The Witness on the Roof (22 page)

For the first time, her eyes rested on his dark, haggard face, paler than its wont this afternoon. Surely, surely, now he would guess—he would understand? 

But there was no enlightenment in Warchester's eyes—only a great bewilderment, and infinite pity, as he saw the effort with which she spoke.

“Dear, don't harass yourself by trying to tell me anything to-day,” he said gently. “I was wrong to ask you. Come, rest on this sofa. Let me make you comfortable among the cushions, and later on, when you are better, you shall tell me just as much as you like.”

“No, no!” Joan threw out her hands, as if to thrust his very suggestions aside. “I must tell you—you must hear it all now. I ran into the loft, as I say, but it had always been an ambition of mine to get farther. I had found out a way to climb on the roof of the Grove Street houses. I managed to get there that afternoon.” Her voice broke—trailed off in a sob.

Warchester stood still; not a muscle stirred, and yet in some vague, intangible way Joan knew that at last he was beginning to understand.

“I ran along the roofs,” she went on, in the same rough, uneven tones. “It seemed an amusement to me—ah, pitiful heavens, an amusement! —but at last I tired of seeing only the roof and the chimneys. I wanted to look through some of the windows, to find out what the rooms were like. I raised myself up and peeped over a window-ledge. I saw—”

“Yes?” Warchester prompted, in a level voice. His face was unmoved, it looked even a little weary. One would have said that the story to which he was listening bore little interest to him, except that his eyes watched Joan's every movement.

Joan choked back a sob.

“I saw a man moving about, burning photographs, tearing the fly-leaves out of books. There was a white heap on the rug; he bent over it, he straightened it out. I saw that it was a dead woman, with red-gold hair. The man put a pistol in her hand; then a door at my right hand moved, began to open. I made some sort of a sound—I don't know what—and the man looked up. Then I tumbled. I ran back across the roof to the loft.”

“You poor little child!” Warchester did not attempt to come any nearer now, but his voice remained unchanged. “And now—now do you think it was your sister; Evelyn?”

Joan's slender fingers clenched themselves nervously.

“I know. I—I told them at home what I had seen, and my father scoffed at me and said I was never to mention it, and I—I was sent for by Mrs. Davenant the next day. The terror of it haunted my childhood, but afterwards I think I nearly forgot it until—”

She paused again, but Warchester did not speak. He waited for her to go on.

“Until the day I fainted.” Joan's voice was little more than a hoarse whisper. “I was walking along the terrace, and I came to the smoking-room window, and you were inside. I saw you throw a letter in the fire; then I remembered. I knew—”

“What?” Warchester's question broke across her speech sharp and stern.

“I was sure that you were the man I had seen in Grove Street ten years ago,” she answered steadily. “At first I tried to persuade myself that there had been a mistake. It was too horrible! It could not be true! I beat down the voice that told me it was, but all the while, do what I would, I knew. Then the other night, when you told me you had been an artist, when I saw you catch up a paper with the very gesture I remembered—could I doubt then?”

It seemed to Joan that the silence that followed could have been felt.

At last Warchester spoke

“No,” he said hoarsely, “no, you could not. I—Perhaps I might persuade you even now that it was all a mistake, Joan. But I will not lie to the woman I love. I was the man you saw, and you—you were the ragged imp of a child who watched me. I cannot realize it—that it should be you, you out of the whole world! That out of the countless hordes of human creatures, we two should meet and marry. Heavens, the irony of it!”

Joan looked at his dark, rugged face, every feature of which was so fatally dear. She shivered; her knees shook.

“And she was my sister! And I never knew till—now. Oh, Paul, why did you kill my sister?” Her voice quivered, her eyes smarted, but the relief of tears was denied them.

Warchester turned sharply from her; standing at the open window, he raised his face to the cool air. What was he to do—what was he to say? The dead girl was Joan's sister. Dared he trust Joan with the truth? At last he went up to Joan.

“You have told me your story,” he said heavily. “Now I am going to ask you to listen to mine. But first you must sit down; if you stand up there you will be faint.”

He drew forward one of the big, luxurious easy-chairs. Joan's limbs trembled as she obeyed him. He moved over to the fireplace, and took up a position on the rug at the side, one elbow on the high, oak shelf.

“It is not a short story,” he said, searching about in his mind for the best words in which to clothe what he had to say, “but I will try to be as brief as I can. My acquaintance with your sister, Evelyn, taking her identity with the woman who died in Grove Street as proved, began when she was singing in the music halls as Marie de Lavelle. I had known her perhaps six months when she left the stage, and for nearly a year I heard no more of her. Then one night a friend of mine, a man named Wingrove”—with a momentary hesitation that did not escape Joan's ears, quickened now by fear—“came to me for help. He told me that he had married Marie De Lavelle privately; and he had told her that for family reasons it would have to be kept secret for a time. At first she had been content, but now she was clamouring for full recognition of her rights, as she called them. There were reasons, urgent reasons why the marriage should not be disclosed just then—to do so would have meant ruin. But he could not make her understand this; and he asked me; as I had known Marie de Lavelle, as I was in a measure the friend of both, to speak to her for him, to persuade her to keep silence. He had a studio in Grove Street and he asked me to come there the following afternoon. He would make an appointment with his wife for four o'clock, and he hoped that I would be able to explain to her how very serious matters would be for my friend if she persisted in speaking out then. I was delayed, and it was perhaps ten minutes past four when I got there. I went straight up to the studio, meeting no one on the way. The door was ajar, I knocked, but, receiving no response, walked in. There I saw—”

He stopped and shaded his face with his hand.

“Go on,” Joan ordered huskily. “Evelyn?”

“She was lying there on the rug—dead!” Warchester said in a low voice. “In a moment I saw that all was over. Then I think I must have been mad for the time, Joan. I felt sure that Wingrove had done it; that she had tried him past endurance, and that—I knew he was subject to wild fits of passion—he had shot her in his rage. Then, then—I don't think I have made you understand that I loved Wingrove, that all my life he had been dear to me—the thought came to me that if I put the pistol there, in her hand, people would think she had killed herself. I did not realize that I might be making things worse for Wingrove. I tore his name off his books, I burned some sketches that were signed, photographs that might have given him away. Then just as I finished, I looked up, and saw a pair of dark eyes watching me over the window-sill. I sprang forward, not knowing in the least what I was going to do: The owner of the eyes fell back with a cry, and when I got to the window I saw a small child picking herself up from the roof—a small, grimy-looking child, with ragged brown hair, who went scuttling over the roofs until she was lost to my sight. I turned back, there was nothing else for me to do; a sudden realization of the danger in which I might stand myself if the child told her tale came to me. I stole softly out of the house. The next day, the papers were full of the Grove Street Mystery, but there was no mention of what the child had seen. I told myself that she had not understood it, that she had been too small for it to have any meaning for her. I learned too that my plan to save my friend had been worse than useless; it had but fixed suspicion more surely upon him. That is my story, Joan. What are you going to say to me?”

“What became of Wingrove?” The words seemed to come from Joan's pale lips almost without her own volition.

Warchester did not raise his head; his hand shaded the lower part of his face from view; his eyes were downcast.

“He was never traced, as perhaps you know.”

“But what became of him?” Joan persisted in a hoarse whisper. “You—you know, Paul.”

“And if I do,” Warchester questioned slowly, “what would you have me do, Joan? I—I could not bring your sister back.”

“No!” Joan said painfully. “Before it was different, but now—now that you know that she was Evelyn—you will help to punish her murderer?”

“Joan!” Warchester came swiftly across the room and caught her hands in his. “Let him alone, child! The tracking down and punishment of criminals is no part of our duty, thank Heaven! All that matters between you and me now is that you understand that it was no murderer you saw at work that afternoon, but only a half-frenzied man who was doing his best for his friend. You do believe me, child? You will forgive me?”

But Joan wrenched her hands away. Her sleepless nights, the long, wearing anxiety, culminating in the shock of this afternoon, had strained her already overtaxed nerves almost to breaking point. She was in no mood to judge fairly. Over and above this too, beyond the wildness and improbability of Warchester's story, neither his manner nor his accent had been such as to carry conviction. There had been a hesitancy, a weighing of his words before he spoke. Joan felt a crushing certainty that, though he had offered her a plausible explanation, he was keeping something from her.

“Oh, I don't know,” she cried wildly, “I don't know what to believe! I —I will forgive you when the police have found Wingrove. When I know the real name of my sister's murderer I will forgive you perhaps!”

“W
HY
, H
EWLETT
, this is kind!” Septimus Lockyer stepped out of his motor at the door of his bachelor chambers in St. James's Street. “I was coming up to you as soon as I had had a bath and a change. But now we can have our talk here instead. Come in!”

Hewlett obeyed him.

“Thank you, sir! But I wonder whether you would mind your man helping me up with a box I have in the taxi outside? It is awkward carrying it alone, and I want to be careful with it.”

“Why, of course! Can't he manage it altogether?” Mr. Lockyer asked in surprise.

“I think not, thank you, sir. I would rather see to it myself.”

Mr. Lockyer looked at, him with some curiosity as he reappeared bearing one end of what looked like a common, tin trunk carefully strapped and in addition tied with packing-cord and sealed with big, red blobs of sealing wax. Blake, Mr. Lockyer's servant, carried the other end, visible disgust on his stolid features.

“May we bring it into your room, sir?” Hewitt questioned. “I want to keep an eye on it.”

“Certainly, by all means,” Septimus Lockyer acquiesced. He had learned in his profession not to be surprised at anything, but he could not help speculating as to the contents of the mysterious tin-box.

Hewlett had it carefully deposited on the hearthrug; then he stood up.

“Now I think we shall get on, sir.”

“What is it?” Mr. Lockyer asked, wonderingly. “But no—wait a minute, Hewlett! I have had a long ride, and the air is keen this afternoon. I must have a drink first. What will you take? There are wines over there. I shall have coffee and a glass of cognac myself.”

“I think I will do the same, thank you, sir!” The detective waited while the manservant brought in a coffee-service with a steaming silver jug and a couple of covered dishes. As soon as Blake had finally retired, Septimus Lockyer took a sandwich and looked at his companion.

“Well, Hewlett, I gathered from your telegram it was something urgent.”

“I hope you will think it of importance to warrant that telegram, sir. At any rate, we could not take the responsibility of opening it without one of her family being present, and of course we could not trouble Lady Warchester. That sir, belonged to Miss Evelyn Spencer; it has remained unopened ever since it left her possession. We are hoping that in it may possibly be found some clue to her murderer.”

Septimus Lockyer was startled for once out of his usual calm.

“How in the world did you get hold of it, Hewlett?”

The detective permitted himself a smile of self-satisfaction,

“You may remember that I told you of Mrs. Read's visit, sir—the woman with whom Miss Spencer had lodged at 
Highgate? Well,” as Mr. Lockyer nodded, “she and her mother lived together. The daughter managed the lodgers, but I found in the course of conversation that she had been married two days after Miss Spencer left, and, as you and I know, Mr. Lockyer, there is nothing for muddling a woman's wits like a wedding, I thought I had better look the mother up. She was nursing a son who was ill at Stoke Newington, but I made a special journey, and found myself well rewarded for my pains. Mrs. Thompson—that was the mother's name—told me what had apparently escaped her daughter's memory, if she had ever paid any attention to it, that Miss Spencer had asked them to take charge of a box until she was in a position to send for it, and, as of course they never heard from her, it was still in their attic. I had some little difficulty in inducing her to part with it, but when she heard who I was, and that there was only too much reason to fear her former lodger had met with foul play, she gave way. I placed these seals on it before I brought it away, and you can see that they are still unbroken.”

He knelt down and carefully cut the cord, preserving the seals intact.

“I got a bunch of keys at a locksmith's as I came up. He assured me that one of them would be sure to fit; he said it was quite a common lock.”