Читать книгу The Case for the Crown - Fred M. White - Страница 12

Table of Contents

Cecil Molyneux awoke to the knowledge of a perfect day. The sun was shining brilliantly as she came down to breakfast, the rays of light pierced through the sides of the blinds, the birds were singing in the garden, and on the lawns the gardeners were busy with their mowing machines as if nothing had happened. The whole thing struck Cecil as a kind of outrage, as something that ought not to be. It seemed to her that the whole world ought to stand still in sympathy with her misfortunes.

And yet with all the dread and misery of it there was a certain sense of rest and peacefulness, a sedative for the nerves to the like of which she had been a stranger ever since that evil day when she first came to the Red House as its mistress. But there was no getting away from the awful feeling of dread and the knowledge of the trials that lay before her. She was conscious of it in her own heart and in the half-averted glances of her servants as they waited on her and moved silently about their household duties. She knew perfectly well what was going on in their minds, and how they were wondering why she was still at liberty. And so the long, long day dragged on until it became a terror and a torture, the more intensified by the knowledge that there were many days like it to follow.

It seemed to Cecil that she could not stay there, that she must get somewhere, anywhere, away from that darkened house and the remembrance of that room on the first floor wherein the remains of Robert Molyneux lay. The room was opened presently by official-looking persons who came from London with the authority of the Home Office. These men came and went silently, stolid-looking men who might have been doctors by their appearance, asking no questions and answering none, and comporting themselves as if the whole place belonged to them. It was quite a relief, later on in the afternoon, when Dr. Barclay appeared. He came quietly into the drawing-room where Cecil was reclining on a couch.

"I thought I would look in and see you," he said. "Now that those Home Office doctors have gone I have a little time to spare. How are you feeling?"

"I don't know," Cecil said. "I cannot tell you. Only I must get away from here, from this darkened house; the horror of it is getting on my nerves. No one comes near me, even the servants appear to be frightened of me. But for my maid I might be in a desert."

"You must be brave," Barclay said. "Of course, I know it's easy to give advice of that sort, but, after all—"

"After all, it is nothing to the ordeal that lies before me, I suppose you are going to say. Well, I suppose I shall be able to survive it. And, in a way, I am at peace. That constant dread of something happening all the time is no longer with me. If the blinds were only up—"

"In a day or two," Barclay said soothingly. "There is no reason now why the funeral shouldn't take place at any time. Those men have finished their work."

Cecil shuddered slightly. She knew exactly what Barclay was speaking about. She knew that certain portions of Robert Molyneux's body had been removed for examination, and that there was nothing now to delay the funeral. But these were details that she did not care to discuss.

"Perhaps you will arrange everything for me," she suggested. "There is no one else that I care to appeal to. What can I do? I cannot go out. I cannot face the people in the street. And yet I have done nothing. I think I should be happier if the police arrested me."

"I don't think you would," the doctor said. "At any rate, there isn't much chance of that for a month or so. Remember that the inquest was adjourned for a month, and in that time much may happen. Pin your faith to Mr. Archenfield. He is a wonderful man, and he has been most successful in far more desperate cases than yours. Yes, you can leave everything to me. But you must go out, even if it is only for an hour or two in the evenings. No, I don't think there is the least reason why you should attend the funeral."

For a long time Cecil Molyneux lay back there, in the darkened room, trying to look into the future. It seemed to her unreasonable that she should have any great faith in Max Archenfield, but she was conscious of the fact that she did. And she knew something, too, of his own extraordinary case. To a certain extent it was on all fours with her own. The details were somewhat hazy in her mind, but she recalled the fact that Archenfield had married the daughter of a Chinese gentleman, had run away with her, in fact, and that the romantic elopement had been largely successful owing to the assistance of Mrs. Archenfield's sister. There had been something like a scandal, of course, and, indeed, the daring bridegroom had escaped more than one attempt at assassination. He had done an exceedingly risky thing, and until he had been arrested on a charge of murder had gone in peril of his life.

He had been charged with the murder of his wife on the ground that he had taken her up into the mountains and had deliberately pushed her over a precipice. There was more than one actual witness of the crime, witnesses which Archenfield declared had been suborned, and though the body of the unfortunate woman had never been found and Archenfield had got off, owing to some legal technicality, there was not one person in a hundred who knew the circumstances who did not regard him as a murderer. Then he disappeared from China, and his wife's sister, perhaps the one person in the world who thoroughly believed in Archenfield's innocence, had accompanied him.

That, roughly, was the story as Cecil Molyneux recalled it while she was lying there in the darkened drawing-room, till the light began to fade and Barton came in to tell her that dinner was served. With a bitter smile on her lips she followed him into the dining room, where she endeavoured to eat. But she could touch little or nothing, a mouthful of food, perhaps eaten in the semi-darkness. She felt as if she could not eat again, or, at any rate, not until that fateful room upstairs had given up its dead, and the blessed sunshine crept into the house again. It was nearly 9 o'clock and the afterglow of the sunset burnished the western sky before Cecil rose to her feet, and, pushing back the French windows, walked into the garden.

She drew a breath of relief as she did so. It was almost as if she were escaping from a tomb. It was so peaceful and quiet there, so different from the atmosphere of the house. The birds had ceased singing now, the dew was falling, the whole world was sweet with the scent of flowers. Cecil sat down presently in a secluded corner of the garden, and let her thoughts wander where they would. She had been sitting there quite a long time when the sound of voices in the shrubbery close by brought her back to the present again.

One voice was familiar enough, but the other was strange. Assuredly, it was her maid, Judith Carr, who was speaking.

"Surely it is enough," the girl was saying.

"You told me a week or two ago that it would be more than sufficient."

"Oh, well," a man's voice replied. "A week or two ago and to-day are two different matters. When I saw you last I quite thought I shouldn't want to trouble you again. But who would have thought then that everything would have gone wrong? My dear girl, I never had such a week in my life. First of all, Firefly gets beaten by a short head, and then Romulus breaks down in training. And I never had such infernal luck at cards in my life. You'll have to put your hand to it again."

"But how?" the girl asked. "There's nothing more to be got hold of, as you know. That's all over. Isn't it bad enough as it is? You'll have to manage."

"But I tell you I can't," the man went on. "I must have it, Judith. You know whereabouts to find—"

The speaker dropped his voice to a whisper and Cecil heard no more. She could hear shuffling footsteps in the shrubbery, and what sounded like a sob, then the unmistakable suggestion of a kiss, and a moment or two later a man emerged from the shrubbery and went down one of the grass paths in the direction of the fields. It was too dark to make out his features, but Cecil caught the flash of a dress shirt and the glint on a patent leather shoe. It was quite evident to her that Judith Carr was carrying on something more than a flirtation with a man, not of her own class.

A little later the girl herself appeared, looking white and distracted, and furtively wiping her eyes. She drew herself up and smiled slightly as she saw her mistress seated there.

"I didn't want to listen, Judith," Cecil said. "But I could not help myself."

The pallor deepened on the girl's cheeks.

"You heard?" she gasped.

"Not much," Cecil said. "But quite enough to know that you are doing a very foolish thing. I don't want to pry into your secrets, I don't even know who you were talking to, but presumedly to a gentleman from his accent and his evening clothes. Do you think you are wise?"

The girl tossed her head defiantly.

"I am quite capable of taking care of myself," she said. "It is my own business, madam."

"Oh, very well," Cecil replied. "I have no more to say. Only I have warned you."

The girl walked on towards the house with her head in the air, as Cecil rose and walked aimlessly in the direction of the shrubbery. There, on the grass, almost at her feet, lay a glittering object which resolved itself presently into a beautifully chased gold box on the lid of which in blue enamel and precious stones was the figure of a bird with a gold ring about its neck, an elaborate copy of the chalk outline that Archenfield had discovered on the porch of the Red House. It was not yet too dark to see on the reverse of the box an inscription to the effect that the box had been presented to S.F. by R.M. It was a beautiful piece of workmanship, magnificently Oriental, and its charm appealed to Cecil strongly.

"From R.M. to S.F.," Cecil murmured. "That must be from Robert Molyneux to Stephen Flint. So that dissipated individual is Judith's lover. I wonder what it all means. And why did my husband, who was not a generous man, make this handsome present to Mr. Flint? I think, on the whole, I had better refer the matter to Mr. Archenfield."