# The Bartenstein Case/Chapter 20

CHAPTER V
A HEAVY SECRET
The quick eye of the man practised to be observant saw what his younger companion did not see—the slightest tremor in the woman's frame, the least quiver of the lines about her mouth, the suspicion of a look of fear in her eyes. Inspector Dwayne knew that she knew him, and that she was nerving herself to show that she did not.
It seemed to him, as he stood there watching her keenly under the glare of the electric light, which she had evidently switched on when she opened the door of the coachman's house, that he had seen this woman before, a long, long way back in his life, but where, and when, and under what circumstances he could not think. Then he realized that Cunningham was speaking, and that the woman was giving her attention to him.
"Oh—er—good evening!" the secretary was saying. "Is Atkinson within?"
"Atkinson," answered the woman, "is out, sir."
"Well," said the secretary, "I'm sure Atkinson ​wouldn't mind. This gentleman just wants to have a look from one of the upper windows into the garden."
"Mrs. Atkinson is ill," said the woman shortly.
Cunningham looked round at Inspector Dwayne in perplexity. The Inspector came to the rescue.
"If you'll allow me, ma'am," he said suavely, "just to step upstairs to any convenient room that overlooks the gardens, I shall make no noise—I'll even take my boots off, if you like."
The woman seemed to recognize the inevitable, and made way. Inspector Dwayne stepped inside and turned to the secretary.
"Thank you, Mr. Cunningham," he said; "there's no need to trouble you further, sir. Í shan't be more than a few minutes, and there's a door into the side street, I know, by which this good lady will let me out. Good night, sir."
Cunningham said good night and went away across the gardens, and the good woman closed the door softly. She turned to the detective with studied indifference.
"This way, if you please," she said.
She led him up a staircase which opened from the little hall, and taking him into a neatly furnished bedroom on the next floor, turned up the electric light. "You can see all over the garden from here," she said, pointing to the window, "just as you can from all the windows looking out on this side of the house."
"Just so, ma'am," said the Inspector, speaking ​in a whisper. "But I shall see much better if you would turn down the light. If you don't mind doing so, ma'am, and just remaining while my eyes get accustomed to the gloom outside, I shall be obliged to you, and I promise you I'll not detain you many minutes."
The woman turned off the light without hesitation, and Inspector Dwayne, who had already crossed over to the window, looked out upon the garden beneath. He soon convinced himself that anybody standing in one of the upper windows of the coachman's house could command a full view of the private door, the trellised path which led from it to the turret stair, and the door of the stair itself.
"Thank you, ma'am," he said.
She switched on the light, stood aside for him to leave the room, turned the light off, and followed him out. Then she pointed down the staircase.
"The street door is exactly opposite that you came in by," she said in a low voice. "I dare say you can find it. I am wanted here."
She nodded towards a door on her left and was turning to it when Inspector Dwayne stopped her.
"Thank you, ma'am," he said; "I can find it, I am sure, but"—he paused, looking at her significantly—"I want a word with you first."
Watching her narrowly, he saw her turn white to the lips, and for a moment he thought she was going to faint. But suddenly recovering herself, ​she moved past him down the stairs and, beckoning him to follow her, led him into a small parlour and closed the door. When she faced him he noticed that her fists were tightly clenched, and that she was striving to exercise some great control over herself.
"Well?" she said.
Inspector Dwayne laid his hat on the table.
"Now, ma'am," he said soothingly, "there's no need whatever for you to be alarmed, or disturbed, or anything. But I've got my duty to do and I must do it. It was you who met Miss Oxenham on Primrose Hill last night and who gave her this artificial eye. It was you who picked up that eye in the garden outside on the morning after Mr. Bartenstein's murder, and who saw some unknown person leave the private door that night."
The woman faced him with something like defiance. "So Miss Oxenham—a lady!—has betrayed me!" she exclaimed. "And tracked me—after her promise!"
"Now, ma'am," said the Inspector in his mildest manner, "Miss Oxenham has done nothing of the sort. You were followed from Primrose Hill by someone without either Miss Oxenham's knowledge or mine—someone acting on his own responsibility. That someone informed me. Now I want you to tell me why you can't give your evidence freely on behalf of Lieutenant Lauderdale? You know what it means."
​"I can't and I won't!" she said. "There—that's flat."
Inspector Dwayne picked up his hat.
"Then, in that case, ma'am," he said, "I shall have to summon you as witness."
"Then, in that case, Inspector Dwayne, I shall take my life!" she answered.
The Inspector hesitated, looking at her narrowly. And again the conviction that he had seen her before somewhere, a long, long time ago, forced itself upon him. He remained silent, watching her still more attentively. He judged her to be at least sixty years of age, though her dark hair was scarcely shot with grey, and her tall, well-shaped figure was as erect as his own. She had been a beautiful and was still a handsome woman, and Inspector Dwayne admired her as she stood there in an attitude of resolute defiance.
"I know you now," he said suddenly. "You are, or were, Mary Simpson, of my own old town, Beechminster. You won't remember me—I was a good ten or twelve years younger than you."
The woman's lips trembled, and for a moment the Inspector thought she would burst into tears. But she controlled herself and, sitting down, sighed deeply.
"Look here, Mary—if I may call you so, for old times' sake," said Inspector Dwayne, "I gather you owe some debt of gratitude to the Lauderdales. Pay it off! He's a fine young ​fellow this, and as innocent as I am. Now, listen—it so happens that I'm almost certain that I can clear him without you. But it will help me if you tell me what you've kept back."
"I've kept nothing back," she said sullenly.
"Well, I'll give you my word—and everybody who knows me knows that my word's as good as my bond—that if you'll tell me the reason why you don't want to appear I'll not call you except at the very last extremity—and not even then if it's so serious as you make out. Confide in me and I'll never breathe a word to a living soul. And it strikes me," added the Inspector, "that if I'm any judge, you want a friend that you can confide in!"
The woman remained silent for what seemed a long time. She sat in a sort of listless attitude, drumming her fingers on the table. At last she lifted her head and gave Inspector Dwayne a searching look. She rose with another deep sigh.
"Very well," she said, "I trust you. Wait there a moment while I go up and see if she's wanting anything. Then———"
She left the room and Inspector Dwayne, having gone through his usual habit of mopping his forehead, which he always did when surprised, sat down and waited her return. She was calm and resolute enough when she came back, and Inspector Dwayne knew that he was going to hear the truth.
"I'll tell you why I daren't go into a witness-​box about this, Mr. Dwayne," she said, taking a chair opposite his and speaking in a low voice. "It's because things would come out that would ruin other people's happiness."
"What people?" asked the Inspector.
"My husband, my three sons, and my two daughters," she answered. "The children are all grown up, Mr. Dwayne, and doing well. And—they're fond of me. And respect me."
"I'm sure!" said the Inspector.
She bent nearer to him across the table, and a dull red overspread her features. Inspector Dwayne saw that the next words came with an effort.
"Mr. Dwayne, the girl who's lying ill upstairs. is my daughter," she said.
"Indeed!" said the Inspector.
"Yes. But not—not of the family I spoke of," she murmured.
"I see, ma'am," said the Inspector. "You've been married twice."
The woman bent her head lower over the table.
"No!" she whispered.
In the silence that followed Inspector Dwayne began to understand. He also began to comprehend certain other things.
"Ah!" he said kindly. "I see—I see! Yes, to be sure."
She remained silent some time; when she spoke again, she looked up and faced him bravely.
​"I suppose it's the old story," she said. "But that doesn't make it any better, Mr. Dwayne. You see, when I left Beechminster I came to London into service—to the Lauderdales: they were living in Eaton Square then. I was young, and handsome, and headstrong, and fond of gaiety, and I used to get out as often as I could. I met a man—a good twenty years older than myself—who seemed to be a gentleman. He paid me a lot of attention and used to take me out. And, of course, the usual thing happened—at least, what they call the usual thing—I hope it isn't. When he'd had his will of me he was off. I never saw him again."
"Ay!" said Inspector Dwayne. "I see."
"Then"—she nodded her head to the ceiling—"she came. It was then that this young Lauderdale's mother was so good to me. If it hadn't been for her, I don't know what I should have done. The child was put with good, respectable people, and I made a fresh start. And after a year or two I met—my husband."
She paused, and Inspector Dwayne made no comment.
"Mr. Dwayne—I never told him! He was that fond of me, and thought so high of me, that I couldn't. If Mrs. Lauderdale had been living, I'd have got her to tell him, but she was dead. And I married him, and we did well—and he doesn't know to this day. And if he did—and if the children did—oh!"
Inspector Dwayne nodded at the ceiling.
​"Does she know?" he asked meaningly.
"No! Nobody knows," she answered. "I took care of that. They—my husband and the family—don't know I ever come here. They think I'm visiting a neighbour. So that, you see, if it came out———"
"Ay, to be sure!" said the Inspector. "You never heard of the—the first man?" he asked. "Of course, you knew his name?"
"Knew his name!" she exclaimed. "I should think I did know his name! I've never seen or heard of him for five-and-thirty years, but I shall never forget his name!"
"What was it?"
She bent nearer across the table, frightened lest even the walls should hear. "Anthony Berridge!"