The insulting peroration of Dr. Carson's effusion was suppressed by Mallow; for Olive was already suffering severely under the knowledge of her father's misdeeds. He was a murderer, a blackmailer, a thief--he, her dearly-loved father, whom from a child she had set up as her idol. Who could cherish, nay, even respect, the memory of a man guilty of what she now learned he had been guilty? Small wonder, indeed, that he had implored her to conceal that guilt, even though it cost her a life's happiness in the doing. She had a rigid sense of right and wrong, and, despite herself, her idol crashed from off the pedestal whereon she had so lovingly set it up just as Mr. Brock had prophesied it would. And with it went all her dearest memories--all the recollections which she had cherished for so long--which in the cherishing had become a part of her self--perhaps, even the better part. She wept bitterly at the ruin of her world. And Mallow let her weep. He felt it was better so. And when she grew more composed he left her, holding over the fire, as he rose from his seat, the leaves that had brought such sorrow with them. She divined what he would do, and sanctioned it with a slow bend of her head. And then the flames destroyed for ever the tangible evidence of Mark Bellairs' sins.
When Mallow returned she was more herself. She had dried her eyes. "Would you like to talk about this, Olive?"
"No, dear, no. Of what use! Nothing we can say can alter such truths as these."
"Perhaps not; but we can at least hide them. No one save you and I knows this story. No one must know it, Olive--for your father's sake."
"Mr. Brock knows it?"
"Mr. Brock, yes. But we can trust Mr. Brock. Indeed, he has done all a man could do to spare you. I feel I am in no small degree myself to blame for the knowledge of this having reached you at all. I urged him to it."
"Oh, it is better I should know it, Laurence. At least, we know the worst now. Nothing--oh, surely nothing could be worse than this. Poor father is gone. But, Laurence dear, I have you, Laurence--I always have you. Thank God for you, Laurence."
"But remember, Olive, if your father sinned, he repented--bitterly repented."
"Yes, Laurence, I know. But he was willing I should be sacrificed to hide his sin--I, who loved him so--that hurts me terribly, Laurence; that is not easy to forgive."
"Is it not possible that he agreed to this man Carson's proposal to save you from the truth--that you might never know?"
"Even so, it was for his own sake--for his memory's sake."
"May be, yes. But that was only natural, Olive. Would it not be his great desire that you should think the best of him? And, after all, dear, this act of your father's was the act of days long bygone--thirty years or more ago--and from then to the time of his death he led an upright, honest life. Think of him, not as Trall's accomplice, dear, but as the father you knew. Try and do that, Olive--will you?"
"If you wish it, Laurence--yes, I will try."
And so the fateful missive was destroyed, and they made up their minds that they would put their knowledge behind them, and slip back again into the old life as though it had never been. Their Hegira was before them--from their marriage they would date it. And that was to be very soon now. Yet there were details which must be settled before they finally dismissed the past. And with these Olive prepared to busy herself. Great as was her sorrow, she did not allow it to sadden her. She determined it should permeate her every-day existence. She was quietly cheerful, and ever amiable to her guests. She was kindly sympathetic to Aldean and Tui, and listened with all patience to the disquisitions of Miss Slarge, even unto the doings of Ala Mahozim, the god of fortifications. Of Mrs. Purcell she saw little in these days. That good lady was indefatigably scouring the county, renewing early friendships, and conducting an orderly canvass in favour of Olive, and to the denunciation of her bigamist husband. Maids and matrons lifted up their hands in horror at Mrs. Purcell's revelations; men, old and young, expressed violent desires to have Carson within boot-reach. So vigorously did the clever old lady raise the countryside in Olive's favour, that the tide of sympathy soon set strongly towards the Manor House, and Miss Bellairs--Mrs. Carson no longer on friendly tongues--was pitied, petted, called upon, and duly wept over.
As aDea ex machinâ, Mrs. Purcell had been successful far beyond the thanks of those whom she sought to serve.
Meanwhile Trall had picked up his health in no small degree, and with it a courage long foreign to his timid nature. But, lest he should revert to his old habits, Mallow feared to let him out of sight. He kept him always within the grounds of the Manor. There he pottered about, from day to day, and the servants understood that he was a decayed gentleman pensioner of their mistress. Jeremiah, collecting his rags of gentility, supported the character well enough. He never alluded in any way to his stormy life of the past. His mind taking a religious turn, he dismissed his former state as one of sin, and not to be referred to; and he spent hours reading the Bible in preparation for his summons to another existence. And, seemingly, that call was not very far away. The man's once bulky frame had shrunk and dwindled greatly, so that his clothes hung loosely upon him now.
After the burning of the document, Laurence called at the Vicarage to tell Mr. Brock of what he had done. But this time the deaf spinster was successful, and he obtained no admission to the Vicarage. Mr. Brock sent out a message that he was much engaged, and could see no one for a week at least. Surprised somewhat, Mallow took himself off, and on the road up to the Manor met little Mr. Timson, the doctor, pounding along on his broken-kneed mare. At Mallow's halloo, he reined up--no easy task with his hard-mouthed veteran.
"The Vicar?" asked Mallow, gazing into Timson's red face--red with pulling; "how is he getting along?"
Timson was a pessimist, with a high average of deaths amongst his patients. He shook his flaxen locks dolefully. "Very bad, Mr. Mallow; I don't suppose he'll see the winter through. His heart is weak--very weak. Nasty murmur there--mitral valve wrong; any sudden shock--in fact, emotion of any kind--and he's done for," said Timson, solemnly.
"But under normal conditions, doctor, he'll pull through, won't he?"
"Oh, may last for a time; but he's bound to go--bound to go. The leg is obstinate, too. If he'd only rest, there might be a chance; but he goes on writing, writing."
Laurence pricked up his ears.
"Writing! What is he writing?"
"Some sort of diary, I should think--pages and pages of it. To make matters worse, he uses a cipher. Very bad for him that, you know--very bad. By the way," added the little man, "I hear poor old Drabble is taken."
"He is blown to bits, if that is what you mean by 'taken,'" said Mallow, grimly; "he played with fire once too often."
Timson sighed. "I know that he held pernicious doctrines, Mr. Mallow, and his medical methods were not such as I could endorse. I've taken over a good many of his patients. They are in a sad state--a sad, sad state!" and he shook his little head again. "Poor Drabble! Ah! well, we must all come to it."
"But not necessarily in the same way, I trust. Well, good day, Mr. Timson."
As the doctor's animal stumbled down the hill, Mallow, climbing upward, felt somewhat uneasy at the news of Mr. Brock's industry. It might be that there was yet more to tell of Bellairs' wickedness, and Mallow fancied that the vicar might be setting it down in black and white.
"Precious queer amusement for a clergyman on the point of death, anyhow," he muttered to himself. "He has no relative that his scribbling is likely to interest, that I know of."
That same evening, leaving Aldean and Tui at whist with the old ladies, he led Olive into the library.
"I want to talk to you, Olive about this money. You were saying something the other day about getting rid of it."
"Yes; I wouldn't use it for the world. Thirty thousand of it has gone with Clara and Boldini to South America. I want to give the remaining twenty back to the Indian Government."
"H'm; the Government will ask questions. We don't want that."
"Can't it be returned as conscience-money?"
"Even so, I fancy, some explanation would be necessary. It is a large sum, you see. Besides, there is another point which you have overlooked. The money--or, rather, what is left of it--is not yours."
"Not mine? Then whose is it?"
"You forget the will, Olive. In the event of your not marrying Carson, the money was to go to Mr. Brock. Well, as a matter of fact, the provisions of the will not being complied with, that is where it ought to go."
"He can have it, with pleasure; but I feel sure he won't touch it now."
"Perhaps not; but he said if he got it--that was before he read the story--he would give it back to you."
"I don't want it. If he does, I shall only forward it to the proper quarter. Strictly speaking, it should be given to the Rao of Kikat."
"There is no Rao now. Don't you remember how Dr. Carson said that the kingdom was absorbed in the Empire? I think it will be best to ask Mr. Brock's advice--and, not only ask it, but take it."
"Mr. Brock is an honourable man; he will agree with me that the money should be restored. I am half sorry we recovered it now."
"I'm not," said Mallow, grimly. "At least, we have done Semberry out of his haul. But I'll see Brock."
"Laurence, do you think Mr. Brock knew of my father's wickedness?"
"No; Carson explicitly says that Trall did not tell the Rao about either him or your father. When Singha got the papers, Brock was already on the road to Calcutta, and they were burnt before he returned. No; Brock did not know until he read Carson's story."
"He would never have published it, as Dr. Carson wished."
"No; that I'm sure he would not," said Mallow, warmly. "Carson was quite mistaken in his estimate of Brock's character. But, if Angus had lived, and you had refused to marry him, he might have held it over you as a threat."
"But the envelope was sealed?"
"Of course. Still, Angus knew the story as related there. Dr. Carson said that he told it to him. But things are square now. Carson is dead, with his story untold; the paper is burnt, and Mr. Brock will keep his own counsel for our sakes."
"After we see Mr. Brock, dear, we will never talk of these things again," said Olive. "But there are one or two questions I feel I must ask him."
With a sudden recollection of the cipher diary and its possible further revelations, Mallow withheld his approval. "Better let sleeping dogs lie, dear."
"But I want to know more of my father's life at Kikat."
"Don't, Olive, don't. What you do know has brought you nothing but unhappiness."
"That's just it, Laurence. Nothing can make me more unhappy. I may as well know everything there is to know."
"Well, as you please. But you must let me see Mr. Brock first."
"Why; to warn him, I suppose?"
"No, n-o-o. I think I ought to tell him of Angus Carson's death."
"What good will that do?"
"None, most likely. Still, I think he ought to know. I've always thought the motive for Carson's death was to be found in India."
"There was nothing in the story to lead one to think so."
"Nothing. But Mr. Brock may know something. At present he is under the impression that Boldini is the genuine Carson; but, when I tell him of the murder, and the whole conspiracy, it is possible he may recall some incident likely to throw light on what is now absolutely Cimmerian."
"I doubt it, Laurence. Are you still so bent on getting to the bottom of this murder?"
"Why not? An undiscovered mystery is like an unfinished tune. You feel a tantalizing desire for the closing cadence. All my life I shall worry about that poor fellow's death, until I really know how he was killed, and who killed him. Only one more try, Olive, I promise you. If Mr. Brock fails to help me, I suppose I must give up the chase."
"Well, see Mr. Brock, and then tell him the story. But I fear you will be disappointed."
"Who knows, dear. His knowledge of your father and Carson's life in Kikat should be precise. For all we know, Michael Trall may have done it."
"I can't think that, Laurence. Michael Trall has not been seen or heard of for thirty years."
"True, true. His own brother doesn't know of his whereabouts. I dare say the scamp is dead."
"And even if he were alive, I can't see where his motive could have been."
"True, again. But I think I'll ask Mr. Brock, nevertheless."
In spite of herself Olive fretted. Her trouble had taken firm hold of her mind, and bade fair now to make havoc of her body. She lost flesh rapidly. In vain Mallow tried to combat this brooding over her father's wrong-doing. He pointed out the futility of it; he urged her--implored her--to make the effort to rouse herself. But without result. Her father's sin became with her an ever-present enormity. She was continually dwelling upon it. They tried to get her to work--to use her hands, employ herself actively, anyhow--at anything--so long as, for the time being, it was capable of absorbing her, and thus releasing the terrible tension under which she laboured. At last Mallow saw there was nothing for it but an entire change of scene and surroundings.
"You must go, Olive dear--away from here, away from all that reminds you of yourself. You shall go abroad at once, Mrs. Purcell shall go with you, and later I will join you, and in six months' time you will return, dear, a totally different woman--no longer Olive Bellairs, even in name, for we will be married, and you will laugh at yourself and these wretched phantoms of your own raising."
"You speak as though I were a child!" she cried petulantly. "Phantoms indeed!--facts, you mean. My father was a--oh, don't speak of it, the very thought drives me beside myself. And I have to keep it all to myself--all, all!"
"Oh, Olive," said Mallow, reproachfully, "am I not some help to you?"
"A man never understands--he does not feel these things."
"Really, Olive, I think the sooner you get away from Casterwell the better."
"I shall never be better--never, never!"
Mallow did not argue with her. He saw that it was quite useless. Actions, not words, were necessary if Olive was to be restored to a proper sense of what was due to herself and to others. Laurence recognized this, and took an early opportunity of calling at the Vicarage. Again Mr. Brock refused to see him; but next day Mallow received a note requesting him to call. He obeyed promptly.
On his way through the village he met Jeremiah looking distressed and lonely. "I want to see a clergyman," he whined peevishly; "I have so many sins to confess. I can find no one to help me."
Mallow looked at him. It appeared that Trall, under stress of religious emotion, might confess to a priest, much more than he would be likely to confide to a layman. In such circumstances it was not at all improbable that he might let drop much that would be useful.
"I will take you to see a clergyman, Trall--the best in this parish. I am now on my way there. If you will call at the Vicarage shortly--left-hand side of the church from the roadway--I will leave you with him. Then you will be able to unbosom your mind quite freely."
"Oh, thank you; thank you, Mr. Mallow. I have many sins to confess--many, many. When shall I come?"
Mallow glanced at his watch. "In three-quarters of an hour. Say about four o'clock. I would take you with me now, only I want first to see Mr. Brock myself on private business."
Trall was more than satisfied with this arrangement, and hobbled off, profuse in his expressions of gratitude. Mallow continued his way to the Vicarage.
"Good-day, Mr. Brock," said he, as the deaf housekeeper showed him into the study (now the sick-room); "I am glad to see you at last."
"Indeed, I must apologize for not receiving you before," replied the vicar, wearily, "but I have been busy arranging my papers against my death."
"Oh, come now, you are not going to die."
"I shall never leave this house alive, Mr. Mallow. My days are numbered. You can guess now that the reading of Carson's statement gave me a severe shock. All these years, I never suspected that it was Bellairs who murdered Singha. Indeed, I did not even know that he was murdered, for Rao Chunder, the heir, gave out that his father had died of apoplexy."
"Did you never return to Kikat?"
"No; I failed altogether to induce the Governor-General to move in the matter of the blackmailing, and, as the Rao's son was not very friendly to me I judged it wiser to keep away. Besides, I heard that Bellairs and Carson had left Kikat, and believed that their departure was due to the enmity of the new Rao. God forgive me, I never guessed the truth."
"Rao Singha never told you that Bellairs and Carson were inculpated in the blackmailing?"
"No. Trall made it out to be his own conspiracy, entirely, and kept their names out of his confession. Moreover, Singha had not received the incriminating letters with the forged names. They were afterwards burnt by the new Rao. He kept his own counsel. I never saw them; I never suspected that Bellairs and Carson had fallen so low."
"Do you think the names were forged, or do you believe that your friends were willing accomplices in the conspiracy?"
"I believe the names were forged," declared Brock decisively. "So far as I knew, both Bellairs and Carson were thoroughly honourable men. Trall entangled them by means of the forgeries, and, for their own sakes, they were compelled to act as accomplices."
"Did Bellairs ever hint at the truth?"
"Mr. Mallow,"--the vicar sat up and flushed indignantly--"had I been told the truth by Bellairs, do you think that I would have remained Vicar of Casterwell? No! For Olive's sake, perhaps I might have held my tongue but my first act would have been to vacate the living. Bellairs was as silent as the grave about Kikat. He hardly ever alluded to his life there, and then only casually."
"Guilty conscience, no doubt," suggested Mallow. "As a rule, a man doesn't particularly care to reperuse the smudged pages of his life-book. I suppose Bellairs never told you his reason for the betrothal of Olive to Angus?"
"Never! never! I thought it was simply and solely the outcome of his strong friendship for Carson. As to the will leaving me the money in the event of the marriage not taking place, I did not know its contents until Bellairs was dead."
"Well, the money is yours, now, Mr. Brock. Will you take it, knowing how it was earned?"
"My dear friend, believe me, it is superfluous to discuss what I will do with it. I am a dying man. By my will, I have restored the money to Olive; she can deal with it as she pleases."
"In that case it is her intention to restore it to the Indian Government."
"What good will that do?" said the vicar, with a sigh; "there is no Rao of Kikat now--the name, the family, the very kingdom has died out. Let Olive make restitution, if such be her wish, but the money will go into the wrong pockets if she sends it there."
"I don't care whose pockets it enters, neither does she," said Mallow; "the main point is to get rid of it--and there is twenty thousand pounds."
Mr. Brock started. "Only that. I understood----"
"That there was fifty. True enough; but thirty has gone across the seas with Boldini and his wife."
"Boldini! Who is he?"
"I forgot, you don't know the story. It is a long one, Mr. Brock, and not a pretty one for a clergyman to hear."
"As a rule, we hear the worst stories. But you talk strangely, Mr. Mallow. I do not understand. This Boldini! Who is he?
"Well, he is the man who masqueraded here as Angus Carson."
"As Angus Carson! Do you mean to tell me that it was not really Angus Carson who----"
"I will tell you all about it, if," said Mallow, with some hesitation, "you think you are quite strong enough to hear."
"Quite strong enough, and most anxious to hear" said Mr. Brock, feverishly. "Come, Mr. Mallow, explain this mystery."
"You may well call it a mystery, Mr. Brock, and it seems likely to remain one. I can begin the story and continue it to a certain point; but you must finish it for yourself."
Then Mallow related to the astonished vicar all the intrigues of the last few months. He was most minute in his recital, giving even the reasons which had induced him to take various steps. Mrs. Arne, Drabble, Boldini, Clara, he introduced all these people to Mr. Brock, placing them before him in their different capacities as vividly as he was able. But he refrained from expressing to the vicar his hope that Jeremiah would shortly aid towards the solution of the mystery. He could see that the old man was becoming exhausted as well as bewildered by what he had heard.
"Terrible, terrible!" he murmured. "Poor Olive! poor Angus! Oh, why, why did you not tell me all this before?"
"There was not much use in telling you," said Mallow, gloomily; "you could not have helped us. We are no nearer finding out the truth than we were before. Why was young Carson killed? that is what I want to know. What was the motive?"
"I can't think," replied Mr. Brock, staring before him; "it is all so dreadful. You don't think Drabble murdered the poor lad?"
"No; Drabble's interest was to keep him alive, unless he proved stubborn. Then----whew!" Mallow drew a long breath. From his experiences in the Soho house, he had little difficulty in guessing what Mrs. Arne would have done had young Carson proved obdurate. "But I don't think they killed him," he added; "no, I am sure they didn't."
"But who else could have a motive?" asked the vicar, wrinkling his brows. "They left him well, you say, and returned to find him dead. Some one, according to your theory, must have been in the house meanwhile."
"Undoubtedly. And that some one is the murderer. But who is he?"
"It is impossible to say. Angus lived all his days in India; he knew no one in England. Perhaps Major Semberry----"
"No." Mallow shook his head. "He denied it strenuously, and, so far as I can see, he had as much interest as the Anarchists in keeping Carson alive. Come, Mr. Brock, are you sure there was nothing that happened at Kikat likely to lead to this?"
"After thirty years--nothing. Besides, Carson was not married then; the boy was not born."
"I wonder," said Mallow, musingly, "if that bangle had anything to do with it?"
"How could it?" asked Mr. Brock, amazed.
"Well, I understand it was taken from an idol."
"No." Brock shook his head. "That is not correct. Singha gave the bangle to Carson--my friend--with the full permission of the priests. He cured the Rao of a severe illness, and the priests approved of the reward."
"Then Michael Trall must be the murderer."
"How do you make that out? Trall disappeared from Kikat thirty and more years ago. He has never been heard of since. Probably he is dead."
"Probably. But possibly he may be alive; and he may have killed young Carson."
"On what grounds--for what reason," said Mr. Brock. "Killing Angus would not give him the money, if that is what you are thinking of. No, I am sure Trall is dead. He was too restless and ambitious a man to remain quiet; and when he had exhausted his own share of the blackmail, he would, in all probability, come here for the purpose of blackmailing Bellairs."
"Perhaps he knew you were here, Mr. Brock."
"Perhaps. And, so far, I may have been a safeguard to Bellairs. But knowing Trall well as I do, I think he would have run even the risk of my denouncing him, had there been money to be gained."
"When did you see Trall last?"
"At Kikat. He followed me with the intention of frustrating my plans; and he would have done so at the cost of murder, I make no doubt. But I changed the route I had intended to take, and, I am thankful to say, he missed me."
At that moment the voice of the housekeeper could be heard raised in anger--evidently, from the deeper tones which followed, against some man. Mr. Brock grew deadly pale, and his heart beat wildly with sheer nervousness.
"See--see what it is, Mr. Mallow!" he gasped, "Oh, this will kill me!"
The young man ran to the door and threw it open. As though he had been waiting outside, Jeremiah shambled into the room amid the shrill expostulations of the sour spinster.
"I came as you told me," whimpered Trall, clutching Mallow. "Where is the clergyman? I must see the clergyman."
"Trall, this is disgraceful. Mr. Brock----"
"Aha!" breathed the vicar, and both men turned at the strangled sound to see him sitting up looking at the newcomer with vacantly staring eyes. On his side, Jeremiah released his hold of Mallow, and, as though drawn by a magnet, approached the sofa. The sick man and his visitor gazed blankly at one another.
"Why," whispered Trall, still gazing, "it's you--it's--it's--it's--why, it's Michael!"
"Michael?" repeated Mallow. "What Michael?"
"Michael Trall--my brother. Oh, Michael, I'm so glad to see you. I'm Jerry."
The man on the bed stared and stared, but spoke not a word. His face was blanched with fear, and he repeatedly put out his hands as though to keep the other back. Then quietly, silently, without a sign of recognition, he fell back dead.
Even in the first shock of this untimely death, though timely discovery, Mallow kept his wits about him. That Brock was truly Michael Trall he made no doubt. For, in truth, Jeremiah had neither the capacity nor the reason to simulate relationship of the kind. Moreover, nothing surely could be more conclusive than the fatal effect which this unexpected meeting had had for Brock, beside whom now the wretched man dropped into prayer and supplication. He called upon him to recover, implored him for a sign--a look. He wept bitterly. Mallow did not molest him. He was totally unfit for rational conversation. Poor Brock--he may still be called so for the avoidance of confusion--was quite dead. Mallow slipped his hand under his clothes on to the heart to make quite sure. The sight of his brother, and the knowledge of what would follow, had done their work and snuffed him out of this life.
"Come now, Trall," said Mallow. "You must try and pull yourself together, and, what's more, you must not say a word about this. No one must know--understand, Trall, no one. As Mr. Brock he lived--as Mr. Brock he died."
"But he is my own brother Michael."
"I believe you, Trall; but reticence, absolute silence on that point, is necessary, if only for your own safety. Remember the Brotherhood!"
That was quite enough for Trall. He promised implicit obedience. "And I'll sit in this corner as quiet as a mouse, Mr. Mallow," he concluded, "if only you'll let me. Don't! oh, don't take me away."
"Well, you may remain there for the present. But, remember, not a word to any one about this."
Mallow deemed it advisable to alarm the household. He rang the bell, and the acidulated housekeeper duly appeared. She immediately lost all control of herself. She cried out aloud, and gesticulated wildly. Her fellow-servants followed suit, and in a very few moments the usually tranquil Vicarage was a very pandemonium of weeping and wailing Promptly Mallow sent a messenger for Mr. Timson, and another for Lord Aldean, with strict injunctions not in any way to alarm the ladies at the Manor House. He determined not to leave the place himself until he had possession of the cipher-diary. Seeing now that without doubt this was Michael Trall, he expected much in the way of revelation from the diary. It is a passion with some of perverted instincts to set down their deeds and misdeeds in black and white, and such documents are invariably to be relied upon. They are usually perfectly unfettered in their utterance--the tangible communion of such people with themselves. Mallow anticipated difficulty only so far as the unravelling of the cipher was concerned. This might prove obstinately difficult, or it might not. But, he argued, there was no cipher invented by man that man could not unravel--and unravel it he would, even though he took years in the doing of it. It remained now to secure the document itself. Within an hour Mr. Timson arrived, and seemed in nowise astonished at the suddenness of Mr. Brock's death.
"Just what I expected," he chirped in his pessimistic way. "Cardiac failure--pure and simple. He was excited in some way, I presume, Mr. Mallow?
"Yes; he became very excited while I was talking with him," said Laurence, evasively.
"Quite so--quite so. I warned him. I told him how it would be. Dear, dear! Most regrettable, but natural all the same--quite natural." Mr. Timson was moved not a hair's-breadth from his habitual complacency.
"Don't you think the body should be removed to the bedroom?" said Mallow. He hardly liked to begin his search for the diary with the dead man's body lying there.
"Certainly, certainly! More decent. Quite right."
So, superintended by the little man, Mr. Brock's remains were carried out of the study. The progress to the bedroom drew forth further lamentations from the female servants. Timson took himself off then. As he went out of the hall Lord Aldean entered. He was full of sympathy, and amazed.
"Poor old chap!" he said, as Mallow conducted him to the study. "Died of heart failure, I suppose? I'm awfully sorry for the poor old fellow. He was a good sort--Brock."
"Yes, I'm sorry, too," said Mallow, grimly, "but not quite for your reasons. The dead man is Michael Trall--not Brock."
"Trall! What do you mean?" Aldean cast a glance at Jeremiah. "Is not this Trall, then?"
"It is Michael--my poor brother," sighed the creature in the corner.
"Mr. Brock your brother! Well, I----"
"Wait a moment, Aldean, I'll tell you all about it directly." Then, turning to Jeremiah, Mallow asked, "Was your brother a good man?"
"No--o--o," replied Trall. "He was clever, but he was not a good man. He deserted his wife and poor little Clara. But I was fond of him; a brother is always a brother."
"Oh!" Mallow paused. He did not wish to reflect in any way upon the dead man, and he was afraid to trust Jeremiah out of his sight, lest in his weakness he should reveal his connection with the late vicar. "I wish to speak privately with Lord Aldean," he said at length. "Go you, Trall, into the next room for half an hour. Stay there, and, mind, not a word to any one about what has happened."
"Very well, Mr. Mallow," replied Jeremiah, submissively, creeping towards the door.
Laurence followed him and made him comfortable in the dining-room. The sour spinster--now a very Niobe--all tears--was informed that Mr. Trall was suffering from shock at the unexpected death of the vicar, and was not on any account to be disturbed. Having arranged thus for Jeremiah's seclusion, Mallow returned to the study, where he found Aldean in a state of intense expectancy. The situation and hints of mystery puzzled him.
"What's all this business about?" he asked, when he saw his friend lock the door.
"It's about Michael Trall, alias Brock, who, I truly believe, Jim, is the murderer for whom we have searched so long."
"Mr. Brock the murderer of Carson! Impossible! You must be mistaken, surely!"
"Well, perhaps; but I don't think so. I will give you my grounds for saying so, and I think you will agree, Jim, that they are pretty strong."
Rapidly, but tersely, Mallow related the story as set forth by Dr. Carson. He concealed nothing, not even Bellairs' guilt. Finally he expressed his conviction that in Mr. Brock's diary would be found the key to the whole mystery. Jim was amazed; still, he could not agree with his friend.
"Murderers don't write accounts of their crimes," he pronounced, decisively; "not such fools as to make up their own brief for the prosecution."
"That's just where you're wrong, Jim. There are not a few cases on record," said Mallow. "I can recollect one, in particular, where a clerk wrote in his diary: 'To-day, fine and hot; killed a little girl in Croft's spinney.' That line hanged him."
"Glad it did," growled Jim, in disgust, "for being such a fool. I confess I have no sympathy for a man who gives himself away like that."
"Perhaps not, Jim; but there seems to be a peculiar fascination about confession which some of these men can't resist. It may be that there is great relief for them in unburdening their minds, even on paper. If we can judge Michael Trall's character from Carson's story, he has heaped up a goodly pile of wickedness these thirty and more years. Moreover, if his diary were guileless reading, he would not resort to cipher. No, Jim, I believe the man has sought to ease his conscience by setting down his sins."
"May have, Mallow; but the cipher's a teaser."
"No doubt. I don't anticipate it will be child's play, by any means. Still, it is a fact that there is no cipher invented by the ingenuity of man which--given time and application--cannot be unravelled. This diary may take days, even months, to straighten into Queen's English; but, sooner or later, I shall master its contents, if only to learn why Brock killed Carson."
"You speak confidently, Mallow. But Brock may be innocent, even yet."
"Possible; but, to my mind, improbable. If Brock be not guilty, I don't know who is. However, it's no use theorizing when we have facts before us. Brock's keys are under the pillow."
"Sure we have the right to search, Mallow?"
"I'll take the risk of that," said Laurence, with composure, and forthwith went to work, assisted by Aldean.
Manifestly, the most promising hunting-ground was the escritoire near the window, at which Michael Trall in clerical capacity had been accustomed to compile his sermons. Mallow first explored the pigeon-holes and their papers, scrutinizing the writing of each in turn; but, so far, failed to find anything at all incriminating. He unlocked the drawers, and went through them systematically from top to bottom. In the right-hand corner of the lowest drawer they found the diary carelessly thrown in without attempt at concealment. It was contained in a stout volume, bound in red cloth, and on the back was written, in ink, "No. 21."
"Oh!" said Mallow, examining the neat cipher writing. "The rogue evidently posted his criminal ledgers with the utmost regularity. Where are the other twenty?"
They were not in his desk, for by this time they had searched every inch of it. Jim examined the bookcases filled to overflowing, and occupying three walls of the room. Near the top of one of them he found, shamelessly exposed, the remaining twenty volumes. The astute Mr. Brock had evidently acted upon the conviction that in attempting no concealment he aroused no curiosity. His readings had no doubt included the stories of Edgar Allan Poe.
"Cheek of the beggar," grumbled Aldean, tumbling down these ledgers promptly; "he had every faith in his cipher."
"And in his reputation as the Rev. Manners Brock," said Mallow, receiving the books below, and arranging them on the table. "I expect there is material enough for a dozen detective novels in this lot. Eh! What's up now, Jim? Don't swear!"
Aldean, suppressing further imprecation, scrambled down the ladder.
"Look here, Mallow! Just look!"
"Watch, chain, studs, and the missing wrist-button," counted Laurence, coolly; "it is no more than I expected. There can be no doubt after this, Jim. Here is the dead man's jewellery. The lying brute--he said that Drabble gave him the other wrist-button as a curiosity."
They surveyed the tarnished gold and the double pile of red books in silence. Then said Aldean slowly--
"God! to think of that murderous scoundrel saying he was a parson. Makes me sick to think of it. Might have lived to marry Tui and me. By Gum!" Jim started as the discovery slowly evolved itself in his brain. "Say, Mallow, all the marriages in this parish must be wrong 'uns. What's to be done about them?"
"We must wait until we read the diary before considering matters of such minor importance as that," said Mallow, tapping the books. "I expect it won't be easy to straighten out Brock's crooked ways."
"Don't call him Brock. Makes me feel bad."
"Brock he must be called, Jim, for the present. None of the ladies must know the truth until we get through these books. Manners Brock is dead, not Michael Trall."
"I understand. But Jeremiah----"
"I'll manage him. Ha! there he is, I expect. Open the door, Jim."
Aldean did so, and Trall, looking white and agitated, crept into the room. "I'm afraid to be alone," he whimpered. "Can't I stop here?"
"We must go home now, Trall," said Mallow, soothingly. "Can you read this cipher?" and he opened out a book to Jeremiah in the faint hope of receiving an affirmative answer.
To his surprise and delight it came.
"I can read it, Mr. Mallow. It's Michael's cipher. I taught it to him when we were boys."
"Hurrah!" sang Aldean, slapping Trall's back. "You shall translate it, then."
"Michael's diary!" said Jeremiah, quicker in understanding than might have been expected. "I see. Ah, Michael was always clever with his pen."
"Been a sight too clever this time," muttered Jim, assisting his friend to tie up the books in neat bundles.
Here operations ceased for the moment, and Mallow and Aldean, with Jeremiah in charge, returned home after a few directions to the deaf housekeeper. Then came the difficult task of explaining certain rumours which had already reached the Manor House. Jim discreetly held his tongue and left things to his friend, who vouchsafed as little information as was consistent with allaying the general alarm. Mr. Brock had died suddenly from heart failure, he declared, refraining carefully from all mention of the dead man's identity with the Michael Trall of Carson's story, and from any reference to the cipher diary. In the lamentations which ensued, further questions were spared him.
"The man must be buried as Mr. Brock," said Mallow to Aldean, a day or two later. "There is no other course open, if the story is to be kept quiet."
"Yes, I suppose so. It will save all trouble over those marriages. Better let him have a decent name over his tombstone, though he doesn't deserve it."
As the pseudo Brock had no relatives--for Mallow insisted that Jeremiah should suppress the fact of his relationship--Olive, as the Lady of the Manor, charged herself with the funeral. So the scoundrel was buried in fine style, although it is only fair to state that he had kept his false name clean enough, so far as concerned the parish. They could not but feel his loss, and there was much weeping and eulogy by the graveside as Michael Trall, of Kikat, was laid under the turf of the churchyard in the odour of sanctity. Mallow thought this was one of life's greater ironies.
"Good Lord!" was his aside to Jim, "how the rogue must chuckle at this mummery if his spirit has eyes to see. He might be a canonized saint for the fuss they make."
"Must have had some good in him," replied Aldean, meditatively; "as Mr. Brock he was straight enough. That I know."
"A serpent in a bamboo cannot be otherwise than straight," said Mallow. "Casterwell Vicarage was our friend's bamboo. But a triple murderer! Faugh!"
"Triple! How triple?"
"He murdered Carson, I'm certain. Brock was despatched by him so that he could assume the missionary's lambskin, and I shouldn't be surprised to learn that he, and not Bellairs, made away with Rao Singha. He was capable of it."
"But as Mr. Brock----"
"As Mr. Brock, Jim, there should be inscribed upon his tomb the couplet of some Byronic imitator--
He settled with a little pious leavenTo give the fag-end of his life to Heaven."
He settled with a little pious leavenTo give the fag-end of his life to Heaven."
Jeremiah did not attend the funeral. Mallow induced him to remain at home, lest in his grief his tongue might get the better of him. So he sat in his room and painfully translated the rascalities of Michael into plain English--and he taught Laurence the cipher, and Laurence toiled likewise. It was an affair of many weeks--indeed, it lasted until Mrs. Purcell announced her determination to take Olive abroad. At the same time Tui received a cablegram announcing that her delighted parents were on their way to England.
Much of the diary has no bearing on this story, but in the last volume or so there were notes which shed a flood of light upon much that was before hopelessly obscure. One discovery in particular was of the greatest satisfaction to Mallow. Indeed, it led him to communicate the latter portion of the diary to Olive, Miss Slarge, and Mrs. Purcell. Tui the matter did not concern.
It must not be supposed that Laurence gave this information in the precise words of the diary, for this proved to be a hastily compiled composition, thrown together at odd moments--Heaven knows what for, unless for the sheer egotistical gratification of its author. He shifted all extraneous matter, translated the notes of the earlier to the later years, and in one way and another drew together the story of the Carsons and the events at Kikat into a concise narrative. This he wrote out carefully, and one evening, when Tui and Aldean were love-making over the billiard-table, he read it out to an audience of three. So it is that the following narrative must be regarded strictly as Mallow's version--compiled by him from the materials supplied by the twenty-one volumes of the diary, and told by him, in the first person, from its author's point of view.