Man with the Dark Beard (11 page)

“Well, we were not,” Wilton said repressively.

“Well, folks can only talk about what they know,” returned Iris, some of her London polish dropping off and a tiny trace of what sounded like a Midland accent peeping out. “But what was this development you were talking about?”

“It is in all the midday papers.”

“Never read them,” Iris interrupted, “unless I mean to put a bit on a horse, and want to spot the winner.”

Wilton ignored the remark. “A pistol has been found among some bushes in Rufford Square. It is supposed to be the one with which Dr. Bastow was shot.”

“Rufford Square!” Iris repeated thoughtfully. “Yes, he might go back through Rufford Square, though it's a bit out of the way.”

“What do you mean?” questioned Wilton, staring at her.

Iris looked back at him. He could not help noticing that the pupils of her eyes were curiously dilated until they looked almost black, and the darkened eyebrows and eyelashes were obviously artificially tinted as they contrasted with the skin, rapidly whitening, despite the liberal covering of paint and powder.

“Why, Sanford Morris, of course!” she returned, and her voice had a hard and defiant sound. “Who else could it be?”

“Heaps of people,” Wilton returned. “Personally I don't think for one moment that Sanford Morris shot Dr. Bastow. What motive could he have had?”

“What motive could anyone have had?” Iris countered.

Wilton shrugged his shoulders. “I can't imagine. A more objectless crime I cannot conceive.”

“I don't think so, in the case of Sanford Morris,” Iris dissented. “There is no doubt that he and Dr. Bastow had been doing research work together, and Dr. Bastow had made the discovery that they had both been so anxious about, and made it alone. I expect Dr. Morris was awfully angry and disappointed. Probably they quarrelled and he shot Dr. Bastow in a fit of temper and made off with the box which contained the papers relating to the discovery.”

“Yes, very ingenious!” Wilton returned thoughtfully. “But if there is one thing more certain than another it is that Dr. Bastow was not shot in a quarrel. His assassin stole up behind him, and shot him while the doctor didn't know he was there probably. That rather knocks the bottom out of your theory, doesn't it?”

“I don't believe a man could have got in without the doctor hearing him,” Miss Houlton said obstinately. “And, if Dr. Morris was not the murderer, why did he shave off his beard?”

“You heard what he said at the inquest?”

“Oh, yes – that nobody wore beards nowadays,” Iris said scornfully. “Seems funny he should have discovered it just then.”

“You must remember that the finding of that paper with the words on it was not known until the inquest,” Wilton reminded her.

“If the chap did it himself, he knew he'd got a beard, then he thought the best thing to do was to shave it off, I expect.”

Miss Houlton's refinement was dropping from her as she grew voluble.

“Good gracious me! What's the matter, Mr. Wilton?”

For Wilton had got up – had suddenly swayed and apparently only prevented himself from falling by catching at the table by the side of him.

Iris caught his arm. “Are you ill?” she questioned quickly. “You look bad. What is the matter?”

Wilton passed his hand over his forehead wearily. “I don't know” – a curious little hesitation coming into his voice – “I felt rather queer a few minutes ago.”

Iris pushed him back in the chair gently.

“You are overdone, that's what it is. You will just have to rest now.”

“I did hear that Sir Felix came to the Manor last night, miss.”

The sacking apron, tied round the waist, the coarse print frock and the wrinkled hands of the speaker proclaimed her to be “a lady who obliged.”

Hilary and Fee had been settled at Rose Cottage for the past three weeks. It appeared to be an ideal home for the two, and the man and woman who had been found for them by Sir Felix Skrine seemed ideal servants – quiet, attentive and efficient. But neither Hilary nor Fee looked happy. Sir Felix, while absolutely refusing to countenance Hilary's engagement, had not interdicted her correspondence with Wilton altogether, and at first his letters had been frequent and affectionate, but for the last fortnight they had ceased.

Hilary's brown eyes had a puzzled, worried expression, and the pathetic droop of her lips acquired since her father's death was becoming accentuated. Fee was frankly bored and miserable. He hated Rose Cottage; hated the garden, above all, with its high wall set round; hated the village and its inhabitants, so many as he had seen, with their talk of the local doings and the events which seemed to the denizens of Heathcote of supreme importance. The only thing in all Heathcote, in fact, to which he extended the faintest liking was a small and friendly kitten that he had annexed at its first visit. He was nursing it now –as he lay with his back resolutely turned to the window – a fluffy black ball, it was purring contentedly as it nestled up to him and his hand moved backwards and forwards over its fur.

A certain amount of interest, however, came into Fee's face at the charwoman's observation, and he turned sharply to his sister.

“Hilary, if Godfather is down here you must send for him. I must talk to him about this new doctor and the wonderful cures he is making.”

“I expect Sir Felix is sure to come in some time today,” Hilary returned hesitatingly. “But I don't know what to say about the new cure, Fee. Those much-talked-of cures are so often take-ins – you know what Dad used to say about them – and they are very expensive.”

“I dare say!” Fee's voice trembled. For a moment he seemed to be on the verge of an outburst. “Of course you would think of the expense first. I wonder how you would like to lie here on this couch all day and never see anything but this horrid garden.”

Hilary protested.

“Fee, dear, it is really a nice garden, and Godfather had such lovely plants put in it for us.”

“I don't care if he did,” Fee said passionately. “I would rather look out on to the dirtiest London street with some life going on, people passing backwards and forwards, than on the most beautiful of these blessed Heathcote gardens, and be stuck up here away from everything.”

“Well, I don't know what to do, Fee. Godfather thinks you will like it when you get used to it.”

“Used to it!” Fee hunched his shoulders and glowered at his sister. “I shall not get used to it! I will not get used to it! And when Godfather comes –”

“Beg pardon, sir,” the charwoman interposed pacifically, “but when I was cleaning up at the top I see Sir Felix in the churchyard, going to her ladyship's grave, he were, and a beautiful cross of white flowers in his hand. Ay, it isn't many wives as are mourned and looked after as her ladyship is. All most chaps thinks of is getting another as soon as they can. A compliment to the first, some folks thinks. Not a bit of it, I says. It's just that they likes a change. Most of 'em 'ud get the second before the first were buried, if they could. Why, there is Sir Felix himself coming in at the gate. Maybe I had better do what I have to do another time.”

She scuttled off, wiping her hands on her apron.

Hilary went out to meet Sir Felix.

He drew her into the garden. “I want to talk to you, Hilary. And you ought to be out of doors all day drinking in this beautiful air. If Fee persists in sticking in the house, you at any rate ought to have your chair on the lawn.”

Hilary looked rather wistful.

“Yes, I should love it. But Fee just won't. And I can't leave him alone, poor boy.”

Sir Felix frowned.

“‘Tiresome boy' is what I feel inclined to say. I have let him alone so far, but I shall have to have a serious talk with him one day soon.”

“You must remember Dad spoiled him. And” – Hilary hesitated a moment – “I don't know how much money we have, Sir Felix, but I suppose you will tell us all about it when things are settled up.”

“I shall render an account of my stewardship when Fee comes of age,” Sir Felix said gravely, though a faint smile was lurking round his mouth. “But there is plenty for your present needs, Hilary. What is it you want – new frocks?”

Hilary repressed a shiver.

“No, indeed! I don't feel as if I should ever want one again. It is Fee – he has seen about some wonderful cures that a Dr. Blathwayte is making in all sorts of bone diseases, and he is wild to try him. I am afraid he is very expensive.”

“I expect he is,” Sir Felix said dryly. “I think I have heard of the man. Bit of a quack, isn't he? Is he an osteopath?”

“No, I imagine not,” Hilary said doubtfully. “At least the papers don't call him that. But do you think anything can be done?”

“In the way of Fee going to him, do you mean?” Sir Felix said slowly. “Well, I don't know. I will make inquiries and let you know. Hilary, do you remember what day this is?”

“Day!” Hilary repeated vaguely. “Day of the month, do you mean? I'm sure I don't know. All days seem so much alike to me now.”

“It is the anniversary of my wife's death,” Sir Felix said, his voice dropping almost to a whisper. “I always make a point of being here and laying her favourite flowers on her grave myself. She was very fond of you, Hilary.”

“I was very fond of her,” Hilary said earnestly. “She was always so kind to me.”

“She loved you,” Sir Felix went on hoarsely. “Hilary, I often think how pleased she would be to see you here in Heathcote, the place that was so dear to her – and with me!”

The glance that emphasized the last two words deepened an uneasy suspicion that had been springing up in Hilary's mind of late.

“You have been very good to us, Sir Felix – to Fee and to me.”

“Good!” Sir Felix repeated. “Good! That is not quite the right adjective, Hilary. Naturally any man would do anything for the woman he – loves.”

With a startled movement of distaste Hilary sprang away from him. He was too quick for her, however. He caught her hand and placed it on his arm, patting it with a quiet fatherliness that was in itself reassuring.

“Did you never guess, Hilary?” he questioned. “Dear, sometimes I have thought all the world must know. Your father wanted it above all things. It was his great wish that you –”

“Please, Sir Felix!” With a touch of quiet dignity Hilary drew herself away. “You know that I am engaged to Basil Wilton.”

Sir Felix did not speak for a minute. His blue eyes had a curious baffled expression as he glanced at Hilary's averted head.

“I had hoped that everything between you and young Wilton was at an end. You know how your father objected to it – forbade anything in the nature of an engagement.”

“Dad had only just heard about it – us – the day before – he died,” Hilary said brokenly. “I feel sure everything would have been different – later. He – he always wanted me to be happy.”

The vertical lines between the lawyer's eyebrows were deepening.

“He left you to me, Hilary. I told him of my love for you in our last long talk together and he – he approved.”

Hilary's brown eyes met his, the latent antagonism in them of which he had been conscious of late very perceptible.

“Dad knew of my love for Basil,” she said firmly. “He couldn't have thought it was any good anyone else thinking of – I mean, he only left me in your charge because you are my godfather.”

“Hateful relationship!” Sir Felix ejaculated with sudden fire. “To me you are – just the woman I love. Hilary, can't you care for me?”

“As my godfather, yes,” Hilary said, a suspicion of malice in her tone. “For the rest, I cannot allow you to speak of anything else, Sir Felix. I love – I belong to Basil Wilton.”

Sir Felix drew in his lips. With one rapid stroke he beheaded a tall delphinium in the border that was just bursting into flower.

“It is a pity Wilton is not as loyal to you as you are to him,” he said abruptly.

Hilary turned back to the house. She looked Sir Felix squarely in the face as he joined her.

“What do you mean?” she questioned quietly.

“I'll leave it to some one else to tell you,” Sir Felix returned.

At this moment the front door was flung open and the tall, gaunt figure of Miss Lavinia Priestley came in sight. She was wearing black, of course. The modern fashion of disregarding mourning she looked upon as almost indecent, and her sensible short skirts were extremely sensible, and extremely short, her long skinny legs, encased presumably in the fashionable silk stockings, were further encased in stout knitted gaiters. She wore a black hat of the style usually described as a smart little pull-on. From it there protruded ends of sandy, shingled hair like dilapidated drake's tails. There was a certain jauntiness about her gait as she came forward, and instead of spectacles she wore a pair of rimless eyeglasses perched precariously upon the bridge of her high Roman nose.

“Aunt Lavinia!” Hilary exclaimed in amazement. “Why, I thought you were –”

“On the high seas,” the spinster returned, as she made an ineffectual dab at her niece's cheek and then shook hands with Sir Felix. “But the Sheikh-like person turns out to be a fraud He promised his deluded wife she should have visitors over from England as often as she liked or she could get 'em. Now, when she invites me, he turns nasty, and not content with shutting her up in his harem or zenana or whatever he calls the thing, off he marches with her into the desert, where of course she can't get an English nurse or doctor or anything, and stops me by wireless. I don't know what is to be done.”

She took off her pince-nez, rubbed some mist from it, and replaced it.

“Marriages between Englishwomen and Arabs ought not to be allowed,” Sir Felix said shortly. “If I had my way I would make it penal for an Englishwoman to enter upon any such connexion.”