The Secret of Greylands (31 page)

Lord Duxworth was emerging from the house, looking very red and uncomfortable.

“I have just heard from Laurie—his place is near Letchingham's, if you remember. He says Letchingham is in a bad way—a very bad way; he is completely paralysed.”

“Oh, I must go to him at once!” Cynthia cried, clasping her hands. “He—oh, I think perhaps I have been wrong before! I do not seem to be able to see clearly; but at any rate I am his wife, and I must go to him!”

“Is Lady Letchingham at home?”

The pompous butler hesitated.

“If you will walk in, sir, I will inquire. What name, sir?”

“Sir Donald Farquhar.”

In spite of his grandeur the butler looked impressed. The name of Sir Donald Farquhar was well known; his fame as an explorer of unusual daring had reached even the servants' hall at Letchingham Castle, and as a mark of respect to so distinguished a man, Jones himself preceded Sir Donald to the drawing-room.

Farquhar, as he followed, felt vaguely chilled; the mistress of this stately house must be strangely altered from the simple girl he had met on the moor. The imposing-looking butler, the magnificent room in which he was presently left, while Jones went to seek her ladyship, seemed to oppress him. He drew a long breath and straightened his shoulders as though throwing off a physical load as he recalled the scent of the pine-wood; there now, hot though it was here, the air would be stirring pleasantly amid the leaves, and under the great branches it would be cool. 

A portrait of Cynthia was hanging on the opposite wall; he went across and gazed at it long and earnestly. It was by one of the most noted artists of the day, and the painter had contrived to catch some of Cynthia's elusive wild-rose charm; but there was a look of haunting melancholy in the great brown eyes, a touch of pathos in the curve of the pretty soft lips that Farquhar had never seen in the Cynthia of Greylands. He sighed restlessly. Naturally she was altered, he told himself; he had been a fool to expect anything else. He knew little of her life during the four years that had elapsed since their last meeting; the papers, in recording Lord Letchingham's death nearly two years ago, had spoken of Lady Letchingham's constant care and devotion during the long illness that had preceded it, and from Lady Duxworth Farquhar had learned that husband and wife had been fully reconciled before the end, and that Letchingham had come to lean upon Cynthia for everything. Of her inner life, of her thoughts and feelings, Lady Duxworth could tell him nothing.

Farquhar himself was indefinably altered. He was darker, his tall form sparer than of old, the close-cropped brown hair was sprinkled with white, the bronzed rugged face was lined and worn, but the steadfast grey eyes, the firm kindly mouth, told alike of sorrow nobly borne, of trouble bravely lived down.

As he stood there, looking at the portrait, a slight sound close at hand made him turn quickly. Cynthia stood within the open window, one hand parting the curtains above her, the other holding a great bunch of roses. She paused, startled, not able, coming straight from the sunlight outside, to recognize the man who confronted her in the scented dimness of the shaded room.

Farquhar went forward.

“Cynthia!”

At the sound of his voice a sudden gladness flashed into the brown eyes, the warm red lips smiled a welcome. Cynthia held out her hands; the roses spread themselves in a sweet shower on the skirt of her white gown, on the ground at her feet.

“Donald! You have come!”

The man bent low over the outstretched hands.

“Yes!” he assented. “Cynthia, I have been very patient, but now I have come for my reward. Will you give it to me?”

The girl's eyes drooped; the long upcurled lashes made dark shadows on her hot cheeks.

“I—perhaps—I do not know,” she said vaguely. “I have hardly realized that it is really you yet!” striving uneasily to draw her hands away.

The man held them closely prisoned in his firm, warm clasp; the glad hope that sprang to light at his first sight of her sweet blushing confusion grew and strengthened. He stooped his dark head nearer hers.

“Have you no better welcome for me, Cynthia?”

She stirred restlessly and tried in vain to raise her eyes.

“I—I am glad to see you!”

The triumph in the man's eyes brought the hot blood to her cheeks; he drew her inside the room.

“I want more than that, Cynthia; I want to hear you say, ‘I forgive you all those wild words at Greylands, Donald, and I love you, just a little!'”

Cynthia's lips looked mutinous. Farquhar watched her in silence for a few minutes; then he released her hands.

“I have come a long way to hear you say those words,” he said slowly. “If you cannot, Heaven knows it is not for me to blame you. I was a fool to expect—to trust—”

Cynthia caught a fold of the curtain and plaited it carefully.

“No, no! It was not that!” she began incoherently. “I do forgive you, Donald—I mean there is nothing to forgive—it—it is the rest I can't say!”

When Farquhar spoke again his voice was hoarse and altered.

“I see!” he said heavily. “I have been a fool, but I understand now. Forgive me for troubling you.”

Cynthia did not raise her eyes; she went on plaiting her curtain diligently, and a tiny smile crept round the corners of her mouth, “You asked me to say ‘I love you a little, Donald.' I couldn't because—oh, don't you understand?”

“No! Tell me, Cynthia!” An almost incredulous joy transformed Farquhar's face. “What is it, sweetheart?”

“Because—oh, you know—because I love you a great deal!” Cynthia whispered tremulously. With a glad sound Farquhar drew her to his breast, and as her head rested on his shoulder his lips sought hers passionately, strayed with longing over her throat and eyes and hair.

For a time Cynthia rested, silent, quiescent; then she released herself with a certain gentle dignity.

“Donald!”

“My sweetheart!” Farquhar, keeping one arm round her waist, looked down at her with fond, possessive eyes.

“I just wanted to tell you,” Cynthia faltered. “I had really forgotten until this moment—but I must tell you that I have only what Aunt Hannah left me. All this”—with a comprehensive gesture that included the great house, the grounds sloping down to the lake—“all this goes from me if I—”

“If you marry me,” Farquhar finished calmly as he drew her head back to its resting-place and let her hide her crimson cheeks against his coat. “I know it does, darling, and I am thankful that it does. You will be all mine, then, Cynthia. These weary years of separation will seem like a terrible dream, and you will be my own, my sweetheart—my wife!”

THE END

Annie Haynes was born in 1865, the daughter of an ironmonger.

By the first decade of the twentieth century she lived in London and moved in literary and early feminist circles. Her first crime novel,
The Bungalow Mystery
, appeared in 1923, and another nine mysteries were published before her untimely death in 1929.

Who Killed Charmian Karslake?
appeared posthumously, and a further partially-finished work,
The Crystal Beads Murder
, was completed with the assistance of an unknown fellow writer, and published in 1930.

The Bungalow Mystery

The Abbey Court Murder

The Blue Diamond

The Witness on the Roof

The House in Charlton Crescent

The Crow's Inn Tragedy

The Master of the Priory

The Man with the Dark Beard

The Crime at Tattenham Corner

Who Killed Charmian Karslake?

The Crystal Beads Murder

“Who knows if he didn't make away with her here? Those things found in the Home Coppice show that she was made away with plain enough, I say.”

Jim Gregory, under-gardener at Hargreave Manor, finds something unexpected when climbing Lover's Oak but won't say what. Instead he's all ears regarding the legendary ‘Luck of the Hargreaves' diamonds, destined for the future bride of Sir Arthur, the new squire.

Sir Arthur himself then discovers a beautiful stranger, lost in the woods near the manor. She cannot recall a thing—not even her name. She is given shelter and Mary Marston, a private nurse, recognizes her—and abruptly goes missing. Nurse Marston must still be in the house, it is initially agreed—but if so, where?

Who got rid of Nurse Marston? To whom does the tobacco pouch with the floral design belong? And why was a blood-stained cuff found in the woods? These mysteries, and more, Superintendent Stokes is determined to solve.
The Blue Diamond
(1925) is a classic of early golden crime fiction. This new edition, the first in over eighty years, features an introduction by crime fiction historian Curtis Evans.

“Tired men, trotting home at the end of an imperfect day, pop into the library and ask for an Annie Haynes. They have not made a mistake in the street number. It is not a cocktail they are asking for…”
Sketch

“T
HERE!
I think that will about do! No, stay—the tail of that ‘
M
' is not quite right, and I will make it all a bit deeper while I am about it. Our initials must last as long as anybody's, eh, Minnie?”

The girl blushed and smiled as she glanced at the tall, well-set-up figure.

“I think they look beautiful,” she said shyly, as after putting a few finishing touches the man stepped back to her side and surveyed his handiwork with pride: 
J.G.
and
M.S.

“May it soon be
M.G.
,” he said as he slipped his arm round her waist. “What a lot of initials there are! The old tree will soon be full.”

“All the lovers that have been in Lockford for years have carved their initials there,” the girl observed, looking up at the wide, hoary trunk. “See here, Jim, these new ones—
G.D.
and
M.H.
That will be Mr. Garth Davenant and Miss Mavis.”

“Then it is all right that Miss Mavis's maid should be the next,” the man responded, implanting a kiss upon her half-averted cheek. “Never mind, Minnie”—with a careless laugh—“there's nobody here to see!”

“How you do go on!” said Minnie, releasing herself and turning her hot cheeks away. “I have to be back at six to dress Miss Mavis for this dinner at Davenant Court, and we haven't drunk the water at the Wishing Well yet.”

“That is the next thing, is it?” the man said absently. He was gazing intently up at the grand old oak, under the wide-spreading branches of which they were standing. “Minnie, I believe that is a grey crow's nest up there! Wait a minute, I must have an egg if it is. This old fellow won't be difficult to climb, I fancy.”

“Oh, Jim, Jim! Indeed you mustn't!” the girl began. But her protest went unheeded. He had already thrown off his coat and was climbing up the tree before the words had left her mouth, and she could only watch his ascent in a sort of terrified fascination.

Half-way up, however, he halted with, as it seemed to her, a sharp exclamation, then after a moment's pause he turned and began his downward journey.

“'Twasn't a crow's after all!” he said as he slid rapidly to the ground. “It was nothing but some old rubbish, and the game wasn't worth the candle.”

“It will bring us bad luck, though,” Minnie wailed. “Whatever made you climb the Lovers' Oak, Jim? It shows right well you are a foreigner. If you'd been a Devonshire man you wouldn't have tried it on, not for twenty nests.”

Her lips were quivering, big tears were standing in her eyes. The man glanced at her with some compunction; quite evidently the ill-luck of which she spoke, and which his hasty action had braved, was a very real thing to her.

“Cheer up, Minnie!” he said with a rough attempt at consolation. “I promise you I will let the Lovers' Oak alone in the future. And come along now, I'll drink gallons of water at the Wishing Well to make up!”

“It is dreadfully unlucky”—Minnie sighed—“but maybe it'll be taken into account that you are a foreigner. Now the Wishing Well—do be careful there, Jim.”

“I won't move a step till you give me leave,” he assured her as they turned aside down a narrow rugged path and picked their way over stones worn smooth by the feet of countless lovers. “You wish while you drink, that's it, isn't it, Minnie?”

“Yes. They say in olden times a man who went out to the wars—Crusades they called them then—was wounded and reported dead. When after long years he made his way back to Lockford he found his wife, believing him dead, had married again. So for love of her he would claim neither title nor estate lest he should shame her, but made himself a hut here under the oak so that, all unknown, he could watch over her. They called him the hermit of Lockford, and only when he died was it found out who he really was.”

“Umph! I fancy I have heard something like that before,” said Jim slowly.

Minnie was too much in earnest to heed the scepticism in his tone.

“He lived on berries and things from the woods, and he got his drink from the Wishing Well. See”—as they came in sight of the clear, limpid water, with tiny, wild maidenhair-fern growing in every niche and cranny of the old grey rock above it—“this was his cup,” picking up a curious-looking hollowed stone that stood on the wide ledge beside, “so they say, but Miss Mavis doesn't believe it; she says she's sure it can't be so old.”

The man took it from her and looked at it.

“Um! Queer sort of thing, I should say. Now you must tell me what to do, Minnie, or I shall be making a mistake again. You have to drink out of this, don't you?

“Drink and wish,” she said solemnly. “Wish for something you want very much, Jim, for a man can only have three wishes granted in his lifetime.”