Читать книгу The House of the Schemers - Fred M. White - Страница 7

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Ailsa stood there with a feeling that the events of the night were not yet over. She had forgotten pretty well everything besides the fact that Ronald Braybrooke was dead. The news had been a great shock, and it had left a dull aching pain behind. Ailsa's mind had travelled rapidly back over the bridge of years to the time when she had been continually happy in her country home-life before her father died and left her to the care of Mr. Colville. Those had been happy days indeed, for Mr. Lefroy had been a dreamer and scholar, and he had been in the habit of leaving his sixteen-year-old daughter very much to herself. Hence the great intimacy which had grown up between the girl and Ronald Braybrooke. Ailsa had always looked upon him as her beau-ideal of what a man should be; from a child she had unconsciously loved him. Perhaps she had not known it then, but she did now.

And yet no words of love had ever passed between them. It was a kind of beautiful idyll, rudely shattered by the sudden death of Mr. Lefroy. Ronald was away in London at the time, with some vague idea of making his fortune, and Ailsa had written to him. Probably he did not receive the letter, for no reply came. And then Mr. Colville came upon the scene and took Ailsa to town with him at No. 13, Vernon-terrace.

What a vast number of years ago it seemed to her now. And there had come no further signs of Ronald. Still the girl had gone on trusting him; she had never doubted him for a moment. And now the end had come, and the knowledge of it all in such a strange, wild way as this.

Ailsa was inclined to believe the story of John Stern. Outcast and despised as he appeared to be, there was something about the man that did not repel Ailsa. That he was no common thief she felt certain. She also felt that his right name was not John Stern, and that he had some very powerful reason for writing that message with his left hand. Ailsa wondered what part her guardian was playing in the drama. She had read much of rascally guardians and the fortunes of their wards. But, then, she had no fortune, and Mr. Colville did not in the least resemble a guardian of melodrama.

Still, he was acting a part; of that Ailsa felt certain. Also, why had he crept back to his own house like a thief in the night, when he had expressly telegraphed that he could not possibly get back from Birmingham?

Ailsa put the whole thing out of her mind now as she suddenly recollected the plight in which she had left old Susan. But perhaps her husband Thomas had returned. On the other hand, he might have gone by the mid-night train to Birmingham; it was just possible that Mr. Colville desired to get his henchman out of the way.

Anyway, Ailsa felt that she must find out for herself. Mr. Colville's study was closed as he passed along, and sounds of subdued voices came from the room. Ailsa could not hear anybody talking in the basement. She found that old Susan had crossed over to a deep beehive armchair, where she had fallen asleep. Old Thomas was nowhere to be seen. Beyond doubt he had proceeded to Birmingham as arranged. Ailsa shook the sleeping figure and the aged woman muttered in her dreams.

"Are you better?" Ailsa asked. "Is there anything that I can get for you?"

The old woman opened her eyes and looked around. Ailsa was relieved to see that there was nothing really serious the matter. The woman had had a physical shock of some kind, but there was mental terror behind it all. She did not seem to recognise Ailsa.

"Where is your husband?" the girl demanded. "What has become of him?"

A spasm of sudden terror set Susan's wrinkled old features trembling like a harp-string. She looked about her in a cunning, hopeless kind of way.

"Gone," she whispered. "Put out of the way, my dear. Oh, he is a deep one is master. But he's afraid of Thomas same as I am and everybody else. Thomas could tell some strange stories if he liked. Ask John Stern."

The latter sentence was as sudden as it was unexpected. Ailsa promptly asked who John Stern might be. But the woman had a glimmer of reason, and she only smiled. It was quite evident that though she was not hurt very much, the shock had affected her reason for the time. Still, it was possible to learn a good deal.

"Who is John Stern?" Ailsa asked again. In the circumstances her curiosity was quite pardonable. "Susan, you are going to tell me that."

The old woman shook her head. The puzzled vague expression was on her face again. Ailsa would have given much to know whether she was acting or not. Be that as it may, old Susan had the name of the midnight intruder pat enough. Ailsa made one more bold attempt to get at the truth.

"I have asked you a question and I insist upon an answer," she said. "Now listen to me, and don't pretend that you fail to understand. You said just now that the name of the man was John Stern. He told your master so, but your master refused to believe anything of the kind. Mr. Colville mentioned quite another name, do you guess what it is?"

Ailsa could see that old Susan was listening now. Her lips were parted, and her breath came with quick, painful gasps between them. The girl perceived her advantage. She took for granted that Susan understood.

"He addressed the stranger as Ronald Braybrooke," Ailsa went on. "The dead Ronald Braybrooke I knew a year or two ago as one of the handsomest of men. Have you heard of him before?"

The old woman shook her head and averted her eyes.

"No, no," she cried. "There must be a mistake somewhere. Ronald Braybrooke is dead; he was drowned in the North Sea. I swear to you that he is gone, and that he will never be seen again till the sea gives up its dead. And as to John Stern, I have never so much as heard of him."

"Why you have just used his name," Ailsa protested. "Have you lost your memory entirely, or are you merely lying to me."

The dogged, sullen look came into her weary, lined old face again. It was quite evident to Ailsa that she was going to get no more information. And yet she could not but feel that the old woman was actuated by some queer kind of negative friendship for her, or why did she dribble out these pellets of information from time to time? There was nothing for it now but to wait for some more favourable opportunity.

"I am going to take you to bed," Ailsa said firmly. "Come along, you can lean on me. This way."

Quite obediently old Susan struggled to her feet. The vacant look was still in her eyes, and undiluted terror distended in them. Verily there were more mysteries in this strange house than Ailsa dreamed of. And she had suspected nothing wrong before. A sharp, quick laugh breaking from behind the study door sounded strangely out of place there. But the old woman seemed to hear nothing of it.

It was by no means an easy business to get her up the stairs, for she was heavy and drowsy with the sleep that lay upon her. Ailsa had to ask three times before she could ascertain the direction of the bedroom. She paused on the threshold in astonishment.

"Not here, surely," she protested. "Susan, this is not your room. Impossible!"

"Nobody else's," Susan said, with a sudden glimmer of reason. "Think I don't know. Oh, my dearie, why did you ever come here? A house of sorrows, if ever there was one. And all the purple and fine linen in the world will never make it anything else."

Ailsa led the way without further expostulation. She was getting accustomed to these surprises. It struck her now for the first time that ever and anon Susan displayed suggestions of refinement of speech as if she had seen better days. Certainly she had no reason to complain on the score of comfort in her room. The place was magnificently furnished, the suite of ebony, inlaid with ivory, fit for the room of a duchess. Ailsa was struck by the thickness of the carpet, the beauty of the pictures. And on the dressing-table stood a splendid array of flowers in Bohemian glasses.

The old woman slept here beyond doubt. She was in a position to indicate this thing and that which she needed. There was an ivory comb and a pair of silver-backed brushes. Ailsa wondered that she had never seen these wonders for herself before. And yet Susan seemed to take it as a matter of course.

"Get me into bed, dearie," she said, "for I am very tired. I don't know who you are, but you are very kind to a poor, worn creature like me."

It was strange how the speaker lapsed from sense to childishness and back again. She had been badly knocked about by somebody, but she had been terribly frightened at the same time. She lay heavily on the bed as Ailsa undressed her. Under her coarse black dress was the finest lace and linen, and on her breast hung a gold locket, with the features of a beautiful little girl inside. Ailsa wondered more and more. There was every suggestion of luxury and refinement here, and yet Susan's hands were hard, and red, and knotted with the toil of years. There was some strange mystery here, and Ailsa meant to get at the bottom of it. She had her aged burden comfortably between the sheets at last.

"And now you are going to sleep peacefully till morning," she commanded. "Is there anything that I can get for you before I go to bed myself?"

The figure between the sheets opened her eyes and looked around. Just for a moment she was absolutely clear and sensible.

"No thank you, Miss Ailsa," she said, quite briskly. "I met with an accident—caught my foot in the stair-carpet. It is a good thing that he is not in the house. He would have said that it was entirely my own fault. Just as if anybody can prevent accidents of that kind! But you should not have come here, miss."

"Why not?" Ailsa asked. "Somebody had to put you to bed. Why not?"

"I don't know," Susan replied, lapsing into her vague manner again. "But don't you tell him anything about it, and don't you trust to the other one whatever you do. It is the sixth panel from the floor, counting 16 from the picture of the lady by Holbein. And don't you make any mistake about that. Oh, she's a deep one, she is!"

So there was another woman in this maddening business somewhere, Ailsa told herself. Ailsa would have liked to get something more from Susan; but she had really fallen asleep by this time, and it seemed a pity to wake her. Also it might not be policy to arouse her suspicions more than was necessary. Very quietly Ailsa crept down the stairs just in time to hear the sullen bang of the front door as Colville let out the strange guest. He was in the hall as Ailsa passed along. He said "Good-night!" in his usual cold, distant manner, as if nothing out of the common had taken place.

"I am going to bed," he said. "It is nearly three o'clock. If you have not quite finished down here, will you turn out the gas as you come up?"

"I will see to that," Ailsa replied. "Mr. Colville, who was that strange man? And what did he want in the house in so questionable a manner? Above all, do you think he was telling the truth about Ronald Braybrooke?

"It is impossible to say," Colville replied. "I am as misty and uncertain as you are. One thing is in favour of the man's story: it is to his interest to produce Ronald Braybrooke alive and in the flesh. More than that I cannot say; I had quite forgotten that you knew Mr. Braybrooke in your younger days. He must be quite thirty now."

"Quite that," Ailsa said, thoughtfully. "Where does he derive his fortune from?"

"It is a long story, and I cannot possibly tell you now, my child. There are many reasons why I cannot tell you. Good-night."

There were no further questions to ask in face of his stern manner. Ailsa stepped up the stairs presently, having put the lights out. She did not feel in the least desirous of bed; she would go and paint in her studio for an hour or so before retiring. But she was too restless to work; the exciting events of the evening filled her brain, to the exclusion of everything else. She thought over old Susan's story and the way she had betrayed her secret. And then, suddenly, what had been said about the panel flitted to her mind.

If there was anything concealed there it would be easy to find with such explicit instructions. Sixteen panels from the fine old picture by Holbein was soon counted, and then six from the floor. There was the panel at last, with a little stud in the centre. There was no dull stud like it in any other panel. With a quickening of her pulses Ailsa pressed upon it. And then a whole series of panels in the form of a doorway shot back. Beyond was a hanging of old leather, and between the folds a brilliant flare of light. The light was warm, and the whole atmosphere was one of perfumes and flowers. A man's voice called something, and a woman replied in a languid kind of way. Ailsa pushed the curtain aside to catch a glimpse of the back of a woman in evening dress as she left the room. Near the curtain was a writing-table with a pair of electric lamps upon it. There was no letter to be seen, but only an envelope with a half-written address upon it, not quite dry. It was impossible for Ailsa not to see the portion of the address. She repressed a cry as she read:

Ronald Braybrooke, Esq.,

16, High-street.—