The Bungalow Mystery (14 page)

The girl waited, her brown eyes fixed upon his face, her lips parted. Far away above them, the clear, sweet notes of a lark floated to their ears, the trickling of the brook made murmuring music at their feet. Roger's eyes wandered idly to the tall, upstanding meadowsweet by the water's edge, noted the gay fringe of ragged robins, the faint sweet-scented clover.

“Yes,” he assented. “I wanted to tell you—to warn you—”

“Warn! Ah!” The shadow of a terrible fear flashed in the girl's eyes.

Roger averted his gaze.

“The—the girl who left her glove in The Bungalow was supposed to have perished in the Northchester disaster. But lately, within the last few days, the one at Northchester has been identified; it has been proved beyond all doubt that she could not have been at Sutton Boldon that night.”

“Ah!” The girl drew a long breath. “Then, I think I understand—you mean that now they will search—”

“For the one who was,” Roger finished. “Already they have questioned—they have found out that my cousin Zoe did not take part in the theatricals at Freshfield. To-day, in the village, I saw a man whom I fear—I cannot help fearing—was the detective who was employed in the case at the time.”

Even the motor-veil could not hide the pallor of the cheeks beneath now; the little gloved hands clutched convulsively at the lace round the throat.

“He has come here—for what?”

“Who can tell?” Roger's eyes were very pitiful. 

Always he had sympathized with the girl he had found in Maximilian von Rheinhart's studio; now that he knew her to be the sister of the girl he loved, his compassion, his desire to help her, were increased a hundredfold. He hesitated, then went on more slowly:

“It has occurred to me that it might be wiser—that it would be safer—to leave Oakthorpe for a while at any rate. If you went abroad—”

“We could be traced at once.” The hands were clasping one another tightly now; a button burst off one glove. Roger's eyes fixed themselves upon it absently as it gleamed against the dusty plank.

“If you went away quietly, if you left no address, I think it could be managed,” he hazarded.

“Ah! No, no! My father, Reggie, my sister—it would kill them. Indeed—indeed, I couldn't.”

Roger did not speak. In truth the position was beset with difficulty; escape was not easy. If the detective's suspicions were aroused with regard to Daphne Luxmore, it might be impossible. The very attempt might not improbably bring about the catastrophe they were trying to avoid.

Miss Luxmore bent forward; she laid one hand on his arm.

“Don't you see that it would kill my father if I went away without letting him know where I was. And, if he knew, it would be impossible to keep it a secret.”

With his knowledge of Lord Luxmore, Roger was inclined to agree. 

“But if the detective should see him, should tell him, even if the worst should happen?”

She gave a shuddering cry.

“Ah, then—then”—recovering her self-control with a supreme effort—“I can but tell them the truth—how it happened!”

“Yes,” Roger said thickly. Mentally he pictured the scene: the crowded court, the row of jurors, the scarlet-robed judge, the girl in the witness-box, telling them “how it happened.” The pity of it. The shame of it, that must fall on other heads as well as hers.

A little colour was stealing back to the girl's face. Never had the resemblance between the two sisters been stronger, Lavington thought.

“How did you know—how did you guess that I was—” Her lips faltered over the last words of the question.

Roger did not answer for a moment. Sometimes it seemed to him that his certainty that Daphne Luxmore and the girl of The Bungalow were one and the same was more a matter of intuition than of evidence.

“I could not help seeing the likeness to you in your sister,” he said at last. “It seemed to me that it was far too striking to be accidental. Then I saw you meet her in the hall the other day. But before then I had heard, I had put things together, and I guessed—”

She had turned a little from him now; as she spoke she absently picked little splinters of wood from a broken piece of the railing and, dropping them into the water, watched them floating down the stream.

“That was it, was it? Well, Dr. Lavington, and what are you going to do now?” turning with disconcerting suddenness. “Are you going to keep my secret?”

Roger started at her.

“To keep your secret?” he echoed. “Why, surely you know that I would guard it above all things— even at the cost of life itself!” in a lower tone.

The unexpected vehemence of his reply apparently astonished Miss Luxmore; she did not speak for a moment; her great brown eyes gazed searchingly into his face; then, as he met her scrutiny unmoved, her whole face quivered, she drew a little away.

“But why should you do this for me—why should you help me? I have no claim upon you—I do not understand—”

“Do you not?” Roger questioned hoarsely. The muscles of his face twitched; he went on recklessly. “No, you do not know—how should you? that I would lay down my life itself to prevent this thing becoming known; because I have dared to love your sister, that for her sweet sake I would count my life as nothing— nothing, if by any means I might keep shame and disgrace from falling upon her name.”

The girl started back.

“What—my sister! You cannot—it is impossible!”

“Would it be possible to see her—Elizabeth—without loving her?” Roger questioned, the passion in his voice deepening and strengthening. “You may think me presumptuous, mad, what you will! She will never know it. And you—you will now be sure that your cause is safe with me, that I would die rather than betray you!”

“You love Elizabeth?” she said unsteadily.

Roger bared his head in reverence; the light of a great love, a great renunciation, burned in his grey eyes.

“I love Elizabeth!” he repeated simply.

Summer though it was, a bright fire was burning in the grate in Inspector Spencer's best parlour; through the open window the scent of clove-pinks, the strong, damp smell of newly-turned earth was wafted into the room. A great bowl of freshly-gathered roses—the old-fashioned cottage great golden Gloire de Dijon, pink La France, and Baroness Rothschild—stood in the centre of the table.

Detective Collins lit a cigarette as he leaned back in his chair, and wiped his forehead with a red bandanna.

“What time did you say Matthew Wilson's train was due, Spencer?”

“At 3.30.” The other man looked at his watch. “He ought to be here any minute now.''

Detective Collins drew his chair up to the table, and, producing a stiff roll of paper, spread it out before him.

“Yes. This plan of yours will come in useful, Spencer. Let me just understand the position of affairs. C is the room in which Rheinhart was shot, door at the left leading into the garden. H'm! h'm! Window securely fastened from inside; front door left open by the housekeeper when she called doctor. Exactly. Then this spot marked D is where the woman was met by Henson, the woman with golden hair, who asked the way to The Bungalow. Just so!”

He studied the plan in silence, frowning and biting his nails as he made various notes on the margin.

The inspector went over to the window.

“Our man is coming now, if I am not mistaken. Ah, I thought so!” as there was a loud knock at the door.

He opened the door; a bronzed man, in a sailor's dress, stood outside.

“Come in, Wilson, come in; Detective Collins is here; he is anxious to hear your story.”

Wilson stepped in and touched his cap to the detective, who nodded curtly.

“Now, my man, let us hear what you have to say. Sit down,” pushing a chair towards him.

Detective Collins drew out his notebook and pulled his chair round so that he got a good view of Wilson's face, with the light falling full on it.

“What I want to hear, first of all, my good man,” he said in his briskest, most matter-of-fact tones, “is why was this story of yours not brought to the notice of the police sooner?”

Wilson stirred his feet uneasily.

“I told the inspector, sir.”

“Never mind that; I want you to tell me.”

Detective Collins waited, notebook and pencil in hand.

Wilson cleared his throat, and gazed into the corner of his hat as if for inspiration.

“It was in this way, sir; I had signed on as A.B. on the
Thistledown
, for a year's cruise in the South Sea Islands. I was due to join on the 15th, and my sweetheart being in service as housemaid at Dr. Lavington's, I went down unexpected-like on the 14th just to say good-bye to her.”

“You put it off pretty late?” The detective was scribbling away in his notebook.

Mr. Wilson looked rather foolish.

“Well, she wasn't expecting me, for we had said good-bye on the Saturday, so to speak; but I thought I would run down just for a last word. Many a man is a bit of a fool when he is in love, you know, sir,” apologetically.

The detective nodded.

“We will take all that for granted, my man. Go on!”

“Well, it was dark when I got there of course.” Wilson stopped and considered for a moment. “I had sent a bit of a note to Mary, telling her I should be on the other side of the wall at the bottom of the garden, and I was waiting for her there when somebody come across the field on the footpath, same as I had done myself a minute or two before. It being dark, and me leaning against the wall, he didn't seem to see me, but began feeling about the wall as if he was looking for a gate. There wasn't one, of course; so, though he lighted several matches, presently he gave it up, and hoisted himself over the wall. As he did so I heard something drop on my side. I felt curious. Having nothing to do, as you may say, till Mary came, I looked about, and presently I found that silver cigarette-case—that one I give the inspector the week before last, sir. I climbed up and looked over the wall, meaning to give it back, when I see I was too late; he had gone right across the lawn to the house and walked in at the window, just as if the place belonged to him.”

“Perhaps it did,” the Inspector interposed. “It sounds to me as if it might be Rheinhart himself.”

Wilson scratched his chin.

“No, sir; it wasn't. I see his face when he struck the matches—quite plain-like. He was a good deal taller than the other too; I had seen Mr. von Rheinhart two or three times when I had been walking in the fields at the back with Mary.”

“Well, go on!”

Mr. Collins was waiting, pen in hand.

The sailor coughed.

“I heard voices, sir, raised like; once the thought came to me that perhaps they were quarrelling. Then, as I stopped there, I heard a little creeping sound to one side of me; the moon shone out brightly, and I saw as there was some one else watching too. It was a woman—young, I judged her to be, with lightish hair; she was standing looking at the house as if she was frightened to go any further.

“The next minute I heard Mary running down Dr. Lavington's garden, and I didn't wait to hear no more of what went on at The Bungalow. When I saw the woman I felt ashamed-like to be prying on her, and I thought I would give the case to Mary to send into The Bungalow next morning.”

“And this is all you saw?”

Wilson scratched his head.

“Pretty nearly, sir. Me and Mary walked up and down the field at the back for a while, and just as I was saying it was time I was off, if I was to catch the train, there was a crack behind us. It wasn't very loud, but I thought it sounded like a pistol, and said so. Mary said: ‘Oh, it is Mr. von Rheinhart; he has been shooting lately'; and I took no more notice of it, my thoughts being otherwise occupied with Mary, as you might say.”

“Didn't it strike you that, as you had seen a strange man enter in that secretive way, to say nothing of the woman who was watching the garden, it was your duty to go back and see whether there was anything wrong at The Bungalow?”

All Detective Collins's suavity had vanished; instead of his usual blank smile, his lips were drawn in and firmly compressed. His eyes were fixed searchingly upon the sailor's face as he waited for his answer, his fingers beating an irritating tattoo on his note-book.

“I can't say as I did, sir.” Evidently this cross-examination was not at all to the sailor's liking; his open mahogany-coloured countenance was several shades deeper in hue than when he arrived. “I didn't think the gentleman I saw was likely to be doing any harm. As for the woman—well, her being there only served to put me further off the scent. Besides, my mind was so took up with Mary that I did not give them more than a passing thought anyway.”

“I see.” The detective spread out his plan once more. “Now, will you show me just where you were standing?”

Wilson bent over the table, his heavy breathing growing harder.

“Just hereabouts, it would be, sir, where the two gardens join. Them'll be the fields at the back,” passing a horny finger down one of the lines. “This first, that would be where Mary and me was walking.”

“I see. Now point out to me as near as you can where you saw the woman when you looked over the wall.”

Wilson stared at the lines and figures, bewildered.

“I couldn't rightly do that, sir. It was afore you got up to the window the man let himself in by; nearer the corner of the house and the front drive, I mean. I should say she was standing on the grass, near some tall bush or shrubs or something of that. I couldn't go further.”

Mr. Collins mused a moment.

“Well, after that, what happened? After you had heard the shot, I mean?”

“Well, we got right up to the other end of the field and was leaning over the stile, pretty close together, as you may guess, gentlemen”—looking round with a propitiatory smile—“when, all of a sudden, out of the darkness—for the moon had gone in by then and it was beginning to spit of rain—a man come right upon us in a tremendous hurry; he was walking as if for a wager. Well, we both made way for him, and he threw himself over the stile and went off. As I stepped aside, however, it was borne in upon me as it was the man I had seen getting over The Bungalow wall.”