THE CRIME AT TATTENHAM CORNER (Murder Mystery Classic). Annie Haynes
my lady. He went out ever so early this morning; we are wondering when he will be back, my lady."
"Rather an extraordinary proceeding on Ellerby's part," Sophie commented dryly. "Get my bath ready, please, Forbes, and tell James Sir John will be in directly, I expect."
She slipped on the side of the bed as she spoke and sat there watching Forbes as she went into the bathroom and turned on the tap.
Sophie Burslem looked very young this morning—too young to be Sir John's wife. She was a dainty vision in her soft, silken night-robe, with her pretty rounded neck and arms bare. Her shingled, chestnut hair was ruffled, it needed no permanent waving. The pink and white skin was as clear as ever, only the great, appealing brown eyes had altered indefinably. In the big pier-glass opposite she fancied that others could see the terrible fear that lurked in them, the dark circles round them. Long ago some one used to tell her that she had laughing eyes. Would anybody ever say that again? she asked herself. Just now they seemed to move of their own volition, glancing here and there into every corner fearfully. Suddenly they were caught by a tumbled heap of white by the sofa near the window. It was the frock she had worn last night just as she had thrown it down. She stared at it in a species of fascinated horror. Surely she was not mistaken. Across one fold there was an ugly, dark stain!
She got up and went over to it, her bare feet pattering over the polished boards between.
Forbes came back. "My lady, my lady, your slippers."
Sophie turned round and stood before the heap on the floor, her hands behind her, her breath coming quick and fast.
"Nonsense! I don't want slippers. You can go, Forbes. I will ring when I am ready."
Thus dismissed the maid had no choice but to depart. When the door had closed behind her, Sophie turned, and swiftly, noiselessly, almost threw herself on the tumbled white frock! Yes, she had made no mistake. Right in front, just where the silver girdle was caught up by a buckle of brilliants, a reddish brown stain ran almost down to the hem. She put out one finger and touched it—it was dry, quite dry. But there wasn't one minute to lose. At all hazards that ghastly stain must be done away with. She tore at it with her small, strong hands, but though the silk was soft it was tough, and she could make no impression on it. She caught up a pair of nail-scissors and cut and jagged ruthlessly. Then when she held the long, ragged strip in her hand, she gazed at the remains of what had been one of her prettiest gowns, in despair.
What on earth would Forbes say? But there was no time to think of that now. She caught up the remains of the frock and running into her dressing-room thrust it deep down into the well of the great wardrobe that took up all one side of the room. Then she crammed other things on the top and shut the door firmly. Later on she must think of something to tell Forbes, for now there was nothing to be done but to go on as usual until—She went into her bathroom, crushing up the piece of silk she had torn off in her hand.
She splashed in and out of the warm, scented water, then, when she had rubbed herself down, she lighted a match and tried to set the silk on fire. In vain, it would do nothing but smoulder and make a pungent, acrid smell of burning. What in Heaven's name was she to do? She dashed open the windows as far as they would go; she unstoppered one of the great bottles of scent on the dressing-table and flung the contents about bathroom and bedroom. Then a sudden inspiration came to her.
Inside the dressing-case, with its wonderful gold and jewelled fittings, which had been one of her husband's wedding presents, there was a secret drawer. She ran across, put the silk in the drawer, fastening it with a catch of which she alone knew the secret.
She rang for Forbes. The maid came in, wrinkling up her nose.
"Such a smell of burning, my lady!" Her beadlike, inquisitive eyes glanced round the room.
"I don't notice it," said Sophie. "Perhaps the gardeners are burning weeds outside. Give me my things quickly, Forbes; I must not be late for breakfast. Sir John means to start early."
The maid said nothing, but her sniff became accentuated as she went on with her mistress's toilet, set the soft shingled hair, and finally brought out the gown of grey marocain which Lady Burslem had decided to wear for the races.
Sophie let herself be dressed as if she had been a lay figure. All the while she was listening, listening. At last she was dressed, and her maid clasped a short string of pearls round her neck in place of the long necklace she generally wore.
She glanced at her reflection in the mirror. So she had seen herself look a hundred times—and yet would not the first person she met see the horror shadowing her eyes?
She went down to the breakfast-room. Everything was just as usual. A pile of letters lay beside her plate. Sir John's letters and The Times, folded as he liked it, lay by his. She went round the table and sat down. The very orderly, everyday aspect of the room held something sinister, some suggestion of evil to her jaundiced mind.
Though she drank a cup of tea feverishly and played with an omelette, she could not really eat anything. Presently she heard a knock and a ring at the front door.
She caught the echo of a voice in the hall. It sounded like that of her sister Clare—Mrs. Aubrey Dolphin. She was going with them to the races, of course, but She listened again. Another moment Clare came quickly into the room. With a word to the manservant she closed the door behind her. One look at her face told Lady Burslem that the supreme moment for which she had been waiting was here at last.
Clare came swiftly across the room and caught her sister in her arms.
"Sophie, darling, I bring you terrible news. You must be brave, dear, for all our sakes."
Sophie tried to free herself from the encircling arms. "What is it?" she questioned hoarsely. "Not Dad!"
Mrs. Dolphin would not let her go.
"No, no, my darling. It is John—"
"John—"
If there had been one drop of colour left in Sophie's face it was all drained away now.
"Ill," came slowly from between her stiffening lips. "Ill, Clare, not—not—"
"Ah, dearest, he would want you to be brave for his sake. He—he met with a terrible accident last night, Sophie, dear. And, you see, he was not quite a young man, he could not rally—"
"Why did they not send for me?" Sophie gasped.
"Dear, there was not time. He—he died before they could do anything!"
"He died—John died—"
This time all Mrs. Dolphin's strength could not hold her sister up. A dead weight, Lady Burslem sank through her arms and collapsed in a heap on the floor.
Meanwhile from all parts of England a great crowd was making its way to Epsom. It was the people's holiday and the people were bent on making the most of it. All night long, gipsies and parties of nomads had picnicked near the course. This morning the tipsters were busy. For threepence you could learn the winner of every race. Not of the Derby itself. Nobody wanted a tip for that! It was Peep o' Day's Derby. Had not owner and trainer and jockey all agreed that Peep o' Day could not lose the Derby?
Peep o' Day! Peep o' Day! You heard it on all sides. Peep o' Day, the most popular favourite since the war! Peep o' Day! the crowd exulted.
And over by Peep o' Day's box his trainer, Matt Harker, was standing with bowed shoulders, and Howard Williams leaning up against the door would not have been ashamed to confess that there were tears in his eyes. Champion jockey though he was, he had never yet ridden a Derby winner; Matt Harker, though all the other classics had been taken by his stable, had never yet trained a Derby winner! All of them had been confident that today their ambitions would be realized.
And now Peep o' Day was scratched for the Derby!
Chapter III
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