THE QUESTION OF THE CLOCK
Audrey handed over a dingy envelope, bearing the London postmark, and
addressed to her at the Camden Hill house. Out of this Shawe took an
equally dingy piece of paper--a single sheet of very cheap stationery.
On it a few lines in vile caligraphy were scrawled. He read them at
once, while Audrey sat down on a near chair and watched him silently.
"DEAR MISS"--ran the anonymous letter,--"This is to warn you from
invistigiting your poor ma's deth, as I know you are doing. Keip off
the gras and don't be silly, or you will sueffer the gratest grief of
your life. This is from one who sines as you see--A FREND."
"What do you think of it?" asked the girl, when her lover silently
replaced the paper in its envelope and sat down beside her.
"I think there may be something in it," said Shawe, slowly. "I
wonder--"
"You wonder what?"
"If it would not be as well to take the advice of this," and he tapped
the envelope as he handed it back to her.
"No!" cried Audrey, her worn face flushing.
"A thousand times no. I shall learn the truth at all costs."
"But if it leads to more sorrow, dear?"
"I don't care what it leads to. To know the worst--whatever the worst
may be--is better than this terrible suspense." She looked at the
dingy communication dubiously. "I wonder who wrote this?"
"An uneducated person, apparently."
"I don't believe it," declared the girl, quickly. "All that bad
spelling and bad writing is intended to mislead."
Shawe shook his head. "How can you be sure of that?"
"I am sure of nothing. I am only assuming that such is the case. But,
at all events, the person who wrote this letter knows that the matter
of the death is being looked into."
"I don't see who can possibly know, save you and myself and Perry
Toat."
"Who is Perry Toat?"
"The detective whom I am employing to search."
"What has he found out?"
"She, dear. Miss Toat's name is Peronella Toat, and she calls herself
Perry on her card for business reasons. She has found out nothing very
tangible, and confines herself to theorising a lot." Ralph paused, and
shook his head once more. "I fancy she is growing tired of the case."
And he related Perry Toat's discoveries--such as they were--and also
detailed her theories. When he ended Audrey was almost as despairing
as he appeared to be.
"There doesn't seem to be a single ray of light," lamented the girl,
putting the envelope into her pocket. "Madame Coralie, her assistants,
and her husband seem to be all innocent; unless," she added, with a
quick look, "there is something in this idea of a prepared alibi."
"Well, Miss Toat has learnt nothing likely to show that her surmise is
right in that way, Audrey. Badoura apparently knows nothing, or,
infatuated with Eddy Vail, refuses to say what she may know. As to
Peri Banou, who is dumb, no information can be got from her, although
she was in the shop when the crime was committed. She says that she
was asleep on a divan, and Zobeide certainly admits that she left her
there when she went up to the still-room."
"Badoura, Peri Banou, Zobeide," said Miss Branwin, ticking off the
quaint and musical names on her fingers. "You have mentioned only
three of the assistants. What about the fourth?"
"Parizade? Oh! being blind, of course she can see nothing at all. She
was behind the curtain in the still-room preparing some wash when
Madame Coralie came to speak to her husband. That was about eight
o'clock, just before Madame came down to tell you that your mother
would remain for the night."
"It was about half-past eight that Madame came to the door."
"Oh! my dear girl, you must be mistaken. Madame herself and her
husband both say it was five or ten minutes after eight o'clock when
she came to you."
Audrey shook her head vehemently. "Mrs. Mellop will tell you that we
did not leave the house until a quarter past eight."
"The Pink Shop? That, of course, would make it right."
"No, our own house. There was a first piece at the theatre which Mrs.
Mellop and I did not care about seeing. We only left in time to get to
the theatre by nine, when the chief drama of the evening began. It was
nearly half-past eight when we reached the Pink Shop, as it took us
ten minutes, more or less, to get to Walpole Lane."
"There must be some mistake," said Shawe, rather puzzled by this clear
and positive explanation. "Why, Badoura says that Eddy Vail drew her
attention to the clock in the still-room, and then it was five minutes
to eight. Almost immediately afterwards Madame came up from seeing
your mother tucked in for the night, and very shortly went to the shop
door to speak to you."
"Then the clock in the still-room must be wrong," said Audrey. "Tell
Miss Toat what I say, and she may be able to learn if it is so."
"Well, and supposing you prove that the still-room clock is wrong?"
"Can't you see? In that case Madame Coralie could not have come up
from seeing my mother safely to bed, for she must have come up to the
still-room at about fifteen or twenty minutes past the hour. And the
medical evidence says that my poor mother was murdered at eight
o'clock."
"It does seem strange," said Shawe, reflectively. "Humph! I wonder if
Perry Toat is right after all, and if this alibi--a very convincing
one, I must say--is a faked affair. Audrey"--he turned earnestly
towards the girl--"say nothing of this to anyone."
"Will you tell Miss Toat?"
"Yes, I shall certainly do that. But, after all, both you and the
still-room clock may be right. It only means that Madame waited twenty
minutes or so talking to her husband instead of coming down at once."
"But if she came at once--"
"Then the matter will have to be looked into. I shall ask Miss Toat to
question Badoura and Eddy Vail, who noticed the time. They may be able
to say how long Madame Coralie remained in the still-room. But, my
dear, it is all a mere theory--"
"And one that may prove to be true. Really, Ralph"--Audrey spoke with
a flush on her face--"you don't seem anxious to learn the truth."
"I am in one way, and not in another. I remember that anonymous
letter."
"I don't care what the letter says. The person who wrote it is
evidently concerned in the death of my poor mother, and is afraid lest
he or she should be caught."
"There may be some truth in that," admitted Shawe. "However, you had
better leave the matter in my hands. I shall tell Perry Toat what you
say about the difference in time, always supposing that Madame Coralie
did not linger in the still-room. When I hear of anything definite
likely to supply a clue I shall let you know."
"You have let me know very little hitherto," said Audrey, bitterly.
"My darling"--he took her hands and looked into her eyes--"surely you
are not dissatisfied with me?"
"I am in a way," she admitted, blushing guiltily. "I am so anxious to
learn the truth and revenge my mother. If you won't search, I shall
search myself."
Shawe could do nothing in the face of this determination but agree. He
scribbled Perry Toat's address on his card and gave it to the girl.
Audrey slipped it into the dingy envelope which held the anonymous
letter, with the intention of calling on the detective whenever she
could.
"If you go on with the matter I shall help you to the best of my
ability," he said earnestly, as she turned away. "Don't think that I
do not desire your wish to be gratified. I only want you to be happy."
"I won't be happy until I learn who murdered my dear mother," said the
girl, obstinately; then she took his arm, and they walked across to
the gate near the Palace. "But I am glad that you will help me. All I
ask is that you will let me assist you."
"You shall go to Perry Tat yourself and take an immediate hand in the
game we are playing," said the barrister, decidedly, "as I see that in
no other way will you be satisfied. And now let me see you home."
"Don't come too far with me, dear. My father may have risen by this
time, and if he meets you there will be trouble."
"I don't mind that," said Shawe, throwing back his well-shaped head.
"I am not afraid of Sir Joseph. By the way, talking about the
possibility of that clock being wrong, was your father with you in the
car?"
"No. He went out at six o'clock for one of his prowls."
"What do you mean by one of his prowls?" asked Shawe, surprised.
"Well, papa, for all our talking, is really kind when he chooses. He
is sorry for poor people--for the really ragged, unwashed poor, that
is--and sometimes he goes out quietly and wanders round the streets,
giving money to beggars and helping those who need help."
"You throw quite a light on your father's character," said Ralph,
grimly. "I should have thought that Sir Joseph was the last person in
the world to help anyone or to act the secret philanthropist."
"Mrs. Mellop told me that he did so. She saw him once or twice in a
tweed suit in the evening helping people--giving money, that is. And
papa must go out for some such purpose, for he usually puts on evening
dress for dinner."
"And changes it afterwards?"
"No; on the nights he goes out he doesn't change his clothes, and very
often doesn't come to dinner. On that night Mrs. Mellop and I had the
meal to ourselves, and went alone to the theatre. Papa had gone out at
six in his usual clothes for a prowl. Perhaps," ended Audrey,
wistfully, "I have misjudged my father, and he may not be so hard as I
think. I never knew that he helped the poor until Mrs. Mellop told me;
and she only saw him by chance when her taxi-cab broke down one
evening on the Embankment."
"Well, I am glad to hear that Sir Joseph has some redeeming
qualities," said Shawe, somewhat cynically; for the whole story
sounded improbable, seeing what he knew of the man.
Neither of the young people noticed at the time that they were near
the gates of Branwin's mansion, and were therefore astonished when Sir
Joseph himself stepped out. He was dressed in a rough tweed suit, and
looked more bulky and aggressive than ever. With a scowl he fairly
snatched his daughter from the barrister's arm. "I expected something
of this sort, Audrey, when you went out so early," he said, in his
domineering tones. "I was just coming to Kensington Gardens. Mrs.
Mellop kindly told me how you met this rascal in--"
"I am no rascal, sir," said Shawe, spiritedly.
"Yes, you are. You know that I don't wish my daughter to marry you,
and yet you arrange secret meetings in the Gardens."
"I am to blame, if anyone," said Audrey, hotly, "for I arranged the
meeting."
"A pretty confession for a young lady," said her father, grimly; "but
I shall take care that you arrange no more. As for you, sir"--he
turned on Ralph--"I forbid you to think of Miss Branwin. She is to
marry Lord Anvers."
"I shall not," cried Audrey, growing white, but perfectly determined.
"You shall. I have spoken to Lord Anvers, and he is willing to make
you his wife. You understand, Mr. Shawe?"
"I understand that I intend to marry Audrey," said the barrister,
coolly, "so it matters little what arrangements you have made with
Anvers, who is indeed the rascal you called me."
"Go inside, Audrey," said Branwin, and pushed his daughter within the
gates hurriedly. "Mr. Shawe, good-day!" and he also stalked in,
without commenting on the young man's speech.
Ralph thus Was left outside, like the Peri at the Gates of Paradise.