Sergeant Purse, who had come over from Redleigh to take charge of the matter, was a foxy-faced little man, lean and dried up in appearance, with beady black eyes like those of a rat. He was immensely interested in the matter, as he recognised that this was no common crime, and hoped by tracing the assassin to make a big reputation as a zealous officer and gain advancement. The description of the murderer given by Mrs. Vence was largely advertised, and pointed mention was made of the red-painted bicycle. In the illustrated daily papers pictures of Hedgerton and Maranatha appeared, both the inside and the outside of the house being delineated. Mrs. Vence also shared the honour of this painful publicity, and her portrait looked like that of an old witch. She was very much annoyed by this caricature.
"Me like that," screamed the housekeeper, when Sergeant Purse showed her the picture. "Why, 'taint me at all. 'Tisn't saucy, and I always had a bit of sauciness about me."
The sergeant, laughed drily. "You were not as young as you were."
"Oh, I'm growing old, I don't deny," snapped Mrs. Vence, crushing up the paper wrathfully. "Sixty's getting on, say what you will. But I ain't so bad-looking when all's said and done, although not so handsome as when a gel. I'm active, too, cooking like an angel and celebrated for my tidiness."
Purse had his own opinion about this, and, staring at the disreputable dirty old beldame, wondering for the hundredth time why a fastidious gentleman had engaged her. "Did you know Sir Hector before you came here?" he asked, wondering in his own mind why he had not put the question before.
"No, I didn't," retorted Mrs. Vence, alertly. "I saw an advertisement in the paper as I picked up in a friend's house, and applied for the situation, saying I could cook and hold my tongue, so Sir Hector engaged me. I came down here a few days afore he did, quite a month ago, to get the house ready, and dirty it was, with that, old Peddler, the caretaker, as didn't half look after the furniture."
"Why was it necessary for you to hold your tongue?" asked Purse, seizing on the only phrase in the speech which seemed to be important.
"Lawks! How should I know? Sir Hector, he says to me, he says, 'Hold your tongue and don't talk, for I wants to be secret and quiet like for a bit.' Them were his words, and inquisitions won't make me say otherwise."
"Did he explain why he wished to be secret and quiet like?"
"No, he didn't drat you!" grunted the old woman, who was in a vile temper. "He just had his dinner about six, when Mr. Lemby arrived, and I showed him into the drorin'-room. I don't think Sir Hector, expected him, for he seemed surprised like when I took the card of the gent into the dinin'-room. But he said nothing to me, and went up to the drorin'-room to have a chat, s'pose. Afore seven there was a ring at the door, and the other gent arrived. While I was asking his business Sir Hector came flying down the stairs and took him into the study, telling me to come with cake and wine in a quarter of an hour. I went to the kitchen and watched the clock, and about seven I walks in, happy-like, into the study, knowing as I was doing my duty. There I saw Sir Hector a corpse, and the gent bending over him, and----"
"You explained all that before," interrupted the sergeant, who knew the sequel to the statement.
"Then why did you bother me to say it again?" demanded Mrs. Vence, crabbedly.
"What was the exact time when the second gentleman arrived?"
"About twenty to seven; and a gent I call him, though I don't see if he was one when he was muffled up like a Christmas-pudding. It was twenty to seven, as I know from the kitchen clock, which I had my eye on so's to bring in the wine and cake punctual-like."
"Hall, the postman, says that he arrived at the door about seven, or a trifle afterwards," said Purse, meditatively, "I expect the murder took place about that time. You heard no noise?"
"Drat you, how could I when in the kitchen at the back of the house, and me not expecting horrors and corpses. I came into the study with the victuals and drinks, as I says, and the postman knocked twice, as I more or, less fainted, while the gent cut like the wind."
"Did Sir Hector appear to be afraid of his second visitor?" "No. He seemed to expect him, for he says, 'Oh, you've come,' or something like that, as he drawed him into the study and sent me about my business."
"He expected him, then, and was quite friendly."
"You can put it like that if you likes," snarled Mrs. Vence, hugging herself, and rocking to and fro, "but I'd like to know when I'm to be let go?"
"After the inquest, which takes place to-morrow."
"And who's going to pay me for what I've had to put up with? I didn't get no wages from Sir Hector, me having arranged for monthly payments."
"Well, I suppose Sir Hector's heir will pay you, Mrs. Vence."
"Who's he?"
"I don't know. I'm off to see Mr. Lemby, who is a friend of Sir Hector's. I may learn something about the heir from him."
"Well," said Mrs. Vence, rising with an ill-humoured look, "the sooner you get information and them wages the better. I'm travelling to London myself after the inquest to-morrer, and I do hope as my next situation won't be police news and chamber of horrors." She paused, then remarked significantly, "There's the letter, you know, Mr. Purse."
"What letter?" asked the sergeant, alertly, and pricking up his ears. "That as the post delivered when he come. He put it on the table in the hall when talking to me. I shoved him out, and the policeman came. Afterwards, that imp, Neddy Mellin. When things was quieter, I looked for the letter. Never a sign of it, Mr. Purse, though I hunted careful."
"Who took it?"
"Ask me another," said Mrs. Vence, cunningly. "All I can say is as the door was open from the time the post came to the time I chased that imp out, me being too worried to shut it."
"Did the boy take it?" asked the sergeant, rather foolishly.
"Lawks! and why should he? It wasn't nothing to do with him. I did ask him, and he said as he never saw no letter on the table."
"Did Mr. Lemby----"
"He was in the study with the policeman, and with me and the corpse," said Mrs. Vence, truculently. "I don't go for to tell lies, do I? But the door was open all the time, and the fog was pouring in like steam. If you ask me," added the old woman, slowly, "I do say as the murderer came back for that letter."
Purse jumped. "Why do you say that?"
"'Cause I don't see as anyone else could have taken it. 'Course it ain't no business o' mine, but the murderer might have slipped round the corner on the bicycle and waited his chance to steal."
"He would have acted like a fool had he done that," said Purse, incredulously.
"Well, well, it's only an idea, as you might say."
"Have you any reason to----"
"No, I ain't got reasons. But the letter's gone, and as no one we know took it, someone as we don't know did. And that's sense. Well, I'm going to make myself some tea, and trim up my popping-out bonnet, so as to look smart for the sitting on the corpse to-morrow. This me?" Mrs. Vance glared at the crushed newspaper. "I'll have the law on him as did it."
"Oh, go away and hold your tongue," said Purse, impatiently.
"I was engaged to hold my tongue," said Mrs. Vence, with great dignity, and tottered out of the room along the passage and into the kitchen.
Her repetition of the phrase dwelt in the sergeant's memory as he walked to the inn where Mr. Lemby was staying pending the inquest.
Purse entered the little dark and damp sitting-room, where the buccaneer bulked largely in the twilight atmosphere. It was a gloomy, grey day, by no means cheerful, and the sergeant was glad to warm his hands at the fire which Lemby's desire for comfort had provided. He also suggested a lamp.
"What the dickens should I do with a lamp at twelve o'clock," asked Lemby, bluffly. "It's darkish here I don't deny. But if you think that I'm afraid to show my blamed face let's go outside."
"I never suggested such a thing."
"You hint at it because you think I have something to do with this confounded murder, sergeant," roared the big man, garnishing his speech with oaths after his usual fashion.
"Don't talk rubbish, sir," said the sergeant, imperiously, for although a small man he had a great idea of his own importance. "There's no evidence to implicate you. All the same, I'm bound to say that anything you say will be used as evidence against you, if suspicions are aroused."
"There, dash you! Didn't I say you suspect me?" growled Lemby. "Well, you have stumbled on a mare's nest, hang you! No one was more surprised than I was when I stumbled on that policeman and that old hag dealing with a corpse."
"No one says otherwise," remarked Purse drily. "Undoubtedly the man who stole the bicycle is the guilty person. Do you know who he is?"
"No, dash you, I don't. Wyke said nothing to me about seeing anyone."
"Did he tell you that he expected a visitor?"
"No. The ring came at the door about twenty or fifteen minutes to seven, and he bolted away, asking me to wait."
"And he did not return?" said the officer, musingly.
"How the deuce could he, when the man had knifed him?"
"No, of course not," said the sergeant, soothingly, for Lemby was a difficult witness to deal with. "You were a friend of Sir Hector's?"
"Yes, great friend."
"What do you know about him?"
"What everybody else knows. Everything I know is in the newspapers, as these infernal reporters have been smelling round here."
"Was there anything in Sir Hector's past life to lead you to suppose that he had some secret likely to bring about his violent death?"
"No. What a dashed roundabout way you have of asking questions! Why don't you trace that bicycle and catch the assassin?"
"All over the country I have people on the watch. They may----"
"Yes, and they mayn't," interrupted the buccaneer. "And how long am I to stay in this rotten hole?"
"Until the inquest is over. It will be held to-morrow. It's strange," went on the sergeant, "that no relative of Sir Hector's has appeared to look after his interests. Yet the case is set forth in the newspapers."
"Wyke has no relatives," said Lemby, grimly plucking at his beard. "The title becomes extinct. If you don't believe me ask Mr. Sandal, of Lincoln's Inn Fields, sergeant. He is Sir Hector's lawyer. I wrote and asked him to come down."
Purse nodded approvingly. "Very wise of you, sir. But why take this trouble?"
"Because I wish to know where the property goes to. Sir Hector should, by rights, leave it to my daughter. He was engaged to marry her."
"Your daughter!" Purse started and stared.
"Yes, dash you! Why shouldn't I have a daughter? Here's the case in a nutshell, and you can make what you can of it." Lemby paused, cleared his throat, and continued. "Sir Hector was engaged to marry my daughter Claudia, though she wasn't overfond of him, since she loved a chap called Craver."
"That's the name of the Rector of this parish!" exclaimed Purse, staring hard.
"It's the son I mean, not the father. Well, then, Edwin Craver loved Claudia; but I refused to allow the marriage as I wanted my daughter to become a lady of title. Sir Hector proposed, and the marriage was to have taken place a month ago, as I insisted that Claudia should become Lady Wyke. Then Sir Hector wrote postponing the marriage, and came down here."
"What reason did he give?"
"Said his health was bad. I tried to see him and he refused. I couldn't find out his address for a long time, as he wrote from his London house. Finally I got it from Craver--Edwin, I mean--and came down the other night to force Wyke to explain his dashed impudence. While he was explaining the ring came at the door and he bolted. The rest you know. Well?"
"Well," echoed Purse, vaguely and rather distraught. He did not know very well what to say, as this new complication took him by surprise. Edwin Craver loved the girl, Edwin Craver was the son of the Rector in whose parish the crime had been committed. "Could it be that Edwin Craver----"
"No," said Lemby, reading suspicion in the sergeant's eyes. "Edwin is innocent. I'll swear. In my opinion it was----" He hesitated, faltered and broke down, while Purse waited for him to complete the sentence.
Lemby had some difficulty in speaking freely, and hesitated so pointedly that Purse impatiently assisted him. "Are you going to tell me who is the criminal?"
"No," said Lemby, promptly, and now speaking readily enough. "I was about to say that I believe it was a case of suicide."
The sergeant expressed his surprise. "Suicide, when Mrs. Vence saw the assassin bending over his victim? Ridiculous!"
"It may be ridiculous, or it may not be," replied the buccaneer, doggedly; "but from what I know of Wyke, he was in no danger from anyone. Who the man is that Mrs. Vence saw I don't know. But Wyke might have killed himself and the man might have been bending over his body to afford succour."
"Ridiculous," replied the sergeant. "If the strange man was innocent he would scarcely have fled. His flight on the bicycle proves his guilt. Besides, what reason had Wyke to commit suicide?"
"What reason had he to postpone his marriage and come down to this dismal place?" demanded Lemby, sourly. "You are asking me questions which I cannot answer. Evidently, although I did not know it, there was some secret in Wyke's life which made him act so strangely and drove him to suicide."
"I don't believe for one moment that he committed suicide," persisted Purse, after a pause, and remembering how Mrs. Vence had been engaged to hold her tongue; "but he evidently came down here to escape the man who slew him."
"He might have done so, sergeant." Lemby made a gesture, as if brushing aside the whole subject. "Anyhow it is a sore blow to me and to my daughter."
"To you, no doubt, Mr. Lemby, as you lose the gratification of seeing your daughter bearing a title. But, if she loves young Craver, as you hint, I think she will be glad that Wyke is gone."
"Perhaps. She's dashed obstinate. Anyhow, from what I have told you, sergeant, you must see how absurd it is to suspect me."
"I don't suspect you at all," cried Purse, rising. "When you are examined at the inquest you will no doubt be able to explain more."
"I can't explain more than I have already done." growled Lemby, sullenly. "Is not my explanation satisfactory?"
"Yes. I think it is. From the evidence given by Mrs. Vence, you did not come down the stairs until the man was dead."
"That policeman of yours can back up that statement," said Lemby, eagerly, "and, of course, Mrs. Vence saw the assassin."
"Hullo!" Purse turned sharply at the door, "I thought you believed it was a case of suicide."
"It was merely an idea," protested the other.
"A very silly idea," retorted the sergeant, and took his departure, leaving Mr. Lemby to his own thoughts, which were those of disappointment, as he would never see his daughter Lady Wyke.
During the twenty-four hours which elapsed before the inquest the sergeant walked round Hedgerton, asking innumerable questions and noting down innumerable answers. He learnt all about Sir Hector's way of living, how he kept very much to himself, walked out alone, spoke to no one, and remained indoors as a rule. He inquired at the post-office, and discovered that the baronet had received but few letters, newspapers, and parcels, which were generally redirected from his town residence. Wyke evidently had made no secret of his stay in Hedgerton, and in no way could Purse find that he was in hiding. The man had come down, so it was supposed, for the sake of the Hedgerton air, and had taken Maranatha on the three months' lease. Therefore, it might be supposed that, had he not been killed he would have returned to London at the expiration of that period to resume his ordinary life. From Mrs. Vence's hint that she had been engaged to hold her tongue it would appear that there was some mystery in the baronet's life; but no mystery could be discovered in spite the sergeant's persistent questioning. He left off as wise as he was when he began.
Purse also called to see the Rector and his wife, ostensibly to ask if they knew anything about the gentleman who had come to reside in the parish, but really to learn what he could of young Craver. The intimation of Lemby that his daughter loved the young man, and that he wished to marry her, gave Purse the idea that rivalry might be the cause of the tragedy. But on inquiry the sergeant learnt that Craver came down to see his parents only now and then at a weeks'-end and had not been in Hedgerton at the time, that his rival in love was killed. Moreover, it appeared that the young man had not spoken about Miss Lemby to his father or mother, and they were quite surprised to hear that he had any intention of marrying. In fact, Mrs. Craver, was indignant when she heard the story told by Mr. Lemby, and said that Edwin would certainly have told her had he been in love. She admitted, as did the Rector, that Edwin knew Wyke, but insisted that he knew him merely as an acquaintance. If he had been a rival, as the Rector's wife declared her son would assuredly have spoken against him, whereas he only mentioned him indifferently when questioned. But, as Purse pointed out, if young Craver kept his wooing of Miss Lemby secret from his parents, he would scarcely have talked about the man she was being forced to marry. The sergeant left the rectory with a feeling of disappointment. So far as he could gather from the frank speech of Mr. and Mrs. Craver, their son had nothing to do with the crime.
The inquest took place in the Entertainment Hall--that shabby building with the roof of galvanised iron, which was on the esplanade. Sergeant Purse stated all that he knew, which was little enough, and terminated his evidence with the surprising information that a telegram had arrived from the Waking police-office saying that the bicycle had been found. The constable who had found it would appear in due course to relate how it had been discovered. But, as the sergeant added, there was no trace to be found of the man who had stolen the same. This announcement caused some excitement, as there appeared a chance of getting at the truth, but, on the whole, Purse's statement caused prosaic, and his evidence was anything but sensational.
Mrs. Vence was then questioned, and repeated her story much in the same words as she had used when telling it to Jervis and his superior officer.
From her evidence the jury gathered that she had been engaged by Sir Hector, who told her to do her work and hold her tongue. She had come down a few days before her master had taken over Maranatha from Pedder, the caretaker, so as to put it in order. The Coroner, weary of hearing nothings, pointedly asked her why Wyke had requested her to hold her tongue.
"He didn't ask me to hold my tongue," said Mrs. Vence, tartly. "He asked me if I could hold my tongue; and that's a different pair of shoes."
"Well, and why did he?"
"How should I know? I never was one to chatter; and there wasn't anything to chatter about, so far as I could see. I did my work, and he read and walked and slept, seeing no one, and keeping silent."
"He saw no one save Mr. Lemby and the man who escaped on the bicycle?"
"You're right there, if ever you was right in your life," was Mrs. Vence's reply.
"Did he expect Mr. Lemby?"
"No, he didn't. He was quite surprised when he came unexpected, as you might say. But he told me to show him into the drorin'-room, and went up himself to have a chat."
"And the second visitor?'
"Oh, he expected him," said the witness, with emphasis, "for I heard him say, friendly-like: 'Oh, you've come!' or something like that. He took him into the study when he came, flying down the stairs at the ring. Then--"
Here Mrs. Vence went on to repeat how she had been sent to the kitchen to return later with cake and wine. Afterwards she related what had occurred until the arrival of Hall and the escape of the presumed criminal.
"Did you hear any noise of quarrelling while you were in the kitchen?"
"No. I didn't. The kitchen's too far off."
The Coroner asked other questions, and received more or less satisfactory answers, as Mrs. Vence seemed anxiously eager to be frank. But, curiously enough, no mention was made of the missing letter left by Hall. Either Purse had not told the Coroner about this, or it had slipped his memory. Finally Mrs. Vence left the witness-box to give place to Mr. Oliver Lemby.
He stated that he was a colonial from Australia, and had come to England with his daughter three years ago. Having money, he had taken his daughter into society, and there she had met the deceased, who had proposed marriage. Witness frankly said that he approved of the marriage, as Wyke was titled and wealthy, and, his daughter, on these advantages being pointed out to her, was willing enough to do what she was told. The marriage day was duly fixed, and then Sir Hector, for no apparent reason, postponed the same and came down to live at Hedgerton. Lemby stated how he had procured the address from Edwin Craver, who had heard from his parents that Wyke was staying in the parish, and related how he had come down on the night of the murder to force Sir Hector to give an explanation. The rest of his evidence was much the same as he had told Purse.
"So that's all I know," said the witness, fiercely. "My address is Tenby Mansions, Earl's Court, and you can find me there any dashed time you like. I am not afraid."
"There is no reason that I can see why you should be afraid," said the Coroner, rather coldly. "You have given your evidence frankly enough. But I ask you if you heard any noise or quarrelling while you were in the drawing-room?"
"No, I did not. Had I done so I should have come down at once, as I never object to being in a row."
"Did Sir Hector ever tell you that he was in danger of death?"
"Never. I should have dashed well protected him had he said that. I wanted him to marry my daughter, and not to die in this infernal silly way."
Afterwards the postman gave his evidence, saying he had knocked twice at the door of Maranatha, and that at the second knock the door had suddenly been opened, then a man had dashed out to disappear on the bicycle into the fog. He also said that he had left the letter on the hall table; but the Coroner did not take much notice of this statement, little thinking how important it was.
Jervis followed, and related all that he knew, which mainly was a repetition of what Sergeant Purse had said.
Then the doctor stepped into the witness-box. In his evidence he said that a post-mortem examination had revealed the fact that deceased had suffered from cancer.
"Ah!" said the Coroner, quickly, "that is a disease impossible to cure. Do you think. Dr. Quin, that deceased may have taken his own life on that account?"
"No," said the doctor, positively, "such a weak old man could not have delivered so violent a blow. The knife was buried up to the hilt in his heart, and had to pierce through a starched shirt-front and a quilted jacket, both of which would have broken the force of the blow. The body was clothed in a smoking-suit, if you remember, sir."
"Then you don't think that Sir Hector committed suicide?"
"No. I am quite certain that he did not."
The final witness was the police officer who had arrived from Waking. It appeared that the red bicycle had been found in the stable of Jonas Sorley, who had come to the police-office to confess this. Sorley was a carrier, and saw the advertisement about the bicycle in the newspapers. Therefore, he had communicated with the police. Sorley, being ill, could not come to the inquest, but the officer brought his sworn deposition.
From this it appeared that on the night when the crime was committed at Hedgerton Sorley was jogging along in his cart from Bethley to Waking, some twenty miles away. When he left Bethley there was no bicycle in his cart, but when he arrived at Waking there was.
"The bicycle of Hall, the postman?" asked the Coroner.
"Yes, sir. It's the same number. But Sorley cannot say how the bicycle came to be in his cart. It was nearly midnight when he arrived at Waking."
This unsatisfactory statement completed the evidence, and there was nothing for it but that the jury should bring in an open verdict, which they accordingly did. Everyone agreed with this but the buccaneer, who insisted to Sergeant Purse, when the proceedings were over, that the escaped man was the assassin, and should be directly accused.
"But we don't know his name, so how can a verdict be given against him?" was the sergeant's reply. "An open verdict is sufficient. We can search for the man, and when we find him we can hang him."
"Yes, when you find him," jeered Lemby, contemptuously. "You'll never find him!"
With the open verdict, the red bicycle case, as it was called, ended for the time being, as no new evidence was forthcoming likely to elucidate the problem. Wyke's assassin had suddenly emerged out of the mists to commit the crime, and had as suddenly vanished into them again. In spite of all efforts it was impossible for the police authorities to find him.
Some society papers gave many details regarding the life of the dead baronet, but stated nothing of any moment. Sir Hector had a good income and a good position, apparently being a harmless old trifler, who idled luxuriously day after day. He had no relations, therefore the title became extinct, while the property--so said the newspapers--lapsed to the Crown. For a time the old dandy was missed in certain circles, but, as usual, was speedily forgotten. Even the hinted romance of Miss Lemby being engaged against her will to Wyke ceased to interest people, and the girl herself was very glad that this should be the case.
At Hedgerton the sensation lasted longer. But when Mrs. Vence departed bag and baggage, when Sergeant Purse took his leave, and Lemby returned to London, the excitement gradually died away. Maranatha was again placed in the hands of old Pedder as caretaker, and again was advertised to let furnished.
When Christmas was over and the New Year dawned, Oliver Lemby proposed to his daughter that they should return to the Antipodes. The buccaneer was now weary of the restraints of civilisation, and having failed to marry Claudia to a titled husband, desired to go back to his old free life. Father and daughter discussed the matter in the drawing-room of their Tenby Mansion flat, and quarrelled openly. This was scarcely to be wondered at, as Lemby had a violent temper, while Claudia was not the girl likely to submit to being bullied. The pirate was half annoyed and half pleased by her opposition.
"You're a chip of the old block, my girl," he said, smoking furiously, "and can hold your dashed own with anyone; but you ain't going to hold it with me."
"Oh, you'll listen to sense, dad," said Claudia, coolly.
"That's so," Lemby assured her, in quite a dry American style; "but then you ain't talking sense. What's the use of staying longer in this worn-out country when you can't get a husband."
"I've got a husband," declared the girl, equably.
"I take your meaning. But the husband you've spotted ain't got no handle to his name. That Craver chap you mean, don't you? Not much. Rank and riches for you, Claudia, and if you don't hook them, back you go with me to the South Seas."
"I won't," said Claudia, firmly. "Go yourself, dad, and leave me here."
Lemby, lounging in a deep chair with a pipe between his teeth and a glass of whisky at his elbow, stared at her with half-closed eyes. He privately decided that she was much too handsome to be allowed to throw herself away in a hurry. Claudia had a fine figure, hair like sunshine, and laughing azure eyes, together with a perfect complexion, very red lips, and the whitest of teeth. She was tall and largely made, most imposing in her looks, and carried herself so haughtily that the stately Roman name suited her exactly. If Lemby was not a gentleman, his daughter was emphatically a lady, for race showed itself plainly in her slender hands and feet, as in her finely-cut features. From her father she inherited her large frame and shapely body, while her ripe beauty came from her mother. The buccaneer had captured a gentlewoman, who was lured into marriage by his dare-devil looks. But for many years he had been a widower.
"It was a mighty pity Wyke died," said Lemby, regretfully, and ignoring his daughter's defiance. "He had a title, five thousand a year, and a fine house in Devonshire, besides a position in society. I reckon you'd have fitted the position first-class, Claudia. Blamed bad luck, I call it, his pegging out under the knife."
"Well, dad, he's dead, so there's no more to be said," said the girl, impatiently.
"There's a heap more to be said, my dear. No one gets the title, I guess, as the old man had no relatives. But the cash, Claudia?"
"I saw in some society paper that it goes to the Crown," said Claudia, carelessly, for she was young enough to care little for money, never having felt the need of it.
"I ain't so sure of that," muttered her father, slowly drinking the whisky to inspire him; "the old man was so much in love with you that he told me he intended to leave you the dibs."
"If I married him, I suppose--not otherwise."
"That ain't certain, my girl. You were willing to marry him, so----"
"I wasn't!" she flashed out, sharply. "You forced me."
"Why shouldn't I force you? You are my daughter, ain't you?"
"Yes; but I'm not your slave. I didn't want to be Lady Wyke."
"No. You wish to be Mrs. Edwin Craver, and I'll jolly well see as you don't. Seems to me, Claudia, that it would be only fair for him to leave you his pile."
"Didn't he give you an explanation when you called?"
"No. I told you before that he didn't. Said as he'd come back to the drawing-room to clear things up, and naturally didn't when he pegged out in the study below. Anyhow, it's on the cards as he might have made a will in your favour. And," added the buccaneer, emphatically, "I'm dashed well determined to see the sharp as handles his business."
"Mr. Sandal, in Lincoln's Inn Fields?"
"That's him. Wyke told you as he told me about Sandal when he mentioned that marriage settlements were to be drawn up. I guess I'll look him up to see if the old man did the right thing by you. It's dashed queer as he should have postponed the marriage when he worshipped the blamed ground you walked on, Claudia, my girl."
"It is strange; it was strange," admitted Claudia, pondering. "I can't understand it myself, although I am glad that he acted as he did. Perhaps, knowing that I loved Edwin, he changed his mind about making me his miserable wife."
"Miserable!" jeered the pirate, contemptuously. "Miserable with a title and five thousand a year. Shucks! my girl, you're talking through your hat. Well, I reckon I'll see Sandal, and learn if there's a will in your favour."
"I don't want Sir Hector's money," said Claudia, setting her mouth obstinately. "I don't accept a penny of his money, will or no will."
"Then I'll accept it for you," said Lemby, coolly, and heaved his big body out of the chair. "We can't live on nothing, can we?"
Claudia turned sharply from the window, out of which she was looking. "Live on nothing?" she repeated, blankly, for the words conveyed no sense to her.
"That's it, my girl." Lemby stretched himself with a yawn. "My pile never was a big one. It's time for us to get back to the Sunny South and make dollars, failing the old man's cash dropping in."
"But I thought we were rich," expostulated Claudia, in dismay. "If not, why did we come to England to live in so expensive a style?"
"Oh, I wanted to do the right thing by you, my girl," said the pirate, truculently. "I saw as you were a high-stepper when I looked you up at that blamed school in Sydney. I had enough to give us a few years of luxury, so I yanked you home to snatch a husband of the sort I wanted."
"In plain English," cried Claudia, turning very red, and clenching her hands as she faced her father, "you took me into the slave-market; to sell me to the highest bidder?"
"Shucks!" said Lemby, uneasily, for Claudia had a whirlwind temper, which was rising rapidly.
"It's not shucks, or anything like shucks," she retorted, stamping her foot. "I don't recognise your right to choose mv husband. I am a human being as well as your daughter, and I intend to arrange my life for myself."
"What about the ten commandments?" sneered Lemby, hedging. "'Children, obey your parents,' ain't it?"
"'Parents, respect your children,'" counter-quoted the girl. "And how can I respect you, dad, when you tried to force me into a disagreeable marriage. Like a fool, I allowed you to bully me into promising to marry Sir Hector. But now that he is dead and buried I shall act as I please."
"I shan't let you."
"I shan't ask you to let me. See here, dad, it's time we understood one another, as you are going the wrong way to work with me. Have you any money?"
"Enough to get back first-class to Australia with a few dollars to see the year out. And I guess I can raise enough in Sydney to hire a schooner and to take up the copra business again. If I stay here I can't get along anyhow. It depends if Wyke left you the dibs."
"I don't believe he has left me any dibs, as you call it," said Claudia, who was now very pale, for the revelation had startled her considerably. "Can't you leave me enough to live on for six months? I can get a situation as a governess until Edwin is rich enough to marry me."
"He shan't marry you," declared Lemby, looking fierce. "Craver's only a manager in that blamed motor-car factory. He ain't even a partner."
"He will be a partner one day when he gets money to put into the firm," said the girl in a low voice and keeping her temper well in hand.
"And where's he going to get the cash? His father's just a blamed sky-pilot in a dashed township, the place where Wyke handed in his cheques. Craver will never be rich, and will never have a title, so he don't marry you."
She clenched her hands, hardened her face, and stepped up to her tyrannical parent looking just as fierce as he did. "I don't want a title, and I don't want money," she said, passionately. "I want to marry the man I love, and Edwin is that man. I intend to become his wife, in spite of you."
"You just try it, that's all."
"I intend to try. I have begun to try."
"You'll obey me."
"I shan't. I'll obey my conscience."
"I'll twist your neck, dash you!" roared the buccaneer, infuriated by this opposition, which he quite expected.
"Oh, no you won't!" Claudia slipped aside, as he lunged forward, and placed the breadth of the room between them. "You were always a bully father, and are just the kind of slave-driver who should be in the forecastle of a tramp steamer. But you don't bully me. I'll die first. So there," and she stamped.
"Dashed spitfire, you are," he growled. "Have it your own silly way. But you don't marry that engineer bounder, mind."
"Edwin is not a bounder!" cried Claudia, indignantly. "He's a bred-and-born gentleman. While I," she added, bitingly, "I am your daughter."
"Oh"--Lemby began to laugh good-humouredly--"I see what you're getting at, my girl. No, I ain't a gilded Lord, for sure, and never pretended to be. I'm just plain Oliver Lemby, as deals square by them as deals square with him. But your mother was a lady, Claudia, so your blood ain't all mud, remember."
"Why don't you remember, dad," she retorted, angrily, "and treat me with some sort of respect? I know you're kind-hearted, and mean well: but your manners are awful. Be civil."
"I am civil--as civil as I need be to my own daughter."
"Because I am your daughter, that's no reason why I should be bullied. But it's no use talking, dada," she ended wearily, "you'll never understand."
"I understand this--that I'm going to move heaven and earth to get that cash of Wyke's which ought to come to you," said Lemby, sullenly; "and whether I get it or not, I've got to get out of this country, and you too."
"Why have you to get out?" asked Claudia, stuck by the queer expression on her father's florid face.
Lemby shuffled and twisted, evading a direct answer. "I ain't got any dibs, for one thing. I told you so."
"But if you get this money of Sir Hector's?" asked the girl, trying to arrive at his meaning, for she saw that there was something behind his speech.
"I'll go, all the same." Lemby looked at the carpet and scowled.
"But why?"
"Because I choose to. That's why," he burst out furiously.
"Now, dad"--Claudia held up a warning hand--"we have had one scene, so don't let us have another. You won't succeed in getting your way with me."
"You are an ungrateful minx!"
"Oh" Claudia sat down with a careless shrug--"call me as many names as you like. That matters little. But don't go too far."
"What will you do if--"
"If you go too far," interrupted the girl, her breast heaving with passion, and her eyes flashing, "I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll leave this flat and go out to find a situation."
"Nobody will take you," said Lemby, uneasily, for he knew, what she was capable of when her temper was aroused, as it certainly was at present.
"That's my business, dad."
The buccaneer walked towards the door, halted there irresolutely, and then looked round the room cautiously. After a long pause, he stole forward lightly to bend down and whisper in his daughter's ear. "If you don't come with me and light out straight, you'll see me in trouble."
"What kind of trouble asked Claudia, shrinking back.
"Trouble of the worst. I've risked a lot to get that cash of Sir Hector's."
"Risked what?" Claudia shivered and faltered.
"My good name, my liberty, my life."
"Dad!" She sprang up with a cry.
"My life," repeated Lemby, emphatically, and walked out of the room.
When her father left the room after giving his ominous hint, the girl throw herself full-length on the sofa and covered her face.
In a frank manner Lemby had stated that he wanted money, and that he had risked much to obtain the same. His reference to the chance of losing good name, liberty, and life, could only mean that he was in some way concerned in the Hedgerton crime. Claudia knew that he had gone down to see Sir Hector and to demand an explanation--she knew that he had actually been in the house when the death took place. Certainly, on the face of it, he was exonerated by the evidence of the policeman and the housekeeper; yet it now appeared that he was less innocent than was supposed. The girl did not dare to think that he was the guilty person, for, rough as were his manners, she could not believe that he would so callously slay an old and feeble man. Still, in a moment of impatience he might have had something to do with the sinister affair. His own words hinted as much, and he had said just enough to make Claudia long for her own peace of mind to know more. The girl, with her face buried in the sofa-cushion, raged silently and strongly.
Suddenly, a touch on her shoulder brought her to her feet with a loud scream, and she quite startled the person who had thus aroused her. He was a tall and handsome young man, with closely-cropped, brown hair, a clean-shaven face, and shrewd eyes of hazel, merry and bright, but now he looked quite dismayed at the dishevelled aspect of the girl. "My dearest Claudia, what is the matter?"
"Oh, Edwin!" At the sound if his kind voice she broke down altogether, and in a moment she burst into tears. "Oh, Edwin!" That was all she could gasp out as she threw herself into his arms.
"My dear! My dear!" Craver sat down on the sofa and gently drew the girl on to his knee to soothe her. "What is the matter? There! there! Don't speak. Let me get you a glass of water."
"No," sobbed Claudia, hastily drying her eyes. "I'm behaving like a fool. I'll feel better in a few minutes. But hold me tightly, Edwin. Let me feel that I have someone who loves me."
Without a word the young man petted her and calmed her, and gradually restored her to reason. Claudia's sobs grew less violent, her limbs ceased to tremble, and shortly she slipped out of her lover's arms to stand up. "I am silly," she confessed, and walked across the room to look at her disorder in a mirror over the fireplace. "You beast!" said Claudia, staring at her red eyes and tumbled hair. "Why can't you behave," and she stamped viciously.
Craver rose and moved gently behind her to lay his arm across her shoulder with a smile. Claudia appreciated the diplomatic way in which he was dealing with her, and now that she was more composed turned to face him squarely and take his two hands within her own.
"My dear," cried Claudia, bending forward to kiss him, "you always do me good."
"I'm glad" Edwin returned the kiss with interest. "But what is the matter?"
"Dad's the matter. He always is the matter, I don't mind his raging, I am quite used to that, and he really can't help it. But when he says----" She hesitated.
"Says what?"
"I can't tell you just now, as it upset me altogether. Wait for a time, Edwin, and let us talk all round the shop. Then I can gradually lead up to what he said. Oh, it's awful!"
"It must be," rejoined Craver, with a perplexed look, "to upset you so much. I know you are not an hysterical girl, Claudia. Come and sit down, so that we can talk at our ease, and, you can give me some tea in half ah hour. I'm dying of thirst."
"You shall have some tea now, or you may die," said Claudia in a lively tone, and touching the bell. "Luckily your father has gone out, and will not be back for a long time. We'll be all alone."
"That will be Paradise," said Craver, gaily, and dropped into the deep armchair, lately occupied by the pirate; while Claudia gave orders to the neat maid-servant who appeared. "Come and sit down, dear."
"In this chair," replied Claudia, seating herself opposite to him, and placing a light bamboo table between them. "We must be sensible."
"I get so much sense in business," sighed the young man, "that I come here to indulge in a little delicious folly. Do you feel better, darling?" and he leant his elbows on the table to touch her hand.
"Much better. You have given me strength, which I needed. And you are so very strong, Edwin. Much stronger than father, as you don't waste your powers in boasting and swanking."
"My dearest girl, you must not talk of your father in that way."
"What is the use of blinking at facts?" retorted Claudia, with a pretty shrug. "I love dad, who is kind to me after his truculent fashion. But he really does swank, as you know. Admit it at once, sir."
"I admit it right enough. But he's a real good sort, you know, Claudia."
"So long as he gets his own way he's a good sort," retorted the girl, sharply; "but it never strikes him that I want my own way sometimes."
"As how?"
"I want to marry you."
"Well, now that poor old Wyke is dead, that's all settled, isn't it?"
"Not so far as dad is concerned. He wants me to marry money. I was weak enough to give in to him over Sir Hector, but now I have to fight, for my freedom, and you must help me."
Craver looked rather grim and very determined. "Oh, I'll do that. No one marries you but me. You never would have become engaged to Wyke had you----"
"Had I really and truly loved you," finished Claudia swiftly. "I know quite well what you mean, Edwin. But you have never lived with my dad. He would wear out the Archangel Gabriel to get his own way. I fought and fought till I could fight no longer. Then I gave in. But fate has now cut the knot, and I'll see that it isn't tied again."
"Your father will worry you, of course?"
"He's certain to. But I'll run away and become a governess. Oh, here's Jane." She swept some papers off the bamboo table and helped to lay the cloth and adjust the tea-things. "Thank you, Jane. I shan't want anything more."
"I don't like the idea of your being a governess," said Edwin, who had been carefully considering the proposition while the parlourmaid was present, and argued about it now that she was gone. "You are too handsome to be a governess."
"And not clever enough, you might add," retorted Claudia, pouring out the tea; "but I must do something. Dad worries and worries and worries. He wants to return to the South Seas to make more money, and insists that I shall go with him."
"Oh, Claudia!" Craver dropped the piece of bread and butter he had picked up. "Oh, Claudia!"
"It's all very well saying, 'Oh, Claudia'; but facts have to be faced. And very uncomfortable facts, too, now that I am coming to them."
"Coming to what?"
"To the facts which upset me," Claudia pushed back her chair, and leant her elbow on her knee and her chin on her hand. "Edwin, what do you know about this dreadful murder of Sir Hector?"
Craver started so violently that he spilt his tea and had to set the cup down in a hurry. "Good heavens, Claudia, what do you mean?"
"What I say. I speak plainly enough don't I?"
"What should I know about the murder except what I read in the newspapers?" was Craver's reluctant reply. "Because it took place in my father's parish that does not mean my having anything to do with it."
"I never suggested your having," said Claudia, in a cross tone. "How you do jump to conclusions. But dad was in the house when Sir Hector was killed."
"Yes. Upstairs in the drawing-room. He came down when----"
"When the crime was committed. Mrs. Vence and the policeman said that Sir Hector was dead before dad appeared in the study."
"Yes. So I read in the report of the inquest proceedings. Well?"
"Well if that is the case dad is innocent."
Craver stared. When Claudia first broached the unpleasant subject he had turned pale, but now the colour was slowly creeping back into his sunburnt face. "Of course, Mr. Lemby is innocent," he said, after a pause. "There never was any question of his having anything to do with the death."
"Sir Hector was rich," said Claudia, in apparently an irrelevant manner.
Craver nodded, wondering what she meant. "Five thousand a year according to the gossip of the newspapers."
"Well," continued the girl, "dad is poor, and wants money. He hoped to get it by making me marry Sir Hector. But as I did not become Lady and as I never can be owing to the death, dad is in a hole."
"My dear Claudia, I really don't know what you mean?"
"I'm just coming to the point now," said the girl, nervously, and her lips quivered. "You know that dad went down to ask Sir Hector why he had postponed the marriage?"
"Yes. Did he receive an explanation?"
"No. Sir Hector was about to give him one when the ring came at the door, and Sir Hector went down to see the man who murdered him."
"He might not have murdered him," murmured Craver looking down at his cup.
"Nonsense! Why should he have fled if he was innocent?" said Claudia, hurriedly. "But let that pass, Edwin. The point is that dad did not get an explanation; but somehow he has got it into his head that Sir Hector may have left me the money by will."
"On what grounds does he believe that?"
"I can't tell you. He did not say. But to-day he has gone to see Mr. Sandal in Lincoln's Inn Field, who is Sir Hector's lawyer. And when he left this very room." continued Claudia, sinking her voice to a frightened whisper, "he said that he had risked his reputation, his liberty, and his life to get money."
Craver looked hard at the girl, and seemed to be about as nervous as she was herself. "Did he say that, he had risked so much to get this particular money of Sir Hector's?"
"No. But he more or less implied it."
"And you took it to mean that he had killed----"
"No." Claudia leapt to her feet with a look of positive terror on her face, so greatly was she moved. "Don't say it. It's impossible. Dad is rough and fierce but he would never kill a feeble old man like Sir Hector. Besides, there was no reason why he should, as when I married Sir Hector the money would have come to me as the wife while he lived and afterwards the widow. And what I had I should, of course, share with dad."
"You forget," remarked Craver politely, "that as the marriage was postponed there was every chance that it might not take place."
Claudia's nostrils dilated and her bosom heaved. "Are you against dad?" she asked sharply. "If you are, I wish you had let me know. Then I could have held my tongue."
"I am not against your father," said Craver, steadily; "but I wish to place all points before you. I do not believe Mr. Lemby is guilty, although his sayings are dark and ominous."
"They upset me altogether!" cried the girl, restlessly. "Therefore, Edwin, until you find out who stabbed Sir Hector, we cannot marry."
"Claudia!" He was dismayed by this speech.
"I mean it!" she declared, waving him back. "I shall never be happy until the truth is known. Learn who murdered Sir Hector, and exonerate my dad."
"I'll do my best, although you set me a hard task. But this money----"
"Well?" demanded the girl, seeing how nervous her lover was.
Craver moved slowly towards the door. "You will never get it. Nor will your father. Sir Hector did not leave his fortune to either of you."
Claudia stared when her lover disappeared. She wondered if he knew more about the crime than he admitted. Her father, her lover--was one or the other guilty?