“Breath of Eden”
When Inez left the detective on the first occasion, she found her
brother, where she had left him, in her own sitting-room, hunched up
in an arm-chair and staring gloomily at the fire. If environment has
the effect upon human spirits with which it is now popularly credited,
there was no excuse for the expression on Ryland’s face—Inez’ room was
as cheerful as any London room in November can possibly be. The walls
and ceilings were painted in three shades of peach, the floor covered
with a thick carpet of chestnut brown. The small Heal sofa, and two
arm-chairs, were upholstered in an old-fashioned cretonne, with
cushions of green and brown loosely flung in unsymmetrical profusion.
A rosewood baby-grand piano, a sofa-table, acting now as a
writing-table, a small china cabinet, two or three delicate Sheraton
chairs and old tray tables, and a walnut fire stool completed the
furniture of the room. Over the mantelpiece hung a Chippendale mirror,
while a pair of exquisite girandoles and two coloured Bartolozzi
engravings were the only other ornaments on the walls. Vases of
chrysanthemums and autumn foliage, Florentine candle-lamps, and a
brisk coal and wood fire gave the finishing touches to a very charming
effect.
Inez herself, in a dark grey georgette which made a perfect background
for a single string of exquisitely graded pearls, was very far from
detracting from the beauty of her surroundings as she slipped on to
the arm of the chair beside her brother. Her beauty was only enhanced
by the sombre colour of her clothes and her face now showed none of
the anxiety which her interview with the detective must have
engendered.
“Ry,” she said softly, while her fingers gently caressed her brother’s
shoulder, “who was the mysterious lady of the Birdcage Walk?”
Ryland looked up at her quickly.
“Who told you about that?” he asked sharply.
Inez smiled.
“Anybody who had been at the inquest might have, I suppose; but as a
matter of fact, the handsome but earnest Mr. Poole did.”
Ryland tried to jump up from the chair, but Inez pressed him gently
back.
“Blast the fellow! Has he been bullying you again?” he said angrily.
“He hasn’t; I bullied him. He came to see you but I waylaid him.
I . . .”
“But why should he . . .”
“Don’t interrupt, Ry; let me tell my simple story in my own
old-fashioned way. Odd as it may seem, I wanted to know what had been
happening today that had worried you so much. You didn’t tell me
anything worth hearing so I went to the _fons et origo mali_ and
turned it on. It was a bit sticky—‘not at liberty to divulge’ and all
that sort of eyewash—but it’s a nice young man really and responded to
my womanly appeal—as one sister to another effect, you know.”
Ryland snorted.
“It’s quite all right, Ry; I didn’t vamp him—at least, not much. He
told me what you seem to have told the Coroner, and pretty thin we
both thought it. He naturally wanted to hear a bit more; that’s what
he came here for—to put you through it—third degree—in quite a nice,
gentlemanly sort of way. Well, knowing what sort of a Ryland my
brother Ryland is, I thought I saw him getting a bit mule-headed and
sticking his toes in and giving a general representation of a man who
has got nothing good to tell and won’t tell it. So I told him to go
off and apply third, fourth and even fifth degrees to the pantry boy
while I asked you what it was really all about. You see, I start with
the advantage of knowing that you are telling the truth, however thin
it may sound, so I . . .”
“Inez, did you know that father wasn’t—wasn’t my father?”
Inez started.
“Ry!” she said. “Haven’t you been listening to what I was saying?”
“Did you know, Inez?” repeated her brother.
Inez looked at him, in a curious expression on her face.
“Yes, Ry, I knew,” she said quietly.
“Who told you?”
“Mother—but she made me promise not to breathe a word about it to
anyone.”
“Why should you know, and not me? Surely I had a right to know if
anyone had.”
“I think father didn’t want anyone at all to know—out of kindness
really—people of that generation—Victorians—had odd ideas about its
being shameful to be the child of an unmarried mother.”
There was silence for a minute or more as Ryland sat with a look of
deepening bitterness, staring into the fire.
“Then I’m not your brother?” he said at last.
Again that curious expression, half contemptuous, half tender, came
into Inez’ face.
“Fancy that!” she said lightly, slipping from her place on the arm of
Ryland’s chair.
Ryland, catching the ironical note in her voice, looked up
questioningly, but Inez only returned to her original attack.
“Now then, what about this Birdcage lady?” she asked. “It wasn’t Julie
Vermont was it? I thought you were off her.”
Ryland shook his head impatiently.
“Oh dry up about her,” he said.
Slightly changing her tactics, Inez gradually coaxed the story out of
him. It was a curious story; in the first place he did not know who
the girl was, nor where she lived, but he was none the less very much
in love with her (he always thought that—for a month or two). It
appeared that about ten days previously he had been leaving his rooms
in Abingdon Street when he noticed, just outside his door, a girl
struggling to change the back tire of a Morris saloon car. A glance
had been enough to show him that she was attractive and therefore a
fitting subject for a good deed. He had offered his services, which
were accepted, and—in not too great a hurry and with a maximum of
mutual help—the task had been accomplished. An offer of a wash and
brush up had followed (fortunately Ryland had a well-kept bath-room,
with lavatory basin, clothes-brush, etc., that Inez sometimes used
when she came to see him) and was laughingly accepted. The girl was
uncommonly pretty—prettier than he had at first realized—with dark
hair, large dark eyes, and small, well-kept hands. The whole interlude
having lasted nearly half an hour, she had offered to drive Ryland
wherever he had been going—she herself not being in any hurry. Ryland
had made a feeble attempt to pretend that he was going to lunch alone
and tried to induce her to join him, but she had laughingly pointed
out the time—it was half past eleven—and firmly dropped him at the
“Doorstep” Club—but not before he had extracted a promise from her to
have tea with him at Rumpelmayer’s on the following day.
“That was a good tea, as teas go,” said Ryland, reminiscently, “but
the drive afterwards was much better. We went out in her car to
Richmond Hill and sat there, looking out over the river—devilish
romantic in the twilight, I can tell you. We must have been there an
hour or more.” Ryland was smiling now; the memory of that evening had
momentarily blotted out much that had happened since.
“You sat there for an hour or more,” said Inez, “talking about—what?”
“Oh I don’t know; nothing in particular.”
“I only ask,” said Inez airily, “because I want to know what one does
talk about when one picks up a young man and takes him out to
Richmond. You might be more helpful; anyhow, what do you _do_?”
“What on earth are you talking about?” exclaimed Ryland. “_You_ can’t
do that.”
“And why not?”
“Because you . . . oh, it’s this silly sex equality stuff you’ve got
in your head, I suppose. Let me tell you, it doesn’t work—not where
that sort of thing’s concerned anyhow.”
“I suppose you hold each other’s hands,” went on Inez inexorably. “Do
you kiss? Rather familiar with a complete stranger, isn’t it?”
“Shut up, will you? I don’t like to hear you talking like that.”
“All right, all right. Go ahead with your love’s young dream.”
Ryland frowned at her, but Inez’ face bore an expression of such
innocent appeal, that he burst into a laugh.
“Curse you, Inez; you’re pulling my leg. Well, as a matter of fact we
didn’t get much forwarder really that evening—self-possessed young
person she was. I tried to fix up something for next day but she said
she was going away. The best I could get out of her was that she would
take me for another drive on the following Thursday. She said she’d
pick me up in St. James’s Park—at the end of the Birdcage Walk—as soon
after five as possible. It sounded rather surreptitious and jolly and
of course I agreed. I got there at a quarter to five and waited till
nearly seven, but she never came. I haven’t seen her since—as a matter
of fact, I’ve hardly thought about her.”
The gloomy look had returned to Ryland’s face; the story had brought
him back to grim facts.
“But who is she, Ry? Where does she live?” asked Inez.
“I tell you I don’t know. Daphne—that’s all she’d tell me in the way
of a name. And she wouldn’t tell me where she lived. I believe she’s
got a job somewhere—that was why she wouldn’t come to lunch—but where
or what it is I don’t know and she wouldn’t tell me.”
“Can you get hold of her? How did you propose to meet again? I suppose
you were going to?”
“I can’t get hold of her. She was going to meet me, and as she didn’t
I don’t know in the least where she is.”
“Good Lord,” said Inez. “It is a blank wall—and a thin story. What was
she like?”
“I told you—dark hair, dark eyes, about your height.”
“Dark eyes? What colour?”
“Oh I don’t know—brown, I suppose. Or it may have been her eyelashes
that were dark.”
“What a rotten description. What did she wear?”
“Oh the usual sort of thing. Brownish-grey coat and skirt and one of
those small hats—reddy-brown I should think. Brownish stockings.”
“That identifies her precisely,” said Inez sarcastically. “You’re
quite hopeless. Wasn’t there _anything_ to distinguish her from
twenty-thousand other shop-girls?”
“She wasn’t a shop-girl! She was . . .”
“Oh yes, a princess in disguise of course—especially the disguise. But
wasn’t there anything?”
Ryland thought for a minute. Suddenly his face brightened.
“There was! Scent! Marvellous stuff—simply made you feel wicked all
down your spine.”
“Pah! Patchouli, I should think—fines it down to ten thousand,
perhaps. Look here, Ry, you’ve got to find this girl. Put a notice in
the Agony Column—‘Daphne, Birdcage Walk. Broken-hearted. Write Box
something. Boysie’—or whatever silly name you let her call you.
Seriously, you _must_ find her. It’s not the least use your seeing
this detective with a story like that. I’ll put him off. And just you
get your nose down to it and do some finding.”
So it was that Inez returned to the morning-room with her tale of woe.
It wasn’t true, of course; but on the other hand, her promise to tell
Poole everything that she found out was honestly given; she had
pledged her word of honour—a mysterious distinction, surviving perhaps
from schoolroom days.
The period of grace won for him by his sister’s diplomacy did not at
first appear likely to be of great benefit to Ryland Fratten. He spent
most of the evening in almost voiceless gloom, growled at Inez
whenever she talked to him—especially when she tried to get him to
take some interest in his own predicament—and left the house for his
lodgings soon after half past nine.
On the following morning, however, he appeared in time for breakfast,
looking much more his usual, cheerful self. Inez was already in the
breakfast-room, brewing coffee; Ryland went up to her, put his arm
round her waist, and kissed her affectionately.
“I suppose I’ve no right to do that now,” he said.
“Just as much as ever you had,” replied Inez.
“Yes, but I didn’t know it before. Where ignorance is bli . . . I
mean,—no, I don’t; I’m getting muddled. What I really mean is, that
there’s no fun in breaking a rule if you don’t know you’re breaking
it. In other words, now I’ve no right to kiss you—I really want to.”
A faint flush appeared on Inez’ usually calm face.
“You’d better get yourself something to eat,” she said crisply. “Your
mind’s not very clear before food.”
Ryland laughed.
“My mind’s been working to some tune since I saw you last. I’ve got a
clue!”
Inez turned quickly.
“What?” she exclaimed.
“That scent! You remember, I told you that Daphne used a very
attractive scent; well, I’ve found it. That’s to say I’ve found a
handkerchief of hers that still smells of it. I remembered last night
that she’d dropped her handkerchief getting out of the car and I’d
pinched it—rather romantic—something to remind me of her—that sort of
thing.”
“So as not to get her muddled up with half a dozen others?” said Inez.
“How thoughtful of you, Ryland. Let’s smell the beastly stuff.”
If Inez had expected the usual cheap sickly scent that she had spoken
of, she must have been greatly surprised. The handkerchief—a fine
cambric, with a thin edging of lace—gave off a very faint bitter-sweet
perfume which was quite unlike anything she had met before. She at
once became interested. The scent was so unusual that there seemed
quite a possibility that it might be traced. She suggested to Ryland
that he should take the handkerchief to one or two of the leading
perfumers—Rollinson in Bond Street, Duhamel Frères, Pompadour in the
Ritz Arcade—and ask them whether it was one of their creations. But
Ryland seemed to have lost interest in the subject as soon as his
sister took it up; he declared that the whole thing was nonsense—he
wasn’t going to traipse round London making a fool of himself, just
because some silly detective was getting excited about a mare’s nest.
Inez was furious with him, but neither gibes nor entreaties could stir
him to make the suggested enquiries. Eventually she declared that she
would do it herself, thinking perhaps that that might move him; he
merely told her that she could if it amused her.
Put on her mettle by this cavalier treatment, Inez ran up to her room,
put on a hat and a pointed fox fur, and was soon bowling along in a
taxi to Rollinson’s. With an air of considerable _empressement_ she
demanded to see the manager and, as her appearance and her card were
sufficiently important to open such an august portal, she soon found
herself in that aristocratic gentleman’s room. Having already divulged
her name, Inez knew that it was no good trying to invent some
cock-and-bull story to cloak her inquiry; the report of the inquest
was in all the papers that morning, including, of course, the account
of Ryland’s abortive liaison with an unknown young lady in St. James’s
Park. Very wisely, Inez decided to take the manager entirely into her
confidence. Needless to say, the poor man was easy game for Inez, who,
when she chose to exert her full powers, could wring sympathy out of a
University Professor; had she not, only a few hours previously,
derailed an ambitious young detective under full steam? Mr.
Rodney-Phillips (in private life, Rodnocopoulos) became at once her
ardent collaborator in the search for truth—and “Daphne.”
Inez produced the handkerchief.
“This is our only clue,” she said. “Is it possible to identify the
scent? If anyone can do it, I know you can.”
Mr. Rodney-Phillips bowed and held out a fat white palm. The
handkerchief being placed on it, he conveyed it to within about six
inches of his fine nose, closed his eyes, and gave a long, slow, and
utterly refined sniff.
Instantly he opened his eyes.
“Why, certainly, madame,” he exclaimed. “This is one of our own
perfumes—one of our choicest, and most ‘chic’ conceptions—‘Breath of
Eden.’ It is, of course, exclusively purveyed by ourselves; there is
every hope of our being able to identify the purchaser by the help of
your description of the lady—though, of course, a certain amount is
sold over the counter to casual purchasers. I will send for Miss
Gilling, our head assistant.”
Miss Gilling, however, was less hopeful—was, in fact, rather bored by
the enquiry. There were, she declared, a number of ladies among their
clientele, answering broadly to the vague description which was all
that Inez could produce. The scent was a popular one and was sold in
considerable quantities to both regular and occasional customers.
Inez’s hopes were dashed by the uncompromising and unhelpful
pronouncement, but the manager was not going to allow his promises to
be so lightly upset.
“But we must enquire, Miss Gilling,” he exclaimed. “The books must be
examined. I have promised Miss Fratten that we will identify the
purchaser.”
Instantly Miss Gilling pricked up her ears and discarded the pose of
supercilious languor that she had hitherto adopted.
“Miss Fratten?” she exclaimed. “Are you Miss Fratten? Oh, then I think
I can help you. I have myself on more than one occasion supplied this
very perfume to the order of your . . . of Mr. Ryland Fratten!”