CHAPTER XIII
It was just about half-past four when we entered the outskirts of Woodford. The car had gone well enough; indeed, except for a slight collision with a farm-cart in the neighbourhood of Chelmsford, our journey down had been a monotonous success. We pulled up at the Plough, an old-fashioned two-storey inn in the centre of the town, which boasted a red-and-white notice-board proclaiming its possession of a "Garage."
"This looks all right, Billy," I said "If Maurice's place isn't too far away, you'd better put up here."
We ran the car into the yard, and then climbed out, leaving our luggage in the back, and made our way into the bar. There were two men sitting in the corner, talking to each other, and a middle-aged lady presiding over the drinks.
I took off my hat to her, and ordered a couple of whiskies.
"Do you happen to know," I asked, "where Ashton is—Mr. Maurice Furnivall's place?"
"Ashton!" she repeated. "Now, I've heard the name: it's quite close here somewhere. I expect the Coroner could tell you. Mr. Rowe, the gentleman wants to know where Ashton is."
One of the men in the corner looked up. "You've not far to go," he observed. "Straight on through the town and then down the hill to the left. Maybe a matter of a mile and a half. You'll find the drive gates on your right."
I thanked him and invited him to join us in a drink, an offer which he accepted with cheerful alacrity. For a coroner he seemed a very genial person.
"Can I have a bedroom here for a few days?" inquired Billy casually.
"Oh yes, I think so, sir," replied the lady behind the bar. "I'll just call Mr. Martin."
She went out, returning a minute later with the landlord, a side-whiskered gentleman in shirt-sleeves.
Billy repeated his request, and, informing us that there was plenty of room in the house, our host conducted us out of the bar, and up a winding staircase to the landing above.
"This is a nice, bright room," he said, opening the door to the left. "Looks out on the main street, too—kind of cheerful like."
"That's good," said Billy. "There may be a dog-fight, or a runaway horse, or something—one never knows. I'll take it, anyhow."
"Can we have some tea?" I asked.
The smiling landlord nodded his head. "Certainly, sir; I'll have it sent into the dining-room. This way, sir."
We retraced our steps downstairs, and entered a long room hung around with pictures of deceased race-horses, intersected by portraits of the Royal Family. In a few minutes, a Suffolk damsel of buxom proportions brought in tea, a full-dress affair consisting of jam, watercress, bread-and-butter, and two kinds of cake.
Dealing gently with this tribute to our physique, Billy and I discussed our plan of campaign, and fixed up the best arrangements we could. I agreed to slip out from Ashton next morning before breakfast and meet him in the main road to Woodford. In the meanwhile, he was to pick up all the information possible about Maurice and his belongings, making special but judicious inquiries as to whether a gentleman with a broken nose, or another sportsman with one shoulder higher than the other, had been seen decorating the neighbourhood.
"I'll leave the car with you, Billy," I said, "and take a cab on to Maurice's. Then, in case we want it in a hurry, we can be sure of getting it."
"But won't they want to know what you've done with it?" he objected.
"I shall tell them the truth," I said, "or very nearly. I shall say the engine wanted looking to, and I left it in the garage here."
Billy looked at me admiringly. "Jack," he said, "a good parson was lost in you."
We ordered a cab, in which I placed my belongings, and then, giving Billy a few more bank-notes in case of emergency, and instructing him not to make love to the buxom housemaid, I clambered in and set out on my journey to Maurice's.
Ashton proved to be a good-sized, half-timbered house, standing back in its own grounds some way from the road. As my cab rumbled up the drive, I caught sight of two men sitting on a seat in the garden, and, drawing nearer, I saw that one of them was Maurice. They both rose as soon as we pulled up at the front door, and came across to meet me.
"Hallo," said Maurice. "I thought you were going to motor down?"
I shook hands with him, and also with his companion, a stout, florid man who looked like a retired bookmaker, but who obviously appeared to know me.
"So I did," I answered, "but I left the car in Woodford. The engine was working all wrong, somehow."
"That's the worst of motors," observed the fat man, "always goin' dicky—what?"
"Brought your chauffeur?" inquired Maurice, as a footman came out and gathered up my belongings.
I shook my head. "No," I said, "I didn't think he was necessary this time." Which, you will observe, was strictly true.
It may have been my imagination, but I fancied I saw a slight gleam of satisfaction pass across my "cousin's" face. "Well, come along into the garden," he said, "unless you'd like tea, or anything. Baradell's gone to town for the night, and York and Lady Baradell are out; but Aunt Mary's about somewhere. Do you know where she is, Vane?"
The fat man pulled his moustache. "Waterin' the roses," he observed laconically. "Miss York's with her."
Our discussion was cut short by the sudden appearance of the two ladies in question, who emerged from behind a shrubbery and advanced across the lawn to meet us. "Aunt Mary" was a middle-aged, quiet-looking woman with grey hair—her companion a tall, handsome girl of about twenty-eight, in a smart tailor-made costume.
I had an awkward moment, wondering if I was supposed to know them both, but the way in which they greeted me removed all doubt on this point.
"I'm so glad you were able to come down," said Aunt Mary, without any obvious enthusiasm, however. "It's not often you can tear yourself away from London."
"It's not often I get such charming invitations," I replied, shaking hands with her.
She looked at me in a rather surprised way, and it suddenly struck me that I was being a little too pleasant for the real Northcote. Whether "Aunt Mary" was any relation or not I had no idea, but she probably knew my double fairly well, and in that case was doubtless familiar with his character. As writers say, it behoved me to be careful!
Miss York showed more inclination to be friendly. "I hear you've brought your motor, Mr. Northcote," she said. "I hope it's big enough to take us all."
I laughed. "I've brought it as far as Woodford," I said, "and then it struck. However, it will be all right again in a couple of days, I think."
"Beastly fraud, isn't he, Miss York?" observed Sir George Vane, with quite unconscious humour.
"Well, it doesn't matter," put in Maurice languidly. "You couldn't use it if it was here. We're going to shoot to-morrow, the next day is the Cuthberts' garden-party, and the day after that, this cricket-match business that Bertie's got up."
"Oh, cricket!" said Miss York contemptuously. "Bertie's mad about cricket. Do you play, Mr. Northcote?"
"Not often," I replied gravely, and I heard Maurice laugh to himself.
There was a sound of footsteps in the drive, and we all looked up.
"Here are Bertie and Lady Baradell," said Miss York. "I wonder where they've been?"
I suddenly recollected the significant grin with which Maurice had mentioned the Baradells' name, when he had called on me in Park Lane, and with some natural interest I scanned the approaching figures. "Bertie," who, I gathered, was Miss York's brother, was a typical army man of about thirty, but his companion—well, Lady Baradell certainly could not be dismissed with any such cursory notice.
Tall and graceful, she moved towards us with that sort of almost insolent satisfaction which some beautiful women habitually suggest. Beautiful she certainly was, but compared to Mercia (I instinctively compared everyone with Mercia now) it was the beauty of fire against sunshine. Fire indeed seemed a very fitting simile for Lady Baradell. It glimmered in her wonderful bronze hair, and smouldered dangerously in the deep brown eyes with their curious golden-tinted irises. Her dress, a daring affair of almost flame-coloured material, completed the illusion.
"And so the great man has taken pity on us," she said in her slow musical voice. "Was London so terribly hot as all that, Mr. Northcote?"
"I seem to have a very undeserved reputation," I protested. "No one enjoys the beautiful things of life more than I do."
Lady Baradell raised her eyebrows and looked round with a smile.
"Saul among the prophets!" she said. "Maurice, what has happened to him?"
I waited for Maurice's answer with a malicious amusement.
"I don't know," he drawled. "I asked him myself, the other day, and he said that one must be agreeable occasionally, if only for the sake of variety."
There was a general laugh, cut short by the distant sound of a gong.
"Time to dress," observed Aunt Mary. "Dear me! how quickly the evenings go!"
We all moved back towards the house, Maurice thrusting his arm through mine and remarking in an affable fashion that he would take me up and show me my room.
This he did, bringing me to a large, cheerful apartment looking out over the garden.
"You'll be all right here, I think," he said. "No one to disturb you, except the Baradells—they're across the passage. Sure you've got everything you want?"
"Yes, thanks," I said.
"Dinner eight o'clock," he added, and, going out, closed the door.
I dressed myself in leisurely fashion, taking, as I did so, a kind of mental stock of my experiences since my arrival. So far, things appeared to be progressing quite satisfactorily. It was true I had been a trifle too genial for the part of Northcote, but of my identity no one in the house, even including Maurice, appeared to have the faintest suspicion.
About my fellow-guests I had not yet quite made up my mind. Vane and York seemed harmless enough in their respective ways, and I could hardly believe that they were concerned in the plot against me—if such a thing existed. Lady Baradell was a more complicated issue. Light and chaffing as her remarks had been, some subtle instinct warned me that our relations were on a more intimate footing that would have appeared from her greeting. Whether she knew anything about Northcote's history or not I was, of course, unaware, but I felt sure that some kind of understanding existed between them.
As I tied my tie in the glass, I examined myself critically by the light of two candles. The likeness was certainly astounding. If I had not known that I was in reality Jack Burton of Buenos Ayres and God knows where else, I would have sworn that the face which looked back at me was that of the man from whom I had parted in the Milan restaurant three strenuous days before.
When I got down to the dining-room, I found the whole party assembled, with the exception of Lady Baradell. She swept in a moment later, looking superb in a low black evening dress, and wearing a magnificent collar of emeralds, which were just the right stones to go with her wonderful copper-coloured hair.
I was detailed to take in "Aunt Mary," not, I think, wholly to the latter's satisfaction. Lady Baradell, with Sir George Vane as a partner, sat on the other side of me.
I forget what we talked about during dinner—most of it the usual stock of trivialities, I fancy, enlivened by some very ancient anecdotes from Sir George, who seemed to possess a magnificent wardrobe of "humour's cast-off clothes." I remember getting so bored with the third of his long-winded efforts that I was seized with a mischievous determination to tell, in an amended form, the interesting tale of my experiences with "Francis." It struck me that if Maurice had been responsible for planting that gentleman in the house, a naïve narration of the consequences might convince him that my suspicions with regard to his kindly self were still unaroused. He must know by now how the attempt had ended, and silence in the matter on my part might well seem suspicious.
"By the way, Maurice," I said across the table, "I've never told you about that butler of mine that Seagrave sent me."
If the fellow was really guilty, his nerve was magnificent.
"No, you haven't," he said coldly. "How did he turn out?"
I smiled. "A little abruptly," I answered, "and in the middle of the night." Then, seeing that I had secured the attention of the table, I proceeded to sketch my adventure much as I had painted it for the benefit of Mr. Seagrave. I left out, however, all references to Sir Henry Tregattock.
There was a chorus of surprised comment as I concluded. Lady Baradell looked at me with a curious light in her eyes.
"What a ruffian!" she exclaimed. "I hope you hurt him."
"I fancy his nose must be still a little sore," I observed contentedly.
"But it's dreadful to think of a man like that being at large," said Miss York, with a little shudder. "Didn't you go to the police?"
I shook my head. "I really couldn't be bothered. I told Seagrave, and left it in his hands."
Maurice leant back in his chair and laughed. "I'm frightfully sorry for putting you on to such a rotter," he remarked frankly. "I always thought Seagrave's were absolutely trustworthy. It's lucky you can look after yourself so well."
"Oh, it wasn't your fault, Maurice," I said generously.
"I should describe it rather as Francis's misfortune," put in Lady Baradell.
"Well, we'll leave you to discuss it over your port," said Aunt Mary, rising from her chair. "You'll find us in the billiard-room, Maurice, when you've done."
As soon as we were alone, Maurice pulled his chair up alongside of mine. "Are you game for some shooting to-morrow, Stuart?" he asked. "I thought if it was fine we might go out after dusk. Reece says they're coming in now in good quantities."
"Yes," I said quietly. "I'm quite ready for any amount of shooting."
"That's good," said Maurice heartily. "With four guns, we ought to get some fine sport."
I was inclined to agree with him, but any observation that I might have made to this effect was cut short by Sir George Vane, who promptly took the opening afforded by the mention of ducks to plunge into another ancient and, this time, rather obscene tale. We listened courteously until the ordeal was over, and then Maurice suggested a move into the billiard-room. Here we found Miss York practising strokes with some skill, while Aunt Mary and Lady Baradell looked on.
"I've got to go out a minute and interview the keeper," said Maurice. "Suppose you four have a game of snooker till I come back. I shan't be very long, and Vane will score for you."
The suggestion filled me with a momentary uneasiness. As it happens, I am rather above the average as a snooker-player, three years' constant practice in Buenos Ayres with some of the most accomplished sharpers in the world having left a decidedly beneficial effect on my game. On the other hand, I had no idea how Northcote played, or whether he played at all.
Captain York relieved my embarrassment.
"If I remember rightly, Northcote," he said, "you're a bit of a dab at this business. I think I'd better play with my sister."
"That's very polite to me," protested Lady Baradell, laughing.
"Don't you worry, Lady Baradell," put in Maurice; "you'll beat them easily. Stuart never loses at anything."
Guessing that in the back of Maurice's mind this last remark referred to my dealings with Francis, I smiled inwardly to myself.
"I'll try and do my best," I said, "but that's rather a large compliment to live up to."
Maurice went out, and, placing the balls, we settled down to the game. Thanks to a really ingenious display of strategy on my part, it provided us with a thrilling contest. I played just well enough to keep our side ahead, without arousing any suspicions that I was not doing my best. York and his sister were both good, steady second-raters, while my partner's contributions consisted of occasional and very dazzling flukes.
It was after one of these that York observed, laughing, "If I didn't know Sir Charles, I should say that you were very unlucky in love."
As he spoke, I was just chalking Lady Baradell's cue and for the fraction of a second her hand touched mine.
"I don't think I am," she said, with a curious smile.
It might have been a coincidence, but somehow or other the incident left me feeling a little uncomfortable. My peace of mind was not restored by observing that on several occasions afterwards, when the others were not looking, Lady Baradell favoured me with a smile which nothing but the most mule-headed modesty could describe as lacking in kindness. It seemed as though I had stumbled all unwittingly into another and exceedingly embarrassing complication.
However, I played on philosophically until the game ended, at which point in the proceedings Maurice returned. We then abandoned snooker for a five-handed game of pool, during which Sir George Vane and Aunt Mary solaced themselves with picquet.
At half-past ten some drinks arrived on a tray, and after we had dealt with them, Aunt Mary hazarded the opinion that bed seemed to her a sound proposition.
"And so say all of us," chimed in Miss York, politely suppressing an incipient yawn. "I can hardly keep my eyes open. We'll leave you men to ruin yourselves over bridge, or whatever horrible vices you indulge in after we've gone."
"My vice," retorted her brother, "will take the short form of one modest little cigarette. Lady Baradell walked me off my legs this afternoon."
There was a general laugh, during which Maurice stepped forward to the table to light the candles, which had been brought in with the drinks.
"Good-night," said Lady Baradell, shaking hands with York and Sir George. "I believe I am the only one who isn't tired, after all." She came across to me. "Good-night, Mr. Northcote;" then, so softly that they only reached my ears, she added the two words, "au revoir."
It was a situation which most men would have received with enthusiasm, but personally I derived no joy at all from it. However, I returned the little private pressure of her hand, and said, "Good-night, Lady Baradell," in my most amiable manner. Under the circumstances, I could scarcely do anything else!
I don't think I played a very prominent part in the half-hour's conversation that followed. The other men, if I remember rightly, were discussing the prospects of various horses in the October handicaps. Apart from the fact that I know nothing, and care less, about English racing, my thoughts were busy on a sporting topic of an altogether more delicate nature. It may perhaps seem a little strange that I should have allowed such an affair to embarrass me (Billy would have shrieked with mirth at the very idea), but, since I had met Mercia, my previous views on certain matters had undergone a change, and, as far as I could see, the result promised to be awkward!
Maurice, who had glanced at me rather curiously once or twice, eventually asked me whether I was feeling sleepy. "I'm about ready for bed," I admitted. "I was up till some unholy hour last night at Sangatte's."
"I'm with you," joined in York. "We'll let Vane and Furnivall settle the Cambridgeshire between them."
We took our candles, and, bidding the others good-night, left the billiard-room. I parted from York at the top of the staircase, and, passing Lady Baradell's room, turned into my own, and shut the door behind me.
It was a warm moonlight night, and I opened my window wide and leaned out for some time before beginning to undress. I still felt worried and a little apprehensive. The proverbial statement about "a woman scorned" appeared to me a very mild way of expressing what Lady Baradell's emotions would probably be under a similar provocation. I had hoped some instinct would tell Mercia what I was risking on her account.
At last, however, the beauty of the garden, bathed as it was in great spaces of silver and shadow, gradually began to soothe my mind into a state of sleepy tranquillity. Finally, with a little yawn, I dismissed Lady Baradell and all the other complications that surrounded me to their proper place, and, drawing down the blind, undressed and got into bed.
I think it must have been the light that kept me awake, for I generally go to sleep at once. As it was, I lay for some time in a kind of drowsy semi-consciousness that was just stealing into slumber, when a faint sound suddenly brought me up alert and open-eyed. In a moment I had jumped out of bed.
The door of my room opened quietly, and in the pale gleam of the moonshine I saw Lady Baradell. She was wearing a long blue silk dressing-gown, her feet were bare, and her bronze hair floated down over her shoulders. I must admit she looked wonderfully attractive.
Closing the door noiselessly, she glided towards me, a laughing gleam of triumph in her eyes.
"Ah, Stuart, Stuart!" she whispered, holding out her hands.
I don't think I have ever felt quite such a fool in my life.