THE REVD. PENTLAND CORN
Herrick did not take all that Santiago had said for gospel truth. The
Mexican was too clever and too bold a man to give in so tamely, seeing
what was at stake. For the moment he had recognised that he was
powerless, and had surrendered until such time as he could recover his
position. Dr. Jim could have stopped all his machinations, by having
him arrested for the assault on Stephen. But he did not wish to bring
the police into the matter at present. In the first place so many lies
had been told about the Case, there were so many things to be
explained, that he was not sure of his ground. And for the sake of
Stephen he did not wish to create a scandal. Colonel Carr's reputation
was quite bad enough without making it worse.
Therefore the only thing that Jim could do was to have the two scamps
watched. Certainly they might warn Frisco to clear out; but whatever
Santiago did, Herrick felt sure that Joyce would not counsel such a
course. The little man knew well enough that his safety depended upon
Herrick, and would do nothing which might jeopardise his safety. The
Mexican might plot and plan; but Joyce would certainly obey orders.
Also, they could do little if closely watched. Herrick then gave his
orders to Kidd and Belcher, and returned the next day to Saxham.
"If anything important occurs," he said to the ferret, "you can wire
me."
"But we are in the dark," protested Belcher, "if you would only---"
"No, Belcher," interrupted Jim sharply, "we settled all that before.
All you have to do, is to see if either of these men tries to leave
the country, or if they meet a man who looks like a sailor. Then you
can wire me. I shall come up to town at once and deal with the matter
myself."
"What might be the sailor's name?"
"It might be anything," replied Herrick dryly. "It won't do Belcher.
You are not to know my aims until I choose to let you know. If you
will not work for me on these terms, just say so and I'll get some
one else."
"I'll do whatever you like Dr. Herrick," said the ferret submissively,
and went away to fulfil his duties devoured with curiosity. In spite
of his regard for Dr. Jim, the man wanted to make money out of him. He
therefore determined to learn all he could about Joyce and the
Mexican, and treat with them on his own account if he gained any
knowledge likely to be useful from a blackmailing point of view. The
ferret and his partner were rogues in grain. They did not even keep
faithful to their employer, or to each other for the matter of that.
"Honour amongst thieves" was not a proverb practised in the Strand
office.
Herrick had another talk with Joyce before he returned to Saxham. The
little man had gone back to his flat. Having him all to himself, and
the yoke of Don Manuel being to some extent broken, Dr. Jim was able
to deal more easily with him. He promised the poor fool, that if he
remained faithful and did not intrigue any more with his father or the
Mexican, that he should be given a new chance of leading a clean
existence. Indeed Herrick spoke so seriously that he reduced Joyce to
tears, and to many protestations that henceforward he would be all
that was good. It was not improbable that he would mend. He had had a
severe lesson, and had narrowly escaped getting into the clutches of
the law. With a less kindly man than Herrick, his position would
indeed would have been a serious one. He therefore appreciated the
kindness accorded to him--or said he did--and Jim departed satisfied
that so far as Robin was concerned, he had nullified the schemes of
Santiago. In this way he hoped to take the heart out of the conspiracy
against Stephen and Stephen's money.
"The next person to deal with is Corn," he said to himself as he got
into the train, "he is another fool if not worse, as Manuel told me. I
seem to have dealt with nothing but fools and scoundrels ever since I
started out on that unhappy walking tour. Colonel Carr was evil in his
life, and he has left an evil influence behind him."
Later on Dr. Jim reproached himself for blaming the walking-tour. If
it had brought him into trouble it had also given him a promise of
future happiness. But for that walk he would never have met Bess.
After all his anxiety in London Herrick wanted to have a quiet hour
with the girl who was the light of his eyes. Jim did not call her
this, for he was not a romantic person; but he felt he would like to
be with her. And he was anxious to know what she had discovered about
the pistol. Bess had not sent him a report as she had promised, and
Herrick concluded that she had discovered nothing worth the sending.
All the same he wished to see her at once. But he put off the happy
hour. There was business to be done before pleasure could be taken.
It was after nine o'clock before Herrick arrived at the Beorminster
Station. He had not sent for the cart, as he did not wish Stephen to
know of his arrival at present. Dr. Jim had made up his mind to call
in and get the truth out of the clergyman before returning to "The
Pines." Therefore, determined to get his plans into thorough order,
Jim left his portmanteau at Beorminster to be sent on the next morning
and himself walked to Saxham.
In due time he arrived at the rectory, and was shown into the rector's
study, where he found the man himself. The Revd. Pentland looked
nervous at this untimely visit, and more so as he saw that Dr. Jim was
not in evening dress and must therefore have come straight from town.
Corn's conscience was uneasy, and every untoward event fluttered his
nerves. However he composed himself with a strong effort, and asked
Herrick to be seated.
"You have just come from town I see," he observed with a nervous
glance.
"Yes! And I want particularly to have a chat with you before going to
'The Pines,' and on a painful subject, Mr. Corn."
The rector shivered, and turned even paler than usual. "Is there
anything wrong?" he asked faintly. "Let me know the worst at once."
"Why should you expect any worst Mr. Corn?"
The man shook his head and passed a handkerchief across his dry lips.
"I want to know the worst," he said again, without heeding the
question. "I can see by your face that there is something wrong which
concerns me."
Herrick gave a short laugh. "Upon my word you are a singularly
indiscreet man Mr. Corn," he said, "you give yourself away right and
left. When I met you first of all, you behaved in a foolish manner.
Now you are very little better. You are a clergyman and a gentleman
with an assured position. Why don't you assume the defensive and ask
what I mean by such speeches as I have made--as I am now making!"
"Because I would have to tell you all about myself sooner or later,"
said Corn in a low voice. "You are a strong man, and I want to confide
in someone like yourself. I am not strong. I was--once--but something
happened," he sighed and nodded, "a terrible thing happened."
Herrick wondered if he was about to confess to the murder. However he
did not wish to hurry the confession, which he saw Corn was on the
point of making. He wondered that such a smart and soldierly-looking
man should own himself to be so weak. "I am quite at your service," he
said coldly, "and for my own part Mr. Corn I do not think you have
used either myself or Mr. Marsh over well."
"In what way?" This time Corn really did look amazed.
"You told a lie to shield Don Manuel. It was the Mexican who struck
that blow at my friend, and you knew it. How could you a gentleman,
and a clergyman stoop to shield a would-be murderer."
Corn rose to his feet and braced himself to a great effort. "You are
right," he said frankly, "but I was compelled to such a course."
Herrick nodded. "I know. I have heard all from Santiago."
Corn recoiled. "He told you," he grasped sitting down.
"Yes. He told me how he had you in his power; how he forced you to lie
for him. I made him tell me the truth; now I wished to hear the
confirmation of this story from you."
"It is true; it is true!" cried Corn desperately. "If he told you that
I was a gambler, that I owed money--it is true----"
"I don t mean that so much," said Herrick sharply, "as to the
accusation he makes against you of having murdered Colonel Carr."
The clergyman, who had been leaning his head on his arms in an agony
of grief, looked up suddenly with a bewildered stare. "Santiago said
that about me?" he demanded.
"It is not true?"
"It is the foulest lie he ever spoke!" cried Corn with indignation. "I
am bad in many ways Dr. Herrick--yet I have my excuses, as you shall
hear. But as to murdering Carr, I did nothing of the sort."
"How was it then that Don Manuel obtained from you the pistol with
which the crime was committed?"
Corn looked round the room, and went to the door. Opening this he
looked out for a moment to see that the coast was clear. Then he shut
it locked it and came back to the fire-place looking more like a ghost
than ever. "I picked it up," he said in a whisper, "yes, on the lawn
of 'The Pines.' I knew that Colonel Carr had been shot with it. But I
dare not tell."
"Why not? Were you afraid of being inculpated?"
"No." Corn hesitated and wiped his face. "I must tell you," he said
with a gasp, "there is no help for it! This secret has weighed on my
soul until I can bear it no longer. It was a woman who shot Carr."
Herrick rose slowly hardly believing his ears. "A woman?" he echoed.
Corn nodded and whispered again, "Mrs. Marsh," he said.
"That," said Herrick, "is a lie."
"It is the truth; I swear it is the truth. She shot Carr because he
was about to disinherit her son. If you will sit down I will tell you
all I know. I am glad that it has come to this," panted Corn wiping
his forehead, "I am glad that I can tell you. The secret has nearly
killed me."
"Did you tell Santiago?" asked Dr. Jim seated again and much
bewildered.
"No, I told no one. Santiago on the evidence of that pistol really
believed that I was guilty. But it is a lie--a lie, and he used it to
force me to hide his wickedness. I protested my innocence; but he
would never believe me. And that because I refused to say who was
guilty."
Herrick placed his hands on the shoulders of the agitated man and
forced him into the chair. "Come," said he in a more friendly tone,
"you are not so weak or so bad as I thought Corn. You took the blame
on yourself. Oh, I know you protested your innocence to Santiago;
still he would always think you guilty. He is not the man to believe
that any human being would shield another. Why did you shield Mrs.
Marsh?"
"For her son's sake," said Corn, "and for the sake of Ida Endicotte."
Herrick stared. "What has she got to do with it?"
"I love her," said Corn in a low voice shading his eyes with the palm
of his hand, "but she told me that her whole life was wrapped up in
Stephen's. If he knew that his mother had killed Carr, he is quixotic
enough to throw up the whole fortune out of shame. Then he would not
be able to marry Ida and her heart would be broken. It is for this
reason that I held my peace."
"Yet you let Stephen be assaulted," said Herrick, "his death would
have ruined the life of Ida just the same."
"I did not know about the assault until after it was committed," said
Corn quickly, "then Santiago--but I cannot tell you the story in
scraps like this. Better let me tell you all about myself, and what
led to my present weakness. Then you will appreciate what I have gone
through."
Herrick nodded, "it is best so. Go on. You can safely confide in me,
Corn. I only retain the right to use such information as may clear up
the mystery of this murder."
Corn seized his arm. "You will not tell about Mrs. Marsh?" he panted.
"Not without consulting you. Be certain Corn that I am too true a
friend to Stephen, to do anything harmful to him. But there is much at
stake and I must be allowed to use my own judgment. You can rely on
me."
"I am sure of that," said the clergyman in admiration, "you are a
strong-willed man. I was strong myself once--in a way. But my
crime----"
"Crime! I thought you had not killed Carr."
"No," said Corn in a low voice, "But I have the blood of a fellow
creature on my hands for all that," and he buried his face in his
hands.
"I judge no man," said Herrick after a pause, "but do not tell me
anything that may render it difficult for me to keep sacred your
confidence."
"Oh, there is nothing you need fear from that," replied Corn drearily.
"It was an accident. Wait till I recover myself."
The man took a turn up and down the room. After five minutes he
resumed his seat and spoke composedly. "My name is not Corn," he
began, "Langham is my name--Francis Langham. I was in the army."
"So Bess Endicotte said," nodded Herrick.
Corn smiled faintly. "Yes! I let that slip one day, when she was
talking of my looking like a soldier. But she does not know my real
name. No one does save the Bishop who gave me this living. Ah! he was
a good man. He is dead now. But I have to thank him for saving my
reason and my life."
"How was that?" asked Herrick settling himself.
"I was quartered in the West Indies," said Corn after a pause, "and I
there had a friend, who joined about the same time as I did. I need
not tell you his name or the number of my regiment. All you need know
is the simple story of my misery. My friend and I were always
together; they called us David and Jonathan in the regiment. Well,"
here Corn nerved himself to a tremendous effort, "we were out shooting
ducks. We were parted amongst the reeds on the borders of the lake. I
thought I saw the brown back of a duck through some reeds. Without
thinking I fired, and--I killed my friend! Oh, my God!"
When the man's head went down on the table, Herrick clasped him by the
shoulder. He was profoundly moved by the miserable story, and could
well understand how a once strong man had been changed by this tragic
deed into a weak, tremulous, creature. He did not say a word of
comfort. It would have been useless. After a time Corn recovered
himself and continued in a dull hard voice.
"There was an inquiry. I was exonerated from all blame. But I knew
that I had killed my friend, that I had the blood of a fellow creature
on my hands. I left my regiment and sent in my papers. Under another
name I returned to England. All my relations were dead save my uncle
the Bishop. He tried to calm me. I would not be calm. I would have
committed suicide but that I felt that it was my duty to suffer for my
crime."
"Not a crime," interposed Herrick gently "an accident."
"Yes! It was. Yet I can't help--but no matter. I took to gambling to
drown my remorse and grief. I had never touched cards before. They
became a passion with me. Other men take to drink,---I to cards. But
all in vain. When the excitement of the game was over--in the morning,
then my misery came back. I went to my uncle. He implored me to find
peace in the bosom of the church, for he did not look upon me as the
guilty wretch I was. I consented. As Pentland Corn I studied for the
church. I became a priest,--a curate and worked in the slums of the
East End. I left off gambling, and felt more at ease, thinking I was
expiating my folly. In an evil hour--after years of hard work--my
uncle gave me this living. I took it. Shortly afterwards he died. Then
I realised the folly of accepting a charge where I had time to brood.
The past came back to me, and--I took to gambling again.
"That was weak Corn," said Herrick decisively.
"I know it was--but I was in a manner driven to it. There was little
work to do here. Society had no attractions for me. So then I had
long--long hours of agony. I wanted to forget the past, and"----
"You should have gone back to the East End."
Corn nodded. "I should have done many things," said he bitterly, "but
that accident had taken all the manhood out of me. I drifted--drifted.
Well to make a long story short, I took to going away to London at
times to indulge in gambling and forget my sorrow."
"I know. And you went to that club in Pimlico."
"I did. Santiago told you that I suppose. I met him there. In an
incautious moment I told him about Colonel Carr. Then I heard of the
grudge he bore against him."
"Do you know the story of that expedition?"
"Most of it. I warned Colonel Carr against his enemy. He laughed,
feeling safe in his tower. Then learning that I was fond of cards,
Carr made me play with him. It was said that I went to 'The Pines' to
convert the man. It was to gamble--so low had I sunk."
Herrick shook his head. But he was so sorry for the man that he could
not blame him for his folly. Corn resumed.
"Night after night I gambled there. Also I went to London, and met Don
Manuel at the Pimlico club. So, the life went on. And now for the
story of that night." Here Corn drew his chair closer to that of his
listener, and continued his revelation in a whisper.
"I knew Mrs. Marsh very well and saw much of her," he said, "she was a
very violent and terrible woman."
"I know that," said Herrick remembering his own experiences.
"Oftentimes I tried to check her wrath. She would call and see Carr,
and they always fought when they met. I think Carr enjoyed tormenting
her, for he never forbade her visits. He was a wicked man, Herrick."
"One of the worst, judging from his reputation."
"Yet he had his good points. He helped me with money to pay my
gambling debts not twice, but thrice."
"Did he know your story?"
"No, I could not tell it to him, he would only have laughed at my
remorse. It would have seemed foolish to him. He thought that I was
simply a profligate clergyman, and liked me for that very reason, Oh,
I do not defend myself Herrick; I sank low, very low, but my excuse
must be the sorrow of my life. It took all the courage and self
respect out of me. But after this I shall give up this charge and
return to the East-End. There I will work hard and forget my folly, my
sorrow. The gambling will lose its hold over me then."
"I think you will be wise. Go on."
"Well, on that day of the murder Mrs. March came to me in a rage.
She had heard through Frisco--he had spoken in one of his drunken
fits--that Carr was going to disinherit her son. She went to see him
from this house. I tried to stop her; but she would go. They had a
furious quarrel in the afternoon, and Mrs. Marsh swore that she would
kill Carr if he disinherited Stephen."
"She did not kill him in the afternoon?"
"No. Because he was alive after five o'clock. Someone saw him at the
window of the tower. Well, Mrs. Marsh dined with me. After dinner she
worked herself into a rage. Carr had laughed at her on that afternoon,
and had said that he would do what he liked with his money. In fact
from all she told me, he treated her like a brute; he was one you know
Herrick," and Jim nodded, remembering the torture of the Indian.
"Stephen was to come for her," said the rector wearily; the telling of
this story fatigued him. "Somewhere about nine o'clock she was to meet
him at the Carr Arms, and take the bus back to Beorminster. After
eight she went out. It was so early that I wanted her to stop. She
refused. At nine Stephen arrived. He could not find his mother. She
was not at the Carr Arms. I then guessed that she had gone to see Carr
again. In my fear lest she might do something dreadful I blurted out
my suspicions. At once Stephen understood what I meant. He went
himself to 'The Pines;' I waited for some time. Then I was in such a
state that I followed. The house was all ablaze, but I heard nothing.
This was about half past nine or a quarter to ten. I went up as far as
the door. On the steps I picked up that pistol--which I guessed had
been used by Mrs. Marsh. I slipped it into my pocket. Then I returned
home. I went also to the Carr Arms and learned that Stephen and his
mother had caught the bus some time after nine o'clock, I tried to
think that Mrs. Marsh had not shot the man. I returned here to think
it out. Santiago was waiting for me. He had come by the last bus from
Beorminster, and had been waiting since nine. In fact he came just
after I went after Stephen. It was really a quarter past nine when he
came."
"Do you think he had been to 'The Pines?' asked Herrick keenly.
"I do not know. But you can learn that from the busman who drove him
here. I did not inquire myself. He had come to get me to take him to
see Carr. I refused, and without thinking I threw the pistol on the
table. I was much agitated, and he saw that. He got out of me that I
had been to 'The Pines.' After looking at the pistol he said he would
go to 'The Pines' himself. I refused to let him go. After a time I
gave him some money and persuaded him to go. I drove him to Heathcroft
station in my cart. He took the pistol with him. I did not notice that
he had done so. In a day or two when the murder became known he wrote
and accused me of being the criminal. I denied it. But he had read the
report of the death and how the wound had been inflicted by an
old-fashioned weapon. When he came here with Joyce he insisted that I
was guilty. I said that I was not but would say nothing about Mrs.
Marsh. It was this knowledge that he used to make me hold my tongue
about the assault on Stephen. What could I do Herrick?" said Corn
piteously. "Appearances were against me. Santiago could prove that I
had the pistol. I had been to 'The Pines,' and I owed Colonel Carr
money. Also there was my own story. Had I been arrested, all would
have come out. No! I had to do what Santiago told me."
"Humph!" said Jim, "I can see your dilemma. And what about Mrs. Marsh?
Did Stephen suspect her?"
"No. He told me that he had gone to 'The Pines' and looked at the
house. He saw nothing and heard nothing. He therefore returned to the
Carr Arms, and found his mother waiting for him. She said that he had
missed her, and evidently invented a story which satisfied him. No
Herrick, I do not think Stephen suspected his step-mother. But she
shot the Colonel I am sure. She left my house in a rage and she
several times threatened to kill him. Then she was not at the Carr
Arms. After nine the man was shot."
Herrick nodded. "Did you ask Mrs. Marsh to explain?"
"No! She fell ill if you remember, and took to her bed. I could not
bring myself to see her. I therefore held my tongue, and I should have
continued to do so but that Don Manuel threatened me. Therefore I
determined to tell you all when I could. What you heard from him is in
the main true. But I did not kill Carr. The blood of one human being
on my hands is enough. Do you despise me Herrick?"
Dr. Jim rose and took the hand of the unhappy man. "My friend, I pity
you from the bottom of my soul. If you had only found some one to
advise you, all this trouble would not have occurred."
"That is true. But my uncle who knew the story of my misery was dead.
I shrank from telling anyone. But when I got to know you and saw how
strong and self-reliant you were, and recognised also the goodness of
your heart I felt that I could safely confide in you, You will not
tell anyone what I have told you?"
"Need you ask me that!" said Herrick with a hearty shake of the hand.
"Of course your secret is safe with me."
"And about Mrs. Marsh?"
"I shall see into that," said Herrick gravely. "Remember Santiago is a
dangerous man. I do not know what trouble he may yet cause. If
necessary I must use what you have told me about the crime. But you
may be sure that for Stephen's sake and for yours, I shall be
circumspect in my dealings with the matter. As for you, my friend,
wait here until this mystery is quite solved; then go back to the East
End, or to the Wild Lands as a missionary."
"Yes," said Corn with a sigh, "I know. Only in that way shall I find
rest."
The two men shook hands and parted very good friends. Corn returned to
his study intensely relieved by the sympathy, and by the fact that he
had some one to share his secret. Herrick walked home to "The Pines"
wondering at the perplexity of the case. He thought less of Corn than
of Mrs. Marsh. Suddenly he stopped.
"I see," he said to himself, "this was why Mrs. Marsh poisoned herself
with an overdose of chloral. Poor woman!"