The Seven Secrets Part 20

"Yes, I've found them very agreeable and pleasant."

"H'm," the old lady e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed dubiously. "Well, I don't. I met Mrs.

Henniker once, and I must say that I did not care for her in the least. Ethelwynn is very fond of her, but to my mind she's fast, and not at all a suitable companion for a girl of my daughter's disposition. It may be that I have an old woman's prejudices, living as I do in the country always, but somehow I can never bring myself to like her."

Mrs. Mivart, like the majority of elderly widows who have given up the annual visit to London in the season, was a trifle behind the times.

More charming an old lady could not be, but, in common with all who vegetate in the depths of rural England, she was just a trifle narrow-minded. In religion, she found fault constantly with the village parson, who, she declared, was guilty of ritualistic practices, and on the subject of her daughters she bemoaned the latter-day emanc.i.p.ation of women, which allowed them to go hither and thither at their own free will. Like all such mothers, she considered wealth a necessary adjunct to happiness, and it had been with her heartiest approval that Mary had married the unfortunate Courtenay, notwithstanding the difference between the ages of bride and bridegroom. In every particular the old lady was a typical specimen of the squire's widow, as found in rural England to-day.

Scarcely had we seated ourselves and I had replied to her question when the door opened and a slim figure in deep black entered and mechanically took the empty chair. She crossed the room, looking straight before her, and did not notice my presence until she had seated herself face to face with me.

Of a sudden her thin wan face lit up with a smile of recognition, and she cried:

"Why, Doctor! Wherever did you come from? No one told me you were here," and across the table she stretched out her hand in greeting.

"I thought you were reposing after your long walk this morning, dear; so I did not disturb you," her mother explained.

But, heedless of the explanation, she continued putting to me questions as to when I had left town, and the reason of my visit there. To the latter I returned an evasive answer, declaring that I had run down because I had heard that her mother was not altogether well.

"Yes, that's true," she said. "Poor mother has been very queer of late. She seems so distracted, and worries quite unnecessarily over me. I wish you'd give her advice. Her state causes me considerable anxiety."

"Very well," I said, feigning to laugh, "I must diagnose the ailment and see what can be done."

The soup had been served, and as I carried my spoon to my mouth I examined her furtively. My hostess had excused me from dressing, but her daughter, neat in her widow's collar and cuffs, sat prim and upright, her eyes now and then raised to mine in undisguised inquisitiveness.

She was a trifle paler than heretofore, but her pallor was probably rendered the more noticeable by the dead black she wore. Her hands seemed thin, and her fingers toyed nervously with her spoon in a manner that betrayed concealed agitation. Outwardly, however, I detected no extraordinary signs of either grief or anxiety. She spoke calmly, it was true, in the tone of one upon whom a great calamity had fallen, but that was only natural. I did not expect to find her bright, laughing, and light-hearted, like her old self in Richmond Road.

As dinner proceeded I began to believe that, with a fond mother's solicitude for her daughter's welfare, Mrs. Mivart had slightly exaggerated Mary's symptoms. They certainly were not those of a woman plunged in inconsolable grief, for she was neither mopish nor artificially gay. As far as I could detect, not even a single sigh escaped her.

She inquired of Ethelwynn and of the Hennikers, remarking that she had seen nothing of them for over three weeks; and then, when the servants had left the room, she placed her elbows upon the table, at the risk of a breach of good manners, and resting her chin upon her hands, looked me full in the face, saying:

"Now, tell me the truth, Doctor. What has been discovered regarding my poor husband's death? Have the police obtained any clue to the a.s.sa.s.sin?"

"None--none whatever, I regret to say," was my response.

"They are useless--worse than useless!" she burst forth angrily; "they blundered from the very first."

"That's entirely my own opinion, dear," her mother said. "Our police system nowadays is a mere farce. The foreigners are far ahead of us, even in the detection of crime. Surely the mystery of your poor husband's death might have been solved, if they had worked a.s.siduously."

"I believe that everything that could be done has been done," I remarked. "The case was placed in the hands of two of the smartest and most experienced men at Scotland Yard, with personal instructions from the Superintendent of the Criminal Investigation Department to leave no stone unturned in order to arrive at a successful issue."

"And what has been done?" asked the young widow, in a tone of discontent; "why, absolutely nothing! There has, I suppose, been a pretence at trying to solve the mystery; but, finding it too difficult, they have given it up, and turned their attention to some other crime more open and plain-sailing. I've no faith in the police whatever. It's scandalous!"

I smiled; then said:

"My friend, Ambler Jevons--you know him, for he dined at Richmond Road one evening--has been most active in the affair."

"But he's not a detective. How can he expect to triumph where the police fail?"

"He often does," I declared. "His methods are different from the hard-and-fast rules followed by the police. He commences at whatever point presents itself, and laboriously works backwards with a patience that is absolutely extraordinary. He has unearthed a dozen crimes where Scotland Yard has failed."

"And is he engaged upon my poor husband's case?" asked Mary, suddenly interested.

"Yes."

"For what reason?"

"Well--because he is one of those for whom a mystery of crime has a fascinating attraction."

"But he must have some motive in devoting time and patience to a matter which does not concern him in the least," Mrs. Mivart remarked.

"Whatever is the motive, I can a.s.sure you that it is an entirely disinterested one," I said.

"But what has he discovered? Tell me," Mary urged.

"I am quite in ignorance," I said. "We are most intimate friends, but when engaged on such investigations he tells me nothing of their result until they are complete. All I know is that so active is he at this moment that I seldom see him. He is often tied to his office in the City, but has, I believe, recently been on a flying visit abroad for two or three days."

"Abroad!" she echoed. "Where?"

"I don't know. I met a mutual friend in the Strand yesterday, and he told me that he had returned yesterday."

"Has he been abroad in connection with his inquiries, do you think?"

Mrs. Mivart inquired.

"I really don't know. Probably he has. When he takes up a case he goes into it with a greater thoroughness than any detective living."

"Yes," Mary remarked, "I recollect, now, the stories you used to tell us regarding him--of his exciting adventures--of his patient tracking of the guilty ones, and of his marvellous ingenuity in laying traps to get them to betray themselves. I recollect quite well that evening he came to Richmond Road with you. He was a most interesting man."

"Let us hope he will be more successful than the police," I said.

"Yes, Doctor," she remarked, sighing for the first time. "I hope he will--for the mystery of it all drives me to distraction." Then placing both hands to her brow, she added, "Ah! if we could only discover the truth--the real truth!"

"Have patience," I urged. "A complicated mystery such as it is cannot be cleared up without long and careful inquiry."

"But in the months that have gone by surely the police should have at least made some discovery?" she said, in a voice of complaint; "yet they have not the slightest clue."

"We can only wait," I said. "Personally, I have confidence in Jevons.

If there is a clue to be obtained, depend upon it he will scent it out."

I did not tell them of my misgivings, nor did I explain how Ambler, having found himself utterly baffled, had told me of his intention to relinquish further effort. The flying trip abroad might be in connection with the case, but I felt confident that it was not. He knew, as well as I did, that the truth was to be found in England.

Again we spoke of Ethelwynn; and from Mary's references to her sister I gathered that a slight coolness had fallen between them. She did not, somehow, speak of her in the same terms of affection as formerly. It might be that she shared her mother's prejudices, and did not approve of her taking up her abode with the Hennikers. Be it how it might, there were palpable signs of strained relations.

Could it be possible, I wondered, that Mary had learnt of her sister's secret engagement to her husband?

I looked full at her as that thought flashed through my mind. Yes, she presented a picture of sweet and interesting widowhood. In her voice, as in her countenance, was just that slight touch of grief which told me plainly that she was a heart-broken, remorseful woman--a woman, like many another, who knew not the value of a tender, honest and indulgent husband until he had been s.n.a.t.c.hed from her. Mother and daughter, both widows, were a truly sad and sympathetic pair.

As we spoke I watched her eyes, noted her every movement attentively, but failed utterly to discern any suggestion of what her mother had remarked.

Once, at mention of her dead husband, she had of a sudden exclaimed in a low voice, full of genuine emotion: