A GRIM STORY
When Jill Kirby recognized her mistress in the taxi with Dr.
Laidlaw, her first impulse was to withdraw with her companion out of
the range of Lady Evenden’s vision. But, the effect upon her fiancé
was more startling still.
“Good heavens!” he exclaimed. “I say, Jill, does your mistress know
that little scoundrel, Laidlaw?”
“You mean the man she is with?” Jill replied. “I don’t know, really,
but I have seen him once before. He called upon Sir Michael once. I
remember seeing him standing in the hall waiting for Sir Michael to
receive him.”
“I wonder what on earth Sir Michael Evenden has to do with him?”
Wilfred Barlow mused aloud. “And, more particularly still, do I wonder
what Lady Evenden has to do with him?”
“Why, Wilfred?” Jill asked. “Who is he? What do you know about him?”
“Nothing good, I’m afraid,” replied Barlow. “And I don’t mind telling
you he hates me like anything. Wait a minute--they’re just moving on.”
At that moment the traffic block was released, and the car containing
Lady Evenden and Dr. Laidlaw passed on.
“Do tell me what you know about that man, Wilfred,” persisted Jill.
“Well, briefly--this,” Wilfred answered, frowning slightly as at the
recollection of some unpleasant memory. “Some years ago, when I was
attached to St. Lawrence’s Hospital, an elderly man was admitted
suffering from unmistakable signs of poisoning. In his semi-conscious
state he told me that it was the second time his wife had tried to
poison him. I took a statement and passed it on to the police, who
came and interrogated the man, but he completely reversed the
statement when the police came, saying that his mind must have been
wandering.
“Nothing could be done of course, and later on he recovered and left
the hospital. I saw his wife once--an unpleasant type. Just three
months afterwards the man died, and his death was unobserved by anyone
of importance until after he was buried, when some question from the
insurance company arose which drew the police’s attention. I think the
total amount of the dead man’s insurance had been recently
increased--and that to a suspicious degree.
“The police made inquiries and found that Dr. Laidlaw had issued a
death certificate for angina pectoris--a heart trouble, my dear.
“The insurance people insisted upon exhumation, and obtained the
necessary order from the Home Office. Upon a post-mortem, he was found
to have been poisoned with arsenic--the same poison from which he was
suffering when admitted to St. Lawrence’s.
“Well, after an inquest--and an inquiry before the Medical
Council--our friend Laidlaw just managed to scrape through. The
coroner’s jury exonerated him--to the chagrin of the coroner, who
censured him in round terms. I had to attend the inquiry, and my
evidence was in constant opposition to Laidlaw’s.
“He had to leave London. That is my knowledge of Laidlaw--a nasty
little fellow--a disgrace to our profession.”
Jill was thoughtful for a few moments, then she spoke.
“You know, Wilf,” she said, “I’ve always been under the impression
that there is some dark secret in Lady Evenden’s life, and I’m sure
that man has something to do with it. Otherwise why should she want to
meet a man like that?”
“So you’ve told me before,” responded Wilfred, “and yet you have very
little evidence to go on. In any event it isn’t your affair so long as
it doesn’t directly affect you. The best thing you can do is to keep
your eyes open and say nothing. Far more important at present is your
avoiding the attentions of her caddish son, Frank.”
“Yes, yes,” Jill replied, adding hastily, “but now I really must go.
Lady Evenden will be back at the hotel and will miss me. Good-by,
dear.”
Jill found Lady Evenden in her sitting room, looking perfectly
composed. Certainly, at present, there were no traces of any dark
secret in her life.
Dinner that night was late; for, the baronet had not returned from the
city, and Lady Evenden insisted on waiting. Frank Gough had gone on to
Evenden Priory to arrange certain things in advance; so, Jill and her
mistress were alone.
At last, very late--it was nearly eight o’clock--Sir Michael arrived,
looking very tired and weary. He greeted his wife and Jill, then
passed straight to his dressing room to prepare for dinner.
When dinner was served he ate next to nothing, and throughout the meal
he seemed preoccupied, replying to questions monosyllabically. At last
it was over. But, evidently the day’s work was not yet done; for, Sir
Michael said he would have to go out again. When his wife
remonstrated, and begged him to rest, he almost curtly told her not to
interfere. Jill heard him say to Lady Evenden that he had an important
appointment at the Russian Consulate.
Jill had retired for the night when he ultimately returned, but the
next day Sir Michael seemed frenziedly active. The telephone bell rang
all the morning, and in the afternoon he made a round of visits. Three
telephone calls were made to New York, and Jill gathered that some
serious crisis had developed in his affairs.
In point of fact the baronet did not take even his wife into his
confidence. The fact was that the oil-war was still waging, and
causing him terrible anxiety. Millionaire manipulators came over from
the Continent to see him, and one magnate was even at that moment on
his way from America, as fast as the _Olympic_ could bring him.
A conference was held in London when all the interested speculators
had arrived, and the results soon were forthcoming. A great newspaper
suddenly changed hands--and incidentally changed its policy. Two other
newspapers, which, up to now, had not taken sides, stated a fair case
for the purchasing of Soviet oil. Within a week the battle was
over--the attack on Soviet oil had been defeated by the tremendous
interests involved, and Sir Michael Evenden announced his intention of
proceeding to Evenden Priory at once.
So, it came about that, a week after their arrival in London, Sir
Michael, Lady Evenden, and Jill, arrived at the wayside station of
Little Evenden, where a car was waiting to drive them the three miles
to the Priory.
Evenden Priory was a most delightful old residence. Dating from the
eleventh century, it was the seat of the Priors of Evenden
(“Evenedene,” as it was then called), who had certain far-reaching
powers over a wide tract of country. They held their temporalities
from the Abbots of Yeleham and the Bishops of Norwich, and great was
the early history of the Priory. It was a seat of learning, for many
valuable early histories and theological works had been compiled there
by the diligent monks, in the far-off days of its activity.
Great had been the charity of the brothers; indeed, it had been made
the subject of many a folk song. The old Priory Church, now in ruins,
once had been a marvel of architectural beauty. The Priory lay in a
grassy hollow, sheltered by banks of woodland.
Long and low in style, like all the buildings of monastic character in
the early Middle Ages, it had been added to in Elizabethan times,
after it had passed into the Evenden family.
At the time of the dissolution in 1537, Henry the Eighth had presented
the Priory, with its rich demesne, to Sir Thomas Evenden, a gentleman
of his Court. And, in the Evenden family it had remained since, from
generation to generation, right down to the year before the war. Then
the present baronet, crippled in finance, and indeed on the verge of
bankruptcy, reluctantly had to let it go to cover debts and mortgages
that had been increasing through the last two generations. But
circumstances had since altered with Sir Michael; and, when Dame
Fortune later smiled on him, the first thing he had done was to buy
back his old heritage from a plum-and-apple jam manufacturer.
There seemed to be a spirit of peace enshrined in the Priory and in
the green woods that formed its setting--a spirit that might have
descended from the old monks who, in the long ago, had lived so
quietly and happily there. Certainly, under the peaceful influence of
his surroundings, Sir Michael seemed to rally. Possibly it was in part
the happy issue from his financial troubles; the fact remained,
however, that the baronet seemed to take a new lease on life. In the
late summer days, he walked about his estate with his keepers and
watched the young clutches of partridge that were particularly strong
that year. He talked of the prospects of an excellent shooting season.
And he and Lady Evenden prepared the lists of guests to be invited.
Needless to say, Lady Evenden was intensely happy. The dark threat to
her husband’s life that came at Montreux seemed very unreal at
Evenden. She had a curious sort of feeling that if her husband would
remain at Evenden all would be well. She felt she hated the villa at
Montreux. She never wanted to go there again. Meanwhile, she was happy
to live in the present, accompanying her husband on visits to friends
in the county, and entertaining the various neighbors who called on
her husband and herself.
Jill also would have had a very happy time had it not been for the
constant and unwelcome attentions of Frank Gough. Though he never
attempted any distressing love-making, that young man had far from
given up his intention of winning Jill Kilby.
Many and strange were the maneuvers he employed for getting a
_tête-à-tête_ with her. Frequently he would be very disarming for a
while. But, invariably, he would return ultimately to the old subject.
Her constant refusals only spurred him on to stronger efforts. It is
probable that if, in the first place, Jill had consented to flirt with
him, he would have got as tired of her as he had got of Brenda
Trenchard, three years ago. Frank Gough possessed a curiously
persistent nature. The refusals in themselves made the girl precious
to him. He never stopped to think of what she would actually represent
to him if he did win her.
Jill Kilby divined something of this, and she hated him for it; but
she determined to accept the challenge. She would not consult his
mother, but would simply stand her ground. He was determined? Then she
would show him that she was not less so. Nevertheless, as the months
went by, the nervous strain began to tell on her. Only one interval of
relief did she have, and that was when Frank went away to sit for his
law examinations.
He was away a fortnight, and that fortnight was heaven to Jill; but,
at the end of that time, he came back with the light of battle in his
eyes and full of the encouragement of victory; for, he had done well
in the examinations.
So, with everyone happy except Jill, the summer wore away very
pleasantly at Evenden Priory, and very gently, almost imperceptibly,
ushered in autumn.
At last the invitations were sent out for the first shooting-party of
the season, and amongst the intimations was one sent to Jack, the
baronet’s eldest son. It was a pleasant custom in the Evenden family
that, when it was necessary to write to Jack, Lady Evenden always
wrote the longer letter, her husband sending merely a note. With Frank
the same was applied, his own mother merely sending a note, while his
stepfather sent a long and affectionate letter.
On this occasion the invitation to Jack was accompanied by a long
letter from Lady Evenden, his stepmother. Also, she enclosed a copy of
the latest studio portrait she had had taken.
Jack was proud of his beautiful stepmother, and set the photograph
upon the bureau in his cabin aboard H.M.S. _Invulnerable_. The day
before he left to join the party at Evenden--for he had secured
fourteen days leave--his great friend, Basil Towers, the gunnery
lieutenant, dropped in for a chat and a whisky-and-soda.
Jack and Basil were very close friends; and, it was Jack’s intention
to take Basil with him to Evenden. But, unfortunately they could not
both get leave together.
Presently Basil’s eyes roamed over the small cabin and rested on the
photograph, on the bureau. He gazed for a second, with puzzled eyes;
then he got up and crossed the cabin, still looking almost
unbelievably at the features. Jack watched him with amusement--he was
accustomed to hearing compliments passed on the beauty of his
stepmother--but he certainly did not expect what came next.
“Good Lord, Jack, old man, you don’t mean to say you know her?”
There was a world of horror and contempt in the voice of his friend.
Jack sat for a second--petrified. He was on the verge of assuming the
outraged dignity he felt, and of pointing out that it was his
stepmother, when he reflected in a flash that Basil Towers was one of
the cleanest, straightest fellows living. No retailer of foul gossip
this; indeed, Jack had never heard him speak of any woman in terms of
anything but respect. He made up his mind to “draw” Basil, and
replied:
“Well--slightly. Do you?”
“I should say I do--or, rather, did,” Basil replied, taking up the
photograph and examining the beautiful features closely.
“Tell me about her, old man,” Jack begged.
“Well, one hardly likes to---- Is she a friend of yours, Jack?” Basil
gazed at his friend with a troubled face.
“Better say acquaintance,” Jack responded, wondering what gave him the
power to be so cunning, or even so perfidious, as to deny his
stepmother like this. But, he knew that, if he told his friend the
truth, nothing would drag the story from him. He felt a little
reassured now, however. There must be some mistake. After he had
listened to his friend’s yarn, he would prove it to be untrue and tell
him the truth. Basil’s chagrin would be amusing. It was not quite
sporting, perhaps; but, then, the beggar should be more careful of
what he said about ladies!
“How long have you known her?” Basil asked.
“Oh, not long,” Jack replied. “For heaven’s sake, man, get on with
your yarn. You’re like a confounded Joanna Southcott’s box of mystery,
standing there like a great goat. Let’s have your yarn, man.”
“Well, it isn’t a pleasant one,” replied the other. “Her name is
Margaret Gough--or was. Old John Gough was a friend of my father, and
he was considerably older than his wife. They lived in a little house
on the shores of Loch Lomond. I believe there were many rows. I
remember going there once with the pater, and there was a furious
time. He--old Gough--accused her of meeting men friends, visitors to
the district, you know. My pater said afterwards that old Gough
probably suffered from delusions.”
Jack listened intently, while Basil poured himself out a drink and
continued.
“One night, there was the devil of a trouble.” He shuddered at the
remembrance. “We lived about three miles from the Goughs, and Margaret
Gough came over in great distress. Her husband had accused her of some
improper friendship with an artist fellow, with whom, as a matter of
fact, she had been seen once or twice. She said her husband threatened
to murder her. My father went back with her. He found the husband
foaming at the mouth--he had had a paralytic stroke--couldn’t move.
They put him to bed and sent for a doctor. The doctor was away and had
a locum tenens, a little fellow called Laidlaw. He came over and saw
the man, said it was a stroke, gave some directions, and said he would
send a nurse in the morning. Mind you, in all this, Margaret Gough was
in a state bordering on hysterics. She did not appreciate what was
said about her husband, but only exhibited absolute terror of him. My
father ultimately left, and Margaret Gough and two maids remained in
the house with the stricken man--who could not walk, mark you…”
Again Basil stopped, knocked the ash off his cigarette, then
continued.
“In the morning old John Gough was found drowned in the lake.”
“Great heavens!” exclaimed Jack in horror, realizing the significance
of the statement.
“In Scotland,” Basil continued, “there is no coroner’s inquest, but
there is a court of inquiry, and at that court the little locum tenens
deliberately reversed a previous verdict of total paralysis. My father
gave no evidence, but he said at the time that the legs of the man
dragged like lead when they were putting him to bed.
“Dr. Laidlaw said the stroke was partial and had certainly affected
his brain, and that, in his view, the man committed suicide, while
temporarily insane.”
“Well, damn it all, Basil,” Jack burst out, “mightn’t it be so? Why
think the worst? He might have recovered and got up. He seemed to be a
mad sort of chap, anyhow.”
“Well, that may be--I don’t know,” Basil returned. “But you can’t
escape the facts of the figures. At ten o’clock at night the man is
helpless--totally paralyzed; at seven in the morning he is found in
the lake. The artist chap, who had been a well-known figure in the
neighborhood, completely disappeared. Margaret Gough was never heard
of again after selling the cottage--and, the little doctor who gave
the evidence, which, in my opinion, saved her, disappeared from the
scene.”
“Well, it’s a very sad story,” Jack said slowly. “I am sure I would
not condemn--off hand. I----”
“My dear old chap,” Basil broke in, “if she is a very close friend of
yours, why didn’t you tell me? You seem quite bowled over.”
“No, no--that’s all right,” Jack replied. “I asked, and I’m glad you
told me. I can’t believe, mind you, that that woman would do anything
terrible like that.”
“Well, of course, I was very young when it happened, Jack,” replied
Basil. “I have always carried it in my mind as an awful
secret--something never to let out. I wouldn’t have done so to-day but
for the curious fact of finding her photograph in the possession of my
best pal.”
“You’ve done quite right, old son,” Jack assured him. “And now I’m
going to chuck you out. I’ve a thousand and one things to get done
before the good ship sails for home in the morning.”
“Good-night, old man.” Basil rose. “You’re sure----”
“Of course, of course; good night.” Jack patted his friend jocularly
on the shoulder, saw him out, then closed the door.
For long he remained deep in thought. His cigarette went out and fell
from his hand unnoticed, but he sat motionless. At last he rose, and
there was resolution on his face. He took up the photograph and, as if
speaking to the lovely woman there portrayed, he said:
“No, mum, I’ll not condemn you unheard. I’ll ask you if dad knows. If
he does, then that’s good enough for me. Good night, mum dear--see you
soon.” He kissed the photograph, placed it back in its place of honor,
then tumbled into his bunk.