Missing or Murdered (28 page)

“Yes,” said Vereker, and something lumpish seemed to rise in his throat. “Is she going to go back on her first statement?” he asked himself, and felt his brow grow moist with sudden dread.

“I deny it as stoutly now, Mr. Vereker, as I did then,” she said firmly, “and you will doubtless remember that you said you had a shrewd idea as to who had forged my signature.”

“I thought so at the time, Mrs. Cathcart,” he replied. “I had an idea that it might be Lord Bygrave's secretary, Mr. Smale. I have never been able to prove it. He protests that he never had anything to do with the handling of those bearer bonds, and I believe he has spoken the truth.”

“Whom did he blame?” came the direct question from Mrs. Cathcart.

“I don't know that he blamed anybody,” said Vereker hesitatingly.

“Didn't he suggest that I had done so?” asked Mrs. Cathcart,

“Possibly,” replied Vereker weakly.

“And you believed it, Mr. Vereker?” she asked quietly.

Vereker at once looked up, and saw a face shot with pain gazing sadly at the fire. Tears had welled up in her eyes. Before he could reply she continued:

“Of course you don't know me well; I only wish you knew me better. I can quite see that such a receipt required a lot of explaining away. In the light of my marriage to Lord Bygrave (an incident in his life which he desired to be utterly forgotten, and which I at that moment was inclined to divulge in my reminiscences) it would appear to a stranger that the £10,000 was distastefully like hush-money. I cannot blame anyone not cognizant of the facts and ignorant of my character coming hastily to such a conclusion.”

“I have felt ever since I saw you,” said Vereker emphatically, “that you were incapable of such an act.”

“I wish I could believe you,” she replied, and next moment burst into bitter sobs.

“It's rather unfair of you to doubt my word, Mrs. Cathcart,” said Vereker curtly. “You imply that I'm a—”

“No, no, no, Mr. Vereker,” she hastened to correct, holding up a protesting hand to him. “I have expressed myself unfortunately. Forgive me.” She hurriedly wiped the tears from her eyes and, collecting herself, continued:

“You had every reason to draw such an inference, and yet it was an inference that I hoped against hope that you wouldn't draw. There are people one meets in life by whom one wishes to be well thought of. Immediately I saw you that wish was born in me. I cannot explain why: it's some obscure working of the subconscious mind, I suppose. When you came to me about that receipt and frankly put the matter to me, I lost my temper, but from that moment I had faith in you. I revealed to you the story of my marriage to Lord Bygrave, and I felt you trusted me and thought me an honourable woman.”

“I did and do, Mrs. Cathcart,” said Vereker quietly.

“But, Mr. Vereker, though I told you the truth with regard to that matter, there was a part of my life-story which I concealed. At the moment it seemed quite unnecessary to the investigation you were making. Since then, however, things have occurred which make it imperative that I should acquaint you with certain facts which I had hoped were for ever buried in the past. I must do so now to clear myself of any implication with the matter of those bonds and the disappearance of Lord Bygrave. After that I shall feel that my conscience is clear and that I am at last at peace with myself and the world—at least so far as my unhappy past will allow me.”

Mrs. Cathcart paused as if to collect her thoughts, and at that moment Vereker raised a hand to the bandage about his forehead, which had loosened.

“May I ask, Mr. Vereker, how you came to hurt yourself?” she said solicitously. “I didn't like to be inquisitive when you didn't proffer any explanation. Are you in any pain?”

“No, Mrs. Cathcart, I am quite comfortable, thank you, but the bandage has worked loose.”

“Let me fasten it for you,” she said, rising quickly to her feet and bending over him. Deftly untying the knots at the back of his head, she readjusted the handkerchief, and in doing so her cool, soft fingers swept in an unconscious caress across Vereker's brow. Her proximity to him exercised again that magic thrill which he had experienced on a previous occasion. Her touch and an exquisitely delicate perfume emanating from her made the blood throb in his temples. A feeling almost akin to fear came over him. He had never before responded so swiftly and deeply to the personal magnetism of any woman; never before had he felt that the reins guiding his emotions, apparently so secure in his hands, might be so easily taken from his grasp by the overwhelming attraction of beauty.

“I think that's secure now,” said Mrs. Cathcart, eyeing her handiwork critically. “Would you like something to drink? You are tired and want a stimulant.”

“Not in your presence,” he said, smiling, and it seemed to him as if the words had been uttered in spite of himself.

“It's very charming of you to say so,” she replied, flushing slightly, “because I've got a long story to tell you. But you haven't let me know how you came by your hurt.”

“It's entirely your fault,” replied Vereker jocularly. “You see, I went down to Bramblehurst this evening, hoping to find you there. The house was in darkness, and I was just about to depart when I thought I'd go round and see if there were any lights at the back. There were none, but, to my surprise, I found the kitchen window wide open.”

“Good gracious, I wonder how that happened!” exclaimed Mrs. Cathcart, her eyes wide with astonishment.

“I can't say. Thinking some one had effected an entrance with questionable motives, I climbed in and explored. I reached the drawing-room and discovered that all your personal belongings had gone and, coming to the conclusion that you had flown, I was about to retrace my steps when some one flashed an electric torch in my face. The next moment I was struck down by a violent blow on the forehead. On regaining my senses I beat a diplomatic retreat and returned to town.”

“Did you see your assailant?” questioned Mrs. Cathcart anxiously.

“Yes, and in my excited frame of mind I thought it was Lord Bygrave. Since then I have come to the conclusion that it cannot possibly have been he.”

At the conclusion of this narration Vereker noticed that Mrs. Cathcart had gone deathly pale and was trembling violently. She appeared about to faint.

“Can you give me a little brandy, Mr. Vereker?” she said weakly. “You will find a flask in the cabinet.”

Vereker jumped up from his chair and, bringing the restorative, applied it to Mrs. Cathcart's lips. With an effort she managed to swallow the liquid, and in a few minutes the colour had returned to her blanched cheeks and she was once again able to sit erect in her chair.

“It must be he!” she exclaimed to herself distractedly. “It must be he! Am I never to escape from the beast?”

“Who do you think it was, Mrs. Cathcart?” asked Vereker solicitously. “Don't be afraid to tell me, and you needn't fear that you will come by any harm if you will just put yourself in my hands. I'll see Inspector Heather of Scotland Yard to-morrow, and he'll look after your personal safety.”

“No, no,” came the bitter cry, “don't inform the police—you must not—I beg you, Mr. Vereker!”

“Then may I—may I look after you?” asked Vereker haltingly.

“Will you, Mr. Vereker?” she pleaded, looking up to him with fear-haunted eyes and seizing his hands in hers.

“Certainly, Mrs. Cathcart, if you will trust me. But who is this man of whom you live in dread?”

Bowing her head as if in shame, she muttered:

“My present husband.”

“Good God!” exclaimed Vereker in spite of himself. “But—but I thought—I thought—”

“I know what you are thinking,” she interrupted almost fiercely; “and you are right. I have committed bigamy. There's no use my mincing matters. After what I have suffered a phrase cannot torture me any more. But I committed bigamy, as they call it, through the lying machinations of this Mr. Cathcart. His name is not Cathcart at all; it is George Darnell, and he is a full cousin of Henry Darnell, Lord Bygrave. I discovered this after my marriage to him in America. I met him in Boston during the height of my popularity as an operatic singer and, probably through his remarkable resemblance to my former husband, I fell in love with him. He proposed to me, and I had to reveal to him the fact that I was already married. Not many months afterwards he brought me a newspaper cutting announcing the death of Henry Darnell, Lord Bygrave, and, thinking that I was at last free, I accepted his renewed proposal. Our married life was unhappy from the very beginning. He is a cowardly man with an ungovernable temper and, after a few months, began to terrorize me into supplying him with money, which he squandered on other women. I left him and put myself in the hands of solicitors, who promptly saw to it that he should not molest me further.

“Then he actually stooped to forging my signature to a cheque for several thousand pounds. Not wishing to become the subject of gossip for a hemisphere, I let that pass, and he then informed me that Henry Darnell, Lord Bygrave, my husband, was alive and that the Henry Darnell who had died was Lord Bygrave's cousin. Under the threat that he would expose the fact that I had committed bigamy, he tried to extort further sums of money from me. I promptly flung up my career on the plea of failing health and secretly fled from America to escape from him. Since then I have learned that he underwent a long sentence of imprisonment for a very clever forgery previous to our marriage, and that that was the reason of his change of name to Cathcart. Ever since my arrival in England I have lived in dread that he would pursue and persecute me anew, and now my worst fears have been realized.”

“Did he resemble Lord Bygrave facially?” asked Vereker, his eyes alight with a new excitement.

“Very much so, but there is a sinister cast about his whole countenance, and when roused to anger he looks as if he were a maniac.”

“He was without doubt my assailant at Bramblehurst to-night,” said Vereker. “You have given me a living portrait of the man. Did Lord Bygrave know of his cousin's criminal career?”

“I cannot say, Mr. Vereker; but there is one thing certain, and that is on his arrival in England he would try to extort money from Lord Bygrave. When you brought me that receipt and also the envelope addressed to me in what you thought was Lord Bygrave's hand, I had a very strong suspicion that George Darnell was in England and was continuing here his nefarious career. That is the principal reason why I have suddenly decided to go abroad.

“Had you any other reason, Mrs. Cathcart?” asked Vereker tentatively.

“Yes,” she said wearily, “I have. I will tell you some day—it has nothing to do with the Bygrave case.”

Vereker rose preparatory to taking his departure.

“When do you leave for the Riviera?” he asked.

“To-morrow, without fail,” she replied. “I cannot live a day longer in the same country as George Darnell.”

“And if he follows you out there?” asked Vereker.

A look of terror sprang again into Mrs. Cathcart's eyes; she trembled and, drawing close to Vereker, laid a hand on the lapel of his coat.

“You said you would look after me,” she murmured. “Will you keep that promise?”

“I will,” replied Vereker. “If ever you feel in danger of violence from this beast, will you wire or cable me?”

“At once, Mr. Vereker,” she replied. “You inspire confidence in me. I am not afraid when you are near me. Good night.”

She extended to him a soft, faintly dimpled and beautifully shaped hand. He grasped it warmly in his own, and the next moment had pressed it swiftly to his lips.

“Good night, Mrs. Cathcart,” he said. “May I see you off to-morrow?”

“Do come, Mr. Vereker,” she said eagerly, “and I'll try not to cry as the train moves off.”

Next moment Vereker was walking swiftly homewards. The stars seemed to him to be superbly bright, and his blood was racing madly through his veins. For the first time in his life he felt that he was in love.

On arrival at his flat, Vereker slipped off his jacket and shoes, donned a warm woollen dressing-gown and slippers. Lighting a pipe, he sat down at his writing-desk. An hour later he was still sitting there scribbling as if possessed: he was drawing up an orderly account of his lengthy investigations in the Bygrave Mystery up to the moment of his discovery of the existence of Mr. George Darnell, alias Cathcart, as one of the principals in the case. The sudden intrusion of that unsavoury figure into the field of his observation was of paramount importance to Vereker. As iron filings fly and adhere to a magnet, so did all the loose facts which he had so patiently collected, and which had so far proved intractable, gather round this startling discovery and cohere as if by magic. He was too excited to sleep and, having completed a detailed summary of his work on the case, rose from his desk, poured himself out a stiff whisky and soda, and sat down in his arm-chair by the fire.

“One more piece to fit into the puzzle,” he soliloquized, “and the picture is complete. The sequel to the discovery of Mr. George Darnell is positively amazing, and Heather has an inkling of that sequel. That I know. I wonder if he has unearthed this all-important factor leading up to the sequel.”

He thereupon swiftly drew up his plans for the morrow. He would go and see Mrs. Cathcart off on her journey southwards and immediately afterwards seek an interview with Heather. The inspector would at once set his trained pack on the hunt for Mr. George Darnell and run him to earth. Celerity was essential, for the quarry (now that he had scented danger, as was evident from his attack on Heather and himself at Bramblehurst) would take the first opportunity to quit the country.

Vereker finally turned in, but slept little. Excitement kept him awake and his brain, almost feverishly active, vacillated between reviewing the morbid episodes of the Bygrave Mystery and building very pleasant castles in Spain, castles in which there ever dwelt a very beautiful woman whom he knew.