The lawyer advanced fussily toward me with his hand outstretched. Instead of looking at my face, however, his eyes were fixed on my wrist watch. It was two minutes before ten o’clock.
“Mr. Fenton,” he cried with a pompous, rather foreign gesture, “you must forgive me for this unseasonable call—on Sunday evening too—but my business in Cambridge was urgent. And now I have to catch the ten-twenty up to town. There is a taxi waiting. Would it be too much to ask you to come with me to the station? We could, perhaps, talk in the cab undisturbed.”
I noticed that, in spite of the fur coat and the season of the year, Mr. Van der Walt looked cold and pinched. He was shivering slightly.
“I should explain,” he added, “that I am leaving for South Africa this week. That is why I am so anxious,” he lowered his voice, “to settle my—er—business as speedily as possible. Something has come up which—”
The clock was beginning to strike the hour. It was now or never, I decided, as the porter bustled out of his lodge preparatory to closing the heavy iron gates.
“All right; I’ll come. Wait a minute though. I’ll get a cap and gown.” I hailed an unknown youth who was hurrying to get into the college before the gates closed.
“Have a heart, Jim, and save me six and eightpence.”
The young man threw off his gown with a dramatic flourish. “My name,” he announced, “is Percival. I object on principle to the name of Jim. But I will overlook your inaccuracy. Here is my cap and gown. Kindly return same to Percival Fitzmonckton, C two.”
“Thanks hoggish. I’m A one. Fenton’s the name.”
The clanging of the gate cut his rejoinder short and I joined Mr. Van der Walt in the waiting taxi. We passed through several narrow alleys and finally emerged into the almost deserted Trinity Street. It was not until then that my companion cleared his throat, blew his nose and started to speak.
“Mr. Fenton,” he said, talking hurriedly and rather jerkily in his strange, throaty accent, “you must think my behaviour is very odd, but, as I have said before, it is imperative that I catch the ten-twenty express to town. I had already waited ten minutes for you.”
“That’s all right, sir, but I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I like a nocturnal taxi ride. But—”
“Yes, you may well say ‘but,’ Mr. Fenton. My only excuse for my—er—lapse from convention is that a rather extraordinary thing has happened—something which indirectly involves yourself. I should explain that I belong to the firm that handles the Baumann estate.”
“Yes, yes. I saw you at the inquest. I remember you distinctly.”
“Well, then, you will doubtless recall that Julius Baumann’s farm and property reverted automatically on his death to a cousin of his father’s. The settlement of that part of the estate will be very simple. I shall take it up next month after my return to Africa.
“There were, however, almost two thousand pounds to the young man’s credit in his banking account not to mention some large withdrawals which he made just before his death. This money he could dispose of in any way he wished. Yesterday, to my surprise, I received through the post a document purporting to be Julius Baumann’s last will and testament.
“It is written on college notepaper and dated last Monday—the day on which Julius met with his unfortunate accident. The legatee was a woman. She gave an address near Cambridge and asked if I could come to see her. She added that her present state of health did not permit her to travel. I was rather sceptical about the document, so I came in person to investigate.”
Here he produced from his pocket a piece of paper. In the half light of the taxi I distinguished my own scrawled signature—H. A. Fenton, All Saints College, Cambridge, and also the name of our unfortunate gyp. Try as I would, I was unable to read what was written on the rest of the paper.
“Now, Mr. Fenton, I am naturally anxious to know if this signature is authentic. I have been given to understand that the other witness, Thomas Hankin, is recently deceased.”
“That’s right and my signature is perfectly okay. Baumann got Hankin and me to sign it the day he died, though whether or not he was sane and in his right mind—”
“Thank you, thank you a thousand times, Mr. Fenton. If that is so, I see no reason why the will should not be probated immediately. It is a perfectly valid legal document. The legatee can establish her identity. I have come from her house just now.”
“You’ve seen her—the lady?” I cried excitedly. “What is her name? Where does she live?”
The taxi had now drawn up outside the dreary stretch of sheds and platform which constitutes Cambridge railway station. As the lawyer got out, I noticed a canny, almost furtive expression on his face. His eyes had narrowed into tiny slits.
“That, Mr. Fenton, I am not at liberty to tell you—at least, not until after the will has been proved. I do not wish to seem churlish, but—in the interest of my client—the less undesirable publicity—” he waved his hand airily as if to dismiss my impertinent curiosity and scatter it to the winds of heaven. “I may take it you are prepared to swear to your signature, if necessary?”
“Why yes, of course.”
He handed the driver several crisp notes. “Kindly take this young gentleman wherever he wishes to go. You may keep the change. Ah! there is the express. I must run along. Good night, Mr. Fenton, and, once more, my apologies for disturbing you at this hour.”
The fur coat disappeared down the platform. I turned to the youthful taxi driver, who was tucking the notes into his trouser pockets, a cheerful grin on his freckled face.
“Nice fare,” I commented pleasantly.
The young man spat on his hands and rubbed them together as if to engage in a playful boxing bout.
“Well, I dunno. Been wiv ’im since the three-thirty down train. Waited for ’im an hour out t’house, too. Now, sir, where d’you want to be took?”
A brilliant, a perfectly scintillating idea flashed, crashed and hurtled through my tired brain. Mr. Van der Walt had undoubtedly come from the house of Mrs. North. He had refused to give me her name or address. But a taxi driver is a beast of burden. He is there to do what he is told; he is the nearest approach to a bond-slave that modern civilization has left us. He would take me where I wanted to go without question.
I produced a pound note from my wallet and brandished it in front of his pleasant snub nose. “I’ll give you this if you take me to the same address you took that gentleman. You can get there, I suppose?”
The driver’s eyes were gleaming with an unholy light. “Blimey, gov’nor, ’op in, ’op in!” he said, and before I had time to arrange my thoughts or my emotions, I was being whirled through a part of Cambridge that is not in the guide books; down gloomy streets, dark by-paths and past mean, squalid dwellings. Finally we emerged into something that, for want of a better word, one might call the country. We drew up in front of a small whitewashed cottage with a thatched roof.
“’Ere we are, sir, as Bertie said to Gertie.” The driver produced a packet of Wild Woodbines from his pocket and gave me a sly wink.
“Right. I shan’t be long.”
I walked up a little garden path, fragrant with rambler roses and honeysuckle. There was a light burning in one of the upper windows of the cottage. I knocked loudly. No reply. I knocked again, and this time I caught the sound of shuffling footsteps coming down the stairs within. A flicker of light appeared under the door. There was a pause while a bolt was drawn back and then I heard the clanking of a heavy chain.
Another long pause followed. In the stillness of the night I could hear my heart pounding against my ribs like the beat of a bass drum. The small hairs at the back of my neck were beginning to stiffen. I had a wild desire to turn and plunge into the waiting taxi. Only the thought of Camilla made me hold my ground.
Then, suddenly, the door was thrown open and I was blinded for an instant by the light of a candle held close to my eyes. A thousand strange possibilities flashed through my brain. Then, like a farcical anticlimax in a mystery play, I heard a familiar voice say, “By hall that’s ’oly, if it ain’t Mr. Fenton. Well, well, Lord love a duck, and me in dishabilly and wivout me ’at on!”
I was staring into the well-known face of my bedmaker. A rosy blush had suffused her cheeks and there was an air of embarrassment about her that was almost girlish. I was completely nonplussed. The sudden apparition of Mrs. Bigger (without her hat) was too much for me. I goggled at her foolishly.
“Good—good evening, Mrs. Bigger,” I stammered. “I didn’t know you lived here.”
“Oh, this ain’t me ’ome, sir. I jes’ drops in occasionally to ’elp her, pore soul.” She gave an upward and backward jerk of her
head. “She’s not long for this world, Mr. Fenton, that she ain’t. It’s nothing as you could put your finger on exactly, but she’s that wasted ’n frail. An’ it’s the ammonia as’ll carry ’er off, sir, one of these fine days, same as it carried off me pore brother ’Arold a year ago come Michaelmas.”
“Can I see her?” I asked eagerly. “I’ve just left the lawyer and—and—there was a message—something he forgot. It’s rather important.”
A look of suspicion and distrust flickered for a moment over the bedmaker’s face. “I don’t know as she’ll see you, sir,” she remarked doubtfully. “She don’t see nobody as a rule …” I had now produced two half-crowns from my pocket and slipped them deftly into Mrs. Bigger’s palm. “But,” she added brightening, “I can but arst ’er.”
She went into the house, leaving me standing on the doorstep. I waited an interminable quarter of an hour. When the good Mrs. Bigger reappeared she wore the well-known hat with the ostrich plumes, and her dishabille was modestly hidden beneath a voluminous alpaca coat, which conformed to the University regulations in that it was of a “subfusc colour.”
“Madame Nordella,” she announced grandiloquently, “says she can give you ten minutes, Mr. Fenton. Step this way, please, sir.”
I followed Mrs. Bigger up a narrow flight of stairs into a small upper room. A fire was burning in an old-fashioned fireplace. There were two candles on the mantelpiece and an iron bed in one corner. A woman dressed in a loose green wrapper was reclining in a large arm chair.
My first thought on entering this dimly lit room, was that its occupant could not possibly be the ill-starred Mrs. North, mother of Julius Baumann and Camilla. This woman looked young and beautiful. Her cheeks were pink and her mouth vivid red, while her hair was the colour of burnished copper.
As my eyes became accustomed to the partial obscurity, however, I saw that the colour in cheek and lips was artificial, that her overburnished hair was white at the roots and that there were deep lines around her mouth and eyes. But nothing—not even age, ill health or grease paint—could mar the splendid regularity of her features or the proud carriage of her head. The words of Dr. Warren—“a born actress”—passed through my mind.
Madame Nordella made a vague gesture in the direction of the door. “Thank you, Louisa; you may leave us now.”
Mrs. Bigger shuffled out of the room. “I’ll be trottin’ ’ome, I reckon,” she murmured. “Good night, me dear. Good night, Mr. Fenton. Now don’t overtax ’er, sir. She’s frail, very frail, and remember there’s ammonia in these damp, misty days.”
As the door closed behind her, Madame Nordella gave me a charming but not altogether convincing smile. “Well, Mr. Fenton,” she said in the well-modulated voice of the stage, “won’t you sit down? Mrs. Bigger tells me you are an American. Perhaps you have seen me play? I have toured America in—” she mentioned one or two musical comedies which must have been popular when I was still in the nursery. I shook my head.
She then proceeded to waste at least five of our precious ten minutes discussing stage matters in general, deploring the decay of what she called the “legit” and inveighing against the popularity of the cinema. I listened as politely as I could, but my eyes were wandering toward the mantelpiece, where I could see the photograph of a smiling girl whose features, even in that dim light, looked familiar to me. I reflected that Camilla must still have a place in Mrs. North’s heart.
Apparently the former actress noticed my inattention. “But there was something special you wanted to say to me, Mr. Fenton? Some matter of business—something about the—er—will?” She started to cough and took a sip from the glass at her side. As she put down the tumbler, I plunged into the subject which was nearest my heart.
“No, no,” I cried, “it wasn’t about the will. I lied to Mrs. Bigger because I wanted to see you and that seemed the only way. You must believe me when I say I’m awfully glad the money is coming to you. I’ll do my best to help if there is anything I can do. But I wanted to speak to you about something more important—a matter of life and death. Mrs. North …”
At the sound of this name she drew herself up in her chair. The marvelous gray eyes stared at me coldly. “My name is Madame Nordella, if you please, Mr. Fenton,” she said with dignity. “It is obvious that—” a wave of the hand completed the sentence.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I stammered, “but really you can trust me. I know all about everything and I’m in love with your daughter. I’ve asked her to marry me. She’s in great danger—terrible danger. I want you to help me. Someone is trying to kill her—just as Julius Baumann and Thomas Hankin were killed. An attempt was made on her life this very afternoon. She is threatened on all sides. She isn’t safe a minute.”
Throughout this speech Mrs. North had been listening to me with her eyes closed. At last she opened them and passed a weary hand across her brow.
“Mr. Fenton,” she said, “there is no need for me to tell you that such subjects are very painful to me. I have had to give up a great many things in my life—and one of them is the guidance of my children. You say my daughter is in danger. I can well believe it. Cambridge is a dangerous place for our family, Mr. Fenton. I myself feel neither safe nor happy here.
“If you really love her you must get her away. I have always thought that she would be happier on the other side. With my influence over there I could easily get her into a good company. But she would come to Cambridge. Well, she must take her chance.”
“I’ll do my best to take her back to America with me,” I cried eagerly, “if only she’ll come. But, in the meantime, can’t you give me some help in solving this terrible, ghastly riddle? Can’t you tell me more about your family—something that might throw some light on this whole miserable business?” I paused and looked at her imploringly.
“Mrs. North,” I cried at last, “I want you to tell me about your third child. I want you to tell me whether he is an undergraduate at Cambridge now.”
Mrs. North staggered to her feet. “Mr. Fenton” she said in a strained, husky voice, “my son is dead. All my children have been taken from me except my daughter—and you know more about her, apparently, than I do. If you wish to enter into what would undoubtedly be a very unsuitable match from your point of view, you are free to do so. I have forfeited the right to interfere in the lives of my children. There’s nothing else to be said. Will you be so kind as to go now.”
She had fallen back into her chair and was reaching out a feeble hand toward the tumbler by her side. I handed it to her. “Thank you,” she murmured. “Good night. Yes, yes, I shall be all right. Please leave me now.”
I turned toward the door, too dazed to speak. As my fingers fumbled with the handle I heard a faint voice from behind me. It was a cry from the heart—this time the cry of a woman, not an actress. “If you marry her, be good to her. Remember, she hasn’t ever had … a chance.”
I groped my way down the narrow stairway and out into the garden. The cool night air was like a benediction after that stuffy room. My faithful taxi driver was waiting for me. As soon as I appeared, he stubbed his cigarette on the curbstone and put it behind his ear.
“All Saints,” I grunted, “and make it snappy. I must get in before midnight.”
He certainly made it snappy.
After I had returned his gown to Mr. Percival Fitzmonckton, and refused his offer of a little game of Bovril, I walked wearily back to my room. I was too tired to think any more about the events of that extraordinary day.
Tired as I was, however, I could not fail to realize that, as far as useful information was concerned, I had got precisely nowhere. The case was no nearer solution than it had been the day before yesterday. Only one point stood out. Mrs. North had told me that her son was dead. Well, “dead” is a word that may be used literally or figuratively.
In any case, I had by no means discarded North Junior from my mind.