"WE MUST NOT MARRY!"
George Stratfield stood aghast and horrified. It was nearly dark, but
there still remained sufficient light to reveal the terrible truth that
Nelly Bridson, his gay, vivacious friend, had been foully murdered.
Tenderly he lifted her, and placed his hand upon her heart. But there
was no movement. It had ceased its beating.
Her face, with its hard drawn features so unlike hers, was absolutely
hideous in death. Her hair was whitened by the dust, while her blue
eyes were wide open, staring fixedly into space with a look of
inexpressible horror.
For some moments, still kneeling beside her inanimate form, George
hesitated. Suddenly his eager eyes caught sight of some round flat
object lying in the dust within his reach. He stretched forth his hand
and picked it up, finding to his surprise that it was an
exquisitely-painted old miniature of a beautiful woman, set round with
fine brilliants. He held it close to his eyes, examining it minutely
until convinced of a fact most amazing. This miniature was the very
valuable portrait by Cosway of Lady Anne Stratfield, a noted beauty of
her time, which for many years had been missing from the collection at
Stratfield Court. It corresponded exactly in every particular with the
description his father had so often given him of the missing portrait,
the disappearance of which had always been a mystery.
He remained speechless, dumbfounded at the discovery. At length a
thought flashed across his mind, that by prompt action the assassin
might perhaps be discovered. He could not bear the appalled agonised
gaze of those glazed, stony eyes which seemed fixed despairingly upon
him, therefore he closed them and prepared to move the body to the
roadside. Suddenly he recollected that such action would be unwise.
The police should view the victim where she had fallen. Therefore in
breathless haste he sprang again into the saddle, and tore down into
Stratfield Mortimer, a distance of a mile and a half, as hard as the
mare could gallop.
Quickly he summoned the village constable and the doctor. The former,
before leaving for the scene scribbled a telegram to Reading requesting
the assistance of detectives; then both returned with him to the spot.
When they reached it they found the body still undisturbed, and a
cursory examination made by the doctor by aid of the constable's lantern
quickly corroborated George's belief that the unfortunate girl had been
shot through the throat.
Nearly an hour the three men waited impatiently for the arrival of the
detectives, speaking in hushed tones, examining the recovered miniature
and discussing the tragedy, until at last the lights of a trap were seen
in the distance, and very soon two plain-clothes officers joined them,
inspected the body and the tiny portrait, and made a close examination
of the road in every direction. In the dust they found the mark of her
tyre, and followed it back beneath the railway arch and up upon the road
towards Burghfield. With the rays of their lanterns upon the dust they
all followed the track, winding sometimes but distinct, for about three
hundred yards, when suddenly, instead of proceeding along the lane, it
turned into a gateway leading into a field.
This fact puzzled them; but soon, on examining the rank grass growing
between the gate and the road, they found it had been recently trodden
down. There were other marks too, in the thick dust close by, but,
strangely enough, these were not footprints. It seemed as if some
object about a foot wide had been dragged along from the gate into the
lane. Long and earnestly the detectives searched over the spot while
the others stood aside, but they found nothing to serve as a clue. It
was, however, evident that the unfortunate girl had approached, on her
return from Burghfield, and dismounting, had wheeled her cycle up to the
gate and placed it there while she rested. Here she had undoubtedly
been joined by someone--as the grass and weeds bore distinct traces of
having been trodden upon by two different persons--and then, having
remounted, she rode down beneath the railway bridge, and while ascending
towards Stratfield Mortimer, had been foully shot.
The position in which both the body and the cycle were found pointed to
the conclusion that she was riding her machine when fired at, but
dismounting instantly she had staggered a few uneven steps, and then
sank dying.
From the gateway the mark of the cycle could be traced with ease away
towards Burghfield; indeed, a few yards from where the unknown person
had apparently met her there were marks of her quick footsteps where she
had dismounted. For fully a quarter of an hour the detectives searched
both inside and outside the gate trying to distinguish accurately the
footprints of the stranger whom she had met, and in this they were
actively assisted by the village constable and George, all being careful
not to tread upon the weeds and dust themselves. But to distinguish
traces of footprints at night is exceedingly difficult; therefore they
searched long and earnestly without any success, until at last something
half-hidden in some long rank weeds caught George's eye.
"Why, what's this?" he cried, excitedly, as putting out his hand he drew
forth a purely feminine object--an ordinary black hairpin.
The detectives, eager for anything which might lead to the discovery of
the identity of the assassin, took it, examining it closely beneath the
light of one of their bull's-eyes. It was a pin of a common kind, and
what at first seemed like a clue was quickly discarded, for on taking it
back to where the body was lying and taking one of the pins that held
the unfortunate girl's wealth of fair hair, it was at once seen in
comparison to be of the same thickness and make, although of a slightly
different length.
Half a dozen pins were taken one by one from her hair and compared, but
strangely enough all were about half an inch shorter than the one
discovered by George.
"Anything in this, do you think?" one of the detectives asked the other,
evidently his superior.
"No," the man answered promptly. "Women often use hairpins of different
lengths. If you buy a box they are often of assorted sizes. No, that
pin evidently fell from her hair when she put up her hands to tidy it,
after dismounting."
So the vague theory that the person who joined her was a woman was
dismissed. George had said nothing of his appointment with Liane at
that spot, deeming it wiser to keep his secret, yet he was sorely
puzzled by the fact that Nelly should have been there at the same hour
that Liane had arranged to meet him. Perhaps his well-beloved had sent
her with a message, as she had on previous occasions. If not, why had
she returned from Burghfield by that lonely lane instead of riding
direct along the high road, which was in so much better condition for
cycling? He had only known her to ride along Cross Lane once before.
Indeed, both she and Liane had always denounced that road with its
flints and ruts as extremely injurious to cycles.
The assassin had got clean away without leaving the slightest trace.
Even his footsteps were indistinguishable where all others were plainly
marked, for during the day the dust had been blowing in clouds,
carpeting the unfrequented lane to the depth of nearly half an inch, so
that every imprint had been faithfully retained.
The detectives, after spending nearly two hours in futile search, were
compelled at length to acknowledge themselves baffled, and preparations
were made to acquaint Captain Brooker with the sad news, and to remove
the body of Nelly Bridson to his house. At first it was suggested that
George should go and break the sad tidings to the Captain, but he at
once declined. He had never yet met Captain Brooker, and shrank from
the unpleasantness of such a first interview with the man whose daughter
he intended marrying. The duty therefore devolved upon the police, and
the village constable was despatched with strict injunctions from George
not to tell Miss Liane, but request to see the Captain himself alone.
He knew what a blow it must prove to his well-beloved to thus lose under
such terrible circumstances the fair-faced girl who had been her most
intimate companion and confidante through so many years; therefore he
endeavoured to spare her any unnecessary pain. Her father would, no
doubt, break to her the sad truth best of all.
George thought it useless to seek her that night, therefore when the
constable had left he took a long farewell glance at the white upturned
face, and mounting, turned the mare's head towards the Court. Onward he
rode in the darkness across the open country to Broomfield Hatch, then
turning to the right into the Grazely Road, cantered down the hill
towards the lodge gates of Stratfield Court.
"It's a strange affair," he muttered aloud. "Strange indeed, that Nelly
should have ridden along that bad road if not with the intention of
meeting someone by appointment. Yet she would scarcely make an
appointment at that spot, knowing that I had arranged to meet Liane
there. No, poor girl, I can't help feeling convinced that she was
awaiting me to tell me of Liane's inability to be there. Again, how
came she possessed of the missing miniature? What motive could anyone
possibly have in murdering her? Ah! what motive, I wonder?"
Deep in thought, he allowed his mare to jog onward beneath the beeches
which at that point nearly met overhead, rendering the road almost pitch
dark. Once he thought he detected a slight movement in the impenetrable
gloom, and pulling up, strained his eyes into the high bushes at the
roadside. For a few moments he sat perfectly still in the saddle
listening intently. Then, hearing nothing, he started forth again
muttering:
"I could have sworn I saw something white fluttering over there; but
bah! I'm unnerved, I suppose, to-night, and after all it was mere
fancy."
Once he turned to glance back; then resolutely set his face along the
dark avenue of chestnuts, homeward.
Little sleep came to his eyes that night. He was thinking of his own
future, of Liane's love, and of her sad bereavement. Times without
number he tried to formulate some theory to account for the miniature
being in Nelly's possession, and the foul assassination of the bright,
happy girl, whose merry laughter had so often charmed him. Yet it was a
mystery, absolute and complete.
The great house was quiet, for its irascible master was dead, and its
son, held in esteem by all the servants from butler to stable lad, was
ruined. The very clocks seemed to tick with unaccustomed solemnity, and
the bell in the turret over the stables chimed slowly and ominously as
each long hour passed towards the dawn. At last, however, still in his
clothes, George slept, and it was not until the morning sun was
streaming full into his room that he awoke. Then, finding that the two
doctors had returned to London, he went to the library and wrote a brief
note to Liane, asking her to meet him at the lodge gates at eleven
o'clock. Sir John was now no more, therefore in the Park they might
walk together unobserved. At first he hesitated to invite her there so
quickly, but on reflection he saw that he must see her at once and
endeavour to console her, and that the leafy glades of his dead father's
domain were preferable to the highways, where they would probably be
noticed by the village gossips.
At nine he sent the note down to the village by one of the stable lads,
who brought back two hastily scribbled lines, and at the hour appointed
she came slowly along the dusty road, looking cool and fresh beneath her
white sunshade.
Their greeting was formal while within sight of the windows of the
lodge, but presently, when they had entered the Park by the winding path
which led through a thick copse, he halted, took her in his arms and
imprinted upon her soft cheek a long passionate kiss. Her own full lips
met his in a fierce affectionate caress, but their hearts were too full
for words. They stood together in silence, locked in each other's arms.
Then he noticed for the first time that her eyes were swollen, and that
she wore a white tulle veil to conceal their redness. She had no doubt
spent the night in tears. The tiny gloved hand trembled in his grasp,
and her lips quivered.
At last he spoke softly, first lifting her hand reverently to his lips.
"Both of us have experienced bereavement since last we met, two days
ago, Liane. You have my sincerest sympathy, my darling."
"Is Sir John dead?" she inquired in a low husky voice.
He nodded.
"Then our losses are both hard to bear," she said, sighing. "Poor
Nelly! I--I cannot bear to think of it. I cannot yet realise the
terrible truth."
"Nor I, dearest," he answered, echoing her sigh. "But we must
nevertheless face the facts if we desire to discover the assassin."
"They told me that it was you who first discovered her," she said
falteringly, her eyes overflowing with tears. "Tell me how it all
happened."
"There is very little to tell," he responded. "I found her lying on the
road dead, and went at once for the doctor and the police."
"But what were you doing in Cross Lane?" she inquired.
"I went out to meet you as we had arranged."
"But surely you knew that I could not meet you," she exclaimed, looking
at him quickly.
"How could I?"
"I sent you a letter telling you that my father had an unexpected
visitor, and that we must therefore postpone our meeting until this
evening."
"A letter!" he cried, puzzled. "I have only this moment left the Court,
and no letter has yet arrived."
"But I gave it to Nelly to post before half-past twelve yesterday
morning, therefore you should have received it at five. She must have
forgotten to post it."
"Evidently," he said. "But have you yet ascertained why she went down
Cross Lane? To the police the fact of her having ridden down there in
preference to the high road is an enigma."
"No. According to the inquiries already made it has been ascertained
that she went to Talmey's at Burghfield, purchased some silk, and had
returned nearly to Stratfield Mortimer when she suddenly turned, went
back about half a mile, and then entered Cross Lane. She was seen to
turn by two labourers coming home from their work on Sim's Farm."
"She was alone, I suppose?"
"Entirely," Liane answered. "Like myself, she had no horror of tramps.
I've ridden along these roads at all hours of the day and night, and
have never been once molested."
"The tragedy was no doubt enacted in broad daylight, for the sun had not
quite set when, according to the doctor, she must have been shot while
riding. Have you any idea that she had incurred the animosity of
anybody?"
"No; as you well know, she was of a most amicable disposition. As far
as I am aware, she had not a single enemy in the world."
"A secret lover perhaps," George suggested.
"No, not that I am aware of. She had no secrets from me. Since we came
to England she has never spoken of any man with admiration."
"Then abroad she had an admirer? Where?"
"In Nice. Charles Holroyde, a rich young Englishman, who was staying
last winter at the Grand Hotel, admired her very much."
"And you were also living in Nice at the time?"
"Yes."
"Do you know his address in England?" he inquired.
"No. Nelly may have done, but I did not. I met him with her on the
Promenade several times, and he seemed very pleasant and amusing. The
diamond brooch she wore he gave her as a present last carnival."
"Now that I recollect," George exclaimed, "she was not wearing that
brooch when I discovered her."
"No," answered his well-beloved. "Strangely enough, that has been
stolen, although no attempt was made to take the watch and bunch of
charms she wore in her blouse."
"Are the police aware of that?"
"Yes," Liane answered. "I told one of the detectives this morning, and
gave him a minute description of the brooch. At the back are engraved
Nelly's initials, together with his, therefore it is likely it may be
traced."
"If so, it will be easy to find the murderer," George observed, as they
strolled slowly along together beneath the welcome shade, for the
morning was perfect, with bright warm sun and a cloudless sky into which
the larks were everywhere soaring, filling the air with their shrill,
joyous songs. "Have you any idea whether poor Nelly has corresponded
with this man Holroyde since leaving Nice?" he inquired, after a pause.
"I think not."
"Why?"
"Well, they had a slight quarrel--I have never exactly known the cause--
they parted, and although he wrote several times, she did not answer."
George scented suspicion in this circumstance. The fact that this
brooch, one of considerable value, should alone have been stolen was, to
say the least, curious; but discarded lovers sometimes avenge
themselves, and this might perchance be a case of murder through
jealousy. As he strolled on beside the handsome girl, with her pale,
veiled face, he reflected deeply, trying in vain to form some theory as
to the motive of the crime.
"Did the police tell you that beside her I discovered an old miniature
of Lady Anne which has been missing from the Court for twenty years or
more?" he asked.
"Yes, they showed it to my father and myself. We have, however, never
seen it before. How it came into her possession we are utterly at a
loss to imagine," she answered. "It is a heavy blow to lose her," she
continued, in a low, intense voice. "We have always been as sisters,
and now the fate that has overtaken her is enshrouded in a mystery which
seems inexplicable. Father is dreadfully upset. I fear he will never
be as happy as before."
"But you have me, Liane," her lover said, suddenly halting and drawing
her towards him. "I love you, my darling. I told you nearly two months
ago that I loved you. I don't know that I can add anything to what I
said then."
She was silent, looking straight before her.
His breath came more quickly. The colour rose to his cheeks. At this
decisive moment the words died in his throat, as they must for every
honest lover who would fain ask the momentous question of her whom he
loves. He remembered that he now had no right to ask her to be his
wife.
"Do you know," he said at last, again grasping her hand impetuously,
"that I think you the sweetest, most charming woman in the world? I
want you to be my wife, and help me to make my life all it should be,
only--only I dare not ask you."
Liane did not withdraw her fingers. She remained perfectly still
without meeting his glance. Yet, strangely enough, she shuddered.
"I have not the power to say all I feel. My words sound so harsh and
cold; but, Liane, Liane, I love you! God made not the heart of man to
be silent, but has promised him eternity with the intention that he
should not be alone. There is for me but one woman upon earth. It is
you."
He looked imploringly into her face.
"Yes, George, I feel that you love me," she said, with a sweet smile
behind her veil. "It is very nice to be loved."
He covered her hand with eager kisses; but she withdrew it softly, her
lips compressed.
"My darling!" His arm was about her waist, and he kissed her lips. He
spoke in strong suppressed agitation; his voice trembled. He
recollected he was penniless.
She freed herself from his embrace. "No, no," she murmured. "We may
love, but we must not marry. There are so many other girls who would
make you far happier than I should."
He went on to tell her how much he reverenced her character, how good
and pure and lovely she was, and how completely she fulfilled his ideal
of what a woman ought to be.
Slowly she shook her head. "That shows you know so little of me,
George."
"I know only what you have told me, dearest," he answered.
Then a moment later he regretted that he had not adhered to his resolve
and exercised more self-control. Was he not without means? Yet he had
asked her to marry him! Could he tell her in the same breath that he
was penniless? No, he dared not, lest she might cast him aside.
Liane stood like one in a dream, her beautiful face suffused by blushes,
her eyes downcast, her breast slowly heaving.
He could resist his own passion--he could keep back what he felt--no
longer.
"I love you!" cried he.
She stretched out her hands in a sort of mute appeal, and seemed as if
she would fall; but in that instant she was again clasped to his heart,
and held there with a tender force that she had neither the power nor
the will to withstand.
He wished to marry her! Was it possible? And she loved him. With that
thought her face was hidden on his shoulder, and she yielded herself to
those protecting arms. He felt the shy loving movement as she nestled
close to him, and her frame was shaken by a sob.
"My darling--my darling--my own darling!" he cried, triumph in his
voice, and passionate joy in his eyes. "You love me--you love me!"
But again she drew herself away from him, then turned aside, held her
breath, and shuddered. The lace ruffles on her bosom slowly rose and
fell. The movement was as though she were shrinking from him with
repulsion. But it was only momentary, and he did not notice it. Next
instant she again turned, lifting her clear grey eyes to his with their
frank innocent gaze.
"Yes," she said, almost in a whisper, "I love you."