On hearing this announcement of the loss, Eva rose and went to the chamber of death. There, under a sheet, lay the body of her father looking far more calm in death, than he had ever looked in life. But the sheet was disarranged on the right side, and lifting this slightly, she saw that what Mr. Hill said was true. The wooden hand had been removed, and now there remained but the stump of the arm. A glance round the room showed her that the window was open, but she remembered opening it herself. The blind was down, but some one might have entered and thieved from the dead. It was an odd loss, and Eva could not think why it should have taken place.
When she returned to the tiny drawing-room, Allen and his father were in deep conversation. They looked up when the girl entered.
"It is quite true," said Eva, sitting down; "the hand is gone."
"Who can have stolen it?" demanded Allen, wrinkling his brow.
"And why should it be stolen?" asked Hill pointedly.
Eva pressed her hands to her aching head. "I don't know," she said wearily. "When Mrs. Merry and I laid out the body at dawn this morning the hand was certainly there, for I noted the white glove all discoloured with the mud of the Red Deeps. We pulled down the blind and opened the window. Some one may have entered."
"But why should some one steal?" said Hill uneasily; "you say the hand was there at dawn?"
"Yes." Eva rose and rang the bell. "We can ask Mrs. Merry."
The old woman speedily entered, and expressed astonishment at the queer loss. "The hand was there at nine," she said positively. "I went to see if everything was well, and lifted the sheet. Ah, dear me, Mr. Strode, as was, put a new white glove on that wooden hand every morning, so that it might look nice and clean. Whatever would he have said, to see the glove all red with clay? I intended," added Mrs. Merry, "to have put on a new glove, and I sent Cain to buy it."
"What?" asked Eva, looking up, "is Cain back?"
"Yes, deary. He came early, as the circus is passing through this place on to the next town, Shanton. Cain thought he'd pick up the caravans on the road, so came to say good-bye."
Eva remembered Cain's odd behaviour, and wondered if he had anything to do with the theft. But the idea was ridiculous. The lad was bad enough, but he certainly would not rob the dead. Moreover--on the face of it--there was no reason he should steal so useless an object as a wooden hand. What with the excitement of the death, and the fulfilment of the dream, not to mention that she felt a natural grief for the death of her father, the poor girl was quite worn out. Mr. Hill saw this, and after questioning Mrs. Merry as to the theft of the glove, he went away.
"I shall see Wasp about this," he said, pausing at the door, "there must be some meaning in the theft. Meanwhile I'll examine the flower-bed outside the window."
Mrs. Merry went with him, but neither could see any sign of foot-marks on the soft mould. The thief--if indeed a thief had entered the house, had jumped the flower-bed, and no marks were discoverable on the hard gravel of the path. "There's that boy," said Mrs. Merry.
"What boy?" asked Hill, starting.
"A little rascal, as calls himself Butsey," said the old woman, folding her hands as usual under her apron. "London street brat I take him to be. He came to say Cain would be here to-morrow."
"But Cain is here to-day," said Mr. Hill perplexed.
"That's what makes me think Butsey might have stolen the wooden hand," argued Mrs. Merry. "Why should he come here else? I didn't tell him, as Cain had already arrived, me being one as knows how to hold my tongue whatever you may say, Mr. Hills"--so Mrs. Merry named her companion. "I would have asked questions, but the boy skipped. I wonder why he stole it?"
"You have no proof that he stole it at all," said Hill smartly; "but I'll tell Wasp what you say. When does the inquest take place?"
"To-morrow, as you might say," snapped Mrs. Merry crossly; "and don't bring that worriting Wasp round here, Mr. Hills. Wasp he is by name and Wasp by nature with his questions. If ever you----"
But Mr. Hill was beyond hearing by this time. He always avoided a chat with Mrs. Merry, as the shrillness of her voice--so he explained--annoyed him. The old woman stared after his retreating figure and she shook her head. "You're a bad one," she soliloquised; "him as is dead was bad too. A pair of ye--ah--but if there's trouble coming, as trouble will come, do what you may--Miss Eva shan't suffer while I can stop any worriting."
Meanwhile Eva and Allen were talking seriously. "My dream was fulfilled in the strangest way, Allen," the girl said. "I dreamed, as I told you, the night before last at nine o'clock----"
"Well?" questioned the young man seeing she hesitated.
Eva looked round fearfully. "The doctor says, that, judging by the condition of the body, my father must have been shot at that hour."
"Last night you mean," said Allen hesitatingly.
"No. This is Friday. He was shot on Wednesday at nine, and the body must have lain all those long hours at the Red Deeps. Of course," added Eva quickly, "no one goes to the Red Deeps. It was the merest chance that those labourers went last night and found the body. So you see, Allen, my father must have been killed at the very time I dreamed of his death."
"It is strange," said young Hill, much perturbed. "I wonder who can have killed him?"
Eva shook her head. "I cannot say, nor can any one. The inspector from Westhaven has been here this morning making inquiries, but, of course, I can tell him nothing--except about the telegram."
"What telegram?"
"Didn't I mention it to you?" said the girl, raising her eyes which were fixed on the ground disconsolately; "no--of course I didn't. It came after you left me--at nine o'clock--no it was at half-past nine. The wire was from my father, saying he would be down the next day. It had arrived at Westhaven at four, and should have been delivered earlier but for the forgetfulness of the messenger."
"But, Eva, if the wire came from your father yesterday, he could not have been shot on Wednesday night."
"No, I can't understand it. I told Inspector Garrit about the wire, and he took it away with him. He will say all that he learns about the matter at the inquest to-morrow. And now my father's wooden hand has been stolen--it is strange."
"Very strange," assented Allen musingly. He was thinking of what his father had said about Mr. Strode's probable enemies. "Eva, do you know if your father brought any jewels from Africa--diamonds, I mean?"
"I can't say. No diamonds were found on his body. In fact his purse was filled with money and his jewellery had not been taken."
"Then robbery could not have been the motive for the crime."
"No, Allen, the body was not robbed." She rose and paced the room. "I can't understand my dream. I wonder if, when I slept, my soul went to the Red Deeps and saw the crime committed."
"You did not see the crime committed?"
"No; I saw the body, however, lying in the position in which it was afterwards found by Jacobs and the others. And then the laugh--that cruel laugh as though the assassin was gloating over his cruel work--the man who murdered my father was laughing in my dream."
"How can you tell it was a man?"
"The laugh sounded like that of a man."
"In your dream? I don't think a jury will take that evidence."
Eva stopped before the young man and looked at him determinedly. "I don't see why that part of my dream should not come true, if the other has already been proved true. It's all of a piece."
To this remark young Hill had no answer ready. Certainly the dream had come true in one part, so why not in another? But he was too anxious about Eva's future to continue the discussion. "What about you, darling?" he asked.
"I don't know," she replied, and sat down beside him again. "I can think of nothing until the inquest has taken place. When I learn who has killed my father, I shall be more at ease."
"That is only right and natural; but----"
"Don't mistake me, Allen," she interrupted vehemently. "I saw so little of my father, and, through my mother, knew so much bad about him, that I don't mourn his death as a daughter ought to. But I feel that I have a duty to perform. I must learn who killed him, and have that person sent to the scaffold."
Allen coloured and looked down. "We can talk about that when we have further facts before us. Inspector Garrit, you say, is making inquiries?"
"Yes; I have given him the telegram, and also the address of my father's lawyer, which I found in a letter in his pocket."
"Mr. Mask?"
"Yes; Sebastian Mask--do you know him?"
"I know of him. He is my father's lawyer also, and so became Mr. Strode's man of business. Yes, it is just as well Garrit should see him. When your father arrived in London he probably went to see Mask, to talk over business. We might learn something in that quarter."
"Learn what?" asked Eva bluntly.
Allen did not answer at once. "Eva," he said after a pause, "do you remember I told you that my father said Mr. Strode might not arrive. Well, I asked him why he said so, and he declared that from what he knew of your father, Mr. Strode was a man likely to have many enemies. It struck me that this crime may be the work of one of these enemies. Now Mask, knowing all your father's business, may also know about those who wished him ill."
"It may be so," said Eva reflectively; "my father," from what Mrs. Merry says, "was a most quarrelsome man, and would stop at nothing to make money. He doubtless made enemies in Africa as your father suggests, but why should an enemy follow him to England to kill him? It would have been easier to shoot him in Africa."
Allen shrugged his shoulders. "It's all theory on our parts," he said. "We don't know yet if Mr. Strode had any virulent enemies, so we cannot say if he was shot out of malice."
"As the contents of his pockets were not touched, Allen, it looks as though malice might have led to the crime."
"True enough." Allen rose wearily to go, and Eva saw that he limped. "Oh," she cried with true womanly feeling, springing forward to help him, "I forgot about your sprain; is it very painful?"
"Oh no, not at all," said Allen, wincing; "help me to the door, Eva, and I'll get into the chaise. It must be here by this time. We must go round by the back."
In spite of her sorrow, Eva smiled. "Yes, Mrs. Merry won't allow the front door to be opened until my father's corpse passes through. I never thought she was so superstitious."
"The realisation of your dream is enough to make us all superstitious," said Allen as they passed through the kitchen. "Oh, by the way, Eva, my mother wants to know if you will stop with her till the funeral is over?"
"No, Allen, thanking your mother all the same. My place is here. Mrs. Palmer asked me also."
Mrs. Palmer was a gay, bright young widow who lived at the other end of the village, and whom Mrs. Merry detested, for some unknown reason. The sound of the name brought her into the conversation, as she was just outside, when the couple arrived at the kitchen door.
"Mrs. Palmer indeed," cried Mrs. Merry, wiping her red eyes; "the idea of her asking Miss Eva to stop with her. Why, her father was a chemist, and her late husband made his money out of milk and eggs!"
"She is very kind to ask me, Nanny, all the same."
"She's no lady," said Mrs. Merry, pursing up her lips, "and ain't the kind for you to mix with, Miss Eva."
"My mother wishes Miss Strode to come to us," said Allen.
"Well, sir," said the old nurse, "I don't say as what it wouldn't be good for my dear young lady: that is," added Mrs. Merry with emphasis, "if she keeps with your ma."
"My father won't trouble her if that's what you mean," said the young man drily, for Mrs. Merry made no secret of her dislike for Mr. Hill.
"People have their likings and no likings," said the old dame, "but if your ma will take Miss Eva till we bury him," she jerked her head in the direction of the death chamber, "it would be happier for her than sticking in the house along with her pa and me. If Cain was stopping I'd say different, but he's going after his circus, and two women and a corpse as ain't lived well, isn't lively, whatever you may say, Mr. Allen."
"I intend to stop here," said Eva sharply, "so there's no need for you to say anything more, Nanny. Ah, here's Cain. Help Mr. Hill, Cain."
The dark-eyed youth doffed his cap and came forward with alacrity to aid Allen. "Jacobs is at the gate with the pony, miss," he said, "but I hope our horses won't run over him."
"What do you mean?" asked Allen, limping round the corner.
"The circus is coming, on its way to Shanton. I told Mr. Stag--he owns it, Miss Eva--that murder had been committed, so the circus band won't play when the horses pass."
"Oh," said Eva stopping short, for already she saw a crowd of people on the road. "I'd better remain within."
"Yes, do, Eva," said Allen. "Cain will help me to the chaise. I'll come and see you again; and Eva," he detained her, "ask Inspector Garrit to see me. I want to know what can be done towards discovering the truth."
While Allen whispered thus, a procession of golden cars and cream-coloured horses was passing down the road amongst a sparse gathering of village folk. These had come to look at the house in which the body of the murdered man lay, although they knew Misery Castle as well as they knew their own noses. But the cottage had acquired a new and terrible significance in their eyes. Now another sensation was provided in the passing of Stag's Circus on its way to Shanton fifteen miles further on. What between the tragedy and the circus the villagers quite lost their heads. At present, however, they looked at the cages of animals, at the band in a high red chariot, and at many performers prancing on trained steeds. With the music of the band it would have been even more exciting, but Stag, with extraordinary good taste, forbore to play martial melodies while passing through the village. Cain had not told him about the cottage, so the equestrians were unaware that Misery Castle contained the remains of the man whose death had caused such excitement in Westhaven.
Just as Eva turned to go in, and thus avoid the gaze of the curious, she heard a deep voice--a contralto voice--calling for Cain. On turning her head, she saw a handsome dark woman mounted on a fine white horse. "It's Miss Lorry," said Cain, leaving Allen's arm and running to the gate, with his face shining.
The young man, still weak in his ankle, lurched, so sudden had been Cain's departure, and Eva, with a cry of anger, ran forward to stop him from falling. "Cain, how could you!" cried Eva; "hold up, Allen."
"Go back and help the gentleman," said the dark woman, fixing her bold eyes on the girl's white face with a look of pity. "Miss Strode!"
Eva turned indignantly--for Cain by this time was helping Allen, and she was returning to the house--to see why the woman dare address her. Miss Lorry was reining in her rearing, prancing horse, and showing off her fine figure and splendid equestrian management. She was dressed plainly in a dark blue riding-habit, and wore a tall silk hat. With these, and white collar and cuffs and neat gloves, she looked very well turned out. By this time the procession had passed on towards the village, and the people, drawn by the superior attraction of the circus, streamed after it. Only a few hung about, and directed curious eyes towards the cottage and towards Eva, who paused near the fence in response to Miss Lorry's cry. Allen, who was now in the chaise, and had gathered up the reins, also waited to hear what this audacious woman had to say to Eva.
"Come here, please," said Miss Lorry, with a fine high colour in her cheeks. "I'm not going to bite you. You are Miss Strode, aren't you?--else that lad," she pointed to Cain, "must have lied. He said you lived in his mother's cottage and----"
"I am Miss Strode," said Eva sharply. "What is it? I don't know you."
Miss Lorry laughed in an artificial manner. "Few people can say that," she said; "Bell Lorry is known everywhere as the Queen of the Arena. No, Miss Strode, you don't know me; but I know you and of you. Your cousin Lord Saltars----"
"Oh!" cried Eva, turning red, and walked up towards the house.
"Come back," cried Miss Lorry, "I want to whisper--it's about the death," she added in a lower tone. But Eva was out of hearing, and round the corner walking very fast, with her haughty head in the air.
Miss Lorry, who had not a good temper, ground her fine white teeth. "I've a good mind to hold my tongue," she said.
"What is it about the murder?" asked Allen quickly; "I am engaged to marry Miss Strode."
"Oh, are you? Then tell her to be careful of the wooden hand!"
There was great excitement when the inquest was held on the remains of Mr. Strode. Although he belonged to the old family of the neighbourhood, and should have lived in the manor as the lord of the village, he had been absent from Wargrove for so long, that few people were well acquainted with him. Some ancient villagers remembered him as a gay, sky-larking young man, when with Mr. Hill the two had played pranks during vacation. Then came the death of the old squire and the sale of the manor by his son. At times Strode had come to Wargrove with his wife, and at Misery Castle Eva had been born. But he usually stopped only a short time, as the slow life of the country wearied his restless spirit. But always, when he came to his old haunts, he went to look at the home of his race. Every one knew that it was his desire to be Strode of Wargrove again, in fact as well as in name.
Many people remembered him when he came to Wargrove for the last time, to place his wife and daughter under the roof of Mrs. Merry. Strode had always been stiff and cold in manner, but, being of the old stock, this behaviour was esteemed right, as no lord of the soil should be too familiar, the wiseacres thought. "A proud, haughty gentleman," said some, "but then he's a right to be proud. Ain't the Strodes been here since the Conquest? 'Tis a wonder he took up with that Mr. Hill, whose father was but a stockbroker."
So it will be guessed that Strode's return to his native place to meet with a violent death at unknown hands, created much excitement. The jury surveyed the body in Misery Castle, and then went to the one inn of the village to hear the evidence. A few people were in the coffee-room where the proceedings took place, but Inspector Garrit gave orders that the crowd should be kept out. The street therefore was filled with people talking of Strode and of his terrible end. One old man, who had seen eighty summers, gave it as his opinion, that it was no wonder Mr. Strode had died so.
"And what do you mean by that?" asked Wasp, who, full of importance, was making things unpleasant with over-zeal.
The ancient pulled his cap to the majesty of the law. "Whoy," said he, chewing a straw, "Muster Robert--by which I means Muster Strode--was a powerful angery gent surely. He gied I a clip on th' 'ead when I was old enough to be his father, though to be sure 'twas in his colleging days. Ah, I mind them two well!"
"What two?" asked Wasp, on the alert to pick up evidence.
"Muster Strode as was, an' Muster Hill as is. They be very hoity-toity in them days, not as 'twasn't right fur Muster Robert, he being lard an' master of the village. But Muster Hill"--the ancient spat out the straw to show his contempt--"Lard, he be nothin'!"
"He's very rich, Granfer."
"What's money to blood? Muster Strode shouldn't ha' taken him up, and given he upsettin' notions. He an' Giles Merry, as run away from his wife, and Muster Strode, ah--them did make things lively-like."
"I don't see what this has to do with the death," said Wasp snappishly.
"Never you mind," said Granfer, valiant through over-much beer. "I knows what I knows. Muster Robert--'twas a word an' a blow with him, and when he clips me on the 'ead, I ses, 'Sir, 'tis a red end as you'll come to,' and my words have come true. He've bin shot."
"And who shot him?" asked the blacksmith.
"One of 'em as he clipped on the 'ead same as he did me," said Granfer.
Wasp dismissed this piece of gossip with contempt, and entered the coffee-room to watch proceedings. The little policeman was very anxious to bring the murderer to justice, in the hopes that he would be rewarded for his zeal by a post at Westhaven. Hitherto he had found nothing likely to lead to any discovery, and Inspector Garrit had not been communicative. So, standing stiffly at the lower end of the room, Wasp listened with all his red ears to the evidence, to see what he could gain therefrom likely to set him on the track. A chance like this was not to be wasted, and Wasp's family was very large, with individual appetites to correspond.
Eva was present, with Allen on one side of her, and Mrs. Palmer on the other. Behind sat Mrs. Merry, sniffing because Mrs. Palmer was offering Eva her smelling-bottle. The widow was blonde and lively, well dressed, and of a most cheerful disposition. Her father certainly had been a chemist, but he had left her money. Her husband undoubtedly had been an egg and butter merchant, but he also had left her well off. Mrs. Palmer had been born and brought up in Shanton, and her late husband's shop had been in Westhaven. Therefore she lived at neither place now that she was free and rich, but fixed her abode at Wargrove, midway between the two towns. She went out a good deal, and spent her money freely. But she never could get amongst the county families as was her ambition. Perhaps her liking for Eva Strode was connected with the fact that the girl was of aristocratic birth. With the Lord of the Manor--as he should have been--for a father, and an Earl's daughter for a mother, Eva was as well-born as any one in the county. But apart from her birth, Mrs. Palmer kindly and genial, really liked the girl for her own sake. And Eva also was fond of the merry, pretty widow, although Mrs. Merry quite disapproved of the friendship.
Inspector Garrit was present, and beside him sat a lean, yellow-faced man, who looked like a lawyer and was one. He had presented himself at the cottage that very morning as Mr. Mask, the solicitor of the deceased, and had been brought down by Garrit to give evidence as to the movements of Mr. Strode in town, since his arrival from Africa. Eva had asked him about her future, but he declined to say anything until the verdict of the jury was given. When this matter was settled, and when Strode was laid in the family vault beside his neglected wife, Mask said that he would call at Misery Castle and explain.
The case was opened by Garrit, who detailed the facts and what evidence he had gathered to support them. "The deceased gentleman," said Garrit, who was stout and short of breath, "came to Southampton from South Africa at the beginning of August, a little over a week ago. He had been in South Africa for five years. After stopping two days at Southampton at the Ship Inn, the deceased had come to London and had taken up his quarters in the Guelph Hotel, Jermyn Street. He went to the theatres, paid visits to his tailors for a new outfit, and called also on his lawyer, Mr. Mask, who would give evidence. On Wednesday last, the deceased wired from London that he would be down at eight o'clock on Thursday evening. The wire was sent to Miss Strode, and was taken from the hotel by the porter who sent it, from the St. James's telegraph office."
"Why are you so precise about this telegram?" asked the coroner.
"I shall explain later, sir," panted Garrit, wiping his face, for it was hot in the coffee room. "Well then, gentlemen of the jury, the deceased changed his mind, as I learned from inquiries at the hotel. He came down on Wednesday evening instead of Thursday, and arrived at the Westhaven station at six-thirty."
"That was the train he intended to come by on Thursday?" asked a juryman.
"Certainly. He changed the day but not the train."
"Didn't he send another wire to Miss Strode notifying his change of plan?"
"No. He sent no wire saying he would be down on Wednesday. Perhaps he desired to give Miss Strode a pleasant surprise. At all events, Miss Strode did not expect him till Thursday night at eight. She will give evidence to that effect. Well, gentlemen of the jury, the deceased arrived at Westhaven by the six-thirty train on Wednesday, consequent on his change of plan. He left the greater part of his luggage at the Guelph Hotel, and came only with a small bag, from which it would seem that he intended to stop only for the night. As the bag was easily carried, Mr. Strode decided to walk over----"
"But if he arrived by the six-thirty he would not get to the cottage at eight," said a juryman.
"No. I can't say why he walked--it's ten miles. A quick walker could do the distance in two hours, but Mr. Strode not being so young as he was, was not a quick walker. At all events, he walked. A porter who offered to take his bag, and was snubbed, was the last person who saw him."
"Didn't any one see him on the road to Wargrove?"
"I can't say. As yet I have found no one who saw him. Besides, Mr. Strode did not keep to the road all the time. He walked along it for some distance and then struck across Chilvers Common, to go to the Red Deeps. Whether he intended to go there," added the Inspector, wiping his face again, "I can't say. But he was found there dead on Thursday night by three men, Arnold, Jacobs, and Wake. These found a card in the pocket giving the name of the deceased, and one of them, Jacobs, then recognised the body as that of Mr. Strode whom he had seen five years previous. The men took the body to the cottage and then went home."
"Why didn't they inform the police?" asked the coroner.
Garrit stole a glance at Wasp and suppressed a smile. "They will tell you that themselves, sir," he said; "however, Mrs. Merry found the policeman Jackson on his rounds, late at night, and he went to tell Mr. Wasp, a most zealous officer. I came over next morning. The doctor had examined the body, and will now give his evidence."
After this witness retired, Dr. Grace appeared, and deposed that he had been called in to examine the body of the deceased. The unfortunate gentleman had been shot through the heart, and must have been killed instantaneously. There was also a flesh wound on the upper part of the right arm; here the doctor produced a bullet: "This I extracted from the body, gentlemen, but the other bullet cannot be found. It must have merely ripped the flesh of the arm, and then have buried itself in the trees."
"This bullet caused the death?" asked the coroner.
"Certainly. It passed through the heart. I expect the assassin fired twice, and missing his victim at the first shot fired again with a surer aim. From the nature of the wound in the arm, gentlemen," added Grace, "I am inclined to think that the deceased had his back to the assassin. The first bullet--the lost one, mind--skimmed along the flesh of the arm. The pain would make the deceased turn sharply to face the assassin, whereupon the second shot was fired and passed through the heart. I think, from the condition of the body, that the murder was committed at nine o'clock on Wednesday night. Mr. Strode may have gone to the Red Deeps to meet the assassin and thus have----"
"This isn't evidence," interrupted the coroner abruptly; "you can sit down, Dr. Grace."
This the doctor did, rather annoyed, for he was fond of hearing himself chatter. The three labourers, Arnold, Wake, and Jacobs, followed, and stated that they went to the Red Deeps to get a drink from the spring. It was about half-past ten when they found the body. It was lying near the spring, face downwards. They took it up and from a card learned it was that of Mr. Strode. Then they took it to the cottage and went home.
"Why didn't you inform the police?" a juryman asked Jacobs.
The big man scratched his head and looked sheepish. "Well, you see, sir, policeman Wasp's a sharp one, he is, and like as not he'd have thought we'd killed the gent. We all three thought as we'd wait till we could see some other gentleman like yourself."
There was a smile at this, and Wasp grew redder than he was. "A trifle too much zeal on the part of policeman Wasp," said the coroner drily, "but you should have given notice. You carried the body home between you, I suppose?"
"Yes. There was Arnold, myself, and Wake--then there was the boy," added the witness with hesitation.
"Boy?" questioned the coroner sharply, "what boy?"
Jacobs scratched his head again. "I dunno, sir. A boy joined us on the edge of the common near Wargrove, and, boy-like, when he saw we'd a corpse he follered. When we dropped the body at the door of Misery Castle"--the name of Mrs. Merry's abode provoked a smile--"the boy said as he'd knock. He knocked five times."
"Why five times?" questioned a juryman, while Eva started.
"I can't say, sir. But knock five times he did, and then ran away."
"What kind of a boy was he?"
"Just an ordinary boy, sir," grunted the witness, save that he seemed sharp. "He'd a white face and a lot of red hair----"
"Lor!" cried Mrs. Merry, interrupting the proceedings, "it's Butsey."
"Do you know the boy?" asked the coroner. "Come and give your evidence, Mrs. Merry."
The old woman, much excited, kissed the book. "Know the boy?" she said in her doleful voice. "Lord bless you, Mr. Shakerley, that being your name, sir, I don't know the boy from a partridge. But on Friday morning he came to me, and told me as Cain--my boy, gentlemen, and a wicked boy at that--would come and see me Saturday. As Cain was in the house, gentlemen, leastways as I'd sent him for a glove for the wooden hand of the corp, the boy--Butsey, he said his name was--told a lie, which don't astonish me, seeing what boys are. I think he was a London boy, being sharp and ragged. But he just told the lie, and before I could clout his head for falsehoods, he skipped away."
"Have you seen him since?"
"No, I ain't," said Mrs. Merry, "and when I do I'll clout him, I will."
"Does your son know him?"
"That he don't. For I asked Cain why he told the boy to speak such a falsehood seeing there was no need. But Cain said he'd told no one to say as he was coming, and that he intended to see me Friday and not Saturday, as that lying boy spoke."
Here Inspector Garrit rose, and begged that Miss Strode might be called, as she could tell something, bearing on the boy. Eva looked somewhat astonished, as she had not seen Butsey. However, she was sworn and duly gave her evidence.
"My father came home from South Africa over a week ago in theDunoon Castle.. He wrote to me from Southampton saying he would be down. He then went to London and stopped there a week. He did not write from London, but sent two telegrams."
"Two telegrams," said the coroner. "One on Wednesday----"
"Yes," said the witness, "and one on Thursday night."
"But that's impossible. He was dead then, according to the medical evidence."
"That's what I cannot understand," said Eva, glancing at the Inspector. "I expected him on Thursday night at eight and had dinner ready for him. After waiting till after nine I was about to go to bed when a telegraph messenger arrived. He gave me the wire and said it arrived at four, and should have been sent then. It was from my father, saying he had postponed his departure till the next day, Friday. I thought it was all right and went to bed. About twelve I was awakened by the five knocks of my dream----"
"What do you mean by your dream, Miss Strode?"
Eva related her dream, which caused much excitement. "And the five knocks came. Four soft and one hard," she went on. "I sprang out of bed, and ran into the passage. Mrs. Merry met me with the news that my father had been brought home dead. Then I attended to the body, while Mrs. Merry told Jackson, who went to see Mr. Wasp."
"What did you do with the wire?" asked the coroner, looking perplexed at this strange contradictory evidence, as he well might.
"I gave it to Inspector Garrit."
"Here it is," said the inspector producing it; "when I was in town, I went to the office whence this had been sent. It was the St. James's Street office where the other wire had been sent from. I learnt from a smart operator that the telegram had been brought in by a ragged, red-haired boy----"
"Butsey," cried Mrs. Merry, folding her shawl tightly round her lean form.
"Yes," said Garrit, nodding, "apparently it is the same boy who joined the three men when they carried the body home, and knocked five times."
"And the same boy as told me a lie about Cain," cried Mrs. Merry; "what do you make of it all, gentlemen?"
Mrs. Merry was rebuked, but the jury and coroner looked puzzled. They could make nothing of it. Inquiry showed that Butsey had vanished from the neighbourhood. Wasp deposed to having seen the lad. "Ragged and white-faced and red-haired he was," said Wasp, "with a wicked eye----"
"Wicked eyes," corrected the coroner.
"Eye," snapped Wasp respectfully, "he'd only one eye, but 'twas bright and wicked enough to be two. I asked him--on the Westhaven road--what he was doing there, as we didn't like vagrants. He said he'd come from London to Westhaven with a Sunday school treat. I gave him a talking to, and he ran away in the direction of Westhaven. Oh, sir," added Wasp, obviously annoyed, "if I'd only known about the knocking, and the lying to Mrs. Merry, and the telegram, I'd have taken him in charge."
"Well, you couldn't help it, knowing no reason why the lad should be detained," said the coroner; "but search for him, Wasp."
"At Westhaven? I will, sir. And I'll see about the Sunday school too. He'd be known to the teachers."
Mrs. Merry snorted. "That's another lie. I don't believe the brat has anything to do with Sunday schools, begging your pardon, Mr. Shakerley. He's a liar, and I don't believe his name's Butsey at all."
"Well, well," said the coroner impatiently, "let us get on with the inquest. What further evidence have you, inspector?"
"I have to speak," said Mr. Mask rising and looking more yellow and prim than ever as he took the oath. "I am Mr. Strode's legal adviser. He came to see me two or three times while he was in town. He stated that he was going down to Wargrove."
"On what day did he say?"
"On no particular day. He said he would be going down some time, but he was in no hurry."
"Didn't he tell you he was going down on Thursday?"
"No. He never named the day."
"Had he any idea of meeting with a violent death?"
"If he had, he certainly would not have come," said Mask grimly; "my late client had a very good idea of looking after his own skin. But he certainly hinted that he was in danger."
"Explain yourself."
"He said that if he couldn't come himself to see me again he would send his wooden hand."
The coroner looked puzzled. "What do you mean?"
"Mr. Strode," said Mask primly, "talked to me about some money he wished to place in my keeping. I was to give it back to him personally, or when he sent the wooden hand. I understood from what he hinted that there was a chance he might get into trouble. But he explained nothing. He always spoke little and to the point."
"And have you got this money?"
"No. Mr. Strode didn't leave it with me."
"Then why did he remark about his wooden hand?"
"I expect he intended to leave the money with me when he returned from Wargrove. So it would seem that he did not expect anything to happen to him on his visit to his native place. If he had expected a tragedy, he would have left the money; and the wooden hand would have been the token for me to give it."
"To whom, sir?"
"To the person who brought the wooden hand."
"And has it been brought?"
"No. But I understand from Inspector Garrit that the hand has been stolen."
"Dear me--dear me." Mr. Shakerley rubbed his bald head irritably. "This case is most perplexing. Who stole the hand?"
Mr. Hill came forward at this point and related how he had gone into the death chamber to find the hand gone. Eva detailed how she had seen the hand still attached to the arm at dawn, and Mrs. Merry deposed that she saw the hand with the body at nine o'clock. These witnesses were exhaustively examined, but nothing further could be learned. Mr. Strode had been shot through the heart, and the wooden hand had been stolen. But who had shot him, or who had stolen the hand, could not be discovered.
The coroner did his best to bring out further evidence: but neither Wasp nor Garrit could supply any more witnesses. The further the case was gone into, the more mysterious did it seem. The money of the deceased was untouched, so robbery could not have been the motive for the commission of the crime. Finally, after a vain endeavour to penetrate the mystery, the jury brought in a verdict of "Wilful murder against some person or persons unknown."
Nothing new was discovered after the inquest, although all inquiries were made. Butsey had vanished. He was traced to Westhaven after his interview with Wasp, and from that place had taken the train to London. But after landing at Liverpool Street Station, he disappeared into the world of humanity, and not even the efforts of the London police could bring him to light. No weapon had been found near the Red Deeps spring, nor could any footmarks be discerned likely to lead to a detection of the assassin. Mr. Strode had been shot by some unknown person, and it seemed as though the affair would have to be relegated to the list of mysterious crimes. Perhaps the absence of a reward had something to do with the inactivity displayed by Garrit and Wasp.
But how could a reward be offered when Eva had no money? After the funeral, and when the dead man had been bestowed in the Strode vault under St. Peter's Church, the lawyer called to see the girl. He told her coldly, and without displaying any sympathy, that her father had left no money in his hands, and that he could do nothing for her. Eva, having been brought up in idleness, was alarmed at the prospect before her. She did not know what to do.
"I must earn my bread in some way," she said to Mrs. Merry a week later, when consulting about ways and means. "I can't be a burden on you, Nanny."
"Deary," said the old woman, taking the girl's hand within her withered claws, "you ain't no burden, whatever you may say. You stay along with your old nurse, who loves you, an' who has fifty pound a year, to say nothing of the castle and the land."
"But, Nanny, I can't stay on here for ever."
"And you won't, with that beauty," said Mrs. Merry sturdily, "bless you, deary, Mr. Allen will marry you straight off if you'll only say the word; I saw him in the village this very day, his foot being nearly well. To be sure he was with his jelly-fish of a pa; but I took it kind of him that he stopped and spoke to me. He wants to marry you out of hand, Miss Eva."
"I know," said the girl flushing; "I never doubted Allen's love. He has asked me several times since the funeral to become his wife. But my poor father----"
"Poor father!" echoed Mrs. Merry in tones of contempt; "well, as he was your pa after all, there ain't nothing to be said, whatever you may think, Miss Eva. But he was a bad lot."
"Mrs. Merry, he's dead," said Eva rebukingly. The old woman rubbed her hands and tucked them under her apron. "I know that," said she with bright eyes, "and put 'longside that suffering saint your dear ma: but their souls won't be together whatever you may say, deary. Well, I'll say no more. Bad he was, and a bad end he come to. I don't weep for him," added Mrs. Merry viciously; "no more nor I'd weep for Giles if he was laid out, and a nasty corp he'd make."
Eva shuddered. "Don't speak like that."
"Well then, deary, I won't, me not being wishful to make your young blood run cold. But as to what you'll do, I'll just tell you what I've thought of, lying awake. There's the empty room across the passage waiting for a lodger; then the cow's milk can be sold, and there's garden stuff by the bushel for sale. I might let out the meadow as a grazing ground, too," said Mrs. Merry, rubbing her nose thoughtfully, "but that the cow's as greedy a cow as I ever set eyes on, an' I've had to do with 'em all my born days, Miss Eva. All this, rent free, my dear, and fifty pounds in cash. You'll be as happy as a queen living here, singing like a bee. And then when the year's mourning is over--not as he deserves it--you'll marry Mr. Allen and all will be gay."
"Dear Nanny," said the girl, throwing her arms round the old woman's neck, "how good you are. But, indeed I can't."
"Then you must marry Mr. Allen straight away."
"I can't do that either. I must earn my bread."
"What," screeched Mrs. Merry, "and you a born lady! Never; that saint would turn in her grave--and I wonder she don't, seeing she's laid 'longside him as tortured her when alive. There's your titles, of course, Lord Ipsen and his son."
"I wouldn't take a penny from them," said Eva colouring. "They never took any notice of me when my father was alive, and----"
"He didn't get on well with 'em," cried Mrs. Merry; "and who did he get on with, I ask you, deary? There's Lady Ipsen--she would have made much of you, but for him."
"I don't like Lady Ipsen, Nanny. She called here, if you remember, when my mother was alive. I'm not going to be patronised by her."
"Ah, Miss Eva," said the old dame admiringly, "it's a fine, bright, hardy spirit of your own as you've got. Lady Ipsen is as old as I am, and makes herself up young with paint and them things. But she has a heart. When she learned of your poverty----"
Eva sprang to her feet. "No! no! no!" she cried vehemently, "never mention her to me again. I would not go to my mother's family for bread if I was starving. What I eat, I'll earn."
"Tell Mr. Allen so," said Mrs. Merry, peering out of the window; "here he comes. His foot 'ull get worse, if he walk so fast," she added, with her usual pessimism.
Allen did not wait to enter in by the door, but paused at the open window before which Eva was standing. He looked ill and white and worried, but his foot was better, though even now, he had to use a stick, and walked slowly. "You should not have come out to-day," said Eva, shaking her finger at him.
"As Mrs. Mountain would not go to Mr. Mahomet," said Allen, trying to smile, "Mr. Mahomet had to come to Mrs. Mountain. Wait till I come in, Eva," and he disappeared.
The girl busied herself in arranging an arm-chair with cushions, and made her lover sit down when he was in the room. "There! you're more comfortable." She sat down beside him. "I'll get you a cup of tea."
"Don't bother," murmured Allen, closing his eyes.
"It's no bother. In any case tea will have to be brought in. Mrs. Palmer is coming to see me soon. She wants to talk to me."
"What about?"
"I can't say; but she asked me particularly to be at home to-day. We can have our talk first, though. Do smoke, Allen."
"No. I don't feel inclined to smoke."
"Will you have some fruit?"
"No, thank you," he said, so listlessly that Eva looked at him in alarm. She noted how thin his face was, and how he had lost his colour.
"You do look ill, Allen."
He smiled faintly. "The foot has pulled me down."
"Are you sure it's only the foot?" she inquired, puzzled.
"What else should it be?" asked Allen quietly; "you see I'm so used to being in the open air, that a few days within doors, soon takes my colour away. But my foot is nearly well. I'll soon be myself again. But, Eva," he took her hand, "do you know why I come."
"Yes," she said looking away, "to ask me again to be your wife."
"You have guessed it the first time," replied Allen, trying to be jocular; "this is the third time of asking. Come, Eva," he added coaxingly, "have you considered what I said?"
"You want me to marry you at once," she murmured.
"Next week, if possible. Then I can take you with me to South America, and we can start a new life, far away from these old vexations. Come, Eva. Near the mine, where I and Parkins are working, there's a sleepy old Spanish town where I can buy the most delightful house. The climate is glorious, and we would be so happy. You'll soon pick up the language."
"But why do you want me to leave England, Allen?"
Hill turned away his head as he answered. "I haven't enough money to keep you here in a proper position," he said quietly. "My father allows me nothing, and will allow me nothing. I have to earn my own bread, Eva, and to do so, have to live for the time being in South America. I used to think it exile, but with you by my side, dearest, it will be paradise. I want to marry you: my mother is eager to welcome you as her daughter, and----"
"And your father," said Eva, seeing he halted. Allen made a gesture of indifference. "My father doesn't care one way or the other, darling. You should know my father by this time. He is wrapped up in himself. Egotism is a disease with him." Eva twisted her hands together and frowned. "Allen, I really can't marry you," she said decisively; "think how my father was murdered!"
"What has that to do with it?" demanded Allen almost fiercely.
"Dear, how you frighten me. There's no need to scowl in that way. You have a temper, Allen, I can see."
"It shall never be shown to you," he said fondly. "Come, Eva."
But she still shook her head. "Allen, I had small cause to love my father, as you know. Still, he has been foully murdered: I have made up my mind to find out who killed him before I marry."
Allen rose in spite of his weak ankle and flung away her hand. "Oh, Eva," he said roughly, "is that all you care for me? My happiness is to be settled in this vague way----"
"Vague way----?"
"Certainly!" cried Hill excitedly; "you may never learn who killed your father. There's not a scrap of evidence to show who shot him."
"I may find Butsey," said Eva, looking obstinate.
"You'll never find him; and even if you do, how do we know that he can tell?"
"I am certain that he can tell much," said Miss Strode determinedly. "Think, Allen. He sent the telegram probably by order of my father's enemy. He came suddenly on those men at midnight when they were carrying the body. What was a child like that doing out so late, if he wasn't put up to mischief by some other person? And he knocked as happened in my dream, remember," she said, sinking her voice; "and then he came here with a lying message on the very day my father's wooden hand was stolen."
"Do you think he stole it?"
"Yes, I do; though why he should behave so I can't say. But I am quite sure that Butsey is acting on behalf of some other person--probably the man who killed my father."
Allen shrugged his shoulders frowningly. "Perhaps Butsey killed Mr. Strode himself," he said; "he has all the precocity of a criminal."
"We might even learn that," replied Eva, annoyed by Allen's tone; "but I am quite bent on searching for this boy and of learning who killed my father and why he was killed."
"How will you set about it?" asked Allen sullenly.
"I don't know. I have no money and no influence, and I am only a girl. But I'll learn the truth somehow."
Hill walked up and down the little room with a slight limp, though his foot was much better and gave him no pain. He was annoyed that Eva should be so bent on avenging the murder of her father, for he quite agreed with Mrs. Merry that the man was not worth it. But he knew that Eva had a mulish vein in her nature, and from the look on her face and from the hard tones of her voice, he was sure she would not be easily turned from her design. For a few minutes he thought in silence, Eva watching him intently. Then he turned suddenly: "Eva, my dear," he said, holding out his hands, "since you are so bent upon learning the truth leave it in my hands. I'll be better able to see about the matter than you. And if I find out who killed your father----"
"I'll marry you at once!" she cried, and threw herself into his arms.
"I hope so," said Allen in a choked voice. "I'll do my best, Eva; no man can do more. But if I fail, you must marry me. Here, I'll make a bargain with you. If I can't find the assassin within a year, will you give over this idea and become my wife?"
"Yes," said Eva frankly; "but I am certain that the man will be found through that boy Butsey."
"He has to be found first," said Allen with a sigh, "and that is no easy task. Well, Eva, I'll settle my affairs and start on this search."
"Your affairs!" said Eva in a tone of surprise.
"Ah," said the young man smiling, "you have seen me idle for so long that you think I have nothing to do. But I have to get back soon to Bolivia. My friend Parkins and I are working an old silver mine for a Spanish Don. But we discovered another and richer mine shown to me by an Indian. I believe it was worked hundreds of years ago by the Inca kings. Parkins and I can buy it, but we have not the money. I came home to see if my father would help me. But I might have spared myself the trouble: he refused at once. Since then I have been trying all these months to find a capitalist, but as yet I have not been successful. But I'll get him soon, and then Parkins and I will buy the mine, and make our fortunes. I wish you'd give up this wild goose chase after your father's murderer, and let us go to Bolivia."
"No," said Eva, "I must learn the truth. I would never be happy if I died without knowing who killed my father, and why he was killed."
"Well, then, I'll do my best. I have written to Parkins asking him to give me another six months to find a capitalist, and I shall have to take rooms in London. While there I'll look at the same time for Butsey, and perhaps may learn the truth. But if I don't----"
"I'll marry you, if you don't find the assassin in a year," said Eva embracing him. "Ah, Allen, don't look so angry. I don't want you to search all your life: but one year--twelve months----"
"Then it's a bargain," said Allen kissing her: "and, by the way, I shall have the assistance of Parkins's brother."
"Who is he?" asked Eva; "I don't want every one to----"
"Oh, that's all right. Parkins tells me his brother is shrewd and clever. I may as well have his assistance. Besides, I got a letter from Horace Parkins--that's the brother, for my man is called Mark--and he is in town now. He has just come from South Africa, so he may know of your father's doings there."
"Oh," Eva looked excited, "and he may be able to say who killed him!"
Allen shrugged his shoulders. "I don't say that. Your father may have had enemies in England as well as in Africa. But we'll see. I have never met Horace Parkins, but if he's as good a fellow as his brother Mark, my chum and partner, he'll do all he can to help me."
"I am sure you will succeed, Allen," cried Eva joyfully; "look how things are fitting in. Mr. Parkins, coming from Africa, is just the person to know about my father."
Young Hill said nothing. He fancied that Horace Parkins might know more about Mr. Strode than Eva would like to hear, for if the man was so great a scamp in England, he certainly would not settle down to a respectable life in the wilds. However he said nothing on this point, but merely reiterated his promise to find out who murdered Robert Strode, and then drew Eva down beside him. "What about yourself?" he asked anxiously.
"I don't know. Mrs. Merry wants me to stop here."
"I should think that is the best thing to do."
"But I can't," replied Eva, shaking her head; "Mrs. Merry is poor. I can't live on her."
"I admire your spirit, Eva, but I don't think Mrs. Merry would think you were doing her anything but honour."
"All the more reason I should not take advantage of her kindness."
Allen laughed. "You argue well," he said indulgently. "But see here, dearest. My mother is fond of you, and knows your position. She wants you to come to her."
"Oh, Allen, if she were alone I would love to. I am very devoted to your mother. But your father----"
"He won't mind."
"But I do," said Eva, her colour rising. "I don't like to say so to you, Allen, but I must."
"Say what?"
"That I don't like your father very much."
"That means you don't like him at all," said the son coolly. "Dear me, Eva, what unpleasant parents you and I have. Your father and mine--neither very popular. But you won't come?"
"I can't, Allen."
"You know my father is your dead father's dearest friend."
"All the same I can't come."
"What will you do, then?" asked Allen vexed.
"Go out as a governess."
"No; you must not do that. Why not----"
Before Allen could propose anything the door opened and Mrs. Merry, with a sour face, ushered in Mrs. Palmer. The widow looked prettier and brighter than ever, though rather commonplace. With a disdainful sniff Mrs. Merry banged the door.
"Eva, dear," said Mrs. Palmer. "Mr. Hill, how are you? I've come on business."
"Business?" said Eva surprised.
"Yes. Pardon my being so abrupt, but if I don't ask you now I'll lose courage. I want you to come and be my companion."