In five minutes’ time a taxi was whirling Diana across the park. Through one window rose the new, monumental buildings of Park Lane, out the other stretched green, damp flats with acres of upturned iron chairs and a mist of bare trees beyond. All she saw was a squat, lion-like figure, its face swollen, distorted with rage. It followed her like a menace.
Soon, however, she recalled two facts which steadied her. First, Nicholas Blundell was a solicitor, therefore unlikely to let his anger lead him into any indiscretion. Second, he could have no reason, beyond the obvious incident of the will, for suspecting Adrian over and above another person. Money offered only one of several possible motives; and as Diana arrived at this point her thoughts gravitated to the fourth guest at Rose’s luncheon table—old Felix Arenson.
The actress had not been on speaking terms with her former manager for a period of years, till recently, when a truce had resulted in a sort of armed neutrality and the interchange of many honeyed pleasantries. This was not strange. Rose Somervell had quarrelled with most of her associates at one time or another. Diana could not remember the cause of this particular rupture, though it was probably due to some defamatory statement, true or false, which Aunt Rose had made concerning Felix’s honesty. How she regretted paying so scant attention to the tittle-tattle her mother had with amused indulgence retailed! It was simply that the petty jealousies, tale-bearing, and weather-cock emotions of the world in which she had grown up were to her a distasteful, boring commonplace. Arenson—a dry, cynical, bloodless stick of a man—might conceivably have cherished resentment. He might even have feared further injury from a woman he had once—if ancient rumour did not lie—been anxious to marry. Supposing he had poisoned his hostess’s food, was there any reasonable excuse for his plying old Petty with questions after the event?
Yes, she decided, Arenson or any one else might have done just that very thing, if the authorities had been to him making embarrassing inquiries. He would be on tenterhooks to find out on what grounds suspicion rested, if the doctor who attended the dead woman had seen anything wrong—oh, any number of things. He might have done it as a blind, pretending entire ignorance of all that had happened. Petty could have been frightened or bribed to say nothing about his visit, though later on—and this would be part of his object—she would come out with it, thus scoring a point in his favour.
It was possible, of course, that the unseen person had been the caretaker of the house; or it might have been one of the servants from the flat below; only, would Petty have been so agitated over questions asked by one of her own kind? It seemed unlikely; still, whatever the case, Diana meant to have the truth of it at once. Uncle Nick, always considerate, had allowed Petty to stay on for the present in what had for so long been her home. She might, however, depart any day, after which it might not be easy to corner her.
Westward they swung along Knightsbridge—and now the huge bulk of the Albert Hall hove in view. As they skirted its flank Diana was struck by another thought. What a good thing Petty had mentioned Uncle Nick’s name! Otherwise one might have imagined . . .
“Here, this won’t do!” She laughed a little hysterically. “What mad notion shall I be getting next?”
Lights were already glimmering through the haze when they turned into a broad cul-de-sac, the lower end of which was spanned by an opulent-looking brown stone mansion, with an imposing entrance guarded by twin bay-trees. This was the modern house built not twenty years ago by a fraudulent financier whose spectacular trial and conviction had filled the papers for a twelvemonth. Blundell had bought the freehold at auction, turning it into three flats, of which the ground floor one, with absurdly large and lofty rooms, was occupied by himself. The top was let to advantage to a wealthy Spaniard, seldom at home; while in between Rose Somervell had lived, in smug luxury, alone with the servant who for half a lifetime had been her dresser.
Inside was a vast expanse of lounge-hall or lobby, panelled in cedar, with hideous Sèvres vases in niches, and grey carpet a full inch thick. It was all heavily magnificent, the sort of thing Aunt Rose had loved. The door to Blundell’s flat lay on the left, and just beyond rose a sweep of wide, shallow stairs. Diana mounted them, and pushed the button beside a second impressive door.
Complete silence. She rang repeatedly, but still no answer came. Petty was not here, evidently. Did it mean that she was gone for good? Down Diana went to the street, and rang the caretaker’s bell. A young, plump woman in a green overall appeared, recognised her, and in tribute to her recent bereavement assumed a woeful expression. Pardon the mention of it, but had Miss Lake had any news? As Diana shook her head, she scanned the caretaker’s face. It showed only sympathy—so its owner as yet knew nothing about the verdict of poisoning in her former tenant’s case. She had been referring solely to the murder of Margaret Fairlamb—which was just as well.
“And to think,” said the woman in hushed tones, “that only that same afternoon your poor mother and me was talking together! Asking about my little Alfred she was—if he’d had his tonsils out yet.” She paused, overcome by the recollection. “Was it Mrs. Petty you was wanting, miss? She’s up there, right enough. I’ve not seen her go out this day.”
“She didn’t answer the bell. Are you quite sure she’s there?”
“Well—as sure as I can be. She might have popped out just now while I was in the scullery washing up; but I hardly think—” The caretaker stopped, a look of fear in her eyes. “She’s been acting a bit queer these past few days,” she faltered uncertainly. “I was saying only this noon to my husband as how . . .” Again she stopped. “Suppose I just run up with you and make certain? You see—well, she’s turned seventy, hasn’t she? You never know, she may have come over faint-like.”
Mr. Blundell had a key, so she informed Diana as with ill-concealed anxiety she hurried into the entrance-hall. His chauffeur-butler would be in, if he wasn’t, for she’d seen him come in not ten minutes ago. Yes, Mr. Blundell often drove himself. For days at a time Mr. Gaylord wasn’t wanted for the car.
As she spoke the caretaker rang the ground-floor bell, which was answered by a big, friendly-faced young man to whom she put a quick question.
“Mrs. Petty?” he repeated, respectfully acknowledging Diana’s presence. “No, I’ve not seen her go out. Want the key? Here you are, then.” He took a Yale key from the gigantic, over-varnished oak press which served as a coat cupboard, handed it over, and asked doubtfully, “What’s it all about? Anything up?”
“Oh, I expect it’s all right! Only the young lady was wanting a word with her, and she couldn’t seem to make her hear.”
Gaylord hesitated, then followed them upstairs to stand by, big and awkward in his off-duty clothes, while the door was opened. Diana was now feeling strongly apprehensive. Supposing the old woman had succumbed to some seizure, how was she ever to find out what at the moment seemed so vitally important?
With a tremor in her voice, the caretaker called, “Mrs. Petty—are you there?”
Dead silence reigned. Gaylord switched on lights, and the trio entered the drawing-room, spotlessly clean and in order. It was a fine room, a little over-furnished in good antiques, the larger pieces now shrouded in dust-sheets. The walls were painted a greyish-rose, the thick curtains were of brocaded damask, delicate powder-blue in colour. Over the Adam mantel hung a big de Laszlo portrait of Rose Walsh at the age of forty. There was a slightly queer look to everything, owing to the ornaments having all been placed at angles, cata-cornered. The invaders took a brief survey and passed on, Gaylord leading the way and walking softly, his big feet sinking into the thick velvet carpet. The dining-room next—olive-green, dignified, with copies of old Chippendale, and ship-paintings—also copies—on the walls; and now the late owner’s bedroom, luxurious, effete. Diana shuddered at sight of the wide, low bed with gilded swans supporting a canopy of rucked, rose taffeta, glanced past it to the dressing-table with its incredible array of engraved and painted bottles, and on to the Empire day-bed, on which lay a rug of summer ermine, folded with the satin lining outside.
The kitchen and pantry likewise were empty. So was the little boudoir-dressing-room adjoining the pale-green bath, and hung with quilted chintz.
“Here! Will you take a look at this?”
It was Gaylord calling, his tone astonished. He was standing in the doorway of Petty’s bedroom, whistling between his teeth. Diana joined him, the caretaker close at her side. Together they took stock of the clean, cramped space with its cream-striped wallpaper, white iron bed tidily covered with a coarse counterpane, deal chair, enamelled chest of drawers—and nothing more.
“Well,” said the caretaker, “What about it?”
“Don’t you see? She’s taken her box—and that there cupboard’s got nothing in it. She’s cleared off, that’s certain. I wonder if Mr. Blundell knows?”
The caretaker looked relieved, but flummoxed.
“There, now! I’m glad, anyhow, it’s—no worse. But would you ’ave believed it, going off like that with never a word to no one? Very quiet she must’ve been. Dear, dear. I said she’s turned queer. This proves it—don’t you think?”
They returned to the kitchen. The caretaker touched the electric cooker.
“Kettle’s warm,” she announced. “So she’s not been long gone. Clock’s running, too, and these plates in the rack are still damp. Now where’s she got to, and at her age?”
“Nephew in Peckham,” declared Gaylord confidently. “Come and fetched her, I expect, on his motor-cycle. You see, she’s drawing her pension now; and I heard Mr. Blundell say he was giving her a matter of two quid a week, so she could go up to Sunderland, where she come from—that is, if she was a mind—and not be a burden to her folks.”
“Is he doing that?” murmured the woman, awed. “My word, but he’s a good man and no mistake! But supposing she’s wanted—here?”
There was a self-conscious pause, during which the two recalled Diana’s presence. Gaylord cleared his throat and swayed from one foot to the other.
“Oh, I expect she’ll stick round London on the off-chance,” he said discreetly. “Stands to reason she will, for all she’s in such a rare state over being arsked questions she can’t answer.”
Diana was eyeing the cheap alarm clock which ticked away on the dresser. Gaylord noted her swift glance at her watch and smiled humorously.
“Don’t be going by that clock, miss,” he advised. “She kept it like that a-purpose, same as most cooks—don’t arsk me why. This one’s five and twenty minutes fast.”
Five and twenty minutes fast! Then it had been fast last Tuesday. Diana’s heart stood still as one precious prop was swept from her grasp. Adrian could have been here and still reached the tea-shop by five-thirty. In place of the ten minutes she had assumed, he would have had over half an hour. Suddenly she remembered that he had looked at her strangely when she mentioned what her mother had overheard and had instantly demanded details.
“Tell me,” she addressed the waiting pair. “On the Tuesday my mother was here, did either of you see any one go out from this flat? I don’t mean Mr. Blundell. Was there any one else?”
Their blank expressions told her that here was no deception. Both shook their heads, exchanging glances. The caretaker remarked that she nearly always knew if some one went in or out of the house. That was what puzzled her about Mrs. Petty. She had been in the whole of Tuesday afternoon.
“And Petty’s nephew—do you know his address?”
The caretaker did not. Gaylord, however, had driven the old woman there once, and thought he could describe the locality. The nephew was a corn-chandler, in a small way, living above his shop, which was in a narrow turning off Peckham Rye. He traced a plan on the clean scrubbed table.
“Here’s the High Street, miss. That’ll be the turning, by a chemist’s. The right-hand side it was. Name’s Petty, same as hers.”
“Thanks so much. I’ll try and run along there one day. Well, I suppose I’d better be going.”
She picked up her gloves from the dresser, and then stared hard at an object unnoticed till now. It was a clean, folded handkerchief—too good to be Petty’s, too large and not fine enough to have belonged to Aunt Rose. With a little laugh she caught it up and slipped it into her bag.
“Mine,” she murmured. “Waiting for me to claim it, I expect. Will you turn off the lights?” and she quickly left the flat.
How did one get to Peckham Rye? A policeman advised her to take a train from Victoria, whither she hurried by taxi. Now she was alone, she struck a match and examined the handkerchief. It was a woman’s, undoubtedly, and it bore in one corner some initials marked in indelible ink. She thought they were E. and D., with a central one too faded to decipher. About to refold the square of linen again, she stopped and pressed it against her nose. It gave forth the ghost of a pungency at once familiar and distasteful. Some perfumes survive ordinary washing, none better than this, which she despised. It crossed her mind that within the week a blast of this same odour had hit her full in the face. The owner must have been drenched with it—and hand-in-hand with the thought came the recollection of Adrian’s bitter observation about a négligée reeking of scent.
“If it is hers,” she reflected, “then my theory’s knocked to bits. Or—no, maybe it isn’t. Why need one assume this handkerchief was left behind on one particular occasion? There may have been plenty of other times.”
All at once, in her ear, she heard her mother’s musing question: “By the way, did your Aunt Rose ever use chypre?”
Chypre! This was the stuff. The odour of it had been in the kitchen when her mother went in. Moreover, the woman who did use it might have had a motive, albeit mad and mistaken, for committing first one crime then another. Was the notion entirely wild?