THE WHOLE TRUTH
Sir Daniel looked surprised when he heard Clarice's remark, and
glanced from her to Ferdy. He saw that both brother and sister were
white and troubled, but, feeling absolutely safe, he never ascribed
their emotion to anything connected with himself. Advancing to the
fire, he warmed his hands, and smiled more blandly than ever. "I
should think you should know me by this time, Miss Baird," he said,
cheerfully. "Wet weather, isn't it?"
Clarice said nothing, and Ferdy evaded the eye of Jerce, while
Anthony, having put Jane out into the garden, returned and closed the
drawing-room door. Considering what was to be said, it was best, as he
thought, to keep the conversation as private as possible. The doctor
also noted that Ackworth looked stern and white. By this time, he
showed a slight uneasiness, as trouble was too palpably in the air for
him to ignore it. Perhaps some thought of betrayal crossed his mind,
for he suddenly looked apprehensively at young Baird. Ferdy dodged his
eye again, and the doctor, to break an oppressive silence, made an
uneasy joke.
"You are all very quiet," said he, smiling in a wry way. "Is it
because I have forgotten my manners, and have not shaken hands? I ask
all your pardons, and will do so now, Miss Baird."
"No," said Clarice, putting her hands behind her back, "and I wonder
that you have the assurance even to speak to me."
"Considering that you asked me down, that is a strange speech," said
Jerce, frowning, and losing his suave looks. "I thought that you were
satisfied with my assurance that I never wrote that anonymous letter
of which you complained?"
"I know that you did not write it."
"In that case, I shall be glad to know why you greet me in this way?"
said Jerce, in icy tones. "Is it that Captain Ackworth is angry with
me because I dared to love you?"
"No," said Anthony, in his turn, "and to save you further surmises as
to what is the matter, allow me to inform you, Dr. Jerce--"
"Sir Daniel, if you please," interrupted the other, his large face
becoming watchful and cunning; "give me my proper title."
"I can do that," said Clarice, who was restraining her wrath with
great difficulty, "you are a scoundrel."
"Indeed," said Jerce, blanching and wincing, but maintaining his
composure in a most wonderful manner, considering the provocation. "I
regret that you should call an old friend by so harsh a name."
"An old friend who plotted the death of--"
"It's a lie," broke in Jerce, with a sudden flash of rage. "I never
intended Horran any harm."
"By your own mouth you are condemned," said Anthony, quickly. "Miss
Baird never mentioned names. Why should you think that she meant Mr.
Horran, I ask you?"
"Because Horran is dead, and death was mentioned," said Jerce,
striving to extricate himself from the difficulty. "Perhaps you will
explain why I have been asked here to be insulted?"
"Would you rather that the police insulted you?" asked Anthony,
coldly.
"You speak in riddles, Captain Ackworth."
"I think you can answer them, Sir Daniel."
"I fear that I cannot," rejoined Jerce, shrugging.
But with all his calmness, an air of fear pervaded his whole bearing,
and his cold eyes glanced uneasily from one person to another. "Will
you explain the meaning of all this, Ferdinand?" he said, addressing
himself to the one person in the room who had not yet spoken.
"I have explained," said Ferdy, half afraid and half defiantly; "they
know everything."
"Concerning what?" asked Jerce, wincing again, but still
self-controlled.
"Clarice and Anthony know the whole business," cried the young man,
his voice loud and angry, as he strove to assert himself in the
presence of the man he so greatly feared. "I have told them how you
got the Purple Fern stamp, and how you tried to make me kill Uncle
Henry. There! You can say what you like now."
Sir Daniel's nostrils dilated, and his eyes grew hard. "You are
talking nonsense, I think," he said, perfectly calmly.
"Nonsense!" stormed Ferdy, quailing under those stern eyes. "It is not
nonsense, and you know it. I have had quite enough of being bullied by
you, Jerce"--he did not pay him the compliment of a respectful use of
the great man's title. "You have been my master too long. It is my
turn now. And who are you to dictate to me?--you, who lead a fast
life, who squander money, who play fast and loose with women of the
worst--"
"Stop!" cried Jerce, so loudly that the young man's voice died away.
"Remember that your sister is present. My character is high enough to
need no denial to the charges you bring against it. The King does not
honour men such as you have described, with knighthoods."
"Ah, you have always been clever enough to keep things dark," said
Ferdy, bitterly. "But I overheard you talking to Barras. I know that
you were in league with him to cheat Uncle Henry out of our money, and
the forty thousand pounds went into--"
"You lie--you lie," interrupted the doctor, losing his temper, and a
perspiration broke out on his high bald forehead. "You know that you
lie. You can't prove a word you say."
"Barras can, and Barras will."
"Barras will not. Send for Barras now. I appearl to you, Miss Baird. I
appeal to you, Captain Ackworth. My character is at stake. I demand
that you telegraph to London for Barras, that he may be confronted
with this young liar. I am not afraid to face the truth."
The doctor spoke so bravely and so fiercely that for the moment
Anthony and Clarice wavered in their belief of Ferdy's story. They
knew well that Ferdy was a supreme liar, and, on the face of it, Sir
Daniel Jerce's character had always been above reproach. The doctor
saw that he had made an impression, and followed up his advantage,
swiftly and vehemently.
"That Ferdinand should accuse me is no surprise," he went on, in a
ringing voice. "I have done so much for him, that it is natural he
should be ungrateful. I have always found that those I have helped
have been my worst enemies. Ferdinand is indebted to me for money, for
advice, for education, and for liberty."
"For liberty?" echoed Clarice, drawing near to the speaker.
"Yes! That young whelp received a cheque from me for twenty pounds as
a loan. He altered the figures and the writing to two hundred pounds
with a cleverness which would have done credit to an accomplished
forger. I could have put him in gaol. But I forgave him, and this
ingratitude is my reward."
"One moment, Ferdy," said Clarice, checking her brother's speech with
a gesture, "where is the forged cheque, Sir Daniel?"
Jerce was taken aback. "I gave it to Ferdinand," he said, sullenly.
"You did, when you could have used it to stop his evil doings?"
"I wished to give him another chance of reforming," protested Jerce.
"You liar!" shouted Ferdy, beside himself with rage. "You gave me the
cheque after I had stamped Uncle Henry's dead body with the Purple
Fern according to your directions."
"Yes," said Jerce, rashly losing his self-control, "and after you had
murdered your guardian."
"I did not! I did not!"
"On what grounds do you base this accusation, Jerce?" asked Ackworth.
"On the grounds that Felix Exton, the young man who died in Tea
Street, Whitechapel, gave me the stamp of the Purple Fern----"
"You never said that before."
"There was no need. I never said so, because Ferdinand stole the stamp
from me, and I thought that he might make use of it. Horran was angry
with him, and Ferdinand wished to get rid of him, thinking that he
would then come into the money. I base my accusation upon the fact
that the Purple Fern was stamped on my poor friend's forehead, and
only Ferdinand, who possessed the stamp, could have done that. For
your sake, Miss Baird, I have held my peace, cruelly though you have
treated me; but now, when Ferdinand seeks to throw the blame of his
wickedness on me, I must speak out, to protect myself. If need be I
shall go to the police, and tell all that I know. I am not a man to be
defied with impunity."
The clever turn which the doctor gave to Ferdy's story startled
Clarice, as she saw how dangerous the man was, and to what lengths he
was prepared to go to save his own skin. "You had the gold box," she
said, rather weakly.
"Pardon me. Osip dropped that when he searched me."
"He denies that. He said that you had the box, for which he was
looking, and threw it away."
"Osip says that--and how comes it that you have seen Osip?"
"I saw him by appointment at the Shah's Rooms last night," said
Clarice, boldly; "and there I also saw you and Mr. Barras."
"What of that?" said Jerce, coolly. "I have a right to go to any place
I choose, I should hope. So you saw Osip, and you did not have him
arrested for the murder of your guardian."
"You forget," said Anthony, swiftly, "you have just accused Ferdinand
of that crime, Sir Daniel."
"And I do still. Ferdinand is Osip's accomplice. Both of them are
concerned in the matter. And I am accused falsely. There is no one can
prove that I am guilty in any way."
A knock came to the door, and Mrs. Rebson made her appearance. "Will
you please to come out here, Miss?" she said, "there is a gentleman
wants to see you."
Sir Daniel wriggled uneasily, and went a shade whiter. But he still
maintained his defiant attitude; while Clarice, wondering who had come
to visit her, and anticipating fresh trouble with a sinking heart,
went into the hall, closing the drawing-room door after her. Here she
found Mr. Clarke, looking more wild and wan than ever, and very much
agitated. On seeing her, he came up at once, while Mrs. Rebson
discreetly withdrew to her own room.
"Is it true that Sir Daniel Jerce is here?" asked Clarke, abruptly.
"Yes, I sent for him to clear up things. Why did you not come in?"
"I don't wish to see Sir Daniel," said Clarke, nervously; "he has
behaved very badly to me. He threatened to tell about something
connected with a--a--a--a relative," ended Clarke, evasively.
Clarice knew as well as if he had spoken openly that the vicar
referred to his scapegoat son. However, it was not her aim to frighten
Clarke away by pretending to know too much, so she merely picked up
some newly arrived letters from the hall table, as she replied, "You
must come in and face Sir Daniel Jerce," she said quietly; "We are
bringing him to book."
"Bringing him to book. What do you mean?"
"Go in and you'll hear," said Clarice, and was about to usher the
vicar into the room, when she caught sight of the writing on one of
the letters. "Go in--go in," she said, hurriedly. "I'll follow
shortly."
Rather perplexed, and not at all anxious to face Jerce, the vicar
approached the drawing-room door with hesitating steps. There he
glanced back, and saw Clarice hurriedly reading a letter, with a white
face and an agitated manner. For the moment, he was inclined to
return, but gathering his courage together, he boldly opened the door,
and saw Sir Daniel Jerce, facing Ferdy, defiantly.
"You can say what you like," were the words which struck the parson's
ear, "but you know that I am as innocent of Horran's death as you are
guilty. You stabbed him, you----"
"No!" cried Clarke, coming forward rapidly. "What do you mean, Sir
Daniel, by accusing this young man of such a crime?"
Jerce wheeled, and his eyes flashed when he beheld Clarke. The vicar
had quite thrown aside his nervous, hesitating manner, and with an
unflinching face he looked at the great doctor. Anthony, anticipating
some fresh revelation, rose from his seat, while Ferdy stared
open-mouthed at Prudence's father. He had never seen the vicar look so
bold.
"I accuse him," said Jerce, with a snarl, and keeping his hard eyes
firmly on the weak face of the parson, "because he is guilty."
"Not of murder. I swear not of murder."
"There, you see," cried Ferdy, triumphantly. "I never killed Uncle
Henry."
"You did!" said Jerce, fiercely. "I defy Clarke to contradict me."
"I do contradict you."
"Remember, Clarke, what I know, said Jerce, menacingly.
"Know," said the vicar, despairingly, "yes, you know, and you have
made use of what you know to make me act unjustly towards Ferdinand. I
should have had him for a son-in-law but for you, and my poor girl
would have been happy. I held my peace, because you threatened to
expose my unhappy son's guilt. But I shall do so no longer. I refuse
to stand by and see Ferdinand accused of murder."
"Your own son is a murderer," said Jerce, savagely.
"Ah," said Anthony, significantly, "So you knew that."
"He knew it, and he threatened me with it. He wanted to let all the
world know that Felix Exton was Frank Clarke," cried the vicar, "and
I--for my daughter's sake--held my peace."
"About what?" asked Anthony, quickly.
"Take care, Clarke--take care," said Jerce, despairingly.
"I take care no longer," said the parson, fiercely; "I have told my
son's shame here, and if necessary I shall tell it to all the world,
rather than let Ferdinand suffer unjustly. He did not murder Horran."
"Then who did?" asked Clarice, entering swiftly, and standing with her
back to the door.
Clarke pointed to the doctor. "Sir Daniel Jerce."
"You liar!" foamed the accused man.
"I saw you in your motor coming along by the common during my midnight
walk," said Clarke, rapidly. "I saw you hide the motor in the woods. I
followed you secretly to the house. You entered by the window, and I
stole up to see you kill Horran with the assegai, which you tore from
the wall. You fled, and I ran after you. I caught you in the lane,
near the wood, and accused you. Then you told me that Frank was a
murderer--one of the Purple Fern gang--and swore to denounce him, dead
though he was, unless I held my peace. I did so--yes, God help me--I
did so, and concealed your wickedness to save the good name of my dead
son. While Osip was accused, I still held my peace, for another murder
set down to him mattered little. But now that you accuse Ferdinand, I
say boldly, and I will say it to the police, that you and none other
murdered Henry Horran."
"It's false," gasped Jerce, quailing and shrinking, and looking
towards the window, as though anxious to escape.
"It is true. After I left you, I went back to the room----"
"That was when I was under the bed," said Ferdy, quickly.
"Were you? I did not know; but you are innocent, my poor boy. I
arranged the bedclothes, and then returned home. Zara Dumps accused
me and I said nothing, although I knew the truth. But there stands the
murderer," he pointed to Jerce, who trembled; "go for the police."
"No! No!" cried Sir Daniel, ghastly white. "Let me go. I promise to
destroy myself. Anything rather than public shame."
"I'll have you in gaol to-night," said Ferdy, triumphantly.
"Take care!" snarled Jerce. "If I killed Horran, you stamped the fern
on the forehead of the dead. I'll swear that you were my accomplice."
"Clarice," cried Ferdy, gasping with fear, "you hear."
"I hear, and I know how to act," said Clarice, calm and white.
"Anthony, have you pen and ink and paper? There they are," she
indicated a rosewood desk in the corner of the drawing-room. "Sit down
and write what Sir Daniel says."
"What would you do?" asked Ackworth, obeying her.
"I would save Ferdy."
"And hang Jerce," cried Ferdy, viciously.
"Hold your tongue," cried his sister, harshly; "Sir Daniel," she
added, turning towards the miserable doctor, "if you will confess your
crime, and sign the confession, you shall leave this house free."
"No! No! No!" cried Anthony, from the desk, "you are wrong."
"I am right," insisted the girl; "with such a confession, we are safe.
Ferdy will say nothing, neither will Mr. Clarke."
"I shall hold my tongue, so long as Ferdinand is not arrested for a
crime he never committed," said the parson, "and so long as Frank's
good name is saved. Frank was an evil man, but he was also my son."
"Confess, then," said Clarice to Jerce.
He wiped his brow and accepted the situation without argument. It was
impossible for him to face the direct evidence of Clarke. "I thank you
for the chance of escape," he said to the girl, quietly, "and I
promise you that to-night I shall die. I will not live to run the risk
of being hanged. Write, Captain Ackworth, and I shall sign."
Anthony dipped the pen into the ink, and waited. Ferdy sat down. Mr.
Clarke leaned against the wall, listening intently, and Clarice,
determined not to let Jerce go until the confession was signed, stood
with her back to the door. Sir Daniel cast a glance around, and,
composing himself with a mighty effort, which showed the strong nature
of the man, he began to speak quietly:
"I did murder Horran," he said, slowly, "and for two reasons. One was
that I wished to learn the nature of the disease which he suffered
from, and that could only be made plain by a post-mortem examination.
The other, and more ignoble motive, was that I was in league with
Barras to get money out of him."
"Then you had the forty thousand pounds?" inquired Clarice, quickly.
"And more," answered the doctor, coolly. "I have a double nature--a
Jekyl and Hyde nature, as in Stevenson's wonderful story. As Sir
Daniel Jerce, I have won my position by brain power and hard work, and
am a philanthropist and a reasonable man. But as Daniel Jerce, the
creature, I am devoured by passions, and am capable of lowering myself
to the level of the beasts. My life in Harley Street was, and is,
above reproach--but my other life----"
"Oh!" cried Clarice, with sudden horror. "Ferdy has told us something
of that. Say no more--it's too terrible."
Jerce bowed. "You have been so kind, Miss Baird, that your wish is my
law," he said, politely. "Well, then, for my secret life. I required
money. I made much, and spent it, and I wanted more. Horran, being
only your guardian and not having money of his own, was too honest to
help me. Barras came to me, years and years ago, to be cured of a
disease. I did cure him, and he was grateful. He lent me his own money
for a time, but I still wanted more. Then he lent me some that
belonged to the estate, when I was in difficulties, and he lent it out
of sheer gratitude to me. Don't blame Barras, Miss Baird. He was as
good a man as was Henry Horran. But to make a long story short, from
the moment Barras tampered with the trust money, he was in my power,
and I threatened to tell Horran unless I received more."
"Blackmail," muttered Anthony, with disgust, and swiftly writing.
"Yes, I told you that the Jekyl side of my character was unpleasant,
Captain Ackworth. Well, then, Barras cooked the accounts----"
"I thought so--I said so," muttered Clarice.
"Then you are very clever," said Jerce, calmly, "for Barras managed to
conceal things in a wonderful way. Of course, when Horran became ill,
and gave Barras a power of attorney, it was easier to deceive him. And
Barras also deceived you, Miss Baird, clever as you thought you were.
Your ignorance of business helped him."
"I quite understand," said Clarice, coldly; "a girl such as I am, was
unequal to such clever scoundrels. You got the money."
"And I spent it," said Jerce, coolly; "forty thousand pounds. Barras
gave me the money as it came in, and used some himself. He made up the
story about giving it to Horran in gold----"
"So that we might be deceived," interposed Miss Baird. "Well, we
were."
"Oh, don't blame yourself," said Jerce, in a jeering manner; "Barras
would have cheated a much more clever person than you are, Miss Baird,
with the facilities at his command--Horran's illness, the power of
attorney--no one to interfere, and all the rest of it."
"Spare me more details, Sir Daniel. You got the forty thousand pounds
and spent it. Then you determined to kill Uncle Henry."
"I did, because he was getting dangerous. Barras, according to
Horran's wish, had given Clarke here one thousand pounds--but on his
own account he charged ten per cent. Clarke tried to see Horran, but
to keep back that fact I used my medical power as Horran's physician
to prevent an interview."
"But I did see him at length," said the vicar, triumphantly.
"Yes," snapped Jerce, "and so sealed Horran's death warrant. Do you
remember on the day preceding the murder that I had an interview with
Horran?" he asked, turning to Clarice.
"Yes, and you said that Uncle Henry was angry with Ferdy."
"He was angry with Barras, and declared that he would get the accounts
looked into by a clever City man. I knew that was fatal. Barras and I
could deceive Horran and you, but we couldn't hope to deceive this
accountant who was mentioned. I then determined to prevent the
exposure by murdering Horran."
"You villain!" cried Clarice, shuddering. "Your old friend."
"He would have been my new enemy had he learned the truth about the
accounts," said Jerce, cynically. "However, we must get on," he looked
at his watch, "it is getting late. Well, then I went up to town,
having arranged with Ferdinand here, that he should kill Horran and
stamp his forehead with the Purple Fern. I need not tell you how I got
that, Miss Baird."
"I know," she replied, with horror. "But were you arranging a
deliberate murder with my brother, when Anthony and I saw you walking
to the station?"
"Yes. You were driving, I believe. Ferdinand agreed to kill----"
"I did," interrupted Ferdy, quickly, "but I intended to tell Uncle
Henry everything. I never intended murder."
"So I thought," said Jerce, with a shrug; "you are such a weak fool
that I fancied you would flinch at the last moment. That was why I
came down during the night. I pretended to go to Whitechapel, and did
not take my chauffeur, which was often the case. No suspicion was thus
aroused in Harley Street as to my destination. I motored down to
Crumel in a little over two hours, and acted in the way Clarke here
has told you."
"But the murder?"
"I expected to find Horran dead," said Jerce, "and yet, knowing what a
weak fool this boy is, I feared lest he should fail. I entered by the
window, which that ass of a Wentworth had ordered to be opened, as I
knew he would, and Horran raised himself in bed. He recognised me,
and, unable to explain my intrusion, I caught an assegai from the wall
and stabbed him to the heart. He cried out, but only feebly. Then I
ran away and Clarke caught me. I kept him quiet by saying that I would
tell about Frank. Afterwards, I motored back to town in another two
hours and a trifle more, and regained my house in safety."
"Oh, you villain!" said Clarice again, striking her hands together.
"Next day, as you know, I came down and played my part in the comedy,
Miss Baird. I saw the mark of the Purple Fern, and Ferdinand here told
me how he had stamped the dead body. I gave him back my cheque, and so
acted honourably. So that is all, unless," added Jerce, with
hesitation, "my love for you--my true and genuine love----"
"Oh, no, no," cried Clarice, with horror, and ran across to Anthony;
"have you got it written down? Then let that wretch sign it, and send
him out of the house."
"But the police ought to be told," said Ackworth, in a low voice.
"I say no," cried Clarice, stamping her foot. "I will tell you why at
a later period. Sign, Sir Daniel, sign, and rid this house of your
wicked presence."
Jerce looked at her gravely, then deliberately signed the paper on the
spot pointed out by Ackworth. Anthony and Clarke signed as witnesses,
and then the soldier handed the paper to Clarice, who thrust it into
her bosom. This having been done, she went to the window and opened
it. "Go!" she said to Sir Daniel.
"Surely, you will let me get my coat and hat," he said, quietly, and,
with a last look at her, he went into the hall. Shortly he appeared at
the door again. "Good-bye for ever," he said, in an unemotional voice.
"I'll go this way--by the front door. And to-morrow you shall hear of
my death."
"Unhappy man!" cried Clarke. "Do not add sin to sin----" But Jerce was
gone. He went out of the house, and into the gathering darkness of the
night--but not to the merciful death he designed for himself. As he
passed through the gate, Jane limped after him quietly, not barking as
was her custom. She seemed to know that her time had come. And so
Jerce, all unknowingly, went to his doom.