If Sinners Entice Thee
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George thought it useless to seek her that night, therefore when the constable had left he took a long farewell glance at the white upturned face, and mounting, turned the mare’s head towards the Court. Onward he rode in the darkness across the open country to Broomfield Hatch, then turning to the right into the Grazely Road, cantered down the hill towards the lodge gates of Stratfield Court.
“It’s a strange affair,” he muttered aloud. “Strange indeed, that Nelly should have ridden along that bad road if not with the intention of meeting someone by appointment. Yet she would scarcely make an appointment at that spot, knowing that I had arranged to meet Liane there. No, poor girl, I can’t help feeling convinced that she was awaiting me to tell me of Liane’s inability to be there. Again, how came she possessed of the missing miniature? What motive could anyone possibly have in murdering her? Ah! what motive, I wonder?”
Deep in thought, he allowed his mare to jog onward beneath the beeches which at that point nearly met overhead, rendering the road almost pitch dark. Once he thought he detected a slight movement in the impenetrable gloom, and pulling up, strained his eyes into the high bushes at the roadside. For a few moments he sat perfectly still in the saddle listening intently. Then, hearing nothing, he started forth again muttering:
“I could have sworn I saw something white fluttering over there; but bah! I’m unnerved, I suppose, to-night, and after all it was mere fancy.”
Once he turned to glance back; then resolutely set his face along the dark avenue of chestnuts, homeward.
Little sleep came to his eyes that night. He was thinking of his own future, of Liane’s love, and of her sad bereavement. Times without number he tried to formulate some theory to account for the miniature being in Nelly’s possession, and the foul assassination of the bright, happy girl, whose merry laughter had so often charmed him. Yet it was a mystery, absolute and complete.
The great house was quiet, for its irascible master was dead, and its son, held in esteem by all the servants from butler to stable lad, was ruined. The very clocks seemed to tick with unaccustomed solemnity, and the bell in the turret over the stables chimed slowly and ominously as each long hour passed towards the dawn. At last, however, still in his clothes, George slept, and it was not until the morning sun was streaming full into his room that he awoke. Then, finding that the two doctors had returned to London, he went to the library and wrote a brief note to Liane, asking her to meet him at the lodge gates at eleven o’clock. Sir John was now no more, therefore in the Park they might walk together unobserved. At first he hesitated to invite her there so quickly, but on reflection he saw that he must see her at once and endeavour to console her, and that the leafy glades of his dead father’s domain were preferable to the highways, where they would probably be noticed by the village gossips.
At nine he sent the note down to the village by one of the stable lads, who brought back two hastily scribbled lines, and at the hour appointed she came slowly along the dusty road, looking cool and fresh beneath her white sunshade.
Their greeting was formal while within sight of the windows of the lodge, but presently, when they had entered the Park by the winding path which led through a thick copse, he halted, took her in his arms and imprinted upon her soft cheek a long passionate kiss. Her own full lips met his in a fierce affectionate caress, but their hearts were too full for words. They stood together in silence, locked in each other’s arms.
Then he noticed for the first time that her eyes were swollen, and that she wore a white tulle veil to conceal their redness. She had no doubt spent the night in tears. The tiny gloved hand trembled in his grasp, and her lips quivered.
At last he spoke softly, first lifting her hand reverently to his lips.
“Both of us have experienced bereavement since last we met, two days ago, Liane. You have my sincerest sympathy, my darling.”
“Is Sir John dead?” she inquired in a low husky voice.
He nodded.
“Then our losses are both hard to bear,” she said, sighing. “Poor Nelly! I – I cannot bear to think of it. I cannot yet realise the terrible truth.”
“Nor I, dearest,” he answered, echoing her sigh. “But we must nevertheless face the facts if we desire to discover the assassin.”
“They told me that it was you who first discovered her,” she said falteringly, her eyes overflowing with tears. “Tell me how it all happened.”
“There is very little to tell,” he responded. “I found her lying on the road dead, and went at once for the doctor and the police.”
“But what were you doing in Cross Lane?” she inquired.
“I went out to meet you as we had arranged.”
“But surely you knew that I could not meet you,” she exclaimed, looking at him quickly.
“How could I?”
“I sent you a letter telling you that my father had an unexpected visitor, and that we must therefore postpone our meeting until this evening.”
“A letter!” he cried, puzzled. “I have only this moment left the Court, and no letter has yet arrived.”
“But I gave it to Nelly to post before half-past twelve yesterday morning, therefore you should have received it at five. She must have forgotten to post it.”
“Evidently,” he said. “But have you yet ascertained why she went down Cross Lane? To the police the fact of her having ridden down there in preference to the high road is an enigma.”
“No. According to the inquiries already made it has been ascertained that she went to Talmey’s at Burghfield, purchased some silk, and had returned nearly to Stratfield Mortimer when she suddenly turned, went back about half a mile, and then entered Cross Lane. She was seen to turn by two labourers coming home from their work on Sim’s Farm.”
“She was alone, I suppose?”
“Entirely,” Liane answered. “Like myself, she had no horror of tramps. I’ve ridden along these roads at all hours of the day and night, and have never been once molested.”
“The tragedy was no doubt enacted in broad daylight, for the sun had not quite set when, according to the doctor, she must have been shot while riding. Have you any idea that she had incurred the animosity of anybody?”
“No; as you well know, she was of a most amicable disposition. As far as I am aware, she had not a single enemy in the world.”
“A secret lover perhaps,” George suggested.
“No, not that I am aware of. She had no secrets from me. Since we came to England she has never spoken of any man with admiration.”
“Then abroad she had an admirer? Where?”
“In Nice. Charles Holroyde, a rich young Englishman, who was staying last winter at the Grand Hotel, admired her very much.”
“And you were also living in Nice at the time?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know his address in England?” he inquired.
“No. Nelly may have done, but I did not. I met him with her on the Promenade several times, and he seemed very pleasant and amusing. The diamond brooch she wore he gave her as a present last carnival.”
“Now that I recollect,” George exclaimed, “she was not wearing that brooch when I discovered her.”
“No,” answered his well-beloved. “Strangely enough, that has been stolen, although no attempt was made to take the watch and bunch of charms she wore in her blouse.”
“Are the police aware of that?”
“Yes,” Liane answered. “I told one of the detectives this morning, and gave him a minute description of the brooch. At the back are engraved Nelly’s initials, together with his, therefore it is likely it may be traced.”
“If so, it will be easy to find the murderer,” George observed, as they strolled slowly along together beneath the welcome shade, for the morning was perfect, with bright warm sun and a cloudless sky into which the larks were everywhere soaring, filling the air with their shrill, joyous songs. “Have you any idea whether poor Nelly has corresponded with this man Holroyde since leaving Nice?” he inquired, after a pause.
“I think not.”
“Why?”
“Well, they had a slight quarrel – I have never exactly known the cause – they parted, and although he wrote several times, she did not answer.”
George scented suspicion in this circumstance. The fact that this brooch, one of considerable value, should alone have been stolen was, to say the least, curious; but discarded lovers sometimes avenge themselves, and this might perchance be a case of murder through jealousy. As he strolled on beside the handsome girl, with her pale, veiled face, he reflected deeply, trying in vain to form some theory as to the motive of the crime.
“Did the police tell you that beside her I discovered an old miniature of Lady Anne which has been missing from the Court for twenty years or more?” he asked.
“Yes, they showed it to my father and myself. We have, however, never seen it before. How it came into her possession we are utterly at a loss to imagine,” she answered. “It is a heavy blow to lose her,” she continued, in a low, intense voice. “We have always been as sisters, and now the fate that has overtaken her is enshrouded in a mystery which seems inexplicable. Father is dreadfully upset. I fear he will never be as happy as before.”
“But you have me, Liane,” her lover said, suddenly halting and drawing her towards him. “I love you, my darling. I told you nearly two months ago that I loved you. I don’t know that I can add anything to what I said then.”
She was silent, looking straight before her.
His breath came more quickly. The colour rose to his cheeks. At this decisive moment the words died in his throat, as they must for every honest lover who would fain ask the momentous question of her whom he loves. He remembered that he now had no right to ask her to be his wife.
“Do you know,” he said at last, again grasping her hand impetuously, “that I think you the sweetest, most charming woman in the world? I want you to be my wife, and help me to make my life all it should be, only – only I dare not ask you.”
Liane did not withdraw her fingers. She remained perfectly still without meeting his glance. Yet, strangely enough, she shuddered.
“I have not the power to say all I feel. My words sound so harsh and cold; but, Liane, Liane, I love you! God made not the heart of man to be silent, but has promised him eternity with the intention that he should not be alone. There is for me but one woman upon earth. It is you.”
He looked imploringly into her face.
“Yes, George, I feel that you love me,” she said, with a sweet smile behind her veil. “It is very nice to be loved.”
He covered her hand with eager kisses; but she withdrew it softly, her lips compressed.
“My darling!” His arm was about her waist, and he kissed her lips. He spoke in strong suppressed agitation; his voice trembled. He recollected he was penniless.
She freed herself from his embrace. “No, no,” she murmured. “We may love, but we must not marry. There are so many other girls who would make you far happier than I should.”
He went on to tell her how much he reverenced her character, how good and pure and lovely she was, and how completely she fulfilled his ideal of what a woman ought to be.
Slowly she shook her head. “That shows you know so little of me, George.”
“I know only what you have told me, dearest,” he answered.
Then a moment later he regretted that he had not adhered to his resolve and exercised more self-control. Was he not without means? Yet he had asked her to marry him! Could he tell her in the same breath that he was penniless? No, he dared not, lest she might cast him aside.
Liane stood like one in a dream, her beautiful face suffused by blushes, her eyes downcast, her breast slowly heaving.
He could resist his own passion – he could keep back what he felt – no longer.
“I love you!” cried he.
She stretched out her hands in a sort of mute appeal, and seemed as if she would fall; but in that instant she was again clasped to his heart, and held there with a tender force that she had neither the power nor the will to withstand.
He wished to marry her! Was it possible? And she loved him. With that thought her face was hidden on his shoulder, and she yielded herself to those protecting arms. He felt the shy loving movement as she nestled close to him, and her frame was shaken by a sob.
“My darling – my darling – my own darling!” he cried, triumph in his voice, and passionate joy in his eyes. “You love me – you love me!”
But again she drew herself away from him, then turned aside, held her breath, and shuddered. The lace ruffles on her bosom slowly rose and fell. The movement was as though she were shrinking from him with repulsion. But it was only momentary, and he did not notice it. Next instant she again turned, lifting her clear grey eyes to his with their frank innocent gaze.
“Yes,” she said, almost in a whisper, “I love you.”
Chapter Four
Hairpins
The tragedy caused the greatest excitement in the neighbourhood. Journalistic artists, those industrious gentlemen who produce such terribly distorted portraits, came from London and sketched the spot in Cross Lane and the exterior of Captain Brooker’s house. One had the audacity to call and request him to lend them a photograph of the murdered girl. This he declined, with a few remarks more forcible than polite, for he had been greatly annoyed by the continual stream of interviewers, who continually rang his bell. Hundreds of persons walked or drove over from Reading to view the spot where Nelly had been found, and in addition to the local detectives, Inspector Swayne, a well-known officer from Scotland Yard, had been sent down to direct the inquiries.
At the inquest, held at the King’s Head, two days later, it was expected by everybody that some interesting facts would be brought to light. Erle Brooker had never troubled to earn the good will of his neighbours, therefore they were now spitefully eager for any scandal that might be elicited, and long before the hour for which the jury had been summoned, congregated around the village inn. It was known that on the day following the tragedy the Captain had paid a mysterious visit to London, and the object of this trip had been a subject of much discussion everywhere. The murder of his adopted daughter had been a terrible blow to him, and when seen on his way to the station it was noticed that his face, usually smiling and good-humoured, wore a heavy, preoccupied look.
As he walked with Liane from his cottage to the inn, the crowd, gaping and hushed, opened a way for them to pass in; then, when they had entered, there was an outburst of sympathy and sneers, many of the latter reaching the ears of George Stratfield when, a few moments later, he followed them.
After a long wait, the Coroner at length took his seat, the jury were duly sworn, and the witnesses, ordered out of the crowded room, were ushered into a small ante-room, the table of which had recently been polished with stale beer. Here Liane introduced her lover to her father, and the men exchanged greetings. George, however, did not fail to notice the rustiness of the Captain’s shabby frock-coat, nor the fact that his black trousers were shiny at the knees; yet as they grasped hands, the ring of genuine bonhomie about his voice favourably impressed him. By his tone and manner George instinctively knew that Erle Brooker, the man against whom his dead father entertained such an intense dislike, was a gentleman.
“Our meeting is in very tragic circumstances, Mr Stratfield,” the Captain observed huskily, his grave face unusually pale. “They told me that you had discovered poor Nelly, but I had not the pleasure of your acquaintance, although I had, of course, heard of you often from the villagers.”
Liane and George looked at one another significantly.
“I must regret your sad bereavement, and both you and Liane have my sincerest sympathy,” the young man answered.
The Captain glanced quickly at the Baronet’s son with a strange, puzzled expression. He had spoken of his daughter familiarly by her Christian name, and evidently knew her well. He had not before suspected this.
At that moment, however, the door opened, and a constable putting his head inside called his name. In obedience to the policeman’s request he rose and followed him into the room wherein the court of inquiry had assembled. Having advanced to the table and been sworn, the Coroner addressing him, said, —
“Your name is Captain Erle Brooker, late of the Guards, I believe?”
“Yes.”
“And you identify the body of the deceased. Who was she?”
“Helen Mary Bridson, daughter of a brother officer, Captain Bridson. She was left an orphan eleven years ago, and I brought her up.”
“Did her father die in London?”
“No, on the Continent.”
“Had she no relatives on her mother’s side?”
The Captain slowly stroked his moustache, then answered.
“I knew of none.”
“Were you acquainted with her mother?”
“No, I was not,” he replied after a moment’s reflection.
“And you have no suggestion to make, I suppose, regarding any person who might have entertained ill-will towards the unfortunate girl?” inquired the grey-haired Coroner.
“None whatever.”
“When did you last see her alive?”
“On Monday evening, when she accompanied a visitor to the station to see him off on his return to London. She rode her cycle, and announced her intention of going on to Burghfield to make a purchase. She was found later on,” he added, hoarsely.
“Who was this visitor? What was his name?”
“He was a friend, but I decline to give his name publicly,” the Captain replied firmly. “I will, however, write it for your information, if you desire,” and taking a pencil from his pocket he wrote the name of Prince Zertho d’Auzac and handed it to the Coroner.
The eager onlookers were disappointed. They had expected some sensational developments, but it seemed as though the crime was too enshrouded in mystery to prove of any very real interest. They did not, however, fail to notice that when the Coroner read what the Captain had written, an expression of astonishment crossed his face.
“Are you certain that the – this gentleman – left by the train he went to catch?” he asked.
“Quite,” answered Brooker. “Not only have the police made inquiry at my instigation, but I have also accompanied a detective to London, where we found my visitor. Inspector Swayne, as a result of his investigations, was entirely satisfied.”
“Had the unfortunate young lady any admirer?”
“I think not.”
“Then you can tell us absolutely nothing further?” observed the Coroner, toying with his quill.
“Unfortunately I cannot.”
The Captain, after signing his depositions, was directed to one of a row of empty chairs near the Coroner’s table, and his daughter was called.
Liane, pale and nervous, neatly dressed in black, entered quietly, removed her right glove, and took the oath. Having given her name, the Coroner asked, —
“When did you last see the deceased, Miss Brooker?”
“When she set out to go to the railway station,” she answered, in a low faltering voice.
“Have you any idea why she should have gone to Cross Lane? It was entirely out of her way home from Burghfield to Stratfield Mortimer, was it not?”
“I cannot tell,” Liane replied. “We went along that road on our cycles only on one occasion, and found it so rough that we agreed never to attempt it again.”
“I presume, Miss Brooker, that the deceased was your most intimate friend?” observed the Coroner. “She would therefore be likely to tell you if she had a lover. Were you aware of the existence of any such person?”
“No,” she replied, flushing slightly and glancing slowly around the hot, crowded room.
“You had a visitor whose name your father has just given me upon this paper,” observed the Coroner. “Was that visitor known to the deceased?”
The eyes of the father and daughter met for a single instant as she glanced around upon the long lines of expectant countenances.
“Oh, yes,” she replied. “The gentleman who came unexpectedly to see us has been known to us all for fully five or six years.”
“And has always been very friendly towards the unfortunate girl?”
“Always.”
“The only thing taken from the young lady appears to have been a diamond brooch. Do you know anything of it?”
“Of what?” gasped Liane nervously, her face paling almost imperceptibly behind her black veil.
“Of the brooch, of course.”
“I only know that she prized it very much, as it was a present from a gentleman she had met while on the Riviera eighteen months ago.”
“He was not her lover?” inquired the grave-faced man, without looking up from the sheet of blue foolscap whereon he was writing her statement.
“Not exactly. I have no knowledge of her possessing any admirer.”
The Coroner at last paused and put down his quill. “And this miniature, which was discovered beside the body, have you ever before seen it in the possession of the deceased?” he asked, holding it up to her gaze.
“No,” she answered. “Never.”
The jury not desiring to ask any questions, Liane was then allowed to retire to a chair next her father, and the doctor was called.
“Will you kindly tell us the result of the post mortem, Dr Lewis?” the Coroner requested, when the medical man had been sworn.
At once the doctor explained in technical language the injuries he had discovered, and described the exact position in which he had found the body when he reached the spot.
“And what, in your opinion, was the cause of death?” asked the Coroner in dry, business-like tones.
“She was shot at close quarters while ascending the incline leading from the railway arch towards Stratfield Mortimer. The weapon used was an Army revolver. I produce the bullet I have extracted,” he answered, taking it from his vest-pocket and handing it across the table. “The deceased’s assailant stood on her left-hand side, and must have shot her as she rode along. She evidently mounted her cycle at the commencement of the incline, and having run down swiftly and passed beneath the arch, was again descending when the shot was fired.”
“Was death instantaneous?” inquired the foreman of the jury.
“Scarcely,” answered the doctor. “Such a wound must, however, cause death. Immediate attention could not have saved her.”
A thrill of horror ran through the crowded court. Nearly everyone present had seen Nelly Bridson, with her smiling happy face, riding about the village and roads in the vicinity, and the knowledge that she had met with an end so terrible yet mysterious, appalled them.
Some further questions were put to the doctor, after which George Stratfield entered. As he raised the greasy copy of Holy Writ to his lips, his eyes fell upon Liane. She was sitting, pale and rigid, with a strange haggard expression upon her beautiful countenance such as he had never before beheld. He gazed upon her in alarm and surprise.
The Coroner’s questions, however, compelled him to turn towards the jury, and in reply he explained how, on that fateful evening after his father’s death, he was riding along Cross Lane, and was horrified by discovering the body of Nelly Bridson. In detail he described every incident, how he had lifted her up, and finding her quite dead, had ridden on into the village to obtain assistance.
Liane listened to his story open-mouthed. Her hands were closed tightly, and once or twice, when questions were put to him by Coroner or jury, she held her breath until he had answered. She was as one paralysed by some unknown fear. Their gaze met more than once, and on each occasion he fancied he detected, even through her veil, that her eyes were dark and haggard, like one consumed by some terrible dread.
“You have, I believe, some knowledge of this miniature,” the Coroner observed, again taking the small oval bejewelled portrait in his hand.
“Yes,” he answered. “It is undoubtedly the one which has been missing from my late father’s collection for more than twenty years. It was supposed to have been stolen, but by whom could never be ascertained. My father had several times offered handsome rewards for its recovery, as it is a family portrait.”
“You have no idea, I suppose, by what means it could have come into the unfortunate girl’s possession?”
“None whatever. The unexpected discovery amazed me.”