The Master of the Priory (15 page)

Sir Oswald, who had made a step forward, fell back. With a smothered imprecation Marlowe sprang forward.

“Escaped us again, by Heaven!” he cried. “This is your doing”—turning fiercely to the inspector—“while we have been fooling here she has got away.”

“She cannot have got out of the house,” the inspector said quietly. He turned to Sir Oswald. “You will understand, Sir Oswald, we must search the house at once. Mrs. Winter has successfully eluded us for so long that we are not taking any risks now.”

“I do not acknowledge that Miss Martin is Mrs. Winter,” Sir Oswald said firmly. “In fact I am positive that you are making an egregious mistake which Miss Martin will explain directly. In the meantime I cannot interfere with you.” With a gesture of impatience he turned away.

His heart was bitter within him. It seemed that he could do nothing for the woman he loved. His helplessness had never pressed more heavily upon him. He could not even go about the house, find her before the detectives did, and protect and reassure her; he could only wait and trust that she would come to him for refuge. He purposely left the study door open and various sounds from the hall reached him. Marlowe and Church were not inclined to let the grass grow under their feet, but it was soon evident that the governess was not in the schoolroom or in her room, was not in any of her usual haunts, and an uneasy fear began to dawn upon the inspector that for the second time they had been outwitted.

Susan, released by Latimer, came to join them, hearing from the confusion what had happened. Her brother turned upon her angrily.

“Here's a pretty kettle of fish! Didn't I tell you not to let the woman out of your sight until we came?”

Susan was looking white and puzzled. “She was in the schoolroom not a quarter of an hour ago, sitting as quiet as could be with her book. She couldn't have got away. It is impossible.”

“Possible or not, you mark my words, she has done it,” Marlowe said gloomily. They were coming downstairs now. “How did she find out we were after her?” he went on. “There was nobody had any suspicion of it here but you and Miss Lorrimer, was there?”

“No, and Miss Lorrimer was safe enough,” Susan said with a wry smile. “She would have moved heaven and earth to have Miss Martin caught if she could. Oh, well we shall get her directly, there is no doubt of that. She must have seen you outside and guessed what was up, and hidden herself somewhere.”

“Well, she isn't in the house, is she?” Marlowe questioned roughly.

“I don't think so,” Susan said a little doubtfully. “But it is difficult to make sure in a big place like this, and we haven't had long to look. But, if she isn't, she must be in the park or garden. Who is this?”

“This” proved to be one of Inspector Church's men who had been stationed outside. He looked bewildered as he blinked his eyes in the bright light of the hall.

“Please, sir, I was stationed at the gates and I thought I had better tell you that a motor went out just a few moments before you came.”

“Yes?” The inspector questioned sharply. “Who was in it, man?”

“Only young Mr. Turner and Miss Burford, the young lady who is stopping here, leastways there was nobody else to be seen.”

“Miss Burford!” Susan echoed, her eyes very wide open. “But Miss Burford is in her room. She answered just now when I asked her about Miss Martin, and said she did not know where she was.

Marlowe struck his hands together.

“That is how we have been done,” he cried.

“Or, stay, is it possible that it was the other, in Miss Burford's room, answering for her?”

Susan sprang towards the stairs. “I will soon make sure.”

Her brother hurried after her, and waited at the end of the passage while she went on to Barbara's room.

Susan unconsciously knocked authoritatively. The room appeared to be in darkness, her heart beat high with the hope that perhaps Jim had been right, after all.

There was no response for a minute; she was just making up her mind to turn the handle and enter when the door was thrown suddenly open, the room was flooded with electric light. Barbara stood upon the threshold.

“What do you want, Susan?” she questioned haughtily. “This is the second time you have been to my room.”

“We can't find Miss Martin,” Susan said hastily. “And we want her most particularly.”

As she spoke Barbara moved quickly down the passage and confronted Marlowe at the end.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“Looking for Miss Martin,” the man returned stolidly. “Or as you and I would know her better—by her own name, Miss Burford—for Mrs. Winter, the gamekeeper's wife from Carlyn.”

“Absurd!” Barbara said scornfully. “And why are you looking for her in my room, may I ask?”

“Because we heard that you were out motoring with young Mr. Turner,” replied Susan who was not to be easily daunted.

“But perhaps those that told us so made a mistake,” she finished significantly.

“I promised to go out with Mr. Turner but I changed my mind,” she said coldly. She passed the brother and sister and went quickly down to the hall. Her plot had succeeded. Now she was wondering what penalty she would have to pay.

On the mat near the hall door stood Inspector Church and another man talking to Sir Oswald. The inspector had rightly divined what had become of the fugitive, he was withdrawing his men from the Priory, and with the aid of the telephone and telegraph they were hoping to make a successful capture at one of the railway stations within reach.

Meanwhile he was elaborately apologizing to Sir Oswald for having disturbed the Priory in the exercise of his warrant.

Sybil came out of the boudoir. It was evident that she was in a towering temper. Unmindful of the group near the door she swept across to the Marlowes.

“So I hear that you have let her escape again,” she said angrily. “This is your fault”—looking at Susan—“I will—”

“Beg pardon, miss, I don't know that it is anyone's fault,” Marlowe interrupted. He had recovered his stolidity, telling himself that the unhappy woman would soon be overtaken and arrested. “Of course no one reckoned on Miss Burford helping her to get off.”

For an instant Sybil stared at him in amazement; then a light broke upon her; she struck her hands together.

“Barbara! I might have known. But she shall tell us—she shall explain. Barbara!” She raised her voice.

But with a little gesture of infinite scorn Barbara passed her by. At the same moment a grasp of iron was laid on Sybil's arm, and she found herself face to face with Sir Oswald.

“Come here!” he said imperatively, turning back to the library.

Sybil obeyed meekly. Some look in the blind man's face cowed her, and her anger died down.

Sir Oswald closed the door behind them.

“Is it possible that I have heard aright?” he demanded sternly. “Possible that you have introduced a detective into my house, to spy upon a lady who was in possession of my fullest confidence?”

Sybil felt a momentary twinge of shame.

“It was for your sake I did it, Oswald,” she said. Then, gathering up her courage, “she was deceiving you all. She is an adventuress, a murderess!”

Sir Oswald held up his hand. “No more of that, Sybil. You are a poor judge of character. Elizabeth Martin a murderess! If the whole world proclaimed her guilty I should know she was innocent. I should like to tell you that a fortnight ago I asked Miss Martin to be my wife, and she refused. If I had been able to see her to-night I should have renewed my offer.”

“What!” Sybil's face flushed, and a crimson wave swept over it. “You must be mad, Oswald!” she said hotly. “Quite, quite mad!”

“Possibly,” Sir Oswald agreed quietly. “But you will find there is some method in my madness, Sybil. In the meantime you will understand that your visit here must close.” He opened the door and bowed to her ceremoniously. “I am sorry my mother will not be able to see you again. After breakfast to-morrow, which no doubt you will wish to take in your own room, I will tell Jones to bring round the car at once.” 

E
LIZABETH'S
pulses thrilled as the car swept her down the park to safety. It was not a pleasant night. The moon shone fitfully, but there were heavy banks of clouds, little scuds of moisture blew in her face. Young Turner wrapped her round in rugs. He went on talking to her as if she were Barbara in his frank, breezy way until they were clear of the Priory, and its surrounding trees, then when they were in the open park nearing the lodge gates his tone changed.

“Tell me where you want me to drive you,” he said quietly. “I will take you as far as you like. Remember I want to help you for Barbara's sake.”

“Thank you,” Elizabeth said in a stifled whisper; she thought a moment. “You know the Brangwyn Beech on the Oakover road?”

Algy nodded. “Of course.”

“Then,” Elizabeth said slowly, “if you will put me down there I shall be most grateful.”

Young Turner stared at her blankly. “But that is only five miles away. You don't realize that the car could take you a hundred and never turn a hair—the beauty.”

Elizabeth's stiff lips tried to smile.

“Nevertheless, if you put me down near the Brangwyn Beech, provided we are not followed, I am safe.”

“Well, you know best, but it doesn't seem much of a start,” Algy said ruefully. At the sound of the approaching motor a woman had run out to open the lodge gates. As they glided through Algy called out cheerfully, “Good night, Mrs. Hatchard, unless you like to come with us for a ride.”

The woman laughed as she stood back. Algy put on speed as soon as they were on the high road. His quick ears had caught the sound of a car bowling quickly along from the opposite direction towards the Priory.

“Just in time,” he said to his companion.

“You mean?” Elizabeth breathed.

Algy turned round. “They have gone up to the Priory. Yes, I fancy those are the people we want to avoid. I say, I am going to drive round a bit before I take you to the Brangwyn Beech. I don't mean the beggars to be able to make sure which way we have gone.”

A deep-drawn breath was his only answer. Elizabeth sat motionless; the thought of that car and its occupants paralysed her.

But at last the Brangwyn Beech was reached. Elizabeth threw off the coat. In her black jacket and small, dark hat she looked quite a different person.

Young Turner helped her down and held out his hand.

“Good-bye; I wish you would have let me take you farther.”

“This is best, thanks!” Elizabeth said softly, letting her hand rest in his for a minute. “Believe me, I am very grateful to you.” Then with a little gesture of farewell she turned away behind the car and was lost to sight amid the darkness.

Algy started without a backward look. He would not pry to find out which way the poor thing had gone, he said to himself. Nevertheless there was a footpath across the moor that ran by the Brangwyn Beech; a shrewd suspicion that that was the way she would take crossed his mind, and he hoped that she knew her way, for Brangwyn moor was not the place to be lost in late at night.

Elizabeth walked on as quickly as she could, stumbling every now and then over the irregularities of the ground. A walk of a couple of miles lay before her, but only the first part was over the moor, very soon she branched off and came to a low stone wall with outstanding steps on either side, Welsh fashion. She clambered over without much difficulty, waited for a moment to recover her breath and then hurried on as if Inspector Church and his myrmidons had been at her very heels. Dark though it was she found her way with very little trouble. It lay now beside shallow stream and the hedge on the other hand and the sound of trickling water guided her. But as she got farther on and found herself in a wood, it was a very different matter.

More than once she ran into tree-trunks, the bushes caught her skirts and tore them. Worse than all, it was beginning to rain in real earnest now, and the rising wind beat it full in Elizabeth's face. It twisted her skirts round her and impeded her progress. It caught strands of her hair and blew them in her cheeks like whipcords. She felt a deplorable object on emerging from the wood, as she realized that she had nearly reached her destination. Before her, only visible in the darkness as a dim intangible shape, stood a moated Elizabethan house—Walton Grange.

Elizabeth knew it at once; on one of her rare holidays from Maisie she had made her way here and gazed at the house from the outside.

She waited a minute trying to gather up her courage. What was she going to say? Then a new terror assailed her. She had no idea of the time, she knew that it must be getting late; suppose the household had retired to bed?

As this fresh notion struck her she brushed back her hair with a weary gesture and started forward again. The footpath she was on led to the grounds of the Grange by a little wicket-gate and a small rustic bridge over the moat. As far as Elizabeth could see the front of the house was all in darkness. She stood still with consternation, and yet she hardly knew that she had intended, certainly not to ring the front door bell. But perhaps on the other side there might be some light. She went round slowly, feeling her way with outstretched hands. Then suddenly she was almost dazed by a blaze of light. A French window stood wide open and through it Elizabeth could see a charming, homelike room. At a davenport in the centre Lady Treadstone sat writing.

Now that everything seemed so easy Elizabeth's courage failed her, she drew back and leaned against the wall, fighting vainly to keep back the sobs that threatened to stifle her.

At last Lady Treadstone got up and came to the window, putting out her hand as though to shut it.

Elizabeth felt that if she did not speak now her last chance would be gone. She stepped forward unsteadily.