Beggar’s Choice (31 page)

On the other side of the door some one was trying to start up the car, and when the self-starter had buzzed and failed for the third time, I heard him swear vigorously, and I recognized Arbuthnot Markham.

I don't like a man who swears at his horse or his car. The thing he is swearing about is pretty nearly always his own fault. The way Arbuthnot took it out of his battery made me put him down as a pig-headed ass, but after a bit he got out and cranked her by hand. When he had got her running, he walked across the yard and came back with a suit-case in his hand. That made me sit up and take notice. He'd pressed Anna to stay and made an appointment to meet her at Croydon Aerodrome at three next day, and here he was, starting up his car and ramming suit-cases into it in the deuce of a hurry at somewhere about one in the morning. If it was one, it was to-day that he was going to meet Anna; but I wanted to know why he should be pushing off about ten hours too soon.

He opened the back door on the farther side, threw the suit-case in, and went back again across the yard. By this time I knew what I wanted. I wanted a lift down the drive and out of the gate past the police. I had to think quickly and take a bit of a risk.

As soon as I saw the headlight strike his back, I nipped round the garage door and got behind the car, opening the door on that side as I passed. The garage was in darkness, and it was a hundred to one against his noticing anything unless he came round that side—and I had to risk something.

He came tramping back, threw something heavy into the car, and slammed the door on it. Then he got in on the near side himself and slipped across into the driver's seat.

As he put her into gear, I came round and got in by the door I had left open. I timed it so that my weight came on the running-board as she moved off. You can't make thirteen stone feel like a feather, but I did my best, and he never turned his head.

I crawled in about an inch at a time. The suit-cases were on the seat, which was all to the good, because I badly wanted the floor for myself. I left the door flapping, and as we passed the arch and swung out to take the corner, he heard it, swore, reached back, and banged it to. I began to feel rather pleased with myself.

We went softly down the drive, and then, at the gate, checked suddenly. I couldn't see anything because I was lying particularly low with a rug over me; but I could hear Arbuthnot getting out, and I guessed that the police in an excess of zeal had shut the gate. I heard it creak, and then I heard voices. I couldn't hear what they said, and I didn't need to. The constable was telling Arbuthnot how he'd chased a dangerous criminal over his garden wall; and Arbuthnot was telling the constable to go to blazes—at least that's what I thought at the time, but after a minute Arbuthnot got in again, still talking, and to my amazement he was being as polite as pie.

“And you'll keep a watch on the house?” he said. “I've some valuable pictures I shouldn't like to lose.” And after that it was, “Good-night, constable,” and all the compliments of the season.

We came slowly out of the gate and turned up the Crescent. I heard Arbuthnot whistle through his teeth, and as I looked out from under my rug, I saw him take out his handkerchief and mop his brow.

I came to the conclusion that he wasn't in a frame of mind to meet the police without getting a nasty jar, and I wondered all over again whether he wasn't Fosicker after all.

We ran along Churt Row and turned out of it to the left. Presently we were on a main road. After a bit I got cautiously on my knees and took a look out of the window. I didn't want to get carried out of my way—and my way lay in the direction of Linwood. I wondered if he was making for Croydon. If he was, I had better see about getting out.

I threw off the rug, got up, and said,

“Thanks very much for the lift. I think I'll get off here.”

I must say I admired his nerve. He swerved about six inches, and it was a minute before he said anything. He slowed down, drew in to the side of the road, and stopped. Then he said,

“What the devil are you doing in my car?”

I got out and stood by his window. It was open. I could see him like a big smudge of shadow leaning forward over the wheel.

“Do you want to call in the police?” I said.

It was a stupid bit of bluff, but I made pretty sure he'd be as anxious to keep clear of them as I was.

“Fairfax?” he asked; and then, “They are looking for you in my garden, aren't they? As far as I am concerned, they can go on looking. Do you mind telling me why you were striking matches there about half an hour ago? It was you, wasn't it?”

I said, “Yes.”

“And how much of our conversation did you overhear when Anna and I came out to look for you?”

“Oh—some.”

“Enough to congratulate me?”

“On your marriage?” I said.

He laughed.

“Where were you? In the bushes?”

“I was nicely placed for listening in,” I said.

He moved round to face me.

“You're going to Linwood, I suppose? Will you give Anna a message for me? I don't particularly want to wire or ring up.”

“Well?” I was waiting for the message.

“Give it to her when she's by herself.” He had an easy, commanding manner. “Tell her she'll have to cross alone after all—I'm going on. Tell her some one will meet her. That's all.”

He turned to the wheel. Then suddenly he jerked his head back over his shoulder.

“Anna's got it in for you. I suppose you know that?”

I said it was beginning to dawn on me.

“Did you ever hear of a thing called the Queen Anne bow?” he asked.

I laughed.

“To the best of my belief, I've got it sewn into the hem of my coat at this moment,” I said.

“Oh, you know?” He seemed surprised.

“Yes, I know. That is why I'm going to Linwood.”

He waited for a moment. Then he laughed too.

“All right—that's all—I thought I'd just let you know. You'll give Anna my message?”

I said, “Yes.” Then I watched him drive away.

I walked on to the nearest lamp. I was considering what I was going to do. I had enough money to go to an hotel, but I wondered whether they would take me in, grimy, disheveled, torn, and without a stick of baggage. I thought a railway hotel would be my best chance. I stood under the lamp and dived for my wallet, just to make sure how much money I had.

My wallet was gone.

XLI

Dr. Monk was having a most uncomfortable quarter of an hour. He sat on one side of the library table and looked across it at his old friend Mr. Carthew, who was not looking at him in at all a friendly manner. At the end of the table stood Anna Lang, one arm resting on the back of the chair from which she had just risen. She was very pale. The other arm hung at her side, the hand white and ringless.

Mr. Carthew thumped the table.

“What cock-and-bull story is this?” he said in a loud, intemperate voice.

“My dear Carthew——”

“I asked you a question, Monk.”

“I can only say——” Dr. Monk was not allowed to say it.

“And I want an answer!” said Mr. Carthew, and thumped again.

Anna Lang stood quite still. She was looking down at the table edge.

“If you will allow me to speak——” said Dr. Monk with some offense.

Mr. Carthew pushed back his chair and flung himself into the corner of it.

“Oh, speak—speak—
speak!
Let's have the whole thing out and have done with it!”

“It was on the evening of September the seventeenth,” said Dr. Monk, frowning. “Miss Lang rang me up and told me you'd given her a fright—she said she'd found you unconscious on the floor—she seemed to think you'd had a shock. She asked me to come up and have a look at you. I came along at once, and in the street just outside Turner's I saw Car Fairfax.”

Mr. Carthew snorted.

“In the dark?” he said.

“Really
, Carthew! He was holding a torch for a man who was doing something to his car. Just as I passed, the man reached up for the torch, and as he took it, the light shone in Car's face.”

“Go on,” said Mr. Carthew combatively.

“I came up here. Miss Lang told me that you didn't remember anything at all about your attack.”

Mr. Carthew snorted again.

“I didn't remember anything about it because I never had it!”

Anna went on looking at the edge of the table. Her black lashes lay without moving upon the pale, even skin of her cheek.

Dr. Monk, leaning a little forward upon the arms of his chair, cleared his throat and went on:

“I found you sleeping comfortably”—Mr. Carthew gave a loud, angry laugh—“but Miss Lang was in a state of considerable distress. She had found the library window open. I came in here with her to see whether anything had been taken.”

“Well?” said Mr. Carthew explosively.

Dr. Monk turned in his chair and pointed past Anna at the tall bureau which stood between the windows.

“That top drawer was open. Some one had been rummaging in it—the papers had all been turned about, and your check-book was lying across the top of them, open.”

“Is that all?”

“No,” said Dr. Monk. “No—not quite. I pulled down the flap of the bureau, and some one had been making hay there too—everything had been turned out of the pigeon-holes, and your keys were lying straggling on the top of the pile.”

Mr. Carthew got very red in the face.

“And why wasn't I told all this before, pray?”

Dr. Monk looked uncomfortably at Anna. She spoke for the first time, in a low, colorless voice.

“I said I would tell you.” She paused, then repeated, “I told Dr. Monk that I would tell you.”

“I thought Miss Lang had told you,” said Dr. Monk. He hesitated a little. “I didn't think that I should refer to what might be a—a—well, a painful family matter.”

“Painful!” said Mr. Carthew angrily. “Family!”—more angrily still—“Upon my word, Monk—a painful family matter! What put it into your head that there was anything painful—what? Or that it concerned my family? I say what put such a thing into your head?”

Dr. Monk sat back in his chair. He had said his say, and was glad to get it over. He saw no reason for holding anything back now.

“Miss Lang's distress,” he said. “When I mentioned having seen her cousin, she was—er—very much affected. It was impossible not to notice it, impossible not to draw one's conclusions—especially when she begged me not to tell any one that I had seen Car Fairfax.”

Mr. Carthew turned towards Anna, rapping sharply on the table.

“Why was that? Why did you ask him that?”

“I don't know,” said Anna in a whisper.

“You did ask Monk not to tell any one he had seen Car?”

“Yes.”

“Why? You must know why you did it! Come—out with it—what!”

Anna drew a long sighing breath. It seemed to send a tremor over her from head to foot.

“I was afraid.”

“What were you afraid of? Of Car?” He laughed harshly. “You won't ask me to believe that, I hope?”

“Not of him—
for
him,” said Anna.

“Good Lord! Can't you speak up?” A mounting exasperation big fair to choke his utterance.

With a sudden tragic gesture Anna hid her face in her hands.

“Oh!” she said. Her breath caught on a sob. “I was—afraid—afraid—he——” Her voice stopped.

“Out with it!” said Mr. Carthew. “Say what you were afraid of and have done with it—what!”

“I
can't
,” said Anna, only just audibly.

Dr. Monk looked reproachfully across the table. Very affecting, this distress. Young scamp in a scrape. Lovely, tender-hearted girl. Old playfellow. Very distressing and affecting.

Mr. Carthew restrained himself, moderated his voice, and controlled a strong desire to take his niece by the shoulders and shake her.

“What were you afraid of?”

Anna shrank, but made no sound.

“You thought Car was a thief? Car Fairfax—your cousin—my nephew—a thief—what? You let Dr. Monk think so? You want to make me believe that he stole the Queen Anne bow? What, I say—what?”

Anna's hands dropped from her face. Her face was wet.

Then she heard a sound from behind the heavy leather screen that masked the door. The door was opening—some one was coming in. She turned blindly to the window.

William came in with a note. She heard her uncle say,

“What's this—what? I'm busy.” And then, with an exclamation, “No, not in here—the study!”

William's footsteps retreated. She heard Mr. Carthew jerk himself up.

“I'll say good morning, Monk. I've got business waiting for me, and you'd better be getting along—what? Leave her to find her tongue.”

He went out, taking Dr. Monk with him.

A faint wonder as to what was happening crept into her mind and disturbed it. She stood looking out, her thought clearing momentarily. She had felt a real fear under her uncle's battering questions. A sense of having come to an end was upon her. Anna Lang was dead. She would never live here again. She would never see Car again. It was all over. Everything would go on without her after this. They would not remember her, or be troubled by anything that she had done. Car would not remember her when he had married Isobel. She couldn't touch him, really. Burning up from the depths of her, came the desire to reach him, touch him, hurt him—force him to remember her. Like cold drops of this burning, fell the thought, “I shall never see him again.”

She heard the door open behind her, and turned from the window.

Car Fairfax was coming into the room.

XLII

Car Fairfax's diary:

When I found my money was gone, there was only one thing to do, and that was to get away from streets and paving-stones and houses, and find somewhere to lie down for an hour.