THE TRUTH
George stared at the triumphant detective in surprise. It seemed
impossible that what he stated could be true. Miss Bull was the very
last person whom Brendon would have accused. No one had been more
candid than she had been, and no one at the time of the discovery of
the crime had done more to help the detectives.
"You must mean Margery," said George after a time.
"No, I don't," replied Bawdsey, in a determined voice. "I mean that
little white old woman with the black eyes--Miss Bull, or, as you know
her, Miss Jenny Howard."
"But what reason----"
"Ah, that's a long story! She shall tell you herself."
"Have you had her arrested?"
"Not yet. But she will be arrested before the end of the day. I have
already communicated with Scotland Yard."
George rose and walked to the window. He felt irritable and upset now
that the truth had come to light. He wished that Bawdsey had not been
so confoundedly interfering, and the detective's next words annoyed
him still further.
"It was your idea about Margery that put me on the scent," he said
with great complacency; "though, to be sure, I had my suspicions
before. It was to watch Miss Bull that I came here."
"What made you think that she was guilty?"
"She has confessed--in the calmest manner, too--that----"
"I mean before. Why did you suspect her?"
"Well, it seemed to me that she was the only person who could have
killed Eliza. She and Eliza hated one another because of their mutual
love for your father."
George groaned. What a lot of trouble his father had caused with his
handsome looks and charming manners. Even after his death the fatal
attraction he exercised seemed to bring about disaster. "She did not
kill Mrs. Jersey on that account," he said.
"Wait till you hear. She will tell you. In fact, she asked me to send
for you, as she wishes to speak."
"Where is she now?"
"In the famous sitting-room playing Patience."
"Doesn't she realize the peril of her position?"
"In a way she does. But she seems quite ready to face the worst."
"Poor woman," said George, thinking of the sad life which the old maid
had led; "if she has sinned, she has suffered."
"If people will use knives in that way they must be punished," was the
rather harsh retort of Bawdsey.
"Don't talk stuff, Bawdsey. You have your own sins to think of."
"I never committed murder."
"No one said you had, but you may do so before you die."
Bawdsey shuddered. "I hope not, Mr. Vane," he said. "I don't know why
you should say such a thing. I am an honest man."
"You say that so often that I shall begin to disbelieve it," replied
Brendon, rather cynically; "but if you marry Lola, either you will
kill her or she will kill you."
"I'll take my chance of that. And if you----"
George made an impatient gesture with his hand and returned to his
seat. "Never mind further chatter. Let me hear how you came to learn
that this poor creature struck the blow."
"If you talk that way of a criminal, Mr. Vane, what will you say of a
good woman?"
"My good man, there is more joy over a sinner that repenteth----"
"But Miss Bull doesn't repent," said Bawdsey.
"I'll hear the story before I give an opinion on that point. You say
that it was some remark I made which----"
"Yes, it was," said Bawdsey, eagerly, and throwing himself into a
seat. "Your remark that Margery might be guilty----"
"One moment," interrupted George, in his turn. "I may tell you that I
have seen Mr. Ireland, and he declares that he never was near the
house on that night, that he knew nothing of the confession, and that
he had no latch-key. He is innocent."
"Now that I have heard Miss Bull I know that, sir. She's the one."
"Well, and how did you find out?"
Bawdsey cleared his throat and began, with a most important air: "I
rather agreed with your idea that Margery might be guilty," he said,
"and when I turned it over in my own mind I thought it more and more
probable. I therefore determined to get Margery alone and work on her
fears."
"Pah!" said Brendon, with disgust.
"Well, sir," retorted Bawdsey, shrugging his shoulders. "I had to get
at the truth somehow, and detective's work is not all so honorable as
novelists make out. I got Margery alone."
"And how did you set to work?"
"Well, it was this morning in the sitting-room. Miss Bull had gone out
and had left Margery to make up some accounts. The girl was laboring
away at them and getting into a hopeless mess. I came to speak with
her, and offered to do them. I soon put the accounts to rights and
then began to talk of Miss Bull."
"Why of Miss Bull?"
"Why--" Bawdsey pinched his lip--"I thought at the time that Margery
was guilty, and that if in talking to her I laid the blame on Miss
Bull that the girl would speak out."
"You traded on the poor wretch's friendship. Bawdsey, I'm ashamed of
you."
"I'm ashamed of myself," replied the detective, penitently; "but Lord
bless you! Mr. Vane, one gets used to this sort of thing. In our
business the means justifies the ends far more than in religion."
"I certainly don't think it justifies any end in religion," said
George, sharply. "Well, you accused Miss Bull of the crime?"
"In a way I did. Margery denied it."
"What did you say?"
"That she might as well confess. I declared that I had evidence to
prove Miss Bull's guilt, and that she would be arrested when she came
back. I declare, Mr. Vane, I thought that girl would strike me. She
was like a wild-cat."
"I wish she had," growled George, whose generous spirit was revolted
by the use Bawdsey had put Margery to.
"She said if I arrested Miss Bull she would kill me. I said, 'As you
killed your aunt.' She up and said: 'Yes, I did kill her. Miss Bull is
innocent, and you know she is.' Of course, when she admitted the fact
I at once began to suspect Miss Bull."
"Why did you do that?"
"Because if Margery had been guilty she would not have owned up. But
if Miss Bull was guilty, Margery would certainly take the guilt on
herself."
"Poor girl!" murmured George "there is something noble in that dull
soul."
Bawdsey could not see this, and mentally disagreed with it. However,
he did not want to argue down Brendon's too tender conscience, so he
went on with his recital. "While Margery was threatening me and taking
the guilt on herself, Miss Bull came in. That stupid girl ran to her
and fell at her feet, crying that I knew all, but that she would die
for her dear Miss Bull."
"And what did the woman say?"
"She asked me if I knew. I said I did. She demanded how I found out. I
told her that that was my business. She began to smell a rat and
suspected that I was bluffing. She would have held her tongue, but
Margery was in such terror for her friend that she came out with the
whole story. Miss Bull tried to stop her, but Margery kept repeating
that she would die for her dear Miss Bull, and so let the cat out of
the bag."
"The girl is half-witted--all this may not be true."
"Oh, yes, it is. When Miss Bull saw that the game was up she sat down
and admitted that she had killed Mrs. Jersey. She also said that she
was glad the truth had come to light, that she wished to die, and so
on."
"She was raving," said George, incredulously, not thinking any one
would incriminate himself or herself so freely.
"No, she wasn't. She told me the whole story in the calmest manner,
just as though she were asking me to have a cup of tea. Then she asked
me to send for you and sat down to play Patience."
"I wonder you are not having her watched," said George, with scorn.
"Oh, she won't run away," replied Bawdsey, easily, and not perceiving
the irony of the remark. "Come along, Mr. Vane, we'll go down and see
her. She is desperately anxious to see you."
"Do any of the boarders know?"
"Not yet, but they will when she is arrested."
George shuddered and followed Bawdsey down the stairs. It seemed
terrible to him that such a fragile little creature as Miss Bull
should be subjected to this disgrace. He did not condone her crime.
She had acted wrongly and must take the consequences. But he could not
forget that she was Dorothy's aunt, and he wished he could see some
way of rescuing her from this dreadful position.
Miss Bull was--as Bawdsey had stated--playing Patience. Seated at the
very table where her victim had sat, she dealt the cards, and seemed
quite interested in the game. Margery was seated in a chair near at
hand, looking with tearful eyes into the face of her friend. Beyond
the fact that Miss Bull was whiter than usual, she showed no signs of
emotion.
"You have come, George," she said, addressing him by his name. "I am
glad to see you. Mr. Bawdsey, you may go."
The detective was taken aback and would have remonstrated, but Margery
rose and approached him. "You have done your worst," she said, her
eyes flashing. "Go, or I'll twist your neck."
Bawdsey shrugged his shoulders, and with a glance at George went out.
After all, he had heard the story before and did not particularly care
to hear it again. Besides, Bawdsey was a kindly man, and he felt sorry
that he had proceeded to such extremities.
Miss Bull shuffled her pack of cards and laid them away in a box. "I
shall play that game no more," she said. "I have been playing Patience
all my life, but the end has come, and I am glad it has come. Hush,
Margery," for the girl had burst into tears, "I will see that you are
left well off and looked after, my dear."
"I don't want that. I want you," sobbed the girl. She slipped to the
floor and laid her head on Miss Bull's knee like a faithful dog. Miss
Bull patted her head and allowed her to remain in this position while
she spoke to George. Margery sobbed for a time, and then remained
quiet, listening to every word, and quite content to feel the gentle
hand of the old maid smoothing her hair.
"I suppose you were astonished when Mr. Bawdsey told you?" said Miss
Bull, looking with piercing eyes at Brendon.
"I was. I never thought that you--you----"
"That I would kill Mrs. Jersey," finished the woman, quietly. "Why
not? She was a bad, wicked creature, and caused the death of your
father. She boasted of it."
"Where? When?" asked the astonished young man.
"In this very room, in my presence. But to make you understand, I had
better tell you all."
"One moment, Miss Bull. When you told the fortunes on that night, did
you intend to kill Mrs. Jersey?"
"No. The death card did turn up. That was a strange coincidence,
George. When I came down the stairs I had no more idea than you of
killing the wretched woman."
"What made you do it?"
"I am telling you," replied Miss Bull, folding her hands on her lap.
"Wait and hear. Mrs. Jersey was very rude to me on that night. I
intended to remonstrate with her. She added insult to injury by
locking Margery in her bedroom, so as to keep her from me. I heard her
scolding Margery in the passage, and when all was quiet, and Mrs.
Jersey had gone down the stairs, I went up to Margery's room and
unlocked the door. Mrs. Jersey had struck the poor child, and she was
sobbing on her bed. I then determined to go down for the second time
and see Mrs. Jersey."
"For the second time? Were you down before?"
"I was," replied Miss Bull, calmly. "I wondered who Mrs. Jersey had
coming to see her, particularly after she had lost her courage when
she saw the yellow holly in your coat."
"You noticed that?"
"Yes, and I noticed the holly also. I wondered why you wore it. The
sight of it put into my mind that fatal night when he--" Miss Bull
brushed aside her thoughts--"but no matter. I thought I would see if
Mrs. Jersey was seeing any one, and also I wished to talk about the
yellow holly."
"But why should you trouble about her seeing any one?"
Miss Bull looked down and then looked up abruptly. "Mrs. Jersey would
have sent me back to the asylum if she could, and I was always afraid
lest she should see some one secretly about the matter. I crept down
the stairs, leaving Margery in my room playing at Patience. Mrs.
Jersey's door was closed. I heard the murmur of voices and I put my
ear to the keyhole. I heard that dancer--afterward I learned that it
was the dancer--I heard her accuse Mrs. Jersey of having killed Percy
Vane."
"On what grounds did Lola base that accusation?"
"She said her mother told her."
"I remember," muttered George. "The mother, on receiving back the
stiletto, certainly might have thought so. And what did Mrs. Jersey
say?" he asked aloud.
"She denied it, and made some sort of excuse. I remained to hear no
more. I knew then that Mrs. Jersey had killed my Percy."
"But she did not; it was an accident."
"I know. She explained. But she was the cause. I was right to kill
her. But for her Percy would have been alive, I would have been his
wife, and you, George, would have been my step-son."
"What did you do next?"
"I went up to my room and resumed my game of Patience. I intended to
have a talk with Mrs. Jersey the next morning, but when I found that
she had struck Margery I came down at once---"
"That was after eleven?"
"About a quarter past. Mrs. Jersey was in her room. We talked, and I
told her what I had heard. She denied it. I pointed to the stiletto
which was on the table as a proof that the girl had been here. Mrs.
Jersey said that it was the same stiletto with which Percy had been
killed, as Lola had received it from her mother. That put the thought
into my head that God intended Mrs. Jersey should be slain with the
same weapon with which my darling had been stabbed."
"A terrible thought. You should have put it away."
"I did, but it came again. I accused Mrs. Jersey of having killed
Percy. She gloried in the fact that it was through her he had died.
She declared that if Ireland had not held her hand she would have laid
him dead at her feet. She exulted that the accident had fulfilled her
intention, and taunted me with the fact that I never became his wife.
I was very quiet," added Miss Bull, her eyes glittering, "but my blood
was boiling. Mrs. Jersey turned her back on me with an insolent laugh
and sat down. The stiletto was on the table, her head was turned away.
I softly took the dagger, and----"
"No! no!" cried Margery, wailing, "you never did it--you never did it,
dear Miss Bull. It was I who----"
"Don't be a fool, child! I did it, and I would do it again." Miss Bull
rose. "George, you now know all, go--no, do not shake hands. I have
avenged your father, and I expect I will be hanged."
Margery burst out into renewed weeping, and Miss Bull soothed her,
talking to George the while. "Tell my sister," she said, "that the
name of Howard will not be mentioned. I will die under my false name.
No disgrace will be brought on her. As to Dorothy--" here Miss Bull's
eyes grew tender--"no disgrace will befall her. Marry her, George,
love her, make her a good husband, and--take this kiss to her from a
sorely tried woman."
Before the astonished George knew what she was about, he felt a pair
of cold lips pressed to his own. The next moment she had pushed him
out of the room and had locked the door. That was the last George saw
of her.
Whether Margery had agreed to die with her, or whether Miss Bull,
knowing what a miserable life the girl would lead after her death,
compelled her to take the poison, it will never be known. But when the
door was burst open the two women were found on the floor in one
another's arms. On the table was an empty glass, and it was
ascertained that Miss Bull and Margery had taken prussic acid. Bawdsey
entered the room an hour after the death, alarmed by the silence. He
found that his prey had escaped. Miss Bull was buried under her false
name, and Margery was buried with her. Nothing of Miss Bull's sad past
or of her killing of Mrs. Jersey came to light. She passed away with
her only friend, and her story was told.
Six months later George Vane was seated in the library of the mansion
in St. Giles Square. It was after dinner, and Lord Derrington occupied
his usual chair. The old man looked brighter and happier than he had
looked for many years. Daily George grew a greater favorite with him,
and on the morrow George was to be married. Lord Derrington had
insisted that as it was his last night as a bachelor George should
dine alone with him, and would not admit even Walter. "It's the last
time I'll have you all to myself, George," said the old man,
piteously; "after to-morrow Dorothy will possess you."
"Not at all," replied George, "you will have us both. We will come
back from the honeymoon in a month, and then we will live here."
"That's all been arranged," said Derrington, testily, "but we won't be
two independent bachelors."
"All the better," replied his grandson, cheerily; "a lady in the house
will make a lot of difference. You won't know this place when Dorothy
is flitting about."
"Don't! Her mother is the kind of woman who flits, and I won't have
her doing the butterfly business in that way."
"Oh, I don't think we'll be troubled much with Mrs. Ward. Since the
shock inflicted by her sister's sad death she has become religious."
"Bah! That's only a phrase. Poor Miss Bull," said Derrington. "I like
to think of her under that name. She had a sad life. I don't wonder
she killed herself. Do you think she was mad, George?"
"No. But I think the memory of her wrongs, which were all caused by
Mrs. Jersey, was too much for her. She was mad for the moment, but she
told me the terrible story in the calmest manner."
"And who came in at the front door that night?" asked Derrington.
"No one. After the murder Miss Bull opened it to fly--panic-struck, I
expect--but Margery came downstairs and stopped her. Miss Bull closed
the door and remained to face the worst."
"Well, she is dead and buried, and the scandal is laid at rest. Unless
that Bawdsey revives it."
"Oh, you can trust Bawdsey," said George, smiling; "he and Lola are
quite happy, and she has almost forgotten me. I got a letter from
Bawdsey the other day. He is acting as his wife's agent, and they are
making a lot of money."
"All the better. He won't talk about that business. By the way, I
forgot to ask you about Ireland's money?"
"The money he left to me? I have settled that on Dorothy. How suddenly
he died," said George, reflectively; "just an hour after I left the
house. I hope his end was peace. I think it was, as he felt relieved
that you and I had forgiven him."
"There was nothing to forgive. It was an accident, and if any blame is
due it is to that Jersey woman."
"Well, she is dead, and the woman who killed her is dead, so let them
all rest in peace. But it was good of Ireland leaving me his money."
"I don't see who else he had to leave it to. And five thousand a year
is not to be despised. Have you settled it all on Dorothy?"
"Every penny. Don't you approve?"
"Oh, yes, so long as Mrs. Ward doesn't get it."
"She's a reformed character. Why, the other day she told me that she
considered Dorothy irreligious."
"Pah! New brooms. She'll soon grow weary of that pose. When the effect
of poor Jenny Howard's death wears off she will be as gay and silly as
before. Don't have her in this house, that's all."
"You can depend upon that, sir. But Dorothy will be here--Dorothy,
whom I shall see to-morrow crowned with orange-blossoms, and----"
Derrington laughed, but not unkindly. "Well, well. Better
orange-blossoms than yellow holly."
George nodded. "I hope never to see yellow holly again," he said, and
Derrington agreed. So their conversation ended on the threshold of
George's new life with that last reference to the old.
THE END