"Ten minutes' walk. But no hurry. Next train up is the 6.35 and it's only about twenty to six now. You've just missed one."
"Which way is it to the station from here?"
"Sharp to the left when you turn out of the Hotel. Then- let me see-down Morgan's Avenue would be the best way, wouldn't it?"
"Morgan's Avenue?" Miss Glen started violently, and stared at him with startled eyes.
"I know what you're thinking of," said Estcourt, laughing "The Ghost. Morgan's Avenue is bounded by the cemetery on one side, and tradition has it that a policeman who met his death by violence gets up and walks on his old beat up and down Morgan's Avenue. A spook policeman! Can you beat it? But lots of people swear to having seen him."
"A policeman?" said Miss Glen. She shivered a little. "But there aren't really any ghosts, are there? I mean-there aren't such things?"
She got up, folding her wrap tighter round her.
"Good bye," she said vaguely.
She had ignored Tuppence completely throughout, and now she did not even glance in her direction. But over her shoulder she threw one puzzled questioning glance at Tommy.
Just as she got to the door, she encountered a tall man with grey hair and a puffy red face who uttered an exclamation of surprise. His hand on her arm, he led her through the doorway, talking in an animated fashion.
"Beautiful creature, isn't she?" said Estcourt. "Brains of a rabbit. Rumor has it that she's going to marry Lord Leconbury. That was Leconbury in the doorway."
"He doesn't look a very nice sort of man to marry," remarked Tuppence.
Estcourt shrugged his shoulders.
"A title has a kind of glamor still, I suppose," he said. "And Leconbury is not an impoverished peer by any means. She'll be in clover. Nobody knows where she sprang from. Pretty near the gutter, I daresay. There's something deuced mysterious about her being down here anyway. She's not staying at the Hotel. And when I tried to find out where she was staying, she snubbed me-snubbed me quite crudely, in the only way she knows. Blessed if I know what it's all about."
He glanced at his watch and uttered an exclamation.
"I must be off. Jolly glad to have seen you two again. We must have a bust in town together some night. So long."
He hurried away, and as he did so, a page approached with a note on a salver. The note was unaddressed.
"But it's for you, sir," he said to Tommy. "From Miss Gilda Glen."
Tommy tore it open and read it with some curiosity. Inside were a few lines written in a straggling untidy hand.
I'm not sure, but I think you might be able to help
me. And you'll be going that way to the station. Could
you be at The White House, Morgan's Avenue, at ten
minutes past six?
Yours sincerely,
Gilda Glen.
Tommy nodded to the page who departed, and then handed the note to Tuppence.
"Extraordinary," said Tuppence. "Is it because she still thinks you're a Priest?"
"No," said Tommy thoughtfully. "I should say it's because she's at last taken in that I'm not one. Hullo! what's this?"
"This" was a young man with flaming red hair, a pugnacious jaw and appallingly shabby clothes. He had walked into the room and was now striding up and down muttering to himself.
"Hell!" said the red haired man, loudly and forcibly. "That's what I say-Hell!"
He dropped into a chair near the young couple and stared at them moodily.
"Damn all women, that's what I say," said the young man, eyeing Tuppence ferociously. "Oh! all right, kick up a row if you like. Have me turned out of the Hotel! It won't be for the first time. Why shouldn't we say what we think? Why should we go about bottling up our feelings, and smirking, and saying things exactly like everyone else? I don't feel pleasant and polite. I feel like getting hold of someone round the throat and gradually choking them to death."
He paused.
"Any particular person?" asked Tuppence. "Or just anybody?"
"One particular person," said the young man grimly.
"This is very interesting," said Tuppence. "Won't you tell us some more?"
"My name's Reilly," said the red haired man. "James Reilly. You may have heard it. I wrote a little volume of Pacifist poems-good stuff, although I say so."
"Pacifist Poems?" said Tuppence.
"Yes-why not?" demanded Mr. Reilly belligerently.
"Oh! nothing," said Tuppence hastily.
"I'm for peace all the time," said Mr. Reilly fiercely. “To Hell with war. And women! Women! Did you see that creature who was trailing around here just now? Gilda Glen, she calls herself. Gilda Glen! God! how I've worshipped that woman. And I'll tell you this-if she's got a heart at all, it's on my side. She cared once for me, and I could make her care again. And if she sells herself to that muck heap Leconbury-well, God help her. I'd as soon kill her with my own hands."
And on this, suddenly, he rose and rushed from the room.
Tommy raised his eyebrows.
"A somewhat excitable gentleman," he murmured. "Well, Tuppence, shall we start?"
A fine mist was coming up as they emerged from the Hotel into the cool outer air. Obeying Estcourt's directions, they turned sharp to the left, and in a few minutes they came to a turning labelled Morgan's Avenue.
The mist had increased. It was soft and white, and hurried past them in little eddying drifts. To their left was the high wall of the Cemetery, on their right a row of small houses. Presently these ceased, and a high hedge took their place.
"Tommy," said Tuppence. "I'm beginning to feel jumpy. The mist-and the silence. As though we were miles from anywhere."
"One does feel like that," agreed Tommy. "All alone in the world. It's the effect of the mist, and not being able to see ahead of one."
Tuppence nodded. "Just our footsteps echoing on the pavement. What's that?"
"What's what?"
"I thought I heard other footsteps behind us."
"You'll be seeing the ghost in a minute if you work yourself up like this," said Tommy kindly. "Don't be so nervy. Are you afraid the spook policeman will lay his hand on your shoulder?"
Tuppence emitted a shrill squeal.
"Don't, Tommy. Now you've put it into my head."
She craned her head back over her shoulder, trying to peer into the white veil that was wrapped all round them.
“There they are again," she whispered. "No, they're in front now. Oh! Tommy, don't say you can't hear them?"
"I do hear something. Yes, it's footsteps behind us. Somebody else walking this way to catch the train. I wonder-"
He stopped suddenly, and stood still, and Tuppence gave a gasp.
For the curtain of mist in front of them suddenly parted in the most artificial manner, and there, not twenty feet away a gigantic policeman suddenly appeared, as though materialized out of the fog. One minute he was not there, the next minute he was-so at least it seemed to the rather superheated imaginations of the two watchers. Then as the mist rolled back still more, a little scene appeared, as though set on a stage.
The big blue policeman, a scarlet pillar box, and on the right of the road the outlines of a white house.
"Red, white, and blue," said Tommy. "It's damned pictorial. Come on, Tuppence, there's nothing to be afraid of."
For, as he had already seen, the policeman was a real policeman. And moreover, he was not nearly so gigantic as he had at first seemed looming up out of the mist.
But as they started forward, footsteps came from behind them. A man passed them, hurrying along. He turned in at the gate of the white house, ascended the steps, and beat a deafening tattoo upon the knocker. He was admitted just as they reached the spot where the policeman was standing staring after him.
"There's a gentleman seems to be in a hurry," commented the policeman.
He spoke in a slow reflective voice, as of one whose thoughts took some time to mature.
"He's the sort of gentleman always would be in a h
urry," remarked Tommy.
The policeman's stare, slow and rather suspicious, came round to rest on his face.
"Friend of yours?" he demanded, and there was distinct suspicion now in his voice.
"No," said Tommy. "He's not a friend of mine, but I happen to know who he is. Name of Reilly."
"Ah!" said the policeman. 'Well, I'd better be getting along."
"Can you tell me where the White House is?" asked Tommy.
The constable jerked his head sideways.
"This is it. Mrs. Honeycott's." He paused, and added evidently with the idea of giving them valuable information: "Nervous party. Always suspecting burglars is around. Always asking me to have a look around the place. Middle-aged women get like that."
"Middle aged, eh?" said Tommy. "Do you happen to know if there's a young lady staying there?"
"A young lady," said the policeman, ruminating. "A young lady. No, I can't say I know anything about that."
"She mayn't be staying here, Tommy," said Tuppence. "And anyway, she mayn't be here yet. She could only have started just before we did."
"Ah!" said the policeman suddenly. "Now that I call it to mind, a young lady did go in at this gate. I saw her as I was coming up the road. About three or four minutes ago it might be."
"With ermine furs on?" asked Tuppence eagerly.
"She had some kind of white rabbit round her throat," admitted the policeman.
Tuppence smiled. The policeman went on in the direction from which they had just come, and they prepared to enter the gate of the White House.
Suddenly a faint muffled cry sounded from inside the house, and almost immediately afterwards the front door opened and James Reilly came rushing down the steps. His face was white and twisted, and his eyes glared in front of him unseeingly. He staggered like a drunken man.
He passed Tommy and Tuppence as though he did not see them, muttering to himself with a kind of dreadful repetition.
"My God! My God! Oh, my God!"
He clutched at the gate post, as though to steady himself, and then, as though animated by sudden panic, he raced off down the road as hard as he could go in the opposite direction to that taken by the policeman.
12. THE MAN IN THE MIST (continued)
Tommy and Tuppence stared at each other in bewilderment. "Well," said Tommy, "something's happened in that house to scare our friend Reilly pretty badly."
Tuppence drew her finger absently across the gate post.
"He must have put his hand on some wet red paint somewhere," she said idly.
"H'm," said Tommy. "I think we'd better go inside rather quickly. I don't understand this business."
In the doorway of the house a white capped maid servant was standing, almost speechless with indignation.
"Did you ever see the likes of that now, Father," she burst out, as Tommy ascended the steps. "That fellow comes here, asks for the young lady, rushes upstairs without how or by your leave. She lets out a screech like a wild cat-and what wonder, poor pretty dear, and straightway he comes rushing down again, with the white face on him, like one who's seen a ghost. What will be the meaning of it all?"
"Who are you talking with at the front door, Ellen?" demanded a sharp voice from the interior of the hall.
"Here's Missus," said Ellen, somewhat unnecessarily.
She drew back and Tommy found himself confronting a grey haired, middle aged woman, with frosty blue eyes imperfectly concealed by pince nez, and a spare figure clad in black with bugle trimming.
"Mrs. Honeycott?" said Tommy. "I came here to see Miss Glen."
Mrs. Honeycott gave him a sharp glance, then went on to Tuppence and took in every detail of her appearance.
"Oh! you did, did you?" she said. "Well, you'd better come inside."
She led the way into the hall and along it into a room at the back of the house facing on the garden. It was a fair sized room, but looked smaller than it was, owing to the large amount of chairs and tables crowded into it. A big fire burned in the grate, and a chintz covered sofa stood at one side of it. The wall paper was a small grey stripe with a festoon of roses round the top. Quantities of engravings and oil paintings covered the walls.
It was a room almost impossible to associate with the expensive personality of Miss Gilda Glen.
"Sit down," said Mrs. Honeycott. "To begin with, you'll excuse me if I say I don't hold with the Roman Catholic religion. Never did I think to see a Roman Catholic priest in my house. But if Gilda's gone over to the Scarlet Woman it's only what's to be expected in a life like hers-and I daresay it might be worse. She mightn't have any religion at all. I should think more of Roman Catholics if their priests were married-I always speak my mind. And to think of those convents-quantities of beautiful young girls shut up there, and no one knowing what becomes of them-well, it won't bear thinking about."
Mrs. Honeycott came to a full stop, and drew a deep breath.
Without entering upon a defence of the celibacy of the priesthood or the other controversial points touched upon, Tommy went straight to the point.
"I understand, Mrs. Honeycott, that Miss Glen is in this house."
"She is. Mind you, I don't approve. Marriage is marriage and your husband's your husband. As you make your bed, so you must lie on it."
"I don't quite understand-" began Tommy, bewildered.
"I thought as much. That's the reason I brought you in here. You can go up to Gilda after I've spoken my mind. She came to me-after all these years, think of it!-and asked me to help her. Wanted me to see this man and persuade him to agree to a divorce. I told her straight out I'd have nothing whatever to do with it. Divorce is sinful. But I couldn't refuse my own sister shelter in my house, could I now?"
"Your sister?" exclaimed Tommy.
"Yes, Gilda's my sister. Didn't she tell you?"
Tommy stared at her open mouthed. The thing seemed fantastically impossible. Then he remembered that the angelic beauty of Gilda Glen had been in evidence for many years. He had been taken to see her act as quite a small boy. Yes, it was possible after all. But what a piquant contrast. So it was from this lower middle class respectability that Gilda Glen had sprung. How well she had guarded her secret!
"I am not yet quite clear," he said. "Your sister is married?"
"Ran away to be married as a girl of seventeen," said Miss Honeycott succinctly. "Some common fellow far below her in station. And our father a reverend. It was a disgrace. Then she left her husband and went on the stage. Play acting! I've never been inside a theatre in my life. I hold no truck with wickedness. Now, after all these years, she wants to divorce the man. Means to marry some big wig, I suppose. But her husband's standing firm-not to be bullied and not to be bribed-I admire him for it."
"What is his name?" asked Tommy suddenly.
"That's an extraordinary thing now, but I can't remember! It's nearly twenty years ago, remember, since I heard it. My father forbade it to be mentioned. And I've refused to discuss the matter with Gilda. She knows what I think, and that's enough for her."
"It wasn't Reilly, was it?"
"Might have been. I really can't say. It's gone clean out of my head."
"The man I mean was here just now."
"That man! I thought he was an escaped lunatic. I'd been in the kitchen giving orders to Ellen. I'd just got back into this room, and was wondering whether Gilda had come in yet (she has a latch key) when I heard her. She hesitated a minute or two in the hall and then went straight upstairs. About three minutes later, all this tremendous rat tatting began. I went out into the hall, and just saw a man rushing upstairs. Then there was a sort of cry upstairs and presently down he came again and rushed out like a madman. Pretty goings on."
Tommy rose.
"Mrs. Honeycott, let us go upstairs at once. I am afraid-"
"What of?"
"Afraid that you have no red wet paint in the house."
Mrs. Honeycott stared at him.
"Of course I haven't."
“That
is what I feared," said Tommy gravely. "Please let us go to your sister's room at once."
Momentarily silenced, Mrs. Honeycott led the way. They caught a glimpse of Ellen in the hall, backing hastily into one of the rooms.
Mrs. Honeycott opened the first door at the top of the stairs. Tommy and Tuppence entered close behind her.
Suddenly she gave a gasp and fell back.
A motionless figure in black and ermine lay stretched on the sofa. The face was untouched, a beautiful soulless face like a mature child asleep. The wound was on the side of the head, a heavy blow with some blunt instrument had crushed in the skull. Blood was dripping slowly onto the floor, but the wound itself had long since ceased to bleed. . .
Tommy examined the prostrate figure his face very white
"So," he said at last, "he didn't strangle her after all."
"What do you mean? Who?" cried Mrs. Honeycott. "Is she dead?"
"Oh! yes, Mrs. Honeycott, she's dead. Murdered. The question is-by whom? Not that it is much of a question. Funny-for all his ranting words, I didn't think the fellow had got it in him."
He paused a minute, then turned to Tuppence with decision.
"Will you go out and get a policeman, or ring up the police station from somewhere?"
Tuppence nodded. She, too, was very white. Tommy led Mrs. Honeycott downstairs again.
"I don't want there to be any mistake about this," he said. "Do you know exactly what time it was when your sister came in?"
"Yes, I do," said Mrs. Honeycott. "Because I was just setting the clock on five minutes as I have to do every evening. It gains just five minutes a day. It was exactly eight minutes past six by my watch, and that never loses or gains a second."
Tommy nodded. That agreed perfectly with the policeman's story. He had seen the woman with the white furs go in at the gate, probably three minutes had elapsed before he and Tuppence had reached the same spot. He had glanced at his own watch then and had noted that it was just one minute after the time of their appointment.
There was just the faint chance that someone might have been waiting for Gilda Glen in the room upstairs. But if so, he must still be hiding in the house. No one but James Reilly had left it.