The Witness on the Roof (10 page)

“Thank you very much!” she answered as Mrs. Perks opened the door and disclosed a comfortable-looking sitting-room.

Mrs. Perks pulled forward the one easy-chair the apartment boasted.

“If you will take a seat, miss, I'll soon make a cup of tea, and there's a wing of cold chicken, or I could get you a chop.”

“Oh, the chicken, please! You are very good. I believe I really am hungry!” Joan said with a little laugh. “I have been walking about a good deal.”

She had thrown off her hat and Mrs. Perks, as she moved backwards and forwards over her preparations for the meal, cast a good many furtive glances at her.

“It is tiring walking about looking for rooms,” she said. “But you know this neighbourhood, I think you said, miss?”

“Yes. At one time we lived behind there,” Joan answered pointing in the direction of the Mews.

“Yes, those Hinton Square houses are very large!” was Mrs. Perks' comment, and Joan did not think it worthwhile to undeceive her. “Did you say you were there when we had that sad affair here, Miss? You must have been only a child then?”

“I was quite a child,” Joan replied as Mrs. Perks poured out a cup of tea and set it before her, still watching her in a suspicious fashion, “but I never forgot it.”

“Bless you, no, miss! One does not easy forget a thing like that, child or no child!” Mrs. Perks shuddered as she carved the chicken, and cut some thin slices of bread and butter. “I am sure it is a thing I shall never forget to my dying day myself!”

“Were you here at the time?” Joan asked. Already the warm fragrant tea was bringing a tinge of colour to her pale cheeks.

“There, miss, now, I am sure a bite will do you good!” Mrs. Perks placed the chicken before her. “Yes, indeed I was here at the time! Many is the time I have wished I wasn't, for it was poor Perks that found her, and on account of that they asked all sorts of questions at the inquest that might have done him no end of harm if the owners had not known him and trusted him, having had the best of characters with him.” 

“You knew Wingrove?” Joan ventured as the woman paused for breath.

“Knew Mr. Wingrove!” Mrs. Perks pursed her lips. “I should think I did, ma'am! He had been here a month when it happened, and though I didn't see so much of the lodgers when poor Perks was alive, still I'd often had a word with Mr. Wingrove.”

“Do you know what became of him?” Joan's voice trembled as she asked the question.

Mrs. Perks lifted up her hands.

“We never heard a word of him from that day to this, miss. Nor the police never found any trace, search as they would. Me and Perks often used to say it seemed as if he had vanished from the world.”

“But you think it was he who murdered the poor girl?” Joan questioned doubtfully.

Mrs. Perks shook her head. She looked white and scared.

“That isn't for me to say, miss. But she had come to see him two or three times. I had seen her, so had Perks, and the last time she come I know they had words. Who else could it have been? That is what me and Perks always said. Folks always thought the verdict would have been against him at the inquest, only nobody really saw him come here that day at all.”

“But how could the girl who was murdered get in if Mr. Wingrove was away?” inquired Joan. “Did he leave the door unfastened?”

“No, miss. But that poor young thing, she had a key that would let her into Mr. Wingrove's rooms. I found it myself in her pocket when the police were there.”

“Oh!” Joan drew a long breath. “Was she Mr. Wingrove's wife, do you think, Mrs. Perks?”

“I couldn't say, miss, I'm sure. They seemed to know one another very well. I couldn't say more than that.”

There was one question that Joan was longing to put; she felt her heartbeat faster:

“What—what was he like?”

“Well, miss, he was a big tall figure of a man, with a pair of grey eyes that always seemed to have a smile in them, and brown, curly hair and a short, crisp beard, and he always had a laugh and a word for everybody.”

“Oh!” Joan paused. The description was certainly that of the man she had seen, as far as outward appearances went; allowing for the passage of time, it seemed to her that it would apply equally well to Warchester. And yet there was a certain reserve about Warchester. The very fact that he did not get on with everybody had been in his favour in Joan's eyes; it had added a touch of subtle flattery to the marked preference he had shown for her society from the first. She could not imagine him with a laugh and a word for every one. Insensibly her heart lightened; her supposed recognition of Warchester must have been imaginary; a chance likeness must have misled her.

Mrs. Perks cast a quick look at her.

“You take quite an interest in Mr. Wingrove, miss. Maybe you have come across him?”

Something in the tone grated on Joan; she drew up her head.

“That is scarcely likely, I think.”

“Well, miss, it would not surprise me. Me and Perks always knew Mr. Wingrove was a real gentleman. Once I saw a little crown—a coronet they call it—on one of his handkerchiefs, and I've always had it in my mind that he come of a high family.”

“But in that case surely he would have spoken. I—I don't think he would have run away!” Joan said impulsively.

“Well, miss, there is wheels within wheels,” Mrs. Perks said oracularly. “Maybe he will come forward again when he can prove as he was not the murderer. My husband told me one day that he made sure he saw Mr. Wingrove driving down Regent Street in a carriage with another gentleman.”

“What?” Joan put on her hat with a trembling hand and went over to the little glass in the overmantel to adjust it. “How long ago was this? I think your husband must have been mistaken. Surely he—Mr. Wingrove—would not come to London?”

“That's what I say, miss. But poor Perks, he would have his way. It would be about a month before he was took. ‘'Twas Mr. Wingrove, sure enough,' he said, ‘though he was looking older and his beard was shaved off, but I should know him among a thousand!' Men are always like that if they get a notion in their heads—obstinate isn't the word for them.”

“I think he must have been mistaken,” Joan said steadily as she laid some silver on the table. “Thank you very much for the lunch, Mrs. Perks; it has done me good.”

“I am sure I hope you will soon find something to suit you, thanking you kindly, miss!” Mrs. Perks responded, her eyes wandering restlessly from her young visitor's face to the rings on her hand. “If you don't meet with anything else there is a Mrs. Gower, 28 Ladbroke Crescent, I'm sure would be pleased to give you every satisfaction, and, being a bit farther out, would do it very reasonable.”

“Thank you very much; I will think of it!” Joan said eagerly. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Perks! It was very good of you to give me lunch.”

“Not at all, miss!”

Mrs. Perks accompanied her to the door. Her face had resumed its ruddy hue now, but her eyes looked troubled. She watched Joan's departing figure to the end of the street; then she turned back with a deep sigh.

“What does that mean?” she murmured. “It—it can't be that it is going to be opened up again? And did she think I shouldn't notice—shouldn't see—”

“W
ARCHESTER
wants to come up, Joan.” Mrs. Trewhistle's entrance was always faintly suggestive of a whirlwind.

Joan was sitting before a table which held a number of vases. She always preferred to arrange the flowers in her own room herself.

She did not answer for a moment; her fingers trembled as she selected a particularly fine Marsh marigold.

“Bonham has gathered me all these king-cups, Cynthia. I believe I like them better than anything, though they are only wild flowers.”

Cynthia ran to her side.

“Well, of all the exasperating people! Didn't you hear me say that Warchester was waiting?”

Joan's head bowed lower over the flowers.

“Please tell him that I don't feel well enough to see him to-day.”

“Rubbish!” Cynthia said calmly. “What do you mean by behaving like this, Joan?”

“Mean?” Joan repeated weakly. She was picking up her flowers now and placing them in the vases with scant regard to their artistic arrangement.

“Mean!” Mrs. Trewhistle exclaimed in a high, exasperated tone. “What do you mean? This absurd nonsense of not being able to see Warchester, when, after that bad fainting fit of yours on Monday, you felt able to tear up to town on Tuesday—Heaven knows what for! Warchester is very patient—more patient than most men would be in his place, but he is getting restive now, and you can't wonder at it.”

“No,” Joan assented slowly. “No, I suppose one can't.” She leaned back in her chair as though her strength had suddenly given way. “I suppose I must see him sometime, I know, but I can't this afternoon. I—really I don't feel well, Cynthia.”

Seen thus, the light from the northern window falling full on her face, the ravages of two sleepless nights were very apparent. A shadow seemed to have fallen across her fresh young beauty; the great brown eyes were dim; the cheeks were pale; the lips that had seemed made for laughter had taken a pathetic downward curve.

Cynthia's voice became very gentle.

“What is troubling you, Joan? Tell me! It is not surely that you do not trust Warchester—that—”

Joan put out her hand.

“No, no, you must give me a little time, Cynthia! Perhaps to-morrow.”

Cynthia's feeling of sympathy passed.

“I will tell him that, then. But, mind, you will have to keep to it, Joan! I shall not aid and abet you in refusing any longer. You—I suppose you will not change your mind?” pausing at the door. “He will be terribly disappointed, Joan.”

“No, no! I can't!”

Mrs. Trewhistle departed reluctantly on her errand.

Joan sank back in her chair. It was on Monday night that she had looked in at the library window that she had fancied that she had recognized Warchester as the man whom she had seen in the studio at Grove Street.

It was Wednesday now, and, in spite of her hurried journey to London, Joan had continued to plead illness as an excuse for refusing to see her husband. She was wise enough, however, to recognize that this state of things could not continue, and, though she had been weak enough to delay the interview, she knew that to-morrow it was inevitable.

How she shrank from a private talk with Warchester even Joan herself had not realized until now.

The files of the newspaper; the interview with Mrs. Perks—these had not in any way helped to solve the problem that was eternally present to Joan. Her mind swayed backwards and forwards. Had she really recognized Warchester—had she been misled by a chance resemblance? In the daytime she would incline to the latter belief, but at night the thought would reassert itself that the man she had seen in the Grove Street studio was none other than her husband. Her thoughts would revert to that terrible scene of the past, conjuring up the minutest details, recalling the turn of the murderer's head as he caught up the papers from the table, the jerk of his hand as he threw them into the fire. It was always Warchester's eyes that she saw, though the lower part of the face was hidden by the dark beard.

What had Mrs. Perks said? Her husband had been positive that he had recognized Wingrove in Regent Street, though he was clean-shaven now. Joan trembled at the thought suggested.

Mrs. Trewhistle came back presently.

“I have persuaded Warchester to go and look after the improvements. He is dreadfully anxious. You are very hard-hearted, Joan.”

“Am I?” Joan spoke listlessly, “I will see him tomorrow. To-day I don't want to talk of it, Cynthia.”

“As you like.” Mrs. Trewhistle's answer was spoken in decidedly displeased accents. She moved over to the window and stood drumming with her fingers on the panes and reflecting that Joan was very strange. She had never guessed in old Mrs. Davenant's days how intractable the girl would prove.

Outside in the park the hawthorns were in full blossom of pink and white, the bushes looking like gigantic roses dotted about, the soft green of the spring grass; nearer at hand by the side of the house the laburnums made a golden glory, and the sweet scent of the lilacs was fresh upon the air; in the drive the horse-chestnut spikes gleamed pink and white. Cynthia looked at them absently. Presently her expression altered; she leaned forward.

“There is some one coming to the door. I wonder who it is, Joan. A tall woman in black, with such a hat! Who can she be?”

Joan did not betray much interest in the question; she sat up, occupying herself with the flowers until a footman appeared in the doorway.

“Miss Davenant has called, my lady. She would be glad if you would see her for a few minutes.”

“Miss Davenant!” Joan looked at him in bewilderment. “What is it you say, Joseph? Miss Davenant? I don't understand.”

“The lady s-said Miss Davenant, m-my lady!” the footman stammered. In common with the rest of the household, he had heard of Mrs. Davenant's will, and of the search for the missing heiress. He and his fellows had freely canvassed Joan's chances downstairs. Joseph had even gone so far as to make a bet with Roger, the head-groom, on the subject. “I have shown Miss Davenant into the drawing-room, my lady,” he added. “I thought—”

“That will do, Joseph! Say we shall be there in a minute.”

Joan rose swiftly and caught her cousin's hands in hers.

“Do you understand, Cynthia? It is Evelyn. Come, we must welcome her!” The girl's cheeks were very pale now, but her brown eyes were shining like stars. “We must not let her think that I regret—that I am not pleased.”

“Evelyn!” Mrs. Trewhistle's small fair face grew crimson. “But I am not pleased. What does she mean by coming here? I think it is a great impertinence! I shall let her see plainly that I am on your side—that it is a monstrous injustice.”