The Dower House Mystery (29 page)

Neither Julian nor Annie heard him. Annie had fallen back against the wall; her face was ghastly. There was a chair in the middle of the room, but it was empty. In the corner of the room there was something on the floor, something that was covered with a rug.

Julian went forward with the sound of the sea roaring in his ears. He knelt down, and felt Mr. Miller's hand on his shoulder.

There was a pause.

It was Julian who pulled the rug away with a desperately steady hand. Amabel's eyes met his. She was lying flat on the floor, her ankles strapped together, her arms bound to her sides, and a gag in her mouth. Her eyes looked steadily and piteously at him. He called her name, lifted her, began to unfasten the gag—all in such a hurry of relief and tenderness as to admit of no other thought.

It was Mr. Miller who saw the door in the opposite wall open a little, and the face of Mr. Bronson appear. It was Annie Brown who screamed.

The next instant the door was slammed and locked. The sound of running feet was heard for a moment. Julian looked up with his arms round Amabel.

“What was that?”

“Bronson. It doesn't matter if that passage comes out where I think it does—I've got men on the look-out for him. Here,”—he turned sharply on Annie, who was still leaning against the wall—“where does that passage come out? That scared-looking Jenny only told me half. Where does it come out?”

“Find out,” said Annie, with a sob.

Mr. Miller frowned.

“We'd better get out of this. What about Mrs. Grey?”

“I can walk,” said Amabel faintly, and could not trust her voice to say more. The last hour had been a very terrible one. Bronson's plan had come home to her in all its fiendish ingenuity, and the thoughts that had been with her had been dark indeed. Daphne. Julian. Their grief. The construction that would be placed on the words she had been tricked into writing. With Julian's arms round her, the cloud was lifting; but it had been very black. She was shaken, helpless, afraid of what she might say or do.

They came up the steep stair, and through Miss Harriet's room and the passage into the sitting-room beyond. A few embers of the fire which Amabel had made up three hours ago still glowed upon the hearth. She looked at them wonderingly. It seemed so long since she had stirred the logs into a blaze and thought of how wet Julian would be when he came in. He put her into a big chair, and knelt beside her.

Annie Brown went over to the fireplace, laid her arms upon the mantelpiece, and dropped her head upon them.

On the landing outside Mr. Miller blew a whistle. Men tramped up the stairs. His voice gave orders.

After a while Annie Brown lifted her head.

“Mr. Julian,” she said, in a shaken voice.

Julian looked up, and saw her face grey and drawn, her eyes full of appeal.

“Mr. Julian,” she said again; and then her voice broke. “I saved her—but there's nobody to save me,” she gasped.

Julian got up, went over to her, and laid his hand on her arm.

“I saved her, Mr. Julian. Can't you do anything? Can't you?”

Mr. Miller came into the room with a brisk air of importance. He frowned at Julian's attitude.

“I've a warrant for Miss Lemoine's arrest,” he began.

She threw up her head and faced him.

“I'd have been away by now if I could have brought myself to it,” she said. “I've saved her, and done for myself.”

A man came into the room and spoke to Mr. Miller, then went out again.

“Well, they've got Bronson,” he said. “That's one comfort. As to Miss Lemoine—of course, what she did just now will count in her favour.”

She clung to Julian's arm, and began to speak in a whisper broken by sobs.

“Charles will never forgive me—he'd have got away—we'd both have got away—but I couldn't let him do murder, could I? I've given him away—and he knows it—I'm his wife, but he'll kill me for it.”

“His wife!” said Julian in a startled voice.

She put her hand to her head.

“Yes, I'm his wife. I don't owe him anything for that, though. He married me to have a hold on me, and to keep my mouth shut if it ever came to this.” Her voice rose and vibrated. “And I married him to come back here, and have my marriage lines to show to Mother; only he'd never let me—he'd never let me. Not good enough to be Angela's mother, I wasn't, when it came to the point. Angela was all he cared for; and I wasn't good enough for Angela. He thought of what the County would say if he gave out that he'd married a governess. That's all he thought of—Angela and the County—not me—not me.” Her voice trailed away. “Oh!” she said, and stopped, shaking all over. Her eyes were on the door. Her face had undergone an extraordinary change. Mr. Miller swung round. Julian turned. They all faced the door.

The door was open. On the threshold stood Mrs. Brown in a pink flannelette nightgown and a crimson cross-over. She was groaning and panting, and she leaned against the jamb of the door. Julian hurried to her.

“Brownie!” he said, and put his arm about her shoulders.

“I heard my Annie's voice,” said old Mrs. Brown, looking vaguely about her. “I heard my Annie's voice, and I come.”

The sound of Jenny's sobbing filled the passage behind her; but in the sitting-room itself everyone was very still. Amabel leaned forward in her chair, her eyes full of tears. Mr. Miller bit his lip, and stood aside. Annie Brown came forward quite quietly.

“I'm here, Mother,” she said. And then, all of a sudden, she was down on her knees, with her arms round the old woman, crying bitterly.

“Hush, Annie, hush,” said Mrs. Brown. “Don't 'ee cry, my girl, don't 'ee cry so. I'll not hold nothing up against you, Annie, my girl.”

“I'm going to prison, Mother,” said Annie like a child.

Mrs. Brown patted her shoulder in a feeble, distressed sort of way.

“I've got to go to prison, Mother.”

“Prison?” said Mrs. Brown. Her lips trembled, her weight came hard on Julian. She turned and looked into his face, and found no comfort there. “Prison, Annie, my dear? What ha' you been doing?”

There was a silence. No one answered her.

“What ha' you been doing, Annie? Why don't nobody tell me? Mr. Julian, my dear, if she's done wrong and she's sorry, you'll speak for her—you'll not let them be hard on her, will you, my dear? What's she bin doing that no one'll tell me?”

“Brownie,” said Julian, “I'll do all I can—you know I will. Don't take it too much to heart. It's—it's her husband's business really.”

He felt her start, stand upright.

“Her husband?” she said in a new voice. “Annie, ha' you got a husband? Tell me the truth, my girl. Are you a lawful married woman? Have you got your lines?”

Annie lifted her wet face and met her mother's eyes.

“I've got to go to prison, Mother,” she sobbed. “I've got to go to prison—there's no one can save me from going to prison. But I've got my marriage lines.”

“The Lord be praised for all His mercies!” said Mrs. Brown.

Chapter XXXVII

Julian look Amabel down to the Berkeleys a little later. They walked down in silence, slowly, his arm about her. It was a strange contrast to the hurried run from the Lodge to the Dower House with Annie an hour before. Amabel was too shaken for speech. To come out of that atmosphere of dread and mystery, to be here with Julian, was enough.

The light and kindness of the Berkeleys' house welcomed them. All the strain and trouble slipped away like shadows left outside in the night. Within there was light, and that great kindness.

Amabel slept dreamlessly in the cheerful guest chamber, with its bright chintzes and welcoming fire. She slept, and waked to a new and happy world. The sun was actually shining. It was the sun that had waked her. She was smiling at it when Ellen came in—Ellen with a tray which she had wrested from the housemaid, and the air of one who is bursting with repressed conversation.

“Well, Ellen?” said Amabel.

Ellen set down the tray.

“Well it is, and well you may say so,” she said with a sob, and caught Amabel's hand in both her own. “Oh, my dear ma'am, when I 'eard of it, which was ten o'clock last night and Eliza and me just going to our beds, I wanted to come to you right away then, but they wouldn't let me. Not that I'd 'ave taken any orders from that there Miller, detective or no detective—and 'e needn't think it, not if 'e 'ad the law on me ten times over. But when Mr. Forsham says to me, ‘You let 'er be to-night. She wants 'er rest,'—well, then I up and took off me 'at again. Come to take my evidence, they did,” concluded Ellen in a tone of much importance.

“Don't let's talk about it,” said Amabel with a shudder. “No, Ellen, I do
not
want to hear what Eliza Moorshed said about it all. I've got something much nicer to talk about—something you just missed hearing yesterday. Miss Daphne is going to be married.”

“Miss Daphne!” said Ellen. She took Amabel's hand and kissed it. “I didn't think it was Miss Daphne you was going to name. Isn't there no one else going to be married?—no one nearer at 'and, so to speak? Not but what I wish Miss Daphne joy, and a 'andsome 'usband, and a steady young gentleman into the bargain—for a steady one is what she wants, and no mistake. But oh, my dear ma'am, isn't there anyone else a-going to be married?” Her eyes swam with tears; one splashed down on to Amabel's hand. Amabel laughed, blushed, and pulled her hand away.

“Ellen, don't be damp, or you shan't come to my wedding.”

“It's a pore 'eart that never cries,” said Ellen—“a pore 'eart and an 'ard one.” The tears ran down her nose. “And I wish you joy with all my 'eart, and Mr. Julian too. And I 'ope as it'll be soon, and no waiting about for Miss Daphne.” Ellen mopped her eyes. “You could wear the blue costoom that Mrs. Moreland give you and you've never 'ad on. ‘When'll I wear this, Ellen?' you says to me. ‘It's only fit for a wedding,' you says. And we both thought Mrs. Moreland might ha' known better and given you something a bit more useful. Blue's my choice for a wedding, and always 'as been. None of your nasty greys for me that always 'as a sort of 'arking-back, 'arf-mourning kind of look to my mind. If you can't 'ave orange blossoms and white satin, 'ave blue and be cheerful, even if you do regret it afterwards, which I 'opes you won't, with a nice gentleman like Mr. Julian.”

Amabel laughed again.

“We don't mean to regret it,” she said.

“I've had Ellen's congratulations,” she told Julian later on. “She's frightfully pleased, really. She cried for joy, and said she hoped we shouldn't regret it.”

“Is she always as effusive as that?” asked Julian.

“That's just her way.”

She came closer to him, and he put his arm round her.

“Julian, you're sure?”

He kissed her.

“There's just one thing I'm not sure about.”

“What is it?”

“Amy darling, I'm not sure—”

She drew back, looked at him, saw his eyes full of tender mischief.

“Julian, you're laughing at me!”

“I am. It's good for you to be laughed at.”

“Yes. But what aren't you sure about?”

“Well, this is Friday—and I'm not sure whether Monday or Tuesday will be the best day for us to get married.”

“Julian!” She saw the mischief change to the old look—the boy's look of eager worship.

“Amy, I've waited twenty years already.”

THE END

About the Author

Patricia Wentworth (1878–1961) was one of the masters of classic English mystery writing. Born in India as Dora Amy Elles, she began writing after the death of her first husband, publishing her first novel in 1910. In the 1920s, she introduced the character who would make her famous: Miss Maud Silver, the former governess whose stout figure, fondness for Tennyson, and passion for knitting served to disguise a keen intellect. Along with Agatha Christie's Miss Marple, Miss Silver is the definitive embodiment of the English style of cozy mysteries.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1925 by Patricia Wentworth

Cover design by Mauricio Díaz

ISBN: 978-1-5040-3328-2

This edition published in 2016 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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