“Where’s Chilvers?” she demanded sharply, as she stepped into the hall.
“But he is gone, madame, with the others.”
“What others? Gone where?”
“But to Datchet, madame—to the cottage, as your telegram said.”
“My telegram?” said Virginia, utterly at sea.
“Did not madame send a telegram? Surely there can be no mistake. It came but an hour ago.”
“I never sent any telegram. What did it say?”
“I believe it is still on the table là-bas.”
Élise retired, pounced upon it, and brought it to her mistress in triumph.
“Voilà, madame!”
The telegram was addressed to Chilvers and ran as follows:
“Please take household down to cottage at once, and make preparations for weekend party there. Catch 5:49 train.”
There was nothing unusual about it, it was just the sort of message she herself had frequently sent before, when she had arranged a party at her riverside bungalow on the spur of the moment. She always took the whole household down, leaving an old woman as caretaker. Chilvers would not have seen anything wrong with the message, and like a good servant had carried out his orders faithfully enough.
“Me, I remained,” explained Élise, “knowing that madame would wish me to pack for her.”
“It’s a silly hoax,” cried Virginia, flinging down the telegram angrily. “You know perfectly well, Élise, that I am going to Chimneys. I told you so this morning.”
“I thought madame had changed her mind. Sometimes that does happen, does it not, madame?”
Virginia admitted the truth of the accusation with a half smile. She was busy trying to find a reason for this extraordinary practical joke. Élise cut forward a suggestion.
“Mon Dieu!” she cried, clasping her hands. “If it should be the malefactors, the thieves! They send the bogus telegram and get the domestiques all out of the house, and then they rob it.”
“I suppose that might be it,” said Virginia doubtfully.
“Yes, yes, madame, that is it without a doubt. Every day you read in the papers of such things. Madame will ring up the police at once—at once—before they arrive and cut our throats.”
“Don’t get so excited, Élise. They won’t come and cut our throats at six o’clock in the afternoon.”
“Madame, I implore you, let me run out and fetch a policeman now, at once.”
“What on earth for? Don’t be silly, Élise. Go up and pack my things for Chimneys if you haven’t already done it. The new Cailleuax evening dress, and the white crêpe marocain, and—yes, the black velvet—black velvet is so political, is it not?”
“Madame looks ravishing in the eau de nil satin,” suggested Élise, her professional instincts reasserting themselves.
“No, I won’t take that. Hurry up, Élise, there’s a good girl. We’ve got very little time. I’ll send a wire to Chilvers at Datchet, and I’ll speak to the policeman on the beat as we go out and tell him to keep an eye on the place. Don’t start rolling your eyes again, Élise—if you get so frightened before anything has happened, what would you do if a man jumped out from some dark corner and stuck a knife into you?”
Élise gave vent to a shrill squeak, and beat a speedy retreat up the stairs, darting nervous glances over each shoulder as she went.
Virginia made a face at her retreating back, and crossed the hall to the little study where the telephone was. Élise’s suggestion of ringing up the police station seemed to her a good one, and she intended to act upon it without any further delay.
She opened the study door and crossed to the telephone. Then, with her hand on the receiver, she stopped. A man was sitting in the big armchair, sitting in a curious huddled position. In the stress of the moment, she had forgotten all about her expected visitor. Apparently he had fallen asleep whilst waiting for her.
She came right up to the chair, a slightly mischievous smile upon her face. And then suddenly the smile faded.
The man was not asleep. He was dead.
She knew it at once, knew it instinctively even before her eyes had seen and noted the small shining pistol lying on the floor, the little-singed hole just above the heart with the dark stain round it, and the horrible dropped jaw.
She stood quite still, her hands pressed to her sides. In the silence she heard Élise running down the stairs.
“Madame! Madame!”
“Well, what is it?”
She moved quickly to the door. Her whole instinct was to conceal what had happened—for the moment anyway—from Élise. Élise would promptly go into hysterics, she knew that well enough, and she felt a great need for calm and quiet in which to think things out.
“Madame, would it not be better if I should draw the chain across the door? These malefactors, at any minute they may arrive.”
“Yes, if you like. Anything you like.”
She heard the rattle of the chain, and then Élise running upstairs again, and drew a long breath of relief.
She looked at the man in the chair and then at the telephone. Her course was quite clear, she must ring up the police at once.
But still she did not do so. She stood quite still, paralysed with horror and with a host of conflicting ideas rushing through her brain. The bogus telegram. Had it something to do with this? Supposing Élise had not stayed behind? She would have let herself in—that is, presuming she had had her latchkey with her as usual, to find herself alone in the house with a murdered man—a man whom she had permitted to blackmail her on a former occasion. Of course she had an explanation of that; but thinking of that explanation she was not quite easy in her mind. She remembered how frankly incredible George had found it. Would other people think the same. Those letters now—of course she hadn’t written them, but would it be so easy to prove that?
She put her hands on her forehead, squeezing them tight together.
“I must think,” said Virginia. “I simply must think.”
Who had let the
