A TELEGRAM TO HELSTONLEIGH.
That same evening, just as suddenly as Detective Butterby had shot
into the entry, did he seem to shoot into the private room of Mr. Bede
Greatorex. The clerks had just left the office for the evening; Bede,
putting things straight on his desk, was thinking of going upstairs to
dinner. To be thus silently invaded was not pleasing: but Bede could
only resign himself to his fate.
In a spirit of reproach Mr. Butterby entered on the business of the
interview, stating certain facts. Bede took alarm. Better, as he
thought, that the earth should be arrested in its orbit, than that the
part Godfrey Pitman played in connection with his cousin's death at
Helstonleigh should be brought to light.
"It is the very charge, above all others, that I gave you, Mr.
Butterby--the keeping secret what you had learnt about the identity of
Godfrey Pitman," broke forth Bede.
"And it is because I obeyed you and did keep it, that headquarters
have put it into others' hands and are hauling me over the coals,"
spoke Mr. Butterby in an injured tone.
"Have you told them that it was by my desire you remained passive?"
"I have told them nothing," was the answer. "I let 'em think that I
was looking after Godfrey Pitman still myself, everywhere that I could
look, high and low."
"Then they don't know yet that he and my clerk Brown are the same?"
said Bede, very eagerly.
"Not a bit on't. There's not a living soul of the lot has been sharp
enough to turn that page yet, Mr. Bede Greatorex."
"And it must be our business to keep it closed," whispered Bede. "I
will give you any reward if you can manage to do it."
"Look here, sir," spoke Butterby. "I am willing to oblige you as far
as I can in reason; I've showed you that I am; but to fill you up with
hopes that that secret will be a secret long, would be nothing but
wilful deceit: and deceit's a thing that don't answer in the long run.
When I want to throw people off a scent, or worm things out of 'em for
the law's purposes, I send their notions off on all sorts of air
journeys, and think it no wrong: but to let you suppose I can keep
from the world what I can't keep, and take your thanks and rewards for
doing it, is just the opposite case. As sure as us two be a talking
here, this matter won't stand at its present page; there'll be more
leaves turned in it afore many days is gone over."
Leaning forward, his face and eyes wearing their gravest look, his
elbow on the table that was between them, his finger and thumb pointed
to give force to his argument, there was that altogether in the
speaker's aspect, in his words, that carried a shiver of conviction to
the mind of Bede Greatorex. His heart grew faint, his face was white
with a sickly moisture.
"You may think to stop it and I may think to stop it, Mr. Bede
Greatorex: but, take my word, it won't be stopped. There's no longer a
chance of it."
"If you--could get--Brown out of the way?" spoke Bede, scarcely
knowing what it was he said, and speaking in a whisper. Mr. Butterby
received the suggestion with severity.
"It's not to me, sir, that you should venture to say such a thing.
I've been willing to help your views when it didn't lie against my
position and duty to do it; but I don't think you've seen anything in
me to suppose I would go beyond that. As good step into Scotland Yard
and ask _them_ to help a criminal to escape, as ask me. We'll let that
drop, sir; and I'll go on to a question I should like to put. What do
you want Godfrey Pitman out of the way for?"
Bede did not answer. His hand was pressed upon his brow, his eyes wore
their saddest and most dreamy look.
"If Pitman had any share in the business at Helstonleigh, you ought to
be the one to give him into custody, sir."
"For the love of Heaven, don't pursue Pitman!" spoke Bede earnestly.
"I have told you before, Mr. Butterby, that it was not he. So far as I
believe, he never lifted his hand against John Ollivera; he did not
hurt a hair of his head. Accuse any one in the world that you please,
but don't accuse him."
"What if I accuse a woman?" spoke Mr. Butterby, when he had gazed at
Bede to his satisfaction.
Their eyes met. Bede's face, or the detective fancied it, was growing
whiter.
"Who?--What woman?" asked Bede, scarcely above his breath.
"Alletha Rye."
With a sadden movement, looking like one of relief, Bede Greatorex
dropped his hand and leaned back in his chair. It was as if some kind
of rest had come to him.
"Why should you bring in Alletha Rye's name? Do you suspect her?"
"I'm not clear that I do; I'm not clear that I don't. Anyhow, I think
she stands a chance of getting accused of it, Mr. Bede Greatorex."
"Better accuse her than Pitman," said Bede, who seemed to be again
speaking out of his uncomfortable dream.
Mr. Butterby, inwardly wondering at various matters and not just yet
able to make them meet in his official mind, rose to conclude the
interview. A loud bell was ringing upstairs; most probably the
announcement of dinner.
"Just a parting word, sir. What I chiefly stepped in to say, was this.
So long as the case rested in my hands, and Mr. Godfrey Pitman was
supposed to have finally disappeared from the world, I was willing to
oblige you, and let it, and him, and the world be. But from the moment
that the affair shall be stirred publicly, in short, that action is
forced upon me by others, I shall take it up again. Counsellor
Ollivera's case belongs of right to me, and must be mine to the end."
With a civil goodnight, Mr. Butterby departed, leaving Bede Greatorex
to his thoughts and reveries. More unhappy ones have rarely been
entertained in this world. Men cannot strive against fate forever, and
the battle had well nigh warn him out. It almost seemed that he could
struggle no longer, that he had no power of resistance left within
him. Mind and body were alike weary; the spirit fainted, the heart was
sick. Life had long been a burden to Bede Greatorex, but never did its
weight lie heavier than tonight in its refined and exquisite pain.
He had to bear it alone, you see. To lock the miserable secret,
whatever might be its precise nature, and whoever might have been
guilty, within his own bosom. Could he but have spoken of it to
another, its anguish had been less keen; for, when once a great
trouble can be imparted--be it of grief, or apprehension, or remorse;
be it connected with ourselves, or (worse) one very near and dear to
us--it is lightened of half its sting.
But that relief was denied to Bede Greatorex.
It had been the dinner-bell. Bede did not answer to it; but that was
not altogether unusual.
They sat around the brilliantly-lighted, well-appointed banquet. Where
Mrs. Bede Greatorex procured her fresh hothouse flowers from daily,
and at what cost, she alone knew. They were always beautiful, charming
to the eye, odoriferously pleasant to the senses. At the head of the
table tonight was she, wearing amber silk, her shoulders very bare,
her back partially shaded by the horse's tail that drooped from her
remarkable chignon. It was not a dinner-party; but Mrs. Bede was going
out later, and had dressed beforehand.
The place at her left-hand was vacant--Bede's--who never took the foot
of the table when his father was present. Mr. Greatorex supposed his
son was detained in the office, and sent a servant to see. Judge Kene
sat on the right of Mrs. Bede; he had called in, and stayed to dinner
without ceremony. Clare Joliffe and Miss Channing sat on either side
Mr. Greatorex. Frank was dining out. Clare was returning to France for
Christmas, after her many months' stay in the country. Her chignon was
more fashionable than a quartern loaf, and certainly larger, but
lacking that great achievement, the tail. Annabel's quiet head
presented a contrast to those two of the mode.
Bede came up. Shaking hands with Sir Thomas Kene, he passed round to
his chair; his manner was restless, his thin cheeks were hectic. The
judge had not seen him for some little time. Gazing at him across the
table, he wondered what malady he could be suffering from, and how
much more like a shadow he would be able to become--and live. Mr.
Greatorex, anxiously awake to every minute glance or motion bearing on
his son's health, spoke.
"Are you thinking Bede looks worse, Sir Thomas?"
"He does not look better," was the reply. "You should see a doctor and
take some tonics, Bede."
"I'm all right, Judge, thank you," was Bede's answer, as he turned a
whole lot of croûtons into his purée de pois--and would afterwards
send it away nearly untested.
Dinner was just over when a servant whispered to Mr. Greatorex that he
was wanted. Going down at once to his room he found Henry William
Ollivera.
"Why did you not come up, William? Kene is there."
"I am in no fit mood for company, uncle," was the clergyman's reply.
"The trouble has come at last."
In all the phases of agitation displayed by Henry Ollivera, and when
speaking of the affair he generally displayed more or less, Mr.
Greatorex never saw him so much moved as now. Leaning forward on his
chair, his eyes bright, his cheeks burning as with the red of an
autumn leaf, his hands feverish, his voice sunk to a whisper, he
entered on the tale he had to tell.
"Do you remember my saying to you one day in the dining-room above,
that I thought it was a woman? Do you remember it, uncle?"
"Quite well."
"In the weeks that have gone by since, the suspicion has only gained
ground in my mind. Without cause: I am bound to say it, without
further cause. Nay almost in the teeth of what might have served to
diminish suspicion. For, if Godfrey Pitman be really somewhere in
existence, and hiding himself, the natural supposition would be, as
Jelf thinks, that _he_ was the one."
Mr. Greatorex nodded assent. "And yet you suspect the woman! Can you
not say who she is, Henry?
"Yes, I can say now. I have come here to say it--Alletha Rye!"
Mr. Greatorex evinced no surprise. He had fancied it might be upon her
that his nephew's doubts had been running. And he deemed it a crotchet
indeed.
"I think you must be entirely mistaken," he said with emphasis. "What
little I know of the young woman, tends to give me a very high opinion
of her. She appears to be almost the last person in the world capable
of such a crime as that, or of any crime."
"She might have done it in a moment's passion; she might have been
playing with the pistol and fired it accidentally, and then was afraid
to avow it; but she _did_ it, uncle."
"Go on."
"I have been distracted with doubt. Distracted," emphatically repeated
Mr. Ollivera. "For of course I knew that my suspicions of her, strong
though they have been growing, did not prove her guilty. But tonight I
have heard her avow it with her own lips."
"Avow what?"
"That she murdered John!"
"What!--has she confessed to you?" exclaimed Mr. Greatorex.
"No. I heard it accidentally. Perhaps I ought to say surreptitiously.
And, hearing it in that manner, the question arises in my mind whether
or not I should make use of the knowledge so gained. I cannot bear
anything like dishonourable or underhand dealing; no, not even in this
cause, uncle."
Mr. Greatorex made no reply. He was taken up with noting the strangely
eager gaze fixed upon him. Something in it, he knew not what, recalled
to his memory a dead face, lying alone on the border of a distant
churchyard.
"It is some few weeks ago now that Mrs. Jones gave me a latchkey,"
resumed Mr. Ollivera. "In fact, I asked her for it. Coming in so
often, and sometimes detained out late at night with the sick, I felt
that it would be a convenience to me, and save trouble to the maid.
This evening upon letting myself in with it about tea-time, I found
the passage in darkness; the girl, I supposed, had delayed to light
the lamp. My movements are not noisy at any time, as you know, and I
went groping on in silence, feeling my way: not from any wish to be
stealthy--such a thought never entered my head--but because Mr. Roland
Yorke is given to leaving all kinds of articles about and I was afraid
of stumbling over something. I was making for the table at the end
of the passage, on which matches are generally kept, sometimes a
chamber-candle. Feeling for these, I heard a voice in Mrs. Jones's
parlour that I have not heard many times in my life, but nevertheless
I knew it instantly--Butterby's, the detective."
"Butterby's!" exclaimed Mr. Greatorex. "I did not know he was in
London."
"Uncle! It was Alletha Rye's voice that answered him. Her voice and no
other's, disguised with agitation though it was. I heard her say that
it was herself who killed my brother; that Godfrey Pitman had never
raised a hand against him."
"You--really heard her say this, William?" breathed Mr. Greatorex.
"It is true as that I am a living man. It seemed to me that the
officer must have been accusing Godfrey Pitman of the crime. I heard
the man's surprised answer, 'You, Miss Rye!' 'Yes, I,' she said, 'I,
Alletha Rye, _not_ Godfrey Pitman.' I heard her go on to tell Butterby
that he might do his best and his worst."
Mr. Greatorex sat like one bereft of motion. "This confounds me,
William," he presently said.
"It confounded me," replied Mr. Ollivera. "Nearly took my senses from
me, for I'm sure I had no rational reason left. The first thought that
came to me was, that they had better not see me there, or discover
they had been overheard until I had decided what my course should be.
So I stepped silently up to my room, and the detective went away; and,
close upon that, Mrs. Jones and the maid came in together. Mrs. Jones
called her sister to account for not having lighted the hall-lamp,
little thinking how the darkness had served me."
"But for you telling me this yourself, William, I had not believed
it."
"It is true as Heaven's gospel," spoke the clergyman in his painful
earnestness. "I sat a short while in my room, unable to decide what I
ought to do, and then I came down here to tell you of it, uncle. It is
very awful."
"Awful that it should have been Alletha Rye, you mean?"
"Yes. I have been praying, seeking, working for this discovery ever
since John died; and, now that it has come in this most sudden manner,
it brings nothing but perplexity with it. Oh, poor helpless mortals
that we are!" added the clergyman, clasping his hands. "We set our
hearts upon some longed-for end, spend our days toiling for it, our
nights supplicating for it; and when God answers us according to our
short-sighted wish, the result is but as the apples of Sodom, filling
our mouths with ashes. Anybody but Alletha Rye; almost anybody; and I
had not hesitated a moment. But I have lived under the same roof with
her, in pleasant, friendly intercourse; I have preached to her on
Sundays; I have given her Christ's Holy Sacrament with my own hands:
in a serious illness that she had, I used to go and pray by her
bed-side. Oh, Uncle Greatorex, I cannot see where my duty lies; I am
torn with conflicting doubt!"
To the last words Mr. Ollivera had a listener that he had not
bargained for--Judge Kene. About to take his departure, the Judge had
come in without ceremony to say Goodnight to Mr. Greatorex.
"Why, what is amiss?" he cried, noting the signs of agitation as well
as the words.
And they told him; told him all; there was no reason why it should be
kept from him; and Mr. Ollivera begged for his counsel and advice. The
Judge gave it, and most emphatically; deciding _as_ a Judge more than
as a humane man--and Thomas Kene was that.
"You cannot hesitate, Ollivera. This poor unhappy woman, Alletha Rye,
must be brought to answer for her crime. Think of _him_, your brother,
and my once dear friend, lying unavenged in his shameful grave!
Humanity is a great and a good virtue, but John's memory must outweigh
it."
"Yes, yes; I am thinking of him always," murmured the clergyman, his
face lighting.
The initiative was taken by Mr. Greatorex. On the departure of the
Judge and the clergyman, who went out together, Mr. Greatorex dropped
a line to Scotland Yard. Butterby happened to be there, and answered
it in person. Shortly and concisely Mr. Greatorex gave his orders.
"And I have no resource but to act upon them," coolly observed the
imperturbable Butterby. "But I don't think the party was Alletha Rye."
"You don't!" exclaimed Mr. Greatorex.
"No, sir, I don't. Leastways, to my mind, there's grave reasons
against it. The whole affair, from beginning to end, seems encompassed
with nothing but doubts; and that's the blessed truth."
"I would like to ask you if Alletha Rye has or has not made a
confession to you this evening, Mr. Butterby--to the effect that she
was the one who killed Mr. Ollivera?"
"If nobody was in the house but her--as she said--she's been talking,"
thought the detective. "Confound these women for simpletons! They'd
prate their necks away."
But Mr. Greatorex ins looking at him, waiting for the answer.
"I was with Alletha Rye this evening; I went there for my own
purposes, to see what I could get out of her; little suspecting she'd
say what she did. But I don't believe her any the more for having said
it. The fact is Mr. Greatorex, that in this case there's wheels within
wheels, a'most more than any I've ever had to do with. I can't yet
disclose what they are even to you; but I'm trying to work them round
and make one spoke fit into another."
"Do you _know_ that Alletha Rye was not guilty of it?"
"No, sir, I do not."
"Very good. Lose no time. Get a warrant to apprehend Alletha Rye, and
execute it. If you telegraph to Helstonleigh at once, the warrant may
be up, and she in custody before midday tomorrow."
No more dallying with the law or with fate now. That was over. Mr.
Butterby went straight to the telegraph office, and sent a message
flying to Helstonleigh.
And Bede Greatorex went out to take part in an evening's gaiety with
his wife, and came home to his rest, and rose the next morning to go
about his occupation, unconscious of what the day was destined to
bring forth.