by Molly Thynne
He had hardly taken his hand off the bell when the door was opened and, without waiting for his inquiry as to whether Lady Kean was at home, the butler stood aside for him to pass into the hall.
“Sir William is waiting for you, sir, if you’ll step up,” he said.
“Sir William?” repeated Fayre, puzzled. “Isn’t this Sir Edward Kean’s?”
For a moment the man seemed taken aback; then he realized his mistake.
“I beg your pardon, sir; I took you for the doctor the gentlemen are expecting. Lady Kean is very ill. The doctors are holding a consultation upstairs. Sir Edward is at home, but I don’t know …”
“I won’t trouble him now, of course,” said Fayre quickly. “I’m very sorry about this. When was she taken ill?”
“Her ladyship had a heart attack yesterday evening soon after she arrived from the North. The doctor thinks the journey was too much for her. We are very anxious about her, sir.”
The man looked genuinely distressed. Evidently Sybil Kean was of those who endear themselves to their servants.
Fayre produced a card and scribbled the address of his club on it.
“Tell Sir Edward that this will find me if I can be of any use. I’ll call again later in case there is better news.”
As he went down the steps a car drove up, no doubt bearing the third doctor. His heart was very heavy as he made his way slowly back to his club. For the moment his mind was swept completely clear of the Draycott case and he could think of nothing but the Keans: the hushed house and the possibly fruitless consultation that was now taking place. Sybil Kean was the oldest of all his friends in England and he was very fond of her. Edward could, on occasion, exasperate him almost beyond endurance and he was an unsatisfactory companion in the sense that he gave little and asked for nothing where the ties of friendship were concerned, but Fayre had always both liked and admired him. He had struck him from the first as one of the loneliest beings in existence, a man fated to remain detached, too strong to invite sympathy and too engrossed in his own interests to offer it. Fayre pictured him, waiting alone for the verdict of the doctors, and wished he had had the courage to break in upon his privacy.
He dined at the club and, after a fruitless attempt to enjoy a quiet cigar, was driven by sheer anxiety to return to Westminster.
To his surprise he was told that Sir Edward wished to see him.
“It was good of you to call, Hatter,” was Kean’s brief comment as he rose to greet him.
His voice had lost none of its resonance, but Fayre thought he had never seen a man look so ill. His face was a grey mask and his eyes, bleak and lifeless, seemed literally to have receded into his head. Fayre cast a swift glance round the room.
“Look here, old man,” he said, “have you dined?”
Kean stared at him vaguely.
The butler, who had been making up the fire and was about to leave the room, turned at his words.
“Sir Edward made a very poor dinner, sir,” he ventured.
Kean swung round on him impatiently; but he was too exhausted to act with his customary vigour and Fayre forestalled him.
“Do you think you could raise a few sandwiches?” he asked the man pleasantly. “I see drinks are here.”
The butler responded with alacrity.
“Cook did cut some, sir, on the chance.”
He vanished, only too thankful to feel that Sir Edward was at last in the hands of some one who seemed able to influence him. He had hardly eaten or slept, in the opinion of his household, since his wife had been taken ill.
Fayre strolled over to the little table near the window, on which stood a tantalus and a couple of syphons. He poured out a stiff drink, but withheld it until the butler returned with a tray of fruit and sandwiches.
Kean sat gazing into the fire. He did not show the slightest interest in Fayre’s movements and the fact that his old friend had coolly taken possession and was issuing orders to his servants seem to have escaped him.
Fayre moved the table with the tray to Kean’s elbow.
“Is Sybil conscious?” he asked quietly and with what seemed deliberate cruelty.
Her name was enough to rouse Kean from his abstraction.
“Her mind’s quite clear, but she’s so weak she can hardly speak,” he said. “The doctors won’t say anything definite yet.”
“Then, if she’s able to think at all she’s worrying about you. Don’t give her more cause for anxiety than you can help, old chap. She’ll need you as soon as she picks up a bit and what earthly use are you going to be to her if you let yourself go to pieces now?”
He held out the tumbler and Kean, after a moment’s hesitation, took it and drank thirstily.
“I wanted that,” he said.
For answer Fayre silently pushed over the plate of sandwiches. Then he sat quietly watching the dancing flames while Kean forced himself to eat. The self-discipline he had always practised stood him in good stead and the plate was half-empty before he leaned back in his chair and fumbled for his cigarette-case.
“Sorry, Hatter,” he said with the ghost of a smile, “but that’s the best I can do.”
Fayre grinned back at him.
“Good enough,” he answered. “Feel better?”
Kean nodded.
“I’d lost grip of myself for the moment, that’s all. Those confounded doctors took such a time this afternoon and then I couldn’t get a thing worth having out of them. I suppose they couldn’t help it, poor beggars, but it seemed a lifetime to me. It was decent of you to come, Hatter.”
“I came because I couldn’t stand the suspense any longer myself. Glad I did, now.”
“So am I. I’ll tell you as much as I know myself. If she pulls through the night they think she’ll do and she’s no weaker than she was this morning. That’s all I’ve got to go on. If there’s any change the nurse will come for me, otherwise she’s to see no one. The doctor’s coming again in an hour’s time.”
“Thanks,” said Fayre appreciatively. “I’m glad to know. It’s not such a bad lookout as I feared. Like so many people with frail bodies, Sybil’s always had more than her share of nervous vitality and I’m ready to bank on that. And you’ve given her an incentive to live, old man,” he finished gently.
Kean stared at him for a moment without speaking. Then:
“I’ve done my best,” he said with a curious grim note in his voice that made Fayre wonder whether, after all, he had not always realized how very little of her heart Sybil Kean had to give when she married him.
There was a pause; then Kean rose to his feet and thrust his hands into his pockets with the gesture that was so characteristic of him.
“I can’t stand this,” he said abruptly. “I must get my teeth into something or my imagination will get away with me. What have you and Grey been doing?”
“As a matter of fact, I came here to-day at Grey’s request. He wants to consult you and suggested I should make an appointment. Of course, that’s all off now.”
“For the present, anyhow. But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t put me au fait with things. I should be grateful for anything to hitch my brain onto at this moment.”
Fayre realized that he was actuated by sheer instinct for self-preservation and met him half-way by plunging at once into a recital of all that had happened in the last few days.
Kean listened attentively. Now and then he interrupted to ask a trenchant question; otherwise he heard him in silence. When he had finished Fayre handed him the little red cap the tramp had given him.
“This may as well go with the other exhibit,” he said. “Anyhow, we know now that it was lost before, and not after, the murder.”
Kean dropped it into the drawer of his writing-table and turned the key.
“It would be interesting to know how much that fellow, Gregg, really knows of Mrs. Draycott’s past,” he said slowly.
“Whatever it is, he’s made up his mind not to speak.”
Kean stood roc
king backward and forward on his heels, lost in thought. Fayre watched him in amazement. Half an hour ago he had been a broken man. Not only had he pulled himself together by sheer force of will, but he was now giving his whole mind to the matter in hand with a lack of effort that seemed almost superhuman.
“Gregg ought to be get-at-able,” he said at last. “His treatment of you was nothing but a display of bad temper. If he’s innocent it ought to be possible to convince him of the folly of the line he’s taking. If he’s guilty, the only course will be to put the matter in the hands of the police. My own impression is that he’s shielding some one. Miss Allen said that this man Baxter, Mrs. Draycott’s first husband, was dead. She also went so far as to say that he was the one person she could think of connected with her sister’s past who would have been capable of killing her. Have we any proof that the fellow is dead?”
“Gregg told me that he had died in his arms. We haven’t followed the matter up, if that’s what you mean.”
“A statement of that sort, coming from Gregg, is of no value to us. Get Grey to look the thing up, will you?”
“It’s an idea!” exclaimed Fayre. “I wonder we never thought of it! Baxter was Gregg’s friend and Gregg hated Mrs. Draycott on his account. He’d certainly shield him if the necessity arose. And Baxter was a drunkard and half demented, at that, if the accounts be true. There may be something in it.”
Kean made a gesture of impatience.
“Don’t go off the deep end, Hatter. The man’s probably dead and buried. It’s worth investigating, though. And look here, Hatter, keep Grey off Gregg, will you? We don’t want this thing muddled and if Grey’s clumsy he’ll do more harm than good. Tell him I’ll make the doctor my business, that is …”
He broke off and the lines on his face deepened. Fayre knew that his mind was back in the quiet, shaded room upstairs and that the words “if all goes well” had trembled on his lips and he had been afraid to utter them.
“I’ll see to that, old chap,” he broke in hastily, “and I’ll put the Baxter theory to him at once.”
Kean sank into a chair and closed his eyes. He looked mortally tired and Fayre forbore to disturb him. For a time they sat in silence; then Kean shook himself out of his abstraction.
“As regards the Page business,” he began thoughtfully, “I doubt …”
There was a sound in the hall and in a moment he was on his feet, everything but his wife forgotten. They heard the front door close, followed by the sound of subdued voices.
“It’s the doctor. Wait here, old man, will you?” Kean flung the words over his shoulder as he left the room, and for the next half-hour or so Fayre, alone in the big shadowy library, gave himself up shamelessly to the depression which had haunted him all day.
He waited till the departure of the doctor and the return of Kean with the news that his wife was, if anything, a little stronger and then walked back through the quiet, lamplit streets to his club.
CHAPTER XVIII
Before going out the next morning Fayre rang up Kean’s house and ascertained that Sybil Kean had passed a good night and was appreciably stronger. The doctors were still unable to pronounce her definitely out of danger and had warned Kean that, at any moment, there might be a relapse, but Fayre was conscious of an immense relief as he set out for Grey’s office in Chancery Lane.
He gave Grey the gist of his interview with Kean. The solicitor was inclined to be sceptical as to the existence of Baxter, but he admitted that, were the man still alive, Kean’s suggestion would more than hold water and he promised to look into the matter at once. He smiled at Kean’s offer to deal with Gregg himself if the occasion arose.
“Didn’t I tell you that he trusted no one but himself in a matter of any real importance?” he exclaimed. “That’s a part of the secret of his success. That and his amazing capacity for cramming two men’s work into the twelve hours. He must be uncommonly keen on the case, though. Apart from Lady Kean’s illness he’s up to his eyes in work already.”
“Which will be the saving of him if things go wrong with her,” said Fayre. “I wish this next week were over.”
Grey nodded.
“So do I, from our point of view as well as his. If Lady Kean dies Sir Edward will do one of two things: try to lose himself in work or chuck everything. It’s a toss-up. If he were to throw up the sponge, I don’t know what we should do. Even with the little we’ve got now, Kean might get Leslie off on insufficient evidence, but there’s not another man at the Bar who could put it through. We’re still in an uncommonly tight corner.”
In the afternoon Fayre called on Kean and literally forced him into the open air. The two men walked across the Park as far as Bayswater. Once there, however, Kean fell into a panic and, refusing Fayre’s offer to ring up his house at the nearest public telephone, jumped into a taxi and hurried home. Fayre turned back and strolled quietly along the Serpentine in the direction of Hyde Park Corner. He had not gone far when his eye fell on the figure of a woman walking just ahead of him. Something in the purposeful swing of her walk and the carriage of her erect figure struck him as familiar and he quickened his steps and was soon abreast of her.
She turned at the sound of his voice.
“Mr. Fayre! I was just thinking of you, curiously enough, and wishing I had asked you for your address the other day when we met in the train.”
Fayre turned to her with a smile.
“If I were a more conceited man I should feel flattered, but I’m afraid you’ve got some annoyingly good reason for wishing to see me. Is there anything I can do?”
“It is only that you asked me once whether I could tell you anything about my sister’s associates and I wondered if you would care to go through some papers of hers which have only just come into my possession.
They have been in a dispatch-box at her bank all this time and were handed over to me yesterday. I went through them cursorily and they seem to consist mostly of business papers, but there are one or two letters and photographs which might give you some hint as to the set she was moving in. They convey nothing to me, but you may know something about these people.”
“It is more than good of you …” began Fayre.
“Nonsense, Mr. Fayre. I am as anxious to find out who killed my poor sister as you are to clear John Leslie and it struck me that two heads are better than one. Also, you may have arrived at certain conclusions already and these letters may throw some light on them. I warn you that there was nothing private, with the exception of certain letters which I have already destroyed or disposed of. They concerned only my sister and could have been of no use to you whatever, but I prefer to deal frankly with you.”
Fayre’s sharp eyes did not miss the sudden wave of colour that swept to the roots of her grey hair when she mentioned the letters and he made a shrewd guess as to the character of that portion of Mrs. Draycott’s correspondence that her sister had found it better to destroy.
He hastened to reassure her.
“Of course I understand. Show me only what you care for an outsider to see. As you say, you may have something that confirms certain suspicions of mine. In any case, I am very grateful to you for giving me the opportunity to see them.”
“Could you look at them to-morrow?” she suggested, coming to the point at once in her downright way. “I shall be in from four onwards.”
“Delighted, and if you are going to walk back to your hotel, perhaps you’ll let me take you to the door. You look as if, like myself, you were out for exercise.”
“I am, and to tell you the truth, I was bored to death! It’s a funny thing, but I can walk for miles alone in the country and enjoy every moment of it, but five minutes of it in London is enough to make me long for some one to grouse to. The crowds both worry and stifle me.”
“I know what you mean; I feel the same myself. I put it down to the years I have been away. London’s the one place where I feel really lonely nowadays.” She nodded.
“I forgot you’d
been abroad for so long. The truth is, I suppose we’ve both dropped out of things. It’s dawning on me that I’ve turned into a regular country cousin. I’m not going straight back to my hotel, by the way. I’ve got a parcel to leave near Victoria. Is that out of your way?”
“Not a bit. The further, the better.”
They walked on, chatting quietly. Their conversation ranged over a wide field and Fayre discovered that, though she was pleased to call herself a country cousin, she had not by any means lost touch with the outside world, for she was a voracious reader and had gathered a store of homely wisdom in the course of her quiet life. The time passed so pleasantly that he was surprised when he found himself at the corner of Grosvenor Place, facing Victoria Station.
“Where do we go now?” he asked idly.
Her answer took his breath away.
“I’m making for some flats behind the Cathedral. Brackley Mansions, they’re called.”
Gregg’s headquarters in London! They crossed the road in silence, Fayre busily engaged in assuring him-self that there was nothing unusual in such coincidences.
“If you’re really so keen on exercise and are not in a hurry we might stroll on to my hotel,” pursued Miss Allen. “I’m only leaving this parcel. I can’t offer you tea to-day, as I’m entertaining a dull batch of relations, but I shall be glad of your company to the door.”
She took a small, flat package out of her bag and Fayre, glancing at it involuntarily, could not help seeing Dr. Gregg’s name written across it in a clear, bold script, the type of handwriting he would have expected from Miss Allen.
They left the parcel with the porter and then strolled on to Miss Allen’s hotel. Fayre’s conversation was as intelligent as could be expected in the circumstances, but it was somewhat mechanical, for his mind was wrestling busily with this new problem. Until now it had not occurred to him to connect Miss Allen’s visit to London with that of Gregg, but now he began to wonder. He had parted from her and was on his way back to his club when the probable explanation dawned on him. Did the parcel she had just left for Gregg contain some of the letters she had “disposed of”? It seemed more than likely. If so, Fayre would have given a good deal for a glance at the contents of the packet.
