The Bungalow Mystery (19 page)

“Ah, rest!” Mrs. von Rheinhart broke in in her harsh, uncertain tones. “That is so easy to recommend, so difficult to obtain. But when I see justice done to my husband's murderess, then—then I will try to follow your advice.”

Lavington took up his hat and moved nearer the door.

“Take care that it is not too late,” he said sternly. “Remember that I have warned you.”

Mrs. von Rheinhart gave vent to a hollow, ghastly chuckle.

“Do you speak in my interests, Dr. Lavington, or in those of Daphne Luxmore?”

Farmer Corbett's land looked as if there was a scarcity of money. The crops were poor, the pastures were dry and arid. Half the cow-houses were empty; the door of one of the stables had lost a hinge; there had been a makeshift attempt at repairing it with some twine. Thomas Corbett, as he crossed the yard, a tall, gaunt old man, in a shabby suit of rough, brown cloth, with mud-bespattered gaiters, looked enfeebled and dispirited. Times were bad for farming, any of the men round Oakthorpe would have told you, but to Thomas Corbett it sometimes seemed that a double portion of ill-luck had fallen to his share.

That the Corbetts, in spite of the hard times, should continue to farm their own land in the midst of the Courtenay estate had been more or less of a grievance to successive holders of the Courtenay title for many years. Many of them had been offered much more than the land was worth for the farm, but hitherto the Corbetts had resolutely refused to part with their heritage.

Now, however, Thomas Corbett was beginning to fear that everything would have to go, that he would be unable to wage this unequal war with fate much longer. They had done their best—he and his wife, both; they had put their shoulders to the wheel with right good-will, but so far their efforts had accomplished little.

Mrs. Corbett had even for the past month let her two front rooms to an artist from London who was looking out for country apartments. It had been greatly against her husband's will. He liked to have his house to himself, he grumbled, though he had not denied that the lodger paid well, and that the money was useful. To-day, however, he had heard a report about this new member of his household that had displeased him exceedingly. He was pondering over it now as he looked down the orchard and marked the promise of fruit, deciding the while that he would tell the wife that, money or no money, the artist must go as soon as he could be got rid of.

His mind made up on this point, he turned back towards the house; at the same moment two men came in at the opposite gate and advanced to meet him. He recognized one of them—a short, stout man with a black beard—as a friend of his lodger's who had been to see him once or twice before; the other was a stranger.

“Ah, Mr. Corbett! A pleasant evening, isn't it?” the black-bearded one began politely. “I wonder whether we shall find Mr. Barrington at home?”

“I don't think so, Mr. Ward,” returned the old man as they crossed the yard. “There was a note come for him an hour ago from the Hall and he started off in a fine hurry as soon as he read it. I have seen nothing of him since.”

“Um! That is awkward.” The spokesman stroked his beard thoughtfully. “I think we shall have to ask Mrs. Corbett to allow us to wait in his room. He is expecting us to-night, so that he is sure to be in before long. Perhaps there is a note for us.”

“I dare say—I dare say!” Mr. Corbett did not seem very interested in his visitors. “You are welcome to wait for him if you like,” he said, as he opened the door. “The room is his as long as he pays for it. But we are beginning to think, the wife and me, that we shall be wanting it before long. It is awkward doing without your parlour, we find, particularly when we are not used to it.”

The two men looked after his worn face and bent form with something like consternation. The elder one whistled softly.

“So that is the way the wind blows, is it? Um! May be awkward. Well, Spencer, what luck have you had? It seems to me your coming here was a little imprudent.”

Thus seen, close at hand, it was not difficult to identify Detective Collins. In spite of the disguising wig and beard, Lavington's eyes had been sufficiently keen that morning by the cricket field.

“I don't think so,” the inspector differed. “It was important that I should see you, and no one knows me here but Lavington, and the chances were a hundred to one against meeting him at this time of night.”

“I don't know about that. It seems to me the fellow is ubiquitous,” the detective grumbled. “Well, I get your letter, Spencer. The manufacturers had been able to give you the name of the firm to whom this particular cigarette-case was supplied? I suppose you have interviewed them? Were they able to carry the matter any further?”

Inspector Spencer walked over to the window and closed it carefully.

“It is a hot night,” he remarked apologetically, but it won't do to run any risk of eavesdropping. Yes, Burnham & Matthews, of Bond Street, was the retail firm. I had a little trouble with them at first. The manager said it was against the rule to give the name of any customer. But I happened to have done some business for Mr. Matthews once, and when I saw him it was all right. They went to the books, and proved the sale of this particular case without any difficulty.”

Collins drew a long breath.

“They did? Then our task ought to be considerably simplified. Go on, Spencer. Who was it?”

The inspector preferred to tell the story in his own way.

“They identified it because of the chasing. It seems their customer was not satisfied with what they had in stock, and wanted a particular design, of which they were given a sketch, which has made it easy to trace.

Detective Collins looked impatient.

“The name, inspector, the name! Was it—”

“It was sent down to Oakthorpe Hall on December 24th, 19—” the inspector proceeded calmly, looking at his notes for the date, and disregarding the other's start of surprise, “by Miss Luxmore's orders. The young lady stated in her letter that it must reach her by that date, as she wanted it for a Christmas present for her fiancé, Sir James Courtenay.”

“Phew! This complicates matters considerably.” Collins wrinkled up his brow and looked at the inspector. “We have never thought of this, Spencer. What is to be done?”

“Here is a communication received from Burnham & Matthews this morning,” Inspector Spencer went on, producing an envelope from an inner pocket, and handing it to Detective Collins. “So, as I knew you were to be here to-night, I thought the best thing I could do was to bring it over and see what you would say to it.”

Detective Collins did not unfold the note. He sat silent for a minute or two, his lips drawn together in a tight line amidst his bushy beard, one hand absently rapping the envelope on the table.

“So he was there,” he said slowly at last. “This explains some things that have puzzled me but the old question is no nearer solution.”

“Begging your pardon, I don't see much question about it,” the inspector contradicted. “It was her ring and her glove, that's clear enough. Shows she was last there. And what was she doing if it was all over—if he was dead when she got there?”

Collins's expression showed that his thoughts were far away. He frowned heavily.

“On the other hand, what was he doing there, if it was he. The cigarette-case may have been stolen. I must put a man on for his doings that night—that is the next thing. Here is Frost. Now we shall hear what he has to tell us,” as there was a step in the passage.

“I'm very sorry to be late, sir,” Mr. Frost began as he entered, “but—well, the chance I had been waiting for so long came to-night, and I knew I ought not to miss it, so was sure you would understand, and did my best to get back as soon as I could.”

“That's right.” Detective Collins nodded. ‘‘Come in, and shut the door, man. You were wise, Frost. We can't afford to miss a chance in this business.”

“That is what I thought, sir; so when I got a note from Clara, the head housemaid at the Hall—the one I scraped acquaintance with, according to your instructions, sir—that if I come up to-night she might be able to do as she promised. I knew you would have me take advantage of it.”

Detective Collins pointed to a chair.

“Sit down, man, and tell us all about it. What was it she had promised?”

“Why, I had told her I was most particularly set on seeing Miss Daphne Luxmore; said as how I had heard how beautiful she was from a friend of mine as had painted her before her wedding was broken off. Clara, she takes me for an artist, you know, sir, like all the folks do about here”—with an apologetic smile—“and I wanted to see how she looked now. Well it wasn't easy to manage, Miss Luxmore shrinking so from strangers. But at last Clara thought she saw a way. That was what the note was about this evening.”

‘‘Well,” the detective leaned forward, the interest in his face deepening, “what then? Do you mean that you saw her—”

“I saw her, sir, plain enough. Mr. Reggie was having some gentlemen to dinner, and to cricket on the lawn afterwards. Clara knew that he had made Miss Luxmore promise to sit in the arbour at the bottom of the ground with his lordship, to watch them. The servants were looking on, and Clara thought among them I should pass unnoticed until I got to the arbour and then I could apologise to my lord for my intrusion and say that I wanted to ask his permission to paint the Hall or something of that.”

“Well, well, get on!” The detective could not conceal his eagerness. “You saw her, you say?”

“Yes sir. It all fell out as Clara planned.” Mr. Frost was not to be hurried. “I got up to the arbour easy enough, and though my lord did not like it and told me I was trespassing, and that he never allowed anyone to sketch the Hall, for private reasons of his own, still, I saw the young lady, as I said before, and I heard her speak.”

“Yes. You can identify her?” the detective said briskly. “Then that will—”

“Begging your pardon, sir, I did not say that,” the other man interrupted stolidly. “I have never seen the young lady, Miss Daphne Luxmore, before.”

“What!” the exclamation burst from the other two simultaneously. They stared at the speaker in incredulous astonishment.

Detective Collins was the first to recover his breath.

“You had never seen her before! Do you mean that she was not—”

“She was not the young lady who was at the doctor's having supper the night of the Bungalow murder. I saw her quite plainly then, and I could not be mistaken,” Frost affirmed stolidly. “And it was not her that took part in the play at Freshfield, at Mr. Thornton's.”

“Well, this beats all!” As if overcome by his amazement, the inspector dropped heavily into a chair and gazed stupidly at his quondam subordinate.

“Why, what did you tell me the other day? That you were all but sure that it was her, and that she was meeting this Dr. Lavington on the park.”

Mr. Frost looked rather crestfallen.

“I did think so, sir; I thought it looked like her, as well as I could see for the trees. But, if it was, it wasn't Miss Daphne Luxmore, for I can swear I never saw her till to-night. There might be a little resemblance between the two—I think perhaps there was, and the hair was the same colour—but, if there is one thing more certain than another, it wasn't Miss Daphne Luxmore at the doctor's.”

“Then what becomes of the letter the wife found—the note making the appointment for that night? The writing and the initials were hers.” Detective Collins was puzzled and thoughtful.

Mr. Frost looked wise.

“I have been thinking things over as I came home, sir, and trying to piece it out. What if somebody as knew all about them, a maid or something of that, pretended to be Miss Luxmore, and maybe took Mr. von Rheinhart himself in. It doesn't seem likely as a young lady in Miss Luxmore's position would have been meeting him and writing to him on the sly.”

“I don't know.” Detective Collins deliberated. “No, no; it must have been Miss Luxmore herself. Her handwriting has been identified.”

“On the other hand, Frost says positively that Miss Luxmore is not the girl he saw,” Inspector Spencer observed, thoughtfully stroking his chin. “Of course we may have been wrong all this time. Miss Luxmore may have escaped in some other way, in the motor Wilson tells us was waiting in the lane behind the fields, for instance. And when we thought Dr. Lavington had helped her we may have stumbled upon a mare's nest.”

He looked at Detective Collins.

That gentleman was still drumming abstractedly on the table with his envelope.

“Um, um! The girl wasn't his cousin, you know, inspector. If there is one thing more positive than another in the complicated business it is that.”

A certain dry amusement twinkled in the inspector's deep-set eyes.

“No; but he may have had his own reasons for pretending she was. You and me are enough men of the world to understand that, Detective Collins.”

“Just so!” But the detective's face did not relax; his eyes were turned to the window.

“Still, it is a pretty kettle of fish,” Inspector Spencer went on, after vainly waiting for a word of encouragement from the detective. “Whether Miss Luxmore was there or not, what brought Courtenay into the business? I suppose he was there if we go by this cigarette-case. What do you say, Mr. Collins?”

“Say?” the detective echoed. “If you ask me, inspector, I must say that I think we have been wandering round in a circle all the time and are just as near finding Maximilian von Rheinhart's murderer as we were when we started.”

“Oh, come! I don't know about that,” the inspector dissented. “At least we know that it was Miss Luxmore who was at The Bungalow that night.”

“We know she had promised to go,” the detective corrected. “That is as far as we have got at present. Oh, I am not disputing your judgment, Spencer; I am only pointing out that our proof is of the slightest. We have no evidence that we could put before a jury; it is one thing to bring a charge of murder against a person in Miss Luxmore's position and another to prove it.”