So here was a way opened by Providence in an unexpected direction. Mrs. Palmer, with a high colour and rather a nervous look, stood waiting for Eva's reply. The girl looked at her lover, but Allen, very wisely, said nothing. He thought that this was a matter which Eva should settle for herself. But he was secretly amused at the abrupt way in which the little widow had spoken. It seemed as though she was asking a favour instead of conferring one. Miss Strode was the first of the three to recover, and then she did not reply immediately. She first wanted to know why Mrs. Palmer had made so generous an offer.
"Do sit down," she said, pushing forward a chair, "and then we can talk the matter over. I need not tell you that I am very thankful for your kind offer."
"Oh, my dear;" Mrs. Palmer sank into the chair and fanned herself with a lace handkerchief, "if you accept it, it is I who shall be thankful. I do hate living by myself, and I've never been able to find a companion I liked. But you, dear Eva, have always been a pet of mine. I have known you for four years, and I always did think you the very dearest of girls. If you will only come we shall be so happy."
"But what makes you think that I want to be any one's companion?"
Mrs. Palmer coloured and laughed nervously. She was very pretty, but with her pink and white complexion and flaxen hair and pale blue eyes she looked like a wax doll. Any one could see at a glance that she was perfectly honest. So shallow a nature was incapable of plotting, or of acting in a double fashion. Yet Eva wondered all the same that the widow should have made her so abrupt a proposal. So far as she knew, no one was aware that she was in want of money, and it seemed strange if providential that Mrs. Palmer should come in the very nick of time to help her in this way.
"Well, my dear," she said at length and looking at her primrose-hued gloves, "it was Lord Saltars who led me to make the offer."
"My cousin." Eva frowned and Allen looked up. "Do you know him?"
"Oh yes. Didn't I mention that I did?"
"No. I was not aware that you had ever met."
"We did in town about a year ago. I met him only once when I was at Mr. Mask's to dinner. Since then I have not seen him until the other day, and perhaps that was why I said nothing. I remember you told me he was your cousin, Eva, but I quite forgot to say that I knew him."
"Do you know Mr. Mask?" asked Hill.
"Of course I do. You know I quarrelled with my old lawyer about the money left by Palmer. He was most disagreeable, so I resolved to change for a nicer man. I spoke to your father about it, and he kindly gave me the address of his own lawyer. I went up and settled things most satisfactorily. Of course Mr. Mask is a fearful old mummy," prattled on Mrs. Palmer in her airy fashion, "but he is agreeable over legal matters, and understands business. Palmer's affairs were rather complicated, you know, so I placed them all in Mr. Mask's hands. He has been my lawyer ever since, and I have every reason to be pleased."
"And you met my cousin there?" said Eva doubtfully.
"Lord Saltars? Yes. I was dining with Mr. Mask and his wife in their Bloomsbury Square house, a doleful old place. Lord Saltars came in to see Mr. Mask on business after dinner, so Mr. Mask asked him in to drink coffee. I was there, and so we met."
"Did he mention my name?" asked Miss Strode stiffly.
"Oh dear, no. He was unaware that I lived in the same village as you did. We talked about general things. But he mentioned it to me the other night at the circus, when I went to see the performance at Shanton."
"Did you go there?"
"Yes, my dear, I did," said Mrs. Palmer laughing. "I'm sure this place is dull enough. Any amusement pleases me. I didn't know at the time that your father was dead, Eva, or I should not have gone--not that I knew Mr. Strode, but still, you are my friend, and I should have come to comfort you. But you know I'm at the other end of the village, and the news had not time to get to me before I started for Shanton to luncheon with some friends. I remained with them for the night, and we went to the circus. Lord Saltars sat next to me, and we remembered that we had met before. In the course of conversation I mentioned that I lived at Wargrove, and he asked if I knew you. I said that I did."
"How did Lord Saltars know of the murder?" asked Allen hastily.
"I believe he learned it from one of the performers called Miss----"
"Miss Lorry," said Eva colouring--"I remember. Cain told her, and she had the audacity to speak to me."
Allen said nothing, remembering the message Miss Lorry had delivered relative to the wooden hand. He had not spoken of it to Eva hitherto, and thought wisely that this was not the time to reveal his knowledge. He preferred to listen to Mrs. Palmer, who as yet had not shown how she came to know that Eva needed the offer of a situation.
"So Miss Lorry spoke to you?" said Mrs. Palmer with great curiosity; "such a bold woman, though handsome enough. Lord Saltars seems to think a lot of her. Indeed I heard a rumour that he was about to marry her. My friends told me. But people will gossip," added Mrs. Palmer apologetically.
"Lord Saltars and his doings do not interest me," said Eva coldly. "We have only met once, and I don't like him. He is too fast for me. I could never enjoy the company of a man like that. I think as he was related by marriage to my father, he might have called to see me about the matter, and offered his assistance."
"We can do without that," cried Allen quickly.
"Lord Saltars doesn't know that we can," replied Eva sharply; "however, I understand how you met him, Mrs. Palmer, and how he came to know about the murder through Miss Lorry, who heard of it from Cain. But what has all this to do with your asking me to be your companion?"
Mrs. Palmer coloured again and seemed embarrassed. "My dear," she said seriously, "I shall have to tell you about Mr. Mask first, that you may know all. After the inquest he called to see me----"
"But he came here," put in Eva.
"Quite so, and told you that your father had left no money."
"How do you know that?"
"Mr. Mask told me," said the widow simply, and laid her hand on Eva's hand; "don't be angry, my dear. Mr. Mask came to me and told me you were poor. He asked me if I would help you in what way I could, as he said he knew I was rich and kind hearted. I am the first, but I really don't know if I'm the last."
"I think you are," said Miss Strode softly. "I never gave Mr. Mask leave to talk of my business, and I don't know why he should have done so, as he did not seem to care what became of me."
"Oh, but I think he intended to help you if he could, and came to tell me of your dilemma for that purpose, Eva."
"Apparently he wished to play the part of a good Samaritan at your expense, Mrs. Palmer," said Eva drily; "however, I understand how you came to know that I needed assistance, but Lord Saltars----"
"Ah!" cried the widow vivaciously, "that is what puzzles me. Lord Saltars seems to think you are rich."
"Rich?" echoed Allen, while Eva also looked surprised.
"Yes. He said you would no doubt inherit your father's money. I answered--pardon me, Eva--that Mr. Strode was not rich, for I heard so in another quarter."
Eva looked at Allen, and Allen at Eva. Both guessed that the quarter indicated was Mr. Hill, who had a long tongue and small discretion. Mrs. Palmer, however, never noticed the exchange of glances, and prattled on. "Lord Saltars insisted that your father had brought home a fortune from Africa."
"How did he know that?" asked Allen quickly.
"I don't know, he didn't say. I of course began to believe him, for when I hinted doubts, Lord Saltars said that if I offered to help you, I would learn that you were poor. I really thought you were rich, Eva, till Mr. Mask came to me, or I should have come before to make you this offer. But Mr. Mask undeceived me. I told him what Lord Saltars had said, but Mr. Mask replied that his lordship was quite wrong--that Mr. Strode had left no money, and that you would not be able to live. I therefore came to ask you to be my companion at the salary of one hundred a year. I don't know how I dare offer it, my dear," said the good-hearted widow; "and if I hadn't spoken just when I came in, I should not have had the courage. But now I have made the offer, what do you say?"
"I think it is very good and kind of you--"
"And bold. Yes, I can see it in your eyes--very speaking eyes they are--that you think I am bold in meddling with your private affairs. But if you really think so, please forgive me and I'll go away. You may be sure I'll hold my tongue about the matter. If every one thinks you are rich--as they do--it is not for me to contradict them."
Eva laughed rather sadly. "I really don't know why people think I am rich," she said in a low voice; "my father has always been poor through speculation. What his money affairs were when he came home I don't know. He said nothing to me, and no papers were found at the hotel or in his pockets, likely to throw light on them. He never told Mr. Mask he was rich----"
"I thought at the inquest Mr. Mask said something about money being left in his charge, Eva?" said Allen.
Miss Strode nodded. "My father mentioned that later he might give Mr. Mask some money to hold for him, and that he would come again himself to get it. If not, he would send his wooden hand as a sign that the money should be handed over to any one who brought it."
"Humph," said Allen pulling his moustache, "it seems to me that the hand has been stolen for that purpose."
"If so, it will be taken to Mr. Mask, and then we will learn who stole it. But of course Mr. Mask will not be able to give any money, as my father--so he said--never left any with him."
"This is all most interesting and mysterious," said Mrs. Palmer. "Oh dear me, I wonder who killed your poor father? Don't look anxious, Eva; what you and Mr. Hill say, will never be repeated by me. All I come for is to make this offer, and if you think me rude or interfering I can only apologise and withdraw."
Eva caught the widow by the hand. "I think you are very kind," she said cordially, "and I thankfully accept your offer."
"Oh, you dear girl!" and Mrs. Palmer embraced her.
"Have you quite decided to do that, Eva?" asked Allen.
"Quite," she answered firmly. "Mrs. Palmer likes me----"
"I quite adore you, Eva, dear!" cried the widow.
"And I am fond of her."
"I know you are, dear, though you never would call me Constance."
"Later I may call you Constance," said Eva, smiling at the simple way in which Mrs. Palmer talked. "So you may look upon it as settled. I shall come to be your companion whenever you like."
"Come at once, dear."
"No, I must wait here a few days to reconcile my old nurse to my departure."
"Mrs. Merry? Oh, Eva, I am afraid she will hate me for this. She doesn't like me as it is. I don't know why," added Mrs. Palmer dolefully; "I am always polite to the lower orders."
"Mrs. Merry is an odd woman," said Eva rising, "but her heart is in the right place."
"Odd people's hearts always are," said the widow. "Wait here and talk to Allen," said Eva going to the door. "I'll see about tea."
But the fact is Eva wanted to talk to Mrs. Merry, anxious to get over a disagreeable interview, as she knew there would be strenuous opposition. To her surprise, however, Mrs. Merry was in favour of the scheme, and announced her decision when Eva came to the kitchen.
"Don't tell me about it, Miss Eva," she said, "for I had my ear to the keyhole all the time."
"Oh, Nanny!"
"And why do you say that?" asked the old woman bristling; "if I ain't got the right to look after you who has? I never cared for that Mrs. Palmer, as is common of commonest, so I listened to hear what she'd come about."
"Then you know all. What do you say?"
"Go, of course."
"But, Nanny, I thought----"
"I know you did, deary," said Mrs. Merry penitently. "I'm always calling folk names by reason of my having bin put on in life. And Mrs. Palmer is common--there's no denying--her father being a chemist and her late husband eggs and butter. But she's got a kind heart, though I don't see what right that Mask thing had to talk to her of your being poor when I've got this roof and fifty pound. Nasty creature, he wouldn't help you. But Mrs. Palmer is kind, Miss Eva, so I say, take what she offers. You'll be near me, and perhaps you'll be able to teach her manners, though you'll never make a silk purse out of a swine's ear."
Eva was surprised by this surrender, and moreover saw that Mrs. Merry's eyes were red. In her hands she held a letter, and Eva remembered that the post had called an hour before. "Have you had bad news, Nanny?" she asked anxiously.
"I got a letter from Giles," said Mrs. Merry dully; "he writes from Whitechapel, saying he's down on his luck and may come home. That's why I want you to go to Mrs. Palmer, deary. I can't keep you here with a nasty, swearing jail-bird in the house. Oh dear me," cried Mrs. Merry, bursting into tears, "and I thought Giles was dead, whatever you may say, drat him!"
"But, Nanny, you needn't have him in the house if he treats you badly. This place is your own."
"I must have him," said the old woman helplessly, "else he'll break the winders and disgrace me before every one. You don't know what an awful man he is when roused. He'd murder me if I crossed him. But to think he should turn up after all these years, when I thought him as dead and buried and being punished for his wickedness."
"Nanny," said Eva kissing the poor wrinkled face, "I'll speak to you later about this. Meanwhile I'll tell Mrs. Palmer that I accept her offer."
"Yes do, deary. It goes to my heart for you to leave. But 'tis better so, and you'll have your pride satisfied. And it will be Christian work," added Mrs. Merry, "to dress that widder properly. Rainbows ain't in it, with the colours she puts on."
Eva could not help smiling at this view of the matter, and withdrew to excuse herself offering tea to Mrs. Palmer. Nanny was not in a state to make tea, and Eva wished to return and learn more, also to comfort her. She therefore again told Mrs. Palmer that she accepted the offer and would come to her next week. Then taking leave of Allen, Eva went back to the kitchen. Mrs. Palmer and her companion walked down the road.
"I hope you think I've acted rightly, Mr. Hill," said the widow.
"I think you are most kind," said Allen, "and I hope you will make Eva happy."
"I'll do my best. She shall be a sister to me. But I think," said Mrs. Palmer archly, "that some one else may make her happier."
"That is not to be my fate at present," said Allen a little sadly. "Good-bye, Mrs. Palmer. I'll come and see you and Eva before I go to town."
"You'll always be welcome, Mr. Hill, and I can play the part of gooseberry." So they parted laughing.
Allen, thinking of this turn in Eva's affairs which had given her a home and a kind woman to look after her, walked towards the common to get a breath of fresh air before returning to "The Arabian Nights." Also he wished to think over his plans regarding meeting Horace Parkins and searching for Butsey, on whom seemed to hang the whole matter of the discovery of Strode's assassin. At the end of the road the young man was stopped by a tall, fresh-coloured girl neatly dressed, who dropped a curtsey.
"Well, Jane, and how are you?" asked Allen kindly, recognising the girl as Wasp's eldest daughter.
"I'm quite well, and, please, I was to give you this," said Jane.
Allen took a brown paper parcel and looked at it with surprise. It was directed to 'Lawrence Hill.' "My father," said Allen. "Why don't you take it to the house?"
"I saw you coming, sir, and I thought I'd give it to you. I've just walked from Westhaven, and father will be expecting me home. I won't have time to take the parcel to 'The Arabian Nights.'"
"Where did this come from?" asked Allen, tucking the parcel under his arm.
"I got it from Cain, sir, at Colchester."
"Have you been there?" asked Hill, noting the girl's blush. He knew that Cain and Jane Wasp admired one another, though the policeman was not at all in favour of Cain, whom he regarded, and with some right to do so, as a vagabond.
"Yes, sir. Mother sent me over with a message to a friend of hers. I walked to Westhaven and took the train to Colchester. Stag's Circus is there, and I met Cain. He brought that parcel and asked me to take it to Mr. Hill."
"But why should Cain send parcels to my father?" asked Allen.
"I don't know, sir. But I must get home, or father will be angry."
When the girl marched off--which she did in a military way suggestive of her father's training--Allen proceeded homeward. The parcel was very light and he could not conjecture what was inside it. He noted that the address had been written by some one to whom writing was a pain, for the caligraphy sprawled and wavered lamentably. Cain had been to a board school and could write very well, so apparently it was not his writing. Allen wondered who could be corresponding with his father, but as the matter was really none of his business, he took the parcel home. At the gate of "The Arabian Nights" he met his father.
Mr. Hill was as gay and as airy as ever, and wore his usual brown velvet coat and white trousers. Also he had on the large straw hat, and a rose bloomed in his buttonhole. He saluted his son in an offhand manner. "I've been walking, Allen," he said lightly, "to get inspiration for a poem on the fall of Jerusalem."
"I think some Italian poet has written on that subject, sir."
"But not as it should be written, Allen. However, I can't waste time now in enlightening your ignorance. What have you here?"
"A parcel for you," and Allen gave it.
"For me, really." Mr. Hill was like a child with a new toy, and sat down on the grass by the gate to open it. The removal of the brown paper revealed a cardboard box. Hill lifted the lid, and there were two dry sticks tied in the form of a cross with a piece of grass. But Allen looked at this only for a moment. His father had turned white, and after a moment quietly fainted away. The young man looked down with a haggard face. "Am I right after all?" he asked himself.
An hour later Allen was conversing with his mother. Mr. Hill, carried into the house by Allen, had been revived; but he steadfastly refused to speak as to the cause of his fainting; and put it down to the heat of the weather and to his having taken too long a walk. These excuses were so feeble that the son could not help his lip curling at their manifest untruth. Hill saw this and told Allen he would lie down for an hour or so. "When I rise I may tell you something," he said feebly.
"I think we may as well understand one another," said Allen coldly.
"Bring in here those things which came in the parcel," said Hill.
"Only one thing came," replied his son--"a rough cross----"
"Yes--yes--I know. Bring it in--paper and box and all. Where did you get it?"
Allen explained how Jane Wasp received it from Cain at Colchester, and Mr. Hill listened attentively. "I understand now," he said at length. "Put the things in my study. I'll see you later--say in two hours."
The young man, wondering what it all meant, departed and left his father to take--on the face of it--a much needed sleep. He went outside and picked up the cross, the box, and the paper, which still remained on the grassy bank near the gate. These he brought into the study, and examined them. But nothing was revealed to his intelligence. The box was an ordinary cardboard one; he did not recognise the ill-formed writing, and the cross was simply two sticks tied together by a wisp of dry grass. Why the contents of the box should have terrified his father Allen could not say. And that the sight of the symbol did terrify him, he was well assured, since Mr. Hill was not a man given to fainting. The box came from some one who knew Mr. Hill well, as the name Lawrence was on it, and this was his father's second name rarely used. Mr. Hill usually called himself Harold, and suppressed the Lawrence. But Allen had seen the middle name inscribed in an old book, which had been given by Strode to Hill in their college days. This coincidence made Allen wonder if the sending of the cross and the use of the rarely used name had anything to do with the murder.
While he thus thought, with his face growing darker and darker, the door opened and Mrs. Hill entered. She had been working in her own room, and knew nothing of the affair. But some instinct made her aware that Allen was in the house, and she never failed to be with him when he was at home. Indeed, she was hardly able to bear him out of her sight, and seized every opportunity to be in his presence. With this love it was strange that Mrs. Hill should be content that Allen should remain in South America for so long, and pay only flying visits to the paternal roof.
"You are back, Allen," she said softly, and came forward to lay her hand on his wrinkled forehead. "My dear boy, why that frown? Has Eva been unkind?"
"Oh no," said Allen, taking his mother's hand and kissing it, "she will not marry me yet."
"Foolish girl. What does she intend to do--stop with Mrs. Merry, I suppose, which is a dull life for her? Far better if she came to me, even if she will not marry you at once."
"She has accepted the position of companion to Mrs. Palmer."
"Indeed," said Mrs. Hill, looking surprised; "I should have thought her pride would have prevented her placing herself under an obligation."
Allen shrugged his shoulders. "There is no obligation," he said; "Eva is to be paid a salary. Besides, she likes Mrs. Palmer, and so do I."
"She is not a lady," said Mrs. Hill, pursing up her lips.
"Nevertheless she has a kind heart, and will make Eva very happy. I think, mother, it is the best that can be done. Eva doesn't want to come here, and she will not marry me until the murderer of her father is discovered."
"Why won't she come to me?" asked Mrs. Hill sharply.
Allen looked down. "She doesn't like my father," he said.
"Very rude of her to tell you that. But I know my poor Harold is not popular."
"He is whimsical," said Allen, "and, somehow, Eva can't get on with him. She was not rude, mother, but simply stated a fact. She likes my father well enough to meet him occasionally, but she would not care to live with him. And if it comes to that," added Allen frowning, "no more should I. He is too eccentric for me, mother, and I should think for you, mother."
"I am fond of your father in my own way," said Mrs. Hill, looking down and speaking in a low voice, as though she made an effort to confess as much. "But does Eva expect to find out who murdered Mr. Strode?"
"Yes. She refuses to marry me until the assassin is found and punished. As she was bent on searching for the man herself, I offered to search for her."
Mrs. Hill frowned. "Why did you do that?" she asked sharply; "Strode is nothing to you, and you have to return to America. Far better find that capitalist you want, than waste your time in avenging the death of that man."
"You don't seem to like Mr. Strode, mother."
"I hate him," said the woman harshly and clenching her fist: "I have cause to hate him."
"Had my father cause also?" asked Allen pointedly.
She looked away. "I don't know," she answered gloomily. "Strode and your father were very intimate all their lives, till both married. Then we saw very little of him. He was not a good man--Strode, I mean, Allen. If my word has any weight with you, stop this search."
The young man rose and began to pace the library. "Mother, I must take up the search," he said in an agitated voice, "for my father's sake. No one but myself must search for the assassin."
"What do you mean by that?" questioned Mrs. Hill, sitting very upright and frowning darker than ever.
Allen replied by asking a question. "Who knows that my father is called Lawrence, mother?"
Mrs. Hill uttered an ejaculation of surprise and grew pale. "Who told you he was called so?"
"I found the name in an old book of Cowper's poems given by Mr. Strode to my father in their college days. It was presented to Harold Lawrence Hill."
"I remember the book," said Mrs. Hill, recovering her composure. "But what is odd about your father having two names? He certainly has dropped the Lawrence and calls himself simply, Harold Hill--but that is for the sake of convenience. Only those who knew him in his young days would know the name of Lawrence."
"Ah!" said Allen, thoughtfully turning over the brown paper, "then this was sent by some one who knew him in his young days."
Mrs. Hill looked at the brown paper covering, at the box, and at the roughly-formed cross. "What are these?" she asked carelessly.
"That is what I should like to know," said her son; "at least I should like to know why the sight of this cross made my father faint."
Mrs. Hill gasped, and laid her hand on her heart as though she felt a sudden pain. "Did he faint?" she asked--"did Lawrence faint?" The young man noticed the slip. Usually his mother called his father Mr. Hill or Harold, but never till this moment had he heard her call him Lawrence. Apparently the memory of old events was working in her breast. But she seemed genuinely perplexed as to the reason of Hill's behaviour at the sight of the cross. "Where did he faint?"
"Outside the gate," said Allen quickly, and explained how he had received the parcel from Jane Wasp, and the circumstance of its delivery, ending with the query: "Why did he faint?"
"I can't say," said Mrs. Hill, pushing back the cross and box pettishly; "there is no reason so far as I know. We'll ask your father when he awakens."
"He said he would explain," said Allen sadly; "and between you and me, mother, we must have an explanation."
"Your father won't like the use of the word 'must,' Allen."
"I can't help that," said the young man doggedly, and went to the door of the library. He opened it, looked out, and then closed it again. His mother saw all this with surprise, and was still more surprised when Allen spoke again. "Do you know, mother, why I say I must undertake this investigation?"
"No," said Mrs. Hill calmly; "I don't know."
"It is because I wish to save my father's good name."
"Is it in danger?" asked the woman, turning pale again.
"It might be--if any one knew he met Mr. Strode at the Red Deeps on the night of the murder."
Mrs. Hill leaped to her feet and clutched her son's arm. "Allen," she gasped, and the ashen colour of her face alarmed him, "how dare you say that--it is not possible--it cannot--cannot--"
"It is possible," said Allen firmly. "Sit down, mother, and let me explain. I held my tongue as long as I could, but now my father and I must have an explanation. The fact of his fainting at the sight of this cross makes me suspicious, and the fact that Eva wants to investigate the case makes me afraid of what may come out."
"Has the cross anything to do with the affair?"
"Heaven, whose symbol it is, only knows," said the young man gloomily. Mother, "I am moving in the darkness, and I dread to come into the light. If I undertake this search I may be able to save my father."
"From what--from--from----"
Allen nodded and sank his voice. "It may even come to that. Listen, mother, I'll tell you what I know. On that night I went to the Red Deeps to prove the falsity of Eva's dream, I found it only too true."
"But you never got to the Red Deeps," said Mrs. Hill, looking steadily into her son's face, "you sprained your ankle."
"So I did, but that wasafterI knew the truth."
"What truth?"
"That Eva's dream was true; that her father was lying dead by the spring of the Red Deeps."
Mrs. Hill looked still more searchingly at him. "You saw that?"
"I did--in the twilight. I reached there before it grew very dark. I found the body, and, as in Eva's dream, I recognised it by the gloved right hand----"
"The wooden hand," moaned Mrs. Hill, rocking herself. "Oh, heavens!"
"Yes! The whiteness of the glove caught my eyes. From what Eva had told me, I had no need to guess who was the dead man. The wooden hand explained all. The corpse was that of Strode, shot through the heart."
"But there was a slight flesh wound on the arm, remember," said Mrs. Hill.
"I know, but I did not notice that at the time," said Allen quickly. "At first, mother, I intended to give the alarm, and I was hurrying back to Wargrove to tell Wasp and Jackson, when I caught sight of a revolver lying in the mud. I took it up--there was a name on the silver plate on the butt. It was----" Allen sank his voice still lower. "It was my own name."
"The revolver was yours?"
"Yes. I brought it with me from South America, and kept it in my portmanteau, since a weapon is not needed in England. But one day I took it out to shoot some birds and left it in this library. I never thought about it again, or I should have put it away. The next sight I got of it was in the Red Deeps, and I thought----"
"That your father took it to shoot Strode!" burst out Mrs. Hill. "You can't be certain of that--you can't be certain. No, no, Lawrence!" again she used the unaccustomed name. "Lawrence would never commit a murder--so good--so kind--no, no."
Allen looked surprised. He never expected his mother to stand up for his father in this way. Hill, so far as the son had seen, was not kind to any one, and he certainly was not good. Why Mrs. Hill, who seemed to have no particular affection for him, should defend him in this way puzzled the young man. She saw the effect her speech had produced and beckoned Allen to sit down. "You must know all," she said--"you must know how I came to marry your father; and then you will know why I speak as I do, Allen." She laid a trembling hand on his shoulder. "You never thought I was fond of your father?"
Allen looked embarrassed. "Well, no, mother. I thought you tolerated him. You have strength to rule the house and the whole county if you chose to exert it, but you let my father indulge in his whims and fancies, and allow him to speak to you, as he certainly should not do. Oftentimes I have been inclined to interfere when hearing how disrespectfully he speaks, but you have always either touched me, or have given me a look."
"I would let no one lay a finger on your father, Allen, no one--let alone his son. I don't love your father, I never did, but"--she drew herself up--"I respect him."
The young man looked aghast. "I don't see how any one can respect him," he said. "Heaven only knows I should like to be proud of my father, but with his eccentricities----"
"They cover a good heart."
"Well, mother, you know best," said Allen soothingly. He did not think his father possessed a good heart by any manner of means. The young fellow was affectionate, but he was also keen sighted, and Mr. Hill had never commanded his respect in any way.
"Idoknow best," said Mrs. Hill in a strong tone, and looked quite commanding. "Allen, are you aware why I am so fond of Eva?"
"Because she is the most charming girl in the world," said the lover fondly. "Who could help being fond of Eva?"
"Women are not usually fond of one another to that extent," said Mrs. Hill drily; "and a mother does not always love the girl who is likely to take her son away. No, Allen, I don't love Eva so much for her own sake as because she is the daughter of Robert Strode."
"I thought you disliked him--you said he was not a good man."
"Neither he was, Allen. He was the worst of men--but I loved him all the same. I should have married him, but for a trouble that came. I have never told any one what I am about to tell you, but you must know. I don't believe your father killed Strode, and you must do your best to keep him out of the investigation. With your father's sensitive nature he would go mad if he were accused of such a crime."
"But my revolver being found in----"
"That can be explained," said Mrs. Hill imperiously. "I shall ask Harold"--she went back to the old name being calmer. "I shall ask him myself to explain. He is innocent. He is whimsical and strange, but he would not kill a fly. He is too goodhearted."
Allen wondered more and more that his mother should be so blind. "I am waiting to hear," he said resignedly.
"You will not repeat what I say to Eva?"
"To no one, mother. Great heavens, do you think I would?"
"If you took after your father, poor, babbling soul, you would."
"Ah," Allen kissed her hand, "but I am your own son, and know how to hold my tongue. Come, mother, tell me all."
"Then don't interrupt till I end; then you can make your comments, Allen." She settled herself and began to speak slowly. "Both my parents died when I was a young girl, and like Eva Strode I was left without a penny. I was taken into the house of Lord Ipsen as a nursery governess----"
"What! Eva's mother----"
"I did not teach her, as she was my own age, but I taught her younger brother, who afterwards died. You promised not to interrupt, Allen. Well, I was comparatively happy there, but Lady Ipsen did not like me. We got on badly. There was a large house-party at the family seat in Buckinghamshire, and I was there with my charge. Amongst the guests were Mr. Strode and your father. They were both in love with Lady Jane Delham."
"What! my father also? I never knew----"
"You never shall know if you interrupt," said his mother imperiously; "wait and listen. I loved Mr. Strode, but as he was favoured by Lady Jane I saw there was no chance for me. Your father then had not come in for his money, and his father, ambitious and rich, was anxious that he should make an aristocratic match. That was why he asked Lady Jane to be his wife. She refused, as she loved Robert Strode. I felt very miserable, Allen, and as your father was miserable also, he used to console me. He was much appreciated for his talents in the house, and as he was a great friend of Mr. Strode's his lack of birth was overlooked. Not that I think Lord Ipsen would have allowed him to marry Lady Jane. But he never guessed that Harold lifted his eyes so high. Well, things were in this position when the necklace was lost--yes, the necklace belonging to Lady Ipsen, a family heirloom valued at ten thousand pounds. It was taken out of the safe." Mrs. Hill dropped her eyes and added in a low voice, "I was accused."
Allen could hardly believe his ears, and rose, filled with indignation: "Do you mean to say that any one dared to accuse you?"
"Lady Ipsen did. She never liked me, and made the accusation. She declared that she left the key of the safe in the school-room. As I was very poor, she insisted that I had taken it. As it happened I did go to London shortly after the robbery and before it was found out. Lady Ispen said that I went to pawn the necklace. I could not prove my innocence, but the Earl interfered and stood by me. He insisted that the charge was ridiculous, and made the detectives which Lady Ipsen had called in, drop the investigation. I was considered innocent by all save Lady Ipsen. The necklace was never found, and has not been to this day. I was discharged with hardly a penny in my pocket and certainly with no friend. In spite of people saying I was innocent I could not get another situation. I should have starved, Allen, and was starving in London when your father came like an angel of light and--married me."
"Married you? Did he love you?"
"No, he loved Lady Jane, but she married Mr. Strode. But your father was so angered at what he considered an unjust charge being made against me, that he risked his father's wrath and made me his wife."
"It was noble of him," said Allen, "but----"
"It was the act of a saint!" cried Mrs. Hill, rising. "His father cut him off with a shilling for what he did. I was penniless, deserted, alone. I would have died but for Lawrence. He came--I did not love him, nor he me, but I respect him for having saved a broken-hearted woman from a doom worse than death. Allen, Allen, can I ever repay your father for his noble act? Can you wonder that I tolerate his whims--that I let him do what he likes? He saved me--he surrendered all for me."
"He did act well," admitted Allen, puzzled to think that his whimsical, frivolous father should act so nobly, "but you made him happy, mother. There is something to be said on your side."
"Nothing! nothing!" cried Mrs. Hill with the martyr instinct of a noble woman; "he gave up all for me. His father relented after a time, and he inherited a fortune, but for a year we almost starved together. He married me when I was under a cloud. I can never repay him; never, never, I tell you, Allen," she said, facing him with clenched fists, "if I thought that he committed this crime, I would take the blame on myself rather than let him suffer. He saved me. Shall I not save him?"
"Was the person who stole the necklace ever discovered, mother?"
"No, the necklace vanished and has never been found to this day. I met Lady Jane Strode when she came here. She did not believe me to be guilty, and we were good friends. So you see, Allen, it is small wonder that I let your father do what he likes. Why should I cross the desires of a man who behaved so nobly? Sometimes I do interfere, as you know, for at times Harold needs guidance--but only rarely."
"Well, mother, I understand now, and can say nothing. But as to how the revolver came to the Red Deeps----"
"Your father shall explain," said Mrs. Hill, moving to the door; "come with me."
The two went to the room at the back of the house where Hill had lain down. It was one of the Greek apartments where the little man sometimes took his siesta. But the graceful couch upon which Allen had left him lying an hour previous was empty, and the window was open on to the Roman colonnade. There was no sign of Mr. Hill.
"He must have gone into the garden," said the wife, and stepped out.
But there was no sign of him there. The gardener was working in the distance, and Mrs. Hill asked him where his master was.
"Gone to London, ma'am," was the unexpected answer; "Jacobs drove him to the Westhaven Station."
Allen and his mother looked at one another with dread in their eyes. This sudden departure was ominous in the extreme.
Mr. Hill left no message behind him with the groom. Jacobs returned and said that his master had gone to London; he did not state when he would return. Allen and his mother were much perplexed by this disappearance. It looked very much like a flight from justice, but Mrs. Hill could not be persuaded to think ill of the man to whom she owed so much. Like many women she took too humble an attitude on account of the obligation she had incurred. Yet Mrs. Hill was not humble by nature.
"What will you do now, Allen?" she asked the next morning.
"I intend to learn why Cain sent that parcel to my father. If he can explain I may find out why my father is afraid."
"I don't think he is afraid," insisted Mrs. Hill, much troubled.
"It looks very like it," commented her son; "however, you had better tell the servants that father has gone to London on business. I expect he will come back. He can't stop away indefinitely."
"Of course he'll come back and explain everything. Allen, your father is whimsical--I always admitted that, but he has a heart of gold. All that is strange in his conduct he will explain on his return."
"Even why he took my revolver to the Red Deeps?" said Allen grimly.
"Whatever he took it for, it was for no ill purpose," said Mrs. Hill. "Perhaps he made an appointment to see Strode there. If so I don't wonder, he went armed, for Strode was quite the kind of man who would murder him."
"In that case Mr. Strode has fallen into his own trap. However, I'll see what I can do."
"Be careful, Allen. Your father's good name must not suffer."
"That is why I am undertaking the investigation," replied the young man, rising. "Well, mother, I am going to see Mrs. Merry and ask where Cain is to be found. The circus may have left Colchester."
"You might take the brown paper that was round the box," suggested Mrs. Hill. "Mrs. Merry may be able to say if the address is in her son's writing."
"I don't think it is--the hand is a most illiterate one. Cain knows how to write better. I have seen his letters to Eva."
"What!" cried Mrs. Hill, scandalised, "does she let a lad in that position write to her?"
"Cain is Eva's foster-brother, mother," said Allen drily, "and she is the only one who can manage him."
"He's a bad lot like his father was before him," muttered Mrs. Hill, and then went to explain to the servants that Mr. Hill would be absent for a few days.
Allen walked to Misery Castle, and arrived there just before midday. For some time he had been strolling on the common wondering how to conduct his campaign. He was new to the detective business and did not very well know how to proceed. At first he had been inclined to seek professional assistance; but on second thoughts he decided to take no one into his confidence for the present. He dreaded what he might learn concerning his father's connection with the crime, as he by no means shared his mother's good opinion of Mr. Hill. Allen and his father had never got on well together, as their natures were diametrically opposed to each other. Allen had the steady good sense of his mother, while the father was airy and light and exasperatingly frivolous. Had not Mrs. Hill thought herself bound, out of gratitude, to live with the man who had done so much for her, and because of her son Allen, she certainly would not have put up with such a trying husband for so many years. Allen was always impatient of his father's ways; and absence only confirmed him in the view he took of his evergreen sire. He could scarcely believe that the man was his father, and always felt relieved when out of his presence. However, he determined to do his best to get to the bottom of the matter. He could not believe that Mr. Hill had fired the fatal shot, but fancied the little man had some knowledge of who had done so. And whether he was an accessory before or after the fact was equally unpleasant.
On arriving at Mrs. Merry's abode he was greeted by that good lady with the news that Eva had gone to spend the day with Mrs. Palmer. "To get used to her, as you might say," said Mrs. Merry. "Oh, Mr. Allen, dear," she spoke with the tears streaming down her withered face, "oh, whatever shall I do without my deary?"
"You'll see her often," said Allen soothingly.
"It won't be the same," moaned Mrs. Merry. "It's like marrying a daughter, not that I've got one, thank heaven--it's never the same."
"Well--well--don't cry, there's a good soul. I have come to see you about Cain."
Mrs. Merry gave a screech. "He's in gaol! I see it in your eyes! Oh, well I knew he'd get there!"
"He hasn't got there yet," said the young man impatiently; "come into the drawing-room. I can explain."
"Is it murder or poaching or burglary?" asked Mrs. Merry, still bent on believing Cain was in trouble, "or horse-stealing, seeing he's in a circus?"
"It's none of the three," said Allen, sitting down and taking the brown paper wrapping out of his pocket. "Jane Wasp saw him in Colchester, and he's quite well."
"And what's she been calling on my son there, I'd like to know?" asked Mrs. Merry, bridling. "He shan't marry her, though he says he loves her, which I don't believe. To be united with that meddlesome Wasp policeman. No, Mr. Allen, never, whatever you may say."
"You can settle that yourself. All I wish to know is this," he spread out the paper. "Do you know whose writing this is?"
Mrs. Merry, rather surprised, bent over the paper, and began to spell out the address with one finger. "Lawrence Hill," she said, "ah, they used to call your father that in the old days. I never hear him called so now."
"Never mind. What of the writing?"
Mrs. Merry looked at it at a distance, held it close to her nose, and then tilted it sideways. All the time her face grew paler and paler. Then she took an envelope out of her pocket and glanced from the brown paper to the address. Suddenly she gave a cry, and threw her apron over her head. "Oh, Giles--Giles--whatever have you bin up to!"
"What do you mean?" asked Allen, feeling inclined to shake her.
"It's Giles's writing," sobbed Mrs. Merry, still invisible; "whatever you may say, it's his own writing, he never having been to school and writing pothooks and hangers awful." She tore the apron from her face and pointed, "Look at this Lawrence, and at this, my name on the envelope. He wrote, saying he's coming here to worry me, and I expect he's sent to your pa saying the same. They was thick in the old days, the wicked old days," said Mrs. Merry with emphasis, "I mean your pa and him as is dead and my brute of a Giles."
"So Giles Merry wrote this?" said Allen thoughtfully, looking at the brown paper writing. "I wonder if the cross is a sign between my father and him, which has called my father to London?"
"Have you seen Giles, sir?" asked Mrs. Merry dolefully, "if so, tell him I'll bolt and bar the house and have a gun ready. I won't be struck and bullied and badgered out of my own home."
"I haven't seen your husband," explained Allen, rising, "this parcel was sent to my father by your son through Jane Wasp." Mrs. Merry gave another cry. "He's got hold of Cain--oh, and Cain said he hadn't set eyes on him. He's ruined!" Mrs. Merry flopped into a chair. "My son's ruined--oh, and he was my pride! But that wicked father of his would make Heaven the other place, he would."
"I suppose Cain must have got the parcel from his father?" said Allen.
"He must have. It's in Giles's writing. What was in the parcel, sir?"
"A cross made of two sticks tied with a piece of grass. Do you know what that means?"
"No, I don't, but if it comes from Giles Merry, it means some wicked thing, you may be sure, Mr. Allen, whatever you may say."
"Well, my father was much upset when he got this parcel and he has gone to London."
"To see Giles?" asked Mrs. Merry.
"I don't know. The parcel came from Colchester."
"Then Giles is there, and with my poor boy," cried Mrs. Merry, trembling. "Oh, when will my cup of misery be full? I always expected this."
"Don't be foolish, Mrs. Merry. If your husband comes you can show him the door."
"He'd show me his boot," retorted Mrs. Merry. "I've a good mind to sell up, and clear out. If 'twasn't for Miss Eva, I would. And there, I've had to part from her on account of Giles. If he came and made the house, what he do make it, which is the pit of Tophet, a nice thing it would be for Miss Eva."
"I'll break his head if he worries Eva," said Allen grimly; "I've dealt before with that sort of ruffian. But I want you to tell me where Cain is to be heard of. I expect the circus has left Colchester by this time."
"Cain never writes to me, he being a bad boy," wailed Mrs. Merry, "an' now as his father's got hold of him he'll be worse nor ever. But you can see in the papers where the playactors go, sir."
"To be sure," said Allen, "how stupid I am. Well, good-day, Mrs. Merry, and don't tell Miss Eva anything of this."
"Not if I was tortured into slices," said Mrs. Merry, walking to the door with Allen, "ah, it's a queer world. I hope I'll go to my long home soon, sir, and then I'll be where Merry will never come. You may be sure they won't let him in."
This view of the case appeared to afford Mrs. Merry much satisfaction, and she chuckled as Allen walked away. He went along the road wondering at the situation. His father was not a good husband to his mother--at least Allen did not think so. Giles was a brute to his wife, and the late Mr. Strode from all accounts had been a neglectful spouse. "And they were all three boon companions," said Allen to himself; "I wonder what I'll find out about the three? Perhaps Giles has a hand in the death of Strode. At all events the death has been caused by some trouble of the past. God forgive me for doubting my father, but I dread to think of what I may learn if I go on with the case. But for my mother's sake Imustgo on."
Allen now directed his steps to Wasp's abode, as he knew at this hour the little policeman would be at home. It struck Allen that it would be just as well to see the bullet which had pierced the heart of Mr. Strode. If it was one from his own revolver--and Allen knew the shape of its bullets well--there would be no doubt as to his father's guilt. But Allen fancied, that from the feeble nature of the wound on the arm, it was just the kind of shaky aim which would be taken by a timid man like his father. Perhaps (this was Allen's theory) the three companions of old met at the Red Deeps--Mr. Strode, Giles, and his father. Mr. Hill, in a fit of rage, might have fired the shot which ripped the arm, but Giles must have been the one who shot Strode through the heart. Of course Allen had no grounds to think in this way, and it all depended on the sight of the bullet in the possession of Wasp as to the truth of the theory. Allen intended to get Wasp out of the room on some pretext and then fit the bullet into his weapon. He had it in his pocket for the purpose. This was the only way in which he could think of solving the question as to his father's guilt or innocence.
Wasp was at home partaking of a substantial dinner. Some of the children sat round, and Mrs. Wasp, a grenadier of a woman, was at the head of the table. But three children sat out with weekly journals on their laps, and paper and pencil in hand. They all three looked worried. After greeting Allen, Wasp explained.
"There's a prize for guessing the names of European capitals," he said; "it's given in theWeekly Star., and I've set them to work to win the prize. They're working at it now, and don't get food till each gets at least two capitals. They must earn money somehow, sir."
"And they've been all the morning without getting one, sir," said Mrs. Wasp plaintively. Apparently her heart yearned over her three children, who looked very hungry. "Don't you think they might eat now in honour of the gentleman's visit?"
"Silence," cried Wasp, "sit down. No talking in the ranks. Wellington, Kitchener, and Boadicea"--these were the names of the unhappy children--"must do their duty. Named after generals, sir," added Wasp with pride.
"Was Boadicea a general?" asked Allen, sorry for the unfortunate trio, who were very eagerly searching for the capitals in a school atlas.
"A very good one for a woman, sir, as I'm informed by Marlborough, my eldest, sir, as is at a board school. Boadicea, if you don't know the capital of Bulgaria you get no dinner."
Boadicea whimpered, and Allen went over to the three, his kind heart aching for their hungry looks. "Sofia is the capital. Put it down."
"Right, sir," said Wasp in a military fashion, "put down Sofia."
"What capital are you trying to find, Wellington?" asked Allen.
"Spain, sir, and Kitchener is looking for Victoria."
"The Australian country, sir, not Her late Majesty," said Wasp smartly.
"Madrid is the capital of Spain, and Melbourne that of Victoria."
The children put these down hastily and simply leaped for the table.
"Silence," cried the policeman, horrified at this hurry; "say grace."
The three stood up and recited grace like a drill sergeant shouting the standing orders for the day. Shortly, their jaws were at work. Wasp surveyed the family grimly, saw they were orderly, and then turned to his visitor.
"Now, Mr. Allen, sir, I am at your disposal. Come into the parlour."
He led the way with a military step, and chuckles broke out amongst the family relieved of his presence. When in the small room and the door closed, Allen came artfully to the subject of his call. It would not do to let Wasp suspect his errand. Certainly the policeman had overcome his suspicion that Allen was concerned in the matter, but a pointed request for the bullet might reawaken them. Wasp was one of those hasty people who jump to conclusions, unsupported by facts.
"Wasp," said Allen, sitting down under a portrait of Lord Roberts, "Miss Strode and myself are engaged, as you know."
"Yes, sir." Wasp standing stiffly saluted. "I give you joy."
"Thank you. We have been talking over the death of her father, and she is anxious to learn who killed him."
"Natural enough," said the policeman, scratching his chin, "but it is not easy to do that, especially"--Wasp looked sly--"as there is no reward."
"Miss Strode is not in a position to offer a reward," replied Allen, "so, for her sake, I am undertaking the search. I may want your assistance, Wasp, and I am prepared to pay you for the same. I am not rich, but if ten pounds would be of any use----"
"If you'd a family of ten, sir, you'd know as it would," said Wasp, looking gratified. "I'm not a haggler, Mr. Allen, but with bread so dear, and my children being large eaters, I'm willing to give you information for twenty pounds."
"I can't afford that," said Allen decidedly.
"I can tell you something about Butsey," said Wasp eagerly.
"Ten pounds will pay you for your trouble," replied Allen, "and remember, Wasp, if you don't accept the offer and find the culprit on your own, there will be no money coming from the Government."
"There will be promotion, though, Mr. Allen," said Wasp, drawing himself up, "and that means a larger salary. Let us say fifteen."
"Very good, though you drive a hard bargain. When the murderer is laid by the heels I'll pay you fifteen pounds. No, Wasp," he added, seeing what the policeman was about to say, "I can't give you anything on account. Well, is it a bargain?"
"It must be, as you won't do otherwise," said Wasp ruefully. "What do you want to know?"
"Tell me about this boy."
"Butsey?" Wasp produced a large note-book. "I went to Westhaven to see if there was truth in that Sunday school business he told me about when I met him. Mr. Allen, there's no Sunday school; but there was a treat arranged for children from London."
"Something of the Fresh Air Fund business?"
"That's it, sir. This was a private business, from some folk as do kindnesses in Whitechapel. A lot of children came down on Wednesday----"
Allen interrupted. "That was the day Mr. Strode came down?"
"Yes, sir, and on that night he was shot at the Red Deeps. Well, sir, Butsey must have been with the ragged children as he looks like that style of urchin. But I can't be sure of this. The children slept at Westhaven and went back on Thursday night."
"And Butsey saw Mrs. Merry in the morning of Thursday?"
"He did, sir, and me later. Butsey I fancy didn't go back till Saturday. But I can't be sure of this."
"You don't seem to be sure of anything," said Allen tartly. "Well, I can't say your information is worth much, Wasp."
"Hold on, sir. I've got the address of the folk in Whitechapel who brought the children down. If you look them up, they may know something of Butsey."
"True enough. Give me the address."
Wasp consented, and wrote it out in a stiff military hand, while Allen went on artfully, "Was any weapon found at the Red Deeps?"
"No, sir," said Wasp, handing his visitor the address of the Whitechapel Mission, which Allen put in his pocket-book. "I wish the revolver had been found, then we'd see if the bullet fitted."
"Only one bullet was found."
"Only one, sir. Dr. Grace got it out of the body. It is the bullet which caused the death, and I got Inspector Garrit to leave it with me. Perhaps you'd like to see it, sir?"
"Oh, don't trouble," said Allen carelessly. "I can't say anything about it, Wasp."
"Being a gentleman as has travelled you might know something, Mr. Allen," said Wasp, and went to a large tin box, which was inscribed with his name and the number of his former regiment, in white letters. From this he took out a packet, and opening it, extracted a small twist of paper. Then he placed the bullet in Allen's hand.
"I should think it came from a Derringer," said Wasp.
Allen's heart leaped, for his revolver was not a Derringer. He turned the bullet in his hand carelessly. "It might," he said with a shrug. "Pity the other bullet wasn't found."
"The one as ripped the arm, sir? It's buried in some tree trunk, I guess, Mr. Allen. But it would be the same size as this. Both were fired from the same barrel. First shot missed, but the second did the business. Hold on, sir, I've got a drawing of the Red Deeps, and I'll show you where we found the corpse," and Wasp left the room.
Allen waited till the door was closed, then hastily took the revolver from his breast-pocket. He tried the bullet, but it proved to be much too large for the revolving barrel, and could not have been fired therefrom. "Thank heaven," said Allen, with a sigh of relief, "my father is innocent."