She held up her hand to silence me. “No, Hilary, I—”

  “All right, we’ll live in England—in Timbuctu—in Guatemala, I don’t care. I’ve got a little money of my own. I’ll buy a shack in the Andes or in Alaska.”

  Camilla had now risen from her chair and walked across the room. She took a cigarette from the box on the table and puffed it gloomily. Presently she spoke:

  “Don’t you think you’ve talked long enough, Hilary Fenton? Your nonsense is very charming, my dear, but it’s about your turn to listen to mine for awhile. And mine is anything but charming—nor is it nonsense, unfortunately. Of course, if I married you, I wouldn’t care where we lived. In fact, I’d love to get out of England, but I’m afraid I am not going to marry you.”

  “Then you are not going to get any peace this side of the grave,” I cried excitedly.

  “I am not going to marry you,” she said, throwing her cigarette into the fire, “and I’m not going to marry you for the simple reason that you … are … not … going … to want … to marry … me.”

  Her face had gone strangely and suddenly gray. She walked back to the couch. I tried to laugh reassuringly but there was a cold, clammy feeling in the pit of my stomach. I started to speak.

  “Hilary,” she cried, “do please listen to me and don’t try to be funny any more. I do want to talk to you seriously. I had hoped you would ask me questions about today—about what happened at tea—why the Master said what he did. It would have made it so much easier.”

  “Consider all the questions asked,” I replied gently.

  “Then you really want to hear about me? You know so little, you see, and—and I don’t want to be dramatic about it—but there is so much.”

  I nodded. “Begin with the birds and the flowers, my dear. I bet you were a beautiful baby.”

  As I lit a cigarette and arranged myself comfortably on the couch, I felt her hand on my sleeve.

  “No,” she said, “I won’t begin at the beginning. I’ll come back to that later on. First of all I want to tell you about my family life. About my father. You’ve heard of Lathrop of Bristol?”

  I nodded again. “Yes, Dorothy Dupuis told me your people were as rich as Croesus and that King George took it as a personal affront when you refused to be presented at Court.”

  Camilla smiled. “How funny it sounds when it’s put that way. As a matter of fact, Hilary, my father—that is, Mr. Lathrop—is rich, but it doesn’t mean anything to me. He has cut me off. I don’t get anything from him at all. I don’t even go to him in the holidays. Fortunately I don’t have to because my mother left me a small income when she died.

  “Last year, when I was twenty-one, I went to my father and told him that my ambition was to go to Newnham. I was tired of leading a so-called social life in Clifton. I hate the place with its silly women quarrelling like cats over their wretched threepenny bridge—with its interminable crocodiles of school girls. Have you ever seen a crocodile, Hilary Fenton?”

  “No, but I’m like Hamlet in that I’m prepared to eat one—under certain circumstances, of course!”

  “Well, when I presented my ultimatum, my father told me that he had other plans for me. I knew just exactly what those plans were and we quarrelled. He is obstinate and cold. He can see no point of view but his own. He has never cared about me particularly except as an instrument to promote his own particular schemes. Finally I asked him to give me at least one good reason why I should not go to Cambridge with my own money. It was then that the storm broke.”

  Camilla paused and looked at me anxiously. I pressed her hand.

  “This is hard to say, Hilary Fenton. You’ve got to be very sympathetic or I can’t go on.” I squeezed her hand again and raised it to my lips. She turned her head away from me and continued, addressing the far corner of the room.

  “Then Mr. Lathrop—I can’t call him father—lost his temper with me completely. He called me a charity brat, a waif, a—oh, I don’t know what he said, but I learnt then, for the first time that I was not really his daughter. That Mrs. Lathrop, whom I had adored, was not my real mother. I had been adopted by her after the death of their own child.

  “Her money, so he said, had come to me under false pretenses. The name of Lathrop merely covered the shame and disgrace of my own family. I was nothing but the daughter of a criminal—a notorious homicidal lunatic. In short, Hilary, I am not Camilla Lathrop at all, I am—my real name is … is … Corinne North.”

  She had turned toward me and her eyes were looking searchingly into mine as though she was trying to bore a hole through my brain. It was one of those moments when the fate of a lifetime—two lifetimes—hangs in the balance. I threw my arms about her.

  “My dear, my dear,” I stammered, “as if I cared about that. You are you and that’s all that really matters. Besides, Corinne North is a beautiful name. It’s much prettier than Camilla Lathrop. I love you all the more. I don’t give a damn about your family. When all’s said and done, only God can make a family tree and I’m rather proud of yours. I’ve met your father. He’s a dear. I like him. I’d be delighted to have him for a father-in-law. Now, don’t cry, darling.”

  I wiped her eyes and after a moment she continued.

  “But, quite apart from the tragedy of my father, there were other reasons why he—Mr. Lathrop—did not want me to come up to Cambridge. He told me that he had been given to understand that I had a brother up here. He did not wish us to meet each other and revive the old family scandal.

  “William North, as perhaps you know, had two children. One of them was adopted by the Lathrops—that was myself. The other was a boy about a year older than I. His name was Jules. He was adopted by a rich South African farmer named Baumann.”

  I sat up suddenly. “Great heavens! Then Julius Baumann was your brother. Oh, you poor kid!”

  She nodded. “Yes, he was my brother. As I told you before, I met him when I first came up to Cambridge. I sought him out of my own free will and against Mr. Lathrop’s wishes. But he need not have worried about anything coming of it. I found that poor Julius was terribly sensitive about his parentage. It seemed to prey on his mind all the time.

  “That was why he was always so anxious to pass for a real South African of Dutch extraction. I believe he hated me for reminding him of—well, at any rate, we agreed that we had better keep apart. You see he was firmly convinced that his—my father was a desperate criminal and a dangerous maniac. I could not agree with him.”

  “He was wrong on that score,” I cried. “William North is a scholar and a gentleman if ever I saw one.”

  “Well, whatever the truth about father, I realized that it was impossible for Julius and me to be friends. I never saw him again until the day I met you. After that Blake lecture I happened to see a newspaper and read that William North had escaped.

  “I hurried around to Julius’ rooms. I found him in a dreadful state. He was convinced that father would try to do him some mischief—that he would be involved in some hideous catastrophe. Also, he worried about our mother.”

  “Your mother? Is she alive?”

  “Yes, and I believe she lives somewhere near Cambridge. After the trial she went to Canada with another man. Julius wouldn’t tell me anything more about her except that he promised to provide for her financially. I don’t even know what name she goes under, but I imagine she has sunk pretty low, poor thing.”

  “I bet the letter I posted on Monday night was to her,” I remarked. “It had money in it. I wish I had looked at the address, then we might be able to trace her, I saw only B-R-I-D-G-E-S on the envelope. I thought it might be the name of a place; I see now it was probably just part of Cambridgeshire.”

  “Anyhow, I’m glad you did post it. Poor Julius was worried to death about her and about himself. You see, he was sure that my father had some sinister purpose—”

  “His only purpose was to get into a decent library and look up some sixteenth century books.”

  “Yes, in my own mind I’ve always been sure of his innocence. But you can understand now what a terrible shock it was to me when you told me that Julius had been murdered. Suicide would not have surprised me much—he was in such an unbalanced state of mind when I saw him last Monday—but murder! You see, I couldn’t be sure.”

  “You poor, poor kid,” I murmured. “It must have been hell. I see it all so much more clearly now than I did before. You have explained such a lot of things. But I do wish you’d tell me where you went that day after you left Baumann’s rooms. I hung out of the window for half an hour just to see you cross the court.”

  The shadow of a smile passed over Camilla’s face for a moment, then she said seriously:

  “I went into Dr. Warren’s rooms. He was my father’s greatest friend here in All Saints. He knew about me and Julius. I wanted to ask him about my mother, but he knew nothing of her. He was awfully kind. He said he’d let me know if there was any news. He still believes in my father.”

  “Yes,” I said gently, “he believes in him to the extent of sheltering him in his rooms and giving him clothes and money. You know Camilla, I am practically certain that your father was on the staircase the night that Baumann was killed. Of course he had a perfect alibi for the time of Hankin’s death, but—”

  “Oh, he didn’t do it,” cried Camilla, “I’m sure he didn’t do it. There is someone else—some stranger who hates us all. Someone who knew about Julius and me and who hates us because we are Norths. It was this same person who killed both Julius and Hankin … Julius because he hated him and Hankin because he knew too much … the same person who put prussic acid in my tea this afternoon.”

  “It was the man who spoke to Hankin in the court the night he was killed. They haven’t found him yet, but they will, dear. He must have been at the tea party today. The field is getting narrower and narrower. In the meantime, you have got to take care of yourself. I only wish I could protect you against this invisible enemy. You mustn’t trust anyone. I don’t even want you to go down to Dr. Warren’s rooms.”

  She glanced hurriedly at her wrist watch. “Heavens, I’m late now. I must go. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon at the Master’s. Apparently he knows the worst about me too. In the meantime—”

  “In the meantime, I shall be loving you even more than ever. I don’t care who or what you are. If ever you doubt me, remember that I loved you even when I thought you had taken the law into your own hands with regard to Baumann’s death; I loved you when you packed me a wallop on the jaw. I—oh, Camilla, you darling.”

  For one moment I held her in my arms. “Till tomorrow,” she whispered, “and thank you, Hilary, thank you for being so decent about everything.”

  The next thing I knew was that she had gone.

  As I heard her footsteps on the staircase, I reflected on several things. Her story had been a revelation, of course. It had thrown light on several dark places. It had altered several possibilities and perspectives; but it had not brought the main problem any nearer to solution.

  As a matter of fact, when I came to think it over, I realized that it had merely made things more diabolically complicated than ever.

  CHAPTER XVI

  Echoes from the Past

  That evening, after leaving Hall, I decided that I must gird up my mental loins and get to work on the new complications which Camilla’s story had brought to light. The problem now presented a very different aspect.

  Whereas, in the first place, it had seemed as though the available facts were insufficient to make a complete picture, I now felt that there was not enough room in my jigsaw puzzle to fit in all the pieces that I had in my possession. And, at the same time, these facts were singularly lacking in balance or cohesion.

  There were, for example, a surprising number of potential murderers—a fair sprinkling of opportunities for them to commit their crimes—but, as far as one could see with the naked eye, no earthly or unearthly motive why anyone should wish to kill three perfectly harmless human beings.

  But Camilla had brought out two important points. Money and family relationships were involved—factors which, if properly juggled around and manipulated into place, might easily produce the missing motive. It was to the hunting of this elusive snark that I decided to dedicate myself that evening.

  I would begin with William North. He, I felt certain, was the cornerstone of the whole miserable edifice. His crime, tragedy or moment of madness was the focal point about which all things revolved—the fons et orìgo mali from which had sprung these ramifications, past and present. And since I could not study William North in the flesh, I would read up about him in my father’s book, which I could borrow from Stuart. Like the answer to a maiden’s prayer, Somerville accosted me just as I reached the foot of “A” staircase. He was magnificently dressed and bound, so he said, for a quiet game of poker in Jesus.

  “Somerville,” I said casually, “there is a little book which I seem to have heard you mention from time to time. I’d like to borrow it from you, if you don’t mind. The name, I believe, is Famous Second Trials. I think it—”

  “Sure thing—you bet—okay, gate,” replied Stuart, giving a tolerable imitation of Jerry Colonna’s talkie accent. “It’s bully reading for a quiet Sunday evening at home. By a wise guy called Fenton. Come into my shack.”

  He produced a battered copy of my father’s volume and turned over its pages with mock reverence.

  “I may have to charge you extra for the illustrations,” he said solemnly. “Here, for example, is the portrait of the artist as an old man—Fenton ipse, complete with wig and robes.”

  My father had been portrayed with enormous side-whiskers, large spectacles and flowing garments which were reminiscent of the Winged Victory. His appearance had not been improved by the addition of a large wasp, wart or wen to the extreme tip of an extraordinarily Semitic nose.

  “My father,” I remarked drily, “is fifty-two years old. He is clean shaven and looks rather like the late Sir Gerald du Maurier. He never wears a wig, and I know of no wasp in the world that would have the impertinence to sting the end of his nose. Otherwise your resemblance is excellent.”

  “Thank you, thank you, Fenton. And how is this for a portrait of Oscar—naughty Mr. Wilde in the act of bursting?” He turned to a picture so horrible that it defies description. “Or, this one of William North, dragging his victim down ‘A’ staircase by her hair?

  “These are my jewels.” He paused and lifted his eyes piously heavenward. “Oh, Fenton, Fenton, had I but served my God with half the zeal that I put into these illustrations during lecture hours, I would not have been ploughed in my Mays next month.”

  I took the book from his hand. “Thank you, Stuart. You are quite an artist. Now run along to Jesus. I will treat this masterpiece as it deserves.”

  He put a restraining arm on my sleeve.

  “No, no, my Hilary. The drains are sensitive. They too have their little feelings. And, by the same token, how is the Old Pill?”

  “Better, I believe. His attack was not so serious as it looked.”

  “Well, he gave you an opportunity to walk your baby back home like a perfect little American knight—without the K. And say, when you are through with that wench, you might—”

  But I did not stop for more. With a hurried good night I ran up to my rooms, sported my oak and prepared to spend a profitable hour or two with the only one of my father’s books that I had ever opened.

  For some little time I waded through a morass of legal technicalities which were just so much Sanskrit to me. Finally, however, as I read on, a picture of William North began to emerge—a picture which in no way resembled the realistic sketch drawn by Somerville in the margin of the book.

  I saw a man who had been tried and condemned to death for a crime which he undoubtedly had committed. I saw him fighting what looked like a losing battle after the case had been sent back for retrial, due to some technical misdirection to the jury.

  I saw how his friends had stood by him—how they had sworn to his insanity, his unbalanced genius, his nervous temperament which, at the time of the crime, had been superimposed on a state of definite ill health. I saw the astuteness of his counsel in using the man’s weakness to strengthen his defense.

  I saw how it was possible to juggle slightly yet delicately with the impervious bulwark of the English legal system. I saw the shadow of the gallows gradually begin to fade—to be replaced by the walls of the insane asylum. Even the stiff, textbook phraseology could not altogether rob the case of its drama.

  So much for North. But now it was not he alone in whom I was interested. My father had thrown into relief other aspects and other personalities. I was struck by the evidence of Dr. Reginald Warren, then a young man who had just received his fellowship at All Saints.

  I was amazed at the coolness with which he had declared his own best friend to be temporarily insane and consequently not responsible for his actions. I was interested in the measured testimony of Dr. Martineau Hyssop, Master of All Saints, who, in his own conservative manner, did as much as anyone for his young colleague. I could see Cambridge presenting a united front against the invasion of its sacred precincts by a hideous chimera.

  The figure of Mrs. North was hazy, but I studied it with particular care. At the first trial, it seemed, she had been present with her two infants (Camilla’s first public appearance, I reflected bitterly) obviously with a view to gaining for her husband the sympathies of the jury. At the second trial, which took place some months later, she had been absent, as my father put it, “for family reasons.”

  On the other side of the picture, however, there was the family of the girl whom North had killed. By a strange coincidence her name had happened to be the same as that of one of the greatest comediennes of her day—and perhaps of all days—Marie Lloyd. This was possibly one of the factors which had made the case of such wide popular appeal. The vindictiveness of the Lloyd family struck me particularly. “Blood for our blood” was written in every line of the testimony they gave. They were, as far as I could see, unbending and implacable.