ACKWORTH'S NEWS
Mrs. Rebson, being a woman, and fond of gossip, had her fair share of
curiosity. Also she was anxious to hear what Clarice had been doing in
London, and to know exactly how she had saved Ferdy, although Mrs.
Rebson had a very vague idea of what Ferdy was to be saved from. That
her darling had anything to do with the crime never entered her
foolish old head. However, her impatience would not permit her to stay
downstairs longer than an hour, so she went back to the room of her
young mistress as soon as she could.
Clarice was not within, and Mrs. Rebson was puzzled. She hunted
through the other rooms on the same floor, and at length came to
Ferdy's apartment. Here she found the room in disorder, and Clarice
lying on the carpet in a dead faint. Considerably alarmed, Mrs. Rebson
got water and vinegar and sal volatile, and all such-like aids to
insensible people. Shortly Clarice revived and sat up with a dazed
look. But as soon as a memory of what she had found came back to her
with a rush, she struggled to her feet, and crushed up the scrap of
shaving-paper upon which she had impressed the fern. The stamp itself
she had held closely in her left hand all the time she was insensible,
so she did not think that her dim-eyed old nurse had seen anything.
More than that, Mrs. Rebson ascribed to the London trip this unexampled
behaviour on the part of the girl. Never before had strong-minded
Clarice Baird lost her senses.
"Come and lie down, deary," coaxed Mrs. Rebson, leading the girl back
to her own room; "you're fairly worn out with gadding about that nasty
London. I'll bring you up some tea."
"Do, Nanny," said Clarice, faintly, and when the nurse left the room,
she lay passively upon her bed.
What she felt at the moment no one knew, and no one could ever know.
The stamp of the Purple Fern was inseparably connected with the many
murders, and that it should be in Ferdy's bedroom, hidden away so
carefully, seemed terrible and inexplicable. Ferdy could not have
murdered his guardian, since he had been locked up in his room, and
yet the stamp which had been used to impress the fatal mark on the
forehead of the dead was in Ferdy's possession. Of course, Osip, who
was really the murderer, might have had another stamp. Certainly he
must have had another stamp, and no doubt each member of the
triumvirate possessed a similar article. Ferdy was guiltless, and Osip
had done the deed. And yet, how came it that Ferdy had this particular
stamp in his possession? Clarice could have shrieked with fear and
horror, and had to roll over on her pillow to prevent herself from
crying out. And then another agonised thought came into her tormented
mind.
Zara had told her to search Ferdy's room, therefore Zara must have
known that the stamp was hidden away there. And if Zara knew, it was
in her power to hang the poor boy. Poor boy--could even his own sister
speak of him in that way, when he was connected with a callous, cruel
crime? He had not stabbed Horran with the assegai, since he had been
locked in his room, but he must have impressed the Purple Fern on the
dead man's forehead. Unless Osip--oh, yes, Osip must have done it, not
Ferdy--not Ferdy--not Ferdy. And so the girl's distracted brain buzzed
and droned with the hideous repetition of one word, "Guilt! Guilt!
Guilt!"
"I shall go mad," moaned Clarice. "What am I to do? I dare not
tell Anthony. I dare not marry him. What is to be done--oh, great
heavens, what is to be done?" Then it came into her mind that Zara had
stated how Clarke had paid his midnight visit to the death-chamber,
and at two o'clock. That was the time--according to the medical
evidence--when the deed had been committed. Between one and two
o'clock in the morning, Dr. Jerce had said at the inquest. And Clarke
was there. If he was innocent himself, he might know who was guilty.
He could not have seen Ferdy, who was bolted and barred in his
bedroom; but he might have seen Osip kill Horran and impress that
infernal seal of evil on the dead. Yes! She would see Clarke--she must
see Clarke. There was no need for her to say what she had discovered.
She would merely let Clarke speak. She would tax him with his visit,
and to exonerate himself--if he was guiltless--he would certainly
detail all that happened. If he mentioned Ferdy's name--but then he
would not do that--he could not--he dare not. Ferdy could prove an
alibi. His sister could prove an alibi for him. Whomsoever killed
Horran, her brother was, at least, innocent. And yet the stamp--the
stamp of the Purple Fern. How could she explain that away?
"My! Miss Clarice, you do look bad," said Mrs. Rebson, entering with a
dainty meal of tea and toast. "That nasty London. Here, drink the tea.
You'll feel better soon, deary. And after all, you have saved Master
Ferdy, haven't you, my deary little maid?"
Clarice winced and lied bravely. "Yes," she said, faintly; "I have
saved Ferdy. You need have no fear, Nanny. Leave me for ten minutes."
Rather reluctantly the old woman departed, and Clarice forced herself
to drink a cup of tea and to eat a morsel of toast. She would have to
be strong, if Ferdy was to be saved. Zara knew the truth about the
boy, and might tell the police. There was no one to save Ferdy, poor,
weak, foolish creature, but his sister, and his sister would save him
in the face of all obstacles. Clarice, therefore, fought with herself;
she struggled desperately with her woman's weakness; she braced
herself with prayer, and finally triumphed over the flesh by the
strength of her spirit. When Mrs. Rebson stole back to the bedroom,
she was amazed to see how rapidly her young mistress had recovered her
presence of mind. She had left a pale-faced, tearful girl; she found a
calm, self-contained woman.
"It's wonderful what tea and toast will do," Mrs. Rebson, with great
complacency.
"Nanny," observed Clarice, who had now determined what to do; "send to
Mr. Clarke, and tell him to see me this afternoon."
"You are not well enough, deary."
"I am. I must see him."
"But your hair, deary."
"What's the matter with--oh, yes." Clarice mechanically put her hand
to her head. "It is rather awkward. But it is not too closely cropped,
Nanny. Get out the hair I cut off, and we'll weave it into what I have
left on my scalp."
Mrs. Rebson laughed at what she conceived was a joke, and between them
they contrived, very skilfully, to fasten on the shorn tresses. As
Ferdy usually wore his hair in a musician-like way, Clarice had
imitated the cut, so it was not difficult to replace the severed locks
in the style in which she generally wore them. Also, since she wished
to still play the part of invalid, she made Mrs. Rebson draw down the
blinds and light the fire. Then, swathed in blankets and shawls,
Clarice sat ready for the visit of the parson. She had failed to
deceive Sir Daniel Jerce, but Mr. Clarke, being less clever and
observant, and not a doctor, she felt certain that she would manage to
trick him. Having thus arranged her stage, the anxious girl waited for
the vicar.
Mr. Clarke appeared almost on the heels of the messenger, and looked
more wild and wan than ever. With a weary air he shook hands with
Miss Baird, and expressed his regret that she was suffering from
influenza. Then he sat down opposite to her and stared into the fire
with lack-lustre eyes. Clarice had to break the ice. "Mr. Clarke," she
said, hesitating, for it was not easy to begin; "I wish to speak to
you about a very important matter----"
"I am quite at your service, Clarice."
"And one which touches your reputation," said the girl.
Mr. Clarke started and became paler than ever, as he cast a keen, wild
look at the speaker. "I--I--I--don't understand," he stuttered.
"Carry your thoughts back to the night when Uncle Henry was murdered,"
said Clarice, significantly, "and you will understand."
The vicar considered for a few moments, and then shook his head. "No,
I don't know what you mean. I thought--I thought," he moistened his
dry lips, "I thought that you were going to speak of Frank. And I
won't have his name mentioned," he ended, violently.
"I did not intend to speak of Frank," said Clarice, wondering why the
memory of his dead son should so agitate him; "but of your visit to
Uncle Henry's room on that night."
"My visit," stammered the old man. "Your midnight visit."
"Who said that I----"
"Oh, there is no need for me to give names," interrupted Clarice, in
sharp tones, "but someone saw you leaving the bedroom at two in the
morning. What were you doing there at that time?"
"Oh, yes, I remember." Mr. Clarke spoke in a dreamy way. "I should
have spoken to the police about that. But Frank's wickedness put it
quite out of my head. And then, of course, it looked awkward for me."
Clarice was almost too astonished to speak. That he should take the
revelation so calmly perplexed her greatly. "How do you mean, that it
looked awkward for you?" she asked, after an embarrassing pause.
"Going to see poor Horran at that hour," said Mr. Clarke, innocently;
"and then seeing his dead body."
Clarice rose unsteadily. Was the man mad to admit what he had seen?
She could not make any remark, but stared at him, tongue-tied. The
vicar still continued dreamy and absent-minded. "And then I owed poor
Horran one thousand pounds with interest," he went on, slowly; "some
people might have said that I had murdered him."
"Then you--you--you are--innocent," gasped Miss Baird.
Clarke looked up sharply, struck by the speech and the significance of
her tones. "Innocent," he said, in a clear and vigorous voice, "I am
innocent, of course. You never thought that I was guilty?"
"Well, the person who saw you----"
"Who was it?" asked Clarke, quickly.
"I decline to mention names."
"No matter! no matter! But I am surprised that you should believe me
guilty of a wicked deed, Clarice. You have known me for years, yet it
now seems that you do not know me at all."
"If you will explain----"
"Yes. I'll explain at once. I should have explained before--and to the
police. But Frank's wickedness--Frank's death--oh!" he clasped his
hands together in an agony of sorrow; "was ever a man tried so hardly
as I have been? Hush! Say nothing. Sit down. Let me collect my
thoughts, and I'll tell you everything--that is, about my visit to
poor Horran on that night. Nothing else need be talked about; my own
affairs are--my own affairs."
Unable to remain seated, he rose, and walked up and down the room
trying to compose himself. Clarice, wondering what he was about to
say, resumed her seat and watched him in silence. After a time, Mr.
Clarke recovered his self-control, and, still walking, he told her all
that she wanted to know.
"I saw Horran one afternoon," he explained. "You remember what I said
at the inquest. I noticed that the bedroom window was open, so I
slipped in, anxious to gain time from Horran to pay the interest. I
did not wish to be sold up, you know, so I told him everything, and he
was very angry."
"With you?" questioned Clarice.
"Not with me; certainly not with me. Barras was in fault. He had told
Barras to lend me the thousand pounds for as long as I required them.
There was no question of interest, and when I mentioned the ten per
cent., Horran declared that he knew nothing about that, and should
have been told before, that such an interest had been charged. He had
never intended that I should be hampered in that way. The loan was to
be from a friend to a friend. It is strange," mused Clarke, "that in
three years and more, Barras should never have mentioned to Horran
that he had charged interest."
"He evidently charged the interest secretly," said Clarice, after a
thoughtful pause, "and, naturally, would say nothing about it. And
then you saw Uncle Henry frequently during those three years. Why did
you not mention it yourself?"
"Horran never, during our earlier interviews, touched on the subject
of the loan, and the matter was never discussed. It was only of late,
when I found that I could not pay the interest, that I wished to speak
of my difficulties, and then Jerce would not allow me to see my old
friend."
"He was quite right," said Clarice, reproachfully, "seeing how ill
Uncle Henry was, and you did upset him, you know."
"Barras upset him," expostulated the vicar. "He was angry with Barras,
not with me, and declared that I should have spoken before. He also
said that Jerce had no right to prevent my seeing him, and that there
was no need for me to go to the front door. When I wished to see him,
he said, I could enter by the French window, which was generally
open."
"Yes, it was," said Miss Baird, thinking of the difference of opinion
which existed between the two doctors; "but why did you choose so late
an hour to enter by that way?"
Clarke hesitated and looked down. "I was much disturbed on the night
of the crime. I had received bad news. Unable to sleep, I walked in my
garden."
"On that bitterly cold night?"
"Oh, the thaw had come by that time, you know. I left my garden and
walked about the town. I had no idea of going to see Horran, for at
that time I knew that he would be asleep. However, I walked back to
the vicarage up the lane, and saw a light in the bedroom and the
window open."
"You are certain that it was open?" asked Clarice.
"I entered by it, as I thought I would see if Horran was asleep or
awake, and then--"
"Well. Was he asleep or awake?"
"He was dead," said the vicar, with great emotion. "He was lying in
bed with the clothes in disorder, and his breast streaming with
blood."
"With the clothes in disorder," echoed Clarice, raising herself. "Why,
when I saw poor Uncle Henry's corpse, the clothes were carefully
arranged and smoothed."
"I did that," said Mr. Clarke, in a broken voice. "I saw that he was
dead, so I arranged the clothes and hastily went away, without
touching anything in the room."
"Why did you not give the alarm?"
"Why!" cried Clarke, astonished; "when I might have been accused of
committing the crime? Am I a fool, Clarice? My mere presence at such
an hour would have accused me. No! I returned home, and said nothing
about what I had seen. It was a few minutes past two o'clock when I
regained my bed."
"And," Clarice asked the question in a low, anxious voice, "did you
see anyone within or without the house?"
"No. I saw no one and heard nothing. Who was it saw me?"
"Zara Dumps, who had gone out late at night to procure medicine for
her mother."
"And why did she not accuse me?"
"She did, to Prudence, and so made Prudence give up Ferdy, whom Zara
wishes to marry."
"Then Zara made a false accusation, and I wonder that my daughter
believed her."
"She did not at first," explained Clarice, "but Prudence found blood
on the cuffs of a shirt you had worn."
"Very likely. When I was arranging the bedclothes of my murdered
friend, the blood could easily have got on to the cuffs. So this was
why Prudence gave up your brother; and I thought she did so because I
wished it."
"Why did you wish it, Mr. Clarke? You were pleased, once."
"Yes," said the vicar, sadly, "for then I did not know what I know
now."
"About Frank?"
"Never mention his name--never speak of him. I am not master of myself
when I think--I think--" Mr. Clarke clutched his scanty locks with
both hands and rushed suddenly from the room. Clarice did not wish to
call him back, since she knew all that she wished to know. Clarke was
innocent, and he had not set eyes upon her brother. So far Ferdy was
safe. But who could have written that anonymous letter? Until the
author of that was discovered, Clarice knew that she would have no
peace of mind, as always she would be apprehensive lest Ferdy should
be arrested.
All that afternoon Clarice puzzled over what was best to be done, and
remained in her room with an aching head. Her feigned illness was
rapidly turning to a real one, so sick did she feel with worry and
anxiety. Then she received a surprise. Anthony's card was brought up,
and Mrs. Rebson said that he was waiting for her in the drawing-room.
"Why is he here?" Clarice asked herself; then, hastily arranging her
attire, she went down, filled with nervous fears.
"Clarice," said Anthony, abruptly, and coming forward with
outstretched hands. "I have made a discovery--I must tell you at once
what I have found out in Whitechapel."
"Have you been there? What about Ferdy?"
"I left him in charge of another fellow. He's still at Gattlinsands.
Wait, I'll explain later. But my news. The consumptive chap attended
by Jerce--one of the Purple Fern murderers, was--who do you
think?--none other than Frank Clarke, the vicar's son."