Maggie (14 page)

At last the small, busy little train puffed into the station and they climbed aboard.

Maggie felt sleepy and bewildered, the whole episode by the river beginning to appear in her mind like some highly-coloured intoxicated dream.

Before the train arrived at Waterloo, she awoke with a start and saw that the earl was asleep. His face looked grim
in repose as if he were regretting his love-making even as he slept.

A thin, greasy drizzle was falling on London when the pair returned to Charlton Street to be faced by the alarmed cries and questions of Miss Rochester. Maggie silently removed herself to her bedroom, and the earl parried Miss Rochester’s questions as best he could. Yes, he should have left a note. Yes, he realized he should not have kept Maggie out all night, but they had been restless and had gone for a walk. No, he did not intend to stand all morning answering stupid questions when his head ached like the devil.

He was relieved when a liveried footman supplied a welcome interruption by arriving with a note for him.

His relief was short-lived when he discovered the note was from Dolly Murray, issuing a rather peremptory summons that the earl be present at her salon that afternoon.

The earl was somewhat relieved to find that Dolly’s salon was quite crowded when he arrived. There was a new addition to Mrs. Murray’s court in the shape of a young niece, Hester Jenkins, who had come to stay.

Hester was, in Dolly’s opinion, a country mouse who would no doubt be perpetually awed and grateful that her sophisticated aunt had given her house room for the Season. She was a tall, pale, thin girl with large pale eyes and sensitive-looking hands which belied the fact that she had not one sensitive bone in her body. Hester prized honesty above all things and Dolly had not yet discovered that Hester had a disastrous way of saying exactly what was on her mind.

To Dolly’s fury, Hester, in the earl’s hearing, proceeded to introduce her aunt to a fine example of this embarrassing trait.

Dolly had been patronizing Hester and remarking that “her little country mouse” had quite terribly antiquated clothes and that she, Dolly, was going to supply her with a suitable wardrobe. “Clothes are so important, I think.” remarked Dolly, complacently adjusting the priceless lace ruffles on the bertha of her blouse.

Hester’s pale eyes surveyed her aunt, and then she said with dreadful clarity, “I agree. Clothes are very, very important, particularly when one is no longer young. I
admire the great effort and hard work you put into your appearance, Aunt.”

And when Dolly was reeling from that remark, Hester turned her attention to the room.

Dolly had inherited the house from a relative, and, like quite a lot of rich people, she did not see any reason to spend unnecessary money. She urged all and sundry to redecorate their homes—especially as there was a good chance they might use her decorating firm—while leaving her own, frozen in time, exactly as it had been when her relative had been alive.

It was very much in the style of thirty years ago. There was just too much of everything. Too much carved mahogany and ormolu; too much red, green, yellow and purple plush, and too much patterned velvet; too much gilt; too many laced antimacassars, ribbons and bows. The dyes of the last century were harsh and the colours of the fabrics clashed like cymbals.

Ornamentation trailed writhing and curling over everything. The furniture was heavy and grotesque. The room was filled with endless
bijouterie
and bric-à-brac, loaded whatnots, mirrors framed in plush and then limmed over with birds and flowers. The overmantels of the fireplaces were encrusted with sea-shells. There were pompoms and tassels and fringes; a wealth of mother-of-pearl; jars of potpourri; vases filled with bulrushes and peacocks’ feathers; bulbous glass cases enshrining flowers made of wax, or made of dyed feathers or fish bones. And the crowning horror, on the mantelpiece was a nubile marble nymph with a gilt clock stuck in her stomach.

Hester’s cold, calm eyes ranged over this tremendous clutter and she said, “I wonder you do not throw out at least three-quarters of this stuff since you do not like antiquated things…”

“It has a certain period charm,” interrupted Dolly savagely.

“Really? I would not have thought it old enough to be described as period,” said Hester thoughtfully.

“Do have some tea, Peter,” interposed Dolly desperately.

“It’s a wonder,” pursued Hester, “that you don’t call in that firm of interior decorators that you own… or rather that you have a controlling interest in…”

“Hester!” said Dolly sharply. “You are talking nonsense! I am sure no one is interested in…”

“Oh, but I
am
,” said the earl sweetly. “Two lumps, please, Dolly. You did not tell me that…”

“It’s not true,” cried Dolly.

“There is no need to kick me under the table, Aunt,” said Hester. “Also, it is wicked to tell lies. Mama told me all about the decorating firm and about how clever you were to get all those people in London to use it. You should be proud of your business acumen, Aunt,” said Hester righteously.

Dolly rose abruptly with a rustling of taffeta petticoats. “The Earl of Strathairn wishes to talk to me in private, Hester.”

“Oh, is
that
who you are?” asked Hester, her large eyes swivelling around to fix themselves on the earl. “Did she really poison her husband?”

The earl felt as if the bottom had just dropped out of his stomach.

“I think you said you wanted to speak to me in private, Dolly,” he said desperately. He found his arm clasped in a strong grip and looked down into the eager, wrinkled face of Mrs. Jouffrey. “What is Hester talking about?” she demanded, waving a roguish finger under the earl’s nose.

“If you will just allow me…” The earl tried to pull his arm away. Everyone had stopped talking and Hester’s next words carried round the overstuffed room with the clarity of a bell.

“I never forget a face,” she said. “Mama has a friend in
Glasgow who sent us the Scottish papers. That was Maggie Macleod, the poisoner, with you at Waterloo Station today.”

“By Jove,” said Sir Percy. “Now I know where I’d seen that face before. That was her at the opera t’other night.”

To the earl the room seemed to be full of eyes, staring, accusing eyes. Social ruin stared him in the face, a thing he had not stopped to consider when he had taken Maggie under his wing.

“Well, Peter?” demanded Dolly Murray shrilly. “We’re waiting.”

The earl’s head swam with fatigue. All he wanted to do was get away.

So that is exactly what he did. He simply walked out of the room.

Dolly Murray sat very still, hardly hearing the exclamations and questions and babble of shocked voices. She could say goodbye to the Strathairn fortune. But… there was always a little money to be made from the newspapers…

The earl erupted into the house in Charlton Street like a volcano, calling for Roshie, shouting orders that everything must be set in motion for a return to Scotland.

And where was Miss Rochester and Miss Dunglass?

Roshie said he thought the ladies had gone to the
Daily Bioscope
in Bishopsgate.

The earl ran out of the house and grabbed the first hansom, lifting the trap of the roof with his cane and calling to the driver to take him to Bishopsgate. Unless he moved very quickly, he suspected his home would shortly be besieged by reporters.

He wondered why Maggie had not simply gone to bed, forgetting Miss Rochester’s passion for novelty. The first “cinema theatre” had attracted a lot of attention.

When he arrived at the Bioscope, the show was in
progress, and he realized the impossibility of searching in the blackness of the theatre for the two women, and so he took a seat in the back row and waited impatiently for it to end.

Well, there was one thing, the earl decided, this new cinema fad would never replace the theatre. He had never seen anything more boring. Men and women strutted like mechanical dolls over flickering grey scenes where an eternal rain seemed to be falling and box-shaped carriages and automobiles tore around at an insane speed.

At last it was over, and, after fretting and fuming at the exit, he saw Maggie and Miss Rochester, arm in arm. In a low voice he told them that Maggie had been recognized. They must leave for Scotland immediately.

“We’ll need to wait until tomorrow,” said Miss Rochester in a practical voice.

“No trains until then. We’d better find somewhere to stay the night, outside the town. And we’d better take the North-Eastern Express to Edinburgh, instead of the North-Western to Glasgow for they’ll be looking for us on that.”

For Maggie, the nightmare had closed in again. She had enjoyed the novelty of the bioscope, and she had enjoyed sitting in the warm darkness remembering the feel of the earl’s lips against her own. She had conjured up a rosy dream that they would return home and that he would fall on one knee and say he loved her. But one look at his worried, tight-lipped face banished all dreams.

He was a man chaperoning a possible murderess and well aware of the fact.

From then on, to Maggie, life whirled around in black and grey clouds of despair, lit by occasional flashes of pure fear. What would become of her? Once in Scotland, would Peter send her away? And Miss Rochester? That lady looked as grim and tense as the earl.

There was a hurried dash to Charlton Street, then an escape with only two of the servants—Roshie and the lady’s maid, Betty—to an hotel in St. Albans. After a dream-racked night’s sleep, off to King’s Cross Station, this time to catch the ten o’clock ‘Thunderer’ which boasted a journey of only eight and a half hours to Edinburgh—and that covered a stop at York for early dinner.

Roshie had bought an armful of newspapers for his master, but the earl, after glancing over the front pages, had opened the window of the carriage as the train was steaming out of the sooty glass cavern of King’s Cross and had thrown the lot out onto the line.

A glance had been enough to show him that Mrs. Dolly Murray had talked to about every newspaper in town.

It was a grim, silent journey. The earl was aware that his servants, travelling on the western line, would know by now the real identity of Miss Dunglass.

He had always prided himself on the fact that he did not care for the opinion of others. It was humiliating to find out that he
did
care and that he was no better than anyone else. He felt he was being socially damned as the helpmate of a murderess.

Maggie slept most of the journey. She was heavily veiled. She raised her veil only when they shared a silent dinner at York.

Then there was the arrival in Edinburgh, the train to Glasgow, and the carriage to Strathairn. Gusty sheets of rain were blowing across the park when they arrived at Strathairn Castle.

Despite his distress, the earl experienced a feeling of homecoming, a feeling of safety. The rooms were as heavily carpeted and over-furnished as Mrs. Murray’s salon, but everything was well-cared for and loved, the furniture being polished to a high shine and fires crackling on the hearths. Not by the flicker of an eyelid did the well-trained staff
betray they knew Maggie’s identity.

They had finished a late supper and were sitting wearily in the drawing-room, all aware that the hour was two in the morning, but all reluctant to go to bed. They had conversed in a desultory manner, talking about everything and anything but the murder. The earl did not know what his feelings for Maggie now were. He only knew that the episode on the River Crash seemed like a small sunlit cameo in his mind, something delightful that had happened to two other people, a very long time ago.

The sudden thudding of the great brass knocker on the castle door made them jump.

“The wind,” said Miss Rochester wearily. “Only the wind. No one can be calling at this hour and in this weather.”

The knocking sounded again.

“There
is
someone at the door,” said the earl, rising to his feet. “I sent the servants to bed so I’d better go and answer it myself.”

“Don’t go,” said Maggie softly. Her eyes held a strange withdrawn look.

“Of course, I’ll have to go,” said the earl irritably, his nerves almost at snapping point.

He left the room and Miss Rochester looked at Maggie. Maggie was sitting very still, her hands holding onto the arms of the chair, her knuckles white.

“I hope it isn’t reporters,” said Miss Rochester. “Don’t look so strange, Maggie. We all need some sleep.”

The drawing-room door opened and the earl entered followed by two men.

“May I present Chief Superintendent John Menzies of the Glasgow C.I.D. and Inspector Henderson,” he said in a harsh voice. “They want to see you, Maggie.”

The two men advanced into the room. Mr. Menzies was a large burly man with a great spade-like beard and small round eyes like a teddy bear. His inspector was small and
wiry with long, drooping side whiskers, and dull green eyes, the colour of Iona marble.

“But it’s all over,” bleated Miss Rochester. “What on earth do you want to see her about?”

“Well, Madame,” said Mr. Menzies, “we just have a few questions to ask the lady so if ye don’t mind…”

“But I
do
mind,” said Miss Rochester, suddenly angry. “I mind very much. It is two in the morning.
Two in the morning
. State the true nature of your business and leave!”

“Very well,” said Mr. Menzies. “Mr. Murdo Knight was found at six o’clock this evening in his home in Bath Street, dead as a doornail. It looks as if he’d been killed wi’ a big dose o’ some poison, probably arsenic. We’ll find out for sure in the morning when the Procurator Fiscal puts in his report. The doctor who examined him estimates he died around four o’clock in the afternoon.

“So the question is this, Mrs. Macleod. Where were you at four o’clock yesterday afternoon?”

“I’ll answer that,” said the earl, suddenly looking much younger than he had done since they left London.

“Mrs. Macleod was with Miss Rochester and myself on the ‘Thunderer’ bound for Edinburgh. At four-thirty, we had dinner at York in the Station Hotel with about one hundred people as witnesses. So Maggie Macleod could not possibly have been in Glasgow poisoning Mr. Knight. So you’ll need to look elsewhere for the murderer of Mr. Murdo Knight, and while you’re at it,” added the earl with a sudden light-hearted laugh, “you may as well look for the real murderer of Inspector Macleod… because it looks as if he… or she… is still at large.”