John Creasey - The Toff and The Lady

“Great Scott!” exclaimed Rollison.

“Exactly, sir,” murmured Jolly. “The love-letter, if you remember, was shown to Mrs. Barrington-Ley by Miss Gwendoline, so Mrs. Barrington-Ley certainly suspected that the Countess was involved with Mr. Barrington-Ley. What would be more natural than for Mrs. Barrington-Ley to send you the photograph?”

Rollison said slowly: “Nothing, Jolly. But why should Gwendoline turn up when she did?”

“Because she discovered what her mother had done, and was anxious to find out whether you were interested, sir. She told you her story, confident that it would mislead you.”

“I think you’re almost certainly right,” said Rollison.

A rather hysterical letter arrived that afternoon from Hilda: she had sent the photograph, she did hope Rollison forgave her; she had suspected David and dared not tell Rollison or anyone the whole truth. There were other things mentioned, and Rollison and Jolly sifted them from the irrelevancies which abounded in the letter. Hilda had employed Farrow and Pomeroy had discovered that without knowing what Hilda wanted Farrow to do. She had liked Pomeroy. He said that it was a splendid idea

“And then saw in Farrow a fine Aunt Sally,” murmured Rollison. “Well, that’s clear now.”

“One thing does puzzle me, sir—the attack on Miss Gwendoline.”

“If the truth does come out,” said Rollison, “I think we shall find that Pomeroy grew alarmed, because she was losing her grip, and he thought her better dead. If we don’t learn the truth, we shall have to assume that.”

Rollison was looking out of the window, and he stepped forward to see more clearly. Jolly stared at him.

The front door bell rang a few seconds afterwards.

“Thank you, Jolly!” said the Lady of Lost Memory, gaily. “Is Mr. Rollison in?”

“Yes, Madam,” said Jolly.

Rollison turned to greet her as she entered. She was wearing a simple dress of stone colour trimmed with maroon red, and a tiny hat of maroon red and shoes to match—for her luggage had been found at Mailoy’s house. It was known now that she had arrived in England a week before the Bal Masque, and that Pomeroy had met her and taken her to Malloy.

Flo Malloy, knowing that her husband and the others planned to murder Lady Lost, had frustrated several attempts. Then she had realized there was no hope while the woman remained at the East End house. Flo had found the dress and the coat, the only garments Malloy had not locked away, and helped her to escape.

But for Flo, the Lady of Lost Memory would not have lived.

When they had discovered her escape, Malloy and Pomeroy had gone post haste to Barrington House, for Lady Lost had known of the Bal Masque that evening. One of them had caught up with her and followed her into the grounds, attacked her and been disturbed by a couple strolling through the shrubbery. She had been knocked out—and, on recovery, had remembered nothing. Attracted by the lights, she had gone into the house.

She knew little of what had been happening since then.

Now her eyes were shining and her cheeks were glowing. She held out her hands to Rollison, who took them and laughed with her, although there was pain in seeing her so happy.

“Memory back?” he demanded. They could joke about it now.

“I keep recalling little things,” she said. “One day it will all come back. It must come back!” she repeated, and sat down on the arm of a chair, her smile fading. “I have been to see Mrs. Barrington-Ley. She is so kind. She wishes me to stay with her, and” —there was a hint of laughter in her voice— “I cannot stay here much longer, or all your friends will think badly of you!”

“Let them think,” said Rollison.

“I shall hate to go,” she said, “but I must, and soon. You understand, don’t you?”

“Of course,” said Rollison. “I have been wrong to let you stay for so long.” He took the folded letter from his pocket, handed it to her, and spoke carefully. “Before you go, read that. It might bring something to your mind. It was found by the police. I read it because”—he paused— “because I had to.”

She took it, obviously puzzled. She unfolded it, saw the opening words, and looked up at him, a new expression in her eyes. It was one almost of fear—perhaps of fearful hope. She began to read, but she had not read more than half the letter before she crushed it in her fingers and jumped up. On her face was a radiance which Rollison had hoped to see, but not because of this.

He made himself speak.

“You remember?”

“I remember! It is coming back, everything is coming back! My husband is in Paris, this letter which I wrote to him was not received. It must have been placed in an envelope sent to London. Where did you find it?”

“It was at Barrington House.”

“But I did not write there,” she said, “I wrote always to Mr. Barrington-Ley at the firm of Pomeroy, in the Strand. How did this get to Barrington House?”

“Pomeroy probably took it there,” said Rollison.

“Of course! Poor Paul, how disappointed he was not to receive my weekly letter!” She was in great spirits, and moved about the room excitedly. “I remember everything! Paul—my home—New York—everything, everything; It is glorious! It is wonderful!” She stopped suddenly, then moved towards him, took his hands in hers and kissed Rollison. He held her very tightly, and only when he felt her stiffen did he release her, afraid that he had given himself away.

But she was suddenly filled with great alarm.

“Mr. Rollison! I remember now, in New York I learned that this man Pomeroy intended to do harm to Mr. Barrington-Ley. A man whom he knew asked for my aid in deception, I refused it; immediately I sailed for London. There was a horrid week in a small house, where I saw Pomeroy. We must warn”

“There’s no need to warn anyone,” said Rollison. “It’s all over.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m quite sure,” said Rollison.

“I’m so glad,” the Lady of Lost Memory said. Then, after a pause: “Poor Paul! He will be frantic because he has not heard from me for so long. I must telephone him.” She looked towards the telephone, and Rollison, turning so that she could not see his eyes, went to it, lifted the receiver, dialled, and said:

“I want a Continental number, please.”

THE END