“I’ve heard about it,” replied Andy with a laugh. “Scottie, I’m
serious. I don’t want to see you get into trouble, and I think, in
the circumstances, that Mrs. Bonsor is a dangerous acquaintance. Your
morals are my first consideration,” he said piously. “You can certainly
see her as often as you like, but it is a little dangerous, isn’t it?
Suppose some other hook gets busy and there is a lacunæ in the jewel
case——”
“What’s that fellow ‘lacunæ’?” asked Scottie interested.
Andy explained.
“So you see.”
“Thank you, Macleod,” Scottie gathered up his hat and got up. “I still
think I’ll see her. She is fascinating. Apart from her jewellery, I
mean. Have you met her?”
“No, I have not met her. She is not in my department,” said Andy.
“Steel is away on a holiday, and I am taking his place, luckily for
you, because Steel wouldn’t have given you half a chance.”
“Thank you,” said Scottie again, “and by the way, Macleod, that
reporter Downer is alive and active.”
This was no news to Andy.
“So I know,” he said. “He has returned to Beverley—or rather, to a
village a mile or two out. Has he been after you?”
Scottie nodded.
“He’s pumping a friend of mine. You know that he’s wise to Miss Nelson
at Castle Street? You do? What a sleuth you are, Macleod. So long.”
That night he walked boldly into the Great Metropolitan, though he knew
he was being watched, and the evening was a pleasant one. Mrs. Bonsor
had taken to him, and laid herself out to give her professor a good
time. He learned incidentally that the “Senator,” her husband, was not
really a Senator at all. He gathered it was a name bestowed ironically
by certain citizens of California. This information cleared the way
to a better understanding. Scottie had been puzzled to account for an
educated man having married a woman of this character. She talked about
her palatial home in Santa Barbara, of her cars, her servants, her
garden-parties, and every time she moved she scintillated.
* * * * *
“Scottie’s been to see that Bonsor woman three times,” reported a
watcher. “He dines with her every night and took a joy-ride with her
this afternoon.”
Andy nodded.
“Put a man on to Big Martin and see if there’s a job in progress.”
He liked Scottie as an individual, but officially Scottie was a
possible menace to human security. One afternoon a police officer
called on Mrs. Bonsor, and when Scottie came to dinner that night,
resplendent in a new dress-suit, her manner was cold and her attitude
distinctly distant.
“I nearly didn’t let you up at all, mister,” she said. (It was ominous
that she called him “mister.”) “But I thought I would have a little
talk with you. The bulls are after you.”
“After me?” said Scottie.
He was annoyed, but not resentful. It was the duty of the police to
warn this woman, and he had rather wondered how long Andy would let him
go before he did his duty.
“They say you are a crook called Scottie.” She shook her head
reprovingly. “I can only tell you that I am very much hurt.”
“Why?” asked Scottie calmly. “I haven’t stolen anything of yours, and I
would never take so much as a hairpin from your beautiful head.”
Yes, Scottie said this, and, in a sense, meant it.
“I admit that I am called Scottie. It is not my name, but it is good
enough to identify me in two or three countries. I admit that I am a
crook, but do you realise what it means, Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor,” he said
with a quaver in his voice, “for a man like myself to meet a woman like
you, a woman of the world, young, comparatively speaking, certainly in
the prime of life, who takes an interest in a—a—an adventurer? It isn’t
your money or your jewels. They don’t mean anything to me. I could have
got ’em the first day I met you, lady,” he went on recklessly. “I came
to see those stones of yours. Everybody was talking about them, and
I’m a geologist by profession. I admit it. But when I’d seen you and
talked to you—it was like a dream. A man of refinement and taste in my
profession doesn’t meet a lady like you—not often.”
“I’m nothing much, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor, unwilling to
interrupt the smooth flow of Scottie’s comfortable eloquence, and yet
feeling that modesty demanded such an interruption.
“I knew you weren’t American the first time I spoke to you. They don’t
raise people like you on the Pacific slope” (which was true), “and when
I’d seen you once I knew that I’d have to see you again. I fought with
my foolishness, but every day you lured me back.”
“Not intentionally,” murmured Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor.
“Don’t I know it?” said Scottie wearily, as he rose and held out his
hand. “Good-bye, Mrs. Bonsor. It has been like living in another world.”
She took his hand, reluctant to end an interview which was not
unpleasing.
“Good-bye, Mr. Scottie,” she said. “I’d like to see you again, but——”
“I understand,” said Scottie bitterly. “It is what the world would
think of you—what all these la-d-da people in the hotel would say.”
Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor stiffened.
“If you think I care two cents for their opinions,” she said shrilly,
“why, you’re wrong! Come up to dinner to-morrow night.”
Her words were a command, her mien a little majestic. Scottie did not
speak. He bowed and went out quickly. She might have changed her mind
if he hadn’t.
Half-way down the stairs he tried to recall the conversation in its
entirety.
There were certain good books circulated amongst convicts designed to
bring them to an appreciation of a virtuous life. He had made mention
of these to Stella Nelson on one occasion. In these books there was
recorded inevitably a speech delivered by the reformed lag usually to
the gentle woman who had, by her sweet influence, brought about his
reformation.
In the main the thief of fiction expressed very much the same
sentiments as the Scottie of fact. But he had forgotten something——Then
he remembered, with a “Tut” of impatience.
“I didn’t say anything about my mother!” he said.
Considering this omission later, he decided that on the whole it was
well that he had forgotten. It would be advisable to hold something
in reserve for the second interview. Nevertheless, he must take no
chances, and, turning into the nearest railway-terminus, he made for
the news-stall.
“Have you got a book called _Saved by a Child_, or one called _Only a
Convict_?”
“No,” said the youth in charge, “we don’t sell kid books.”
“‘Kid’ is exactly the word, my son,” said Scottie.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
THE GHOST OF A NAME
“My Dear Macleod (wrote an attaché at the American Embassy),—I do not
know Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor personally, but I have heard quite a lot
about her. As you rightly surmise, Crafton-Bonsor was not a United
States Senator. In this country you have what you call ‘courtesy
titles’; ‘Senator’ may be described in this case as a discourtesy
title! The original name of Crafton-Bonsor is difficult to unearth. He
was called variously ‘Mike’ and ‘Murphy’ by old associates, but he was
‘Bonsor’ Murphy and ‘Grafter’ Bonsor, and from these two appellations
he probably arrived at Crafton-Bonsor. He had some sort of political
pull, and in his latter days was universally known as ‘the Senator.’
He died immensely rich, and his widow inherited every cent.”
Andy read the letter to Stella Nelson the first time they were alone.
He had performed his duty, and Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor could now have no
doubt as to her friend’s character. So far from the knowledge having
interfered with the association of these strange people, it seemed to
have had exactly the opposite effect.
“She may be trying to reform him,” suggested Stella, her eyes
twinkling. “Bad men have an irresistible fascination for susceptible
ladies. Not that Scottie is bad or that Mrs. Bonsor is particularly
susceptible. I remember her now. She came to Beverley Green and smashed
up our beautiful lilac. Scottie told me her name afterwards.”
“At lunch, afternoon tea, and dinner!” protested Andy. “For all I know,
he is breakfasting there! I am not concerned with Scottie’s lighter
recreations, and I suppose, having warned the lady, my responsibility
is at an end, but still——”
“Perhaps he loves her,” suggested the girl, “and please, Andy, don’t
sneer. Scottie has always struck me as having a romantic disposition.”
“I wouldn’t deny it,” said Andy. “That alibi of his——”
“Andrew! Don’t be unpleasant! Besides, you’ve got to meet her.”
“I have to meet her?” said Andy in surprise.
Stella nodded solemnly.
“Scottie has written to me to ask if he can bring her down to dinner,
and of course I have said yes. I gave a brief description of her to
father and he has been shuddering ever since. I think he will have an
engagement at the club to-night, which makes it all the more imperative
that you should be here.”
“Do you mean to tell me,” said Andy incredulously, “that Scottie has
had the audacity to invite himself and his bejewelled friend to dine
with _you_?”
Apparently Scottie had, and that evening Andrew Macleod made the
acquaintance of a lady whom he had endeavoured to serve.
Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor was arrayed in a tight-fitting plum velvet gown,
cut perilously low, and, having seen her, Andy was smitten dumb.
Never on one human being had he seen such a display of precious stones.
From the diamond band about her red hair to the diamond buckles on
her shoes, she was overpowering. Standing beside her, a Rajah in full
uniform and wearing the jewels of State would have seemed mean and
unadorned.
Scottie was joyous. His pride was so absurdly sincere that Andy could
only gape at him.
“Meet my friend, Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor,” he said. “This is Dr. Macleod,
Mirabel.” (“Mirabel!” repeated Andy, mentally, and gasped.) “Dr.
Macleod and I have had many contests—you might even call them
fights—but I bear him no malice. He was the gentleman that warned you
against me, and wasn’t he justified?”
He took Andy’s hand in his and shook it intensely.
Mrs. Bonsor, on the contrary, favoured Andy with a stony glance from
her blue eyes.
“Meet Miss Nelson, Mirabel,” said Scottie.
Something glittered on his finger as he waved the introduction.
“Glad to meet you, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Bonsor without enthusiasm. “Any
friend of the professor’s—Professor Bellingham”—she glared towards
Andy—“is a friend of mine.”
It was an awkward beginning to what Stella had hoped would be a very
pleasant and amusing evening. It dawned upon her half-way through
dinner, and the thought left her helpless, that Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor
was jealous of her! But by this time that lady had overriden her
earlier suspicions and antagonism, and was chatting genially with Andy.
The poison was creeping into Scottie’s veins. That sober man, whose
unostentation was his greatest charm, had developed two large solitaire
rings. Andy did not look at them too closely; nor was there any need,
he decided, for Scottie would not display jewellery that had been fully
described in the _Hue and Cry_.
“Yes, I am leaving next week,” Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor was saying, with a
glance at Scottie. “I have had a better time than I thought I should,
but naturally I want to get back to my beautiful home in Santa Barbara.
The lawn is as big as this village—I showed the professor a picture
of it, and he thought it was wonderful. It is natural that, having a
beautiful home like that, I want to stay with it.”
She glanced at Scottie, as that gentleman dropped his eyes to the
tablecloth. There was something obscenely modest about Scottie at that
moment, and Andy would dearly have loved to have kicked him.
“I hope you won’t find the journey too lonely for you, Mrs.
Crafton-Bonsor,” said Andy. “You will miss our friend, the professor.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Bonsor, and coughed.
Scottie looked up.
“I was thinking of going over to California to have a look round,” he
said, and on this occasion it was Mrs. Bonsor who simpered.
“The fact is, Mister—” she said, “Stanhope and I——”
“Stanhope? Who is Stanhope?” asked the baffled Andy, but he had no need
to ask; the pleading eyes of Scottie met his.
“Stanhope and I are very good friends. I thought you would have noticed
the ring.” She held up a plump hand.
There and then Andy noticed about twenty. He made a good recovery.
“May I offer you my congratulations,” he said heartily. “Really, this
is surprising news, Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor.”
“Nobody was more surprised than myself,” said that lady cheerfully,
“but you’ll understand, mister—I always forget your name; I used to
forget the Senator’s sometimes. You understand how lonely a woman in my
position can get. Besides, I want Stanhope to begin a new life. There
is a peach of a mountain near my house where he could—what’s the word,
Stan?”
“Geologise,” murmured Scottie.
“That’s the word,” said Mrs. Bonsor. “And if that doesn’t suit, there
are some dandy mountains within a car-ride.”
“So you are going to leave us?” smiled Andy. “And I suppose that in a
month’s time you will have forgotten Beverley Green and Wilmot, and the
murderous Abraham Selim, and——”
There was a crash.
Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor had fallen to the floor in a dead faint.
* * * * *
“It was the heat of the room,” she gasped, a dishevelled, untidy woman,
her jewels awry. “I—I think I’ll go back to the hotel. Stanhope”—it was
pathetic to see how much she relied on him—“will you order the car?”
Her face had gone suddenly old and grey, against which the carmined
lips looked ghastly. Andy expected any minute to see her collapse
again. He thought it was a more serious attack at first. She was of the
build that is susceptible to such trouble, and he was relieved when she
showed signs of recovery. He and the concerned Scottie assisted her to
the car.
“The drive will do me good,” she said with a nervous little laugh as
she glanced round. “I am sorry to give you all this trouble, Miss
What’s-your-name, and I wanted to hear about that murder, too. Who was
killed? Abraham Selim?”
“No, a man named Merrivan. It was foolish of me to mention that ghastly
business,” said Andy.
“Oh, that didn’t worry me. Good-night, mister.”
Andy went back with the girl to the unfinished meal.
“Abraham Selim,” he said softly.
She frowned.
“Do you think it was the mention of that name that made her faint?”
Andy nodded.
“There is no doubt about it in my mind,” he said, “but why should the
name of the murderer of Merrivan have that result?”
He sat studying the pattern of the cloth for a long time, and she did
not interrupt his thoughts.
“I really think I must interview Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor,” he said slowly,
“for, unless I am greatly mistaken, that lady can tell us more about
this murder and its motive than the murderer himself.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE MAN IN THE DRESSING-GOWN
Andy stayed at the house until Mr. Nelson returned, and strolled across
the green to the guest house, where he had reserved his old room.
He was the only visitor in the house, and Johnston hailed his arrival
with unfeigned pleasure.
“Thank goodness you’ve come,” he said. “I was afraid you wouldn’t be
here for another hour.”
Andy shot a swift professional glance at the man; his face was drawn,
his teeth were chattering.
“What is the matter with you, Johnston?” he said. “You seem to be under
the weather.”
“My nerves have all gone to pieces since this murder,” said Johnston.
“I get that jumpy I can hardly keep still, and I never go to sleep
until three o’clock in the morning.”
“Why not?” asked Andy.
The man laughed hysterically.
“If I tell you, you’ll probably think I am mad, and there are times
when I feel that way, doctor. And I’m not naturally a nervous man—never
was. I don’t mind telling you in confidence that in my younger days I
poached on every estate in this country. But——”
“But what?” asked Andy after an interval of silence.
“I’m a religious man, too, in a manner of speaking,” Johnston went on.
“I never miss the evening service, and I don’t believe in anything
supernatural—spiritualism and all that sort of rubbish. I’ve always
said that the spirits men see are the spirits they put inside of ’em.”
“And you’ve been seeing ghosts, eh?” said Andy, interested. “Which
means, Johnston, that you are thoroughly run down. I’ll see Mr. Nelson
to-morrow and ask him to recommend to the committee that you have a
holiday.”
Johnston shook his head.
“Perhaps you are right, sir, but—I’m a fool I suppose, but I’ve seen
things in Beverley Green that would make your blood turn to water, and
you’re a doctor. It is a valley of ghosts. I’ve always said it was, and
it is.”
“Have you been seeing any of the ghostly inhabitants?”
The man licked his lips.
“I’ve seen Mr. Merrivan,” he said.
Andy, who had turned with a laugh to go upstairs, swung round again.
“You’ve seen Mr. Merrivan? Where?”
“I have seen him, as I’ve seen him dozens of times, standing at his
front gate in his dressing-gown. He used to come out in the old days in
the early morning, just wearing his long yellow dressing-gown —before
people were about, you understand—at five or six o’clock, and I’ve seen
him out there on warm summer nights, standing with his hands in his
pockets, taking the air.”
“Oh, you have, have you?” said Andy softly. “And you’ve seen him since
his death?”
The man nodded.
“I saw him two nights ago,” he said. “I haven’t told a soul about it,
but I’ve been sleeping badly, and I usually take a walk round the green
before I go to bed. I have been as many as twenty times round the green
in the course of a night,” he explained. “At first I used to go as near
Mr. Merrivan’s house as my nerves would let me, and after two or three
nights I found I couldn’t go within fifty yards of it. Two nights ago
I was strolling up and down, wondering who would buy the house. Mr.
Wilmot has had all the furniture cleared out, the only things left
being the curtains in the windows. I was loafing along, thinking how
desolate the place looked, when all of a sudden I saw a light, and——”
His voice shook tremulously. “It was in the room where the body was
found.”
“What sort of a light?”
“It looked to me like a candle, sir. It wasn’t a bright light, as
though somebody had turned on the electricity. As a matter of fact, Mr.
Wilmot has had the electric current cut off.”
“And then what happened?” asked Andy.
“Then, sir,” Johnston shivered, “well, I only saw a crack of light
between the blinds and the wall, and I was thinking that I was
imagining things, when the blind was slowly pulled up——”
Andy waited until the man had overcome his emotions.
“I couldn’t see him distinctly, but he was in a dressing-gown, and he
was looking out into the garden. I was paralysed; just stood stock
still and couldn’t move. Then the blind was pulled down and the light
went out. I saw it a few minutes afterwards in the hall. There is a
fanlight over the door. I don’t know how long I stood there, possibly
ten minutes, probably ten seconds—I didn’t sort of realise that time
was passing. And then, when I was just recovering myself, the door
opened. There was only a faint light in the passage—and he came out.”
“Merrivan?”
The man nodded.
“Or, at any rate, somebody in a dressing-gown, eh?” said Andy.
“Yes, sir.”
“And have you seen it since?”
“I saw it again last night. I made myself walk toward the house. There
he was standing at the front gate, with his hands in his pockets.”
“Did you see his face?”
“No, sir, I didn’t wait to see his face. I bolted.”
“Have you told Mr. Wilmot?”
“No, sir, I didn’t like to tell him, Mr. Merrivan being his uncle.”
Andy thought over the matter for a long time.
“You are probably suffering from hallucinations due to a bad attack of
nerves,” he said. “I’ll give you an examination to-morrow, Johnston.”
It was eleven o’clock when Andy turned his light out and slipped into
bed. For some reason he could not sleep. He had had a hard day’s work,
and it was absurd to suggest that his nerves had been in any way
disordered by Johnston’s narrative. The man was certainly neurotic.
He had seen the reflection of a light from some other house and had
imagined the rest. And yet there would be no lights in other houses at
that hour of the morning. Turning over the matter in his mind, Andy
fell into an uneasy sleep.
It was a scream that aroused him, a hoarse shriek of fear. He leapt out
of bed and turned on the light, and a second later there came to him
the scuttle of hurrying footsteps along the passage.
He opened the door to confront Johnston. The caretaker’s face was
the colour of chalk, and in his terror he mouthed and gibbered
incoherently, pointing toward the window. Andy ran to the window and
threw it up. He could see nothing.
“Turn out the light, Johnston,” he said sharply. A second later the
room was dark. Still peering into the darkness, he saw nothing.
“I saw him, I saw him!” gasped Johnston. “He was there on the green,
under my window, just walking up and down in his dressing-gown! I
opened the window and looked out to make sure. And he spoke to me. Oh,
my God!”
“What did he say?” asked Andy, shaking the blubbering man by the
shoulder. “Speak up, man; what did he say?”
“He asked for the key,” wailed Johnston. “He called me by my name.
‘Give me the key,’ he said.”
Andy slipped on an overcoat, ran down the stairs, and out into the
open. He saw nobody, and, throwing himself flat on the grass to secure
a skyline, he searched in every direction, but in vain.
Returning to Johnston, he found the man on the verge of collapse,
and applied such rough-and-ready restoratives as he could secure. He
succeeded in bringing him back to some semblance of manhood, but he
held stoutly to his story.
“Why did he ask you for the key?”
“Because I have it,” said Johnston. “Here it is, sir.”
He took a key from a cupboard in his room.
“Mr. Wilmot gave me this. I was supposed to show people over the
house—people who want to buy it.”
“Give it to me,” said Andrew, and put it in his pocket.
There could be no more sleep for Andy that night. He dressed and went
abroad on a tour of inspection. He met nothing human or supernatural in
his walk across the green. An eerie sensation came to him as he passed
through the gates and by the aid of his flash-lamp turned the key. His
footsteps echoed hollowly in the bare hall.
He hesitated only for a second before he turned the handle and threw
open the door leading into Mr. Merrivan’s “den.” Every article of
furniture had been removed, even the carpet had been taken up from
the floor, and only a few hanging strands of wire showed where Mr.
Merrivan’s etchings had hung.
He paused for a second to examine the dark stain on the floor-board
where the owner of the house had met his death, and then he flashed his
lamp on the window. In that second of time he saw something, and a cold
shiver ran down his spine. It was the glimpse of a figure in the garden
outside, the figure dimly illuminated by the flash of his electric
torch. Another second, and it had disappeared.
He jumped to the window and tried to force it up, but the side screws
had been put into place, and it was some time before he came out into
the garden and followed the cinder-path to the orchard. There was no
sign of man or ghost.
“Phew!” said Andy, wiping his moist forehead.
Going back to the room, he fastened the window behind him and closed
and locked the street door before he returned to the guest house, and
then——
“Well I’m——”
Andy stood stock still in the middle of the green and looked up to
Stella’s window. Once more in a moment of crisis her light was burning.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
MRS. BONSOR SPEAKS
This time Andy decided he would not wait till the morning for an
explanation. It would probably be a very simple one, and—a light had
appeared in the hall-room. He only tapped gently on the door, but
Stella answered him.
“Who is that?”
There was a note of anxiety in her voice.
“It is Andy!”
“Andy!” He heard her fingers fumbling with the chain. “Oh, Andy!” She
fell into his arms, sobbing. “I’m so frightened! I’m such a fool!”
“Everybody seems frightened and foolish to-night,” said Andy as he
smoothed the brown head that lay on his shoulder. “What have you seen?”
“Have you seen anything?” she asked, looking up.
Mr. Nelson’s voice called from upstairs.
“It is Andy, father. Will you come down?”
“Anything wrong?” Nelson was fastening his dressing-gown as he
descended the stairs.
“I’m just trying to find out,” said Andy. “Beverley Green seems to be
in a state of nerves to-night.”
Mr. Nelson’s dressing-gown was purple, he noted, and he had the
appearance of a man who had just been aroused from sleep.