The Lady of the Sandal
1
Anthony was still in the garden. Anthony had found something. Clouds
of pipe-smoke hung round his head in the hot, still air. Anthony was
thinking.
He was alone. Boyd, indefatigable, had gone at once into the house,
bent upon another orgy of shrewd questioning. This time his questions
would have, in the light of what the study had told, a more definite
bearing.
What Anthony had found were two sets, some eighteen inches apart, of
four deep, round impressions of roughly the size of a sixpence. They
were in the broad flower-bed which ran the whole length of the study
wall and were directly beneath the sill of the most easterly of the
three windows—the farther closed window, that is, from the open one
through which it seemed that the murderer must have effected entrance
to the study. The flower-bed; Anthony noticed, was unusually broad—so
broad, in fact, that any person, unless he were a giant, wishing to
climb into any of the three windows, would perforce tread, with one
foot at least, among the flowers.
He stooped to examine his find. Whoever, in the absence of Mr. Diggle
the gardener, had so lavishly watered the flower-bed on the previous
day received his blessing. Had the soil not been so moist, those holes
would not have been there.
Anthony thought aloud: “Finger-holes. Just where my fingers would go
if I was a good deal narrower across the shoulders and squatted here
and tried to look into the room without bringing either of my feet on
to the bed.”
He stepped deliberately on to the flower-bed and bent to examine the
low sill of the window. There was a smudge on the rough stone. It
might be a dried smear of earthy fingers. On the other hand, it might
be almost anything else. But as he straightened his back a
bluish-black gleam caught his eye.
He investigated, and found, hanging from a crevice in the rough edge
of the sill, a woman’s hair. It was a long hair, and jet black.
“That explains the closeness of those finger-marks,” he muttered. “A
woman in the case, eh? Now, why was she here, in front of the closed
window? And was she here last night? Or this morning, quite innocent
like? The odds are it was last night. One doesn’t crouch outside a
Cabinet Minister’s window in daylight. Nor at all, unless one’s up to
no good. No, I think you were here last night, my black beauty. I love
little pussy, her hair is so black, and if I don’t catch her she’ll
never come back. Now where did you come from, Blackie dear? And have
you left any other cards? O, Shades of Doyle! What a game!”
He stepped back on to the path and knelt to examine the stone edging
to the flower-bed. In the position she must have been in, the woman
would most probably, he argued, have been on one knee and had the foot
of the other leg pressed vertically against this edging.
She had; but Anthony was doubly surprised at what he found. For why,
in this dry weather, should the mark of her foot be there at all? And,
as it was there, why should it look like a finger-print a hundred
times enlarged?
He scratched his head. This was indeed a crazy business. Perhaps he
was off the rails. Still, he’d better go on. This all _might_ have
something to do with the case.
More closely he examined this footprint that was like a finger-print.
Now he understood. The mark had remained because the peculiar sole of
this peculiar shoe had been wet and earthy. There had been no rain for
a week. Why was the shoe wet? And why—he looked carefully about—were
there no other such marks on the flagstones of the path? Ah, yes; that
would be because in ordinary walking or running the peculiar shoes did
not press hard enough to leave anything but a wet patch which would
quickly dry. Whereas, in pressing the sole of the foot against that
edging to the flower-bed, much more force would have to be used to
retain balance—sufficient force to squeeze wet clayish earth out in a
pattern from that peculiar sole.
But what about the wetness? He hadn’t settled that. Suddenly his mind
connected the peculiarity of that imprint with the idea of water. A
rope-soled sandal. When used? Why, bathing. Here Anthony laughed
aloud. “Sleuth, you surpass yourself!” he murmured. “Minister murdered
by Bathing Belle—only not at the seaside! Cock Robin’s murderer not
Sparrow as at first believed, but one W. Wagtail! Gethryn, you’re
fatuous. Take to crochet.”
He started for the verandah door. Half-way he stopped, suddenly. He’d
forgotten the river. But the idea was ridiculous. But, after all—well,
he’d spend ten minutes on it, anyhow. Now, to begin—assuming that the
woman _had_ come out of the river and had wanted (strange creature!)
to get back there—he would work out her most probable route and follow
it. If within five minutes he had found no more signs of her, he’d
stop.
After a moment’s calculation he started off, going through the opening
in the yew hedge, down the grass bank to his right and then crossing
the rose garden at whose far side there began a pergola.
At the entrance to the pergola he found, caught round a thorny stem of
the rose-creeper that fell from the first cross-piece of the archway,
four long black hairs.
Anthony controlled his elation. These might not, he thought, be from
the same head. But all the same it was encouraging. It fitted well.
Running in the dark and a panic, she hadn’t ducked low enough. He
could see her tearing to free her hair. Well, he’d get on. But really
this mad idea about swimming women _couldn’t_ be true.
From the other end of the pergola he emerged on to a lawn, its centre
marked by a small but active fountain. A gravelled path, along which
he remembered having walked up to the house, ran down at the right of
the grass to the gate on the river-bank through which he had entered.
He paused to consider the position; then decided that one making in a
hurry for the gate would cut across the grass.
He found confirmation. Round the fountain’s inadequate basin was a
circle of wet grass, its deep green in refreshing contrast to the
faded colour of the rest. At the edge of the emerald oasis were two
indistinct imprints of the sandal and its fellow, and two long smeared
scars where the grass had been torn up to expose the soil beneath.
Farther on, but still within the circle, were two deeper, round
impressions; beyond them, just where the wet grass ended, was another
long smear.
Anthony diagnosed a slip, a stagger, and a fall. Not looking for more
signs—he had enough—he hurried on to the little gate. The other side
of it, on the path which ran alongside the blustering pigmy of a
river, he hesitated, looking about him. Again he felt doubt. Was it
likely that any one would swim the Marle at night? Most decidedly it
was not. In the first place there was, only some three hundred and
fifty yards or so downstream to his right, a perfectly good bridge,
which joined the two halves of the village of Marling. In the second
place, the Marle, though here a bare twenty yards wide, seemed as
uncomfortable a swim as could well be, even for a man. Always
turbulent, it was at present actually dangerous, still swollen as it
was by the months of heavy rain which had preceded this
record-breaking August.
“No!” said Anthony aloud. “I’m mad, that’s what it is. But then those
_are_ bathing sandals. _And_ didn’t I just now tell Boyd he was making
a mistake in not treating this business like the goriest of ’tec
tales?”
He stood looking over the river. If only he could fit any sort of
reason——
One came to him. He laughed at it; but it intrigued him. It intrigued
him vastly. There was a house, just one house, on the opposite bank.
It was perhaps thirty yards higher up the stream than the gate by
which he was standing.
Suppose someone from that house wanted to get to Abbotshall quickly,
so quickly that they could not afford to travel the quarter-mile on
each side of the river which crossing by the bridge would involve.
Taking that as an hypothesis, he had a reason for this Captain Webb
business. The theory was insane, of course, but why not let fancy lead
him a while?
The very fact that the woman was so good a swimmer as she must be,
made it probable that she would be sufficiently water-wise to make use
of, rather than battle helplessly against, the eight-mile-an-hour
stream. Very well, then, before taking to the river, on her way back
she would have run upstream along this bank to a point some way above
the house she wished to return to on the opposite bank.
Still laughing at himself, Anthony turned to his left and walked
upstream, his eyes on the soft clay at the river’s edge. When he had
passed by fifty yards the house on the other side, he found two
sandal-marks. They were deep; the clay gave a perfect impression.
He was surprised but still unbelieving. Then, as he stood for a moment
looking down into the dark water only a few inches below the level of
his feet, a gleam of white caught his eye. Curious, he squatted,
pulled up his sleeve and thrust his arm into the water, groping about
the ledge which jutted out from the bank some inches below the
surface. His fingers found what they sought. He rose to his feet and
examined his catch.
A small canvas bathing-sandal. From its uppers dangled a broken piece
of tape. The sole was of rope.
“Benjamin,” said Anthony to his pipe, “I’m right. And I’ve never been
so surprised in my life. It looks to _me_, my lad, as if A. R. Gethryn
_may_ have been wrong and Brother Boyd right. Where’s my ‘insider’
now?”
2
Anthony had crossed the river. Behind him lay Marling’s wooden bridge,
before him the house which must shelter the swimming lady. In his
hip-pocket rested the sandal, wrung free of some of its wetness and
wrapped in a piece of newspaper found by the hedge.
He walked slowly, framing pretexts for gaining admission to the house.
His thoughts were interrupted by a hail. He swung round to see Sir
Arthur Digby-Coates coming at a fast walk from the direction of the
bridge.
Sir Arthur arrived out of breath. “Hallo, my boy, hallo,” he gasped.
“What are you doing here? Calling on Lucia? Didn’t know you knew her.”
“I don’t. Lucia who?”
“Mrs. Lemesurier. That’s her house there. Just going there myself.”
“I’ll walk along to the gate with you,” said Anthony. He saw a
possible invitation. He began to make talk. “I wasn’t going anywhere;
just strolling. I wanted to get away from Abbotshall and think. After
I left the study, I drifted through the garden and crossed the river
without knowing I’d done it.” Not even to Sir Arthur was he saying
anything yet of his discoveries.
The elder man picked his remarks up eagerly. “You’ve hit on something
to think about, then? That’s more than I’ve done, though I’ve been
racking my brains since midnight. That detective fellow don’t seem
much better off either.”
“Oh, Boyd’s a very good man,” Anthony said. “He generally gets
somewhere.”
“Well, I hope so.” Sir Arthur sighed. “This is a terrible business,
Gethryn. Terrible! I can’t talk much about it yet—poor old John. Did
you know him at all?”
“No. Shook hands with him once at some feed, that’s all.”
“You’d have liked him, Gethryn. He—we’d best not talk about it. God!
What an outcry there’ll be—is already, in fact.”
“Yes,” said Anthony. “A blow to England and a boon to Fleet Street.
Look here, don’t let me keep you. I hope Mrs.—Mrs. Lemesurier
appreciates the beauty of her house.”
“Charming, isn’t it? Gleason built it, you know.” He paused, and
Anthony feared his bait unswallowed. They had arrived at the gate to
the garden. Over the hedge showed lawns, flowers, and the house.
Anthony had not been merely diplomatic when he had praised its beauty.
It was a building in the best modern manner and in its way as good to
look upon as Abbotshall.
Anthony made as if to leave.
But Sir Arthur had swallowed the bait. “Look here, Gethryn,” he said;
“why not come in with me? The inside’s more worth seeing than the out.
And I’d like you to meet Lucia and her sister. They’d be glad to see
you too. They were expecting another to lunch besides me—young Deacon,
John’s secretary. He wouldn’t come. He’s very busy, and being young, I
suppose he feels it’d be a sin to enjoy himself in any way to-day.
Silly, but I like him for it. He don’t know the necessity yet for
doing anything to keep sane.” He laid a hand on Anthony’s arm. “Do
come along.”
Anthony allowed himself to be persuaded. They walked through the
garden and then round the house to the front door. They were shown by
a cool, delightful maid to a cool, delightful drawing-room.
Through the French-window, which opened on to the garden they had
approached by, there burst a girl. Anthony noted slim ankles, a slight
figure, and a pretty enough face. But he was disappointed. The hair
was of a deep reddish-gold.
Sir Arthur presented Mr. Anthony Gethryn—he knew of Anthony’s dislike
of the “Colonel”—to Miss Dora Masterson.
The girl turned to the man she knew. “But—but where’s Archie? Isn’t he
coming, too?”
Sir Arthur’s face lost its conventional smile. “No, my dear. I’m
afraid he’s not. He—he’s very busy.” He hesitated. “You will have
heard—about Mr. Hoode?”
The girl caught her breath. “Yes. But only just now. You must think it
awful of me not to have asked you at once; but—but I hardly believed
it. It wasn’t in any of the papers we had this morning. And I’ve only
just got up; I was so tired yesterday. Travers, the parlour-maid, told
me. Loo doesn’t know yet. I think she’s got up—or only just; she
stayed in bed this morning too.” The girl grew agitated. “Why are you
looking like that? Has—is Archie in—in trouble?”
Sir Arthur laughed, and then grew grave again. “Lord, no, child! It’s
only that he’s busy. You see, there are detectives and—and things to
see to. I’m rather a deserter, I suppose, but I thought I’d better
come along and bring Mr. Gethryn with me. He arrived this morning,
very fortunately. He’s helping the police, being—well, a most useful
person to have about.” He paused. Anthony, to conceal his annoyance at
this innocent betrayal, became engrossed in examination of a
water-colour of some merit.
Sir Arthur continued: “It is a terrible tragedy, my dear——”
“What! What is it?” came a cry from the doorway behind them.
The voice would have been soft, golden, save for that harsh note of
terror or hysteria.
Sir Arthur and the girl Dora whipped round. Anthony turned more
slowly. What he saw he will never forget.
“A woman tall and most superbly dark,” he said to himself later. Tall
she was, though not so tall as her carriage made her seem. And dark
she was, but with the splendour of a flame: dark with something of a
Latin darkness. Night-black hair dressed simply, almost severely, but
with art; great eyes that seemed, though they were not, even darker
than the hair; a scarlet, passionate mouth in which, for all its
present grimness, Anthony could discern humour and a gracious
sensuality; and a body which fulfilled the promise of the face.
Anthony looked his fill.
Dora was beside her. “Loo darling! Lucia!” she was saying. “It—it’s
terrible, but—but it’s nothing to do with us. What’s upset you so?
What’s the matter, darling?”
Sir Arthur came forward. Simply, straightforwardly, he told of Hoode’s
death. “It’s an awful blow for me,” he concluded, “but I wouldn’t have
frightened you for worlds, Lucia.”
From where he stood discreetly in the background, Anthony saw a pale
half-smile flit across her face. She was seated now, the young sister
hovering solicitous about her, but he noted the tension of all the
muscles that preceded that smile.
“I—I don’t know what made me so—so foolish,” she said. And this time
her voice, that golden voice, was under control. Anthony was strangely
moved.
She became suddenly aware of the presence of a stranger. Anthony was
presented. The touch of her hand sent a thrill up his arm and thence
through his body, a thrill which first sent the blood madly to his
head and then left him pale. He kept his face from the light. He
reproached himself for possessing, in the thirties, the sudden
emotions of sixteen.
The two sisters withdrew. Lunch, they said, would be ready in five
minutes.
Sir Arthur dropped into a chair and looked across at Anthony with
raised eyebrows.
“A little overwrought,” said Anthony.
“Yes. She can’t be well. Most unusual for Lucia to be anything but
mistress of herself. Expect she was feeling cheap and then got scared
by my sepulchral voice.” He fell silent for a moment; then a smile
broke across the tired sadness of his face. “Well, what impression has
she made on you, Gethryn?”
“My feelings,” Anthony said, “are concerned with Mr. Lemesurier. I
wonder is he worthy of his luck?”
Sir Arthur smiled again. “You’ll have a job to find out, my boy. Jack
Lemesurier’s been dead for four years.”
A gong announced lunch. At the foot of the stairs Mrs. Lemesurier
encountered her sister.
Dora was still solicitous. “Feeling better, Loo darling?” she asked.
Lucia grasped her sister’s arm. “Dot, who—who was that man with Sir
Arthur?” Her voice rose. “Who is he? Dot, tell me!”
Dora looked up in amazement. “What _is_ the matter, dear? I’ve never
known you behave like this before.”
Lucia leant against the balusters. “I—I don’t know exactly. I—I’m not
feeling well. And then this—this murder——” Again she clutched at her
sister’s arm. “Dot, you must tell me! They say Mr. Hoode was killed
last night. But how? Who—who shot him?”
The door of the drawing-room opened behind her. Anthony emerged. His
poker-playing is still famous; not a sign did he give of having heard
the last remark of his hostess.
But he admired her courage, the way she took command of herself,
almost as much as her beauty.
3
If that lunch was a success it was due to Anthony Gethryn. Until he
came to the rescue there was an alternation of small-talk and silence
so uncomfortable as to destroy the savour of good food and better
wine. Sir Arthur was sinking deep into the toils of sorrow—one could
see it—Miss Masterson was anxious about her sister and her absent
lover, and the hostess was plainly discomposed.
So Anthony took command. The situation suited him well enough. He
talked without stint. Against their desire he interested them. It must
be believed that he had what is known as “a way with him.” Soon he
extorted questions, questions which he turned to discussion. From
discussion to smiles was an easy step. Sir Arthur’s face lost some of
its gloom. Dora frankly beamed.
Only the woman at the head of the table remained aloof. Anthony took
covert glances at her. He could not help it. Her pallor made him
uncomfortable. He blamed himself. He saw that she was keeping herself
under an iron control, and fell to wondering, as he talked to the
others, how much more beautiful she would be were this fear or anxiety
lifted from her shoulders.
But was she beautiful? He stole another look, purely analytical. No,
she was not: not, at least, if beauty were merely perfection of
feature. The eyes were too far apart. The mouth was too big. No, she
was better than beautiful. She was herself, and therefore——
Anthony reproved himself for the recurrence of these adolescent
emotions. His thoughts took a grimmer turn. He thought of that
spongelike mess that had been a man’s head. It was time he got to
work.
He slid into another story. The silence which fell was flattering. It
was a good story. Whether it was true is no matter.
It was a tale of Constantinople, which Anthony knew as his listeners
knew London. He had, it seemed, been there, almost penniless, in
nineteen hundred and twelve. It was a tale of A Prosperous Merchant, A
Secret Service Man, A Flower of the Harem, and A Globe-Trotter. Its
ramifications were amusing, thrilling, pathetic, and it was at all
times enthralling. Its conclusion was sad, for the Flower of the Harem
was drowned. She could not swim the distance she had set herself. And
the Secret Service Man went back to his Secret Service Duties.
Sir Arthur cleared his throat. Dora Masterson’s eyes held tears. At
the head of the table her sister sat rigid, her white hands gripping
the arms of her chair. Anthony noted her attitude with quickened
pulse: she had shown no interest until the end of the story.
“Of course,” he said, “she was a little fool to try it. Think of the
distance. And the tide was strong. It’d be impossible even for an
athletic Englishwoman.” He is to be congratulated upon making so
ridiculous a statement in so natural a tone.
“Oh! Mr. Gethryn, surely not,” cried Dora excitedly. “Why Loo——”
A spurt of flame and a crash of breaking china interrupted her
sentence. Mrs. Lemesurier had overturned spirit-lamp and coffee-pot.
Much damage had resulted to cups and saucers. The tablecloth was
burning.
“Not bad at all,” thought Anthony, as he rose to help. “But you won’t
get off quite so easily.”
Order was restored; fresh coffee made and drunk. The party moved to
the drawing-room and thence to garden.
Anthony lingered in the pleasant room before joining the others on the
lawn.
At last he took a seat beside his hostess. The deck-chairs were in the
shade of one of the three great cedars.
“A delightful room, your drawing-room, if I may say so.” His tone was
harmlessly affable.
The reply was icy. “I am glad it pleases you, Mr.—Mr. Gethryn.”
Anthony beamed. “Yes, charming, charming. It has an air, a grace only
too rare nowadays. I admired that sideboard thing immensely;
Chippendale, I think. And how the silver of those cups shows up the
polish of the wood!”
With this speech he did not get the effect for which he had wished.
Beyond a pulse in the white throat that leapt into startled throbbing,
there was no sign of alarm. She remained silent.
Half his mind applauded her and reviled himself.
But the other half, ruthless, urged him on. “Have another try; you
must,” it whispered. “Get to the bottom of this business. Don’t behave
like a schoolboy!”
“I’m afraid I was so interested that I had to examine those cups and
their inscriptions,” he murmured. “Very rude of me. But to have won
all those! You must be a wonderful swimmer, Mrs. Lemesurier.”
The little pulse in her throat beat heavily. “I have given it up—long
ago,” she said simply. Her eyes—those eyes—looked at him steadily.
Anthony spurred himself. “Of course,” he said, smiling, “there’s no
opportunity for pleasure swimming about here, is there? Except the
Marle. And one would hardly tackle that for pleasure, what? The motive
would have to be sterner than that.”
The blood surged to the pale face, and then as suddenly left it.
Anthony was seized with remorse. His mind hunted wildly for words to
ease the strain, but he could find none. The sandal in his pocket
seemed to be scorching his flesh.
She rose slowly to her feet, crossed to where her sister sat with Sir
Arthur some yards away, said something in a low voice, and walked
slowly across the grass towards the house. Though Anthony could see
that she only attained movement by a great effort of will, the grace
of her carriage gave him a swift sensation—half pleasure, half
pain—which was like a clutch at his throat. The clinging yellow gown
she wore seemed a golden mist about her.
He turned to join the other two, deep in conversation. A little cry
came to their ears. They swung round to see a limp body sink huddled
to the gravel of the path before the windows of the drawing-room.
Anthony reached her side before the girl or the elder man had moved.
As they came up,
“Dead faint,” he said. “Nothing to be frightened about, Miss
Masterson. Shall I carry her in?” He waved a hand towards the open
French-windows.
“Oh, please do.” Dora picked nervously at her dress. “It—it _is_ only
a faint, isn’t it?”
She was reassured. Anthony gathered the still body in his arms and
bore it into the room.
He withdrew to the background while Sir Arthur and the girl
ministered. Had he wished he could not have helped them. He had held
Her in his arms. His heart hammered at his ribs. He felt—though he
would not have acknowledged it—actually giddy. Only by an effort did
he manage to mask his face with its usual impassivity. His one desire
for the moment was to get away and think; to leave this house before
he did more harm. Reason; thought; his sense of justice—all deserted
him.
Sir Arthur stepped back from the couch. Colour had come back to the
cheeks of the woman. The lids of the eyes had flickered. Sir Arthur
turned.
Anthony touched him on the arm. “I think we’re superfluous, you know,”
he said.
The other nodded. “You’re right. I’ve told Dora I’d send a doctor, but
she doesn’t seem to think it’s necessary. Come on.”
They slipped from the room, and in two minutes were walking back along
the river-bank towards the bridge.