CHAPTER XVIII
They went up the lift in two parties: Sir Angus Kinross, the houseagent, and the two men from Scotland Yard; then Lord St. Amant and KattyWinslow alone.
As they were going up, he said kindly, "Are you sure you are wise indoing this? I fear--I fear the worst, Mrs. Winslow!"
With dry lips she muttered, "Yes, so do I. But I would rather come allthe same. I'll wait outside the door."
Poor Katty! She was telling herself that it was surelyimpossible--_impossible_ that Godfrey Pavely should be dead.
Though his vitality had always been low, he had been intenselyindividual. His self-importance, his egoism, his lack of interest inanything but himself, Katty, and the little world where he played soimportant a part--all that had made him a forceful personality,especially to this woman who had possessed whatever he had had of heartand passionate feeling. She had felt of late as if he were indeed partof the warp and woof of her life, and deep in her scheming mind hadgrown a kind of superstitious belief that sooner or later their liveswould become one.
The thought that he might be lying dead in this great new buildingfilled her with a sort of sick horror. There seemed something at once sofutile and so hideously cruel about so stupid an accident as thatdescribed in the Portuguese financier's letter.
They stepped out on to a top landing, from which branched off severalnarrow corridors. The agent led the way down one of these. "Room No. 18?This must be it--this _is_ it! Look, there are the two keyholes!"
The younger and the brawnier of the two plainclothes detectives cameforward. "If you'll just stand aside, gentlemen, for a minute or two,we'll soon get this door open. It's quite an easy matter."
He opened his unobtrusive-looking, comparatively small bag. There was asound of wrenching wood and metal, and then the door swung backwardsinto the room together with a thick green velvet curtain fixed along thetop of the door on a hinged rod.
A flood of wintry sunshine, thrown by the blinking now setting sun of aLondon January afternoon, streamed into the dark passage, and Sir AngusKinross strode forward into the room, Lord St. Amant immediately behindhim.
Katty shrank back and then placed herself by the wall of the passage.She put her hand over her eyes, as if to shut out a dreadful sight, yetall there was to see was an open door through which came a shaft ofpallid wintry afternoon light.
For a space of perhaps thirty seconds, Sir Angus's trained eyes and mindtook in what he supposed to be every detail of the oblong roomoverlooking the now bare tree tops of the Green Park. He noted that theoffice furniture was extremely good--first-rate of its kind. Also thatthe most prominent thing in the room was an American roll-top desk of anexceptionally large size.
Placed at right angles right across the office, this desk concealednearly half the room.
In the corner behind the door was a coat stand, on which there hung aheavy, fur-lined coat, and a silk hat. On the floor was a thick carpet.The only unbroken space of wall was covered by a huge diagram map ofwhat looked like a piece of sea shore.
One peculiar fact also attracted the attention of the Commissioner ofPolice. Both the windows overlooking the Park were wide open, fixedsecurely back as far as they would go: and on the window seats,comfortably, nay luxuriously, padded, and upholstered in green velvet,there now lay a thick layer of grime, the effect of the fog and rain ofthe last fortnight. As they stood within the door, in spite of thosewidely opened windows, there gradually stole on the senses of the fourmen there, a very curious odour, an odour which struck each of them ashorribly significant.
Yet another thing Sir Angus noted in that quick, initial glance; thiswas that the blind of the narrow window which gave on to the street sideof Duke House was drawn down, casting one half of the room in deepshadow.
He turned, and addressing Lord St. Amant in a very low voice, almost ina whisper, he said: "I think we shall find what we have come to seekover there, behind that desk."
Walking forward, he edged round by the side of the big piece of walnutwood furniture.
Then he started back, and exclaimed under his breath, "Good God! Howhorrible!"
He had thought to see a body lying at full length on the carpet, butwhat he did see, sitting upright at the desk, was a stark, immobilefigure, of which the head, partly blown away, was sunk forward on thebreast....
Great care had been taken to wedge the dead man securely back in thearm-chair, and a cursory glance, in the dim light in which that part ofthe room was cast, would have given an impression of sleep, not ofdeath.
He beckoned to Lord St. Amant. "Come over here," he whispered, "youneedn't go any nearer. Do you recognise that as being the body ofGodfrey Pavely?"
And Lord St. Amant, hastening forward, stared with a mixture ofcuriosity and horror at the still figure, and answered, "Yes. I--I thinkthere's no doubt about it's being Pavely."
"Perhaps you'd better go and tell Mrs. Winslow. Get her away as quick asyou can. I must telephone at once for one of our doctors."
Lord St. Amant turned without a word, and made his way through the stillopen door into the queer, rather dark passage.
Katty's face was still full of the strain and anguish of suspense, butshe knew the truth by now. Had nothing been found, some one would havecome rushing out at once to tell her so. Three or four minutes hadelapsed since she had heard the sudden hush, the ominous silence, whichhad fallen over them all, in there.
Her lips formed the words: "Then--they've found him?"
And Lord St. Amant nodded gravely. "It looks as if that Portuguese chaphad told the simple truth."
"The moment that I read the letter this morning I _knew_ that it wastrue," she muttered. Then, "I suppose I'd better go away now? They don'twant me here."
She began walking towards the lift, and Lord St. Amant, following, feltvery sorry for her. "Look here," he said earnestly, "I'm sure you don'twish to go straight back to poor Laura Pavely? Why should you? 'Twouldonly rack you. I suppose----" He stopped a moment, and she looked up athim questioningly.
"Yes, Lord St. Amant--what is it you suppose?"
Katty spoke in a cold, hard voice--all her small affectations had fallenaway from her.
"I suppose," he said, "that Laura knew very little of your friendshipwith poor Godfrey Pavely?"
And she answered, again in that hard, cold voice, "Yes, Laura did know,I think, almost everything there was to know. She didn't care--shedidn't mind. Laura has no feeling."
As he made no reply to that, she went on, rather breathlessly, and withsudden passion, "You think that I'm unfair--you think that Laura reallycares because she looked so shocked and miserable this morning? Butthat's just what she was--_shocked_, nothing else. What is a piece ofterrible, _terrible_ bad luck for me, is good--very good luck forLaura!"
There was such concentrated bitterness in her tone that Lord St. Amantfelt repelled--repelled as well as sorry.
But all he said was: "Would you like to go back to my rooms for an houror two? They're quite near here."
"No, I'd rather face Laura now, at once. After all, I shall have to seeher some time. I'm bound to be her nearest neighbour for a while, at anyrate."
* * * * *
Late that same night the awful news was broken to Mrs. Tropenell by herson. He had sent a message saying he would be down by the last train,and she had sat up for him, knowing nothing, yet aware that somethinghad happened that morning which had sent Laura and Katty hurrying up totown.
Perhaps because the news he told was so unexpected, so strange, and tothem both of such vital moment, the few minutes which followed Oliver'sreturn remained stamped, as if branded with white hot iron, on thetablets of Mrs. Tropenell's memory.
When she heard his firm, hurried footsteps outside, she ran to let himin, and at once, as he came into the house, he said in a harsh, coldvoice: "Godfrey Pavely is dead, mother. A foreigner with whom he hadentered into business relations shot him by accident. The man wrote toLaura a confession of what he had don
e. She got the letter this morning,took it up to London to the police--the best thing she could do--andPavely's body was found at the place indicated, a business office."
As Oliver spoke, in quick, jerky sentences, he was taking off hisgreatcoat, and hanging up his hat.
She waited till he had done, and then only said: "I've got a littlesupper ready for you, darling. I sent the servants off to bed, so I'malone downstairs."
Oliver sighed, a long, tired sigh of relief--relief that his mother hadasked no tiresome, supplementary questions. And she saw the look ofstrain, and of desperate fatigue, smooth itself away, as he followedher into their peaceful dining-room.
She sat with him, and so far commanded her nerves as to remain silentwhile he ate with a kind of hungry eagerness which astonished her.
He turned to her at last, and for the first time smiled a rather wrysmile. "I was very hungry! This is my first meal to-day, and I seem tohave lived in the train. I was up at York--we thought there was a cluethere. I think I told you that over the telephone? Then I came back."
She broke in gently, "To be met with this awful news, Oliver?"
He looked at her rather strangely, and nodded.
"Have you seen Laura?" she ventured.
"Yes, just for a moment. But, mother? She's horribly unhappy. I--Iexpected her to be glad."
"Oliver!"
There was a tone of horror, more, of reprobation, in Mrs. Tropenell'slow voice.
Oliver Tropenell was staring straight before him. "Surely one would haveexpected her to be glad that the suspense was over? And now I askmyself----" and indeed he looked as if he was speaking to himself andnot to her--"if it would have been better for Laura if that--that fellowhad been left to rot there till he had been discovered, two months,three months, perchance four months hence."
"My dear," she said painfully, "what do you mean exactly? I don'tunderstand."
"Pavely's body was found in an empty office, and if the man who shot himhadn't written to Laura--well, of course the body would have remainedthere till it had occurred to some one to force open the door of theroom, and that might not have happened for months."
"I'm very glad that Laura was told now," said Mrs. Tropenell firmly."The suspense was telling on her far more than I should have expected itto do. Katty, too, became a very difficult element in the situation. Idon't think there's much doubt that poor Katty was very fond ofGodfrey."
He muttered: "Mean little loves, mean little lives, mean littlesouls--they were well matched!"
Then he got up.
"Well, mother, I must be off to bed now, as I have to get up early andgo into Pewsbury. Laura, who's staying on in town, asked me to come downand tell those whom it concerned, the truth. She wants you to tellAlice. I said I thought you'd have the child here for a while."
"Certainly I will. She's been here all to-day, poor little girl."
"Do you really think she's to be pitied, mother?"
She hesitated, but his stern face compelled an answer.
"I don't think that Godfrey would have got on with Alice later on--whenshe grew to woman's estate. But now, yes, I do think the child's to bedeeply pitied. It will be a painful, a terrible memory--that her fatherdied like that."
"I can't see it! A quiet, merciful death, mother--one that many a manmight envy." He waited a few moments, then went on: "Of course therewill be an inquest, and I fear Laura will almost certainly have to giveevidence, in order to prove the receipt of that--that peculiar letter."
"Have you got a copy of the letter?" asked Mrs. Tropenell rathereagerly.
Her son shook his head. "No, the police took possession of it. But I'veseen it of course."
They were both standing up now. He went to the door, and held it openfor her. And then, with his eyes bent on her face, he asked her aquestion which perhaps was not as strange as it sounded, between thosetwo who were so much to one another, and who thought they understoodeach other so well.
"Mother," he said slowly, "I want to ask you a question.... How long inEngland does an unloving widow mourn?"
"A decent woman, under normal conditions, mourns at least a year," sheanswered, and a little colour came into her face. Then, out of her greatlove for him, she forced herself to add, "But that does not bar out ameasure of friendship, Oliver. Give Laura time to become accustomed tothe new conditions of her life."
"How long, mother?"
"Give her till next Christmas, my dear."
"I will."
He put his arms round her. "Mother!" he exclaimed, "I love you thebetter for my loving Laura. Do you realise that?"
"I will believe it if you tell me so, Oliver."
He strode off, hastened up the staircase without looking round again,and she, waiting below, covered her face with her hands. A terriblesense of loneliness swept over and engulfed her; for the first timethere was added a pang of regret that she had not joined her life tothat of the affectionate hedonist who had been her true, devoted friendfor so long.