Читать книгу A Crime On Canvas - Fred M. White - Страница 7

Table of Contents

THE whole thing was so sudden and yet so natural that neither Sir Arthur nor his companion was alarmed, though Ethel was still uncertain whether her imagination had played her a trick or not. As to Blantyre, he was under the impression that something had gone wrong with the accumultators. He muttered a word or two to this effect, and fumbled his way towards the door in search of his lantern. At the same moment it seemed to Ethel that somebody had flitted by her in the direction of the table. She could feel a slight current of air such as would be caused by the movement of a body. Her senses took in the fact that the room was filled with a faint sweet perfume such as the girl had never smelt before. It was by no means unpleasant, not in the least cloying, but there was something about it not easily forgotten. A few seconds later and there came the unmistakable sound as of something torn, and then everything was still and the strange scent began to fade away until only the slightest suspicion of it was left.

By this time Ethel had recovered her senses sufficiently to realize that all this was done by means of human agency, and to grasp the fact that some one had been tampering with the switches. She felt her way across to the door and a moment later the room was blazing with light again.

"What does it mean?" Blantyre demanded.

"Why, somebody came in," Ethel cried excitedly. "I distinctly felt some one pass me. The air moved as she did so."

"But why are you sure it was a woman?" Blantyre demanded.

"How could there be any doubt of it?" Ethel asked. "Didn't you notice that peculiar scent? No man would have anything like that about him. Surely you can smell it still."

"I noticed something strange," Blantyre admitted.

"Well, that is what I mean. I know some one pushed by me towards the table. I looked to the door a minute or two ago and I saw a long, slim hand fumbling at the switch. At first I thought it was imagination. But when the light went out I felt certain that I was not mistaken. And, besides, you must have heard that extraordinary tearing noise——"

"I had not thought of that," Blantyre said hoarsely.

He came striding across the room, and bent eagerly over the picture on the table. Then he started back with a cry. It was unnecessary to ask what had happened. Ethel could see that the canvas had been folded across about two-thirds of the way up and ripped from side to side as cleanly as if a knife had cut it. The body remained on the table, but the smiling face was gone. It was singular that such a slim hand as Ethel had seen tampering with the switch should have been powerful enough to tear the painted canvas across as if it had been so much paper. She glanced at her grandfather to see what he made of it, but the old man's face was grey and damp and his hands shook as he shuffled everything back into the portfolio again and concealed it behind the damask panel.

"I am tired and worn out," he said wearily. "Don't ask me to explain. Let us go to bed and try to forget all about the matter for the present. We can discuss it in the morning."

Breakfast time, however, found Sir Arthur in a different mood. He seemed to be frightened and disposed to discuss any subject rather than the events of the previous night. But Ethel was not to be put off. She gradually led up to the matter which she had nearest her heart.

"You were saying last night," she said, "that you would give anything for a friend in the hour of need. You wanted a man who would be entirely devoted to your interests, a man who would be bound to you by personal ties, and I think I have found him."

"Really," Blantyre said with a slight sneer, "who is he?"

"Lawrence Hatton," Ethel said boldly. "Oh, of course, I know that he is under a cloud and that the prison taint is upon him. But I am sure you believe he was convicted of a crime he never committed. I used to fancy that you liked Lawrence."

"I didn't dislike him," Blantyre allowed.

"Well, at any rate, I know you did your best to help him in the time of his trouble," Ethel persisted. "I admit that appearances were against him. But something tells me he is innocent. Before long he will be coming out of gaol without a friend in the world to hold out a hand to him. What I suggest may be a desperate expedient, but, I think, Lawrence Hatton is just the man you want. You might, at any rate, give him a chance. Whatever his faults may be, he was always loyal to his friends, and his courage is undoubted."

Much to Ethel's relief she saw that the sarcastic smile was fading from her grandfather's face, and that he appeared half-inclined to listen to her argument. He raised one or two objections, it is true, mainly on the score that he did not know when Hatton's time was up, or in which of His Majesty's gaols the convict was confined. These were trivial points, and Ethel had no trouble in brushing them aside.

"That we can easily find out," she said, "if I could get the papers bearing on the trial."

"I can supply you with these," Blantyre said. "I remember reading them carefully at the time. Now let me see, where did I put them? Oh, yes, I recollect. They are in the small French cabinet in the corner of the very room you were in last night. I will give you the key and you may examine them for yourself. From the day of the trial to the present moment no one has ever seen them, so you will find them in order. Perhaps they may help you, and perhaps they may not. But you will be able to ascertain when young Hatton's sentence expires, so that you may try to get in touch with him when he comes out. I don't suppose your suggestion is the least good. But I am disposed to try the experiment."

Ethel did not rest until she had obtained the key of the room, and for a few hours she was busy poring over the newspapers which contained a full account of Lawrence Hatton's trial and sentence. They were interesting reading, and the girl's heart sank within her as she saw how the evidence was piled up against her old friend and playmate. But there was another thing which disturbed the girl and filled her with uneasiness. Blantyre had volunteered the statement that these papers had been locked away carefully, and that no one had had access to them. There was no particular reason why this statement should have been made, neither was there any reason to doubt it, except for the fact that the papers were tossed about in confusion, and that they needed sorting before Ethel could obtain a coherent account of the proceedings. This was foreign to her grandfather's tidy and methodical ways. He was the kind of man who viewed any sort of disorder with something approaching positive pain. It would be almost a matter of course that directly he had finished with the papers he would put them away in their proper sequence.

Who, therefore, had been interested in the doings of Lawrence Hatton in the meantime? Who had found his way into that room and disarranged the newspapers?

Ethel was still pondering this problem when her eyes lighted upon a piece of evidence which rendered assurance doubly sure. Inserted between one of the folded sheets was a torn scrap of a letter wrenched off the sheet of paper from top to bottom and containing part of some address, evidently in Paris, and the fraction of a date, which proved that the letter had only been written within the last two months. The slip was laid between the printed sheets and was clearly intended as a marker to show how far the last investigator had gone.

Further proof of interference was not needed. With troubled mind Ethel went on with her reading until she had come to the end. She looked at the date on the top of the last newspaper and made a rapid calculation between that and the sentence passed upon Hatton by his judge. Her heart gave a little leap as she compared the dates. Her scheme had come to her just in the nick of time, for, after making allowance for the remission of part of his sentence, which Lawrence would be sure to earn, in two days he would be released from gaol, to drift Heaven alone knew where, if no friends came forward to hold out a helping hand.

There was no time to be lost. But where was she to find the object of her search? In what gaol was Hatton confined. To ascertain this was a matter of vital importance, and admitted of no delay. Perhaps it would be possible for her grandfather to help her, Ethel thought, as she hastily began to put the papers together again. As she did so a loose card slipped from the packet and lay at her feet. It was a French postcard, addressed from a number at a post office, and on the other side just three lines:—

"Lawrence Hatton,

His Majesty's Prison,

Wandsworth."

Here was the information she so sorely needed.