Notwithstanding her delicate looks, Audrey possessed a strong spirit, fully capable of controlling emotions, even when markedly powerful. The tragic and unexpected news of the murder shattered her nerves for the moment; but after the first shock of surprise she pushed her way hastily through the crowd, fully bent upon discovering exactly what had happened. Ralph, not yet thoroughly acquainted with her self-control under trying circumstances, followed immediately behind, urging her in whispers to go home and wait developments. To his importunities she turned a deaf ear, and addressed herself anxiously to the officer who guarded the door of the Turkish Shop. He naturally refused to reply to her questions.
"But I am Lady Branwin's daughter," said Audrey, softly, so that the crowd might not hear, "and they say that Lady Branwin is dead."
"Very sorry, miss," said the constable, not answering directly, "but my orders are to admit no one."
Audrey's eyes began to glitter with ill-concealed anger, and Ralph hastily intervened.
"Who is in charge of this case, officer?"
"Inspector Lanton, sir."
"Then pass my card into him, and--"
"Are you a relative of the deceased, sir?"
"No. But I am engaged to Miss Branwin here, and she--"
"I'll send in the card," interrupted the policeman, quickly; then raised his voice to rebuke the crowd. "Keep back there; keep back!"
Audrey remained silent, holding her feelings well under, while Ralph rapidly scribbled her name on his card. The constable knocked at the door and gave the message to the policeman who opened it. Then the door was closed again, and the lovers remained on the step anxiously waiting to see what would come of their application. The mob of people whispered and pointed, and looked askance at the young couple, evidently wondering why they were there. The position was highly unpleasant, and Audrey felt a great sense of relief when she was permitted to enter with her lover. In a moment they passed through the jealously-guarded door, and it was closed again the minute they were inside.
"Wait here, please," said the constable who received them. "Inspector Lanton is upstairs with Madame Coralie, and will be down shortly."
Audrey laid a detaining hand on his sleeve as he moved away. "Can you tell me if Lady Branwin--"
"I am not allowed to answer any questions, miss," he replied, and went away in a stolid manner, as though the business in hand were an everyday occurrence.
"Won't you sit down, darling?" whispered Ralph, tenderly. "You must keep up your strength, as there is much to be done."
"My poor mother!" Audrey sank down on to a stool with a gasp. "Who could have killed her? How was she killed? When did the murder take place? Oh, it's too awful! Perhaps"--she looked pleadingly up into her lover's face--"perhaps it is not true."
"Itistrue, Miss Branwin," said a soft voice before Ralph could reply; and out of a near alcove came a pretty girl with red eyes and a tear-stained face. "It's quite true and very terrible."
"Who are you?" asked Audrey, lifting her white face. "How do you come to know my name?"
"I am Badoura, the forewoman of Madame Coralie," was the reply, "and I saw you yesterday when you came here with your mother. Poor Lady Branwin! It is awful to think that she should have been strangled in--"
"Strangled!" interrupted Audrey, with another gasp. "Who strangled her?"
"No one knows," said Badoura, shuddering. "Madame found her dead in her bed when she went at seven this morning to see how she had passed the night. I heard her say that Lady Branwin had been strangled, and then she sent for the police at once. It's really dreadful," added the girl, mournfully, "as everything is upset, and we don't know what is going to happen. See here!" and she swept aside the pink silk curtain which was draped over the Moorish arch of the alcove whence she had emerged.
Here Audrey beheld the other assistants huddled together on the divan, with tear-stained faces and terror-stricken looks. The catastrophe had disorganised the whole establishment, and the girls feared lest the scandal, which certainly would arise from the fact of the murder, might result in the closing of the shop. This was a very probable contingency indeed, and none of them could face with equanimity the dismal prospect of losing her employment. They had been driven like sheep into the alcove by the police, and waited developments with strained nerves. As yet not one of the three had been examined.
Badoura, having full possession of her senses, was the most composed, and seemed glad to find someone to talk to, less upset than her three friends, "It will ruin Madame's business," she wailed.
"Please tell us exactly what happened," said Ralph, who was anxious to get at the facts of the case.
"There's nothing to tell, sir. Lady Branwin came with this young lady yesterday about five, and retired to a back bedroom on the ground floor almost immediately with Madame, who wished to see what could be done by way of treatment. Lady Branwin had not even made up her mind to stop; but after Madame had given her opinion she decided to remain for the night, and Madame told you, Miss Branwin, that such was the case, when--"
"When I called here on my way to the theatre," finished Audrey, whose face was colourless but wonderfully composed. "I remember. When did Madame Coralie last see my mother?"
"Shortly before eight o'clock, miss. She left her quite comfortable for the night after she had taken a light supper. We all went to bed about nine, as we were all so tired with a busy day. Then at seven this morning Madame came to me while I was tidying up the shop, and told me that Lady Branwin was dead. She could scarcely speak." Badoura paused for a moment, then added, as an after-thought: "The window was open."
"The window?" repeated Ralph, fastening his eyes on her face searchingly.
"The window of the back bedroom on the ground floor," explained the girl, readily. "It looks out on to a closed court, which has a high wall round it."
"Then you think that the assassin entered and left by the window?"
"I didn't say that, for I do not know," replied Badoura, quickly. "All Madame said was that the bedroom window was open, although she had closed it on the previous night. But even if the assassin did get into the room in that way, I don't see how he could leave the court. The door in the wall of the court is locked, and the key is lost."
"He could climb over the wall, perhaps?" suggested Audrey, thoughtfully.
"It's a difficult, smooth wall to climb, miss."
"What is on the other side of the wall?" asked Shawe, sharply.
"A narrow alley, which runs into the High Street."
"Then if the assassin could get over the wall, he could easily escape?"
"Oh, yes, sir; but the wall is difficult to climb."
"Is there no other entrance into the court?"
"Only from the house. There is a door which is kept locked, as no one ever goes into the court at the back. Besides, no one was in the house last night but myself, the three girls, Madame, Lady Branwin and a lady customer."
"What is her name?"
"I can't tell you," said Badoura, hesitating. "Only Madame knows; as many ladies don't care to give their names, save to Madame, when under treatment."
"Tell me," said Ralph, waiving this point for the time being, "you call the assassin 'he.' What reason have you to believe that a man strangled Lady Branwin?"
Badoura looked surprised. "I only think so, sir, as, of course, I know nothing. But surely, sir, only a man would have the strength to strangle?"
Audrey shook her head. "A strong woman could do that also. Especially as my mother was stout and rather apoplectic. Very little pressure on her throat would have killed her, I am certain. And then--"
Here Audrey's conjectures were cut short by the entrance of a tall, soldierly-looking man in uniform. His eyes were grey and steady, and he looked sharply at the young couple, who rose to meet him. It was Lanton.
"Miss Branwin and Mr. Ralph Shawe," said the inspector, glancing at the barrister's card, which he held in his hand. "How is it that you are here?"
"Let me explain," said Audrey, stopping her lover from speaking. "I met Mr. Shawe in Kensington Gardens this morning early, as we are engaged, and called with him to see how my mother was this morning. We learnt--" Her face worked with emotion, and she sat down again.
"I understand--I understand," said Lanton, comprehending her feelings. "It is very sad, Miss Branwin, and must have been a great shock to you."
"Is my mother really dead?"
"Yes," answered the inspector, promptly. "The doctor who examined the body declares that she was strangled at eight o'clock last night--that is, a few minutes before or after. If you would like to see the body--"
"No, no," interposed Ralph, hurriedly. "Miss Branwin is not strong enough to--"
Audrey rose to her feet, and braced herself with an effort. "Yes, I am," she declared. "It is necessary for me to see my poor mother's remains. Take me to the room, Mr. Inspector."
"You are a brave young lady," muttered the officer, and led the way out of the shop without further comment.
The trio--for Shawe naturally went with Audrey--walked along a narrow corridor, which ran the whole length of the building. It divided the shop, which likewise stretched from wall to wall of the house, from four bedrooms, the windows of which looked out on to the closed court mentioned by Badoura. At the end of the passage, to the right--looking from the shop--was a door which led into a right-of-way opening on to Walpole Lane. But this right-of-way did not afford any access to the court, its upper-end being blocked by a high brick wall with broken glass on top. The only two ways of gaining admittance to the court were by the house-door, and the door in the wall of the court itself. These, as Badoura had said, and as Inspector Lanton had ascertained from Madame Coralie, were always kept locked. The court was narrow and paved with flagstones, and had a disused air, which was very natural since no one ever entered it.
Lanton conducted the couple into one of the bedrooms, and here they found Madame Coralie in her quaint Turkish dress, and wearing the filmy black yashmak. She was seated near the door, apparently guarding the dead from the prying curiosity of anyone in the house. The room was of no great size, but was luxuriously furnished in green and silver. There was only one window, draped with curtains, which looked out on to the court, and the lower sash of this was wide open. In a far corner, with its head against the inner wall, stood the bed, and on this, under a sheet, the dead woman was stiffly stretched out. Owing to the absence of sunlight and the presence of the dead, there was a chill feeling in the room, and Audrey shivered.
"Can you go through with it?" asked Ralph, anxiously.
"Yes, I must," she replied, in a low tone; and walking towards the bed she lifted the sheet.
Madame Coralie had risen, and with tightly-clasped hands watched the girl's every action. Her black eyes peering above the yashmak were less hard, and the red rims round them showed that she had been weeping. She had every reason to, for what had happened might ruin her trade.
"Is it Lady Branwin?" asked Lanton, softly, since Audrey did not speak.
"Yes," she replied, with a sigh, and apparently could scarcely stand. On seeing this, Ralph slipped his arm round her waist. "I won't give way," she added firmly, and withdrew from his support. "Yes, Mr. Inspector, this is my mother's body. I see from the black marks on her neck that she has been strangled. Who murdered her, and why?"
Madame Coralie replied. "Ah, my dear young lady," she said, in a choking voice, "that is what we wish to find out. It will ruin my business."
"I don't see that," said Lanton, quietly; "you have always conducted your business respectably."
"It's the first time that I have ever had the police in my house," murmured Madame Coralie, in despair. "But a murder!--oh, what lady will ever come and pass the night here for treatment, when she may be murdered? I wish I knew the villain who killed poor Lady Branwin"--Madame Coralie shook her fist in the air--"I should have him hanged."
"We'll hunt him down yet," said Lanton, confidentially.
"Do you think that the assassin is a man?" asked Ralph, putting the same question to the inspector as he had done to Badoura.
Lanton looked taken aback. "In the absence of all proof, I believe the assassin to be a man--unless Lady Branwin had a woman enemy."
"Mamma had no enemies at all," said Audrey, in a firm voice. "Madame, where were you when my mother was murdered?"
"Upstairs in the still-room," said the woman, quietly. "At about eight o'clock the murder took place, according to the doctor. I was with my girls--that is, Badoura, Parizade and Zobeide were in the still-room, and Peri Banou in the shop. My husband was also there. He went away, and then I came down to tell you at the door that Lady Branwin would stop for the night."
"She must have been dead then," muttered Audrey, shivering. "You heard no noise, or--"
"I heard nothing, neither did my husband or Badoura. I left Lady Branwin quite comfortable shortly before eight o'clock. The assassin must have opened the window and murdered her almost immediately after I left."
"But why was she murdered?" asked Shawe, insistently.
"I can't say, sir, no more than I can say how the assassin managed to enter the court. Why," added Madame Coralie, quickly, "so sure am I that the court cannot be entered that the windows of the bedrooms are never fastened. It would, therefore, not be difficult for the assassin to enter. I expect that he found Lady Branwin asleep, and--"
"So quickly after you left?" interrupted the inspector.
"I gave Lady Branwin a sleeping-draught," explained Madame Coralie, "as her nerves were bad and she could not rest. For the treatment which I intended to give her it was necessary that her nerves should be in better order."
Audrey nodded. "I remember," she said, gravely, "mamma was very much agitated when she came here, and very restless."
"Why?" asked Lanton, sharply.
"On account of her desire for this treatment, which she feared Madame Coralie would not give her. Mamma explained that to me. Then, of course, there were the diamonds--oh!"--Audrey started--"where are the diamonds?"
Inspector Lanton pricked up his ears, and looked at Madame Coralie. "The diamonds!" he repeated. "Where are the diamonds?"
Madame Coralie started back and wrung her hands. "Oh, here is another trouble--another trouble!" she wailed. "I never knew that Lady Branwin brought any diamonds. Are you sure--are you certain?"
"Quite sure," said Audrey, excitedly. "Mamma had two thousand pounds' worth of diamonds in a red morocco bag. She intended to take them to a jeweller and get them reset, but as she stopped here she took the bag out of the motor and carried it into this house with her."
"I saw the red bag," said Madame Coralie, much agitated, "but I swear that I did not know that it contained diamonds. Lady Branwin did not mention what the bag contained. I paid no attention to it."
"Is the bag in this room?" asked Lanton, looking round.
"It must be--it must be," said Madame Coralie, beginning to search. "She had such a bag with her. I remember that; but I did not notice what she did with it. Why should I, not knowing it contained diamonds?"
A thorough search was made, but without result. Audrey again described the bag, and mentioned that her mother had attached a small label to it, so that its owner should be known if it were lost. Inspector Lanton seized on the last word: "Did she expect it to be lost?"
"No; certainly not. She intended, I understood from her own lips, to take the diamonds to the jeweller; but, because she remained here, she took the bag in with her. It must be somewhere."
"In the hands of the assassin, probably," remarked Shawe, nodding.
Lanton looked at him. "Do you think that robbery is the motive for the murder?"
"Yes, I do, since the diamonds are missing. Else why should Lady Branwin, who had no enemies, be strangled? The assassin must have known that she had the jewels with her, and must have climbed the wall of the court to gain entrance by the window. Are there no footmarks?" "I have not searched the court," muttered Lanton, doubtfully; "but this mention of the diamonds puts a different complexion on the case." He paused for a moment, then scrambled through the window, and crossed the court. At the foot of the wall, near the closed door, he picked up a scrap of paper. "It's the label," he called out triumphantly. "Evidently the string became loose, and it fell off while the thief was making off with his plunder." He then turned to examine the door, and uttered a cry as he peered down to look through the key-hole. "This door has been opened," he declared loudly; "the key is in the lock on the outside."
"Ah!" said Ralph, with satisfaction, "now we are on the trail of the assassin."
"Catch him!" screamed Madame Coralie, fiercely. "Catch him and hang him!"
There were many interesting items of news in the newspapers when the Turkish Shop tragedy took place; for it was the middle of the London season, and social events succeeded one another rapidly. Nevertheless, the affair created a sensation, as Lady Branwin was the wife of a millionaire, and a well-known figure in Society. Especially did the female population of Mayfair and Belgravia comment on the murder, as, having taken place in their own particular pet shop, it concerned them nearly. It was dreadful to think that if any one of them passed the night under Madame Coralie's roof death might be the result. Many declared that they would never go near the place again. But this was when the news of the crime was fresh and startling. Later, these ladies saw reason to revise their opinion, since there was no one but Madame Coralie to perform miracles of rejuvenation.
The immediate result of the murder was to send Sir Joseph Branwin to bed. He was a burly, red-faced man, who ate and drank largely; so it was not surprising that the announcement of his wife's terrible death should cause him to have a fit. When he grasped the truth he dropped down straightway, and for quite two weeks he was unable to leave his bed or to attend to any necessary matters. He was neither at the inquest nor at the funeral, and his daughter, along with Ralph Shawe, had to look after everything. Sir Joseph was not grateful--he never was, being a singularly selfish man. It was quite a surprise to Audrey that he should have fallen ill when told the truth. "I daresay he was fonder of mamma than I thought," she said to Ralph, and blamed herself for having misjudged her father; "yet they always quarrelled, and did not seem to get on at all well together."
"The quarrelling may have been a matter of habit," said Shawe, doubtfully. "Married couples may be devoted to one another, and yet may be always bickering. And I think, Audrey, that you told me your parents' marriage was a love-match of a romantic nature."
"So mamma said," replied the girl, nodding gravely. "She and papa were boy and girl together at Bleakleigh. He promised to marry her when he made his fortune, and years afterwards he returned to keep his promise. Both papa and mamma were the children of labourers."
"So I should think," remarked Ralph, caustically, and remembering the excessively plebeian looks of the couple. "I can never understand how you come to be their daughter, Audrey. You are no more like them than a lily is like a cabbage-rose."
Audrey nodded her head absently as she was thinking of other things. "What will the verdict of the inquest be?" she demanded anxiously.
"In the absence of any proof likely to identify the assassin there can only be one verdict--wilful murder against some person or persons unknown."
"Oh! do you think, then, that there is more than one assassin?"
"No, dear. The inclusion of the plural is merely a matter of form. Undoubtedly poor Lady Branwin was murdered by one person only--the man who afterwards stole the jewels."
"You think it was a man, then?"
"In the absence of evidence I presume so. By the way, Audrey, how is it that your mother had a label attached to that red morocco bag? It is unusual."
"Oh, that was a peculiarity of mamma's nature. She attached labels to almost everything she took out of doors, as she always seemed to fancy that what she carried might be lost, and in this way--as she thought--provided against contingencies. Papa and I both used to laugh at her for the care with which she prepared those little pieces of parchment, and jokingly said that she must have been a baggage porter. Poor mamma!" Audrey sighed. "It is strange that her odd habit should be the means of tracing her murderer."
"It has not traced him, unfortunately," said Ralph, shaking his head; "but the finding of the label at the foot of the wall undoubtedly shows that he escaped in that way."
"It was strange that he should have left the key in the lock."
"Very strange," assented Shawe, emphatically; "and it shows how deliberate he was in his behaviour. He must have known that he had plenty of time to escape, and even then a smarter man would have taken the key with him. This is one of the mistakes the cleverest criminal makes."
"How did he get the key from Madame Coralie?"
"He did not. Madame declares that she never had a key to the door in the court wall, as it was never used, and certainly has never been opened during her tenancy. The key used is what is known as a skeleton key, such as burglars carry."
"Then this assassin was a burglar?"
"I think so; one of the criminal classes, at all events, as no amateur could have managed so cleverly. The leaving of the key, however, was a mistake."
"Can he be traced by it?"
"I doubt if he can. The door opens on to an alley paved with stone, and no footmarks can be found. From the time the man left the court by the door he was safe. No, dear, if there is any chance of his being taken, it will be by means of the diamonds--and even that is doubtful. All he has to do is to unset the stones and sell them separately. I am anxious to hear what further evidence may be collected by Lanton for the inquest."
But Shawe's anxiety was quite unnecessary, as very little evidence was forthcoming when the inquest was held. The inspector did what he could; but to trace the assassin was like looking for a needle in a bottle of hay. A great crowd collected outside the building wherein the inquest was held; but few people were admitted. Audrey came with her lover, as it was necessary that she should state how her mother had been in possession of the missing jewels, and Ralph came with her as a moral support. Sir Joseph, unfortunately, could not attend, owing to illness; but he sent his solicitor to watch the case on his behalf, and ordered that everything should be done to trace the assassin, even to offering a reward of one thousand pounds for the villain's apprehension. This offer, being well known before the inquest took place, brought many people to hear what they could of the evidence, in the hope of being able to lay the murderer by the heels and claim the money. But, as has before been stated, Lanton did not allow the general public to crowd the room wherein the proceedings took place.
Inspector Lanton himself was the first witness, and gave a succinct account of how he had been called in when the fact of the murder became known. He detailed all that he had learnt; produced a plan of the building wherein the crime had taken place; also the label, together with the key of the court door; and stated the names of the witnesses he proposed to call. Of these, the doctor who had examined the body of the unfortunate woman was the first to follow Lanton in giving evidence, and deposed that the deceased had been strangled--so far as he could judge from the condition of the body--at eight o'clock in the evening. He had made the examination at 7.30 the next morning, almost immediately the fact of the murder had been discovered. The doctor's evidence was short and dry, and provided no clue whereby to trace the assassin, as the creature had left behind him nothing by which he could be identified.
Madame Coralie came next, and appeared--perhaps for the purposes of advertisement--in her Turkish dress and wearing her yashmak. Before entering the court she had drawn Inspector Lanton aside to ask him not to request her to remove the yashmak, on the grounds that it would be detrimental to her business. Lanton then saw--for she drew aside the veil to reveal the truth--that Madame Coralie had a disfiguring birthmark on cheek and mouth and chin, which made her look anything but attractive. Naturally, as she pointed out, if her customers knew that she could not remove such a birthmark from her own face, she could scarcely--as they might think--do all she claimed towards beautifying them. Lanton pointed out that, as she had already made her reputation, the birthmark did not matter; but, as he quite saw the point and recognised the reason why the woman concealed the lower part of her face, he passed round word to the Coroner and the jury that it was needless for the yashmak to be removed. Madame Coralie therefore gave her evidence holding the silken covering over her mouth, and, as only her black eyes were visible, she presented a weird figure. Many of the illustrated papers had pictures of her in the odd dress, and many were the comments thereon. All of which, as Madame Coralie knew and probably counted upon, was good for business.
The woman stated that she received Lady Branwin on the night of the murder for the purpose of diagnosing her case, that she might be treated as to complexion and figure. Lady Branwin decided to remain for the night, and Madame Coralie herself told this to Miss Branwin when the girl called at the shop--according to instructions from her mother--on her way to the theatre. Lady Branwin was then in bed, and Madame did not see her again until the next morning at seven when she went to rouse her and discovered that she was dead.
"The window looking into the court was open," said the witness, "although I had closed it on the previous night. I did not lock it, of course, as no one ever entered the court, and none of the windows of the ground-floor bedrooms were locked."
"Then the window could easily have been opened from the outside?" asked the Coroner, making notes.
"Oh, yes. It was not even snicked," replied the witness. "There was no necessity, as no one could enter the court save from the house, or by the door in the court wall."
It was proved very conclusively that the court door had not been opened since Madame had taken the house. Also, the door leading into the court from the building had rarely been opened.
"No one wanted to go into the court," explained Madame again, and insisted upon this point. "I left Lady Branwin quite cheerful, in bed, at about ten minutes to eight o'clock, and came up, to the still-room about five minutes to eight. My assistant, Zobeide, was in the room, and so was my husband, Mr. Vail. Also I believe that two other girls of mine, Badoura and Parizade, were behind the curtain of the room attending to some hair and skin washes. My husband drew my attention to this fact."
"Are you sure it was five minutes to eight when you were in the room?" was the Coroner's question.
"I am positive," was the emphatic reply. "Eddy--my husband--mentioned as he went out that it was five minutes after eight, and I had been talking to him for ten minutes, more or less."
The result of this statement was that Edmund Vail was called, and he proved that what his wife had asserted was correct. He mentioned (by talking with his fingers) to Zobeide, who was deaf, that it was five minutes to eight o'clock immediately before his wife entered. He talked to her of business--private business--for some time, and left the house by the side door ten minutes later. Zobeide--who gave evidence through an interpreter of the deaf and dumb language--corroborated this evidence, and it was well established that Madame Coralie had been with the two witnesses from five minutes to eight until five minutes past eight. This being the case, since Lady Branwin was murdered at eight o'clock, Madame Coralie could not be guilty of the crime, yet before this evidence had been given several people had hinted at her complicity; but what was said by Vail and Zobeide, and indeed afterwards by Badoura and Parizade, provided her with an alibi beyond question.
Madame Coralie was afterwards recalled and questioned about the diamonds. She denied all knowledge of these, saying that Lady Branwin brought in a red morocco bag with a label attached, of which she took the greatest care. "She did not mention to me what was in the bag," said Madame, emphatically; "but when I tucked her in for the night she placed it under her pillow. I never thought of asking any questions."
The witness also stated that she had never possessed any key to the court wall door, and did not recognise the one produced to the jury. The house door leading into the court was locked, and the key had been left, with others, on a nail in the still-room. "No one could have got into the court by that door on that night," stated Madame Coralie. "As to the remaining door, out of which my husband went when he left me, it is at the end of the long passage on the ground floor, and leads into a right-of-way which can be approached from Walpole Lane. I locked this myself after I had seen Miss Branwin at the street door, and took the key to my room. No one could have entered the house after that, as both this side door and the street door were locked when I and my assistants retired to bed."
Audrey's evidence was confined to the fact that her mother had taken the two thousand pounds' worth of diamonds to get certain of them reset. She had intended to take them straight to the jeweller, but having arranged to consult with Madame Coralie, and subsequently to remain for the night, she had taken the bag out of the motorcar and into the house. The label produced was in her mother's handwriting, and Audrey stated Lady Branwin's fancy for labelling anything she took out of doors.
On the whole, as the Coroner remarked, the evidence was satisfactory. If it did not prove who had committed the murder, it certainly exonerated all who were in the house. It had been proved that Madame Coralie and her four assistants slept in two rooms which opened into one another, and also that Madame herself had been with other people at the very time when the crime--according to the medical evidence--had been committed. Undoubtedly, robbery was the motive for the committal of the crime, and probably the strangling had been unpremeditated. Lady Branwin--this was the Coroner's reading of what had happened--had gone to sleep with the diamonds under her pillow, as Madame Coralie had stated. It was only reasonable to believe that she had awakened to find the robber removing the jewels. Her natural outcry was prevented immediately by the strangulation, since the assassin--as the man had become--could silence her in no other way. Then the criminal had escaped by the window through which he had entered, and through the door of the court wall. The dropping of the label, which possibly had been loosely tied to the bag, was a positive clue to the way in which the man had got away, and the presence of the skeleton key in the door was further evidence. These things being taken into consideration, it was apparent that no blame could be attached to Madame Coralie or to her assistants, and there was not the slightest breath of suspicion against them in any way. "The jury," added the Coroner, "would be well advised to return an open verdict."
The result of this speech, and a recollection of the meagre evidence placed before them, was the verdict which Ralph Shawe had predicted. "Wilful murder against some person or persons unknown," was the statement of the foreman, and the inquest ended with the belief in many minds that the murder of Lady Branwin would have to be added to the already long list of undiscovered crimes. Chattering and arguing, and greatly disappointed that nothing more tangible had resulted from the proceedings, everyone went his or her way, and the reporters hastened to their several papers with details, more or less veracious, of all that had taken place. But one fact was certain--that the murder, so far, was a mystery.
Lady Branwin was duly buried at Kensal Green, amidst a large concourse of people, and many were the letters and telegrams of condolence which Sir Joseph received. For a week or so paragraphs appeared in the papers suggesting possible clues, and the offer of one thousand pounds reward prompted many people to keep the matter of the crime in their minds. Also some busybody wrote to the journals insisting that the Turkish Shop should be closed; but it was pointed out that Madame Coralie had always conducted her business respectably, and that neither she nor her assistants were to blame in any way for what had taken place. It was, therefore, scarcely fair that the woman should lose her means of livelihood for not preventing what was beyond her power to prevent. Finally, after a nine days' wonder, the matter of the crime was permitted to drop into oblivion, so far as the general public were concerned. Lady Branwin, as someone observed, was dead and buried, and the secret of her murder was buried with her. Within a month the wretched woman and her sensational death were forgotten, and the Turkish Shop continued to open its doors.
"But there is a falling-off," sighed Madame Coralie. "Some women won't come--just as if I could help that miserable Lady Branwin dying in the way she did. I wish she had died anywhere but in my house. But it's all over, and I am ruined."
However, Madame Coralie was not ruined, for business speedily picked up again; also it was not "all over," for in the dark at least one person was trying to trace the assassin. This was Ralph Shawe, and he attended to the matter because of Audrey's wish and for the sake of his own happiness.
"I shall never marry you," Audrey stated, when returning from the funeral, "until the truth about my mother's death is made public."
"It seems impossible to discover the truth," said Ralph, gloomily.
"Then we shall never become husband and wife," was Audrey's reply; and to this decision she firmly adhered.
In time Sir Joseph Branwin gradually recovered his usual rude health, although there was no doubt that the unexpected and tragic death of his wife had shaken his system severely. But his feeling for her decease was not one of regret. Doubtless he had once loved her in an animal way, which might have had its beginning in a purer affection, when the rustic lovers wandered as boy and girl through the Bleakleigh Woods in Somersetshire. But since the big man had become a prominent personage in the political, social and stockbroking worlds, the uncomely looks of the poor woman had rapidly become offensive to his more cultivated taste. He was annoyed by her unwieldy appearance, by her simple manners; and it irritated him that she was not sufficiently educated to shine in the circles to which his wealth procured him admission. The rich setting of success suited to a diamond was thrown away on a common stone. And Lady Branwin--as Sir Joseph wrathfully told himself on many occasions--was merely an ordinary pebble on the beach.
In his daughter Audrey the millionaire could have found the hostess he required for the gorgeous mansion on Camden Hill. She had been born in the purple of wealth; she had been admirably educated; and, besides being an exceptionally pretty girl, her manners were attractive. But Sir Joseph had never loved this daughter of the wife he disliked, even though he was her father. Audrey was far too frank and honest for him, and did not seem to appreciate her advantages as the only child and heiress of a wealthy man. Her preference was for the simple life, and she found the frivolous doings and trifling chatter of society excessively boring. Also she had set her affections on a young man who, as yet, occupied no position in the world. Branwin did not mind if Audrey married a pauper, so long as that pauper possessed a title; but that she should wish to become the wife of a commoner who had yet to make his way in the world was a heinous sin in the successful parvenu's eyes. Finally, Sir Joseph had always resented the sex of Audrey. He had ardently desired an heir, and it was one of his grievances against the unhappy Lady Branwin that she had not presented him with a son. Now that the stumbling-block of an objectionable wife had been removed Sir Joseph saw a chance of realising his ambition. Before he rose from his sick-bed he determined to marry again as speedily as possible, in the hope that a male child would be born to inherit his wealth and title. Then Audrey could marry her barrister, and he would wash his hands of her once and for all. Branwin would not have admitted his feelings to the world, but in his heart he was thankful that his wife was dead.
Advised by the doctor, the millionaire prepared forthwith to remove to Brighton for a few weeks' fresh air; but when Audrey offered dutifully to accompany him, he refused brusquely. The father and daughter were at breakfast when she made the offer which was so rudely declined, and Sir Joseph, who prided himself on never letting the grass grow under his feet--so he put it--hinted to the girl that some day he would provide her with a stepmother. This point in the conversation he reached by easy stages, and began by advising her to cultivate Mrs. Mellop during his absence.
"Now your poor mother is out of the way," growled Sir Joseph, using the adjective as a grudging concession to the dead, "you can go about with Mrs. Mellop. She's a fool, but amusing and clever in her own way. As she's a widow with a limited income, you can offer her money if you like. She'll jump at the chance of doing the season for nothing. Then you can go to the theatres, garden-parties, and all the rest of the frivolities you like."
"I don't like such things," replied the girl, wearily. "I have been to so many, and they are nearly always the same--just like a stale circus. Besides, how can I go out when poor mother is scarcely cold in her grave?"
"I wish you wouldn't harp on that, Audrey," snapped Branwin, irritably, and rose from his chair. "You're always talking about your mother."
"Isn't it natural, papa? I loved her."
"Oh, it goes without speaking that you loved her; but she had a great many faults, my dear."
"Bury them with her, then," said Audrey, turning white with anger.
Sir Joseph, who still retained many habits of his youth, lighted his pipe in the breakfast-room, and turned with a bullying air. "I intend to," said he, harshly, "along with all memory of her. I shall make a funeral of the whole thing. She never understood her position or my position, and was--"
Audrey rose quickly, with a look of pain. "Papa," she said slowly, "I know that you did not love my mother. But she is dead, and died in a very painful way. My memory of her is concerned wholly with her kind heart and her many kind actions. Surely your recollections must be similar. You must have loved her, since you went back to Bleakleigh to marry her, after you had made your money."
"I was a romantic young fool, my girl, and, seeing that I had already got the start in life, I should have left Bleakleigh and your mother alone. But I said I'd come back and marry her, and I did, more fool I. Ah!"--Sir Joseph drew a deep breath--"if I did want to make a fool of myself I should have married Flora instead of Dora."
"Who is Flora?" asked Audrey. "I know that my mother's name was Dora, and--"
"Flora is, or was, your mother's sister, for I don't know if she's alive or dead. She was the clever one, and nearly as pretty as your mother, who was always a fool. But I was caught by the prettier face, and so married Dora--to my cost. Well"--Sir Joseph waved his arm, as though dismissing the subject--"she is dead and gone, so let us talk no more about her."
"I think it will be as well, papa, since you find nothing but bad to say about her," remarked Audrey, wincing at her father's brusque speech.
"I don't say anything bad," retorted Branwin, sharply. "Your mother was a good woman, and kind-hearted, and all that sort of thing. But she was a fool, and I should never have married her."
"Perhaps if you had married my Aunt Flora it would have been better!" said Audrey, sarcastically.
"It would. You are right there, my girl. Flora had brains and a will of her own, and would have been a help to a man, instead of a hindrance."
"You never mentioned my aunt to me before."
"There was no need. I wished to forget all that lot and all that time of poverty and struggle. But your mother must have--"
"She never did," interrupted the girl, quickly. "Until you mentioned the name just now, I never knew that I had an aunt. If you think so much of her, why not seek her out and marry her? The Deceased Wife's Sister Bill is law now, and you can make her the second Lady Branwin."
Sir Joseph winced at the scorn in the young voice. "No!" said he. "I have had enough of the Arkwright family. I married one sister; I don't intend to marry the other, let alone the fact that I don't know where she is. She may be married--she may be dead. I don't care. For me, Flora is as dead as Dora, and when I marry again--" He hesitated.
Audrey clasped her hands together tightly, and her face was whiter than pearls. "I spoke in joke," she said, in a low voice. "Surely, papa, you will not marry again?"
"Why should I not?" cried Branwin, irritably. "I am not so very old. I want someone to sit at the head of my table and to receive my guests."
"I can do that, papa."
"You!" said the millionaire, contemptuously. "Oh, yes, so long as it suits your own purpose. But when you feel inclined you will marry that young fool."
"Ralph is not a fool, papa." Audrey drew herself up. "Everyone says that he is extremely clever, and has a great future before him."
"Well, it couldn't very well be behind him," said Sir Joseph, sneeringly. "It's all rubbish, Audrey; you must marry a title."
"I shall marry Ralph, and no one else," said Audrey, fiercely.
"We'll see about that," roared the millionaire, indignant at being thus defied. "Don't you know that I can turn you out of this house without a single penny? And I will, too, if you dare to disobey me."
Audrey clenched her hands to keep herself from speaking, and turned away to look out of the window. What her father said was perfectly true. She was an absolute pauper, dependent on his whim and fancy. Never having been taught how to earn her own living, she could see nothing but starvation ahead if Sir Joseph chose to carry out his threat. And that he would do so she felt very certain, as she knew from experience how brutal was his nature when aroused to action by opposition. In the meantime, and until she had consulted with Ralph, it was wiser not to fan the flame of his wrath to fiercer heat. Silence on this occasion was veritably golden.
"Listen to me," said Branwin, somewhat mollified by his daughter's silence, which he mistook for victory. "For a few months at least we must mourn in the conventional way for your mother. During that time you shall be the mistress of my house, with Mrs. Mellop to help you, since you are more or less inexperienced."
"I don't want Mrs. Mellop in the house," cried Audrey, glowing with anger.
"It is not what you want, but what I wish," said her father, tartly. "Mrs. Mellop must come here on a visit to look after you, and see that you act properly as mistress. Meanwhile I shall look out for a husband for you amongst some of these pauper noblemen, who will be glad enough to sell a title for your dowry. Not a word," he cried, raising his voice, when he saw that she was about to speak. "And I may tell you straightly, Audrey, that I wish you to marry at the end of our necessary period of mourning, as I do not think you will get on with your stepmother."
"My--my--my stepmother!" stammered the girl, aghast.
"Yes," said the man, curtly; and the two stared at one another until Sir Joseph, unable to bear the reproach in his daughter's eyes, broke into a furious rage. He felt that he could only meet that look and defend his position by giving way to an outburst of temper. "Why do you stand there without a word, and look as though I had told you I was about to commit a crime? Why shouldn't I marry and be happy? I was never happy with your mother, and you are ready enough to leave me for that barrister sweep. Yes, I'm going to give you a stepmother--in name only, that is, for you will be out of this house, and married to the man I choose for you, before my wife enters."
"I shall assuredly be out of the house before the second Lady Branwin appears," said Audrey, very white but very courageous. "I owe that much to my mother's memory."
"Leave your mother's name out of it."
"But," went on the girl, just as though she had not been interrupted, "I go out to marry Ralph, and not a husband of your choosing."
"You'll do what you're told, or starve," said her father, gruffly. "Let us have no more of this nonsense." He looked at his watch. "The motor is at the door, and I have to catch the Brighton train. I made up my mind to have an explanation before I left. That you should receive my expressed wishes in this way, when I am still weak from illness, shows how much you really care for me. But you understand."
"I understand that you intend to marry a second time, and that I am to be the mistress of this house until your wife enters it."
"Quite so; and you understand also that you are to ask Mrs. Mellop to come and stay here during my absence. Good! That's all. Good-bye," and without offering to kiss her, the man walked to the door.
"Papa," cried Audrey, before he could reach it, and struck with a sudden thought, "are you going to marry Mrs. Mellop?"
"No," retorted Sir Joseph, pulling open the door with a swing, "I am going to marry Miss Rosy Pearl"; and, flinging the name at her with a snarl, he marched out sullenly. The way in which Audrey had received his news was displeasing to a man who always had his own way.
The girl sank into a chair, for her limbs now refused to support her, although pride had hitherto held her up. With a blank, bewildered stare she looked round the dainty, bright breakfast-room, the white walls of which were painted gracefully with cupids and wreaths of flowers bound with knots of airy blue ribbon. Sorrow seemed out of place in so frivolous an apartment; yet its mere beauty enhanced the grief felt by the girl. The loss of her mother had been terrible to her, for although mother and daughter, educationally speaking, were leagues asunder, yet they had been greatly attached, and Audrey loved the uncouth, stupid woman at whom so many people laughed. And Audrey alone had been kind to poor Lady Branwin, who was scorned even by her own husband. No one regretted the simple creature's death but her daughter, who was unlike her in every way. As for Sir Joseph, Audrey saw that he was quite glad to be relieved of his ill-fated wife's presence.
Now he intended to marry again, and after the first feeling of natural resentment Audrey could not condemn him. Had her father only broken the news more kindly; had he only behaved less like a bully and more like a parent, and had he delayed to announce his determination for a few months, the girl would have received the intelligence differently. But the information coming with such indecent haste, coupled with his fiat that she was not to think of marrying Ralph Shawe, had brought the worst elements in Audrey's nature to the front. Her affections were deep and her temper was strong, so she felt anxious to resent the insult conveyed by the entire interview. But reflection calmed her early determination to leave the house before her domestic tyrant could return from Brighton. She had nowhere to go to, and she had no money, so it was necessary to wait for at least a time before deciding what to do. But she arose with a shudder, and felt that the luxury around was repellent to her. In fact, her feeling was that she dwelt in the house of a stranger, so hostile and self-centred did her father now appear to be. And yet, even at the best, they had never been parent and child.
"I shall see Ralph and tell him, and be guided by what he says," Audrey murmured to herself. "But--who is Rosy Pearl?"
She had never heard the name, and yet in some way it sounded familiar. As she walked out of the breakfast-room reflecting on her father's abrupt announcement, and wondering what the future Lady Branwin was like, a servant respectfully informed her that Mrs. Mellop had arrived and was in the drawing-room. Audrey frowned, as she felt that, after such a trying interview, it would be somewhat difficult to put up with the widow's frivolous chatter. However, while she remained under her father's roof, she felt bound to obey his orders, and remembered that Mrs. Mellop was to be invited to stay during Sir Joseph's absence at Brighton. She therefore composed her face, and rubbed her cheeks to bring a little colour into them. When she opened the drawing-room door Mrs. Mellop rushed at her, cooing like a dove.
"You dear child, you sweet child, my heart aches for you," said the widow, who was all chiffons and scent, and gush and restlessness. "This dreadful death, the illness of your poor father"--she put a tiny lace handkerchief to her eyes--"it's too awful for words."
"Thank you," said Audrey, coldly, and then irrelevantly asked a question which haunted her mind, and was on the top of her tongue. "Mrs. Mellop, you usually know everyone. Who is Rosy Pearl?"
Mrs. Mellop stared aghast. "My dear child," she said, in a shocked tone, "you should know nothing about such a creature."
"A creature! What creature?" asked Audrey, colouring vividly.
"She is a music-hall artist," said Mrs. Mellop, solemnly--"a painted butterfly."