The inquest on the body of William Standerton was held next morning at
the George and Dragon Inn in the village, and was attended by more than
half the Neighbourhood. The affair had naturally caused an immense
sensation in all ranks of Society, and, as the Coroner observed in his
opening remarks, universal sympathy was felt for the bereaved family.
Wilkins, who had not altogether recovered from the fright he had
received on the night before, was the first witness. He stated that he
had been the first to discover the murder, and then informed the coroner
of the steps he had immediately taken. Questioned as to the visit paid
to the Squire by Murbridge, he said that the latter was in a great rage
when turned away from the house, and on being asked to do so, repeated
the words he had made use of. In conclusion, he said that he was quite
certain that no door or window in the house had been left unfastened on
the night in question, and that he was equally certain that none were
found either open, or showing signs of having been tampered with in the
morning. Jim followed next, and corroborated what the butler had said. A
sensation was caused when he informed the Coroner that Murbridge had
threatened his father in his hearing in Australia. He described his
meeting with the man in the park before dinner, and added that he had
forbidden him to approach the house. Examined by the Coroner, he was
unable to say anything concerning the nature of the quarrel between the
two men. The doctor was next called, and gave evidence as to being
summoned to the Manor House. He described the body, and gave it as his
opinion that death was due to strangulation. Then followed the police
officer. The landlord was the next witness, and he gave evidence to the
effect that the man Murbridge had stayed at the inn, had been absent on
the evening in question from eight o'clock until half-past twelve, and
that he had departed for London by the first train on the following
morning. The driver of the mail-cart, who had seen him standing beside
the stile, was next called. He was quite sure that he had made no
mistake as to the man's identity, for the reason that he had had a
conversation with him at the George and Dragon Inn earlier in the
evening. This completing the evidence, the jury, without leaving the
room, brought in a verdict of "Wilful murder against some person or
persons unknown," and for the time being the case was at an end.
"You must not be disappointed, my dear sir," said Robins, afterwards;
"it is all you can possibly expect. The jury could do no more on such
evidence. But we've got our warrant for the arrest of Murbridge, and, as
soon as we are able to lay our hands upon him, we may be able to advance
another and more important step. I am going up to London this afternoon,
and I give you my assurance I shall not waste a moment in getting upon
his track."
"And you will let me know how you succeed?"
"I will be sure to do so," Robins replied.
"In the meantime, there can be no harm in my putting an advertisement in
the papers, offering a reward of five hundred pounds to anyone who will
give such information as may lead to the discovery of the murderer."
"It is a large sum to offer, sir, and will be sure to bring you a lot of
useless correspondence. Still, it may be of some use, and I would
suggest that you send it to the daily papers without delay."
"It shall be done at once."
Jim thereupon bade the detective good-bye, and returned to the house to
inform his sister of what had taken place at the inquest. She quite
agreed with him on the matter of the reward, and an advertisement was
accordingly despatched to the London newspapers, together with a cheque
to cover the cost of the insertions.
Next day the mortal remains of William Standerton were conveyed to their
last resting-place in the graveyard of the little village church. After
the funeral Jim drove back to the Manor House, accompanied by his
father's solicitor, who had travelled down from London for the ceremony.
He was already aware that, by his father's death, he had become a rich
man, but he had no idea how wealthy he would really be, until the will
was read to him. When this had been done he was informed that he was
worth upwards of half-a-million sterling. He shook his head sadly:
"I'd give it all up willingly, every penny of it," he answered, "to have
my father alive. Even now I can scarcely believe that I shall never see
him again. It seems an extraordinary thing to me that the police have,
so far, not been able to obtain any clue as to the whereabouts of
Murbridge. Look at this heap of letters," he continued, pointing to a
pile of correspondence lying upon the writing table, "each one hails
from somebody who has either seen Murbridge or professes to know where
he is to be found. One knows just such a man working in a baker's shop
in Shoreditch; another has lately returned with him on board a liner
from America, and on receipt of the reward will give me his present
address; a third says that he is a waiter in a popular restaurant in
Oxford Street; a fourth avers that he is hiding near the Docks, and
intends leaving England this week. So the tale goes on, and will
increase, I suppose, every day."
"The effect of offering so large a reward," replied the lawyer. "My only
hope is that it will not have the effect of driving him out of England.
In which case the difficulty of laying hands upon him will be more than
doubled."
"He need not think that flight will save him," Jim replied. "Let him go
where he pleases, I will run him to earth."
* * * * *
Helen had spent the day at the Manor House, trying to comfort Alice in
her distress. At nine o'clock she decided to return to her own home, and
Jim determined to accompany her. They accordingly set off together. So
occupied were they by their own thoughts, that for some time neither of
them spoke. Jim was the first to break the silence.
"Helen," he said, "I cannot thank you sufficiently for your goodness to
Alice during this awful time. But for you I do not know how she would
have come through it."
"Poor girl," Helen answered, "my heart aches for her."
"She was so fond of our father," James answered.
"Not more than you were, dear," Helen replied; "but you have borne your
trouble so bravely--never once thinking of yourself."
The night was dark, and there was no one about, so why should he not
have slipped his arm round her waist.
"Helen," he said, "the time has come for me to ask what our future is to
be. Will you wait for Mr. Bursfield's death before you become my wife,
or will you court his displeasure and trust yourself to me?"
"I would trust myself to you at any time," she answered. "But do you not
see how I am situated? I owe everything to my Guardian. But for his care
of me in all probability I should now be a governess, a music-mistress,
or something of that sort. He has fed me, clothed me, and loved me,
after his own fashion, for a number of years. Would it not, therefore,
seem like an act of the basest ingratitude to leave him desolate, merely
to promote my own happiness?"
"And does my happiness count for nothing?" Jim returned. "But let us
talk the matter over dispassionately, and see what can be done. Don't
think me heartless, Helen, when I say, that you must realise that Mr.
Bursfield is a very old man. It is just possible, therefore, that the
event we referred to a few moments ago may take place in the near
future. Now, owing to my father's death, I ought not to be married for
some time to come. I propose, therefore, that we wait until, say, the
end of six months, and then make another appeal to your guardian? It is
just possible he may be more inclined to listen to reason then. What do
you say?
"I will do whatever you wish," she answered simply. "I fear, however,
that, while Mr. Bursfield lives, he will take no other view of the
case."
"We must hope that he will," Jim replied. "In the meantime, as long as I
know that you are true to me, and love me as I love you, I shall be
quite happy."
"You do believe that I love you, don't you, Jim?" she asked, looking up
at her lover in the starlight.
"Of course I do," he answered. "God knows what a lucky man I deem myself
for having been permitted to win your love. I am supremely thankful for
one thing, and that is, the fact that my father learnt to know and love
you before his death."
"As I had learnt to love him," she replied. "But there, who could help
doing so?"
"One man at least," Jim replied. "Unhappily, we have the worst of
reasons for knowing that there was one person in the world who bore him
a mortal hatred."
"Have you heard anything yet from the police regarding Murbridge?"
"Not a word," Jim answered. "They have given me their most positive
assurance that they are leaving no stone unturned to find the man, but,
so far, they appear to have been entirely unsuccessful. If they do not
soon run him down I shall take up the case myself, and see what I can do
with it. And now here we are at the gate. You do not know how hard it is
for me to let you go, even for so short a time. With the closing of that
door the light seems to go out of my life."
"I hope and pray that you will always be able to say that," she answered
solemnly.
Then they bade each other good-night, and she disappeared into the
house, leaving Jim free to resume his walk. He had not gone many steps,
however, before he heard his name called, and, turning round, beheld no
less a person than Mr. Bursfield hurrying after him. He waited for the
old gentleman to come up. It was the first time that Jim had known him
to venture beyond the limits of his own grounds. The circumstance was as
puzzling as it was unusual.
"Will you permit me a short conversation with you, Mr. Standerton?" Mr.
Bursfield began. "I recognised your voice as you bade Miss Decie
good-bye, and hurried after you in the hope of being able to see you."
For a moment Jim hoped that Mr. Bursfield had come after him in order to
make amends, and to withdraw his decision regarding his marriage with
Helen. This hope, however, was soon extinguished.
"Mr. Standerton," the old gentleman continued, "you may remember what I
told you a few evenings since concerning the proposal you did me the
honour of making on behalf of my ward, Miss Decie?"
"I remember it perfectly," Jim replied; "it is scarcely likely that I
should forget."
"Since then I have given the matter careful consideration, and I may say
that I have found no reason for deviating from my previous decision."
"I am sorry indeed to hear that. The more so as your ward and myself are
quite convinced that our affections are such as will not change or grow
weaker with time. Indeed, Mr. Bursfield, I have had another idea in my
mind which I fancied might possibly commend itself to you, and induce
you to reconsider your decision. You have already told me that Miss
Decie's presence is necessary to your happiness. As a proof of what a
good girl she is I might inform you that, only a few moments since, she
told me that she could not consent to leave you, for the reason that she
felt that she owed all she possessed to you."
"I am glad that Helen has at least a spark of gratitude," the other
answered with a sneer. "It is a fact that she does owe everything to me.
And now for this idea of yours."
"What I was going to propose is," said Jim, "that in six months' time,
or so, you should permit me to marry your ward, and from that day
forward should take up your residence with us."
The old man looked at him in astonishment. Then he burst into a torrent
of speech.
"Such a thing is not to be thought of," he cried. "I could not consider
it for a moment; it would be little short of madness. I am a recluse. I
care less than nothing for society. My books are my only companions; I
want, and will have, no others. Besides, I could not live in that house
of yours, were you to offer me all the gold in the world."
Here he grasped Jim's arm so tightly that the young man almost winced.
"I have, of course, heard of your father's death," he continued. "It is
said that he was murdered. But, surely, knowing what you do, you are not
going to be foolish enough to believe that?"
"And why not?" Jim enquired in great surprise. "I can do nothing else,
for every circumstance of the case points to murder. Good heavens! Mr.
Bursfield, if my father were not murdered, how did he meet his death?"
The other was silent for a moment before he replied. Then he drew a step
nearer, and, looking up at Jim, asked in a low voice:
"Have you forgotten what I said to you concerning the mystery of the
house? Did I not tell you that one of the former owners was found dead
in bed, having met his fate in identically the same manner as your
father did? Does not this appear significant to you? If not, your
understanding must indeed be dull."
The new explanation of the mystery was so extraordinary, that Jim did
not know what to say or think about it. That his father's death had
resulted from any supernatural agency had never crossed his mind.
"I fear I am not inclined to agree with you, Mr. Bursfield," he said
somewhat coldly. "Even if one went so far as to believe in such things,
the evidence given by the doctor at the inquest would be sufficient to
refute the idea."
"In that case let us drop the subject," Bursfield answered. "My only
desire was to warn you. It is rumoured in the village that on the night
of your father's death one of your domestics was confronted by the
spectre known as the Black Dwarf, and fainted in consequence. My old
man-servant also told me this morning that your butler had seen it on
another occasion. I believe the late Lord Childerbridge also saw it, and
in consequence determined to be rid of the place at any cost. No one has
been able to live there, and I ask you to be warned in time, Mr.
Standerton. For my own part, as I have said before, though it is the
home of my ancestors, I would not pass a night at Childerbridge for the
wealth of all the Indies."
"In that case you must be more easily frightened than I am," said Jim.
"On the two occasions you mention, the only evidence we have to rely
upon is the word of a hysterical maid-servant, and the assurance of a
butler, who, for all we know to the contrary, may have treated himself
more liberally than usual, on that particular evening, to my father's
port."
"Scoff as you will," Bursfield returned, "but so far as you are
concerned I have done my duty. I have given you your warning, and if you
do not care to profit by it, that has nothing to do with me. And now to
return to the matter upon which I hastened after you this evening. I
refer to your proposed marriage with my ward."
Jim said nothing, but waited for Mr. Bursfield to continue. He had a
vague feeling that what he was about to hear would mean unhappiness for
himself.
"I informed you the other day," the latter continued, "that it was
impossible for me to sanction your proposal. I regret that I am still
compelled to adhere to this decision. In point of fact, I feel that it
is necessary for me to go even further, and to say that I must for the
future ask you to refrain from addressing yourself to Miss Decie at
all."
"Do you mean that you refuse me permission to see her or to speak with
her?" Jim asked in amazement.
"If, by seeing her, you mean holding personal intercourse with her, I
must confess that you have judged the situation correctly. I am desirous
of preventing Miss Decie from falling into the error of believing that
she will ever be your wife."
"But, my dear sir, this is an unheard-of proceeding. Why should you
object to me in this way? You know nothing against me, and you are aware
that I love your ward. You admitted, on the last occasion that I
discussed the matter with you, that Miss Decie might expect little or
nothing from you at your death. Why, therefore, in the name of
Commonsense, are you so anxious to prevent her marrying the man she
loves, and who is in a position to give her all the comfort and
happiness wealth and love can bestow?"
"You have heard my decision," the other replied quietly. "I repeat that
on no consideration will I consent to a marriage between my ward and
yourself. And, as I said just now, I will go even further, and forbid
you most positively for the future either to see or to communicate with
her."
"And you will not give me your reasons for taking this extraordinary
step?"
"I will not. That is all I have to say to you, and I have the honour to
wish you a good evening."
"But I have not finished yet," said Jim, whose anger by this time had
got the better of him. "Once and for all, let me tell you this, Mr.
Bursfield: I have already informed you that I am determined, at any
cost, to make Miss Decie my wife. I might add now, that your tyrannical
behaviour will only make me the more anxious to do so. If the young lady
deems it incumbent upon her to await your consent before marrying me, I
will listen to her and not force the matter; but give her up I certainly
will not so long as I live."
"Beware, sir, I warn you, beware!" the other almost shrieked.
"If that is all you have to say to me I will bid you good evening."
But Bursfield did not answer; he merely turned on his heel and strode
back in the direction of the Dower House. Jim stood for a moment looking
after his retreating figure, and when he could no longer distinguish it,
turned and made his way homewards.
On reaching the Manor House he informed his sister of what had taken
place between himself and Helen's guardian.
"He must be mad to treat you so," said Alice, when her brother had
finished. "He knows that Helen loves you, and surely he cannot be so
selfish as to prefer his own comfort to her happiness."
"I am afraid that is exactly what he does do," said Jim. "However, I
suppose I must make allowances. Old age is apt to be selfish. Besides,
we have to remember, as Helen says, that she owes much to him. No! we
will do as we proposed, and wait six months, and see what happens then!"
But though he spoke so calmly he was by no means at ease in his own
mind. He was made much happier, however, by a note which was brought to
him as he was in the act of retiring to rest.
It was in Helen's handwriting, and he tore it open eagerly.
"My own dear love," it ran, "Mr. Bursfield has just informed me
of what took place between you this evening. It is needless for
me to say how sorry I am that such a thing should have
occurred. I cannot understand his behaviour in this matter.
That something more than any thought of his own personal
comfort makes him withhold his consent, I feel certain.
Whatever happens, however, you know that I will be true to you;
and if I cannot be your wife, I will be wife to no other man.
"Your loving Helen."