The Bungalow Mystery (23 page)

“Well, what have you done?” she demanded, without any preliminary. “Have you applied for a warrant for Daphne Luxmore's arrest?”

“No!” The detective's tone was curt.

Mrs. von Rheinhart looked at him contemptuously.

“Why not? I may as well tell you that, if you have not taken some decisive step before to-morrow night, it is my intention to take the matter out of your hands and apply to the Public Prosecutor myself.”

A little smile crept round Inspector Spencer's lips.

“I doubt whether you would find that help your case much, madam! Still, of course, it is at your option to try it. The reason why we have not arrested Miss Luxmore is because we have not found sufficient evidence against her.”

Mrs. von Rheinhart interrupted him with an angry laugh.

“There is evidence enough to hang her, I should say. There are the letters; the ring found beside the body has proved to have belonged to the late Lady Luxmore and descended to her daughter. Then you have the motive and the proof that Daphne Luxmore was on the spot. What more do you want?”

“On the other hand, there is Constable Frost's failure to identify her, and her maid's positive testimony that she was in bed at the time the murder was committed,” the detective replied. “Testimony which, as we have ascertained, will be supported by that of Lady Folgate and the doctor who attended her. We can't fight against fact, Mrs. von Rheinhart.”

Mrs. von Rheinhart put up her veil and it became apparent that her agitation was growing excessive.

“Do you mean to say you believe Daphne Luxmore to be innocent?” she demanded.

The detective coughed.

“It is not my business to promulgate theories, madam; I have to look at facts, and I say it is a fact that in face of Miss Luxmore's alibi we can do nothing. Our only course now, unless the alibi can be shaken, is to look for the criminal elsewhere. I should like you to read this.” He handed her the anonymous letter, watching her closely as she looked at it.

Mrs. von Rheinhart's countenance exhibited several changes of expression as she studied it; astonishment, baffled malice, finally the gleam of gratified revenge.

“You have verified these facts?” she inquired, tapping the paper as she laid it down.

Detective Collins leaned forward, both elbows on the table, his chin resting on his clasped hands, his deep-set eyes fixed on his client's face.

“The main part of the story was known to us before,” he said slowly. “That added to our difficulty in the matter of Miss Luxmore. The name of the chauffeur is a distinct gain—otherwise—”

“Otherwise you would do nothing, I know,” Mrs. von Rheinhart broke in wrathfully. “Now, however, you will arrest Sir James Courtenay at once.”

“We shall make a point of seeing the chauffeur, and I think the arrest will be the next step,” Mr. Collins acquiesced. “We shall have to proceed cautiously, though. There is sure to be any amount of sympathy for a man who has been so terribly afflicted; though there is ample evidence now to warrant an arrest, I am doubtful—distinctly doubtful of conviction.”

Mrs. von Rheinhart was not disposed to listen to any words calculated to damp her delight at the prospect of achieving the aim in pursuit of which she had been working so long.

“Other proof is sure to be found when the arrest is made. The pistol—”

“Ah! When we have found that, I grant you, we shall have something definite to go upon.”

“We have something definite to go on now,” Mrs. von Rheinhart declared emphatically. “You must arrest one of them, Inspector Spencer, either Daphne Luxmore or Sir James Courtenay, in either case I shall be avenged. Both”—with a discordant laugh— “have wronged me, both have robbed me of the love which was my right.” Mrs. von Rheinhart rose; her suppressed exultation had dyed her cheeks scarlet; her nostrils dilated, her eyes gleamed. “There is nothing more for me to stay for, then. You will make the arrest at the earliest possible moment, please.” Detective Collins opened the door for her.

“You may rely upon our doing our best, madam. Probably it will be effected in the course of the next day or two.” He preceded her through the outer office and saw her into her cab.

Returning, he found the inspector still studying the anonymous letter.

“I can't make out who you think wrote this, Mr. Collins!”

“Can't you?” the detective rejoined carelessly. “Nice vindictive woman that, inspector,” nodding his head towards Mrs. von Rheinhart's chair. “Upon my word, one can't blame the husband for trying to get rid of her.”

“I dare say not. But about this letter?” The inspector was not to be led off into any side issues until the main question was settled. “What do you intend to do?”

The detective spread out his hands.

“What can I do, my dear fellow? Our next step must be, I am afraid, the arrest. There are one or two matters, though, that ought to be cleared up first, in spite of Mrs. von Rheinhart, but I fancy a few days will see the end of The Bungalow mystery.”

“You mean the question of motive?” Inspector Spencer's mind was moving slowly to-day.

Mr. Collins nodded.

“That—and you must remember that Rheinhart unmistakeably had a lady visitor that night. If it was not Miss Luxmore—and her alibi seems to prove conclusively that it was not—it must have been some one else; we should at least get some light on the mystery.”

“Mystery you may call it!” The inspector groaned. “Every clue seems to lead to a blank wall.”

“Each of them fits into its own little bit in the puzzle though. Now this letter—”

“Ah, now we are coming to it! Who wrote it, Mr. Collins?”

The detective glanced at the envelope.

“You will be surprised when you hear, I fancy, inspector.”

“I dare say I shall,” the inspector assented. “But I should like to know what you are hinting at, Mr. Collins.”

The detective coughed. He looked round the room and lowered his voice as though to make sure that not a single word should reach the ears of a possible eavesdropper.

“What do you say to Sir James Courtenay himself?”

“Good afternoon, Frost!”

The ex-constable, stepping out of the post office, at Bredon, the nearest small town to Oakthorpe, found himself unexpectedly confronted by Inspector Spencer. His hand went up to his hat mechanically.

“Good afternoon, sir!”

“This is luck,” the inspector proceeded genially. “I was just wishing that I could see you.”

Mr. Frost's stolid face brightened.

“I've just been in to send a telegram to you, sir, as you charged me when anything of importance transpired.”

Mr. Frost was rather fond of long words. In his own circle he was considered to have a pretty trick of speech.

“Ay! And you have made some discovery?” The inspector looked interested. “Come along, man, we will turn into the Dolphin and have a glass in the private parlour, and I will hear all about it.”

He bustled into the old-fashioned inn standing opposite, Frost meekly following him.

There was little doing there. A stranger was a rare sight at Bredon, and his request for a room in which he could transact a little business with his friend was speedily acceded to.

He contained himself with difficulty until the land-lord had unwillingly withdrawn, after bringing the whisky and a siphon of soda, and set them on the tray beside the glasses. Then he glanced across.

“Well?”

Mr. Frost fidgeted. He had taken a chair at the other's invitation and now looked extremely uncomfortable.

“It—I do not know that it helps us much, sir. I've no doubt you will think I was to blame.”

“I dare say I shall, but it is no use worrying about that,” the inspector remarked philosophically. “Go on, Frost. I have no time to waste.”

“Well, it is in this way, sir.” A sudden thought struck Frost. He got up and shut the window, looking carefully down the cobble-paved path outside. “I—you know I told you that Miss Daphne Luxmore was not the lady I saw at the doctor's—the one acting over at Parson Thornton's.”

“Yes.” The inspector paused in the act of pouring out some whisky. “You don't mean to say—”

The ex-constable was not to be hurried. Never had his slowness of speech seemed more exasperating to Inspector Spencer.

“Well, that was true enough. I managed to get right up to the Hall windows the other day in the gloaming, and when the candles were lighted I saw my lord and the young ladies quite plain. Miss Luxmore sat with her face turned towards me. She might be a bit in the same style as the one I saw at Freshfield. I don't say she wasn't, and her hair was bright yellow, same as the other's. But I could take my oath it wasn't her. I wrote that to Mr. Collins, and that I didn't think I should do much by staying any longer here. He wrote back—I got his letter yesterday—and said I had better stop where I was a while. There might be some work for me to do in a few days, and in the meantime I was to keep my eyes open. So, yesterday, having nothing particular on hand, I thought I would spend the afternoon in the park. If there was anything to be picked up, I thought it was as likely to be there as anywhere.”

“Quite right.”

The inspector nodded as he paused. It was evident that Frost was not to be hurried. Left to himself, he would reach the point of his narrative in his own good time.

“Help yourself, Frost.”

“Thank you, sir!” The man slowly filled up his glass from the siphon. “Your health, sir,” he said to the inspector, as he raised it to his lips.

“Thank you,” the other nodded. “Well, what did you see in the park? I thought Sir James Courtenay kept it strictly private, except on Monday.”

“He does his best.” Mr. Frost shook his head mournfully as he remembered sundry rebuffs at the lodge gates. “But there is a footpath to Norton that he can't stop—cuts across the northern corner, and once you are in, if there's nobody about, it is easy to slip among the trees. That is what I did yesterday. Then I made my way down to the bridge, keeping a cautious look-out for the doctor. He seems to be always hanging about. Presently I see him in the distance, so I slipped among the undergrowth like I did the time before that I told you about, and watched him. He walked about aimlessly for a while, as if he was waiting for some one, and I crouched down among the bushes wishing he was far enough. Presently he turned away. I gave him time to get out of sight and was just thinking it was safe to get up when I heard a woman's skirt catch in the briars along the path that ran just in front of me, and I waited. It was Miss Luxmore. I knew her in a moment. She wore a grey dress, and a floating veil like a nun, and as she passed me she was wringing her hands. ‘Ah, James, James, you are very cruel!' she says to herself, with a sob like. Well, she went down to the bridge and stopped there the longest time, crying and moaning to herself. I daren't stir hardly for fear she should hear me, and I got that cramped and stiff before she had done that at last, when she had gone back, it was all I could do to raise myself. I came out, however, and stood on the path trying to brush off some of the green that had got on to my clothes, when I heard a little sound close to me, and there, just before me, on the same path, staring at me as if she had seen a ghost, was the very girl that was acting at Freshfield, and that I saw at the doctor's the night before. I could take my oath to her anywhere!”

He paused and looked at the inspector.

That functionary was leaning forward, his keen, eager expression showing the interest he took in the recital.

“You are sure it was not Miss Luxmore—that she had not turned back?”

Mr. Frost shook his head positively.

“I am positive of that, sir. I saw Miss Luxmore plain enough. She is older and thinner and sadder looking. Their hair is just about the same colour, that is all. Miss Luxmore, she was all in grey. This one was in white, with a motor-veil tied round her head. I knew her the moment I saw her, and she knew me, for as I stood still, what with the surprise and my pains, she turned and run back. Like a flash of lightning she was, and that quick on her legs that when I recovered myself, and made after her, she was out of sight round the bend of the path. I felt sure that I could catch her up in a moment, but when I came up to the turn not a glimpse of her was to be seen, and not a sign more of her could I And, though I hung about the wood for hours, laying the foundation of an attack of rheumatism for myself. But that is how the matter stands, sir. The girl that passed as the doctor's cousin at Freshfield is in this neighbourhood—or was last night—though where she is staying, or what she is doing, I can't make out. There's no doubt I saw her in the park with the doctor a while ago, and thought it was Miss Luxmore.”

The inspector took a sip meditatively.

“I should say this case has had as many rum starts from first to last as anything I ever heard of,” he said slowly at last. “And I'm inclined to think you have hit upon one of the queerest, Frost. Have you no idea who this woman is?” The question was short and brisk; the tone strangely in contrast with the drawl of the preceding sentences.

The ex-constable looked at him in surprise.

“Why no, sir, I haven't. Do you—does that mean that you have?”

The inspector coughed and his eyelids dropped.

“It may be that an idea did cross my mind as you spoke. But I don't suppose there is anything in it. Still, I think you and I will take a look at the park to-night, and you shall show me just where this mysterious young woman eluded you.”

“Very well, sir.” Mr. Frost stood up and drained his glass. “Your health, sir. Why, there is Dr. Lavington! I declare, wherever I go, he always seems to be somewhere about—he might be shadowing me, he might. I suppose that will be Sir James Courtenay with him.”

The inspector peered forth eagerly. The post office was on the opposite side of the street. A motor stood before the door; a man was just coming out with a sheaf of letters. The inspector's glance wandered past Roger's stalwart form to the stooping figure and hollow cheeks of the man who sat beside him.