The Grell Mystery

complexion, bronzed; square features; grey hair;

drooping grey moustache; upright carriage.

NOTE.—Henry Goldenburg has travelled extensively, and

is an American by birth, but his accent is almost

imperceptible. He speaks several languages, and

has resided in Paris, Madrid, and Rome.

———

The above Reward will be paid to any person (other

than a member of any Police force in the United

Kingdom) who gives such information as will lead

to the apprehension of the above-named person.

The superintendent had wasted no time.

CHAPTER VII (#ulink_3b3b5414-f580-54ad-b795-65eb30d90c7d)

THE first grey daylight had found Sir Ralph Fairfield pacing his sitting-room with uneven strides, his hands clasped behind his back, the stump of a cold cigar between his teeth. His interview with Heldon Foyle had not been calculated to calm him.

‘I’m a fool—a fool,’ he told himself. ‘Why should they suspect me? What have I to gain by Grell’s death?’

It was the attitude of a man trying to convince himself. There was one reason why he might be supposed to wish his friend out of the way, but he dared not even shape the thought. There was one person who might guess, and it was she whose lips he hoped to seal. A quick dread came to him. Suppose the police had already gone to her. The thought stung him to action. He had not even removed his hat and coat since his return from Grosvenor Gardens. He made his way to the street and walked briskly along until he sighted a taxicab.

‘507 Berkeley Square,’ he told the driver.

It was a surprised footman who opened the door of the Duke of Burghley’s house. Fairfield, at the man’s look of astonishment, remembered that he was unshaven, and that his clothes had been thrown on haphazard. It was a queer thought to intrude at such a time. But he was usually a scrupulously dressed man, and the triviality worried him.

‘Lady Eileen Meredith. I must see her at once,’ he said peremptorily. ‘Don’t stand staring at me, man. You know me.’

The footman coughed apologetically.

‘Yes, Sir Ralph. Lady Eileen is not up yet. If it is important I can get a maid to call her. Shall I tell his Grace?’

‘No. It is of the utmost importance that I see her personally immediately.’

Sir Ralph breathed a sigh of relief as he was ushered into the cool morning room and the door closed behind him. At all events, the police had not seen her yet. He was first. That meant he would have to break the news to her. How would she take it?

‘The poor little girl!’ he muttered to himself. And then the door clicked.

Eileen Meredith stood there, a pink dressing-gown enveloping her graceful figure from shoulders to feet. There was questioning wonder in her grey eyes as she extended her hand, but no alarm. He almost wished there was. It would have made things easier.

‘You, Sir Ralph?’ she cried. ‘What has brought you here so early? Has Bob repented of his bargain and sent you to call it off at the last moment?’

The man fumbled for words. Now that he was face to face with her the phrase he had so laboriously worked out to lead up to the news had deserted him. He pushed a chair towards her.

‘Er—won’t you sit down?’ he said awkwardly.

He was striving for an opening. Both words and tone called the girl’s direct attention to the haggard face, the feverish eyes. Her fears were alight on the instant. She regarded him with parted lips and gripped his arm impulsively.

‘Something has happened!’ she cried apprehensively. ‘Why do you look like that? What is it?’ Her voice rose and she tried to shake the silent man. ‘Answer—why don’t you answer? Is he ill—dead?’

Sir Ralph choked over his reply.

‘He was killed last night—murdered.’

It was out at last. He had blundered clumsily, and he knew it. The colour drained from Eileen’s face and she stood rigid as a statue for a moment. Then slowly she swayed forward. He stretched out his arms to prevent her from falling. She waved him aside dumbly and tottered to a couch. His directness had been more merciful than he had thought. She was stunned, dazed by her calamity. Her very silence frightened the man. She sat bolt upright, her hand resting limply in her lap and her dull eyes staring into vacancy. A tiny clock on the mantelpiece ticked loudly.

‘Dead!’ she whispered at last. There was no trace of unsteadiness in her voice and her eyes were dry. She spoke mechanically. ‘And it is our wedding-day! Dead! Bob is dead?’

Her hair had fallen about her shoulders, and, beautiful in her grief, she inspired the man with almost supernatural awe. He had moved to the mantelpiece and, resting an arm upon it and one foot upon the fender, remained looking down upon her. He was waiting until the first numbness of the shock had passed. The little clock on the mantelpiece had ticked out ten minutes ere she spoke again. But her voice was pitched in more natural tones, and her face had regained something of its colour.

‘How did it happen?’

Haltingly he gave such details as he knew. Her eyes were fixed on his face as he narrated his story. He hesitated as he referred to his telephone conversation with her. In her clear eyes he saw challenging scorn and stopped abruptly.

‘You say that Bob asked you to lie to me?’ she demanded.

‘Not to you in particular. To anyone who rang up. I couldn’t know whether he wished his instructions to apply to you.’

‘No, no, of course not,’ she interposed quickly, but with a tightening of the heart he recognised the bitterness of her tone. For all her soft daintiness, there was something of the tigress in Eileen Meredith.

The man she loved was dead. Well, she would have her vengeance—somehow, on someone. She was ready to suspect without thinking. And Sir Ralph Fairfield had laid himself open to suspicion.

‘He was killed before eleven,’ she went on remorselessly, ‘and you told me he was in the club with you at that time.’

‘You don’t believe me.’ He held out his arms to her imploringly, and then dropped them to his side. ‘I give you my word that everything I have told you is true. Why should I lie now?’

She wheeled on him passionately.

‘You ask me that?’ she said tensely. ‘You who thought he was in your way—that what you could not gain while he was living you might take when he was dead. Do you think your smooth-faced hypocrisy deceives me now? You pretended to accept your dismissal, pretended to be still my friend—and his.’

Her anger disconcerted the man more than her anguish had done. His breath caught sharply.

‘You don’t realise what you are saying,’ he said, speaking calmly with an effort. ‘Because I once loved you—love you still if you will—before ever Robert Grell came into your life, you hint an unthinkable thing.’

She crossed the room in a graceful swirl of draperies, and laid a finger on the bell. Her features were set. She was in no state to weigh the justice or injustice of the implied accusation she had made. And the man, for his part, felt his oppression brushed away by anger at her readiness to judge him.

‘We shall see whether the police believe it unthinkable,’ she said coldly.

A servant tapped discreetly and opened the door.