THE INQUEST
After eighty years, halting Nemesis had at last caught up with Jarvis
Alpenny. He had buried himself in seclusion; he had surrounded himself
with bolts and bars and other precautions; but the order that his
sordid career should end had come from the Powers that deal with
evil-doers, and he was as dead as a door-nail. And very unpleasantly he
had died too, for his wrinkled throat had been cut from ear to ear. Who
had done it no one seemed to know.
Beatrice might have supplied a clue; but for reasons connected with
the Paslow family she held her tongue, and feigned ignorance when the
rural police came on the scene, which they did very speedily, owing
to the zeal of Mrs. Snow. The sergeant of the district questioned and
cross-questioned Miss Hedge, with very little success. She told him
that, on the previous evening, she had gone for a walk in the woods
round The Camp, but did not mention with what object. There, as she
stated very truly, she had been caught in the storm, and at some
unknown time had stumbled home wet and weary, and so tired that she had
at once slipped into bed. The note from her stepfather was produced,
and confiscated by the sergeant; the details of Mrs. Snow's curiosity
leading to a discovery of a crime, were given; and then Beatrice
professed that she could tell no more. The bucolic constable believed
her readily enough, and informed his Inspector who came that Miss Hedge
had told the truth and nothing but the truth. This might have been so,
but she certainly had not told the whole truth, else might the sergeant
have added to the note left by the dead man, a certain gentleman's
handkerchief, marked with three initials--"V.R.P."
This piece of evidence Beatrice had picked up so near the body, that a
corner of the handkerchief was soaked in the life-blood of the miser.
Her quick eye had seen it almost the moment she had entered the dungeon
at Durban's heels, and when falling on her knees by the dead she had
mechanically picked it up, without lynx-eyed Mrs. Snow seeing the
action. Durban would only allow the women to remain for two minutes in
that place of death. Then he drove them out, and insisted that Beatrice
should retire to her parlour. She did so while he reclosed the door of
the counting-house, and while Mrs. Snow, almost too excited to speak,
ran for the nearest constable, who in his turn summoned his sergeant.
Alone in the parlour, Beatrice, still mechanically grasping the
handkerchief, suddenly remembered how she had found it, and at once
examined the corners. It was with a gasp of terror that she realised to
whom it belonged. "V.R.P." could only stand for Vivian Robert Paslow,
and he--as she knew only too well--was the enemy of the deceased.
Could it be that Vivian had killed the miser to settle the question
of marriage, and secure his threatened property from getting into the
cruel clutches of his victim? In that first moment of horror Beatrice
was inclined to think so. Then, with a revulsion of feeling, she
recoiled with horror from so base an idea. The man she loved was not a
midnight assassin: however much he may have hated Alpenny, he certainly
would not have put the old man to death in so barbarous a fashion.
Finally, he had been with her under the Witches' Oak last night, and
could not possibly be guilty.
Then, again, on further thought it occurred to her that such an alibi
could scarcely serve in this case. The meeting at the haunted tree
had taken place about seven o'clock, and had lasted, so far as she
could reckon from confused recollection, for a quarter of an hour.
Then had come the episode of the pursuit of the watcher by Paslow,
her own flight through the woods, the breaking of the storm, and her
fainting-fit. She might have been hours unconscious; she might have
been hours getting home, for she had very little recollection of that
mad passage through the furious wind and rain. Only she remembered
reaching The Camp between the gates, and blindly falling into the arms
of a lean, tall man with a black patch over his left eye. Had that man
been Vivian? Was it truly her lover who, in the intervening time, had
stolen to the deserted Camp, and using the key of the small gate (which
she knew he possessed) had gained access to the dungeon, there to
commit his crime? No! It was impossible. If she could only remember the
time when she came back! This was hard to do, and yet it was done, for
chance came to her aid.
Besides the cuckoo-clock which had awakened her, Beatrice possessed an
old silver watch, given to her on some far-distant birthday by Durban.
It stood on a small stand beside the bed, and she remembered that in
slipping between the sheets, weary and half asleep, she had knocked
this down between the table it stood on and the wall. Some instinct
must have directed her to look for it at the moment. She thrust the
incriminating handkerchief into her pocket, and ran to the bedroom
carriage. There she found the watch--found also that it had stopped at
the hour of nine o'clock. It was just possible that the stoppage had
occurred when she had knocked it over. She certainly had wound it up
as usual on the previous night, and twice before, when knocked off its
stand, it had stopped dead.
"Yes," thought the girl, inspecting the yellow dial, "it must have been
stopped by the fall, unless"--she shook it vigorously--"unless it has
run down"; but a steady ticking told her that the main-spring was not
yet fully unwound, and she replaced the watch on its stand, with a firm
conviction that she had entered the bedroom at nine on the previous
evening. Vivian had left her to follow the spy at a quarter past
seven, so he could easily have committed the crime, so far as time and
opportunity went, as one hour and three-quarters had been taken up by
her in getting home. An alibi, therefore, was little good in this case,
and on the evidence of the handkerchief he would assuredly be hanged.
"No! no! no!" murmured Beatrice with rising inflection, and speaking
aloud in her agitation; "it is untrue. Vivian would never commit so
cowardly a deed as to kill an old man of eighty, however much he may
have hated him. I shall hide the handkerchief--but where? The police
are sure to search the place, and--and----" A sudden thought struck
her. "I'll keep it in my pocket," she decided, and thrust it, neatly
folded up, to the very bottom of that receptacle. Later, she intended
to cautiously question Paslow, and learn if he had been to The Camp on
that night. But the conversation would be between their two selves. She
would tell no one else of the handkerchief she had picked up, not even
Durban, faithful servant though he was.
It was at this moment, and as though in response to her mental mention
of his name, that Durban appeared. He looked much shaken by the
tragedy, and was green with scarcely concealed fright. Beatrice eyed
him with astonishment, as she had never deemed him to be much attached
to the old tyrant who had gone so violently to his long rest. Durban
evaded her searching glance, which was perhaps fortunate, as the girl
herself did not wish her own countenance to be too closely scrutinised.
"I've shut it up in the counting-house," said Durban, his eyes on the
ground, and jerking his thumb over his shoulder. "The police will be
here soon. Mrs. Snow will tell them; she'll be glad of the chance."
"Why? Did she know my--the late Mr. Alpenny?"
"That's right, missy." Durban raised his eyes with approval, and
dropped them again. "Never call him your father."
"He was my stepfather," Beatrice reminded him.
"Ah--hum--yes," gurgled Durban. "Yes, missy, Mrs. Snow knew master
before you were born--at Convent Grange."
"I heard her say that Colonel Hall's throat had also been cut."
Durban shuddered, and leaned against the door. "Yes," he whispered
faintly, "that was so, missy."
"Mr. Alpenny's throat has been cut in the same way."
Durban half smiled, but his expression was wry and twisted. "There is
only one way to cut a throat, missy."
"Ugh!" Beatrice turned pale, and threw up her hand. "Don't!"
"It is a nasty subject, missy. I--I'm sorry for the master. And yet,"
he added, half to himself; "if ever a man deserved what he got, master
was that man."
"What do you mean?" asked Beatrice, taking a step towards him.
"Master had many enemies," went on Durban, again casting his eyes on
the ground; "a money-lender always has."
"Then you know----"
"I know nothing," snapped the man angrily, and wiping his swarthy face
with a duster. "Master sent me to London last night, as you knew,
missy. I only came down by the morning train, and walked here, in time
to find you with Mrs. Snow. What did she want?"
Beatrice smiled faintly in her turn. "Subscriptions for the church
spire, which was blown down last night."
"Oh! That was the excuse?"
"Excuse for what, Durban?"
"To see you, missy, and learn---- But there!" Durban turned away. "She
came here to make mischief between you and master. Thank Heaven he is
dead, and you will get the money. Mrs. Snow can't harm you now."
"Why should she wish to harm me, Durban?"
"That's a long story, missy. Now that the master is dead, I can tell it
to you. But first we must learn who killed----"
"I know," interrupted Beatrice quickly; "a tall man, with a black patch
over his left eye."
Durban turned greener than ever. "How do you know that, missy?" he
asked in a strangled voice.
"I saw him when the gates were open, about nine o'clock last night."
Durban looked at her sharply. "Then you did go for that walk, missy?"
"Yes, I had to. Mr. Paslow wished to see me. Durban"--she made a step
forward, and clutched his arm tightly--"I'll tell you what I don't
intend to tell any one else," and without giving the man time to
make an observation, she related the whole story of her adventure,
suppressing only the episode of the handkerchief. This she did, so as
to avert any possible suspicion from Vivian, since Durban, knowing that
Paslow had been with her, would not connect him with the crime--that
is, if he was stupid enough not to calculate the time, and thus prove
the futility of the alibi.
Durban listened quietly enough. "I am glad that Mr. Paslow will marry
you, missy," he said at last, and removed her grasp from his arm. "You
will inherit a lot of money from the dead master. It ought to be twenty
thousand a year!"
"But, Durban, Mr. Alpenny told me very plainly that if he died, I would
be a pauper."
"I don't believe it," burst out the half-caste; "he would not dare
to--to----" Here he halted and stammered, "C--c--curse him!"
"Durban!" She stepped back a pace in sheer amazement at the savagery of
the tone.
"Dead, or alive, curse him!" cried Durban, his voice gathering strength
from the intensity of his hate. "He was a scoundrel--you don't know how
great a scoundrel. Missy"--he grasped her arm in his turn--"you shall
have the money, I swear it. Then marry Mr. Paslow, and go away for a
few years, till all blows over."
"Till what blows over?" asked Beatrice anxiously.
"Hush!" Durban let go her arm, and controlled himself by a violent
effort. "The police! Say as little as you can. You know nothing--I know
nothing."
"Durban, are you afraid?"
"Of Mrs. Snow. Hush!"
The last words were scarcely out of his mouth when the two policemen,
who had entered the gates left open by Mrs. Snow, came up to them with
important airs. The sergeant was stout and short, the constable lean
and tall.
"We take possession of this place, miss," said the stout man
breathlessly.
"In the name of the King and the law," finished the lean person.
"And anything you say will be used in evidence against you," they both
murmured in a breath, then stared sternly at the startled girl and the
green-hued half-caste.
"Do what you like," said Beatrice, drawing herself up; "neither myself
nor Durban know anything."
"But----" began the sergeant, snorting with excitement.
"I will answer all questions at the proper time, and at the proper
place," said Miss Hedge, cutting the plethoric man short. Then she
retired into her bedroom and shut the door.
The constables grumbled at her sharpness of speech, but went to work.
They examined the body, searched every inch of The Camp, made plans,
took notes, asked innumerable questions of Durban, and finally insisted
that Beatrice should submit to an examination. This she did composedly
enough, but said as little as she well could. It was her intention to
reserve an account of what she had seen for the inquest. She did not
even tell the Inspector, when he arrived to take charge of the case.
There was immense excitement in Hurstable. The quiet little Sussex
village had never before been defiled by a crime of this brutal kind.
Sparsely populated as the district was, a great number of agricultural
labourers gathered in a remarkably short space of time. Their wives and
children came also, and the police had much difficulty in keeping them
out of the precincts of The Camp. Then by next day the news had reached
Brighton, and crowds of tourists--it being the holiday season--poured
into the Weald on foot, on bicycles, in motor cars and carriages, and
by train. With them came the reporters from various newspapers, London
and local, and the whole place buzzed like a hive at swarming-time.
Beatrice remained in The Camp under charge of Durban. Dinah Paslow
came to offer her the hospitality of Convent Grange; but, much to the
surprise of Beatrice, the man who had proposed to her on that fatal
night never made his appearance. Without any embarrassment, Dinah
told her friend that Vivian had gone to town as soon as he heard that
Alpenny was dead.