The Yellow Holly

"What's the matter?" asked Train, startled.

For answer, Brendon quickly extinguished both candles, and pointed to the door of the sitting-room, which stood half open. "Not a word," he murmured to Train, grasping his wrist to enforce attention. "I heard a footstep."

The two men stood in the darkness, silent and with beating hearts. A glimmer of light came from the fire and struck across into the bedroom. Leonard listened with all his ears. He distinctly heard stealthy footsteps coming along the passage, which was on the other side of the wall against which stood the wardrobe. The footsteps paused at the sitting-room door. They heard this open, and scarcely dared to breathe. Some one entered the room, and waited for a moment or so, evidently listening. Then the door was opened and closed again, and the footsteps died away. Even then Brendon stopped Leonard from lighting the candles.

"Go to bed in the dark," he said softly.

"Was it Mrs. Jersey?" asked Leonard.

"Of course it was. She came to see if you were in bed."

"But why should she?"

"I can't say. There's something queer about that old woman. Get to bed, Leonard. You can light your candle in your own room. I shall not light mine."

Train was bursting with indignation. "But it's absurd to be treated like a couple of schoolboys," he said, taking his candlestick.

"There's more in it than that," said Brendon, pushing him to the door. "Get to bed, and make no noise. We can talk in the morning."

Train darted across the sitting-room, and retired. Brendon closed his door softly, and listened again. There was no return of the footsteps, so he slipped into bed without relighting the candle. The clock in the sitting-room chimed a quarter past eleven.

CHAPTER III

THE NEXT MORNING

"Fogs and smokes and chokes," said the fat cook, her elbows on the table, and a saucer of tea at her lips. "I wish I were back in Essex, that I do."

"The fogs come from there," cried Jarvey, who was page-boy in the Jersey mansion, and knew more than was good for him. "If they drained them marshes, fogs wouldn't come here. Old Rasper says so, and knows a lot, he does."

"He don't know Essex," grunted the cook. "A lovely county-"

"For frogs," sniggered Jarvey, devouring his slice of bread.

The housemaid joined in and declared for Devon, whence she came. The Swiss manservant talked of his native mountains, and was sneered at by the company generally as a foreigner. Jarvey was particularly insolent, and poor Fritz was reduced to swearing in his own language, whereupon they laughed the more. It was a most inspiriting beginning to the day's work.

The kitchen in the basement was a large stone apartment, and even on the brightest of days not very well lighted. On this particular morning the gas was burning, and was likely to continue alight during the day, as the fog was as thick as ever. The servants collected round the table were having an early cup of tea. To assist the progress of digestion they conversed as above, and gradually drifted into talking of their mistress and of the boarders. Miss Bull in particular seemed to be disliked.

"She's a sly cat, with that white face of hers," said the cook. "Twice she said the soup was burnt. I never liked her."

"Madame don't, either," said Jarvey, ruffling his short hair. "They've been quarreling awful. I shouldn't wonder if Madame gave her notice."

"Ah! Miss Margery will have something to say to that," chimed in the housemaid; "she likes Miss Bull."

"'Cause Miss Bull makes much of her, and no one else does."

"Well, for my part," said the cook, "I'm always civil to Miss Bull, though she is a cat. If the mistress died, Miss Margery would govern the house, and Miss Bull governs her. I don't want to lose no good situation through bad manners."

"Madame ain't likely to die," said Jarvey; "she's as healthy as a stray dog, and as sharp. I don't care for old Miss Bull, or for stopping here, as I'm a-going to get a place as waiter at a club."

"Ach, leetle boy, you will be no vaiter," said Fritz.

"Shut your mouth, froggy," snapped Jarvey, and produced a cigarette.

"Don't you smoke here, you brat," shrieked the cook, and, snatching it from his mouth, flung it into the fire. "Here's Madame's tea. Take it to her sitting-room. She's sure to be up and waiting."

Jarvey showed fight at first, but as the cook had a strong arm he thought discretion the better part of valor, and went grumbling up the stairs. Mrs. Jersey was an early riser, and usually had a cup of tea in her sitting-room at seven o'clock. After this refresher she gave audience to the cook, looked over her tradesmen's books, and complained generally that the servants were not doing their duty. Madame was not at her best in the morning, and Jarvey went up most unwillingly. The housemaid should have gone, but when she could she sent Jarvey, and when he refused to go Fritz was dispatched to bear the brunt of Madame's anger. She usually scolded Fritz in French.

When the boy went the servants continued chatting and eating. It was just on seven, and they were reluctantly rising to begin their duties, when a crash was heard and then a clatter of boots, "There," cried the cook, "that brat's been and smashed the tray. Won't Madame give it to him? Mercy! mercy!" – her voice leaped an octave-"he's mad!"

This was because Jarvey, with his hair on end and his face perfectly white, tore into the kitchen. He raced round and round the table, his eyes starting from his head. The servants huddled together in fear, and the cook seized the toasting-fork. They all agreed with her that the page was mad. Suddenly Jarvey tumbled in a heap, and began to moan, with his face on the floor. "Oh! the blood-the blood!"

"What's he saying about blood?" asked the scared cook.

Jarvey leaped to his feet. "She's dead-she's murdered!" he shrieked. "I see her all covered with blood. Oh-mother-oh, I want my mother!" and down he dropped on the floor again, kicking and screaming.

The boy was scared out of his life, and Fritz laid hold of him, while the other servants, headed by the valiant cook, ran up the stairs and burst into Madame's sitting-room, which was on the ground floor, and no great distance from the front door. The next moment they were out again, all shrieking murder and calling loudly for the police. The sleeping boarders took the alarm, and in the lightest of attire appeared on the stairs with white faces. The terrible word shrieked by a dozen voices through the silent house curdled the blood in their aged veins. What with the early hour, the fog, the gas, and the crying of the servants, it was like a nightmare.

An hour later the police were in the house, summoned by Miss Bull, who alone of the boarders retained her head. As Margery, who was next in command after her aunt, could not be brought to do anything, Miss Bull took charge. It was Miss Bull who first ventured into the sitting-room where Madame, huddled up in a chair drawn to the table, lay face downward in such a position as to reveal a gaping wound in her neck. And it was Miss Bull who sent the servants back to the kitchen, who closed the door of the death-chamber, and who told Jarvey to fetch the nearest policeman. Consequently it was Miss Bull whom the inspector addressed, as she seemed to be the sole person in authority. Mrs. Taine retreated to her bedroom with a prayer-book, Mr. Granger went for a walk in the fog, Margery sat in a stupor, her eyes dull and her slack mouth awry. The little old maid, from being a nonentity, became a person of first-class importance. She displayed perfect tact and self-control in dealing with the terrified old men and women, and no one would have given her credit for such generalship. But the hour had come for Miss Bull to assert herself, and she proved to be equal to the occasion.

"Now, then," said the inspector, when he had posted his men and was alone with Miss Bull in the drawing-room, "what do you know of this?"

Miss Bull, her face white and drawn, her eyes sharper than ever, and her manner perfectly composed, shook her head. "I know absolutely nothing," she said in her monotonous voice. "Last night we had our usual reception, but it broke up at ten o'clock. Madame dismissed the guests at that hour, and stood in the doorway to do so. I retired to my bedroom with Madame's niece, and after a game of 'Patience' I went to bed."

"Does Mrs. Jersey's niece sleep with you?"

"Margery? No! She sleeps in a room above. It was a few minutes to eleven when she left me. I was in bed shortly after the clock struck the hour. I am sure Margery had nothing to do with it. She was quite devoted to her aunt, and as the poor girl has no money, I don't know how she will live now that Madame is dead."

The inspector thought for a moment. He was a tall, thin man, rather military in appearance, and with a wooden, expressionless face, which he found of great service in hiding his thoughts when examining those he suspected. He certainly did not suspect Miss Bull, and seemed inclined to make her his coadjutor. In proof of this he made her accompany him to the room wherein Mrs. Jersey lay dead.

"It's not far from the front door," mused Inspector Quex. "Could any one have entered?"

"No, I am sure of that," put in Miss Bull, emphatically. "Madame always locked the front door every night herself and kept the key. It could not be opened in the morning until she chose."

"Who opened it this morning?"

"I did. I knew that the key would be in Madame's pocket."

"And it was?"

"Yes. She must have locked the door as usual, and then have gone to put the light out in her sitting-room before going upstairs."

"Was that before eleven?"

"I can't say. I did not leave my room after ten. But Margery may have seen some one as she went up to her bedroom when she left me."

"I'll question the girl," said Quex, and entered the sitting-room.

It was of no great size, with one window, which looked out onto the square. This was locked, and, even if it had not been, no one could have climbed in, as Quex saw that the area was below. "And Madame chained the area gate every night with her own hands," explained Miss Bull, who was watching him.