Third Volume — Chapters 33-34
THE STORY OF THE MAD GARDENER.
HAVING made this startling announcement, Dick Pental drew back to observe the effect on his hearer.
Humoring the man's vanity, Tait expressed due surprise, and requested him to narrate the circumstance to which he referred.
"It is about twenty-five years ago, it is," said Dick, commencing his tale in a great hurry; "and I was the gardener here to Captain Larcher.
You don't know him, sir; it aint to be expected as you should.
He was a grown gentleman before you were, and a kind 'un he was; took me out of the asylum, he did.
They said I was mad, you know, and put me into a strait waistcoat; but I wasn't a bit wrong in my head, sir, not I. Captain Larcher he saw that, so he took me out and made me his gardener.
And aint I done a lot for the place?
just you look round and see."
"Your work is admirable, Dick."
"It is that," replied the man with _naïve_ vanity, "and you aint the first as has said that, sir.
Oh, I'm fond of the garden, I am; flowers are much nicer company than human beings, I think.
Not so cross with Dicky, you know, sir."
"No doubt," said Tait, seeing that the creature was following the wanderings of his poor wits.
"But about this murder you----" "I didn't know anything was wrong," interrupted the gardener earnestly;
"I'd have kept out of the way if I'd known that; but I came here one night when I shouldn't have been here."
"How was that?"
"Hot rum and water," confessed Dick, with great simplicity.
"I drank it--too much of it, and it went to my head.
It isn't a strong head, so I came here to sleep it clear again.
That was about twelve o'clock as near as I can tell, but, Lord bless you, my head made no account of time, when the hot rum and water was in it.
I woke up and I was frightened finding myself in the dark,--I hate the dark, don't you, sir?
--so I finished some rum that I had with me and went to sleep again.
Then I woke up sudden, I did, and I saw it."
"The murder being committed?"
"No, not quite that!
But I saw a man lying on the ground just over there, and he didn't move a bit.
Another man was holding him in his arms, and Denis Bantry was standing by with a lantern."
"Who was the other man?"
"It was a gentleman called Mr. Jeringham.
Oh, yes!
My head was queer, but I knew him by his clothes, I did.
I was at the grand ball of the gentry, you know; it was there I got drunk--and I saw Mr. Jeringham there in black clothes with gold trimmings.
He had them on when he bent over Captain Larcher."
"How did you know the man on the ground was Captain Larcher?"
"I didn't, then," confessed Dick ingenuously; "but when I heard as they found him in the river, I knew it was him, I did.
I saw them drop him in!"
"Denis Bantry and Mr. Jeringham?"
exclaimed Tait, astonished at the minuteness of these details.
"Yes.
They talked together for a bit, but my head was so queer that I couldn't make out what they said.
But they picked up Captain Larcher, one at the head and the other at the heels, and they dropped him in--Splash!
he went, he did.
I was behind a tree and they couldn't see me.
Ugh!"
said the man, with a shiver, "how I did feel afraid when he went splash into the cold water.
Then I went away and held my tongue."
"Why did you do that?
It was your duty to have come forward and told the truth."
Dick Pental put on a cunning look, and shook his head.
"Not me, sir," he said artfully.
"They'd have said my head was queer and put me in an asylum again.
No, no, Dicky was too clever for them, he was."
"But you say it was Denis Bantry who killed Captain Larcher," said Tait, after a moment's reflection.
"How do you know that, when you did not see the blow struck?
It might have been Mr. Jeringham."
Looking lovingly at the piece of gold which was now in his possession, Dick shook his head with great vigor.
"It wasn't Mr. Jeringham," he protested.
"He was a good, kind gentleman.
He gave Dicky half a crown the day before.
He was fond of Captain Larcher's wife, so he couldn't have killed Captain Larcher."
Against this insane reasoning Tait had nothing to urge, as Dicky was evidently convinced that Denis Bantry was guilty, to the exclusion of Jeringham.
Had the former given him money instead of the latter he would doubtless have accused Jeringham and sworn to the innocence of Denis.
The man's brain was too weak to be depended upon; but Tait recognized that the report he gave of the occurrence of that fatal night was true and faithful in all respects.
Dicky was not sufficiently imaginative to invent such a story.
Satisfied from the importance of the knowledge he had gained that his time had not been wasted, Tait wished to be alone to think out the matter.
There was some difficulty in getting rid of Dicky, who was still greedily expectant of further tips, but in the end he induced the man to return to his work, and set out for Horriston at a brisk walk.
He always thought better when exercising his limbs, and before he reached the town he had arrived at several conclusions respecting the case as seen under the new light thrown on it by the gardener.
For one thing, he concluded that Paynton was Jeringham.
The reason for Denis being in his service had been explained by Dick Pental, as the two men were bound together by a common bond of guilt.
Tait was inclined to think that Jeringham was innocent, for if he had killed Larcher there would have been no need for Denis to have screened him.
On the other hand, circumstantial evidence was so strong against Jeringham that, if Denis had struck the blow, he would be forced to acquiesce in the silence of the real criminal--to become, as it were, an accessory to the crime.
Denis could have sworn that Jeringham was guilty, and so placed him in danger of his life.
Thus the two men had a hold on one another;
Jeringham because circumstances were against him, Denis because he had killed Larcher.
The motive for the crime was not difficult to discover after the story told by Mrs. Bezel.
Bantry had killed his master as the destroyer of his sister's honor.
Under the names of Paynton and Kerry the two men were dwelling together at Thorston in loathed companionship, each afraid to let the other out of his sight.
Tait could imagine no more terrible punishment than that enforced comradeship.
It reminded him of a similar situation in a novel of Zola's, where husband and wife were equally culpable, equally afraid, and filled with equal hatred the one toward the other.
Still this conclusion, supported as it was by facts, did not explain the attitude of Hilliston.
Assuming the guilt of Denis Bantry, the complicity of Jeringham, there appeared to be no reason why Hilliston should protect them at Thorston, and throw obstacles in the way of the truth's discovery.
Tait was completely nonplussed and could think of no explanation.
And then he remembered Mrs. Bezel's letter, and the mention of Louisa Sinclair.
Hilliston, according to Mrs. Bezel, knew this woman, and she knew who had committed the crime.
But how could she know unless she had been concealed, like Dick Pental, in the garden on that night?
Tait was quite certain that Denis Bantry was guilty, but the hint of Mrs. Bezel threatened to disturb this view; and yet what better evidence was obtainable than that of an eye-witness.
Still Tait remembered that Dicky confessed he had not seen the blow struck.
What if Louisa Sinclair had?
That was the question he asked himself.
Under the circumstances it was necessary to find out who this woman was.
Tait did not judge it wise to ask Hilliston, for the simple reason that the lawyer would not admit the truth.
There was no obvious reason why he should not, but Tait had sufficient experience of Hilliston's trickery and evasion in the past to know that his admissions were untrustworthy.
There only remained for him to search for Louisa Sinclair in Horriston, question her if she were alive, or learn all that he could if she were dead.
And now occurred a coincidence which unwittingly put Tait on the right track.
When within half a mile of Horriston he met a clergyman swinging along at a good pace, and in him recognized a former college companion.
The recognition and the delight were mutual.
"My dear Brandon, this is indeed a surprise!"
exclaimed Tait, holding out his hand.
"I had no idea that you were in these parts."
"I have only been vicar here for a year," answered Brandon cordially;
"but what are you doing at Horriston, my friend?"
"Oh, I have come down partly on business and partly on pleasure."
"Then dismiss business for the moment, and come to luncheon with me.
I
am just going to my house.
Where are you staying?"
"At the Royal Victoria."
"A dismal place.
You must come frequently to see us while you stay here, and we will do what we can to cheer you up.
Mrs. Brandon will be delighted to see you."
"Oh!
So you are married?"
"For the last five years.
Two children.
Well, I am glad to see you again.
Do you stay here long?"
"A few days only," replied Tait carelessly; "but it entirely depends on my business."
"Anything important?"
"Yes and no. By the way, you may be able to help me, Brandon.
Do you know anyone in this parish called Miss Louisa Sinclair?"
The vicar reflected for a few moments, and shook his head.
"No, I never heard the name.
She must have been here before my time.
Have you any reason for wanting to see her?"
"Naturally, or I should not have asked," said Tait, with faint sarcasm.
"However, I must make a confidant of you, as I wish for your advice and assistance."
"I shall be delighted to give both," said his friend briskly.
"But here we are at my house, and there is my wife in the porch.
My dear, this is an old college friend of mine, Spenser Tait.
We must make him welcome, for the days that have been."
Mrs. Brandon, a comfortable, rosy-cheeked matron, with two tiny Brandons clinging to her skirts, heartily welcomed Tait, and led the way to the dining room.
Here an extra knife and fork were hastily produced for the guest, and they all sat down to luncheon in the best of spirits.
For the moment Tait banished all thought of the case from his mind, and laid himself out to be agreeable to the vicar's wife.
In this he succeeded, as she subsequently pronounced him to be a singularly charming man;
while he pronounced her to be one of the most intelligent women it had been his fortune to meet.
After luncheon Brandon conducted Tait to his study, and there, over an excellent cigar, the little man related the story of the Larcher affair from the time that Claude became possessed of the papers.
Needless to say the clergyman was much astonished by the recital, and agreed with Tait that it was difficult to know which way to turn in the present dilemma.
He thought that Denis was guilty and Jeringham an accomplice by force of circumstances; but doubted whether the existence of Louisa Sinclair might not altogether alter the complexion of the case.
"Of course, the difficulty will be to find Louisa Sinclair," he said thoughtfully; "five-and-twenty years is a long time to go back to.
She may be dead."
"So she may," rejoined Tait a trifle tartly; "on the other hand she may be alive.
I found that waiter and that gardener who were at Horriston then.
Both remember the case, so it is probable that I shall find this woman, or at least gain sufficient information to trace her whereabouts."
"I cannot recall her name, Tait.
She has not been here in my time.
Fortunately I can help you in this much; that an old parishioner of mine is calling to-day, and, as she has lived here for the last forty years and more, it is likely she will remember if such a person dwelt here."
"Who is this old lady?"
"My dear fellow, you must not call her an old lady.
It is true she is over forty, but--well she is always young and charming in her own eyes.
Miss Belinda Pike is her name, and I shouldn't like to come under the lash of her tongue."
"Is she such a Tartar?"
"She is----My dear fellow, you must not ask me to talk scandal about my parishioners; moreover, I see the lady in question is coming up the garden path.
Once set her tongue going, and you will learn all the history of Horriston for the last hundred years."
"I only want to go back twenty-five," rejoined Tait, smiling; and at that moment Miss Belinda Pike was announced.
She was a tall, bony female with a hook nose, a false front, and an artificial smile.
Dressed in voluminous raiment, she bore down on Brandon like a frigate in full sail; and proceeded to talk.
All the time she remained in the study she talked, of herself, of parish work, of Dorcas meetings, of scandals new and old; and so astonished Tait by the extent of her petty information and the volubility of her tongue that he could only stare and wonder.
Introduced to him she was graciously pleased to observe that she had heard of him and his inquiries.
"The waiter, you know, Mr. Tait," she said, smiling at his astonishment.
"Sugden is his name; he told me all about you.
Now, why do you wish to learn all about that Larcher crime?"
"For amusement merely," replied Tait, rather scandalizing the vicar by this answer.
"The waiter began to speak of it, and I encouraged him;
later on I heard the story from a gardener."
"From Dicky Pental," interrupted Miss Pike vivaciously.
"Oh, he can tell you nothing--he is mad!"
"Mad or not, he told me a great deal."
"All false, no doubt.
My dear Mr. Tait," continued the lady impressively, "only one person can tell you the truth of that case.
Myself!"
"Or Louisa Sinclair."
"Louisa Sinclair!
What do you know about her?"
"Nothing, save her name," replied Tait; "but I want to know more.
Can you give me the required information?"
"Yes.
Come and have afternoon tea with me to-day, and I'll tell you all.
Oh, yes," said Miss Pike, with a self-satisfied nod, "I know who killed Captain Larcher."
"Jeringham--Denis, the valet--Hilliston?"
"No. Those three people are innocent.
I can swear to it.
I know it."
"Then who is guilty?"
"Why," said Miss Pike quietly, "Mrs. Larcher's maid--Mona Bantry."
CHAPTER XXXIV. A LETTER FROM HORRISTON.
"MY DEAR CLAUDE: "In my last letter I informed you of my various discoveries with regard to the case.
I deem myself singularly fortunate in finding those who could afford me the necessary information.
Five-and-twenty years is a wide gap of time, and, to tell the honest truth, I scarcely expected to be successful in my mission.
Death, absence, old age, might have put an end to all who knew about the case, but, as you are already advised, I unexpectedly met with three people who gave me three different versions of the murder from their various points of view.
First, the waiter Sugden, who merely reflected the opinion of Dick Pental; second, the gardener himself, with his first-hand story; and third, Miss Belinda Pike, whose ideas are quite at variance with the other two.
"I mentioned to you that I had met Miss Pike at my friend Brandon's, and that she had invited me to visit her the next day to hear her story of the case.
Of course, I went, and found the lady an excellent character for my purpose.
She has a truly wonderful memory for the small beer of life.
She is a born gossip, and is one of the most spiteful women it has ever been my fortune to meet.
Her invitation was more to satisfy her own vanity and curiosity than because she wished to do me a service; but if she is gratified in the one she is balked in the other.
With some difficulty--for she is a most persistent creature--I managed to evade her inquiries as to my reason for wishing to know about 'The Larcher Affair'; and extracted from her all information likely to be of service to us in discovering the truth.
What she told me leaves me more in the dark than ever; and I shall doubtless return to Thorston no whit nearer the truth than I was when I set out.
"But before narrating her story, as imparted to me in strict secrecy, you must not be offended if certain reflections are cast by this busybody on your mother.
To get at the truth of this complication you must view it from a disinterested standpoint and throw aside all prejudice.
I do not for a moment believe that Mrs. Larcher intended to willfully deceive her husband, as is implied by Miss Pike, but I must confess I think her conduct was highly reprehensible.
Still I pass no judgment, as it is not my place to do so; and you must clearly understand that the remarks herein contained about her are those of Miss Pike.
You can guess from their tenor what a very spiteful old lady she is.
I promised to report my doings and hearings faithfully to you, and I hereby keep my promise, and at the cost of your losing your temper.
"The cause of Miss Pike's malignity is jealousy--a passion which is as active now with her as it was twenty-five years ago.
Then the fair Belinda, according to her own account, was the belle of Horriston, and shared that enviable position with two rivals--the one being your mother, the other Miss Louisa Sinclair.
I fancy I hear you exclaim at the mention of this name.
But Mrs. Bezel is right; such a person does exist.
She was a passably pretty girl,--according to Miss Pike,--and rather popular,--again Miss Pike,--but cared for no one so much as Mr. Francis Hilliston, then a handsome young lawyer of great promise and good family.
This is evidently the romance of Hilliston's life, and accounts for his silence about Louisa Sinclair.
He did not wish to speak of one who had disappeared under somewhat discreditable circumstances;
yet who truly loved him.
Whether he returned her love I cannot say.
Suspend your judgment till you hear the story of this maiden lady.
Of course, it is quite different to that of Dick Pental, and, I think, less easy to believe.
The gardener spoke of what he saw; Miss Pike speaks of what she thinks.
Judge for yourself which is right.
"As I have said, Miss Pike was a belle in her younger days.
She was also well off, and could have made a good match.
Unfortunately, she was in love with Hilliston; I say unfortunately, because he happened to be in love with Mrs. Larcher.
I again apologize for putting the matter so plainly, but Miss Pike insisted that it was so.
In those days Hilliston must have been a handsome and fascinating man, for Louisa Sinclair also loved him--with a like result.
He had no eyes for these two damsels, but quietly devoted himself to Mrs. Larcher.
I do not mean to say that he roused the suspicions of your father, for his devotion was perfectly respectful.
The desire of the moth for the star, I may say--for Hilliston knew well enough that he had no chances in that quarter for two reasons.
First, Mrs. Larcher was a married woman; second, she was in love with Jeringham.
"At the time of that notable dress ball matters stood thus: "Miss Belinda Pike in love with Hilliston.
"Miss Louisa Sinclair in love with Hilliston.
"Hilliston in love with Mrs. Larcher.
"Mrs. Larcher in love with Jeringham.
"Can you imagine anything more complicated; and to make confusion still worse, Miss Pike solemnly asserted that Jeringham was not in love with Mrs. Larcher, but with her maid, Mona Bantry.
Therefore, all round, each of these five people was in love with the wrong person.
It was a modern 'Comedy of Errors,' with a tragic ending.
"Miss Pike went to the ball in the character of a flower girl, and there was astonished to find two Mary, Queen of Scots, and two Darnleys.
During the night she learned that out of jealousy Louisa Sinclair had adopted the same fancy dress as your mother.
She was the second Queen of Scots, and was attired precisely the same in all respects, save that Mrs. Larcher wore a small dagger, and Miss Sinclair did not.
On making this discovery Miss Pike naturally thought--as a jealous woman would--that the second Darnley was Hilliston.
She knew that the first was Jeringham, and did not trouble herself about him, but maneuvered to get speech with the second.
To her astonishment she found out--how I cannot say--that it was Captain Larcher, who was supposed to be in London.
He confessed that he was jealous of his wife, and had returned in disguise to learn the truth.
Miss Pike was not clear whether he was suspicious of Jeringham or of Hilliston, and she had no opportunity of learning the truth as Larcher, seeing his wife leave the ballroom, followed her at once.
The next day Miss Pike was informed of the disappearance of Jeringham, and later on she learned of the death of Captain Larcher.
"Now, you will ask whom she suspected.
A woman with so unhappy a temper would not be long in forming an opinion about a matter connected with a lady of whom she was jealous.
I allude to your mother.
Miss Pike had a theory, and ever since, declining to accept the evidence given at the trial, has held firmly to it.
She suspected Mona Bantry to be guilty.
I
give her reason in her own words.
"'Of course it is only theory,' she said, when I asked her pointblank who she thought was guilty, 'but my suspicions point to Mrs. Larcher's maid.'
"'To Mona Bantry?'
I asked, rather astonished.
"'Yes!
She was in love with Mr. Jeringham, and he was at the ball dressed as Darnley; Captain Larcher wore the same dress.
As I told you he left the ballroom when he saw his wife go out with Mr. Jeringham.
I
fancy he followed them home, and caught them as they parted in the garden of The Laurels.
Very likely he ordered Mr. Jeringham off the premises, and insisted on his wife going into the house.
Mona, who was sitting up for her mistress, would open the door, and seeing by the dress, as she thought, Mr. Jeringham with Mrs. Larcher, I believe she lost her head and killed him.'
"'Killed him; but how?'
"'With the dagger worn by Mrs. Larcher,' responded Miss Pike triumphantly.
'She snatched it from the sheath as it hung at the girdle of Mrs. Larcher, and killed the poor man--thinking he was her lover.
Then, finding out her mistake, she fled.
"'But so did Jeringham,' I said.
"'Yes.
He also saw the murder, and naturally enough thought he might be suspected.
I think he took Mona away with him on the very night, and they fled together.
As to the body, Denis, the brother, to save his sister and possibly his mistress from being suspected, threw it into the river.
That is my theory, Mr. Tait, and I believe it to be the true one.'
"I need not repeat more of our conversation, as it was merely argument on both sides, but you now know sufficient to see in what direction Miss Pike's suspicions are directed.
Her story is quite at variance with that of your mother, who plainly stated that she found Mona in the sitting room with your father.
It is not strange that the two narrations should be contradictory, for we must remember that Mrs. Larcher spoke from facts while Miss Pike only speaks from hearsay.
"Again, from the statement of Dick Pental, it would appear that the murder took place in the garden; your mother says it was committed in the sitting room, so here is another contradiction.
But you must not forget that only one person has sworn to the identity of those he saw with the body.
Miss Pike can prove nothing from facts, and only evolves accusations out of her own malignant nature.
Your mother accuses no one, alleging that she fainted in the sitting room.
Therefore, taking all facts into consideration, I believe the gardener's story to be true, and that Denis Bantry killed your father; Jeringham, through force of circumstances, being an accessory to the deed.
This view accounts for the identity of Paynton with Jeringham, of Kerry with Denis--and fully accounts for their living in seclusion at Thorston.
This is my opinion.
Do you think you can give a better?
"Regarding your mother's hint about Louisa Sinclair, I confess I cannot understand it.
Miss Pike was perfectly frank about that person; and stated that shortly after the murder she went to America and had not been heard of for years.
Hilliston may know of her whereabouts, but under the circumstances I do not think he is likely to speak.
At all events we are certain of two things: that Louisa Sinclair did not marry Hilliston; that she had nothing to do with the tragedy at The Laurels.
Miss Pike intends to show me a portrait of the lady on the occasion of my next visit.
A knowledge of her looks may lead to something; but honestly speaking I do not see how she can possibly be implicated in the matter.
"But I must bring this long letter to a close.
I have found out sufficient at Horriston to justify our suspicions of the _ménage_ at Rose Cottage, and when I return we must set our wits to work to see Paynton and Kerry.
They must be forced into plain speaking, then we may solve the mystery of your father's death--not before.
Expect me in two days, and think over what I have written so that we may discuss the matter thoroughly when we come together.
And so no more at present from your friend, "SPENSER TAIT."
CHAPTER XXXV.
