The 'Phone Booth Mystery by John Ironside - HTML preview

CHAPTER XXVII

INTO THE LIGHT

At Argeles in the Pyrenées—where already the sheltered valleys were glorious with spring blossoms, where the snow mountains shone dazzling under the strong sunshine against the deep blue of the sky, and the air was exhilarating as champagne—Roger and Grace Carling finished and prolonged the honeymoon that had been so tragically interrupted.

They left England as soon as possible after Roger’s release, which created even more sensation than his trial and condemnation had done, and here in this idyllic retreat, where they were quite unknown, these two lovers, who had gone together through the very valley of the shadow of death, in which all seemed lost, save love, rejoiced in the sunshine, and in each other, restored as if by a miracle to life and hope and youth.

Miss Culpepper, at her own desire, remained in charge of the little flat until they should return. The staunch little woman’s joy at Roger’s vindication—“vitiation” was her word for it—was very little affected by the knowledge that Thomson was the criminal; in fact, she accepted it quite philosophically.

“It’s terrible to think James should have done such a deed, but I don’t think I am really surprised after all. I saw a great change in him when he came here on Christmas day, as I think I told you, my dear. It was something—oh, I don’t know how to describe it in English—something mécompte—that means sinister, you know—that I didn’t like at all. I shall never again wear that brooch he gave me!”

The day before they left England Roger had a message from Sir Robert, begging him to go to see him. He did so and found the old man still in bed, very frail and broken.

“Can you ever forgive me, Roger?” he asked piteously, clinging to Roger’s hands and searching his worn face with anxious, haggard eyes.

“There’s nothing to forgive, sir. Things looked so very black against me, it was only natural that you should have thought as you did; and I know how that belief must have added to your grief and distress.”

“I shall never forgive myself. I ought to have known you better, my boy. And to think that it should have been Thomson, of all people in the world—after all these years I have trusted him! Well, well, it’s a strange and terrible world; but I shall soon be done with it. I shall never see you again, Roger; but while I do last—I hope it won’t be many weeks—you’ll never be out of my mind. You’ll come back, with your dear young wife—ask her to forgive me too—and take up your career. It will be a brilliant one. I think I’ve been able to ensure that you will have your chance, and I know how great your abilities are! Have you seen Warrington yet?”

“Yes, I’ve just come from him. He was kindness itself, and has offered me an excellent post; I am to take up my duties after Easter. He told me what you said about me, Sir Robert. It was very good of you!”

“Good! It was the bare truth, and the very least I could do to make some amends. I shall make more amends, as you’ll know in time, Roger. Good-bye, my dear boy, good-bye. In time perhaps—Time is always the great healer—you will be able to forget as well as to forgive!”

Roger never saw him again. Next week news of his death reached them at Argeles, and later tidings that he had bequeathed to them both ten thousand pounds, and to Roger the greater part of his superb library.

Towards the end of Easter week, Austin and Winnie unexpectedly turned up at Argeles, also on their honeymoon, having been quietly married on the previous Tuesday. “Nobody there but George, and a dear fat old pew-opener,” Winnie announced gleefully. “And we decided we must come and have a peep at you two. Can’t we all go back together next week as far as Paris? Then we’re off to the States, via Havre.”

“That’s so, but only for a few months. We shall come back to London in the fall,” said Austin. “Say, Roger, have you seen any New York papers?”

“Not I, and very few others. We’ve almost forgotten, here, that the Press exists!”

“I guess so. But you may be interested to hear that Cacciola’s first concert—Melikoff’s début—was an immense success. Melikoff got right there—a regular furore; the critics are just about raving over him and Miss Maddelena—or Mrs. Melikoff as I suppose she is by this time, for they’re to be married this week. Won’t she mother him—some; keep a tight hand over him, too, I guess.”

Later, when Austin and he were alone together, Roger asked for news of Thomson.

“I meant to tell you, though not while Grace was here. You know he was certified as insane and unable to plead, and so was consigned to Broadmoor?”

Roger nodded.

“Well, I got permission to go and see him last week. He’s mad, right enough, but only on the one point, that he seems to have forgotten everything about the murder, and thinks he is still in Sir Robert’s service; but on every other point he appears as sane as you or me. He’s a model prisoner, gives no trouble, and devotes himself to a fellow-criminal—patient I suppose one might say—whom he believes to be Sir Robert, an old man who really does resemble him, white beard and all. He waits on him hand and foot, and they tell me he’s always miserable when he’s out of his sight! He knew me well enough and seemed glad to see me.

“‘I take it very kind of you to come, Mr. Starr,’ he said. ‘We’re fairly comfortable here, though it’s not what Sir Robert has been used to, of course; but he’s much better—very much better. May I ask if you’ve seen Mr. Carling lately?’

“I said I hadn’t—that you and Mrs. Carling were abroad, but I should probably be seeing you soon, and he answered:

“‘If you do, sir, perhaps you’ll give them my best respects and good wishes. A very nice gentleman is Mr. Carling. My master misses him greatly and will be glad to see him back.’

“Then he said something that I couldn’t make sense of; perhaps you can? Would I ask Mrs. Carling to tell little Maria that he did write to her more than once, and she never answered, so that it really wasn’t his fault. Do you know what he meant?”

“Yes. Grace told me. Maria’s our little Miss Culpepper. They were in service together, and more or less in love with each other years ago, but somehow drifted apart and only met the day old Thomson came round and insisted on lending five hundred pounds of his savings for my defence. Oh, of course that’s news to you; I forgot he enjoined Grace to secrecy.”

“He did that! Well, he’s the most extraordinary case I’ve ever struck! I wonder whether he really is mad, or only consummately clever? Anyhow, I’m convinced that when he killed Lady Rawson he did it with no more animus—and no more compunction—than I’d kill a ’squito!”

Roger made a warning gesture.

“Hush, here are the girls. Don’t speak of him before Grace!”

*         *         *         *         *         *         *

Later from the balcony he and Grace watched these two loyal friends go down the road to their hotel, and stood there long after the sound of their footsteps had died away. Roger’s arm was round his wife, her dear head rested on his shoulder.

It was a beautiful evening, with a full moon flooding the valley and the towering snow mountains beyond with almost unearthly radiance, and no sound but the murmur of the river and the light breeze stirring the young leaves and white “candles” of the chestnuts.

London and the great busy world—all the tragedies and the shadows of the past—seemed very far away!

THE END