The Mystery of the Blue Train (5 page)

Such was Katherine's departure from St. Mary Mead.

Eight

L
ADY
T
AMPLIN
W
RITES A
L
ETTER

“
W
ell,” said Lady Tamplin, “well.”

She laid down the continental
Daily Mail
and stared out across the blue waters of the Mediterranean. A branch of golden mimosa, hanging just above her head, made an effective frame for a very charming picture. A golden-haired, blue-eyed lady in a very becoming
négligé.
That the golden hair owed something to art, as did the pink-and-white complexion, was undeniable, but the blue of the eyes was Nature's gift, and at forty-four Lady Tamplin could still rank as a beauty.

Charming as she looked, Lady Tamplin was, for once, not thinking of herself. That is to say, she was not thinking of her appearance. She was intent on graver matters.

Lady Tamplin was a well-known figure on the Riviera, and her parties at the Villa Marguerite were justly celebrated. She was a woman of considerable experience, and had had four husbands. The first had been merely an indiscretion, and so was seldom referred to by the lady. He had had the good sense to die with commendable promptitude, and his widow thereupon espoused a rich manufacturer of buttons. He too had departed for another sphere after three years of married life—it was said after a congenial evening with some boon companions. After him came Viscount Tamplin, who had placed Rosalie securely on those heights where she wished to tread. She retained her title when she married for a fourth time. This fourth venture had been undertaken for pure pleasure. Mr. Charles Evans, an extremely good-looking young man of twenty-seven, with delightful manners, a keen love of sport, and an appreciation of this world's goods, had no money of his own whatsoever.

Lady Tamplin was very pleased and satisfied with life generally, but she had occasional faint preoccupations about money. The button manufacturer had left his widow a considerable fortune, but, as Lady Tamplin was wont to say, “what with one thing and another—” (one thing being the depreciation of stocks owing to the War, and the other the extravagances of the late Lord Tamplin). She was still comfortably off. But to be merely comfortably off was hardly satisfactory to one of Rosalie Tamplin's temperament.

So, on this particular January morning, she opened her blue eyes extremely wide as she read a certain item of news and uttered that noncommittal monosyllable “Well.” The only other occupant of the balcony was her daughter, the Hon. Lenox Tamplin. A daughter such as Lenox was a sad thorn in Lady Tamplin's side, a girl with no kind of tact, who actually looked older than her age, and whose peculiar sardonic form of humour was, to say the least of it, uncomfortable.

“Darling,” said Lady Tamplin, “just fancy.”

“What is it?”

Lady Tamplin picked up the
Daily Mail,
handed it to her daughter, and indicated with an agitated forefinger the paragraph of interest.

Lenox read it without any of the signs of agitation shown by her mother. She handed back the paper.

“What about it?” she asked. “It is the sort of thing that is always happening. Cheese-paring old women are always dying in villages and leaving fortunes of millions to their humble companions.”

“Yes, dear, I know,” said her mother, “and I daresay the fortune is not anything like as large as they say it is; newspapers are so inaccurate. But even if you cut it down by half—”

“Well,” said Lenox, “it has not been left to us.”

“Not exactly, dear,” said Lady Tamplin; “but this girl, this Katherine Grey, is actually a cousin of mine. One of the Worcestershire Greys, the Edgeworth lot. My very own cousin! Fancy!”

“Ah-ha,” said Lenox.

“And I was wondering—” said her mother.

“What there is in it for us,” finished Lenox, with that sideways smile that her mother always found difficult to understand.

“Oh, darling,” said Lady Tamplin, on a faint note of reproach.

It was very faint, because Rosalie Tamplin was used to her daughter's outspokenness and to what she called Lenox's uncomfortable way of putting things.

“I was wondering,” said Lady Tamplin, again drawing her artistically pencilled brows together, “whether—oh, good morning, Chubby darling: are you going to play tennis? How nice!”

Chubby, thus addressed, smiled kindly at her, remarked perfunctorily, “How topping you look in that peach-coloured thing,” and drifted past them and down the steps.

“The dear thing,” said Lady Tamplin, looking affectionately after her husband. “Let me see, what was I saying? Ah!” She switched her mind back to business once more. “I was wondering—”

“Oh, for God's sake get on with it. That is the third time you have said that.”

“Well, dear,” said Lady Tamplin, “I was thinking that it would be very nice if I wrote to dear Katherine and suggested that she should pay us a little visit out here. Naturally, she is quite out of touch with Society. It would be nicer for her to be launched by one of her own people. An advantage for her and an advantage for us.”

“How much do you think you would get her to cough up?” asked Lenox.

Her mother looked at her reproachfully and murmured:

“We should have to come to some financial arrangement, of course. What with one thing and another—the War—your poor father—”

“And Chubby now,” said Lenox. “He is an expensive luxury if you like.”

“She was a nice girl as I remember her,” murmured Lady Tamplin, pursuing her own line of thought—“quiet, never wanted to shove herself forward, not a beauty, and never a manhunter.”

“She will leave Chubby alone, then?” said Lenox.

Lady Tamplin looked at her in protest. “Chubby would never—” she began.

“No,” said Lenox, “I don't believe he would; he knows a jolly sight too well which way his bread is buttered.”

“Darling,” said Lady Tamplin, “you have such a coarse way of putting things.”

“Sorry,” said Lenox.

Lady Tamplin gathered up the
Daily Mail
and her
négligé,
a vanity bag, and various odd letters.

“I shall write to dear Katherine at once,” she said, “and remind her of the dear old days at Edgeworth.”

She went into the house, a light of purpose shining in her eyes.

Unlike Mrs. Samuel Harfield, correspondence flowed easily from her pen. She covered four sheets without pause or effort, and on rereading it found no occasion to alter a word.

Katherine received it on the morning of her arrival in London. Whether she read between the lines of it or not is another matter. She put it in her handbag and started out to keep the appointment she had made with Mrs. Harfield's lawyers.

The firm was an old established one in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and after a few minutes' delay Katherine was shown into the presence of the senior partner, a kindly, elderly man with shrewd blue eyes and a fatherly manner.

They discussed Mrs. Harfield's will and various legal matters for some twenty minutes, then Katherine handed the lawyer Mrs. Samuel's letter.

“I had better show you this, I suppose,” she said, “though it is really rather ridiculous.”

He read it with a slight smile.

“Rather a crude attempt, Miss Grey. I need hardly tell you, I suppose, that these people have no claim of any kind upon the estate, and if they endeavour to contest the will no court will uphold them.”

“I thought as much.”

“Human nature is not always very wise. In Mrs. Samuel Harfield's place, I should have been more inclined to make an appeal to your generosity.”

“That is one of the things I want to speak to you about. I should like a certain sum to go to these people.”

“There is no obligation.”

“I know that.”

“And they will not take it in the spirit it is meant. They will probably regard it as an attempt to pay them off, though they will not refuse it on that account.”

“I can see that, and it can't be helped.”

“I should advise you, Miss Grey, to put that idea out of your mind.”

Katherine shook her head. “You are quite right, I know, but I should like it done all the same.”

“They will grab at the money and abuse you all the more afterwards.”

“Well,” said Katherine, “let them if they like. We all have our own ways of enjoying ourselves. They were, after all, Mrs. Harfield's only relatives, and though they despised her as a poor relation and paid no attention to her when she was alive, it seems to me unfair that they should be cut off with nothing.”

She carried her point, though the lawyer was still unwilling, and she presently went out into the streets of London with a comfortable assurance that she could spend money freely and make what plans she liked for the future. Her first action was to visit the establishment of a famous dressmaker.

A slim, elderly Frenchwoman, rather like a dreaming duchess, received her, and Katherine spoke with a certain
näveté.

“I want, if I may, to put myself in your hands. I have been very poor all my life and know nothing about clothes, but now I have come into some money and want to look really well-dressed.”

The Frenchwoman was charmed. She had an artist's temperament, which had been soured earlier in the morning by a visit from an Argentine meat queen, who had insisted on having those models least suited to her flamboyant type of beauty. She scrutinized Katherine with keen, clever eyes. “Yes—yes, it will be a pleasure. Mademoiselle has a very good figure; for her the simple lines will be best. She is also
très anglaise.
Some people it would offend them if I said that, but Mademoiselle no.
Une belle Anglaise,
there is no style more delightful.”

The demeanour of a dreaming duchess was suddenly put off. She screamed out directions to various mannequins. “Clothilde, Virginie, quickly, my little ones, the little
tailleur gris clair
and the
robe de soirée ‘soupir d'automne.'
Marcelle, my child, the little mimosa suit of crêpe de chine.”

It was a charming morning. Marcelle, Clothilde, Virginie, bored and scornful, passed slowly round, squirming and wriggling in the time-honoured fashion of mannequins. The Duchess stood by Katherine and made entries in a small notebook.

“An excellent choice, Mademoiselle. Mademoiselle has great
goût.
Yes, indeed. Mademoiselle cannot do better than those little suits if she is going to the Riviera, as I suppose, this winter.”

“Let me see that evening dress once more,” said Katherine—“the pinky mauve one.”

Virginie appeared, circling slowly.

“That is the prettiest of all,” said Katherine, as she surveyed the exquisite draperies of mauve and grey and blue. “What do you call it?”

“
Soupir d'automne;
yes, yes, that is truly the dress of Mademoiselle.”

What was there in these words that came back to Katherine with a faint feeling of sadness after she had left the dressmaking establishment?

“ ‘Soupir d'automne; that is truly the dress of Mademoiselle.'
”
Autumn, yes, it was autumn for her. She who had never known spring or summer, and would never know them now. Something she had lost never could be given to her again. These years of servitude in St. Mary Mead—and all the while life passing by.

“I am an idiot,” said Katherine. “I am an idiot. What do I want? Why, I was more contented a month ago than I am now.”

She drew out from her handbag the letter she had received that morning from Lady Tamplin. Katherine was no fool. She understood the
nuances
of that letter as well as anybody and the reason of Lady Tamplin's sudden show of affection towards a long-forgotten cousin was not lost upon her. It was for profit and not for pleasure that Lady Tamplin was so anxious for the company of her dear cousin. Well, why not? There would be profit on both sides.

“I will go,” said Katherine.

She was walking down Piccadilly at the moment, and turned into Cook's to clinch the matter then and there. She had to wait for a few minutes. The man with whom the clerk was engaged was also going to the Riviera. Everyone, she felt, was going. Well, for the first time in her life, she, too, would be doing what “everybody” did.

The man in front of her turned abruptly, and she stepped into his place. She made her demand to the clerk, but at the same time half of her mind was busy with something else. That man's face—in some vague way it was familiar to her. Where had she seen him before? Suddenly she remembered. It was in the Savoy outside her room that morning. She had collided with him in the passage. Rather an odd coincidence that she should run into him twice in a day. She glanced over her shoulder, rendered uneasy by something, she knew not what. The man was standing in the doorway looking back at her. A cold shiver passed over Katherine; she had a haunting sense of tragedy, of doom impending. . . .

Then she shook the impression from her with her usual good sense and turned her whole attention to what the clerk was saying.

Nine

A
N
O
FFER
R
EFUSED

I
t was rarely that Derek Kettering allowed his temper to get the better of him. An easygoing insouciance was his chief characteristic, and it had stood him in good stead in more than one tight corner. Even now, by the time he had left Mirelle's flat, he had cooled down. He had need of coolness. The corner he was in now was a tighter one than he had ever been in before, and unforeseen factors had arisen with which, for the moment, he did not know how to deal.

He strolled along deep in thought. His brow was furrowed, and there was none of the easy, jaunty manner which sat so well upon him. Various possibilities floated through his mind. It might have been said of Derek Kettering that he was less of a fool than he looked. He saw several roads that he might take—one in particular. If he shrank from it, it was for the moment only. Desperate ills need desperate remedies. He had gauged his father-in-law correctly. A war between Derek Kettering and Rufus Van Aldin could end only one way. Derek damned money and the power of money vehemently to himself. He walked up St. James's Street, across Piccadilly, and strolled along it in the direction of Piccadilly Circus. As he passed the offices of Messrs. Thomas Cook & Sons his footsteps slackened. He walked on, however, still turning the matter over in his mind. Finally, he gave a brief nod of his head, turned sharply—so sharply as to collide with a couple of pedestrians who were following in his footsteps, and went back the way he had come. This time he did not pass Cook's, but went in. The office was comparatively empty, and he got attended to at once.

“I want to go to Nice next week. Will you give me particulars?”

“What date, sir?”

“The fourteenth. What is the best train?”

“Well, of course,
the
best train is what they call ‘The Blue Train.' You avoid the tiresome Customs business at Calais.”

Derek nodded. He knew all this, none better.

“The fourteenth,” murmured the clerk; “that is rather soon. The Blue Train is nearly always all booked up.”

“See if there is a berth left,” said Derek. “If there is not—” He left the sentence unfinished, with a curious smile on his face.

The clerk disappeared for a few minutes, and presently returned. “That is all right, sir; still three berths left. I will book you one of them. What name?”

“Pavett,” said Derek. He gave the address of his rooms in Jermyn Street.

The clerk nodded, finished writing it down, wished Derek good morning politely, and turned his attention to the next client.

“I want to go to Nice—on the fourteenth. Isn't there a train called the Blue Train?”

Derek looked round sharply.

Coincidence—a strange coincidence. He remembered his own half-whimsical words to Mirelle. “
Portrait of a lady with grey eyes. I don't suppose I shall ever see her again.
” But he
had
seen her again, and, what was more, she proposed to travel to the Riviera on the same day as he did.

Just for a moment a shiver passed over him; in some ways he was superstitious. He had said, half-laughingly, that this woman might bring him bad luck. Suppose—suppose that should prove to be true. From the doorway he looked back at her as she stood talking to the clerk. For once his memory had not played him false. A lady—a lady in every sense of the word. Not very young, not singularly beautiful. But with something—grey eyes that might perhaps see too much. He knew as he went out of the door that in some way he was afraid of this woman. He had a sense of fatality.

He went back to his rooms in Jermyn Street and summoned his man.

“Take this cheque, Pavett, and go round to Cook's in Piccadilly. They will have some tickets there booked in your name, pay for them, and bring them back.”

“Very good, sir.”

Pavett withdrew.

Derek strolled over to a side table and picked up a handful of letters. They were of a type only too familiar. Bills, small bills and large bills, one and all pressing for payment. The tone of the demands was still polite. Derek knew how soon that polite tone would change if—if certain news became public property.

He flung himself moodily into a large, leather-covered chair. A damned hole—that was what he was in. Yes, a damned hole! And ways of getting out of that damned hole were not too promising.

Pavett appeared with a discreet cough.

“A gentleman to see you—sir—Major Knighton.”

“Knighton, eh?”

Derek sat up, frowned, became suddenly alert. He said in a softer tone, almost to himself: “Knighton—I wonder what is in the wind now?”

“Shall I—er—show him in, sir?”

His master nodded. When Knighton entered the room he found a charming and genial host awaiting him.

“Very good of you to look me up,” said Derek.

Knighton was nervous.

The other's keen eyes noticed that at once. The errand on which the secretary had come was clearly distasteful to him. He replied almost mechanically to Derek's easy flow of conversation. He declined a drink, and, if anything, his manner became stiffer than before. Derek appeared at last to notice it.

“Well,” he said cheerfully, “what does my esteemed father-in-law want with me? You have come on his business, I take it?”

Knighton did not smile in reply.

“I have, yes,” he said carefully. “I—I wish Mr. Van Aldin had chosen someone else.”

Derek raised his eyebrows in mock dismay.

“Is it as bad as all that? I am not very thin-skinned, I can assure you, Knighton.”

“No,” said Knighton; “but this—”

He paused.

Derek eyed him keenly.

“Go on, out with it,” he said kindly. “I can imagine my dear father-in-law's errands might not always be pleasant ones.”

Knighton cleared his throat. He spoke formally in tones that he strove to render free of embarrassment.

“I am directed by Mr. Van Aldin to make you a definite offer.”

“An offer?” For a moment Derek showed his surprise. Knighton's opening words were clearly not what he had expected. He offered a cigarette to Knighton, lit one himself, and sank back in his chair, murmuring in a slightly sardonic voice:

“An offer? That sounds rather interesting.”

“Shall I go on?”

“Please. You must forgive my surprise, but it seems to me that my dear father-in-law has rather climbed down since our chat this morning. And climbing down is not what one associates with strong men, Napoleons of finance, etc. It shows—I think it shows that he finds his position weaker than he thought it.”

Knighton listened politely to the easy, mocking voice, but no sign of any kind showed itself on his rather stolid countenance. He waited until Derek had finished, and then he said quietly:

“I will state the proposition in the fewest possible words.”

“Go on.”

Knighton did not look at the other. His voice was curt and matter-of-fact.

“The matter is simply this. Mrs. Kettering, as you know, is about to file a petition for divorce. If the case goes undefended you will receive one hundred thousand on the day that the decree is made absolute.”

Derek, in the act of lighting his cigarette, suddenly stopped dead. “A hundred thousand!” he said sharply. “Dollars?”

“Pounds.”

There was dead silence for at least two minutes. Kettering had his brows together thinking. A hundred thousand pounds. It meant Mirelle and a continuance of his pleasant, careless life. It meant that Van Aldin knew something. Van Aldin did not pay for nothing. He got up and stood by the chimneypiece.

“And in the event of my refusing his handsome offer?” he asked, with a cold, ironical politeness.

Knighton made a deprecating gesture.

“I can assure you, Mr. Kettering,” he said earnestly, “that it is with the utmost unwillingness that I came here with this message.”

“That's all right,” said Kettering. “Don't distress yourself; it's not your fault. Now then—I asked you a question, will you answer it?”

Knighton also rose. He spoke more reluctantly than before.

“In the event of your refusing this proposition,” he said, “Mr. Van Aldin wished me to tell you in plain words that he proposes to break you. Just that.”

Kettering raised his eyebrows, but he retained his light, amused manner.

“Well, well!” he said, “I suppose he can do it. I certainly should not be able to put up much of a fight against America's man of many millions. A hundred thousand! If you are going to bribe a man there is nothing like doing it thoroughly. Supposing I were to tell you that for two hundred thousand I'd do what he wanted, what then?”

“I would take your message back to Mr. Van Aldin,” said Knighton unemotionally. “Is that your answer?”

“No,” said Derek; “funnily enough it is not. You can go back to my father-in-law and tell him to take himself and his bribes to hell. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly,” said Knighton. He got up, hesitated, and then flushed. “I—you will allow me to say, Mr. Kettering, that I am glad you have answered as you have.”

Derek did not reply. When the other had left the room he remained for a minute or two lost in thought. A curious smile came to his lips.

“And that is that,” he said softly.