The Bungalow Mystery (9 page)

“Terribly! Terribly!” Lord Luxmore assented, as they rose to join the ladies.

Elizabeth Luxmore was standing by the open window a little in the shadow of the curtain. Lavington's eyes sought her at once. His artistic sense was gratified by the long, straight folds of her white gown, the suppleness of the material showing every line and curve of her slim, rounded figure.

Her father crossed to her at once, Roger following in his wake.

“I have been telling Dr. Lavington that he must come up and see me, Elizabeth.”

“We shall be pleased to see Dr. Lavington,” Miss Luxmore returned with polite indifference.

Roger and Miss Luxmore were left
tête-à-tête
. Roger hesitated. Now that the opportunity for which he had been longing was his he felt unable to make use of it.

“It is very kind of Lord Luxmore to ask me to the Hall,” he said lamely at last.

“Not at all. He will be delighted,” Miss Luxmore said, with a small conventional smile.

Roger found himself wondering whether her cold, languid manner was habitual, or whether it was possible that she had taken a personal dislike to himself.

Presently Miss Luxmore looked at him again.

“You are quite a stranger to this neighbourhood are you not, Dr. Lavington?”

“Yes. I have been in practice at Sutton Boldon for some years.” Some outside impulse seemed to prompt Lavington. “I wonder whether you have relations near there, Miss Luxmore?”

As if surprised at his tone, Elizabeth raised the big brown eyes that always gave him a sense of familiarity.

“Not relations. Friends, I might say—the Folgates of Norton Priory. At least, the Priory is within motoring distance of Sutton Boldon; we passed through it last week.”

Another friend then came to claim her attention, and Roger had no further opportunity of speaking to her.

Oakthorpe Manor was quite one of the show places of the county. Courtenay had been so pestered with requests to be allowed to see the famous gardens that a short time before his accident he had thrown the park and grounds open every Monday, and allowed the public, under the supervision of the gardeners, to wander about at will. Nor had he discontinued the practice since his accident, though every week when Monday came round he was wont to fume and fret, and declare that he would withdraw the permission he called himself a fool for having granted.

To-day, however, was Tuesday. Roger Lavington kicked aside a piece of white paper that lay on the grass, but otherwise there was no sign of the visitors who yesterday had thronged the lawns and shrubberies, admired the choice blooms in the conservatories, and listened to the head gardener's dissertation on the vines in the greenhouses.

Much of the garden and of the park was still unknown ground to Lavington. What with the continual care needed by Courtenay, and his own literary and scientific work, he had but little time to spare. But this evening he had found himself at a standstill, and his thoughts would stray to The Bungalow, to Maximilian von Rheinhart's body as he had seen it stretched on the floor and to the girl whom he had found crouching behind the curtain.

At last, in despair, he had pushed his papers aside and made up his mind to go for a stroll and have a smoke while he thought over his difficulties. It was growing dusk as he passed through the rose-garden that had been planted for Courtenay's bride, and to Roger's mind it all looked deserted, melancholy, as if some shadow of the joy that had so suddenly turned into sorrow, some echo of the interrupted marriage bells darkened it even yet. But here, too, he was pursued by the ever-recurring recollection of that tragedy at Sutton Boldon. He found himself wondering, speculating as to how Rheinhart had met his death—as to what had taken the girl with the soft brown eyes that were the counterpart of Elizabeth Luxmore's, to The Bungalow. In what relation had she stood to Rheinhart—wife, sweetheart, or victim?

He was still pondering over this baffling enigma as he closed the door of the rose-garden and went on into the park where, leaning up against the trunk of a stout old oak, he gave himself up to the luxury of a quiet think and a smoke.

But in vain he tried to control his thoughts, to fix them on the subject-matter of his article. Elizabeth Luxmore's slim figure, her small straight features, would obtrude themselves. He found himself recalling her little disdainful way of raising her dark level brows, the thick coils of brown hair that were twisted high on her gracefully-poised head.

Roger had no idea how long he had been standing wrapped in a brown study; a sense of the nearness of some living creature close at hand roused him, a feeling that he was no longer alone. He waited expectantly. Everything was quiet; there was no sign of any movement near. A silence seemed to have fallen all round. Roger stood still, every faculty suddenly quickened, his eyes, keen, alert, glancing through the tangle of interlacing branches.

Suddenly out of the shadows and the stillness, a low wailing voice sounded near at hand:

“Ah, how long is it to go on? For ever? Shall I ever be forgiven?”

It sounded so close to him, the sweet pathetic voice was so distinct, that Roger started, feeling bewilderedly that help was needed somewhere. Before he had made up his mind from which direction the cry had come, however, a twig cracked behind him, there was an echo of a woman's sob, the soft
frou-frou
of a woman's dress. Roger caught his breath, as, without apparently noticing his presence, a tall, slight figure in a grey gown with something white and coif-like twisted round the head, passed him so short a distance away that by stretching out his arm he might have touched her. For one moment something in the walk reminded him of Elizabeth Luxmore, and his heart stood still; then the tearful voice was raised again:

“Ah, Heaven, my punishment is greater than I can bear!” The white fleecy shawl slipped back, and he caught a momentary glimpse of fair hair twisted high in a golden coronet on the bent head.

With a sense of prying, of eavesdropping, he drew back and waited. He could hear the cracking of the branches as she passed, the rustling of the leaves under her feet, a distant sighing sob—no more.

The twilight was fast merging into darkness when Lavington walked slowly through the rose-garden and sauntered up the terrace to the Manor. As he let himself in by the glass door giving access from the conservatory to the little-used drawing-room he came suddenly face to face with Mrs. Miller, the housekeeper.

She started back with a slight scream, her hand pressed to her heart. Roger glanced at her with some surprise.

“Did you take me for a burglar, Mrs. Miller?” he asked with a smile.

The housekeeper seemed to recover her breath with an effort.

“N–o, sir, I was only startled for a minute, this room being so seldom used except when Mrs. Melville is here, and me not expecting anyone either. I beg your pardon, sir.” She was about to turn away.

“Please do not go away; do not let me interrupt you,” Roger said pleasantly.

“It—it was only that I wanted to make sure the shutters were bolted, sir,” the woman said in the nervous, apologetic manner that contrasted so oddly with the sober richness of her dress, with her assured position at Oakthorpe. “Sir James is particular about that as soon as darkness sets in in these unused rooms, and it's difficult to be certain unless one comes round oneself.”

Her hands, long, thin and nervous, were busied feeling for the bolts. Her back was towards Roger.

He watched her, wondering what might be the secret of her extraordinary manner. Though he could not doubt her whole-hearted devotion to Courtenay, he had never been able to bring himself either to trust or to like the housekeeper fully. Her nervous, disjointed manner of speaking, her way of glancing at him in a stealthy, sidelong fashion, all gave him a vague sense of irritation for which he was inclined to chide himself as unreasonable. It seemed now that she was taking an unnecessarily long time over her task.

“Mrs. Miller,” he said at last, “I have been for quite a long ramble in the park this evening. That is a pretty little stream on the south side beyond the rose-garden.”

“Yes, sir.” The thin fingers tugged restlessly at a stiff bolt.

Was she trying to unfasten the window? Roger wondered.

“And the wood on the other side is very pretty,” he went on. “There are some grand old oaks.”

“So I have heard, sir. It would have been a rare shame to have cut them down as they say the last owner was near doing when he was short of money.” The housekeeper was stooping down now.

“The last owner, Sir George Courtenay,” Roger repeated in some surprise. I had no idea he had ever been in any sort of difficulty. I was under the impression that he was a very wealthy man.”

Mrs. Miller moved to the farther window, bestowing upon Roger as she passed one of the furtive, questioning glances which he had surprised more than once during the last few days when she had been attending to Courtenay under his directions.

“Not Sir George, sir,” she said at last. “It—that part never belonged to him. The stream is the boundary of the Courtenay property on that side; the other bank and the wood belong to Lord Luxmore.”

“To Lord Luxmore!” Roger drew in his breath. “I had no idea his property was so near. The Hall itself is some distance away, isn't it?”

“It is if you go by the road.” Mrs. Miller seemed satisfied with the window fastenings and edged towards the door. “But if you go straight as the crow flies, as they say, it is but a step. A footpath through that wood leads you right up to Luxmore Hall. Some people say that that little bridge you spoke of—it is where Sir James and Miss Luxmore used to meet. And I have heard that it isn't often a night passes but Miss Luxmore goes to the old place still, poor young thing!” She had paused near the door, and with her handkerchief was carefully wiping a speck of dust from the face of a mirror that hung on the wall; her haggard, scared-looking eyes watched the reflection of Lavington's face anxiously.

“Ah,” Roger said slowly, an instant certainty as to the identity of the woman he had seen in the woods flashing across him, “a lady was walking down the path between the trees just now; that, then, would be Miss Luxmore?”

“I should say so, sir.” There was a curious reserve in the woman's voice. “Poor young lady! It has been a terrible thing for her as well as for Sir James. And they say she frets so at him not letting her see him. Though one can't wonder at that with him—the wreck he is.”

“Perhaps not.” Roger acquiesced doubtfully. He was recalling the thrill in the passionate, tragic voice, the wail of an anguish that had rung through the tones. “Shall I ever be forgiven? … Ah, Heaven, my punishment is greater than I can bear!”

What relation could these words have to the life story of Daphne Luxmore as the world knew it?

“Is Miss Luxmore considered like her sister?” he asked at last.

Mrs. Miller bent forward. The speck on the glass was troublesome; it needed much hard rubbing to get it off.

“Folks think so, sir. I can't say that I have noticed it myself. But then I have never seen the young ladies together. Miss Luxmore she used to come up sometimes with his lordship when I first came to the Manor and beg to be allowed to see Sir James. But the doctors would not consent, and in the end she gave up. But she always looked pale and sad, poor Miss Daphne! And Miss Elizabeth is that lively you can't compare them.”

Lavington had never seen Elizabeth Luxmore very lively—bright and lively were not exactly the adjectives he would have applied to her stately young beauty. But he stood silent, tongue-tied. A new bewildering idea had suddenly occurred to him.

Mrs. Miller slipped her handkerchief in her pocket and glided through the door; in another moment she would have drawn it to behind her.

“Mrs. Miller!” Roger's voice sounded husky. “Oh, it's nothing,” he added with forced carelessness. “I didn't know you were going. I was about to say that Miss Luxmore's hair is not the same colour as her sister's, is it? That must make a considerable difference in their appearance.”

Seen by the electric light in the hall, silhouetted against the dark oak wainscoting, Mrs. Miller's face looked ghastly white; her eyes glanced round with a hunted expression; she laid one hand on her heart as if to still its beating. Lavington had not moved out of the drawing-room.

“Yes it does, sir,” the housekeeper answered, moistening her dry lips with the tip of her tongue. “Miss Elizabeth is dark, you see, while Miss Luxmore—”

“Yes?” Roger's tone was distinctly interrogative.

“She is fair, sir.” Mrs. Miller moved across the hall, catching at a table near the farther end as she passed.

“Ah!” Roger hesitated a moment as if uncertain what to do. Then he turned back into the drawing-room.

“Verrall will have to go. This is the third half-year his rent has not been paid.”

A shaft of sunlight fell athwart Courtenay's head. To Roger's fancy there was something cruel in its very clearness. It brought out with pitiless accuracy the yellow, parchment-like hue of the skin, the deep furrows that had been graven by bodily suffering. It showed, too, how the lips that used to lend themselves to facile laughter were now compressed in this straight line.

Opposite, at the writing-table littered with papers, Gorringe, who had been steward at Oakthorpe for more years than he would care to count, watched his employer with puckered brows and anxious, worried-looking eyes. He stirred uneasily as Courtenay spoke.

“Verralls been at the Mill Farm for near a hundred years, Sir James.”

Courtenay's laugh was not exactly pleasant to hear.

“All the more reason they should make way for some one else now.”

Old Gorringe looked across at Lavington as if imploring his aid.

“These two seasons have been bad ones, Sir James, and the Verralls have had family troubles; the eldest son died, and Mrs. Verrall has been ill, and they have had big doctor's bills to pay. Things have been hard on the Verralls lately, but they have every hope of making up now, if only they can have time. If you would wait until Christmas, Sir James.”