The Witness on the Roof (16 page)

“Why, because Evelyn is here now!” Joan replied, answering his last question first. “It is her last letter, Uncle Septimus—don't you remember how vexed Mr. Hurst was when I couldn't find it? Well, Mason was clearing up the Hall the other day, attending to some alterations Evelyn wanted made, and she found this little work-box of mine,” holding it up. “I used it for a year or two after I came to Davenant, and then it was thrown aside and I think I forgot all about it. But, see, Evelyn's last letter is in it. When I heard you were here I could not help running down to tell you, but it is just too late after all. It will not interest you now. I got it the day before I came to Davenant, and I never heard of my sister again until she came here the other day. She wrote several times, she says, but the letters never reached me. I suspect Mrs. Spencer did not forward them.”

“I dare say she did not,” Mr. Lockyer assented. “Yes, your discovery comes a little late, my dear; however, better late than never! I should like to look at the letter, if you will allow me.”

“Of course; I am sure Evelyn would not mind.”

Joan searched in her work-box, produced the missing letter, and handed it to him. It was directed in a weak, straggling handwriting to “Miss Polly Spencer, No. 10
A
Grove Street Mews, Hinton Square,
W
.”

Mr. Lockyer opened it. A small object dropped out and rolled on the floor. Joan darted after it, but the detective was before her.

“Allow me, madame!” He pursued it into a corner and captured it.

“Is this madame—the half of a sixpence?” he inquired as he laid it on the table. “I can't see anything else, but—”

“Yes, that is it, thank you, Mr. Hewlett!” Joan said gratefully. “My sister sent it to me as a keepsake.”

“Ah, she mentions it here!” Mr. Lockyer remarked. “And I see she writes from 15 Suffolk Lane, Highgate. Lovely part that; I have stayed there myself when I was a junior. May I read this aloud, Joan?”

The girl hesitated a moment.

“Oh, certainly, if you like! But it will sound rather silly, I think, now that we have found Evelyn.”

“I don't think it sounds silly at all,” Mr. Lockyer contradicted. “It shows that your sister was very fond of you, Joan.”

“Quite a nice letter, I call it,” Septimus Lockyer remarked as he laid it down.

“And I suppose you never answered it?”

“Of course I did! I wrote and told her I was coming to Davenant Hall. I used to wonder whether she resented my good fortune. But it seems she did not have the letter.”

“Would you allow me to glance at the letter, madame?” Hewlett was fixing his glass more securely in his eye as he leaned forward.

Joan looked a little surprised.

“Oh, certainly! I don't suppose there is any reason why you should not, more particularly”—with a smile—“as you know what is in it already.”

Mr. Lockyer handed it to him.

“I have never studied handwriting myself, but I believe it is one of your hobbies, isn't it?”

“To some extent, yes,” the detective replied as he scrutinized the paper. It was a fancy blue, poor in quality, and the writing ran across it in straggling, uneven lines. In some curious fashion it seemed to interest Mr. Detective Hewlett intensely. He turned it upside-down, looked at it that way and this, and finally held it up to the light as if trying to see through it. As he gave it back to Mr. Lockyer he gave an almost imperceptible sign.

Mr. Lockyer looked at Joan.

“Well, now, my dear, I must wish you good-bye. I have promised to drive Mr. Hewlett to the station.”

“Oh, Uncle Septimus, at least you will stay to lunch!” Joan exclaimed in dismay.

Warchester laid one hand lightly on her shoulder.

“We must make your uncle promise to come to us for a few days when he leaves the Trewhistles, Joan.”

“Well, well, you are very good. We will see about that later. But now I must be off. I am due to pick Reggie up at the Home Farm in half an hour. Ready, Hewlett!”

Mr. Lockyer picked up the letter and the half of the sixpence from the table.

“I suppose you don't mind my taking these, Joan? I may want to look at them later.”

“Oh, of course, if you like,” Joan said uncertainly.

Mr. Lockyer apparently did not notice her hesitation. He carefully put both in his pocket-book, and held put his hand.

“I must say good-bye, for this morning, Joan. Later on perhaps I might come up and have a smoke with your husband.”

“By all means, pray do!” Warchester responded politely.

But the lawyer noticed that the note of cordiality was absent.

Outside, when the motor-car was fairly started, Lockyer looked at the detective.

“Well, I did your bidding, but for the life of me I can't see what you want with that letter!”

“No? I had a fancy—” the detective began slowly, when there was a diversion. A carriage and pair had dashed in at the lodge gates, and the horses, coming suddenly upon the motor, began to shy. The coachman had them well in hand, however, and when the commotion had somewhat subsided Septimus Lockyer looked at his companion.

“The Davenant liveries. Now, Hewlett, you will have a chance of being introduced to my new niece. Come along!”

He drew the car to the side of the road; recognizing him, the coachman pulled up. The carriage had only one occupant, as the lawyer had surmised—the new mistress of Davenant Hall.

Evelyn was resplendent to-day; she had declined to wear full mourning, having had it modified to some extent by white. Her gown was of a black filmy material, the yoke and sleeves being exquisite lace; a lace scarf, which had been one of Mrs. Davenant's most treasured possessions was floating round her shoulders. Her yellow hair was elaborately curled and waved beneath her enormous hat. Altogether she had the appearance of being entirely satisfied with herself and with the world.

She greeted Mr. Lockyer with an expansive smile.

“You are out early this morning, Uncle Septimus! Been up to see Joan? How is she? I thought she seemed pretty dicky yesterday.”

The lawyer looked amused.

“I think Joan is very well. Perhaps by contrast with you, my dear Evelyn. But may I introduce a gentleman who has been most anxiously looking forward to see you for some time—one to whom, I may say, you have given a great deal of trouble? Mr. Hewlett—Miss Davenant.”

“I have given trouble, Uncle Septimus?” Evelyn said, bowing graciously as the detective raised his hat. “To this gentleman, do you say? I reckon you are beyond me. I don't know what you mean.”

“Well, I think he can corroborate my statement.” The lawyer laughed. “You found Miss Davenant a difficult person to trace, didn't you, Hewlett?”

“We did indeed, sir.” The detective had been glancing with apparent admiration at Evelyn's face, dwelling on the big, coarsely moulded throat already threatening to emerge into a double chin, then straying to the blue eyes, set rather near together, to the forehead sloping slightly backward from the arched artificial eyebrows.

“Mr. Hewlett is the head of the firm of Hewlett and Cowham, which is probably the best-known private detective agency in London,” Mr, Lockyer went on. “We confided the search for you to Mr. Hewlett, Evelyn, and I think I may say you have proved a great disappointment to him, eh, Hewlett?”

“Miss Davenant could not disappoint anyone,” the detective declared gallantly. “It was our own stupidity in failing to ascertain her whereabouts that disappointed us.”

“Oh, really! A detective!” Evelyn remarked nonchalantly, her manner altering perceptibly. It was evident, Mr. Lockyer remarked with some internal mirth, that the new mistress of Davenant Hall was inclined to resent as a liberty the introduction of a detective. She drew back in her corner. “Ah, well, you see, you didn't look in the right place, Mr.—er—Hewlett! I was out in South Africa when I saw the advertisements.”

“So I heard.” Mr. Hewlett spoke politely. “Well, I suppose nobody can be successful always. We must put you down as one of our failures, Miss Davenant.”

Mr. Lockyer laid his hand on the carriage door.

“The most extraordinary thing to me is that you should have known Warchester. We were talking of it just now.”

“Yes, wasn't it?” Evelyn agreed. “He was called Wilton then, you know, Uncle Septimus, and his cousin was Basil Wilton. I never knew that people changed their names when they became lords.”

Septimus Lockyer smiled.

“Wilton is the family name; Warchester's children, 
if he has any, will be Wiltons too. But I remember seeing you once at the Apollo myself. What became of your sister? Funny thing the two of you should be so much alike! Have you any idea where she is now?”

Miss Davenant moved her parasol to one side.

“Bless you, no!” with a flicker of her white eyelids. “We did our turns together as long as it paid us, and then we just went our separate ways. I have never had a word from her since we parted and don't suppose I ever shall. Well, Uncle Septimus, this coachman of mine hates to keep the horses standing, so I must be off. Come up and see me at the Hall and have a chat as soon as ever you can. So long for the present!”

She nodded condescendingly to Hewlett as the carriage rolled on.

Septimus Lockyer and Hewlett walked back to the motor-car. When they were fairly seated the lawyer turned to his companion.

“Well, your wish has been gratified; you have seen the new owner of Davenant Hall. Not much like Lady Warchester, is she? ”

Hewlett did not answer for a moment; his eyes had an absent, far-away expression.

“No, I can't say I see much resemblance,” he said at last.

Mr. Lockyer glanced at him curiously, half doubtfully.

“You had not finished telling me why you wanted the letter and that broken sixpence, when we saw the carriage, Hewlett.”

It was only a few minutes' run to the station; already they were in sight of it. The detective was gazing with interest at the flying landscape.

“Well?” Septimus Lockyer said impatiently.

Hewlett looked round.

“Well, sir, I once saw a letter that one reminded me of, and the other half of a broken sixpence. It was just a stupid fancy, I make no doubt, but I took a good deal of interest in the case the other one was mixed up in. It was when I was at Scotland Yard, before I started on my own, and I think I may say that first and last it has been the one affair that has baffled me more than any other I have ever been engaged upon.”

“What case was that?” asked Mr. Lockyer. “And what connection can there possibly be with this letter?”

“I don't see the connection clearly myself,” the detective acknowledged. “As for the case—well, least said soonest mended, if you don't mind, sir. I won't say any more until—until—”

“Yes, until—” Septimus Lockyer prompted curiously as they entered the station yard.

The detective hesitated and looked round.

“Until I have seen whether the halves of the sixpence fit,” he answered cautiously.

“I
AM
going to walk over to Davenant Hall, Paul.”

“What—to-day again?” Warchester looked disappointed. “I wanted to take you out for a long spin in the car. Can't you put your sister off until to-morrow?”

“I don't think I ought. I promised to go over this afternoon. People may be calling now, and I fancy Evelyn is a little nervous. She was most anxious I should be with her.”

They were on the veranda outside the smoking-room. Warchester was glancing at the newspaper. Joan had just appeared dressed for walking; she laid her hand on his arm.

“Come with me, Paul; it is a lovely walk if we take the short cut through the Home Wood.”

Warchester shook his head.

“I would ask nothing better. But I must go over to Market Burnham on business, and I ought to call at the Marsh to see whether anything has been decided about Basil's operation. Tell you what—I will drop you at the Hall if you like. Then, if you must have exercise, you can walk home.”

“Delightful,” Joan agreed.

A fortnight had elapsed since her homecoming from her father's funeral—a fortnight during which it had been increasingly obvious that Warchester was doing his best to keep the two sisters apart. It seemed to Joan sometimes, looking back, that ever since the recognition of Evelyn by Warchester there had arisen a new barrier of reserve between herself and her husband. To her his account of his previous acquaintance with Evelyn was not sufficient to explain the unaccountable agitation that both had shown in that first instant of surprise. And, though she had loyally striven her best to accept it, she could not help the sharp little pain that would stab her now and then when she recalled that meeting in the boudoir at Davenant Hall.