IN THE PARK.
Lavender was alone at the time, and the shock caused by the sight of
the poster was so violent that her carriage had nearly completed the
circuit of the Park before she fully recovered consciousness. She
very naturally assumed that the Mr. Ashley referred to on the poster
was Melville, and his arrest would almost inevitably involve her own.
But as she was driving from the Marble Arch down towards Hyde Park
Corner the desire to have some certain knowledge became quite
irresistible, and stopping the coachman under the trees by the kiosk
she got out of the carriage and walked across to the gate to buy some
of the evening papers which had been the first to get the news. She
was afraid to look at them until she got back into her carriage, in
case she should find mention of her own name and betray her identity
by some access of emotion; so folding them up she recrossed the Row
and sank back amongst her pillows. She ordered the coachman to move
away from the throng of carriages waiting to greet the Queen, and he
walked his horse up to the bandstand, where no people gather so early
in the day. And there, with tumultuously beating heart and nervously
shaking hands, Lavender opened one paper after another and devoured
all the news about the Fairbridge mystery.
Her first feeling was, perhaps not unnaturally, one of relief when
she discovered that it was Ralph and not Melville who had been
arrested. If the police were capable of trailing off on such a
particularly wrong scent, they were capable of anything except
detecting the real culprit. There was, too, something especially
grotesque in their suspecting Ralph, who, according to Melville, was
a paragon of all the virtues, instead of Melville, who, according to
the same authority, was not. But to her first sensation of relief
there succeeded another sequence of thoughts that filled her with a
different emotion. The report of the proceedings before the
magistrates was all too brief for anyone so vitally interested in the
matter as Lavender was, but, womanlike, she read between the lines
and jumped to conclusions with feminine accuracy.
Ralph had evidently gained the boathouse at almost the same moment
that she and Melville left it; he had lingered with luxurious
leisureliness over his toilet, and the police were bent upon proving
that he had had time and opportunity to commit the murder. They
would find a motive for the crime in the fact that under this recent
will he inherited practically everything, and even if they could not
bring sufficient evidence to hang him, they would, by inference and
by circumstantial evidence, weave such a net around his feet that he
could scarcely look to go free again. It meant, in short, that an
innocent man would be condemned, and there was only one thing could
save him--for Lavender herself to come forward and tell the truth, so
bringing about Melville's death and her own ruin.
That, in a nutshell, was the actual state of affairs. Ralph's life
was in her hands, but if she saved it she could be under no
misapprehension as to what the cost would be. Whatever she did now,
one of those two brothers--her own husband's nephews--would have to
die at the hands of the common hangman.
Lavender read again the personal paragraphs about the suspected man,
to which the halfpenny papers always give so much prominence. She
tried to picture him as he must be in the flesh, with that crisp,
curling hair, that straightforward expression which seemed to be his
chief characteristic, and that lithe and muscular frame. There was
the girl, too, to be considered, this Miss Austen, to whom Ralph was
engaged; her happiness, like her lover's life, was in Lavender's
hands to save or to destroy. Which pair was to be ruined--Melville
and Lavender, or Ralph and this other girl?
For the man suspected of a foul crime, of which he was entirely
innocent, Lavender felt nothing but pity, but the thought of the
hapless girl who loved him did not touch her so nearly; if anything,
it rather hardened her heart, although there was nothing cruel in her
nature. The conflict of interests was so deadly, its issue fraught
with such tremendous consequences, that she could not be wholly
blamed for her indecision as she sat in her carriage under the trees
and tried to weigh the facts in a true balance. Her immediate
surroundings increased the difficulty of realising the actual value
of the facts until the difficulty became an impossibility.
Yet absolute inaction was no less impossible. She had promised
Melville neither to write nor call, but she must ascertain what he
was doing in view of this new complication. She knew he had attended
the inquest, and could imagine something of his relief at the
verdict, but she did not know him well enough to forecast his
behaviour in face of this extraordinary perversity of fate. Hitherto
she had regarded him as a well-bred, entertaining man about town,
well endowed with means, cultivated, and generally charming, one of
many sparkling bubbles in the great bumper of the world's wine. The
fragments of conversation she had overheard at the boathouse proved
conclusively that her opinion of him was ill-founded; he was an
unscrupulous adventurer, capable of lying, meanness, blackmail--of
any treachery, if that was the easiest way of getting money to
squander on himself. Beneath his mask of resourceful
self-possession, too, there lurked a reserve of passion that, as she
had seen with her own eyes, could on occasion burst out with volcanic
fury and kill whatever obstacle barred the way to the goal of its
desires. The actual murder might have been unpremeditated, done in a
moment of maniacal anger, but now that that moment was past and his
normal ingenuity and resourcefulness were able to have free play
again, how would Melville deal with the problem of saving his brother
without incriminating himself? She must find out.
Lavender had the carriage turned, and took her place in the long
queue of vehicles facing the great gates. She liked to see Society,
although she was not of it, and many of the people sitting on the
grass were well known to her by sight. Since Mr. Sinclair's death,
at any rate, she had had a very good time, and had followed fashion
to its usual haunts at the several seasons of the year, with the
result that she picked up a good many bowing acquaintances, if no
intimate friends, among the class of people, part of whose business
it is to be seen in the Park between four and seven o'clock. And
presently she caught sight of Melville himself talking to a Duchess,
whose love of music was only one of many claims to the gratitude of
London. Here was the opportunity of learning something of what she
was so nervously anxious to know without breaking her promise to him.
She caught his eye, and pretended not to observe the obvious look of
annoyance which crossed his face as he raised his hat.
"Who is your friend?" the Duchess asked. She, too, observed the
frown and wondered what the reason of it was, for her brief, but
adequate, survey of Lavender assured her practised eye that
Melville's acquaintance was dressed with perfect taste, and if not
presented was presentable.
"A very charming woman," Melville answered, "and a very good one,
too, but I won't ask permission to present her to you, Duchess."
"Just as you please," said Her Grace good-naturedly. "She wants to
talk to you, so you are released," and Melville, of course, had no
alternative but to join Lavender.
She leaned towards him as he approached the railings.
"I have been wanting to see you so much," she said eagerly.
"That is very good of you," he said in conventional tones, for the
benefit of the coachman. "I should have been delighted to call, but
I have been out of town, and otherwise very much engaged."
If the coachman could hear the words he could not see the meaning
glance of warning flashed from Melville's eyes; Lavender understood
it perfectly, and again was conscious of the man's indomitable will.
She accepted his warning, but insisted too.
"I want your advice," she said. "Where can you see me this
afternoon?"
"I hardly care to offer advice in the Park," he replied; "there are
so many distractions, are there not?"
Lavender almost lost her temper. She leaned nearer to him and spoke
softly, so that only he could hear.
"I mean to have a talk with you about--this," and she laid her hand
upon the newspapers by her side. "Will you come for a drive with me
now?"
"Not now," said Melville, "but could you not be put down at
Kensington Gardens? I will join you there in an hour."
Lavender looked at him searchingly.
"You will be there, really--without fail?"
"Yes," he said, and moved away, seemingly nonchalant, but in reality
cursing the mischance of running up against her there. He had a
particular object in being seen in the Park that afternoon; his
presence there would be interpreted as indicative of perfect serenity
of mind so far as he himself was concerned, and of complete
confidence in his brother's innocence of the monstrous charge
preferred against him. But Lavender was the last person whom he
desired to see, although in their casual meeting there was probably
no element of danger.
However, the discussion, if likely to be futile, could not be
avoided, so at the expiration of the hour he reached the railings
dividing the Gardens from the Park, and found Lavender awaiting him.
"What are you going to do now?" she enquired anxiously.
"I think you are recklessly imprudent," Melville said, ignoring her
question. "Why must you of all people choose the Park for your
drives just now?"
"Why shouldn't I?" she retorted indignantly.
"As you have been perusing the papers so exhaustively," he replied,
"you have, doubtless, seen an advertisement suggesting that you
should apply to some solicitors?"
"That Lady Holt should," she corrected him. "My name is Sinclair.
There is no connection between the two people."
"I am very glad to hear it," he said grimly, "but I adhere to my
opinion that you might choose some other locality than Hyde Park if
you wish to take an airing."
"And I adhere to mine that there is no necessity for doing anything
of the sort. Except yourself, not a soul here knows me by any other
name than Lavender Sinclair, and if they took any interest in me at
all, which they don't, they would fail to understand why Mrs.
Sinclair should desert Hyde Park because Lady Holt has inherited
money."
She spoke sarcastically and bitterly, and Melville did not pursue the
point; indeed, it was just possible that she was right, and any
marked variation from her usual habits might excite more comment
elsewhere and be more dangerous.
"What are you going to do now?" she repeated.
"Nothing," he answered.
"But you can't allow your brother to be punished for something he
never did?"
"There is no question of anything of the kind occurring," he said
shortly. "Local policemen are bound to do something to justify their
existence, and they have been inspired to arrest Ralph on suspicion.
But nothing can be proved against him, and he will be released at the
end of the week."
"And then----?"
"And then, for their own reputation's sake, they will quietly drop
the whole thing, in case they make themselves still more ridiculous."
His coolness amazed her more each time he had occasion to display it;
he had a way of making the most wildly improbable events seem
probable, of ignoring the existence of peril until it was upon him,
and then of moving placidly aside and letting it pass him by as if it
were all of no account. And this marvellous confidence was, to a
certain extent, infectious. Alone, Lavender might fret herself ill
and quake before the visions her fancy painted in the darkness, but
in his company the nightmare vanished and she reproached herself for
her hysterical fears. If only Melville's abilities and personal
magnetism had been directed towards good ends he might have achieved
greatness, but his cleverness and charm, utilised as they were,
constituted him a living danger to society.
"Do you really think that will happen?" she said; "really believe it
is even possible?"
"I really do," he answered. "Look here, Lavender. I've thought
about it all--anticipated every move; there is only one thing one
cannot foresee, and that is the crass stupidity of people one doesn't
know--in this case some Fairbridge constable. As it happens, even
that is working in my favour. Ralph was at the boathouse some time
before he saw--Sir Geoffrey, and he has inherited everything.
Therefore, according to this fat-headed policeman, Ralph did the
murder. But what's good enough to arrest a man for, is not enough to
convict him, and there not only isn't any evidence against Ralph, but
there can't be. He will be discharged with a halo of injured
innocence round his brow; and, as I said just now, everybody will be
only too glad to drop the whole thing."
For the moment he actually satisfied her and lifted a load of anxiety
from her heart. Then he broached an idea which he had been pondering
for some days.
"Why don't you go out of town for a bit, or, better still, out of
England? I suppose, in any case, you would be going soon."
"You want me out of the way?" she said interrogatively.
"I think it very desirable that you should be, certainly," he
answered. "You're in a horribly nervous condition, which is
perfectly natural, and goodness only knows what might happen if any
fresh trouble came upon you just now in connection with your marriage
to Mr. Sinclair. There would be all sorts of litigation, and I can't
imagine that you contemplate giving up what you've got from him for
the sake of having less from somebody else, leaving alone all
considerations of the scandal."
It was neatly put, but she was sceptical about his regard for her
interests. She flushed as he told her of the annuity Sir Geoffrey
had left her, and of the conditions under which it was to be
obtained, and he regretted having laid any emphasis upon the
humiliating nature of those restrictions, for she keenly resented
having been so unnecessarily subjected to this implied affront.
Badly as she might have treated her husband, she had at least been
proud enough to refrain from asking him for help, and that pride
would have endured, however poor she might have become subsequent to
her desertion of him. Melville's duplicity angered her, and she
refused to acquiesce in his wish that she should run away, and turned
a deaf ear to his further arguments in favour of that course.
"No," she said doggedly, "I won't go," and for the time he gave up
trying to persuade her.
"Tell me," she said, as at last he got up to go home, "how am I to
communicate with you if I want to see you?"
"I don't suppose it will be necessary," he answered.
"I must know what to do if I consider it necessary," she persisted.
"Well, the only imperative thing is to refrain from writing," he
said. "Whatever else you do, don't write anything definite or
indefinite which can be twisted into having reference to this
miserable business. Send a verbal message by someone whom you can
really trust, to be delivered only to myself in person, saying you
want to see me and where, and I will come. If the messenger doesn't
know what you want to see me about, and doesn't start gossiping to
the servants at my chambers, I don't suppose any harm can be done."
"Very well," Lavender replied, "that will do, and you may be sure I
won't worry you unless I think it is necessary. Only remember, if I
do send for you, you must come."
"That I promise," said Melville. "Whom will you send?"
"Lucille," she answered.
"Is she reliable?" he asked.
"Absolutely," she replied. "It was she who showed me the
advertisement of Mr. Tracy wishing to know my whereabouts."
"Why on earth did she suppose that would interest you?" he exclaimed.
"Does she know----?"
"She knows I am Lady Holt," said Lavender.
"Good God!" cried Melville, and a look of fear came into his eyes.