“WILLFUL MURDER.”
The shades of evening fell upon the wedding day; the guests had
gone, with one theme upon their lips; the village was all astir with
excitement; the Grange was thronged with a hustling crowd, all talking
of the tragic event which had fallen like a thunderbolt upon the
marriage festivities.
Olivia lay still unconscious. The Wainford doctor was in close
attendance, and had issued a strict command for profound quiet. A hush
deep as that which waits on death prevailed throughout the great house,
which a few hours ago had been brimming over with talk and laughter.
Beside the bed, his white head buried in his hands, sat the squire,
and, kneeling with her beloved mistress’ hand in hers, was Bessie.
She was almost as white as the face that lay so calm and still on the
pillow, but every now and then her lips twitched, and a spasm of agony
passed across her face.
Downstairs in the library Bartley Bradstone paced to and fro. He had
got a decanter of brandy from the dining-room cellaret, and every now
and then he filled a glass with unsteady hand.
Now and again he stole to the door and, opening it cautiously, listened
intently. Then, as no sound reached him from the room upstairs, he
went back to his brandy and his restless, fearful pacing.
For hours, far into the night, Olivia lay wrapped in the deep
unconsciousness which is so nearly akin to the great sleep; then
suddenly the doctor held up his hand and bent over her.
“Do not speak to her!” he whispered to the squire, who rose tremblingly.
She opened her eyes, and looked round dully and vacantly, then she
murmured, faintly:
“Where am I?”
Bessie drew herself up and put her arm across her.
“Here, Miss Olivia, here in your own room, at home, at the Grange. I am
with you--Bessie--and the squire.”
A look of relief crossed the lovely face.
“Thank God!” she breathed. “I--I thought--I dreamed--ah!” and she made
an effort to rise. “Where is he?”
“Hush, hush, my darling!” said the poor squire. “He is downstairs in
the library.”
She sank back, and her lips quivered.
“In the library. Here, and--and safe! Ah, what a dreadful dream!”
“Bartley is safe, quite safe, of course, dear,” he said, soothingly.
She started, and her eyes dilated, as they fixed themselves on his face.
“Bartley Bradstone! Is he here? Father!” and her voice rang with an
awful dread. “You will not let him take me away, you will not----”
“No, no, no, dear!” said Bessie, quick to divine her fear. “No one
shall take you!”
She sank back again, but tossed her head from one side to the other,
her eyes glittering feverishly.
“I--I am trying to think; I can’t remember! What has happened?
Something dreadful--dreadful! Tell me, Bessie--tell me, or I shall go
mad!”
The squire bent over her; but the doctor held up his hand.
“Let the girl speak to her,” he whispered.
With the tears filling her eyes, Bessie drew the hot, restless head
upon her bosom.
“Is it this mistake about Mr. Faradeane, miss?” she said, with forced
carelessness.
“Yes, yes!” panted Olivia, her eyes seeming to glow upon Bessie’s face.
“Tell me!”
“It’s all a mistake,” said Bessie, calmly, setting her teeth almost
defiantly, “a stupid, senseless mistake that people will be sorry
for----” and unconsciously her voice rose.
The doctor raised a warning finger.
“Don’t excite her,” he said.
Bessie’s voice sank again.
“Don’t think anything of it, dear Miss Olivia. It will all come right.
You and I--everybody knows he didn’t do it--couldn’t do it.”
“Couldn’t? Ah!” Her hand clutched Bessie’s arm, and she stared at her
wildly. “They say he had committed murder! I heard them! I heard them!
They have taken him away, Bessie. Bessie, I must go. No”--and she
moaned--“I cannot. But you must go and tell him that I know--do you
hear?--I know he is innocent. That if any harm comes to him I--shall
die!”
She sank back breathless and exhausted. The squire’s face went white,
and he turned his head away.
“She is wandering, poor girl,” said the doctor, with prompt presence of
mind. “The shock of--of this terrible business coming so closely upon
the excitement of the day has prostrated her. There has been a strain
upon her mind for some time past. Don’t attach any value to her wild
words, sir.”
The squire drew back into the shadow and groaned:
“My poor girl!”
The doctor went round and, taking his arm, led him outside into the
corridor.
“Come, squire,” he said, gently but firmly, “you mustn’t give way; our
only chance is to keep her free from excitement. If I can only keep her
quiet she will be safe. If not--the first thing to do is to get rid of
Mr. Bradstone.”
“Get rid of him?” groaned the squire.
“Yes,” he said; “his presence here in the house affects her; there is
no accounting for the fancies of fever. Tell him how ill she is, and
persuade him to go home, so that I may tell her he has gone. Leave the
rest to me. I can manage very well with Bessie for nurse; and no one
else must enter the room. You understand?”
The squire grasped his hand and wrung it.
“Yes, I understand,” he said, sorrowfully. “I will do as you say--if he
will go.”
“Tell him her life depends on it,” said the doctor, sternly.
The squire went downstairs into the library, and Bartley Bradstone
turned and faced him. His eyes were bloodshot, his lips hot and dry,
and his hands plucked nervously at the edge of his coat.
“Is--is she better?” he demanded, huskily.
The squire shook his head.
“My poor child is very ill, Bartley,” he said. “I fear there
is--danger! You must go home!”
“Go home?” repeated Bartley Bradstone, dully.
“Yes,” said the squire; “the fact of your being here in the house
agitates her--her mind is wandering. You will go home, will you not? I
will send to you every hour.”
To his surprise, Bartley Bradstone made no remonstrance.
“I’ll go if you--if she wishes it,” he said, staring at the carpet like
a man in a dream. “Yes, of course.”
“I’ll tell them to get a carriage--and yet the noise. Will you walk?”
“Yes,” he said; then he looked up with a sudden start of fear, and
shuddered. “Yes, I’ll walk; but--but I’d like to have some one--one of
the servants with me. I’m--I’m upset, you see,” he stammered, wiping
the cold sweat from his brow.
The squire looked at him and the decanter; but his gentle nature found
some excuse for him.
“My poor fellow!” he said. “But this will not help you,” and he pointed
to the brandy.
“No, I know; but--I’m upset, I’m dreadfully upset. This--this murder
business----”
The squire sighed deeply.
“My brain is in a whirl. It was the sudden shock that struck my poor
girl down. There is some hideous mistake, some dreadful mystery! It is
impossible that he can be guilty!”
“He--he didn’t deny it,” said Bartley Bradstone, sullenly.
The squire looked at him with sad surprise.
“You do not think him guilty?” he said.
“I? Oh, no; certainly not,” was the quick response. “But--but--of
course it’s a mystery. I--I wish it had happened at some other time.
Curse it! It will never be found out.”
“Yes, it will be found out,” said the squire, solemnly.
He took two or three turns across the room, his hand to his brow; then
he stopped suddenly.
“Why, I remember! It must have occurred while you were on your way to
The Maples. Did you hear nothing? The glade is not far from the drive.”
Bartley Bradstone was putting on his overcoat, and stopped with one arm
in the sleeve.
“Who, I?” he exclaimed, indignantly. “What do you mean? What do I
know about it?” Then, recalled to himself by the squire’s look of sad
astonishment at his tone, he continued, more quietly, “For Heaven’s
sake, don’t get me mixed up in the business; that--that would make it
bad for Olivia, you know. I don’t know anything about it. I--I cut
across the park in the other direction.”
“With the carriage?” exclaimed the squire.
“No, no, I didn’t take a carriage; didn’t I tell you? I thought I
should save time by running across the park, and--and I wasn’t anywhere
near the spot, I’m glad to say. They can’t force me to attend the
inquest and all that, can they?” he asked, averting his face.
The squire shook his head.
“No, as you know nothing about it,” he said.
Bartley Bradstone drew a breath of relief.
“That’s all right!” he said. “Olivia would be awfully cut up if I got
mixed up in this wretched business. It would make her worse than she
is.”
“She can scarcely be worse,” said the poor squire, sorrowfully.
“She’ll get over it,” said Bartley Bradstone, putting on his hat.
“It’s--it’s the shock, and all that. I’ll go now, I think. Give her my
love, and tell her I’ll come and see her directly they’ll let me. We’ll
get away the moment she’s strong enough; the--the change will do her
good. If it hadn’t been for their dragging that fellow Faradeane here
we should have been miles away by this time, confound it!”
He passed into the hall and beckoned to a footman who was passing.
“Let him come with me, will you, squire? It’s--it’s dark, and I’m upset
and nervous. It’s enough to drive a fellow out of his mind.”
The squire motioned an assent to the servant, who brought his hat and a
lantern.
At the hall door Bartley Bradstone paused, and came back to where the
squire stood, looking vacantly and sadly out at the silent night.
“Don’t--don’t tell anybody I walked over to The Maples unless you’re
obliged,” he said, with forced carelessness. “These police fellows
are always too ready to get a gentleman mixed up in the business, and
they’d make a mountain of a molehill, and want me to appear at the
trial, and all that. Good-night. Give my love to--to--my wife.”
He held out his hand, with his restless, bloodshot eyes fixed on the
squire’s boots, and as the old man took it, he noticed, in a dull way,
how cold and clammy it felt.
The door closed on Mr. Bartley Bradstone and his protector, and the
squire went upstairs again.
As he approached the door, he could hear his darling’s voice talking
wildly and incoherently, and the doctor met him with a grave face.
“She is delirious,” he said, gravely. “Has Mr. Bradstone gone?”
They entered the room. Olivia was lying in Bessie’s arms, her eyes
open and staring, a torrent of words streaming from her feverish lips.
“Bessie! Bessie! Save him! He is not guilty! My love commit--murder!
Ha, ha!” and her wild laughter rang through the room. “He’s so good
and gentle! They are mad, mad, mad! Take me to him, father! Take me to
him! It is my place! I tell you that if all the world pronounced him
guilty, I would love--love--love him! He is innocent! Father, don’t let
him take me away! No! Let me stay! Hide me from him! I hate him! I hate
him!”
“What does it mean?” moaned the squire, piteously.
“It means just nothing,” replied the doctor, who had watched beside
many a delirious patient, and was as discreet and silent as the grave.
“Pay no attention. Who’s that?”
It was Aunt Amelia’s voice at the door, begging to be admitted.
“Miss Amelia can do no good. Keep her away, please,” he said, quietly;
and the squire persuaded her, weeping bitterly--for Aunt Amelia’s heart
was sound, though her head was flighty--to go back to her own room.
All through the night--and how long it seemed!--the three watched
beside the fever-stricken girl, listening to her delirious cries; but
toward morning they grew less wild, and as the dawn broke they ceased
altogether and she lapsed into a deep sleep.
The doctor’s grave face cleared.
“Thank God!” he said, with a long breath of relief. “Go and lie down,
squire; the worst has passed. We shall only have to fight against the
weakness and exhaustion now. But mind,” he added, as he gently forced
the squire out of the room, “keep Mr. Bradstone out of the way, and
don’t mention his name before her. There must be no excitement.”
The squire asked if he should send to Wainford for a skilled nurse; but
the doctor shook his head.
“No,” he said, decisively. “You could not get a better than this girl
Bessie, and--nurses talk,” he added, under his breath.
The morning came and the long day passed. The hushed household moved
about on tiptoe and spoke in whispers. Almost every hour, as he had
promised, the squire sent word to Bartley Bradstone; Olivia was lying
in the sleep of unconsciousness.
About six o’clock in the evening Bartley Bradstone entered the library,
where the squire sat, his head resting in his hands.
“I--I couldn’t stop away any longer,” he said, sinking into a chair.
“How is she now?”
“Just the same,” replied the squire, looking at his white face,
pityingly. “She lies now like one dead, indeed----”
Bartley Bradstone groaned and wiped his forehead.
“I’ve spent a wretched night,” he said; “wretched. I suppose you’ve
heard the news?” he asked, suddenly.
The squire shook his head.
“They’ve held the inquest and brought in a verdict of willful murder
against Faradeane.”
The squire sprang to his feet, then dropped down again.
“They must be mad!” he exclaimed, tremulously.
“I don’t know anything more than I’ve heard,” said Bartley Bradstone.
“My man was there and--and told me what passed. They had Faradeane up,
and he--he just behaved as he did here. Wouldn’t say anything, or give
any explanation. What were they to do, under the circumstances?”
The squire let his hand fall upon the table.
“I would stake my life upon his innocence!” he said, solemnly.
Bartley Bradstone eyed him with sullen displeasure.
“That wouldn’t save him,” he said. “Things look black against him.”
“I care not how black they look,” responded the squire. “I know that
Faradeane is incapable of such a crime.”
As he spoke the door opened.
“A gentleman wishes to see you, sir,” said the butler; and as the
squire made a motion of assent, a short, commonplace-looking man,
dressed like a well-to-do farmer, entered.
“Good-evening, sir,” he said, quietly and respectfully. “My name is
McAndrew, detective, from Scotland Yard. I’ve got charge of this case.”
The squire waved him to a seat and leaned back wearily.
“Why do you wish to see me?” he asked.
“Yes, we know nothing about it,” said Bartley Bradstone.
The detective looked at him as if he had not noticed the presence of a
third person, and bowed.
“Certainly not, sir; but I called to pay my respects and to ask a few
questions. You’ve heard how the verdict of the coroner’s inquest has
gone, sir?” addressing the squire.
“Yes.”
“Well, sir, I don’t attach too much weight to coroners’ verdicts,
but this seems reasonable enough. There’s the fact of the prisoner’s
presence on the scene, and the revolver with his name engraved on it
being found near the body.”
“That’s very bad,” remarked Bartley Bradstone.
“Yes, sir, very bad, as you say,” assented Mr. McAndrew; “but I’m not
quite satisfied yet. I’ve seen the prisoner, and watched him through
the inquest. And--I’ve had a good deal of experience, Mr. Vanley--he
doesn’t look guilty.”
“He is not guilty!” said the squire, earnestly.
Mr. McAndrew nodded respectfully.
“He’s a friend of yours, sir?”
“He is,” assented the squire; “a very dear friend.”
Bartley Bradstone shot a glance of jealousy at the sad, worn face.
“Just so, sir; then you can tell me something about him--who he is and
so on.”
The squire passed his hand across his brow.
“I--I’m afraid I cannot,” he replied. “I know nothing about Mr.
Faradeane, excepting that he came here, to a cottage called The Dell, a
few months ago----”
“When, sir?”
“In May; and that he is distinctly a gentleman, and incapable of the
crime laid to his charge.”
“That’s it, sir,” exclaimed the detective; “Mr. Faradeane is a
gentleman, as you say, and I’ve never in all my experience known a
real, genuine gentleman commit a crime of this kind. In the heat of the
moment--in a sudden fit of jealousy, for instance--a gentleman might do
it. But this was premeditated.”
“How do you know that?” said Bartley Bradstone, sharply.
The detective looked at him calmly and thoughtfully.
“Because the man who shot this woman went to meet her fully intending
to shoot her,” he said, quietly. “What I want to get at is this
gentleman’s, Mr. Faradeane’s, motive for getting rid of the woman.
That’s what I want to find out.”
“Do you know the woman? Have you identified her?”
It was Bartley Bradstone who asked the question, and he did so with
affected indifference, as if he were merely asking from curiosity.
The detective shook his head.
“Not had time yet, sir; but I shall know all about her directly.”
At this tone of confidence Bartley Bradstone shifted in his seat.
“What does Mr. Faradeane say?” he asked.
“Surely he has explained his presence on the spot, and the revolver?”
said the squire.
Mr. McAndrew shook his head.
“That’s the queer part of it, sir,” he said. “I’ve seen Mr. Faradeane
before and after the inquest, and he declines to say a word. Now, if
he had been the man he’d have been full of explanations; do you follow
me, sir?”
“Perfectly,” responded the squire, with a sigh.
“They always are. They can account for everything; but Mr. Faradeane
doesn’t seem to take the trouble to explain. That strikes me as being
peculiar.”
“Perhaps he can’t explain,” said Bartley Bradstone, his eyes fixed on
the carpet.
The detective looked from him to the squire, and then out of the
window, abstractedly.
“If he can’t, then----”
He stopped.
“Well?” demanded the squire.
“Then he’s a lost man,” replied the detective.