The Terriford Mystery/Chapter 22

AN you tell me the shortest way to Coburg Square?”

“It's round by the Foundling Hospital. I'm going that way myself, so you'd best come along with me.”

The man peered through the dark fog-laden air into the young pale face looking up at him from under the brim of a singularly unbecoming plain brown straw hat. He was an old bachelor who never, if he could help it, spoke to a woman, but he had been mollified by the sweetness of her voice.

The Foundling Hospital? It was a comfort to her in her present forlorn condition to think of all that that great house of human pity and sympathy had done for innumerable deserted and friendless orphans.

For the first time in her life she was assailed by that most unnerving of companions, “Little Devil Doubt.” What she was about to do was surely a terrible risk? If she failed, as she might well fail, and her desperate enterprise were to become known, would she not be universally condemned? Might it not even get into the papers? Harry Garlett's betrothed taking a place as a servant for his sake! She could almost picture the terrible headlines! She felt so nervous, so excited, that when the deep voice of her conductor suddenly interrupted her anxious self-questioning, she stumbled, and would have fallen had not he put out his hand.

“If you just turn down to the left here,” said the man, “and then turn sharp to the right, the house you want will be within three or four of the corner of the square.”

In response to her word of thanks, he took off his hat and went his way. Jean then walked on slowly, and now and again she stopped. This was her last chance to change her mind, to give up what she well knew most of the people who had known and respected her in her short life would consider a crazy adventure.

When she came to the end of the long street which led into the square she pressed her cold hand across her face. Her eyes were smarting, partly with the fog, partly from the tears she had shed in the night. She felt unutterably sad and discouraged, and yet deep in her heart she longed to engage in what she believed would be a duel between herself and that strange woman, Agatha Cheale.

If Lucy Warren's tale were true, Agatha Cheale was the one person in the world who had had a vital reason for desiring Mrs. Garlett's death.

Throwing off “Little Devil Doubt,” Jean decided to go on. She crossed over to the corner house of the square. To her left she could dimly discern the railings of the narrow garden facing the dark houses to her right.

There was no one in sight, and she felt strangely eerie walking along the wide uneven pavement trying to make out the number on each door. Even the street lamps seemed to gleam more dimly here than elsewhere.

She found 109. Then the gloomy-looking unlit house with the portico must be 106.

Blindly she groped for a bell, and at last she felt a row of knobs. As her fingers slid over them uncertainly there came over her a sudden feeling of acute fear. What if Agatha Cheale should open the door and recognize her?

Then she told herself that her fear was absurd. She had only met Miss Cheale twice. The first time in the cricket pavilion where Mrs. Garlett's housekeeper had been absorbed in looking after the numerous guests and their entertainment. Then, again, for a few moments on the morning when Miss Cheale, livid with anger, was giving notice to Lucy Warren; and on that day, she, Jean Bower, had been wearing a large hat which completely Shadowed her face.

And then, with intense relief, she reminded herself that of course her way of entrance should be by the back door. Creeping out from under the dark portico, she felt along the iron railings. Yes, here was the area gate! And luckily it was unlatched. She pushed it open and found that it led to a steep stone staircase. Down she went, feeling her way from one worn step to the next till she reached the bottom.

She was now in a small pit-like yard, and to her right, from behind what was evidently the kitchen window of the cavernous old house, there shone a bright light. As she could see no door, she knocked, at last, timidly on the window. A moment later a narrow door was opened wide and she walked through into a stone passage lighted by a gas-jet, while a not unkindly voice exclaimed:

“You're Elizabeth Chart, I take it? Didn't think you'd come for another hour, my dear. Come into my kitchen, do! And I'll have some tea ready for you in a jiffy.”

The speaker was a gray-haired, red-faced woman, immensely stout, and dressed in an old-fashioned alpaca dress. She wore a Paisley shawl neatly pinned across her vast breast with a cameo brooch.

“Elizabeth's a mouthful—so if you don't mind I'll call you Bet.”

“I'll like that,” faltered the girl.

“Now then, Bet, you go right into my kitchen and get warm. 'Twill be a great relief to me, I reckon, having a country girl after them London sluts. I was that pleased when I got the telegram saying you was coming this afternoon that I could 'a' danced!”

It was a homely-looking kitchen with a big red fire in the old-fashioned, wasteful grate. The bright light the girl had seen from outside came from a chandelier hanging in the middle of the ceiling. Under the light the two faced one another—Mrs. Lightfoot, the housekeeper, and Bet Chart, the new servant. With thankfulness Bet noticed that her employer had a shrewd, good-humoured face, and, in spite of her huge girth, a brisk, cheerful way of moving about.

“'Tain't no good taking you upstairs yet. You can just pop your things off in my room. This way, please!”

She led the way into what had evidently once been the butler's pantry in the stately old house.

“I'd 'a' liked to 'ave 'ad you near me, my dear, but I wouldn't keep a dog's kennel in any of the other rooms in this 'ere basement; they're that damp and dark.”

A fire was burning in the room they were now in, and by its light Jean saw a big bed and some nice old-fashioned furniture.

“This room and next door to it is my 'ome,” said Mrs. Lightfoot with pride. “You'll sleep under the roof. I goes up and down as little as I can, for though I used to live up to my husband's name I can't do with stairs! Still I can move about quick, as you'll soon see. Like to wash your 'ands? You can do so in my basin as a treat to-day, but henceforth you'll 'ave to wash 'em at the sink.”

A few moments later Jean came back into the kitchen. She felt very strange and odd in her full brown skirt, her flannel blouse, and the neat, Quaker-like little white muslin cap she and Rachel North had bought that morning.

“That's right!” exclaimed Mrs. Lightfoot, “not ashamed to wear a cap as was our last fine lady? A litttle [sic] treasure you're setting out to be. The last 'ussy I 'ad 'ere, she's got a job as a demonstrator—putting rouge on her lips and whitening her face. I reckon that'll suit her ladyship for the present, till she moves on to—I won't demean myself by saying where.”

She had set out bread, butter, and jam on the kitchen table. Then, apparently afraid lest her praise should make her new help uppish, she observed critically:

“You don't look over-strong for a country girl. Mind you, there's stairs 'ere—stairs, stairs, stairs all the time!”

“I'm very strong,” said Jean in a low voice, “it's only that I'm tired to-day. You see I've come a long way.”

“Ay, that's true—and not over familiar with London, I daresay.”

“I don't know London at all.”

Jean looked straight into the other's fat face. She was glad to be able to say something which was absolutely true.

“There now, fancy that! You surprise me—seein' that I can see you've 'ad some edication. I'm a Londoner born and bred—proud of it, too. It's unlucky you and me can't go out together. I'd take you to see the sights! But you'll be able to go 'ere and there on your afternoon off. A young girl like you won't be long before she gets a friend to walk out with.”

To that Jean made no answer. Instead she sat down and poured herself out a cup of tea.

“As you come from Terriford I expect you're quite familiar-like with all the parties concerned with this 'ere Garlett murder—The Thatched 'Ouse Mystery some calls it? Ever seen my top floor—Miss Cheale? She's in it, of course!”

“I don't think I've ever seen her,” faltered Jean.

She bent her face down to her plate. “I wasn't in Terriford long.”

“I'll give you a peep at Miss Cheale some time or other,” said Mrs. Lightfoot kindly. “But she's the one of my lodgers you won't 'ave much to do with. I do the waitin' on 'er myself. She simply can't abear strangers! But you'll 'ave to help do 'er room, mind you. 'What the hear don't 'ear, the 'eart don't grieve at.' She thinks I never lets any one into her room. But there she's mistaken. I can't do all the work, and it's lucky for me that my front ground floor's been hempty a while, though now you've come, my dear, I don't mind 'ow soon it fills up.”

Jean's hands were shaking. How stupid, how idiotic of her, not to have realized that Agatha Cheale's connection with the Thatched House would be known to Mrs. Lightfoot!

“She's takin' on awful about that case,” went on the housekeeper. “She left 'ere over a year ago to go to that very Mrs. Garlett as lady-'ousekeeper. I says to 'er then, 'You're a fool to give up your hindependence, Miss Cheale, my dear!' But she would do it. And see where it's landed 'er!”

“Has Miss Cheale ever told you how she thinks Mrs. Garlett was poisoned?” asked Jean.

“I simply wouldn't dare ask 'er. I 'ave tried once or twice to sort of lead on to it delicately—but she can't bear the littlest question about it. Oh, she's a fly one! It wasn't till I seed her name in the paper that she let on she'd anything to do with it. Since then—well, it stands to reason she's 'ad to say just a bit about it to me now and again. What's upset her so as been those dratted lawyers—first one side, then the other, coming and worrying 'er somethin' hawful! That's why she's 'ad to speak to me about it so that I should prevent 'em coming up to her. And I 'ave prevented 'em!” exclaimed Mrs. Lightfoot.

Unconsciously she put her arms akimbo and assumed a fighting attitude.

“Many a fine bold lie 'ave I told in 'er good cause! Be spot truthful when you're young, but as time goes on, allow yourself a little law. That's a motter for you, Bet Chart, and a good one, too. After all, Miss Cheale can't say what she don't know—can she?”

“No one knows anything,” said Jean at last. “It's a terrible, terrible mystery,” and she pushed her plate away.

“Now you just go on eating, Bet. It's real butter; no cheap margarine for me! Never would 'ave it in my 'ouse for all I've come down in the world, as the saying is. During the war plain honest dripping as I got off a chef I know: since then the best butter. You'll find I live up to what I said, 'a comfortable 'ome for a suitable person.'”

So Jean forced herself to eat a bit more of Mrs. Lightfoot's excellent bread and butter.

“In a way 'tis a mystery,” went on her employer, “though in another way 'tis no mystery at hall! Young man marries old woman for 'er money. Gets fair sick of 'er. Meets a pretty young girl. Takes a fancy to  'er and does away with the old 'un. So far all clear. As I says to Miss Cheale early this very morning: 'Don't you take on so, miss. It's 'appened plenty of times before and it'll 'appen plenty times again—before the judgment day! Anyway,' I says, 'it'll be all the same a 'undred years hence.' But between you and me, Bet Chart, I've another idea.”

“There are some people who think that perhaps Mrs. Garlett poisoned herself,” said Jean.

She had given up the pretence of eating and was now looking fixedly into Mrs. Lightfoot's red face.

“Well, that I never will believe! Not if the King himself come out of Buckingham Palace and commanded me so to do! I've read pretty well heverything that's been written about this 'ere so-called mystery. I makes a special study of murders. Always 'ave done so, though it turns me faint to drown a new-born kitten in warm water. I've been found right many a time, and that afore the judge and jury 'ave made up their minds!”

“And what d'you think now?” asked Jean eagerly.

“More than once I've hasked myself whether that forward hussy, Jean Bower, did it? She 'ad every reason to want the poor soul out of the way, but it don't look at present as if she'd hever 'ad the chance.”

“No,” said Bet Chart quietly, “Jean Bower never even saw Mrs. Garlett.”

“That, beggin' your pardon, Bet, may be a tale! I don't see 'ow you could know, anyway. It would 'a' been strange if they'd never met, living in the same place, and both being gentry. And she the doctor's niece! What's she like? I suppose you've seen 'er?”

“Yes,” said Jean. “I've seen her. She's just ordinary—like everybody else.”

“They're generally the worst,” said Mrs. Lightfoot. “Very much the worst—if you'll believe me. I've given a lot o' study to that girl. There's some one a protectin' 'er, not a doubt of it! Else why wasn't she called when that man 'Enry Garlett was committed for his trial? She ought to 'a' been! They did their level best to try and compel my poor top floor to go to Grendon town. She 'ad to 'ave a doctor, and 'e 'ad to give 'er a certificate. And even that wasn't enough! We 'ad a lawyer 'ere—a man from the Crown, he called 'isself—but I don't believe for one minute the King knew the way 'e went on. 'Ow 'e worried that poor young woman! She made me stay in the room all the time—and a good thing, too. There 'e was, close up to 'er bed, with a big book and a fountain pen—why it wasn't decent. She wouldn't eat any supper after that. She cried and cried, and I was fair tormented about 'er! Yet they left that Bower girl—that forward sly 'ussy—habsolutely alone. What d'you say to that?”

“They didn't leave her absolutely alone,” said Jean slowly. “Some one came from the Crown to see her and cross-examine her, too.”

“I'm glad of that,” said Mrs. Lightfoot, “very glad, indeed! That's the best word I've 'eard you say, Bet Chart, about the whole business. I'm intending to get in at that trial even if I'm crushed to death doing so! It'll take the place of my summer outing. I don't often go in for that sort o' treat, but I did see The Brides in the Bath man. I saw him blackcapped.”

“How dreadful!” whispered the help, and she turned even whiter than she had been before.

“I'd a friend at the Old Bailey, one of the judge's clerks—my 'usband's uncle was Mr. Justice Barnaby's clerk—and that gives me a sort o' connection with the law. So they're very kind to me when I goes down to the Old Bailey, and I could get in much oftener then I does if I could leave the 'ouse. Still, as I 'opes and believes you'll be 'ere when 'Enry Garlett's trial takes place, I'll just give myself the treat of seeing my poor Miss Cheale in the witness-box.” She waited a moment to take breath, then added significantly: “You just look over there!”

Jean turned round quickly to see a great pile of newspapers lying in a corner of the kitchen.

“Miss Cheale takes in five newspapers a day, if you'll believe me—just with the idea of seeing something new about that hawful affair. If it had been war-time I could 'ave made my fortune out of them old papers, but now the dustman wants to be paid for carrying them away! But there! I do get something out of it, for o' course I reads 'em all—when I 'ave the time, that is! As for Miss Cheale, she just pores over them, and hevery one of the Sunday papers she takes in too. I 'aven't 'ad time yet to look over yesterday's. But I will this evenin', and it'll be a treat for you too, Bet. There was something in one of them papers as greatly upset Miss Cheale. She wouldn't say nought about it—but I knew! It's never out of her mind, that it isn't. She even talks about it in her sleep. My last girl used to 'ear her, and it fair give 'er the creeps.”

“Hadn't I better begin washing up?” asked Jean timidly.

“Well, yes, I reckon you 'ad. All the people in this 'ouse goes out to work for their daily bread. Leastways, all but one does. I won't 'ave no drones if I can 'elp it. No drones and no—you can guess what sort I mean for all you're an hinnocent young thing. I could 'ave made a lot of money, retired too, and lived in peace and plenty, if I 'adn't been a respectable woman, but there! I can't help it—I just ham.”

Jean made no reply to that obviously truthful statement. Instead, she carried the tea-things she had used one after the other to the broad sink.

“Hullo,” called out Mrs. Lightfoot suddenly, “ever 'eard of a tray?”

The girl turned round surprised.

“How stupid of me,” she exclaimed. And then suddenly her heart almost stopped beating, for Mrs. Lightfoot walked straight up to her and said, “You've never been hout before? You're not the plain country lass I took you for. What har you?”

“I'm the daughter of a man of business, Mrs. Lightfoot. My father failed before he died. I never was taught to do anything, though I did what I could in a hospital during the war. When I heard of your situation last week I was on my beam ends.”

Mrs. Lightfoot looked relieved.

“I guessed you were something just not quite common,” she admitted cautiously. “The way you put your cup to your lips, in a sort of finicky way, henlightened me. I expect you was sent to a genteel school.”

“I suppose I was,” said the other almost in a whisper. “But I don't mind hard work. You'll see I don't.”

And then suddenly she began to cry. “I—I've been so unhappy,” she gasped, “since my father died.”

“There, there! You'll be 'appy 'ere. Don't you worry, and don't you go and think, as many a silly young girl supposes nowadays, that all the good chaps were killed in the war. If there's only one left, you'll find him right enough! And if not, I'll find 'im for you. There's some good elderly gents about too, just now. Better be an old man's darling than a young man's slave. Hany old barn door can keep out the draught! But no carryings on with the lodgers, mind! But there, I won't insult you, Bet, my dear, by supposing you capable of doing such a thing. Like wise, you won't 'ave a chance, for I does most of the waiting on the gentlemen myself.”

Then came three knocks on the floor above the kitchen ceiling.

“What's that?” exclaimed the new “help.”

“My hinvalid—a mystery  'e is—Mr. Gee by name—though not 'is real one, between you and me and the lamp-post. But you'll have nothing to do with 'im.”

She went off upstairs: then came back, and said suddenly:

“Can you cook at all, my dear, or shall I 'ave to teach you that—as well as the use of a tray?”

But Mrs. Lightfoot spoke very good-humouredly.

“I can cook simple things,” said Jean, “and I know some nice Scotch breakfast dishes.”

“I don't want you to go a-spoiling my lodgers! Plain and good—that's my motter. Eggs and bacon week-days, an' midget sausages on Sunday for a treat. My gentlemen pays for 'bed and breakfast,' and though it's near double what it was afore the war, yet it needs a good bit more contriving than it did then, I can tell you. As to Miss Cheale, well, she goes on another plan. I just buys what she wants. She makes a tidy bit of money out of them Russians she works for. Besides, as you maybe 'ave 'eard, she was left a little fortune by that poor poisoned soul!”

At six-thirty there came the sound of the big front door opening. Then it was shut slowly, carefully.

“That's Mr. Robins,” remarked Mrs. Lightfoot; “'e's a very careful gentleman. Halways the first to come in, for the reason he works near 'ere at the British Museum. A proper, quiet sort o' man, though they do say 'e was a regular devil in the war! But there! 'E's settled down peaceful nicely now. 'E's got my big front drawing room, and beautiful 'e's made it with some things 'is ma left 'im when she died.”

Something like a quarter of an hour went by, and then again there came the sound of the front door opening. This time it was banged to.

“Mr. Goodbody,” said the housekeeper. “A merry, cheerful little gentleman, as lives up to 'is name. Going to be married, so we sha'n't keep 'im long. I'll miss 'im when 'e goes—not that I exactly envy 'is missis, mind you, but still it's nice to be always greeted with a laugh and a joke.”

“That's Miss Cheale,” exclaimed Mrs. Lightfoot, as a church clock near by struck seven. “Sometimes she works even later than this. 'Er arrival is the signal for me to get busy. I got 'er a nice chop to-day. She going to 'ave fried potatoes with it—fried potatoes and brussels sprouts—likewise a meringue. Not one of those bought meringues—all glue and a lick of cream. But a meringue I've got to fill chock-full of whipped cream. Miss Cheale knows what she likes, and, unlike some folks, she's willing to pay for it.”

As she spoke she got up, and began moving about, and when Jean offered to help her she shook her head.

“Let be, let be,” she exclaimed; “'nother night I may let you try your 'and at Miss Cheale's supper, but to-night I'd better do it, for I knows what she likes, and exactly 'ow she likes it. But I'll tell you what I will let you do! I'll let you carry up the tray as far as the landing. We must take the risk of 'er seeing you—morbid, ain't it, 'er dislike of seeing people?”

Twenty minutes later Jean took the heavily loaded tray and started going up the kitchen stairs. In front of her, treading more and more slowly, more and more wheezily, walked the housekeeper. The gas-light in the hall showed the fine tessellated black and white pavement and the two mahogany doors. As they walked past the door giving into a back room on the ground floor Jean heard a choking cough.

“There 'e is, pore gentleman, coughing 'is life away,” whispered Mrs. Lightfoot compassionately. “I'll be a mercy for me, as well as for 'im and another I could name, when 'e's gone. But that sort lingers on and on—never knowing they're going either.”

They went on, up the first flight, and though there was another gas-jet halfway up, the house seemed wrapped in gloom. It was, however, a magnificent remnant of London's eighteenth-century architecture; the banisters of the wide staircase were of wrought iron, and it did not require much imagination to see the beaux and the belles of a hundred and fifty years ago walking down the wide, low steps hand in hand.

When they reached the drawing-room floor, the door of the back drawing room opened, and a cheerful chubby-looking young man's face looked out.

“Hullo! Mrs. Heavyfoot? Got a lady-in-waiting at last, eh?” And then the speaker looked hard at the girl carrying the tray. “Here's a pretty miss! D'you know who you remind me of, pretty miss?”

“Now, none of your nonsense!” said Mrs. Lightfoot sharply, “you an engaged gentleman too! Fie! Mr. Goodbody.”

“You remind me,” went on Mr. Goodbody, taking no notice of his landlady, “of a beauteous young female called Pamela—'Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded.' But I fear me you'll have none of the wondrous adventures which befell Pamela—not while you're under the eagle eye of your present chaperon!”

Jean made no answer to these facetious remarks, but she looked at him so coldly that the young man felt, as he expressed it to himself, somewhat withered. Quietly he withdrew into his own quarters and shut the door.

“'E means no 'arm,” panted Mrs. Lightfoot tolerantly, “'es only out for a bit of fun. And yet, would you believe it? 'Is young lady, well, she 'ardly smiles! I suppose 'e's tired her with 'is fun, that's what 'e's done.”

On and on they went, and then the housekeeper suddenly said: “'Ush!” In a low whisper she added: “I sees that 'er door is open. You just give me that tray, and then, when I've fixed 'er up comfortable, you can creep up be'ind me, and I'll show you where you're to sleep. Then I won't 'ave to come up again to show you—see?”

And there on the dark staircase the girl waited—it seemed to her for a long time, while murmurs of conversation came from behind the now shut door of Miss Cheale's sitting room. She felt extraordinarily strung up and excited at the thought that there, within a few feet of her, was the woman who claimed to have the key to the mystery of Mrs. Garlett's death.

At last Mrs. Lightfoot came out of the brightly lit room, and beckoned to her help; and Jean, hurrying on to the landing, saw a narrow ladder-like staircase.

“No need for me to go up. You can't make no mistake, Bet, for only one o' the two garrets up there 'as any furniture in it. I don't say you'll find it very comfortable, but 'taint as if 'twas terrible cold just now. You can move about too, for all you're just over Miss Cheale's bedroom. They don't build 'ouses like this nowadays. She's in a rare nervy state to-night. She's frightened of a feller that's been 'anging about 'ere a lot—name of Kentworthy. 'E's getting up this case for 'Enry Garlett. But 'e don't get much change out of me—though before I knew what 'e was up to, we became quite friendly-like. Oh, 'e's an artful one! But 'e won't get over Jemima Lightfoot—and I told 'im so flat! Only once did 'e force 'is way into this 'ouse and that was when I wasn't in it.”