Lily got up the next morning feeling very happy and cheerful. Not only
were kindly M. Popeau and her new friend Captain Stuart now back in
Monte Carlo, but Beppo Polda’s arrival was definitely fixed for the
following Tuesday. His mother talked of him incessantly, and was
evidently exceedingly anxious to make his visit a success.
Lily could not help feeling touched by Aunt Cosy’s wonderful love of,
and pride in, her son, and, as she got ready to start for church, the
girl told herself that it would be amusing to see Beppo after having
heard so much about him. And then, all at once, she asked herself,
blushing a little, how Beppo Polda would get on with Angus Stuart! They
were certain to be very different!
“When Beppo is here you will be very gay!” the Countess had exclaimed
the night before. “I do not care for Monte Carlo. But you and Uncle
Angelo will be there a great deal. Beppo knows all the smart set in
London and in Paris as well as in Rome! I hope you have brought some
pretty clothes with you, dear child. If not, perhaps it would be well to
purchase one or two new dresses, eh?”
“Yes, perhaps I ought to get a few things,” said Lily smiling. “I’ve
hardly had anything new since the war. At first I felt it to be wrong;
later on everything became so dear!”
“You will not find anything very cheap here,” said Aunt Cosy, shaking
her head.
And now, on this Sunday morning, she was sorry that she only had the
plain black coat and skirt she had arrived in from London. Still, when
she went into the kitchen, on her way out, Cristina looked up, and
smiled at her very kindly. “Mademoiselle looks as fresh as a rose,” she
exclaimed.
“I’m going to church,” said Lily. “Is there anything I can do for you in
the town?”
And then Cristina said that she would be very grateful if Mademoiselle
would do a little commission. Not in the town, but on the hill, at the
cottage near the chapel where they sold her new-laid eggs. “Has
Mademoiselle time to do this before going down to church?”
“Heaps of time,” said Lily gaily, and then she added: “Now that my
friends are back in Monte Carlo I hope I shall be able to join the
tennis club, so you’ll get rid of me sometimes, Cristina!”
And then Cristina said something which touched the English girl. “I
shall miss you very much, my little lady. You are a ray of sunshine in
this lonely house.” And the old woman sighed, a long-drawn-out, mournful
sigh.
* * * * *
When Lily found herself on the rough path leading upwards towards the
top of the great hill she was amazed at the destruction the storm had
wrought. Even the sturdy olive trees had suffered, and the more delicate
flowering bushes were beaten to the earth.
After doing her errand she walked on a few steps along the path across
the mountain side. She felt tired of the road leading down past La
Solitude, and so she made up her mind to go down by another way to the
town. There was a rough, steep way cut into long, low steps—as is the
fashion in those parts—which was bound to bring her not far from the
hotel where the service was now held each Sunday morning.
After a while she realised that this new way of going down the hill
would take her much longer than the old, familiar way. She glanced at
her wrist watch. Though she had allowed herself plenty of time, she must
hurry now, or she would be late.
She struck off to her left—intending to pick up the road which led
straight down to Monte Carlo—into a beautiful, if obviously neglected,
grove of orange trees. As she did so she realised that she had not got
nearly so far down the hill as she had supposed, for she was only just
below the little clearing where the taxi had stopped on her first
arrival at La Solitude.
And then, while walking along a narrow path through a plantation of
luxuriant bushes, Lily suddenly experienced what is sometimes described
as one’s heart stopping still.
Right in front of her, barring her way, there lay on the still wet earth
an arm—stretching right across the path.
She stopped and stared, fearfully, at the stark, still, outstretched arm
and hand lying just before her. The sleeve clothing the arm was sodden;
the cuff which slightly protruded beyond the sleeve was now a pale,
dirty grey; the hand was clenched.
All at once she saw the glint of gold just below the cuff, and she
remembered, with a feeling of sick dread, the bangle which George
Ponting had worn just a week and a night ago!
She did not turn and run away, as another kind of girl might have done.
Instead she covered her face for a moment with her hands, and then
forced herself to look again.
At last she stooped down, and then she saw that the arm belonged to a
body which was mercifully half-concealed from her terror-stricken gaze
by a large broken branch.
The deathly still, huddled-up figure had evidently rolled over forward
during the storm from under the shelter of a big spreading bush.
She drew a little nearer, full of an awful feeling of repulsion, as well
as of fear. And then she noticed that a small automatic pistol was lying
on the coarse grass near the body.
Did that mean that the unhappy man had killed himself? Nay, it was far
more likely, so the girl told herself, that he had been set on by the
same gang who had broken into La Solitude the very night he had been
there.
There was no sign of a struggle, but then the storm of the night before
would have obliterated any traces of that sort. In the bright, clear
sunlight the raindrops still glistened on the evergreen leaves; it was
not only a beautiful but a very peaceful scene.
Again she forced herself to stoop down and look, and then tears welled
up slowly into her eyes; it seemed so piteous that what was huddled up
there should have once been a man—a man, too, who had seemed so full of
life, even of a kind of bubbling vitality, only a few days ago.
She stood up, faced with a disagreeable personal problem. Ought she to
go back to La Solitude and tell the Count and Countess Polda of her
horrible discovery? Or would she be justified in going on straight down
to the town, and first informing the two men who seemed so much more
truly her friends than did Aunt Cosy and Uncle Angelo?
M. Popeau was always so helpful in an emergency. Surely he would know
what to do far better than either the Count or Countess? They would
probably be very glad to be relieved of whatever might be the necessary
steps in such a case as this.
As she had been the first person to find the body, Lily naturally
supposed that she would have to see the police, and she knew that it
would be less unpleasant to do that with M. Popeau than with her
nervous, fussy host, or her queer-tempered hostess.
She walked quickly upwards, to find herself, as she had expected to do,
on the little clearing. From there she knew every step of the way down
into Monte Carlo. So she hurried on, still feeling terribly shaken and
upset, though much more at ease, now that she had made up her mind as to
what she ought to do.
* * * * *
As Lily approached the hotel where the English Church service was always
held, she noticed that people were walking up to the door, reading a
notice that had been pinned up on it, and then turning away. The notice
explained that as the chaplain was ill there would be no service that
morning.
A deep, low voice suddenly sounded in her ears, “Good morning, Miss
Fairfield.”
Such commonplace words! Yet as Captain Stuart held out his hand, for the
second time to-day the tears welled up into Lily’s eyes. But this time
it was because there had come over her a sensation of such infinite
relief. Somehow she felt as if the man before her was a bit of home, and
she realised how dreadfully lonely and forlorn she had been since they
had last met.
As for Angus Stuart, he was looking at Lily with concern. She looked
ill—very ill! She was pale, and there was a look of terror on her face.
What could have happened? A feeling of positive hatred for the Count and
Countess Polda rose up in the young man’s mind. What could they have
done to make the girl look as she was looking this morning?
“Is anything the matter?” he asked abruptly.
Lily pulled herself together. “Forgive me!” she exclaimed. “It’s stupid
of me to be so upset. But something dreadful has happened to me this
morning! I’ll tell you about it, and then you will be able to advise me
as to whether I ought to go to the police—now, at once. I also thought
of asking M. Popeau what I had better do.”
“Tell me what happened,” he said quietly. “We will go and find Popeau
presently. He’s taking a little constitutional up and down outside the
Hôtel de Paris.”
And then Lily told him shortly and quietly of her awful discovery in the
orange grove.
Angus Stewart was greatly surprised as well as concerned at her story.
Then he had done the Count and Countess Polda an injustice? They were in
no way responsible for the way Lily Fairfield looked this morning.
“D’you mean that you’ve no doubt that the poor fellow you found to-day
was the man who was dining at La Solitude the night you arrived?” he
asked.
The fact struck him with fresh surprise. What queer people Count Polda
must know! He had very little doubt in his own mind that the unfortunate
Ponting had committed suicide after a big loss at the Casino.
“I think I can say that I am quite sure,” she answered, in a troubled
voice. “But I confess I didn’t look at—at the face. In fact, I tried not
to see it! Oh, Captain Stuart, I feel as if I shall never, never get
that hand—that cuff—that bangle—out of my mind! I seem to see the poor
fellow’s arm lying across the path, as if barring my way——”
He saw that her eyes were fixed with a look of horror on the ground in
front of her.
“Look here!” he exclaimed authoritatively. “That’s quite wrong, Miss
Fairfield—really wrong! Life is full of tragedy and unhappiness. I’ve
seen some very terrible things in the last five years, and though I
don’t exactly want to forget them, I never allow my mind to dwell on
them. It’s morbid, as well as wrong! No doubt the poor man had lost
heavily in the Rooms, and thought he would put an end to his troubles.
But it was very selfish of him to go and do it there—in the garden of
the people who seem to have been so kind to him.”
“If he really did do it, he didn’t do it exactly in their garden,” she
said in a low voice; “it was—oh, well, I should think quite thirty yards
below the place where the grounds of La Solitude end. He chose the place
so carefully that it might have been months before he would have been
found, had it not been that I rather foolishly thought I should like to
try and find a new way down into the town.”
Somehow it was a comfort to Lily to find that Captain Stuart felt so
sure Mr. Ponting had killed himself.
There was a pause. And then: “I feel better now that I’ve told you,”
said Lily in a low voice.
“That’s right!” he exclaimed. “After all, we know that there are a
certain number of suicides each year at Monte Carlo, though Popeau
declares that there are much fewer than people believe.”
They found the Frenchman walking up and down in front of the Hôtel de
Paris, and Lily, troubled and upset though she was, told herself that
she had never seen such a delightful scene! The palace-like white
Casino, the brilliant-coloured flowers, the palms, the blue-green sea,
made a delightful background to the groups of cheerful,
prosperous-looking people who were walking about the big open space
between the hotel and the Casino. It seemed like a scene on another
planet compared to the hillside and the quiet, lonely house where she
had spent the last week. But she could not help reminding herself that
ten days ago poor George Ponting had probably formed part of this gay,
carefree crowd.
“Welcome!” cried M. Popeau, in his hearty voice. “It seems a long time,
Miss Fairfield, since I saw you. I hope that you are very well, and that
all goes happily at La Solitude?”
“Miss Fairfield has just had a most painful experience,” said Captain
Stuart gravely. And then, in a few dry words, he told their French
friend what had happened. But, perhaps because Lily again turned very
pale, he made his story quite short.
Hearing the tale from another’s lips, brought back what had happened
with dreadful vividness to poor Lily. Her lips quivered.
“I suppose I ought to go straight to the police,” she said nervously,
“and I thought, M. Popeau, that perhaps you would not mind going with
me?”
“Of course I will go with you.” He spoke very feelingly and kindly. “Try
not to think too much of this sad event, my dear young lady. There has
always been that one black blot on this beautiful place.”
He waved his hand towards the Casino. “Yonder is a monster which
destroys the happiness of many while sometimes capriciously making the
happiness of one. And now I suggest an early déjeuner. The Count and
Countess cannot expect you back for another hour and a half at least. An
English Church service goes on for a long time. You will be more ready
to face my old friend, the Commissioner of Police, after a good lunch!”
Lily knew that a very small luncheon was to have been kept for her, and
she could not help looking forward to a good meal. Yet when it was put
before her she felt suddenly as if she could not eat.
M. Popeau always sat at a delightful little table in one of the great
windows of the famous restaurant, and all three were soon happily
established there. But the kindly host saw with concern that poor Lily
looked at the delicious _hors-d’oeuvres_ with a kind of aversion.
He put out his hand and laid it lightly over hers. “Come, come,” he
said, and there was a touch of command in his voice, “this won’t do! I
should have starved to death a very long time ago if I had allowed the
sad things I have seen and heard to stop my appetite!”
Lily could not help smiling at the funny way he said this, but, “What
makes it so much worse,” she said in a low voice, “is having actually
known the poor man.”
“What d’you say?” said M. Popeau in a startled voice. “Known the poor
man? I didn’t know that!”
“I forgot to tell you,” interposed Captain Stuart, “that as a matter of
fact, Miss Fairfield is convinced that the body she saw is that of an
Englishman called Ponting who had dinner at La Solitude the evening of
the day she arrived there, a week ago yesterday.”
Lily turned her head away; the tears were now rolling down her cheeks.
“That certainly must have made the horrible discovery much worse for
you,” said M. Popeau sympathetically. “Did this Mr. Ponting seem at all
worried or depressed, Mademoiselle?”
“No, I can’t say that he did. We had a talk when he first arrived, for
the Count and Countess left me alone with him for about ten minutes.
Though he said he had lost a good bit of money, he didn’t seem to mind.
I remember his saying: ‘I’ve done with Monte Carlo, and I’ve got off
cheap, considering!’”
She felt it was too bad that she should spoil this pleasant lunch for
her two kind friends. They all made a determined effort to talk of other
things, and as the time went on, Lily unconsciously began to feel
better.
“And how is my friend the Countess?” asked M. Popeau suddenly. “That
woman interests me; I could not tell you why, but she seems to me a
remarkable person—one with a tremendous amount of will power. I would
not care to have been married to her! Hercules Popeau would have been a
poor little bit of wax between her strong fingers.”
The other two smiled, but he had meant what he said.
And then a feeling of loyalty to her hostess made Lily exclaim: “I think
the Count is quite happy, M. Popeau. They seem devoted to one another,
and just now they are extra happy——”
“Why that?” asked Captain Stuart drily.
“Because their son, who lives in Rome, is coming to pay them a visit.
They simply worship him!” She added: “I’m quite looking forward to
seeing him. According to the Countess, he’s a most wonderful young man!
He’s a great athlete, and yet——” she hesitated, “though only
twenty-seven, he did not fight. Is that not odd? His mother says he
served Italy better by staying in Rome.”
“Ah, an _embusqué_!” exclaimed M. Popeau.
“I hope not that!” said Lily.
“I should expect any child of hers to be exceptionally good-looking,”
went on the Frenchman reflectively.
“Would you?” Lily was rather surprised.
“Yes, for the Countess Polda must have been very handsome in her day.”
“That’s true!” exclaimed Lily. “When she came and stayed with us in
England when I was a little girl, I remember thinking her the most
beautiful person I had ever seen! But somehow—I don’t know why—she looks
very different now.”
“It is a great art—that of knowing how to grow old gracefully,” said M.
Popeau sententiously. “The Countess does not possess that art. Only a
very few women do possess it, my dear young lady. As you grow older do
not forget the words of Hercules Popeau—every age has its own beauty.
That is not an original remark; I believe it was first made by our great
Napoleon when speaking of his mother, a very noble woman.”
And then Lily, her new trouble for the moment out of her mind, went on:
“The Countess says that she would like her son to marry an
Englishwoman.”
“Does she, indeed? and he is arriving here to-morrow?”
M. Popeau spoke with a touch of meaning in his voice, and the colour
suddenly flamed up on Lily’s face; yet she felt sure that Aunt Cosy had
had no particular person in her mind when she had made that remark.
“What is the name of this prodigy?”
“Beppo Polda.”
“Count Beppo Polda?” repeated the Frenchman. “I must try and find out
something about this young gentleman, for I propose to do myself the
honour of calling again on the Countess one day soon.”
By this time they were drinking their coffee, and while the two men each
enjoyed a liqueur, M. Popeau made Lily drink a second cup of coffee.
When she had finished he said: “Now, my dear young lady, we had better
go and look up my friend Bouton. He will not like being disturbed on a
Sunday, but I feel you will be more comfortable when you have seen him.
I want you to forget this sad affair—to wipe it out of your mind
completely.”
He made a gesture in the air as if he was rubbing something out.
Lily felt as if she could never, never forget what had happened that
morning. But she did not say so. She was asking herself, with some
perplexity, where she had heard the name Bouton, and then, all at once,
she remembered! It was the name which had produced such an extraordinary
change in the taxicab-driver on the day of her arrival at Monte Carlo.