AFTERWARDS.
With amazing and sinister rapidity the news spread that a burglar had
been shot dead while trying to raid The Manor. First, the Garvington
villagers learned it; then it became the common property of the
neighborhood, until it finally reached the nearest county town, and thus
brought the police on the scene. Lord Garvington was not pleased when
the local inspector arrived, and intimated as much in a somewhat
unpleasant fashion. He was never a man who spared those in an inferior
social position.
"It is no use your coming over, Darby," he said bluntly to the
red-haired police officer, who was of Irish extraction. "I have sent to
Scotland Yard."
"All in good time, my lord," replied the inspector coolly. "As the
murder has taken place in my district I have to look into the matter,
and report to the London authorities, if it should be necessary."
"What right have you to class the affair as a murder?" inquired
Garvington.
"I only go by the rumors I have heard, my lord. Some say that you winged
the man and broke his right arm. Others tell me that a second shot was
fired in the garden, and it was that which killed Ishmael Hearne."
"It is true, Darby. I only fired the first shot, as those who were with
me will tell you. I don't know who shot in the garden, and apparently no
one else does. It was this unknown individual in the garden that killed
Hearne. By the way, how did you come to hear the name?"
"Half a dozen people have told me, my lord, along with the information I
have just given you. Nothing else is talked of far and wide."
"And it is just twelve o'clock," muttered the stout little lord, wiping
his scarlet face pettishly. "Ill news travels fast. However, as you are
here, you may as well take charge of things until the London men
arrive."
"The London men aren't going to usurp my privileges, my lord," said
Darby, firmly. "There's no sense in taking matters out of my hands. And
if you will pardon my saying so, I should have been sent for in the
first instance."
"I daresay," snapped Garvington, coolly. "But the matter is too
important to be left in the hands of a local policeman."
Darby was nettled, and his hard eyes grew angry. "I am quite competent
to deal with any murder, even if it is that of the highest in England,
much less with the death of a common gypsy."
"That's just where it is, Darby. The common gypsy who has been shot
happens to be my brother-in-law."
"Sir Hubert Pine?" questioned the inspector, thoroughly taken aback.
"Yes! Of course I didn't know him when I fired, or I should not have
done so, Darby. I understood, and his wife, my sister, understood, that
Sir Hubert was in Paris. It passes my comprehension to guess why he
should have come in the dead of night, dressed as a gypsy, to raid my
house."
"Perhaps it was a bet," said Darby, desperately puzzled.
"Bet, be hanged! Pine could come openly to this place whenever he liked.
I never was so astonished in my life as when I saw him lying dead near
the shrubbery. And the worst of it is, that my sister ran out and saw
him also. She fainted and has been in bed ever since, attended by Lady
Garvington."
"You had no idea that the man you shot was Sir Hubert, my lord?"
"Hang it, no! Would I have shot him had I guessed who he was?"
"No, no, my lord! of course not," said the officer hastily. "But as
I have come to take charge of the case, you will give me a detailed
account of what has taken place."
"I would rather wait until the Scotland Yard fellows come," grumbled
Garvington, "as I don't wish to repeat my story twice. Still, as you are
on the spot, I may as well ask your advice. You may be able to throw
some light on the subject. I'm hanged if I can."
Darby pulled out his notebook. "I am all attention, my lord."
Garvington plunged abruptly into his account, first having looked to see
if the library door was firmly closed. "As there have been many
burglaries lately in this part of the world," he said, speaking with
deliberation, "I got an idea into my head that this house might be
broken into."
"Natural enough, my lord," interposed Darby, glancing round the splendid
room. "A historic house such as this is, would tempt any burglar."
"So I thought," remarked the other, pleased that Darby should agree with
him so promptly. "And I declared several times, within the hearing of
many people, that if a raid was made, I should shoot the first man who
tried to enter. Hang it, an Englishman's house is his castle, and no man
has a right to come in without permission."
"Quite so, my lord. But the punishment of the burglar should be left to
the law," said the inspector softly.
"Oh, the deuce take the law! I prefer to execute my own punishments.
However, to make a long story short, I grew more afraid of a raid when
these gypsies came to camp at Abbot's Wood, as they are just the sort of
scoundrels who would break in and steal."
"Why didn't you order them off your land?" asked the policeman, alertly.
"I did, and then my brother-in-law sent a message through his secretary,
who is staying here, asking me to allow them to remain. I did."
"Why did Sir Hubert send that message, my lord?"
"Hang it, man, that's just what I am trying to learn, and I am the more
puzzled because he came last night dressed as a gypsy."
"He must be one," said Darby, who had seen Pine and now recalled his
dark complexion and jetty eyes. "It seems, from what I have been told,
that he stopped at the Abbot's Wood camp under the name of Ishmael
Hearne."
"So Silver informed me."
"Who is he?"
"Pine's secretary, who knows all his confidential affairs. Silver
declared, when the secret could be kept no longer, that Pine was really
a gypsy, called Ishmael Hearne. Occasionally longing for the old life,
he stepped down from his millionaire pedestal and mixed with his own
people. When he was supposed to be in Paris, he was really with the
gypsies, so you can now understand why he sent the message asking me to
let these vagrants stay."
"You told me a few moments ago, that you could not understand that
message, my lord," said Darby quickly, and looking searchingly at the
other man. Garvington grew a trifle confused. "Did I? Well, to tell you
the truth, Darby, I'm so mixed up over the business that I can't say
what I do know, or what I don't know. You'd better take all I tell you
with a grain of salt until I am quite myself again."
"Natural enough, my lord," remarked the inspector again, and quite
believed what he said. "And the details of the murder?"
"I went to bed as usual," said Garvington, wearily, for the events of
the night had tired him out, "and everyone else retired some time about
midnight. I went round with the footmen and the butler to see that
everything was safe, for I was too anxious to let them look after things
without me. Then I heard a noise of footsteps on the gravel outside,
just as I was dropping off to sleep--"
"About what time was that, my lord?"
"Half-past one o'clock; I can't be certain as to a minute. I jumped up
and laid hold of my revolver, which was handy. I always kept it beside
me in case of a burglary. Then I stole downstairs in slippers and
pajamas to the passage,--oh, here." Garvington rose quickly. "Come with
me and see the place for yourself!"
Inspector Darby put on his cap, and with his notebook still in his hand,
followed the stout figure of his guide. Garvington led him through the
entrance hall and into a side-passage, which terminated in a narrow
door. There was no one to spy on them, as the master of the house had
sent all the servants to their own quarters, and the guests were
collected in the drawing-room and smoking-room, although a few of the
ladies remained in their bedrooms, trying to recover from the night's
experience.
"I came down here," said Garvington, opening the door, "and heard the
burglar, as I thought he was, prowling about on the other side. I threw
open the door in this way and the man plunged forward to enter. I fired,
and got him in the right arm, for I saw it swinging uselessly by his
side as he departed."
"Was he in a hurry?" asked Darby, rather needlessly.
"He went off like greased lightning. I didn't follow, as I thought that
others of his gang might be about, but closing the door again I shouted
blue murder. In a few minutes everyone came down, and while I was
waiting--it all passed in a flash, remember, Darby--I heard a second
shot. Then the servants and my friends came and we ran out, to find the
man lying by that shrubbery quite dead. I turned him over and had just
grasped the fact that he was my brother-in-law, when Lady Agnes ran out.
When she learned the news she naturally fainted. The women carried her
back to her room, and we took the body of Pine into the house. A doctor
came along this morning--for I sent for a doctor as soon as it was
dawn--and said that Pine had been shot through the heart."
"And who shot him?" asked Darby sagely.
Garvington pointed to the shrubbery. "Someone was concealed there," he
declared.
"How do you know, that, my lord?"
"My sister, attracted by my shot, jumped out of bed and threw up her
window. She saw the man--of course she never guessed that he was
Pine--running down the path and saw him fall by the shrubbery when the
second shot was fired."
"Her bedroom is then on this side of the house, my lord?"
"Up there," said Garvington, pointing directly over the narrow door,
which was painted a rich blue color, and looked rather bizarre, set in
the puritanic greyness of the walls. "My own bedroom is further along
towards the right. That is why I heard the footsteps so plainly on this
gravel." And he stamped hard, while with a wave of his hand he invited
the inspector to examine the surroundings.
Darby did so with keen eyes and an alert brain. The two stood on the
west side of the mansion, where it fronted the three-miles distant
Abbot's Wood. The Manor was a heterogeneous-looking sort of place,
suggesting the whims and fancies of many generations, for something was
taken away here, and something was taken away there, and this had been
altered, while that had been left in its original state, until the house
seemed to be made up of all possible architectural styles. It was a tall
building of three stories, although the flattish red-tiled roofs took
away somewhat from its height, and spread over an amazing quantity of
land. As Darby thought, it could have housed a regiment, and must have
cost something to keep up. As wind and weather and time had mellowed its
incongruous parts into one neutral tint, it looked odd and attractive.
Moss and lichen, ivy and Virginia creeper--this last flaring in crimson
glory--clothed the massive stone walls with a gracious mantle of natural
beauty. Narrow stone steps, rather chipped, led down from the blue door
to the broad, yellow path, which came round the rear of the house and
swept down hill in a wide curve, past the miniature shrubbery, right
into the bosom of the park.
"This path," explained Garvington, stamping again, "runs right through
the park to a small wicket gate set in the brick wall, which borders the
high road, Darby."
"And that runs straightly past Abbot's Wood," mused the inspector. "Of
course, Sir Hubert would know of the path and the wicket gate?"
"Certainly; don't be an ass, Darby," cried Garvington petulantly. "He
has been in this house dozens of times and knows it as well as I do
myself. Why do you ask so obvious a question?"
"I was only wondering if Sir Hubert came by the high road to the wicket
gate you speak of, Lord Garvington."
"That also is obvious," retorted the other, irritably. "Since he wished
to come here, he naturally would take the easiest way."
"Then why did he not enter by the main avenue gates?"
"Because at that hour they would be shut, and--since it is evident that
his visit was a secret one--he would have had to knock up the
lodge-keeper."
"Why was his visit a secret one?" questioned Darby pointedly.
"That is the thing that puzzles me. Anything more?"
"Yes? Why should Sir Hubert come to the blue door?"
"I can't answer that question, either. The whole reason of his being
here, instead of in Paris, is a mystery to me."
"Oh, as to that last, the reply is easy," remarked the inspector. "Sir
Hubert wished to revert to his free gypsy life, and pretended to be in
Paris, so that he would follow his fancy without the truth becoming
known. But why he should come on this particular night, and by this
particular path to this particular door, is the problem I have to
solve!"
"Quite so, and I only hope that you will solve it, for the sake of my
sister."
Darby reflected for a moment or so. "Did Lady Agnes ask her husband to
come here to see her privately?"
"Hang it, no man!" cried Garvington, aghast. "She believed, as we all
did, that her husband was in Paris, and certainly never dreamed that he
was masquerading as a gypsy three miles away."
"There was no masquerading about the matter, my lord," said Darby,
dryly; "since Sir Hubert really was a gypsy called Ishmael Hearne. That
fact will come out at the inquest."
"It has come out now: everyone knows the truth. And a nice thing it is
for me and Lady Agnes."
"I don't think you need worry about that, Lord Garvington. The honorable
way in which the late Sir Hubert attained rank and gained wealth will
reflect credit on his humble origin. When the papers learn the story--"
"Confound the papers!" interrupted Garvington fretfully. "I sincerely
hope that they won't make too great a fuss over the business."
The little man's hope was vain, as he might have guessed that it would
be, for when the news became known in Fleet Street, the newspapers were
only too glad to discover an original sensation for the dead season.
Every day journalists and special correspondents were sent down in such
numbers that the platform of Wanbury Railway Station was crowded with
them. As the town--it was the chief town of Hengishire--was five miles
away from the village of Garvington, every possible kind of vehicle was
used to reach the scene of the crime, and The Manor became a rendezvous
for all the morbid people, both in the neighborhood and out of it. The
reporters in particular poked and pried all over the place, passing from
the great house to the village, and thence to the gypsy camp on the
borders of Abbot's Wood. From one person and another they learned facts,
which were published with such fanciful additions that they read like
fiction. On the authority of Mother Cockleshell--who was not averse to
earning a few shillings--a kind of Gil Blas tale was put into print, and
the wanderings of Ishmael Hearne were set forth in the picturesque style
of a picarooning romance. But of the time when the adventurous gypsy
assumed his Gentile name, the Romany could tell nothing, for obvious
reasons. Until the truth became known, because of the man's tragic and
unforeseen death, those in the camp were not aware that he was a Gorgio
millionaire. But where the story of Mother Cockleshell left off, that of
Mark Silver began, for the secretary had been connected with his
employer almost from the days of Hearne's first exploits as Pine in
London. And Silver--who also charged for the blended fact and fiction
which he supplied--freely related all he knew.
"Hearne came to London and called himself Hubert Pine," he stated
frankly, and not hesitating to confess his own lowly origin. "We met
when I was starving as a toymaker in Whitechapel. I invented some penny
toys, which Pine put on the market for me. They were successful and he
made money. I am bound to confess that he paid me tolerably well,
although he certainly took the lion's share. With the money he made in
this way, he speculated in South African shares, and, as the boom was
then on, he simply coined gold. Everything he touched turned into cash,
and however deeply he plunged into the money market, he always came out
top in the end. By turning over his money and re-investing it, and by
fresh speculations, he became a millionaire in a wonderfully short space
of time. Then he made me his secretary and afterwards took up politics.
The Government gave him a knighthood for services rendered to his party,
and he became a well-known figure in the world of finance. He married
Lady Agnes Lambert, and--and--that's all."
"You were aware that he was a gypsy, Mr. Silver?" asked the reporter.
"Oh, yes. I knew all about his origin from the first days of our
acquaintanceship. He asked me to keep his true name and rank secret. As
it was none of my business, I did so. At times Hearne--or rather Pine,
as I know him best by that name--grew weary of civilization, and then
would return to his own life of the tent and road. No one suspected
amongst the Romany that he was anything else but a horse-coper. He
always pretended to be in Paris, or Berlin, on financial affairs, when
he went back to his people, and I transacted all business during his
absence."
"You knew that he was at the Abbot's Wood camp?"
"Certainly. I saw him there once or twice to receive instructions about
business. I expostulated with him for being so near the house where his
brother-in-law and wife were living, as I pointed out that the truth
might easily become known. But Pine merely said that his safety in
keeping his secret lay in his daring to run the risk."
"Have you any idea that Sir Hubert intended to come by night to Lord
Garvington's house?"
"Not the slightest. In fact, I told him that Lord Garvington was afraid
of burglars, and had threatened to shoot any man who tried to enter the
house."
All this Silver said in a perfectly frank, free-and-easy manner, and
also related how the dead man had instructed him to ask Garvington to
allow the gypsies to remain in the wood. The reporter published the
interview with sundry comments of his own, and it was read with great
avidity by the public at large and by the many friends of the
millionaire, who were surprised to learn of the double life led by the
man. Of course, there was nothing disgraceful in Pine's past as Ishmael
Hearne, and all attempts to discover something shady about his
antecedents were vain. Yet--as was pointed out--there must have been
something wrong, else the adventurer, as he plainly was, would not have
met so terrible a death. But in spite of every one's desire to find fire
to account for the smoke, nothing to Pine's disadvantage could be
learned. Even at the inquest, and when the matter was thoroughly
threshed out, the dead man's character proved to be honorable, and--save
in the innocent concealment of his real name and origin--his public and
private life was all that could be desired. The whole story was not
criminal, but truly romantic, and the final tragedy gave a grim touch to
what was regarded, even by the most censorious, as a picturesque
narrative.
In spite of all his efforts, Inspector Darby, of Wanbury, could produce
no evidence likely to show who had shot the deceased. Lord Garvington,
under the natural impression that Pine was a burglar, had certainly
wounded him in the right arm, but it was the second shot, fired by some
one outside the house, which had pierced the heart. This was positively
proved by the distinct evidence of Lady Agnes herself. She rose from her
sick-bed to depose how she had opened her window, and had seen the
actual death of the unfortunate man, whom she little guessed was her
husband. The burglar--as she reasonably took him to be--was running down
the path when she first caught sight of him, and after the first shot
had been fired. It was the second shot, which came from the
shrubbery--marked on the plan placed before the Coroner and jury--which
had laid the fugitive low. Also various guests and servants stated that
they had arrived in the passage in answer to Lord Garvington's outcries,
to find that he had closed the door pending their coming. Some had even
heard the second shot while descending the stairs. It was proved,
therefore, in a very positive manner, that the master of the house had
not murdered the supposed robber.
"I never intended to kill him," declared Garvington when his evidence
was taken. "All I intended to do, and all I did do, was to wing him, so
that he might be captured on the spot, or traced later. I closed the
door after firing the shot, as I fancied that he might have had some
accomplices with him, and I wished to make myself safe until assistance
arrived."
"You had no idea that the man was Sir Hubert Pine?" asked a juryman.
"Certainly not. I should not have fired had I recognized him. The moment
I opened the door he flung himself upon me. I fired and he ran away. It
was not until we all went out and found him dead by the shrubbery that
I recognized my brother-in-law. I thought he was in Paris."
Inspector Darby deposed that he had examined the shrubbery, and had
noted broken twigs here and there, which showed that some one must have
been concealed behind the screen of laurels. The grass--somewhat long in
the thicket--had been trampled. But nothing had been discovered likely
to lead to the discovery of the assassin who had been ambushed in this
manner.
"Are there no footmarks?" questioned the Coroner.
"There has been no rain for weeks to soften the ground," explained the
witness, "therefore it is impossible to discover any footmarks. The
broken twigs and trampled grass show that some one was hidden in the
shrubbery, but when this person left the screen of laurels, there is
nothing to show in which direction the escape was made."
And indeed all the evidence was useless to trace the criminal. The Manor
had been bolted and barred by Lord Garvington himself, along with some
footmen and his butler, so no one within could have fired the second
shot. The evidence of Mother Cockleshell, of Chaldea, and of various
other gypsies, went to show that no one had left the camp on that night
with the exception of Hearne, and even his absence had not been made
known until the fact of the death was made public next morning. Hearne,
as several of the gypsies stated, had retired about eleven to his tent
and had said nothing about going to The Manor, much less about leaving
the camp. Silver's statements revealed nothing, since, far from seeking
his brother-in-law's house, Pine, had pointedly declared that in order
to keep his secret he would be careful not to go near the place.
"And Pine had no enemies to my knowledge who desired his death,"
declared the secretary. "We were so intimate that had his life been in
danger he certainly would have spoken about it to me."
"You can throw no light on the darkness?" asked the Coroner hopelessly.
"None," said the witness. "Nor, so far as I can see, is any one else
able to throw any light on the subject. Pine's secret was not a
dishonorable one, as he was such an upright man that no one could have
desired to kill him."
Apparently there was no solution to the mystery, as every one concluded,
when the evidence was fully threshed out. An open verdict was brought
in, and the proceedings ended in this unsatisfactory manner.
"Wilful murder against some person or persons unknown," said Lambert,
when he read the report of the inquest in his St. James's Street rooms.
"Strange. I wonder who cut the Gordian knot of the rope which bound
Agnes to Pine?"
He could find no reply to this question, nor could any one else.