The Terriford Mystery/Chapter 21
CHAPTER XXI
TO JEAN BOWER it was an extraordinary stroke of good fortune that to-day, for the first time for many weeks, Dr. Maclean had persuaded his wife to accept an invitation to luncheon. Thanks to that circumstance, the overwrought girl was able to go back to Bonnie Doon, pack a small bag containing the clothes she felt she must take with her, write a short note to the kind folk to whom she stood in so curious a relation, and, finally, enjoy a comforting talk with Elsie McTaggart.
Somehow she now felt much more at ease with Elsie than with either her uncle or aunt. Elsie was a whole-hearted believer in Harry Garlett's innocence, and a believer, too, that he was sure to come out, as she put it, “all richt.” So it was that at the very last moment before quitting Bonnie Doon, she knew not for how long, Jean went into the kitchen and took tight hold of Elsie's work-worn hand.
“I'm going away, Elsie,” she said, “in order to do something that may help Mr. Garlett. I can't say more, and if I did they wouldn't approve.”
The girl continued, somewhat bitterly: “They've wanted me to go away—they've longed for me to go away! Well, now I am going away. I don't know for how long. Here's a note in which I've given an address where I can be written to, and of course I'll let them know how I am, now and again.”
Then as she heard the sound of a motor, the colour rushed to her face.
“They can't be back yet,” she exclaimed in a dismayed tone.
Elsie smiled. “That's the machine I just telephoned for to Grendon. You were never going to walk to the station? That would have been a foolish thing to do when maybe you've some hard days in front of you.”
Jean took Elsie in her arms and hugged her. Then she kissed her on both cheeks. “Good-bye, Elsie, I know that you wish me well.”
“Ay, indeed. I'll be doing that.”
And so, very quietly and without consulting anybody, Jean Bower started on what was to be her great adventure. It was such a comfort to feel that to Rachel North, at least, she owed no explanations that she did not choose to give, no duty of any sort, only gratitude for present kindness done. It was also soothing to know that in London she would be but one of millions of people intent on their own business and not on hers. How different from a place where she could hardly walk a few steps in the daylight without knowing that even the village children were pointing her out to each other!
Cuthbert Street, Belgravia? The address sounded grand to her country ears. But she knew that Rachel North in far-away days had had a large circle of friends. Perhaps it was some kindly survivor of those distant days who had lent her a flat.
On and on her taxi took her, through the dark streets, for it was a late Saturday afternoon, and to Jean, looking out of the windows, the long dreary streets seemed to grow shabbier and shabbier.
At last it turned into a thoroughfare which seemed interminable, and of which the houses had that depressing, almost terrible, look of having seen better days. The plaster was peeling off the stucco walls, and here and there a window was broken. There was a look of indescribable grime and dirt, even on the pavements.
At last the driver drew up opposite the very last house in the street, one that overlooked a railway bridge.
“I reckon it's here,” he said looking round dubiously.
Jean told herself that there must be some mistake. The house looked even more forlorn than did its neighbours, and while she was glancing up at the gray crusted walls and dirty windows, she heard the shriek of a train, and a moment later there came a deafening roar.
“Come, miss! This is 200, Cuthbert Street, right enough. You give me my fare, and let me go off,” said the man rather roughly. “I'm on another job in a few minutes, and this is such an out-of-the-way part.”
She paid him the big sum marked on the taximeter, took her hold-all out of the cab, and with a slight sensation of fear, as well as of deep surprise, she pressed the top one of the four knobs which seemed to indicate that the house had four occupiers.
For what seemed a considerable while nothing happened; and she pressed the second knob. Then, at last, a slatternly-looking woman opened the door and looked at her disagreeably.
“You're not wanting Mrs. Stratford?” she asked.
“Does Miss Rachel North live here? I've come to stay with her,” said Jean, trembling a little.
“As I've had the trouble of opening the door to you, you can walk up. It's the top floor. But you'd no business to press my bell.”
“I'm sorry,” faltered Jean.
“We're not allowed to put our names outside the door. And it's a shame, that it is! I'm always coming up from my basement just to open the door to some other lady's visitors.”
The woman turned round, leaving the front door open. Jean shut it, and began slowly walking up the narrow dark staircase. The house looked more than dirty; it looked degraded.
On and on she went, past frowsy-looking landings, till she reached the top floor. There—a change indeed! A piece of linoleum, scrupulously clean, was on the landing, and, as she moved cautiously forward and knocked on the door opposite the top of the staircase, a voice which had once been very familiar, called out: “Come in!”
She turned the handle, and saw before her a plainly furnished, but pleasant little sitting room, and a girl who she knew was Rachel North, rose from a low chair by the fire, and came forward.
“Why, Jean, I didn't expect you for another hour! I looked out the trains from Grendon. You must have come by a slow one.”
“I did,” she answered rather breathlessly. “I was in such a hurry to get away.”
“I know—to get busy,” said the other nodding her head.
She was a reserved girl, and she did not kiss Jean Bower. Instead, she took both her visitor's hands, held them firmly, and gazed into her face.
“I won't say much,” she exclaimed. “But I should like you to know that I do understand what you are feeling, what you are going through, and I'll do everything in my power to help you. You know I'm engaged all day. I'm so glad to-day happened to be a Saturday. But for that I shouldn't have got your telegram until after you'd arrived in London!”
And then she drew Jean toward the bright little fire.
“It isn't a bad place,” she said critically, “once one's up here. The rest of the house is filthy.”
She took Jean's hold-all. “Is this all you've brought?”
“Yes,” said Jean, and there crept a tone of defiance into her voice. “I think I may as well tell you at once why I've come to London. I'm going to take a place on Monday as general servant in a house where some one lives who, I believe might help, if she chose to do so, to prove Harry's innocence.”
“I see,” said Rachel North slowly, “a bit of detective work? Knowing how sensible you used to be, I suppose that you're acting under advice, eh?”
“Not altogether—but yes, I think I may say I'm acting under advice. Perhaps I ought to go out now and get clothes of the kind needed for that sort of work?”
There came a troubled look into her face, and the older girl felt touched, even a little amused.
“Don't you worry about clothes,” she exclaimed. “I came very low down in the world at one time, and I've kept the things I wore then. They're awfully shabby, but they're quite clean. I don't quite know why I kept them—it was a sort of superstitious feeling. I felt that if I gave them away, I might want them again. But now, well, my dear, you know I've all sorts of queer ideas—now I think I was probably intended to keep them that I might help you!”
That this question should be settled so easily and so well was more of a relief than perhaps Jean would have admitted even to herself. She had given the matter of her outfit for 106, Coburg Square, a good deal of anxious thought on her railway journey. She realized that the whole of her scheme would fail if the woman to whose employment she was going suspected that she was playing a part. She was too sensible to suppose that she would be able to pass herself off as a simple country girl of the working class, but she did hope that she would be able to make her employer believe that she was out to earn an honest living, in however humble a capacity.
And then, after they had enjoyed their cold supper, and while Jean was lying back in an extraordinarily comfortable couch which yet looked oddly big for the little room, her friend exclaimed:
“Perhaps I'd better tell you now that you're really on what's going to be your bed. I've thought it over, and though I should have been delighted to give you my bedroom and to have slept in here, I somehow felt that you'd far rather sleep here and leave me my bedroom, eh?”
“Indeed, indeed, I would!” exclaimed Jean.
“I know,” the other nodded. “I once went to stay with a friend, and I can't tell you what I felt when I discovered the next day that she had turned out of her room and slept in the kitchen!”
Jean Bower awoke to find her friend smiling down at her. There was a cup of tea in her hand.
“Now then, you just drink this up. Then I'll light the fire, and after I've done that I'll bring you those clothes I told you about. I've just had a look at them. They're old-fashioned and ugly, but I don't know that that really matters. After all, your object is to look the part”
Jean sat up and drank the tea thirstily. Oh! how restful to be here with this quiet, reserved young woman who, while obviously sympathizing with her, was not in the least inquisitive.
She caught Rachel North's hand and pulled her down.
“You know I'm grateful to you, without my saying so,” she whispered. “I shall never forget how good you've been!”
“I've not been more good to you than two or three people were to me, in my deep trouble. But I took my trouble in a way I hope you will never do, Jean,” replied the other girl. “I cut myself off from everybody after my father's death. I was wrong in that—I see it now. But I was so unhappy”—her face altered, it became convulsed with feeling, and she turned quickly away, busying herself in making and lighting the fire.
Then she went off into her room and came back with a curious little heap of garments in her arms. There was a brown serge coat and skirt—the skirt unfashionably full, while the coat was short and skimpy. Then there were two clean, washed-out-looking flannel blouses.
“This, I take it, is the sort of thing you want? But I strongly advise you to buy some thick woollen underwear. After all, the woman won't see what you're wearing underneath your coat and skirt.”
“How clever you are, Rachel. I should never have thought of that,” said Jean admiringly.
“You don't want to go and fall ill the first day you're there. Especially as you'll have need of an alert mind. I'm afraid you'll have very nasty food.”
“I don't mind that,” said Jean quickly.
“Oh, don't you? Well, you wait a bit. It's easy to talk like that! I've come to think that nice food is one of the most important things in the world. If I were you I should take some malted milk, or cod liver oil and malt, in your trunk.”
“Trunk?” queried Jean doubtfully.
“A good, big, deep suit-case rather than a wooden box. The woman who's going to employ you won't think your bringing such a thing queer at all. In fact, I think she'd think it odd if you came with practically nothing but a hold-all.”
“I suppose that's true,” said Jean. “All right—I put myself in your hands. You shall tell me what to do!”
Rachel North smiled. She was one of those women who love power, and, given the chance, exercise it wisely.
“If you don't mind getting up a bit early on Monday morning there's a place close by here, a great big cheap store, where all the working girls go. We'll get some kind of suit-case there, and we'll buy two sets of their best warm underclothing. If your employer should see them by any chance you can say they were given you by a kind lady!”
And then they both burst into peals of girlish laughter. Jean had not laughed so heartily as that for many a long day.
“By the way, have you chosen a good name to call yourself by?”
“I'm going as 'Elizabeth Chart,' my mother's maiden name,” and the laughter died out of her eyes.
Suddenly Rachel said, “I must go out and get my Sunday papers. When one is leading a lonely life one does depend tremendously on reading, and, I'm not ashamed to say it, on newspaper reading. Papers are my only luxury, and on Sundays I have a regular debauch!”
Jean was staring into the fire.
“I suppose you've read everything that's been printed about, about”—and then she said rather defiantly—“about Harry and me? I know there must have been horrid things, for Uncle Jock made me promise not to look at the papers—not even at the paper they take in at Bonnie Doon.”
“Yes,” said Rachel North reluctantly, “I have seen a good deal about you, Jean. But everything so far about you has been kind.”
And then Jean jumped up from her chair.
“I hate that!” she exclaimed. “I'd far rather they said horrible things—as I know they do about Harry.”
“They have to be careful,” said Rachel North in a detached tone. “No paper is allowed to prejudge a case.”
“Yet they do prejudge it!” exclaimed Jean Brower excitedly.
“Well, yes, in a sense I'm afraid they do.”
When Rachel North came back she handed the bundle of papers to Jean, and began bustling in and out of her tiny kitchen getting dinner ready—a delicate little bit of undercut which was to be served French fashion with fried potatoes and some salad.
Jean began looking at one of the papers listlessly. Then all at once she realized that in the middle of the big sheet was a square space, and within it, running ribbon-wise across the top ran:
THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY
AN EXCITING DEVELOPMENT
Exclusive to The Sunday Critic
- The Sunday Critic learns on absolutely reliable authority that the prosecution believe that they are at last on the track of the one missing link in The Terriford Mystery.
- That Mrs. Emily Garlett died from a large dose of white arsenic is certain, but till two days ago there was no clue as to where the murderer, the murderess, or the murderers, had obtained the poison. This doubt, so we are credibly informed, is on the point of being solved. The discovery has not changed the present situation, and no further arrests are contemplated.
Jean read the paragraph again and again. Then she called out, “Rachel, come here, and tell me what this means?”
Rachel North hurried into the room. She knelt down by £he girl's side and read the paragraph.
“It means,” she said in a quiet, matter-of-fact voice, “that if this paper is to be believed the prosecution have found where the arsenic was purchased. The implication is that it was purchased by Mr. Garlett; hence those words, 'The situation is unchanged. No further arrests are contemplated.'”
And then something happened which, though it terrified Rachel North, gave a few moments of merciful oblivion to Jean Bower. The supple, rounded figure, full of the strength of living life, suddenly sagged. She would have fallen on the floor had not the other caught hold of her. But Rachel North's hospital training stood her in good stead. She laid the unconscious form flat on the floor, and rushing off to her bedroom, came back with some sal-volatile which she forced through Jean's lips. And at last, with a low moan the girl regained consciousness.
After a few moments she struggled up on to her knees. Then she looked round her, dazed, forgetting where she was, and what had happened. But all too soon everything rushed back into her mind.
Painfully she lifted herself up again on to the chair.
“I want to read that paragraph again,” she said in a trembling voice. “I want to understand exactly what it means.”
“I don't think you will be able to do that, dear. It's put in that odd, uncertain way on purpose; but honestly, Jean, I don't think you need attach much importance to it!”
And then, for the first time since her arrival, Jean Bower had a heart-to-heart talk with Rachel North over the whole mysterious story. They discussed every alternative possibility, and, as so often happens, Jean began to feel happier, more self-controlled, as a result of that long talk. One thing which greatly comforted her was that after hearing all she had to say Rachel North suddenly exclaimed:
“I think I was wrong as to what I said to you—I mean as to the prosecution having found the place where Mr. Garlett may have purchased arsenic. What I think has happened is that they have found something in the Thatched House from which arsenic can be extracted. Now apparently arsenic can be extracted from almost anything! That being so, it would be strange indeed if nothing of the sort had been found.”
“That's true,” said Jean, “and yet”—her face clouded over—“and yet, Rachel, they've left no stone unturned—one might almost say that literally—to find arsenic in the Thatched House.”
Rachel North took her friend's hand. “You will want all your wits about you during this experiment that you are going to try. If you allow yourself to be unnerved by what has been published by that paper then I'm afraid you'll injure your chance of success. From all you tell me, I agree with you that that woman Agatha Cheale knows far more than she has chosen to tell. Her behaviour after Mr. Garlett was committed for trial—I mean her behaviour in coming down to see Miss Prince—is to my mind almost an indication that she knows something she is unwilling to reveal. Now I wonder—perhaps you'll be shocked at what I'm going to say, Jean—I wonder if Miss Cheale—well, to put it plainly, was fond of Mr. Garlett?”
Jean looked at Rachel.
“Yes,” she said slowly, “I'm afraid Miss Cheale did care for Harry, and it's because I can't help suspecting that she had something to do with the writing of those anonymous letters that I'm going to the house where she is living. She's only seen me twice in her life. I feel sure she won't know me again, and, as I've already told you, Sir Harold Anstey thinks it is all-important that I should find out who wrote those letters.”
“I agree,” said Rachel quickly. “Whoever wrote those letters was either instigated by the most fiendish spite, and simply wanted to make Mr. Garlett miserable for nothing, or else he or she must have known that if an exhumation should take place arsenic would certainly be found in Mrs. Garlett's body.”
“I think Agatha Cheale wrote those letters to make Harry wretched—to punish him for not having loved her. If I thought she knew Mrs. Garlett was poisoned, then I should regard her as” she broke off in what she was going to say, and the other exclaimed, “A—murderess? Yes, that's the only logical conclusion!”