The Man Without A Face Read online

  Penstoke station was one of those small wayside spots set in the most delightful scenery, with much platform, little shelter, and a large open yard before its diminutive booking-office. Harrison noticed in this yard a large saloon motor-car, the chauffeur of which was on the platform and had obviously come to meet him. Beside it was a much smaller car, built for speed, with a woman sitting at the wheel.

  As Harrison threw the carriage door wide to get out, the woman turned to look at him and then, almost on the instant, started the car and drove for dear life out of the station yard and away into the country. Harrison had really only had a few seconds in which to see her face, but there was no doubt of the beauty of it. Young and unusually attractive certainly she was, and Harrison paused, as he pigeon-holed the fleeting glimpse of those beautiful features and wondered whether the coincidence of meeting a clever young woman with whom he had struggled in a former case would somewhat complicate his present visit to Penstoke.

  Thinking that Harrison was pausing through uncertainty, the chauffeur came forward, touched his cap, and said he assumed that he was speaking to Mr. Clay Harrison. Thus brought back to earth, Harrison got down while Henry and the chauffeur collected the luggage.

  On the way to the motor-car Harrison motioned Henry to walk behind with him.

  “Did you notice that car, Henry?” he asked.

  “Couldn’t help it, sir,” said Henry. “It went off like a young rocket!”

  “I don’t mean that,” said Harrison. “Did you recognise the driver?”

  “I didn’t have time, sir,” answered Henry. “Just saw it was a woman, that was all. Did you, sir?”

  “I’m not certain, Henry.”

  Henry whistled, for Harrison’s tone conveyed that something very important would lie behind that recognition.

  “You’ll sit in the back, Henry,” said Harrison. “I propose to sit by the chauffeur and see the country.”

  Henry did as he was told, and they were soon moving comfortably along a pleasant country road. Harrison chatted on desultory topics with the chauffeur until he was able to get to the subject he was particularly anxious to introduce. “Fast car, the one that dashed out of the yard just as we arrived?” he ventured.

  “It is, sir,” said the chauffeur, “and a fast driver too.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Harrison.

  “She’s been driving like blazes all round the countryside for the past week,” was the reply. “I’m not denying she’s a good driver—one of the best women drivers I’ve ever seen—but I wouldn’t like to meet her in a country lane at the lick she goes.”

  “Has she had any accidents?”

  “I haven’t heard of any. The devil protects his own, you know. And it’s the ordinary driver that’s likely to have the accident and go into the ditch when she comes along, not herself.”

  “Know her?”

  “Of course I do, everybody round here knows Miss Williams. She’s been staying at Penstoke House. She’s still there. I won’t say she isn’t an affable sort of woman. Got a word for everybody; no side or anything like that. And pretty too. Quite captivated them in the town, but she might drive a bit more slowly. She’d captivate us chauffeurs as well then.”

  Harrison laughed, and the chauffeur laughed as well, much gratified that his humour was so quickly appreciated.

  “You don’t know Penstoke, sir?” he asked, expansively.

  “Never been here in my life before,” Harrison answered. “Quiet sort of place, I suppose?”

  “Well, to people like ourselves who know London, sir, it does seem a quiet place,” said the chauffeur; “but Penstoke has its points. It’s not as quiet as all that, of course. I’m a Penstoke man myself and I suppose I know its ways. But we have our little excitements, sir.”

  “I suppose you do,” answered Harrison, leaving the chauffeur to justify his claim.

  The chauffeur obviously intended to do so. “I don’t mean the great show up at the house to-morrow, sir,” he said. “That doesn’t often happen, but we have our excitements in the town itself. These foreigners, for example—”

  “Foreigners?” asked Harrison, pricking up his ears.

  “Of course they may be something to do with Sir Jeremiah Bamberger. He lives here, you know.”

  “Bamberger?”

  “Yes, he bought the estate near Penstoke House, and now he lives here. He’s really a foreigner himself, and they may all be friends of his. I’m sorry for him if they are. But we have a lot of fun with them.”

  “Fun?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the chauffeur. “They talk bits of English mixed up with their foreign lingo and make a rare mess of it. They don’t mind us laughing, either. Pretty good-tempered as a matter of fact, and I won’t say they aren’t liberal. I’ve had many a drink myself with them.”

  “But one doesn’t expect to meet foreigners in a place like Penstoke?”

  “No, I suppose one doesn’t,” answered the chauffeur, reflectively.

  “Many here now?” asked Harrison, innocently.

  “A few, sir,” said the chauffeur, vaguely. “They’re staying at the ‘Sun.’ This lot’s been here about a week. Most generous lot we’ve had, I should say. Wanted me to get them into the grounds to-morrow to see the show.”

  “Something behind their generosity, after all, then?” asked Harrison.

  “Well, that may have made them a bit more liberal with their drinks, sir, I agree,” said the chauffeur; “But they’re pretty decent, all the same. Of course, I couldn’t do anything for them.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, you know, sir, foreigners are foreigners, and you never know what they might get up to. I told them flat I couldn’t do anything.”

  “Steal the silver, you mean—that sort of thing?”

  “I don’t know what I do mean, sir. I don’t think they’d do a thing like that. But with foreigners—well, one’s suspicious and that’s all there is to it.”

  “That’s true,” answered Harrison, with a solemn look.

  “Then I said ‘no,’ they knew I meant ‘no,’ and that was the finish. They didn’t worry me again.”

  “It’s a pity,” said Harrison. “They seem very decent, from your description, and I expect they’re disappointed. Would you like me to say a word to Mrs. Marston?”

  The chauffeur turned quickly and looked anxiously at Harrison.

  “Good heavens no, sir,” he said, emphatically. “You couldn’t do that, sir. Promise me you won’t say anything, sir.”

  “Of course not,” answered Harrison.

  “I shouldn’t have told you, really, sir,” continued the chauffeur. “I don’t think Mrs. Marston would be very pleased if she knew I had been talking to them at all. You’ll forget it, won’t you, sir?”

  “Of course,” answered Harrison, somewhat puzzled at the emotion produced by his suggestion.

  The chauffeur seemed to have received such a shock that further conversation was out of the question, and Harrison was rather relieved when they turned into a well-kept drive and stopped in front of the steps of a typically large and solid-looking English country-house.

  Chapter II

  Advice From Miss Williams

  Harrison and Henry were met in the hall by Mrs. Marston, to whom the former took an instant liking. She was a tall, charming, and dignified Englishwoman of early middle age. Her eye was kindly with a twinkle of humour and her presence conveyed the placid confidence of generations of culture and well-being. Even the most critical would hardly have used the word “assurance”, but there was a feeling of “certainty” about most of her actions which was inborn rather than acquired.

  She came forward to greet Harrison with a cordial smile of welcome, and explained what arrangements she had made over rooms. She had thought that his assistant would like the room next to Harrison, and, on the other side, there was a small writing-room which Harrison could regard as his own while staying at Penstoke. Everything was ready for them, and all she
asked was that Harrison would be able to come down again to see her with all speed, as other guests were likely to arrive very soon.

  Harrison underlined his first impression while Henry, thoroughly satisfied that here was a woman with wit enough to perceive that he was an assistant and not a servant, was ready to guarantee that Harrison should do all in his power to help her, however difficult the task might prove.

  Harrison was soon seated with a cup of tea in Mrs. Marston’s cosy little room and waited for the explanation of his summons to Penstoke House.

  “I think we shall like each other,” said Mrs. Marston.

  “I’m certain we shall,” answered Harrison. “I sincerely hope I shall be of service to you.”

  “I’m sure of that,” was the reply. “You are not quite what I expected, though.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Harrison.

  “I didn’t mean to be rude,” she said, with a laugh. “I suppose one gets notions of one’s own—especially about detectives. I’m afraid I expected you look at everything when you came into the room—”

  “I have done.”

  “Obviously, I mean, obtrusively, if you like. You are clean-shaven, certainly. That fits. But you haven’t the piercing glance that goes right through one, and all that sort of thing.”

  “I reserve that for criminals,” replied Harrison, laughing.

  “At any rate, I should like to have seen it,” said Mrs. Marston. “Still I feel terribly trustful already. Have you any idea why I asked you to come here?”

  “I can only be certain that it wasn’t for the reason you gave in your letter.”

  “True.”

  “And, much as I believe in myself, I can’t think it was solely because you wanted to capture me as a guest. Henry, my assistant, thought that might be the case, but he is a little inclined to exaggerate where my own particular virtues are concerned.”

  “No, I’m sorry to have to admit it wasn’t that,” said Mrs. Marston, with a smile; “although, of course—”

  “I wouldn’t say it, if I were you, Mrs. Marston. I don’t expect it,” said Harrison. “I was only mentioning possible reasons. Now the fact that you want me to ‘keep an eye on things’ means that you are worried about some event or person. The only event I know about in connection with you is to-morrow’s festivity, and, as you have used that as an excuse for getting me here, it can’t be that.”

  “Quite right.”

  “I have only heard of two people connected with you, and it may be one of those. Therefore, I must first eliminate those two names. First your husband, then your daughter.”

  “Excellent, Mr. Harrison,” exclaimed Mrs. Marston. “Almost uncanny. It is Livia, my daughter, I want to talk to you about.”

  “Nothing very clever in that, Mrs. Marston,” said Harrison. “I was just ticking off the possibilities.”

  “You will be meeting Livia very soon, Mr. Harrison, and you will be able to form your own opinion of her,” said Mrs. Marston. “As you know, she is twenty-one to-morrow and is generally agreed to be moderately attractive. She is somewhat headstrong.”

  Harrison smiled. “Has she been spoiled at all?” he asked.

  “Maybe a little—she is our only child, you see.” Harrison nodded. “Why did you ask, Mr. Harrison?”

  “Because the tone of the programme suggested she had her own way pretty effectively.”

  “Yes, she did write the programme,” said Mrs. Marston. “We all thought it was rather bright.”

  “Well?” queried Harrison.

  “She’s fallen in love, that’s all, Mr. Harrison,” replied Mrs. Marston. “That doesn’t sound an unusual thing at her age and certainly not a thing to worry you about, but the position is very simple, and I would like your help. Our next-door neighbour is Sir Jeremiah Bamberger, the clothing man.”

  “I know,” said Harrison. “Got his knighthood for patriotic services during the war.”

  “That’s the man,” said Mrs. Marston. “Naturalised now, but certainly not English to begin with. I gather he is a very large-scale manufacturer of ready-made clothing. Nothing wrong in that, of course. Personally he seems a very charming man indeed. I have only met him once or twice, but I was quite favourably impressed. He had none of that profiteer atmosphere about him; indeed he was quite refreshingly simple. But he has a son.”

  “Oh,” said Harrison, solemnly.

  “Of course, Philip is all right too, in his way. He has been to a good school and has just finished at Oxford. Quite English in every way. I don’t know if Sir Jeremiah’s wife was English. They say she died a long time ago. But at all events the son is obviously so.”

  “And his son and your daughter have come together?”

  “That is so,” answered Mrs. Marston. “So much so that they want to become engaged. They are really quite old-fashioned about it and seem genuinely fond of one another.”

  “Excellent,” commented Harrison.

  “It would be,” said Mrs. Marston, “if Livia weren’t so obstinate. She wants to announce their engagement straight away, and I—and her father—want to know a little more about the Bambergers before we agree. It is really only natural, Mr. Harrison, because the Marstons are a very old family, and they have a right to know what they are marrying into. I don’t like the name, to start with—Livia Bamberger makes me shudder—but I could swallow that if I could feel reassured in other directions. Undoubtedly they have a lot of money, and I expect the father would settle a good deal on his son. And I have nothing to complain of their manners and that sort of thing. But I want to know something more. There’s something very mysterious about them altogether.”

  “Mysterious?”

  “Yes, even Philip is not absolutely certain where the family comes from—at least he says he isn’t—or what nationality his father started with. He has been to school and university and has only really seen anything of his father in the last few years. And Sir Jeremiah is not anxious to answer questions. I gather he mainly talks on very indifferent matters to Philip. And nobody I know seems to be able to give me any information at all.”

  “How did you meet them?”

  “Because they are neighbours. We shouldn’t have known them at all if Livia hadn’t come across Philip in some house or other in the district. I will say they made no advances at all, but Livia persuaded me to invite them here. Philip came first, and then he brought his father, but only to lunch.”

  “Why do you mention that, Mrs. Marston?”

  “Because Sir Jeremiah refused to go out in the evening. He says it’s on account of his health, but he doesn’t look very ill. He strikes me as particularly healthy. I don’t like repeating village gossip, but they say he is afraid to go out at night. That he has a special part of the house to himself with a heavy door dividing it off, and that he barricades himself in there at night. If Philip goes out for the evening—comes over here, for instance—he never sees his father when he gets home.”

  “Curious,” commented Harrison; “but it may be only gossip. His name would account for a lot of that sort of thing.”

  “True enough,” said Mrs. Marston, “and I feel ashamed of myself for repeating it, but I cannot help feeling worried. Livia must be safe when she marries. Why, we made a special point of asking him to come to-night, but he wouldn’t. Philip was very upset about it. Almost had a quarrel with his father over it, but Sir Jeremiah stood firm. So Philip isn’t coming either, and Livia’s upset too.”

  At that moment there dashed into the room the young woman who was being discussed. Fresh and athletic, not as tall as her mother, Livia Marston’s main characteristic was the firmness of her chin which indicated that its possessor would not only do valiant battle to the last ditch, but also when there would not realise that she was not still occupying the front trench. By a quick glance at her Harrison judged that she was still in transition from sixth-form girl to woman. Livia suddenly realised the presence of a stranger and hastily slowed down her pace. “Sorry, mother,” she said,
breathlessly. “I didn’t know you had anybody with you.”

  “Livia,” said Mrs. Marston, “I want you to meet Mr. Clay Harrison.”

  The girl’s attitude changed immediately. From the pleasantly impulsive person who had dashed into the room she seemed to turn into a cold monument of indignation. Her body seemed to go rigid with the tautening of her nerves. She said nothing, and Harrison watched her with the keenest interest.

  “Well, Livia?” said Mrs. Marston, with a puzzled look.

  The girl swallowed hard and then said, almost in a whisper, “I think I’d better go,” and fled from the room.

  “Really, Mr. Harrison, I don’t know what to say,” exclaimed Mrs. Marston. “I must apologise—”

  “Don’t do that,” answered Harrison. “Your daughter has spirit.”

  “But she was downright rude to you.”

  “Certainly she didn’t seem to approve of me.”

  “I don’t understand it at all,” said Mrs. Marston.

  “At any rate, she doesn’t approve of my presence here.” continued Harrison. “Quite naturally, I should say, and one can’t help rather liking her for it. She regards me as a spy on her affairs and objects to me in consequence—and is not afraid to show it.”

  “But it’s impossible,” said Mrs. Marston.

  “I don’t see why,” replied Harrison.

  “But she didn’t know you were coming.”

  “Didn’t know?”

  “Yes. When I talked it over with Helen—Miss Williams—we decided to keep it a secret. To the others you were to be just one of the guests. Even my husband doesn’t know; I was afraid he would think me a terrible busybody. How could she have known?”

  “Miss Williams,” said Harrison.

  “Oh, no, it couldn’t have been Helen,” said Mrs. Marston emphatically.

  “I wasn’t suggesting that, Mrs. Marston,” said Harrison, “I was just going to ask you something about her.”

  “There’s not much to tell about Helen,” answered Mrs. Marston. “She’s a great friend of ours, who’s accomplished at everything and beautiful into the bargain.”