Who? Part 33

"I can think of nothing more unlikely than that his Lordship should have selected his cast-off mistress as his wife's attendant," Judson drily remarked.

"Not at all. You didn't know him," replied Cyril. "I can quite fancy that the situation would have appealed to his cynical humour."

"Your opinion of the late Lord Wilmersley is certainly not flattering, but even if we take for granted that such an arrangement would not have been impossible to his Lordship, I still refuse to believe that Valdriguez would have agreed to it; even a.s.suming that his Lordship had wronged her and that she had nursed a murderous resentment against him all these years, I cannot see how she could have hoped to further her object by accepting the humiliating position of his wife's maid. It also seems to me incredible that a woman whose pa.s.sions were so violent as to find expression in murder could have controlled them during a lifetime.

But leaving aside these considerations, I have another reason to urge against your theory: Would his Lordship have trusted a woman who, he knew, had a grievance against him, as he certainly trusted Valdriguez?

She had free access to his apartments. What was there to have prevented her from giving him an overdose of some drug during one of the many times when he was half-stupefied with opium? Nothing. The risk of detection would have been infinitesimal. No, my lord, why Valdriguez returned to Geralton is an enigma, I grant you, but your explanation does not satisfy me."

"As long as you acknowledge that Valdriguez's presence here needs an explanation and are willing to work to find that explanation, I don't care whether you accept my theory or not; all I want to get at is the truth."

"The truth, my lord," said the detective, as he rose to take his leave, "is often more praised than appreciated."

CHAPTER XV

FINGER PRINTS IN THE DUST

As Cyril sat toying with his dinner, it was little by little borne in on him that the butler had something on his mind. How he got this impression he really did not know, for Douglas performed his duties as precisely, as un.o.btrusively as ever. Yet long before the last course had been reached, Cyril was morally certain that he had not been mistaken.

He waited for the dessert to be placed on the table; then, having motioned the footmen to leave the room, he half turned to the butler, who was standing behind his chair.

"Douglas."

"Yes, my lord?" The man stepped forward, so as to face his master.

"Is anything the matter?" asked Cyril, scrutinising the other attentively.

The abrupt question seemed neither to surprise nor to discompose the butler; yet he hesitated before finally answering:

"I--I don't quite know, my lord."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Cyril impatiently. "You must know whether or not something has happened to upset you."

Douglas fidgeted uneasily.

"Well, my lord--it's this way, my lord--Susan, the upper 'ousemaid, says as how there has been somebody or--" here his voice sank to a whisper and he cast an apprehensive glance over his shoulder--"or something in the library last night!"

Cyril put down the gla.s.s of wine he was carrying to his lips untasted.

"She thinks she saw a ghost in the library?"

"No, my lord. She didn't see anything, but this morning she found finger-marks on the top of his Lordship's desk."

"Pooh! What of that? One of the servants may have gone in there out of curiosity."

"But what would anybody be doing there in the night, I should like to know? And Susan says those marks could only 'ave been made last night, my lord."

"Why?"

"On account of the dust, my lord. It takes time for dust to settle and a 'ousemaid, who knows 'er business, can tell, after she's been in a place a couple of months, just about 'ow long it's been since any particular piece of furniture has been dusted. Aye, Susan knows, my lord. No young 'ousemaid can pull the wool over 'er eyes, I can tell you."

"Does every one know of Susan's suspicions?"

"No, my lord. Susan's a sensible woman, and though she was frightened something terrible, she only told Mrs. Eversley and Mrs. Eversley told me and we three agreed we'd hold our tongues. Every one's that upset as it is, that they'd all 'ave 'ighstrikes if they knew that It was walking."

"Don't be a fool, Douglas. No one believes in ghosts nowadays. But even if there were such things, an intangible spirit couldn't possibly leave finger-marks behind it."

"But, my lord, if you'll excuse me, my aunt's cousin--" began the butler, but Cyril cut him short.

"I have no time now to hear about your aunt's cousin, though no doubt it is a most interesting story. Send Susan to me at once."

"Very good, my lord."

Susan had, however, no further information to impart. She was positive that the marks must have been made some time during the night.

"And it's my belief they were made by a skeleton hand," she added. "And as for going into that room again, indeed I just couldn't, not for n.o.body, meaning no disrespect to your Lordship; and as for the other 'ousemaids, they'll not go near the place either and haven't been since the murder."

"Very well, Susan, I shall not ask you to do so. Those rooms shall not be opened again till this mystery is cleared up. I will go now and lock them up myself."

"Thank you, my lord."

Striding rapidly across the hall, Cyril opened the door of the library.

This part of the castle had been equipped with electric light and steam heat, and as he stepped into the darkness, the heavy-scented air almost made him reel. Having found the switch, he noticed at once that the room had indefinably changed since he had been in it last. Notwithstanding the heat, notwithstanding the flood of crimson light, which permeated even the farthest corners, it had already a.s.sumed the chill, gloomy aspect of an abandoned apartment.

Stooping over the desk, he eagerly inspected the marks which had so startled the housemaid. Yes, they were still quite visible, although a delicate film of dust had already begun to soften the precision of their outline--very strange! They certainly did look like the imprint of skeleton fingers. He laid his own hand on the desk. His fingers left a mark at least twice as wide as those of the mysterious visitant.

For a long time he stood with bent head pondering deeply; then, throwing back his shoulders, as if he had arrived at some decision, he proceeded to explore the entire suite. Having satisfied himself that no one was secreted on the premises, he turned off the light, shut the door--but he did not turn the key.

Some hours later Cyril, in his great four-posted bed, lay watching, with wide-open eyes, the fantastic shadows thrown by the dancing firelight on the panelled walls. To woo sleep was evidently not his intention, for from time to time he lighted a wax vesta and consulted the watch he held in his hand. At last the hour seemed to satisfy him, for he got out of bed and made a hasty toilet. Having accomplished this as best he could in the semi-obscurity, he slipped a pistol into his pocket and left his room.

Groping his way through the darkness, he descended the stairs and cautiously traversed the hall. Not a sound did he make. His stockinged feet moved noiselessly over the heavy carpet. At the door of the library he paused a moment and listened intently; then, pistol in hand, he threw open the door. Darkness and silence alone confronted him. Closing the door behind him, he lighted a match and carefully inspected the desk.

Having a.s.sured himself that no fresh marks had appeared on its polished surface, he blew out the match and ensconced himself as comfortably as the limited s.p.a.ce permitted behind the curtains of one of the windows.

There he waited patiently for what seemed to him an eternity. He had just begun to fear that his vigil would prove fruitless, when his ear was gladdened by a slight sound. A moment later the light was switched on. Hardly daring to breathe, Cyril peered through the curtains.

Valdriguez! Cyril's heart gave a bound of exultation. Had he not guessed that those marks could only have been made by her small, bony fingers?

Clad like a nun in a loose, black garment, which fell in straight, austere folds to her feet; a black shawl, thrown over her head, casting strange shadows on her pale, haggard face, she advanced slowly, almost majestically, into the room. Cyril had to acknowledge that she looked more like a medieval saint than a midnight marauder.

Evidently the woman had no fear of detection, for she never even cast one suspicious glance around her; nor did she appear to feel that there was any necessity for haste, for she lingered for some time near the writing-table, gazing at it, as if it had a fascination for her; but, finally, she turned away with a hopeless sigh and directed her attention to the bookcase. This she proceeded to examine in the most methodical manner. Book after book was taken down, shaken, and the binding carefully scrutinised. Having cleared a shelf, she drew a tape measure from her pocket and rapped and measured the back and sides of the case itself.

What on earth could she be looking for, wondered Cyril. Not a will, surely? For his cousin's will, executed at the date of his marriage, had been found safely deposited with his solicitor. A later will, perhaps?

One in which she hoped that her master had remembered her, as he had probably promised her that he would? Yes, that must be it.

Well, there was no further need of concealment, he decided, so, parting the curtains, he stepped into the room.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded.

His own voice startled him, it rang out so loud and harsh in the silence of the night.