Читать книгу Inspector Furnival's Cases - Annie Haynes - Страница 18

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"Oh, but Miladi is better, much better, and she desires that I come to the fete," Célestine said virtuously.

"I am glad she did. We could not have afforded to have missed you," her companion declared gallantly.

He was the same, dark moustached, smiling little man whom the gossips of Heron's Carew had averred the French maid was meeting in the Home Wood. However that might be, it was obvious that he was expecting her at the Wembley Show. He had been waiting at the entrance gates for quite a considerable time before she had appeared, and he went forward to meet her, hat in hand, with considerable empressement. Célestine looked by no means adverse to being escorted into the grounds by so presentable a swain. She herself was looking her vain coquettish best. She smiled up at the man walking by her side.

"So I am glad, Mr. Barker! Your fête makes a little change. Ah, but it is a triste place, Heron's Carew!"

"It isn't lively," the man agreed with a laugh. "I want you to do me a favour, mademoiselle."

Célestine looked gracious. "What is that, Mr. Barker? You know—"

"I want you to let me introduce a friend," Mr. Barker proceeded. "He came down from town yesterday, my friend did. He is going to stop a bit for his health, and I think the poor fellow feels lonely. There he is walking about by himself, so if you wouldn't mind him joining us—not that I want to share your society with anyone else," he finished with a complimentary glance.

Célestine bridled. She looked across at the solitary figure that Mr. Barker had indicated. Her quick French eyes noted that, though there was nothing particularly noticeable about the man's face and figure, he was immaculately dressed, with a care that reminded her of London. Her eyes brightened, it seemed that there might be possibilities about Mr. Barker's friend.

"But of course I shall be delighted!" she allowed graciously.

They went across together. "Mlle Célestine Delafours, may I introduce Mr. Lennox?" Mr. Barker said with a flourish.

Mr. Lennox bowed with a deference that pleased Célestine. He had fine eyes she said to herself, and, though she might not admire sandy beards, tastes must differ, and the stranger had at least an air.

"You are down here, at Wembley, for your health, Monsieur?" she questioned in her pretty broken English.

Mr. Lennox bowed. "I am staying at Carew Village, at the Carew Arms."

"Ah!" Célestine gave a melting glance upwards. "As is Monsieur Barker. And you are an artist like him is it not so, monsieur?"

Mr. Lennox shook his head. "I am not so clever, mademoiselle, I am only a collector."

"A collector," Célestine echoed with a pretty little puzzled air. "I do not understand, monsieur. What is a collector?"

Mr. Lennox laughed. "Well, it is more a hobby than a profession, mademoiselle. I am lucky enough to have an income to cover my small wants, and I have a natural taste for collecting objects of art. Why, what is this?"

A boy with a telegram was coming towards them. "For the gentleman as is staying at the Carew Arms, Mr. Barker!" he said looking from one to the other.

With a quick exclamation Barker took it from him, tore it open and ran his eyes over it.

"Nothing wrong, I hope," said Mr. Lennox sympathetically.

"Well, yes!" Mr. Barker seemed to have difficulty in finding his words. "My mother has been taken suddenly ill. I shall have to be off at once. I shall just have time to catch the express. Mademoiselle"—turning to Célestine—"how can I apologize to you? You will think me absolutely unmannerly, but my mother—"

"Mademoiselle will understand that your departure is unavoidable," said Mr. Lennox, cutting the other's halting words short. "And, if you are to catch the express, my dear fellow, you haven't a moment to lose. I will take your place as far as it is possible with Mademoiselle, if she will allow me the pleasure of escorting her."

"But Monsieur is too good!" And Célestine made play with her eyes.

Mr. Barker hurried off, with many incoherent apologies. When he had finally departed, Mr. Lennox looked at Célestine with a smile.

"Which way will you go, mademoiselle?"

"I would like to walk among the people, if you please, monsieur; not right in the crowd, but about here, where you can see people—and feel that there is life."

"You find it dull at Heron's Carew!" Lennox observed sympathetically.

Célestine held up her hands. "But of all things. And to me, who understood that miladi was to spend the season in town, it is all that there is of the most horrible. I would never have engaged to come to Heron's Carew all the time, like this—never!"

He glanced at her comprehendingly. "It is hard on you, mademoiselle. But I suppose Lady Carew is not strong enough for the gaieties of the season."

Célestine shrugged her shoulders. "Miladi has a constitution of the most magnifique. But one day she has a migraine, and your English doctors are fools. She is sent down to this triste Heron's Carew, where there is never any person to speak to but Sir Anthony and Miss Peggy, and what can you expect?"

"She is not getting better?" Lennox questioned.

"But no," Célestine answered energetically. "How should she be here in this dullness? And it is impossible for her to be gay when Sir Anthony—he mopes always, and is sulky."

Mr. Lennox looked interested. "Perhaps they don't get on. I saw him just now when they were giving the prizes away. He looks as if he had a temper of his own."

Célestine raised her eyebrows. "Was there ever a Carew of them all that had not?" she demanded. "The mad Carews, the people round here call them. I think it is a good name—me. But, as for getting on, Sir Anthony and miladi used to be like lovers always. It was wearisome to see them together, until the night of Lady Denborough's dinner-party. Since then all has been changed."

"They quarrelled perhaps," her companion suggested, as she paused and looked mysterious.

"Perhaps," she said slowly, lifting her shoulders. "I do not know. At any rate, miladi and Sir Anthony went to a wedding, Lady Geraldine Summerhouse's, in the afternoon. Then miladi had her migraine and did not go to Lady Denborough's. It may have been that Sir Anthony was sulky because he did not want to go alone. Most men are like that—thoughtless, what you call, selfish!" with a swift upraising of her dark lashes.

Mr. Lennox rose to the occasion gallantly. "I should not be thoughtless or selfish if I had a sweet little wife like—" His eyes pointed the unfinished sentence.

Célestine smiled, did her best to blush.

"But men are all alike—before," with a coquettish glance.

"Not all—any more than you ladies," Mr. Lennox contradicted playfully. "Now you, mademoiselle, if you had a headache, you would make a struggle to go out with your husband, I know; you would not leave him to go alone."

The maid pursed up her lips. "If it suited my purpose I might or I might not, monsieur. Sometimes—sometimes it may be that a migraine is—shall we say—convenient?"

Mr. Lennox looked at her, his face a study of good-humoured surprise. "I don't understand, mademoiselle. You say that Lady Carew's headaches are convenient."

"Not all of miladi's migraines are," Célestine contradicted. "But that first one, on the night of Lady Denborough's dinner, was a convenient one, all the same. But there, monsieur, sometimes it happens that my tongue runs away with me; we will talk of something else."

Lennox looked at her a moment, and then he threw back his head and laughed.

"Do you think I should gossip, mademoiselle? Bless my life it isn't as if I were a married man with a wife to whisper my secrets to," casting a sentimental glance at the girl.

Célestine's eyelids flickered coyly.

Mr. Lennox drew a little nearer. "Sometimes one does get led away, mademoiselle; one meets somebody suddenly, the very sight of whom seems to alter one's life. It is hard to realize that the feeling is not mutual, that one is suspected, doubted; but I suppose, if one weren't a fool, one would be prepared for it."

"But suspected, monsieur, doubted?" Célestine glanced up quickly into the mild blue eyes that were watching her with such evident interest. In her shrewd little heart she was calculating the possibilities; it was apparent that the new-comer was greatly attracted to her. There was an air of prosperity about him which impressed Célestine. Decidedly, she thought, it appeared as though he would be a better match than Barker. Altogether she thought it might be as well to temporize. "It was only that though miladi had strange ways I do not speak of them usually; but to you, monsieur, who seem not like other men, it is different. Only you must understand that I do not gossip—me."

"Good heavens, no." The man laughed again with every appearance of good faith. "And what does it matter to me whether Lady Carew has her own little game to play, if she breaks engagements in order to get out of doors to—perhaps better say no more."

"But, monsieur," Célestine was staring at him with wide open eyes, "what do you mean, what do you know?"

The tragic intensity of her tone seemed to amuse Mr. Lennox, his smile broadened. "Only the ordinary gossip of the town about a lady so well known as Lady Carew," he replied lightly. "You know she is a society beauty, a famous person whose every movement is chronicled. There have been whispers of Lady Carew of late, that there is a lover in the background, but I should not speak of them to anybody but you, mademoiselle."

"And I never knew, I never dreamed that anyone had guessed." Célestine clasped her small exquisitely covered hands tightly together and spoke with dramatic intensity. "All I know is that Miladi says she has a bad headache, that she can not go to Lady Denborough's dinner, and that she sends me away, and afterwards when the house is quiet she comes stealing down the stairs and lets herself out like a mouse."

"Oh, you ladies—you ladies!" apostrophized Mr. Lennox. "It would take a clever man to be even with some of you, mademoiselle. So I suppose Lady Carew spent a pleasant evening with her lover, while poor Sir Anthony went to Lady Denborough's dinner alone, and made himself miserable all the evening, thinking that his wife was ill."

Célestine did not answer for a minute; her carefully arched eyebrows were drawn together consideringly.

"No! Sir Anthony—he did not go to Lady Denborough's either!" she said slowly. "Though Miladi thought he would. He went out, somewhere, I do not know where. And he did not come back till after Miladi had come back, and then he came in and shut his door with a bang—so." And Célestine brought her two hands together smartly. "But when you speak of Miladi's lover, you make a mistake. Miladi may have secrets, but a lover, no, I do not think it. She loves Sir Anthony."

Mr. Lennox's interest in the story was evidently only second to that he felt in Célestine herself. "But if she is meeting a man—outside," he said. "And all London says she is."

Célestine shook her head. "It is not a lover she meets, monsieur. And I do not speak without reason."

"Reason," Mr. Lennox repeated thoughtfully. "But, mademoiselle, how can you know?"

Célestine's black eyes looked important. "Ah, now, monsieur, you are asking more than I can tell. That is my little—what you call—secret."