From the ensuing consultation in the library we did not rise until close upon midnight. To the turbid intelligence of Inspector Aylesbury the fact by this time had penetrated that Colin Camber was innocent, that he was the victim of a frame-up, and that Colonel Juan Menendez had been shot from a window of his own house.
By a process of lucid reasoning which must have convinced a junior schoolboy, Paul Harley, there in the big library, with its garish bookcases and its Moorish ornaments, had eliminated every member of the household from the list of suspects. His concluding words, I remember, were as follows:
“Of the known occupants of Cray’s Folly on the night of the tragedy we now find ourselves reduced to four, any one of whom, from the point of view of an impartial critic uninfluenced by personal character, question, or motive, or any consideration other than that of physical possibility, might have shot Colonel Menendez. They are, firstly: Myself.
“In order to believe me guilty, it would be necessary to discount the evidence of Knox, who saw me on the gravel path below at the time that the shot was fired from the tower window.
“Secondly: Knox; whose guilt, equally, could only be assumed by means of eliminating my evidence, since I saw him at the window of my room at the time that the shot was fired.
“Thirdly: Madame de Stämer. Regarding this suspect, in the first place she could not have gained access to the tower room without assistance, and in the second place she was so passionately devoted to the late Colonel Menendez that Dr. Rolleston is of opinion that her reason may remain permanently impaired by the shock of his death. Fourthly and lastly: Miss Val Beverley.”
Over my own feelings, as he had uttered the girl’s name, I must pass in silence.
“Miss Val Beverley is the only one of the four suspects who is not in a position to establish a sound alibi so far as I can see at the moment; but in this case entire absence of motive renders the suspicion absurd. Having dealt with the known occupants, I shall not touch upon the possibility that some stranger had gained access to the house. This opens up a province of speculation which we must explore at greater leisure, for it would be profitless to attempt such an exploration now.”
Thus the gathering had broken up, Inspector Aylesbury returning to Market Hilton to make his report and to release Colin Camber and Ah Tsong, and Wessex to seek his quarters at the Lavender Arms.
I remember that having seen them off, Harley and I stood in the hall, staring at one another in a very odd way, and so we stood when Val Beverley came quietly from Madame de Stämer’s room and spoke to us.
“Pedro has told me what you have done, Mr. Harley,” she said in a low voice. “Oh, thank God you have cleared him. But what, in Heaven’s name, does your new discovery mean?”
“You may well ask,” Harley answered, grimly. “If my first task was a hard one, that which remains before me looks more nearly hopeless than anything I have ever been called upon to attempt.”
“It is horrible, it is horrible,” said the girl, shudderingly. “Oh, Mr. Knox,” she turned to me, “I have felt all along that there was some stranger in the house——”
“You have told me so.”
“Conundrums! Conundrums!” muttered Harley, irritably. “Where am I to begin, upon what am I to erect any feasible theory?” He turned abruptly to Val Beverley. “Does Madame de Stämer know?”
“Yes,” she answered, nodding her head; “and hearing the others depart, she asked me to tell you that sleep is impossible until you have personally given her the details of your discovery.”
“She wishes to see me?” asked Harley, eagerly.
“She insists upon seeing you,” replied the girl, “and also requests Mr. Knox to visit her.” She paused, biting her lip. “Madame’s manner is very, very odd. Dr. Rolleston cannot understand her at all. I expect he has told you? She has been sitting there for hours and hours, writing.”
“Writing?” exclaimed Harley. “Letters?”
“I don’t know what she has been writing,” confessed Val Beverley. “She declines to tell me, or to show me what she has written. But there is quite a little stack of manuscript upon the table beside her bed. Won’t you come in?”
I could see that she was more troubled than she cared to confess, and I wondered if Dr. Rolleston’s unpleasant suspicions might have solid foundation, and if the loss of her cousin had affected Madame de Stämer’s brain.
Presently, then, ushered by Val Beverley, I found myself once more in the violet and silver room in which on that great bed of state Madame reclined amid silken pillows. Her art never deserted her, not even in moments of ultimate stress, and that she had prepared herself for this interview was evident enough.
I had thought previously that one night of horror had added five years to her apparent age. I thought now that she looked radiantly beautiful. That expression in her eyes, which I knew I must forevermore associate with the memory of the dying tigress, had faded entirely. They remained still, as of old, but to-night they were velvety soft. The lips were relaxed in a smile of tenderness. I observed, with surprise, that she wore much jewelery, and upon her white bosom gleamed the famous rope of pearls which I knew her to treasure above almost anything in her possession.
Again the fear touched me coldly that much sorrow had made her mad. But at her very first word of greeting I was immediately reassured.
“Ah, my friend,” she said, as I entered, a caressing note in her deep, vibrant voice, “you have great news, they tell me? Mr. Harley, I was afraid that you had deserted me, sir. If you had done so I should have been very angry with you. Set the two armchairs here on my right, Val, dear, and sit close beside me.”
Then, as we seated ourselves:
“You are not smoking, my friends,” she continued, “and I know that you are both so fond of a smoke.”
Paul Harley excused himself but I accepted a cigarette which Val Beverley offered me from a silver box on the table, and presently:
“I am here, like a prisoner of the Bastille,” declared Madame, shrugging her shoulders, “where only echoes reach me. Now, Mr. Harley, tell me of this wonderful discovery of yours.”
Harley inclined his head gravely, and in that succinct fashion which he had at command acquainted Madame with the result of his two experiments. As he completed the account:
“Ah,” she sighed, and lay back upon her pillows, “so to-night he is again a free man, the poor Colin Camber. And his wife is happy once more?”
“Thank God,” I murmured. “Her sorrow was pathetic.”
“Only the pure in heart can thank God,” said Madame, strangely, “but I, too, am glad. I have written, here”—she pointed to a little heap of violet note-paper upon a table placed at the opposite side of the bed—“how glad I am.”
Harley and I stared vaguely across at the table. I saw Val Beverley glancing uneasily in the same direction. Save for the writing materials and little heap of manuscript, it held only a cup and saucer, a few sandwiches, and a medicine bottle containing the prescription which Dr. Rolleston had made up for the invalid.
“I am curious to know what you have written, Madame,” declared Harley.
“Yes, you are curious?” she said. “Very well, then, I will tell you, and afterward you may read if you wish.” She turned to me. “You, my friend,” she whispered, and reaching over she laid her jewelled hand upon my arm, “you have spoken with Ysola de Valera this afternoon, they tell me?”
“With Mrs. Camber?” I asked, startled. “Yes, that is true.”
“Ah, Mrs. Camber,” murmured Madame. “I knew her as Ysola de Valera. She is beautiful, in her golden doll way. You think so?” Then, ere I had time to reply: “She told you, I suppose, eh?”
“She told me,” I replied with a certain embarrassment, “that she had met you some years ago in Cuba.”
“Ah, yes, although I told the fat Inspector it was not so. How we lie, we women! And of course she told you in what relation I stood to Juan Menendez?”
“She did not, Madame de Stämer.”
“No-no? Well, it was nice of her. No matter. I will tell you. I was his mistress.”
She spoke without bravado, but quite without shame, seeming to glory in the statement.
“I met him in Paris,” she continued, half closing her eyes. “I was staying at the house of my sister, and my sister, you understand, was married to Juan’s cousin. That is how we met. I was married. Yes, it is true. But in France our parents find our husbands and our lovers find our hearts. Yet sometimes these marriages are happy. To me this good thing had not happened, and in the moment when Juan’s hand touched mine a living fire entered into my heart and it has been burning ever since; burning-burning, always till I die.
“Very well, I am a shameless woman, yes. But I have lived, and I have loved, and I am content. I went with him to Cuba, and from Cuba to another island where he had estates, and the name of which I shall not pronounce, because it hurts me so, even yet. There he set eyes upon Ysola de Valera, the daughter of his manager, and, pouf!”
She shrugged and snapped her fingers.
“He was like that, you understand? I knew it well. They did not call him Devil Menendez for nothing. There was a scene, a dreadful scene, and after that another, and yet a third. I have pride. If I had seemed to forget it, still it was there. I left him, and went back to France. I tried to forget. I entered upon works of charity for the soldiers at a time when others were becoming tired. I spent a great part of my fortune upon establishing a hospital, and this child”—she threw her arm around Val Beverley—“worked with me night and day. I think I wanted to die. Often I tried to die. Did I not, dear?”
“You did, Madame,” said the girl in a very low voice.
“Twice I was arrested in the French lines, where I had crept dressed like a poilu, from where I shot down many a Prussian. Is it not so?”
“It is true,” answered the girl, nodding her head.
“They caught me and arrested me,” said Madame, with a sort of triumph. “If it had been the British”—she raised her hand in that Bernhardt gesture—“with me it would have gone hard. But in France a woman’s smile goes farther than in England. I had had my fun. They called me ‘good comrade!’ Perhaps I paid with a kiss. What does it matter? But they heard of me, those Prussian dogs. They knew and could not forgive. How often did they come over to bomb us, Val, dear?”
“Oh, many, many times,” said the girl, shudderingly.
“And at last they succeeded,” added Madame, bitterly. “God! the black villains! Let me not think of it.”
She clenched her hands and closed her eyes entirely, but presently resumed again:
“If they had killed me I should have been glad, but they only made of me a cripple. M. de Stämer had been killed a few weeks before this. I am sorry I forgot to mention it. I was a widow. And when after this catastrophe I could be moved, I went to a little villa belonging to my husband at Nice, to gain strength, and this child came with me, like a ray of sunshine.
“Here, to wake the fire in my heart, came Juan, deserted, broken, wounded in soul, but most of all in pride, in that evil pride which belongs to his race, which is so different from the pride of France, but for which all the same I could never hate him.
“Ysola de Valera had run away from his great house in Cuba. Yes! A woman had dared to leave him, the man who had left so many women. To me it was pathetic. I was sorry for him. He had been searching the world f............