The Mystery of the Blue Train

  She flung out a long, pale hand towards the piano, which was littered with untidy music scores.

  “Ambrose has been here. He has been playing me the new Opera.”

  Kettering nodded without paying much attention. He was profoundly uninterested in Claud Ambrose and the latter’s operatic setting of Ibsen’s Peer Gynt. So was Mirelle, for that matter, regarding it merely as a unique opportunity for her own presentation as Anitra.

  “It is a marvellous dance,” she murmured. “I shall put all the passion of the desert into it. I shall dance hung over with jewels—ah! and, by the way, mon ami, there is a pearl that I saw yesterday in Bond Street—a black pearl.”

  She paused, looking at him invitingly.

  “My dear girl,” said Kettering, “it’s no use talking of black pearls to me. At the present minute, as far as I am concerned, the fat is in the fire.”

  She was quick to respond to his tone. She sat up, her big black eyes widening.

  “What is that you say, Dereek? What has happened?”

  “My esteemed father-in-law,” said Kettering, “is preparing to go off the deep end.”

  “Eh?”

  “In other words, he wants Ruth to divorce me.”

  “How stupid!” said Mirelle. “Why should she want to divorce you?”

  Derek Kettering grinned.

  “Mainly because of you, chérie!” he said.

  Mirelle shrugged her shoulders.

  “That is foolish,” she observed in a matter-of-fact voice.

  “Very foolish,” agreed Derek.

  “What are you going to do about it?” demanded Mirelle.

  “My dear girl, what can I do? On the one side, the man with unlimited money; on the other side, the man with unlimited debts. There is no question as to who will come out on top.”

  “They are extraordinary, these Americans,” commented Mirelle. “It is not as though your wife were fond of you.”

  “Well,” said Derek, “what are we going to do about it?”

  She looked at him inquiringly. He came over and took both her hands in his.

  “Are you going to stick to me?”

  “What do you mean? After—?”

  “Yes,” said Kettering. “After, when the creditors come down like wolves on the fold. I am damned fond of you, Mirelle; are you going to let me down?”

  She pulled her hands away from him.

  “You know I adore you, Dereek.”

  He caught the note of evasion in her voice.

  “So that’s that, is it? The rats will leave the sinking ship.”

  “Ah, Dereek!”

  “Out with it,” he said violently. “You will fling me over; is that it?”

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  “I am very fond of you, mon ami—indeed I am fond of you. You are very charming—un beau garçon, but ce n’est pas practique.”

  “You are a rich man’s luxury, eh? Is that it?”

  “If you like to put it that way.”

  She leaned back on the cushions, her head flung back.

  “All the same, I am fond of you, Dereek.”

  He went over to the window and stood there some time looking out, with his back to her. Presently the dancer raised herself on her elbow and stared at him curiously.

  “What are you thinking of, mon ami?”

  He grinned at her over his shoulder, a curious grin, that made her vaguely uneasy.

  “As it happened, I was thinking of a woman, my dear.”

  “A woman, eh?”

  Mirelle pounced on something that she could understand.

  “You are thinking of some other woman, is that it?”

  “Oh, you needn’t worry; it is purely a fancy portrait. ‘Portrait of a lady with grey eyes.’ ”

  Mirelle said sharply, “When did you meet her?”

  Derek Kettering laughed, and his laughter had a mocking, ironical sound.

  “I ran into the lady in the corridor of the Savoy Hotel.”

  “Well! What did she say?”

  “As far as I can remember, I said ‘I beg your pardon,’ and she said, ‘It doesn’t matter,’ or words to that effect.”

  “And then?” persisted the dancer.

  Kettering shrugged his shoulders.

  “And then—nothing. That was the end of the incident.”

  “I don’t understand a word of what you are talking about,” declared the dancer.

  “Portrait of a lady with grey eyes,” murmured Derek reflectively. “Just as well I am never likely to meet her again.”

  “Why?”

  “She might bring me bad luck. Women do.”

  Mirelle slipped quietly from her couch, and came across to him, laying one long, snakelike arm round his neck.

  “You are foolish, Dereek,” she murmured. “You are very foolish. You are beau garçon, and I adore you, but I am not made to be poor—no, decidedly I am not made to be poor. Now listen to me; everything is very simple. You must make it up with your

  wife.”

  “I am afraid that’s not going to be actually in the sphere of practical politics,” said Derek drily.

  “How do you say? I do not understand.”

  “Van Aldin, my dear, is not taking any. He is the kind of man who makes up his mind and sticks to it.”

  “I have heard of him,” nodded the dancer. “He is very rich, is he not? Almost the richest man in America. A few days ago, in Paris, he bought the most wonderful ruby in the world—‘Heart of Fire’ it is called.”

  Kettering did not answer. The dancer went on musingly:

  “It is a wonderful stone—a stone that should belong to a woman like me. I love jewels, Dereek; they say something to me. Ah! to wear a ruby like ‘Heart of Fire.’ ”

  She gave a little sigh, and then became practical once more.

  “You don’t understand these things. Dereek; you are only a man. Van Aldin will give these rubies to his daughter, I suppose. Is she his only child?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then when he dies, she will inherit all his money. She will be a rich woman.”

  “She is a rich woman already,” said Kettering drily. “He settled a couple of millions on her at her marriage.”

  “A couple of million! But that is immense. And if she died suddenly, eh? That would all come to you?”

  “As things stand at present,” said Kettering slowly, “it would. As far as I know she has not made a will.”

  “Mon Dieu!” said the dancer. “If she were to die, what a solution that would be.”

  There was a moment’s pause, and then Derek Kettering laughed outright.

  “I like your simple, practical mind, Mirelle, but I am afraid what you desire won’t come to pass. My wife is an extremely healthy person.”

  “Eh bien!” said Mirelle; “there are accidents.”

  He looked at her sharply but did not answer.

  She went on.

  “But you are right, mon ami, we must not dwell on possibilities. See now, my little Dereek, there must be no more talk of this divorce. Your wife must give up the idea.”

  “And if she won’t?”

  The dancer’s eyes narrowed to slits.

  “I think she will, my friend. She is one of those who would not like the publicity. There are one or two pretty stories that she would not like her friends to read in the newspapers.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Kettering sharply.

  Mirelle laughed, her head thrown back.

  “Parbleu! I mean the gentleman who calls himself the Comte de la Roche. I know all about him. I am Parisienne, you remember. He was her lover before she married you, was he not?”

  Kettering took her sharply by the shoulders.

  “That is a damned lie,” he said, “and please remember that, after all, you are speaking of my wife.”

  Mirelle was a little sobered.

  “You are extraordinary, you English,” she complained. “All the same, I daresay that you may be right. The America
ns are so cold, are they not? But you will permit me to say, mon ami, that she was in love with him before she married you, and her father stepped in and sent the Comte about his business. And the little Mademoiselle, she wept many tears! But she obeyed. Still, you must know as well as I do, Dereek, that it is a very different story now. She sees him nearly every day, and on the 14th she goes to Paris to

  meet him.”

  “How do you know all this?” demanded Kettering.

  “Me? I have friends in Paris, my dear Dereek, who know the Comte intimately. It is all arranged. She is going to the Riviera, so she says, but in reality the Comte meets her in Paris and—who knows! Yes, yes, you can take my word for it, it is all arranged.”

  Derek Kettering stood motionless.

  “You see,” purred the dancer, “if you are clever, you have her in the hollow of your hand. You can make things very awkward for her.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake be quiet,” cried Kettering. “Shut your cursed mouth!”

  Mirelle flung herself down on the divan with a laugh. Kettering caught up his hat and coat and left the flat, banging the door violently. And still the dancer sat on the divan and laughed softly to herself. She was not displeased with her work.

  Seven

  LETTERS

  “Mrs. Samuel Harfield presents her compliments to Miss Katherine Grey and wishes to point out that under the circumstances Miss Grey may not be aware—”

  Mrs. Harfield, having written so far fluently, came to a dead stop, held up by what has proved an insuperable difficulty to many other people—namely, the difficulty of expressing oneself fluently in the third person.

  After a minute or two of hesitation, Mrs. Harfield tore up the sheet of notepaper and started afresh.

  Dear Miss Grey,—Whilst fully appreciating the adequate way you discharged your duties to my Cousin Emma (whose recent death has indeed been a severe blow to us all), I cannot but feel—

  Again Mrs. Harfield came to a stop. Once more the letter was consigned to the wastepaper basket. It was not until four false starts had been made that Mrs. Harfield at last produced an epistle that satisfied her. It was duly sealed and stamped and addressed to Miss Katherine Grey, Little Crampton, St. Mary Mead, Kent, and it lay beside the lady’s plate on the following morning at breakfast time in company with a more important-looking communication in a long blue envelope.

  Katherine Grey opened Mrs. Harfield’s letter first. The finished production ran as follows:

  Dear Miss Grey,—My husband and I wish to express our thanks to you for your services to my poor cousin, Emma. Her death has been a great blow to us, though we were, of course, aware that her mind has been failing for some time past. I understand that her latter testamentary dispositions have been of a most peculiar character, and they would not hold good, of course, in any court of law. I have no doubt that, with your usual good sense, you have already realized this fact. If these matters can be arranged privately it is always so much better, my husband says. We shall be pleased to recommend you most highly for a similar post, and hope that you will also accept a small present. Believe me, dear Miss Grey, yours cordially.

  Mary Anne Harfield.

  Katherine Grey read the letter through, smiled a little, and read it a second time. Her face as she laid the letter down after the second reading was distinctly amused. Then she took up the second letter. After one brief perusal she laid it down and stared very straight in front of her. This time she did not smile. Indeed, it would have been hard for anyone watching her to guess what emotions lay behind that quiet, reflective gaze.

  Katherine Grey was thirty-three. She came of good family, but her father had lost all his money, and Katherine had had to work for her living from an early age. She had been just twenty-three when she had come to old Mrs. Harfield as companion.

  It was generally recognized that old Mrs. Harfield was “difficult.” Companions came and went with startling rapidity. They arrived full of hope and they usually left in tears. But from the moment Katherine Grey set foot in Little Crampton, ten years ago, perfect peace had reigned. No one knows how these things come about. Snake charmers, they say, are born, not made. Katherine Grey was born with the power of managing old ladies, dogs, and small boys, and she did it without any apparent sense of strain.

  At twenty-three she had been a quiet girl with beautiful eyes. At thirty-three she was a quiet woman, with those same grey eyes, shining steadily out on the world with a kind of happy serenity that nothing could shake. Moreover, she had been born with, and still possessed, a sense of humour.

  As she sat at the breakfast table, staring in front of her, there was a ring at the bell, accompanied by a very energetic rat-a-tat-tat at the knocker. In another minute the little maidservant opened the door and announced rather breathlessly:

  “Dr. Harrison.”

  The big, middle-aged doctor came bustling in with the energy and breeziness that had been foreshadowed by his onslaught on the knocker.

  “Good morning, Miss Grey.”

  “Good morning, Dr. Harrison.”

  “I dropped in early,” began the doctor, “in case you should have heard from one of those Harfield cousins. Mrs. Samuel, she calls herself—a perfectly poisonous person.”

  Without a word, Katherine picked up Mrs. Harfield’s letter from the table and gave it to him. With a good deal of amusement she watched his perusal of it, the drawing together of the bushy eyebrows, the snorts and grunts of violent disapproval. He dashed it down again on the table.

  “Perfectly monstrous,” he fumed. “Don’t you let it worry you, my dear. They’re talking through their hat. Mrs. Harfield’s intellect was as good as yours or mine, and you won’t get anyone to say the contrary. They wouldn’t have a leg to stand upon, and they know it. All that talk of taking it into court is pure bluff. Hence this attempt to get round you in a hole-and-corner way. And look here, my dear, don’t let them get round you with soft soap either. Don’t get fancying it’s your duty to hand over the cash, or any tomfoolery of conscientious scruples.”

  “I’m afraid it hasn’t occurred to me to have scruples,” said Katherine. “All these people are distant relatives of Mrs. Harfield’s husband, and they never came near her or took any notice of her in her lifetime.”

  “You’re a sensible woman,” said the doctor. “I know, none better, that you’ve had a hard life of it for the last ten years. You’re fully entitled to enjoy the old lady’s savings, such as they were.”

  Katherine smiled thoughtfully.

  “Such as they were,” she repeated. “You’ve no idea of the amount, doctor?”

  “Well—enough to bring in five hundred a year or so, I suppose.”

  Katherine nodded.

  “That’s what I thought,” she said. “Now read this.”

  She handed him the letter she had taken from the long blue envelope. The doctor read and uttered an exclamation of utter astonishment.

  “Impossible,” he muttered. “Impossible.”

  “She was one of the original shareholders in Mortaulds. Forty years ago she must have had an income of eight or ten thousand a year. She has never, I am sure, spent more than four hundred a year. She was always terribly careful about money. I always believed that she was obliged to be careful about every penny.”

  “And all the time the income has accumulated at compound interest. My dear, you’re going to be a very rich woman.”

  Katherine Grey nodded.

  “Yes,” she said, “I am.”

  She spoke in a detached, impersonal tone, as though she were looking at the situation from outside.

  “Well,” said the doctor, preparing to depart, “you have all my congratulations.” He flicked Mrs. Samuel Harfield’s letter with his thumb. “Don’t worry about that woman and her odious letter.”

  “It really isn’t an odious letter,” said Miss Grey tolerantly. “Under the circumstances, I think it’s really quite a natural thing to do.”

  “I have the gravest suspici
ons of you sometimes,” said the doctor.

  “Why?”

  “The things that you find perfectly natural.”

  Katherine Grey laughed.

  Doctor Harrison retailed the great news to his wife at lunch-time. She was very excited about it.

  “Fancy old Mrs. Harfield—with all that money. I’m glad she left it to Katherine Grey. That girl’s a saint.”

  The doctor made a wry face.

  “Saints I always imagined must have been difficult people. Katherine Grey is too human for a saint.”

  “She’s a saint with a sense of humour,” said the doctor’s wife, twinkling. “And, though I don’t suppose you’ve ever noticed the fact, she’s extremely good looking.”

  “Katherine Grey?” The doctor was honestly surprised. “She’s got very nice eyes, I know.”

  “Oh, you men!” cried his wife. “Blind as bats. Katherine’s got all the makings of a beauty in her. All she wants is clothes!”

  “Clothes? What’s wrong with her clothes? She always looks very nice.”

  Mrs. Harrison gave an exasperated sigh, and the doctor rose preparatory to starting on his rounds.

  “You might look in on her, Polly,” he suggested.

  “I’m going to,” said Mrs. Harrison, promptly.

  She made her call about three o’clock.

  “My dear, I’m so glad,” she said warmly, as she squeezed Katherine’s hand. “And everyone in the village will be glad too.”

  “It’s very nice of you to come and tell me,” said Katherine. “I hoped you would come in because I wanted to ask about Johnnie.”

  “Oh! Johnnie. Well—”

  Johnnie was Mrs. Harrison’s youngest son. In another minute she was off, retailing a long history in which Johnnie’s adenoids and tonsils bulked largely. Katherine listened sympathetically. Habits die hard. Listening had been her portion for ten years now. “My dear, I wonder if I ever told you about the naval ball at Portsmouth? When Lord Charles admired my gown?” And composedly, kindly, Katherine would reply: “I rather think you have, Mrs. Harfield, but I’ve forgotten about it. Won’t you tell it me again?” And then the old lady would start off full swing, with numerous corrections, and stops, and remembered details. And half of Katherine’s mind would be listening, saying the right things mechanically when the old lady paused. . . .