AUSTIN’S THEORY
“If I hadn’t turned up just at that very moment, I believe Grace would
have died on the doorstep. I hope there’s not another woman in the
world would have behaved so abominably as Mrs. Armitage; but it is just
like her. I never could imagine how she came to have such a daughter
as Grace! But of course she takes after her father--the professor’s a
dear. But what a life the pair of them have had with that horrid little
creature!”
Winnie Winston spoke in an emphatic undertone, for the walls of the
Chelsea flat were thin, and in the adjoining room Grace was in bed,
worn out and fast asleep.
Winnie had insisted on administering hot soup and a full dose of
aspirin, and sat beside the exhausted girl, holding her hand, stroking
her aching forehead, cherishing her with all womanly endearments, till,
between them, she and Mother Nature, and the beneficent drug brought
blessed sleep and oblivion to the tortured brain and heart.
Then Winnie stole away, and presently, as he so often did, Austin Starr
turned up, to whom she poured out her indignation at Mrs. Armitage’s
callous conduct.
“I always guessed she could be a holy terror if she chose. Though she
has always been mighty civil to me,” said Austin.
“Of course. She always is to men, and most of them think she’s an
angel. Why, she made a dead set at Roger when they first knew him, and
was furious when she found he wasn’t taking any, and that it was Grace
he was in love with. She’s been sniffy with them both ever since--mean
little cat! What _do_ you suppose she said to Grace at the very last
moment before she went to the church the other day?”
“Something sweet and maternal,” suggested Austin sarcastically.
“I don’t think! She came into Grace’s room, preening herself like a
canary--the first time she’d been near her to my knowledge, and I got
there pretty early to help Grace dress. Mrs. Armitage just looked her
up and down and said, ‘Really, Grace, you look like a corpse; white
never did suit you. Hadn’t you better make up a bit?’ I could have
shaken her! And when there was that dreadful delay at the church she
never even came through to the vestry with us, but was only fussing
and fuming because the Rawsons hadn’t come. While now, if you please,
she’s made up her nasty little mind that Roger is guilty and is going
to be hanged, and had the fiendish cruelty to blurt it out to Grace the
moment she arrived. It was enough to kill her!”
“Sure,” conceded Austin gravely. “I’m not making any excuse for Mrs.
Armitage--her conduct was just abominable--but we’ve got to face facts,
Miss Winnie; and the great fact is that I’m afraid a good few people
are of the same opinion.”
Winnie sprang up, a passionate figure, and pointed an accusing
forefinger at him.
“Austin Starr, you don’t dare to sit there and tell me that you believe
your friend Roger Carling is a murderer!”
His clever, good-tempered face--a face that inspired confidence in
most people--betrayed embarrassment, distress, perplexity; his silence
infuriated Winnie.
“Answer me!” she ejaculated in an imperative whisper, emphasized by a
stamp of her foot.
“No, I do not,” he said slowly. “I never will. But the case is very
black against him, and there’s a lot of excuse for the people who do
think it.”
She gave a little sigh of relief.
“I’m glad _you_ don’t, anyhow; for if you did I’d never willingly speak
to you again.”
Austin rose, and stood beside her, looking down earnestly at her
charming, animated face.
“I’d give my right hand, I’d give ten years of my life at its
best--Winnie, I’d give everything dearest to me in the world except
the hope of winning you--to be able to clear Roger Carling from this
charge,” he said slowly.
For weeks, for months she had known in her heart that Austin Starr
loved her, had known too that she loved him, but never before had he
spoken like this, never had there been any sentimental passages between
them, only a beautiful frank friendship, that after all is the very
best foundation on which a man and a woman can build the love that
lasts!
And now--though how it came about neither of them could have said--her
hands were in his, he drew her, unresisting to his arms, and their
lips met for the first time.
A wonderful moment for them both, when, without another word, he knew
his hope was fulfilled--that he had already won her. It was excusable
that, for a few moments, they almost forgot those other hapless
lovers, their nearest friends, now so tragically parted. Yet they soon
remembered and resumed counsel, with just one little difference that
meant a lot to them--that whereas before they had sat facing each
other, one each side the fire-place, they were now side by side.
“Can’t _you_ do anything to bring light on it all, Austin?” she asked.
He passed his hand perplexedly over his sleek hair.
“I mean to do everything I can, dear, but----”
“Haven’t you any theory?”
“I’ve had quite a lot, and tried to follow them up, but they won’t
wash--not one. I felt mighty uneasy when I found Lady Rawson had been
to your old _maestro’s_ flat and that Roger had followed her there.”
“Did he! When did you find that out?”
“The same night, just after Snell, the detective, came here, and asked
so many questions. I went straight to the flat.”
“You never told me!”
“I never told anyone; but I soon found that Snell knew all about it
too, and as he kept silence so did I. Though what I couldn’t make out
was _why_ Roger went on her track like that, when he had so little time
to spare. It was an utter mystery till I got the clue when the news
came through about those secret papers, and I went straight to Sir
Robert and saw him. It was he who sent it; Snell must have known it all
the time and suppressed it--never gave even me a hint.”
“Then you wrote the ‘interview’? I thought so. Did Sir Robert say
anything else? What does he think?”
“That’s the worst of it. He is absolutely convinced that his wife was
murdered by Roger, and is implacable against him. That’s not to be
wondered at, with the poor thing still lying dead in that great, silent
house. The funeral is to-morrow, and as I can’t go to both, I shall go
there instead of to the court to hear the case opened against Roger.”
“Oh, Austin, why? It would be a comfort to him and to Grace too, to
have you there!”
“Yes, but I’ve a queer sort of feeling that at the funeral I may get
some clue that would be of value. I can’t explain it, but there it is.
And anyhow the case will surely be adjourned to-morrow. They can’t do
anything else. It was terrible to see Sir Robert to-day. He is making
a wonderful recovery physically, and was sitting up in a wheel-chair,
though he’s paralysed in the lower limbs, and I doubt if he’ll ever
walk again. But his brain is clear enough, and his animus against Roger
is simply awful. The queer thing is that he acknowledges that those
papers were of such supreme importance that--well honestly, I gathered
the impression that if anyone but his own wife had been murdered in
order to recover them he’d have considered the crime justifiable and
tried to hush it up. The things we’re most up against are that Roger
undoubtedly was there on the scene, and that he was the one person
concerned who knew the contents of the papers and was most interested
in getting them back to Sir Robert. You and I, and poor Mrs. Carling
herself, are certain he did not commit the murder--just because we know
him. But the question is--Who did?”
“It’s curious that the _maestro_ should be mixed up in it,” mused
Winnie.
“Have you seen him since?”
“No, there was no reason why I should.”
“I have, and Boris Melikoff too--this afternoon. I remembered
him--Melikoff--when I saw him again. I met him here some months back,
in the summer.”
She nodded.
“That Sunday night, when he sang so divinely. It’s the only time I’ve
seen him. A handsome boy, but there’s something queer and unbalanced
about him, though I believe the _maestro_ cares for him more than for
anyone else alive. Grace was here that night, too--not Roger; it was
when he was abroad with the Rawsons. Why, Austin, could it have been
him, Melikoff--in jealousy? I could imagine him doing anything!”
Starr shook his head.
“No. He’s ruled out personally. He was down at Birmingham. But I’m
going to cultivate him assiduously, and, if possible, his compatriots
who forgather with him at Cacciola’s and elsewhere. I believe that’s
the direction in which the truth will be found. Snell doesn’t. _He_
is sure he’s got a clear, straightforward case, and that his duty’s
finished!”
Winnie frowned thoughtfully.
“You think Lady Rawson and Boris were members of a secret society?”
“Sure!”
“And that one of them watched, and followed, and killed her?”
“Possibly.”
“Then why didn’t he keep the papers?”
“That’s the snag. But suppose he or she--it might have been a
woman--didn’t want the papers, that it was a personal vendetta? That’s
the line I mean to follow now.”
“It sounds quite likely,” she agreed. “How clever of you, Austin. But
how are you going to set about it?”
“Can’t say yet, dear. I must feel my way somehow.”
“Perhaps something fresh and helpful will come out in court to-morrow,”
said Winnie hopefully.