Altogether Foster was very pleased with the position of affairs, as there was now some tangible evidence to go upon. In the first place it had been satisfactorily ascertained that Lionel Ventin was identical with Leopold Verschoyle, and in the second the handwriting of the wife of the deceased showed that she deliberately intended to commit the crime, and to all appearances had achieved her object while the steamer was lying at Malta.
"The next thing to be done," said Foster to Ronald and Roper as they sat in his room, "is to obtain evidence as to Mrs. Verschoyle's movements on that night. Now, my impression is that she came on board to see her sister off to England, and while there, saw her husband, heard him tell you the number of his cabin--followed him, and after committing the crime, mixed in the crowd, and returned on shore undetected."
"A very feasible theory," retorted Ronald, in a vexed tone; "but you forget--you have yet to prove that Miss Cotoner is Mrs. Verschoyle's sister.
"That can be at once settled by asking Miss Cotoner."
Ronald moved uneasily in his seat.
"I suppose it must come to that," he replied; "but before asking her, I think it best that Roper should go to Malta, and find out all about Mrs. Verschoyle."
"I can go to-morrow," said Roper, promptly, "and as soon as I find out what you want to know, I'll write at once."
So it was settled. Julian Roper went out to Malta the next day, and there was nothing left for Monteith to do but to wait and see what evidence could be found against Mrs. Verschoyle. He felt very miserable over the whole affair, and particularly as it seemed probable that Carmela would be mixed up in it, and then--well, he did not like to dwell on the thought of such a possibility.
And Carmela?
She, on her part, was quite as unhappy as her lover, because she could not understand his changed attitude towards herself. Formerly he had been assiduous in his attendance on her, but now he rarely came near her, and was always making excuses regarding his absence, excuses which she plainly saw were feigned and forced. She was too proud, however, to complain, and went about as usual with Sir Mark and his daughter--frequented balls, theatres, garden parties, picture galleries, and all the sights of London, never once showing how deeply she felt Ronald's desertion.
Cold, stately, and self-possessed as of old, a keen eye might yet have noticed the dark circles under her eyes, and the increasing pallor of her face. Bell noticed it, and told her father, who, becoming alarmed, wanted to take Carmela down to Marlow at once.
"These London gaieties are too much for you, my dear," he said, anxiously; "you are not used to late hours."
"Oh, I am quite well," answered Carmela, with assumed gaiety; "it is only a little fatigue; you must not hurry me away just when I am enjoying myself."
"Fancy calling this sort of thing enjoyment!" said Bell, contemptuously; "I'm sick of these miles of streets, and crowded dances, and conceited men; give me the country, with a bright sky and a good horse."
"We'll go down soon, then," said Carmela, kissing her; "I only want to stay in town another week, and then I shall be at your disposal."
The fact was, Carmela was cherishing a hope that Ronald would see her, and explain away the discord which seemed to have arisen between them. But though he called occasionally he made no sign, but retained the same reserved demeanour, the reason of which she could not guess.
Ronald, as a matter of fact, was torturing himself over the position of affairs. Was Carmela the sister of Mrs. Verschoyle? If so, she must have been in love with Verschoyle, as his dead friend had clearly said so. In this case he--Ronald--was not her first love, and he felt that such a position was very unsatisfactory.
Another thing was, if Carmela had been standing beside her sister on the night of departure, she also must have recognized Verschoyle, and therefore, when the murder was committed, she must undoubtedly have connected her sister with the crime. And suppose she knew all about it, and was silent in order to shield her sister. Well, he could not blame her for that; but if she were doing this, she was, in a certain way, an accomplice: and could he marry a woman who was not only cognizant of such a crime, but was closely related to the person who had committed it?
Ronald used to lie awake at night, and worry over these things till he thought he should go out of his mind. He was madly in love with Carmela, but still he had a certain amount of self-restraint, and determined not to ask her to be his wife until the mystery which environed the death of Verschoyle was cleared up satisfactorily. Therefore he kept away from her, as he dared not trust himself in her presence without giving way and marrying her without taking anything into consideration.
And so these two young people were in a singularly unhappy position--both in love, yet both living at cross purposes; Carmela wondering at Ronald's sudden change of demeanour, and Ronald trying to solve the doubts which had arisen in his mind concerning the woman he loved.
As to the rest of the "Neptune's" passengers, they were scattered far and wide. Pat Ryan had gone off to look after his Irish estates, which mainly consisted of acres of bog inhabited by evil-minded tenants, who refused to pay the rent, and as Pat was too kind-hearted to evict them, his income was growing beautifully less every day. Kate Lester and her mother had gone down to Hampshire, on a visit to a rich bachelor uncle, who had fallen in love with Kate, and determined to make her his heiress, a proposal not at all distasteful to that pleasure-loving young lady Mrs. Pellypop was down at Marlow with her son-in-law, the Bishop and his meek little wife, and was already exercising over the entire household her despotic rule, until the whole house nearly arose in rebellion. The only one left in London who refused to leave it till Carmela took her departure was Vassalla, for that astute gentleman, seeing there was an estrangement between Carmela and the Australian, determined to turn it to his own advantage, and was always whispering insinuations against Monteith, until, one day, she turned round and asked him what he meant?
"You are always talking against Mr. Monteith," she said angrily, with a red spot on each cheek, "but I have never found him other than a very high-minded gentleman--besides," hurriedly, "what is he to me that I should care about him?"
"Nothing at all, my cousin," replied Vassalla smoothly, caressing his carefully-trimmed beard; "but I knew you liked him, and would be sorry if he conducted himself badly."
"His conduct has nothing to do with me," she retorted, sharply, "how do you mean he is conducting himself badly?
"Cherchez la femme," replied Vassalla, with sardonic smile.
Carmela's heart almost stood still. She turned very pale; but, with a great effort, managed to preserve her composure. So this was the reason of his coldness to her; he was in love with another woman, and had merely amused himself with her on the voyage. With her, Carmela Cotoner! The thought was madness--and she clenched her hands, while the hot blood flushed her cheeks rose-red.
"I don't believe it," she said, hoarsely.
"I can prove my words to be true," answered Vassalla, suavely; "if you come with me to the Italian Exhibition you will see them there."
"How do you know?" she asked, raising her heavy eyes to his.
"That is a secret, my cousin; will you come?"
"No."
"Think it over; I will call again this afternoon," and Vassalla left the house humming a tune.
He knew Ronald would be at the Exhibition that afternoon, as he had met him in the morning casually, and Monteith had mentioned that he was going to take a lady to the Italian Exhibition, so the wily Maltese determined to turn the incident to his own benefit, and, if possible, rouse Carmela's jealousy--that once done, she would marry him, if only out of pique. He knew her too well to doubt that she would come, and he proved a true prophet, for when he called at the Langham at three o'clock, he found her waiting for him, dressed to go out. He, however, was too wise to make any comment, and, stepping into a hansom, they drove to the Strand, and went by the underground railway to the Exhibition.
Ronald was there, as he had promised to escort Mrs. Taunton, for the poor little lady was so grieved and horror-struck over her brother's death that she never let Ronald alone a moment, but was always urging him to go on with the case. It was in vain, he said, they would have to wait till the letter came from Malta before they could make a fresh move. Mrs. Taunton was fiercely impatient, and had accompanied the Australian not so much with the object of seeing the Exhibition as of discussing the case with him. They wandered about, in deep conversation, not heeding, in the least, the crowds of people around them. While thus engaged, Ronald did not see Miss Cotoner, who was standing by the Marchese, looking at him with a sad expression on her face.
"You see, I was right," whispered the Marchese.
"I see," said Carmela, in a tone of suppressed emotion; "but the lady may be only a friend."
"Oh, yes, a dear friend," he answered with a mocking laugh; "why, I tell you, he is never away from her."
"Who is she?" asked Carmela.
"I do not know," answered Vassalla, who knew perfectly well, but was not going to reveal his knowledge, "they are always together."
At this moment Ronald raised his eyes and saw Carmela. A sudden exclamation arose to his lips, and he made a movement as if about to step forward, when suddenly he drew back, and raising his hat with a bow, took his companion's arm and disappeared in the crowd. This action seemed to confirm Carmela's suspicions, and with a stifled sob she turned away, the Marchese following in silent triumph.
"Who was that lady?" asked Mrs. Taunton, when they were some distance away.
"A lady I know," he answered, evasively.
"And love?"
"Why do you think so?"
"That is, if you return love for love--I saw it in her face."
"Impossible!
"Not at all, it's merely a woman's instinct; come, tell me, do you love her?"
"Yes," he answered, sadly, "too well."
"Nonsense," said Mrs. Taunton, rapidly, "no woman can be loved too well."
"No, I agree with you there--if she is worthy of it."
"And is this lady not worthy?"
"I don't know."
"How mysterious you are--it is cruel of me to keep you trying to solve the riddle of my brother's death, when you ought to be making love to that young lady."
"That is just it," said Ronald, with a groan; "if your brother had not been killed, I would not have doubted her."
"What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Taunton, breathlessly; "who is she?"
"Miss Cotoner."
"What! The sister of my brother's wife?"
"I don't know," he said, dreamily.
"You don't know--you don't know?" she said, with a quick, indrawn breath; "what parrot-cry is this--did she come from Malta?"
"Yes."
"Then she must be what I have said."
Ronald sighed.
"I cant tell till I hear from Malta."
"Does she know anything about my brother's death?"
"Good God! no," he answered, quickly; "how could she?"
"I don't know," she answered, between her clenched teeth; "but there is more in this than I understand."
"You don't think I am playing you false?" he said, sharply.
"No," she replied, in a kinder tone; "I don't think that--you have been so kind."
"I intend to find out who killed your brother, and punish him or her," he said, slowly; "and though I love Miss Cotoner more than my life, till I discover this mystery, I will not speak one word of love to her."
"You promise me?"
"I promise," and he took her hand.
They were silent for a moment, and then passed out of the garden together, both absorbed in their own thoughts.
The woman's: "Will this love prevent him doing justice to my brother's memory?"
The man's; "Is Carmela aware that I know her relationship to Mrs. Verschoyle?"
Julian Roper to Ronald Monteith.
Dear Sir,--I have now been here a week, and in accordance with your instructions, have lost no time in investigating the case entrusted to me; but the results, I regret to say, are far from satisfactory. On my arrival at Valletta, I took up my quarters at the Hotel D'Angleterre, in the Strada Sta. Lucia, made inquiries as to the whereabouts of Mrs. Verschoyle, and after some considerable difficulty, found that she was staying at a boarding-house in the Strada Cristoforo.
On learning this, I thought my best plan would be to take up my abode in the same house, as I could then learn with more precision the movements of Mrs. Verschoyle. To this end I went to the Strada Cristoforo, and found the boarding-house to be a very comfortable one, kept by a fat widow whose name is Signora Briffa. I secured very pleasant apartments, and took possession of them next day, much to my own satisfaction and that of the Signora.
At thetable d'hôteI met the rest of the lodgers, who are a queer-looking lot, mostly Italians, with a sprinkling of English people. Among the latter is a Mrs. Dexter, the widow of a colonel in the Indian army, who has been staying in Valletta for the last fifteen years for her health, and being a garrulous old person, much given to gossip, knows everything and everyone. She is tall, rather thin, with sharp features--scanty, grey hair, and cold, grey eyes. In fact, she gave me the impression of being a decidedly unpleasant person, a presentiment which turned out to be true on my further acquaintance with her. She confesses to the age of thirty-five, though I shrewdly suspect forty-five, or even more, would be near the mark. She has one quality, however, which is of great service to me--she hates Mrs. Verschoyle with all the intense hatred of a narrow-minded woman. Her reasons are twofold. First, Mrs. Verschoyle is very handsome; Mrs. Dexter is not. Secondly, Mrs. Verschoyle is rich, whereas Mrs. Dexter is poor. Given these reasons, can you wonder at the malignity of her feelings towards Mrs. Verschoyle? As to the latter, she is very beautiful--I speak as an unenthusiastic man--tall, dark skinned, with clearly cut features, and magnificent, black eyes, she impressed me at once with an overwhelming sense of a strong personality. Looking at her in repose, she is a fine picture, but once hear her talk, and the charm is gone. Yes, her voice is very coarse, and sounds discordantly; in addition to which, she is insufferably proud--another cause of Mrs. Dexter's dislike--and has a very violent temper. She, of course, did not deign to speak to me--a mere English tourist--such, of course, is my character--but gave all her attention to Lord Francis Hurlington, a young nobleman who hovers round her like a moth round a candle. I hope he will not singe his lordly wings.
Seeing me, seated in the drawing-room all alone, Mrs. Dexter came and sat beside me, apparently out of good nature for one so forsaken, but in reality to learn all my history, and gratify her love of curiosity. I told her my history--that is, I invented a fictitious story, which proved that I ought to have been a novelist. In return for my confidence, she told me all about the inmates of the house, more especially of Mrs. Verschoyle, thinking, I've no doubt, that a skilfully coloured story might injure the lady in my estimation. I heard all about the divorce case, but as you are already acquainted with the facts, there is no need, on my part, for repetition, so I may as well tell you the story of Mrs. Verschoyle's life from the time she settled in Valletta after the divorce.
In the first place, she has an income from the late Mr. Verschoyle, and not caring to take a house, lived at first in lodgings; but such was the violence of her temper that she was turned out of one place after another till she found a haven of rest at Signora Briffa's, as that lady does not regard temper so long as the money is paid regularly. Mrs. Verschoyle has a sister called Carmela, who is at present in England, whither she went, on board the "Neptune." It appears she was in England before, but came out to Malta to live with her sister. They quarrelled, however, and Carmela, in a rage, left Mrs. Verschoyle and went to London, as you know, in the same boat as you did.
The Marchese Vassalla, who is her cousin, also went with her, though he has always been, and is still, good friends with Mrs. Verschoyle, and I shrewdly suspect, from hints conveyed by Mrs. Dexter, that the lady in question is in love with him. Having thus got a general outline of the life of Mrs. Verschoyle, I questioned Mrs. Dexter in detail, and here I was even more fortunate than before, as I found this excellent person kept a diary, which she agreed to show to me. You will wonder at my being honoured with such a confidence after so short an acquaintance, but the fact is Mrs. Dexter discovered--with a woman's instinct--that my mission was inimical to the interests of Mrs. Verschoyle, and she agreed to let me see her diary, in order that I might secure anything that could be detrimental to her enemy's character.
I might as well mention that Mrs. Colonel Dexter, being quite alone in the world, and having very little money, agreed to accept a sum of money as a bribe, or, as she put it, a loan--loan or bribe, the fact remains the same--she took it. She likewise promised to observe profound secrecy, so, having thus secured her allegiance, I went to my own room and perused the pages of her diary, taking notes as I went along. The notes are as follows, but I am afraid they are of small value, as they seem--to my mind--to lead to nothing:--
April 29th.--Another quarrel! I knew it would lead to this. I wonder Carmela puts up with the insolence of her sister. No wonder Mr. Verschoyle divorced her; no one could live with such a bad-tempered woman. She says she divorced him, but, of course, I know the truth, though she doesn't think so. She puts me in mind of that horrid Major Penton's wife at Simla--the same bold way about her. I asked Carmela where Mr. Verschoyle was, and she said she did not know. Of course she did not, but I do; he's in Australia. Signora Briffa told me that Carmela was in love with Mr. Verschoyle herself, but he preferred her sister. No wonder they quarrel.
May 1st.--Mrs. Verschoyle is setting her cap at Lord Francis, and I can see very well is trying to marry him. He's a fool, I know, but not quite so foolish as to make her his wife, in fact, I think he rather inclines to her sister. I believe Mrs. Verschoyle sees this, and it makes her none the more friendly towards Carmela. I wonder how it will end?
May 10th.--Such a lot has happened lately. Lord Francis is gone, and Mrs. Verschoyle is furious. I am very glad, as she has missed her chance of a coronet. I believe he proposed to Carmela, and went away in a rage because she refused him. He has left for Constantinople in his yacht, and Mrs. Verschoyle would have given her ears to have gone also--the bold thing! The enmity between the sisters still continues, and I verily believe Mrs. Verschoyle would kill Carmela with pleasure if she could do so with safety. I overheard a curious conversation between them, and I wonder what it means. I was sitting in the drawing-room, half hidden by the curtains, when the sisters entered the room and began to quarrel as usual--a most delightful pair. I despise listeners, but I could not help myself, so had to overhear their conversation--unwillingly, of course; it will be best for me to put it in a dramatic form.
Mrs. Verschoyle: You know you loved him! (I wonder whom she means).
Carmela: Yes, I did, but it was only the fancy of a girl; when he married you I did not care a bit about him; (I see now, they are talking of Mrs. Verschoyle's husband;) but he was a good husband to you, and you might have made his life happy.
Mrs. Verschoyle: He betrayed me for another woman.
Carmela: Only after you made his life so unendurable that he had to leave you.
Mrs. Verschoyle: You take his part? I believe you are in love with him still.
Carmela: I am not, and you know it.
Here, Mrs. Verschoyle burst into a torrent of such abusive language, that, as a gentlewoman and a Christian, I had to interfere. Carmela left the room, and after Mrs. Verschoyle's anger had expended itself, she relapsed into sulky silence.
June 5th. Such a delightful man is staying here--Marchese Matteo Vassalla--he is a cousin of the sisters, and is waiting the arrival of the P. and O. "Neptune" to go on to England. I have made a discovery; he is in love with Carmela, and Mrs. Verschoyle is in love with him. How strange! Carmela always seems to stand in the way of her sister, and that does not mend the breach between them. They went out together and came back quarrelling--I suppose, about the Marchese--and Carmela said she was going to England in the "Neptune."
June 13th. The "Neptune" has arrived, and Carmela has secured her passage. She is going to Sir Mark Trevor in England, and will be escorted by her cousin, Vassalla. I should not wonder if they were engaged by the time they reach London. Carmela and her sister made up their quarrel, and went out together, then Carmela came back alone, almost crying and shut herself in her room. Mrs. Verschoyle's a minx; later on that lady came back in a fearful rage, I fancy she must have spoken to some one who differed from her; she tried to see Carmela, but that young lady very properly refused to be further insulted, so Mrs. Verschoyle shut herself up in her room. Carmela went away without saying good-bye to her, and Mrs. Verschoyle refused to come to dinner. After dinner, I went up to her room, and knocked at the door; it was still locked, and I could obtain no answer from her, so I went to bed early, having a headache.
June 14th.--Next morning Mrs. Verschoyle was not at breakfast, and sent down word she had a headache; no wonder, with the way she lets her violent temper run away with her. I saw her later in the day, and asked her why she did not answer when I knocked on the previous night. She said she was asleep and did not hear me. I did not speak to her again. She has lost both her lovers and her sister, and I'm not sorry.
Here all extracts from the diary likely to be of any use to us end, and if you will read them carefully, you will see that according to the report of Mrs. Dexter, faithfully given, Mrs. Verschoyle did not leave the house on the night of the sailing of the "Neptune," so she could not have been on board, and consequently must be innocent of the crime.
Now, of course, it is a debatable question whether or not Mrs. Verschoyle really did leave the house. You will perceive that she refused to come down to dinner, and stayed in her own room. After dinner, Mrs. Dexter went up to her door, found it locked, and could get no answer. Now, what was easier than for Mrs. Verschoyle to slip out of her room while all were at dinner, and the servants away in the kitchen, lock her door, to lead to the belief that she was still there, and go off to the ship, commit the crime, and come home again? Unluckily, Mrs. Dexter went to bed early, or Mrs. Verschoyle's return would not have escaped her lynx-eyes; so if she did go out as I surmise--and, mind you it is only a surmise--the servants might have seen her return. I therefore questioned the servants, but could get no satisfactory answers out of them, as they could remember nothing; not even money could sharpen their wits. In this extremity, I bethought myself of boldly asking Mrs. Verschoyle herself, and in the drawing-room, after dinner, I led the conversation round to the excellence of the P. and O. steamers, and asked her if she had seen the "Neptune"? She winced and changed colour a little, and then answered, "No." Mrs. Dexter then became my ally, and the conversation was as follows:--
Mrs. Dexter: Your sister went to England in the "Neptune?"
Mrs. Verschoyle: Yes, and so did my cousin, the Marchese Vassalla, but for all that, I did not see the boat.
Myself: Why--did you not go on board to say good-bye?
Mrs. Verschoyle: No; I had a headache, and did not leave my room.
Mrs. Dexter: Yes, I remember. I knocked at your door, and could get no answer.
Mrs. Verschoyle (quickly): I was asleep.
Myself: It was a pity you did not see the "Neptune"; she is such a magnificent vessel.
This closed the conversation, and left things as they were. You see, Mrs. Verschoyle denies that she left the house on that evening; so if this is the case, she can prove analibi, and thus cannot be accused of committing the crime. I, however, am not satisfied with her denial; she winced when I mentioned the "Neptune"; moreover, I knew that her husband was on board, as she met him during the day; which, by the way, explains the passage in Mrs. Dexter's diary, that she returned in a rage.
To my mind, therefore, the only people who can definitely say if she were on board, are Miss Carmela Cotoner and the Marchese Vassalla; for even if she went on board secretly to see her husband, she could not have escaped notice by her sister and cousin. My advice, therefore, is for you to see either Miss Cotoner or the Marchese Vassalla, and find out if Mrs. Verschoyle were on board before the "Neptune" sailed; if so, we can pursue our inquiries; if not, we must turn in another direction.
As I have now got all the information I can obtain here, I am leaving to-morrow for England, and if possible, will get the stiletto used in the committal of the crime from the authorities at Gibraltar. I may add that I have obtained a specimen of Mrs. Verschoyle's writing to compare with the paper you gave me; and though there is a similarity, there is also a distinct difference; but then handwriting does alter in five or six years, and the best thing will be to submit the papers to an expert, who can easily tell if they were written by the same person.
I will call at Mr. Foster's rooms directly on my arrival in England, and report more fully.
Yours obediently,
Julian Roper.
After reading Roper's letter, Ronald went to Foster's chambers and showed it to him. The barrister read it in silence, and then laying it down on the table, looked hard at Monteith.
"You see, I was right," he said, tapping the letter with his fingers; "Miss Cotoner is, as I thought, the sister of Mrs. Verschoyle."
"Yes," replied Ronald, quickly; "but she has nothing in common with her."
"Ah! you think not--let me see;" taking up the letter and glancing over it; "they both have tempers."
"Any woman would show temper, living with such a fiend as Mrs. Verschoyle," retorted Ronald, defending Carmela.
"They both loved the same man,--meaning Verschoyle."
"But Carmela's love for him was only a girlish fancy, as she says herself in Mrs. Dexter's diary."
"In short," said Foster, replacing the letter on the table; "you are so much in love with her that you cannot see her imperfections?"
"I am not blind to them, if that's what you mean," retorted Ronald, doggedly; "but all I know is, I love her, and intend to ask her to be my wife."
"Ah! well, as soon as this mystery is cleared up."
"I understand," said Foster, rising from his chair, and walking to and fro; "but, judging from this letter of Roper's, the elucidation seems as far off as ever."
"I don't see that--for, taking all things into consideration, I am inclined to think Mrs. Verschoyle is telling a lie."
"Oh! so you believe she was on board the 'Neptune' that night?"
Ronald nodded.
"There's no proof."
"Certainly, not any actual proof," said Ronald, quietly; "but I think it is very probable that Roper's theory is correct, and she did leave her bedroom, lock the door, and then return without anyone seeing her."
"Well, the whole affair is easily settled--go and see Miss Cotoner, or Vassalla, and ask them if Mrs. Verschoyle came on board--they will certainly know."
"I don't believe Miss Cotoner knows anything about it," said Ronald, angrily; "if they quarrelled before leaving the house, you may be certain that Mrs. Verschoyle never came near her on the boat."
"But Miss Cotoner might have seen her sister."
"She might; but I won't ask her."
"Well, my dear boy," said Foster, rather annoyed at this sentimental obstinacy; "go and see Vassalla."
"Yes, I'll do that--he'll be able to tell me whether she was on board or not."
"No doubt--if it suit him to acknowledge it," retorted Foster, dryly.
"What do you mean?" asked the Australian, impatiently; "you think----"
"I mean nothing--I think nothing," replied the other, quickly; "go and see the Marchese Vassalla, and then tell me what you discover."
"And then----"
"Well, then, it depends on his answers regarding our next move."
Ronald put on his hat and gloves, then, taking his leave, went outside into the roar and bustle of Fleet Street. Through an archway he could see the quiet Temple Gardens, and could not help contrasting their solitariness and charm with the turmoil on the pavements.
"Hang it!" he said to himself, as he watched the busy crowds rushing past, "everyone here seems to live with their watches in their hands; I should not like to live here, but I suppose I'll have to stop till I find out all about Verschoyle's death;" and this last reflection putting him in mind of his engagement, he stepped into a hansom, and drove off to the Langham Hotel, to see Vassalla.
Vassalla was upstairs, in a private sitting-room, enjoying his breakfast, when Monteith's card was sent to him. Carmela had gone out with Sir Mark and his daughter, so the Marchese felt perfectly secure against the chance of Ronald meeting her. He dreaded the meeting, because disagreeable explanations might be made which would reconcile the lovers, and ruin all his carefully prepared schemes. As he looked at the card thoughtfully, he was rapidly running over in his mind the reasons which might make Ronald thus seek him. No feasible one, however, presenting itself to him, he told the waiter to show the gentleman up, and quietly went on with his breakfast.
"He has some reason for coming," he muttered, quietly; "and I'll find it out; don't trouble yourself Mr. Monteith--friend or enemy, I'm equal to either."
He arose from his seat with an enigmatical smile on his face as the Australian entered, and held out his hand. The other took it with a slight reluctance which was noticed by the clever Maltese gentleman.
"Hum!" he thought; "not quite friendly, I see."
Ronald took a seat, declined the offer of breakfast and prepared to talk.
"Miss Cotoner is out," he said, coldly.
"Yes, with Sir Mark Trevor and his charming daughter," replied Vassalla. "Do you wish to see her?"
"No; I want to see you."
"Me?" the foreigner's eyebrows went up. "Well, I am at your disposal."
"It is about that murder that took place on board the 'Neptune,'" said Ronald, going straight to the point.
"Ah, indeed!" said said the Marchese, quietly; "a most interesting subject. Have you discovered anything yet?"
"Yes, many things."
"Such as will lead to the detection of the assassin, I presume?"
"I don't know," answered Ronald, shortly.
"That's a pity; can I assist you in any way?"
"I think you can."
"Then you may command my services," replied the Marchese, politely.
"Thank you; I will take advantage of your offer," said Ronald, glancing at the impassive face before him.
Vassalla bowed, folded his arms, and leaning back in his chair, prepared to listen.
"In the first place," said Ronald, "you knew him?"
Vassalla shook his head.
"No; I had not the honour of M. Ventin's acquaintance."
"His name was not Ventin."
"Indeed!"
"No; it was Leopold Verschoyle."
"Leopold Verschoyle," repeated the Marchese, looking at him sharply; "that was the name of the man who married my cousin."
"Yes, and from whom he was afterwards divorced."
"Exactly," said Vassalla. "I see you know the whole story; so he is the man who was killed?"
"He was, and I want to find out who killed him."
The eyebrows went up again incredulously.
"I hope you will succeed," said Vassalla, politely, "but in what way can I help you?"
"Do you know anyone who desired his death?"
"No.
"Not even his--wife?"
Vassalla rose to his feet with a bound, and looked fiercely at Ronald.
"This is an insult, sir," he hissed out between his teeth. "Do you dare to accuse my cousin of the murder?"
"I accuse no one," retorted Ronald, coolly. "I merely asked you if his wife would have been sorry at his death."
Vassalla threw himself back in his chair, with a short, angry laugh.
"Upon my soul, sir," he said, coldly, "I hardly recognise your right to speak to me about such a thing; but as you seem so bent on knowing, I think she would have been--very sorry, indeed."
"Oh! Then she still loved him?"
Vassalla cast his fine eyes up to the ceiling.
"Passionately!"
"That is curious," said Ronald, sardonically, "as I have a document in my possession, written five or six years ago, in which she threatens to kill him."
"Indeed, and how did you obtain such a document?"
"I found it among some papers left by Verschoyle with his sister, Mrs. Taunton."
"Ah!" Vassalla thought a moment: so this was the reason Monteith was with Mrs. Taunton; it was business, not love, that brought them together; well, at all events, he would not let Carmela know. After a moment's deliberation, he faced his adversary with a clear brow.
"Very likely it was written in her first outburst of jealous anger at being so betrayed by her husband; but I assure you she loved her husband deeply, in spite of the way he wronged her, and often spoke of him with affection."
Judging from the story told to him by Verschoyle, and the extracts from Mrs. Dexter's diary, Ronald thought this doubtful, but restrained his desire to give an opinion on that point.
"Did Mrs. Verschoyle come on board, the night the 'Neptune' left Malta?"
Vassalla glanced keenly at him.
"Why should she?"
"To see you and Miss Cotoner off."
"Suppose she did come on board?"
"She might have seen her husband."
"Impossible! She did not know he was on board."
"Yes, she did. Verschoyle told me he met her in Valletta on that day."
Vassalla drummed quickly in an annoyed manner on the table with his fingers, then answered abruptly,
"She did not come on board."
"Oh!" Ronald was disappointed; were all his suspicions groundless, after all?
"No; she was confined to her room all the evening with a headache."
This statement, as Ronald knew, tallied with Mrs. Dexter's diary, and he felt that, after all, it might be the truth, and that Mrs. Verschoyle had not been on board; in which case--who was the assassin?
Vassalla saw the expression of disbelief flitting across Ronald's expressive face, and arose to his feet.
"In order to convince you," he said, quickly, "I will show you the letter I received from my cousin."
"There is no need," began Ronald, but Vassalla interrupted him.
"Pardon me, there is," he said coldly; "I wish you to be thoroughly convinced that Mrs. Verschoyle was not on board, and could not have either seen her husband or have had anything to do with his death."
"I did not say she had," interrupted Ronald, hastily.
"No, but you thought so," retorted the Marchese, as he left the room.
Ronald arose to his feet, and walked hastily too and fro. He was wrong, then; Mrs. Verschoyle was innocent of her husband's death. Who, then, was the assassin, for no one else appeared to have had any reason to wish him evil. Vassalla himself? no! it could not be he, because he had no motive. The theory of Mrs. Verschoyle's criminality having been thus effectually disposed of, there appeared to be absolutely no clue to the perpetrator of the crime.
Vassalla returned with the letter, and handed it to Ronald, showing him at the same time the passage he alluded to.
"I was so sorry," said the letter, "not to have been able to come down and see you and Carmela away by the boat, but I had a very bad headache, and was shut up all the evening in my room."
Ronald handed back the letter in silence, but first thoughtfully glanced at the writing. It certainly resembled that in the letter written five or six years ago, but he could not recollect it with sufficient clearness to satisfy himself.
"You are convinced?" said Vassalla, as he placed the letter in his pocket-book.
"Yes," answered Ronald, "I am convinced; good-bye, and thank you for your kindness in answering my questions."
"A pleasure," said the Marchese, and bowed his visitor out with smiles, which, however, faded as the door closed.
"Curse that meddling fool," he muttered to himself, "why can't he mind his own business? but I've baffled him this time, and I'll baffle him again if he interfere."
Of course Ronald went straight to Foster's office, and there made his report regarding the statements of Vassalla. The barrister listened to Monteith in silence, and, when he was in full possession of the facts, sat absently scribbling on his blotting-paper, much to Ronald's disgust at what he deemed his inattention. "Hang it, Foster," said the Australian, irritably, "I wish you'd say something; you've not lost your tongue, have you?"
"No; nor my brains either," retorted Foster, lighting a cigarette, "you'd better have a smoke; it will soothe you."
"I don't want to be soothed."
"Oh, yes, you do," returned Gerald, imperturbably; "try one of these; they are real Russian cigarettes."
In order to propitiate his companion, Ronald took one and smoked away in sulky silence. Mr. Foster settled himself deliberately in his chair, and fixing his clear eyes on Monteith, began to talk.
"What do you think of the position of affairs now?" he asked, knocking the ash off his cigarette.
"It seems to me that the game's up," retorted Ronald, sullenly.
"On the contrary, the game is just beginning to be interesting," said Foster, calmly.
"What do you mean?" asked Ronald, sitting up straight in his chair. "I tell you, Vassalla not only told me plainly that Mrs. Verschoyle was not on board, but showed me a letter in her own handwriting which confirmed it."
"Oh, yes," said Foster, satirically, "I must acknowledge it's all very beautifully arranged."
Ronald looked at him in amazement.
"What is beautifully arranged?" he asked, shortly.
"The plot."
"Plot--what plot?"
Foster arose from his chair, and walked slowly to and fro with his hands behind his back.
"I tell you what, my boy," he said, rapidly, "this thing is becoming more mysterious with every fresh discovery. Verschoyle had no enemy, as far as we know, but his wife; we have documentary evidence saying she intended to murder him, and he was murdered at the very place where she was staying. Roper says she did not leave the house. Vassalla says she was not on board. Her own letter says she was confined to her room with a headache. Fudge! I don't believe any one of them."
"Then you think she was on board?" asked Ronald, eagerly.
"I'm certain of it. I ask you, as a logical man, whether a jealous woman like Mrs. Verschoyle, knowing her husband was on board the 'Neptune,' could resist the temptation of seeing him? Nonsense! I tell you she was on board, and if Vassalla says she was not, he has a reason."
"What reason can he have?"
"He wants to shield her from the consequences of her crime. He is her cousin, and blood is thicker than water."
"This is all very well," said Ronald, quietly; "but all your views are quite theoretical, and we cannot obtain a single particle of evidence to prove that she came on board at all."
"How do you know we cannot?"
"Well, there's Roper's letter--her own letter and Vassalla's denial. Who else can prove she was on board?"
"Miss Cotoner."
"Oh!" Ronald arose and went to the window. "I don't think so," he said, turning round. "If Mrs. Verschoyle quarrelled with her sister, it's not likely she'd go near her."
"Perhaps not, but Miss Cotoner might have seen her. You'd better go and ask her."
Ronald hesitated a moment, then made up his mind,
"Very well; I'll call at the Langham this afternoon, and may possibly see her; but I think it's a wild goose chase."
"We'll see," said Foster, shortly, returning to his books, while Ronald went off to his hotel, took a light luncheon, then dressing himself carefully, ordered a hansom, and drove to the Langham.
Carmela was in, so Ronald sent up his card to her, and asked for the favour of an interview. This, however, Carmela hesitated before granting, as she was very angry with Ronald's supposed treachery towards herself. Had she not seen her rival with her own eyes, and been told of Monteith's infatuation for that detestable woman, as she called innocent Mrs. Taunton? And now he had the bad taste to ask for an interview--well, she would grant his request, and would show him that she was not a woman to be lightly won and thrown over.
What consummate actresses women are! When Ronald entered her drawing-room, he expected to find Carmela pale and anxious, through fretting over his long absence from her side, and it was rather a blow to his self-love when she came forward with a bright, smiling face and outstretched hands.
"How do you do, Mr. Monteith?" she said, in her low, sweet voice; "you are quite a stranger."
Ronald muttered something about business as he took her hand, and then sat down, thinking to himself that this heartless coquette could never have cared for him. Carmela on her part, rang for afternoon tea, and then began to talk lightly of the most commonplace topics, much to Ronald's secret irritation.
"Sir Mark and Miss Trevor are out," she said, gaily, leaning back in her chair; "and it is a mere chance you found me in."
"When do you go to Marlow?" asked the Australian, abruptly.
"Next week, I think. I must confess I am a little tired of London."
"And Vassalla?"
She looked annoyed.
"I do not know what my cousin is going to do. Ah! here is the tea. Let me give you a cup;" rising and going to the table.
"Thank you," said Ronald, mechanically; "I want to speak to you on serious business."
"Do you indeed?" carelessly. "Milk and sugar?"
"Both," he answered, annoyed at the flippancy of her tone; "this business is very serious."
"It must be, judging from your tone," she replied, giving him his tea, and returning to her own seat. "By the way, what did you think of the Italian Exhibition?"
"What!" he said, with a sudden start. "Oh, yes, of course--I met you there when I was with Mrs. Taunton."
Carmela winced; so her rival was a married woman!
"I do not know her," she said, idly balancing her spoon on the edge of her cup.
"No," he said, bending forward; "but you know a relative of hers."
"Indeed!" carelessly; "and his name?"
"Leopold Verschoyle."
Carmela let her spoon fall with a crash, and turned her pale, scared face to Ronald quickly.
"Leopold Verschoyle?" she said, rapidly, while her breath came quick and sharp. "What do you know of Leopold Verschoyle?"
"I know he was your sister's husband."
"Was!" she smiled scornfully. "You speak in the past tense because of his divorce."
"No; I speak in the past tense because of his death."
"Death!" She arose to her feet with a look of horror in her dark eyes. "Is Leopold Verschoyle dead?"
"Yes. I will tell you all about it if you will answer a question."
She sat down again, pale but composed.
"And the question?"
"Was your sister, Mrs. Verschoyle, on board the night the 'Neptune' left Malta?"
"Yes."
Ronald sprang to his feet in horror.
"Are you sure?"
"Of course I am," she answered, raising her eyebrows. "My sister and myself had a quarrel during the day, and I did not say good-bye to her at the house, so I suppose she was sorry, for she came on board and took leave of me there."
"But Vassalla says she was not on board."
Carmela looked surprised.
"Why, he was with her all the time! I was separated from them by the crowd, and I did not see my sister again, but Vassalla told me he had seen her safely down the gangway before the ship sailed."
Ronald sat wrapped in thought; so Foster was right, there was some plot on foot; he made another attempt.
"But I saw a letter from your sister to Vassalla, in which she says she was not on board, being confined to her room with a bad headache."
"Why should my sister write such a letter?" asked Carmela, angrily. "I don't understand all this mystery; there was no reason why she should conceal the fact that she said good-bye to me on board the 'Neptune.'"
"I hope not," he said, gloomily.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that your sister's husband was on board."
"What!" She rose to her feet, looking like a tall white lily; "how is it I never saw him? I would know Leopold Verschoyle among a thousand."
Ronald, seeing the deep interest she took in this man, became brutal.
"The reason you did not see him," he said, coldly, "was because he was murdered, and his name was Lionel Ventin."
"My God!"
A white heap on the floor, and Ronald bending over it, trying to bring her back to consciousness. He sprinkled some water on her face, and with a low moan she sat up, and pushing her dark hair off her forehead, looked confusedly at him.
"I must have fainted," she said, as he assisted her to a seat, "but the shock was too much. God knows I have forgotten Leopold Verschoyle many long day since; but dead! oh, it is too horrible."
Ronald sat in silence, not daring to say anything.
"Who killed him?" she asked, suddenly looking up.
"I don't know."
She clasped her hands over her knees, and looked fixedly at him.
"You don't know for certain," she said, slowly; "but you have your suspicions, and I want to know everything; tell me all."
Whereupon Ronald told her what had happened, and how the links were being slowly added to the chain of evidence that seemed to connect her sister with the crime. When he was done she was pale, but composed.
"It is very strange," she said, in her clear voice, "and I do not know what to say. I do not like my sister; she is a woman of violent temper, but I am certain she would not commit a crime."
"Then why does she deny being on board the night the crime was committed?"
"I cannot say, because she certainly was. I must write and ask her. I will also speak to Vassalla; there is something mysterious about this affair; but my sister must clear herself; it is too horrible that she should be suspected of such a crime; and this," with a sudden thought, "is why you are always with Mrs. Taunton?"
"Yes; she is quite distracted over her brother's death."
"Vassalla said you loved her."
Ronald sprang to his feet with a cry of anger.
"Then he lies; the only woman I ever did love, and ever shall love is----"
She placed her hand on his lips.
"Hush! Do not mention her name till the mystery of Leopold Verschoyle's death is solved."
"And then?" he said eagerly, catching her hand.
She drew it away quickly with a stifled cry.
"I cannot say," she said wildly, wringing her hands; "God only knows the end. My sister must defend herself from this charge. I will write to her at once."
At this moment a knock came to the door, and Carmela had just time to turn and conceal her haggard face when a servant entered with a telegram, and Ronald took it while the man retired.
"This telegram is for you," he said, holding it out.
"For me?" she said, turning and taking it from him; "what can it be about?" and she tore open the envelope, read the telegram, and gave a cry of delight.
"What is it?" asked Ronald, anxiously.
"I need not write to Malta," she said, quickly; "my sister is on her way to England."