Who? Part 13

"I thought Judson had left the castle?"

"So he has, my lord; this is the man from Scotland Yard. Griggs is his name. He was 'ere before Judson, but he had left the castle before you arrived."

Impossible even to attempt, to keep her disappearance a secret, thought Cyril. After all, perhaps she was not his _protegee_. He was always jumping at erroneous conclusions, and a description is so misleading. On the other hand, the combination of black hair and blue eyes was a most unusual one. Besides, it was already sufficiently remarkable that two young and beautiful women had fled from Newhaven on the same day (beauty being alas such a rarity!), but that three should have done so was well-nigh incredible. But could even the most superior of upper servants possess that air of breeding which was one of the girl's most noticeable attributes. It was, of course, within the bounds of possibility that this maid was well-born and simply forced by poverty into a menial position. One thing was certain--if his _protegee_ was Priscilla Prentice, then this girl, in spite of her humble occupation, was a lady, and consequently more than ever in need of his protection and respect.

Well, a.s.suming that it was Prentice he had rescued, what part had she played in the tragedy? Why had she feared arrest? She must have been present at the murder, but even in that case, why did she not realise that Lady Wilmersley's unbalanced condition would prevent suspicion from falling on any one else? The police had never even thought of her! And where had she hidden her mistress? It was all most mysterious.

Cyril sat weighing the _pros and cons_ of one theory after another, completely oblivious of his housekeeper's presence.

Douglas, entering, discreetly interrupted his cogitations:

"The inquest is about to begin, my lord."

CHAPTER VII

THE INQUEST

On entering the hall Cyril found that a seat on the right hand of the coroner had been reserved for him, but he chose a secluded corner from which he could watch the proceedings un.o.bserved.

On the left of Mr. Tinker sat a tall, imposing-looking man, who, on inquiry, proved to be Inspector Griggs.

The first part of the inquest developed nothing new. It was only when Mustapha stepped forward that Cyril's interest revived and he forgot the problem of his _protegee's_ ident.i.ty.

The Turk, with the exception of a red fez, was dressed as a European, but his swarthy skin, large, beak-like nose, and deep, sombre eyes, in which brooded the mystery of the East, proclaimed his nationality.

Cyril tried in vain to form some estimate of the man's character, to probe the depths of those fathomless eyes, but ignorant as he was of the Oriental, he found it impossible to differentiate between Mustapha's racial and individual characteristics. That he was full of infinite possibilities was evident--even his calmness was suggestive of potential pa.s.sion. A man to be watched, decided Cyril.

Mustapha gave his testimony in a low, clear voice, and although he spoke with a strong foreign accent, his English was purer than that of his fellow servants.

That he had nothing to do with the murder seemed from the first conclusively proved. Several of the servants had seen him enter his room, which adjoined that of the butler, at about half-past nine--that is to say, an hour and a half before Lord Wilmersley's death could, in the doctor's opinion, have taken place--and Douglas on cross--reiterated his conviction that Mustapha could not have left his room without his having heard him do so, as he, Douglas, was a very light sleeper.

In answer to questions from the coroner, Mustapha told how he had entered the late Lord Wilmersley's service some fifteen years previously, at which time his master owned a house on the outskirts of Constantinople. As he dressed as a Mussulman and consorted entirely with the natives, Mustapha did not know that he was a foreigner till his master informed him of the fact just before leaving Turkey.

When questioned as to Lady Wilmersley, he was rather non-committal. No, he had never believed her to be dangerous.--Had she seemed happy? No, she cried often.--Did his lordship ever ill-treat her? Not that he knew of. His lordship was very patient with her tears.--Did he know how she could have obtained a pistol? Yes, there was one concealed on his master's desk. He had discovered that it was missing.--How could a pistol lie concealed _on_ a desk? It was hidden inside an ancient steel gauntlet, ostensibly used as a paperweight. Mustapha had found it one day quite accidentally.--Did he tell his lordship of his discovery? No.

His master was always afraid of being spied upon.--Why? He did not know.--Did Mustapha know of any enemy of his lordship who was likely to have sought such a revenge? No. His master's enemies were not in England.--Then his lordship had enemies? As all men have, so had he.--But he had no special enemy? An enemy is an enemy, but his master's enemies were not near.--How could he be so sure of that? He would have had word.--How? From whom? From his, Mustapha's friends.--Did his lordship fear his enemies would follow him to England? At first, perhaps, but not lately.--If his lordship's enemies had found him, would they have been likely to kill him? Who can tell? The heart of man is very evil.--But he knew no one who could have done this thing? No one.--Did he believe his mistress had done it? Mustapha hesitated for the first time. "They say so," he finally answered.

"But you, what do you think?" insisted the coroner.

"The ways of women are dark."

"Do you believe her ladyship killed your master--Yes or No?" repeated the coroner impatiently.

"It is not for me to say," replied Mustapha with unruffled dignity.

The coroner, feeling himself rebuked, dismissed the man with a hurried "That will do."

Mrs. Valdriguez was next called.

She was a tall, thin woman between fifty and sixty. Her black hair, freely sprinkled with silver, was drawn into a tight knot at the back of her small head. Her pale, haggard face, with its finely-chiselled nose, thin-lipped mouth, and slightly-retreating chin, was almost beautified by her large, sunken eyes, which still glowed with extraordinary brilliancy. Her black dress was austere in its simplicity and she wore no ornament except a small gold cross suspended on her bosom.

The woman was obviously nervous. She held her hands tightly clasped in front of her, and her lips twitched from time to time. She spoke so low that Cyril had to lean forward to catch her answers, but her English was perfectly fluent. It was chiefly her accent and intonation which betrayed her foreign birth.

"You lived here in the time of the late Lady Wilmersley, did you not?"

began the coroner.

"Yes, sir."

"In what capacity?"

"As lady's maid, sir."

"When did you leave here, and why?"

"I left when her ladyship died."

"Did you return to Spain?"

"Yes, sir."

"How did you happen to enter the present Lady Wilmersley's service?"

"Lord Wilmersley sent for me when he was on his wedding journey."

"Had you seen him after you left Geralton?"

"From time to time."

"Do you know whether his lordship had any enemies?"

"Not of late years."

"Then you did know some. Who were they?"

"Those that he had are either dead or have forgiven," Valdriguez answered, and as she did so, she fingered the cross on her breast.

"So that you can think of no one likely to have resorted to such a terrible revenge?"

"No one, sir."

"On the night of the murder you did not a.s.sist her ladyship to undress, so I understand?"

"I never did. From the time her ladyship left her room to go to dinner I never saw her again till the following morning."

"And you noticed nothing unusual that evening?"