AT THE THREE CROWNS HOTEL.
“Hi! Jean, whose is this luggage?” cried Pierre Janvard one morning to
his head waiter. He pointed at the same time to a large portmanteau
which lay among a pile of other luggage in the hall of the Three Crowns
Hotel, Bath.
With that restless curiosity which was such a marked trait in his
character, Janvard had a habit of peering about among the luggage of
his guests, and even of prying stealthily about their bedrooms when he
knew that their occupants were out of the way, and he himself safe from
detection. It was not that he hoped to benefit himself in any way, or
even to pick up any information that would be of value to him, by such
a mode of proceeding; but it had been a habit with him from boyhood to
do this kind of thing, and it was a habit that he could by no means
overcome.
Passing through the hall this morning, his eye had been attracted by a
pile of luggage belonging to several fresh arrivals, and he at once
began to peer among the labels. The second label that took his eye was
inscribed, “Richard Dering, Esq., Passenger to Bath.” Janvard stood
aghast as he read the name. A crowd of direful memories rushed to his
mind. For a moment or two he could not speak. Then he called Jean as
above.
“That portmanteau,” answered Jean, “belongs to a gentleman who came in
by the last train. He and another gentleman came together. They wanted
a private sitting-room, and I put them into number twenty-nine.”
“Has the other gentleman any luggage?”
“Yes, this large black bag belongs to him.” Janvard stooped and read:
“Tom Bristow, Esq., Passenger to Bath.” “Quite strange to me, that
name,” he muttered to himself. At this moment the boots came, and
shouldering the luggage, hurried with it upstairs.
“They have ordered dinner, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you hear them say how long they were likely to stay here?”
“No, sir.”
“Wait on them yourself at dinner. Bear in mind all that they talk
about, and report it to me afterwards.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pierre Janvard retired to his sanctum considerably disturbed in mind.
Was the fresh arrival any relation or connection of the dead Lionel
Dering, or was it merely one of those coincidences of name common
enough in everyday life? These were the two questions that he put to
himself again and again.
One thing was quite evident to him. Himself unseen, he must contrive to
see this unknown Richard Dering. If there were a possibility of the
slightest shadow of danger springing either from this or from any other
quarter, it behoved him to be on his guard. He would see these people,
after which, if requisite, he would at once write to Mr. Kester St.
George for instructions.
He had just brought his cogitations to an end, and had opened his
banker’s passbook, the contemplation of which was a never-failing
source of joy to him, when a tap came to the door, and next moment in
walked Mr. Richard Dering and Mr. Tom Bristow.
It was on the face of this Richard Dering that Pierre Janvard’s eyes
rested first. In one brief glance he took in every detail of his
appearance. Then his eyes fell. His sallow face grew sallower still.
His thin lips quivered for a moment, and then his hands began to
tremble slightly, so that in a little while he was obliged to take them
off the table and bury them in his pockets.
He saw at once that this Mr. Dering must be a near relative of that
other Mr. Dering whose face he remembered so well—whose face it was
impossible that he should ever forget. They were alike, and yet
strangely unlike: the same in many points, and yet in others most
different. But the moment this dark-looking stranger opened his lips,
it seemed indeed as if Lionel Dering had come back from the grave. A
covert glance at Mr. Bristow assured Janvard that in him he beheld a
man whose face he had no recollection of having ever seen before.
“Your name is Janvard, I believe?” said Mr. Dering, with a slight bow.
“Pierre Janvard at your service,” answered the Frenchman,
deferentially.
“You were formerly, I believe, in the service of Mr. Kester St.
George?”
“I had that honour.”
“My name is Dering—Richard Dering. It is probable that you never heard
of me before, seeing that I have only lately returned from India. I am
cousin to Mr. Kester St. George.”
The Frenchman bowed. “I have no recollection of having heard monsieur’s
name mentioned by my late employer.”
“I suppose not. But my brother’s name—Lionel Dering—must be well known
to you.”
Janvard could not repress a slight start So that was the relationship,
was it?
“Ah, yes,” he said. “I have seen Mr. Lionel Dering many times, and done
several little services for him at one time or another.”
“You were one of the chief witnesses on the trial, if I recollect
rightly?”
Janvard coughed, to gain a moment’s time. The conversation was taking a
turn that he did not approve of. “I certainly was one of the witnesses
on the trial,” he said, with an air of deprecation. “But monsieur will
understand that it was a misfortune which I had no means of avoiding. I
could not help seeing what I did see, and they made me tell all about
it.”
“Oh, we quite understand that,” said Mr. Dering. “You were not to blame
in any way. You could not do otherwise than as you did.”
Janvard smiled faintly, and bowed his gratification.
“My friend here, Mr. Bristow, and myself, have come down to stay a week
or two in your charming city. The doctors tell me there is something
the matter with my spleen, and have recommended me to drink the Bath
waters. Hearing casually that you were the proprietor of one of the
most comfortable hotels in the place, and looking upon you somewhat in
the light of a connection of the family, we thought that we could not
do better than take up our quarters with you.”
Again Janvard smiled and bowed his gratification. “Monsieur may depend
upon my using my utmost endeavours to make himself and his friend as
comfortable as possible. Pardon my presumption, but may I venture to
ask whether Mr. St. George was quite well when monsieur saw or heard
from him last?”
“My cousin was a little queer a short time ago, but I believe him to be
well again by this time.” Mr. Dering turned to go. “We have given your
waiter instructions as to dinner,” he said.
“I hope my chef will succeed in pleasing you,” said Janvard., with a
smile. “He has the reputation of being second to none in the city.”
With the same smile on his face he followed them to the door and bowed
them out, and, still smiling, watched them till they turned the corner
of the street. “No danger there, I think,” he said to himself. “None
whatever. Still I must keep on the watch—always on the watch. I must
look to their dinners myself, and leave them nothing to complain of.
But I shall be very much pleased indeed when they call for their bill:
very much pleased to see the last of them.”
Said Tom to Lionel, as they were walking arm-in-arm towards the
pump-room: “Did you notice that magnificent ring which Janvard wore on
the third finger of his left hand?”
“I could not fail to notice it. I was thinking about it at the very
moment you spoke.”
“I have not seen so splendid a ruby for a long time. The setting, too,
is rather unique.”
“Yes, it was the peculiar setting that caused me to recognize it
again.”
“That caused you to recognize it! You don’t mean to say that you have
ever seen the ring before?”
“I certainly have seen it before.”
“Where?”
“On the finger of Percy Osmond.”
Tom halted suddenly and stared at Lionel as if he could hardly believe
the evidence of his ears.
“I am stating nothing but the simple truth,” continued Lionel. “The
moment I saw the ring on Janvard’s finger the thought flashed through
me that I had certainly seen it somewhere before. All the time I was
talking to Janvard I was trying to call that somewhere to mind, but it
did not come to me till after we had left the hotel—not, in fact, till
a minute before you spoke about it.”
“Are you sure you are not mistaken? There are many ruby rings in the
world.”
“I don’t for one moment think that I am mistaken,” answered Lionel
deliberately. “If the ring worn by Janvard be the one I mean, it has
three initial letters engraved inside the hoop. What particular letters
they are I cannot now recollect. I chanced to express my admiration of
the ring one night in the billiard-room, and Osmond took it off his
finger in order that I might examine it. It was then I saw the letters,
but without noticing them with sufficient particularity to remember
them again.”
“I always had an idea,” said Tom, “that Janvard was in some way mixed
up with the murder, and this would seem to prove it. He must have
stolen the ring from Osmond’s room either immediately before or
immediately after the murder.”
“I must see that ring,” said Lionel decisively. “It must come into my
possession, if only for a minute or two, if only while I ascertain
whether the initials are really there.”
“I don’t think that there will be much difficulty about that,” said
Tom. “The fellow has no suspicion as to whom you really are, or as to
the object of our visit to Bath. To admire the ring is the first step:
to ask to look at it the second.”
A quarter of an hour later Lionel gripped Tom suddenly by the arm.
“Bristow,” he whispered, “I have just remembered something. Osmond had
that ruby ring on his finger the night before he was murdered! I have a
distinct recollection of seeing it on his hand when we were playing
that last game of billiards together.”
“If this ring,” said Tom, “prove to be the one you believe it to be,
the finding of it will be another and a most important link in the
chain of evidence.”
“Yes—almost, if not quite, the last one that we shall need,” said
Lionel.
At dinner that evening Janvard in person took in the wine. The eyes of
both Lionel and Tom fixed themselves instinctively on his left hand.
The ring was no longer there.
“Can he suspect anything?” asked Lionel of Tom, as soon as they were
alone.
“I think not,” answered Tom. “The fellow is evidently uneasy, and will
continue to be so as long as you stay under his roof. But the very
openness of our proceedings, and the frank way in which we have told
him who we are, will go far to disarm any suspicions which he might
otherwise have entertained.”
Two or three days passed quietly over. Lionel drank the waters with
regularity, and he and Tom drove out frequently in the neighbourhood of
King Bladud’s beautiful city. Janvard always gave them a look in in the
course of dinner to see that everything was to their satisfaction; but
he still carefully abstained from wearing the ring.
By-and-by there came a certain evening when Janvard failed to put in
his usual appearance at the dinner table. Said Tom to the man who
waited upon them: “Where is your master this evening? Not ill, I hope?”
“Gone to a masonic banquet, sir,” answered the man.
“Then he won’t be home till late, I’ll wager.”
“Not till eleven or twelve, I dare say, sir.
“Gone in full fig, of course?” said Tom, laughingly.
“Yes, sir,” answered the man with a grin.
“Diamond studs and ruby ring, and everything complete, eh?” went on
Tom.
“I don’t know about diamond studs, sir,” said the man, “but he
certainly had his ring on, for I saw it on his finger myself.”
“Now is our time,” said Tom to Lionel, as soon as the man had left the
room. “We may not have such an opportunity again.”
It was close upon midnight when Pierre Janvard, alighting from a fly at
the door of his hotel, found his two lodgers standing on the steps
smoking a last cigar before turning in for the night. In this there was
nothing unusual—nothing to excite suspicion.
“Hallo! Janvard, is that you?” cried Tom, assuming the tone and manner
of a man who has taken a little too much wine. “I was just wondering
what had become of you. This is my birthday: so you must come upstairs
with us, and drink my health in some of your own wine.”
“Another time, sir, I shall be most happy; but to-night——”
“But me no buts,” cried Tom. “I’ll have no excuses—none. Come along,
Dering, and we’ll crack another bottle of Janvard’s Madeira. We’ll
poison mine host with his own tipple.”
He seized Janvard by the arm, and dragged him upstairs, trolling out
the last popular air as he did so. Lionel followed leisurely.
“You’re a good sort, Janvard—a deuced good sort!” said Tom.
“Monsieur is very kind,” said Janvard, with a smile and a shrug; and
then in obedience to a wave from Tom’s hand, he sat down at table. Tom
now began to fumble with a bottle and a corkscrew.
“Allow me, monsieur,” said Janvard, politely, as he relieved Tom of the
articles in question, and proceeded to open the bottle with the ease of
long practice.
“That’s a sweet thing in rings you’ve got on your finger,” said Tom,
admiringly.
“Yes, it is rather a fine stone,” said Janvard, dryly.
“May I be allowed to examine it?” asked Tom, as he poured out the wine
with a hand that was slightly unsteady.
“I should be most happy to oblige monsieur,” said Janvard, hastily,
“but the ring fits me so tightly that I am afraid I should have some
difficulty in getting it off my finger.”
“Hang it all, man, the least you can do is to try,” cried Tom.
The Frenchman flushed slightly, drew off the ring with some little
difficulty, and passed it across the table to Tom. Tom’s fingers
clutched it like a vice. Janvard saw the movement and half rose, as if
to reclaim the ring; but it was too late, and he sat down without
speaking.
Tom pushed the ring carelessly over one of his fingers, and turned it
towards the light. “A very pretty gem, indeed!” he said. “And worth
something considerable in sovereigns, I should say.”
“Will you allow me to examine it for a moment?” asked Lionel gravely,
as he held out his hand. For the second time Janvard half rose from his
seat, and for the second time he sat down without a word. Tom handed
the ring across to Lionel.
“A magnificent stone, indeed,” said the latter, “but somewhat
old-fashioned in the setting. But that only makes it the more valuable
in my eyes. A family heirloom, without doubt. And see! inside the hoop
are three initials. They are somewhat difficult to decipher, but if I
read them aright they are M. K. L.”
“Yes, yes, monsieur,” said Janvard, uneasily. “As you say, M. K. L. The
initials of the friend who gave me the ring.” He held out his hand, as
if expecting that the ring should at once be given back to him, but
Lionel took no notice of the action.
“Three very curious initials, indeed,” said Lionel, musingly. “One
could not readily fit them to many names. M. K. L. They put me in mind
of a curious coincidence—of a very remarkable coincidence indeed. I
once had a friend who had a ruby ring very similar to this one, and
inside the hoop of my friend’s ring were three initials. The initials
in question were M. K. L. Precisely the same as the letters engraved on
your ring, Monsieur Janvard. Curious, is it not?”
“Mille diables! I am betrayed!” cried Janvard, as he started from his
seat, and made a snatch at the ring. But Lionel was too quick for him.
The ring had disappeared, but Janvard had it not.
He turned with a snarl like that of a wild animal brought to bay, and
looked towards the door. But between him and the door now stood Tom
Bristow, no longer with any signs of inebriety about him, but as cold,
quiet, and collected as ever he had looked in his life. Tom’s right
hand was hidden in the bosom of his vest, and Janvard’s ears were
smitten by the ominous click of a revolver. His eyes wandered back to
the stern dark face of Lionel. There was no hope for him there. The
pallor of his face deepened. His wonderful nerve for once was beginning
to desert him. He was trembling visibly.
“Sit down, sir,” said Lionel, sternly, “and refresh yourself with
another glass of wine. I have something of much importance to say to
you.”
The Frenchman hesitated for a moment. Then he shrugged his shoulders
and sat down. His sang-froid was coming back to him. He drank two
glasses of wine rapidly one after another.
“I am ready, monsieur,” he said, quietly, as he wiped his thin lips,
and made a ghastly effort to smile. “At your service.”
“What I want from you, and what you must give me,” said Lionel, “is a
full and particular account of how this ring came into your possession.
It belonged to Percy Osmond, and it was on his finger the night he was
murdered.”
“Ah ciel! how do you know that?”
“It is enough that what I say is true, and that you cannot gainsay it.
But this ring was not on the finger of the murdered man when he was
found next morning. Tell me how it came into your possession.”
For a moment or two Janvard did not speak. Then he said, sulkily: “Who
are you that come here under false pretences, and question me and
threaten me in this way?”
“I am not here to answer your questions. You are here to answer mine.”
“What if I refuse to answer them?”
“In that case the four walls of a prison will hold you in less than
half an hour. In your possession I find a ring which was on the finger
of Mr. Osmond the night he was murdered. Less than that has brought
many a better man than you to the gallows: be careful that it does not
land you there?”
“If you know anything of the affair at all, you must know that the
murderer of Mr. Osmond was tried and found guilty long ago.”
“What proof have you—what proof was there adduced at the trial, that
Lionel Dering was the murderer of Percy Osmond? Did your eyes, or those
of any one else, see him do the bloody deed? Wretch! You knew from the
first that he was innocent! If you yourself are not the murderer, you
know the man who is.”
Again Janvard was silent for a little while. His eyes were bent on the
floor. He was considering deeply within himself. At length he spoke,
but it was in the same sullen tone that he had used before.
“What guarantee have I that when I have told you anything that I may
know, the information will not be used against me to my own harm?”
“You have no guarantee whatever. I could not give you any such promise.
For aught I know to the contrary, you, and you alone, may be the
murderer of Percy Osmond.”
Janvard shuddered slightly. “I am not the murderer of Percy Osmond,” he
said quietly.
“Who, then, was the murderer?”
“My late master—Mr. Kester St. George.”
There was a pause which no one seemed inclined to break. Although
Janvard’s words were but a confirmation of the suspicions which Lionel
and Tom had all along entertained, they seemed to fall on their ears
with all the force of a startling revelation. Of the three men there,
Janvard was the one who seemed least concerned.
Lionel was the first to speak. “This is a serious charge to make
against a gentleman like Mr. St. George,” he said.
“I have made no charge against Mr. St. George,” said Janvard. “It is
you who have forced the confession from me.”
“You are doubtless prepared to substantiate your statement—to prove
your words?”
“I do not want to prove anything. I want to hold my tongue, but you
will not let me.”
“All I want from you is the simple truth, and that you must tell me.”
“But, monsieur——” began Janvard, appealingly, and then he stopped.
“You are afraid, and justly so. You are in my power, and I can use that
power in any way that I may deem best. At the same time, understand me.
I am no constable—no officer of the law—I am simply the brother of
Lionel Dering, and knowing, as I do, that he was accused and found
guilty of a crime of which he was as innocent as I am, I have vowed
that I will not rest night or day till I have discovered the murderer
and brought him to justice. Such being the case, I tell you plainly
that the best thing you can do is to make a full and frank confession
of all that you know respecting this terrible business, leaving it for
me afterwards to decide as to the use which I may find it requisite to
make of your confession. Are you prepared to do what I ask of you?”
Janvard’s shoulders rose and fell again. “I cannot help myself,” he
said. “I have no choice but to comply with the wishes of monsieur.”
“Sensibly spoken. Try another glass of wine. It may help to refresh
your memory.”
“Alas! monsieur, my memory needs no refreshing. The incidents of that
night are far too terrible to be forgotten.” With a hand that still
shook slightly he poured himself out another glass of wine and drank it
off at a draught. Then he continued: “On the night of the quarrel in
the billiard-room at Park Newton I was sitting up for my master, Mr.
St. George. About midnight the bell rang for me, and on answering it,
my master put Mr. Osmond into my hands, he being somewhat the worse for
wine, with instructions to see him safely to bed. This I did, and then
left him. As it happened, I had taken a violent fancy to Mr. Osmond’s
splendid ruby ring—the very ring monsieur has now in his possession—and
that night I determined to make it my own. There were several new
servants in the house, and nobody would suspect me of having taken it.
Mr. Osmond had drawn it off his finger, and thrown it carelessly into
his dressing-bag which he locked before getting into bed, afterwards
putting his keys under his pillow.
“When the house was quiet, I put on a pair of list slippers and made my
way to Mr. Osmond’s bedroom. The door was unlocked and I went in. A
night-lamp was burning on the dressing-table. The full moon shone in
through the uncurtained window, and its rays slanted right across the
sleeper’s face. He lay there, sleeping the sleep of the drunken, with
one hand clenched, and a frown on his face as if he were still
threatening Mr. Dering. It was hardly the work of a minute to possess
myself of the keys. In another minute the dressing-case was opened and
the ring my own. Mr. Osmond’s portmanteau stood invitingly open: what
more natural than that I should desire to turn over its contents
lightly and delicately? In such cases I am possessed by the simple
curiosity of a child. I was down on my knees before the portmanteau,
admiring this, that, and the other, when, to my horror, I heard the
noise of coming footsteps. No concealment was possible, save that
afforded by the long curtains which shaded one of the windows. Next
moment I was safely hidden behind them.
“The footsteps came nearer and nearer, and then some one entered the
room. The sleeping man still breathed heavily. Now and then he moaned
in his sleep. All my fear of being found out could not keep me from
peeping out of my hiding-place. What I saw was my master, Mr. Kester
St. George, standing over the sleeping man, with a look on his face
that I had never seen there before. He stood thus for a full minute,
and then he came round to the near side of the bed, and seemed to be
looking for Mr. Osmond’s keys. In a little while he saw them in the
dressing-bag where I had left them. Then he crossed to the other side
of the room and proceeded to try them one by one, till he had found the
right one, in the lock of Mr. Osmond’s writing-case. He opened the
case, took out of it Mr. Osmond’s cheque book, and from that he tore
either one or two blank cheques. He had just relocked the writing-case
when Mr. Osmond suddenly awoke and started up in bed. ‘Villain! what
are you doing there?’ he cried, as he flung back the bedclothes. But
before he could set foot to the floor, Mr. St. George sprang at his
throat, and pinned him down almost as easily as if he had been a boy.
What happened during the next minute I hardly know how to describe. It
would seem that Mr. Osmond was in the habit of sleeping with a dagger
under his pillow. At all events, there was one there on this particular
night. As soon as he found himself pinned down in bed, his hand sought
for and found this dagger, and next moment he made a sudden stab with
it at the breast of Mr. St. George. But my master was too quick for
him. There was an instant’s struggle—a flash—a cry—and—you may guess
the rest.
“A murmur of horror escaped my lips. In another instant my master had
sprung across the room and had torn away the curtains from before me.
‘You here!’ he said. And for a few seconds I thought my fate would be
the same as that of Mr. Osmond. But at last his hand dropped. ‘Janvard,
you and I must be friends,’ he said. ‘From this night your interests
are mine, and my interests are yours.’ Then we left the room together.
A terrible night, monsieur, as you may well believe.”
“You have accounted clearly enough for the murder, but you have not yet
told us how it happened that Lionel Dering came to be accused of the
crime.”
“That is the worst part of the story, sir. Whose thought it was first,
whether Mr. St. George’s or mine, to lay the murder at the door of Mr.
Dering, I could not now tell you. It was a thought that seemed to come
into the heads of both of us at the same moment. As monsieur knows, my
master had no cause to love his cousin. He had every reason to hate
him. Mr. Dering had got all the estates and property that ought to have
been Mr. St. George’s. But if Mr. Dering were to die without children,
the estate would all come back to his cousin. Reason enough for wishing
Mr. Dering dead.
“We did not talk much about it, my master and I. We understood one
another without many words. There were certain things to be done which
Mr. St. George had not the nerve to do. I had the nerve to do them, and
I did them. It was I who put Mr. Dering’s stud under the bed. It was I
who took his handkerchief, and——”
“Enough!” said Lionel, with a shudder. “Surely no more devilish plot
was ever hatched by Satan himself! You—you who sit so calmly there, had
but to hold up your finger to save an innocent man from disgrace and
death!”
“What would monsieur have?” said Janvard, with another of his
indescribable shrugs. “Mr. St. George was my master. I liked him, and I
was, besides, to have a large sum of money given me to keep silence.
Mr. Dering was a stranger to me. Voilà tout.”
“Janvard, you are one of the vilest wretches that ever disgraced the
name of man!”
“Monsieur s’amuse.”
“I shall at once proceed to put down in writing the heads of the
confession which you have just made. You will sign the writing in
question in the presence of Mr. Bristow as witness. You need be under
no apprehension that any immediate harm will happen to you. As for Mr.
St. George, I shall deal with him in my own time, and in my own way.
There are, however, two points that I wish you to bear particularly in
mind. Firstly, if, even by the vaguest hint, you dare to let Mr. St.
George know that you have told me what you have told me to-night, it
will be at your own proper peril, and you must be prepared to take the
consequences that will immediately ensue. Secondly, you must hold
yourself entirely at my service, and must come to me without delay
whenever I may send for you, and wherever I may be. Do you clearly
understand?”
“Yes, sir. I understand.”
“For the present, then, I have done with you. Two hours later I will
send for you again, in order that you may sign a certain paper which
will be ready by that time. You may go.”
“But, monsieur——”
“Not a word. Go.”
Tom held open the door for him, and Janvard passed out without another
word.
“At last, Dering! At last everything is made clear!” said Tom, as he
crossed the room and laid his hand affectionately on Lionel’s shoulder.
“At last you can proclaim your innocence to the world.”
“Yes, my task is nearly done,” said Lionel, sadly. “And I thank heaven
in all sincerity that it is so. But the duty that I have still to
perform is a terrible one. I almost feel as if now, at this, the
eleventh hour, I could go no farther. I shrink in horror from the last
and most terrible step of all. Hark! whose voice was that?”
“I hear nothing save the moaning of the wind, and the low muttering of
thunder far away among the hills.”
“It seemed to me that I heard the voice of Percy Osmond calling to me
from the grave—the same voice that I have heard so often in my dreams.”
“How your hand burns, Dering! Shake off these wild fancies, I implore
you,” said Tom. “What a blinding flash was that!”
“They are no wild fancies to me, but most dread realities. I tell you
it is Osmond’s voice that I hear. I know it but too well, ‘Thou shalt
avenge!’ it says to me. Only three words: ‘Thou shalt avenge!’”