Collected works of j s f.., p.853
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 853
“We’d been gay together for those two years — Dakin and I,” she said. “He was a fine chap and a warm man, with a bit of money for us to spend together. We had naught to spend it on but our own pleasure, for no babes came to us, and we followed our bent without heeding other folk.”
She told us how she had loved the carefree life, the jaunts into the neighbouring villages and townships, their thoughts of buying a small car to make their excursions still more pleasant.
“It don’t make a gloomy day any better to have a lightsome past to look back upon. Some folk say it do, but I know it don’t. When the past has been so short, a body scarce knows they’ve had it, and what’s to come stretches ever boding dark over the hills.”
She buried her face in her hands, fighting her emotion.
“We all understand,” put in Eddison gently, “how you must have felt when Dakin sickened with this terrible complaint, and all your plans had to be given up.”
Mira went on to relate how at first they had “bided” quiet at home, getting one medical opinion after another on Dakin’s case. She had taken him farther and farther afield, and he had spent much time in hospitals, while she waited at home, doubting and fearing. The money that went so far when they were buying enjoyment, went not quite so far when they were paying for specialists and electric treatment. She restricted herself to living alone and doing for herself during those enforced separations, in order to save for further invalid expenses; and time hung heavy on her hands.
It was during one of her husband’s sojourns in hospital that Sugden Martenroyde came into her life. Whereas before she had merely passed the time of day with him, owing to the unpopularity of his mother, he now began to haunt her home when he was in Todmanhawe. “ ’Our’ Sugden!” she commented bitterly. “Well, he very soon became ‘my’ Sugden too!”
At the start he proffered decorous sympathy in her misfortune and pretended to busy himself with inquiries among the doctors of his acquaintance. Next came the suggestion of a few outings together, to take her mind off her loneliness when Dakin was away. Then all talk of Dakin ceased. Sugden’s dashing imitation of London words and ways had come as a welcome change, she said, from the dour contact of the neighbours she had never tried to cultivate during her happiness. Sugden seemed occasionally to have plenty of money to spend on presents and for her entertainment. Soon she became his mistress.
“How long ago was that?” interrupted Beverley.
“Let me see, now. We’ve been married five years come midsummer, and Dakin’s been poorly for three of them. It’ll be two years gone since I gave myself to Sugden Martenroyde.”
“But how did you keep all this from Dakin?” asked Eddison. “He must have been at home a great deal between whiles.”
“We contrived,” said Mira.
She told us of the shifts to which they had resorted to keep their intrigue hidden; of their perpetual dodging of Mrs. John Martenroyde. The latter was evidently one of those mothers who insist on knowing everything there is to know about their sons. She did not invite their confidence, but tried to force it. Consequently she received no intimate information. Mira also described with remorse how she had so often left Dakin rejoicing in the fact that she took such comfort in her solitary walks on the hillsides round Todmanhawe.
“Now Sugden’s done the dirty on me, and I owe him no more faith, though indeed faith was never mine to steal away from Dakin and give to him. Eh, that Sugden! I’ll have vengeance on him, come what may!” She shook with indignation, and Eddison spoke gently.
“But, Mira, I don’t understand. You say that Sugden has done the dirty on you. How? You can’t keep a man of his sort for lover indefinitely, you know.”
“I do know. But he needn’t flaunt another girl in London where I haven’t the chance of getting in a month o’ Sundays. Dressing her up, too, and taking her to eat at hotels with the greatest in the land. Louie’s no better than me, and both of us no better than we should be.”
Eddison looked at me. “Do you remember Colonel Houston and his story of the young ladies at the Grand Transatlantic? This Louie may have been one of them.”
I nodded.
“Ay, it’s that Sparks lass I mean. She left the mill — lured away, some say — and followed Sugden about in London, pestering him to give her a good name, or a good time. I’ve done with him, but I don’t want her to have him, the slut!” Mira’s eyes shone ominously in the firelight. “Sugden, my honest lover! This last six months, while he pretended that he lived only for his visits to Todmanhawe, he was borrowing money off me, which was Dakin’s and put aside for treatment, to keep that fancy girl in London.”
“Dear, dear!” said Eddison. “This is all most distressing! But why don’t you let her have him? Does it upset you so much, Mira, that you have worked yourself free from a cad like that?”
“It is not that,” answered Mira. “Trust me to have done with him and all the harm he’s wrought. No, it’s something I’ve still to tell ye. May happen it will bring punishment to him and his hellcat of a mother.”
Beverley stiffened in his chair.
“Listen,” she said, “this piece may be in your line. On the night that James Martenroyde was killed, Sugden came over to see me in a great taking.”
“What time was that?” asked Beverley quickly.
“Quarter to eight in the evening or thereabouts, it was. He came in all of a sweat for money. I let him in by the back way so as Dakin wouldn’t see him, and he begged and prayed me for a hundred pounds or more. He’d borrowed of me often, though never anything like that, and when I told him that I’d naught in the house, he carried on something shameful. He thought I could come to his help over some trouble he’d met in London, and he promised faithful to marry me, when Dakin died.”
“If that’s all,” said Beverley in a disappointed voice, when it seemed that Mira’s disclosure was over, “your tale’s no sort of good to me, Mrs. Heggus. You can’t arrest a man because he tries to borrow a hundred pounds, you know.”
“And furthermore,” interrupted Eddison, “surely all this was some time ago. Why did you tear in to see us in such a state over something that might almost be forgotten by now?”
Mira answered sullenly enough: “I did not know about that Louie then. You see, Bill Heggus, my brother-in-law, before ever he took the train for London this evening, was chatting to Dakin and me all about murder and the Martenroydes. And he mentioned about seeing Louie in London with Sugden, all dressed up to kill, and of Sugden leaving his rooms, and how certainly Louie and he was living together. And, by the living God,” she went on shrilly, “I want vengeance on that little swine and on his murdering sow of a mother!”
“Murdering?” queried Beverley. “What do you mean by calling Mrs. Martenroyde a murderess?”
“She murdered James and Mally; they’re all saying so.”
“That’s no good in a court of law, my girl.”
“But she tried to murder me too. Threatened to do it and tried.”
“What’s that?” cried Beverley in obvious excitement.
“Ay,” answered Mira heavily. “When Bill Heggus told me of Louie, I flung off hot-foot — oh, I was a fool! — to Mill House.”
“And what happened?” It was Eddison who put the question.
“Well, she barred the way when I asked for Sugden — wanted to know my business. And I told her everything. I had a mind to humble her with the knowledge that her precious son had stooped to a woman of the village. She called me a common whore that had ruined her Sugden. I tried to get by her, and she snatched her great stick from the hall rack and aimed a blow at my head. If I hadn’t stepped aside she would have caught me, too.”
“Any witness?” snapped Beverley.
“I’m thinking that that Sugden was skulking at the back somewhere, but he’d perjure himself to save a headache, that he would.”
“Still,” cried Beverley, rising from his chair, “that’s none so bad! A threat of violence and an attack — there’s my excuse for visiting the Mill House; and maybe I’ll catch the Martenroydes with their tongues a bit loosened by temper. But I’d like witnesses myself, if I can think of a good reason for bringing anyone with me.”
“Well, if you must,” grumbled Eddison, “on a night like this, it’s easy enough for you to take me. I’m trustee of the Martenroyde estate, and therefore in some sense guardian of the family. It would be natural for me, as their adviser, to be present.”
“And I’m retained by Eddison here,” I cut in. “You can say I’m there to keep an eye on the police in the Martenroyde interests!”
Eddison and I left Mira ensconced by the fire and followed Beverley to the front door, but there we found him in conversation with a new-comer on the doorstep, who was gabbling feverishly to him and pulling at his coat sleeve in agitation. From the little we could see of this unexpected intruder, she was dressed in finery much bedraggled and had difficulty in keeping the drenched wreck of a fashionable hat attached to her head in the howling wind.
Beverley turned to us. “I say, this is rather a coincidence after our talk just now. I think that this young lady had better come in for shelter too. May we return to the fire a minute?” He took the girl’s arm, and we accompanied him back to the hall, half guessing what he meant.
“Go in first, and then there’ll be a pair of you,” he said, giving the woman a gentle push and opening the door.
Mira Heggus rose in confused surprise at the stranger’s entrance.
“Louie Sparks — what do you here?”
CHAPTER XXV. ASSAULT OF HANNAH’S CASTLE
THE WANING FIRELIGHT flickered over the faces of the two women who had played leading parts in Sugden Martenroyde’s trivial life. Upon Mira Heggus with her gypsy beauty and stormy mien, and upon Louie Sparks, whose hair was of a dubious platinum and whose hard little claws were thick with a scarlet that sadly needed either refreshing or abolishing.
Eddison and I had stayed in the shadows, determined to remain nothing but spectators of a scene which might well prove no comedy; while Beverley shuffled uneasily on his feet. “It’s taking a risk confronting them,” he muttered.
The engagement began briskly enough.
“So Louie Sparks is taking a holiday from the London season,” said Mira, without looking at her opponent. “Happen they’re spring-cleaning early at Sugden Martenroyde’s fine house in Park Lane.”
“Ah, so Mira Heggus hasn’t forgotten her Sugden!” countered Louie, also looking straight before her. “Village love-story with words and music, music of Dakin’s bell. Sugden told me all about that.”
“The foul wee tike! But thank God I never nosed all over London after him, like a bought wench.”
“Ay, and thank the living God, whatever else I did, I never deserted a helpless husband just because I’d gotten tired of nursing him.”
The fight was over. Mira wrung her hands in anguish.
“Oh, Louie, it’s God’s own truth you say, and I’m a dear sight worse, when all’s said and done. You’ve betrayed nobody but yersen. Oh, you’re younger than I am, my poor lass, and my heart aches for you — so pale and clemmed-looking. I’m well filled, if naught else.”
At this Louie winced and fumbled at the waistband of her flimsy skirt.
“Clemmed-looking, you say, Mira Heggus? Then I look what I am indeed. I’ve had no bite or sup today. My train fare was all I could get together, and I was daft enough to go seeking from him who owes me.”
Mira exclaimed in excitement: “Did you go to the Mill House too this night? I’ll warrant you had worse then than my greeting, being the second on that cub’s trail within an hour or two.”
“She called me all the kinds of drab she could lay her tongue to, if that’s what you mean. And she said I’d made Sugden beezle money from the business. She took a crack at me with her stick and chased me out of the door and down the road. I’d no place to flee to but Mr. Eddison’s.”
“Ay, she’s got hell in her, that woman,” cried Mrs. Heggus.
“As long as she keeps it in her, that’s not my concern,” said Beverley, “but when she lets it loose, it’s my right and duty to interfere. Come on, you two, and let’s get to Mill House before the row’s over between Sugden and his mother. For I reckon there’s surely been a good one. You stay here with Mrs. Heggus, Louie, my girl, until we come back and decide what’s best to do with you. These two gentlemen and I will go and see the Martenroydes.”
“Nay,” said Mira gently, putting her hand on the other girl’s shoulder. “We’re sisters in a sort and I’ll take Louie home with me and give her sup and shelter. Dakin’s heart is so large that he’ll find room for her, and maybe that’ll be counted for me too. Maybe I’ll creep back into his heart as well. The poor lad will never know, on this side of heaven, that I left my corner in it. But punish me that witch and her son, Mr. Policeman! I’d die content if I knew they’d paid their reckoning.”
“I can’t punish Mrs. John for her threatening, but I can caution her severely — and I will,” said Beverley. “Come along quickly, all of you.”
“Wait a minute,” said Eddison, and he took an old coat from the cupboard and wrapped it round Louie Sparks. Then the little procession left the house and stepped into the teeth of the winter wind and rain.
It was just such a forceful gale from the north-west as had blown on the night James Martenroyde had met his end. Our small party stood undecided for a moment, bracing itself against the gusts; then, with myself in the middle giving an arm to each girl, and Beverley and Eddison arming them on the outsides, we staggered towards the path which led up to Dakin’s house. When the lights from the hillside homestead came into view, Mira thanked us for our escort and led Louie Sparks towards the shelter of her dwelling.
Stumbling down the rocky path, we three made our way to the banks of the Scarth with as much speed as we could muster. As we buffeted our way along, Beverley shouted in my ears: “It’s my belief that disappointment has made the old woman really daft, dangerously daft. Threats of violence to all and sundry. She’d counted on inheriting the grange and the mill outright.”
When at last, drenched and bewildered, we arrived at the old house, we crept silently round the corner of it to the paved yard at the back. There Beverley knocked lightly on the door, and it was opened at once by Ramsden Martenroyde.
His stolid face wore an expression of anxiety, and in answer to Beverley’s inquiries for his mother, he told us that she was out, visiting a Mrs. Priest, who was not expected to last till morning. He bade us enter, however, and shelter from the night. “Come your ways, gentlemen,” he said, leading us into the front parlour, where a fire was laid but not lit. “I expect I’ll be able to aid you in anything, as Mother isn’t just handy.”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Martenroyde,” said Beverley. “It is my duty to see your mother, for two serious charges have been laid against her; so I hope she won’t be long. Also I should like to see your brother, as he has some concern with these charges.”
Ramsden sulkily assured us that Sugden had accompanied the old lady, and Beverley answered that he would wait all the same.
Suddenly the Superintendent gave an exaggerated shiver and, stepping through the parlour door, walked heavily to the front door. This he opened and then slammed shut, and afterwards returned cat-foot to the parlour, very gently closing its door.
Immediately, and before Ramsden’s rather slow brain could realize Beverley’s tactics, high-pitched voices, male and female, became audible from some room in the back of the house, as if an interrupted quarrel were now free to be resumed.
Ramsden swore beneath his breath and excused himself heavily. “Hasn’t a man a right to say people are out when they’re not wanting visitors?”
“Not to the police,” retorted Beverley, “and not in a house where murder has been done and the murderer is yet uncaught.”
We accompanied the reluctant Ramsden down the stone passage to the kitchen, where we found Mrs. Martenroyde standing by the range, adjusting a kettle of boiling water over the embers. A bottle of whisky stood on the langsettle by her side, and Sugden leaned against the table glaring at his mother.
Mrs. Martenroyde swung round at our entrance, her eyes congested with fury. “What’s the meaning of this damned intrusion?” she cried. “What right have you to force your way into my house, you Beverley, and you, you snake in the grass, you Eddison?”
Eddison answered her soothingly. “I chanced to be with Beverley when two serious charges were made against you, madam, and, as trustee of the Martenroyde interests, I thought it better to come out, even on this rough night, to be at hand if you happened to want advice.”
“And how about that?” continued the old lady, pointing at me.
“He is a private inquiry agent, as well you know,” replied Eddison, “and after today’s inquest I retained him to watch over your interests and to try, for all our sakes, to help to solve these two distressing mysteries.”
It almost seemed as if she had not attended to either of his answers; she looked utterly blank for a moment, and then, as if one shutter in her mind had fallen and another opened, became almost a different person.
“Come your ways in, sirs, come your ways in. You’re kindly welcome to a seat by the fire and a drop of comfort on this cold night. You must excuse me if I did not greet you at first, but — I was not dressed fit for folks.” She indicated her apron and rolled-back sleeves.
We refused the offer of a drink as politely as we could, and I think my friends were as hard put to it as I was to hide their astonishment at this volte-face.
“Well, well, if you won’t, you won’t. I was just going to make one for mysen. I have it every night, and then I go to sleep as sudden as a babe and dream of naught. Ay, of naught.”
