The Lonely House (Lowndes)/Chapter 10

S she got up the next morning Lily began to shrink inexpressibly from the thought of going to poor Mr. Ponting's funeral. She longed to summon up courage and tell Aunt Cosy that she really felt too ill. As so often happens after a shock, she felt far worse to-day than she had done even immediately after her fearful discovery.

She went downstairs with laggard steps, to be met in the corridor below by the Countess.

“There is a quarter of an hour before you and Uncle Angelo must start,” she exclaimed, “and I have told Cristina to boil you an egg. Coffee is not sufficiently substantial.”

She shepherded the unresisting girl into the kitchen. Cristina's eyes were swollen; she looked as if she had been crying all night.

“Now sit down,” commanded the Countess, “and eat what you call in England a good breakfast. It is right to show sorrow when something sad has happened, but do not look as if you yourself were dying! I do not want people to think that you, Lily, were in love with Mr. Ponting.”

Lily felt a shock of disgust. What a vulgar, heartless thing to say! She grew very red, and Aunt Cosy laughed harshly.

And yet the Countess Polda was feeling far better disposed to the girl than was usual with her. As she watched Lily daintily eating her egg, she was telling herself that her guest was certainly a very pretty girl. The type, too, that Beppo admired—that fair, rather delicate, English type dowered with an exquisitely clear complexion and what the French call blond cendré hair.

The pleasant thought that her beloved son would certainly approve of Lily cheered up the Countess mightily, and when Lily stood up she patted the girl's hand. “You look very nice,” she said. “That black coat and skirt and the little toque compose just the right costume to wear on such a sad occasion as this.”

Tho Count's voice was heard in the passage. “Cosy! Cosy!” he called out impatiently.

The Countess hurried out of the kitchen. And then Cristina seized Lily by the arm; “You will say a prayer for me,” she said in a trembling voice, “will you not, Mademoiselle?”

Lily was touched. “Yes,” she said, a little shyly, “I will certainly do so, Cristina.”

“I shall never forget yesterday—never—never—never!” Cristina uttered the words in a low voice, but with a terrible intensity.

“But you must try and forget yesterday,” said Lily firmly. “I mean to force myself to put out of my mind what happened yesterday morning. That, honestly, was much worse than anything that can have happened to you afterwards.”

“Yes, indeed! Had I been you I should have fainted!”

At that moment, “Lily! Lily!” came from the passage. “Come, my child, come! Your Uncle Angelo is quite ready.”

Lily ran into the corridor, and then, had it not been such a sad occasion, she would have burst out laughing! For the Count was dressed in an extraordinary costume. He wore a seedy old black dress suit, and on his head was a dirty white Panama hat with a deep black crape band. But Uncle Angelo was obviously quite unaware of the ludicrous effect he produced in the English girl's eyes.

“Come, come,” he said impatiently. “I want to be in good time at the cemetery, for I shall have to leave at once after the funeral. There are several things I have to do in the town.”

“Do not forget to order the carriage for Beppo to-morrow,” called out the Countess.

“Is it likely that I should forget that?” There was a touch of scornful ill-temper in the Count's usually placid tone.

The two curiously unlike companions walked down the hill in almost absolute silence. Lily often felt consciously glad that Uncle Angelo was such a very quiet, reserved person. Aunt Cosy's constant torrent of talk tired and bewildered the girl.

“The cemetery is on the Nice road,” said Count Polda at last; “this is the shortest way to it.” They were now going down a rough stairway cut in the hill-side.

It was still so early that there were only a few country folk laden with country produce trudging towards Monte Carlo. A delicious breeze blew up from the sea on to the broad, exquisitely-kept carriage-road which links Monaco with Beaulieu.

They had been walking along that road for only a few minutes when they were joined by M. Popeau. Lily was secretly very glad to see him, yet she was also surprised—not so surprised however, as he was to see her.

He turned courteously to Count Polda. “I have been wondering if you and Mademoiselle would care to go with me to the Prince of Monaco's beautiful aquarium—I mean, of course, after the sad ceremony is over?”

“I fear I cannot have the pleasure you so amiably propose,” muttered the Count. “But I do not see why my niece should not avail herself of your kind thought. It would, as you say, distract her mind,” He spoke in a weary, preoccupied tone, as if hardly thinking of what he was saying.

They turned into the gate of the cemetery, and made their way to that portion of it where those English folk who die at Monte Carlo are reverently laid to rest. They soon came to the place they were looking for, and found a tiny gathering round the open grave. Lily was the only woman there, and her eyes filled with tears as she listened to the beautiful, solemn words of the English Burial Service being read over poor Mr. Ponting's coffin.

Short as was the ceremony, it was scarcely over before Count Polda detached himself unobtrusively from the group of mourners, and disappeared in the direction of the gate.

As, slowly, Lily and M. Popeau walked away together, she suddently [sic] heard herself addressed in a voice unknown to her.

“Are you Miss Fairfield? If so, may I have a word with you, madam?”

She looked round, startled. A tall man, obviously an Englishman, stood before her.

“Yes,” she said falteringly, “I am Miss Fairfield.”

“My name is Sharrow. I was Mr. Ponting's friend and partner. I understand that you found the body?”

Then M. Popeau intervened. “Perhaps you will pardon me, sir, for saying that the police have all the particulars of that painful occurrence.”

“I have heard all they have to say; but I hope Miss Fairfield will not mind my asking her a few questions?”

M. Popeau looked very much annoyed and disturbed, perhaps unreasonably so, and Lily was thankful indeed that Count Polda was no longer there. After all, it was natural that this Mr.—what was his name?—Sharrow should wish to speak to her. She nerved herself for what must be, at best, a rather painful little conversation.

Mr. Sharrow's next words took her by surprise.

“I think you will agree with me,” he said, slowly and impressively, “that Mr. Ponting was the very last man in the world to take his own life.”

Lily hesitated. She really did not know what to answer. And then M. Popeau again intervened.

“You forget, sir, that this young lady hardly knew your unfortunate friend.”

“Nonsense!” said Mr. Sharrow rudely. “She knew him quite well. He had been, to my knowledge, at least six or seven times to La Solitude. More than once I wanted him to take me up there, but no—he seemed to think that it would be indiscreet—that the Poldas were quiet people who would prefer to entertain one rather than two.”

“But I had only arrived at Monte Carlo on the day he came to dinner there for the last time,” exclaimed Lily. “I did have a few minutes' talk with him alone, just before we went into the dining room—but that was all.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Sharrow. “I did not know what you have just told me.”

“He seemed very happy,” she said slowly, “and yes, I must say that he did not seem to me in the least the sort of man to kill himself.”

Her evident sincerity touched the stranger, as did, too, her young, girlish charm of manner.

“I wish you would tell me exactly what did happen on that fatal evening,” he said earnestly. “The whole thing is so mysterious to me! Ponting had promised some friends of ours to dine with them and then to spend the evening at the Club. Unluckily I had an engagement at Nice, or I should have been there too. As it was, they waited on and on for him, but he neither came nor sent a message.”

“That's very strange,” said Lily, “for I know that his cabman was told to take them a message.”

“That doesn't surprise me,” said M. Popeau drily. “Cabmen are the most untrustworthy of messengers!”

“Oh, so he gave a message to the cabman?” said Mr. Sharrow slowly. “Of course, I didn't know that. But what made him change his mind, Miss Fairfield? Surely he went up to La Solitude in order to tell the Count and Countess Polda that he couldn't have the pleasure of dining with them?”

“I expect,” said Lily reluctantly, “that he saw how annoyed they were at his change of plan. They're old-fashioned people, the sort of people who make rather a fuss about having anyone to a meal, even to tea”—a slight smile quivered over her face, and M. Popeau nodded—“and the Countess was rather disagreeable in her manner, when Mr. Ponting said he could not stay. I think they were really hurt,” she added. “They had got fond of him, and they had set their hearts on his spending his last evening with them; so, suddenly, he made up his mind that he would do so.”

“You've relieved my mind very much,” Mr. Sharrow was speaking quite politely now. “There seemed such an extraordinary mystery about the whole thing! But what you tell me clears it up. I should like to ask you one other question. About what time did Ponting leave La Solitude?”

“I had a very long, tiring journey,” said Lily frankly, “and I went up to bed quite early, before he left. Still, I heard the Countess Polda say good-bye to him—I should think a little before ten.”

“That fits in with my theory.” Mr. Sharrow nodded. “I think he left La Solitude with the idea of catching the ten-thirty train, and that then, on his way down to the station, he was waylaid and murdered.”

“Perhaps that was what did happen.”

But Mr. Sharrow was going on, as if speaking to himself, though addressing her.

“In this cursed place,” he said, “the police are so used to coming across suicides that they won't admit the probability of murder—that must be very convenient for the kind of bandits who infest Monte Carlo! Why, they've had the most awful gang of thieves here during this last fortnight. The Commissioner of Police told me himself that they were desperate men who stuck at nothing. One of them when caught yesterday made a slash at his captor with a razor, and hurt him most awfully.”

“But is it likely that any of that gang would have been in that lonely place? It's a sort of deserted garden, with boards up, warning people that it's private property.”

“I know—I know! Of course I've been there” He spoke with a touch of impatience.

“And then,” said Lily, “surely a thief would have taken away that curious kind of gold bangle poor Mr. Ponting wore? It was by that bangle,” she went on in a low voice, “that I identified him—I didn't see his face.”

The words she uttered brought back very vividly her terrible experience, and her lips quivered.

Mr. Sharrow looked at her with concern.

“Forgive me,” he said impulsively, “for asking you all these questions; but Ponting has a mother out there, and you know she'll want to hear everything.”

“There isn't much to tell,” said Lily. “I was going down to church yesterday morning, and I rather foolishly tried to find a short cut, and—and—quite suddenly I saw an arm stretched across my path”—she stopped, overwhelmed with the recollection. “I saw something gleaming—it was Mr. Ponting's bangle!”

“Yes,” interjected M. Popeau. “If your theory is correct, sir, why did the thieves leave this bracelet?”

“They took everything else,” said Mr. Sharrow shortly. “Luckily, he hadn't much on him—perhaps thirty or forty pounds. But he had certain identification papers—a passport, and so on. They also disappeared. All that was left was the bangle, and his watch and chain. I don't suppose altogether they were worth five pounds. The watch was only a plain silver watch, but he had worn it through all his fighting, and he was fond of it. He told me once he wouldn't exchange it for the finest gold chronometer that was ever made.”

Mr. Sharrow's voice became charged with emotion. “I dare say you gathered that he was a rough diamond, Miss Fairfield? But he was a thoroughly good chap, a splendid man, straight as a die, and generous—one of the most generous chaps I ever met!”

“Yes,” said Lily slowly, “I know that. He tried to make me accept a beautiful little gold snuffbox he had bought, out of kindness, from a poor old lady who had lost her money at the tables.”

“You never told me that,” said M. Popeau, surprised. “Have you got the box?”

Lily shook her head. “Oh, no. I couldn't take such a valuable present from a stranger.”

“Then that was also included in the haul the thieves made?” exclaimed Mr. Sharrow. “But I'm very glad I've heard about that box, for it might help to catch Ponting's murderers. It's just a chance, to tell you the truth, that they didn't make a much bigger haul. Ponting was an eccentric chap in some ways—the sort of man who doesn't trust banks. As a rule he carried about with him a very big sum. But on that very day—the day, I mean, that he was killed—I got him to deposit the kind of satchel thing in which he kept his money in the safe of the hotel where he and I were staying at Nice. The manager there has hit on the rather clever idea of having a number of little safes, which he lets out at five francs a day. I persuaded Ponting that it would be very much safer to leave his securities—for part of the money was in what they call 'bonds to bearer'—there. It was insane to come every day, as he used to do, to a place like Monte Carlo with all that money on him.”

“What you tell me,” observed M. Popeau musingly, “alters everything, Mr. Sharrow. Of course, the fact that he might have had what was practically a fortune on him would give a very strong motive for his murder!”

“And yet,” exclaimed Mr. Sharrow impatiently, “I told all that to the Commissioner of Police, and it made no impression on him at all.”

“The truth is”—the Frenchman spoke with some heat—“the authorities here at Monaco don't want to believe that a murder is ever committed. In such a garden of paradise”—there came a note of deep sarcasm in his vibrant voice—“they never look for the snake!”

“The police are convinced that during the eight days that the body lay in that orange grove some passer-by, probably a peasant, came across the body, took everything from it, and naturally said nothing of his discovery,” observed Mr. Sharrow.

“I confess that that has been my own theory up to now,” said M. Popeau. “And it would take even more than your curious revelations as to poor Mr. Ponting's peculiar habit of carrying about his money to destroy that theory entirely. I think another thing. I can't help suspecting that a professional thief, or gang of thieves, would have left the little gold snuff-box as well as the watch and the bracelet. They would naturally not care to take away something that could be identified positively as having belonged to their victim.”

“On the other hand,” said Mr. Sharrow thoughtfully, “one would never have thought they would have left anything made of gold.”

“You're wrong there!” cried M. Popeau quickly. “Such folk are sometimes very superstitious. They probably thought that bracelet was the dead man's mascot, and might bring them ill-luck! Besides, even a peasant would know that a thin gold band was not really valuable. Forty francs—fifty francs—even thirty francs might have bought it from what I hear.”

And then something which seemed to the Frenchman very dramatic occurred. Mr. Sharrow suddenly put his hand in his pocket and held out a thin gold hoop. “Here it is!” he exclaimed.

Lily gave a little cry and gasp.

“I beg your pardon,” he said remorsefully. “I didn't mean to startle you, Miss Fairfield. I am keeping it for the poor chap's mother. This queer little bangle and the silver watch are the only two things I shall have to take back to her. It's so pitiful! She was expecting him home after four years.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Lily, and she turned away. The tears had welled up into her eyes.

“Well,” said Mr. Sharrow, “there's nothing more to say, I suppose. Thank you very much for having answered my questions so clearly. I wanted to go up and see the Count and Countess Polda, but I shan't do so now. The Commissioner of Police begged me not to do it. He said they'd been terribly upset about the whole thing. After all, they were very kind to poor Ponting. It's rather too bad they should have had all this worry through him, even if they did lead indirectly to his death.”

“Oh, don't say that!” said Lily, distressed.

Deep in her heart she could not help knowing that it was because of her presence at La Solitude that the unfortunate man had stayed on, and this secret knowledge was a bitter trouble to her—one, too, which she felt she could never confide to anybody as long as she lived.

“Well, but it's true!” persisted Mr. Sharrow. “If he hadn't stayed on there that evening he would be alive to-day. He and I would be on our way home by now.” He sighed and held out his hand. “Good-bye, and forgive me for the trouble I've put you to.”

“Good-bye,” said Lily mechanically.

M. Popeau lead the now weeping girl into a side path where there was a bench.

“You must not take this sad affair too much to heart,” he said soothingly. “You must try and forget it.”

“I can't forget it! I shall never forget it!” sobbed Lily. “I've had such a terrible time since I last saw you, M. Popeau. The Countess was terribly angry that I had gone to the police!”

“I told you she would be,” interjected the Frenchman.

“Yes, I know you told me so. But that didn't seem to make it any better!” Lily smiled, and tried to regain her composure. “Luckily, her son comes to-morrow, and I hope that will make her forget this dreadful, dreadful thing! But I shall never forget it.”

“Indeed you will, and must,” said M. Popeau, and there came a very authoritative tone into his kind voice. “It is your duty to do so, Miss Fairfield. English people have a great sense of duty—I appeal to that sense now! You must put this poor man out of your mind”—he hesitated—“for ever. Now promise me?” You know I am your friend—I hope I shall always be your friend, Miss Fairfield.”

“I hope so too,” said Lily gratefully; “you've been wonderfully good to me! I don't know how I should have got through the last fortnight if it hadn't been for you”

“If you are really grateful to me,” said M. Popeau gravely, “then there is one mark of your gratitude which I should very much appreciate.”

Lily looked round at him rather surprised. “Yes?” she said.

“That mark of gratitude,” he said deliberately, “is to trust me, Mademoiselle—always come to me when you are in any trouble. I do not only mean now at Monte Carlo. I mean afterwards. When in trouble, real trouble, come to Papa Popeau! Although I do not often talk of it—for, though you may be surprised to hear it, I am what you in England call a modest fellow, Miss Fairfield—Papa Popeau has a great deal of power. Papa Popeau can do all sorts of strange and wonderful things to help his friends.”

“I know he can,” said Lily gratefully. “I think that only Papa Popeau could have secured me such a comfortable journey.”

“That is true,” he said gravely.

He got up from the bench, and they began walking slowly down a cypress alley. I think Captain Stuart is waiting for us in the road,” he observed.

And then, Lily—she could not have told you why—blushed very deeply.

“You like Captain Stuart, eh?” said M. Popeau.

He was looking straight before him and he spoke quite lightly, yet Lily felt a little confused. She knew that he had seen her blush.

“Yes,” she said at last,” [sic] “I do like him. He seems to me so—so”

“I know,” said M. Popeau, “'straight.' That's a fine English word. You are right, Miss Fairfield. Captain Stuart is a 'white' man—another of your English expressions that I like, that I have adopted for my own. But, Mademoiselle, he is also a jealous man. I would not like to make Captain Stuart jealous.”

And then all at once Lily remembered something the young Scotchman had said to her, something of which he had had the grace to be ashamed a moment later. “Foreign fellows are so infernally familiar!”—that was what Captain Stuart had said to Lily Fairfield after there had come a laughing interchange of words between herself and M. Popeau. It was impossible that the Frenchman could have heard those words. And yet—and yet—Lily felt a little uncomfortable.

“It is lucky that I am an old man,” went on her companion quietly. “Were I not an old man, I feel that our friend might possibly become jealous even of me. That would be most cruel, most unfair, and very hard on poor Papa Popeau! Hein?”

He pirouetted round on his heel for a moment, and then bowed.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, “of all your servants I am the humblest and the most devoted, and I regret very much now that I did not compel you to allow me to go into the villa with you yesterday afternoon!”

“I am sorry too,” said Lily in a low voice. “But I don't know—I think Aunt Cosy would have had it out with me just the same after you had gone. She didn't say much till the Count and the man from the police had left the house, and then—oh, then, M. Popeau, I've never seen anybody so angry!”

As they came through the gate to the cemetery they saw Captain Stuart's lithe figure striding impatiently up and down the road. He took lily's hand—she had taken off her glove—and held it tightly for a moment, then he dropped it.

“I had no idea the funeral would take so long. Where are the other people?” he asked.

“There is another gate, they all went out by that, but I expected that you would be waiting here, my friend,” said M. Popeau smoothly. “And now we are going off to a little restaurant in the Condamine to have a good lunch.”

“I thought we were going to the Prince of Monaco's aquarium,” said Lily smiling.

“All in good time.” M. Popeau looked as happy as a boy. “We must make the best of to-day,” he said, “even if it has begun badly, for from to-morrow, Mademoiselle will probably be much occupied.”

Captain Stuart looked quickly round at Lily. “Why that?” he asked shortly.

And even Lily felt surprised. What could M. Popeau mean?

“I think you will find that the arrival of the Countess Polda's son will mean that you will be very much occupied,” said the Frenchman quietly.

Captain Stuart looked disturbed. “But you don't even know this fellow?” he said, turning to Lily. “You've never seen him, have you?”

“No, that's quite true. But all the same, I'm afraid M. Popeau is right. Only this morning the Countess told me that she hoped” She waited a moment.

“Yes?” said Stuart impatiently. “She hoped what, Miss Fairfield?”

“She hoped that Beppo and I would be great friends.”

Lily felt a little ashamed of having said that. But, after all, it was quite true, and she did so want to know if Captain Stuart would—mind. Rather to her disappointment he remained silent.