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She was, I imagine, an old lady who took sudden violent fancies to people.
After she had gone, I learned something about her from my friends. That she was rich, eccentric, lived alone with one maid and owned no less than eight cats.’
‘Quite so, Mr Vole. You see, the first aim of the prosecution will be to establish that you were in low water financially – that is true, is it not?’ Leonard Vole flushed. ‘Yes,’ he said, in a low voice. ‘I’d been having a run of infernal bad luck just then.’
‘I do not think that that line would be successful, Mr Mayherne. Several of those present heard his remark, and one or two of them chaffed me about my conquest of a rich old lady.’
Why did you, a young man of thirty-three, good-looking, fond of sport, popular with your friends, devote so much time to an elderly woman with whom you could hardly have anything in common?’
You see, Mr Mayherne, I’ve got a weak nature – I drift – I’m one of those people who can’t say “No.”
The maid, Janet Mackenzie, declares that her mistress was a good woman of business and transacted all her own affairs, and this is borne out by the testimony of her bankers.’
She was enough of a woman of the world to realize that any man is slightly flattered by such an admission of his superiority.
‘the strongest point in my favour is the lack of motive. Granted that I cultivated the acquaintanceship of a rich old lady in the hope of getting money out of her – that, I gather, is the substance of what you have been saying – surely her death frustrates all my hopes?’
‘Are you not aware, Mr Vole, Miss French left a will under which you are the principal beneficiary?’ ‘What?’ The prisoner sprang to his feet. His dismay was obvious and unforced. ‘My God! What are you saying? She left her money to me?’
I should say that Miss French confided her intentions to Janet, and that Janet either mistook something she said, or else was convinced in her own mind that I had persuaded the old lady into doing it. I dare say that she believes herself now that Miss French actually told her so.’
‘Romaine is devoted to me. She’d do anything in the world for me.’ He spoke enthusiastically, but the solicitor’s heart sank a little lower. The testimony of a devoted wife – would it gain credence?
Early on, I found that she had taken it for granted that my wife and I didn’t get on – were living apart. Mr Mayherne – I wanted the money – for Romaine’s sake. I said nothing, and allowed the old lady to think what she chose. She spoke of my being an adopted son for her. There was never any question of marriage – that must be just Janet’s imagination.’
‘Goodbye, Mr Vole.’ He looked into the haggard young face and spoke with an unusual impulse. ‘I believe in your innocence in spite of the multitude of facts arrayed against you. I hope to prove it and vindicate you completely.’
Until she spoke he had not realized that she was not English. Now, observing her more closely, he noticed the high cheekbones, the dense blue-black of the hair, and an occasional very slight movement of the hands that was distinctly foreign. A strange woman, very quiet. So quiet as to make one uneasy. From the very first Mr Mayherne was conscious that he was up against something that he did not understand.
‘I hate him, I tell you! I hate him. I hate him, I hate him! I would like to see him hanged by the neck till he is dead.’
‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘did you believe – honestly – that he was innocent when you came here today?’ ‘I did,’ said Mr Mayherne. ‘You poor little man,’ she laughed. ‘And I believe so still,’ finished the lawyer. ‘Good evening, madam.’
An extraordinary woman. A very dangerous woman. Women were the devil when they got their knife into you.
The principal witnesses for the prosecution were Janet Mackenzie, maid to the dead woman, and Romaine Heilger, Austrian subject, the mistress of the prisoner.
Cricklewood. All inquiries drew blank. It was the eve of the trial when Mr Mayherne received the letter which was to lead his thoughts in an entirely new direction. It came by the six o’clock post. An illiterate scrawl, written on common paper and enclosed in a dirty envelope with the stamp stuck on crooked. Mr Mayherne read it through once or twice before he grasped its meaning. Dear Mister Youre the lawyer chap wot acks for the young feller. if you want that painted foreign hussy showd up for wot she is an her pack of lies you come to 16 Shaw’s Rents Stepney tonight. It ul cawst you 2
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She drew aside the scarf and the lawyer recoiled involuntarily before the almost formless blur of scarlet. She replaced the scarf again.
‘I’ll give you ten pounds, nothing more. And only that if this letter is what you say it is.’ ‘Ten pounds?’ She screamed and raved at him. ‘Twenty,’ said Mr Mayherne, ‘and that’s my last word.’
They were love letters, written by Romaine Heilger, and the man they were written to was not Leonard Vole. The top letter was dated the day of the latter’s arrest.
Ask at the Lion Road Cinema. They’ll remember – a fine upstanding girl like that – curse her!’
Mr Mayherne was satisfied. Romaine Heilger’s evidence was a tissue of lies from beginning to end. She had evolved it out of her passionate hatred. The lawyer wondered whether he would ever know what lay behind that hatred. What had Leonard Vole done to her?
He did know. Mr Mayherne was convinced of it. He knew, but had no intention of revealing the fact. The secret between those two remained a secret. Mr Mayherne wondered if some day he should come to learn what it was.
Then came the surprising denouement, the production of the letter. It was read aloud in court in the midst of a breathless stillness.
He found himself polishing his pince-nez vigorously, and checked himself. His wife had told him only the night before that he was getting a habit of it. Curious things habits. People themselves never knew they had them.
He wanted one thing only – to see Romaine Heilger face to face. He did not see her until some time later, and the place of their meeting is not relevant.
