THE LOCKED ROOM

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 684, 8 June 1929, Page 21

THE LOCKED ROOM

SERIAL STORY

By

E. Clepham Palmer.

COPYRIGHT

CHAPTER XII.—A THWARTED PLAN “l know! But liow can you get a word with her? If we accept the story that she's an invalid —and so far we’ve got nothing to suggest that she isn’t, except, perhaps, her queer liking for night motoring—she’ll probably stay in the house. I don’t see how we could get at her there.” ‘Why not call, and ask to see her?” "Hopeless! Tuddenham —to say nothing of Sinclair—would know me at once.” "Rig yourself up in a false beard, dark glasses, and some other clothes.” Felscombe looked interested. ‘‘You mean—at once?” “Why not? We could easily get some things in the town. Rig yourself up like a Frenchman or a Bolshevik or something like that. Then speak with a foreign accent, and say you’re an old friend of the family— Mrs. Tuddenham’s family—and particularly want to see her.” Not a bad scheme,” said Felscombe thoughtfully. "It’s worth trying, though I rather doubt if you’ll see her. Probably she’s got some ghastly illness. Would a "oman travel as she did last night unless she was mortally afraid of bejug seen. It’s either that or Tuddennam*g keeping her a prisoner for some reason.” Three hours later an elderly, greyheaded man might have been seen sitting in the passenger’s seat of a long, low motor-car travelling slowly out of 'Winchester on the London Road. About five hundred yards before reaching the entrance to the drive leading up to the old red-roofed house 7® teft the car and walked on along ■-he road with a slight limp. He bad to knock twice before the door was opened by Horace Tuddenham. The elderly man raised his hat ju the courteous Continental manner. ; is Mrs. Tuddenham in?” Horace Tuddenham kept his hand on the door. “I’m sorry to say she’s unwell. You wished to see her?”

‘•Beuscart. Years ago my family was very friendly with Mrs. Tuddenham’s. But It’s many years since I had the pleasure of seeing her. Perhaps now she wouldn’t know me. But as I was in Winchester ” “I’ll tell her you called.” The elderly man raised his hat. “I hope she will soon be quite well. Good morning!” “Good morning!” Before the elderly foreigner reached the bend in the drive he turned quickly, and saw Horace Tuddenham looking intently in his direction out of an open window. Widhurst walked down the road to meet his friend. “Any luck?” he called out. Felscombe took oft his wig and beard. “Can’t say I enjoyed it. He didn't ask me in, and he looked at me pretty suspicously.” “What about the wife?” “Too unwell to leave her room. Hullo! What’s that?” Distinctly they heard the sound of the engine of a car being started. “Quick, Widhurst! Get her going! They’re after our venerable friend with the foreign accent.” The moment the engine started Felscombe let in the clutch, and Widhurst hastily clambered on board. The car leapt forward with a roar, and in a few yards was travelling at thirty miles an hour. Just as they approached the entrance to the drive they saw a big closed car turning the bend from the house. Felscombe accelerated. and shot past at fifty miles an hour. "Are they following?” he shouted. "Yes. Let her go!” The car tore along the road, flashed down a straight stretch, skidded round a corner, and then roared on again. “Steady!” yelled Widhurst. “We’ve left ’em. They haven’t a chance.” The car slowed to forty. “May as well go straight hack to London. What do you think 7 ” “Wait a bit first. Let’s see if they’re following.” The car crawled down a long stretch at ten miles an hour, while Widhurst looked over the back. In a few moments he saw a big, covered car swing round the bend, swerve across the road, and dash into the hedge. ’’lt’s all right, old man. They’ve crashed.” Felscombe turned quickly, and then

I’m sorry to hear Mrs. Tuddenham is ill. I hope nothing serious.” ’’We hope not, but tor the present she’s unable to leave her room. May I tell her you called? I’m afraid I don’t know your name.”

"I happened to be in town, and as 1 so near, I thought . But

pulled up. Looking round over the back they saw the figures of two men apparently making frantic efforts to get their car back on to the road. Felscombe let in the clutch. "One hardly likes leaving a fellow-motorist in distress,” he said, “but somehow Widhurst, I’m inclined to think we’d better carry on.” All the way up to London they discussed their experiences. What was the meaning of the letter from Sinclair? What was it that he found “too risky?” AVhy was he so friendly with Tuddenham? Why was Tuddenham so disturbed by the visit of the venerable foreigner? And what, above all, was the matter with Mrs. Tuddenham? As they approached the garage Felscombe turned to his friend and said, with a smile: “What d’you say to spending the evening at ‘The Cedars’? I don’t mean in the garden, but in the house. Will you come?” “No, thanks, old man. I've had enough of that place for a hit. Besides, it’s time I proposed to Daisy again.” “You won’t come?” “No. Not unless you think. . . . But look here, you’d do better alone. You know Miss Western. I don't. She’ll be alone. Why not call in the ordinary way?" “I will,” said Felscombe. CHAPTER XIII. —THE LONELY GARDEN Olive Western walked restlessly about the garden of “The Cedars.” The evening sun was still above the horizon, but twilight had already fallen on the heavily-shaded lawn. The great cedar was black against the sky, and the yew tree threw its sinister shadow on the house. Olive walked, along the winding path on the outskirts of the garden, looking thoughtfully on the ground. A frog jumped suddenly from a mass of tangled weeds. She sprang aside, and then walked on quicker. The mossgrown path, heavily shaded by laurels, grew darker. Something moved in the thick undergrowth. ... A blackbird scurried away with a hoarse cry of fear. . . . Looking round nervously over lier shoulder. Olive hesitated. Then she scrambled through the undergrowth as if anxious—desperately anxious—to escape into the open. When she reached the lawn she looked quickly behind her, as if she had expected to be followed. For a moment she failed to recognise Felscombe as he walked slowly up the path toward the lawn. She looked at him with an expression of bewilderment and fear. He hurried toward her. “1 haven’t startled you? I saw you on the lawn, and ventured. ...”

There was still fear in her eyes. ‘“Why—why have vou come?” He stood with ' \ hat. in his hand, looking gravely at ner. “I’ve frightened you! I'm sorry. It you’d rather I’ll go."

“No, no, you needn’t go. It was only ” She paused, and made an effort to smile. “Only what?” “I don’t know. But this garden . . . Something moved . . She looked up quickly. “But it’s nothing. I imagine things. It’s getting dark. I hate the garden in the dark. The paths. . . .” She paused and looked up questioningly at him. “But I oughtn’t to talk like this. Of course, vou’re not interested.” “But I am,” protested Felscombe quickly. “That’s why I’m here. I’m very interested.” He hesitated, and then looked round the garden. “May we sit down on that seat over there?” As they walked across the lawn Felscombe glanced at the house. “It looks a big, rambling old place,” he said. “Don’t you sometimes feel rather lost in it?” She sat down on the rustic seat before replying. Then she said suddenly: “I don’t know what uncle would say if he saw you here.” “But isn’t he away?’’ “Yes; but he might come back. We never know.” “I don’t think he’ll turn up for a day or two. His car’s broken down.” She looked up in surprise. “Broken down? How —how did you know that?” Felscombe decided to take risks. “When he left here last night I followed him down to Winchester. This morning his car was damaged by running into the hedge.” The expression of fear returned. “You followed him- Why? I don’t understand.” “Perhaps I’m wrong, but I don't like your uncle. I suspect him.” He paused. “Oh, please go on. Do be quite frank. Tell me what you suspect.” She looked up eagerly. “I hardly know. But there’s something wrong. I’m certain of that. Did your uncle tell you he was going to Winchester?” “Winchester? No. He said he was going to Brighton. The air, he thought, would do aunt good.” “Ah! Have you ever been to the bouse outside Winchester?” “What house? I didn’t know no had .1 house there Are you sure?” “Quite. I called there ” “You called there'” “Yes—disguised. I asked if* see Mrs. Tuddenham. Your uncle said she was too unwell to leave her room. For some reason be seemed suspicious of me—although he didn’t see through my disguise. Soon after I’d left he followed me in his car. I happened to have a faster one. and in trying to catch us he ran into the hedge.” She looked up—startled. “Why did he try to catch you?” “I don’t know. I’d like to know. There are many things I’d like to know.” “But I don’t quite understand. Why are you so anxious?” “It’s difficult to explain.” He hesitated, and then added quickly. “Look

here, Miss Western, I want to be quite frank. Since that first night- you remember —when the police came in, I’ve never felt happy about this place. I don’t like your being here. You oughtn’t to be here. It’s not the right place for you. The garden’3 wrong. Everything is wrong. Look at those weeds! Why should you li/* among weeds? And that yew over there, that cedar, those depressing laurels! They’re not right. They’re not the right setting for you. You’re a pic' ture in the wrong frame.” Olive laughed, and then looked a little anxiously at Felscombe “Even your laugh,” he went on, “isn’t right. It lings hollow here. I’d like to hear you laugh in another garden I know. Look at those paths! Wny should you walk on moss-grown paths? Why should you live under the shadow of that yew? Why should you laugh in a garden that frightens you*-*” “I’m not sure,” she said, “that you don’t frighten me a little Are there many men who talk like this? You know what uncle said?” “No.” “That you—that you must be mad.” “And you agree with him?” “I don’t know. I haven’t known anyone like you before. But then, I’ve hardly known anyone. Uncle doesn’t seem to like people to come to the house. He never asks anyone, except Mr. Sinclair.” “Sinclair!” said Felscombe abruptly. “I want you to tell me all you know about Sinclair.”

Olive looked up in surprise, and found Felscombe w-aiting impatiently for her to speak. She hesitated, and then said slowly: “I’m afraid I know very little about Mr. Sinclair. He comes fairly often to the house, and seems very friendly with uncle. . . . That is really all I know—all I can say.”

He seemed disappointed. “May I ask you a few other questions? Can you tell me who cried for help when I climbed in through the window?” “I can’t imagine who it was,” she replied without any hesitation. “I wish I knew. It could not have been Mrs. Tuddenham, because she sleeps on the other side.” “But it occurred to you,” interrupted Felscombe, “that it might have been Mrs. Tuddenham.” “Yes, sometimes I think ” she paused and looked round, as if afraid of being overheard. “But I’ve reason to think anything,” she added quickly. “Shall we talk about something else?” “Must we? I’d rather you told me exactly what you think about Mrs. Tuddenham.” “Oh, it’s nothing really. It’s only that I can’t understand why the door’s always kept locked, and wh.v no one, except uncle, is ever allowed to go in. I hate anything mysterious—don’t you? I don’t like living in a house with a locked door.” “Of course not.” “And sometimes,” she went on, “I’ve

felt inclined to —to shriek. I suppose it gets on my nerves. You see, uncle is always so mysterious about it. He always says she’s getting better, but she’s been ill for three months now, and still no one is allowed to see her.” “Is he kind to her? Do they seem quite good friends?” “Quite. Nearly every evening they sing duets together. They’ve always been fond of music, and Mrs. Tuddenham’s voice is as good as ever. I’ve often listened to them.” “And you haven’t noticed any difference? Although she’s too unwell to see you, she sings as well as ever.” “Yes. She has a beautiful voice. There’s one little song of Schumann’s she often used to sing to me. The other, night she sang it perfectly, just as she used to.” “You have never heard them quarrel at all?” “No. She always calls out good-bye when he leaves in the morning, just as she used to, in a merry, affectionate sort of way.” “And he—what does he do?” ‘“We hear him answer as he goes down the stairs, and nearly every day he brings home something for her.” “Does she ever send messages to you?” “Often. Generally she says I’m not to worry about her —that she’ll be better before long, and so on.” Felscombe remained silent for a lew moments. Then he said suddenly: “Has she always been keen on night motoring?” “Yes. She was always fond of adventure —of anything at all unusual. They’ve often driven all night. Once they broke down in the middle of Salisbury Plain at three in the morning. They had to sleep in the car, but she enjoyed it immensely.” “Would you enjoy it?” “Rather. Sometimes in the evening I feel as if I’d like to ride all night through the sleeping little villages.” “But why?” “1 don’t know. Perhaps this place —perhaps London—gets on my nerves. I want somehow to escape.” “Of course you do. So do I. We all want to escape. But most of us have not the pluck to risk it. We remain prisoners all our lives.” She smiled. “Are you a prisoner?” “Yes. I’ve tried pretty hard at times, but I’ve never managed to get awaj*. Have you?” “Oh, I think I’ve given it up —loug ago.” . He turned quickly. “You mustn’t do that.” Her eyes were wide open as she looked at him. “Why not, Mr. Felscombe?” (To be continued on Monday;