FINGER PRINTS IN THE DUST
As Cyril sat toying with his dinner, it was little by little borne in on
him that the butler had something on his mind. How he got this
impression he really did not know, for Douglas performed his duties as
precisely, as unobtrusively as ever. Yet long before the last course had
been reached, Cyril was morally certain that he had not been mistaken.
He waited for the dessert to be placed on the table; then, having
motioned the footmen to leave the room, he half turned to the butler,
who was standing behind his chair.
"Douglas."
"Yes, my lord?" The man stepped forward, so as to face his master.
"Is anything the matter?" asked Cyril, scrutinising the other
attentively.
The abrupt question seemed neither to surprise nor to discompose the
butler; yet he hesitated before finally answering:
"I--I don't quite know, my lord."
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Cyril impatiently. "You must know whether or not
something has happened to upset you."
Douglas fidgeted uneasily.
"Well, my lord--it's this way, my lord--Susan, the upper 'ousemaid, says
as how there has been somebody or--" here his voice sank to a whisper
and he cast an apprehensive glance over his shoulder--"or something in
the library last night!"
Cyril put down the glass of wine he was carrying to his lips untasted.
"She thinks she saw a ghost in the library?"
"No, my lord. She didn't see anything, but this morning she found
finger-marks on the top of his Lordship's desk."
"Pooh! What of that? One of the servants may have gone in there out of
curiosity."
"But what would anybody be doing there in the night, I should like to
know? And Susan says those marks could only 'ave been made last night,
my lord."
"Why?"
"On account of the dust, my lord. It takes time for dust to settle and a
'ousemaid, who knows 'er business, can tell, after she's been in a place
a couple of months, just about 'ow long it's been since any particular
piece of furniture has been dusted. Aye, Susan knows, my lord. No young
'ousemaid can pull the wool over 'er eyes, I can tell you."
"Does every one know of Susan's suspicions?"
"No, my lord. Susan's a sensible woman, and though she was frightened
something terrible, she only told Mrs. Eversley and Mrs. Eversley told
me and we three agreed we'd hold our tongues. Every one's that upset as
it is, that they'd all 'ave 'ighstrikes if they knew that It was
walking."
"Don't be a fool, Douglas. No one believes in ghosts nowadays. But even
if there were such things, an intangible spirit couldn't possibly leave
finger-marks behind it."
"But, my lord, if you'll excuse me, my aunt's cousin--" began the
butler, but Cyril cut him short.
"I have no time now to hear about your aunt's cousin, though no doubt it
is a most interesting story. Send Susan to me at once."
"Very good, my lord."
Susan had, however, no further information to impart. She was positive
that the marks must have been made some time during the night.
"And it's my belief they were made by a skeleton hand," she added. "And
as for going into that room again, indeed I just couldn't, not for
nobody, meaning no disrespect to your Lordship; and as for the other
'ousemaids, they'll not go near the place either and haven't been since
the murder."
"Very well, Susan, I shall not ask you to do so. Those rooms shall not
be opened again till this mystery is cleared up. I will go now and lock
them up myself."
"Thank you, my lord."
Striding rapidly across the hall, Cyril opened the door of the library.
This part of the castle had been equipped with electric light and steam
heat, and as he stepped into the darkness, the heavy-scented air almost
made him reel. Having found the switch, he noticed at once that the room
had indefinably changed since he had been in it last. Notwithstanding
the heat, notwithstanding the flood of crimson light, which permeated
even the farthest corners, it had already assumed the chill, gloomy
aspect of an abandoned apartment.
Stooping over the desk, he eagerly inspected the marks which had so
startled the housemaid. Yes, they were still quite visible, although a
delicate film of dust had already begun to soften the precision of their
outline--very strange! They certainly did look like the imprint of
skeleton fingers. He laid his own hand on the desk. His fingers left a
mark at least twice as wide as those of the mysterious visitant.
For a long time he stood with bent head pondering deeply; then, throwing
back his shoulders, as if he had arrived at some decision, he proceeded
to explore the entire suite. Having satisfied himself that no one was
secreted on the premises, he turned off the light, shut the door--but he
did not turn the key.
Some hours later Cyril, in his great four-posted bed, lay watching, with
wide-open eyes, the fantastic shadows thrown by the dancing firelight on
the panelled walls. To woo sleep was evidently not his intention, for
from time to time he lighted a wax vesta and consulted the watch he held
in his hand. At last the hour seemed to satisfy him, for he got out of
bed and made a hasty toilet. Having accomplished this as best he could
in the semi-obscurity, he slipped a pistol into his pocket and left his
room.
Groping his way through the darkness, he descended the stairs and
cautiously traversed the hall. Not a sound did he make. His stockinged
feet moved noiselessly over the heavy carpet. At the door of the library
he paused a moment and listened intently; then, pistol in hand, he threw
open the door. Darkness and silence alone confronted him. Closing the
door behind him, he lighted a match and carefully inspected the desk.
Having assured himself that no fresh marks had appeared on its polished
surface, he blew out the match and ensconced himself as comfortably as
the limited space permitted behind the curtains of one of the windows.
There he waited patiently for what seemed to him an eternity. He had
just begun to fear that his vigil would prove fruitless, when his ear
was gladdened by a slight sound. A moment later the light was switched
on. Hardly daring to breathe, Cyril peered through the curtains.
Valdriguez! Cyril's heart gave a bound of exultation. Had he not guessed
that those marks could only have been made by her small, bony fingers?
Clad like a nun in a loose, black garment, which fell in straight,
austere folds to her feet; a black shawl, thrown over her head, casting
strange shadows on her pale, haggard face, she advanced slowly, almost
majestically, into the room. Cyril had to acknowledge that she looked
more like a medieval saint than a midnight marauder.
Evidently the woman had no fear of detection, for she never even cast
one suspicious glance around her; nor did she appear to feel that there
was any necessity for haste, for she lingered for some time near the
writing-table, gazing at it, as if it had a fascination for her; but,
finally, she turned away with a hopeless sigh and directed her attention
to the bookcase. This she proceeded to examine in the most methodical
manner. Book after book was taken down, shaken, and the binding
carefully scrutinised. Having cleared a shelf, she drew a tape measure
from her pocket and rapped and measured the back and sides of the case
itself.
What on earth could she be looking for, wondered Cyril. Not a will,
surely? For his cousin's will, executed at the date of his marriage, had
been found safely deposited with his solicitor. A later will, perhaps?
One in which she hoped that her master had remembered her, as he had
probably promised her that he would? Yes, that must be it.
Well, there was no further need of concealment, he decided, so, parting
the curtains, he stepped into the room.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded.
His own voice startled him, it rang out so loud and harsh in the silence
of the night.
Valdriguez knelt on the floor with her back to him, and it seemed as if
the sudden shock had paralysed her, for she made no effort to move, and
her hand, arrested in the act of replacing a book, remained
outstretched, as if it had been turned to stone.
"It is I, your master. What are you doing here?" he repeated.
He saw her shudder convulsively, then slowly she raised her head, and as
her great, tragic eyes met his, Cyril was conscious of a revulsion of
feeling toward her. Never had he seen anything so hopeless yet so
undaunted as the look she gave him. It reminded him, curiously enough,
of a look he had once seen in the eyes of a lioness, who, with a bullet
through her heart, still fought to protect her young.
Staggering a little as she rose, Valdriguez nevertheless managed to draw
herself up to her full height.
"I am here, my lord, to get what is mine--mine," she repeated almost
fiercely.
Cyril pulled himself together. It was absurd, he reasoned, to allow
himself to be impressed by her strange personality.
"A likely story!" he exclaimed; and the very fact that he was more than
half-inclined to believe her, made him speak more roughly than he would
otherwise have done.
"Think what you like," she cried, shrugging her shoulders
contemptuously. "Have me arrested--have me hung--what do I care? Death
has no terrors for me."
"So you confess that it was you who murdered his Lordship? Ah, I
suspected it! Your sanctimonious airs didn't deceive me," exclaimed
Cyril triumphantly.
"No, I did not murder him," she replied calmly, almost indifferently.
"I think you will have some difficulty convincing the police of that.
You have no alibi to prove that you were not in these rooms at the time
of the murder, and now when I tell them that I found you trying to
steal----"
"I am no thief," she interrupted him with blazing eyes. "I tell you, I
came here to get what is mine by right."
"Do you really expect me to believe that? Even if what you say were
true, you would not have had to sneak in here in the middle of the
night. You know very well that I should have made no objections to your
claiming your own."
"So you say. But if I had gone to you and told you that a great lord had
robbed me, a poor woman, of something which is dearer to me than life
itself, would you have believed me? If I had said to you, 'I must look
through his Lordship's papers; I must be free to search everywhere,'
would you have given me permission to do so? No, never. You think I fear
you? That it was because I was ashamed of my errand that I came here at
this hour? Bah! All I feared was that I should be prevented from
discovering the truth. The truth?" Valdriguez's voice suddenly dropped
and she seemed to forget Cyril's presence. "It is here, somewhere." She
continued speaking as if to herself and her wild eyes swept feverishly
around the room. "He told me it was here--and yet how can I be sure of
it? He may have lied to me about this as he did about everything else.
How can I tell? Oh, this uncertainty is torture! I cannot bear it any
longer, oh, my God!" she cried, clasping her hands and lifting her
streaming eyes to heaven, "Thou knowest that I have striven all my life
to do Thy will; I have borne the cross that Thou sawest fit to lay upon
me without a murmur, nor have I once begged for mercy at Thy hands; but
now, now, oh, my Father, I beseech thee, give me to know the truth
before I die----"
Cyril watched the woman narrowly. He felt that he must try and maintain
a judicial attitude toward her and not allow himself to be led astray by
his sympathies which, as he knew to his cost, were only too easily
aroused. After all, he reasoned, was it not more than likely that she
was delivering this melodramatic tirade for his benefit? On the other
hand, it was against his principles as well as against his inclinations
to deal harshly with a woman.
"Calm yourself, Valdriguez," he said at last. "If you can convince me
that his Lordship had in his possession something which rightfully
belonged to you, I promise that, if it can be found, it shall be
restored to you. Tell me, what it is that you are looking for?"
"Tell you--never! Are you not of his blood? You promise--so did he--the
smooth-tongued villain! All these years have I lived on promises! Never
will I trust one of his race again."
"You have got to trust me whether you want to or not. Your position
could not be worse than it is, could it? Don't you see that your only
hope lies in being able to persuade me that you are an honest woman?"
For the first time Valdriguez looked at Cyril attentively. He felt as if
her great eyes were probing his very soul.
"Indeed, you do not look cruel or deceitful. And, as you say, I am
powerless without you, so I must take the risk of your being what you
seem. I will tell you the truth. But first, my lord, will you swear not
to betray my secret to any living being?"
"You have my word for it. That is--" he hastily added, "if it has
nothing to do with the murder."
"Nothing, my lord."