Davis directed a keen glance at his elder sister over the bowed head of
Iris. The younger woman was by no means of an emotional nature. Light,
frivolous and volatile, she had danced through life, and, on the whole,
had had a good time. One could not picture her in a tragic mood.
And yet, she was the personification of deep emotion now. She could
hardly speak for those convulsive sobs, and in her frightened eyes there
was a deep and haunting terror. At what point, and through what
circumstances, had tragedy touched this little selfish, self-centred
butterfly, gifted with a certain amount of cunning and sharpness, but
utterly brainless.
"What do you know of Number 10 Cathcart Square, except what you gleaned
from the newspapers?" demanded her brother sternly. "How can you be
implicated in the murder of the unknown man whom Carrie mistook for me?"
"But Carrie did not mistake him for you," wailed Iris. "She told me
afterwards that the idea suggested itself in a flash, and when she read
the newspaper she was not sure whether it was you who had crept in
there, according to the evidence, and made away with yourself, through
fear of the police."
"Leave Carrie out of it for the moment," said Davis. "Whatever she did
was well thought out. Of course, we both know her object was to
identify me, if possible, and put Scotland Yard off the scent. What we
want to know is, how did you come to be acquainted with the house? What
do you mean by saying that, if further investigations are made, you
might be dragged in?"
"I was there on four occasions: on the last a few days before the
murder, or suicide, whatever it was."
Davis gasped, and Carrie lifted her hands in horror. What did this
confession mean? It was impossible that this slim, weak girl had
herself been the murderess, could have killed a big, powerful man of the
same build as the supposed Davis, with those slim, weak hands.
She saw the horror in their faces, and hastened to reassure them. "Oh
no, not that, I swear to you. I am no more a murderess than you were a
murderer, Reggie. But if the whole thing is raked up, and the man whom
I believe it to be, accurately identified this time, things might look
very black for me."
Davis lifted her from her kneeling position, and placed her in an
easy-chair. "Calm yourself, and tell us the whole story of why and how
you came to be in Cathcart Square at all."
Iris waited a few moments till the convulsive sobbing ceased. She spoke
with little occasional gasps, but it was very evident it was a relief to
unbosom herself.
"It is a very long story," she began tremulously.
"If the telling of it lasts till midnight, we must have it," said her
brother in an inflexible voice.
And compelled by his resolute manner, the girl, whom they had always
regarded as a frivolous butterfly, embarked upon her strange and
thrilling narrative.
"It all arose out of the sale of those letters I spoke to you about.
Carrie just now asked me the name of the man who wrote them. Well, I
didn't get further than Roddie, which doesn't carry you very far. If it
had not been for your threat of going to Scotland Yard, I should have
stopped at that. A still tongue makes a wise head, you know."
They could quite believe that. In spite of her ceaseless chatter, Iris
had always been very reticent about her own affairs. She had seen next
to nothing of her brother for a few years, not very much of Carrie
Masters. And, on these occasions, she had always avoided, in a marked
manner, any allusion to her private affairs.
"I told you of a soppy young chap who started to make love to me last
year. I didn't care a snap for him, but he was very persistent, and at
last wrote me most urgent letters imploring me to be his wife. His full
name was Roderick Murchison, a member of the great brewing family; his
father has been dead for some time, he died during the War, and Roddie
came in for tons of money, although he was not the eldest son. I don't
know if you have ever heard of him?"
No, neither Davis nor Carrie had known of the existence of such a young
man. They had a hazy idea that there was a big brewing firm of that
name, that was all.
"Well, as I say, I didn't care a snap for him, although he was awfully
good and generous, overwhelmed me with, all kinds of lovely presents:
rings, bracelets, fur coats, etc. In our life, you know, one accepts
these things from the mugs who are gone on us without attaching very
much importance to the fact." It was evident that Miss Iris had struck
out her own line of life, and made a very good thing out of it.
"Well, then, Roddie began to grow desperate, and declared he couldn't
live without me. It was all so genuine that at last I began to think
seriously of it. There were tons of money, and although I didn't cotton
much to the sort of life I should have to lead as his wife, still there
were worse things than being Mrs Roderick Murchison, with the future
well assured, and a handsome settlement."
Davis and his elder sister exchanged wondering glances. So this
butterfly little girl, whom they had always regarded as rather shallow
and feather-brained, had had this wonderful chance of marrying a
gentleman and a rich man.
"It was difficult to bring myself up to the scratch, in spite of the
advantages, for he was so soft and soppy that he irritated me in a
thousand-and-one ways, and I knew in a very short time I should grow to
hate and despise him. Then one night, after a very excellent champagne
supper at the `Excelsior,' he got me in a yielding mood, and I promised
to marry him."
Brother and sister could only marvel at the girl's extraordinary good
fortune, reluctant as she seemed to avail herself of it.
"He told me that before he went to bed that night he wrote to his family
acquainting them with the news, anticipating fully their objections, but
expressing his strong determination to brook no interference or
remonstrance. You see he was his own master, nobody could take his
money away from him, and he didn't care whether his relatives were
offended or not."
"And how did the family take it?" queried Davis.
"I am coming to that," replied Iris. She was growing much calmer now.
It was a relief to unburden her secret to an audience whom she could
trust. For she was sure that neither her brother nor sister would ever
allow her to put herself into real danger.
"I am coming to that," she repeated. "A few days after he had written
those letters, one to his widowed mother, one to his elder brother, who
had inherited the bulk of the big fortune, the elder brother called upon
me in my flat. He was a very handsome, well-set-up man, although he had
been through a good deal in the War. He was very like you, Reggie."
"Ah," ejaculated Mr Davis. He looked at Carrie, keenly watching her
sister, with a glance that suggested they would soon be coming to the
real pith of this rambling confession.
"He begged the favour of a short conversation. He was perfectly open
and above-board. He told me straight he was Roddie's elder brother, and
that his name was Hugh Murchison. He pointed out to me very kindly that
his brother was an impetuous young ass--a judgment which I privately
endorsed--that Roddie had been infatuated, in his short day, with quite
a number of other girls, although, perhaps, not to the same extent as
with me." Iris, getting back rapidly into her light mind, let her
volatile and easily impressed nature peep out in her next words.
"Oh, Hugh Murchison was a darling, so quiet, so sensible, and so strong.
If he had been fool enough to ask me to marry him, I would not have
given him up for seven thousand pounds."
"But you were prepared to chuck Roddie for that?" suggested her brother
quietly.
"I think I let him go a bit too cheap," answered the fair Iris in a
reflective voice. "Many girls have got more than I asked for
compromising a breach of promise. But to tell the absolute truth, Hugh
Murchison hypnotised me a bit. He was so quiet and yet so strong that I
felt he could twist me round his little finger."
"We want to get to Cathcart Square," interjected Davis a little
impatiently. "We don't seem to be near it yet."
"I must tell my story my own way, it is no use driving me," replied
Iris, pouting a little. "Well, as I tell you, he called that day at my
flat--that was the beginning of negotiations. Where were we to meet to
discuss details? I couldn't have him at my flat, because Roddie was
always popping in and out. He couldn't have me at his hotel, because
nobody knew whom we might come across, and Roddie was always coming
there. He said he would think out a plan and telephone or wire me."
"Ah," said Carrie, with a sigh of relief: she was a very practical
person. "Now, I suppose we are coming to it."
Iris, heedless of the interruption, went on with her story.
"Next day he 'phoned me up, and after ascertaining that I was quite
alone, told me to meet him at 10 Cathcart Square to resume our
conversation."
"Why, in the name of all that is wonderful--" began Reginald Davis, but
his sister motioned him to silence.
"Don't interrupt, please, you will know everything in a few minutes. I
went to Number 10 Cathcart Square at the time appointed. He opened the
door himself. It was a big house in an old-fashioned square, ages old,
I should say, and in the front court was an agent's board, intimating
that this particular house was to let, furnished."
"I know Cathcart Square well, it's in an old-world quarter of
Kensington," interrupted Davis. He added grimly, "I know it well,
although I did not have the misfortune to commit suicide there."
"He told me a very funny story. The afternoon of the day before, he had
been up to Kensington to visit an old nurse of the family who lived near
by. He had strolled round to Cathcart Square to fill up an idle
half-hour. He had been struck by the appearance of the house, and
loitered before it, when suddenly the door opened, and a somewhat
bibulous-looking caretaker came out."
Davis indulged in a sigh of relief. "We are really coming to it now,
then?"
"Yes, you are coming to it. He told me a sudden idea had occurred to
him. Here would be a quiet little spot for our meetings, a place where
Roddie would never dream of following us. He accosted the caretaker,
evidently a drunken and corrupt creature. He explained that he wanted
to rent a couple of rooms where he could receive a certain visitor he
was expecting in the course of the next week or fortnight. It was no
use going to the house agents for that, they would turn down such a
proposition. The caretaker, with a couple of five-pound notes in his
hand, took an intelligent view of the situation. He gave Hugh a key,
and intimated that, if he had sufficient notice, he would make himself
scarce on the occasions when the visitor was expected."
"Of all the mad things--" began Davis, but his sister for the second
time motioned her brother to silence.
"Not quite so mad as you think. I fancy I can see into his mind. We
could have met at a dozen different restaurants in London, but Roddie
was here, there and everywhere: at any moment he might have come across
us. He would never get as far as Kensington." David nodded his
sagacious head. "I think I see. Go on."
"I met him there, in all four times, the last meeting was a few days
before the tragedy."
"And what took place at that meeting?"
"He paid me the seven thousand pounds in notes. I signed a paper
agreeing to give Roddie up. I carried out my bargain. I wrote Roddie
that same night, giving him his dismissal, and assuring him that nothing
he could urge would induce me to reconsider my determination. He sent
me frantic telegrams the next day, but I replied to the same effect.
After taking his seven thousand pounds, I could not break faith with
Hugh, could I?"
Davis was not quite sure that Iris would not break faith with anybody if
it suited her purpose. But clearly Hugh Murchison had subjugated her to
the extent of respecting an honourable bargain. No doubt she had fallen
in love with him, so far as a person of her shallow temperament could
fall in love.
"And what has become of Roddie?"
"I don't know, and I don't care. He has bored me to extinction for over
nine months. I am glad to be shut of him."
Davis put a question. "You say Hugh Murchison paid you in notes. What
have you done with them? His bank will have the numbers."
"Will they?" cried Iris, the frightened look again coming into her eyes;
she knew nothing of business methods. "I paid them into my own account.
Now, you see, if you rake this up I might be implicated."
"Your opinion is, then, that the man found in Number 10 Cathcart Square
was Hugh Murchison?"
"I am as nearly sure as I can be, after reading the caretaker's
evidence. He had some other stunt on beside my own. I was not the only
visitor he received."
Davis thought deeply before he spoke. "If I have him dug up, and he is
identified by those who know him, a lot will come to light. Your notes
will be traced, for one thing."
"I am afraid of everything, Reggie. For the love of Heaven, let him
rest where he is." Caroline Masters breathed softly to herself. "You
were half in love with him, or perhaps three-quarters, and you don't
want to know the real truth. Oh, you miserable little, paltry soul!"
And then a sudden thought came to Davis. "Now, Iris, you could never
think very clearly about things when they got a little bit complicated.
You are quite sure the last occasion on which you saw him was a few days
before the discovery of the body?"
"I will swear to it," cried Iris firmly.
"The date of his cheque, which the Bank has, will show that. He
probably cashed it himself on the day he paid you, any way the day
before. Now, on the day preceding and the day following that tragedy,
can you prove where you were?"
Iris began to see light. "Of course I can. The day after I had the
notes, I got up a sprained ankle, an obliging doctor, an old (or rather
young) friend of mine, sent a certificate to the theatre. I motored
down to Brighton with Johnny Lascelles--who, by the way, used to make
Roddie fearfully jealous. We joined a jolly little party at `The Old
Ship.' I came back the day after the discovery in Cathcart Square."
Davis rose and gave a great shout: "You have witnesses who can swear to
that?"
"Of course," answered Iris, not even yet comprehending the full drift of
the question. "Johnny Lascelles motored me there and drove me back.
Then there was Cissy Monteith, Katie Havard, Jack Legard and others who
were with me all the time."
"You silly little idiot," cried Reginald Davis. "And what the deuce do
you mean by saying that you might be implicated?"
"The notes," she faltered. "My meeting him alone in that empty house.
They might suggest I murdered him, if you say he was murdered."
Davis smote his forehead in impotent anger at her denseness. "How could
you have murdered him when you were at Brighton all the time?"
He smote the palms of his hands together.
"I will find out who the dead man was, and also the man who forged my
name to that letter to the Coroner."
He turned to his sister: "As for you, young woman, it may be you will
have a bad quarter of an hour, if it all comes out about Roddie. But
never mind, you will have a splendid advertisement. The next bunch of
letters you get hold of, the price will be twice seven thousand pounds."