The Barkes’ residence in Wilton Road, Chelsea, was aptly named the Green House. It was really a green oasis in the surrounding brick and mortar desert. It stood in its own grounds, a microscopic estate admittedly when compared with the broad acres of Forde Manor, but large by Chelsea standards. From all windows could be seen greenery, or at least this was possible in summer, and from the sitting-room the foliage was so plentiful as to screen all adjoining buildings.
For the next two days Betty lived a happy and carefree life in this haven. Agatha was better, although still dazed and unwilling to talk. Her lungs had remained unaffected, and the doctor believed that in two or three days she would be herself again. Betty, thrown on her own resources, quickly reproduced the routine of the gate lodge. In the mornings she monopolized the sitting-room. In that charming apartment, long and low and high windowed, with its old well-matched furniture, its comfortable cushions and its bright fire, she pushed rapidly on with the revision of her final chapters. She could not help feeling a certain relief at Agatha’s indisposition, though she had the grace to be ashamed of herself therefore. But fond as she was of her, she knew that once Agatha was about she could no longer work. For Agatha, the personification of cheery good fellowship, could never sit alone if she could find a companion, nor remain silent so long as there was anyone to talk to.
Saturday and part of Sunday passed in this blissful way, and then on Sunday afternoon an event took place which opened up a new and very disquieting chapter in both their lives.
It was about three o’clock and Betty was lying back in her chair before the fire, trying to screw up energy to go for her afternoon walk, when she heard a ring. There was a murmur of a man’s voice, then heavy steps crossing the hall.
‘Two gentlemen to see you, ma’am,’ explained Kate, throwing open the door.
Of the men who entered, the first was stoutish and slightly below middle height, with a clean-shaven good-natured face and honest but extremely shrewd blue eyes. The other was tall and strongly built, with an air partly martial, partly deprecating. Plain-clothes policemen, Betty thought instantly.
‘I’m sorry, madam,’ began the short man in a pleasant voice, ‘for this intrusion. I wanted to see Mrs Barke but I understand she’s ill?’
‘Yes, she has a bad attack of ’flu.’
‘So the maid said. But perhaps you, madam, could help me. You’re Mrs Stanton, the maid said?’
‘Yes.’
‘A relation, perhaps?’
‘No,’ she answered, presuming that an explanation of the interrogation would presently be vouchsafed, ‘just a visiting friend of the family. What can I do for you?’
‘We’ve called to ask for a little information. We are police officers from Scotland Yard. My name is French—Chief Inspector French, and this is Sergeant Carter.’
Betty strove to hide her surprise. ‘Well,’ she answered equally pleasantly, ‘I don’t know what information you want that I can give you, but I’ll do my best. Won’t you sit down?’
‘Thank you, madam.’ They seated themselves and French paused while Carter took a notebook from his pocket and opened it on his knee.’
The visit had aroused astonishment in Betty’s mind, but as she looked at the men’s expression this turned swiftly to foreboding. The fire! There was some trouble at Forde Manor because of the fire, and the police had been called in. An idea which had already slightly worried her flashed back into her mind. It surely couldn’t be that Charles had switched on the electric light and somehow caused a short circuit? But no, that was impossible! Even if he had switched it on, it could not have done any harm.
But it was not about the fire that French spoke. ‘A word from you may settle my business,’ he said. ‘I hope it will. Can you tell me if Mrs Barke has heard from Mr Barke since he went to France?’
Betty stared. ‘I know she has not,’ she answered promptly.
‘When does she expect him back?’
‘When she sees him. I mean, he didn’t know himself.’
French glanced at his assistant. ‘Do you know what was the business which took him over?’ he went on.
Though Betty had no idea where these questions were tending, a feeling of misgiving arose in her mind. Charles’s business? Why, to give her £120 to Roland! Then she saw she was wrong. That was only a friendly errand undertaken because he had had to go in any case. She need not mention Roland. Indeed, an unaccountable presentiment urged her not to do so.
‘No,’ she answered, ‘I have no idea. But I can’t tell you whether Mrs Barke knows.’
French nodded slowly. ‘Now, Mrs Stanton, I have to tell you something which may be a shock to you.’
Betty’s face grew more anxious as she looked at her questioner.
‘The fact is that Mr Barke left his hotel rather suddenly and has not returned and I wondered if Mrs Barke knew where he was? Or perhaps you?’
‘I?’ said Betty sharply. ‘No, I know nothing. What does this mean?’
‘Mr Barke crossed by the service leaving Victoria at nine o’clock on Friday morning,’ French went on gravely, ‘and arrived in Paris at three forty-eight. He went direct to his hotel, the Vichy, which as you probably know is beside the Place de Lafayette and near the Gare du Nord. He registered and told the clerk to send his luggage up to his room, as he wished before going up himself to pay an urgent call. He then left the hotel and—he has not returned.’
Betty felt the blood drawing away from her heart. ‘Not returned?’ she repeated as if in a dream. ‘Then where is he?’
‘That’s just it, Mrs Stanton.’
‘You don’t mean,’ Betty didn’t realize the sound of her own voice, ‘that he has—disappeared?’
French, she saw, was unobtrusively watching her every movement. Oh, why couldn’t she be normal?
‘Well,’ he said reassuringly, ‘it’s true that nothing has been heard of him since he left the hotel. But don’t let that upset you, madam. It doesn’t follow that anything is seriously wrong.’
Betty thought she had experienced fear when her money had been at its lowest ebb. Now she realized that she had never known what it was like. A cold terror seemed to be closing down on her, paralysing her in its icy clutches. Charles had disappeared, and Charles—she could scarcely put it into conscious thought—Charles had intended to meet Roland. In spite of herself hideous pictures grew in her mind. Charles meeting Roland—with the money. Charles refusing to pay it over—as well he might have done. Roland disappointed—and Roland’s terrible temper! Oh, no! Horrible! How could such a thought have entered her mind? Roland would never—never do a thing like that!
But she was mad to let herself go in this way. Her frightful idea was false and she would only make this policeman suspicious. Desperately she fought for self-control.
‘That’s a great shock to me,’ she said in tones which she tried to make steady. ‘Mr and Mrs Barke are my dearest friends and I just can’t face anything having happened to him. Tell me more details. How did you know about it?’
‘The hotel manager informed the French police,’ French answered. ‘When Mr Barke did not return that night he thought nothing of it, but when the next day passed without news he began to wonder. However, he waited till lunchtime today, then thought he ought to make a report. The French police phoned over to us to make inquiries at his home, and here we are.’
Betty felt numb. Charles was extraordinarily methodical and thoughtful for others. He hated to change his plans and he would never have broken an engagement without ringing up and explaining. And he was no subject for loss of memory. Besides, he had a notebook in his pocket bearing his name and address, as well as his cards. No, something dreadful must have happened. ‘It sounds terribly bad to me,’ she murmured.
‘Well, we mustn’t anticipate trouble,’ French returned with a look that was almost kindly. ‘But now I should like to ask my questions.’
Betty nodded. ‘Ask what you will and I’ll do my best to answer you.’
‘Well, it would be a help to know Mr Barke’s business in Paris. You say you can’t help me there, but with your knowledge of Mr Barke, can’t you guess what kind of thing it might have been? I know of course that Mr Barke is a famous artist, as well as being Director of the Crewe Gallery, but I know nothing of the details of his life.’
Thankfully Betty felt that she was once again regaining herself control. ‘He frequently went abroad to look at and perhaps buy pictures for the Crewe. Then he was often consulted on questions about pictures: whether they were genuine old masters or copies, and so on. He was supposed to be the final court of appeal on such matters, at least in this country.’
French nodded. ‘Now that’s helpful, Mrs Stanton. That’s just the sort of thing I want.’
‘There were the Nimes pictures, as an example. Half a dozen pictures were found in Nimes which looked like old masters. He was called in. He decided that they were all copies.’
‘I see. Very specialized and valuable knowledge. Mr Barke then told you what he had gone to Nimes for.’
‘He told Mrs Barke and I heard of it.’
‘Quite. Was it usual for him to tell Mrs Barke?’
‘Unusual, I should say, unless as in that case the matter was of general interest. He usually said “Business” but seldom explained the details, and of course in this case there was a special reason why he should not.’
‘You mean that Mrs Barke was ill?’
‘Exactly.’
‘And what did he say to you, Mrs Stanton?’
‘I didn’t see him. I had a note from him asking me to come here to keep Mrs Barke company while he was away, but he made no mention of business.’
‘I see. When was that?’
‘On Friday morning. I came here after lunch that afternoon.’
French nodded. ‘Quite.’ He paused, slowly turning the leaves of his notebook, then began again, ‘When did you see Mr Barke last?’
‘About ten days ago. I came up here and lunched with them.’
‘Then where are you living?’
‘I’ve been at the lodge of Forde Manor, near Ockham.’
‘Forde Manor? Do you mean where the fire was?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then surely,’ French’s voice took on a new respect, ‘you must be the Mrs Stanton who was mentioned in the papers as having acted so splendidly in directing salvage operations?’
Betty smiled. ‘I was in charge there,’ she admitted, ‘and naturally did what I could: I’m afraid with poor success.’
‘I read about it. A fine piece of work, if I may say so.’ French paused, then turned back to business. ‘Then you saw Mr Barke about ten days ago and you received a letter from him on Friday morning asking you here. Had you any other communication with him during this last ten days?’
Betty hesitated. This was critical. Then she plunged. ‘Not directly, but I should perhaps tell you that when we met he arranged to come down to see me at Forde on Monday afternoon—that was last Monday.’
‘Oh, and did he not do so?’
Betty explained.
‘There were fine pictures at Forde Manor, I saw by the papers,’ French went on. ‘Was Mr Barke interested in them?’
‘He saw them, if that’s what you mean, in a quite personal capacity—just for the pleasure of looking at them. Twice he saw them. Once some eight months ago with me and again last Monday with the caretaker, Relf. But there was no business motive behind the visit.’
‘As far as you know?’
‘As far as I know, of course.’
‘Then I’m afraid it won’t help us much. By the way, I forgot to ask: does Mr Barke often go to Paris on business?’
‘Fairly often. He goes all over the Continent.’
‘Do you know where he usually stays in Paris?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t.’ French nodded. ‘Thank you very much. Now just two other points. First, I should like to know whether Mr Barke told Mrs Barke about his business in Paris, and secondly, I should like permission to go through Mr Barke’s papers. I wonder if you could see Mrs Barke on these points?’
‘Oh,’ Betty returned, ‘I don’t think she should be told about this: not at present at all events. She’s very weak.’
‘Yet a hint of Mr Barke’s business might enable us to find him, and if he should be in difficulties, police help might be invaluable. I’m afraid I must ask you to try.’
‘If you think so, I will. But I’m doubtful of the result.’
‘I suggest,’ French went on, ‘that you don’t mention Mr Barke’s disappearance. Simply say that some business question has arisen at the Crewe and they want to get in touch with him. Say they want to know where he went to and when he will be back, and if she doesn’t know, that they would like to look his papers through in the hope of finding out.’
‘All right,’ said Betty with some relief. ‘I’ll do what I can.’
She greatly disliked the deception, though she thought it justified. However, she needn’t have worried; Agatha took no interest in the questions. She simply shook her head when asked about Charles’s movements and nodded when the search of the papers was mentioned, immediately going off again to sleep.
Having shown French Charles’s desk in the library, Betty returned to the sitting-room and gave herself up to an attempt to weigh the new disaster. She was sure from her knowledge of Charles that he would never voluntarily have left his friends a prey to anxiety: if he had not given notice of his whereabouts, it was because he could not. And if he had met with an accident someone would have found him. It looked terribly bad.
In spite of all her striving, the idea of Roland kept thrusting itself back into her mind. Roland wouldn’t do a dirty or a crooked thing—or would he not?—but she couldn’t forget his terribly quick temper. A moment’s rage; and something might happen which could never be undone. But, she told herself again and again, she mustn’t think these hideous thoughts. The idea was not—could not be—true. Roland, her own twin brother, could not be a—murderer!
With misgivings she thought of her own part in the affair. She had deliberately kept back what might be vital evidence from the officers of Scotland Yard. If that awful thing were true, what would be her position? Bad, she was sure. But she didn’t care. The first thing was to protect Roland. No breath of suspicion must arise that could touch him. Then she felt sick with horror as she thought of the fear her action implied.
Next came a revulsion of feeling. How wicked, how absolutely criminal she had been to doubt Roland! Roland would never be guilty of such a thing! It was she who was evil to have thought it. There was some quite different explanation.
Another name flashed into her mind. Lorrimer! Lorrimer had left the Crewe in the belief that unless he paid £250 within six months, he would be prosecuted for theft. He believed also that this necessity depended on Charles and Charles alone. If Charles were eliminated the question would never arise.
Oh, horrible! What had happened to her? Why did these dreadful unsought thoughts fill her mind? Lorrimer, if a trifle secretive, had always appeared a normal, decent sort of man. It was inconceivable that he, any more than Roland, should be guilty of such a crime.
She wondered if there was not still a possibility. Could Charles have penetrated into one of those dark Paris slums and been murdered for the money which a man of his appearance would certainly have about him? Then she remembered that he had disappeared about four in the afternoon. in broad daylight. Of course he might have gone to see someone and come back late at night … But to go deliberately into unnecessary danger would be equally unlike Charles …
Her thoughts swung back to her own position. She would, she supposed, have to tell Agatha. That wouldn’t be easy. Dear Agatha who had been so good to her and who was so fond of Charles! How terribly upset she would be!
An hour, two hours, passed and then French returned from the study. ‘I’ve been through all the likely papers,’ he explained, ‘and I’m sorry to say I’ve found nothing to throw light on the affair. I may have to make a further search later. Have you been able to think of anything that might help?’
‘One thing occurred to me,’ Betty answered, ‘but I fear it won’t be helpful. On last Monday, before Mr Barke paid his visit to Forde Manor, he lunched with some people at Woking—Mr and Mrs Harold Spencer, I think. Then as I told you he was with the Forde Manor caretaker, Relf, while looking at the pictures. Mr Barke may conceivably have spoken to one of these about his journey.’
French glanced at his watch. ‘May I use your telephone? I’ll ring up Woking. It may save going down.’
A few minutes obtained Harold Spencer’s statement. Charles had said nothing about a visit to Paris and Spencer had not known he was going.
‘Is Relf on the telephone?’ French then asked.
Betty explained about the connection having been destroyed in the fire.
French got up. ‘Then I’ll send a man down in the morning. Now I’ll wish you good evening and assure you that directly I get any information, I’ll pass it on to you. And if you’ll take my advice, you won’t worry unduly. As I said before, there’s no evidence to suggest that anything serious has happened.’
That evening Agatha was much better and after consulting the doctor Betty did one of the most difficult jobs of her life and told her what had happened. Agatha was dreadfully upset. She at once took the most pessimistic view and nothing would convince her that Charles was alive.
But she was no more able than Betty to answer French’s questions. She knew neither why Charles had gone to Paris, nor when he had intended to return. To Betty’s overwhelming relief, it was also evident that she knew nothing of the proposed meeting with Roland.
‘Chief Inspector French is rather a surprise,’ Betty remarked later on that evening. ‘I thought police officers were overbearing and aggressive and treated everybody as if they were criminals under suspicion. But no one could have been more polite than he was. I thought him even kindly.’
‘I’m glad this is being handled by someone who’ll be sympathetic.’
‘Yes, and he’s no fool either. His eyes are extraordinarily shrewd.’
Agatha made a gesture of anxiety and despair, as if to Change the subject. ‘I dread the night,’ she muttered in a low voice. ‘I know I shall not sleep.’
‘Don’t let me leave you for a while,’ Betty suggested. ‘Tell you what, I’ll make some tea. Or would you rather have whisky?’
‘Tea, I think. A cup would be rather nice. Getting it will be something to do at all events. Make it there and I’ll watch you.’
The occupation, slight as it was, gave them relief and the hot stimulant soothed their nerves. Their fright somewhat receded and they talked more normally.
‘What a week this has been!’ Betty remarked. ‘First that awful fire, and now this.’
‘Worse for you than for me,’ Agatha returned, ‘for I hadn’t the fire. It must have been absolutely ghastly.’
Betty shivered. ‘I hate to think of it, and I can’t get it out of my mind. I haven’t slept properly since. I lie awake and hear the roaring and the crackling and see the roof of the hall going down. That was the worst thing, the roof going down.’
‘You poor thing!’
‘I don’t know why it should upset me now; it didn’t at the time. It’s ten times worse now even than when I first woke and saw the light in the sky.’
‘There was so much to do that you couldn’t think about it.’
‘Perhaps so. At all events I felt neither fear nor excitement: only anxiety that we shouldn’t be able to deal with it. Then the moment I saw it I realized we could do nothing.’
‘Except save the pictures.’
‘I mean, nothing to save the house. The pictures, yes. I was terribly disappointed about that. I hoped we should have got more of them out.’
For another hour Betty talked, trying to keep Agatha from thinking. Then when both were feeling exhausted, she turned in, hoping against hope that they might get some sleep. Both were astonished to find next morning that they had slumbered dreamlessly through the night.