text:
The Terriford Mystery/Chapter 22

AN you tell me the shortest way to Coburg Square?”

“It's round by the Foundling Hospital. I'm going that way myself, so you'd best come along with me.”

The man peered through the dark fog-laden air into the young pale face looking up at him from under the brim of a singularly unbecoming plain brown straw hat. He was an old bachelor who never, if he could help it, spoke to a woman, but he had been mollified by the sweetness of her voice.

The Foundling Hospital? It was a comfort to her in her present forlorn condition to think of all that that great house of human pity and sympathy had done for innumerable deserted and friendless orphans.

For the first time in her life she was assailed by that most unnerving of companions, “Little Devil Doubt.” What she was about to do was surely a terrible risk? If she failed, as she might well fail, and her desperate enterprise were to become known, would she not be universally condemned? Might it not even get into the papers? Harry Garlett's betrothed taking a place as a servant for his sake! She could almost picture the terrible headlines! She felt so nervous, so excited, that when the deep voice of her conductor suddenly interrupted her anxious self-questioning, she stumbled, and would have fallen had not he put out his hand.

“If you just turn down to the left here,” said the man, “and then turn sharp to the right, the house you want will be within three or four of the corner of the square.”

In response to her word of thanks, he took off his hat and went his way. Jean then walked on slowly, and now and again she stopped. This was her last chance to change her mind, to give up what she well knew most of the people who had known and respected her in her short life would consider a crazy adventure.

When she came to the end of the long street which led into the square she pressed her cold hand across her face. Her eyes were smarting, partly with the fog, partly from the tears she had shed in the night. She felt unutterably sad and discouraged, and yet deep in her heart she longed to engage in what she believed would be a duel between herself and that strange woman, Agatha Cheale.

If Lucy Warren's tale were true, Agatha Cheale was the one person in the world who had had a vital reason for desiring Mrs. Garlett's death.

Throwing off “Little Devil Doubt,” Jean decided to go on. She crossed over to the corner house of the square. To her left she could dimly discern the railings of the narrow garden facing the dark houses to her right.

There was no one in sight, and she felt strangely eerie walking along the wide uneven pavement trying to make out the number on each door. Even the street lamps seemed to gleam more dimly here than elsewhere.

She found 109. Then the gloomy-looking unlit house with the portico must be 106.

Blindly she groped for a bell, and at last she felt a row of knobs. As her fingers slid over them uncertainly there came over her a sudden feeling of acute fear. What if Agatha Cheale should open the door and recognize her?

Then she told herself that her fear was absurd. She had only met Miss Cheale twice. The first time in the cricket pavilion where Mrs. Garlett's housekeeper had been absorbed in looking after the numerous guests and their entertainment. Then, again, for a few moments on the morning when Miss Cheale, livid with anger, was giving notice to Lucy Warren; and on that day, she, Jean Bower, had been wearing a large hat which completely Shadowed her face.

And then, with intense relief, she reminded herself that of course her way of entrance should be by the back door. Creeping out from under the dark portico, she felt along the iron railings. Yes, here was the area gate! And luckily it was unlatched. She pushed it open and found that it led to a steep stone staircase. Down she went, feeling her way from one worn step to the next till she reached the bottom.

She was now in a small pit-like yard, and to her right, from behind what was evidently the kitchen window of the cavernous old house, there shone a bright light. As she could see no door, she knocked, at last, timidly on the window. A moment later a narrow door was opened wide and she walked through into a stone passage lighted by a gas-jet, while a not unkindly voice exclaimed:

“You're Elizabeth Chart, I take it? Didn't think you'd come for another hour, my dear. Come into my kitchen, do! And I'll have some tea ready for you in a jiffy.”

The speaker was a gray-haired, red-faced woman, immensely stout, and dressed in an old-fashioned alpaca dress. She wore a Paisley shawl neatly pinned across her vast breast with a cameo brooch.

“Elizabeth's a mouthful—so if you don't mind I'll call you Bet.”

“I'll like that,” faltered the girl.

“Now then, Bet, you go right into my kitchen and get warm. 'Twill be a great relief to me, I reckon, having a country girl after them London sluts. I was that pleased when I got the telegram saying you was coming this afternoon that I could 'a' danced!”

It was a homely-looking kitchen with a big red fire in the old-fashioned, wasteful grate. The bright light the girl had seen from outside came from a chandelier hanging in the middle of the ceiling. Under the light the two faced one another—Mrs. Lightfoot, the housekeeper, and Bet Chart, the new servant. With thankfulness Bet noticed that her employer had a shrewd, good-humoured face, and, in spite of her huge girth, a brisk, cheerful way of moving about.

“'Tain't no good taking you upstairs yet. You can just pop your things off in my room. This way, please!”

She led the way into what had evidently once been the butler's pantry in the stately old house.

“I'd 'a' liked to 'ave 'ad you near me, my dear, but I wouldn't keep a dog's kennel in any of the other rooms in this 'ere basement; they're that damp and dark.”

A fire was burning in the room they were now in, and by its light Jean saw a big bed and some nice old-fashioned furniture.

“This room and next door to it is my 'ome,” said Mrs. Lightfoot with pride. “You'll sleep under the roof. I goes up and down as little as I can, for though I used to live up to my husband's name I can't do with stairs! Still I can move about quick, as you'll soon see. Like to wash your 'ands? You can do so in my basin as a treat to-day, but henceforth you'll 'ave to wash 'em at the sink.”

A few moments later Jean came back into the kitchen. She felt very strange and odd in her full brown skirt, her flannel blouse, and the neat, Quaker-like little white muslin cap she and Rachel North had bought that morning.

“That's right!” exclaimed Mrs. Lightfoot, “not ashamed to wear a cap as was our last fine lady? A litttle [sic] treasure you're setting out to be. The last 'ussy I 'ad 'ere, she's got a job as a demonstrator—putting rouge on her lips and whitening her face. I reckon that'll suit her ladyship for the present, till she moves on to—I won't demean myself by saying where.”

She had set out bread, butter, and jam on the kitchen table. Then, apparently afraid lest her praise should make her new help uppish, she observed critically:

“You don't look over-strong for a country girl. Mind you, there's stairs 'ere—stairs, stairs, stairs all the time!”

“I'm very strong,” said Jean in a low voice, “it's only that I'm tired to-day. You see I've come a long way.”

“Ay, that's true—and not over familiar with London, I daresay.”

“I don't know London at all.”

Jean looked straight into the other's fat face. She was glad to be able to say something which was absolutely true.

“There now, fancy that! You surprise me—seein' that I can see you've 'ad some edication. I'm a Londoner born and bred—proud of it, too. It's unlucky you and me can't go out together. I'd take you to see the sights! But you'll be able to go 'ere and there on your afternoon off. A young girl like you won't be long before she gets a friend to walk out with.”

To that Jean made no answer. Instead she sat down and poured herself out a cup of tea.

“As you come from Terriford I expect you're quite familiar-like with all the parties concerned with this 'ere Garlett murder—The Thatched 'Ouse Mystery some calls it? Ever seen my top floor—Miss Cheale? She's in it, of course!”

“I don't think I've ever seen her,” faltered Jean.

She bent her face down to her plate. “I wasn't in Terriford long.”

“I'll give you a peep at Miss Cheale some time or other,” said Mrs. Lightfoot kindly. “But she's the one of my lodgers you won't 'ave much to do with. I do the waitin' on 'er myself. She simply can't abear strangers! But you'll 'ave to help do 'er room, mind you. 'What the hear don't 'ear, the 'eart don't grieve at.' She thinks I never lets any one into her room. But there she's mistaken. I can't do all the work, and it's lucky for me that my front ground floor's been hempty a while, though now you've come, my dear, I don't mind 'ow soon it fills up.”

Jean's hands were shaking. How stupid, how idiotic of her, not to have realized that Agatha Cheale's connection with the Thatched House would be known to Mrs. Lightfoot!

“She's takin' on awful about that case,” went on the housekeeper. “She left 'ere over a year ago to go to that very Mrs. Garlett as lady-'ousekeeper. I says to 'er then, 'You're a fool to give up your hindependence, Miss Cheale, my dear!' But she would do it. And see where it's landed 'er!”

“Has Miss Cheale ever told you how she thinks Mrs. Garlett was poisoned?” asked Jean.

“I simply wouldn't dare ask 'er. I 'ave tried once or twice to sort of lead on to it delicately—but she can't bear the littlest question about it. Oh, she's a fly one! It wasn't till I seed her name in the paper that she let on she'd anything to do with it. Since then—well, it stands to reason she's 'ad to say just a bit about it to me now and again. What's upset her so as been those dratted lawyers—first one side, then the other, coming and worrying 'er somethin' hawful! That's why she's 'ad to speak to me about it so that I should prevent 'em coming up to her. And I 'ave prevented 'em!” exclaimed Mrs. Lightfoot.

Unconsciously she put her arms akimbo and assumed a fighting attitude.

“Many a fine bold lie 'ave I told in 'er good cause! Be spot truthful when you're young, but as time goes on, allow yourself a little law. That's a motter for you, Bet Chart, and a good one, too. After all, Miss Cheale can't say what she don't know—can she?”

“No one knows anything,” said Jean at last. “It's a terrible, terrible mystery,” and she pushed her plate away.

“Now you just go on eating, Bet. It's real butter; no cheap margarine for me! Never would 'ave it in my 'ouse for all I've come down in the world, as the saying is. During the war plain honest dripping as I got off a chef I know: since then the best butter. You'll find I live up to what I said, 'a comfortable 'ome for a suitable person.'”

So Jean forced herself to eat a bit more of Mrs. Lightfoot's excellent bread and butter.

“In a way 'tis a mystery,” went on her employer, “though in another way 'tis no mystery at hall! Young man marries old woman for 'er money. Gets fair sick of 'er. Meets a pretty young girl. Takes a fancy to  'er and does away with the old 'un. So far all clear. As I says to Miss Cheale early this very morning: 'Don't you take on so, miss. It's 'appened plenty of times before and it'll 'appen plenty times again—before the judgment day! Anyway,' I says, 'it'll be all the same a 'undred years hence.' But between you and me, Bet Chart, I've another idea.”

“There are some people who think that perhaps Mrs. Garlett poisoned herself,” said Jean.

She had given up the pretence of eating and was now looking fixedly into Mrs. Lightfoot's red face.

“Well, that I never will believe! Not if the King himself come out of Buckingham Palace and commanded me so to do! I've read pretty well heverything that's been written about this 'ere so-called mystery. I makes a special study of murders. Always 'ave done so, though it turns me faint to drown a new-born kitten in warm water. I've been found right many a time, and that afore the judge and jury 'ave made up their minds!”

“And what d'you think now?” asked Jean eagerly.

“More than once I've hasked myself whether that forward hussy, Jean Bower, did it? She 'ad every reason to want the poor soul out of the way, but it don't look at present as if she'd hever 'ad the chance.”

“No,” said Bet Chart quietly, “Jean Bower never even saw Mrs. Garlett.”

“That, beggin' your pardon, Bet, may be a tale! I don't see 'ow you could know, anyway. It would 'a' been strange if they'd never met, living in the same place, and both being gentry. And she the doctor's niece! What's she like? I suppose you've seen 'er?”

“Yes,” said Jean. “I've seen her. She's just ordinary—like everybody else.”

“They're generally the worst,” said Mrs. Lightfoot. “Very much the worst—if you'll believe me. I've given a lot o' study to that girl. There's some one a protectin' 'er, not a doubt of it! Else why wasn't she called when that man 'Enry Garlett was committed for his trial? She ought to 'a' been! They did their level best to try and compel my poor top floor to go to Grendon town. She 'ad to 'ave a doctor, and 'e 'ad to give 'er a certificate. And even that wasn't enough! We 'ad a lawyer 'ere—a man from the Crown, he called 'isself—but I don't believe for one minute the King knew the way 'e went on. 'Ow 'e worried that poor young woman! She made me stay in the room all the time—and a good thing, too. There 'e was, close up to 'er bed, with a big book and a fountain pen—why it wasn't decent. She wouldn't eat any supper after that. She cried and cried, and I was fair tormented about 'er! Yet they left that Bower girl—that forward sly 'ussy—habsolutely alone. What d'you say to that?”

“They didn't leave her absolutely alone,” said Jean slowly. “Some one came from the Crown to see her and cross-examine her, too.”

“I'm glad of that,” said Mrs. Lightfoot, “very glad, indeed! That's the best word I've 'eard you say, Bet Chart, about the whole business. I'm intending to get in at that trial even if I'm crushed to death doing so! It'll take the place of my summer outing. I don't often go in for that sort o' treat, but I did see The Brides in the Bath man. I saw him blackcapped.”

“How dreadful!” whispered the help, and she turned even whiter than she had been before.

“I'd a friend at the Old Bailey, one of the judge's clerks—my 'usband's uncle was Mr. Justice Barnaby's clerk—and that gives me a sort o' connection with the law. So they're very kind to me when I goes down to the Old Bailey, and I could get in much oftener then I does if I could leave the 'ouse. Still, as I 'opes and believes you'll be 'ere when 'Enry Garlett's trial takes place, I'll just give myself the treat of seeing my poor Miss Cheale in the witness-box.” She waited a moment to take breath, then added significantly: “You just look over there!”

Jean turned round quickly to see a great pile of newspapers lying in a corner of the kitchen.

“Miss Cheale takes in five newspapers a day, if you'll believe me—just with the idea of seeing something new about that hawful affair. If it had been war-time I could 'ave made my fortune out of them old papers, but now the dustman wants to be paid for carrying them away! But there! I do get something out of it, for o' course I reads 'em all—when I 'ave the time, that is! As for Miss Cheale, she just pores over them, and hevery one of the Sunday papers she takes in too. I 'aven't 'ad time yet to look over yesterday's. But I will this evenin', and it'll be a treat for you too, Bet. There was something in one of them papers as greatly upset Miss Cheale. She wouldn't say nought about it—but I knew! It's never out of her mind, that it isn't. She even talks about it in her sleep. My last girl used to 'ear her, and it fair give 'er the creeps.”

“Hadn't I better begin washing up?” asked Jean timidly.

“Well, yes, I reckon you 'ad. All the people in this 'ouse goes out to work for their daily bread. Leastways, all but one does. I won't 'ave no drones if I can 'elp it. No drones and no—you can guess what sort I mean for all you're an hinnocent young thing. I could 'ave made a lot of money, retired too, and lived in peace and plenty, if I 'adn't been a respectable woman, but there! I can't help it—I just ham.”

Jean made no reply to that obviously truthful statement. Instead, she carried the tea-things she had used one after the other to the broad sink.

“Hullo,” called out Mrs. Lightfoot suddenly, “ever 'eard of a tray?”

The girl turned round surprised.

“How stupid of me,” she exclaimed. And then suddenly her heart almost stopped beating, for Mrs. Lightfoot walked straight up to her and said, “You've never been hout before? You're not the plain country lass I took you for. What har you?”

“I'm the daughter of a man of business, Mrs. Lightfoot. My father failed before he died. I never was taught to do anything, though I did what I could in a hospital during the war. When I heard of your situation last week I was on my beam ends.”

Mrs. Lightfoot looked relieved.

“I guessed you were something just not quite common,” she admitted cautiously. “The way you put your cup to your lips, in a sort of finicky way, henlightened me. I expect you was sent to a genteel school.”

“I suppose I was,” said the other almost in a whisper. “But I don't mind hard work. You'll see I don't.”

And then suddenly she began to cry. “I—I've been so unhappy,” she gasped, “since my father died.”

“There, there! You'll be 'appy 'ere. Don't you worry, and don't you go and think, as many a silly young girl supposes nowadays, that all the good chaps were killed in the war. If there's only one left, you'll find him right enough! And if not, I'll find 'im for you. There's some good elderly gents about too, just now. Better be an old man's darling than a young man's slave. Hany old barn door can keep out the draught! But no carryings on with the lodgers, mind! But there, I won't insult you, Bet, my dear, by supposing you capable of doing such a thing. Like wise, you won't 'ave a chance, for I does most of the waiting on the gentlemen myself.”

Then came three knocks on the floor above the kitchen ceiling.

“What's that?” exclaimed the new “help.”

“My hinvalid—a mystery  'e is—Mr. Gee by name—though not 'is real one, between you and me and the lamp-post. But you'll have nothing to do with 'im.”

She went off upstairs: then came back, and said suddenly:

“Can you cook at all, my dear, or shall I 'ave to teach you that—as well as the use of a tray?”

But Mrs. Lightfoot spoke very good-humouredly.

“I can cook simple things,” said Jean, “and I know some nice Scotch breakfast dishes.”

“I don't want you to go a-spoiling my lodgers! Plain and good—that's my motter. Eggs and bacon week-days, an' midget sausages on Sunday for a treat. My gentlemen pays for 'bed and breakfast,' and though it's near double what it was afore the war, yet it needs a good bit more contriving than it did then, I can tell you. As to Miss Cheale, well, she goes on another plan. I just buys what she wants. She makes a tidy bit of money out of them Russians she works for. Besides, as you maybe 'ave 'eard, she was left a little fortune by that poor poisoned soul!”

At six-thirty there came the sound of the big front door opening. Then it was shut slowly, carefully.

“That's Mr. Robins,” remarked Mrs. Lightfoot; “'e's a very careful gentleman. Halways the first to come in, for the reason he works near 'ere at the British Museum. A proper, quiet sort o' man, though they do say 'e was a regular devil in the war! But there! 'E's settled down peaceful nicely now. 'E's got my big front drawing room, and beautiful 'e's made it with some things 'is ma left 'im when she died.”

Something like a quarter of an hour went by, and then again there came the sound of the front door opening. This time it was banged to.

“Mr. Goodbody,” said the housekeeper. “A merry, cheerful little gentleman, as lives up to 'is name. Going to be married, so we sha'n't keep 'im long. I'll miss 'im when 'e goes—not that I exactly envy 'is missis, mind you, but still it's nice to be always greeted with a laugh and a joke.”

“That's Miss Cheale,” exclaimed Mrs. Lightfoot, as a church clock near by struck seven. “Sometimes she works even later than this. 'Er arrival is the signal for me to get busy. I got 'er a nice chop to-day. She going to 'ave fried potatoes with it—fried potatoes and brussels sprouts—likewise a meringue. Not one of those bought meringues—all glue and a lick of cream. But a meringue I've got to fill chock-full of whipped cream. Miss Cheale knows what she likes, and, unlike some folks, she's willing to pay for it.”

As she spoke she got up, and began moving about, and when Jean offered to help her she shook her head.

“Let be, let be,” she exclaimed; “'nother night I may let you try your 'and at Miss Cheale's supper, but to-night I'd better do it, for I knows what she likes, and exactly 'ow she likes it. But I'll tell you what I will let you do! I'll let you carry up the tray as far as the landing. We must take the risk of 'er seeing you—morbid, ain't it, 'er dislike of seeing people?”

Twenty minutes later Jean took the heavily loaded tray and started going up the kitchen stairs. In front of her, treading more and more slowly, more and more wheezily, walked the housekeeper. The gas-light in the hall showed the fine tessellated black and white pavement and the two mahogany doors. As they walked past the door giving into a back room on the ground floor Jean heard a choking cough.

“There 'e is, pore gentleman, coughing 'is life away,” whispered Mrs. Lightfoot compassionately. “I'll be a mercy for me, as well as for 'im and another I could name, when 'e's gone. But that sort lingers on and on—never knowing they're going either.”

They went on, up the first flight, and though there was another gas-jet halfway up, the house seemed wrapped in gloom. It was, however, a magnificent remnant of London's eighteenth-century architecture; the banisters of the wide staircase were of wrought iron, and it did not require much imagination to see the beaux and the belles of a hundred and fifty years ago walking down the wide, low steps hand in hand.

When they reached the drawing-room floor, the door of the back drawing room opened, and a cheerful chubby-looking young man's face looked out.

“Hullo! Mrs. Heavyfoot? Got a lady-in-waiting at last, eh?” And then the speaker looked hard at the girl carrying the tray. “Here's a pretty miss! D'you know who you remind me of, pretty miss?”

“Now, none of your nonsense!” said Mrs. Lightfoot sharply, “you an engaged gentleman too! Fie! Mr. Goodbody.”

“You remind me,” went on Mr. Goodbody, taking no notice of his landlady, “of a beauteous young female called Pamela—'Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded.' But I fear me you'll have none of the wondrous adventures which befell Pamela—not while you're under the eagle eye of your present chaperon!”

Jean made no answer to these facetious remarks, but she looked at him so coldly that the young man felt, as he expressed it to himself, somewhat withered. Quietly he withdrew into his own quarters and shut the door.

“'E means no 'arm,” panted Mrs. Lightfoot tolerantly, “'es only out for a bit of fun. And yet, would you believe it? 'Is young lady, well, she 'ardly smiles! I suppose 'e's tired her with 'is fun, that's what 'e's done.”

On and on they went, and then the housekeeper suddenly said: “'Ush!” In a low whisper she added: “I sees that 'er door is open. You just give me that tray, and then, when I've fixed 'er up comfortable, you can creep up be'ind me, and I'll show you where you're to sleep. Then I won't 'ave to come up again to show you—see?”

And there on the dark staircase the girl waited—it seemed to her for a long time, while murmurs of conversation came from behind the now shut door of Miss Cheale's sitting room. She felt extraordinarily strung up and excited at the thought that there, within a few feet of her, was the woman who claimed to have the key to the mystery of Mrs. Garlett's death.

At last Mrs. Lightfoot came out of the brightly lit room, and beckoned to her help; and Jean, hurrying on to the landing, saw a narrow ladder-like staircase.

“No need for me to go up. You can't make no mistake, Bet, for only one o' the two garrets up there 'as any furniture in it. I don't say you'll find it very comfortable, but 'taint as if 'twas terrible cold just now. You can move about too, for all you're just over Miss Cheale's bedroom. They don't build 'ouses like this nowadays. She's in a rare nervy state to-night. She's frightened of a feller that's been 'anging about 'ere a lot—name of Kentworthy. 'E's getting up this case for 'Enry Garlett. But 'e don't get much change out of me—though before I knew what 'e was up to, we became quite friendly-like. Oh, 'e's an artful one! But 'e won't get over Jemima Lightfoot—and I told 'im so flat! Only once did 'e force 'is way into this 'ouse and that was when I wasn't in it.”

title: The Terriford Mystery/Chapter 22


text:
The Terriford Mystery/Chapter 23

ITH a loud cry of “What is it? What's the matter?” Jean, in the pitch darkness, sat up in her narrow pallet bed, and listened.

For a moment or two she didn't know where she was, and fear clutched at her heart. And then, though memory soon came back, it was accompanied by icy waves of terror, and it was with a trembling hand that she lit a candle.

It was now quite still and quiet up there under the roof of the huge old house. Then, all at once, the sounds that had awakened her began again. The sound of a loud, discordant voice—or was it two voices?—that seemed terrifyingly near.

Clasping her hands together nervously, Jean listened intently. It was a high-pitched voice—only one voice after all—uttering quick, eager, argumentative words, of which she could not catch the sense.

The candle was burning more brightly now, and she looked timorously round her. Mrs. Lightfoot, with all her kind, hearty good-nature, had never bethought herself of making the bedroom of her help even a little comfortable. It was a large garret, and the ceiling was so low that it gave its occupant a feeling of being pressed down upon. The flooring boards, which were not over-clean, were bare, though by the pallet bed lay a dingy-looking string mat. A tub and minute iron washing-stand were in a corner, and a rickety yellow-painted chest of drawers stood far away, under the dormer window, and on it was the cheapest form of toilet-glass made. Jean had laughed when she had looked at herself in it, for so distorted a view of her face had never been presented to her gaze before. But now, sitting up in bed, the thought of that distorting looking-glass gave her a feeling of horror and affright.

The one chair in the room was dirty and very shaky. On it there now stood her light, cheap, almost empty, suit-case. There were three hooks screwed into the door, but she had put her clothes on the bed, for in spite of Mrs. Lightfoot's remark, she had felt very cold....

All at once she realized that the voice she heard was Miss Cheale's voice. Leaping out of bed, she caught up her outdoor jacket and put it on; then, after listening intently, she opened her door, leaving the candle alight.

For a moment the darkness baffled her. Then she felt along the wall, and at last found the cord which ran down along the side of the dangerous, ladder-like stairs. Putting one bare foot slowly, cautiously, before the other, down she went, very, very slowly, terrified lest she should make the smallest sound.

At last her feet rested on the landing out of which opened Miss Cheale's sitting room and bedroom, and, as she stood there, the voice suddenly stopped.

Was it possible that Agatha Cheale had heard the stuffless sounds which she had made while treading with her bare feet down the wooden stairs?

Then, to her mingled fright and relief, she heard the voice begin again, speaking now loudly, now almost in a whisper.

Tip-toeing across the lobby, she crouched down outside the closed bedroom door, and there at last she heard quite clearly the words that seemed tumbling out one after an other, as if the lips that uttered them could not get them out quickly enough.

And yet those words, those sentences, were punctuated with strange pauses. It was as if the speaker were taking part in an eager, sometimes embittered, argument with an unseen opponent.

“I am speaking up. I have nothing to conceal.... A tall dark man.... I think I should.... It is a broad corridor.... No, I did not think of it, I thought him a workman.... I did not know I was free to speak sooner.”

The staccato sentences were uttered with extraordinary energy. Then with a complete change of voice came the quiet words:

“I always liked Mrs. Garlett very much.... Yes, she was invariably most kind to me. Of course Mr. Garlett was also kind and considerate, but I saw very little of him.... I was naturally with Mrs. Garlett very much more.... Undoubtedly ... as long, that is, as Mr. and Mrs. Garlett wished me to stay. Three hundred pounds is not an exceptional salary.... No communication with Mr. Garlett.... Once, just after the war.”

Then, with sudden passion, “You have no right to say that.” There came an appeal in the voice. “My lord, am I compelled to answer that question?... They were forced strawberries given by a lady who will, if necessary, confirm what I say... Miss Prince, my lord.”

And then at last, as if telling a story, and in a much more composed, quiet voice, Agatha Cheale continued:

“I put the strawberries on one side, partly because I had before me the disagreeable task of giving notice to a servant. I forgot about the strawberries till early afternoon. I then put them on a Chinese dessert dish, and took them upstairs myself. I placed them on a chest of drawers outside Mrs. Garlett's room”

Then came a long pause. Jean's heart was beating—beating.

“Yes, I will swear they were gone when I saw the man I took to be a workman in the corridor. I thought no more of them till Mrs. Garlett first summoned me in the night.... Mrs. Garlett did not say they had been given her by her husband. I will swear to that.... I'm quite aware that everything I'm now saying is being said on oath.... She said, 'The strawberries upset me. I ought not to have taken them.' She had had several visitors that afternoon.... I cannot remember who they were. She was very fond of seeing people when fairly well.”

In a low hesitating voice came the words: “Must I go into details of Mr. Garlett's sojourn in the war hospital, my lord?”... Then with a kind of cry—“He always behaved like a gentleman to me!”

There followed what seemed to the listener a very long silence, and Jean was just turning away to go upstairs, when again Agatha Cheale began speaking in an excited, defiant voice.

“Certainly not! This is the very first time I have ever seen an anonymous letter.... I am looking at it. I entirely deny that.... I can't help what any expert says.... I don't want to look at it again.... I did not know Miss Bower—she was never at the Thatched House that I know of.”

And then there followed complete silence, broken now and then by a moan from the sleeping woman on the other side of the door.

The eavesdropper stood up. She walked slowly across the landing, and made her way, hardly breathing, up the narrow stairway.

What did all that confused, broken talk portend? She tried to piece the sentences together to make sense of them, but the whole formed a hopeless jumble in her weary brain, and when she reached her comfortless bed-chamber she poured a small dose of sleeping draught into a medicine glass, and, lying down, soon fell into a troubled sleep.

At six o'clock her alarm rang out. She jumped out of bed and went over to the bathtub. Oh, how cold the water was and how cold she felt with this sorry substitute for the comfortable bathroom at Bonnie Doon! But a good rub with a rough towel made her feel a good deal warmer. She dressed quickly and went downstairs, feeling her way till she reached the hall. There was a thin line of light under the invalid lodger's door, and as she passed it Jean heard his stifled, painful cough.

Going into the kitchen, she laid and lit the fire. Then, acting on impulse, at seven she boiled a little water and took Mrs. Lightfoot a cup of nice hot tea.

“Well, child, this is very kindly of you, and no mistake! You're the first of my 'elps that 'as hever done such a thing as bring me a cup o' tea afore I got up in the morning. But there—you'll not suffer from being kind. You shall 'ave two eggs instead of the one I meant you to 'ave for your breakfast. No Chinese eggs for me! Good English new-laid, that's all I has any use for. Now, you start getting ready the breakfasts. Hall 'ave to be early stirrers and early risers in this 'ouse—hall but Miss Cheale, that is. She's not expected to be down at 'er place till near eleven.”

For the next hour Jean was kept very busy, doing the kitchen and helping with the breakfast. At last she took up Mr. Robins's breakfast tray, while Mrs. Lightfoot took up Mr. Goodbody's.

As for the mysterious gentleman who occupied the back room on the ground floor, he had a specially big breakfast—a quarter of a pound of the best butter all to himself. Jean remembered the words: 'E's paid for separately because 'e's an hinvalid. You'll 'ave nothing to do with 'im,” and sure enough in that one case Mrs. Lightfoot did not ask her to help in any way, save to carry the heavy tray to the top of the kitchen staircase.

Then, at last, the two sat down together to their breakfast, and after a few moments Mrs. Lightfoot suddenly observed:

“Did Miss Cheale gabble a bit in 'er sleep last night?”

“Yes,” said Jean in a low voice, “she did.”

“There now! But you'll soon get used to it. The minute she drops off, she is in the witness-box, poor soul! That's what's unsettling of 'er, though she do believe she'll get that villain, Garlett, off.”

Jean started so violently that the other noticed it.

“What's the matter with you? Got a pain?”

“Just a little pain,” said Jean, trying to smile.

“You'll get used to the stairs hafter a day or two. Just pour yourself hout another cup of tea and start your second hegg—that'll make you feel better.”

“I don't think I want another egg,” said Jean.

“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Lightfoot severely. “The hegg's been cooked, and you've got to eat it. I won't 'ave any waste in this 'ouse.”

“Does Miss Cheale really think she'll get Mr. Garlett off?”

“She do, indeed! She thinks she saw the murderer—a strange-looking chap 'e was—in the 'ouse that very hafternoon.”

Mrs. Lightfoot leaned forward. “But it's my belief, Bet, that she's just made that up! If so, they'll soon find it hout. She'll never save 'im, bless you! She don't know as much as I do about murder.”

Mrs. Lightfoot smiled a broad cheerful smile. “My poor 'usban' used ter say: '’Ow you can care to read about them 'orrible occurrences passes me, Jemima.' But I've made a special study of 'em from childhood.”

“But if she thinks she can prove he's innocent,” asked Jean in a trembling voice, “why doesn't she do it now? Why wait for the trial?”

“Now you're askin'!” exclaimed Mrs. Lightfoot. “But I'll answer your question truly. Miss Cheale”—she fixed her eyes on Jean's pale face—“Miss Cheale,” she repeated, “wants that man Garlett to know she's saved 'im. Then she think's 'e'll give up that girl Bower—and maybe marry 'er”

“Marry her?” repeated Jean. “How d'you mean?”

“Miss Cheale,” said Mrs. Lightfoot, “is sweet on that villain 'erself. That's been plain to me for a long time. If not, why take on so? She saved the man's arm, 'cordin' to 'er account, when she was a nurse in France, and now she means to save 'is life. She's a deep one!”

“Then she says she saw a stranger in the Thatched House?” asked Jean. She was beginning to understand much that had seemed oddly mysterious last night.

“That's what she's going to say, at any rate. One thing I will tell you, Bet Chart. She do honestly believe Garlett didn't do it. She said so again to me last night. Funny, wasn't it? She says to me: 'They say they've found the place where Mr. Garlett bought the poison. 'E never did buy any poison.'”

“You mean the thing that appeared in The Sunday Critic?” said the girl.

“Yes, that's what I do mean—but 'owever did you know it?”

“I saw the paper. A friend I stayed with the night before I came here bought it, and showed me the paragraph.”

Night and day the hidden drama went on—with the vast, dark, melancholy old house as background.

From the moment she went up to bed Jean Bower became intensely herself—that is, the unhappy, agonizingly anxious girl who was engaged to a man whom the whole world regarded as a murderer.

And then, sometimes earlier, sometimes later, she would be awakened by the now familiar sounds of Agatha Cheale talking in her sleep, and, after a short battle with herself, she would creep down to the floor below and listen to the unseen speaker rehearsing the evidence she meant to give when in the witness-box at Harry Garlett's trial for his life.

But what to the secret listener was so strange, as well as bitterly disappointing, was that Agatha Cheale's monologue scarcely altered at all, from night to night. The suggestions, assertions, indignant denials and admissions, would be repeated again and again, in almost exactly the same form of words. Indeed, as night followed night, there came a maddening monotony about Jean Bower's furtive eavesdropping expeditions down to the dark landing.

Lying awake after she had again crept into her bed, Jean would ask herself if there was any truth in the suggestion that a stranger had broken his way into the Thatched House on that fatal Saturday afternoon? And always she had to agree with shrewd Mrs. Lightfoot that there had been no stranger there. He was an invention, and a poor invention at that, of Agatha Cheale.

From seven each morning Jean Bower turned into Bet Chart, “help” to the good-natured, talkative, monstrously fat woman of whom the poor girl found herself getting fond, in a sort of way.

Now and again the “help” would hide herself behind the door of the empty front room on the ground floor to see the young lady who was the subject of so much interest and speculation to every one in the house, pass through the gloomy hall.

Agatha Cheale was exceptionally well dressed, generally in a well-cut blue-serge coat and skirt, a handsome fur tip pet, and a smart little toque on her dark hair. She had always been pale, and now her face looked absolutely bloodless. There were deep, dark rings under her eyes—those eyes which were the only beautiful feature of her thin, strong face.

Late each morning Bet Chart tidied Miss Cheale's sitting room, and “did” her bedroom; and when quite sure that Mrs. Lightfoot would not make an unexpected appearance, she would ashamedly open the drawers in the ramshackle dressing table, and try the lid of the shabby old dispatch box which stood close to Miss Cheale's bed. But the box had a patent lock, and its owner wore the key night and day, according to Mrs. Lightfoot.

As to the sitting room, it was bare and comfortless. On the big, plain writing table stood a typewriter, and to its right a wad of blotting paper, and a box of good notepaper and envelopes to match. A bookcase full of books did something to humanize the room. But Miss Cheale only used the room as a place in which to have her tray meals, and when she received her infrequent visitors.

And then, just nine days before what was to be the opening day of Harry Garlett's trial, Jean Bower did obtain conclusive evidence concerning the authorship of the anonymous letters which had first started the investigation.

She had finished dusting Miss Cheale's tidy, bare, little sitting room when some sudden instinct made her do what she had never done before. She moved, that is, the heavy typewriter which stood on the writing-table.

Under the board on which it stood lay a thin, fancy-paper covered blotting book. She opened it, to find between its leaves some sheets of thin, foreign-looking paper....

Shaking with excitement and suspense, she took up the top sheet and held it up between her eyes and the window. Then, still with the sheet of paper in her hand, she rushed up the ladder-like staircase, turned into her large bare garret, opened the attaché case where she kept a few things under lock and key, and took out the facsimile of the first of the anonymous letters which had been given to her by James Kentworthy.

Yes, there could be no doubt about it, the watermarks were the same.

She sank down on her bed, dizzy with conflicting feelings. Then Lucy Warren had been right in her reluctantly expressed suspicion! It was now certain that Agatha Cheale had written the anonymous letters which had ultimately caused Harry Garlett's arrest on the awful charge of poisoning his wife, and with a feeling of mingled excitement, horror, and triumph, Jean Bower faced what seemed to her the certainty of Agatha Cheale's guilt.

As she came back into the kitchen Mrs. Lightfoot looked up.

“Why, child, you do look bad!” she exclaimed. “I was going to ask you to go hout and get a quarter of a pound of butter, but I declare I'll do it myself! I don't want you laid up!”

She put her podgy hand on the girl's shoulder, and Jean burst into tears and began to sob bitterly, “I'm all right,” she said.

At eight o'clock Jean summed up courage to ask leave to go out. She felt she must see Sir Harold Anstey to-night. Considering the importance of what she had to tell him, to show him, he could not object to her going to his private address; a flat in Park Lane.

“I want to go out this evening on some urgent business. I hope you won't mind, Mrs. Lightfoot? Would you lend me a latchkey?”

Mrs. Lightfoot looked consideringly at the girl.

“Well,” she grumbled, “I don't suppose I shall say 'no,' though t'ain't, by rights, your hevening hout. But there! Yes, Bet, you can go.”

It was nine o'clock, and Sir Harold Anstey had just finished dinner. He had had an excellent meal and was enjoying a good cigar. But he was in a very bad temper—a rare state for him to be in—but a lady had been going to dine with Sir Harold to-night, and at the very last moment she had “chucked” him. He felt furious; also, what he was not wont to feel: jealous.

The telephone bell rang in the pantry and Sir Harold leapt up from his chair.

“A lady, Sir Harold, on the 'phone. She asked if you were alone. She wouldn't give her name. She said she'd like to come along and see you for a little while, if you were alone, and not too busy.”

“Say I shall be delighted to see her. And Gunn! I'll open the front door myself.

Dear little woman! Her excuse that she had had to go and see a sick friend had evidently been a true one.

But even to his impatient heart, the sharp electric ring came surprisingly soon.

He hurried into his hall. But when he opened the door, instead of the beautiful woman he expected to see, a slight, shabbily dressed girl stood before him.

“This is number eight,” he said shortly. “You have made a mistake in the floor.”

“No, I haven't, Sir Harold. I'm Jean Bower. I telephoned and asked if you were alone.”

“Miss Bower? So it was you who telephoned? Come in, by all means.”

Though he tried to speak pleasantly, there was a marked lack of cordiality in his voice.

“As a matter of fact I am very busy this evening,” he went on, “but of course, if you've anything important to say, I will see you now for a few minutes, rather than to-morrow morning in my chambers.”

But as he ushered her into the sitting room, the lawyer reasserted himself, and the mere man disappeared.

“And now, Miss Bower, what can I do for you?”

“I've found out that Agatha Cheale wrote those anonymous letters. I think you will agree that this piece of paper provides the proof.”

Sir Harold scrutinized closely the watermark which had been so carefully drawn in on the facsimile of the first anonymous letter. Then he held the thin piece of foreign paper up to the lamp.

“Yes—there's no doubt about it,” he said decisively.

Jean looked at him anxiously. She had felt so absolutely sure that he would be overjoyed at her discovery. Instead of that there was a grim, almost an angry, expression on his broad face.

“I fear that I am going to give you a shock, Miss Bower. The whole situation has been changed most seriously to our detriment by the fact that arsenic has been found in a house actually belonging to Mr. Garlett.”

As she was about to break in he put up his hand:

“Let me have my say out, please—and then I will listen to whatever you may have to say. I have something to tell you concerning this woman, Agatha Cheale. She lately communicated to the Prosecution a sworn statement that she saw a stranger in the Thatched House on the afternoon of Mrs. Garlett's death. She further says she saw him close to Mrs. Garlett's bedroom door. The prosecution do not believe this story, and neither does our side.”

“Yet it may be true!” exclaimed Jean desperately.

The great advocate went on as if he had not heard her:

“Now my theory is this: First, this woman, Agatha Cheale, was undoubtedly in love with Garlett; and she considered herself very much aggrieved when she learned of the man's forthcoming marriage to yourself.”

He saw Jean's face change, become discomposed, and, speaking a little less harshly, he went on:

“Come, come, you mustn't mind hearing the truth! I take it you would rather know the truth?”

She bent her head.

“Secondly, to me, and also, I may add, to my brethren of the law on the other side, it soon became practically certain that Miss Cheale had written the anonymous letters, so what you have brought me to-night simply confirms our view. Now, Miss Cheale, to the best of my belief”—he looked at her significantly—“did this out of what I must call, saving your presence, feminine spite. I am quite sure she had no idea that Mrs. Garlett had met with anything but a natural death. What she wished to do was to give Henry Garlett, and no doubt yourself, too, a very unpleasant quarter of an hour. If this theory is correct, the result of the exhumation astounded her and caused her to realize that, thanks to her spiteful action, the man to whom she seems to be still devoted is in great peril of his life. This is why she has hit on the absurd, though in such cases common, invention of a mysterious stranger.”

He stopped speaking, and in a strangled voice Jean exclaimed:

“So what I've brought you to-night is not of the slightest help, Sir Harold?”

“I don't say that! I'm glad you brought the proof to me and not to the other side, for, of course, anything that tends to discredit Miss Cheale discredits her mysterious stranger. But I should not be a true friend, I should be a cruel friend”—and now his voice did take on a far more kindly quality—“were I to conceal from you, Miss Bower, that Henry Garlett is in the very gravest danger. Till the admission made by Miss Prince”

Jean made a quick movement of surprise.

“Yes, Miss Prince has at last brought herself to admit that there was actually a considerable amount of arsenic kept by her, carelessly, in an open cupboard at the Thatched Cottage. You are, of course, aware that there was one all-important missing link in the chain of circumstantial evidence connecting Henry Garlett with the death of his wife? That link has now, I regret to say, been supplied.”

As he saw the look of agony, of despair, on her young face he hastened on:

“I do not mean by all I have said, Miss Bower, that you are to give up hope. On the contrary, if you can persuade the jury that Garlett had not fallen in love with you before his wife's death, you will have gone a very long way to destroy what, of course, the other side are relying on—Garlett's motive for committing this murder—if murder there was.”

“If murder there was?” repeated Jean uncertainly.

“Yes, for I am going most seriously into the question whether or not Mrs. Garlett committed suicide. A large quantity of white arsenic has been in Miss Prince's possession for many years. At one time, when in better health, Mrs. Garlett was constantly at the Thatched Cottage. I have found a woman who will tell the Court that Mrs. Garlett had an extraordinary horror of vermin—of rats and of mice—and I am going to raise the question as to whether some years ago she did not persuade Miss Prince to give her a small quantity of arsenic to destroy some rats which she believed were infesting a portion of the Thatched House. In that case Mrs. Garlett may well have kept some of the arsenic by her, and, in a moment of depression or of pain, administered it to herself.”

But even Sir Harold's assured voice became less assured as he put forward this unlikely theory.

He concluded after a short pause:

“The thing for you to do is to keep yourself as fit as possible during the days that are now going to elapse before the trial. Remember that everything may depend on your making a good and, as I believe, an honest impression on the jury.”

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/

title: The Terriford Mystery/Chapter 23


text:
Page:Diary of a Pilgrimage (1891).pdf/19

 "Oh! take a pillow with you. They don't give you any pillows—not like our pillows—and it's so wretched, you'll never get a decent night's rest if you don't take a pillow." She said: "You can have a little bag made for it, and it doesn't look anything."

I met our doctor a few yards further on. He said:

"Don't forget to take a bottle of brandy with you. It doesn't take up much room, and, if you're not used to German cooking, you'll find it handy in the night."

He added that the brandy you got at foreign hotels was mere poison, and that it was really unsafe to travel abroad without a bottle of brandy. He said that a simple thing like a bottle of brandy in your bag might often save your life.

Coming home, I ran against a literary friend of mine. He said:

"You'll have a goodish time in the train, old fellow. Are you used to long railway journeys?"

I said:

"Well, I've travelled down from London into the very heart of Surrey by a South Eastern express."

"Oh! that's a mere nothing, compared with what you've got before you now," he answered. "Look here, I'll tell you a very good idea of how to pass the time. You take a chessboard with you and a set of men. You'll thank me for telling you that!"

George dropped in during the evening. He said:

"I'll tell you one thing you'll have to take with you, old man, and that's a box of cigars and some tobacco."

He said that the German cigar—the better class of German cigar—was of the brand that is technically known over here as the "Penny Pickwick—Spring Crop;" and he thought that I should not have time, during the short