IV.
THE FORDWYCH CASTLE MYSTERY
Can you wonder that, when some of the ablest of our fellows at the
Yard were at their wits’ ends to know what to do, the chief
instinctively turned to Lady Molly?
Surely the Fordwych Castle Mystery, as it was universally called, was
a case which more than any other required feminine tact, intuition,
and all those qualities of which my dear lady possessed more than her
usual share.
With the exception of Mr. McKinley, the lawyer, and young Jack
d’Alboukirk, there were only women connected with the case.
If you have studied Debrett at all, you know as well as I do that the
peerage is one of those old English ones which date back some six
hundred years, and that the present Lady d’Alboukirk is a baroness in
her own right, the title and estates descending to heirs-general. If
you have perused that same interesting volume carefully, you will also
have discovered that the late Lord d’Alboukirk had two daughters, the
eldest, Clementina Cecilia--the present Baroness, who succeeded
him--the other, Margaret Florence, who married in 1884 Jean Laurent
Duplessis, a Frenchman whom Debrett vaguely describes as “of
Pondicherry, India,” and of whom she had issue two daughters,
Henriette Marie, heir now to the ancient barony of d’Alboukirk of
Fordwych, and Joan, born two years later.
There seems to have been some mystery or romance attached to this
marriage of the Honourable Margaret Florence d’Alboukirk to the
dashing young officer of the Foreign Legion. Old Lord d’Alboukirk at
the time was British Ambassador in Paris, and he seems to have had
grave objections to the union, but Miss Margaret, openly flouting her
father’s displeasure, and throwing prudence to the winds, ran away
from home one fine day with Captain Duplessis, and from Pondicherry
wrote a curt letter to her relatives telling them of her marriage with
the man she loved best in all the world. Old Lord d’Alboukirk never
got over his daughter’s wilfulness. She had been his favourite, it
appears, and her secret marriage and deceit practically broke his
heart. He was kind to her, however, to the end, and when the first
baby girl was born and the young pair seemed to be in straitened
circumstances, he made them an allowance until the day of his
daughter’s death, which occurred three years after her elopement, on
the birth of her second child.
When, on the death of her father, the Honourable Clementina Cecilia
came into the title and fortune, she seemed to have thought it her
duty to take some interest in her late sister’s eldest child, who,
failing her own marriage, and issue, was heir to the barony of
d’Alboukirk. Thus it was that Miss Henriette Marie Duplessis came,
with her father’s consent, to live with her aunt at Fordwych Castle.
Debrett will tell you, moreover, that in 1901 she assumed the name of
d’Alboukirk, in lieu of her own, by royal licence. Failing her, the
title and estate would devolve firstly on her sister Joan, and
subsequently on a fairly distant cousin, Captain John d’Alboukirk, at
present a young officer in the Guards.
According to her servants, the present Baroness d’Alboukirk is very
self-willed, but otherwise neither more nor less eccentric than any
north-country old maid would be who had such an exceptional position
to keep up in the social world. The one soft trait in her otherwise
not very lovable character is her great affection for her late
sister’s child. Miss Henriette Duplessis d’Alboukirk has inherited
from her French father dark eyes and hair and a somewhat swarthy
complexion, but no doubt it is from her English ancestry that she has
derived a somewhat masculine frame and a very great fondness for all
outdoor pursuits. She is very athletic, knows how to fence and to box,
rides to hounds, and is a remarkably good shot.
From all accounts, the first hint of trouble in that gorgeous home was
coincident with the arrival at Fordwych of a young, very pretty girl
visitor, who was attended by her maid, a half-caste woman,
dark-complexioned and surly of temper, but obviously of dog-like
devotion towards her young mistress. This visit seems to have come as
a surprise to the entire household at Fordwych Castle, her ladyship
having said nothing about it until the very morning that the guests
were expected. She then briefly ordered one of the housemaids to get a
bedroom ready for a young lady, and to put up a small camp-bedstead in
an adjoining dressing-room. Even Miss Henriette seems to have been
taken by surprise at the announcement of this visit, for, according to
Jane Taylor, the housemaid in question, there was a violent
word-passage between the old lady and her niece, the latter winding up
an excited speech with the words:
“At any rate, aunt, there won’t be room for both of us in this house!”
After which she flounced out of the room, banging the door behind her.
Very soon the household was made to understand that the newcomer was
none other than Miss Joan Duplessis, Miss Henriette’s younger sister.
It appears that Captain Duplessis had recently died in Pondicherry,
and that the young girl then wrote to her aunt, Lady d’Alboukirk,
claiming her help and protection, which the old lady naturally
considered it her duty to extend to her.
It appears that Miss Joan was very unlike her sister, as she was
_petite_ and fair, more English-looking than foreign, and had pretty,
dainty ways which soon endeared her to the household. The devotion
existing between her and the half-caste woman she had brought from
India was, moreover, unique.
It seems, however, that from the moment these newcomers came into the
house, dissensions, often degenerating into violent quarrels, became
the order of the day. Henriette seemed to have taken a strong dislike
to her younger sister, and most particularly to the latter’s dark
attendant, who was vaguely known in the house as Roonah.
That some events of serious import were looming ahead, the servants at
Fordwych were pretty sure. The butler and footmen at dinner heard
scraps of conversation which sounded very ominous. There was talk of
“lawyers,” of “proofs,” of “marriage and birth certificates,” quickly
suppressed when the servants happened to be about. Her ladyship looked
terribly anxious and worried, and she and Miss Henriette spent long
hours closeted together in a small boudoir, whence proceeded ominous
sounds of heartrending weeping on her ladyship’s part, and angry and
violent words from Miss Henriette.
Mr. McKinley, the eminent lawyer from London, came down two or three
times to Fordwych, and held long conversations with her ladyship,
after which the latter’s eyes were very swollen and red. The household
thought it more than strange that Roonah, the Indian servant, was
almost invariably present at these interviews between Mr. McKinley,
her ladyship, and Miss Joan. Otherwise the woman kept herself very
much aloof; she spoke very little, hardly took any notice of anyone
save of her ladyship and of her young mistress, and the outbursts of
Miss Henriette’s temper seemed to leave her quite unmoved. A strange
fact was that she had taken a sudden and great fancy for frequenting a
small Roman Catholic convent chapel which was distant about half a
mile from the Castle, and presently it was understood that Roonah, who
had been a Parsee, had been converted by the attendant priest to the
Roman Catholic faith.
All this happened, mind you, within the last two or three months; in
fact, Miss Joan had been in the Castle exactly twelve weeks when
Captain Jack d’Alboukirk came to pay his cousin one of his periodical
visits. From the first he seems to have taken a great fancy to his
cousin Joan, and soon everyone noticed that this fancy was rapidly
ripening into love. It was equally certain that from that moment
dissensions between the two sisters became more frequent and more
violent; the generally accepted opinion being that Miss Henriette was
jealous of Joan, whilst Lady d’Alboukirk herself, for some
unexplainable reason, seems to have regarded this love-making with
marked disfavour.
Then came the tragedy.
One morning Joan ran downstairs, pale, and trembling from head to
foot, moaning and sobbing as she ran:
“Roonah!--my poor old Roonah!--I knew it--I knew it!”
Captain Jack happened to meet her at the foot of the stairs. He
pressed her with questions, but the girl was unable to speak. She
merely pointed mutely to the floor above. The young man, genuinely
alarmed, ran quickly upstairs; he threw open the door leading to
Roonah’s room, and there, to his horror, he saw the unfortunate woman
lying across the small camp-bedstead, with a handkerchief over her
nose and mouth, and her throat cut.
The sight was horrible.
Poor Roonah was obviously dead.
Without losing his presence of mind, Captain Jack quietly shut the
door again, after urgently begging Joan to compose herself, and to try
to keep up, at any rate until the local doctor could be sent for and
the terrible news gently broken to Lady d’Alboukirk.
The doctor, hastily summoned, arrived some twenty minutes later. He
could but confirm Joan’s and Captain Jack’s fears. Roonah was indeed
dead--in fact, she had been dead some hours.
2
From the very first, mind you, the public took a more than usually
keen interest in this mysterious occurrence. The evening papers on the
very day of the murder were ablaze with flaming headlines such as:
THE TRAGEDY AT FORDWYCH CASTLE
MYSTERIOUS MURDER OF AN IMPORTANT WITNESS
GRAVE CHARGES AGAINST PERSONS IN
HIGH LIFE
and so forth.
As time went on, the mystery deepened more and more, and I suppose
Lady Molly must have had an inkling that sooner or later the chief
would have to rely on her help and advice, for she sent me down to
attend the inquest, and gave me strict orders to keep eyes and ears
open for every detail in connection with the crime--however trivial it
might seem. She herself remained in town, awaiting a summons from the
chief.
The inquest was held in the dining-room of Fordwych Castle, and the
noble hall was crowded to its utmost when the coroner and jury finally
took their seats, after having viewed the body of the poor murdered
woman upstairs.
The scene was dramatic enough to please any novelist, and an awed hush
descended over the crowd when, just before the proceedings began, a
door was thrown open, and in walked--stiff and erect--the Baroness
d’Alboukirk, escorted by her niece, Miss Henriette, and closely
followed by her cousin, Captain Jack, of the Guards.
The old lady’s face was as indifferent and haughty as usual, and so
was that of her athletic niece. Captain Jack, on the other hand,
looked troubled and flushed. Everyone noted that, directly he entered
the room, his eyes sought a small, dark figure that sat silent and
immovable beside the portly figure of the great lawyer, Mr. Hubert
McKinley. This was Miss Joan Duplessis, in a plain black stuff gown,
her young face pale and tear-stained.
Dr. Walker, the local practitioner, was, of course, the first witness
called. His evidence was purely medical. He deposed to having made an
examination of the body, and stated that he found that a handkerchief
saturated with chloroform had been pressed to the woman’s nostrils,
probably while she was asleep, her throat having subsequently been cut
with a sharp knife; death must have been instantaneous, as the poor
thing did not appear to have struggled at all.
In answer to a question from the coroner, the doctor said that no
great force or violence would be required for the gruesome deed, since
the victim was undeniably unconscious when it was done. At the same
time it argued unusual coolness and determination.
The handkerchief was produced, also the knife. The former was a
bright-coloured one, stated to be the property of the deceased. The
latter was a foreign, old-fashioned hunting-knife, one of a panoply of
small arms and other weapons which adorned a corner of the hall. It
had been found by Detective Elliott in a clump of gorse on the
adjoining golf links. There could be no question that it had been used
by the murderer for his fell purpose, since at the time it was found
it still bore traces of blood.
Captain Jack was the next witness called. He had very little to say,
as he merely saw the body from across the room, and immediately closed
the door again and, having begged his cousin to compose herself,
called his own valet and sent him off for the doctor.
Some of the staff of Fordwych Castle were called, all of whom
testified to the Indian woman’s curious taciturnity, which left her
quite isolated among her fellow-servants. Miss Henriette’s maid,
however, Jane Partlett, had one or two more interesting facts to
record. She seems to have been more intimate with the deceased woman
than anyone else, and on one occasion, at least, had quite a
confidential talk with her.
“She talked chiefly about her mistress,” said Jane, in answer to a
question from the coroner, “to whom she was most devoted. She told me
that she loved her so, she would readily die for her. Of course, I
thought that silly like, and just mad, foreign talk, but Roonah was
very angry when I laughed at her, and then she undid her dress in
front, and showed me some papers which were sown in the lining of her
dress. ‘All these papers my little missee’s fortune,’ she said to me.
‘Roonah guard these with her life. Someone must kill Roonah before
taking them from her!’
“This was about six weeks ago,” continued Jane, whilst a strange
feeling of awe seemed to descend upon all those present whilst the
girl spoke. “Lately she became much more silent, and, on my once
referring to the papers, she turned on me savage like and told me to
hold my tongue.”
Asked if she had mentioned the incident of the papers to anyone, Jane
replied in the negative.
“Except to Miss Henriette, of course,” she added, after a slight
moment of hesitation.
Throughout all these preliminary examinations Lady d’Alboukirk,
sitting between her cousin Captain Jack and her niece Henriette, had
remained quite silent in an erect attitude expressive of haughty
indifference. Henriette, on the other hand, looked distinctly bored.
Once or twice she had yawned audibly, which caused quite a feeling of
anger against her among the spectators. Such callousness in the midst
of so mysterious a tragedy, and when her own sister was obviously in
such deep sorrow, impressed everyone very unfavourably. It was well
known that the young lady had had a fencing lesson just before the
inquest in the room immediately below that where Roonah lay dead, and
that within an hour of the discovery of the tragedy she was calmly
playing golf.
Then Miss Joan Duplessis was called.
When the young girl stepped forward there was that awed hush in the
room which usually falls upon an attentive audience when the curtain
is about to rise on the crucial act of a dramatic play. But she was
calm and self-possessed, and wonderfully pathetic-looking in her deep
black and with the obvious lines of sorrow which the sad death of a
faithful friend had traced on her young face.
In answer to the coroner, she gave her name as Joan Clarissa
Duplessis, and briefly stated that until the day of her servant’s
death she had been a resident at Fordwych Castle, but that since then
she had left that temporary home, and had taken up her abode at the
d’Alboukirk Arms, a quiet little hostelry on the outskirts of the
town.
There was a distinct feeling of astonishment on the part of those who
were not aware of this fact, and then the coroner said kindly:
“You were born, I think, in Pondicherry, in India, and are the younger
daughter of Captain and Mrs. Duplessis, who was own sister to her
ladyship?”
“I was born in Pondicherry,” replied the young girl, quietly, “and I
am the only legitimate child of the late Captain and Mrs. Duplessis,
own sister to her ladyship.”
A wave of sensation, quickly suppressed by the coroner, went through
the crowd at these words. The emphasis which the witness had put on
the word “legitimate” could not be mistaken, and everyone felt that
here must lie the clue to the, so far impenetrable, mystery of the
Indian woman’s death.
All eyes were now turned on old Lady d’Alboukirk and on her niece
Henriette, but the two ladies were carrying on a whispered
conversation together, and had apparently ceased to take any further
interest in the proceedings.
“The deceased was your confidential maid, was she not?” asked the
coroner, after a slight pause.
“Yes.”
“She came over to England with you recently?”
“Yes; she had to accompany me in order to help me to make good my
claim to being my late mother’s only legitimate child, and therefore
the heir to the barony of d’Alboukirk.”
Her voice had trembled a little as she said this, but now, as
breathless silence reigned in the room, she seemed to make a visible
effort to control herself, and, replying to the coroner’s question,
she gave a clear and satisfactory account of her terrible discovery of
her faithful servant’s death. Her evidence had lasted about a quarter
of an hour or so, when suddenly the coroner put the momentous question
to her:
“Do you know anything about the papers which the deceased woman
carried about her person, and reference to which has already been
made?”
“Yes,” she replied quietly; “they were the proofs relating to my
claim. My father, Captain Duplessis, had in early youth, and before he
met my mother, contracted a secret union with a half-caste woman, who
was Roonah’s own sister. Being tired of her, he chose to repudiate
her--she had no children--but the legality of the marriage was never
for a moment in question. After that, he married my mother, and his
first wife subsequently died, chiefly of a broken heart; but her death
only occurred two months _after_ the birth of my sister Henriette. My
father, I think, had been led to believe that his first wife had died
some two years previously, and he was no doubt very much shocked when
he realised what a grievous wrong he had done our mother. In order to
mend matters somewhat, he and she went through a new form of
marriage--a legal one this time--and my father paid a lot of money to
Roonah’s relatives to have the matter hushed up. Less than a year
after this second--and only legal--marriage, I was born and my mother
died.”
“Then these papers of which so much has been said--what did they
consist of?”
“There were the marriage certificates of my father’s first wife--and
two sworn statements as to her death, two months _after_ the birth of
my sister Henriette; one by Dr. Rénaud, who was at the time a
well-known medical man in Pondicherry, and the other by Roonah
herself, who had held her dying sister in her arms. Dr. Rénaud is
dead, and now Roonah has been murdered, and all the proofs have gone
with her----”
Her voice broke in a passion of sobs, which, with manifest
self-control, she quickly suppressed. In that crowded court you could
have heard a pin drop, so great was the tension of intense excitement
and attention.
“Then those papers remained in your maid’s possession? Why was that?”
asked the coroner.
“I did not dare to carry the papers about with me,” said the witness,
while a curious look of terror crept into her young face as she looked
across at her aunt and sister. “Roonah would not part with them. She
carried them in the lining of her dress, and at night they were all
under her pillow. After her--her death, and when Dr. Walker had left,
I thought it my duty to take possession of the papers which meant my
whole future to me, and which I desired then to place in Mr.
McKinley’s charge. But, though I carefully searched the bed and all
the clothing by my poor Roonah’s side, I did not find the papers. They
were gone.”
I won’t attempt to describe to you the sensation caused by the
deposition of this witness. All eyes wandered from her pale young face
to that of her sister, who sat almost opposite to her, shrugging her
athletic shoulders and gazing at the pathetic young figure before her
with callous and haughty indifference.
“Now, putting aside the question of the papers for the moment,” said
the coroner, after a pause, “do you happen to know anything of your
late servant’s private life? Had she an enemy, or perhaps a lover?”
“No,” replied the girl; “Roonah’s whole life was centred in me and in
my claim. I had often begged her to place our papers in Mr. McKinley’s
charge, but she would trust no one. I wish she had obeyed me,” here
moaned the poor girl involuntarily, “and I should not have lost what
means my whole future to me, and the being who loved me best in all
the world would not have been so foully murdered.”
Of course, it was terrible to see this young girl thus instinctively,
and surely unintentionally, proffering so awful an accusation against
those who stood so near to her. That the whole case had become
hopelessly involved and mysterious, nobody could deny. Can you imagine
the mental picture formed in the mind of all present by the story, so
pathetically told, of this girl who had come over to England in order
to make good her claim which she felt to be just, and who, in one fell
swoop, saw that claim rendered very difficult to prove through the
dastardly murder of her principal witness?
That the claim was seriously jeopardised by the death of Roonah and
the disappearance of the papers, was made very clear, mind you,
through the statements of Mr. McKinley, the lawyer. He could not say
very much, of course, and his statements could never have been taken
as actual proof, because Roonah and Joan had never fully trusted him
and had never actually placed the proofs of the claim in his hands. He
certainly had seen the marriage certificate of Captain Duplessis’s
first wife, and a copy of this, as he very properly stated, could
easily be obtained. The woman seems to have died during the great
cholera epidemic of 1881, when, owing to the great number of deaths
which occurred, the deceit and concealment practised by the natives at
Pondicherry, and the supineness of the French Government, death
certificates were very casually and often incorrectly made out.
Roonah had come over to England ready to swear that her sister had
died in her arms two months after the birth of Captain Duplessis’s
eldest child, and there was the sworn testimony of Dr. Rénaud, since
dead. These affidavits Mr. McKinley had seen and read.
Against that, the only proof which now remained of the justice of Joan
Duplessis’s claim was the fact that her mother and father went through
a second form of marriage some time _after_ the birth of their first
child, Henriette. This fact was not denied, and, of course, it could
be easily proved, if necessary, but even then it would in no way be
conclusive. It implied the presence of a doubt in Captain Duplessis’s
mind, a doubt which the second marriage ceremony may have served to
set at rest; but it in no way established the illegitimacy of his
eldest daughter.
In fact, the more Mr. McKinley spoke, the more convinced did everyone
become that the theft of the papers had everything to do with the
murder of the unfortunate Roonah. She would not part with the proofs
which meant her mistress’s fortune, and she paid for her devotion with
her life.
Several more witnesses were called after that. The servants were
closely questioned, the doctor was recalled, but, in spite of long and
arduous efforts, the coroner and jury could not bring a single real
fact to light beyond those already stated.
The Indian woman had been murdered!
The papers which she always carried about her body had disappeared.
Beyond that, nothing! An impenetrable wall of silence and mystery!
The butler at Fordwych Castle had certainly missed the knife with
which Roonah had been killed from its accustomed place on the morning
after the murder had been committed, but not before, and the mystery
further gained in intensity from the fact that the only purchase of
chloroform in the district had been traced to the murdered woman
herself.
She had gone down to the local chemist one day some two or three weeks
previously, and shown him a prescription for cleansing the hair which
required some chloroform in it. He gave her a very small quantity in a
tiny bottle, which was subsequently found empty on her own
dressing-table. No one at Fordwych Castle could swear to having heard
any unaccustomed noise during that memorable night. Even Joan, who
slept in the room adjoining that where the unfortunate Roonah lay,
said she had heard nothing unusual. But then, the door of
communication between the two rooms was shut, and the murderer had
been quick and silent.
Thus this extraordinary inquest drew to a close, leaving in its train
an air of dark suspicion and of unexplainable horror.
The jury returned a verdict of “Wilful murder against some person or
persons unknown,” and the next moment Lady d’Alboukirk rose, and,
leaning on her niece’s arm, quietly walked out of the room.
3
Two of our best men from the Yard, Pegram and Elliott, were left in
charge of the case. They remained at Fordwych (the little town close
by), as did Miss Joan, who had taken up her permanent abode at the
d’Alboukirk Arms, whilst I returned to town immediately after the
inquest. Captain Jack had rejoined his regiment, and apparently the
ladies of the Castle had resumed their quiet, luxurious life just the
same as heretofore. The old lady led her own somewhat isolated,
semi-regal life; Miss Henriette fenced and boxed, played hockey and
golf, and over the fine Castle and its haughty inmates there hovered
like an ugly bird of prey the threatening presence of a nameless
suspicion.
The two ladies might choose to flout public opinion, but public
opinion was dead against them. No one dared formulate a charge, but
everyone remembered that Miss Henriette had, on the very morning of
the murder, been playing golf in the field where the knife was
discovered, and that if Miss Joan Duplessis ever failed to make good
her claim to the barony of d’Alboukirk, Miss Henriette would remain in
undisputed possession. So now, when the ladies drove past in the
village street, no one doffed a cap to salute them, and when at church
the parson read out the sixth commandment, “Thou shalt do no murder,”
all eyes gazed with fearsome awe at the old Baroness and her niece.
[IMAGE: images/img104.jpg
CAPTION: “She was ashy-pale, staring straight before her”]
Splendid isolation reigned at Fordwych Castle. The daily papers grew
more and more sarcastic at the expense of the Scotland Yard
authorities, and the public more and more impatient.
Then it was that the chief grew desperate and sent for Lady Molly, the
result of the interview being that I once more made the journey down
to Fordwych, but this time in the company of my dear lady, who had
received _carte blanche_ from headquarters to do whatever she thought
right in the investigation of the mysterious crime.
She and I arrived at Fordwych at 8.0 p.m., after the usual long wait
at Newcastle. We put up at the d’Alboukirk Arms, and, over a hasty and
very bad supper, Lady Molly allowed me a brief insight into her plans.
“I can see every detail of that murder, Mary,” she said earnestly,
“just as if I had lived at the Castle all the time. I know exactly
where our fellows are wrong, and why they cannot get on. But, although
the chief has given me a free hand, what I am going to do is so
irregular that if I fail I shall probably get my immediate _congé_,
whilst some of the disgrace is bound to stick to you. It is not too
late--you may yet draw back, and leave me to act alone.”
I looked her straight in the face. Her dark eyes were gleaming; there
was the power of second sight in them, or of marvellous intuition of
“men and things.”
“I’ll follow your lead, my Lady Molly,” I said quietly.
“Then go to bed now,” she replied, with that strange transition of
manner which to me was so attractive and to everyone else so
unaccountable.
In spite of my protest, she refused to listen to any more talk or to
answer any more questions, and, perforce, I had to go to my room. The
next morning I saw her graceful figure, immaculately dressed in a
perfect tailor-made gown, standing beside my bed at a very early hour.
“Why, what is the time?” I ejaculated, suddenly wide awake.
“Too early for you to get up,” she replied quietly. “I am going to
early Mass at the Roman Catholic convent close by.”
“To Mass at the Roman Catholic convent?”
“Yes. Don’t repeat all my words, Mary; it is silly, and wastes time. I
have introduced myself in the neighbourhood as the American, Mrs.
Silas A. Ogden, whose motor has broken down and is being repaired at
Newcastle, while I, its owner, amuse myself by viewing the beauties of
the neighbourhood. Being a Roman Catholic, I go to Mass first, and,
having met Lady d’Alboukirk once in London, I go to pay her a
respectful visit afterwards. When I come back we will have breakfast
together. You might try in the meantime to scrape up an acquaintance
with Miss Joan Duplessis, who is still staying here, and ask her to
join us at breakfast.”
She was gone before I could make another remark, and I could but obey
her instantly to the letter.
An hour later I saw Miss Joan Duplessis strolling in the hotel garden.
It was not difficult to pass the time of day with the young girl, who
seemed quite to brighten up at having someone to talk to. We spoke of
the weather and so forth, and I steadily avoided the topic of the
Fordwych Castle tragedy until the return of Lady Molly at about ten
o’clock. She came back looking just as smart, just as self-possessed,
as when she had started three hours earlier. Only I, who knew her so
well, noted the glitter of triumph in her eyes, and knew that she had
not failed. She was accompanied by Pegram, who, however, immediately
left her side and went straight into the hotel, whilst she joined us
in the garden, and, after a few graceful words, introduced herself to
Miss Joan Duplessis and asked her to join us in the coffee-room
upstairs.
The room was empty and we sat down to table, I quivering with
excitement and awaiting events. Through the open window I saw Elliott
walking rapidly down the village street. Presently the waitress went
off, and I being too excited to eat or to speak, Lady Molly carried on
a running conversation with Miss Joan, asking her about her life in
India and her father, Captain Duplessis. Joan admitted that she had
always been her father’s favourite.
“He never liked Henriette, somehow,” she explained.
Lady Molly asked her when she had first known Roonah.
“She came to the house when my mother died,” replied Joan, “and she
had charge of me as a baby.” At Pondicherry no one had thought it
strange that she came as a servant into an officer’s house where her
own sister had reigned as mistress. Pondicherry is a French
Settlement, and manners and customs there are often very peculiar.