Aurora Floyd & Lady Audley's Secret (Victorian Mysteries). Mary Elizabeth Braddon
pointer with liver-colored spots, has discovered the particular pointer and spots that he wants — which happy combination of events scarcely seems likely to arrive — they’ll give me my luggage and let me go. The designing wretches knew at a glance that I was born to be imposed upon; and that if they were to trample the life out of me upon this very platform, I should never have the spirit to bring an action against the company.”
Suddenly an idea seemed to strike him, and he left the porter to struggle for the custody of his goods, and walked round to the other side of the station.
He heard a bell ring, and looking at the clock, had remembered that the down train for Colchester started at this time. He had learned what it was to have an earnest purpose since the disappearance of George Talboys; and he reached the opposite platform in time to see the passengers take their seats.
There was one lady who had evidently only just arrived at the station; for she hurried on to the platform at the very moment that Robert approached the train, and almost ran against that gentleman in her haste and excitement.
“I beg your pardon,” she began, ceremoniously; then raising her eyes from Mr. Audley’s waistcoat, which was about on a level with her pretty face, she exclaimed, “Robert, you in London already?”
“Yes, Lady Audley; you were quite right; the Castle Inn is a dismal place, and —”
“You got tired of it — I knew you would. Please open the carriage door for me: the train will start in two minutes.”
Robert Audley was looking at his uncle’s wife with rather a puzzled expression of countenance.
“What does it mean?” he thought. “She is altogether a different being to the wretched, helpless creature who dropped her mask for a moment, and looked at me with her own pitiful face, in the little room at Mount Stanning, four hours ago. What has happened to cause the change?”
He opened the door for her while he thought this, and helped her to settle herself in her seat, spreading her furs over her knees, and arranging the huge velvet mantle in which her slender little figure was almost hidden.
“Thank you very much; how good you are to me,” she said, as he did this. “You will think me very foolish to travel upon such a day, without my dear darling’s knowledge too; but I went up to town to settle a very terrific milliner’s bill, which I did not wish my best of husbands to see; for, indulgent as he is, he might think me extravagant; and I cannot bear to suffer even in his thoughts.”
“Heaven forbid that you ever should, Lady Audley,” Robert said, gravely.
She looked at him for a moment with a smile, which had something defiant in its brightness.
“Heaven forbid it, indeed,” she murmured. “I don’t think I ever shall.”
The second bell rung, and the train moved as she spoke. The last Robert Audley saw of her was that bright defiant smile.
“Whatever object brought her to London has been successfully accomplished,” he thought. “Has she baffled me by some piece of womanly jugglery? Am I never to get any nearer to the truth, but am I to be tormented all my life by vague doubts, and wretched suspicions, which may grow upon me till I become a monomaniac? Why did she come to London?”
He was still mentally asking himself this question as he ascended the stairs in Figtree Court, with one of his dogs under each arm, and his railway rugs over his shoulder.
He found his chambers in their accustomed order. The geraniums had been carefully tended, and the canaries had retired for the night under cover of a square of green baize, testifying to the care of honest Mrs. Maloney. Robert cast a hurried glance round the sitting-room; then setting down the dogs upon the hearth-rug, he walked straight into the little inner chamber which served as his dressing-room.
It was in this room that he kept disused portmanteaus, battered japanned cases, and other lumber; and it was in this room that George Talboys had left his luggage. Robert lifted a portmanteau from the top of a large trunk, and kneeling down before it with a lighted candle in his hand, carefully examined the lock.
To all appearance it was exactly in the same condition in which George had left it, when he laid his mourning garments aside and placed them in this shabby repository with all other memorials of his dead wife. Robert brushed his coat sleeve across the worn, leather-covered lid, upon which the initials G. T. were inscribed with big brass-headed nails; but Mrs. Maloney, the laundress, must have been the most precise of housewives, for neither the portmanteau nor the trunk were dusty.
Mr. Audley dispatched a boy to fetch his Irish attendant, and paced up and down his sitting-room waiting anxiously for her arrival.
She came in about ten minutes, and, after expressing her delight in the return of “the master,” humbly awaited his orders.
“I only sent for you to ask if anybody has been here; that is to say, if anybody has applied to you for the key of my rooms to-day — any lady?”
“Lady? No, indeed, yer honor; there’s been no lady for the kay; barrin’ it’s the blacksmith.”
“The blacksmith!”
“Yes; the blacksmith your honor ordered to come to-day.”
“I order a blacksmith!” exclaimed Robert. “I left a bottle of French brandy in the cupboard,” he thought, “and Mrs. M. has been evidently enjoying herself.”
“Sure, and the blacksmith your honor tould to see to the locks,” replied Mrs. Maloney. “It’s him that lives down in one of the little streets by the bridge,” she added, giving a very lucid description of the man’s whereabouts.
Robert lifted his eyebrows in mute despair.
“If you’ll sit down and compose yourself, Mrs. M.,” he said — he abbreviated her name thus on principle, for the avoidance of unnecessary labor —“perhaps we shall be able by and by to understand each other. You say a blacksmith has been here?”
“Sure and I did, sir.”
“To-day?”
“Quite correct, sir.”
Step by step Mr. Audley elicited the following information. A locksmith had called upon Mrs. Maloney that afternoon at three o’clock, and had asked for the key of Mr. Audley’s chambers, in order that he might look to the locks of the doors, which he stated were all out of repair. He declared that he was acting upon Mr. Audley’s own orders, conveyed to him by a letter from the country, where the gentleman was spending his Christmas. Mrs. Maloney, believing in the truth of this statement, had admitted the man to the chambers, where he stayed about half an hour.
“But you were with him while he examined the locks, I suppose?” Mr. Audley asked.
“Sure I was, sir, in and out, as you may say, all the time, for I’ve been cleaning the stairs this afternoon, and I took the opportunity to begin my scouring while the man was at work.”
“Oh, you were in and out all the time. If you could conveniently give me a plain answer, Mrs. M., I should be glad to know what was the longest time that you were out while the locksmith was in my chambers?”
But Mrs. Maloney could not give a plain answer. It might have been ten minutes; though she didn’t think it was as much. It might have been a quarter of an hour; but she was sure it wasn’t more. It didn’t seem to her more than five minutes, but “thim stairs, your honor;” and here she rambled off into a disquisition upon the scouring of stairs in general, and the stairs outside Robert’s chambers in particular.
Mr. Audley sighed the weary sigh of mournful resignation.
“Never mind, Mrs. M.,” he said; “the locksmith had plenty of time to do anything he wanted to do, I dare say, without your being any the wiser.”
Mrs. Maloney stared at her employer with mingled surprise and alarm.
“Sure, there wasn’t anything for him to stale, your