CHAPTER XXVIII
IT was Beppo's last day, and what had happened forty-eight hours ago now seemed to Lily Fairfield like a bad dream.
Beppo was once more the kindly, good-natured, almost brotherly friend of his first week's stay at La Solitude. And though Lily could see that Aunt Cosy was unlike herself, for she looked oddly disturbed, anxious and gloomy, she had taken very well the news that Lily had accepted an invitation to stay with the matron of the Convalescent Home for a few days.
Poor Lily! She felt ashamed of her duplicity, for she knew, deep in her heart, that she had no intention of coming back, at any rate for more than a day or two, to La Solitude.
Beppo was taking the afternoon train to Italy, and it had been arranged that the carriage which brought the Count and Countess back from seeing their son off should take Lily and her luggage to the Convalescent Home.
While all these kindly arrangements were being made, and especially when she heard Cristina say: “I shall miss you, Mademoiselle. Do not stay too long away,” she felt as if she must come back just for a few days. But all that could be settled later on.
Meanwhile, she was determined to do everything in her power to make the last hours of Beppo's stay at La Solitude pleasant. She wanted him to feel that she had really forgiven him that wild, strange, terrifying scene in the mountains. So, when he asked her to take a last walk with him, she willingly assented.
They had been out for nearly an hour, and were on their homeward way, when they stopped a moment on a path which seemed as if cut out of the mountain side.
Below was a sloping carpet composed of the tops of olive trees, and Lily felt a sensation of delight come over her as she looked at the wonderful panorama spread out before them.
“While you are at the Home,” said Beppo suddenly, “do not do what I am told many of the English nurses did here during the war—that is, take a walk all by yourself each afternoon. It is not safe to do so.”
“Surely you exaggerate the danger,” said lily, smiling.
“A mysterious murder was lately committed just below the spot where we stand,” observed Beppo impressively. “I mentioned it to mamma, who was much upset and begged me to say nothing to papa or Cristina. So will you keep what I am going to tell you to yourself, Lily?”
“What a dreadful thing!” exclaimed Lily.
She told herself that it really did look as if poor Mr. Ponting's friend had been right, and that there was a gang of bad characters—brigands, as the Countess called them—who lay in wait for any passer-by who looked as if he had money in his possession!
“The affair has specially impressed me,” went on Beppo, “because the man was staying in the hotel where I stayed a couple of nights ago. It is an hotel kept by a person in whom we Poldas have an interest, for she is the daughter of an old servant of my grandfather.”
Lily was startled by Beppo's words. That must, of course, be the Utrecht Hotel, where that horrid Mr. Vissering was staying.
“It is a commercial hotel in the Condamine,” went on Beppo. “Nothing smart about it all, but a respectable place, with a Dutch connection.”
His companion felt a sudden, unreasoning thrill of surprise and discomfort run through her. Standing there, in the sunshine, with that marvellous view spread out before her, it was as if she had been suddenly borne on a magic carpet to the sordid, dirty, little smoking-room where she had met that sinister old Dutchman! Beppo, absorbed in himself, and in the story he was telling, did not notice the look of apprehension which flitted across her face.
“Listen to what I am going to tell you,” he said earnestly. “It will prove to you that my warning as to your lonely walks is by no means foolish or exaggerated.”
He waited a moment and then went on:
“About a month ago there arrived at the Utrecht Hotel a rich Dutchman. He had made a lot of money out of the war, and he had come to Monte Carlo to see a little life. After a while the woman who keeps the hotel—her name is Sansot—discovered that the old fellow had with him a great deal, in fact an enormous lot, of money. He kept most of it on his person, sewn into his clothes, and in deep pockets he had had specially made for the purpose. He was a queer individual, and he did not care for gambling, in fact he very seldom went into the Rooms at all”
“Did you know this old man?” asked Lily in a low voice.
Beppo shook his head.
“I? Of course not! But when I went down to the Utrecht Hotel the other evening I found the place in great commotion.”
“Why that?” asked Lily. Her voice had sunk almost to a whisper. “Has anything happened to” she nearly said “Mr. Vissering,” but stopped herself in time!
Her heart was beating, she felt filled with a kind of strange shrinking apprehension; why had Aunt Cosy and Uncle Angelo told her that lie—as to Mr. Vissering being a business friend of Beppo's? She longed, and yet she feared, to hear what Beppo had still to say.
“Let me tell my story in order!” went on Beppo importantly. “About ten days ago or so the old Dutchman disappeared. He had gone out to dinner somewhere, and he told Mme. Sansot that he would be sure to be back early. But he never returned! Luckily for herself, the woman informed the police the next day. She was nervous, owing to her knowledge that the man had so much money on him—though she declares that she never told anybody of the fact. Well, Lily, to cut a long story short, this Dutchman's body was found down there”—he pointed vaguely to a spot among the tree-tops just below where they were standing.
“His body was found?” repeated Lily mechanically.
“It is probable that he had had supper in one of the villas which are scattered about on the mountain side, but what happened there is still a complete mystery. Perhaps his murderers followed him from the villa where he had dined and brutally did him to death in a lonely spot, or, if your friend Popeau is right, he was murdered in the villa and his body conveyed to where it was found, after his death.”
“How—how terrible!” whispered Lily.
She felt as if everything was going round her, as if she was about to faint. Her hand clutched convulsively the iron railing in front of her.
“The body was found under a heap of hurdles,” went on Beppo, “and it was only owing to the fact that the peasant to whom these hurdles belonged had sold them to a neighbour that the corpse did not lie there undiscovered till next spring. Though the body was almost naked, the clothes were neatly arranged under it. They had been ripped open and all the money taken away!”
As Lily made no comment, he added:
“You can imagine the sensation the affair has made in the hotel! While I was there one talked of nothing else. I myself went along to see the Commissioner of Police, a very decent fellow named Bouton, and he told me that there are points about the story which may make it a cause célèbre.”
“What are those points?” muttered Lily.
“One curious point is that the man appears to have been drugged. If true, that is a very curious fact, for it disposes of the idea that he was set upon and killed by a gang of men who had never seen him before. The object of Bouton, and of the detectives he has put on the case, is to discover where the old fellow spent his last evening. That is still shrouded in absolute mystery! Mme. Sansot declares that she does not know. The Commissioner is sure she is telling the truth, but Popeau—who, as of course you know, Lily, is a distinguished French secret agent—is convinced that the woman does know, and will not tell. He is even inclined to believe that she knows more of the murder than she is willing to admit. But that neither I nor mamma think likely. Altogether it is a Very exciting affair!”
Lily could not speak. Her mind was in a whirl of miserable suspicion and questioning fear.
“Perhaps you do not realise,” went on Beppo, “that the spot where the hideous discovery was made is only about two hundred yards from La Solitude!”
“Surely we're much farther off than that here!” exclaimed Lily.
“Yes, walking homeward as we are now walking, we are at least a mile from La Solitude. But do you remember, during our first drive, how we went by a short cut through the olive woods?”
“Yes,” remembered Lily, “I remember that.”
“The Dutchman's body was found,” said Beppo impressively, “just above the kind of yellow morass into which, as you may remember, our motor-car sank.”
Lily gave a long, convulsive gasp. She saw as if it was indeed there, in the air before her, the trolley pushed up against the inner wall of the outhouse, with its big bicycle wheels stained with yellow mud.
And then, all at once, her companion saw that she was extraordinarily disturbed. He felt both astonished and alarmed; the girl looked on the point of fainting.
“Forgive me for telling you this horrible story!” he exclaimed. “I had no idea it would frighten you so! And yet, Lily, I shall not be sorry that I told you if it means that you will be careful”
“I will be very careful,” she whispered.
And then they both turned, and walked slowly on. But so frightened, so shaken, was she by the story she had just heard that at last she had to take Beppo's arm, and cling to it.
And always Lily will remember how very kind and considerate Beppo was to her during the half-hour that followed. The young man was puzzled and distressed. Somehow he had not realised that Lily was so sensitive! But he knew that there are people to whom the thought of any crime of violence is extraordinarily painful and disturbing. It was clear that this English girl, whom in his way he so truly loved, was one of them.
And then, suddenly, Lily took a desperate resolution. She felt she could not go back to La Solitude filled with such a hideous, agonising suspicion.
“Beppo,” she said pleadingly, “I want you to do me a great kindness. I want you to go on with me now to the Convalescent Home, and to arrange for my things to be sent on to me there this afternoon.”
She saw a look of surprise and discomfiture come over his face, and she went on, hastily:
“I feel so ill—I know I'm foolish, but I can't help it, Beppo—that story you told me has made me feel sick and faint. If I were to go back with you now, Aunt Cosy would feel worried, and would ask me a lot of questions.”
He was impressed by the agitated way she spoke, and by her curious pallor.
“I will do as you wish, Lily,” he said in a soothing tone. “I am never at a loss for a good lie! I will say that we met one of the nurses and that she forced you to go back with her to see a girl friend just come out from England.”
“That will be good of you,” she murmured gratefully. She added, “Perhaps Cristina will put the few things I have out in my room in my trunk. It was arranged that the carriage which brings your father and mother back from the station should come on to the Home.”
“Yes, that will be quite all right!” said Beppo cheerfully. “But, Lily, only one thing troubles me—are you fit for that further big walk?”
“Yes, I am quite fit for it,” said Lily.
She straightened herself, already feeling better and calmer. And, as she walked slowly on, she told herself how amazed she would have been two days ago had an angel descended from heaven and told her that a time would soon, very soon, come when her heart would be filled, not only with affectionate gratitude, but also with the deepest pity, towards Beppo Polda.
Then she strove to fix her mind on the real foundation for her wild, disordered thoughts and horrible suspicions. She longed to be alone, free to think things over. But still, deep in her heart, she felt she knew now that the Count and Countess Polda were cold-blooded murderers....
It was impossible for Beppo Polda to remain silent for any length of time, and during that last half-hour they spent together he talked a great deal, trying to tell Lily things that he thought would interest her about his English friends in Rome. And she answered him with a word now and again, her heart wrung with pain for the man by her side, as there crowded on her memory many of the little scenes of the last ten days—Aunt Cosy's pride and delight in her handsome, good-humoured, attractive son—Beppo's pretty, caressing ways to his mother and to Cristina.
Cristina? Lily remembered the old woman's strange and awful self-accusations. Cristina surely—surely was a good woman?
“Beppo,” she said suddenly, “I wish you would tell me something about Cristina.”
“About Cristina?” To her surprise he looked disturbed and uncomfortable. “What is it you want to know, Lily?”
“What sort of people did she come from originally? She is so unlike what I should have supposed servants of her class in Italy or France to be.”
“You have asked me a question, and I will answer it truly, Lily.” He spoke very seriously. “Cristina is not what she seems.”
Lily turned and looked at him. She felt surprised, even startled. For a moment she forgot the terrible thoughts which had been filling her mind. What took their place was an overwhelming curiosity.
“Cristina,” said Beppo deliberately, “is not a servant. She is my father's sister—not, as mamma probably told you, his foster-sister.”
As an exclamation of astonishment escaped Lily he went on: “That woman is an angel! She adores my father, she adores me! When many years ago, papa lost his fortune, and my parents were in very truth terribly poor, my Aunt Cristina offered to come and live with them literally as their servant. Time went on, and we became gradually less pinched. To do mamma justice, she then desired that Cristina should take her proper place in the family. But Cristina refused! She preferred what she calls her independence. It is no secret to you, I feel sure, that she does not like my mother—would that she did! But there it is. They are too utterly different to like one another.”
Lily was amazed by what she had heard—amazed, and then, quickly, there was added a feeling of trouble and dismay to her amazement.
“I suppose,” said Beppo slowly, “that you are very much surprised, Lily?”
She drew a long breath. “Yes,” she said dully. “I am very much surprised—and yet in a sense, Beppo, I am not surprised at all.”
The truth escaped her in spite of herself. Whatever there was to know, Cristina surely knew.
“I have told you this, Lily,” said Beppo impressively, “because to you I will not lie. The only person now living who knows the truth is the Marchesa Pescobaldi. Her family and mine were friends through generations, so she has always known the strange story of Aunt Cristina.”
As she spoke there came back to Lily the curious, ambiguous words the Marchesa had used as to Cristina being a noble woman and doing what she did for the sake of Beppo. Had she done a great deal else, which neither Beppo nor anybody else in the world but she, Lily, suspected—also for the sake of Beppo?
They were now close to the entrance of the Home, though still out in the open road.
“Beppo,” said Lily very gently, “I should like to say good-bye to you here.”
“Certainly, if you wish it,” he said, and then he added: “Forgive me for saying I hope you will not go in and begin work at once. You do not know how ill and tired you look, Lily. I shall never forgive myself for having told you that horrible tale!”
“I know you meant it in all kindness,” she said.
And then, all at once, she added something which astonished the young man, for, “I've changed my mind,” she said tremulously. “I'd rather you came with me through the grounds to the front door. I fell so frightened, Beppo.”
“But of course!” he said quickly. “I am enchanted to be in your company a little longer!”
They walked up through some beautiful flowering shrubs till they stood at the door of the house. A few moments later it was opened by the matron.
She uttered an exclamation of surprise.
“I thought you wouldn't mind my coming rather earlier than I said,” said Lily. “My luggage will be sent on this afternoon.”
She turned round, and held out her hand to Beppo Polda. He took it in his. “Good-bye!” he said. “Good-bye, Lily—or rather—I should say au revoir.”
“Good-bye,” she repeated. And then she lifted up her face and, with a surprise which his good breeding enabled him completely to conceal, he realised that she expected him to bend down and kiss her, in front of the Englishwoman who stood by, looking at them curiously.
He did kiss her—he kissed her as an affectionate brother would have done. “Thank you, Lily!” he whispered.
He felt very much moved and touched. She was an angel after all! But deep in his heart he realised something else—that this was to be their final parting—that she did not intend that they should meet again.
He turned away, and Lily walked through into the hall.
”Is anything the matter?” asked the matron uneasily. “You look very ill, Miss Fairfield. You look”
She took hold of the girl's hand and brought her gently forward to a window.
“You look, my dear, as if you'd had a shock! Has anything happened?”
“I have had a shock,” said Lily dully. “But I can't tell you what gave it me. It isn't my secret. It's because I feel so queer and ill that I came here earlier than I meant to do.”
“You did quite right! And now you had better go straight to bed. I'll send you up a little lunch on a tray.”
And then Lily began to cry—very quietly.
These kindly, commonplace words reminded her of Aunt Emmeline, and her old untroubled life in England, which now seemed so infinitely far away.
There are hours in life when everything but one central, concrete point of fear, suspense, or pain, disappears into nothingness. As a rule this state of mind lasts but a little while. If it goes on too long it kills the human being experiencing it, or breaks down teh frail barriers between sanity and insanity.
As she lay in bed all through the afternoon which followed her walk with Beppo Polda, Lily Fairfield felt as if she were going mad. She asked herself, indeed, if the awful thoughts and suspicions which crowded her brain were not, in very truth, a proof that her brain had given way, and caused her to become suddenly insane.
Horrible images haunted her mind. She thought of La Solitude, that sinister, lonely house, as being full of the ghosts of those who there had met with a hideous death.
Deep in her heart she knew that the Countess Polda had used her as a catspaw, and once she heard herself say quite out loud: “Aunt Cosy killed George Ponting, and she killed Mr. Vissering, and each time I helped!”
Her thoughts took another turn. What ought she to do? Was it her duty to betray Beppo's father and mother? Nothing could bring George Ponting or the old Dutchman back to life. On the other hand, how prevent the Count and Countess having new victims?
There floated hazily through her mind a memory—a memory of having been told a strange and frightening story of how a woman who was suspected of having committed two murders was stopped, when on the eve of a third crime, by receiving an anonymous letter, warning her that if she ever committed a third murder she would be arrested. Could she, Lily, do something of the kind with regard to Aunt Cosy?
At last, most mercifully, everything about her became shadowy, indistinct, and she fell asleep.
“Would you like to come down to supper, Miss Fairfield?”
She turned on the electric light—a bright, good light, very unlike the guttering candles of La Solitude.
She sat up, and looked about her. On a table lay her hat, and with the sight of her hat she suddenly remembered—she could not have told you why—M. Popeau.
These people were very kind, but Papa Popeau was her friend, her dear, kind, clever friend. He was leaving Monte Carlo to-night, but late, quite late—she knew that. Why not go to him now, and put her suspicions, her almost certainties, before him?
Before doing so she would make him promise to forget that he had anything to do with the police. She would tell him that if he could not make her that promise then she could not ask him for advice. But she felt sure he would understand.
As for Angus, she did not want to bring him into this terrible business at all. There would be plenty of time to tell him everything afterwards. Everything? No, not everything. She would never, never let him know that poor George Ponting had stayed on that night simply because it was a pleasure to him to meet an English girl.
And never, never would she let anyone know either about that horrible old man, Mr. Vissering! She knew—she had always known—that he had come up to La Solitude on that fatal night because he wanted to see her again, and for no other reason.
She went downstairs and then it was as if things were being made easy for her. The matron, on hearing that she wanted to get into Monte Carlo, told her that the motor was going in there to meet a train. But did she feel really well enough for the little expedition?
And Lily said yes, she was all right now, and that it was on really important business that she wanted to see a friend at the Hôtel de Paris.