ALONE
“Roger has been arrested for the murder of Lady Rawson.”
The words repeated themselves over and over in Grace Carling’s brain with maddening persistence, as she sat perfectly still and silent, her hands grasping the arms of the chair, her lips firmly set, her eyes gazing straight in front of her. But for those wide, tragic eyes she might have been a stone figure.
She could never afterwards clearly remember what happened in that brief half-hour—possibly less—before Roger was taken away, and she was left alone.
She had made no scene—that at least was something for which to be thankful; though when the detective said he wanted to speak to her husband alone, some strong instinct had forbidden her to go, and she had moved to Roger’s side, saying quite quietly:
“I don’t think you can have anything to say to my husband that I may not hear”; and, after a moment’s hesitation, Roger said:
“My wife is quite right; I have no secrets from her. What is your business with me?”
And then—and then—the shock came, or rather was intensified, for when she first saw these two men of ill-omen a strange, swift premonition told her what their errand was.
So when Snell—more embarrassed than he had ever before felt in the execution of his duty, and most anxious to get the difficult business over—bluntly pronounced his formula, and added the customary caution as to any statement made by his prisoner being liable to be used as evidence against him, she was scarcely conscious of surprise, only of intense indignation.
Roger had uttered a startled, horrified exclamation, and she involuntarily slipped her hand through his arm, not for support—that hand did not tremble, nor did she, but its pressure was eloquent.
Her slender figure drawn to its full height, her grey eyes fixed steadily on Snell, she spoke, coldly, deliberately, in a voice that sounded in her own ears like that of a stranger:
“How utterly preposterous. You have made a great, a terrible mistake.”
“Excuse me, madam; I have to do my duty. I would have spared you if I could, but you would stay, you know,” Snell protested, watching her as closely and relentlessly as she watched him, for the moment leaving Roger Carling to Evans, who had silently entered the room and taken up his position beside him.
Having had a good deal of experience with women under such circumstances, Snell fully expected a violent hysterical outburst, but, as he afterwards confided to his wife, he had never seen such marvellous self-possession as Mrs. Carling displayed.
“I never felt sorrier for anyone in my life, nor ever felt a greater respect for anyone. She was simply splendid! And it was rough on her, poor girl—on their honeymoon and all; and of course she had nothing in the world to do with the crime. And she loves him and believes in him utterly. Mark my words, she’ll believe in him to the very end, whatever that may be.”
“Perhaps he didn’t do it,” suggested Mrs. Snell.
“That’s to be proved at the trial,” said Snell. Not even to the wife of his bosom would he commit himself to any expression of opinion on the guilt or innocence of any prisoner. That was outside his duty.
And he was right. The control Grace imposed on herself, and that helped Roger to maintain his during the ordeal, was nothing less than heroic.
She announced her intention of accompanying them back to London, but accepted Snell’s decision that that was undesirable—in fact not permissible—and arranged to settle up and follow in the course of the day.
“When and where shall I see you, Roger?” she asked. “This—this dreadful mistake will be put right, of course, but I suppose it will be a few days at least—and till then?”
“That will be all right,” Snell interposed. “Mr. Carling’s solicitors will arrange everything, and you will be able to see him at any reasonable time for the present.”
“Thank you. Who are your solicitors, Roger?”
“The only firm I know anything about are Twinnings—Sir Robert’s solicitors, you know; but they’ve never done any business for me personally. I’ve never needed it. I’d better communicate with them. I suppose I shall have facility for that?” he added, glancing at Snell. “I don’t know anything about these things, or the procedure, myself.”
“You’ll have every facility,” Snell assured him. “But though I don’t want to hurry you, we must be getting off now—within ten minutes, in fact—and you’ll want to take some necessaries with you. Perhaps Mrs. Carling will put them together? I’m sorry, madam, but I must not lose sight of Mr. Carling. Duty’s duty!”
“I will fetch them,” she said, and exchanged a long, silent glance with Roger ere she left him. Still she would not—dare not—trust herself to think of anything but the task of the moment, and swiftly collected and packed in his bag all he would be likely to want—“only for a few days” she told herself, to sustain her courage—and returned to the parlour within the stipulated time.
Even when the moment of parting came, and she clung to him in a last embrace, she did not weep.
“Good-bye, my darling, till to-morrow,” he said in a hoarse, broken whisper. “It will be all right in a few days; try not to fret—to worry. Oh, my God, how hard it is!”
“I will be brave,” she whispered back—“brave as you are, my own, my beloved. God guard you, and show your innocence before all the world—soon!”
She stood in the porch and watched him, all her soul in her eyes, managed even to smile and waft a last kiss to him as he leaned forward for one final glimpse. Then, as the sound of the motor died away in the distance, she went back to the parlour and sat down, in dumb, stricken, tearless misery.
All the time little Miss Culpepper had fluttered about in a state of increasing agitation, peering out of the kitchen door at intervals, retreating swiftly when she feared she might be discovered, and keeping Cleopatra and her kittens from intruding on the colloquy. Now she fluttered in and out the parlour, looking wistfully and anxiously at that still figure in the chair, but not daring to speak to her. At last she could bear it no longer, but fell on her knees beside Grace, putting her thin old arms round her and crying: “Oh, my dear, my dear, don’t sit like that; you frighten me so! Say something, do something; tell me what’s the matter; let me do something to help! Oh, you’re as cold as ice—my poor darling!”
Grace shivered; she was indeed icy cold, though she had not been conscious of that or of anything else but those words that whirled round and round in her brain, and that now at last she uttered aloud with stiff, white lips.
“Roger has been arrested. They say he murdered Lady Rawson.”
Miss Culpepper uttered a shrill little scream.
“Oh, my dear child, how wicked, how positively supposterous. Not the murder, of course—no, no, I don’t mean that, it was wicked—but to say that dear young gentleman could have done such a thing—he to whom Cleopatra has taken as she has never taken to any human being of the sterner sex, not even to the Reverend Smithson, though he is such a learned man. And I trust Cleopatra’s common sense against all the judges and juries in the world! But, my darling girl, you must excuse me—I can’t help it—for you are a darling and so is your dear, handsome young husband—no wonder you are so distressed! But don’t sit like that! Weep, my love, weep; it will ease your poor heart! As for me, if I’d only known what those meridians of the law were after I’d—I’d let them have a piece of my mind! I’ll let them have it yet, that I will!”
She actually shook her small fists, in imagination threatening Snell and his fellow-“meridian” with physical violence; and so irresistibly comic did the staunch little creature appear that the tension in Grace’s overwrought brain snapped, and she laughed aloud—laughter that brought blessed tears—and for a time they just clung together and sobbed, till gradually she regained a measure of real composure, quite different from that frozen, unnatural calm she had forced herself to maintain.
She told Miss Culpepper as much of the circumstances as seemed necessary. It was a relief to do so now, and the old lady punctuated the recital with exclamations and comments.
“I saw something about a murder in those newspapers you lent me on Saturday,” she confessed; “but I really did not read it. I very seldom do read newspapers; they are so full of cunards in these days that one really does not know what to believe. And of course I never associated it with you two—how could I? And on your wedding day! Of course, I knew you were only just married; though I pretended I didn’t, as you didn’t tell me in so many words. And to think of the honeymoon ending like this!”
“It hasn’t ended,” said Grace. “Roger will be, he must be, released—soon; to-day, perhaps. But I must be up and doing—I must get back to Town by the next train; and I must go to the garage and see about having the car sent back to Dover.”
There were, indeed, many things to see to, and eagerly the old lady helped. Lovingly, while Grace had gone on her errand, she prepared a dainty meal, and stood over her, coaxing and insisting till she made a pretence at least of eating.
“I can’t bear to think of you travelling alone,” she declared. “I wish I could go with you, though it is many years since I went to London. But if I can be of any help, of any comfort, my dear, be sure to let me know and I will shut up the cottage and come to you at once. And there’s ‘Dear Brutus’—you won’t want to take him with you, of course, but the very moment you are ready for him I will send him up—a little present with my love, for I couldn’t think of selling him to you. He may be a little consommé, and bring you luck! Who knows?”
She wished she could have taken the old lady with her, but that was impossible. It was far more of a wrench to leave her and the cottage—that tiny abode of peace and love and goodwill where she and her beloved had had those three days of unalloyed happiness—than it had been to leave the home of her girlhood, whither she must now return, for to-day at least.
A horror of great loneliness came over her as she drove to the station, and she strove against it valiantly. She must put aside all selfish considerations, and be brave and calm—for Roger’s sake.
From the station she sent a wire to her mother, and one to Winnie Winston, giving the time of her arrival at Charing Cross.
There was no one to meet her, but she was not surprised; Winnie would probably be out when the wire was delivered; it was very unlikely that her mother would trouble to come to the station, and her father she knew was lecturing at Edinburgh this week.
The sight of the contents bills of the evening papers, all flaunting the news of Roger’s arrest, hurt her like a physical blow; but she could not obtain a copy of any paper; the next edition was due, and was evidently being eagerly awaited.
After a moment’s thought she decided to drive first to the solicitor Roger had mentioned, whose offices were in Westminster. There a fresh shock awaited her.
She was shown at once into the private room of the senior partner, Mr. Twining, who received her very kindly, with a grave attitude of pity that was somehow disconcerting, and her heart sank as she listened to what he had to say.
“Yes, Mr. Carling rang us up from—er—when he arrived in Town, and we immediately furnished him with the address of a most reliable firm, Messrs. Spedding and Straight, who, as we have since ascertained, have undertaken to arrange for his defence. It is, of course, absolutely impossible for us to do so, under the circumstances, as we are acting for Sir Robert Rawson.”
It flashed to her mind instantly what this meant, and she spoke impulsively.
“Mr. Twining, surely Sir Robert does not for a moment believe my husband is guilty of this—this awful thing?” He did not answer, and his eyes avoided her steady, searching gaze. “No one who really knows Roger could believe it for a moment,” she continued; “and Sir Robert knows and loves him: they have been almost like father and son!”
“Quite so; but this is a most painful and complicated matter. I cannot explain more fully, but you will realize in time that we could not come to any other decision. And I assure you, Mrs. Carling, that with Messrs. Spedding your husband’s defence will be in the best hands.”
“Will you give me their address? I will go to them now.”
“With pleasure. I will write it for you.”
He took a sheet of paper, wrote the address, and handed it to her, saying:
“But if you will be advised by me you will not go to them till to-morrow. It’s getting late now, and you cannot possibly learn anything or do anything to-night. In fact, their office will be closed. Good-bye, and please believe that I sympathize with you most deeply, and would gladly do anything in my power to help you,” he added, and himself escorted her through the clerks’ office and to the waiting cab.
He was sorry for her—would help her if he could, but not Roger! He, too, like Sir Robert, believed him guilty. She knew it as if he had said so openly.
“When you see anyone selling evening papers, stop, I want one,” she instructed the cab-driver, and at the next corner he pulled up for the purpose.
It was the final edition with half the front page occupied by the latest news of the “Rawson Murder Mystery,” which included a brief account of Roger’s arrest, and also the full story of the secret service papers that had been stolen and restored, very much as Roger had narrated it to her, with no hint as to the actual contents of the papers, merely stating that they were of great international importance; but with the account of Lady Rawson’s visit to Rivercourt Mansions, and some picturesque notes on Cacciola and his Russian protégé.
What was it Roger had said the other day when he broke the news to her? That it was far more important that all information about those papers should be suppressed than that the murderer of Lady Rawson should be traced. Then who could have divulged the secret, given it to the Press?
She could scarcely believe her eyes as she saw a subheading—“Interview with Sir Robert Rawson”—over a few brief paragraphs revealing the astounding fact that Sir Robert himself had authorized and endorsed the publication!
She was still brooding painfully over this revelation when she reached her destination—the big, comfortable suburban house she had left as a bride such a few days before, that now seemed like a lifetime.
The trim maid who opened the door uttered a little compassionate exclamation.
“Oh, miss—I mean, ma’am—isn’t it dreadful? And how ill you look! Madam’s in the drawing-room. Shall I pay the cab?”
“No. Ask him to wait,” said Grace, though why she said so she did not know.
She went swiftly through the hall, entered the drawing-room, and closed the door behind her.
Her mother was seated by the fire—a remarkably pretty woman, with fair hair and turquoise-blue eyes, who looked younger than her daughter to-day, for Grace, white checked and hollow eyed, had aged visibly during these terrible hours.
“Mother!” she said piteously.
Mrs. Armitage rose, throwing down the newspaper she had been absorbed in—an earlier edition of the one Grace still clutched—and came towards her daughter.
Her pretty, pink-and-white face wore a most peevish, disagreeable expression, and there was no trace of sympathy in her hard, blue eyes.
“So you’ve got here, Grace. I had your wire, but I simply couldn’t come to meet you. I was too terribly upset, and your father’s away. What an awful disgrace for us all. Roger must have been mad—raving mad!”
Grace threw up her hand, as if to ward off a blow.
“Mother!” she cried, “what do you mean? You don’t—you can’t think that my Roger is a——”
She could not bring herself to utter the word. But Mrs. Armitage could.
“A murderer! Of course he is. There’s not a shadow of doubt about it. He knew poor Lady Rawson had those wretched papers, and followed and stabbed her as he couldn’t get them any other way; and then had the nerve to come on and be married to you—to my daughter! No wonder he was so late, and looked so disreputable. I never liked him, I never trusted him—you know I didn’t; but I never dreamed that he was capable of such a horrible thing. As I say, he must have been mad, but that doesn’t make it any better for us; and what on earth we are to do I don’t know! If only——”
“Stop!” cried Grace, so imperatively that Mrs. Armitage recoiled. “If you or anyone else say my husband committed this murder you lie!”
The elder woman’s blue eyes flashed, her voice rang out shrilly.
“How dare you speak to me like that! I say he did do it; and he’ll hang for it—and serve him right for disgracing you and your family. Where are you going?”
“Out of this house,” said Grace, and stumbled into the hall, where the maid lingered by the open outer door, stumbled blindly forward and almost fell into the arms of Winnie Winston, who arrived, breathless, on the doorstep.
“Grace! Oh, my darling girl! I got the wire too late to meet you, so rushed on here!”
Grace clutched her, searched her face with anguished eyes.
“Winnie, tell me the truth. You don’t believe my Roger did—it?”
“Believe it? I should think not, indeed! Who could believe it who knows him?” said Winnie staunchly.
“God bless you for that, Winnie,” cried Grace brokenly. “Oh, my dear, take me out of this—anywhere, anywhere!”