The first thing that struck Dr. Jim the next day, was an alteration in the demeanour of his friend. When Herrick arrived at "The Pines" after his visit to Corn, the Squire had already retired to bed, and was asleep, so the servant said. Not wishing to disturb him, Jim had supper all to himself, and went to his own room after a brisk walk on the terrace. It struck him as curious that Stephen did not come down to breakfast the next morning as he was now comparatively well. On asking for the Squire he was informed that Marsh-Carr had gone out for a walk. Herrick therefore had another lonely meal, wondering the while what had taken Stephen out so early. The young man did not return till late in the afternoon, and then excused himself by stating that he had been to see Petronella at Beorminster.
"She is still in that dull house," said Marsh-Carr gloomily, "although I think she is tired of it and wants to go to her own country. But she refuses to go all the same."
"What is her reason?" asked Herrick sharply.
"I can't get it out of her. She says my mother left a message with her."
"For you, I suppose? Well why doesn't she deliver it and get away."
"The message is for you Herrick."
Dr. Jim stared. "For me!" he cried. "Why, what possible message can your poor mother have left for me?"
"I really do not know," replied Stephen indifferently, "you had better see Petronella and ask her. She is looking very ill and if she stays much longer in that damp house she will die."
"All right," replied Herrick coolly, "I'll look her up some time. I daresay the message is only one asking me to look after you."
So Dr. Jim said, but in his heart he was wondering if the dead woman had left behind her any confession of her crime. She might have done so. Yet if she had poisoned herself to escape the consequences, it would have been foolish of her to incriminate herself. Herrick resolved to see Petronella at the first opportunity and learn what it was that she had to tell him. If there were any really important message it was strange that the old Italian had not delivered it long ago. He had seen her frequently and there had been ample opportunity for her to fulfil her mistress' dying wish. However Herrick put this out of his mind for the moment and turned his attention to Stephen. "You are not looking well Steve," he said gravely, "your face is white, you have dark rings round your eyes, and a haggard look as though you had not slept all night."
"I am not yet quite myself," said Marsh-Carr in a far more irritable tone than Herrick had ever heard him use before.
"I can see that, and being someone else has not improved your temper. I hope I have not offended you by going to town Steve?"
"Certainly not. How can you think so?"
"Well," said Dr. Jim looking at him, "it struck me that you have been trying to avoid me lately. If you are tired of me Steve, you need only say so, and I'll pack up and go."
"No, I'm hanged if you will," said the Squire vigorously. "I can't do without you. I have been worried a trifle and it has told on my present state of health. I'll be all right in a day or so."
"Is there anything I can help you with?"
"No. It is a private matter, and concerns myself only."
In the face of this intimation Herrick could not press his inquiries and began to speak on other subjects, Stephen replying more or less absently. As soon as he could he withdrew to his own room, saying he wanted to lie down. Herrick did not seek to detain him, but shook his head. "Something is wrong and he won't tell me what it is," he thought, "I wonder if Santiago has been tampering with him in any way. Perhaps Bess may know the reason for this change. I'll see her at once."
But the extraordinary thing was that he found Bess changed also. He had left her bright and merry, anxious to probe the secret of Colonel Carr's death. He returned to find her nervous, ill at ease, and disinclined to continue her detective investigations.
"I don't think we shall arrive at anything," she said when Herrick pressed her. "I spoke to Inspector Bridge and he can do nothing. He is a professional, and if he fails, how can we hope to succeed?"
"Inspector Bridge is a conceited ass," replied Dr. Jim gravely. "He knows absolutely nothing. I know more than he does."
"Did you see the Mexican and Mr. Joyce?" asked Bess.
"I saw them and I spoke to them, and I have found out something which I need not tell you just now. It would be useless to do so. I must search out the matter for myself, and when I succeed you shall know."
Bess sighed. "I do not mind in the least," she said mournfully. "I have ceased to take an interest in the matter. If Frisco did not kill Colonel Carr I do not know who did."
"Humph! You are changeable, like all women," said Dr. Jim rather puzzled by her attitude, yet never guessing its cause. "By the way, did you find out anything about that pistol?"
"Yes." Bess thought she might as well tell him, as he would certainly learn the truth sooner or later from Bridge. "The bullet fits the barrel.
"I thought so," said Jim. "It is the weapon which was used."
"Yes," answered Bess; then after a pause. "I made another discovery."
"Oh, you did? And about what, my dear?"
"The bullet which was used. It is of silver."
"Of silver? What do you mean? Isn't it lead?"
Bess laughed rather irritably. "If it was of lead how could it be silver?" she asked and then went on to tell how the jeweller had examined the missile. "Isn't it curious?" she said.
Herrick nodded absently. His eyes were fixed on the ground and he was trying to think of the reason Mrs. Marsh could have had for using so expensive a bullet. Certainly the weapon was old-fashioned and she would have to manufacture the bullets for herself. But why use silver in preference to lead, or pewter? In an ordinary household the supply of the last two metals was likely to be more plentiful than the first. This was a problem, but one of so trifling a nature that Herrick dismissed it almost immediately. He turned his attention to Bess.
"What have you and Stephen been doing with yourselves?" he asked.
Bess started violently and changed colour at once. "Nothing Jim," she said stiffly, "why do you ask?"
"Well, you both look ill. Stephen is avoiding me, and you are as silent as an owl."
"Not so stupid I hope," said Bess with a laugh. At this moment Ida entered the room, and nothing more was said. But Ida also complained of Stephen's health. "I wish you would make him stay in bed Dr. Jim," she said, "I am certain that he has got up too soon and is not strong enough to go about. Look how pale he is, and silent. I can't get a word out of him."
Herrick nodded. "I am not pleased myself Ida. This comes of my running away to Town. I'll exert my authority."
He spoke to Stephen and urged him to lie up for a few days. The young man obeyed meekly enough, and this very meekness made Herrick uneasy. He would rather that Stephen had shown fight. But the Squire remained in bed, took what was given him, and hardly ever opened his mouth. Ida was in despair; Herrick was puzzled, and the two met to discuss the situation.
"When did he change like this?" asked Dr. Jim.
"I think it was the day after you left," replied Ida tearfully, "I went to Beorminster to see Flo, and left him quite bright. When I met him again, he was dull, and quiet, and white. Yet Bess was with him while I was away, so he should not have missed me so much."
"Oh!" said Jim with sudden interest, "so Bess was with him, was she? H'm! It strikes me that Bess herself is not so bright as she might be."
"Indeed you are right there," said Miss Endicotte, "she is sad and silent just like Stephen. Or else she is so gay that I think she is too excited. She cries for the least thing, and laughs without any cause."
"Humph! Sounds like hysteria to me. Yet Bess is not given that way."
"Of course not," said Ida repelling the suggestion hastily, "she is a strong, healthy, sensible girl and above such weakness. But as you say she and Stephen have both changed. I think," here Ida hesitated and looked down. It amazed Herrick when she looked up to see that her eyes were filled with tears. He could not understand it all.
"My dear girl what is the matter?" he exclaimed irritably, "are you ill also. The devil has broken loose here since my departure."
"I--I--can't--help it," sobbed Ida, "I thought that Bess and Stephen might--might like one another."
"Of course they do Ida. Why shouldn't they?"
"You don't understand what I mean. I wonder if they were in love with one another and regret their engagements."
Herrick burst into such a hearty fit of laughter that she was cheered. "I never heard such nonsense in my life!" he said. "Where is your women's wit Ida? Why, Bess loves me devotedly I am certain. As for Stephen, he adores the very ground you walk on. No! It's not that my dear girl."
"Then what can it be?" asked Ida drying her tears.
"I shall question Bess until I find out," said Herrick grimly. "You have no idea how I can torture people with cross examination."
True to his idea, Dr. Jim sought out Bess. He came across her in the Pine wood beside the fairy circle. Her eyes were cast on the ground and she looked despondent. When she saw Herrick she made as if to go away.
Dr. Jim felt wounded. "Bess! Don't you want to see me."
"Of course I do," she said brightly, "only, I'm not very well."
"Neither is Stephen," said Dr. Jim, and he saw by her start that the remark made her nervous. "Have you two quarrelled?"
"No! we have not; we are great friends."
"Are you in love with one another then?"
Bess grew crimson and stamped. "How dare you say such a thing as that even in jest?" she said. "What would Ida say if she heard it."
"It was Ida's own idea," replied Herrick with a smile, "seeing you two so glum, she fancied that you regretted your engagements and wanted to marry one another. Just say if this is the case Bess and Ida and I will console each other! That would be only fair, you know!"
The first smile that Herrick had seen on her face since his return dimpled the cheek of Bess. "I never heard such nonsense. I like Stephen, but you are the man I love. You stupid Jim; you know that!"
"I am not quite sure if I do," said Jim gravely; "in love there should be complete confidence."
"Surely there is, between us," said Bess nervously.
"You can't look me in the face and repeat that."
Bess made the attempt, and failed. "It is nothing!" she said obstinately.
"There _is_ something however," said Dr. Jim sternly, "you and Stephen have some secret between you which is making you both ill. What is it?"
"I can't tell you Jim."
"Then there _is_ a secret?"
"I won't be questioned like this!" cried Bess with angry evasion.
Herrick took her by the arm and forced her to look into his face. "My dear girl," he said, "I am to be your husband, and you must obey and consult me in all things. If you are playing with fire, I must know. Do you not trust me Bess?"
"Yes. But the secret is not my own."
"In that case I won't press you for an explanation," he said relaxing his grip, "you are a foolish girl to have any secrets from one who loves you. But I suppose you have given your word not to tell?"
"Yes. I cannot break my word."
Herrick nodded. "I do not ask you to. The secret of Stephen shall be respected. I do not even ask you if it has to do with the murder of his uncle. There is no need to ask."
Bess looked at him irresolutely, her face scarlet. Then without a word she went slowly away. Herrick looked after her and nodded to himself. "I believe she has found out something about Mrs. Marsh, and has told Stephen; that would account for their melancholy and for the secret which she says exists between them. I shall ask Stephen."
That same afternoon Herrick went back to "The Pines" and into the bedroom of Marsh-Carr. The young man was lying staring at the ceiling. He seemed listless and worn-out. When Jim entered he turned his face towards the wall so as to avoid his friend's eyes. Herrick pretended to take no notice although he was cut to the heart by the avoidance of his gaze. He was very fond of Stephen, and mourned over this thing which had come between them. However it was necessary to take extreme measures if the situation was to be improved.
"Steve," said Herrick formulating a plan, "I can't eat alone any longer, you must come down to dinner to-night."
"I can't," said Stephen in a muffled tone, "I am too ill."
"I know you are. Life and brightness and my society are what you need. I was wrong to send you to bed. As your doctor I now order you to get up."
Stephen turned sulky. "I don't want to."
"You do not know what is good for you my friend," said Herrick coolly, "I shall expect to find you dressed and down to dinner at eight. After a good meal you will be more like your old self."
In this way after much coaxing, scolding, ordering and threatening Jim got the young man to get up and dress. Marsh-Carr did so reluctantly enough, for he was desperately afraid of betraying the secret he had told Bess, to the sharp eyes of Herrick. However he was really tired himself of being alone. This seclusion could not be kept up for ever, and it was as well to make a beginning and get back into the old routine. He therefore dressed with some care after a bath, and came down into the drawing-room looking much better. Herrick was standing on the hearth-rug, big and masterful. "Here you are at last," he said, "just in time for a glass of sherry."
Stephen protested, but Herrick insisted. "You want something to make you eat after being in bed all day. This sherry and bitters will do for a medicine. I want you to eat and drink well to-night Steve. You must get colour into your cheek and fire into your eye. What will Ida say if I attend to you so badly?"
Stephen drank the sherry and felt better. Then they went to eat a capital dinner and Dr. Jim saw that his friend tasted every dish. He also made him drink champagne, and talked the whole time in a lively way that was' infectious. By the time dinner was over Stephen felt positively happy. Then came cigars, coffee, and cognac, in the library.
"Now Steve, don't you feel better?" said Herrick when they were seated vis-à-vis beside a blazing fire.
"Yes," replied the Squire and looking round the gorgeously-coloured room, at the evidence of wealth and luxury spread out on every hand. "I feel immensely better. I suppose I shall pick up soon."
"If you follow the advice I shall leave with you, I think you will," said Herrick with intention and stared at the fire.
"What do you mean Jim? You don't intend to--"
"Ah, but I do though Steve. I cannot stay with anyone who does not trust me wholly. I want to be your friend. Your step-mother asked me to look after you. I promised to do what I could, but unless you give me your unreserved confidence, it is useless for me to remain."
Stephen rose agitated and began to pace the room. "I trust you in every way Jim; you know I do."
"I know nothing of the sort Steve. You trust Bess though."
"Ah! She has told you?" cried Marsh-Carr angrily.
"No! she has told me nothing. But I am not a fool Steve and I have eyes in my head. I saw that she was as sad as you, and by putting two and two together I became certain that there was something between you to make both sad. Bess would not tell me anything, nor did I ask her. She is a loyal little woman. Still from her manner I guessed there was a secret. I am certain," added Herrick looking steadily at his friend, "that such a secret can only have to do with the death of your uncle. Now, as I am looking after this case you must tell me what you know. If you do not, I shall throw up the matter and leave you. I must be trusted all in all, or not at all, my friend."
While Herrick was speaking Stephen had sat down. He changed from red to white from white to red again and his breathing became short and hard. He saw that Herrick was in earnest, and that he would either have to tell or lose his friend. In a tumult of anxiety he rose again and began to pace the room. "You put me to a hard test," he cried.
"Perhaps I do," replied Dr. Jim calmly, "but it is to prove your friendship and your manhood. Tell me the truth."
"You will despise me if I do," said Marsh-Carr thoughtlessly and regretted the words almost as soon as they had left his mouth.
Herrick appeared unmoved although he was inwardly surprised. "I do not think anything you could say or do would make me despise you," he said in his calmest tone. "I know you too well to think you would do anything dishonourable. Come what is it?"
But Stephen still remained silent, his eyes on the ground, He was debating whether he would go on or not. Herrick saw his hesitation and guessed its cause. "You have got over the worst now," he said soothingly. "Come along, Steve. Sit down and tell me."
"No," replied Stephen hoarsely, "I prefer to stand up." Then suddenly. "It was I who fired those three shots into the body of my uncle."
"Was it?" said Herrick quietly. "And why did you do that."
"Because I was mad at the time?"
"Had you not better tell me the whole affair? Then I shall be in a position to judge of your madness."
Stephen was amazed at the calm way in which his friend took the intelligence. However he had gone so far that there was nothing left to do but to confess all as he had confessed to Bess. In a hurried manner the young man repeated the tale, and informed Herrick how Bess had found out the truth by means of the revolver. "And now you must despise me" was his final remark. He sunk into his chair with a groan.
Herrick paused for a moment to think. Then he carefully lighted his pipe. "I do not despise you by any manner of means," he said calmly, "but I must admit that I think you are quixotic."
The word--to Stephen's mind was so inapplicable to the situation that he looked up astonished, scarcely believing his ears. "Quixotic!" he repeated. "I do not quite see."
"Well," said Herrick nodding, "you see Mrs. Marsh is dead, so no harm can be done to her. It is good of you to screen her memory--"
"Stop! Stop! What do you mean Herrick?" cried the Squire much agitated.
"I mean that you have taken this guilt on your head to screen your step-mother's memory."
Stephen paused. Then he looked up resolutely. "Yes," he said, "I may tell you, if I tell no one else. It was my mother who fired those shots. Bess found out about my pistol which my mother used, so I took the blame on myself."
"You chivalrous ass!" said Herrick with a growl, "and you've been fretting over this? Why didn't you save time by telling me before?"
"I thought--I thought--"
"Never mind what you thought. After you came to seek your mother at the rectory, and did not find her, what did you do?"
Stephen stared. "How do you know that I did not find her there?" he asked.
"I know more than you think. Tell me all that you saw?"
"I saw nothing," replied Stephen. "Corn said that my mother had gone to the Carr Arms. I could not find her there. I fancied in one of her rages, she might have gone up to 'The Pines.' I went there but saw nothing. Then I came back to the Carr Arms and found my mother. She said I had missed her. I thought she spoke the truth. I never questioned her even after I heard of Carr's death. It never entered my head that she had killed the man."
"Then how did you guess?"
"It came into my head like a flash when Bess said that my revolver was empty in three chambers. I was certain that when I put it away the whole six were loaded. Even as Bess spoke it entered my mind that my mother must have taken the revolver, and have gone up after she left the rectory a second time, to threaten the Colonel. She must have found him dead and then have fired the three shots into his body. Then she replaced the revolver. I never thought of looking at it. It was brought here along with some other things and it was only when Bess--"
"I see," nodded Dr. Jim, "now look here Steve, had your mother another pistol--an old-fashioned horse pistol?"
"No, I am sure she had not. At least, I never saw her with one. It was with such a pistol that Carr was shot. Good heavens Herrick, you do not mean to say that my mother killed the man."
"Well; I have heard your account and I have heard the account of Corn. I do not know how to reconcile the two."
"Corn--Corn the rector? What has he to do with it?"
"A good deal. So have Joyce and Santiago and others. See here Steve, I have been searching for evidence in this case for a long time. To spare you I said nothing, but now that your step-mother has been brought into the matter it is but right you should know. Sit down. I will tell you a long and interesting story."
Rather dazed, Stephen did as he was told. Then Dr. Jim related all that he had learned, bringing the narrative down to the end of his interview with the Revd. Pentland Corn. "Now what do you think?" he asked when the whole story was told.
"I do not know what to think. My mother--I can't believe that she would--would."
"It does seem strange," said Herrick, "but I tell you what. It is my opinion that this message Petronella will deliver, will tell the truth."
The old Italian woman looked very ill. Her form was shrunken, her face thin and white, her eyes unnaturally large. Evidently the misty climate of the midlands chilled her to the bone. She had developed a hacking cough, and shook with ague when the east wind tormented Beorminster. Herrick was shocked at the change which had taken place in her appearance during these few short weeks. Apparently Petronella was not long for this world. But the near approach of death did not appal her; she was terribly lonely, now that her mistress was gone.
"Signor Dottore," she croaked when Herrick made his appearance, "you have come to see me. That is good. But you will not cure me. No. I am dead Signor. Dio mio! what does it matter?" and she ended with a characteristic shrug, punctuated with a cough.
"Indeed you do look ill Petronella," said Dr. Jim sympathetically. "I must ask the Squire to send over someone to look after you."
"No," replied the old woman obstinately, "I am well here. And it will not be for long signor. Soon shall I be in my beautiful Italy."
"At least, come over to 'The Pines' Petronella. You will be better attended to there, and it is warmer."
But Petronella crossed herself with pious horror. "Go to that devil casa Signor! Not me. He had the evil eye, that man who died. Si Signor. I went one day with the padrona, and he swore at me. I had an accident the next day. Cospetto; a jettatura that Signor. But come in, come in, Signor Dottore. This is the best room," she led Herrick into what had once been the drawing-room. "Un bicchiére de Chianti Signor. Signor Stefan sent me some Chianti."
"No thank you Petronella," replied Herrick sitting down on a dusty seat, "I want to have a chat with you. We will talk in your own language if you like."
"Ah no, Signor, I speak the English well, thanks be to the saints. My padrona was fond of speaking the English. So, we will talk Signor Dottore."
Herrick acquiesced with a shrug. He was quite prepared to talk any language she chose provided he got what he wanted. He was not very certain how to go about the matter. Petronella was a shy bird, and inclined to be obstinate. He felt his way in a round-about fashion, so as to take her by surprise.
"You will be glad to get back to Italy Petronella?"
"Si! Si. To the little town by the Adriatic. There I was born Signor, and there will I die--if I die not here. Ah Dio!"
"You are in pain I fear?"
Petronella shrugged her lean shoulders "I am always in pain," she said, "my legs and body--all pain. But the padrona left me something to take thanks be to her, povera signora, and the pain goes."
"Not chloral, I hope?"
"Si Signor. A little bottle of chloral. I take not much, only when I am bad, so bad. Then the pain goes."
"Be careful what you do Petronella. Remember your mistress died from taking too much."
"I shall be careful," muttered the old woman, "eh Dio mio! what does it matter if I die? All alone in this big house, and Signor Stefano away."
"You saw him the other day he told me," said Dr. Jim carefully approaching his business, "he told me you had some message for me."
Petronella nodded and screwed up her thin lips. "Only when he is in danger Signor. Not now. He is too well."
"What do you mean Petronella?" asked Herrick puzzled by her nods.
"Signor Dottore," said Petronella standing very straight, "my padrona before she died called to me. She gave me a large letter, and told me to give it to the Signor Dottore when Signor Stefano was in danger."
"Oh!" Herrick's eyes flashed. He had always wondered how it was that Mrs. Marsh had died without making any sign. After the conversation she had had with him he quite expected that she would have left him a farewell message. It appeared that she had done so, but that the letter had been withheld by Petronella, according to instructions. "When did she write this Petronella? You said nothing about it at the time."
"No. I did what I was told to do Signor. Ecco Signor Dottore, it was in this way. After my padrona got the letter from the postman in the middle of the day, she was very angry and afraid."
"Afraid! Why was she afraid?"
"Chi lo sa," shrugged Petronella, "she said nothing to me. But she told me to bring pen and ink and paper. All the afternoon she was writing. Eh, how she did write! Then she put all the writing into an envelope Signor, and wrote our name on it. She told me to give it to the Signor Dottore when Signor Stefano was in danger. She said the Signor Dottore was a good man." I give it to you Signor, but not now; "No," and Petronella closing her mouth firmly shook her aged head.
"I think you had better give it to me this very minute Petronella," said Herrick rising, "for Signor Stefano is in very great danger indeed!"
"As how Signor Dottore?"
"He may be accused of murdering his uncle, Colonel Carr!"
"Eh Dio mio!" crowed the old women. "Did I not say that the dead man had the evil eye! Did I not tell the Signora that evil would come to the young Signor from this death?" She caught Herrick's arm and fixed her glittering eyes on his face. "You swear to me that this is true what you say? Signor Stefano is in danger. Eh? Eh?"
"I swear he is Petronella," replied Herrick earnestly, "and this packet you talk of may save him."
"Ah si! Well do I know Signor Dottore that is so. My padrona said that it told how the danger could be set aside. You understand. In this letter Signor, there is a strange story."
"Do you now what it is Petronella?"
"No, Signor Dottore. The padrona did not tell me. But she said it was a strange story. And to be read when my young Signor was in danger. I will go and bring it. La! La! La! It is danger. Dio mio! That wicked Signor who is dead--birbanti--ladroni. The evil eye--the evil eye."
Coughing as she went the old woman hobbled out of the room. Dr. Jim sat still wondering if he was about to learn the truth at last. If Pentland Corn was to be believed, Mrs. Marsh had been at "The Pines" about the hour when the crime had been committed. Herrick did not now believe that she had killed the man herself, as she had been possessed of the modern revolver with which the three shots had been fired. It was impossible to imagine that she had fired one shot with an old-fashioned weapon, and had then reverted to the use of the new revolver. No! The first shot,--the death shot had been fired by some one else, possibly by Frisco. Mrs. Marsh had met the assassin in the house, but for reasons of her own had not divulged the name.
Also judging from her conversation she had known a great deal about Carr and Frisco, especially about the latter, seeing that she had warned Jim that Frisco might attempt to kill Stephen. As a matter of fact although the man had not struck the blow himself, he had guided the hand of Santiago to strike it. Herrick wondered if Mrs. Marsh would say anything about the Mexican. "At all events I shall know the truth at last," he said. "After reading this letter, the mystery will be one no longer. But why did Mrs. Marsh delay such important information all this time?"
This was a question he could not answer. He was still puzzling over it when Petronella entered the room carrying a large blue envelope, sealed with the Carr crest. This she handed to Herrick with much ceremony. "There is my trust Signor," she croaked, "bear witness by all the saints that I gave it only when the young Signor was in danger."
"That is all right Petronella. I shall read it here. Will you stay?"
"No, Signor Dottore. I do not want to hear the secrets of my padrona. I go to make myself a meal Signor. You stay here and read. A glass of wine Signor Dottore. Eh, pour l'amor di Dio, un bicchiére de Chianti?"
Herrick politely refused the attention, and Petronella went grumbling out of the room. She was a hospitable old soul, and liked the doctor. When he was alone in that dismal, deserted, apartment, he drew up his chair close to the window and opened the envelope. Five or six sheets of closely-written paper fell out; also a typewritten letter. After a glance at this last, Dr. Jim smoothed out the paper and began to read. The story---as it might be called--commenced abruptly. This impetuosity was extremely characteristic of Mrs. Marsh. After a glance round the room Dr. Jim settled to read. The manuscript was as follows:--
"I am a wicked woman and an evil woman. There you see Mr. Herrick I place my character before you in 'the first line. I know you are no fool, or I should not make such a confession. But when you read these pages I shall be in my grave, so what you say or think does not matter. If these pages are made public, there will be blame enough from other people. To save my boy they must be made public. I can foresee that he 'will be accused of the murder of that beast Carr. I swear that he is innocent. He knows nothing. From the grave I send out my voice to defend him. And you are a clever man Herrick. The defence of my poor boy I confide to you. If you do not do your best I swear to haunt you if it be possible for the dead to return. But after all, you are too sensible to be frightened by this 'talk. Let me get to the facts of the case. Those will interest you more than the ravings of a dying woman. So I begin:--"
"I have said that Colonel Carr was a beast. I repeat 'it. He was a cruel tiger. Rolling in wealth, he refused 'to give me any money. Yet he knew that I was accustomed to luxury, and that Stephen was his nephew. No wonder I hated the man. Again and again I implored 'him almost on my knees to allow me sufficient to live on. He always refused with his sneering laugh. Often I wonder that I did not kill him. Yet he had one good point. He had loved his sister, and out of love for her memory, he made Stephen his heir. He also caused him to be educated, but when that was done, he refused to 'allow him an income to live like a gentleman. I hated Carr for that. Even if he had not allowed me money, still his own sister's child should not have felt the pinch of poverty. I love Stephen. He is a kind, good boy, and has put up with my vile temper all these years. Now that he is rich I hope he will marry Ida (if she does not 'prefer you, and I do not think that is likely), and live the happy life of a country gentleman. My blessings on them both.
"To come to the point which I know you want to reach. On the night of Carr's murder I was at the rectory. It came to my ears through some words dropped by Frisco when he was intoxicated, that Carr intended to disinherit my son. Whom he intended to favour I do not know, nor do I care. But I could not stand meekly by and see the lad robbed of what was righteously his own. I went into Saxham that afternoon to see Carr and to remonstrate against his committing the monstrous injustice he contemplated. He saw me with the greatest coolness and behaved quite in accordance with his character. In vain did I point out that Stephen was the sole living representative of his blood, and was entitled by law to the property. Carr said that he had another relative living; a cousin descended from an uncle of his, who had been turned out of doors by his grandfather. This uncle had married in America, and had died, leaving a daughter who married a Yankee. It was the son of this daughter to whom Carr referred as his cousin. Furthermore he declared that his cousin had a son about the age of my Stephen. I asked him if he intended to leave the property to this cousin and his brat. But this he denied. He said that he had made the money himself and would leave it to whomsoever he pleased. In a word he defied me. I was helpless. I could do nothing, and that afternoon I left 'The Pines' mad with rage, after a threat to kill Carr. Needless to say he laughed at my threat.
"Why did I not kill him then you will ask? Because I wanted to give the man one last chance. I warned him that I would shoot him if he persisted in his injustice. I said that I would return that evening for my answer. Then I went to the rectory and had dinner with Pentland Corn.
"Here, my dear Herrick, I may state that I had brought a pistol with me--or rather a revolver. It belonged to Stephen who at one time had a craze for shooting. The revolver was put away in its case, which was on the mantelpiece of his study. I remembered that it was there, and on looking I found that all six chambers were loaded. I knew that Stephen never troubled about the weapon, so I took it with me to 'The Pines.' But on that afternoon I did not use it. Carr, I said to myself, should have his chance.
"Stephen was to come to the rectory for me about nine. Some time before that I told Corn that I would go to the Carr Arms to meet Stephen, but I intended to go to 'The Pines;' Corn never suspected my intention. I went quickly up to 'The Pines' shortly before nine. I found no one in the lower part of the house. Frisco, I suppose was sleeping off his drunken fit, as I heard from Napper that he had been drinking in the afternoon and had uttered threats against his master. I knew that if anywhere, Carr would be in the Tower. The table was laid out for dinner, but he was not in the dining-room. I went upstairs, and found him in the tower chamber. He was in evening dress lying dead with his face downward. I turned him over, and saw that he had been shot through the heart. At once I guessed that Frisco had carried out his threat and had murdered the Colonel. But I thought Carr might have altered his will before dying. I was quite mad with rage, thinking he had cheated me. Then I did what you will consider a terrible and a barbarous thing. I fired three shots into his dead body. I suppose it was wicked of me, seeing that the man was dead. But I am Italian as you know, and I was mad with fury at the thought of how this he had treated me. The only revenge I could take was to have my share in his death, so I fired three times. It did me good, and I came away much calmer. I see you raise your eyebrows in horror, my virtuous Herrick! Ah bah! you are English, and cold-blooded as a frog. I am Italian, and I did what I did. I have no other excuse to make.
"I was only a few minutes in the tower chamber. Then I came down to get away lest I should be accused of the crime. At the door below I met Frisco. He had his hat and coat on, and a small bundle in his hand. I said, 'You have killed him. He lies dead upstairs.' Frisco denied that he was guilty, and referred to my three shots. I explained, and told him he could call up the whole countryside to hear what I had done. At the same time I warned him that as I had found the Colonel dead I would accuse him of the murder. Frisco repeated that he had not killed him, but said he might have done so later on, Carr had treated him so badly. He was entitled to the money: he was a relative of Carr's. I saw at once that this was the cousin, and said so. Frisco did not deny it. He told me he would have to go away as he might be accused of the murder, and could not afford to remain and face the matter out. But he warned me that if Stephen took the property he would find means to get rid of Stephen. I laughed at him: but I was afraid. Frisco was almost as big a brute as his master and cousin. Then seized with a sudden panic, he ran out of the house and into the Pine wood. I left also, and got down to the Carr Arms, where afterwards Stephen came for me. I told him that I had 'been there all the time but that he must have missed me.
"That is the truth as regards the events of that night. I found Carr dead, and in anger I fired those three shots. Who killed the man I do not know. I am inclined to believe it was Frisco in spite of his protestations of innocence. But you know how he ran away. He went to London, and from London he wrote to me. I enclose his letter.
"The next few days and the murder was known. I said nothing. I replaced the revolver in its case; I persuaded Stephen that I had not been to 'The Pines' on that night, and he believed me. Then he became possessed of the property, on certain conditions. I breathed freely. Carr had not had the time to make a new will, and my boy was safe."
"So far, so good, then came the bolt from the blue. I received the enclosed letter from Frisco, in which he threatened to write to the police and denounce me. If he does this I am lost. It will be difficult for me to defend myself. The evidence against me, if the matter is looked into, will be too strong. But you can see that for yourself Herrick, so I need not be more explicit. Under these circumstances and to save Stephen I have made up my mind to die. If the truth about my visit came to light, even although I were proved guiltless of the murder, Stephen is quite foolish enough to give up the money. He is a good boy but weak,--quixotic. The only way I can save him--and myself also for that matter--is to die.
"I am not afraid; I have had such a wretched life that I do not think things will be worse in the next world. Besides the chloral, against the abuse of which you are always warning me, affords me a chance of slipping quietly and painlessly out of a world that is much too hard for me. If I die, Stephen will be safe, for Frisco can do nothing. His threats will fall harmless on the dead. The man is dangerous though. He might try to murder Stephen. I gave you a hint of that Herrick. But I know you are clever and so long as you are with my boy I do not fear for him in that way.
"Yet as regards the rest. It is possible that Frisco may denounce Stephen as guilty of murder. Stephen told me he went to 'The Pines,' that night to see if I had gone up there. Some one may have seen him. Then I used his revolver. That would also be evidence against him, and even if I destroyed the weapon that would still be evidence against him. While I live I dare not tell the whole truth. Therefore I make this confession and I shall give it to Petronella. She will deliver it to you when danger threatens Stephen. From the contents of this you will know how to act, so as to thwart Frisco. Stephen is innocent, and I verily believe that Frisco is guilty in spite of his denial.
"I can die in peace now, for I know when this confession is in your hands that Stephen will be safe. I trust to your head and to your heart, Herrick. I am sure you will not fail me. No doubt you think I am going to extremes in dying. That may be. But I am sick of this life. Even if I lived I should have nothing but trouble. Besides my poor Stephen has had quite enough of me. I hope he will marry Ida and be happy. Were I to live and remain with them I should spoil their happiness. What would a sour old woman do with two such lovers? Well Herrick I am about to seal this up and then I shall take a dose of chloral--an overdose. Thus my death will appear to be an accident. The world will think so. I wonder if you will? You also may be deceived. But I think you will be clever enough to doubt the accident, for you know I am not the woman to be careless.
"Do not show this to Stephen unless you are absolutely compelled. I love the boy and I want him to think the best of the woman who is gone. So no more. Good-bye to you, my dear Herrick. You have been a good friend to me. Continue to be so to my boy. And also if you have any religion (which I doubt) pray for the soul of Bianca Marsh!"
"And here I sign my name for the last time.
"Bianca Marsh."
When Herrick finished this extraordinary document, he laid it down with a sigh for the memory of the wrong-headed impulsive woman who had written it. She had acted foolishly, but for the best. And since the poor soul had gone to her account Herrick could not find it in his heart to blame her. After a pause he took up the typewritten letter.
It was typed in purple ink, was without date or address, and even the signature of Frisco was in print. It ran as follows:--
"If you do not make your son do justice to me and to my 'son, I will write and tell the police that you murdered Colonel Carr. I must have half the money left by Carr allowed to me by arrangement. You can answer my letter by an advertisement in the Daily Telegraph. Then I will write to you and make arrangements. All I want to know now is whether you will insist upon your son giving the money, or face the disgrace of being arrested for the murder. I have a witness who can prove your presence in the house. If necessary I will come forward and give myself up. I can save myself and condemn you. Choose. I shall look every morning in the paper.
Frisco."