The Third. Volume

CHAPTER XXIV

A NEW SUSPICION

Spenser Tait walked back to the Manor House with the pleasing conviction that he had passed a very profitable hour. He had warned Jenny about the probable movements of Hilliston, and thus had put her on her guard against that astute individual. Once an idea enters a woman's head, it is impossible to get it out again, and Tait, by half hinting a confirmation of Jenny's suspicions regarding the lawyer, had made her uneasily conscious that Hilliston was a man to be watched and reckoned with. If Hilliston fulfilled Tait's prophecy, the little man believed that Jenny would resent his interference, penetrate his motives, and thwart him, if possible. In spite of her denial that she thought him guilty, Tait could not but perceive that the reading of the case had not biased her in favor of the dead man's friend. Jenny believed that Jeringham had committed the crime, but, if Hilliston acted indiscreetly, it would not take much to induce her to alter that opinion. Tait chuckled as he thought of these things; for he had not only cut the ground from under Hilliston's feet by warning Jenny of his possible arrival, but had, as he truly thought, converted a passive spectator into an active enemy.

Again, he had learned that it was the old servant who had informed the girl concerning the scarfpin episode. Kerry said that the man who owned the scarfpin was guilty; and Kerry knew to whom the scarfpin belonged. If he could only be induced to part with the information there might be some chance of solving the mystery; but Kerry's – or rather Denis Bantry's – past conduct and present attitude were so doubtful that it was difficult to know how he would act, even though he were driven into a corner. Tait had little doubt in his own mind that Kerry was the old servant of Captain Larcher, for no one but he knew the truth about the scarfpin. Nevertheless, he failed to understand why the man had changed his name, and why he was staying at Thorston as servant to a recluse like Paynton. Only a personal interview with him could settle these vexed questions, but Tait was of two opinions whether Kerry would be amenable to reason, and confess his reasons for such concealment.

Thus thinking, and trying to come to some conclusion regarding the new aspect placed upon affairs by the conversation with Jenny, the little man arrived home, and learning that Claude was still in the garden, he went there to report the result of his interview, and discuss the situation. Larcher was leaning back in a comfortable garden chair, with an open book on his knee, but, instead of reading, he was staring with unseeing eyes into the fresh green of the tree above him. On hearing Tait's brisk step he hastily lowered his head with a flush, as though he had been caught doing something wrong, and grew still more confused when he saw his friend looking at him with a queer expression of amusement.

"She is a pretty girl," said Tait significantly; "and I don't wonder you are thinking of her."

"Thinking of who?" asked Claude merrily, at this reading of his thoughts. "Are you a mind reader?"

"So far as you are concerned, I am. Knowing how easily influenced you are by the sight of a pretty face, I don't think I am far wrong in guessing that your thoughts were with Jenny Paynton."

"Well, yes," replied Claude, with a frank laugh. "I do not deny it. The glimpse I caught of her as we drove past in the cart charmed me greatly. I have rarely seen a more sympathetic and piquant face."

"Bah! You say that of every woman you meet. Your geese are always swans."

"Jenny is, at all events!" said Larcher promptly; "and you cannot deny that; but I admire her exceedingly – that is, as a pretty woman. You see, I already call her Jenny in my own mind, but that is because you always talk of her by her Christian name. Now, Jenny is – "

"My dear Don Juan," said Tait blandly; "don't you think we had better leave off these erotics and get to business. You must not indulge in the ideal to the exclusion of the real."

"Oh, not that business!" sighed Larcher wearily. "I don't believe we'll do any good with it. The mystery of my father's death is likely to remain one to the end of time for all I can see. Every trace is obliterated by the snows of twenty-five years."

"Not entirely, my friend. For instance, I have learned an important fact to-day."

"From Miss Paynton?"

"Yes. We had a long conversation, and she was considerably startled when she learned the object of your visit here."

"Was it wise of you to tell her?"

"Why, yes," returned Tait decidedly. "We can do nothing without her help, and that she will refuse to give us unless she learns the reason of our inquiries."

"What is her opinion of the matter? The same as Linton's, I suppose?"

"By no means. She thinks that Jeringham killed your father; but I am not altogether sure that she does not suspect Hilliston. After all, she may come round to Linton's opinion before long."

"Did you tell her that we suspected Hilliston?" asked Claude anxiously.

"Not directly. But I permitted myself to hint as much. However, I only aided the seed of suspicion to sprout, for it was already implanted in her mind. You look astonished, Claude, but recall to your recollection the report of that case, and you will see that Hilliston was far too much mixed up in the matter to be as ignorant as he pretended to be at the trial. According to his evidence he had not left the ballroom, and consequently could have known nothing of the tragedy which was then being enacted at The Laurels. Yet, he knows details which, so far as I can see, prove him to have been an eye-witness."

Claude jumped to his feet, and began restlessly pacing up and down the gravel walk. He yet retained some belief in Hilliston, and was reluctant to think that one to whom he owed so much should be guilty of so foul a crime. It was true that certain circumstances looked black against him, but these were purely theoretical, and by no means founded on absolute facts. After due consideration Claude inclined to the belief that Tait was too easily satisfied of Hilliston's guilt, and was willing to accept any stray facts likely to confirm his theory. Thus biased he could not possibly look on the matter in a fair and equable manner. The wish was altogether too greatly father to the thought.

"I don't think you give Hilliston a fair show, Tait," he said, stepping before his friend. "If he winks an eye you look on it as a sign of his guilt. My mother assured me solemnly that Hilliston was at the ball when the tragedy occurred."

"Oh, in that case, I have nothing more to say," said Tait coldly. "Still," he added rather spitefully, "I should like to know why Mr. Hilliston is so anxious to keep the matter quiet."

"Tait!" said Claude hoarsely, sitting down by his friend and seizing his arm; "do you know I have often asked myself that question, and I have found a reply thereto; the only reply of which I can think."

He paused, and looked fearfully around; then wiped the sweat off his white face with a nervous gesture. Tait eyed him in amazement, and could not understand what had come over his usually self-possessed friend; but he had no time to speak, for Claude, with an irrepressible shiver, whispered in a low voice:

"What if my mother should be guilty, after all? Ah, you may well look astonished, but that is the hideous doubt which has haunted me for days. My mother says she ran at my father with a dagger, but fainted before she struck him. What if she did not faint; if she really killed him, and Hilliston, knowing this, is trying to screen her, and trying to save me from knowing the truth?"

"But, my dear fellow, the trial – "

"Never mind the trial. We now know that Denis swore falsely when he asserted that my father was not in the house on that night. We know that he was in the house, and that my mother found him with Mona Bantry. Her jealousy might have carried her to greater lengths than she intended to go. Denis saved her at the trial by telling a lie; but we know the truth, and I cannot rid myself of a doubt, that she may be guilty. If so, in place of being an enemy, Hilliston is acting the part of a friend in placing obstacles in our way."

Tait shook his head. "I do not believe Mrs. Bezel is guilty," he said quietly; "if she had been, she would certainly not have written to you, and thus forced Hilliston to show you the papers. Banish the thought from your heart, Claude. I am as certain as I sit here that your mother is innocent of the crime."

"If I could only be certain!"

"And why should you not be," exclaimed Tait vigorously. "An eye-witness could tell you the truth."

"Where can I find an eye-witness?" cried Claude, with an impatient frown. "Mona Bantry and Jeringham have both fled; they are probably dead by this time. My mother denies that she struck the blow, and Hilliston, she says, was at the ball when the murder took place. Who can tell me the truth?"

"Denis Bantry," said Tait quietly. "Listen to me, Claude. The episode of the garnet scarfpin, which to my mind is the clew to the assassin, is only known to your mother, to Hilliston, and to Denis Bantry. Now Hilliston denies that such a trinket exists; your mother insists that it was found on the bank of the river after the murder. The only person who can give the casting vote – who can arbitrate, so to speak – is Denis Bantry."

"And where is Denis Bantry? Lost or dead, years ago."

"Nothing of the sort, my friend. Denis Bantry is alive and in this neighborhood. Yes; Jenny Paynton admitted to me that the scarfpin episode was related to her by their old servant, Kerry. Therefore, it naturally follows that Kerry is Denis Bantry."

"But why is he hiding here under another name?" said Larcher, after he had digested this piece of information, with a due display of astonishment.

"That I cannot say. Unless," here Tait hesitated before uttering his opinion, "unless Denis Bantry is the guilty person."

"But that is impossible; that is out of the question," said Claude decidedly. "He was devoted to my father, as you know. Why should he turn and kill him without a cause?"

"Ah!" said Tait significantly; "what if he had a cause, and a very good one, to kill your father. Recall your mother's confession. She returned at three o'clock in the morning and found her husband alone with Mona, the sister of Denis. She accused Mona of being her husband's mistress, and the girl confessed her guilt, which your father evidently could not deny. Now what is more probable than that Denis, attracted by the high voices, should have followed your mother to the room. There he would hear the truth, probably while waiting at the door. What follows? With his impulsive Irish temperament he dashes in, hot to avenge the wrong done to his sister. The dagger dropped by your mother is at his feet; he picks it up and kills his master on the instant. Your mother, in a faint on the floor, knows nothing of what is going on, and brother and sister remove the body to the river, where they drop it in. Then Mona is sent away by Denis to hide her shame and evade awkward questions, while he remains."

"But why should he remain?" interrupted Claude smartly. "Would it not have been wiser for him to fly?"

"And so confess his guilt. No! He induces Jeringham to fly, with a threat of denouncing him as the murderer of Larcher. Jeringham is in such a dilemma that, seeing that all the evidence will be against him, he takes to flight. Thereupon Denis is able to save his mistress, and himself, by denying that Larcher came to the house on that night. Of course, this is all pure theory; still it is as circumstantial as the rest of the evidence we have in hand."

But Claude was by no means inclined to agree with this last remark. "There are flaws in your argument," he said, after a few moments' reflection. "If Denis intended to deny that my father was in the house on that night, why should he induce Jeringham to fly?"

"To make assurance doubly sure. No doubt he intended first to put the blame on Jeringham, but finding that Mrs. Larcher was likely to be accused, he made things safe for her by denying that his master returned on that evening. Only four people knew of the return; Mona, who fled, Mrs. Larcher, who held her tongue to save her neck; Denis, who swore falsely to serve his mistress; and Jeringham, who thought he might be accused of the crime."

"But why wouldn't he have denounced Denis?"

"He was doubtless ignorant that Denis was the criminal. You forget that Jeringham was in the garden, and knew nothing of what was taking place in the sitting room. Denis rushed out, and finding Jeringham may have told him that Mrs. Larcher had killed her husband on his account. The man, bewildered and shocked, yet sees that he is complicated in the case through his love for Mrs. Larcher; he guesses that owing to the gossip of the place he may be accused of the crime, and so does the wisest thing he could do, – the only thing he could do, – and seeks refuge in flight."

"Then you think Denis is guilty?"

"I can't say. As you see, I can make a strong case out against your mother, against Jeringham, against Denis. Yes, I could even make a case against Mona Bantry; but it is sole theory. Yet Denis must have some reason for hiding here under the name of 'Kerry,' and for keeping those papers found by Jenny which contained a report of the case. The case is strong against Hilliston, I admit, but is stronger against your father's own servant."

"I don't think so," said Claude quietly. "If Denis had killed my father, he would not have told Jenny about the scarfpin."

"Why not! The scarfpin may have belonged to Jeringham – to Hilliston. For his own safety – now that the case is recognized after so many years by a girl's rash action – Denis would not hesitate to blame them to save himself. Taking it all round," added Tait, with the air of one who has settled the question, "I think the conduct of Denis is very suspicious, and I would not be surprised if he turned out to be the guilty person."

"But the acts of Hilliston?"

Tait rubbed his head and looked vexed, for he was unable to give a direct answer. "Let us leave the matter alone for the present," he said crossly. "I am getting bewildered with all this talk. Only one person can tell the truth, and that is Kerry, alias Denis Bantry."

CHAPTER XXV

THE RECLUSE

Meanwhile Jenny was proceeding homeward in a rather unhappy state of mind. The conversation had left an unpleasant impression, and she was by no means sure what it would lead to. A hundred times did she wish that she had not meddled with the matter; but it was now too late for regrets, and she recognized that she must bear the burden of her wrong-doing. Though, indeed, she could see no reason to characterize her action by so harsh a name.

"A bundle of old papers in a garret," she thought, walking quickly through the lane; "where was the harm in reading them? And, as they contained an interesting story, I fail to see where I acted wrongly in telling it to Frank. The Larcher affair can have nothing to do with papa, even though Kerry was so angry. I'll speak to Kerry, and ask him if I have done wrong."

According to her promise she was determined to say nothing to her father for at least twenty-four hours, for she was curious to see if Mr. Hilliston would call to speak of the matter. If he did so, then would be the time to exculpate herself; but, pending such visit, she saw no reason why she should not consult with Kerry. He had expressed anger at her possession of the papers, so he, if anyone, would be able to explain if she had been rash. On Kerry's answer would depend the explanation due to her father.

Thus thinking, she speedily arrived in a deep lane, at the end of which she turned into a white gate set in a rugged stone wall. Nut trees bent over this wall, dropping their fruit into the ruts of the road, and on the opposite side rose a steep green bank topped by blackberry bushes. This byway was little frequented, and here quiet constantly reigned, unbroken save by the voices of birds. It was a great place for nightingales, and many a summer evening did Jenny stand under the bending boughs listening to the warblings of those night singers. So bird-haunted was the spot that here, if anywhere, Keats might have composed his famous ode. Indeed, the road was known as Nightingale Lane, for obvious reasons.

Passing through the gate, Jenny saw before her the little garden, odorous with homely cottage flowers – sweet-williams, delicate pea blossom, ruddy marigolds, and somber bushes of rosemary. A hawthorn hedge on the right divided the flowers from the kitchen garden; while to the left grew gnarled apple and pear trees, now white with bloom. A sprawling peach tree clung to the guarding wall of the lane, and beds of thyme and mignonette perfumed the still air. In the center of this sweetness was built the humble cottage of Ferdinand Paynton, a broad, low-roofed building, with whitewashed walls and quaint windows, diamond-paned and snowy curtained. Pots of flowers were set within, and under the eaves of the thatched roof twittered the darting swallows. One often sees such peaceful homesteads in the heart of England, breathing quiet and tranquillity. Rose Cottage, as it was called, from the prevailing flower in the garden, was worthy to be enshrined in a fairy tale.

Here lived Ferdinand Paynton, with his only daughter, and two servants, male and female. The one was Kerry, a crabbed old Irishman, stanch as steel, and devoted to his master; the other a withered crone who was never seen without her bonnet, yet who bore the reputation of being an excellent cook, and an economical housekeeper. As Mr. Paynton was poor, and spent more than he could afford on books, Maria was very necessary to him, as she scraped and screwed with miserly care, yet withal gave him good meals, and kept the tiny house like a new pin. Kerry attended principally to the garden and the books; looked after Jenny, whom he was always scolding, and passed his leisure time in fishing in the Lax.

Hot or cold, wet or fine, summer or winter, nothing varied in the routine of Rose Cottage. Mr. Paynton rose at nine, took his breakfast, and read his paper till ten, then walked for an hour or so in the garden with Jenny. Till luncheon he wrote; after luncheon he slept, and then wrote again till dinner time. The evening in summer was spent in the garden, in winter within doors, before a roaring fire in the bookroom. For more than twenty years life had gone on in this peaceful fashion, and during that time Jenny could not remember the occurrence of a single episode worth recording. Rose Cottage might have been the palace of the Sleeping Beauty during the hundred years' spell.

The inhabitant of this hermitage was a puzzle to the gossips of Thorston, for, after the industrious inquiries of twenty years, they were as wise as ever touching his antecedents. Then he had arrived with Kerry, and his daughter, a child of five, and, staying at the Inn of St. Elfrida, had looked about for a small place in the neighborhood. Rose Cottage, then empty and much neglected, appeared to be the most secluded spot procurable, so Mr. Paynton set it in order, patched the roof, cultivated the garden, and took up his abode therein. Here he had lived ever since, rarely leaving it, seeing few people, and accepting no invitations. The man was a recluse, and disliked his fellow-creatures, so when Thorston became aware of his peculiarities he was left alone to live as he chose. It may be guessed that his peculiar habits made him unpopular.

The vicar was friendly to the misanthrope, for in Paynton he found a kindred soul in the matter of books; and many a pleasant evening did they spend in discussing literary subjects. The bookroom was the pleasantest apartment in the house, cosy and warm, and lined throughout with volumes. In the deep window stood the desk, and here Ferdinand Paynton sat and wrote all day, save when he took his usual stroll in the garden. Jenny had also grown up in the bookroom, and, as her education had been conducted by her father, she was remarkably intelligent for a country maiden, and could talk excellently on literature, old and new. For the softer graces of womanhood she was indebted to the care of Mrs. Linton, who from the first had taken a great interest in the motherless girl.