“Oh, I came across it in a book somewhere,” growled Stevens, dismissing the subject. “We don’t want to get mixed up in a choice of words. Ghosts, if you like the term better. You said the house never had a reputation for having a ghost in it?”
“Never.—Of course, I myself might have my own views of things that have happened here in the past; but, as Part will tell you, that’s because I’m a wild-eyed cuss who could see murder in green-apple colic.”
“Then what the devil,” demanded Stevens, “is your link with anything wild-eyed out of the past: your link with the Marquise de Brinvilliers, for one thing? You told me tonight the family was closely associated with her. You talk about a portrait, with the face gone from acid, that’s supposed to be her. Edith doesn’t seem to like the picture, and prefers to call it ‘Madame de Montespan’ when Lucy copies the costume for a masquerade; and Mrs. Henderson doesn’t even like to say its name. What’s the connection between a murderess in the seventeenth century and the Despards in the twentieth?… Was a ‘Desprez’ one of her victims, by any chance?”
“No,” said Mark. “Something more respectable and law-abiding than that. A Desprez caught her.”
“Caught her?”
“Yes. Madame de Brinvilliers had fled from Paris and the law, which was howling after her. She had taken refuge in a convent at Liège; and, so long as she stayed inside the convent, they could not take her. But clever Desprez, as a representative of the French government, found a way around that. He was a handsome dog, and Marie de Brinvilliers (as you may have read) could never resist a strutting sword and periwig. Desprez went into the convent piously disguised as a priest; he met the lady, set her a-burning for him, and then suggested that they should go outside for a little walk by the river. She went eagerly, but it was a different sort of assignation from what she had expected. Desprez whistled, and the guard closed in. Within a few hours she was on the way to Paris in a closed coach, amid an escort of cavalry. She was beheaded and burnt in 1676.” Mark paused, and began to roll a cigarette. “He was a virtuous soul who had made a thrifty and well-deserved capture of a murderess who deserved to die. He was also, to my way of thinking, a black-souled Judas just the same. … He was the honored Desprez who, five years later, came to America with Crispen and laid the first timbers of the Park. He died in 1706, and the crypt was built for him to rest his bones.”
In the same stolid voice Stevens asked, “How did he die?”
“Of natural causes, so far as is known. The only curious thing is that a woman, who could never afterwards be identified, appears to have visited him in his room before he died. It roused no suspicion and was probably a coincidence.”
Partington was amused. “Now you’re going to tell us, are you, that the room he occupied was the same as your uncle Miles’s room now?”
“No,” answered Mark gravely. “But the set of rooms he occupied then adjoined what is now Uncle Miles’s room. Access to the old Desprez’s rooms was gained through a door which was bricked-up and panelled-over when that wing of the house was burnt down about 1707.”
… There was a sharp knock at the door of the little living-room. The door opened, and Lucy Despard walked in.
That knock had brought Henderson’s rocking-chair skittering against the radio again. That knock had brought them all to their feet, for they had heard no footsteps. Lucy Despard was pale, and she seemed to have dressed hurriedly for travel.
“So they’ve opened the crypt,” she said. “So they’ve opened the crypt.”
Mark fumbled before he found his voice. He moved forward, making soothing gestures in the air. “It’s quite all right, Lucy,” he told her. “It’s quite all right
We’ve
opened the crypt. Just a little——”
“Mark, you know it isn’t all right. Please tell me. What’s going on? Where are the police?”
Her husband stopped, and so, in one way, did the others; everything appeared to stop except the bustling little clock on the mantelpiece. After a moment during which Stevens felt his wits thicken, Mark said:
“Police? What police? What are you talking about?”
“We came as soon as we could,” Lucy said, rather piteously. “There was a late train from New York, and we managed to get a late train out here. Edith will be down in a second. Mark, what’s the matter? Look here.”
She opened her handbag, took out a telegram, and handed it to him. He read it twice before he read it aloud to the others.
Mrs. Mark Despard,
c/o Mrs. E. R. Leverton,
31 East 64th St.,
New York.
DISCOVERY RELATING CIRCUMSTANCES MILES DESPARD’S DEATH. SUGGEST YOU RETURN HOME IMMEDIATELY.
Brennan, Philadelphia Police Dept.
Stevens never forgot Lucy Despard standing just inside the open door, her hand on the knob, with the great elms behind her, and the lanterns still burning on the path. Lucy’s calm, alert, good-humored face had a strength about it: it was the alertness you first noticed in the light-brown, shining eyes, with very dark lashes, which were her best feature. She was small, and rather sturdy, but with an unconscious grace; nor was she exactly a beauty, except in the attractiveness and vigor of her expression. Now she was so pale that a few freckles stood out. She wore a plain tailored suit which contrived to suggest fashion without your knowing why; there was a touch of color only in her plain close-fitting hat, and the black hair was worn low over her ears.
Thus she stood while Mark read the telegram again.
“This is a hoax of some kind,” said Stevens. “That telegram’s a fake. No police officer would send a nice courteous message like that, inviting you to come home like a family lawyer. He’d phone New York and have them see you.—Mark, there’s something damned fishy about this.”
“You’re telling me,” said Mark, explosively. He took a few steps up and down the room. “Yes; whoever sent that telegram, it wasn’t a cop. Let’s see. Handed in at a Western Union office in Market Street at 7:35. That doesn’t tell us much. …”
“But what
is
wrong?” cried Lucy. “The crypt’s open. Aren’t they here? Aren’t—” She looked over Mark’s shoulder, and stopped. “Tom Partington!” she said, blankly.
“Hello, Lucy,” said Partington, with ease. He moved forward from the mantelpiece, and she mechanically gave him her hand. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”
“It has, Tom. But what on earth are you doing here? I thought you were in England. You haven’t changed much. Yes, you have—a little.”
Partington made the customary remarks. It appeared that Lucy and Mark had not been married at the time he went away. “Only a flying visit,” he explained. “I got in this afternoon. I thought, after ten years, you wouldn’t mind putting me up for a couple of days. …”
“No, of course not! We’re—” Again mechanically, Lucy glanced over her shoulder as though wondering how to deal with something. They all heard the footsteps now, and Edith came in.
Edith had more of a glitter about her, although at the same time she carried herself more consciously. It was not that she had grown stiff or at all fussy when only a year or more into her thirties; it was only that you were never quite so certain of her, or the movements of her mind, as you were with Lucy; and Stevens did not like to think what she might be in twenty years’ time. She was taller than Lucy, and more slender in a thin-boned fashion. She had the family carriage, the family looks—the brown hair, the blue eyes, the air of brushing things aside as Mark did—and she was very good-looking, though inclined to become a trifle hollow round the eyes. It was noticeable that Henderson, as soon as she came in, backed away and began to assume a guilty look. Yet Stevens had often had a curious impression that she somehow concealed more weakness than her decisive actions would indicate. She wore a fur coat, and no hat; she was dressed (how could you describe it?) fluently. And when she saw Partington she stopped, but her expression did not change.
“Edith,” said Lucy, hurriedly opening and shutting the catch of her handbag, “they
say
there’s nothing wrong. They say that telegram’s a fake and there are no police here at all.”
But Edith was looking at Partington, and she smiled at him.
“This time,” she announced, in a pleasant voice, “I can honestly say that one of my premonitions has come true. You do bring trouble with you, don’t you?”
And she extended her left hand. Then she looked round the group.
“You’ve all been entrusted with the secret,” she said. “Well, Mark, what is it? Lucy and I have been horribly worried, and we may as well know.”
“It’s a joke, I tell you. That telegram——”
“Mark,” she said, “was Uncle Miles poisoned?”
A pause. “Poisoned? Good God, no! What put that idea into your head?” Mark looked at her face, which was more composed than Lucy’s, but she was under no less a strain. And then Mark’s nimble brain hit on a fairly shrewd lie, to be used on the spur of the moment. He put his arm round Lucy, patting her on the back, and then turned again to Edith with a deprecating air. “You’ll know it sooner or later, so you might as well know now. It’s no real trouble, no foolish business like murder. … Where did you get the idea, I wonder?… and nothing to concern the police. But it’s not pleasant. Somebody has a taste for sending fake telegrams—and letters. I got a letter, too—anonymous. It said that Uncle Miles’s body had been stolen out of the crypt.” Evidently aware that this lie sounded thin, he went on hurriedly: “I mightn’t have paid much attention to it if Henderson hadn’t noticed a few queer things. We decided to open the crypt and see. And I’m sorry to tell you, Edith, it’s true. The body’s gone.”
If anything, Edith seemed more nervous than before. She did not appear to doubt him, but it was clear that the news gave no reassurance.
“Gone?” she repeated. “But how could it—why—I mean…?”
Partington interposed smoothly, taking up the cue.
“Yes, it’s a bad business,” he said, “but it’s not new, though I don’t believe the racket has been tried in America for over fifty years. Did you ever hear, Edith, of the Stewart case in 1878? The body of the millionaire was stolen out of his tomb and held for ransom. The same thing happened at Dunecht; they burgled a crypt there, very much like this one. It’s something our modern racketeers don’t seem to have thought of.”
“But that’s horrible!” cried Lucy. “Kidnapping a dead body—for ransom?”
“Mrs. Stewart offered twenty-five thousand dollars to get it back.” Partington was speaking easily, fixing their minds, turning them away as though he led them by the hand. “In the Dunecht case, they caught one of the gang and found the body. The trial was peculiar because there were no precedents in law. Every case of body-snatching recorded up to that time had been for the purpose of selling the body to a medical school; but this was different. I believe the man got five years. … In this case, I suppose they’ve got it into their heads that you are a family who want to keep the old crusted vault intact, and that you’ll pay through the nose to get your uncle’s body back again.”
Lucy drew a deep breath, disengaged Mark’s arm, and leaned on the table.
“Well, at least it’s better than—you know—the other thing. Yes, and I’ll admit it: it’s a relief. Edith, you had me horribly scared.” She laughed at herself, for her evident feeling of relief had her almost on the point of tears. “Of course we’ll have to tell the police now, but——”
“We’ll do nothing of the kind. Do you think,” said Mark, “that I want poor old Miles’s body knocked around now like a dead fox with a pack of hounds on it? Yah! Not likely. If body-snatchers have taken it, as Part says, then I’m willing to pay to avoid a rumpus. Now cheer up, both of you.”
“I might as well tell you,” said Edith, very gently, “that I don’t believe one word of it.”
Was there such a thing, Stevens wondered, as a handsome hag? The term was over-strong to a ludicrous extent, for hag would be the last word you might apply to Edith; but it conveyed the idea of a handsome woman whose doubts shadowed her face in that fashion.
“You don’t?” said Mark. “You don’t still have those hallucinations about poison, do you?”
“Please come up to the house,” Edith urged. She looked at Henderson. “Joe, it’s very cold up there. Will you make up a fire in the furnace?”
“Yes’m. Right away,” said Henderson, meekly.
“It’s getting late,” began Stevens, “and if you’ll excuse me——”
Edith turned quickly. “No! You must come along, Ted; you
must.
We must thrash it out, all of us; Mark, make him come along. Don’t you see there’s something wicked, really wicked in this? Whoever sent that telegram is playing with us and laughing at us; it’s no gangsters who want to steal a body for money. Why should anyone send a telegram like that? I’ve had a feeling something like this was going to happen, ever since—” She stopped, and looked out again to where the two lanterns were burning, and shivered.
It was a quiet group which went up the path. Partington tried to talk to Edith; but, although there was no outward constraint between them, there was a wall between, nevertheless. Lucy alone seemed inclined to treat the matter as no very deadly thing; as unpleasant and even terrible, but as nothing that need throw the world out of focus. “Whoever sent that telegram is playing with us and laughing at us”—these were the words of which Stevens kept thinking.
They went into the house, and through the big hall to the library at the front. It was the wrong sort of room to have chosen for such a conference; it put the past, and the odors of the past, too much in the midst of them. The library was very long and broad, but not very high, with a raftered ceiling. The walls had been plastered over and calcimined a dull green, to freshen it up with modernness; but the original room broke out in odd nooks and corners, including the fireplace. Edith sat down in an overstuffed chair by a bright lamp, with the shuttered windows for a background. To the rarefied modern taste which sees beauty in the present style of decoration, it would also have seemed cluttered with odds and ends gathered by Miles or Mark from travels in far places: but the gusty seventeenth-century, with its fondness for toys and gauds, would have felt at home in it.