The Dower House Mystery (11 page)

Julian fiddled with the lock of the connecting door, turned and re-turned the key without getting any evidence to support his own theory. The lock appeared to be perfectly sound; when the key was turned the door remained shut in spite of any amount of shaking.

They went back into the sitting-room.

“You must have forgotten to lock it,” was Julian's last word on the subject. Amabel let it pass in silence, and he burst out with:

“Well, will you have Fearless back? I told them I'd let them know if I wanted him.”

“What did you tell them?” said Amabel.

“Just the truth—that he'd gone through one of the windows. Will you have him back?”

“No,” said Amabel.

“Why not?” His tone was sharp.

She threw out her hand.

“What's the use? He was crazy—I couldn't control him. It would happen again; he wouldn't stay.” She turned away from him, and leaned on the mantelpiece. “Marmaduke wouldn't stay either,” she said very low.

“Fearless will stay all right if you chain him up.”

She shook her head.

“It's no use.” Then her tone changed; it was not Amabel who spoke, but Mrs. Grey, a charming stranger. “You have been most kind. Please do not trouble yourself any further. I shall be quite all right.”

Julian was aware that he was being snubbed, a fact which did not improve his temper. He experienced a very strong desire to quarrel openly and violently with Mrs. Grey who had snubbed him. Civilization deprives one of these solaces. He therefore made his farewells, and had reached the door, when he heard his name. He half turned, and saw that Mrs. Grey had disappeared; it was Amabel who was saying, “Julian, don't quarrel. That was horrid of me.” There were tears in her eyes. He came back.

“Julian, there's something I didn't tell you. I think I ought to. I think you ought to know.”

“What is it?”

“Fearless didn't break that glass.”

“What?”

“Fearless didn't break that glass at all.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

She put her hand on his arm.

“Come downstairs. Come into the drawing-room, and I'll show you.”

There was surprise and excitement in the air. They ran down the stairs, and Julian tried the shut drawing-room door with his shoulder. The latch held firm. If Fearless had opened it last night, it must have been already ajar. They came into the room, which was just as Amabel had left it. She shut the door carefully behind her, and led the way to the big, deep sofa which stood facing the empty hearth. There were cushions on it of faded brocade, one pink, one green, one blue, the colours fast merging into indeterminate grey. The blue cushion was nearest, propped against the sofa corner. Amabel lifted it gingerly, turned it over, pointed.

The silk on the under side was ripped and burst. A long needle-like splinter of glass hung entangled amongst the shreds.

Chapter XII

They stood in silence and looked at the splinter of glass. Neither of them spoke; there seemed to be nothing to say. After the first few moments of stupefaction Julian turned, looked from the sofa to the window, and from the window to the sofa. He whistled softly, and looked again. The distance was about fifteen feet. He touched the splinter, frowning deeply, but not this time in anger.

“You found this?”

She nodded.

“How?”

“There was a tiny flake of glass on the floor just here, a few inches from the sofa.” She touched the place with the point of her shoe. “I saw it shine. Then I looked about, and found another little bit on the sofa. After that I took up this cushion to shake it, and saw what I've just shown you. I put it back again carefully so as not to disturb the glass. I wanted you to see for yourself.”

There was another long silence. Then Julian said,

“Look here, I want to think. I'll go for a tramp, and come back this afternoon. I was a brute just now—regular black dog. I don't know why. You're not angry, are you?”

She shook her head, smiling, and they came into the hall together. Julian halted there.

“I think I'd like to see Jenny,” he said. “Do you mind?”

“No. Where will you see her? I'm going out—I've got to get some things in the village. Shall I send her upstairs?”

“No,” said Julian, “I'll find her. I want to see Brownie too. She'll be hurt if I don't.'

They parted at the foot of the stairs, and Julian went along the kitchen passage.

“Jenny was in the kitchen, bending over the large, old-fashioned range.

“Morning, Jenny,” he said, and she straightened up and faced him, very white, in a colourless lilac print, her eyes startled, her reddish hair rather ruffled.

“I'm not a ghost, Jenny,” said Julian of design.

She said, “Oh, no, sir,” and came forward to the table. Julian took a seat on the corner of it.

“You look just as startled as if I were,” he said teasingly.

“Oh, no, sir,” said Jenny again.

Julian let his foot swing, watched it swinging, and then with a sudden, sharp turn asked:

“What's all this about your not going upstairs after you've cleared the tea? That's something new, isn't it? Why on earth don't you take Mrs. Grey's supper up to her?”

“Ellen took it.” Jenny was a little breathless. She didn't look at him; but he looked at her.

“Well, Ellen's gone. I suppose you'll take it up to her now.”

Jenny took hold of the edge of the table drooped, shook her head.

“Why not?”

No answer. Julian just touched the hand that held the edge of the table. It was cold enough.

“Come, Jenny, why not?” he repeated.

Jenny shook her head again. He saw her eyelids moisten and a tear run down her cheek. He swung himself off the table, and came round it until he was standing beside her.

“Come, Jenny, what's your reason? I suppose you've got one. Mrs. Grey says she thinks you're frightened to come upstairs at night. Is she right? Is that your reason? Has anything ever frightened you in this house, Jenny?”

Jenny began to draw quick, sobbing breaths. The tears ran down freely.

“Oh, Mr. Julian,” she said. “Oh, Mr. Julian, don't ask me.”

“Has anything frightened you? Have you seen anything? Have you seen anything upstairs that frightened you?”

Jenny let go of the table, and hid her face in her hands.

“Mr. Julian—oh, please, Mr. Julian!”

He laid his hand on her shoulder. She was trembling all over like a nervous animal.

“What did you see, Jenny?” he said, bending nearer, and felt her pull away from him.

“Oh, Mr. Julian, Mr. Julian!”

“What did you see, Jenny?”

She was sobbing violently now.

“Oh, you won't tell Mother? Oh, Mr. Julian, it 'ud kill Mother, It 'ud kill Mother for sure.”

“Jenny, what
did
you see?”

“It was Annie.” The words were just a trembling breath, scarcely to be distinguished as articulate sound, “It was Annie as I saw.”

Julian took her kindly by the arm.

“My dear girl, don't be so upset. Just tell me about it. You'll feel better when you've told someone. Where did you see her?”

“In Miss Georgina's room. It was dark, and I hadn't thought to put the lights on.”

“And how did you see?”

“I'd my candle in my hand—and I come past Miss Georgina's room—I saw Annie.”

“Where?”

Jenny trembled.

“The door was half open, and I saw her face.”

“Only her face?”

“Looking at me,” whispered Jenny. “Oh, Mr. Julian, you won't tell Mother? She were looking at me, and I knew it come for a sign. Oh, you'll please not tell Mother, or for sure I'll lose her too.”

Julian was very gentle with her. He patted her shoulder, promised discretion, and changed the subject.

“Did you hear a cat last night, Jenny? That dog went off after one, and I wondered whether you heard it.”

“No,” said Jenny, wiping her eyes, “not to take any notice of, I didn't. Mrs. Grey was asking me too, and I told her that we never had a cat in the house because of Mother. You remember, Mr. Julian, how she comes all over queer if there's a cat in the room—so we never have one. Of course they come into the garden now and again. Father used to say they tore up his flower beds something cruel.”

Julian went in to see his old nurse before he left the house. He found her in her neat room, with everything in apple-pie order—a geranium in the window, a bright little fire on the hearth, and her hands folded on a large, clean pocket handkerchief. She was very pleased to see him, and said so.

“And to see you alone, my dear,” she added with a glance over her shoulder. “The other times you came here there was Jenny in and out. And there's things I want to say, and things I want to ask you, Master Julian.”

Julian sat down by the bed, and patted her hand.

“All right, Brownie,” he said. “Go ahead.”

“It was to ask you if there was any news—if you had found anything—about Annie,” she whispered.

Julian shook his head.

“I'm afraid not, Brownie dear,” he said.

There was a pause.

When Annie Brown had disappeared a dozen years before, he had done his best to trace her. Long ago he had given up hope of gathering anything that would comfort the heart-broken mother. Yet, whenever he returned to Forsham, the same question was asked, the same answer given. Mrs. Brown's lips were quivering. Her eyes filled with tears that did not fall.

“Twelve years is a long time,” she said.

After a moment Julian got up.

“Have you got a photograph of her anywhere?” he asked. “There used to be one on the mantelpiece, I thought.”

“Jenny took it away,” said Mrs. Brown. “She thought it set me grieving, and she took it away.”

“Haven't you another?”

Mrs. Brown glanced over her shoulder again; then she beckoned him nearer, and, still without speaking, put her hand under her pillow and produced a worn, old-fashioned Bible. She fluttered the leaves a little nervously until they opened upon a lock of hair and a faded photograph. Julian bent nearer to look, and saw a snapshot which he himself had taken—Annie and Jenny gathering apples, a loaded basket between them, both faces turned to the camera. For the moment he was not sure which was which, and Mrs. Brown seemed to read his thought, for she pointed with a trembling finger.

“Like as two peas they was then, but Annie always quicker and prettier—more alive-like than Jenny,” she said; and then, as a step sounded in the passage, she shut the book in a flurry and pushed it under the pillow again.

Chapter XIII

Amabel met the postman on the door-step, and turned back into the hall to read her letters. There were three—one from Daphne, one from Miss Lee, one from her sister Agatha.

Two of the letters dropped unheeded whilst she tore open Daphne's envelope and read the hurried scrawl that had been posted at Marseilles.

“It's
heavenly
,” Daphne wrote, “simply heavenly. I do
adore
travelling. And it's hot, really hot, and I'd nearly forgotten what it was like to be hot. Jimmy was
frightfully
pleased to see me. He joined us here, and we're going on in his yacht. Isn't it simply too scrumptious for words? If this weather lasts, we shall cruise about a bit.” There was more in the same strain—Jimmy and the yacht; a halcyon, sapphire sea, and cloudless skies; youth and pleasure. There were two postscripts: “I want another hank of white silk to finish my jumper. I will put in a pattern. Please match it
very
carefully, because there are five shades of white, and they always try and give you the wrong one.” Amabel looked the letter over, shook it, looked inside the envelope. There was no pattern. She turned to the second postscript: “Please send me some of my nail polish—I forgot it. It's the sort you hate and always say smells of prussic acid.
Don't get any other sort
.” There followed a childish row of kisses. Amabel smiled at them, and felt her eyes blur. After a while she picked up the other letters and read them. Miss Lee first:

“The weather is really—” Amabel skipped the weather.

“The kitchen chimney—” She skipped the chimney too with an impatient, “Well, I
told
her it smoked in an east wind.”

“Marmaduke”—yes, this was what she wanted to hear—“Marmaduke turned up here this morning. We found him when we opened the front door. I have wired to ask you if you want him back. He seemed rather tired, but he is quite well. About the kitchen chimney—”Amabel very nearly used an un-Victorian expression caught from Daphne. “Isn't that Clotilda Lee all over? As if I cared about the wretched chimney! And she hasn't even the sense to say whether Marmaduke is footsore or not.” She tore the letter up. “If he'd really run forty miles, his feet would have been raw. Rather tired indeed!”

She opened Agatha's letter, and found it short and to the point:

“How are you getting on? Would you like to have me for the week-end? If so, wire, and I'll come down on Saturday afternoon. Cyril's away and I'm at a loose end.”

Amabel considered the question of Agatha for the week-end. It might do rather well. It would placate Mrs. Grundy, and—it would be nice to have Agatha; there was, after all something solid about Agatha. She gathered up her letters and set out for the village.

The post office was also the general shop. It had over the door in rickety letters the name G. Moorshed. Against the right-hand wall there leaned a black-board upon which might be read such pieces of information as “Onions are plentiful,” “Lard is cheap to-day,” “Lodger wanted single lady or gent.” Inside one might buy ready-made trousers for men, infants' comforters, soap, bacon, candles, and cheese; also peppermint bull's-eyes and pork chops.