CHAPTER IX
THE afternoon that Lily Fairfield spent on what is, perhaps, the most beautiful of all the golf courses in Europe will ever be remembered by her as a delightful interlude in a very troubled time.
For three hours she forgot the terrible thing which had happened to her that morning, or, if she could not entirely forget it, it receded into the background of her mind.
Everything is made easy—almost too easy—for the visitor to Monte Carlo. Thus Lily found an excellent set of clubs provided for her, and with M. Popeau looking on benevolently, she and Captain Stuart had a splendid game.
But when, at last, the three of them stood in front of the shabby front door of La Solitude a feeling of apprehension, almost of terror, came over the girl.
“I hope Aunt Cosy won't we angry with me for having gone to the Commissioner of Police,” she said nervously.
“You were quite right to do so,” said Captain Stuart shortly.
As for M. Popeau, he exclaimed, “Do let me come in with you, dear little lady! I can promise so to put the matter to the Countess that she will not be angry.”
But Lily shook her head. “I'm not such a coward as that.” She added, impatiently, “I do wish Cristina would come and open the door! I can't think why they keep it locked. It's literally the only way into the house, unless one of the drawing-room windows is open. In England there's always a nice back door to a house of this sort.”
As she said the words, the door did open, and Cristina cautiously peered out to see who was there. The poor old waiting woman was very pale, and the two men, as well as Lily, were startled at her look of illness and of fear.
“Something terrible has happened!” Cristina muttered. “I fear I cannot ask the gentlemen to come in. We are in trouble here.”
“I'm glad they know. That will save you a disagreeable moment,” whispered M. Popeau, as he pressed Lily's hand.
Cristina cut short Lily's farewells, and shut the door almost rudely in the Frenchman's face.
“I'm sorry you have come back,” she said to Lily, in a very low tone. “I wish you had stayed away till dinner-time! A fearful thing has happened!”
“I know,” said Lily soothingly. “You mean about Mr. Ponting.”
“You know?” echoed Cristina amazed, and she turned a startled look on the girl's face.
“It was I who found the body and told the police,” the girl answered quietly. “But there is nothing to be frightened about, Cristina, though, of course, it is very, very sad.”
She was speaking in her usual clear voice, when suddenly the drawing-room opened and the Countess peeped out. Her face was dusky red, and convulsed with anger.
“What is all this noise?” she exclaimed in French; “we cannot hear ourselves speak!”
Then, as she saw who it was, she went on, more quietly, in English, “Something very, very sad has occurred. You remember Mr. Ponting coming here to dinner? Well, after leaving the house that unhappy man, who had evidently been losing heavily at the tables, went out and killed himself. A cruel return for our hospitality! I desire you, Lily, to come in and tell this gentleman what you remember of that evening.”
Lily looked at the speaker, astonished at her state of agitation. The Countess Polda's face looked terrible under the bright, auburn-brown hair on her “front.” Her hands were trembling. Even her voice seemed changed—it was as if she had lost control over it.
“Come in! Come in!” she cried impatiently, and yet she herself had been blocking the door.
Lily walked through into the drawing-room, and she saw that the Count, who also looked disturbed, though much less so than his wife, was sitting at his green baize card-table, apparently affixing his name to some kind of paper.
Opposite to him stood a man of about forty. The stranger had a pleasant, keen face, and though he was not in uniform, Lily felt sure he had come from M. Bouton. Somehow, she could hardly have told why, the sight of him reassured her.
“Come, come,” he said good-humouredly, “you must not allow this to disturb you so much, Madame la Comtesse. Desperate men are not likely to show much delicacy, even to those who have been kind to them. We are very glad indeed that the body has been found. My chief said to me only two hours ago that he owed a great debt to the young English lady.”
“The young English lady?” repeated the Countess. “Whom do you mean?”
“It was this lady, was it not, who found the body?” he replied, looking at Lily.
“Yes, I found the body,” Lily answered falteringly, for the Countess was now looking at her with a fearful expression of questioning anger on her face.
The man went on: “M. Bouton is most grateful to this young lady for having come and told him at once, to-day. But for Mademoiselle, the body of this man, Ponting, might have lain there a whole year! As you of course know, M. le Comte, that piece of property which lies just below your own orange grove belongs to that eccentric Sir John Cranion.”
“I know,” said the Count, looking up, “for I myself have tried to buy the property more than once. I wish more than ever now that I had done so, for we should have had it properly enclosed, and then this tragedy could not have happened there.”
“It would have happened somewhere else,” said the Frenchman philosophically. “And now, if Madame la Comtesse will also put her signature to this statement, I shall not trouble you any more, ladies and gentlemen.”
He waited a moment. “By great good luck, Mr. Ponting's partner happened to be in Monte Carlo this afternoon. One of my men came across him in front of the Casino—they have all grown only too familiar with his appearance. He is, of course, very much distressed, and, what is more, foolishly convinced that his friend did not kill himself!”
“How can anyone feel any doubt about it?” cried Count Polda. “Everything points to the fact that the unhappy man, after leaving us, went off and shot himself. We all thought him very excited, and in a strange kind of mood—did we not?” he glanced at his wife, and at Lily.
“The funeral will take place to-morrow morning at the English cemetery,” went on the police-agent. “And that ends the story.”
“Would you like to interrogate my English niece?” asked the Countess suavely. She was beginning to recover her composure.
“No, I do not think it will be necessary. My chief himself saw the young lady, and heard what she had to say.”
He took his hat from one of the chairs. “And now,” he said politely, “I must bid you au revoir, and I hope it will be a long time before we have occasion to meet again!”
“Would you like to go out by this short way?” asked the Count obligingly. He opened a window, and the man, who Lily now felt sure was “the bloodhound,” passed rapidly through it, with a bow and a smile, and began walking across the lawn.
The Countess suddenly touched her husband's arm. “Run after him,” she exclaimed, “and ask at what time the funeral will take place. I think it would be a mark of respect on your part to attend.”
He hesitated preceptibly.
“Do what I suggest!” she said urgently. “I am sure, Angelo, that I am right—quite, quite sure!”
The Count looked at his wife, and, after that look, he too went through the window, and began running after their late unwelcome guest.
And then all at once there crept over Lily Fairfield an acute, unreasoning sensation of acute, unreasoning fear. She told herself that her nerves were all upset; that everything was all right now. But
The Countess shut the window; she turned round and put her arms akimbo; and Lily had never thought such anger and venomous rage could fill a human countenance. Instinctively she moved back, till a chair stood between herself and the woman who was now looking at her with such a terrible expression on her face.
“I do not at all understand what happened,” said the Countess at last, and though she did not raise her voice there was something very menacing in the tone in which she uttered these commonplace words. “Tell me exactly what took place this morning. How was it that you were away from the road? Why were you wandering in that deserted garden? Were you alone, or in company?”
Lily looked at her straight in the eyes.
“Of course I was alone, Aunt Cosy. I was on my way to church. As it was still early, I thought I would go down to the town by a new way.”
Her voice faltered and broke, and she burst into bitter tears.
The Countess pointed imperiously to one of the moth-eaten armchairs, and the trembling girl sat down on it, and buried her face in her hands.
“What I really want to discover”—the words were uttered with slow, terrible emphasis—“is why you went to the police without consulting us? Surely it would have been easy to come back to the house and tell your Uncle Angelo of your discovery?”
And then, perhaps fortunately, for Lily would have been hard put to it to give a truthful answer to that question, the Countess, carried away by her feelings of indignation and outraged wrath, hurried on, without waiting for the weeping girl's reply:
“But no! It seemed simpler to go down and let all Monte Carlo know what had happened! I suppose it was your friend, Captain Stuart, who advised you to do that foolish thing—to go to the police?”
Lily raised her tear-stained face.
“No, it was not Captain Stuart,” she said dully. “I thought of it myself, Aunt Cosy. It was the first thing one would have done in England.”
“England is not Monte Carlo!” exclaimed the Countess harshly. “How often have I to tell you that? I shall never forget this afternoon—never! Thank God, my Beppo was not here!”
And then a most fortunate inspiration came to Lily Fairfield.
“The Commissioner of Police spoke very highly of you and of Uncle Angelo,” she said falteringly. “He seemed very sorry that such a thing should have happened so near La Solitude. He said you were related to the Prince of Monaco—I never knew that, Aunt Cosy.”
“It is not a relationship which we have ever presumed upon,” said the Countess rather stiffly, but her face cleared somewhat, “though it is true that hundreds of years ago a Grimaldi married a Polda. Still, I am glad of what you tell me, Lily, and it will console your uncle for the painful ordeal he had to go through. You will understand why I feel so angry and, yes, so hurt, that you have brought this trouble upon us, when I tell you that your Uncle Angelo had the awful task of identifying the body!”
An exclamation of regret and concern came from Lily's lips. She did indeed feel very sorry for the Count.
“And then,” went on the Countess, “the affair has so upset Cristina! I really thought at one moment she would drop dead. But now”—she tried to smile, but it was much more like a grimace—“now we must all try and forget that it happened!” She took a turn about the room. “And I beg of you most earnestly, dear child, not to say a word about it to my son.”
“I promise that I will not do so,” said Lily eagerly.
“I am glad for your sake that that odious man did not ask for a statement from you. Had you to sign anything at the police station?” To Lily's intense relief, she now spoke quite amiably, and her face was again set in its usual grim, handsome immobility.
“No, I was not asked to sign anything,” said the girl. “In fact, the Commissioner did not ask me many questions. He only wanted to know at what time poor Mr. Ponting left La Solitude, and I told him that as I was going up to bed I had heard you say good night to him. And, of course, of course, Aunt Cosy” she blushed, and looked distressed.
“Yes?” said the Countess uneasily, “yes? What is it Lily? Is there anything that you've not yet told me?” A look of apprehension came into her eyes.
“I did not think it necessary to say that I thought poor Mr. Ponting had had too much to drink.”
“I'm glad you kept that to yourself!” There was great relief in the Countess's voice. “I did not like to ask you, dear child, but, of course, I have had that painful memory in my mind all the time. To people like us there is something so strange in the love of strong drink. The first time that poor man came here he took a little too much, and I remonstrated with the Count—I begged him not to bring him again. But alas! Angelo has so kind a heart, and the poor fellow seemed so lonely.”
“I suppose one cannot help a guest having too much wine?” said Lily hesitatingly. There had come back to her mind the way the Count had filled up his guest's glass again and again.
“It is difficult—very difficult! But you may have noticed that I offered him water?”
“Yes, I did notice that,” said Lily.
“Can you remember any of the questions asked you by that M. Bouton?”
Lily shook her head. “He asked me hardly any questions. He seemed exceedingly glad that I felt so sure it was Mr. Ponting's body, for he had been having a lot of trouble over the poor man's disappearance.”
Lily got up from the chair on which she was sitting.
“Please forgive me,” she said pleadingly. “I am very, very sorry that I've brought all this trouble and worry on you and on Uncle Angelo. It wasn't my fault.”
“No, it was not your fault,” said the Countess graciously, “and I must ask you, dear child, to accept my own apology. I fear you thought me rather unkind. But you do not know—English people never can understand—how very disagreeable any fracas with the police can be, in either France or Italy. It means such endless trouble!”
The Countess walked to the window, she opened it and looked out into the semi-darkness.
“I suppose Angelo walked on down the hill with that man—perhaps to find out for himself the hour of the funeral. Do you mean to go to it, dear child?”
The question surprised Lily. “Would you like me to do so, Aunt Cosy?”
The Countess remained silent for a few moments.
“Yes,” she said decidely. “It would be a mark of respect. I will not offer to go myself. There are things I must do before the arrival of my beloved Beppo. And then I could not walk up the hill again. I should have to have a carriage. You and Uncle Angelo do not mind walking.” She lowered her voice: “With regard to Cristina, encourage her to think of other things. Fortunately, she is fond of Beppo. His coming will be a distraction and pleasure to us all. Oh, my dear Lilly, I do hope that my son and you will be good pals—as you so funnily say in England!”
•••••
It was past the hour at which they generally sat down to their simple evening meal. And Lily and the Countess were already in the dining-room when Count Polda walked in and sat down.
His wife was looking at him anxiously, “Is it all right?” she said in English. And he replied in French: “Yes—quite all right. The funeral is at ten o'clock to-morrow morning.” He sighed. “I am hungry!” he exclaimed plaintively.
The Countess got up and went to the sideboard. From there she brought back a beautiful liqueur decanter which Lily knew contained brandy.
“Have a little of this. It will do you good,” she said solicitously.
There was a pause. “Lily is very sorry that she brought all this trouble upon us, Angelo. But it was not her fault, poor child. She did not know any better. We must try and forget this tragedy—and nothing must be said of all this to Beppo, or in front of Beppo.”
“No, indeed!” said the Count.
And then his wife remarked rather suddenly: “I hope you remembered to order a wreath, Angelo?”
“Yes, I did remember.”
“Ah, that is right! I have told Lily that I should like her to go with you to Mr. Ponting's funeral.”
“That is an excellent idea, Cosy!” The Count smiled. For once he looked really pleased, and Lily told herself, not for the first time, that he was a very odd sort of man.