THE SEQUEL TO THE ADVENTURE AT THE INN.
It was close on ten o'clock when I awoke next morning. My long tramp
of the previous day had tired me more than I thought. Nevertheless, I
was annoyed at oversleeping myself, and astonished that Francis had
not called me earlier. I knew how anxious he was about the proposed
meeting with his brother, and fancied that his impatience would have
drawn him to my room at dawn. Apparently he was less curious
concerning the interview than I thought. Yet, leaving him out of the
question, I ought certainly to have been roused by Strent or his
daughter, and determined to reprove them for such neglect. After all,
an inn is an inn, and one has a right to attentions for which one
pays. Judging from the landlord's looks, I did not think my bill would
err on the side of cheapness.
These thoughts passed through my mind as I hastily dressed myself.
Opening the window, I looked out on the marshes, golden in the
sunshine. A keen wind was blowing from the sea, and the smell of brine
struck into the heavy atmosphere of my bedroom. An absolute stillness
prevailed both inside and out. I felt as though I had awakened in the
spellbound palace of the sleeping beauty. An inn, of all places,
should be full of bustle and noise, but there was something uncanny in
the silence which reigned in this marsh-locked hostel. It hinted
trouble, and I felt uneasy.
In no very good temper I descended to the dining room, with the
intention of apologizing to Francis for my tardy appearance and of
rating the landlord for his negligence. To my astonishment, neither
Francis nor anyone else was seen, and the room was in precisely the
same condition as on the previous night. The fire was unlighted, the
table not set out for breakfast, even the window blinds were down. For
the moment I was sick with apprehension, as it was impossible to
conjecture the reason of this neglect and absence of human life. The
stillness was as absolute as had prevailed upstairs, and when I rang
the bell it echoed throughout the house as though mocking my efforts
to summon landlord, maid, or friend.
Twice, thrice, I pulled the bell-rope without result; then, somewhat
unnerved by the silence in which I found myself, went to the back part
of the premises. Here the condition of things was the same as in the
dining room. The kitchen was empty, nor were there any signs of fire
or of food. I explored the whole of the ground floor and found nobody.
The conclusion forced itself upon me that Strent and his daughter had
left the inn during the night.
What was the meaning of this sudden flight? What reason could be
sufficiently powerful to force them to vacate the premises? Asking
myself these questions I entered room after room, but in none of them
did I find any answer. The front door was bolted and barred, the back
entrance was in the same condition, and there was no key in either
lock. I considered the features of the case, and saw that the air was
full of mystery, perhaps of--but no, in that lonely house I could not
bring myself to utter that terrible word.
I knew not what had happened during my sleep, but felt certain that
some event had taken place. Otherwise there could be no reason for
this state of things. Almost against my will I searched the house
again, but could discover neither Strent nor his daughter Rose. I was
alone in the house! But Francis----
"Francis!" said I, repeating my thoughts aloud, "aye, Francis. I
wonder if he has left the inn also, or whether he has overslept
himself, and is still in his room."
To make sure, I went upstairs to his bedroom. Pray observe that all
this time I had not connected these things with crime. It is true I
had a faint suspicion that there might possibly be some foul play, but
as there was nothing to confirm such a belief I abandoned the idea. I
declare that when I knocked at the door of Briarfield's room I had no
more idea of the horrid truth than a babe unborn. My premonitions
pointed to mystery, but not to murder. Yet from the conversation of
the previous night I might have guessed what had happened. The house
was as accursed as the palace of the Artidæ and Ate bided on the
threshold stone.
Not until I had thrice knocked without receiving any answer did my
suspicions begin to form. Then they took shape in an instant. I tried
the door. It was locked. The ominous silence still hinted at
unspeakable horrors. My knocking echoed jarringly through the
stillness. At that moment there flashed before my eyes the picture of
two figures flying across a red horizon against which blackened the
beams of a gallows. It was the shadow of the future. I knocked, I
called his name, and finally in desperation at the continued silence
set my shoulder against the crazy door. It yielded with a tearing
sound, and I entered the room amid a cloud of fine dust.
He was lying on the bed stiff and cold. I had no need to call, to
touch his shoulder, to place my hand on his heart. He was dead! With
the clothes drawn up smoothly to his chin lay the man with whom I had
conversed the previous night. The right arm lay outside the
counterpane. On the hand glistened a pearl ring. I looked at that
bauble, I glanced at the waxen face. The matter was beyond all doubt.
Francis Briarfield was dead.
Before I could further examine the body or the room I was forced to
run for my brandy flask. For the moment I was deadly sick, and it
needed a long draft of the fiery spirit to speed the stagnating blood
through my veins. The strange circumstance was a sufficient apology
for such qualmishness. This lonely inn set on a hand breadth of living
ground amid quaking bogs, this dead body of what had once been a
friend, this solitude by which I found myself environed, these were
sufficient to shake the strongest nerve. It looks in a manner prosaic
on black and white, but think of the horror of the actual experience!
For the moment I could formulate no ideas on the subject. That my
friend should be dead was sufficient to stun me. When reason came back
I asked myself how he died and who was responsible for the crime. The
landlord, the maid, the brother--one of these three had murdered
Francis Briarfield. But in what way?
I examined the body. It was clothed in a nightgown and the clothes lay
folded up on the chair by the bedside. The face was calm, there were
no marks of violence on the throat or on the frame. Only on the violet
lips lingered a slight curl of foam. The smooth bedclothes drawn up to
the chin forbade the idea of a struggle. I looked at the right arm
lying on the counterpane, at the hand, and there in the palm was a
ragged wound from thumb to little finger. It was discolored at the
edges, and looked green and unwholesome. This livid appearance made me
think of poison, but I was not sufficiently a doctor to diagnose the
case correctly. Yet I was certain of one thing. That Francis
Briarfield had come by his death in some foul fashion, and that at the
hands of--whom?
Aye! there was the rub. So far as I knew the landlord had no motive to
commit such a crime. Suspicions pointed toward the maid who had wished
to speak with the dead man after supper. Yet why should she desire his
death? From the lips of Francis himself I had heard that he knew
neither Strent nor Rose, nor indeed aught of the Fen Inn. Hither he
had been brought by his brother's letter to keep an appointment, and
was as ignorant of the inn, of its inmates, of its surroundings as I.
Could Felix have committed the crime? True, if my theory were correct,
and he had passed himself off to Olivia Bellin as Francis, there were
some grounds for believing he wished his brother out of the way.
Francis would undoubtedly refuse to permit the deception to be carried
on, so it was just possible that Felix, in a frenzy of wrath and
terror at the idea of his treachery being exposed, might have slain
his brother. Yet all this fine theory was upset by the fact that Felix
had not arrived on the previous night to keep the appointment. He
therefore must be guiltless.
If so, what of the landlord and his daughter? Certainly they had no
reason to slay a stranger who had sheltered under their roof for the
night. Yet their flight looked suspicious. If they were innocent why
did they leave the inn?
Another question pregnant with meaning was the reason of their being
alone in the inn. I had seen no servants either indoors or out. Father
and daughter appeared to do all the work, yet it was beyond all reason
that they should have no assistance. Where was the cook, the waiter,
the hostler, the chambermaid? The house was a large one. Two people
with all the will in the world could not thoroughly attend to the
domestic economy of so great a mansion. Moreover, the girl had looked
unused to work. That in itself was suspicious.
"Can it be?" I thought. "Can it be that these two hired this inn to
compass the death of Francis Briarfield, and that he was drawn here as
into a snare by his brother's letter? On the face of it, it looks
absurd, and yet in what other way can I explain the absence of
servants, the mildewed aspect of the rooms? Now Francis is dead, and
they without a word to me have departed."
I could not solve the mystery. Far from doing so, the more I thought,
the more I examined the surroundings, the deeper grew the mystery. The
door had been locked and I could find no key. The window also was
locked, and even had it not been, no one could have entered thereby,
so considerable was the height from the ground. How, then, had the
assassin gained admittance? Yet sure was I that Briarfield had been
murdered, but by whom it was hard to say--nay, impossible.
I did indeed think that he had committed suicide, but this was too
wild an idea to entertain even for a moment. When I parted from him on
the previous night he was in the best of health, looking forward to
meeting Miss Bellin, and was passably content with his life. There was
no hint of self-destruction either in speech or action. The thought
that his brother had deceived him would not have engendered such an
idea. Rather was he determined to unmask the traitor, and regain his
promised wife by force. Murder it might be, suicide was out of the
question.
Thus far I threshed out the matter, yet arrived at no logical
conclusion. As there seemed no signs of landlord and maid, it behooved
me to consider what I should do. According to Francis, his brother was
due at the meeting place that morning, so I deemed it advisable to
wait until he arrived, and then explain the circumstances to him. If
he was in league with Strent to murder his brother he would hardly be
able to disguise his joy at hearing the success of his plot. I
therefore determined to watch his face during the interview, and if I
saw therein any signs of guilt, to there and then in that lonely inn
accuse him as a second Cain. By thus terrorizing his soul with such
accusation and with the sight of his victim I might force him into
confession.
If he were guilty, I guessed the plea behind which he would shelter
himself: That he had not been near the place on the previous night.
This I would counter by the accusation that his emissaries had carried
out his orders and then sought safety in flight. It might be that I
suspected Felix wrongly, yet, after the story told me by Francis, I
could not but think he was connected in some unseen way with the death
of the latter. But, after all, these suspicions were yet vague and
aimless. All I knew for certain was that Francis Briarfield was dead.
I swore on the instant to devote myself to finding out and punishing
his detestable assassin.
Having come to this resolution, I propped up the open door, so as to
close the entrance to the chamber of death, and descended to the lower
regions. Finding victuals and fuel in the kitchen, I cooked myself a
meal, and made a sufficiently good breakfast. Then I lighted my pipe
and took my seat at the front door, to watch for the coming of Felix
Briarfield. Whether my suspicions would be dispelled or confirmed by
his demeanor I was, of course, unable to say until the interview took
place. But I was most anxious to know.
All that morning I looked down the winding road to Marshminster, but
saw no one coming therefrom. Not a soul was in sight, and if I did for
a moment think that Strent and his daughter might return and declare
themselves innocent, the thought was banished by a few hours' outlook.
The inn, as I said before, was on a slight rise, and I could see far
and wide. No human being was to be seen, and as the hours passed I
grew almost horrified at the gruesome solitude. To be alone with a
dead body in a lonely house in a lonely moor is hardly healthy for the
mind.
Toward noon I took a resolution.
"If," said I, "the mountain won't come to Mahomet--why, then, Mahomet
must go to the mountain."
The interpretation of this was that I intended to see Felix Briarfield
at Bellin Hall, Marshminster. Face to face with him, I would force him
to explain why he had not kept the appointment. It seemed to me a
suspicious circumstance. Perhaps Strent had told him Francis was dead,
and therefore it would be useless for him to ride to the Fen Inn. If
this were so, it would go a long way toward implicating him in the
crime.
I re-entered the house, locked up everything, and, strapping on my
knapsack, took my departure toward Marshminster. Some way down the
road I looked back at the ruin, and saw it loom more grim and ghastly
than ever. Even in the bright sunshine it could not appear otherwise
than eerie, and it was with great pleasure that I left it behind. Yet
under those sloping roofs Francis Briarfield lay dead, and it was to
discover his assassin and to avenge his death that I set my face
toward Marshminster.