George returned to town with the confession of Mrs. Jersey in his pocket. On arriving at the Liverpool Street Station he wrote a note to Kowlaski telling him of Lola's plight, and advising him to engage counsel for her defense. He added that he would come around the next day to see Kowlaski and discuss what could be done toward extricating Lola from the mess she had involved herself in. Having thus done what he could, Brendon took the underground railway to Kensington, and alighted at the High Street Station. In another half-hour he was in his rooms.
After making a good meal, for he felt the need of food to sustain him, he ordered coffee, and sat down to read the manuscript of Mrs. Jersey. The coffee was brought, George lighted his pipe, and having poked the fire into a blaze, made himself comfortable.
The confession of the wretched woman who had come to so tragic an end, was written on several sheets of foolscap loosely pinned together. Her caligraphy was vile, and George had great difficulty in making out some of the words. Also the English was not faultless, but good grammar and fine writing were scarcely to be expected from a woman in the position of Eliza Stokes.
But she wrote in a most cold-blooded way, and seemingly exulting in her wickedness. All through her confession ran a venomous strain of deadly hatred toward George's mother, and indeed against any woman who paid attention to Vane. Jenny Howard was not spared, and the woman Velez, "who kept an oil-shop," sneered Mrs. Jersey, was mentioned. When Brendon discovered that Mrs. Jersey had Italian blood in her veins he saw perfectly well whence she got her savage nature and undisciplined affections. She was like a wild beast let loose among more civilized animals, and the wonder was that with such a nature she had not committed more crimes than those she confessed to. The woman was a dangerous creature, and Brendon when he laid down the manuscript thought it just as well that she had been removed even by the violent means which Providence permitted.
"My parents were of humble station," began Mrs. Jersey, abruptly. "I believe my mother was a lady's maid. She married my supposed father, who was a butler. I say 'my supposed father' as I have reason to believe that I was the daughter of a certain Italian count who had loved and betrayed my mother. In her moments of rage my mother would taunt my supposed father with this, but when calm she always denied that there was any truth. When I grew old enough to understand she rebuked me for asking about the matter. 'You are my daughter,' she said abruptly, 'and the daughter of Samuel Stokes, who is the biggest fool and the greatest craven I know.'
"It will be seen that there was no love lost between my parents. My father Stokes--as I may call him, though I believe the count was my real sire--was always very kind to me, and shielded me from my mother's rage. She treated me very cruelly, and when fifteen I was glad to go out as a scullery-maid so as to escape her persecution. Shortly after I took up life on my own account she died in a fit of violent rage, during which she broke a blood-vessel. I think Stokes was glad when she died. She made his life a misery when she lived, and tormented every one around her. If I have faults, it is not to be expected that I could inherit a decent nature from such a mother. I never loved her, and when she died I did not shed a single tear. I remember singing at my work on the day I received the news. One of my fellow-servants asked me why I was so gay? I replied that I had heard of my mother's death. After that they hated me, and I had to leave my situation. But had any one of them possessed such a mother, any one of them would have been as gay and relieved as I was. So much for my mother.
"As for my presumed father Stokes, I saw very little of him. He retired from business and bought a public-house. Then he married again, and was not inclined to see much of me. I did not mind, as I never loved him in spite of his kindness. I dare say I should have returned his affection, but my mother had beaten all love out of me.
"It is needless to give my early life in detail. I rose from scullery-maid to housemaid. Then I became parlor-maid in a suburban villa, where the wages were poor and the food was bad. I took charge of children when not doing housework, and managed to get on. But I was ambitious. I wished to get among the servants of the aristocracy. A friend of mine who was maid to the Duchess of--taught me her duties, and I procured a situation. I pleased my mistress, and she promised to do much for me. However, she died, and I was thrown on the world. I saw an advertisement for a lady's maid, and got the situation. It was in this way that I became the servant of that woman whom I hated so deeply.
"She was called Rosina Lockwood, and was no better born than myself. Her father was a low man who taught singing, and she appeared herself on the stage. I never thought she was beautiful, myself. She had good hair, and her complexion was passable, but her figure was bad, and she had no brains. An inane, silly, foolish woman. How Percy Vane could have eloped with her beats me. But men are such fools. He would not look at me, yet I was ten times as lovely as this singing-woman, and quite as well born. Oh, how I hated her!
"At first I rather liked Miss Lockwood. She was kind to me in her silly way, and the gentlemen who were in love with her gave me plenty of money to deliver notes and other things. There was one gentleman who was the best of them all--and the biggest fool over her blue eyes and fair hair. His name was Ireland, and he had plenty of money. He came to learn singing from old Lockwood simply to be near her, and proposed three times, to my knowledge. But she would have nothing to do with him, which was foolish, as he had money, and she could have twisted him round her finger. Why he loved her so and what he saw in her I can't say. She had nothing attractive about her, so far as I could see.
"I was a handsome girl in those days, though I say it myself. But if a woman is good-looking, why shouldn't she say so? I had a perfect figure, and a complexion like cream and roses. My hair was as black as night, and my eyes were sparkling and large. I taught myself to read and write, and I learned French. Also I learned to play the piano, and to conduct myself like a lady, as I always was. I often dreamed that I would marry a gentleman, and I could have done so but that my foolish heart was captured by the only man who would have nothing to do with it, or with me.
"I never loved till I set eyes on him. There was a footman who wanted to marry me; to join our savings and set up in a public-house. But I told him I was born for better things. Then a coachman asked me to be his wife, but I hated a man who had to do with horses. Oh, I had plenty of offers, as a handsome girl should. But I knew my own value, and looked about for the gentleman who would give me my rightful position as a lady. From my Italian father I inherited aristocratic tastes, and I was not going to remain a low, vulgar common servant all my life, not me.
"Then he came to the house. Oh, my adored one, my idol, my angel, how magnificent and beautiful thou wast. Percy was his dear name, and his blood was very blue. Lord Derrington was his father, a most aristocratic nobleman, who was an old brute, from my experience of him. But he was of high rank I don't deny, and Percy had the blood of heroes in his veins. He came to take lessons in singing. But after a time I saw that he was in love with my mistress. Afterward I found out that he had seen her at a concert and had fallen in love with her. I don't believe it. Who could have loved that bad figure and that silly brain? Now a woman like myself--but he never cared for me, although I adored him from the first time I set eyes on his manly form. It was her arts that captured him, else he would have turned from her to me. But he never did.
"How handsome and fascinating was my hero Percy Vane. Fair hair and blue eyes, and the figure of a Life-Guardsman--just the kind of man I liked. He was kind to me--for her sake, I suppose--and gave me money and presents. She said she loved him, and used to make me sick with talking of him. I let her think I was her dear friend, as if she had known my true feelings she would have sent me away, and then I would never have seen my hero again. I made the best of my position, for at least I saw him as often as she did, and that was something. They both looked on me as their friend. Had they only known how I hated her, and loved him!
"Lord Derrington was angry with Percy for loving my mistress, and I don't wonder at it, a low singing-woman. Percy had some money of his own, inherited from his mother, and he proposed an elopement. He said that Lord Derrington could not leave the estates away from him, and that some day he would come in for the title. She never lived to be Lady Derrington. I was glad of that. I should have killed her had she reached that pitch of splendor. Her position should have been mine. But it never was.
"Well, they eloped. After singing at a concert in St. James's Hall, he met her outside, and took her to Liverpool Street Station. I was waiting there with the luggage. We went down to a place called Wargrove, in Essex, and the very next day they were married in the church of that parish. I was furious, but what could I do? Had I told Lord Derrington, he might have stopped the marriage, but Percy would never have forgiven me, and I did not wish to lose sight of him. As Mrs. Vane's maid, I had chances of seeing him daily, and of basking in the light of his eyes. It was weak of me, but I loved him so dearly that I would have done anything simply to be in his presence. But I wish now that I had prevented the marriage. Since I could not get him, I didn't see why she should bear off the prize. But I was a girl then, and sentimental and foolish. And she was a cat, as she always was.
"Afterward we went to Paris, and from that place Percy wrote to tell his grandfather that he was married. I know he did not mention the place, for the letter was given to me to post, and I opened it. I never gave it a thought at the moment, but afterward Percy's mistake in not telling where the marriage had taken place did me a lot of good. I should not now be writing in this house, but for that lucky omission. Lord Derrington would have nothing to do with his son, and there was trouble with Mr. Lockwood.
"But I don't think they minded much. Percy was wrapped up in the creature, and she loved him in her silly simpering way. I pretended to be quite happy, but I inwardly was raging all the time. For his sake I put up with the unpleasant position, and I never received my reward, never, never, never. Oh, how some women's hearts are broken by the cruelty and neglect of men.
"I lived with the two of them during their married life. A son was born, and she died. I was glad when she died, and I was sorry she left the boy. Percy was wrapped up in the child, and gave him to me to nurse. Mrs. Vane was buried in Père la Chaise, and then Percy, with myself and the baby, went to Monte Carlo. He gambled there in order to forget his grief--though I don't see what he had to moan over, seeing what a silly fool his late wife was. Percy lost money, and wrote to his father, who declined to help him. Then he went to Italy and wandered about. Now that he was free I hoped to marry him. When not nursing that horrid child--he was called George after his maternal grandfather, and was a scrubby little beast. Some said he was a fine child. I could not see it, myself. He was her child, and that was enough to make me hate him as I did. But as I say, when not nursing him, I devoted myself to study so as to be worthy of the time when Percy would marry me. I knew that the future Lady Derrington would hold a high rank, and I qualified myself to fill the position gracefully. I did work. I learned arithmetic, and could write beautifully. I talked Italian and French like a native. I got an old artist to teach me to paint in water-colors, and I bought a book which taught the manners of good society. Also I tried to dress well, and do my hair becomingly. Percy saw the change in me, and congratulated me on the improvement which had taken place in me since leaving England. Had he only known that it was for his sake I had improved!
"As to that child, I should have liked to drown it, or to have given it to gypsies. As Lady Derrington, I did not wish to be troubled with her brat. Besides, Percy loved the boy so, that he used to make me envious the way he nursed him. But had I got rid of the child--and I thought of a thousand safe ways I could have done so--I should only have been sent away, and then some woman would have got hold of him. I thought it best to bear with my aching pain and put up with the child so that I might be near to watch over Percy.
"The end of it came in Milan. We were stopping at the Hôtel de Ville, and there was a waiter who fell in love with me. He was an English boy, called George Rates--a horrid, scrubby, red-haired, nasty, pale-faced creature, who worried me to death. Besides, he was younger than I was, and I wished for a husband to protect me. I should have had to look after George Rates, whereas Percy, in the days to come, would look after me. Besides, I felt that it was an impertinence for a low waiter to expect me to marry him--me, who had done so much to improve myself, and who looked forward to taking proud rank among the British aristocracy.
"At first I laughed at him, but he became such a nuisance that I told him plainly that I would have nothing to do with him. He then accused me of being in love with my master. I acknowledged it proudly. Why should I not? A woman should glory in her love. I did! I told George Rates that I worshiped the very ground Percy walked on; I gave my passionate feelings full vent, and bore him to the ground under the storm of my indignation. He told the other servants, and they insulted me, especially the English ones, as there were two or three in the hotel. I was persecuted, but I bore all for his dear sake. Then it came to his ears. Percy heard what I had said to George Rates. He called me in: he accused me of making him ridiculous, of being out of my mind, of a thousand and one cruel things. I lost my head. I told him how I loved him. I knelt at his feet. I implored that he would reward my love--my long, long sufferings. He laughed in my tearful face. At that moment I hated him, but not for long. My life was bound up in his. When he dismissed me, I thought that my heart was broken.
"I was dismissed. He procured a new nurse from England--a Scotch hussy, as ugly as she was silly. I saw her often in Milan after my dismissal. Oh, that time--oh, those weary days! I wept. I prayed. I moaned. I was a wreck. With what money I had I went to a convent near Milan, and stopped there for a month. But I could not remain away from him. I came out. He was gone. I went to inquire at the hotel. He had gone to Rome. Afterward a message came that all letters were to be sent to San Remo. I determined to go to San Remo, and to be near him. I would have died else. George Rates, who was still in love with me, proved a willing tool. I could not get to San Remo without money. He offered to advance me the railway fare, and he got me a situation in the Hôtel d'Angleterre as housemaid. He also was going there for the season as a waiter. I said that if he took me to San Remo I would marry him. He did so, and I--but that comes later. Sufficient it is to say that George believed in my promise, and that I found myself again in the presence--the heavenly presence--of my adored Percy.
"But I had only come to submit myself to fresh anguish. He saw me, but took no notice of me. I was afraid to follow him too closely lest he should ask the police to interfere. George Rates was jealous, too, and I had to consider him, as, failing Percy rewarding my love I could fall back on George. He was always useful to supply the money for me to get back to England, where I was certain of a situation. I handled the situation in a masterly manner, and contrived to see Percy without his seeing me, and without exciting too openly the jealousy of George Rates.
"But it was the horrid girl that caused me pain. She was one of the daughters of General Howard, whom Percy had met at Como. The two girls both laid themselves out to catch my darling. But their arts did not succeed at Como. Jenny was the one who tried hardest to get him, but Violet took her chance also. When they came to San Remo they stopped at the Hôtel d'Angleterre. I looked after their room, and, knowing what they were, I made myself their friend. They knew me as the former nurse of Percy's horrid, little son, and wondered how I came to be a housemaid. I told some story which satisfied them. I forget what it was. They believed in me thoroughly, and they found out that I loved Percy. Then they were amused, and I hated them for it. They told Percy that I was watching him, and he came to the hotel no more. But I still pretended to be their friend, for my own ends. There was a masked ball coming off, and the Miss Howards wished to go unbeknown to their father. I entered into the spirit of the joke. I procured them two blue dominoes and each a sprig of yellow holly, so that they might know one another. They went to the ball thus disguised.
"I went also--in the same dress. I had got a third blue domino and I also wore a sprig of holly. In my pocket I took a stiletto. Why did I do that? Because I was determined to kill any one who tried to make love to my Percy. I knew that Jenny Howard, the little cat, would try and get him to love her, and I would have killed her with pleasure had she become Percy's bride. As I was masked, I had no fear of being discovered should I stab any one, and, moreover, were there trouble, the Miss Howards, being dressed as I was, even to the sprig of yellow holly, might be accused of any crime that might happen. Moreover, even if I killed Jenny I knew that the two sisters quarreled, and that on the evidence of the holly and the domino Violet might be charged with the crime. Oh, I made myself quite safe! I am a clever woman.
"About the stiletto. I received that from a low shopkeeper called Velez, who was in love with Percy. She and her husband kept an oil-shop, and her husband was very jealous of her. She was madly in love with Percy, as I found out when buying something at her shop, and I got to know her intimately, so that I could make use of her if the occasion arose. I did make use of her, by getting the stiletto, and I took it to the ball.
"I heard Percy propose to marry Jenny, and I was minded then to kill her. I drew the stiletto from my breast, and would have rushed forward, hoping to escape in the confusion when I killed her. But my heart failed me; even when she was left alone my heart failed me. Jenny took off her mask, and I left her sitting waiting for Percy's return. Then I followed Percy and saw Violet join him. I knew it was Violet, owing to the unmasking of Jenny, and, moreover, I had seen Violet listening, as I was. She loved him also--the cat! However, I saw that she wanted to get Percy out of the place by making him think she was Jenny. She did. I followed. He took her home to the gates of the hotel and left her there. When he was coming back to the ball I stopped him at the bottom of the parade. There was no one in sight, it was late, and a clear moon was shining.
"Percy thought I was Violet, whom he mistook for her sister. He addressed me in such endearing tones as Jenny, and remonstrated so gently about what he called the rashness of following him from the hotel, that I lost my temper. I snatched off the mask and poured out my wrath. Percy burst out laughing when he recognized me. He said--never mind what he said--but it was an insult, and my Italian blood boiled in my veins. I drew the stiletto and rushed on him. At that moment my hand was caught from behind, and I fell. It was that man Ireland, who was then at San Remo, and a great friend of Percy's. He had wrenched the stiletto out of my hand. For a moment no one said anything, and I arose to my feet. Ireland addressed me as Miss Howard--Miss Violet Howard. Percy laughed again and corrected his mistake, saying that I was a love-sick nursemaid whom he had discharged. Then I lost my temper.
"Stop! I must say exactly how it happened. Percy was leaning against the parapet of the parade in a careless attitude. He did not even move when I rushed on him with the stiletto, and had Ireland not caught my arm, I should have killed him. Ireland said that he had followed me--thinking I was Violet Howard--to ask me to return to the hotel. He talked some rubbish about a gentle-born English girl being out at night; but when he found that I was only a servant there was no more of that talk. Poor Eliza Stokes could have been out till dawn for all these gentlemen cared. They laughed at me, Percy leaning against the parapet, Ireland beside me, holding the stiletto carelessly in his hand. As I said, I lost my temper, and I told Percy what I thought of that fool Rosina Lockwood. He lost his temper also, but that only made me more angry. At last he dashed forward, and I believe he would have struck me but that Mr. Ireland intervened. I don't know exactly how it happened, but, in moving, Mr. Ireland evidently forgot how he held the stiletto, and put out his hand with the weapon pointing outward. In rushing on me, Percy came against it, and it ran right into his heart. With a choking cry he fell dead. I was terrified, and began to wring my hands. Ireland knelt down and found that Percy was dead. He seized my wrist and told me to hold my tongue lest I should be accused of the death. I said it was his fault. He replied it was an accident. But I had got the stiletto, I had tried to kill Percy, and Ireland declared that if I said anything that he would denounce me as the criminal. I was terrified as I saw the danger in which I was placed. Ireland suggested that we should throw the body over the parapet on to the beach, and that it would be thought robbers had killed Percy. I agreed, and we threw the body of my darling over. Oh, how my heart ached when I heard it fall on the cruel, cruel stones.
"With Ireland I arranged to hold my tongue, and on his part he promised he would say nothing. The next day the news of the discovery of the body came. I was nearly out of my mind. Señora Velez, from whom I had borrowed the stiletto, knowing of my love for Percy, and being in love with him herself, accused me of the crime. I denied it, and said that if she did not hold her tongue I would tell her husband how she had loved Percy. She was afraid of her husband, who was a jealous brute, so she remained quiet. I gave her back the stiletto, which I had obtained from Ireland. We were both safe, but I was so ill that I left the hotel and returned to England. George Rates, who never suspected my share in the death, followed----"
It was at this point that George ceased reading. He now knew the worst. His father had died by accident, and Ireland had been the unwitting cause of his death. Brendon wondered how the old man could have carried the knowledge all these years without speaking. He determined to have an interview with him. But at last he knew the truth about the death in San Remo. It inculpated no one, and he could not see how--according to Bawdsey--it could be connected with the murder of Mrs. Jersey.
George read the remainder of Mrs. Jersey's confession and then put it away. Even when he got to the end he could not connect the San Remo crime with that of Amelia Square. It was in his mind to see his grandfather and tell the story to him, backed by the production of the confession. But on second thought he decided to see Bawdsey first. He wired for an appointment, and received a reply stating that Bawdsey was going out of town at three o'clock that day, but would be in his rooms till then. George lost no time. He called a cab, and within an hour of receiving the answer to his request he was on his way to Bloomsbury.
On arriving he found that the detective expected him, and went to his room. Bawdsey was still in a disturbed state, as he was most anxious to get down the country and to help Lola out of her difficulty. He received Brendon irritably and in silence. George saw that the man was all nerves, and did not resent his sharp greeting. He sat down and opened the conversation.
"You are going down to see Lola?" he asked.
"Of course. I am much worried over her. She may get into serious trouble over this freak."
"Well, why not tell the judge she is insane at times? Then she will get off lightly."
"Would that be true?" asked the detective, struck by the idea.
"As true as most things. She really is not accountable for her actions when she gets into these frenzies, and in such a one she must have been to attempt the burglary."
"Poor soul, I wonder how she is now?"
"Oh, she is not troubled much. Her spirits are as good as usual. She hardly seems to realize the enormity of her offense."
"How do you know?" asked Bawdsey with a stare.
"Because I saw her last night."
"You saw her?"
"I did. After I left you I took the train to Wargrove and had an interview with her."
"You might have told me, Mr. Brendon," said Bawdsey, in a wounded tone.
"Where would have been the use of that? I can manage my own business, I hope."
"Considering how I love her, it is my business also."
George shrugged his shoulders. "Well, you see, Bawdsey, it was your intention to see Lola first. I guessed as much, so I stole a march on you."
Bawdsey fenced. "I don't see how you can say that."
"I can. You know that Lola was in this house on the night the woman died."
"I presume so, since she got the confession, and she must have secured it to know where your parents were married."
"Well, then, knowing that, you wished to get that confession."
"Yes, I did," said the detective, "and why not? I desired to know if Mrs. Jersey said anything about the San Remo crime in it."
"I can tell you that. She did. I have the confession."
Bawdsey bounded from his chair. "Where is it?" he asked.
"In my rooms, locked away."
"I do call that a shame," grumbled Bawdsey. "You might have trusted me, Mr. Brendon?"
"Might I? Would you have trusted me?"
"I do; you know I do."
"To such an extent as suits yourself. But would you have shown me that confession had it come into your possession?"
"You are not showing it to me," said Bawdsey, evasively.
"That is not an answer. But I'll show you the confession whenever you like. Come, now, would you have shown it to me?"
"Since you have read it, why ask me that question?" snapped the detective. "You know----"
"Yes, I know that you would have burnt the confession. I know that to have a paper in existence which sets forth that Mr. Bawdsey's true name is George Rates is not to your liking."
"I never did anything to disgrace that name, Mr. Brendon."
"That is between yourself and your conscience," replied George, coolly, "and has nothing to do with me. You are George Rates?"
Bawdsey shrugged his shoulders. "There is no use denying it," he said; "you have my wife's handwriting."
"Was Mrs. Jersey really your wife?"
"She was. We married soon after we left San Remo. She was hard up or she would not have married me."
"And you went to the States?"
"We did. There I took the name of Jersey, and tried a variety of things, none of which came to any good. Then I left Eliza."
"Why did you do that?"
"Because she was a devil," said Bawdsey, his face lighting up. "I tried all the means in my power to make her happy, but she was always quarreling and nagging, and lamenting that she had not married that Vane--your father, Mr. Brendon."
"Did she tell you about the murder?"
"It wasn't a murder," protested Bawdsey. "No, she did not tell me, but from a hint or two she dropped about getting money from Mr. Ireland I guessed that he had something to do with it. I came across to England and I saw him. He told me the whole story."
"Did you get money from him?"
"I did not. I am an honest man, although you do not seem to think so. I left all that blackmailing to my wife. She came over to get money out of Ireland. He simply said that he would tell the whole truth and would call the woman Velez as a witness about the dagger."
"But that woman is dead?"
"Oh, no, she isn't," said Bawdsey, coolly. "Lola told me that she was alive and still in San Remo. She could have made things very hot for my wife. But failing Ireland, my wife--Mrs. Jersey we will call her--had another string to her bow. She heard how Lord Derrington denied the marriage, and how you were living with your grandfather Lockwood. She went to Derrington and----"
"I know the rest. And you came to live in this house."
"Not at the time. I went back to the States, but as I could do nothing there I returned to England. Then I took up the private-inquiry business and called myself Bawdsey. I came to see my wife. She would not let me call myself her husband, and, as I had no great liking for her, I agreed. I was in this house for a few weeks and then I got my own diggings. I saw as little of Mrs. Jersey as was possible."
"Why was that?"
"Well, sir," replied Bawdsey, frankly, "I didn't hold with the annuity she was getting."
"In a word, you disapproved of the blackmail?"
"That's a good, useful word, sir," said Bawdsey, easily. "Yes, I did. I never would take a penny from her, and when I lived here during the few weeks I paid my board. Yes, sir, I'm an honest man."
George stretched out his hand and shook that of Bawdsey heartily. "I am convinced you are, Bawdsey, and I apologize for my suspicions. But in some ways--eh?"
"I didn't act very straight, you mean. Well, sir, when one deals with a criminal case one can't be too careful. I have had to tell lies, sir. And I say, Mr. Brendon," cried the detective, with a burst of confidence, "I would not have shown you that agreement. I guessed that Eliza would state who I was, and I didn't wish you to think that I was connected with her."
"Why not?"
"Well, sir, I fancied, seeing what you know, that you might suspect me of killing her."
"No, Bawdsey. As you have acted so fairly all through, I am convinced that you are innocent on that score. But why did you say that the San Remo crime was connected with the death of Mrs. Jersey?"
Bawdsey opened his eyes. "Can't you see, sir? The stiletto."
"Oh, you mean that the weapon used by Lola was the same one as my father was killed with?"
"Certainly, Mr. Brendon. It belonged to Señora Velez, the mother. She gave it to Lola, for I saw it in her rooms, before the death of Mrs. Jersey, and I recognized it from the description given by my wife."
"But there are dozens of stilettoes like that one. Lord Derrington showed it to me."
"Yes, that's true enough. But you see, from what my wife told me, I knew that she had got the dagger from the woman Velez. It wasn't hard to see, when I dropped across a similar weapon in the room of a woman also called Velez, that it was the same. Now you see how it is that Lola knew so much about the death of your father, and how she and I came to talk of the matter."
"How did you drop on the subject in the first place?"
"The name was enough for me. I saw Lola, and I fell in love with her, as you know. Then I remembered the name Velez and got an introduction to her. One thing led to another until I knew the whole story, and she admitted that the stiletto was the one with which Mr. Vane had been killed."
George thought for a few minutes. "Tell me, Bawdsey," he said at length, "did you suspect Lola of committing the crime?"
"Yes, I did," admitted Bawdsey, frankly; "you see she has a devil of a temper. I never knew that she had gone to see Mrs. Jersey on that night, although I might have guessed it because of the way she tried to learn the whereabouts of the house."
"You mean the crimson light? Her excuse was foolish I thought the other day when you stated it," said George. "But when did you first suspect her?"
"When I picked up the stiletto. I recognized it at once. It was my intention to take it round to her, so that she should not be incriminated, but I was so upset--as I said the other day--that I forgot all about the matter. When I did think, it was too late, for Derrington woke up and put on his coat. I wondered whether he would mention the stiletto to me. But he never did."
"Because he knew nothing about it," said George. "Mrs. Ward stole it, as I told you."
"Oh, I see how it is now. But I really did suspect Lola. I asked her if she was in the house. She said that she had been, although she denied it at first."
"That's Lola's way," said George; "she always begins by denial. How did you bring her to confess?"
"I threatened to identify the stiletto. Then she told the truth--if it was the truth," said Bawdsey, doubtfully.
"Oh, I think so. I don't believe she killed the woman."
"But you know her temper?"
"Yes, I do, but since she has got what she wanted--the confession--there was no sense in her committing a murder. No, I quite believe that she threw the dagger at Mrs. Jersey's feet, as she said. It is just like one of Lola's impulsive actions."
Bawdsey scratched his head. "I wonder who did kill Eliza," he muttered, "if Lola is innocent and I am innocent?" He looked at Brendon.
"I can't help you," replied George, rising; "the thing is quite beyond me. It must have been some one in the house."
"No," replied Bawdsey, positively; "remember, Mr. Train heard a door close--the front door--some time about half-past eleven."
"That was you, was it not?"
"No sir. I did not arrive till close on twelve, and Mrs. Jersey was already dead. The door must have been opened and closed by the murderer, and he left just before I arrived."
"But how could he have entered? You alone had the latch-key. As to Lola, she slipped in while Mrs. Jersey was dismissing her guests."
Bawdsey shook his head. "I can't understand it, sir. Of course there was another gentleman who had the house for a short time." He looked meaningly at Brendon.
George looked puzzled. "What do you mean?" he asked.
"Well, sir," began Bawdsey, with his invariable formula, "I don't like to mention names, and I am sure what I say will go no further, but there is Mr. Ireland----"
Brendon started to his feet with an agitated face. "Ireland! Oh, no, that is impossible," he declared, "quite impossible! Why should he have a latch-key?"
"After your grandfather's death he was in possession of the house for a time, and the keys would be with him. In handing them to Lord Derrington's agent he might have forgotten one."
"It's improbable!"
"I don't think so. It was a chance, I think, at first, but when he knew that Mrs. Jersey occupied the house he might have found the latch-key useful to see her when he felt inclined. I dare say she tried to get money out of him again."
"But he refused her."
"He did--once," said Bawdsey, meaningly, "but Mr. Ireland was not so young as he had been, and dreaded lest his--accident should be known."
"It was an accident," said George. "Much as I deplore the death of my father, yet I acquit Ireland of all blame. But he didn't know she lived here until Miss Bull told him."
"Oh, yes, he did. I'm sure Mrs. Jersey would let him know that she was just round the corner. She always kept in touch with useful friends."
"But why should he kill her so suddenly?"
"Well, he might have heard that she had written out a confession, or even about Lord Derrington's visit. And then he would come round to ask her if she had incriminated him in her confession. He would ask her for a sight of it. Not having it, for she found the blue envelope empty after Lola left, she would deny that she had it. The stiletto left by Lola would be on the table. What was more natural than for Ireland to pick it up and kill her in a sudden access of dread? Remember, Mrs. Jersey could accuse him of the crime, as it was known that Ireland was jealous of your mother's marriage to Vane. Oh, there was plenty of motive. As to his having refused her before, he was getting old, and thinking he might be brought to justice by her confession, for he never knew when she would die or into whose hands it would fall, he might have lost his nerve."
"It strikes me that if he struck the blow he had a great deal of nerve," said George, dryly; "but you go on a lot of suppositions. You suppose that Ireland retained a latch-key of this house, that he knew Mrs. Jersey had written out a confession, that he knew my grandfather was coming on that night--in fact, that's all theory, Bawdsey. I do not believe Mr. Ireland had anything to do with the matter."
"Then who had?" asked the detective.
"What would you say to Margery?"
"What, the niece--that half-witted girl?"
"Exactly. Half-witted. She is more like an animal than anything human. She gets these sudden fits of rage. When Miss Bull fainted Margery rushed in and threatened me with her fists. Seeing what an uncontrollable temper she had, it occurred to me that she might have killed her aunt."
"But Miss Bull says that the aunt locked the girl in her room."
"Of course, but Miss Bull may know the truth, and may be shielding Margery--she seems to have a strange affection for the girl. What if Mrs. Jersey--to vary the story--found Margery down the stairs after Lola was gone, and instead of rebuking her as Miss Bull said in the passage----"
"At eleven o'clock, mind."
"Later, I think," said George, quickly. "You did not arrive till nearly twelve, and the woman was just dead."
"I don't think a few minutes would make much difference," said Bawdsey, quietly, "but go on, sir. Let me hear your theory."
"Well, I fancy that Mrs. Jersey caught Margery down the stairs, and took her into her own room to rebuke her quietly, so that the rest of the house might not hear. Also she would be anxious to learn if the girl had overheard her conversation with Lola. If Margery had, she would assuredly have told Miss Bull. Mrs. Jersey would be afraid of that, and I dare say she stormed at Margery to make her speak."
"But there could have been no row, sir. No one heard a disturbance."
"Oh, the boarders are old and sleep lightly. But I am bound to say I did not hear a disturbance myself," said George, reflectively. "Mrs. Jersey may have argued quietly. Then, as you say, the stiletto was on the table. Margery, goaded into action, might, with the sudden rage of a dumb animal, might have----"
"Well, it's not impossible. But about the door closing?"
"When Margery saw what she had done," pursued George, still trying to guess what had taken place, "her first impulse would be to run away. She would steal out and open the door. I am pretty sure Miss Bull was on the watch and saw her. She would draw the girl back and close the door--at half-past eleven, as Train heard. Then she would pacify Margery and lock her in her bedroom, after previously instructing her what to say next morning. That is what I believe, Bawdsey."
"It's a very pretty case," murmured the detective, "and things might have happened as you say. But if it is the case, there is not much chance of learning the truth. Both Margery and Miss Bull will be silent. And after all, my theory regarding Ireland is just as good, Mr. Brendon."
George rose to go. "Stick to your theory and I'll stick to mine," he said, smiling. "But what about Lola?"
"Well, sir, I'll go down with Kowlaski and see her. We will do whatever we can to get her out of her trouble. And you, sir----"
"Oh, I shall have nothing more to do with Lola. Take her away to the States as your wife, Bawdsey, and I will get my grandfather to give you the thousand pounds to start life on."
"It's very good of you, sir," said Bawdsey, gratefully. "And you will try and persuade her to marry me?"
"Yes. She knows--as I told her--that, register or no register, my grandfather intends to recognize me as his heir. Therefore she is certain--as she may well be--that I shall marry Miss Ward. She will gradually get over her fancy for me and will be quite content to take you."
Bawdsey sighed. "I hope so. I love that woman, sir."
"Yet she is a violent woman--almost as violent as your first wife."
"Yes," assented Bawdsey, rather dolefully, "it seems as though I was always to fall into the hands of violent women. What do you intend to do now, sir?"
"Leave matters alone, Bawdsey. I don't want to learn who killed Mrs. Jersey. Now I know about my father's marriage I shall change my name, take my rightful one, and have done with all this crime and mystery. The Yellow Holly can go hang, for me."
The proverb says that "Good luck comes to those who know how to wait." It had certainly come to George Brendon, or, as he was now called, George Vane. Lord Derrington could not make enough of him. After the interview with Bawdsey the young man called at St. Giles Square and related to his grandfather all he had learned. The old man was much astonished.
"I don't think Ireland was to blame," he said, "not even in holding his tongue. After all, the thing was an accident, although undoubtedly that woman was the cause. Have you seen Ireland?"
"Not yet, but I will soon."
"Then tell him from me that I don't consider he was responsible, and that I quite believe from what I know of Mrs. Jersey that he has told the entire truth."
"I will, sir," answered George. "I suppose you mean that if he really committed the crime with malice aforethought Mrs. Jersey would have blackmailed him."
Lord Derrington nodded approvingly. "You are what the Scotch call 'quick in the uptake,' George. That is what I mean. Mrs. Jersey must have been afraid for herself or she would never have kept her claws off Ireland's money. She had plenty of mine," added the old gentleman, grimly. "Bad lot, George!"
"I quite agree with you, sir. Poor Bawdsey was honest, however."
"Well--" Lord Derrington did not assent immediately to this--"if Bawdsey had been really honest he would have asked me to be silent on the matter, and need not have used threats, however unwilling he was to carry them out. No, George, Bawdsey is like the serpent in the bamboo, straight so long as it is kept in check. I suppose he will marry the girl?"
"I think so. He is madly in love with her. I promised that you would give him a thousand pounds if he went to America."
"The deuce you did!" said Derrington, wrathfully.
"Why not, sir?" rejoined Brendon, calmly. "We want him out of our lives. He knows too much. Better send him abroad, so that he may not make any remark about this unpleasant family history."
Lord Derrington winced. George certainly had rather an unpleasant way of putting things. However, the old man silently acknowledged the justice of the speech. "You are right," he said. "But Bawdsey ought to do something for his money."
"You mean that he ought to discover the assassin?"
"Yes, I do. Whosoever killed that woman should be brought to justice, George."
Brendon looked down. "I think it will be best to let sleeping dogs lie, sir," he said significantly.
"Because of some scandal," said Derrington, looking hard at him. "Are you alluding to the possibility of Mrs. Ward having killed her?"
At this supposition George laughed right out. "No, sir. I don't think Mrs. Ward would go so far as that."
"She would, were there no law to restrain her."
"I dare say. She has the instincts of a female despot. But as there is a law she would not jeopardize her neck. No, I mean Ireland."
Derrington sat up. "Nonsense! Do you mean to say he is guilty?"
"I don't think so, but Bawdsey has an idea," and George related the theory of the detective. Derrington grunted in a disgusted manner.
"The man's a born idiot," he said. "Why should Ireland run the risk of getting his neck into a noose for a second crime? If he thought that she would leave a confession behind inculpating him, he would have waited to make certain. I don't believe there is a word of truth in the matter. However, when you see him, you can question him about his doings on that night."
"I shall certainly do that," replied Brendon, quietly, "but failing Ireland (and his guilt is presumed by Bawdsey) there remains Margery."
"That idiot of a girl! Yes?"
George detailed his reasons for believing in Margery's guilt. Again Derrington sniffed. "It's all supposition. If the girl came into the room, if the stiletto were on the table, if Mrs. Jersey scolded her into a fury. Pah! I don't believe it."
"And you really wish to find the assassin?"
"I should like to know, out of mere curiosity. But if it is your opinion that things should be left as they are, why, Bawdsey can take his thousand pounds and sail for America whenever he chooses. But I grudge setting the rascal up in business," added Derrington who was still sore about the way in which he had been threatened.
After this conversation George took his leave. Dorothy was out of town, so he could not visit her. After the interview with Ireland in Derrington's library, Mrs. Ward had found it convenient to go down the country. She felt that she was in an unpleasant position. Not that there was any danger of her being accused of murdering Vane. But if the police got hold of the story they might make inquiries--in fact, they certainly would make inquiries--and then the disagreeable fact would come out that Miss Bull was her sister. Mrs. Ward knew that she had not behaved well to Jenny, and that if the truth were known her friends would blame her.
As Mrs. Ward did not like blame, and disliked to have her actions criticised, she went down the country, saying to Dorothy she desired a change of air. Lord Derrington wrote a note to Mrs. Ward after George had departed.
"I'll ask her to come up," said Derrington, grimly, as he sealed the letter. "George will return in three days with the copy of the marriage certificate and with news of how that case has been disposed of. Mrs. Ward shall apologize to him and formally consent to the marriage. Dorothy shall come also. And Walter"--Derrington rubbed his hands, chuckling. He was rather anxious to see Walter's face when he heard that he was no longer the heir.
Meantime George went with Kowlaski and Bawdsey to Chelmsford to see after Lola. Kowlaski was in despair, as if Lola received a term of imprisonment his ballet would be brought to an untimely end. Now that Lola was out of the bill, the hall was not so full as usual, and Kowlaski foresaw that if Lola did not come back he would lose money. He therefore went down prepared to spend a large sum to set her free.
But there was no need for fear. Lola was brought up before the magistrates, and evidence was given as to her excitable nature. The old sexton produced the torn register and detailed how he had been assaulted. He thought the lady was queer, himself. Kowlaski went into the box, also Bawdsey and George. The result of their evidence as to Lola's foreign ways was that the magistrate admonished her and inflicted a small fine. This was triumphantly paid by Kowlaski, who returned to town with his principal dancer under his jealous eye.
More than that, Kowlaski made quite a story out of the events. It was known in London that Lola Velez had been arrested, as all the London papers copied the account of the trial which had appeared in the country press. Kowlaski put it about that Lola had gone off her head owing to grief for her dying mother. Few people believed this, but the public was so pleased to see the favorite again that she was saluted with cheers. In a few days every one forgot about the matter, which, after all, did not amount to much.
Luckily it was not stated why Lola had wished to destroy the register. There were several marriage entries on the page, and no one could say which of these she wished obliterated. Besides, Brendon got the magistrate to suppress the book, and not let the press report the matter. He accomplished this by telling the magistrate exactly how the matter stood. So the judicial authority used his power, and the fourth estate quailed. Everything was settled in a most satisfactory manner.
Later on Brendon had copies made of the marriage entry of Percy Vane, Bachelor, and Rosina Lockwood, Spinster, and brought them to his grandfather. The old man read them carefully, then laid down the paper with a sigh of relief.
"I never thought I would be pleased to see that in black and white," he said.
"And are you pleased now?"
"Of course I am. You are to revive the glories of the Derrington Vane family. They have faded of late, but you, sir----" He clapped his grandson on the back, and George laughed at the old man's enthusiasm.
"There is one strange thing," he said after a pause. "Seeing that my parents were married so near London I cannot understand how the marriage was not discovered before."
Derrington looked thoughtful also. "It is strange," he admitted, "but you remember the tale of Poe's Purloined Letter. People always look in the most unlikely places first, and because the church was so near to town and nobody had replied to the advertisement, they--the searchers, I mean--must have thought that the marriage took place in some moorland parish where people never looked at the journals. It was the very closeness of Wargrove church to London, George, that prevented the certificate being discovered sooner."
"I suppose you are right," said Brendon, "but it does seem strange."
"Everything in life is strange," said Derrington, "and not the least strange thing is that I kick out Walter to make room for you. By the way, George, he will be here soon."
"Have you told him?"
"Yes, and he wants to see you about the matter. I said that he could in my presence. What he has to say I don't know. There is another reason for your remaining, George. Mrs. Ward and her daughter are coming here."
"She won't be pleased to see me," said Brendon.
"Oh, I think she will. After Ireland put her in a corner she grew afraid, and now she would like to see the matter settled at any price. When she is your mother-in-law, George, keep her out of your house or there will be trouble."
"You must stand sentinel, sir. She won't come near me then."
"Egad, that's true. She is afraid of me. I hold that stiletto, you see, and I know about her doings at San Remo. The minx!" said Derrington with great vigor. "I wonder that her daughter is so charming."
"So good, you mean," said George, fondly, whereat Derrington gave a sigh.
"Oh, love--love, and again--love," said he. "It seems I am going to have a most sentimental time with you two."
"Be at rest, sir. Neither Dorothy nor I am sentimental. We are too serious for that."
"That's worse. I hate serious lovers."
"Then we will be gay," said George, with a laugh.
"Don't overdo it," replied Derrington, with a kindly smile; "be as you are, both of you, and I shall not complain. Ah, here is Walter! Well, my boy, have you come to see your new cousin?"
Walter Vane entered the library with an injured air. He looked neater and more fragile than ever, and wonderfully old, considering his years. Derrington looked from him to the fine figure of George, with a queer look in his eyes. "No one would ever take you for relatives," he said.
"Why, they say we are like one another," said Walter. "Mrs. Ward remarked on the likeness when we dined with her. I wondered why we should resemble one another, but it is explained now," and Walter cast a not unkindly look in his cousin's direction.
Derrington snarled. "George is like me, and you take after your father, Walter, who was a shrimp if ever there was one."
George hastened to the rescue of his cousin. "It seems to me that the conversation is getting somewhat personal," he remarked. "Walter, I hope you bear me no grudge for stepping into your shoes."
Walter took the hand in his own limp grasp. "Well, of course it is hard on a fellow," he answered in a rather whining manner, "but you and I got on well together, so I would rather it was you than another fellow. That Train friend of yours, for instance. He's such a cad!"
"But a very good fellow for all that," said Brendon, dryly.
"Oh, people always say that of a fellow who has nothing to recommend him," retorted Walter; "but as you are to be the head of the family I am glad you are not a bounder."
"That's very kind of you," said George, dryly.
"And very silly of Walter," growled the grandfather. "What do you mean, sir, by talking rubbish? Is it likely that any one of my blood would be what you call a bounder?"
"No," said Walter, pacifying the old man. "I only mean----"
"Never mind what you mean. It's sure to be something foolish. This," said Derrington, pointing with his cane to George, "is the future head of our family. Pay him all respect."
"We'll get on capitally," said George, clapping Walter on the back.
"And what about my income?" asked Walter.
"You will have what you have now," said Derrington; "don't bother me about the matter. You and George can settle it between you."
Considering how he had been ousted, Walter really took things very calmly. But he had not enough vigor to protest. He sighed. His grandfather had cowed him, and Walter profoundly admired his newly found cousin, who did not hesitate to stand up to the despot. He began to think it was a good thing that George had come into the family. He would at least save him--Walter--from constant bullying. This interesting family council was interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Ward, as pert and pretty as ever. She had quite recovered her spirits, and knowing that Derrington would say nothing about the card-cheating or about the San Remo matter, she was prepared to be as insolent as she dared. But she was quite determined not to cross swords again with the old man. Like a burnt child she dreaded the fire. Derrington was altogether too much, even for her.
As it was, she came sailing in with the prettiest air in the world, and held out both hands, her head on one side like a sick canary. "My dear Lord Derrington, how well you are looking! How"--here her astonished eyes fell on George. "You!" said Mrs. Ward, aghast. "Mr. Brendon! and here!"
"Not Mr. Brendon," said Derrington enjoying her confusion, "but my grandson, George Vane."
Dorothy, who had remained below to give some instructions to the footman, entered the room just in time to hear this announcement. She flew to her lover. "My dearest George, I am glad, glad, so glad," and before them all she kissed him. Mrs. Ward screamed:
"Dorothy! What manners!"
"Very good manners," said Derrington, coolly, "seeing that they are natural. Well, Mrs. Ward, George--my grandson, and heir," added the old man with emphasis, "has something to say to you."
"Really. I shall be most happy to hear it."
George took his cue. "I have to ask you for the hand of your daughter Dorothy," he said, looking very proud and manly as he stood with the girl's hand within his own.
"Really," said Mrs. Ward again, "I don't know. I fancied that Walter, you see----" And she cast her eyes on the neat little man.
"Oh, I scratch," said Walter, in his elegant way. "There's no fighting against George. He has all the luck."
"You call him George?"
"Why shouldn't I? He's my cousin; the head of the house----"
"When I go to my long home," finished Derrington. "Well, Mrs. Ward, do you consent to the match?"
"Do, mother," said Dorothy, imploringly.
Mrs. Ward sank into a chair and pretended to be overcome by emotion. In fact, she did this merely to gain time, as she did not wish to answer too quickly. It was plain that Walter, whom she had wished Dorothy to marry, took, in her own phraseology, "a back seat." George was promotedviceWalter resigned. George would be Lord Derrington and would have the money. He was an obstinate man, certainly, and would be difficult to manage.
Still, she might be able to get the better of him. She could always work him through Dorothy, if Dorothy would only get over her absurd notions of religion and all that sort of thing. On the whole Mrs. Ward thought it was best to agree. Knowing what Derrington knew, and how obstinate both lovers were, she did not see very well what else she could do. However, she made the most of her compulsory surrender. After a few sighs, and having squeezed a few tears, she cried to her daughter, in a muffled voice, expressive of deep emotion, "Dorothy, my dear child."
Dorothy, with a look at George, went and knelt down by her mother's chair. She was not the dupe of this play-acting, but, knowing that her mother would insist on making an effective scene, wished to get it over as speedily as possible.
Mrs. Ward put her hand on Dorothy's shoulder in a maternal manner. "Do you love George?" she asked.
"Yes," said Dorothy, simply, "you know I love him."
"George, do you love my child?"
"I do," replied George, curtly, while Derrington surveyed this touching scene with a grim smile. He always loved to watch the antics of Mrs. Ward. She believed in them so thoroughly herself, and they deceived no one gifted with ordinary intelligence.
"It is hard," said Mrs. Ward with a deep sigh, "to see a child leave its parent. But you love her, you have won her;" here she rose, and raising Dorothy from her knees gave her to George. "Take her, George, and with her take a mother's blessing."
The idea of Mrs. Ward's blessing was too much for Walter, and he went off into a shriek of laughter, which ended in his leaving the room. George was quite unmoved. He thanked Mrs. Ward and kissed Dorothy. Then he took her to a distant seat near the window, where they could talk sensibly. Lord Derrington was left to console the afflicted mother. This he proceeded to do immediately.
"Egad, you did it well!" he said, looking at the pretty woman. "I don't believe Miss Terry or Mrs. Siddons could have done it better."
Mrs. Ward flushed a little, but still kept up the pose. "Nature spoke, my dear Lord Derrington. I am aware that you consider Nature vulgar."
"I was not aware that I did. I see so little of it, that your scene touched me--positively touched me."
Mrs. Ward saw that it was useless to hide the truth from this keen-eyed old man any longer. "Oh, don't be nasty," she said plaintively, and rustled up to him. "Of course, I wanted Dorothy to marry Walter, but George does just as well."
"I don't think she has made a bad exchange, Mrs. Ward."
"He's good-looking enough," said the little woman, "but so serious and dull. Of course, I suppose you'll allow him an income."
"He shall have all that is necessary to keep up his position as my heir," said Derrington dryly. "I hope he and Dorothy will live here. The house is big enough."
"And they won't have to pay any rent, which is always a consideration, isn't it? Oh, I hope dear Dorothy will be happy. I shall see much of her--much of my darling child."
"No," said Derrington, thinking it just as well to nip these plans in the bud, "you care very little about Dorothy, and you don't like George. When they are married you must stop away as much as is consistent with your feelings."
"I'll do what I like," said Mrs. Ward, beginning to tap her foot.
"No, I don't think you will. You threatened me in this room."
"I was only playing a game," protested Mrs. Ward.
"Well, I can play a game also. Mrs. Jersey has left behind her a confession in which she details how you managed to cheat your sister, Miss Bull. If you don't leave that couple severely alone I shall show the confession to Dorothy."
"You would never be so cruel."
"Oh, yes, I would," replied Derrington, who had not the slightest intention of fulfilling his threat.
"I never did anything to my sister. Mrs. Jersey tells lies----"
Derrington made a gesture of disgust. "There--there," he said, "what is the use of talking further? Things are settled. When Dorothy and George are married I'll see what I can do for you."
Mrs. Ward's face became wreathed with smiles. She was such a frivolous, heartless little woman that she could change from one mood to another with wonderful rapidity. "Oh, thank you, dear Lord Derrington," she said artlessly, and pressing his arm. "I know you are the most generous of men. But I really can't stop talking here all day." She rustled over to Dorothy. "My darling, I must go and do some shopping. No, you can stay here. I will call again in an hour. George," she presented her cheek, "you can kiss your mother-in-law."
George did so, delicately, so as not to spoil the tint of the cheek.
Mrs. Ward departed. "He's like a block of wood," she said to herself; "never did a man kiss me so coldly before. Ugh! The bear!"