The Daffodil Mystery. Wallace Edgar
Milburgh hesitated, and seemed reluctant to reply.
"I am, of course, in control," he said, "as I was when Mr. Lyne took his trip around the world. I have received authority also from Mr. Lyne's solicitors to continue the direction of the business until the Court appoints a trustee."
Tarling eyed him narrowly.
"What effect has this murder had upon you personally?" he asked bluntly. "Does it enhance or depreciate your position?"
Milburgh smiled.
"Unhappily," he said, "it enhances my position, because it gives me a greater authority and a greater responsibility. I would that the occasion had never arisen, Mr. Tarling."
"I'm sure you do," said Tarling dryly, remembering Lyne's accusations against the other's probity.
After a few commonplaces the men parted.
Milburgh! On the journey to Hertford Tarling analysed that urbane man, and found him deficient in certain essential qualities; weighed him and found him wanting in elements which should certainly form part of the equipment of a trustworthy man.
At Hertford he jumped into a cab and gave the address.
"Hillington Grove, sir? That's about two miles out," said the cabman. "It's Mrs. Rider you want?"
Tarling nodded.
"You ain't come with the young lady she was expecting?" said the driver
"No," replied Tarling in surprise.
"I was told to keep my eyes open for a young lady," explained the cabman vaguely.
A further surprise awaited the detective. He expected to discover that Hillington Grove was a small suburban house bearing a grandiose title. He was amazed when the cabman turned through a pair of impressive gates, and drove up a wide drive of some considerable length, turning eventually on to a gravelled space before a large mansion. It was hardly the kind of home he would have expected for the parent of a cashier at Lyne's Store, and his surprise was increased when the door was opened by a footman.
He was ushered into a drawing-room, beautifully and artistically furnished. He began to think that some mistake had been made, and was framing an apology to the mistress of the house, when the door opened and a lady entered.
Her age was nearer forty than thirty, but she was still a beautiful woman and carried herself with the air of a grand dame. She was graciousness itself to the visitor, but Tarling thought he detected a note of anxiety both in her mien and in her voice.
"I'm afraid there's some mistake," he began. "I have probably found the wrong Mrs. Rider—I wanted to see Miss Odette Rider."
The lady nodded.
"That is my daughter," she said. "Have you any news of her? I am quite worried about her."
"Worried about her?" said Tarling quickly. "Why, what has happened? Isn't she here?"
"Here?" said Mrs. Rider, wide-eyed. "Of course she is not."
"But hasn't she been here?" asked Tarling. "Didn't she arrive here two nights ago?"
Mrs. Rider shook her head.
"My daughter has not been," she replied. "But she promised to come and spend a few days with me, and last night I received a telegram—wait a moment, I will get it for you."
She was gone a few moments and came back with a little buff form, which she handed to the detective. He looked and read:
"My visit cancelled. Do not write to me at flat. I will communicate with you when I reach my destination."
The telegram had been handed in at the General Post Office, London, and was dated nine o'clock—three hours, according to expert opinion, before the murder was committed!
CHAPTER VII
THE WOMAN IN THE CASE
"May I keep this telegram?" asked Tarling.
The woman nodded. He saw that she was nervous, ill at ease and worried.
"I can't quite understand why Odette should not come," she said. "Is there any particular reason?"
"That I can't say," said Tarling. "But please don't let it worry you, Mrs. Rider. She probably changed her mind at the last moment and is staying with friends in town."
"Then you haven't seen her?" asked Mrs. Rider anxiously.
"I haven't seen her for several days."
"Is anything wrong?" Her voice shook for a second, but she recovered herself. "You see," she made an attempt to smile. "I have been in the house for two or three days, and I have seen neither Odette nor—nor anybody else," she added quickly.
Who was she expecting to see, wondered Tarling, and why did she check herself? Was it possible that she had not heard of the murder? He determined to test her.
"Your daughter is probably detained in town owing to Mr. Lyne's death," he said, watching her closely.
She started and went white.
"Mr. Lyne's death?" she stammered. "Has he died? That young man?"
"He was murdered in Hyde Park yesterday morning," said Tarling, and she staggered back and collapsed into a chair.
"Murdered! Murdered!" she whispered. "Oh, God! Not that, not that!"
Her face was ashen white, and she was shaking in every limb, this stately woman who had walked so serenely into the drawing-room a few minutes before.
Presently she covered her face with her hands and began to weep softly and Tarling waited.
"Did you know Mr. Lyne?" he asked after a while.
She shook her head.
"Have you heard any stories about Mr. Lyne?"
She looked up.
"None," she said listlessly, "except that he was—not a very nice man."
"Forgive me asking you, but are you very much interested—" He hesitated, and she lifted her head.
He did not know how to put this question into words. It puzzled him that the daughter of this woman, who was evidently well off, should be engaged in a more or less humble capacity in Lyne's Store. He wanted to know whether she knew that the girl had been dismissed, and whether that made much difference to her. Then again, his conversation with Odette Rider had not led him to the conclusion that she could afford to throw up her work. She spoke of finding another job, and that did not sound as though her mother was in a good position.
"Is there any necessity for your daughter working for a living?" he asked bluntly, and she dropped her eyes.
"It is her wish," she said in a low voice. "She does not get on with people about here," she added hastily.
There was a brief silence, then he rose and offered his hand.
"I do hope I haven't worried you with my questions," he said, "and I daresay you wonder why I have come. I will tell you candidly that I am engaged in investigating this murder, and I was hoping to hear that your daughter, in common with the other people who were brought into contact with Mr. Lyne, might give me some thread of a clue which would lead to more important things."
"A detective?" she asked, and he could have sworn there was horror in her eyes.
"A sort of detective," he laughed, "but not a formidable one, I hope, Mrs. Rider."
She saw him to the door, and watched him as he disappeared down the drive; then walked slowly back to the room and stood against the marble mantelpiece, her head upon her arms, weeping softly.
Jack Tarling left Hertford more confused than ever. He had instructed the fly driver to wait for him at the gates, and this worthy he proceeded to pump.
Mrs. Rider had been living in Hertford for four years, and was greatly respected. Did the cabman know the daughter? Oh yes, he had seen the young lady once or twice, but "She don't come very often," he explained. "By all accounts she doesn't get on with her father."
"Her father? I did not know she