House in Charlton Crescent (21 page)

“I refuse to imagine anything so appalling,” Bruce Cardyn said at once.

But it seemed to Dorothy Fyvert that his manner had altered—that some assurance had gone from him, that he was trying to evade her questions. His eyes did not meet hers, instead they looked away from her down the Crescent, and a terrible fear gripped her. Suppose he suspected something—suppose he knew—something! Her very heart seemed to turn cold within her, to stay its beating as she watched his averted face. In a sudden accession of overwhelming terror she seized his arm.

“Mr. Cardyn, you do know something—you are keeping something from me. Tell me—tell me, anything—any certainty must be better than this awful suspense.”

Cardyn did not answer for a moment. He did not turn his head or glance at her, he even drew his arm gently away.

“I do not know anything,” he said slowly in a muffled tone that was curiously unlike anything Dorothy had heard from him before. “But I wonder—I expect I am quite wrong—I dare say I am going crazy—”

He moved slowly down the steps as he spoke, walking almost like a man in a dream. After a second's hesitation Dorothy followed him. She could not imagine what had caused the sudden change in his manner. There appeared to be nothing to account for it. The thought occurred to her that his mind had become unbalanced owing to the worry and the difficulties in connexion with Lady Anne's death.

The mode of his progression along the Crescent struck her as extraordinarily peculiar. He went forward a few steps, then stopped, then went forward again; once he turned his head and, seeing her behind him, seemed to hesitate for a moment, then went on more quickly, almost, thought Dorothy, as though he wanted to shake her off.

In spite of her all-absorbing anxiety the girl felt a curious little pang of pain. Then at last a strange thing happened. He hurried forward with a cry—Dorothy could not catch the words, but something about him, some cadence set her heart beating violently. She too sprang forward.

Bruce was stooping forward over the little beggar boy on the steps, then before Dorothy could catch him he had lifted the child tenderly in his arms and turned.

“Safe at last, Miss Dorothy,” he said with a wry smile as the girl came up to him.

Dorothy could not believe the evidence of her own eyes and ears as she gazed at the limp figure lying in Cardyn's arms. Could it indeed be Maureen—Maureen, her bright little butterfly sister? Maureen in ragged coat and knickers, her pretty hair jagged round her forehead, her face dirty and tear-stained, her hands blackened and bleeding, her bare feet showing through her tattered shoes and stockings—but still, Maureen! With a half incredulous sound of joy Dorothy stretched out her arms.

Cardyn shook his head.

“She is too heavy for you. And—I think she is ill. I do not believe that she is quite conscious. I will carry her into the hall, and then—”

Dorothy uttered no further remonstrance. One glance at the fever-bright eyes that met hers unseeingly had filled her with an awful foreboding.

Cardyn went straight through the hall into the library and laid his burden down on the big sofa near the window; Dorothy knelt down and took the hot, dirty little hands in hers.

“Maureen—Maureen, darling, don't you know Dorothy?”

The blue fevered eyes focussed themselves on her face; a faint gleam of recognition dawned in them. The child tried to raise herself.

“Dor-othy,” she said brokenly.

With a cry of joy Dorothy kissed the poor cracked lips.

But in another second Maureen had turned from her, had torn her hands from her sister's and apparently was fighting to keep off imaginary enemies with all her small strength.

Dorothy's eyes were full of a piteous appeal as she looked up at Cardyn. Then with a supreme effort she pulled herself together. She placed pillows under the child's head and laid her back gently on them and opened the window at her head.

“Please ring Dr. Spencer up and tell him to come at once,” she said to Bruce. “And then to the hotel—to Margaret. They must get rooms ready. I know Dr. Spencer will say that Maureen must not stay here. It is this horrible, horrible house that is killing her!”

While Bruce was obeying her she got warm water and gently sponged the grime from the child's face and neck and arms, and took off her ragged garments, replacing them with a quilted dressing-gown of her own. For a time Maureen seemed more comfortable, but very soon she began to toss about again, to beat aimlessly on the air. She caught at Dorothy's skirt as she passed.

“Do you know who I am?” she asked in a harsh cracked voice absolutely unlike her own.

Dorothy touched the outstretched hand gently. “You are Maureen, my dear little sister,” she said tenderly. “And I want you to lie still and go to sleep, just to please me.” 

But Maureen was past heeding her. She pushed her sister's hand away.

“I am not your little sister,” she said in her high-pitched cracked child's voice. “I am not anybody's little sister. I am—shall I tell you what I am?—I am—only you must not tell anybody”—her voice dropping to a whisper so that they could scarcely hear—”because if you did they would perhaps hang me. I am”—in a hoarse strained tone—“the Cat Burglar!”

Dorothy gave a cry of horror.

“Maureen, darling, you must not.”

Bruce Cardyn touched her. “Don't contradict her. She is wandering, poor child. She has heard so much of the murder and the Cat Burglar that it is haunting her brain.”

At this moment the long-expected motor drove up to the door and the inspector and John Daventry got out. The Ferret was looking as imperturbable as ever. Daventry's face was as black as thunder.

“No use!” he said as Cardyn came into the hall. “Couldn't get a word out of the girl, do what we would.”

“She is here,” Cardyn said quietly.

“Who is here?” John Daventry questioned, staring at him.

“The child—Maureen.”

John Daventry sat down heavily on the nearest chair. “How did she come?” he questioned helplessly. “Who found her?”

Cardyn smiled faintly. “I may say she found herself. She was sitting on a doorstep lower down the Crescent, disguised as a beggar boy.”

“Good Lord!” ejaculated John Daventry, staring at him. “Of all the extraordinary things! Inspector, what is going to happen next in this case of yours?”

“The arrest of the criminal, hope,” Inspector Furnival answered as he came forward, his face very stern and his eyes watching Cardyn's face carefully.

At the same moment Dr. Spencer walked into the hall.

“What is this I'm told? Little Miss Maureen found?”

Hearing his voice Dorothy came out of the library.

“Maureen is here, Dr. Spencer. But she is dreadfully ill. I don't think she even knows us, and she keeps on telling me that she is not Maureen —that she is the Cat Burglar! You must save her for me, doctor!”

“Tut, tut! my dear!” the doctor said, patting her arm paternally. “Children are up and down. I expect Maureen is over-tired and probably overexcited by what she has gone through. We shall soon have her about again.” He hurried after her into the library.

The three men left in the hall stood and looked at each other. Daventry was the first to speak.

“Let me catch the ruffians who stole little Maureen away, and by the Lord above I will strangle every mother's son of them. I will offer a big reward for every one who can give any information about them. How much shall it be, inspector? Five thousand?”

“Too much!” the inspector said laconically. “I think we shall clear the matter up for you in a day or two without a reward. The reward offered for the discovery of Lady Anne's murderer or murderers did not do much!”

“No! And you did not do much, either,” retorted John Daventry. “I wouldn't mention that if were you, inspector.”

“Ah, well, when we have found that mystery out and made
one
arrest I dare say you will be as much surprised as anyone, Mr. Daventry,” said the inspector placidly.

“I shall be surprised if you arrest anyone, right or wrong, for my part!” John Daventry said. “Nice useful sort of lot you Scotland Yard men are!”

At this juncture Dr. Spencer came out of the library.

“I have phoned for an ambulance and nurses, Mr. Daventry—most convenient arrangement having the telephone in the library the child must be taken to a nursing home without delay.”

“What is the matter with her?” John Daventry asked bluntly.

The doctor regarded him over the top of his spectacles.

“Shock and exposure,” he said briefly. “She will require great care for some time. I am having her moved to a nursing home close at hand. The sooner she is out of this house the better.”

“Is she talking about the Cat Burglar?” John Daventry pursued.

“Yes! She is quite upsetting her sister,” the doctor answered. “But my dear Mr. Daventry, it is worse than useless to talk about the wanderings of a sick child. Once away from here she will be better. No doubt she has heard people talking about the Cat Burglar, and her disordered imagination has fastened upon the idea. As for there being any relation in it to facts, the very notion is ridiculous. But there is one person I should like to see punished, inspector”—raising his voice for that gentleman's benefit—“and that is that housemaid, Alice.”

“There I am with you, doctor,” John Daventry joined in vigorously. “Girl deserves hanging.”

“Good morning, Mr. Soames! Lovely morning isn't it?”

The Daventry Arms, a picturesque black and white timbered inn, stood facing the village green. Opposite the inn door, between it and the pond where there would be water lilies later and where to-day the ducks were swimming lazily in the sunshine, there stood a very old yew tree with wooden seats round its gigantic trunk. Tradition had it that the second Charles had rested there when escaping from the soldiers of the Commonwealth. To-day a couple of old gaffers sat there smoking their pipes and exchanging remarks about the weather and the state of the crops with the landlord of the Daventry Arms.

That gentleman turned suddenly and his jaw dropped when he saw who his interlocutor was.

“This is a pleasure I had almost given up hoping for, Mr. Inspector, sir!”

“Oh, it hadn't left my mind that I promised to give you a call if I came this way,” the inspector said easily. “And here I am, you see! And I'm sure it's a pleasure to see you in all your glory as the landlord of the Daventry Arms, Mr. Soames.”

“Acting landlord, inspector,” Soames corrected. “We haven't been getting on quite so quickly as you expected.”

“You haven't indeed?” said the inspector. “But how is it, Mr. Soames? I thought that Mr. Daventry had promised—”

“Mr. John is doing everything he can for me, sir; he is backing me, and I don't think there is any doubt that the licence will be transferred to me at the next sessions. Only you see it isn't done yet. So I'm just having a preliminary canter, so to speak, until the licence of the Daventry Arms really stands in my name.”

“I see.” Inspector Furnival took out a large handkerchief and rubbed his forehead. “I see. It is astonishing how hot trudging along your country roads makes a man, and I have walked up from the station, for there was no sort of conveyance to be had. I hope you can give me a bite of lunch, Mr. Soames! I have heard great things of what the Daventry Arms can do in the culinary line.”

“Have you really, sir? Well, how would a slice of cold beef with a salad suit you? And a bit of real Stilton to wind up? Or if you would care to wait there will be a couple of spring chickens and a slice of Yorkshire ham—”

“I think I will have the beef and Stilton,” decided the inspector. “It will be ready quicker and there is no doubt that your country air gives one an appetite. And a glass of your best ale, Mr. Soames.”

“Yes, sir. And you will find that it can't be beaten. If you will come with me—”

The inspector followed him into a big comfortable room overlooking an old-fashioned garden. It struck him that Soames was looking decidedly older and thinner in spite of the fresh air. There was even less of the traditional portliness of the country landlord about him now than when he left Charlton Crescent. He himself brought in the ale for which the inspector had asked, and then began to lay the table in methodical fashion.

“And how do you like being back in your native place, Mr. Soames?” the inspector inquired. “It is your native place, isn't it?”

“Yes, sir! I was born in a cottage in the wood over yonder,” pointing through the window to where beyond the garden there stretched an apparently endless vista of tree-tops. “My father was head gamekeeper to the late Squire Daventry and his father before him and my mother was maid to his mother—the Lady Elizabeth Brand she was before she married him.”

“A good family record,” commented the inspector. “Your family and the Daventry family have been connected for years and attached, I take it?”

Soames's eyelids flickered. “I should hardly presume to say that, sir. Though I hope we have been faithful servants.”

“I am sure you have,” the inspector said heartily. “You went straight into service at the Keep as soon as you left school, eh? Mr John Daventry was telling me”—improvising a little.

“Not quite, sir,” Soames took up his tray and paused near the door. “When I first left school, I went for a time to a cousin of my mother's, a chemist up Islington way, but I couldn't stand the shop life and the stuffiness of London after the fresh air of Daventry. Then for a bit I was in the garden at the Keep. But I had no real bent that way, and when there was an opening for a boy up at the Keep, I took it and thought myself lucky. There I have been ever since, second footman, first footman, then butler. At the Keep I might have been now, but for her late ladyship deciding to live in London entirely when Mr. Christopher and Mr. Frank died, and Mr. John not having the means to keep up a proper establishment at the Keep, besides having their own servants.”