Chapter XXVIAfterwards, in bitter anguish and remorse, Fayre cursed himself for his blindness. At first he had been deceived by Kean’s attitude of cold detachment towards the whole gruesome business and the impression he had managed to convey that he had definitely decided on flight. Later, the news of Sybil Kean’s death had stunned him and he had gone blindly on his errand to Cynthia, dazed with grief and consternation. But he could not forgive himself for not having insisted on staying by his friend in his extremity.Instead, he had carried out Kean’s instructions to the letter, had found Cynthia still up and had interviewed her in the rather dreary little room that had been her uncle’s study.He had sent a message by the servant, asking to see her alone, and she came to him, curiosity and apprehension in her eyes.John Leslie was never out of her mind in these days and, though it would seem that the worst had happened, she lived in hourly dread of some further attack on her fortitude.“Have you come from John?” she asked piteously. “When will they let me see him?”He took both her hands in his and drew her to him.“Listen,” he said gently. “It’s all right about John. He is cleared absolutely. In a short time you will be together and all this will seem like a bad dream. Steady, now,” he added sharply, for the girl had swayed away from him and, for a second, he thought the news had been too much for her. But even as he spoke, a great rush of colour flooded her face and she drew herself erect.“It can’t be true!” she whispered. “Say it again, Uncle Fayre. John, free!”Her hands were on his shoulders and she almost shook him in her eagerness.“John’s safe,” he repeated. “Edward has cleared him. I have come from Westminster now. Edward wants to speak to you. Can I ring him up now and tell him you will see him?”“Of course. Tell him to come quick. Does John know?”“Not yet. Grey will see him to-morrow.”“Couldn’t the news be got to him to-night? It’s cruel to make him wait,” she pleaded.Fayre shook his head.“I’m afraid not. But you can ask Edward when he comes. Where’s your telephone?”She led the way into the hall, and in another moment Fayre was ringing up the house in Westminster.Kean’s butler answered the call.“Can I speak to Sir Edward Kean?” asked Fayre. “He is expecting a call from me. Mr. Fayre speaking.”“Mr. Fayre?” The man’s voice was eager and hurried. “If you could come round, sir? We’re in great trouble here and the responsibility . . . There’s no one . . .”The broken sentences tailed off oddly and Fayre was suddenly seized with an ominous sense of foreboding.“What is it?” he asked sharply.“Sir Edward, sir. He shot himself just after you left. . . .”“Is he dead? Quick, man!”“Yes. He must have died at once. The doctor’s here now. If you could come at once, sir . . .”“I’ll come now.”Mechanically Fayre hung up the receiver and put the telephone down on the table. Then he collapsed completely, his face buried in his hands, his whole body shaking uncontrollably.When he pulled himself together sufficiently to look up he found Cynthia standing by his side.“What is it, Uncle Fayre? Not Sybil?”In as few words as possible he explained the situation to her, omitting any mention of Kean’s confession. He could not bring himself to speak of that yet to her.She was terribly shaken, but she held back her tears until she had taken him into the dining-room and mixed him a stiff drink. While he was drinking it she telephoned for a taxi and within five minutes he was on his way back to Westminster.It was late before he got back to the club, utterly worn out and shaken with remorse. If he had had the sense to stay with Kean he might have averted this final catastrophe.Then, as he sat in his room, too tired and disheartened to face the task of undressing, his sanity reasserted itself and he knew that Kean had taken the only possible way out. Sybil was dead and nothing could hurt her now. If only he could be sure that she had not guessed!With an exclamation he rose to his feet and picked up the note-case he had thrown on the table on first entering his bedroom. He drew out her letter and opened the enclosure. He had not read a dozen lines before his worse fears were confirmed.“It is terribly difficult to write this,” it ran, “and yet I must tell some one. I am so desperately afraid of what Edward may do. And the awful thing is that I may be wrong and yet I cannot ask him to explain. If what I think is true and he has kept this from me it is because it would break his heart for me to know. There is some extraordinary mystery behind it all. I can only tell you this, Hatter. I am almost certain that the pen you found after the murder was mine and, the day Edward motored me up to London in the car, I found some of the sequins from Mrs. Draycott’s brown evening-dress between the cushions of the back seat of the car. The papers said she had it on when she was found and she wore it at Staveley the night before she left. And yet I know that the car was in London then! I can’t understand it. But, Hatter, the night before Mrs. Draycott left Staveley I came out of my bedroom to go down to dinner and she and Edward were standing by the door of her room, talking. I must have opened my door very quietly, for they did not hear me, but I heard Mrs. Draycott say: ‘This is the second time you’ve put it off. You know what to expect if you don’t come up to the scratch this time.’ I went back into my room and shut the door and they never saw me. I don’t understand it, Hatter. Edward could not have been at the farm that night. He went up to town that afternoon. My reason tells me that I must be mistaken, and yet, all the time, I know that something is going on, something horrible that I cannot understand. Edward has never been like this over a case before. For once, his nerves are beginning to go back on him. I do not know what to do, but I am haunted by the fear that I may die before the trial is over and that Edward, in his desire to save me, may do something. . . . I do not know what I am writing, Hatter; I am so stupidly weak still and my brain does not seem to work properly; but I want you to show this to Edward and tell him that, for my sake, he must not let John Leslie suffer. I am haunted by the thought that he may be led into doing something utterly unlike everything I know of him, something he may regret to his dying day, and I shall not be here to save him. I am so tired. I cannot write any more, but do your best for me, Hatter.”The letter dropped from Fayre’s nerveless fingers and fluttered to the floor.Shaken with pain and horror as he was, he could still give thanks for two things: Kean had never guessed that his wife knew and had gone to his grave believing that the crime he had committed for her sake had not been in vain, and Sybil had died in ignorance of her first husband’s tragic survival.
Afterwards, in bitter anguish and remorse, Fayre cursed himself for his blindness. At first he had been deceived by Kean’s attitude of cold detachment towards the whole gruesome business and the impression he had managed to convey that he had definitely decided on flight. Later, the news of Sybil Kean’s death had stunned him and he had gone blindly on his errand to Cynthia, dazed with grief and consternation. But he could not forgive himself for not having insisted on staying by his friend in his extremity.
Instead, he had carried out Kean’s instructions to the letter, had found Cynthia still up and had interviewed her in the rather dreary little room that had been her uncle’s study.
He had sent a message by the servant, asking to see her alone, and she came to him, curiosity and apprehension in her eyes.
John Leslie was never out of her mind in these days and, though it would seem that the worst had happened, she lived in hourly dread of some further attack on her fortitude.
“Have you come from John?” she asked piteously. “When will they let me see him?”
He took both her hands in his and drew her to him.
“Listen,” he said gently. “It’s all right about John. He is cleared absolutely. In a short time you will be together and all this will seem like a bad dream. Steady, now,” he added sharply, for the girl had swayed away from him and, for a second, he thought the news had been too much for her. But even as he spoke, a great rush of colour flooded her face and she drew herself erect.
“It can’t be true!” she whispered. “Say it again, Uncle Fayre. John, free!”
Her hands were on his shoulders and she almost shook him in her eagerness.
“John’s safe,” he repeated. “Edward has cleared him. I have come from Westminster now. Edward wants to speak to you. Can I ring him up now and tell him you will see him?”
“Of course. Tell him to come quick. Does John know?”
“Not yet. Grey will see him to-morrow.”
“Couldn’t the news be got to him to-night? It’s cruel to make him wait,” she pleaded.
Fayre shook his head.
“I’m afraid not. But you can ask Edward when he comes. Where’s your telephone?”
She led the way into the hall, and in another moment Fayre was ringing up the house in Westminster.
Kean’s butler answered the call.
“Can I speak to Sir Edward Kean?” asked Fayre. “He is expecting a call from me. Mr. Fayre speaking.”
“Mr. Fayre?” The man’s voice was eager and hurried. “If you could come round, sir? We’re in great trouble here and the responsibility . . . There’s no one . . .”
The broken sentences tailed off oddly and Fayre was suddenly seized with an ominous sense of foreboding.
“What is it?” he asked sharply.
“Sir Edward, sir. He shot himself just after you left. . . .”
“Is he dead? Quick, man!”
“Yes. He must have died at once. The doctor’s here now. If you could come at once, sir . . .”
“I’ll come now.”
Mechanically Fayre hung up the receiver and put the telephone down on the table. Then he collapsed completely, his face buried in his hands, his whole body shaking uncontrollably.
When he pulled himself together sufficiently to look up he found Cynthia standing by his side.
“What is it, Uncle Fayre? Not Sybil?”
In as few words as possible he explained the situation to her, omitting any mention of Kean’s confession. He could not bring himself to speak of that yet to her.
She was terribly shaken, but she held back her tears until she had taken him into the dining-room and mixed him a stiff drink. While he was drinking it she telephoned for a taxi and within five minutes he was on his way back to Westminster.
It was late before he got back to the club, utterly worn out and shaken with remorse. If he had had the sense to stay with Kean he might have averted this final catastrophe.
Then, as he sat in his room, too tired and disheartened to face the task of undressing, his sanity reasserted itself and he knew that Kean had taken the only possible way out. Sybil was dead and nothing could hurt her now. If only he could be sure that she had not guessed!
With an exclamation he rose to his feet and picked up the note-case he had thrown on the table on first entering his bedroom. He drew out her letter and opened the enclosure. He had not read a dozen lines before his worse fears were confirmed.
“It is terribly difficult to write this,” it ran, “and yet I must tell some one. I am so desperately afraid of what Edward may do. And the awful thing is that I may be wrong and yet I cannot ask him to explain. If what I think is true and he has kept this from me it is because it would break his heart for me to know. There is some extraordinary mystery behind it all. I can only tell you this, Hatter. I am almost certain that the pen you found after the murder was mine and, the day Edward motored me up to London in the car, I found some of the sequins from Mrs. Draycott’s brown evening-dress between the cushions of the back seat of the car. The papers said she had it on when she was found and she wore it at Staveley the night before she left. And yet I know that the car was in London then! I can’t understand it. But, Hatter, the night before Mrs. Draycott left Staveley I came out of my bedroom to go down to dinner and she and Edward were standing by the door of her room, talking. I must have opened my door very quietly, for they did not hear me, but I heard Mrs. Draycott say: ‘This is the second time you’ve put it off. You know what to expect if you don’t come up to the scratch this time.’ I went back into my room and shut the door and they never saw me. I don’t understand it, Hatter. Edward could not have been at the farm that night. He went up to town that afternoon. My reason tells me that I must be mistaken, and yet, all the time, I know that something is going on, something horrible that I cannot understand. Edward has never been like this over a case before. For once, his nerves are beginning to go back on him. I do not know what to do, but I am haunted by the fear that I may die before the trial is over and that Edward, in his desire to save me, may do something. . . . I do not know what I am writing, Hatter; I am so stupidly weak still and my brain does not seem to work properly; but I want you to show this to Edward and tell him that, for my sake, he must not let John Leslie suffer. I am haunted by the thought that he may be led into doing something utterly unlike everything I know of him, something he may regret to his dying day, and I shall not be here to save him. I am so tired. I cannot write any more, but do your best for me, Hatter.”
The letter dropped from Fayre’s nerveless fingers and fluttered to the floor.
Shaken with pain and horror as he was, he could still give thanks for two things: Kean had never guessed that his wife knew and had gone to his grave believing that the crime he had committed for her sake had not been in vain, and Sybil had died in ignorance of her first husband’s tragic survival.