The report of Sybil Kean when Fayre rang up at lunch-time was not
reassuring. The heart attack had been less violent than either of
those that had preceded it, but she had not rallied well. Fayre,
remembering the letter she had sent him and the conviction she had
expressed in it that the next attack would prove her last, wondered
whether the wish to live had not forsaken her. In his heart he knew it
would be better, both for her and for Edward, if she died. The
connection between the unopened letter in his note-case and the
Draycott trial was becoming clear to him at last. There was only one
person for whom Kean cared enough to shield at the expense of his
professional honour; that was Sybil, and Sybil, as was now evident
from her letter to Fayre, had some secret knowledge of the case which
she may or may not have been aware that she shared with her husband.
Fayre went over the events of the evening of March 23rd. So far as he
could remember, he had parted from Sybil Kean in the drawing-room at
Staveley shortly before six o’clock. From then onwards she had been
invisible, presumably in her room, and had not appeared again until
she joined the party in the drawing-room just before eight. He knew
the country round Staveley well enough to realize that this would
leave her ample time to reach Leslie’s farm by six-thirty, or
thereabouts. It seemed incredible that any one in her state of health
should have been capable of such an effort and, in Sybil’s case,
doubly so, for, apart from her delicacy, she had always been indolent
and easy-going to a fault, the last person to screw herself up to such
a pitch of nervous tension as such an expedition would entail.
There was one other, and on the whole more probable, solution of the
problem. Evidently Mrs. Draycott had become in some way possessed of a
photograph of Gerald Lee. It was more than possible that she had had
dealings with him in the past and that, in his distorted brain, he had
harboured a grudge against her. Supposing Kean had been aware of this
obsession and had received news of his escape from the asylum in which
he had placed him? If Lee had managed to waylay the unfortunate woman
and had murdered her, Kean would have every reason to wish to keep his
guilt secret. Once the affair got into the courts it would be
impossible to hide the fact of his existence from Sybil. Where and how
Lee and Kean had met on the fatal night, Fayre was unable to
determine, but the complete lack of motive for the crime had pointed,
from the first, to an act of almost insane malice, and that there was
some connection between the events at the farm and the survival of
Sybil Kean’s first husband Fayre was becoming more convinced each
moment.
He tried to picture the consequences of the inevitable disclosure
which would follow should this second solution prove the correct one,
and his heart sank. That it would mean the end of Edward Kean’s career
seemed certain. Not only was the part he had played in the grim drama
bound to appear, but with the discovery of the identity of the
murderer would come the disclosure of the damning fact that, during
six years of his marriage to Sybil, he had been aware of the existence
of Gerald Lee. And insanity is not recognized as a ground for divorce!
If Sybil, knowing of Lee’s existence, had concealed it from her
husband it seemed hardly likely that she would leave him for Lee, who,
according to Kean, was not even in a condition to recognize his wife
should she return to him. And if she decided to stick to Kean? Fayre
could picture them dragging out their existence, probably in Italy or
the south of France, Kean bereft of the work that was as his life’s
blood to him and Sybil cut off forever from her friends and the world
to which she belonged. He did not think she would long survive under
such conditions and, Sybil once taken from him, what would become of
Kean?
In a vain effort to get away from his own thoughts, Fayre went out and
walked the busy streets until he was tired, but the exercise brought
no relief and he was driven at last by sheer fatigue back to the club
again.
He was dressing for dinner when he was called to the telephone. He was
surprised to hear Kean’s voice at the other end.
“Come round after dinner and we’ll finish our conversation of this
morning,” he said.
Fayre’s first feeling was one of relief. He knew that Kean would not
have suggested an interview unless Sybil had definitely turned the
corner. He gave a hasty assent, but before he could inquire after her,
Kean had rung off.
As soon as he had finished his solitary dinner he set out for
Westminster.
Kean met him in the hall and led the way into his study. He had been
working and held a closely written manuscript in his hand. He pushed
Fayre gently into an armchair and placed a box of cigars at his elbow,
then he seated himself at the writing-table.
“I’ve got the whole story here,” he said, pointing to the papers
before him. “I suggest that you take it to Grey first thing to-morrow
morning. He will know what to do with it. I might have sent it to you.
In some ways it would have been easier for me, but I’ve got a feeling
I’d rather you heard it from my own lips.”
The amused contempt which had angered Fayre earlier in the day had
gone from his voice and had given place to an utter weariness. His
face was grey with fatigue, and Fayre, remembering all he had gone
through that day, forgot his anxiety about Leslie and was conscious
only of compassion. He rose impulsively to his feet.
“Look here, old man,” he exclaimed, all the warmth of their long
friendship back in his voice. “Let’s leave the whole thing for
to-night. You’re not fit for it. I’ll take that paper home with me and
go through it there or, if you’d prefer it, we can have it out
to-morrow. I don’t know to what extent it will help Leslie but a few
hours’ delay can make little difference to him.”
Kean shook his head.
“We’ll go through with it now,” he said, with a touch of his old
vigour. “I shan’t sleep till it’s over and done with.”
He sat for a moment in silence, his eyes fixed on the closely written
sheets before him. When he spoke, his voice was as coldly
dispassionate as though he were telling a story in which he was in no
way concerned.
“As you have no doubt guessed,” he began, “the whole thing dates from
the year of my visit to Paris. How you got onto that, I don’t know.
You will remember that Gerald Lee and three other men were killed by a
shell in the first year of the war. Identification was impossible, but
his disk was found close to the spot and it was taken for granted that
he was one of the victims.
“The first intimation I had that he was alive came from Mrs. Draycott,
almost a year after my marriage to Sybil. She wrote from Paris,
enclosing a copy of the snapshot you showed me this morning. It
appeared that she had been staying with friends in Germany and, so far
as I could make out, had had an affair with a doctor out there. It was
like her, with her morbid love of sensation, to persuade him to take
her over the local lunatic asylum. She had known Gerald Lee slightly
in the days before the war and she recognized him at once and, with
characteristic acumen, realized that she might make use of the
discovery to her own advantage.
“I found out afterwards that he had been picked up unconscious by the
Germans, badly wounded in the head, and that he had been passed from
one hospital to another, never once recovering his sanity, until he
eventually drifted to the municipal asylum at Schleefeldt. By that
time he was in civilian clothes and all efforts to identify him had
been in vain. All the authorities could find out about him was that he
was an Englishman. They were much interested when Mrs. Draycott
recognized him and did all they could to help her, one of the doctor’s
taking a snapshot of him for her to send to England.
“On receipt of her letter, I went at once to Paris and we had several
interviews. I need hardly say that I had to offer to buy her silence,
but I went to Schleefeldt myself and satisfied myself that she was
speaking the truth before paying her the money she demanded. I also
ascertained from the doctor in charge of the asylum that not only was
Lee incapable of recognizing any one, but that he was considered
absolutely incurable. Apparently there was some pressure on the brain
which could not be removed. I may say that this diagnosis was
confirmed after his arrival in England by three of our own brain
specialists. So that, however much at fault I may have been, I have
robbed Lee of nothing. There, at least, my conscience is clear. I
confess that, taking into account Sybil’s state of health, I do not
see how I could have acted otherwise.”
He unlocked a drawer at his elbow and, taking out a bundle of
cancelled cheques, tossed them onto the table.
“That is what I found I had let myself in for,” he went on bitterly.
“For Sybil’s sake, I did not dare appear in the matter, and, going on
the principle that the fewer people involved, the better, I left the
whole affair in Mrs. Draycott’s hands, and I must say she proved both
practical and efficient. Pretending to recognize him as a relation of
her own, she had him brought to England and, in the capacity of her
legal adviser, I was able to visit him and see to his installation in
the best private asylum I could hear of. And then the game began. Mrs.
Draycott had only to threaten to go with the story to Sybil and she
had me absolutely at her mercy.”
He picked up the packet of cheques and balanced it in his hand.
“Every one of these is made out to ‘self,’” he said. “I was absolutely
helpless and she was too clever to accept anything but cash. For six
years I have been trying to trap her, in vain. And then, last January,
I succeeded. Until then she had steadfastly refused to accept a cheque
or give a receipt for anything I paid her. All the payments were in
notes and I had no evidence that she had ever attempted to blackmail
me.
“Then, last January, I caught her. She was at Nice and had been
gambling heavily at Monte Carlo. When she wrote to me she was
desperate and in such a hurry for the money that she accepted the
cheque I sent her. As soon as I ascertained that she had cashed it I
knew that I had a hold over her at last. On her return I went to see
her and offered her a lump sum down, on condition that she did not
molest me again, pointing out that, if she went to Sybil, I was
prepared to take the matter into the courts and, on the evidence of
the Nice cheque, she would not stand the ghost of a chance if she were
sued for blackmail. She had begun to realize that Sybil might die and
that I might then prefer exposure to the constant drain on my purse.
Anyhow, she gave in, but for nearly a month she haggled over the terms
and in the end agreed to accept seven thousand pounds down.
“Even then I did not trust her. She was a vindictive woman as well as
a greedy one and, as you may imagine, our liking for each other had
not progressed during our intercourse. I knew that, in a fit of malice
or cupidity, she was capable of burning her boats and going to Sybil.
Also, it was anything but convenient for me to realize so large a sum
just then. At best, it would cripple me financially for some time to
come, and retrenchment of any kind meant discomfort for Sybil. Just
before my final interview with Mrs. Draycott I received the news that
one of my investments had failed and I realized that I was going to
have considerable difficulty in raising the seven thousand.”
He paused and sat for a moment in thought, as though he were taking
stock of his own past actions and appraising them.
Then his eyes drifted to where his wife’s photograph, in its heavy
silver frame, stood in the full glare of the reading-lamp.
“It was then,” he went on, “that I made up my mind to kill Mrs.
Draycott.”