe, muscular frame there was not one ounce of superfluous fat. His lean, dark face was tanned nearly mahogany colour; against it his steel-blue eyes had a startling, vivid effect. Meeting their glance fully, it was easy to realize that here was a man of indomitable determination, a man who would always conquer in a contest of wills, whether of man or beast. In his training career Michael Burford had been singularly successful. No horse of his ever became sour. Burford’s colts were never led on the course blinkered or muzzled. Very early in their training they found they had met their master, and the sooner they realized it and submitted the better for them.

  He was looking at Anne now, and as he watched her face and heard her constantly reiterated words – “I shall never marry now” – there was no anger in his eyes, only a great pity.

  “Why have you changed your mind, Anne?” he questioned gently. “Don’t you think you owe it to me to give me some explanation?”

  “I can’t!” Anne raised her hands, then let them fall helplessly to her sides. “It is just that I do not mean to marry anyone. That I must be alone – always alone – as long as I live.”

  “Why?” The steel-blue eyes kept their watch on the set white face. “I shall not release you, Anne,” Michael Burford went on quietly. “You have promised to marry me. I shall keep you to your promise.”

  “You can’t.”

  Anne’s voice sounded as if she were tired – very, very tired. Her eyes, swollen and dark-circled, looked as though they had wept until they could weep no more. Her slim, young figure was bent as if she had no strength in it. The pity in Burford’s eyes deepened.

  “Is your love for me dead, then, Anne?”

  The girl nodded, tried to speak, but the lie refused to come. Her throat twitched convulsively; with a gesture of utter despair she flung her hands before her eyes.

  Burford watched her silently for a minute. Then he moved nearer.

  “Anne –”

  With a moan she put out her hands as though to push him away.

  “Please – go. Don’t you see that I can’t –”

  Very deliberately, in spite of her best efforts to avoid him, Burford took one of the outstretched hands. It lay in his like a lump of ice.

  “Tell me why you have changed your mind, Anne.”

  “I – I can’t,” the girl said miserably. “It is just that I have changed, that is all. People do, you know,” steadying her voice with a supreme effort.

  Michael Burford laughed aloud.

  “They do, I know. But you haven’t, Anne.” He had captured both hands now. “You belong to me, you are mine. I will never let you go. I am going to marry you at once and carry you right away home to East Molton. Is that what you are afraid of, dear? Of Anne Courtenay becoming Michael Burford the trainer’s wife?” Anne tried to free her hands from his.

  “No! A thousand times no!” she cried passionately. “I must go right away – away from every one I know – where no one ever sees me.” As she spoke she wrenched her hands from Burford’s grasp and clasped them in front of her.

  “Always in my dreams I see them, staring, watching every movement. Never, never can I get away. Oh, the world is all eyes – everywhere there are eyes!”

  “I will take you away from them.” Michael Burford spoke very gravely. “You shall never be lonely or frightened again, Anne. It is very safe at East Molton. No one will worry you there. Just we two in the house and the horses and men outside. We will go for long gallops over the moors, the winds that come down clean and fresh from the north shall blow the cobwebs from our brains, and you shall be strong and brave again.”

  Some of the terror faded from Anne’s eyes. Only she, and Heaven, knew how she longed for the home, the peace thus pictured. She had dreamt of other careers before she was engaged – sometimes she had thought of the stage; she had been well spoken of as an amateur actress; but now – now she dared not face an audience, not knowing how much people guessed, how much they knew. East Molton looked like a paradise of peace and rest to her. Yet, she asked herself, would she really be safe there? Would she really be safe anywhere?

  Burford saw the softening in her eyes and his face brightened.

  “You will come, Anne? You will let me take you away now, at once?”

  Suddenly the frozen calm of Anne’s face broke up, big tears welled up in her eyes.

  “I – I can’t. I daren’t.”

  “Daren’t!” Burford repeated. “That is not a word for your father’s daughter, Anne.”

  “Ah!” In spite of her tears Anne held up her head now. “It is because of him that I am afraid. You do not know –”

  “No.” Burford’s tone was very grave now. “I do not know perhaps, but suppose I guess. Harold –”

  “No, no!” Anne backed against the wall. “You shall not guess. It was not Harold. It was I –”

  There was a dawning comprehension now in Burford’s eyes.

  “Anne, I think I do know. Saunderson –”

  “No, no!” With a hoarse cry the girl shrank from him. She pushed herself back, her hands held out to keep him off. “You shall not,” she panted. “I tell you, you shall not guess!”

  “No, I will not guess,” Burford said very quietly. “Because you are going to tell me yourself, Anne. Because I know – I have known all along that you were out the night that Saunderson died.”

  “What!” Anne’s eyes were full of terror. She seemed to shrivel up literally beneath his gaze. “How – how could you know?” she stammered.

  “I saw you coming in,” he said gravely. “I went over to Holford on some business with Lord Medchester, and then Captain Williamson, who has a colt with me, came there after me. We were in the library and the window was wide open, for it was a hot night, and I saw you.”

  “And Captain Williamson?” Anne questioned breathlessly.

  “He didn’t see you. He was looking the other way. And he would not have known you. I could see only a tall figure in black, but you could not deceive me, Anne.”

  “Then – then – if you saw that,” Anne spoke with difficulty, “you know
– you know why –”

  “I know why – what?”

  “Why I cannot marry you – why I cannot marry anyone?” Very haltingly the words came now.

  A sudden flame leapt into the blue eyes watching her.

  “I see why you should marry me,” Burford said steadily. “I mean to take care of you, Anne. You can trust me.”

  “Yes, yes!” the stammering voice said brokenly. “But I can bring you shame – disgrace –”

  “I can stand them if I have you, Anne, beside me.” There was no hesitation in his tone. “But why didn’t you come to me before, Anne? Why didn’t you let me help you instead?”

  “No, no!” Anne broke in with sudden passion. “I did not – I did not – you do believe me, Michael?”

  “I believe in you as I do in God Himself,” Burford returned. Eyes and voice were as steady as ever. “Saunderson deserved his fate, Anne, though you had no part in it. But – Harold –?”

  “I don’t know – I don’t know!” Anne moaned. “But I am frightened – so frightened, Michael.”

  There was a tender look in Burford’s eyes as he watched her. “But now you must not be frightened any more. I am going to take care of you –”

  But with a cry Anne shrank from him.

  “You can’t, you can’t! Nobody can. He – we must just go on to the end. And then – oh, God help us then!”

  “Anne!” With a quick forward movement Burford captured her hands. “What do you mean? Do you think that Harold –?”

  Anne interrupted him with a cry.

  “I don’t think – I daren’t think. Only I am afraid – afraid of everything.”

  “You will not be afraid with me at East Molton,” Burford said with a certainty that was in itself reassuring. “And by and by when you are strong enough to tell me all, I think we shall be able to help Harold. I have faith in your brother, Anne.”

  “You don’t know – everything,” the girl said with difficulty. “I did not think – I never believed – that Harold would do what he has done. But now – now, I just don’t know. I don’t feel – sure of anybody – not even myself.”