Читать книгу Blackmail! - Fred M. White - Страница 4

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From the point of the guide-book and the tourist, the drawing- room at Broadwater is not a show place. It has no great historic pictures, no priceless statues, or cases of china, or coins or cameos. But it has the most artistic furniture, the pictures are Greuzes and the like, and the tapestry is a dream. So also is the ceiling—a marvellous piece of coloring and design. There are deep stone windows, filled for the most part with stained glass, and at either end is a conservatory which opens into the room, so that it seems to be framed in flowers. A score of rare lamps, with all kinds of heavy shades, make the apartment wonderfully pleasing and restful to the eye. And here Lyn Verity made her court, and lived out most of her pleasing life.

She looked very like a dainty picture in black velvet as Lance came into the room. She turned from a pile of engravings to greet him, and when he took the dainty figure into his arms and kissed her she seemed to regard it as quite the natural thing to do.

"So you've been catching it, sir," Lyn said, with a charming smile. "Sir George's voice is a singularly penetrating one. Still, he might recollect that the servants have ears. When Long brought in my coffee I thought he was going to commiserate with me."

"I am afraid we shall have to take the law into our own hands, Lyn," said Lance.

Lyn smiled demurely. At the same time she looked a little anxious. She was very much in love with this man; all Broadwater was as nothing to her without him. And yet she hesitated for his sake to lose it all. They stood for some little time gazing into the wood fire, both troubled and anxious.

"He says I am to give you up, dearest," Lance said.

"I heard him," the girl replied, with the same dazzling smile. "I should imagine that most of the household must have heard him for that matter. But I don't quite see how you are going to give me up without the most unpleasant consequences, Lance. I believe that the law is particularly severe upon a—"

Lance laid his hand over the speaker's mouth. She was about to say something indiscreet—and walls have ears. His face was grave as hers was smiling.

"Darling," he said, "it is hateful to me to refer to that topic. But you know perfectly well what the dear old boy's objection is. It is ten years since that business happened, and we all took the story for granted. It was more or less investigated for Sir George at the time by Malcolm Stott, who then had a theatre of his own in New York. Isn't it just possible that the whole thing—"

"Should have been no more than a dreadful accident, Lance. You know what those awful American papers are like. Anything for a sensation. And I mistrust Stott. If Sir George were in his—I mean if he were as clear-headed as he used to be, he wouldn't tolerate that drinking, slimy little wretch in the house at all. Stott plays upon his vanity, of course. He pretends to believe in that impossible play."

"I wish that we could get rid of him; I shall never feel safe so long as he is in the house. And if he discovers our secret—"

"Ah!" Lance exclaimed, "I had never thought of that."

"It would be a dreadful weapon for him. And he has great influence over Sir George. And Sir George can leave his property where he chooses. Lance, there is a tragedy hanging over this house, and the tragedy is going to fall. How it will come I don't know, but I can feel it in the air. If you could clear my father's name—"

Lyn paused for a moment. Lance was regarding her with loving eye. He drew her to his side, and kissed the red lips that trembled ever so slightly.

"You have an idea," he whispered. "Tell me what it is."

"You are going to America before long," Lyn said, thoughtfully. "And you will have to be in New York some time, after your play is produced there. I want you to make inquiries; to sift the matter to the bottom. It never has been properly done; we have always taken too much for granted. We have only Malcolm Stott's word and the copy of an old newspaper. And Stott is your enemy and mine. It is to his interest to foster trouble between Sir George and yourself over me. Lance, I hate that man. I am afraid of him. And he is afraid in his turn; he is afraid of the American mails."

"What can he possibly have to be afraid of, Lyn?"

"I don't know. Being always here, I have the chance of watching him. Of late I have noticed that he is always hanging about when the morning and evening letters come. One day, a fortnight ago, I was down before him. There was an American letter for Sir George. A moment later, and Stott passed through the hall, and I missed that letter. And Sir George said the next day that he had had no American correspondence for a long time. He commented on the fact at breakfast, and Stott looked like a guilty wretch, caught red-handed. We must get to the bottom of it, Lance."

Lance was listening with grave attention. Personally he disliked Stott quite as much as Lyn appeared to do. He knew that the fellow had had large sums of money from Sir George; he felt him to be utterly unscrupulous. And he was playing on the baronet's weakness now. Nor was it the slightest use arguing with Sir George. His mind was going; he had all the obstinacy of the man of feeble intellect. Under these circumstances Stott might do a deal of mischief. But why should he steal those American letters? What had the fellow to fear from that quarter?

"Our policy is to be quiet," Lance said. "We must pretend to notice nothing, and keep our eyes open at the same time. Madison may produce my play at any time, and, if so, I shall be compelled to visit the States. Then I will do my best. And if I could only find that we have been mistaken, Lyn—"

He did not care to say more. Lyn was regarding him with slightly troubled eyes. His arm was about her waist still; she was absently playing with the silken collar of his dinner jacket. The door opened softly, and Malcolm Stott slid in. If he had noticed anything he did not show it in his face. He spoke with the easy air of one who feels pretty certain of his welcome.

"No, I won't stay," he said. "I came for a book for Sir George. If there is going to be any music I might perhaps be tempted—"

"There will be no music," Lyn said shortly. "I am going to bed."

She gave a little wave of her hand, and disappeared. Stott held the door for her politely. He did not look in the least crushed. But just for a moment there was a snarl on his lips, his teeth gleamed like those of a cur that would bite if it dared. It was gone in an instant as he turned to Lance with a smile.

"Sir George does not seem very well," he said. "I have been trying to persuade him to go to bed. But he does not appear disposed to follow my suggestion."

Lance went up to his own room presently. The whole house was in darkness now, save for the light in the hall and the gleaming slit of flame from the half-closed library. Stott and Sir George were discussing something in low tones. There was a rustle of papers, and the sound of a key turned crisply in a lock.

Lance lay for a long time thinking over what Lyn had told him. But he could hardly believe that Stott was really a dangerous character—a criminal character, that was. He had not nerve enough for that sort of thing. Even now he was creeping up to bed timidly, as if afraid of disturbing some of the sleeping household. Lance could catch the faint suggestion of cigarette smoke as Stott passed his door.

When he woke again it was broad daylight. He came uneasily out of a dream wherein some monster was holding him down by the shoulders, and presently this monster resolved itself into Long, the sedate family butler, who was shaking him violently. That Long should be guilty of such an outrage was almost amusing. Long excited was a unique circumstance.

"Has the house caught fire?" Lance asked. "Or are those intaglios—"

Then he paused. It was something worse than that. Long's face was white and quivering; he could not speak for the horror and agitation that lay upon him. Lance jumped out of bed with a sudden sickening sense of tragedy.

"What is it, Long?" he asked. "What has happened? Pull yourself together, man."

"Sir George!" Long gasped. "Lying dead in the library. Murdered!"

A fit of trembling shook the old retainer from head to foot. He pressed his hands to his eyes as if to shut out the horror that stood stark before them. It was some little time before he had the power to speak again.

"I came down first, sir," he said. "I mostly do, because Sir George scatters his papers about so, and he always likes me to tidy up before he is dressed. And—and there he was."

Long broke down like a child. Lance was huddling on his clothes with hands that trembled as if they were cold.

In the hall the sun was shining, making a broad band of light from the library door. Just for a moment Lancelot hesitated. His artistic nature recoiled from anything ghastly or horrible.

Sir George lay as if asleep, resting his head on his arm, on the table."

But the horrible had to be faced. Like most dreadful things, it was not quite so bad as a vivid imagination had painted it. Sir George lay as if asleep, resting his head on his arm, on the table. There was no spot or stain on the mass of papers there, but the left side was one horrible sticky mess, and there was a great dark circle on the Persian carpet. The white refined face, pallid as a statue now, looked wonderfully peaceful.

"Give me a hand here," said Lance, hoarsely. "He must be moved."

They laid the body back in the chair, and as they did so a razor dropped with a soft thud on the carpet. The dull noise startled Lance as if a pistol had been fired in his ear. He recognised the razor as one of an ivory-handled pair constantly used by Sir George. There was a wide red gash in the neck, whence the crimson stream had run down in the form of a grotesque, ill-drawn map.

"We can do no more now," Lance whispered. "Come away and lock the door. Get up one of the grooms, and send him into Swanley for Dr. Burlinson and Inspector Lawrence."

But the household was already aroused. By a kind of instinct everybody seemed to know what had happened without being told. A white-faced group stood whispering in the hall; a kitchen maid began to weep hysterically. Lyn, looking fresh and bright as the morning itself, stood with an air of wonder on her face. A horse's hoof could be heard spurning the gravel as he flew down the drive. Lance drew Lyn into the dining-room.

"What is it?" she asked. "Where is Sir George? Something dreadful has happened."

In a few words Lance told her; indeed, there was little to tell. Sir George Massey had been murdered in his library by some unknown person. Somebody must have got into the house. None of the servants could possibly have had anything to do with it. Lance had seen them all; had read the horror of their faces. And there was not one of them who had not been born and bred on the estate. They would have to look further afield for the criminal.

They stood in there, waiting and trembling. Stott crept into the room half-fearfully, as if half-expecting that the assassin was lurking there with a knife ready for him. His baby face was all quivering, his blue watery eyes were rounded with horror. As he came in, the room seemed to fill with a faint suggestion of brandy.

"I can't grasp it," he said. "I can't believe it. My old friend and patron murdered like this. And only last night he was so cheerful. And now he's dead."

Stott sat down and burst into maudlin tears. A dirty handkerchief trembled in his fingers. Nothing but the oppressive solemnity of the moment kept Lance from kicking him. He eyed the quivering little figure with disgust.

"Did you hear or see anything?" he asked.

"No," Stott said, from behind the quivering handkerchief, "I didn't. I left Sir George in the library at midnight, busy on his play. I had one of my neuralgic attacks. I hate the remedy, but I have no other resource—brandy. After that I slept soundly till just now."

Stott wept again, smiled feebly, and wiped his eyes. In that delicate way he conveyed the fact that he had gone to bed and passed the night in the heavy sleep of intoxication. Evidently the man knew nothing, and Lance dismissed certain suspicions with a feeling of shame. After all, the death of Sir George would be a serious loss to the fellow.

It seemed strange to see the work of the house-hold progressing as usual, to see Long bring in the Queen Anne breakfast service, and to catch the fragrance of coffee and ham. Breakfast lay on the table, but nobody thought of touching it save Dr. Burlinson, who came presently. And doctors must breakfast, whatever horrors may be.

"We won't go into the room till Lawrence comes," he said. "We might disturb some clue."

Presently the chief of the Swanley police arrived. He listened gravely to all Lance had to say, and then he asked for the key of the library. For some time he examined the room in silence.

"I should like to ask Long a few questions," he said.

Long came fearsome, as honest men often do when required by the officers of the law. He had been down first, certainly, and he had opened the house. He was quite certain that no door had been left open, that no window was unlatched. The house contained many things of almost priceless value, and every window on the ground floor had steel shutters. It was his duty to see that these were fastened, and he had not failed to go over the house twice each night for many years. Nobody could have got into the house.

"Nothing missing?" Lawrence asked.

"Nothing, sir—as far as I can judge," Long replied. "And Sir George kept no money in the house."

"Absolutely everything was paid by cheque," Lance explained.

The inspector looked puzzled. He would like to see the servants whilst Dr. Burlinson was making an examination of the body. But, as Lawrence expected, he could make nothing out of the servants who slept in the house. Truth and honesty were writ large on every face there. The mystery looked like becoming a national sensation.

"The carotid artery has been most neatly severed," Burlinson said. "Sir George must have been attacked from behind as he sat at the table."

"Any sign of a struggle?" Lawrence asked.

"Not the slightest. But Sir George was very feeble, and a comparatively firm grip of his shoulders for about half a minute or even less would have rendered him too weak to move. A daring woman might have done a thing like that."

With some hesitation Lance hazarded the suggestion that the wound might have been self-inflicted. Burlinson made no reply for a moment. Lawrence was softly walking round the room, examining everything even to the mass of papers on the table. They appeared to be of no great importance. The police inspector paused with a sheet of notepaper in his hand to catch the doctor's reply.

"I should be strongly inclined to scout the idea," the latter said; "especially as Sir George was one of the last men in the world to do such a thing. But, at the same time, the thing is possible. Suicides have frequently taken their lives in that manner. If your suggestion can be proved, I shall have nothing more to say."

"I have the proof here," Lawrence said quietly. "A letter written by Sir George on his own paper, apparently addressed to Mr.—, his nephew. Let me read it:—

"My dear Nephew,

"I am going away where none can follow. The secret that lies between us is gradually sapping my reason. But the time will come when you will discover that you cannot defy me when I am in my grave. I have no more to say; all I have to do is to act. One touch and the thread is cut, the problem solved. This is the last word that I shall ever write.

"Yours sorrowfully,

>

"George M—."

Lance took up the paper. Beyond doubt it was in his uncle's handwriting, on his own paper, and it was addressed to him. Here was a full confession of the suicide. The body of the letter was absolutely meaningless to him; but here it was in black and white that he had deliberately destroyed his own life.

"This seems to settle the whole matter," he said.

Lawrence evidently thought so. He looked just a little disappointed. Perhaps he felt that he had been done out of a sensational case. Burlinson looked still more disappointed. The suicide theory had been proved correct, and yet at the same time it seemed to him to be utterly beyond the bounds of reason.

"I have no more to say," he murmured. "The thing is settled. Everything is for the best. But I am not satisfied at all."

Lance said nothing. He felt in some strange way that he had been all through this before at some time. The letter was real, and yet it suggested a previous tragedy. Everybody knows the feeling. It was the first stage of a dream, with the consciousness that there was more to come.