Four Strange Women (7 page)

“Yes, sir,” said Bobby.

“Imitation, she told us,” mused the general. “Jolly good I thought.” '

“Yes, sir,” said Bobby again, as the other was looking full at him.

“Shouldn't have thought it artificial, the way it sparkled,” the general insisted. “Would you?”

“No, sir,” said Bobby.

“No business of ours you mean, eh?” observed the general. “Quite right. It isn't.” He turned to the colonel. Both men seemed more normal now. General Hannay was polishing his spectacles and blinking around like a benevolent grandparent, approving the younger generation. Colonel Glynne had helped himself to another cigar, his first having gone out and one of his pet beliefs being that a relighted cigar is unsmokable. The general went on:—“Better come clean, Glynne, as they say on the films. I like films,” he added thoughtfully; “the sillier they are and the worse they are, the more I like 'em. Only they are never so silly or so bad as life. Carry on, Glynne.”

The colonel seemed to have some difficulty in beginning. He said to Bobby:—

“Very likely you've guessed by now I felt I wanted help .I had a feeling—” He paused without completing the sentence or explaining what the feeling was. Then he said:— “Mr. Owen, I shall think none the worse of you if you consider you've been brought here on false pretences, that the job isn't what you expected, if you decline to have anything more to do with it—or us. I will let London know I fully understand and that you are entirely justified in refusing an appointment of which the conditions were wholly different from those you had been led to expect.”

“What conditions do you mean, sir?” Bobby asked.

Neither of them answered him. They looked at each other. General Hannay replaced his spectacles on his nose. He said in the mildest, most commonplace tone imaginable:—

“The powers of hell have broken loose and they are all about us.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bobby.

The colonel said again:—

“I shall think none the worse of you if you say you will take the first train back to town to-morrow morning.”

“I might think the worse of myself, sir,” said Bobby.

“Good lad,” said the general.

“Thank you,” said the colonel; though whether he spoke to Bobby or to Sir Harold, Bobby was not sure. “Well, then, to begin with, you can take what Darmoor told you as being pretty accurate. What he said is mostly what I meant to tell you myself.”

“Byatt was a nice lad,” General Hannay said. “I heard in a roundabout way that he was attracted by Hazel. They were about together a good deal. No objection on my side. He had a title, money, position. I liked what I saw of him. I dropped a hint to Hazel that I rather fancied myself as a grandpapa. Hazel only laughed. Said Byatt bored her stiff. It was fun at first, she said, but she was fed up and she was going to choke him off. Afterwards stories got about that he had committed suicide for Hazel's sake, and there was more talk when it came out that the famous Byatt sapphires were missing and there was only a paste duplicate at the bank. It had been made years before for Byatt's mother when she wanted to show off a bit but not to have the risk and worry of wearing the real things. It's a common dodge, of course. You had better know, too, that Byatt called at Higham's—the big Bond Street jeweller—with the genuine sapphires and wanted to know their present- day value. A lady was with him. He addressed her as Hazel. He referred to her as Miss Hannay. Higham's can give no satisfactory description of her. Probably they don't want to. They say they didn't notice her much, no reason why they should. It was the sapphires interested them and she was muffled up in a big fur coat with the collar turned up. She wore a veil, too. Sometimes the ladies—men, too—who go to Higham's don't want to be recognized, and Higham's aren't very keen on recognizing them, either. Saves trouble and better for business if they can say they don't know. By the way, the fur coat was good Persian lamb. Hazel has one. Hazel was never at Higham's or anywhere else with Byatt alone. I believe that because she says so and she's my daughter and I believe her. I have no proof to show you or any one else. Well?”

“I don't think I can make any useful comment, sir,” Bobby answered, even though he well understood what a depth of emotion lay beneath the old man's calm and level tones.

“There was nothing we could do,” the general continued. “We knew gossip was going on, but legal action would only have spread it further even if there had been anything we could get hold of. I suppose,” he added, blinking at Bobby, “you're thinking of alibis and clues and all that.”

“You've suggested some useful clues, sir,” Bobby answered. “I don't see where they lead. I don't see at the moment what to do. I'll try to get a full report of the inquest. It's not like being on the spot. The evidence and the witness are very different. Truth and lies look the same on paper, not in the eyes or on the face. Of course, identity is always important—I mean, establishing time and place.”

“Place is known all right but not the time—dead two or three weeks the doctors said, and that seemed as near as they could get,” the general told him. “Hazel is always rushing about from one tennis tournament to another. She was playing at Bath about that time. People don't forget that.”

“The place where Lord Byatt's body was found may be known, but it doesn't follow necessarily that the death took place there,” Bobby pointed out. “Probably it did but it might not. Miss Hannay is friendly with Lady May Grayson?”

“They were at school together.”

“Lord Henry Darmoor said that Mr. Andy White paid marked attentions to Lady May, that he was last seen in her company, that a girl is known to have visited the cottage he rented in Wales. She is said to have arrived on a motor-bicycle. Can I take that as accurate?”

“Yes,” said Colonel Glynne. “I made inquiries. Lady May has a motor-cycle she uses sometimes. It was given her by the manufacturers. She made excursions on it, got photographed at hotel doors and no bills to pay, published articles on week-end trips into the country someone else wrote and she signed.”

“Times change,” said the general. “In my young days, that sort of thing would have shocked people out of their lives. Now they think it smart. Hazel does. I suppose I'm old-fashioned. I don't like making money out of your social position. Hazel laughs. Men always did, she says, guinea pig directors and so on, so why shouldn't girls?”

“According to Lord Henry,” Bobby went on, “Mr. White bought an extremely valuable diamond necklace shortly before his death. Nothing is known as to what became of it. Can you tell me if that is generally known or talked about?”

“Not that I know of,” Sir Harold answered. “Do you, Glynne?”

The colonel shook his head and before all three of them rose a vision of Lady May's white and slender hand, on the middle finger a gem it was not easy to believe was only artificial.

The colonel said:—

“There's a Count Louis de Legett, well-to-do young fellow well known in London. It's a Holy Roman Empire title. The family say it was given an ancestor of theirs during the war of the Spanish Succession and that George I gave them permission to use it.”

He paused as if reluctant to continue. General Hannay said:—

“He's been running after Hazel. She was rather taken with him at first. Then she got the idea that he only wanted to flirt, and she turned him down. Apparently he is still trying to hang on. Apparently he has mentioned Hazel's name, told someone in confidence at the club he would marry her or no one. Hazel sticks to it he wasn't serious. It seems he talked about buying the Blue John diamond when it was put up at Christie's. Apparently that didn't come off.”

“Is it known,” asked Bobby, and his voice was heavy and troubled, “who did in fact buy the Blue John?”

“It was disposed of by private negotiation,” answered the colonel. ‘We have no grounds for making closer inquiry.”

“No,” agreed Bobby. “Is anything known about Count de Legett being fond of lonely cottages or long lonely motor rides or solitary trips in caravans?”

Both men shook their heads. Colonel Glynne said:—

“You are thinking of the Mr. Baird Darmoor spoke about. I have never met him, but Becky has done so several times at tennis tournaments and at friends'. She told me she had the idea he was following her about. She said she was deliberately rude to him once or twice but it made no difference. A few days ago he met her in Long Dene—that's a little place near the outskirts of Wychwood Forest. Becky goes to see her Aunt Agnes—my sister-in- law. Becky got the idea that Baird was there on purpose, that he knew about her coming and was waiting for her. He told her he was caravanning in the forest. He was odd in his behaviour—nervous. He asked her to have lunch with him. She refused, and went off. She thought it rather cheek. Once or twice he has sent her flowers or chocolates after tennis matches when she's come out on top. Now you say that according to Darmoor he is buying valuable jewellery and telling people he is in love with an unnamed girl.”

“It's like poison gas, impalpable, invisible, deadly,” Sir Harold broke out. “What can you do?”

“I think the first thing,” Bobby said slowly, “is to get in touch with this Mr. Baird. One could judge better after having had a talk with him.”

The telephone rang. Colonel Glynne answered it. He listened for a time. The message seemed a long one. Presently he put the receiver down and turned to them.

“That was a report from the inspector on duty,” he said. “A badly burnt-out caravan has been found in Wychwood Forest with a dead body inside it. Nothing to identify the body but it is known that a gentleman from London had a caravan thereabouts and had given his name as Baird.”

When he had said this Colonel Glynne lifted the receiver again.

“Carry on,” he said unemotionally. “I'll be with you as soon as possible.” He touched the bell. To Bobby he said:—

“You are taking it on? Good. Get your hat and coat.” A maid appeared. To her he said:— “Biddle having his supper? Tell him to get the big car round at once. Tell him, urgent. Quick as you can.” To Hannay he said:— “Will you tell the others?”

Hannay nodded and followed Bobby into the hall. Bobby went across to the small cloakroom where he had seen his hat and coat deposited. When he came out again the general was still there, his hand on the knob of the drawing-room door, and Bobby had the impression that he was afraid, that he dared not enter, that some dark, unknown terror held him in its grip. Bobby began to put on his coat. The general looked at him, and very plainly did Bobby see the fear in his eyes, those eyes that in other days had watched death draw near and been unafraid. He saw how Bobby was looking at him. With an effort he drew himself together, flung open the door and marched in rather than entered. So, Bobby thought, he might have looked and walked had he gone to offer to a triumphant enemy a shameful surrender. Colonel Glynne came from the study, crossed to the small cloakroom, came out again with his hat and coat. He nodded to Bobby to follow him. They stood outside, waiting for the car. The front door the colonel had been careful to close, opened. Becky came out. She said:—

“Why is General Hannay afraid?”

Colonel Glynne did not answer directly. He said:—

“They've rung me up from the office. I've got to get along.”

“What has happened?” Becky said again. “Why does General Hannay look like that?”

The arrival of the car gave her father an excuse for not answering. To her he said:— “Go back indoors, it's cold.” To Bobby he said:— “Jump in,” and to Biddle:— “Fast as you like.”

Becky said:—

“You're frightened, too.”

Then to Bobby's astonishment she laughed; if, at least, so harsh and bitter, even cruel a sound can be called by the kindly name of laughter. The colonel, as he was taking his place in the car, looked over his shoulder and said:—

“Don't let any one wait up for me.”

Biddle started the car. The light of the headlamps fell full on the girl as she stood there, heedless of her father's injunction to go back indoors, her light, yellowish hair making in the bright rays of the car lamps a kind of halo about her small and angry face. Bobby did not soon forget the impression she made as she stood there, the tragic intensity of her pose, the stamp of despair upon her features. As a lost soul turned from the closed door of Paradise she stood without her father's house and he saw her lift her arms in a gesture he did not understand but that had in it something of a wild abandonment. Then the light of the car lamps swung on and again the darkness took her.

“Does she know what's scaring her father and Hannay?” Bobby asked himself. “Is it frightening her, too?”

Biddle was obeying to the full the colonel's order to drive fast. At a reckless speed they swung along and, as Bobby guessed, by side roads that avoided traffic controls. They came into Midwych, the suburbs, first. At cross roads they had to wait a moment or two. Near by was a large public-house. At the door a woman was singing. One or two of those passing in or out gave her money. Bobby, deep in his own thoughts, would hardly have noticed a sight so common, so much too common, had he not happened to catch a word or two and recognized a modern version of Gruffudd ap Maredudd's famous lament for the death of Gwenhwyvar of Anglesey. Bobby's acquaintance with Welsh was small, merely the few words and phrases an old nurse had taught him, but he knew enough to recognize both the language and the song. An odd incident, he thought idly, and an odd choice of a song outside a public-house door in the English midlands. The car moved on and soon Biddle drew up. The colonel got out, telling Bobby to wait. He came back presently with a uniform man, a sergeant, who took his place beside Biddle. The colonel got in, too. The car started. The colonel said:—