The Mystery at Stowe. Vernon Loder

Tollard was a man of fresh colour, and now he looked pale and tired. There was something up. Perhaps he and his wife had quarrelled. Surely it couldn’t be a pre-arranged thing between him and Miss Gurdon? Elaine had told him bluntly that she did not love this man; but, if she did, she would hardly blurt it out.

      ‘Perhaps you are going to make some arrangements for this expedition,’ he said, hoping Tollard wouldn’t resent his curiosity.

      ‘No. Nothing. We have pretty well settled the thing now, and I have my own affairs to attend to. Miss Gurdon may set out at any time.’

      Mr Barley nodded, reassured. ‘All right. I had hoped to take you all to see Heber Castle this afternoon, but I can count you out. You must try to come down again soon.’

      ‘I wonder what Barley is after,’ Tollard said to himself as he left to go upstairs to his bedroom. ‘And I wonder what he thinks. Some of those cats—’

      He stopped there, and went upstairs quickly. As he passed the door of his wife’s room, he heard her moving about with her slow, light tread. He shrugged, and did not go in.

      He left at half-past two for town. By three, the other guests had filled two cars, and set off for Heber Castle, a show place in the neighbourhood that was open to visitors. Mrs Tollard did not go with them. She pleaded a headache, and did not come down after lunch. Mr Barley went in one car, with Elaine Gurdon, Nelly Sayers, young Haine, and Mrs Minever. Mrs Gailey, the two Heads, and a friend who had dropped in, took the other.

      ‘I thought Margery looked awful at lunch,’ said Mrs Gailey, as they drove along through the sun-soaked country. ‘What a pathetic face she has.’

      Mr Head grunted. ‘I don’t know really why she tries to play bridge. She has no idea of any conventions, and seems to think that the whole game consists in doubling.’

      ‘Perhaps that is why she looks pathetic,’ said the friend, with a smile.

      Mrs Head frowned. Bridge was no subject for humour. ‘She might think of her partners,’ she remarked severely.

      ‘And now Ned is going off suddenly,’ said Mrs Gailey.

      The friend grinned. ‘There’s the reason for the pathos. Young wife, departing husband! Why, some of them weep buckets!’

      ‘Tollard looked a bit fed-up too, I thought,’ observed Mr Head. ‘Last night he muddled every hand.’

      ‘Blow bridge!’ thought Netta Gailey. She wished she were in the other car with Nelly Sayers, who could talk of interesting things without introducing some detestable hobby. In the other car, Miss Sayers was also seeking information.

      ‘Mr Tollard left in rather a hurry,’ she said to Mr Barley. ‘Business, I suppose?’

      ‘Men always have business for an excuse; we women are not so lucky,’ grumbled Mrs Minever.

      ‘Business,’ agreed Mr Barley, avoiding Elaine’s eye.

      ‘If I had such a jolly pretty wife, I wouldn’t let any business take me away,’ said Ortho Haine enthusiastically.

      ‘A single man doesn’t know what a married man may do,’ said Mrs Minever.

      They picnicked in a lovely dell, duly made the tour of the castle, and returned in good time for dinner. Mr Barley’s first duty on reaching home was to enquire after Mrs Tollard’s headache. She herself was not yet visible, and her maid told Mr Barley that she was not sure if her mistress would leave her room that day.

      ‘I hope she is not really ill,’ said he solicitously.

      ‘Oh no, sir. But she has a blinding headache, and will be glad if you will excuse her at dinner tonight, sir.’

      ‘I shall have something sent up to her. You might perhaps ask her if she would care to see a doctor. I could telephone for Browne.’

      ‘No, thank you, sir. She told me to tell you not to trouble, only please to excuse her.’

      ‘Mrs Tollard will not be down tonight,’ he told his guests, when they assembled at dinner. ‘I should think it must be a touch of neuralgia myself.’

      All expressed sympathy, though Elaine’s face wore a look of slight scepticism, as if she doubted the cause of the malaise.

      ‘She did look seedy this morning,’ said young Haine.

      ‘She is a pale type,’ said Mrs Minever.

      After dinner, Mrs Minever, the Heads, Mr Barley, and the Heads’ friend, with Elaine and Ortho Haine, decided for bridge. Nelly Sayers wanted Mrs Gailey to go with her to the billiard-room, where they could discuss Margery and her neuralgia to their heart’s content, but a fourth was wanted for the second table, so she sat down with a book.

      At half-past eleven the last rubber had been played, and Mrs Minever closed her bag, and got up. She was followed by Mrs Gailey, Elaine, and the others, the Heads lingering almost to the last to discuss some incident in the evening’s play. Then they too disappeared, and Mr Barley was left alone with Haine, who was yawning heavily.

      ‘Fine woman, Miss Gurdon,’ he said to his host, raising a desultory hand.

      ‘Very,’ said Mr Barley. ‘Brilliant even. I have a great respect for her.’

      ‘Doesn’t seem to be much love lost between her and Mrs Tollard,’ drawled Haine.

      Mr Barley frowned. ‘Oh, I shouldn’t say that. But you’re tired, Haine. What about bed?’

      ‘Bed it is, sir,’ said Ortho obediently. ‘Good-night.’

      Mr Barley retired last, looking thoughtful. Half an hour later, and the house was quiet. It was a still and warm night. Isolated in its park, there were no sounds from the main road that bounded the grounds on the south side.

      Mr Barley fell asleep at twelve. He had tired himself speculating about Tollard and his wife. They would come round in time, he thought. These tiffs were a part of many married lives.

      He was awakened about half-past five next morning by a sound. It seemed to him low but penetrating. He sat up in bed, and listened. A soft thud followed. He got out of bed, slipped on his trousers, slippers, and a dressing-gown, and was about to go out into the lobby when there was a knock at his door.

      ‘Come in,’ he said, in a disturbed voice.

      He thought it might be his man. To his surprise it was Elaine Gurdon.

      She wore moccasin slippers, and had on a silk dressing-gown over her night-dress. Her hair had been loosely coiled on top of her head, and held there by a long obsidian pin, with an amber head. He noticed that she was very tense, though she was in perfect control of herself.

      ‘What’s the matter?’ he stammered.

      She put a finger on her lips. ‘Don’t rouse anyone yet. Come with me, please. Mrs Tollard is very ill. She may be dead. I have just come from her room.’ Mr Barley tried twice to speak. His face was ashen. He trembled as he stood staring at Elaine. Then he followed her out of the room, and down along the passage to the bedroom occupied by Margery Tollard.

       CHAPTER III

       THE DRESSING-GOWN

      THE bedrooms on the right side of the lobby faced south. The one occupied by Margery Tollard had a door communicating with that formerly used by her husband, which was, of course, empty since his departure.

      Still silent, but much shaken, Mr Barley followed Elaine Gurdon to the door, watched her turn the handle, and push the door open. Then he advanced ahead of her into the room.

      Something in the posture of the figure that lay face upwards on the floor near the window told him