THE SETTLEMENT
Winter tried to persuade his mercurial-spirited friend to snatch a few
hours' rest. The Police Inspector obligingly offered a bed; but short
of a positive order, which the Superintendent did not care to give,
nothing would induce Furneaux to let go his grip on the Fenley case.
"Wait till the doctor's car comes back," he urged. "The chauffeur will
carry the story a few pages farther. At any rate, we shall know where
he dropped Fenley, and that is something."
Winter produced a big cigar, and Trenholme felt in his pockets for
pipe and tobacco.
"No, you don't, young man," said the big man firmly. "You're going
straight to your room in the White Horse. And I'll tell you why. From
what I have heard about the Fenleys, they were a lonely crowd. Their
friends were business associates and they seem to own no relatives;
while Miss Manning, if ever she possessed any, has been carefully shut
away from them. The position of affairs in The Towers will be strained
tomorrow. The elder Fenleys are dead; one son may be in jail--or, if
he isn't, might as well be--and the other, as soon as he feels his
feet, will be giving himself airs. Now, haven't you a mother or an
aunt who would come to Roxton and meet Miss Manning, and perhaps help
her to get away from a house which is no fit place for her to live in
at present?"
"My mother can be here within an hour of the opening of the telegraph
office," said Trenholme.
"Write the telegram now, and the constable on night duty will attend
to it. When your mother arrives, tell her the whole story, and send
her to Miss Manning. Don't go yourself. You might meet Robert Fenley,
and he would certainly be cantankerous. If your mother resembles you,
she will have no difficulty in arranging matters with the young lady."
"If I resemble my mother, I am a very fortunate man," said the artist
simply.
"I thought it would be that way," was the smiling comment. "One other
thing: I don't suppose for a minute that Miss Manning is acquainted
with a reputable firm of solicitors. If she is, tell her to consult
them, and get them to communicate with Scotland Yard, where I shall
supply or leave with others certain information which should be acted
on promptly in her behalf. If, as I expect, she knows no lawyer, see
that she takes this card to the address on it and give Messrs. Gibb,
Morris & Gibb my message. You understand?"
"Yes."
"Finally, she must be warned to say nothing of this to Robert Fenley.
In fact, the less that young spark knows about her affairs the better.
After tonight's adventure that hint is hardly needed, perhaps; but it
is always well to be explicit. Now off with you."
"I'm not tired. Can I be of any service?"
"Yes. I want you to be ready for a long day's work in Miss Manning's
interests. Mr. Furneaux and I may be busy elsewhere. Unquestionably we
shall not be in Roxton; we may even be far from London. Miss Manning
will want a friend. See to it that you start the day refreshed by some
hours of sleep."'
"Good-by," said Trenholme promptly. "Sorry you two will miss Eliza's
dinner. But that is only a feast deferred. By the way, if I leave
Roxton I'll send you my address."
"Don't worry about that," smiled the Superintendent. "Our friend the
Inspector here will keep tab on you. Before you're finished with
inquests, police courts and assizes you'll wish you'd never heard the
name of Fenley.... By Jove, I nearly forgot to caution you. Not a word
to the press.... Phi-ew!" he whistled. "If they get on to this story
in its entirety, won't they publish chapter and verse!"
So Trenholme went out into the village street and walked to his
quarters in the White Horse Inn. It was not yet two o'clock, but dawn
had already silvered the northeast arc of the horizon. Just twenty
hours earlier an alarm clock had waked him into such a day as few have
experienced. Many a man has been brought unexpectedly into intimate
touch with a tragedy of no personal concern, but seldom indeed do the
Fates contrive that death and love and high adventure should be so
closely bound, and packed pellmell into one long day.
Only to think of it! When he stole upstairs with the clock to play a
trick on Eliza, he had never seen Sylvia nor so much as heard her name
spoken. When he sang of love and the dawn while striding homeward
through the park, he had seen her, yet did not know her, and had no
hope of ever seeing her again. When he worked at her picture, he had
labored at the idealization of a dream which bade fair to remain a
dream. And now by some magic jugglery of ordinary events, each well
within the bounds of credibility, yet so overwhelmingly incredible in
their sequence and completeness, he was Sylvia's lover, her defender,
her trusted knight-errant.
Even the concluding words of that big, round-headed, sensible
detective had brought a fantasy nearer attainment. If Sylvia were
rich, why then a youngster who painted pictures for a living would
hardly dare think of marrying her. But if Sylvia were poor--and
Winter's comments seemed to show that these financiers had been
financing themselves at her expense--what earthly reason was there
that she should not become Mrs. John Trenholme at the earliest
practicable date? None that he could conceive. Why, a fellow would
have to be a fool indeed who did not know when he had met the one
woman in the world! He had often laughed at other fellows who spoke in
that way about the chosen one. Now he understood that they had been
wise and he foolish.
But suppose Sylvia--oh, dash it, no need to spoil one's brief rest by
allowing a beastly doubt like that to rear its ugly head! One thing he
was sure of--Robert Fenley could never be a rival; and Fenley, churl
that he was, had known her for years, and could hardly be pestering
her with his attentions if she were pledged to another man. Moreover
he, John, newly in love and tingling with the thrill of it, fancied
that Sylvia would not have clung to him with such complete confidence
when the uproar arose in the park if----Well, well--the history of the
Fenley case will never be brought to an end if any attempt is made to
analyze the effects of love's first vigorous growth in the artistic
temperament.
About a quarter past three Dr. Stern's little landaulet was halted at
the same cross-road where a policeman had stopped it nearly three
hours earlier.
"That you, Tom?" said the constable. "You're wanted at the station."
"What station?" inquired the chauffeur.
"The police station."
"Am I, by gum? What's up?"
"The Scotland Yard men want you."
"But what for? I haven't run over so much as a hen."
"Oh, it's all right. You're wanted as a witness. Never mind why.
_They_'ll tell you. The doctor is there, smoking a cigar till you turn
up."
"I left him at Joe Bland's."
"Joe Bland has left Boxton for Kingdom Come. And The Towers is half
burnt down. Things haven't been happening while you were away, have
they?"
"Not half," said Tom.
"No, nor quarter," grinned the policeman to himself when the car moved
on. "Wait till you know who you took on that trip, and why, and _your_
sparkin'-plug'll be out of order for a week."
It was as well that the chauffeur had not the slightest notion that
he had conveyed a murderer to London when he began to tell his tale
to his employer and the detectives. They wanted a plain, unvarnished
story, and got it. On leaving the offices in Bishopsgate Street,
Fenley asked to be driven to Gloucester Mansions, Shaftesbury Avenue.
Tom had seen the last of him standing on the pavement, with a suitcase
on the ground at his feet. He was wearing an overcoat and a derby hat,
and was pressing an electric bell.
"He tol' me I needn't wait, so I made for the Edgware Road; an' that's
all," said Tom.
"Cool as a fish!" commented Furneaux.
"Well, sir, I didn't get hot over it," said the surprised chauffeur.
"I'm not talking about you. Could you manage another run to town? Are
you too tired?"
The mystified Tom looked at his employer. Dr. Stern laughed.
"Go right ahead!" he cried. "I'm thinking of buying a new car. A
hundred and twenty miles in one night should settle the matter so
far as this old rattletrap is concerned."
"Of course we'll pay you, doctor," said Winter.
"That's more than Hilton Fenley will ever do, I'm afraid."
Tom tickled his scalp under his cap.
"Mr. Hilton gemme a fiver," he said rather sheepishly. There was
something going on that he did not understand, but he thought it
advisable to own up with regard to that lordly tip.
"You're a lucky fellow," said the doctor. "What about petrol? And do
you feel able to take these gentlemen to London?"
Tom was a wiry person. In five minutes he was on the road again bound
for Scotland Yard this time. As a matter of form a detective was sent
to Gloucester Mansions, and came back with the not unforeseen news
that Mrs. Garth was very angry at being disturbed at such an unearthly
hour. No; she had seen nothing of Mr. Hilton Fenley since the
preceding afternoon. Some one had rung the bell about two o'clock that
morning, but the summons was not repeated; and she had not inquired
into it, thinking that a mistake had been made and discovered by the
blunderer.
Sheldon was brought from his residence. He had a very complete report
concerning Mrs. Lisle; but that lady's shadowy form need not flit
across the screen, since Robert Fenley's intrigues cease to be of
interest. He had dispatched her to France, urging that he must be
given a free hand until the upset caused by his father's death was put
straight. Suffice it to say that when he secured some few hundreds a
year out of the residue of the estate, he married Mrs. Lisle, and
possibly became a henpecked husband. The Garths, too, mother and
daughter, may be dropped. There was no getting any restitution by them
of any share of the proceeds of the robbery. They vowed they were
innocent agents and received no share of the plunder. Miss Eileen
Garth has taken up musical comedy, if not seriously at least
zealously, and commenced in the chorus with quite a decent show of
diamonds.
London was scoured next morning for traces of Hilton Fenley, but with
no result. This again fell in with anticipation. The brain that could
plan the brutal murder of a father was not likely to fail when
contriving its own safety. Somehow both Winter and Furneaux were
convinced that Fenley would make for Paris, and that once there it
would be difficult to lay hands on him. Furneaux, be it remembered,
had gone very thoroughly into the bond robbery, and had reached
certain conclusions when Mortimer Fenley stopped the inquiry.
In pursuance of this notion they resolved to watch the likeliest
ports. Furneaux took Dover, Winter Newhaven and Sheldon Folkestone.
They did not even trouble to search the outgoing trains at the London
termini, though a detailed description of the fugitive was circulated
in the ordinary way. Each man traveled by the earliest train to his
destination and, having secured the aid of the local police, mounted
guard over the gangways.
Furneaux drew the prize, which was only a just compensation for a sore
head and sorer feelings. He had changed his clothing, but adopted no
other disguise than a traveling-cap pulled well down over his eyes.
He took it for granted that Fenley, like every other intelligent
person going abroad, was aware that all persons leaving the country
are subjected to close if unobtrusive scrutiny as they step from pier
to ship. Fenley, therefore, would have a sharp eye for the quietly
dressed men who stand close to the steamer officials at the head of
the gangway, but would hardly expect to find Nemesis hidden in the
purser's cabin. Through a porthole Furneaux saw every face and, on the
third essay, while the fashionable crowd which elects to pay higher
rates for the eleven o'clock express from Victoria was struggling like
less exalted people to be on board quickly, he found his man in the
thick of the press.
Fenley had procured a new suit, a Homburg hat, and some baggage. In
fact, it was learned afterwards that he hired a taxi at Charing Cross,
breakfasted at Canterbury, and made his purchases there at leisure,
before driving on to Dover.
He passed between two uniformed policemen with the utmost
self-possession, even pausing there momentarily to give some
instruction to a porter about the disposition of his portmanteaux.
That was a piece of pure bravado, perhaps a final test of his own
highly strung nerves. The men, of course, were not watching him or any
other individual in the hurrying throng. They had a sharp eye for
Furneaux, however, and when he nodded and hurried from his lair one of
them grabbed Fenley by the shoulder.
At that instant a burly German, careless of any one's comfort but
his own, and somewhat irritated by Fenley's halt at the mouth of
the gangway, brushed forward. His weight, and Fenley's quick flinching
from that ominous clutch, loosed the policeman's hold, and the
murderer was free once more for a few fleeting seconds.
The constable pressed on, shoving the other man against the rail.
"Here. I want you," he said, and the quietly spoken words rang in
Fenley's ears as if they had been bellowed through a megaphone. Owing
to his own delay, there was a clear space in front. He took that way
of escape instinctively, though he knew he was doomed, since the
ship's officers would seize him at the policeman's call.
Then he saw Furneaux, whose foot was already on the lower end of the
gangway. That, then, was the end! He was done for now. All that was
left of life was the ghastly progress of the law's ceremonial until
he was brought to the scaffold and hanged amidst a whole nation's
loathing. His eyes met Furneaux's in a glare of deadly malice. Then he
looked into eternity with daring despair, and dived headlong over the
railing into the sea.
That awesome plunge created tremendous excitement among the bystanders
on quay and ship. It was seen by hundreds. Men shouted, women
screamed, not a few fainted. A sailor on the lower deck ran with a
life belt, but Fenley never rose. His body was carried out by the
tide, and was cast ashore some days later at the foot of Shakespeare's
Cliff. Then the poor mortal husk made some amends for the misdeeds of
a warped soul. In the pockets were found a large amount of negotiable
scrip, and no small sum in notes and gold, with the result that
Messrs. Gibb, Morris & Gibb were enabled to recover the whole of
Sylvia Manning's fortune, while the sale of the estate provided
sufficiently for Robert Fenley's future.
The course of true love never ran smoother than for John and Sylvia.
They were so obviously made for each other, they had so determinedly
flown to each other's arms, that it did not matter tuppence to either
whether Sylvia were rich or poor. But it mattered a great deal when
they came to make plans for a glorious future. What a big, grand
world it was, to be sure! And how much there was to see in it! The
Continent, America, the gorgeous East! They mapped out tours that
would find them middle-aged before they neared England again. Does
life consist then, in flitting from hotel to hotel, from train to
steamship? Not it. German Kultur took care to upset that theory. John
Trenholme is now a war-worn major in the Gunners, and Sylvia has only
recently returned to her home nest after four years' service with the
Red Cross in France.
But these things came later. One evening in the Autumn, Winter and
Furneaux took Sheldon over to Roxton and dined with Dr. Stern and
Tomlinson at the White Horse. Tomlinson had bought the White Horse
and secured Eliza with the fixtures. Of course, there was talk of
the Fenleys, and Winter told how Hilton Fenley's mother had been
unearthed in Paris. She was a spiteful and wizened half-caste; but she
held her son dear, as mothers will, be they black or white or
chocolate-colored, and it was to maintain her in an establishment of
some style that he had begun to steal. She had married again, and the
man had gone through all her money, dying when there was none left.
She retained his name, however, and Fenley adopted it, too, during
frequent visits to Paris. Hence he was known there by a good many
people, and could have sunk his own personality had he made good
his escape. The mother's hatred of Mortimer Fenley had probably
communicated itself to her son. When she was told of Hilton's suicide
and its cause, she said that if anything could console her for his
death it was the fact that he had avenged her wrongs on his father.
"What was her grievance against poor Mortimer Fenley?" inquired the
doctor. "I knew him well, and he was a decent sort of fellow--rather
blustering and dictatorial but not bad-hearted."
"His success, I believe," said Winter. "They disagreed, and she
divorced him, thinking he would remain poor. The whirligig of time
changed their relative positions, and to a jealous-minded woman that
was unforgivable."
"The affair made a rare stir here anyhow," went on the doctor. "The
people who have taken The Towers have not only changed the name of the
place, but they have commissioned a friend of mine, an architect, to
alter the entrance. There will be two flights of steps and a covered
porch, so the exact spot where Fenley fell dead will be built over."
"Gentlemen," said Tomlinson, "talking is dry work. I haven't my old
cellar to select from, but I can recommend the brands you see on the
table. Mr. Furneaux, I'm sure you have not forgotten that Chateau
Yquem?"
Then, and not until then, did the ex-butler hear that the detectives
had never tasted his famous port. His benign features were wrung with
pain, for it was a wine of rare "bowket," and hard to replace.
But Furneaux restored his wonted geniality by opening a parcel
hitherto reposing on the sideboard.
"I never sent you that bottle of Alto Douro," he cried. "Here it is--a
crusted quart for your own drinking. Lest you should be tempted to be
too generous tonight, I've brought another. Now--a cradle and a
corkscrew!"
So, after a dirge, and before the world shook in war, the story ends
on a lively note, for what is there to compare with good wine and good
cheer, each in moderation? And one bottle among five is reasonable
enough in all conscience.
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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:
1. Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors;
otherwise, every effort has been made to remain faithful to the
author's words and intent.
2. In the advertising pages at the end of the book, many of the book
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End of Project Gutenberg's The Strange Case of Mortimer Fenley, by Louis Tracy