LITMIR.BIZ

       CHAPTER IV.

      THE INQUEST

      There were many interesting items of news in the newspapers when the Turkish Shop tragedy took place; for it was the middle of the London season, and social events succeeded one another rapidly. Nevertheless, the affair created a sensation, as Lady Branwin was the wife of a millionaire, and a well-known figure in Society. Especially did the female population of Mayfair and Belgravia comment on the murder, as, having taken place in their own particular pet shop, it concerned them nearly. It was dreadful to think that if any one of them passed the night under Madame Coralie's roof death might be the result. Many declared that they would never go near the place again. But this was when the news of the crime was fresh and startling. Later, these ladies saw reason to revise their opinion, since there was no one but Madame Coralie to perform miracles of rejuvenation.

      The immediate result of the murder was to send Sir Joseph Branwin to bed. He was a burly, red-faced man, who ate and drank largely; so it was not surprising that the announcement of his wife's terrible death should cause him to have a fit. When he grasped the truth he dropped down straightway, and for quite two weeks he was unable to leave his bed or to attend to any necessary matters. He was neither at the inquest nor at the funeral, and his daughter, along with Ralph Shawe, had to look after everything. Sir Joseph was not grateful--he never was, being a singularly selfish man. It was quite a surprise to Audrey that he should have fallen ill when told the truth. "I daresay he was fonder of mamma than I thought," she said to Ralph, and blamed herself for having misjudged her father; "yet they always quarrelled, and did not seem to get on at all well together."

      "The quarrelling may have been a matter of habit," said Shawe, doubtfully. "Married couples may be devoted to one another, and yet may be always bickering. And I think, Audrey, that you told me your parents' marriage was a love-match of a romantic nature."

      "So mamma said," replied the girl, nodding gravely. "She and papa were boy and girl together at Bleakleigh. He promised to marry her when he made his fortune, and years afterwards he returned to keep his promise. Both papa and mamma were the children of labourers."

      "So I should think," remarked Ralph, caustically, and remembering the excessively plebeian looks of the couple. "I can never understand how you come to be their daughter, Audrey. You are no more like them than a lily is like a cabbage-rose."