Читать книгу The Man of Death - Arthur Gask - Страница 3

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"MR. LAROSE, I am being watched," said the small, scholarly-looking man with the high forehead. "I live alone in a lonely house on a lonely shore, and I do not know what it means. I am concerned about what is going to happen next."

AGATHA WANDSWORTH never learnt who her parents were, which, under the circumstances, might perhaps have been considered a good thing, as her father had been a dissolute Norwegian sailor and her mother a disreputable and decidedly coarse young woman who had many times strayed from the paths of virtue and part of whose calling was that of an artist's model.

Agatha owed her surname to having been found by a patrolling policeman, one night when only a few-days-old baby, upon a seat on Wandsworth Common. Her Christian name had been given her because the date of her entry upon the books of the institution to which she had been taken was that of the fifth of February, the day of the Feast of the Virgin Martyr, St. Agatha.

From such lowly and unhappy beginnings of Agatha's recorded life it might have been thought she would show all signs of coming from some common stock. On the contrary, even from her very early childhood days she had all outward appearance of descent from aristocratic forebears. It might have been some far hark-back to the Viking ancestors of her father, or, again, to those of her mother, when in long bygone days they might perhaps have been people of distinction and refinement.

At any rate, however it had come about, Agatha grew up to be a very pretty girl, and through the several orphanages and homes which she passed her good looks were remarked upon by everyone who was brought in contact with her. She had shining golden hair, finely chiselled features, beautiful deep-blue eyes and a perfect complexion. She carried herself well and with perfect poise. She spoke nicely, too, and not a bit like any common girl.

If, however, she had this altogether attractive appearance, in disposition and temperament she was anything but as pleasing, and during all her institution years was a continual source of trouble to those in charge of her. It was not that she was bad-tempered, indeed she never got in tempers, but she was most untrustworthy in almost every way. She was untruthful, she cheated at her lessons, and she pilfered when there was anything she wanted and she got the chance to take it on the sly. When she was found out, which did not always happen, as she was sharp and full of resource, she would express herself as being most contrite and take her punishment with no complaints and without the slightest trace of sullenness. She was never rude to anyone.

One day after she had been brought up before the managing committee of the orphanage for stealing a private pot of strawberry jam belonging to one of the officers, the chairman spoke to the matron about her later.

"But I cannot believe," he said with a frown, "that she is so bad a girl as you all appear to think she is. She made a good impression on us as being so nicely-mannered and respectful. She seemed so sorry, too, for what she'd done."

"She always makes out she is sorry," retorted the matron sharply, "but it's all put on, and the next time she'll be as bad as ever again. She's a perfect little actress and you've got to live with her to find out what she really is. Of course she's very nice to speak to, but underneath she's as hard as flint and doesn't care what she does. She's the most cunning child I've ever had to do with."

The chairman appeared to be unconvinced. "Well, let us hope she'll get better as she gets older," he smiled. "At fourteen there's plenty of time for improvement. She's just at an awkward age, and you see if she doesn't get better as time goes on."

And certainly in the two years which followed it did seem that Agatha had improved a lot. She was not nearly so often called up for punishment and the matron was able to give the committee a much better report. In reality, however, Agatha had not changed at all. It was only that she had learnt to cover her tracks more and to keep from untruthfulness when it was likely she would be found out. Underneath she was just the same, hard as flint, as the matron had said, totally unscrupulous and selfish, and uncaring for any interests but her own.

It could not, however, have been said that her influence in the orphanage was a bad one. She never tried to influence her companions in any way. She was not interested enough in them for that and did not care what they did. She made no particular friends among them, gave no confidences and kept herself as much to herself as she could. Still, if she wanted anything from any other girl, she would make herself very nice to her, but when she had got what she wanted would straightway ignore her as if she were no longer aware of her existence. No such word as gratitude was in Agatha's vocabulary.

"We're always told that the face is an index to character," remarked one of the teachers to a colleague one day, "but it certainly isn't so with that Agatha Wandsworth. I was looking at her this morning and thought what a really nice girl she should be. She looked so sweet and gentle and no one would dream she was the cold and selfish little fish she is. She's cruel, too, and just loved drowning those kittens yesterday." She nodded. "I shall be very sorry for the man she marries."

The other laughed. "So shall I, but you see—in a year or two, wherever she goes, the boys will be all running after her."

"But she won't marry for love," went on the first teacher, "for I'm certain she'll never love anyone but herself. She's made that way, a selfish little beast."

"She would be quite clever, too, if she weren't so lazy," remarked her friend, "but I don't think anything will ever make her work."

When Agatha was sixteen, after the usual custom of the orphanage, she was put out to service, a place being found for her as general help with two old maiden ladies in Balham. It was not a big house, the old ladies were interested in her, and she soon saw it was going to be a comfortable situation. She was to receive £12 a year and, as her employers were particular about appearances, be provided with a natty uniform and caps. Agatha knew the cap and dress suited her and was quite pleased to wear them.

Up to then, during all her life she had spoken to no members of the opposite sex except clergymen, the doctors of the orphanages and the men on the committees of the boards of management. So, her first sex adventure came to her with a boy who delivered the bread, and his eyes boggled when she came to the back door. Gee, here was something good, he thought instantly. The prettiest girl he had seen, and he set about making a conquest at once.

"Good morning, Miss," he exclaimed, lifting his cap with a smirk. "So you're the new girl here, are you?"

"One white and one brown, please," snapped Agatha, looking at him and through him with a cold, hard stare.

"Certainly, Miss," said the boy. He beamed all over. "And I'm very pleased to meet you," but Agatha had returned into the house and shut the door and the conversation was ended.

The deliverer of bread and buns realised he had been badly snubbed, but, a decidedly good-looking young fellow and with the confidence begot of many conquests, he returned blithely to the attack the next day, with the offer of a chocolate from a gaudily-covered box which he produced from his pocket. Agatha, however, refused with a curt shake of her head, barely condescending to acknowledge his good morning as she turned away.

The following week, feeling sure the ripening of their acquaintance was only a matter of an attractive enough little present, one morning he held out to her a whole box of chocolates. "From our own shop, Miss," he explained proudly. "My dad's a confectioner as well as a baker and we have more customers than anyone else in Balham."

Agatha hesitated a moment—she had a fondness for chocolates—and then, with a half smile and a quick nod of thanks, accepted the gift. She did not, however, encourage any prolonging of the conversation.

The boy was disappointed, but consoled himself with the thought that at least he was making headway, and he had dreams of very soon taking her to the pictures, with exciting little adventures to follow after among the trees on the common. With this end in view, he subsequently presented her with some nougat, a packet of butter-scotch and quite a big bag of liquorice all-sorts. Emboldened by her acceptance of his gifts, though his conversations with her were still in a most fragmentary stage, one morning he ventured to stroke her bare arm as she was taking from him a loaf of brown bread.

The result surprised him. Without a moment's hesitation, she jerked up the arm he had stroked and gave him a slap on the face, a slap so hard that, with all his amorous longings, it stung him to anger and bad words.

"You damned little cat!" he swore, rubbing his bruised cheek. "You gobble up everything I bring and that's your gratitude, is it? Damn you!"

"Don't you ever touch me again," said Agatha calmly. "I don't like it"—she was cold and business-like—"and Mistress says bring a milk loaf to-morrow."

After that the boy made no more advances, getting, however, as he thought, something of a revenge by always addressing her familiarly as Aggy when he called with the bread. He had learnt her name was Agatha because he had once overheard one of her mistresses speaking to her. At heart he was a very chagrined boy, being quite at a loss to understand why he had not managed, as he called it, to click with her. Hitherto, he had always found servant girls good hunting and it was the first real set-back he had received in all his Don Juan career. It hurt his vanity and he was wondering if anything was going wrong with him and he was losing his punch.

He need not really, however, have lost any sleep over the matter, for had he only known it Agatha was the same with all of the opposite sex she was brought in contact. Physically she was as cold as an icicle and, as she grew older, came to realise no man or boy could ever stir the very slightest emotion in her. Handsome or plain, it was always the same. She was just not interested in them.

She got on well with her mistresses, the Misses Selina and Emma Brown, playing her cards beautifully and ingratiating herself with them until they had come to have the most perfect confidence in her. She played her part splendidly and, so demure and respectful when in their presence, they never dreamt what her private opinion of them was. She thought them old fools and often would have liked to shake them for their cranky ideas. In time, too, it began to gall her that she had always to be at their beck and call and often had to leave off the reading of some interesting book to attend to them.

As she had surmised when she had first arrived, the place was an easy one, and, the old ladies helping both with the cooking and the housework, she had plenty of leisure and was soon taking an absorbed delight in the really splendid collection of books that was in the house.

The old ladies' brother had been a retired Indian Civil Service official and, dying and bequeathing his library to them, for sentimental reasons they had not disposed of a single volume, though some of them were quite valuable. There were many hundreds of them and they filled an entire room almost from floor to ceiling. They comprised books on all sorts of subjects, including a large number of novels and romances, with most of the famous classical ones. Also, there were books, the contents of which would have made the old ladies' hair stand on end had they only been aware of what they were.

Agatha was allowed to take any book she chose, and, with the happenings of her life hitherto bounded by the dreary orphanage and charitable institution walls, it can be imagined the enchanted new world which now opened wide its gates before her. She found delight in the books of travel and, her imagination quickened by what she read, her feet wandered wondrously both through the populous streets of mighty far-off cities and the silent lonely lands in obscure corners of the earth.

She liked history and biographies, too, and to read about people who had risen to high positions from humble and lowly beginnings. She started then upon her first day-dreams and imagined herself as becoming famous, perhaps as a great actress or film star. While she liked romance and the beautiful settings which were nearly always given them, she could not understand charming maidens being so swept off their feet by the attentions of young men. She did not see much in it.

But of all the books of fiction, she was most enamoured with detective stories. There, the more abandoned the criminal and the more heartless his exploits, the more thrilled with him she was, and she felt very sorry when he was caught. Two large volumes, Famous Trials of the Century, she found particularly enthralling, but when the accused were found guilty she always thought they had been badly served.

By the time she had been with the old ladies a year they had such trust in her that she was given all the shopping to do. That suited her well, as thereby she was able to add quite a lot to her wages. A shilling here, a sixpence there added on to what she had actually paid came in very useful. She was developing into early womanhood, as she had been in her girlhood, without any conscience at all.

Naturally clever with her needle and showing good taste with everything she bought, with her wages raised to £16 and her income so augmented by her shopping expeditions, she was able to dress quite well and, in her out-door clothes, she had a most presentable appearance.

"Might come from the best of people!" nodded Miss Emma Brown once, watching through the window her start off upon one of her afternoon walks. "She looks a perfect little lady."

As time passed on, if Agatha's real introduction into a wider life had started with the catholic course of reading she was giving herself, it was undoubtedly helped on materially in an awakened interest in everything which was put upon the screen. She became an enthusiastic patron of picture theatres, and there again crime themes were what she liked best. A gangster picture with plenty of rough action and much firing of pistols delighted her. She was often so enthralled that she stayed out much later than she was allowed, to receive mild reproofs from her employers upon reaching home. If, however, it had been a night screening, it did not so much matter, as the old ladies were always early to bed, and generally asleep when she crept in. The next morning she would tell them she had been in quite a couple of hours before she really had. They were unsuspicious people and did not think her capable of deceiving them.

Upon her excursions, seeing her alone, men often tried to scrape up an acquaintance with her, but it never led them anywhere. If she felt inclined that way she would let them take her out somewhere to tea or dinner, but there it always ended and she never told them who she was or where she lived. Once, one of them, very determined to find out where she came from insisted upon walking home with her. She made no protest, but just ignored him until they met a patrolling policeman. Then she stopped and said with no emotion, "Constable, this man is annoying me. Send him away." She had seen such a happening once upon the screen and the request then had been just as effective as it turned out to be now. Most humiliated and scarlet with indignation, her cavalier, at the stern injunction of the policeman, had instantly slunk away.

When she was nineteen and had been three years with the old ladies, one of them, Miss Selina, the elder, died. Agatha was very glad, as Miss Selina was the more sensible of the two and several times lately, at any rate so Agatha thought, had scrutinised very hard the change which had been returned to her after a shopping expedition.

Only one relative, a middle-aged nephew from Birmingham, had come down to the funeral. He had been greatly taken with Agatha and returned home to his wife with a growing report of in what safe hands Aunt Emma was.

After that Agatha's life became freer than ever. She was soon completely dominating Miss Emma and doing exactly what she pleased. She went out to pictures much more often and came in only when the fancy took her, quite regardless of the comfort of the old lady. Sometimes, she would give her lunch and then coolly take herself off to the West End to look at the shops and afterwards stay to an evening screening, not returning home until late at night.

Miss Emma Brown, of a most gentle disposition, was now more or less an invalid, suffering greatly from rheumatism. Often she had to remain in bed for days at a time. Once, upon one of her bad days when she could not get up, Agatha had left her after an early lunch and not appeared before her again until the next morning. All the old lady had had to eat or drink after one o'clock had been some biscuits which had been upon the table by her bedside and a glass of water. She had not been feeling well enough to get up and make herself even a cup of tea. She had remonstrated timidly to Agatha.

"I didn't have enough to eat," she said plaintively, "and it makes me feel very weak this morning."

"Oh, Mum, but you had a good tea," said Agatha reproachfully. "You ate all that buttered toast and those two pieces of cake I brought you."

"But I didn't have any toast or cake," said Miss Emma with tears in her eyes. "I haven't seen anything of you since after lunch yesterday until just now."

"Oh, you forgot, Mum," said Agatha gently. "Why, you had a glass of hot milk, too, just before I said good night," and the old lady was so bewildered by Agatha's confident statement that she began to think her memory was going.

Still, her Birmingham nephew, happening to be up in town on business for a few hours the next day, and calling in to see her, she repeated her complaint to him. He was very astonished and at once went into the kitchen to speak to Agatha about it. Agatha smiled sadly. "Poor Miss Emma," she said, "she forgets. Her memory is failing a lot." She raised her innocent eyes to his. "I never left the house yesterday, Mr. Benson, and she had plenty to eat. I was in and out her room all day."

Of course the nephew believed her and told his wife that night that the old lady was failing fast.

About a month after his visit, soon after one o'clock one afternoon, Agatha took herself off to a picture theatre in Leicester Square where an absorbing thriller, The Black Gang, was to be screened for the first time in London. She left Miss Emma in bed and promised to be back in half an hour. She said she was only going out to change a book at a library close by. The picture came quite up to her expectations, indeed she enjoyed it so much that she resolved to remain in town for tea and see it again at the evening session.

"Bother old Emma!" she said irritably. "Sleep will be better for her than a feed. At any rate she's got her biscuits and I'll chance it."

So it was nearly midnight when she got back home and, letting herself in with her key, tiptoed softly upstairs. Miss Emma's door was as she had left it, propped ajar with a chair. The night had turned cold and a chilling wind was blowing in from the open window. She thought she had better go in and shut it and pull down the blind, too. The moon was up and she peeped cautiously round the door. Then, to her amazement, she saw the old lady was lying all huddled up upon the floor just by the bed.

"Miss Emma," she called out quickly, "Miss Emma, what's happened to you? Are you hurt?"

She received no answer and, now thoroughly frightened, darted into the room and made to lift her employer back on to the bed. She desisted, however, immediately, for the moment she touched her she knew she was dead. The arms were as stiff as a board.

The clock in the hall chimed midnight. Agatha's heart beat painfully and she could hardly get her breath. Her first thought was to rush to the telephone and call up the doctor. Then she remembered, but only just in time and when upon the point of lifting the receiver, that if the doctor came then he would see the old lady had been dead many hours, and how would she, Agatha, be able to account for not having summoned him before?

From the reading of so many detective stories, she knew about rigor mortis and that the body did not begin to stiffen until after about eight hours. It was now midnight, and so her mistress must have died before four o'clock. Then how could she explain she had not been aware of it? There was no explanation she could give and everyone would learn she had left Miss Emma alone for all that long time.

She calmed down quickly and collected her thoughts. No, she would not ring up the doctor until the morning! Then it would be thought the old lady had died during the night and the stiffness of her body be expected as the natural thing!

She smiled rather nervously. Here was an adventure as thrilling as if it had come out of a book! She was alone in the house with a dead body and she was going to remain alone in it all night, until everything fitted in with the story she was going to tell! Like the crime heroes on the pictures, she had got the situation well in hand!

Her shock over, with no repugnance at the nearness of the body, she went methodically through the dead woman's things with a thoroughness she never had had the opportunity to do before. She found nothing much, however, to interest her except three pound notes in a drawer, two of which she annexed for herself.

Then she put herself to bed and had five hours of good sleep. Soon after six she got up, dressed herself nattily as she always did, made two cups of tea, one of which she drank herself, taking the other up to the dead woman's room. She was preparing everything so that her story should ring true.

At ten minutes to seven she rang up the doctor and, living close by, he was round in a few minutes. He was a dour, elderly Scotsman, with no interest in the other sex except as sick people, and so Agatha's prettiness was quite wasted on him. He proceeded to examine the body methodically while Agatha, rubbing her eyes vigorously, panted out her story in quick jerky breaths. Her mistress had seemed quite all right the previous night, and then, when she had brought her in the usual cup of morning tea, she had found her like this! Sob, sob, she was such a kind mistress and so good to everyone! She——

The doctor looked up and interrupted her sharply. "When did you last see her alive?" he asked with a frown.

"About nine last night," replied Agatha quaveringly, "when I brought in her glass of hot milk and some toast for her supper."

He looked at her hard for a long moment. "Tell me everything she had to eat yesterday," he said.

Agatha nodded tearfully. "Just plain things, nothing to hurt her. Toast and marmalade for her breakfast, a little cold lamb and mashed potato with some lettuce for her dinner, scrambled eggs for her tea and then toast and milk for supper."

He continued to stare hard at her. "What time did she have her tea?"

"Six o'clock," replied Agatha, "at the same time she always did."

The doctor picked up his hat. "There'll have to be an inquest," he said-curtly, "and you'll have to be there." He prepared to leave the room. "Now what's the telephone number of her nephew in Birmingham?"

Agatha had a great thrill when the police came to take away the body for the post-mortem which was to be made that afternoon. She was not so thrilled, however, when the nephew arrived that evening with his wife, for she thought the latter gave her a cold and disapproving look. The nephew did not seem too nice to her, either. They said very little to her and asked no questions. She partly understood that, as she learnt they had been to see the doctor upon their way from the railway station. They went out in the evening and she saw nothing more of them until breakfast the next morning.

They hurried over the meal, as the inquest was being held at nine o'clock. Everyone was punctual except the doctor, and, when some minutes had gone without his appearing, to save time, Agatha's evidence was taken first. She was wearing her best costume and looked very nice and as well-dressed as any woman there. There was nothing of the servant-girl about her and, though there were quite a number of people in the court, she showed no trace of nervousness. She spoke quietly and with perfect confidence.

She related everything exactly as she had told the doctor, how she had left Miss Emma Brown, seemingly as well as usual, the previous night a few minutes after nine o'clock, and how she had found her dead the next morning when she took in the early cup of tea at a quarter to seven. Then, in reply to the questions of the superintendent of police, she told everything which had happened the previous day, including what her mistress had had to eat.

She had nearly finished her statement when the doctor arrived and, in order that he might get back to his patients, her evidence was interrupted to take his.

The doctor said his patient had died from heart failure, probably following upon the shock of her slipping and falling on to the floor. She showed no signs of violence, however, and was not bruised in any way, undoubtedly because the carpet upon which she had fallen was thick and soft. He added she had had no business to be getting out of bed. He had given strict orders to that effect.

"And how long would you say the deceased had been dead," asked the coroner, "when you saw the body at seven o'clock yesterday morning?"

"From sixteen to seventeen hours," replied the doctor instantly. "She had been dead since between one and two in the afternoon of the previous day."

For just a few moments those present did not seem to take in the significance of what he had said. Then, with an almost audible gasp of surprise, they began looking wonderingly at one another and then at Agatha.

Had not that very pretty little maid said she had left her mistress alive and well at nine o'clock at night, seven hours later than when the doctor said the old lady had died? Had not the old lady, too, had an egg on toast for her six o'clock tea and, later, a glass of milk and biscuits for supper? What did it mean, this discrepancy in the evidence? Surely the doctor was getting muddled up?

The coroner was evidently most puzzled too. "She had been dead from sixteen to seventeen hours?" he exclaimed frowningly. "Are you sure of that, Doctor?"

"Perfectly sure," was the prompt reply. "Having had her midday meal at the usual hour of half-past twelve, she died less than an hour later, as the digestion of the contents of the stomach was only just starting."

The coroner threw a quick glance at Agatha and turned again to the doctor. "Then if we have been told that deceased was alive as late as nine o'clock in the evening of that day, it was not the exact truth?"

"Certainly not," snapped the doctor. "It was a downright lie." He nodded in the direction of Agatha. "The young woman who has just been giving evidence told me that when she fetched me yesterday morning to her dead mistress, but I knew from the advanced state of the rigor mortis, the moment I touched the body, that it was a falsehood. Rigor was fully established even to the lower extremities, and it would have taken about sixteen hours to complete that condition." He nodded. "I am confident no one had been near deceased since she had had that last meal, just after midday. She had been left totally unattended."

A deep hush came over the room in the long pause which ensued. All eyes were fixed upon Agatha. Her face had paled, but otherwise she looked exactly as she had looked before, gentle and quiet and without the slightest trace of any emotion.

"And of what, Doctor," asked the coroner at length, "did the undigested food you found in the stomach consist?"

"Meat, potato, lettuce and toast," was the instant reply. The coroner looked down at his notes.

"No eggs or milk?" he asked.

"Not a trace of either," said the doctor emphatically.

"Then one more question," said the coroner. "Is it your opinion that the death was hastened by neglect?"

The doctor shook his head. "No, not speaking generally. As I have stated, the body, for an old lady in her state of health, was quite sufficiently nourished. I do think, however, that if there had been anyone in attendance upon her when she had wanted something, as she apparently had, she would not have had to get out of bed to obtain it for herself. Then in that case she would have undoubtedly been alive to-day. There was no reason why she should not have lived for many years longer."

Agatha was called back into the witness-box. Inwardly she was in a state of dire consternation, and it was taking all her strength of will not to turn and attempt to run out of the room. But she pulled herself resolutely together and faced the coroner with calm, untroubled eyes.

"You have heard what Dr. Williams has just said?" he asked sternly. "Then do you still adhere to the statement you made to us?"

"Yes," nodded Agatha.

"Everything you told us was the truth?"

"Yes," nodded Agatha again.

"Then how did you pass your time yesterday after your mistress had had her lunch?"

"I did some sewing in the afternoon, I prepared the meals and I read before I went to bed."

"You did not leave the house in the afternoon?" was the final question.

"No, I never went out all day," said Agatha, and if anyone ever spoke the exact truth it appeared to many in the room, and particularly so to most of the men, it was being spoken then.

Agatha returned to her seat, thinking that at any rate the worst was over. She was, however, quite mistaken, for the superintendent at once proceeded to call three more witnesses. The first was a chemist whose shop was quite close to where the Misses Brown had lived, and he testified to having seen Agatha get on a West-End-bound bus just after one o'clock on the afternoon the doctor had stated Miss Emma Brown had died. He was positive both as to the time and that it was Agatha. He knew her very well, as she had often come to the shop for Miss Brown's medicine.

The other two witnesses were the chemist's wife and a woman friend of hers. They stated that on the night of the same day, just before eleven, they had seen Agatha come out of the Zenith Picture Theatre in Leicester Square, and, proceeding to Piccadilly Circus, mount a Balham bus. They had come home by the same bus, but had travelled inside, whereas Agatha had been on top. The bus reaching Balham, they had seen Agatha alight at the stop nearest to the Brown home. They did not think Agatha would have seen them. It was then nearly midnight. The coroner cross-examined them sharply, but they stuck to their story.

The coroner then proceeded to sum up and immediately referred to Agatha. He warned the jury that they must discard everything she had said, as she was undoubtedly a most untruthful witness. It was deplorable, but she was a young woman with no conscience or sense of duty. Intent upon her own selfish pleasure, she had left her sick mistress unattended all the afternoon and evening, and to hide the dreadful consequences of her neglect had lied deliberately and systematically. Unhappily, she could not, in law, receive any punishment for her conduct.

Turning to Miss Brown's death, he said that the cause of it was quite clear. She had died from natural causes, and that was the verdict they must bring in.

The jury retired and, rather to everyone's surprise, were away for longer than an hour. Returning at last into court, they gave their verdict as the coroner had directed, but added a rider—there were four women on the jury—that the witness Agatha Wandsworth should be severely censured for her neglect in leaving the deceased alone and unattended for so many hours.

It came out afterwards that the men on the jury, to a man, were unwilling to add the rider censuring Agatha, but the four women had been so insistent that in the end, in order to get back as quickly as possible to their respective occupations, they had given in.

The coroner called Agatha up to him and spoke to her with the utmost sternness. He said he was in entire agreement with the rider and, indeed, was so shocked with her untruthfulness that, notwithstanding her youth, he would have to consider whether he would not have to approach the Public Prosecutor with a view to her being put on trial for wilful perjury. He added he had never met with a more shocking case.

Returning home and wondering what was going to happen next, Agatha was followed very soon by the nephew and his wife, and the latter at once ordered her to pack her boxes and leave within the hour.

"Very well, Mum," said Agatha respectfully, "I'll get ready at once."

"And I hope your conscience will trouble you for all your life," went on the niece bitterly. "You're a downright heartless bad girl." Then, seeing Agatha standing so respectfully before her and feeling sorry so nice-looking a young girl should be turned homeless on to the streets, with perhaps not a penny in her pocket, she added sharply, "Have you any money? No, then are there any wages due to you?"

"Yes, Mum," replied Agatha, "two months."

It was an untruth, for she had been paid only the previous week, but she felt quite safe there, as she had never been in the habit of giving Miss Brown any receipt.

"I don't believe you," said the niece, "but all the same I will give you the money. How much did you get a month?"

Agatha immediately raised her wages to £24 a year, and accordingly was given £4. She packed her boxes and went out to get a taxi to take them away. She was intending to engage a room at a very clean-looking Coffee Palace she had once noticed in a street off Tottenham Court Road, but before she called up a taxi another idea suddenly came to her.

A woman who ran a small circulating library near Clapham Common, one of the several distant ones Agatha had been accustomed to patronise in her search for exciting fiction, had been bitterly complaining the last time she had gone in how badly she was in need of help. She had said that not only had she to attend to the lending out of the books, but to look after her three little children and do all the housework as well. Added to these activities, she was going backwards and forwards to the hospital where her husband was seriously ill with a broken hip. She was at her wits' end to know how to carry on.

Agatha called in at the library and, explaining that she was out of a situation owing to the sudden death of her employer—she made out she had been a companion-secretary to a 'writing lady'—offered her services, at any rate for a few weeks until she found something more suited to her. She added she knew a lot about books and would be willing to come for fifteen shillings a week and her board and lodging.

The woman jumped at the offer and Agatha took over her duties straightaway. She found her acquaintance with the classical novels of the Misses Brown's large collection of books most useful and, added to that, she soon realised she had quite a flair for knowing what the public wanted in the way of thrillers. Her good looks, too, brought in quite a number of new men customers. There was a typewriter in the office, and in her spare moments she made herself a competent master of the machine. To her great relief, she met no one who had known her at Balham and she heard nothing more of the coroner's threat.

When she had been at the library about six months, while liking the work, she began to tire of its limited scope, and started looking out for something better. About one thing she was quite determined—she would never go into domestic service again; and for another, she would give herself a much nicer name. With this latter end in view she had some good-class visiting cards engraved 'Miss Diana Camille Byron' and often took them out at night when alone in her bedroom to look at them for a long time and wonder where they would lead her.

One morning, going through the advertisements of their morning paper—she always made sure to be up early and get it first—she saw one for an assistant (female) who was wanted for a library attached to a museum in Norwich. She thought it would be the very position she wanted and, giving no reason to her employer, asked for the day off.

Nine o'clock found her on Liverpool Street Station buying a ticket for Norwich. Looking for something to read, she bought a shilling Guide to East Anglia at the bookstall and, a quick reader, during the journey had carefully gone through its contents.

Arriving at the ancient city, she at once proceeded to interview the head librarian. When one of his assistants took in her card and informed him for what purpose she was wanting to see him, though a little intrigued by the high-sounding names, he was inclined to feel annoyed at his time being taken up, as he thought he had already got in view the person he wanted.

However, when his eyes fell upon the aristocratic and very good-looking young woman who was ushered in to him, he was not quite so certain he had fully made up his mind, and proceeded to interview her with pleasurable interest. He was a scholarly-looking man just under sixty, rather impressionable and rather deaf.

She told him an artful story, some of it put together in bits from some of the romances she had read. She said she was twenty-three and with no parents. Her father was the late Colonel Byron who had been killed when on active service in India. For two years she had been managing a circulating library in Clapham. She gave it that high-sounding name, whereas it had really no name at all, just 'Mrs. Tomkins' over the door. She said she had had three assistants under her. She was, however, resigning her position as she wanted to get away from London. She wanted quiet, to study.

The librarian was certainly impressed with her appearance but a little doubtful if the work at the museum library would interest her sufficiently to make her a good assistant. She looked altogether too young and too pretty.

"But the books here, Miss Byron," he said hesitatingly, "would be very different from those to which you have been accustomed. Now in what particular direction do your tastes lie?"

Agatha thought with suppressed amusement how scandalised he would be if she spoke the truth and said boldy crime and detective stories. Instead, however, she replied meekly, "History, archaeology and reading about old times." Then remembering what she had just read in the guide book, she added, "Particularly about old cities, old castles and archaeology, generally. I should love to know more about East Anglia than I do."

He seemed delighted with the answer. "Well, then the work here might suit you. Our books are nearly all old and it is for the manuscript room I should chiefly want you. Have you read any old books?"

Agatha was shrewd enough not to get out of her depth. "Not many," she replied hesitatingly, "but, of course, I have read Chaucer's Canterbury Tales." She spoke the truth there, but might have added she had found them very boring and skipped through them quickly. She hoped to goodness he wouldn't ask her anything about them, as she could remember very little. She need not, however, have worried, as she had started him upon one of his favourite themes, and he was quite prepared to do all the talking.

"Of course!" he exclaimed smilingly. "But there is no 'of course' about it, Miss Byron! I am sure very few young ladies of your age would have had intelligence enough to read them. They would infinitely prefer the trashy fiction so much in vogue to-day."

He talked on for quite a long while and then said in conclusion, "Well, I believe you are the very young lady I have been looking for and though, of course, the appointment rests in the hands of our committee, I think I can safely promise you will get it. You will know for certain next week." He smiled in a most friendly way as he added, "Myself, I am quite satisfied with you, but as a matter of formality I should like you to send me a reference and please let me have it at once."

So that night Agatha typed for herself a good recommendation, not too fulsome, but making it quite plain that Miss Diana Byron was a most trustworthy and desirable person for anyone to employ. She signed it with a grand flourish 'Alexander McFarlane, M.A., Oxon.' For her address she gave that of the little library, putting however, only Clapham High Road.

The following week she received notification that she had been appointed and the same morning left her employer greatly inconvenienced at her sudden departure. That, however, was of no moment to Agatha, for, as usual, she was thinking only of herself.

Two days later she started upon her duties at Norwich, at first just a little nervous she might not be able to carry them out properly, but, sharp and adaptable as she always was, she soon found everything going smoothly. The work was both light and easy, the chief requirement of whoever carried it on, apparently, being that she should be thoroughly trustworthy, as all the time she would be handling old books and manuscripts of almost priceless value.

As the days went by she often smiled exultingly to herself as she contrasted the lot of the little general servant, Agatha Wandsworth, of only a few months back, whom that vulgar baker boy had continued to address as Aggie up to the very last, with the stately Miss Diana Byron now following intellectual pursuits. Instead, too, of being paid a few shillings every Saturday as wages, she was now in receipt of a salary computed in aristocratic guineas. Three guineas a week was what she received, with the promise of an early increase if she proved satisfactory.

When she had been at the museum a few weeks, working with her chief, Dr. Bowery, a doctor of literature, a start was made to catalogue the large number of old manuscripts in the collection of the museum and she was most interested as he talked chattily to her about their values.

"For this," he remarked of one of about twenty leaves of vellum bound together with thongs, "only last year we were offered a thousand guineas by a rich American collector, but of course we would not take it. And of this," he said, holding up another, "its real value has never been appraised. The handwriting certainly belongs to the tenth century and it is believed to be one of Caedmon's poems. Ever heard of him?" he laughed, and when Agatha shook her head, he went on, "Well, he was the earliest Christian poet and died in six hundred and eighty. What little of his work has been handed down to us is beyond value. Many unscrupulous collectors would be prepared to pay large sums for anything of his and not divulge how they had obtained it."

The doctor was often called away, with Agatha then being alone in the room. With what treasures she was surrounded, she sighed often, and how easy it would be for her to take some! Why, if she could only find a purchaser, what money she could make, and how soon she would be set up for life!

Dr. Bowery's blood would have frozen in horror had he only known the thoughts which kept running in the pretty little head of his charming assistant.