WHAT HAPPENED NEXT
"Well?" asked Anthony, when Clarice returned to the drawing-room, "is
Mr. Horran any better?"
"I think so. He is awake and his voice is stronger, but whether the
improvement will last, I can't say."
"What does the doctor say?"
"Nothing. He is very perplexed over this disease, and does not know
what is the matter."
"That doesn't say much for Jerce's reputation," said Ackworth.
"Dr. Jerce is only a man, after all," answered Clarice, earnestly,
"and Uncle Henry's disease is so very mysterious, that neither he nor
Dr. Wentworth can say anything explicit."
Ackworth twisted his hands behind his back and swayed to and fro on
his toe-tips. "I wonder if Mr. Horran is really ill, after all."
Clarice, with her handkerchief to her mouth, looked at him suddenly
and inquiringly. "What do you mean?"
"From what I have seen of Mr. Horran," said Ackworth, quietly, "he
does not appear to be ill. His colour is good, he eats well, and
sleeps a lot. He has not lost flesh, and his eyes are steady.
Certainly, he appears to become giddy at times, but that might
be biliousness from his sedentary life. Also he gets cross and
fractious--that, again, might be liver. He lives very unhealthily,
stewing in that room with a fire, and such an existence is enough to
produce all the symptoms he suffers from, without any real physical
cause."
"Well?" questioned Clarice, not knowing what this speech meant.
"You won't be offended?" asked Ackworth in his turn, and uneasily.
"With what?"
"I am about to say something about the Purple Fern."
"Yes?" she stared at him, amazed.
Ackworth still continued to sway to and fro, and gazed at the ground as
he replied, "Mr. Horran may take exercise at night."
"Go on. I don't understand."
"His illness may be a feint."
"For what?"
"For business connected with the Purple Fern."
"Anthony!" Clarice recoiled, as though he had struck her. "Oh, I know
it sounds ridiculous," said Ackworth, hurriedly, "and perhaps it may
prove to be ridiculous. All the same, the fact of that man searching
Jerce on the terrace, and this mysterious illness, and the envelope
containing the stamped fern, and the presence of the gold box, which
Jerce now has--well, you see--I don't exactly know how to put it."
Clarice drew near to him again. "Do you mean to say that Uncle Henry
has anything to do with these murders?"
"Oh, no--I don't go so far as that, my dear. Do you remember that when
I became engaged to you, you asked me to see Barras, the lawyer, since
your guardian was too ill to be spoken to?"
"Yes, I wanted you to inquire about the money."
"Well, I spoke to Barras last week, and learn that you certainly get
two thousand per annum in a couple of years. Ferdy gets the same, and
Mr. Horran is sole guardian, with a right to appoint another guardian
should he die. Mr. Barras, wishing to stand well with me, I suppose,
as your future husband, hinted that you might not find everything
right at Horran's death."
"But Uncle Henry told me that everything was in order," cried Miss
Baird, "and declared that he had appointed me guardian to look after
Ferdy's money when he died--when Uncle Henry died, I mean."
"Humph! That does not entirely agree with Mr. Barras' hints, and he
did no more than hint. But something is wrong, and Mr. Horran--as I
understood from Barras--is the cause of its being wrong."
"Uncle Henry has always been a good friend."
"Quite so, but has he been a good guardian?"
"Yes. No one could have been a better one, so far as I know."
"Precisely," said Anthony, quickly, "so far as you know. But the
fact is, Clarice, I don't like Mr. Horran, and I never liked him,
and--and--" he hesitated.
"Go on--go on. Don't keep me in suspense."
"Well, then, three months ago I was in town, and went to a ball at the
Shah's Rooms. It was not--to be plain--a very reputable dance, or at
all events it was extremely Bohemian. I went there before I was
engaged to you, Clarice; now, I should not go. Well, then, at that
dance, I saw Mr. Horran--"
"Oh, that's quite impossible. He has not been out of his room for
years and years."
"I recognised him at a glance," said Ackworth, steadily, "his military
carriage, his spare figure, his long, iron-grey moustache. And he was
with a tall man, who had a criss-cross scar on his left cheek."
"The man in grey who searched Dr. Jerce on the terrace?"
"The same--if Dr. Jerce's description is to be relied upon. I never
thought of the thing until you left the room. Then, remembering our
late conversation, the memory of the incident came back. Now, Clarice,
if this man--as Jerce declares--is mixed up in the Purple Fern
business, he certainly was with Mr. Horran, and that, don't you see,
brings your guardian into the affair."
Clarice turned quite pale. "It is very mysterious," she said to
herself, "and yet it seems perfectly absurd. Uncle Henry is ill; he
has always been ill, off and on, for the last ten years. I have lived
in this house with him all the time. How could he possibly go to town
even once without my knowledge?"
Ackworth shrugged his square shoulders. "Oh, as to that, a good
motor-car could take him to London and back in a few hours."
"Uncle Henry has not got a motor-car."
"He may have one we do not know of," said Ackworth, quickly, "and as
that French window of his opens on to the terrace on the other side of
the house, it would not be difficult for him to slip out, and back
again, without your knowing."
"But Chalks has sat up with him often."
"Quite so, but he may have slipped out on the nights Chalks did not
sit up with him."
"Are you sure it was Uncle Henry you saw at the Shah's Rooms?"
"I caught only a glimpse of him with the scarred man, but I feel
certain he was Mr. Horran. He has rather a striking personality and
appearance, you know. Also, when I moved forward to speak to him, he
saw me, and vanished in the crowd of dancers. If he was there, when he
was supposed to be ill at home, there may be something in Mr. Barras's
hints. Also, as he was with the man in grey, and the box was found on
the terrace yonder by you, and a stamped picture of the fern was
delivered to him, it seems to me that Mr. Horran is secretly mixed up
with the matter."
"It is all supposition," said Clarice, uneasily. "Quite so. However,
the best thing to do will be to ask Mr. Horran for an explanation."
"Yes. And Dr. Jerce."
"No, I shouldn't do that. Jerce is an eminently respectable man, and
if anything was wrong, I should think he would show scant mercy to the
wrong-doer."
"Dr. Jerce may know more than you imagine," said Clarice, quickly, and
she related what the vicar had said about the loan. Ackworth listened
with great attention.
"Humph! Jerce apparently suspects something also. Horran has been
money-lending, it seems, and is quite a Shylock. Why don't you speak
to Horran about the loan to the vicar? It is your money Horran has
been playing with, if it is true that he has nothing save an income
for acting as your guardian."
"But Mr. Clarke told me that Dr. Jerce would not allow him to see
Uncle Henry about the loan."
"Dr. Jerce wants to keep his patient quiet, and may be quite deceived
about this disease--if it is a disease."
"Dr. Jerce is too clever to be deceived."
"But he is," insisted Ackworth, "seeing that neither he nor Wentworth
can state what the disease is. I tell you what, Clarice, you announce
your engagement to me, and that will give some colour for me to
interfere. Then we can get Mr. Clarke in to see Mr. Horran, and also
we can ask Mr. Horran about his appearance with the man in grey at the
Shah's Rooms. Finally, we can ask Mr. Barras to be present and make
him explain his hints. In this way, everything will be cleared up, and
matters can be placed upon a proper basis."
Clarice assented. "I think your idea is very good," she said, quietly;
"all the same, I fancy you are exaggerating, when you say that Uncle
Henry has to do with this dreadful business of the Purple Fern."
Ackworth shrugged his shoulders. "He can best explain that. I am quite
prepared to state on oath that I saw Mr. Horran with the Purple Fern
man at the Shah's Rooms. But, of course, as you say, I may be
exaggerating. Everything I say may be explained by Mr. Horran, but
only he can put things right."
At this point of the conversation, Dr. Jerce returned to the
drawing-room, looking rather perturbed for so serene a man. He was
drawing on his gloves as he entered. "Where is Ferdinand?" was his
first question, as he cast a look round.
"Upstairs, lying down," said Clarice, "don't you remember he--"
"Yes! yes!" Jerce turned to the door again. "I know where his room is.
I must see him before I go." He glanced at his watch. "I'll just have
time for a short conversation before I catch this three o'clock train.
Excuse me, Miss Baird, but--"
"Doctor, stop--stop. What is the matter with Uncle Henry?"
"He is annoyed by Mr. Clarke."
"About the loan?" asked Clarice, quickly. Jerce looked at her,
astonished. "Yes. Do you know about that?"
"Mr. Clarke himself told me, and said that you did not want him to see
Uncle Henry about it."
"I certainly did not," said Jerce, decidedly. "Clarke is always in
difficulties, and Horran has been very good to him. His talking of
incessant trouble would only irritate Horran, so I would not allow him
to enter the house. But it seems that Mr. Clarke slipped in through
the French window, and made trouble to-day, while Chalks was out. I
have promised to see Clarke when I return here again, and to arrange
that the interest of the loan stands over for another six months,
which will give him time to turn round, as it were. But I wish he had
not forced his way into the sick-room. He has done harm."
"But, doctor, about the Purple Fern?"
"Oh, Horran talked about that; but I have managed to set his fears at
rest. He thinks he may be murdered, so I have told Chalks to stay with
him all night. To-morrow, the Scotland Yard people will take up the
matter. I'll go to the Yard to-night, and tell everything we have
discovered; also, I'll give in the gold box as evidence."
"And don't you think--" began Ackworth, when Jerce cut him short.
"I have no time to talk," he said, impatiently. "I must see Ferdinand
and then catch this train, as I have much to do. Miss Baird, your
guardian is rather feverish with excitement; you had better not see
him to-night. To-morrow, I'll come down again." And with these final
instructions, Jerce slipped out of the room.
Clarice and Anthony looked at one another. "I shall see Uncle Henry
for all that," said Clarice, determinedly.
"No! no. Better obey the doctor's instructions," urged Anthony, "after
all, what we have to say will keep until to-morrow."
"But I am so worried."
"I know, darling--I know." He slipped his arm round her slender waist.
"But it is best to settle this perplexing business in a ship-shape
way. Leave Mr. Horran alone for to-night."
Clarice thought for a few moments. "Anthony," she said, earnestly, "I
cannot wait for days for an explanation, and it seems to me that there
can be none, unless Mr. Barras is present. Christmas is here in a
couple of days, so I want you to go up to town and bring down Mr.
Barras to-morrow. Then we can take him into Uncle Henry's room, and
have an explanation."
"Humph!" said Anthony, doubtfully. "It seems to me that if Jerce goes
to Scotland Yard, the authorities there may wish for an explanation
from Mr. Horran."
"Not if you hold your tongue as to Uncle Henry's being at the Shah's
Rooms," she said, anxiously.
"You want me to shield him?"
"We don't know yet that he is guilty," she reminded him, sharply.
Ackworth nodded. After all, he had doubtful ground to go upon, in
connecting Horran with the criminal triumvirate whose trade-mark was
the Purple Fern. The man might be entirely innocent, notwithstanding
appearances. However, if Barras was an honest lawyer--and, on the face
of it, there was no reason to think that he was not--he would be able,
in the presence of his client, to state if the property of the Baird
orphans was administered honourably. If Horran had been using the
money for his own secret pleasure, and for loans to Clarke and others,
he would be forced to account for the same. And such a forced
explanation would inevitably compel him to acknowledge or deny that he
was at the Shah's Rooms when Ackworth saw him. If he confessed so
much, he would also have to explain how he came to know the grey man,
who assuredly--if the gold box was to be accounted for--had to do with
the Purple Fern crimes. Then, in one way or another, matters might be
explained. They were certainly mysterious enough at present.
In the meantime, the lovers postponed inevitable disagreeables, in
order to talk about their own particular future, and to enjoy
themselves the more, they went for a short drive in Ackworth's
dog-cart, which had been waiting all this time at the door, in charge
of Mr. Horran's groom. Anthony had not brought his own servant, so the
conversation of himself and his fiancée was perfectly free and
unfettered. As they drove along the High Street, Dr. Jerce passed
them, in earnest conversation with Ferdinand.
"I expect he's bringing your brother to his senses," said Ackworth,
hopefully.
"I hope he will," sighed Clarice. "I am not very fond of Dr. Jerce,
but he is certainly a good man, and his example is one which Ferdy
should follow. I wonder," she added, musingly, "if Ferdy ever saw
Uncle Henry at the Shah's Rooms. That is just the sort of fast place
which Ferdy would go to."
Anthony flicked the horse's ears with his whip, and laughed. "I have
been there also," said he, coolly. "Perhaps I should not have
confessed as much to you, my dear."
"Why not?" demanded Clarice, with perfect candour. "You must not think
me a cotton-wool young woman. I quite understand that men are men."
"And that women are angels?" questioned Anthony, bending to see her
pretty face.
"We leave that for the men to say," returned Clarice, dryly.
"This man says it--of you."
"This man does not talk sense."
"Nor does he intend to. I have had enough of sense for the day, my
dearest. Sensible conversation invariably means worry. Let us enjoy
our golden hour, without transmuting it into dull lead."
Miss Baird, who was feminine after all, and very much in love and
young in years and spirits, thought that this was an excellent idea,
so the rest of the drive was all that could be desired in the way of
cheap and genuine happiness. When it ended, she gave Anthony Russian
tea in a tumbler and dainty caviare sandwiches. Ferdy, as they learned
from Mrs. Rebson, had returned from the railway station to enjoy his
golden hour at the vicarage, and Mr. Horran had again fallen asleep.
But simple happiness over afternoon tea could not last for ever, and
when Anthony set out for Gattlinsands, after a lingering farewell,
Clarice felt the reaction. To prevent herself from feeling dull, it
was necessary that she should do something, so true to her intention
of defying Dr. Jerce, she tapped at the door of the sick-room. Chalks
appeared, with a whispered communication that the patient was awake
and too fractious to see anyone on that night. Clarice returned to the
drawing-room, and read indolently until Wentworth came to pay a late
visit at eight o'clock. Just as she descended the stairs, dressed for
dinner, Miss Baird caught the young physician at the door, and
accosted him at once.
"Is Uncle Henry better, doctor?" she asked, coming forward.
Wentworth was a slim, shy man, who wore spectacles, and spoke in a
jerky, staccato manner when addressed by a woman. "Better--yes--that
is,--more awake. Lethargy passed away--very bad temper. Better leave
him alone until the morning. 'Night, Miss Baird," and he shot off in
confusion, like a timid schoolboy.
Clarice made a hurried meal, and returned drearily to the empty
drawing-room, without any desire to encounter the fractiousness of her
guardian, which she had experienced on more than one occasion. After
the somewhat exciting day she really felt worn-out and in need of
rest, therefore made up her mind to retire comparatively early.
However, she hoped that Ferdy would come home soon to explain his
absence from the dinner table, and passed the time in playing Patience
until ten o'clock. Finally, after asking Mrs. Rebson if the house was
locked up, and if Ferdy had returned--which he had not--she ascended
the stairs to bed. At the top of them she found Ferdy clinging to the
banisters. Apparently he had entered the house without Mrs. Rebson's
knowledge.
"Oh!" said Clarice, perceiving his condition. "Again."
Ferdy chuckled. "I've been--S'v'y H'l--B't'fly pretty girl--j'lly
ev'ning--such fun--it's--it's--" Here he missed one step and rolled
down two, with an idiotic giggle. Clarice would have struck him in her
disgust, but that would have done no good. Being a prompt and powerful
young woman, she caught him by the collar of his coat and dragged him
into his bedroom on the first floor. There she locked him in, while
Ferdy protested weakly all the time, and only yielded to superior
force.
"Faugh!" said Clarice, throwing the key on her dressing-table. "What a
weak fool he is." She sat down and stared at the reflection of her
face in the Louis Quinze mirror. It looked weary and drawn. "I shall
be an old woman soon if this sort of thing goes on," she thought. "Oh,
dear me, how tired I am of bearing other people's burdens. I must end
it. In some way, I'll get the truth out of Uncle Henry, settle the
money matters, marry Anthony, and wash my hands of everything. As to
Ferdy, I'll marry him to Prudence and let her look after him."
Having thus arranged the future, she retired to rest. But not to
sleep, since her brain was much too active for slumber. She tossed and
turned and sighed wearily at intervals, as the hours dragged on to
midnight. Only on hearing the church clock strike twelve did she begin
to lose consciousness, and, finally, thankfully sank into a deep
slumber, which lasted for hours.
Towards dawn, as is often the case with worried people, she began to
dream in a confused, broken way, and the purple fern, very naturally,
since it was in her mind, mingled with her fleeting visions. She
fled--so it seemed--through dark streets, of nightmare length, pursued
by the man in grey, who assumed monstrous proportions. He caught her,
at the end of interminable miles, and--so she dreamed, with gasping
horror--stabbed her to the heart. Then she felt the mark of the Purple
Fern--the mark, indeed, of the Beast, as it might be--stamped on her
forehead. Afterwards, half awake and half asleep--only in her dream
she was dead--she felt herself being placed in a narrow coffin, and
heard the hammering of the nails, which closed her in for ever and
ever and ever. With a violent effort she broke the nightmare's bonds,
and woke in a cold perspiration, to see the cold, faint dawn
glimmering behind the window blinds, and--horrible feeling--to hear
the knocking continue. But not on her dream coffin. The blows came on
her bedroom door, steady, persistent, terrifying. She heard her name
called in a quavering voice, and sprang out of bed, confused and
dazed.
Wrapping a dressing-gown round her and somewhat recovering her senses,
she hastily unlocked the door, which she invariably kept closed during
the hours of sleep. On the threshold stood Chalks, white and shaking,
with chattering teeth and trembling hands.
"Miss! Miss!" he stammered, and then fled down the stairs, unable to
get out his words. Sick with fear, Clarice followed in her disordered
attire, and came to Horran's room. On the bed lay the body of the
sick man, with a cruel wound in his breast. He was stiff and cold,
dead--murdered--and on his chill forehead was the infernal mark of the
Purple Fern.