The Markenmore Mystery. J. S. Fletcher
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he said quietly. “Fasten that door.”
He walked rapidly up the passage and turned into the corridor when he had issued the order: when the butler, after discharging it, followed him, he stood just within the pantry, holding the door in his hand. And after Braxfield, still upset and wondering, had entered, Guy put the door to and turned the key.
“Look here!” he said in a low voice, motioning Braxfield to the fireside and its cheery blaze, “I want to know something—I thought I saw somebody as I came along. You’ll know. Is John Harborough home again?”
Braxfield felt his perceptions quicken at the tone of this question. He nodded, searching Guy’s face.
“Yes, sir!” he answered. “Came home today—this very afternoon.”
“Has he been here?” demanded Guy.
“Yes, sir—this evening.”
“Why? What did he come for?”
“He’d heard your father was ill, Mr. Guy—he came to ask about him.”
“Did he mention me?”
“Not—not to my knowledge, sir. He—he saw Mr. Harry and Miss Valencia.”
“Has he come back for—for good? To settle down?”
“I understand that he has, sir.”
Braxfield was wondering what these questions meant, and his face showed his wonder. But Guy’s face had become sphinx-like. He turned away from the butler, took off his smart hat, overcoat, and gloves, threw them into an easy chair in a corner, and drawing a case from his breast-pocket, selected a cigar, and leisurely lighted it. Braxfield knew enough of cigars to know that that was an expensive one; he knew, too, that as far as appearances went the lost son, of seven years’ silence had not come home like a prodigal. Guy was dressed in the height of fashion; his grey tweed suit, bearing the unmistakable stamp of Savile Row, stood out in striking contrast to the worn and ancient garments in which Harry Markenmore went about the old place. And on the hand which raised a match to the cigar glittered a fine diamond ring, acting as a sort of keeper to another ring, of curious workmanship and appearance, on the third finger.
“Look here!” said Guy again. “Another question. I’ve heard that Mrs. Tretheroe—who was Miss Veronica Leighton—is in these parts again. Is that so?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Braxfield. “She’s come back, too—quite recently. She’s taken the Dower House, Mr. Guy—you know, sir, at the bottom of our park. She took it a month or so ago, from Mr. Harry—he acts in everything now, sir—and she’s moved into it.”
“She took it?” exclaimed Guy, with emphasis on the personal pronoun. “She! What? … is Colonel Tretheroe dead, then?”
“Died out in India, sir—so I’m given to understand—a year since,” answered Braxfield. “So—she returned home and came looking for a house about here, and, as I say, has got our Dower House. And she looks no older, Mr. Guy—not a bit! Handsomer than ever, sir.”
Braxfield was regaining his confidence, and his tongue. He wanted to talk, now.
“They say she’s a very wealthy young widow, Mr. Guy,” he went on. “Colonel Tretheroe, he left her everything—and he was a rich man, I’m told. Seems like it, too—she’s got a fine staff of servants, and she’s spent a lot of money on the house already, and is spending more. Got a house-party there just now—London people I believe. Seems inclined to enjoy herself, I think, sir.”
“Are there any children?” asked Guy.
“No children, sir,” replied Braxfield. “Never been any, so I’m told.”
Guy looked around at the familiar features of the old butler’s sanctum. Nothing seemed to have changed. His glance rested on the decanter which Braxfield had set on the table just before hearing the tap at the window.
“Give me a drink, Braxfield,” he said suddenly. “I guess you’ve some of our old whisky left, even after seven years. And some soda-water. Get one yourself—it’s a long time since you and I had a drink together—though we’ve had many a one in this very room in the old days!”
He laughed cynically as he lifted the glass which Braxfield presently handed to him—but there was no answering laugh from the old butler. Braxfield, indeed, respectfully raising his own glass with a murmured expression of his good wishes, seemed inclined to become sentimental.
“It is a very long time, sir,” he said. “Yes, a very long time, Mr. Guy! But I humbly trust it’s over, sir—I hope you’re coming home for good.”
“Then your hopes are doomed to disappointment, Braxfield,” replied Guy, with another cynical laugh. “I’m not! No more Markenmore Court for me. I’ve done very nicely without it and I don’t propose to grow cabbages here when I can grow more profitable things elsewhere. No, Braxfield. I’m not coming back.”
“But, Mr. Guy—your father?” said the old butler. “He can’t last long, sir. And—the title—and the estates, Mr. Guy!”
“I can’t help succeeding to the baronetcy, Braxfield, though I don’t care twopence about it,” answered Guy; “and as for the estates, they can be managed well enough without my help or presence. As a matter of fact, I don’t want ’em! I’m a well-to-do man—I’ve been on the Stock Exchange, Braxfield, for over six years, and made a pot of money. But now look here,” he continued, interrupting the old butler’s congratulations, “you say that Harry is acting as a sort of steward; does he do well?”
“Very well indeed, sir, as far as I can judge,” replied Braxfield. “Charlesworth—our old steward—you remember him, well enough, Mr. Guy—he let things get into a bad way, and your father didn’t check him. But when your brother became of age, he and your father made some arrangement, and Mr. Harry took hold of things, and he pensioned Charlesworth off, and since that he’s seen to everything. Helped a good deal, of course, sir, by Miss Valencia—a very clever young lady your sister’s turned out, Mr. Guy. You’ll—you’ll let me fetch them down, sir, before you go to bed?”
Guy finished the contents of his glass, mixed himself another drink, and sitting down in a big chair by the blazing logs, shook his head.
“I’m not going to bed, Braxfield,” he answered. “I came down from town on special business, and I’m going to return to town by a very early morning train, which I shall catch at Mitbourne station. But I shall see the two youngsters—in fact, my business is with them. First of all, though, I want you to tell me one or two things: then you can go and tell them I’m here—quietly, and not disturbing Sir Anthony—I don’t want him to know I’m anywhere about. Now, first—you say Mrs. Tretheroe has a house-party at the Dower House?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Braxfield. “A biggish one.”
“Then they’re not likely to keep very early hours there just now,” observed Guy.
“I hear that they keep very late ones, sir,” said Braxfield. “Dancing—and so on.”
“Very well,” continued Guy. “Now then—does Mrs. Wrenne still keep the Sceptre Inn, in the village?”
Braxfield’s plump countenance changed colour—he blushed, like any young girl.
“Well, sir,” he faltered, with a shy laugh. “She doesn’t. The fact is, sir—you’ll laugh at me, Mr. Guy—Mrs. Wrenne and me, sir, we got married, four years ago, sir. So Mrs. Wrenne is now Mrs. Braxfield.”
“Bless me!” exclaimed Guy. “Caught you at last, eh, Braxfield? Then I suppose Mrs. Braxfield is—here?”
“No, sir, and never has been,” replied the old butler. “I live here, as usual. But my wife, sir, and her daughter—you remember Poppy, Mr. Guy? a pretty girl that’s now a handsome young woman—they