Chapter TWENTY-SEVEN: The Ghost of a Name

“My Dear Macleod (wrote an attaché at the American Embassy),—I do not know Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor personally, but I have heard quite a lot about her. As you rightly surmise, Crafton-Bonsor was not a United States Senator. In this country you have what you call ‘courtesy titles’; ‘Senator’ may be described in this case as a discourtesy title! The original name of Crafton-Bonsor is difficult to unearth. He was called variously ‘Mike’ and ‘Murphy’ by old associates, but he was ‘Bonsor’ Murphy and ‘Grafter’ Bonsor, and from these two appellations he probably arrived at Crafton-Bonsor. He had some sort of political pull, and in his latter days was universally known as ‘the Senator.’ He died immensely rich, and his widow inherited every cent.”

Andy read the letter to Stella Nelson the first time they were alone.

He had performed his duty, and Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor could now have no doubt as to her friend’s character. So far from the knowledge having interfered with the association of these strange people, it seemed to have had exactly the opposite effect.

“She may be trying to reform him,” suggested Stella, her eyes twinkling. “Bad men have an irresistible fascination for susceptible ladies. Not that Scottie is bad or that Mrs. Bonsor is particularly susceptible. I remember her now. She came to Beverley Green and smashed up our beautiful lilac. Scottie told me her name afterwards.”

“At lunch, afternoon tea, and dinner!” protested Andy. “For all I know, he is breakfasting there! I am not concerned with Scottie’s lighter recreations, and I suppose, having warned the lady, my responsibility is at an end, but still——”

“Perhaps he loves her,” suggested the girl, “and please, Andy, don’t sneer. Scottie has always struck me as having a romantic disposition.”

“I wouldn’t deny it,” said Andy. “That alibi of his——”

“Andrew! Don’t be unpleasant! Besides, you’ve got to meet her.”

“I have to meet her?” said Andy in surprise.

Stella nodded solemnly.

“Scottie has written to me to ask if he can bring her down to dinner, and of course I have said yes. I gave a brief description of her to father and he has been shuddering ever since. I think he will have an engagement at the club to-night, which makes it all the more imperative that you should be here.”

“Do you mean to tell me,” said Andy incredulously, “that Scottie has had the audacity to invite himself and his bejewelled friend to dine with _you_?”

Apparently Scottie had, and that evening Andrew Macleod made the acquaintance of a lady whom he had endeavoured to serve.

Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor was arrayed in a tight-fitting plum velvet gown, cut perilously low, and, having seen her, Andy was smitten dumb.

Never on one human being had he seen such a display of precious stones. From the diamond band about her red hair to the diamond buckles on her shoes, she was overpowering. Standing beside her, a Rajah in full uniform and wearing the jewels of State would have seemed mean and unadorned.

Scottie was joyous. His pride was so absurdly sincere that Andy could only gape at him.

“Meet my friend, Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor,” he said. “This is Dr. Macleod, Mirabel.” (“Mirabel!” repeated Andy, mentally, and gasped.) “Dr. Macleod and I have had many contests—you might even call them fights—but I bear him no malice. He was the gentleman that warned you against me, and wasn’t he justified?”

He took Andy’s hand in his and shook it intensely.

Mrs. Bonsor, on the contrary, favoured Andy with a stony glance from her blue eyes.

“Meet Miss Nelson, Mirabel,” said Scottie.

Something glittered on his finger as he waved the introduction.

“Glad to meet you, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Bonsor without enthusiasm. “Any friend of the professor’s—Professor Bellingham”—she glared towards Andy—“is a friend of mine.”

It was an awkward beginning to what Stella had hoped would be a very pleasant and amusing evening. It dawned upon her half-way through dinner, and the thought left her helpless, that Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor was jealous of her! But by this time that lady had overriden her earlier suspicions and antagonism, and was chatting genially with Andy.

The poison was creeping into Scottie’s veins. That sober man, whose unostentation was his greatest charm, had developed two large solitaire rings. Andy did not look at them too closely; nor was there any need, he decided, for Scottie would not display jewellery that had been fully described in the _Hue and Cry_.

“Yes, I am leaving next week,” Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor was saying, with a glance at Scottie. “I have had a better time than I thought I should, but naturally I want to get back to my beautiful home in Santa Barbara. The lawn is as big as this village—I showed the professor a picture of it, and he thought it was wonderful. It is natural that, having a beautiful home like that, I want to stay with it.”

She glanced at Scottie, as that gentleman dropped his eyes to the tablecloth. There was something obscenely modest about Scottie at that moment, and Andy would dearly have loved to have kicked him.

“I hope you won’t find the journey too lonely for you, Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor,” said Andy. “You will miss our friend, the professor.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Bonsor, and coughed.

Scottie looked up.

“I was thinking of going over to California to have a look round,” he said, and on this occasion it was Mrs. Bonsor who simpered.

“The fact is, Mister—” she said, “Stanhope and I——”

“Stanhope? Who is Stanhope?” asked the baffled Andy, but he had no need to ask; the pleading eyes of Scottie met his.

“Stanhope and I are very good friends. I thought you would have noticed the ring.” She held up a plump hand.

There and then Andy noticed about twenty. He made a good recovery.

“May I offer you my congratulations,” he said heartily. “Really, this is surprising news, Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor.”

“Nobody was more surprised than myself,” said that lady cheerfully, “but you’ll understand, mister—I always forget your name; I used to forget the Senator’s sometimes. You understand how lonely a woman in my position can get. Besides, I want Stanhope to begin a new life. There is a peach of a mountain near my house where he could—what’s the word, Stan?”

“Geologise,” murmured Scottie.

“That’s the word,” said Mrs. Bonsor. “And if that doesn’t suit, there are some dandy mountains within a car-ride.”

“So you are going to leave us?” smiled Andy. “And I suppose that in a month’s time you will have forgotten Beverley Green and Wilmot, and the murderous Abraham Selim, and——”

There was a crash.

Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor had fallen to the floor in a dead faint.

* * * * *

“It was the heat of the room,” she gasped, a dishevelled, untidy woman, her jewels awry. “I—I think I’ll go back to the hotel. Stanhope”—it was pathetic to see how much she relied on him—“will you order the car?”

Her face had gone suddenly old and grey, against which the carmined lips looked ghastly. Andy expected any minute to see her collapse again. He thought it was a more serious attack at first. She was of the build that is susceptible to such trouble, and he was relieved when she showed signs of recovery. He and the concerned Scottie assisted her to the car.

“The drive will do me good,” she said with a nervous little laugh as she glanced round. “I am sorry to give you all this trouble, Miss What’s-your-name, and I wanted to hear about that murder, too. Who was killed? Abraham Selim?”

“No, a man named Merrivan. It was foolish of me to mention that ghastly business,” said Andy.

“Oh, that didn’t worry me. Good-night, mister.”

Andy went back with the girl to the unfinished meal.

“Abraham Selim,” he said softly.

She frowned.

“Do you think it was the mention of that name that made her faint?”

Andy nodded.

“There is no doubt about it in my mind,” he said, “but why should the name of the murderer of Merrivan have that result?”

He sat studying the pattern of the cloth for a long time, and she did not interrupt his thoughts.

“I really think I must interview Mrs. Crafton-Bonsor,” he said slowly, “for, unless I am greatly mistaken, that lady can tell us more about this murder and its motive than the murderer himself.”