A NINE DAYS' WONDER.
The murder of Barton made a considerable stir not only in the parish of
Lesser Thorpe but throughout the county. From Southampton came the
police to take charge of the body and the case; to discover, if
possible, the murderer, and close the black chapter of the Squire's
life. Barton had evidently been strangled about ten o'clock. Upon this
Dr. Marsh insisted; the child had come into the library at half-past and
had taken a fit from fright. Half an hour later they had both been
found. The window was open, there were confused footmarks on the
terrace, and the assassin--whoever he was--had had ample time in which
to effect his escape. On such evidence did the police begin to build up
their case. Needless to say that they were completely unsuccessful.
But the strangest part of the whole strange business was, that the will
in favour of Gerald had disappeared. And upon this disappearance Mrs.
Darrow, if no one else, was inclined to base the motive for the crime.
Her mouth was now no longer closed--the only person who could close it
was dead--and she was not long in venting her spite on Miriam.
Communication with Barton's lawyers had elicited the fact that a new
will had been executed by their client a day or two before his death.
The old will in favour of Dundas still remained in their office. But
although search was made everywhere for the more recent document, it
could not be found. No one at the Manor House had seen it, Miriam alone
having done so, but she thought it best to keep her own counsel; and
indeed she was only too pleased to think that Gerald would now be
compelled to earn his own living.
As soon as the will leaving the property to Major Dundas was read, and
Mrs. Darrow learned that her three hundred a year was secure for life,
she sent for Miriam. The moment of her triumph and revenge had arrived,
and she determined to make the most of it. Throned in an arm-chair she
threw off all disguise, and received her governess like the culprit she
held her to be.
"You wish to see me, Mrs. Darrow," said Miriam quietly. She knew pretty
well what was coming.
"Yes, Miss Crane, I sent for you to request that you leave my house
to-morrow."
"I am quite willing to go," replied Miriam quietly; "indeed, if you wish
it, I can go to-day."
"You will go when I please, and not before," cried the widow quivering
with petty spite, for Miriam's impassiveness exasperated her beyond
endurance. "And be good enough to remember that while you _are_ here you
are my servant. You forget yourself. Because Mr. Barton engaged you is
no excuse for the insolence to which you treat me. I am of course not
liable for your money."
"In that case, Mrs. Darrow, I must apply to Major Dundas, as Mr.
Barton's heir."
"Oh, I daresay you will," sneered Mrs. Darrow, "but there is no chance
there; I know your tricks and your sly deceit. You think you'll catch
him, but you shan't, not if I can help it. The county gaol--not the
Manor House--is the proper place for young women of your stamp!"
"If you have nothing more to say I will go," said Miriam, keeping her
temper wonderfully well under the woman's insults.
"But I have more to say. Don't be insolent, I tell you. I hold you in
the hollow of my hand."
"What do you mean?" asked Miriam imperiously.
"Mean! you know well enough what I mean. You know you were in love with
Gerald Arkel and tried your best to marry him; and as Hilda Marsh beat
you and upset your little plans, you thought you would steal the will so
that her husband should not get the property. Yes you did--and you are
Mr. Barton's murderer--that's what I mean!"
"You must be mad!" gasped Miriam, thunder-struck. "I gave my evidence at
the inquest as everyone else did; and the jury brought in a verdict that
Mr. Barton had been murdered by some person unknown. You know what you
say is a dastardly falsehood. I was in the drawing-room singing when Mr.
Barton met his death; and Dicky saw the body half an hour before I did.
I found the poor child in a fit, and rushed back to call you all. How
dare you make such accusations against me--dare to say that I killed one
of the few men who have been kind to me?"
"Oh, I daresay there are plenty of men who have been kind to you,"
scoffed Mrs. Darrow venomously. "We know all about that, Miss Crane--if
Crane is your name, which I very much doubt. But I don't want your
infamous London life dragged up here, thank you!"
"Mrs. Darrow," cried Miriam in a cold fury, "if you dare to slander me
in this way I will bring you into Court to prove your charges."
"Do--do. It's what I wish. I have held my tongue so long for my dead
uncle's sake, but no longer now, my young lady--no, I go straight to the
inspector of police."
"There you will have to give some proof of what you say!"
"I can do so--in one word--Jabez!"
Miriam reeled, deadly white, and but for the support of a chair she
caught she would have fallen. The blow was so unexpected, so suddenly
delivered, that she knew not how to parry it.
"Jabez," she murmured, pale to the lips; "Jabez!"
"Yes, Jabez," cried Mrs. Darrow, following up her advantage. "Fie on
you, you horrible woman! meeting low creatures behind the church and
plotting murder!"
"Ah! you followed. Yes, Mr. Barton told me you did."
"Yes, I did follow you in the interests of purity. And it is well I did,
for I found out what you are, a low, wicked----"
Miriam held up her hand and stepped forward so suddenly that Mrs. Darrow
stopped short.
She saw how perilous was her position; and she nerved herself to cope
with it.
"Silence!" she cried peremptorily. "You shall not abuse me in this way.
If you have any definite charge to make, state it, and the evidence on
which you have it."
"I accuse your lover, Jabez, of killing my poor uncle to steal that will
and ruin Gerald Arkel, and I accuse you of aiding and abetting him."
"That is at least concise," said Miriam bitterly; "and your evidence?"
"I heard Jabez say that he would 'knife' Mr. Barton if he interfered
with him."
"Quite so; well, as Mr. Barton did not interfere with Jabez, evidently
the motive was wanting. As to my having been a party to anything
calculated to harm either Mr. Arkel or Mr. Barton, that is a foul lie,
such as only yourself could invent."
Mrs. Darrow rose and drew her shawl round her.
"We shall see what the inspector says," she said savagely. "I shall tell
him all I overheard, and formally charge you."
"There is no need for you to do that," replied Miriam. "I shall go to
the inspector myself and tell him everything."
"You dare not," cried the widow.
"Not only dare, but will! I leave your house at once, and apply to Major
Dundas for the salary due to me."
"Yes, and take to your heels, no doubt--but I'll see you don't get very
far, my lady."
"As far as Southampton, whither Major Dundas will, I have no doubt,
accompany me. There, fortunately, I shall be able to put it out of your
power to harm me. I will not say what I think of you further than to
pity from the bottom of my heart the poor dear little child who has the
misfortune to call you mother." Then, without another word, Miriam left
the room.
Upstairs she packed her box, dressed herself, and went off to bid
good-bye to Dicky. The child's nervous system had received a severe
shock at the sight of the dead man's body. Since the fatal night they
had been obliged to keep him in bed. Now, although more composed, he was
still acutely nervous. When Miriam entered the nursery he started up
with a slight cry. She took him in her arms, and could feel that he was
trembling.
"Hush, Dicky dear!" she said, kissing him, "I have come to say good-bye
to you just for a little while."
"Oh!" the boy clung to her and wept. "You are not going away, Miss
Crane?"
"Yes, dear--I must." She had not the heart to tell him the whole truth.
"But I shall come back and see you again very soon. I am only going up
to London; and while I am away Dicky is going to be a brave boy, isn't
he?"
"I promise--I promise; but I was so afraid when I saw Uncle Barton like
that."
"Yes, dear, I know. But poor Uncle Barton is very happy now; you mustn't
think any more about him. Tell me, Dicky, do you remember if the library
window was open when you went in to see him?"
"Yes, wide open, Miss Crane." Dicky shuddered. "And when I touched Uncle
Barton he fell on one side just like a doll. And when I saw his face I
was so afraid, and I felt so giddy and I fell right down----"
"Did you see anyone, Dicky?"
"Oh, no, I saw no one."
"Did you hear anything?"
"Oh yes, the wind. I was so afraid of it. And I was so afraid of Uncle
Barton too--he was so white, and he couldn't speak, and his mouth was
open, and his eyes looked funny. Oh, Miss Crane, dead people are
horrid--I can't bear them!"
"Yes, dear; we won't talk any more about it. Look, here is my gold
chain, and while I am away I want you to wear it for my sake--will you?"
Dicky's fancy was caught at once.
"Oh, thank you; thank you, Miss Crane," he said, kissing her. "Now I
will be your knight. The Knight of the Golden Chain. Oh, I shall always
wear it, and I shall never forget you, Miss Crane, never! Must you go?"
"Yes, dear; I must go now. But some day I'll see my Dicky again. Perhaps
he'll be a big boy then, and be going to school. You'll think of me even
then, dear, won't you?--and of the walks and the talks we used to have?
Oh, Dicky, it is so hard for me to leave you! You won't forget me? You
must never forget your Miriam!" She pressed the boy's face to her own
and let the tears run freely. Then with one last effort she dragged
herself from him, and passed quickly out of the room.
She went straight to the village inn and ordered a fly to call and take
her to the station in an hour. Then she walked up to the Manor House,
and inquired for Major Dundas. He was in, and saw her at once. Indeed,
so marked was the eagerness of his greeting that Miriam instinctively
became more reserved.
"Major Dundas," she said, coming to the point at once, "I am indeed
sorry to trouble you, but I thought it only right to come straight to
you and tell you how I am placed. Mrs. Darrow has dismissed me. That of
itself is nothing; but on the plea that she did not engage me, she has
refused to pay the salary due, so I----"
"My dear Miss Crane," interrupted the Major, "you astonish me. Surely
Mrs. Darrow----"
"Mrs. Darrow hates me," said Miriam bitterly. "In that you have the
explanation of everything. She is only gratifying her spite by turning
me out of her house. Not, as I say, that I mind that; but I felt sure in
the circumstances you would rather I came to you."
"Of course; you did perfectly right. I shall certainly remonstrate with
Mrs. Darrow about this. Let me see, your salary is----"
"Fifty pounds a year," said Miriam coldly, "and there are six months due
to me."
Something in her tone prevented the Major speaking further. In silence
he sat down to write a cheque, and in silence he handed it to her. She
put it in her purse.
"I should like to write you a receipt for this, Major Dundas, if you
don't mind."
"My dear Miss Crane, there is not the least necessity."
"Oh, thanks, I think I should prefer to be quite business-like. And
perhaps you will show this to Mrs. Darrow." She sat down to the table,
and producing a stamp from her purse, affixed it to her acknowledgment
of the money. "There," she said, handing it to him, "I think that is
sufficient. And now, before I go, there is something else I must speak
to you about. When I leave here, I am going straight to the Police
Station at Southampton to see the inspector."
"In Heaven's name what for!" exclaimed the perplexed Major.
"Because Mrs. Darrow accuses me of having aided and abetted someone to
murder Mr. Barton and steal his will."
"Mrs. Darrow has dared to say that? She is mad!"
"No, hardly mad--malicious," replied Miriam with a faint smile. "But you
will hear all she has got to say very shortly. She is sure to come to
you with it."
"But I can't understand how such an idea could enter her head. It is
monstrous!"
"Let me tell you something," said Miriam. "Not long ago a young man--who
for the present must be nameless, save to tell you he is known as
Jabez--came down from London to see me here. His object was to obtain
from me money to enable him to go to America. This young man and I were
brought up together, and I was devoted to him. Years after we met in
London. I was in terribly poor circumstances, and he--well, I must
confess it, he had reached the lowest depths of dissipation and despair.
I was sorry for him even so, and I helped him in the only small way I
could. Whenever I had the money to give him he had it. Ever since he has
always looked to me for help. He knew I was here and comfortably placed,
and he insisted upon coming down to see me. Very much against my will I
met him by appointment one evening--it was Christmas Eve--in the
churchyard. Mrs. Darrow followed me and overheard my conversation with
him. It is upon what she says she heard that she bases this charge. It
is of course a very serious charge, and because of this clandestine
meeting I feel more strongly impelled than I might otherwise do (seeing
the sort of woman Mrs. Darrow is, and is known to be) to take immediate
action to clear myself."
"But the facts! my dear Miss Crane--I don't see how----Oh, the whole
thing is too ridiculous for words. Now come, you really must leave this
to me. I will see Julia at once. This is going a little too far. Believe
me, your character will be quite safe in my keeping. I----"
"Yes, yes, I know, Major. You are more than good. But I feel it is a
matter in which I should act for myself. I shall go to Southampton and
forestall Mrs. Darrow."
"But you will let me know where you are--we shall meet again soon?"
"That I cannot say. You see from Southampton I shall go straight to
London. It is very unlikely that we shall meet."
"But, Miss Crane, you must not take yourself away like this. Don't, I
beg of you. It is not quite fair on--I mean, at least you will tell me
where I may find you in London? Believe me, I----"
"After Mrs. Darrow has said to you all she has to say about me, you may
not be so anxious to resume our friendship, Major. Indeed, I sadly fear,
quite the contrary."
"Miss Crane! You are unjust--how unjust you do not know. I----"
"Oh, I admit, you have been all kindness to me. But----However, there is
my address; come and see me if you will."
She handed him a card upon which were written her name and address. The
address was the Pitt Hotel, Craven Street.