The Sign of the Stranger

“His name!” she exclaimed, looking straight at me. “His name – why do you wish to ascertain that?”

“First, because of curiosity, and, secondly, because in dealing with your enemies it will give me advantage if I am aware of facts of which they are in ignorance.”

But she shook her head, while her brows knit slightly, by which I knew that she was firm.

“Your knowledge of the affair is surely sufficient, Willoughby,” was her answer. “You see in me a miserable woman, haunted by the shadow of a crime, a woman whom the world holds in high esteem but who merits only disgrace and death. You pity me – you say that you love me! Well, if that is so – if you pity me, and your love is really sincere, you will at least have compassion upon me and allow me to retain one secret, even from you – the secret of that man’s name!”

“Then you refuse to satisfy me,” I exclaimed in bitter disappointment.

“Is it a proof of love and confidence to wring from a woman a name which is her secret alone?” she asked reprovingly.

“But I am trying to act as your protector,” I argued.

“Then have patience,” she urged. “His name does not concern you. He is dead, and his secret – which was also my secret – has gone with him to the grave.” Then, almost in the same breath, she bade me farewell, and a few moments later I saw the station-brougham receding down the long avenue.

Chapter Thirteen

The Young Countess Makes a Statement

The harvest had been garnered and on the glorious “first” the young Countess returned from the Continent, just in time to receive her annual house-party.

The instant she arrived Sibberton always put on an air of gaiety which it never wore during her absence. Full of verve and go, she lived only for excitement and pleasure, and always declared the Hall as dull as a convent if it were not full of those clever, well-known people who constituted her own particular set. Therefore she seldom brightened the place with her presence unless she brought in her train a dozen or so merry men and women of the distinctly up-to-date type, some of whom were fashionable enough to have scandal attached to their names.

Has it ever occurred to you that feminine beauty in the higher circle of society is unfortunately, but very surely, deteriorating? It is remarkable how the type has of late years changed. When our grandmothers were celebrated and toasted in old port as beauties, quite a different ideal reigned. The toast was then something petite, womanly, of a pink complexion, of a delicious plumpness and animated by a lively and natural emotionalism. But with the introduction of athletic, open-air exercise, motors and mannish achievements, we have developed an entirely different type.

The modern athletic girl is generally ugly. She begins early, and continues till after her marriage to cycle, shoot, ride and play golf and tennis, all of which ruin her figure and consequently her health. She shoots up tall, flat-chested, colourless and lacking in reasonable proportions, with one hip larger than the other if she rides regularly to hounds. She becomes wried and atrophied by rough wear and unseemly habits, and the womanly delicacy shrinks and withers from the form of health and beauty.

Glance over any social function in town or country, any meet of hounds, or any shooting-party where ladies are included, and you will not fail to recognise how women, by overtaxing their physique, are fading and gradually becoming asexual.

The Countess of Stanchester’s house-parties were always merry ones, and generally included an Ambassador or two, a Cabinet Minister, a few good shots, and a number of ladies of various ages. The gigantic place was liberty hall, and both the young Earl and his wife carried out to the letter the traditions of the noble house for boundless hospitality. There was no better shooting in all the Midlands than that furnished by the Earl of Stanchester’s huge estate, extending as it did for nearly thirty miles in one direction; and the bags were always very huge ones.

Twenty-eight guests arrived on the same day that the young Countess returned home, and dinner that night was served as it always was on the first night of the shooting-season, upon the historic service of gold plate presented by Queen Elizabeth to the first Earl of Stanchester. I was invited to dine, and after music in the blue drawing-room retired with the men to the cosy panelled smoking-room with the grotesque carvings over the mantelshelf.

Many were the anecdotes and low the laughter, until at about midnight I rose and went back to my study, intending to get through some correspondence before retiring.

I suppose I must have been writing half-an-hour when the door opened and the Countess entered, greeting me merrily, saying —

“Well, Mr Woodhouse! I’ve had no time to talk to you to-night. And how have you been all this time?”

“As usual,” I responded, smiling, for notwithstanding her faults she was so beautiful, merry and witty that her companionship was always pleasant. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Yes. I want you, please, to send out cards for dinner next Tuesday to this list.” And she handed me half a sheet of note-paper on which she had hastily scribbled some names. “These county people, as they call themselves, are a fearful bore, and their women-folk are a terribly dowdy lot, but I suppose I must have them. It’s only once a year – thank Heaven.”

I laughed, for I knew that outside her own set she had withering sarcasm for the lower grade of society. With poor people she was always pleasant and popular, but with that little circle which called itself “the county,” and which consisted of hard-up “squires,” country parsons, men who had made money in the city and had bought properties, and the tea-and-tennis womankind that came in their wake, she had no common bond. They were a slow, narrow-minded lot who held up their hands at what she would term a harmless game at baccarat, and would be horror-stricken at tennis-playing or even bridge on Sundays.

Yet from time immemorial these people had been invited to dine at the Hall once during the shooting-season, and it was her husband’s wish that all the old customs of his noble house should be strictly observed. For hospitality, the house of Stanchester had always been noteworthy. The Earl’s grandfather, whom many aged villagers in Sibberton could still remember, used to keep open house every Friday night, and any of his friends could come up to the Hall and dine with him at six o’clock, providing they left or sent their cards on the previous day, in order that the cook should know how many guests would be present. It was the one evening in the week when his lordship entertained all his hunting friends, and on that day he did them royally for the port was declared the best in the country.

In these modern go-ahead days, however, with the giddy young Countess as chatelaine, this sort of thing was of the past. She tolerated people only as long as they amused her. When they ceased to do that, she calmly and ruthlessly struck them off her list. In town, she petted young foreign musicians and got them to sing or play at her concerts and brought them into notoriety by paying them cheques of three figures for their nightly services. But their reign usually lasted only half the season, when they were cast aside, disappointed and dejected, and other popular favourites rose to take their places.

She noticed my cigarettes in the big silver box the Earl had given me, and walking across, selected one, and slowly lit it with that free-and-easy air that was essentially that of the latter-day woman. An exception to the general rule that beauty in women of the higher class is growing rarer, she was extremely good-looking – fair-haired, grey-eyed, with handsome regular features and a clear pink complexion devoid of any artificial “make-up.”

Her dress was magnificent, the latest Paquin creation for which I had sent a cheque only the week before for one hundred and ten guineas. It was a study in cream, and trimmed with sparkling sequins which caused the gauze to shimmer and sparkle with every movement. The curves of her figure were graceful in every line, and at her throat she wore the magnificent collar of rubies which Queen Anne had given to the beautiful Countess of Stanchester, wife of Her Majesty’s Ambassador to France.

With careless abandon she threw herself into an armchair opposite where I sat, stretched out her tiny shoes upon the rug, gazing steadily at me, and blew a cloud of blue smoke from her lips. Yes, as I gazed upon her I really did not wonder how completely Lord Sibberton had been fascinated. Magnificent was the only word that described her.

“I’ve only just heard about this awful affair in the park,” she commenced. “George says he knows nothing very much about it. He says you found a man murdered. Tell me all about it – I’m interested.” And she placed the cigarette to her lips and gazed lazily at me through the haze of smoke. Knowing the strong bond of friendship existing between her husband and myself, she always treated me with a flippant equality that would be viewed with some surprise in any other circle of society. But to-day it seems that the more daring a wealthy woman is in words and actions, the greater is her popularity.

“Yes,” I answered, turning towards her upon my revolving writing-chair. “It is a mystery – an entire mystery.” And then I briefly related the curious facts, omitting, of course, all mention of the connexion between the murdered man and her sister-in-law, whom, be it said, she secretly ridiculed as a pious stay-at-home.

Lolita did not care for the ultra-gay set who formed the shooting parties, therefore was absent from them when she could escape. She hated bridge and baccarat, and had nothing in common with those women about whom scandalous tales were told in boudoirs and smoking-rooms.

“I suppose Doctor Pink has been exercising his talents in trying to discover the assassin?” she remarked.

“Yes. But the young man has remained unidentified,” I answered. “And for my own part, I believe the affair will remain an absolute mystery.”

“Why? What causes you to anticipate that?”

“Because there are certain features which are utterly incomprehensible. The young man came along the avenue that night to keep a secret appointment – that’s very certain. And the person who met him coolly murdered him.”

“Yes. But it really isn’t very nice to have a tragedy at one’s very door, and yet be unaware of the identity of the assassin! Who was the murderer? Who is suspected?”

“A woman,” I responded, whereupon, to my great surprise, I noticed in her eyes a strange expression, but whether of fear or of surprise I could not determine.

“A woman!” she repeated. “How is it that the police suspect a woman?”

I told her how Redway had discovered certain footmarks, and how at least two of the prints were those of a woman’s shoe.

“That’s very strange! Most interesting!” she remarked. “Sounds almost like what you see in a drama on the stage – a dark wood, man meets a woman who stabs him, then rushes away full of remorse – green lights, and all that sort of thing. You know what I mean.”

“But this is no theatrical effect,” I said. “It is a hard solid tragic fact that an unknown man has been murdered in the park here not half-a-mile away, and the affair is still a complete mystery except, as I have said, a woman was certainly present.”

“Exactly. She might have been present – and yet innocent,” she said, with a slightly triumphant ring in her argument, I thought. Was it possible that she, too, knew something of Lolita’s secret and, suspecting her, sought to divert suspicion from her?

Her beautiful face was sphinx-like. She continued to discuss the startling affair, and I somehow felt convinced that she knew rather more of its details than she would admit. Yet probably she had read some report of it in the papers. Nevertheless, certain remarks of hers were distinctly curious, especially her eagerness to know exactly what suspicions the police entertained, and in what direction their inquiries were at present directed.

As to the latter, I could tell her nothing, for I had not met Redway for several days. Indeed I had not heard of his presence in the neighbourhood, and I had begun to believe that he and his men were giving up the matter as a mystery that would never be solved save by confession or by mere chance. They were evidently pursuing that policy of masterly inactivity of which local police officers are past-masters. Gossips all of them, they are full of pretended activity on false scents, and prone to discover clues wherever beer chances to be deposited.

“I hear that Warr, the innkeeper, was with you when you found the man,” the Countess presently remarked. “If the dead man were not an absolute stranger surely he, of all men, would have recognised him!”

“But he was an entire stranger – and apparently a gentleman,” I said. “From his clothes, his appearance was that of a foreigner – but of course that’s only mere surmise. He may have been abroad and purchased foreign clothes there.”

“A foreigner! And who in Sibberton could possibly have any business with a foreigner?” she laughed. “Why, half the villagers haven’t been as far away from their houses as Northampton, and I don’t believe, with the exception perhaps of our studsman James, that any one has crossed the Channel.”

“Yes,” I admitted, “the whole affair is a profound puzzle. All that is known is that a certain young man who, from his exterior appearance and clothes, was well-bred, met in the park a certain woman, and that afterwards, he was found stabbed in the back with some long, thin and very sharp instrument. That’s all!”

“And the police are utterly confounded?”

“Utterly. They photographed the unfortunate man.”

“Did they? Where can I see a copy?” asked the Countess quickly, bending forward to me in her eagerness. “I would so very much like to see one. Could you get one?”

“I have one here,” I replied. “The police sent it to me a week ago, in response to my request.” And unlocking a drawer, I took out the inartistic picture of the dead man.

So keenly interested was she that she sprang from her chair, and came quickly to the edge of my writing-table in order to examine the picture.

“God!” she gasped, the colour of her cheeks fading pale as death as her eyes glared at it. “The woman has killed him, then – just as I thought! Poor fellow – poor fellow! The police don’t even know his name! It is a mystery – then let it remain so. They regard it, you say, as a strange affair. Yet if the real truth were known, the remarkable romance of which this is the tragic dénouement would be found to be most startling – one so curious and mysterious indeed as to be almost beyond human credence. Yes, Mr Woodhouse,” she added in a low voice as she straightened herself and looked at me, “I know the truth – I know why this man was sent to his grave – and I know by whom!”

Chapter Fourteen

Concerns a Gay Woman

The open declaration of the Countess held me in weak indecision. No doubt she was well aware of the motive of the crime, and therefore guessed who had struck the fatal blow. Yet she boldly expressed her intention of concealing her knowledge, which seemed strange on the face of it. A murder had been committed, therefore if she really had no reason to defeat the ends of justice she might surely reveal the dead man’s identity and explain all she knew concerning him. I argued this with her, but she shook her head and remained firm in her decision of silence.

Did she entertain, as I did, a grave suspicion of Lady Lolita?

This vague suggestion occurred to me as I sat staring straight up into the grey eyes of that brilliant woman before me. She knew the truth. She had told me so, yet next instant she seemed to regret the words had escaped her and sought lamely to modify her assertion.

She appeared to regard her statement as an error of judgment, and with all the tact of a clever woman ingeniously endeavoured to mislead me.

“One person could, I believe, tell us something,” I remarked presently, in order to show her that I was in possession of other facts that I had not revealed.

“Who’s that, pray?”

“A certain man named Richard Keene.” It was quite a haphazard shot, only made in order to ascertain whether the name really conveyed anything to her.

“Richard Keene!” she echoed, her brows knit in quick apprehension. “Did you know him?”

“I do know him,” was my calm response. “I have seen him down in Sibberton, if I am not very much mistaken.”

“Seen him!” she cried hoarsely. “Why, if you’ve seen him you’ve met an apparition. He died long ago.”

“No,” I declared. “I have seen Richard Keene in the flesh. He is not dead.”

“Impossible! You’re deceiving me,” she exclaimed. “The man cannot possibly be alive.”

“How do you know?”

She hesitated, for she saw that to reply to my question was to expose her own knowledge. Her face was ashen grey. My announcement, I saw, held her rigid in terror and surprise.

“Because his death is common knowledge to those who – well, those who knew him,” she replied lamely.

“I tell you that Richard Keene has eaten cold meat and drunk beer in the tap-room at the Stanchester Arms. He came to Sibberton to make inquiries regarding the Earl and the occupants of this house.”

“He did!” she gasped aghast. “Are you quite certain of that?”

“I heard him with my own ears. He questioned Warr, who is not, however, very communicative to strangers, especially if they are not very well-dressed.”

“How long ago?”

“On the evening of the tragedy.”

“Ah!” she sighed, and the light died out of her countenance again. “But are you really certain that it was Richard Keene? – does Lolita know this?”

“Yes. He wrote to her.”

“Wrote to her! Then there is no mistake that the fellow is still alive?” she cried, dismayed.

“None. He told Warr that he had only just arrived home from abroad. And he looked very travel-stained and weary. He seemed to be on tramp.”

“Without money?”

“On the contrary, he appeared to have plenty. It struck me that his penurious exterior was assumed for some purpose of his own.”

“Then if he really has returned, he means mischief – serious mischief,” exclaimed the Countess, still very pale. “The fact that he is not dead, as we had all supposed, alters entirely my theory regarding the crime and its motive.”

“You believe then that he is the guilty one?”

“No. That could not be,” was her quick reply.

“There are strong reasons – very strong reasons – why there can be no suspicion against him.”

“Is he such a very estimable person, then?” I inquired, hoping to obtain some further facts from her.

“Estimable!” she ejaculated. “Why, he is the one person in all the world who – but no!” she added, suddenly breaking off. “You are George’s friend!”

“And therefore I must not be told the truth,” I remarked disappointedly.

“You must not know the secret of his sister Lolita,” she answered quite calmly. “I cannot betray her confidence.”

I felt assured that the real reason of her refusal to tell me was because she feared lest I might betray her to her husband, and not on account of Lolita at all. She and I had somehow never been very close friends. I distrusted all women of her stamp, and treated them with that same light airy irresponsibility with which they treated me. The Countess of Stanchester could not be taken seriously. She was one of those women who, though married, live for the admiration and flattery of the opposite sex, and who indeed, according to her enemies, would court the admiration of her footman, provided no other male of higher status were available. Often she had set herself to win from me some complimentary speech, but had, probably to her chagrin, always found me blind to all her feminine blandishments. That she was amazingly handsome could not for a moment be denied, but the open manner in which she coquetted under her husband’s nose filled me with anger and contempt.

How different she was from Lolita. The latter possessed all that calm, well-bred dignity, that inflexible moral principle which had ever been characteristic of the noble Catholic line of Stanchester. Her early years had been passed with the good nuns of the Sacred Heart at Provins, in France, and even now she gave the impression of one who had passed under the ennobling discipline of suffering and self-denial; a melancholy charm tempered the natural vigour of her mind; her spirit seemed to stand upon an eminence and look down upon the world as though it were not of it; and yet when brought into contact with that world which she inwardly despised, she shrank back with all the timidity natural to her convent education.

Marigold, on the other hand, possessed all the worst traits of the Gordons of Glenloch, that ill-fated house whose men were gamesters and whose women had for two centuries been noted only for their personal beauty. Successions of Gordons had ruined the estates, now mostly in the hands of Jew mortgagees, and the present generation, still reckless and improvident, were consequently very poor. Lady Gordon had successfully schemed to marry her three dashing daughters to wealthy men as a means of saving the last remnant of the estate from passing out of her husband’s hands and of the trio of girls who, for two seasons in London, were the most admired and most courted, Marigold, now Countess of Stanchester, was perhaps the most confirmed flirt. She had set all the convenances at naught then, just as she did now. The golden bond of matrimony never for a moment, galled her. She found the world most amusing, she declared, pouting if her husband reproved her, and surely she might be allowed to amuse herself!

She differed very little from thousands of other wives – women of our latter-day degenerate stock which has neither code of honour to husband nor to tradesmen. Debts trouble them not, they fear neither man nor God, but skip arm-in-arm with the devil down to ruin and disgrace. If, however, the husband chances to be wealthy and their extravagance makes no difference to his income, they will, strangely enough, instead of descending to destruction, rise to a pinnacle of notoriety, become popular leaders of Society, and have their daily doings chronicled by the papers as assiduously as those of the princes of the earth. But, after all, conscience is the padlock that we try to put on our inclinations.

I tried to ascertain the reason why the announcement of the man Keene’s return should concern her so deeply, but she was far too clever to betray herself. From her manner, as soon as she grew calmer again after the first startling shock which the truth had given her, I saw that she was trying to exercise her blandishments upon me. She had some motive in this, I felt convinced. Was it that she was trying to win me over to her side as her friend?

“I really think the less we discuss the unfortunate affair, Mr Woodhouse, the better,” she exclaimed at last, standing upon the hearthrug and facing me with her hands clasped behind her back. The lamplight caught the magnificent ornaments on her throat and bodice, causing them to dance with a thousand flashing fires.

“You yourself approached the subject,” was my cool response. “I quite agree that we may well leave the matter in the hands of the police.”

“But there is one thing I would implore you, as Lolita’s friend – for she is very fond of you, I know – and as my own friend also – and that is to keep this man Keene’s return a profound secret from every one – more especially from George. Do you understand?”

“No, I don’t,” I answered. “At least I don’t understand your reason for endeavouring to conceal the fact.”

“Of course not,” she exclaimed in quick earnestness. “Because you don’t know the truth – you don’t know what exposure means to me – or to Lolita.”

“To you? Then you wish me to assist you in preserving the secret?”

“You have guessed aright, Mr Woodhouse. I confess that I am in fear lest George shall learn that this man Keene has been to Sibberton. He must be kept in ignorance of it at all hazards. Besides yourself, who knows of his return?”

“The innkeeper, Warr.”

“Ah!” she gasped quickly. “Then you must see him and make him promise to say nothing – either to the police or to any person Whatsoever.”

“I will act as you wish,” I responded. “But Lolita has already told me of her own peril.”