Marjorie Lennox Doesn’t Mince Matters
The Sergeant felt hope surging in his breast. Up to this moment his
investigations had yielded little, but this sudden discovery, he felt,
had at last set him moving. This “M. L.,” whoever it might be, had
undoubtedly an important bearing on the case. Twice this morning
previously these initials had confronted him. He subjected the
handkerchief to a most careful scrutiny. It was a lace square of about
six inches and exhaled a dainty fragrance that in other circumstances
even the Sergeant might have found distinctly alluring. For he was
something of a Romantic! And in consequence had an inclination towards
a leniency to what he himself always described as “the fair sex.” He
heard Stewart’s voice outside and hastily pocketed the delicate trifle
that the curtains had concealed. When Stewart entered he found the
Sergeant engaged in a careful examination of the bookcase.
“I have arranged that you see Miss Lennox in the music-room. Will that
suit you, Sergeant?”
Clegg thanked him, but stayed where he was. “That will do very nicely,
Mr. Stewart,” he replied. “But would you mind telling the constable on
duty at the front entrance to report to me for just a moment—or
sending somebody with a message to that effect? Thank you.”
“I want you for a little while, Potter,” he said to the man when he
came in. “You’re to keep at this door here and to see that nobody
enters! You understand—_nobody_! If you have any trouble over it—send
for me. I shall only be the other side of the hall.”
P. C. Potter saluted smartly. “Right—Sergeant. Is the body in here?”
“You’ve said it! Now you understand.” The constable assumed a bearing
of importance. Clegg walked across the hall and entered the
music-room. He felt somehow that the approaching interview might prove
disturbing. All the same he was anxious to meet the lady in question,
for he felt sure that the handkerchief was hers. The possession of
this gave him an advantage, he considered. He started with something
in his favor—otherwise he might have viewed the position with less
complacency. For he had yet to make the acquaintance of the lady in
question.
“This is Sergeant Clegg, Marjorie,” announced Charles Stewart as he
entered. “He wants to ask you one or two things about my father to see
if you can help him in any way to discover the truth of what happened
last night—he won’t worry you for long I am sure.”
Marjorie Lennox rose quietly from the low chair upon which she had
been seated.
“I am ready to tell the Sergeant anything.”
And at that moment the truth came home to Sergeant
Clegg—unerringly—that unless he “watched his step” very carefully he
would be as wax in the hands of the highly-capable Miss Lennox. He
found himself fervently wishing that he belonged to the ranks of the
“strong, silent men”—certainly not to the Romantics. For Marjorie
Lennox had a delicate beauty and a dainty charm that were instantly
arresting. She was “petite,” it is true, but she had that
semi-disdainful, semi-challenging roguishness that many men find so
hard to resist. It was easy to find fault with her features, for her
nose was appreciably “retroussé”—but this very tip-tiltedness only
served, if anything, to enhance her attractiveness. She had glorious
blue eyes—twin pools of pure cornflower, and a complexion that made
one immediately think of roses and cream. Added to this she possessed
a demure gracefulness that almost perfected her, giving her a Dresden
china sort of setting—from the depths of which she was destined to
play havoc with the hearts of men. And of course she fulfilled that
destiny to the limit of her dainty power! Sergeant Clegg threw an
inexorable rein over his romanticism and did his duty. A little throat
clearing once again prefaced his first remark.
“Thank you, Miss——” he hesitated momentarily.
“Lennox,” she broke in quickly. “Marjorie Lennox. I am—or rather, I
was—Mr. Stewart’s ward.” She sank back in her chair again.
“Yes, miss. I understand that much. How long have you lived with Mr.
Stewart?”
“Ever since I was a little girl of three. My father was a very old
friend of Uncle Laurence’s—I always called Mr. Stewart ‘uncle’”—she
explained with engaging candor—“and when my father died I came to
Uncle Laurence to live. My mother died when I was born,” she added
simply.
“Was your father in good circumstances when he died—can you remember?”
Marjorie Lennox flushed. “I believe not. Certainly his circumstances
were quite different from those of Uncle Laurence. What has that to
do——?”
Clegg wagged his head half apologetically. “I see! I see! Now, coming
to the events of last night—I’ve no wish to distress you, Miss Lennox,
but there’s just this. You dined, I believe, with Mr. Stewart, Colonel
Leach-Fletcher and Mr. Morgan. Is that so?” He ticked the three names
off on his fingers.
“Yes. There were just the four of us. Charles did not return for
dinner.”
“And after dinner?”
Marjorie flashed him a searching—penetrating glance. “Do you mean what
did I do after dinner or——”
“If you please, miss.” The Sergeant became acutely aware of his
constitutional chivalry, but sternly suppressed it.
“I came in here. It is my usual practice after dinner. Uncle Laurence
used to like me to play to him—he was passionately fond of music. But
last night he went into the library.”
“Did you stay in here for the rest of the evening?”
“Yes—no—no, I’m wrong! It was about nine o’clock when I left here.”
She amended her statement with the utmost composure and Clegg couldn’t
be sure if she had made a genuine mistake or was desirous of
concealing something. But he remembered Llewellyn’s story and the two
didn’t tally! Llewellyn had made no mention of Miss Lennox having left
the music-room at nine o’clock! He had stated that he spent the
_remainder_ of the evening with her. Now—according to Marjorie
Lennox—he had been alone for an hour. That is to say there was at
least one hour of his time for which he had not accounted. Now Clegg
was slow-moving and inspiration visited him but seldom, but he took
_care_, and he quickly came to the conclusion that hereabouts in his
inquiry extreme care would be necessary if he were to achieve any
success. He decided to hasten slowly.
“Where did you go then, Miss Lennox?” he followed up.
“To my room. My uncle was still engaged with Colonel Leach-Fletcher in
the library, and I didn’t wish to disturb them.”
“Did you see Mr. Stewart again before you retired for the night?”
“No—I was tired. It had been a rather hot day, down here, as you
probably know yourself. And I seem to mind the heat. I thought I would
go to bed early.”
“You are quite certain you didn’t go into the library?”
“Positive.” Miss Lennox flicked an imaginary speck of dust from her
sleeve.
“When did you last go in there?”
“To the library? I didn’t go in at any time yesterday. Why do you
ask?”
She was lying! Clegg knew it! But he wasn’t certain why he knew it.
His knowledge didn’t emanate altogether from the fact of the lace
handkerchief lying in his pocket. It came rather from the lady
herself. Nonchalant, despite her grief, utterly self-controlled, she
nevertheless failed to impress him with the quality of simple
sincerity. He was fairly certain that she was acting a part. His
present and immediate task was to discover “why”! He had half intended
to tax her here and now with the handkerchief, but in the later light
of what she had just told him—he decided to keep quiet—for a time at
least.
“I fancied I was told by Mr. Stewart here that he saw you in there.”
“No, Sergeant. Your memory has failed you! I said nothing of the
kind.” Charles Stewart appeared anxious to clear up this
misunderstanding. It seemed to him that Marjorie needed protection.
“Sorry, sir.” Sergeant Clegg made his apology.
But it didn’t deceive Miss Lennox. Just as Clegg had realized her
insincerity, so she in her turn knew that this rather lame explanation
of his question to her had not been the truth. She immediately put
herself on the defensive. Inclined as she had been in the first place
to under-rate this policeman, she effected a mental readjustment.
She awaited his next question—outwardly unchanged, but inwardly more
vigilant. When it came it surprised her.
“Did you hear anything unusual in the night, Miss Lennox?” Somewhat
relieved, she breathed more freely, but her defensive tension remained
unrelaxed.
“Nothing! I slept like a top.” The blue eyes regarded him ingenuously.
“Thank you. One last question, Miss Lennox. You have lived a long time
with Mr. Laurence Stewart, almost as long I suppose as Mr. Charles
Stewart here—and ladies, if you’ll excuse me saying such a thing, are
very often more in a man’s confidence than gentlemen! For instance,
you were as a daughter to the poor gentleman”—he broke off
suddenly—and Marjorie Lennox began to sob quietly—her handkerchief
pressed to her eyes. There was genuine sorrow here—Sergeant Clegg had
sufficient sense to recognize it when it came his way—and it was
reflected in young Stewart as well. His white face grew whiter—the
ordeal of this dreadful day was oppressing him more and more—and
Marjorie’s convulsive sobbing tore his heart-strings. He knew he must
have help. He would get it as soon as he could. This was too much.
Sergeant Clegg felt his courage sink into his boots. This sobbing was
more than a Romantic could stand—the more so because he himself had
provoked it. He must do something to stop it. He placed his hand on
her shoulder—an act that he was always to remember.
“Come, come. What I mean is this. If Mr. Stewart regarded you in the
light of a daughter—did he ever _confide_ in you? Any secret? Any
trouble? Had he any enemies that might have wanted to do him harm?”
She looked up. “He had no secrets at all. He wasn’t the kind. But
since you’ve asked me—I’ll tell you—something.”
She sprang to her feet. Her eyes shone like stars and her hands were
clenched together. Her whole manner altered.
“There _is_ a man who wanted to do him harm. A man none of you would
ever suspect. He’s in the house now—why should I shield him?”
Charles Stewart threw out his hand and attempted to restrain her. But
she flung the proffered hand away imperiously, while Stewart looked at
her reproachfully.
“Sergeant Clegg asked me,” she asserted vehemently. “Sergeant Clegg
shall know. The man is Morgan Llewellyn!!!”
Clegg received the announcement stolidly—he was progressing! Charles
Stewart gave a gasp of astonishment and turned to her with an air of
remonstrance.
“You’re mad, Marjorie! You’ve no right to bring an accusation of that
kind. Why should Llewellyn have harmed my father?”
Clegg waited eagerly for the answer. He even got his note-book ready.
Marjorie Lennox faced her so-called cousin defiantly—her blue eyes
challenging his grey ones. For a moment there was a silent battle for
the mastery. Then before either of the men could stop her, she swept
majestically from the room!