That Affair at Elizabeth, Burton Egbert Stevenson [chromebook ebook reader .txt] 📗

I asked him after a while, 'that no strangers went into the Lawrence house yesterday morning?'

"'Oh, yes, sir,' he answered. 'Perfectly sure. I was on duty there all the time, you know. There were a good many people around, but I knew them all. I've been a policeman here for twenty years, and there's mighty few people I don't know. The only stranger I noticed the whole morning was a fellow who stopped to ask me where Miss Kingdon lived.'

"You can guess, Lester, how my heart jumped when I heard that! Well, he described him about as I described him to you——"

"Even to his being a musician?" I asked.

"Well, no," Godfrey laughed. "That was a long shot of my own. But he told me the fellow was humming a tune all the time he wasn't talking. He came along just about eleven o'clock, and asked where Miss Kingdon lived; asked also what was going on at the Lawrence place, and seemed much interested in what the policeman told him. He rolled a cigarette and lighted it as he talked—rolled it, Clemley says, with one twist of his fingers, so expertly that Clemley marvelled at it. Finally he went on to the gate out yonder, and entered the yard. That was all Clemley saw."

"Did he see him come out again?"

"No—he's certain he didn't come out while he was on duty, which was till three o'clock in the afternoon. Of course, he may have left by some other way. He could have gone out by the alley at the back of the lot, if he'd wished to avoid being seen."

"And you believe Marcia Lawrence met him here?"

"I'm sure of it. There can be only one explanation of that letter—it demanded a price for silence; threatened exposure—at the church itself, perhaps, unless the money was paid. Miss Lawrence flew here with what jewels and money she could lay her hands on at the moment, gave them to him, and he left; or perhaps she only promised to reward him if he'd keep the secret—it's doubtful if she had money enough at hand to buy him off, for his demands wouldn't be modest. At any rate, she got rid of him for the moment. But after he had gone, she reflected that she would always be at his mercy, that she could never be Burr Curtiss's legal wife. Suppose she should return to the house and carry through the farce of a marriage ceremony, she would only be preparing for herself an agony of suffering even more terrible than that which she was then enduring. The time would surely come when she would be unmasked before her lover. She could bear anything but that. She decided to end it—but to end it in such a way that her secret would be safe forever. So she lured him away upon another trail, then returned here and——" He finished with a significant gesture at his throat.

I thought it over; then I shook my head.

"It won't do, Godfrey," I said. "It won't hold together. In the first place, how did this fellow know about the Kingdons? If he met Miss Lawrence here, they must be his accomplices."

"I believe they are."

"Granting that, I don't believe Miss Lawrence killed herself. I certainly don't believe any such fantastic theory as that Miss Kingdon is working away there in the cellar burying the body. Why should she incur such a risk as that?"

"I've asked myself the same question, depend upon it, Lester."

"And found an answer to it?"

"Not yet."

"Miss Lawrence is on board the Umbria," I repeated, trying to convince myself.

"Then what is Miss Kingdon doing in the cellar?"

"I don't know, but it's not what you think."

"Well," said Godfrey, rising suddenly, "I'm not going to theorise about it any longer—I'm going to find out."

"To find out?" I echoed, rising too.

"Yes—I'm going to enter the house."

"But you'll be committing a felony."

"Oh, I don't think I'll have to break in. I believe that door yonder is unlocked, Lester. Lucy Kingdon came out of it, and I'm pretty sure it hasn't been locked since."

"That makes no difference," I pointed out. "If you turn the latch, you are, legally, just as guilty as if you picked the lock."

"Well, I'm going to take the risk," and he stooped over and slipped off his shoes. "Suppose you stay here and give the alarm if any one comes."

"That would make me an accessory just as much as going along," I objected.

He laughed.

"Well, come along, then," he said, and started toward the house; then stopped and turned toward me. "Have you got a revolver?"

"No; I thought of buying one last night, but this morning it seemed ridiculous."

"I think it anything but ridiculous," said Godfrey quietly. "But perhaps it's just as well. A revolver is a dangerous thing for any man who isn't used to it to carry in his pocket. Now, move as silently as you can, and no talking—not even a whisper."

I have never quite understood the uncontrollable impulse which urged me forward. It was, I think, a feverish desire to know the truth, to solve this mystery once and for all; but over that, and stronger than that, was the longing to exonerate Miss Lawrence—to prove Godfrey in the wrong. I did not stop then to reason about it; my brain was in a whirl; but I somehow got my shoes off, and caught up with Godfrey just as he cautiously tried the door. It was unlocked; we slipped inside and closed it softly.

I fancy that I felt at that moment much as a thief feels who, having entered a house, pauses to find if he has been detected, and to determine the direction of his prey. But Godfrey seemed quite self-possessed. He drew from his pocket a small electric torch, and sent a slender beam of light quivering about the room. We were in a sort of entry between kitchen and dining-room; the kitchen door stood ajar; we opened it and passed through. Again I caught a faint gleam of light; Godfrey crossed the room softly, entered what I saw afterwards to be a pantry, and opened another door.

In an instant, a broad stream of yellow light poured through. It was the door to the cellar.

Godfrey lay down cautiously upon the floor, and slowly dropped his head through the opening. I was close behind him, and I caught a sound which sent a sudden chill through me—a sound of shovelling. There was no mistaking it—Godfrey had guessed right. I could hear the shovel scrape against the dirt; I could hear the dirt dropped into a hole——

Godfrey rose to his feet, motioned me to follow, and crept softly down the stair. Not until I was half-way down, did I perceive that the noise came not from the main cellar, but from a sort of recess concealed from us by an angle of the wall. I could see a head bobbing up and down, with the regular rhythm of the shovel, a head which I recognised as belonging to the elder Miss Kingdon.

We crept forward and gained the shelter of the other wall, when there came a sudden sound of footsteps overhead. In an instant the light was extinguished, and I heard the woman cross the cellar and go softly up the stairs. Then a door opened and shut heavily, a voice called her name, and the steps went on into the front part of the house.

My face was damp with perspiration, as Godfrey seized my hand and pulled me forward, shooting a ray of light before us, round the wall into the recess where Miss Kingdon had been labouring—only to pause, shudderingly, at the brink of a—grave?

It was impossible to tell. Certainly it was a hole which roughly resembled a grave, though its outlines were jagged and irregular. It was filled with loose earth to within about a foot of the level of the cellar floor. A pile of dirt was banked in one corner, and upon it lay a pick and shovel.

"Here," whispered Godfrey, and thrust the torch into my hands. "Keep your finger on this button. I'm going to find out what's buried here."

My hand was shaking so that I could scarcely hold the torch. I saw him seize the shovel and step down into the hole. Then with a little shake of his head, he laid it carefully down again, and, stooping, began scooping the loose dirt from one end of the hole with his hands. I scarcely breathed as I watched him. What was buried here? What dreadful thing was about to be revealed?

"Steady, Lester!" whispered Godfrey, and bent again to his task.

But it was foolish to suppose this a grave! It might have been dug for any of a dozen purposes—perhaps the cellar needed draining—perhaps the pipes were out of order—perhaps—but if it had been dug for an innocent purpose why had Miss Kingdon chosen the middle of the night for the work?

Godfrey stopped with a sudden exclamation, and dropped upon his knees. He laboured for a moment with feverish energy.

"Now, Lester, here!" he said.

I bent down and shot a ray of light into the little hole which he had made. Then, in sheer terror, I nearly dropped the torch, for, half hidden by the clinging earth, lay a shoe—a shoe that was not empty!

CHAPTER XVII A Tragedy Unforeseen

For an instant I stood so, rigid with horror, scarcely breathing, scarcely daring to believe my eyes. Then Godfrey snatched the torch from my nerveless fingers, and bent down into the grave.

"Good God!" he murmured, after a moment's inspection of what lay there. "I would never have guessed this! This is a thousand times worse than I imagined! Here, Lester, hold the light. I'll uncover the face," and thrusting the torch into my hands, he attacked the loose earth at the other end of the grave.

I, too, moved somehow to the other end, and threw the light down into the shallow hole. Godfrey worked with desperate energy, hurling the dirt right and left. I watched the flying hands in such an agony of horror as I hope never again to experience; stared down into the deepening hole, with the cold sweat starting out across my forehead at the thought of what any instant might reveal.

Again Godfrey dropped to his knees, and I was conscious of a face growing beneath his hands, almost as if he were calling it out of the darkness. Clearer and clearer it grew, as he brushed away the clinging clay; then he stood erect with a little sigh of mingled horror and satisfaction.

Staring up at us was a face—not a woman's face—not Marcia Lawrence's face—but a man's face, florid, heavy-jowled, with a black moustache; dead, yet not calm in death, but contorted by a hideous grimace, as though chuckling with satisfaction.

"Miss Lawrence may, indeed, have sailed on the Umbria," murmured Godfrey, after a moment's silent contemplation of the ghastly countenance. "She had every reason to flee—to the earth's end, if possible. For she left her husband here!"

I could find no word of answer; my throat was dry, contracted; I felt that I was suffocating. So this was the secret! No wonder we had not guessed it!

"One can easily build up the story," went on Godfrey, in a voice carefully lowered. "She came here called by the note, desperate, ready for anything—ready even to kill the devil who'd written it. For he was a devil, Lester—look at his face!"

It was in truth, repellent enough—doubly repellent now with that triumphant leer upon it—cold and hard, with cruel lines about the mouth; a bloated face, too, marked by dissipation and bestiality. I shuddered at the thought that Marcia Lawrence may have once been in his power—that he had tried to drag her down from her sweet girlish innocence——

"He deserved it!" I said hoarsely. "He deserved it—and more!"

"Yes," agreed Godfrey, "no doubt he did. If she was ever in his hands, she must have suffered the torments of hell."

He fell silent a moment, staring down at the face.

"But I don't understand," I burst out, forgetting for a moment to lower my voice; "I can't understand——"

Godfrey laid his hand sternly upon my lips.

"Neither do I," he said; "but don't shout like that."

The words recalled me suddenly to a sense of our danger.

"We'd better get out of this," I whispered.

"Yes—and as soon as we can. We'll have to call in the police. Besides," he added grimly, "I've got to get off the story and it's getting late."

"The story?" I echoed, suddenly sick at heart.

"So far as I know it, Lester. There can be no doubt about this body, I suppose?"

A curious sound behind me, as of a dog panting for breath, sent a sudden chill through me. I raised the torch and sent a beam of light sweeping about