understand you are a friend of Mr. Charlock's; in fact, so far as I
know, you are the only friend he has. Of course, this may not be more
than a mere coincidence, but you might mention the matter to him, and no
doubt an explanation will be forthcoming. I could not take any action
at present."
"Of course you couldn't," Grey exclaimed, "especially in view of the
evidence which I have already given you myself."
"That is exactly the point," Battley said eagerly. "According to what
you say, you heard a cry of distress and hastened off at once in the
direction of the sundial. There you found the unfortunate lady lying
dead in the fountain. I suppose you are quite sure that it was her
voice you heard?"
"Well, that's rather a large order," Grey said. "But, on the other hand,
if it wasn't Mrs. Charlock, who could it have been? I am pretty sure
that I am right, and that my evidence would convince any jury that Mr.
Charlock had nothing to do with his wife's death."
"It is a good point," the inspector said. "Still, the lady was in the
house before you came, beyond all doubt. It would be a good thing if we
could ascertain what brought her here. I hope you will recognise that I
am doing my best to help Mr. Charlock."
"Oh, I quite see that. And as to Mrs. Charlock's presence here before I
came, that can be easily explained. There is no secret in the fact that
Mr. Charlock and his wife were on exceedingly bad terms, owing to the
wife's extravagance. So far as I can gather, she did not seem to have
the least idea of the value of money. She spent all she could get in
reckless fashion, and she did not hesitate to pledge Charlock's credit
to the utmost capacity. Rightly or wrongly, she became possessed of the
idea that he was merely a money-making machine, a kind of slave to
minister to her wants. Charlock is a peculiar, self-contained man, like
most people with deep-seated feelings, and this reserve has given him
the reputation of being an unfeeling brute who did not deserve such a
wife as Mrs. Charlock. At any rate, that is the view that most of their
friends take, and at one time, I confess, it was my opinion, too. Of
course, it was foolish of Charlock to turn his wife out of the
house----"
"Did he do that?" the inspector asked.
"Well, that is what it came to. He had made up his mind to sacrifice
everything with a view to getting out of debt. He had taken a small
cottage, where he intended his wife to do the domestic work, and where
he meant to remain as long as a penny was owing. Perhaps it was natural
that Mrs. Charlock should refuse to fall in with this suggestion.
Charlock took the bull by the horns by stripping the house entirely, and
when Mrs. Charlock came back one evening she found the place as bare as
you see it now. Two courses were open to her--either to go to her own
friends or follow her husband. There was one more alternative, and that
was to live for the time being on the sale of her jewellery, of which
she possessed a considerable quantity. But the jewellery had been
stolen, or, at least, so Charlock tells me. He seemed to be under the
impression that the French maid, Hortense, had had some hand in the
robbery. My impression is that Mrs. Charlock came an hour or so before
the time appointed for the interview in order thoroughly to search the
house for the missing gems. I think you will find that Charlock hasn't
the slightest idea that she has been here at all."
"Oh, it is possible," Battley remarked. "Perhaps you will be good
enough to mention this matter to Mr. Charlock. I don't want to allude
to it for the present. I have been candid with you, and perhaps you
will do your best to get an explanation of this peculiar point."
Before Grey could reply, Charlock returned. He asked impatiently how
much longer Grey would be. He seemed to be put out about something.
"I am coming now," Grey said. "By the way, I have had an interesting
conversation with Inspector Battley. He wants to know why Mrs. Charlock
was here for some time before I came in response to your letter."
"Who says she was here?" Charlock demanded.
"Inspector Battley is in a position to prove it," Grey said
significantly. "Lying on a chair yonder is the wrap she was wearing
when she left her hotel last night, and the wrap was found on a chair by
the French window, perfectly dry, so that it must have been discarded
before she found her way into the water. You were also wearing a pair
of tennis-shoes last night, the prints of which Inspector Battley says
he traced to the back of the sundial. Of course, the inspector doesn't
suggest----"
Charlock burst into a hoarse laugh.
"Oh, no, he doesn't suggest anything," he cried. "He hints all sorts of
mysterious things, which is a great deal worse. He will be saying next
that I had a hand in removing the woman who was such a hindrance and
encumbrance to me. Not that it in the least matters, because if he
doesn't say so, somebody else will. There are scores of people who
regarded my wife as an injured saint and myself as a monster of cruelty.
I didn't see my wife last night. If she was here, as you say, I know
nothing whatever about it. She had her own reasons for coming, no
doubt, and her visit was made in absolute secrecy. Possibly she was
looking for her lost jewels, of which she had a quantity. I ought to
know, because I paid for them, like the fool that I was. I understand
that the jewels were stolen, and I don't mind admitting I was very
pleased they were. They were bought at a time when I had no means of
paying for them; they were the final cause of all my trouble. But that
doesn't matter. You may depend upon it, my wife came back to have
another look for the missing stones, and, for certain reasons of her
own, she didn't want me to know it. And now, if you have anything else
to say, perhaps you will say it to me honestly and straightforwardly."
There was something truculent in Charlock's expression. A gleam of
defiance lighted his eyes. The inspector reddened slightly.
"I beg your pardon," he said. "I am bringing no accusation against you.
I merely remarked that your wife was here last night, and that you had
said nothing about the fact. I admit now that you did not know of it.
You may regard this as a mere detail, but in our profession trifles
often turn out to be of the greatest importance. I asked Mr. Grey to
mention this matter to you in an entirely friendly spirit. I did not
expect that he would have done so just yet."
"There was nothing to be gained by delay," Grey said.
Battley curtly agreed, and took himself off without delay. In his
queer, sardonic way, Charlock seemed to be amused about something, for
he chuckled to himself as he walked up and down the room.
"What foolish things clever men can do sometimes," he said. "Now, you
see perfectly well what that fellow has got in his mind. Nothing will
persuade him that I hadn't a hand in my wife's death. He is convinced
that I had an interview with her before you came into the house. It is
lucky for me that you can give evidence to the contrary."
"Are you not a little foolish yourself?" Grey ventured. "You might have
taken what the inspector said in a more friendly spirit, and you admit
that there are plenty of people who regard you as a most undesirable man
to marry any woman. Of course, I know I am going rather far----"
"My dear fellow, nothing of the kind. I know you are only too ready to
help me, and in my own way I am grateful. Besides, I am certain that I
am right. Let us assume for a moment that Hortense stole those jewels.
The night my wife left here on her foolish mission with Arnold Rent she
intended to take her diamonds with her. With all her saint-like purity
and innocence, she did not forget their value. But the diamonds were
gone. It did not matter so very much, however, seeing that my wife was
to find an asylum with Mrs. Rent and remain under that lady's roof till
I should generously make a fool of myself and give her the chance of
getting rid of me altogether. But when Mrs. Rent figures as a woman of
firmness and determination the whole situation is changed. Then it
becomes necessary to secure those gems. That is why my wife came here.
And you needn't be afraid about what people say of me. What does it
matter what they say? What does anything matter? My life has been
blackened and ruined because I was fool enough to mistake a
cold-blooded, self-seeking creature for a good and true woman. If they
like to say that I had a hand in her death, they can if they please.
They ought to be grateful to me for giving them something to talk
about!"
It was in vain that Grey protested, for Charlock turned a deaf ear to
him. Then the artist walked out of the room across the grass towards
the sundial.
*CHAPTER XXXII*
*SWIFT COMES OUT*
As was only natural in the circumstances, the tragic death of Mrs. John
Charlock created a profound sensation. The accident to the French maid
had set most people talking, but the unfortunate end of the mistress in
the same mysterious fashion bade fair to become a general topic of
conversation. The whole thing was so simple, and yet so strange and out
of the common. A score of theories were set on foot, but not one of
them worked out in a satisfactory manner. The police were plainly at
fault, and though Inspector Battley was reinforced by a colleague or two
from Scotland Yard, the end of the week found the authorities no nearer
the solution of the trouble than they had been at the beginning of the
inquiry.
As for Grey and Tanza, they went their own way, which was by no means
the way taken by the police. Ephraim Bark was still in the
neighbourhood, and his movements were watched by Tanza and Grey with a
patient care which would have astonished that worthy had he only known
of it. Grey had his own theory, which he was developing slowly. It was
an integral part of his theory that Bark could have said a great deal
more had he chosen to do so. And there was yet another person whom Grey
was keeping a close eye upon. He had by no means forgotten the torn
photograph he had found in the French maid's room. He did not ignore the
information as to Arnold Rent's strange friendship with the dead
Frenchwoman. And there was another item of which, as yet, Grey had said
nothing to anyone. He was coming to his conclusions now--conclusions so
strange and startling that he hardly dared trust himself to believe
them. A week passed slowly, during which nothing particular had
happened, and Arnold Rent appeared to get no better. So far as Grey
could gather, his brother scientist had had a nasty fall, which, for the
time being, had affected his intellect. There was a good deal of
mystery about the affair, and Grey was at some pains to make the
acquaintance of the doctor who was attending Rent. The thing was
accomplished at length through Tanza, who made some pretext for inviting
the doctor to dine aboard his yacht. Very cautiously and patiently Grey
led up to the subject which was next his heart. The thing was so
naturally done, and Tanza played into his hands so cleverly, that the
doctor fell into the trap at once.
"Oh, so you know Mr. Rent," he said, as he lay back in a deck-chair
smoking a cigar. "An exceedingly clever fellow, who, unless I am much
mistaken, will make his mark in the world yet. A strange illness that
of his, by the way."
"I was going to ask you about that," Grey murmured. "I hear he is
suffering from the effects of a severe fall. I hope the accident won't
leave any permanent injury."
"I don't think so," the doctor said. "I had a specialist down to-day
and he takes a very sanguine view of the case. All that is wanted is
rest. For the moment my patient has a partial lapse of memory--a sort
of hiatus of a week. In other words, he can recollect everything
perfectly well, except that the past seven days are a complete blank to
him. And during the last day or so before his fall he had been engaged
in some experiment, the results of which ought to be placed on record at
once. This seems to worry him terribly. It has affected him to such an
extent that he is making himself seriously ill over it. Imagine a man
who has some great commercial deal on and has to buy or sell at a given
moment suddenly forgetting the very thing he has to do. That appears to
be Rent's case. Anybody might suppose that he had committed murder and
had forgotten to hide the clue, by the way he goes on."
A sudden exclamation broke from Grey, which he checked immediately. The
doctor looked up inquiringly.
"A twinge of pain," he muttered. "Nothing much to trouble about. A
most interesting case, doctor. And you think that in time Rent will be
quite himself again?"
"Oh, I am certain of it. If I could only prevent him from worrying, I
should have had him right by this time. Of course, what I am saying to
you is in strict confidence."
Grey and Tanza gave the desired assurance, and the conversation became
more general. When the doctor left he was accompanied by Grey, who said
he had business on shore. He left the man of medicine at the corner of
a street leading up from the quay and proceeded along the shore to
Arnold Rent's workshop. He stood for a long time making a mental
calculation, after which he walked several times round the building,
examining the ground carefully as if in search of something. Apparently,
nothing had rewarded his efforts, for he shook his head impatiently and
crossed over to the office, in the window of which a light was burning.
Someone inside was singing a snatch from a comic opera in a loud,
blustering voice. An unsteady, flickering shadow crossed the blind once
or twice, and Grey's features broke into a grim smile.
"Friend Swift has broken out again," he murmured. "What a pity so
clever a man should be the victim of a curse like this! Still, his
misfortune is my opportunity, and if there is anything he can tell me,
now is the time to learn it."
Without further hesitation, Grey pushed his way into the office, which
was flooded with half a dozen powerful electric lights. The large
slate-topped table had been cleared of all kinds of electric appliances.
There were the remains of a supper at one end, flanked by two or three
empty bottles. The reserved and saturnine Swift seemed to have changed
altogether. His dark features wore a look of reckless gaiety; his
sombre eyes were shining. He did not appear to be in the least surprised
to see Grey; in fact, he might have been expecting him. His unsteady
gait and thick speech, however, told their tale.
"Hallo!" he exclaimed. "So you have come to pay me a visit? You have
come here to learn the secrets of the prison-house? Ah, my dear fellow,
you are very clever, but your tuppenny discoveries are nothing compared
to what we are on the track of here. For we've got it, my boy, we've
got it. You remember the dream you used to indulge in at school?"
"Intermittent electricity," Grey exclaimed. "A wireless current. You
don't mean to say you have got to the bottom of that!"
Swift seemed to be sober for the moment. A sullen, obstinate look came
over his face, but he did not appear to be half so agitated as was his
visitor. Only for an instant did it occur to the dull brain that
secrets were being betrayed, and in the same instant Grey saw that he
had gone too far. He changed the subject with a quickness that fogged
Swift.
"What did I say to you?" the latter asked, as he passed his hand across
his face. "I hope I didn't make a fool of myself?"
"Not at all," Grey hastened to say. "Besides, I haven't come here
to-night in the guise of a spy."
"Quite right," Swift said, with a sudden change to amiability. "Of
course, you didn't. You are too much of a gentleman for that. Now,
Arnold Rent isn't a gentleman, for all his pretence. He treats me like
a dog. He uses my brains and then passes off my discoveries as his own.
He knows that no one else will employ me, that nobody else would look
twice at a man who is often drunk a week at a time. But I can't help
it, Grey. Upon my word, I can't. I inherit it from my father. I fight
against it and fight against it till the sweat runs off my forehead and
my limbs refuse to carry me. Then, all at once, everything grows misty
and I can't recollect anything more till I am gloriously drunk. That's
why Rent puts up with me. But he is a blackguard, all the same, and he
will come to a bad end. Don't you trust him, Grey. Don't you trust him,
or it will be all the worse for you. Now come and sit down and make a
night of it with me."
Grey declined the tempting offer.
"I can't stay many minutes," he said. "I merely looked in to see how
Rent was getting on."
"He is bad, downright bad," Swift said, with a chuckle. "And he has got
something on his mind. There is something he has to do, some piece of
infernal rascality to conceal, and his brain fails him, and he can't for
the life of him think what it is. And all the time the trail is open for
anybody to pick up, and he might find himself in trouble at any moment.
That is what's wrong with Arnold Rent, and I can't say I'm sorry. Do I
know what he has been doing? No, I don't, and I don't care. You think
that his accident is the result of a fall. Nothing of the kind, my boy!
He and that blackguard, Ephraim Bark, had a quarrel the other night and
Bark knocked him into the fender. How do I know that? Well, you see, I
came in directly afterwards and Rent tried to persuade me that nobody
had been here. Unluckily for him there was a cheap cigarette on the
table, and I guessed at once Bark had been smoking. But why don't you
sit down and make yourself comfortable? You are different from me. You
always know when to leave off--when you have had enough."
Half-defiantly, Swift helped himself to another strong glass of whisky,
and a moment or two later was lying back in an armchair, more or less
asleep. It was a good chance for Grey to get away and he seized it
promptly.
"That's a lucky call," he muttered. "Now I see what it was that puzzled
me. Rent has learnt the secret of the intermittent current and he has
been using it. It will be my turn next."
*CHAPTER XXXIII*
*A WORD IN SEASON*
Mrs. Rent might have possessed all the strength and determination for
which she gave herself credit, but she lost no time in responding to the
call of duty directly she heard that her son had met with an accident.
She had waited till nearly daybreak for Rent's return on that eventful
night when he had gone out in search of Kate Charlock. She had waited,
too, with an anxiety which she strove in vain to conceal. But there
came no sign of Rent until a letter reached her in a day or two saying
that he had reconsidered the whole position and had come to the
conclusion that she was right and he was altogether wrong. The letter
was couched in terms of due filial affection, and was none the less
convincing for being a tissue of lies from beginning to end.
But Mrs. Rent read it all the more lovingly because she wanted to
believe that her son meant every word he wrote. He told her how he had
talked the matter over with Kate Charlock and how the latter had agreed
that his mother had acted entirely for the best. No doubt she had
appeared to be harsh and cruel, but she was only cruel to be kind. Mrs.
Charlock was going back to her husband and she and Arnold Rent were not
likely to meet in the future. Meanwhile, the writer would work as he
had never worked before and try to wipe out every suggestion of his
folly.
For the next two or three days life had resumed its old peacefulness at
Alton Lee. Then came a few curt lines from Swift to the effect that
Rent had met with a nasty accident and that it would be as well if his
mother came at once. Within twenty-four hours Mrs. Rent was installed
by her son's bedside, with Ethel Hargrave in close attendance. It never
struck either of them that there was anything sinister about the
patient's constant complaint that he had something to do which he could
not remember. There were hours and almost days together when he sat in
sullen silence, taking no notice of anybody and apparently trying to
work out some problem in his clouded mind. At such times Mrs. Rent
preferred to be alone with her son, and urged Ethel to go out of doors
as much as possible.
It was lonely for the girl, but she had not forgotten the events of the
last few days, and found herself thinking a good deal about John
Charlock. There was a romantic vein in her nature which rendered her
different from most girls, and her solitary life at Alton Lee had given
her plenty of time to think and form her own conclusions. From the very
first she had taken a fancy to John Charlock. His rugged austerity and
reserve did not repel her as it did most people. She saw beneath it a
depth and sincerity of feeling with which she was in absolute sympathy.
And simultaneously with the appearance of John Charlock her idol in the
form of Arnold Rent had fallen to the ground. She had been asking
herself many questions lately, and when the first shock was over she
knew in her heart of hearts that she did not care for Arnold in the way
in which a woman should care for the man she hoped to marry. She had
heard both sides of the question, too. She had interviewed John
Charlock and his wife, and the more her mind dwelt upon the matter the
more convinced she was that the woman had been to blame. Of course,
Ethel had heard of the tragic death of Kate Charlock, and now that she
was in the neighbourhood she felt herself irresistibly drawn towards the
house where Charlock had spent some of his unhappiest days. Ethel
thought that it would be safe to stroll through the beautiful grounds,
for the house was still empty, and she had not the least idea that
Charlock was in the district.
On the third day of her visit she ventured to pass the lodge gate and
walk down the drive towards the house. The place looked blank with its
staring windows, but there was no sign of neglect in the garden. Here
the lawns were cut and trimmed, and there were beds luxuriant with
flowers. Here, too, gleaming in the sunshine, was the white marble of
the sundial on the fountain, near to which those two terrible tragedies
had taken place. It was impossible to connect so fair a spot with
mystery and horror. As Ethel was standing almost fascinated, she heard
a step on the gravel behind her, and when she turned she saw John
Charlock watching her.
"You startled me," she said, a faint wave of colour tingeing her face.
"I am ashamed you should find me here."
"And why?" Charlock demanded in his imperious way.
"Well, it seems so unfeeling. It suggests impertinent curiosity.
Believe me, I would not have come had I known you were here."
"Well, I am glad you didn't know," Charlock retorted. "You see, I have
to stay here for the present. I am doing my best to let the house, but
so far without success. It is possible that I may come back again. My
wife is dead and I must say nothing about her, but I think that, seeing
I have no longer any reason to fear her extravagance, I might manage
with economy to remain here until I am free of debt. I suppose you came
with Mrs. Rent to look after your invalid. I hope he is progressing
favourably."
"Well, no," Ethel said. "He doesn't seem to get any better. To all
appearances he is well, but he seems to be suffering in his mind. There
is something which he has to do, but he can't remember what it is. Mrs.
Rent and I are taking turns nursing him. The doctor says the cloud may
lift at any moment and then Arnold will be himself again. What a lovely
place you have!"
"I thought so at one time," Charlock said. "I had dreams of being happy
here, but, in fact, it is here I have passed the most miserable days of
my life. Oh, I am not complaining. I am not blaming the place. But,
tell me, did you happen to see my wife after I left Alton Lee?"
Charlock asked the question in his abrupt fashion. His eyes were fixed
steadily upon his companion.
"Yes, I saw her," Ethel said. "A beautiful woman."
"No fairer on God's earth. And I suppose she managed to persuade you
that she was an injured innocent and I an absolute monster. Still, I am
glad you saw her, because it is well to hear both sides of a question.
And yet I am conceited enough to think that you cannot imagine so much
evil of me, or you would not be talking as you are at this moment."
"I am still of the same opinion," Ethel murmured. "I think your wife
had the peculiar temperament which can sincerely make out that wrong is
right. Certain men justify dishonourable actions in the same way. I
might have been prejudiced. I might have been offended by your wife's
coming to Alton Lee at all. But I told you that night in the garden
that I was sorry for you and I see no cause to change my opinion."