The Master of the Priory (3 page)

Marlowe coughed.

“We phoned to the junction, sir, but she wasn't in the train. She must have got out at Brentwood, the first stop. But we shall catch her soon, there is no doubt of that. The inspector is having her description circulated. But he is hampered in one way: there doesn't seem to be any photograph of her to be had. We were wondering if any of the servants up here would be likely to have one.”

“I should think it was exceedingly unlikely,” Carlyn's tone was short in the extreme. He rose to signify that the interview was ended. “But you must make what inquiries you like, constable. I think you are on the wrong track altogether, as you know.”

“Yes, sir!” The constable's eyes gleamed unpleasantly. It was evident that he resented his dismissal. He glanced furtively round the room. “Time will show which of us is right, sir,” he said as he left the room.

Left alone Frank Carlyn drew a small folding case from his pocket. It held three miniatures painted on ivory. One was that of a fine, soldierly-looking old man; opposite him a comparatively young woman with a sweet, serious face, and then, beneath, the lovely, laughing face of a very young girl with a mass of red-gold hair, and big, mischievous, grey eyes.

It was on this last that Carlyn's gaze was riveted.

“Yes, I was right to bring it, no one could have mistaken it,” he said slowly.

With it in his hand he went slowly across to his writing-table, opened a drawer and thrust the miniature and case to the very back. Then he locked the drawer and thrust the key into his pocket, his face looking very grave and stern.

“C
ASTOR
is the next station, miss. The next stop I mean. You will have nearly an hour's run before you come to it.” The speaker, a burly countryman, was following his family on to the platform and paused at the door to give this piece of information to the other occupant of the carriage, a tall woman in black sitting near the window at the other end.

“Thank you,” she said with a slight bow. Touching his cap the man went on. The train began to move. The woman crossed over and opening her bag drew out a tiny pocket mirror. Holding it up she studied her face intently for a minute, then with a deep sigh she laid the glass back, replaced the smoke-tinted glasses she had momentarily taken off, and drew down her thick veil.

“It looks quite right,” she said to herself in a low frightened whisper. “And it is so far away, surely there cannot be any danger.”

She stood up and pulled down the shabby portmanteau with the letters E.B.M. stamped on one side. The label was addressed in firm angular writing—“Miss Elizabeth Martin, Davenant Priory, near Castor.” She shuddered as she put it on the seat beside her. Then suddenly she burst into a passion of sobs.

“Oh, Lizzie, Lizzie, you were right, I can't do it,” she cried. “And yet, God help me, what is to become of me if I don't?”

Her sobs subsided, she lay back in her seat, big tears coursing miserably down her cheeks. There was time to turn back yet, she said to herself, time to give up this mad scheme on which she had embarked. She knew that there was a door of escape open to her, but her pride and some feeling stronger than pride forbade her to avail herself of it. No; she told herself that there was nothing for it but to go forward in the path she had chosen; there could be no harm by it and at least she would be safe.

But all the while another voice was whispering to her, pleading with her to go back, to humble herself. When the train began to slow down she was still gazing mechanically out of the window, her expression strangely undecided.

“Castor! Castor!” the solitary porter the little station boasted shouted in stentorian tones.

Still for one second she sat motionless, then with a sudden look of resolution she got up, opened the door and stepped on to the platform.

There were a few passengers to get out at Castor. One trunk had already been hauled out of the van: “Miss Elizabeth Martin.” She went up to claim it. An elderly woman was standing near it, an expression of perplexity on her comely face. She looked relieved as the passenger came up.

“Miss Martin, ma'am?” she said respectfully, then as the other murmured an inaudible assent she went on, “I'm Latimer, Lady Davenant's maid. Her ladyship desired me to see if I could help you in any way with your luggage. My lady intended coming to meet you herself, but she has one of her bad headaches this afternoon.”

Miss Elizabeth Martin uttered a few words of polite regret and pulled her veil more closely down with fingers that visibly shook.

Latimer relieved her of her bag and wrap and led the way to a waiting motor-car.

Miss Martin glanced from side to side as they passed quickly down the narrow, little street. With its quaint black and white houses and pavements of cobble stones, Castor might certainly have passed for the original of Sleepy Hollow. Latimer pointed out the various objects of interest. The church, the Vicarage, the big old-fashioned market-place, the roof of Davenant Priory in the distance.

“'Tis but a bit of a walk,” she said. “But folks are tired after a long journey, so her ladyship always has them met. Miss Maisie ought to have come with me, but she has never had a governess before and she is a bit frightened at the notion, so she ran away and curled herself up on Sir Oswald's sofa, and there isn't any of us dare fetch her away from there.”

“Oh, dear! I do hope she won't be frightened at me,” the new governess said with a touch of pathos in her tired tones. “I love children and I do want my little pupil to like me.”

“She is bound to do that,” Latimer said heartily, some motherly instinct in her touched by the appeal in the weary voice. She was wishing that Miss Martin would raise her veil or take off her disfiguring glasses. Latimer thought herself a good judge of faces, but she found herself baffled here. “Mrs. Sunningdale told her ladyship the gift you had with children was something wonderful,” she concluded, as the car turned in at the entrance gates of the Priory.

The new governess shivered. “It is quite chilly here after town,” she said as if in apology. “It was very kind of Mrs. Sunningdale to say that. I shall do my best to give satisfaction to Lady Davenant.”

There was just a suspicion of hauteur in her tone, and Latimer drew back feeling vaguely rebuffed.

The door of the Priory stood hospitably open. The house itself was one of the oldest in the Midlands. In mediaeval days it had been famed as the home of godly and learned monks. At the time of the Reformation it had been too wealthy to escape the hand of the despoiler, and it and the broad lands pertaining to it had been bestowed by King Henry on one Thomas Davenant, just then the reigning favourite.

Since then the Davenants had prospered exceedingly. The second George had made the head of the family a baronet, and, though a course of gambling and cock-fighting had weakened the family exchequer, a couple of wealthy marriages in the nineteenth century had restored it to affluence.

The present owner was a widower with one small daughter, and his widowed mother presided over his establishment.

It was evident that Miss Elizabeth Martin was being treated with an unusual amount of consideration for a governess. She was escorted to her room by Latimer, who told her that her ladyship would see her when she had rested. A dainty tea was sent up to her, and then a smiling, white-capped maid appeared.

“If you will give me your keys, miss, I will put your things away,” she said respectfully.

Miss Martin started violently. “Please don't trouble,” she said hurriedly. “I would rather you did not. I always prefer to do my own unpacking.”

The maid withdrew, rather aggrieved; then Elizabeth Martin stood up. She was still wearing the hat and coat in which she had travelled. Now she threw them aside and looked at herself in the pier-glass. She saw a tall, slim figure in an ill-made black gown, a small head well poised on a long slender throat, a quantity of hair that looked oddly dark against the clear, pale skin, that was brushed back sleek and straight and coiled in a hard and uncompromising knot on the nape of her neck. Near the temples a few stray locks seemed rebelling against their bondage, and inclined to curl themselves over her forehead. Damping a brush, she flattened them back. The smoke-coloured glasses hid her eyes; she pushed them further on as if anxious that they should shield her still more.

But when there was a knock at the door she was sitting prim and straight in her chair by the fireplace. “Her ladyship would like to see you now, ma'am, if you are rested,” said the maid who had appeared before.

Miss Martin got up at once. “I am quite rested, thank you.”

She followed the girl down what seemed to her an endless succession of steps and passages until at last the door was opened into a bright, prettily furnished room, and a cheerful voice bade them come in.

Lady Davenant was sitting in an easy-chair near the open window; a delicate-looking old lady. It was obvious that her headache was no fiction; she looked tired and languid in spite of a pleasant smile and a pair of big, dark eyes.

“I am so glad to see you, Miss Martin,” she said, holding out a slender hand sparkling with jewels, and making the governess seat herself on the settee beside her. “I have heard so much of you from Mrs. Sunningdale that I feel we really are not strangers.”

Miss Martin sat upright, her hands folded stiffly together on her lap.

“Mrs. Sunningdale was very good to me,” she said slowly, with a faint quiver of the lips. “I hope I shall give you satisfaction, Lady Davenant, and so justify her kind recommendation of me.”

Lady Davenant felt vaguely chilled. She had been certain of liking Miss Martin, Mrs. Sunningdale's enthusiasm about her had been quite infectious; she felt sure they had secured just the right person for Maisie, but now she began to wonder whether this grave, stiffly-spoken person would not depress her bright little grand-daughter.

“Mrs. Sunningdale was much disappointed you were not able to go back to India,” she went on after a pause. “You had been three years with them, I think?”

The hands that lay on Miss Martin's knee were trembling in spite of her self-control.

“Three years,” she assented in a low voice. “My health broke down then. My doctor told me it was hopeless to think of going out again.”

“So I understand,” Lady Davenant said sympathetically. “I hope you will soon get strong here in our pure country air.”

“Oh, I am quite strong now, thank you,” Miss Martin hastened to assure her. “It—it was only that India did not suit me. Am I to see my pupil to-night, Lady Davenant?”

Lady Davenant laughed a little. “Well, I really don't know. I am afraid Maisie has been terribly spoiled, Miss Martin. Her father lets her have her own way a great deal too much, but under present circumstances it is very difficult—I am sure Mrs. Sunningdale would explain to you—you know that your duties are not only confined to teaching Maisie, for the present at any rate.”

“I know,” Miss Martin assented gravely. “I am to read to Sir Oswald for some time every day; also to write his letters from his dictation.”

“Yes.” Lady Davenant acquiesced with a sigh. “Until recently we have had a distant cousin with us, Sybil Lorrimer, and she has managed everything for him, but she has been summoned away by the sudden illness of her father, so we want you to take her place. Sir Oswald's man is admirable in many ways, but my poor boy cannot endure his reading or his writing. You know that it is not a hopeless case, Miss Martin. The doctors say that there is very little doubt that Sir Oswald will recover his sight in time.”

“Oh, I do hope so,” Miss Martin said earnestly. “It must be so terrible to be blind.”

“It is indeed! Especially for poor Oswald, who always hated inactivity. It is a year and a half since it happened. I know he often finds it almost unendurable. It was a terrible accident, the left wing of this house was on fire, and his wife was in her room overcome by the smoke. He had seen her out once, but she went back to fetch something. At first it seemed hopeless, but Oswald was like a madman, he would not believe that she could not be reached and he tied ladders together and insisted on going up himself. He reached her—oh, yes—but she was insensible, and he had to begin that terrible descent with a dead weight in his arms. The flames were pouring out of the lower story; they caught the ladder—it collapsed and brought them both to the ground. Poor Winifred was dead when they took her up, and Oswald was terribly injured; for weeks we despaired of his recovery, and when at last he did come back to life it was to find his sight gone, temporarily at any rate. Maisie was five and a half then—she is seven now—and the whole thing made a great impression on her. She is an extraordinarily sensitive child, and she is a great comfort to her father, so that I dare say you can understand she has been indulged. Not that I find any fault with her myself, she is a dear child. But Sybil said she was getting spoiled and that we ought to have a governess for her. Then we were fortunate enough to hear of you from Mrs. Sunningdale, and that is all, I think. Except about this afternoon. Maisie has taken it into her head to dislike the idea of a governess, and she has run away and hidden herself in her father's room, the one place where she knows she is safe, since no one ever disturbs her there.”

“I quite understand,” Miss Martin said slowly, though every nerve was a quiver. “But I think it will be all right. I generally get on with children, and I will do my best to give satisfaction to Sir Oswald.”

“It is so little we can any of us do for him,” Lady Davenant sighed. Then she glanced at the governess with kindly sympathy, “But I see you have had trouble too—you are in mourning. No near relative, I hope?”

Elizabeth Martin pressed her fingers together tightly.

“No relation at all,” she said in a strained voice. “It was a very dear friend. But I generally wear black. I prefer it.”