A week went by--a breathless, anxious week.
I had attended poor Guy's burial in the pretty churchyard of Titmarsh
village, and as I turned from the grave I could not help wondering about
what he had intended to tell me, had he but lived to speak.
Yet his lips were sealed. Some one had known of his intentions, and had
forced silence upon him.
My mind was ever full of dark thoughts and black suspicions, and yet I
had so clearly proved that Harvey Shaw, against whom his intention was
to speak, had had no hand in the matter. Of one thing, however, I was
convinced: poor Nicholson had been cruelly murdered.
About eight days after the funeral, Shaw, one hot afternoon, drove over
alone in his car, and found me smoking in a deck-chair beneath a tree.
The object of his visit was to tell me of Guy's will. It had been
found, he said, that the young man had bequeathed the sum of ten
thousand pounds to Asta.
"He was infatuated with her, poor fellow," Shaw declared, in a tone of
slight annoyance. "Of course she will not touch a penny of it. How
could she? Ah! when he made that will, only two months ago, he never
dreamt that he would meet with such a sudden end."
"No," I sighed, my mind full of wonder. At that moment many strange
things flitted across my brain. "We all of us foolishly believe that we
have many years to live."
"As soon as Asta heard of the legacy, she declared that she would not
accept it," he remarked, "But I suppose she must, even though she
transfers it to some charity, as is her intention."
"I can quite understand her reluctance to take the dead man's present,"
I said. "It is only natural. Is she still very upset?"
"Very. I scarcely know what to do with her. She suffers from insomnia,
and sits for hours moping and sobbing. I've been wondering if a trip
abroad would bring about forgetfulness. But she declared that she's had
enough travelling, and prefers her own home. Therefore I'm half afraid
to take her away. Redwood advises a journey through Hungary and
Roumania, which would be fresh ground for her. But at present I'm
undecided."
He remained with me for a couple of hours, and afterwards left, when
that same evening I was called by telephone up to London to see my
lawyer regarding the pending action concerning a portion of my land.
Fortunately, at the inquest, I had met the dead man's solicitor, Mr
Sewell, and in order to ascertain whether Shaw's statement was correct,
I called upon him in Lincoln's Inn Fields. From what I gathered it
seemed that the bulk of the property had passed to a cousin, and that
Asta had declined to accept her legacy, and had given instructions for
it to be divided between three London hospitals.
The solicitor, like myself, disagreed with the finding of the Coroner's
jury. Yet he could form no theory as to the manner in which his client
had met with his untimely end.
On the afternoon of my return to Upton End, four days later, I was in
the library scribbling a letter to catch the post, when a card was
brought to me bearing the name, "Mrs Charles Olliffe."
"The lady has come by car, sir, and wishes very particular to see you,"
the girl said.
I was not over-pleased to have a visitor at that moment; nevertheless, I
ordered her to be shown in, and in a few moments found myself confronted
by a tall, well-built, good-looking, well-dressed woman of about
forty-five, wearing a smart motor-bonnet and dust-coat. The latter was
open, revealing a fine diamond brooch in her white silk blouse.
As our eyes met, I held my breath; but next moment I managed to recover
myself, and bowing, offered her a chair.
"I hope, Mr Kemball, that you will pardon my intrusion. I am a
stranger to you, but I wished to see you upon a matter of the greatest
importance to myself."
"There is no necessity for apology," I assured her. "I am at your
service."
My eyes were fixed upon her in wonder, for I had, on the instant I had
seen her, recognised her as the original of the newspaper photograph I
had locked away in my safe--the picture of Lady Lettice Lancaster!
She certainly had the air and manner of a lady, and surely none would
have suspected her to be a convicted criminal. Notwithstanding her age,
she was extremely well-preserved. She spoke low and with refinement,
whilst her bearing was that of a well-bred woman. Her smile, too, as
she spoke to me, was good-humoured, almost fascinating.
"The fact is, Mr Kemball," she said, as I seated myself and bent
towards her in attention, resolved not to betray my knowledge of her
identity, "I believe you were a friend of a very great friend of mine."
"Who is that?" I asked quickly.
"Mr Melvill Arnold."
Across my mind there flashed the recollection of that threatening letter
through which I had discovered the truth concerning the ingenious Lady
Lettice.
"Yes. It is true that I knew Mr Arnold," I said slowly.
"It is about him that I have ventured to call. I live near Bath, but I
motored over to-day in the hope of seeing you," she said. "I heard from
a mutual friend that you were present at Mr Arnold's death, and that he
entrusted you with certain matters concerning his estate. It was an
honour, I assure you, for he trusted nobody."
Recollecting that strange letter threatening vengeance, I was not very
communicative. She plied me with many clever questions, to which I
carefully avoided giving satisfactory answers. She was "pumping" me, I
knew. But I could see no motive. Hence I exercised every care in my
replies.
Through what channel had she become aware of my acquaintance with the
man now dead? I had believed that only Shaw and his daughter were aware
of it, but she denied any knowledge of them.
I, however, found myself compelled to describe the circumstances of his
death, for, after carefully reviewing the situation, I saw that the most
diplomatic course was to profess frankness, and by so doing I might be
able to learn some further facts concerning the man whose past was so
completely hidden.
I recognised that she was an exceedingly shrewd and clever woman. The
manner in which she put her questions, her well-feigned carelessness,
and her deep regret at his death, all showed marvellous cunning. Yet,
from that letter, it seemed to me evident that the man about whose end
she was now so anxious had actually betrayed her into the hands of the
police.
And this refined, soft-spoken, elegant woman had spent some months in
prison! It seemed utterly incredible.
Like Shaw, she seemed extremely anxious to know if I were aware whether
Arnold had made a will. But I told her that, so far as I knew, there
was none, and, further, I was unaware of the name of his lawyer.
"I fear that Mr Arnold had no solicitors," she said. "He would not
trust them."
"Then who is in charge of the dead man's estate?" I asked, hoping for
some information.
"Ah! That's a complete mystery, Mr Kemball," was her reply. "That Mr
Arnold was wealthy--tremendously wealthy--there is no doubt. Yet he was
as mysterious himself as was the source of his enormous income. It was
derived in the East somewhere, but of its true source even the
Commissioners of Income Tax are unaware."
"He was a complete mystery in many ways."
"In every way. I was one of his most intimate friends, but I confess
that I was most puzzled always. He lived in secret, and it appears that
he has died in secret," replied Mrs Olliffe. "I had hoped, Mr
Kemball, that you could perhaps throw some light upon the manner in
which he has disposed of his property."
"Unfortunately, I know nothing," was my reply. "He merely asked me to
perform several little services for him after his death; and having done
them, there my knowledge ends."
She looked me steadily in the face for a few moments with her shrewd,
deep-sunken eyes, and then with a smile said--
"I expect you think that I am hoping to benefit under his will. But, on
the contrary, I know full well that I should not. All I can tell you,
Mr Kemball, is that if you have accepted any trust of Melvill Arnold's,
then only evil can result."
"Why?" I asked quickly, remembering the character of the woman before
me.
"Because Arnold was a worker of evil."
"Then you were not his friend, eh?"
"Yes, I was. Only I have warned you," was her quick reply.
Curious that Harvey Shaw should have also made a similar assertion. Had
he not told me that the bronze cylinder which reposed in the safe just
behind where she was seated had brought evil upon those who had held it
in their possession?
I found Mrs Olliffe distinctly interesting. As I sat chatting with
her, I recollected the strange stories told of her at the Old Bailey,
and of her curiously romantic life. Now that she was free, she was,
without doubt, again carrying on her old game. Once a woman is an
adventuress, she remains ever so until the grave.
Though she had denied all knowledge of Shaw, it seemed to me that only
through him could she have learnt of my existence and my acquaintance
with the dead man Arnold.
More and more it appeared plain that the man who had died in that hotel
off the Strand was possessed of great wealth, yet the source of it was a
mystery complete and profound. She had known him intimately, yet she
would tell me very little concerning him.
"He was, of course, very eccentric," she declared. "One of his fads was
that he scarcely ever slept in the same bed twice in succession. He was
constantly changing his address, and he preferred to present the
appearance of being poor."
"Where did he live usually?" I asked.
"Half his time he was abroad--in Tunis, Algeria, or Egypt. He seemed
extremely fond of North Africa. Why, I could never discover."
I tried to turn the conversation upon Shaw and Asta, but she was far too
wary to be drawn into an admission that she knew them, and presently,
after she had taken tea with me, she left.
Upon her card I found her address, and resolved to make a few inquiries
concerning her. Therefore, two days later, I took train to Bath, and
found that she lived in a fine old mansion called Ridgehill Manor, near
Kelston, about three miles out of the city.
At the little old-fashioned inn at Kelston village I had tea in the best
room, and began to chat about the people in the neighbourhood.
"Ah, yes. Mrs Olliffe's a widow," said the stout, white-bearded
landlord, when I mentioned the Manor. "She's been here close on two
years now. Everybody likes her. Last year she kept a host of company
always, lots of well-known folk, but this summer there haven't been very
many visitors. Scarcely anybody except Mr Nicholson--and he's always
there, more or less."
"Nicholson!" I cried, startled at mention of the name. "Was he Mr Guy
Nicholson, from Titmarsh?"
"I don't know where he comes from, sir, but his name is Guy, sir. He
hasn't been here for a week or two now. He often comes over on his
motor-cycle. Sometimes he calls in here, for I do all the station-work
for Mrs Olliffe. He's a very nice, affable young gentleman. I only
wish there were a few more of his sort about."
"He's a friend of Mrs Olliffe's, you say? Has he been coming here for
long?"
"Ever since she's been here. They used to say he came to see Miss
Farquhar, a young lady who was staying up at the Manor. But he comes
just as much since she's left. Ah!" he added, "now I recollect. Only a
week ago I took a parcel to the station from the Manor addressed to Mr
Nicholson at Titmarsh, near Corby, I think it was."
I asked the landlord to describe the young man we were discussing, and
he gave me an exact description of Guy himself.
When it grew dark, I trudged along the dusty high road up the hill for a
mile, and obtained a good sight of the Manor. It was, I found, a
splendid old Tudor mansion, standing on the side of a hill in a finely
timbered park, and in full view from the high road. Would the country
folk have held its occupier in such high esteem had they but known the
curious truth?
While standing there gazing across the broad park to the old, gabled,
ivy-clad house, with its pointed roofs and twisted chimneys, I heard the
hum of an approaching motor-car, and I was only just in time to draw
back into a hedge. In it sat Mrs Olliffe herself.
But the discovery I had made had opened up an entirely new train of
thought.
Guy had been that undesirable woman's friend. Was it possible that she
had been implicated in the poor fellow's mysterious end?
That night I lay awake in the York House Hotel in Bath, thinking--
thinking very deeply.