Audrey handed over a dingy envelope, bearing the London postmark, and addressed to her at the Camden Hill house. Out of this Shawe took an equally dingy piece of paper--a single sheet of very cheap stationery. On it a few lines in vile caligraphy were scrawled. He read them at once, while Audrey sat down on a near chair and watched him silently.
"Dear Miss"--ran the anonymous letter,--"This is to warn you from invistigiting your poor ma's deth, as I know you are doing. Keip off the gras and don't be silly, or you will sueffer the gratest grief of your life. This is from one who sines as you see--A Frend."
"What do you think of it?" asked the girl, when her lover silently replaced the paper in its envelope and sat down beside her.
"I think there may be something in it," said Shawe, slowly. "I wonder--"
"You wonder what?"
"If it would not be as well to take the advice of this," and he tapped the envelope as he handed it back to her.
"No!" cried Audrey, her worn face flushing.
"A thousand times no. I shall learn the truth at all costs."
"But if it leads to more sorrow, dear?"
"I don't care what it leads to. To know the worst--whatever the worst may be--is better than this terrible suspense." She looked at the dingy communication dubiously. "I wonder who wrote this?"
"An uneducated person, apparently."
"I don't believe it," declared the girl, quickly. "All that bad spelling and bad writing is intended to mislead."
Shawe shook his head. "How can you be sure of that?"
"I am sure of nothing. I am only assuming that such is the case. But, at all events, the person who wrote this letter knows that the matter of the death is being looked into."
"I don't see who can possibly know, save you and myself and Perry Toat."
"Who is Perry Toat?"
"The detective whom I am employing to search."
"What has he found out?"
"She, dear. Miss Toat's name is Peronella Toat, and she calls herself Perry on her card for business reasons. She has found out nothing very tangible, and confines herself to theorising a lot." Ralph paused, and shook his head once more. "I fancy she is growing tired of the case." And he related Perry Toat's discoveries--such as they were--and also detailed her theories. When he ended Audrey was almost as despairing as he appeared to be.
"There doesn't seem to be a single ray of light," lamented the girl, putting the envelope into her pocket. "Madame Coralie, her assistants, and her husband seem to be all innocent; unless," she added, with a quick look, "there is something in this idea of a prepared alibi."
"Well, Miss Toat has learnt nothing likely to show that her surmise is right in that way, Audrey. Badoura apparently knows nothing, or, infatuated with Eddy Vail, refuses to say what she may know. As to Peri Banou, who is dumb, no information can be got from her, although she was in the shop when the crime was committed. She says that she was asleep on a divan, and Zobeide certainly admits that she left her there when she went up to the still-room."
"Badoura, Peri Banou, Zobeide," said Miss Branwin, ticking off the quaint and musical names on her fingers. "You have mentioned only three of the assistants. What about the fourth?"
"Parizade? Oh! being blind, of course she can see nothing at all. She was behind the curtain in the still-room preparing some wash when Madame Coralie came to speak to her husband. That was about eight o'clock, just before Madame came down to tell you that your mother would remain for the night."
"It was about half-past eight that Madame came to the door."
"Oh! my dear girl, you must be mistaken. Madame herself and her husband both say it was five or ten minutes after eight o'clock when she came to you."
Audrey shook her head vehemently. "Mrs. Mellop will tell you that we did not leave the house until a quarter past eight."
"The Pink Shop? That, of course, would make it right."
"No, our own house. There was a first piece at the theatre which Mrs. Mellop and I did not care about seeing. We only left in time to get to the theatre by nine, when the chief drama of the evening began. It was nearly half-past eight when we reached the Pink Shop, as it took us ten minutes, more or less, to get to Walpole Lane."
"There must be some mistake," said Shawe, rather puzzled by this clear and positive explanation. "Why, Badoura says that Eddy Vail drew her attention to the clock in the still-room, and then it was five minutes to eight. Almost immediately afterwards Madame came up from seeing your mother tucked in for the night, and very shortly went to the shop door to speak to you."
"Then the clock in the still-room must be wrong," said Audrey. "Tell Miss Toat what I say, and she may be able to learn if it is so."
"Well, and supposing you prove that the still-room clock is wrong?"
"Can't you see? In that case Madame Coralie could not have come up from seeing my mother safely to bed, for she must have come up to the still-room at about fifteen or twenty minutes past the hour. And the medical evidence says that my poor mother was murdered at eight o'clock."
"It does seem strange," said Shawe, reflectively. "Humph! I wonder if Perry Toat is right after all, and if this alibi--a very convincing one, I must say--is a faked affair. Audrey"--he turned earnestly towards the girl--"say nothing of this to anyone."
"Will you tell Miss Toat?"
"Yes, I shall certainly do that. But, after all, both you and the still-room clock may be right. It only means that Madame waited twenty minutes or so talking to her husband instead of coming down at once."
"But if she came at once--"
"Then the matter will have to be looked into. I shall ask Miss Toat to question Badoura and Eddy Vail, who noticed the time. They may be able to say how long Madame Coralie remained in the still-room. But, my dear, it is all a mere theory--"
"And one that may prove to be true. Really, Ralph"--Audrey spoke with a flush on her face--"you don't seem anxious to learn the truth."
"I am in one way, and not in another. I remember that anonymous letter."
"I don't care what the letter says. The person who wrote it is evidently concerned in the death of my poor mother, and is afraid lest he or she should be caught."
"There may be some truth in that," admitted Shawe. "However, you had better leave the matter in my hands. I shall tell Perry Toat what you say about the difference in time, always supposing that Madame Coralie did not linger in the still-room. When I hear of anything definite likely to supply a clue I shall let you know."
"You have let me know very little hitherto," said Audrey, bitterly.
"My darling"--he took her hands and looked into her eyes--"surely you are not dissatisfied with me?"
"I am in a way," she admitted, blushing guiltily. "I am so anxious to learn the truth and revenge my mother. If you won't search, I shall search myself."
Shawe could do nothing in the face of this determination but agree. He scribbled Perry Toat's address on his card and gave it to the girl. Audrey slipped it into the dingy envelope which held the anonymous letter, with the intention of calling on the detective whenever she could.
"If you go on with the matter I shall help you to the best of my ability," he said earnestly, as she turned away. "Don't think that I do not desire your wish to be gratified. I only want you to be happy."
"I won't be happy until I learn who murdered my dear mother," said the girl, obstinately; then she took his arm, and they walked across to the gate near the Palace. "But I am glad that you will help me. All I ask is that you will let me assist you."
"You shall go to Perry Tat yourself and take an immediate hand in the game we are playing," said the barrister, decidedly, "as I see that in no other way will you be satisfied. And now let me see you home."
"Don't come too far with me, dear. My father may have risen by this time, and if he meets you there will be trouble."
"I don't mind that," said Shawe, throwing back his well-shaped head. "I am not afraid of Sir Joseph. By the way, talking about the possibility of that clock being wrong, was your father with you in the car?"
"No. He went out at six o'clock for one of his prowls."
"What do you mean by one of his prowls?" asked Shawe, surprised.
"Well, papa, for all our talking, is really kind when he chooses. He is sorry for poor people--for the really ragged, unwashed poor, that is--and sometimes he goes out quietly and wanders round the streets, giving money to beggars and helping those who need help."
"You throw quite a light on your father's character," said Ralph, grimly. "I should have thought that Sir Joseph was the last person in the world to help anyone or to act the secret philanthropist."
"Mrs. Mellop told me that he did so. She saw him once or twice in a tweed suit in the evening helping people--giving money, that is. And papa must go out for some such purpose, for he usually puts on evening dress for dinner."
"And changes it afterwards?"
"No; on the nights he goes out he doesn't change his clothes, and very often doesn't come to dinner. On that night Mrs. Mellop and I had the meal to ourselves, and went alone to the theatre. Papa had gone out at six in his usual clothes for a prowl. Perhaps," ended Audrey, wistfully, "I have misjudged my father, and he may not be so hard as I think. I never knew that he helped the poor until Mrs. Mellop told me; and she only saw him by chance when her taxi-cab broke down one evening on the Embankment."
"Well, I am glad to hear that Sir Joseph has some redeeming qualities," said Shawe, somewhat cynically; for the whole story sounded improbable, seeing what he knew of the man.
Neither of the young people noticed at the time that they were near the gates of Branwin's mansion, and were therefore astonished when Sir Joseph himself stepped out. He was dressed in a rough tweed suit, and looked more bulky and aggressive than ever. With a scowl he fairly snatched his daughter from the barrister's arm. "I expected something of this sort, Audrey, when you went out so early," he said, in his domineering tones. "I was just coming to Kensington Gardens. Mrs. Mellop kindly told me how you met this rascal in--"
"I am no rascal, sir," said Shawe, spiritedly.
"Yes, you are. You know that I don't wish my daughter to marry you, and yet you arrange secret meetings in the Gardens."
"I am to blame, if anyone," said Audrey, hotly, "for I arranged the meeting."
"A pretty confession for a young lady," said her father, grimly; "but I shall take care that you arrange no more. As for you, sir"--he turned on Ralph--"I forbid you to think of Miss Branwin. She is to marry Lord Anvers."
"I shall not," cried Audrey, growing white, but perfectly determined.
"You shall. I have spoken to Lord Anvers, and he is willing to make you his wife. You understand, Mr. Shawe?"
"I understand that I intend to marry Audrey," said the barrister, coolly, "so it matters little what arrangements you have made with Anvers, who is indeed the rascal you called me."
"Go inside, Audrey," said Branwin, and pushed his daughter within the gates hurriedly. "Mr. Shawe, good-day!" and he also stalked in, without commenting on the young man's speech.
Ralph thus Was left outside, like the Peri at the Gates of Paradise.
Between her father and Mrs. Mellop Audrey had a most unpleasant time for the next two weeks. Sir Joseph was more bent than ever upon her marriage with Lord Anvers, and asked him to dinner, so that he might prosecute his suit. The proposed suitor was a pale-faced, sandy-haired, insignificant little man, with a pair of wicked-looking black eyes. At the first sight people never took Anvers to be the strong man he really was, as they were deceived by his uninteresting looks. But his eyes, and subsequently his acts, soon showed him in his true light as a capable little scoundrel, who extracted all he could from anyone and anything in order to benefit himself. Just now Anvers, being desperately hard up, decided that it was necessary for him to marry Audrey and Audrey's dowry. He wanted the money more than the maid, but, seeing that she was pretty, he was not unwilling to take the two together, even though this meant the loss of his freedom.
Audrey took a violent dislike to him. Even before he had been suggested to her as a possible husband she had never liked him, as there was an atmosphere of impurity about him which repelled her. But that he should seek to be her husband made her more active in her dislike, and when he pressed his suit she told him plainly that she would never marry him. Lord Anvers, not being troubled with delicacy, simply laughed.
"Oh, but you must marry me," he said brutally to the quivering girl; "your father wishes it."
"My father can wish it, but he won't get it," retorted Miss Branwin, all her outraged soul flashing with sapphire lights in her eyes. "I don't love you, and I never shall love you."
"Oh, I know there's another man," said Anvers, coolly. "Your father told me to be prepared for the objection, that your affections were engaged."
"My affections have nothing to do with the matter, Lord Anvers. If there wasn't another man in the world, I wouldn't marry you."
"Why not?"
"Oh! we won't go into particulars," she said sharply. "I have heard--"
"A lot of lies, I assure you. I'm not a bad chap, as chaps go, and, upon my soul, I'll try and make you happy."
"I want a better husband than one who is not bad as chaps go," said Audrey, coldly. "I want a man I can respect--a Galahad."
"Never heard of him," confessed Anvers, candidly, "unless it's another name for a fellow called Shawe."
"Perhaps it is," replied Miss Branwin, holding herself very straight, "and you can tell my father that I shall marry no one else but Mr. Shawe."
"Oh, come, give me a chance," pleaded the aristocratic black sheep.
"I have given you a chance to propose to me and I refuse you."
Anvers looked bewildered. He was unaccustomed to this very plain speaking on the part of a spinster. "You don't let a chap down easy; and I shan't lose heart, anyhow. Your 'No' means 'Yes.' A woman sometimes doesn't accept a chap straight away."
"This woman will never accept you, Lord Anvers. So if you are a gentleman you will refrain from troubling me."
"'Fraid I can't, Miss Branwin. I love you."
"You love my money," she retorted scornfully, and exasperated by this obstinacy. "You know it is only the money."
"Oh, money's a good thing," said the truthful Anvers, easily; "but, really, upon my word, you know, you're so pretty that I'd marry you without a penny."
Audrey burst out laughing. "Such candour on your part deserves candour on mine," she said quietly. "I say 'No' to your proposal, and I mean it."
For the time being Anvers saw that he was beaten, so took his leave. "But I shall come back again," he warned his lady-love. "I'll bring you up to the scratch somehow, see if I don't." And he reported the conversation to Sir Joseph, with the remark that he would never stop proposing until Audrey accepted his soiled title and his brutal self.
Of course, Branwin scolded the girl. She made no protest during the storm of words, and let Sir Joseph talk himself into exhaustion. When the millionaire could say no more she faced him calmly. "I shall never marry Lord Anvers, papa, and I shall marry Ralph whenever I can."
"Oh, you will, and when--when, confound you?" roared Branwin.
"When he learns who killed my mother," said Audrey, and passed out of the room without noticing the sudden greyness which replaced the purple hues of her father's large face.
What with anxiety to learn who had murdered her mother, and with the insistent troubles around her, Audrey felt angry with everyone and everything. Even Ralph seemed to be against her since he had waxed lukewarm in prosecuting his search for the assassin. Audrey had not seen him since he had advised her to heed the warning of the anonymous letter, and she had received no communication likely to show that he was looking into the matter of the murder. Under these circumstances, she resolved to take up therôleof an amateur detective herself. Since there was no one else who loved the dead sufficiently to avenge the crime, Audrey at least made up her mind to hunt down the murderer.
She began one afternoon by driving to Perry Toat's office, for Ralph had written down its whereabouts. Sir Joseph, sullen and angry with his daughter, had gone to his club, and Mrs. Mellop in her bedroom was fretting over the destruction of her hopes. Therefore, there was no one to spy on the girl, and, having dressed herself plainly, she took a taxi-cab in Kensington High Street and drove to the Strand. Perry Toat's office was in Buckingham Street, and the detective herself was disengaged. She admitted Audrey into her private sanctum the moment she read the name on the card.
"I thought you would come, Miss Branwin," said Perry Toat, cordially, "as Mr. Shawe told me that you were different from most girls. Few would wish to undertake the search you propose to make."
"Few girls, if any, have had a mother murdered in so barbarous a fashion," was Audrey's reply, and she eyed with some disapproval the garish complexion and burnished hair and general renovation of Miss Toat.
The detective smiled, guessing the thought of her visitor. "This and this"--she touched her hair and skin--"are a concession to business demands. I had to submit to this sort of thing in order to gain permission to remain for searching purposes at the Pink Shop."
"Oh!" Audrey understood. "And did you find out anything?"
"I told Mr. Shawe all I had discovered, and what theories I formed on the discoveries," said Miss Toat, glancing at her watch. "He explained to me that he had reported everything to you over a week ago."
"Yes," admitted Miss Branwin, "but he did not give me any hope that anything would come of what you have learnt."
"I fear not. The clues are so slight, Miss Branwin. By the way"--Perry Toat looked again at her watch--"I can only give you ten minutes or so, as I am expecting another client--Colonel Ilse. Ah! poor man, he comes to me to be helped in finding his stolen daughter."
"His stolen daughter?" echoed Audrey.
"Yes. His wife died in child-birth some twenty years ago, and the child was stolen by an hospital nurse who attended her. There was some grudge, I believe. But why should I bother you with the troubles of other people when you have so many of your own?" said Miss Toat, in a lively way. "Come, time is short. What do you wish me to tell you?"
"What is your opinion of the case as it now stands?" asked Audrey, abruptly.
"It's a difficult and mysterious case," said the detective, slowly, "and it is my opinion that Madame Coralie can tell the truth."
"Do you think that she is guilty?"
"No. That is, if she is guilty, it is because she employed someone else to murder your mother. I don't believe she strangled Lady Branwin herself."
"Why not?"
"Because Madame Coralie proved an alibi."
"Ah!" Audrey nodded. "Then Mr. Shawe did not tell you about my idea as to the clock in the still-room being wrong?"
Miss Toat looked at her quickly. "No. What is your idea?"
Audrey related what she knew of the discrepancy between the statement of Madame Coralie, her husband, and Badoura, and her own. "It was nearly half-past eight when Madame came to see me at the door," said Audrey, positively.
Miss Toat looked steadily at the girl. "Strange," she said, in a musing tone. "Now, I wonder why Mr. Shawe did not tell me this?"
"It is important, is it not?" asked Audrey, eagerly.
"Very important. If we can prove what you say, it will show that it was possible for Madame Coralie to have been with Lady Branwin at eight."
"Then she must be guilty," said Audrey, triumphantly.
"No. I suspect Eddy Vail, her husband. He, as well as his wife, was in dire need of money, and he may have committed the deed, although his wife may have suggested its commission. If I could only trace the diamonds"--and Miss Toat, thinking hard, began to trace figures on her blotting-paper.
"I have seen that man Vail," said Miss Branwin, after a pause. "Mr. Shawe described him to me, and I recognised the description at once. He was hanging about Walpole Lane when my mother came back for the red bag which contained the diamonds."
"Oh!"--Miss Toat looked up--"that's a strong point. Did your mother happen to mention, when in the lane, that the diamonds were in the bag?"
"No," said Audrey, after some thought; "she simply asked for the bag. But I am sure that Madame Coralie must have known about the diamonds, as my poor mother would be sure to tell her."
"Have you ever seen Madame Coralie?" asked Miss Toat, sharply.
"Only in the half-darkness, when she came to the door at half-past eight to tell me that my mother would remain for the night."
"Then," said Perry Toat, rising, "go to the Pink Shop and see her now. You are so straightforward and earnest that you may succeed where I fail. Ask all the questions you can think of, and see what Madame Coralie looks like."
"Hear what she says, you mean."
"No, I do not. Hear what she says, of course; but you may be sure that if she has anything to hide she will be most guarded in her answers. But look into her face, and watch the change of colour, and--oh!" Miss Toat stopped in dismay. "I forgot, Madame Coralie wears a yashmak constantly."
"In that case I shall get her to remove it," said Audrey, quickly. "I see what you mean, and I shall manage in some way to see her face. If she is guilty I shall know somehow."
"I wish I could come with you myself," said Miss Toat, hastily following Audrey to the door, which opened into a small outer office; "but I fear that Colonel Ilse--ah! here he is."
Miss Branwin saw before her a slender and very straight man, with a grey moustache and grey hair, with a tanned face and a general military look. He had kind blue eyes, and when he saw so pretty a girl emerge from the dingy office of Perry Toat these same eyes lighted up with admiration. With a bow to the detective he stood on one side to let the girl pass. Audrey gave a swift glance at his clearly-cut face as she went out. There seemed to be something familiar about Colonel Ilse's countenance; but she could not say precisely what it was. Besides, her mind was too much taken up with the late conversation with Miss Toat to concern itself with so trifling a matter. The detective accompanied her to the outer door.
"See me to-morrow at three o'clock," she said, in a low voice, "and tell me if you have succeeded in getting Madame Coralie to remove her yashmak."
Miss Branwin readily promised this, as she felt that she needed Miss Toat's professional assistance in the quest which she was now undertaking. She felt eager to reach the Pink Shop and to question Madame Coralie, and her heart beat quickly as she climbed into a 'bus which would take her to Kensington. Sir Joseph would have been furious had he seen his daughter travelling on so humble a vehicle; but Audrey enjoyed the novelty of the sensation. Indeed, she was beginning to find out, for the first time since her mother's death, that life was worth living. And, although she did not know it, she was suffering from a severe attack of detective fever.
The progress of the 'bus seemed slow to the impatient girl; but in due time she came to Kensington High Street. Here she alighted, and turned into Walpole Lane without delay. Shortly she found herself before the mysterious door of the Pink Shop, and entered with a beating heart and a general sense that there was a crisis at hand.
"Is Madame Coralie to be seen?" she asked Badoura, who came forward in her quaint Turkish dress to receive her.
"I will inquire, miss," said Badoura, looking at her closely. "Oh! it is Miss Branwin, is it not?"
"Yes, and I wish particularly to see Madame Coralie."
"Will you please wait here, miss?" said Badoura, and, leaving Audrey near the door of the empty shop--it was too early for the usual customers--she walked towards an alcove on the left.
Audrey saw the girl pass through the pink silk curtains into the alcove, and heard a faint murmur of voices. Deeming that all was fair in the dangerous and anxious search which she was undertaking she drew near, and distinctly heard Madame Coralie gasp with dismay.
"Tell Miss Branwin that I cannot see her," said Madame Coralie, sharply.
Audrey at once stepped forward and swept aside the pink curtain. "But you must, Madame," she said quietly.
The woman waved Badoura to leave the alcove, and beckoned Miss Branwin to enter, making some remark in muffled tones as she did so. Suddenly, as she rose quickly to her feet, a tack caught the yashmak, and it was ripped off. Audrey saw Madame Coralie's side face, and gave a cry of surprise and terror.
"Mother!" she cried, then sank her voice with fear. "Mother! Oh, mother!"
So there had been no need for Audrey to plot for the removal of Madame Coralie's yashmak. With the trifling aid of a tack, which had caught the veil when the woman rose suddenly from the divan, the truth immediately became known to the horrified and astonished girl. But was it the truth? At the first glance Audrey recognised the side face turned towards her as that of her mother. But when Madame Coralie looked round fairly, and the light, filtering through the curtains of the shop window, fell on her full countenance, then Audrey became doubtful. The wine-dark birthmark which disfigured mouth and chin and cheek had been absent from Lady Branwin's face.
"But--but you are my mother!" gasped the girl, still struck by the marvellous resemblance to the supposed dead.
"I am not your mother," replied the other, coldly, and evading the outstretched arms of her visitor. "But since you have seen my face, I had better confess the truth. I am your aunt, Flora."
"Oh!" Audrey recollected what her father had said about the two sisters of Bleakleigh. "Flora Arkwright?"
"Yes. I see your mother told you about me."
"No, she did not."
Madame Coralie raised her hand imperatively. "This alcove is too public a place in which to discuss family matters. We must go upstairs. Indeed, I fancy your exclamation of 'Mother!' must have aroused Badoura's suspicions."
Apparently this was true, for when Madame Coralie drew her visitor through the pink silk curtains into the deserted shop, Badoura was standing before them with an astonished look on her face. Her employer at once sent her off on a false scent.
"Miss Branwin has called to see me about her mother's death," said Madame Coralie, quietly. "She is slightly hysterical, and you have, no doubt, heard what she cried out. I trust"--the speaker looked anxiously round the shop--"that no one else heard?"
"I am alone here," replied Badoura, evidently accepting this explanation as a reasonable one. "Can I get Miss Branwin a glass of water?"
"No, my dear," said the owner of the shop, who had replaced her yashmak. "I am taking up Miss Branwin to the still-room for a little quiet conversation. See that we are not disturbed."
"Peri Banou, Zobeide and Parizade are there, Madame."
"I shall send them down. Give them something to do here. Come, Miss Branwin, if you don't mind climbing the stairs."
Although Audrey felt considerably annoyed at being described as hysterical, she nevertheless saw the necessity of some such explanation to satisfy the curiosity of the forewoman. Therefore she wisely said nothing, and followed Madame into the narrow back passage and up the stairs. On arriving in the still-room, the elder woman dismissed her assistants, and having looked behind the curtain to see that no one was hidden there likely to overhear the conversation, she closed the door. Audrey watched her as she sat down with her back to the window, and tried to steady her nerves, which naturally had sustained a shock.
"Now, Miss Branwin," said Madame Coralie, in a quiet voice, "we can talk. But first, so that you may be certain of my identity, I shall lay this aside," and she flung the long veil of the yashmak over her shoulder.
The girl examined that face carefully. Madame Coralie was certainly extremely like Lady Branwin. She had the same muddy complexion and large black eyes, and the same stout, shapeless figure. But the aggressive birthmark made all the difference, and after a single glimpse of it, much less this cautious and lengthy survey, there could be no question that the woman before her was not Lady Branwin.
"But my mistake was natural," said Audrey, with a sigh.
"Very natural," answered Madame Coralie, who had evidently followed her train of thought--no very difficult thing to do--"especially as you first saw my side face. The mark does not show when I look thus." She adapted her position to her words, and the resemblance became even more apparent. "Dora and I were twins," ended Madame, with a nod.
"My father did not tell me that."
"Oh! so your father told you about me, my dear. I thought he had long ago forgotten the existence of poor Flora Arkwright."
"Far from forgetting you," Audrey assured her aunt, "he said that he wished he had married you instead of mother."
The information did not seem to please Madame Coralie, for her thin lips tightened, and she gave vent to a short laugh. Then Audrey noted, as a further difference between the sisters, that the woman before her spoke in a hoarse and loud, domineering voice. Lady Branwin, on the other hand, had always talked softly, and possessed a musical utterance, which was one of the few poor charms she owned.
"So Joseph remembers me in that way, does he, my dear?" said Madame Coralie, clasping her hands. "Ha! if I hadn't been a fool I should have married him."
"Why didn't you?" asked Audrey, bluntly.
"I have stated the reason," said Madame Coralie, drily. "I was a fool. But I am bound to say in my own defence that I never believed Joseph would become so wealthy. He never struck me as particularly clever."
"Yet he must be, to have so much money."
"There I disagree with you, my dear--I can call you my dear in private, as you are my niece--but Joseph was always hard and grasping, and ever had an eye to the main chance. Well, he is rich, and has now got rid of his wife, so he can marry into the Peerage if he likes. I expect Dora is glad she is dead, now that she is on the other side of the grave. Joseph killed her."
"Killed her?" Audrey, with a sudden fear, turned deadly white.
"Oh, I don't mean to say that he strangled her," said Madame Coralie, hastily, "for he is too careful of his skin to risk hanging; but his neglect killed her. She was always a good and faithful wife to him, and he broke her heart."
"Papa was rather unkind," said Audrey, nervously, but relieved by this explanation.
Madame again laughed shortly. "Unkind--rather unkind!" she repeated. "Why, he treated her like a brute. She told me all about it. Fancy the poor soul coming to me to be made young again, in the hope that she could regain Joseph's affections. I told her that she was a fool; but shewouldwaste her money. And perhaps she wanted to help me also," added Madame Coralie, in a softer tone. "Dora was always fond of me."
"She knew that you kept this shop?"
"Yes. In fact, she helped me to set up the shop some years ago. I made her promise that she would never tell Joseph of my existence, and she kept her word. Yet Joseph remembered me. Strange."
"Papa said that you had the brains."
Madame Coralie looked round the room disdainfully. "And to what have my brains brought me? I am simply a renovator of faded women, and had to borrow money from Dora to set up the establishment. Flora Arkwright is lost in Madame Coralie."
"Mrs. Edward Vail, you mean," said Audrey, quietly.
"Oh!"--the woman shrugged her heavy shoulders--"I married Eddy so as to have a companion. He's a handsome fool, and goes about making love to younger women, while he lives on my money. However, he is always good-tempered, and suits me well enough. But in Bleakleigh I believed that my destiny would have been a better one. Dreams, my dear dreams."
"You were born at Bleakleigh?"
Madame Coralie nodded and folded her stout arms. Then, rocking to and fro, she related her story and the story of her sister. It was strange to Audrey, this history of her mother's early life. Lady Branwin had always been too much afraid of her husband to tell about her early struggles.
"Dora and I were the daughters of a labourer," said Madame Coralie. "She was very pretty, and I--well, my dear, who could be pretty with this?" and she touched the birthmark. "Although it was lighter when I was a girl, I have tried so hard to remove it that I expect I made it worse. If my customers saw it they would never believe that I could remove blemishes from their silly faces. For that reason I always wear the yashmak. My keeping what is called a Turkish shop gives me a chance of doing so."
"I quite understand," said Audrey, gently. "But tell me about my mother."
Madame Coralie looked at her swiftly. "You were fond of her?"
"Of course. Was she not my mother? Besides, she was all that was good and kind to me. And," added Audrey, clenching her fist so tightly that her glove split, "if no one else will revenge her by finding out who killed her, I shall do so."
"I fear you have undertaken a search which will never be ended," said her aunt, in a pitying tone; "but the feeling does you credit. I shall assist you by all the means in my power, my dear; for not only was poor Dora my sister, but her death has harmed my business."
"We can talk of what we will do later," said Audrey, quickly. "Meanwhile, go on with your story."
"A very dull story, I fear, my dear," said Madame Coralie, with a sigh. "Joseph, like Dora and myself, was the child of a labourer. We lived next door to one another. Then Joseph fell in love with Dora, because she was pretty, and went away to make his fortune. The papers will tell you how he did, so there is no need for me to talk about that. But I will say that Joseph behaved well to Dora, for he returned to marry her. Then the ways of my sister and myself parted, and she went on a golden road, while I"--Madame Coralie glanced round the room again with great scorn--"while I made for this goal."
"Did you not see my mother occasionally?"
"Not for many years, my dear. I got married to a gamekeeper--the gamekeeper of Squire Shawe, of Bleakleigh. He was killed by poachers within a year of marriage, and left me with a few hundred pounds in hand. There was no child, and there was nothing to keep me in Bleakleigh, since my parents were dead, so I came to London. Then--" Madame Coralie shivered.
"What happened then?" asked Audrey, sympathetically.
"Trouble. I was born to trouble, my dear. Everything that could go wrong with me went wrong. I tried the stage, and failed. I became a lecturer, and lost my voice--you hear how hoarse it is still. I went to America as a lady's-maid, and was stranded there in San Francisco. I worked as a typist; I laboured in a laundry; I took to reporting; I edited a woman's paper, and did all I could to keep myself above water. As a reporter I was sent to Paris in the interests of the paper. It failed, and I went in for massaging people. Then--well, to make a long story short, I learnt from a friend of mine in Paris all kinds of secrets about the art of making women beautiful. It struck me that I might start in London. I came back and wrote to Dora. There was no difficulty in finding her, as she was by this time Lady Branwin, the wife of a millionaire. I am bound to say that Dora behaved very well. She said nothing to her brute of a husband, but managed in some way to get enough to start me in this business. Then--" Madame Coralie stopped abruptly, with a gesture. "That's all, my dear."
"And does the business pay?" asked Audrey, mindful of what Ralph had said regarding the difficulties of the woman before her.
"Yes. That is, it would pay if I could only get in the money. But all my clients, being women of fashion, are such bad payers--they ask for years of credit. Then there's Eddy, who is extravagant. I was a fool to marry him; but I did so for companionship. I bought him, so to speak, so we understand one another perfectly. Of course, poor Dora's death has done a lot of harm to me; but now that I have money to fall back on, I hope to pull round. It is weary work, though," said Madame Coralie, looking very old--"weary work."
"I am glad that you have saved money," said Audrey, who could not but acknowledge that her aunt was marvellously candid.
"Saved money! My dear, have you not been listening to what I have been saying? How could I save money with Eddy's extravagance and these customers who never will pay their bills. It was Dora who came to my rescue. She gave me her diamonds, poor dear."
Audrey jumped up amazed. "Gave you her diamonds?" she echoed. "But you said at the inquest--"
"I know perfectly well what I said at the inquest and what I am saying to you," interrupted Madame Coralie, sharply. "I denied that I knew anything of the diamonds. For obvious reasons I did so. If I had admitted possession of the diamonds, I would have been suspected as the person who strangled your mother. No one knew that Dora and I were sisters."
"You could have explained at--"
"No," said Madame Coralie, positively, "I could not have explained, for my story would have appeared to be merely a made-up one to account for the possession of the jewels. Of course, the resemblance--for Dora and I were wonderfully alike, save for this birthmark--would have hinted that I was speaking the truth. But in that case I should have had to remove my yashmak, and then all the world would have known of this disfigurement. It would have ruined my business, my dear."
Audrey looked bewildered. "But if my mother was not strangled for the sake of the diamonds, why was she killed?"
Her aunt shrugged her shoulders. "I have asked that again and again; and yet I think that I can see a way. Dora brought me the diamonds, pretending that she wished them to be reset. When we were in the bedroom together she took them out of the bag and gave them to me. Then she placed the empty bag under her pillow. I came upstairs, after tucking her in for the night, in order to put away the jewels. All I can think of is that someone got into the court by means of that skeleton key, and, thinking that the jewels were still in the bag, strangled poor Dora, and then escaped. If you remember, the label was found near the court door."
All this explanation was very frank, and from the mere fact that Madame Coralie admitted having the jewels Audrey was certain that she was not the guilty person, nor had she employed anyone else to commit the crime. Besides, as the two women were twin sisters--and the likeness proved this beyond all doubt--the idea of one murdering the other was out of the question. "I suppose," said Audrey, after a pause, "that you know some people suspect you?"
"Oh, yes," said her aunt, indifferently; "and if they knew about the diamonds they would be certain of my guilt. However, I got Eddy to unset the stones and sell them separately. He has been over to Antwerp selling them, so I am quite safe; that is"--she looked at Audrey--"unless you tell the police what I have told you."
"I should not think of doing so," said the girl, anxiously, for she really believed her aunt to be innocent, "and, more than that, I will try and disabuse Ralph of your guilt."
"Ralph? Oh, yes. Squire Shawe's younger son. Poor Dora told me he was engaged to you. Well, is there anything else you want to know?"
"No; but you must help me to find out who murdered my mother."
"Certainly. I shall do that for my own sake. Come and see me again, and I may be able to give you a clue. Between us we may trace the assassin."
"Oh! aunt, will you do this?" cried Audrey, with shining eyes.
Madame Coralie kissed her. "Yes, even if I ruin myself. You love your poor mother's memory--I would do anything for Dora's daughter."