Part 8

Her Serene Highness, with more mopping of her blue eyes, assured Lady Molly that over at Schloss Starkburg she did not read the English papers, and was therefore quite unaware that Mr. Rumboldt, who used to be a _persona grata_ in her father’s house, was no longer a fit and proper acquaintance for her.

“It was a very fine morning,” she continued with gentle pathos, “and I was deadly dull at Folkestone. Mr. Rumboldt persuaded me to go with him on a short trip on his yacht. We were to cross over to Boulogne, have luncheon there, and come home in the cool of the evening.”

“And, of course, something occurred to disable the yacht,” concluded Lady Molly gravely, as the lady herself had paused in her narrative.

“Of course,” whispered the little Countess through her tears.

“And, of course, it was too late to get back by the ordinary afternoon mail boat?”

“That boat had gone an hour before, and the next did not leave until the middle of the night.”

“So you had perforce to wait until then, and in the meanwhile you were seen by a girl named Jane Turner, who knew you by sight, and who has been blackmailing you ever since.”

“How did you guess that?” ejaculated Her Highness, with a look of such comical bewilderment in her large, blue eyes that Lady Molly and I had perforce to laugh.

“Well,” replied my dear lady after awhile, resuming her gravity, “we have a way in our profession of putting two and two together, haven’t we? And in this case it was not very difficult. The assignations for secret meetings at out-of-the-way railway stations which were addressed to H. S. H. in the columns of the _West of England Times_ recently, gave me one clue, shall we say? The mysterious assault on a young woman, whose home was close to those very railway stations as well as to Bristol Castle--your parents’ residence--where you have frequently been staying of late, was another piece that fitted in the puzzle; whilst the number of copies of the _West of England Times_ that were found in that same young woman’s room helped to draw my thoughts to her. Then your visit to me to-day--it is very simple, you see.”

“I suppose so,” said H. S. H. with a sigh. “Only it is worse even than you suggest, for that horrid Jane Turner, to whom I had been ever so kind when I was a girl, took a snapshot of me and Mr. Rumboldt standing on the steps of the Hôtel des Bains at Boulogne. I saw her doing it and rushed down the steps to stop her. She talked quite nicely then--hypocritical wretch!--and said that perhaps the plate would be no good when it was developed, and if it were she would destroy it. I was not to worry; she would contrive to let me know through the agony column of the _West of England Times_, which--as I was going home to Bristol Castle to stay with my parents--I could see every day, but she had no idea I should have minded, and all that sort of rigmarole. Oh! she is a wicked girl, isn’t she, to worry me so?”

And once again the lace handkerchief found its way to the most beautiful pair of blue eyes I think I have ever seen. I could not help smiling, though I was really very sorry for the silly, emotional, dear little thing.

“And instead of reassurance in the _West of England Times_, you found a demand for a secret meeting at a country railway station?”

“Yes! And when I went there--terrified lest I should be seen--Jane Turner did not meet me herself. Her mother came and at once talked of selling the photograph to my husband or to my mother-in-law. She said it was worth four thousand pounds to Jane, and that she had advised her daughter not to sell it to me for less.”

“What did you reply?”

“That I hadn’t got four thousand pounds,” said the Countess ruefully; “so after a lot of argument it was agreed that I was to pay Jane two hundred and fifty pounds a year out of my dress allowance. She would keep the negative as security, but promised never to let anyone see it so long as she got her money regularly. It was also arranged that whenever I stayed with my parents at Bristol Castle, Jane would make appointments to meet me through the columns of the _West of England Times_, and I was to pay up the instalments then just as she directed.”

I could have laughed, if the whole thing had not been so tragic, for truly the way this silly, harmless little woman had allowed herself to be bullied and blackmailed by a pair of grasping females was beyond belief.

“And this has been going on for over a year,” commented Lady Molly gravely.

“Yes, but I never met Jane Turner again: it was always her mother who came.”

“You knew her mother before that, I presume?”

“Oh, no. I only knew Jane because she had been sewing-maid at the Castle some few years ago.”

“I see,” said Lady Molly slowly. “What was the woman like whom you used to meet at the railway stations, and to whom you paid over Miss Turner’s annuity?”

“Oh, I couldn’t tell you what she was like. I never saw her properly.”

“Never saw her properly?” ejaculated Lady Molly, and it seemed to my well-trained ears as if there was a ring of exultation in my dear lady’s voice.

“No,” replied the little Countess ruefully. “She always appointed a late hour of the evening, and those little stations on that line are very badly lighted. I had such difficulties in getting away from home without exciting comment, and used to beg her to let me meet her at a more convenient hour. But she always refused.”

Lady Molly remained thoughtful for a while; then she asked abruptly:

“Why don’t you prosecute Jane Turner for blackmail?”

“Oh, I dare not--I dare not!” ejaculated the little Countess, in genuine terror. “My husband would never forgive me, and his female relations would do their best afterwards to widen the breach between us. It was because of the article in the London newspaper about the assault on Jane Turner--the talk of a clue and of startling developments--that I got terrified, and went to Scotland Yard. Oh, no! no! no! Promise me that my name won’t be dragged into this case. It would ruin me for ever!”

She was sobbing now; her grief and fear were very pathetic to witness, and she moaned through her sobs:

“Those wicked people know that I daren’t risk an exposure, and simply prey upon me like vampires because of that. The last time I saw the old woman I told her that I would confess everything to my husband--I couldn’t bear to go on like this. But she only laughed; she knew I should never dare.”

“When was this?” asked Lady Molly.

“About three weeks ago--just before Jane Turner was assaulted and robbed of the photographs.”

“How do you know she was robbed of the photographs?”

“She wrote and told me so,” replied the young Countess, who seemed strangely awed now by my dear lady’s earnest question. And from a dainty reticule she took a piece of paper, which bore traces of many bitter tears on its crumpled surface. This she handed to Lady Molly, who took it from her. It was a type-written letter, which bore no signature. Lady Molly perused it in silence first, then read its contents out aloud to me:--

“To H.S.H. the Countess of Hohengebirg.

“You think I have been worrying you the past twelve months about your adventure with Mr. Rumboldt in Boulogne. But it was not me; it was one who has power over me, and who knew about the photograph. He made me act as I did. But whilst I kept the photo you were safe. Now he has assaulted me and nearly killed me, and taken the negative away. I can, and will, get it out of him again, but it will mean a large sum down. Can you manage one thousand pounds?”

“When did you get this?” asked Lady Molly.

“Only a few days ago,” replied the Countess. “And oh! I have been enduring agonies of doubt and fear for the past three weeks, for I had heard nothing from Jane since the assault, and I wondered what had happened.”

“You have not sent a reply, I hope.”

“No. I was going to, when I saw the article in the London paper, and the fear that all had been discovered threw me into such a state of agony that I came straight up to town and saw the gentleman at Scotland Yard, who sent me on to you. Oh!” she entreated again and again, “you won’t do anything that will cause a scandal! Promise me--promise me! I believe I should commit suicide rather than face it--and I could find a thousand pounds.”

“I don’t think you need do either,” said Lady Molly. “Now, may I think over the whole matter quietly to myself,” she added, “and talk it over with my friend here? I may be able to let you have some good news shortly.”

She rose, intimating kindly that the interview was over. But it was by no means that yet, for there was still a good deal of entreaty and a great many tears on the one part, and reiterated kind assurances on the other. However when, some ten minutes later, the dainty clouds of lace and chiffon were finally wafted out of our office, we both felt that the poor, harmless, unutterably foolish little lady felt distinctly consoled and more happy than she had been for the past twelve months.

4

“Yes! she has been an utter little goose,” Lady Molly was saying to me an hour later when we were having luncheon; “but that Jane Turner is a remarkably clever girl.”

“I suppose you think, as I do, that the mysterious elderly female, who seems to have impersonated the mother all through, was an accomplice of Jane Turner’s, and that the assault was a put-up job between them,” I said. “Inspector Danvers will be delighted--for this theory is a near approach to his own.”

“H’m!” was all the comment vouchsafed on my remark.

“I am sure it was Arthur Cutbush, the girl’s sweetheart, after all,” I retorted hotly, “and you’ll see that, put to the test of sworn evidence, his alibi at the time of the assault itself won’t hold good. Moreover, now,” I added triumphantly, “we have knowledge

[IMAGE: images/img128.jpg CAPTION: “Ten minutes later the dainty clouds of lace and chiffon were finally wafted out”]

which has been lacking all along--the motive.”

“Ah!” said my lady, smiling at my enthusiasm, “that’s how you argue, Mary, is it?”

“Yes, and in my opinion the only question in doubt is whether Arthur Cutbush acted in collusion with Jane Turner or against her.”

“Well, suppose we go and elucidate that point--and some others--at once,” concluded Lady Molly as she rose from the table.

She decided to return to Bristol that same evening. We were going by the 8.50 p.m., and I was just getting ready--the cab being already at the door--when I was somewhat startled by the sudden appearance into my room of an old lady, very beautifully dressed, with snow-white hair dressed high above a severe, interesting face.

A merry, rippling laugh issuing from the wrinkled mouth, and a closer scrutiny on my part, soon revealed the identity of my dear lady, dressed up to look like an extremely dignified _grande dame_ of the old school, whilst a pair of long, old-fashioned earrings gave a curious, foreign look to her whole appearance.

I didn’t quite see why she chose to arrive at the Grand Hotel, Bristol, in that particular disguise, nor why she entered our names in the hotel book as Grand Duchess and Princess Amalie von Starkburg, from Germany; nor did she tell me anything that evening.

But by the next afternoon, when we drove out together in a fly, I was well up in the _rôle_ which I had to play. My lady had made me dress in a very rich black silk dress of her own, and ordered me to do my hair in a somewhat frumpish fashion, with a parting, and a “bun” at the back. She herself looked more like Royalty travelling incognito than ever, and no wonder small children and tradesmen’s boys stared open-mouthed when we alighted from our fly outside one of the mean-looking little houses in Bread Street.

In answer to our ring, a smutty little servant opened the door, and my lady asked her if Miss Jane Turner lived here and if she were in.

“Yes, Miss Turner lives here, and it bein’ Thursday and early closin’ she’s home from business.”

“Then please tell her,” said Lady Molly in her grandest manner, “that the Dowager Grand Duchess of Starkburg-Nauheim and the Princess Amalie desire to see her.”

The poor little maid nearly fell backwards with astonishment. She gasped an agitated “Lor!” and then flew down the narrow passage and up the steep staircase, closely followed by my dear lady and myself.

On the first-floor landing the girl, with nervous haste, knocked at a door, opened it and muttered half audibly:

“Ladies to see you, miss!”

Then she fled incontinently upstairs. I have never been able to decide whether that little girl thought that we were lunatics, ghosts, or criminals.

But already Lady Molly had sailed into the room, where Miss Jane Turner apparently had been sitting reading a novel. She jumped up when we entered, and stared open-eyed at the gorgeous apparitions. She was not a bad-looking girl but for the provoking, bold look in her black eyes, and the general slatternly appearance of her person.

“Pray do not disturb yourself, Miss Turner,” said Lady Molly in broken English, as she sank into a chair, and beckoned me to do likewise. “Pray sit down--I vill be brief. You have a compromising photograph--is it not?--of my daughter-in-law ze Countess of Hohengebirg. I am ze Grand Duchess of Starkburg-Nauheim--zis is my daughter, ze Princess Amalie. We are here incognito. You understand? Not?”

And, with inimitable elegance of gesture, my dear lady raised a pair of “starers” to her eyes and fixed them on Jane Turner’s quaking figure.

Never had I seen suspicion, nay terror, depicted so plainly on a young face, but I will do the girl the justice to state that she pulled herself together with marvellous strength of will.

She fought down her awed respect of this great lady; or rather shall I say that the British middle-class want of respect for social superiority, especially if it be foreign, now stood her in good stead?

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” she said with an arrogant toss of the head.

“Zat is a lie, is it not?” rejoined Lady Molly calmly, as she drew from her reticule the typewritten letter which Jane Turner had sent to the Countess of Hohengebirg. “Zis you wrote to my daughter-in-law; ze letter reached me instead of her. It interests me much. I vill give you two tousend pounds for ze photograph of her and Mr.--er--Rumboldt. You vill sell it to me for zat, is it not?”

The production of the letter had somewhat cowed Jane’s bold spirit. But she was still defiant.

“I haven’t got the photograph here,” she said.

“Ah, no! but you vill get it--yes?” said my lady, quietly replacing the letter in her reticule. “In ze letter you offer to get it for tousend pound. I vill give you two tousend. To-day is a holiday for you. You vill get ze photograph from ze gentleman--not? And I vill vait here till you come back.”

Whereupon she rearranged her skirts round her and folded her hands placidly, like one prepared to wait.

“I haven’t got the photograph,” said Jane Turner, doggedly, “and I can’t get it to-day. The--the person who has it doesn’t live in Bristol.”

“No? Ah! but quite close, isn’t it?” rejoined my lady, placidly. “I can vait all ze day.”

“No, you shan’t!” retorted Jane Turner, whose voice now shook with obvious rage or fear--I knew not which. “I can’t get the photograph to-day--so there! And I won’t sell it to you--I won’t. I don’t want your two thousand pounds. How do I know you are not an impostor?”

“From zis, my good girl,” said Lady Molly, quietly; “that if I leave zis room wizout ze photograph, I go straight to ze police with zis letter, and you shall be prosecuted by ze Grand Duke, my son, for blackmailing his wife. You see, I am not like my daughter-in-law; I am not afraid of a scandal. So you vill fetch ze photograph--isn’t it? I and ze Princess Amalie vill vait for it here. Zat is your bedroom--not?” she added, pointing to a door which obviously gave on an inner room. “Vill you put on your hat and go at once, please? Two tousend pound or two years in prison--you have ze choice--isn’t it?”

Jane Turner tried to keep up her air of defiance, looking Lady Molly full in the face; but I who watched her could see the boldness in her eyes gradually giving place to fear, and then to terror and even despair; the girl’s face seemed literally to grow old as I looked at it--pale, haggard, and drawn--whilst Lady Molly kept her stern, luminous eyes fixed steadily upon her.

Then, with a curious, wild gesture, which somehow filled me with a nameless fear, Jane Turner turned on her heel and ran into the inner room.

There followed a moment of silence. To me it was tense and agonising. I was straining my ears to hear what was going on in that inner room. That my dear lady was not as callous as she wished to appear was shown by the strange look of expectancy in her beautiful eyes.

The minutes sped on--how many I could not afterwards have said. I was conscious of a clock ticking monotonously over the shabby mantelpiece, of an errand boy outside shouting at the top of his voice, of the measured step of the cab horse which had brought us hither being walked up and down the street.

Then suddenly there was a violent crash, as of heavy furniture being thrown down. I could not suppress a scream, for my nerves by now were terribly on the jar.

“Quick, Mary--the inner room!” said Lady Molly. “I thought the girl might do that.”

I dared not pause in order to ask what “that” meant, but flew to the door.

It was locked.

“Downstairs--quick!” commanded my lady. “I ordered Danvers to be on the watch outside.”

You may imagine how I flew, and how I blessed my dear lady’s forethought in the midst of her daring plan, when, having literally torn open the front door, I saw Inspector Danvers in plain clothes, calmly patrolling the street. I beckoned to him--he was keeping a sharp look-out--and together we ran back into the house.

Fortunately, the landlady and the servant were busy in the basement, and had neither heard the crash nor seen me run in search of Danvers. My dear lady was still alone in the dingy parlour, stooping against the door of the inner room, her ear glued to the key-hole.

“Not too late, I think,” she whispered hurriedly. “Break it open, Danvers.”

Danvers, who is a great, strong man, soon put his shoulder to the rickety door, which yielded to the first blow.

The sight which greeted us filled me with horror, for I had never seen such a tragedy before. The wretched girl, Jane Turner, had tied a rope to a ring in the ceiling, which I suppose at one time held a hanging lamp; the other end of that rope she had formed into a slip-noose, and passed round her neck.

She had apparently climbed on to a table, and then used her best efforts to end her life by kicking the table away from under her. This was the crash which we had heard, and which had caused us to come to her rescue. Fortunately, her feet had caught in the back of a chair close by; the slip-noose was strangling her, and her face was awful to behold, but she was not dead.

Danvers soon got her down. He is a first-aid man, and has done these terrible jobs before. As soon as the girl had partially recovered, Lady Molly sent him and me out of the room. In the dark and dusty parlour, where but a few moments ago I had played my small part in a grim comedy, I now waited to hear what the sequel to it would be.

Danvers had been gone some time, and the shades of evening were drawing in; outside, the mean-looking street looked particularly dreary. It was close on six o’clock when at last I heard the welcome rustle of silks, the opening of a door, and at last my dear lady--looking grave but serene--came out of the inner room, and, beckoning to me, without a word led the way out of the house and into the fly, which was still waiting at the door.

“We’ll send a doctor to her,” were her first words as soon as we were clear of Bread Street. “But she is quite all right now, save that she wants a sleeping draught. Well, she has been punished enough, I think. She won’t try her hand at blackmailing again.”

“Then the photograph never existed?” I asked amazed.

“No; the plate was a failure, but Jane Turner would not thus readily give up the idea of getting money out of the poor, pusillanimous Countess. We know how she succeeded in terrorising that silly little woman. It is wonderful how cleverly a girl like that worked out such a complicated scheme, all alone.”

“All alone?”

“Yes; there was no one else. She was the elderly woman who used to meet the Countess, and who rang at the front door of the Weston apartment-house. She arranged the whole of the _mise en scène_ of the assault on herself, all alone, and took everybody in with it--it was so perfectly done. She planned and executed it

[IMAGE: images/img135.jpg CAPTION: “‘Not too late, I think,’ she whispered hurriedly. ‘Break it open, Danvers’”]

because she was afraid that the little Countess would be goaded into confessing her folly to her husband, or to her own parents, when a prosecution for blackmail would inevitably follow. So she risked everything on a big _coup_, and almost succeeded in getting a thousand pounds from Her Serene Highness, meaning to reassure her, as soon as she had the money, by the statement that the negative and prints had been destroyed. But the appearance of the Grand Duchess of Starkburg-Nauheim this afternoon frightened her into an act of despair. Confronted with the prosecution she dreaded and with the prison she dared not face, she, in a mad moment, attempted to take her life.”

“I suppose now the whole matter will be hushed up.”

“Yes,” replied Lady Molly with a wistful sigh. “The public will never know who assaulted Jane Turner.”

She was naturally a little regretful at that. But it was a joy to see her the day when she was able to assure Her Serene Highness the Countess of Hohengebirg that she need never again fear the consequences of that fatal day’s folly.

VI. A CASTLE IN BRITTANY

Yes! we are just back from our holiday, my dear lady and I--a well-earned holiday, I can tell you that.

We went to Porhoët, you know--a dear little village in the hinterland of Brittany, not very far from the coast; an enchanting spot, hidden away in a valley, bordered by a mountain stream, wild, romantic, picturesque--Brittany, in fact.

We had discovered the little place quite accidentally last year, in the course of our wanderings, and stayed there then about three weeks, laying the foundations of that strange adventure which reached its culminating point just a month ago.

I don’t know if the story will interest you, for Lady Molly’s share in the adventure was purely a private one and had nothing whatever to do with her professional work. At the same time it illustrates in a very marked manner that extraordinary faculty which she possesses of divining her fellow-creatures’ motives and intentions.

We had rooms and _pension_ in the dear little convent on the outskirts of the village, close to the quaint church and the picturesque presbytery, and soon we made the acquaintance of the Curé, a simple-minded, kindly old man, whose sorrow at the thought that two such charming English ladies as Lady Molly and myself should be heretics was more than counterbalanced by his delight in having someone of the “great outside world”--as he called it--to talk to, whilst he told us quite ingenuously something of his own simple life, of this village which he loved, and also of his parishioners.

One personality among the latter occupied his thoughts and conversation a great deal, and I must say interested us keenly. It was that of Miss Angela de Genneville, who owned the magnificent château of Porhoët, one of the seven wonders of architectural France. She was an Englishwoman by birth--being of a Jersey family--and was immensely wealthy, her uncle, who was also her godfather, having bequeathed to her the largest cigar factory in St. Heliers, besides three-quarters of a million sterling.