AFTER THE DEED.
While the major, hardly able to credit his own eyes, was staring at
the dead body of his dear lad, Jaggard, attracted also by the strange
cry, came running up.
"What is it, sir?" he asked, saluting Jen even in that moment of
anxiety. "I heard an awful cry, sir, and came arter you."
Jen pointed to the corpse but said nothing. Jaggard, ignorant of the
truth, bent down to place a hand upon the dead man's heart. Then he
saw and recognized the face.
"Mr. Maurice! God, sir, what does this mean?" he cried, aghast with
sudden horror.
"It means murder, Jaggard!" replied Jen in a hollow voice which he
hardly recognized as his own. "Mr. Maurice went to Deanminster before
dinner, and now--" the major pointed again to the remains.
"Murder!" echoed Jaggard, his ruddy face growing pale. "And who,
sir--"
"I don't know--I can't say!" interrupted his master, impatiently. "Go
and get the men to bring down a stretcher for the body, and send the
groom for Dr. Etwald."
"Ain't it too late, sir?"
"Do as I tell you," said Jen, so fiercely that Jaggard did not dare to
disobey, but ran off, leaving the major alone with his dead.
The road which ran past "Ashantee" toward The Wigwam was lonely even
in the daytime, and at this hour of the night--for it was close upon
nine o'clock--it was quite deserted. Not a person was in sight,
although the major could see up and down the road for a considerable
distance, owing to the bright moonlight. He raised Maurice--or rather
all that remained of Maurice--in his arms, and placed the body on the
soft grass by the wayside. Then he sat down and began to think out the
reason for the committal of this cowardly crime.
That it was a crime he was certain, for there was no reasonable idea
to suppose that Maurice had committed suicide. He had left for
Deanminster hardly three hours before, full of health and spirits; and
now he was dead. A dead body, a lonely road--all the evidence of an
atrocious assassination having been committed, and not one trace of
the assassin. Undoubtedly the twice-uttered cry had come from Maurice,
and as Jen had raced out of the house after the first time he heard
it, he must have reached his boy almost immediately after he died;
before, so to speak, the body had time to grow cold. Yet the strange
part of the affair was that the body was cold, and that there did not
seem to be any wound whereby the murder could have been achieved.
"I am taking too much for granted," muttered Major Jen, passing his
hand across his brow, "Maurice may not have been killed after all. It
is Etwald and his horrible prophecies which have put the idea into my
head. Let me have a look at the poor lad's body."
In the bright moonlight he carefully examined the body, but could find
no trace of any wound, until he came to the right hand. Here, in the
palm, he saw a ragged rent clotted with blood, but it was a mere
scratch not likely to have caused death, unless poison were--. Here
Major Jen uttered an oath, and rose to his feet with a new and
terrible idea in his brain.
"The devil-stick, by heaven!" he said aloud.
Again he bent down and examined the face and hands. Both were swollen
and discolored; he tore open the shirt at the neck, and saw that the
young man's breast was all distended and bloated. Undoubtedly the
cause of death was blood-poisoning, and the devil-stick had been the
instrument used to effect the deed. But here the problem proposed
itself: Who had killed Maurice? The person who had stolen the
devil-stick! Who had stolen the devil-stick? The person who--Major Jen
came to an abrupt pause. He could think for the moment of no answer to
that question; but it is only fair to say that, dazed by the terrible
occurrence of his dear lad's death, Jen had not his wits about him.
While he was still considering the affair in a confused manner Jaggard
reappeared with the men from "Ashantee" carrying a stretcher. While
they placed the body of Maurice thereon, the groom bound for
Deanminster passed them driving the dogcart, and Major Jen stopped the
man to tell him that at all risk he was to bring back Dr. Etwald with
him. Jaggard wondered at this, for Maurice--poor lad--was beyond all
earthly aid--but Jen was thinking of a certain person who might have
committed the crime, and he wished for the aid of Dr. Etwald to
capture that person. In the meantime the necessities of the case
called for the immediate removal of the body to "Ashantee."
It was a melancholy procession which bore the body up to the house.
Four men carried the bier--for it was nothing else since it bore the
dead body of a young man--and behind came Major Jen bowed to the
ground with sorrow. He could hardly believe that Maurice was
dead--that he had perished upon a lonely country road by an unknown
hand. But that was the question! Jen began to think the assassin was
not unknown; that he had a clew to find the guilty one; and he waited
the coming of Dr. Etwald with great impatience to see what his opinion
was regarding the course to be pursued.
In due time Etwald arrived, for the groom had been fortunate enough to
find him at home. On hearing of the affair he expressed the deepest
concern, and putting all other business on one side he came back to
"Ashantee" in the dogcart. Before seeing Jen, he went up to Alymer's
room, and examined the body of the unfortunate young man. Having
satisfied himself so far as he was able, without making a post-mortem
examination, he came down to the library where Jen awaited him.
"Well, Etwald," cried the major, when he saw the tall form of the
doctor at the door, "have you seen him?"
"I have seen it," corrected Etwald, with professional calmness, "the
poor fellow is dead, major--dead from blood-poisoning."
"I knew it; I guessed it--the devil-stick."
"That may be," rejoined Etwald, taking a seat, "but I can not be sure.
You see neither you nor I know anything of the poison which was in the
handle of that African instrument. It--"
"But what are you talking of?" broke in Jen, impetuously. "You say
that my poor boy died from blood-poisoning. How else could he
have come by that, save through being touched or struck with the
devil-stick? No one in the neighborhood was likely to possess any
weapon likely to corrupt the blood. If Maurice had been stabbed, or
shot, or if his head had been smashed in, I could understand the
crime--or rather the motive for the crime--better; but as it is, the
person who stole the devil-stick must have killed him."
"And who stole the devil-stick?" asked Etwald, coolly. "If I forget
not, major, you asked me the other day if I did."
"Yes, but I was wrong; I made a mistake."
"A mistake that under the present dispensation of things might prove
awkward for me," said Etwald. "I was no friend to the dead man; I did
not like him, nor he me. We both loved the same woman--we were rivals.
What then so easy as for you to say--for a jury to believe--that I had
stolen the devil-stick and killed Mr. Alymer, so as to get him out of
my way."
"I never thought of such a thing," protested Jen. "I do not suspect
you."
"Then whom do you suspect?" asked Etwald, fixing his dark eyes on the
major.
"Dido--the negress, of Mrs. Dallas!"
Etwald shook his head and smiled.
"But that is ridiculous," said he. "The commission of a crime
presupposes a motive. Now what motive had Dido to kill your friend?"
"She hated Maurice, and she did not want him to marry Miss Dallas."
"Neither did I, if I remember rightly," said Etwald, dryly, "Besides,
Dido--as you proved--did not steal the devil-stick. However, if you
are suspicious of her, go over to-morrow and see Mrs. Dallas. It will
be as well to be sure of your ground before making a public affair of
it. By the way, I suppose you will have a detective down from London,
to sift the affair to the bottom?"
"I don't know; I'm not sure."
"I should if I were you. Mr. Sarby is in London. Why not wire up to
him to bring down a clever man from Scotland Yard?"
"If I thought that--. But," added Jen, breaking off, "how did you know
that David was in London?"
"Oh!" rejoined Etwald, quietly, "Mr. Alymer told me so to-night."
"To-night!" echoed Jen, starting up. "You saw Maurice to-night?"
"Certainly! About an hour and a half before he was murdered."
"At Deanminster?"
"At my house at Deanminster," replied the doctor with great
deliberation.
"So it was you whom he went to see on business to-night?"
Etwald shrugged his shoulders.
"I don't know if you call it business," he said, after a pause. "I
asked Mr. Alymer to call and see me, and sent the message by that
tramp named Battersea."
"I remember his coming. Go on, please."
"Mr. Alymer called, as I said," continued Etwald, "And then I told him
that Miss Dallas was ill from being prevented by her mother from
seeing him. That I was sorry for the poor young lady, and that I gave
up my position as a rival. In fact," added the doctor, "I advised Mr.
Alymer to see Miss Dallas and marry her as soon as he could."
"But why did you wish to act in this generous manner?"
"For the very simple reason that Miss Dallas is of a delicate and
nervous constitution," said Etwald. "If she does not marry Mr. Alymer,
with whom she is in love, she may die. I quite forget that I should
speak in the past tense now, major. Mr. Alymer is dead, and Miss
Dallas may pine away of grief. It was to prevent such a catastrophe
from occurring that I surrendered my claim to her hand."
"Very generous of you indeed," said Jen, ironically; "but I do not see
why you should behave in such a noble manner when you were so much in
love with the girl."
"It is for that reason that I changed my mind. As you know I have been
attending upon Mrs. Dallas this week, and I saw plainly enough that my
case was hopeless; that the girl was dying to marry Alymer. Besides,"
added Etwald, carelessly, "the mother was not on my side."
"She wants Isabella to marry David."
"So I hear; and he is in town, as Mr. Alymer told me to-night. But
what are you going to do about the matter, major?"
"Give notice to the police."
"There will be a post-mortem, of course," said Etwald, carelessly.
"No, no! I hope not," cried Jen, horrified at the idea.
"But there must be," insisted Etwald, cruelly. "Alymer died of
poison, and it must be proved that such was the case. Then we may
learn if he perished from the poison of the devil-stick. Afterward you
must get a detective to search for the person who stole it from your
smoking-room. Once he or she is found, and the assassin of your poor
friend will be in custody."
"'He or she,'" repeated Jen, slowly. "Dido I mentioned; but 'he!' who
is 'he?'"
"Ah, that is what we wish to find out," said the doctor, gravely. "But
how do I know? Battersea may be the thief."
"The thief and the murderer!"
"Well, no, major. On second thought I do not think it is wise to
couple those two words as yet. The thief may not be the murderer,
and--but what can I say?" broke off Etwald, suddenly. "As yet we know
nothing. It is late, now, major, and I must get back. Shall I give
information to the police?"
"If you will be so kind," said the major, listlessly, and he let the
doctor go away without another word.
All through that long night he knelt beside the bed upon which lay the
corpse of the man whom he had loved as a son. The bedroom of Maurice
was on the ground floor and the windows looked out onto a little lawn,
which was girdled by thick trees in which the nightingales were
singing. The sorrowful songs of the birds, flitting in the moonlight
and amid the cloistral dusk of the trees, seemed to Jen like a
requiem over the young life which had passed away. The major was
broken-hearted by the sorrow which had come upon him, and when he
issued from the chamber of death he looked years older than when he
entered it. It seemed to his big loving heart as though the woman he
loved had died anew in the person of her son.
Fortunately he was not forced to sorrow alone; toward midday David
arrived from town, filled with grief and surprise at the untimely end
of Maurice. He found the major in the library, and grasped him by the
hand with genuine sorrow.
"My poor uncle," he said in a low voice. "I cannot tell you what I
feel. Etwald telegraphed to me the first thing in the morning, and I
came down by the earliest train there was. Poor Maurice!--and we
parted in anger."
"More's the pity," sighed Jen, leaning upon the shoulder of Sarby;
"but you cherish no anger in your heart now?"
"God forbid, sir!"
David spoke so fervidly that Jen saw plainly he meant what he said.
The massive face of the young man looked worn and haggard in the
searching light of the morning, and whatever enmity the love of the
same woman had sown between him and the dead, it was not to be denied
that he was suffering cruelly from remorse at their unhappy
difference. Jen was sorry, but even in his own grief he could not
forbear a stab.
"You can marry Isabella now," he said, bitterly.
"No!" said David, faintly, turning his face away. "At least not yet."
The major looked at him for a moment or two, then, with a new idea in
his head, he took David by the hand and led him into the chamber of
death.
"Swear," said he, "that you will not marry Isabella Dallas until you
have discovered and punished the murderer of Maurice."
David swore.