In the car with her godfather next morning she related the whole of her strange adventures. Half-way through Blundell interrupted her, comically perturbed.
“Good God!” He rubbed his chin. “What’s that poor woman up to, ransacking my papers? I knew she’d not bothered to return my duplicate bunch of keys—not that I troubled about it. She’s honest as the day. And you ran her to earth! Fine! Good work!”
“But she’s gone again, this time we don’t know where.”
“Did she take all her luggage?”
“I couldn’t say. I saw two bags. I’ve written down the address, in case it’s of any use. Here it is—17 Floyd’s Square. Islington, I suppose; but wait, I’ve more to tell you.”
In another minute her companion was frowning in even greater bewilderment.
“Stole letters from you? Surely not. Why do you think a thing like that?”
“Simply because there’s no other explanation. Nothing can fall out of this pocket. See, it fastens with a strap. The three letters—two of them Aunt Rose’s to my mother—were there yesterday. I particularly noticed them—and the bag was in my hand or within reach the whole of the day, except just that little time when I was in your library. I left it on that marquetry table by my door.”
“But why?” he objected. “What’s the sense in it?”
“In her taking my letters? My idea is she saw the lights on and wanted to find out who was there. The quickest and safest way was to look into my bag for a card. There wasn’t a card—I never carry one—but the letters would tell her what she wanted to know. Maybe she’s a better reason than we think for being so inquisitive. She has been behaving oddly. You admitted it yourself.”
“We all noticed it,” he muttered. “Were those letters anything you wanted especially to keep?”
“Not now. I’d just forgotten to destroy them. Aunt Rose’s I did save till I had time to read them. I hoped they might help me; but there was nothing in them except gossip about Vichy and the people she was meeting.”
“Humph! Well, whatever Miss Dilworth wanted, it couldn’t have been your letters.”
“No, because she didn’t know I would be there. I hoped you might be able to suggest a reason.”
He shook his head. Possibly, he hazarded, she had left something of her own behind, though he still could not understand her secrecy.
“The trouble is, she may come again. I’ve hung on to the spare key so the servants could use it when they clean up. I can’t have you bothered, though. We must put it where Miss Dilworth can’t find it, just in case she pays us another visit.”
She did not mention to him her rather stupid obsession, due, in part, to what Mrs. Todd had said about the loose linoleum and the ripped curtain hem. Just before getting into bed she herself had noticed whole inches of the taffeta bed valance unsewn at the bottom—a trifling matter if Rose Somervell had been less fussy about the tidiness of her home. It had certainly seemed to her as though an exhaustive search had been conducted all over the flat, and that the searcher might want to continue operations. In the light of day, however, the whole notion crumbled. Her other idea was more substantial, and had better be divulged.
“You probably don’t know,” she said hesitatingly, “that Miss Dilworth had entirely lost her head over Adrian. Not liking to hurt her feelings, he let her think he couldn’t marry any one because he’d no money. That’s one important point. The other is, she disliked Aunt Rose.”
Blundell turned shrewd eyes on her. For a second she fancied there was pity in them.
“By jove!” He brought his gloved fist down on his knee with a soft thud. “You’re thinking Dilworth may have twigged the contents of that will? I shouldn’t have supposed . . . but it’s a possibility, no doubt of that. Rose always said she was devilish sharp. Warned me against her, in fact.”
“You’ve not forgotten, have you, that she was in the dining-room while the four of you were at lunch?”
“No,” he answered slowly. “I’d not lost sight of it; but what about us others? There’s Petty, there’s Arenson, there’s me. Oh, yes, I’m a suspect too. Now try to deny it!”
Diana flushed, feeling sorely tried.
“What I meant was, Adrian knew nothing whatever about this will, but Miss Dilworth did know, having witnessed it. Suppose she did manage to catch sight of a few sentences? She may have imagined that with Aunt Rose out of the way Adrian would have money and be willing to marry her. If she did commit this murder, it would be so easy to understand her questioning Petty as she did, after the death.”
“Questioning Petty? Here, that’s news! How did you find out?”
She gave him a brief account of her talk with Petty. She saw from his frowning attention that she had made an impression.
“Doesn’t that show she was worried sick for fear the body would be exhumed? If you’d seen her last night! Why, she’s half out of her wits!”
He did not at once reply. When he spoke it was with an evasiveness which might mean reluctance to accuse his former secretary, or simply disbelief in this theory.
“I wouldn’t think too much about any of this,” he advised, “till the boy comes up before the magistrate. Maybe he’ll go scot-free, then your troubles will be over.”
Would they? Not so long as the real criminal remained undiscovered; but she kept her thought to herself, for they had now stopped outside the prison where, pending his examination, Adrian was detained. Pale again and with a smothered feeling, she followed her godfather’s short, powerful figure through the doors and into a bare entrance-hall, where a stolid official was dealing as best he could with a slim, excitable girl in a handsome mink coat. Diana looked at her. She had dark, flashing eyes with tears trembling like dew-drops on her long, blackened lashes. She was smart and expensive to her finger-tips, and her accent was American.
“Permit or not permit, miss,” the guard was saying detachedly, “the prisoner refuses to see you. Now what’s to be done about it?”
“But I will see him!” The visitor stamped her foot, her whole willowy person vibrating with fury. “Look, do you realise who I am? My father’s Carter Ackland. You’ve heard of him, haven’t you? Well, then! I’m offering you this—” A five-pound note crackled in her hand. “Just to take me in. Will you do it, or won’t you?”
Somehow, with no glaring discourtesy, she was put finally aside.
“Now, sir,” said the official to Blundell; “can I do anything for you?”
So this girl was Blanche Ackland! Heiress to millions—lovely too, in an over-finished, metallic way, yet Adrian had refused to see her. Diana, watching her make a sullen retreat, felt a wan triumph, succeeded by the fear that she, also, would be denied. The guard’s manner reassured her. It was comforting to be towed in by some one who commanded so much deference as Uncle Nick seemed to do. She could even bear his inevitable jokes.
“We got here a minute too soon, didn’t we? Otherwise you’d be five pounds to the good, eh?”
“Ha, ha! Not bad, sir. The same prisoner, is it? Right you are, sir, I’ll not keep you a moment.”
They were shown into a dingy, overheated room furnished with a table, some wooden-seated chairs, and nothing else. Into it came Adrian, escorted by a warder—and Diana’s first thought was that though they had been admitted neither she nor her godfather was welcomed. Adrian was perfectly composed, a shade more abstracted than his wont, but too well she understood the brief glance he gave her before looking away. There was question in it, and certainty of the answer. A hard lump came into her throat and remained there.
“Well, my boy!” Blundell’s voice, in trying to be natural, was gruffer than usual. “What have they been doing to you? Come on, give us the whole story.”
Adrian looked at him, but did not speak till they had taken seats at the table, Diana and Blundell on one side, the warder at the end. Then he removed his glasses, polished them, and gave a faint shrug.
“As you see,” he said uneventfully, “I’ve been arrested. For murder. That’s about all there is to it.”
“All! But on what grounds?” demanded the solicitor truculently. “Man, they can’t lock you up without reason! What’s the evidence!”
Adrian made no attempt to answer the question. After another glance at his two visitors, as though to establish something in his own mind, he remarked that he had been advised to secure counsel.
“Why, I can’t imagine.” He seemed to be addressing no one in particular. “If they won’t believe what I say, what’s the good of having a lawyer say it for me?”
How like Adrian! Diana made a despairing gesture, but let Blundell speak for her.
“Utter rot, my boy! Naturally you must have counsel—good counsel, too. Know any legal chaps?”
“No.”
Adrian gave the negative without interest or apparent concern.
Blundell blew his nose violently.
“Well, then! Let Di put you into touch with her father’s solicitor, and let him arrange matters. It’ll be done at once.”
“Thanks,” returned Adrian indistinctly. “But I’d rather she didn’t bother. I’ll manage by myself.”
“Now, what sheer bilge!” Blundell was growing discomfited, consequently irritable. “See here, don’t you realise our one idea is to get you a square deal? Why do you suppose I did my damnedest to bail you out?”
Adrian looked at him again, this time with a slight frown.
“You tried to bail me out?” he repeated slowly. “I didn’t know that. I can’t quite see your reason, but—thanks again.”
“Reason be blowed!” Blundell pushed back his chair, got up, and strode towards the door. “Look,” he said, turning. “Maybe if I’m out of the way, Diana can talk some sense into you.”
Diana felt intensely grateful for the considerate action, but when the door had banged and she was left with only an indifferent warder to hear, she was as badly tongue-tied as before. Adrian, facing her, might have been a total stranger. Desperate, she made a trivial remark.
“Bobbie Ackland was outside. Why didn’t you see her?”
“Why should I see her?”
The warder was looking boredly at his watch. Diana clinched her hands to keep back the tears, and leant forward persuasively.
“Adrian, dear, I’m sorry you weren’t pleasanter to Uncle Nick. He’s being so decent to us both—and when you think how he felt about her, can’t you see what this means?”
His eyes met hers. “Why,” he asked, “do you say both of us? You’ve told him—?”
“I had to. I’ve let the flat, you see, and Uncle Nick has most kindly insisted on my staying for the present in Aunt Rose’s place. He arranged this interview. He’s willing to help in every way, and—oh, darling, we may need lots of help! Surely you understand?”
“Of course.” He pondered, trying, she thought, to sift out some problem. “As for the matter you mentioned,” he resumed, coldly and with even greater constraint, “you and me . . . well, I want you to consider it finished. Washed up. In fact, you’ve got to look at it like that. I appreciate your coming here, but don’t do it again, will you? And I particularly ask you to stay away from the court. Promise?”
“Oh, dear!” Her voice broke. “Why must you be so utterly stupid? Nothing’s altered. Nothing! How could it be? This is just some ghastly mistake. You do know I’ve never, never honestly supposed—”
Once more he was looking at her, and this time what she saw in his eyes sent a cold shock through her.
“Adrian!” she whispered unsteadily. “What is it? I’ve got to be told!”