The Rivals
The warmth with which Barbara greeted me when I made my first
appearance at her flat struck me as rather pathetic, and for the first
time I seemed to understand what it was that had induced her to marry
Harold Monkhouse. She was not a solitary woman by nature and she had
never been used to a solitary existence. When Stella’s death had
broken up her home and left her with no intimate friend in the world
but me, I had been too much taken up with my own bereavement to give
much consideration to her. But now, as she stood before me in her
pretty sitting room, holding both my hands and smiling her welcome, it
was suddenly borne in on me that her state was rather forlorn in spite
of her really comfortable means. Indeed, my heart prompted me to some
demonstrations of affection and I was restrained only by the caution
of a confirmed bachelor. For Barbara was now a widow; and even while
my sympathy with my almost life-long friend tempted me to pet her a
little, some faint echoes of Mr. Tony Weller’s counsels bade me
beware.
“You are quite an anchoress here, Barbara,” I said, “though you have a
mighty comfortable cell. I see you have a new maid, too. I should have
thought you would have brought Mabel with you.”
“She wouldn’t come—naturally. She said she preferred to go and live
among strangers and forget what had happened at Hilborough Square.
Poor Mabel! She was very brave and good, but it was a terrible
experience for her.”
“Do you know what has become of her?”
“No. She has disappeared completely. Of course, she has never applied
for a reference.”
“Why ‘of course’?”
“My dear Rupert,” she replied a little bitterly, “do you suppose that
she would want to advertise her connection with Mrs. Harold
Monkhouse?”
“No, I suppose she would be likely to exaggerate the publicity of the
affair, as I think you do. And how is Madeline? I rather expected that
you and she would have shared a flat. Why didn’t you?”
Barbara was disposed to be evasive. “I don’t know,” she replied, “that
the plan commended itself to either of us. We have our separate
interests, you know. At any rate, she never made any such suggestion
and neither did I.”
“Do you ever see Wallingford now?” I asked.
“Indeed, I do,” she replied; “in fact I have had to hint to him that
he mustn’t call too frequently. One must consider appearances, and,
until I spoke, he was here nearly every day. But I hated doing it.”
“Still, Barbara, it was very necessary. It would be so in the case of
any young woman; but in your case—er—especially so.”
I broke off awkwardly, not liking to say exactly what was in my mind.
For, of course, in the atmosphere of suspicion which hung about him,
his frequent visits would be a source of real danger. No motive for
the murder had yet been suggested. It would be a disaster if his folly
were to create the false appearance of one. But, as I have said, I
shrank from pointing this out, though I think she understood what was
in my mind, for she discreetly ignored the abrupt finish of my
sentence and continued:
“Poor Tony! He is so very self-centred and he seems so dependent on
me. And really, Rupert, I am a good deal concerned about him.”
“Why?” I asked, rather unsympathetically.
“He is getting so queer. He was always rather odd, as you know, but
this trouble seems to be quite upsetting his balance. I am afraid he
is getting delusions—and yet, in a way, I hope that he is.”
“What do you mean? What sort of delusions?”
“He imagines that he is being followed and watched. It is a perfect
obsession, especially since that superintendent man called on him and
cross-questioned him. But I don’t think I told you about that.”
“No, you did not,” said I, quite truthfully, but with an uncomfortable
feeling that I was indirectly telling a lie.
“Well, it seems that this man, Miller, called at his rooms—so you see
he knew where Tony was living—and, according to Tony’s account,
extracted by all sorts of dreadful threats, a full confession of the
means by which he obtained that cocaine.”
“And how did he obtain it?”
“Oh, he just bought it at a wholesale druggist’s. Rather casual of the
druggist to have supplied him, I think, but still, he needn’t have
made such a secret of it. However, since then he has been possessed by
this obsession. He imagines that he is constantly under observation.
He thinks that some man hangs about near his rooms and watches his
comings and goings and follows him about whenever he goes abroad. I
suppose there can’t be anything in it?”
“Of course not. The police have something better to do than spend
their time shadowing harmless idiots. Why on earth should they shadow
him? If they have any suspicions of him, those suspicions relate to
the past, not to the present.”
“But I don’t think Tony connects these watchers with the police. I
fancy he suspects them of being agents of Dr. Thorndyke. You remember
that he was suspicious and uneasy about Dr. Thorndyke from the first;
and I know that he suspects him of having set the superintendent on
him about the cocaine.”
“The deuce he does!” I exclaimed, a little startled. “Have you any
idea what makes him suspect Thorndyke of that?”
“He says that the superintendent accepted his statement at the time
when the cocaine was found, or at least, did not seem disposed to
press him on the question as to where he obtained it, and that this
inquisition occurred only after you had put the case in Dr.
Thorndyke’s hands.”
I reflected on this statement with some surprise. Of course,
Wallingford was quite right, as I knew from first-hand knowledge. But
how had he arrived at this belief? Was it a mere guess, based on his
evident prejudice against Thorndyke? or had he something to go on? And
was it possible that his other suspicions might be correct? Could it
be that Thorndyke was really keeping him under observation? I could
imagine no object for such a proceeding. But Thorndyke’s methods were
so unlike those of the police or of any one else that it was idle to
speculate on what he might do; and his emphatic advice to Miller
showed that he regarded Wallingford at least with some interest.
“Well, Barbara,” I said, mentally postponing the problem for future
consideration, “let us forget Wallingford and everybody else. What are
we going to do this afternoon? Is there a matinée that we could go to,
or shall we go and hear some music?”
“No, Rupert,” she replied. “I don’t want any theatres or music. I can
have those when you are not here. Let us go and walk about Kensington
Gardens and gossip as we used to in the old days. But we have a little
business to discuss first. Let us get that finished and then we can
put it away and be free. You were going to advise me about the house
in Hilborough Square. My own feeling is that I should like to sell it
and have done with it once for all.”
“I shouldn’t do that, Barbara,” said I. “It is a valuable property,
but just at present its value is depreciated. It would be difficult to
dispose of at anything like a reasonable price until recent events
have been forgotten. The better plan would be to let it at a low rent
for a year or two.”
“But would anybody take it?”
“Undoubtedly, if the rent were low enough. Leave it to Brodribb and me
to manage. You needn’t come into the matter at all beyond signing the
lease. Is the house in fairly good repair?”
“Most of it is, but there are one or two rooms that will need
redecorating, particularly poor Harold’s. That had to be left when the
other rooms were done because he refused to be disturbed. It is in a
very dilapidated state. The paint is dreadfully shabby and the paper
is positively dropping off the walls in places. I daresay you remember
its condition.”
“I do, very well, seeing that I helped Madeline to paste some of the
loose pieces back in their places. But we needn’t go into details now.
I will go and look over the house and see what is absolutely necessary
to make the place presentable. Who has the keys?”
“I have the latch-keys. The other keys are inside the house.”
“And I suppose you don’t wish to inspect the place yourself?”
“No. I do not. I wish never to set eyes upon that house again.”
She unlocked a little bureau, and taking a bunch of latch-keys from
one of the drawers handed it to me. Then she went away to put on her
out-door clothes.
Left alone in the room, I sauntered round and inspected Barbara’s new
abode, noting how, already, it seemed to reflect in some indefinable
way the personality of the tenant. It is this sympathetic quality in
human dwelling-places which gives its special charm and interest to a
room in which some person of character has lived and worked, and
which, conversely, imparts such deadly dulness to the “best room” in
which no one is suffered to distribute the friendly, humanizing
litter, and which is jealously preserved, with all its lifeless
ornamentation—its unenjoyed pictures and its unread books—intact and
undefiled by any traces of human occupation. The furniture of this
room was mostly familiar to me, for it was that of the old boudoir.
There was the little piano, the two cosy armchairs, the open
book-shelves with their array of well-used books, the water-colours on
the walls, and above the chimney-piece, the little portrait of Stella
with the thin plait of golden hair bordering the frame.
I halted before it and gazed at the beloved face which seemed to look
out at me with such friendly recognition, and let my thoughts drift
back into the pleasant old times and stray into those that might have
been if death had mercifully passed by this sweet maid and left me the
one companion that my heart yearned for. Now that time had softened my
passionate grief into a tender regret, I could think of her with a
sort of quiet detachment that was not without its bitter-sweet
pleasure. I could let myself speculate on what my life might have been
if she had lived, and what part she would have played in it; questions
that, strangely enough, had never arisen while she was alive.
I was so immersed in my reverie that I did not hear Barbara come into
the room, and the first intimation that I had of her presence was when
I felt her hand slip quietly into mine. I turned to look at her and
met her eyes, brimming with tears, fixed on me with an expression of
such unutterable sadness that, in a moment, my heart leaped out to
her, borne on a wave of sympathy and pity which swept away all my
caution and reserve. Forgetful of everything but her loneliness and
the grief which we shared, I drew her to me and kissed her. It seemed
the natural thing to do and I felt that she understood, though she
flushed warmly and the tears started from her eyes so that she must
needs wipe them away. Then she looked at me with the faintest, most
pathetic little smile and without a word, we turned together and
walked out of the room.
Barbara was, as I have said, a rather inscrutable and extremely
self-contained woman, but she could be, on occasions, a very
delightful companion. And so I found her to-day. At first a little
pensive and silent, she presently warmed up into a quite unwonted
gaiety and chatted so pleasantly and made so evident her pleasure at
having me back that I yearned no more for the Bar Mess but was able to
forget the horrors and anxieties of the past and give myself up to the
very agreeable present.
I have seldom spent a more enjoyable afternoon. Late autumn as it was,
the day was mild and sunny, the sky of that wonderful tender, misty
blue that is the peculiar glory of London. And the gardens, too,
though they were beginning to take on their winter garb, had not yet
quite lost their autumnal charm. Still, on the noble elms, thin as
their raiment was growing, the golden and russet foliage lingered, and
the leaves that they had already shed remained to clothe the earth
with a many-coloured carpet.
We had crossed the gardens by some of the wider paths and had turned
into one of the pleasant by-paths when Barbara, spying a seat set back
between a couple of elms, suggested that we should rest for a few
minutes before recrossing the gardens to go forth in search of tea.
Accordingly we sat down, sheltered on either side by the great boles
of the elms and warmed by the rays of the late afternoon sun; but we
had been seated hardly a minute when the peace and forgetfulness that
had made our ramble so delightful were dissipated in a moment by an
apparition on the wide path that we had just left.
I was the first to observe it. Glancing back through the interval
between the elm on my left and another at a little distance, I noticed
a man coming toward us. My attention was first drawn to him by his
rather singular behaviour. He seemed to be dividing his attention
between something that was ahead of him and something behind. But I
had taken no special note of him until I saw him step, with a rather
absurd air of secrecy and caution, behind a tree-trunk and peer round
it along the way that he had come. After keeping a look-out in this
fashion for nearly a minute, apparently without result, he backed away
from the tree and came forward at a quick pace, peering eagerly ahead
and on both sides and pausing now and again to cast a quick look back
over his shoulder. I drew Barbara’s attention to him, remarking:
“There is a gentleman who seems to be afflicted with Wallingford’s
disease. He is trying to look all round the compass at once.”
Barbara looked at the man, watching his movements for a time with a
faint smile. But suddenly the smile faded and she exclaimed:
“Why, I believe it _is_ Tony! Yes, I am sure it is.”
And Tony it was. I recognized him almost as soon as she spoke. He came
on now at a quick pace and seemed in a hurry either to escape from
what he supposed to be behind him or to overtake whatever was in
front. He had apparently not seen us, for though we must have been
visible to him—or we could not have seen him—we were rendered
inconspicuous by the two trees between which we sat. Presently he
disappeared as the nearer elm-trunk hid him from our view, and I
waited with half-amused annoyance for him to reappear.
“What a nuisance he is!” said Barbara. “Disturbing our peaceful
tête-à-tête. But he won’t freeze on to us. He would rather forego my
much desired society than put up with yours.” She laughed softly and
added in a thoughtful tone: “I wonder what he is doing here.”
I had been wondering that, myself. Kensington Gardens were quite near
to Barbara’s flat, but they were a long way from Jermyn Street. It was
certainly odd that he should be here and on this day of all days. But
at this point my reflections were interrupted by the appearance of
their subject from behind the big elm-trunk.
He came on us suddenly and was quite close before he saw us. When he
did see us, however, he stopped short within a few paces of us,
regarding us with a wild stare. It was the first time that I had seen
him since the funeral; and certainly his appearance had not improved
in the interval. There was something neglected and dishevelled in his
aspect that was distinctly suggestive of drink or drugs. But what
principally struck me was the expression of furious hate with which he
glared at me. There was no mistaking it. Whatever might be the cause,
there could be no doubt that he regarded me with almost murderous
animosity. He remained in this posture only for a few seconds. Then,
as Barbara had begun to utter a few words of greeting, he raised his
hat and strode away without a word.
Barbara looked at his retreating figure with a vexed smile.
“Silly fellow!” she exclaimed. “He is angry that I have come out to
spend a few hours with my oldest friend, and shows it like a
bad-mannered child. I wish he would behave more like an ordinary
person.”
“You can hardly expect him to behave like what he is not,” I said.
“Besides, a very ordinary man may feel jealous at seeing another man
admitted to terms of intimacy, which are denied to him, with the woman
to whom he is specially attached. For I suppose, Barbara, we may take
it that that is the position?”
“I suppose so,” she admitted. “He is certainly very devoted to me, and
I am afraid he is rather jealous of you.”
As she spoke, I looked at her and could not but feel a faint sympathy
with Wallingford. She was really a very handsome woman; and to-day she
was not only looking her best; she seemed, in some mysterious way to
have grown younger, more girlish. The rather sombre gravity of the
last few years seemed to be quite dissipated since we had left the
flat, and much of the charm of her youth had come back to her.
“He looked more than rather jealous,” said I. “Venomous hatred was
what I read in his face. Do you think he has anything against me other
than my position as his rival in your affections?”
“Yes, I do. He is mortally afraid of you. He believes that you suspect
him of having, at least had a hand in poor Harold’s death and that you
have set Dr. Thorndyke to track him down and bring the crime home to
him. And his terror of Dr. Thorndyke is positively an insane
obsession.”
I was by no means so sure of this, but I said nothing, and she
continued:
“I suppose you don’t know whether Dr. Thorndyke does really look on
him with any suspicion? To me the idea is preposterous. Indeed, I find
it impossible to believe that there was any crime at all. I am
convinced that poor Harold was the victim of some strange accident.”
“I quite agree with you, Barbara. That is exactly my own view. But I
don’t think it is Thorndyke’s. As to whom he suspects—if he suspects
anybody—I have not the faintest idea. He is a most extraordinarily
close and secretive man. No one ever knows what is in his mind until
the very moment when he strikes. And he never does strike until he has
his case so complete that he can take it into court with the certainty
of getting a conviction, or an acquittal, as the case may be.”
“But I suppose there are mysteries that elude even his skill?”
“No doubt there are; and I am not sure that our mystery is not one of
them. Even Thorndyke can’t create evidence, and as he pointed out to
me, the evidence in our case lies in the past and is mostly
irrecoverable.”
“I hope it is not entirely irrecoverable,” said she; “for until some
reasonable solution of the mystery is reached, an atmosphere of
suspicion will continue to hang about all the inmates of that house.
So let us wish Dr. Thorndyke his usual success; and when he has proved
that no one was guilty—which I am convinced is the fact—perhaps poor
Tony will forgive him.”
With this, we dismissed the subject, and, getting up from the seat,
made our way out of the gardens just as the sun was setting behind the
trees, and went in search of a suitable tea-shop. And there we
lingered gossiping until the evening was well advanced and it was time
for me to see Barbara home to her flat and betake myself to Fig Tree
Court and make some pretence of doing an evening’s work.