She was still trying to concentrate on the journey when she heard her own name in the corridor.
“Miss Mary Coleridge in here?” said a voice a little higher up the train. “Miss Mary Coleridge? Miss Mary Coleridge?”
She rose to her feet and went to the door of the carriage. A man in chauffeur’s uniform looked down at her.
“Miss Mary Coleridge?” he enquired.
“Yes. What is it?”
“Mrs Mortimer said, would you come along for a moment? She’s been taken queer. Would you know her car if you saw it? It’s nothing to worry about, lady, but she was running out across the courtyard to find her man when a taxicab——”
He broke off, seeing Mary’s horrified face.
“It’s all right,” he said kindly. “It’s shaken her up a bit, that’s all. Can you come? The train doesn’t go for another seven minutes.”
Mary was already out of the train and hurrying down the platform. The man strode at her side, pouring reassurances into her ear.
When they came out into the courtyard the crowd of cars seemed, if anything, thicker than ever, and, taking her arm, he steered her among them.
“There she is,” he said. “Is that her own chauffeur with her?”
Mary caught sight of the back of a Daimler car standing against the curb with its door open. Standing on the pavement, his legs visible, was another chauffeur.
Mary ran forward. As she came level with the car the man’s grip on her arm tightened, and with a sudden movement he thrust her into the darkness within.
At the same moment, it seemed, the door slammed behind her and the car slid away from the curb.
Breathless from shock and with cold terror rising in her heart, Mary scrambled up from her knees and as she did so touched the skirt of a stiff silk gown.
In the darkness beside her she heard a little sigh. It was the ghost of a sound, but one that sent the blood drumming in her ears and forced her heart into her throat. There was only one person in the world who sighed quite like that.
“Mary, my dear!” said Eva de Liane.
The physical shock of her sudden capture temporarily stunned the girl. The whole thing had happened so quickly. Never for an instant had she doubted the integrity of the stolid, honest-looking chauffeur who had seemed so anxious not to alarm her about her employer’s accident. He had conveyed that Mrs Mortimer had been knocked down by a taxicab without actually saying so, and his reticence had alarmed Mary much more than any bald statement of fact could have done, so that the sudden kidnapping had come completely unexpectedly.
As she crouched on the soft skin rug at the bottom of the car only one thing was real to her, one terrible, overwhelming fact: Mrs de Liane had captured her again. Not the Mrs de Liane of the last few days, a remote, half-shadowy figure, but Mrs de Liane herself, vital and terrifying.
Meanwhile the car had swung out of the station and, finding a comparatively deserted path, was speeding down the Euston Road.
After her first shock anger took possession of the girl.
“Let me go,” she said passionately. “Let me go! Stop the car!”
She made an effort to scramble to her feet and reached for the curtained window, but her movement was anticipated. A strong hand came out of the darkness, catching her arm and forcing her down upon the seat.
“Don’t be a darn fool,” said a voice in her ear. “You’ve made quite enough trouble already. Keep quiet, for God’s sake.”
It was Edmund Beron. Even before she heard the voice she recognized the strong grip on her arm. She peered through the gloom and saw them sitting there, one on either side of her, Mrs de Liane and her eldest son.
The only light which entered the tonneau came from the front of the car, where she could just see through the windscreen the rows of rain-soaked houses rushing by. It was a different car from the Daimler the De Lianes usually used, but the chauffeur was the same. Mary recognized his square, stolid back and the short iron-grey hair showing beneath his peaked cap.
The windows were curtained with old-fashioned fringed hangings which conveyed rather a sense of cosiness than an attempt at secrecy to any observer on the pavement.
Mary bided her time, and when the car slowed down to take the turn which would lead eventually on to the Great North Road she screamed. She did so deliberately, making as much noise as she possibly could. She had just time to see the chauffeur wince and to realize that he had trodden on the accelerator when a handkerchief was thrust over her face with a force which warned her that, struggle how she would, she was helpless.
She tried to grip the hand which was suffocating her, while she kicked and fought violently in the back of the car. The pressure was loosened for a moment, and in that instant she bit through the handkerchief into the hand that held it. There was an exclamation of pain, and the next instant something happened which she was never to forget or to forgive.
A man’s fist crashed down upon her jaw with a savage brutality behind the blow and almost stunned her. The blood sang in her ears. She felt sick and above all furious. Through the mists which enveloped her she heard Mrs de Liane’s quiet, reproving voice.
“My dear Edmund, you really shouldn’t have done that. Poor little thing! You don’t want to disfigure her.” And then, turning to Mary: “Sit still, dear. You’ll get hurt, you know, if you’re silly.”
Mary put up a hand to touch her bruised chin. Her lip was bleeding where it had been forced against her teeth, and the salty taste nauseated her.
Edmund Beron thrust one arm round her, gripping her further arm, while with the other he held the wrist nearest him.
“I hope that’s taught you something,” he said savagely. “You dirty, double-crossing little rat! We want a complete explanation from you, and we want the truth. Don’t you forget it!”
“Edmund! Edmund!” Mrs de Liane’s voice had a little tremor of laughter in its gentle depths. “My dear boy, you sound quite angry. Mary’s only frightened. I’m sure she’s not a fool. On the contrary she’s quite a clever little girl. She simply doesn’t quite realize yet where her real interest lies. Don’t sit so tensely, dear,” she continued, shooting the girl a little sideways glance that revealed the flash of her bright eyes in the gloom. “There’s nothing to be frightened of if only you keep still.”
There is something about physical violence which is more shocking to a girl of Mary’s temperament than anything else in the world. It was not the actual pain, although that was considerable; but the outrage of the blow, the appalling quality of its complete viciousness, made her feel utterly helpless. She was too overcome even to cry, and sat there staring in front of her like one in a stupor, her mind blank, her emotions suffocating her.
The rain, which seemed to have been continuous ever since she had first set out on her journey to Heronhoe at the beginning of the nightmare experience, was still pouring down upon the broad London streets. She could hear the water beneath the car wheels and the vicious rattle of the heavy drops upon the roof. The windscreen was obscured save for the half-circular oasis made by the slowly moving wiper.
The silence lasted a considerable time until at last it was broken by Beron again.
“No sign of Richard,” he said.
It was a curious remark in the circumstances, and it penetrated the clouds which were enveloping Mary and raised a question in her mind. Mrs de Liane laughed.
“Did you think there would be?” she said. “I told you from the very beginning, Edmund, that was quite absurd.”
The man murmured something Mary could not catch, and the old lady went on placidly, smoothing the folds of her silk gown which peeped out from between the skirts of her fur coat.
“I don’t think this is the time to discuss Richard,” she said pointedly, and again Beron was silent.
Richard … The name had a welcome sound to the bewildered girl in spite of everything. Richard would never have struck her. She had no reason for such a belief, but in her heart she knew it was true. Rich
ard de Liane and Edmund Beron were half brothers, but they were two very different men.
They drove for some little time without further conversation. The rain grew very much finer as they left the city, and by the time they were on the wide highway to the north the windscreen was nearly clear.
Mrs de Liane looked down at the girl.
“Now, my dear,” she said, “we have a nice long drive in front of us. Suppose you tell us where you’ve been? Or is your mouth too sore to speak? Poor child! Edmund was very rough. He always was as a little boy. All the same, you shouldn’t have annoyed him. The great thing in life, Mary, is to be reasonable. Take the straightforward path. It always pays in the end. Now, my dear, I’ve got my little daughter back, and I’m not going to let her go again. Where have you been?”
“How—how did you find me?” Mary hardly recognized her own voice. It was hoarse and shaking, and the swollen state of her lower lip distorted the words.
Mrs de Liane chuckled. “I don’t see why I should tell you,” she said. “Still, it may as well be a warning to you. Did you know that there were such things as shipping lists, and that people who go to catch boats nearly always go by the specified boat train? Travelling under your own name, my dear … amazingly indiscreet! Or was it the passport difficulty? I’m only thankful I was in time.”
Mary said nothing. Mrs de Liane sighed.
“It’s very trying for us all, my dear,” she said. “Edmund’s nerves are overwrought, or he would never have forgotten himself as he did just now. Don’t be obstinate. Tell the truth as quietly and intelligently as you can. Where have you been? How did you get the money for your passage? Whom have you been talking to?”
The girl stared in front of her, her eyes unwontedly dark, her lips closed. Beron’s grip upon her arm and wrist tightened until it hurt her.
“Talk, damn you!” he said. “Talk or I’ll make you.”
“Edmund, Edmund … really!” Mrs de Liane’s amusement seemed to be increasing. “That is not the way. Mary is a dear girl … my dear little daughter. But she mustn’t be obstinate.”
She bent forward as she spoke, and Mary looked into her face. There was more light now that the weather was clearing, and she could see the gentle features plainly. It was a terible face, those bright dancing eyes, the gentle mouth, and smooth, porcelainlike contours, all controlled or inhabited, as it were, by a spirit indefinably and indescribably malicious.
“She mustn’t be obstinate,” she repeated. “She’s not fool enough to make either of us angry with her. We’ve been so worried,” she continued gently. “You had no money, dear. A pretty girl alone in London with no money on a wet and cold winter’s night … ! Dear child, anything could have happened to you! Didn’t you realize that?”
“Yes,” said Mary grimly.
“What did happen?” It was Beron who spoke. His fingers were hurting her arm, and she moved uneasily. “Who have you been talking to? What did you tell them?”
“I think you ought to tell us, dear.” Mrs de Liane’s placid voice contrasted oddly with the nervous tension in the man’s.
Mary hesitated. It was obviously necessary to say something if she was going to protect herself from another exhibition of brutality like the last. She began to speak with difficulty.
“I—I met an old friend of my father’s. I told him my troubles, and he took me to his sister’s house and lent me the money to get to Canada.”
“What was the name of the man?”
Beron spoke roughly, and she could feel him trembling at her side.
“I—I won’t tell you. I’ll never tell you.”
She turned away from him, shrinking back as though she feared another blow.
To her complete astonishment, Mrs de Liane appeared to accept her explanation.
“Oh well then, no harm’s done,” she said. “That’s all we wanted to know. Your father’s friend, whoever he is, doesn’t know where you are now, and it’s most unlikely that he’ll find you. And even if he does, we shall be very pleased to see him.”
“If you think …” Edmund Beron began, but his mother’s quiet voice silenced him.
“I believe implicitly what Mary tells me,” she said. “I’ve never had any reason to think that she is a liar.”
“How you can say that after——”
“That will do, Edmund. How pleasant it is now that the weather’s cleared up, isn’t it?”
The abrupt change in the subject silenced the man, but his grip upon the girl did not relax.
Meanwhile the car sped on down the road and presently turned off into a byway, where it splashed on through a couple of villages, following the winding road over a strip of common to a network of lanes beyond.
Beron, who had looked up sharply when the car had turned off the main road, leant forward to follow the route, and as the car turned once again he sat back with a muttered exclamation. Mrs de Liane answered his unspoken question.
“I thought it best to go the back way,” she said. “After all, dear Mary has already proved to us that she is a little hysterical. I think I was justified.”
“All the same I don’t see why we should go this way.” There was a peculiar emphasis on the word which Mary noted without being actually aware of it. Mrs de Liane’s next remark caught her attention.
“You’re so squeamish, Edmund. After all, there’s no reason why we should meet.”
“All right—all right.” He silenced her roughly, and the old lady answered him with some asperity.
“Your nerves are in a shocking state, Edmund,” she said. “You don’t get enough sleep.”
“Can you sleep?” The question seemed to be dragged out of him, and Mary caught an inkling of the strain under which he was labouring.
“I always sleep,” said Mrs de Liane, and leant back among the leather cushions as though she intended to do so at that particular moment.
The car swept on, carrying them through a deserted strip of country until Mary realized with a shudder that they had not passed a dwelling for nearly twenty minutes.
The man’s appearance on the road, therefore, came as a little surprise to her. She saw him slouching along the grass verge fifty yards up the deserted lane.
Beron caught sight of him at the same moment. The girl felt him stiffen at her side and saw him lean forward.
“It’s—Whybrow!” he said. “I’ll tell the man to drive on, shall I?”
There was no immediate reply from Mrs de Liane. She too was bending forward, peering through the double thickness of glass at the slouching figure in the ragged coat and dilapidated cap who was approaching them so rapidly.
As they watched, the man in the road recognized either the approaching car or its driver, for he stepped out into the fairway and held up his hand.
“Drive on—drive on!” said Beron excitedly.
Mrs de Liane waved him silent. Taking the speaking tube from its holder at her side, she spoke into it:
“I think you had better stop, Walker. Be ready to drive on immediately.”
“With the girl here?” Beron’s question was partly a reproach.
His mother sighed. “Always so impetuous, Edmund,” she said. “Why shouldn’t the poor man speak to us if he wants to?”
As the car slowed down to a stop she let down the window at her side and, pushing back the curtain, peered out. Over her shoulder Mary caught a glimpse of a grim red face peering up at the woman. The man was a little over forty, with a raw skin, narrow, red-rimmed eyes, and a ragged mouth which at the moment was twisted into a leer of recognition.
“You’ve come at last, have you?” he said, and there was a knowing familiarity in his tone which was surprising.
“I’m passing this way,” said Mrs de Liane quietly. “I can’t go up and see your wife now, but tell her she will receive full instructions from me any day this week.”
“Aren’t we high and mighty!” said the man contemptuously. “I tell you things aren’t going to be so easy. We’ve had enqui
ries from the school. We shall be having inspectors round any day now. The kid’s over age, you know, and he ought to go to school. He’s strong enough … just.”
There was a dreadful inference in the pause before the last word. Mary heard it and shuddered.
“Jean’s not my child—anybody can see that,” the man continued, “and if I’m to say he is there’ll be a lot of nosy-parkers asking questions. We don’t want that, do we? Eh, lady?”
“You keep a civil tongue in your head,” said Beron from the darkness of the car. “You’ve heard what Mrs de Liane says. You’ll get instructions.”
“Oh, you’re there, are you, sir?” The bully’s tone was markedly more respectful. “I didn’t see you.”
“So I observed,” said Beron drily.
The stranger was trying to peer into the car, and Mrs de Liane deliberately obscured his view.
“Your wife will hear from me,” she said in her sweet, precise voice. “And if it’s a question of another shilling or two …”
“Shilling or two?” The man’s voice rose in a whine. “Think of the risk, lady. Besides, he’s getting bigger. He eats more. He’s naughty, too. We keep ’im in his place, but it’s not easy.”
“I rely upon you to be strict.” Mrs de Liane’s voice was gentle, but Mary had a vision of the little boy who was just old enough to go to school and who was so naughty that this brute with the red face and ragged mouth had to be told to be strict.
“Your wife shall have extra money, but I rely upon you to manage the boy.”
A project which had been lurking in the back of Mary’s mind ever since the car pulled up suddenly presented itself to her, and, at the risk of another blow from Beron she put it into execution. With a sudden thrust she threw herself against the old woman, pushing her out of the way.
“I am Mary Coleridge, being taken by Mrs de Liane to Baron’s Tye, Heronhoe,” she shouted. “You’ll be rewarded if you tell Lord Tollesbury.”
Beron had dragged her back, and the chauffeur had let in the clutch practically before the last word was out of her mouth. The car leapt forward, and she crouched back, waiting for the attack which did not come. Instead there was a soft laugh at her side, and Mrs de Liane, in a voice in which satisfaction and triumph were blended, said quietly, “Lord Tollesbury, is it, Mary? That’s very interesting. Very interesting indeed. Just exactly what I wanted to know.”
The Shadow In The House Page 16
