"Sit down, Mr Wimble, and how's all Danmouth? I was coming over in a
day or two perhaps, to stay at the Fort, and if I do, I dare say I shall
have to make a call on you."
"Glad to see you at any time, sir," said Wimble, looking uneasily at the
portly figure of the lawyer as he sat back in his chair, after a long
study over Gartram's papers.
For, in spite of Claude's decision, that missing sum of money troubled
Trevithick.
"It's a reflection on me, as his business-man," he said to himself.
"Forty thousand in notes gone and nobody knows where. I'll trace that
money. I shall not rest till I do."
He had some thought, too, that if he did triumphantly trace that missing
sum, Claude would be pleased, and Mary Dillon more than satisfied. So
he worked on in secret, and he was busy when his clerk announced the
Danmouth barber.
"And now, what can I do for you?" said Trevithick.
The barber hesitated, looked round, and then back at the calm,
thoughtful man before him.
"You need not be afraid to speak, Mr Wimble," said Trevithick looking
very serious but feeling amused, "no one can hear."
"Sure, sir?"
"Quite."
"Because it's horribly private, sir."
"Indeed! What is it? Want to borrow a little cash?"
"Me, sir?" cried the barber jumping up indignantly. "No, sir; I've got
my little bit saved up and safely invested at five per cent."
"I beg your pardon, and congratulate you. Then what is it?"
Wimble went on tiptoe to the entrance, opened the door, peeped out, and,
after closing it, came stealthily back close to the table, upon which he
rested his hand, bent forward till his face came within a foot of the
lawyer's, and gazed at him wildly.
"Well, Mr Wimble, what is it?" said Trevithick at last, for his visitor
was silent.
"It's murder, sir," whispered the barber.
"What?"
"Murder, sir."
"Well, then, you had better go to the police, man, for that's not in my
way."
"If you'll excuse me, sir, it is. You are Mr Gartram's lawyer, and
have to do with his affairs."
"Good heavens, man, what do you mean?"
"That Mr Gartram was murdered, sir--poisoned, and I've got the clue."
"What?"
"I thought I wouldn't say a word, sir. That it was too horrible, and
that no matter what one did, it wouldn't bring the poor man back to
life; but when I see the murderer going on in his wickedness, spending
the money he must have stolen, and pretending he has come in for a
fortune, and on the strength of it trying to delude weak widows he
lodges with, and carrying on with other ladies too, it is time to speak.
The human heart won't hold such secrets without a busting out."
The lawyer started at the sound of the word _money_, for it seemed to
strike a chord within his own breast.
"Look here, Mr Wimble," he said; "do I gather aright that you think
that Mr Gartram was murdered?"
"Poisoned, sir."
"Good heavens! But by whom?"
"One who had sworn to have revenge upon him--one who wanted his money;
and who was seen and caught lurking about the Fort, sir, one dark night,
waiting for his opportunity, for he knew the place well from a boy."
"Great heavens, man, whom do you mean?"
"The man who has blighted my life, sir, Mr Christopher Lisle."
"Rubbish!"
"What, sir?"
"You're mad."
"I wish I was, sir, and that I could say to myself you're fancying all
this; I should be a happier man, sir. But I can't. I've fought with it
and smothered it down, but it's one living fire, sir, and it's kept
burning the day through."
"Mr Christopher Lisle?"
"Yes, sir. Him as was turned away, and heard to say threatening things
against poor Mr Gartram."
"But found on the premises?"
"Yes, sir; the night Mr Gartram died of poison, no matter what the
doctors said; and that night the deed was done this bottle of stuff was
thrown out of the window down among the rocks and sand."
"How do you know?"
"Because I found it early next morning," said Wimble, holding up the
bottle; "and I can swear it was not there the day before."
"Nonsense, nonsense, man! It's impossible."
"That's what I said to myself, sir, but nature argued it out inside me.
`Here's Mr Chris Lisle,' it said, `wanted Miss Claude, and her father
refused him, and was going to give her to Mr Glyddyr, of the yacht.'
There's one reason. Mr Chris was thrown over, because he was poor.
That's another reason. Mr Chris is rich now. How did he become rich?
Nobody knows. Mr Chris was found in the garden, hiding, on the night
Mr Gartram died, and the window was open.--What do you say to that?
This bottle, with some poison in it, was found under the window by me."
"Let me look."
"No, sir. That bottle's mine now. I wouldn't part with it for a
hundred pounds."
"Why?"
"Because it's a curiosity, sir, as thousands would come to see. That
bottle killed a man."
"Let me look. I'll give it you back."
"Honour bright, sir?"
"Yes."
Wimble unrolled the bottle from its cover and handed it to the lawyer,
who took and examined it.
"Pish!" he said, looking at the limpid fluid within. "Water."
"I was told it was chloral, sir."
"Chloral?" cried Trevithick; "he died of an overdose of chloral."
"Of course he did, sir," said the barber triumphantly. "Now, sir, am I
mad?"
Trevithick rose, and walked heavily up and down the room, like a small
elephant seeking to quit its enclosure, but professional training came
to his aid directly, and he reseated himself, looking quite calm.
"This is a terribly serious thing, Mr Wimble," he said sternly. "You
are charging Mr Lisle with murder."
"Terribly serious thing to take Mr Gartram's life, sir."
"If he did, my man--if he did. But it must be all a mistake."
"I hope it is, sir, indeed."
"If the police knew of this, it would be awkward for Mr Lisle."
"Of course it would, sir."
"But, my good man, you are taking the view that he is guilty. I tell
you that it is impossible."
"I hope it is, sir; but I've gone over it in my bed till I'm obliged to
believe Mr Lisle did it; and I feel I couldn't keep the secret any
longer."
"And so you came to me?"
"Yes, sir, as Mr Gartram's business-man."
"Dear, dear--dear, dear!" ejaculated Trevithick excitedly, as the man
began to overcome the lawyer. "There are the ladies, Wimble. We must
be very careful. If this reached their ears it would be horrible."
"Yes, sir, of course; but the wicked ought to be punished."
"You don't like Mr Lisle?" said the lawyer, looking at him searchingly.
"Well, sir, if I must speak out, no: I don't like Mr Lisle."
"And so you magnify this suspicion, and seek to do him harm by setting
about the story."
"Steady there, sir, please. I don't set about a story without good
proof. Now, let me ask you, sir, was Mr Gartram the sort of man to go
and kill himself with an overdose of that stuff?"
"By accident, man; yes."
"Not a bit of it, sir. He was too clever. I don't want to prove Mr
Lisle guilty, but there's the case. He was hanging about the grounds
that night."
"Who saw him?"
"The gardener, sir, Brime. Caught him there after he had been forbidden
the place, and he persuaded the man to hold his tongue."
"Look here, Wimble," said Trevithick, sternly, "there may be a slight
substratum of probability in what you say, but it is most unlikely that
this young man can have committed such a crime. Now, then, I'll tell
you what it is your duty to do."
"Yes, sir," said Wimble eagerly.
"Go back to Danmouth, and keep your own counsel for the present. You
can do that?"
"Hold my tongue, sir? Of course."
"Don't mention this to a soul."
"And hush it up, sir--a murder?"
"Pish! It is no murder. Let the matter rest while I try to make out
whether there is anything in what you say."
"Ah, you'll find it right, sir. Young men like Mr Chris don't get rich
in a day."
"Never mind about that. I'll go into the matter quietly. Recollect
that it would be your ruin if it was known that you had, without
foundation, made this horrible charge against Mr Lisle."
"My ruin, sir?"
"Of course. You could not stay in the town afterwards. There, go back
and hold your tongue. I'm coming over to Danmouth to-morrow, and after
I have carefully weighed all you have said, I will see you again."
"Come in and see me to-morrow, sir. You can easily do that, sir.
Nobody would think it meant anything more than coming in to be shaved."
"Well, I'll call; and now, mind this: not a soul in the place must hear
a word. It is our secret, Wimble."
"Yes, sir, I see," said the barber. "You may trust me. I came straight
to you, sir. Oh, I can be as close and secret as grim death, sir,
you'll see."
"That's right, my man. And take my advice, don't think any more of it.
I confess that it looks bad, but we shall find out that it is all
imagination, and I hope it is, for every one's sake. Close, Mr Wimble,
perfectly close, mind, at all events for the present."
"Trust me, sir. I'm glad I came to you, and you shall find me close as
a box."
Wimble spoke in all sincerity, and he returned to Danmouth, feeling glad
that he had seen the lawyer; but when he spoke he did not realise that
there was a key that would open that box.
He had no necessity for going round by Mrs Sarson's cottage, it was
quite out of his way, but it was in the dusk of evening, when love will
assert itself even in middle-aged minds.
"All alone there at the mercy of a murderer," thought Wimble. "I'll
just walk by and see if she is quite safe."
It was rather a hopeless thing to do, he owned, for there was not likely
to be anything in the outside walls to indicate whether the widow was
safe or no. All the same, he went round that way to find that all
looked right; but as he passed very slowly by, he found that the window
of Chris's room was open, and he stopped short as if spellbound, for a
familiar voice said, in tones which indicated that the speaker was
shedding tears--
"No, no, my dear; you can't think how much I think about you."
The voice ceased as Wimble gave a very decided knock at the door.
Mrs Sarson came to answer it slowly, for she was wiping her eyes after
a long, long talk with Chris, whom in a motherly way she had been trying
to rouse from the reckless, despondent state into which he had fallen,
and tried in vain.
Consequently there was a wet gleam on her cheeks, as, candle in hand,
she answered the door.
"You, Mr Wimble!" she said, starting, and feeling a little confused.
"So bold of him to come and call," she thought.
"Yes, Mrs Sarson, I want to speak to you particularly."
"Not to-night, Mr Wimble. I--I am not quite well."
"Yes; to-night."
"But Mr Lisle is at home."
"Yes, I know," he said, with a dark look in his eyes; and--fluttered and
trembling before the strange, stern manner of her visitor--she drew
back, allowed him to enter, closed the door, and led the way to the snug
back room--half kitchen, half parlour--and then looked at him
wonderingly, her heart fluttering more and more as she saw his wild
look, and that he carefully closed the door.
"Goodness me, Mr Wimble, what is the matter?" she said faintly.
"Everything," he cried, making a snatch at her wrist, and holding it
tightly. "Woman, you know how for years I have had hopes."
"Well, Mr Wimble, you made me think so; but it's quite impossible, I
assure you. Neighbours, but nothing more."
"Why, woman, why?" he said, in a whisper.
"Because--because I am quite happy and contented as I am, Mr Wimble,
with my little bit of an income and my lodger."
"Yes," cried Wimble, with a laugh, "that's it. Ah, woman, woman, that
you could throw yourself away upon a creature like that?"
"Mr Wimble, what do you mean?"
"Knowing how I worshipped you, for you to consort with a vile creature,
who cheats and abuses your confidence--a villain too bad to be allowed
to live--a man whom the law will seize before long."
"Mr Wimble, are you mad?"
"Yes, madam, with shame and horror, to think what must come when you
find out that this serpent who has wound himself about you is a convict,
a murderer, who stops at nothing."
"Mr Wimble, whom do you mean?"
"Mean? who should I mean," he cried tragically, "but that wretch in
yonder room?"
"A murderer!"
"Yes, of the man who drove him from his home. I denounce him as the
murderer of poor old Gartram, and--"
There was a wild shriek, and as Chris Lisle rushed into the room to see
what was wrong, Wimble remembered his promise to the lawyer; but too
late: the box was wide open now.
"Mrs Sarson--Wimble! what is the matter?"
"Oh, Mr Lisle," cried the widow, sobbing wildly. "Oh, my poor darling,
he says you murdered Mr Gartram. Tell him he is mad."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sarah Woodham was seated an hour later that night sewing, when she was
startled by the sudden entrance of Reuben, the gardener, looking
wild-eyed and strange, and she involuntarily rose from her chair, and
stood upon the defensive, the other servants being down the town, and
her heart telling her that "this foolish man," as she termed him, was
about to renew advances which he had been making before.
"Don't be frightened," he said, quickly grasping the meaning of her
action; "I wasn't going to say anything about that now. Have you
heard?"
"Heard what?"
"I've just come from the harbour, and they're all talking about it."
"Yes? What--some wreck?"
"No; about Mr Chris Lisle."
"What about him--dead?" said Sarah Woodham, in a hoarse whisper, as she
laid her hand upon her side and thought of Claude.
"Better if he was, my dear," said the gardener hoarsely, and in her
excitement the woman did not think to resent his familiarity. "They are
saying that he murdered master with poison."
Sarah reeled, and would have fallen, so great was the shock the words
gave her, but Brime caught her in his arms.
She recovered herself, and thrust him away.
"Mr Chris Lisle? Impossible."
"So I thought, but he was skulking about our grounds that night, for I
caught him hiding."
"Oh, it can't be true. You people are always inventing foolish
scandals. What nonsense! Let him rest in his grave in peace."
She looked so ghastly that even the unobservant gardener noticed it, and
made a remark.
"Look white? of course," she said, with a curious laugh. "Any woman
would turn pale on hearing such talk as that. There, go away."
"You needn't be cross with me, Sarah Woodham," said Brime, paying no
heed to her last words, and only too glad of an excuse to hold her in
conversation. "I knew how you liked Miss Claude, and the news was about
her young man, and I thought it better to tell you than go and tell
her."
"What! you would not dare to tell her such a thing."
"Well, somebody will if I don't. She's sure to know."
"Hush, man! Don't dare to speak of it again. It is a miserable scandal
of some of the tattling gossips, and it will be forgotten, perhaps,
to-morrow. There, not another word."
"But, Sarah, let me talk of something else."
She went to the door and opened it, pointing out.
"Go," she said.
Brime sighed deeply, and went away slowly without another word.
"Poor fellow," said the woman softly, "better for him to jump into the
sea than to go on thinking about that."
She stood for a few moments with her hands to her forehead, as if to
dull the excitement from which she was suffering, uttering a low moan
from time to time.
"How horrible!" she gasped. "It seems more than I can bear. Poor
child, if she was to hear!"
She stood staring before her at last, with her lips moving, and her eyes
fixed upon the darkness in the farther corner of the room, as if she saw
something there.
"I cannot bear it," she muttered at last; and hurriedly passing out, she
hurried up to her room, and threw herself upon her knees by the bedside.
How long she remained there she did not know. Suddenly she started up,
believing that she heard voices below.
"They will have heard it, perhaps," she said excitedly; and, hurrying
out, she found that the two servants who had been out had returned, and
were talking quickly.
Sarah Woodham turned cold with apprehension, under the impression that
the women were retailing the scandal they had heard to their mistress,
and she uttered a sigh of relief as she heard Mary Dillon say quickly--
"And they are talking about it everywhere you say?"
"Yes, miss; and we thought you ought to hear."
"Hush!--Oh, Woodham, these two have come back with a silly tale that--"
Sarah Woodham laid a thin hand upon her arm.
"That--have you heard? Oh, how horrible! But what absurd nonsense.
There, go away, all of you. It is too dreadful to talk about, and you
must let it die a natural death."
"But they say, miss, that the police will take Mr Christopher Lisle,
and that he will be hung for murder," whispered the cook in awe-stricken
tones; "and if Miss Claude should hear that--Oh!"
Claude had quietly opened the drawing-room door and stepped out into the
hall, coming in search of her cousin, the low whispering without having
attracted her attention.
"You heard what I said," cried Mary, quickly. "Why don't you go?"
"Stop!" said Claude, in a strangely altered voice.
"No, no, Claude, dear," said Mary, crossing to her. "It is nothing you
need listen to. Only a wretched tattling from down on the beach."
"I know what they said," replied Claude, hoarsely. "Sarah Woodham, have
you heard this--this dreadful charge?"
The woman did not answer with her lips, but her dark eyes were fixed
wildly on those of her mistress.
"Then it is true!"
"Claude, dear; pray come," whispered Mary, clinging to her; but she was
thrust away.
"I will know everything," she cried, excitedly. "You, Sarah Woodham,
speak out, and tell me all the truth."
"No--no," whispered the woman, and she stood trembling as if with ague.
"I will know," said Claude, catching her up by the arm. "I heard what
was said--that Mr Lisle was charged with murder. It could not be."
"No, no, Claude, of course not."
"Silence, Mary! Speak, woman, or must I go down to the beach and ask
there. Tell me. It was a quarrel; they met and fought. Is Mr Glyddyr
dead?"
They gazed at her wonderingly--stricken for the moment--the silence
being broken by the two servants exclaiming in a breath--
"No, no, miss. It was master they said he killed."
"What?"
"Come away, Claude," whispered Mary, who was white and trembling. "It
is a horrible invention. There is no truth in it. Come back into the
drawing-room, and I'll tell you quietly, dear, what I have heard."
"Go on," said Claude, fixing the two women with her eyes as she held her
cousin's arm and half forced her back. "Tell me everything you have
heard."
Between them, trembling the while before the wild eyes which seemed to
force them to speak, the women related confusedly the report they had
heard, one which had grown rapidly as is the custom with such news; and
out of the tangle, as Sarah Woodham and Mary both strangely moved, stood
speechless and silent, Claude learned the charge which had arisen
against the man she loved, to the bitter end, struggling the while to
make indignant denial of that at which her soul felt to revolt. But no
words would come. Her reason, her soul, both cried out aloud within her
that this was an utter impossibility, but the rumours mastered them with
a terrible array of facts, till she was forced to believe that, stung to
madness by the treatment he had received, and hurried on by a lust for
gold, Chris, her old playmate and brother as a child, the man at last
she had grown to love, had been tempted to commit this deed.
"It is not true--it is not true," something within her kept on saying as
she gazed wildly from one to the other, seeing the gap--the black gap--
already existing between her and her lover, widening into an awful,
impassable chasm, in which were buried her life's hopes and happiness
for ever.
Volume Three, Chapter IX.