The Bungalow Mystery (10 page)

“It was just the same tale a year ago. I yielded to you and waited, and what has come of it? I shall lose double what I should have done if I had followed my own inclination. No! If he does not pay, he must go. That is my last word on the matter!”

His tone had all the accent of finality. Gorringe opened his mouth tentatively as if to offer some remonstrance, but recognizing its utter futility, began to put his papers together in silence.

“Very well, Sir James, I—I will do my best.” It was plainly to be seen that only by a great effort was he repressing his natural indignation. As the door closed behind him, Courtenay gave vent to a sardonic chuckle. Meeting Roger's eyes, he stopped suddenly.

“Well, old sobersides, what have you to say?”

Roger looked at him fully.

“I was wondering why your whole nature should be so strangely altered by your accident, Courtenay. Do you remember how harsh old Pounceby used to be to his tenants, and how you used to criticize him and yet even he—”

“Had his good points, I dare say.” Courtenay finished the sentence in his own fashion. “It is a very different pair of shoes, let me tell you, when you are a landowner yourself, Roger; you look at things from another point of view altogether. Besides”—his tone hardening—“why should I let Verrall off? He has his health and strength, all the things I covet most—why should he expect to go through the world without trouble any more than the rest of us?”

“The very fact that there is so much trouble in life is the very reason for each one of us doing our best to lessen the sum of human misery, not to add to it, Courtenay.”

Roger's tone was significant, but it apparently made small impression. With a grunt Courtenay turned his head away as if tired of the conversation. Roger picked up the
Times
which lay at the foot of the chair, and carried it over to the window. Courtenay was invariably trying in this mood; the only thing to be done was to leave him to himself and trust that reflection might bring him wiser counsels.

Roger's eye wandered idly down the columns; then, in a corner of the paper, his attention was arrested suddenly by a paragraph in small type, headed by the words “The Bungalow Murder” in larger type. Roger's breathing quickened as he read: “It will be within the recollection of our readers that in spite of the police the murderer of Maximilian von Rheinhart at Sutton Boldon two years ago is still at large. It is rumoured that within the last few days the police have discovered a valuable clue, and, though they are naturally reticent about the matter, it is probable that an arrest will be made within the next few days.”

Lavington read it over a second time. Its very vagueness rendered it more alarming. Roger repeated the words mechanically, “It is probable that an arrest will be made within the next few days.” Whose arrest? His face paled beneath its bronze as he asked himself that question. And what could be the clue the police had discovered after all that time? Roger racked his brains in vain. He had imagined that the Bungalow Murder was long ago relegated to the list of undiscovered, half-forgotten crimes. The last thing he had expected was to see the whole matter was likely to be raked up again.

Once more he recalled the ghastly details of that night two years ago. Once more he heard the gasping breath as he drew back the curtain. The girl with Elizabeth Luxmore's eyes was pleading to him for mercy and help. Then, with a shudder, he thought of the form that had lain last on that row of trestles in the barn, of the golden hair so primly straight and the face that merciful hands had veiled.

How had she come into Maximilian von Rheinhart's room, the girl who had passed as Roger Lavington's cousin for one long day? Had she been tricked, deceived? The man's very brow grew crimson as he pictured what might have been; the love dishonoured; the intolerable insult; the sudden swift revenge.

And now they were to arrest some one for the murder. Who was it? Had he been mistaken, after all, in thinking of the girl he had protected as killed in the railway accident?

An exclamation from Courtenay startled Roger. The old butler had opened the door.

“Lord Luxmore has called, Sir James. He hopes that you will be able to see him for a few minutes this morning.”

“I won't,” Courtenay returned irritably. “Have I not told you, Jenkins, that I never see anybody? Tell Lord Luxmore that I regret I do not feel equal to seeing visitors to-day—”

“Not now, my dear James, that will not do.” Lord Luxmore thrust the man aside and bustled into the room. “Really, you know, we can't let you shut yourself up in this way—we really can't. It's the worst possible thing for you.”

“I do not agree with you,” Courtenay said grimly, wincing as Lord Luxmore pressed his hand. He had raised himself slightly in his chair, but his gloomy countenance did not relax as he met his visitor's genial smile.

“Oh, come! I don't think you are the best judge of that. You must let your friends decide for you.” Evidently Lord Luxmore was not inclined to take umbrage at the coolness of his reception. He turned to Roger. “How do you do, Dr. Lavington? My visit is partly to you to-day. I had intended to call before, but there has been some trouble at the Home Office, and I had to go up to town at the beginning of the week, and only got back last night. Still, I have availed myself of the earliest opportunity,” with another infectious laugh. “Now, do you know what I have strict orders to do? Take you two young men back to lunch with me.”

Courtenay had resumed his former position now. One hand was pulling his brown moustache, the other drummed restlessly on the arm of his chair.

“I thought you understood I never go out.”

Lord Luxmore seated himself crosswise on the nearest chair and regarded him benevolently.

“I know you have had some such notion, James. But I think it is time your friends tried to break you of it. You will have to get over it some time, you know. You can't live all your life shut up here like a hermit.”

“Can I not?” Courtenay questioned quietly. “I think you are making a mistake, Lord Luxmore.”

Looking at him, Roger could see by the tautness of his muscles, by the knuckles that shone white through the tightened skin, the gigantic effort he was making to retain his self-control.

Lord Luxmore, however, apparently noticed nothing of it. He leaned forward.

“There is some one else you ought to think of, Courtenay. She has forbidden me to mention the subject to you, but when I see the poor child fretting her heart out, how can I obey her? Do you never think of poor Daphne, James?”

Suddenly Courtenay's whole frame seemed to relax; he sat farther back amongst the cushions; his hand lay limp on the silken coverlet that was thrown over the lower part of the chair.

“Often.” The word seemed to be wrung from the thin, drawn lips.

Lavington, with the true physician's insight, guessed something of the torture his friend was suffering, and longed to put an end to it; but Lord Luxmore was not to be easily turned from his purpose.

“Oh well, that is something,” he said heartily. “It will do her good to hear that, poor child! And if you will not come up to the Hall, you will let her see you here some day, Courtenay?”

“Never!” Courtenay's blue eyes were sombre; his upper lip twitched nervously. “Remembering what has been, could I bear her to see me like this?” With a sudden gesture he threw back the gay quilt; he pulled himself up.

With a visible shudder Lord Luxmore shrank back; he looked from the bottom of the chair, with its significant emptiness, to Courtenay's thin, sunken chest, to his rounded back and worn, lined face; then his expression altered; he drew out a handkerchief and blew his nose.

“Eh, I don't know what to say, my poor fellow! it is terribly sad, and I know what you mean; but bless you, Daphne wouldn't look at it like that. Women are not built in that way—not the best of them, anyhow.”

Courtenay made no reply. The muscles near his mouth and nostrils twitched painfully as he looked straight at Lord Luxmore's tell-tale countenance.

Lavington stepped forward and replaced the quilt.

“I think I must forbid any further conversation to-day, Lord Luxmore.”

“Quite right, I am sure, quite right!” the gentleman assented in obvious embarrassment. “Perhaps I was wrong, but I didn't realize. However”—recovering himself somewhat—“if it is out of the question that Courtenay should lunch with us, I hope you will not be equally obdurate, Dr. Lavington.”

“Another day I shall be delighted,” Roger said courteously.

But Courtenay looked up.

“I should prefer you to go with Lord Luxmore to-day, Roger. I have some business that must be finished.”

Lavington glanced at him doubtfully. He could perceive no ill-effects, so far, from this recent excitement. Roger felt that it would be the truest kindness to Courtenay to accept the invitation to lunch.

“Oh, well, if you have business, old fellow, I shall be delighted to—”

“You will come then?” finished Lord Luxmore, getting up with alacrity. “That is right. I am most anxious to have your advice. Good-bye, James, my boy! I shall run up and see you again one of these days. Good-bye.”

He shook hands with Courtenay and used his handkerchief vigorously as he made his exit. In the hall he turned to Roger.

“Terrible! Terrible! Poor fellow! I hardly knew what to say to him. I dare say you saw that. After all, one can't wonder that he should shrink from seeing anyone, can one really, now?”

Luncheon at Oakthorpe Hall was an informal meal. Lord Luxmore bustled into the dining-room.

“I had no idea we were so late. But now I think of it, I can tell you from my own feelings that it is near lunch-time,” with a jolly laugh “Where is Daphne?”

“Daphne has one of her bad headaches this morning,” Elizabeth returned, as she took her seat next to Roger at the round table laid for four.

Lord Luxmore took up his knife and fork and laid them down again.

“Now that is most extraordinary. She is almost as bad as Courtenay—never well enough to see anyone. And yet this morning when I went out, she was sitting in the drawing-room reading the
Times
, and looking almost her old self. I shall have to speak to her seriously.”

The memory of a certain paragraph in the morning's paper returned to Roger. In vain he told himself that he was a fool, or mad. The question would keep recurring to him: “Had Daphne Luxmore read those few lines, and were they accountable for her headache?”

Lord Luxmore, finding Roger an intelligent listener, was inclined to become enthusiastic about him.

“Of course, I can understand that it is a capital thing for Courtenay to have you here, Dr Lavington, and at present I suppose it suits your purpose, as it gives you time for your studies, but I should advise your going to London as soon as possible. Courtenay tells me you were thinking of it when you came to him. Where had you been living before, may I ask?”

“I had been in practice in the Midlands, at a village called Sutton Boldon,” Roger answered, toying with his bread. “But I had given that up before I heard from Courtenay.”

“Sutton Boldon! Sutton Boldon!” mused Lord Luxmore. “The name seems familiar, but I cannot place my association with it. How is that, I wonder?”

“It is not very far from Norton Priory,” his daughter suggested. “We pass the station as we go up.”

Lord Luxmore wrinkled up his brows. His pince-nez fell off and hung unheeded by their cord.

“Perhaps that is it. No! I have it. Wasn't there a murder there a year or two ago? I saw it alluded to in the paper this morning. The Bungalow murder, was it not? The police think they have a clue at last.”

“What clue, papa?”

“Oh, my dear child, how should I know?” Lord Luxmore said testily. “That is the last thing the police will tell of course, otherwise the criminal might make his escape. No, they will keep that up their sleeves until they are prepared to pounce down upon the murderer, you may be sure.”

Elizabeth said no more. She turned to her young brother.

“Reggie, young Cowan is coming over this afternoon. I have just heard from his mother; he wants you to play in the team he is getting up for the wake week.”

Young Luxmore's eyes shone.

“Oh I say, does he really? That is jolly.”

“Oh yes, things are coming back to me now,” Lord Luxmore went on, leaning back in his chair. “An artist was supposed to have been shot by some girl, wasn't he? It was just about the time of Courtenay's accident, and we were so concerned about Daphne that I did not follow the details. Poor thing! I dare say he had treated her badly; one's sympathies must go out to her, after all this time too.”

“To some extent, certainly,” Roger looked steadily at Elizabeth. “And I dare say nothing will come of the clue. One sees that sort of vague statement so often in the papers.”

Sutton Boldon looked very familiar, Roger Lavington thought, as he emerged from the little station and turned into the main road leading through the village. It was lunch-time; the children were playing about in the yard in front of the school; the geese were waddling across the village green to the pond; in front of the inn a few loiterers were standing about in the sunshine.

Roger paused irresolutely. The host of the Crown was an old patient; he made up his mind to go in and see what they could give him in the way of a repast. His visit to Sutton Boldon was the outcome of a couple of sleepless nights; since he had seen the paragraph in the
Times
with regard to the reported clue to the Bungalow murder, he had been unable to divest himself of the idea that trouble threatened Daphne Luxmore.

Though at times he told himself he must be mad to harbour such a suspicion, even for an instant, though he had no grounds to go upon which would justify him in entertaining it, though the likeness which he saw in Elizabeth Luxmore to the mysterious visitor to The Bungalow might be, nay indeed—as he had tried to persuade himself hitherto—must be purely accidental, the thought that Lord Luxmore's elder daughter, Courtenay's betrothed, was the girl he had found in Rheinhart's room would obtrude itself. The strong resemblance which he had been told existed between the two sisters had first suggested the idea to him; the momentary glimpse he had had of Miss Luxmore in the wood had shown him that her hair was the same colour as that of the girl he had saved. Above all, Courtenay's manner had convinced him that some deep tragedy lay behind—that Courtenay's accident could not be the only cause of separation between the lovers.