The Bungalow Mystery (4 page)

There was a grim smile on Roger's face as he closed the door behind them. When his aunt came into the room again she was looking anxious and worried.

“I wish we had known that she was coming tonight; we would have had something nice for dinner. You never told me how pretty she was, Roger.”

“Who—Zoe?” The doctor looked puzzled. “I do not think she is. At least”—with a change of front, as he remembered the big, bright eyes, the flushing cheeks of this new Zoe—“I suppose she is. I never thought of it before.”

“Really, Roger!” Evidently the old lady was working herself up into quite a state of excitement over her guest. “And her gown—did you notice it?”

“Not particularly,” Roger responded, with masculine denseness. “Something dark, wasn't it?”

“Something dark!” Miss Chilton repeated with supreme contempt. “It was dark green of course! But did you notice the cut and the finish and the wonderful embroidery on the vest and cuffs? I could not help saying to her, ‘My dear, where did you get that gown?' and she said at once, ‘In Vienna.' I thought she was inclined to catch herself up the moment after she had said it, but still—I have heard that Viennese tailors are even more expensive than the Parisian. What do you make of it, Roger? Your Uncle John—”

“Must have more money than sense, by your account of it, I should say,” Lavington interpolated brusquely.” Don't worry yourself about it, Aunt Minnie. Zoe”—bringing out the name after an imperceptible pause—“has put on her best bib and tucker to dazzle our rustic minds, I expect.”

“Oh, well, I don't know,” Miss Chilton began, unconvinced. “Oh, there you are, my dear!” with a complete change of tone as the swish of Zoe's silken petticoats, the tap of her high-heeled shoes, were heard.

Looking at her, at the daintily arranged masses of her fair hair, at the exquisite finish of her gown, at the delicate touches of lace falling round her throat and wrists, Lavington found it difficult to believe that this was in reality the wild-eyed, desolate creature who had cried aloud to him for help so short a time before.

But, in the dining-room, he saw that she was making the veriest pretence of eating, and that she was with difficulty preventing herself from starting at every sound. As they were finishing, the front door bell pealed loudly. Roger forced himself to look away from the girl's rapidly changing colour, and to talk with apparent unconcern to his aunt during the pause that followed. At last the house-parlourmaid appeared with a white, scared face.

“Constable Frost would be glad to speak to you a moment, sir. He is waiting in the hall. And, oh, sir, oh, ma'am!”—turning to the astonished Miss Chilton—“they say there has been a murder done next door, and they are out searching for them that has done it! Me and Cook are both frightened out of our wits to stay in the kitchen!”

“What!” Miss Chilton fell back in her chair, white and trembling.

Lavington felt, rather than saw, the change that passed over the face of the girl sitting at his right. He rose.

“You should not alarm Miss Chilton in that way, Mary. Tell Constable Frost I will speak to him in a minute. Aunt Minnie, I did not mean to tell you until the morning of the sad fate that has overtaken our neighbour, Rheinhart. But there is nothing to alarm you.”

“He is dead!” Miss Chilton gasped.

Roger nodded.

Through the half-open door Constable Frost's keen little eyes were taking in every detail of the homelike scene—the well-appointed dinner-table, the frail old lady at the top, the pretty pale girl bending over her.

“And—and the murderer is still at large!” Miss Chilton went on, with a little sob. “I am frightened, Roger.”

Lavington looked away from the girl who was chafing the old lady's hands.

“I think you are quite safe, Aunt Minnie; I will take care of you. But I must speak to Frost a minute. What is it, constable?”—as he stepped out into the hall—“Any success?”

“We haven't found her so far, sir. The inspector, he seems to think that she must have come through your garden, and he has sent me to tell you he will be compelled to make a search. He thought it well to let you know first in case of alarming the ladies.”

Was it his fancy, Roger wondered, or was there a slight indefinable pause before the last word? He glanced up sharply. Constable Frost's face was as imperturbably stolid as ever; his eyes were glancing apologetically at Miss Chilton.

“Certainly. Please tell Inspector Stables to make as complete a search as he likes. Is there anything else I can do for you, constable?”

“No. That is all, thank you, sir,” he replied.

Outside, in the hall, the dining-room door closed; Constable Frost became suddenly exceedingly affable with the house-parlourmaid.

“Nice-looking young lady that!” he observed communicatively. “Who might she be, I wonder?”

“She is Miss Lavington, the doctor's cousin. She has come over to take part in the play-acting at Freshfield to-morrow,” Mary returned. “Oh, Mr. Frost, I am that upset about this murder, I hardly durst open the door! And as for going to bed, me and Cook mean to sit up all night!”

“That would be a sensible thing to do,” remarked the constable satirically. “You can go to bed safe enough, Mary”—with a playful pinch of her arm—“I'll look after you.”

“I am so sorry, Roger. Zoe says that she will be obliged to go away in the morning. Her father wants her, she tells me. I do think that, coming all this way, Dr. Lavington might have spared her to us a little longer.” And gentle Miss Chilton looked quite aggrieved.

“Yes; it is a pity she has to go!” Roger assented absently.

He was standing by the window, his eyes glancing over the garden where Inspector Stables's men had made sad havoc among the daffodils and hyacinths, in the course of their search for the murderer of Maximilian von Rheinhart, the night before.

“Zoe” put her arm caressingly through Miss Chilton's.

“It is awfully kind of you to want to keep me,” she said in her pretty, flute-like voice.

“Not at all, my dear,” Miss Chilton contradicted plaintively. “Or at least, I am kind to myself. It is often very dull when Roger is away; and you are so good to an old woman. At least, if you cannot stay longer now, you must promise to come again very soon and give us a little more of your society.”

There was a momentary pause; then “Zoe” stooped and softly kissed the old lady's withered cheek.

“Thank you very much. I, too, hope we shall meet again before long.”

Roger stirred impatiently.

“They are bringing the car round. Come, Zoe. I hope you know your part.”

“I am word-perfect,” the girl declared, as she followed him out of the room.

Outside in the sunshine, it felt like a typical spring morning. The air was warm and balmy. As Roger helped his companion into the car, his eyes rested for a moment on the low roof of The Bungalow. With a pang of pity he thought of the dead man lying stark beneath.

The drive to Freshfield was not a long one; and it was accomplished for the most part in silence; as Roger drew up before the schoolhouse where the rehearsal as well as the performance was to take place, the vicar came forward and welcomed them.

“Ah, Lavington, this is good of you! And Miss Lavington, I presume,” anticipating Roger's hesitating introduction. “Do you know”—as he helped the girl down and led the way across the school-yard— “that all last night my dreams were haunted by the fear that you would fail us at the last moment? It is so good of you to come to our assistance.”

The girl smiled a little.

“I was very glad to come, thank you,” she replied with more truth than the Rev. Cyril Thornton suspected.

The new vicar of Freshfield was a slight, fair, clerical-looking young man; he was, of course, the centre of an enormous amount of interest among the unmarried ladies, old and young, of his parish; but so far he had shown no inclination to respond to their flattering attentions; to-night, however, he positively ignored them and constituted himself the
preux chevalier
of the new and fascinating cousin of Roger Lavington's.

The new-comer was quite a success at the rehearsal; evidently her promise of being word-perfect was no empty boast, and her knowledge of the lines put to shame many of her fellow-performers who had been rehearsing for weeks. She made an attractive picture, too, in her kimono, her gleaming hair drawn off her face and piled high in the Japanese fashion. More than once Lavington scowled as he saw how the vicar's blue eyes followed her every movement and how his lank, clerical figure was constantly to be seen during the interval in close attendance upon the Japanese tea-girl. At last, feeling distinctly annoyed and out of sorts, Roger made his way across to them, unceremoniously leaving pretty Elsie Thornton in the middle of a speech.

Elsie's eyes grew wistful as she watched him threading his way across the crowded school-room; almost unconsciously she had learnt to think a good deal of her brother's friend; to-day she was learning the state of her own heart, and, at the same time, being shown the utter futility of those shy, sweet hopes that had been springing up of late.

The vicar looked up with a smile as his friend approached.

“Ah, Lavington, I am trying to persuade Miss Lavington to take a different conception of these lines, do you see, when you come on, and she—-”

“I think she does it remarkably well as it is,” Roger interrupted brusquely. “Come, Zoe, I am going to take you in to tea.”

A sudden flush rose to the girl's cheeks as she heard the masterful tone; for a moment she seemed inclined to hesitate, then she rose obediently.

“Thank you, Mr. Thornton; I will think over the alterations you suggest. Yes, Roger, I shall be glad of a cup of tea.”

Lavington started as he heard her use his Christian name as naturally as if they were indeed the cousins they were assuming to be. He glanced down at her flushed, smiling face with a curious tightening feeling at his heart.

“You seem to like Thornton?” He had not in the least intended to say the words; they seemed to come without his own volition.

The girl looked surprised.

“He is very kind,” she said simply.

He drew her into an embrasure of the window, in which they were practically alone, as he supplied her with tea.

“I think— Can you manage to be ready to catch the eight o'clock train to-morrow morning? I will drive you over to Overcroft Station.”

She stood with downcast eyes, playing with her teaspoon.

“I do not want to bother you, but is it necessary to start quite so early? Miss Chilton is particularly anxious that I should stay until the afternoon and I—”

“I think it is necessary,” Roger interrupted gruffly. “I think it is better that you should know; Thornton has just told me that they expect quite a crowd to-night at this play, and he has applied for an extra policeman to keep the door. He has just come and he is Constable Frost of Sutton Boldon.”

“Oh!” The girl looked unenlightened.

With a distinct feeling of irritation at her denseness, Roger proceeded:

“He is the first policeman called to The Bungalow last night, and from his presence here, when naturally all the available police are employed in connection with the affair, I cannot help fearing that he may suspect.

“Suspect!” the girl echoed, all her pretty, newborn colour fading from her cheeks. “Do you mean that he has guessed—that he thinks that I—”

“I do not see what else could have brought him here,” Roger confessed gloomily. “But I do not think he has anything definite to go upon and by to-morrow—”

“By to-morrow I shall be safe away,” the girl said, apparently recovering her spirits with marvellous rapidity as Mr. Thornton, having discovered their hiding-place, suddenly appeared before them.

“We—I think we are going to have a full house to-night, Miss Lavington,” he said, beaming upon her benevolently and rubbing his hands together in the approved clerical fashion. “Lady Bunner has promised to bring a big party and I hear that Sir William himself is coming.”

“Sir William Bunner!” she repeated, a curious pallor coming over her features. “Do you mean the judge?”

“Yes; he retired from the bench last year,” Mr. Thornton replied. “Do you know him, Miss Lavington?” curiously.

“I have heard of him,” she replied evasively, as she set her tea-cup down. “Now, Mr. Thornton, if you are ready, I will try if I can go over those lines to your satisfaction.”

Roger watched them walk away in gloomy silence; then he made his way to the large school-room which was rapidly filling. Apparently the idea of the theatricals had caught on and the vicar's heart would be rejoiced by the sight of an overflowing audience and the prospect of a goodly sum for his fund.

Lavington did not come on at first; the scene was laid in a Japanese tea-shop, and as the curtain rose he took his stand against the wall in close proximity to the front row. For some time “Zoe” had the stage pretty much to herself, and her graceful acting and clear voice, as well as her beautiful face, evidently found favour with the audience, for her exit provoked a round of cheering.

Under cover of it an old gentleman near Roger leaned forward.

“Who is the young lady? She reminds me strongly of some one; I cannot just remember who.”

The young man to whom he spoke consulted his programme.

“Miss Maud Perrin, Sir William, as far as I can make out.”

“But Miss Maud Perrin was taken ill after the programmes were printed,” a third voice interposed at this juncture. “Mr. Thornton was telling me about it yesterday, and they had to get some one else at the last minute.”

“Well, she is very like some one I know,” the first speaker reiterated, “though at present I cannot place her. Still, my profession has brought me into contact with a good many people,” with a chuckle at his own joke.