“Inspiration helps, Mrs. Cathcart, if the reminiscences are to be more interesting than truthful!” laughed Vereker.
During this preliminary conversation Vereker’s eyes had never left Mrs. Cathcart. He tried swiftly to sum her up, and came to the conclusion that her age was about thirty-five. She was an extremely comely woman. The poise of her head was a joy to an artist and her whole carriage bespoke that agility and acquired grace of movement which he knew belonged in a superlative degree to one profession only, that of the stage. Either she was an actress or a dancer. Her intuitively chosen movements in crossing to a settee where she could recline with grace and yet be near enough for conversation told him that it must be the stage. His glance wandered discreetly from the shapely feet to the even more shapely hands and thence to the vivacious face, with its alert, sympathetic eyes, showing every varying colour of her thoughts. His first resolve on this discovery of her almost magnetic beauty was to throw up a mental bulwark of defence against her powerful equipment of feminine charm; it is so easy to acquire bias when dealing with a fascinating woman. He felt also that he must waste no time in coming to the business which had been the object of his excursion to Farnaby, but was already at a loss to know how to begin. All along, since his first discovery of the presence of a Mrs. Cathcart in his investigation of the Bygrave mystery, he had mentally misplaced her. In his mind’s eye she had always been a woman who had sought and obtained pecuniary assistance from Lord Bygrave, and this conception without any explanatory detail had in some subtle manner utterly distorted his imaginary portrait of her. He had conceived a being inclined to shrink from the world on account of some inability to grapple with it through lack of mental or physical strength, or both.
Here was a woman radiantly beautiful with a manner assured yet not provocative; her face alight with quick feminine intelligence, her attitude full of the quiet well-being that is born of confidence and lack of cares. He had been prepared to pity and had been constrained to admire. The discovery necessitated a quick and complete change of plan on his part. The frontal attack had to be discarded or carried out in a manner suitable to the changed circumstances. Vereker cursed himself for his utterly unwarranted preconceptions and determined to profit by this discomfiture in future work. As these thoughts flashed swiftly through his mind he glanced up at Mrs. Cathcart. She noticed his hesitation and came swiftly to his rescue.
“Lossa mentioned, Mr. Vereker, when she came up to my room just now, that you were a trustee under Lord Bygrave’s will.”
“That is so, Mrs. Cathcart, and I’m presuming you know all about his mysterious disappearance.”
“Well, I know nothing more than I have read in the daily papers. Naturally, I’ve been terribly excited about the whole business because I once knew Lord Bygrave extremely well. Have you any news of him?”
“None whatever. It is now some time since his extraordinary disappearance and we are very little nearer discovering what has occurred to him than we were on the fateful day.”
“The police, of course, are making inquiries?”
“Oh, yes, and I, as trustee to his estate, am also making certain subsidiary investigations. To come to the point, that is the reason of my call on you to-day. I wonder if you can assist me in any way?”
“I shall be only too glad to do so, Mr. Vereker, if you will let me know how I am to set about it.”
“Well, I think the simplest way would be for me to put you through a sort of catechism.”
“Before you go any further, Mr. Vereker, I may tell you frankly that there may be some of your questions which I shall flatly refuse to answer.”
Vereker glanced up quickly and saw the light of battle in a pair of flashing, brown eyes, and a chin and mouth the set of which disclosed an unexpected strength of concentration and will. She had flung down the gage of combat early in the interview and he felt that a little diplomacy was necessary.
“Well, Mrs. Cathcart, I trust you will give me all the information possible in reply to my questions. My visit to-day may save you any further unpleasant police interrogatory. You must try and meet me half-way when I tread on dangerous ground. An exercise of tact on both sides may evade a heap of subsequent annoyance.”
“But, surely, Mr. Vereker,” exclaimed Mrs. Cathcart, and her face had assumed a sudden air of anxiety, “the police do not think I am in any way connected with Lord Bygrave’s disappearance?”
“They certainly do not, at present,” replied Vereker quietly, “but your name has cropped up in the course of their inquiries and they would naturally like to be satisfied that you are not concerned.”
“I see. Well, I suppose the situation must be faced, though as far as I can see it’s going to be most annoying. Please go ahead with the catechism, Mr. Vereker, and I’ll reply to the best of my ability.”
“When did you first meet Lord Bygrave, Mrs. Cathcart?” asked Vereker, taking out his memorandum pad.
“Exactly twenty years ago. I was then seventeen and he was about twenty-six.”
“Did you know him well or was he merely an acquaintance?”
“We were lovers: I’m afraid it implies that we knew nothing of one another at all.” A shadow seemed to flit across the woman’s serene brow and vanish as quickly as it had appeared. She looked at Vereker, and a charming smile chased the shadow.
“You subsequently knew one another better?” asked Vereker tactfully.
“We thought we did, and parted. You see, I had just decided to take up singing as a career and we disagreed very thoroughly on the subject of the stage as a suitable career for a woman.”
“Have you kept up your friendship during these twenty years?”
“No, the rupture was final. I went to America and earned my own living there and I never saw Lord Bygrave again until the early part of this year.”
“Have you been in England long?”
“No. I only came a month prior to my calling on Lord Bygrave.”
“Now, Mrs. Cathcart, I feel I’m approaching the forbidden ground. May I ask why you called on Lord Bygrave?”
For a fraction of a second Mrs. Cathcart seemed to Vereker to hesitate, and then she replied somewhat casually.
“Well, it’s difficult to give any definite reason. Things of the heart, of memory, of sentiment, are not very easily definable. You can understand, perhaps, that I wanted out of sheer morbid curiosity to rake among the ashes of a past fire.
“Yes, I can,” replied Vereker quickly, “I feel that I am sentimentalist enough to comprehend.”
“Good! Well, I wanted to see Henry again; to see how he looked, to see how he compared with the man I had once loved—”
“And you have not seen him since, Mrs. Cathcart?”
“No, I have not; before I called on him I felt that it would probably be the last time I should see him. I did not go there with the intention of resuming a friendship or a love affair.”
“Has he written to you since?”
“No, but I have been in communication with his secretary, Mr. Smale, on a matter the nature of which I’m afraid I cannot divulge. In any case, it is of no importance to anyone in the world but ourselves.”
“Well, we’ll leave it for the present, Mrs. Cathcart, but I may just refer to it again in connexion with a further inquiry. Could you identify Lord Bygrave’s handwriting if I showed you a specimen?”
“I think so.”
Vereker produced from his pocket-book the envelope addressed to Mrs. Cathcart that he had gathered from the waste-paper-basket at 10 Glendon Street, and handed it to her. He keenly watched the expression of her face as she read her own name and address and noticed a swift blanching of her cheeks as a look of sudden fear entered her eyes.
“Yes, that is Lord Bygrave’s writing. But how did he get to know my present address and how did you come by this envelope, Mr. Vereker?” she asked, as with trembling fingers she passed it back to her visitor,
“Well, Mrs. Cathcart, I can’t tell you how he discovered yo
ur present address. It was this envelope which made me ask you if you had heard from Lord Bygrave since your interview with him some months ago. It was through this envelope I discovered your whereabouts, and I found the envelope in a room in 10 Glendon Street.”
“Good heavens! is Lord Bygrave staying there?” asked Mrs. Cathcart, aghast.
“No—not at present—he left there some days ago and now we’ve lost all trace of him again. By the way, you yourself have stayed with Mrs. Parslow at Glendon Street, Mrs. Cathcart?”
“Yes, that was another sentimental visit of mine. When in England in the early days of my struggle to get a footing and a hearing on the stage it was a well-known lodging-house for female members of our profession, and I returned to renew its acquaintance. What puzzles me now is how on earth Lord Bygrave got to know my present address; I took good care on leaving Glendon Street to let nobody know my destination.”
“That I can’t say. Of course Lord Bygrave knew you had stayed at Glendon Street?”
“Oh, yes, that is where his secretary, Mr. Smale, came and interviewed me.”
“To revert to a former question, Mrs. Cathcart, may I ask if that interview concerned money matters?”
“It had absolutely nothing to do with money matters, Mr. Vereker,” said Mrs. Cathcart precisely, and once more the fire of combat lit her eye.
The challenge on this occasion piqued Vereker and, cost what it might, he decided to accept it. Producing her receipt for the bearer bonds from his pocket, he handed it to her and asked:
“It had therefore nothing to do with this particular transaction, Mrs. Cathcart? Kindly forgive my referring to it, but as Lord Bygrave’s trustee and executor I have naturally to probe into these matters.”
“What’s the meaning of this?” asked Mrs. Cathcart, aghast. “A receipt for £10,000 of bearer bonds purporting to be signed by me. It’s an impudent forgery! I have never in my life received £10,000 worth of bearer bonds from Lord Bygrave,” and before Vereker could prevent it she had torn the receipt into fragments and flung them angrily in the fender. Rising from her settee she stamped a neat but vicious foot on the floor. “How dare you insult me, sir?” she asked.
“Mrs. Cathcart,” said Vereker quickly, “I have not the slightest wish to offend you in any way. Please try and understand my position. I am striving to elucidate the strange mystery of my friend’s disappearance, and during my investigation I have been obliged to go through all his papers. This receipt I came upon in Lord Bygrave’s bureau. Instead of handing it over to the police I have taken a considerable risk in keeping it to myself and inquiring clandestinely whether it had any connexion whatever with Lord Bygrave’s disappearance. As an intelligent woman who knows the world, you can clearly see why I took this line of action. That the receipt proves a forgery reveals to me that I must pursue my investigations in quite a different direction. I am delighted to find that it is so and that I shall not have to trouble you further in the matter.”
“I trust you’ll forgive me, Mr. Vereker,” replied Mrs. Cathcart, her anger vanishing as swiftly as it had arisen. “I have a most devilishly hasty temper and I couldn’t control myself in the face of that outrageous lie.” She glanced at the fragments of the receipt in the fender and suddenly kneeling down began to pick them up carefully.
Vereker’s appreciative eye took in at a glance the suave, graceful curves of that kneeling figure; he beheld for a moment the snowy nape of a beautifully modelled neck; with the jet hair swept and caught above by some discreetly jewelled comb; it was an unforgettable pose. The next moment he was on his knees too.
“Let me pick them up, Mrs. Cathcart,” he said, “please don’t you trouble. I can manage it.”
By some chance, for which Vereker could never afterwards account, her hand touched his and it seemed to him that the contact thrilled him through and through. To his immense relief Mrs. Cathcart at once arose and, placing the fragments of paper she had gathered from the fender on an occasional table, sat down in a chair. Vereker gathered up the remaining fragments and placing them in an envelope returned them to his pocket-book.
“Have you any idea, Mr. Vereker, who could have perpetrated such a cruel forgery as that receipt?” asked Mrs. Cathcart calmly.
“I think I have a shrewd suspicion, Mrs. Cathcart,” replied Vereker, “and I shall at once give it my attention.”
“I trust it won’t bring me into any publicity.”
“I don’t see why it should.”
“Because I have a very cogent reason why I should not in any way be connected with Lord Bygrave. You have given me your trust, Mr. Vereker, over the matter of this receipt; you have clearly shown me that you believe me, and I am going now to reciprocate your trust. May I?”
“I shall be glad, Mrs. Cathcart.”
“Well, to begin with; you wanted to know exactly why I visited Lord Bygrave on my return to England. I’m afraid I didn’t tell you the whole truth, but I will do so now. At seventeen years of age I was married to Lord Bygrave in the little church here at Farnaby. As I have told you, we couldn’t see eye to eye on the subject of my trying to fulfil my ambition as to a stage career—preferably in opera—and before many weeks we had quarrelled and parted. Perhaps it was my fault. I am very self-willed and I know I have an unpardonable temper. In any case I went to America and forgot all about Henry, and I presume he consigned my memory to a similar oblivion. I carried out my intention with regard to a career and made a tolerable success as a singer in the States, where I was known as Ida Wister.”
“I have heard of your fame, Mrs. Cathcart—you made more than a tolerable success of your career. You were a star; but I’m interrupting.”
“Well, having made sufficient money to retire on, I determined to return to England and enjoy life quietly; for the career of a singer is no sinecure and is really one long series of self-restraints and gruelling efforts. I am by nature a slacker, I’m afraid, and once the flame of ambition died I saw no further wisdom in mortifying the flesh for the sake of money, for that was the logical conclusion of continuing my work. I had reached my full powers and knew I could go no further in the way of achievement.”
“Have you no duties to your fellow-creatures, Mrs. Cathcart? Your voice was a gift to you,” interrupted Vereker in his old vein.
“I’ll think of that when I have finished my reminiscences, Mr. Vereker, and now I am going to tell you why I called on Lord Bygrave. I did not do so to get financial assistance in the way of £10,000 worth of bearer bonds. I went to ask him if I might divulge in my memoirs the fact of our early marriage. He begged me not to do so and I gave him my word of honour that I would respect his wishes. There the matter ended and I have neither seen nor heard from Lord Bygrave since that day.”
At this moment the sound of light footsteps on the gravel path outside signalled the return of Lossa and her red setter.
“Your daughter, I presume, Mrs. Cathcart?” asked Vereker.
“No; merely an adopted child,” replied Mrs. Cathcart, and rose as if to signify that the interview was terminated. “Mrs. Cathcart is merely an assumed name. I do not wish to be recognized at present as Ida Wister, so please do not give me away.”
“My lips are sealed,” replied Vereker, smiling, and took his leave.
On reaching the corner of the lane in which Bramblehurst stood he chanced to glance back and saw Mrs. Cathcart at an upstairs window evidently seated at her writing-desk. She caught that backward glance of Vereker’s and gaily waved her hand in adieu. Vereker raised his hat in salutation and the next moment he turned the corner.
“Algernon,” he remarked to himself, “you’re a damned impressionable fool—and she knew you would look back, you simpleton. She’s spun you a nice little yarn, I bet.”
When he reached Farnaby Station, however, his thoughts had temporarily taken another turn, for he was thinking to himself that of all the young cads he had ever met it appeared that Sidney Smale aspired to the questionable honour of being the worst.
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Chapter Twelve
As Vereker travelled back to town that afternoon he found, in spite of himself, that his thoughts continued to alternate between those that were distinctly annoying and those that were strangely intoxicating. The source of his annoyance was the unpleasant personality of Sidney Smale, for that personality had, in an unexpected way, thrust itself with a jarring lunge into a delicately framed edifice of theory about the Bygrave mystery. And he had appeared in a most sinister garb, especially in the light of Heather’s recent information as to his sudden disappearance. That Mrs. Cathcart had not received those bearer bonds Vereker was inclined to believe. The difficulty was that he could not be certain.
“Now let us be frank,” he soliloquized. “You have been most favourably impressed by a very beautiful woman. She has denied receiving any money from Lord Bygrave, and you are averse to thinking that this prepossessing lady is capable of lying. Perhaps you are biased by some early habit of associating beauty with goodness. You must thrust this habit from you when dealing with criminal investigation. Especially as an amateur. The lady, in spite of the impression made by her charms, may be a most unreliable character. The anger she displayed might have been assumed: such an assumption would be the easiest thing in the world to a woman of great dramatic talent, as undoubtedly she was. Yet, again, even though she had prevaricated about the £10,000 worth of bearer bonds, she might be entirely innocent of any connexion with Lord Bygrave’s disappearance. But how had he discovered her address at Farnaby? Why had he desired to write to her again! She was his wife!”
This last piece of information had come as a lively shock to Vereker. Intimate as he had been with Henry Darnell, he had never been allowed to peep into the cupboard containing that skeleton! Vereker laughed at the word “skeleton” as it passed through his mind. She was an altogether delightful skeleton even though her temper had been incompatible with a lifelong domestic association with Bygrave. Vereker, as he thought of her—he called her by her professional name of Ida Wister to himself—could see very clearly what a wide abyss separated her vivacious, self-assured, volatile temperament from the diffident, grave and studious Bygrave. And what a beautiful head and neck she had! And hands and feet! How he would like to hear her sing! After hearing her, he felt it would be more difficult than ever to credit her with anything evil. He must avoid hearing her sing! Really fine art would bias his mind hopelessly in her favour. Then his thoughts oscillated swiftly to Mr. Sidney Smale. Could he possibly have appropriated that £10,000 worth of bearer bonds and, when the moment was favourable, disappeared? The receipt was, according to Mrs. Cathcart, a shameless forgery. Could Smale have perpetrated that forgery? If Lord Bygrave had discovered that forgery and taxed Smale with it—the assumption pointed to a possibly grave conclusion! Why had he surrendered the receipt? It was a risky, if bold move in a game of bluff. The matter was bewildering. No, it was useless to try and fit these pieces into the picture at the present. They must be laid aside; perhaps they were odd pieces from some other puzzle that had nothing to do with the Bygrave case proper. It looked suspiciously like it at a first glance. So much for that!
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