The Bungalow Mystery (12 page)

“It seems to me,” the inspector said slowly, “that with that and Matthew Wilson's evidence we ought to do something.”

It was growing dark when Roger stepped from the train at Oakthorpe. Coming out of the station there appeared to be nobody to meet him, and a cab was an unheard-of luxury at Oakthorpe. With a feeling of irritation he realized that there was nothing for it but to make his way to the Manor on foot.

It was quite half a mile to the village. Half-way down the rustic street there was a bypath leading to the Manor; Roger thought with a feeling of pleasure of its green freshness. A child came out of one of the cottages near; its mother stood at the open door.

“Now, you'll tell her I will let her have it first thing in the morning, Mary Ann. Say I am very sorry I could not oblige her to-night. And mind you make haste.”

“Yes, yes. I will be quick.”

The girl's head was turned behind her as she ran across the road. At the same moment there was the hoot of a motor coming round the corner just beyond; puzzled, frightened, not realizing from whence the sound came, the child hesitated, turned back, then started again.

But her indecision was fatal. It was evident that the car was driven by an inexperienced chauffeur. There was an ineffectual attempt to stop, too late; and Roger, springing forward, managed to catch the child in time to save her from the worst of the collision, but not soon enough to avoid an ugly blow from the rear guard. The force of the impact threw him face downwards on the ground. As he raised himself he saw that the car stood farther down the road and the occupants were hastening towards him. Little Mary Ann's mother was already bending over her; Roger took the child from her and felt her all over carefully.

“Oh, Dr. Lavington, have we killed her?” Roger recognized Elizabeth Luxmore's voice.

He turned and stared at her stupidly, dazed by his fall.

“You here!”

“Yes, yes.” The girl took hold of his arm. “Don't you understand we—Reggie and I—were in the car? I was driving. I made the chauffeur sit behind. I thought I could drive well enough to do it alone now, and it was such fun. Now it has ended like this.” She finished with a dry sob.

Roger pulled himself together; he took her trembling hands in his.

“It is not so bad as you fear, Miss Luxmore. The left arm is broken, the child is stunned by the shock and the fall, but I do not think we need fear any more serious results.”

“That is bad enough,” the girl said, her breath catching in her throat. “And it is dear little Mary Ann Sturt—whatever you say to me, Mrs. Sturt, it will be no worse than I am saying to myself.”

Lavington had the child in his arms now. He was carrying her across to the cottage. The mother turned to Miss Luxmore. Her face was white and her eyes full of tears, but her voice was steady. She laid her hand on the girl's.

“Eh, Miss Elizabeth, I'm not going to blame you. I know it was naught but an accident, and I'm saying to myself that I should have had more sense than to send the child out alone at this time of night.”

“You are very good to me,” Elizabeth said wistfully, “but I can never forgive myself—” She broke off as they entered the cottage. Little Mary Ann's eyes were open now; she tried to smile at her mother.

Lavington laid her down.

“Now we must try to make this poor arm well. I shall want some long strips of lint or linen, Mrs. Sturt—those long, thin sticks over there will make capital splints. You must be very brave for a few minutes, little girl!”

Mary Ann made a good patient; more than once Roger said an approving word. Elizabeth Luxmore proved very efficient as a helper; she seemed to know by instinct when anything was wanted and exactly how Lavington's instructions should be carried out.

When all was finished, and Mary Ann lay back on her pillow, pale but smiling, Roger turned.

“There, that is all that can be done for the present, I fancy. Now, Miss Luxmore, how are you going to get home? This has been too much for you, I am afraid,” looking compassionately at the girl's quivering lips.

“Oh, what does it matter about me?” she cried passionately. “I am all right, and I dare say Reggie is about somewhere,” vaguely. “Mrs. Sturt, please get anything—anything that Mary Ann would like; and mind you keep your own strength up! Put your washing aside and give yourself up altogether to nursing. That will be my affair entirely.”

“You are very good, Miss Elizabeth; and don't you worry. It must have been sent for our good or else it would not have happened.”

Mrs. Sturt accompanied them to the door, with an incoherent torrent of thanks and explanations. Outside, the dusk had merged into darkness. Lavington looked round.

“I don't see your car, Miss Luxmore.”

At the same moment Reggie Luxmore spoke close at hand.

“How is the kid now? I shall take jolly I never let you drive again, Elizabeth!”

“Hush!” Roger interrupted peremptorily. “Don't you see that your sister had gone through enough. Where is the car?”

“Down the road. I told Peters to wait at the end of the street.”

“I shall walk,” Elizabeth said determinedly. “Nothing shall induce me to get in the motor. I feel”—with a shiver—“as if I never wanted to see a motor again!”

“Absurd!” young Luxmore said impatiently. “From what I hear there is no harm done, and if we wait to walk up you know how nervous Daphne is. Probably she is worrying herself into a fever about us already, and if she sets the pater off—”

Roger put one hand on the boy's shoulder.

“Don't you see that your sister's nerves are over-strained? She is quite right; it will be better for her to walk up. I should suggest that you go on first, and tell Lord Luxmore how it is. If Miss Luxmore will allow me, I will come on with her more slowly.”

Reggie hardly waited for his sister's assent.

“That is a capital idea,” he said heartily. “If you are sure you do not mind, Dr. Lavington.”

They did not talk much; the little they said had reference to the Sturts. Elizabeth was eager to know all that would be required at the cottage; though scrupulous and neat in their dress, and in their meagre furniture, it was evident that the widow and her daughter were very poor. Elizabeth's penitence for having been the cause of this fresh trouble was very great indeed.

Lavington glanced at Elizabeth. There was a tired droop about her slim young figure; the folds of her long motor-coat clung about her knees and impeded her walking. She had thrown off her veil, and carried it over her arm; its long ends stirred faintly in the breeze.

As she walked beside him, Roger could see the outline of her small head set flower-wise on the long throat; the air caught the soft curls near her temples, and beat them back against her cheek. Her very nearness thrilled him with an exquisite sense of intimacy.

The hall door stood wide open; inside there was a cheerful glow of light and warmth; as they drew near Roger caught the echo of Lord Luxmore's voice.

He paused. The influence of this one perfect moment was upon him. He would willingly keep the memory unspoilt.

Elizabeth Luxmore looked at him.

“My father will wish to thank you. You must come in, Dr. Lavington!”

“Not to-night,” Roger said abruptly. “I—Courtenay will be expecting me.”

Elizabeth hesitated; she put out her hand. By the light thrown out from the hall, Roger could see that her brown eyes were filled with tears.

“I want to thank you,” she said, beneath her breath. “You have saved me from—But for you, what should I be feeling now? Thank you for all.” The slender gloved fingers clung to his for a moment; the next she had turned, and hurried up the steps to the house.

Roger stood still and watched, his heart beating high as he recalled her words and glance, the barriers of caste obliterated. Mad, foolish as he knew himself to be, in that moment of self-oblivion, of exaltation, he realized only that she was the woman he loved, that he had been fortunate enough to serve her and that she had thanked him.

As he waited a tall, white-clad figure came swiftly across the hall.

“Elizabeth—oh, Elizabeth! Thank Heaven! Reggie told us—”

Lavington was not near enough to distinguish the features, but the voice, the walk, the shining golden hair were those of the girl who had taken Zoe's place at Freshfield.

He groaned as he drew back. In his absorption in Elizabeth he had momentarily forgotten the dark cloud that hung over her elder sister—a cloud which something seemed to tell him might at any moment burst, and overwhelm her with ruin and disaster.

A letter was waiting for him as he reached the Manor. It was from Zoe. Her marriage to an officer had taken place about three months later than the theatricals at Freshfield, and very shortly afterwards the young couple had sailed for India. But this letter bore the London postmark. Zoe must have returned unexpectedly, for Roger knew that there had been no idea of her home-coming for years, when he saw his uncle some few weeks back.

With a prevision of coming calamity for which he could not account he tore open the envelope, and read:

Asking questions about the theatricals at Freshfield! Roger's face was expressive of the utmost consternation as he repeated the words aloud and then glanced at the letter again. What could it mean?

It seemed to Roger as he stood there with the letter in his hand that Fate had been too strong for him, that slowly but with deadly certainty the web of circumstance was being drawn around the unsuspecting victim.

“Is my uncle, Dr. Lavington, at home?”

“No, sir. He has been called out unexpectedly.”

The house was exactly that of the ordinary London doctor—the tessellated pavement of the hall, the massive umbrella-stand, the impassive-looking manservant. It was all very familiar to Roger Lavington; he knew precisely how the heavy oak furniture was placed in the dining-room where the doctor's patients awaited him; the very words in which his uncle would greet them in the consulting-room to which they would be ushered. Upstairs in the drawing-room Zoe was bending over some flowers, evidently intending to arrange them in the glasses which stood on the table close at hand.

She looked up with a little joyful sound when Roger was announced, and came to meet him with outstretched hands.

“Why, this is good—this is better even than I dared to hope for! You must have come off directly you got my letter. Good boy!”

“Didn't you expect me to take the earliest possible opportunity of seeing you?” Roger felt a hypocrite as he warmly clasped her hands.

The real Zoe bore no faintest resemblance to the girl who had stolen her name for two days; her colouring was fair certainly, but so pale as to be indefinite; her eyes were good, a clear translucent grey, but her great charm lay in her expression, which seemed to vary with every change of mood, and lighted up her small, piquant features with gaiety, or as she listened to some sad story, would make her eyes intensely sorrowful, the tears quiver in her voice.

Roger had always been fond of his pretty cousin, who was some years his junior; he had seen a good deal of her while he was at her father's, and he was genuinely pleased to meet her again. Nevertheless, as she made inquiries about his journey, and asked if he would have some refreshment before luncheon, he realized how entirely his pleasure in the reunion was subordinate to his interest in the Luxmores.

Zoe, however, was placidly unconscious of any other reason for his coming than a cousinly desire for her welfare. She assumed that his interest in her affairs was only second to her own, and having assured herself that there was nothing needed, settled down to a long and detailed account of the reasons that had rendered her home-coming imperative. It was evident that India suited neither her nor the child, she informed him, and her husband was hoping shortly to arrange an exchange.

At last Roger's moment arrived. His cousin made some allusion to her letter; he broke in upon her chatter ruthlessly.

“You said some man had been inquiring about the Freshfield theatricals?”

Zoe brushed out the folds of her dress.

“Oh, yes. Wasn't it funny? He quite thought that I had taken part in them.”

“Uncle John—you said he saw the man—would know you had not?”

“No. He didn't remember anything about it. But the man called again yesterday; says he is a surveyor for the County Council.”

“Did he say anything more about the Freshfield theatricals?”

“Oh, yes. Quite a lot. He quite thought I had acted in those theatricals, Roger. It was really difficult to convince him that I was down with the 'flu at the time, and had to give it all up at the last minute.”

Roger drew in his breath sharply.

“You told him that?”

Zoe glanced at him.

“Why, naturally I did. You do not mean”—her face changing—“that there was any reason I should not?”

Roger hesitated. It was difficult to know what to answer, or how far it was wise to trust Zoe, who had always been an incorrigible chatterbox. There was the question, too, of whether it was fair to involve her, all unknowing, in the tangle in which he himself was enmeshed? But the peril in which he believed Daphne Luxmore stood was his foremost thought now.