UNEXPECTED EVIDENCE
The surprising discovery that the bullet was of silver, elevated the
crime from the common-place to the romantic. That an old-fashioned
weapon should have been used in these days when firearms have reached
such a pitch of perfection, was remarkable enough, but that the
assassin should have reverted to the superstitions of the Middle Ages
for his missile, was almost beyond belief. In spite of her quick
brain, Bess could not come to any decision. Failing a discussion with
Dr. Jim she resolved to leave the vexed question at rest.
All the same she did not pause in her detective work. Having followed
up one clue, until it ended--for the time being--in nothing, she
hunted about for another. So far she had made two discoveries. The
pistol which Joyce declared he had received from Don Manuel was
certainly the weapon with which the murder had been committed; and the
bullet was of silver. But this knowledge resulted in nothing.
Certainly it cast a strong suspicion on the Mexican; but that part of
the puzzle Bess felt she could safely leave to Herrick. So far as her
particular business was concerned she could do no more, until she
heard her colleague's report. Pending this, she began to work in a
different direction. It occurred to her that she had never questioned
Sidney about his doings in the Pine wood on the night of the murder.
Possibly he might be able to supply some clue to the mystery.
"He was in the habit of watching the tower," said Bess to herself, "he
said as much on that day when we had the picnic. I wonder if he saw
anything suspicious on that night; then he might have seen that horrid
little Joyce, or perhaps Frisco. I'll see what he knows."
Sidney was not an easy person to question. His fantasies of thought,
had been laughed at so frequently, the truth of his statements so
often denied, that he had grown reticent. What he saw, what he heard,
he kept to himself, and not even his own family could get him to
explain himself on occasions when they really desired information. The
boy mooned about in a dreamy state of mind, saying little beyond the
merest common places and for the most part lived in that world of
fantasy which was anathema-maranatha to the people around him. He was
like a wild animal, shy, timid, and intensely suspicious.
Bess thought that he might be more open with her, when he was--so to
speak--in his native wilds. She therefore watched her opportunity, and
followed him to one of his favourite haunts in the pine wood, where it
fringed the moor. Here one afternoon, she found him seated in a
secluded glade beside one of those remarkable circles, which the
country people call fairy rings. So steadily was he gazing at this in
the half-light which filtered through the overhead boughs, that he did
not notice her approach. To be sure she trod softly and used the same
precaution as she would have done when approaching the haunt of some
timid animal.
Sidney had always been a puzzle to everyone, but Bess understood him
better than most people. Besides she had discussed him frequently with
Santiago, and was inclined to take the Mexican's view of the boy's
peculiarities. Remembering the oft-quoted saying of Hamlet. Bess was
less sceptical than those around her. She could' not see why Sidney
should not possess the power of seeing,--what in the generally
accepted sense is called the unseen. Considering what the lad had
foretold with regard to the death of Mrs. Marsh and the accident to
her step-son, it was impossible to say that Sidney was either a fool
or a madman. There was some reason for his fantasies--so-called: and
Bess regarded him with a certain amount of awe. She could not
understand him; but she granted that he was a rare spirit, far removed
from the common-place mortal.
"Well Thomas the Rhymer," said Bess gaily, when her shadow fell on the
fairy-ring, "are you looking for the Queen of Elf-land?"
It was characteristic of Sidney that he was never taken by surprise.
At the sound of her voice he neither started nor expressed any anger.
All he did was to raise his serious eyes to her face, and observe
quietly, "I knew you were coming, Bess dear."
She threw herself down beside him and nodded towards the fairy-ring.
"Did they tell you?" she asked in low tone, and in all good faith.
"No, Bess. This is not the time for the little people to be abroad. I
was only looking at their dancing-ground."
"Have you seen them here?"
"Often," replied Sidney with conviction, "small naked folk who dance
and sing and play on queer instruments. They know that I see them; but
they are not angry."
"I believe you are a fairy yourself Sidney."
"No. I have a soul--what you call a soul--and the fairies have none.
They are only the creatures who attend to the works of Nature; her
servants. I can see them because--" here Sidney broke off, "it is no
use my telling you Bess, you would not understand."
Bess quite admitted this. She could not understand. All the same she
did not tell her brother that he was a fool as many people would have
done. She simply nodded, and passed the subject by. Her errand was to
find out what Sidney had seen in the actual world. After the manner of
her sex she approached the matter by a side-issue. "Sidney dear," said
she, "do you know that Mr. Joyce has gone away to London?"
"No! I did not," replied Sidney gravely, "but I am very glad he has
gone. A bad man Bess, and he would have done you harm."
"How? What do you mean." Sidney passed his hand across his face. "I
cannot explain," he said in a troubled voice, "you see Bess, bad
people carry about with them a bad atmosphere. That Mexican was very
wicked; Joyce not so bad. Both of them made me feel quite ill. Did you
never see how I refused to sit beside them? Well, that was because
they gave me such pain. Not physical pain but a kind of uncomfortable
feeling, which I can't put into words."
"In what an old-fashioned way you talk Sidney," said Bess puzzled,
"one would think you were a hundred."
"I know more than I say. Corn did not teach me everything I know!
"Tell me Sidney. Do you like Mr. Corn?"
"I do--in a way. He is not bad, but he is weak. With good people he is
good, with bad people he is bad. I am glad that Don Manuel has gone to
Town. He was doing Mr. Corn a lot of harm. But if I told you what I
know of these things you would only laugh at me."
"No, I would not Sidney," said his sister earnestly, "I am sure that
you are so sensitive that you feel these influences you talk about."
"Sensitive," echoed Sidney, "yes! I suppose that is what you would
call it. You have come here to ask me a question?" he said abruptly.
"How do you know that?" she demanded, then seeing him shrug his thin
shoulders, she admitted the truth of what he said. "I want to ask you
who you saw in the Pine wood on the night when Colonel Carr was
killed?"
Sidney thought for a moment, then raised his eyes towards the gap in
the trees formerly blocked by the tower. "I saw a lot of red mist
about the tower," he said, "that was anger. I saw too--" he shook his
head impatiently. "It is not these things you wish to know Bess?"
"I want to know who killed Colonel Carr?"
"I can't tell you Bess. If I knew I should tell. But I don't. On that
night I came here, looking for things---" said Sidney with a
side-glance to see if she were laughing, "and although I felt that
there was a bad influence about the house, I never went near it. I
kept away and wandered on to the moor. That is why you missed me, when
you came to look for me. I did not mind the rain. But I saw your
lantern, and thought you would be anxious, so I returned home. Then
you came back yourself."
"Yes. That is all true. But tell me Sidney, did you see Mr. Joyce in
the wood or on the moor?"
"No. I did not see him. Stephen was the only person I saw."
Bess started violently. "Stephen," she said, "surely you must be
mistaken."
"No," replied the boy indifferently, "why should I be mistaken? You
know I can see in the dark like a cat. Before I saw your lantern, I
had seen Stephen on the lawn looking at the tower. I do not know what
time it was, so don't ask me. You are always so particular about
time," said Sidney peevishly, "as though it mattered."
Bess reflected. It was strange that Stephen should have been in the
vicinity of the house on that night and yet have escaped her notice.
But she remembered that being intent upon looking for her brother that
she had not even seen Joyce, although he was lurking in the bushes at
her elbow. True she had caught a glimpse of Frisco. But that was when
she consciously looked at the door. It was possible that Sidney might
have come across Stephen. "Did you speak to him?" she asked.
"No. Why should I have spoken to him?"
"Did he go into the house?"
"Not that I saw Bess. He was looking up at the tower, standing on the
lawn by the trees. I went away to the other side of the wood, and out
on to the moor. That is all I know."
"But Sidney, did you see Frisco crossing the moor?"
"I did not. When I saw your lantern I went home. I wish you would stop
asking me questions," he cried irritably, "you make my head ache."
After this speech, he relapsed into one of his silent fits, and Bess
could not get him to speak. Knowing from experience that Sidney was
hopeless when in this mood, she left him still by the fairy ring, and
took her way back to Biffstead. The house was empty, as Ida had gone
to Beorminster to see Flo, and Frank was attending to the farm.
Bess sat down and wondered what could be the meaning of Stephen's
presence at "The Pines" on that night. She knew that he had come over
from Beorminster to escort his mother home. But then Mrs. Marsh had
been with Mr. Corn the whole evening, and there was no reason why
Stephen should have gone out of his way to visit "The Pines." It was
in the afternoon that Mrs. Marsh had seen the Colonel, and Stephen
must have known that she would not be at the great house after nine
o'clock. This, Bess, calculating by her own movements, was the hour at
which Sidney had seen him. He was looking up at the tower too, so
Sidney said. "But he can't have had anything to do with it," she
thought restlessly, "he disliked the Colonel, but he didn't--no, I
won't even think of it! Such a thing if true, would kill Ida. Yet I
must find out from Stephen himself why he was in the wood on that
night."
She reflected. At this hour Stephen would be alone. Why should she not
go over and see him. In one way or another she could tell him about
the pistol and the silver bullet and see from the expression of his
face if he knew anything about either. It was incredible that Stephen
should have fired the shot. He was the Colonel's heir; but even to
gain the money he certainly was too good a man to commit a crime. Yet
if what Sidney said was true, Stephen had been on the lawn about the
time Colonel Carr was shot. He must know something about the matter.
"I'll see him," said Bess putting on her hat again. "I shall not be
able to sleep a wink until I know what he has to say."
In another half hour she was in the library where Stephen was
established on the sofa. He looked thin, and rather worried, but his
face brightened when he saw her. "This is good of you Bess," he said
stretching out his hand, "I am all alone; Herrick is in Town; Ida at
Beorminster. Not a soul to speak to. Draw that chair close to the
fire. Shall I ring for tea?"
"It is too early yet," she said reassured by this bright talk. It was
incredible that a man who spoke so lightly should have a black crime
on his soul. "I just want to chatter for a bit; I am so tired of my
own company."
"So am I. Well you talk about Jim, and I'll discourse about Ida. We
shall be quite happy. By the way, when will Ida be back?"
"About dinner time. She will come over and see you afterwards."
"I wish she would come to dinner here," said Stephen, "you also and
Frank and Sidney. I miss Jim horribly, and it is no fun eating a long
solemn meal alone. Upon my word Bess, I sometimes long for the days
when Petronella's macaroni could be eaten hurriedly, and without this
formality. I would rather have a book than a footman about the table."
"What a mixed way of talking," said Bess pensively, "you _have_ a book
on the table as a rule, I suppose you are glad all the same that you
have the Colonel's money?"
"Of course I am," said Stephen frankly, "it enables me to marry Ida. I
was so afraid lest she should marry someone else before I came into my
kingdom. But I could not ask her to be my wife when I was a pauper
could I Bess? She's a rare jewel that requires a rich setting."
"I don't think Ida values money so much as all that," said Bess
gravely. "She would have married you without a sixpence. But I am glad
all the same that the money came to you so soon. It is nice to be
rich."
"So it is," admitted Stephen gladly. "I can buy whatever books I like."
Bess laughed at this speech. "I am afraid you will grow into a
bookworm."
"No. Jim has got me out of bad habits in that respect. At one time I
did nothing but read. Now I ride and swim and box and fence and
shoot----"
Bess started at the last word. It gave her the opening she desired.
"Are you a good shot?" she asked.
"I was always a good shot," said Stephen coolly, "that is, with a
pistol. I never handled a gun until I came here."
"I did not know you had ever handled a pistol either?"
"Oh yes, I did. Young Capron gave me permission to shoot rabbits on his
estate ages ago. I could not afford to buy a gun, but I did manage to
get enough money to screw out a revolver--and a very good one. I
believe it was brought here from Beorminster, unless Petronella
overlooked it. But I have not used it for over a year. Rabbit shooting
with a pistol is not much fun especially when one is alone."
"I should like to see the pistol," said Bess, after a pause.
"Go over then to the box behind that screen," said Stephen, "if it is
anywhere it will be in there. There are all sorts of odds and ends,
rag tag and bobtail of my former existence."
Bess did as she was told and walked slowly over and behind the large
gilded screen which stood in a far corner of the library. Here, pushed
to one side, was a moderately sized box, the lid of which was open.
She found in it a few books, many manuscripts, pens, an inkstand, and
all the paraphernalia of a writing table. These she enumerated aloud.
"I know," said Stephen from the sofa, "those are the the contents of
my study. I expect Petronella threw all the things into that trunk.
The pistol is bound to be there--in a small mahogany-box. I always
kept it on the mantelpiece of my study. Be careful if you find it
Bess. All six chambers are loaded."
After some search Bess came across just such a box, and opened it to
find a neat little revolver of the most modern pattern. She carried
this, box and all, to a table near the sofa. Again Stephen warned her
that the weapon was loaded. "I kept it loaded because my mother was
always afraid of thieves poor soul," he said, "though heaven knows
there was little enough to steal in that dismal house of ours! What is
it Bess?"
"There are only three chambers loaded," said Bess thickly. In a flash
she remembered the three shots fired into the dead body--and the
conical shape of the bullets. Those in the weapon she held were
conical in shape.
"Nonsense," said Stephen nervously. "I always kept the whole six
loaded. You must be making a mistake," he took the revolver from her
and examined it closely. "You are right," he said with a long breath.
"Three of them _are_ empty."
As he spoke he looked up apparently with indifference. When his eye
caught hers he saw something in her expression which made him start
and flush crimson. For a moment they looked at one another. Then
Stephen swung himself up to a sitting position and laid the pistol on
the side table. "Why do you look at me like that Bess?" he asked in a
hurried tone.
For a minute she did not reply. But she felt that she must know the
truth, and burst out hurriedly "Stephen! You were on the lawn on the
night your uncle was killed!"
The young man started to his feet, and then fell back again on the
sofa white, and amazed. "How do know?" he stuttered.
"Sidney saw you. He told me. Oh, Stephen,--three chambers of your
revolver empty--three shots at----" she felt suffocated and could not
continue.
"Wait! Wait" Stephen put his hand to his head. It felt confused. His
face was of a deep purple. Bess thought that he would have a fit and
blamed herself for having blurted out her suspicions.
"Wait! Wait" muttered Marsh-Carr again as she moved towards the bell
to summon assistance. He sat down on the sofa, his face in his hands,
rocking himself to and fro. Then he heaved a deep sigh, and looked up
at her white haggard face. "You will not tell Ida," he said.
With her hands twisted in her hair Bess stepped back. She suppressed a
shriek. "Stephen!" she cried hoarsely "You did not--you----"
"I did not murder him. No," replied the young man harshly. "He was
already dead when I fired those three shots."
"Then it was you who?--"
"It was I," cried Stephen, rising to his feet with a fierce look, "and
you are going to denounce me, I suppose!"
"No! No! how can you think I would do such a thing? But Ida, poor
Ida!"
"You must not tell her," cried Stephen grasping her wrist until she
winced with the pain. "Do what you like, but say nothing to Ida. I
would rather break off our engagement on another plea than that she
should know."
The pain of the twist he gave her arm brought Bess back to a more
normal state of mind. She pulled herself together, and sat down.
"Stephen," she said slowly, "no one but you and I will share this
secret. Can you swear to me that Colonel Carr was already dead when
you fired those shots? I want the truth!"
"He was already dead," said Marsh-Carr sitting down quietly, "did you
not hear the medical evidence at the inquest? It was the bullet which
killed him. My shots were fired at a carcase."
"Why did you do such a horrible thing?" wailed Bess. "Because I was
mad for the time being," said Stephen gloomily, "I will tell you all
if you are strong enough to hear it."
"After what I know, I am strong enough to hear anything. Oh! To think
that you should have behaved in so barbarous a manner."
Stephen winced. "It was barbarous I confess," said he, "but I was mad
for the time being. After all you must not be too hard on me. I did
not kill my respected uncle," he sneered.
Bess shivered. She had never before seen this side of Stephen's
character, and the new experience was unpleasant. It even stirred her
into unconsidered indignation. "Since you went up that tower with a
revolver, you must have intended to kill the man," she said.
"Perhaps I did, perhaps I did not," he answered in a most brazen
manner, "but the plain truth is that I wanted to frighten him.
"And did you think a revolver would frighten a man who had faced death
fifty and a hundred times?" said Bess with scorn. She recalled to her
memory several episodes Carr had told her of his American doings; she
well knew the dare-devilry latent in the man.
"Carr was old, and had lost his nerve. I counted upon that. I never
intended to kill him. When I went up the tower the work had been done
for me already."
"And who did it?"
"I do not know," said Stephen earnestly, "upon my soul Bess I do not
know--the man was dead when I saw him. It was sheer rage that made me
fire those three shots. The brute that is in me, as it is in every
man, came to the surface. But of the real murderer I saw no trace. I
did not see Frisco whom I take to be the man."
"It was not Frisco," flashed out Bess, "However," she continued sick
at heart, "you had better tell me how it came about."
"Partly through my love for Ida, partly through my mother," said
Marsh-Carr gloomily. "It came to my mother's ears that the Colonel
intended to disinherit me. I suppose Frisco got the upper hand and
induced him to alter his will--that is if he did alter it which I
doubt."
"Of course he did not Stephen. If he had left the money to anyone else
you would not be here."
"I am not so sure about that," replied the young man savagely. "Frisco
might have taken the second will from the corpse. At all events I know
that Frith and Frith drafted no new will. If it was drawn the Colonel
must have drawn it himself. However Frisco let out in one of his
drunken fits at Beorminster that Carr intended to cut me off. My
mother heard the news and came home in a frenzy of rage. It was for
that reason she called on Carr on the afternoon you know of. The
twenty-fourth was it not? She intended to argue him into a better
frame of mind. He only laughed at her and said he would leave his
money as pleased him. She told me the next day. But Carr was dead
then."
"What made you decide to frighten him?"
"Am I not telling you!" said Stephen impatiently. "When my mother went
to Saxham I knew she would fail. A woman could not deal with a devil
like my beloved uncle. I determined to see what I could do with a
revolver. I would have fought a duel with him to keep my rights," said
the young man fiercely, "but I would not have killed him in cold
blood. No, indeed."
"Well go on," said Bess, "I want to know all."
"There is little to tell," said Marsh-Carr. "I was going to Saxham to
fetch home my mother who was at the rectory. I thought I would visit
'The Pines' and see the Colonel. I did so, some time before nine."
"Ah! it was about that hour Sidney saw you."
"I daresay. I stood on the lawn looking at the tower, and could not
make up my mind to enter the house. It was all ablaze with lights, and
quite deserted."
"No," said Bess recalling her own experience. "I heard you fire the
shots and saw Frisco at the door. He was drunk and hanging on to the
post."
"You heard me fire the shots. I did not know you were about?"
"I was then. I had gone to look for Sidney. But you see Frisco--"
"It was Frisco," said Stephen vehemently. "I tell you Carr was dead
when I went up, lying face downward. If Frisco was at the door, he was
just clearing out after killing the man. He knew that he would be
arrested."
"But he must have heard the shots?"
"Then he knew that someone had discovered the body which would make
him run for it all the more quickly. However to make a long story
short I fired the three shots you know of, and then returned to my
mother at the rectory. I said nothing about the matter, as I had not
killed Carr. If Frisco is not the murderer I do not know who is. That
is all I can tell you Bess, you see I am not such a guilty wretch as
you thought."
"I know that," said Bess impetuously, "If you were I should insist
upon your leaving Ida. To fire at the dead was savage, but, as I know
the man must have been dead at the time--the medical evidence proves
that, I will say nothing. Why did you not tell me of this before?"
"What use would it have been?" said Stephen raising his eyebrows, "I
cannot tell you anything likely to lead to the capture of the
assassin, and beside it is not a pleasant thing to tell about myself.
I should not have told you now, but that you have been one too many
for me. I should have re-loaded the three chambers of that revolver.
But I forgot and put it away thinking all six were loaded. I should be
ashamed to let Jim or Ida know that I had been such a beast."
"I shall say nothing to them," said Bess coldly, "but I am
disappointed in you Stephen."
"I know," said the young man humbly, "I should have had more
self-control. But you will not turn your back on me for this Bess?"
"No. All the same I can't feel as I did towards you. Let me go away
and think Stephen. And--put away that revolver."
Marsh-Carr nodded, and slipped the weapon into his pocket. But he made
no attempt to detain Bess. She went away with a sore heart.