The Witness on the Roof (20 page)

“I am—tired,” she said slowly. “No, do not touch me, please, Paul! I shall be better alone. I think I will go to my room, please. Will you ring for Treherne?”

“No! I will take you upstairs myself,” Warchester contradicted. “Poor child, is your head aching? I ought to have seen that you were overtired before. Lean on me—so!”

But Joan drew herself from him. At all hazards, she must get away, she must think.

“I would rather have Treherne, please!”

Warchester touched the bell in silence. Her rebuff had wounded him deeply; it seemed to him that there had been dislike, almost aversion in the movement by which she had repulsed him. He watched her anxiously as she made her way to the door and crossed the hall. Then as Treherne met her he turned into the smoking-room. It felt hot and stuffy; he flung open the window that led to the terrace, and threw himself down on the divan. He began to be seriously uneasy about Joan again. He had fancied of late that she had been better, but her sudden pallor of to-night, her agitation, were alike unintelligible; coupled with it now, as before too, was that extraordinary distaste for his touch, his very presence even. He drew a deep breath as he took a cigar from a newly-opened box beside him. Certainly the perfect marriage of his dreams was very unlike this reality.

He wondered what Joan was doing, whether her indisposition was passing; it was impossible to settle to anything. Suddenly a sound on the gravelled path outside caught his ear. Some one was walking along softly, gropingly, as if unacquainted with the ground. He started. Surely Joan had not—then he smiled at his own folly as he waited and looked out.

Outside the moon was shining, but by the contrast with the warmth and light of the room the outlook was dark and gloomy. From the terrace it was easy to see inside. Warchester scarcely realized how visible his every movement was as he raised himself.

A dark figure crept into the little circle of light by the window.

“Lord Warchester!”

For the moment he did not recognize the voice. He drew the curtains aside.

“Who is there?”

“I must speak to you!” A woman stepped quickly into the room.

“Evelyn!” Warchester drew back and stared at her as she threw aside the dark motor-veil that enveloped her head and was twisted round her shoulders almost like a disguise.

The woman gave a defiant laugh.

“Yes! You don't seem to have much of a welcome for your sister-in-law!” she said scornfully.

“Why have you come here?” Warchester questioned hoarsely. His dark face was set and stern; a sombre wrath burned in his grey eyes. “What do you want?”

“To see my brother-in-law!” Another laugh accompanied the words.

Looking at his unwelcome visitor, Warchester saw that an astonishing change had taken place in her appearance. The yellow curls were brushed back smoothly and pinned closely to her head; the rouge and pearl powder had been washed from her face; only the eyes—the great, haunting, reckless eyes—remained unchanged.

“What do you want?” Warchester still stood in the shadow of the curtains. He made no attempt to offer any conventional greeting.

His unwelcome visitor came farther into the room and threw her wraps and the bag she was carrying on his writing-table.

“Ah, now we are coming to business! First let me suggest that you draw down the blind. It would be just as well if our little 
tête-à-tête
 passed unobserved—just as well for both of us. Next,” when with a gesture of distaste he had obeyed her, “as to what I want. Well, my dear brother, it is the usual thing with a woman—money.”

“Money? Impossible!” Warchester gazed at her in amazement. “You came into an immense amount of ready money, I know. Mrs. Davenant had not lived up to her income for years. How can you possibly have got through it in this short time?”

“Oh, I haven't got through it! Don't alarm yourself!” She moved over to the divan and flung herself upon it. “You are not very hospitable, my dear Lord Warchester. You don't even ask me to take a cigarette, and yet our tastes used to be very similar in the old time, I remember.” She took out her watch and looked at it. “I can spare half an hour. I must have one more smoke with you,” helping herself from the open case. “I am sure Joan—”

“I think,” Warchester said very coldly, “we will leave my wife's name out of the question, please.”

The blue eyes, watching him, narrowed; an odd green light gleamed in them for an instant.

“Yes. Why should we talk of her—you and I—while we have so many interesting memories to discuss together? I shall never forget my surprise when I found that my new brother-in-law, Lord Warchester, was no other than my old friend the artist, Mr—”

Warchester made one step towards her,

“Have I not told you that I will not have that name mentioned? Heavens, don't you realize—have you no thought for my wife—for the sister who has cared for you?”

The curious cat-like eyes were still watching him, as if taking pleasure in the sight of his agitation; the face, haggard and old in its pallor, hardened; the full lips compressed themselves into a straight line.

“Yes, I have thought of her. She has all the things that I have wanted all my life. I should like to see her suffer as I have done—to pull her down, if only one step, from her pedestal!”

“Have you quite finished?” Warchester demanded sternly. “If you have so little gratitude there is the less reason I should bear with you. Say what you have to say as briefly as possible and go!”

Evelyn paused with her cigarette in her hand.

“But, my dear brother-in-law, I have told you what I want—money, money, money! When you have given me what is necessary I assure you I shall not linger, delightful as I find your society.”

Warchester moved forward suddenly and gripped her shoulder.

“Enough of this fooling! Tell me what you mean and why you want this money.”

Evelyn did not flinch from his grasp; she looked up and laughed mockingly.

“As for what I mean, I thought you might have guessed, my dear Lord Warchester. Ah, you have all been blind! You good people took it so quietly that I was the sister of that milk-and-water piece of perfection upstairs—”

A sudden light was breaking upon Warchester. He looked down at the woman, whose big, restless eyes were in curious contradiction with the lightness of her words; his hand dropped from her shoulder.

“Do you mean that you are not—”

“Ah, you are tumbling to it!” The hard metallic laugh rang out again; she puffed her cigarette smoke in his face insolently. “Your wits were keener in the old days, my friend. Yes, it was a pretty little scheme, but it had one weak point, and of course that ruined me. I might have known it would.”

“You are not Evelyn Davenant—you are not Joan's sister?” Warchester squared his broad shoulders as if shaking off some invisible burden. “Good heavens, how could we think you were? And I—I who knew—why could I not see that you were an impostor?”

“Ah! Impostor! If I were you, I would refrain from abuse.” The woman pitched her cigarette into the fireplace. “This is an infernally bad brand, Warchester; you did yourself better in the old days. What was I saying? Yes, Impostor is not a nice name, but there is an uglier name still. How if I used it to—”

“You will not!” Warchester said with dangerous quietness. “You will be silent now and for ever!”

“If you pay me enough,” the woman said. “Otherwise—”

Warchester's gaze would have cowed most women.

“How much do you want?”

“Ah, now you are coming to business!” she said approvingly. “I should like as much in gold and notes as you can spare, and a cheque for—shall we say a thousand at present?”

Warchester paused, book in hand.

“Upon my word, you are moderate!”

“All that a man hath will he give for his—” she quoted significantly.

He frowned.

“If I help you now, it is once for all—to help you to get away—for the sake of the past, you understand?” he said as he unlocked a drawer and took out his cash-box. “And also because for Joan's sake—”

“Oh, yes, I understand! And for somebody else's sake!” she interrupted fiercely. “Stop that, Warchester! The money, please! I have no time for sermons!”

Warchester took out a shining pile of gold; her eyes watched it greedily.

“How could you be mad enough to come here? To think that such a plot could go undetected?”

“Well, some plots do, you know,” she returned. “And I was starving when I saw the advertisement—literally starving. I wonder whether you have any idea what that means? One is not very particular what one does then when one sees a chance of getting something to eat. Ah well, it is the fortune of war! If I had known of your luck I might have come to you instead.”

Warchester visibly winced as he tore out a cheque and put a pile of gold in her hand.

“Now go,” he ordered, “while I can trust myself, or—”

“Oh, surely you wouldn't!” she echoed with a laugh. “Would it not be a curious coincidence if—Oh, Warchester, this is a shabby cheque! I thought—”

“You will not get any more!” he assured her sternly. “I blame myself—”

“Oh, I shouldn't do that!” she interrupted, rising and drawing her motor-veil round her hat again. “Well, well, you will hear from me later, Warchester. I shouldn't dream of letting an old friend drop out of sight. For to-day—well, I will let this do. Oh, by the way”—pausing outside the window—“I heard in town that your cousin Basil's operation had been a great success!”

“Yes.” Warchester's tone seemed to change, to harden.

She paused and looked back before she glided away into the shadows. “I wonder what he will remember?” she questioned mockingly.

“L
UNCHEON
is served, my lady, and his lordship is already in the dining-room.”

“Is he?” Joan hesitated, put her hand on the door and then walked back again to the window.

Treherne was too thoroughly trained to exhibit surprise, but it was impossible to suppose that in a large household, such as the Towers, the strained relations that had existed at times between Lord and Lady Warchester had passed without comment. On the whole, the elder servants were of opinion that a few tiffs in early married life were to be expected, and that the couple, being fond of each other, were bound to come out all right in the end. Of late it had been evident too that husband and wife were once more on better terms; this morning, however, glancing at the shadows beneath Lady Warchester's eyes, at the dimming of her colouring, having noticed that the key in the door leading into Warchester's dressing-room was turned on the outside, Treherne drew her own conclusions.

“Tell his lordship I have a headache,” Joan said, without looking round. “And you might bring me a tray up here, Treherne.”

“Yes, my lady.”

As the maid was leaving the room Joan recalled her by a sudden exclamation.

“Oh, here is Uncle Septimus! I will go down, Treherne. I must see Mr. Lockyer.”

Septimus Lockyer was just drawing up at the front door in his motor-car. Joan ran downstairs quickly and met him in the hall.

“Oh, Uncle Septimus, I am glad to see you! It is lovely that you should have come to-day!”

“Thank you, my dear! That is the prettiest welcome I have had for many a long day,” he said as he stooped and kissed her.

Warchester came out of the dining-room with outstretched hands.

“Well, this is luck, Uncle Septimus! Bring him in, Joan. You are just in time for lunch.”

The
K.C.
's face was grave as he followed them into the room.

“I will sit with you while you have yours. I have already lunched and have come about business—business with both of you.”

“Business—with both of us?” Joan looked at her uncle in astonishment. “What, is it about, Uncle Septimus?”

Mr. Lockyer spread out his hands.

“No, no! Lunch first and business afterwards, Joan.”

It was not a lively meal and it was with a feeling of relief that they rose when Warchester proposed an adjournment to the smoking-room.

Joan put her arm within her uncle's.

“Come, we must get this tiresome business of yours over. I have ever so many things I want to consult you about.”

The sunshine was streaming in through the open windows of the smoking-room; outside on the lawn great clumps of Michaelmas daisies shone white and purple against the soft green.

“You don't mind, do you, Joan?” Septimus Lockyer said as he helped himself to a cigar and stood looking out over the garden for a minute.

When he turned his face was very grave. To Warchester it was evident that he was nerving himself to speak, that he intensely disliked the task that lay before him, and for the first time a pang of something like fear of what they were about to hear darted through the younger man.

“It isn't a pleasant story I have come here to tell you,” the lawyer began. “It isn't altogether agreeable to state that one has been made a fool of—that we have all been taken in, perhaps I ought rather to say. Joan, my child, we have all been made the victims of a daring fraud. Your sister, Evelyn—”

“Evelyn!” Joan, who had, taken one of the large easy chairs by the mantelpiece, sprang to her feet. “Is she ill? Do you mean that she wants me?”

“No, no!” Septimus Lockyer put her back quietly in her chair. “‘She—is all right. I am going to ask you a strange question, Joan. Do you like her—Evelyn?”

“Like Evelyn?” Joan looked up at him, vaguely perplexed. “Why, she is my sister! Naturally I——But she is my sister—” faltering a little as she met his searching gaze. “I—I would rather not discuss her, even with you, Uncle Septimus.”

The lawyer drew a deep breath.