The Bungalow Mystery (24 page)

“Poor fellow!” he said, as he turned away. “It —well, it seems a pity, but I suppose it can't be helped.”

Meanwhile, all unconscious of this scrutiny, Sir James Courtenay was looking over the letters.

“One, two, for you, Lavington,” he said lightly, as he tossed them over. “Five for me; all bills, I can see. Another begging epistle—faugh! And one for Miller; that makes up the lot.”

“Miller!” Roger repeated. “I had no idea until the other day that she was the woman I had known as Mrs. McNaughton.”

“Did you know her as Mrs. McNaughton?” Courtenay questioned.

The chauffeur was in his place now; with many creaks and groans, and not a few spasmodic starts, the motor was preparing to start. At the moment Roger glanced at the window of the inn. At the sight which met his eyes, he gave a great start.

When they were fairly off, Roger looked at his companion.

“Didn't you know that Mrs. Miller's real name was McNaughton?”

Courtenay's answer was sharp.

“How should I know? I have no list of your acquaintances—or Miller's either, for the matter of that.”

“I did not suppose you had,” Roger said huffily. There were times when Courtenay sorely taxed his patience. “But I should have imagined that you would know I should be sure to meet her in connection with The Bungalow case.”

“The Bungalow case!” Courtenay glanced at the chauffeur, but the glass was sufficient barrier; it was not possible for him to overhear them. “I don't understand you. What connection had Miller with The Bungalow case?”

It was Roger's turn to look surprised.

“Why, surely you know that she was Maximilian von Rheinhart's housekeeper—that she was there at the time of the murder? It was she who summoned me!”

Courtenay stared at him.

“Miller was? My dear Roger, where in the world did you pick up such an extraordinary notion?''

His tone, his expression, nettled Lavington still further.

“It is not a notion at all; it is solid fact,” he contradicted stiffly. “What is the use of playing up to me like this, Courtenay? You must have known that I should be sure to recognize her sooner or later.” But Courtenay had turned more fully towards him now: his expression of absolute blank amazement was too genuine to be counterfeited.

“Are you mad, or am I, Lavington? It cannot be true; Miller never—”

“Miller kept house for Rheinhart under the name of McNaughton,” Roger said with less warmth. “Is it possible that you didn't know?”

The chauffeur was driving quickly now. It was one of Courtenay's chief pleasures to feel rapid progression; it was to be feared that the time-limit was often disregarded; to-day, they seemed positively to fly over the broad, smooth road that had led ever since the days of the Roman supremacy from London in the south to the sea in the west. As they flashed by, Courtenay's eyes grew sombre, watching the flying hedges, the outlines of the grand old trees, quaint thatched farmhouses, tiny hamlets nestling in the shadow of the hills. The lines that suffering had graven round his mouth grew tenser, deeper.

“No, I didn't know,” he said slowly. “She never told me—I have never asked her what she was doing just before she came back. We needed no reference with Miller; she was my nurse in my childish days; her love and devotion could not be doubted. I never wondered, either, that she preferred to call herself by the name by which we had always known her. She had seen so much trouble since she left us. Her only daughter, Alice, ran away with some scoundrel. Her second marriage was an unhappy one; it had lasted only for a short time, and she wished as far as possible to forget it.”

“I wonder whether the police have any idea where she is?” Roger speculated.

Courtenay shook his head.

“I don't know—I never thought. I can hardly bring myself even now to believe that you are right—that she really is—”

“Maximilian von Rheinhart's housekeeper!” Roger finished for him. “Oh, there is no mistake possible there, my dear fellow. I taxed her with it, and she did not attempt to deny it. I thought it was possible that she might be able to help me; that circumstances might have given her some idea of the murderer's identity, but it was no use.”

Courtenay touched the communication cord.

“Home!” he said briefly. “By Topham's Corner!”

Topham's Corner had a great reputation among the country folk. It was a curious-looking edifice, built partly of stone, partly of brick, with a superstructure of clay. There was a local idea that though the common belonged to the lord of the manor, if any man could build a cottage upon it in twenty- four hours it became his own property. Whether there was any foundation for this theory, in fact or not, in the early eighties a man of the name of Topham had taken advantage of it, and the before-mentioned curious structure was the result. He sat at the door this afternoon, a picturesque old figure, with a flowing silver beard and piercing dark eyes, wearing some strange patchwork-looking garment, which kindly time was rapidly mellowing into a deep russet brown. All along the country-side Topham was held to be a wizard. It was reported that no event of importance in the neighbourhood had happened for years without being foretold by Topham, and yet, when the lads and lassies went to him to have their fortunes told, he would drive them from him with contumely.

To-day, however, before they had any idea of his intention, he had hurried with an agility remarkable in one of his years, into the road, where he stood waving his arms and crying “Stop!”

With some difficulty, the chauffeur pulled up in time. Lavington looked at the strange figure in amazement. Courtenay stooped towards him.

“What is it, Topham?”

The old man was obviously labouring under great excitement; his face was working, his uplifted hands shaking.

“I have a message for you, Sir James Courtenay—a message for you. Listen, there is trouble coming to you—bitter, black trouble. But—and if you will walk warily—light will arise out of darkness; sweet will spring from bitter.” He moved to the side of the road into his little garden. “That is all I have for you; but remember, Sir James Courtenay, that the message never comes to Topham for naught.” And he disappeared into the cottage with dramatic suddenness.

The astonished chauffeur glanced at his master, and, receiving his nod, started once more. Courtenay turned to Roger.

“Nice cheerful sort of chap, isn't he? I scarcely know why I don't evict him from his tumble-down abode, only I suppose that long residence there has given him a sort of prescriptive right. However, if he takes to attacking people in this fashion, something will have to be done.”

Lavington was aware that argument would only make him more determined; he contented himself by saying:

“His remarks seemed to be rather of an encouraging nature on the whole, I should say. I gather you are promised prosperity in the future.”

“Rubbish! Hang the fellow!”

Courtenay relapsed into his wonted gloomy silence. Lavington, for his part, had plenty of food for thought. It seemed to him that the fact of The Bungalow housekeeper being in the neighbourhood constituted an additional menace to Daphne Luxmore's security; for, in spite of Mrs. Miller's protestations, he found it almost impossible to believe that she knew nothing of the former's visit to The Bungalow. Rather, he was inclined to believe that it was more likely to be Mrs. Miller who had put the police on Daphne's track at Oakthorpe. Though he had never hitherto availed himself of the means of communication she had provided, it seemed to him now that the time had come when he ought, if possible, to see Daphne, to explain to her as much as possible of the danger in which she stood, to persuade her of the urgency of making her escape.

He was obliged to wait until after dinner, however. It was never a cheerful meal at the Manor even when Courtenay was well enough to join him; to-day it seemed particularly gloomy. Courtenay was in an exasperating frame of mind; every fresh subject brought forward by Lavington appeared to provide him with new material for gibes and sneers. It was with a sigh of relief that Roger rose from the table and announced his intention of smoking his cigar in the park.

“Away from my lively society, eh?” Courtenay suggested, with a cynical smile. “Well, I have a good deal to do to-night, and I do not know how much time I shall have to do it in, so perhaps it is as well.”

Once out of sight of the house, Roger quickened his steps considerably. So far he had not penetrated into the wood on the Luxmore side; but, though innumerable paths seemed to stretch on all sides, following Miss Luxmore's directions he had little difficulty in making his way to the green door.

There was a little stir behind him, too faint to reach his ears. When he had passed the first turning, two men, wearing soft shoes, stepped noiselessly on to the path.

“So far so good,” Inspector Spencer remarked. “As I thought, this hiding-place has proved useful to the young lady sometimes. Well, she will find it occupied to-night.”

He stepped lightly round an old giant oak, to all outward appearance passing it. It was firm and solid. Towards the wood, as the inspector had discovered, it was cleft nearly in two by a great hollow, one in which a man might well stand. A few threads of white were easily discernible. The inspector glanced at them as he waited.

In the wood Constable Frost was keeping carefully in the shadow of the trees as he endeavoured to keep Roger in sight. Lavington tapped lightly at the door in the wall that surrounded the Luxmore grounds, and pushed a paper beneath. Then he waited; it seemed to him a long time. He was telling himself that it was unlikely Miss Luxmore would be looking for him to-night, when the door was thrown open, and a white-robed figure looked out.

“You—you are here! What is it? What have you come to tell me?”

Something in the terror, the appeal of the tone, brought very forcibly to Roger's mind that never-to-be-forgotten scene in the studio. Just so had her brown eyes been raised to his, the same inflection had rung through her clear voice when she had pleaded to him for mercy. He caught the trembling hands in his now.

“Don't be afraid. I don't know that there is fresh danger. But I have come once more to beg, to implore you to get away while there is yet time. Think of your sister—of your father! If you should be accused—”

The soft hand rested in his a moment, then the girl seemed to regain her self-control as if by magic.

“They would not dare—Ah no! There is danger to others, and they will not see it. I thought—I feared that you had come to tell me—”

She broke off, shivering.

“Never mind others, think of yourself,” Roger urged. He was unable to guess to whom she could be referring, neither did it seem to matter. The one thing important in his eyes was that by some means the girl before him should be got away—Elizabeth Luxmore's name should remain unscathed. “Your visit to The Bungalow is known to the police,” he went on. “Your name is an open secret. Any moment they may take action. Now—now, if you would let me, if you would trust me, I could get Courtenay's motor and take you to a place I know of in London. You would then be safe there until we could think of some way of getting you out of the country.”

“I can't! I can't!” the girl began.

Behind them in the flower-scented garden, on the other side of the summer-house which blocked Roger's sight, there was a cry:

“Daphne! Daphne!”

The girl slipped back into the garden, still holding the door in her hand.

“Go! Go! It is my father! He must not find you here!''

“But—” Roger began, bewildered.

“Hush!” The girl put her hand to her lips imperatively.

“Daphne! Daphne!”

Lord Luxmore's voice was growing nearer.

“Go! Quick! Hurry! For my sake—for Elizabeth's sake!”

The great door shut sharply, and Roger found himself alone in the wood. For one moment he remained staring at it blankly, then, remembering in whose name he had been begged to leave, he turned reluctantly back to the Manor.

On the other side of the closed door the girl in white leaned back her face pale to the lips, one hand pressed to her heart as if to still its beating. Lord Luxmore's steps were plainly audible, evidently he was coming down the very path which led to the gate.

“Daphne! Daphne!”

“Here I am, father.” The answer came from the lawn beyond. “Come back to the veranda. We are going to have some music. Elizabeth will sing to us the new thing you like so much.”

“Oh, well, my dear—”

Lord Luxmore's rejoinder was lost as the pair turned back to the house.

The girl by the door waited until the last sound of their footsteps had died away; then she ran fleetly along the path that twisted in and out of the shrubbery that surrounded the back of the Hall. Suddenly a dark form stepped out from the bushes, a firm hand was laid on her arm.

“One word, if you please, ma'am.” The mellifluous accents were those of Detective Collins.

The girl repressed a scream with difficulty; in vain she tried to free herself, twisting and turning from side to side; the detective's iron clasp held her as firmly as a grip of iron.

“What do you want?” she panted. “What do you want?”

The detective's eyes were fixed upon her face, flushing and paling by turns, as, giving up the unequal struggle, she stood motionless before him. A smile of triumph lighted up his round, jocund countenance.

“Just a little explanation, madam,” he said soothingly. “Just a little explanation!”

“Sir James desired me to say, sir, that he has still a little business to do, and when that is finished he is going straight to bed. He begs you will excuse him to-night.”

“Certainly! I shall be off directly; it suits me better to work in the early morning than at night, I find.”