Читать книгу The Secret of Sheen - John Laurence Pritchard - Страница 13

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Avril Abbleway had spent a wakeful night, the night Bilsiter was murdered. She was dazed with the surging conflict of her emotions and as she tossed to and fro in her bed, heard every hour strike till dawn heralded the coming of another perfect June day. She found herself in a state of mind so confused that she felt she had lost all power of clear thinking.

Richard Lulworth—Leonard Bilsiter; the man she loved—the man she would be forced to marry. Backwards and forwards her mind ranged seeking some way out of the morass in which she found herself. Once there had come to her the wild idea of going to the moneylender’s room, at any risk to herself, to plead on bended knees for his mercy. And then had come to her a clear vision of that man with his loose mouth, his heavy jowl, his restless, insolent beady eyes.

“Why, why, why,” she wailed to herself, “I can’t marry him, and I must marry him. Richard, my dear!”

She hid her face in her pillow as she sobbed his name. It was the bitter irony of Fate that she had learnt to love at the very instant when that love was to be tested to its full without even the sweet memories of a past to give her courage to go forward.

Whatever Richard Lulworth might have been in the past, indeed whatever course he might take in the future, Avril knew that she would love him, though it was against all her preconceived ideas. She was a woman of strong character, one who made up her mind slowly as a rule, and whose opinions, so formed, were much more difficult to alter than the more easily, more lightly formed opinions of many of her friends. Such a slowly-formed, firm opinion she had built up about Charity Sheen. Even now she would not admit that anything could justify breaking the law. Perhaps the fact that she was a daughter of a Commissioner of Police had made her harder on this point than she would have been if she had not been reared in an atmosphere of law and order.

But Leonard Bilsiter had given her mind such a shock that all her opinions had been overwhelmed by it. A week ago, if someone had told her that she would be in love with a criminal, in love indeed with the one man whom it had been her secret ambition to unmask, she would have laughed at the suggestion and would have forgotten it almost immediately as something not worth remembering.

There came to her mind Richard Lulworth’s reply when she had said, “Wouldn’t it be fun if I happened to be the first to suspect him?”

She could see now the look in those grave grey eyes as he had replied to her lightly spoken question.

“Would it be such great fun after all if you did? Even when buoyed up with a sense of justice, I suppose it is not always pleasant to think that one’s own actions had sent a man to prison.”

Fun! Justice! What a travesty the words were now that she knew who Charity Sheen was, knew that she could never send him to prison.

“God help me to do what is right,” she prayed through her tears. “Oh, isn’t there any justice in the world? Why should I be punished? My dear, my dear, I love you so.”

Nearly all her thoughts were of Richard Lulworth. To save him was her only object; but she fought against the sacrifice she would have to make: prayed to herself that there might yet be a way out. It was not till dawn had come that she fell into a fitful, uneasy sleep, from which she woke with a start to find one of the maids placing a tray on the table beside her bed.

Avril sat up and yawned. A brilliant shaft of sunlight came in through the window as though a mocking herald of the day which held for her nothing but black gloom. She was thankful that her face was in the shadow. She knew that her glass would reveal the torment of the night, and, woman-like, she did not want her face to betray her. As the maid turned away, the door opened and Lady Rowmands entered. She was fully dressed, to Avril’s surprise, for the motherly, kindly hostess of Rowmands, who was such an excellent complement to her husband, was not usually such an early riser.

“My dear, a terrible thing has happened,” she cried and took Avril’s hand in hers as she sat on the edge of the bed. “I want you to have breakfast here. I am having breakfast sent up to all the rooms, except the gentlemen.”

“Why, what is the matter?” asked Avril. “I hope—not your husband?”

“Thank God for all His mercies, no child. Mr. Bilsiter was found dead in his bed this morning.”

Involuntarily Avril’s hand tightened in that of her companion. She could not trust herself to speak for a moment and she was glad that Lady Rowmands continued speaking, quickly, as though she were relieved to have broken the news.

“I thought, my dear, it would be better if you had breakfast in bed like the rest. I am so afraid everybody would be upset, and if we all met and talked at the breakfast table, we would hardly eat anything. I was looking forward to such a pleasant week-end with you. Now we shall have to be very quiet. I am so sorry. Get up just when you like. There is not the slightest hurry, my dear. I must go away now and explain to the others. Eat a good breakfast now.”

With a smile and a kiss she had gone before Avril could ask her a single question. As she sat up in bed Avril stared at the closed door for some minutes without moving. Leonard Bilsiter dead! She could hardly grasp the news. She felt numbed by it, by the shock of the man’s sudden death, by the overwhelming answer Fate had given to her distracted prayers. Death had been furthest from her thoughts, and now that the release had come that way she was frightened. She was young, full of animal spirits, and death was always something from which she had shrunk.

With an effort she turned her eyes from the door and poured herself out a cup of tea, and as she drank it, the relief which was bound to come, brought with it tears. They were but momentary, for tears of relief seldom last long. She found herself eating the hot-buttered toast with avidity, and when she had finished, her thoughts had turned from the dead man to Richard Lulworth. She wondered idly what had been the cause of Leonard Bilsiter’s death, but the real cause never entered her mind. He had left her, however, with a secret which she knew she would find it increasingly difficult to bear—the secret of the identity of Sheen.

Bilsiter had given Avril no definite proof of the identity of Sheen, but he had told her certain things which left her with no doubt who Sheen was, left her with no doubt that if Bilsiter had chosen to communicate with the police he would add the necessary proof.

“Thank God it never will be known now,” she whispered to herself. “Oh, my dear, you must never run those risks again.”

She stood by the window in her dressing-gown and looked out over the drive bathed in the morning sunlight. Her eyes caught sight of a car turning in through the great wrought-iron gates, and she moved back slightly as she gave a little gasp of astonishment. At the wheel was a sergeant of police, and sitting beside him was a keen-faced alert-looking man whose bearing told Avril that he also belonged to the police. She felt a sudden sinking. The police always meant that something was wrong. They would never be called in so quickly just because someone had died suddenly in the night.

With quick decision she rang the bell, the pretext in her mind to ask for more toast. But the agitated way in which the maid entered gave her a natural opening for the question she wished to ask—an opening she was quick enough to seize upon.

“What is the matter, Elsie?” she asked with a friendly smile. “You seem upset.”

“Haven’t you heard, miss?” replied the maid. “About Mr. Bilsiter?”

“That he died in the night? Yes, and I am very sorry to hear it,” replied Avril gravely. “He didn’t look as though he had anything the matter with him.”

The maid looked at her with a white face and staring, goggling eyes and then burst out: “Mr. Bilsiter was murdered, miss—stabbed!”

“Murdered!—stabbed!” repeated Avril in horror-stricken tones.

“The police are here, miss. What shall we all do?”

She put her apron up to her eyes and began to whimper.

“Come, tell me all about it,” said Avril, controlling her own agitation with an effort. “There’s surely been some mistake.”

“Culvering found him, miss. He was frightened out of his life. Inspector Lanner is here and Dr. Bessbury.”

Little by little Avril dragged from the terrified maid the story of Culvering’s discovery. While the maid was speaking there had flashed into Avril’s mind the words of Sir Richard Lulworth the previous evening:

“It would be better for you if he died in the night than you should become the wife of that man.”

For one stupendous moment there came the thought that this was the way he had taken to prevent her from marrying Bilsiter, and then she dismissed it contemptuously, ashamed of herself that the thought should have come to her at all. But she must dress and go down and find out exactly what had happened. She knew uncertainty would only make things worse. Uncertainty was the greatest weapon in the armoury of the little god of doubt, and if she once allowed him to influence her she might not be able to keep her mind clear. She forced herself to refrain from thinking about the news she had learnt, and resolutely put aside one after the other the thoughts which kept coming to her, thoughts of Richard Lulworth, of the dead man, of the arrival of the police, of what the future might hold. When she went downstairs she had regained control over herself and found, indeed, that outwardly at any rate, she was much calmer than many of the men.

Everyone seemed confused, speaking in unnatural tones, and it was some time before Sir Richard Lulworth came across to where she was talking with a number of others.

“This must have upset you as much as the others, Miss Abbleway,” he said conventionally. “Though, I suppose, as a daughter of Sir John, you appear outwardly more calm.”

“I expect Avril will be let into the inner secrets later on, Sir Richard,” said Mrs. Penricarde, the wife of the K.C.

“I’m afraid not, Mrs. Penricarde,” replied Avril with a smile. “Father’s just as silent about what happens at Scotland Yard as I suppose most business men are about the secrets of their businesses, as far as their family is concerned.”

“Well, I hope they get Mr. Charity Sheen this time,” said Mrs. Penricarde. “Now he has taken to murder none of us will be safe.”

“Charity Sheen—what—what has he got to do with it?” Avril forced herself to ask. She felt as though her face was drained of its blood and she avoided looking at Lulworth, who stood by her side.

“Why, you’ve gone all white at the thought of it,” cried Mrs. Penricarde. “Didn’t Mr. Bilsiter—poor man—say last night he was threatened by this man Charity Sheen? Isn’t it obvious—”

“I don’t think it is obvious at all, Mrs. Penricarde,” interrupted Lulworth quietly. “I dare say Mr. Bilsiter was threatened by quite a large number of people. And there is a great difference between threats and murder. Besides if you remember, he only threatened to take a paper Mr. Bilsiter had. We don’t even know that the paper is missing yet.”

“A woman’s intuition,” replied Mrs. Penricarde with a smile. “I dare say you are right logically, Sir Richard, but my husband talked so much about Sheen last night that I can’t get him out of my head. He thinks Sheen may be someone we all know quite well.”

“Then it’s rather dangerous to talk so openly about him, Mrs. Penricarde,” replied Lulworth. “It might put him on his guard.”

One of the ladies standing by gave a little shriek of apprehension.

“You think he is here, Sir Richard,” she cried. “I can’t stay in this house any longer.”

“Nonsense,” said Lulworth sharply. “We are all talking through our hats about Sheen, Miss Cameron, because we have got nothing else to talk about and we are unstrung at the moment. Come, let us talk about something else. Inspector Lanner will tell us who the murderer is, I expect, shortly.”

His sharp, decisive tones had their effect and Avril breathed a sigh of relief as the conversation was diverted into less dangerous channels. Everyone turned eagerly, a little later, towards Lord Rowmands, who had entered the room and announced that the inspector wished to examine each of them in turn. It relieved the tension and gave them all something definite to think about.

When her turn came, Avril entered the morning-room with complete self-possession. She had, naturally, met many police officials, and, truth to tell, she had not an overwhelming opinion of their abilities.

But she had not faced Lanner for five minutes before she found her self-possession slipping away from her. This man was different from most policemen she had met. He was more quietly spoken and in his clear grey eyes she detected a depth which told her that here was a man who was not likely to be bluffed easily. His first statement, that she had walked alone in the garden with the murdered man, and his question, “What did you talk about?” began to break the control she had over herself when she entered the room. And when she left it, she left it broken, conscious that she had deliberately lied for the sake of Charity Sheen, for the sake of the man whom, less than twenty-four hours previously, she had denounced forcibly. She felt, too, behind the mask of his face, behind the apparent courteous acceptance of all her statements, that Inspector Lanner had known all the time she was lying—and she was afraid.

Outwardly Avril tried to behave normally. Lanner had so quickly found out that she had talked to Bilsiter on the night of his death, had so quickly detected that she was not being quite frank, that she knew the only possible way to quiet his suspicions was to behave exactly as the others were behaving.

At lunch Lord Rowmands intimated that Lanner had expressed a desire that all the guests would remain in the house till after the opening of the inquest on Monday.

“I see the police surgeon’s arrived and one or two other officials,” remarked Sturridge, the under-secretary in the Government. “I suppose they will be all to-day and to-morrow preparing their evidence. Maybe they know who the murderer is, and are only waiting their opportunity. I suppose, Rowmands, they found where the burglar entered the house?”

“I am afraid I can tell you nothing,” replied Lord Rowmands. “Inspector Lanner has been as reticent with me as he has been with you all. He didn’t even suggest there had been any startling developments. He’s made a thorough examination of the inside of the house this morning, and all of us who were inside last night, and I expect he will begin on the outside this afternoon—the grounds, my gardeners and chauffeur and—”

“And, if I am not mistaken,” interrupted Sturridge, nodding towards the dining-room windows, “there goes the amiable Lanner on his inquiries already.”

“What kind of record has he got?” asked Lulworth, as the inspector disappeared round the shrubbery.

Avril listened eagerly for any reply. She wanted to know as much about the inspector as she could learn.

“Lanner will go far, I fancy,” said Rowmands. “He is one of the new type of police which has come on so strongly since the war, well-educated, keen, intelligent. I doubt if the investigation into poor Bilsiter’s death could be in better hands. He has only recently been promoted after solving the Merstham Cross murder.”

Avril Abbleway involuntarily nodded. She remembered now who Lanner was, remembered that her father had spoken highly of the remarkable way he had followed up the slight clues which had been afforded him. So this was the man! She wondered if he had any theories at all about the identity of Sheen, and as the thought came to her she glanced across at Lulworth. His eyes were on his plate, however, and he was apparently only half listening to what was being said.

“We are not confined to the house and grounds till Monday, I suppose?” asked Penricarde.

“The inspector did not ask that,” replied Rowmands. “I think it will be much better if you all try to carry on and amuse yourselves as quietly as you can in the circumstances. I had arranged, as you know, for those who wished it, a round or two of golf this afternoon and to-morrow, and there is no reason why the arrangements shouldn’t stand. And, of course, you all know where the tennis courts are.”

Their host’s words put the whole party in better spirits. The morning had been very depressing, and the lead he had given them, to carry on quietly, was a lead for which they were grateful, for which they had been waiting, in fact.

“Perhaps you will give me a game of tennis, Miss Abbleway,” said Lulworth a little later. “I think the more we do the easier it will be for us to forget the shadow which is hanging over us.”

“I will be ready in half an hour,” replied Avril. “But if I play badly, don’t blame me too much. We can’t all keep as calm as you, Sir Richard, inside as well as outside.”

Both were exceptionally good players, and many of the guests sat round in the shade watching the rallies. Despite her suggestion that she might do badly, Avril played with unexpected energy and brilliance. She was naturally an outdoor girl, and the sunshine and the game made her forget for a while the fears which had been dominating her thoughts. Before her was Richard Lulworth, his clean-built figure a joy to watch as he made his returns surely and with little apparent effort.

“I must congratulate you, Miss Abbleway,” he said, after their third set, “and plead for a little rest. I see Miss Cameron and Sturridge are waiting in the shade with their rackets. Perhaps we can take their places, and they ours. You really ought to enter for Wimbledon, you know.”

There was no mistaking the admiration in his eyes as he looked at her flushed and happy face. As they stood there for a moment, more than one of Lord Rowmands’ guests, sitting round out of earshot of the two on the court, made the same comment.

“If Sir Richard were the marrying kind,” said Mrs. Penricarde to her husband, “he and Avril would make a wonderful pair. Doesn’t she look beautiful with that flush on her cheeks when she laughs?”

“Just like you women, my dear,” replied her husband with a smile. “You have no sooner captured a man for yourself than you look round to see how you can help in the capture of some other man for one of your friends. I believe all you women from birth belong to a secret society for the hunting of husbands.”

“Well, why not?” retorted his wife. “Not that I think Avril will want much help, or have to go far.”

“What do you mean?”

“If I ever gambled,” said Mrs. Penricarde, “I think I should bet upon Avril being Lady Lulworth some day.”

The eminent K.C. chuckled quietly to himself as Avril and her companion sat down in the chair vacated by Miss Cameron and Sturridge. For a little while the two watched the game in silence. It was Lulworth who spoke first.

“Would you care for a stroll through the grounds?” he asked.

“Yes,” answered Avril readily. “I want to have a look again at the pergolas. They’re a perfect mass of bloom now.”

“We might see the Lanner sleuth-hound at work,” said Lulworth with a laugh as they went along the pathway. “I wonder how much he will tell us? Just as much as is good for us to know, I expect, and no more.”

“I think he is very clever,” replied Avril slowly. “He knew that I had gone for a stroll in the garden with Mr. Bilsiter last night. He asked me what we had talked about.”

“Did you tell him?”

“I told him what I thought was good for him,” replied Avril.

She hesitated before she spoke again.

“There’s a seat by those pergolas,” she said at last. “Do you mind if we sit down there for a little while? I have something important to say to you, Sir Richard.”

“And what is the something important?” he asked with a grave smile as he sat down beside her.

Avril cast round her mind what to say. She wanted to choose her words carefully. She was treading on uncertain ground.

“Inspector Lanner,” she continued, “particularly asked me if Mr. Bilsiter had spoken about Sheen.”

“Well, you could easily answer that, Miss Abbleway. Did he tell you why he asked? He must have had some reason for doing so.”

“No, he didn’t tell me why. But he seemed to think that Mr. Bilsiter must have talked to me about Charity Sheen, and as I didn’t want to tell him exactly what he did talk about, I—I said Mr. Bilsiter was grumbling that Scotland Yard had not done anything to capture Sheen, that he had asked me to influence my father to get the authorities to make special efforts.”

“But why?” asked Lulworth. “Why not have told him the truth, that Bilsiter had asked you to marry him? It would have been quite natural. He had some definite object, I am sure, in asking if Bilsiter had talked about Sheen, and it can only mislead him not to tell him—well, all the truth that matters.”

Avril looked at her companion in astonishment. Did he really mean what he said or was he pretending? He must know, she reflected, that the very fact Bilsiter had been threatened by Charity Sheen only the day before would direct suspicion towards the man. But suspicion and proof were two very different things, thank God. She was puzzled at the complete command her companion appeared to have over his emotions. He spoke just as though he had not the slightest idea who Charity Sheen was, as though it were a matter of utter indifference to him even if his identity were discovered. Then she, like Inspector Lanner, began to doubt the evidence which, in the first instance, had appeared to be overwhelming, though the apparent identity of Sheen was not the same to them both.

“Don’t you understand?” she cried. “If I had told him that Mr. Bilsiter had proposed to me he would have wanted my answer. It was better to tell a direct lie than to tell a half-truth. Somehow or other he would have found out the other half of the truth and—and——”

She buried her face in her hands. The words would not come. She felt his hand on her shoulder, and it gave her a thrill, as his touch always did. His voice was very low, very gentle as he spoke.

“Why didn’t you tell me the truth last night?” he asked softly. “Even if Bilsiter had not been killed I was determined you should not sacrifice yourself to him. You are worth a finer man than most women. Shall I tell you what he said to you to force you to marry him?”

“You—you know what he said?” she whispered, looking up, looking into his eyes. He was gazing at her as she had never seen him look at her before, and despite her agony of mind she felt her blood course through her veins. She would not have been the woman she was if she had misinterpreted the message his eyes gave.

“Perhaps not word for word, but near enough,” he replied, thinking of her brother. “And I can assure you no man is worth the sacrifice, not even a man you love as you love him.”

They were talking at cross purposes and inevitably the mistake led to a climax as unexpected by both as it was dramatic.

“I am glad you know,” she whispered, looking full into his eyes. “And you talk foolishly”—a happy note came into her voice—“I shouldn’t have offered to make the sacrifice if I hadn’t known you were worth it.”

Suddenly, as she spoke, she saw the expression in his face change, harden. He moved slightly away from her and then stood up.

“There’s some mistake,” he cried harshly. “You—you are making it very hard. I—I was referring—I thought Bilsiter held out a threat about someone else—you loved—loved not in that way.”

He spoke jerkily, so unlike his usual self, that it was clear to her he was labouring under some powerful emotion, that he had been shaken to the very depths by her words, her confession of love for him. Her face went a deep crimson as she realised that Lulworth had some other man in his mind when he had said that no man was worth the sacrifice, that he thought she loved some other man. With an effort she obtained control over herself.

“You have put me in a false, in a cruel position, Sir Richard,” she said coldly, rising from her seat. “Please—please, leave me.”

Her companion half turned away, and then swung round again sharply. He spoke rapidly, almost curtly.

“We have got to clear this up,” he began. “It is no use shirking it. It——”

“Then why did you lead me to believe you loved me?” she cried. “Why did you pretend you knew what was said last night to me? Oh, go, go, please, and leave me alone! You have shamed me!”

“It is I who am ashamed,” he interrupted. “Listen—I—God help me, Avril!—but I love you—and it came as a shock to me to learn in this way that you love me. I must leave——”

He broke off. There had come the crunch of a step on the gravel path, and both turned in the direction of the sound. Coming round the bend was Inspector Lanner, and as he looked up and caught sight of them he quickened his pace.

“Good afternoon, Miss Abbleway. Good afternoon, Sir Richard. These are wonderful roses—are they not? I don’t think I have ever seen a finer show anywhere.”

He did not appear to notice their strained attitude, nor the rather curt reply Sir Richard Lulworth made.

“We are getting nearer the solution of the mystery, I fancy,” continued the inspector, bending over a rose and smelling it. “I made a rather remarkable discovery this morning which will, perhaps, explain why I was so interested in what the dead man said to you last night, Miss Abbleway.”

Avril stared at Lanner without speaking. She did not trust herself to speak and she was thankful that her companion asked the question which her tongue refused to formulate.

“And what is that remarkable discovery, inspector?” he asked.

“The murderer left his card on the bed of the dead man,” said Inspector Lanner.

He had turned away from the roses as he spoke, and both Avril and Lulworth knew that he was not now speaking idly, that his keen grey eyes missed nothing in the expressions on their faces.

“It was the card of a man I very much want to lay hands on,” he said. “You may like to see it?”

He held out a slip of paper, held it out to Avril. She took it slowly and as she read the words, “Received with thanks, in full settlement, Charity Sheen,” it fluttered from her shaking fingers and fell to the ground. Sir Richard Lulworth bent down quickly and picked it up, read it, and handed it back to the inspector.

“So you think Charity Sheen is the murderer, Lanner?” he asked in even tones. “That simplifies your task considerably, doesn’t it? I suppose all these criminals descend to murder or attempt murder sooner or later. Have you any other clues besides that?”

“Several, sir,” answered the inspector. His eyes were on Avril. “But, of course, I can’t mention them all. I dare say one or two other points will crop up at the inquest. I fancy I have a very good idea who Sheen is now, and if he escapes it won’t be for the want of keeping an eye on him. Well, I must be getting along. I have one of the under-gardeners to talk to yet.”

He raised his hat politely, and turned and continued his walk along the pathway. At the end of it he bent casually over another rose and smelt it lingeringly. And out of the corner of his eye as he did so he did not fail to notice that Avril Abbleway was sitting down, her hands to her face, sobbing convulsively, while her companion was bending over her, his head very near hers.