It was impossible to say.
MRS. BEZEL AGAIN.
Onreturning home Claude found that Tait, contrary to his expressed intention, had gone out. Dormer, who was packing a portmanteau for the Horriston journey, could not inform Larcher when his master would be back, but ventured an opinion that he would certainly return to luncheon. Meanwhile, he handed to Claude some letters which had just arrived, and with these the young man managed to pass a fairly uncomfortable hour. Uncomfortable, because one of the letters was from Mrs. Bezel, and proved of so puzzling a character that Larcher was in a fever of impatience to discuss it with Tait.
The little man returned to luncheon, as was surmised by Dormer, and was met in the hall by Claude with the open letter of Mrs. Bezel in his hand.
"My dear fellow, why did you go out?" said Larcher complainingly. "I have so much to tell you. I have seen Kerry, and now here is a letter from Mrs. Bezel."
"What! is she on the stage again?" said Tait eagerly. "Let me see the letter."
"Not yet," replied Claude, putting it promptly behind his back. "You must first tell me why you left the house, when you ought to be packing up for Horriston."
Tait shrugged his shoulders, bowed to the inevitable, and went into the dining room. Here he sat at the table and began to carve some cold beef, thereby throwing Claude into a rage.
"You cold-blooded little monster," he cried, tapping on the table, "will you satisfy my curiosity?"
"Why should I?" said Tait, grinning. "You won't satisfy mine."
"Then read the letter," retorted Claude, throwing it across the table. To his surprise Tait placed it on one side.
"Not yet!" he said, resuming his carving. "We must have a talk first. Have some beef."
"I don't want beef, but information."
"You shall have both," said Tait calmly. "Do you prefer beer or claret?"
"Beer!" replied Larcher resignedly, falling in with the tricksey humor of his friend. Tait was a man with whom it was impossible to quarrel.
"Dormer, fill Mr. Larcher's glass; put the claret jug beside me, and leave the room. We will wait on ourselves."
As stolid as a wooden image Dormer obeyed these instructions, and wheeled out of the room. Tait ate a few mouthfuls of beef, drank a glass of claret, and prepared to talk. His first remark was a bombshell.
"I have seen Paynton," said he slowly.
"The deuce you have!" cried Claude, in surprise; "and how did you manage to take his castle by storm?"
"Easily enough, by the help of a lie and a little strategy. I went out to see if you were at your post, and caught sight of Kerry crossing the fields. As Iknew Jenny would be at the Lintons',—for she goes there to see the old lady every morning,—I guessed that Rose Cottage would be undefended; so back I ran to the house, picked up a book which I had promised to lend the young lady, and went to pay my visit."
"How did you get inside the gate? It is generally locked."
"It wasn't on this occasion," replied Tait complacently. "I opened it and walked in, to find old Paynton strolling in the garden. Catching sight of me, he turned back to re-enter the house, but, luckily, I was between him and the door, so we met face to face."
"What kind of a man is he to look at?"
"Oh, a fine-looking old chap, with white hair and beard, a skullcap, and a dressing gown. Quite the get up of a necromancer."
"Did he speak to you," asked Claude, having considered this description.
"He asked me politely what my business was; whereupon I presented the book, and mentioned that it was for his daughter. He replied that she was at the Lintons', and would be back soon, when he would give her the book himself. Then he asked me to excuse him, and bowed me out of the gate. But," added Tait, with emphasis, "not before I had mentioned that Mr. Claude Larcher was staying with me."
"Did my name produce any effect?"
"Rather! Paynton changed color, and mumbled something unintelligible. Then he turned his back and walked quickly into the house, leaving me to close the gate myself. Depend upon it, he knows something, Claude."
"But his name isn't mentioned in connection with the case."
"Of course not. Paynton is a feigned one. And, as I have said before, there are, no doubt, actors in the tragedy of whom we know nothing."
"There is one of that sort mentioned here," said Larcher, picking up Mrs. Bezel's letter. "Read that, Tait, and see what you make of it."
It proved to be a short note, hastily written, and ran as follows:
"My Dear Claude:"If you are still in doubt as to who murdered your father, ask Mr. Hilliston to tell you about Louisa Sinclair, who lived at Horriston twenty-five years ago. She knows."Your affectionate mother,"Margaret Bezel."
"My Dear Claude:
"If you are still in doubt as to who murdered your father, ask Mr. Hilliston to tell you about Louisa Sinclair, who lived at Horriston twenty-five years ago. She knows.
"Your affectionate mother,
"Margaret Bezel."
"Louisa Sinclair," repeated Tait slowly, having mastered the contents of this letter. "No, I never heard of her. It is strange that Hilliston has never mentioned her name."
"No doubt he had good reasons for not doing so," said Claude bitterly. "You need not look so astonished, Tait. I have long ago come round to your opinion of my old guardian. His intimacy with Paynton and the effect of his visit on Kerry would convince me—not to speak of that 'anonymous letter.'"
"Ah! Kerry refused to speak."
"He would not say a word, and, moreover, stated that he was not Denis Bantry; that he had never heard of Horriston. In fact, he acted his part excellentlywell till the last. Then he broke down, and, afraid of letting the cat out of the bag, he ran away."
"Exactly what his master did," said Tait thoughtfully. "Depend upon it, Claude, we will learn the truth from one of those two."
"If you think so, why go to Horriston?"
"Because I want to learn the real name of Paynton, and, moreover, here is an additional reason. I must find out Louisa Sinclair."
"There is no mention of her in the case."
"Quite true. And there is no mention of Paynton; but for all that he knows about it. Oh, you may be sure there are circumstances to be discovered at Horriston which never came to light at the trial."
"My mother is anxious for the mystery to be cleared up."
"So I see, and I am glad of it," said Tait, with an affectation of carelessness. "I thought she was too ill to take an interest in the matter."
"Am I to ask Hilliston about this woman?" said Claude, looking up in some doubt.
"No," replied his friend, after a few moments' deliberation. "Our success in this depends on keeping Hilliston in the dark concerning our movements. If we tell him too much he may thwart us, as he has done already in this Paynton business. Say nothing about Louisa Sinclair, or about my visit to Horriston. Tell him I have gone to town, and let him figure out the reason for himself. By the way, when do you see him?"
"On Friday evening. Both he and his wife are coming to dine, and stop all night at the vicarage. You may be sure Hilliston will put me through a thorough cross-examination regarding your absence."
"Refer him to Mr. Linton," said Tait coolly. "I am writing to that gentleman, telling him I am unexpectedly called to town on particular business. What that business is Hilliston will be anxious to know. I don't think he'll enjoy his evening at all. A guilty conscience mars all pleasure."
"When do you leave?"
"By the 4.20 train this afternoon. I'll write you about my discoveries as soon as I find out anything worth scribbling about."
"You'll find nothing," said Claude dolefully; "after five-and-twenty years."
"I'll find out who Louisa Sinclair is, and then astonish Hilliston with the extent of my information. Regarding Paynton, I am not so certain. That discovery rests between you and Denis Bantry."
"I'll do my best, but I am doubtful," replied Claude, and so the conversation terminated for the time being. It left a lasting impression on the two who took part in it.
Tait duly took his departure with Dormer, leaving Claude in possession of the house. As he leaned out of the window of the smoking carriage, he said a last word to his friend:
"Don't tell Hilliston about my going to Horriston," he said significantly; "but if you get a chance inform his wife of the fact."
"Why?"
"I'll tell you that when I come back," said Tait, as the train moved slowly off. "Give her the information, and observe the effect; it will astonish you."
But Tait counted without his host; he was ignorant of Mrs. Hilliston's powers of self-control.
AN EVENING AT THE VICARAGE.
TheVicar of Thorston was a severe man, a trifle narrow in his views, and imperious of temper; but he was also fond of good cheer and hospitality—virtues which cover a multitude of sins. Those who sat at his table were sure of a capital dinner and an excellent glass of wine; for his cook and cellar were both undeniable. Report said that Mr. Linton was afraid of his cook, for that good lady had a hot temper, and feared no man. Many were the battles between her and the vicar, but being a perfect mistress of the culinary art, she invariably came off victor. She had her faults, but she was a jewel of a cook, and was valued accordingly.
On this special evening the vicar had assembled ten people, including himself, round his hospitable board. Mr. and Mrs. Hilliston were the principal guests, and Claude was also honored with special attention. An old couple named Densham, garrulous and pleasant, had likewise been invited; and they, with their daughter and Jenny Paynton, completed the party. To Claude was assigned Miss Paynton, while to Frank Linton was given the Densham damsel, an arrangement which was anything but pleasing to that jealous young man, or indeed to Miss Densham, who thought the famous author a grumpy creature. He was too preoccupied to please her taste.
Claude thought he had never seen Mrs. Hilliston to such disadvantage. She appeared ill at ease, and was haggard and pale of face, looking every year of her age. Even the rich dress and splendid jewels she wore failed to conceal the ravages of time; and in the neighborhood of the fresh beauty of the two girls she seemed an old woman. She felt this herself, for Claude noted that she threw an envious glance at the blooming faces of her rivals, and surveyed her wan looks in the nearest glass with a sigh. To her the party was purgatory.
Nor did the lawyer appear to enjoy himself. He was moody and fretful, though every now and then he forced himself to be merry, but his laugh was hollow, and the careworn expression of his face belied his untimely mirth. Sometimes he stole a furtive look at Claude, and seemed to brood over the young man's changed manner; for, do what he could, Larcher, deeming his old friend an enemy, could not behave with his former cordiality. He was ill-suited for a diplomat.
The dinner passed off with moderate success. Frank was complimented on his book, and the prosy couple had to be told the main points of the story. This brief recital made at least three people uncomfortable; for Claude raised his eyes to encounter an angry glance from Hilliston, and a deprecating one from Jenny. They were relieved when the vicar, who by no means approved of such attention being bestowed on a trashy novel, even though his son was the author, turned the conversation into another channel. Mr. Linton liked to lead the conversation at his own table.
"I wish to speak to you particularly, Claude,"whispered Mrs. Hilliston, as he held the door open for the ladies to retire; "do not be long over your wine."
"I will come as soon as I can," he replied, and returned to his seat, wondering what she could have to say to him. He was not left long in doubt, for Mr. Hilliston entered into conversation as soon as the glasses were filled and the cigars lighted. This was the moment for which he had longed for the whole evening.
"Why isn't your friend Tait here to-night?" he asked, in a casual tone, feigning a lightness he did not feel.
"Did not Mr. Linton tell you?" replied Claude, prepared for this query. "He had to go to town on business."
"On business," murmured Hilliston uneasily; "anything to do with this case you have taken up?"
"I can't say. Tait did not particularly state his errand."
The lawyer sipped his wine, looked thoughtfully at the end of the cigar, and pondered for a few minutes. He wished to speak of Claude's changed behavior toward himself, yet did not know how to begin. At length he bluntly blurted out a question, straightforward and to the point. This was undiplomatic, but at times human nature is too strong for training.
"We are not such good friends as of yore, Claude. How is that?"
"I think you can guess the reason," replied Larcher, not ill pleased to fight out the point, for he hated being forced into doubtful civility. "It is this case which has come between us. I do not think you are giving me what help you ought to, Mr. Hilliston."
"I can give you no help," said the lawyer, drawing his heavy brows together. "You know as much as I do. No doubt your meddlesome friend knows more."
"It is not improbable. But you can prove your honesty in the matter by doing me a favor."
"My honesty, sir, has never been called into question yet," said Hilliston, injudiciously losing his temper, always a prelude to defeat. "And I have no call to defend myself to one to whom I have been a father. Still I am willing to grant you what you wish, in reason."
"Very good! Then introduce me to Mr. Paynton."
"I'm afraid that is out of my power," replied Hilliston, shaking his head. "You know the man's ways, I think. He is a hermit, a misanthrope, and does not care for company. Why do you wish to know him?"
"For various reasons," answered Larcher, coloring with some embarrassment. He was by no means willing to take Mr. Hilliston into his confidence.
His old guardian looked at him shrewdly, and, remembering certain small circumstances connected with Jenny, guessed, with the skill of an experienced character reader, how the land lay. At once he formed a resolution to further Claude's interests in the matter, hoping, and not unjustly, that should the lad be taken in the toils of love, he might stop further investigation of the case, an end which Hilliston much desired to gain.
"Oh!" said he not unkindly, "sits the wind in that quarter? Well, I will aid you. In a few days I will try and induce Mr. Paynton to see you, and then perhaps you may succeed."
"Succeed in what?" demanded Claude sharply, hardly relishing this perspicuity.
"Why, in this love-suit of yours. Aye, aye, Claude, I can see what you aim at, old as I am. Well, she is a pretty girl, clever and worthy. I know of no woman who would make you a better wife. You have my best wishes for your success."
"And you will introduce me to her father?"
"I'll try to, but I won't promise confidently. Paynton is a strange creature and may refuse to see you. By the way," added Hilliston, as though struck with a sudden thought, "what was my wife saying to you at the door?"
"She was requesting me to speak to her in the drawing room. There is nothing wrong, I hope? She does not look well."
"Oh, nothing wrong, nothing wrong!" replied Hilliston easily, rising to his feet as the vicar moved toward the door. "She is fond of you, my dear boy, and is anxious about the case."
"Anxious about the case," thought Larcher, as he followed his host into the drawing room; "that is strange. She can have no interest in it. H'm! I'll try the effect of Tait's destination on her. He said I would be astonished at the result. I am beginning to be so already."
Perhaps Jenny had overheard the whisper in the dining room, and was sufficiently taken with Larcher to be jealous of his attentions to Mrs. Hilliston, old though she deemed her, for, before he could cross over to where the lawyer's wife was seated, Jenny beckoned to him with her imperious finger. He could do nothing but obey, despite the frown which darkened Mrs.Hilliston's face, as she saw, and, with womanly instinct, guessed the maneuver.
"Come and sit down here," whispered Jenny, under cover of the music, for Miss Densham was at the piano. "I have not seen you for several days."
"That is not my fault," said Claude, delighted at the interest thus displayed; "you stay so much indoors. I have been looking for you everywhere."
"Have you, indeed, Mr. Larcher?" said Jenny, with feigned surprise. "And why, may I ask?"
"Oh, for no particular purpose, unless, indeed, it was to ask you for further information concerning the novel."
"Hush. Not a word of that. I can't speak of it to you. I know who you are, Mr. Larcher, but I am ignorant of the tragedy save what I told to Frank, and later on to Mr. Tait."
"But you can guess——"
"I can guess nothing," interrupted the girl imperiously. "If you and I are to remain friends you must cease talking on that subject."
"I'll do anything to remain friends with you, Miss Paynton," was the significant reply.
"Then talk of anything save that terrible case. Oh, how I wish I had left it alone!"
"I'm glad you did not," said Claude bluntly. "If it had not been for that book——"
Before he could finish the sentence Jenny shot an indignant look at him, and deliberately rising from her seat crossed the room to where Frank Linton was frowning and tugging at his mustache. Claude was vexed at his folly in thus drawing down her anger on him, but accepted his beating like a man, and passedover to where Mrs. Hilliston waited with an expectant face. She remarked on his tardy coming with some bitterness.
"I see you prefer a younger face to mine," she said, drawing herself up. "Time was when I had no rival to fear."
"Dear Mrs. Hilliston, I could not disobey a lady. Besides—besides——"
"Besides you are in love with her. Oh, I can see that! Well, she is a pretty girl. So you intend to marry her?"
"It is early yet to talk of marriage. I don't even know if she likes me."
Mrs. Hilliston laughed, and looked at him smilingly. "Then you must be very ignorant of the way of women, my dear," she said meaningly. "A word in your ear, Claude. That girl loves you."
"In two weeks! Impossible!"
"I've known love to grow in two days," replied Mrs. Hilliston dryly. "Oh, yes, she loves you, and you love her, so you can marry as soon as you choose."
"First I must get Mr. Paynton's consent."
"I should not think that would be difficult," said the lady, looking at his eager face. "You are young, not ill-looking, not badly off, and so I should not think Mr. Paynton would desire anything better for his daughter. So much for the first obstacle, and the second?"
"I must solve the mystery of my father's death."
Mrs. Hilliston's manner changed on the instant, and from being gay she became severe and anxious-looking. Indeed, Claude thought that she paled under her rouge; but this might have been fancy.
"It is about that I wish to speak to you," she said hurriedly. "I want you to stop investigating this case. You will learn nothing; it would be of no use to anyone if you did solve the mystery. Stop troubling yourself with slander, Claude."
"Why?" he asked, astonished at her earnest tone.
"Because your conduct vexes my husband. He has been a father to you in the place of the one you lost, so you ought to consider him a little. Pray leave that mystery unsolved."
"If I would, Tait would not. He is now even more eager than I to find out the truth."
"Horrid little man!" said the lady viciously. "Where is he now?"
The time had now come to try the effect of Tait's destination, and fixing his eyes on Mrs. Hilliston as she slowly fanned herself, Claude uttered the fatal words.
"He is at Horriston."
The fan stopped, Mrs. Hilliston paled, but, preserving her self-control with a strong effort, replied quietly:
"At Horriston. And why?"
"To find out a person not mentioned in the case."
"Man or woman?" asked Mrs. Hilliston in a low voice.
"Woman."
She said no more, but turned away her head to reply to her husband, who came up opportunely. He also had heard the last few words of the conversation, and, ignoring the presence of Claude, husband and wife looked at one another with pale faces.
The shot had struck home, and Larcher saw that it had.
THE DISCOVERIES OF SPENSER TAIT.
Horristonmight fitly be compared to Jonah's gourd; it sprang up in a night, so to speak, and withered in the space of a day. In the earlier part of the Victorian era a celebrated doctor recommended its mineral springs, and invalids flocked to be cured at this new pool of Bethesda. Whether the cures were not genuine, or insufficiently rapid to please the sick folk, it is hard to say, but after fifteen or twenty years of prosperity the crowd of fashionable valetudinarians ceased to occupy the commodious lodging houses and hotels in Horriston. Other places sprang up with greater attractions and more certain cures, so the erstwhile fashionable town relapsed into its provincial dullness. No one lived there but a few retired army men, and no one came save a stray neurotic person in search of absolute quiet. Few failed to get that at Horriston, which was now as sleepy a place as could be found in all England. Even Thorston was more in touch with the nineteenth century than this deserted town.
As Tait drove through the streets on his way to the principal hotel, he could not help noticing the dreary look of the chief thoroughfare. Many of the shops were closed, some were unoccupied, and those still open displayed wares grimy and flyblown. The shopkeepers came to their doors in a dazed fashion to lookat the new visitor in the single fly which plied between station and hotel, thereby showing that the event was one of rare occurrence. There were no vehicles in the street itself save a lumbering cart containing market produce, and the doctor's trap which stood at the doctor's door. A few people sauntered along the pavement in a listless fashion, and the whole aspect of the place was one of decay and desertion. But for the presence of shopkeepers and pedestrians, few though they were, Tait could almost have imagined himself in some deserted mining township on the Californian coast.
The principal hotel faced one side of a melancholy square, and was called "The Royal Victoria," out of compliment to the reigning monarch. It was a large barrack, with staring windows, and a flight of white steps leading up to a deserted hall. No busy waiters, no genial landlord or buxom barmaid, not even the sound of cheerful voices. Cats slept on the steps and fowls clucked in the square, while a melancholy waiter, peering out of the window, put the finishing touch to the lamentable dreariness of the scene. The sign "Royal Victoria" should have been removed out of very shame, and the word "Ichabod" written up in its place. The landlord was lacking in humor to let things remain as they were.
However, Tait, being hungry and dusty and tired, consoled himself with the reflection that it was at all events an hotel, and speedily found himself the sole occupant of the dining room, attended to by the melancholy waiter. The viands provided were by no means bad, and the wine was undeniably good; and small wonder, seeing it had been in the cellars for aquarter of a century for want of someone to drink it. This fact was confided to Tait by his sad Ganymede.
"We used to see a sight of company here," said this elderly person when he appeared with the claret, "but, bless you, it's like Babylon the fallen now, sir. You're the first gentleman as I have seen here for a week."
"Shouldn't think it would pay to keep the hotel open."
"It don't, sir," replied the waiter with conviction, "but master is well off—made his money in the days when Horriston was Horriston, and keeps this place as a sort of hobby. We have a club here in the evenings, sir, and that makes things a bit lively."
"Have you been here long?" asked Tait, noticing how gray and wrinkled was this despondent servitor.
"Over thirty years, sir," responded Ganymede, with a sigh as though the memory was too much for him; "man and boy I've been here thirty years."
"I'm glad of that. You're the man I want. Got a good memory?"
"Pretty good, sir. Not that there's much to remember," and he sighed again.
"H'm. Have you any recollection of a murder which took place at The Laurels twenty-five years ago?"
"That I have, sir," said the waiter, with faint animation, "it was the talk of the country. Captain Larcher, wasn't it, sir, and his wife, a sweetly pretty woman? She was accused of the murder, I think; but she didn't do it. No, nor Mr. Jeringham either, though some people think he did, 'cause he cleared out.And small blame to him when they were after him like roaring lions."
"Do you remember Jeringham?"
"I should think so, sir. Why he stopped in this very hotel, he did. As kind and affable a gentleman as I ever met, sir. He kill Captain Larcher? Not he! no more than did the wife, poor thing! Now I have my own opinion," said this wise person significantly, "but I didn't take to it for five years after the murder. As you might say twenty years ago, sir."
"Who do you think committed the crime, then?" asked Tait, rather impressed by the man's manner.
The waiter looked around, with the enjoyable air of a man about to impart a piece of startling information, and bent across the table to communicate it to Tait. "Denis Bantry was the man, sir," he said solemnly; "Captain Larcher's valet."
"Nonsense! What makes you think that?"
"I don't think it, sir. I know it. If you don't believe me, go to The Laurels and ask the old gardener, Dick Pental. He saw it," finished the waiter, in a tragic whisper.
"Saw what? The murder?" said Tait, with a startled look.
"Yes, sir. He saw the murder. I heard it all from him, I did; I forget the exact story he told me. But Denis Bantry should have been hanged, sir. Oh, there isn't the least doubt about it, sir."
"But if this Dick Pental saw the crime committed, why didn't he come forward and tell about it?"
"Well, sir, it was this way," said Ganymede, dusting the table with his napkin, "Dick aint all there. Not to be too delicate, sir, Dick's mad. He wasalways a softy from a boy, not that he's old now, sir. Forty-five, I believe, and he was twenty years of age when he was in Captain Larcher's service."
"And is he at The Laurels still?"
"Why, yes, sir. You see, after the murder, no one would take the house. They thought it haunted maybe, so Dick was put in as caretaker. He looked after it for twenty years, and then it was taken by a gentleman who didn't care for murders or ghosts. He's there now, sir, and so is Dick, who still looks after the garden."
"But why didn't Dick relate what he saw?"
"Because of his softness, sir," said the waiter deliberately. "You see Dick had been put into a lunatic asylum, he had, just before he came of age. Captain Larcher—a kind gentleman, sir—took him out, and made him gardener at The Laurels, so when Dick saw the murder done, he was afraid to speak, in case he should be locked up again. No head, you see, sir. So he held his tongue, he did, and only told me five years after the murder. Then it was too late, for all those who were at The Laurels on that night had disappeared. You don't happen to know where Denis Bantry is, sir, do you? For he ought to hang, sir; indeed he ought."
Tait did not think it wise to take this bloodthirsty waiter into his confidence, but rewarded him with half a sovereign for his information, and retired to bed to think the matter over. He was startled by this new discovery, which seemed to indicate Denis Bantry, alias Kerry, as the assassin, and wondered if he had been wrong all through in suspecting Hilliston. Yet if Kerry had committed the crime, Tait saw no reasonwhy Hilliston should protect him, as he was evidently doing. Assuming that the waiter had spoken correctly, the only ground on which Tait could explain Hilliston's conduct was that Mrs. Larcher was implicated with the old servant in the murder. If Kerry were arrested he might confess sufficient to entangle Mrs. Larcher; and as Hilliston loved the woman, a fact of which Tait was certain, he would not like to run so great a risk to her liberty. But this reasoning was upset by the remembrance that Mrs. Larcher had already been tried and acquitted of the crime; and as according to law she could not be tried twice on the same charge, she was safe in any case. Tait was bewildered by his own thoughts. The kaleidoscope had shifted again; the combinations were different, but the component parts were the same; and argue as he might there seemed no solution of the mystery. Mrs. Larcher, Denis Bantry, his sister, Hilliston, and Mark Jeringham; who had killed the unfortunate husband? Tait could find no answer to this perplexing question.
In the morning he walked to The Laurels, which he had no difficulty in finding, owing to the explicit directions of his friend the waiter. It was a pretty, low-roofed house on a slight rise near the river, and built somewhat after the fashion of a bungalow. The gardens sloped to the river bank on one side, and on the other were sheltered from inland winds by a belt of sycamore trees; in front a light iron railing divided them from the road, which ran past the house on its way to the ferry. The gardens were some three acres in extent, very pretty and picturesque, showing at every turn that whatever might be the mental state ofDick Pental, he was thorough master of his business. Tait came into contact with him in a short space of time through the medium of the housekeeper.
This individual was a sour old maid, who informed him with some acerbity that Mr. Deemer, the present occupant of The Laurels, was away from home, and without his permission she could not show him the house. Perhaps she suspected Tait's errand, for she looked suspiciously at him, and resolutely refused to let him cross the threshold. However, as a concession she said he could inspect the grounds, which were well worth seeing; and called Dick Pental to show him round. As Tait had really no great desire to see the interior of the house, where he would learn nothing likely to be of service, and a great desire to speak alone with the mad gardener, he thankfully accepted the offer, and was then thrown into the company of the very man whom he most desired to see.
Dick Pental was a slender, bright-eyed man, with a dreamy-looking face; alert in his movements, and restless with his hands and feet. He did not seem unintelligent; but the germs of madness were plainly discernible, and Tait guessed that only his constant life in the open air kept him from returning to the asylum whence he had been taken by Captain Larcher. With justifiable pride this queer creature showed Tait over the grounds, but never by word or deed did he hint at the story which he had told the waiter. Still hopeful, Tait led the conversation on that direction, and finally succeeded in touching the spring in the man's brain which made him relate the whole matter. The opportunity occurred when the two men werestanding on a slight rise overlooking the river. Here Tait made a remark concerning the view.
"What a peaceful scene," he said, waving his stick toward the prospect. "Corn lands, farmhouses, the square-towered church, and the ferry crossing the placid river. I can imagine nothing more homely, or so charged with pleasant memories. Here all is peace and quiet, no trouble, no danger, no crimes."
Dick thoughtfully rubbed the half crown given him by Tait, and looked dreamily at river and sky and opposite shore. To his abnormally active brain the scene looked different to what it did to this stranger; and he could not forbear alluding to the fact. Moreover, the gentleman had given him money, and Dick was greedy, so in the expectation of extracting another coin, he hinted that he could tell a startling story about this very place.
"Aint you fond of murders, sir?" he asked abruptly, turning his bright eyes on Tait.
"No, I don't think I am," replied the other, delighted to think he had succeeded in rousing the man's dormant intelligence. "Why do you ask? Murder is an ugly word, and can have nothing to do with so peaceful a scene as this."
"That's all you know, sir," said Dick eagerly. "Why, I could tell you of a murder as I seed myself in this very spot where we are now—or only a few yards from it, sir."
Tait glanced at his watch with an affectation of hurry, and shook his head. "I am afraid I can't wait," he said artfully. "I must return to Horriston in a few minutes."
"It won't take longer nor that to tell. Why, I'vetold it in ten minutes, I have. It's freezer to the blood. A murder at night, too," added Dick, in an agony lest Tait should go away, "with a lantern and a corpse—just like you read in novels."
"Hm!" observed Tait skeptically, not yet being sure of the man. "Is it true?"
"True as gospel, sir. I wouldn't tell a lie, I wouldn't. I've been brought up Methody, you know, sir, and scorn a falsehood as a snare of the Old 'Un. You make it worth Dicky's while, sir, and he'll give you goose flesh. Oh, that he will."
"Very good," said Tait, throwing himself on the sward. "I don't mind hearing the legend of this place. If it is as good as you say I'll give you half a sovereign."
"In gold?" asked Dick, with a grasping eagerness.
"In bright gold. See! here is the half sovereign. You tell the story and it is yours. Now, then, what is it all about?"
Dick Pental sat down beside Tait, but at some distance away, and chuckled as he rubbed his hands. He had a chance of making twelve-and-sixpence that morning, and was overjoyed at his good fortune. Resolved to begin with a startling remark, he glanced down to see that they were alone, and then brought it out.
"I could hang a man, I could," he said cheerfully. "I could hang him till he was a deader."
THE STORY OF THE MAD GARDENER.
Havingmade this startling announcement, Dick Pental drew back to observe the effect on his hearer. Humoring the man's vanity, Tait expressed due surprise, and requested him to narrate the circumstance to which he referred.
"It is about twenty-five years ago, it is," said Dick, commencing his tale in a great hurry; "and I was the gardener here to Captain Larcher. You don't know him, sir; it aint to be expected as you should. He was a grown gentleman before you were, and a kind 'un he was; took me out of the asylum, he did. They said I was mad, you know, and put me into a strait waistcoat; but I wasn't a bit wrong in my head, sir, not I. Captain Larcher he saw that, so he took me out and made me his gardener. And aint I done a lot for the place? just you look round and see."
"Your work is admirable, Dick."
"It is that," replied the man withnaïvevanity, "and you aint the first as has said that, sir. Oh, I'm fond of the garden, I am; flowers are much nicer company than human beings, I think. Not so cross with Dicky, you know, sir."
"No doubt," said Tait, seeing that the creature was following the wanderings of his poor wits. "But about this murder you——"
"I didn't know anything was wrong," interrupted the gardener earnestly; "I'd have kept out of the way if I'd known that; but I came here one night when I shouldn't have been here."
"How was that?"
"Hot rum and water," confessed Dick, with great simplicity. "I drank it—too much of it, and it went to my head. It isn't a strong head, so I came here to sleep it clear again. That was about twelve o'clock as near as I can tell, but, Lord bless you, my head made no account of time, when the hot rum and water was in it. I woke up and I was frightened finding myself in the dark,—I hate the dark, don't you, sir?—so I finished some rum that I had with me and went to sleep again. Then I woke up sudden, I did, and I saw it."
"The murder being committed?"
"No, not quite that! But I saw a man lying on the ground just over there, and he didn't move a bit. Another man was holding him in his arms, and Denis Bantry was standing by with a lantern."
"Who was the other man?"
"It was a gentleman called Mr. Jeringham. Oh, yes! My head was queer, but I knew him by his clothes, I did. I was at the grand ball of the gentry, you know; it was there I got drunk—and I saw Mr. Jeringham there in black clothes with gold trimmings. He had them on when he bent over Captain Larcher."
"How did you know the man on the ground was Captain Larcher?"
"I didn't, then," confessed Dick ingenuously; "but when I heard as they found him in the river, I knew it was him, I did. I saw them drop him in!"
"Denis Bantry and Mr. Jeringham?" exclaimed Tait, astonished at the minuteness of these details.
"Yes. They talked together for a bit, but my head was so queer that I couldn't make out what they said. But they picked up Captain Larcher, one at the head and the other at the heels, and they dropped him in—Splash! he went, he did. I was behind a tree and they couldn't see me. Ugh!" said the man, with a shiver, "how I did feel afraid when he went splash into the cold water. Then I went away and held my tongue."
"Why did you do that? It was your duty to have come forward and told the truth."
Dick Pental put on a cunning look, and shook his head. "Not me, sir," he said artfully. "They'd have said my head was queer and put me in an asylum again. No, no, Dicky was too clever for them, he was."
"But you say it was Denis Bantry who killed Captain Larcher," said Tait, after a moment's reflection. "How do you know that, when you did not see the blow struck? It might have been Mr. Jeringham."
Looking lovingly at the piece of gold which was now in his possession, Dick shook his head with great vigor.
"It wasn't Mr. Jeringham," he protested. "He was a good, kind gentleman. He gave Dicky half a crown the day before. He was fond of Captain Larcher's wife, so he couldn't have killed Captain Larcher."
Against this insane reasoning Tait had nothing to urge, as Dicky was evidently convinced that Denis Bantry was guilty, to the exclusion of Jeringham. Had the former given him money instead of the latter he would doubtless have accused Jeringham and sworn to the innocence of Denis. The man's brain was too weak to be depended upon; but Tait recognized thatthe report he gave of the occurrence of that fatal night was true and faithful in all respects. Dicky was not sufficiently imaginative to invent such a story.
Satisfied from the importance of the knowledge he had gained that his time had not been wasted, Tait wished to be alone to think out the matter. There was some difficulty in getting rid of Dicky, who was still greedily expectant of further tips, but in the end he induced the man to return to his work, and set out for Horriston at a brisk walk. He always thought better when exercising his limbs, and before he reached the town he had arrived at several conclusions respecting the case as seen under the new light thrown on it by the gardener.
For one thing, he concluded that Paynton was Jeringham. The reason for Denis being in his service had been explained by Dick Pental, as the two men were bound together by a common bond of guilt. Tait was inclined to think that Jeringham was innocent, for if he had killed Larcher there would have been no need for Denis to have screened him. On the other hand, circumstantial evidence was so strong against Jeringham that, if Denis had struck the blow, he would be forced to acquiesce in the silence of the real criminal—to become, as it were, an accessory to the crime. Denis could have sworn that Jeringham was guilty, and so placed him in danger of his life. Thus the two men had a hold on one another; Jeringham because circumstances were against him, Denis because he had killed Larcher. The motive for the crime was not difficult to discover after the story told by Mrs. Bezel. Bantry had killed his master as the destroyer of his sister's honor. Under the names ofPaynton and Kerry the two men were dwelling together at Thorston in loathed companionship, each afraid to let the other out of his sight. Tait could imagine no more terrible punishment than that enforced comradeship. It reminded him of a similar situation in a novel of Zola's, where husband and wife were equally culpable, equally afraid, and filled with equal hatred the one toward the other.
Still this conclusion, supported as it was by facts, did not explain the attitude of Hilliston. Assuming the guilt of Denis Bantry, the complicity of Jeringham, there appeared to be no reason why Hilliston should protect them at Thorston, and throw obstacles in the way of the truth's discovery. Tait was completely nonplussed and could think of no explanation. And then he remembered Mrs. Bezel's letter, and the mention of Louisa Sinclair. Hilliston, according to Mrs. Bezel, knew this woman, and she knew who had committed the crime. But how could she know unless she had been concealed, like Dick Pental, in the garden on that night? Tait was quite certain that Denis Bantry was guilty, but the hint of Mrs. Bezel threatened to disturb this view; and yet what better evidence was obtainable than that of an eye-witness. Still Tait remembered that Dicky confessed he had not seen the blow struck. What if Louisa Sinclair had? That was the question he asked himself.
Under the circumstances it was necessary to find out who this woman was. Tait did not judge it wise to ask Hilliston, for the simple reason that the lawyer would not admit the truth. There was no obvious reason why he should not, but Tait had sufficient experience of Hilliston's trickery and evasion in the pastto know that his admissions were untrustworthy. There only remained for him to search for Louisa Sinclair in Horriston, question her if she were alive, or learn all that he could if she were dead.
And now occurred a coincidence which unwittingly put Tait on the right track. When within half a mile of Horriston he met a clergyman swinging along at a good pace, and in him recognized a former college companion. The recognition and the delight were mutual.
"My dear Brandon, this is indeed a surprise!" exclaimed Tait, holding out his hand. "I had no idea that you were in these parts."
"I have only been vicar here for a year," answered Brandon cordially; "but what are you doing at Horriston, my friend?"
"Oh, I have come down partly on business and partly on pleasure."
"Then dismiss business for the moment, and come to luncheon with me. I am just going to my house. Where are you staying?"
"At the Royal Victoria."
"A dismal place. You must come frequently to see us while you stay here, and we will do what we can to cheer you up. Mrs. Brandon will be delighted to see you."
"Oh! So you are married?"
"For the last five years. Two children. Well, I am glad to see you again. Do you stay here long?"
"A few days only," replied Tait carelessly; "but it entirely depends on my business."
"Anything important?"
"Yes and no. By the way, you may be able to helpme, Brandon. Do you know anyone in this parish called Miss Louisa Sinclair?"
The vicar reflected for a few moments, and shook his head. "No, I never heard the name. She must have been here before my time. Have you any reason for wanting to see her?"
"Naturally, or I should not have asked," said Tait, with faint sarcasm. "However, I must make a confidant of you, as I wish for your advice and assistance."
"I shall be delighted to give both," said his friend briskly. "But here we are at my house, and there is my wife in the porch. My dear, this is an old college friend of mine, Spenser Tait. We must make him welcome, for the days that have been."
Mrs. Brandon, a comfortable, rosy-cheeked matron, with two tiny Brandons clinging to her skirts, heartily welcomed Tait, and led the way to the dining room. Here an extra knife and fork were hastily produced for the guest, and they all sat down to luncheon in the best of spirits. For the moment Tait banished all thought of the case from his mind, and laid himself out to be agreeable to the vicar's wife. In this he succeeded, as she subsequently pronounced him to be a singularly charming man; while he pronounced her to be one of the most intelligent women it had been his fortune to meet.
After luncheon Brandon conducted Tait to his study, and there, over an excellent cigar, the little man related the story of the Larcher affair from the time that Claude became possessed of the papers. Needless to say the clergyman was much astonished by the recital, and agreed with Tait that it was difficult to knowwhich way to turn in the present dilemma. He thought that Denis was guilty and Jeringham an accomplice by force of circumstances; but doubted whether the existence of Louisa Sinclair might not altogether alter the complexion of the case.
"Of course, the difficulty will be to find Louisa Sinclair," he said thoughtfully; "five-and-twenty years is a long time to go back to. She may be dead."
"So she may," rejoined Tait a trifle tartly; "on the other hand she may be alive. I found that waiter and that gardener who were at Horriston then. Both remember the case, so it is probable that I shall find this woman, or at least gain sufficient information to trace her whereabouts."
"I cannot recall her name, Tait. She has not been here in my time. Fortunately I can help you in this much; that an old parishioner of mine is calling to-day, and, as she has lived here for the last forty years and more, it is likely she will remember if such a person dwelt here."
"Who is this old lady?"
"My dear fellow, you must not call her an old lady. It is true she is over forty, but—well she is always young and charming in her own eyes. Miss Belinda Pike is her name, and I shouldn't like to come under the lash of her tongue."
"Is she such a Tartar?"
"She is——My dear fellow, you must not ask me to talk scandal about my parishioners; moreover, I see the lady in question is coming up the garden path. Once set her tongue going, and you will learn all the history of Horriston for the last hundred years."
"I only want to go back twenty-five," rejoinedTait, smiling; and at that moment Miss Belinda Pike was announced.
She was a tall, bony female with a hook nose, a false front, and an artificial smile. Dressed in voluminous raiment, she bore down on Brandon like a frigate in full sail; and proceeded to talk. All the time she remained in the study she talked, of herself, of parish work, of Dorcas meetings, of scandals new and old; and so astonished Tait by the extent of her petty information and the volubility of her tongue that he could only stare and wonder. Introduced to him she was graciously pleased to observe that she had heard of him and his inquiries.
"The waiter, you know, Mr. Tait," she said, smiling at his astonishment. "Sugden is his name; he told me all about you. Now, why do you wish to learn all about that Larcher crime?"
"For amusement merely," replied Tait, rather scandalizing the vicar by this answer. "The waiter began to speak of it, and I encouraged him; later on I heard the story from a gardener."
"From Dicky Pental," interrupted Miss Pike vivaciously. "Oh, he can tell you nothing—he is mad!"
"Mad or not, he told me a great deal."
"All false, no doubt. My dear Mr. Tait," continued the lady impressively, "only one person can tell you the truth of that case. Myself!"
"Or Louisa Sinclair."
"Louisa Sinclair! What do you know about her?"
"Nothing, save her name," replied Tait; "but I want to know more. Can you give me the required information?"
"Yes. Come and have afternoon tea with me to-day, and I'll tell you all. Oh, yes," said Miss Pike, with a self-satisfied nod, "I know who killed Captain Larcher."
"Jeringham—Denis, the valet—Hilliston?"
"No. Those three people are innocent. I can swear to it. I know it."
"Then who is guilty?"
"Why," said Miss Pike quietly, "Mrs. Larcher's maid—Mona Bantry."
A LETTER FROM HORRISTON.
"My Dear Claude:
"In my last letter I informed you of my various discoveries with regard to the case. I deem myself singularly fortunate in finding those who could afford me the necessary information. Five-and-twenty years is a wide gap of time, and, to tell the honest truth, I scarcely expected to be successful in my mission. Death, absence, old age, might have put an end to all who knew about the case, but, as you are already advised, I unexpectedly met with three people who gave me three different versions of the murder from their various points of view. First, the waiter Sugden, who merely reflected the opinion of Dick Pental; second, the gardener himself, with his first-hand story; and third, Miss Belinda Pike, whose ideas are quite at variance with the other two.
"I mentioned to you that I had met Miss Pike at my friend Brandon's, and that she had invited me to visit her the next day to hear her story of the case. Of course, I went, and found the lady an excellent character for my purpose. She has a truly wonderful memory for the small beer of life. She is a born gossip, and is one of the most spiteful women it has ever been my fortune to meet. Her invitation was more to satisfy her own vanity and curiosity than because she wishedto do me a service; but if she is gratified in the one she is balked in the other. With some difficulty—for she is a most persistent creature—I managed to evade her inquiries as to my reason for wishing to know about 'The Larcher Affair'; and extracted from her all information likely to be of service to us in discovering the truth. What she told me leaves me more in the dark than ever; and I shall doubtless return to Thorston no whit nearer the truth than I was when I set out.
"But before narrating her story, as imparted to me in strict secrecy, you must not be offended if certain reflections are cast by this busybody on your mother. To get at the truth of this complication you must view it from a disinterested standpoint and throw aside all prejudice. I do not for a moment believe that Mrs. Larcher intended to willfully deceive her husband, as is implied by Miss Pike, but I must confess I think her conduct was highly reprehensible. Still I pass no judgment, as it is not my place to do so; and you must clearly understand that the remarks herein contained about her are those of Miss Pike. You can guess from their tenor what a very spiteful old lady she is. I promised to report my doings and hearings faithfully to you, and I hereby keep my promise, and at the cost of your losing your temper.
"The cause of Miss Pike's malignity is jealousy—a passion which is as active now with her as it was twenty-five years ago. Then the fair Belinda, according to her own account, was the belle of Horriston, and shared that enviable position with two rivals—the one being your mother, the other Miss Louisa Sinclair. I fancy I hear you exclaim at the mention of thisname. But Mrs. Bezel is right; such a person does exist. She was a passably pretty girl,—according to Miss Pike,—and rather popular,—again Miss Pike,—but cared for no one so much as Mr. Francis Hilliston, then a handsome young lawyer of great promise and good family. This is evidently the romance of Hilliston's life, and accounts for his silence about Louisa Sinclair. He did not wish to speak of one who had disappeared under somewhat discreditable circumstances; yet who truly loved him. Whether he returned her love I cannot say. Suspend your judgment till you hear the story of this maiden lady. Of course, it is quite different to that of Dick Pental, and, I think, less easy to believe. The gardener spoke of what he saw; Miss Pike speaks of what she thinks. Judge for yourself which is right.
"As I have said, Miss Pike was a belle in her younger days. She was also well off, and could have made a good match. Unfortunately, she was in love with Hilliston; I say unfortunately, because he happened to be in love with Mrs. Larcher. I again apologize for putting the matter so plainly, but Miss Pike insisted that it was so. In those days Hilliston must have been a handsome and fascinating man, for Louisa Sinclair also loved him—with a like result. He had no eyes for these two damsels, but quietly devoted himself to Mrs. Larcher. I do not mean to say that he roused the suspicions of your father, for his devotion was perfectly respectful. The desire of the moth for the star, I may say—for Hilliston knew well enough that he had no chances in that quarter for two reasons. First, Mrs. Larcher was a married woman; second, she was in love with Jeringham.
"At the time of that notable dress ball matters stood thus:
"Miss Belinda Pike in love with Hilliston.
"Miss Louisa Sinclair in love with Hilliston.
"Hilliston in love with Mrs. Larcher.
"Mrs. Larcher in love with Jeringham.
"Can you imagine anything more complicated; and to make confusion still worse, Miss Pike solemnly asserted that Jeringham was not in love with Mrs. Larcher, but with her maid, Mona Bantry. Therefore, all round, each of these five people was in love with the wrong person. It was a modern 'Comedy of Errors,' with a tragic ending.
"Miss Pike went to the ball in the character of a flower girl, and there was astonished to find two Mary, Queen of Scots, and two Darnleys. During the night she learned that out of jealousy Louisa Sinclair had adopted the same fancy dress as your mother. She was the second Queen of Scots, and was attired precisely the same in all respects, save that Mrs. Larcher wore a small dagger, and Miss Sinclair did not. On making this discovery Miss Pike naturally thought—as a jealous woman would—that the second Darnley was Hilliston. She knew that the first was Jeringham, and did not trouble herself about him, but maneuvered to get speech with the second. To her astonishment she found out—how I cannot say—that it was Captain Larcher, who was supposed to be in London. He confessed that he was jealous of his wife, and had returned in disguise to learn the truth. Miss Pike was not clear whether he was suspicious of Jeringham or of Hilliston, and she had no opportunity of learning the truth as Larcher, seeing his wife leave the ballroom, followedher at once. The next day Miss Pike was informed of the disappearance of Jeringham, and later on she learned of the death of Captain Larcher.
"Now, you will ask whom she suspected. A woman with so unhappy a temper would not be long in forming an opinion about a matter connected with a lady of whom she was jealous. I allude to your mother. Miss Pike had a theory, and ever since, declining to accept the evidence given at the trial, has held firmly to it. She suspected Mona Bantry to be guilty. I give her reason in her own words.
"'Of course it is only theory,' she said, when I asked her pointblank who she thought was guilty, 'but my suspicions point to Mrs. Larcher's maid.'
"'To Mona Bantry?' I asked, rather astonished.
"'Yes! She was in love with Mr. Jeringham, and he was at the ball dressed as Darnley; Captain Larcher wore the same dress. As I told you he left the ballroom when he saw his wife go out with Mr. Jeringham. I fancy he followed them home, and caught them as they parted in the garden of The Laurels. Very likely he ordered Mr. Jeringham off the premises, and insisted on his wife going into the house. Mona, who was sitting up for her mistress, would open the door, and seeing by the dress, as she thought, Mr. Jeringham with Mrs. Larcher, I believe she lost her head and killed him.'
"'Killed him; but how?'
"'With the dagger worn by Mrs. Larcher,' responded Miss Pike triumphantly. 'She snatched it from the sheath as it hung at the girdle of Mrs. Larcher, and killed the poor man—thinking he was her lover. Then, finding out her mistake, she fled.
"'But so did Jeringham,' I said.
"'Yes. He also saw the murder, and naturally enough thought he might be suspected. I think he took Mona away with him on the very night, and they fled together. As to the body, Denis, the brother, to save his sister and possibly his mistress from being suspected, threw it into the river. That is my theory, Mr. Tait, and I believe it to be the true one.'
"I need not repeat more of our conversation, as it was merely argument on both sides, but you now know sufficient to see in what direction Miss Pike's suspicions are directed. Her story is quite at variance with that of your mother, who plainly stated that she found Mona in the sitting room with your father. It is not strange that the two narrations should be contradictory, for we must remember that Mrs. Larcher spoke from facts while Miss Pike only speaks from hearsay.
"Again, from the statement of Dick Pental, it would appear that the murder took place in the garden; your mother says it was committed in the sitting room, so here is another contradiction. But you must not forget that only one person has sworn to the identity of those he saw with the body. Miss Pike can prove nothing from facts, and only evolves accusations out of her own malignant nature. Your mother accuses no one, alleging that she fainted in the sitting room. Therefore, taking all facts into consideration, I believe the gardener's story to be true, and that Denis Bantry killed your father; Jeringham, through force of circumstances, being an accessory to the deed. This view accounts for the identity of Paynton with Jeringham, of Kerry with Denis—and fully accounts fortheir living in seclusion at Thorston. This is my opinion. Do you think you can give a better?
"Regarding your mother's hint about Louisa Sinclair, I confess I cannot understand it. Miss Pike was perfectly frank about that person; and stated that shortly after the murder she went to America and had not been heard of for years. Hilliston may know of her whereabouts, but under the circumstances I do not think he is likely to speak. At all events we are certain of two things: that Louisa Sinclair did not marry Hilliston; that she had nothing to do with the tragedy at The Laurels. Miss Pike intends to show me a portrait of the lady on the occasion of my next visit. A knowledge of her looks may lead to something; but honestly speaking I do not see how she can possibly be implicated in the matter.
"But I must bring this long letter to a close. I have found out sufficient at Horriston to justify our suspicions of theménageat Rose Cottage, and when I return we must set our wits to work to see Paynton and Kerry. They must be forced into plain speaking, then we may solve the mystery of your father's death—not before. Expect me in two days, and think over what I have written so that we may discuss the matter thoroughly when we come together. And so no more at present from your friend,
"Spenser Tait."