A NEW SUSPICION.
SPENSER TAIT walked back to the Manor House with the pleasing conviction
that he had passed a very profitable hour. He had warned Jenny about the
probable movements of Hilliston, and thus had put her on her guard
against that astute individual. Once an idea enters a woman's head, it
is impossible to get it out again, and Tait, by half hinting a
confirmation of Jenny's suspicions regarding the lawyer, had made her
uneasily conscious that Hilliston was a man to be watched and reckoned
with. If Hilliston fulfilled Tait's prophecy, the little man believed
that Jenny would resent his interference, penetrate his motives, and
thwart him, if possible. In spite of her denial that she thought him
guilty, Tait could not but perceive that the reading of the case had not
biased her in favor of the dead man's friend. Jenny believed that
Jeringham had committed the crime, but, if Hilliston acted indiscreetly,
it would not take much to induce her to alter that opinion. Tait
chuckled as he thought of these things; for he had not only cut the
ground from under Hilliston's feet by warning Jenny of his possible
arrival, but had, as he truly thought, converted a passive spectator
into an active enemy.
Again, he had learned that it was the old servant who had informed the
girl concerning the scarfpin episode. Kerry said that the man who owned
the scarfpin was guilty; and Kerry knew to whom the scarfpin belonged.
If he could only be induced to part with the information there might be
some chance of solving the mystery; but Kerry's--or rather Denis
Bantry's--past conduct and present attitude were so doubtful that it was
difficult to know how he would act, even though he were driven into a
corner. Tait had little doubt in his own mind that Kerry was the old
servant of Captain Larcher, for no one but he knew the truth about the
scarfpin. Nevertheless, he failed to understand why the man had changed
his name, and why he was staying at Thorston as servant to a recluse
like Paynton. Only a personal interview with him could settle these
vexed questions, but Tait was of two opinions whether Kerry would be
amenable to reason, and confess his reasons for such concealment.
Thus thinking, and trying to come to some conclusion regarding the new
aspect placed upon affairs by the conversation with Jenny, the little
man arrived home, and learning that Claude was still in the garden, he
went there to report the result of his interview, and discuss the
situation. Larcher was leaning back in a comfortable garden chair, with
an open book on his knee, but, instead of reading, he was staring with
unseeing eyes into the fresh green of the tree above him. On hearing
Tait's brisk step he hastily lowered his head with a flush, as though he
had been caught doing something wrong, and grew still more confused when
he saw his friend looking at him with a queer expression of amusement.
"She is a pretty girl," said Tait significantly; "and I don't wonder you
are thinking of her."
"Thinking of who?" asked Claude merrily, at this reading of his
thoughts. "Are you a mind reader?"
"So far as you are concerned, I am. Knowing how easily influenced you
are by the sight of a pretty face, I don't think I am far wrong in
guessing that your thoughts were with Jenny Paynton."
"Well, yes," replied Claude, with a frank laugh. "I do not deny it. The
glimpse I caught of her as we drove past in the cart charmed me greatly.
I have rarely seen a more sympathetic and piquant face."
"Bah! You say that of every woman you meet. Your geese are always
swans."
"Jenny is, at all events!" said Larcher promptly; "and you cannot deny
that; but I admire her exceedingly--that is, as a pretty woman. You see,
I already call her Jenny in my own mind, but that is because you always
talk of her by her Christian name. Now, Jenny is----"
"My dear Don Juan," said Tait blandly; "don't you think we had better
leave off these erotics and get to business. You must not indulge in the
ideal to the exclusion of the real."
"Oh, not that business!" sighed Larcher wearily. "I don't believe we'll
do any good with it. The mystery of my father's death is likely to
remain one to the end of time for all I can see. Every trace is
obliterated by the snows of twenty-five years."
"Not entirely, my friend. For instance, I have learned an important fact
to-day."
"From Miss Paynton?"
"Yes. We had a long conversation, and she was considerably startled when
she learned the object of your visit here."
"Was it wise of you to tell her?"
"Why, yes," returned Tait decidedly. "We can do nothing without her
help, and that she will refuse to give us unless she learns the reason
of our inquiries."
"What is her opinion of the matter? The same as Linton's, I suppose?"
"By no means. She thinks that Jeringham killed your father; but I am not
altogether sure that she does not suspect Hilliston. After all, she may
come round to Linton's opinion before long."
"Did you tell her that we suspected Hilliston?" asked Claude anxiously.
"Not directly. But I permitted myself to hint as much. However, I only
aided the seed of suspicion to sprout, for it was already implanted in
her mind. You look astonished, Claude, but recall to your recollection
the report of that case, and you will see that Hilliston was far too
much mixed up in the matter to be as ignorant as he pretended to be at
the trial. According to his evidence he had not left the ballroom, and
consequently could have known nothing of the tragedy which was then
being enacted at The Laurels. Yet, he knows details which, so far as I
can see, prove him to have been an eye-witness."
Claude jumped to his feet, and began restlessly pacing up and down the
gravel walk. He yet retained some belief in Hilliston, and was reluctant
to think that one to whom he owed so much should be guilty of so foul a
crime. It was true that certain circumstances looked black against him,
but these were purely theoretical, and by no means founded on absolute
facts. After due consideration Claude inclined to the belief that Tait
was too easily satisfied of Hilliston's guilt, and was willing to accept
any stray facts likely to confirm his theory. Thus biased he could not
possibly look on the matter in a fair and equable manner. The wish was
altogether too greatly father to the thought.
"I don't think you give Hilliston a fair show, Tait," he said, stepping
before his friend. "If he winks an eye you look on it as a sign of his
guilt. My mother assured me solemnly that Hilliston was at the ball when
the tragedy occurred."
"Oh, in that case, I have nothing more to say," said Tait coldly.
"Still," he added rather spitefully, "I should like to know why Mr.
Hilliston is so anxious to keep the matter quiet."
"Tait!" said Claude hoarsely, sitting down by his friend and seizing his
arm; "do you know I have often asked myself that question, and I have
found a reply thereto; the only reply of which I can think."
He paused, and looked fearfully around; then wiped the sweat off his
white face with a nervous gesture. Tait eyed him in amazement, and could
not understand what had come over his usually self-possessed friend; but
he had no time to speak, for Claude, with an irrepressible shiver,
whispered in a low voice:
"What if my mother should be guilty, after all? Ah, you may well look
astonished, but that is the hideous doubt which has haunted me for days.
My mother says she ran at my father with a dagger, but fainted before
she struck him. What if she did not faint; if she really killed him, and
Hilliston, knowing this, is trying to screen her, and trying to save me
from knowing the truth?"
"But, my dear fellow, the trial----"
"Never mind the trial. We now know that Denis swore falsely when he
asserted that my father was not in the house on that night. We know that
he was in the house, and that my mother found him with Mona Bantry. Her
jealousy might have carried her to greater lengths than she intended to
go. Denis saved her at the trial by telling a lie; but we know the
truth, and I cannot rid myself of a doubt, that she may be guilty. If
so, in place of being an enemy, Hilliston is acting the part of a friend
in placing obstacles in our way."
Tait shook his head. "I do not believe Mrs. Bezel is guilty," he said
quietly; "if she had been, she would certainly not have written to you,
and thus forced Hilliston to show you the papers. Banish the thought
from your heart, Claude. I am as certain as I sit here that your mother
is innocent of the crime."
"If I could only be certain!"
"And why should you not be," exclaimed Tait vigorously. "An eye-witness
could tell you the truth."
"Where can I find an eye-witness?" cried Claude, with an impatient
frown. "Mona Bantry and Jeringham have both fled; they are probably dead
by this time. My mother denies that she struck the blow, and Hilliston,
she says, was at the ball when the murder took place. Who can tell me
the truth?"
"Denis Bantry," said Tait quietly. "Listen to me, Claude. The episode of
the garnet scarfpin, which to my mind is the clew to the assassin, is
only known to your mother, to Hilliston, and to Denis Bantry. Now
Hilliston denies that such a trinket exists; your mother insists that it
was found on the bank of the river after the murder. The only person who
can give the casting vote--who can arbitrate, so to speak--is Denis
Bantry."
"And where is Denis Bantry? Lost or dead, years ago."
"Nothing of the sort, my friend. Denis Bantry is alive and in this
neighborhood. Yes; Jenny Paynton admitted to me that the scarfpin
episode was related to her by their old servant, Kerry. Therefore, it
naturally follows that Kerry is Denis Bantry."
"But why is he hiding here under another name?" said Larcher, after he
had digested this piece of information, with a due display of
astonishment.
"That I cannot say. Unless," here Tait hesitated before uttering his
opinion, "unless Denis Bantry is the guilty person."
"But that is impossible; that is out of the question," said Claude
decidedly. "He was devoted to my father, as you know. Why should he turn
and kill him without a cause?"
"Ah!" said Tait significantly; "what if he had a cause, and a very good
one, to kill your father. Recall your mother's confession. She returned
at three o'clock in the morning and found her husband alone with Mona,
the sister of Denis. She accused Mona of being her husband's mistress,
and the girl confessed her guilt, which your father evidently could not
deny. Now what is more probable than that Denis, attracted by the high
voices, should have followed your mother to the room. There he would
hear the truth, probably while waiting at the door. What follows? With
his impulsive Irish temperament he dashes in, hot to avenge the wrong
done to his sister. The dagger dropped by your mother is at his feet; he
picks it up and kills his master on the instant. Your mother, in a faint
on the floor, knows nothing of what is going on, and brother and sister
remove the body to the river, where they drop it in. Then Mona is sent
away by Denis to hide her shame and evade awkward questions, while he
remains."
"But why should he remain?" interrupted Claude smartly. "Would it not
have been wiser for him to fly?"
"And so confess his guilt. No! He induces Jeringham to fly, with a
threat of denouncing him as the murderer of Larcher. Jeringham is in
such a dilemma that, seeing that all the evidence will be against him,
he takes to flight. Thereupon Denis is able to save his mistress, and
himself, by denying that Larcher came to the house on that night. Of
course, this is all pure theory; still it is as circumstantial as the
rest of the evidence we have in hand."
But Claude was by no means inclined to agree with this last remark.
"There are flaws in your argument," he said, after a few moments'
reflection. "If Denis intended to deny that my father was in the house
on that night, why should he induce Jeringham to fly?"
"To make assurance doubly sure. No doubt he intended first to put the
blame on Jeringham, but finding that Mrs. Larcher was likely to be
accused, he made things safe for her by denying that his master returned
on that evening. Only four people knew of the return; Mona, who fled,
Mrs. Larcher, who held her tongue to save her neck; Denis, who swore
falsely to serve his mistress; and Jeringham, who thought he might be
accused of the crime."
"But why wouldn't he have denounced Denis?"
"He was doubtless ignorant that Denis was the criminal. You forget that
Jeringham was in the garden, and knew nothing of what was taking place
in the sitting room. Denis rushed out, and finding Jeringham may have
told him that Mrs. Larcher had killed her husband on his account. The
man, bewildered and shocked, yet sees that he is complicated in the case
through his love for Mrs. Larcher; he guesses that owing to the gossip
of the place he may be accused of the crime, and so does the wisest
thing he could do,--the only thing he could do,--and seeks refuge in
flight."
"Then you think Denis is guilty?"
"I can't say. As you see, I can make a strong case out against your
mother, against Jeringham, against Denis. Yes, I could even make a case
against Mona Bantry; but it is sole theory. Yet Denis must have some
reason for hiding here under the name of 'Kerry,' and for keeping those
papers found by Jenny which contained a report of the case. The case is
strong against Hilliston, I admit, but is stronger against your father's
own servant."
"I don't think so," said Claude quietly. "If Denis had killed my father,
he would not have told Jenny about the scarfpin."
"Why not! The scarfpin may have belonged to Jeringham--to Hilliston. For
his own safety--now that the case is recognized after so many years by a
girl's rash action--Denis would not hesitate to blame them to save
himself. Taking it all round," added Tait, with the air of one who has
settled the question, "I think the conduct of Denis is very suspicious,
and I would not be surprised if he turned out to be the guilty person."
"But the acts of Hilliston?"
Tait rubbed his head and looked vexed, for he was unable to give a
direct answer. "Let us leave the matter alone for the present," he said
crossly. "I am getting bewildered with all this talk. Only one person
can tell the truth, and that is Kerry, alias Denis Bantry."