Did Beryl know--should she know? Suppose she went to her and told
her the crazy theory she had? Beryl would doubt her sanity. No, no
good would come of precipitancy. She must be sure, thought
Christina, lying on her bed, her hand at her mouth as though she
feared that she might involuntarily cry her news aloud.
No particulars of Ambrose Sault's death had appeared in the press.
The longest notice was one which, after a brief reference to the
execution, went on to give details concerning the crime. Practically
the references to the execution were similar:
"Ambrose Sault was executed at Wechester Jail yesterday morning for
the murder of Paul Moropulos. The condemned man walked with a firm
step to the gallows and death was instantaneous. He made no
statement. Billet was the executioner."
The hangman always received his puff. When she had been staying with
Beryl, she had met Sir John Maxton; he had returned on the morning of
the execution and had come straight to the house. He had said
nothing that gave her any impression except that Ambrose had died
bravely. Would he have heard anything later? She made up her mind,
dressed and went out. There was a telephone a block away and she got
through to Sir John's chambers in the Temple. To her relief he
answered the telephone himself.
"Is that you, Sir John? It is Christina Colebrook--yes--I'm very
well. Can I see you, Sir John? Any time, now if you wish. I could
be with you in twenty minutes--oh, thank you--thank you so much."
A bus dropped her in Fleet Street and she walked through the Temple
grounds to the ugly and dreary buildings where he rented chambers.
They were on the ground floor, happily; Christina was still a
semi-invalid.
"You've come to ask me about Sault!" he said as soon as she was
announced.
"Why do you think that?" she smiled.
"I guessed. I suppose Ronnie has told everybody about the ghastly
business. It seems impossible, impossible that he could have shown
the white feather as he did," said Sir John. "I can hardly believe
it is true, and yet when I got into touch with the deputy governor,
he told me very much the same story--that one moment Sault was calm
and literally smiling at death; the very next instant he
was--pitiful, blubbering like a child. I hate telling you this,
because I know you were such dear friends, but--you want to know?"
She inclined her head.
"Nothing else happened?"
"Nothing--oh, yes, there was one curious circumstance. In the midst
of his amazing outburst Sault cried: 'Ronald Morelle of Balliol!'
Did he know that Ronnie was at Balliol? I can only imagine that by
this time he hadn't any idea at all what he was talking about."
She rose.
"Thank you, Sir John," she said quietly, "you have saved my reason."
"In what way?" His curiosity was piqued.
"There was something I had to believe--or go mad. That is cryptic,
isn't it? But I can't be plain, for fear you think I've lost my
reason already!"
Sir John was too polite to press her, too much of a lawyer to reveal
his curiosity. He went on to talk of Sault.
"He was certainly the best man I have met in my life. By 'best' I
particularly refer to his moral character, his ideals, his sense of
divinity. His courage humbled me, his philosophy left me feeling
like a child of six. I must believe what I am told, so I accept the
story about his having made a scene on the scaffold, without
question. But there is an explanation for it, that I'll swear, and
an explanation creditable to Ambrose Sault."
Christina went home with a light heart, convinced.
She had begun a letter to Beryl and was debating half-way through
whether she would as much as hint her peculiar theory, when Evie
burst into the room cyclonically, her eyes blazing.
"He's been here! Mother said so--you were talking to him for a long
time! Oh, Chris, what did he say--wasn't it wonderful of him to
come? Don't you think he is handsome, Chris? Own up--isn't he a
gorgeous man? Did he ask after me, was he very disappointed when he
found I was out--?"
"I'll take your questions in order," said Christina, solemnly ticking
them off on her finger. "He has been here, if he is Ronnie; he said
a lot of things. It was certainly wonderful for me that he came. He
asked after you, but didn't seem to be cast down to find you were
out. Was that the lot? I hope so."
"But Christina!" she was quivering with excitement. "What do you
think of him?"
"I--think--he--is--sublime!"
Evie glanced at her resentfully, suspecting sarcasm; saw that her
sister was in earnest, and seeing this, was confounded.
"He is very nice," she said less enthusiastic, "yes--a dear--did you
really get on with him, Chris? How queer! And after all that you've
said about him! Didn't your conscience prick you--?"
Christina sent her red locks flying in a vigorous head-shake.
"No, it wasn't conscience," she said.
Evie, from being boisterously interested, became quietly distrait.
"Of one thing I am certain," volunteered Christina, "and it is that
he will never behave dishonorably or give you, or for the matter of
that, mother and me, one hour's real pain."
"No--I'm sure he won't," said Evie awkwardly, the more awkward,
because she was trying so hard not to be.
"Such a man couldn't be mean. I am certain of that," Christina went
on. "Evie, I am not scared about you any more--and I was, you know.
Just scared! Sometimes when you came back from seeing Ronnie, I
dared not look at you for fear--I didn't exactly know what I feared.
Now--well, I feel that you are in good hands, darling, and I shall
not be thinking every time you go out: 'I wonder if she will come
back again?'"
Evie's face was burning. If she had spoken, she would have betrayed
herself. She became interested in the contents of a hanging cupboard
and hummed a careless tune, shakily.
"Are you singing or is it the hinge?" asked Christina.
"You're very rude--I was singing--humming."
"There must be music in the family somewhere," said Christina,
"probably it goes back to our lordly ancestor--"
"I told Teddy about that, about Lord Fransham--"
"Did you tell Ronnie?"
Evie wondered if she should say. Christina was so excellently
disposed toward him that it would be a pity to excite her resentment.
"Yes--he laughed. He said everybody has a lord in his family if he
only goes back far enough. Teddy thought it was wonderful and he
said--you'll laugh?"
"I swear I won't."
"Well--he said that he knew that I had aristocratic blood by my
instep, it is so arched. And it is you know, Chris, just look!"
"Shurrup!" said Christina vulgarly.
"Well--he did. Teddy isn't half the fool you think him. I don't
exactly mean you, Chris, but people. His father has a tremendous
farm, miles and miles of it. He sent Teddy over here for six months.
What do you think for?"
Christina couldn't think.
"To find a wife!" said Evie. "Isn't it quaint? And do you know that
Teddy is staying at the Carlton-Grand. I thought he was living with
his aunt in Tenton Street and I only discovered by accident that he
was staying at a swagger hotel. He said he would write and tell his
father about our lord."
She sighed heavily.
"I like Teddy awfully. He is so grateful for--well, for anything I
can do for him, such as putting his tie straight and telling him
about things."
"Why don't you marry Teddy?"
A few weeks ago Evie would have snorted scornfully. Now she was
silent for a long time. She sighed again.
"That is impossible. I'm too fond of Ronnie and I believe in
keeping--in keeping my word. Teddy's father is building a beautiful
little house for him. And Teddy says that he has a quiet horse that
a girl could ride. He believes in riding astride, so do I. I've
never ridden, but that is the way I _should_ ride--through the corn
for miles and miles. You can see the mountains from Teddy's farm.
They are covered with snow, even in the summer. There is a place
called Banff where you can have a perfectly jolly time, dances and
all that. In the winter, when it is freezingly cold, Teddy goes to
Vancouver, where it is quite warm. He has an orange-farm somewhere."
For the third time she sighed. Christina in her wisdom, made no
comment.
V
Evie usually had her breakfast alone. Christina was late and Mrs.
Colebrook breakfasted before her family came down and was, moreover,
so completely occupied in supplying the needs of her youngest
daughter, that it would have been impossible to settle herself down
to a meal.
Evie was generally down by a quarter to eight; the post came at eight
o'clock. Until recently Evie had no interest in the movements of
that official. Very few letters came to the house in any
circumstances and of these Evie's share was negligible.
Teddy brought a new interest to the morning for he was a faithful
correspondent, and the girl would have known long before, that he was
an inmate of a superior caravanserie, had not the youth, in his
modesty, written on the plainest of notepaper. Not then, nor at any
other time, did the mail have any thrill for Mrs. Colebrook. She had
a well-to-do sister living in the north who wrote to her regularly
every six months. These letters might have been published as a
supplement to the Nomenclature of Diseases, for they constituted a
record of the obscure ailments which inflicted the writer's family.
She had a sister-in-law living within a mile of her, whom she seldom
saw and never heard from. Whatever letters came to the house were
either for Christina or Evie, generally for Christina.
Ambrose Sault had once presented Christina with five hundred postal
cards. It was one of the freakish things that Ambrose did, but
behind it, there was a solid reason. Christina enjoyed a constant
supply of old magazines and out-of-date periodicals. Evie collected
them for her from her friends. And in these publications were
alluring advertisements, the majority of which begged the reader,
italically, to send for Illustrated Catalogue No. 74, or to write to
Desk H. for a beautiful handbook describing at greater length the
wonders of the articles advertised. Sometimes samples were offered,
samples of baby's food, samples of fabric, samples of soap and patent
medicine, and other delectable products.
Christina had expressed a wish that she could write, and Ambrose had
supplied the means. Thereafter Christina's letter-bag was a
considerable one. She knew more about motor-cars, their advantages
over one another, their super-excellent speeds and economies, than
the average dealer. If you asked her what car ran the longest
distance on a can of petrol, she would not only tell you, but would
specify which was the better of the gases supplied. She knew the
relative nutritive qualities of every breakfast food on the market;
the longest-wearing boots and the cheapest furniture.
Evie had finished her meal when the postman knocked.
"A letter from Teddy and a sample for Christina, I suppose,"
speculated Mrs. Colebrook, hurrying to the door. She invariably ran
to meet the postman having a confused idea that it was an offence,
punishable under the penal code, to keep him waiting.
There was no mail for Christina.
"Here's your letter."
Evie took the stout and expensive looking envelope, embossed redly
with the name of the hotel.
"Who's writing to me?" asked Mrs. Colebrook. She turned the letter
over, examined the handwriting, critically deciphered the
post-mark--finally tore open the flap of the envelope.
"Well, I never!" said Mrs. Colebrook. She looked at the heading
again. "Who is 'Johnson and Kennett'?" she asked.
"The house agents? There is a firm of that name in Knightsbridge.
What is it, mother?"
Mrs. Colebrook read aloud.
"_Dear Madam_: We have been requested to approach you in regard to
work which we feel you would care to undertake. A client of ours has
a small house on the continent, for which he is anxious to secure a
housekeeper. Knowing, through Dr. Merville, that you have a daughter
who is recovering from an illness, he asks me to state that he would
be glad if your daughter accompanied you. There is practically no
work, three servants, all of whom speak English, are kept, and our
client wishes us to state that the grounds are extensive and pretty,
and hopes that you will make the freest use of them, and the small
car which he will leave there. He himself does not expect to occupy
the house, so that you will be practically free from any kind of
supervision."
The salary was named. It was generous.
Mrs. Colebrook looked over her glasses at the wondering Evie.
"Mother! How perfectly splendid!"
But Mrs. Colebrook was not so enthusiastic. Change of any kind was
anathema. She had acted as housekeeper in her younger days, so that
the work had no terrors for her, but--abroad!
Foreign countries meant peril. Foreigners to her were sinister men
who carried knives, and were possessed of homicidal tendencies. They
spoke a language expressly designed to conceal their evil intentions,
and they found their recreation in plotting in underground chambers.
There was a cinema at the end of Walter Street.
"There is something written on the other side," said Evie suddenly.
Mrs. Colebrook turned the sheet.
"The invitation extends to your younger daughter, if she would care
to accompany you."
"Well!" said Evie, and flew up the stairs to Christina's room.
"Christina! What do you think! Mother has had a letter from a house
agent offering--"
"Don't tell me!" Christina interrupted, "let me guess! They've
offered her a beautiful house in the country rent free--no? Then
they've offered--let me think--a house in a nice warm climate where I
can bask in the sunshine and watch the butterflies flirting with the
roses!"
Evie's jaw dropped.
"Whatever made you think--?"
Christina snatched the letter and read, her eyes bright with
excitement.
"Oh, golly!" she said and laughed so long that Evie grew alarmed.
"No, I'm not mad, and I'm not clairvoyant. Mother, what do you think
of it?"
Mrs. Colebrook had followed her daughter upstairs.
"I don't know what to think," she said. She was one of those people
who welcome an opportunity to show their indecision. Mrs. Colebrook
liked to be "persuaded", though she might make up her mind
irrevocably, it was necessary that argument round and about should be
offered, before she yielded her tentative agreement.
Nobody knew this better than Christina. She drew a long sigh of
relief, recognising the signs.
"We'll talk it over after Evie has gone to her pill-shop," she said,
and for once Evie did not contest a description of her place of
business, which usually provoked her to retort.
"I only want to say, mother, that you need not worry about me. I can
get lodgings at one of the girl's hostels. I don't think I want to
go abroad. In fact, I know that I don't. But it would be fine for
Christina. It is my dream come true. I've always had that plan for
her--a place where she could sit in the sunshine and watch the
flowers grow."
Christina's smile was all loving-kindness; she took the girl's
fingers in her hand and pinched them softly.
"Off to your workshop, woman," she ordered. "Mother and I want to
talk about the sunny south."
"I'm not sure that I can take it," said Mrs. Colebrook dismally, "I
don't like the idea of living in a foreign place--"
"We'll discuss that," said Christina in her businesslike way. "Did
those linoleum patterns come?"