Читать книгу The Borgia Cabinet - J. S. Fletcher - Страница 6

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But Harding began to show obvious signs of dissatisfaction and annoyance. He had been restive during the whole time Mrs. Protheroe and Miss Fawdale were detailing their stories, and now he shook his head in palpable disapproval.

“I don’t like this at all!” he said. “It seems to me that we’re going too fast. What’s it all amount to—this stuff we’ve just heard? Women’s gossip!—tittle-tattle! And—another thing. We don’t know yet that Sir Charles was poisoned. I think we ought to wait until we’ve heard what this Dr. Salmon has to say about it.”

“No!” declared Charlesworth. “We must see Lady Stanmore. In justice to her she ought to know what’s being said. And I want to know, from her, if there’s something that I suspect.”

“What’s that?” asked Harding.

“Well—it’s an idea that occurred to me,” replied Charlesworth. “I want to know—I can find it out, without any direct question to her—if there’s any jealousy or has been, between her and Miss Fawdale. See?”

“No, I don’t!” answered Harding. “What do you mean?”

“Never mind! Now, come on—let us get hold of Mrs. John Stanmore again, and get her to see Lady Stanmore and tell her that you and I want to see her for a few minutes. Then,” continued Charlesworth, “you can leave the rest to me.”

Harding left the room, still protesting that he saw no use in this proposition, and Charlesworth, left alone, looked about him. It was evident, from what he saw, that Sir Charles Stanmore had used this room for business purposes. A big book-case, which filled one side of it, was given up entirely to law books and works of reference; the furnishings were those of a busy man’s office rather than those of a leisured one’s study. But Charlesworth looked most particularly at the desk, and finally at the big blotting pad which lay in its centre. The uppermost sheet of paper was white and clean, save for a line or two of writing which showed at the top left-hand corner—it looked as if somebody, having written a letter, had only impressed the lower half of the letter-paper upon the blotting pad. And Charlesworth, first ascertaining that each sheet was detachable, took the top sheet off and held it up against the light of the window. This enabled him to read the impression—evidently only part, the concluding part, of a sentence:

“therefore agree to give you an option upon it for seven days from this date at the price mutually agreed upon this evening,

(Signed) Charles Stanmore.”

Charlesworth carefully folded the sheet of blotting paper in such a fashion that the impression should not be interfered with and put it in his pocket-book, and he had only just done this when Harding reappeared at the door and beckoned to him.

“She’ll see us,” he said. “Come this way. I shall leave the talking to you,” he added, as Charlesworth followed him along the corridor and then up the main staircase. “I don’t want to figure in it. From what little I know of Lady Stanmore, I don’t think you’ll get much out of her. And of course she’ll be terribly upset—naturally. For my part, I don’t think it seems decent to break in on a woman at a time like this!”

Charlesworth made no reply to that. He was curious to see Lady Stanmore. And as soon as he and Harding were ushered into her presence by Mrs. John Stanmore, he saw that the Superintendent need not waste any sympathy nor indulge in any sentiment: Lady Stanmore showed no signs of grief nor anything but complete self-possession, coupled with some slight annoyance.

“Well?” she said, a little testily, when the two men were fairly in the room. “What do you want with me, Mr. Harding? I can’t tell you anything!”

Harding indicated his companion.

“Detective-Sergeant Charlesworth, my lady,” he said. “He would like——”

Lady Stanmore turned on Charlesworth with a distinctly unfriendly glance.

“What do you want?” she demanded, with an unpleasant stress on the personal pronoun. “And who sent for you? I am mistress here, I believe——”

“Superintendent Harding sent for me,” replied Charlesworth. “Probably because of what Dr. Holmes told him.”

“Oh, I know!” retorted Lady Stanmore. “Holmes thinks that my husband was poisoned! Perhaps he was. Perhaps he poisoned himself. Perhaps some of his friends in London poisoned him. But what do I know about it? Nothing! And care less!”

Charlesworth remained silent, looking at the woman he had been curious to see. She had been writing, at a desk in a corner of her boudoir, when they entered, and she still sat there, pen in hand, half-turned towards her visitors, a half-defiant, half-contemptuous smile on her face. She was an undeniably pretty young woman, thought Charlesworth, perhaps a beauty in both face and figure, but there was something about her, a strange look of proud resentment, of secret anger, which struck him as dominating everything else. He set her down as a woman who for some time had been nursing and cherishing a grievance. And while he was wondering what to say to her, Lady Stanmore spoke again, sharply, addressing herself to him.

“What do you want?” she demanded. “I am busy!”

“To ask your ladyship a few necessary questions,” replied Charlesworth. “I take it that you have nothing to tell me which would throw any light on the matter of Sir Charles Stanmore’s sudden death?”

“Nothing!”

“When did your ladyship last seen him—alive?”

“Yesterday morning, from this window, as he drove off in his car.”

“You did not see him last night?”

“Not at all!”

“There is some ground for believing that Sir Charles, when he came home last night, very late, brought some person into the house with him. Does your ladyship know anything of that?”

“Nothing whatever! How should I?”

“I have ascertained that you were in Sir Charles’ study at a little after half-past ten last night. Is that so? Well, your ladyship did not remain there until Sir Charles came home?”

“Of course I didn’t—I was here, in this room, before eleven. What are you really wanting to know? I tell you, I know nothing!”

Charlesworth hesitated a moment. Then he decided on candour.

“Since you ask me such a plain question, Lady Stanmore,” he said quietly, “I’ll tell you plainly what I want to know. I want to know the name and address of the man whom you have met on several occasions recently in the Spinney, on the other side of your grounds? Just that!”

He spoke this question quickly, but he was scarcely prepared for the effect it produced on Lady Stanmore before he had come to the end of it. Dashing her pen on the desk in front of her, she started to her feet, and crimson with anger, turned on her sister-in-law.

“Who has been spying on me?” she demanded furiously. “You’ve had something to do with this—you!”

But Mrs. Stanmore shook her head, calmly.

“Nothing of the sort, Eileen!” she answered coolly. “Utter nonsense!”

“Who, then?” exclaimed Lady Stanmore. She turned on Charlesworth. “Who told you that?” she cried, stamping a foot in her anger. “Who?”

“That, my lady, I shall not say,” replied Charlesworth. “But I may as well tell you that I have evidence that on several occasions of late you have met a man in the Spinney, that you and he have been seen to behave as lovers do, and that only yesterday afternoon you were with him there, and that he was then seen to hand you a small white packet. I want to know who he is, where he lives, and what that packet contained. I think—in your own interests—you had better tell me.”

He was watching her keenly all the time he spoke—and suddenly he saw that she was going to tell. Her whole manner changed with startling swiftness: she laughed, as if amused rather than frightened.

“Oh, well, Mr. Detective—I’ve forgotten your name already—I suppose I may as well tell you,” she said, almost sweetly. “After all, I’m free now! The gentleman you ask about is my cousin, Jim Beck—Dr. James Beck, of Wimpole Street. And the packet contained some powders for sleeplessness. There!”

“Have you any of the powders left?” asked Charlesworth calmly.

“No! There were only two, and I took them both last night: one at eleven, and the other at two o’clock,” replied Lady Stanmore. “Well—any more questions?”

Charlesworth rose from his chair.

“I am much obliged to your ladyship,” he said. “At present—no!”

He was turning towards the door, and Harding was about to follow him when Lady Stanmore stopped them with a gesture.

“Stop!” she said, peremptorily. “Just wait a moment—and you, too, if you please, Marie,” she added, turning to Mrs. Stanmore. “I want you all to witness something. Mr. Harding, please to ring that bell. And then—wait!”

Harding rang the bell; a minute or two elapsed; then the butler appeared. Lady Stanmore motioned him to enter.

“Bedford!” she said, quietly. “You knew a great deal about my late husband’s affairs, didn’t you?”

Bedford smiled enigmatically.

“Well—Sir Charles trusted me a good deal, my lady,” he answered.

“Do you know what salary Sir Charles gave Miss Fawdale, Bedford?” asked Lady Stanmore. “I mean—nominal salary?”

“Yes, my lady. I witnessed the agreement—and read it. A weekly engagement, my lady—salary twenty pounds a week.”

“Have you got twenty pounds in cash, Bedford? You usually have money for various purposes. You have? Very well, Bedford. Go down, see Miss Fawdale, pay her twenty pounds in lieu of a week’s notice and tell her to leave this house within an hour. And Bedford—see that she goes! One hour from now! Do you understand, Bedford?”

“I understand, my lady! I’ll give your ladyship’s orders.”

“And you’ll see that they’re carried out, too!” interrupted Lady Stanmore. “Stop!—don’t go! I want to say something before you and Mrs. John Stanmore and these gentlemen of the police. That something is my reason for ordering you to turn Miss Fawdale out of this house. This—that woman was my late husband’s mistress! She was his mistress before he married me—she has been his mistress ever since—she——”

“Eileen, Eileen!” exclaimed Mrs. Stanmore. “For Heaven’s sake, think what you are saying, think——”

“I know what I am saying well enough, Marie,” replied Lady Stanmore. “What I am saying is true. Bedford, you will carry out my orders! And there is a further order for you which you will be just as careful to carry out. You will give the housekeeper, Mrs. Protheroe, a month’s wages in lieu of notice, and tell her to leave at once. You will do the same as regards the parlour-maid, Purser—you know at what terms she’s engaged; I don’t. But you will get rid of these three women immediately—do you understand, Bedford, immediately! Out of this house all three go before noon to-day! Now go, Bedford.”

The butler went, and Lady Stanmore turned to the two men.

“I have a very good idea as to where you got your information about me,” she said. “It was from one or other or all three of these women. Now you know what I have done with them. You also know what I have said, and what I know, about the relations of Sir Charles Stanmore and Miss Fawdale. I suppose there’ll be all sorts of inquiries about Sir Charles’ death?—an inquest, no doubt. Very well, I will give evidence at the inquest—and anywhere else, too, if it’s necessary. And I will repeat, then, in public, what I have said to you in private, and then the world shall know what sort of man Sir Charles was! As for me, I thank God I’m free of such a man—free! Will you please go away?”

But Charlesworth tarried—to ask one practical question.

“You told me that your cousin, Dr. James Beck, lives in Wimpole Street, Lady Stanmore,” he said, quietly. “Wimpole Street is a pretty long one!—do you mind giving me the exact number?”

“The number is 527a,” replied Lady Stanmore, just as quietly. “You could have found it in the directory. My cousin is a well-known medical man.”

Charlesworth went out of the room and found Mrs. John Stanmore and Harding whispering together. The lady turned and disappeared as Charlesworth drew near; Harding shook his head dismally.

“I knew no good would come of that!” he said, lugubriously. “It’s going to lead to nothing but the washing of a lot of dirty linen in public!”

“If linen is dirty it’s got to be washed,” retorted Charlesworth. “And it matters little whether it’s in public or private. Besides, don’t you see, man, all that has just got to come out!—it’s the sort of stuff that can’t be kept secret. If what Lady Stanmore says is true about Sir Charles and his lady secretary, well, there’s going to be a lot to investigate. But first thing, I’m off in my car to see this Dr. James Beck. I want to hear——”

There he was interrupted. A footman came along, with a message that Mr. Gilford, Sir Charles Stanmore’s partner, had arrived from Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and would like to see Superintendent Harding and Detective-Sergeant Charlesworth, at once.