After that interview Allen came no more to the Red House. He was aware that his behaviour appeared shameful; for no other word was applicable to the conduct of a man who forsook a girl to whom he had been engaged a year, and refused to disclose the reason of such desertion. Yet he could act in no other way, for the bar to the marriage, as revealed by Edermont, was so insuperable and terrible that Allen could not bring himself to enlighten Dora on the subject. If things looked black against him, he would have to put up with the situation as best he could. But to justify his conduct by telling the truth--he could not do so. In mercy to herself he spared her that revelation.
But if Allen remained absent, others did not. When the fact of the murder became known, quite a stream of morbid people set forth to view the scene of the crime. Thanks to the presence of the police, and the stubborn fact of the high wall, these folk were unable to push themselves into the house; but they gathered in crowds on the road, staring and staring, as though they hoped to see through the bricks and mortar and behold the dead body within. Much speculation was rife as to the cause of the crime, but the generally accepted opinion was that Edermont had been murdered by a burglar or burglars. Indeed, Inspector Jedd inclined to this opinion himself.
This official was a fussy, pompous man, with an immense idea of his own importance; now that an opportunity occurred of displaying that importance he made the most of it. What with examining the grounds, the house, the postern-gate; what with questioning the living inmates and the doctor who had examined the body, he was as active as a squirrel, and about as useful. In his sublime self-conceit he could not see an inch beyond his nose, and accepted the first idea that came into his head. The bureau was smashed, the drawers pulled out and emptied of their contents. On these grounds Inspector Jedd concluded that the death was due to the wrath of an interrupted housebreaker.
"Tramp, you see," he said in his jerky way to admiring subordinates. "Mr. Edermont--rich house, full of treasures and loose cash--mistaken whim, very; but tramp, hearing such tales in beer-shops, believes them. He climbs over the wall; Mr. Edermont has omitted to lock side-door. Tramp enters easily--sees bureau--thinks money there. Smashes desk with the bludgeon taken from the wall"--so the inspector denominated the "knobkerrie"--"Mr. Edermont hears noise--comes in--tramp startled--turns at bay--kills Mr. Edermont. Takes what he can--steals keys from dead man and unlocks postern-gate--gets away. There you are! What could be simpler?"
None of Inspector Jedd's underlings disputed the theory of their chief, for the simple reason that they believed in it, as they would have believed in any other he chose to put forward. Joad sneered when this explanation was repeated in his hearing, but, on the plea that he knew nothing about such matters, he made no comment upon it. Dora also disagreed with Jedd, but, being a judicious young woman, she said nothing. She herself believed that the death was due to revenge, but as yet she was too uncertain of her ground, too ignorant of Mr. Edermont's past life, to venture an opinion. The reading of the dead man's will proved that her insight into the matter was keener than Jedd's.
But before the reading of the will came the holding of the inquest. Jedd gathered together all the obtainable evidence, called all the available witnesses, with the result that nothing was discovered likely to lead to the assassin's detection. The inquest was held in the dining-room of the Red House, and everybody who could obtain admittance was present; but when Dora looked round the crowded room she noted that three persons whom she expected to see were absent. These were Allen Scott, because he was her lover, and should have been at hand to support her in this trial; Mr. Pallant, as he had evidently some knowledge of Mr. Edermont's past life, and might be curious concerning his violent death; and Lady Burville, because the sight of her in church had been, as Dora truly believed, the genesis of all these woes. But none of the three put in an appearance, and their absence gave Dora food for reflection.
The first witness called was Meg Gance, the cook, who deposed that she was usually locked up in her kitchen, with bedroom attached, by the deceased. On the night of the second of August he had omitted to lock her up as usual--why, she did not know. It was her custom to rise at seven and wait till Mr. Edermont came to let her into the main portion of the house, so that she could go about her work. She was general servant as well as cook. On the morning of the third she rose as usual, but Mr. Edermont never came. To her surprise she found the door leading to the front of the house was unlocked. She passed through with broom and dust-pan to seek the study, which she usually cleaned the first thing in the morning. There she saw Mr. Edermont lying dead near the desk, with his head smashed. The bureau was smashed also, the drawers were pulled out, and their contents untidily tumbled on the floor. Near the dead body lay a pistol and a stick (the knobkerrie) which had been taken from the wall. At once she called Miss Carew. The witness stated that she had heard no noise during the night. She had noticed no tramps or suspicious characters looking round the house of late.
The second witness was Dora Carew, who stated that she had retired as usual on the previous night at half-past nine, leaving Mr. Edermont to lock up. Her guardian usually locked the door which closed the passage on the first-floor leading to her bedroom. On this night he did not do so, although she was not aware of the fact until summoned by Meg the next morning. During the night she was awakened by a cry--as it seemed to her, an appeal for mercy. She listened, but could hear nothing further, and, thinking she had been dreaming, she had lain down and gone to sleep again. When she awoke in the morning she was called by Meg to see the dead body. She was aware that Mr. Edermont considered himself a threatened man, but she had no knowledge of the person or persons whom he feared. In reply to a question, this witness stated that she heard the cry immediately before the clock in the hall struck "one." She believed that the murder had been committed at that time.
The third witness was Lambert Joad, who gave his evidence as follows:
He was accustomed to leave the Red House at nine o'clock every night for his cottage, which was on the other side of the road. On the night of the murder he left as usual, and heard the gate locked behind him. He went to his cottage, and took his supper and read. Later on he was joined by Mr. Pride, a tutor in a local private school, who was, like himself, a classical scholar. Pride talked with him till after two o'clock in the morning, when he went away. The witness was up at seven to take a walk before breakfast, as was his custom. In crossing the fields he noticed that the postern door was open. Astonished at this, and knowing that Mr. Edermont was particular about keeping the door closed, he went across to see what was the matter. On entering through the postern gate he went to the house. To gain the front-door he had to follow the path between laurel hedges, which passed by the glass door of the disused drawing-room, off the study. He saw that this door had no shutters up on the glass, as was customary, and was standing wide open. He uttered an exclamation of surprise, which brought Miss Carew into the drawing-room. She called him in, and he saw the dead body and the smashed desk. He was not aware that Mr. Edermont had enemies. The witness believed that Edermont's fancy of being threatened with a violent death was monomania. He recognised the revolver as the property of the deceased.
The fourth witness was Dr. Chambers, of Canterbury, who deposed that he had been summoned by Inspector Jedd to examine the body of the deceased. The head was smashed in by a violent blow on the left temple, and death must have been instantaneous, After giving some technical evidence relative to the injuries inflicted, this witness concluded by stating that, from the condition of the body, he was satisfied the crime had been committed between twelve and one o'clock in the morning. This assertion bore out the statement of Miss Carew, that she had heard the hall clock strike one shortly after the cry for mercy had awakened her.
The fifth and last witness was Inspector Jedd. He deposed to the state of the body, the state of the bureau, and the finding of the knobkerrie and pistol. Evidently the criminal had entered the house through the side-door of the drawing-room, which was wide open, and had retreated the same way. No clue had been obtained likely to lead to the detection of the assassin. The postern gate, usually kept locked, had been found open on the morning after the crime. Several tramps had been arrested on suspicion, but one and all had explained their movements on the night of the second. No one but deceased knew what was in the bureau, therefore witness was unable to say if anything was missing.
These five witnesses having given their evidence, the coroner summed up, after which the jury brought in a verdict that Julian Edermont had been murdered by some person or persons unknown. It was the only conclusion to which they could come in the face of such scanty facts as had been placed before them, and all present departed with the unsatisfactory feeling that the death of Mr. Edermont was a mystery, and, what is more, was likely to remain a mystery. And so a very trying and exciting day came to a conclusion.
Mr. Edermont was duly buried in Chillum churchyard, and again Dora noticed that Allen was not present at the funeral. When she returned to the house, Mr. Carver, the long, lean lawyer from Canterbury, produced the will of the dead man, and read it to herself and Joad. As Mr. Edermont had no relations, these two were the only people likely to be interested in the disposition of his property. The will was a peculiar one, and reflected the lifelong fear of Edermont. Since he had been relieved of that fear by the visit of Mr. Pallant, he had not troubled to execute another testament; so the document read by Mr. Carver showed how vivid had been his presentiment of meeting with a violent end. The result had justified his fears.
The property included the Red House and its surrounding acres, the pictures and silver, and also the rental of three farms, amounting to two hundred a year. All this--house, pictures, silver, and income--was left to Dora, on condition that she remained at the Red House, and permitted Lambert Joad to continue his life there on the same footing as during the life of the deceased. The rest of the property, consisting of stocks and shares and various investments, amounted in all to some fifty thousand pounds. And now came the surprising part of the will. This large sum of money was left unconditionally to such person or persons as should discover and punish the assassin of the testator.
"For years," said the maker of the will, "I have been threatened with violent death by a certain enemy. Sooner or later, in spite of all my precautions, he will succeed in carrying out his wicked purpose. In that event I am content to reward the person who punishes him, or whomsoever he employs, with the sum of fifty thousand pounds. The story of my life, which sets forth how I incurred the wrath of this enemy, will be found in my bureau, sealed with my seal. Let my ward, Dora Carew, read the document, and discover the assassin, so that she can at once revenge my death and inherit my money. But in any case she is provided for, as is Lambert Joad; and the bulk of my estate must go to him or her who punishes my enemy."
Then followed the usual clauses ending the will, the signatures of the testator, and of two witnesses.
When Carver had finished there was a dead silence, which was broken by the lawyer himself.
"It is a strange will," said he, taking off his spectacles, "and hardly worded in a legal manner. But it holds good, nevertheless, so I can only recommend you, Miss Carew, or you, Mr. Joad, to gain fifty thousand pounds if you can."
"Will that sum actually be paid over to the discoverer of the assassin?" cried Joad, with sparkling eyes.
"My dear sir," said Carver, with a solemn smile on his lean face, "the man or woman who discovers the murderer of my late client will receive"--he smacked his lips--"fifty thousand pounds!"
The extraordinary will of Julian Edermont caused a no less extraordinary sensation. Pursuant to the instructions of his late client, Carver caused the contents of the will to be published in almost every newspaper of the three kingdoms, and the advertisement was copied and printed and talked about all over the civilized world. Many of the leading London dailies devoted a leading article to discussing the eccentricity of the bequest. Of these lucubrations none was more noteworthy than that of theMorning Planet.
"Here is a chance for our amateur and professional detectives," it said. "A riddle to stimulate the curiosity; a magnificent reward to repay the solution of the same. Mr. Edermont, a recluse, dwelling in the Red House, near Canterbury, has been barbarously murdered, and fifty thousand pounds are now offered for the discovery and apprehension of his murderer. It seems that the dead man had a past, and that that past had engendered an enemy. For twenty years Mr. Edermont lived in strict retirement, and took extraordinary precautions to ensure his safety. But all in vain. The man or woman--for no one is aware of the sex of the assassin--discovered the victim, and carried out the revenge in a peculiarly brutal fashion. There is nothing to show how the assassin came or went; but the time of the committal of the crime has been ascertained by the evidence of Miss Carew, the ward of the deceased. She fancied she heard a cry, and immediately afterwards the hall clock struck one. There can be no doubt that Miss Carew really did hear a cry, and was not dreaming, as she fancied, and that such cry was the last appeal of the poor victim for mercy.
"In the will of Mr. Edermont, he mentions that the story of his life is set forth in a manuscript locked up in his bureau. It is evident that the assassin knew of the existence of this narrative, for, immediately after committing the crime, he--we will assume by way of argument that the criminal is a man--rifled the desk, and made off with the paper containing an account of his motive for revenge. He knew that such paper would condemn him, and that with its aid the officers of the law would have little difficulty in putting a rope round his neck. Doubtless such story gave his name--possibly his address--and he was aware that it thus jeopardized his safety. But be this as it may, one fact remains: that the assassin has stolen the sole clue to his discovery, and it would seem that the death of Julian Edermont must remain wrapped in mystery.
"But fifty thousand pounds! Will anyone permit this death to go unavenged when he can gain such a reward? A fortune for life, and the consciousness of having done his duty to the dead man and to society. No doubt our inglorious Vidocques, our amateur Sherlock Holmes, will set to work to unravel the mystery and gain the reward. The Red House, near Canterbury, will become the shrine of pilgrim detectives from all parts of the world. Nevertheless, in spite of their astuteness, in spite of their greed, we doubt whether the mystery will ever be solved. The sole clue, so far as we can see, is to be found in the past life of the dead man. The tale of that past life is set forth in a certain paper; such paper is in the possession of the assassin, who is himself unknown. To find the paper, they must find the assassin; without the paper the assassin cannot be found; and so matters are at a deadlock. We shall await the development of this extraordinary case with interest; but we doubt whether the fifty thousand pounds will ever be claimed. Julian Edermont is dead and buried; his assassin has escaped with the story of the motive for the crime in his pocket. Here the case stands. What light can be thrown on this darkness? What clue can be found to the cunning murderer? We wait the answer from the possible man or woman who can honestly claim fifty thousand pounds."
While the papers talked thus, while people wondered, and would-be winners of the reward set their wits to work on the facts of the case, Dora remained at the Red House. No change was made in her life, or in that of Joad. In conjunction with Meg, the girl still looked after the domestic details of the mansion; and Joad still came and went from nine to nine. He became morose after the death of his friend, and hardly addressed a word to Dora. But she was aware that he constantly watched her in a furtive manner, which in the end became exceedingly annoying. Had the terms of the will been less clear, she would have left the Red House, or have induced Joad to confine his life to his own cottage. But in order to exist, and draw her poor rental of two hundred a year, she was forced to live in the house, with Joad, dirty, disreputable and crabbed, at her elbow. She disliked the man exceedingly, the more so as she had a suspicion that he admired her; but, fettered as she was by the terms of the will, she could do nothing.
Nevertheless, she became aware, as the days went by, that she would have to make some change in her life. It was impossible that she should go on living with an illiterate servant and an admiring satyr. It was equally impossible that she could continue to remain at variance with Allen after the last interview. He neither came near her nor wrote a line to comfort her; and, angered as she was at his heartless and inexplicable conduct, she made up her mind to see him. In one way or the other she would bring the matter to an end, and treat him either as a stranger or as her affianced lover.
Again, she wished to see Carver as to her financial position. By the will she had been left certain moneys and the Red House; but she also, as she understood, possessed an income of five hundred pounds, which came to her from her parents, and once or twice Mr. Edermont had informed her that she was entitled to so much; but he stated also that he was saving it up for her against the time she came of age.
As Dora was now twenty-one, she expected that the accumulations would be considerable. Making allowance for the amounts given to her at various times, she concluded that she was entitled to close on eight thousand pounds. If this were so--as she could ascertain from Mr. Carver--it was her intention to change her mode of life should Allen prove obstinate.
"I shall give up the Red House and the two hundred a-year," thought Dora, making her plans, "and, after investing my eight thousand pounds with the aid of Mr. Carver, I shall go to London. I cannot live any longer in the company of that odious creature"--for so she termed the learned Joad. "And if Allen is resolved to break off the engagement, there is nothing to keep me here. Mr. Edermont is dead; Allen, for some reason, is estranged, and I am all alone. I shall take my life in my own hands, and go to London."
It never entered her head to earn the reward. She was completely ignorant as to how her late guardian had come to so untimely an end. Lady Burville might have explained, but after the crime she had gone to London, and Dora did not know where to find her. Mr. Pallant might have given a hint, but he had left Hernwood Hall also. Dora saw no way of solving the mystery; and even if she did conjecture the truth, she scarcely felt herself called upon to revenge the death of Mr. Edermont by discovering his assassin. She did not want the reward, and she had not sufficient regard for the dead man's memory to devote herself to so difficult a task.
Mr. Carver lived and worked in a dusty, dingy, dreary house near Mercery Lane. His rooms were above--he was a bachelor, dry and crusty--and his offices below. Two clerks, as lean as their master, worked in the dismal outer office, and in the inner apartment, the window of which looked on to a mews, Mr. Carver sat all day, and often far into the night. The appearance of so charming and blooming a woman as Dora quite lighted up the musty, fusty den. Her fresh beauty had little effect upon Carver, who regarded women as the root of all evil. The generally accepted root of all evil is money. This he approved of and hoarded; but women--he could not bear them, save in the light of clients, and then they gave him endless trouble.
"Mr. Carver," said Dora, facing the saturnine lawyer on the other side of the table, "I have called to see you about my financial position. I was, as you know, a ward of Mr. Edermont's"--Carver nodded--"and he has left me the Red House and two hundred a year." Mr. Carver nodded again. "But what about my own income of five hundred a year?"
"What five hundred a year?" said Carver grimly.
"The income which was left me by my parents."
"I was not aware that any income had been left to you by your parents, nor, for the matter of that--if you will excuse me--was I aware that you had any parents."
"What do you mean, sir?" asked Dora, sitting up very straight.
"Why," said the lawyer meditatively, "it is not hard for you to gather my meaning. I never saw your parents--I never heard mention of them. All I know is that my late client arrived here with you, and shortly after his arrival purchased the Red House. You were then a year old, and as twenty years have now elapsed, it makes you twenty-one," added Mr. Carver in parenthesis. "My late client said that you were an orphan, Carew by name, whom he intended to bring up; but as to parents, or history, or income--I know nothing about them, absolutely nothing."
"But Mr. Edermont assured me that I had five hundred a year of my own!" stammered Dora, taken aback by this plain speaking. "He handed me money from time to time, and stated frequently that he was saving the rest of the income to give me when I came of age. If this is so, I ought to be entitled to at least eight thousand pounds."
"I congratulate you on your logical arguments, and on your business capabilities," said Carver with grave irony; "but I am afraid that you are mistaken, or else that the late Mr. Edermont deceived you wilfully--a thing which I can hardly believe. I know all the details of my late client's monetary affairs. As I said before, I purchased for him the Red House freehold some twenty years ago--shortly after his arrival in the neighbourhood. The two hundred per annum which you inherit under the will is the rental of three farms, which I purchased at a later period for him. The silver, furniture and pictures, which you also inherit, he brought with him from his last dwelling-house. Finally, Miss Carew," added the lawyer, with the air of a man who is making a satisfactory statement, "I know precisely how he invested that fifty thousand pounds which, by the will, has been so foolishly offered as a reward for the discovery of the murderer of the testator. All these matters I can explain and prove, but as regards your supposititious income of five hundred pounds, I know nothing. There are," concluded Mr. Carver calmly, "neither letters, nor scrip, nor documents of any kind whatsoever among the papers of my late client which can in the least substantiate your statement, or even hint at the possibility of such a thing."
Dora listened to this long speech in silent amazement. She had never contemplated the possibility of such a deception--for now it seemed plainly a deception. Why Edermont should have told so many lies, and fostered in her a belief that she was independent as regards pecuniary matters, she could not understand. Carver waited for her to argue the matter, but Dora made no attempt to do this. The lawyer's explanation was so clear and decisive that she saw no reason to doubt his honesty. Besides, he had been always well-disposed towards her, and no motive could exist to induce him to deceive her.
"Then I am penniless?" she murmured in dismay. "Mr. Edermont deceived me!"
"Apparently he did deceive you," assented Mr. Carver, placing the tips of his fingers together; "but if you will permit me to remind you, Miss Carew, you are not penniless."
"I have a roof to cover me, and two hundred a year," said Dora bitterly. "True enough, Mr. Carver. But such a legacy is saddled with the constant companionship of Mr. Joad."
"He is scarcely a pleasant companion for a young lady, I grant, Miss Carew. But if you permit him to potter about the library and garden, I hardly think that he will trouble you much. These bookworms, dry-as-dust scholars, are so wrapped up in their books, that they rarely deign to notice mundane affairs, or the presence of youth and beauty."
Dora had her own opinion as to Mr. Joad's blindness in this direction; but as the subject was not pertinent to the matter under discussion, she made no remark on Carver's speech. After a few moments' thought, she looked earnestly at the lawyer.
"You are not deceiving me, Mr. Carver?" she asked imploringly.
"I deceive no one, Miss Carew," he replied stiffly. "If you doubt my integrity, you can consult any solicitor you think fit, and send him to me. I can prove all my statements by means of documents signed by my late client."
"It is very hard to be so deceived, Mr. Carver."
"I grant it, I grant it," said Carver hastily; "but if you wish to be rich, I can only remind you that fifty thousand pounds is waiting for the discoverer of my late client's assassin."
"I wonder you do not earn it yourself," said Dora, rising to take her leave.
"I would willingly do so, Miss Carew, but unfortunately my knowledge of Mr. Edermont's past is confined to dry business details. I do not know the romance of his life," added Carver with emphasis. "And from the romance, whatever it was, this present trouble springs."
"Do you mean a love romance?"
Carver shrugged his shoulders.
"Why not?" he said, in his dryest tone. "With all due respect to you, Miss Carew, I believe that a woman is to be found at the bottom of everything. Trace back Mr. Edermont's life to his period of romance, and you will find a woman. Find that woman, Miss Carew; learn her story, and her influence on your late guardian. Then I'll guarantee you will discover the assassin of the Red House."
Dora said nothing, but hastily took leave. But once outside, Carver's words recurred to her. They seemed to fit in with her suspicions of Lady Burville.
Having failed with the grim lawyer, Dora resolved to see Allen. She felt singularly lonely, and longed to have some person to advise her. That should have been Allen's office, but after his cruel behaviour, Dora could scarcely bring herself to consult him. Yet it was imperative she should do so. She was an orphan, and had been kept so secluded by the selfishness of Mr. Edermont that she had not a friend in the world. If Allen failed her, the poor girl felt she would not know what to do, or who to consult. He must love her, notwithstanding his conduct, she thought; and perhaps if she told him how lonely she was, how unhappy, how greatly in need of his counsel, he might soften towards her. As Dora was naturally a haughty and self-reliant young woman, it may be guessed how isolated she felt when she so far unbent her pride as to turn for sympathy and consolation to the man who had scorned her. But, after all, she was only a woman, and subject to the weakness of her sex.
It was with slow and hesitating steps that she sought the house of her lover. She was well aware that she would find him at home at this hour; and the thought that she would soon see him face to face brought the blood to her cheeks. Pausing at the door, she twice or thrice resolved to go away; but the memory of her isolation, of her need of sympathy, confirmed her original intention. She rang the bell, and the door was opened by Mrs. Tice, who changed colour at the sight of the girl.
"Deary me, Miss Carew!" she said in some confusion; "I had no idea it was you. Is it the doctor you wish to see?"
"Yes, Mrs. Tice. Is he within?
"He is, my dear young lady. Come into the sitting-room, miss, and I'll inquire if Mr. Allen will see you."
Left alone in the room, Dora sank into a chair. The ceremony with which she had been received, the obvious confusion of Mrs. Tice, touched her painfully. She wondered what could be the reason of such things. They made her only the more determined to see Allen, and demand an explanation. But he had refused her once before; it was probable he would do so again. She felt her helpless condition keenly at this moment.
While she was thus taken up with these sad thoughts, she heard a firm step approach the door; it opened, and Allen stood before her. He seemed even more haggard and worn than the last time she had seen him. His shoulders were bent, his eyes lacked fire; altogether the man looked so thoroughly ill, so consumed by trouble and vexation of spirit, that Dora involuntarily took a step forward out of sheer sympathy. Then she recollected his conduct, and stopped short. They both looked steadily at one another.
"Why have you come to see me?" said Allen wearily. "It can do no good. I can explain nothing."
"Allen, you loved me once."
"I love you still," he responded hastily. "I shall always love you."
"Words, words, words!" said Dora, after the manner of Hamlet. "Your actions prove otherwise. Now listen to me, Allen: I have come to you for advice."
"I am the worst person in the world to give it to you," replied Scott, with cruel emphasis on the last words. "But if you wish it, I will do so."
"I do wish it, Allen. I am an orphan. I have few acquaintances, and no friends. My guardian is dead, and in all the world there is no living soul who cares about me."
"Dora!" he cried in a tone of agony, "how can you speak so? I care! I would rather die than see you suffer."
"I do not wish you to die," answered the girl with some bitterness; "it is so easy to say so--so difficult, so difficult to do. No, Allen; I wish you to live and help me. Let me put my position before you. My guardian told me that I had five hundred a year. He deceived me; I inherited nothing from my parents."
"Who told you this, Dora?"
"Mr. Carver, the lawyer. For some reason Mr. Edermont lied to me, and confirmed his lie by paying me certain moneys which he said came from my inherited income. I hear now that I am a pauper. But for his bequest of two hundred a year and the freehold of the Red House, I should be a beggar."
"I cannot understand his reason for deceiving you," said Allen, drawing a long breath; "but at all events, he has made some reparation by leaving you enough to live on. You will always have a home at the Red House."
"You do not know the conditions of the will," was Dora's reply. "I have to live at the Red House; I have to permit Mr. Joad to carry on his former life, which means that I must see him daily, and I hate the man," added Dora fervently; "I loathe him; and now that Mr. Edermont is dead, I do not know to what length his audacity may carry him."
"What do you mean?" demanded Allen, frowning.
"I mean that Joad admires me."
"Admires you?" The young man stepped forward and clenched his fists. "Impossible that he should dare!"
"Oh, trust a woman's instinct in such matters, Allen! Yes, Mr. Joad admires me, and I believe he will soon put his admiration into words."
"If he does, I'll thrash him within an inch of his life!"
"As my affianced husband you no doubt have the right," replied Dora steadily; "but have you the will? You say you love me, yet----"
"I do love you!" he burst out; "and it is because of my love for you that I keep silent. On that fatal day Edermont, beside himself with terror, betrayed to me a secret he had better have kept hidden. That secret parts us for ever. I dare not marry you."
"You dare not? What secret can have the power to make you say such words?"
"If I told you that, I should tell you all," replied Allen sullenly. "Do not try me beyond my strength, Dora. If you suffer, I suffer also. For your own sake I keep silent, and I love you too dearly to inflict unnecessary pain."
"What you might inflict can be no worse than what you have inflicted," said Dora bitterly. "I see it is useless to ask you to confide in me. But one word: has this secret to do with Mr. Edermont's death?"
Allen hesitated; then, turning away his head:
"I cannot answer you," he said resolutely.
"Oh!" said Dora in a taunting tone; "then you know something about the death."
"I know nothing," replied Allen, with a white face.
"Yes, you do. Your refusal to explain shows me that the secret has to do with the murder. Perhaps Mr. Edermont told you the name of the person he was afraid of. Well, that person perhaps carried out his wicked purpose."
"Why do you say 'perhaps'?" asked Allen suddenly. "You seem to be doubtful."
"Because a day or two before the crime was committed, Mr. Pallant called on my guardian. What he told him relieved him of the fear of assassination. Therefore I do not know if Mr. Edermont's enemy killed him."
Allen jumped up and looked eagerly at the girl.
"Did Pallant say that the person whom Mr. Edermont feared was--was dead?"
"I cannot answer you that. Mr. Edermont only said that his nightmare was at an end. I presume from such a speech that he felt there was no more danger. Unfortunately, he was murdered shortly afterwards, so that his hopes were vain. But you apparently know all about this person whom my guardian feared. What is his name?"
"I can't tell you, Dora," said Allen with a groan.
"Oh, I do not want you to tell me!" she replied scornfully, "but tell the authorities. No doubt you will be rewarded with fifty thousand pounds--blood-money."
"Dora! How can you speak like this to me?"
"How else do you wish me to speak?" she retorted fiercely. "Do you think that I have water in my veins, to put up with your neglect in silence?"
"It is for your own good."
"You should permit me to be the best judge of that, Allen. My brain is in confusion from the event of last week. I have suffered indescribably. With Lady Burville and her fainting in church came disaster. That woman caused a breach between us----"
"No, no! Lady Burville has nothing to do with my secret."
"Will you deny that her name was mentioned several times between you and Mr. Edermont?"
"No, I will not deny it," he returned doggedly. "All the same, she has nothing to do with the matter."
"So you say, for the preservation of your secret," said Dora disdainfully; "but I believe that she has everything to do with the matter. And what is more," continued the girl, raising her voice, "I feel assured that indirectly she caused the death of my guardian."
Allen turned even paler than before.
"I assure you such is not the case, Dora."
"I decline to take your word for it. I will only believe the evidence of my own senses, of my own researches."
"Your own researches?"
"Yes; I intend to find out this secret which is a bar to our marriage. To do so I must solve the mystery of Mr. Edermont's death."
"I warn you not to do so;" cried Allen, breathing heavily; "you are playing with fire!"
"I'll take the risk of that--if risk there is. Allen," she said, placing her hands on his shoulders, "you laughed at my premonition of evil when I spoke to you of Lady Burville. You see I was right. Now I have a premonition of good. My researches will mend the breach between us, and bring about our marriage."
"Impossible! and, moreover----" he hesitated. "Can you love me after the cruel way in which I have been forced to behave to you?"
"Yes. You mention the poison and the antidote at once. You have been cruel, but you have been forced, as I truly believe, to be so. When I discover that force, I shall learn the bar to our marriage. If so, it can be removed."
"I am afraid not," he replied, shaking his head.
"In the meantime," she continued, as though she had not heard him, "as I am a pauper, I must remain at the Red House. But I refuse to do so in the company of that creature Joad, unless I have a companion. Will you let Mrs. Tice come and stay with me for a few weeks?"
"If Mrs. Tice will go, I shall be delighted that you should have her."
"Very good, Allen." She rose from her chair. "Now we understand one another. When I know the truth, I shall come and see you again. Till then, we must be strangers."
"I suppose so," said Scott gloomily; "but I warn you the danger is great when you know the truth----"
"Well, what will be the result?"
Allen Scott looked at her pityingly.
"Your life will be ruined, as mine has been," he said.
Dora walked towards the window with a weary sigh.
"It is ruined already; I do not see how it can be much worse. I have lost you; I have been deceived as regards my pecuniary position; I am threatened with the attentions of that odious creature. It is all very terrible."
Allen groaned.
"I wish I could give you hope, Dora, but I cannot. I see nothing in the future but pain, and separation, and misery."
"Oh, I don't know," replied Dora with a hard laugh. "Since you can give me up so easily, I have no doubt that you will speedily console yourself for my loss. You will be married in a few years."
"Never! If I do not marry you--and that is impossible--I shall marry no other woman."
"So you say; but I know what men are."
"Not from experience."
"I don't think a woman needs experience to divine the nature of the other sex," said Dora loftily, with all the brave self-confidence of youth; "our instinct teaches us what you are and how you will act. I can't expect you to be true to a phantom all your life."
"Phantom! You are flesh and blood, my dear."
"Yes; but I mean that should I fail to discover this secret, or should you persist in treating me as a child, we must part, and never see one another again. I will then be nothing to you but a phantom--a memory. No man can remain true to a memory."
"Strange as it may appear to you, Dora, there have been men thus faithful, and I swear----"
"Do not swear fidelity. You will only perjure yourself in after years. But it is no use discussing such things, my dear," she continued more cheerfully. "I must return home."
"Will you come back and see me again?"
"If I have occasion to, I shall do so. I do not intend to part from you until all mysteries are made plain. It shall be my business to make them so."
"A hopeless task," sighed Allen, as he accompanied her to the door. "I shall send Mrs. Tice over to you in the morning."
"Thank you. Do you know that Mrs. Tice was once acquainted with my guardian?"
"Yes; she said something about it," he murmured, turning away his head; "she knows something."
"I am convinced of that. She knows the celebrated past of Mr. Edermont, about which so much has been said. I would not be surprised if she knew the contents of that stolen manuscript."
"I dare say; but she may not know everything."
"She knows more than you give her credit for," said Dora dryly. "For instance; when you returned from London, I dare say she knew why you had gone there."
"Yes; that's true enough."
"And she knew why you quarrelled with my guardian."
"She did. What of that?"
"Only this," said Miss Carew triumphantly; "Mr. Carver said that he believed the past whence this present trouble arose was connected with a woman in love with Mr. Edermont. For all I know, that woman may be--Mrs. Tice."
When Dora returned to the Red House, she made up her mind. Since Allen refused to tell her his secret, she would discover it herself, and judge if it were as serious a bar to their marriage as he asserted. She did not think for a moment that Allen knew who had killed Edermont, but she could not help concluding that he was aware of something likely to lead to the identification of the assassin. Perhaps he knew the story of Edermont's life, set forth in the manuscript which had been stolen from the bureau by the murderer. But whatever knowledge he was possessed of, Dora saw plainly enough that he was resolved to hold his peace. The truth is, she was afraid to admit his motive for silence even to herself. She half guessed the reason of his determination, but she neither spoke nor thought about it.
There were two ways in which she could go to work; either begin from the arrival of Lady Burville at Hernwood Hall, and progress onward to the committal of the crime, or begin from the fact of the murder, and trace back its motive to Lady Burville. After some consideration, she decided on the latter of these two courses. But Lady Burville had departed, and Dora was ignorant of her present address. Even if she did learn it, there was no excuse whereby she could gain an interview with the lady. She had no proof that this stranger was implicated in the crime, and if she were--a fact which Dora fully believed--there would be little chance of forcing her into confession. This course was therefore out of the question, but there remained the other. Starting with the evidence which had gathered round the crime itself, the theories, the suppositions, the beliefs, Dora thought she might piece together scattered hints and facts, which might be woven into a rope strong enough to hang the assassin. But the difficulty, in the absence of all absolute knowledge, was to discover the criminal.
And there was yet another thing to be remembered. The reward of fifty thousand pounds had brought into competition hundreds of men, bent upon gaining the prize. From far and near they came to Canterbury, and haunted the environs of the Red House. But not one of them entered the gates, for these were kept locked, and the famous postern through which the assassin had passed had been bricked up, by Dora's order. Every labourer and tramp and shopkeeper in the neighbourhood was questioned and cross-questioned by these pests, but none gained any information likely to solve the mystery. No trace could be found of Edermont's past life. He had appeared in the place twenty years before; he had bought the Red House, and a few farms; he had lived in retirement since that time. Beyond this nothing could be learned, and, notwithstanding the magnitude of the reward, no one was fortunate enough to make a step forward. Out of the night the assassin had come, into the night he had gone; and neither Inspector Jedd nor the many amateur detectives could trace him to his hiding-place. Hemmed in by these difficulties on all sides, with no information to go upon, with obstinate people like Joad, Allen, and Mrs. Tice to deal with, it can be easily seen how difficult was the problem which Dora wished to solve. On surveying the situation her heart failed her; she felt helpless.
One chance she had of making a beginning, and that was by questioning Joad as to the motive of the crime. That this motive was to be found in Edermont's past life Dora was certain; and as Joad was more likely than anyone else to know that past, he would be the proper person to apply to for information. From conversations which she had overheard, Dora was satisfied that the secret of the horror which had overshadowed Edermont's life--which had sent him to church and to the consolation of the Litany--was known to Joad. And as Joad evinced a decided admiration for her, she resolved to use such admiration for the purpose of discovering the truth. When she learned the secret of Edermont's past, she would learn the name of the person he dreaded; that name would identify the assassin, and if she found the assassin she might be able to learn and do away with the unknown obstacle to her marriage with Allen. She would gain also the fortune of the dead man; but that, in Dora's opinion, was a side issue.
In the meantime, and before she had time to formulate her plans--which, indeed, were but in their inception--Mrs. Tice came over, bag and baggage, to play the part of dragon at the Red House. Dora was glad to welcome her within its walls; not only because she promised to stand a bulwark of respectability against Joad, but also because Mrs. Tice might reveal by accident something of Edermont's past. The conversation at Canterbury had shown Dora very plainly that some time or another Mrs. Tice had been acquainted with the recluse; and that such acquaintance must have been prior to his purchase of the Red House. At that period had been engendered the terror which had haunted the poor creature, and Mrs. Tice might have some inkling of its nature.
The old housekeeper, however, was not to be cajoled into reminiscences of the past. She kept a guard over her tongue, and resolutely avoided all Dora's hints and significant remarks. It was quite a week before Dora could induce her to converse on the subject at all, and then she spoke in an ambiguous fashion. Life at that moment seemed to Dora to resemble a theatre with the curtain down. If she could induce Mrs. Tice to raise the curtain, what shadowy drama of the past might not be performed! Seven days after the arrival of Mrs. Tice she lifted the curtain a little--a very little--but revealed enough to excite the liveliest curiosity in the girl.
It was after nine o'clock, and as usual Joad had been turned out to have his supper, and talk classics with Mr. Pride, the schoolmaster. The gates were locked, the shutters of the windows were closed, and Mrs. Tice was seated in Dora's own sitting-room, with a basket of work before her. Dora sat by the one window, which had not yet been shut, and the pale light of the evening floated into the room, to mingle with the dim radiance of the solitary candle which illuminated the busy fingers of the housekeeper. Meg Gance was in her kitchen, resting after the labours of the day, so the two women were quite alone. Suddenly Dora yawned, and stretched out her hands.
"Heigh-ho!" said she in a wearied tone. "How long is this going on, I wonder?"
"What are you referring to, Miss Carew?" asked the housekeeper in her pleasant voice--"to your life here?"
"Yes; to my lonely and miserable life. I feel simply wretched."
"Do not say that, my dear young lady. You have health, and youth, and many blessings."
"No doubt," replied Dora scornfully; "but I have lost the chief of my blessings."
"You mean Mr. Allen?" said the old lady in an embarrassed tone.
"Yes, I do, Mrs. Tice. And since he has left me, I do not see why I should not accept the attentions of Mr. Lambert Joad. The wretched old man worships the ground I walk on."
"Of course you are jesting?" said Mrs. Tice, with an uneasy smile; "but I see that Mr. Joad admires you. More's the pity."
"Why 'more's the pity'?"
"Well, you see, miss, he will not relish your rebuffing him for his impertinence; and he is likely to prove a dangerous enemy."
"Pshaw! He can do me no harm."
"I am not so sure of that, miss. He knows a good deal about Mr. Edermont's past life."
Dora turned round and looked sharply at the comely, withered face.
"Is there anything in the past life of Mr. Edermont likely to be harmful to me?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Tice deliberately, "there is."
"And do you know what it is?"
"Yes, miss; I know what it is, and so does Mr. Allen. It was a knowledge of that past which sent him up to London. Since he returned we have talked over the matter, and we have both concluded that it is best to hold our tongues. But if Mr. Joad knows the secret, and you rebuff him, he may not be wise enough to keep silent."
"I am glad to hear you say so!" cried Dora with animation. "Since I can learn the secret from no one else, I'll see if a rebuff cannot loosen Mr. Joad's tongue."
"If you are wise, you will let well alone," warned Mrs. Tice, feeling that she had said too much.
Dora crossed the room, and stood with her hands behind her back, looking indignantly at the old woman.
"Upon my word, it is a shame!" she said in a low voice. "I am apparently surrounded by pitfalls on all sides, yet no one will tell me how to avoid them."
"If you remain quiet, you won't fall into them," replied Mrs. Tice with a nod.
"Quiet!" cried Dora, frowning. "Good heavens! how can I remain quiet when I see my life falling into ruins? No, no, no!" She stamped her foot defiantly. "I must act, I must inquire, I must know what all these mysteries mean!"
"You will never arrive at that knowledge, Miss Carew."
"I'm not so sure of that, Mrs. Tice. Remember your hint about that Joad creature. I'll wring it out of him, if I can't out of anyone else. Mrs. Tice"--Dora flung herself on her knees before the housekeeper--"did you know Mr. Edermont before he came to the Red House?"
"Yes, Miss Carew, I can admit that much: I knew Mr. Edermont."
"Was that when you were Allen's nurse?"
"Yes, Miss Carew."
"In the service of Allen's parents?"
"I was in the service of Dr. and Mrs. Scott," replied Mrs. Tice composedly. "Pray don't ask me any more questions, Miss Carew, for I cannot answer them."
"You will not, you mean," said Dora, rising. "Never mind, I have found out something from the little you have told me."
Mrs. Tice looked up quickly.
"Impossible," she said anxiously. "I have revealed nothing."
"Oh, I can put two and two together, Mrs. Tice," said Dora quietly. "Allen told me that his parents lived in Christchurch, Hants--that his father and mother are buried there. Now, if you knew Mr. Edermont while you were nursing Allen, Mr. Edermont must have lived, or have been on a visit, at Christchurch. Consequently, if I go down to Christchurch I shall learn something of Mr. Edermont's past life."
Mrs. Tice fell into the skilfully-laid trap.
"You won't find that the name of Edermont is known in those parts," she said, without thinking.
"Precisely," said Dora coolly. "Edermont is a false name. I have suspected that for some time. Thank you, Mrs. Tice, for admitting it. I have learnt so much from you. Mr. Joad will tell me the rest."
"Mr. Joad may or may not," said Mrs. Tice doubtfully. "Do not go too much by what I am saying, Miss Carew. You have a skilful and crafty person to deal with."
"Are you talking of yourself?"
"By no means. I am neither skilful nor crafty. I allude to Mr. Joad."
"You seem to be well acquainted with his character, Mrs. Tice. Did you know him at Christchurch?"
"No, my dear. I never saw the man until I came here--to this house. But I have eyes in my head, and I can see that he is singularly deceitful."
"Perhaps, but harmless."
Mrs. Tice shook her head with pursed-up lips.
"I disagree with you. The adder is harmless so long as it isn't trodden upon. Tread upon Mr. Joad, my dear young lady, and he will--bite."
To emphasize the last word Mrs. Tice snapped off a piece of thread, and looked up at Dora with a sharp nod. Evidently Joad had failed to impress her favourably.
"I have no doubt you are right," said Dora, after reflection. "He would be dangerous if he got the chance, but I don't see where his opportunity for mischief comes in."
"Neither do I, Miss Carew; but he'll watch for one, you mark my words."
Dora did not reply to this remark, as she was of the same opinion herself. She was thinking about Carver's remark touching a past romance of Edermont's, and of her own statement to Allen that Mrs. Tice might have been the woman who had to do with the same. It was now her desire to find out if there was any grain of truth in her supposition, but she did not know exactly how to put it to Mrs. Tice. At last she thought the best method to approach so delicate a subject was by a side issue.
"Your husband is dead, isn't he, Mrs. Tice?" she asked with apparent carelessness.
"Yes, Miss Carew," replied the housekeeper; "he died more than twenty-five years ago, and his body is buried in the graveyard of Christchurch Priory."
"Were you much in love with him?"
"We respected and liked one another," said Mrs. Tice judiciously: "but we were not madly in love."
"Were you ever madly in love with anyone, Mrs. Tice?"
"No, my dear young lady," was the laughing reply, "never! I am not a romantic person."
Dora thought for a moment.
"Was Mr. Edermont handsome when you knew him first?"
"He was passable, Miss Carew--a little, womanish man. Even in his youth his hair was white--the effect of nerves, I believe. He was always nervous, poor soul!"
"He had reason to be, evidently."
"Yes," said Mrs. Tice sharply, "good reason. I never liked him, but I was sorry for him."
Determined to know the exact truth, Dora put her question plainly:
"Were you in love with him?"
"What!" said Mrs. Tice, laughing, "with that rat of a man? No, my dear: I had better taste."
This was conclusive, and Dora was satisfied that, whoever had played the part of heroine in her guardian's romance, it was not Mrs. Tice.