The Witness on the Roof (19 page)

“White dress—um!” Mr. Hewlett made several notes in his pocket-book. Inspector Hudger watched Mrs. Read closely. At length Hewlett looked up.

“You had no reason to think that Miss De Lavelle was married, I suppose?”

“Well, since you ask me, gentlemen”—Mrs. Read glanced round—“I suppose I shall do Miss Lavelle no harm by answering. Mr. Simpson told me that there was a lot of money coming to her if she turned out the one you were looking for.”

There was silence for a few seconds. Then Mr. Hewlett fixed his monocle chore firmly in his left eye.

“We have every reason to believe that Miss De Lavelle will prove to be the heiress to a large fortune,” he said briskly. “You must help us all you can, Mrs. Read.”

“Well, then, I have had my suspicions,” Mrs. Read acknowledged. “I have seen her out with a gentleman and once I saw her with a wedding-ring. She tried to make me believe that it was her mother's but—well, I had my doubts.”

“What was this man like—the one you saw Miss De Lavelle with?” Hewlett questioned.

“Well, it was mostly in the dusk, and I wasn't very near them, but I could see he was tall with a dark beard and he wore a sort of big slouch hat pulled down over his brow. Of course they might have been only sweethearts; but the thought came to me that they were married. And I know my mother had the same notion from the little things she said. And she would be more likely to know about it than I should, me being only a girl at the time”—smoothing out the creases in her black skirt with a propitiatory smile.

“So we should imagine,” Mr. Hewlett said politely. “Would it be possible for us to see your mother, Mrs. Read?”

“Why, certainly! She is keeping house for a brother of mine at Stoke Newington just now, but when she comes back I know she will be pleased to tell you anything you like. We always liked Miss De Lavelle both of us, though we took it hard that she never sent us a line after she went away.”

“Ah!” the detective said absently. “Perhaps it was not her fault, Mrs. Read. Should you know a photograph of Miss De Lavelle, I wonder?” He crossed over to his cupboard once more and took out a long envelope. “Is this she?”

As Mrs. Read took it from him her expression changed, her watery eyes looked frightened and awe-struck.

“Yes, it is Miss De Lavelle,” she said hesitatingly. “I should know her anywhere, but she—she—” She glanced up at the detective's face. “Why was she taken like this, when she was asleep? It makes me feel creepy, almost as if she might be dead!”

The detective made no reply.

“Look at her dress,” he directed.

Mrs. Read obeyed him.

“Why, I declare she might have been taken in the very gown she went away from our house in!”

“That was what I wanted to know,” Hewlett said slowly. “I am much obliged to you for coming this morning, Mrs. Read. It may be that I shall have to trouble you to repeat what you have told me, but I will let you know later on.”

Mrs. Read rose slowly. All the simpering smiles had died out of her face now—she looked pale and frightened and looked round the room fearfully.

“I hope—Miss De Lavelle is quite well, gentlemen,” she said nervously. “That photograph has frightened me somehow.”

Mr. Hewlett glanced at the inspector; he took rapid counsel with himself.

“If Miss De Lavelle is indeed the original of that photograph I am afraid that ill has befallen her, that it did befall her when she left you,” he said gravely. “But we are not certain yet; there are several points to be cleared up, and you may rely upon our communicating with you later on. If we can find Miss De Lavelle alive there is good fortune awaiting her.”

Mrs. Read was trembling visibly.

“I—I am very glad to hear it, sir. I am sure that the last thing I should wish would be to do Miss De Lavelle harm, for we were always fond of her, me and my mother both.”

“I am sure you were.” The detective looked at her sympathetically as he moved towards the door. “And now, Mrs. Read, you must allow me to have a cab called for you. Yes, I insist! All this has been too much for you. Mr. Simpson, get a cab for Mrs. Read, will you, and see her to King's Cross?”

He waited until she had gone downstairs; then he turned to the inspector, who was studying the photograph Mrs. Read had laid on the table. It represented a girl in a white dress lying on a couch or a rug—it was difficult to tell which. The features in the photograph were well-defined, and it was easy to see that the girl was young and fair; the eyes were closed, the lips slightly parted. One would have thought at first sight that she was asleep, but as Mrs. Read had said there was something rigid, unnatural about the attitude, about the pose of the hands, the way the head lay. It was not difficult to guess that sleep had passed into its twin sister, death.

Inspector Hudger looked up.

“I am wondering how it was that this was not identified before. The Sisters De Lavelle were on the stage. I should have thought this would have been recognized at once.”

For answer, Hewlett took another photograph from its envelope and placed it beside the first.

“I had some little difficulty in getting this. The public is fickle, and photographers have short memories, but at last I unearthed it at a shop in Oxford Street. Looking at it, I think one sees why the other photograph was not recognized.”

Hudger looked at it closely. It represented two girls in tights, with the shortest of tulle skirts, the most abbreviated of bodices, with masses of fair hair curled over their foreheads. They were dressed alike in every particular; every curl on the head of one had its counterpart on the head of the other. The two faces were alike too, save that the expressions were dissimilar. The eyes of the one were downcast, her lips were curved in a half smile, the other looked straight out at the world, defiance mingling with the broad smile that showed her strong white teeth. Underneath the photograph was the description, “The Sisters De Lavelle, now performing at the Column.”

Hudger laid his finger upon the one with the downcast eyes.

“You don't mean to tell me that this is the girl of the other photograph—the girl who died in Grove Street?”

Hewlett nodded.

“And that”—pointing to the other—“is the Miss Evelyn Davenant who is at present mistress of Davenant Hall.” He permitted himself a smile. “Her reign there is likely to be short, I suspect.”

“I don't know,”' Hewlett said thoughtfully. “I—it seems to me we want more proof before we take any definite step. You see”—tapping the photograph—“we know now that the girl who died in Grove Street was one of the Sisters De Lavelle. So far the Grove Street murder is one step nearer solution; but the proving that the lady now in possession of the Davenant estates is not Miss Evelyn Spencer is going to be a very different matter. We have only the letter and the sixpence to go upon—and the wrong Sister De Lavelle might have got the half sixpence. We must remember too that Miss Evelyn Davenant is apparently in possession of all the papers necessary to prove her identity. She has been received without question by her sister, and I heard this morning that she has been recognized by her stepmother. My chief hope now lies in Mrs. Winthorpe, but as she has not seen Evelyn Spencer for fifteen years it may be difficult for her to identify the Sister De Lavelle who was Evelyn Spencer and who is now posing as Evelyn Davenant, the mistress of Davenant Hall.”

Mr. Hudger produced his cigarette case and handed it to the other.

“Well, at any rate, whether Miss Evelyn Spencer is Miss Evelyn Davenant or not, you have got a good many steps farther in the problem that puzzled us at Scotland Yard for so long—the identity of the victim in the Grove Street murder. I congratulate you, Mr. Hewlett!”

“I
WONDER
what Evelyn is doing? I thought I should have heard from her to-day. But the last post is in and she has not written.”

“I dare say she is busy,” Warchester said indifferently.

He was not particularly fond of the thought of Evelyn at any time. Now that she was for the time being away from the neighbourhood he was thinking only of Joan—who had never looked in his eyes lovelier, more adorable. There was something peculiarly becoming to her tall, slim young figure in an evening gown of richest lustrous velvet, cut square in front to show a glimpse of the white neck, the slender rounded throat; the long sleeves were of pleated chiffon caught here and there across the firm young arms with diamond clasps. It was a sombre gown for so young a woman; on many girls of her age it would have looked out of place, but there was a certain stateliness about Joan's beauty that seemed to demand a rich setting, and the very absence of relief served but to enhance her vivid colouring. Of late she had looked at times pale and distrait, but to-night her vitality was reasserting itself; her cheeks were glowing; her brown eyes as she glanced at Warchester gleamed brightly.

She had been sitting in her favourite room, but as she spoke she rose and stood by the fireplace, one arm resting on the mantelpiece.

“I often feel anxious about Evelyn, Paul,” she confessed. “She does not seem to get on with people. I am afraid she will never settle down at the Hall.”

Warchester was conscious of a growing hope that she would not.

“Oh, perhaps later on, when she has made friends with her neighbours,” he suggested hypocritically.

Joan sighed as she looked down at the glancing flames. August had passed into September; already the evenings were colder and there was a touch of frost in the early morning.

“She has a great deal of good in her really, Paul. You know she said she would not do anything for Mrs. Spencer?”

“Yes. I thought she was perfectly right,” Warchester responded slowly.

“Perhaps she was—in a way,” Joan said doubtfully, “but it seemed a little hard. However, it appears that her bark was worse than her bite. I had a letter from Amy this morning and she says that Evelyn is doing so much for them; they are staying on at Willersfield, and the younger ones are to be sent away to school.”

“Really!” Warchester's tone did not betray much interest. Joan did not pursue the subject. She waited silently, wishing she could bring the conversation round to the point for which she was longing. Fortune was kind to her.

A footman entered the room, a telegram on his silver salver. Joan uttered a sharp exclamation as Warchester took it.

“From Evelyn?”

“No, no! Why should you think of her? This is from Delia Mannering,” scanning it eagerly. “Operation entirely successful. Doctors give every hope of complete recovery.”

“Oh, I am so glad!” Joan cried with eager congratulation. “You will feel almost as if Basil had been given back to you from the dead, Paul. It is wonderful! Do you think he will remember everything that occurred in the past like other people now?”

“I wonder?” Warchester's face looked gloomy as he gazed into the fire reflectively. “It is impossible to say. The operation is safely over, that is the great thing. For the rest”—he shrugged his shoulders—“of course they would tell Delia there was every hope of recovery. She would not have consented to the operation otherwise.”

“I suppose you saw a good deal of your cousin years ago, before his accident?” Joan questioned idly. She was still standing by the mantelpiece.

As she spoke she took up an ivory toy—a Chinese joss-house exquisitely carved; her long fingers toyed with it absently.

 “Yes, we were very good friends,” Warchester replied. He was not looking at Joan now. He had thrown the telegram into the fire; he watched it burn mechanically.

“He knew Evelyn too, didn't he?” Joan questioned.

“I believe so,” curtly.

“Was it in London that you knew her?” Joan persisted, her brown eyes searching his sombre face wistfully. “Sometimes I wonder whether you realize how very little I know of your past, Paul—of the years before I met you. Even Evelyn”—a certain bitterness creeping into her tone—“knows more than I do!”

Warchester took out his cigarette-case.

“May I smoke?” Receiving Joan's gesture of permission, he lighted his cigarette carefully. “There is so little to know, child. I was in the diplomatic service first. Then I got tired of it, found it wasn't in my line, and gave it up to become a wandering stone of sorts.”

“Were you in the diplomatic service when you knew Evelyn?” Joan pursued.

Was it fancy or was he trying to evade the mention of her sister's name?

Warchester lay back in his chair and watched the smoke from his cigarette curl upwards.

“No, that was later,” he answered at last, “when she was on the stage, and I was a struggling artist trying not very successfully to get my living.”

There was a pause. Warchester, puffing away at his cigarette, was apparently absorbed in his own thoughts.

Joan was holding the mantelpiece very tightly now. The colour was receding from her cheeks. He had been an artist! All unbidden, that scene in the studio in Grove Street rose up before her eyes. Warchester tossed the end of his cigarette into the fire—the very gesture of ten years ago.

The ivory toy in her hand cracked.

“An artist?” she repeated aloud.

Something in her tone struck Warchester as strange.

“Well, I wasn't much of an artist, certainly. Most of my productions found their way into the flames eventually, I believe.”

“Yes, yes, I know they did!” That deadly nausea she had experienced ten years before was gripping Joan again. She bowed her head. Had she not heard—had not some one told her that if she stooped the faintness would pass?

Warchester looked at her curiously.

“You know? Well—But what is it, Joan? You are ill—faint?” springing to his feet and hurrying to her side.

Joan pushed him away; with a supreme effort she forced the sinking faintness back. Her face was colourless, her great brown eyes, filled with reproach, looked all the bigger by contrast; there were dark shadows beneath the softness of her hair.