The strange countess
“Of course you didn’t,” he said soothingly. “But that was his way of
getting even.”
With whom he was getting even he did not explain, and even to the
girl’s tired brain it seemed a little illogical to suggest that
Michael Dorn had procured her arrest in order to get even either with
Mr. Chesney Praye or the Countess of Moron.
They were passing across the wide slope of a hill. Beneath them she
saw the glitter of a meandering river and the grey smoke rising from
little cottages in the valley. The road was narrow and bumpy and was
little more than a lane. She wondered why he came this way, for down
the hill-side she saw a broader thoroughfare which seemed to be
running more or less parallel with that they traversed.
“We are nearly there.”
They were reaching the mouth of the valley. The lane dipped
unexpectedly into a thick plantation of young trees, turned abruptly
at right angles over a cart track, and five minutes later she sighted
a long discoloured wall, which enclosed a squat, low-roofed building.
She saw that the other side of the house faced a road, and again she
wondered why they had not reached their destination by a more
comfortable route. Evidently she was expected, for the weather-beaten
gate was pulled open and they passed into an untidy farmyard. Half a
dozen chickens scattered at their approach; from a patched and broken
pen came the grunt of a pig.
“Here we are.”
He stopped the car, and, jumping out into the litter, he jerked open
the door and helped her to alight. The girl looked round in surprise.
She saw a long, rambling farm-house, and of the windows that were in
view, all except two had not been cleaned for years. To her left was a
cavernous black barn, its doors hanging on broken hinges, and, she
guessed, immovable. It was empty save for a rusted old plough and the
wheelless body of a farm waggon. The place smelt of decay and she
noted in that brief survey that at one end of the building the roof
was nearly innocent of tiles.
“This is not on Lady Moron’s estate?” she asked.
“No, it is a little place that a friend of ours--hers I mean--has.
You’ve met Dr. Tappatt?”
“Dr. Tappatt?” she frowned. Of course, it was the queer, uncleanly
doctor, with the bulbous nose, who had lunched at Chester Square.
“Is he here?” she asked dismally. The last person in the world she
wanted to spend a day with was the doctor.
“Yes, he’s here. He’s not a bad fellow; I knew him in India, and I
think you’ll like him.”
They had evidently come in the back way of the farm, for the only
visible door into the house was closed and bolted. He knocked for a
little while before a woman’s harsh voice asked who was there, and in
a little time there was a sound of rusted bolts being drawn and a
tall, gaunt female showed in the doorway. She wore a soiled print
dress; her face was sallow and grimy.
“Come in, mister,” she said, and they passed into a dark corridor.
The house smelt damp and sour, and the ancient carpet on the floor was
too thin to deaden the hollow echoes of their footsteps.
“The doctor is here.” She wiped her hands mechanically upon her black
apron, and showed them into a room leading off the passage.
It was a dingy apartment, as unsavoury as the house itself. Huddled in
one corner of a horsehair sofa, before the ashes of a wood fire, a man
was sleeping, wrapped in an old dressing-gown. The air was thick and
redolent of stale smoke and whisky fumes, and the girl drew back in
disgust.
Chesney went past her and shook the sleeping man.
“Here, wake up,” he said roughly. “There’s somebody to see you.”
Dr. Tappatt’s head jerked up. If he had been unpleasant at midday in
Chester Square, he was repulsive now.
“Eh, what?” he grunted. He got up on to his feet and stretched
himself. “I’m tired. I told you I should go to sleep. You said you’d
be here before now. _She’s_ sleeping. I’ll bet she’s got a more
comfortable bed to-night than she’s had for twenty years.”
“Shut up, damn you!” said Chesney under his breath. “Here’s Miss
Reddle.”
The doctor blinked at the girl.
“Hullo! Glad to see you, miss. Sorry for you to see me like this, but
I’ve been up all night with--with a patient.” He boomed the last word
as though by its very emphasis it would carry conviction.
“Now listen, Tappatt. There’s a warrant out for this lady, but we’ve
succeeded in getting her away from the police, and she is to remain
here for a few days until her ladyship can square matters.”
Lois gasped.
“A warrant out for me?” she said in amazement. “But you told me that
Dorn had no right to arrest me!”
He smiled and signalled to her to keep silence.
“Has the woman got Miss Reddle’s room ready? She is very tired and
wants to sleep.”
“Surely, surely,” mumbled the doctor. He held a bottle upside down
over a glass, and a very small trickle of liquid came out, to his
annoyance. “I must have a drink,” he grumbled. “This fever is playing
Old Harry with me.”
“But, Mr. Praye,” said Lois, “I don’t quite understand the position.
Why am I staying here? Where is this place?”
“Near Nottingham,” replied Praye. “And, for heaven’s sake, don’t stray
out of the farm and lose yourself. You’ll be all right; you needn’t be
here longer than a few days, and I assure you that there is no cause
for worry.”
He looked at his watch and uttered an impatient exclamation.
“Is Miss Reddle’s room ready?” he asked sharply.
The doctor led the way out along the passage and up a narrow flight of
stairs. On the top landing he unlocked a door and threw it open.
“Here it is.”
“But I’m not tired, Mr. Praye; in fact, I was never so wide awake, and
I’d rather stay up, if I could have some tea?”
“You can have anything you like, my child,” said the doctor gallantly.
“Where’s that woman? Hi, you!” he roared down the stairs. “Bring this
lady up some tea, and bring it quick!”
Lois walked into the bedroom. It was poorly furnished but clean. She
had the impression that every article of furniture had been newly
placed.
“This was the room we got ready for the other,” began the doctor, “but
when I heard the young lady was coming----”
Chesney Praye silenced him with a look.
The other? Twice he had made reference to another visitor who had
already arrived.
“That door at the end leads to a bathroom,” said the doctor. “It is
the snuggest little country lodging you could hope to find.”
He closed the door on her and softly turned the key. The two men went
down the stairs together. When they were alone in the doctor’s room:
“Where’s Pinder?” asked Chesney Praye.
“She’s all right,” said the other carelessly.
“She’s nowhere near this girl?”
“No, she’s in the other wing. She’s easy. Twenty years of prison
discipline behind her. She won’t kick!”
“What did you tell her?”
“The yarn you told me, that somebody wanted to get at her, and she had
to lie here quietly for a day or two. That housekeeper of mine will
look after her, believe me. She had charge of one of my homes in
India.”
Chesney looked at his watch again.
“It is four miles to Whitcomb Aerodrome; you can drive me over.”
“Why don’t you take the car?”
“Because, you fool, I don’t want the car to be seen. Hurry up!”
In five minutes the doctor had harnessed a raw-boned pony to a
dilapidated trap. The blue car had been driven into a shed and the
door locked, and they were bowling down the road to Whitcomb as fast
as the ancient animal could pull them. A quarter of a mile short of
the aerodrome Chesney got down.
“Those two women are not to meet----”
“They’re not likely,” interrupted the other.
“And you’d better keep to the house.”
“What about money?” asked the doctor.
Chesney took a pad of notes from his pocket and passed two to the man.
“And try to cut out the booze for the next week. You’ve got a chance
of making big money, Tappatt, but you’ve also got a chance of being
pinched. If Dorn so much as smells the end of the trail, he’s sure to
have you before you realise you’re suspected.”
Tappatt grinned.
“On what charge?” he asked. “They both came of their own free will,
didn’t they? I don’t pretend they’re certified.”
“They may want to go away of their own free will,” said the other
significantly.
He walked rapidly along the road through the big gates of the
aerodrome and crossed the field towards a two-seater scout that had
been drawn out of its hangar and was attended by three men.
“Good morning. I’m Mr. Stone,” he said. “Is this my machine?”
“Yes, sir. You’ve got a good morning for your trip.”
Praye looked at the frail machine dubiously.
“Will that make Paris in one trip?”
The aerodrome manager nodded.
“Two hours and fifty minutes,” he said. “Maybe shorter. You’ll have a
following wind.”
He helped the passenger into a heavy leather coat. The pilot had
already taken his place, and, when Praye had been strapped and gloved
and received his final instructions, the propellers turned with a
roar, and the machine, running lightly along the grass, swept up into
the blue sky and was soon a speck of white above the eastern horizon.
Chapter Twenty-two
When Michael Dorn left the police station he hurried his car to
Charlotte Street. At such an early hour of the morning there was no
sign of life in this thoroughfare. He expected to be kept waiting
before there came an answer to his knocking. But had he known
something of old Mackenzie’s habits, he would not have been surprised
at the promptitude with which his signal was answered.
The old man was in his dressing-gown and had not been half an hour in
bed when Dorn arrived. He looked with mild suspicion at the visitor--a
suspicion which was intensified when he learnt the object of his
visit.
“Yes, sir, Miss Elizabetta Smith is in the house. Are you from the
police?”
“Yes,” said Michael, without stretching the truth. “Can I speak to
Miss Smith?”
“She came in late and very distressed. I understand that the good
countess has promised to do all in her power to secure the release of
my young friend, Miss Reddle. It is indeed an awful thing to have
happened. Will you come in, sir?”
Michael followed him up the stairs to his little room and sat down
whilst the musician went up to arouse Lizzy. She also had heard the
knocking and was waiting in the doorway of her room when Mackenzie
came up.
“Dorn, is it?” she said viciously. “I’ll come down and Dorn him! He’ll
be ‘sunset’ by the time I’ve finished with him!”
She came into Michael’s presence a flaming virago.
“You’ve got a nerve!” she said. “After swearing away the life of poor
Lois----”
Michael shook his head.
“She’s not here?” he interrupted with a touch of asperity.
“Here? Of course she’s not here! She’s in the police station, and how
you could----”
“She’s not in the police station, she’s been released, and I want to
find the man who released her.”
Something in his tone silenced the girl.
“Isn’t she with Lady Moron?” she asked.
“I am going to Chester Square, but I don’t expect to find Miss Reddle
there. I locked her up to save her life--I suppose you realise that?
There have been two attempts made to kill her, and I had information
that the third would be more successful. I knew her mother was on the
point of being released from prison--she was in fact released last
night. It is vitally necessary that I should have Lois Reddle under my
eye.”
Lizzy had collapsed into a chair.
“Her mother released from prison?” she said hollowly. “What are you
talking about? Her mother’s dead. And killing? Who’s going to kill
Lois? Why! It was an accident--the balcony.”
“It was no accident,” said Michael quietly. “The balcony has been
unsafe for a year past and was condemned by the borough surveyor on
the advice of a local builder who was brought in to repair the slab.