THE TRUTH
The arrest of Sir Bernard Gore made a great sensation. It was generally
supposed that he was dead, and his unexpected appearance surprised every
one. Also, as he was believed to be guilty, the public was amazed that
he should thus thrust himself into jeopardy. But more thoughtful people
saw in Gore's surrender a proof of his innocence, and argued very
rightly that were he guilty of the murder of Sir Simon, he would not
come forward as he had done to stand his trial.
An additional surprise came in the arrest of Michael, who was said to be
the half-brother of Gore, and to resemble him very closely. A rumor got
about--no one knew how--that this resemblance between the two would be
made the basis of the defence. Also, the boy, Jerry Moon, who was
implicated in the matter, was in charge of the police, and it was
expected that he would make startling revelations. On the whole, there
was every chance that the forthcoming trial would be extremely
interesting. Every one looked forward with great expectation to the time
when Sir Bernard would be placed in the dock. Inspector Groom, formerly
in charge of the case, was now attending to the matter again. He said
very little, although the reporters tried to make him give his opinion.
But, from the few words he let drop, it would seem that he believed
firmly in the innocence of the accused man.
"I don't see anything about Beryl in the papers," said Conniston, when
at Durham's office.
"There is nothing to say about him at present," replied the lawyer. "We
have not caught him yet, and perhaps never may."
"Victoria warned him, then?"
"Yes. That imp of a boy wrote a letter stating that Bernard was at Cove
Castle, and advising flight. Victoria caught a train shortly before
eleven and came straight to Beryl's rooms, the address of which she
received from Jerry. Beryl--as Jerry had done--saw that the game was up,
and realized that we, knowing Gore to be alive, had been simply playing
with the imposture of Michael. He bolted that same night and managed to
cross to the Continent. At least, we suppose so, as no trace of him can
be found."
"What will you do about him, then?"
Durham shrugged his shoulders. "There is nothing can be done," he
answered. "With the evidence of Michael, Jerry and Miss Randolph and
Tolomeo, we shall be able to prove Bernard's innocence and his cousin's
guilt. Bernard will be set free without a stain on his character. But as
to how Beryl will be arrested, or whether he will ever be punished, I am
unable to give an opinion."
"What about Mrs. Gilroy?"
"Ah, we want her. But we cannot find out where she is. Even her son
doesn't know. He would speak out if he did know, as I fancy he is
sincerely repentant for the trouble this new edition of the Corsican
Brothers has caused."
"But had you not some plan to lure Mrs. Gilroy out of her hiding?"
Durham searched amongst his papers and produced a journal. "Read that,"
said he, pointing to a column.
It was an article dealing with the case, in which the writer hinted that
Michael was guilty and Bernard innocent. It was also stated that Michael
would certainly be put in the dock, and that sufficient evidence was in
the power of the prosecution to procure his condemnation. The whole
article was written strongly, and after reading it, Conniston, had he
not known the true facts of the case, would have fancied Michael guilty.
He said as much. Durham smiled.
"That is exactly the feeling I wish to convey to Mrs. Gilroy," he
declared, taking back the paper. "She, if any one, can prove the guilt
of Beryl, but for some reason--perhaps for money--she is hiding. If she
reads that paragraph she will at once come forward to save her son, and
then we'll be able to prove Beryl's guilt beyond a doubt."
"But she may not take in the particular journal," said Conniston.
"Oh, this is only one paper. Within the next few days that article will
be copied in every newspaper in London. Mrs. Gilroy is bound, wherever
she is, to hear of the arrest of her son, and of Bernard giving himself
up. To learn what is taking place she will read whatever papers she can
get hold of. Then she will see that article, and if it doesn't bring her
forward to save Michael and condemn Beryl, I am very much mistaken."
"It sounds rather like contempt of court," said Dick, gravely.
Durham laughed. "It is, in a way. Every man has a right to be considered
innocent in English law until his guilt is proved. But I arranged with
Scotland Yard that this article should appear in the hope that Mrs.
Gilroy--an important witness, mind you--should be brought forward. I
can't exactly tell you all the details, but you may be sure that the
thing has been done legally. Besides," argued Durham, calmly, "seeing we
have such a strong proof of Beryl's guilt, there is no doubt that
Michael will have a fair trial."
"I say," said Conniston, rising to take his leave, "do you know it's
Bernard's idea that Jerry might have committed the crime. It seems to me
that Beryl is too great a coward to do it himself."
"Stuff!" said Durham, quite in the style of Miss Berengaria. "The boy
could not have possibly strangled the old man. He was leading Bernard to
the Square to within a few minutes of the time when Mrs. Gilroy came out
shouting murder. No, Conniston, Beryl is the man, as is proved by his
handkerchief. He came to the house immediately Tolomeo left, since he
passed that man in the Square. The boy saw him departing, after Bernard
was lured to be on the spot. Beryl was hurrying back to the theatre to
arrange for his _alibi_. Everything was beautifully arranged. But for
the discovery of Michael, we might have learned nothing. Also Tolomeo's
evidence is valuable. Mrs. Gilroy, having been in the house at the time,
is the woman who knows all. Doubtless Beryl threatened to denounce her
son, and that was why she accused Bernard, counting on the resemblance
to carry the matter through."
"What an infernally wicked woman!" said Dick, angrily.
"Oh! not at all. Mrs. Gilroy is a mother, and she naturally would
sacrifice the whole world to save her son. Besides, she may have acted
on the spur of the moment, and then had to go on with the matter."
"Well," said Conniston, putting on his hat, "I sincerely hope your net
will capture her."
"It is sure to. A woman who would try and save her son by accusing an
innocent man would not remain quiet to see him hanged. By the way, Miss
Berengaria is in town, I believe?"
"Yes, with Miss Randolph and Alice. They are stopping at the Waterloo
Hotel, Guelph Street. I believe they expect you along to dinner this
evening."
Durham nodded. "I received a note from the old lady, and intend to come.
By the way, Dick, I hope you are fascinating her. Remember, she can
leave you five thousand a year, and can't last much longer."
"I believe Miss Berengaria will see her century," said Dick. "Besides,
now you have my affairs in order, I have enough to live on."
"But not enough to marry on," said Durham, significantly.
Conniston flushed. "If you speak of Lucy," he said, "she has a little
money of her own, and our two incomes will keep us alive."
"It won't keep up the dignity of the title."
"Oh, the deuce take the dignity of that," said Conniston, carelessly.
"In this democratic age who cares for titles?"
"The Americans, Dick. You ought to marry one."
"I'll marry Lucy, who is the sweetest girl in the world," said Dick,
firmly. "We understand one another, and as soon as this business is
over, Mark----"
"You will marry."
"No. Bernard and I will go out to the Front."
"What! Does Bernard say that?"
"Yes. He intends to go back to his Imperial Yeomanry uniform, and I
honor him for it," said Dick, with some heat. "Bernard is not the man to
sneak out of doing his duty. And Miss Malleson approves. I go out to the
Front also, and daresay I shall manage to get a place of sorts, from
which to take pot-shots at the enemy."
"But, my dear fellow," said Durham, much disturbed, "you may be killed."
"'Naught was never in danger,'" said Conniston, opening the door. "You
get Bernard out of this scrape, Mark, and then come and see us start.
We'll return covered with glory."
"And without legs or arms," said Durham, crossly. "Just as if Bernard
hadn't enough danger, he must needs run his head into more. Go away,
Dick. It's your feather brain that has made him stick to his guns."
"Not a bit," retorted Conniston, slipping out, "it's Bernard's own idea.
Good-bye, Mark. I hope you will recover your temper by the time we meet
at Aunt Berengaria's hospitable table."
Things fell out as Durham prophesied. The article was published in all
the London and country journals, and provoked both praise and blame.
Many said that it was wrong to hint that a man was guilty before he had
been tried. Others pointed to the sufferings that the innocent Bernard
Gore had undergone, and insisted that even before the trial his name
should be cleared. Those in authority took no notice of the storm thus
raised, which seemed to confirm Durham's statement that the article had
been inspired from high legal quarters. But the result of the
publication and discussion of the matter was that one day a woman came
to see Durham at his office.
The moment she entered he guessed who she was, even although she was
veiled. Clothed from head to foot in black, and looking tragic enough
for a Muse, poor soul, for certainly she had cause, Mrs. Gilroy raised
her veil and examined the keen face of the lawyer.
"You did not expect to see me?" she asked, taking the seat he pointed to
silently.
Durham was not going to tell her that the article had been published to
draw her forth, as she might have taken flight and suspected a trap.
"It is a surprise," he said artfully. "And I am at a loss to understand
why you have come."
"To save my son," said Mrs. Gilroy, looking at him with haggard eyes.
"Michael Gilroy?"
"Michael Gore. He has a right to his father's name."
"Pardon me, I think not. Bernard Gore is the heir."
"Ah!" said the woman, bitterly, and clasping her hands with a swift,
nervous gesture. "He has all the luck--the title--the money--the----"
"You must admit," said Durham, politely, "that he had had very bad luck
for the most part."
"His own foolishness is the cause of it."
"Did you come to tell me this?"
Mrs. Gilroy sat quite still for a moment, and Durham noticed that even
what good looks she had were gone. Her cheeks were fallen in, her eyes
were sunken, her drab hair was streaked with white, and her face wore a
terrible expression of despair and sorrow. "I have come to tell you all
I know," she said. "I would not do so, save for two things. One is, that
I wish to save my son, who is absolutely innocent; the other, that I am
dying."
"Dying? I hope not."
"I am dying," said Mrs. Gilroy, firmly. "I have suffered for many years
from an incurable disease--it doesn't matter what. But I cannot live
long, and, but for my son, I should have ended my miserable life long
ago, owing to the pain I suffer. Oh the pain--the pain--the pain!" she
moaned, rocking to and fro as Michael had done.
Durham was sincerely sorry for her, although he knew she was not a good
woman. "Let me get you some brandy," he said.
"No," replied Mrs. Gilroy, waving her hand. "Call in some clerk who can
take down what I have to say. I will probably speak quickly, as my
strength will not last long. I have come from an hospital to see you.
Get a clerk who writes rapidly, and be quick."
Durham called in a clerk and gave the order, then turned to his client.
"Was it on account of going to the hospital that you left Gore Hall?" he
asked.
Mrs. Gilroy, still rocking, bowed her head. "Did you want me?" she
asked.
"I wanted to tell you that Michael came to Miss Berengaria's to----"
"Michael. He came there. Why?"
"To pass himself off as Bernard."
"Ah, that was part of Beryl's scheme to get the money."
"Was it part of his scheme to poison Michael?" said Durham.
Mrs. Gilroy started to her feet, flushed with anger.
"Did he do that, Mr. Durham?" she asked. "Did he dare to----"
"Yes. He got Michael to sign a will as Bernard, leaving all the money to
him, and then employed Jerry to poison him. Jerry should not have done
so for two or three days, but he was eager to get away, as he was afraid
of being found out, so he poisoned your son within a few hours of the
signing of the false will."
"The villain!" said Mrs. Gilroy, thinking of Beryl. "But he shall not
escape. I have come to tell you all. I wish I could see him hanged. He
is the cause of all the trouble. I saw in the papers that Sir Bernard
was alive," she added; "how did he escape?"
"He swam across the river and went down to Cove Castle. We knew all the
time he was there in hiding."
"Who knew?"
"Myself, Lord Conniston, Miss Berengaria and Miss Malleson."
"So you played with Michael?" said Mrs. Gilroy, drawing a breath.
"Yes. Miss Malleson and Miss Plantagenet both knew he was not the true
Bernard. Your hint about your son being like his father showed me who
Michael was, and I told the others. Yes, Mrs. Gilroy, I allowed Michael
to sign the false will, so as to trap Beryl. But, believe me, had I
known Beryl intended to poison your son, I should not have allowed the
matter to go so far."
"You could do nothing else," said Mrs. Gilroy, sadly. "Both Michael and
myself have suffered. I was deceived by a false marriage, and the sins
of the father have been visited on the child."
"That is true enough," said Durham. "But for the sin of Walter Gore,
Michael, with his wonderful resemblance to Bernard, would not have been
born, and Beryl would not have been able to plot as he did."
"Well! well! He is an exile and has been punished."
"When you can prove his guilt, as I suppose you intend to do," said the
lawyer, grimly, "I'll do my best to have him brought back and hanged.
You will be pleased at that."
Mrs. Gilroy laughed in a hollow manner, and cast a strange look at the
lawyer. "I should be pleased indeed," she said, "but there's no such
luck. Hanging is not Beryl's dukkeripen."
"That's a gypsy word."
"I was found and brought up by gypsies," said Mrs. Gilroy,
indifferently, "although I am not of Romany blood. But I learned a few
secrets from the Romany," added Mrs. Gilroy, her eyes flashing, "and one
of them relating to drabbing--if you know what that means--may come in
useful this day."
"What does drabbing mean?"
"It has to do with drows," said Mrs. Gilroy, laughing and rocking. "I
daresay you'll know the meaning of both words before the end of this
day." And she began to sing softly:--
"'The Romany cha,
And the Romany chal,
Shall jaw tasulor,
To drab the bawlor,
And dook the gry.'"
Durham thought that her illness had affected her head. He did not say
anything, but resolved to get her examination over as quickly as
possible. A clerk entered at the moment, carrying a typewriting machine,
which he set down on a small table near at hand.
"I think it will be best that your words should be taken down by the
machine," said Durham, turning to Mrs. Gilroy, "as the writer can keep
up with your speech."
"As you please," said Mrs. Gilroy, coolly. "I have to sign my statement
in the presence of witnesses, you and this young man."
"But why do you----"
"There, there," said the woman, impatiently, "don't I tell you I have
very little strength left. Are you ready?"
"Yes, madam," said the clerk, who was addressed.
"Then don't interrupt. I am about to tell you strange things," and she
began forthwith, the clerk taking down all she said as quickly as she
spoke. Durham, pencil in hand, made a note occasionally.
"I am a foundling," said Mrs. Gilroy, smoothly and swiftly. "I was
picked up by some gypsies called Lovel, in the New Forest. I was with
them till I came of age. I was then a pretty girl. In our wanderings we
came to Hurseton. There I saw Walter Gore at a fair. I did not know he
was married, as we stopped at Hurseton only a short time. We went away.
Walter followed and said he loved me. He married me at last. We went
abroad--then came back to London. When my child, Michael, was born, I
learned the truth, for Walter had deserted me. I went down to Hurseton
to see Sir Simon. He sent me to the States with Michael, my son. Walter
sent me money."
"This is slightly different to what Michael said," remarked Durham. "I
understood that you never saw Sir Simon till you returned from the
States."
"Michael doesn't know everything," said Mrs. Gilroy, impatiently. "I
tell my own story in my own way. Do not interrupt. I remained in the
States for a long time. Then Walter died, and his true wife also. I came
to see Sir Simon again. He was sorry for me, and offered to make me the
housekeeper at Gore Hall, which should have been my home, but he
insisted that Michael should return to the States. My boy did so, in
charge of some friends. Sir Simon promised to give me five hundred a
year when he died, so that I could help my boy. He only left me one
hundred, the mean villain! I supported my son out of my wages. He grew
weary of the States and came to England. Sir Simon was angry, but he got
him a situation in London, on condition that the boy never came to
Hurseton. That was why no one knew there was any one resembling Sir
Bernard so closely. Well, in London Michael fell in with Julius
Beryl----"
"I know all that," said Durham, quickly. "Michael told me. I know he was
employed by Beryl to impersonate Bernard so that Sir Simon's anger
should be aroused."
"Well, then, you know a good deal," said Mrs. Gilroy, "but not all. No,
indeed," she added, smiling strangely, "not all."
"Tell me the events of that night, and how Beryl killed Sir Simon."
Mrs. Gilroy laughed again. "I am coming to that. You will be much
surprised when I tell you all. Bernard was in town as a soldier; Beryl
got Michael to masquerade. I never knew it was my own son who courted
Jane Riordan. Had I known, I should have put a stop to the business. I
really thought from the description given, that Jane's lover was
Bernard. I wanted Sir Simon, whom I told, to throw over Bernard and let
my son have the property. He would have done so, but that Michael had
forged a check----"
"I know about that also."
"Very good. We will pass that," said the woman. "Well, Sir Simon was
angry. I saw there was no chance for my boy, and cast about how else to
get the money for him. Beryl informed me that he intended by means of
the Red Window and Jerry to lure Bernard to the Square, in the hope that
when he saw the red light he would come up and have a quarrel with his
grandfather."
"What about?" asked Durham.
"About Bernard's supposed courting of the housemaid. That was why Beryl
employed my son to masquerade. He knew that Sir Simon was a proud man,
and would not readily forgive such a thing. He knew Sir Simon was
regretting his quarrel with Bernard, and wished to give it renewed life.
Well, then, Beryl arranged to go to the theatre. He said he would come
round after ten or near eleven to see if the old man had quarrelled with
Bernard. He hoped that he would be able to get the order to turn Bernard
out. He did not know, though, at what time Bernard would arrive. But
when he did, I was to open the door to him."
"Jerry's whistle was to be the signal," said the lawyer.
"Yes. Then I was to show Bernard up, and the quarrel would then take
place."
"Beryl did not really intend murder, then?"
"Mr. Durham, you will harp on that," said Mrs. Gilroy, impatiently.
"Wait till I speak out. You see how matters were arranged for that
night. Miss Randolph and Beryl went to the theatre so that they should
not be mixed up in the quarrel."
"But Miss Randolph knew nothing?"
"Of course not. Beryl knew she was friendly to Bernard, and wished her
out of the way. For that reason, he took her to the theatre. I then
suggested to Sir Simon that probably Bernard knew of the house from you,
and might come back. Sir Simon had sent for him to the kitchen, but my
son, being afraid, ran away. Sir Simon laughed at the idea of the red
lamp, but he did not forbid my arranging it. I got a lamp and placed it
before the window. Then I placed across the window a red bandana of Sir
Simon's. From the outside the signal could be plainly seen."
"What happened next?" asked Durham, while the typewriter clicked in a
most cheerful manner.
"Various things," retorted Mrs. Gilroy, "and not those you expect to
hear. I sat downstairs, waiting and working. Sir Simon was in the room
with the red light showing through the window. The trap was laid. It
only remained for Jerry to bring Bernard to fall into it. Shortly before
ten an Italian called."
"Bernard's uncle, Signor Tolomeo?"
"Yes. I knew him, and took him up to Sir Simon, thinking his presence
might make the quarrel worse. All Beryl and I wished to do was to
prevent Bernard and Sir Simon from becoming reconciled. Well, Tolomeo
saw Sir Simon, and while he was with him, my son arrived. I asked him
what he was doing there. He told me then that he had been masquerading
as Bernard, and informed me about the check. He was afraid of trouble in
connection with it, as by means of it, Beryl held him in his power. He
came to make a clean breast of it to Sir Simon. I tried to stop him
going up----"
"But why?" interrupted the lawyer, quickly.
"I had my own plans, with which Michael's presence interfered," said
Mrs. Gilroy, coolly. "However, he would not be overruled, and went up to
see Sir Simon. The old man concealed Tolomeo behind a curtain, and then
quarrelled with Michael about the check. There was a great row, as Sir
Simon threatened to have Michael arrested. In the middle of the quarrel
Tolomeo came out. Michael took him for a detective, and fled. He ran out
before I could stop him. Then Tolomeo departed also. I went up the
stairs and implored Sir Simon not to arrest my son. Then Beryl arrived
nearly at the half hour."
"How did he enter?"
"Tolomeo, running after Michael, left the door open. Beryl tried to
pacify the old man. I remained in the room all the time----"
"Then you saw the murder."
"Wait a moment," said Mrs. Gilroy, rising in the excitement of her tale.
"Beryl and the old man quarrelled. Then Sir Simon told him to go back to
the theatre. Beryl, thinking he had offended Sir Simon past recall,
wept. Yes," said Mrs. Gilroy, with a sneer, "he cried like a child. Sir
Simon was disgusted. He snatched his handkerchief from him, and threw it
on the floor. Beryl was ordered out of the house again. He left and went
back to the theatre. The interview took only a few minutes."
"But the murder?"
"I committed it," said Mrs. Gilroy, simply.
Durham and the clerk both jumped and stared.
"You?" said the lawyer.
"Yes," said Mrs. Gilroy, coolly. "You have been on the wrong tack all
along. You thought that Bernard killed Sir Simon--that my son did
so--that Tolomeo did so--that Beryl was guilty. But you were all wrong.
I, and none other, killed Sir Simon."
"You say this to save your son?"
"No. Tolomeo can prove that Sir Simon was alive when Michael fled from
the house. Beryl can prove that I was alone with Sir Simon. It was
late--the servants were in bed. I determined to kill the old man."
"Why, in Heaven's name?"
"Because I saw that when Bernard came he would be arrested, and there
would be a chance for my son getting the money. Then Sir Simon intended
to have Michael arrested--I wished to stop that. Then, again, for years
Sir Simon had insulted and humiliated me. I hated him fervently. Oh, I
had plenty of reasons to kill the old brute. I went downstairs and got
the chloroform."
"Had you that ready?" asked Durham, horrified at this recital.
"Yes and no. I didn't buy it then. I always thought that Sir Simon kept
his will at the Hall, and I bought the chloroform months before, hoping
one night to make him insensible, so that I could look at the will. But
the chloroform was not wasted," said Mrs. Gilroy, with a pale smile. "I
brought it with me to town--always ready to watch for my chance of
rendering my master insensible and of reading the will. I wanted to see
if he left Michael anything, and if he had really left me the five
hundred he promised. Besides, in his death, I saw a chance of getting
rid of Bernard by hanging, and of having my son acknowledged as the
heir."
"But Beryl? You reckoned without Beryl?"
"No," said Mrs. Gilroy, calmly. "You forget the handkerchief. I took
that down with me, and soaked it with chloroform. I guessed that the
handkerchief would condemn Beryl, should it be necessary to accuse any
one. I did not foresee what would happen," added the woman, impatiently.
"I only acted as I saw things then. I came upstairs, and while
pretending to arrange Sir Simon's cushions, I clapped the handkerchief
over his mouth. He struggled for a long time. It is not easy to
chloroform people," said the woman, pensively. "I thought they went off
at once, but Sir Simon was some time struggling."
"Go on--go on," said Durham in disgust. "Get this over."
Mrs. Gilroy laughed and drew her shawl tightly about her spare figure.
"After he was insensible," she continued, "I strangled him with his own
handkerchief, after tying Beryl's handkerchief across his mouth. I then
went down and took my work up again while waiting for Bernard."
Durham made a gesture of abhorrence. "You could work?"
"Why not?" said Mrs. Gilroy. "There was nothing else to do--the old man
was dead--the trap was set. All I had to do was to wait till Bernard
walked into it."
"Had you no regrets for that?"
"None. Bernard Gore robbed my boy of his birthright."
"Bernard was the eldest son, even though Michael had been born in----"
"I know all about that," said Mrs. Gilroy, waving her hand, "spare me
your preaching. Is there anything more you wish to know?"
"About this plot to get the false will signed?"
"I knew little of that. I accused Bernard, and he escaped. Beryl guessed
I murdered the old man, but for his own sake he held his tongue. I heard
Bernard's whistle, or rather Jerry's, and went out crying murder. The
rest you know. Then I played my part. I left the diary at the Hall for
Miss Randolph to find, as I thought Tolomeo might be accused. I fancied,
as things turned out, it would be better to have Bernard back, and get
him to do something for Michael. That was why I prepared the diary."
"It was a false entry?" said Durham, looking at her.
Mrs. Gilroy yawned. "Yes, it was. I prepared it, as I say. I am getting
very tired," she added. "Let me sign the paper and go."
"You must sign the paper, and you must be arrested," said Durham.
"As you please," said Mrs. Gilroy, perfectly calmly. Then Durham sent
for Inspector Groom, and, pending his arrival, Mrs. Gilroy signed the
paper, with Durham and the clerk as witnesses. She then fell asleep, and
Durham went out to receive Groom. They talked together for some time,
then entered the room. Mrs. Gilroy was lying on the floor in
convulsions, and laughed when she saw them.
"Good Heavens!" cried Groom. "She has poisoned herself!"
"I have taken drows," gasped Mrs. Gilroy. "That's my dukkerin!" and died
hard.