Red Money by Fergus Hume

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RED MONEY

BY FERGUS HUME

Author of "The Mystery of a Hansom Cab," "The Solitary Farm," "The
Peacock of Jewels," "The Red Window," "The Steel Crown," etc.

1911

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. THE DRAMA OF LITTLE THINGS

II. IN THE WOOD

III. AN UNEXPECTED RECOGNITION

IV. SECRETS

V. THE WOMAN AND THE MAN

VI. THE MAN AND THE WOMAN

VII. THE SECRETARY

VIII. AT MIDNIGHT

IX. AFTERWARDS

X. A DIFFICULT POSITION

XI. BLACKMAIL

XII. THE CONSPIRACY

XIII. A FRIEND IN NEED

XIV. MISS GREEBY, DETECTIVE

XV. GUESSWORK

XVI. THE LAST STRAW

XVII. ON THE TRAIL

XVIII. AN AMAZING ACCUSATION

XIX. MOTHER COCKLESHELL

XX. THE DESTINED END

XXI. A FINAL SURPRISE

RED MONEY

CHAPTER I.

THE DRAMA OF LITTLE THINGS.

"Gypsies! How very delightful! I really must have my fortune told. The
dear things know all about the future."

As Mrs. Belgrove spoke she peered through her lorgnette to see if anyone
at the breakfast-table was smiling. The scrutiny was necessary, since
she was the oldest person present, and there did not appear to be any
future for her, save that very certain one connected with a funeral. But
a society lady of sixty, made up to look like one of forty (her maid
could do no more), with an excellent digestion and a constant desire,
like the Athenians of old, for "Something New!" can scarcely be expected
to dwell upon such a disagreeable subject as death. Nevertheless, Mrs.
Belgrove could not disguise from herself that her demise could not be
postponed for many more years, and examined the faces of the other
guests to see if they thought so too. If anyone did, he and she politely
suppressed a doubtful look and applauded the suggestion of a
fortune-telling expedition.

"Let us make up a party and go," said the hostess, only too thankful to
find something to amuse the house-party for a few hours. "Where did you
say the gypsies were, Garvington?"

"In the Abbot's Wood," replied her husband, a fat, small round-faced
man, who was methodically devouring a large breakfast.

"That's only three miles away. We can drive or ride."

"Or motor, or bicycle, or use Shanks' mare," remarked Miss Greeby rather
vulgarly. Not that any one minded such a speech from her, as her
vulgarity was merely regarded as eccentricity, because she had money and
brains, an exceedingly long tongue, and a memory of other people's
failings to match.

Lord Garvington made no reply, as breakfast, in his opinion, was much
too serious a business to be interrupted. He reached for the marmalade,
and requested that a bowl of Devonshire cream should be passed along.
His wife, who was lean and anxious-looking even for an August hostess,
looked at him wrathfully. He never gave her any assistance in
entertaining their numerous guests, yet always insisted that the house
should be full for the shooting season. And being poor for a titled
pair, they could not afford to entertain even a shoeblack, much less a
crowd of hungry sportsmen and a horde of frivolous women, who required
to be amused expensively. It was really too bad of Garvington.

At this point the reflections of the hostess were interrupted by Miss
Greeby, who always had a great deal to say, and who always tried, as an
American would observe, "to run the circus." "I suppose you men will go
out shooting as usual?" she said in her sharp, clear voice.

The men present collectively declared that such was their intention, and
that they had come to "The Manor" for that especial purpose, so it was
useless to ask them, or any one of them, to go on a fortune-telling
expedition when they could find anything of that sort in Bond Street.
"And it's all a lot of rot, anyhow," declared one sporting youth with
obviously more muscle and money than brains; "no one can tell my
fortune."

"I can, Billy. You will be Prime Minister," flashed out Miss Greeby, at
which there was a general laugh. Then Garvington threw a bombshell.

"You'd better get your fortunes told to-day, if you want to," he
grunted, wiping his mustache; "for to-morrow I'm going to have these
rotters moved off my land straight away. They're thieves and liars."

"So are many other people," snapped Miss Greeby, who had lost heavily at
bridge on the previous night and spoke feelingly.

Her host paid no attention to her. "There's been a lot of burglaries in
this neighborhood of late. I daresay these gypsies are mixed up in
them."

"Burglaries!" cried Mrs. Belgrove, and turned pale under her rouge, as
she remembered that she had her diamonds with her.

"Oh, it's all right! Don't worry," said Garvington, pushing back his
chair. "They won't try on any games in this house while I'm here. If any
one tries to get in I'll shoot the beast."

"Is that allowed by law?" asked an army officer with a shrug.

"I don't know and I don't care," retorted Garvington. "An Englishman's
house is his castle, you know, and he can jolly well shoot any one who
tries to get into it. Besides, I shouldn't mind potting a burglar. Great
sport."

"You'd ask his intentions first, I presume," said Lady Garvington
tartly.

"Not me. Any one getting into the house after dark doesn't need his
intentions to be asked. I'd shoot."

"What about Romeo?" asked a poetic-looking young man. "He got into
Juliet's house, but did not come as a burglar."

"He came as a guest, I believe," said a quiet, silvery voice at the end
of the table, and every one turned to look at Lady Agnes Pine, who had
spoken.

She was Garvington's sister, and the wife of Sir Hubert Pine, the
millionaire, who was absent from the house party on this occasion. As a
rule, she spoke little, and constantly wore a sad expression on her pale
and beautiful face. And Agnes Pine really was beautiful, being one of
those tall, slim willowy-looking women who always look well and act
charmingly. And, indeed, her undeniable charm of manner probably had
more to do with her reputation as a handsome woman than her actual
physical grace. With her dark hair and dark eyes, her Greek features and
ivory skin faintly tinted with a tea-rose hue, she looked very lovely
and very sad. Why she should be, was a puzzle to many women, as being
the wife of a superlatively rich man, she had all the joys that money
could bring her. Still it was hinted on good authority--but no one ever
heard the name of the authority--that Garvington being poor had forced
her into marrying Sir Hubert, for whom she did not care in the least.
People said that her cousin Noel Lambert was the husband of her choice,
but that she had sacrificed herself, or rather had been compelled to do
so, in order that Garvington might be set on his legs. But Lady Agnes
never gave any one the satisfaction of knowing the exact truth. She
moved through the social world like a gentle ghost, fulfilling her
duties admirably, but apparently indifferent to every one and
everything. "Clippin' to look at," said the young men, "but tombs to
talk to. No sport at all." But then the young men did not possess the
key to Lady Agnes Pine's heart. Nor did her husband apparently.

Her voice was very low and musical, and every one felt its charm.
Garvington answered her question as he left the room. "Romeo or no
Romeo, guest or no guest," he said harshly, "I'll shoot any beast who
tries to enter my house. Come on, you fellows. We start in half an hour
for the coverts."

When the men left the room, Miss Greeby came and sat down in a vacant
seat near her hostess. "What did Garvington mean by that last speech?"
she asked with a significant look at Lady Agnes.

"Oh, my dear, when does Garvington ever mean anything?" said the other
woman fretfully. "He is so selfish; he leaves me to do everything."

"Well," drawled Miss Greeby with a pensive look on her masculine
features, "he looked at Agnes when he spoke."

"What do you mean?" demanded Lady Garvington sharply.

Miss Greeby gave a significant laugh. "I notice that Mr. Lambert is not
in the house," she said carelessly. "But some one told me he was near at
hand in the neighborhood. Surely Garvington doesn't mean to shoot him."

"Clara." The hostess sat up very straight, and a spot of color burned on
either sallow cheek. "I am surprised at you. Noel is staying in the
Abbot's Wood Cottage, and indulging in artistic work of some sort. But
he can come and stay here, if he likes. You don't mean to insinuate that
he would climb into the house through a window after dark like a
burglar?"

"That's just what I do mean," retorted Miss Greeby daringly, "and if he
does, Garvington will shoot him. He said so."

"He said nothing of the sort," cried Lady Garvington, angrily rising.

"Well, he meant it. I saw him looking at Agnes. And we know that Sir
Hubert is as jealous as Othello. Garvington is on guard I suppose,
and--"

"Will you hold your tongue?" whispered the mistress of the Manor
furiously, and she would have shaken Miss Greeby, but that she had
borrowed money from her and did not dare to incur her enmity. "Agnes
will hear you; she is looking this way; can't you see?"

"As if I cared," laughed Miss Greeby, pushing out her full lower lip in
a contemptuous manner. However, for reasons best known to herself, she
held her peace, although she would have scorned the idea that the hint
of her hostess made her do so.

Lady Garvington saw that her guests were all chattering with one
another, and that the men were getting ready to leave for the day's
shooting, so she went to discuss the dinner in the housekeeper's room.
But all the time she and the housekeeper were arguing what Lord
Garvington would like in the way of food, the worried woman was
reflecting on what Miss Greeby had said. When the menu was finally
settled--no easy task when it concerned the master of the house--Lady
Garvington sought out Mrs. Belgrove. That juvenile ancient was sunning
herself on the terrace, in the hope of renewing her waning vitality,
and, being alone, permitted herself to look old. She brisked up with a
kittenish purr when disturbed, and remarked that the Hengishire air was
like champagne. "My spirits are positively wild and wayward," said the
would-be Hebe with a desperate attempt to be youthful.

"Ah, you haven't got the house to look after," sighed Lady Garvington,
with a weary look, and dropped into a basket chair to pour out her woes
to Mrs. Belgrove. That person was extremely discreet, as years of
society struggling had taught her the value of silence. Her discretion
in this respect brought her many confidences, and she was renowned for
giving advice which was never taken.

"What's the matter, my dear? You look a hundred," said Mrs. Belgrove,
putting up her lorgnette with a chuckle, as if she had made an original
observation. But she had not, for Lady Garvington always appeared worn
and weary, and sallow, and untidy. She was the kind of absent-minded
person who depended upon pins to hold her garments together, and who
would put on her tiara crookedly for a drawing-room.

"Clara Greeby's a cat," said poor, worried Lady Garvington, hunting for
her pocket handkerchief, which was rarely to be found.

"Has she been making love to Garvington?"

"Pooh! No woman attracts Garvington unless she can cook, or knows
something about a kitchen range. I might as well have married a soup
tureen. I'm sure I don't know why I ever did marry him," lamented the
lady, staring at the changing foliage of the park trees. "He's a pauper
and a pig, my dear, although I wouldn't say so to every one. I wish my
mother hadn't insisted that I should attend cooking classes."

"What on earth has that to do with it?"

"To do with what?" asked Lady Garvington absentmindedly. "I don't know
what you're talking about, I'm sure. But mother knew that Garvington was
fond of a good dinner, and made me attend those classes, so as to learn
to talk about French dishes. We used to flirt about soups and creams and
haunches of venison, until he thought that I was as greedy as he was. So
he married me, and I've been attending to his meals ever since. Why,
even for our honeymoon we went to Mont St. Michel. They make splendid
omelettes there, and Garvington ate all the time. Ugh!" and the poor
lady shuddered.

Mrs. Belgrove saw that her companion was meandering, and would never
come to the point unless forced to face it, so she rapped her knuckles
with the lorgnette. "What about Clara Greeby?" she demanded sharply.

"She's a cat!"

"Oh, we're all cats, mewing or spitting as the fit takes us," said Mrs.
Belgrove comfortably. "I can't see why cat should be a term of
opprobrium when applied to a woman. Cats are charmingly pretty animals,
and know what they want, also how to get it. Well, my dear?"

"I believe she was in love with Noel herself," ruminated Lady
Garvington.

"Who was in love? Come to the point, my dear Jane."

"Clara Greeby."

Mrs. Belgrove laughed. "Oh, that ancient history. Every one who was
anybody knew that Clara would have given her eyes--and very ugly eyes
they are--to have married Noel Lambert. I suppose you mean him? Noel
isn't a common name. Quite so. You mean him. Well, Clara wanted to buy
him. He hasn't any money, and as a banker's heiress she is as rich as a
Jew. But he wouldn't have her."

"Why wouldn't he?" asked Lady Garvington, waking up--she had been
reflecting about a new soup which she hoped would please her husband.
"Clara has quite six thousand a year, and doesn't look bad when her maid
makes her dress in a proper manner. And, talking about maids, mine wants
to leave, and--"

"She's too like Boadicea," interrupted Mrs. Belgrove, keeping her
companion to the subject of Miss Greeby. "A masculine sort of hussy.
Noel is far too artistic to marry such a maypole. She's six foot two, if
she's an inch, and her hands and feet--" Mrs. Belgrove shuddered with a
gratified glance at her own slim fingers.

"You know the nonsense that Garvington was talking; about shooting a
burglar," said the other woman vaguely. "Such nonsense, for I'm sure no
burglar would enter a house filled with nothing but Early Victorian
furniture."

"Well? Well? Well?" said Mrs. Belgrove impatiently.

"Clara Beeby thought that Garvington meant to shoot Noel."

"Why, in heaven's name! Because Noel is his heir?"

"I'm sure I can't help it if I've no children," said Lady Garvington,
going off on another trail--the one suggested by Mrs. Belgrove's remark.
"I'd be a happier woman if I had something else to attend to than
dinners. I wish we all lived on roots, so that Garvington could dig them
up for himself."

"My dear, he'd send you out with a trowel to do that," said Mrs.
Belgrove humorously. "But why does Garvington want to shoot Noel?"

"Oh, he doesn't. I never said he did. Clara Greeby made the remark. You
see, Noel loved Agnes before she married Hubert, and I believe he loves
her still, which isn't right, seeing she's married, and isn't half so
good-looking as she was. And Noel stopping at that cottage in the
Abbot's Wood painting in water-colors. I think he is, but I'm not sure
if it isn't in oils, and the--"

"Well? Well? Well?" asked Mrs. Belgrove again.

"It isn't well at all, when you think what a tongue Clara Greeby has,"
snapped Lady Garvington. "She said if Noel came to see Agnes by night,
Garvington, taking him for a burglar, might shoot him. She insisted that
he looked at Agnes when he was talking about burglars, and meant that."

"What nonsense!" cried Mrs. Belgrove vigorously, at last having arrived
at a knowledge of why Lady Garvington had sought her. "Noel can come
here openly, so there is no reason he should steal here after dark."

"Well, he's romantic, you know, dear. And romantic people always prefer
windows to doors and darkness to light. The windows here are so
insecure," added Lady Garvington, glancing at the facade above her
untidy hair. "He could easily get in by sticking a penknife in between
the upper and lower sash of the window. It would be quite easy."

"What nonsense you talk, Jane," said Mrs. Belgrove, impatiently. "Noel
is not the man to come after a married woman when her husband is away. I
have known him since he was a Harrow schoolboy, so I have every right to
speak. Where is Sir Hubert?"

"He is at Paris or Pekin, or something with a 'P,'" said Lady Garvington
in her usual vague way. "I'm sure I don't know why he can't take Agnes
with him. They get on very well for a married couple."

"All the same she doesn't love him."

"He loves her, for I'm sure he's that jealous that he can't scarcely
bear her out of his sight."

"It seems to me that he can," remarked Mrs. Belgrove dryly. "Since he is
at Paris or Pekin and she is here."

"Garvington is looking after her, and he owes Sir Hubert too much, not
to see that Agnes is all right."

Mrs. Belgrove peered at Lady Garvington through her lorgnette. "I think
you talk a great deal of nonsense, Jane, as I said before," she
observed. "I don't suppose for one moment that Agnes thinks of Noel, or
Noel of Agnes."

"Clara Greeby says--"

"Oh, I know what she says and what she wishes. She would like to get
Noel into trouble with Sir Hubert over Agnes, simply because he will not
marry her. As to her chatter about burglars--"

"Garvington's chatter," corrected her companion.

"Well, then, Garvington's. It's all rubbish. Agnes is a sweet girl,
and--"

"Girl?" Lady Garvington laughed disdainfully. "She is twenty-five."

"A mere baby. People cannot be called old until they are seventy or
eighty. It is a bad habit growing old. I have never encouraged it
myself. By the way, tell me something about Sir Hubert Pine. I have only
met him once or twice. What kind of a man is he?"

"Tall, and thin, and dark, and--"

"I know his appearance. But his nature?"

"He's jealous, and can be very disagreeable when he likes. I don't know
who he is, or where he came from. He made his money out of penny toys
and South African investments. He was a member of Parliament for a few
years, and helped his party so much with money that he was knighted.
That's all I know of him, except that he is very mean."

"Mean? What you tell me doesn't sound mean."

"I'm talking of his behavior to Garvington," explained the hostess,
touching her ruffled hair, "he doesn't give us enough money."

"Why should he give you any?" asked Mrs. Belgrove bluntly.

"Well, you see, dear, Garvington would never have allowed his sister to
marry a nobody, unless--"

"Unless the nobody paid for his footing. I quite understand. Every one
knows that Agnes married the man to save her family from bankruptcy.
Poor girl!" Mrs. Belgrove sighed. "And she loved Noel. What a shame that
she couldn't become his wife!"

"Oh, that would have been absurd," said Lady Garvington pettishly.
"What's the use of Hunger marrying Thirst? Noel has no money, just like
ourselves, and if it hadn't been for Hubert this place would have been
sold long ago. I'm telling you secrets, mind."

"My dear, you tell me nothing that everybody doesn't know."

"Then what is your advice?"

"About what, my dear?"

"About what I have been telling you. The burglar, and--"

"I have told you before, that it is rubbish. If a burglar does come here
I hope Lord Garvington will shoot him, as I don't want to lose my
diamonds."

"But if the burglar is Noel?"

"He won't be Noel. Clara Greeby has simply made a nasty suggestion which
is worthy of her. But if you're afraid, why not get her to marry Noel?"

"He won't have her," said Lady Garvington dolefully.

"I know he won't. Still a persevering woman can do wonders, and Clara
Greeby has no self-respect. And if you think Noel is too near, get Agnes
to join her husband in Pekin."

"I think it's Paris."

"Well then, Paris. She can buy new frocks."

"Agnes doesn't care for new frocks. Such simple tastes she has, wanting
to help the poor. Rubbish, I call it."

"Why, when her husband helps Lord Garvington?" asked Mrs. Belgrove
artlessly.

Lady Garvington frowned. "What horrid things you say."

"I only repeat what every one is saying."

"Well, I'm sure I don't care," cried Lady Garvington recklessly, and
rose to depart on some vague errand. "I'm only in the world to look
after dinners and breakfasts. Clara Greeby's a cat making all this fuss
about--"

"Hush! There she is."

Lady Garvington fluttered round, and drifted towards Miss Greeby, who
had just stepped out on to the terrace. The banker's daughter was in a
tailor-made gown with a man's cap and a man's gloves, and a man's
boots--at least, as Mrs. Belgrove thought, they looked like that--and
carried a very masculine stick, more like a bludgeon than a cane. With
her ruddy complexion and ruddy hair, and piercing blue eyes, and
magnificent figure--for she really had a splendid figure in spite of
Mrs. Belgrove's depreciation--she looked like a gigantic Norse goddess.
With a flashing display of white teeth, she came along swinging her
stick, or whirling her shillalah, as Mrs. Belgrove put it, and seemed
the embodiment of coarse, vigorous health.

"Taking a sun-bath?" she inquired brusquely and in a loud baritone
voice. "Very wise of you two elderly things. I am going for a walk."

Mrs. Belgrove was disagreeable in her turn. "Going to the Abbot's Wood?"

"How clever of you to guess," Miss Greeby smiled and nodded. "Yes, I'm
going to look up Lambert"; she always spoke of her male friends in this
hearty fashion. "He ought to be here enjoying himself instead of living
like a hermit in the wilds."

"He's painting pictures," put in Lady Garvington. "Do hermits paint?"

"No. Only society women do that," said Miss Greeby cheerfully, and Mrs.
Belgrove's faded eyes flashed. She knew that the remark was meant for
her, and snapped back. "Are you going to have your fortune told by the
gypsies, dear?" she inquired amiably. "They might tell you about your
marriage."

"Oh, I daresay, and if you ask they will prophesy your funeral."

"I am in perfect health, Miss Greeby."

"So I should think, since your cheeks are so red."

Lady Garvington hastily intervened to prevent the further exchange of
compliments. "Will you be back to luncheon, or join the men at the
coverts?"

"Neither. I'll drop on Lambert for a feed. Where are you going?"

"I'm sure I don't know," said the hostess vaguely. "There's lots to do.
I shall know what's to be done, when I think of it," and she drifted
along the terrace and into the house like a cloud blown any way by the
wind. Miss Greeby looked after her limp figure with a contemptuous grin,
then she nodded casually to Mrs. Belgrove, and walked whistling down the
terrace steps.

"Cat, indeed!" commented Mrs. Belgrove to herself when she saw Miss
Greeby's broad back disappear behind the laurels. "Nothing half so
pretty. She's like a great Flanders mare. And I wish Henry VIII was
alive to marry her," she added the epithet suggesting that king, "if
only to cut her head off."

CHAPTER II.

IN THE WOOD.

Miss Greeby swung along towards her destination with a masculine stride
and in as great a hurry as though she had entered herself for a Marathon
race. It was a warm, misty day, and the pale August sunshine radiated
faintly through the smoky atmosphere. Nothing was clear-cut and nothing
was distinct, so hazy was the outlook. The hedges were losing their
greenery and had blossomed forth into myriad bunches of ruddy hips and
haws, and the usually hard road was soft underfoot because of the
penetrating quality of the moist air. There was no wind to clear away
the misty greyness, but yellow leaves without its aid dropped from the
disconsolate trees. The lately-reaped fields, stretching on either side
of the lane down which the lady was walking, presented a stubbled
expanse of brown and dim gold, uneven and distressful to the eye. The
dying world was in ruins and Nature had reduced herself to that
necessary chaos, out of which, when the coming snow completed its task,
she would build a new heaven and a new earth.

An artist might have had some such poetic fancy, and would certainly
have looked lovingly on the alluring colors and forms of decay. But Miss
Greeby was no artist, and prided herself upon being an aggressively
matter-of-fact young woman. With her big boots slapping the ground and
her big hands thrust into the pockets of her mannish jacket, she bent
her head in a meditative fashion and trudged briskly onward. What
romance her hard nature was capable of, was uppermost now, but it
had to do strictly with her personal feelings and did not require the
picturesque autumn landscape to improve or help it in any way. One man's
name suggested romance to bluff, breezy Clara Greeby, and that name was
Noel Lambert. She murmured it over and over again to her heart, and her
hard face flushed into something almost like beauty, as she remembered
that she would soon behold its owner. "But he won't care," she said
aloud, and threw back her head defiantly: then after a pause, she
breathed softly, "But I shall make him care."

If she hoped to do so, the task was one which required a great amount of
skill and a greater amount of womanly courage, neither of which
qualities Miss Greeby possessed. She had no skill in managing a man, as
her instincts were insufficiently feminine, and her courage was of a
purely rough-and-tumble kind. She could have endured hunger and thirst
and cold: she could have headed a forlorn hope: she could have held to a
sinking ship: but she had no store of that peculiar feminine courage
which men don't understand and which women can't explain, however much
they may exhibit it. Miss Greeby was an excellent comrade, but could not
be the beloved of any man, because of the very limitations of
semi-masculinity upon which she prided herself. Noel Lambert wanted a
womanly woman, and Lady Agnes was his ideal of what a wife should be.
Miss Greeby had in every possible way offered herself for the post, but
Lambert had never cared for her sufficiently to endure the thought of
passing through life with her beside him. He said she was "a good sort";
and when a man says that of a woman, she may be to him a good friend, or
even a platonic chum, but she can never be a desirable wife in his eyes.
What Miss Greeby lacked was sex, and lacking that, lacked everything. It
was strange that with her rough common sense she could not grasp this
want. But the thought that Lambert required what she could never
give--namely, the feminine tenderness which strong masculine natures
love--never crossed her very clear and mathematical mind.

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