At the Vale
The Vale was situated in one of the lovely valleys of North Devon on
the borders of Somerset. In the distance could be seen the Mendip
Hills. Here the summer stayed on when autumn had taken hold of less
favoured spots.
It was a fine old house, half-timbered, nestling in the valley, almost
hidden in trees and covered with ivy. The gardens had been the special
joy of Sir James Watson. It was here he led his simple home life away
from the factions of Westminster and the labours of his thankless
office.
He was a cold, haughty, reserved man, with few friends. His one joy in
a rather lonely life was his daughter Mabel. Like so many widowers
with an only daughter, he was somewhat selfish, and could never
believe that she had grown up. He had watched with anxiety the
attentions which had been paid to her by the many who had appeared as
possible suitors.
She, unconscious of it all, had led a secluded life among her flowers;
she hated the times she had to spend in the gloomy house in Town, and
had no liking for London or its gaieties.
Her mother had died when she was a baby, and no cloud of sorrow except
one had crossed her path.
That one had been when her brother, quite a boy, had been sent down
from Oxford, and her father had sternly pointed to the door, and told
him never to come back till he had redeemed his character.
He had provided ample funds for the young man to make a fresh start,
and had recommended him to the care of an old friend in Monte Video.
He had refused to tell his daughter where the brother had gone, lest
they should write to each other.
Mabel had been only a child at the time, but she never forgot her
brother. As she sat in the garden after breakfast no shadow crossed
her mind. The letters and papers had not arrived, as they were out of
the beaten track.
John, the butler, approached her from the house with a salver, on
which he bore a visiting card.
“A gentleman wishes to see you, Miss Mabel,” he said, and handed the
card. She took it and read,
Mr. Sylvester Collins,
14, Severn Street,
London, W.
“What does he want?” said she.
“I do not know, Miss, but he asked if you could see him on an
important matter. He has come down by the night train from London.”
“Oh, I’ll come and see him,” and she got up and went in.
Collins had slept on the way down, and had breakfasted on the train.
He felt quite fresh after a motor ride from Wilton-on-Sea, but he had
a strong distaste for his task.
He walked up and down the fine old drawing-room, through the open
windows of which came the scent of roses.
The girl entered, and he was struck with her simple beauty, without
any of the adornments of the modern girl, and in her dainty morning
frock of cretonne.
He knew that in a few moments her present happiness would be turned to
bitter sorrow. She advanced towards him at once, and took his hand in
a friendly way.
“You are a friend of my father’s, I suppose,” she said.
“Miss Watson,” he said gravely. “It is no good beating about the bush.
I have some bad news for you. You must try and be brave.”
“My father,” she said, with quick instinct.
He nodded.
“Don’t tell me anything has happened to him. He only left me the day
before yesterday. Is he ill?”
In her excitement she had not let go of his hand, and her fingers
retained their hold.
“You must try and bear up, a terrible thing has happened. The worst
that can happen.”
“You mean,” she said, her face turning pale, “that he is dead.”
“Yes,” he said.
The shock of such an announcement does not, as a rule, have the
instant effect that is supposed to take place. The mind cannot at once
grasp the facts. It is like a shell wound. For a moment the wounded
man gazes in surprise at a stump where his arm was a moment before. It
takes some seconds before realization or pain is felt.
So it was with Mabel. It was as though someone were telling her a tale
of some remote happening which did not concern her.
“How was it?” she whispered.
He had expected tears, possibly a fainting fit. This calm surprised
him for the moment.
“Shall I tell you?” he said.
“Please.”
“He was found shot in his library yesterday.”
“Do you mean murdered?” she said, dismissing the thought of suicide
unconsciously.
“I am afraid so,” he replied. The sweat stood on his forehead. What a
fool he had been to undertake this task!
“And you have come to tell me about it? How kind of you,” she said, as
in a dream. He saw this could not last, and with quick instinct rang
the bell.
The door opened, and an old servant with a sweet face came in. She had
been Mabel’s nurse, and had remained with her as a sort of companion
and friend. At the sight of her something seemed to snap in the girl’s
head, and she ran to her.
“Oh, Nanna,” she cried. “My father has been murdered.”
The woman looked indignantly at Collins, as though he had struck her
darling, and took her in her arms, where the tears came at last.
Collins withdrew to the farther side of the room, and looked at the
garden. When he turned, the room was empty.
Irresolute, he strolled into the old garden. What a catastrophe had he
brought by his news! Better, perhaps, if he had wired.
Still, he must go through with it. He could not study the feelings of
the poor girl when larger issues were at stake.
Presently he saw the butler coming towards him.
The old man was bent, and he had been crying.
“My mistress is too upset to see you, sir,” he said; “but I was to ask
you to make yourself at home. And would you like some refreshment?”
“Thank you,” he replied. “I have had breakfast. I do not need
anything. You have heard the sad news.”
“Yes, sir, the papers have come, and the post. They all know now,” and
he broke down.
“Come, come, man,” said Collins almost roughly. “It’s all right for
women to cry.”
“I had known him for twenty-five years, sir,” said the old man simply,
“and I wish it had been me instead of him. Do you think they will
catch the murderer?”
“Surely,” said Collins. “But perhaps I had better go.”
“Oh, no, sir, Miss Mabel wants to see you when she is a bit better.
She particularly asked me to say so.”
“Well, then, if so, perhaps you could give me a minute? I would like
to ask a question or two.”
The old butler bowed and waited.
“You were here when Sir James’ son went away?”
“Master Ronald? Oh, sir, I am sure he is nothing to do with this
terrible murder.”
“Whoever said he was? But he is now heir to his father’s baronetcy
even if he has been cut out of his father’s will, and we must try and
find him.”
“You’ll excuse me, sir,” said the old man. “But are you a friend of
the family?”
“I hope so,” said Collins cheerily, and not to commit himself.
“What exactly did young Ronald do? Anything very dreadful?” he asked.
The butler drew himself up with dignity.
“I think, sir, you had better ask someone else,” he said.
“That’s very stupid of you,” said Collins, with a smile which took the
sting from his words. “You only make me believe it was something very
dreadful, and I don’t expect it was at all.”
The butler was not sharp, he fell at once.
“Oh, no, sir, not at all, it was only when he was at Oxford. He went
off to the ‘Derby’ without leave, and lost a lot of money there. It
was what he had for the term, and when he was sent down he had to tell
Sir James. He had been rather wild before, and that’s what happened,”
he concluded lamely.
“Hum,” muttered Collins. “I see, and nothing has been heard from him
for some time?”
“No, sir, he seems to have quite disappeared. I don’t think he is
dead, or we should have heard. Still, if you were to advertise for him
he might come back. He ought to be here to look after Miss Mabel till
she is married.”
Collins looked up sharply.
“Is she engaged, then?” he said.
“Well, not exactly, but how my tongue does go. I must get back to the
house.” He moved to go.
“One moment,” said Collins quietly. “You can trust me; who is the
fortunate gentleman who is—well—nearly, eh?”
The butler looked at him doubtfully. Had he offered a bribe he would
have refused information, but Collins was too old a hand for that.
“Well, seeing as poor Sir James is gone, I don’t think it matters. It
is Mr. Eric.”
“Mr. Eric what?”
“I thought you would know, being a friend of the family. Mr. Eric
Sanders, Sir James’ private secretary,” and he looked at Collins with
suspicion.
He saw the look. “Oh, that’s it,” said he. “Of course, I ought to have
guessed, and how does his suit prosper?”
“I beg your pardon, sir?” said the other.
“I mean are they engaged, or just likely to become so?”
“Sir James wouldn’t hear of it, and last time Mr. Eric was here they
had words over it, for I heard them, but I must really be going.”
“All right, John, I will wait here till Miss Mabel wants to see me.
You might bring me any papers you have.” The butler bowed and made his
way to the house.
“So that’s it, is it?” he said to himself. “There are at least two
candidates for honours. We are getting on.” The papers told him
nothing. Sinclair had been to work, and apart from a bald statement of
the facts, and obituary notices, there was nothing striking. Of
course, there were leading articles on the perils of foreign
anarchists and on the saintly character of the deceased, but this was
old stock-in-trade, kept ready for any assassination of a notable
person which might occur, and adapted to circumstances.
“As long as this country continues to harbour, etc.,” said one Daily.
He tossed them aside, one by one. Sir James, of course, had a good
selection of papers sent to his house, and they arrived whether he was
there or not.
He sat long in deep thought, smoking continuously. Presently he put
his hand into his pocket, and drew out his pocket book. He looked
round with his habitual caution, and then took out a visiting card. On
one side was the name of Mr. Eric Sanders, and the address of a
well-known London Club, and on the other was written in pencil—
“For God’s sake, see me. I will not detain you.”
“Sinclair, my friend, you would have liked to get this—pushed under
the door. Mrs. Simmons, you were not telling the whole truth. I think
this requires further investigation.”
He rose from his seat and strolled through the old garden with its
gorgeous, herbaceous beds of late summer, where delphiniums and
hollyhocks and the bright blue of borage made a dream of colour.
It was all very fair, and quiet after the dust and sweat of London. He
returned to the house filled with a vague disquiet. Entering the hall,
he was met by a maid.
“Miss Mabel would like to see you in her own room,” she said, and on
his nodding assent she conducted him to a sweet sitting room, fragrant
with flowers and furnished with the taste of a girl who had the means
to gratify her every wish.
She was seated on a sofa, white faced, and dressed all in black.
She had conquered her emotion. Her old nurse stood by her like a
sentry on duty.
“Mr. Collins,” she said: “I am puzzled to know why you undertook this
long journey to break this sad news to me. Were you a friend of my
father’s? I am very grateful,” she continued hastily, as though
fearing she was too frigid in her manner.
“Really, to tell the truth, I don’t know myself why I came,” he
answered. “When this terrible event happened, your old housekeeper was
quite unnerved, and there seemed no one to undertake the job. It did
not seem right that you should see it first in the papers, or get a
telegram.”
“I am much obliged to you. You must not think me ungrateful, but of
course I am rather upset at present. I have read what the newspapers
have to say. Perhaps you can tell me more?” and she motioned him to
sit.
“I won’t go into details, Miss Watson,” he said. “The accounts in the
papers are accurate as far as they go. I can, however, tell you this.
Your father did not suffer at all. His look was most peaceful, and it
appears that he was shot while asleep.”
A look of pain crossed her face, but she mastered her emotion.
“I am thankful for even that,” she said. “Have the police any idea at
all who can have done this cruel thing. I do not believe my father had
any enemies, he was such a good and upright man that no one could have
a grudge against him.”
“At present all is dark,” he replied, “but of course you must remember
that as Home Secretary your father was brought in contact with the
worst criminals in the country, and one of them may have been trying
to avenge a fancied wrong. Then, again, it may have been the work of a
lunatic. That is more than probable.”
“In a way I hope it was,” she said. “One could feel that it was the
sort of accident that might happen to anyone. It is so dreadful to
think that someone has deliberately murdered him.”
She stumbled over the ill-omened word, and nearly broke down. The
watchful nurse came near and laid a hand on her head. A look of
gratitude shone for a moment in her eyes, and she reached up and took
the hand in hers.
It was a pathetic picture.
“You will forgive me asking,” she continued, “but I do not quite see
what you were doing there, Mr. Collins, you are not in the Police
Force?”
“I am a barrister by profession,” he replied, “and had gone there with
Superintendent Sinclair, who is an old friend of mine. Now, can I do
anything for you before I go? You will forgive a stranger saying so,
but you seem so entirely alone. Oh, I know you have the most loyal and
faithful servants,” he added hastily, “but you don’t seem to have a
friend to help you. Haven’t you some relation I can wire for?”
“I have no near relative. We have led a very secluded life. You see we
are so much in town. My father had many acquaintances, but no real
friends. Those who did not know him thought him very reserved. He was
not really so, you know.”
“You were an only child?” he said carelessly.
“Mr. Collins, I am going to tell you. It will all come out now. I had
a brother, ten years older than I. He quarrelled with my father. It
was nothing very dreadful, but father thought he was doing no good and
getting into bad company, so he sent him off to South America. For
some years now we have lost sight of him. It was a great grief to
father. He had hoped that Ronald would have come back and settled down
here.”
“Well, we must find him now, as he will be the new Baronet, and there
will be advertisements everywhere for him. I suppose there is no
reason why he should not come back?”
“None whatever,” she said proudly. “What he did was only a boy’s
escapade when at Oxford, there was nothing criminal.”
“Well, I expect there will be little difficulty in finding him now,”
he said hopefully; “but it will take some time. Meanwhile, isn’t there
anyone who could help?”
The colour rose to her pale face.
“I think you ought to wire for Mr. Sanders,” she said, “he was my
father’s private secretary, and knows more about his affairs than
anyone else.”
Collins gave her one keen look. “Certainly,” he said. “He is obviously
the man to come. Where shall I find him?”
“At the Home Office,” she said. “He is certain to be there, but I
expect he has been round to Leveson Square this morning.”
“I will send off a wire at once, and then I will take my leave.”
“Certainly not,” she said. “You must stay to lunch, if you don’t mind
a house of mourning,” she added sadly.
At that moment a knock came at the door, and the butler entered.
“The post, Miss,” he said, presenting a salver, “and the postman
brought this telegram at the same time. Is there any answer?”
She broke the envelope and read, a look of pleasure passing over her
face.
“This is from Eric—Mr. Sanders, he is coming down here to-day. I am so
glad. It will save you the trouble of wiring.”
Collins said nothing. The butler had handed him a letter in Sinclair’s
writing. He put it into his pocket, and rose to his feet. “I am very
glad for your sake,” he said. “You will be glad to have a man’s
advice. I suppose you will be coming to Town?”
“Of course. I ought to go at once, but it is such a shock. I think I
must wait till tomorrow.”
“If you will excuse me, I will just go and read this letter, then,” he
said, and took his departure.
He went into the garden and to his old seat, and broke the seal of the
letter.
It was short, and he read it twice, a puzzled look on his face. It
ran:
“Dear Collins,
If you are expecting to find out anything in Devonshire, you are on
a wild goose chase. Lewis has fled, and we have damning evidence
against him. Come at once if you want to be in at the death. What’s
your game, anyway?
Yours in haste,
A. Sinclair.”
“I must get back,” he muttered to himself. “Whatever is Sinclair
after?”
A gong sounded within the house, and he slowly rose to his feet and
went in. Miss Watson was waiting for him, and they sat down. She was
lost in her own mournful thoughts, and would scarcely eat anything.
She tried hard to rouse herself. Collins was a brilliant
conversationalist, and had a charm of manner which few could resist.
He set himself to interest her, not without success.
At the end of the meal he told her he must get back at once, and
noticed that she gave a look almost of relief, though she tried to
hide it.
“I am deeply grateful to you for coming down here, and for your offer
of help,” she said.
“Not at all,” he answered. “I will go to your house and do anything I
can in London. Of course, there will have to be an inquest, but we
will spare you all we can.”
“We?” she said, in surprise. “Then you are mixed up in this?”
“Oh, there is no secret,” he said. “I am a barrister, as I told you,
but I do a little in helping in an amateur way with these sort of
cases. It is my hobby.”
“A rather horrible hobby,” she said, “but of course it is necessary. I
hope you find out the criminal—and yet, I don’t know, in some ways I
hope you don’t.”
“The murderer of your father,” he blurted out, scandalised at such
sentiments.
“Oh, I know I ought to want him punished, and yet, the awful trial,
the cold cell, and then the last horrible scene. I am afraid I am
always on the side of the criminal. Of course, you think that’s
dreadful.”
“I think it does more justice to your heart than to your head,” said
he with a smile.
“English justice is such a cold, merciless thing. When I hear of
people who come forward to what they call ‘further the ends of
justice,’ I always think it is either for notoriety or for reward.”
He laughed.
“It’s a good thing everyone does not think as you do,” said he.
“I was taught as a child that vengeance belongs to God, not to man,
and I believe it is a worse punishment to leave the criminal to his
conscience than to punish him.”
“You say that because you have never come in contact with the real
criminal,” said he. “He has no conscience.”
“I don’t believe that. I am sure I would always rather hide a fugitive
from justice than give him up.”
“This is rank treason,” he said; “but I admire your sentiments.”
“But don’t agree with them?”
“We must each of us act according to our lights,” he answered more
gravely than he intended.
She held out her hand.
“If you will excuse me, I will say goodbye. The car will be ready for
you, and, I hope, we shall meet again in happier circumstances,” and
she gave a pathetic little smile.
When she had gone, he stood where he was.
“What a fool I was to start bandying words with her in her present
state. Now for London. You’ve no time for sentiment.”