Third Volume — Chapters 31-32
AN EVENING AT THE VICARAGE.
THE Vicar of Thorston was a severe man, a trifle narrow in his views, and imperious of temper; but he was also fond of good cheer and hospitality--virtues which cover a multitude of sins.
Those who sat at his table were sure of a capital dinner and an excellent glass of wine;
for his cook and cellar were both undeniable.
Report said that Mr. Linton was afraid of his cook, for that good lady had a hot temper, and feared no man.
Many were the battles between her and the vicar, but being a perfect mistress of the culinary art, she invariably came off victor.
She had her faults, but she was a jewel of a cook, and was valued accordingly.
On this special evening the vicar had assembled ten people, including himself, round his hospitable board.
Mr. and Mrs. Hilliston were the principal guests, and Claude was also honored with special attention.
An old couple named Densham, garrulous and pleasant, had likewise been invited; and they, with their daughter and Jenny Paynton, completed the party.
To Claude was assigned Miss Paynton, while to Frank Linton was given the Densham damsel, an arrangement which was anything but pleasing to that jealous young man, or indeed to Miss Densham, who thought the famous author a grumpy creature.
He was too preoccupied to please her taste.
Claude thought he had never seen Mrs. Hilliston to such disadvantage.
She appeared ill at ease, and was haggard and pale of face, looking every year of her age.
Even the rich dress and splendid jewels she wore failed to conceal the ravages of time; and in the neighborhood of the fresh beauty of the two girls she seemed an old woman.
She felt this herself, for Claude noted that she threw an envious glance at the blooming faces of her rivals, and surveyed her wan looks in the nearest glass with a sigh.
To her the party was purgatory.
Nor did the lawyer appear to enjoy himself.
He was moody and fretful, though every now and then he forced himself to be merry, but his laugh was hollow, and the careworn expression of his face belied his untimely mirth.
Sometimes he stole a furtive look at Claude, and seemed to brood over the young man's changed manner; for, do what he could, Larcher, deeming his old friend an enemy, could not behave with his former cordiality.
He was ill-suited for a diplomat.
The dinner passed off with moderate success.
Frank was complimented on his book, and the prosy couple had to be told the main points of the story.
This brief recital made at least three people uncomfortable; for Claude raised his eyes to encounter an angry glance from Hilliston, and a deprecating one from Jenny.
They were relieved when the vicar, who by no means approved of such attention being bestowed on a trashy novel, even though his son was the author, turned the conversation into another channel.
Mr. Linton liked to lead the conversation at his own table.
"I wish to speak to you particularly, Claude," whispered Mrs. Hilliston, as he held the door open for the ladies to retire; "do not be long over your wine."
"I will come as soon as I can," he replied, and returned to his seat, wondering what she could have to say to him.
He was not left long in doubt, for Mr. Hilliston entered into conversation as soon as the glasses were filled and the cigars lighted.
This was the moment for which he had longed for the whole evening.
"Why isn't your friend Tait here to-night?"
he asked, in a casual tone, feigning a lightness he did not feel.
"Did not Mr. Linton tell you?"
replied Claude, prepared for this query.
"He had to go to town on business."
"On business," murmured Hilliston uneasily; "anything to do with this case you have taken up?"
"I can't say.
Tait did not particularly state his errand."
The lawyer sipped his wine, looked thoughtfully at the end of the cigar, and pondered for a few minutes.
He wished to speak of Claude's changed behavior toward himself, yet did not know how to begin.
At length he bluntly blurted out a question, straightforward and to the point.
This was undiplomatic, but at times human nature is too strong for training.
"We are not such good friends as of yore, Claude.
How is that?"
"I think you can guess the reason," replied Larcher, not ill pleased to fight out the point, for he hated being forced into doubtful civility.
"It is this case which has come between us.
I do not think you are giving me what help you ought to, Mr. Hilliston."
"I can give you no help," said the lawyer, drawing his heavy brows together.
"You know as much as I do.
No doubt your meddlesome friend knows more."
"It is not improbable.
But you can prove your honesty in the matter by doing me a favor."
"My honesty, sir, has never been called into question yet," said Hilliston, injudiciously losing his temper, always a prelude to defeat.
"And I have no call to defend myself to one to whom I have been a father.
Still I am willing to grant you what you wish, in reason."
"Very good!
Then introduce me to Mr. Paynton."
"I'm afraid that is out of my power," replied Hilliston, shaking his head.
"You know the man's ways, I think.
He is a hermit, a misanthrope, and does not care for company.
Why do you wish to know him?"
"For various reasons," answered Larcher, coloring with some embarrassment.
He was by no means willing to take Mr. Hilliston into his confidence.
His old guardian looked at him shrewdly, and, remembering certain small circumstances connected with Jenny, guessed, with the skill of an experienced character reader, how the land lay.
At once he formed a resolution to further Claude's interests in the matter, hoping, and not unjustly, that should the lad be taken in the toils of love, he might stop further investigation of the case, an end which Hilliston much desired to gain.
"Oh!"
said he not unkindly, "sits the wind in that quarter?
Well, I will aid you.
In a few days I will try and induce Mr. Paynton to see you, and then perhaps you may succeed."
"Succeed in what?"
demanded Claude sharply, hardly relishing this perspicuity.
"Why, in this love-suit of yours.
Aye, aye, Claude, I can see what you aim at, old as I am.
Well, she is a pretty girl, clever and worthy.
I
know of no woman who would make you a better wife.
You have my best wishes for your success."
"And you will introduce me to her father?"
"I'll try to, but I won't promise confidently.
Paynton is a strange creature and may refuse to see you.
By the way," added Hilliston, as though struck with a sudden thought, "what was my wife saying to you at the door?"
"She was requesting me to speak to her in the drawing room.
There is nothing wrong, I hope?
She does not look well."
"Oh, nothing wrong, nothing wrong!"
replied Hilliston easily, rising to his feet as the vicar moved toward the door.
"She is fond of you, my dear boy, and is anxious about the case."
"Anxious about the case," thought Larcher, as he followed his host into the drawing room; "that is strange.
She can have no interest in it.
H'm!
I'll try the effect of Tait's destination on her.
He said I would be astonished at the result.
I am beginning to be so already."
Perhaps Jenny had overheard the whisper in the dining room, and was sufficiently taken with Larcher to be jealous of his attentions to Mrs. Hilliston, old though she deemed her, for, before he could cross over to where the lawyer's wife was seated, Jenny beckoned to him with her imperious finger.
He could do nothing but obey, despite the frown which darkened Mrs. Hilliston's face, as she saw, and, with womanly instinct, guessed the maneuver.
"Come and sit down here," whispered Jenny, under cover of the music, for Miss Densham was at the piano.
"I have not seen you for several days."
"That is not my fault," said Claude, delighted at the interest thus displayed; "you stay so much indoors.
I have been looking for you everywhere."
"Have you, indeed, Mr. Larcher?"
said Jenny, with feigned surprise.
"And why, may I ask?"
"Oh, for no particular purpose, unless, indeed, it was to ask you for further information concerning the novel."
"Hush.
Not a word of that.
I can't speak of it to you.
I know who you are, Mr. Larcher, but I am ignorant of the tragedy save what I told to Frank, and later on to Mr. Tait."
"But you can guess----" "I can guess nothing," interrupted the girl imperiously.
"If you and I are to remain friends you must cease talking on that subject."
"I'll do anything to remain friends with you, Miss Paynton," was the significant reply.
"Then talk of anything save that terrible case.
Oh, how I wish I had left it alone!"
"I'm glad you did not," said Claude bluntly.
"If it had not been for that book----" Before he could finish the sentence Jenny shot an indignant look at him, and deliberately rising from her seat crossed the room to where Frank Linton was frowning and tugging at his mustache.
Claude was vexed at his folly in thus drawing down her anger on him, but accepted his beating like a man, and passed over to where Mrs. Hilliston waited with an expectant face.
She remarked on his tardy coming with some bitterness.
"I see you prefer a younger face to mine," she said, drawing herself up.
"Time was when I had no rival to fear."
"Dear Mrs. Hilliston, I could not disobey a lady.
Besides--besides----" "Besides you are in love with her.
Oh, I can see that!
Well, she is a pretty girl.
So you intend to marry her?"
"It is early yet to talk of marriage.
I don't even know if she likes me."
Mrs. Hilliston laughed, and looked at him smilingly.
"Then you must be very ignorant of the way of women, my dear," she said meaningly.
"A word in your ear, Claude.
That girl loves you."
"In two weeks!
Impossible!"
"I've known love to grow in two days," replied Mrs. Hilliston dryly.
"Oh, yes, she loves you, and you love her, so you can marry as soon as you choose."
"First I must get Mr. Paynton's consent."
"I should not think that would be difficult," said the lady, looking at his eager face.
"You are young, not ill-looking, not badly off, and so I should not think Mr. Paynton would desire anything better for his daughter.
So much for the first obstacle, and the second?"
"I must solve the mystery of my father's death."
Mrs. Hilliston's manner changed on the instant, and from being gay she became severe and anxious-looking.
Indeed, Claude thought that she paled under her rouge; but this might have been fancy.
"It is about that I wish to speak to you," she said hurriedly.
"I want you to stop investigating this case.
You will learn nothing; it would be of no use to anyone if you did solve the mystery.
Stop troubling yourself with slander, Claude."
"Why?"
he asked, astonished at her earnest tone.
"Because your conduct vexes my husband.
He has been a father to you in the place of the one you lost, so you ought to consider him a little.
Pray leave that mystery unsolved."
"If I would, Tait would not.
He is now even more eager than I to find out the truth."
"Horrid little man!"
said the lady viciously.
"Where is he now?"
The time had now come to try the effect of Tait's destination, and fixing his eyes on Mrs. Hilliston as she slowly fanned herself, Claude uttered the fatal words.
"He is at Horriston."
The fan stopped, Mrs. Hilliston paled, but, preserving her self-control with a strong effort, replied quietly: "At Horriston.
And why?"
"To find out a person not mentioned in the case."
"Man or woman?"
asked Mrs. Hilliston in a low voice.
"Woman."
She said no more, but turned away her head to reply to her husband, who came up opportunely.
He also had heard the last few words of the conversation, and, ignoring the presence of Claude, husband and wife looked at one another with pale faces.
The shot had struck home, and Larcher saw that it had.
CHAPTER XXXII. THE DISCOVERIES OF SPENSER TAIT.
HORRISTON might fitly be compared to Jonah's gourd; it sprang up in a night, so to speak, and withered in the space of a day.
In the earlier part of the Victorian era a celebrated doctor recommended its mineral springs, and invalids flocked to be cured at this new pool of Bethesda.
Whether the cures were not genuine, or insufficiently rapid to please the sick folk, it is hard to say, but after fifteen or twenty years of prosperity the crowd of fashionable valetudinarians ceased to occupy the commodious lodging houses and hotels in Horriston.
Other places sprang up with greater attractions and more certain cures, so the erstwhile fashionable town relapsed into its provincial dullness.
No one lived there but a few retired army men, and no one came save a stray neurotic person in search of absolute quiet.
Few failed to get that at Horriston, which was now as sleepy a place as could be found in all England.
Even Thorston was more in touch with the nineteenth century than this deserted town.
As Tait drove through the streets on his way to the principal hotel, he could not help noticing the dreary look of the chief thoroughfare.
Many of the shops were closed, some were unoccupied, and those still open displayed wares grimy and flyblown.
The shopkeepers came to their doors in a dazed fashion to look at the new visitor in the single fly which plied between station and hotel, thereby showing that the event was one of rare occurrence.
There were no vehicles in the street itself save a lumbering cart containing market produce, and the doctor's trap which stood at the doctor's door.
A few people sauntered along the pavement in a listless fashion, and the whole aspect of the place was one of decay and desertion.
But for the presence of shopkeepers and pedestrians, few though they were, Tait could almost have imagined himself in some deserted mining township on the Californian coast.
The principal hotel faced one side of a melancholy square, and was called "The Royal Victoria," out of compliment to the reigning monarch.
It was a large barrack, with staring windows, and a flight of white steps leading up to a deserted hall.
No busy waiters, no genial landlord or buxom barmaid, not even the sound of cheerful voices.
Cats slept on the steps and fowls clucked in the square, while a melancholy waiter, peering out of the window, put the finishing touch to the lamentable dreariness of the scene.
The sign "Royal Victoria" should have been removed out of very shame, and the word "Ichabod" written up in its place.
The landlord was lacking in humor to let things remain as they were.
However, Tait, being hungry and dusty and tired, consoled himself with the reflection that it was at all events an hotel, and speedily found himself the sole occupant of the dining room, attended to by the melancholy waiter.
The viands provided were by no means bad, and the wine was undeniably good; and small wonder, seeing it had been in the cellars for a quarter of a century for want of someone to drink it.
This fact was confided to Tait by his sad Ganymede.
"We used to see a sight of company here," said this elderly person when he appeared with the claret, "but, bless you, it's like Babylon the fallen now, sir.
You're the first gentleman as I have seen here for a week."
"Shouldn't think it would pay to keep the hotel open."
"It don't, sir," replied the waiter with conviction, "but master is well off--made his money in the days when Horriston was Horriston, and keeps this place as a sort of hobby.
We have a club here in the evenings, sir, and that makes things a bit lively."
"Have you been here long?"
asked Tait, noticing how gray and wrinkled was this despondent servitor.
"Over thirty years, sir," responded Ganymede, with a sigh as though the memory was too much for him; "man and boy I've been here thirty years."
"I'm glad of that.
You're the man I want.
Got a good memory?"
"Pretty good, sir.
Not that there's much to remember," and he sighed again.
"H'm. Have you any recollection of a murder which took place at The Laurels twenty-five years ago?"
"That I have, sir," said the waiter, with faint animation, "it was the talk of the country.
Captain Larcher, wasn't it, sir, and his wife, a sweetly pretty woman?
She was accused of the murder, I think; but she didn't do it.
No, nor Mr. Jeringham either, though some people think he did, 'cause he cleared out.
And small blame to him when they were after him like roaring lions."
"Do you remember Jeringham?"
"I should think so, sir.
Why he stopped in this very hotel, he did.
As kind and affable a gentleman as I ever met, sir.
He kill Captain Larcher?
Not he!
no more than did the wife, poor thing!
Now I have my own opinion," said this wise person significantly, "but I didn't take to it for five years after the murder.
As you might say twenty years ago, sir."
"Who do you think committed the crime, then?"
asked Tait, rather impressed by the man's manner.
The waiter looked around, with the enjoyable air of a man about to impart a piece of startling information, and bent across the table to communicate it to Tait.
"Denis Bantry was the man, sir," he said solemnly; "Captain Larcher's valet."
"Nonsense!
What makes you think that?"
"I don't think it, sir.
I know it.
If you don't believe me, go to The Laurels and ask the old gardener, Dick Pental.
He saw it," finished the waiter, in a tragic whisper.
"Saw what?
The murder?"
said Tait, with a startled look.
"Yes, sir.
He saw the murder.
I heard it all from him, I did; I forget the exact story he told me.
But Denis Bantry should have been hanged, sir.
Oh, there isn't the least doubt about it, sir."
"But if this Dick Pental saw the crime committed, why didn't he come forward and tell about it?"
"Well, sir, it was this way," said Ganymede, dusting the table with his napkin, "Dick aint all there.
Not to be too delicate, sir, Dick's mad.
He was always a softy from a boy, not that he's old now, sir.
Forty-five, I believe, and he was twenty years of age when he was in Captain Larcher's service."
"And is he at The Laurels still?"
"Why, yes, sir.
You see, after the murder, no one would take the house.
They thought it haunted maybe, so Dick was put in as caretaker.
He looked after it for twenty years, and then it was taken by a gentleman who didn't care for murders or ghosts.
He's there now, sir, and so is Dick, who still looks after the garden."
"But why didn't Dick relate what he saw?"
"Because of his softness, sir," said the waiter deliberately.
"You see Dick had been put into a lunatic asylum, he had, just before he came of age.
Captain Larcher--a kind gentleman, sir--took him out, and made him gardener at The Laurels, so when Dick saw the murder done, he was afraid to speak, in case he should be locked up again.
No head, you see, sir.
So he held his tongue, he did, and only told me five years after the murder.
Then it was too late, for all those who were at The Laurels on that night had disappeared.
You don't happen to know where Denis Bantry is, sir, do you?
For he ought to hang, sir; indeed he ought."
Tait did not think it wise to take this bloodthirsty waiter into his confidence, but rewarded him with half a sovereign for his information, and retired to bed to think the matter over.
He was startled by this new discovery, which seemed to indicate Denis Bantry, alias Kerry, as the assassin, and wondered if he had been wrong all through in suspecting Hilliston.
Yet if Kerry had committed the crime, Tait saw no reason why Hilliston should protect him, as he was evidently doing.
Assuming that the waiter had spoken correctly, the only ground on which Tait could explain Hilliston's conduct was that Mrs. Larcher was implicated with the old servant in the murder.
If Kerry were arrested he might confess sufficient to entangle Mrs. Larcher; and as Hilliston loved the woman, a fact of which Tait was certain, he would not like to run so great a risk to her liberty.
But this reasoning was upset by the remembrance that Mrs. Larcher had already been tried and acquitted of the crime; and as according to law she could not be tried twice on the same charge, she was safe in any case.
Tait was bewildered by his own thoughts.
The kaleidoscope had shifted again; the combinations were different, but the component parts were the same; and argue as he might there seemed no solution of the mystery.
Mrs. Larcher, Denis Bantry, his sister, Hilliston, and Mark Jeringham; who had killed the unfortunate husband?
Tait could find no answer to this perplexing question.
In the morning he walked to The Laurels, which he had no difficulty in finding, owing to the explicit directions of his friend the waiter.
It was a pretty, low-roofed house on a slight rise near the river, and built somewhat after the fashion of a bungalow.
The gardens sloped to the river bank on one side, and on the other were sheltered from inland winds by a belt of sycamore trees; in front a light iron railing divided them from the road, which ran past the house on its way to the ferry.
The gardens were some three acres in extent, very pretty and picturesque, showing at every turn that whatever might be the mental state of Dick Pental, he was thorough master of his business.
Tait came into contact with him in a short space of time through the medium of the housekeeper.
This individual was a sour old maid, who informed him with some acerbity that Mr. Deemer, the present occupant of The Laurels, was away from home, and without his permission she could not show him the house.
Perhaps she suspected Tait's errand, for she looked suspiciously at him, and resolutely refused to let him cross the threshold.
However, as a concession she said he could inspect the grounds, which were well worth seeing; and called Dick Pental to show him round.
As Tait had really no great desire to see the interior of the house, where he would learn nothing likely to be of service, and a great desire to speak alone with the mad gardener, he thankfully accepted the offer, and was then thrown into the company of the very man whom he most desired to see.
Dick Pental was a slender, bright-eyed man, with a dreamy-looking face;
alert in his movements, and restless with his hands and feet.
He did not seem unintelligent; but the germs of madness were plainly discernible, and Tait guessed that only his constant life in the open air kept him from returning to the asylum whence he had been taken by Captain Larcher.
With justifiable pride this queer creature showed Tait over the grounds, but never by word or deed did he hint at the story which he had told the waiter.
Still hopeful, Tait led the conversation on that direction, and finally succeeded in touching the spring in the man's brain which made him relate the whole matter.
The opportunity occurred when the two men were standing on a slight rise overlooking the river.
Here Tait made a remark concerning the view.
"What a peaceful scene," he said, waving his stick toward the prospect.
"Corn lands, farmhouses, the square-towered church, and the ferry crossing the placid river.
I can imagine nothing more homely, or so charged with pleasant memories.
Here all is peace and quiet, no trouble, no danger, no crimes."
Dick thoughtfully rubbed the half crown given him by Tait, and looked dreamily at river and sky and opposite shore.
To his abnormally active brain the scene looked different to what it did to this stranger; and he could not forbear alluding to the fact.
Moreover, the gentleman had given him money, and Dick was greedy, so in the expectation of extracting another coin, he hinted that he could tell a startling story about this very place.
"Aint you fond of murders, sir?"
he asked abruptly, turning his bright eyes on Tait.
"No, I don't think I am," replied the other, delighted to think he had succeeded in rousing the man's dormant intelligence.
"Why do you ask?
Murder is an ugly word, and can have nothing to do with so peaceful a scene as this."
"That's all you know, sir," said Dick eagerly.
"Why, I could tell you of a murder as I seed myself in this very spot where we are now--or only a few yards from it, sir."
Tait glanced at his watch with an affectation of hurry, and shook his head.
"I am afraid I can't wait," he said artfully.
"I must return to Horriston in a few minutes."
"It won't take longer nor that to tell.
Why, I've told it in ten minutes, I have.
It's freezer to the blood.
