THE REVEREND HORATIO TURNS DETECTIVE
The first thing in the curate's thoughts the next morning was this
perplexing fragment of a letter. He examined it carefully, reading,
first, the words in An Petronia's childish scrawl written on what had
been the blank side of a castaway sheet:
chapter nine
reginals mother died six months before he was born and ever since Mr
peabody had injoyed very dilicat health.
Horatio smiled at this tragically complicated picture of Reginald's
entrance upon the scene of life. Then he turned the sheet and
studied what was left of the original letter, a letter evidently
written by his protégée, Hester Storm. Lengthwise and crosswise of
this sheet ran sharp creases where the letter had been folded, and on
either side the edges were torn symmetrically, leaving half-finished
words and sentences. About half the letter was missing.
The letter began, "Dearest sist--" and five lines farther down the
curate came upon "darling Rosalie." Then, after broken lines in
which he made out "pull off something," there were six complete lines
on what had been the last pages, that read:
"...so wonderful in the next few days that I can keep straight always
after this the way you want me to, darling, and you and I can go out
west where the air is fine or into the Adirondacks or anywhere you
like, dearest sister, and you'll never have to work any..." Then
there was a blot and a tear.
Most important of all was a postscript in the upper corner that read,
"Remember, please, to address me as Hester Storm, not as Jenny Regan."
Horatio read and reread this with absorbed interest. He turned it
this way and that, squinted at it, sniffed at it, rubbed his glasses,
and tugged at his thin side whiskers, the total result being that his
excitement and astonishment were presently at fever heat as he
realized that he was on the verge of a momentous discovery.
Ordinarily his conscience would have pricked the gentle curate at
reading a letter not meant for his eyes, but this was an exceptional
case, a matter to be immediately investigated for the common good.
It was a critical moment. He was on the track of something serious,
possibly a crime, and his mind buzzed with the possibilities held by
this scrap of paper. What would a great detective do with such a
clue? What would Horatio Merle do with it?
Tingling with a growing sense of his importance, the little man
studied the paper again with a penetrating frown. An extraordinary
document! A fascinating puzzle! To "pull off something" was, he
knew, a locution familiar in the United States, and meaning to "make
a coup" or to carry through a purpose; this he had gathered from his
reading of adventure stories in the cheap magazines. So something
was to be "pulled off!" Something involving "thousands of dollars!"
Something that had delayed a sailing to America and brought to
Ippingford this unfortunate girl, Jenny Regan, alias Hester Storm, on
some desperate errand involving a rich reward. There was her plain
statement, "You'll never have to work again!" How simple she must
have thought him that day at the golf course! A gullible fool,
believing every word she told him! It was pitiful!
And straightway Horatio resolved that in the present emergency, he
would act a sterner part; he would be hard as adamant and would push
this investigation through to a relentless finish. That was clearly
his duty in view of the peril to which he had exposed the dwellers at
Ipping House. This girl must be baffled in her wicked purpose, and,
having sinned, she must now suffer.
But there was need of caution; he must have his facts well in hand
before making any accusation or showing any suspicion; in short, he
must dissemble--detectives invariably did dissemble, and already
Horatio felt himself a detective. He had the analytical mind and
intuitive insight, he knew it, always had known it, and, although
these qualities had hitherto lain dormant, he would use them now, and
by one supreme effort, he would not only make amends for past
remissness and render a signal service to the Baxter household, but
he would give himself the exhilarating joy of running down a real
criminal.
His first step was evidently to learn from An Petronia where and when
she had found this important fragment, so he went straight to the
lodge and inquired for his little friend. Mrs. Pottle informed him,
with a shrug of displeasure, that the child was playing somewhere
about the grounds, and, after a careful search, the curate found her
in the sunken gardens giving a spelling lesson to a forlorn wooden
dolly sprawling on a marble bench. An Petronia was delighted to
recover the missing page from her novel. Her memory about it was
perfectly distinct. She had picked it out of the fireplace in the
new lady's room at the lodge. The new lady being Hester Storm? Yes,
Hester Storm. Was An Petronia accustomed to use scraps of paper out
of fireplaces for her novel? Well, yes; because she had no other
paper. Besides, this was such a pretty shade. Didn't Daddy Merle
think so? Daddy Merle shrewdly agreed that it was a pretty shade, a
beautiful shade. Did An Petronia think the new lady had any more
paper like this? Oh, yes, a whole box full. Indeed! Was Hester at
the lodge now? No, she was at the big house sewing. Oh! Well,
would An Petronia mind, for a very particular reason, a secret--going
to Hester's room and getting a sheet of this pretty paper, just one
sheet?
At this suggestion the child opened her blue eyes and her sweet, red
lips in wide astonishment, but being assured by Daddy Merle (who must
know) that it was all right, she danced happily away, while the
curate followed on, not quite reconciled to this necessity of setting
his eager little friend to pilfering. Still he saw the value as
evidence of a sheet of paper from the sewing girl's room, and when
the youthful novelist presently returned with the desired article
(the paper was obviously identical), the good man merely patted the
golden red curls with a solemn warning that not a word of their
secret be breathed to the new lady. And he borrowed overnight the
incriminating page from An Petronia's romance.
The next thing was to have a talk with Hester Storm herself, and here
Horatio saw the importance of clever management. An experienced
detective would draw from the girl, without arousing her suspicion,
as much damaging testimony as possible, and then, having involved her
in a network of lies, he would turn suddenly and overwhelm her with
the evidence of her own written words. That would be the method, the
curate felt sure, of _M. Lecoq_ or _Mr. Sherlock Holmes_, and, with a
sigh of regret, he resigned himself to the painful necessity of
following their example. He disliked exceedingly resorting to
subterfuge and--er--dissimulation; but there was no choice, the thing
must be done and--very well, he would do it. He would be firm, he
would be relentless, he would immediately find out what it was that
his unworthy protégée was trying to "pull off."
Merle's first move was to exercise his patience for an hour and a
half, strolling about among the shrubs and beeches, watching for the
appearance of Hester Storm. He knew the girl would come forth
presently from the manor, after her task, and he planned to intercept
her on her way to the lodge. A detective must always be ready to
wait, so Horatio waited.
The chiming clock in the stable tower, with pompous deliberation, had
just sounded the third quarter after four o'clock when the curate
espied a familiar scarlet cloak coming down the graveled walk.
"Enfin!" he breathed in relief, and a moment later he was walking at
Hester's side, marveling at the innocence and candor of her beautiful
dark eyes.
"My dear child," he began kindly, "I have something important to say
to you. Would you mind strolling over toward the lake? I know a
quiet seat where we may talk--shall I say without interruption?"
The girl looked at him in surprise.
"I will do whatever you wish, sir," she said simply. "You have been
so good to me! I hope I have done nothing to displease you."
"Of course not, my child, that is to say, why--er--of course not," he
replied, remembering with difficulty that it was his duty to
dissemble.
They came presently to Horatio's favorite retreat by the lake, a low,
broad bench between two friendly fir trees, and here, looking out
over the placid surface, with its heavy shade lines following the
shores, they had a memorable interview. It was characteristic of
Merle that he chose this spot of soothing beauty, where nature seemed
to reveal her tenderest moods, for the hard business of criminal
investigation.
"The point is, Hester," he began, "I have been thinking over the
matter of your arrival at Ipping House and your establishment here,
and, while I have the deepest sympathy for you, my friend, I feel
that I should have shown a greater interest in your family
and--er--antecedents; in short, I should have asked you to tell me a
little more about yourself."
"I'll be glad to tell you anything you want to know," the girl said
with an air of perfect truthfulness, while the curate continued to
marvel.
"How did you happen to come to so small and unimportant a place as
Ippingford? As I understand it, you knew no one here and--er--why
did you buy a ticket to Ippingford?"
"I didn't," answered Hester with ready invention. "I bought a ticket
to York and I--I got off here because," she hesitated, and her eyes,
wandering over the lake, rested on a company of swans that were
drifting down the cove in stately squadron. In an instant she had
her explanation.
"Yes?" said Merle encouragingly.
"I got off here because it was so beautiful. I wanted to be in the
country--away from noise and smoke and--you see I've always lived in
cities, and I've been unhappy there; I've had no luck there, and when
I saw this lake and the hills and green things it seemed like a voice
calling me, and I--I just got off the train. I couldn't help it."
There was a quiver in her voice that stirred Horatio's sympathy, but
he hardened his heart.
"Then you had no specific purpose in coming to Ippingford?"
"Oh, no! I did not even know the name of the town."
"And suppose you had found no friends here, no employment? What
would you have done?"
"I should have gone on to some other place. And I should never have
forgotten the flowers and hedges and that lovely walk I took the day
I met you--when you were so kind to me."
Her sweet, low tones moved him strangely, but he kept to his task.
"That was only natural, my dear, after you had come to my assistance.
But tell me, are you contented here? Do you plan to stay with us,
now that we have made a place for you?"
Hester looked at him sharply. How came he to put that question?
What was he driving at?
"Why, yes," she assured him. "I want to stay, if you are satisfied
with me."
"You have no intention of going away? No thought of returning to
America?"
"No," she said, disturbed by his persistence. "Why do you ask me
that?"
"I thought perhaps your family in America--or your friends----"
She shook her head sadly. "I have no family. No friends. I am all
alone."
"You have no father or mother? No brother? No sister?"
Again she shook her head. There was no particular reason why she
should lie about Rosalie, except that her sister was too sacred a
thing in Hester's life to be mentioned lightly. And she failed to
see what difference it could possibly make to this queer little man
whether she said that she had a sister or had no sister.
But it made a great difference to Horatio, for Hester's denial of
Rosalie came as a crushing culmination to her other falsehoods. She
had lied in declaring that she had no special purpose in visiting
Ippingford. She had lied in saying she was not planning a return to
America. And now she had lied about her sister. The moment had come
for Merle to strike. His trap was ready, his victim helpless and
defenseless; he had only to touch the spring, or, more precisely, to
produce the accusing letter.
Horatio sat silent, looking out over the lake now bathed in its full
summer splendor. What a glory of color! What a profusion of life
and joy of life! The birds, the insects, the myriad creatures of
field and wood and lake, all happy in their several ways! There were
the thrushes calling!
Horatio sighed. Why should not men and women be as carefree as these
songsters of the air? Why all this sadness in a world that God had
made so beautiful? Why all this sorrow and sin?
Horatio turned to the girl beside him, and there was a wonderful
light in his eyes, the light of humility and spiritual love. She
lifted her eyes to his, then dropped them, then lifted them again,
then dropped them again. A strange thing had happened. The curate's
heart was so filled with the spirit of kindness and pity that there
was no resisting it, either by him or by her. His well planned
attack and her watchful defense were alike unavailing against the
spirit of kindness and pity!
Tears came suddenly into Horatio's eyes, and when he tried to speak
there was a catch in his voice. He looked at this young woman.
God's fair creature, and it seemed as if he read into her soul and
understood. Then he reached out impulsively and took her two hands
in his.
"My poor child! My poor child!" he murmured.
The gentle curate was far off the track of approved detective
procedure. He was neither master of himself nor of the situation.
His analytical mind had failed him, his intuitive insight also,
leaving only the treasure of his heart as an available asset. Quite
forgotten was his carefully set trap! And the girl's letter! And
her lies! Just one fact remained, that here was a soul in distress,
a sister pilgrim on life's hard highway who needed succor.
"You have suffered! You have suffered! I--I am sorry!" he added.
In Hester's whole life this was a unique moment. For years she had
broken the law and had grown skilful in defending herself, after the
fashion of law breakers. Had Merle sprung his trap it is doubtful if
he would have caught her. Had he challenged her with the letter it
is more than likely she would have found some way of explaining it.
Had he pointed out her lies she would have saved herself by other
lies. That was the sort of thing she knew how to do, but she had
never learned to defend herself against love; she didn't know the
answering move to pity--and when he looked at her like that--as
Rosalie had looked--and told her he was sorry, why--it got right
through her guard, it was more than she could bear, and, before
either of them knew it, that world-old miracle, the power of simple
goodness, had been shown again, and one more starved soul had heard
and answered the silent voice.
Hester's bosom began to heave, her breath came in quick, sharp gulps,
she clenched her hands and tried to fight this thing that was
happening, but it was too strong for her.
"Wh--what is it?" she gasped, her eyes on him in desperate pleading.
"It is God calling you, my child. It is God calling," the curate
whispered.
Then the storm broke in convulsive, hysterical weeping. And Horatio
waited, without speaking, without trying to stem the flood.
"I--I've told you what isn't true," she confessed in broken tones.
"I have no right to be here. I--I'm no good," and the storm broke
again.
"Listen to me, my dear," said Merle soothingly. "We are all of us
weak and sinful. I'm sure I don't know why, but it seems to be our
fate to----"
"Wait!" sobbed the girl. "You don't know--what I am. You don't
know--what I have done."
"I know you are sorry," he answered gently.
"Sorry," she repeated. "Oh, yes, I'm sorry, but that isn't enough.
I'm going to tell you everything, and----"
"Stop! I don't want to know what you have done. I can help you
better if I only know that you are sorry. Whatever your sins, they
will be forgiven--if you ask God for forgiveness. You understand, my
child?"
"I--I understand."
"If you see any way to make amends for any wrong act you must take
that way."
The girl's head was bowed as if in prayer. "I will," she said.
"And in the future you must try--with all your heart and soul----
Say those words, my child."
He laid his hand tenderly on her glossy black hair.
"I will try in the future--with all my heart and soul," she murmured.
"To be honest, to be kind," he continued.
"To be honest, to be kind," she repeated.
"I will ask God every day to give me strength against temptation."
"I will ask God every day--to give me strength against temptation."
"For Jesus' sake. Amen."
"For Jesus' sake. Amen."