“Take your holiday, my boy. Go where you jolly well please! And if Miss Mary Lenley is as wise as she is beautiful — I remember her as a child — she will forget that she is a Lenley of Lenley Court and you are a Wembury of the gardener’s cottage! For in these democratic days, Wembury,” — there was a quiet earnestness in his voice— “a man is what he is, not what his father was. I hope you will never be obsessed by a sense of your own unworthiness. Because, if you are” — he paused, and again his eyes twinkled— “you will be a darned fool!”
Alan Wembury left the room with the uneasy conviction that the Assistant Commissioner knew a great deal more about the Lenleys than he had admitted.
Chapter 2
It seemed that the spring had come earlier to Lenley village than to grim old London, which seems to regret and resist the tenderness of the season, until, overwhelmed by the rush of crocuses and daffodils and yellow-hearted narcissi, it capitulates blandly in a blaze of yellow sunshine.
As he walked into the village from the railway station, Alan saw over the hedge the famous Lenley Path of Daffodils, blazing with a golden glory. Beyond the tall poplars was the roof of grey old Lenley Court.
News of his good fortune had come ahead of him. The baldheaded landlord of the Red Lion Inn came running out to intercept him, a grin of delight on his rubicund face.
“Glad to see you back, Alan,” he said. “We’ve heard of your promotion and we’re all very proud of you. You’ll be Chief of the Police one of these days.”
Alan smiled at the spontaneous enthusiasm. He liked this old village; it was a home of dreams. Would the great, the supreme dream, which he had never dared bring to its logical conclusion, be fulfilled?
“Are you going up to the Court to see Miss Mary?” and when he answered yes, the landlord shook his head and pursed his lips. He was regret personified. “Things are very bad up there, Alan. They say there’s nothing left out of the estate either for Mr. John or Miss Mary. I don’t mind about Mr. John: he’s a man who can make his way in the world — I wish he’d get a better way than he’s found.”
“What do you mean?” asked Alan quickly. The landlord seemed suddenly to remember that if he was speaking to an old friend he was also speaking to a police officer, and he became instantly discreet.
“They say he’s gone to the devil. You know how people talk, but there’s something in it. Johnny never was a happy sort of fellow; he’s forgotten to do anything but scowl in these days. Poverty doesn’t come easy to that young man.”
“Why are they at the Court if they’re in such a bad way? It must be an expensive place to keep up. I wonder John Lenley doesn’t sell it?”
“Sell it!” scoffed the landlord. “It’s mortgaged up to the last leaf on the last twig! They’re staying there whilst this London lawyer settles the estate, and they’re going to London next week, from what I hear.”
This London lawyer! Alan frowned. That must be Maurice Meister, and he was curious to meet the man about whom so many strange rumours ran. They whispered things of Maurice Meister at Scotland Yard which it would have been libel to write, slander to say. They pointed to certain associations of his which were unjustifiable even in a criminal lawyer, whose work brought him into touch with the denizens of the underworld.
“I wish you’d book me a room, Mr. Griggs. The carrier is bringing my bag from the station. I’ll go to up the Court and see if I can see John Lenley.”
He said “John,” but his heart said “Mary.” He might deceive the world, but he could not deceive his own heart.
As he walked up the broad oak-shaded drive, the evidence of poverty came out to meet him. Grass grew in the gravelled surface of the road; those fine yew hedges of the Tudor garden before which as a child he had stood in awe had been clipped by an amateur hand; the lawn before the house was ragged and unkempt. When he came in sight of the Court his heart sank as he saw the signs of general neglect. The windows of the east wing were grimy — not even the closed shutters could disguise their state; two windows had been broken and the panes not replaced.
As he came nearer to the house, a figure emerged from the shadowy portico, walked quickly towards him, and then, recognising, broke into a run.
“Oh, Alan!”
In another second he had both her hands in his and was looking down into the upturned face. He had not seen her for twelve months. He looked at her now, holding his breath. The sweet, pale beauty of her caught at his heart. He had known a child, a lovely child; he was looking into the crystal-clear eyes of radiant womanhood. The slim, shapeless figure he had known had undergone some subtle change; the lovely face had been moulded to a new loveliness.
He had a sense of dismay. The very fringe of despair obscured for the moment the joy which had filled his heart at the sight of her. If she had been beyond his reach before, the gulf, in some incomprehensible manner, had widened now.
With a sinking heart he realised the gulf between this daughter of the Lenleys and Inspector Wembury.
“Why, Alan, what a pleasant sight!” Her sad eyes were brightened with laughter. “And you’re bursting with news! Poor Alan! We read it in the morning newspaper.”
He laughed ruefully.
“I didn’t know that my promotion was a matter of world interest,” he said.
“But you’re going to tell me all about it.” She slipped her arm in his naturally, as she had in the days of her childhood, when the gardener’s son was Mary Lenley’s playmate, the shy boy who flew her kite and bowled and fielded for her when she wielded a cricket bat almost as tall as herself.
“There is little to tell but the bare news,” said Alan. “I’m promoted over the heads of better men, and I don’t know whether to be glad or sorry!”
He felt curiously self-conscious and gauche as they paced the untidy lawn together.
“I’ve had a little luck in one or two cases I’ve handled, but I can’t help feeling that I’m a favourite with the Commissioner and that I owe my promotion more to that cause than to any other.”
“Rubbish!” she scoffed. “Of course you’ve had your promotion on merit!”
She caught his eyes looking at the house, and instantly her expression changed.
“Poor old Lenley Court!” she said softly. “You’ve heard our news, Alan? We’re leaving next week.” She breathed a long sigh. “It doesn’t bear thinking about, does it? Johnny is taking a flat in town, and Maurice has promised me some work.”
Alan stared at her.
“Work?” he gasped. “You don’t mean you’ve got to work for your living?”
She laughed at this.
“Why, of course, my dear — my dear Alan. I’m initiating myself into the mysteries of shorthand and typewriting. I’m going to be Maurice’s secretary.”
Meister’s secretary!
The words had a familiar sound. And then in a flash he remembered another secretary, whose body had been taken from the river one foggy morning, and he recalled Colonel Walford’s ominous words.
“Why, you’re