The Reluctant Widow

by Джорджетт Хейер

  Carlyon was silent, frowning down at the memorandum which he had picked up and folded again. After a moment he raised his eyes and directed one of his level glances at his brother. “I think we should do better to give these papers to Francis Cheviot,” he said.

  His words struck both his auditors dumb. They regarded him in stupefaction. He had spoken in a reflective tone, as though debating within himself, and did not appear to notice the effect his words produced.

  “You think we should—Ned, are you indeed mad?” John gasped.

  “No. I have not had the opportunity to tell you what I discovered—or, rather, verified—in London. Louis de Castres was stabbed.”

  Real perturbation was in John’s face. “Ned, old fellow, you cannot be yourself! What has that to say to anything? We knew it!”

  “We knew it because Francis told us so. It was not in the Morning Post, from which he said he had learned the tidings, nor in any other paper that I can discover. ‘Stabbed to death’ was the phrase he used. I marked it particularly.”

  “Good God, it was what anyone might have said, assuming it had been so!”

  “But it happens to have been exactly true. You may recall that he spoke of De Castres’s body having been left under a bush. That was also true, but it was nowhere stated in the newspapers.”

  John sank into a chair, repeating in a dazed voice, “Good God!”

  Elinor said, “Do you mean to imply—can you possibly mean—that it was Mr. Cheviot who murdered that unfortunate young Frenchman?”

  “I think so. I have suspected it all along, but some proof was needed.”

  “Ned, it’s not possible!” John exclaimed. “De Castres was a friend of his! That is too well known to admit of question!”

  “I don’t question it. I told you that Francis Cheviot was a very dangerous man. I have been aware of that these many years. I do not know what he would stop at—very little, I dare say.”

  “Damme, I like the fellow no better than you do, but you make him out to be villainous beyond belief!”

  “Villainous, perhaps, but not, I think, the villain of this plot. That, if I am not much mistaken, is Bedlington.”

  “Bedlington!” John ejaculated.

  “It was always a possibility, you know, though I admit it seemed unlikely. It was not until I had had leisure to consider the matter more particularly that I realized how very much more unlikely was my first really rather foolish suggestion. It could never have been Francis, of course.”

  “I do not know what you mean! To suspect a man in old Bedlington’s position rather than his son seems to me fantastic!”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Carlyon replied. “If Francis, who was De Castres’s close friend, had been the traitor, what possible need could there have been to have employed Eustace as the go-between? No go-between would have been necessary. That such a tool as Eustace was employed should have shown me clearly from the start that the man we were trying to discover must be someone who was anxious not to be known by the French agent with whom he was dealing. Then too, in using Eustace—hardly an ideal choice, surely!—he betrayed a clumsiness that could have nothing to do with Francis.”

  John was silent for a moment, turning it over in his mind. “It is true!” he said at last. “I do not know how I can have been so dull as not to have thought of it. I own I did not. How long have you been convinced of this, Ned?”

  “Convinced! I do not know that I am convinced now. It has come upon me gradually, I suppose. My inquiries into the circumstances of De Castres’s death and the discovery that Bedlington was gone into the country and was said by his butler to be in such indifferent health as to make rest and quiet indispensable, made me as certain as a man might well be without positive proof—which I will admit I have not. For that reason I would do nothing without consulting with you.”

  John nodded, frowning. He walked to the table and poured himself a glass of madeira and stood gazing down at it meditatively. “It is not easy to see what one should do,” he said.

  “No.”

  “You have said yourself it is conjecture. If you are right how came Cheviot to know what his father was about?”

  Carlyon shrugged. “There might be several answers, but I do not know them.”

  John drank some of his wine. “If Cheviot did indeed kill De Castres—” He stopped. “Black waistcoats!” he said scathingly. “Faugh! The man makes me sick!”

  Elinor asked diffidently, “Pardon me, but if Mr. Cheviot was not himself engaged in the plot, how came he to know the hiding place in the clock?”

  “Again, we cannot know the answer,” Carlyon replied.

  John looked up. “Ay, and if Louisde Castres did not know who stood behind Eustace, how did Bedlington hear of Eustace’s death before the notice of it had appeared in the journals?”

  “He told us that he had it from Eustace’s valet.”

  “And I asked you if you believed that and you said you did not! Did you not think De Castres, upon learning the news from Mrs. Cheviot, had run to Bedlington with it?”

  “Yes, I did. I still believe it to have been possible.”

  “How so?”

  “My dear John, if you had a secret to conceal would you have entrusted it to Eustace?”

  “No, by God!” John gave a short laugh. “You think he may have told De Castres, when in his cups, that it was Bedlington who was selling information?”

  “Very likely. Or it may be that De Castres might have guessed the truth.”

  John turned to Elinor. “When he visited you, Mrs. Cheviot, did Bedlington make any attempt to come near that clock or to contrive that he should be left alone in the bookroom?”

  “None whatsoever,” she replied. “I received him in the parlor and he showed no disposition to linger. But he did say that he would return to attend the funeral and that he should stay at Highnoons.”

  “He was frightened,” John said slowly. “At that time, I did not credit Ned’s suspicions, but it is true that he was devilish ill at ease. But Ned thought then that Francis Cheviot might be the man we were after, and I set it all down to Bedlington’s having got wind of it. Ned, do you think he can have lost his head and told the whole to Francis? Or even that Francis has been privy to it from the start?”

  “Certainly not that. Had Francis been joined with his father in the treason I cannot doubt that De Castres would be alive today. It is possible that Bedlington, finding his schemes to have gone hopelessly awry, turned to Francis for aid, to save him from disgrace. That Bedlington, with affairs in this uncertain state, has retired into the country on a plea of ill health, seems to me to suggest that Francis has taken the reins into his hands and is driving his father hard.”

  Again John stared down into his wineglass, his brow furrowed. “And you would give that memorandum to him?” he said.

  “Well?” Carlyon said. “If my conjectures are found to be correct, you will agree that Francis Cheviot leaves nothing to chance. De Castres was his frend, but De Castres is dead. I do not know how he means to deal with Bedlington, but I think, if I were Bedlington, I should deem it well to obey Francis—quite implicitly.”

  “Surely he would not harm his own father!” cried Elinor.

  “I wonder if his father thinks so?” said Carlyon dryly.

  “Ned, this is not a thing to be decided in a trice.”

  “No. Turn it over in your mind. If you are set on exposing the whole, very well—it shall be so.” He glanced at the clock. “You will wish to change your dress before we dine. We’ll say no more of the matter at this present Mrs. Cheviot, if you should like it, I will take you to Mrs. Rugby. We dine in half an hour.”

  She thanked him and rose, but before he had taken two steps towards the door, it opened and Nicky bounced into the room, looking tired and disheveled, but triumphant. “I’ve found him!” he announced.

  “Good God!” John exclaimed. “Where, Nicky?”

  “Why, you would never believe it! In our own West Wood!�
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  “What?”

  “Ay! And I had been searching forever but never thought, until I was in flat despair, that he might have come this way! He knew I was after him too, and in the devil of a temper, for he hid from me under a bush! It was the merest chance that I caught sight of him, and he would not come out, not he!”

  “Hid from you under a bush?” John repeated blankly.

  “Yes, and I had to drag him out by main force, so plastered with mud I have shut him in the stables and he may roll himself clean in the straw. Lord, how thankful I am to have got him back safe!”

  John gave a gasp. “Are you talking about that damnable mongrel of yours?” he demanded.

  “He is not a mongrel! He is a crossbred! Why, what else should I be talking about, I should like to know?”

  “I thought you had been searching for Cheviot!”

  “Cheviot! What, with Bouncer lost? No, I thank you! Besides,” said Nicky, recalling his grievance and suddenly speaking with alarming hauteur, “I have quite washed my hands of that business, since Carlyon had as lief manage without my help. I’m sure it’s no matter to me, and much I care!”

  “If I have sunk to being Carlyon I see that I have offended beyond pardon,” remarked his mentor. “But I think you might bid Mrs. Cheviot good evening.”

  Nicky became aware of Elinor’s presence and blinked at her. “Why, hallo, Cousin Elinor!” he said. “How came you here? I thought you was laid down upon your bed!” He looked round suspiciously. “Oh! I suppose something excessively exciting has happened which you do not mean to tell me!”

  “Nicky, stop being so out of reason cross! Of course I mean to tell you!”

  “You will not do so!” John said hastily.

  “Nonsense! This has been more Nicky’s adventure than mine, and I think he has a right to know the end of it.”

  “The fewer people to know the better. It is a damned serious affair, Ned, but it is just like you to be treating it as if it were the merest commonplace!”

  Nicky, who had flushed up to the roots of his hair, said stiffly, “If you think it unsafe to tell me you need not do so! Though why you should I don’t know, for it was Gussie who always gave away all the secrets, not I.”

  Perceiving that he had grievously hurt his young brother’s feelings, John said in a testy voice, “Now, Nick, don’t, for God’s sake, be such a young fool! Only you are such a rattlepate, you may blurt something out without meaning to! However, it is for Ned to decide! I have nothing to say in the matter. The fact is, those papers are found and Ned will have it that it was Bedlington who was selling them to Boney and Francis trying only to recover them and to scotch the scandal if the theft should leak out!”

  “Bedlington!” Nicky gasped. “Bedlington? Oh, by Jove, if that is not too bad! I kept Bouncer beside me all the time he was at Highnoons for fear he should bite him!”

  Chapter XIX

  It was some time before Nicky could be induced to suspend his eager questions and go upstairs to change his muddied coat and buckskin breeches for attire more suitable for the dinner table. He was at first incredulous of Carlyon’s conjecture, but his incredulity was seen to spring more from a rooted dislike of Francis Cheviot than from any reasonable objection to it. He would have been glad to have known Francis for a traitor and was inclined to think it a great shame if he were to be exonerated. As for Carlyon’s discovery of the memorandum in the bracket clock, this for a time revived his sense of ill-usage, and he eyed his eldest brother with reproachful severity and addressed him in terms of such cold civility that it was plain to everyone that much tact would be needed to win him back to his usual good humor. However, it was impossible for anyone with so sunny a temper to bear malice for long, and when Carlyon mounted the broad stairs beside him and tucked a hand in his arm, saying, “Don’t freeze me quite to death, Nicky!” he melted a little and replied, “Well, I do not think it was a handsome thing to do, Ned, I must say!”

  “Most unhandsome,” Carlyon agreed.

  “As though I could not be trusted!”

  “Absurd!”

  “In fact, I think it was excessively highhanded of you and selfish as well, besides interfering, because it was more my adventure than yours, after all! And then you would not even let me share the most exciting part!”

  “I am altogether a shabby and mean-spirited person,” said Carlyon meekly. “I do not know how you have borne with me for so long. But if I try to mend my ways, perhaps I shall win forgiveness.”

  “Ned!” exploded Nicky wrathfully. “I never knew such a complete hand as you are! A regular right cool fish! And if you think I am such a green one that I don’t know when you are trying to roast me you are much mistaken!”

  “Abuse me as much as you wish, Nicky. I deserve it all! But there is a roast goose for dinner, and if you are late—”

  “No!” exclaimed Nicky, instantly diverted. “Is there, indeed? Then I declare I’m sorry I thrashed poor old Bouncer, for if I had not been obliged to chase after him all this way I must have missed it!”

  He hurried off to change his clothes, and made such haste over his toilet that he joined the party just as they were sitting down to table. While the servants were in the room, conversation had to be kept to such harmless subjects as presented themselves to the minds of four persons preoccupied with one burning topic of interest, and was necessarily a trifle desultory. But when the goose had been removed and a Chantilly cake placed on the table flanked by a dish of puits d’amour and one of sack cream, Carlyon signed to the butler that he might withdraw with his two minions. No sooner had the door closed behind them than John, who had been sitting in abstracted silence, said heavily that try as he would he could not decide what to do for the best.

  “Why should you?” said Nicky cheerfully. “Ned will settle it!”

  Mrs. Cheviot could not repress a smile, but John said, “I own, I wish I had never heard a word of the business. I should not say so, and of course I don’t mean that I would have had the thing undiscovered, but—Well, it is the devil of a coil, and there is something to be said for Ned’s wanting us to be well out of it! If only we had not been related to Eustace!”

  Nicky said that he did not see what that should signify, and this observation at once led to an argument which lasted until Carlyon, who had taken no part in it, intervened to point out that neither Nicky’s rustication nor John’s prosiness, both of which fruitful topics had crept into the discussion and threatened to monopolize it, had any bearing on the real point at issue.

  “I do not see why I must needs be called prosy merely because—”

  “Well, but Ned, you must admit—”

  The door opened. “My lord,” announced the butler disinterestedly, “Mr. Cheviot has called to see your lordship. I have ushered him into the Crimson Saloon.”

  He stood waiting, holding the door, but as Carlyon rose to his feet, John also got up, saying in an urgent undervoice, “Wait, Ned!”

  Carlyon looked at him for a moment and then spoke over his shoulder. “Tell Mr. Cheviot I shall be with him in a few minutes.”

  The butler bowed and went out again. Nicky, his eyes blazing with excitement, exclaimed, “By God, this is beyond anything! To think he should dare come smash up to us! Lord, he must have opened the clock before he reached town! Now the game’s your own, Ned! May I come with you and see what trick he tries to play off?”

  Carlyon shook his head. John said, “Ned, be careful! You will not meet him unarmed!”

  Carlyon’s brows rose in a quizzical look. “My dear John! I really cannot be expected to receive my visitors with a pistol in my hand!”

  “You said yourself he was a very dangerous man!”

  “I may have done so, but I never said he was a fool. Murder me in my own house, having been admitted by my butler? I think your wits are gone woolgathering, John!”

  John reddened and gave a reluctant laugh. “Well, perhaps so, but you will at least allow me to accompany you!”

&nbs
p; Nicky instantly raised his voice in indignant protest. He was silenced by an authoritative finger “No,” said Carlyon. “I think he might find your presence embarrassing. Moreover, I wish you to entertain Mrs. Cheviot while I am away. I’ll see him alone.”

  “But, Ned, what do you mean to do?” John said uneasily.

  “That must depend on circumstance.”

  “Well! I own his having the effrontery to come here does make it seem as though—But I’ll have no hand in giving that memorandum to him!”

  “Then stay here,” said Carlyon, and left the room.

  He found Francis Cheviot standing over the fire in the Crimson Saloon, one foot, in its gleaming Hessian boot, resting on the fender, one white hand gripping the edge of the mantelpiece. He still wore his fur-lined cloak, but he had cast his muffler. There was something rather fixed in the smile with which he met his host, but he said, with all his habitual languor, “My dear Carlyon, you must forgive me for intruding upon you at this hour! I feel sure you will—your sense of justice must oblige you to acknowledge its being quite your own fault. Do forgive me, but must we remain in this welter of crimson velvet? It is a color that irritates my nerves sadly. It is also extremely chilly in here and you know how susceptible I am to colds.”

  “I know how susceptible you say you are to colds,” replied Carlyon, at his driest.

  “Oh, it is perfectly true!” Francis assured him. “You must not think that I always prevaricate, for I only do so when I am obliged to.”

  “Come into the library!” Carlyon said, leading the way there.

  “Ah, this is better!” Francis approved, looking round with a critical eye. “Crimson and gold—I dare say very eligible for certain occasions, but this is not one of them.” He unfastened his cloak strings at the throat and flung the heavy garment off. The smile faded from his face. He came to the fire and said, “You know, my dear Carlyon, I am quite tired—really quite exhausted!—with this game of hide-and-seek in the dark which I have been playing with you. I could wish that you had not so much reserve. It is a fault in you. You must own it to be a fault! If you had but taken me into your confidence I should have been spared a great deal of trouble.”