Death in a White Tie

CHAPTER SIXTEEN Lady Carrados Looks Back

Alleyn followed the footman upstairs, leaving Fox in the library to make the best of a sticky situation.

The footman handed Alleyn over to a maid who took him to Lady Carrados. She was not in bed. She was in her boudoir erect in a tall blue chair and wearing the look that had prompted Paddy O’Brien to compare her with a Madonna. She held out her hands when she saw Alleyn and as he took them a phrase came into his mind. He thought: “She is an English lady and these are an English lady’s hands, thin, unsensual, on the end of delicate thin arms.”

She said: “Roderick! I do call you Roderick, don’t I?”

Alleyn said: “I hope so. It’s a long time since we met, Evelyn.”

“Too long. Your mother tells me about you sometimes. We spoke to each other today on the telephone. She was so very kind and understanding, Roderick, and she told me that you would be too. Do sit down and smoke. I should like to feel that you are not a great detective but an old friend.”

“I should like to feel that too,” said Alleyn. “I must tell you, Evelyn, that I was on the point of asking to see you when I got your message.”

“An official call?”

“Yes, bad luck to it. You’ve made everything much pleasanter by asking for me.”

She pressed the thin hands together and Alleyn, noticing the bluish lights on the knuckles, remembered how Troy had wanted to paint them.

Lady Carrados said, “I suppose Herbert didn’t want you to see me?”

“He wasn’t very pleased with the idea. He thought you were too tired and distressed.”

She smiled faintly: “Yes,” she said, and it was impossible to be sure that she spoke ironically. ”Yes, he is very thoughtful. What do you want to ask me, Roderick?”

“All sorts of dreary questions, I’m afraid. I’m sorry about it. I know you were one of Bunchy’s friends.”

“So were you.”

“Yes.”

“What is your first question?”

Alleyn went over the final scene in the hall and found she had nothing new to tell him. She answered him quickly and concisely. He could see that his questions held no particular significance for her and that her thoughts were lying in wait, anxiously, for what was yet to come. As soon as he began to speak of the green room on the top landing he knew that he touched her more nearly. He felt a profound distaste for his task. He went on steadily, without emphasis.

“The green sitting-room with the telephone. We know that he used the telephone and are anxious to find out if he was overheard. Someone says you left your bag there, Evelyn. Did you?”

“Yes.”

“Dimitri returned it to you?”

“Yes.”

“When was this?”

“Soon after I had come up from supper — about half-past twelve or a quarter to one.”

“Not as late as one o’clock?”

“No.”

“Why are you so certain of this, please?”

“Because,” said Lady Carrados, “I was watching the time rather carefully.”

“Were you? Does the peak of a successful ball come at a specific moment?”

“Well, one rather watches the time. If they don’t begin to drift away after supper it looks as if it will be a success.”

“Where were you when Dimitri returned your bag?”

“In the ballroom.”

“Did you notice Bunchy at about this time?”

“I — don’t think — I remember.”

The hands were pressed closer together as if she held her secret between them; as if it might escape. Her lips were quite white.

The door opened and Bridget came in. She looked as if she had been crying.

“Oh, Donna,” she said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know—”

“This is my girl, Roderick. Bridget, this is Sarah’s uncle.”

“How do you do,” said Bridget. “The detective one?”

“The detective one.”

“Sarah says you’re quite human really.”

“That’s very kind of Sarah,” said her uncle drily.

“I hope you’re not heckling my mother,” said Bridget, sitting on the arm of the chair. She had an air of determined sprightliness.

“I’m trying not to. Perhaps you could help us both. We are talking about last night.”

“Well, I might be able to tell you something frightfully important without knowing it myself, sort of, mightn’t I?”

“It’s happened before now,” said Alleyn with a smile. “We were talking about your mother’s bag.”

“The one she left upstairs and that I found?”

“Bridgie!” whispered Lady Carrados. “Oh, Bridgie!”

“It’s all right, Donna, my sweet. That had nothing to do with Bunchy. Oh — he was there, wasn’t he? In the supper-room when I brought it to you?”

Bridget, perched on the arm of the wing chair, could not see her mother’s face and Alleyn thought: “Now we’re in for it.”

He said: “You returned the bag in the supper-room, did you?”

Lady Carrados suddenly leant back and closed her eyes.

“Yes,” Bridget said, “and it was simply squashed full of money. But why the bag? Does it fit somewhere frightfully subtle? I mean was the motive really money and did the murderer think Donna gave Bunchy the money, sort of? Or something?”

Lady Carrados said: “Bridgie, darling. I’m by way of talking privately to Mr Alleyn.”

“Oh, are you, darling? I’m sorry. I’ll whizz off. Shall I see you again before you go, Mr Alleyn?”

“Please, Miss Bridget.”

“Well, come along to the old nursery. I’ll be there.”

Bridget looked round the corner of the chair at her mother, who actually managed to give her a smile. She went out and Lady Carrados covered her face with her hands.

“Don’t try to tell me, Evelyn,” said Alleyn gently. “I’ll see if I can tell you. Come now, it may not be so dreadful, after all. Listen. Someone has been blackmailing you. You have had letters written in script on Woolworth paper. One of them came on the morning Bunchy brought you spring flowers. You put it under your pillow. Last night you left your bag in the green room, because you had been told to leave it there. It contained the money the blackmailer demanded. It now appears that Bridget returned your bag, still full of notes, while you were in the supper-room with Bunchy. Did you replace it in the green sitting-room? You did… and later it was returned to you, empty — while you were in the ballroom?”

“But — you know all this! Roderick, do you also know what they have found out?”

“No. I have no idea what they found out. Had Bunchy?”

“That is what horrifies me. Bunchy knew, at least, that I was being persecuted. When Bridgie brought back that hideous bag last night I nearly collapsed. I can’t tell you what a shock it was to me. You are quite right, a letter, like the one you described, came a few days ago. There had been others. I didn’t answer them. I destroyed them all and tried to put them out of my mind. I thought perhaps they wouldn’t go on with it if I paid no attention. But this one threatened dreadful things, things that would hurt Bridgie so much — so much. It said that if I didn’t do as I was ordered Herbert and Bridgie would be told about — everything. I couldn’t face that. I did what they said. I put five hundred pounds in green notes in the bag and left it on the little table in the green sitting-room before one o’clock. And then Bridgie must have seen it. I shall never forget her coming into the supper-room, laughing and holding out that bag. I suppose I must have looked frightful. It’s all muddled in my mind now, like the memory of a terrible dream. Somehow we got rid of Bridgie. Bunchy must have been splendid. Sir Daniel Davidson was there. I’ve been to see him lately about my health and he had said something to me before that evening. I got rid of him, too, and then Bunchy and I went out into the hall and Bunchy said he knew what I wanted to do with my bag and begged me not to do it. I was frantic. I broke away from him and went back again to the green sitting-room. Nobody was there. I put the bag back on the table. It was then twenty to one. I put it behind a big ormolu and enamel box on the table. Then I went down to the ballroom. I don’t know how much later it was when I saw Dimitri coming through the room with the bag. At first I thought the same thing had happened again, but when I took it in my hand I knew the money had gone. Dimitri had found the bag, he said, and recognized it as mine. That’s all.”

“That’s all,” repeated Alleyn. “It’s a good deal. Look here, Evelyn, I’m going to ask you point-blank, is it possible that Dimitri is the man who is blackmailing you?”

“Dimitri?” Her eyes opened wide. “Good heavens, no! No, no, it’s out of the question. He couldn’t possibly have any idea, any means of knowing. Not possibly.”

“Are you sure of that? He is in and out of people’s houses and has free access to their rooms. He has opportunities of overhearing conversations, of watching people when they are off their guard.”

“How long has he been doing this work?”

“He told me seven years.”

“My secret is more than twice as old as that. ‘Lady Audley’s Secret’! But it’s not so amusing, Roderick, when you carry it about with you. And yet, do you know, there have been times when I have almost forgotten my secret. It all happened so very long ago. The years have sifted past and mounted like sand into smooth unremarkable shapes and they have gradually hidden the old times. I thought I should never be able to speak of this to anyone in the world, but, oddly enough, it is rather a relief to talk about it.”

“You realize, don’t you, that I am here to investigate a murder? It’s my job to work out the circumstances surrounding it. I must have no consideration for anybody’s feelings if they come between me and the end of the job. Bunchy knew you were the victim of a blackmailer. You are not the only victim. He was actually working with us on information we had from another source but which points directly to the same individual. It’s quite possible, and to us it seems probable, that the blackmailing may be linked with the murder. So we have a double incentive to get at the blackmailer’s identity.”

“I know what you are going to ask me. I have no idea who it is. None. I’ve asked myself over and over again who it could be.”

“Yes. Now see here, Evelyn, I could get up to all the old tricks, and with any luck I’d probably get a line on this secret of yours. I’d trap you into little admissions and when I got away from here I’d write them all down, add them up, and see what I could make of the answer. Probably there wouldn’t be an answer so we’d begin to dig and dig. Back through those years that have sifted over your trouble and hidden it. And sooner or later we would find something. It would all be very disagreeable and I should hate it and the final result would be exactly the same as if you told me your whole story now.”

“I can’t. I can’t tell you.”

“You are thinking of the consequences. Newspaper publicity. Court proceedings. You know it wouldn’t be nearly as bad as you imagine. Your name would probably never appear.”

“Madame X,” said Lady Carrados with a faint smile, “and everybody in court knowing perfectly well who I was. Oh, it’s not for myself I mind. It’s Bridgie. And Herbert. You’ve met Herbert and you must realize how he’d take a blow of this sort. I can think of nobody who would mind more.”

“And how is he going to take it if we find out for ourselves? Evelyn, think! You’re one of Bunchy’s friends.”

“I’m not a revengeful woman.”

“Good God, it’s not a question of revenge. It’s a question of leaving a blackmailing murderer at large.”

“You needn’t go on, Roderick. I know quite well what I ought to do.”

“And I know quite well that you’re going to do it.”

They looked squarely at each other. Her hands made a gesture of surrender.

“Very well,” said Lady Carrados. “I give in. How much more dignified it would have been, wouldn’t it, if I had accepted my duty at first?”

“I had no doubt about what you’d do. It’s quite possible, you know, that your side of the business need never come out. Of course, I can’t promise this, but it is possible we’ll work on your information without putting it in as evidence.”

“That’s very kind of you,” she said faintly.

“You’re being ironical,” said Alleyn with a grin, “and that shows you’re not going to mind as much as you feared, or I hope it does. Now then. It’s something about Bridget, isn’t it, and it happened more than fourteen years ago. Bridget’s how old? Seventeen?”

Lady Carrados nodded.

“I don’t believe I ever met your first husband, Evelyn. Is Bridget very like him?”

“Yes. She’s got all Paddy’s gaiety.”

“My mother told me that. Bridget doesn’t remember him, of course. Ought we to begin with him?”

“Yes. You needn’t go on being delicate, Roderick. I think you’ve guessed, haven’t you? Paddy and I were not married.”

“Bless my soul,” said Alleyn, “how very courageous of you, Evelyn.”

“I think it was now but it didn’t seem so then. Nobody knew. It’s the Jane Eyre theme but I hadn’t Miss Eyre’s moral integrity. Paddy left a wife in an Australian lunatic asylum, came home, and fell in love with me. As you would say in your report, we went through a form of marriage and lived happily and bigamously together. Then Paddy died.”

“Weren’t you afraid it would come out?”

“No. Paddy’s wife had no relations.” Lady Carrados waited for a moment. She seemed to be gravely contemplating the story she had decided to relate. When she spoke again it was with composure and even, or so Alleyn fancied, an air of relaxation. He wondered if she had often marshalled the facts in her own mind and rehearsed her story to an imaginary listener. The quiet voice went on sedately: “She was a music-hall comedienne who had been left stranded in a little town in New South Wales. He married her there and took her to Sydney. Six weeks later she became hopelessly insane. He found out that her mother was in a lunatic asylum somewhere in America. Paddy had not told anybody of his marriage and he had not looked up any of his acquaintances in Sydney. When he arranged to have her put away it was under her maiden name. He invested a sum of money, the interest on which was enough to pay the fees and expenses. He left the whole thing in the hands of the only man who knew the truth. He was Anthony Banks, Paddy’s greatest friend, and was absolutely above suspicion, I am sure. He lived in Sydney and helped Paddy all through that time. He held Paddy’s power of attorney. Even he did not know Paddy had remarried. Nobody knew that.”

“What about the parson who married them?”

“I remember that Paddy said he was a very old man. The witnesses were his wife and sister. You see, we talked it all over very carefully and Paddy was quite certain there was no possibility of discovery.”

“There is something more, isn’t there?”

“Yes. Something that I find much more difficult.” The even voice faltered for a moment. Alleyn saw that she mustered up all her fortitude before she went on. “Five months after we were married he was killed. I had started Bridgie and came up to London to stay with my mother and to see my doctor. Paddy was to motor up from our house at Ripplecote and drive me back. In the morning I had a telegram from him. It said: “The best possible news from Anthony Banks.” On the way the car skidded and crashed into the wall of a bridge. It was in a little village. He was taken into the vicarage and then to the cottage hospital. When I got there he was unconscious and he didn’t know that I was with him when he died.”

“And the news?”

“I felt certain that it could only be one thing. His wife must have died. But we could find no letters or cables at all, so he must have destroyed whatever message he had been sent by Anthony Banks. The next thing that happened was that Paddy’s solicitors received five thousand pounds from Australia and a letter from Anthony Banks to say it was forwarded in accordance with Paddy’s instructions. In the meantime I had written to Anthony Banks. I told him of Paddy’s death but wrote as a cousin of Paddy’s. He replied with the usual sort of letter. He didn’t, of course, say anything about Paddy’s wife, but he did say that a letter from him must have reached Paddy just before he died and that if it had been found he would like it to be destroyed unopened. You see, Roderick, Anthony Banks must have been honest because he could have kept that five thousand pounds himself quite easily, when she died. And he didn’t know Paddy had remarried.”

“Yes, that’s quite true. Are you certain from what you knew of Paddy that he would have destroyed Banks’s letter?”

“No. I’ve always thought he would have kept it to show me.”

“Do you think he asked the people in the vicarage or at the hospital to destroy his letters?”

“They had found his name and address on other letters in his wallet, so it wasn’t that.” For the first time the quiet voice faltered a little. “He only spoke once, they said. He asked for me.”

“Do you remember the name of the people at the vicarage?”

“I don’t. I wrote and thanked them for what they had done. It was some very ordinary sort of name.”

“And the cottage hospital?”

“It was at Falconbridge in Buckinghamshire. Quite a big hospital. I saw the superintendent doctor. He was an elderly man with a face like a sheep. I think his name was Bletherley. I’m perfectly certain that he was not a blackmailer, Roderick. And the nurses were charming.”

“Do you think that he could possibly have left the letter in the case, or that it could have dropped out of his pocket?”

“I simply cannot believe that if he kept it at all it would be anywhere but in his wallet. And I was given the wallet. It was in the breast pocket of his coat. You see, Roderick, it’s not as if I didn’t try to trace the letter. I was desperately anxious to see the message from Anthony Banks. I asked again and again if anything could have been overlooked at the hospital and endless enquiries were made.”

She stopped for a moment and looked steadily at Alleyn.

“You can see now,” she said, “why I would go almost to any length to keep this from Bridget.”

“Yes,” said Alleyn, “I can see.”