The Secret of Greylands

by Annie Haynes

  What had Gillman been doing that first night? she asked herself with whitening cheeks. What was he doing now? As a certain sinister suggestion presented itself to her mind she shivered from head to foot. Clinging to the bedpost, she waited; the digging went on, now slowly, now almost with feverish haste. At length the sound stopped. Cynthia still waited motionless, hardly daring even to breathe. In the silence that followed there was a step in the passage outside, the key was turned stealthily.

  Cynthia stood up, her limbs paralysed by fear, her eyes fixed as if spell-bound upon the door. It opened slowly, and Sybil put her head in.

  “Cynthia!” She set down the lamp she carried and came swiftly across the room. “You must go! Do not stay one minute! Go—go at once!” catching at Cynthia with hot, dry fingers.

  Still Cynthia did not stir; she stared back at the other as if fascinated. Sybil’s whole aspect was changed; she looked like a creature over whom there had passed a terrible blight. There was no trace of colour in face or lips, the pretty delicate features were pinched and drawn, her eyes were darkened and dilated by terror.

  “Don’t—don’t you understand?” she whispered hoarsely, catching her breath. “Go—be quick; I have left the front door open! You may get out if you do not lose one minute!” She tore Cynthia from her hold on the bedpost and forced her through the door.

  “It—Oh, I know you do not trust me, but do not stop to argue! Go!”

  The passion, the tragedy of her tone carried conviction. Cynthia moved quickly, silently down the stairs. At the bottom she paused, glancing irresolutely at the open door.

  “You are coming too, Sybil?”

  The other shook her head.

  “No! Go! Do not think of me! My place”—holding up her head with a certain pathetic dignity—“is here!”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  CYNTHIA heard the door close behind her and the bolts shot into their places with a feeling of absolute helplessness. The night was very dark, and there were tiny little scuds of rain in the wind as it beat upon her face. Stealing across the grass, she made her way to the fir shrubbery, and as she hurried down the path to the gate she heard the sound of a man’s footsteps and the echo of a song.

  Drawing back, she concealed herself behind a tree, but Gillman was not coming towards her. Apparently he had turned off, and was striding towards the brushwood; then, quite close to her as it seemed, she heard him digging. As if impelled by some force stronger than her own will, she moved stealthily forward.

  The moon shone out for a minute from behind the heavy bank of clouds, and she saw that she was quite close to Gillman, who was standing in a deep hole. Only his head was visible, and that was fortunately turned away from her. Working quickly, he was throwing out spadefuls of earth; but as Cynthia still watched, fascinated by terror, he hoisted himself out, not without difficulty, and then, throwing a branch over the opening, strode off to the house. When his steps had died away in the distance Cynthia crept forward timidly and drew aside the covering. She saw a deep oblong hole. As she peered down into it the recollection of her mother’s funeral came into her mind, and she seemed to see again the coffin on the bier, the yawning, open grave. For what, she asked herself, crouching on the brink, for whom—shaking from head to foot with a nameless terror—had this hole been dug? Suddenly from the house she heard a quick, sharp exclamation:

  “Sybil! Sybil!”

  A light was flashing in her room, and she knew that her flight was discovered.

  The front door was thrown open, and Gillman was shouting:

  “Nero! Nero!”

  He had brought the dog to hunt her! Cynthia’s flesh crept with the horror of it. She could see no hope of escape now; dark though it was, Nero would track her. Out there on the moor she would have no chance. A wild thought of a possible refuge occurred to her, and moving aside the branch as little as possible she sprang into the hole. It was deeper than she had thought, and she fell with a thud that, it seemed to her, must be audible everywhere.

  Presently, overhead, Gillman’s voice sounded loudly.

  “Good dog! Find her, Nero! Find her!”

  Cynthia shivered; the dog was making straight for her hiding-place. She breathed one short, silent prayer. Her mind went back for one moment to her dead mother, to the little home they had both loved; then she braced herself to meet the fate that was coming swiftly towards her.

  Nero knew his work well; she heard him scenting among the pines; then he came straight as a dart for her hiding-place. She could hear him rustling, scratching the pine-needles, and a tiny piece of earth fell upon her face.

  “Nero! Good dog! Go home!” she whispered. “Go home!”

  Nero hesitated a moment, but Cynthia had fed him with cakes and odd bones, his doggish memory was faithful, and with a sharp bark he trotted off. Gillman was following; Cynthia heard his muttered imprecation as he fancied that the dog had lost the scent. Then there was a short, sharp yelp, and the hurrying footsteps crashed on.

  Cynthia waited breathlessly. In a minute or two he would come back, she thought. He would find her, and then—she did not dare to let her mind go beyond that. She leaned against the wet earth. It seemed to her that a sudden stillness fell upon everything, that near her unseen forces were gathering themselves up in the silence that precedes the storm. Gillman’s footsteps came round again, died away in the distance once more, and the silence grew intense. The minutes passed on slowly; it seemed to Cynthia that she had been standing there for hours, and she prayed for anything—anything to end the suspense.

  Suddenly near at hand she caught the sound of voices; she held her breath, telling herself she must be mistaken. It could not be Farquhar she heard speaking? She tried to answer, to call out, but no words came, only a long, hoarse sob.

  Almost simultaneously an awful shriek rang out from the house—a cry of horror and despair.

  “Sybil!” Cynthia gasped as she tried frantically to raise herself.

  At all hazards she must get out now; she must not leave Sybil to suffer in her stead. She could find no foothold at first by which to climb up, for the crumbling earth gave way as she clutched it, but she struggled wildly, desperately, with feet and hands, and at length stood panting and distraught under the pines once more.

  Then she gazed round bewildered. Instead of the silence that had reigned a moment ago it seemed to her that there were voices everywhere. Lights were twinkling among the firs; dark forms sprang over the fence, and, crossing through the brushwood, ran against her. The spell that had held her silent was broken, and she cried aloud:

  “Oh, help, help! He is killing her—Sybil!”

  “Cynthia! Thank Heaven you are safe!”

  It was Farquhar’s voice, and as she swayed towards him he caught the half-fainting girl in his arms.

  “My aunt, where is she?”

  “I don’t know!”

  Then the sense of protection, of help, brought the blood rushing back to Cynthia’s paralysed brain, and she caught feverishly at his arm.

  “Come! Come! Didn’t you hear her? She let me out! She saved me! Now—now he will kill her instead!”

  “Aunt Hannah!”

  Farquhar’s tone was full of mystification. Side by side they were struggling through the underwood, and now sprang on to the path.

  Cynthia shook her head.

  “No! No! She is not there. I don’t know where she is! It is Sybil!”

  They had emerged on the grass in front of the house, and as they did so a man rushed out. People seemed to spring up out of the shrubbery on every side; he was surrounded, there was a struggle, the sound of a pistol-shot, and a man’s voice said:

  “Ah, that is no use! You don’t try it again, my fine fellow!”

  Then the struggling mass coalesced and came towards them, and Cynthia saw four policemen keeping guard over one man who was handcuffed in their midst.

  Farquhar drew her quickly away.

  “We must go to the house; I don’t know what ha
s happened.”

  The old kindness was back in his tone, and, notwithstanding her terror, Cynthia felt a quick throb of gratitude. His warm clasp, the touch of his hand, sent a thrill of warmth through her chilled frame.

  As they neared the door Mr Barsly met them; they could not see his face, but his tone was very grave.

  “I am rejoiced to hear of your safety, Lady Letchingham, but I shall never forgive myself for having been so culpably blind. We have a carriage outside; let me take you to it.”

  Cynthia put him aside.

  “Sybil! Where is she? Let me go to her!”

  “She has been injured—not, I think, fatally; but it is no place for you, Lady Letchingham.” Mr Barsly was endeavouring to keep her back. “She—I think you must have guessed it by now—she is no relative of yours or of Lady Hannah’s; her name is not Hammond at all. She is a girl who was on the stage for some time, and her connexion with Gillman and his introduction of her to his household are—er—anything but creditable to either of them. Sir Donald, I must beg of you to use your influence with Lady Letchingham to prevent her coming into the house.”

  “It would not be any use,” Cynthia said steadily.

  It seemed to her as she heard Mr Barsly’s words that a veil had been torn from her eyes—that things that had mystified her all along were becoming clear. Of one great black cloud of dread she dared not even allow herself to think, but her whole heart was now filled with an intense pity for Sybil. Whoever the girl might be, however she might have sinned, Cynthia could not doubt that through her agency she herself had been saved from Gillman, and that the girl had paid the penalty for her compassion. The hall was in darkness, but the door into the dining-room stood wide open. Sybil had been placed on a couch, and Cynthia looked from its red chintz cushions to the white stricken face resting on them with a kind of stupid wonder. It was all so familiar and yet so terribly altered. She must be dreaming, she told herself.

  Then as Sybil slowly turned her head and looked at her everything else was forgotten in a great rush of pity. Cynthia could not withstand that piteous appeal, and she hurried forward.

  Sybil held out her hands.

  “He—they have taken him away, Cynthia?”

  Cynthia moved her head in assent.

  “I—I think so; but I cannot understand—only I know he hurt you, Sybil.”

  The injured girl stirred restlessly.

  “That does not matter,” she said loyally. “He was right. I—I had deceived him, because I could not bear—If I die, Cynthia, you will tell him, some day, I loved him too much to let him do that. It was for his sake.”

  “I will tell him,” Cynthia promised. “But you are not going to die, Sybil,” though she felt a terrible misgiving as she saw the girl’s ashen face, heard her terrible gasps as she drew her breath.

  “I think I am—I hope I am,” Sybil said painfully. “Stay with me a while, Cynthia. I have a fancy that I should like to have you near me—that I should like to hear you say you forgive me before I die.”

  “I have nothing to forgive,” Cynthia said, bending over her. “You saved me, Sybil; but tell me—where is Cousin Hannah?”

  With a little cry Sybil shrank away among the cushions.

  “It—oh, I don’t know—don’t ask me, Cynthia! I am frightened, so frightened! She—she”—trying to still the terror in her voice—“she went away to Biarritz, you know.”

  Cynthia did not answer, but slipped her arm under the pillows and raised them to ease the terrible gasping breath, noting with a shudder the dark stain on the cushion, the matted golden hair.

  Sybil seemed to find some comfort in her proximity, and very gradually her weak hand stole out to find Cynthia’s, her eyes sought the other girl’s.

  In vain Farquhar remonstrated. Cynthia would not leave her post until at length a cheery little man bustled into the room, whom Mr Barsly addressed as Dr Campbell. He at once took command of the situation and relieved Cynthia.

  “Now you must leave us for a time, my dear young lady,” he said peremptorily. “This is the district nurse from Glastwick,” as a business-like, capable-looking woman came in. “What is that you say?” as Cynthia began an almost inaudible remonstrance. “Dying? Not a bit of it, young lady! My patient has had a nasty knock on her head, I understand. She had a blow that sent her backwards—that is the worst of the damage. She has given herself an ugly cut near the temple”— his deft fingers parting the hair—“but dying—pooh! She will be as well as ever she was in her life in a month. Dear, dear! What is this?” as Cynthia, feeling the room was going round with her, swayed slightly.

  “I don’t know!” she said faintly. “I can’t see anything—Donald!”

  The darkness seemed to close in around her; the doctor’s voice seemed to come from a long way off. She put up her hands, staggered blindly for a few steps, and would have fallen had not Farquhar stepped forward quickly and caught her in his arms.

  The doctor looked at her.

  “The best thing that could have happened—the very best!” he remarked with professional sang-froid. “We might have had some difficulty with her but for this. Now all we have to do is to pack her in the carriage outside and send her to Lady Duxworth’s, and she will not know anything until she awakes to find herself comfortably in bed!”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “I WISH we knew what has become of Cousin Hannah!” Cynthia raised herself a little among her cushions.

  Lady Duxworth sighed and said:

  “I wish we did indeed!”

  Cynthia was silent for a minute; her eyes wandered to the window; through it she could see a range of hills, on the other side of which she knew that Greylands lay.

  “It seems so strange that she does not write to anyone—if—if she can,” her face paling. “I wonder whether they have asked Mr Gillman, whether he has said any more about her.”

  Lady Duxworth shivered; her eyes filled with tears.

  “I believe he asserts that she will come to Glastwick for the examination before the magistrates on Saturday, but—I don’t know.”

  “Then he must have heard from her!” Cynthia said quickly.

  “I don’t think he has.”

  Cynthia stirred restlessly.

  “If I could only go over and search her drawers I feel sure I could find some trace of where she is. It is getting on my nerves. You—you do not know what horrible thoughts come into my head sometimes as I lie here. If Dr Campbell would only let me get up—and it is absurd making me lie here, for I feel quite well—I would go to Greylands at once.”

  “Dear Cynthia, Dr Campbell must know best,” Lady Duxworth said softly. Personally, she was inclined to think that, being aware how highly strung was Cynthia’s nervous temperament, Dr. Campbell was stretching a point in order to keep from her the reports that were current everywhere concerning her cousin’s fate, to prevent her from seeing Greylands as it was now.

  By Mr Barsly’s order detectives had been busy for the past three weeks—ever since Gillman’s arrest—in ransacking every hole and corner of the house to try and find some clue to Lady Hannah’s fate. They had taken up flooring and sounded every inch of the walls, so far without the slightest result; or finding any clue to the missing lady’s whereabouts.

  This week the search had extended to the garden and the plantation round the house, and Lady Duxworth knew that Cynthia could not but read a sinister significance in the excavations that were going on if she should be allowed to carry out her wish and pay a visit to Greylands. For the rest, the long strain that she had undergone, and the terrible events of that last evening at Greylands, which had culminated in the fainting attack during which she had been brought to the Towers, had left Cynthia weaker than she quite realized, and though she chafed at Dr Campbell’s restrictions she was not in reality strong enough to disregard them.

  Sir Donald Farquhar had been a constant inquirer at the Towers since the night Cynthia was brought there, but so far the cousins had not met. Lad
y Duxworth was, to a certain extent, in Farquhar’s confidence, but she knew that of late his overwhelming anxiety with regard to his aunt’s fate had superseded all other interests, and her great hope now was that she might persuade Cynthia to become reconciled to her husband, and thus to show Farquhar the utter futility of any hopes that he might be cherishing with regard to her.

  Gillman was still a prisoner in the county gaol; he had made his appearance before the magistrates to answer the charge of forging his wife’s name on several occasions, and had been sent up for trial, but the prosecuting barrister made no secret of his opinion that unless Lady Hannah was found before the assizes it would be extremely difficult to secure a conviction.

  Sybil had been moved to a nursing home at Clastor, where she was slowly making progress towards recovery.

  “I can’t understand how it all came about,” Cynthia went on after a pause. “How they found out, I mean, and how the policemen came to be there just in the nick of time.”

  Lady Duxworth was doing some exquisite ribbon embroidery in a frame. She hesitated a little, and did a few stitches before she spoke.

  “I really think my son and Lord Arthur St Clare had a good deal to do with it,” she said. “You remember, perhaps, that the day you lunched here Petre said he had met a Gillman abroad who was a pretty bad lot, and who was accompanied by a good-looking young wife. Well, it seems that Lord Arthur St Clare, to his amazement, recognized in the girl who passed as your cousin, Sybil Hammond, a young actress who had been extremely popular, and whose sudden retirement from the stage had occasioned much surprise. He taxed her with it, and she, finding subterfuge useless, finally admitted the fact, but declared that she had assumed the name for a time in order to support her mother when they were very poor, and that she really was Lady Hannah’s cousin. He saw no reason to doubt her assertion at the time, but later on he heard Petre discussing the Gillman affair with me, and Petre, who had been thinking matters over, suddenly said that the girl who was with Gillman and who had passed as his wife was exactly like Delphine Meldrum.