Читать книгу The Lady of Ascot - Edgar Wallace - Страница 7

Table of Contents

THERE was one word which ran through Mrs. Carawood's head day and night. A detective! She pondered the matter in the quiet of her pretty little room above the shop in Penton Street. The panic which the discovery evoked had not yet subsided, but she was capable of reasoning now. On one thing she was determined: this young man must be won to her side, must be a friend rather than a menace. How was this to be brought about?

He liked Marie. For one fleeting second she had seen the admiration in his eyes and sensed the straightness of the mind behind that mask of a face. And yet she knew that he had gone to Cheltenham especially to see Marie. Who had employed him? There were no living Fiolis to interest themselves in the girl. For one terrifying moment this thought had occurred to her.

If others could pay detectives to ferret out her secrets, might she not also pay to guard them? On the Monday her lawyer told her something about the house of Morlay, and spoke glowingly of John's integrity and high principles. Such a man would not hound her to moral destruction. Suddenly her mind was made up. She would walk into the lion's den and meet her danger half-way.

To say that John Morlay was astonished when her name was brought in to him would be to understate his emotions. He pushed aside the work on which he had been engaged and went half-way across the room to meet her.

"This is an unexpected pleasure, Mrs. Carawood," he said.

Her lips were dry; for some time she could not speak.

"I've come—on business, Mr. Morlay," she said jerkily.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he laughed, as he pushed a chair towards her. "I only see unfortunate tradesfolk when they've been hopelessly swindled."

She shook her head.

"I haven't been swindled—I don't think there's anybody in the trade who could catch me," she said.

From her tone he gathered she was satisfied with her business qualities.

"No, I wanted to see you about..."

She paused, and he sat waiting.

"About my lady."

"The Countess Fioli?"

His interest quickened as she nodded.

"She's in no kind of trouble, is she?"

"No, my lady knows nothing about business. It's—it's something else."

He did not speak, and presently she went on.

"I'm my lady's guardian—you probably know that. She was left to me by her mother when she was only a few weeks old."

"You're a widow, aren't you?"

She nodded.

"That's it; I'm a widow. I've got no man of my own I can trust; I can't even tell my own lawyer what I want to tell you, Mr. Morlay. Just now I feel the need of a man's help."

She paused again. Her scheme, which had seemed so fine before she had left her house, was becoming a lame, unconvincing thing.

"I want somebody to watch her interests," she said rapidly. "Somebody I can turn to when there's any trouble coming along. I wonder if you would help me?"

He was staggered by the proposal. The last thing in the world he expected or desired was the post of deputy-guardian to the Countess Marie Fioli.

"I don't quite understand what you mean, Mrs. Carawood," he said. "Perhaps I am a little dense—"

"No, you're not dense, you understand all right," she said doggedly. "If other people can employ you to make inquiries about her—"

"Nobody has employed me to make inquiries about Marie," he interrupted. "I certainly was curious, having heard so much about her."

She knew instinctively that he was quibbling, and guessed, with her quick native wit, that such employment had been offered him, and that he had refused it.

"I put it badly, I suppose. I'm not an educated woman," she said a little helplessly. "But I don't see that I'm asking you anything that a gentleman could not do. Perhaps I'm mad, but I want a protector for her. I can pay, Mr. Morlay; I am not a poor woman."

John Morlay leaned back in his chair, watching her.

"I think I understand now," he said. "You wish me to act in a protective capacity. It is not unusual for rich people to employ detectives for that purpose, but unfortunately I am not that kind of detective."

Her saw her face fall, and went on:

"I should be honoured and proud to act in an honorary capacity if you would allow me, and if it would not be distasteful to your young lady."

"That means you will help, but you don't want paying?" she asked eagerly.

"That is just what it means," he smiled, but she shook her head.

"I want it to be a business arrangement. I can't let you do it for nothing," she said. "I shouldn't feel that I had a—"

She hesitated, seeking a delicate expression.

"A hold on me?" he helped her. "But how do you think your lady would like the idea of having a paid friend?"

That view had not occurred to her, and for a moment she was taken back.

"Marie wouldn't mind," she said, "if it pleased me. Will you do this for me?"

It was a wild, lunatic idea, and one which, in his calmer moments, he would have rejected without a second's thought. But Mrs. Carawood's urgency disturbed his judgment. He hesitated for a second, and then:

"I will do anything I can," he said. "Now tell me just what my duties will be."

On this the woman's mind was made up.

"She'll be living at Ascot for a few months—I've bought a house for her. I don't expect you to live there, but she won't be at Ascot all the time, and I want you to go around with her when she's in London. I don't know exactly what will happen, but I've a feeling here"—she pressed her big hand on her breast—"that there is trouble coming for Marie—and for me. And I want somebody I can rely upon to be there to help me meet it when it comes."

It was an amazing proposal; little less than that he should give up his time to chaperoning a young lady with whom he was only slightly acquainted. All that was sane in him rose in revolt at the preposterous suggestion. Then, to his own astonishment, he heard himself agreeing to this fantastical scheme, and realized that he found pleasure in the prospect.

All the way back to her store Mrs. Carawood was rehearsing almost word for word the interview that she had had. She herself had some glimmer of doubt; but for the moment she was elated that she had countered the peril of discovery, and had brought to her side as an ally one who, she knew instinctively, might well be the most dangerous opponent.

When she reached Penton Street she found the inevitable Mr. Fenner engaged in the inevitable argument with her assistant.

Mr. Fenner was a carpenter with anarchistic leanings; a dapper man, whose hair was neatly parted so that it fell over his forehead like a brown wave breaking upon a barren shore. He had the voice of a public orator and a manner of gloom. He was a loather of aristocracy and a lover of the proletariat, though there were members of his party who took leave to doubt his sincerity. Every evening, when his work was done, excepting on those occasions when the demands of the toiling masses claimed his presence on open-air platforms, it was Mr. Fenner's practice to call at Penton Street. There were excuses enough for his presence. His skilful hands had laid the parquet flooring and covered the bare walls with panelling. He would have refused all payment for his work, but that Mrs. Carawood was firm on the point, even going to the length of ordering him to leave her shop.

"Good evening, Mrs. Carawood," said Fenner "It's a pity you didn't come before. I was just giving Herman my views on the capitalistic classes."

"Leave Herman alone," said Mrs. Carawood.

"And if it comes to capitalists, Fenner, you were telling me last week that you had six hundred pounds saved in the bank."

"That's not capital, that's savings," said Mr. Fenner calmly. "It's wrung from the tyrants with the sweat of me brow."

"Uh, huh!" Herman had a sepulchral laugh. Mr. Fenner turned his pained eyes on the scoffer, but made no retort.