FAMILY MATTERS
Early in the morning of that day, Mr. Fransemmery, in common with the
rest of the Markenmore people, heard of the strange disappearance of
Baron von Eckhardstein, and like many of them, he joined in a search
for the missing man. Since his coming to The Warren, Mr. Fransemmery
had become minutely acquainted with his immediate surroundings, and
he knew of many nooks and corners of the woods and downs wherein a
stranger might easily have met with an accident. There were queer
places in that neighbourhood; two thousand years ago, the folk who
were here before the Romans had quarried the hill-sides, scooped out
caves and pit-dwellings, and made long lines of fortifications and
trenches. These primeval works, grown over in course of time, were
danger-traps for the unwary who wandered through the backwoods or
crossed the rough, unfrequented parts of the uplands; more than once,
in Mr. Fransemmery’s short experience of Markenmore, he had known of
man or horse falling into some unexpected cavity. Some such accident
as this he conceived to have been possible in the present instance,
and when he heard of von Eckhardstein’s disappearance, he took his
stoutest walking-stick, some lunch in his pocket, and a small flask
of brandy and water, and set out to prospect. In the course of the
day he met many folk who were similarly engaged. Mrs. Tretheroe was
so much concerned about the fate of her guest, and so convinced that
evil had befallen him, that she had pressed into service every
villager who could be spared from his proper and usual labours, and
had offered a handsome reward for success. But when eventide came
again, and Mr. Fransemmery, weary with tramping up hill and down
dale, returned to his own fireside, no success had materialized;
Baron von Eckhardstein, as far as Markenmore folk were concerned, had
vanished.
Mr. Fransemmery sat down to his solitary dinner, puzzled and
wondering. He had thought of little else than the Markenmore problem
since it was first presented to him, and the more he thought, the
more he was bewildered. He had listened with care and patience, and,
he hoped, with understanding, to the evidence put before himself and
his fellow-jurymen, and he was bound to confess that he had made
little out of it. What seemed to him much the most important fact of
that evidence was the affair of the briar-wood pipe. There was no
doubt that that pipe had been left on the supper-table at the Sceptre
by one of the two men who were there with Guy Markenmore. There was
no doubt that Grimsdale produced it at the inquest, passed it round,
and left it lying on the table; there was no doubt—none
whatever—that it was abstracted from that table between the moment
of adjoining and the moment wherein the officious newspaper reporter
asked to see it. What was to be deduced from that? In Mr.
Fransemmery’s opinion one certain conclusion—the owner of that pipe,
the man who had left it at the Sceptre, was present at the inquest,
and had kept silence. Who was he? Mr. Fransemmery had asked himself
that question a hundred times, and got no answer. He was unaware of
Blick’s doings and discoveries, and had only his own knowledge to go
on. But he felt sure of one thing—the owner of the pipe had
purloined it from the solicitors’ table of the temporary court in the
old dining-hall so that it could not be used in evidence against him.
Once more—who was he?
Mr. Fransemmery was still puzzling about this and various other
collateral questions when his bachelor dinner came to its end. He
rose from his chair and meditated a little; then, remembering that he
had had a very hard and trying day, he went to his modest cellar,
found a bottle of his best good old port, and carefully decanting it,
carried the decanter and a brightly polished glass or two into his
library. With his slippered feet on the padded fender-rail, the
decanter of port at his elbow, and a cheery fire of beech-logs in
front of him, Mr. Fransemmery proceeded to do more thinking. But he
had not followed his train of thought very far when his trim
parlourmaid entered to his presence, and informed him that Mr.
Harborough was in the hall, and would be obliged if Mr. Fransemmery
would see him for a few minutes.
Mr. Fransemmery rose from his deep chair with alacrity. He had never
had speech with Harborough before the occasion on which they met at
Markenmore Court on the morning of the murder, but he knew all about
him as the wealthy owner of Greycloister; he regarded him as a
wrongly accused man, and he was sorry that his home-coming should
have been marred by so much unpleasantness. Moreover, Mr. Fransemmery
was the sort of man who is always glad of a chat with anybody—and
just now, in spite of the Coroner’s admonition to him and his
fellow-jurymen, he felt that he had plenty to talk about. He
accordingly hastened into the hall with open hand and welcoming smile.
“Hope I am not disturbing you?” said Harborough, as his host led him
into the cosy library. “An odd time to call—but I had a reason.”
“My dear sir, I am only too delighted!” exclaimed Mr. Fransemmery
hospitably. “Try that chair—and a glass of my port. I can recommend
both.”
“You are very good,” responded Harborough. “I’m no great judge of
wines,” he added, taking the glass which his host handed him with
old-fashioned courtesy, “and as to easy-chairs, I haven’t had much
acquaintance with them of late years—a camp-stool has been more in
my line, Mr. Fransemmery! Well,” he continued, as Mr. Fransemmery
resumed his own seat, “I came to ask your advice about something; I
rather formed the opinion, when I met you the other day, that you
were the most likely man round here to take a common-sense view of
things.”
“Flattered, I’m sure!” said Mr. Fransemmery. “I hope I am a
common-sense person.”
“Well, you know what I mean,” observed Harborough. “You’re not likely
to let local prejudices and gossip affect you. Now, I want to ask
your advice—as I said just now. Tomorrow, Sir Anthony and his elder
son are to be buried in Markenmore churchyard. I, of course, have
known the Markenmore family ever since I knew anything. Guy
Markenmore and I were close friends as boys and young men, until the
estrangement happened, of which you heard the other day. Now, do you
think it would be proper if I attended the funeral—having regard to
present circumstances?”
Mr. Fransemmery fell into a naturally judicial attitude. His face
became thoughtful, and, at first, a little doubtful. But suddenly it
cleared.
“My dear sir!” he said. “It is, I believe, within my recollection
that, when you were giving evidence before myself and my
fellow-jurymen the other morning, you said, clearly, plainly
distinctly, without any apparent mental reserve that your one-time
feeling of anger and resentment against the late Guy Markenmore had
completely died out years ago, and that, had you met him again, you
would have offered him your hand. Am I right?”
“Quite!” replied Harborough. “On all points.”
“Then I see no reason why you should not attend the funeral
ceremonies,” said Mr. Fransemmery. “None!”
“Well—one’s got to remember that there are people—close at
hand—who believe I killed Guy Markenmore,” said Harborough.
“Um!” remarked Mr. Fransemmery dryly. “But—are there? I
mean—seriously?”
“Mrs. Tretheroe—and her following,” suggested Harborough.
“Has she any following?” asked Mr. Fransemmery, more dryly. “And as
for herself—temper, my dear sir, temper! I don’t believe the woman
thinks anything of the sort, if you could really get at her mind—if
she has one.”
“I think she did—at first,” said Harborough, after a moment’s
reflection. “Natural, perhaps.”
“Natural, perhaps, if one is foolish enough to believe that people
cherish resentment indefinitely,” said Mr. Fransemmery. “She must
know that her accusation was ridiculous! I do not think I should
attach the slightest importance to Mrs. Tretheroe’s opinion. But,” he
added, as if struck by a sudden happy thought, “I know what I should
do!—I should just ask the two young people at Markenmore Court what
their wishes are. My opinion is that they would be glad of your
presence.”
“Hadn’t thought of that,” said Harborough. “Bit slow, I think. I’m
sorry enough for them, God knows! And I think they know that whatever
I once felt about their brother I—well, I got over it long since.”
Mr. Fransemmery gave his visitor a keen, sidelong glance. “I suppose
Guy Markenmore really did treat you badly?” he suggested.
“Yes!” answered Harborough, with simple directness. “But—I’ve
forgotten it. And—not all his fault, either. As I say—I’ve
forgotten it.”
“Queer business, this murder!” remarked Mr. Fransemmery. “And now
here’s a second mystery. You’ve heard, of course, about this Baron
von Eckhardstein?”
“No,” replied Harborough. “I’ve heard nothing. I’ve been away from
Greycloister since very early this morning until just now—came
straight to see you as soon as I got back. What about von
Eckhardstein?”
“Disappeared!” exclaimed Mr. Fransemmery. “Last night. Clean
gone!—no one knows where.” He proceeded to give his guest a
circumstantial account of the day’s doings, and of his own share in
them. “What do you think of that?” he asked in conclusion. “Odd,
isn’t it?”
“The whole affair’s odd,” asserted Harborough. “It looks to me as
if—but, really, I think that’s impossible!”
“What’s impossible?” demanded Mr. Fransemmery.
“Well, I was thinking—I was going to say—it almost looks as though
this might be a second murder!” answered Harborough diffidently.
“I’ve been wondering—but, as I said, I’m a bit slow at the thinking
game, sometimes—if von Eckhardstein wasn’t the man who turned up at
the Sceptre at two o’clock in the morning? In that case——”
Mr. Fransemmery started.
“Ah!” he said. “When you came in, I was just getting to some such
conclusion myself! If he was that man, then that accounts for
something else. But—supposing he was—you were going to say.”
“I was going to say that in that case, it looks as if he and Guy
Markenmore had been mixed up in business matters,” replied
Harborough. “And if so, business matters—some big money deal—may be
at the bottom of this. For instance, somebody may have wanted to get
rid of both of ’em? Heard of cases of that sort myself—not in this
country, though.”
“It may be, it may be!” assented Mr. Fransemmery. “The whole thing is
a mystery which seems difficult of solution, and——”
What more Mr. Fransemmery was going to say was never said. At that
moment the door opened, the trim parlour-maid murmured something
indistinctly, stepped aside, vanished, and gave place to Valencia
Markenmore, who came into the room so rapidly that she failed to see
Harborough, whose tall figure was hidden from her by a screen.
“Oh, Mr. Fransemmery!” she exclaimed, as she entered. “Do forgive me
for rushing in on you so unceremoniously, but I’m in an awful lot of
trouble, and I want your help, and—oh!”
She had rounded the screen by that time, and had caught sight of
Harborough. Harborough got to his feet, looking uncertain and awkward.
“I’ll go!” he said.
“No, indeed!” protested Valencia. “Not a bit of it—I’d—I’d just as
soon tell you as Mr. Fransemmery—I’ll tell you both. You’re
men—you’ll know what to do.”
Mr. Fransemmery signed to Harborough to stay where he was and drew a
chair forward to the hearth.
“What is it, my dear?” he enquired, as Valencia seated herself.
“Anything that we can do, I am quite sure will be done—if it’s
within our power.”
“I don’t know that it’s in anybody’s power to do,” answered Valencia.
“Nothing, I should think! The thing’s done, and can’t be undone!”
“And what is done?” asked Mr. Fransemmery softly.
Valencia looked from one man to the other. Each was watching her
attentively; each saw that she was somewhat excited and vexed, and
probably angry.
“I may as well blurt it straight out!” she said suddenly. “My brother
Harry is married to Poppy Wrenne!”
Again she glanced at the two men—this time enquiringly. Harborough
became Sphinx-like in expression; Mr. Fransemmery took off his
spectacles and began to polish them.
“Um!” he said, in still softer accents. “A secret marriage?”
“Of course!” exclaimed Valencia. “Three months ago—in London.”
“And known, until now, to nobody?” enquired Mr. Fransemmery.
“Yes, it was known!” said Valencia. “It was known to Mrs. Braxfield!”
“The bride’s mother!” remarked Mr. Fransemmery slowly. “Dear me!
Really! And so—Poppy Wrenne is really Lady Markenmore?”
“Of course!” snapped Valencia.
“There’s no doubt about the marriage?—its legality, I mean?” asked
Mr. Fransemmery.
“None!” declared Valencia, as curtly as before, “whatever!”
Mr. Fransemmery remained silent a moment. Then he looked past
Valencia, towards Harborough. Harborough, rubbing his chin, stared at
the fire. Mr. Fransemmery turned to Valencia.
“And what is the trouble?” he enquired. “As you say, my dear, since
the thing is done—why, it is done!”
“The trouble’s this, Mr. Fransemmery,” replied Valencia. “Harry came
and told me this an hour ago. He said that he and Poppy Wrenne had
been in love with each other ever since she left that boarding-school
that her mother sent her to, and lately Mrs. Braxfield had been in
the secret, and she had consented, not only to their engagement, but
to their marriage in London, when Poppy was staying there three
months since. It was when Harry went up to town for a holiday—he was
away quite a month. Well, now—now that things are as they are—you
both know what I mean—Mrs. Braxfield insists that the time has come
for this to be made public; she insists that her daughter shall take
her rightful place at—at the funeral tomorrow, as Lady Markenmore,
and she has threatened Harry that unless this is done, she
will—well, I suppose she’ll make a scene!”
“And—your brother?” asked Mr. Fransemmery. “What does he say?”
“He would rather have postponed it until the funeral is over,”
replied Valencia. “Then he was going to announce it, in due form. But
Mrs. Braxfield is adamant—he’s seen her twice today, and she won’t
budge an inch! She insists that Lady Markenmore should be in her
rightful place tomorrow—to be seen and known as Lady Markenmore by
everybody.”
Mr. Fransemmery caught his other guest’s eye.
“What do you say, Harborough?” he asked.
Harborough, conscious of Valencia’s sudden gaze in his direction,
flushed under his brown skin.
“I—er—oh, well, I—don’t think I’m much of a hand at advising in
these matters,” he said shyly. “I—er—don’t know much about ’em,
don’t you know. But—er—it seems to me that it might be—I might
ask, eh?—What does the young lady—Lady Markenmore—say about it?”
“Good!” muttered Mr. Fransemmery. “Excellent! Now, my dear, what
_does_ Lady Markenmore say about it?”
“Lady Markenmore, who isn’t at home, but who’s arriving there late
tonight, writes that she would infinitely prefer to do precisely what
her husband prefers and proposes to do,” replied Valencia. “She
agrees entirely with Harry—but as far as I can gather, Mrs.
Braxfield is the sort of person who will either have her own way or
make things very disagreeable if she doesn’t get it! That’s the
situation—and don’t you think, Mr. Fransemmery, that as you know all
of us, you might see Mrs. Braxfield, tonight, and persuade her to
listen to reason? I don’t want any scenes tomorrow.”
“I will go!” said Mr. Fransemmery. “I will talk to Mrs. Braxfield.
But—do I understand that your brother’s intention——”
“Harry’s intention is to announce his marriage as soon as the funeral
is over,” said Valencia. “I am not going to the church—there will
only be men there. When they come back to the house, there will be
some legal formalities—my father’s will, and so on. Mr. Chilford
will be there, and others, kinsfolk, you know. He will make the
announcement then.”
“I will go and see Mrs. Braxfield at once,” said Mr. Fransemmery.
“Whether I have sufficient influence with the good lady to move her
to accede to your proposition, my dear, I do not know, but I will do
my utmost. But you,” he continued, as all three went out into the
hall, where he took down his overcoat and cap, “you, my dear, cannot
go back across the park alone! Harborough?”
“All right, sir,” said Harborough quietly. “I’m going with her.”
“Thank you—both,” murmured Valencia. “Not that I’m afraid of
crossing the park by myself, though.”
Mr. Fransemmery opened his front door, went along a path in his
garden, and whistled.
The two people behind him heard a rustle; then the rattling of a
chain.
“My dog!” said Mr. Fransemmery. “I never go out at night without him.
Down, Tinker!—I call him Tinker,” he continued, “because I bought
him, as a pup, from a disreputable fellow who came round here mending
pots and pans.”
“What is he?” asked Valencia. “A mongrel? of sorts?”
“No,” replied Mr. Fransemmery. “He’s a pure-bred Airedale—the finest
breed in the world for—shall we say?—police purposes. That’s what I
bought him for. This is a lonely situation—and we have queer folk
round here sometimes.”
At the gate of Mr. Fransemmery’s garden the three separated; the two
younger people went away across the hill-side and the park in the
direction of Markenmore Court; Mr. Fransemmery took the nearest route
to Woodland Cottage, his dog running a little in front of him. The
dusk had come long since; the skies were dark; Mr. Fransemmery, who
had gained much knowledge of weather since taking up his residence in
the country, fancied that there would be rain before morning. And it
was dark on the surface of the land, and in Deep Lane, into which he
presently descended, it was black as a winter midnight. Down there,
in the few yards which he had to traverse before climbing the
opposite bank, Mr. Fransemmery’s Airedale terrier left him; presently
he heard him whimper amongst the thick bushes.
“Rabbits!” said Mr. Fransemmery. “Come away for this time, Tinker!”
The terrier came back, still whining, and obviously restless and
unwilling. He behaved as if he wished to return to the spot he had
just left, but his master called him to heel, and went forward. Just
then Mr. Fransemmery’s thoughts were not of rabbit-warrens and eager
dogs—they were of the unexpected revelation which Valencia
Markenmore had made to him, and of his coming interview with that
capable and masterful woman, Mrs. Braxfield.