Return to Spring (23 page)

Very deliberately she folded the certificate and, placing it with the photograph, put the two carefully in her handbag. She closed the wallet and passed it to her companion.

“Amelia,” she said, “I’m going to drive you as far as the gates of Carbay Hall, and I want you to deliver that wallet to Edmund Hersheil.”

“But,” protested Miss Strayte, flushing with evident embarrassment, “I really couldn’t deliver anything that had been tampered with, as if—as if it was just as we had found it.”

Valerie let in her clutch.

“Don’t be such a fool, Amelia,” she said. “You have nothing to do with this. You didn’t take anything out of the wallet, did

you?”

“No—”

“Then, why get all worked up about it? In any case, Edmund probably won’t miss these things until you’re well out of his way! Then,” she added, with a smile, “it’s my funeral!”

“But really, should you do this?” Miss Strayte protested once more. “I can’t see any good coming out of it.”

“Perhaps not, Amelia,” Valerie replied, “but there might be a lot of fun to be had.”

“Well, I’m sure I don’t know what to think,” Miss Strayte replied hopelessly.

“Don’t bother to think at all, Amelia, dear!” Valerie said

lightly. “Leave all that to me, and just promise to return Mr. Hersheil’s wallet to him with my respects.”

“Oh, very well. Where do I get off?”

“That’s the spirit!” Valerie smiled. “I’ll drop you at the main gates of the Hall. I’m sure you’ll enjoy the walk along the drive, Amelia. The gardens are said to be some of the finest in Northumberland!”

Valerie drove away from Carbay Hall with a set purpose—to find Victor Monset. In those first moments she was not quite sure what impulse had prompted her to retain John Veycourt’s photograph, but a rooted, instinctive dislike for Edmund Hersheil was certainly part of her reason. She knew that she would most likely find Victor along the cliffs, and she drove slowly down the narrow track, watching for the first glimpse of a solitary figure.

She saw him seated on a rocky promontory long before he looked up at the sound of the approaching car. When she was near enough to make herself heard, she shouted her greeting above the noise of the wind. The artist laid aside his sketching-block and came towards her.

“I’m still of the opinion that you would appreciate life more if you left that car behind on occasion,” he told her, with a smile. “You ought to be walking on such a day as this.”

“Or sitting lazing on the first promontory I come to—as you have been doing all morning!” she flashed.

“I beg to differ.” He held up the sketch he had been busy with. “I have been working.”

“It’s very good, Victor,” Valerie said soberly, gazing at the sketch and comparing it with the original cliff and bay and restless sea beyond. “Have you sold any more of them?”

“Yes,” he replied. “The two I sent to London at the end of last week were sold in no time. I got ten pounds apiece for them, which wasn’t so bad, and this morning old Veycourt offered me fifty for that canvas of the Hall, and a companion piece to be painted from the village side—at the same price.”

“How exciting!” Valerie smiled. “That ship of yours looks as if it is drawing near to port at last!”

“I hope so.” Monset began to pack his things together. “I owe a lot to old Veycourt,” he went on. “People say an artist turns out his best work when adversity knocks at the door, but don’t you believe it! I’d rather work on a full stomach any day than an empty one!”

“And the Squire’s continued hospitality has provided you

with the necessary creature comforts?” Valerie queried.

“Yes.” Monset paused, gazing out over the white-capped waves. “When I came here I was supercilious enough to imagine I could sponge on them without giving it a thought. They had the money and comfort I needed and—well, they were fool enough to renew the invitation to stay! I reckoned I’d be a bigger fool to pack up and go. Now, however—” He threw back his head and laughed abruptly. “Now I believe I feel indebted to the old man!”

“You mean—you would like to do something for him?”

Monset shrugged.

“What can one do for anyone in Veycourt’s position?” he asked.

Valerie did not reply immediately. She was fumbling in her handbag. At last, she said, producing the photograph and the certificate:

“What do you make of this, Victor?”

The artist unfolded the yellowing paper and read across the form before he turned to look at her, a puzzled expression in his eyes.

“Where did you get it?” he demanded. “It looks as if it belongs to old Veycourt.”

“I think it does.” Valerie passed the photograph to him. “Does this remind you of anyone?” she asked.

“It’s that fellow Travayne, isn’t it?” Monset said, after a minute’s hesitation. “An old photograph, I should say.”

“Victor,” Valerie accused, “you’re not very bright this morning!

Look at the back of that photograph, and then read the birth

certificate again—carefully.”

The artist complied.

“Good heavens!” he exclaimed. “Travayne!” He drew in a long breath. “That, according to the certificate, was the maiden name of Alric Veycourt’s wife. This is her son, John Veycourt— otherwise John Travayne!”

“I’m glad we both figured it out the same way!” Valerie said. “I was beginning to wonder if, perhaps, my imagination was running amok!”

Monset was leaning over the door of the car, still gazing at the photograph in his hand.

“It’s possible,” he said. “Just possible!”

“May I add that those were my very words?” Valerie

remarked. “What are we going to do?”

Monset took thirty seconds to consider.

“You can leave them in my care quite safely,” he said, getting into the car beside her, “and before you drop me at the Hall, you can tell me how they came to be in your possession.”

Valerie smiled.

“Don’t dream of ringing up the police,” she advised. “I assure you I have not committed a burglary at the Hall!” She paused. “I may be guilty of a lesser crime, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“Is it a crime to return only part of lost property?”

“I don’t know. Where did you find these?”

“In Edmund Hersheil’s wallet He dropped it on the cliff road—presumably in the course of a struggle with that demon horse he likes to ride.”

Monset’s expression changed.

“Hersheil?” he said, with a dry smile. “Good heavens! What a situation! Of course, if John Travayne is really who we think he is, Hersheil has found out, too.”

“Exactly! Go on, my dear Watson!”

“For some reason best known to himself,” Victor continued, “John Veycourt returns, calling himself John Travayne, but determined not to go near the Hall or his father. A sentimental longing to see the old homestead might quite easily have brought him to Conningscliff in the first place. Feasible?”

“Perfectly!”

“Then, somehow, Edmund finds the photograph and realises the truth. I know from personal experience that Alric Veycourt is getting heartily fed up with his nephew, and I think Edmund senses it. Therefore, he must have realised what the appearance of the Squire’s son would mean at this juncture.”

“I wonder why he carried the photograph round with him?” Valerie mused.

“I don’t know. An unexplained impulse, probably.” Victor looked up. “Hullo! Here comes your Amelia.” Miss Strayte was walking towards them from the main gateway of the Hall. Valerie drew up, and Victor Monset jumped from the car.

“I’ll ’phone you in the morning,” he said to Valerie, as he turned up the path which led round the south wall.

“What did Mr. Hersheil say?” Valerie asked eagerly, when Miss Strayte was seated in the car beside her.

“He seemed quite pleased to get his wallet back,” Amelia replied. “I really don’t think you should have interfered with any of the contents.”

“Good gracious, Strayty! You didn’t
tell
him that I had kept anything back?” Valerie cried in mock alarm.

“Hardly!” Miss Strayte returned, with dignity. “I delivered the wallet—that was all.”

Valerie chuckled to herself several times during the leisurely journey back to Denestep Grange. She garaged the car and went across the stretch of green lawn to the house to be met by Bette Elvermere in the riding costume which was her perpetual garb in the mornings.

“Val, there’s a gentleman to see you in the library.” Bette smiled archly. “I won’t keep you in suspense,” she went on. “It’s Edmund Hersheil from the Hall.”

Valerie bit her lip, but she did not hesitate after that first momentary pause and crossed the hall to the library.

Edmund came forward as she entered, and he did not take any trouble to conceal his anger.

“I’ve come for the remainder of my property,” he said.

Valerie lit a cigarette with an appearance of coolness which she was far from feeling.

“Gracious! don’t tell me Amelia didn’t really return your wallet!” she cried, with mock concern. “It’s not at all like her, I assure you.”

He took two strides across the carpet and caught her arm in a grip that was far from gentle.

“You know what I mean,” he said angrily. “I got the wallet all right, but what about the things you took out before you returned it?”

Valerie was quite capable of looking at him with wide, innocent eyes and an accusing pout as she said:

“You think I
stole
something belonging to you, Edmund? How could you!”

He stared down at her, hesitant, angry. She could see that her attitude had taken him by surprise.

“You don’t think I took—money out of your wallet?” she asked, with fine contempt.

“No.” He set her free, and she rubbed her arm where his fingers had been and would certainly leave their mark. “I don’t think you need to take money,” he told her.

She laughed at that.

“Then, shall we say it has all been a mistake—on your part?” she suggested.

“Are you sure you found nothing else?” he asked. “There— nothing fell out of the wallet as you picked it up?”

“Nothing fell out, as far as I noticed,” she replied truthfully enough.

He turned away.

“I’ve lost something rather valuable,” he said. “Something that might cause trouble if it fell into the wrong hands. I rode over here across the dunes. I must go back and search where you found the wallet.”

Valerie blew two perfect smoke rings ceilingwards.

“I’m so sorry I can’t come back and help you search, Edmund,” she said. “It would have been rather fun!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

A letter had arrived at Conningscliff that morning, and its contents had sent Ruth rushing about her duties with a wildly beating heart. The letter was from Doctor Philip Kelwyn, and it explained that his friend, John Travayne, had spoken to him about her father, and, since the doctor was likely to be in Newcastle district for a day or two, he was taking the liberty of calling to see the farmer at about twelve o’clock that day.

No word from John himself! In spite of fear and hope, anxiety and a kind of despairing joy, Ruth had time to think of that. He had not written. Could she expect it, she asked herself, after all she had said? And yet—just a line! It would not have cost him very much of his pride!

William Faraday had decided to remain in his room during the morning. If the doctor wanted to make an examination, the farmer considered that he would be better in bed, ready for him when he arrived.

Ruth was amazed at her father’s calm attitude to all that was going on around him. She knew that it was not indifference. He was much too eager to take up the threads of life again for that. Rather, it seemed that he had been given a quiet strength for this moment, a strength which came from outside himself.

The hands of the kitchen clock crept round to twelve, and then to half-past. Ruth began to feel anxious.

She was carrying a stack of plates through from the diningroom, when she heard the sound of wheels and knew that a car had pulled up before the front door. Setting the plates back on the sideboard, her hands flew nervously to her hair, straightening it, and she went out to the porch.

Philip Kelwyn was a much younger man than Ruth had expected. He could not have been much more than forty, she thought, as she found herself shaking hands. He was over six feet, and stooped a little as he walked behind her into the hall.

“Could I offer you some lunch?” Ruth asked, conscious of the nervous note in her voice. “Our guests have just finished.”

“You could. Your Northumbrian air has given me back the appetite of my boyhood!”

His voice was friendly, kind. There was little of the great surgeon about him, Ruth thought, as she led the way into the deserted dining-room.

“You’ve had your lunch?” he inquired.

Ruth hesitated.

“Or am I in luck and can hope for your company?” he added.

“I haven’t had anything to eat yet,” Ruth admitted. “I always take mine after I have attended to my guests.”