The Doctor of Pimlico Part 14

She had declared that she arrived at Hill Street about seven o'clock on that fateful second of September. That might be true, but might she not have arrived after her secret visit to Half Moon Street?

In suppressing the fact that she had been there at all she had acted with considerable foresight. Naturally, her parents were not desirous of the fact being stated publicly that she had gone alone to a bachelor's rooms, and they had, therefore, a.s.sisted her to preserve the secret--known only to Barker and to the doctor. Yet her evidence had been regarded as immaterial, hence she had not been called as witness.

Only Barker had suspected. That unusual perfume about her had puzzled him. Yet how could he make any direct charge against the general's stepdaughter, who had always been most generous to him in the matter of tips? Besides, did not the captain write a note to her with his last dying effort?

What proof was there that the pair had not dined together? Fetherston had already made diligent inquiries at Hill Street, and had discovered from the butler that Miss Enid, on her arrival home from Salisbury, had changed her gown and gone out in a taxi at a quarter to eight. She had dined out--but where was unknown.

It was quite true that she had come in before ten o'clock, and soon afterwards had received a note by boy-messenger.

In view of these facts it appeared quite certain to Fetherston that Enid and Harry Bellairs had taken dinner _tete-a-tete_ at some quiet restaurant. She was a merry, high-spirited girl to whom such an adventure would certainly appeal.

After dinner they had parted, and he had driven to his rooms. Then, feeling his strength failing, he had hastily summoned her to his side.

Why?

If he had suspected her of being the author of any foul play he most certainly would not have begged her to come to him in his last moments.

No. The enigma grew more and more inscrutable.

And yet there was a motive for poor Bellairs' tragic end--one which, in the light of his own knowledge, seemed only too apparent.

He strolled on beside the fair-faced girl, deep in wonder. Recollections of that devil-may-care cavalry officer who had been such a good friend clouded her brow, and as she walked her eyes were cast upon the ground in silent reflection.

She was wondering whether Walter Fetherston had guessed the truth, that she had loved that man who had met with such an untimely end.

Her companion, on his part, was equally puzzled. That story of Barker's finding a white feather was a curious one. It was true that the man had found a white feather--but he had also learnt that when Enid Orlebar had arrived at Hill Street she had been wearing a white feather boa!

"It is not curious, after all," he said reflectively, "that the police should have dismissed the affair as a death from natural causes. At the inquest no suspicion whatever was aroused. I wonder why Barker, in his evidence, made no mention of that perfume--or of the discovery of the feather?"

And as he uttered those words he fixed his grave eyes upon her, watching her countenance intently.

"Well," she replied, after a moment's hesitation, "if he had it would have proved nothing, would it? If the captain had received a lady visitor in secret that afternoon it might have had no connection with the circ.u.mstances of his death six hours later."

"And yet it might," Fetherston remarked. "What more natural than that the lady who visited him clandestinely--for Barker had, no doubt, been sent out of the way on purpose that he should not see her--should have dined with him later?"

The girl moved uneasily, tapping the ground with her stick.

"Then you suspect some woman of having had a hand in his death?" she exclaimed in a changed voice, her eyes again cast upon the ground.

"I do not know sufficient of the details to entertain any distinct suspicion," he replied. "I regard the affair as a mystery, and in mysteries I am always interested."

"You intend to bring the facts into a book," she remarked. "Ah! I see."

"Perhaps--if I obtain a solution of the enigma--for enigma it certainly is."

"You agree with me, then, that poor Harry was the victim of foul play?"

she asked in a low, intense voice, eagerly watching his face the while.

"Yes," he answered very slowly, "and, further, that the woman who visited him that afternoon was an accessory. Harry Bellairs was _murdered_!"

Her cheeks blanched and she went pale to the lips. He saw the sudden change in her, and realised what a supreme effort she was making to betray no undue alarm. But the effect of his cold, calm words had been almost electrical. He watched her countenance slowly flus.h.i.+ng, but pretended not to notice her confusion. And so he walked on at her side, full of wonderment.

How much did she know? Why, indeed, had Harry Bellairs fallen the victim of a secret a.s.sa.s.sin?

No trained officer of the Criminal Investigation Department was more ingenious in making secret inquiries, more clever in his subterfuges or in disguising his real objects, than Walter Fetherston. Possessed of ample means, and member of that secret club called "Our Society," which meets at intervals and is the club of criminologists, and pursuing the detection of crime as a pastime, he had on many occasions placed Scotland Yard and the Surete in Paris in possession of information which had amazed them and which had earned for him the high esteem of those in office as Ministers of the Interior in Paris, Rome and in London.

The case of Captain Henry Bellairs he had taken up merely because he recognised in it some unusual circ.u.mstances, and without sparing effort he had investigated it rapidly and secretly from every standpoint. He had satisfied himself. Certain knowledge that he had was not possessed by any officer at Scotland Yard, and only by reason of that secret knowledge had he been able to arrive at the definite conclusion that there had been a strong motive for the captain's death, and that if he had been secretly poisoned--which seemed to be the case, in spite of the a.n.a.lysts'

evidence--then he had been poisoned by the velvet hand of a woman.

Walter Fetherston was ever regretting his inability to put any of the confidential information he acquired into his books.

"If I could only write half the truth of what I know, people would declare it to be fiction," he had often a.s.sured intimate friends. And those friends had pondered and wondered to what he referred.

He wrote of crime, weaving those wonderful romances which held breathless his readers in every corner of the globe, and describing criminals and life's undercurrents with such fidelity that even criminals themselves had expressed wonder as to how and whence he obtained his accurate information.

But the public were in ignorance that, in his character of Mr. Maltwood, he pursued a strange profession, one which was fraught with more romance and excitement than any other calling a man could adopt. In comparison with his life that of a detective was really a tame one; while such success had he obtained that in a certain important official circle in London he was held in highest esteem and frequently called into consultation.

Walter Fetherston, the quiet, reticent novelist, was entirely different from the gay, devil-may-care Maltwood, the accomplished linguist, thorough-going cosmopolitan and constant traveller, the easy-going man of means known in society in every European capital.

Because of this his few friends who were aware of his dual personality were puzzled.

At the girl's side he strode on along the road which still led through the wood, the road over which every evening rumbled the old post-diligence on its way through the quaint old town of Etain to the railway at Spincourt. On that very road a battalion of Uhlans had been annihilated almost to a man at the outbreak of the Great War.

Every metre they trod was historic ground--ground which had been contested against the legions of the Crown Prince's army.

For some time neither spoke. At last Walter asked: "Your stepfather has been up to the fortress with Monsieur Le Pontois, I suppose?"

"Yes, once or twice," was her reply, eager to change the subject. "Of course, to a soldier, fortifications and suchlike things are always of interest."

"I saw them walking up to the fortress together the other day," he remarked with a casual air.

"What?" she asked quickly. "Have you been here before?"

"Once," he laughed. "I came over from Commercy and spent the day in your vicinity in the hope that I might perhaps meet you alone accidentally."

He did not tell her that he had watched her shopping with Madame Le Pontois, or that he had spent several days at a small _auberge_ at the tiny village of Marcheville-en-Woevre, only two miles distant.

"I had no idea of that," she replied, her face flus.h.i.+ng slightly.

"When do you return to London?" he asked.

"I hardly know. Certainly not before next Thursday, as we have amateur theatricals at General Molon's. I am playing the part of Miss Smith, the English governess, in Darbour's comedy, _Le Pyree_."

"And then you return to London, eh?"

"I hardly know. Yesterday I had a letter from Mrs. Caldwell saying that she contemplated going to Italy this winter; therefore, perhaps mother will let me go. I wrote to her this morning. The proposal is to spend part of the time in Italy, and then cross from Naples to Egypt. I love Egypt. We were there some winters ago, at the Winter Palace at Luxor."

"Your father and mother will remain at home, I suppose?"