Inspector Furnival's Most Mysterious Cases. Annie Haynes

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      Chapter V

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      The blind was up, the morning light was streaming in through the window.

      Judith raised herself in bed, leaned forward clasping her arms round her knees, and stared straight before her, in miserable, dazed bewilderment. All night long she had been tossing and turning in bed, going over again that dead and buried past, dreading the present—the future.

      But this morning as the bright sunshine streamed into the room, it seemed impossible that yesterday's—that last night's happenings could really have taken place.

      It was—it must be—she told herself, some hideous dream.

      In her ordered life, of late, that past in which Stanmore played his part had seemed so very far away, she had been trying to teach herself to forget it.

      Was it possible, she asked herself shudderingly, that it was she, Anthony Carew's wife, who had gone to Stanmore's flat last night, who had stood there, panting like some caged wild creature, while that terrible deed was done?

      Was it, could it, be a dream? She slipped out of bed, and stood for a moment with her bare feet on the Persian rug at the side.

      She unlocked her jewel-case, and took out the key of the small wardrobe, then, crossing the room quickly with trembling footsteps she thrust the wardrobe door back and felt inside the well. Yes! Yes! there was the dress she had worn last night—as she had known too well in her heart it would be.

      Shutting her eyes, she could recall the very shape of those horrible stains, those dull crimson splashes. There was no mistake; she had known all along there could be none.

      She stood still until at last some sound from Anthony's room roused her. She started and listened, the colour flashing into her cheeks. She told herself that she could not speak out about last night's doings, as her better angel had been counselling her. She was tied and bound by the cords of Anthony's love, by Baby Paul's tiny hands.

      Then, shivering, she got back into bed again.

      She could hear her husband moving about in his room for some time; then she heard his door close, and realized with a curious sense of bewilderment that he had gone down without coming to inquire how she was.

      At last Célestine appeared with the tea. The sight of it was very grateful to Judith's parched mouth; she drank it eagerly.

      The maid uttered a little shocked exclamation as she saw her mistress's face.

      "But Miladi has surely the influenza," she cried. "Miladi must remain in bed and summon the good Dr. Martin, is it not so?"

      "Certainly not!" Judith negatived decidedly. "The very notion of lying in bed longer was hateful to her. I am quite well. Get my bath ready, Célestine. I shall get up at once."

      She felt a little better when she had splashed in and out of her bath, when Célestine had arranged her hair in its usual golden crown, but she turned with loathing from the white morning gown the maid brought her. She would never wear white again, she thought with a shudder. Yet when her blue serge was fastened she wondered whether her white face did not look more colourless by contrast. She rubbed her cheeks rosy before she went downstairs.

      Sir Anthony was standing at the table when she entered the breakfast room; he was apparently absorbed in his correspondence, a great pile of letters lying at his right hand—the papers were on the fender. He looked critically at his wife as she came in.

      "How are you this morning, Judith?" he asked quietly.

      He hardly waited for her answer. There was a new, almost an antagonistic note in his voice. Judith was conscious of it, without in any way realizing its significance. Her brain was obsessed by a fresh thought, the papers on the floor had riveted her attention. What would they say about last night's tragedy?

      Sir Anthony looked at her. "Do you want anything over here, Judith?" he asked.

      Judith had little thought to spare for anything this morning, or she would have seen that his face was pale beneath his tan, that there were new stern lines round his mouth, that his eyes were cold and strained.

      "The paper, please."

      Sir Anthony's eyes scrutinized her coldly as he passed her the paper, noted the two red spots that were beginning to burn on her cheeks, to tell of her inward excitement.

      She ran her eyes down the different columns. No! There was no mention of the Abbey Court flat—of its terrible secret. Evidently nothing had been discovered.

      She pushed her untasted egg from her, with a feeling of sick loathing, as she realized that the dead man must be there now, alone in his flat, his eyes still staring glassily.

      Sir Anthony was to all appearances still occupied with his letters, but over the top of the sheet his eyes were furtively scanning her, watching her every movement.

      Suddenly there was the sound of voices in the hall. Judith started and flinched visibly, then her face cleared, and she looked round with relief as there was a cry, "Judith! Judith!"

      Sir Anthony threw down his paper. "Peggy! What in the world is she doing here at this time in the morning?"

      "Why, Peggy has come to ask how Judith is, to be sure," the young lady answered for herself as she appeared in the doorway. "We were so sorry you weren't well enough to come to the reception yesterday afternoon, Judith dear," stooping to kiss her sister-in-law, "but you look as fit as a fiddle this morning, real country roses in your cheeks. I am so glad," with another kiss.

      Peggy Carew was not like her half-brother, Sir Anthony. She did not in the least resemble her mother, Theresa, Lady Carew, who since Sir Anthony's marriage had removed to the Dower House. A friend of Peggy's had once said there was nothing in the world she was like, unless it were a dewy wild rose picked from an English hedgerow.

      This morning her cheeks were flushed by exercise, her great brown eyes were full of laughter, her young red lips were smiling, the fluffy brown hair was curling in pretty disorder round her white forehead.