Chapter 27

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PETER woke in the morning from a sound, dreamless sleep, to find somebody standing by the side of his bed and to hear the pleasant rattle of teacups, and then:

"Strong or weak?" said the sweetest voice in the world. "And I haven't been married long enough even to know whether you like sugar."

He blinked open his eyes. Jane, in a flowered kimono, was standing by his bedside, a small china teapot poised.

"Eh?" he said, and looked round. "Oh, I'm here, am I?"

"You're very much here," she said calmly. "I wonder if you realise how extremely interesting it is to have a husband who is never quite sure of what bed he's sleeping in!"

Peter smiled ruefully and rubbed his fingers through his hair.

"I realise that being married to me at all must be the most ghastly experience a woman could have," he said as he took the cup from her hands.

"What time is it?"

She laughed softly at this.

"That really does sound domestic. It is half-past seven."

He looked round the room, puzzled.

"Is Bourke here?" he asked.

"Mr. Bourke is not here," she said. "I had serious thoughts of offering him the spare room, but I don't think he would have accepted."

He swallowed the tea gratefully and frowned at the slim figure sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Something happened last night---what was it? I've a dim idea that Bourke told me something." He screwed up his eyes in an effort of memory and gasped. "Radlow---he was killed!"

She nodded.

"Yes," she said quietly, "Mr. Radlow was shot."

Peter buried his face in his hands and groaned.

"How ghastly! I suppose["

"You needn't suppose anything until you've seen Mr. Bourke," she said promptly, "especially if you are supposing that you killed him."

He shook his head.

"It's no good, Jane," he said despairingly. "You've been wonderful to me; and now that you know . . . about my wretched ancestor, I can talk freely. I thought I was cured, that there was no danger, or I would never have allowed you to marry me. Donald told me there was a possibility that I should have these lapses---why do you look at me like that?"

There certainly was a strange expression in Jane's fine eyes.

"Was I looking weirdly? Perhaps I was. Peter, I don't think I should worry very much about what Donald Wells says. You are inclined to take his opinion too seriously. And don't stare like a frightened fawn, darling---you don't mind those automatic terms of endearment, do you? We've got to pretend that we're happily married, and you must get used to being addressed in these affectionate terms."

He laughed quietly at this; it was the first time she had seen him laugh since their marriage.

"I can bear a lot of that," he said. And then, more seriously: "Why don't you like Donald? He has been a very good friend of mine, Jane. I don't know what I should have done without his help."

She turned a solemn face to him.

"Detectives live in a normal state of suspicion," she said. "That is what Mr. Bourke told me."

"Detectives?"

She nodded.

"I am a detective," she said quietly. "I have taken up my new profession with enthusiasm. I am suspicious of Donald, suspicious of Marjorie, quite prepared to be suspicious of Mr. Bourke himself."

"And of me?"

The ghost of a smile came and faded.

"No, not of you. I suspect you of being many things that are rather nice, and many that are rather foolish."

She got up and poured out another cup of tea.

"I'm going to ask you one of these days to give me a little chronology of what happened to you and how you came to know all, especially Donald. And now I'll leave you. When you are dressed, will you come into my room---I suppose it is my room; you'll find me waiting with a pen and paper and a questionnaire."

He laughed again.

"I'll be the most obliging witness you have ever cross-examined," he said.

She herself had to dress, but she stopped long enough in the sitting-room to scan the newspapers. Only one had a paragraph on its principal page dealing with the death of Mr. Radlow. Happily, for the moment, there could be no association between that tragedy and Peter, and he would be spared the ordeal of again meeting the persistent and ubiquitous crime reporter anxious for particulars of his movements.

She dressed at leisure and returned to the pretty little sitting-room, to find him standing at the open window looking across the sunlit park. Evidently he had read the paragraph too, for he referred to the crime the moment she came into the room.

"Bourke told me something," he said. "I can't remember what it was, but I've a horrible feeling it was something unpleasant. Was I at Sydenham last night?"

"You were," she answered without hesitation.

"I can't understand it, and yet I'm terribly afraid I can! Did Bourke say----"

"Never mind what Mr. Bourke said." She was brisk and businesslike; true to her promise, she sat down at the desk. "I want dates, Peter. How did you come to meet Donald Wells?"

"My dear, is this necessary?" He was almost impatient with her.

She nodded.

"Very necessary. Mr. Bourke asked me to get these facts."

Peter strode up and down the room, his hands clasped behind him, his forehead gathered in a frown.

"I met him . . . when did I meet him? It was after my return from Africa. I had a bad toothache on the boat, and a man I met there recommended a surgeon in Harley Street. I remembered the number, 903, but the pain disappeared for two or three months. One evening it came back; I drove to Harley Street and met Donald Wells. You quite understand that the bigger trouble was never absent from my mind. It has been a nightmare to me all my life, ever since by accident I discovered that my father had died in Broadmoor."

"When did you learn that?" she asked quickly.

"When I was twenty-one. The lawyers had to tell me. I had a lot of papers to sign, and it was then I discovered that my name was Welerson. I didn't have to ask why it was changed; the place of my father's death had appeared in the documents that had to be read and signed. They were brought out to me when I was living in Gwelo---that's in Rhodesia---and the clerk who brought them for my signature was rather loquacious---he told me everything. I always knew something was wrong. Old Radlow was so anxious to keep me out of the country, to get me into the open air. I thought possibly there might have been a history of lung trouble in the family. It was a terrible shock to discover it was something so much worse."

She fetched a deep sigh and found she was patting the hand that rested near hers on the table.

"Now tell me about Donald," she said gently.

"Well, I went to Harley Street, met Wells, and explained my mistake. He had bought the house from the dentist, who was dead, but he took me along to another fellow---in Devonshire Street, I think---who killed the nerve and fixed me up. Wells waited with me, and afterwards I went back to the house with him. His wife was abroad. I found him very sympathetic. He was a doctor, and naturally I could tell him things that had been bottled up in my mind for years. I had never consulted a medical man about my own condition and the possibilities of inheriting my father's disease, and now, at the first opportunity, I told him everything. I owe Donald more than I can ever repay. He made me promise to see him every week, and we became good friends. For one thing I can never be sufficiently grateful: it was through him that I met you."

She nodded.

"I remember the night he brought you---my birthday party, wasn't it?" Before he could answer, she asked quickly: "Was Basil Hale there?"

He considered for a moment.

"Yes, I think he was. I have no distinct recollection of him, but I have a dim idea that he was hovering somewhere in the background."

She made a note.

"Another point, and I think this is the most important: do you remember what was Donald's excuse for bringing you to our party?"

He nodded.

"Your father was anxious to meet me. He had seen some of my etchings."

She pushed the paper away. He had a relieved thought that the questions were at an end.

"Peter, how often have you had these lapses---I mean, the periods when you did not know what you were doing?"

"Not till recently," he answered. "But then, Donald told me that my present age was the most critical. So did Clewers, the specialist."

"Have you had them since the night of Basil's death?"

"No---with the exception of last night, of course. I really can't understand what happened. I've a distinct recollection of leaving Longford Manor, but what happened after that I don't know. I've tried very hard to recover every incident, but the last distinct recollection I have is of the gatepost of the manor. After that, everything is blurred and confused."

"Did you pass a car standing on the side of the road?"

Jane jumped at the sound of that strange voice. It was Bourke. Remembering his size, he was surprisingly noiseless. He must have opened the door while they were talking and closed it behind him without either of them seeing or hearing him, for he was well in the room when he put the question in his husky voice.

"Hello!" Peter rose awkwardly. "Where the dickens did you come from?"

"Through the floor," said the other, with a broad grin. "I had my early training as demon king in a pantomime. Good morning, Mrs. Clifton. I'm sorry to have scared you."

"You didn't scare me. I admit to being rather startled."

Bourke chuckled.

"I'm theatrical---I admit it. The ambition of my life is to go one better than the stage detective, but I've never had the chance. What about that car?"

He drew up a chair and sat down on the other side of the table, his big face turned towards Peter.

"A car? Yes, I do remember a car---a big black coupé."

"You passed it, and then you saw it again? Following you, wasn't it?" suggested Bourke.

Peter thought for a moment.

"Yes, I remember that too. I was driving rather slowly, and I wondered it didn't pass me. It was a much more powerful car than mine. That's about all I can remember."

"It's quite enough," said Bourke. "What have you been asking him, Mrs. Clifton?"

She showed him the paper on which she had scribbled Peter's answers. Bourke affixed his pince-nez and read them carefully.

"Good," he said at last, putting away his glasses. "But I knew most of that. What I didn't know"---he spoke slowly---"was something entirely different. You're pretty well acquainted with the grounds of Longford Manor, aren't you?"

"Yes," said Peter quietly. His face had gone suddenly tense. Watching him, Jane saw to her dismay that he was on his guard.

"You know that just at the back of the house there's an old well, that hasn't been used for years?"

Peter nodded. All the colour had left his face, and for a second even his lips were bloodless.

"I wondered if you did," said Bourke.

He was looking vacantly past Peter now.

"An old dry well that hasn't been used for years."

"Well, what about it?" Peter jerked out the words defiantly. "I remember the well---the gardener told me it was to be filled up."

Bourke rubbed his big cheek reflectively and his gaze came back to the younger man.

"You're a mystery to me, and I can't understand you," he said. "I've got everything right---but that."

"But what?" asked Jane anxiously.

If Bourke was mystified, no less was she. For one terrible moment she had expected the detective to tell them that the well had yielded up another horror. Whatever be its secret, it was sufficient to reduce Peter to a state bordering upon panic.

"He baffles me, this old man of yours." Bourke could be rather coarse on occasions, and now she was all but moved to hysterical laughter at this wholly inadequate description of her husband. "Baffles me and rattles me---he's led me to more blind ends than any man I've known. You're not to go out to-day, my friend."

"I've no intention of going out," muttered Peter. He was still suffering from the shock that Bourke's cryptic reference had given him.

"I've got an idea that in twenty-four hours all the fog in this case will blow away. I don't mind telling you---this is outside my usual practice—that I've traced the beginning of these murders to the Clever One. There will be a big distribution in London to-night---perhaps the last that the clever fellow will ever attempt---and unless I am mistaken we shall pinch a man who knows enough of the big fellow to give us all the information we want."

He paused as if he expected some comment, but Peter was silent.

"I'll tell you something more, Peter. We shall have the big fellow himself behind bars---he's made one bad slip. He doesn't suspect this, or he'd leave the country to-night."

"Do you know who he is?" asked Peter, not raising his eyes from the table.

"Pretty well, Peter," said Bourke softly. "Pretty well!"

Jane did not see her husband for hours after the detective had left. Peter had retired to his study with such rapidity that she guessed he anticipated a further string of embarrassing questions. He came out to lunch with her, and she guessed the cause of his nervousness and wisely made no attempt to learn what had been in the detective's reference to the well which had so upset him. As the meal progressed he grew more at ease; smiled once when banteringly she addressed him as "dear."

"For the sake of appearances you'll have to learn to do the same, Peter," she said. "You might practise the habit in secret. I will give you a list of the extravagances you are permitted and expected to employ when you're addressing your wife."

"I think I know most of them," said Peter quietly. "You see, I think about you a lot."

She went pink at this, and tried to guide the conversation into more humdrum channels.

"I don't know what you're going to do about me, Jane. You can't divorce me unless I do something pretty beastly, and I'm not likely to do that."

"I might fall in love with somebody else," she suggested, and his consternation was so genuine that she dissolved into gurgles of laughter.

How she could laugh at all puzzled her. She had often read the phrase, "living on the edge of a volcano." Surely no woman had lived so close to the annihilation of peace and happiness as she was living now. At any moment---the sickening thought came to her at intervals---a man might appear in the doorway and beckon Peter and she would never see him again. A forger---a murderer?

She shook her head. Not a murderer.

"What are you shaking your head about?" he asked.

"I was just thinking."

"About divorce?" Then, earnestly: "Jane, if anything happens, if ever they take me away, the court will probably make you administratrix of my estate." And then: "For God's sake, what is the matter?"

She was standing up by the table, her white face staring down at him. Now, only now, she understood the cold-blooded villainy of the plot that had been hatched against Peter Clifton. And in that moment the lifelong love she had had for her father changed to a cold, almost malignant hate.