Part 13 (1/2)
The most astute criminal, even burglars, will choose sometimes a wrongly-timed occasion for his offence against society.
It was a few nights after the ”First,” when Sir Raife and the rest of the household had sought the sleep that follows sweetly on a long day's shooting. Lazily knocking the contents of his pipe into the fire, he climbed into the four-posted bed with its pale-blue curtains hanging around. The old-fas.h.i.+oned, and even the mediaeval, survived in many directions at Aldborough Park, and this bed was one of the survivals.
Although fatigued beyond the ordinary point, even after a long tramp over stubble and turnips, up hill and down dale, Raife did not sleep.
His mind was too active, and his thoughts trended in directions which left him sleepless and troubled.
The recollection of his father's murder, and the dying words which, in spite of the intervening months and the exciting events that had transpired, still, on such an occasion as this, caused him anxiety.
Insomnia may not be a disease, but it is a very serious complaint at the moment of suffering. There are some people who possess mentality of a calibre that permits them to lie awake during long and dark nights.
Others, of a higher-strung fibre, cast bedclothes and resolution to the corners of the room, and rise to smoke, to read--or do anything rather than endure the torture of wakefulness caused by a troubled mind. Raife rose from the high, old-fas.h.i.+oned bed and proceeded for a light and his dressing-gown, when he heard sounds that arrested his movement and attention. Premonition of danger displays a very high sense in animals.
The later stages of civilisation have made matters so safe for human beings, that the premonitive sense is becoming rare. Environment undoubtedly affects such a sense, and the proximity of the library to Raife's bedroom may have affected his alertness, and kept him awake.
Certainly there was something, somebody moving, and the noise was in the direction of the library--the room of sad, tragic a.s.sociation. ”Nerves”
do not imply timidity, and Raife of the Reymingtounes was hardly likely to be a timid man. At the moment he was possessed of a strong spirit of revenge. His father had been cruelly shot by a burglar in that very library, where those stealthy sounds were proceeding from. He did not wait to don a dressing-gown. Hastily s.n.a.t.c.hing his Browning revolver from under his pillow, he proceeded along the dark, oak-panelled corridor. Gloomy old helmets, empty sh.e.l.ls of armour that had protected his ancestors in many a fray, frowned upon him. As he crept quietly, but quickly, over the familiar soft carpets, he thought also of the baroness's jewels, those gems that attracted trouble in their train.
They were in the iron safe embedded in the wall of the library. If there was to be a vendetta, he--Raife Remington--would see to it that the feud was well sustained on his side. The last few yards he covered on tip-toe, gripping his Browning in his hand. At last, he was peeping through the door, determined to have the first shot in the contest that had been forced on him. All such contests are cowardly. The midnight marauder carries long odds in his favour--the greatest being the unwillingness of the man, who is protecting his own property, to fire first. In this aggravated case his father's spirit, through the memory of his dying words, impelled Raife to fire first and shoot straight.
Justice was on his side and Raife brought the revolver to a level for aim, as he peered into the room. The sight that met him was so staggering that he involuntarily gasped.
Holding an electric torch in one hand, a case of the baroness's jewels in the other, and kneeling before the open door of the safe, he saw the outline of the figure of a woman. Raife's involuntary gasp was sufficient, for the woman, who had displayed wonderful craftsmans.h.i.+p in achieving her purpose, switched off the lamp. It was too late. With a bound Raife had seized her by the throat and dragged her to the wall, switching on a powerful electrolier.
His horror and consternation reached the highest human point when he recognised Gilda Tempest, the woman he loved--the woman of mystery--the woman he had trusted! She had asked him to trust her--to be her friend.
He had responded with the whole of his heart and enthusiasm, and this-- this hideous nightmare was his reward.
Raife slung her from him with force, and hissed: ”You hideous fiend! Is this womanhood--the womanhood that I--I had loved?”
Gilda fell in front of the open door of the dismantled safe. For a full minute her sobs filled the old library, till they became a moan, a prolonged wail.
Raife placed the revolver in the pocket of his pyjamas and crossed the room with bowed head and heaving chest. His face was contorted with rage, and his hands and fingers worked convulsively. He re-crossed the room and gazed at her with a look of intense hatred. Slowly she rose to her knees and crawled towards him with clasped hands. Then, clutching at his knees with upturned face, a still beautiful face, she ceased her sobbing. In low, mellifluous tones she pleaded: ”Raife, Raife! I have wronged you. I have wronged you grossly, grievously. But listen to me, spare me! I, too, have been wronged. I have not been a willing agent.
I have been forced, yes compelled, to do these foul, hateful things.”
Raife looked down on her with a contemptuous glance. ”You have acted well before. You are acting well now. Before I give you in charge of the police you can tell me, if you will, why you borrowed my keys at the Hotel Royal, at Nice?”
”No! No! Raife, Sir Raife! Believe me, I am not naturally bad. My uncle--at least, he tells me he is my uncle--forces me to do these things. When he looks at me and tells me what to do I am afraid, but I must obey. I simply must, I can't help it.
”He made me get your keys and told me the story to tell you. He is clever, so clever.” Here Gilda shuddered, and then trembled violently all over. Pa.s.sionately she raised her voice a trifle, saying: ”He is horrid! He is hateful--yes, awful!” Then, relapsing almost into a state of coma, she continued: ”I must obey. Yes, I must obey.”
At this moment there was a violent knock on the door, and Raife almost dragged Gilda to a curtain and hastily thrusting her behind, crossed to the door and said lazily, in a tired key: ”Yes, who is there?”
Edgson's, the old butler's voice, came from without in trembling tones.
”Lud a mussy! Is that you, Sir Raife? You have given us a fright! I saw a light in the library and thought there was burglars again. And I've got all the men and the gardeners and we've surrounded the house.”
Sir Raife laughed a forced, hearty laugh, exclaiming: ”Well done, Edgson! You were quite right, but there aren't any burglars this time.
No, I'm just at work on some of my papers, that's all.” Then, turning the key and holding the door slightly ajar, he added: ”Give them all a drink, and send them to bed again. I shan't be long myself, now.”
The old man replied respectfully: ”Very good, Sir Raife.” As he walked down the long corridor behind the other servants who had accompanied him on his well-planned police expedition, Edgson laughed softly to himself.
He remembered some of the stories told to him of Master Raife's escapades in the long white room at the ”Blue Boar.”