Collected works of j s f.., p.181
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 181
“Now then,” said the detective, “who is that lady?”
Mr. Quarendon from sheer force of habit, mopped his forehead.
“By the Lord!” he exclaimed. “Gemma Graffi!”
“Yes,” said Wirlescombe. “Gemma Graffi. And also — Lady Wargrave!”
CHAPTER IX
THE HOUSE PARTY
ADRIAN GRAYE, HAVING once considered his friend Herbert’s offer, and made up his mind upon it, though after only five minutes’ thought, was quick to act on his decision. Before noon next day he was back in London. Before evening he had cancelled all his engagements, broken off all negotiations for taking a flat or bachelor apartments, and was on his way again to Ashendyke. And there he settled down to the humdrum existence of a country medical practitioner, taking a full share with Herbert in all that was going on. He worked hard, early and late and was never so well satisfied as when he was at work. In their spare hours the two men talked long and much of all manner of subjects, from Graye’s travels to the latest discoveries in medical science. But whatever subjects of other sorts they ever touched upon they never spoke of Lady Wargrave, and whenever Herbert saw his friend’s eyes grow sombre, and his forehead ruffled, he made haste to lure him into the billiard-room, or to get him on to his doings in South America. Anything, he said to himself, to keep him off a matter which, truth to tell, was a mystery to himself.
But one day, several weeks after Graye’s return to Ashendyke, Herbert, coming in from an afternoon’s round of visits, and finding Graye lounging over the last number of the British Medical Journal, called him into the smoking-room, and commanded him into a chair.
“Look here, Adrian,” he said as he filled his pipe, “We’ve got to have a talk. Got to, you understand. You know I’m not a gossip, but a country medico’s got to listen to his patients now and then — can’t help it. I’ve been at old Wither’s, the estate steward’s, this afternoon, and whether I would or not, I had to let the old chap gossip at his free will — I daresay it did him good. He, of course, knows everything that goes on in this blessed village — I don’t believe that Mrs. Butters at the next cottage could run a needle into her thumb without his knowing of it within an hour!”
Graye made a half-audible growl within his moustache. “Come to it!” he grunted. “Why all this prelude?”
“All right,” said Herbert. “‘Hurry no man’s cattle,’ all the same. Very well — here’s the play, minus prelude. Lady Wargrave is back at the Manor.”
Graye made no answer But he was just then reclining for a match, and as he took it, Herbert, eyeing him keenly, saw his hand suddenly shake.
“Back at the Manor,” continued Herbert, “and with her — a house-party. You know, or perhaps you didn’t know that the Manor is now thoroughly renovated from top to bottom, on the lines I suggested. Naturally, the trustees have done that first. The estate’s being dealt with piecemeal. So perhaps Lady Wargrave is signalising the event. Anyway, she has come down here with a house-party — a small house-party.”
Graye growled more audibly.
“What have I to do with this?” he asked defiantly. “I don’t know why you tell me of it!”
“I tell you so that you mayn’t have a sudden surprise, my son,” answered Herbert. “I tell you out of consideration for yourself. You see, you might possibly meet Lady Wargrave face to face in the village.”
“Well!” said Graye.
“I don’t think that would be well. I think it might be very ill,” said Herbert. “And I also thought that, perhaps you’d like to be off — while they are here, for old Withers tells me they’re not to stop long.”
Graye looked up and Herbert saw an expression in his eyes which made him begin thinking hard. With the quick look came a quicker laugh.
“If you think I’m going to run away because of a woman, Jack,” he said, “you’re a damned old fool! I’m not! Here I am, and here I stick. I suppose I can lift my hat to Lady Wargrave if I chance to encounter her on the green or in the village.”
Herbert sat down and lighted his pipe.
“That’s right, old chap,” he said. “That’s the way to take it. But — I think you ought to hear the rest of old Wither’s gossip. After all, we’re somewhat mixed up with the Manor.”
Graye gave a sound and a gesture expressive of impatient dissent.
“Oh, but we are!” continued Herbert. “And therefore I insist on your hearing. According to the steward, the people who have come down with Lady Wargrave are all of her compatriots.”
“I see nothing surprising in that,” said Graye. “Naturally, she prefers the society of her own compatriots.”
“Quite so, but, when all’s said and done, she’s the widow of one English baronet and the mother of another,” said Herbert. “The idea of the trustees — eminently worthy, respectable, conventional English gentlemen both — is that Lady Wargrave should become anglicized.”
“Is it! I wish ’em joy of the attempt to anglicize her!”
“So far, whatever attempt they have made has certainly been a good deal of a failure. I understand that they wished her to become a sort of duenna — English of course. Of course, she refused. Indeed, according to Withers, she has openly and defiantly told the trustees that she does not like English people, and that although she will remain on the estate for a certain portion of the year she means to spend most of her time in Italy. I learn from Withers that Lady Wargrave is in a very fortunate position — for herself. She has—”
“It strikes me, Jack that you’re as big a gossip as Withers! What on earth have you got to do with Lady Wargrave’s fortunate position?”
“She has five thousand a year to call herself absolute mistress of,” continued Herbert, unmoved by Graye’s exclamation. “And that’s nothing to do with the provision made for the boy, and for the upkeep of the estate, and the town house. And in addition to that — just think of it, old chap! — Sir Robert left her a whole hundred thousand pounds, which is at her entire disposal. I mean, its hers — her own. It isn’t trust money. She can spend it all to-day if she likes. She can throw it away if she likes. She can make ducks and drakes of it if she likes. She can give fivepound notes to beggars and sovereigns to the village children wherewith to buy sweets, and nobody can say her nay. Ye gods! — fancy a young and beautiful woman, possessed of five thousand pounds a year, and a hundred thousand in ready money! What a fact in human life to — to contemplate!”
Graye sat up in his chair and, gripping the arms, stared Herbert long and hard in the eyes.
“What the devil are you driving at!” he growled at length.
“Driving at nothing. Merely mentioning a fact. I say — what a magnificent prize in the — marriage market. And — and what a rare chance for the needy and unscrupulous adventurer!”
Graye still kept his eyes fixed on Herbert.
“Look here!” he said. “I’m not good at mental gymnastics. And I say again — what the devil are you driving at! In other words, what is it you’re waiting to say?”
Herbert groaned.
“You always were such a matter-of-fact chap, Adrian! I was only trying to intimate to you as delicately as possibly that Lady Wargrave is fair game for fortune-hunters.”
“Well?”
“And that the gentleman of whom you have heard something is one of the small house-party at the Manor.” Graye’s face flushed.
“Di Spada?”
“The same. And, according to Withers, Di Spada is very much one of the house-party. In fact, the house-party consists of himself, his sisters, and his sister’s husband. A — a sort of family affair, eh? And between you and me, Master Adrian, I should say that Lady Wargrave, poor innocent that I fear she is, is in — danger!”
For a moment Graye made no answer. Then he threw out his hands with a gesture of helplessness.
“What’s the use in talking, Jack? What can I — what can we do? I called three times in Park Lane, and — of course, she didn’t want to see me — why, God knows!” he exclaimed. “Its beyond me.”
“Quite so,” agreed Herbert. “But — I’m not sure that it’s beyond me, Adrian. Up to the time you saw her going off in that thick veil she’d been glad enough to see your hadn’t she?”
“I thought so. I believed so.”
“Very well. Then, what’s the obvious inference! Somebody’s got some influence over her. Somebody’s making her — making her, do you understand! — keep off what we may without exaggeration call her friends — old friends, if you like, and that’s no exaggeration, either. Who can that somebody be but — Di Spada!”
“But how do we know that!”
“How do we know that! Haven’t we got brains, minds, intellects! Can’t we infer things! Can’t we deduce conclusions from obvious facts! Lady Wargrave ought to owe you a lifelong debt of gratitude for risking your own life to save her son’s life — oh, yes, my dear fellow, it’s all very well protesting and shaking your head, but she ought if she’s a scrap of decent feeling left in her! And, for anything you or I know, she may have that feeling of gratitude as strongly as ever, and wish to show it as much as ever. But she refused you her presence in town, and I’ll lay you a thousand pounds to a China orange that you’re not asked up to the Manor while this house-party is on. Why! The inference is that she is being coerced. The Di Spada family have got hold of her. Now, why!”
Graye uttered a dismal groan.
“God knows! I don’t,” he said. “I can’t understand it.”
“Well I’ve been trying to puzzle it out,” continued Herbert. “I’ll tell you what I think. I think Di Spada is probably blackmailing her, terrorising her. That’s what I think, old chap. And I’m not quite a fool — at least, I hope not.”
Graye clenched his fists.
“If I thought — if I was sure of that!” he growled. “By God, I’d go up there just now and kick the fellow out!”
“Keep cool. That’ll help her and everything best. But to me the thing is as plain as the proverbial pikestaff. Look here! didn’t you ascertain that Di Spada was some assistant or pupil of old Graffi’s?”
“Yes.”
“Then, of course, Di Spada knew all about the murder of the old man. Now, then, do a little constructive reasoning. Di Spada, somehow or other, steps into old Graffi’s shoes as regards the practice, or connection, or whatever it’s called. He goes on with it. In time Gemma Graffi comes back to England as Lady Wargrave. Di Spada sees her picture in the papers — you know, it was in several cheap newspapers at the time of the home-coming. He recognises in Lady Wargrave Gemma Graffi. He makes enquiry; he finds out — easy enough to find it out, Adrian, my boy — that Lady Wargrave has one hundred thousand pounds and five thousand a year besides. He sees a magnificent opportunity. And he takes advantage of it. And so — Lady Wargrave visits Austerlitz Mansions, heavily veiled.”
Graye listened to all this with set face and gloomy eyes. His pipe had long since gone out, but he still kept it between his teeth and bit hard on the stem.
“After all, that’s all theory, Jack,” he said. “For anything we know, these people may be friends, even relations.”
“Ladies don’t go to see relations — gentlemen relatives — late at night, heavily veiled, and leaving their own residences by back or side entrances,” observed Herbert grimly. “I don’t deny that what I have put before you is theory, but I’ll bet it’s not far from the truth. Just think, man! Supposing this Di Spada is a clever and unscrupulous scoundrel, think how he could terrorise a woman who knows nothing of English law! Theory or not, I say I’ll bet any odds that I’m not far off the truth. And you’ll see that although she asked you and me up to dine several times before she left the Manor, shell not ask us now that she’s returned.”
In that prophecy Herbert proved himself correct. The two young doctors heard nothing of the people at Ashendyke Manor. Nor was Lady Wargrave seen in the village. Nor did any of her guests show themselves in the village. Around the big house and the great park there rested an air of mystery and silence as dark as the woods and trees which shut both in. Not even gossip, in full or thin stream, percolated to the thirsty soil of the village tea-tables. It was merely known that her ladyship and her friends were there and all that the Ashendyke spinsters and the old men of the alehouse corners could say was that foreigners were, of course, vastly different to Christians, and must be allowed for accordingly.
And then, one night, as Herbert and Graye were smoking a last pipe before turning in, their parlourmaid opened the door and admitted a lady who threw back her veil as she entered and revealed herself as Lady Wargrave.
CHAPTER X
A CHILD’S LIFE
TO JOHN HERBERT, detached from the feelings and emotions of the other two people who stood with him in his smoking-room, and therefore able in some sort to take a more or less disinterested and impartial view of matters, one pertinent fact made itself immediately evident as soon as Lady Wargrave had entered and the parlourmaid had closed the door upon her. She had not known that she was to find Adrian Graye there. At sight of him she paused, the colour flooded her face, she looked half in fear — a strange, vague fear which was indefinitely expressed in her features — half in appeal from him to Herbert. Before either man could move or speak she herself spoke, or, rather, she unconsciously let the thought that sprang up in her voice itself.
“I did not know that Dr. Graye was here!” she said.
Herbert, recovered from his surprise, bustled into activity. He went forward, brushing Graye’s arm as he passed.
“Clear out, Adrian!” he whispered. “Clear out!”
Graye turned away abruptly and went out by a door which led into the surgery. Herbert took Lady Wargrave’s hand and led her to the chair from which he himself had started at her entrance.
“Dr. Graye has been staying with me some little time,” he said. “He is helping me. What can I do for you, Lady Wargrave?”
Then, seeing that she needed time to recover from the shock which Graye’s unexpected presence had evidently given her, he added:
“I hope there is nothing wrong? And I hope you have not come down from the Manor alone? I would have come up at once if you had sent for me.”
She shook her head, looking at him in a wistful, half frightened fashion.
“Yes, I came alone,” she answered. “It doesn’t matter, Dr. Herbert — I know the way. I — I couldn’t send for you. There are — reasons. I wanted to see you — very badly.”
“You’re not ill?” said Herbert quickly.
She shook her head, smiling in a fashion that indicated the nearness of tears, and Herbert felt thankful that Graye was out of the room.
“No,” she answered, “I’m not. But I’m weary, unhappy, uncertain about my — boy. I want you to see him — somebody must see him!”
“Certainly,” said Herbert. “I’ll come up to the Manor first thing to-morrow morning. I’ll go to-night — just now — if you like.”
Watching her keenly as he was, he saw a look of something like terror come into her eyes, and she unconsciously laid her hand on his arm as if to stop him from moving.
“No, no!” she exclaimed. “I — I don’t want you to come to the house. I want to — to arrange something.”
“Not to come to the house?” said Herbert. “But — why?”
Lady Wargrave withdrew her hand from his arm, and looking away remained silent for a moment. When she looked around again he knew that she was going to give him her confidence.
“I am engaged to be married,” she said quietly, “to Signor di Spada, whom I have known a long time. Signor di Spada’s brother, who is staying at the Manor, is a doctor. They would be very angry if I called in any other medical man. They say that is etiquette. Is it!”
Herbert gave her no immediate answer. There was something in her look, in even her attitude, which seemed to suggest that she was asking for understanding and sympathy and help. And once again he was thankful that he had cleared Graye out of the room.
“Is it?” she repeated. “Ought I not to have come to you? No one knows — no one must know, please! — that I have come.”
Herbert knew that he would have to speak, possibly have to act in a way which he did not yet foresee.
“If this gentleman is a medical man,” he said slowly, “and you have already employed his services on behalf of your child, it would not be in accordance with the etiquette of the profession that you should come to me without consulting him. But — is he an English doctor?”
Lady Wargrave shook her head, looking her bewilderment at the question.
“I — do not know,” she answered. “I know nothing. Lucien says he is a doctor.”
“Wait a moment,” said Herbert. He went across the room to a stand full of reference books, and took down a medical dictionary. “Di Spada is the name, eh, Lady Wargrave?” He turned over the pages, carefully searching. “He is not an English medical man,” he said, replacing the book. “But he may, of course, hold some foreign qualification. He has been treating the child, I suppose?”
Lady Wargrave bowed her head. Again Herbert saw in her eyes the dumb appeal — the searching for help against — what?
“Yes,” she murmured. “Yes. But—”
She paused so long that Herbert felt he must prompt her.
“But you are not satisfied!” he suggested. “Well, can’t you tell him so!”
Lady Wargrave began to twist her fingers together as they lay on her knee. She was obviously distressed and perplexed by something of which she dare not speak.
“They,” — she used this term again, Herbert was quick to notice— “they would be so angry. Lucien and his sister say that Stefano is so clever. And Stefano says that nothing is the matter with the child except that English air does not suit him and that he will be better when we return to Italy.”
“You are going to Italy soon!” asked Herbert.
