Chapter 17

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BASIL Hale was Peter's half-brother!

She was repeating the words of the demented woman---repeating them mechanically as, ten minutes later, Bourke sent the big police car down the drive.

That moaning wreck of a woman she had left lying half dressed upon her bed, shuddering to unconsciousness under the effects of Donald's hypodermic needle, was the mother of Basil Hale.

"Don't think about it," growled Bourke when she asked him a question.

The fresh morning air in her face was both sedative and stimulant. They had not left Longford Manor far behind when she was almost her normal self. And she felt more at ease with him than she could have thought was possible. She had a sense of understanding with the big man. Yesterday he was commonplace, rather unpresentable. To-day he had a new dignity, a new authority. She must have felt towards him then as Peter had felt all these years.

"Will you tell me, Mr. Bourke, what are the qualities required in a detective?"

He was taken aback.

"I'm blest if I know. I suppose a natural suspicion and a faith in the crookedness of humanity are the big essentials," he said without turning his head. "Why do you ask?"

The blurred mass of her intentions was coming into focus, but it was not yet so clearly outlined that she could put before him a definite plan.

"Peter wants a lot of help, I think---particular help that you could not give him because you mustn't be told just what the trouble is. I am quite ignorant about Scotland Yard, but I read once that if the police know things, suspicious things, they must act even though they may believe in the innocence of the person affected."

He nodded at this, threw a swift understanding glance at her from under his heavy eyelids.

"I suppose you will think I am being a romantic fool when I suggest that I want to be a detective. And yet I do. I want to get to the bottom of a horrible mystery---the murder, Mrs. Untersohn, everything. And then I think I may be able to tell the police without hurting anybody---I mean anybody I'm fond of. I'm terrified now of saying anything----"

"Do you know anything---for certain?"

He asked this bluntly and she shook her head.

"No---I don't think so. I'm guessing---we're all guessing. I can't get a line---is that the word?---to certain peculiar coincidences. I'm aching to tell you two things, but if I did I'd never forgive myself."

Bourke, driving with one hand, took a long cigar case from his pocket with the other. He did not ask permission to smoke: she would have been surprised if he had. He bit off the end and lit it with a little silver lighter, very deliberately, and she guessed that he was giving himself the time to consider her words: he could have had little pleasure in smoking a cigar as they pushed forward at fifty miles an hour.

"Peter hasn't been a 'case' in the strict sense of the word," he said. "That is to say, he hasn't become a subject for police investigation. In the early days he rather bored me with his fears and worries. But I took him up as one takes up a spare time hobby---till I got to know and like him. He has been rather a difficult feller in one way; he's rich and I'm a poor man. The first time he offered me a present---it was a thousand pounds---for the little service I could do him, it was pretty hard to refuse. I'm not saying I've never taken presents from people I've helped, but Peter was different---it was self-interest in my case, I suppose---I never knew whether some day he wouldn't go the way of Alexander Welerson, and that would have been awkward."

They were approaching Barnet now, and slowed, for the traffic was heavier than usual.

"I don't know which direction you'll take in your investigations. The man who knew most about Peter was Basil Hale."

She stopped and stared at him.

"Basil knew---what makes you think that?" she asked.

"He's spent a year and more than a year nosing about Elmwood---that is the village where Peter's father had his house. And he has been at Southport a lot. Welerson's lawyer had his office there---Radlow and Bolf---old Radlow was one of Peter's trustees."

Radlow! She remembered Peter's words.

"Hale tried to get at him," the detective went on, swerving the car alarmingly to avoid a dog, "but Radlow wasn't telling. He's eighty, but he's got a forty mind. I don't know what he expected to find from the lawyers---Peter's never got anything worth knowing."

She remembered the name, though she had never seen the old lawyer. It was a representative of this firm of lawyers who had attended at her father's house and had read, with incredible rapidity, the particulars of her marriage settlement. But that was a younger Radlow---a tight-lipped, detached man who had been interested in nothing but another professional engagement and had spent most of his spare time looking at his watch.

Bourke brought the conversation back to the ugly realities of the day.

"I wonder if you guess who it was broke into your room, Mrs. Clifton?"

"Yes, I think I know. That is one of the things I shall never understand. Why he came to Longford Manor."

"He was in love---or thought he was. He was that kind of man. And of course quite mad."

Mad! She understood, and for the moment was stunned. Basil Hale was the son of Alexander Weierson---Peter's half-brother. The taint was in his blood too!

"Sorry---I'm afraid that shocked you. Yes, Hale was mad all right. And his mother had a legitimate grievance. Old Welerson married her in his crazy way, although he had a wife living. She knew he was married, but he persuaded her that his marriage wasn't legal---Peter's mother was a sort of cousin---old Radlow could clear up that mystery, but he won't. I asked Peter to wire him before I left, but I don't suppose anything will induce that old oyster to open his shell."

They were well into the London traffic by now, and conversation became fragmentary and unimportant. The car pulled up before the huge doorway of Peter's flat. She had made one visit to this handsome apartment of his, so she was not wholly a stranger to the butler who met her.

"I am afraid we aren't very shipshape, madam," he said. "We didn't expect Mr. Clifton for weeks, and I've been getting the flat cleaned."

There was little evidence of confusion, however. Peter had telephoned early in the morning and her room was ready, Walker explained.

"Oh, pardon me, madam---there is a gentleman waiting. I put him in the drawing-room."

She nodded.

"Yes---my father."

Walker agreed: he was the type of well-trained servant who agrees very readily.

When she walked into the big salon overlooking Green Park she had a surprise. It was not John Leith who stood on the hearthrug, his hands behind him, his chin on his breast, but a spare old man whom she had never seen before. He was completely bald and his face was a tangle of deep lines and furrows.

"Mrs. Clifton?" He had a thin, shrill voice, which was further complicated by a lisp.

"Yes?" she said wonderingly.

"My name's Radlow---lawyer---got Peter's wire---fortunately was dressed---saw the paper---beastly---whole thing---Hale got self to blame."

He spoke rapidly, breathlessly, jerking out one disconnected sentence after another. Evidently he had trained himself to this economy of speech; it was a lifetime habit.

He drew a folded newspaper from the tail of his long frock-coat and stabbed an item with a gnarled forefinger.

"Basil Hale mad---always said so---told his mother---stupid old woman!"

"You know Mrs. Untersohn?" she asked.

"Know her?" Mr. Radlow's voice was thin with annoyance. "Haunted my office---magnificent settlement---asinine extravagance---seen her car? Vulgar! She's a cook----" He tapped the paper again. "Nasty thing, this---somebody knows all about it---I see the drift---my son has been making inquiries---you've seen him."

Jane gathered that "my son" was the thin-lipped lawyer who had attended her in the matter of the marriage settlement.

"A fine, handsome boy!"

At any other time she would have laughed. He seemed to have lost the thread of his discourse in this rhapsody, for he tapped his forehead and muttered.

"Ah, yes," he said at last. "This newspaper account---bad for Peter, eh---very bad. Bad for Peter Clifton Welerson---son of Alexander Hale Welerson, deceased---that's where she got the Hale from---her name's Untersohn---Swedish. I shall have to do something at once---statutory declaration at my time of life---and I was hoping I'd never see those damned courts again! If the fools had only studied the will----!"

Only then did he remember the object of his visit and demanded when she expected Peter. Apparently he knew, from the servants perhaps, that she was coming alone.

"He was a fool to stay---tell him to ring me up----"

He carried his abruptness of speech into abruptness of movement. Leaning forward, he clutched her hand quickly, shook it with surprising vigour, and put on the old-fashioned silk hat that he carried, and was out of the room almost before she could recover her breath. As soon as the outer door slammed the butler came hurrying in.

"Mr. Leith," he said, and Jane ran forward to meet her father.

It seemed a hundred years since she had gazed into that worn, studious face. He was haggard now with anxiety, and for the first time in her life she saw him seriously perturbed.

"This is a ghastly business, Jane. My poor darling!"

The arm around her shoulders was trembling, and for the moment she was more concerned about the effect the news had had upon him than about her own worries.

Not yet had she made up her mind as to how much she should tell him. Peter's secret was very much his, not to be divulged even to this well-beloved father. She was spared one revelation: Peter had been on the telephone to him and had told him frankly about his health.

"It is difficult to believe that Peter isn't the sanest man in the world," he said, frowning moodily into the grate. Then he turned and pushed her back from him. "Let me look at you. This has been a horrible experience for you. My God, what an awful thing money is!"

She smiled faintly.

"You mean, I oughtn't to have married Peter, and that I only married him for his money?"

He nodded.

"I married you to him for his money," he said a little bitterly. "I thought I saw an end to all difficulties and dangers. I am not as rich a man as you think," he added quickly, as he saw the question in her eyes, "and I really was worried about the future. When Peter came into our little circle I jumped at him---literally jumped."

He did not attempt to particularise the cause of his worry, but asked:

"Who is with Peter now---is Bourke there?"

"Mr. Bourke brought me up," she explained. "Donald is with him, and Marjorie."

At the word "Marjorie" he started.

"Marjorie Wells? How did she come to be there?"

Jane told him. For some reason or other he seemed relieved.

"Was that old Radlow I saw going out? Yes, I know him. He's Peter's lawyer, or rather he's the head of the firm that acts for Peter. You remember, dear, you met his son. What did he want?"

As best she could she gave Mr. Radlow's speech a coherence which it had not possessed in its original form. He listened attentively, stopping now and again to question her on what she thought were unimportant points.

"I wish you'd come back to Avenue Road with me," he said when she had finished, "but I suppose that wouldn't be quite fair to Peter---are you fond of him?"

She hesitated just a shade of a second too long.

"You like him, though?" he asked anxiously.

"I like him very much---I think I could love him," she said frankly, and did not overlook the fact that he winced. "Don't you want me to?"

"Of course," he said hurriedly. "But, my dear, it would be better if you---didn't love him, you know. If what he says is true----"

She shook her head.

"That I am going to find out," she said quietly.

He stayed to lunch with her, and twice she nearly told him of the secret room and the mysterious disappearance in the space of twenty-four hours of all evidence of Peter's tragic folly. On both occasions she stopped herself in time, though she had to invent a lie in order to finish, without arousing his suspicion, a sentence she had already begun.

The lunch was something of an ordeal to Jane, and she was amazed that it should be so, for she dearly loved this quiet man and had anticipated their meeting with a sense of comfort. She was almost pleased when he went and left her alone. The meeting with the lawyer had produced a new problem: one of her partly formed theories had been shattered. She had seen in Peter's forgery the secret of his wealth, and had not doubted that this rich father of his was a myth invented to explain his prosperity. But the lawyer could not be lying when he spoke of the two-million legacy. Why, then, had Peter been guilty of this unutterable folly? Why, then, had Peter deliberately set himself out to break the law? Was it symptomatic of the family insanity, a freakish hobby, a perverted interest that he had adopted for the thrill and excitement of the forger's life?

One thing she had intended telling her father---this she remembered when he had left---and that was the recovery of Peter's etchings. She had never seen John Leith so annoyed with himself as he had been over that piece of carelessness. She made a mental note to produce this innocuous item of news the next time they met.

After lunch she telephoned to Longford Manor, and found that Bourke had returned there, and that he and Peter were out of the house. Donald Wells had left for London with his wife. It was a strange voice that spoke to her. She supposed he was a detective, from his tone of authority, but he was evidently a detective who had been instructed to give her any information she asked for.

"Mr. Clifton will be coming to town this evening with the superintendent," said the voice.

Apparently Mrs. Untersohn had gone too, for when she asked about the woman she was informed briefly that she had been taken away---by whom or in what circumstances he did not say.

She had at least two hours before Peter returned. She sent out for an evening paper.

"If the fools had only studied the will----" What did the old man mean by that, she wondered. What was there in the will that would enlighten her. She determined at the first opportunity to secure a copy of the document.

The paper came only a few minutes ahead of its representative. She found a column headed "Manor House Murder," and had hardly begun to read when the reporter was announced.

Jane had met many journalists at her father's house, and the Press had no terrors for her.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Mrs. Clifton"---the young man was conventionally apologetic. "We're rather anxious to check the times in this murder. I believe you heard Mr. Hale shouting?"

"How do you know?" she asked quickly.

"It's in the evening newspapers. It says you were awakened in the middle of the night, that you tried to rouse your husband, but that when you went into his room he was not there."

She stared at him.

"Who said that?" she demanded.

The journalist smiled.

"It's difficult to tell off-hand the source of any information, but it has been reported. I think you will find it in that newspaper."

She skimmed the column and presently she came to the passage:

"Mrs. Clifton, who was asleep, was awakened by a terrible cry in the grounds. She was so alarmed that she went into her husband's room, and, finding he was not there, she asked Mrs. Wells, the wife of the famous West End physician and who had also been awakened by the cry, to go in search of him. Apparently Mr. Clifton himself had heard the noise and had gone out into the grounds, though he does not remember having left his room."

Marjorie had been the informant! Marjorie or Cheyne Wells?

"This story is a fabrication," she said. "It is perfectly true that I went into my husband's room, but he had taken a sleeping draught the night before and I was unable to wake him. The rest is sheer imagination."

A little lower down her eyes were arrested by another paragraph:

"Sir William Clewers, the eminent alienist, who called on Mr. Clifton this morning, said that the work is undoubtedly the act of a madman."

Her face betrayed no sign of emotion as she handed the newspaper back to the reporter.

Sir William Clewers was there! Who had brought him down? She was no longer puzzled: one of the clouds which had obscured the truth from her eyes was melting.