The Seven Secrets Part 29

"Oh, by the way!" he said, as though suddenly recollecting. "Have you met your friend Ambler Jevons lately?"

"No," I replied. "He's been away for some weeks, I think. Why?"

"Because I saw him yesterday in King's Road. He was driving in a fly, and had one eye bandaged up. Met with an accident, I should think."

"An accident!" I exclaimed in consternation. "He wrote to me the other day, but did not mention it."

"He's been trying his hand at unravelling the mystery of poor Courtenay's death, hasn't he?" the old man asked.

"I believe so?"

"And failed--eh?"

"I don't think his efforts have been crowned with very much success, although he has told me nothing," I said.

In response the old man grunted in dissatisfaction. I knew how disgusted he had been at the bungling and utter failure of the police inquiries, for he was always declaring Scotland Yard seemed to be useless, save for the recovery of articles left in cabs.

He glanced at his watch, s.n.a.t.c.hed up his silk hat, b.u.t.toned his coat, and, wis.h.i.+ng me good-bye, went out to catch the Pullman train.

Next day about two o'clock I was in one of the wards at Guy's, seeing the last of my patients, when a telegram was handed to me by one of the nurses.

I tore it open eagerly, expecting that it was from Ethelwynn, announcing the hour of her arrival at Paddington.

But the message upon which my eyes fell was so astounding, so appalling, and so tragic that my heart stood still.

The few words upon the flimsy paper increased the mystery to an even more bewildering degree than before!

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE MYSTERY OF MARY.

The astounding message, despatched from Neneford and signed by Parkinson, the butler, ran as follows:--

_"Regret to inform you that Mrs. Courtenay was found drowned in the river this morning. Can you come here? My mistress very anxious to see you."_

Without a moment's delay I sent a reply in the affirmative, and, after searching in the "A.B.C.," found that I had a train at three o'clock from King's Cross. This I took, and after an anxious journey arrived duly at the Manor, all the blinds of which were closely drawn.

Parkinson, white-faced and agitated, a thin, nervous figure in a coat too large for him, had been watching my approach up the drive, and held open the door for me.

"Ah, Doctor!" the old fellow gasped. "It's terrible--terrible! To think that poor Miss Mary should die like that!"

"Tell me all about it," I demanded, quickly. "Come!" and I led the way into the morning room.

"We don't know anything about it, sir; it's all a mystery," the grey-faced old man replied. "When one of the housemaids went up to Miss Mary's room at eight o'clock this morning to take her tea, as usual, she received no answer to her knock. Thinking she was asleep she returned half-an-hour later, only to find her absent, and that the bed had not been slept in. We told the mistress, never thinking that such an awful fate had befallen poor Miss Mary. Mistress was inclined to believe that she had gone off on some wild excursion somewhere, for of late she's been in the habit of going away for a day or two without telling us. At first none of us dreamed that anything had happened, until, just before twelve o'clock, Reuben Dixon's lad, who'd been out fis.h.i.+ng, came up, shouting that poor Miss Mary was in the water under some bushes close to the stile that leads into Monk's Wood. At first we couldn't believe it; but, with the others, I flew down post-haste, and there she was, poor thing, under the surface, with her dress caught in the bushes that droop into the water. Her hat was gone, and her hair, unbound, floated out, waving with the current. We at once got a boat and took her out, but she was quite dead. Four men from the village carried her up here, and they've placed her in her own room."

"The police know about it, of course?"

"Yes, we told old Jarvis, the constable. He's sent a telegram to Oundle, I think."

"And what doctor has seen her?"

"Doctor Govitt. He's here now."

"Ah! I must see him. He has examined the body, I suppose?"

"I expect so, sir. He's been a long time in the room."

"And how is it believed that the poor young lady got into the water?"

I asked, anxious to obtain the local theory.

"It's believed that she either fell in or was pushed in a long way higher up, because half-a-mile away, not far from the lock, there's distinct marks in the long gra.s.s, showing that somebody went off the path to the brink of the river. And close by that spot they found her black silk shawl."

"She went out without a hat, then?" I remarked, recollecting that when she had met her husband in secret she had worn a shawl. Could it be possible that she had met him again, and that he had made away with her? The theory seemed a sound one in the present circ.u.mstances.

"It seems to me, sir, that the very fact of her taking her shawl showed that she did not intend to be out very long," the butler said.

"It would almost appear that she went out in the night in order to meet somebody," I observed.

The old man shook his head sorrowfully, saying:

"Poor Miss Mary's never been the same since her husband died, Doctor.

She was often very strange in her manner. Between ourselves, I strongly suspect it to be a case of deliberate suicide. She was utterly broken down by the awful blow."

"I don't see any motive for suicide," I remarked. Then I asked, "Has she ever been known to meet anyone on the river-bank at night?"

Old Parkinson was usually an impenetrable person. He fidgeted, and I saw that my question was an awkward one for him to answer without telling a lie.

"The truth will have to be discovered about this, you know," I went on. "Therefore, if you have any knowledge likely to a.s.sist us at the inquest it is your duty to explain."

"Well, sir," he answered, after a short pause, "to tell the truth, in this last week there have been some funny rumours in the village."

"About what?"

"People say that she was watched by Drake, Lord Na.s.sington's gamekeeper, who saw her at two o'clock in the morning walking arm-in-arm with an old gentleman. I heard the rumour down at the Golden Ball, but I wouldn't believe it. Why, Mr. Courtenay's only been dead a month or two. The man Drake is a bragging fellow, and I think most people discredit his statement."

"Well," I said, "it might possibly have been true. It seems hardly conceivable that she should go wandering alone by the river at night.

She surely had some motive in going there. Was she only seen by the gamekeeper on one occasion?"

"Only once. But, of course, he soon spread it about the village, and it formed a nice little t.i.t-bit of gossip. As soon as I heard it I took steps to deny it."

"It never reached the young lady's ears?"

"Oh, no," the old servant answered. "We were careful to keep the scandal to ourselves, knowing how it would pain her. She's had sufficient trouble in her life, poor thing." And with tears in his grey old eyes, he added: "I have known her ever since she was a child in her cradle. It's awful that her end should come like this."