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Days became weeks, and the mystery of what had become of Noel Draycott
was a mystery still. It had got into the papers; to the disgust of the
Earl of Cantyre, it had become, in a sense, the topic of the hour.
"Where is Noel Draycott?" was the question, set in staring capitals,
which faced newspaper readers day after day. The usual things were said
about the incapacity of Scotland Yard; and people were assured by the
morning and evening Press that the whole affair was but another
illustration of how ineffective our detective service really is.
The official methods of dealing with his house and grounds were bad
enough, but when it came to the amateur detective, his lordship drew
the line. It was a subject on which he expressed himself very freely.
"Think the professional is no good, do they? I can't say that I'm
struck with him myself. But compared to these male and female creatures
who are aping him----! There's a woman who has taken on the job of what
she calls 'solving' the mystery for the _Daily Screecher_; they tell me
they've had the greatest difficulty in keeping her out of the servants'
hall, to say nothing of the butler's pantry; and the other day they
found her under the dining-room table just as they were starting to lay
the dinner. I've given instructions that all such persons are to be
warned gently off the premises, and kept off. Of course, if any of them
should stray by any unhappy accident into the lake, it will be a
misfortune. Privacy is getting a thing of the past. From the tone
some of these fellows take, you'd think it was their house, their
grounds--not mine."
Miss Forster had gone her own way--her uncle and many of her friends
put it, her own bad way. She had gone straight from Avonham to
Nuthurst, her uncle's house, which had been her home for so many years.
In an interview she had insisted on having with him a very few minutes
after her arrival, she had given her uncle one of the surprises of his
life.
"You wish me to marry Sir George Beaton?" she had informed him.
"I'm not particular about your marrying George Beaton," the distracted
old man declared. "There are hundreds and thousands of men in the world
besides. What's the matter with Harold Reith? I thought you liked him."
"I like him too much to marry him."
"Of course, there's that point of view. I said to him: 'If the girl
does marry you, you'll want to drown her and yourself inside six
weeks.' Well, that didn't seem to cheer him."
Miss Forster looked at the old gentleman with doubtful glance, as if
she suspected him of malign intention.
"Such a remark on your part was quite unnecessary. Major Reith is not
likely to find himself in such a situation. I am going to marry Sydney
Beaton."
Had she actually dropped a live bomb at his feet, Mr. Hovenden could
not have seemed more disturbed.
"That pestilent young scoundrel! Was there ever anything like a woman
for sheer impossibility?"
"It is because I am conscious of what your sentiments are on the
subject that I am going to leave Nuthurst."
"You're going to do--what?"
"I have an income of my own----"
"Five hundred a year."
"It's more than five hundred a year."
"How much more?"
"I'm going to take a small furnished flat in London, and I'm going to
live in it. For that my income will be more than ample."
"Is the girl raving? What's the matter with my house--or with me? If it
comes to that, can't I take a flat for you?"
She crossed the room, and she kissed him. Educated in the school of
experience, he did not show himself so grateful as he might have done.
"What does that mean?"
"It means, my dear uncle, that it can't be done."
"What can't be done?"
"I'd better be candid with you."
"I'd sooner you weren't. Candour with you means saying something
disagreeable."
"Circumstances have arisen which make me think that things are in a
very bad way with Sydney."
"I shouldn't be surprised."
"You would be surprised if you knew how bad they are."
"Oh, no, I shouldn't. A young scamp like that must expect to feed on
the husks which the swine have rejected. I know. Rogues sometimes do
get punished even in this world."
"Does it not occur to you how impossible it is that I should remain in
your house while you speak like that of my future husband?"
"Your future husband?"
"My future husband." She said it with an air of calmness which
irritated the old gentleman more than any show of heat would have done.
"Violet, if ever you marry that young blackguard----"
"Stop, uncle, before you say something which I may find it hard to
forgive." She spoke as if she wished him to understand that the
discussion was closed; that all she had to do was to make an
announcement. "I am leaving Nuthurst this afternoon; I am going up to
town by the three-twenty-three. I have told Cleaver to send my things
on after me and what things to send. I shan't want her. You may dismiss
her or keep her on, as you please. I dare say she may be found useful
in the house."
"Dismiss Cleaver! At a moment's notice! I catch myself at it. And she
has waited upon you hand and foot since you wore your first pair of
long stockings!"
As Geoffrey Hovenden growled the words out he surveyed her as a
clean-bred old mastiff might an impertinent young lap-dog. She went
calmly on, holding out to him a sheet of paper:
"My address in town will be 2A Cobden Mansions, York Place. I've
written it on this piece of paper in case you should forget it. It is
quite respectable; you need be under no apprehension. All the occupants
of Cobden Mansions are women, who have to supply satisfactory
references before they are accepted as tenants. Good-bye."
Ignoring the hand which she advanced, he glared at her as if he would
like to treat her to a good shaking.
"Are you in earnest?"
"I am. I know, uncle, how much I have to thank you for; please don't
think I'm ungrateful because I am leaving Nuthurst. If I had married
any of those hundred thousand gentlemen you just spoke of, I should
have had to leave your house for his, so it comes to the same thing,
because I hope that my husband will soon have a home for me. I don't
suppose we shall see much of each other in future----"
"Don't talk balderdash! I'm disappointed in you, Violet, disappointed."
"I'm sorry, uncle; but I shan't cease to love you, and I hope you won't
cease to love me."
"Why should I? Though your whole conduct shows you don't care a snap of
your fingers for me. I don't believe you're really quite right in your
head; I've half a mind to have you certified as a lunatic."
"You might find that harder than you suppose. But don't let us talk
about that. You'll think better of me when I've gone. If you won't
shake hands, once more good-bye. Remember, 2A Cobden Mansions. I shall
be always glad to have a visit from you."
She was gone from the room, and very shortly afterwards from the house.
His inclination was to stop her by strong measures, but second thoughts
prevailed. He chose what he flattered himself was the wisdom of the
serpent.
"If I let her think that it is a matter of complete indifference to me
whether she goes or stays, she'll soon be back again. When a woman
thinks that you don't care if she does make a fool of herself, she'll
soon give up trying. I never thought that the girl would be such an
imbecile."
When, a few days later, Sir George Beaton called, and placed him in
possession of certain information, he formed a still lower estimate of
his niece's mental capacity. The young man burst in on the old one just
as he had finished his usual daily interview with his steward.
"Hovenden," he began, without any preliminary greeting, "what's this
idea about Violet having left Nuthurst and gone to live in town?"
The old gentleman looked up from a bundle of papers which the steward
had left behind.
"I don't know what you hear, but she's gone." His glance returned to
the papers. "So far as I can understand, she's gone to look for your
brother Sydney."
Sir George displayed signs of acute perturbation.
"Good heavens! Do you know what's the latest tale they're telling?"
"How should I? How long is it since I saw you? The worst tales about
your brother I've always heard from you."
"Is that meant for---- What do you mean by that?"
"It's the truth, any way. Ever since Sydney was a small boy you've been
telling tales to his discredit."
"Have I? I'm going to cap them with another: he's been committing
burglary--that's his latest performance."
"Tell that to the marines. You know, George, you overdo it where Sydney
is concerned; you make of him 'an 'orrible tale'; the colours with
which you paint him are invariably sanguinary."
Sir George Beaton punctuated his words by striking his hand on the
table at which the old gentleman was sitting.
"On the night of the Easter ball at Avonham all the women's jewellery
was taken from their rooms--by Sydney."
"Who told you that?"
"Never mind who told me; it's a fact. It's the topic among the people
we know."
"He did it for a lark; he has a peculiar sense of humour."
"That's how you look at it; you may well call it peculiar. There's
something else which is being said of him, still more peculiar."
"He has committed murder?"
"That's what's being said."
"George, do you know you're talking of your own brother?"
"Don't I know it? You've seen in the papers about this Noel Draycott
who is missing; he's one of the men who accused him that night at
poker. They say that after Sydney had made off with the women's jewels
he came across Draycott, there was a row, and he killed him. And this
is the man Violet has gone to London to look for! She's not the only
person who is doing it. And I'll say this--I hope that neither she nor
anyone else will find him. I don't want to have my name entered in the
Newgate Calendar, nor to see my brother finish at the gallows."
"Is it possible, do you think, that Violet can know of this--of these
charges which are alleged against him?"
"I'm told it's because she knows that she's gone to town. She's got
some cranky notion in her head that this is a case in which, for love's
sake, the world would be well lost. To associate love with a man like
that!"