The Mysterious Three

“Where, in Heaven’s name, am I?”

Chapter Fourteen

The Perfume

I dashed across to the door. It was locked. “Now tell me, what do you make of it?” Faulkner asked, when he had looked about the unfamiliar room and stared blankly out of the window.

“The solution seems pretty obvious,” I said. “We’ve been drugged, or in some way made unconscious last night in Paulton’s car, and driven here. I distinctly remember trying to keep awake. You gave me that cigar I smoked. Was it one of your own?”

He paused, then said —

“Now I come to think of it, Ashton, I remember noticing I had three cigars in the case I left in the pocket of my overcoat when I hung it in the cloakroom. There were only two when I pulled the case out in the car. I wondered then if the cloakroom attendant had helped himself. Paulton was the first to light up, you may remember, and he offered us cigars, whereupon I said I had some, and I gave you one of mine – one of the two. It struck me that my cigar had rather a peculiar flavour, but after a while it got all right. I believe those weeds must have been slipped into my case by Paulton and my own cigars removed. The ones we smoked last night were drugged, that I will swear.”

I pulled out my watch.

“What time do you make it?” I asked. “My watch has stopped.”

He produced his own and glanced at it.

“So has mine,” he said. “It stopped at five minutes to four.”

We both sat in silence for some moments. Obviously there was nothing to be done but to wait for somebody to come. The door was locked, there was no bell in the room, and the room was on an upper floor.

Over an hour must have passed, and we had endeavoured to take our bearings.

From what we could see of the place from the high up window, it was a huge rambling old château with round turrets, and slated roofs, overlooking a large sloping park in the midst of picturesque mountains, many of which were still tipped with snow. The situation was perfect, but it was in a remote, lonely spot, without another house in sight.

In the front was a long double colonnade with a terrace which commanded a fine vista down the valley. The style was that of Louis XV, as indeed was the furniture of the room, and there were several old paintings and works of art in the apartment.

It was a huge grim place, which seemed to be half a prison, half a fortress – a place wherein dwelt the ghosts of a glorious long-forgotten past. There was an air of neglect and decay about its time-mellowed court-yard, some of the walls of which were half-hidden by ivy. One of the round towers indeed was roofless, while what had once been an Italian flower-bed was now but a wilderness of weeds.

Outside the sun shone brightly, and, from its position, we concluded the hour must be nearly noon. Then, all at once we simultaneously caught the sound of footsteps. Some one was coming very softly apparently, along a carpeted passage outside the door. I went across to the sofa, lay down, and pretended to be asleep, Faulkner following my example, lying back in the big chair. At the door the footsteps stopped. There was a pause. Then a key was inserted into the lock almost noiselessly, the lock clicked, the handle turned, and the door was pushed open a little way.

Somebody bent over me. I breathed heavily, in pretence of sleep. The footsteps moved away, and, as I parted my eyelids slightly, I saw a woman – quite a young girl. She had her back to me and was bending over Faulkner apparently to ascertain if he too, were asleep. Acting upon a sudden impulse I sprang from the sofa, ran to the door, slammed it, and stood with my back to it.

To my surprise the girl looked at me quite calmly.

“I knew you would do that m’sieur,” she said, and her voice, though she spoke with a marked French accent, was very pleasant. “Did you think that I supposed you both were asleep? Ah, non, your friend here is wide awake, though he too keeps his eyes shut and his mouth open.”

The girl was quite pretty, about eighteen I judged, refined in appearance, with large, innocent brown eyes, dark eyelashes and eyebrows, and auburn hair that turned to shining gold as the sun’s rays, entering at the window, touched it.

As she stopped speaking, Faulkner opened his eyes, sat up, and stared at her with undisguised admiration. Then, as the absurdity of the situation struck us, we both laughed.

“Whoever you are,” I said, trying to speak seriously, though, under the circumstances, and with a pretty girl staring into my face, with an expression in her eyes that was partly of amusement and partly mockery, I found it hard to do so. “Whoever you are, I should really like an explanation.”

“Explanation of what?”

“I want to know why we have been brought here – what place this is, and who had the cool impertinence to lock us in here.”

“Oh, I had the cool impertinence to lock you in,” she answered, smiling.

“You! And who are you? And whose house is this?”

“This is the Château d’Uzerche. It belongs to the Baronne de Coudron. I am the Baronne’s niece.”

“The Château d’Uzerche – eh?”

I could not for the moment, think of anything else to say. The girl spoke quite naturally, as though nothing unusual had occurred.

“I am going to bring your déjeuner in a minute,” she said, drawing down the blinds to keep out the sun. “Will you both give me your word you won’t leave this room if I leave the door unlocked? Please do – for my sake.”

She looked so captivating as she said this, her voice was so soft, and altogether she seemed so charming, that Faulkner at once answered that he had not the least desire to leave the room if she would promise to come back as quickly as possible, and to stay a little while.

“Then you will promise?” she asked, her big eyes set on his.

“How foolish! Why?” I asked, interrupting.

“Well,” she replied. “If you will remain here I will bring you a visitor.”

“A visitor?”

“Yes,” she laughed. “Somebody you know.”

“Who?”

“A great friend of yours.”

I looked at her puzzled.

“A friend – man or woman?”

“Female,” she assured us with a charming accent. “Your friend Mademoiselle Thorold.”

“Vera!” I gasped. “Is she here?”

“Yes,” was her reply. “She is here.”

How well Vera knew my character when she told me that day I was “susceptible.” I think I am dreadfully so. The look in those great brown eyes gazing into mine seemed to weaken my will until I had to answer almost sulkily —

“I suppose I must. Yes, I – well, I’ll promise for the present anyhow,” I said.

“Not to leave this room before my return?” she said.

“Not to leave this room before you return,” I repeated.

Then she left us, and we sat looking at each other like a pair of fools.

“Well,” Faulkner said. “If you can be rude to a pretty girl like that, Ashton, I can’t, and I don’t intend to be. Besides, if Vera is here, Gladys may be here also!”