There was his portrait across three columns, headed ‘The Splendid Harlow,’ and only hinting at the charge which would be laid against him. He learnt, without regret or sorrow, of the arrest of Mrs Edwins—he had a lifelong grudge against Mrs Edwins, who had a lifelong grudge against him. She was wholly incapable of understanding his attitude to life. She had wondered why he did not live abroad in the most luxurious and exotic atmosphere. She would have excused a seraglio; she could not forgive his industry and continence.
She had made no statement, the newspapers said, and he suspected her of making many of a vituperative character.
There was a hint of Marling in the paragraph:
‘The police are particularly desirous of getting into touch with the man who left the Park Lane house at the same time as Harlow. He is described as tall, rather pale, with a long yellow beard. None of the servants of the house has ever seen him. It may be explained that Mr Harlow’s domestic arrangements were of an unusual character. All the servants slept out in a house which Harlow had hired…’
Mr Harlow turned over the page to see the sporting cartoon. The humour of Tom Webster never failed to amuse him. Then he turned back to the Stock Exchange news.
Markets were recovering rapidly. He made a calculation on the margin of the paper and purred at his profits.
He could feel a glow of satisfaction though he was a fugitive from justice; though all sorts of horrid possibilities were looming before him; though it seemed nothing could prevent his going the dreary way-Brixton Prison, Pentonville, Wormwood Scrubs, Dartmoor…if not worse. If not worse.
He took out his cigar and looked at it complacently. Mrs Gibbins had died a natural death, though that would take some proving. It was a most amazingly simple accident. Her muddy shoes had slipped on the polished floor of his library; and when he had picked her up she was dead. That was the truth and nothing but the truth. And Miss Mercy Harlow had died naturally; and the little green bottle that Marling had seen had contained nothing more noxious than the restorative with which the doctor had entrusted him against the heart attack from which she succumbed.
He rose and stretched himself, drank the cold coffee with a wry face, and shuffled along leisurely in his slippered feet to call Saul Marling. He knocked at the door, but there was no answer. Turning the handle, he went in. The room was empty. So, too, was the bathroom.
Mr Harlow walked along the passage to the door leading down to the street. It was open. So also was the street door. He stood for a while at the head of the stairs, his hands in his pockets, the dead cigar between his teeth. Then he descended, closed the door and, walking back to the sitting-room, threw the cigar into the fireplace, lit another and sat down to consider matters; his forehead wrinkled painfully.
Presently he gave utterance to die thought which filled his mind.
‘I do hope that poor fellow is careful how he crosses the road—he isn’t used to traffic!’
But there were policemen who would help a timid, bearded man across the busy streets, and it was rather early for heavy traffic.
That thought comforted him. He took up the newspaper and in a second was absorbed in the Welbury divorce case which occupied the greater part of the page.
CHAPTER 25
AILEEN RIVERS might well have excused herself from attending her office, but she hated the fuss which her absence would occasion; and she felt remarkably well when she woke at noon.
Mr Stebbings greeted her as though she had not been absent until lunch-time, to his great inconvenience; and one might not imagine, from his matter-of-fact attitude, that he had been badgered by telephone messages and police visitations during the twelve hours which preceded her arrival.
He made no reference to her adventure until late in the afternoon, when she brought in some letters for him to sign. He put his careful signature to each sheet and then looked up. ‘James Carlton comes of a very good family. I knew his father rather well.’
She went suddenly red at this and was for the moment so thrown off her balance that she could not ask him what James Carlton’s parentage had to do with a prosaic and involved letter on the subject of leases.
‘He was most anxious about you, naturally,’ Mr Stebbings rambled on aimlessly. ‘I was in bed when he called me up—I have never heard a man who sounded so worried. It is curious that one does not associate the police force with those human emotions which are common in us all, and I confess it was a great surprise—in a sense a gratifying surprise! I have seen him once; quite a good looking young man; and although the emoluments of his office are not great, he appeals to me as one who has the capacity of making any woman happy.’ He paused. ‘If women can be made happy,’ he added, the misogynist in him coming to the surface.
‘I really don’t know what you mean, Mr Stebbings,’ she said, very hot, a little incoherent, but not altogether distressed.
‘Will you take this letter?’ said Mr Stebbings, dismissing distracted detectives and hot-faced girls from his mind; and immediately she was plunged into the technology of an obscure trusteeship which the firm of Stebbings was engaged in contesting.
As Aileen grew calmer, the shock of the discovery grew in poignancy. A girl who finds herself to be in love experiences a queer sense of desolation and loneliness. It is an emotion which seems unshareable; and the more she thought of Jim Carlton, the more she was satisfied that the affection was one-sided; that she was wasting her time and thought on a man who did not care for her any more than he cared for every other girl he met; and that love was a disease which was best cured by fasting and self-repression.
She was in this frame of mind when there came a gentle tap at her door. She called ‘Come in!’—the handle turned and a man walked nervously into the room. A tall man, hatless, collarless, and inadequately clad. An overcoat many times too broad for him was buttoned up to the neck, and although he wore shoes he was sockless and his legs were covered by a pair of dark-blue pyjamas. He stroked his long beard nervously and looked at the girl in doubt.
‘Excuse me, madam,’ he said, ‘is this the office of Stebbings, Field and Farrow?’
She had risen in amazement. ‘Yes. Do you wish to see Mr Stebbings?’
He nodded, looked nervously round at the door and dosed it behind him.
‘If you please,’ he said.
‘What name?’ she asked.
He drew a long breath.
‘Will you tell him that Mr Stratford Harlow wishes to see him?’
Her mouth opened in amazement.
‘Stratford Harlow? Is he here?’
He nodded. ‘I am Stratford Harlow,’ he said simply.
The gentleman who for twenty-three years had borne the name of Stratford Harlow was drinking a cup of China tea when the bell rang. He finished the tea, and wiped his mouth with a silk handkerchief. Again the bell shrilled. Mr Harlow rose with a smile, dusted the crumbs from his coat and, pausing in the passage to take down an overcoat and a hat from their pegs, walked down the stairs and threw open the door.
Jim Carlton was standing on the sidewalk, and with him three gentlemen who were unmistakably detectives.
‘I want you, Harlow,’ he said.
‘I thought you might,’ said Mr Harlow pleasantly. ‘Is that your car?’ He patted his pockets. ‘I think I have everything necessary to a prisoner of state. You may handcuff me if you wish, though I would prefer that you did not. I do not carry arms. I regard any man who resists arrest by the use of weapons as a cowardly barbarian! For the police have their duties—very painful duties sometimes, pleasant duties at others—I am not quite sure in which category yours will fall.’