"We have already given the police _commissario_ instructions not to take
any further steps against you, Mr Leaf. We quite accept your
explanation, and at the same time thank you for this further information
you are able to give us. A search shall be made at the spot you
indicate."
And then I took a piece of paper and pencil, and drew a plan of the
concealed cupboard and how to open the panel.
Shortly after the Embassy official had left the police agent again
visited me, presented his apologies for having disturbed me, and then
throughout the day I remained alone with my own apprehensive thoughts
regarding Ella.
She was prevented from coming to me on account of that man in whom she
went in such deadly terror. Nothing had yet got into the papers
concerning the dastardly attempt upon me, for the police had been very
careful to keep it from those inquisitive gentlemen-of-the-press who
called at the hospital every few hours to gather news of the latest
accidents or tragedies. But if Lucie had told her I knew how alarmed
and anxious she would be. She loved me--ah, yes, she loved me. Of that
I felt confident.
Yet would she ever be mine? Was it the end--the end of all? Was the
old sweet life of that summer beside the sea dead and gone for evermore?
Should I never see a red rose, her favourite flower, bloom upon its
bush without this sickness of soul upon me? Should I never smell the
salt of the sea, or drink the cornfields' breaths on a moonlit night
without this madness of memory that is worse than all death?
Was she lost to me--lost to me for ever?
I forgot that the inquest upon Miller was to be held that afternoon, and
that Lucie was the principal witness. The Coroner, a sharp-featured,
grey-bearded man, came to my bedside, and with a clerk and the foreman
of the jury, put me upon oath and took my evidence--evidence to the
effect that I had dined in company with the deceased at the American's
flat. I explained how our host had mixed those final drinks--draughts
that he intended should be fatal.
Then when I had concluded by declaring that I had no previous knowledge
of Himes, the Coroner made me sign the statement, and returned to where
the jury awaited him.
The Coroner's officer, a police-sergeant in uniform, told me that they
were taking precautions to keep the affair out of the papers, as they
feared that the publication of the evidence might defeat their efforts
to trace Himes.
Shortly after five o'clock Lucie came again, looking pale and agitated
after the ordeal of giving evidence. A verdict of "death from poison
wilfully administered" had been returned.
The Coroner and jury had questioned her closely regarding her father's
mode of life and his recent movements. Of the latter she was, of
course, unaware. She only knew that he had been called unexpectedly to
Rome, and had returned direct to England. Of the reason of his flying
visit to Italy she was entirely unaware. He seldom, she said, ever told
her about his own affairs, being naturally a close man regarding
everything that concerned himself.
"They asked me about the man Himes," she said, as she sat by my bedside,
"and I was compelled to tell them how he had once been poor dad's most
intimate friend."
"Did he ever meet Ella, do you think?" I asked suddenly.
"Never to my knowledge. Why?"
"I was only wondering--that's all. Perhaps he knew Gordon-Wright."
"I believe he did. They met one night when we were living in rooms at
Fulham, if I recollect aright, and about six months later they went for
a holiday together in Germany."
"Did you ever meet that Italian doctor Gennaro Gavazzi who lived in
Rome?"
She looked at me with a quick suspicion that she was unable to disguise.
"Why do you ask that?" she inquired, without reply to my question.
"Because he was a friend of your father's. You told me so. I once knew
him slightly," I added, in order to reassure her.
"And you didn't know much good concerning him, eh?" she asked, looking
at me apprehensively.
"He was private secretary to Nardini, I believe, was he not?"
"Yes, and his factotum. He did all his dirty work--a scoundrel of the
very first water."
"And yet your father was very friendly with him. He has been staying in
Rome with him."
"I believe he did. But I could never discover why poor dad was so fond
of that man's society. To me, it was always a mystery." And then she
went on, in a low, broken voice, to describe to me all that had occurred
at the inquest.
"There was a short, dark-bearded Italian present who asked me quite a
number of questions regarding poor old dad. I wonder who he was."
"One of your father's Italian friends most probably," I said, reassuring
her, for I did not wish her to learn that the man was a police agent
from Rome seeking to establish the dead man's identity. "But," I added,
suddenly changing the subject because she had grown despairing, "you
have told me nothing of Ella. Did you go to Porchester Terrace last
night, as you promised?"
"I did, but she has left London with her father. She returned to
Wichenford the day before yesterday."
"Gone! And where is Gordon-Wright?"
"All I've been able to find out is that he is absent from London. I
called myself at his rooms in Half Moon Street, and his man told me that
he was out of town--on the Continent, he believes, but is not certain."
"Or he may be with my love," I remarked bitterly, clenching my hands in
my fierce antagonism. For me nothing lived or breathed save one life,
that of my love; for her alone the sun shone and set.
The days dragged wearily by, for I was still kept in the hospital. The
shock my system had suffered had been a terrible one, and according to
the doctors it had been little short of a miracle that my life had been
saved.
The funeral of Mr Miller, attended by his sister and three other
friends, had taken place, and Lucie had accompanied her aunt back to
Studland, taking with her all the dead man's effects.
She had said nothing about the large sum in Italian bank-notes that must
have been in his possession, and this somewhat puzzled me. The proceeds
of the great theft at the Villa Verde must be concealed somewhere--but
where?
As soon as I was able to travel I went down to Worcester, and hiring a
dogcart drove out six miles along the Tenbury Road through a picturesque
and fertile country glorious in its autumn gold, when of a sudden the
groom raised his whip, and pointing to the left across the hedgerow to a
church spire on rising ground in the distance said:--
"That's Wichenford yonder, sir. The Place is a mile and a half farther
on."
I had never been to Ella's home, and was wondering what kind of house it
was.
At about two miles along a road to the left we came to fine lodge-gates
that swung open to allow us to pass, and then driving up a long beech
avenue there suddenly came into view a splendid old Tudor mansion of
grey stone half covered with ivy. It had no doubt gone through some
changes in modern times, but the older parts, including the Great Hall
and the Tapestry Gallery, certainly were of pure Tudor structure. To me
it seemed probable that the original purpose was to erect a manor house
of the E form, so common in Tudor times; but if that was the intention
it was never carried out, for only one block with the central projection
had been completed, and the house must have taken its present form about
the time of Charles the First, when two wings had been added in the rear
of the then existing building.
In any case I had no idea that Wichenford Place, the home of the
Worcestershire Murrays for the past three centuries, was such a
magnificent old mansion.
The great oak door was open, therefore, after ringing the bell, I passed
through the porch, entered the hall and glanced around, finding it most
quaint and interesting, and full of splendid old furniture. Its high
flat ceiling was of large size and excellent proportions, the panelling
was of oak, rich in character and colouring, with beautiful carving
along the top in many places. The fireplace I noticed had fluted
pilasters of an early type and a mantel surmounted by arches of wood
finely carved with caryatid figures supporting the frieze. The ancient
fire-back bore the date 1588, while in the old armorial glass of the
long windows could be seen the rose of the Tudors with the Garter and
the shield of the Murrays emblazoned with various quarterings. It was a
delightful old home, typically English.
Above the panelling hung many time-mellowed old family portraits, while
at the far end a fine old long clock in marquetrie case ticked solemnly,
and the door was guarded by the figure of a man armed cap-a-pie.
A clean-shaven man-servant in livery came along the hall towards me, and
I inquired for Mr Murray.
"Not at home, sir," was his prompt answer.
"Miss Ella?"
"What name, sir?"