Beatrice came down from her room presently, dressed in quiet black. In
her hand she carried not only the telegram but a letter she had taken
from the dressing-table of the dead man.
The little group in the hall had by this time been augmented by the
presence of Colonel Berrington; Stephen Richford had slipped off
somewhere. Mark had not failed to notice the restlessness and agitation
of his manner.
"I think I have got rid of everybody," Berrington said. "It has been a
most distressing business, and I am afraid that there is worse to come.
Dr. Andrews has just telephoned. He has seen Sir Charles's medical man,
and they have decided that there must be an inquest. I don't suggest
that anything is wrong, but there you are."
"I am not surprised," Beatrice said coldly, "I have been to my father's
room looking over his papers. And I found a letter that puzzles me. It
was written last night as the date shows, in the hotel, on hotel paper,
and evidently delivered by hand, as the envelope proves. Look at this."
Colonel Berrington held out his hand for the envelope. He started
slightly as he looked at the neat, clear handwriting. Something was
evidently wrong here, Mark thought. The Colonel was a man of courage, as
he very well knew, and yet his fingers trembled as he glanced
interrogatively at Beatrice before he drew the letter from the envelope.
"Yes," Beatrice said; "I want you to read it. I brought it down on
purpose."
"There does not seem to be much," Berrington said. "As there is no
heading and signature, the letter may be intended for anybody."
"Only my father's name happens to be on the envelope," Beatrice said
quietly. "Pray read it aloud."
Berrington proceeded to do so. There were only two or three lines in
which the writer said that she must see the recipient of the letter
without delay, and that it was of no use to try and keep out of the way.
There was nothing more; no threat or sign of anger, nothing to signify
that there was any feeling at all. And yet so much might have been
concealed behind those simple lines. Berrington looked grave, and
trembled as he handed the letter back to Beatrice.
"Clearly it is our duty to find out who wrote that letter," Mark
observed. "It was written in the hotel, probably by somebody dining here
last night. It is just possible that it was written by someone who was
staying in the hotel. In that case we can easily ascertain the name of
the writer."
"How is that possible?" Berrington demanded. He asked the question quite
nervously. "In a place so large as this, with so many visitors
continually going and coming----"
"There is a rigid rule here," Mark proceeded to explain. "Every guest,
even if only passing a single night under the roof, has to sign the
visitors' book. With this letter in my hand I can compare signatures. If
there is no signature like this characteristic handwriting, then our
task is no easy one. On the other hand, if there is----"
The speaker paused significantly. Berrington's agitation deepened. With
all her distress and sorrow, Beatrice did not fail to notice it.
"Perhaps you will go down to the office and see at once, Mark," Beatrice
suggested.
Ventmore went off obediently enough. Berrington stood watching him for a
moment, then he turned to Beatrice and laid his hand gently on her arm.
"Believe me, this is not going to help anybody," he said in a low voice.
"Unless I am greatly mistaken, I know who wrote that letter. What
connection she had with your father and what the secret was between them
I shall perhaps never know. But the lady who wrote that letter----"
"Ah," Beatrice cried, with a flash of sudden inspiration, "it was the
grey lady, I am sure of it."
"You have guessed correctly," Berrington went on. "It was the person
whom you have elected to call the grey lady. It was a great shock to me
to recognize that handwriting. The secret is not wholly mine to tell,
but for a long time I have been seeking the grey lady. I had not the
remotest idea that she and Sir Charles had anything in common; little
did I dream that she was here in this hotel last night. But whatever may
be the meaning of this mystery, if there has been foul play here, the
grey lady is quite innocent of it. Don't ask me to say any more, because
I cannot, I dare not."
Beatrice nodded in sympathy. The brave, grave soldier by her side was
terribly agitated; indeed Beatrice could not have recognized him as
being capable of such a display of emotion.
"I am going to believe in you both," she said. "Probably the grey lady
was the last person to see my father alive. She may have told him some
terrible news; she may have given him the shock that killed him. But
there was another who knew----"
"What do you mean by that?" Berrington asked.
"Nothing. I have said too much. That is quite between myself and--and
could possibly have had nothing to do with my father's death. Oh, if
only Mark had arrived five minutes sooner!"
Berrington knew exactly what was passing through Beatrice's mind.
"A great pity, indeed," he said quietly. "What a difference moments make
in our lives. Still----"
"Still there is always the doubt," Beatrice whispered eagerly. A
constant throng of people passed through the great hall where the death
of Sir Charles was already forgotten. "I am living on the doubt, Colonel
Berrington; am I or am I not married to Stephen Richford?"
"I could not say," Berrington replied. "I have very little knowledge of
these matters. As far as I could see, the marriage ceremony was
completed, the ring was placed on your finger, therefore----"
"Therefore you think that I am married," Beatrice said. She was twisting
the gold badge of servitude on her finger nervously. "I am going to find
out for certain. The service was not quite finished; there was no
exhortation, there was no signing of the register. Surely I am free if
it is my desire to be free. After what I found to-day----"
Again Beatrice paused as if aware of the fact that she was saying too
much. There was a certain expression of relief on her face as she saw
the figure of Mark approaching.
"Well, have you done anything?" she asked eagerly. "Have you made any
great discovery?"
"I have only been partially successful," Mark said. "I have identified
the writing with a signature of a guest in the visitors' book. The lady
came only yesterday, as the date is opposite her writing. She came
without a maid and with very little luggage, and she called herself Mrs.
Beacon Light."
"Beacon Light," Beatrice said reflectively. "It sounds like a _nom de
plume_; it suggests the kind of name a lady novelist would assume. Too
singular to be real. And are you quite sure that the lady wrote that
letter to my father?"
"I should say there is very little doubt about it," Mark replied. "The
handwritings are identical. It seems that Mrs. Beacon Light stayed here
last night and dined in the red salon. She had breakfast here very
early, and then she paid her bill and departed. The clerk cannot say
where she went, for her small amount of baggage was placed in a hansom
and the driver was told to go in the first instance to Peter Robinson's.
That is everything that I could ascertain."
There was no more to be said for the present, and very little to be
done. A tall, stiff man, with an air of Scotland Yard indelibly
impressed upon him, came presently, and asked to be allowed to see Sir
Charles's suite of rooms. He had been waited upon at his office, he
explained, by the deceased baronet's medical man, who had suggested the
necessity for an inquest, which had been fixed upon for ten o'clock the
following day. Under the circumstances the suite of rooms would be
locked up and the seal of authority placed on them. The inspector was
sincerely sorry to cause all this trouble and worry to Miss Darryll, but
she would quite see that he was doing no more than his duty.
"But why all this fuss?" Stephen Richford demanded. He had come up at
the same moment. Troubled and dazed as Beatrice was, she could not help
noticing that Richford had been drinking. The thing was so unusual that
it stood out all the more glaringly. "There's no occasion for an
inquest. Dr. Oswin has told me more than once lately that Sir Charles
was giving his heart a great deal too much to do. This thing has got to
be prevented, I tell you."
"Very sorry, sir," the inspector said politely; "but it is already out
of private hands. Both Dr. Oswin and Dr. Andrews have suggested an
inquest; they have notified us, and, if they wished to change their
minds now, I doubt if my chief would permit them."
Richford seemed to be on the point of some passionate outburst, but he
checked himself. He laid his hand more or less familiarly on Beatrice's
arm, and she could feel his fingers trembling.
"Very well," he said sulkily. "If you have made up your minds as to this
course, I have no more to say. But there is nothing to gain by standing
here all day. Beatrice, I have something to say to you."
"I am quite ready," Beatrice said. "I have also something to say to you.
We will go on as far as my sitting-room. Please don't leave the hotel,
Colonel Berrington; I may want you again."
The hard corners of Richford's mouth trembled, but he said nothing. He
did not utter a word until the door of the sitting-room had closed upon
Beatrice and himself. He motioned the girl to a chair, but she ignored
the suggestion.
"It is a very awkward situation," Richford began. "As my wife----"
"I am glad you have come so quickly to the point," Beatrice said
eagerly. "Am I your wife? I doubt it. I do not think I am your wife,
because the ceremony was not quite completed and we did not sign the
register. You know what my feelings have been all along; I have never
made the slightest attempt to disguise them. If I had known that my
father was dead--that he had died on the way to church, I should never
have become Mrs. Stephen Richford. To save my father's good name I had
consented to this sacrifice. My father is dead beyond the reach of
trouble. If I had only known. If I had only known!"
The words came with a fierce whisper. They stung the listener as no
outburst of contempt or scorn could. They told him clearly how the
speaker loathed and despised him.
"Nobody did know," he sneered. "Nobody could possibly have known."
"That is not true," Beatrice cried. She had come a little closer to
Richford; her cheeks were blazing with anger, her eyes flamed
passionately. "It is a cowardly lie. There was one man who saw my father
after his death, and I am going to prove the fact in a way that cannot
possibly be disputed. One man was in my father's room after his death.
That man saw my father lying there, and he crept away without giving
the slightest alarm. You may sneer, you may say that such a thing is
impossible, that the man I allude to would have nothing to gain by such
a course; but as I said before, I am going to prove it. Look at this
telegram I hold in my hand. It was sent before ten o'clock to-day to the
person to whom it is addressed. It evidently relates to some Stock
Exchange business. The address is quite clear; the time the telegram was
delivered is quite clear, too; and by the side of my father's body I
found the telegram, which could only have been dropped there by the
party to whom it was addressed. So that party knew that my father was
dead, and that party made no alarm. Why?"
"Why," Richford stammered. "Why, because,--well, you see it is quite
possible to explain----"
"It is not," Beatrice cried. "The telegram is addressed to _you_. It was
you who called on my father; you who found him dead. And in your
agitation you dropped that message. Then you grasped the fact that if
the marriage was postponed it would never take place, that I was in a
position to defy you. You locked my father's door; you said nothing; you
made up your mind to let the ceremony go on. That accounts for your
agitation, for the fact that you have been drinking. Cowardly scoundrel,
what have you to say to this!"
"What are you going to do?" Richford asked sullenly.
"Unless you release me here and now," Beatrice cried, "I swear by Heaven
that I am going to _tell the truth_!"
[Illustration: "Richford stood there shaking and quivering with
passion." _Page 49._]