Читать книгу The Glenlitten Murder - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 7

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The Ford car, as it turned out to be, notwithstanding assiduous efforts on the part of the sergeant and his confrères from Winchester, was not traced farther than the left-hand turn from the village of Charlton. The police beyond, freely communicated with, were unable to afford any information. Clumsy at his job though Sir Richard had pronounced him, the burglar still had wit enough to evade arrest. The day arrived when the coroner's inquest could be postponed no longer, and then, for the first time, Félice told her story. Very small and frail she looked, almost like an exquisite doll, as, tenderly escorted by her husband, she was given a chair in the witness box and received the friendly and respectful greetings of the coroner. She answered the questions put to her with very little hesitation, although she spoke very slowly and occasionally relapsed into a word or two of French. It was obvious, too, that she was somewhat troubled by the formal nature of the questions. Why should it be necessary to tell them all— many who lived in the same village—her name and who she was? Then, as well, there was another man who troubled her, the small, unassuming man seated at the back of the Court who, it was whispered, had just arrived from Scotland Yard. He took many notes, and she found his eyes often resting upon her. Once she turned her chair a little away. The man was like a menace to her.

"Yes, indeed," she acknowledged, "that is my name—Félice Vera, Marchioness of Glenlitten. . . . Yes, it is true that I have been married less than a year. Upon that Wednesday evening—you must not ask me dates, for I never remember them—I retired early, as soon as Lord and Lady Manfield had left, because it had commenced to thunder, and thunder gives me always fear and a headache. My maid I knew was dancing, and I did not disturb her. I sent word that she need not attend. I undressed myself. I took a bath, I spent a few minutes in my boudoir looking through some books, wondering whether I would take one to read, and also there were one or two letters for me. Then I reentered my bedroom. The window was just a little open and placed on the catch, as I always like it. The only light in my bedroom was by the side of the bed. I heard no sound except the music downstairs. I am quite content— a little sleepy. I get into bed. Then I turn out the light. Perhaps I sleep. I do not know that. Perhaps it was a doze. Then I hear a creaking at the window which seemed strange. And I open my eyes. The window, which was only two inches open, is wide open. Something is there, blocking out the moonlight. I look again. It is a man with something black on his face—you call it a mask, yes?—and his hands were stealing out towards the jewels which I had left on my dressing table. I think his knee was upon the window sill, but of that I cannot be certain. I tried to put out my hand to the light, but I could not move. I am a great coward, and I was all fear. I fancied that I heard the opening of my boudoir door, a voice calling out. That must have been the voice, they tell me, of the Comte de Besset. That I did not know. It gave me courage. I stretched out my hand to the light. I touch the switch—and nothing happens. Then, suddenly, I know that the lights go out from everywhere—the reflection, the light from my husband's room which shines under the door. Afterwards one knew that the cable had been cut. The darkness now in the room was terrible. I fall back on the pillow. I can do nothing. I try not to shriek. I do not hear the opening of my door, but in a moment, though my eyes were half closed, though I was shivering with fear, there seemed to be a flash of light in the room and the report of a pistol."

"In what part of the room did you see the flash?" the coroner asked.

Félice was brought to a sudden pause. She held out her hand to her husband's which rested upon the side of her chair. With the other she raised a dainty little porcelain gold-topped bottle and sniffed it. Presently she continued.

"From where I do not know. There is a flash of light. It seems to split up the room, and a report— not very loud—rather like a whistle. Then I hear a man groan and the sound of some one falling. Nothing more from the window have I seen. In the darkness, the man who had leaned there was invisible. I hear nothing, nothing, nothing more, but there are sounds in my head and in my ears. When I open my eyes my husband is there, and after that the Doctor Meadows, who was visiting.

"No, I saw no human being ever in the room. When I entered from the bathroom it was peacefully, beautifully silent. Never did I see the Comte de Besset. Never did I see more than the black mask and outstretched hand of the man who entered through the window. Then, as I have told you, all the lights they go, and as the moon had not risen behind the back of the Home Wood, and my room was in the shadows, I see nothing, nothing more."

The coroner fidgeted with his papers a little and leaned forward encouragingly.

"Your story is quite comprehensible, Marchioness," he said kindly. "In fact, under the circumstances, it is very clear. The questions for consideration then, are these, although you have indeed already answered them. We are to take it that you saw no human being in the room, that you are not able to tell from what direction the pistol was fired, that you are in no way able to help us as regards the position of the murderer of this man Raoul de Besset?"

She shook her head sadly.

"Indeed, Monsieur," she replied, "would I be happy if I could bring light. The Comte de Besset was a friend of mine. He was the owner of all the estates where I was brought up in France, and the nearest neighbour of my guardian. He was entertained at Glenlitten for my sake. He came, as they tell me, and as I would believe, to my rescue, seeing or hearing of the burglar who had arrived. And for that he is dead. Indeed, if I could help, if there was anything that I knew I would gladly tell it to you, but there is nothing. And I am very tired."

"We have no more questions to ask you, Marchioness," the coroner assured her. "The Court is very much obliged indeed for the clear way in which you have told us the little you know of this terrible happening."

Félice had already risen to her feet when a jury-man stood up in the box.

"I should like to ask, sir," he ventured, "whether her ladyship does not usually lock the door of her boudoir when she retires for the night?"

"Indeed, yes," Félice assented. "Always it is kept locked. One may not tell who passes."

"But on this particular night," the man persisted, "it was unlocked."

"Naturally," she replied, "or the Comte de Besset could not have entered."

The jury-man coughed a little dubiously.

"If it is usually locked," he persisted, "how did it happen to be unlocked on this particular night?"

"I have already explained," Félice said, "that I had dispensed with the services of my maid. It is my maid who locks the doors. Myself, I think of such things never. Therefore it was a chance which, alas, I now very much regret."

Still the obstinate jury-man remained upon his feet.

"The principal entrance to your ladyship's apartment is from the main corridor?" he suggested.

"Naturally."

"Why shouldn't the Comte de Besset have entered by that means? Would not that have been the natural way for him to have come?"

Félice looked appealingly at the coroner. Why was this clumsy man permitted to worry her?

"The door of my boudoir," she explained, "is very much nearer the apartments given to the men visitors, and the one which the Comte de Besset occupied. Monsieur le Comte, he perhaps came the nearer way because he had seen the man climb the ladder."

The jury-man sat down. The man from nobody knew where, seated at the back of the Court, made no notes, but stroked his chin thoughtfully. The coroner talked earnestly to his jury and received the expected verdict with a little bow of approbation:

"Wilful murder against some person or persons unknown."

Back at Glenlitten, Sir Richard was the only remaining guest. After luncheon he took a cap and stick and went for a walk through the woods, up to the bare hills upon the southern side of the estate. When he returned he joined his host and hostess at the tea table in the hall.

"It's been awfully good of you to stay on," the former acknowledged warmly. "That inquest was a terrible ordeal for Félice, and I know she felt better for having you here, didn't you, dear?"

Félice looked across the tea table. She smiled into the kindly face of her guest, although there was something a little strained in those great, lustrous eyes.

"It was very kind of Sir Richard," she agreed. "I was afraid that they might be angry with me and think me very foolish because I could tell them so little. It was all like a dream—a terrible, terrible dream. You will come again soon, perhaps, Sir Richard?"

"I will come again as soon as I can," he promised, after a momentary hesitation. "There is one contingency which would certainly bring me here—to look after you both, to try my best to be a friend to you, Marchioness."

"Quelle mystère!" Félice laughed softly. "You will not tell me what that contingency must be, cher Sir Richard?"

"I shall come again," he confided, "if they should arrest the man who climbed through the window to your room—who stole your jewels."

"And why?" she asked. "Why?"

He tapped a cigarette upon the table and lit it.

"All that could be known of this terrible affair, dear wife of my friend," he said, "notwithstanding your very clear evidence this morning at the coroner's inquest, is not yet known."

"Par exemple?"

He shook his head.

"In this world," he told her, "speech is perhaps one of the most dangerous and poisonous things with which we have to contend. One talks too much all the time. One speaks when silence is often better, but, nevertheless, if the time should come when the man who climbed his ladder to your room and stole your jewels should be found and put on his trial for murder, then I may again seek your hospitality."

"But I must ask you again why?" she persisted.

He flicked the ash from his cigarette. There was nothing menacing about his tone. His expression was sincere and entirely kindly.

"A few questions—a word here or there. As things are, let me offer you, dear people, the advice at which I have hinted. It is a mistake to know too much, to surmise too much, to speak too much. I myself could have given evidence this afternoon which would have disturbed our friend the coroner, which would have set my friend in the corner thinking, and which would certainly have upset the jury-men.... It was a very just verdict—and my car, I see, waits."

Félice gave both her hands to her departing visitor. The expression in her eyes was very wonderful, but behind it all there was the reflection of some hidden fear lurking in her heart. His host walked with him to the front door.

"I say, old chap," he remonstrated, "aren't you being a little mysterious?"

"I hope not," Sir Richard answered thoughtfully. "I don't mean to be. On the other hand there are certain things I don't want to say outright. You see, I have been in rather a difficult position down here. I am a criminal lawyer, often employed by the Government, and I believe I can truthfully say that I have all the instincts of the born detective. There are things which have occurred to me, little matters which have come under my notice in connection with De Besset's death, which, in the interests of the law, I am half inclined to think should be investigated. But then I am a man as well as a lawyer. Perhaps in the interests of justice they should remain unknown. We cannot really tell. All that we do know is that De Besset had the reputation of shooting like a madman, and we were all terrified at the idea of being placed next to him; he smoked French cigarettes with your '70 port, poured your fine champagne into his coffee, and looked often at your wife with the expression in his eyes which men of the Latin countries seem to have cultivated and which always makes an Anglo-Saxon want to knock them down. Apart from all these minor sins, neither I nor any one else liked him. Therefore, perhaps all is for the best. If you need me at any time, Andrew, you know where to find me. Look me up anyhow if you come to town."

The car drove off, and Glenlitten remained upon the broad, curved steps, the affable, farewell-bidding host.

"If I need him?" he repeated to himself, as he made his way back to the hall. "The fellow's got a bee in his bonnet."

Félice and her husband wandered on to the terrace after they had lighted their cigarettes, crossed the avenue, and passed into the wood. Andrew sent back for a gun and tried to stalk a rabbit. Félice walked by his side in rapt and dreamy silence. Somewhere in a corner of the walled kitchen garden a huge bonfire had been started, and the aromatic perfume of burning wood and weeds floated to their nostrils with the falling dusk—a perfume somehow reminiscent of the change of seasons, the first reminder of the coming winter. Up in the trees an owl hooted, late homecoming pigeons—more exciting than rabbits—came drifting past, too high, alas, for a shot.

"It is very peaceful here," Félice murmured, with a little tug at her husband's arm. "I love your beautiful home, Andrew. Sometimes I wonder what I have done to deserve such happiness."

He stooped down and kissed her. A rabbit hopped across the path without undue haste.

"Are you really happy then?" he whispered. "You do not regret France?"

"Never," she answered passionately. "This is the life I adore, and you are the man."

"I am ten years older than you," he reminded her, a little sadly, as they turned up one of the side avenues which led homeward.

"In knowledge and wisdom, and all the dear things of life," she agreed. "Otherwise, no. There we are both the same, Andrew. I have twenty years, and you thirty, but you have the great strength. You see with large eyes. You have those noble things in your heart. I sometimes fear that I am weak, that I am not worthy—now more than ever I am afraid."

"Why now more than ever?" he asked.

They walked on in silence. The dry twigs broke under their feet, rabbits scurried to and fro in the bracken, unheeded. A grey owl floated over their heads with a melancholy cry, pigeons swooped down within easy gun-fire, unnoticed.

"Because you see," she explained, "I feel that I am the cause of so much trouble in your great home. It is for my sake you asked Raoul de Besset here? and your jewels—your beautiful diamond necklace, which so many of your womenkind have worn—it is through my carelessness that it is lost."

He slipped the cartridges from his gun, stooped down, and gathered her into his arms.

"My little sweetheart," he exclaimed, "all the jewels of Glenlitten are yours for the losing or keeping! All that I need in life is your heart."

"You will always feel like that?" she begged, with a sudden passionate choke in her voice.

"Always," he promised.

A wild strength seemed suddenly to possess her arms. She drew his face down to hers. Her eyes were ablaze.

"And I have always hated Englishmen!" she cried. "I thought them jealous and suspicious. This man De Besset—Raoul de Besset—he was shot in my room. The whole world knows that now. You do not care. You have asked no single question. There are things which seem to need explanation. Your friend the great lawyer, he looks at me with those kind grey eyes, and he leaves because he has thoughts there, there, there," she went on, tapping her forehead, "which for your sake he will keep secret, but you—you smile like a prince. You ask nothing."

He laughed happily—a soft, strangely sweet laugh for a man of his strength and physique.

"Félice," he whispered, "you are my life, my happiness. When I doubt you, the blood will turn sour in my veins, and life itself will pass. But that day will not come."

Again the owl floated over their heads, and this time Félice drew away with a little shiver.

"Shoot it," she cried, almost fiercely.

To humour her he would have slipped the cartridges back into his gun, but she stopped him.

"Ah, no," she sighed, "I did not mean that. At night I love to hear them. It was only that night? one cried just when the horror came. But I love them, dear Andrew. Sometimes I have felt a little lonely in your great house, those rooms are so huge and you are so far away. Then their call has been a comfort to me."

He stooped and whispered in her ear as they passed from the wood out into the avenue.

"You have been rash," he warned her. "Now you shall be less lonely."