THE VICAR OF DUNWOLD.
At a safe distance Victor Nevill stopped and turned around. When the cab
rolled away, he walked slowly back, looking keenly at the house as he
passed it. His demeanor was calm, but it was only skin deep. He felt
like swearing loudly at everybody and everything. His brain was in a
whirl of rage and fear, sharp anxiety and keen disappointment. He had
recognized Noah Hawker and seen the gleam of steel at his wrists, which
explained the situation as clearly as words could have done.
"The poor chap has been tracked and arrested," he thought; "possibly for
some past burglary. Our negotiations are ended for the present, confound
the luck! But the papers! By Jove, suppose Hawker had them on his
person! If so, they will be found when he is searched. They will be
opened and examined, and the whole truth will come out. I can't be
sure that Hawker won't give away my part in the affair. I shall be
ruined--nothing short of it! What a luckless devil I am!"
The iron hand of Nemesis seemed reaching out to grasp Nevill, and he
shuddered as he realized his danger. The rustle of the bank notes in his
breast pocket afforded him a momentary relief as he remembered that they
would give him a fresh start in case he had to flee from England. Then a
sudden thought lightened the gloom still more, and he clutched eagerly
at the ray of hope thus thrown out.
"Hawker was too shrewd a man to be caught unawares," he reasoned. "He
kept the papers in a secure hiding-place, and he certainly would not
have taken them from it until I came and he saw the color of the money.
Nor is it likely that the police found them, though they must have
searched the place. If they are still in the room, why should I not try
to get possession of them? I could square up with Hawker afterward, when
he recovers his liberty. By Jove, it's worth risking!"
Nevill walked as far as Peckwater street, debating the question. He did
not hesitate long, for there was too much at stake. He quickly made up
his mind, and retraced his steps to the dingy house from which the
detectives had taken their prisoner. He had planned his course of
procedure when the door opened to his knock, and Mrs. Miggs revealed her
distrustful countenance. Nevill tendered her half a sovereign on the
spot, and asked to see the room lately occupied by Mr. Noah Hawker.
"It's a private matter," he explained. "Yes, I know that Mr. Hawker has
just been arrested and taken away. District detectives did that--they
were onto him for some breach of the law. I was after him myself, with
a Scotland Yard warrant, but I arrived too late, unfortunately."
"Then what do you want?" grumbled the woman.
"I want to search Hawker's room for some papers which I believe he hid
there. If I find them you shall be rewarded."
Mrs. Miggs relaxed visibly. She had a wholesome respect for the police,
and she did not doubt that Nevill was other than he purported to be--a
Scotland Yard officer. She let him into the hall and closed the door.
"You can come up," she said ungraciously, "but I don't think there's
anything there."
She lighted a candle and guided Nevill upstairs. He could scarcely
restrain his excitement as he entered the little room. He glanced keenly
about, noting the half-empty bottle of stout and the dirty glass.
"Did the police search here?" he inquired.
"Of course they did, but they didn't find nothin', 'cause there wasn't
anything to find. 'Awker was as poor as Job!"
"They examined his person?--his clothes, I mean?"
"Yes, an' all they got was a knife, and a pistol, and some loose silver
and coppers."
"They didn't discover any papers?"
"No; I'm sure o' that," asserted Mrs. Miggs. "I can't stand 'ere all
night," she impatiently added.
Nevill took the hint, and set to work in good spirits. The landlady
watched him scornfully while he hauled the carpet and bedding about, and
examined all the joints of the few articles of furniture. He then
proceeded--there was no fireplace in the room--to tap every part of the
walls, and to try the flooring to see if any boards were loose. But the
walls were solid and untampered with, and the nails in the floor had
clearly not been disturbed for many years. He spent half an hour at his
task, and the result was a barren failure. He realized that it would be
useless to search further. He looked sharply at the landlady, and said,
on a sudden impulse:
"You knew Mr. Hawker pretty well, I think. Perhaps he asked you to
oblige him by taking care of the papers I am looking for; they could not
possibly be of any advantage to you in the future, and if you have them
I should be glad to buy them from you. I would give as much as--"
"I only wish I _did_ 'ave them!" interrupted Mrs. Miggs. "I wouldn't
'esitate a minute to turn 'em into money. But I don't know nothin' of
them, sir, an' you see yourself they ain't 'id in this room, an' Mr.
'Awker never put foot in any other part of the 'ouse."
The woman's expression of disappointment, her manner, satisfied Nevill
that his suspicion was baseless. There was nothing more to be done, so
he gave Mrs. Miggs an additional half-sovereign, cautioned her not to
speak of his visit, and left the house. His last state of mind was worse
than his first, and dread of exposure, tormenting visions of a dreary
and perpetual exile from England, not to speak of more bitter things,
haunted him as he strode moodily toward the lights of the Kentish Town
road.
"The papers may be in that room, hidden so securely as to baffle any
search," he said to himself, "and if that is the case there is still
hope. But it is more likely that Hawker had them concealed under his
clothing or in his boots. I will know in a day or two--if the police
find them, they will make the matter public. All I can do is to wait.
But the suspense is awful, and I wish it was over."
The next day was cold, sunny and bracing--more like the end of February
than the end of November. At nine o'clock in the morning Victor Nevill
crawled out of bed after a troubled night; with haggard face and dull
eyes he looked down into Jermyn street, wondering, as he recalled the
events of the previous night, what another day would bring forth.
At the same hour, or a little later, Jimmie Drexell was at Hastings.
Having to wait some time for another train, he walked through the pretty
town to the sea, and the sight of its glorious beauty--the embodiment of
untrammeled freedom--made him think sadly of poor Jack in a prison cell.
"Never mind, I'll have him out soon!" he vowed.
He returned to the station, and was whirled on through the flat, green
country to the charming Sussex village of Pevensey, with its ruined old
castle and rambling street, and the blue line of the Channel flashing in
the distance. His journey did not end here, and he was impatient to
continue it. He procured a horse and trap at the Railway Arms, gleaned
careful instructions from the landlord, and drove back a few miles along
the hedge-lined roads, while the sea faded behind him.
It was eleven o'clock when he reached the retired little hamlet of
Dunwold. He put up his vehicle at a quaint old inn, and refreshed
himself with a simple lunch. Then he sought the vicarage, hard by the
ancient church with its Norman tower, and, on inquiring for Mr.
Chalfont, he was shown into a sunny library full of books and
Chippendale furniture, with flowers on the deep window-seats and
a litter of papers on the carved oak writing-desk.
The vicar entered shortly--an elderly gentleman of benevolent aspect and
snowy beard, but sturdy and lithe-limbed for his years, clearly one of
those persons who seemed predestined for the placidity of clerical life.
After a penetrating glance he greeted his visitor most graciously, and
expressed pleasure at seeing him.
"I am sure that you are a stranger to the neighborhood," he continued.
"Our fine old church draws many such hither. If you wish to go over it,
I can show you many things of interest--"
"At another time," Jimmie interrupted, "I should be only too delighted.
I regret to say that it is quite a different matter that brings me
here--hardly a pleasant one. This will partly explain, Mr. Chalfont."
He presented the letter Sir Lucius had given him, and when it had been
opened and read he poured out the whole story of Diane's life and end,
of the charge against Jack Vernon, and the clew that the murdered woman
had revealed to her landlady.
The vicar rose from his chair, showing traces of deep agitation and
distress.
"A friend of Sir Lucius Chesney is a friend of mine," he said, hoarsely.
"I shall be glad to help you--to do anything in my power to clear your
friend. I believe that he is innocent. Your sad story has awakened old
memories, Mr. Drexell. And it is a great shock to me, as you will
understand when I tell you all. I seldom read the London papers, and
it comes as a blow and a surprise to me that Diane Merode has been
murdered."
"Then you know her by that name?" exclaimed Jimmie. "This is indeed
fortunate, Mr. Chalfont. I feared that you would find it difficult to
identify the woman--to recall her. And the man whom she proclaimed as
her enemy--do you know _him_?"
"Judge for yourself," replied the vicar, as he sat down and settled back
in his chair. "I will state the facts, distinctly and briefly. That will
not be hard to do. To begin, I have been in this parish for thirty
years, and I am familiar with its history. I remember when Diane
Merode's father came home with his young bride. He was a doctor, with
some small means of his own, and he lived in the second house beyond the
church. His wife was a French girl, well educated and beautiful, and he
met and married her while on a visit to France; his name was George
Hammersley. They settled here in the village, but I do not think that
they lived very happily together. Their one child, christened Diane,
was born two years after the marriage. She inherited her mother's
vivacious disposition and love of the world, and I always felt
misgivings about her future. She spent five years at a school in Paris,
and returned at the age of sixteen. Within less than two years her
parents died within a week of each other, of a malignant fever that
attacked our village. A friend of George Hammersley's took Diane to his
home--it appeared that she had no relatives--and nine months later she
married a man, nearly twenty years her senior, who had fallen
passionately in love with her."
"By Jove, so she was really married before!" cried Jimmie. "But I beg
your pardon, Mr. Chalfont, for interrupting you."
"This man, Gilbert Morris, was comparatively well-to-do," resumed the
vicar. "He owned a couple of ships, and when at home he lived in
Dunwold; but he was away the greater part of his time, sailing one or
the other of his vessels to foreign ports. Six months after the marriage
he started on such a voyage, leaving his youthful bride with an old
housekeeper, and just three weeks later Diane disappeared. Every effort
was made to trace her, but in vain, and it was believed that she had
gone to London. Before the end of the winter our village squire returned
from abroad, and declared that he had recognized Diane in Paris, and
that she was a popular dancer under the name of Merode. About the same
time it was reported in the papers that the vessel on which Gilbert
Morris had set sail, the _Nautilus_, had been lost in a storm, with all
hands on board. There was every reason to credit the report--"
"But it was not true," exclaimed Jimmie. "I can read as much in your
eyes, Mr. Chalfont. What became of Gilbert Morris?"