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The Ford car, as it turned out to be, notwithstanding assiduous efforts on the part of the sergeant and his confrères from Winchester, was not traced farther than the left-hand turn from the village of Charlton. The police beyond, freely communicated with, were unable to afford any information. Clumsy at his job though Sir Richard had pronounced him, the burglar still had wit enough to evade arrest. The day arrived when the coroner’s inquest could be postponed no longer, and then, for the first time, Félice told her story. Very small and frail she looked, almost like an exquisite doll, as, tenderly escorted by her husband, she was given a chair in the witness box and received the friendly and respectful greetings of the coroner. She answered the questions put to her with very little hesitation, although she spoke very slowly and occasionally relapsed into a word or two of French. It was obvious, too, that she was somewhat troubled by the formal nature of the questions. Why should it be necessary to tell them all— many who lived in the same village—her name and who she was? Then, as well, there was another man who troubled her, the small, unassuming man seated at the back of the Court who, it was whispered, had just arrived from Scotland Yard. He took many notes, and she found his eyes often resting upon her. Once she turned her chair a little away. The man was like a menace to her.
“Yes, indeed,” she acknowledged, “that is my name—Félice Vera, Marchioness of Glenlitten… . Yes, it is true that I have been married less than a year. Upon that Wednesday evening—you must not ask me dates, for I never remember them—I retired early, as soon as Lord and Lady Manfield had left, because it had commenced to thunder, and thunder gives me always fear and a headache. My maid I knew was dancing, and I did not disturb her. I sent word that she need not attend. I undressed myself. I took a bath, I spent a few minutes in my boudoir looking through some books, wondering whether I would take one to read, and also there were one or two letters for me. Then I reentered my bedroom. The window was just a little open and placed on the catch, as I always like it. The only light in my bedroom was by the side of the bed. I heard no sound except the music downstairs. I am quite content— a little sleepy. I get into bed. Then I turn out the light. Perhaps I sleep. I do not know that. Perhaps it was a doze. Then I hear a creaking at the window which seemed strange. And I open my eyes. The window, which was only two inches open, is wide open. Something is there, blocking out the moonlight. I look again. It is a man with something black on his face—you call it a mask, yes?—and his hands were stealing out towards the jewels which I had left on my dressing table. I think his knee was upon the window sill, but of that I cannot be certain. I tried to put out my hand to the light, but I could not move. I am a great coward, and I was all fear. I fancied that I heard the opening of my boudoir door, a voice calling out. That must have been the voice, they tell me, of the Comte de Besset. That I did not know. It gave me courage. I stretched out my hand to the light. I touch the switch—and nothing happens. Then, suddenly, I know that the lights go out from everywhere—the reflection, the light from my husband’s room which shines under the door. Afterwards one knew that the cable had been cut. The darkness now in the room was terrible. I fall back on the pillow. I can do nothing. I try not to shriek. I do not hear the opening of my door, but in a moment, though my eyes were half closed, though I was shivering with fear, there seemed to be a flash of light in the room and the report of a pistol.”
“In what part of the room did you see the flash?” the coroner asked.
Félice was brought to a sudden pause. She held out her hand to her husband’s which rested upon the side of her chair. With the other she raised a dainty little porcelain gold-topped bottle and sniffed it. Presently she continued.
“From where I do not know. There is a flash of light. It seems to split up the room, and a report— not very loud—rather like a whistle. Then I hear a man groan and the sound of some one falling. Nothing more from the window have I seen. In the darkness, the man who had leaned there was invisible. I hear nothing, nothing, nothing more, but there are sounds in my head and in my ears. When I open my eyes my husband is there, and after that the Doctor Meadows, who was visiting.
“No, I saw no human being ever in the room. When I entered from the bathroom it was peacefully, beautifully silent. Never did I see the Comte de Besset. Never did I see more than the black mask and outstretched hand of the man who entered through the window. Then, as I have told you, all the lights they go, and as the moon had not risen behind the back of the Home Wood, and my room was in the shadows, I see nothing, nothing more.”
The coroner fidgeted with his papers a little and leaned forward encouragingly.
“Your story is quite comprehensible, Marchioness,” he said kindly. “In fact, under the circumstances, it is very clear. The questions for consideration then, are these, although you have indeed already answered them. We are to take it that you saw no human being in the room, that you are not able to tell from what direction the pistol was fired, that you are in no way able to help us as regards the position of the murderer of this man Raoul de Besset?”
She shook her head sadly.
“Indeed, Monsieur,” she replied, “would I be happy if I could bring light. The Comte de Besset was a friend of mine. He was the owner of all the estates where I was brought up in France, and the nearest neighbour of my guardian. He was entertained at Glenlitten for my sake. He came, as they tell me, and as I would believe, to my rescue, seeing or hearing of the burglar who had arrived. And for that he is dead. Indeed, if I could help, if there was anything that I knew I would gladly tell it to you, but there is nothing. And I am very tired.”
“We have no more questions to ask you, Marchioness,” the coroner assured her. “The Court is very much obliged indeed for the clear way in which you have told us the little you know of this terrible happening.”
Félice had already risen to her feet when a jury-man stood up in the box.
“I should like to ask, sir,” he ventured, “whether her ladyship does not usually lock the door of her boudoir when she retires for the night?”
“Indeed, yes,” Félice assented. “Always it is kept locked. One may not tell who passes.”
“But on this particular night,” the man persisted, “it was unlocked.”
“Naturally,” she replied, “or the Comte de Besset could not have entered.”
The jury-man coughed a little dubiously.
“If it is usually locked,” he persisted, “how did it happen to be unlocked on this particular night?”
“I have already explained,” Félice said, “that I had dispensed with the services of my maid. It is my maid who locks the doors. Myself, I think of such things never. Therefore it was a chance which, alas, I now very much regret.”
Still the obstinate jury-man remained upon his feet.
“The principal entrance to your ladyship’s apartment is from the main corridor?” he suggested.
“Naturally.”
“Why shouldn’t the Comte de Besset have entered by that means? Would not that have been the natural way for him to have come?”
Félice looked appealingly at the coroner. Why was this clumsy man permitted to worry her?
“The door of my boudoir,” she explained, “is very much nearer the apartments given to the men visitors, and the one which the Comte de Besset occupied. Monsieur le Comte, he perhaps came the nearer way because he had seen the man climb the ladder.”
The jury-man sat down. The man from nobody knew where, seated at the back of the Court, made no notes, but stroked his chin thoughtfully. The coroner talked earnestly to his jury and received the expected verdict with a little bow of approbation:
“Wilful murder against some person or persons unknown.”
Back at Glenlitten, Sir Richard was the only remaining guest. After luncheon he took a cap and stick and went for a walk through the woods, up to the bare hills upon the southern side of the estate. When he returned he joined his host and hostess at the tea