Needless to say Claudia did not report the conversation with Lady Wyke
to the Rector or to his wife, as neither of them would have
understood, so shameless a chase of age after youth. But the girl was
anxious to disburden her mind, and looked forward anxiously for the
arrival of Edwin, who was expected down to spend the usual week-end.
After luncheon the Rector retired to write his sermon, while Mrs.
Craver found that she had household duties to do. The young couple
were left alone, and forthwith Claudia related all that had taken
place on the cliffs. Her lover was greatly annoyed.
"But we can't talk over things quietly here," he said, taking
Claudia's arm and moving towards the dining-room door. "Mother is sure
to pop in and out when least expected, and I don't want her to hear
about Lady Wyke's vagaries."
"I have said nothing, Edwin."
He squeezed her arm. "That is wise of you, dearest. Let us go into the
garden and thresh the matter out. I have something to tell you also."
They found a secluded arbour at the bottom of what was called the
Laurel Walk from its hedges, and there sat down comfortably. It was
quite a place for lovers, and being springtime, they should have paid
their devotions to Cupid. But matters were much too serious for
trifling of this sort, and the golden hour was filled with the
discussion of important matters. Edwin's very first remark made
Claudia angry--and with her lover.
"Lady Wyke has ben persecuting me with personal attentions and with
letters."
"Oh!" The girl's eyes flashed and her cheeks grew red. "Why didn't you
tell me, Edwin?"
"I didn't wish to worry you, dear."
"Your worries are my worries, Edwin. I wish to be your comrade as well
as your wife. I think it is very unkind of you to keep silent."
"Well, you know, Claudia, a fellow does feel a bit of an ass in
talking about a woman running after him. Spare my blushes!"
"It's all very well turning it into a joke, Edwin," cried the girl,
indignantly, "but it is no joke. Lady Wyke is a most dangerous woman."
"Why, what harm can she do?"
"She can hurt my father, if her last threat is to be believed."
"Ah, but is it to be believed?" questioned the young man shrewdly.
"Yes it is. Lady Wyke is growing old, and, as you know, there is no
fool like an old fool. She has fallen in love with you, and will move
and earth to get you as her husband."
Edwin frowned. "That is quite true." Then he smiled. "She has asked me
to afternoon tea."
"Oh, what impertinence! You won't go."
"I leave the decision to you, Claudia," said Craver, drily.
"What does she wish to see you about?"
"I understand from her that she will explain when I call, not
before." There was silence for quite a minute. "You had better go,
Edwin," said, Claudia, becoming more her reasonable resolute self, and
speaking decisively. "I am quite sure that Lady Wyke suspects my
father with something in connection with the death of her husband. She
may even believe that he is guilty. Perhaps I was foolish not to stay
on the cliffs and hear what she had to say. But I was in a rage. I
only wanted to hurt her, and did so by laughing."
"You cut off your nose to spite your face." said Edwin, with a shrug.
"That is not like you, Claudia."
"No, it isn't," she answered penitently. "Usually I am calm and
self-possessed when there is trouble. But Lady Wyke makes me so angry
with her insolence that I lose control of myself. How has she
persecuted you, Edwin."
"I told you. Nearly every day she has written to me at the factory,
saying a great deal without making clear what she really does mean.
Three or four times she has been in town, and I have had interviews
with regard to the motor she bought. This was wrong, and that was
wrong, when, as a matter of fact, nothing was wrong. Then she wrote
inviting me to take her to the theatre; she asked me to dinner; she
sent me a box of cigarettes----"
"Oh!" Claudia was furious. "You returned the cigarettes?"
"Well, dear; I couldn't do that without appearing to be rude."
"Then you should have been rude, very rude. She deserves rudeness."
"But I refused the dinners and the theatres on the plea that I was
busy. I did not intend to see her to-day, but after her conversation
with you, I think it is just as well that she should understand
things."
"I agree. Tell her you intend to marry me and not her. Oh, what a cat
she is! What a persistent, spiteful cat!"
"She is showing her claws at any rate," said Craver, with a shrug. "It
is puzzling to know why she has taken this mad fancy to me."
"It's not puzzling at all," rejoined Claudia, promptly. "I took a
fancy to you myself. You are handsome and clever and----"
"Oh, spare my blushes!" interrupted Edwin again, and really did grow
crimson at these crude compliments. "You make me feel an ass. But
there is no doubt," he continued seriously, "that she means mischief
with regard to your father."
"You don't think that he is guilty, Edwin?" faltered the girl,
wincing.
"No, no! Certainly he is innocent. But he was in the house when Wyke
was murdered, and Lady Wyke may try to implicate him in the matter.
Sergeant Purse isn't very clever, you know, while she is; so she may
be able to twist him, round her finger. I'd better pay the visit,
Claudia."
"Yes. But don't--don't--kiss--her."
"Claudia!"
"I know I'm silly," said Miss Lemby, dismally; "but she's old and
desperately in love with you. I don't say that you'll kiss her----"
"Which you did," interpolated Edwin.
"But she may kiss you."
Very much amused, Edwin jumped up and swung Claudia to her feet, "You
are a silly child," he said fondly. "You are the only woman I ever
loved, or ever shall love. Will you come with me and keep guard?"
"No!" Claudia stamped viciously, "I couldn't keep my temper. She
certainly means mischief with regard to my father, Edwin, for she is
keeping him on the string."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I mean what I say. Dad wants to marry her and get the money. He said
so. She guesses that, and is allowing him to write her silly letters
so that she may keep in touch with him. For all I know she may ask him
to dinners and theatres, as she asks you. Dad is clever in some ways
but a fool in others."
Craver remembered the truculent manners of the buccaneer, and recalled
his dominating personality. "I don't think Lady Wyke will find him
such a fool as she imagines. He is quite capable of twisting her
neck."
"Oh!" Claudia turned pale. "That sounds as though dad was capable of
stabbing Sir Hector."
"He didn't do that," said Edwin decisively.
"How can you be sure?"
Craver hesitated in a most unaccountable manner. "Well, it might be
the other fellow who bolted on the bicycle, you know. If there had
been any evidence against your father he would have been arrested
after the inquest."
"That is true," sighed Claudia, with relief, "But what does Lady Wyke
mean by her hints?"
"I'm going to find out. Don't worry."
It was all very well for Craver to give this sound advice, but hard
for the girl to take it. Usually she was sensible, but the long
continued strain on her nerves was breaking her down. Also she was
jealous of her elderly rival, who was clever, rich, and persistent. Of
course, Edwin could be trusted, still he was only a man, and men are
wax in the hands of women.
Claudia would have liked to go also to Maranatha in order to protect
her man from the vile machinations of Lady Wyke, But she could not
trust herself. She would be sure to say something or do something
which would give her hostess the advantage, so it was wiser to risk
nothing. Edwin went alone, and then Claudia returned to her room to
spend an uncomfortable hour or so of suspense.
The young man walked briskly along the road and turned into Ladysmith
Road about four o'clock. He soon arrived at the square, red bricked
mansion and paused to stare at it. Maranatha had been greatly improved
by its present tenant. The lawns were trim and clean-shaven; the elms
were clipped, and looked more civilised, while the house itself had a
more inhabited and less dismal look.
Edwin nodded to himself in approval of Lady Wyke's cleaning-up and
restoration, then walked up the neat path and rang the bell. When a.
sedate-looking footman introduced him into the hall he shivered a
little, at the memory of the late tragedy, but recovered himself when
shown into the drawing-room. This, was upstairs, the very room where
Oliver Lemby had been waiting on that fatal night. But it presented
quite a different appearance now from what it did then, although the
visitor did not know this. Formerly dusty and untidy when attended to
by Mrs. Vence, it was now cheerful, bright, and comfortable. A fire
was burning in the grate, there was a new and brilliant carpet, while
the old-fashioned furniture had been renovated and polished so as to
look like new. Showy coloured rugs and draperies made the vast
apartment look gay, and everywhere there were hothouse flowers of
rainbow hues. The scent of pastilles burning in bronze vases made the
atmosphere languid, indisposing those who breathed it to
transformation from gloom to brightness as had taken place in
Maranatha.
And the author of the transformation rose from a sofa on which she was
reclining to greet her visitor. "I am so glad to see you," she said
softly, and he noted that her shrill voice was now low and gentle. "I
feared you would not come."
But Edwin was not to be taken in by her wiles, and only lightly
touched her hand outstretched in greeting. "I certainly came, Lady
Wyke," he observed, coldly, "because your letter intimated that you
wished to speak to me about something connected with the death of your
late husband."
"Does that interest you?" she asked, indicating a seat and sinking
down on to the sofa.
"Surely. You hinted to Miss Lemby that her father had something to do
with the matter, and for Miss Lemby's sake I am interested."
"Can't we leave the name of that girl out of the conversation?"
"I think not," said Craver, still coldly. "You forget that it is on
behalf of her father that I have come. You threatened, both in London
and on the cliffs the other day to do him harm."
"Oh!" Lady Wyke's brows contracted in a frown, "so that girl told you
of our conversation on the cliffs?"
"Yes. About an hour or so ago. In fact, the moment I arrived as you
might say, she told me everything."
"Everything?" repeated the woman, with emphasis.
Edwin nodded. "Even to the offer of one thousand a year."
"She should have had more sense than to say that," snapped Lady Wyke.
"Don't you think that we had better leave Miss Lemby's name out of
this conversation?" said Craver, tartly.
"I asked you to," she reminded him swiftly, "and you refused."
Craver could not deny this, and looked uncomfortable. "I have not much
time to wait, Lady Wyke," he remarked, looking at his watch with
pointed rudeness. "I must ask you to come to the point."
"Oh, there is plenty of time for that," she answered sweetly. "You
must have some tea first."
"Thank you. I am due back to tea at the Rectory."
"I think not. We have much to say to one another."
"About Mr. Lemby?"
"No." Lady Wyke looked at him so pointedly that he blushed. "About
yourself."
"I wish you wouldn't," he exclaimed, just like an unformed schoolboy.
"You wish I wouldn't what?"
"Talk like that."
"Talk like what?"
"Oh, we are speaking in a circle. See here, Lady Wyke. You asked me
here to say something about Mr. Lemby. I understand from your hints to
Claudia that you accuse him of murdering your husband."
"How crudely you put it." She raised her eyebrows. "I don't accuse
him."
"Then why I am here I don't know."
"You will know soon, Mr. Craver. I accuse someone else."
"Who is it?" The young man suddenly shivered, in spite of the warm
atmosphere.
"Who is he, you mean. Well; then, ask yourself who murdered my
husband."
"I don't know. How should I know?"
"Because you murdered him. It was you who escaped on that bicycle, Mr.
Craver, and it was you who stabbed Sir Hector in this very house."