The Frightened Lady E-Book

Edgar Wallace

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

When Inspector Tanner is called in to investigate a ruthless murder at Mark’s Priory, the grand ancestral home of the Lebanon family, he quickly discovers that nothing is quite as it seems. The household is controlled by the family physician, the footmen behave more like guests than servants and the secretary Isla is afraid for her life. Why are these two American „toughs” employed as footmen? Why is Lady Lebanon so unwilling to answer any questions? What he does know is that the only obviously innocent person is utterly consumed with terror. Here is Inspector Tanner’s first real clue. As Tanner moves closer to the heart of the mystery he uncovers a shocking and closely guarded secret.

Leseprobe

Contents

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVI

CHAPTER I

AMERICAN footmen aren’t natural: even Brooks admitted as much to Kelver, the butler, thereby cutting the ground from under his own feet.

He was a stout man, tightly liveried, and wore spectacles. His hair was grey and thin, his voice inclined to be squeaky. Sticking out of the pocket of a red-striped waistcoat, which was part of his uniform, there was visible a broken packet of gum. He chewed most of the time, his jaws moving almost with the regularity of a pendulum. Gilder, of an exact and mathematical turn of mind, had clocked him as fast as fifty-six to the minute, and as slow as fifty-one. In the privacy of his room Mr. Brooks smoked a large pipe charged with a peculiar sugary blend of tobacco that he imported expensively from California.

Neither Mr. Brooks, the footman, nor Mr. Gilder, the footman, fitted the household of Marks Priory, nor did they fit the village of Marks Thornton. They were poor footmen, and never seemed to improve by practice and benefit from experience.

Yet they were nice men, if you can imagine such abnormalities as American footmen being nice. They interfered with none, were almost extravagantly polite to their fellow-servants, and never once (this stood as a monumental credit) did they report any other servants for a neglect of duty, even when neglect worked adversely against their own comfort.

They were liked, and Gilder a little feared. He was a gaunt man with a hollowed, lined face and a deep, gloomy voice that came rumbling up from some hollow cavern inside him. His hair was sparse and black and long; there were large patches on his head which were entirely bald, and he was immensely strong.

There was a gamekeeper who discovered this–John Tilling. He was a big man, red-haired, red-faced, obsessed by suspicion. His wife was certainly pretty, as certainly restless and given to dreams which she never quite realised, though imagination helped her nearly the whole of the journey. For example, she found no olive-skinned Romeo in a certain groom from the village. He was ruddy, rather coarse, smelt of stables and beer, and last Sunday’s clean shirt. He offered her the mechanics of love, and her imagination supplied the missing glamour. But that was an old scandal. If it had reached the ears of Lady Lebanon there would have been a new tenant to Box Hedge Cottage…

Later Mrs. Tilling looked higher than ostlers, but her husband did not know this.

He stopped Gilder one afternoon as he was crossing Priory Field.

“Excuse me.”

His politeness was menacing.

“You bin down to my cottage once or twice lately–when I was over at Horsham?”

An assertion rather than an inquiry.

“Why, yes.” The American spoke slowly, which was his way. “Her ladyship asked me to call about the clutch of eggs that she’s been charged for. You weren’t at home. So I called next day.”

“And I wasn’t at home neither,” sneered Tilling, his face redder.

Gilder looked at him amused. For himself he knew nothing of the unfortunate affair of the groom, for small gossip did not interest him.

“That’s so. You were in the woods somewhere.”

“My wife was at home…You stopped an’ had a cup of tea, hey?”

Gilder was outraged. The smile went out of his grey eyes and they were hard.

“What’s the idea?” he asked.

His jacket was suddenly gripped.

“You stay away–”

So far Tilling got, and then the American footman took him gently by the wrist and slowly twisted his hand free.

If Tilling had been a child he could have offered no more effective resistance.

“Say, don’t do that. Yeah, I saw your wife and I had tea. She may be a beautiful baby to you, but to me she’s two eyes and a nose. Get that in your mind.”

He jerked his forearm very slightly, but very violently. It was a trick of training; the gamekeeper stumbled back and had a difficulty in maintaining his balance. He was a slow-witted man, incapable of sustaining two emotions at one and the same time. For the moment he was too astounded to be anything but astounded.

“You know your wife better than I do,” said Gilder, flexing his back. “Maybe you’re right about her, but you’re all wrong about me.”

When he came back from the village–he had been to the chemist’s–he found Tilling waiting for him almost on the spot where they had parted.

There was no hint of truculence; in a way he was apologetic. Gilder, by repute, had her ladyship’s ear, and exercised a supreme intelligence which had its explanation according to the fancies fair, fantastic or foul, of those who offered a solution to the mystery.

“I’ll be glad if you overlook what I said, Mr. Gilder. Anna an’ me have our little disagreements, an’ I’m a high-handed chap. There’s been too many visits down at Box Hedge, but you, bein’ a family man–”

“I’m not married, but I’ve got a domestic mind,” said Gilder. “Let’s say no more about it.”

Later he told Brooks, and the stout man listened stolidly, his jaws working. When he spoke, he offered an historical parallel.

“Say, have you heard of Messalina? She was an Eyetalian woman, the wife of Julius Caesar or somep’n.”

Brooks read a great deal and had a skimming memory for facts. Still, a footman who was an American citizen and who even knew that Messalina had lived, and could produce her in any recognisable form to illustrate a situation, was phenomenal. Place him and his companion against the background of Mark’s Priory and they became incongruous.

For Mark’s Priory had its footing set by Saxon masons, and the West Keep had gone up when William Rufus was hunting in the New Forest. Tudor Henry had found it a ruin, and restored it for his protege John, Baron Lebanon. It had withstood a siege against the soldiers of Warwick.

It was Plantagenet and Tudor and modern. No eighteenth century builder had desecrated its form; it had survived the rise and fall of the Victorian renaissance which produced so many queerly shaped angels and cherubs and draughty back rooms. There was an age and a mellowness to it that only time and the English climate could bring.

Willie Lebanon found it an irritation and an anodyne; to Dr. Amersham it was a prison and a disagreeable duty; to Lady Lebanon alone it was Reality.

CHAPTER II

LADY LEBANON was slight, petite by strict standards, though never giving you the impression of smallness. Yet people who spoke to her for the first time carried away a sense of the majestic.

She was firm, cold, very definite. Her black hair was parted in the middle and brought down over her ears. She had small, delicate features; the moulding of her cheeks was aesthetic. In her dark eyes burnt the unquenchable fires of the true fanatic. Always she seemed conscious of a duty to aristocracy. The modern world had not touched her; her speech was precise, unextravagant–almost you saw the commas and colons which spaced her sentences. She abominated slang, smoking in women, the vulgarity of ostentation.

Always she was conscious of her descent from the fourth baron–she had married her cousin–and the tremendous significance of family.

Willie Lebanon confessed himself bored with the state in which he lived. Though he was small of stature, he had passed through Sandhurst with distinction, and if his two years’ service in the 30th Hussars had failed to stamp him soldier, the experience had enhanced his physique. The bad attack of fever which brought him home (explained Lady Lebanon, when she condescended to explain anything) was largely responsible for Willie’s restlessness. The unbiased observer might have found a better reason for his exasperation.

He came slowly down the winding tower stairs of Marks Priory into the great hall, determined to “have it out” with his mother. He had made such resolutions before, and half-way through the argument had wearied of it.

She was sitting at her desk, reading her letters. She glanced up as he came into view and fixed him with that long and searching scrutiny which always embarrassed him. “Good morning, Willie.”

Her voice was soft, rich, and yet had in it a certain quality of hardness which made him wriggle inside. It was rather like going before the commanding officer in his least compromising mood.

“I say, can I have a talk with you?” he managed to jerk out.

He tried to recall to himself the formula which was to support him. He was the head of the house, the lord of Marks Priory in the County of Sussex, and of Temple Abbey in the County of Yorkshire…the master! He had only a vague and dismal satisfaction at the knowledge, and certainly was no nearer to the dominating mood which he was trying to stimulate into being.

“Yes, Willie?”

She laid down her pen, settled herself back in the padded chair, her delicate hands lightly clasped on her lap.

“I’ve sacked Gilder,” he said jerkily. “He’s an absolute boor, mother; he really is. And he was rather impertinent…I think it is rather ridiculous, don’t you, having American footmen who really don’t know their jobs? There must be hundreds of footmen you could engage. Brooks is just as bad…”

He came to the end of his breath here, but she waited. If she had only said something, or had grown angry! After all, he was the master of the house. It was too absurd that he could not discharge any servant he wished. He had been in command of a squadron–it was true, only while the senior officers were on leave–but the commanding officer had commended him on the way he had handled the men. He cleared his throat and went on.

“It’s making me rather ridiculous, isn’t it? I mean, the position I am in. People are talking about me. Even these pot-house louts who go into the White Hart. I’m told it is the talk of the village–”

“Who told you?”

Willie hated that metallic quality in her voice, and shuddered.

“Well, I mean, people talk about me being tied to your apron strings, and all that sort of thing.”

“Who told you?” she asked again. “Studd?”

He went red. It was devilish shrewd of her to guess right the first time: but he owed loyalty to his chauffeur, and lied.

“Studd? Good heavens, no! I mean, I wouldn’t discuss things like that with a servant. But I’ve heard in a roundabout way. And anyway, I’ve sacked Gilder.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do without Gilder. It is rather inconsiderate of you to discharge a servant without consulting me.”

“But I’m consulting you now.”

He pulled out the settle on the other side of the desk and sat down; made an heroic effort to meet her eyes, and compromised by staring hard at the silver candlestick on the cabinet behind her.

“Everybody’s noticed how these two fellows behave,” he went on doggedly. “Why, only once in a blue moon do they say ‘my lord’ to me. Not that I mind that. I think all this ‘my lording’ and ‘my ladying’ is stupid and undemocratic. They do nothing but loaf around the house. Really, mother, I think I’m right.”

She leaned forward over the writing table, her thin, clasped hands resting on the blotter. “You are quite wrong, Willie. I must have these men here. It is absurd of you to be prejudiced because they are American.”

“But I’m not–” he began.

“Please don’t interrupt me when I am talking, Willie dear. You must not listen to what Studd says. He’s a very nice man, but I’m not quite sure he’s the kind of servant I want at Mark’s Priory.”

“You’re not going to get rid of him, are you?” he protested. “Hang it all, mother, I’ve had three good valets, and each one of them you thought wasn’t the right kind of servant, though they suited me.” He screwed up his courage. “I suppose the truth is that they don’t suit Amersham?”

She stiffened a little. “I never consider Dr. Amersham’s views. I neither ask his advice nor am I guided by him,” she said sharply.

With an effort he met her eyes. “What is he doing here, anyway?” he demanded. “That fellow practically lives at Marks Priory. He’s a perfectly loathsome fellow. If I told you all I’d heard about him–”

He stopped suddenly. The two little pink spots that came to her cheeks were signals not to be ignored.

Then, to his relief, Isla Crane came into the hall, some letters in her hand. She saw them, hesitated, and would have made a quick retreat, but Lady Lebanon called her.

Isla was twenty-four, dark, slim, rather lovely in an unobtrusive way. There are two varieties of beauty: one that demands instant and breathless discovery and one that is to be found on acquaintance, and to the surprise of the finder. The first time you met her she was a hardly rememberable figure in the background. By the third time she monopolised attention to the exclusion of all others. She had good eyes, very grave and a little sad.

Willie Lebanon greeted her with a smile. He liked Isla; he had dared to say as much to his mother, and, to his amazement, had not been reproved. She was a sort of cousin, definitely private secretary to Lady Lebanon. Willie was not conscious of her beauty; on the other hand. Dr. Amersham was all too conscious, but Lady Lebanon did not know this.

She put the letters down on the desk and was relieved when her ladyship made no effort to detain her. When she had gone: “Don’t you think Isla’s growing very beautiful?” asked Lady Lebanon.

It was an odd sort of question. Praise from his mother was a rare thing. He thought she was trying to turn the conversation, and rather welcomed the diversion, for he had reached the bottom of his reserves of determination to “have it out”.

“Yes, stunning.” he said, without particular enthusiasm, and wondered what was coming next.

“I want you to marry her,” she said calmly.

He stared at her.

“Marry Isla?” aghast. “Good Lord, why?”

“She’s a member of the family. Her grandfather was a younger brother of your grandfather, the seventeenth Viscount.”

“But I don’t want to marry–” he began.

“Don’t be absurd, Willie. You will have to marry somebody, and Isla is in every way a good match. She has no money, of course, but that really doesn’t matter. She has the blood, and that is all that counts.”

He was still staring at her. “Marry? Good Lord, I’ve never thought of being married. I hate the idea, really. She’s terribly nice, but–”

“No ‘buts’, Willie. I wish you to have a home of your own.”

He might have insisted, and the thought did occur to him, that he already had a home of his own, if he were allowed to manage it.

“If people are talking about you being in apron strings I should think you would welcome the idea. I have no particular desire to stay at Marks Priory and devote my life to you.”

Here was a more alluring prospect. Willie Lebanon drew a long breath, swung his legs to the other side of the settle, and stood up.

“I suppose I’ve got to marry some time,” he said. “But she’s awfully difficult, you know.”

He hesitated, not knowing exactly how his confession would be accepted.

“As a matter of fact, I did try to get a little friendly with her–in fact, I tried to kiss her about a month ago, but she was rather–stand-offish.”

“What an awful word!” She shivered slightly. “Naturally she would object. It was rather vulgar of you.”

Gilder slouched into view and rescued a bewildered and rather indignant young man from explanation.

Gilder’s livery had been most carefully fitted by a good London tailor. He was, however, the type of man on whom clothes were wasted. That mulberry uniform of his might have been bought from a slop shop. The coat hung on him, the shapeless trousers sagged at the knees. He was tall, cadaverous, hard-faced, and his normal expression was one of strong disapproval.

Lord Lebanon waited for the reproof which, by his standard, was inevitable. His mother made no attempt to reprimand the man or ask him to explain the impertinences alleged against him.

“Do you want me, m’lady?” It was a mechanical question.

When she shook her head he went slowly out of the hall.

“I do wish you had asked him what the dickens he meant by–” he began.

“Remember what I say about Isla,” she said, ignoring his unfinished protest. “She is charming–she has the blood. I will tell her how I feel about it.”

He stared at her in amazement.

“Doesn’t she know?”

“As for Studd “–her level brows met in a frown.

“I say, you’re not going to rag Studd, are you? He’s a devilish good fellow, and anyway, he didn’t tell me anything.”

Later he found Studd working at the car under the wash in the garage.

“I’m afraid I’ve done you an awful shot in the eye, Studd,” he said ruefully. “I told her ladyship that people were saying–you know–”

Studd looked up, straightened his back with a grimace, and grinned.

“I don’t mind, m’lord.”

He was a fresh-faced man of thirty-five, had been a soldier, and had served in India. “I shouldn’t like to leave this job, but I don’t think I’ll stick it much longer, m’lord. I don’t mind her ladyship; she’s always very polite and decent to me, though she does treat you as though you’re one of the slave class. But I can’t stand that feller.” He shook his head.

Lord Lebanon sighed. There was no need to ask who “that feller” was.

“If her ladyship knew as much about him as I do,” said Studd, heavily mysterious, “she wouldn’t let him into the house.”

“What do you know?” demanded Lebanon curiously. He had asked the question before and had received little more satisfaction than he had now.

“At the right time I’ve got a few words to say,” said Studd. “He was in India, wasn’t he?”

“Of course he was in India. He came back to bring me home, and he was in the Indian Medical Service for years, I believe. Do you know anything about him–I mean, about what he did in India?”

“At the right time,” said Studd darkly, “I’ll up and speak my mind.” He pointed to a recess in the garage. Willie Lebanon saw a shining new car which he had never seen before. “That’s his. Where does he get the money from? That cost a couple of thousand if it cost a penny. And when I knew him he was broke to the wide. Where does he get his money from?”

Willie Lebanon said nothing. He had asked his mother the same question without receiving any satisfactory answer.

He loathed Dr. Amersham; everybody loathed him except the two footmen and Lady Lebanon. A dapper little man, overdressed and over-scented; domineering, something of a Lothario if village gossip had any foundation. He had become suddenly rich from some unknown source; had a beautiful flat in Devonshire Street, two or three horses in training, and was accounted a good fellow by the sort of people who have their own peculiar ideas as to what constitutes good fellowship.

The fact that he was at Mark’s Priory did not surprise Willie. He was always there. He came late and early, driving down from London, spending an hour or two before taking his departure; and when he arrived there came a new master to Mark’s Priory.

He came downstairs, where he had been standing, and, if the truth be told, listening, a second after Willie had made his escape from the hall, pulled up a chair to the side of the desk where Lady Lebanon was sitting, and, taking a cigarette from a gold case, he lit it without so much as “by your leave”. Lady Lebanon watched him with her inscrutable eyes, resenting his familiarity.

Dr. Amersham blew a ring of smoke from his bearded lips, and looked at her quickly.

“What’s this idea about Willie marrying Isla? That’s a new scheme, isn’t it?”

“Of course I was listening on the stairs,” he said. “You’re so damned careful about telling me things that I’ve got to find them out for myself. Isla, eh?”

“Why not?” she asked sharply. His eyes were red and inflamed; his complexion, never his best point, blotchy; the hand that took the cigarette from his lips trembled a little. Dr. Amersham had had a party at his flat, and had had little or no sleep.

“Is that why you asked me to come down? You wanted to tell me this? As a matter of fact, I nearly didn’t come. I had rather a heavy night with a patient–”

“You have no patients,” she said. “I doubt if there is anybody in London quite so foolish as to employ you!”

He smiled at this. “You employ me; that is enough. The best patient in the world, huh?”

This was a good joke, but he enjoyed it alone. Lady Lebanon’s face was entirely without expression.

“That chauffeur of yours is not too good–Studd. He had the damned impertinence to ask me why I didn’t bring my own chauffeur; and he’s a little bit too friendly with Willie.”

“Who told you?” she asked quickly.

“I’ve heard all about it. There are quite a number of people in this neighbourhood who keep me posted as to what is happening.”

He smiled complacently. He had indeed two very good friends at Marks Thornton. There was, for example, pretty Mrs. Tilling, but Lady Lebanon did not know about this. The gamekeeper’s wife was an admirer of Studd: the doctor had recently made this discovery and felt smirched.

“What has Isla to say about a marriage?”

“I haven’t told her.”

He took the cigarette from his lips and regarded it with interest.

“Yes, it’s not a bad idea. Strangely enough, it never occurred to me.” He pulled at his little Vandyke beard. “Isla…yes, an extraordinarily good idea.”

If she were surprised at his approval she did not show it.

“She’s a blood relation of the Lebanons, too.” He nodded. “Wasn’t there another one of the family who married in similar circumstances–his cousin, I mean?”

He looked up at the dark family portraits that were hung on the stone wall.

“One of those ladies, wasn’t it? I’ve a good memory, eh? I remember the history of the Lebanons almost as well as you.”

He took out his watch with some ostentation.

“I’ll be getting back–” he began.

“I want you to stay,” she said.

“I have rather an important appointment this afternoon–”

“I want you to stay,” she repeated. “I have had a room got ready for you. Studd, of course, must go. He has been telling Willie the village gossip.”

The doctor sat upright. Was Mrs. Tilling the kind of woman who talked…? “About me?” he asked quickly.

“About you? What should they know about you?”

He was a little confused, and laughed.

If she had her views about the quality of his radiance, she did not express them.

He accepted her wish as a command, grumbled a little, but as he had not the excuse that he was unprepared for a stay, he had no excuse at all.

There was no intention on his part of returning to town. Nearby he had a cottage that had been decorated and furnished by the daintiest of London’s artistic young men. And he had planned to stay the night there, for he was a man with local responsibilities. Of this fact Lady Lebanon knew nothing.

“By the way,” she called him back from the stairs. “Did you ever meet Studd in India? He was stationed in Poona.”

Dr. Amersham’s face changed. “In Poona?” he said sharply. “When?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know, but from what I’ve heard he has told people he knew you there; which is another reason why he should leave Marks Priory.”

Dr. Amersham knew another, but he kept this to himself.

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollst?ndigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollst?ndigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollst?ndigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollst?ndigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollst?ndigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollst?ndigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollst?ndigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollst?ndigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollst?ndigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollst?ndigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollst?ndigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollst?ndigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollst?ndigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollst?ndigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollst?ndigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollst?ndigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollst?ndigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollst?ndigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollst?ndigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollst?ndigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollst?ndigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollst?ndigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollst?ndigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollst?ndigen Ausgabe!