The Silent House by Fergus Hume (ebook reader android .TXT) 📕

"We will begin at the beginning, Mrs. Vrain," he said soberly, "say from the time you drove your unfortunate husband out of his own house."

"Now, I guess that wasn't my fault," explained Lydia. "I wasn't in love with old man Mark, but I liked him well enough, for he was a real gentleman; and when that make-mischief Diana, who cocked her nose at me, set out for Australia, we got on surprisingly well. Count Ferruci came over to stay, as much at Mark's invitation as mine, and I didn't pay too much attention to him anyhow."

"Miss Tyler says you did!"

"Sakes!" cried Mrs. Vrain, raising her eyebrows, "have you been talking to that old stump? Well, just you look here, Mr. Denzil! It was Bella Tyler who made all the mischief. She thought Ercole was sweet on her, and when she found out he wasn't, she got real mad, and went to tell Mark that I was making things hum the wrong way with the Count. Of course Mark had a row with him, and, of course, I got riz—not having done anything to lie low for. We had a row royal, I guess, and the end of it was that Mark cleared out. I thought he would turn up again, or apply for a divorce, though he hadn't any reason to. But he did neither, and remained away for a whole year. While he was away I got quit of Ercole pretty smart, I can tell you, as I wanted to shut up that old maid's mouth. I never knew where Mark was, or guessed what became of him, until I saw that advertisement, and putting two and two together to make four, I called to see Mr. Link, where I found you running the circus."

"Why did you faint on the mention of the stiletto?"

"I told you the reason, and Link also."

"Yes, but your reason was too weak to——"

"Oh, well, you're right enough there," interrupted Lydia, smiling. "All that talk of nerves and grief wasn't true. I didn't give my real reason, but I will now. When I heard that the old man had been stabbed by a stiletto I remembered that the one on the library wall had vanished some time before the Christmas Eve on which Mark was killed. So you may guess I was afraid."

"For yourself?"

"I guess not; it wasn't any of my funeral. I didn't take the stiletto, nor did I know who had; but I was afraid you might think Ferruci took it. The stiletto was Italian, and the Count is Italian, so it struck me you might put two and two together and suspect Ercole. I never thought you'd fix on me," concluded Lydia, with a scornful toss of her head.

"As a matter of fact, I fixed on you both," said Lucian composedly.

"And for what reason? Why should I and the Count murder poor Mark, if you please? He was a fool and a bore, but I wished him no harm. I was sorry as any one when I heard of his death, and I offered a good reward for the catching of the mean skunk that killed him. If I had done so myself I wouldn't have been such a fool as to sharpen the scent of the hounds on my own trail."

"You were in town on Christmas Eve?" said Denzil, not choosing to explain the motives he believed the pair had for committing the crime.

"I was. What of that?"

"You were in Jersey Street, Pimlico, on that night."

"I was never in Pimlico in my life!" declared Lydia wrathfully, "and, as I said before, I don't know where Jersey Street is."

"Do you know a man called Wrent?"

"I never heard of him!"

"Yet you visited him in Jersey Street on Christmas Eve, between seven and eight o'clock."

"Did I, really?" cried Mrs. Vrain, ironically, "and how can you prove I did?"

"By that cloak," said Lucian, pointing to where it lay on a chair. "You wore that cloak and a velvet-spotted veil."

"I haven't worn a veil of that kind for over a year," said Lydia decisively, "though I admit I used to wear veils of that sort. You can ask my maid if I have any velvet-spotted veils in my wardrobe just now. As to the cloak—I never wear rabbit skins."

"You might as a disguise."

"Sakes alive, man, what should I want with a disguise? I tell you the cloak isn't mine. You can soon prove that. Find out who made it, and go and ask in the shop if I bought it."

"How can I find out who made it?" asked Denzil, who was beginning to feel that Lydia was one too many for him.

"Here! I'll show you!" said Lydia, and picking up the cloak she turned over the tab at the neck, by which it was hung up. At the back of this there was a small piece of tape with printed black letters. "Baxter & Co., General Drapers, Bayswater," she read out, throwing down the cloak contemptuously. "I don't go to a London suburb for my frocks; I get them in Paris."

"Then you are sure this cloak isn't yours?" asked Lucian, much perplexed.

"No! I tell you it isn't! Go and ask Baxter & Co. if I bought it. I'll go with you, if you like; or better still," cried Mrs. Vrain, jumping up briskly, "I can take you to see some friends with whom I stayed on Christmas Eve. The whole lot will tell you that I was with them at Camden Hill all the night."

"What! Can you prove an alibi?"

"I don't know what you call it," retorted Lydia coolly, "but I can prove pretty slick that I wasn't in Pimlico."

"But—Mrs. Vrain—your friend—Ferruci was there!"

"Was he? Well, I don't know. I never saw him that time he was in town. But if you think he killed Mark you are wrong. I do not believe Ercole would kill a fly, for all he's an Italian."

"Do you think he took that stiletto?"

"No, I don't!"

"Then who did?"

"I don't know. I don't even know when it was taken. I missed it after Christmas, because that old schoolma'am told me it was gone."

"Old schoolma'am!"

"Well, Bella Tyler, if you like that better," retorted Mrs. Vrain. "Come, now, Mr. Denzil, I'm not going to let you go away without proving my—what do you call it?—alibi. Come with me right along to Camden Hill."

"I'll come just to satisfy myself," said Lucian, picking up the cloak, "but I am beginning to feel that it is unnecessary."

"You think I am innocent? Well," drawled Lydia, as Lucian nodded, "I think that's real sweet of you. I mayn't be a saint, but I'm not quite the sinner that Diana of yours makes me out."

"Diana of mine, Mrs. Vrain?" said Lucian, colouring.

The little woman laughed at his blush.

"Oh, I'm not a fool, young man. I see how the wind blows!" And with a nod she vanished.

Mrs. Vrain sacrificed the vanity of a lengthy toilette to a natural anxiety to set herself right with Lucian, and appeared shortly in a ravishing costume fresh from Paris. Perhaps by arraying herself so smartly she wished to assure Denzil more particularly that she was a lady of too much taste to buy rabbit-skin cloaks in Bayswater: or perhaps—which was more probable—she was not averse to ensnaring so handsome a young man into an innocent flirtation.

The suspicion she entertained of Lucian's love for Diana only made Lydia the more eager to fascinate him on her own account. A conceit of herself, a hatred of her stepdaughter, and a desire to wring admiration out of a man who did not wish to bestow it. These were the reasons which led Mrs. Vrain to be particularly agreeable to the barrister. When the pair were ensconced in a swift hansom, and rolling rapidly towards Camden Hill, she began at once to prosecute her amiable designs.

"I guess you'll not mind being my best boy for the day," she said, with a coquettish glance. "You can escort me, first of all, to the Pegalls, and afterwards we can drive to Baxter & Co.'s in Bayswater, so that you can assure yourself I didn't buy that cloak."

"I am much obliged for the trouble you are taking, Mrs. Vrain," replied the young man, avoiding with some reserve the insinuating glances of his pretty companion. "We shall do as you suggest. Who are the Pegalls, may I ask?"

"My friends, with whom I stopped on Christmas Eve," rejoined Mrs. Vrain. "A real good, old, dull English family, as heavy as their own plum puddings. Mrs. Pegall's a widow like myself, and I daresay she buys her frocks in the Bayswater stores. She has two daughters who look like barmaids, and ought to be, only they ain't smart enough. We had a real Sunday at home on Christmas Eve, Mr. Denzil. Whist and weak tea at eight, negus and prayers and bed at ten. Poppa wanted to teach them poker, and they kicked like mad at the very idea; but that was when he visited them before, I guess."

"Not the kind of family likely to suit you, I should think," said Lucian, regarding the little free-lance with a puzzled air.

"I guess not. Lead's a feather to them for weight. But it's a good thing to have respectable friends, especially in this slow coach of an old country, where you size everybody up by the company they keep."

"Ah!" said Lucian pointedly and—it must be confessed—rather rudely, "so you have found the necessity of having respectable friends, however dull?"

"That's a fact," acknowledged Mrs. Vrain candidly. "I've had a queer sort of life with poppa—ups and downs, and flyings over the moon, I guess."

"You are not American?" said Denzil suddenly.

"Sakes! How do you figure that out?"

"Because you are too pronouncedly Amurrican to be American."

"That's an epigram with some truth in it," replied Lydia coolly. "Oh, I'm as much a U. S. A. article as anything else. We hung out our shingle in Wyoming, Wis., for a considerable time, and a girl who tickets herself Yankee this side flies high. But I guess I'm not going to give you my history," concluded Mrs. Vrain drily. "I'm not a Popey nor you a confessor."

"H'm! You've been in the South Seas, I see."

"There's no telling. How do you know?"

"The natives there use the word Popey to designate a Roman Catholic."

"You are as smart as they make 'em, Mr. Denzil. There's no flies about you; but I'm not going to give myself away. Ask poppa, if you want information. He's that simple he'll tell you all."

"Well, Mrs. Vrain, keep your own secret; it is not the one I wish to discover. By the way, you say your father was at Camden Hill on Christmas Eve?"

"I didn't say so, but he was," answered Lydia quietly. "He was not very well—pop can't stand these English winters—and wrote me to come up. But he was so sick that he left the Pegalls' about six o'clock."

"That was the letter which upset you."

"It was. I see old Bella Tyler kept her eyes peeled. I got the letter and came up at once. I've only got one parent left, and he's too good to be shoved away in a box underground while fools live. But here we are at the Pegalls'. I hope you'll like the kind of circus they run. Campmeetings are nothing to it."

The dwelling of the respectable family alluded to was a tolerably sized house of red brick, placed in a painfully neat garden, and shut in