It's an infernal shame!
I call it common sense!
Call it what you please, Malet. I deny your right to keep back my money.
Right? Your father's will gives me every right. If I approve of your marriage, the money will be paid down on your wedding day.
But you don't approve, confound you!
Certainly not. Brenda Scarse is not the wife for you, Harold.
That's my business.
Mine also--under the will. Come, come now; don't lose your temper.
The elder speaker smiled as he proffered this advice, knowing well that he was provoking his cousin beyond all bounds. Harold Burton was young, fiery-tempered, and in love. To be thwarted in his love was something more than exasperating to this impetuous lover. The irritating request that he should keep his temper caused him to lose it promptly; and for the next five minutes Mr. Gilbert Malet was witness of a fine exhibition of unrestrained rage. He trembled for the furniture, almost for his own personal safety, though he managed to preserve a duly dignified outward calm. While Harold stamped about the room, his burly cousin posed before a fireless grate and trimmed his nails, and waited until the young man should have exhausted this wholly unnecessary display of violence.
They were in the library of Holt Manor. It was a sombre, monkish room; almost ascetic in its severity. Bookcases and furniture were of black oak, carpet and curtains of a deep red color; and windows of stained glass subdued the light suitably for study and meditation. But on this occasion the windows were open to the brilliant daylight of an August afternoon, and shafts of golden sunshine poured into the room. From the terrace stretching before the house, vast woods sloped toward Chippingholt village, where red-roofed houses clustered round a brawling stream, and rose again on the further side to sweep to the distant hills in unbroken masses of green. Manor and village took their Teutonic names from these forests, and buried in greenery, might have passed as the domain of the Sleeping Beauty. Her palace was undoubtedly girdled by just such a wood.
But this sylvan beauty did not appeal to the pair in the library. The stout, domineering owner of the Manor who trimmed his nails and smiled blandly had the stronger position of the two, and he knew it well--so well that he could afford to ignore the virile wrath of his ward. Strictly speaking, Captain Burton was not a ward, if that word implies minority. He was thirty years of age, in a lancer regiment, and possessed of an income sufficient to emancipate him from the control of his cousin Gilbert. Still, though possible for one, his income was certainly not possible for two, and if Gilbert chose he could increase his capital by twenty thousand pounds. But the stumbling-block was the condition attached to the disposal of the money. Only if Malet approved of the prospective bride was he to part with the legacy. As such he did not approve of Brenda Scarse, so matters were at a standstill. Nor could Harold well see how he was to move them. Finding all his rage of no avail, he gradually subsided and had recourse to methods more pacific.
Let me understand this matter clearly, he said, taking a seat with a resolute air. "Independent of my three hundred a year, you hold twenty thousand pounds of my money."
To be correct, replied Malet in a genial tone, "I hold forty thousand pounds, to be equally shared between you and your brother Wilfred when you marry. The three hundred a year which you each possess I have nothing to do with."
Well, I want to marry, and----
You do--against my wishes. If I do not approve of your choice I need not pay you this money. I can hold it until I die.
And then? asked Harold, sharply.
Gilbert shrugged his burly shoulders. "Then it goes to you and Wilfred direct. There is no provision made for my handing it over to another trustee. You are bound to get your share in the long run; but I am not thinking of dying just yet, my dear Harold."
I can't imagine what possessed my father ever to make so foolish a will.
Your father was guided by experience, my boy. He made a miserable marriage himself, and did not want you or Wilfred to go and do likewise. He had evidently confidence in my judgment, and knew that I would stand between you and folly.
Confound your impudence, shouted Harold, his dark face crimson with anger. "You're only fifteen years older than I am. At the age of thirty I am surely capable of selecting my own wife!"
I hardly think so, when you select Miss Scarse!
What the deuce have you against her?
Nothing, personally. She is a nice girl, a very nice girl, but poor. A man of your extravagant tastes should marry money. Brenda is well enough, for herself, continued Malet, with odious familiarity, for which Harold could have struck him, "but her father!--Stuart Scarse is a Little Englander!"
Captain Burton was taken aback at the irrelevancy of this remark. "What the devil has that to do with her or me?" he demanded bluntly.
"Everything, if you love your country. You belong to a Conservative family. You are a soldier, and the time is coming when we must all rally round the flag and preserve the Empire. Scarse is a member of that pernicious band which desires the dismemberment of our glorious---- Oh, I'm sick of this!"" Harold jumped up and crammed on his cap. ""Your political ideas have nothing to do with my marriage. You have no reason to object to Miss Scarse. Once for all, will you pay me this money?""
"No, I will not. I shall not agree to your marrying the daughter of a Little Englander.
Then I shall throw the estate into Chancery.
Malet looked uneasy, but sneered. "By all means, if you want the whole forty thousand to go to fee the lawyers! But, before you risk losing your money, let me advise you to make sure of Miss Brenda Scarse!"
What do you mean?
Ask Mr. van Zwieten, who is staying with her father.
Oh! said Harold, contemptuously, "Brenda has told me all about him. Her father wants her to marry him, and it is true he is in love with her; but Brenda loves me, and will never consent to become the wife of that Boer!
Van Zwieten is no Boer. He is a Dutchman, born in Amsterdam.
And a friend of yours, sneered Captain Burton. "He is no friend of mine!" shouted Malet, somewhat ruffled. "I detest the man as much as I do Scarse. If----"
Look here, Gilbert, I don't want any more of this. I trust Brenda, and I intend to marry her.
Very good. Then you'll have to starve on your three hundred a year.
You refuse to give me the money?
Absolutely.
Then I'm glad I don't live under your roof and can tell you what I think of you. You are a mean hound, Malet--keep back, or I'll knock you down. Yes, a mean hound! This is not your real reason for refusing to pay me this money. I'll go up to town to-day and have your trusteeship inquired into.
Gilbert changed color and looked dangerous. "You can act as you please, Harold; but recollect that my powers are very clearly defined under the will. I am not accountable to you or to Wilfred or to any one else for the money. I have no need to defend my honor."
That we shall see. Harold opened the door and looked back. "This is the last time I shall enter your house. You meddle with my private affairs, you keep back money rightfully belonging to me on the most frivolous pretext, and, in fact, make yourself objectionable in every way; but, I warn you, the law will force you to alter your behavior."
The law cannot touch me! cried Gilbert, furiously. "I can account for the money and pay it when it should be paid. Out of my house----!"
I am going--and, see here, Gilbert Malet, if the law affords me no redress, I shall take it into my own hands. Yes, you may well turn pale. I'll make it hot for you--you swindler! and Captain Burton, banging the door, marched out of the house, furious at his helpless position.
Left alone, Malet wiped his bald forehead and sank into a chair. "Pooh!" he muttered, striving to reassure himself. "He can do nothing. I am his cousin. My honor is his honor. I'm in pretty deep water, but I'll get ashore yet. There's only one way--only one!" Then Mr. Malet proceeded to cogitate upon that one and only way, and the obstacles which prevented his taking it. His thoughts for the next half hour did not make for peace of mind altogether.
Meanwhile, Captain Burton, fuming with rage, strode on through the green woods to the lady of his love. They had arranged to meet and discuss the result of this interview. As Mr. Scarse did not approve of his attentions toward his daughter, the cottage where she dwelt was forbidden ground to Harold. He was compelled, therefore, to meet her by stealth in the woods. But the glorious summer day made that no hardship. He knew the precise spot where Brenda would be waiting for him--under an ancient oak, which had seen many generations of lovers--and he increased his pace that he might the sooner unburden to her his mind. As he left the park and made his way through the orchards which surrounded Chippingholt, he saw Mr. Scarse no great distance away.
That's a queer get-up the old man's got on, muttered Harold, perplexed at the wholly unusual combination of a snuff-colored greatcoat and a huge black scarf. "Never saw him in that rig before. I wonder what it means!"
As he came up within a dozen paces of the thin, white-haired figure, he was more than ever puzzled, for he noticed that the black scarf was of crape--there must have been several yards of it wound round the old man's neck. It was undoubtedly Mr. Scarse. There was no mistaking that clean-shaven, parchment-like visage. Burton took off his cap in greeting, but did not speak. He knew the old man was not well-disposed toward him. Mr. Scarse looked blankly at him and pressed on without sign of recognition; and even though he had half expected it, Captain Burton felt mortified at this cut direct.
Brenda and I will have to marry without his consent, he thought; "never mind!"
But he did mind. To marry a girl in the face of parental opposition was all against his inclinations. The future looked dismal enough to him at the moment, and his spirits were only further depressed as the sky began to blacken over with portentous clouds. Impressionable as he was, this endorsement of nature was full of meaning for him in his then pessimistic frame of mind. The sunshine faded to a cold grey, the leaves overhead shivered, and seemed to wither at the breath of the chill wind; and when he caught sight of Brenda's white dress under the oak, her figure looked lonely and forlorn. The darkling sky, the bitter wind, the stealthy meeting, the solitary figure--all these things struck at his heart, and it was a pale and silent lover who kissed his sweetheart under the ancient tree. His melancholy communicated itself to Brenda.
Bad news, dear--you have bad news, she murmured, looking into his downcast face. "I can see it in your eyes."
They sat silent on the rustic seat. The birds had ceased to sing, the sun to shine, and the summer breeze was cold--cold as their hearts and hands in that moment of sadness.
They were a handsome couple. The man tall, thin-flanked, and soldiery of bearing; dark eyes, dark hair, dark moustache, and a clean-cut, bronzed face, alert, vivacious, and full of intelligence. Brenda was a stately blonde, golden-haired, blue-eyed, and passionate as one of those stormy queens of the Nibelungen Lied, to whom love, insistent and impassioned, was as the breath of life. Both were filled with the exuberant vitality of youth, fit to overcome all obstacles, greatly daring and resolutely courageous. Yet, seated there, hand in hand, they were full of despondency--even to cowardice. Brenda felt that was so, and made an effort to rouse herself and him.
Come, dear, she said, kissing her lover, "the sun will shine again. Things can't be so bad as to be past mending. He has refused?"
Absolutely. He won't give me the money.
On the ground that he does not approve of me! Harold nodded. "He tried to make out that you were in love with Van Zwieten!"
Oh! he is so ready to stoop to any meanness, said Brenda, scornfully. "I always disliked Mr. Malet. Perhaps my dislike is hereditary, for my father detests him."
On political grounds?
Of course. But those are strongest of all grounds for hatred. Religion and politics have caused more trouble and more wars than-- she broke off suddenly. "Of course you don't believe this about Mr. van Zwieten."
Need you ask? said Burton, tenderly. "The fellow is staying with you still?"
Yes. He has been here for the last two days talking politics with father, and worrying me. Thank goodness, he goes to-morrow!
Glad of it, growled Burton. "He is the Beast mentioned in Revelation. By the way, Brenda, who is Van Zwieten?"
Miss Scarse looked puzzled. "A friend of my father's."
Yes; but what is his position--where does he come from--how does he make his income? There is something mysterious about the fellow.
He comes from Holland--he is a friend of Dr. Leyds--and he is shortly going out to fill some post under the Transvaal Government. That's all I know about him.
He seems to have plenty of money.
Yes, he spends a good deal, to judge from what I saw of him in town last season. Then he is a popular cricketer, you know.
I know. But the idea of a foreigner playing cricket!
Well, Mr. van Zwieten does, and very well too. You must have seen about his play in the papers. He is a great man at Lord's.
All the same, he is a mystery; and he is too much mixed up with the Boers to please me. If there is a war, I hope he'll be with them that I may have a shy at him.
Brenda laughed, and pressed her lover's arm. "You silly boy, you are jealous."
I am, I am. Who wouldn't be jealous of you? But this is not war, Brenda dear. Let us talk about ourselves. I can't get this twenty thousand pounds until Malet dies. I see nothing for it but to marry on my three hundred a year. I dare say we'll scrape along somehow.
I have two hundred a year of my own, cried Brenda, vivaciously; "that makes ten pounds a week. We can easily manage on that, dear."
But your father?
Oh, he wants me to marry Mr. van Zwieten, of course, said she, with great scorn. "So I must just do without his consent, that's all. It sounds wrong, Harold, doesn't it? But my father has never done his duty by me. Like most men who serve the public, he has sacrificed his all to that. I was left to bring myself up as best I could and so I think I have the right to dispose of myself. My father is nothing to me--you are everything."
Dearest! He kissed her. "Then let us marry--but no--" he broke off abruptly. "If war should break out in South Africa I would have to leave you!"
But I wouldn't be left, said Brenda, merrily. "I would go out with you--yes, to the front!"
I'm afraid you couldn't do that.
I could and I would. I would go officially as a nurse. But, Harold, why don't you see your lawyer about this money? He may find means to force Mr. Malet to pay it to you.
I intend to see him to-morrow, dearest. I am going up to town by the six train this evening, though I confess I don't like leaving you with this Van Zwieten.
I think I can undertake to keep Mr. van Zwieten at his distance, said Brenda, quietly, "even though my father encourages him."
I believe your father hates me, said Harold, gloomily, "He cut me just now."
Cut you, dear; what do you mean?
Just what I say, Brenda. I met you father, and he cut me dead.
She stared at her lover in amazement. "You can't possibly have seen my father," she said decisively. "He is ill with influenza, and hasn't left his room for two days!"
After many and fervent farewells, the lovers embraced and went home. It was understood that Harold should go to London that evening by the five o'clock local from Chippingholt, which connected with the express at Langton Junction, some twenty miles away. After seeing his lawyer, he was to write her a full account of the interview, and arrange definitely the details for their marriage. Meanwhile, to set his mind at rest, Brenda promised to see as little of Van Zwieten as possible.
As her father was ill, she was compelled to play the part of hostess--an ungrateful one enough toward a guest she so disliked--but as the Dutchman had arranged to leave next morning, she hoped for so short a time to obey the laws of hospitality, and at the same time keep him at his distance. But even so the situation was a trying one, and Brenda relished it little.
The cottage was an unpretentious little place on the borders of Chippingholt, where the orchards began to stretch toward the woods. Scarse was not well off, and had been fortunate enough to obtain it at quite a nominal rental. He kept a cook and one housemaid, both of whom Brenda looked after; and despite his slender means, his style of living was in every way refined. The largest room in the house had been turned into a study, and here Brenda now found her father buried in blue-books, pamphlets and newspapers.
Scarse was a lean, tall an?mic-looking creature. His hair was quite white, his pallid and wrinkled face clean-shaven, and his whole aspect was one of peevishness and querulousness. In spite of the warmth he had ordered a fire to be lighted, and, wrapped in a llama wool dressing-gown, he crouched over it with the Daily Mail spread out upon his knees. He looked ill and cross, and seemed terribly feeble. Brenda was more than ever certain, now that she saw him, that Harold had been mistaken in thinking it was he whom he had met. He looked, she thought, more fit for bed than for walking.
Come in, come in, he said in his thin, cantankerous voice. "Shut the door, Brenda; there is quite a draught."
Are you no better, father? she asked, coming toward him and taking his hand. Scarse snatched it away.
Not a bit, my dear. This thing has a hold of me--I am aching all over. Of course it comes just to prevent my speaking at the Trafalgar Square meeting next week!
You can send an excuse.
I can't and I won't, snapped her father. "This paper shows me how necessary it is for all men to protest against this unjust war, which has been forced upon the Boers. I must speak in favor of that honest, God-fearing band of farmers, who are in danger of being crushed by a capitalist war. I want to see Van Zwieten about this article. It is perfectly scandalous. Where is he?"
I don't know. I've not seen him all the afternoon.
Is that the way you attend to your guests?
He is no guest of mine, cried Brenda, indignantly. "I can't bear the man. His mere presence is most objectionable to me."
"You are a foolish, strong-headed girl, Brenda. Van Zwieten wants to marry you, as I have told you, and he is---- I won't marry him. I detest the man.""
"And you fancy you are in love with that scamp of a Burton? said Scarse, frowning.
Harold is not a scamp, father. He is noble and honest, and everything that is good. I will marry no one but him.
I shall never give my consent--never!
Then I must do without it, replied Brenda, determinedly. "I do not want to behave otherwise than as a daughter should, father, but I love Harold, and I hate Van Zwieten."
Don't be silly, said the M.P., querulously. "Van Zwieten is well off. He is a good match for you. He can give you a good position."
In the Transvaal, I suppose, scoffed Brenda.
Yes. And where could you live better than in a new land, where the vices of civilization have not penetrated! I don't speak of Johannesburg, that sink of iniquity, but of Pretoria, and of those towns where the Boer element exists pure and simple, With your husband in the Government you can help him to build up an ideal state.
I don't want to build up anything. Harold and I can be happy by ourselves.
You shall never marry the scamp, I tell you, cried Scarse, angrily. "Let alone his character, which is bad, he is the cousin of that scoundrel Malet, who is a bigoted Imperialist--one who is doing his best to ruin this country by advocating annexation of all and everything. He is one of those who are urging on this war. I hate the man."
Only because you differ from him in politics.
No, on other grounds which do not concern you. I know Malet--none better--and I would gladly see him dead.
Father! Brenda was amazed at the savage energy of the old man. "What has Mr. Malet done to you that you should hate him so?"
Never mind! I hate him and I hate that young Burton.
Well, father, said Brenda, quietly, "you need not have shown it quite so plainly to-day. Harold said you met him this afternoon and cut him." This was a tentative remark, as Brenda was certain her father could not have been out.
Met Burton! said he, raising himself angrily. "What do you mean, child?"
Were you not out to-day?
No, I have not left this room.
But Harold said he saw you with a snuff-colored coat and a crape scarf round your throat. Father! Brenda shrieked, "what is it?"
She might well ask. Scarse was always pale, but now he was deathly white. He reared himself out of his chair with a look of terror in his eyes. It was in broken sentences he spoke. "Did . . . Harold Burton . . . see me . . . with a crape scarf . . . to-day?"
Yes, yes; but was it you, father? Why did you wear----
Hush! Say no more, Brenda. Go away.
A faint color was coming back to his face, and he began to look more like himself, less like a corpse. Brenda was about to demur at leaving him, but he stopped her with a peremptory gesture. "Go away, Brenda, I say."
But won't you explain----
There is nothing to explain; go away.
She was obliged to obey, and reluctantly she left the room. She could not understand her father's emotion, nor could she understand the presence in Chippingholt of this man with the crape scarf, who so nearly resembled him as to be mistaken for him by Harold. So far as she knew her father had no relatives. But he had always been very reticent about his family affairs. She knew nothing of his connections or his past life. Her mother she could scarce remember. She had died when Brenda was a tiny child, and ever since that time she had been brought up by strangers far away from home. Up to the age of twenty she had been at a boarding-school, and there she had seen next to nothing of her father. A casual visit on his part, and a few casual questions as to her welfare--her mental welfare chiefly--that represented Brenda's experience of the domestic affections and a father's love. When she had come of age Scarse had sent for her, and had established her in the cottage at Chippingholt, giving her occasionally a week in London during the season. He retained his bachelor chambers in Start Street, Piccadilly, but never took her there, and ever kept her at arm's length when she hungered for sympathy and love. No wonder, then, that in the all-important matter of her marriage she felt no inclination to obey the man who had been to her but a father in name: and no wonder she had fallen in love with Harold Burton, and was bent now on linking her life with his. He was the one human being who had held out to her affection and sympathy, and from him she determined no earthly power should part her. Her father treated her as a pawn on the chessboard of life, to be moved about as best suited his own purpose. She regarded herself as a human being, with the right to consider her own happiness, and to work out her own destiny.
Never will I marry Van Zwieten, she reiterated to herself as she dressed for dinner. "The man is a tyrant and a brute. Father has done nothing for me that I should sacrifice myself so for him. Together Harold and I will shape a new life for ourselves. If father's neglect has done nothing else for me, it has at least made me self-reliant."
As she expected, her father did not appear at dinner, alleging his megrims as the reason for his non-appearance. But Brenda had a very shrewd idea that the appearance of this unknown man, who so resembled him, had more to do with it. She felt sure there was some sort of mystery. Her father's life was altogether so secretive. But she did not let it disturb her, and dismissed it from her mind, until a chance remark from Van Zwieten again roused her curiosity.
The Dutchman was tall of stature--well over six feet, and stout in proportion. A well set-up figure assuredly, and what would be termed a fine animal. His hair and beard were of an ochre color, and his sleepy blue eyes, although seeming to observe nothing, on the contrary took in everything. His complexion was delicate as a woman's, and he was slow and soft of speech and movement. A casual observer might have set him down as lethargic and small-brained. But Brenda knew that he possessed a fund of energy and cunning and dogged determination which could be exerted to the detriment of those whom his sleepy looks deceived. Those blue eyes could sparkle with fire, that soft, low voice could ring out like a trumpet, and that huge frame could be active and supple as any serpent. Waldo van Zwieten he was called, and he had lived in London now for the past five years.
He spoke three or four languages, especially English, with wonderful purity and fluency. He appeared to have plenty of money, and for the most part devoted himself to cricket as an exhilarating pastime for an idle man. In the capacity of a crack batsman he was highly popular. No one deemed him anything but a lazy foreigner--good-natured, and loving England and the English sufficiently well to become an English subject in all but an official sense. But he had never taken out letters of naturalization.
He was correctly attired now in evening dress, and took his seat at the table in his usual sleepy fashion. His blue eyes rested with a look of admiration on Brenda, whose blonde beauty was more dazzling than ever in her dinner dress of black gauze and silk. She apologized for her father's absence, and winced at Van Zwieten's compliments.
You leave me nothing to desire, Miss Scarse, said he. "I could wish for no more delightful position than this."
Please don't, replied Brenda, annoyed. "I'm sure you would rather talk politics to my father than nonsense to me."
I never talk nonsense to any one, Miss Scarse; least of all to you. Thank you, I will take claret. By the way, it was rather unwise of Mr. Scarse to go out to-day with this cold upon him.
He was not out to-day.
Indeed, I think so. I saw him and spoke to him.
You spoke to him? Had he a snuff-colored coat and a crape scarf on?
No; he was dressed as usual in his tweed suit.
Brenda looked at him sceptically. Her father had denied being out. Yet this man said he had actually spoken with him, but according to him he was not dressed like the man, Harold had described. Could two men be so much alike? And why had her father been so moved when she had related Harold's experience?
Are you sure it was my father you spoke to? she asked, after a pause.
Van Zwieten flashed a keen glance at her puzzled face, and was evidently as puzzled himself. "I am certain it was Mr. Scarse," he said quietly. "I had no reason to think otherwise. Why do you doubt my word?"
My father denies having been out.
In that case I should have said nothing. Mr. Scarse evidently has some reason for his denial. But cannot we select a more pleasant subject of conversation?
Such as what? demanded Brenda, wondering at this sudden change.
Yourself or Captain Burton. I saw him to-day.
That is very likely, she replied, quietly divining Van Zwieten's intention. "Captain Burton is staying at the 'Chequers Inn.' At least he was staying there, but he left for London at five."
Oh, indeed! He must have changed his mind then, for it was after six when I saw him.
I suppose he is privileged to change his mind, said Brenda. All the same she was puzzled to account for Harold's remaining at Chippingholt.
Thwarted in this direction, Van Zwieten tried another. He was bent on making Brenda confess an interest in Burton, so as to lead up to an explanation of his own feelings. "It is strange," said he, slowly, "that Captain Burton does not stay at the Manor."
Why do you think it strange, Mr. van Zwieten?
Ach! is it not strange? His brother Wilfred stays there--he is there now. Mr. Malet is Captain Burton's cousin, and he is hospitable--not to me, added he, with a sleepy smile; "Mr. Malet does not like me."
Brenda ignored this last remark. "If you ask Captain Burton for his reasons I have no doubt he will gratify your curiosity," she said coldly.
Oh, I do not care; it is nothing to me. Van Zwieten paused, then resumed very deliberately, "I do not like Captain Burton."
Really! The loss is his.
I do not like Captain Burton, repeated Van Zwieten, "because he likes you."
What has that to do with me? asked Brenda, injudiciously.
Everything. I love you--I want to marry you!
You told me all about that, Mr. van Zwieten, and I told you I was unable to marry you. It was agreed that we should drop the subject.
Captain Burton loves you and wants to marry you, pursued the big man, doggedly, "and so I do not like Captain Burton."
The situation was becoming embarrassing, but the man was evidently acting and speaking with a set purpose. "Please say no more, Mr. van Zwieten," said Brenda, trying to control her temper. Still he went on resolutely.
When we are married we will see nothing of Captain Burton.
That will never be. I shall never marry you.
Oh, yes; your father is willing.
But I am not. Brenda rose with a glance of anger. "How dare you take advantage of my father's absence to insult me?"
I do not insult you, went on the Dutchman, with a quiet smile. "One does not insult one's future wife."
I would rather die than marry you! She walked to the door. "You have no right to speak to me like this. I refuse to see you again, and I shall tell my father of your behavior."
She swept out of the room in a fury, feeling herself helpless in the face of the man's persistency. Her departure, however, did not ruffle him in the least. He went on eating and smiling as though the interview had ended entirely to his satisfaction. After a good meal he lighted a cigar and went along to Mr. Scarse's study. The door was locked. He knocked, but there was no answer.
Van Zwieten was puzzled. There were matters connected with Mr. Scarse which he did not understand, and which he wished very much to understand. After pondering for a few moments, he put on a greatcoat, in spite of the warmth of the night, a smasher hat of the Boer style, and stepped out by the front door. Thence he passed round to the French windows which lighted the study. The blinds were down, and the yellow lamplight shone through them from within. Van Zwieten tried the catch of one window. It yielded, and he slipped into the room. The lamp, fully turned up, was on the table; some papers were spread out on the blotting-pad on the desk, but there was no one in the room. He glanced at the papers, but could gather nothing from them to account for the absence of Scarse. He reflected, and recollected what Brenda had said.
A snuff-colored coat; a crape scarf! he mused. "So!" Then he left the room, closed the window after him, and vanished stealthily as a cat into the blackness of the night.
Meanwhile Brenda had gone to her room furious with Van Zwieten and her father--with the former because he would persist in his attentions, with the latter because he exposed her to their annoyance. Not knowing that the Dutchman had gone out, she decided to remain upstairs, so as to avoid meeting him in the drawing-room. But her bedroom was so small, the night so hot, and she felt so restless, that eventually she decided to go up to Holt Manor and see Lady Jenny.
Gilbert's wife was a pretty, frivolous woman, with a good heart, a long tongue, and an infinite capacity for wasting money. Malet was devoted to her, and it was common talk that she could twist him round her finger. If she interested herself in the matter there might be a chance still of Harold's getting the money. Lady Jenny always declared, in her exaggerated way, that Brenda was the sweetest girl in the world, so, putting on her hat and cloak, Brenda determined to learn whether Lady Jenny really was her friend or merely a society acquaintance.
The night was moonless, hot, and almost without air. What the Scotch call uncanny. All day clouds had been rolling up from the south, and now the sky was an immense mass of bluish-black vapor hanging low over the dry and gasping earth. No breath of wind, no sound of life, human or animal. The earth lay dumb under that tent of gloom. Brenda felt stifled as she took the short way through the orchards. Knowing every inch of the ground, she made no mistake, and was occasionally aided by a vivid flash of lightning, which ran in sheets of sudden flame from east to west.
With her nimble feet and her knowledge of all the short cuts, it took her only twenty minutes to arrive at the Manor. She noted the time--nine o'clock--for the village chimes rang out as she halted at the porch of the great house. Here she was doomed to disappointment, for Lady Jenny--as the servant informed her--had gone to the Rectory with Mr. Wilfred Burton.
Mr. Malet went out for a stroll too, miss, said the butler, who knew her very well; "but any message----"
Oh, no message, Roberts, said Brenda, hurriedly; "that is--I will call on Lady Jenny to-morrow. Good-night."
Won't you have an umbrella, miss? It looks stormy.
No, thank you; I shall no doubt reach home before the storm breaks. Good-night.
But she was wrong in thinking so. Hardly had she left the park gates when the storm came. A blue zig-zag flared across the dark sky, there was a crash of thunder, and on the wings of a bitterly cold wind came the rain. The storm was tropical in its suddenness and fury. The wind struck Brenda like a solid mass, and she had to grasp the trunk of an apple-tree near by to keep her feet. With a hiss and a shriek the rain shot down--one deluge of water, as though the windows of heaven were opened as in the days of Noah's flood. A furious wind tore at the tree-tops, rending boughs, clashing the branches together, and sending a myriad leaves flying abroad like swarms of bees. The drenching rain spattered and drummed on the woods, and in the open was driven in slanting masses of water by the force of the blast. Anxious to get under shelter, and terrified by the fierce lightning, Brenda kilted up her skirts and ran blindly through the trees at the risk of breaking her head. Her feet squelched in the soaking grass, and she was shaken and driven like a leaf by the furious gusts. Still on she stumbled in a dazed condition. It was a witch storm, and the powers of hell rode on the flying clouds.
Suddenly her foot tripped, and she fell full length on the grass, which was more like a morass. As she struggled to her knees the heavens overhead broke out in one dazzling sheet of flame, which for the moment threw a noonday light on the scene. There, under a tree, but a short distance away, Brenda saw a tall, dark, bulky figure standing. Hardly had the darkness shut down again when she heard a startled cry. Then a shot rang out with terrible distinctness, and then again the roaring of the tempest. Hardly knowing what she was doing, Brenda got on her feet, shaking and terrified. She ran forward. A second flare of lightning lighted the orchards with hell-fire, livid and blue. Almost at her feet she saw the body of a man. There came another deafening crash of thunder, and she staggered. A moment later and she lay senseless across the body of the unknown man shot in the darkness by an unknown hand.
The cook at Mr. Scarse's cottage was in a great state of alarm. She did not mind an ordinary tempest of respectable English character coming at its due and proper season. But this gale, at the close of a quiet summer day, arriving with so little warning and raging with such fury, had frightened her beyond measure. As a precautionary measure against the frequent lightning, she concealed the knives, covered up all the mirrors and reflective surfaces generally, and threw the fire-irons into the garden. Having thus safeguarded the cottage against the bolts of heaven, Mrs. Daw--so she was called--insisted that the housemaid, a whimpering orphan of meagre intelligence, should go round the house with her to see if any one or anything had been struck. They found dining-room, drawing-room and bedrooms deserted, and the door of their master's study locked.
Lor'! said Mrs. Daw, her fat face ashen pale, "an' 'e may be lyin' a corp in there, poor dear!"
Oh, no, he ain't, responded the shaking housemaid; "I 'ear voices. Jus' put your eye to the key-hole, cook."
But the cook's valor did not extend thus far. She also heard the murmur of voices, and, thinking her master and his friend the Dutchman were within, knocked at the door to bring them out for company. "We may as well go to 'eaven in a 'eap," said Mrs. Daw, knocking steadily like a woodpecker.
The door opened so suddenly that the two women recoiled with shrieks against the wall of the passage. Scarse, looking pale and upset, stepped out and closed the door after him. Judging him by themselves, they attributed his scared appearance to fright at the storm, and were ready to receive any amount of sympathy. But it soon appeared that their master had none to give them.
What's all this? Why are you here? he demanded, angry and suspicious.
It's the storm, sir, whimpered Mrs. Daw, holding on to the housemaid. "I'm that feared as never was. Miss Brenda's hout, sir, and Mr. van Zwieten's with you, and me an' Tilda's a-shakin' like jelly."
Miss Brenda out! repeated Scarse, starting. "Oh, yes, I recollect she said something about going to the Rectory." This was untrue, but he seemed to think it necessary to make some excuse even to the servants. "I dare say Miss Brenda has been storm-bound there, and, as you say, Mr. van Zwieten is with me. There is nothing to be afraid of. Go back to the kitchen."
"The 'ouse may be struck, sir! The house won't be struck,"" said Scarse, impatiently. ""Don't be a fool. It is almost ten o'clock--go to bed,"" and stepping back into the study, he closed and locked the door. Cook and housemaid tottered back to the kitchen.
"I'll give notice to-morrer, wailed the former. "It ain't right for two lone women to be without a manly arm. If 'e only kep' a footman or a coachman it 'ud be a 'elp. 'And me the Church Service, Tilda, an' we'll pray as we may not be took."
Ow, ain't it orful! yelped Tilda, as a fiercer blast than usual shook the cottage. "Turn up the Berryial Service, cook."
This request the cook hurriedly obeyed, and the two were soon cheerfully employed in drawing what comfort they could from this somewhat depressing selection. The clock struck ten, and so unstrung were their nerves that they simultaneously jumped and shrieked.
Tilda declared that the candle burned blue; that a coal in the form of a coffin had jumped out of the kitchen range; and meanwhile the storm raved and howled without, shaking the house, tearing at doors and windows as though twenty thousand demons were trying to force an entrance. In their terrified frame of mind Mrs. Daw and her factotum actually believed that such might be the case.
But they soon had further cause for alarm. The kitchen door was tried, but Mrs. Daw had locked it. Immediately there came a furious knocking, insistent and incessant. Tilda shrieked, and scrambled under the table. Mrs. Daw dropped the Church Service, and grasped the poker with a trembling hand. There was a crash of thunder which went grinding over the roof--then the battering at the door again.
Quick! Quick! Let me in! wailed a voice, thin, high-pitched and terrified.
Don't, don't! shrieked Tilda, grovelling under the table. "Oh, lor', wot a bad girl I 'ave been."
But Mrs. Daw, somewhat recovered from her terror, thought she recognized the voice, in spite of its accent of pain. "Yer's a fool, Tilda. It's Miss Brenda!" and she unlocked the door, still grasping the poker in case she should be mistaken. As the door flew open a wild blast tore into the kitchen, and Tilda shrieked again. Mrs. Daw, too, uttered an exclamation, for Brenda fell forward, flung into her arms. The girl was soaking wet, wild-eyed and white-faced with terror. She could hardly speak, and clung, choking and shaking, to the terrified cook. The door banged to with a crash.
Murder! Help! gasped Brenda, hoarsely. "Oh, my God! he is dead!"
Dead! Murder! shrieked Mrs. Daw, dropping the poker, and Tilda wailed in sympathetic chorus. "Lor', miss! Who's 'e?"
I don't know--he is dead--shot--in the orchards, said Brenda, and fell down in a dead faint for the second time that night. Usually she was not given to such feminine weakness, but the terrors of the night had proved altogether too much for her.
Having something human to deal with, Mrs. Daw recovered her presence of mind and unloosened Brenda's cloak. "Poor dear! she's frightened out of her wits, an' no wonder. Tilda, tell 'er pa there's murders and faintings. Look sharp!"
Tilda crawled from under the table and across the floor. She raised herself with a sudden effort of will, and was soon hammering at the study door.
Master--sir! 'Elp--murder--perlice! Oh, sir, as Scarse came out hurriedly, "Miss Brenda's in the kitchen, an' there's murder!"
He seized her wrists with an ejaculation of alarm. "Who is murdered? Speak, girl!"
I don't know. Miss Brenda sez as there's murder. Oh, lor', what will become of us!
Scarse shook her so that her teeth chattered. "Go back to the kitchen," he said sternly. "I'll follow directly," and Tilda found herself hurled against the wall, with the study door closed and locked. Her surprise at such treatment overcame even her terror.
Well, 'e is a father! she gasped, and her wits being somewhat more agile now that she was less afraid, she flew to the dining-room and snatched the spirit-stand from the sideboard. With this she arrived in the kitchen and found Brenda regaining her senses.
Ain't 'e comin'? asked Mrs. Daw, slapping Brenda's hands violently as a restorative measure.
In a minute. 'Ere, give 'er some brandy. Where's a glarss? Oh, a cup'll do. Oh, ain't it all dreadful; just 'ear the wind!
Hold your tongue and lock the door, said Mrs. Daw, snatching the cup from Tilda. "Come, miss, try and drink this."
She forced the strong spirit down Brenda's throat. The girl gasped and coughed, then the color slowly mounted to her cheeks, and she raised her head feebly.
What is it? she asked faintly. Then she shuddered and covered her face. "Ah! the murder! Shot!--shot--oh, God, how terrible!"
Don't you be afraid, miss; the doors are all locked, an' nothin' or no one can git in. Then a shriek from Mrs. Daw followed a sudden clanging of the bell. "Whatever's that?"
Front door, replied Tilda, casting a glance at the row of bells. "I'll answer; give 'er more brandy, cook."
As the housemaid left, Brenda moaned and struggled to her feet. "Oh, the terrible darkness--the body--his body--in the wet grass! Father! Where is my father?"
'E's a comin', dearie, said Mrs. Daw, giving her more brandy. "Take another sup, dearie. Who is it as is murdered, miss?" she asked in a scared whisper.
I don't know. I could not see--the darkness--I fell over the body. I saw nothing. Oh! She started up with a shriek. "Oh, if it really should be Harold!" Then she was overcome with anguish, and Tilda darted back to the kitchen.
Would you believe, cried she to Mrs. Daw, "it's the furriner! An' master said as 'e was in 'is study talkin' to 'im!"
Lor', so 'e did! said Mrs. Daw, awestruck at having detected her master in a lie. "And 'e was out all the time! What does Mr. van Zwieten say, Tilda?"
Van Zwieten! shrieked Brenda, who was clinging to the table. "Has he been out? Ah! he hated Harold--the dead man--oh!" her voice leaped an octave, "he has killed my Harold!"
What! shrieked the other woman in turn, and Mrs. Daw, throwing her apron over her head, began to scream with the full force of her lungs. Tilda joined in, losing all remnant of control, and Brenda sank in a chair white-faced and silent. The conviction that Harold had been murdered stunned her.
At this moment there was heard the sound of foot-steps coming rapidly nearer. Scarse, with an angry and terrified expression, appeared on the scene. Close behind him came Van Zwieten, who seemed, as ever, quite undisturbed and master of himself. Brenda caught sight of him, and darting forward, seized the man by the lapels of his coat. "Harold!" she cried, "you have killed my Harold!"
Harold--Burton! replied Scarse, aghast. "Is he dead?"
Dead--murdered! Oh, I am certain of it. And you killed him. You! You!
Van Zwieten said not a word, but remained perfectly calm. He saw that the girl was beside herself with terror and grief, that she knew not what she was saying or doing. Without a word he picked her up in his strong arms and carried her moaning and weeping into the drawing-room. Scarse rated Mrs. Daw and Tilda sharply for so losing their heads, and followed the Dutchman. But before leaving the kitchen he was careful to take with him the key of the back door. "No one leaves this house to-night," he said sharply "I must inquire into this. Give me that spirit-stand. Now go to bed, you fools."
Bed! wailed Mrs. Daw, as her master left the room. "Lor', I'll never sleep again--not for weeks any'ow. I daren't lie alone. Oh, what an 'orful night. I'll give notice to-morrow, that for sure!"
So'll I, squeaked Tilda. With this the two went shivering to a common couch, full of prayers and terror, and prepared to die--if die they must--in company.
In the drawing-room Brenda was huddled up in a chair, terrified out of her wits. Van Zwieten, calm and masterful, stood before the fireplace with his big hands clasped loosely before him. His trousers were turned up, his boots were soaking, and there were raindrops in his curly hair. For the rest he was dry, and the storm had not made the slightest impress on his strong nerves. When Scarse entered he threw a steely and inquisitive glance at the old man, who winced and shrank back with an expression of fear on his face. Van Zwieten, ever on the alert for the signs of a guilty conscience, noted this with secret satisfaction.
Now then, Brenda, said her father, recovering at last some of his presence of mind, "what is all this about? You say that Burton is dead--that Mr. van Zwieten killed him."
Ah! interposed the Dutchman, stroking his beard, "I should like to know how I managed that."
You hated him! cried Brenda, sitting up straight with a sudden access of vigor. "You told me so to-night at dinner!"
Pardon me; I said I did not like Captain Burton. But as to hating him-- Van Zwieten shrugged his shoulders; "that is an extreme word to use. But even if I did hate him you can hardly deduce from that that I should kill him!"
He was shot, shot in the orchards, not far from the Manor gates. You were out----
That is scant evidence to justify a charge of murder, interposed Scarce, angrily. "You are unstrung and hysterical, Brenda. How did you come to be out yourself in such a storm?"
I went to see Lady Jenny at the Manor, about--about Harold's money. She was not in, so I came back by the short cut through the orchards. A flash of lightning showed him to me there, standing under a tree. Then there was a shot and a cry, and I ran forward, and fell over his body.
Whose body?
I don't know--at least, I think it was Harold's body. Mr. van Zwieten hated him.
It may not be Harold at all, said her father, impatiently; "you are jumping to conclusions--the wildest conclusions, Brenda. Did you see his face?"
No; how could I? It was dark.
Then how on earth do you know it was Captain Burton?
I am not sure, of course; but I think so. Oh, father, do you think---- Oh, perhaps, after all, it may not have been Harold.
Scarse shook off her clinging hands. "I think you're a fool," he said sharply, "and this wild talk of Burton's being dead is pure imagination on your part."
I hope so--oh, how I hope so! and Brenda shivered.
Van Zwieten, who had been listening with a cynical smile on his face, burst into a laugh, at which Brenda looked angrily at him. "Excuse me, Miss Scarse," he said politely, "but it is my opinion no one is dead at all. The shot and cry were no doubt the outcome of a thundercrash. You were upset by the storm, and it seemed to you like--what you say."
But a man is dead, protested Brenda, rising. "In my anxiety for Harold I may have been mistaken in thinking it was he. Still, some one was shot--I fell over the body and fainted."
The man may have fainted also, suggested her father.
If I may make a suggestion, said Van Zwieten, with strong common sense, "we are all talking without any reasonable sort of basis. Before we assume that a crime has been committed, I would suggest that we go to the orchards and see if we can find the body."
No, no, cried Scarse, shrinking back. "Impossible at this hour, and on such a night."
The storm is dying away, said the Dutchman, derisively. "However, if you don't care to come, I can go myself."
I will go with you, cried Brenda, springing to her feet.
For you, Miss Scarse, I think it is hardly wise. You are very much upset. Had you not better go to bed?
I couldn't sleep with this on my mind. I must know if it is Harold or not. If it is, I am certain you shot him, and until I know the truth I don't let you out of my sight.
Very good. Van Zwieten bowed and smiled. "Come, then, and guide me."
Brenda, you can't go out now. I forbid you--it is not fit or proper.
What do I care for propriety in such a case as this? cried Brenda, in a passion. "Come with me then, father."
No, I can't--I am too ill.
Van Zwieten cast an amused look at Scarse, and the old man winced again. He turned away and poured himself out a glass of brandy. Without taking any further notice of him, Brenda put on her wet cloak and left the room, followed almost immediately by the Dutchman. Van Zwieten had many questions to ask his host, for he knew a good deal, and guessed more; but this was not the time for cross-examination. It was imperative that the identity of the deceased should be ascertained, and Van Zwieten wished to be on the spot when the discovery was made. As he left the room he heard the glass in Scarse's trembling hand clink against the decanter, and the sound made him smile. He guessed the cause of such perturbation.
The rain had ceased for the moment, but the wind was still high, and dense black clouds hurtled across the sky. A pale moon showed herself every now and then from behind the flying wrack, and fitfully lighted the midnight darkness.
As she was with Van Zwieten, Brenda took a wide circle through the village street. There were many people about in spite of the bad weather--some with lanterns--but Brenda could not gather from the scraps of conversation she heard whether the report of the dead man lying in the orchards had got abroad.
In silence Van Zwieten strode along beside her, apparently indifferent to anything. His attitude irritated the girl, and when the wind lulled for a moment she demanded sharply where he had been on that night.
You will be surprised to hear, Miss Scarse, that I went to see Captain Burton.
And why? asked Brenda, taken aback by this answer--the last she had expected to hear.
To warn him, replied Van Zwieten, coolly. "Warn him--about what--against whom?"
About my engagement to you--against myself.
I am not engaged to you, but to him, said Brenda, almost with a cry of despair.
It seemed impossible to make this man understand how she hated him.
I think you are engaged to me, said the Dutchman, deliberately. "You say no, but that is girl's talk. I am not to be beaten by a girl. I always get what I want, and I want you."
The wind rose again, and further conversation was impossible. Brenda walked on, praying for strength to escape this terrible man. She could not rid herself of the idea that the dead man was her own true lover. Van Zwieten might have seen him, as he said, might have quarreled with him and shot him. The fear chilled her heart, and when next the wind fell she again taxed Van Zwieten. "You killed him?" she cried.
You will insist on that, but you are wrong. I never saw Captain Burton. He was not at the inn when I called.
He had gone to town, said Brenda, breathless with joy.
No, he had gone to the Rectory.
Brenda stopped short. Lady Jenny had gone to the Rectory also. Perhaps Harold had seen her, and had asked for her aid. While she was wondering if this might be so, there was a great shouting, and in the distance she saw the blaze of torches borne by many people. The wind made them flare furiously.
Ach! said Van Zwieten under his breath, "they know now."
In the high wind Brenda did not hear him. Guessing that the concourse meant the discovery of the body, she flew along the road like a lapwing. The procession was coming toward the Manor gates from the direction of the orchards. Some men were shouting, some women screaming, but the solid group surrounded by the red, smoking lights remained silent. Van Zwieten followed noiselessly, and reached the group almost as soon as Brenda.
You see, he breathed in the girl's ear, "he is alive!"
Brenda gave a cry of joy and flung herself into the arms of the foremost man.
Harold! Harold! Thank God you are safe!
Brenda! What are you doing here? Go back! go back!
No, no. Tell me who--who is dead. Who has been murdered?
Seeing she knew so much, Harold signed to the men carrying the body to stop. They set down the gate on which it rested.
Malet! cried Brenda, as she recognized the features of the corpse. "It is Mr. Malet!"
Next morning there was great excitement in Chippingholt. That a murder should have taken place in that peaceful hamlet was bad enough, but that the victim should be the lord of the Manor himself was terrible beyond words. The body was carried up to the house, and the rural constable, not feeling himself competent to deal with so unusual an incident, sent for instructions to the police station at Langton.
Toward midday an inspector and constables came over to investigate. The inspector proceeded at once to the Manor and interviewed Lady Jenny. Her coolness and powers of endurance in such trying circumstances amazed even this stolid official.
She was a small, slightly-built woman, with a sylph-like figure, dark blue eyes and dark hair. Her rose-leaf skin was wonderfully delicate of tint and texture, and she looked fragile enough to be blown away by a breath of wind. She was said to be both frivolous and emotional, a shallow creature, fond of nothing but pleasure and spending money. In this emergency every one expected her to relapse into hysteria, and to be quite incapable of any control over her feelings; but, to their surprise, she was all the opposite of this, and shed hardly a tear. She received the news of the death almost apathetically, directed the body to be laid out in the bed which her husband had occupied when alive, and herself calmed the emotions of the household.
Indeed, Wilfred Burton was far more upset about the murder than was Lady Jenny. He expressed his amazement at her wonderful self-control. He was lying on the sofa in her morning-room when he spoke to her on the subject.
Some one must manage things, said the brave little woman, "and I know well enough you're incapable, poor dear! Harold could be of use, I know, but I don't want him just now. When I do, I'll send for him."
He was here this morning, Jenny.
I know he was; I saw him before you were up. He told me about the finding of poor Gilbert's body.
Who found it?
Branksom, the lodgekeeper. He was coming home from the village about ten last night, and took the short path through the orchards. He stumbled over a body in the dark, and lit a match to see who it was, thinking it was some drunken man. The match blew out, but he recognized Gilbert, and saw the blood on his face, so he ran back to give the alarm. Harold, who was at the 'Chequers,' heard of the murder, and came with a man to remove the body. In fact, he was the first to arrive, and he examined the corpse before the rest came up.
Wilfred, a pale-faced, delicate-looking young man, with large, dark eyes, and a hectic flush on his face, shuddered at the calmness with which Lady Jenny went into these details. "I don't know how you can do it!" he gasped, putting his hand to his throat like a hysterical woman. "It is terrible. And I thought you were so fond of Gilbert."
Yes, I was fond of him, said Lady Jenny, with emphasis, "but I learned something about him lately which rather checked my fondness."
What?
Something that concerned our two selves only. Wilfred. Poor Gilbert! He is dead, so I suppose I must forgive him.
I wonder who killed him? said Wilfred.
I wonder. Of course Gilbert made many enemies.
Political enemies?
Yes, and private ones also. My dear Wilfred, said Lady Jenny, laying her hand on the young man's arm, "I wish to speak well of the dead, especially as the dead was my husband, but Gilbert was not a good man."
Wilfred looked at her doubtfully. "You speak as though you knew something."
So I do; but that something has nothing to do, with the murder. I have no more idea who killed him than you have.
This conversation was interrupted by a message from Inspector Woke asking to see Lady Jenny, so she left the room at once. Mr. Inspector, a fat, stolid little man, much flurried by the unusual responsibility resting on his shoulders, had already seen the doctor and those who had found the body. He set about opening up the matter in his own way.
I have seen the doctor, my lady, he said, wiping his face and breathing hard. "He tells me the deceased must have been murdered at about half-past nine last night. The wound is on the right temple, and as the skin and hair are burned and blackened with gunpowder, the shot must have been fired at close quarters. Death must have come very speedily, my lady. We can find no bullet, as it passed right through the deceased's head, and no weapon, although we have searched the orchards. All the evidence, my lady, must be circumstantial. We must find out who had a grudge against the deceased, or who had an interest in his death."
Lady Jenny arranged the ruffles of crape round her neck--she was in mourning for her father, and had been for some weeks--and laughed coldly. She thought very little of this elaborate explanation, and less of the man who made it. The inspector she took to be a man of the smallest intelligence, and one wedded to the red-tapeism and stereotyped routine of criminal procedure as conducted by the police generally.
Mr. Malet had many enemies, she said quietly. "He was a politician, and at one time--not so long ago--was connected with the War Office."
Can you tell me the names of any who had a grudge against him, my lady?
No; he told me he had enemies, but gave no explanation. Nor did I seek any. But this is a circumscribed neighborhood, Mr. Woke, and not over-populated. If a stranger came down to murder my husband, we should have no difficulty in getting a description of him.
Woke pricked up his ears. "Does your ladyship, then, suspect some stranger?"
It is only an idea of mine, replied Lady Jenny, coldly. "I have no reasonable grounds for making a definite assertion. Still, my husband was popular to a certain extent in Chippingholt, and I know no one, I can think of no person--likely to desire his death."
It might have been a stranger, mused Woke. "Rural murders do not use revolvers as a rule, and if they did it would hardly be at such close quarters as this. Can you inform me of the movements of this household last night, my lady?"
Certainly. We dined at seven as usual. The night was hot and airless before the storm, so my husband said he would go out for a walk. He put a light coat over his evening dress, and strolled through the park. It was after eight when he went out.
He did not say where he was going?
No, merely remarked that he would like a breath of fresh air. That was the last I saw of him. After eight I received a message from Captain Burton asking if I could call and see him at the Rectory.
Why did he not wait on your ladyship here?
Lady Jenny changed color, and her hands became restless. "He was not on good terms with my husband. They quarrelled over some family matter, and Captain Burton refused to enter this house again."
Oh! said Woke, significantly. "And where was Captain Burton last night?"
He stayed at the 'Chequers,' but, as of course I could not meet him at a public-house, he asked me to go to the Rectory. The rector is a mutual friend.
Did you go?
I left shortly before nine o'clock with Mr. Wilfred Burton.
Who is he, my lady?
My husband's cousin--Captain Burton's brother. He is staying at the Manor, and has been here for the last month.
Oh! grunted Woke again--it seemed to be his method of expressing satisfaction--"then Mr. Wilfred Burton was not on bad terms with the deceased?"
No. They were excellent friends. Mr. Burton is rather nervous and delicate, and my husband was careful of his health. I asked Mr. Burton to go with me to the Rectory, and he agreed. We left this house shortly before nine o'clock. On the way Mr. Burton stumbled and twisted his ankle, so he returned to the house, and I went on alone. Before I got to the Rectory the storm burst, and it was so violent that I grew afraid. I was taking a path through the woods, and got under a tree for shelter. As I was nearer the Manor than the Rectory I determined to return, and explain to Captain Burton in the morning. It was ten o'clock when I got back, soaking and tired out. I was waiting a long time under the trees for the rain to go off, and so it was late when I returned. Then I went to bed, but was awakened about midnight by the news of my husband's murder.
"And Mr. Burton? He did not get back until ten either--in fact, we arrived almost at the same time, for his foot became so painful that he could walk only with great difficulty. He also was caught in the storm.""
"Oh! said the inspector again, "I should like to see Mr. Burton."
Certainly. Lady Jenny rose. "Is there anything else you would like to ask me?
Not at present, my lady. I will examine your household first.
As Wilfred's foot was sprained, the inspector was shown into the morning-room. It was a case of the mountain coming to Mahomet--Mr. Woke being a veritable mountain of official dignity.
He looked curiously at the pale young man lying on the sofa, and seeing he was in pain, examined him as gingerly as possible. Wilfred was quite ready to give an account of his movements, although he expressed some surprise that such information should be required.
Surely you don't suspect me of complicity in this dastardly crime, Mr. Inspector?
Dear me, no, certainly not, replied the jovial Woke, rubbing his hands, "but I am examining the whole household. It is wonderful what evidence may be gathered by such means. Indeed, I have got some evidence already. It may bear on the case, or it may not."
What is it? asked Wilfred, listlessly, and winced as his foot gave a twinge.
I'll tell you later, sir. First relate your movements, please, last night.
Young Burton gave an account coinciding with that of Lady Jenny. "My foot must have got twisted," he said, "for it grew very painful, and the ankle is a good deal swollen, Otherwise I should not have let Lady Jenny go on alone; but she was anxious to see my brother and insisted on going. It was a few minutes past nine when she left me. I tried to walk, but could not. Then the rain came on, and I dragged myself under a tree. I got soaked through, and thinking I should probably catch a severe chill--I am not strong, Mr. Woke--I set my teeth to it and hobbled home. I found a stake, which I used as a crutch; but the pain was so great that I could only walk very slowly. No one was about who could help me--it was so late. I got home after ten, and the butler helped me in. Then I went to bed, and put cold water bandages on my foot. It is easier now."
You should get the doctor to see it, Mr. Burton.
The doctor has been too busy examining poor Malet's body, said Wilfred. "I shall see him soon."
Have you any idea who murdered Mr. Malet, sir?
Great heavens, no! The whole case is a mystery to me.
Mr. Malet had many enemies I believe.
He said he had, but I think he spoke generally rather than of any particular person or persons. So far as I know he had no enemy who specially desired his death.
The inspector looked grave and a trifle ill at ease. "Mr. Burton," he said at length, "are you aware that your brother was on bad terms with Mr. Malet?"
They were not friendly, admitted Wilfred, looking anxious. "There was a disagreement about my brother's marriage. But, come now, my brother hasn't anything to do with the affair?"
Well, said Woke, pinching his chubby chin, "it's just this way, sir. I have been making inquiries, and I find that your brother and the deceased had a violent quarrel yesterday afternoon in this house."
I know that, but a quarrel does not mean murder. Confound it, sir, I won't listen to your insinuations.
Mr. Woke went on coolly and deliberately. "I questioned Roberts, the butler," he said, "and the man admitted that Captain Burton had used threatening language."
How did Roberts know?
He overheard Captain Burton at the open door of the library. He spoke loud enough for the whole house to hear, so Roberts says, but there happened to be nobody else about.
Go on, cried Wilfred, flushed and impatient. "Let me hear what my brother said."
He called Mr. Malet a swindler, and said he would make it hot for him.
Wilfred smiled derisively. "Really! And on such words, used in a moment of anger, you would accuse my brother of a brutal crime?"
I don't accuse him, sir, retorted Woke, hotly; "but I should like an explanation of his words."
I dare say he will furnish you with one. Wilfred forgot his sprained ankle now, and sat up filled with indignation. "And let me tell you, Mr. Woke," he went on, "the explanation will be such as to clear my brother wholly from all suspicion. He is the best fellow in the world, and I would as soon believe myself guilty of this thing as him. Suspect whom you please, but not my brother."
But the phlegmatic officer was quite unmoved by this outburst. "Natural enough," he said. "Oh, I don't dame you for standing up for the captain, sir; and I dare say, for that matter, he may be able to furnish an alibi, as he was at the Rectory waiting for her ladyship. All the same, I am bound to inquire further into this quarrel. I don't accuse him, mind"--Mr. Woke shook his forefinger--"but I can't help having my suspicions." He paused, and asked suddenly, "Who is Miss Scarse, sir?
The daughter of Mr. Scarse, M.P., and the lady to whom my brother is engaged to be married. Mr. Malet disapproved of the marriage. That was the reason he and Captain Burton quarrelled.
Scarse--Scarse, repeated the inspector, rising. "I've heard of him. He's the gentleman that's always writing and talking tall about the Boers, isn't he?"
I believe he is what is called a Little Englander.
An unpopular part at present, Mr. Burton. I am an Imperialist myself. H'm! so Miss Scarse is engaged to Captain Burton, is she? She called here at nine last night and asked for Lady Jenny, Roberts tells me.
Perhaps you'll accuse her of the murder next! said Wilfred, contemptuously.
I accuse no one as yet, sir. But I must have my facts quite clear, and I go to get them. Good-day, sir, and Mr. Woke departed to call in at "The Chequers," with Captain Burton still the central figure in his mind.
But Harold was not at the inn. Late in the morning he had called at the cottage to see Brenda, and discuss with her the very stirring events of the previous might. She received him in the drawing-room, and, thankful to find that he was alive and well, embraced him more than ever affectionately. The poor girl looked ill and pale, for all this trouble had shaken her nerves more than she cared to confess. And in truth Harold himself did not feel much better, although he showed it less markedly. Mr. Scarse being shut up as usual in his study, they had the room to themselves. Van Zwieten had gone out.
I had no chance, dear, of speaking to you last night, said Harold. "Tell me how you came to hear about this murder?"
Harold, dear, I saw it committed!
The man turned pale. "You saw it committed?" he repeated. "Why, Brenda, who did it?"
I don't know. I had gone to the Manor to see Lady Jenny. I thought she might be able to help you about this money and on my way home I was caught in the storm. In a vivid flash of lightning I saw Mr. Malet sheltering under a tree. I did not know then that it was Mr. Malet. After that I heard a cry, and then a shot. I ran forward, and stumbled over the body. Then I fainted, I think, but as soon as I was able I made my way home. It was only when I met you that I knew that Mr. Malet was the victim. Oh, Harold, dearest, I thought all the time it was you!
What on earth put such an idea as that into your head? he asked in amazement.
I don't know. Van Zwieten had told me he hated you, and I am afraid of Van Zwieten. He told me he went to see you at the inn, and I thought you might have quarrelled, and---- She threw out her hands. "Oh, dearest, it is only because you are so much to me, I suppose, that I thought it must be you. Oh, Harold, the thought nearly drove me mad."
But why did Van Zwieten want to see me?
To insist that you should give me up.
Give you up? Confound his Dutch impertinence! said Harold, angrily.
Dearest, I am afraid of that man, said Brenda, clinging to him. "Yes, terribly afraid. He will not leave me alone. He speaks as though he were perfectly certain I should have to marry him."
In that case, the most effectual method of putting an end to his presumption will be for you to marry me, dear, and that at once. Remember the twenty thousand pounds comes to me now!
Harold!--the money is yours? But how?
Malet's control of the fund died with him. Now that he is dead, nothing can prevent my getting it. We can be married straight away, dear.
We should have done that in any case, Harold. But now---- Oh, do let us go to London at once; for, until we are really married, I shall not be able to shake off my fear of this man. I know I sha'n't.
Nonsense, Brenda! He can be nothing to you, Why, you told me you detested the man.
So I do. I loathe him. But he is so determined and wicked, and so unscrupulous, that somehow I fear him, I----
Is he here now?
Yes; but I believe he goes this afternoon. He may meet us in London, Harold, and give us trouble there. Believe me, he is dangerous.
Give me the legal right to protect you, Brenda, said Harold, "and you need not fear Van Zwieten. He is a brute. I don't know how your father can tolerate him."
Simply because Mr. van Zwieten is going out to the Transvaal Government, and father has taken up the Boer cause.
If Kruger goes on as he is doing, there won't be any Transvaal Government at all in a few months. Don't you bother about Van Zwieten, dear. As soon as poor Malet is buried I shall go up to London and see about the money.
There will be an inquest, I suppose.
Of course. The police are at the Manor now. I went over to offer my services to Jenny, but she did not want me, and sent out to say so. Poor little woman! I don't see how she's going to manage matters. I hope she'll have enough to live on.
Why! I thought Mr. Malet was rich!
He was. But he spent money freely, and gambled a good deal. Harold looked uneasy. "I tell you what, Brenda, I sha'n't be easy in my mind until I know that my money and Wilfred's is safe. Malet had supreme control over it, and for all I know he may have made ducks and drakes with it."
Well, if he has, we'll have to do without it, that's all, replied the girl. "By the way, dear, why didn't you go to town last night as we arranged?"
I changed my mind. It struck me that Jenny might manage to succeed with Malet where I had failed. I didn't go up to the house, because I didn't want to meet him; so I sent her a note asking her to come to the Rectory. You know Mr. Slocum is one of my oldest friends.
How strange, said Brenda, wonderingly. "I had exactly the same idea; that was why I went to the Manor last night. When I got there they told me Lady Jenny had gone to the Rectory."
I didn't see her, said Harold, grimly. "I waited till nine, and as she hadn't turned up then I went back to the inn. There, later on, I heard of the murder, and went to look at the body. Although we had quarrelled I felt sorry for the poor devil when I heard of his violent death."
Poor Mr. Malet, sighed Brenda; "I wonder who killed him, and why?"
Well, I can't say why, dear, but I have an idea who it was that shot him.
Who? Who?
That man I mistook for your father.
Brenda turned pale, remembering her father's agitation.
Impossible! Why do you think so?
I examined the body first, before the others came up. I found the right hand was clenched, and by the light of the lantern I opened it. It was grasping a scrap of crape!
A scrap of crape! But what has---- Brenda's voice died in her throat.
Don't you remember my description? That old man wore a crape scarf!
This unexpected piece of evidence caused Brenda no little uneasiness. She reflected that the man with the crape scarf had so closely resembled her father as to be mistaken for him, and then she remembered how her father had refused to give any information concerning this double of his. There was also the fact of his avowed hatred of Malet. Do what she would, she could not rid herself of the idea that through this third person, so like himself, her father was in some way connected with the murder. And little as she loved him, the thought of it shocked and terrified her. She told Harold what had passed between them in the study, and unbosomed herself of her suspicions to him. In reply he asked her a few straightforward questions.
Did your father refuse to speak of this man, Brenda?
Absolutely. He sent me out of the room.
He was uneasy?
More than uneasy, said the girl, with emphasis; "he was terrified. There is great mystery in all this, Harold. In some way my father is connected with this man. For all I know, he may be a relative. I am very ignorant of my family history."
H'm! Have you seen your father this morning?
No. He did not come to breakfast, and I did not go to his study, knowing that he dislikes to be disturbed.
Well, we must go to his study now, said Harold, rising, "for I am sure that the man with the crape scarf killed Malet, and your father may be able to throw some light on the subject."
Harold, you don't think my father----
Who can tell? Brenda, we must face the facts, and see him. In any case I am the only person who knows about this scrap of crape, and I shall keep the information to myself. Now, come along, dear, and let's hunt him up.
When they reached the study they found it empty. On the table lay a note for Brenda in her father's handwriting. It informed her very curtly that he had gone up to London for the day and would return that same evening. Harold looked grave, and Brenda was perplexed. It was so unexpected. Mr. Scarse seemed to be doing all he could to heap suspicion on his own head.
Does he usually go off in this sudden fashion? asked Captain Burton.
Yes and no. Sometimes he tells me, sometimes he leaves a note. After all, Harold, we may be altogether mistaken. Perhaps father knows nothing at all about it.
I hope so, Brenda. But from what you say he certainly knows this man, and it is strange there should be such a striking resemblance between them. The scrap of crape might easily have been torn off the scarf in the struggle.
But there was no struggle, said Brenda, eagerly. "I saw Mr. Malet for one moment when the lightning flashed; the next I heard a cry, and it was followed at once by a shot. There was no time for a struggle."
You heard the cry first, and then the shot?
Yes. The shot must have killed the poor man at once. He did not cry again.
Harold reflected. "I saw Dr. Lincoln this morning at the Manor," he said slowly. "He deduces from the blackened skin and singed hair that the shot must have been fired at close quarters. Now, if the murderer saw Malet by that lightning flash, and was close at hand, he no doubt sprang forward and clutched the poor devil's arm while he placed the muzzle of the weapon at his temple. In that case Malet would utter a cry and the next moment drop dead. In his agony he might have gripped at the crape scarf, and have torn off the piece I found clenched in his hand."
That is all purely hypothetical, said Brenda, fighting against her doubts.
I know it is. But it seems to me the only way to account for your hearing the cry first, and for this piece of crape being in the hand of the corpse. Depend upon it, Brenda, your father can throw some light on the subject. Well, as he's gone to town, there's nothing for it but to wait till he comes back. Meanwhile I won't say anything about the piece of crape to any one.
And what are you going to do now? she asked, as he moved toward the study door.
Return to the inn. I should like to know if any one else saw this stranger, and if they mistook him, as I did, for your father.
Harold, Harold, do be careful, implored Brenda; "we may be misjudging father altogether, dear. Don't, I beg of you, get him into any trouble."
On the contrary, dear, my object is to get him out of trouble. If I don't succeed in arriving at some explanation of this queer confusion of identities the police may take it up. Then it would be dangerous. Good-bye, dear; I shall be back shortly.
Brenda waved her hand as he left her, and returned to the study. She was filled with ominous foreboding, and trembled at the thought of possible complicity on the part of her father. His pronounced hatred of Malet, his agitation at the mention of the stranger, the odd idea of the crape scarf worn by the supposed criminal, and the morsel of it in the dead man's hand--these things collectively formed a mystery which Brenda could not fathom.
She looked again at the note which intimated that her father had gone to town, and from the straggling, scratching character of the handwriting she gathered that he must have been greatly agitated when he wrote it. Afterward she went to the kitchen, and skillfully questioned Mrs. Daw and Tilda about their master's departure. Both declared that he had said nothing to them about it. It seemed likely, then, that he had made up his mind on a sudden impulse and gone off in a hurry.
Brenda wondered vainly what it could all mean, and then rebuked herself severely for her suspicions. After all, her father would no doubt be able to give good reason for his hurried departure when he returned; the surrounding circumstances, strange as they were, might prove to be all that was natural and obvious in the light of what he would have to say.
The dawn had brought wisdom to Mrs. Daw and the housemaid too, for they no longer spoke of giving notice. They were chattering like parrots about the murder, many exaggerated and wholly imaginary details of which had been supplied by butcher, baker and milkman. But Brenda learned that as yet no one was definitely suspected of the crime, and that the villagers were hopelessly bewildered at its committal.
About the stranger no word was said; and somewhat relieved in her mind, Brenda gave her orders for the day, and returned to the study. She sat down before the fire--which was lighted, as usual, in spite of the summer warmth--and gave herself up to thoughts of Harold. These were pleasant enough, but occasionally there would come the recollection of Van Zwieten and his calm insistence that she should be his wife. Then she shuddered, for the man fascinated her as a serpent fascinates a bird. There were moments when it came upon her that he might get his way in spite of her repulsion.
Idly looking into the fire, she noticed a fine white ash under the grate, disposed in a regular line. At first she took no heed of it, but presently she became aware that this was no coal débris, and her eye travelled along the line until she found an unburnt piece of the material, the remainder of which was ash. Growing pale, she bent down and picked up a tiny piece of crape. Undoubtedly it was crape--there was enough saved from the burning to swear by. Brenda turned faint; from the long narrow outline of the white ash, from the scrap of material she held in her hand, it was certain that her father had flung a crape scarf under the grate, and had set fire to it. And she guessed that the scarf was the one worn by the stranger--the scarf from which the morsel in Harold's possession had been torn. Motionless and terrified, she pondered over the meaning of this destruction.
Before she could come to any conclusion, there was a shadow thrown across the floor, and Brenda, her nerves shaken, jumped up with a slight scream to see Van Zwieten step into the room through the French window. He looked unusually well pleased with himself, and smiled blandly when he saw her. In fact, she detected an exulting expression in his blue eyes, which vaguely terrified her. With the instinct to conceal the discovery of the burnt scarf, she thrust the scrap into her pocket, and turned to welcome Van Zwieten with a smile.
He looked at the fire, at her action, and seemed to connect the two. But he said nothing. No doubt he thought she had been about to burn something, and that he had interrupted her.
Aha, Miss Scarse, he said politely, "I have been walking in the orchards to have a look at the spot where I murdered that man."
Brenda was annoyed at his satire, and rather foolishly showed her annoyance.
You should make allowance for my state of mind last night, she said irritably. "I spoke without thinking. Besides, I accused you of killing Harold, not poor Mr. Malet."
Quite so. But you might as well say I killed the one as the other. Pardon me, I will say no more. I have been to the place where the poor man was murdered, and I have made discoveries. Ah, you English, you have no eyes! Dozens of people have been round this morning, but they have seen nothing. I have seen much.
What have you seen--what have you discovered? asked Brenda, anxiously.
Van Zwieten clicked his heels together in foreign fashion, and bowed. "Miss Scarse, I am a wise man," he said, smiling; "wise men never talk. But if you will be wise also, and give me the right to tell you what I know, why then----"
How can I give you the right?
By accepting me as your future husband.
No, a thousand times, no. I am engaged to Captain Burton.
Ah, Captain Burton! I quite forgot that young gentleman. I have something to say to him. He is, no doubt, still at his hotel. I will call.
If your object is to make him give me up, you may save yourself the trouble of calling, said Brenda, quietly. "We are engaged, and nothing you can say or do can break our engagement.
Ah! I think otherwise.
Mr. van Zwieten, will you understand once and for all that I refuse to have anything to do with you. I refuse to marry you.
Van Zwieten shook his head. "I cannot accept your refusal. I have made up my mind that you shall marry me, and marry me you must. I have a strong will, Miss Scarse."
I also, and so has Captain Burton. You can't bully me into being your slave.
Pardon me, I should be the slave, said the Dutchman, blandly. "As for Captain Burton, poof! I will sweep him from my path. When he is in South Africa, I shall be there also."
He is not going to South Africa.
Oh, yes, I think so. He is a soldier, and your soldiers will have much to do in South Africa shortly.
Mr. van Zwieten, I believe you are a Boer spy.
Indeed! Why do you believe so?
You seem to be so certain of the war. You are going out to the Transvaal----
I am. You too, Miss Scarse--as my wife. Ah, do not look angry. You must accept the inevitable with a good grace. As to my being a spy, there is no need for me to act so low a part as that. I think there will be war because I read the sign of the times. Europe is with us----
Did your friend Dr. Leyds tell you so? she asked scornfully.
Perhaps. But this is idle talk. I am not what you think me. When the time comes you will know--what I intend you to know. So sure am I that you will be my wife, that I am content to return to London this day and leave you with Captain Burton.
The sooner you go the better pleased I shall be.
Ach! What English hospitality! How charmingly said!
Brenda turned on him with tears of rage in her eyes. "You force me to be rude," she said, almost breaking down in the face of this persistence. "I have never been spoken to as you speak to me. An English gentleman can take 'no' for an answer."
But I love you too much to accept such an answer.
If you loved me, you would not worry me so. Please go, Mr. van Zwieten. Oh! I wish my father were here to protect me! cried poor Brenda, keeping back her tears with difficulty.
Call him, Miss Scarse. He has not gone out to-day, has he?
He has gone to London.
Clever and self-possessed as Van Zwieten was, this intelligence disconcerted him. He started and frowned. "To London!" he repeated. "He was here a couple of hours ago."
Brenda handed him the note left by her father, and turned away. "You can see for yourself. I suppose you will go after luncheon."
Van Zwieten read the note and frowned again. "Yes, I will go after luncheon," he said. "In the meantime I will see Captain Burton, I think; oh, yes, I think I shall come to terms with that young gentleman. Till luncheon, Miss Scarse," and, bowing with a mocking smile, he stepped out of the window, leaving Brenda puzzled and uneasy.
Meanwhile, Harold was talking with Inspector Woke at the inn. He had found that official waiting for him on his return from the cottage, and had at once consented to his request for a private conversation. He had no idea that Woke suspected him in any way, and answered his questions with the utmost frankness.
I went to the Rectory last night to see Mr. Slocum, who is an old friend of mine, he said, "and left here about eight o'clock. It was shortly after nine when I returned."
At what time did you arrive here? asked Woke, watching his companion's face.
About ten o'clock.
Oh! and you left the Rectory at nine. Did it take you an hour to walk a quarter of a mile?
Captain Burton stared, and his dark face flushed. "I don't know why you wish me to answer you so precisely," he said haughtily; "but it so happened that I was caught in the storm, and stood under a tree for some time."
The storm again, murmured Woke, rubbing his chin. "Lady Jenny Malet and your brother were both caught in the storm."
I know that, retorted Burton, impatiently. "Lady Jenny was coming to the Rectory to see me on business. This morning I learned that she was caught in the storm and turned back. My brother sprained his foot. I know all this. Well?"
Mr. Malet was murdered at half-past nine.
So the doctor told me. Well?
Harold was so unsuspicious that the inspector felt uncomfortable, and did not know very well how to put his doubts into words. "Did you see Mr. Malet last night?" he asked.
No, I did not.
Oh! If you had, would you have spoken to him?
What the devil do you mean? asked Captain Burton, sharply.
Only this. That I have been informed at the Manor--by Roberts the butler, if you want to know--that you and Mr. Malet had a quarrel yesterday.
We had, over family business. That has nothing to do with you.
I'm not so sure about that, said Woke, drily. "You used threats. You said you would make it hot for him."
Captain Burton jumped up with clenched fists. "Are you trying to make out that I murdered Malet?" he asked savagely. "If so, put your meaning more clearly, and I shall know how to defend myself."
I don't say you murdered him, protested Woke, soothingly; "but you quarrelled with him, you threatened him, and you were out of doors between nine and ten, during which time he was killed. The position is suspicious--don't be angry, Captain Burton, I am only doing my duty. Of course you can prove an alibi."
I can give you my word that I did not see Malet last night. I saw his body after I had been informed of his murder. As to an alibi, no one saw me after I left the Rectory, so far as I know. I stood under a tree for a time; then I walked round by Mr. Scarse's cottage.
Had you any particular reason to do so?
Captain Burton flushed and bit his lip. "I could refuse to answer that question," he said at length; "but as you suspect me I will be as candid as possible. I am engaged to Miss Scarse, and I went round with the intention of seeing her on the same matter about which I went to the Rectory. However, I concluded it was too late, so I returned here."
You answer frankly, Captain Burton, said Woke rather disconsolately, "and I say again, I don't accuse you of the crime."
Harold bowed ironically. "Have you any idea who committed it?
No, replied Burton, keeping his own counsel, "I have not."
Woke rose to go. Then he looked at Harold and hesitated. Finally he spoke in a confidential tone. "Do you know if Mr. Scarse is mad?" was his strange question.
Burton suppressed a smile. "Not that I know of," he replied wonderingly. "Why?"
Because he was seen in the village yesterday afternoon with a yard or two of crape around his neck--crape, Captain Burton--a strange material for a scarf!
Very strange, replied Burton, keeping strict guard on his tongue. He saw that other people besides himself had mistaken the stranger for Scarse; but he did not correct the inspector lest he might say too much. For Brenda's sake it would not do for that subject to be gone into too minutely. "You had better see Mr. Scarse yourself about the matter," said he at length; "he has gone up to town, but may return this evening."
Woke nodded and withdrew. He had not gained much by his conversation. Harold was evidently guiltless; or, at all events, there seemed to be no evidence to connect him with the crime. The poor inspector, accustomed to open murders of the poker or hatchet order, was wholly at a loss how to deal with the intricate criminal problem presented to him. He could not find the weapon with which the crime had been committed; he could gain no tangible intelligence likely to fasten the crime on to any one person. At last, utterly perplexed, he took himself off.
Harold watched him go with some sense of relief. He saw that the case, handled by a man of such inexperience and meagre intelligence, would come to nothing, and for Brenda's sake he was glad. He could not help thinking that Scarse was in some way connected with the matter. Much would depend upon the explanation he had to give regarding his "double." Until that mystery was solved, nothing could be done.
He was still pondering over the pros and cons of it all when he was interrupted by the waiter with the intelligence that Mr. van Zwieten wished to see him. Wondering what his rival could have to say to him, he directed that he should be shown in. When Van Zwieten appeared, Harold received him coldly. He did not offer to shake hands.
You wish to see me? was all he said.
Ach, yes! replied Van Zwieten, with a beaming smile. "You will let me sit down." He threw himself lightly on the sofa. "Thank you. Yes, Captain Burton, I have come to see you about a lady."
I know whom you mean, said Harold, his voice tremulous with rage, "and I must ask you to leave that lady's name unspoken. I refuse to discuss the matter, you have come about."
It will be better for you to agree, said Van Zwieten, with a steely gleam of his blue eyes. "I come to see you about more than Miss Scarse."
Harold sat down suddenly. It flashed across him that the Dutchman knew something connected with the crime, so significantly did he speak. Resolved to know the worst, he decided to let him have his say, although he winced at the idea of Brenda's name on the lips of the man. However, there was no help for it. The position was dangerous, and this was not the time for squeamishness.
Say what you have to say and go then, he said, holding himself in hand.
I can say that in a few words, said Van Zwieten; "you are engaged to be married to Miss Scarse."
Yes, assented Burton, breathing quickly.
Know then that I love her, Captain Burton, and I wish to marry her.
Miss Scarse has consented to marry me. You have--oh, damn you, get out, or I'll kick you! How dare you talk about Miss Scarse--about my private affairs?
The young man was on his feet, furious with rage. It wanted little to make him hurl himself on Van Zwieten; but the Dutchman never flinched, never ceased to smile. "You must give up Miss Scarse to me!"
I'll see you at the devil first, was the fierce reply.
In that case I must talk of your private affairs.
You have done so--you are doing so.
Not yet. But now--Captain Burton, I hold you in the hollow of my hand.
What do you mean? asked the startled Harold.
Van Zwieten bent forward and spoke low for a few moments. When he had finished, Captain Burton's face was grey and drawn and terror-stricken.
The Dutchman continued to smile.
For the next week Brenda lived in a state of bewilderment. Everything seemed to go wrong. Her father did not return, but wrote that his things were to be sent on to London, and that Brenda herself was to leave the cottage in charge of Mrs. Daw, and come up in a fortnight's time. Van Zwieten bowed himself out of Chippingholt without having told her of his interview with Harold. With his usual cunning, he had left Harold himself to do that; but Harold, leaving a message for Brenda that he was suddenly recalled to his regimental duties, had himself left by a later train, without either explanation or word of farewell.
Brenda was hopelessly at a loss to understand her lover's action, and in her despair sought Lady Jenny.
It was a week after the inquest, and the two women were seated in Lady Jenny's boudoir, a pleasant rose-hued room which looked out on to a Dutch garden. The usual verdict of willful murder against some person or persons unknown had been brought in by the usual opaque country jury, directed by a not over-intelligent coroner. Gilbert Malet's body had been laid away in the family vault, and Lady Jenny was utilizing for her husband the mourning she had worn for her father.
Brenda was paying her now a visit of condolence; but Lady Jenny showed clearly by her manner and curt speech that she stood in no need of sympathy. It was amazing to see the change that had taken place in her since her husband's death. Formerly she had been a gay, frivolous little woman, with ever a smile on her face; now Brenda found her a small image of stone, as hard, and every whit as cold. She could scarcely believe it was the same woman.
Finding that her sympathetic references to the dead man were received with coldness, Brenda tactfully changed the conversation. She mentioned her own anxiety about Harold's abrupt departure, and found Lady Jenny quite ready to talk on that subject. She loved Brenda and admired Harold, and wished to see them married. Consequently she was only too glad to smooth down Brenda's feathers, which were a good deal ruffled by her lover's strange behavior.
My dear, you know a soldier's time is not his own, she said. "I expect Harold got a telegram, and had just time to pack and catch the first train."
He should have sent for me, said Brenda; "I should have seen him off at the station."
Well, I've no doubt he will explain his reasons when you meet in town. You go there next week, and Harold is only at Aldershot. He has written to you?
Several times, and always fondly. But he has never explained his leaving without seeing me. It's no good, Lady Jenny; I confess I am angry. Yet he may have avoided seeing me on account of the murder.
Lady Jenny looked up sharply. "Why should he?" Brenda hesitated. She was thinking of Harold's suspicions regarding her father, and did not want to tell them to the dead man's widow. For the moment she had forgotten to whom she was speaking. But, having committed herself so far, she was obliged to get out of the difficulty as best she could.
You know Inspector Woke suspected Harold? she said, nervously avoiding Lady Jenny's sharp black eyes; "he said----"
I know--I know. Woke told me of his suspicions. He's a fool--to suspect Harold of killing Gilbert just because they had a few words is ridiculous, and I told him so. Nobody will ever know who killed Gilbert.
You speak very confidently, said Brenda, amazed at her hard tone.
Because I feel confident, retorted the other. "There is not a scrap of evidence against any one. All that could be said was said at the inquest. Woke and his police have been doing their best to get at the truth, and have failed. The revolver was not found; no one knew why Gilbert went out walking on that night, or whom he met, and--oh, the whole thing is over and done with. It is only one more of the many undiscovered crimes."
Do you suspect any one?
Not a soul. Why should I? Gilbert had many enemies--so he said--but I don't know any of them, and I don't suppose any one of them would have gone the length of murder.
The police here are such sillies, put in Brenda. "Why don't you get a clever detective down from London?"
Because I think the case is hopeless, my dear, said the widow, gloomily, "and because it would cost a great deal too much money. I have not yet gone into the affairs of the estate, but I am afraid I shall not be over well off. Gilbert would play, and I suppose I was extravagant. We lived far beyond our means. This place is mortgaged heavily."
What--the Manor? asked Brenda, startled.
Yes, all our property is mortgaged. I expect I shall be left with nothing but the ten thousand pounds for which Gilbert's life was insured. Fortunately it was settled on me at the time of our marriage, so his creditors can't touch it. I hate being poor, cried Lady Jenny, viciously; "and, so far as I can see, I shall be--very poor."
I had no idea things were so bad.
Nor had I until six months ago, when Gilbert told me. We have lived from hand to mouth since then. All Gilbert's efforts have been directed to staving off ruin.
Brenda's heart sank within her. "What about Harold's money?"
Oh, Harold and Wilfred are all right, said Lady Jenny, hastily; "at least, I suppose so. Gilbert always said that he took good care of their money, and I think he did. He was not the man to place himself within reach of the law by appropriating trust monies--at least, I can't believe he would do such a thing. But next week the whole matter will be gone into. Then I suppose you and Harold will get married."
Of course. In any case--money or no money--we shall be married.
Oh, I don't know. It's absurd marrying on nothing. Gilbert was well off when I became his wife, or I shouldn't have married him; had I known he was a gambler, I should have refused him. He made a nice mess of his life.
I thought you loved him.
I did, a deal better than he deserved, said Lady Jenny, bitterly. "But--but--oh, what is the use of talking! He was a bad man--another woman--his fault--and I--my dear, don't you trust Harold. All men are bad."
I always understood Mr. Malet was devoted to you.
So did I--until I found him out. It came about in the strangest way--the discovery, I mean. Lady Jenny paused, as though considering whether to speak out or not. Finally she decided to hold her tongue. "But then these things concern only myself," said she, abruptly. "He deceived me--I was jealous--that is all you need know. But I cannot say that I sorrow for him now that he is dead."
Oh, how can you speak so?
Because I am a woman, and jealous. When Harold deceives you, Brenda, you will feel as I do--feel that you could kill him with your own hand. Lady Jenny looked suddenly at the girl's blonde beauty. "But no! you are a cold Saxon girl, with little such spirit in you. I--my father was Irish, my mother Italian, and I have in me all the fire of Celt and Latin. It was well for Gilbert that he died when he did," she said between her teeth; "I don't know what! should have done!"
The bitterness and passion with which she spoke were both new to Brenda, who had never suspected her of such depth of feeling. Being in the dark, more or less, concerning its cause, she hardly knew what to say, so she held her peace. She felt that nothing she could say would alter her friend's feelings, and might possibly even aggravate them. After a turn up and down the room, the widow resumed her seat, and seemed to become calmer.
Where are you going to stay in town, Brenda?
With my aunt, Mrs. St. Leger, in Kensington. My father always lives in his own rooms, you know. He doesn't want to be troubled with a grown-up daughter.
He won't be troubled long if Harold is to be believed.
You mean our marriage? No! But you know my father doesn't approve of it. He wants me to marry Mr. van Zwieten.
That Dutchman! Horrid creature! I never could bear him. Gilbert liked him, though.
Indeed! said Brenda, rather surprised. "Mr. van Zwieten told me he and Mr. Malet were not friendly."
Lady Jenny laughed in a way not good to hear. "Very likely. Van Zwieten is cunning--slim, as his countrymen call it. I know more about him though than he thinks."
Do you know who he is?
Yes, I know who he is, and how he makes his money, and why he is in England.
How did you find out? asked Brenda, breathlessly.
Oh, that I mustn't tell you--suppose you were to tell Van Zwieten?
Tell him! repeated Miss Scarse, her face crimson, her eyes bright. "Why, I hate him more than any man I ever knew. He wants to marry me, and won't take a refusal. My father supports him, and, for Harold's sake, I have to fight them both."
And you are not afraid of so formidable a foe? said the widow, seeing her eyes droop.
Not of my father, but I am afraid of Mr. van Zwieten. He is a terrible man, and has so powerful a will that he can almost impose it on mine. There is something hypnotic about him, and I feel scarcely mistress of myself when he is near me.
Nonsense! You are fanciful, child.
Indeed--indeed I am not, protested the girl, eagerly. "But you don't know how strong and obstinate he is. He never loses his temper, he just looks and looks with those terrible eyes of his, and repeats his desire--his will--his intentions--over and over again. I feel like a rabbit in the presence of a snake. And that's why I want Harold and me to be married soon, because I feel, if we are not, Mr. van Zwieten will compel me in spite of myself."
Lady Jenny bent forward and caught Brenda's wrists. "My dear, if Van Zwieten tries these pranks on, you send for me. If any one can save you from him, I can."
But how?
That is my affair. Van Zwieten may be all you say, but I can make him afraid of me. Now you must go, my dear. I have a lot of letters to write.
Brenda went off much puzzled over Lady Jenny's attitude toward Van Zwieten. Evidently she knew something to the man's disadvantage. But Brenda was doubtful whether her friend could use her knowledge sufficiently cleverly to crush the Dutchman. His resource was extraordinary, and he was clever and unscrupulous enough to be able to defend himself in an emergency. However, she felt it was no use trying to forecast the future. She resolved to keep out of Van Zwieten's way and get Harold to marry her as soon as possible. Once she was Mrs. Burton, the Dutchman would be obliged to cease persecuting her.
For the next few days Brenda was fully occupied with her packing. As Harold was in London, or rather so near London that he could come up there quickly, she was glad to be going. She felt she must see him and have from him an explanation, and an understanding as to when their marriage could take place. At her aunt's she would be safe from Van Zwieten, since Mr. St. Leger did not like him; but Brenda knew well that for his own ends--whatever these might be--her father would, as ever, insist on her favoring Van Zwieten.
The only way to put an end to the intolerable situation was to marry Harold. With that, her father would no doubt wash his hands of her, but at least she would be relieved from the persecutions of the Dutchman, and would have some one to love and protect her. So it was with thankfulness that Brenda left the cottage.
In the train she found a travelling companion whom she did not expect--none other than Harold's brother. Wilfred's foot was now quite well, and he looked better in health than when Brenda had last seen him. He joined her at Langton Junction, and they travelled up in the same carriage, which they were fortunate enough to have to themselves. She was pleased that it was so, for she wanted to talk confidentially with Wilfred. They were the best of good friends.
I am so glad your foot is all right again, Wilfred, she said cheerfully. "It is such a painful thing--a sprain."
Yet for all that I am not sorry I sprained it, said Wilfred, turning his thin white face toward the girl.
Not sorry! What do you mean?
Oh, it's an ill wind--you know.
Yes, I suppose it is. But it's difficult to see what sort of 'good' one can look for from a sprained ankle!
Well, in this instance I fancy it did me a good turn. You see it rendered me physically helpless for the time being.
My dear Wilfred--I confess you puzzle me.
Do I? Well, I'll tell you what I mean. The night, almost the hour, I sprained my ankle, poor Malet was shot. So no one can possibly accuse me of having shot him!
But who would dare to accuse you of such a thing?
Oh, I don't know; that fool of an inspector was quite prepared to fix his beastly suspicions on Harold--told me as much.
I know; but then you see Harold and Mr. Malet quarrelled. That was the reason Mr. Woke was suspicious. But of course Harold laughed at the idea.
I should think so. I confess the whole thing licks me. I can't imagine who can have done it.
No one knows. Lady Jenny says no one ever will know!
I suppose not. It seems to be relegated to the list of undiscovered crimes. Do you know, Brenda, I have had my suspicions!
A cold hand clutched the girl's heart. She immediately thought of her father. "Have you?" she faltered. "Of whom?"
Well, I wouldn't tell every one, as I have really no sort of basis for them. They are the purest suspicions. But I suspect that big Dutchman who was staying at your place.
Van Zwieten! Brenda's mind ran over the events of that terrible night. The Dutchman had been out; he had come in after her. But again her father had told the servants that Van Zwieten was in the study with him--a distinct falsehood. Whichever way she looked at it, her father seemed to be mixed up in the matter. "Yet what possible motive could Van Zwieten have had to impel him to such a crime?" she asked Wilfred.
It might be a political crime, said the young man, his face lighting up as it invariably did when he talked politics. "Gilbert was an Imperialist--always preaching and writing against the Boers. Van Zwieten is Dutch, and is going out to an appointment at Pretoria; also he is an intimate friend of Dr. Leyds. He might have wished to get Gilbert out of the way because he was dangerous to his schemes."
Surely he wouldn't have gone the length of murder for such a reason.
Oh, I don't know. If he could without being found out, I am certain he would. I don't say Van Zwieten fired the shot himself, but he might have hired some one to do it.
What makes you think that, Wilfred?
Well, I was talking to the station-master at Chippingholt. He said that a man in a dark overcoat with a soft hat pulled over his eyes went to Langton Junction by the 10:30 train--the last train on that night. Van Zwieten saw him off at the station. He was seen to follow the man to the compartment and put his head through the window. There was evidently an understanding between them. Now you know, Brenda, few strangers come to Chippingholt, for there is nothing to see there. It was odd, to say the least of it, that Van Zwieten should have seen this fellow off. Moreover, he just left after the murder was committed.
I don't see though how you are justified from this in thinking that either Van Zwieten or the other man is implicated in the murder, said Brenda after a pause. "They might simply have met on business."
What sort of business?
I can't say, I am not in Mr. van Zwieten's confidence.
Wilfred's eyes flashed. "I wish I was!" he said emphatically. "I believe the fellow is a Boer spy!"
I thought so too, and I told him so.
What did he say?
He denied it. Wilfred, did any one see the face of this stranger?
No. He kept his coat collar turned up, and his hat well over his eyes. Why?
Nothing, I was only wondering. Brenda dreaded lest she should hear that the stranger was he who so closely resembled her father. She wondered, too, whether it was possible her father could have assisted this man to escape after he had shot Mr. Malet, for that the crime had been committed by the same man who wore the black crape scarf seemed conclusively proved by the presence of that piece of it in the victim's hand.
I intend to keep a pretty close watch on Mr. van Zwieten, went on Wilfred. "In fact, that is why I have come up to town. If, as I suspect, he is a spy, the authorities must know of it. In the event of hostilities breaking out between this country and the Transvaal, he would of course be arrested at once."
But you cannot prove his complicity in this matter, Wilfred?
I intend to have a shot at it any way, replied the young man, grimly. "But come, Brenda, here we are at Victoria. Let me put you in a hansom."
Do come and see me, Wilfred. I'm at Mrs. St. Leger's.
Thanks; I will. I may ask you to help me too in my pursuit of this Dutchman.
How you seem to hate Mr. van Zwieten, Wilfred, she exclaimed. "Have you any especial reason to dislike him?"
I hate him because he is the enemy of my country.
As the cab drove away, Brenda mused on the fervent patriotism of the man. Frail, neurotic, frequently ailing, a prey to chronic melancholia, yet he was of the stuff of which such men as Hampden, Pym and Cromwell are made. He believed in the greatness of England as he did in the existence of God. Her every triumph sent a thrill through him, her lightest disaster cut him to the quick. It was as if he were ever under the influence of a fixed idea. But if he were, the idea was at least a noble and an elevating one. His spirit was strong as his body was weak, and through his body he paid dearly for his patriotic emotions.
It had been Brenda's intention to drive at once to Kensington, but when she recalled all that Wilfred had said, she felt she must see her father, if only to clear her mind of suspicion. Had he assisted--as seemed probable--in the escape of the unknown man, he must have known that the creature was a murderer, since there could be no other reason for such a hurried and secretive flight. She felt she could not rest until she had the truth from his own lips. Hence she told the man to drive to his chambers in Star Street.
Fortunately the old man was in. He looked leaner and whiter, she thought, than ever. He was buried in the evening papers, from which he was cutting out slips, which he proceeded to paste into a large book. It was from these clippings of editorial opinion and collected data that he constructed his speeches, throwing in as flavoring a dash of his own dogmatic optimism, and some free expression reflecting the true humanity of other nations as compared with that of his own brutal country, of which, in truth, he had little to say that was not abusive.
As usual, he received Brenda coldly, and wondered why she had not driven at once to her aunt's. She soon explained to him her reasons.
Father, I am worrying myself to death about that man with the crape scarf.
Scarse colored and averted his eyes. "Why, pray?" he asked.
Because I can't get over his resemblance to you. Is he a relative?
No. Scarse cleared his throat and spoke. "The fact is, Brenda, I wore that crape scarf and snuff-colored coat myself. I am the man Harold saw."