Chapter XI: The Crimson Trail

During the next few days it became evident that Fouchard had quite abandoned the idea of arresting Bertha. A lot of his time was occupied with the column of figures, from which he ultimately confessed he could discover nothing.

“A red herring,” he grunted. “Flung across the trail in order to waste our time. We have a whole mountain of brains arrayed against us. Niels, Heinrich, and Bertha--a redoubtable trio. I’m sick at losing Heinrich.”

“It’s strange that Bertha should stay on here, when she undoubtedly knows we suspect her,” said Wallace.

“A remarkable woman--not the criminal type by any means. I found her reading a volume of Plotinus in the garden yesterday, in the original Greek.”

“Humbug, perhaps.”

“That’s what I thought. I even tried to catch her, for I had read Plotinus in a translated version. I failed, though. She knew the stuff from alpha to omega.”

“And you aren’t going to arrest her?”

“No. It wouldn’t work. I will admit that at the moment I am somewhat hopelessly bogged.”

He left them a little later, and they saw him walking round and round a radiant flower-bed, with his hands behind his back, evidently inventing new theories to fit this remarkable case.

“I’ve got an idea that when we leave the château we shall be as far from any solution as we are now,” mused Conrad.

“I’d hate to leave it under those circumstances,” replied Wallace. “Think of Yolande in this grim place, with scarcely any neighbours----”

“You’re thinking rather a lot about her, aren’t you?”

“How can one help doing so? You told me yourself that you remembered her best as a gay, bird-like spirit, full of fun and laughter. Well, that has gone. She still has the courage to smile, but the burden she is carrying is obvious enough. I wish we could induce her to leave--sell up this place and seek peace elsewhere.”

“It would be waste of breath to try. There is a lot to be said for aristocracy, despite your Socialistic tendencies. Yolande’s ancestors went to the guillotine with a smile on their faces. Do you expect their descendant to flee from danger?”

“But this is different. There is little to be gained by staying on. No doubt the French Government would take over the château as a historic antique. No Government could ever let a place like this fall into decay.”

“Perhaps not, but there are other considerations. There are the tenants. Would they fare as well under such a change of ownership? Half of them never pay any rent. In addition, there is pride. That, I think, is the deciding factor.”

“I suppose you are right.”

“Of course I am. You wouldn’t think so well of Yolande if she did what you try to persuade yourself is the sensible thing. It is because she faces this danger with a stout heart that you, my dear Ralph, are falling hopelessly in love with her.”

“Eh?”

“Deny that if you can.”

Wallace shrugged his shoulders and stared out at the bright blossoms.

“You’re right, Connie,” he said in a low voice. “I’d hate to be thought a sloppy sentimentalist, but the château, the air we breathe, the brooding mystery that lurks here, all spell ‘Yolande’ to me. She doesn’t know--yet. I wouldn’t have her know while this horrible shadow hangs over her. But when I think of what happened to poor Fallières, within a few yards of us, and reflect how easy it might be----”

“Steady!”

“Well, it has to be taken into consideration. Look, there goes Bertha--to cut flowers for the house, apparently.”

Conrad raised his eyes and saw the fine figure of the parlourmaid enter the garden. She was garbed in the becoming dress of the domestic staff of the household, and it suited her colouring perfectly. They watched her moving among the flowers, cutting suitable blossoms, for Yolande loved to have flowers in her bedroom and also in the dining-hall. Bertha entered the house again by way of the terrace, with her arms full of roses, delphiniums, and asters. She displayed her gleaming, perfect teeth as Conrad gazed admiringly at the floral treasures.

“Monsieur is fond of flowers?” she asked in slightly broken English.

“All but the blind must be,” replied Conrad.

“Even the blind may smell.”

“Is mademoiselle down yet?”

“She will not be long. Since her maid left I have had the honour of waiting upon her. It is sad that one so gracious and beautiful should be made to suffer so deeply. It would be better if she left the château.”

“You think so?”

“_Zut!_ It is not obvious? Monsieur has seen and heard enough to understand that there is great danger here. The servants whisper among themselves, and more will be leaving soon.”

“And you--are you not afraid?”

Conrad gazed at her intently. But Bertha never turned a hair. She shrugged her perfect shoulders and raised the blossoms to her straight, firm nose.

“Sometimes,” she said. “But life is full of threats. One extra should not matter much. All who live must die.”

“So Shakespeare said,” put in Wallace. “But there are pleasanter ways of dying than having one’s throat cut from ear to ear.”

“Then monsieur should take the wiser course,” she retorted.

“And run away? You are a trifle inconsistent, Bertha. Just now you were advising mademoiselle to vacate the place, and immediately on top of that you quote Shakespeare.”

“Women are always inconsistent from the moment they are born. If they were not so, men, with all their mighty logic, would fail to be interested in them.”

“That’s one for you, Ralph,” said Conrad, with a laugh.

Bertha laughed too--a rich, ringing peal that echoed along the terrace. Then she gave a half curtsey and went about her business. Conrad’s eyes followed her until her red heels disappeared through the door.

“By Jove, she’s wonderful!” he said.

“You mean her self-possession?”

“Well--yes.”

“Connie!”

“What now?”

“You’re interested in her.”

“Aren’t we all?”

“Don’t hedge. I noticed you when--when she looked at you with her siren-eyes. She would have offered you a rose if I hadn’t been present.”

“Don’t talk such rubbish!” snapped Conrad.

“I wish it was rubbish.” Wallace became serious. “That damned woman has more brains than all of us put together. She’s angling for you, Connie; one antagonist the less when she hooks you. Whenever she passes you she turns her head ever so slightly--just enough for you to see the corner of her eye. Great Scott! Julian Conrad, late Major of the R.G.A., and a parlourmaid who mixes in very strange company----”

Conrad stood up, and for the first time in his life Wallace saw real anger in his eyes.

“You’re an idiot, Ralph,” he snapped. “Not only an idiot, but an insufferable snob. So much for your Socialism!”

“Connie!”

“You annoy me.”

“I meant to,” said Wallace, with a grin. “The fact is, old man, that crowd is going to beat us unless we stir ourselves. The woman in the case is always the danger--especially when she is as attractive as Bertha is. Perhaps I went too far. I’m sorry. Come--shake!”

Conrad gripped the proffered hand a trifle shamefacedly, for he was painfully aware that his display of anger only went to prove that Wallace’s accusation was not entirely unfounded. It was a fact that Bertha impressed him tremendously. Through thirty-five years of life he had managed to steer a celibate course, only to hit up against this remarkable woman when he had come to believe that the passions of youth were dead for ever. There was something in her voice, in her carriage, that affected him strangely. That she was playing a clever game he felt convinced, but, all the same, his nerves never failed to tingle whenever Bertha loomed in sight.

“A dangerous place for all of us,” he said. “Was it a holiday trip we planned, Ralph?”

“No, an adventure--and we’re getting it. Ah, here comes Yolande.”

She approached them with a smile on her face, and bade them remain seated, whilst she took a chair next to Wallace. Attached to her dress was one of the roses that Bertha had recently gathered. It had a gleaming dew-drop upon it. Wallace thought it looked like a fallen tear from the beautiful eyes.

“Where is the great Fouchard?” she asked.

Wallace inclined his head towards the garden, and Fouchard came to view at that moment, still walking round and round the great bed of delphiniums.

“Seems completely baffled,” said Conrad. “I can sympathise with him, for we are confronted with a most perplexing enigma.”

“Bertha could solve it if she would,” said Yolande.

“So could Heinrich or Niels, but there is no hope of getting any clue from them. It is evident that they are operating against us,” said Wallace.

“Bertha’s conduct is the strangest. I purposely got her to act as a temporary lady’s-maid to me. Her conduct is all that could be desired. Sometimes I see her watching me--in the mirror. Her face is sympathetic--almost sad. This morning she begged me to go away from here. Either she is the most wonderful actress in the world, or she is sincerely sympathetic. What--what is one to believe?”

“The former,” said Wallace emphatically. “We know she let those two men into the house. She is no more faithful to you than--than the Monster is. How is it possible to believe she is anything other than a conspirator in this mysterious plot?”

“Might not there be some element that we have overlooked?” pleaded Conrad. “Neither she nor her companions may be implicated in the actual crime.”

“Then why are they behaving so mysteriously? At any rate they are house-breakers--robbers.”

“My head aches with it all,” said Yolande. “Shall we go and look at the orchids?”

Conrad declined politely, but Wallace was quite willing. They left the terrace and walked through the most exotic part of the wonderful garden. With the gaunt château obscured from view, they were immediately transplanted into a veritable Garden of Eden. Yolande seemed to breathe more freely as they got farther from the scene of terror.

“How fortunate it was that I met you and Mr. Conrad that morning,” she said. “You have helped me--so much.”

“I wish I could feel that. Both Conrad and I feel that we are pretty useless specimens. But Fouchard is beat also, so we must not take our failure too deeply to heart. You are still determined to stay here?”

“Yes. Whatever may happen.”

“I admire you immensely,” he blurted out.

“Because I do not run away--as I sometimes am tempted to do?”

“Not only for that. You have borne so much sorrow with so brave a heart. Of course I know nothing about women, but I never imagined that any woman would--would act as you have,” he said lamely.

“You--you mustn’t pay me undeserved compliments. At heart I am very much afraid. It is the unknown that is so awful. I have the feeling that these terrible events are not yet over. Last night--last night I dreamed it--it was you.”

She shuddered and, unconsciously perhaps, her hand went out and gripped his. Wallace felt his blood scampering through his veins. There came the desire to take her in his arms and tell her that, no matter what happened, he would never forsake her--that in less than two weeks she had captivated his heart and soul. It was on the tip of his tongue when he heard running feet on the gravel path behind, and turned to see the chauffeur, very out of breath and red in the face.

“Pardon, mademoiselle,” he gasped. “Monsieur Fouchard asked me to find you. He would like to speak to you immediately.”