It was Beppo’s last day, and what had happened forty-eight hours ago now
seemed to Lily Fairfield like a bad dream.
Beppo was once more the kindly, good-natured, almost brotherly friend of
his first week’s stay at La Solitude. And though Lily could see that
Aunt Cosy was unlike herself, for she looked oddly disturbed, anxious
and gloomy, she had taken very well the news that Lily had accepted an
invitation to stay with the matron of the Convalescent Home for a few
days.
Poor Lily! She felt ashamed of her duplicity, for she knew, deep in her
heart, that she had no intention of coming back, at any rate for more
than a day or two, to La Solitude.
Beppo was taking the afternoon train to Italy, and it had been arranged
that the carriage which brought the Count and Countess back from seeing
their son off should take Lily and her luggage to the Convalescent Home.
While all these kindly arrangements were being made, and especially when
she heard Cristina say: “I shall miss you, Mademoiselle. Do not stay too
long away,” she felt as if she _must_ come back just for a few days. But
all that could be settled later on.
Meanwhile, she was determined to do everything in her power to make the
last hours of Beppo’s stay at La Solitude pleasant. She wanted him to
feel that she had really forgiven him that wild, strange, terrifying
scene in the mountains. So, when he asked her to take a last walk with
him, she willingly assented.
They had been out for nearly an hour, and were on their homeward way,
when they stopped a moment on a path which seemed as if cut out of the
mountain side.
Below was a sloping carpet composed of the tops of olive trees, and Lily
felt a sensation of delight come over her as she looked at the wonderful
panorama spread out before them.
“While you are at the Home,” said Beppo suddenly, “do not do what I am
told many of the English nurses did here during the war—that is, take a
walk all by yourself each afternoon. It is not safe to do so.”
“Surely you exaggerate the danger,” said Lily, smiling.
“A mysterious murder was lately committed just below the spot where we
stand,” observed Beppo impressively. “I mentioned it to mamma, who was
much upset and begged me to say nothing to papa or Cristina. So will you
keep what I am going to tell you to yourself, Lily?”
“What a dreadful thing!” exclaimed Lily.
She told herself that it really did look as if poor Mr. Ponting’s friend
had been right, and that there was a gang of bad characters—brigands, as
the Countess called them—who lay in wait for any passer-by who looked as
if he had money in his possession!
“The affair has specially impressed me,” went on Beppo, “because the man
was staying in the hotel where I stayed a couple of nights ago. It is an
hotel kept by a person in whom we Poldas have an interest, for she is
the daughter of an old servant of my grandfather.”
Lily was startled by Beppo’s words. That must, of course, be the Utrecht
Hotel, where that horrid Mr. Vissering was staying.
“It is a commercial hotel in the Condamine,” went on Beppo. “Nothing
smart about it all, but a respectable place, with a Dutch connection.”
His companion felt a sudden, unreasoning thrill of surprise and
discomfort run through her. Standing there, in the sunshine, with that
marvellous view spread out before her, it was as if she had been
suddenly borne on a magic carpet to the sordid, dirty, little
smoking-room where she had met that sinister old Dutchman! Beppo,
absorbed in himself, and in the story he was telling, did not notice the
look of apprehension which flitted across her face.
“Listen to what I am going to tell you,” he said earnestly. “It will
prove to you that my warning as to your lonely walks is by no means
foolish or exaggerated.”
He waited a moment and then went on:
“About a month ago there arrived at the Utrecht Hotel a rich Dutchman.
He had made a lot of money out of the war, and he had come to Monte
Carlo to see a little life. After a while the woman who keeps the
hotel—her name is Sansot—discovered that the old fellow had with him a
great deal, in fact an enormous lot, of money. He kept most of it on his
person, sewn into his clothes, and in deep pockets he had had specially
made for the purpose. He was a queer individual, and he did not care for
gambling, in fact he very seldom went into the Rooms at all——”
“Did you know this old man?” asked Lily in a low voice.
Beppo shook his head.
“I? Of course not! But when I went down to the Utrecht Hotel the other
evening I found the place in great commotion.”
“Why that?” asked Lily. Her voice had sunk almost to a whisper. “Has
anything happened to——” she nearly said “Mr. Vissering,” but stopped
herself in time!
Her heart was beating, she felt filled with a kind of strange shrinking
apprehension; why had Aunt Cosy and Uncle Angelo told her that lie—as to
Mr. Vissering being a business friend of Beppo’s? She longed, and yet
she feared, to hear what Beppo had still to say.
“Let me tell my story in order!” went on Beppo importantly. “About ten
days ago or so the old Dutchman disappeared. He had gone out to dinner
somewhere, and he told Mme. Sansot that he would be sure to be back
early. _But he never returned!_ Luckily for herself, the woman informed
the police the next day. She was nervous, owing to her knowledge that
the man had so much money on him—though she declares that she never told
anybody of the fact. Well, Lily, to cut a long story short, this
Dutchman’s body was found down there”—he pointed vaguely to a spot among
the tree-tops just below where they were standing.
“His body was found?” repeated Lily mechanically.
“It is probable that he had had supper in one of the villas which are
scattered about on the mountain side, but what happened there is still a
complete mystery. Perhaps his murderers followed him from the villa
where he had dined and brutally did him to death in a lonely spot, or,
if your friend Popeau is right, he was murdered in the villa and his
body conveyed to where it was found, after his death.”
“How—how terrible!” whispered Lily.
She felt as if everything was going round her, as if she was about to
faint. Her hand clutched convulsively the iron railing in front of her.
“The body was found under a heap of hurdles,” went on Beppo, “and it was
only owing to the fact that the peasant to whom these hurdles belonged
had sold them to a neighbour that the corpse did not lie there
undiscovered till next spring. Though the body was almost naked, the
clothes were neatly arranged under it. They had been ripped open and all
the money taken away!”
As Lily made no comment, he added:
“You can imagine the sensation the affair has made in the hotel! While I
was there one talked of nothing else. I myself went along to see the
Commissioner of Police, a very decent fellow named Bouton, and he told
me that there are points about the story which may make it a _cause
célèbre_.”
“What are those points?” muttered Lily.
“One curious point is that the man appears to have been drugged. If
true, that is a very curious fact, for it disposes of the idea that he
was set upon and killed by a gang of men who had never seen him before.
The object of Bouton, and of the detectives he has put on the case, is
to discover where the old fellow spent his last evening. That is still
shrouded in absolute mystery! Mme. Sansot declares that she does not
know. The Commissioner is sure she is telling the truth, but Popeau—who,
as of course you know, Lily, is a distinguished French secret agent—is
convinced that the woman _does_ know, and will not tell. He is even
inclined to believe that she knows more of the murder than she is
willing to admit. But that neither I nor mamma think likely. Altogether
it is a very exciting affair!”
Lily could not speak. Her mind was in a whirl of miserable suspicion and
questioning fear.
“Perhaps you do not realise,” went on Beppo, “that the spot where the
hideous discovery was made is only about two hundred yards from La
Solitude!”
“Surely we’re much farther off than that here!” exclaimed Lily.
“Yes, walking homeward as we are now walking, we are at least a mile
from La Solitude. But do you remember, during our first drive, how we
went by a short cut through the olive woods?”
“Yes,” remembered Lily, “I remember that.”
“The Dutchman’s body was found,” said Beppo impressively, “just above
the kind of yellow morass into which, as you may remember, our motor-car
sank.”
Lily gave a long, convulsive gasp. She saw as if it was indeed there, in
the air before her, the trolley pushed up against the inner wall of the
outhouse, with its big bicycle wheels _stained with yellow mud_.
And then, all at once, her companion saw that she was extraordinarily
disturbed. He felt both astonished and alarmed; the girl looked on the
point of fainting.
“Forgive me for telling you this horrible story!” he exclaimed. “I had
no idea it would frighten you so! And yet, Lily, I shall not be sorry
that I told you if it means that you will be careful——”
“I will be very careful,” she whispered.
And then they both turned, and walked slowly on. But so frightened, so
shaken, was she by the story she had just heard that at last she had to
take Beppo’s arm, and cling to it.
And always Lily will remember how very kind and considerate Beppo was to
her during the half-hour that followed. The young man was puzzled and
distressed. Somehow he had not realised that Lily was so sensitive! But
he knew that there are people to whom the thought of any crime of
violence is extraordinarily painful and disturbing. It was clear that
this English girl, whom in his way he so truly loved, was one of them.
And then, suddenly, Lily took a desperate resolution. She felt she could
not go back to La Solitude filled with such a hideous, agonising
suspicion.
“Beppo,” she said pleadingly, “I want you to do me a great kindness. I
want you to go on with me _now_ to the Convalescent Home, and to arrange
for my things to be sent on to me there this afternoon.”
She saw a look of surprise and discomfiture come over his face, and she
went on, hastily:
“I feel so ill—I know I’m foolish, but I can’t help it, Beppo—that story
you told me has made me feel sick and faint. If I were to go back with
you now, Aunt Cosy would feel worried, and would ask me a lot of
questions.”
He was impressed by the agitated way she spoke, and by her curious
pallor.
“I will do as you wish, Lily,” he said in a soothing tone. “I am never
at a loss for a good lie! I will say that we met one of the nurses and
that she forced you to go back with her to see a girl friend just come
out from England.”
“That will be good of you,” she murmured gratefully. She added, “Perhaps
Cristina will put the few things I have out in my room in my trunk. It
was arranged that the carriage which brings your father and mother back
from the station should come on to the Home.”
“Yes, that will be quite all right!” said Beppo cheerfully. “But, Lily,
only one thing troubles me—are you fit for that further big walk?”
“Yes, I am quite fit for it,” said Lily.
She straightened herself, already feeling better and calmer. And, as she
walked slowly on, she told herself how amazed she would have been two
days ago had an angel descended from heaven and told her that a time
would soon, very soon, come when her heart would be filled, not only
with affectionate gratitude, but also with the deepest pity, towards
Beppo Polda.
Then she strove to fix her mind on the real foundation for her wild,
disordered thoughts and horrible suspicions. She longed to be alone,
free to think things over. But still, deep in her heart, she felt she
_knew_ now that the Count and Countess Polda were cold-blooded
murderers....
It was impossible for Beppo Polda to remain silent for any length of
time, and during that last half-hour they spent together he talked a
great deal, trying to tell Lily things that he thought would interest
her about his English friends in Rome. And she answered him with a word
now and again, her heart wrung with pain for the man by her side, as
there crowded on her memory many of the little scenes of the last ten
days—Aunt Cosy’s pride and delight in her handsome, good-humoured,
attractive son—Beppo’s pretty, caressing ways to his mother and to
Cristina.
Cristina? Lily remembered the old woman’s strange and awful
self-accusations. Cristina surely—surely was a good woman?
“Beppo,” she said suddenly, “I wish you would tell me something about
Cristina.”
“About Cristina?” To her surprise he looked disturbed and uncomfortable.
“What is it you want to know, Lily?”
“What sort of people did she come from originally? She is so unlike what
I should have supposed servants of her class in Italy or France to be.”
“You have asked me a question, and I will answer it truly, Lily.” He
spoke very seriously. “Cristina is not what she seems.”
Lily turned and looked at him. She felt surprised, even startled. For a
moment she forgot the terrible thoughts which had been filling her mind.
What took their place was an overwhelming curiosity.
“Cristina,” said Beppo deliberately, “is not a servant. She is my
father’s sister—not, as mamma probably told you, his foster-sister.”
As an exclamation of astonishment escaped Lily he went on: “That woman
is an angel! She adores my father, she adores me! When many years ago,
papa lost his fortune, and my parents were in very truth terribly poor,
my Aunt Cristina offered to come and live with them literally as their
servant. Time went on, and we became gradually less pinched. To do mamma
justice, she then desired that Cristina should take her proper place in
the family. But Cristina refused! She preferred what she calls her
independence. It is no secret to you, I feel sure, that she does not
like my mother—would that she did! But there it is. They are too utterly
different to like one another.”
Lily was amazed by what she had heard—amazed, and then, quickly, there
was added a feeling of trouble and dismay to her amazement.
“I suppose,” said Beppo slowly, “that you are very much surprised,
Lily?”
She drew a long breath. “Yes,” she said dully. “I am very much
surprised—and yet in a sense, Beppo, I am not surprised at all.”
The truth escaped her in spite of herself. Whatever there was to know,
_Cristina surely knew_.
“I have told you this, Lily,” said Beppo impressively, “because to you I
will not lie. The only person now living who knows the truth is the
Marchesa Pescobaldi. Her family and mine were friends through
generations, so she has always known the strange story of Aunt
Cristina.”
As he spoke there came back to Lily the curious, ambiguous words the
Marchesa had used as to Cristina being a noble woman and doing what she
did for the sake of Beppo. Had she done a great deal else, which neither
Beppo nor anybody else in the world but she, Lily, suspected—also for
the sake of Beppo?
They were now close to the entrance of the Home, though still out in the
open road.
“Beppo,” said Lily very gently, “I should like to say good-bye to you
here.”
“Certainly, if you wish it,” he said, and then he added: “Forgive me for
saying I hope you will not go in and begin work at once. You do not know
how ill and tired you look, Lily. I shall never forgive myself for
having told you that horrible tale!”
“I know you meant it in all kindness,” she said.
And then, all at once, she added something which astonished the young
man, for, “I’ve changed my mind,” she said tremulously. “I’d rather you
came with me through the grounds to the front door. I feel so
frightened, Beppo.”
“But of course!” he said quickly. “I am enchanted to be in your company
a little longer!”
They walked up through some beautiful flowering shrubs till they stood
at the door of the house. A few moments later it was opened by the
matron.
She uttered an exclamation of surprise.
“I thought you wouldn’t mind my coming rather earlier than I said,” said
Lily. “My luggage will be sent on this afternoon.”
She turned round, and held out her hand to Beppo Polda. He took it in
his. “Good-bye!” he said. “Good-bye, Lily—or rather—I should say au
revoir.”
“Good-bye,” she repeated. And then she lifted up her face and, with a
surprise which his good breeding enabled him completely to conceal, he
realised that she expected him to bend down and kiss her, in front of
the Englishwoman who stood by, looking at them curiously.
He did kiss her—he kissed her as an affectionate brother would have
done. “Thank you, Lily!” he whispered.
He felt very much moved and touched. She was an angel after all! But
deep in his heart he realised something else—that this was to be their
final parting—that she did not intend that they should meet again.
He turned away, and Lily walked through into the hall.
“Is anything the matter?” asked the matron uneasily. “You look very ill,
Miss Fairfield. You look——”
She took hold of the girl’s hand and brought her gently forward to a
window.
“You look, my dear, as if you’d had a shock! Has anything happened?”
“I have had a shock,” said Lily dully. “But I can’t tell you what gave
it me. It isn’t my secret. It’s because I feel so queer and ill that I
came here earlier than I meant to do.”
“You did quite right! And now you had better go straight to bed. I’ll
send you up a little lunch on a tray.”
And then Lily began to cry—very quietly.
These kindly, commonplace words reminded her of Aunt Emmeline, and her
old untroubled life in England, which now seemed so infinitely far away.
There are hours in life when everything but one central, concrete point
of fear, suspense, or pain, disappears into nothingness. As a rule this
state of mind lasts but a little while. If it goes on too long it kills
the human being experiencing it, or breaks down the frail barriers
between sanity and insanity.
As she lay in bed all through the afternoon which followed her walk with
Beppo Polda, Lily Fairfield felt as if she were going mad. She asked
herself, indeed, if the awful thoughts and suspicions which crowded her
brain were not, in very truth, a proof that her brain had given way, and
caused her to become suddenly insane.
Horrible images haunted her mind. She thought of La Solitude, that
sinister, lonely house, as being full of the ghosts of those who there
had met with a hideous death.
Deep in her heart she knew that the Countess Polda had used her as a
catspaw, and once she heard herself say quite out loud: “Aunt Cosy
killed George Ponting, and she killed Mr. Vissering, and each time I
helped!”
Her thoughts took another turn. What ought she to do? Was it her duty to
betray Beppo’s father and mother? Nothing could bring George Ponting or
the old Dutchman back to life. On the other hand, how prevent the Count
and Countess having new victims?
There floated hazily through her mind a memory—a memory of having been
told a strange and frightening story of how a woman who was suspected of
having committed two murders was stopped, when on the eve of a third
crime, by receiving an anonymous letter, warning her that if she ever
committed a third murder she would be arrested. Could she, Lily, do
something of the kind with regard to Aunt Cosy?
At last, most mercifully, everything about her became shadowy,
indistinct, and she fell asleep.
“Would you like to come down to supper, Miss Fairfield?”
She turned on the electric light—a bright, good light, very unlike the
guttering candles of La Solitude.
She sat up, and looked about her. On a table lay her hat, and with the
sight of her hat she suddenly remembered—she could not have told you
why—M. Popeau.
These people were very kind, but Papa Popeau was her friend, her dear,
kind, clever friend. He was leaving Monte Carlo to-night, but late,
quite late—she knew that. Why not go to him _now_, and put her
suspicions, her almost certainties, before him?
Before doing so she would make him promise to forget that he had
anything to do with the police. She would tell him that if he could not
make her that promise then she could not ask him for advice. But she
felt sure he would understand.
As for Angus, she did not want to bring him into this terrible business
at all. There would be plenty of time to tell him everything afterwards.
Everything? No, not everything. She would never, never let him know that
poor George Ponting had stayed on that night simply because it was a
pleasure to him to meet an English girl.
And never, never would she let anyone know either about that horrible
old man, Mr. Vissering! She knew—she had always known—that he had come
up to La Solitude on that fatal night because he wanted to see her
again, and for no other reason.
She went downstairs and then it was as if things were being made easy
for her. The matron, on hearing that she wanted to get into Monte Carlo,
told her that the motor was going in there to meet a train. But did she
feel really well enough for the little expedition?
And Lily said yes, she was all right now, and that it was on really
important business that she wanted to see a friend at the Hôtel de
Paris.