GRACE LEARNS THE NEWS
“To think that it should have been on our wedding day—almost at the very moment! Oh, the poor, poor soul! Who can have done the awful thing?”
Grace Carling’s sweet face was pale and tear-stained. At last she had learned the grim news that Roger had successfully suppressed until now, just after breakfast in their sitting-room at the hotel. It would have been impossible to keep the secret from her longer; all the morning papers were full of the murder, though the mystery appeared deeper than ever. As he hastily scanned the columns while he waited for Grace, Roger noted that none of the reports so much as mentioned the stolen papers that had been returned in so extraordinary a manner and that almost certainly were the pivot of the tragedy. The police knew of these, for he himself had rung up Scotland Yard, and Sir Robert was awaiting the arrival of a detective when he, Roger, had been obliged to leave him. But evidently the information had been withheld from the Press.
The theory advanced, and considerably elaborated, was that which Thomson had propounded over the ’phone, and much stress was laid on the fact that the murderer had missed some at least of his anticipated spoil—the gold purse—with much conjecture as to whether the bag had contained any other valuables.
Naturally, Grace was terribly distressed; also, her quick mind instantly divined that this was the cause of Roger’s strange emotion yesterday, that, for the moment, had so startled and alarmed her.
“It was a shock,” he confessed. “Honestly, darling, when I saw that poster, and George gave me the paper, I was more upset than I’ve ever been in my life before; what with the horror of the thing itself, and wanting to keep it from you. I couldn’t bear to let you know, just then, the great day of our lives! Though even now I don’t know how I managed it.”
His voice was husky with emotion, and she looked up at him, smiling through her tears.
“It was dear of you, Roger! I never suspected—how could I?... But what in the world can she have been doing there, so near us, and in disguise, as they say?”
“Heaven knows, dear, except that I’m pretty certain she had been to a flat in a square nearly opposite; not for the first time, though why she went there, I know no more than you do.”
“The square opposite? Why, that must be Rivercourt Mansions. What makes you think she had been there?”
“Because I saw her, a few days ago. By George! it was only last Tuesday, though it seems more like a year. You remember I came to dinner——”
“Of course, and turned up very early.”
He nodded.
“It was because I got away so much earlier than I expected that I walked from the station, and presently I saw her walking rapidly a few yards in front of me. I shouldn’t have known her but for her gait: you know that curious way of hers—graceful I suppose, but——”
“I know, like a snake; we always said so!”
“Yes, and she was very plainly dressed, in a long, dark cloak and floating veil, almost like a nurse’s uniform; but I was quite sure it was she; and it was, for she evidently wore the same get-up yesterday,” he added, picking up one of the newspapers and pointing to the detailed description.
“What did you do?” breathed Grace.
“Well, it wasn’t my business, of course, and I had no right to spy on her, so I loitered a bit, increasing the distance between us. I saw her turn the corner, and when I reached the square I really couldn’t resist just glancing down, and I caught sight of her blue veil disappearing through the entrance of the north block. That’s all; I scarcely gave another thought to it.”
“And you believe she went there again yesterday, but that’s very important, isn’t it, Roger? Oughtn’t you to tell the police?”
“I don’t know,” he said slowly, and, hands in pockets, he paced up and down the room, paused and stared out of the window, frowning perplexedly.
Grace watched him with anxious, puzzled eyes. It seemed a long time before he turned to her again, and spoke with curious hesitation.
“You see, it’s this way, darling. I’m thinking of Sir Robert, and of him alone. I fear there is a great deal more behind this—this crime than appears on the surface. The Press don’t know of it yet, that’s evident; the police may suspect, but I doubt if they know—in fact they can’t know everything unless they’ve seen those papers that were lost, and that’s unlikely, if it’s true, as Thomson said, they’ve been returned, and are in Lord Warrington’s hands. He will keep them safe enough!”
“But I don’t understand,” protested Grace. “Surely, Roger, the most important thing is to trace Lady Rawson’s murderer?”
“No,” said Roger decisively. “The most important thing is to keep all knowledge of those papers secret for the present. No disclosures can bring that poor, unhappy woman back to life; while if the secret information contained in those papers were prematurely divulged God knows what would happen—war, almost to a certainty, and thousands of lives would be sacrificed.”
Grace drew a little sobbing breath, her eyes still intent on his face. She had a curious feeling that he was not speaking to her, but was arguing with some invisible person.
“I don’t believe her visit to Rivercourt Mansions had any connection at all with the murder,” he continued, “except, indeed, that it brought her into the neighbourhood. She was robbed and killed by some loitering ruffian who had watched her—an old hand, doubtless, who, when he found he’d got nothing, got rid of the evidence instantly, very cleverly too—chucked the bag through the window of the cab, and slipped the envelope into the nearest post box.”
“You are sure she had those papers?”
“Absolutely, though I’ve no actual evidence. But I was certain of it from the first, and so, I am convinced, was Sir Robert, though of course he gave no hint of that. But she was the only person except ourselves who could possibly have had access to the keys of the safe.”
“But why should she steal them?”
“That I don’t know; I can only conjecture. You see, I’ve suspected her more or less vaguely for months. She was always coming in and out of the room—the only person who was allowed to do so when I was at work; but Sir Robert adored her, never crossed her in anything, and of course it was impossible for me to raise any objection! She used to come and go as softly as a cat—or a snake. Time after time I’ve been startled to find her close beside me, looking over my shoulder. On Wednesday night, the last time I saw her, she tried to get a look at those very papers, and I was just in time to prevent her. It all sounds very trivial perhaps, but there it is; and of course there was always the feeling that she was an alien. But I really couldn’t define my suspicions—at any rate, not till yesterday, and then not clearly.”
“How did you know she had gone to that place again?”
Again he hesitated, and resumed his restless pacing. Should he tell his wife everything? Yes. She was part of himself now—the better, purer, nobler part. He would have no secrets from her, except such secrets of State as were entrusted to him by his chief; and this was not one of those.
“I’ll tell you the whole thing from first to last, darling,” he said, seating himself beside her. “The moment I knew the papers were stolen I thought of her instinctively, and when I learned she was out I thought of the queer incident of Tuesday night. While Sir Robert was questioning the servants I turned up the Directory. There’s only one foreign name among all the list at Rivercourt Mansions: ‘G. Cacciola, Professor of Voice-Production.’”
“Cacciola! Good gracious!” gasped Grace. “Why, I know him quite well. He’s Winnie’s maestro, the dearest, kindest, funniest old thing imaginable. You must have heard me speak of him!”
“Don’t remember it. But anyhow I thought I’d go there on spec. and ask for her. It couldn’t do any harm and might be of immense service. As it was so near the church I’d just time, if I didn’t go to Starr’s to change, and I knew you’d forgive me for not turning up in glad rags, darling, if I told you all about it afterwards. So I said good-bye to Sir Robert, jumped into a taxi, and drove straight there. I saw an old Italian woman, and asked boldly for Lady Rawson. I’d guessed rightly—she was there, I’m convinced from the woman’s manner, though she swore she wasn’t, but she knew the name well enough, and I’d take my oath she was lying. I couldn’t very well force my way in and search the place; and as time was running short there was nothing to be done but push off. Like an ass I had paid the taxi and never told the man to wait, and there wasn’t another in sight.”
“There never is thereabouts.”
“That’s why I was so late—that and the fog. I jumped on a tram, got down at the Avenue, and plunged right into the fog. My hat! how thick it was—you couldn’t see your hand before your face! Pretty position for a bridegroom, eh? I thought I never should get through in time; I kept barging into trees and palings till—well, you know the rest, darling.”
“You poor boy! No wonder you looked half dead,” Grace commented. Somehow his vivacious narrative had relieved the tension, diverted her mind from the main tragedy. “But how very queer about the maestro—Signor Cacciola, I mean. I wonder if Winnie knows that poor Lady Rawson knew him? I don’t think she can, or she would certainly have said something about it.”
“Well, she was there. But you see now, don’t you, darling, why I am so reluctant to put the police on this? If her visits were innocent, why did she disguise herself? If they were not innocent—may I be forgiven if I wrong her—goodness knows what might come out, to add to poor Sir Robert’s distress. So I’m sure it’s best to do and say nothing, for the moment anyhow, except to ring up as I said I would.”
He returned in about twenty minutes, and found her at the writing-table.
“Thomson again. Sir Robert is going on fairly well, but is not allowed to see anyone but him, and the nurse, of course. He says he gave him my message, and he seemed very touched, and begged me not to dream of coming back, as I could do nothing; I offered to, you know——”
“Of course, dear,” Grace assented.
“And our plan holds? We’ll be off to St. Margaret’s?”
“Yes, oh, yes! let’s get away from here,” said Grace, with a quick little shiver, glancing round the room, where last night they had been so happy, but that had now become distasteful to her.
“All right, sweetheart. I’ll be off to see about a car.”
His quest was speedily successful, and within an hour they were on their way in a trim little two-seater.
They were still grave and subdued when they set forth, as was inevitable, but the shadow lifted from them, and their spirits rose as they sped on their way.
It was a glorious morning, more like April than November, for the gale had blown itself out during the night: the sun shone in a cloudless sky, the blue sea was flecked with dancing white wavelets, the keen, clear air exhilarating as champagne, and overhead larks soared to sing in heavenly chorus.
“Isn’t it a dear, quaint, up-and-down little place?” said Grace, as they neared the village and slowed down. “Oh, there’s the church! It’s very, very old, and so beautiful. Roger, I’d like to go in just for a few minutes.”
“Now?” he asked, in some surprise.
“Yes, if you don’t mind. We’ve lots of time.”
Of course he didn’t mind, though he did wonder; and, after he had lovingly watched her slender figure mount the steps and disappear through the churchyard, he backed the car into a by-way, hailed a village lad and bade him keep an eye on it, and then followed her.
She was kneeling, her face bowed on her hands in prayer.
He stood still, there at the back of the church, his own head bowed, his eyes fixed on that kneeling figure that was all the world to him; and as slow minutes passed the sacred peace of the hushed and holy place stole into his own soul.
Presently she rose and joined him, and hand in hand they went out silently into the sunshine. Her eyes were misty with tears, but her face was serene and beautiful as that of an angel.
“I felt I must go, Roger, just for the little while,” she whispered. “It was for her—for poor Lady Rawson. Some people say we should not pray for the dead, but—but if it is true, and it is, that souls live for ever, they may know—I believe they do—when we who are still here, think of them gently and lovingly, and it may comfort them! And I’m sure God loves us all, His poor erring human children, however sinful we are, and—and that He wants us to think lovingly of each other.”
Too moved for words, Roger could only look down at her with an almost adoring gaze. Dearly as he loved her, he had not realized as yet the spiritual strength and sweetness of her nature, so simple, so straightforward, and so steadfast.
He felt strangely humble, yet strangely happy, and from his own heart there went up a little silent prayer: “God make me worthy of her!”
“And now for dear old Miss Culpepper,” she announced almost gaily as they settled themselves in the car once more, and Roger dismissed the attendant lad with a generous tip. “Oh, I do hope we shall find her at home, and that she can put us up. Down the hill, Roger, and the first turning. I’ll tell you where to stop.”