The Bungalow Mystery (27 page)

Davenport Villiers waited a little to give her time to recover herself.

“There are two questions I must put to you, Miss Luxmore,” he said at last. “How long an interval elapsed between your hearing the voices at the side of the house, and your entering the studio and finding Rheinhart dead?”

“I could not say exactly,” Elizabeth hesitated. “I know I waited some time among the trees at the side of the house, trying to think what was the best to do. I should say, roughly speaking, from a quarter of an hour to twenty minutes.”

“Um! Very well, thank you.” Mr. Davenport Villiers made a special note in the margin of his brief. “My second question, Miss Luxmore, is this. Did you recognize the voices you heard when you were in the garden?”

“One was Mr. von Rheinhart's, I think,” Elizabeth said with perceptible hesitation.

The barrister nodded as if well satisfied.

“Exactly! And the other? Had you heard that before?”

There was a distinct pause.

“I cannot be sure. I may have thought I did,” Elizabeth faltered. “But I was frightened—terrified. I fancy now that I was mistaken.”

“We should like to hear what you thought at the time,” Mr. Davenport Villiers remarked quietly, his eyes fixed upon the girl's changing face.

“I thought—I thought—” The brown eyes wandered round with a passionate appeal. But there was no relenting in Davenport Villiers's keen face. He waited. “I thought it sounded like Sir James Courtenay!” It seemed as though the fatal words were wrung from Elizabeth Luxmore's pale lips.

Inspector Spencer stepped forward.

“That is as far as we propose to carry the case today, your worships. We are of opinion that the evidence amply justifies our asking for a remand.”

Amply indeed! It was evident that their worships on the bench were emphatically of the inspector's opinion. They conferred with their clerk in low tones, then the chairman spoke.

“What day would you suggest for the adjournment, inspector?”

“We hope to be able to carry our case to a close before your worships next week.”

“That will do, then. Sir James Courtenay, you are remanded until this day week.”

A buzz of excitement ran through the court, the hum of many tongues released at last from the necessity for silence.

Never in the memory of living man had the gossips of the neighbourhood been regaled with so choice a dish of scandal. That not only should one of the magnates of the county be charged with wilful murder, but that the daughter of Lord Luxmore, the philanthropic peer, should turn out to be the mysterious woman who had been wanted for so long in connection with The Bungalow tragedy! The audience could hardly believe what they had heard her avow with their own ears! For a while it was doubtful which way the tide of public sympathy would flow, but the sight of Courtenay borne past by stalwart warders turned it in his favour: a murmur of commiseration arose. Roger caught one glimpse of his friend's face; to his amazement it was bright and hopeful; the look of pain, of melancholy, was gone; in its place was a quiet, serene light, a strong, cheerful endurance.

The crowd broke up, discussing the morning's extraordinary occurrences.

Some took one view, some another, but all were agreed that the real facts of the case were not yet come out; that Miss Luxmore could say much more if she would. One man, bolder than the rest, opined that if Sir James Courtenay did not shoot Maximilian von Rheinhart Miss Luxmore could tell who did. Another voiced the opinion of a large contingent that the matter lay between them. The old, oft-repeated question of Detective Collins and Inspector Spencer—which?

Walking down the corridor of the court still like a man in a trance, Roger found himself face to face with Detective Collins. The little man stopped him with scant ceremony.

“I was coming to see if I could find you, sir. That Mrs. Miller—we thought we might want her, and she is in the little room behind the magistrates, crying and going on till I don't know what to do with her. Perhaps if you—”

“I don't suppose I can do much good,” Roger said, wearily. “Still, I—”

He paused. The door of the room they were passing stood open; inside he could see Elizabeth and her father talking to Sir William Bunner. A tall woman in black came swiftly down the passage; he stood aside for her to enter. The detective touched his arm.

“That is Miss Luxmore, the one that was to have married Sir James Courtenay.”

Roger started and looked back. No, assuredly this was not the girl he had found in The Bungalow! The abundant hair was the same colour, the brown eyes were alike; but the face was longer, thinner. The full mouth too, the slightly projecting teeth altered the whole expression. Impossible, inconceivable as it seemed, Roger had to acknowledge that he had never seen Daphne Luxmore before; that the girl he had helped to escape from The Bungalow was Elizabeth, the woman whom he had mentally set on a pinnacle high above all others, whose cool, dainty air of aloofness had fired his blood. Another conclusion, too, was forced upon him. It was Elizabeth, not Daphne, who had been meeting him in the park; Elizabeth to whom he had spoken of his love; Elizabeth who had personated her sister, who had scoffed at and yet encouraged him; Elizabeth who had been amusing herself at his expense.

His face flushed darkly red beneath its tan; all the manhood in him rose in hot revolt against the trick that had been played upon him.

“This way, sir.” Detective Collins was turning down a side passage. “She is more like a mad woman than anything else, saying she has come to get Sir James out, and goodness know what—”

“Good afternoon, Dr. Lavington!” The interruption came from behind. Roger turned. Mrs. von Rheinhart stood close to him, two hot red spots burning on her pale cheeks, her mouth curling in a sneer. “So, you see, we have succeeded, Dr. Lavington!” she said mockingly. “I prophesied we should, you may remember, and you contradicted me. Now, which of us is right?”

Roger turned away from her with barely concealed disgust.

“Everything is not settled yet, Mrs. von Rheinhart. You must excuse me. I have a patient here.” Already his trained ear had caught the sound of sobs and moans from a room close at hand.

“Oh, yes! You are always in a hurry, are you not?'' Evidently, in spite of the success she had achieved, Mrs. von Rheinhart was in no agreeable frame of mind. “Well, I will not keep you from your patient. You see for yourself—”

The door at which Roger was looking was thrown violently open.

“Let me go—let me go, I say! I must tell them that he did not do it! That they must let him go!”

“Now, now, my good woman,” Detective Collins began to expostulate.

Mrs. Miller, looking strangely unlike her usually meek, frightened self, thrust him aside.

“Get out of my way, man! I tell you I—” She stopped short and thrust out her hand. “Who is that? Merciful Heaven, who is that?”

“My dear Mrs. Miller—”

Roger's tone was very pitiful as he advanced. He knew enough of the woman's devotion to her master to realize something of the blow his arrest must have been to her.

But she did not even glance at him; her eyes looked past him, beyond him.

“That—that woman! Who is she? It is not Alice, my own daughter! Ah, Heaven!”

“No, no!” Lavington spoke sternly now. Already the noise had attracted several loiterers. Sir William Bunner, coming down the passage, paused in surprise. “You are letting your imagination run away with you. That is Mrs. von Rheinhart.”

At the first sound of the housekeeper's voice, Mrs. von Rheinhart had staggered back against the wall; as Lavington spoke, however, she pulled herself together and stumbled forward.

“I am Alice von Rheinhart, mother! I thought —they told me, when I went down to our old home, that you were dead.”

“I wish I had been—I wish I had been!” the housekeeper wailed, shrinking away from her daughter's outstretched hand. “Alice von Rheinhart—Mrs. von Rheinhart! I did not know—I never dreamt—ah, Heaven, that I should live to hear it!”

“You sent for me, Sir William.”

“Ah, yes, I want your help, Collins! Sit down, man. You and I have had a little piece of work together before now, have we not?” And Sir William Bunner leaned back and surveyed the detective with a twinkle in his eye.

“You are very kind to say so, Sir William.”

Mr. Collins was evidently ill at ease as he took the chair to which Sir William pointed.

“Yes, yes! You have done some good work in your time, Collins,” Sir William went on. “I sent for you this afternoon because I want your help in unravelling the mystery of The Bungalow murder.”

“My help in unravelling the mystery of The Bungalow tragedy!” Collins forgot himself sufficiently to smile. “I think we have pretty well solved that now, sir!”

Sir William Bunner did not answer for a moment; a smile played round his clear-cut mouth as he drew a packet of papers towards him.

Detective Collins fidgeted a little in his chair. Years ago he had learnt that Sir William Bunner's smile generally meant that some point regarded by police and counsel alike as utterly insignificant had been seized upon by his keen eye as containing the whole crux of the matter; and Collins had never known Sir William Bunner to draw a false conclusion yet.

The “Hanging Judge” had not been wont to make mistakes. Collins had been secretly uneasy ever since he received the summons to the Hall. Sir William Bunner had left Oakthorpe the day of Courtenay's appearance before the magistrates, he knew; the news of his return had come as a surprise to the detective.

“You hold a warrant for the search of Oakthorpe Manor, I believe?” His tone was curt.

Collins looked surprised.

“Yes, Sir William. The police have been in possession of Sir James's private room since the time of the arrest.”

“Good! And the rest of the house?”

Collins scratched his head.

“That hasn't been gone through very thoroughly, I believe, Sir William. You see, the circumstances of the case, Sir James not having been able to get about without help, it didn't seem necessary.”

Sir William smiled again.

“Did it not, Collins? I think—I rather think I shall have to trouble you just to go back and do that part of your work a little more thoroughly.”

The detective looked at him.

“I don't understand you, Sir William.”

“Don't you, Mr. Collins?” Sir William's smile grew a little more pronounced. “Ah, I think you and the police have found a nice mare's-nest this time.”

Mr. Collins's face deepened in hue.

“I hardly know how that can be. The case, it seems to me, lies between Sir James Courtenay and Miss Elizabeth Luxmore. I own for a long time we were puzzled; when we thought it was Miss Daphne Luxmore who went to The Bungalow it did seem likely enough that, provoked by Mr. von Rheinhart's sneers, possibly by his refusal to give up her letters and threats of showing them to Sir James Courtenay, she had caught up the pistol, which was probably lying near, and put an end to it all. But, as it was Miss Elizabeth, the motive was not sufficient, and we had to turn to Sir James Courtenay.”

“Had you?” Sir William Bunner's tone made the detective wince. “How if I tell you it was neither of them, Collins?”

“I should say that it would be a difficult matter to prove, Sir William.” The detective's tone was perfectly respectful, but there was a lurking amusement in his accent. This time, he told himself, Sir William Bunner would find that it was he, and not the police, who had discovered a mare's-nest.

Sir William Bunner was looking graver now.

“Ah, that is why I want your help, Collins. Together I think we ought to manage it. To begin with, you started with the hypothesis that, Elizabeth being innocent, Courtenay must be guilty. Well, the process of elimination often turns out satisfactorily. I began on much the same basis myself—only I broadened mine. Yours only admitted the guilt of two persons; mine embraced four. You said you were sure that Elizabeth Luxmore was innocent; I knew she and Courtenay both were. Still working on your line, I found that, having eliminated them, I had two possibly guilty persons left.”

“Two others!” the detective echoed amazedly. “I think you are making a mistake. Sir William. I do really. I cannot imagine who you mean; but—”

The great judge surveyed his astonished face with amusement.

“And that is because you started with a preconceived theory, Collins. It seems to be assumed by everybody, police and public alike, that somebody from the outside came in and shot Rheinhart. You went looking for a murderer in unlikely and out-of-the-way places, while all the time the real criminal was close at hand. I do not say that I might not have done the same in your case, mind; coming fresh from the case myself I had the advantage of knowing Miss Luxmore and Sir James Courtenay, and of feeling certain that both were absolutely innocent. And I have been more mixed up in the case than you know—mind that, Collins. I wonder that I have never been arrested as an accessory after the crime myself”—with a jolly laugh. “It was I who brought Miss Luxmore away from Freshfield.”

“You, Sir William!” The detective could scarcely find breath for more.

“Yes, I,” Sir William repeated, enjoying the spectacle of his confusion mightily. “You never thought of that, did you, Collins? If you had arrested Miss Elizabeth Luxmore, I should distinctly have had to put in an appearance in the witness-box. Yes, I was among the audience at Freshfield, and though I wasn't sure of her in the Japanese dress, slanting eyebrows, and that sort of thing, of course she recognized me; she is my god-daughter, you know, Collins, and when she came to me and told me she was anxious to leave quickly and quietly, why, of course the thing was done. She came back with our party and left that meddling doctor in the lurch. If it had not been for him now, The Bungalow mystery would have been plain sailing from the first. I told my god-daughter yesterday that as far as I could see he had been doing his best to get her hanged,” rubbing his grey hair irascibly.