THE PLOT THICKENS
The stroll through the leafy lane was a very pleasant one to Cleek
though he strove to keep his thoughts fixed on the case which had called
him to Hampton and the mysterious events which had taken place there.
"A very fascinating woman, I should say," he said to Ailsa, referring to
Lady Brenton, who was just behind them.
"Very," was the quick answer, "and she is as good of heart as she is
good to look at. It seems so sad that she should have such trouble, poor
thing!"
"Yes, I noticed that she was evidently in some deep distress," responded
Cleek, quietly, "and I should say she has spent some sleepless nights
over it, too."
"That is just what I thought," said Ailsa, impulsively, "but she said
she slept splendidly last night, and yet----" she broke off, evidently
regretting the impulse under which the words had been uttered.
"Yet what?" prompted Cleek, gently.
Ailsa gave vent to a deep sigh.
"Oh, I expect I must have been mistaken," she said, "but I thought I
heard her moving down the corridor last night. But I couldn't have, of
course."
The queer little one-sided smile travelled up Cleek's face, but he made
no comment, and the conversation drifted to other things, until they
reached the gates of "The Towers."
Here, however, his thoughts were recalled to the case of the Purple
Emperor with a little jerk, for the butler, having ushered them into the
hall, said:
"Begging pardon, your ladyship, but there is a gentleman awaitin'."
Lady Brenton turned with a frown puckering her smooth brows.
"If it is a reporter, I will not see him!" she said, with a decisive
wave of her hand. "You know that, Graves, very well. I told you
yesterday not to admit strangers under any pretext."
"Beggin' pardon, my lady, but it is not a stranger. It is the Indian
gentleman, Gunga Dall," responded Graves with a reproachful look at his
mistress for ever having doubted him. "He was most anxious to see your
ladyship and is waiting in the drawing room."
The exclamation that broke from his mistress's lips upon receipt of
this statement was one of mingled relief and pleasure but a deep frown
gathered on her son's face.
"That nigger here again, Mater? I can't think how you can bear him about
you," he said, irritably. "I should have thought you had had enough of
them out in India."
Lady Brenton's face showed signs of evident displeasure.
"Gunga Dall is not a 'nigger,' Edgar. How can you say such a wicked
thing!" she expostulated, angrily. "He is a most charming man, and the
only one who has ever cured my headaches for me. I haven't had such a
night's rest for years as I had last night."
Cleek's eyes were quick enough to note the expression on Sir Edgar's
face as Lady Brenton turned to lead the way. It showed such
open-mouthed, intense incredulity that he could not resist a little
smile on its behalf, nevertheless, as he followed his host and hostess
into the room where awaited with Eastern patience the Hindoo whom Sir
Edgar had so contemptuously designated "nigger."
If Cleek had expected to find the usual obsequious, cringing half-breed,
so familiar to many travellers in India, he was destined to be agreeably
disappointed. Gunga Dall was a Brahmin of high caste and ancient
lineage, and his greeting to Lady Brenton was a model of grave reserve
and courtesy.
A splendid specimen of the East was Gunga Dall, for his face fairly
radiated good nature and a general belief in humanity, which was still
more clearly displayed in his conversation. It was no wonder, therefore,
that Constable Roberts had said: "'E wouldn't 'urt a fly." He truly
looked that meek part to perfection. Cleek noted his very apparent
admiration of Lady Brenton and wondered a good deal as those familiar
lines,
"East is East, and West is West,
And never the twain shall meet."
came into his mind. The ball of conversation rolled leisurely, until the
topic that was uppermost in almost every mind found its way to them at
last.
But at the first mention of it Gunga Dall's dark face turned a sort of
dull ivory hue, and he threw up his hands.
"It is all so terrible," he ejaculated, "and we of the East cannot view
death as phlegmatically as you English. Such things as murder we cannot
so easily discuss. I must beg to be forgiven if I withdraw myself from
your discussion."
A short while afterward Cleek arose to depart and Ailsa went with him.
"Don't you think Lady Brenton is a dear woman?" she said, impulsively,
as they turned into the lane, "and this awful business has completely
upset her. She has simply longed for that poor child, Lady Margaret, to
come back from France, and says she has even tried herself to see Miss
Cheyne, but it has always been in vain."
Cleek rubbed his chin meditatively, and pondered a moment upon the
import of these words. Was that what had taken her ladyship down to the
lodge to see Miss Cheyne last night? If she was so fond of Lady
Margaret, why had she not gone to the station to meet her? Why had Sir
Edgar himself taken the foolish trouble of asking Miss Cheyne's
permission when he knew it would be refused?
These were but a few of the thoughts that passed through his mind. But
chiefly he could not drive away remembrance of the gold embroidery which
decorated the turban of Gunga Dall, the only outward sign as regards
clothes that the Hindoo gentleman wore to mark his Eastern origin.
"Lady Brenton is a very sensitive woman, I should say," he said,
finally, "although she bears herself so well after the shock of Lady
Margaret's disappearance. I see that you are very much attached to her."
"I am, dear," said Ailsa, enthusiastically. "She has been a very good
friend to me in every way, and that was why I was so glad you happened
to come along at that psychological moment."
"No gladder than I," said Cleek, reflectively. "Mr. George Headland does
not perhaps fit in with my attire but who's to know the difference. I
was afraid you would make it Lieutenant Deland, and I meant to have
written you a little note and sent it up by Dollops. I do not want Sir
Edgar to have any suspicions that he is being watched."
Ailsa looked up at him with grave, sweet eyes.
"I am afraid I do not understand. Oh!" with a sudden cry of fear, "do
you mean that you suspect _him_, Sir Edgar, of being concerned? Why, his
whole life is bound up in Lady Margaret! I can see that now, and it is
hardly likely that he would harm her only living relative!"
"And yet," said Cleek, slowly, "he certainly had a revolver in his
pocket when I met him in the lane on the night I drove to Hampton, and
you yourself heard his threat of murder the day before yesterday."
Ailsa looked at him, her eyes wide, the colour draining slowly from her
lips and cheeks. It was impossible not to grasp the truth as well as the
significance of these two circumstances, slight evidences of guilt
though they might appear.
"Oh, my dear," she said, faintly, "you surely can't think--a dear boy
like Sir Edgar. You surely can't believe that he could have had a hand
in such a frightful crime?"
"I hope not, Ailsa," responded Cleek, gravely, "for I admit I like the
boy. But one thing is certain, if he did not actually commit the crime
himself, he knows who did. Knows, too, that there is a woman likely to
be implicated in the case."
"A woman--a--a woman?"
"Possibly two; at least two women were in Cheyne Court last night."
"Are you hinting at Lady Brenton? That would be too absurd for words!"
"I am hinting nothing," returned Cleek with a smile into her anxious
face. "Now that I have seen her I would almost as soon suspect you
yourself, shall we say," he added, smilingly.
He saw that Ailsa was almost overcome by the power of her emotion and he
stood still beneath the shadow of the trees.
"Who knows as well as I do the falsity of appearances," he went on in
that same grave tone, "and I am not likely to be swayed by
circumstantial evidence, black as it may appear. What is more, I will
prove this to you, for I know that you will help me to the utmost of
your power. Here is one little clue that will tell heavily against
someone. Ailsa, tell me, will you? Have you ever seen this before?"
While he was speaking his hand had gone to his pocket, and he drew out
his pocketbook. Opening it, he took out a little scrap of gold lace and
let her see it lying on his open palm. Her eyes dropped to the
glittering fragment and a puzzled frown appeared on her face. Then
suddenly she gave a little start and bent over it.
"I thought at first it was torn from my own dress," she said frankly,
looking up at him with wide-open, serious eyes, "for as it happens I
have a dress trimmed with embroidery exactly like it. Would you care to
see it?"
"Not in the least, Ailsa mine," responded Cleek, quickly. "I am not
going to suggest that you were at Cheyne Court last night--anyway, this
fragment smells too strongly of jasmine to belong to you."
She laughed up into his face for a moment.
"Fancy remembering that!" she said, softly. "It is a scent I detest,
though strangely enough a favourite one with Lady Brenton. Sir Edgar
gave her quite a big bottle of it on her birthday, I believe. It is very
strong, and the least drop is sufficient to scent the whole room. That's
why I dislike it so, it seems somehow so suggestive!"
"Hmn," said Cleek, quietly, "that's strange, rather." _Huile de jasmin_,
eh? And it was Lady Brenton's favourite scent. He fell to musing again.
If Lady Brenton had been so soundly asleep last night, how came her
scarf to be caught in the dead man's hand and the very scent she used to
be permeating the whole place?
"I hope you are not going to think her capable of committing murder,"
Ailsa said with a smile, "because she possesses a gold scarf and likes
jasmine. As it happens I know she was in her room all the night. It was
not until the early hours that I fancied I heard a step, and even then I
must have been mistaken."
"Nevertheless, she certainly visited Cheyne Court last night," persisted
Cleek, calmly. "I know that beyond all possible doubt, for Dollops saw
two women with gold scarves, and as we caught Miss Jennifer----"
"What?" Ailsa turned sharply as she spoke and Cleek told her of the
little incident.
"I can believe anything of her," said she, dryly, when he had finished,
"for I know how long she has sought to entrap Sir Edgar into an
engagement and woo him from his allegiance to Lady Margaret this past
year. But that Lady Brenton was _there_, at Cheyne Court, I will
not--cannot believe. I am sure she never left the house----" She paused
abruptly, and grew very pale, at the recollection of that swift step
that had sounded on the polished floor of the corridor when all the
house was still. In her innermost heart she knew that she had not been
mistaken. And yet, and yet----
"Oh, but she is the soul of honour!" she said, looking up at Cleek with
frightened eyes, "and she told me herself that she slept soundly all
night. If she had gone out after I fell asleep----"
"It could be proved and very easily," put in Cleek, gently. "You know
how moist the night was. The lane was wet and muddy. Her clothes, her
skirt, her shoes---- But I will not suggest that."
"Nor would I do it," replied Ailsa. "Even if she did go out, and I would
not admit it even now unless she said so, that does not mean that she
had any ulterior motive. As for the scarf, well, it might be a piece
from Lady Margaret's own for that matter----"
Cleek stopped short.
"Lady Margaret!" he rapped out in excitement. "Did she possess a gold
scarf, then?"
"Yes; one that was given her by her father on one of his few visits to
the convent. She showed it to me during the crossing, and from what I
can see, this certainly looks as if it had been torn from hers."
Cleek's eyes were narrowed down to mere slits. So absorbed was he that
he did not hear the pattering of an animal's feet behind them and he
started as an old brown retriever flung himself on Ailsa, greeting her
boisterously.
"Jock, you dear, I am so glad; he didn't kill you after all. I am so
glad!"
She stopped and patted the dog affectionately, then answered the inquiry
in Cleek's eyes.
"He is so old," she said, softly, "and Sir Edgar was going to get rid of
him. He had even bought prussic acid or something, I believe, but
evidently poor old Jock is to be allowed to live a little longer."
So absorbed was Ailsa in the animal, that she failed to note the gleam
of anxiety in Cleek's eyes.
"Prussic acid, eh?" he said to himself, musingly, "presumably to kill an
old dog. Not so old, either, by his running powers." And Sir Edgar had
certainly been in Cheyne Court for he himself had ascertained that by
the footprints which Dollops had so conscientiously copied. Well, it was
a puzzling case. If Lady Margaret herself, driven to desperation, had
killed the woman--or man, as she might have discovered him to be--who
kept her prisoner? Did Sir Edgar know, and was he shielding her;
concealing her in London? Or was it, after all, Lady Brenton?
Struck with a sudden idea, he turned to Ailsa.
"One moment, dear," he said, quietly. "Do you know anybody who has a
scarlet cloak, satin, I think?"
"Scarlet satin coat?" echoed Ailsa. "Why, what can that have to do with
it? As it happens, I do know, for I possess one myself and very fond of
it I am, too. But why do you ask?"
"Oh, just a fancy of mine, that's all," replied Cleek with apparent
irrelevance. "I thought perhaps Lady Brenton had one, but if she
hasn't--unless she might have borrowed yours, you'd lend it to her I
know. Did you?"
"No, that I certainly did _not_. For one thing, why should Lady Brenton
wish to wear my things? Anyhow, I know she did not borrow mine with my
knowledge."
"Hmn, I see. You couldn't have left it lying around anywhere?"
Ailsa laughed gaily.
"How like a man! As if I should leave satin opera coats lying round.
They're much too precious! But of course it is in one of the cupboards
at The Towers. I left it there once, and it has been there ever since."
She was gazing down the lane which wound its way round the fields and
distant houses and now gave a little cry of dismay.
"Oh, here is that dreadful girl again and her brother! I can't help it,
dear," she added, impulsively, "but Miss Wynne and I do not get on well.
I know her better than I care about."
Cleek looked critically at the pair who were advancing round the bend of
the lane, and his thoughts readjusted themselves.
"Perhaps you will tell me about them," he said, quietly. "Who and what
are they, this Miss Wynne and her brother?"
Ailsa turned her soft eyes up into his face.
"Miss Wynne, Jennifer is her other name, is the only daughter of old Dr.
Wynne. She keeps house for Mr. Bobby Wynne. What he does and how he
earns any money is always a mystery to me. For he never appears to do
anything."
"If I remember correctly, Dr. Verrall appeared to be rather 'interested'
in the lady," Cleek struck in.
Ailsa nodded.
"That's perfectly true," she said, quickly. "Indeed, if it were not for
the fact that she has set her heart upon becoming the future Lady
Brenton, I believe she would marry him. For he adores her; that's patent
to all."
A slight pause followed this as Cleek's eyes sought hers for a moment
with a look in their depths that brought the warm colour into her
cheeks.
"He is not the only one who adores his lady," he put in gently, "and
what else is there about this interesting couple, pray? I am anxious to
hear."
"I know you are," she responded, "and I can understand how every little
detail in the chain of evidence counts. You can rely upon me to supply
them to you as soon as they come my way."
Cleek looked at her gratefully.
"Indeed I do," he said, quietly. "Believe me, Ailsa, any little scraps
of fact or gossip that you can give me I shall be grateful for. You may
be sure no harm will be done, and it may possibly lead to some quicker
discovery."
It was then to Miss Wynne's advantage, he reflected, to have Lady
Margaret out of her path, if only for the time being. With Miss Cheyne
out of the reckoning as well there would be an added danger, but it
would be turned to an advantage if Sir Edgar were accused of the murder,
and Miss Jennifer alone could save him---- His thoughts trailed away as
this suddenly awakened thought took hold of him. Supposing Sir Edgar
were accused of the murder as he had imagined, and it was in Miss
Wynne's hands to tighten the noose about his neck, or shake it off
altogether? He wondered idly if her woman's heart would act
disinterestedly in such an event and wondering, quite suddenly he
_knew_. It would be as Sir Edgar's wife that Jennifer Wynne would free
him--not otherwise.
He turned to Ailsa again.
"Shall we meet Dr. Wynne as well?" he asked quickly.
"Oh, no, he died more than a year ago; that is why Master Bobby is able
to waste his time and money I expect."
"Hmn--yes, explains Dr. Verrall, too: his presence in the village, I
mean," he added, not wishing to voice his suspicions as yet.
"Yes," said Ailsa, "and as he is desperately in love with her, it is to
be hoped that she will not succeed in her endeavours to become the
future Lady Brenton. Certainly if gifts could win her, Dr. Verrall would
succeed, he has simply loaded her with presents. They are unique ones,
too: mostly strange things from temples----"
She broke off suddenly as Cleek's lips pursed themselves into a low
whistle of surprise.
"What is the matter, dear?"
"Nothing. Do you happen to know from where Dr. Verrall came to this
place?"
"India, I believe. I know he has had a lot of Indian patients down here,
and he is a perfect encyclopedia on the subject of precious stones."
Cleek glanced at her swiftly.
Hmn---- Here was another item of interest. Anglo-Indian, was he? And
knew all about precious stones? What about the Eye of Shiva, then? It
might well be that he was in league with the priests and had been
heavily bribed to secure that stone. He could easily have obtained the
prussic acid; who better than a doctor with his own private dispensary?
Yes, he must keep an eye on Dr. Verrall--and obtain an entry into his
house.
He puckered up his brows. Obviously the easiest way would be to become a
patient, though it would be useless to expect that the doctor would not
speedily see through his fraud and know that he was an object of
curiosity. Cleek gave a little impatient toss of his shoulders as if to
throw away these great ideas, and came back again to Miss Jennifer Wynne
and her brother who were now within hailing distance of them.