Sir Edward Kean’s separation from his wife was to prove shorter than
he had anticipated. On the local train which dawdled its lazy way to
Whitbury he dozed fitfully, only to have the fumes of sleep
drastically swept from his brain by the biting wind that met him as he
stepped onto the platform at the Junction. The journey from Staveley
was always a tedious one, with its change from the slow train to the
London express at Whitbury and the long wait at Carlisle where the
dining-car was picked up. This, however, was the only long stop and
after a passable dinner Sir Edward was able to settle down to a long
evening’s work, being one of those fortunate people who can
concentrate their minds as easily in a crowded train as in the
seclusion of their studies.
He alighted at Euston probably having slept less than any of his
fellow travellers and looking infinitely less jaded. Also he had got
through all the work he had intended to do on the journey and was
ready for a strenuous morning at his Chambers. His wife had been right
in saying that only a man with an iron constitution could have stood
the pressure under which he lived.
He drove straight to his house in Westminster, where breakfast was
awaiting him and then, after a bath and change of clothes, took a taxi
to his Chambers.
“Farrer, ring up Mr. Carter and tell him I should like to see him
before he goes into Court,” he called to his head clerk as he hurried
to his room.
“You know the case is postponed, Sir Edward?” ventured the old man
nervously. He had not expected Kean until late in the evening and was
uncomfortably aware now that he should have wired instead of writing
about the postponement of the case.
Sir Edward stopped dead, his hand on the latch of the door.
“What’s that?” he said sharply. “Strickland _v._ Davies postponed?”
“Yes, Sir Edward. We understood that you were leaving the North this
morning and that a letter would reach you if it was posted yesterday
afternoon. Had we known . . .”
His voice trailed off into silence. In all the years he had worked for
Kean he had never seen him look so angry.
“Knowing you were coming up, in any case, for the other consultation,”
he began again.
“My instructions were that I was to be notified immediately.” Kean’s
voice was icy.
“I wrote, Sir Edward.”
“And gave me a night’s journey for nothing! Always telegraph if there
is any doubt as to my movements. You knew I was coming up to-day.”
“Yes, Sir Edward.”
“In the future I should be grateful if you would obey my instructions.
I suppose the witnesses have been notified?”
“Bentley’s will have seen to that, Sir Edward.”
Kean closed the painful interview abruptly by vanishing into his room.
“All because he’s missed twelve hours up in the North,” muttered
Farrer, as he hurried thankfully out of range. “He never used to be so
set on holidays. His heart’s more with her Ladyship than his work,
nowadays.”
Sir Edward, having said his say, did not refer to the matter again,
but he proved a difficult task-master all through that day. He worked
ferociously and his staff found themselves hard put to it to keep the
pace he had set. It was late before he left his Chambers and then it
was with a sheaf of papers that kept him hard at it till the small
hours, in spite of which an accumulation of work still remained which
would keep him in town till late the following day. Ever since a
severe heart attack had brought Lady Kean almost to death’s door he
had dreaded leaving her for any length of time and, on the few
occasions on which any great distance lay between them, he was a
difficult man to work with. He went to bed fretted and out of patience
and his first act on reaching his Chambers in the morning was to ring
up Staveley, ostensibly to let his hostess know when to expect him,
but actually in the hope of a few words with his wife and an assurance
that all was well with her.
There was the usual vexatious delay over the trunk call, but when he
did get through, he was surprised to hear Lady Kean’s voice at the
other end. She should, by rights, have been breakfasting in her room
according to her wont, and he said so.
“I might have known you’d be up to your tricks as soon as I turned my
back,” he told her.
“In spite of which, you were going to ask for me and drag me out of
bed in your usual heartless way,” she mocked.
“You could have gone back again as soon as I’d done with you. As it
is, I suppose you are up and dressed and in for a strenuous day. The
folly of women!”
For the first time since his arrival in London he ceased to feel at
odds with the world. Even at this distance his wife’s influence made
itself felt and already all his annoyance had evaporated in the mere
delight of listening to her voice.
“There’s wisdom in my madness this morning, though,” she assured him.
“I guessed you’d ring up early and I wanted to catch you myself. I
should have rung up yesterday if I had not known you were too busy to
help. I’m worried, Edward, and I want you.”
In an instant he was on the alert.
“You don’t feel seedy?”
“No, no. I’m all right. It isn’t that. But come back as soon as you
can, my dear. That child, Cynthia, is in trouble and I want you to see
her.”
Kean’s face darkened. As far as it was in him to take an interest in
any woman besides his wife he liked Cynthia Bell, though it is
doubtful whether, if it had not been for Lady Kean’s fondness for the
child, he would have paid any special attention to her. He did not,
however, propose to have Sybil worried by the consequences of any of
that young woman’s mad escapades.
“What has she been up to?” he demanded sharply.
“Nothing. It’s not her fault this time. But that young man of hers is
in a very nasty position, from all accounts. Come back as soon as you
can, dear, and see what you can do.”
Kean’s scowl deepened.
“Young Leslie? I’d forgotten that affair of hers. Well, what’s he been
doing?”
He paused for a moment as though trying to control his impatience,
then:
“I won’t have you worried over the affairs of a couple of children,
Sybil!”
Sybil Kean laughed in spite of herself at the intense exasperation in
his voice.
“My dear, it doesn’t do me any harm and, anyhow, I shall worry much
less if I know that you have taken a hand in things. They really do
need advice, Edward.”
“If you take my advice, you’ll keep out of the affair. Let them settle
their troubles in their own way.”
“You don’t even know what their troubles are! Don’t be difficult,
Edward!”
Lady Kean’s voice was very appealing. She did not often take this line
with her husband, but when she did she almost invariably got her own
way.
“Well, I want you to keep out of it, whatever it is,” he said curtly.
“Edward, John Leslie’s mother was a great friend of mine and she was
extraordinarily kind to me as a girl. I really do owe her something
and I am fond of both John and Cynthia. I can’t keep out of it and I
am counting on you to stand by me. Be nice about it and come back as
soon as you can.”
“Well, you haven’t told me yet what _is_ the matter,” he temporized.
In as few words as possible she repeated all she had been able to
learn from Cynthia, supplemented by the account of Dr. Gregg, who had
turned up on a professional visit to Lady Kean on the day after the
girl’s arrival. Kean heard her in silence and, for some moments after
she had finished, made no comment. Then he gave vent to a muffled
exclamation.
“What did you say?”
“I said ‘The Devil!’” he replied grimly. “What on earth did the young
idiot want to go roaming all over the country for at that time of
night? Very well, I’ll see what I can do, though I should have
preferred it if you had managed to keep out of it altogether. It’s bad
for you and I don’t like it.”
“When can you come? Cynthia’s aching to see you. Nobody seems to be
doing anything and the inaction is hard on the child.”
“I can’t get away before this evening, but I’ll come straight through
on the night train. It means I shall have to come up again for a
consultation at once. After that I shall be free for a bit.”
“When were you coming if this hadn’t happened?”
“I had intended to drive down the day after to-morrow. I’m going to
bring the car and take you back by road when we go. It’s less tiring
for you than the train.”
“My dear! Two night journeys and then a long motor drive!” Lady Kean’s
voice was full of compunction. “Don’t do it,” she went on. “Stick to
your original plan and come down with the car the day after to-morrow.
I don’t suppose the extra day will really make much difference. It’s
only that the child’s fretting.”
“And so are you!” he retorted grimly. “No, I’ll come to-night and see
what I can do, though I don’t suppose there’s much. I’m inured to
journeys and I can work in the train. Meanwhile, don’t wear yourself
to fiddle-strings. It will all come right in the end. I know you
haven’t much opinion of the law, but it doesn’t often make mistakes.
If the boy’s innocent, he will come out of it, you’ll see.”
“Thank you, Edward. I don’t believe you’ll ever fail me!”
There was more in her tone than in the words and he felt amply repaid
for having yielded as he hung up the receiver. But he found it
difficult to fix his mind on his work that morning and he wished with
all his heart that his wife had been safe in London at the time of the
murder. He knew that she would not know a night’s real rest so long as
any friend of hers was in trouble and, in spite of his brave words on
the telephone, he thought things looked awkward, to say the least of
it, for John Leslie.
And once more he cursed the Fates that had decreed the postponement of
the case of Strickland _v._ Davies. For Leslie had been subpoenaed as
a witness and, if things had taken their normal course, would have
been in London at the moment when Mrs. Draycott met with her tragic
end. And if it had not been for that unfortunate blunder of old
Farrer’s he would have heard in time about the postponement and would
have been at Staveley instead of in London when Lady Cynthia arrived
with the news.
Kean was usually studiously courteous in his dealings with underlings,
but he was positively brutal to the old head clerk when, later in the
day, he had occasion to pull him up for a slight error in the wording
of a letter.