THE ABBEY COURT MURDER (Murder Mystery Classic). Annie Haynes
miladi! But Sir Anthony, he said—" Evidently Célestine was unwilling to depart.
"That will do." Lady Carew interrupted her with a touch of hauteur. "I cannot sleep unless I am alone. And do not come until I ring, Célestine."
"But, certainly, miladi." The maid shrugged her shoulders as she withdrew.
Left alone, Lady Carew raised herself on her elbow, and looked all round the room. On the other side of the room was the door leading into Sir Anthony's apartments. Judith bit her lips despairingly as she looked at it; presently he would be coming up to dress, she would hear him moving about. A long shivering sigh shook her from head to foot as she buried her face in the cushions again.
Meanwhile Sir Anthony went back to his study. There was plenty of time to dress, he had another letter to write that required some thinking over. As he walked over to the writing-table his eye was caught by a piece of paper on the chair where Judith had been sitting. Naturally, a tidy man, he glanced at it as he picked it up, wondering idly whether his wife had dropped it.
"42 Abbey Court, Leinster Avenue, 9.30 to-night,"
he read, written in a bold unmistakably masculine hand.
"What does it mean?" he asked himself as he twisted it about. There seemed to him something sinister in the curtly worded command. It was not meant for Judith of course, the very notion of that was absurd. But, as he sat down and opened his blotting-book, the look of that piece of paper haunted him; another thought—one he had believed laid for ever—the thought of the long years that lay behind his knowledge of his wife, rose and mocked him.
He would not have been Carew of Heron's Carew if his nature had not held infinite capabilities of self-torture, of fierce burning jealousy that ran like fire through his blood, and maddened him.
It was so little that he knew, that Judith had told him of her past.
It had been the usual uneventful past of an ordinary English girl, she had given him to understand. But the great hazel eyes had held hints of tragedy at times that gave the lie to that placid story.
Sir Anthony groaned aloud as he thrust the letter from him. He sat silent, his eyes fixed on that mysterious paper: "9.30 to-night." For whom had that appointment been meant?
Chapter III
Nine o'clock! Judith Carew stood up. The time had come! Once more she looked round the familiar room, her eyes lingering on the big photograph of Anthony, in its oxydized silver frame on the mantelpiece.
She crossed to the pretty inlaid escritoire, and unlocked one of the top drawers. A piece of paper lay inside; she started as she looked at it with a frown. This was not what she wanted—this was merely a pencilled note that Peggy had sent her in the church that afternoon. A note, moreover, that she had thought she had burnt when she came in.
A moment's reflection and her face cleared; she must have tossed the address the man gave her, at the church door, into the fire, while she locked this little innocent note of Peggy's carefully away. It was strange that she should have made such a curious mistake, but it did not matter, the address was written on her brain in letters of fire. She could not forget it if she would.
She went to her wardrobe, and took out a long dark cloak, that would cover her altogether, pinned a toque on her hair, and tied a thick motor veil over it.
Then she opened the door and listened. At this hour the servants should be at their supper; it would be possible for her to get out unobserved. She calculated that she might be back—if she came back—soon after eleven. Célestine would hardly expect her to ring before then, and her absence would pass unnoticed.
No one was about apparently. Her lips moved silently as she came out into the corridor, as she looked wistfully up the short flight of stairs that led to the nursery. Her husband's door stood open; in passing a sudden thought struck her. She went in and opened one of the drawers, inside was a leather case. She looked at it for a moment, then slowly touched the spring, and disclosed a couple of revolvers.
Anthony had been giving her lessons in shooting of late; with that small murderous looking instrument she would at least be able to protect herself. She saw that it was loaded, and held it firmly clutched in her hand under her cloak, as she made her way down the stairs. She had calculated her time well, there was no one in the hall when she let herself out and closed the door behind her softly.
It was a damp night, typical April weather. To Judith, after fevered tossing to and fro on the couch, its very moisture seemed refreshing.
Leinster Avenue was fairly familiar ground to her; in her governess days she had often brought her pupil to see some friends who lived near. Insensibly her feet turned towards the Tube; she had reverted to the mode of conveyance most familiar to her in early days. From Bond Street to Holland Park was but an affair of a few minutes, and from there she knew her way to Leinster Avenue. Abbey Court must be, she felt sure, one of the great blocks of flats standing at the near end of the Avenue. She found that she was right. Abbey Court, Nos. 1—50, faced her as she turned the well-known corner.
Looking up at the big new building she shivered. She thought of the coming interview. Just then some neighbouring clock chimed the half-hour.
She started nervously, she must not keep the man waiting, and she walked up the steps. In the hall the porter touched his cap.
"Lift, ma'am?"
She stepped in and gave the number mechanically.
They stopped at the fifth floor, the man got out and rang the bell for her.
Judith gave him half a crown, and was conscious that he stood and looked at her doubtfully.
The door opened immediately. Instinctively her hand closed more firmly over the revolver.
"Is that you, Judy? Come in!"
She was drawn through the door quickly. She recognized that there was an indefinable change in the voice since the afternoon.
Inside on the other side of a narrow passage was a door opening into a small room, evidently used as a dining-room, velvet curtains hung over the archway beyond; parted they disclosed a room fairly large for a flat. It looked like a man's den—papers and pipes were littered about. In the outer room beneath the electric light she paused and threw back her veil.
"What do you want with me?" she said curtly.
"Want with you?" The man laughed harshly. "I want you—you yourself, Judy, don't you understand? I meant to find you, I was going to put the search for you in the hands of the best detectives in London, when, just by chance, I saw you this afternoon, saw you another man's wife!"
Judith drew her breath in sharply. "I thought you were dead. I saw it in the papers, I never dreamed that there was any mistake."
"Sometimes it is convenient to die," he said sullenly. "And you—and you were always too much inclined to take things on trust, Judy!"
The woman looked at him, her breath quickening, the first dawning of a horrible suspicion turning her white and cold.
"What do you mean?"
He laughed, though a curious indrawing of breath mingled with his laughter.
"I told you a lie when we parted, Judith. You made me mad, and I meant to bring your pride down somehow, but if I had known how you would take it—"
"A lie," Judith repeated. "A lie!" She drew farther from him, back against the wall, her face absolutely colourless save for the dark rings round her eyes, her lips stiff and cold. "What lie did you tell me?"
The man looked at her, his face was flushed, his eyes were bloodshot; with a throb of disgust Judith realized he had been drinking.
"You know," he said hoarsely. "You haven't forgotten, for all your disdainful ways! I told you a lie when