THE WORLD WAR COLLECTION OF H. C. MCNEILE (SAPPER). Sapper
those nights in, Sir James? Which of your many mistresses? Or was it perchance Lady Rosa?"
He started violently and then controlled himself. "And what," he asked softly, "may you know of Lady Rosa?"
"There are things that reach even Mincing Lane, Sir James," she answered. "Even there your infatuation had been heard of and the barrier that stood between you—no money. I do not know her: I hope I never shall. But at any rate she has been saved a life that is worse than death."
"Your Ladyship is pleased to be melodramatic," he said angrily. "Shall I ring for your woman to prepare you for bed?"
"A moment. Sir James," she answered quietly. "This matter had best be settled now."
He paused, his hand already on the bell rope. "You do not imagine," she continued, "that after what you have admitted tonight, I should demean myself by continuing under your roof. Maybe you think that to be Lady Mertonbridge of Mertonbridge Hall is enough for an alderman's daughter. You are wrong. I admit my father was dazzled at the thought of such a match: I admit that I was deceived by your soft words and your flattery. But now, after just three weeks, the scales have dropped from my eyes: I know the truth. You married me for my money, and now you have tossed me aside like a worn-out glove. So be it: you shall have your money. That is nothing. But you will have it on my terms."
His face was masklike, though his eyes were smouldering dangerously. "And they are?"
"Tomorrow I return to my father. It is for you to make what excuse you like. Say," she added scornfully, "that an alderman's daughter felt herself unfitted for such an exalted position as that of your wife. If you choose to divorce me—which would doubtless be possible with your influence—the money will stop. You may remember that that clause was inserted in the marriage settlement: a pity for you, was it not, that my father feels so strongly about divorce? So I shall remain, still your wife, and you will receive your money."
He still stood with his back to her, trying evidently to see how this new development affected him. And then she continued. "It will at any rate have the merit of saving Lady Rosa or some other poor woman from the hell that I have suffered. Even Sir James Mertonbridge cannot commit bigamy."
And at that he understood, and his expression became that of a devil incarnate. If he divorced her he lost the money: if he did not she remained his wife. But when he turned round his face was masklike as ever. "We will go further into this in the morning, Laura," he said quietly. "You are tired now, and I insist on your drinking a glass of wine."
Her strength seemed to have suddenly given out: she sat by the table, her head sunk on her outstretched arms. And even as I looked at her, with my heart full of pity, a dreadful change came over the face of the man who stood by her side. He had just seen the way out, and I stared at him fascinated, whilst my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.
Quietly he crossed to a cabinet that stood against the wall, and from it he took a small exquisitely cut glass bottle. Then he looked at his wife: she was still sitting motionless. With the bottle in his hand he returned to the table: then standing with his back to her he poured half its contents into a glass which he filled with wine. "Drink, my love," he said softly, and I strove to shout and warn her. But no sound came: I could only sit and watch helplessly.
She stretched out her hand for the glass with a gesture of utter weariness: she drank. And on the man's face there dawned a look of triumph. Once again I tried to shout, to dash from my chair and seize the glass. But it was too late. For perhaps five seconds she stared at him: then she sprang to her feet, her features already writhing in agony. Through the great vaulted hall there rang out one piercing scream— "You murderer!"—ere she sank down, clutching at the table. And with that, power of movement returned to me and I rushed at the man, to find myself lying on the floor bathed in sweat.
I stared round foolishly: the electric lights were still shining above me. My clothes lay by the glowing logs: the refectory table was bare. The whole thing had been a dream.
Gradually I pulled myself together, though my hands still shook with the vividness of it. And then feverishly I began to get back into my clothes. They were not quite dry, but nothing would have induced me to spend another minute in that hall. The rain had ceased: the faint light of dawn was filtering through the windows by the front door. And ten minutes later, having left everything exactly as I had found it, I was walking down the drive. Anything to get away from that haunted spot.
For hours I wandered aimlessly, my mind still obsessed with the nightmare, until at half-past seven I found myself opposite a garage where a sleepy-eyed lad was beginning to stir himself. He called the owner, who promised to go out himself and tow in my car. And then I crossed to the inn across the road and ordered breakfast.
It still seemed impossible to me that I had not actually witnessed that crime of years ago. In fact, the more I thought about it the more did I believe that I had done so: that for some strange reason my brain had been in such a condition that I had seen it re-enacted. They say that thought impressions can be left on matter: that there are people who can walk into a house where a murder has been committed hundreds of years before and reconstruct the crime. Had that been the case with me? I am not psychic: but perhaps my brain had been so attuned on that occasion that it had been receptive.
The landlord entered as I finished my meal, and proved communicative. "Mertonbridge Hall, sir? It's about a mile away."
So I had been walking round in circles since I left.
"Funny you should ask," he continued. "Mr. Parker—the butler—has only just left. He spent the night here, owing to the rain. The present baronet, sir? He's abroad at the moment. I gather things are a bit tight: same as with all of us. And Sir Bryan has always known how to spend his money. But if you're interested, sir, and you have nothing better to do you should go up to the Hall this afternoon. It's open to visitors between three and five every Tuesday, and Mr. Parker takes parties round."
And so at three o'clock I found myself once more walking up the drive. A motor-car passed me, full of Americans: another one stood at the front door. And, majestic in his morning coat, Mr. Parker received his visitors.
Fascinated I stared round the hall. There was the chair I had sat in: there was the cabinet from which Sir James had taken the poison. And then as my eyes glanced along the line of paintings I saw the man himself. He was the third from the end, and he was wearing the clothes I had seen him in in my dream.
Mr. Parker droned on: I heard not one word till the name Sir James caught my ear. "Sir James was the third baronet, ladies and gentlemen: there you see his portrait. And it was to him that occurred a terrible tragedy in this very 'all."
He paused impressively, marshalling us with his eye. "Coming 'ome with his bride he dismissed his servants, and sat down to supper at that hidentical table you see there in the middle of the room. Now Sir Humphrey—Sir James's father—whose portrait is hanging next to him, was a great traveller. And he had collected, in the course of his wanderings, some rare hantiques, which I am about to show you."
I was standing by the cabinet before he reached it and he looked at me suspiciously. "You see that bottle, now containing nothing more 'armful than water. But in those days it was filled with a deadly poison, manufactured by the Borgias themselves. Now what 'appened is not exactly clear, but it seems that after Sir James had pointed out the beauties of the collection to his young bride, he left her for a while to go upstairs. Suddenly a scream rang out, and dashing down he found her dead on the floor. Distracted and 'eart-broken he gazed wildly round, and found the bottle on the table, 'alf empty. What had 'appened can only be guessed at. Not wishing to frighten her he had not told her that the bottle was filled with poison. And she, taking it out—it was specially made to taste good by them Borgias—must have thought it was some rare old liqueur. Anyway, she drank some: and there on the night of her 'ome coming she died."
So that was the story he had told—and got away with.
"Months after, when this grief had lessened," he continued, "Sir James married the Lady Rosa Ferrington, and their eldest son—Sir Thomas—you see 'anging next his father."
"I suppose," said a voice, "that it was an accident.