Mystery Villa (17 page)

‘Don't see why. Don't see why you can't chuck it,' Aske grumbled.

‘Got to keep the rules,' Bobby answered. ‘It's the same in everything; you must stick to the rules or you get into no end of a mess. Besides, once anything is reported to Scotland Yard, there's nothing can stop it – except an Act of Parliament. It's simply got to go on – like day and night, or a broadcast talk, or the traffic down the Strand, or one of Noel Coward's plays.'

A little more persuasion, and at last the girl consented to tell her story.

Her name, she explained, was Yelton – Dorothy Yelton – and she kept house for her father, John Yelton, a member of the firm of Yelton & Markham, metal merchants, founded by her grandfather, John Yelton the first, and his younger brother, James Yelton. The brothers had made a successful start, but had both died young – her grandfather while her own father was still a child. During his minority the business had been carried on, less successfully but competently enough, by the manager, Henry Markham, father of the present junior partner. Then came the war, when the firm, after a moderately successful but uneventful existence since its foundation, prospered exceedingly – they were days, indeed, like those of Solomon, when ‘silver and gold were nothing accounted'. After the war, however, the partners, in common with many others, had committed the twin errors of supposing that, as war meant a boom, peace must mean a treble boom, and, again like many others, of failing to understand that war merely leaves behind many bills to pay. So they launched out magnificently into superb far-reaching enterprises, in which they lost all they had gained, and more also.

Indeed, Bobby was able to infer that the firm was distinctly in low water, and that that explained a recent move from the house in the country to this flat, whereof the chief recommendation was that it had a ‘W' in its postal address. It was from their former country home which her grandfather had built, and where the family had lived ever since – Dorothy herself had been born in it – that a letter sent there had been forwarded to the flat, asking Dorothy to come to Tudor Lodge, and making a reference that at the time seemed hard to understand to a Mr Yelton the writer had known many years before.

‘Your grandfather?' Bobby asked, startled. ‘You don't mean... do you mean...?'

‘Not my grandfather,' Dorothy answered in a low voice. ‘He died of pneumonia when he was quite young. My father was his only child. But he had a brother, the brother who helped him start the business. He was called James, and he disappeared, and no one ever knew what had become of him. It was on the eve of his wedding-day. Everything was ready, and then he just vanished, and no one knew what had happened. They thought he must have gone abroad. There was another woman, and she said he had promised to break the marriage off and marry her instead, so everyone thought he had run away because of the muddle he had got into. Grandmother always said he would turn up again, most likely with another wife altogether, but he never did.'

‘It looks as if...' Bobby began, and paused, his own voice not quite steady, so much was he affected by this tale of ancient sorrow, and the suggestion of strange tragedy that it had led to.

‘I think so,' Dorothy almost whispered. ‘I think it's almost certain... I think that must be my great-uncle you found.'

They were all three silent for a little, and then Dorothy went on in the same half-whispered tone:

‘When I went there... to Tudor Lodge, I mean... she told me... I... the letter seemed so funny I thought I must find out what it meant, and father thought so, too... it was addressed to “Dorothy”, but I think now perhaps it wasn't for me, but for grandmother... she died just after the war... but I think it was meant for her... when I got there I thought perhaps it was all a mistake or a hoax of some sort... then Miss Barton came down to let me in at the side door, and she looked so thin and frail and old I wasn't frightened any more... at least not much... and it all seemed so dreadful in that old house, and I thought how terrible it was anyone should be living like that, and she ought to be taken away somewhere where she could be looked after... I can't think how she can have managed.'

‘She had been selling her jewellery, hadn't she?' Bobby asked.

‘Yes, I think so. I don't know. She had a great pearl necklace she showed me. It must have been worth ever so much. It was beautiful, only it made everything else look more dreadful still. She began to tell me about great-uncle, and how they were in love... she kept saying he did love her... and then she found out he was in love with another woman too... and that he was planning to leave her... even though everything was ready... her dress and the wedding-cake and everything... she said several times the invitations had all been sent and people were coming... and she talked about the wedding-cake... she said when she was looking at it where they had put it on the table in the dining-room, and everyone was saying how nice it looked... then it came into her mind quite suddenly that she would never let him go... she made up her mind all at once, just as if it had been made up for her and quite settled... she said it seemed like that, not as if it were something she wanted to do herself of her own will, but more as if it were an order from somewhere else, and she just had to do it... and she sent him a note to ask him to come to her room that night, only to be careful not to let anyone know... I think from what she said they had done that before... I think my great-uncle can't have been a very nice man, and he had persuaded her they needn't wait because they were really married already, only just for going to church... he must have been to her room secretly before, and he came again that night... and he hadn't lot anyone know, or let anyone see him...' Dorothy paused, and put up her hands to her eyes as if to shut out something that she still saw. She resumed: ‘It was when she was telling me that, that she opened the Saratoga trunk... I saw... there was a kind of horrible, awful likeness to father... I just couldn't move or speak or anything... She shut the lid again, and she said first she gave him some poison in a glass of wine... and he lay down on the floor and was very ill and all twisted up, but he didn't die... so she took a pistol she had, and shot him through the top of his head while he was on the ground or trying to get up.... She hid the body in the trunk, and no one ever knew... at least she says she thinks some of them knew... only they never said, but they all went away and left her there alone, and she thinks that was why... because they knew or just guessed, perhaps, but they wouldn't say because of the scandal... and she just went on living there... alone... with It... and then, just as she had finished telling me, we heard an awful noise downstairs, and she said, ever so quietly: “Perhaps he has come back. I always thought he would, and the other night I saw him at the window and I beckoned to him, only then he went away, but now, perhaps, he's come back again.”' Again Dorothy paused and shuddered. ‘That made me ever so frightened again,' she said, ‘because then I knew she was mad.'

‘She could hardly have remained sane,' Bobby said gravely, ‘living as she had done for so long.'

‘Then she began to tell me, again, how they loved each other,' Dorothy continued. ‘It was dreadful... Oh, you can't imagine how awful it sounded. She talked just as though he were still alive and she had simply been waiting for him as you might wait for anyone who had been away for a day or two. She said she had her wedding dress ready, and the wedding breakfast was all ready, too, and you know I had seen it... on the table in that room downstairs, all covered with spider's webs, all withered away... but she seemed to think it was just as it had been when they finished laying the table... and I felt I couldn't bear it any longer, but I should go mad as well if I stopped another minute, and then, just as I was going, you knocked at the door.'

The strain of telling her strange and ghastly story, of living over again those dreadful moments at Tudor Lodge, was evidently proving too much for Dorothy. She was fighting hard to retain her self-control, but looked as if she might collapse at any minute. Fortunately Aske, who had been indignantly fidgeting for some time and looking as if he were only hesitating between committing a violent assault upon Bobby and carrying Dorothy off in the best ‘Young Lochinvar' style, relieved the situation by compromising on a third course – that of suggesting that she should go and lie down. That set her off into a paroxysm of hysterical giggling, and Aske looked quite hurt and offended.

‘Well, that's what mother always makes my kid sister do when she's more tangled up than usual with the parish magazine accounts,' he explained.

Dorothy went on giggling hysterically. Bobby suggested a glass of water. Aske improved on this with the idea of a cup of tea. Dorothy omitted to be grateful for either suggestion, but disappeared into her bedroom, emerging presently looking a little as if she had dipped her head in cold water and appearing considerably calmer.

‘I'm so sorry,' she said, ‘only you can't imagine... it was all so terrible and no one could possibly help feeling most awfully sorry for that poor old thing, sitting there like a ghost, like the shadow of a ghost, and telling in her tiny, tiny voice what she did all those unhappy years ago. Oh, dear, don't people get themselves into frightful muddles?' she sighed.

She seemed quite composed again now, but Bobby thought it would be just as well to ask her no more questions for the present. That what she had told him was the truth, and the exact truth, he was quite convinced. There had been in her story an accent of sincerity impossible to mistake, of a genuine experience imprinted in all its vivid terror eternally upon her memory.

But he was not quite so sure that she had told him all the truth. No doubt it was her own kinsman who had been the victim of this distant crime, but a great-uncle one has never seen is but a shadowy relation, and it was not difficult to tell where her sympathies lay. Bobby felt it more than probable that she would have been willing enough to give help and shelter to the poor old woman who had so long and so painfully expiated her ancient crime. He would not have been greatly surprised, indeed, to find that Miss Barton was, in fact, somewhere in the flat at that very moment, though he hardly thought it very probable. He turned to Aske, feeling that while Dorothy was recovering herself it would be a good opportunity to put a few questions to the young man.

‘I don't quite understand,' he said, ‘how you come into all this. Do you mind explaining how you came to be at Tudor Lodge that time when Mrs Rice saw you there, and if it was your first visit?'

‘Does it matter if I do mind?' Aske asked somewhat sulkily. ‘You seem to think everyone's got to tell you everything you choose to ask.'

‘Not tell me,' Bobby reminded him gravely; ‘not me, but the King. It is the King's peace that we believe has been broken, and that it is our duty in the police to see it kept, or, if it is broken, then to see that the penalty is paid.'

‘Oh, it has, it has – enough to satisfy anyone,' Dorothy cried, interrupting. ‘Oh, why can't the poor old woman be left alone now?... Aren't her memories enough – her awful memories?'

‘I can't see for the life of me why you can't leave her alone,' agreed Aske.

‘It is not for any of us to decide,' Bobby answered. ‘There is an inquest to be held, for one thing. Anyhow, we've our duty to do.' He turned back to Aske. ‘How was it you came to be there? Did you know anything about Miss Barton before?'

‘No, not a thing; never heard of her till I nearly ran her down one night, near the new County Hall,' Aske explained slowly. ‘I had been out in the car rather late, and, coming home across Westminster Bridge, an old woman got right in front, trying to cross the road or something. I pulled up short just in time, and I hooted to warn her and it made her jump. By a bit of bad luck, there was a banana skin some fool had thrown down, as if Westminster Bridge wasn't enough of a death-trap without that. She put her foot on it when she jumped, and went over rather a smack, so I stopped and got out and picked her up. She was pretty badly shaken, and I thought perhaps I might as well give her a lift home if it happened to be my way – of course, there wasn't a policeman anywhere near; there never is when you want one.'

‘Never,' agreed Bobby contritely. ‘I've noticed that myself – it's our speciality. We're only there when we aren't wanted. Go on, please, Mr Aske.'

‘I asked her where she lived,' Aske continued, ‘and she didn't want to say. Well, she wasn't fit to be left alone; she looked so old and frail. So I just told her if she wouldn't say where she lived I should have to call the police to look after her or else take her to St Thomas's across the road. That seemed rather to scare her – of course, now I know why – and she coughed up it was Brush Hill. I shoved her in the car, started, and on the way she fainted. I had the scare of my life. I made sure she was dead, and I was going to be stuck with a dead woman in the car in the middle of the night. Luckily she came round. I wanted to knock up a doctor, but she swore she was all right again and I wasn't so sure what a doctor would say if I hauled him out of bed at that time of night to see an old lady who seemed quite brisk and lively again. Then, when we got to Brush Hill, she gave me another shock by fetching out a roll of one-pound banknotes – quite a fat roll.'

‘Could you tell about how many?' Bobby asked.

‘No; there might have been fifty or a hundred or thereabouts,' Aske answered. ‘It's rather hard to say. She wanted to give me a fistful – not just one or two, but a regular fistful she pulled out, without counting, just as if they meant nothing to her. Of course, I wouldn't have them, and she said a funny thing. She said:.“Why not? I only get them to give away”; so then I felt more certain still she was a bit potty. And she said: “I've given away ten times as many tonight.” And I told her she had better hang on to them while she had them and get someone to look after her.'