A STORY OF THE PAST
So there had been no need for Audrey to plot for the removal of Madame
Coralie's yashmak. With the trifling aid of a tack, which had caught
the veil when the woman rose suddenly from the divan, the truth
immediately became known to the horrified and astonished girl. But was
it the truth? At the first glance Audrey recognised the side face
turned towards her as that of her mother. But when Madame Coralie
looked round fairly, and the light, filtering through the curtains of
the shop window, fell on her full countenance, then Audrey became
doubtful. The wine-dark birthmark which disfigured mouth and chin and
cheek had been absent from Lady Branwin's face.
"But--but you are my mother!" gasped the girl, still struck by the
marvellous resemblance to the supposed dead.
"I am not your mother," replied the other, coldly, and evading the
outstretched arms of her visitor. "But since you have seen my face, I
had better confess the truth. I am your aunt, Flora."
"Oh!" Audrey recollected what her father had said about the two
sisters of Bleakleigh. "Flora Arkwright?"
"Yes. I see your mother told you about me."
"No, she did not."
Madame Coralie raised her hand imperatively. "This alcove is too
public a place in which to discuss family matters. We must go
upstairs. Indeed, I fancy your exclamation of 'Mother!' must have
aroused Badoura's suspicions."
Apparently this was true, for when Madame Coralie drew her visitor
through the pink silk curtains into the deserted shop, Badoura was
standing before them with an astonished look on her face. Her employer
at once sent her off on a false scent.
"Miss Branwin has called to see me about her mother's death," said
Madame Coralie, quietly. "She is slightly hysterical, and you have, no
doubt, heard what she cried out. I trust"--the speaker looked
anxiously round the shop--"that no one else heard?"
"I am alone here," replied Badoura, evidently accepting this
explanation as a reasonable one. "Can I get Miss Branwin a glass of
water?"
"No, my dear," said the owner of the shop, who had replaced her
yashmak. "I am taking up Miss Branwin to the still-room for a little
quiet conversation. See that we are not disturbed."
"Peri Banou, Zobeide and Parizade are there, Madame."
"I shall send them down. Give them something to do here. Come, Miss
Branwin, if you don't mind climbing the stairs."
Although Audrey felt considerably annoyed at being described as
hysterical, she nevertheless saw the necessity of some such
explanation to satisfy the curiosity of the forewoman. Therefore she
wisely said nothing, and followed Madame into the narrow back passage
and up the stairs. On arriving in the still-room, the elder woman
dismissed her assistants, and having looked behind the curtain to see
that no one was hidden there likely to overhear the conversation, she
closed the door. Audrey watched her as she sat down with her back to
the window, and tried to steady her nerves, which naturally had
sustained a shock.
"Now, Miss Branwin," said Madame Coralie, in a quiet voice, "we can
talk. But first, so that you may be certain of my identity, I shall
lay this aside," and she flung the long veil of the yashmak over her
shoulder.
The girl examined that face carefully. Madame Coralie was certainly
extremely like Lady Branwin. She had the same muddy complexion and
large black eyes, and the same stout, shapeless figure. But the
aggressive birthmark made all the difference, and after a single
glimpse of it, much less this cautious and lengthy survey, there could
be no question that the woman before her was not Lady Branwin.
"But my mistake was natural," said Audrey, with a sigh.
"Very natural," answered Madame Coralie, who had evidently followed
her train of thought--no very difficult thing to do--"especially as
you first saw my side face. The mark does not show when I look thus."
She adapted her position to her words, and the resemblance became even
more apparent. "Dora and I were twins," ended Madame, with a nod.
"My father did not tell me that."
"Oh! so your father told you about me, my dear. I thought he had long
ago forgotten the existence of poor Flora Arkwright."
"Far from forgetting you," Audrey assured her aunt, "he said that he
wished he had married you instead of mother."
The information did not seem to please Madame Coralie, for her thin
lips tightened, and she gave vent to a short laugh. Then Audrey noted,
as a further difference between the sisters, that the woman before her
spoke in a hoarse and loud, domineering voice. Lady Branwin, on the
other hand, had always talked softly, and possessed a musical
utterance, which was one of the few poor charms she owned.
"So Joseph remembers me in that way, does he, my dear?" said Madame
Coralie, clasping her hands. "Ha! if I hadn't been a fool I should
have married him."
"Why didn't you?" asked Audrey, bluntly.
"I have stated the reason," said Madame Coralie, drily. "I was a fool.
But I am bound to say in my own defence that I never believed Joseph
would become so wealthy. He never struck me as particularly clever."
"Yet he must be, to have so much money."
"There I disagree with you, my dear--I can call you my dear in
private, as you are my niece--but Joseph was always hard and grasping,
and ever had an eye to the main chance. Well, he is rich, and has now
got rid of his wife, so he can marry into the Peerage if he likes. I
expect Dora is glad she is dead, now that she is on the other side of
the grave. Joseph killed her."
"Killed her?" Audrey, with a sudden fear, turned deadly white.
"Oh, I don't mean to say that he strangled her," said Madame Coralie,
hastily, "for he is too careful of his skin to risk hanging; but his
neglect killed her. She was always a good and faithful wife to him,
and he broke her heart."
"Papa was rather unkind," said Audrey, nervously, but relieved by this
explanation.
Madame again laughed shortly. "Unkind--rather unkind!" she repeated.
"Why, he treated her like a brute. She told me all about it. Fancy the
poor soul coming to me to be made young again, in the hope that she
could regain Joseph's affections. I told her that she was a fool; but
she _would_ waste her money. And perhaps she wanted to help me also,"
added Madame Coralie, in a softer tone. "Dora was always fond of me."
"She knew that you kept this shop?"
"Yes. In fact, she helped me to set up the shop some years ago. I made
her promise that she would never tell Joseph of my existence, and she
kept her word. Yet Joseph remembered me. Strange."
"Papa said that you had the brains."
Madame Coralie looked round the room disdainfully. "And to what have
my brains brought me? I am simply a renovator of faded women, and had
to borrow money from Dora to set up the establishment. Flora Arkwright
is lost in Madame Coralie."
"Mrs. Edward Vail, you mean," said Audrey, quietly.
"Oh!"--the woman shrugged her heavy shoulders--"I married Eddy so as
to have a companion. He's a handsome fool, and goes about making love
to younger women, while he lives on my money. However, he is always
good-tempered, and suits me well enough. But in Bleakleigh I believed
that my destiny would have been a better one. Dreams, my dear dreams."
"You were born at Bleakleigh?"
Madame Coralie nodded and folded her stout arms. Then, rocking to and
fro, she related her story and the story of her sister. It was strange
to Audrey, this history of her mother's early life. Lady Branwin had
always been too much afraid of her husband to tell about her early
struggles.
"Dora and I were the daughters of a labourer," said Madame Coralie.
"She was very pretty, and I--well, my dear, who could be pretty with
this?" and she touched the birthmark. "Although it was lighter when I
was a girl, I have tried so hard to remove it that I expect I made it
worse. If my customers saw it they would never believe that I could
remove blemishes from their silly faces. For that reason I always wear
the yashmak. My keeping what is called a Turkish shop gives me a
chance of doing so."
"I quite understand," said Audrey, gently. "But tell me about my
mother."
Madame Coralie looked at her swiftly. "You were fond of her?"
"Of course. Was she not my mother? Besides, she was all that was good
and kind to me. And," added Audrey, clenching her fist so tightly that
her glove split, "if no one else will revenge her by finding out who
killed her, I shall do so."
"I fear you have undertaken a search which will never be ended," said
her aunt, in a pitying tone; "but the feeling does you credit. I shall
assist you by all the means in my power, my dear; for not only was
poor Dora my sister, but her death has harmed my business."
"We can talk of what we will do later," said Audrey, quickly.
"Meanwhile, go on with your story."
"A very dull story, I fear, my dear," said Madame Coralie, with a
sigh. "Joseph, like Dora and myself, was the child of a labourer. We
lived next door to one another. Then Joseph fell in love with Dora,
because she was pretty, and went away to make his fortune. The papers
will tell you how he did, so there is no need for me to talk about
that. But I will say that Joseph behaved well to Dora, for he returned
to marry her. Then the ways of my sister and myself parted, and she
went on a golden road, while I"--Madame Coralie glanced round the room
again with great scorn--"while I made for this goal."
"Did you not see my mother occasionally?"
"Not for many years, my dear. I got married to a gamekeeper--the
gamekeeper of Squire Shawe, of Bleakleigh. He was killed by poachers
within a year of marriage, and left me with a few hundred pounds in
hand. There was no child, and there was nothing to keep me in
Bleakleigh, since my parents were dead, so I came to London.
Then--" Madame Coralie shivered.
"What happened then?" asked Audrey, sympathetically.
"Trouble. I was born to trouble, my dear. Everything that could go
wrong with me went wrong. I tried the stage, and failed. I became a
lecturer, and lost my voice--you hear how hoarse it is still. I went
to America as a lady's-maid, and was stranded there in San Francisco.
I worked as a typist; I laboured in a laundry; I took to reporting; I
edited a woman's paper, and did all I could to keep myself above
water. As a reporter I was sent to Paris in the interests of the
paper. It failed, and I went in for massaging people. Then--well, to
make a long story short, I learnt from a friend of mine in Paris all
kinds of secrets about the art of making women beautiful. It struck me
that I might start in London. I came back and wrote to Dora. There was
no difficulty in finding her, as she was by this time Lady Branwin,
the wife of a millionaire. I am bound to say that Dora behaved very
well. She said nothing to her brute of a husband, but managed in some
way to get enough to start me in this business. Then--" Madame Coralie
stopped abruptly, with a gesture. "That's all, my dear."
"And does the business pay?" asked Audrey, mindful of what Ralph had
said regarding the difficulties of the woman before her.
"Yes. That is, it would pay if I could only get in the money. But all
my clients, being women of fashion, are such bad payers--they ask for
years of credit. Then there's Eddy, who is extravagant. I was a fool
to marry him; but I did so for companionship. I bought him, so to
speak, so we understand one another perfectly. Of course, poor Dora's
death has done a lot of harm to me; but now that I have money to fall
back on, I hope to pull round. It is weary work, though," said Madame
Coralie, looking very old--"weary work."
"I am glad that you have saved money," said Audrey, who could not but
acknowledge that her aunt was marvellously candid.
"Saved money! My dear, have you not been listening to what I have been
saying? How could I save money with Eddy's extravagance and these
customers who never will pay their bills. It was Dora who came to my
rescue. She gave me her diamonds, poor dear."
Audrey jumped up amazed. "Gave you her diamonds?" she echoed. "But you
said at the inquest--"
"I know perfectly well what I said at the inquest and what I am saying
to you," interrupted Madame Coralie, sharply. "I denied that I knew
anything of the diamonds. For obvious reasons I did so. If I had
admitted possession of the diamonds, I would have been suspected as
the person who strangled your mother. No one knew that Dora and I were
sisters."
"You could have explained at--"
"No," said Madame Coralie, positively, "I could not have explained,
for my story would have appeared to be merely a made-up one to account
for the possession of the jewels. Of course, the resemblance--for Dora
and I were wonderfully alike, save for this birthmark--would have
hinted that I was speaking the truth. But in that case I should have
had to remove my yashmak, and then all the world would have known of
this disfigurement. It would have ruined my business, my dear."
Audrey looked bewildered. "But if my mother was not strangled for the
sake of the diamonds, why was she killed?"
Her aunt shrugged her shoulders. "I have asked that again and again;
and yet I think that I can see a way. Dora brought me the diamonds,
pretending that she wished them to be reset. When we were in the
bedroom together she took them out of the bag and gave them to me.
Then she placed the empty bag under her pillow. I came upstairs, after
tucking her in for the night, in order to put away the jewels. All I
can think of is that someone got into the court by means of that
skeleton key, and, thinking that the jewels were still in the bag,
strangled poor Dora, and then escaped. If you remember, the label was
found near the court door."
All this explanation was very frank, and from the mere fact that
Madame Coralie admitted having the jewels Audrey was certain that she
was not the guilty person, nor had she employed anyone else to commit
the crime. Besides, as the two women were twin sisters--and the
likeness proved this beyond all doubt--the idea of one murdering the
other was out of the question. "I suppose," said Audrey, after a
pause, "that you know some people suspect you?"
"Oh, yes," said her aunt, indifferently; "and if they knew about the
diamonds they would be certain of my guilt. However, I got Eddy to
unset the stones and sell them separately. He has been over to
Antwerp selling them, so I am quite safe; that is"--she looked at
Audrey--"unless you tell the police what I have told you."
"I should not think of doing so," said the girl, anxiously, for she
really believed her aunt to be innocent, "and, more than that, I will
try and disabuse Ralph of your guilt."
"Ralph? Oh, yes. Squire Shawe's younger son. Poor Dora told me he was
engaged to you. Well, is there anything else you want to know?"
"No; but you must help me to find out who murdered my mother."
"Certainly. I shall do that for my own sake. Come and see me again,
and I may be able to give you a clue. Between us we may trace the
assassin."
"Oh! aunt, will you do this?" cried Audrey, with shining eyes.
Madame Coralie kissed her. "Yes, even if I ruin myself. You love your
poor mother's memory--I would do anything for Dora's daughter."