Tragedy at Beechcroft (Musaicum Murder Mysteries). Dorothy Fielding

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СКАЧАТЬ only cared for putting on canvas what lay hidden from most men's eyes—the soul of the sitter; or if not that, then the key in which his nature moved, by which its harmonies could be best understood.

      "It's my daughter I'm concerned about," Mrs. Phillimore said simply. "It's Lavinia, Oliver. I can't stay there to help her—perhaps to save her," her voice trembled, "and I very much fear that she will need help, and possibly saving, from that husband of hers before very long, unless something pulls him up. You really can't go down before next week—a week from this coming Thursday?"

      "I'm so sorry. I definitely can't. But meanwhile, perhaps Lavinia will be able to give him a hand over the stile," Santley suggested.

      "She's completely under his thumb," the mother replied sadly. "She's hypnotised...like the bird and the snake."

      "Did any one see you leave?" Santley asked, to get her on to more common-sense subjects, he hoped.

      "He did. And it wasn't easy to get away. That dreadful man Edwards answered the telephone to the garage when I said I would like a car to take me to the station. He replied that there wasn't any one who could drive me." Again her face flushed, this time with indignation. "So I rang up and got a car from outside to fetch me. I waited by the gate for it. I felt, as I climbed in, as though I were escaping. Heaven knows what. And I saw both the man Edwards and the Major watching me go. The Major actually started after me, as though to stop me. He had an iron bar in his hand, but Edwards laid a hand on his arm, and the car drove off before anything worse happened."

      "It's the most amazing story I've ever heard," Santley said, walking to and fro in front of her in his absorption.

      She nodded sadly.

      "When did it begin? I mean the change in him?" he asked.

      She could only say that she had no idea.

      "But I'm afraid you'll hear of a worse change yet," she said. "Beechcroft is so lonely. He chose the house, though Lavinia's money went to buy it. It's surrounded by trees...murder might be done there and no one would know for weeks..."

      "Oh come, Mrs. Phillimore!" Santley strove for a lighter tone. "Strong word—murder!"

      "I saw murder in his face this morning," she said simply. "Well may Lavinia spend hours crying. She does! In secret. You used to care for her once, Oliver."

      Yes, he had once wanted to marry Lavinia very much indeed. But that was six years ago. His life had gone on. Widened. Deepened. He now felt merely faint surprise at the intensity of his old feeling. But Lavinia had the gift of arousing violent, if swift, passion. He remembered how he had felt her refusal, her marriage...and he was very kind to Mrs. Phillimore.

      "I can do nothing," the mother went on. "The Major was ever so much worse when we were alone. I think he realised that I was watching him. Whereas my poor Lavinia—as I say, whatever her doubts and terrors—and she has plenty of both, she pretends that everything is as it used to be. Oliver," she leant forward and laid one of her hands on his arm, "Oliver, I'm sending her in you the best of protectors—though I wish you could go at once. However, you'll soon see what's wrong with the Major, and once I know that, I shall know how to safeguard her."

      "I can't stay but over the week-end," he said reluctantly.

      "Make it longer!" she begged. "Lavinia is so alone in the world!"

      "But what about these tableaux," he said. "I understand that every one for miles around is coming. That doesn't look like a desire to keep out of the light?"

      "I've been pondering that as I sat here," she said. "I think he wants to be able to show himself to all the world, with Lavinia, as a devoted young couple, with a happy home...Somehow, thinking about it, makes it seem rather sinister—to me." She eyed him with anxious eyes, eyes which he had always thought so cheerful and placid.

      "Look here, Mrs. Phillimore," he said next, "what you need is a private detective. Not a painter. I shan't be any earthly good for what you want."

      "Perhaps not," she said slowly, "but you're the best that I can do. They themselves have asked you down. I can't send them a stranger. You're on Lavinia's side, if there should be trouble. I know you will be better than your words, and try to help me."

      "But what can I do?" protested Santley, half in pity, half in vexation. "Apart from the fact that I shall be his guest—"

      "Not a bit of it," Mrs. Phillimore said promptly. "The house is Lavinia's, and it's her money—entirely—that runs it. Up till this last quarter I've always had to help her. The Major put his few hundreds into some car gadget—a patent gear change, I believe—anyway, it's something that isn't finished even yet. Oh no, Oliver, you'll be Lavinia's guest entirely. Now one more thing...you may need extra help...oh yes, you may! Victor Goodenough will be there. I shall have a word with him, but it will have to be so guarded—just wondering what's wrong with Lavinia—that it may not do much good. Besides, selfish people are always optimists where other people's troubles are concerned, and Victor is frightfully selfish. Then too, he's so wrapped up in Ann just now that, except at night, I don't suppose you'll find him easy to get hold of, for she and the children and their Nannie live in the cottage, quite apart from the house. I wish I could think of another ally for you." She smoothed the tips of her gloves on her fingers as she sat thinking. The way in which she took it for granted that she had carried the day with him amused Santley. But she had, or rather, his own curiosity had.

      "I have it!" she said triumphantly. "Favelle Bruton is back in England!"

      Santley blinked. Favelle Bruton...she was making quite a name for her mosaic work. Favelle Bruton...a handsome young woman with extraordinary eyes. You never knew if they were bright green, or bright blue, or hazel, so rapidly and utterly did they change. It was at Favelle's studio that he had first met Major Moncrieff. Major Moncrieff, not married then nor even engaged. Lavinia was Favelle's great friend, and all but lived with her. He remembered a vicious tempered female, Favelle's aunt. Favelle had gone to Paris, where her work had made quite a sensation. And now she was back from Spain, where she had been working on some government buildings. But why Mrs. Phillimore should think that Favelle Bruton would be any use...

      "She hates Harry Moncrieff," Mrs. Phillimore said half to herself. "She always did. I met her in Montreux last year, and she still can't bear the man. And she adores Lavinia. Well, that's what I want. I'm going on at once to see her. She's staying at Dalmany Court, I saw in the papers. I'll get her to go down at once, on the plea of—" she paused and seemed to think.

      Santley wondered how she would set to work.

      "She's just had the 'flu, it seems. Well, Beechcroft is an ideal place in which to recover. I shall take her a message from Lavinia to spend this coming week with them."

      "But will the Moncrieffs back up the invitation?" Santley asked, open-eyed. He was not used to such highhanded doings.

      "Oh, I shall, of course, speak to Lavinia as though Favelle had practically asked herself down, and as though I wasn't able to get out of it...After all, one has to manage these things. The point is, I couldn't have sharper eyes and a clearer brain than Favelle Bruton's to watch for me. Just a hint will be dropped her that the two don't get on well together, that I am dreadfully worried—"

      Mrs. Phillimore's eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them back. "Yes, from one point of view, she's admirable," she murmured, "if only she is clever enough to find out what the trouble is. She used to be very dreamy in the old days at her studio. Only half alive except as regarded her work. But I thought her very much improved when I met her last, СКАЧАТЬ