The Bungalow Mystery (16 page)

Lavington determined to pay Mrs. Corbett a visit and ascertain what he could of her lodger's habits. He was racking his brains for a pretext when he became aware that some one was coming across the park as though to intercept him. As he caught sight of the tall, slight figure, of the white gown, the floating motor-veil, his heart beat quicker. He hastened his steps.

“Miss Luxmore!”

“Yes, I wanted you!” she panted, her breath coming quickly, her eyes glancing round in terror. The colour in her cheeks was heightened; her golden hair was disordered. “I—I have been frightened. Reggie told us at lunch that some man, a stranger, had been trying to talk to him, asking him questions, and just now when I came down to the bridge there was some one there; he was sketching. He looked up; I think he was coming to speak to me, but I was terrified and ran away. Then, when I was wondering what I was to do, how I was to get back, I saw you. Can you send him away?”

Roger's face turned a shade paler, with a throb of horrible misgiving. He wondered whether it was possible that this man—this detective, as he felt sure he was—could identify Daphne as the girl who had acted at Freshfield.

“One can easily get rid of him for the time being,” he said slowly. “He has no right in the park at all. But were you very near him? Did he see your face?”

The girl shivered.

“I don't think so, clearly. I—I got away as quickly as I could, and he was not very near the bridge. But do you mean that if he saw me he might—”

“I don't know,” Roger said dully. “One must remember that there was a large audience at Freshfield, and though the Japanese dress was to a certain extent a disguise, still, there must be a great risk of identification, if you should be seen.”

All the pretty colour had faded in the girl's cheeks now, the fear in her brown eyes deepened; her lips moved inaudibly. At last, with a supreme effort, she regained her self-control.

“And then you fear—”

“The worst.” The time was past for concealment. Roger could only avert his eyes from the girl's face as he dealt the blow. “That is why I begged you to go for your sister's sake, to spare her the shame.”

A low sob burst from the girl's white lips.

“Ah, Heaven! My sister—my father! What shall I do?” She looked at him imploringly. “Can't you help me? I don't seem to be even able to think.”

“If you were to go away from home, tell Lord Luxmore and your sister you have gone to be with friends and persuade your friends to keep your whereabouts a secret from every one,” Roger suggested. “Couldn't it be done?”

The girl twisted her hands together nervously.

“I don't know. I can't see any way out of it. You—you saved me before; can't you help me now?”

Roger took the trembling hands in his warm clasp.

“Everything that I can do shall be done; you may rely on me to do the uttermost,” he promised her.

“I will think—we will both think. There must be some way, surely, out of even this horrible dilemma.”

“Ah yes!” The girl steadied herself for a moment by his arm. “I didn't mean to do any harm, you know,” she moaned. “He was a bad man—a wicked man; you cannot know how wicked! He made me go; I could not help myself. And then in a moment I saw it was over.” She shuddered and drew away, covering her eyes with her hand.” But, if it came out, if my father knew that I was there—” she broke off with a little moan—“he might think as the world thinks, as you think—”

For the first time as he watched her, as he heard her words, a ray of hope lightened Roger's heart. Was it possible that all this time he had been making some gigantic mistake—that some deeper mystery lay behind the tragedy of Rheinhart's health?

He gazed at her.

“You do not mean—you cannot mean—”

She drew herself up; her brown eyes met his unfalteringly.

“I mean that I am absolutely innocent of Rheinhart's death; as innocent as you are yourself! When I begged you to save me, I did not realize that you thought—that the world would think—that I had done this horrible thing. I only knew that if I were found there, in his rooms at night, it would mean social ruin, ostracism. That people should imagine that I—”

“But, merciful heavens! Did you not see, did you not recognize—”

She shook her head.

“I never thought of such a thing. How should I? Maximilian von Rheinhart had ordered me to come. I dared not disobey. When I found the door open, I went in; he was lying there—dead! I was dazed with fright. Then I heard footsteps coming and hid myself. You found me—you know the rest.”

“I—I know.” The words came mechanically. Lavington was too thoroughly bewildered to reply coherently. Not for one moment had he hitherto doubted that the girl he had found hidden in the studio had killed Rheinhart. That, knowing something of the man's character, he had made excuses for her in his heart had not in any way affected his opinion of her guilt; the very possibility of her innocence had never occurred to him. He had often mentally pictured the scene that must have taken place before he was summoned, but always it had been this girl who, insulted, humiliated, goaded past endurance, had turned upon her tormentor. If she were indeed innocent, if matters were as she said, who had killed Rheinhart? His lips framed the question. “But who?”

There was a moment's tense silence. A shadow flickered over the girl's fair face. She caught her breath. Her fingers were interlaced and strained.

“How can I tell? I stole round to the window. He said it would be open, but it was fastened, and I went back to the door; that was open. I thought I had made a mistake; it was there I should have come. Then, in the room, he was lying dead!” She shuddered violently, and put out her hand as if to ward off the memory.

But there were certain aspects of the case that were puzzling Roger.

“But it was your glove, the diamond ring, the letters you burnt?” he said slowly.

There was another pause; the long, dark lashes were veiling the brown eyes now.

“Yes, the letters. I had come for them. I could not leave them to be found by anyone”—with another prolonged shiver—“so I took them. I—I had to!” she wailed.

Roger did not speak. His mind was busy with the past. Was it possible that there had been some terrible mistake, that he, as well as the police, had been on the wrong track all this time? That the murderer of Rheinhart must be sought—where?

Beneath the drooping eyelashes the brown eyes were watching his face closely.

“You do understand—you do believe me, do you not?” the sweet, trembling voice went on.

Then, with a jerk, Roger's mind came back to the present. He looked at the pretty, pleading face; the curve of the mouth, the delicately-modelled chin, reminded him of Elizabeth. He took both the slight, quivering hands in his once more, and bent over them.

“You are her sister!” he said simply. “I—I understand. I believe you—for her sake!”

A slight, jarring laugh broke the silence that followed. Miss Luxmore jerked her hands away; there was a certain defiance in the eyes that met his now.

“I know what you mean—I understand. The world would not believe me—the world that does not know—Elizabeth,” with a slight sarcastic inflection.

A flush rose to Roger's forehead as he straightened himself; he felt chilled, disheartened.

“It is possible that after this time it might be difficult to prove your innocence,” he said lamely.

Miss Luxmore had apparently recovered from her fright.

“Also, it would be difficult for them to prove I was there at all, I should imagine, she said, in a brisk, matter-of-fact tone. “I must go, Dr. Lavington. I am glad that you believe me, even if only for my sister's sake. Oh, I forgot,” her voice changing. “The man—the detective—I dare not pass him!”

“I will send him away; he has no business here. If you will wait one moment.” He strode off towards the bridge.

The girl stood still as he had left her, her eyes following the direction he had taken, her lips curved in an enigmatical smile.

Presently Lavington returned.

“The man had gone,” he announced. “Not a sign of him to be seen. Perhaps one of the keepers may have warned him off; perhaps, too, we were mistaken, and he is not a detective at all. He turned with her towards the stream. “I think, perhaps, it would be wiser if you did not come here—to the bridge—again,” he said diffidently. “If there should be any watch kept, if there should be any suspicion. It is known that you are here sometimes.”

It seemed to him that her colour paled, but her voice did not falter.

“Perhaps it would be better; I believe you are right!” She paused with one foot on the bridge.

“Good-bye, Dr. Lavington!”

“One moment,” Roger detained her. “How can I let you know if I hear anything—if I should find out anything about the detective?”

She paused a moment in indecision.

“Write! No, no; you must not. Let me think,” wrinkling up her brows. “If it is anything of real importance—of great importance, mind—if you go through the wood there, keeping straight on, you will come to a wall with a little green door let in. It is kept locked, but if you should push a piece of white paper beneath any evening between six and seven I shall know. I will come to you.” She flitted lightly across the bridge; on the other side she turned. “Thank you, Dr. Lavington, thank you for all you have done for me—for us!”

Roger waited till she was out of sight, then walked slowly back to the Manor, his mind busy with the ever-recurring problem of Rheinhart's death. If Daphne Luxmore were indeed innocent of it, the criminal must be looked for elsewhere; and, difficult though it might be to bring the guilt home to the right quarter, Roger felt that, at all hazards, it ought to be attempted. Elizabeth's young life ought to be freed from all danger of the vile charge that might at any time be brought against her sister. That the police were working with the preconceived notion that the girl who was known to have been in the studio on the night of Rheinhart's death was guilty of the murder, he felt certain. Even he himself had never doubted it. Would he have doubted it now—the question would make itself heard—if Daphne Luxmore had not been Elizabeth's sister?

Meanwhile, from beneath the undergrowth on the Luxmore side of the brook, a man was creeping quietly; his clothes were stained by moss and earth as he raised himself; in one hand he held a sketching-block; a knapsack was strapped on his shoulders.

“Well, I'm bothered!” he said, as he dusted his trousers with his pocket-handkerchief. “What is the doctor's game? And as for the girl”—staring at the wood in the direction of Luxmore Hall—“where does she come from—and who is she, anyway?”

Crash! Swish! Roger Lavington awoke with a start. The night was pitch dark; he could hear nothing now, yet he felt certain that some sound had roused him. He switched on the electric light over his bed and looked at his watch—a quarter-past three. With some idea that Courtenay might be wanting him, he sprang out of bed and began to dress himself.

Swish! Swish! It was the same sound again, and this time Lavington could not be mistaken. Some one was throwing pebbles at his window. He raised the sash softly. Was it possible that Daphne was in danger, he wondered—that she had sent for him?

He put his head out. A man was standing on the terrace below, looking up.

“Is it Dr. Lavington, sir?”

“Yes; what is it?”

“I made bold to come to you, sir. Mrs. Hollingsworth, at the Courtenay Arms, has sent me. There's a lady that come by train last night been taken ill, and Dr. Arnold, down at Swarkeston, he has been sent for to Bardon to a bad case, and they don't know when he will be back. So Mrs. Hollingsworth, she said, maybe you would step down and have a look at the poor lady. I took the liberty of bringing a horse and cart; it is round in the drive, though, knowing as it is not your province, sir, but as it is a matter of life and death, for Mrs. Hollingsworth don't think she can last more than an hour or two—”

Long before this speech was finished, Lavington was completing his toilet.

Already their colloquy had attracted attention. He heard other windows being opened, then he cautiously let himself out at one of the side doors. A footman and a couple of grooms in different stages of undress were conversing with the messenger. He had brought down his portable medicine-case, and as he jumped into the cart and took it between his knees, he asked his charioteer, whom he now recognized as the old man at the village inn, what was the matter with his unexpected patient. But, though the man was loquacious to a degree, his knowledge of the details was of the slightest, and seemed to be confined to the fact that the lady had telegraphed for rooms in the afternoon, and had then followed it up by coming down “unexpected like” by the last train. It appeared to be surmised that her sudden journey accounted in some way for her subsequent indisposition, but Roger's informant knew little more than that the lady had been crying out as if she was in mortal pain, and that Mrs. Hollingsworth was “rare and frightened.”

There was no exaggeration in this latter statement, Roger saw, when he arrived at the Courtenay Arms, The landlady met him, tearful, apologetic, apparently on the verge of hysterics. She tried to control herself as he assumed his gravest, most professional manner and asked for particulars.

“It is her heart, sir,” she explained volubly, as she led the way to the patient's bedroom. “One only has to look at her to see that; and me knowing what it is, having suffered a martyrdom myself. ‘Poor soul,' I said, when I found that Dr. Arnold was out, ‘at any rate I shall take the liberty of sending up to the Manor for Dr. Lavington. Her friends shall have the satisfaction of knowing that she saw a doctor, though it's little enough he or anyone else can do for her.' But I'm much obliged to you for coming, Dr. Lavington, and it was put into my head through thinking the poor dear lady knew you, she asked so much about you when she first came this evening.”