Читать книгу Moss Rose - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 18

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Well, another day was over, and Daisy Arrow had gone to the St. Pancras mortuary, but Belle Adair was alive and alert. She had thirteen shillings in her pocket. She felt now certain of work in the pantomime. Perhaps they would be glad to keep her so long as the Police News and the Morning Advertiser were full of the murder of Daisy Arrow. She would be quite an attraction.

Then this expectant hope was clouded over. Mr. Lode liked to keep up convention, all his young ladies were respectable, the Cambridge was a nice family place, and wasn't "Puss in Boots" supposed to be an entertainment for children and decent, homely, kindly people, many of whom did not even know of the existence of such establishments as No. 12? The management of the music hall might want the whole ugly affair hushed up—they might not want to employ anyone who had the least connection with it she might find herself without work or prospects.

A chill, almost amounting to despair, fell over the heart which had been at a high pitch of excitement and anticipation since that early hour when she had picked up the German Bible in Daisy Arrow's room.

As she stood over the darkening embers of the small fire, her shabby neat gown and smooth hair banded on either side of her pale face, she rebuked herself sharply, as if she had been talking to another person, for this stupid elevation of mood.

Why, after all, had she supposed that the ugly end of Daisy Arrow would be of any use to her? Why had she had that curious and unaccountable sense of power, when she had picked up the German Bible, as if a weapon with which to achieve—what word should she use?—progress, a release from her present degradation, had been put into her hand? Well, at least as if a weapon had been put into her hands. There had been no reason for hope—none at all.

There was no clue—at least the police had no clue to the murderer—and could she use any possible clue that she might have, to her advantage?

She would have to go to work very carefully, and meanwhile, for the sake of her nerves and peace of mind, she had better, if she could, get out of the house.

Superintendent Matchwell was still in the basement kitchen, and there was a sergeant walking up and down outside the house by the broken railing, moving on the crowd of clustering sightseers, who had gathered to pry up through the fog at the dingy windows and to wonder among themselves—which concealed the room where Daisy Arrow had slept for the last time?

The word "murder," borne on their low fog-hoarsened voices, rose with the power of an evil smell round the fated house.

Belle Adair went downstairs. All the women were, at last, out of the way—scared or quietened, or gossiping in their bedrooms in subdued tones. The house was quite silent.

Superintendent Matchwell was smoking a small cigar and drinking a cup of tea which he appeared to have made himself. Belle wondered—annoyed with herself for being interested in such a triviality—who had lit the fire that morning?—who had swept away the sausage skins and apple parings from the rusty bars of the grate?—who had emptied the ashes, the egg-shells? Someone had been at work; the kitchen was quite trim—the curtains had been pulled straight—the dirty work-basket and the toy removed—the tawdry paper flowers taken away—the chairs set straight—the tablecloth pulled level—the piano dusted. The trivial sprays of holly with the sparse berries had been taken down from behind the portrait of Her Majesty the Queen, and His Grace the Duke of Wellington. Only behind the dark print of The Last Judgment above the piano remained a stiff bough of yew.

As Belle Adair glanced at it two trains of thought merged in one in her overstimulated mind. What song had she sung there last night? "The Wanderer to the Moon." Perhaps Daisy Arrow was now free to travel to the moon. Yew trees grew out of graves in country churchyards. Nothing, thought Belle, would ever grow out of Daisy's grave.

With her reserved and ladylike air she approached the superintendent. She was gratified to see that he rose at her entry. It was a long time since any man had shown her that courtesy. His air of self-respect, trim clothes (he was not in uniform), his shining cleanliness, and the earnest sincerity in his light eyes, seemed to make of the little kitchen a pleasanter place than it had seemed to Belle, since she had first known No. 12.

Unconsciously, with the air of one who is mistress in her own home, she asked him to be seated and herself took the horse-hair by the grate which she had occupied last night.

"This place looks neater and tidier than I have ever seen it before—neater and tidier, indeed, than I ever thought it could be."

"I got the girls to work on it, ma'am—Moll, as I think you call her—and the other little creature, Lily Mason. They were glad to have something to do, and quite willing to work. They're good girls when you take them right."

She was aware of his cautious professional glance. There could not be a single detail of her appearance which escaped his trained observation. She was aware, too, of a slight, though skilfully concealed, astonishment on his part at her faded gentility—at her ladylike manners—at her grace and reserve—at the fact that she should be a resident at No. 12—a companion of women like Florrie and Daisy Arrow like May and Mrs. Bulke.

Slowly, like one who enters cautiously, but with definite aim, into an engagement of wits, she began:

"The street is full of people staring at the house. I see the constable has difficulty in moving them on. Is it not strange that there should be so much interest in a tragedy, which is, after all, not such an uncommon tragedy—at least not in Bloomsbury, in a street like this?"

"I expect, ma'am," said the superintendent quietly and pleasantly, "it's being Christmas Day, and there being so many people with nothing to do; and then there's a bit of mystery about it at least for those folks out there. Would you like a cup of tea, ma'am? I made it myself—it has not brewed long in the pot."

"Thank you."

Belle rose, fetched a cup and saucer from the dresser, poured out some of the tea.

"A mystery," she said, returning to the horse-hair chair, "to those people out there, Mr. Matchwell, but not perhaps to you."

If the detective thought that she was endeavouring to draw him, he showed no resentment, finding it perhaps the best method to humour her and so, in his turn, probe her mind.

"I can't say as I see much mystery, ma'am. The young woman picked up a stranger last night—brought him home in her way of business, poor thing—and they quarrelled—he, having the drink in and the knife out, made away with her."

"That's very strange to me," said Belle in a low voice, between dainty sips of her tea; "murder; what could the quarrel have been about?"

"Money, as one may suppose, ma'am."

"But she wasn't robbed."

"No, ma'am. There was nothing to rob but a few silly glass trinkets, no one would risk a fortnight in the 'lockup' for them. Yet, it might have been about money she was trying to get from him."

"I still don't understand," said Belle, fixing her cool glance on the flame between the rusty bars of the grate.

"Well, he may have been a criminal—one who's used to these things—quarrelling and knives."

"If there had been a quarrel," said Belle, "I, who was sleeping next door, surely should have heard. It is true I had a dream—I may have been a little disturbed."

"They may," said the detective quietly, "have quarrelled before they came here. She may have thought it had blown over, and he was cherishing it all the while and looking for his opportunity. You see, ma'am, we don't know whom we're dealing with. They talk of a foreigner and a gentleman; they said, too, he was a stranger to her." Mr. Matchwell looked alertly at Belle. "Well, he may not have been a stranger. He might have been somebody she'd known before. We can't have any idea at present who he was, or what there was between them."

"At present," repeated Belle. "You think, then, you might be able to find out?"

"I hope that we'll find out. I've solved more difficult problems, ma'am, and been in charge of more mysterious cases. On the other hand there may not be what you'd call a mystery about it at all. He may have been a kind of madman. That's well known to Scotland Yard. Creatures who seem on the surface quite sane, yet must commit these fearful crimes. Cunning they are, too, and often escape; and it would surprise you, ma'am, to see them. They often look most unlike what they are."

"Do they?" said Belle, peering at Mr. Matchwell with a fearful interest. "Do they?—and what is it that they really are?"

"What you might call monsters, ma'am," said the detective dryly.

"And what, Detective Matchwell, might one of these monsters look like?" asked Belle in a hurried, slurred voice. "Could he, just for instance, by chance, look like a pleasant young man, well dressed, with a handsome open face?"

"He might, ma'am, look exactly like that." The detective emptied his cup and then asked simply: "You haven't seen anyone like that, either in the company of the poor young woman or hanging about the house?"

"No! No, indeed," said Belle. "I tell you, I only just heard the voice last night. I couldn't even say what language he spoke. There was only Daisy's word for it that he was a foreigner. I suppose," she added rapidly, "it couldn't possibly have been suicide? I know, if perhaps you don't, Mr. Matchwell, the kind of life that Daisy Arrow led."

"I think I know that well enough, ma'am."

"Yes, yes, that was a silly thing for me to say—but I mean her inner life—how melancholy and despondent she was, and ill, too—consumptive, you know, I think. She really had nothing to live for, and she gave rather a silly excuse for taking that knife from the dressing-room, didn't she? Mightn't she, when this friend had gone, say, perhaps, in some anger and disgust for his not showing her enough kindness or not giving her the present that she had expected—mightn't she—I tell you she was a very moody creature, Mr. Matchwell might she not perhaps have disposed of herself?"

"You forget the basin," smiled the detective. "A man nor a woman neither, can't cut their own throat, get off the bed, wash their hands and get back again; not with two gashes like that, ma'am—and they can't dip their hands in their own blood and imprint it on their own face—at least not with two gashes like that, nor tear a strip off a towel and make a bandage."

Belle cast down her smooth white lids.

"Was there that on her face?"

"There was, ma'am; one may suppose he rested his hand there when he made the second wound. She was asleep, we might take it. Don't distress yourself, ma'am, I don't suppose she suffered much. You didn't hear a struggle and there wasn't a sign of one, and as you say, she'd got nothing much to live for."

"Not any more than anyone in this house has got much to live for, or anything at all," said Belle with a cold smile. "Perhaps you wondered a little, Mr. Matchwell, what I am doing here? Well, it's easily explained." She hurried on without waiting for his answer. "I've been very unfortunate. You won't want to hear my history, but it has been one of misfortune. It is very difficult for a woman to earn her living in London, sir, and keep out of places like this. Mrs. Bulke seemed to me a kind sort of woman, and her room was cheap. I've been on the stage for some years now—not very successfully. I didn't know when I came here what kind of house this was. I have not been here very much. When I haven't been performing I've been giving music lessons in a little room in Baker Street."

She fluttered her eyes up and saw that the kindly light gaze of the detective regarded impartially her clever acting.

"This has been to me unutterably horrible, unutterably disgusting. I want to leave the house. I suppose you would understand that, wouldn't you, sir? Might I try to find a room somewhere else?"

"I can understand your feeling, ma'am. I can see for myself you're out of place here. I certainly was surprised to see a lady like yourself in—well—this house. I don't know that I should have any objection to your moving, but you would hardly find another room easily on Christmas Day, and, of course, you will be called on as a witness at the inquest."

"Oh, need I?" said Belle, wrinkling her brow in distress. "I've nothing to say."

"It's a matter of form, ma'am. I had better light the gas—it's getting very dark."

"Yes, that's what I don't like," said Belle rapidly. "I don't feel as if I could stay in this house another night. After all, I've had a good deal to put up with."

"I think, ma'am, you've behaved admirably," said the detective.

As he rose, his dark, neat figure blotted the fire from her view for a second; then he had taken matches from his pocket and a spurt of flame dispersed the thick shadows and showed the piano with the red pleated silk front, the picture of The Last Judgment with the bough of yew above. When he had lit the gas, Belle asked:

"Will there be any witnesses besides the people in this house?" She answered herself, saying, "How could there be?"

"Well, ma'am, I expect there'll be several. I know of two at least, for the young woman brought in a bag of fruit. There's a name on that—Arthur Lummin.' We found him easily enough—a fruiterer in Covent Garden. There's a waiter at the Argyll Rooms, too. He knew Miss Daisy Arrow quite well by sight, and the fruiterer remembered the young woman and her companion quite well, too."

"And her companion?" echoed Belle.

The acrid light of the gas shot up from the heart-shaped flame in the glass globe.

"And her companion, too, ma'am," said the detective quietly.

"I wonder what happened to the key?"

"Thrown away by the murderer—as usual."

Belle smiled.