House in Charlton Crescent (23 page)

“Well, well! I don't see the sense of it, but as you are in charge of the case I suppose I am bound to respect your wishes,” conceded the rector unwillingly. “Only for twenty-four hours, though, mind! Then I shall take the liberty of speaking to Miss Margaret, and giving her a piece of my mind.”

“As you like, sir. When I have had time for what I want to do.”

But the inspector's long-drawn breath of relief did not escape the rector of North Coton. He frowned severely as he turned and walked out of the house without another word.

Left alone, the inspector waited by the table a minute, drawing his brows together apparently in a brown study, then he turned to a box that stood at the end of the table, and began to look over the contents, a heterogeneous mass of grey muslin, white paper and bits of grey parchment. Finally he selected a square piece of the parchment signed at both ends and a piece of charred paper on which a few words were still visible. He scrutinized these for a few minutes through a small microscope, then carefully wrapped them up in tissue paper, and put them in his pocket. He locked the box and as he went out of the room carefully locked the door. In the hall he spoke a few words to the man on duty. Outside the house he paused a moment and looked at his watch.

“No time to spare!” he said to himself as he hailed a passing taxi and bade the man drive to 161 Ilford Road, Fulham. They took the nearest way, through the park. And though Inspector Furnival's keen eyes took note of everything he passed his mind was busy with the puzzles of that bewildering mystery of the house in Charlton Crescent.

Ilford Road was one of the maze of small streets that lie at the back of Fulham Road. No 161 was one of a long row of depressing looking houses, all built after the same pattern. No. 161 differed a little from its neighbours in that its knocker and the fanlight over the door were a little cleaner.

As the inspector rang the bell, two men in plain clothes appeared as if by magic from the corner of a side street close at hand and at the same moment a policeman strolled by. He touched his hat to the inspector just as the door was opened by a tousled-looking elderly woman.

“Mr. Branksome at home?” asked the inspector.

“No! He is never at home in the daytime.”

“Mrs. Branksome here?” the inspector went on sharply.

“No. know nothing about her,” the woman returned truculently.

The inspector glanced at her. “Show me his rooms,” he said briefly.

The woman stared at him, tried to close the door—an effort the inspector frustrated by putting out his foot.

“Mr. Branksome ain't fond of having folks in his rooms when he's at home. It's no good you trying to get there when he is out,” she said defiantly, pushing the door hard upon the inspector's foot the while.

“I am from Scotland Yard, my good woman,” the inspector said, handing her his card and at the same time beckoning to the policeman who was apparently watching the proceedings with interest. He gave the man a few low-toned directions.

“Now, madam,” he said, turning back, “the rooms at once, please.”

The woman made no further objection. She let the door open and slipped back against the wall with a half-sob.

“I can't stop you, but I have always been a respectable woman myself. I never had the police coming to my house.”

The inspector stopped and looked at her.

“I think, madam, I had the pleasure of making your acquaintance in Kensington a few years ago. There was a little charge of shop-lifting. Mrs. Glover your name was then, if I remember rightly. No need to mention more, I see. The rooms, please.”

The landlady's face had turned as white as chalk.

“The drawing-room suite, first floor,” she said, her breath coming unevenly.

The inspector waited for no more. He went up two stairs at a time. The drawing-room suite evidently consisted of a small, dingily furnished, drab-looking little sitting-room and a small scantily furnished bedroom behind. At first sight there was nothing to differentiate it from hundreds of lodgings in the same sort of house in London, but the inspector's keen eyes saw that a wooden cupboard in the corner of the sitting-room and a box in the corner of the bedroom had both been fitted with extra strong locks. Not strong, enough, however, to resist a certain little instrument the inspector took from his pocket. Very soon the contents of the box were at his mercy and the inspector gave a satisfied grunt as his flexible fingers ran through them and separated them. Some curious articles were at the top—a mass of white hair; what looked like a woman's bonnet; underneath, a long old-fashioned cloak of black silk. Then again under that many papers and letters. The inspector glanced through them casually and selected one or two.

Then he drew out a large photograph in a handsome tooled leather frame—a photograph of a pretty, smiling, fair girl, in a remarkably 
décolletée
gown. “Yours always, Daisy,” was scrawled across it.

The inspector grinned. “I wonder what Miss Daisy will say when she sees this,” he said to himself.

It was curious how often Bruce Cardyn's steps took him past the nursing home in FitzGeorge Square where Maureen Fyvert was being slowly nursed back to health. In whatever part of London his business lay, the way home was always by FitzGeorge Square. It was but very seldom, however, that he was rewarded by the sight of the sick child's sister or any sign of her. To-night, he had been busy all day on some work for his partner, for of late Inspector Furnival's demand on his time had been less insistent. The poster and the
Daily Mercury
had naturally not escaped his notice, and it seemed to him that the detective's insistent advice had turned out as badly as it well could, and he had his own reasons for disliking the discovery of his identity to occur at this present juncture.

The inspector was still busy most days. That the mystery surrounding Lady Anne Daventry's death was rapidly being cleared up, Bruce knew. The bits of the puzzle, as the inspector termed it, were fitting into one another. But the major mystery remained a mystery to Cardyn yet. That certain suspicions had presented themselves went without saying. One possibility there was that would keep recurring to his mind, only to be dismissed with shuddering horror.

As he took the turning leading into the Square he saw a familiar figure approaching.

Dorothy was walking very quickly and her face bore manifest traces of disturbance. She had got quite near him before he was recognized. Then he saw her hesitate a moment as if she were going to turn back. He quickened his steps.

“Miss Fyvert, I was hoping to see you!”

“Oh!” The girl distinctly drew away from him now and regarded him with cool unfriendly eyes. “And why should you wish to see me—Mr.—er—Cardyn—er—Balmaine? Really, I do not know what to call you now.” Then in a moment she saw the obvious opening she had given him and turned away biting her lip.

But it was too late to retrieve her error.

“My name is Bruce Balmaine Cardyn as it always was,” the man said quietly. “And I should be very grateful if you would call me Bruce. After all, we are a sort of cousins, are we not?”

Dorothy shook her head.

“No! No, Mr. Balmaine Cardyn—no! Really there is not even a connexion between us. I couldn't really believe that a cousin of mine could turn detective.”

“Well, I do not want to be your cousin,” he said daringly. “I should prefer another relationship, Dorothy.”

The girl put out her hand. “Please don't— now—”

“Later!” Bruce assented daringly.

Dorothy's eyes were full of unshed tears.

“I can't think of anything but Maureen now. At least I shouldn't, only—what does this mean!” She held out an opened letter to him.

Cardyn glanced at it. It was not dated, he noticed at once; probably, he thought quickly, that Dorothy should have no opportunity of refusing the interview.

“Oh, do try and keep him away!” Dorothy urged, tears springing into her brown eyes. “I, —it makes me ill to see him—that horrid man! I know that it was his prying about the house that made Maureen—”

“How is she?” Cardyn questioned as she waited, looking up at him imploringly.

“I think she is better,” Dorothy said slowly. “She knows us all, and she is not delirious and only talks about the Cat Burglar in her sleep. But she is so frightfully weak. She can hardly lift her hand to her head, and she lies so quietly and so still, only looking at you with such big frightened eyes, that I can hardly believe that the pale child on the pillows is Maureen.”

“Poor child!” Cardyn said sympathetically. “Has she said anything about Alice Gray or told you where she was those two days?”

“She has told us nothing—nothing at all!” Dorothy answered with a little quiver in her voice. “And the doctor says that we are not to ask her anything or talk of anything exciting before her. In her sleep, as I said, she talks of the Cat Burglar. And sometimes she cries so piteously and begs us not to let her go to prison—either of us, she always says. I suppose she means herself and Alice. Mr. Cardyn, do you think her mind dwells on those fearful stories of that wretched Cat Burglar, simply because she has heard them talked about? You do not—do not think she could have had anything to do with—with helping him to murder Lady Anne?”

Of course not!” Cardyn beckoned to a passing taxi. “Miss Fyvert, you will let me see you to the hotel. I may be able to help you with the inspector.” For a wonder Dorothy made no objection, but stepped meekly into the taxi. Cardyn seated himself opposite.

“Miss Fyvert, you must not worry about the nonsense your little sister talks. That she got into bad hands when she struck up a friendship with Alice Gray is indisputable, but that either of the two had any part in Lady Anne Daventry's murder is impossible, unbelievable.”

Dorothy felt vaguely comforted. Once more Bruce Cardyn seemed to have turned from the detective she despised into the kind stranger who had rescued her from the fire, and of whom she had so often secretly dreamt during the past two years.

“But if it is not about Maureen, what do you think he wants to see me for?” she questioned after a time.

Bruce was quick to notice the difference in her tone. He had never heard that note in it since the inspector had disclosed his real occupation to her.

“I do not know,” he said slowly after a pause, during which he had silently gazed at the houses they were so swiftly passing. “Inspector Furnival has not given me his confidence in any way, but I should think—I should imagine that it might be about that letter that was found in the escritoire—the one from you to Lady Anne, mean.''

“In which I asked her for money?” Dorothy questioned, her tones hardening. “I suppose he wants to know why I wanted it and how I got it.”

“I should think it more than probable,” Bruce assented.

“I shall not tell him,” Dorothy said defiantly. “Why should I?”

“Well, it is not wise to make an enemy of the inspector, you know,” said Bruce diplomatically.

“It cannot possibly matter to him why I wanted the money. I didn't get it,” the girl argued.

“No. That is perhaps why he wants to question you,” Bruce said quietly. “Miss Fyvert, don't you see that in a case like this the police are bound to inquire into everything—even the veriest trifle that may have any bearing upon it? You will only at the most delay matters by opposing the inspector. It will all come out in the end. I know—I am certain that you have nothing to be ashamed of. Why not trust the inspector?”

“Because I hate him—loathe him!” Dorothy exclaimed with sudden warmth. “Detestable man! He dared to hint to me that my need of money might have been supplied by stealing Lady Anne's pearls and selling them! I believe he is capable of saying that I murdered her too. Now if it had been you—” She stopped short with a quick look that set all Bruce's pulses thrilling.

“If I asked you, would you trust me?” he questioned gravely.

Dorothy hesitated a minute, then she stretched out her hand.

“I have been a beast all the time—an ungrateful beast,” she said impulsively. “But I will trust you—I do trust you. I will tell you all about it—you will not fail me.”

Bruce held the slender ungloved hand for a moment in his firm, strong clasp.

“If you will honour me with your confidence I promise to respect it in every way and in any circumstance,” he said quietly.

“Well, then I will,” Dorothy said with the air of one coming to a sudden decision. “It—it really isn't my own secret. That was one reason why I did not tell it at once. I had lost money at cards, certainly, but my half-sister, Mrs. St. John Lavis, had lost much more. Her husband is poor, and naturally was very angry when she ran him into debt. He had forbidden her to play cards the last time he paid up for her losses, and threatened to advertise that he was not responsible if she did it again. He would have done it too. He is just the sort of man who would. And then Mona would have been ruined. Nobody would have trusted her in the shops or anywhere. And of course, that would have done for her socially even in the present day. I don't really think that morals matter so much as money nowadays,” she finished, looking at him with wet eyes.

“Some people put money before everything,” Bruce acquiesced. “Then it was really on Mrs. Lavis' behalf that you appealed to Lady Anne?”

“Yes, of course! There was nobody else I could ask. And I thought—I did think Aunt Anne cared for me enough to help me. But you see she wouldn't. Then, I don't know what we should have done, but my mother had left us some jewels we were to sell only in case of great extremity. My share was an emerald necklace with a diamond enamel pendant. A cousin of ours had always admired it and was willing to give a fancy price for it. So we sold it to her and paid Mona's debts.”