The radiance in her eyes lasted for a long time, and then began to fade, so slowly that at first he thought it was a trick of the light. He had never wanted anything more deeply than to hear her say that she could remember.
The radiance became a glow, and in her eyes there was a tinge of anxiety. The smile also faded, and abruptly she turned away.
She said: “That is my National Anthem, I am a Serb. I can recall incidents of my childhood, little, inconsequential incidents; they came to me as I stood there and I have them with me now—but that is all.”
“It’s a beginning,” said Rollison, forcing himself to be brisk. He looked at the records and sorted several out, then motioned to Jolly to attend to the radiogram while he stepped out to the woman’s side, smiling as if they had cause to congratulate each other. “And a good beginning,” he said. “Sit down and listen for a while.”
He had selected Serbian tunes. They followed one upon another, bringing into the flat an atmosphere of rugged land and gypsy music, the plucking of strings and the thin tone of flutes, all with a quality of its own, whether gay or sad.
All the time Rollison watched her, but she was sitting with her eyes closed and her face quite expressionless. When all were finished, Rollison waited hopefully. Jolly began to pack up the records, but he also was watching Lady Lost. She looked as if she had fallen asleep, but when Rollison stirred she opened her eyes, smiled, and said:
“I am very tired.”
“And you must get to bed!” said Rollison, promptly. “The maid will get you anything you want.”
“Whatever I remember,” said the lady, “I shall not forget you, Mr. Rollison! Good-night.” She held out her hand, and Rollison pressed it, then she turned away towards the spare room, and Jolly stood waiting.
“No Watson to my Holmes to-night,” said Rollison, “Holmes was never as empty-headed as I am now.”
“You are tired, sir,” murmured Jolly. “You have succeeded in touching familiar chords, sir, which no one else contrived.”
Rollison smiled. “They didn’t have the opportunity,” he said. “There are limits to what one can do in a nursing home.”
“I question very much whether the people at the nursing home did all they could to help to restore madame’s memory.”
“They were under medical supervision,” Rollison reminded him.
“You will remember, sir,” said Jolly, “that Dr. Renfrew is the family physician of the Barrington-Leys.”
“And Dr. Cray is a hard-bitten police-surgeon,” said Rollison.
“Of course, sir. We do not know, however, what instructions Dr. Cray gave to the matron, and we don’t know whether they were carried out. You will forgive me for saying so, sir, but anyone who wished to revive a lost memory might attempt to do so with music—it is, I believe, an elementary process in the practice of a psychologist. Why has it not been tried?”
“She’s been ill.” Rollison said. Out of talks with Jolly much that was obscure often came to light.
“Our inquiries at the nursing home elicited the information that Lady Lost was still suffering from the effects of the poison,” said Jolly, “but she came straight from there to here and we cannot say that she is in poor health at the moment. Obviously she made an excellent recovery, but we were not given that impression when we last inquired, four days ago.”
“No, we weren’t,” agreed Rollison.
“If we were to find out what instructions Dr. Cray gave, we could then find out from the lady whether they were carried out,” said Jolly.
“It’ll be my first job in the morning,” said Rollison.
“I am glad that the suggestion finds favour, sir,” said Jolly.
“There are one of two other matters of which you have doubtless thought. If we were to take the coat and the dress to a furrier and dressmaker, we might learn more.”
“I had made a note of that one,” said Rollison, “but Grice has probably tried it.”
“I doubt it, sir. There were no name tags or maker’s tags, and I think it likely that the police will have been satisfied with that, especially since the lingerie was of American manufacture. That is another interesting point, sir; I think we might make inquiries in America. A photograph would reach there in a very short time if sent by air, and your friends in New York would undoubtedly be only too glad to help.”
“You’re getting better, better and better,” said Rollison.
“Thank you,” murmured Jolly. “Then there is yet another matter, one which you can hardly be expected to have discovered, sir. In the last few weeks I have taken the liberty of making certain inquiries, and while none of them appear to have any great importance, there is a factor which I am sure will interest you. I made the acquaintance of the butler at Barrington House, and several others of the staff. Two things emerged, sir. First, that Farrow the footman whom we saw to-night was engaged only recently with the approval of the plump Mr. Pomeroy.”
“Was he, by George!”
“He was, sir, and the staff dislike him very much indeed,” said Jolly. “In fact they have the impression that Farrow was engaged by Mrs. Barrington-Ley
“Or ordered it,” said Rollison.
Jolly smiled. “The butler has a very neat turn of phrase, sir. The subject of the footman was not discussed until last evening. The other matter I have known for some time, but I did not at that juncture see what useful purpose would be served by advising you.”
