Chorus was at work again; not at a London dinner-table this time, but
in the easier atmosphere of a North Riding manor house, which men left
in the morning to shoot grouse, and came back to in the evening to
gossip with their womenkind, in the cheerful light of an oak-panelled
dining-room.
Chorus was wearing black, quite the prettiest thing in complimentary
mourning, which all her friends assured her suited her to perfection
and took ten years off her age. Susan Amphlett had received that kind
of compliment too often of late. She thought people were beginning to
lay a disagreeable stress upon the passage of time in relation to her
personal appearance.
"I doubt if I shall ever wear anything but black for the rest of my
poor little life," she said tearfully. "That darling and I were like
sisters. And that she should have died when I was in Scotland, hundreds
of miles away from her!"
"It must have been sudden?"
"Heart failure. No one was with her. She had three hospital nurses to
look after her, but she died alone in a dark room, while two of them
were dawdling over their tea, and the third was in bed. The dog whined,
and they went to look for her. She was lying in a huddled heap on the
carpet, near the open door, and that poor, faithful beast was standing
by her, whining piteously."
"Where was Rutherford?"
"At Newmarket, of course, the only place where he has been happy for a
long time, settling up next year's campaign, who was to ride for him,
and so on."
"What had become of the devoted husband you used to tell us about?"
"Does anything last in this decadent age? There never was a more
romantic couple than that sweet creature and my cousin Claude three
years ago. Their marriage was a poem, everything about their lives
was full of poetry, their house was the most popular in London, their
chef quite the best. They were all sweetness and light; the most
brilliant example of what youth, and cleverness, and good looks, and
unlimited money can do. But the Goodwood before last changed all that.
Vera was ennuied and run down--the two things go together, don't you
know--and broke her engagement to stay with the Waterburys for the race
week. Claude went there without her. You all know the sequel, so why
recapitulate? Nothing was ever the same after that."
"Was there an inquest?" asked the host.
"Thank Heaven that wasn't necessary. Her doctor had been seeing her
every morning, and knew she might go off at any moment. Heart failure.
She was buried in Italy, at a dull little place on the Riviera, in the
grave with her first husband and his daughter. Her own wish. She was
all poetry to the last, a poet's daughter."
From the tragedy of Mrs. Rutherford's early death, the conversation
somehow took a retrospective cast, and people talked of the murder that
had happened a long time before. It is curious how long the interest
in a murder may survive if the murderer has not been discovered. There
always remains something to wonder about. After nearly half a dozen
years the Provana murder could still bear discussion. People's pet
theories seemed as fresh as ever, and were discussed with as much
animation; while those people who had theories which they would die
rather than divulge, were the most interesting of all the theorists,
for they could be driven to ground with close questioning, as in the
familiar game of "clumps," until they made a resolute stand, and
refused to say another word upon the subject.
"I dare say it is quite horrid of me to think what I think," said one
vivacious lady, "and you would hate me if I were to tell you."
"Give us the chance at any rate. It will be a new sensation for you to
be hated."
"One thing at least I may say. It has always been a mystery to me how
those two people could bear to live in that house."
"Oh, but you cannot bar a fine house, and your own property, because
your husband has been unlucky enough to get himself murdered in it."
Here Chorus, who had sat disapproving and even angry while her friends
were discussing the murder, chipped in suddenly.
"You don't know Vera," she said. "Her memory of Provana was an absolute
_culte_, and she loved the house for his sake."
"It's a pity she kept her worship for the husband's memory," said
somebody. "For the state of things between her and Rutherford for some
years was an open secret. Everybody knew all about it."
"Nobody knew Vera as I knew her. She had no more of common earth in her
composition than if she had been a sylph. People might as well talk
scandal about Undine."
The men of the world who were present, and the women who knew nearly
as much of life, smiled and shrugged their shoulders.
"Well, it is all ancient history," said a bland worldling, with smooth,
white hair and a smooth, elderly voice. "The romantic friendship, the
murder, the marriage with the romantic friend. _Tout lasse, tout casse,
tout passe._ Nothing can matter to anybody now."
"Nothing except who killed Signor Provana," said the lady who had
declared she would sooner die than tell anybody her theory of the
murder.