The Bungalow Mystery (26 page)

As he neared the door of the court-house, guarded by two stalwart policemen, way was made through the crowd. The Luxmore carriage dashed by; he caught a glimpse of Elizabeth's face, looking pale and set; leaning back on the other side of the carriage was a deeply-veiled, shrinking figure. Lord Luxmore sat on the back seat, a benevolent-looking elderly man by his side.

Roger turned aside with a sick feeling of despair. Had it come to this, that he must either be false to his friend, or to the sister of the woman he had sworn to protect? Must he either betray the trust that had been placed in him, and bring shame and disgrace on the name he reverenced most on earth, or must he stand silent while Courtenay was accused of a crime of which his evidence would go far to clear him?

He looked round the room anxiously when he had been conducted to his seat beside Courtenay's solicitor; apparently neither Lord Luxmore nor his daughters were present, and he experienced a brief feeling of respite; even to himself he hardly acknowledged how tremendous would be the ordeal should he be compelled to betray Daphne before her sister's eyes. Nothing, he determined, but the last and worst eventuality should oblige him to disclose his knowledge of the crime; but should Courtenay's life or liberty be endangered, his conscience told him that not even his friend's positive commands ought to avail to keep him silent.

One or two minor cases were summarily disposed of by the magistrates, and then Courtenay was formally charged. His appearance, as his chair was brought into the court, created a buzz of excitement, under cover of which his solicitor leaned towards Roger.

“I hear that you will probably be called as a witness, Dr. Lavington; but we do not expect to require you to-day. This—this has been a terrible shock. That is Davenport Villiers,
K.C.
He is instructed by the Public Prosecutor.”

The name was well known to Roger as one of the most eminent criminal lawyers of the day. He glanced across—the keen eyes, the prominent jaw and hard, firm mouth had become familiar through the illustrated papers; his heart sank.

As Courtenay passed him he leaned forward.

“Roger!”

“Jem!”

Their hands met in a long clasp.

A great silence fell upon the court as he was placed before the bench, and the charge was formally read out “that he, James Francis Lechmere Courtenay, did wilfully and of malice aforethought slay one Maximilian Gerhard von Rheinhart on April 14th, 19—”

There was a dramatic pause, and then Mr. Davenport Villiers rose, and in a few dry, concise sentences stated that the evidence proved beyond doubt that Sir James Courtenay was seen to enter The Bungalow a few minutes before the murder took place. The theory set up by the prosecution was that Sir James visited The Bungalow determined to put an end to the terrorism which Maximilian von Rheinhart was attempting to exercise over him and over others, and that Rheinhart's death was the result. Whether there might have been sufficient provocation to reduce the crime to manslaughter the learned counsel could not pretend to say; that would be for the jury at the assizes to determine; but he thought their worships would agree with him that there was ample
prima facie
evidence to justify them in sending the case for trial. Blackguard though he might have been, blackmailer though he undoubtedly was, yet Rheinhart had the right to claim the protection of the law for his life, and the law must step in to avenge his death.

Matthew Wilson was the first witness called. While he was making his way to the witness-box Roger caught sight of the elderly man he had noticed in the Luxmore carriage a few minutes ago; he was sitting on the bench a little to the right of the magistrates; a notebook was in his hand, and he was evidently prepared to follow the case with the greatest attention.

While Wilson was being sworn, Lavington leaned forward.

“Mr. Day, can you tell me who that man is—the man sitting next to Mr. Fernler?”

Courtenay's solicitor looked up fussily. Worthy family lawyer that he was, the present charge had taken him unawares, and he scarcely felt equal to coping with the situation.

“That—oh, that is Sir William Bunner; you must have heard of him; used to be called the ‘Hanging Judge'; retired last year. I hear he is staying with Lord Luxmore.”

“Sir William Bunner!” The name brought back a thousand memories to Lavington. So that explained Sir William's partial recognition of Daphne Luxmore at Freshfield; her agitation at the sight of him. Her escape had been even narrower than Roger had dreamt, he said to himself—if Sir William Bunner's memory had been one shade better.

Wilson gave his evidence clearly and well. It was perfectly obvious to Roger that the magistrates, who had been somewhat inclined to pooh-pooh the charge before, were considerably impressed. The jeweller's identification of the cigarette-case was next put in; the French chauffeur, Pierre Lamot, testified to having driven Sir James in the direction of Sutton Boldon on the night of the fourteenth, and to having waited for him in some such lane as that described by Wilson. Then there was a pause. Courtenay was reserving his right to cross-examine the witnesses until later. Mr. Day had telegraphed for a well-known barrister, versed in criminal law, to conduct the defence; he was expected down by the midday train. Until his arrival little could be done for the prisoner.

Mr. Davenport Villiers looked at his notes.

“Call Miss Elizabeth Luxmore!”

A thrill of surprise ran round the court. Miss Elizabeth Luxmore! What could she have to do with the case? Believing that the name of the wrong sister had been given through inadvertence, Roger stared at the tall girl who was following Lord Luxmore through the crowd up to the witness-stand. It was impossible—impossible, he told himself, that Elizabeth Luxmore's name should be mixed up in this horrible tragedy!

Then, as he saw that there was no mistake, that it was indeed Elizabeth who was standing there, taking the oath in her fresh young tones, the thought came to him that possibly she and Courtenay had been staying in the same house; that she would be called to testify as to the time he started on his drive to The Bungalow. It could not be anything else.

Courtenay was looking at her in evident surprise, leaning forward in his chair. Roger covered his eyes with his hand; it was nothing less than torture to him to see the girl he loved in this position.

Elizabeth was turning a little to the magistrates; her face was pale, but composed; the glance of her brown eyes was full and steady; with a little gesture she declined the chair the usher brought her.

“You remember the morning of April 14th, 19—?” Mr. Davenport Villiers began smoothly.

She inclined her head.

“Perfectly.”

“Will you tell us where you were staying at that time?”

“At the Towers, Sir Gregory Folgate's place, about twenty miles from Sutton Boldon.” The reply came without any hesitation. A close observer might have seen that the girl's ungloved hands were clutching tightly at the rail in front of her.

“Now tell us what particular reason you have for remembering that date?”

“My sister woke me early in the morning to tell me that she was ill; she had a terrible cold; and she was never strong.” Elizabeth paused a moment, as if to arrange her thoughts in sequence, then she went on speaking slowly and deliberately. “She told me, too, that she was in great trouble. I knew already that three years before, when she was only a schoolgirl, she had drifted into a foolish, secret engagement with Maximilian von Rheinhart, who had taught painting at a school she attended for a short time. She had, however, found out his true character in time, and turned from him in horror; and she had held no communication with him for two years when her engagement to Sir James Courtenay was announced.

“Then, when he heard of it, Rheinhart sent to her; he demanded an interview. She had written to him foolish, romantic letters, addressed to the man she believed him to be; they proved, however, that she had at one time looked forward to marriage with Rheinhart; had even consented to a secret union. These letters Rheinhart had refused to return to her, and he was holding them over her, threatening to show them to Sir James Courtenay. He demanded a large sum of money for them—a sum she had at last scraped together.

“Not satisfied with that, however, when pretending to restore them to her, he had kept back several, among them the very one which Daphne most dreaded falling into Sir James Courtenay's hands. This, in a letter she received that morning of April 14th, he refused to give up unless she came to The Bungalow herself alone that very night. Before I saw her she had sent her answer. She had promised to go; she was frightened, terrified!”

Elizabeth stopped, and drew a quick breath. An usher brought a glass of water; she raised it to her lips, and drank feverishly.

Lavington straightened himself, and uncovered his eyes. It seemed to him that he was taking part in a play, a vision; he had no real consciousness of what he saw. Yet years afterwards his mind could reproduce faithfully every smallest detail of the scene: the tall, pale girl, in her sombre gown; the small head, with its wealth of dark hair closely folded; the stained and faded curtains behind her making a background for her clear, pure profile, her slight, rounded figure. Lord Luxmore, standing just beyond, waiting impassively; the magistrates leaning forward so that they might not lose a word; the absorbed faces of the spectators; Courtenay himself, listening, huddled up in his chair. All these were the merest accessories as far as Lavington was concerned; his attention, his interest, were for the girl in the witness-box alone.

The chairman was leaning towards her; he was saying something in a low tone.

Lavington fancied he was asking her to spare herself—to rest.

She shook her head as she set the water down, and turned again to Mr. Davenport Villiers. That gentleman had been looking over his notes. He raised his head.

“Your sister told you, then, that she had arranged to visit Rheinhart at The Bungalow that evening for the purpose of getting back her letters?” he began suavely. “Will you tell us what happened next?”

For one moment Elizabeth shaded her eyes with her hand, then she caught at the rail in front of her.

“I begged her not to go. I told her that it would only make matters worse, put her more completely in Rheinhart's power. But it was no use reasoning with her. Rheinhart had threatened that if she did not come he would send the letters at once to Sir James Courtenay, and she was frantic at the very idea. While I was talking to her about it she fainted. When she recovered, I told her that now her journey to The Bungalow was an impossibility; but she was obstinacy itself, and I could make no impression upon her. Then a sudden thought struck me.”

“Yes,” Mr. Davenport Villiers said encouragingly, twitching up his gown on his shoulders.

Elizabeth's glance wandered round the court, rested on Roger's sleek, dark head as he sat motionless, on Courtenay's face, upturned now, then came back to the bench. Sir William Bunner caught her eye, flashed a swift look of encouragement, then drew back with folded arms.

“We—we had been taking part in some theatricals a week or two before,” the clear, sweet tones went on hurriedly, a little tremor here and there betraying inward agitation. “And we—my sister and I—had represented twins. I had worn a fair wig, and people had said that they never realized before how much alike we were, that they would have taken one of us for the other. I happened to have the necessary things with me. Lady Folgate had been anxious to see us. It seemed to me to give an opening of escape for Daphne. I begged her to let me go in her place; I was more confident of my own power of dealing with Rheinhart. He had already cheated Daphne once; I knew that he would not cheat me. My sister refused; she would not hear of my plan; but as the day wore on it became increasingly evident that to go herself would involve great risk to her health, and at last I prevailed. I could trust her with our maid Flood, who was devoted to us, and I told Lady Folgate that I was summoned to Oakthorpe afterwards. Fortune favoured me so far. I inquired my way to The Bungalow once when I left the Sutton Boldon station, and then found it without any difficulty.

“Rheinhart had directed in his letter that my sister should go round the house, and that the French window would be standing open; she was to go straight in. I crept round the house as quietly as I could, when I was startled by hearing the sound of voices raised loudly. I waited awhile, not knowing what to do; it must have been then that the man Wilson saw me as he described in his evidence. Then I made my way slowly round to the front of the house; it was not lighted up, and I did not know what to do. But time was passing; I had to get the train to Oakthorpe, and I took my courage in both hands and went up to the front door. It stood wide open; inside all looked dark and quiet. The thought came to me that either I or Rheinhart had made a mistake. I had thought he said window; probably he had meant door. I went in; the only light in the hall came from a room at the farther end, the door of which stood partly open. I pushed it wide and went in.”

A thrill went through the court; on all sides men and women were craning their necks forward to get a glimpse of this long-sought-for witness; only Detective Collins and Inspector Spencer looked absolutely unmoved. Roger Lavington sat as if turned to stone. It was a dream, he assured himself—a bad dream from which he would presently awaken. The girl he had helped to escape from The Bungalow was Daphne Luxmore; why was Elizabeth, the woman he loved, taking the burden of her sister's sins upon her shoulders?

“You went inside?” Mr. Davenport Villiers prompted.

Elizabeth put up her hand and fumbled with the lace at her throat.

“Yes. He—he lay there on the floor—Rheinhart —dead! My first impulse was to give the alarm; I cried out, but no one came; the dead man was apparently alone in the house. Then I remembered my sister's letters; if they were found in his possession now, it would be worse than ever; they would be made public. I saw that a packet was sticking out of the dead man's pocket, and I went over and took it out. I must have dropped my glove, I suppose, as I felt in the pocket to make sure that I had left none behind.” She swayed slightly, caught up the water, and drank eagerly.