THE STORY OF THE MAD GARDENER.
HAVING made this startling announcement, Dick Pental drew back to
observe the effect on his hearer. Humoring the man's vanity, Tait
expressed due surprise, and requested him to narrate the circumstance to
which he referred.
"It is about twenty-five years ago, it is," said Dick, commencing his
tale in a great hurry; "and I was the gardener here to Captain Larcher.
You don't know him, sir; it aint to be expected as you should. He was a
grown gentleman before you were, and a kind 'un he was; took me out of
the asylum, he did. They said I was mad, you know, and put me into a
strait waistcoat; but I wasn't a bit wrong in my head, sir, not I.
Captain Larcher he saw that, so he took me out and made me his gardener.
And aint I done a lot for the place? just you look round and see."
"Your work is admirable, Dick."
"It is that," replied the man with _naïve_ vanity, "and you aint the
first as has said that, sir. Oh, I'm fond of the garden, I am; flowers
are much nicer company than human beings, I think. Not so cross with
Dicky, you know, sir."
"No doubt," said Tait, seeing that the creature was following the
wanderings of his poor wits. "But about this murder you----"
"I didn't know anything was wrong," interrupted the gardener earnestly;
"I'd have kept out of the way if I'd known that; but I came here one
night when I shouldn't have been here."
"How was that?"
"Hot rum and water," confessed Dick, with great simplicity. "I drank
it--too much of it, and it went to my head. It isn't a strong head, so I
came here to sleep it clear again. That was about twelve o'clock as near
as I can tell, but, Lord bless you, my head made no account of time,
when the hot rum and water was in it. I woke up and I was frightened
finding myself in the dark,--I hate the dark, don't you, sir?--so I
finished some rum that I had with me and went to sleep again. Then I
woke up sudden, I did, and I saw it."
"The murder being committed?"
"No, not quite that! But I saw a man lying on the ground just over
there, and he didn't move a bit. Another man was holding him in his
arms, and Denis Bantry was standing by with a lantern."
"Who was the other man?"
"It was a gentleman called Mr. Jeringham. Oh, yes! My head was queer,
but I knew him by his clothes, I did. I was at the grand ball of the
gentry, you know; it was there I got drunk--and I saw Mr. Jeringham
there in black clothes with gold trimmings. He had them on when he bent
over Captain Larcher."
"How did you know the man on the ground was Captain Larcher?"
"I didn't, then," confessed Dick ingenuously; "but when I heard as they
found him in the river, I knew it was him, I did. I saw them drop him
in!"
"Denis Bantry and Mr. Jeringham?" exclaimed Tait, astonished at the
minuteness of these details.
"Yes. They talked together for a bit, but my head was so queer that I
couldn't make out what they said. But they picked up Captain Larcher,
one at the head and the other at the heels, and they dropped him
in--Splash! he went, he did. I was behind a tree and they couldn't see
me. Ugh!" said the man, with a shiver, "how I did feel afraid when he
went splash into the cold water. Then I went away and held my tongue."
"Why did you do that? It was your duty to have come forward and told the
truth."
Dick Pental put on a cunning look, and shook his head. "Not me, sir," he
said artfully. "They'd have said my head was queer and put me in an
asylum again. No, no, Dicky was too clever for them, he was."
"But you say it was Denis Bantry who killed Captain Larcher," said Tait,
after a moment's reflection. "How do you know that, when you did not see
the blow struck? It might have been Mr. Jeringham."
Looking lovingly at the piece of gold which was now in his possession,
Dick shook his head with great vigor.
"It wasn't Mr. Jeringham," he protested. "He was a good, kind gentleman.
He gave Dicky half a crown the day before. He was fond of Captain
Larcher's wife, so he couldn't have killed Captain Larcher."
Against this insane reasoning Tait had nothing to urge, as Dicky was
evidently convinced that Denis Bantry was guilty, to the exclusion of
Jeringham. Had the former given him money instead of the latter he would
doubtless have accused Jeringham and sworn to the innocence of Denis.
The man's brain was too weak to be depended upon; but Tait recognized
that the report he gave of the occurrence of that fatal night was true
and faithful in all respects. Dicky was not sufficiently imaginative to
invent such a story.
Satisfied from the importance of the knowledge he had gained that his
time had not been wasted, Tait wished to be alone to think out the
matter. There was some difficulty in getting rid of Dicky, who was still
greedily expectant of further tips, but in the end he induced the man to
return to his work, and set out for Horriston at a brisk walk. He always
thought better when exercising his limbs, and before he reached the town
he had arrived at several conclusions respecting the case as seen under
the new light thrown on it by the gardener.
For one thing, he concluded that Paynton was Jeringham. The reason for
Denis being in his service had been explained by Dick Pental, as the two
men were bound together by a common bond of guilt. Tait was inclined to
think that Jeringham was innocent, for if he had killed Larcher there
would have been no need for Denis to have screened him. On the other
hand, circumstantial evidence was so strong against Jeringham that, if
Denis had struck the blow, he would be forced to acquiesce in the
silence of the real criminal--to become, as it were, an accessory to the
crime. Denis could have sworn that Jeringham was guilty, and so placed
him in danger of his life. Thus the two men had a hold on one another;
Jeringham because circumstances were against him, Denis because he had
killed Larcher. The motive for the crime was not difficult to discover
after the story told by Mrs. Bezel. Bantry had killed his master as the
destroyer of his sister's honor. Under the names of Paynton and Kerry
the two men were dwelling together at Thorston in loathed companionship,
each afraid to let the other out of his sight. Tait could imagine no
more terrible punishment than that enforced comradeship. It reminded him
of a similar situation in a novel of Zola's, where husband and wife were
equally culpable, equally afraid, and filled with equal hatred the one
toward the other.
Still this conclusion, supported as it was by facts, did not explain the
attitude of Hilliston. Assuming the guilt of Denis Bantry, the
complicity of Jeringham, there appeared to be no reason why Hilliston
should protect them at Thorston, and throw obstacles in the way of the
truth's discovery. Tait was completely nonplussed and could think of no
explanation. And then he remembered Mrs. Bezel's letter, and the mention
of Louisa Sinclair. Hilliston, according to Mrs. Bezel, knew this woman,
and she knew who had committed the crime. But how could she know unless
she had been concealed, like Dick Pental, in the garden on that night?
Tait was quite certain that Denis Bantry was guilty, but the hint of
Mrs. Bezel threatened to disturb this view; and yet what better evidence
was obtainable than that of an eye-witness. Still Tait remembered that
Dicky confessed he had not seen the blow struck. What if Louisa Sinclair
had? That was the question he asked himself.
Under the circumstances it was necessary to find out who this woman was.
Tait did not judge it wise to ask Hilliston, for the simple reason that
the lawyer would not admit the truth. There was no obvious reason why he
should not, but Tait had sufficient experience of Hilliston's trickery
and evasion in the past to know that his admissions were untrustworthy.
There only remained for him to search for Louisa Sinclair in Horriston,
question her if she were alive, or learn all that he could if she were
dead.
And now occurred a coincidence which unwittingly put Tait on the right
track. When within half a mile of Horriston he met a clergyman swinging
along at a good pace, and in him recognized a former college companion.
The recognition and the delight were mutual.
"My dear Brandon, this is indeed a surprise!" exclaimed Tait, holding
out his hand. "I had no idea that you were in these parts."
"I have only been vicar here for a year," answered Brandon cordially;
"but what are you doing at Horriston, my friend?"
"Oh, I have come down partly on business and partly on pleasure."
"Then dismiss business for the moment, and come to luncheon with me. I
am just going to my house. Where are you staying?"
"At the Royal Victoria."
"A dismal place. You must come frequently to see us while you stay here,
and we will do what we can to cheer you up. Mrs. Brandon will be
delighted to see you."
"Oh! So you are married?"
"For the last five years. Two children. Well, I am glad to see you
again. Do you stay here long?"
"A few days only," replied Tait carelessly; "but it entirely depends on
my business."
"Anything important?"
"Yes and no. By the way, you may be able to help me, Brandon. Do you
know anyone in this parish called Miss Louisa Sinclair?"
The vicar reflected for a few moments, and shook his head. "No, I never
heard the name. She must have been here before my time. Have you any
reason for wanting to see her?"
"Naturally, or I should not have asked," said Tait, with faint sarcasm.
"However, I must make a confidant of you, as I wish for your advice and
assistance."
"I shall be delighted to give both," said his friend briskly. "But here
we are at my house, and there is my wife in the porch. My dear, this is
an old college friend of mine, Spenser Tait. We must make him welcome,
for the days that have been."
Mrs. Brandon, a comfortable, rosy-cheeked matron, with two tiny Brandons
clinging to her skirts, heartily welcomed Tait, and led the way to the
dining room. Here an extra knife and fork were hastily produced for the
guest, and they all sat down to luncheon in the best of spirits. For the
moment Tait banished all thought of the case from his mind, and laid
himself out to be agreeable to the vicar's wife. In this he succeeded,
as she subsequently pronounced him to be a singularly charming man;
while he pronounced her to be one of the most intelligent women it had
been his fortune to meet.
After luncheon Brandon conducted Tait to his study, and there, over an
excellent cigar, the little man related the story of the Larcher affair
from the time that Claude became possessed of the papers. Needless to
say the clergyman was much astonished by the recital, and agreed with
Tait that it was difficult to know which way to turn in the present
dilemma. He thought that Denis was guilty and Jeringham an accomplice by
force of circumstances; but doubted whether the existence of Louisa
Sinclair might not altogether alter the complexion of the case.
"Of course, the difficulty will be to find Louisa Sinclair," he said
thoughtfully; "five-and-twenty years is a long time to go back to. She
may be dead."
"So she may," rejoined Tait a trifle tartly; "on the other hand she may
be alive. I found that waiter and that gardener who were at Horriston
then. Both remember the case, so it is probable that I shall find this
woman, or at least gain sufficient information to trace her
whereabouts."
"I cannot recall her name, Tait. She has not been here in my time.
Fortunately I can help you in this much; that an old parishioner of mine
is calling to-day, and, as she has lived here for the last forty years
and more, it is likely she will remember if such a person dwelt here."
"Who is this old lady?"
"My dear fellow, you must not call her an old lady. It is true she is
over forty, but--well she is always young and charming in her own eyes.
Miss Belinda Pike is her name, and I shouldn't like to come under the
lash of her tongue."
"Is she such a Tartar?"
"She is----My dear fellow, you must not ask me to talk scandal about my
parishioners; moreover, I see the lady in question is coming up the
garden path. Once set her tongue going, and you will learn all the
history of Horriston for the last hundred years."
"I only want to go back twenty-five," rejoined Tait, smiling; and at
that moment Miss Belinda Pike was announced.
She was a tall, bony female with a hook nose, a false front, and an
artificial smile. Dressed in voluminous raiment, she bore down on
Brandon like a frigate in full sail; and proceeded to talk. All the
time she remained in the study she talked, of herself, of parish work,
of Dorcas meetings, of scandals new and old; and so astonished Tait by
the extent of her petty information and the volubility of her tongue
that he could only stare and wonder. Introduced to him she was
graciously pleased to observe that she had heard of him and his
inquiries.
"The waiter, you know, Mr. Tait," she said, smiling at his astonishment.
"Sugden is his name; he told me all about you. Now, why do you wish to
learn all about that Larcher crime?"
"For amusement merely," replied Tait, rather scandalizing the vicar by
this answer. "The waiter began to speak of it, and I encouraged him;
later on I heard the story from a gardener."
"From Dicky Pental," interrupted Miss Pike vivaciously. "Oh, he can
tell you nothing--he is mad!"
"Mad or not, he told me a great deal."
"All false, no doubt. My dear Mr. Tait," continued the lady
impressively, "only one person can tell you the truth of that case.
Myself!"
"Or Louisa Sinclair."
"Louisa Sinclair! What do you know about her?"
"Nothing, save her name," replied Tait; "but I want to know more. Can
you give me the required information?"
"Yes. Come and have afternoon tea with me to-day, and I'll tell you all.
Oh, yes," said Miss Pike, with a self-satisfied nod, "I know who killed
Captain Larcher."
"Jeringham--Denis, the valet--Hilliston?"
"No. Those three people are innocent. I can swear to it. I know it."
"Then who is guilty?"
"Why," said Miss Pike quietly, "Mrs. Larcher's maid--Mona Bantry."