"Drowned? No! Dead before she ever went under the water. Murdered,
beyond the shadow of a doubt."
It is Captain Ryecroft who thus emphatically affirms. And to himself,
being alone, within his room in the Wyeside Hotel; for he is still in
Herefordshire.
More in conjecture, he proceeds--"They first smothered, I suppose, or in
some way rendered her insensible; then carried her to the place and
dropped her in, leaving the water to complete their diabolical work? A
double death as it were; though she may not have suffered its agonies
twice. Poor girl! I hope not."
In prosecuting the inquiry to which he has devoted himself, beyond
certain unavoidable communications with Jack Wingate, he has not taken
any one into his confidence. This partly from having no intimate
acquaintances in the neighbourhood, but more because he fears the
betrayal of his purpose. It is not ripe for public exposure, far less
bringing before a court of justice. Indeed, he could not yet shape an
accusation against any one, all that he has learnt new serving only to
satisfy him that his original suspicions were correct; which it has
done, as shown by his soliloquy.
He has since made a second boat excursion down the bye-channel--made it
in the day time, to assure himself there was no mistake in his
observations under the light of the lamp. It was for this he had
bespoken Wingate's skiff for the following day; for certain reasons
reaching Llangorren at the earliest hour of dawn. There and then to see
what surprised him quite as much as the unexpected discovery of the
night before--a grand breakage from the brow of the cliff. But not any
more misleading him. If the first "sign" observed there failed to blind
him, so does that which has obliterated it. No natural rock-slide, was
the conclusion he came to, soon as setting eyes upon it; but the work of
human hands! And within the hour, as he could see by the clods of
loosened earth still dropping down and making muddy the water
underneath; while bubbles were ascending from the detached boulder lying
invisible below!
Had he been there only a few minutes earlier, himself invisible, he
would have seen a man upon the cliff's crest, busy with a crowbar,
levering the rock from its bed, and tilting it over--then carefully
removing the marks of the iron implement, as also his own footprints!
That man saw him through the blue-grey dawn, in his skiff coming down
the river; just as on the preceding night under the light of the moon.
For he thus early astir and occupied in a task as that of Sysiphus, was
no other than Father Rogier.
The priest had barely time to retreat and conceal himself, as the boat
drew down to the eyot. Not this time crouching among the ferns; but
behind some evergreens, at a farther and safer distance. Still near
enough for him to observe the other's look of blank astonishment on
beholding the _debacle_, and note the expression change to one of
significant intelligence as he continued gazing at it.
"_Un limier veritable_! A hound that has scented blood, and's
determined to follow it up, till he find the body whence it flowed.
Aha! The game must be got out of his way. Llangorren will have to
change owners once again, and the sooner the better."
At the very moment these thoughts were passing through the mind of
Gregoire Rogier, the "veritable bloodhound" was mentally repeating the
same words he had used on the night before: "No accident--no suicide--
murdered!" adding, as his eyes ranged over the surface of red sandstone,
so altered in appearance, "This makes me all the more sure of it.
Miserable trick! Not much Mr Lewin Murdock will gain by it."
So thought he then. But now, days after, though still believing Murdock
to be the murderer, he thinks differently about the "trick." For the
evidence afforded by the former traces, though slight, and pointing to
no one in particular, was, nevertheless, a substantial indication of
guilt against somebody; and these being blotted out, there is but his
own testimony of their having ever existed. Though himself convinced
that Gwendoline Wynn has been assassinated, he cannot see his way to
convince others--much less a legal tribunal. He is still far from being
in a position openly to accuse, or even name the criminals who ought to
be arraigned.
He now knows there are more than one, or so supposes; still believing
that Murdock has been the principal actor in the tragedy; though others
besides have borne part in it.
"The man's wife must know all about it?" he says, going on in
conjectural chain; "and that French priest--he probably the instigator
of it? Aye! possibly had a hand in the deed itself? There have been
such cases recorded--many of them. Exercising great authority at
Llangorren--as Jack has learned from his friend Joe--there commanding
everybody and everything! And the fellow Dempsey--poacher, and what
not--he, too, become an important personage about the place! Why all
this? Only intelligible on the supposition that they have had to do
with a death by which they have been all benefited. Yes; all four
acting conjointly have brought it about!
"And how am I to bring it home to them? 'Twill be difficult, indeed, if
at all possible. Even that slight sign destined has increased the
difficulty.
"No use taking the `great unpaid' into my confidence, nor yet the
sharper stipendiaries. To submit my plans to either magistrate or
policeman might be but to defeat them. 'Twould only raise a hue and
cry, putting the guilty ones on their guard. That isn't the way--will
not do!
"And yet I must have some one to assist me. For there is truth in the
old saw `Two heads better than one.' Wingate is good enough in his way,
and willing, but he can't help me in mine. I want a man of my own
class; one who--stay! George Shenstone? No! The young fellow is true
as steel and brave as a lion, but--well, lacking brains. I could trust
his heart, not his head. Where is he who has both to be relied upon?
Ha! Mahon! The man--the very man! Experienced in the world's
wickedness, courageous, cool--except when he gets his Irish blood up
against the Sassenachs--above all devoted to me, as I know; has never
forgotten that little service I did him at Delhi. And he has nothing to
do--plenty of time at his disposal. Yes; the Major's my man!
"Shall I write and ask him to come over here. On second thoughts, No!
Better for me to go thither; see him first, and explain all the
circumstances. To Boulogne and back's but a matter of forty-eight
hours, and a day or two can't make much difference in an affair like
this. The scent's cold as it can be, and may be taken up weeks hence as
well as now. If we ever succeed in finding evidence of their guilt it
will, no doubt, be mainly of the circumstantial sort; and much will
depend on the character of the individuals accused. Now I think of it,
something may be learnt about them in Boulogne itself; or at all events
of the priest. Since I've had a good look at his forbidding face, I
feel certain it's the same I saw inside the doorway of that convent. If
not, there are two of the sacerdotal tribe so like it would be a toss up
which is one and which t'other.
"In any case there can be no harm in my making a scout across to
Boulogne, and instituting inquiries about him. Mahon's sister being at
school in the establishment will enable us to ascertain whether a priest
named Rogier holds relations with it, and we may learn something of the
repute he bears. Perchance, also, a trifle concerning Mr and Mrs
Lewin Murdock. It appears that both husband and wife are well known at
Homburg, Baden, and other like resorts. Gaming, if not game, birds, in
some of their migratory flights they have made short sojourn at the
French seaport, to get their hands in for those grander Hells beyond.
I'll go over to Boulogne!"
A knock at the door. On the permission to enter, called out, a hotel
porter presents himself. "Well?"
"Your waterman, sir, Wingate, says he'd like to see you, if convenient?"
"Tell him to step up!"
"What can Jack be coming after? Anyhow I'm glad he has come. 'Twill
save me the trouble of sending for him; as I'd better settle his account
before starting off." [Jack has a new score against the Captain for
boat hire, his services having been retained, exclusively, for some
length of time past.] "Besides there's something I wish to say--a long
chapter of instructions to leave with him. Come in, Jack!"
This, as a shuffling in the corridor outside, tells that the waterman is
wiping his feet on the door mat.
The door opening, displays him; but with an expression on his
countenance very different from that of a man coming to dun for wages
due. More like one entering to announce a death, or some event which
greatly agitates him.
"What is it?" asks the Captain, observing his distraught manner.
"Somethin' queer, sir; very queer indeed."
"Ah! Let me hear it!" demands Ryecroft, with an air of eagerness,
thinking it relates to himself and the matter engrossing his mind.
"I will, Captain. But it'll take time in the tellin'."
"Take as much as you like. I'm at your service. Be seated."
Jack clutches hold of a chair, and draws it up close to where the
Captain is sitting--by a table. Then glancing over his shoulder, and
all round the room, to assure himself there is no one within earshot, he
says, in grave, solemn voice:
"I do believe, Captain, _she be still alive_!"
Volume Three, Chapter XV.