The Haunted Hotel / Отель с привидениями. Уилки Коллинз
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of the evening.
‘She has suffered a terrible shock,’ Agnes answered.
Mr. Troy turned to Mrs. Ferrari, and looked at her again. He drummed absently with his fingers on the table. At last he spoke to her.
‘My good lady, you don’t really believe that your husband is dead?’
Mrs. Ferrari put her handkerchief to her eyes. The word ‘dead’ was ineffectual to express her feelings. ‘Murdered!’ she said sternly, behind her handkerchief.
‘Why? And by whom?’ Mr. Troy asked.
‘You have read my husband’s letters, sir,’ she began. ‘I believe he discovered-’ She stopped.
‘What did he discover?’
‘He discovered Lady Montbarry and the Baron!’ she answered. ‘The Baron is no more that vile woman’s brother than I am. My poor dear husband saw the wickedness of those two wretches. The lady’s maid left her place on account of it. They have killed my husband, because he knew much.’
Mr. Troy listened with an expression of satirical approval.
‘Mrs. Ferrari,’ he said, ‘you build up your sentences well, can be a good lawyer. Complete the case, my good lady – complete the case. Tell us next who sent you this letter with the bank-note. The “two wretches” who murdered Mr. Ferrari will hardly send you a thousand pounds. Who is it – eh? I see the post-mark on the letter is “Venice.” Have you any friend in that interesting city, with a large heart, who wishes to console you anonymously?’
It was not easy to reply to this.
‘I don’t understand you, sir,’ Mrs. Ferrari answered. ‘I don’t think this is a joke.’
Agnes drew her chair a little nearer to her friend Mr. Troy.
‘What is the most probable explanation, in your opinion?’ she asked.
‘I shall offend Mrs. Ferrari if I tell you,’ Mr. Troy answered.
‘No, sir, you won’t!’ cried Mrs. Ferrari.
The lawyer leaned back in his chair.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Observe, madam, I don’t dispute your view of the position of affairs at the palace in Venice. You have your husband’s letters to justify you; and you have also the significant fact that Lady Montbarry’s maid did really leave the house. We will say, then, that Lord Montbarry is victim of a foul wrong – and that Mr. Ferrari was the first to find it out. Now listen! Your husband is in this miserable household, under very awkward circumstances for him. What does he do? He wisely withdraws himself from association with a disgraceful discovery. He runs away secretly. The money modifies this view – unfavourably so far as Mr. Ferrari is concerned. I now say that bank-note there on the table is the price of his absence. The guilty persons sent it to his wife.’
Mrs. Ferrari’s watery grey eyes brightened suddenly.
‘It’s false!’ she cried. ‘It’s a shame to speak of my husband in that way!’
‘I told you I could offend you!’ said Mr. Troy.
Agnes took the offended wife’s hand. She appealed to the lawyer to reconsider his theory. While she was speaking, the servant interrupted her. He brought a visiting-card. It was the card of Henry Westwick; and there was an ominous request.
‘I bring bad news. Let me see you for a minute downstairs.’ Agnes immediately left the room.
Alone with Mrs. Ferrari, Mr. Troy told the courier’s wife,
‘My good soul,’ he began, ‘I respect you for speaking so warmly in your husband’s defence. I don’t want to offend you, I am a total stranger to you and to Mr. Ferrari. A thousand pounds is a large sum of money; and a poor man may be tempted by it and keep out of the way for a while. My only interest is to get at the truth. If you give me time, I’ll try to find your husband.’
‘I am much obliged to you, sir,’ was all Ferrari’s wife said.
Mr. Troy put his hands in his pockets, and looked out of window. After an interval of silence, the drawing-room door was opened.
Mr. Troy expected to see Agnes. To his surprise there appeared, in her place, a perfect stranger to him – a gentleman, with an expression of pain and embarrassment on his handsome face. He looked at Mr. Troy, and bowed gravely.
‘Some news has greatly distressed Miss Agnes Lockwood,’ he said. ‘She has retired to her room. I can speak to you in her place.’
Then he noticed Mrs. Ferrari, and held out his hand to her kindly.
‘It is some years since we last met, Emily,’ he said. ‘I am afraid you have almost forgotten “Master Henry”. My name is Henry Westwick. I am the younger brother of the late Lord Montbarry.’
‘The late Lord Montbarry!’ Mr. Troy exclaimed.
‘My brother died in Venice yesterday evening. There is the telegram,’ he handed the paper to Mr. Troy.
The message was in these words:
‘Lady Montbarry, Venice. To Stephen Robert Westwick, Newbury’s Hotel, London.
It is useless to take the journey. Lord Montbarry died of bronchitis, at 8.40 this evening. All needful details by post.’
‘Was this expected, sir?’ the lawyer asked.
‘I cannot say that we are surprised,’ Henry answered. ‘My brother Stephen (who is now the head of the family) received a telegram three days ago, informing him that alarming symptoms had declared themselves. The second physician was invited. He telegraphed that Lord Montbarry was in a state of insensibility, and that, in his brief intervals of consciousness, he recognised nobody.
My brother waited in London for later information. The third telegram is now in your hands.’
‘Mrs. Ferrari,’ said Mr. Troy, ‘have you heard what Mr. Westwick has just told me?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Have you any questions to ask?’
‘No, sir.’
‘You look alarmed,’ the lawyer persisted. ‘Is it still about your husband?’
‘I shall never see my husband again, sir. I am sure of it now.’
‘Sure of it, after what you have just heard?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Can you tell me why?’
‘No, sir. It’s a feeling I have. I can’t tell why.’
‘Oh, a feeling?’ Mr. Troy repeated, in a tone of compassionate contempt.
He rose.
‘Accept the expression of my sympathy[18], sir,’ he said to Mr. Westwick politely. ‘I wish you good evening.’
Henry turned to Mrs. Ferrari as the lawyer closed the door.
‘I have heard of your trouble, Emily, from Miss Lockwood. Is there anything I can do to help you?’
‘Nothing, sir, thank you. Perhaps, I will go home. I am very sorry for Miss Agnes.’
She left.
Henry Westwick looked round him in the solitude of the little drawing-room. It was something to be even near Agnes – to see her things. There, in the corner, was her chair, with her embroidery on the work-table. On the little easel near the window was her last drawing, not quite finished yet. The book she was reading lay on the sofa, with her tiny pencil. One after another, he looked at the objects that reminded him of the woman whom he loved.
‘She will never forget Montbarry,’ he thought to himself. ‘Not one of us feels his death as she feels it. Miserable, miserable wretch-how she loved him!’
In the street, an acquaintance, a wearisome inquisitive man stopped Henry.
‘Sad news, Westwick,
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