Mr. Peter Johnson, on the following morning, was indulging in the
harmless occupation of practising mashie shots with a dozen golf balls
over some shrubs upon the front lawn of the Great House, when Morton,
his newly engaged butler who had arrived a few days before from a
registry office at Norwich, sallied through the garden door, followed by
a young lady. Mr. Johnson promptly abandoned his diversion and came
forward.
"Miss Besant to see you, sir," the servant announced.
Mr. Johnson, without committing himself to speech, exhibited a certain
measure of cordiality. He held out a welcoming hand, which, after a
moment's hesitation, the girl accepted.
"I must apologise for coming in like this, Mr. Johnson," she said.
"Madame De Fourgenet, the lady to whom I am companion, insisted upon
it."
"I beg that you will not apologise," was the civil reply. "I am very
glad to see you. You are my opposite neighbour then, it seems."
"We live at the Little House," the young lady assented. "For over a
year--all the time that the place has been empty, in fact--your
gardener, Smith, has been accustomed to assist our one servant for half
an hour each day, cutting wood or something of that sort. Madame has the
strongest objection to having a stranger in the house, or even in the
garden, and she sent me across to ask whether it were possible to make
any arrangement by which we could continue to have the services of Smith
for that time each day."
Mr. Johnson made no immediate reply. He was exceedingly interested in
the young lady, and he seemed to be carrying out a line of thought with
regard to her. From the moment of her appearance her expression had not
changed. Her tone, which was level and indifferent, was the tone of a
person who had no concern in what she said; she spoke mechanically, as
though choosing the readiest words with the sole object of concluding an
unavoidable task. She was tall, inclined to be of full figure, paler
than she ought to have been, living in the country, with eyes which
seemed seldom fully open, masses of light brown hair brushed back from
her forehead, and a mouth whose discontented corners gave to her
expression a weary, almost a petulant note. No ordinary person, an
admirer of the sex, studying her as she had crossed the lawn, would
probably have troubled to look at her again; Mr. Johnson, however, was
not an ordinary person. It was one of his gifts to appreciate people for
what they were, not for what they seemed to be. He realised that there
were certain exceptional characteristics about the young woman who stood
waiting for his reply.
"Please don't hesitate to say so," she went on, half turning away, "if
you think Madame's request unreasonable. I really don't see myself why
you should consent. I am simply the bearer of a message."
"My dear young lady, pray sit down," Mr. Johnson invited, pushing a
wicker chair towards her. "Please assure Madame--I fear that her name is
a little beyond me--that I should be very glad indeed for Smith to
continue to render her the services which he has hitherto performed."
"As to remuneration," she began----
Mr. Johnson waved his hand.
"Pray settle that with the man himself," he begged. "I shall allow him
his half an hour off each day--he has an under gardener and can spare
the time. It is only a neighbourly action. Anything Madame may choose to
give him is no concern of mine."
"You are very kind," she said doubtfully, "but I do not think that
Madame will care to accept the man's services in your time without
seeing that you are recompensed."
"Make your own arrangements then," he suggested. "The matter is scarcely
worth serious discussion."
The young woman rose.
"You are very kind," she repeated. "You must excuse my having come to
see you in this informal fashion. It was Madame's desire, and I have to
obey orders."
"I will excuse it, my dear young lady," he declared, "on one condition."
"Condition?"
"That you sit down and talk to me for a minute or two."
"Why should I do that?" she asked, with a querulous uplifting of the
eyebrows, which he had already noticed were very fine and silky.
"Because we are neighbours," he replied. "Because I have just returned
to this country after many years spent abroad, and I am at times lonely.
Because I am quite sure that Madame can spare you for half an hour, and
because--here is a great idea--if I let you have my gardener for half an
hour, why shouldn't Madame, as you call her, let me have her companion
for the same length of time?"
She looked at him with mild curiosity. Her self-possession was so marked
as to indicate indifference.
"Is it my fancy," she asked, "or are you rather a strange person?"
"I like to talk," he confided. "All my life I have had to live amongst
silent people. That is finished. Agreeable society is one of the things
to which I have looked forward upon my return to England."
"Then why on earth did you come to Market Ballaston?" she demanded, with
unexpected vehemence. "You won't find any society here. Why did you
come? Why did you choose this place?"
She had without warning adopted an almost inquisitive tone, but his eyes
met hers steadily. He seemed to be trying to divine her sudden access of
interest.
"I came," he explained, "because I like a large house and gardens, when
I can afford them, and this place is very cheap. I had to settle down
somewhere, and this neighbourhood is as good as any other. As to the
people--well, if there is no one here who wants to be friendly, I must
make the best of it. I have been abroad for a great many years, but I
have a few friends left who will find me out in time."
The little spark of interest seemed to have entirely died out of her
manner.
"I see," she murmured. "The house certainly is a pleasant one. We
scarcely expected, though, to see it let so soon."
"Why not?"
"People have ideas. You know the story of the last tenant here?"
"I heard it after I had taken the house," he confided.
She pointed to the library window on the ground floor.
"He was shot one night in the study there," she told him.
"Terrible! And what seems more terrible still, I understand that the
murderer was never caught. Surely some one must have been suspected."
The girl shrugged her shoulders. She had accepted one of her companion's
cigarettes and was smoking lazily and with a certain measure of content.
"I think," she said, "that every one in the village has been suspected,
including Mr. Wilkinson the clergyman, myself, every one up at the Hall
and all the servants. The hard thing, however, has always been to
discover any possible motive."
"Nothing was taken from the room then, I suppose?" he enquired.
"Nothing that could be traced. Nothing apparently of any value. Mr.
Endacott had been occupied in the translation of some wonderful Chinese
manuscripts at the time the affair happened. The box containing them was
upset and the manuscripts were all over the place, but no one could tell
if any were missing, or if they were of any real value. Even his niece,
Miss Endacott, who ought to have known, had nothing whatever to say."
"What sort of a man was this predecessor of mine?" he asked.
"He had been a great scholar in his day," she answered, a little
doubtfully, "but really I only saw him once or twice. Some of the papers
called him the greatest living authority on Chinese art and antiquities.
He had spent nearly all his life out there."
"Of cheerful disposition?"
"Not very. He was exceedingly reserved and seemed all the time engrossed
in his work. He chose this part of the world, I think, to be near
Madame, but, considering that they were brother and sister, he saw very
little of her."
"And the young lady--his niece?"
"She was very attractive--I suppose you might say beautiful," was the
somewhat cold reply. "She left soon after the inquest and hasn't
returned yet. She is coming to stay with Madame, I believe, very
shortly."
"A most mysterious affair!" Mr. Johnson reflected. "Yet I dare say, if
one knew where to start, the solution would be very simple. Now,
supposing, Miss Besant, any one were to offer you the thing you most
desired in life to discover who fired that shot, where should you start
your investigations?"
She turned her head and looked at him. The sleepy droop of her eyelids
had for a moment gone, and he saw that her eyes themselves were
beautiful.
"I have not the faintest idea," she assured him. "Nature never meant me
for a detective. I have too little imagination."
There was a brief silence. The young lady began to make preparations for
departure.
"Tell me," her companion ventured; "now that I am settling down here, I
should like to be neighbourly. It is, of course, impossible for Madame
to come and see me--would it be possible for me to call upon her?"
"In a general way," she replied, after a moment's hesitation, "I should
have told you at once that it was altogether impossible. Madame detests
visitors--the outer gate is generally kept locked as a hint--but
curiously enough, she has shown the utmost interest in your coming. She
will bombard me with questions when I return. Unless what I say
satisfies her, it is very possible that she may consent to receive your
visit. Although," she added, "you won't get much amusement out of it."
"In any case," he said, "I hope before long that Madame may require some
other trifling service and that you will again be her ambassadress."
She left him, vouchsafing only the most casual of farewells, and passing
round the corner of the house without a backward glance. Mr. Johnson
watched her every step. An ordinary young woman without a doubt, wearing
ordinary clothes, saying ordinary things, and with an unusual gift for
concealment. Yet there was something in her very reticence which had its
allurement. Mr. Johnson, who was not a profound psychologist, although
he had always understood the men with whom he had had to deal, had a
flash of inspiration. She was ordinary, just as she was
reticent--because she was, by temperament, or circumstance, intensely
self-possessive. He came to the conclusion, as he returned to his
unaccustomed pursuit, and fluffed mashie shot after mashie shot, that
there existed a Miss Besant at present entirely unrevealed.
* * * * *
At precisely half-past three o'clock that afternoon there occurred what
was looked upon almost as a pageant in the village. With great ceremony
the very fine gates leading to the Hall were thrown open by the lodge
keeper, and, in the small old-fashioned brougham which only left the
Ballaston stables three or four times a year, drawn by a couple of dark
bay horses, whose sides shone like satin and whose harness glittered
from every point of view in iridescent splendour, Mr. Henry Ballaston,
on behalf of the family, came to call upon the newcomer at the Great
House. From the lodge gates onward the progress of the seldom seen
lesser autocrat of the village and neighbourhood was something like a
royal procession. The tradesmen hastened to their shop windows to
perform their salutes, the roadmender stood, bare-headed, looking
downward as one receiving a blessing. The solitary occupant of the
brougham sat with expressionless face, his hand raised all the time to
his hat. It was impressive and distinctly a survival.
Arrived at the somewhat inhospitable-looking gates of solid oak which
formed the entrance to the Great House, the footman sprang to the ground
and drew from its resting place amongst the ivy the knob of the
seldom-used bell. The gates were thrown open. Morton received the
visitor at the front door and escorted him to where his master lay
stretched in a basket chair under a cedar tree at the farthest corner of
the lawn.
"Mr. Henry Ballaston, sir," he announced.
Peter Johnson stumbled to his feet and Henry Ballaston removed his hat
in courtly and formal salute. He was strangely dressed for the country,
in a black cut away coat and grey checked trousers. The shape of his
collar belonged to a past generation. He wore a black satin tie folded
over and secured by a pearl pin, a bowler hat carried now in his hand,
and grey suède gloves.
"You are, I presume," he said, withdrawing the glove from his right hand
before extending it, "our new neighbour, Mr. Johnson. I have called on
behalf of my brother and myself for the purpose of welcoming you to this
neighbourhood."
Mr. Johnson took the outstretched hand and released it almost at once.
Here was a man, he decided, after his own heart--a man difficult to
read, of immense reticences.
"It is very kind of you to come," he said. "I am sure I scarcely
expected it. I have been given to understand that neither you nor your
brother pay many visits."
"I am afraid," Henry Ballaston assented, accepting the chair which
Morton had brought out, "that we are both a little neglectful of our
duties in that respect. You are so near a neighbour, however, that I
permitted myself the pleasure of devoting a spare half-hour to making
your acquaintance."
"Very kind of you, I am sure," Mr. Johnson repeated. "Fine old property,
yours."
"Ballaston Hall has many points of interest," the other admitted. "I
trust that we may soon have the pleasure of seeing you there. My
brother," he added, with a little sigh, "finds many calls upon his time.
He is Chairman of the Quarter Sessions, Lord Lieutenant of the County,
and he takes some interest in the political activities of our Member. He
is, furthermore, Master of the Hounds here, as I dare say you know. He
desired me to say, however, that he should look forward to the pleasure
of making your acquaintance.--You yourself are agreeably housed here."
"I like the place," its tenant admitted. "In many respects it suits me
admirably."
"I find it interesting and also laudable," Henry Ballaston observed--"as
no doubt do many other of your neighbours--that you were not deterred
from taking up your residence here on account of the tragedy--the
unfortunate accident--which befell the late owner of the house."
Mr. Johnson looked for a moment steadily across the iron fence close to
which they were seated. It was a typically restful summer afternoon.
From the distance came the soothing sound of a grass-cutting machine.
There was a murmur of bees amongst the roses, the faintest rustle of
west wind amongst the shrubs. All the time those cold blue eyes watched
him. There was no sign of anxiety or even of interest in Henry
Ballaston's expressionless face. His attitude remained stiff and formal.
His eyes never wavered in their steadfast gaze.
"I was not told of the incident to which you refer," Mr. Johnson
confided, "until after I had signed the contract. But, in any case, I
don't know that it would have made any difference. The quiet of this
place soothes me. To one who has lived a busy life in foreign cities,
there is a great attraction in the peaceful outlook of a village like
this."
"That is easily comprehensible," Henry Ballaston admitted judicially.
"Still there are many country places with attractions more obvious than
Market Ballaston can offer. Golf links in the immediate vicinity, for
instance; shooting or hunting."
"That may be so," the other agreed. "My life, however, has been too busy
a one to cultivate any taste for such things. I understand there are
excellent golf links in the neighbourhood, if later on I find it
necessary to seek amusement outside my gardens. Shooting, after a
fashion, I have at times indulged in. I gather, however, that there is
none to let within reasonable distance."
"No Ballaston shooting has been let for many years," was the somewhat
stiff reply. "From what part of the world, might I ask, Mr. Johnson, do
you come?"
"From all quarters of it. I am by birth an American, but I have
travelled a great deal of recent years. The English life is almost
unknown to me. It is, perhaps, for that reason that I appreciate these
surroundings."
Henry Ballaston nodded gravely.
"I trust," he said, "that you will find all your expectations realised.
It is a surprise to me," he added, "to learn that you are of American
birth. Your accent would not betray the fact."
"I left America," Mr. Johnson explained, "when I was nineteen years old,
and I have only once returned to New York. Since then I have learned to
speak many languages. My business has required it. As regards the
tragedy to which you have alluded," he went on, after a momentary pause,
"although having settled here I shall not allow myself to be disturbed
by it, I will confess that the story I was told last evening of the
murder in my library was rather a shock. Abroad we have always had a
very high opinion of the British detective service. It seems incredible
that in a small place like this such a crime should remain undetected."
"It is, I believe," was the cold admission, "a circumstance without
precedent."
"I gather that no clue or motive of any sort has been discovered?" Mr.
Johnson persisted. "From all that one can hear, the murdered man appears
to have been an entirely harmless individual and his belongings not in
the least likely to attract the ordinary type of criminal."
"There are other of your neighbours," Henry Ballaston surmised, with
marked aloofness, "who can tell you much more of the affair. So far as I
am concerned, it remains only an unpleasant memory.--We hope very
much--my brother and I--Mr. Johnson, that you will give us the pleasure
of your company at luncheon at the Hall."
"You are very kind, I am sure."
"If agreeable to you, and if you will pardon the short notice, we will
say to-morrow at one o'clock," the visitor suggested, rising. "My nephew
is at home for a short time before proceeding abroad. Otherwise we shall
be alone.--Once more, Mr. Johnson, I bid you welcome and trust that you
will derive all the pleasure you anticipate from your residence here."
The tenant of the Great House, a little speechless, escorted his visitor
to the front entrance before which the carriage was waiting. At their
approach a footman threw open the door of the brougham, the coachman sat
up in his seat, the horses, fretted from the flies, pawed the gravel.
Henry Ballaston, with a formal bow of farewell, took his seat and, with
the sun glittering upon the silver of the harness and the brightly
polished, shiny top of the brougham, this visit of ceremony was brought
to an end.
Back through the village street, with eyes looking this time neither to
the right nor to the left, through the lodge gates, where his hand
sought the brim of his hat in mechanical salute to the curtseying
doorkeeper, along the winding avenue, and through the iron gates up to
the great front of the Hall, Henry Ballaston passed on his return
journey and finally reached his destination. He entered the cool, lofty
hall, handed his hat and gloves to the footman who was waiting, and
hesitated for a moment. The door of the library was unexpectedly opened.
Sir Bertram strolled out as though by accident.
"Well, my dutiful brother?" he asked, his tone, though apparently
careless, betraying an underlying anxiety.
Henry waited until he had reached his brother's side.
"The man appears to be perfectly harmless," he confided. "He will take
lunch with us to-morrow."
"Good!" Sir Bertram approved. "I shall go and change now. I am going to
have a few sets of tennis with Gregory."
Henry Ballaston crossed the hall and, passing through the library,
entered the smaller room which had been devoted to his use. Gregory in
flannels and with a tennis racket under his arm, was apparently engaged
in examining one of the catalogues. He turned around as his uncle
entered.
"Hullo!" he exclaimed. "You back already!"
"My call I thought was of suitable length," was the measured rejoinder.
"What sort of a fellow is this new tenant of ours?" Gregory demanded.
His uncle paused for a moment. Gregory's fingers were nervously tapping
the vellum-bound manuscript which he held.
"A very ordinary sort of person," he pronounced, "who appears to have
found his way here entirely by accident."
Gregory replaced on the shelf the catalogue which he had been studying.
He failed to notice that he had been holding the volume upside down.
"Good of you to do the duty stunt, Uncle Henry," he observed.
"It has always been one of my few obligations," was the quiet reply.
"Mr. Johnson is lunching with us to-morrow."
"I sha'n't go over to Cromer until the afternoon then," Gregory
announced. "One may as well be civil, and I have rather a fancy to see
what the fellow is like."