THE ABBEY COURT MURDER (Murder Mystery Classic). Annie Haynes
out into an eternity of suspense and anguish. She had not known what the next moment might bring forth.
"Madame Benoit has a very good cut," Peggy went on, twirling herself about in an attempt to get a good view of the hang of her skirt behind. "I believe Mother would like me to wear nothing but white, but one gets tired of always having the same colour. And blue always suited me. It is Stephen's favourite colour."
"He is late." Judith's attention was caught by the sound of Crasster's name. Her eyes barely glanced at Peggy's pretty, graceful figure; they watched the clock with unconcealed impatience.
Peggy looked a little disappointed at her lack of interest. "Oh, no! I came early because I wanted a nice long talk with you, and I must see Paul. Come, Judith," putting her arm through her sister-in-law's, "he looks such a darling in his cot."
Lady Carew yielded. It was not worth while to resist, and it was better to do anything—anything rather than to sit there watching the clock, and waiting. The sisters-in-law looked a strange contrast as they left the room together, Peggy looked the very personification of youth and spring. Judith, with her white face, drawn under her eyes, and new strange lines of pain furrowing her brow, might have sat as a model for care or guilt.
Sir Anthony liked best to see her in white, and to-night, remembering this, Judith had put aside her own shivering distaste, her shuddering remembrance of the dress huddled away in the well of the wardrobe, and allowed Célestine to array her in a gown that she had carefully chosen, in accordance with her husband's taste, in Paris. It was of oyster-white satin, but satin of so soft and supple a texture that it might have been drawn through the proverbial ring—satin, moreover, that merely formed the background for the most exquisite embroidery of seed pearls and crystals. It was too magnificent a toilette for a partie carrée, such as had been arranged for this evening—just Stephen Crasster, Peggy, Anthony and herself—but they were going on to a gala performance at the theatre, given in honour of a foreign royalty who was visiting London.
Paul was awake as it happened; he was sitting up in his cot laughing and chuckling to himself, and obstinately refusing to go to sleep. Peggy adored her small nephew; she ran forward and picked him up, regardless of her finery.
"Kiss Auntie Peggy, Paul."
Paul lifted his rosy mouth pursed up into a round O, but his big grey eyes had seen somebody dearer than Peggy, he held out his arms to his mother.
"Mam, mam, dad, dad," he gurgled.
Judith took him almost mechanically, but the pain that had been pulling at her heart-strings all day seemed lulled a little, as the baby nestled his soft downy head into the curve of her neck.
They made a pretty picture, the tall, lovely mother, her eyes softened, her mouth relaxing into a smile, and the bonny, laughing boy. Peggy admired them in her honest, whole-hearted fashion, as she tried to make the baby look at her.
Somebody else was admiring the group, too. Peggy looked up, her ear caught by a slight sound. Outside in the day nursery, looking at them through the open door, stood her brother, Anthony, and Stephen Crasster. Stephen was smiling openly. The gloom of the morning was gone from Anthony's expression as he watched his wife and child. He came forward. She turned, holding the chuckling baby towards him, then, as she caught sight of Crasster behind, her whole face seemed to wither and alter. Stephen Crasster hesitated.
"I must apologize for this intrusion, Lady Carew, Anthony would bring me to have a look at my godson. He is a fine fellow."
"Yes," Judith said quietly.
She let Peggy take her little son from her whilst she set herself to talk with feverish energy to Crasster. Surely, surely he would tell her why Inspector Furnival had wanted him at Abbey Court that morning.
But nothing apparently was farther from Crasster's intention. He talked lightly and easily on a variety of topics, but the very recollection of Inspector Furnival's summons might have passed from his mind. At last, when Paul, now growing sleepy, had been replaced in his cot, and they were all seated at the round table in the big dining-room, Judith asked:
"Did your friend, the inspector, want you for anything important this morning, Mr. Crasster?"
She had succeeded in arresting his attention.
"It was rather interesting," he said slowly, "unusual, perhaps I ought to say. But I rather fancy it is out of my line."
Peggy smiled at him from her seat opposite.
"Are you talking of your imperative work of this morning, Stephen? Don't tell me it was nothing you were wanted for after all."
"No, it wasn't unnecessary," Crasster said, his dark face rather grave. "Only I don't fancy I'm quite so clever as I thought myself, Peggy, I don't imagine that Furnival found me much good."
Sir Anthony laughed disagreeably. "I should start from the idea that you can't trust anyone—that your dearest friend may be deceiving you."
Crasster looked at him in mild surprise. Carew was behaving rather oddly to-day, he thought, but probably he was not well; he had sent away his soup untasted, he was merely pretending to eat his fish.
"Well, I don't know that one's dearest friend would escape if suspicion pointed his way," Stephen answered slowly. "But what I find so enthralling is the fact that most detective work is of necessity a series of deductions. To reduce this to a science is, of course, our aim, but I must confess that in my case it is beset with difficulties. My deductions have a bad habit of not turning out right," with a whimsical smile. "You may remember at Eton, Anthony—"
Usually Lady Carew would have found it interesting enough. But to-day it seemed that it would be impossible to sit there quietly to the end of the meal, to take her part as the courteous hostess, while all the time her whole being was seething in a perfect whirl of unrest, of torturing anxiety. It was maddening to know that this dark-faced, pleasant-voiced man, was in possession of what she would have given half the remaining years of her life to learn, and yet he would not speak, she could not make him tell her. Only by a supreme effort did she retain her self-control until the meal was over. Then at the earliest possible moment, with a quick look at Peggy, she rose abruptly.
It was hot in the drawing-room; Judith felt feverish and oppressed with the terrible sense of overhanging calamity. The French window on the balcony stood open. Declining Peggy's invitation to go up to the nursery for another look at Paul she stepped out.
It was very quiet in the square, only now and again an occasional motor or a private carriage passed. She waited there; the chill of the night air felt pleasant after the fever that was consuming her. Peggy had stolen softly away intent on another visit to her small nephew. Suddenly the silence was broken by a loud, raucous cry coming down Oxford Street. Judith listened to it mechanically, paying scant heed; it was a man crying papers, that was all. As it grew nearer, more coherent, one word penetrated the mists that had gathered over her brain, startled her absorption.
"Murder! Murder!"
She held her breath, she strained her ears; what was he crying? Murder!
"'Orrible murder in a West End flat! 'Orrible murder—"
One of Judith's hands, went up to her throat, tugged relentlessly at the laces in the front of her gown until the delicate fabric gave way. Steadying herself with the other she leaned over the railings. The man was coming in a direct line with the house now.
"'Orrible murder in a West End flat. Latest details."
Judith stepped back into the house and rang the bell.
"Get me an evening paper, please, James," she said when the man appeared. "As quickly as possible. They are calling them outside."
She constrained herself to take the paper from the salver, she forced herself to wait until the man had left the room before she opened it. Then, she almost tore the pages apart. There was no need to search, for the column she wanted stared her in the face.
MYSTERIOUS MURDER IN A WEST END FLAT
"A crime of a peculiarly mysterious nature was