Chapter THIRTEEN: The Lady From Santa Barbara

Scottie rarely went abroad in the daylight, not because of any secretiveness on his own part, but in deference to the wishes of Andy. If he were visible in the daylight, it was usually between one o’clock and two in the afternoon, at which hour Beverley Green was usually settled at lunch.

He came out by the side entrance of Nelsons’ house, his objective being the guest house and Andy. Under his arm was the morning newspaper, a report in which was the subject of his visit, for there was a reference to himself which had made him uneasy. Some callow reporter who had evidently not heard of the happy conclusion to what Scottie euphemistically described as his “law suit” had written of a “sensational arrest in this delightful backwater of life” prior to the murder, and had evolved from this a conclusion unflattering to Scottie.

He had hardly taken a step upon the road when he stopped.

A big car blocked his way, being half on the road and half embedded in the shrubbery which bordered the Green, and which, as Scottie knew, was the pride of its inhabitants.

The red-faced chauffeur was making a frantic attempt to turn in the narrow road, with deplorable results to the arboreal beauties of the community. But it was not the chauffeur or the resplendent machine, nor yet the flurry and the snort of engines in reverse, that absorbed Scottie. It was the solitary occupant of the car.

She was a woman of uncertain age, stout and still comely. Under a toque of silver tissue her hair shone with a metallic redness, from which hue her black eyebrows rebelled. The red of her face was equally defiant of the thick layer of powder with which she had overlaid her natural heartiness of colouring. Her blue eyes bulged somewhat, giving the impression that she was permanently surprised. All this Scottie saw between an expert inspection of embellishments more substantial.

In the lobe of each ear was a diamond the size of a peanut; about her neck were three strings of pearls of great size; and attached to her person in this region was a diamond bar, a brilliant plaque that flashed a thousand colours in his dazzled eyes, and a large emerald clasp.

Scottie, looking at her glittering hands, concluded there were no rings on her thumbs.

“Very sorry to make such a fuss, but why don’t you build your roads wider?” She favoured Scottie with a friendly smile.

He started at the sound of the voice. It was so utterly unlike anything that he had expected, and he gathered from her accent that she had lived some years in America. It was that strange intonation which English people acquire after a long sojourn in the United States. And it was a voice that made Scottie wince, for this woman with the diamonds was gutter-bred and gutter-reared, for all her obvious wealth.

“Common,” thought Scottie, and wondered how she had charmed the diamonds.

“I ain’t—haven’t been around here for years,” she went on, naturally mistaking her audience for a resident. “They tell me all about this place at Bevereley. There’s been a murder here, hasn’t there?”

“There has,” said Scottie, and politely handed up his paper. “You’ll find a very full account here if you’d like to read it, madam.”

“Didn’t bring my glasses,” she said briskly, but took the newspaper from his hand. “A gentleman murdered! How shocking! They didn’t tell me his name, and it wouldn’t have meant anything to me if they had. Say, these murders are awful, ain’t they? We had one right near to us in Santa Barbara, and the Senator, my dear late husband, wouldn’t tell me anything about it. Thought it would upset me, I guess. Senator Crafton-Bonsor. Maybe you’ve heard of him? His name was in the newspapers a whole lot. Not that he worried about what newspapers said.”

Scottie judged that the newspapers had been unkind. But a United States Senator? That was a stiff one to swallow. He knew little about American public men, his experience being limited to a nodding acquaintance with sundry District Attorneys; but he had an idea that Senators were men of taste and discrimination.

“Well, I’ll get along, mister. My, it must be creepy living in a place where a murder was committed! I’d never sleep at nights, mister——”

“My name is Bellingham, Professor Bellingham.”

She was impressed.

“Why, isn’t that fi-ne! It must be grand to be a professor. There was one come to our house in Santa Barbara—I’d like you to see my house; why, the lawn’s as big as this village—he was wonderful. Got rabbits out of a plug hat, and he showed me the hat before and it was certainly empty. Such a clever man. Well, I’ll get along, mister—professor, I mean. I’m staying at the Great Metropolitan. My, they know how to charge. And when I asked for a cantaloupe they’d no idea what I meant. Good-bye.”

The car went on and out of sight, leaving Scottie a very thoughtful man.

“Did you see that car?” was the first question he put to Andy.

“No, I heard one. I thought it was a tradesman’s truck.”

“It was surely a truck,” agreed Scottie, “but, Macleod, you should have seen the goods. About—well, I won’t attempt to give you an estimate. It was fierce! And what a lady!”

Andy had other interests than chance visitors to Beverley Green.

“How is Miss Nelson?” he asked.

“Wonderful,” said Scottie. “She is going a long walk up the valley this afternoon.”

Andy went red.

“Who said so?” he demanded.

“She did,” said Scottie coolly, “and she particularly reminded me to tell you. There’s something highly intelligent about Miss Nelson, that’s why she’s different to the majority of girls I’ve met. A lot of that maidenly modesty you read about in books is punk.”

“I certainly am not going to discuss Miss Nelson’s sense of modesty, Scottie,” said Andy haughtily, “and I see no particular reason why you should draw any inferences from what Miss Nelson said. She probably meant you to tell me that she is feeling well enough to take a solitary walk.”

“Maybe,” agreed Scottie. “She told me that she’d be at the second golf hut at three o’clock and she’d wait for you.”

Andy had no immediate explanation to offer.

“And talking of love,” Scottie went on, “I’d like you to see what the _Post Herald_ reporter said about the arrest of a dangerous criminal—meaning me—a few days before the murder.”

* * * * *

Andy had been waiting by the golf hut ten minutes before the girl came into view.

“I was so afraid that you wouldn’t be able to get away,” she said when she reached him. “The professor told you, didn’t he?”

“Oh, yes, he told me,” said Andy drily.

“Oh, and did he tell you what that queer-looking woman said?” she asked eagerly. “He had quite a long conversation with her. Her car has broken down two lovely lilac bushes. Really, people are careless, trying to turn a big car in that narrow road!”

“What queer woman was this?” asked Andy. “Scottie made some reference to her. A visitor?”

Stella nodded.

“I saw her through the window. She simply _blazed_! I haven’t had a chance of speaking to Mr. Scottie. I was dressing when he came back.”

They were walking at a leisurely pace towards——Andy wasn’t quite sure then or after which way they went, except that they came to the hedged boundaries of Beverley Hall. He was out of the world, in a new and tangible heaven. Attractive, pretty, beautiful? He had asked that question before. The profile was perfect, the colouring as delicate in the unromantic sunlight as it had been when the glamour of soft lights might have played tricks with his eyesight.

“Arthur Wilmot cut me this morning,” she said.

“Oh. Why? I thought—people said——”

He did not finish his awkward sentence.

“That I was engaged to him?” she laughed softly. “They engage you very—very fluently at Beverley. I never was engaged to him. I used to wear a ring on the finger because—well, the ring fitted that finger. Daddy gave it to me.”

He heaved a sigh, and she heard it, and glanced quickly sideways at him, then looked as quickly in the opposite direction.

“What does Arthur Wilmot do for a living?”

“I don’t know,” she answered. “He is something in the city. He never talks about his business and nobody knows what he is. That is curious, because most boys talk of their work—most of the boys I know. They’re frightfully proud of their own cleverness, and there isn’t very much more for them to talk about. You never talk about yourself, Doctor Andrew.”

“I thought that I was unusually loquacious—Miss Nelson.”

“Don’t be silly. You called me Stella, and a fool, and a something fool, almost the first time we met. It is rather wonderful, isn’t it?”

“I certainly had a nerve,” he confessed.

“I mean about—well, about our knowing each other so well, and liking you. I don’t like people until I’ve known them for ever so long. Perhaps it was the reaction. I used to hate you; you made me feel so guilty when you looked at me. I used to think what a horrible man you must be; just like a bloodhound that hunts poor wretched slaves.”

“So I made you feel like something out of _Uncle Tom’s Cabin_?” he smiled. “I rather enjoy that sensation. I suppose people think of the police that way. But we flatter ourselves that the sight of a policeman’s bright buttons brings a glow of joy to the good citizen’s heart.”

“I’m not a good citizen,” she said shortly. “I’m a very bad citizen. You don’t know how bad.”

“I can guess,” said he.

They went on for a long time after this, neither speaking a word.

“Stella,” he said suddenly, “when you saw Merrivan did he—well, did he give you any idea of the future—where he was going to live?”

“In Italy,” she said with a shiver. “He told me that he would have a lot of money and that he had bought a beautiful palace on Como.”

“He didn’t say that he _had_ the money?”

“No. I distinctly remember him saying ‘will have.’ He gave me the impression that he was going to get it from somewhere. Please don’t let us talk about it.”

Where was the money to come from? wondered Andy. From Abraham Selim? Or had he already secured and hidden the money, and had Abraham Selim, discovering his intention of living abroad, tried to get it back? Selim never sued a man in court. That was a curious circumstance. It seemed that he never lent money unless he had some sort of hold on his victim.

Crossing a stile, he took Stella’s hand and did not release it when he had helped her over. Nor did she draw it away. She was peacefully happy in the communionship. The touch of that strong hand that held hers as lightly as though it were a piece of fragile china was especially soothing. Something of his strength and equanimity had passed to her when those hands had first gripped her shoulders. Now she was invincible, could look to any future that Fate might send, without a qualm.

“You’re very serious, aren’t you?” she asked as they were coming back. “Andrew, I knew our walk would be just like this—lovely. This, and nothing more. I don’t want any more—yet; it is perfect. And we can’t repeat it to-morrow, because—well, it is like trying to repeat a party that has been spontaneously happy. It falls flat the next time. Our walks would never be that.”

They stopped by the second golf hut where their stroll had begun. There was nobody in sight.

“I want you to kiss me,” she said simply.

Andy bent his head, and her quivering lips touched his.