CHAPTER XXI.

THE GREEN BAIZE APRON

Sibell and Brinsley had been at the Beau Site at Cannes for about a fortnight, daily awaiting the arrival of Lady Wyndcliffe.

Happy in each other’s ecstatic affection, they went for long walks each day in the beautiful countryside at the back of the gay resort. Now and then they would hire a car and go for a day’s excursion up to Grasse, with its sweet-smelling fields of flowers grown for the perfume factory, or to one or other of the rock villages which lay in the higher lands between Cannes and Nice, those quaint, old-world places where at the local café one can obtain such delicious luncheons eaten outdoors in the winter sunshine.

“I begin to dread returning to Golder’s Green after this delightful time,” the young doctor said one bright, cloudless morning as they were walking arm in arm through the groves of grey, twisted olives a couple of miles or so from the town.

“But why should you go back to Golder’s Green, Brin?” asked the sweet-faced girl with some surprise. “When you are my husband I shall surely have enough for both of us.”

“I know that, darling,” he said. “But--well, I’m not the sort of fellow to exist without working. I couldn’t do it. My profession interests me, and gives me a zest in life. Not that your presence doesn’t do that,” he hastily explained, with a laugh. “But I know you understand my meaning. I must work for myself. I could never live in idleness on your money.”

“Of course I understand, Brin,” she said, squeezing his arm affectionately. “But I really don’t see why you should return to that dull, suburban spot again. Couldn’t you sell the practice, and buy one in some pleasant seaside town?”

“Yes, I might, of course, darling. But you forget that, under the terms of the will, you are compelled to live at the Guest House.”

“Ah!” she exclaimed disappointedly. “I had forgotten that.”

“I’ve been thinking a lot about it of late,” he said. “I feel that it is dangerous for you to live in that place. Some spirit of evil exists there. My own attack, after going through those books, is quite unaccountable, and then the mystery of the caretaker Farmer’s death, after the incantations of a stranger, is most inexplicable.”

“Yes,” said the girl. “Sometimes I think that all the weird stories about the old place are just legendary or gossip, and yet at others I see the dire results to those who scoff at them.”

“But the most mysterious fact of all is, that no woman entering there has ever felt any ill effect,” he remarked.

“I wonder how that is accounted for?” she asked, as they strolled slowly up a narrow path, where from between the olives they looked down upon the wide expanse of sapphire sea.

“Who knows, darling?” he asked. “This strange inheritance of yours seems to be overshadowed by some tangle of mystery--grim tragedy and death.”

“A pity they cannot find that old man Bettinson,” said the girl, smart in her brown sports kit, with a neat little brown felt hat, and carrying a comity stick with a steel spike in it. She was typically English, a lithe open-air girl fond of every sport ever since she had been at school, a graceful dancer, and a fine rider, as all the women of the D’Aires had been.

“Perhaps they may discover the old fellow one day,” remarked Otway. “But of course the police and coroner’s jury appear inclined to the opinion that the whole scene was a chimera of the dying man’s imagination. Personally I know of no human condition in which death can be brought about by a verbal curse. We hear of such things happening in the Middle Ages, and some people, even in our own enlightened age, are sufficiently superstitious to believe in the efficacy of an execration.”

“Then you think that the caretaker simply died of natural causes?” asked his fiancée eagerly.

“I believe that the verdict at the inquest must have been a true one. All sorts of fantastic tales are told by neurotic people at inquests.”

“But don’t you agree that a good many verdicts recorded of death from natural causes are untrue ones?” she asked.

“My opinion is the same as that of most men in my profession, that murder is very easily committed, and frequently goes undetected, and hence unpunished. Further,” he said, “I have an increasing dread of the evil influence which seems to spread like a pall upon any male who enters that accursed house in which you are compelled to live.”

“Really, Brin, you are making me feel quite terrified. I heard from Mr. Gray yesterday that the first day of the sale is to-morrow. He enclosed a catalogue. I’ll show it to you when we get back.”

“The sooner the place is cleared of all the old stuff the better,” Otway declared. “I’ll be glad to see the decorators in and the place refurnished for you and fit to live in, and of course half the dealers in England will be there. Mr. Gray told me that very big prices would, no doubt, be obtained for some of the furniture and tapestries. There are two authentic relics of Cardinal Wolsey which will certainly bring big money.”

“How much it all brings does not matter to me, Brin,” she said, halting in the shadows beneath the trees and looking earnestly into her lover’s face, while he bent and kissed her fondly.

“My only thought, darling, is of your own safety in that weird house,” her lover said.

“Why?” she laughed. “Have you not only a few minutes ago told me that no woman suffers there?”

“Yes. That’s one of the greatest problems,” he replied.

Throughout the whole morning they wandered, until they joined a long, white road which wound up the mountainside among the pines and ilexes, until at last they came to a small, remote village perched upon the edge of a high, precipitous rock, one of those villages which long ago were so often ravaged and burned by the Barbary pirates.

In the narrow, cobbled street they discovered a modest little café-restaurant, in which a buxom “madame” was bustling about serving her customers. Therefore they entered, and sitting down to clean napery, a bottle of white wine, and fresh sections of yard-long bread, they ordered the _plât-du-jour_, and enjoyed an excellent meal.

That afternoon, on re-entering the hotel, Otway obtained their letters and handed one to Sibell.

She recognised Lady Wyndcliffe’s sprawly handwriting, and after reading it, exclaimed in dismay:

“Auntie Etta has left Southampton to-day for New York. Uncle is ill and telegraphed for her.”

“Then she isn’t coming here at all?”

“No. She says we’d better return as soon as we like. Isn’t it really too bad? She doesn’t say what uncle is suffering from. But he is evidently very ill--or she wouldn’t cross the Atlantic. She’s always told me she is a terribly bad sailor.”

“Well, darling, it is her duty, isn’t it?” Brinsley remarked. “I suppose we shall have to leave very soon.”

“And I’ll have to return to Cookham, while you go to Golder’s Green,” she said, with a deep sigh of regret. “We won’t go till next week, eh?”

“When you wish it, darling,” he said; and, after washing their hands, they returned to the big lounge for tea.

Next day proved dry and fine at Hampton Court, and long before noon the trams and trains discharged hundreds of passengers bent upon attending the important sale at the Guest House.

Long before noon the premises overflowed with the curious and those eager for bargains, for an auction sale of such genuine antiques seldom took place in the vicinity of London. Every class of dealer and amateur collector was represented, from Whitechapel, from Bond Street, from every metropolitan district came men and many women with their pockets full of Treasury notes ready for a bargain, whether a pitcher or a picture, a water-can or a whatnot, a saucepan or a sideboard.

Through the rooms the crowd surged, and the auctioneer’s men had considerable difficulty in preventing small articles from being purloined, for those loungers with big overcoats and stout women with big pockets, all ready to grab any unconsidered trifle, were there in full force, as they always are at crowded auctions.

Outside upon the roughly-cut lawn, which had not yet had time to get into condition after the clearance of thirty years of growth upon it, a number of heavy pieces of furniture and a miscellaneous collection of household goods from the ground floor had been placed, each numbered, while behind stood a rostrum upon which, punctually at noon, Mr. Gray mounted, mallet in hand.

Below sat his two clerks, while four men in green baize aprons bustled about among the throng.

Mr. Gray, in a dark-blue overcoat and bowler hat, cleared his throat, and, looking smilingly around at the mass of faces turned towards him, recognized many well-known dealers, some of whom were the most reliable and reputed in their profession.

He cleared his throat, and made a little introductory speech, in which he referred to the unique opportunity of acquiring many very fine, unrestored pieces of antique furniture and objects of art which had been in that historic house ever since the days of King Henry the Eighth and the great Cardinal Wolsey.

“Some of this furniture was, no doubt, brought across here from the Palace of Hampton Court yonder, to furnish this house as a Guest House for friends of the Cardinal,” he went on. “Therefore, gentlemen, I tell you frankly that I shall not be content with paltry prices. On some of the pieces there is naturally a reserve, and some of them will be able to be acquired by private tender afterwards. The majority of these unique lots are, however, open for your purchase, but I would implore you not to start your bidding at ridiculous figures, as it will only hamper us all and waste our valuable time. With that request, gentlemen, I propose to proceed with the sale.”

After he paused, he called to his foreman.

“Greening! Lot number one! Jacobean fire-back of Surrey iron, with the arms of the Overtons of Godalming Hall. One of the Overtons married a Miss D’Aire in 1796. How much?”

“A pound!” shouted a man at the rear.

Thirty shillings was instantly bid in two places. Then two pounds, which was increased quickly to five. At that figure the bidding ceased until somebody cried “Guineas!” And at a nod from a well-known dealer in close proximity, the auctioneer cried:

“Five pound ten is bid for the Jacobean fire-back! Any advance? Come, gentlemen!”

“Six!” sounded from somewhere, followed by “Guineas,” and then “Six-ten.”

By slow degrees Mr. Gray’s persuasive powers had effect, until ten guineas was reached.

“Going at ten guineas! Going! Gone!” And the mallet fell sharply upon the table, as he added, “Ten guineas--Mr. Sheldon.”

The next lot was a small oak gate-table in splendid condition, of Queen Anne period. Such an article, when genuine and unrestored, is always eagerly sought by dealers, as there is a ready sale for them among collectors. There are thousands of imitations and facsimiles, complete with wormholes and every sign of long usage, but specimen pieces like the one exhibited by the man in the baize apron are few and far between.

The bidding started at two guineas, and quickly rose to twenty. On every side the competition became keen. To the ordinary eye it was only a little table such as could be purchased for a pound or two at any furnishing establishment in the Tottenham Court Road, but to the shrewd, hard-headed crowd of bargain-hunters assembled in that garden it was a perfect little gem.

As such, it was eventually knocked down to a famous West End dealer for forty-two pounds ten.

A fine old oak refectory table with big, bulbous legs and a foot-rail worn by the sandals of the monks of centuries ago, which had stood in the big stone hall, was next brought forward, a heavy piece which took six men to move it. It was capable of seating quite twenty people.

“This table, no doubt, came from the suppressed monastery at Chiddingfold in Surrey,” said Mr. Gray. “The monastery was dismantled and destroyed by Thomas Cromwell. At one end of the table you will find carved the sign of the cross, with the word ‘Chyddyngforde’ and the initials ‘A de B’--Alfred de Beson, who was abbot there in 1496. Now, gentlemen, what shall we say for this unique and historic piece? Such a table does not appear in the market every day, as all of us know. Shall we start at two hundred guineas?”

And with a persuasive smile, Mr. Gray glanced around him, mallet in hand.

Suddenly he recognised a nod, and said in his quick, business-like manner:

“Two hundred and twenty pounds. Thank you, sir! Two hundred and twenty is bid for this historic piece!”

Another pause.

“Two hundred and thirty in two places! Two-forty!--fifty!--sixty!--seventy!--eighty!--ninety!--three hundred. Three hundred--thank you, sir!” And, after another pause, he went on: “Now, gentlemen, we’re not here for amusement, and we’ve a lot to get through this afternoon! Who will give three hundred and ten?”

“Ten!” came a shout. Then, from another quarter, “Fifteen,” followed by bids of “Twenty” and by five pounds the competition, mostly between the Bond Street fraternity, rose till three hundred and eighty-five pounds was bid.

“Any further bid?” asked the auctioneer. “Three-eighty-five?”

And he sipped his glass of water in order to allow the competitors time to reflect.

“Dirt cheap, gentlemen,” he cried. “You, all of you know its true value. May I say three-ninety, Mr. Deeping?” he asked, addressing a well-known dealer, who usually bought for America.

Mr. Deeping gave a nod in the affirmative.

“Three-ninety!” shouted Mr. Gray. “Any advance! Four hundred, Mr. Steen?” he inquired of the head of one of the greatest Bond Street galleries.

A nod from the stout, well-dressed man who stood smoking a cigar, and then Mr. Deeping and Mr. Steen began to bid against each other until, after a fierce fight which became highly exciting, Mr. Deeping secured it for five hundred and twenty-three pounds.

At the moment the hammer dropped sudden shouts were heard, and a great commotion took place in the back of the crowd, close to the flight of steps which led to the front door.

Mr. Gray stood in surprise, angry at the sudden interruption.

Next second, however, the attention of the crowd was diverted to the scene of the disturbance, and all turned away from the rostrum to discover what was the trouble which had so unexpectedly arisen.