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- Herausgeber: Dean Street Press
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
"A crime of a peculiarly mysterious nature was perpetrated some time last night in a block of flats called Abbey Court." Lady Judith Carew acted furtively on the night of the Denboroughs' party. Her secret assignation at 9:30pm was a meeting to which she took a loaded revolver. The Abbey Court apartment building would play host to violent death that very night, under cover of darkness. The killer's identity remained a mystery, though Lady Carew had a most compelling motive - and her revolver was left in the dead man's flat… Enter the tenacious Inspector Furnival in the first of his golden age mysteries, first published in 1923. Though there are many clues, there are just as many red herrings and the case takes numerous Christie-esque twists before the murderer can be revealed. This new edition, the first printed in over 80 years, features an introduction from crime fiction historian Curtis Evans. "Annie Haynes does, in The Abbey Court Murder, what all writers of mystery stories aspire to do, and so few carry off successfully… It is a first-rate story… the plot thickens with every page, leading us on to the final climax in a state of unfluctuating interest." Bookman
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015
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ANNIE HAYNESThe Abbey Court Murder
“A crime of a peculiarly mysterious nature was perpetrated some time last night in a block of flats called Abbey Court.”
Lady Judith Carew acted furtively on the night of the Denboroughs’ party. Her secret assignation at 9:30pm was a meeting to which she took a loaded revolver. The Abbey Court apartment building would play host to violent death that very night, under cover of darkness. The killer’s identity remained a mystery, though Lady Carew had a most compelling motive – and her revolver was left in the dead man’s flat…
Enter the tenacious Inspector Furnival in the first of his golden age mysteries, originally published in 1923. Though there are many clues, there are just as many red herrings and the case takes numerous Christie-esque twists before the murderer can be revealed. This new edition, the first printed in over 80 years, features an introduction from crime fiction historian Curtis Evans.
“Annie Haynes does, in The Abbey Court Murder, what all writers of mystery stories aspire to do, and so few carry off successfully… It is a first-rate story… the plot thickens with every page, leading us on to the final climax in a state of unfluctuating interest.” Bookman
TO DEAR
MRS. W.K. CLIFFORD
IN DEEP AFFECTION
AND PROFOUND ADMIRATION FOR HER WORK
Contents
The Mystery of the Missing Author Annie Haynes and Her Golden Age Detective Fiction
The psychological enigma of Agatha Christie’s notorious 1926 vanishing has continued to intrigue Golden Age mystery fans to the present day. The Queen of Crime’s eleven-day disappearing act is nothing, however, compared to the decades-long disappearance, in terms of public awareness, of between-the-wars mystery writer Annie Haynes (1865-1929), author of a series of detective novels published between 1923 and 1930 by Agatha Christie’s original English publisher, The Bodley Head. Haynes’s books went out of print in the early Thirties, not long after her death in 1929, and her reputation among classic detective fiction readers, high in her lifetime, did not so much decline as dematerialize. When, in 2013, I first wrote a piece about Annie Haynes’ work, I knew of only two other living persons besides myself who had read any of her books. Happily, Dean Street Press once again has come to the rescue of classic mystery fans seeking genre gems from the Golden Age, and is republishing all Haynes’ mystery novels. Now that her crime fiction is coming back into print, the question naturally arises: Who Was Annie Haynes? Solving the mystery of this forgotten author’s lost life has taken leg work by literary sleuths on two continents (my thanks for their assistance to Carl Woodings and Peter Harris).
Until recent research uncovered new information about Annie Haynes, almost nothing about her was publicly known besides the fact of her authorship of twelve mysteries during the Golden Age of detective fiction. Now we know that she led an altogether intriguing life, too soon cut short by disability and death, which took her from the isolation of the rural English Midlands in the nineteenth century to the cultural high life of Edwardian London. Haynes was born in 1865 in the Leicestershire town of Ashby-de-la-Zouch, the first child of ironmonger Edwin Haynes and Jane (Henderson) Haynes, daughter of Montgomery Henderson, longtime superintendent of the gardens at nearby Coleorton Hall, seat of the Beaumont baronets. After her father left his family, young Annie resided with her grandparents at the gardener’s cottage at Coleorton Hall, along with her mother and younger brother. Here Annie doubtlessly obtained an acquaintance with the ways of the country gentry that would serve her well in her career as a genre fiction writer.
We currently know nothing else of Annie Haynes’ life in Leicestershire, where she still resided (with her mother) in 1901, but by 1908, when Haynes was in her early forties, she was living in London with Ada Heather-Bigg (1855-1944) at the Heather-Bigg family home, located halfway between Paddington Station and Hyde Park at 14 Radnor Place, London. One of three daughters of Henry Heather-Bigg, a noted pioneer in the development of orthopedics and artificial limbs, Ada Heather-Bigg was a prominent Victorian and Edwardian era feminist and social reformer. In the 1911 British census entry for 14 Radnor Place, Heather-Bigg, a “philanthropist and journalist,” is listed as the head of the household and Annie Haynes, a “novelist,” as a “visitor,” but in fact Haynes would remain there with Ada Heather-Bigg until Haynes’ death in 1929.
Haynes’ relationship with Ada Heather-Bigg introduced the aspiring author to important social sets in England’s great metropolis. Though not a novelist herself, Heather-Bigg was an important figure in the city’s intellectual milieu, a well-connected feminist activist of great energy and passion who believed strongly in the idea of women attaining economic independence through remunerative employment. With Ada Heather-Bigg behind her, Annie Haynes’s writing career had powerful backing indeed. Although in the 1911 census Heather-Bigg listed Haynes’ occupation as “novelist,” it appears that Haynes did not publish any novels in book form prior to 1923, the year that saw the appearance of The Bungalow Mystery, which Haynes dedicated to Heather-Bigg. However, Haynes was a prolific producer of newspaper serial novels during the second decade of the twentieth century, penning such works as Lady Carew’s Secret, Footprints of Fate, A Pawn of Chance, The Manor Tragedy and many others.
Haynes’ twelve Golden Age mystery novels, which appeared in a tremendous burst of creative endeavor between 1923 and 1930, like the author’s serial novels retain, in stripped-down form, the emotionally heady air of the nineteenth-century triple-decker sensation novel, with genteel settings, shocking secrets, stormy passions and eternal love all at the fore, yet they also have the fleetness of Jazz Age detective fiction. Both in their social milieu and narrative pace Annie Haynes’ detective novels bear considerable resemblance to contemporary works by Agatha Christie; and it is interesting to note in this regard that Annie Haynes and Agatha Christie were the only female mystery writers published by The Bodley Head, one of the more notable English mystery imprints in the early Golden Age. “A very remarkable feature of recent detective fiction,” observed the Illustrated London News in 1923, “is the skill displayed by women in this branch of story-telling. Isabel Ostrander, Carolyn Wells, Annie Haynes and last, but very far from least, Agatha Christie, are contesting the laurels of Sherlock Holmes’ creator with a great spirit, ingenuity and success.” Since Ostrander and Wells were American authors, this left Annie Haynes, in the estimation of the Illustrated London News, as the main British female competitor to Agatha Christie. (Dorothy L. Sayers, who, like Haynes, published her debut mystery novel in 1923, goes unmentioned.) Similarly, in 1925 The Sketch wryly noted that “[t]ired men, trotting home at the end of an imperfect day, have been known to pop into the library and ask for an Annie Haynes. They have not made a mistake in the street number. It is not a cocktail they are asking for….”
Twenties critical opinion adjudged that Annie Haynes’ criminous concoctions held appeal not only for puzzle fiends impressed with the “considerable craftsmanship” of their plots (quoting from the Sunday Times review of The Bungalow Mystery), but also for more general readers attracted to their purely literary qualities. “Not only a crime story of merit, but also a novel which will interest readers to whom mystery for its own sake has little appeal,” avowed The Nation of Haynes’ The Secret of Greylands, while the New Statesman declared of The Witness on the Roof that “Miss Haynes has a sense of character; her people are vivid and not the usual puppets of detective fiction.” Similarly, the Bookman deemed the characters in Haynes’ The Abbey Court Murder “much truer to life than is the case in many sensational stories” and The Spectator concluded of The Crime at Tattenham Corner, “Excellent as a detective tale, the book also is a charming novel.”
Sadly, Haynes’ triumph as a detective novelist proved short lived. Around 1914, about the time of the outbreak of the Great War, Haynes had been stricken with debilitating rheumatoid arthritis that left her in constant pain and hastened her death from heart failure in 1929, when she was only 63. Haynes wrote several of her detective novels on fine days in Kensington Gardens, where she was wheeled from 14 Radnor Place in a bath chair, but in her last years she was able only to travel from her bedroom to her study. All of this was an especially hard blow for a woman who had once been intensely energetic and quite physically active.
In a foreword to The Crystal Beads Murder, the second of Haynes’ two posthumously published mysteries, Ada Heather-Bigg noted that Haynes’ difficult daily physical struggle “was materially lightened by the warmth of friendships” with other authors and by the “sympathetic and friendly relations between her and her publishers.” In this latter instance Haynes’ experience rather differed from that of her sister Bodleian, Agatha Christie, who left The Bodley Head on account of what she deemed an iniquitous contract that took unjust advantage of a naive young author. Christie moved, along with her landmark detective novel The Murder of Roger Ackroyd (1926), to Collins and never looked back, enjoying ever greater success with the passing years.
At the time Christie crossed over to Collins, Annie Haynes had only a few years of life left. After she died at 14 Radnor Place on 30 March 1929, it was reported in the press that “many people well-known in the literary world” attended the author’s funeral at St. Michaels and All Angels Church, Paddington, where her sermon was delivered by the eloquent vicar, Paul Nichols, brother of the writer Beverley Nichols and dedicatee of Haynes’ mystery novel The Master of the Priory; yet by the time of her companion Ada Heather-Bigg’s death in 1944, Haynes and her once highly-praised mysteries were forgotten. (Contrastingly, Ada Heather-Bigg’s name survives today in the University College of London’s Ada Heather-Bigg Prize in Economics.) Only three of Haynes’ novels were ever published in the United States, and she passed away less than a year before the formation of the Detection Club, missing any chance of being invited to join this august body of distinguished British detective novelists. Fortunately, we have today entered, when it comes to classic mystery, a period of rediscovery and revival, giving a reading audience a chance once again, after over eighty years, to savor the detective fiction fare of Annie Haynes. Bon appétit!
Curtis Evans
CHAPTER I
St. Peter’s was rapidly becoming the church for fashionable weddings; but even St. Peter’s had seldom been the centre of a larger or more fashionable crowd than was assembling this warm April afternoon to see Lady Geraldine Summerhouse married to the man of her choice. There was the usual gathering of loiterers round the door and on the steps of the church; while the traffic in the street was impeded by the long line of private carriages and motors setting down guests.
Two men came round the corner of King’s Street, walking quickly; the sightseers brought them to a standstill.
“Hullo, what is this?” one of them exclaimed. “Oh, I see, a wedding. Well I suppose we shall get through somehow.”
Both men, though they wore the conventional frockcoat and silk hat, had the look of travellers, or colonials, with their thin bronzed faces. The foremost of the two had reached the last line of waiting spectators, and was just about to cross the red carpet that was laid up the steps of the church and under the awning. The policeman put up a warning hand, some guests were alighting, another car took its place before the kerb. A group of maidservants, with baskets of flowers, stood immediately before the two strangers. The man behind turned his head idly as a big dark man sprang from a car and handed out a tall exquisitely dressed woman. Together they came up the steps and passed close to the stranger, but the beautiful eyes did not glance at him, did not note the change that swept over his face.
He, looking after them, caught his breath sharply, incredulously. Then as they passed into the church he leaned forward and touched the arm of one of the maids.
“Can you tell me the name of the lady who has just gone in?”
The maid looked a little surprised at being spoken to, but the tone was unmistakably that of a gentleman; there was an obvious desire for information in his expression; she answered after a moment’s hesitation:
“That was Lady Carew and Sir Anthony, sir!”
“Sir Anthony and Lady Carew,” he repeated in a musing tone, a curious brooding look in his light eyes. “Not Carew, of Heron’s Carew, surely—mad Carew as they used to call him?”
“Yes, sir. He is Sir Anthony Carew, of Heron’s Carew.”
“And she, who was she before her marriage?”
There was something compelling about his gaze. The girl answered unwillingly:
“She was his sister’s—Miss Carew’s—governess, sir.”
“Ah!” He turned away abruptly.
His companion leaned forward:
“Are you going on, old man? Hang it all, if you stay here much longer we shall be late for our appointment, and then—”
“I am not going on.” The first man’s tone was decisive. “You can manage by yourself, Jermyn. Perhaps I may join you later.”
His friend looked at him and shrugged his shoulders resignedly.
“Well, you always were a queer sort of fellow. We shall meet later at Orlin’s, I suppose. So long, old man.”
He disappeared in the crowd. The other scarcely seemed to hear him. He kept his place in the forefront of the spectators, his eager eyes seeking amid the shadows and the dimness of the church, for one graceful figure. He did not notice that the other man had turned, and was now waiting behind him. At last the service—elaborately choral—was over, the organ pealed out the Wedding March, bride and bridegroom with their attendants came forth, and still those light eyes kept their watch on the interior of the church.
The guests followed, some of them found their carriages without difficulty; others stood waiting in the porch talking and laughing to one another. Sir Anthony and Lady Carew were among the first to come out. Their footman touched his hat:
“If you please, Sir Anthony, something has gone wrong with the car; it is just round King Street. Jenkins can’t get it to move. Shall I call a taxi?”
“Yes, no. Wait a minute.” Sir Anthony looked anxious. The big green Daimler was his latest toy. He turned to his wife: “I must see what is wrong myself, I won’t be a moment, Judith, or would you rather go on at once?”
“Certainly not. I would much rather wait. I hope it is nothing serious, Anthony.”
As Lady Carew smiled, it was noticeable that the whole character of her face altered. In repose it was cold, even a little melancholy, but the smile revealed unexpected possibilities, the big hazel eyes melted and deepened, the mouth softened into new curves. She stood back a little as Sir Anthony hurried off, a tall graceful-looking woman in her exquisite gown of palest grey chiffon velvet, with the magnificent sables that had been her husband’s wedding gift thrown carelessly round her. Against the neutral tints of her background, against the deep tone of her furs, her clear delicate skin looked almost transparent. Her face was oval in shape, with small perfectly formed features, the eyes were remarkable, big and haunting, of a curious grey blue in the shadows which yet held yellow specks that shone in the sunlight, that danced when she laughed. Set under broad level brows, they had long black lashes that contrasted oddly with the pale gold of her hair.
One woman paused as she passed.
“How perfectly sweet Peggy looked, Lady Carew! Quite the prettiest bridesmaid of them all.”
Lady Carew’s smile lighted up her face; she was obviously pleased as she murmured some inaudible reply.
The pale-eyed man was just behind her now. As she turned aside again he stepped out of the crowd and touched her arm.
“Judy!”
An extraordinary change passed over Lady Carew’s face as she heard the voice, as she turned and met the man’s gaze. Every drop of blood seemed to recede from her cheeks, leaving her white as death; only her eyes looked alive as she stared at him, even her lips were blue.
“You!” she said slowly in a hoarse whisper. “You!”
“Yes, I.” The man placed himself a little before her, so that in a measure he screened her. “At last I have found you, Judy!”
“But you—I thought you were dead.” Her eyes were strained upon his face in an agony of appeal.
“So I should suppose,” the man said roughly with a short, hard laugh, his pale eyes burning with an inward fire as they wandered over the lovely face, the graceful svelte form of the woman before him. “But I am not dead, Judy. On the contrary I am very much alive, and—I have come home for my own, Judy.”
“Your own!” Judith Carew repeated, slowly. Her face was like a death-mask now, but the eyes—the big, luring eyes—were living as they focused on the man’s bronzed face, as they drew forth some dreadful meaning. She gave a low hoarse sob. “Your own—my God!”
The pale eyes grew suddenly apprehensive, but the harsh tone did not soften.
“You know what I mean well enough. When shall I find my Lady Carew at home to me, Judy?”
“Never.” She shot the word out quickly. “You shall never enter my husband’s house. I will kill myself first.”
Sir Anthony was coming back. They could see his tall figure towering over the heads of others, here and there he was stopped by a cheery word of greeting; they could hear his laugh. The pale-eyed man looked at the trembling woman.
“I must see you again and to-day—where?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said with difficulty. “I have told you you shall not come into his house.”
Sir Anthony was on the top step now, only a few paces away. A tall woman in an outré costume of vieux rose had stopped him; the two were laughing and talking like old friends.
The echo of his light laugh, the sound of a careless word made Judith, waiting in her misery, catch her breath sharply.
“Go!” she cried. “Go! He must not hear. I forbid you to tell him now.”
The sullen fire in the pale eyes of the man watching her leapt to sudden life, then died down swiftly.
“If I go now, you must see me—later. Look.” He drew out his pocket-book and scribbled an address upon the first page: “42 Abbey Court, Leinster Avenue, 9.30 to-night. There!” He tore out the leaf and thrust it into her hands. “If you fail me, Judy, you know the consequences.”
She pushed the scrap of paper mechanically into her glove; he turned and disappeared in the crowd.
Sir Anthony caught a momentary glimpse of him as he came up, and looked after him curiously.
“Who was that, Judith? He looks rather an odd customer, as if he had seen life in some queer places. But what is it, child?”—his tone turning to one of apprehension—“You are ill—faint?”
Lady Carew forced a smile to her stiff lips. “It is nothing. It was so hot in the church,” hesitatingly, “and the scent of the flowers is overpowering,” she added as a passing waft of sweetness from the great sheaves of Madonna lilies that stood in the nave reached them. “I shall be all right directly. What was wrong with the car?”
“Nothing much,” Sir Anthony said carelessly. “Jenkins soon put it right, but you can’t wait here. Monktowers said he would send his brougham back for us. Ah, here it is!”
He helped her in carefully, and to her surprise gave their own address.
“I can’t have you knocked up, and the reception is sure to be a crush,” he said in answer to her look. “I am going to take you home, and make you rest, or certainly you will not be fit for the Denboroughs’ to-night.”
The Denboroughs’! Judith shivered in her corner; she was deadly cold beneath her furs. Lady Denborough’s dinner parties were among the most select in London; her invitations were eagerly sought after; it had been a tribute to the furore that Lady Carew’s beauty had excited that she, who but two years ago had been only Peggy Carew’s governess, should have been included.
How far away it all seemed to her now, as she laid her head back on the cushions and tried to think, to realize this awful catastrophe that had befallen her. The dead had come to life! All that past, that she had believed buried beyond resurrection, had risen, was here at her very doors.
Through the shadow of the carriage, she glanced at Anthony, at the dark rugged profile, at the crisp dark hair with its faint powdering of grey near the temples, at all that only an hour ago had been so intimately dear, that was now, as it were, set on the other side of a great gulf. Her heart sank, she felt sick as she thought of the other face with its bold good looks. It was impossible, she tried to tell herself despairingly, that this thing should really have befallen her, that there should be no way of escape. Sir Anthony watched her anxiously.
As the carriage neared their house in Grosvenor Square, she sat up, and drew her furs around her with a pitiful attempt to pull herself together.
Sir Anthony helped her out solicitously. As she paused for a moment on the step, a man passed, gazing up at the front of the house.
Lady Carew caught a momentary glimpse of the big familiar figure, a mist rose before her eyes, her fingers closed more tightly over that piece of paper in her glove as she swayed and reached out a trembling hand to her husband’s arm.
With a quick exclamation of alarm, Sir Anthony caught her, carried her over the threshold of their home.
“Judith, Judith, what is it, my darling?” he said, bending over her.
CHAPTER II
“You must go to the Denboroughs’ alone, Anthony.” Judith was looking frail and wan as she came into the study in her white tea-gown, her hair gathered together loosely in a great knot behind.
Sir Anthony was sitting at his writing-table, a pile of unopened letters lay beside him; he was apparently oblivious of them as he studied the card in his hand. He sprang up now.
“Judith, is this wise? I hoped you were asleep.”
“I couldn’t sleep,” Judith said truthfully, as she steadied herself by the table, “and I went up to the boy. Anthony, you must not give up the Denboroughs. I shall go to bed at once. Célestine is going to give me a sleeping draught, so you see you will be no use here”—with a pitiful attempt at a smile.—“And we shall put the Denboroughs’ table out altogether if neither of us goes. It won’t matter so much about me, people can always get another woman, but you, you must not disappoint them.”
Sir Anthony hesitated, some quality in her insistence impressed him disagreeably. Why was she so anxious to get rid of him? The next moment he was chiding himself for his folly. Judith was evidently unwell, she was overwrought, feverish.
“Yes, yes,” he answered soothingly. “Of course I will go. That will be all right, Judith.”
She drew a little soft breath as she laid her head against his arm.
“And now that is settled I am going to take you back to your room,” he went on. “You ought not to have come down, you ought to have sent for me.”
But Judith’s hands clung to his arm. “No, no. There is an hour yet before you need dress. I want to sit here like this. Don’t send me away, Anthony!”
Sir Anthony felt a quick throb of anxiety as he looked down at her ruffled golden head; this attack of nerves was something outside his experience of Judith; he began to ask himself whether it was not possibly the forerunner of some serious illness?
“My darling, do I ever want to send you away?” he questioned, a reproachful reflection in his pleasant voice. “It is because I know that you ought to be in bed. For myself could I ask anything better than that you should be here with me?”
Judith sank down in one of the big saddleback chairs near the fire-place, and drew Sir Anthony on to the arm with weak, insistent fingers. As his arm closed round her she nestled up to him with a deep sigh of content, but she did not speak.
To herself she was saying that this might be the last time that she would see the love-light in Anthony’s eyes, feel the warmth of his tenderness.
For this one hour she would forget everything outside. She remember only that she was with the man she loved, the man who loved her. Then everything would be over, she would be no longer Anthony Carew’s honoured wife. Her life at Heron’s Carew would be as if it had never been. There would be nothing for Anthony to do but forget her. But first there was this one hour—this golden hour that she would have to remember afterwards!
Sir Anthony held her closely for a time in silence, once or twice his lips touched a loosened strand of golden hair that lay across his shoulder. But at last he laid her back very gently in her chair, and straightening himself turned to his writing-table.
Judith clung to his arm. They were running out so fast, the minutes that were the souls of her one golden hour.
“You—you are not going to leave me?” she gasped.
“Leave you, my sweetheart, no!” Sir Anthony said drawing his blotting-book towards him. “But I must just finish this letter that I was writing when you came in, I shall not be a minute. It is to poor Sybil Palmer. Her husband met with a bad accident yesterday. He always will act his own chauffeur, and he is reckless at hills. It seems there was a terrible smash-up, and there isn’t much hope for Palmer, I fancy.”
Judith stirred quickly, she drew a little away.
“Do you mean that he is not going to get better—that he will die?”
Sir Anthony nodded gravely. “I am afraid so.”
With all her power Judith thrust away from her that hideous thought that would obtrude itself. Lord Palmer was going to die and Sybil—Lady Palmer—the beautiful cousin who had been engaged to Anthony in his youth, and whose loss had embittered all his young manhood, would be free.
But then—then Judith’s golden hour would be over—nothing would matter to her, she told herself, nothing would hurt her then.
She looked at Sir Anthony as he sat at the table; she could catch a glimpse of his profile; she could hear his pen moving quickly over his paper; evidently it was a long letter he was writing. At last, however, it was finished, and he came back to her.
“Now I am at your service, sweetheart.”
Judith’s lips trembled.
“When next month comes, we shall have been married two years, Anthony.”
“Shall we?” Sir Anthony’s deep-set eyes smiled down at her. “You have become so absolutely a part of my life, that I don’t like to think of the time when you didn’t belong to me, Judith.”
Judith lay back among her cool, chintz cushions, and looked at him.
“Don’t you,” she said, and then, “It—it has been a happy time since we were married?” she questioned wistfully.
“A happy—a blessed time,” he said with sudden passion, as he knelt down beside her and gathered her into his arms. “It was my good angel that brought you to Heron’s Carew, Judith.”
“Thank God for two perfect years,” she whispered. “Two happy years together; whatever happens we have had that. You wouldn’t quite forget those two years—if—if I died to-night; if you married some one else, Anthony?”
“Don’t!” the word broke from the man almost like a sob of pain. “Don’t talk of it even in jest. One can’t forget what is graven on one’s heart. Dead or alive, you are the one woman in the world for me.” His arms tightened round her, held her close to his heart. With a little sobbing sigh Judith crept closer to him.
Carew’s eyes were passionately tender as he glanced at the waves of golden hair resting on his coat. The pale curved lips were touching his sleeve again now; they were murmuring one word over and over again. “Good-bye, good-bye!” At last the golden hour was over.
She got up unsteadily. “You will go to the Denboroughs’, Anthony?”
“And you will go to sleep?” He drew her arm through his. “Come, I am going to give Célestine her directions myself. No more going to the boy to-night, mind!”
She let him help her upstairs, it was so sweet, so very sweet to have him wait upon her.
But upstairs she refused utterly to go to bed; she would sleep better on the large roomy couch, she protested. Célestine would bring her some black coffee, and leave the sedative within reach, and then no one must disturb her; she would have a long rest. Sir Anthony bent down and kissed her tenderly.
“I shall not be late. Sleep well, my dearest.”
Somewhat to his surprise, as he lifted his head, Judith drew it down again, and kissed him on the lips with sudden passion. “Good-bye, good-bye,” she whispered. Then, as her arms fell back from his neck, she closed her eyes and turned her face into the side of the couch.
Sir Anthony stole softly away.
As he closed the door, she looked round again with wide eyes.
“Célestine!”
“Yes, Miladi.” The French maid came forward, a demure, provocative little figure.
“You can go now. If I want anything I will ring.”
“Yes, Miladi! But Sir Anthony, he said—” Evidently Célestine was unwilling to depart.
“That will do.” Lady Carew interrupted her with a touch of hauteur. “I cannot sleep unless I am alone. And do not come until I ring, Célestine.”
“But, certainly, Miladi.” The maid shrugged her shoulders as she withdrew.
Left alone, Lady Carew raised herself on her elbow, and looked all round the room. On the other side of the room was the door leading into Sir Anthony’s apartments. Judith bit her lips despairingly as she looked at it; presently he would be coming up to dress, she would hear him moving about. A long shivering sigh shook her from head to foot as she buried her face in the cushions again.
Meanwhile Sir Anthony went back to his study. There was plenty of time to dress, he had another letter to write that required some thinking over. As he walked over to the writing-table his eye was caught by a piece of paper on the chair where Judith had been sitting. Naturally, a tidy man, he glanced at it as he picked it up, wondering idly whether his wife had dropped it.
“42 Abbey Court, Leinster Avenue, 9.30 to-night,” he read, written in a bold unmistakably masculine hand.
“What does it mean?” he asked himself as he twisted it about. There seemed to him something sinister in the curtly worded command. It was not meant for Judith of course, the very notion of that was absurd. But, as he sat down and opened his blotting-book, the look of that piece of paper haunted him; another thought—one he had believed laid for ever—the thought of the long years that lay behind his knowledge of his wife, rose and mocked him.
He would not have been Carew of Heron’s Carew if his nature had not held infinite capabilities of self-torture, of fierce burning jealousy that ran like fire through his blood, and maddened him.
It was so little that he knew, that Judith had told him of her past.
It had been the usual uneventful past of an ordinary English girl, she had given him to understand. But the great hazel eyes had held hints of tragedy at times that gave the lie to that placid story.
Sir Anthony groaned aloud as he thrust the letter from him. He sat silent, his eyes fixed on that mysterious paper: “9.30 to-night.” For whom had that appointment been meant?
CHAPTER III
Nine o’clock! Judith Carew stood up. The time had come! Once more she looked round the familiar room, her eyes lingering on the big photograph of Anthony, in its oxydized silver frame on the mantelpiece.
She crossed to the pretty inlaid escritoire, and unlocked one of the top drawers. A piece of paper lay inside; she started as she looked at it with a frown. This was not what she wanted—this was merely a pencilled note that Peggy had sent her in the church that afternoon. A note, moreover, that she had thought she had burnt when she came in.
A moment’s reflection and her face cleared; she must have tossed the address the man gave her, at the church door, into the fire, while she locked this little innocent note of Peggy’s carefully away. It was strange that she should have made such a curious mistake, but it did not matter, the address was written on her brain in letters of fire. She could not forget it if she would.
She went to her wardrobe, and took out a long dark cloak, that would cover her altogether, pinned a toque on her hair, and tied a thick motor veil over it.
Then she opened the door and listened. At this hour the servants should be at their supper; it would be possible for her to get out unobserved. She calculated that she might be back—if she came back—soon after eleven. Célestine would hardly expect her to ring before then, and her absence would pass unnoticed.
No one was about apparently. Her lips moved silently as she came out into the corridor, as she looked wistfully up the short flight of stairs that led to the nursery. Her husband’s door stood open; in passing a sudden thought struck her. She went in and opened one of the drawers, inside was a leather case. She looked at it for a moment, then slowly touched the spring, and disclosed a couple of revolvers.
