The Bungalow Mystery (5 page)

Roger shuddered as he realized that this must be the well-known Sir William Bunner, whose severity had earned for him the sobriquet of the “Hanging Judge.”

But Mr. Thornton was signalling frantically from the door-way; Lavington became aware that he was due upon the platform very shortly. As he made his way to the door he caught another remark; a girl behind him was leaning forward eagerly:

“Why, father, she is just like Miss—”

Roger did not catch the name; the vicar seized his arm.

“What are you about, Lavington? You will never be ready?”

“Oh, yes, I shall!” Roger returned coolly. “Don't excite yourself, old fellow, everything is going on very well.”

“Yes, if you don't spoil it,” groaned the vicar. “For goodness' sake, make haste, man.”

For most of the audience that night the stage held but one figure; Elsie Thornton, Roger Lavington and the rest of the performers might be all very well, but the whole of the time she was on the stage they were dominated and held by “Zoe's” brilliant, fascinating personality; she allured and she charmed alike by her dainty coquetry, and by her passion as she bade a last farewell to her lover.

Lavington was conscious that he was acting like a stick, but all his thoughts were with his beautiful pseudo-cousin. The presence of Constable Frost at the door had roused the gravest misgivings in his mind, and he could not but fancy that a new source of danger had arisen in Sir William Bunner's half recognition of her—even to himself he would not acknowledge all that he feared this last might imply.

“Zoe” appeared with the rest of the performers before the curtain to bow her thanks to the audience, but Roger fancied that she looked worried and distraite, and somewhat pointedly avoided both himself and Thornton.

He hurried off to the dressing-room to divest himself of his grease paint, resolving to start for Sutton Boldon as soon as “Zoe” was ready. As he was getting into his coat, there was a knock at the door; a boy handed him a note; though he had never seen the handwriting before, a certain knowledge of the writer seemed to come to him as he tore it open and read:

Roger stared at the words as if thunderstruck, and then read them over again. Was it, could it be possible that “Zoe,” as he called her in his thoughts now, had really vanished out of his life for ever with the same dramatic suddenness as she had entered it?

The morning was crisp and cool and bright; there was a touch of frost in the air; outside in the garden the adventurous little flowers of spring were drooping with wilted heads. A bright fire was burning in the grate; Roger Lavington sat at the end of the table nearest, drinking his coffee and eating his eggs and bacon with a gloomy, abstracted air, his dark, rugged eyebrows drawn together in a frown that betrayed his thoughts to be anything but agreeable.

Opposite, behind the coffee-pot and the steaming silver kettle, Miss Chilton had opened the morning paper and was bending over it, her lace cap quivering with nervousness as she uttered various interested ejaculations:

“Terrible! Terrible! What an accident! Why, Roger—”

Her tone was so excited that her nephew was startled out of his absorption.

“Yes, what is it, Aunt Minnie?”

“Oh, this is dreadful! Wasn't Sir James Courtenay a great friends of yours?”

“Yes: both at Wellington and Magdalen, though I've not seen much of him of late years. But what's wrong with him?”

“Sir James Courtenay, of Oakthorpe Manor, seriously injured. It is feared that amputation of both legs may be necessary. Poor, poor fellow, Roger! Isn't it heart-rending? I think I would really rather be killed outright than mangled in such a fashion. It's that railway accident in the north. You know, it was mentioned in the papers last night.”

“But do you mean that Courtenay—” Roger came round and looked over her shoulder.

Miss Chilton pushed the paper towards him.

‘‘You take it; I'm sure that I cannot bear to read about it. Poor young man!”

Lavington caught it from her hand and, standing with his back to the fire, scanned the details, his face very grave as he realized how serious was the injury.

Courtenay and he had been great friends in boyhood and early youth and, though they had seen less of one another of late, the old affection was still strong with Roger. The paths in the life of a struggling doctor and a wealthy baronet must of necessity be far apart, and though Courtenay, after his accession to the baronetcy, which fell to him somewhat unexpectedly, had made many efforts to keep up the old intimacy, the force of circumstances had been too strong for him, and they had drifted away from one another.

Only a few days before, however, Roger had seen the announcement of Sir James Courtenay's forthcoming marriage to the daughter of a well-known political peer; that very day he had been intending to write a letter of congratulation; and now his heart was very heavy for his friend as he realized how suddenly the cup of happiness had been dashed from his lips.

He glanced mechanically down the terribly long list of killed and injured. As he reached the bottom, a short paragraph caught his eye that drove the blood from his cheeks and set his heart beating:

Lavington studied the paragraph until the printed words seemed to dance before his eyes. It was possible, he knew, by driving across country, that the girl whom he still thought of as Zoe might have caught the express which came to such a signal disaster at Northchester.

“It's very sad indeed,” Miss Chilton said plaintively, her head shaking with nervous excitement. “Though I never saw him myself, I have heard you speak of him so often that I feel quite upset—I do really! And I know that it must be a shock to you.”

Her voice fell on deaf ears; her words could not penetrate the red mist that seemed to enwrap Roger as he pictured the quondam Zoe's gleaming golden hair, all soiled in blood, and the tall, slim form mangled and cut up.

“Roger, don't you think there may be a mistake?” Miss Chilton's voice sounded injured. The poor lady was feeling a bit ill-used; here was an exciting piece of news, and Roger apparently took no interest in it.

But this time her nephew heard.

“No, I should not think there is a mistake,” he replied, in an odd, strained tone. “Evidence places her connection with Rheinhart beyond doubt,” he repeated to himself.

His lips moved silently as he scanned the lines once more, the paper still open before his face. Was it possible that “Zoe” had been mad enough to keep papers of any kind in her possession?

Then a great pity took possession of him as he recalled the girl's big, terrified eyes, the passion in her voice. Had she been frightened, he wondered, in that awful moment when her soul stood face to face with the Great Beyond? Or had Death come swiftly, suddenly? Had she been one of those who pass through the cold waters all unknowing?

A sick shiver shook Roger from head to foot as he threw the paper on the table and turned to the door.

“Is it one of your long days, Roger, or shall you be in to lunch?” Miss Chilton called out as he was about to close the door. She was bending over the account of the accident again, returning to the harrowing details with renewed zest.

Roger's temper rose.

“I can't tell where I may be.”

“But Roger—” The rest of the sentence was lost as her nephew strode down the passage into the surgery, banging the double doors that ensured his absolute seclusion.

He drew his case-book towards him from force of habit, and ran his fingers down the list for the day; but though he was apparently regarding every particular with the deepest attention, in reality he could not have repeated one word from the page before him. He shuddered as he thrust his books aside; and, dropping heavily into the straight-backed chair beside him, sat with his elbows on his knees, his eyes fixed unseeingly straight before him.

At last he rose, and, as if moving without his own volition, opened a drawer, took out a time-table, and turned over its pages rapidly. Yes, there it was—“Sutton Boldon, 10.45; Sheffield, 12.20; Northchester, 1.38.” There was ample time for him to get to Northchester and back, ample time to ascertain who had been killed in the Northchester disaster. A very few minutes for deliberation, and his mind was made up. The fact that his friend, Sir James Courtenay, was among the injured was excuse enough for his action if excuse was needed, and when the 10.45 steamed out of Sutton Boldon Station, Roger Lavington was snugly ensconced in a corner seat of a first-class smoking compartment.

No sooner, however, was he fairly on his way, than, manlike, he began to think he had done wrong in coming, to call himself a fool for his pains. What was it to him what became of the girl? he asked himself savagely. With her departure from Freshfield, the responsibility which had been thrust upon him ceased, the episode was closed.

Opposite him two men were discussing the accident, dwelling on the ghastly details with gusto, it seemed in his irritation. In vain he lighted the meerschaum that had been his unfailing resource since his college days, and tried to detach his thoughts. Scraps of their conversation would reach his ears.

“One poor thing was found with her head jammed back against the woodwork; her neck was broken.”

“Was that the woman that they say was wanted for the Bungalow murder?”

“No. She was in the front of the train; this one I'm speaking of was behind. Queer thing that is too. I notice they do not say in the papers what the clue was they have discovered; it might defeat the ends of justice, I suppose. But I see in the late edition that she is quite young, a mere girl. Well, well, I dare say it is best it should end like that. Though, mind you, there was more in that Bungalow murder than meets the eye. I can read between the lines.”

The speaker was a short, squat-figured man of middle age, with a white, flat, flabby face bordered by sandy side-whiskers; his expression was one of exasperating complacence. With a muttered exclamation Roger thrust his head out of the window. Withdrawing it presently he became aware that his travelling companions were still engaged in the discussion of the same topic.

“A girl like that does not commit a murder for nothing, I say. Probably Rheinhart thoroughly deserved his fate.”

His companions carried on their conversation, casting curious glances at Roger now and then. Roger had an uncomfortable feeling that they thought his manner odd, that they were speculating about him.

They got out hurriedly at Sheffield, and he lost sight of them as he made his way to the Northchester train. It was crowded. Relatives and friends were hurrying down to claim the dead or nurse the injured. Roger had some difficulty in finding a seat. He wondered vaguely whether Courtney's betrothed would be there—whether he would find her by his friend's bedside?

At last Northchester was reached. The station was a big, bustling junction; the actual scene of the accident was some little distance away, but the company had arranged for brakes to be in waiting to convey the friends of the victims as speedily as possible; and Roger, mentioning Courtenay's name and his own profession, found himself treated with every consideration and speedily accorded a seat. It had not been possible to house all the injured at the hotel which was nearest to the railway, but Courtenay and those most seriously injured had been carried there and others more able to bear the journey were taken into the town of Northchester itself.

Roger was shocked to find that the papers had rather under than overestimated his friend's injuries; amputation of both legs had already taken place, and the injury to the spine was at present baffling the doctors.

Near at hand, close to the scene of the accident, there stood a long, low, desolate-looking barn; towards it, across a rough, ploughed field, a constant stream of feet had in the last few hours trodden the path. Roger glanced at it mechanically. A goodly proportion of his fellow-travellers were making their way towards it in groups of twos and threes. Others were coming out. Lavington saw that two of them held handkerchiefs to their eyes. He looked once more at the dark, lonely outbuilding silhouetted against the grey sky, and understood. This then was his goal; this was where he must seek the solution of the doubts that had tormented him for the past few hours.

There was little difficulty in obtaining admission Roger found the mere production of his card sufficient. Three of the dead were yet unidentified, he learned—an elderly man, a middle-aged woman, and a young girl. Seventeen had been killed outright, one had already been removed after the adjourned inquest held that morning, the others lay rigid and silent, on separate trestles, up the centre of the building.