The Dower House Mystery (24 page)

Julian brought her some tea. As he gave her the cup she looked up at him, and once again he was struck by her likeness to Jenny—the rather sharp features, the close set hazel eyes, the lips too thin for beauty. It was, he told himself, a likeness of type. There were hundreds of these rather foxy looking women up and down the country. It was a type he detested, though in Anita King it had every art to flatter it; the dark furs and plain black hat made a becoming background for dead white skin and flaming hair.

“Mr. Miller was
so
kind,” said Nita King, sipping her tea. Of course, your not being there and all, I felt a little awkward—one can't be too careful in a village, can one? But he was
so
kind, and absolutely insisted on walking up here with me, though he wouldn't come in.”

“Oh, he likes a walk,” said Anne Miller composedly. “When do you get back to your lodge, Mrs. King?”

“To-morrow,” said Nita—“no, no more tea, thank you—It's been so very,
very
kind of Mr. Bronson to have me while the roof was being mended. But there
is
something about one's own tiny, wee scrap of a place, isn't there? And then, quite between ourselves, of course I'm ever so grateful to Mr. Bronson—and he's a great,
great
friend of mine. But”—she spread out her hands and looked appealingly at Julian—“you know how it is when people aren't quite,
quite absolutely
one's own sort—they don't always understand that one's just being
friendly
, do they?” She continued to talk; and if her hearers were not left with the impression that nothing except her own delicate sense of breeding stood between Anita King and the worldly goods with which Mr. Bronson could her endow, all very properly and to the tune of Mendelssohn's wedding march,—well, it wasn't Mrs. King's fault.

Mr. Bronson fetched her in due course, and the rest of the evening passed without event.

When Amabel took Miss Miller to her new room and bade her good-night, that lady remarked that it was a very nice room, and of course it was a pity to let two of the best rooms in the house go to rack and ruin for want of being lived in, but, for her part, she had been very comfortable the night before, and Amabel needn't have troubled to move her. “Cats are just as liable to come and fight under this window as any other,” she concluded with a laugh.

Amabel went back into the sitting-room for a word with Julian, and found him standing on the hearth, obviously deep in thought.

When she had shut the door, he said,

“You heard what Mrs. King said—Miller walked up here with her and wouldn't come in? It's my belief that he simply wanted an excuse for prowling round the house again.”

“I don't care how much he prowls when you're here,” said Amabel. “Really, Julian, you're as bad as Ellen. She's got the unfortunate man on the brain, I do believe. All the time we were making beds this afternoon she kept telling me an interminable story about how Mr. Miller bought a time-table yesterday at Mrs. Moorshed's, and said he was going to Maxton, and then—prepare for a sensation!—he was actually seen coming out of the Queen's Hotel at Ledlington at half-past twelve that morning. It's almost impossible to believe in such depravity, isn't it? And, worse still, when he saw Mr. Bronson, he fled. What it is to have a guilty conscience!”

“What was Bronson doing in Ledlington?”

“I daresay Ellen knows—I don't. According to her he was in his Rolls-Royce car.”

“Was anyone else in Ledlington?” asked Julian laughing.

“Only Mrs. King, who had been shopping, which Ellen seemed to consider very immoral.” She changed her tone suddenly, and asked, “Julian, are you really going to sleep in that room?”

“I'm going to spend the night there—I don't know about sleeping. Why?”

“Because I wish you wouldn't. I wish you'd go back to your old room and sleep there. No, Julian, don't laugh—I really, really mean it.”

Julian stopped laughing.

“What was all right for you is too risky for me? Is that it?” he asked.

“No, of course not. But last night—Julian, there was something rather horrible about last night. I've never really been frightened through and through before.” Her colour changed as she spoke, her eyes widened.

Julian took an impulsive step forward. That look of appeal called to him as nothing had ever called to him before.

“Amabel,” he said, “Amabel, darling!” His voice was low and shaken. He put both hands on her shoulders and went on, his words hurrying, his breath coming fast, “Amy, I can't bear it when you look like that. You know very well how it is with me, and I believe you care. Cut the whole thing and come away. Let's get married and—”

“Julian—Julian,” said Amabel faintly. Her eyes closed, and he could feel her tremble. The next instant his arms were close about her, and they kissed—a long kiss sweet with memory and hope.

The old house was silent. Outside the rain fell softly, softly on to wet grass, wet paths, wet trees. Within, warmth and firelight, and the sense of home. To each there came that same sense of home-coming. Long years—long, lonely years; disappointment; heartache; the weary round of unshared days; and then, at the end, this home-coming.

Neither spoke for a long, long while. The perfect moment was enough.

Chapter XXXI

It was late when Amabel went to her room. After those long moments of silence there had been so much to talk about. They had sat over the fire and talked till midnight.

Julian was urgent that she should leave the house next day, go to the Berkeleys, marry him within the week.

“And then we'll
really
go to Italy.”

“No, it's too soon,” she said, “I must write to Daphne first, and—it's no use your looking like that, Julian—I really do feel under an obligation to George, quite apart from the two hundred pounds.”

“My dear angel,” said Julian, “are you proposing a six months' engagement, or do you suggest that we should spend our honeymoon ghost hunting?”

Amabel coloured and laughed.

“No, I didn't mean that. But I can't just clear out and leave all the stories ten times worse than they were before. Yes, you can pay the two hundred pounds if you want to. I'm not really as proud and stiff-necked as you think I am; and I'll let you do that if you're set on it.”

“George can give it to us for a wedding present,” said Julian cheerfully.

Amabel's dimple showed.

“George must have altered very much if he gives wedding presents on that scale now.”

“Five pounds' worth of electro-plate is more in George's line,” said Julian with an answering twinkle. “Anyhow, hang the two hundred pounds! Look here, when will you marry me? I was going up to town to see Piggy to-morrow—Julian Le Mesurier, you know, my cousin, the C.I.D. chap—, and I think I'd better go; only, why don't you come too?—and we'll go and buy an engagement ring and a licence all in one fell bust.”

“Julian, you schoolboy! No, I can't come up to-morrow. You see, there's Miss Miller.”

“Hang the woman! Why can't you leave her? Considering she invited herself, I should think you could go up to town for the day and leave her easily enough.”

“No, I won't really. I'll write to Daphne and to Agatha, and—and I think I want a quiet day, Julian, just to sort my mind.”

“And you'll marry me when?”

“I'll tell you that to-morrow when you come home.”

When Amabel had gone to her room, Julian effectually blocked the narrow passage that led to it by the simple process of piling two large chairs one upon the other. Miss Miller and Amabel were now cut off from the rest of the house, and Julian reflected with pleasure that anyone walking about the house in the dark would probably bark his shins before he realized that the chairs were there—Mr. Ferdinand Miller, for instance,—or Miss Anne Miller.

Julian then put out the passage lights, including the oil lamps, and entered the room lately occupied by Amabel. Here, also, he had some preparations to make. The door into the passage he left unbolted, but blocked the door that led into Miss Georgina's room by moving the heavy walnut bureau across it. He laid an electric torch handy on the table at the head of the bed, and pushed under his pillow the little automatic pistol which had been his constant companion during lonely months in the desert. He then took off his shoes and lay down without undressing.

The night passed as peacefully as if the Dower House were a newly built suburban villa.

Julian caught the eight-thirty to town. He had breakfasted and left the house before Miss Miller emerged from her room. Long before she did so the chair barricade had been removed, but it had provided Ellen with another grievance.

“If it 'ad been dark, anybody might 'ave broken their leg,” she grumbled when she came into Amabel's room with the tea tray, which she had taken from Jenny. “Jenny and me a-pulling and a-'awling of those two 'eavy chairs! It was Mr. Forsham thought of doing that, I suppose. And when I sees them I says to myself, ‘Now, if that isn't a man all over. What's the good of that?' I says to myself. ‘A chair will stop a lawful housemaid, but it isn't going to stop a 'aunting ghost, not much it isn't. Such as that will go through chairs and tables just as easy as a spoon'll go through milk.'” She set down the tray with a jerk. “But there, I suppose are women 'ud all be idling and getting into mischief if there wasn't any men for 'em to wait on. It's the men that makes work in a house, and the women that does it. Of course, I'm not saying that gentleman or two don't frighten you up a bit, if it comes to that. And, please, ma'am, would you 'ave any objections to my going into Ledlington this afternoon with Eliza Moorshed? There's a sister of her 'usband's there that's married to a baker in a very good way of business, and they've sent me a invitation to come in and 'ave tea with them to-day.”

“All right,” said Amabel, “you can go when you've done the bedrooms.”

At breakfast it appeared that Miss Miller also had business in Ledlington that afternoon. She invited Amabel to accompany her, but took her refusal in very good part.

“I shall be back about seven,” she announced. “I don't go very often, and I like to make a day of it when I do.”

Julian Forsham spent a busy day. He had his publishers to see, half-an-hour's business with Mr. Berry, and sundry other matters to attend to.

To Mr. Berry he announced his engagement, and extracted from him information as to the quickest way of getting married.

When he walked into Sir Julian Le Mesurier's room he found Piggy genial but busy. He got a “Hullo, Ju-Ju!”—and then had to wait whilst Piggy finished writing a letter. When it had been despatched, Julian asked:

“I suppose you got a letter from me this morning?”

“I did—rather cryptic. Why so interested in the fair Mrs. Thompson's telephone calls? I trust you're not thinking of bringing her into the family, or anything rash like that, Ju-Ju, old man.”

Julian made a face of disgust.

“No! But, I say, Piggy, you've got to produce your congratulations all the same. I'm going to be married in about a week.”

Piggy had drawn a row of large question marks across a blank sheet of paper. He stopped, poised his pen, and said,

“No! Good Lord! Not really?”

“Absolutely,” said Julian. Piggy grunted and began placing a cat on the top of each question mark. “Do you remember, twenty years ago, my telling you all about Amabel Ferguson, and how horribly hard it hit me when she wouldn't break off her engagement to marry me?”

“Yes, I remember. You used to walk about my rooms in the small hours and talk like Manfred. Looking back, I can't imagine why I didn't murder you and have done with it.”

Julian laughed.

“Well, Piggy, old man,” he said, “it's still Amabel. I found her at the Dower House as George's tenant, and I'm doing my best to get her to marry me next week.”

Piggy laid down his pen and stretched out a capacious hand.

“Ju-Ju, I'm most awfully glad. And as for Isobel, she'll probably embrace you. Isobel's most endearing vice is a passionate desire to see everybody else as happy as we are. Of course, I make it my business to point out to her that, as a husband, I am probably unique, and it's therefore no use her buoying other women up with false hopes—no, seriously, Julian, I'm most frightfully pleased. It's pretty good to have a home to come back to—you can take that from me.”

“Now, Piggy,” said Julian, after a moment, “I've told you this partly because I'm simply yearning to tell everyone, but chiefly because I want your advice.”

“All right.” The cats on the top of the question marks were all standing on one hind leg, clawing fiercely in the air.

“But, first,” said Julian—“I suppose you haven't had time to collect anything about Mrs. Thompson?”

“Why, yes, we have. As to what you asked about the trunk calls—I told 'em to get busy with it this morning, and I got the report just before you came in. Let me see, where did I put it?—ah, here.” He picked up a sheet of paper, holding it in his left hand whilst with his right he continued to shade the cats. “Mrs. Thompson. Telephone number, um—m—m—m—Tuesday, um—m—m—Ah, here we have it. Trunk from Ledlington 202 at twelve-thirty. I forget how far Ledlington is from Forsham, but it's somewhere around, isn't it? Is that what you wanted?”

“It's seven miles,” said Julian. “What's Ledlington 202? Does he say?”

“Oh, yes, he's got it down all right. It's an hotel—the Queen's Hotel, Ledlington.”

Julian whistled softly. The Queen's Hotel, Ledlington,—Tuesday—Ellen's story about Ferdinand Miller, and Amabel's laughing comments on it: “He was actually seen coming out of the Queen's Hotel at Ledlington at half-past twelve”—“and worse still, when he saw Mr. Bronson he fled”—“what it is to have a guilty conscience!”—Ferdinand Miller at the Queen's Hotel at half-past twelve, the hour of the medium's call—trying to escape notice too, bolting back into the hotel, by all accounts, when Mr. Bronson happened to drive up!