FURTHER MYSTERY.
Great was the dismay throughout the countryside when it became known
that Maurice Alymer had been murdered. The dead man was well known in
drawing-room and in hunting-field, so that there was hardly a person
of consequence in the county who could not claim at least a bowing
acquaintance with him. Moreover, Maurice was one of those men who are
always popular, and much sympathy was manifested for his untimely
death. Also the mysterious way in which he had come to his end, the
absence of any known motive, and the knowledge that the deceased had
no enemies--all these thing's combined to raise public curiosity to
the highest pitch. The inquest on the dead body was awaited with much
anxiety.
Crowds of people came from all parts of the country to view the scene
of the crime, and, if possible, to gain a glimpse of Jen and David,
who as relatives--as it might be said--of the deceased were notorious
for the time being; but thanks to the presence of the police and the
vigilance of Jaggard, the morbid crowd of sight-seers were unable to
gratify their curiosity. The two men remained in seclusion, and saw no
one save Dr. Etwald. A sympathetic message arrived from Mrs. Dallas,
which, considering the way she had behaved toward Maurice, the major
regarded as a gratuitous insult.
"Can't she let the poor man rest in his grave?" said Jen, wrathfully.
"It is all through her opposition to the match that this has come
about!"
"Oh, you can't say that, Uncle Jen," remonstrated David.
"Yes, I can, sir. If Maurice had not been prevented from seeing
Isabella, there would have been no necessity for him to call on Etwald
at Deanminster; and if he had not done that he would not have been on
the high road in the night to meet with his death. Mrs. Dallas and her
infernal negress are at the bottom of the whole accursed business."
Of course this was mere raving on the part of Jen, who had no reason
to connect either woman with the crime; but the poor man was beside
himself with grief at the loss of Maurice, and hardly knew what he was
saying. Being in this frame of mind he was by no means pleased when
shortly after the delivery of Mrs. Dallas' message Dido made her
appearance with a request for a personal interview.
"I shan't see that black witch," cried the poor major. "David--Etwald,
send her away."
"I wouldn't if I were you, major!" said Etwald, judiciously; "she
might be the bearer of valuable information, likely to lead to the
detection of Alymer's assassin."
"Then let her see the police, sir, although I don't agree with you.
She is not the woman to put a rope round her own neck--black as it
is."
"But surely, Uncle Jen, you don't look upon her as the guilty person!"
"How do I know who is guilty?" snapped Jen. "I wish I did! I'd hang
him or her. But this black wretch and her confounded mistress have to
do with the death of my poor boy, I am certain."
"I doubt it. But will you see Dido or shall I send her away?"
"Yes--no--yes. That is, I don't wish to see her. Ask her what she
wants, David."
David left the room and remained absent for some time. On his return
he stated that Dido had come with a message from Isabella, and that
she refused to deliver it to anyone save the major. Seeing that the
negress was thus insistent, and wondering what Miss Dallas might want
with him at so painful a time, Jen yielded, and Dido was admitted into
the library. She looked taller, more massive, and more sullen than
ever, and though she trembled at the sight of Dr. Etwald--who, by the
way, kept his dark eyes studiously fixed on her--she was fairly
composed when she addressed the major.
"My lil missy want you, sar," said Dido, going straight to the point.
"What does she want to see me about?" asked Jen, coldly.
"I no know, massa. She weep! She ill! She make terrible bobbery, dat
poo' girl. Massa, come an' see my lil missy dis day."
"I can't at present. The police are in the house; there is a lot to be
attended to. Tell your mistress, Dido, that I will see her to-morrow."
"She want you to-day," insisted Dido, obstinately.
"I have given you the message," said Jen, sharply. "Tell her I'll see
her to-morrow. And now, Dido, I want to know what you have to do with
this crime?"
"I, massa! Ole Dido she do nuffin. Massa Maurice he die Voodoo! Oh,
yes."
"By that devil-stick poison?"
"Me don't know what debble-stick is. I no touch him."
It was clearly impossible to learn anything from so obstinate a
creature, so Jen repeated that he would call upon Isabella on the
morrow, and dismissed the negress. As she left the room Dr. Etwald
followed her, and on his return mentioned casually that he had been
giving Dido some instructions as to what was to be done with Isabella.
"The girl is nervously excited," he explained; "and now that she has
sustained this shock of Mr. Alymer's death there is no knowing what
complications may ensue."
"You don't think her life is in danger?" asked David, in a faltering
tone.
"No; but I fancy her reason is."
Here Jen looked suddenly at Etwald, and recalled the dinner at which
the doctor had read the dead man's hand. Then he had prophesied ill of
Maurice--an ill which it would seem had been fulfilled. Now, with
equal curtness, he was prognosticating evil for Isabella. Vexed at
such croakings, Jen spoke abruptly:
"You are a prophet of evil, Etwald," said he. "First my poor Maurice,
now Miss Dallas."
"As to that," replied Etwald, with deliberation, "I foretell that Miss
Dallas may get ill from perfectly natural signs. She was in love with
Alymer; she is of a highly excitable and nervous character, so it is
easy to know that unless great care is exercised her brain may be
affected."
"But with regard to Maurice?"
"Quite a different thing. I read in his hand that he would be subject
to a state of life in death."
"Which, as we guessed, meant paralysis or catalepsy," said David.
"But, as you see, poor Maurice is dead. Your prophecy was false."
Etwald shrugged his shoulders.
"It would seem so," he assented. "Mr. Aylmer is dead, as you say; so
the term life in death can not be applied to his present state of
non-existence. But you will admit that I foretold that evil would
happen to him if he decided to marry Miss Dallas. It has turned out as
I thought."
"True, doctor," remarked Jen, keeping his eyes fixed upon the swart
face of the other, "and is that all you have to say?"
"All? What else do you expect me to say?" demanded Etwald, coldly.
"Say who you think killed Maurice."
"That is beyond my powers."
"Then who stole the devil-stick?"
"I can't answer that question either," said the doctor, taking up his
hat. "A detective may be able to assist you on those points. Engage
one."
"No," said Jen, linking David by the arm, "we don't need aid from the
law to learn who killed Maurice and avenge his death. David and myself
will find the guilty person."
"Really! I hope you will succeed. But a case like this requires a
trained intelligence such as you will find in a detective. Of course
you may command my services, major, but I am afraid you will not
succeed."
"We shall see," replied Jen, who was as obstinate as a mule on some
points. "I am no fool."
"Certainly not," rejoined Etwald, with something like a sneer; "but
you are also no detective."
"That we shall see," retorted the major, vexed by the sarcasm, and
thereupon gave Etwald to understand by look and manner that he wished
to be alone with David. When the doctor had taken himself off, and was
walking past the library windows toward the curve of the avenue where
it ran into the woods, Jen looked after him with a lowering face, and
laid an inquiring finger on David's arm.
"Do you trust that man, my boy?" he asked, gravely.
"No," returned Sarby, after a pause. "I think he is a bad lot."
"I am sure of it, and what's more," added Jen, nodding, "it is my
opinion that he knows who killed Maurice, if indeed he did not do it
himself."
David shook his head.
"I don't think so," said he, with conviction. "Why should he kill
Maurice?"
"The lad was his rival."
"Mine also, major. Yet you don't suspect me of the deed."
"God forbid that my heart should harbor so ill a thought," cried Jen,
with natural horror. "But I tell you what, David. We must sift this
affair to the bottom. Maurice is dead, his assassin is at large, so we
must catch him."
"Him, Uncle Jen?"
"Or her," added the major. "For all I know that black witch may have
something to do with the crime. Likely enough, if she knows how to
manipulate the devil-stick."
"But she denied knowledge of the devil-stick."
"Lies, lies, lies!" said Jen, scornfully. "If I could only--but enough
of this for the time being," he added, abruptly. "We will talk of
these things on a more fitting occasion."
The hours dragged heavily along in that house of mourning. The body of
the dead man lay in the little chamber which looked out upon the
laurel-encircled lawn. It was covered with a white sheet, the hands
were folded upon the breast, and flowers had been laid thereon by the
major. Over the face a handkerchief had been thrown, as the once
handsome features were so discolored as to be absolutely repulsive to
the sight. There was something terrible in the rigidity of the long
form, stretched out so stiffly under the sheet. In the chamber candles
were burning, and Jaggard was watching near the corpse. He was to
watch throughout the night.
On the morrow the post-mortem examination was to take place, and the
inspector of police at Deanminster had left a man in the house to look
after the interests of justice. As yet the inspector--no very gifted
man at the most--was doubtful of the proper course to pursue. A crime
had been committed; the victim was a well-known gentleman; so here, if
anywhere, was a chance of his covering himself with glory by
discovering the assassin. But Arkel--the inspector in question--had
only experience in bucolic crimes of the rick-burning order, or, at
the worst, the poker murders of laborers. The subtlety with which this
deed had been accomplished baffled him. He could not grasp the idea of
the devil-stick, or even take in the mode of the death. If Arkel were
to be the avenger of Alymer's death the assassin ran an excellent
chance of getting off scot free.
David retired early to bed, as he was quite worn out with the
anxieties of the day; but Jen was too grieved to sleep. He remained in
the library, thinking over his great loss and wondering what wretch
could have taken that young life. Toward twelve o'clock he went to the
kitchen and had a short conversation with the policeman, who was a
stupid, bucolic youth with no more brains than a pumpkin. Afterward he
sought the chamber of death to see that Jaggard was not sleeping at
his post. Finally, like the good old soldier he was, Jen went round
the house to satisfy himself that the windows and doors were bolted
and barred. All these things done, he returned to the library.
At first he read and smoked, then he paced up and down, thinking of
his dead lad, and finally, as the hands of the clock drew to midnight,
he threw himself into a chair, and worn out in body and in mind, the
old man slept profoundly. Hour after hour passed in silence; the moon
set and the night grew darker, as the wind rose and moaned through the
woods round the house. Save the muttering of the breeze and the
ticking of the clock not a sound was to be heard in that silent room
wherein Jen slept heavily.
Suddenly he woke with a start. Somebody was rapping gently on the
shutters of the middle window. Glancing at the clock, Jen saw that it
was three in the morning, and wondering who could be outside at so
untimely an hour, he rose to open the window. With care, begotten by
old experience, he picked up his revolver and held it ready while
unbolting the window shutters. When they were thrown open he saw a
white figure with outstretched hands standing before the window.
"Good Lord, Miss Dallas! You here? At this hour!"
"Yes, yes," whispered the girl, stepping into the room. "I got out of
my bedroom window and escaped from my mother and Dido. I want to see
Maurice."
"But if you--"
"Maurice! Maurice!" interrupted the girl, wildly. "Take me to the dead
chamber."
Seeing from her looks that she was too distraught to be argued with,
Jen led her out of the library and into the dead man's room. Then he
uttered a cry, which was echoed by a wild shriek from the girl.
The bed was empty--the corpse was gone.