THE HOME-COMING
A slight mist had fallen, and fields and lanes were gradually enveloping
themselves in a gray shroud which rose in thick vapour from the river.
Also it was getting dark, yet to Cleek, whose whole heart and soul were
bound up in the neighbourhood that formed the temporary home of Ailsa
Lorne, the one woman in the world for him, the way was as clear as
though he held a map in his hand, and a torch whereby to see it with.
He knew that the dark, tree-lined lane ran on for some thousand yards,
with but two curves, until it reached the neighbouring parish where it
divided in a fork. Here one road led to the gateways of Cheyne Court and
to the river-bank. The other proceeded to the rear of the village of
Hampton. On the other side, draggled trees and matted gorse bushes were
scattered over a piece of land which was used largely for the encampment
of tribes of wandering gipsies, travelling booths, and circuses. It was
as well the chosen pitch of the annual fair, an occasion that brought
the rag-tail and riff-raff of London to over-flow the tiny hamlet, and
give the inhabitants food for gossip for the remainder of the year.
Past these the limousine whizzed on like a thing possessed, taking the
last mile between the forked lane to the house at such a speed that it
would have overtaken or passed any other vehicle that might have been
coming to the hall. But the lane was deserted and they passed down it
alone. Another quarter of an hour took them past a big house standing
half hidden in its own grounds. This was, as Cleek knew, the home of
Lady Brenton, whom Ailsa had mentioned but a short time ago as being a
neighbour of both Miss Cheyne and herself.
Some five hundred feet more, and they came to a pair of very dilapidated
iron gates, standing wide open, and covered with a heavy coating of
orange rust. Creepers twisted and twined themselves about the rotting
rungs, clothing them with a sombre dignity that shrouded much of their
evident neglect.
Cleek drove up the grass-grown strip of pebbles that was the pathway
into a tangled avenue of overhanging trees that looked grim and
forbidding. It was no wonder that few travellers passing that way
guessed the existence of a house behind them.
As for that house itself, to Cleek's eyes it showed neither light nor
signs of habitation. No smoke issued from its chimney-pots, nor was
there a sound. To all intents and purposes, it might have been an empty
building, and Cleek, who had hopped off the driver's seat, dived hastily
for his powerful electric torch, preparatory to making a closer
investigation.
The mist which had been gradually rising now seemed to wrap them in an
impenetrable veil. The moon's light had vanished and for a moment only
the drip-drip of some distant water broke on his ears as he stood alert,
watchful, and keen. And even as he stood came a sound that froze his
heart's blood, a sound terrifying in the broad open glory of daylight,
but here, in the dark and chill, muffled by distance, yet none the less
unmistakable, a very terror indeed. And that sound was the sharp crack
of a revolver!
For a moment, as its full significance was borne in on his mind, Cleek
stood rigid. Then as the door of the car flew open he turned to meet
Lady Margaret in the very act of jumping out.
His first thought was as to whether she, too, had heard the ill-omened
sound, but it was evident that she had not realized, or perhaps even
noticed it. A frown furrowed her clear, child's brow and she clapped her
hands together with a little gesture of impatience.
"Oh, can't you make any one hear, Mr. Deland?" she cried despairingly.
"Please do make them hurry. I am so tired."
Cleek started forward, and dashing up the two or three stone steps, sent
peal after peal of the jangling, old-fashioned bell reverberating
through the house. There came no answer.
He bent down and peered through the letter-box, at the same time
striking a match and letting its feeble light struggle through the
aperture. All within was dark, and yet Cleek's tense nerves gave a
little quivery jump. For a sound, slight though it was, came to his
trained ears. It was the sound of a padded footstep, and to his nostrils
was borne a strange, sweet scent, familiar yet tantalizingly unknown.
Again and again he rang the bell, and the echoes, pealing through the
silent house, came back to him maddeningly. At last Lady Margaret, who
had come up to him, laid a hand upon his shoulder and peered for a
moment up into his face.
"I know how to get in," she said. "Let us try that window. It is the
dining room, and should be quite easy to manage. Please try and force it
for me, will you?"
Speaking, she ran lightly along the stone terrace and pulled feebly at
the window, which was evidently locked. Cleek, following closely on her
heels, felt a thrill of something akin to fear because of what that
single shot might mean.
"Come," he said, suddenly switching round upon his heel. "Let's give the
task up for to-night, Lady Margaret. There is nothing to be gained here,
and Miss Lorne will be able to put you up comfortably until morning
comes. Let's get away from here, I beg."
She looked at him in wide-eyed surprise at the suggestion.
"No, no, please. I would rather stay now I am here. Besides, it is my
home, and Aunt Marion will be expecting me."
A few swift touches of his knife, and the antiquated lock gave way. With
a little sigh of relief she scrambled through the window and entered the
room with the air of one who has arrived home at last, and stood a
moment looking quickly about her. Cleek followed closely upon her heels,
his heart pumping furiously and his blood "up" for anything that might
ensue.
The interior of the room was very dark, but apparently the girl knew her
way, for she plunged forward unhesitatingly, only turning to speak to
Cleek who hesitated in the background.
"Strike a match, please, Mr. Deland," she commanded with a little
imperious gesture. "There's a lamp over here." Cleek, following the
direction of her hand, speedily espied one which was standing upon an
adjacent table.
With its friendly aid he was able to note the worn and threadbare
appearance of everything, blurred and shadowy though it was. The only
striking object was placed in the centre of a small stand and it was the
picture of the girl he had helped to bring to her natural home. He
turned instinctively as though to compare the likeness and saw that she
had thrown aside her hat and coat and sunk down in the old leather
chair, her blue eyes looking piteously at him as he came toward her.
"That's right," he said with a quick smile. "If you will rest here, Lady
Margaret, I will go on a voyage of discovery, and see what has become of
the servants. Your aunt has probably gone to meet you. I shall not be
long and I will light this other lamp for you so that you won't be quite
so shadowy. There, that's better. Don't be afraid, Lady Margaret." With
a friendly little nod of encouragement he disappeared through the door
and came out into a network of passages which were all wainscoted, while
the floors were covered with dust, as if they had been unswept for
months. From room to room he went. Each one was more lonely, dark, and
deserted than the last, yet over all there hung an indefinable dread
that made Cleek, hardy of courage as he was, wish that his faithful
henchman Dollops, or his friend and ally Superintendent Narkom, were
within reach. The last room of all at the end of a passage proved to be
a small ballroom, a low-ceilinged spot littered with dust, its corners
thick with cobwebs. An odd chair or so stood against the wall, leaving
the wax-polished parquetted floor strangely bare. But it was not this
that struck Cleek. It was a sight in the far corner that caused him to
stop suddenly and suck in his breath, while the torch in his firm
fingers trembled as though for a moment the grip was relaxed.
For there, lying crumpled up in a lax, horrible heap, lay the figure of
a woman! Cleek's torch shed a disk of light upon the upturned face and
he sucked in his breath again, for the features were distorted and
appalling, and death marked them with his unmistakable trace.
For an instant Cleek hesitated, and his mind went back to that pistol
shot such a short time ago. This poor huddled Thing with its staring
eyes and gaping, twisted mouth was the answer to it. He walked rapidly
toward the body and saw that it was of an old woman of about seventy but
who had evidently kept up the fiction of youth as long as she could, for
her cheeks were heavy with rouge, her hair was obviously dyed to a
bright golden colour and her rich silk dress in the most juvenile of
fashions. As he noted the flashing rings on her fingers and the
priceless lace at her wrists, Cleek began to understand a few things,
and among them the reason why Lady Margaret had arrived in England to
find no one waiting to welcome her at the station.
For here, without a doubt, was the Honourable Miss Cheyne. Who had
murdered her, and for what reason, remained to be discovered. Robbery
was out of the question, for many hundreds of pounds worth of jewellery
was there on her hands in the shape of rings and bracelets. Revenge? For
what? By whom?
Silently Cleek stood looking down on the body, his chin held between his
thumb and forefinger, his brows furrowed. Here was a riddle indeed. For
one moment he stood stock-still, then with a sudden bound leaped over to
the window, which stood bare and curtainless, looked out on to the
grounds, and stood listening. For a sound, slight but none the less
distinct, the tiny cracking of a twig, had arrested his attention. What
he saw made his heart and pulses hammer furiously. For a moment the
impenetrable curtain of mist had lifted and the struggling moonbeams
flung a shadowy path of light across the lawn over which moved the
figure of a woman clad in white, clinging robes, her head swathed in a
white turban. A woman, at such a time, in this place! The thing was so
startling that Cleek's brain reeled. Involuntarily he made a movement as
if to follow her, but even as he did so the figure turned, and Cleek's
amazement deepened still further as he caught a glimpse of a dark face
and what might have been a dark beard. The curtain of mist had descended
again, and the scene was blotted out before its full significance had
been realized.
A woman and at such an hour in such a place! At any other time, under
any other circumstances, Cleek might have thought it one of the maids
speeding away to a meeting with some yokel lover, but under these
circumstances, when there was no evidence of a servant's care in the
place, such an hypothesis was out of the question. Yet he was loath to
believe a woman's hand could have committed such ruthless murder. He
switched round now in sudden fear. At any moment Lady Margaret might be
tired of waiting and follow on his track. At all costs she must be
prevented from doing that, for the shock would surely prove beyond her
strength.
He crossed the room, and groped his way into the passage again. There
was no key in the door, so it was impossible to lock away the secret of
the ballroom, but he piled up two or three chairs in order to minimize
the risk.
Hurriedly he traversed the corridors which lay between the back of the
house and the dining room where he had left Lady Margaret. Pushing open
the door cautiously, he entered. To his unspeakable relief the girl had
curled herself up in the big arm-chair and gone to sleep. A swift glance
showed him that it would be useless to awaken her; she was plainly
exhausted by the events of the day, and she would sleep like this for
hours. Though greatly disliking the idea, Cleek could think of nothing
better than to make for the village, arouse the police, and take Lady
Margaret down to Miss Lorne's cottage.
Treading as lightly as a cat, Cleek tiptoed back into the hall, locked
the door softly behind him, and sped away.
He meant to pass Ailsa's cottage without breaking the journey, for he
dreaded telling her to what a tragedy they had brought their young
charge, but at the little gate a slender figure awaited him. Cleek
halted almost mechanically.
"I didn't mean to wait up a minute, for I am so tired myself," said
Ailsa, "but you see, I wanted to learn whether the old lady was very
angry."
She looked up into Cleek's sombre face, and was struck by its pallor.
"Why, is there anything wrong?" she said quickly. "You look pale, dear,
and upset. Tell me."
"Yes, very wrong indeed, Ailsa mine," responded Cleek grimly. "Miss
Cheyne has been murdered, and I am driving down to rouse the police."
A cry of horror broke from Ailsa's parted lips. She caught Cleek's arm
in her two hands, and her eyes sought his face. "Lady Margaret--is she
in the limousine with you?" she asked anxiously.
Cleek twitched back his shoulders and shook his head.
"No, dear. She is sound asleep in the dining room; locked in. I did not
want to rouse her until I had got the police in charge. When I have I
will bring her back to you."
"Let me come with you," said Ailsa swiftly.
But this Cleek would not allow, for the tongues of village gossips are
bitter things to fight.
"No, dear, I cannot permit that," he responded, looking down into her
soft, misty eyes. "You understand, of course. And the child is perfectly
safe, and will not wake for some time. Time enough for your charitable
instincts to awaken when I bring her back to you. Now I must go."