Читать книгу The House of the Schemers - Fred M. White - Страница 11

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Ailsa crept back to the house again and up to her studio. She was not in the least afraid of being found out. Nobody at No. 14 was likely to hear of her escapade. The place looked more than unusually dreary and desolate in the small hours, but the girl was not afraid—she had too much to occupy her attention.

More than once she had fought rebelliously with the dreary solitude of her life. She had pictured herself as going mad in that desolate place. For days together she had only her own thoughts for company. True, she could go in and out as she pleased, but what was the use of that, seeing that she did not know a soul in London. There was the butler and his wife, but usually they were so taciturn that they hardly spoke a word to each other. And there seemed to be a gloomy cloud hanging over the life of Archibald Colville. It did not matter much whether he was at home or not, so far as Ailsa was concerned.

The most perfect pleasure she had was that of bygone recollections. And Ronald Braybrooke had filled up the measure in that way. Ailsa had long felt sure that she would meet the only man she had ever cared for again. And now he was dead. His death had been confirmed by two independent authorities within the space of a few hours. It was very, very singular, Ailsa thought, and not a little startling. But the sting came in the knowledge that Ronald Braybrooke had fallen from his high estate. It was disturbing to Ailsa that he had died as a common felon.

Ailsa sat in her studio thinking all these matters over. Late as it was, she had no desire to go to bed. After the humdrum life of the last four years, the painful events of the evening had driven all sleep from her brain. Usually she was only too glad to retire and see the back of another humdrum day. But to-night it was different.

The girl tried to do a little work, but her hand was shaky, and the colours became a confused mass before her eyes. She wandered restlessly about the room, touching up the flowers and arranging her knick-knacks again. Her eyes turned at length to the shelf upon which Ronald Braybrooke's photograph stood. Then Ailsa rubbed her eyes in astonishment. The photograph was no longer in its place—somebody had stolen it.

The thing seemed amazing, incredible. Ailsa felt sure that the frame was there the last time she had entered the studio—was there when she found the secret panel leading to the next house. And now it had vanished. That being so, somebody must have crept into the studio during Ailsa's absence and purloined it. But who in the house could want the photograph of a perfect stranger? Ailsa thought of John Stern and his cynical enjoyment of the discovery of that picture. If he had come back and taken it for some purpose of his own? But then Ailsa had heard Stern let out of the house and the front door fastened behind him.

How this took place was as disturbing as it was puzzling. It was just possible that somebody had come in from next door. Ailsa tried the secret panel, but it did not seem to have been tampered with. Very quietly the panel was opened. But there was no stud to be seen on the far side. Pushing aside the hangings, Ailsa found herself in Lady Altamont's boudoir. The room was in darkness now, but the electric light glared brilliantly on the staircase, testifying to the fact that the family had not yet retired. Most of the guests had evidently gone, for there was no clatter of conversation, though Ailsa could distinctly catch the smell of fresh tobacco. A listless footstep dragged across the marble-paved hall, a door somewhere banged suddenly. Then somebody laughed quietly, as if faintly amused about something. Ailsa stood there listening intently.

It was all very wrong, as she knew perfectly well, but she could not resist the temptation. She ought to have gone back, but the situation fascinated her. In the light of the corridor Ailsa could see the various objects of art lying about in the boudoir; on a little table lay a fan carelessly flung down there—a black lace fan that attracted her attention. She thought of the fan that she had seen some time before so clearly defined in the lighted window of the room next to the boudoir.

There was no great chance of interruption or of the means of retreat being cut off, so that Ailsa had ample opportunity of examining the fan. She spread out the dainty cobwebs of lace on its jewelled sticks and held it up to the light. It was the same fan, surely enough, and Ailsa forgot everything for the moment in the pure artistic beauty of the thing. She had never seen anything like it before. In its way it was a perfect dream. Once seen it was not likely to be soon forgotten. Every detail of the dainty thing was photographed on Ailsa's mind. She relinquished it with a sigh of envy and pleasure.

One thing was certain, if she ever saw that fan again she was not likely to forget it. She was debating in her mind as to whether or not she should go back again when she was startled by the sound of footsteps in the corridor outside. The footsteps were so close that Ailsa had not time to reach the curtain before the door of the boudoir was closed and locked on the outside. Some servant, Ailsa thought, part of whose duty it was to close and lock the door, and who probably had come down in her stockinged feet to do so. Anyway, the door was closed quietly, locked, and the key removed. There was a fanlight over the door so that Ailsa could see the electric lights were still left burning.

Anyway, the girl was powerless for further mischief now. The best thing that she could do was to close the secret panel and see that it was securely fastened. Then suddenly there was a sound like a heavy blow, followed by a piercing scream in a feminine voice. An oath followed, and then another blow, and the sound of rushing feet below.

"What is it?" a man's voice said hoarsely. "In the name of Heaven, what is it?"

"It is nothing," a woman's voice replied. Ailsa seemed to recognise the insincere tones of Lady Altamont's voice. "She is at her old games again. I wish she were dead, or that she was safely out of the way. Go to bed."

"I shall not go to bed," the man muttered. "I ain't very particular, but I'm not going to have any violence here. I draw the line at that. Ay, you're a clever one, but you'll get yourself into trouble one of these days. Let me see."

"Again I tell you, go to bed," Lady Altamont said. "Go to bed, George. Upstairs at once and leave that cursed brandy alone. You're nearly drunk now, and if ever a man needed a clear head in the morning you do. Take my advice and go to bed."

The hoarse, unsteady voice of the man trailed off into a growl. Perhaps he had taken the advice of the woman, for Ailsa could hear him staggering along the corridor, and presently a door closed with a sudden bang. No more sounds came from the house; there was a quick snap, and the lights in the corridor gave way to pitchy darkness. Very carefully Ailsa fumbled her way in the unfamiliar room till she reached the secret panel. With a thrill she wondered what might happen if a sudden draught forced the catch to. The mere thought of such a thing sent her back breathlessly to the studio again.

She breathed more freely to find herself on familiar ground again. Only a little time ago she had complained to herself of the dreariness of life. And all at once she was plunged up to her neck in a thrilling mystery. But she must not play the vulgar spy, Ailsa told herself. She must not open that secret panel again except in case of necessity. And she would go to bed, her head aching terribly.

Ailsa might go to bed, but she could not sleep. Vainly she tossed and turned until daylight came, when she took a bath and proceeded to the studio, there to make herself a cup of coffee over her spirit-lamp. It would be nine o'clock before breakfast was ready, for Susan was not an early riser, and Ailsa made her way down to the larder in search of bread-and-butter or a little piece of cake. There seemed to be a lot of people outside for that time of the morning. Close by, somebody was blowing vigorously on a police whistle. Police whistles were alarming enough in the dead of night, but they have no terrors in the broad light of day—probably some accident, Ailsa told herself, as she stood yawning in the larder. She could hear a noise and a tramp of feet outside, but she had sort of curiosity on the subject. The noise outside increased, a hoarse voice was commanding somebody to move on, there came a long ring at the front-door bell. It would be some time before old Susan was down yet, and Ailsa decided to answer the bell herself. A trim telegraph boy stood on the doorstep with the familiar message envelope in his hand. Was there any reply?

Ailsa glanced at the address—"A. Colville, 13, Vernon-terrace." Evidently the message was for her guardian. She ran up the stairs and knocked at Colville's door. A sharp voice asked what was wanted. Ailsa explained that it was a telegram.

"Open it, read it to me," Colville said, "I don't suppose that it is of any importance."

Ailsa tore off the covering. The message was simple and to the point.

"It only says, '16, High-st.,' and nothing more," the girl explained. "Is there any reply? Tell me and I'll write it on a form."

"No reply, thank you," Colville said. "Call Susan to get me some breakfast as soon as she possibly can. There is nothing more, my child."

Ailsa felt glad of that. She did not want to say anything at present. The gist of the simple message came to her almost as a shock. For the address was precisely the same as the one she had seen on the envelope addressed to Ronald Braybrooke in Lady Altamont's boudoir—simply "16, High-st.," and nothing else. It might have been no more than a mere coincidence, this urgent message to an old man who wanted his breakfast an hour before his proper time, but Ailsa knew better. These were all links in the grand chain of the mystery. Ailsa passed downstairs into the hall, where the boy was waiting. She could see a silent, curious crowd outside, white-faced and eager. Somebody pushed eagerly through the crowd, and Ailsa recognised the dark face of Inspector Burles.

"Is there anything wrong here?" Ailsa asked the telegraph boy. "There is no reply, thank you."

"Murder, or something like, next door," the boy said. "'Orrible discovery on the part of a housemaid a little time ago. Lady with her 'ead smashed in they tell me. See all about it in the evening papers. Don't often get that in a toff's house."

The boy touched his cap, and hurried away. Ailsa stood there with her eyes on the crowd; she could see a policeman's helmet here and there as the curious throng passed. Presently an officer stepped up to Ailsa with a note in his hand. It was obviously a note written on a sheet of paper torn from a pocket-book.

"Beg pardon, miss," the officer said. "But if Miss Lefroy—oh, you are Miss Lefroy—I was to give this into your own hands from Inspector Burles. You were to say 'Yes' or 'No'."

"Yes," Ailsa said as she read the pencil scrawl. "Say I'll do it at once."

She read the paper once more as she hastened up the stairs. It was a pregnant message:

"In exactly five minutes from now, be close to the secret panel. If I knock twice on the wall, open; if once, wait for further instructions. Be discreet and silent—Burles."