said Cleek, and with a look of unseen contempt at the drink-sodden
figure, he turned abruptly and left the youth to continue his potations
at his own sweet will.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
WHEN TWO AND TWO MAKE FOUR
It would not be overstating the case if one were to say that Cleek's
mind was absolutely in a whirl when he closed the door of the
dining-room behind him and stood alone in the brilliantly lighted hall;
for, added to the loathing contempt he felt for the young reprobate he
had just left, there was the knowledge that this new and unexpected
development threatened to destroy the whole fabric of his theories in
almost every particular.
Not for one moment, heretofore, had he looked upon young Raynor as other
than a shallow, empty-headed wastrel; a mere cuckoo hatched in an
eagle's nest; a thing to be scorned, not dreaded; a mere mischievous
atom that hadn't the courage to be a bird of prey, nor blood enough in
its veins to be dangerous. Now, however---- God! what a riddle life is!
You never know!
The door that led out into the grounds of the Grange was but a rope's
cast distant. He felt that he couldn't trust himself to go in and face
the ladies just yet a while; that he must think over this new and
staggering turn which events had taken: think over it for a time in the
hush and darkness of the outer world; and, turning on his heel, went
swiftly to the door and let himself out.
By this time the night had closed in, the moon had risen, and the
gardens were simply a shadowy place of dark and fragrant mystery, with
here and there a silver arabesque on the earth where the moonlight
shafted through the boughs of trees, and here and there a streak of
yellower radiance where the windows of the house threw man-made light
across the lawn and against the massed green of crowded leaves. Cleek
took to the grass that his footsteps might not be heard, and there, in
the darkest shadow of all the darkened land, walked up and down, up and
down, with his lower lip pinched up between his thumb and forefinger,
his brows knotted, and the elbow of one arm in the hand of the other: a
quiet, slow-moving figure, as silent as the other soundless shades that
were about it.
So that was how the cat jumped, was it? Directing suspicion--not openly,
not with any positive hint of _what_, but with deadly seriousness,
considering that last night a man had been mysteriously murdered and the
police were out for the assassin--directing suspicion against his own
father, and at such an appallingly significant time.
What a cur the fellow was! Even if his father could in any way have been
implicated in the crime, by any means, upon any pretext, what a devil's
act it was to lead the law into the right channel. But when there was
not one solitary circumstance that pointed, when it was merely to save
his own skin, merely to divert suspicion away from himself, what an act
of unspeakable atrocity! Couldn't the fellow reason? Couldn't he see
that the very thing he was doing to mislead justice was the one
circumstance which directed its sword against himself? That the simple
fact of his endeavouring to direct suspicion against one who was in no
way implicated was absolute proof that he had a purpose in wishing it to
be misdirected. And if he _had_ a purpose in doing that, the inference
was so obvious that a child might read between the lines.
Heigho! It was just another exemplification of the truth of the old
adage that "when the wine's in the wit's out." If he'd let that brandy
decanter alone, if he hadn't fuddled his reason and clogged his wretched
brain with alcohol, he must have seen what an ass thing he was doing,
and what a fool his loosened tongue was making of him.
True, as yet there did not seem any just cause for connecting him with
the murder of De Louvisan, any reason why he should have killed the man;
any single purpose he might serve, any solitary thing he might gain by
slaying him; but still---- Oh, well, you never know how deep a well is
until you have reached the bottom of it. The thing had every appearance
of being an Apache crime, and he was "in" with Margot--Margot, who
played for money and money alone; so if---- Good God! the little reptile
hadn't let her lead him into _that_ folly, had he? Hadn't let her lure
him into taking the oath and enrolling himself a member of the Apache?
If he had been mad enough to do that, if that were the explanation, why,
then, all the rest was possible. The law of the Apache is the law of the
commonwealth; and he would find that out, as Lovetski had found it
out--too late. If St. Ulmer was in any way implicated, St. Ulmer's
fortune would be _one_ stake. And if this brainless weakling should fall
heir to his father's money, ho! there was the other "stake"; there the
possible motive, there the first connecting link!
Was that Margot's little game? Was that the way the idiot had been
tricked into becoming an accomplice? Just so! let's put the jumbled bits
together and see if they fit; let's sum up two and two and learn if they
really do make four.
First bit: De Louvisan with such a hold upon St. Ulmer that he can
compel his lordship to cancel his daughter's engagement and force her to
accept him as a fiance. Quite so! Second bit: De Louvisan, without any
rupture occurring between himself and St. Ulmer, suddenly murdered in
cold blood. And not only murdered, but spiked up to the wall after the
manner of Lanisterre and other traitors to the Apache. A clear proof
that this De Louvisan himself was an Apache; and being a traitor to the
cause---- Quite so! quite so! Prevented from marrying Lady Katharine,
because that was not part of the agreement; because he was making an
effort to obtain for himself and his own personal use a fortune which it
was intended should come into the commonwealth. Hum-m-m! Those two
pieces seem to fit together. Now for the next:
If St. Ulmer, over whom this De Louvisan undoubtedly had a hold of some
sort, bought that fellow's silence by promising him his daughter for a
wife, then it is quite certain that he was acquiescing in his
traitorship to the Apache and quite willing that the man should have
Lady Katharine's dower for himself. That bit fits also. Now for another:
if in doing that thing this De Louvisan merited the name of traitor, it
must have been that he came between the Apache and the possession of the
St. Ulmer fortune, and if the owner of that fortune had to make terms
such as he did with the man, the inference is as plain as the nose on
your face. In other words, St. Ulmer, too, had reason to dread the
Apache, and there must, therefore, be some connection between him and
Margot. Two and two--and it makes four exactly! St. Ulmer, then, is the
game, St. Ulmer the pivot upon which the whole case revolves.
Where, then, does young Raynor come in? Hum-m-m! Ah! Of course, of
course. Very crafty, very crafty indeed. A beautiful woman could do
anything in the world with such a worm as he. The stage-door Johnnie
will be best caught by a chorus girl. Yes, yes, just so. Get one who is
out of an engagement or in debt--anything that will make her willing
and eager to accept a bribe. She will do the introducing; the rest you
can do yourself. Easy enough with such an ass as that fellow. Lovely
women and jolly chaps for companionship; a lonely house, music, dancing,
champagne; a famous French variety star heels over head in love with
him, letters, photographs, nights of revelry, and quarts of wine; and
then--_voila_, the fish is hooked!
Sworn in, by heaven! sworn in in a drunken fit, to wake and find himself
not only an Apache, but to have his vanity tickled, his empty head
turned, and his love of being thought a regular ladies' man pampered to
the full by being told that he is in reality the _king_ of the Apaches,
and that hundreds and hundreds of just such jolly fellows and girls as
he sees about him are willing and eager to do the little worm homage and
to be ruled by him as though he were actually royal.
It is an old, old game of yours, that, isn't it, Margot? So you have
caught many a fool in your day, wiser fools than this one, and sillier,
too, in their way, but none of them ever held his kingship beyond the
space of a month; none at all but that bolder rascal, the Vanishing
Cracksman.
And this little maggot of a Harry Raynor is the latest dupe, eh? Hooked
in a drunken moment, the silly gudgeon, hooked that you may get at St.
Ulmer and--get even--with the chap called De Louvisan. It must have been
a shock when you found what a cowardly cur the fellow is at heart.
Still there must be an accomplice, and there must be a strong incentive
to command the services of this one.
How did you work it, then? How get him to assist in that thing, if he
did assist? How lead him up to this abominable act regarding his own
father? Yes! To be sure, to be sure. Help you and your crew to St.
Ulmer's money and you'd help him to _his_: to be rid of a father who
kept him upon a short allowance, who disapproved of all the things and
all the people he cared for, and who treated him as though he were a
little foolish boy instead of a great, noble, splendid man, who ought to
be free to live like the king he was.
Oh, it would be easy: just the mere turning of suspicion after the other
thing was done. A letter would do that--a forged letter--and that would
be prepared for him nicely. Oh, no, no! of course he wouldn't be hanged.
Means would be provided to prevent that. He would be so deeply
compromised, however, that there would be no possibility of his escaping
but by death, and the means of bringing that about would be conveniently
supplied him. A swift but painless poison; or, perhaps, a bottle of
ether--something of the sort. No pain, no suffering, all over in a
minute or two; then "darling Harry" would come into everything, and the
clever little forged letter would explain everything away.
Would it? Cleek's jaws clamped together as the thought came, Would it,
indeed? Well, _he'd_ see that it wouldn't, then! If any one was to
suffer it should be the guilty, not the innocent; they should never pull
that game off to the end of time.
The forged letter, eh? Ah, be sure that Harry Raynor would take means to
preserve it and to have it handy against the time of need. And be sure,
too, that Margot would instruct him with the utmost carefulness just how
to act with regard to it, and just where to keep it in order to make
everything appear natural and in accordance with what he was to tell to
his friend, Mr. Barch, in order to set the ball rolling. Claimed to have
received it this afternoon, didn't he? So, of course, it would be in the
pocket of the coat he had worn at the time. Had to change into evening
clothes for dinner, and was in evening clothes still. So, of course----
The thought had no more than shaped itself in Cleek's mind before he put
it into action. As swiftly and as soundlessly as he had left the house
he now returned to it. But whereas he had gone out unsuspected and
unseen, it now became manifest that he was not to be permitted to enjoy
the same privilege in returning, for as he stepped into the hall he came
face to face with Hawkins advancing from the direction of the servants'
staircase.
"Out for another ramble in quest of a new plot you see, Hawkins," he
said gayly as he entered. "The woes of the novelist are many when plots
come slowly. Where's Mr. Harry--upstairs or in the drawing-room with the
ladies?"
"Neither, Mr. Barch, sir. Still sitting in the dining-room. Just on my
way there with a message. Shall I say that you will rejoin him there,
sir?"
"No, not at present, thanks. Just going upstairs to change my shoes--the
grass is very damp. By the way, Hawkins, do you happen to know what time
Mr. Harry got home last night? Your mistress was asking Miss Lorne
earlier in the evening, and as he was with me until ten I shouldn't like
to contradict anything he may have said, _you_ know, should she conclude
to ask _me_. Know when he got back?"
"No, sir, that I don't. All I can tell you is that he wasn't home at
half-past twelve when I went to bed."
Cleek made a mental tally. Wasn't home at half-past twelve; and it was
at half-past eleven, according to Mr. Narkom, that the limousine arrived
at the head of Mulberry Lane and the first cry of murder was heard.
"Oh, all right," he said. "Don't worry him by mentioning that I asked.
See him myself when I come down." Cleek then passed by and went up the
stairs two steps at a time.
He did not stop at the second floor, however, but went up still another
flight, and then, stopping a moment to look about to see if anybody was
watching and to lean over the bannisters and listen if anybody was
following, went fleetly to Harry Raynor's den, passed in, and shut the
door behind him.
The place was quite black, but a touch of the electric button flooded it
with light, and showed him at once what he had come to seek. On a chair
close to the open bedroom door lay the clothes which young Raynor had
worn this afternoon, neatly folded, just as Hamer had placed them after
brushing and pressing, in case the young man should, by any chance,
elect to wear the same suit to-morrow.
Cleek moved rapidly to the chair, partly unfolded the coat and slipped
his hand into the inside breast pocket. A letter was there--_the_
letter, as he learned when he drew it out and opened it--typewritten by
what was clearly the hand of a novice, and setting forth just such a
message as young Raynor had stated.
"A bad move, Margot, and a little less carefully done than I should have
thought _you_ would have countenanced, knowing how clever and cunning
you are," was his mental comment as he read the thing. Then carefully
refolding it, he slipped it into his own pocket, snicked off the light,
and left the room.
In the lower passage he encountered Hamer.
"Begging pardon, Mr. Barch," the footman said, "but I was just going up
to see you, sir. Hawkins tells me that you were anxious to know at what
hour Mr. Harry returned home last night, and it happens that I know."
"Do you?" said Cleek. "That's jolly. At what hour did he return last
night, then?"
"He didn't return last night at all, sir. It was four this morning and
day just beginning to break, sir, when I heard a noise, and getting up,
looked out of my window, and there he was, a-coming up the drive very
cautious-like and acting as though he didn't want to be seen, as no
doubt he didn't, sir, considering that master and mistress didn't know
he was out at all."
"Didn't know he was out? How do you know that?"
"Because, sir, he said he was going to sit up and write letters when the
master gave the order for Johnston to lock up after Lady Katharine and
Miss Lorne returned from Clavering Close; and Mr. Harry he gave me a
half a crown to see that the door wasn't bolted before I went to bed, as
he intended to slip out and visit a friend. Of course I wouldn't have
said anything about it to anybody, sir, if Hawkins hadn't told me that
you said he was with you, which, of course, means that you were the
friend he was going to see, and not, as I'd supposed, the Lady in
Pink."
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
WHEN FOUR AND FOUR MAKE EIGHT
In spite of himself Cleek's nerves gave an absolute jump, but being an
adept in the art of dissimulation, he laughed lightly and gave Hamer a
quizzical look.
"The Lady in Pink, eh?" he said cheerily. "You know more than your
prayers, I'm afraid, Hamer. Now what in the world made you think he'd be
calling on her last night, eh?"
"Well, sir, I can't exactly say what, unless it was a sort of putting
two and two together, sir. I'd seen him with her over Kingston way on my
day off, only she wasn't dressed in pink then, of course. And last
night, a deal earlier in the evening, just about the time Lady Katharine
and Miss Lorne was starting for Clavering Close it was, sir, I happens
to go round back and slip into Mulberry Lane for a pull at my pipe on
the sly--master never letting any of the servants smoke in the grounds,
and housekeeper objecting to pipes in the servants' hall--and just as I
comes out, there she was a-standing in the shadow of the trees, and so
close up to the wall that I nigh barged into her, sir."
"Who? The Lady in Pink?"
"Yes, sir. Took her by surprise, coming out in that unexpected manner,
and she just had time to throw a pink scarf she was wearing over her
face and hurry away, sir, before I could so much as apologize. But quick
as she was it didn't prevent me a-seeing of her, sir, and recognizing
her as the lady I'd seen Mr. Harry with on my day off, although, as I
say, sir, she was dressed quite different last night. Looked to me as
she was going to some sort of an evening affair: a dance or the theatre
or something of that sort; for she didn't have any hat on, and although
she was wearing a long black cloak that reached almost to the ground, I
could see when she made such a bolt to get out of sight that it was
lined with ermine, and that, under it, she wore a rose-pink evening
frock that she was holding up to keep from touching the ground."
Cleek did not so much as turn a hair, although beneath his placid
exterior something in the nature of a tumult was raging. And why not?
For here, undoubtedly, was the pink gauze dress that had left the
fragment on the nail head at Gleer Cottage last night; and here, too,
was a garment which, being turned inside out, would become in truth an
ermine cloak!
"Oho! Now I see how you came by the idea that Mr. Harry had gone out to
meet her, Hamer," he said with the utmost serenity. "Quite natural,
quite, in the circumstances; only, as it turns out, you were mistaken.
Mr. Harry spent the evening with me, and as we had the misfortune to
miss the Pink Lady altogether, we didn't see her at all last night,
worse luck. But, I say, that's letting you into something, isn't it?
Well, here's half a crown to pay you to forget all about it and to keep
your tongue behind your teeth. Understand?"
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Much obliged, sir. Won't breathe a word to a
living soul."
"Mind you don't, or you'll spoil sport and--wait! Stop a moment! Got
time to do something for me?"
"Oh, yes, indeed, sir. Plenty of time; no end of it this evening. Master
says he'll be up best part of the night reading, sir, and won't need me
at all to-night; so if it's to go anywhere or to carry any message for
you, sir, I've got hours at my disposal."
"Thanks, but I shan't require any more than a minute or two of your
time. I'll just scrawl a line on the leaf of my notebook, and--ph, blow!
Another fellow's evening clothes! And, besides, when I come to think, it
was in the pocket of the coat that confounded thief carried off. Slip
into the library and get me a sheet of paper and a bit of pencil, will
you? Look sharp!"
"Couldn't do that, sir--couldn't get what you want from the library, I
mean. Master's in there reading, sir, and he's locked the door and given
orders that nobody's to disturb him. But if a bit of typewriting paper
will do, sir----"
"Yes, certainly. The very thing. Can you get me a sheet or two?"
"As much as you care to have, sir. It's all in the hall cupboard along
with the typewriter itself. Master had them taken there when he'd
finished his book and let the typist go. I'll get you some in an
instant, sir."
He hurried away forthwith and was back presently with half a dozen
sheets of typewriting paper, a bit of pencil and an envelope, which
latter he had included on the off-chance of its being needed.
Walking a few paces away, Cleek rested the paper against the wall,
scribbled a few hasty words, sealed them up in the envelope, and then
handed it over to Hamer.
"Here, take this thing to Miss Lorne. You'll find her in the
drawing-room," he said, as he threw the remaining sheets which he had
employed as a sort of writing pad upon one of the hall chairs. "You can
attend to that litter afterward. Move sharp!"
He turned as he spoke, as if to go upstairs again, but the very instant
Hamer had disappeared he went fleetly back to the chair, caught up one
of the sheets of paper, folded it carefully, slid it into his pocket,
and passing swiftly and soundlessly down the hall, opened the door and
went out again into the night.
Hitherto all had been speculation, theory, guesswork, not irrefutable
facts; hitherto all clues had been mere possibilities, never actual
certainties. Now----
The curious smile travelled up his cheek, slipped down again, and left
his face as hard and as colourless as a mask of stone. He turned as he
rounded the angle of the house and glanced back to where the windows of
the dining-room cut two luminous rectangles in the fragrant,
flower-scented darkness; then his eye travelled farther on, and dwelt a
moment on the chinks of light that arrowed out from the curtained bay of
the library.
"Poor old chap! Poor, dear old chap!" he said between shut teeth.
The tightly woven fabric of last night's mystery had started to unravel.
In one little corner a flaw had suddenly sprung into existence, and
to-night the first loosened thread was in this man's hands.
He set his back to the lighted windows and forged on through the
darkness until the swerving path brought him to the little summerhouse
where, earlier, he had first met Ailsa, and stepping in, threw himself
into a rustic seat and bent forward with his elbows upon his knees and
his face between his hands: a grim and silent figure in the loneliness
and the darkness.
Five minutes passed--six, seven--and found him still sitting there,
still communing with his own thoughts, though it was now nearing ten
o'clock, and he had told Dollops to be at the wall angle to meet him at
nine. But suddenly his attitude changed; his hands dropped, his head
jerked upward, as a sleeping cat's does when it hears a gnawing mouse,
and he was on his feet, alert, eager, all alive, in a twinkling. Half a
minute later Miss Lorne stepped from the grass on to the gravel and
found him waiting for her in the arch of the summerhouse doorway.
"It is you at last, then, is it?" he said, reaching out to her through
the darkness. "Take my hand and I will guide you if you cannot see the
way clearly. I can't risk striking a match."
"It isn't necessary; I know the way quite well," she answered; but she
took his hand all the same. "I hope I haven't kept you waiting; I came
as quickly as I could. Mrs. Raynor had fallen asleep over her novel
while we were waiting for you and her son to finish your cigars and join
us in the drawing-room, but Hamer coming in with your note awoke her and
I could not get away so quickly as I desired."
"Was Mrs. Raynor interested in the note, then? Did she show any desire
to hear what it was about?" he questioned eagerly.
"Oh, no. She"--colouring under cover of the darkness--"she merely
laughed, and said that it was no more than she should have expected, but
she kept me talking so long that I nearly lost all patience, and your
note did puzzle me, Mr. Cleek. Why was it so important that you should
see me at once without Kathie knowing? Have you discovered anything
fresh?"
"Such strange things indeed have happened, Miss Lorne, since this
evening," he returned quietly, "that I think I shall need your help in
getting to the bottom of them. For one thing, it is now absolutely
certain that the murderer of the Common keeper came into these grounds
last night after he had committed the crime, and that when he gave
Narkom and his men the slip the fellow came directly to this place
unseen."
"Mr. Cleek!"
"Sh-h-h! Not so loud, please. And don't shake like that. Steady
yourself, for there is something yet more startling to come. There is
now positive proof, Miss Lorne, that Lady Katharine Fordham did leave
this house last night and go to Gleer Cottage."
"I won't believe it!" she flung out loyally. But she had scarcely more
than said it when his next words cut the ground from beneath her.
"A witness has turned up," he said; "a witness who saw her there and
spoke to her."
"A witness? Dear God! Who?"
"Geoffrey Clavering!"
"Geoffrey Clavering? Geoffrey?"
"Yes. He and Lady Katharine had an interview in the ruin this evening,
an interview which I overheard without either being aware of my
presence. That is what sent Lady Katharine to bed with a bad headache
just before dinner. Geoffrey Clavering accused her of murdering De
Louvisan and acknowledged that it was he himself who placed the two
lighted candles at the feet of the dead man's body."