FERDINAND BAIRD AT BAY
The next day, late in the afternoon, Clarice sat in the drawing-room
of The Laurels, waiting for the arrival of several people. It was a
very wet day, and the rain beat drowsily against the windows. Through
the streaming panes she could see the dull grey skies, the leafless
gardens, and the soaking lawns, dismal and depressing. With a sigh,
the girl thought how the hopeless weather resembled her life at the
present moment. Her brother was in danger of arrest, and even if he
were not arrested, how could she have anything to do with him again,
when he was practically a murderer? Even now, and in spite of Zara's
evidence, as reported by Osip, the girl could not bring herself to
believe that Ferdy had actually struck the blow. But only from his own
lips could she hear the truth--that is if he could be induced to speak
it, and she was anxiously waiting for him to be brought over from
Gattlinsands by Ackworth. Until Clarice accused him herself, she and
Anthony had arranged that Ferdy should be left in ignorance that the
secrets of his life had been discovered. Also a telegram had been sent
to Sir Daniel Jerce, asking him to come down on especial business, and
he likewise was ignorant of the true significance of the message.
Finally, Mr. Clarke was expected.
These meetings had been arranged by Clarice, who could see no other
way to clear up the many mysteries which seemed to environ the death
of Henry Horran. It was necessary to take some steps, to come to some
decision, and as speedily as possible, for it was likely that Osip,
out of revenge for the trick Clarice had played him, would inform
Scotland Yard of Ferdy's guilt. So Clarice, clothed in her mourning
for the dead man, waited in silence and in sorrow.
Never would she forget the return journey on the previous night. After
being revived by a glass of brandy, Anthony had taken her at once in a
cab to Liverpool Street Station, and there they had been fortunate
enough to catch a late train to the Junction. Ackworth had telegraphed
for a closed brougham, and in this he drove with Clarice to Crumel,
some miles distant. Then, after he had seen her safely in the hands of
Mrs. Rebson, he had departed in the fly for Gattlinsands, promising to
bring over Ferdy on the afternoon of the ensuing day. All that could
be done had been done, and now Clarice waited with a sick heart for
the coming interviews with Ferdy and Jerce. Both promised to be stormy
ones.
Exactly as the clock struck four, Ferdy's voice, gay and bright, was
heard in the hall. Clarice shuddered as she heard him. It was
extraordinary to her that Ferdy could laugh at all, seeing what he had
on his conscience. But he entered quite gaily, smiling and brisk, with
Anthony at his heels, looking grave. When the boy had kissed his
sister, he commented on Ackworth's low spirits, gaily.
"I can't make out what's up with Anthony," said he, taking a seat by
the fire and poking the coals into a blaze. "He came back late last
night, looking like an owl. I was playing snooker with Flanigan, and
he didn't even take an interest in the game, although I made some
ripping shots. What's the matter with him?"
"You are--" said Clarice, indignantly.
Ferdy dropped the poker with a clatter. "I am?" he echoed. "Why, what
do you mean?"--he glanced at Ackworth. "I say, old chap, what's the
joke? Have I been doing anything wrong?"
Ackworth shrugged his shoulders and walked to the window. Then he
glanced at his watch, and mentally noted that Jerce's train was almost
due. If Ferdy was to be disposed of, before the doctor arrived it
would be necessary to make him confess at once. Ferdy eyed Anthony in
astonishment, but no reason for this pointed silence occurred to his
shallow brain. He turned to his sister. "I say, Clarry!--"
"Sit down!" she commanded, harshly.
"What do you mean?" he flushed up. "Don't speak to me in that way."
Anthony crossed the room rapidly, and, taking Ferdy by the shoulders,
made him sit down. "You must not speak to your sister in that manner,
while I am by," he declared, sternly. "You are about to be spoken to,
in a way you won't like."
"Then I'll go," raged Ferdy, evading Ackworth's grip, and making for
the door. "How dare you lay hands on me--how dare you?"
"If you leave the room, Ferdy," said Clarice, in a quiet and level
voice, "you will run straight into the hands of the police."
The young man's face changed immediately to a chalky white, and he
fell nervelessly into a chair near the door. "The police?" he
whispered.
"Yes," said Clarice, pitilessly, for his unmanly terror disgusted her;
"you will probably spend your night in gaol."
"Clarice!" Ferdy staggered to his feet, violently trembling.
"I--I--I--don't know what you mean."
Ackworth gave a low laugh of scorn, and strolled to the hearth-rug to
take up his position before the fire. "You had better confess," he
said, in his sharp, military way.
"Confess what?"
"Oh!" Clarice clenched her hands and her eyes shot fire. "Why will you
keep up this pretence? You know well enough what you have to confess.
Will you do so here, or in the dock?"
"In the dock?" Ferdy flung forward half-way across the room. "I
don't--I never did--what is it?--oh, Clarry, you are making a
mistake."
"Is this a mistake?" asked his sister, and showed him the stamp.
Ferdy was drawn towards it like the ship to the fabled magnetic rocks
in the Arabian tale. "Where--where did you get it?" he whispered.
"In your room--hidden away."
"And who put it--who hid it--who--oh--" he caught his breath--"this is
a conspiracy to ruin me."
"Zara will ruin you--"
"Zara!"
"Jerce will ruin you--"
"Jerce!"
"Osip will ruin you."
"Osip! Osip! Osip!"
"Only Anthony and I can save you. Tell the truth--the whole truth."
"Clarry!"--Ferdy collapsed into a chair--"I--I never killed him."
"Zara declares that you did. She saw you through the window."
"She saw me--yes--she told me she saw me--but I was marking the
forehead of Uncle Henry with that"--he pointed to the stamp. "He was
dead when I entered the room; I swear that he was."
"Then you WERE in Uncle Henry's room on that night?" cried Clarice,
springing to her feet with horror-filled eyes. "You DID stamp his poor
flesh with that accursed Purple Fern. Oh, Anthony, Anthony," she
rushed towards her lover and caught at him with both hands, "how can I
bear it--how can I bear it? Disgrace--shame--murder--"
Ferdy slipped on to the floor, and clutched at her dress. He was
terrified at seeing Clarice desert him in this way, and whimpered like
a child that had been left alone in the dark. "Not murder. No! no! I
swear not murder. But--but--but--" he broke down crying, and hid his
shameful face in his hands, sobbing bitterly.
A silence ensued. Clarice concealed her face in Anthony's breast, and
he held her tightly to him, feeling absolutely helpless under the
strain of the moment, and feeling also that he was unable to console
her in any way. The door creaked and swung inward gently under a
scratching paw, and old Jane hobbled into the room, on the look-out
for afternoon tea. Seeing Ferdy on the ground, she went up to him and
licked the hands which concealed his face. In a mechanical manner he
smoothed her head, and in the stillness the clock on the mantelpiece
could be heard ticking steadily in the pauses of the beating rain.
Anthony was the first to recover his composure. "We must come to some
arrangement before Jerce arrives," he said.
"Jerce!" Ferdy leaped to his feet so unexpectedly that Jane ran under
the sofa with a howl of dismay. "Jerce?"
"He is coming down--he will be here in a few minutes. Clarice,
dear"--he led her to an armchair--"sit down and compose yourself."
"I am all right now," said Clarice, in a suffocating voice, and calmed
her unruly nerves with a violent effort. "Now then, Ferdy," she said,
in an ominously quiet voice, "we are waiting for your story."
"How much do you know of it?" asked the miserable young man.
"As much as Zara could tell me," said his sister, in a sad voice, "as
much as Osip knew."
"You have seen Osip?"
"Yes. I need not tell you how I came to meet him. But he accuses you
of the murder of Uncle Henry, and for all I know, he may already have
given notice to the police."
"What?" asked Ferdy, in a grating voice, "when he is wanted himself,
and for that crime?"
"Osip is innocent of this particular crime," interposed Ackworth.
"Then if he did not kill Uncle Henry, I don't know who did," declared
Ferdy, his face becoming sullen.
"You WILL tell lies," said Clarice, between her teeth.
"It is the truth; I swear it is the truth."
"Tell your story and let us judge," said Ackworth, imperiously, "and
remember, that your life is at stake."
"Would you betray me?"
"We would save you, and only by knowing the absolute truth can we save
you. Come, Baird, out with it."
Ferdy stared at the ground, and felt that he was being very hardly
treated by the two before him. He stole a look at their set faces, and
saw that he would have to lay bare the secrets of his shallow, false
life. A bolder man would have braved the matter out; a weaker man
would have fainted in the extremity of his terror. But Ferdy Baird,
half fool, half knave, acted up to his double character--that is, he
told all that could place him in a pleasant light, and suppressed what
he could. But by questioning and browbeating the lovers got the truth
out of him at last. In substance his story came to this, but he told
it in a somewhat different way:--
"Since you must know all," he said, sullenly, and with his eyes on the
carpet, "Jerce is the one to blame for the whole trouble; and Uncle
Henry is also--"
"Not a word against him," said Clarice, sternly, and placed her hand
in that of Ackworth's, for she felt that she needed what solace she
could obtain in this hour of sorrow and disgrace.
"Uncle Henry should have allowed me more money," said Ferdy, doggedly,
"and then I should not have got into trouble with Jerce. I thought
that I would be able to get what I wanted, since I was heir to two
thousand a year, and when I went to London I had a good time."
"A mad time--a reckless time--a wicked time," said Clarice.
"That depends upon the way you look at it," said the young man. "I had
a ripping time, I say, but it cost money. Jerce lent me some, because
he wanted to marry you, Clarry, and wished me to use my influence to
bring about the marriage."
"You never had any influence," said Clarice, while Anthony looked at
his future brother-in-law with the air of a man who wished to kick him
out of the house.
"Jerce thought I had, and lent me money. But I got into debt. I was in
love with Zara a year ago, and she made me spend no end of cash on
motor-drives and flowers and jewels, and all the rest of it."
"But you told me of two thousand pounds, Ferdy. Was there more?"
"Much more. I gambled, you see, and lost heavily on bridge. But it's
no use saying what I did, or how I spent the money, as I was simply
desperate. I did not dare to go to Uncle Henry, so I asked Jerce
again. He refused to help me, so I--I--" here Ferdy kicked a mat with
his feet and blurted out the shameful truth unwillingly, "I forged his
cheque for two hundred pounds."
"What!" Clarice nearly fainted.
"You young scoundrel!" gasped Ackworth, his face growing red.
"That's right. Preach away and kick a chap when he's down. I didn't
exactly forge the name, but I altered the figures of a cheque for
twenty pounds given me by Jerce, to one for two hundred. So you see I
am not quite a forger," ended Ferdy, cheerfully.
"Go on," commanded Anthony, curtly, and soothed the girl, who was
weeping bitterly. "Hush, Clarice, darling. We have heard the worst
now; nothing more shameful can be revealed."
"A forger and a murderer," cried Clarice, in agony--"my own brother."
"I am neither the one nor the other," said Ferdy, in a brazen manner.
"If you'll only listen to me, I can explain. Jerce got the cheque and
held it over me as a whip. He said that he would put me in gaol, if I
did not do what he wanted. For a long time he left me alone, and
then"--Ferdy sank his voice to a terrified whisper--"then he brought
me the stamp of the Purple Fern, and told me that I was to kill Uncle
Henry and stamp his forehead with the fern, so that the crime would
look like the work of Osip."
"And you accepted?" shrieked Clarice, with horror.
"I accepted to gain time," said Ferdy, sulkily. "What else could I do?
I was in Jerce's power, and could be sent to prison. But I never
intended to kill Uncle Henry."
"Why did Jerce want him killed?" asked Ackworth, suddenly.
"Well, he said that Uncle Henry's disease puzzled him, and that the
reason could not be found out, unless he was dead and his body was
examined. It was scientific curiosity."
"Pshaw!" said Anthony, while Clarice heard this explanation with
incredulous horror. "Do you mean to tell me that Jerce would place his
neck in a noose in order to gain surgical knowledge?"
"He was going to place my neck in a noose," corrected Ferdy, sulkily,
"and Jerce was quite mad about science. I found out a lot about his
devilries when I lived with him. He was a vivisection enthusiast, too.
Yes! You often wondered, Clarry, why Jane"--he glanced at the dog
lying quietly under the sofa--"why Jane hated Jerce so. Well, it was
because he started to vivisect her, and lamed her leg."
"What a wretch," cried Clarice, trembling with horror. "Oh, Anthony, I
can't bear it--I can't bear it."
"Hush, dear, hush." He sat beside her in the chair, and held her in
his arms like a mother nursing a babe. "Go on, Baird," he commanded.
"Jerce wasn't altogether bad," said Ferdy, grudgingly. "He let Jane
go, when he found that she wasn't much use as a subject, and gave her
to you, Clarry."
"Jane! Jane!" called the girl, faintly, and when the dog came she
patted the smooth head. "My poor Jane, how cruelly you have been
treated," whereon Jane licked the kind hand which caressed her, and
sat down with her tongue out, the picture of happiness.
"Well," said Ferdy, after a pause, "you see how I was placed. I had to
kill Uncle Henry, or go to gaol through Jerce. I tried to find out
something against Jerce that would give me the whip hand of him, but
he was too clever. But I did find out some things. Jerce used to
pretend to go to Whitechapel, and sometimes he did, but usually he
changed his dress and went on the spree."
"What do you mean by on the spree?" asked Clarice, sharply.
"I shouldn't like to tell you," said Ferdy, with great simplicity,
"for Jerce was a terror. I'm no great shakes, but Jerce was worse. He
spent money like water on women, buying jewels and houses and
furniture and dresses, and running race-horses, and gambling, and, in
fact," ended Ferdy, with an air of fatigue, "Jerce was, and is, a
blackguard; and even I, don't know everything about him."
"It's impossible that a well-known man like Sir Daniel Jerce could go
on in this way," said Anthony, decidedly.
"Oh, but he did. I found lots of shady people who knew him. But Jerce
was clever in covering his trail. Then Barras was in with him."
"Good heavens!" cried Clarice, in despair. "Are there no good men?"
"Barras wasn't good. He used to lark about also, but I think Jerce led
him away, from what I can gather."
"Remember, dear," said Anthony, bending over Clarice, "we saw them
together at the Shah's Rooms."
"What?" cried Ferdy, quickly, "have you been there?"
"Never you mind, go on with your story. You say that Jerce wanted
Uncle Henry to be killed so that he might find out the reason for the
disease?"
"That was the reason Jerce gave me, and said that it would be a
merciful release, as Uncle Henry could not live long. But one night I
overheard a conversation between Barras and Jerce--not the whole of
it, but scraps, and I gathered that Barras was giving Jerce some of
Uncle Henry's money--that is our money."
"Oh!" Clarice started to her feet, "the forty thousand pounds. I am
beginning to see. Sir Daniel Jerce had that money."
"I can't say--I'm not sure. But there was some question of our money
being lent; for Barras--as I heard--said something about Uncle Henry
becoming suspicious of the business. I couldn't exactly make out what
was meant," ended Ferdy, "but I gathered that the finances of the
estate--our estate--were wrong."
"I can see," said Clarice, quickly, "I can understand. Barras told a
lie when he said that he gave Uncle Henry the forty thousand in gold.
He gave it to Jerce, and made Uncle Henry the scapegoat. Nothing wrong
was ever suspected by poor Uncle Henry. He told me some days before he
was murdered that I should find everything in order."
"Well, you did."
"Yes," said Clarice, indignantly, "because Mr. Barras cooked the
accounts, and put the blame of the missing thousands on to my poor
guardian, who could not defend himself. The villain. And you knew
this, Ferdy--you knew this, and did not tell me?"
"How could I, when I was in Jerce's power over that bill? Besides, I
didn't clearly understand things. I only heard bits of the
conversation, you know."
"Go on--go on," said Ackworth, quickly, "tell us how you committed the
murder."
"I did not--I did not," cried Ferdy, furiously. "I swear I am innocent
of that crime. After Christmas, Jerce said that if I didn't kill Uncle
Henry before the end of the year, that he would denounce me. He said
that if I stamped the corpse with the Purple Fern everyone would think
that Osip had killed him. Then he told me about Frank Clarke, and how
he had given him the stamp and the gold box."
"Then he did have the gold box?" asked Clarice.
"Yes. He gave me the stamp, but he kept the box in his pocket, as he
thought it was safest there. He feared lest it should be found, and
lest the amethyst fern on it should give him away. When Osip attacked
him out there"--Ferdy pointed to the terrace--"Jerce managed to throw
it away, and then bamboozled me when I came up, about not having Osip
arrested. He dared not," cried Ferdy, tauntingly, "as Osip might have
given him away."
"Oh, great heavens!" moaned Clarice, rocking herself to and fro, "is
there much more of this?"
"No," said her brother, quickly. "I'm sure I want to end it as much as
you do, Clarry. I never intended to kill Uncle Henry, but Jerce
insisted."
"You've said that several times," said Anthony, impatiently.
"And I say it again. I got drunk on that night because Jerce worried
me so. I was quite feverish."
"Were you really drunk?" asked Clarice, eagerly.
"Yes, I was. Mother Dumps had been feeding me up with bad champagne in
honour of Zara's coming home. I came back, and you locked me in my
room, Clarry. I fell asleep, and didn't wake up until nearly two
o'clock in the morning."
"Are you sure of the time?" asked his sister, quickly.
"Yes, I am. I lighted the candle and looked at my watch. Then I drank
some water, and sat on the bed to think of what I should do. I felt
jolly miserable, I can tell you," said Ferdy, in an aggrieved tone,
"what with all my debts, and being in love with Prudence, and with
Zara worrying me, and with Jerce making things hot. Then I thought
that it would be best to go down and see Uncle Henry, and tell him
all. Remembering the conversation of Jerce and Barras, I fancied that
the accounts were wrong, and that if Jerce made it hot for me over the
bill, that Uncle Henry could make it hot for Jerce. I swear," cried
Ferdy again, "that when I went down the stairs I never intended to lay
a hand on the man who had been like a father to me. I intended to tell
him all, and throw myself on his mercy."
"How did you get out, when I had locked you in?"
Ferdy cast a contemptuous look on her, "Why, I had another key, of
course. You locked me in several times, and thought that I was safe,
but I could get out whenever I liked. I unlocked the door, and went
down to see Uncle Henry in my cloth slippers and dressing-gown."
"If you intended no harm," asked Anthony, "why did you take the stamp
with you--the Purple Fern stamp?"
"I intended to give it to Uncle Henry, and tell him how Jerce had got
it from Frank Clarke, and the use he intended to make of it. Well,
then, I went down carefully, and opened the bedroom door. I thought
that Uncle Henry might be awake. But he wasn't; he was dead."
There was a pause. "Are you sure?" asked Clarice, in a husky voice.
"I can swear to it. He was dead--stabbed to the heart--with the
bedclothes all disarranged, and I very nearly gave the alarm. Then I
thought that as Uncle Henry was dead, all I had to do was to stamp his
forehead with the Purple Fern, to get the cheque from Jerce into my
possession. I was about to do so," said Ferdy, frankly, while his
sister groaned at this fresh instance of callous wickedness, "when I
heard a noise outside, and slipped under the bed."
"Why on earth did you do that?" demanded Anthony, bluntly.
"It was very natural," protested Ferdy, sulkily. "I was afraid lest
the murderer should return and kill me; and, of course, I didn't want
anyone to see me beside the dead body of Uncle Henry, considering the
circumstances. I fancied Chalks might be coming, and dreaded lest I
should get into trouble, as I had no business in the room at that
time. Oh, there were plenty of reasons for me to make myself scarce."
"Well, and was it Chalks?" said Clarice, tapping her foot,
impatiently.
"No, it wasn't. Old Clarke came in at the window calling softly on
Uncle Henry. I heard his voice, and peeped out to see him. He nearly
squealed when he spotted the body, so I don't think that he is guilty.
Then he groaned and prayed, and, for some reason, arranged the
bedclothes smoothly. Afterwards he cut as hard as he could,
frightened out of his life, as I was. In a few minutes I crept out,
and stamped the corpse's forehead, which was the only thing I could do
to put myself square with Jerce. When I crept upstairs and locked
myself again in my room, I thought that everything was safe. But it
wasn't," grumbled Ferdy, apparently thinking himself aggrieved. "Zara
was knocking about, and spotted me through the window. She made me
break off with Prudence by threatening to tell the police. I said that
Prudence wouldn't let me off, but Zara said she could manage that, and
she did too, by telling the poor girl that Mr. Clarke had committed
the crime, which I swear he hadn't," finished Ferdy, generously.
"Is that all?" questioned Clarice, when he ended out of breath.
"What more do you wish me to say?" asked Ferdy, indignantly. "I'm not
to blame, as I couldn't help Uncle Henry being killed. And I never
forged the cheque--that is, the name, you know, Clarry--I only altered
the figures a little. And I swear I never stabbed Uncle Henry, but
just stamped him with the Fern."
"That was an abominable thing to do," cried Ackworth, angrily.
"I don't see that," said the young man, obstinately. "What did it
matter when Uncle Henry was dead? I had to get even with Jerce, and
save myself somehow. And I did, too. Jerce, when he came for the
post-mortem, and saw the stamp on the forehead, gave me back the
cheque right enough, and I burnt it, so no one can harm me in that
way. I think you are making a great row over nothing," ended Ferdy, in
an injured tone, "as I am quite innocent."
Clarice looked at Anthony, and Anthony at Clarice, in despair. Both of
them were amazed at the callous view Ferdy took of the case. He really
did not seem to be aware of the enormity of his fault, and looked upon
his crimes--for crimes they were--as merely mistakes of ordinary life.
Perhaps Anthony--for Clarice was too heart-broken to speak--would have
proceeded to lecture Ferdy on his iniquities, but that a ring came to
the front door. Jane, at Miss Baird's feet, raised her head, and
Ackworth went to the drawing-room door. When he opened it the
cheerful, bland voice of Sir Daniel Jerce was heard remarking on the
bad weather to Mrs. Rebson. At once Jane began to growl, and she flew
across the room.
"Anthony, catch her," cried Clarice, and the young man had only time
to grip Jane by the scruff of the neck, and swing her aside, when the
doctor entered the room. Jerce looked quiet and smiling, and
apparently had no idea of the danger of his position. He laughed, when
he saw Jane snapping and snarling with blazing eyes, the picture of
impotent wrath. "I really wonder why that dog hates me so?" said Sir
Daniel, shrugging.
"She knows you better than we do," retorted Clarice, sternly.