Digby Groat smoked for a long time over his simple meal. The girl was wholly in his power, but she could wait. A much more vital matter absorbed his attention. He himself had reached the possibility which he had long foreseen and provided against. It was not a pleasant situation, he thought, and found relief for his mind by concentrating his thoughts upon the lovely ranch in Brazil, on which, with average luck, he would spend the remainder of his days.
Presently he got up, produced from a drawer a set of shaving materials wrapped in a towel, and heating some water at the little gas-stove in the kitchen, he proceeded to divest himself of his moustache.
With the master key he unlocked the cupboard that ran the height of the room, and surveyed thoughtfully the stacks of dresses and costumes which filled the half a dozen shelves. The two top shelves were filled with boxes, and he brought out three of these and examined their contents. From one of these he took a beautiful evening gown of silver tissue, and laid it over the back of a chair. A satin wrap followed, and from another box he took white satin shoes and stockings and seemed satisfied by his choice, for he looked at them for a long time before he folded them and put them back where he had found them. His own disguise he had decided upon.
And now, having mapped out his plan, he dressed himself in a chauffeur’s uniform, and went out to the telephone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
“DEAD! Jane Groat dead?”
To Lady Mary the news came as a shock.
Jim, gaunt and hollow-eyed, sitting listlessly by the window of Mr. Salter’s office, nodded.
“The doctors think it was an overdose of morphia that killed her,” he said shortly.
Lady Mary was silent for a long while, then;
“I think perhaps now is a moment when I can tell you something about the Blue Hand,” she said.
“Will it assist us?” asked Jim, turning quickly.
She shook her head.
“I am afraid it will not, but this I must tell you. The person against whom the Blue Hand was directed was not Digby Groat, but his mother. I have made one grave mistake recently,” she said, “and it was to believe that Digby Groat was dominated by his mother. I was amazed to discover that so far from her dominating him, she was his slave, and the only explanation I can give for this extraordinary transition is Digby Groat’s discovery that his mother was a drug-taker. Once he was strong enough to keep the drug from her the positions were reversed. The story of the Blue Hand,” she said with her sad little smile, “is neither as fantastic nor as melodramatic as you might expect.”
There was a long silence which neither of the men broke.
“I was married at a very early age, as you know.” She nodded to Salter. “My father was a very poor nobleman with one daughter and no sons, and he found it not only difficult to keep up the mortgaged estates which he had inherited, but to make both ends meet even though he was living in the most modest way. Then he met Jonathan Danton’s father, and between the two they fixed up a marriage between myself and Jonathan. I never met him until a week before my wedding-day. He was a cold, hard man, very much like his father, just to a fault, proud and stiff-necked, and to his natural hardness of demeanour was added the fretfulness due to an affected heart, which eventually killed him.
“My married life was an unhappy one. The sympathy that I sought was denied me. With all his wealth he could have made me happy, but from the first he seemed to be suspicious of me, and I have often thought that he hated me because I was a member of a class which he professed to despise. When our daughter was born I imagined that there would be a change in his attitude, but, if anything, the change was for the worse.
“I had met his sister, Jane Groat, and knew, in a vague kind of way, that some scandal had attached to her name—Jonathan never discussed it, but his father, in his lifetime, loathed Jane and would not allow her to put her foot inside his house. Jonathan hadn’t the same prejudices. He knew nothing of her escapade with the Spaniard, Estremeda, and I only learnt of the circumstances by accident.
“Jane was a peculiar mixture. Some days she would be bright and vivacious, and some days she would be in the depths of gloom, and this used to puzzle me, until one day we were at tea together at our house in Park Lane. She had come in a state of nerves and irritability which distressed me. I thought that her little boy was giving her trouble, for I knew how difficult he was, and how his cruel ways, even at that tender age, annoyed her. I nearly said distressed her,” she smiled, “but Jane was never distressed at things like that. We were having a cup of tea when she put her hand in her bag and took out a small bottle filled with brown pellets.
“‘I really can’t wait any longer, Mary,’ she said, and swallowed one of the pills. I thought it was something for digestion, until I saw her eyes begin to brighten and her whole demeanour change, then I guessed the truth.
“‘You’re not taking drugs, are you, Jane? ‘I asked.
“‘I’m taking a little morphine,’ she replied. ‘Don t be shocked, Mary. If you had my troubles, and a little devil of a boy to look after, as I have, you’d take drugs too!’
“But that was not her worst weakness, from my point of view. What that was I learnt after my husband sailed to America on business.
“Dorothy was then about seven or eight months old, a bonny, healthy, beautiful child, whom my husband adored in his cold, dour fashion. One morning Jane came into my room while I was dressing, and apologizing for her early arrival, asked me if I would go shopping with her. She was so cheerful and gay that I knew she had been swallowing some of those little pellets, and as I was at a loose end that morning I agreed. We went to several stores and finished up at Clayneys, the big emporium in Brompton Road. I noticed that Jane made very few purchases, but this didn’t strike me as being peculiar, because Jane was notoriously mean, and I don’t think she had a great deal of money either. I did not know Clayneys. I had never been to the shop before. This explanation is necessary in view of what followed. Suddenly, when we were passing through the silk department, Jane turned to me with a startled expression and said to me under her breath, ‘Put this somewhere.’
“Before I could expostulate, she had thrust something into the interior of my muff. It was a cold day and I was carrying one of those big pillow muffs which were so fashionable in that year. I had hardly done so before somebody tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to see a respectable-looking man who said sharply, ‘I’ll trouble you to accompany me to the manager’s office.’
“I was dazed and bewildered, and the only thing I recollect was Jane whispering in my ear, ‘Don’t give your name.’ She apparently was suspect as well, for we were both taken to a large office, where an elderly man interviewed us. ‘What is your name?’ he asked. The first name I could think of was my maid, Madge Benson. Of course, I was half mad. I should have told them that I was Lady Mary Danton and should have betrayed Jane upon the spot. My muff was searched and inside was found a large square of silk, which was the article Jane had put into it.
“The elderly man retired with his companion to a corner of the room and I turned to Jane. ‘You must get me out of this; it is disgraceful of you, Jane. Whatever made you do it?’
“‘For God’s sake, don’t say a word,’ she whispered. ‘Whatever happens, I will take the responsibility. The magistrate—’
“‘The magistrate?’ I said in horror. ‘I shall not go before a magistrate?’
“‘You must, you must; it would break Jonathan’s heart, and he would blame you if I came into court. Quick.’ She lowered her voice and began speaking rapidly. ‘I know the magistrate at Paddington and I will go to him and make a confession of the whole thing. When you come up tomorrow you will be discharged. Mary, you must do this for me, you must!’