THE TELLTALE PERFUME
When Lady Raytham had begun a letter to her husband the district
messenger arrived with Leslie’s note. His lordship, in his aimless
way, had gone on to Bombay, and was suffering from an old trouble of
his; had written a very long letter describing minutely his many
symptoms, and had expressed--this was unexpected--the desire that she
should go out to him.
She read Leslie’s note:
Dear Jane: Won’t you come round and see me? I’ve got the whole day
off, and there is a tremendous lot that I want to talk to you about,
not as a poor apology for a policewoman, but as a very human girl who
would love to smooth over some of the rough road you are treading.
Lucretia has orders to say that I’m out and to admit nobody. I can
give you a home-made lunch, and can promise that you will suffer no
ill effects therefrom. Or we can lunch regally at or near the Carlton.
Please come.
Jane scribbled a note which was delivered to the waiting messenger,
locked away her half-finished letter in the bureau, and went up into
her room to change. Lucretia had no sooner ushered Jane in to Leslie
when she burst out talking.
“Did you see Peter? What happened? I’m so worried about it. I nearly
called you up this morning.”
“I shouldn’t have known,” said Leslie. “At least, I should have known
he’d been arrested----”
“Arrested?”
This was obviously news to Jane Raytham, for her face went white.
Leslie explained what had happened.
“How could she? How could she?” demanded Jane Raytham vehemently. “It
was wicked! But how like her! Poor Peter! He lives everlastingly in
rough seas.”
And then the note of anger in her voice turned to one of anxiety.
“Did Anita tell him anything?”
“Not what he wanted to know,” replied Leslie.
The visitor was quick to understand the meaning of that reply.
“Do you know why he went?”
“He went to find his child.”
The beautiful face of Jane Raytham flushed a delicate pink, and paled
again.
“My child,” she said, in a low voice. “I suppose you despise me, don’t
you?”
Leslie shook her head.
“No, why should I? If I despised every woman who had a baby----”
“I don’t mean that. But I allowed them to take it away. I didn’t want
to, Leslie. Will you believe that? I wanted to keep the child with me.
I fought hard for him. The compromise was a desperately weak one, but
at least I gained that point.”
“What was the compromise?”
Lady Raytham smiled faintly.
“If you didn’t despise me before, you’ll despise me now,” she said.
She was at the fireplace in her old attitude: arm along the mantel,
forehead resting on the back of her hand, her eyes fixed on the fire.
“They agreed to that. If it was a girl I should keep her; if it was a
boy, he should go away. A mad, wicked idea, so grossly unfair to the
child! But I’m terribly tender toward girls. I can’t see a girl suffer
without experiencing a shrivelled-up feeling inside. I wonder if you
know what my girlhood was. If it had been a girl I should have kept
her with me and braved everything. But it was a boy--a wonderful
boy--they told me of it afterward. I wish I’d seen him, known him, if
only for a day, but then I should never, never have allowed him to
go.”
She turned her face away and her shoulders shook. Leslie sat at the
desk and drew fantastic, meaningless arabesques upon her blotting pad;
and when that storm of sobbing had died down she said:
“I suppose it is absurd to ask you if there is any clue by which the
child could be traced? Of course you’ve explored every avenue. You’ve
discovered nothing?”
Jane was manipulating her handkerchief, her back toward her, and there
was finality in the shake of her head.
“No. I’ve already tried. I didn’t tell Anita, but for months I’ve had
detectives searching. I thought he was in a happy home, you know; I
never dreamed that he’d been left.”
She could not go on. It was quite a long time before she mastered her
emotion.
“Druze told me that night--that horrible night she went away. Laughed
in my face when I asked her where the child was. That is why I went
after her. I guessed that she had gone to Anita’s, and when I found
her dead on the path I was frantic. I thought she must have some
hidden paper that would tell me. But when I searched, there was
nothing--nothing!”
Jane Raytham turned her face away from the girl.
“I have no justification--none,” she said. “I was just wickedly
selfish. Even if he’d been illegitimate I could not be excused.
Illegitimate!” She smiled bitterly. “Thank God I’ve had no children
since I married Raytham! He was not keen about children, or about me
for the matter of that. Our married life has been a sort of--modified
celibacy!”
She took down a photograph from a mantelshelf and looked at it.
“This is Mr. Coldwell, isn’t it?”
Leslie nodded.
“It would be a great feather in his cap if he--arrested me for
bigamy.”
“Mr. Coldwell is not frantically keen on feathers of that kind, Jane,”
said the girl loyally.
Jane put down the photograph and dropped into the nearest armchair,
curling her legs up under her.
“I’m a beast! I’m putting the worst construction on everything; taking
the most uncharitable view of everybody.”
She smiled pitifully, reached out her hand for her bag that lay on the
table, and snapped open a diamond-encrusted cigarette case.
“I tried drugging once,” she said; “a white powder you sniff up your
nose. For some reason it made me deathly sick, and I didn’t pursue the
practice. But I envy people who can find relief and forgetfulness.”
“Another good way,” said Leslie brutally, “is to put your head on a
railway track when a large, fat freight train is due! You’d accomplish
the same result, and give much less trouble to other people. And
presently, when your boy emerges from the mist, as he will, he would
come to a mother who was hardly worth finding.”
Jane was laughing quietly.
“You’re a weird girl. How old are you?”
Leslie told her.
“I wish Peter was in love with you. He must find happiness somewhere
or other.”
“Do I come into this?” asked Leslie dryly. “Or are Peter and you the
only two people in the world whose feelings count?”
She stopped Jane’s penitence with a laughing gesture.
“I’ll tell you something, Jane. I’m rather in love with Peter; do you
feel faint?”
“I’m not a little bit faint.” But Jane was more than a little bit
curious. “You’re not jesting?”
“I decided this morning that I was very much in love with him,” said
Leslie calmly, “but I’ve thought a long time about it, and have
reached the conclusion that it is rather my maternal instinct that is
operating. I’m loving him in a motherly fashion, in fact. Sooner or
later that boy of yours is going to be found, and then you’ve got to
go to your husband and tell him the truth.”
She was watching Jane’s face closely, ready to note and spring upon
the first visible sign of repugnance. But Jane was listening; and
listening, the girl realized her heart sinking with approval.
“And then Lord Raytham must give you up, and Peter and you must start
afresh.”
Here was the first note of dissent. Jane shook her head.
“Peter is different,” she said. “I realized it when I saw him last
night. He’s not the same man. And can you wonder? Leslie, I never
loved him. You’ll think that’s a horrible thing to say of the father
of my child. He represented--I don’t know, curiosity, I
suppose--adventure--the grand hairpin turn of life, where so much is
upset and smashed, so many hopes and ideals die. And he never loved
me. He was infatuated and he was fond of me, and had a wonderful
chivalrous feeling that he was rescuing me from something. That is
half his trouble now, that he knows he didn’t love me, and it makes
him feel ugly and ashamed. You think the child may bring us together.
I’m becoming quite a thought reader! But that sort of thing really
doesn’t happen, does it? Children really do not determine very much.
Half the women who are divorced have children who love them and whom
they love, but it didn’t prevent--things happening. I think Peter and
I might be good friends, and the boy might love us both, even though
we were apart, for children give you back what you give to them. I
could give him such a lot.”
With an impatient shake of her head she sat up and walked resolutely
to the window.
“Let us talk of rabbits,” she said. “How did you break this?” she
asked.
For a new and unpainted sash had been put into the window space that
morning.
“Never mind about that. A visitor put his head through it. Jane,
you’re taking rather a hopeless view of life, aren’t you?”
The woman shrugged.
“My dear, what can happen? If this were a story and it wasn’t real
life, I should go away somewhere, contract a malignant fever and die
to soft, slow music! But I refuse to offer myself up as a sacrifice in
order that my story shall have a smooth and a happy ending! And if I
die, Peter will endow me with all sorts of gentle qualities which I
don’t possess, and will pass the rest of his life in the twilight of
melancholy. I know men!”
Leslie was laughing softly. She had too keen a sense of humour not to
appreciate the fact that this entanglement had its funny side.
Suddenly she became serious.
“There are only a few questions I want to ask you, that I’ve never
asked before. Did you give Druze your emerald necklace?”
Jane nodded.
“Yes. This mythical person wanted thirty thousand pounds. I could only
draw twenty without Raytham knowing. The necklace was worth twelve
thousand, and I suggested that Druze should sell it. She jumped at the
chance. I thought she had taken it away a week before she actually
did.”
“You can’t account for the pendant being found in her hand?”
Jane shook her head.
“And you don’t know where the rest of the chain is to be found?”
“I am absolutely ignorant. I can’t conceive how she met her death. It
is only reasonable to suppose that she had a life and friends of whom
I knew nothing. Where she went, after she left my house, I do not
know. I guessed she was going to Anita’s because she would not leave
England without saying good-bye: she was very much attached to Anita.”
“How long after your baby was born were you married to Lord Raytham?”
Jane considered.
“About ten months,” she said.
“Did you go to Reno personally?”
“Yes,” Jane said. “That was one of the queer coincidences of it all.
My father had a small farm near Reno, just a shack and a few acres of
ground, and this was accepted as a residential qualification. Of
course, I had to lie desperately and say I was living there all the
time, and really I believed the divorce would go through. I even
appeared in court and gave my evidence, and I thought that the thing
was settled, until Anita saw me outside the court-house and told me
that my lawyers had made a bungle and that the divorce could not be
granted without serving some papers upon Peter. I went straight away
with her; her automobile was waiting, for I was scared of the
reporters, who were all the time hunting marriage romances for their
newspapers. Besides, the baby was coming. I was frightened that people
would know.”
“And you returned immediately?”
Jane nodded.
“Yes; I went to Cumberland from Liverpool. Anita discovered the place.
It was some time after Christmas; I remember that I was in New York on
Christmas Day.”
“There is one final question, Jane, and then I’ll stop being a mark of
interrogation and take you out to lunch. That is, if you don’t mind
being seen in public with a Scotland Yard female?”
“If you wish,” said Jane, with the first spark of animation she had
shown, “I will eat my lunch out of a paper bag with you, seated on top
of one of Landseer’s lions!”
“This is the question,” said Leslie, slowly and deliberately.
“Marriage with Lord Raytham was in the air, wasn’t it, and you had
discussed it with Anita?”
Jane nodded.
“And did she know of your intention of marrying Raytham whether the
divorce was granted or not? Please think very carefully before you
answer.”
“There’s no need to think very carefully. I told Anita that I should
marry Raytham whether the divorce was granted or not. I salved my
conscience by expressing doubt as to the validity of the marriage.”
Leslie leaned back in her chair with a large and happy smile.
“You’re a wicked conspirator, a perfectly horrible mother, and not a
tremendous success in any of your matrimonial ventures!” She slipped
her arm round the woman’s waist and kissed her on the cheek. “But
you’re rather a darling. We’ll lunch at the Pall Mall, which is
terribly nice for women, and we’ll occupy the afternoon with a movie.
I love the movies--especially the romantic ones!”
She was rather relieved than otherwise when, nearing the end of
luncheon, Jane remembered, with some contrition, that she had promised
to be at home that afternoon to receive a committee of which she was
chairman.
“Child welfare,” she said laconically. “The angels weep every time I
sit at the head of that board and dilate upon the duty of mothers!
Raytham, in spite of queer little ways, is a dear where these
societies are concerned, and he’s fearfully in earnest about them. I
drew the line when he wanted me to take control of a committee which
helps fallen women. That was stretching my sense of humour to a
breaking point.”
They parted in the Haymarket, and Leslie went back to her flat,
stopping on her way to wire to Peter. He came when the day was fading
and Lucretia was drawing the curtains. Two stout suitcases were ready
packed in the hall, and during the afternoon Coldwell had called her
up with strict injunction to be ready for him when he came.
“I’m not going to allow you to stay in the flat until this little
business is finished,” he said.
Here he had a strong supporter in Lucretia Brown.
“Not for a million pounds would I stay in this place after dark,
miss,” she said. “What with burglars and people jumping out of the
window and what not, I wonder I’ve got any hair left! When I combed it
this morning it came out in handfuls.”
“The remedy for that is shingling,” suggested Leslie, and Lucretia
grew sardonic.
“When I want to look like a boy I’ll wear trousers, miss!” she said.
“Not that I’ve anything to say against shingling, which suits you very
well, because you’ve got the kind of head. And as for these bingles
with your ears sticking out all over the place like the Princess
Bellorino or whatever her name is--I call that disgusting! The only
use for ears is to hear with, not to go pushing theirselves out into
the world, so to speak. I was hoping her ladyship was coming back this
afternoon, miss. A bit of society does nobody any harm.”
“If she’d only known, I’m sure she’d have jumped at the opportunity of
giving us a social lift,” said Leslie, and Lucretia sniffed. She was
not very thin-skinned, but she always knew when her young lady was
indulging in what Lucretia described as “sarc.”
“I only want to say----” she began.
“There’s the bell,” interrupted Leslie. “If it is Mr. Dawlish, shoot
him up.”
“A low convict!” murmured Lucretia, but she murmured it under her
breath.
The convict was neither lowly nor humble. Leslie had never seen him
look more serious, and the old flippancy of his tone was gone. It was
a very determined young man who sat down at the opposite side of her
writing table.
He had been making inquiries, he said.
“It is a hopeless business when you don’t know where to start. I
thought Jane would give me a hint, but of course the poor girl is as
much in the dark as I. Yes, I am awfully sorry for her. I’m afraid I
was rather a brute.”
“She doesn’t think you were,” said Leslie lightly.
“Have you seen her?” he asked quickly.
“This morning,” she nodded. “In fact, I lunched with her. We talked
over the whole grisly affair from A to Z. Are you very much in love
with her?”
He shook his head.
“I’m not in love with her at all. I suppose I ought to be, right down
in the deeps of my heart, but I’m not. And she is not in love with me,
either. I knew that seven years ago. She was not over-reticent when
she came to discuss our marriage before the separation. Did she tell
you anything at all about the boy?”
“Nothing. She really doesn’t know.”
He agreed.
“I was sure she didn’t. Bellini knows--no, I won’t call her princess
or Anita or anything feminine or human! She’s just a devil--a wicked
devil! How my father hated her! I’ve an idea he was a bit afraid of
her, too. I remember once he asked me, when we were walking together
at our place in Hertfordshire, if I liked her, and when I told him
that the sight of her made me ill, he put his hand in his pocket and
gave me a golden sovereign! And yet he must have been very fond of her
once.”
“Fond of her?” Leslie’s eyebrows met. “Do you seriously mean that?”
“I do. They say she was awfully attractive--not very pretty but very
attractive--when she was younger.”
Leslie pushed back her chair.
“This has been a most educational day!” she said. “Produce your
evidence, Mr. Dawlish, that your father was ever attracted by that
monstrous lady.”
He tried to turn the conversation, but she kept him to it
remorselessly.
“I shouldn’t have known, only my mother and the princess quarrelled. I
was curled up in a chair in the library--I must have been about
seven--reading one of the kind of books that my father used to buy for
me--about pirates and cutthroats and the usual exemplar of youth--when
they came into the library together. My mother was furious with
Bellini. I didn’t understand all it signified at the time, but later,
when I came to think it over, it seemed pretty plain. My mother was
furious. ‘You’ve had your inning,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t like you any
more, and he doesn’t want you in the house. You won’t get him back,
anyway.’ There was a lot more said on both sides that I cannot
remember. I know that it ended in my mother crying and going out of
the room, and in Anita Bellini leaving the house. They must have been
on bad terms for two years, probably three. Time has no meaning to a
child.”
Leslie was chewing the end of a pen-holder.
“Then your father, in the argot of these days, was a bad lad?” she
said.
“I wouldn’t say that,” he protested. “He was a very simple man,
attracted by clever women; and Bellini was brilliant. I remember that
her husband was alive in those days--a very tall, thin, melancholy
Italian who spoke very bad English. My father and he were not very
good friends. I think Bellini had borrowed money and hadn’t repaid it,
and dear old Donald Dawlish was rather a stickler for commercial
honesty.”
And then, with a half-ashamed laugh:
“I don’t know why I should be slandering my father or gossiping when I
should have no other thought than of my boy. Did she tell you whether
she named it?”
“It was neither named nor registered,” was Leslie’s reply. “From that
point of view the child has no existence, and that is why he is going
to be so very difficult to trace.”
The pen quivered between her white teeth; she stared out of the
window.
“I wonder----” she said softly.
“What do you wonder?”
“If the other two pieces in this jig-saw puzzle are going to be so
easy to fit. And I wonder other things, Peter Dawlish. Where is the
screw I can turn on Anita Bellini? Give me that letter you had.”
He took it from his pocket and she read it.
“Who sent you this?”
“There was no name attached.”
She looked at the envelope and the postmark.
“This was sent by one who wishes to do either Jane or the princess a
pretty bad turn,” she said. “Now if I could only trace the sender----”
She lifted the letter to her nose and sniffed daintily.
“A clever detective would be able to tell in an instant if this
perfume was chenel No. 6 or chypre. I, being an ignoramus, only know
that Greta Gurden’s bedroom reeked with it!”