Miss Arnott was not happy. Money had not brought her anything worth having. In her case, fortune had been synonymous with misfortune. Young, rich "beyond the dreams of avarice," good-looking; all those papers which deal with what are ironically called "personal topics," held her up to public admiration as one of the persons in the world who were most to be envied. In plain truth she was one of the most miserable. In her penniless days she was not unhappier. Then her trouble was simple, now it was compound. Not the least of her disasters was the fact that health was failing. That robust habit of mind and body which had, so far, stood her in good stead, was being sapped by the continuous strain. Her imagination was assuming a morbid tinge. Her nights were sleepless, or dream-haunted, which was as bad. She was becoming obsessed by an unhealthy feeling that she lived in a tainted atmosphere. That all the air about her was impregnated with suspicion. That she was becoming the centre of doubting eyes, whispering tongues, furtively pointing fingers.
While she was more or less unconsciously drifting into this physically and mentally unhealthy condition she received a visit from a Mrs Forrester, in the course of which that lady insisted on dwelling on topics of a distinctly disagreeable kind.
Mrs Forrester was a widow, childless, well-to-do. She had two occupations--one was acting as secretary to the local branch of the Primrose League, and the other was minding other people's business. She so managed that the first was of material assistance to her in the second. She was a person for whom Miss Arnott had no liking. Had she had a chance she would have denied herself. But Mrs Forrester came sailing in through the hall just as she was going out of it.
"Oh, my dear Miss Arnott, this is an unexpected pleasure! I am so fortunate in finding you at home, I so seldom do! And there is something of the first importance which I must speak to you about at once--of the very first importance, I do assure you."
The motor was at the door. Miss Arnott's inclination was to fib, to invent a pressing engagement--say, twenty miles off--and so shunt the lady off on to Mrs Plummer. It seemed as if the visitor saw what was in her mind. She promptly gave utterance to her intention not to be shunted.
"Now you mustn't say you're engaged, because I sha'n't keep you a minute, or at most but five. That motor of yours can wait, and you simply must stop and listen to what I have to say. It's in your own interest, your own urgent interest, so I can't let you go."
Miss Arnott stopped, perforce. She led the way into the red drawing-room. Mrs Forrester burst into the middle of the subject, which had brought her there, in her own peculiar fashion.
"Now, before I say a single word, I want you to understand most clearly that the only reason which has brought me here, the one thing I have come for, is to obtain your permission, your authority, to contradict the whole story."
"What story?"
The visitor held up her hands.
"What story! You don't mean to say you haven't heard? It simply shows how often we ourselves are the last persons to hear of matters in which we are most intimately concerned. My dear, the whole world is talking about it, the entire parish! And you say, what story?"
"I say again, what story? I've no doubt that my concerns do interest a large number of persons, even more than they do me, but I've not the vaguest idea to which one of them you're now referring."
"Is it possible? My dear, I was told no longer ago than this morning that you walk every night through the woods in--well, in your nightdress."
"What's that?"
"Of course it's nonsense. No one knows better than I do that such an idea's ridiculous. But there's the story. And, as I've said, I've come on purpose to ask you to allow me to offer an authoritative contradiction."
"But what is the story? I should be obliged to you, Mrs Forrester, if you could manage to make it a little clearer."
"I will make it clear. To me it has been made painfully clear--painfully. I may tell you that I've heard the story, in different forms, from various sources. Indeed I believe it's no exaggeration to say that it's on everybody's tongue, and, on the whole, no wonder. My informant this morning was Briggs, the postman. You know him?"
"I can't claim the honour. However, I'm willing to take your statement as proof of his existence."
"A most respectable man, most respectable. His wife has fifteen children--twins only last March,--but perhaps I oughtn't to speak of it to you. He used to be night watchman at Oak Dene in old Mr Morice's time. Sometimes he takes the letter-bags to and from the mail train, which goes through at half-past one in the morning. He did so last night. He assures me with his own lips that, coming home, as he was passing your place, he heard something moving, and on looking round saw you among the trees in your nightdress. Of course it couldn't have been you. But, at the same time, it is most singular. He is such a respectable man, and his story was most circumstantial. Could it have been you?"
"I was not out last night at all, and it never is my custom to wander about the grounds in the costume you refer to, if that is what you mean, Mrs Forrester--at least, not consciously."
"Exactly, that is the very point, of course--not consciously. But do you do it unconsciously?"
"Unconsciously! What do you mean?"
"My dear, it is my duty to tell you that all sorts of people claim to have seen you wandering--sometimes actually running--through the woods of Exham Park at the most extraordinary hours, clad only in your nightdress. The suggestion is that you are walking in your sleep."
"Walking in my sleep? Mrs Forrester!"
"Yes, my dear, walking in your sleep. It is strange that the story should not have reached you; it is on everybody's tongue. But when, as I tell you, Briggs made that positive statement to me with his own lips, I felt it my bounden duty to come and see you about it at the earliest possible moment. Because, if there is any truth in the tale at all--and they can't all be liars--it is absolutely essential for your own protection that you should have someone to sleep with you--at any rate, in the same room. Somnambulism is a most serious thing. If you are a somnambulist--and if you aren't, what are you?--proper precautions ought to be taken, or goodness only knows what may happen."
"If I am a somnambulist, Mrs Forrester. But am I? In all my life I have never heard it hinted that I am anything of the kind, and I myself have never had any reason to suspect it."
"Still, my dear, there are all those stories told by all sorts of people."
"They may have imagined they saw something. I very much doubt if they saw me."
"But there is Briggs's positive assertion. I have such faith in Briggs. And why should he invent a tale of the sort?"
"Did he see my face?"
"No; he says you were walking quickly from him, almost running, but he is positive it was you. He wanted to come and tell you so himself; but I dissuaded him, feeling that it was a matter about which you would prefer that I should come and speak to you first."
"What time was it when he supposes himself to have seen me?"
"Somewhere about two o'clock."
Miss Arnott reflected.
"To the best of my knowledge and belief I was in bed at two o'clock, and never stirred from it till Evans called me to get into my bath. If, as you suggest, I was out in the woods in my nightdress--delightful notion!--surely I should have brought back with me some traces of my excursion. I believe it rained last night."
"It did; Briggs says it was raining at the time he saw you."
"Then that settles the question; he didn't see me. Was I barefooted?"
"He couldn't see."
"The presumption is that, if I choose to wander about in such an airy costume as a nightgown, it is hardly likely that I should think it necessary to go through the form of putting on either shoes or stockings. Anyhow, I should have been soaked to the skin. When I woke up this morning my nightgown would have shown traces at least of the soaking it had undergone. But not a bit of it; it was as clean as a new pin. Ask Evans! My feet were stainless. My bedroom slippers--the only footwear within reach, were unsoiled. No; I fancy, Mrs Forrester, that those friends of yours have ardent imaginations, and that even the respectable Briggs is not always to be trusted."
"Then you authorise me to contradict the storyin toto?
"Yes, Mrs Forrester; I give you the fullest authority to inform anyone and everyone that I never, in the whole course of my life, went out for a stroll in my nightgown, either asleep or waking. Thank you very much indeed for giving me the opportunity of furnishing you with the necessary power."
Mrs Forrester rose from her chair solemnly.
"I felt that I should only be doing my duty if I came."
"Of course you did, and you never miss an opportunity of doing your duty. Do you?"
Before the lady had a chance of replying a door opened. Miss Arnott turned to find that it had admitted Mr Morice. The sight of him was so unexpected, and took her so wholly by surprise that, at a momentary loss for a suitable greeting, she repeated, inanely enough, almost the identical words which she had just been uttering to Mrs Forrester.
"Mr Morice! This is--this is a surprise. I--I was just telling Mrs Forrester, who has been good enough to bring me rather a curious story, that if anyone mentions, in her hearing, that they saw me strolling through the woods in the middle of the night in a state of considerable undress, I shall be obliged if she gives such a statement a point-blank contradiction."
Mr Morice inclined his head gravely, as if he understood precisely what the lady was talking about.
"Certainly. Always advise Mrs Forrester to contradict everything she hears. Mrs Forrester hears such singular things."
So soon as Mrs Forrester had gone Mr Morice asked a question.
"What tale has that woman been telling you?"
"She actually says that people have seen me walking about the woods in the middle of the night in my nightdress. That a postman, named Briggs, saw me doing so last night. I believe I am supposed to have been walking in my sleep. Of course it is only some nonsensical rigmarole. I won't say the whole thing is an invention of Mrs Forrester's own brain, but it's the sort of thing she's fond of."
"That's true enough. It is the sort of tale she's fond of; but, for once in a way, she is justified by fact. Since we are on the subject I may as well inform you that, four nights or rather mornings, ago I myself saw you, at two o'clock in the morning, in Cooper's Spinney, in some such costume as that which you describe."
"Mr Morice!"
"I do not know that I should have told you if it had not been for Mrs Forrester; but, since she has intervened, I do so. In any case, it is perhaps as well that you should be on your guard."
"Are you sure you saw me?"
"I am not likely to make a mistake in a matter of that sort."
"But are you sure it was me?"
"Certain."
"What was I doing?"
"You were under the beech tree--our beech tree. You appeared to me to be looking for something on the ground--something which you could not find."
"But four nights ago? I remember it quite well. I was reading and writing till ever so late. Then I fell asleep directly I got into bed. I certainly never woke again until Evans called me."
"The probability is that you got out of bed directly you were asleep. It struck me that there was something singular about your whole proceedings. A doubt crossed my mind at the time as to whether you could possibly be in a somnambulistic condition. As I approached you retreated so rapidly that I never caught sight of you again."
"Do you mean to say I was in my nightdress?"
"As to that I cannot be certain. You had on something white; but it struck me that it was some sort of a dressing-gown."
"I have no white dressing-gown."
"On that point I cannot speak positively. You understand that I only saw you for a few seconds, just long enough to make sure that it was you."
She put her hands up to her face, shuddering.
"This is dreadful! that I should walk in my sleep--in the woods--and everyone see me--and I know nothing! What shall I do?"
"There is one thing I should recommend. Have someone to sleep in your room--someone who is quickly roused."
"That is what Mrs Forrester advised. I will certainly have that done. A bed shall be put in my room, and Evans shall sleep in it to-night. Is it to make this communication that you have favoured me with the very unexpected honour of your presence here, Mr Morice?"
"No, Mrs--I beg your pardon, Miss Arnott--it is not." As she noticed the slip she flushed. "The errand which has brought me here is of a different nature, though not, I regret to say, of a more pleasant one."
"Nothing pleasant comes my way. Do not let unpleasantness deter you, Mr Morice. As you are aware I am used to it."
There was a bitterness in her tone which hurt him. He turned aside, searching for words to serve him as a coating of sugar, and failing to find them.
"Why," he presently asked, "did you instruct Ernest Gilbert to defend Jim Baker?"
She stared in amazement; evidently that was not what she expected.
"Why? Why shouldn't I?"
"For the simple but sufficient reason that he was the very last man whose interference you should have invited in a matter of this particular kind."
"Mr Stacey was of a different opinion. It was he who gave me his name. He said he was the very man I wanted."
"Mr Stacey? Mr Stacey was not acquainted with all the circumstances of the case, Miss Arnott. Had you consulted me--"
"I should not have dreamt of consulting you."
"Possibly not. Still, I happen to know something of Mr Gilbert personally, and had you consulted me I should have warned you that, in all human probability, the result would be exactly what it has turned out to be."
"Result? Has anything resulted?"
"Something has--Mr Gilbert has withdrawn from the case."
"Withdrawn from the case! What do you mean?"
"Here is the £500 which you sent him. He has requested me to hand it back to you."
"A cheque for £500? Mr Morice, I don't understand! Why has Mr Gilbert returned me this?"
"I will tell you plainly. We are, both of us, in a position in which plainness is the only possible course."
"Well, tell me--don't stand choosing your words--tell me plainly! Why has Mr Gilbert sent me back my cheque through you?"
"Because Jim Baker conveyed the impression to his mind that he--Jim--saw you commit the crime with which he stands charged."
"I don't understand."
"I think you do. Gilbert's position is that he finds himself unable to retain your money when his duty to Baker may necessitate his putting you in the dock on the capital charge."
"Mr Morice! It's--it's not true!"
"Unfortunately, it is true. Lest, however, you should think the position worse than it actually is, part of my business here is to reassure your mind on at least one point."
"Reassure my mind! Nothing will ever do that--ever! ever! And reassurance from you!--from you!"
"If matters reach a certain point--before they go too far--it is my intention to surrender myself--say, to Granger--our local representative of law and order--as having been guilty of killing that man in Cooper's Spinney."
"Mr Morice! Do you--do you mean it?"
"Certainly I mean it. Then you will have an opportunity of going into the witness-box and giving that testimony of which you have spoken. That in itself ought to be sufficient to hang me."
"Mr Morice!"
"What we have principally to do is to render it impossible that the case against me shall fail. A very trifling accident may bring the whole business to an end; especially if Ernest Gilbert puts ever such a distant finger in the pie. Against the possibility of such an accident we shall have to guard. For instance, by way of a beginning, where's that knife?"
"Knife?"
"The knife."
"I've lost the key."
"Lost the key? of what?"
"I put it in a wardrobe drawer with my--my things, and locked it, and, somehow, I lost the key."
"I don't quite follow. Do you mean that, having locked up my knife in a drawer with some other articles, you have mislaid the key of the lock?"
"Yes, that's what I mean."
"Then in that case, you had better break that lock open at the earliest possible moment."
"Why?"
"The answer's obvious, in order that you may hand me back my knife. If I'm to be the criminal it will never do for my knife to be found in your possession. It would involve all sorts of difficulties which we might neither of us find it easy to get over. Give me the knife. I will hide it somewhere on my own premises, where I'll take care that, at the proper moment, it is found. Properly managed, that knife ought to make my guilt as plain as the noonday sun; mismanaged, the affair might assume quite a different complexion."
For the first time a doubt entered the girl's mind.
"Mr Morice, do you wish me to understand that you propose to surrender merely to save me?"
"I wish you to understand nothing of the sort. The position is--in its essence--melodrama; but do let us make it as little melodramatic as we conveniently can. Someone must suffer for the--blunder. It may as well be me. Why not?"
"Do you wish me--seriously--to believe that it was not you who--blundered?"
"Of course I blundered--and I've kept on blundering ever since. One blunder generally does lead to another, don't you know. Come--Miss Arnott"--each time, as she noticed, there was a perceptible pause before he pronounced the name to which she still adhered--"matters have reached a stage when, at any moment, events may be expected to move quickly. Your first business must be to get that drawer open--key or no key--and let me have that knife. You may send it by parcel post if you like. Anyhow, only let me have it. And, at latest, by tomorrow night. Believe me, moments are becoming precious. By the way, I hope it hasn't been--cleaned."
"No, it hasn't been cleaned."
"That would have been to commit a cardinal error. In an affair of this sort blood-stains are the things we want; thepièces de convictionwhich judge and jury most desire. Give me the knife--my knife--that did the deed, with the virginal blood-stains thick upon it. Let it be properly discovered by a keen-nosed constable in an ostentatious hiding-place, and the odds are a hundred to one as to what the verdict will be. A hundred? a million! I assure you that I already feel the cravat about my neck." Hugh Morice put his hand up to his throat with a gesture which made Miss Arnott shiver. "Only, I do beg of you, lose no time. Get that drawer open within the hour, and let me have my hunting-knife before you have your dinner. Let me entreat you to grasp this fact clearly. At any moment Jim Baker may be out of Winchester Gaol; someone will have to take his place. That someone must be me."
After Hugh Morice had left her, Miss Arnott had what was possibly the worst of all her bad half hours. The conviction of his guilt had been so deeply rooted in her mind that it required something like a cataclysm to disturb its foundations. She had thought that nothing could have shaken it; yet it had been shaken, and by the man himself. As she had listened to what he had been saying, an impression had been taking hold of her, more and more, that she had misjudged him. If so, where was she herself standing? A dreadful feeling had been stealing on her that he genuinely believed of her what she had believed of him. If such was the case, what actually was her position.
Could she have done the thing which he believed her to have done? It was not only, moreover, what he believed; there were others. An array of witnesses was gathering round her, pointing with outstretched fingers. There was Jim Baker--it seemed that he was honestly persuaded that, with his own eyes, he had seen her kill her husband. So transparent was his honesty that he had succeeded--whether intentionally or not she did not clearly understand--in imparting his faith to the indurated lawyer to such a degree, that he had actually thrown her money back at her, as if it had been the price of blood. She had little doubt that if her own retainers were polled, and forced to vote in accordance with the dictates of their consciences, merely on the strength of the evidence they believed themselves to be already in possession of, they would bring her in as guilty. She had had this feeling dimly for some time--she had it very clearly then.
And now she was walking in her sleep. That thing of which she had read and heard, but never dreamt to be--a somnambulist. It seemed that her conscience drove her out at dead of night to revisit--unwittingly--the scene of the crime which stained her soul.
Could that be the interpretation of the stories which Mrs Forrester had told her? and Hugh Morice? She had been seen, it would appear, by half the countryside, clad--how? wandering--conscience-driven--on what errand?
The more she thought, however, of the tale which Briggs the postman had retailed to Mrs Forrester, not to speak of Hugh Morice's strange narrative--the more she doubted--the more she had to doubt. They might have the evidence of their own eyes, but it seemed to her that she had evidence which was at least equally conclusive. It was incredible--impossible that she could have tramped through the rain and the mire, among the trees and the bushes, in the fashion described, and yet have found no traces of her eccentric journeyings either on her clothes or on her person. But in that matter measures could--and should--be taken. She would soon learn if there was any truth in the tales so far as they had reference to her. Evans should be installed in her room that night as watchman. Then, if she attempted to get out of bed while fast asleep, the question would be settled on the spot. The question of the knife--Hugh Morice's knife--was a graver one. But as regards that also steps should be promptly taken. Whether it should be returned to its owner as he suggested, or retained in her possession, or disposed of otherwise. These were problems which required consideration. In the meanwhile, she would have it out of its hiding-place at once. She went upstairs to force open that wardrobe drawer. So soon as she entered her bedroom she perceived that she had been forestalled, and that, in consequence, a lively argument was going on. The disputants were two--her own maid, Evans, and Wilson, the housemaid, who had been supposed to have been in part responsible for the disappearance of the key. Miss Arnott was made immediately conscious--even before she opened the door--that the pair were talking at the top of their voices. Evans's was particularly audible. She was pouring forth on to her fellow-servant a flood of language which was distinctly the reverse of complimentary. So occupied, indeed, were they by the subject under discussion that, until Miss Arnott announced her presence, they were not conscious that she had come into the room.
Their young mistress paused on the threshold, listening, with feelings which she would have found it difficult to analyse, to some of the heated observations which the disputants thought proper to fling at each other. She interrupted Evans in the middle of a very warmly coloured harangue.
"Evans, what is the meaning of this disturbance? and of the extraordinary language you are using?"
The maid, though evidently taken by surprise by the advent of her mistress, showed very few of the signs of shame and confusion which some might have considered would have become a person in her position. Apparently she was much too warm to concern herself, at anyrate for the moment, with matters of etiquette. She turned to Miss Arnott a flushed and angry face, looking very unlike the staid and decorous servant with whom that young lady was accustomed to deal. Hot words burst from her lips,--
"That there Wilson had the key all the time. I knew she had."
To which Wilson rejoined with equal disregard of ceremonial usages,--
"I tell you I hadn't! Don't I tell you I hadn't! At least, I didn't know that I had, not till five minutes ago."
Evans went on, wholly ignoring her colleague's somewhat singular disclaimer,--
"Then if she didn't use it to unlock your drawer with--your private drawer--and to take liberties with everything that was inside it. I daresay if I hadn't come and caught her she'd have walked off with the lot. And then to have the face to brazen it out!"
To which Wilson, in a flame of fury,--
"Don't you dare to say I'd have taken a single thing, because I won't have it. I'm no more a thief than you are, nor perhaps half so much, and so I'll have you know. You're a great deal too fond of calling names, you are; but if you call me a thief I'll pay you for it. You see!"
Evans turned again to her adversary, eager for a continuance of the fray.
"If you weren't going to take them what did you go to the drawer for?"
"I tell you I went to the drawer to see if it was the key.
"Why didn't you bring the key to me?"
"I would have brought it, if you'd given me a chance."
"You would have brought it! Didn't I catch you--"
Miss Arnott thought she had heard enough; she interposed.
"Will you be so good as to be still, both of you, and let me understand what is the cause of this disgraceful scene. Evans, has the key of the drawer been found?"
"Yes, miss, it has. It was never lost; she had it all the time, as I suspected."
"I didn't have it, miss--leastways, if I did, I didn't know it, not till just now."
"Explain yourself, Wilson. Has or has not the key been in your possession?"
"It's like this, miss; it must somehow have slipped inside my dress that morning when I was making your bed."
"She'll explain anything!"
This was the resentful Evans.
"I'll tell the truth anyhow, which is more than you do."
Again their mistress interposed.
"Evans, will you allow Wilson to tell her story in her own way. Wilson, you forget yourself. On the face of it, your story is a lame one. What do you mean by saying that the key of my wardrobe drawer slipped into your dress? Where was it that it was capable of such a singular proceeding?"
"That's more than I can tell you, miss. I can only say that just now when I was taking down a skirt which I haven't worn since I don't know when, it felt heavy, and there in the hem on one side--it's a broad hem, miss, and only tacked--there was a key, though how it got there I haven't a notion."
"Of course not!"
This was Evans. Miss Arnott was in time to prevent a retort.
"Evans! Well, Wilson, what did you do then?"
"I came with it to Evans."
The lady's-maid was not to be denied.
"That's a falsehood, anyhow. You came with it to me! I do like that!"
The housemaid was equal to the requirements of the occasion.
"I did come with it to you. I came with it straight to this bedroom. They told me you were here; it wasn't my fault if you weren't."
"Oh dear no! And, I suppose, it wasn't your fault if, finding I wasn't here, you unlocked the drawer!"
"I only wanted to see if it was the lost key I had found; I meant no harm."
Again Miss Arnott.
"Now, Evans, will you be silent! Well, Wilson, I don't see that, so far, you have been guilty of anything very reprehensible. It's quite possible that, somehow, the key may have slipped into the hem of your skirt; such accidents have been known. When you had tried the key and found that it was the one which had been mislaid; when you had opened the drawer with it, what did you do then?"
Again the lady's-maid was not to be denied. Orders or no orders, she refused to be silent.
"Yes, what did she do? I'll tell you what she did; don't you listen to anything she says, miss. She took liberties with everything that was inside that drawer, just as if the things was her own. She turned all the things out that was in it; you can see for yourself that it's empty! and she's got some of them now. Though I've asked her for them she won't give them up; yet she has the face to say she didn't mean to steal 'em!"
This time the housemaid was silent. Miss Arnott became conscious that not only had she been all the time holding herself very upright, but, also, that she was keeping her hands behind her back--in short, that her attitude more than suggested defiance.
"Wilson, is this true?"
The answer was wholly unlooked for.
"My mother is Jim Baker's cousin, miss."
"Your mother--" Miss Arnott stopped short to stare. "And what has that to do with your having in your possession property which is not your own?"
Her next answer was equally unexpected.
"And Mr Granger, he's my uncle, miss."
"Mr Granger? What Mr Granger?"
"The policeman down in the village, miss."
"Apparently, Wilson, you are to be congratulated on your relations, but I don't see what they have to do with what Evans was saying."
"I can't help that, miss."
"You can't help what? Your manner is very strange. What do you mean?" The girl was silent. Miss Arnott turned to the lady's-maid. "Evans, what does she mean?"
"Don't ask me, miss; she don't know herself. The girl's wrong in her head, that's what's the matter with her. She'll get herself into hot water, if she don't look out; and that before very long. Now, then, you give me what you've got there!"
"Don't you lay your hands on me, Mrs Evans, or you'll be sorry."
"Evans!--Wilson!"
Kit had not been for Miss Arnott's presence it looked very much as if the two would have indulged in a scrimmage then and there. The lady's-maid showed a strong inclination to resort to physical force, which the other evinced an equal willingness to resent.
"Wilson, what is it which you are holding behind your back? I insist upon your showing me at once."
"This, miss--and this."
In her right hand Wilson held a knife--the knife. Miss Arnott needed no second glance to convince her of its identity. In her left a dainty feminine garment--a camisole, compact of lace and filmy lawn. The instant she disclosed them Evans moved forward, as if to snatch from her at least the knife. But Wilson was as quick as she was--quicker. Whipping her hands behind her back again she retreated out of reach.
"No, you don't! hands off! you try to snatch, you do!"
The baffled lady's-maid turned to her mistress.
"You see, miss, what she's like! and yet she wants to make out that she's no thief!"
Miss Arnott was endeavouring to see through the situation in her mind, finding herself suddenly confronted by the unforeseen. It was impossible that the girl could mean what she seemed to mean; a raw country wench in her teens!
"Wilson, you seem to be behaving in a very strange manner, and to be forgetting yourself altogether. It is not strange that Evans has her doubts of you. Give me those things which you have in your hands at once."
"Begging your pardon, miss, I can't."
"They're not yours."
"No, miss, I know they're not."
"Then, if you're an honest girl, as you pretend, what possible reason can you have for refusing to give me my own property, which you have taken out of my drawer in a manner which is at least suspicious?"
"Because Jim Baker, he's my mother's cousin; and Mr Granger he's my uncle."
"What possible justification can that be for your trying to steal what belongs to me?"
Then it came out.
"My uncle he says to me, 'I don't believe Jim Baker done it--I don't believe he did anything to the chap beyond peppering him. Jim's no liar. 'Twill be a shame if they hang him. No, my girl,' Mr Granger says, 'it's my belief that they know more over at Exham Park than they pretend, or, at least, someone does. You keep your eyes wide open. We don't want to have no one hung in our family, specially for just peppering a chap. If you come across anything suspicious, you let me know and you let me have a look at it, if so be you can. Your mother don't want to have Jim Baker hung, nor more don't I.' Miss Arnott, you put them things in the drawer the time that you came home, the time that chap was murdered, the time that you was out in the woods till all hours. They haven't found the knife what did it yet, and this knife's all covered with blood; so's the things. I'm going to let Mr Granger see what I've got here, and tell him where I found them. If there's nothing wrong about them I'll have to suffer, but show them to him I will."
Miss Arnott, perceiving that here was an emergency in which prompt action was the one thing needful, glanced at Evans, who was quick to take the hint. She advanced towards Wilson with designs which that young woman considered sufficiently obvious. To evade her, still holding her booty behind her to secure it from Evans, she turned her back to Miss Arnott who was not slow to avail herself of the opportunity to grip her wrists and tear the knife and camisole away from her. The wench, finding herself outwitted, sprang at her mistress, screaming,--
"Give them to me! give them to me! You give them back to me!"
But Miss Arnott had already dropped them into the open wardrobe drawer, shut the drawer and turned the key. While she kept the girl at arms' length, to prevent her wresting from her the key, Miss Arnott issued her instructions to the lady's-maid.
"Evans, ring the bell, keep on ringing."
There was a lively minute or so. Then Bevan, Mr Day's understudy, appeared in the doorway, to stare at the proceedings open-eyed. Miss Arnott had succeeded in retaining possession of the key, though she had not found the excited girl easy to manage. Bevan, striding forward, spun the housemaid round on her feet as if she were a teetotum.
"Now, then," he demanded, "what do you think you're doing? Are you mad?"
"Bevan," exclaimed Miss Arnott, "Wilson has been misbehaving herself. See that she is paid her wages and sent about her business at once."
Wilson, who by now was more than half hysterical, shrieked defiance.
"Mr Bevan, you make her give me that knife! you make her. I believe she killed that chap in Cooper's Spinney. She's got the knife she killed him with shut up in that drawer there! You make her give it me! I'm going to show it to my uncle!"
Bevan was unsympathetic.
"Now, then, out you go!" was the only answer he made to her appeal.
But Mr Granger's niece was not disposed to go in compliance with his mere request. When he essayed persuasion of a more active kind she began to fight him tooth and nail. Reinforcements had to be brought upon the scene. When, finally, she was borne from the room, she was kicking and struggling like some wild cat. A pretty tumult she managed to create as they conveyed her down the stairs.
Miss Arnott and her maid, left alone together, surveyed each other with startled looks. The plumage of both had been something more than ruffled; a tress of hair which was hanging down Miss Arnott's back was proof of the housemaid's earnestness. Evans was the first to speak.
"I wish you'd let me do as I said, miss--break that drawer open, and let me wash those things."
"But who would have thought she was such a creature! Is she mad?"
"Oh, she's sane enough after her own fashion; though, if she's one of that Baker and Granger set, she's mad enough for anything. I can't abide that village lot, and they know it. I wish you'd let me do as I said!"
"I wish I had. As for my clothes, you can wash them now--if you don't mind, that is."
"I'll wash them fast enough. I've done some washing in my time. Though, after those stains have been in them all this time, they'll want some soaking. What are you going to do about that knife, miss? If I had known it was there I'd have broken open that drawer first and asked your permission afterwards."
"I'll see to that."
"You'll see to it! But, miss, you'll never get these stains out, never! not now! They're eaten into the steel! Nothing will get them out except re-burnishing. If that Wilson gets down to that fool of a Granger it's quite likely that we'll have him here with a search warrant, and then Heaven help us! No, miss, you'll give me that knife, if you please. I'll make it safe enough."
Miss Arnott was struck by the singularity of the woman's manner; she yielded to a sudden impulse.
"Evans, I fancy you are under a misapprehension. If so, let me remove it from your mind, if it can be removed. I believe you think that I am responsible for what happened to that man in Cooper's Spinney. I'm not. I had no hand in it whatever."
"You didn't kill him?"
"Emphatically, no. I had nothing to do with killing him; nothing."
"Miss, are you sure?"
"I am quite sure; quite."
"I believe you, miss, I believe you. But--I don't understand--the stains upon your things; the knife? If you didn't kill him yourself you know who did."
"I thought I did; that is why the knife is in my possession. Bringing it home--inside my bodice--caused the stains."
"Whose knife is it? Did it belong to the--man who was killed?"
"No; it did not. I would rather not tell you to whom it did belong--at least, not now."
"You know?"
"Oh, yes, I know. Evans, I believe you're disposed to be my friend, and I'm in need of a friend."
"You are, miss, in more need than you have perhaps a notion of. I don't want to use any big words, but there's nothing I wouldn't do for you, and be glad to do it, as, maybe, before all's done, I'll prove. But I wish you'd trust me, miss--trust me all the way. I wish you'd tell me whose knife that is and how you came to have it."
"I'd rather not, and for this reason. I was convinced that the owner of that knife was the murderer. That is why, when I found it, I brought it home with me.
"To screen him?"
"You must not ask me that. Quite lately I have begun to think that I was wrong, that the owner of that knife is as innocent as I am. It's a tangle. I was quite close when it happened; I heard it all happening; yet now I am conscious that I have no more real knowledge of who did it than you have. You mustn't ask me any questions; I may tell you more some other time--I may have to--not now! not now! I want to think! But, Evans, there is one thing I wish to say to you--do you believe that I'm a somnambulist?"
"A somnambulist? A sleep-walker do you mean? Whatever has put that idea into your head?"
"Have you heard the tales they're telling--about my having been seen in the woods at night in my nightdress?"
"I've heard some stuff; it's all a pack of nonsense! What next?"
"Do you know Briggs the postman? What sort of man is he?"
"He's got his head screwed on right enough for a countryman."
"Well, Mrs Forrester called this afternoon for the express purpose of informing me that Briggs the postman saw me in the woods at two o'clock this morning in my nightdress."
"But, miss, it's impossible! Did you ever walk in your sleep?"
"Never to my knowledge. Have you ever had occasion to suspect me of anything of the kind?"
"That I certainly have not."
"This time it seems peculiarly incredible, because it was pouring cats and dogs. If I had done anything of the sort there must have been traces on my nightdress, or on something. This is a question I mean to have settled one way or the other. I'm going to have a bed put up in this room, and I'm going to ask you to sleep in it, if you conveniently can, with one eye open. You'll soon find out what my habits are when fast asleep. Between ourselves I believe that this is going to be an opportunity for me to play that favourite character in fiction--the detective--on lines of my own."
"I'll sleep here, miss, and be pleased to do it. But as for your walking in your sleep, I should have found it out long ago if you'd been given that way. I don't believe a word of it; that's all nonsense."
Miss Arnott seemed to reflect before she spoke again.
"I'm not so sure of that--that it's all nonsense, Evans. I'm going to tell you something; at present it's a secret, but I think I can trust you to keep it. You're not the only person who has suspected me of having killed that man."
"Lor' bless you, miss, as if I didn't know that! That's no secret! I don't believe you've any idea yourself of what a dangerous place it is in which you're standing."
"I'll be ready for the danger--when it comes. I'll not be afraid. What I meant was that I have been actually supposed to have been seen killing that man. Someone was seen to kill him, and that someone was a woman."
"You're quite sure, miss, that it wasn't you? You're quite sure?"
"Quite, Evans; don't you be afraid."
"Then if that's so, miss, I don't mind. If you're innocent I don't care what they do; let them do their worst."
"That's what I feel--exactly. But I wish you'd let me make my meaning clear to you! If a woman did do it, then--though I confess I don't understand how--we must all of us be on the wrong scent, and the woman who has been seen wandering through the woods at dead of night--and that such an one has been seen I have good reasons for knowing--is the one we want. So what we have to do is to identify that somnambulist."
"But how are we going to do it?"
"That, as yet, I own is more than I can tell you. The first step is to make sure it isn't me."
"Don't you fret about that, miss; I'm sure it isn't. I'll take these things away and get 'em in soak at once." She gathered up the various garments which her mistress had worn on that fateful night. "I wish you'd let me take that knife; I'd feel safer if you would."
"Thank you, Evans; but at present I'd rather you left the knife with me."
As Evans left the room Mrs Plummer came in, in the state of fluster which, of late, was her chronic condition.
"My dear," she began, "what is this I hear about Wilson? What is this shocking story?"
"Wilson has misbehaved herself and is therefore no longer in my service. I imagine, Mrs Plummer, that that is what you hear. I am sorry you should find it so shocking. It is not such a very unusual thing for a servant to forget herself, is it?"
"I don't know, my dear, when it comes to fighting Bevan and positively assaulting you. But everything seems to be at sixes and sevens; nothing seems to go right, either indoors or out. It makes me most unhappy. And now there's an extraordinary person downstairs who insists on seeing you."
"An extraordinary person? What do you call an extraordinary person? Do you know, Mrs Plummer, that a good deal of your language lately has seemed to me to have had a flavour of exaggeration."
"Exaggeration? You call it exaggeration? I should have thought it would have been impossible to exaggerate some of the things which have happened in this neighbourhood in the last few weeks. But there's no accounting for people. I can only tell you that I should call the person who is below an extraordinary person. Here is her card; she herself thrust it into my hand."
"Mrs Darcy Sutherland? I don't know anyone of that name."
"She knows you, or she pretends she does. I met her on the steps as I was coming in. When I told her you were out--because I thought you had gone on your motor, you said you were going--she replied that she would wait till you came back, if she had to wait a week. That I call an extraordinary remark to make."
"It is rather an unusual one. I will go down and see Mrs Darcy Sutherland."