A MAN WHO THINKS IT MURDER.
Had Gwendoline Wynn been a poor cottage girl, instead of a rich young
lady--owner of estates--the world would soon have ceased to think of
her. As it is, most people have settled down to the belief that she has
simply been the victim of a misadventure, her death due to accident.
Only a few have other thoughts, but none that she has committed suicide.
The theory of _felo de se_ is not entertained, because not
entertainable. For, in addition to the testimony taken at the coroner's
inquest, other facts came out in examination by the magistrates, showing
there was no adequate reason why she should put an end to her life. A
lover's quarrel of a night's, still less an hour's, duration, could not
so result. And that there was nothing beyond this, Miss Linton is able
to say assuredly. Still more Eleanor Lees, who, by confidences
exchanged, and mutually imparted, was perfectly _au fait_ to the
feelings of her relative and friend--knew her hopes and her fears, and
that among the last there was none to justify the deed of despair.
Doubts now and then, for when and where is love without them; but with
Gwen Wynn slight, evanescent as the clouds in a summer sky. She was
satisfied that Vivian Ryecroft loved her, as that she herself lived. How
could it be otherwise? and her behaviour on the night of the ball was
only a transient spite which would have passed off soon as the
excitement was over, and calm reflection returned. Altogether impossible
she could have given way to it so far as in wilful rage to take the last
leap into eternity. More likely standing on the cliff's edge, anxiously
straining her eyes after the boat which was bearing him away in anger,
her foot slipped upon the rock, and she fell over into the flood.
So argues Eleanor Lees, and such is the almost universal belief at the
close of the inquest, and for some time after. And if not
self-destruction, no more could it be murder with a view to robbery.
The valuable effects left untouched upon her person forbade supposition
of that. If murder, the motive must have been other than the possession
of a few hundred pounds' worth of jewellery. So reasons the world at
large, naturally enough.
For all, there are a few who still cling to a suspicion of there having
been foul play; but not now with any reference with Captain Ryecroft.
Nor are they the same who had suspected him. Those yet doubting the
accidental death are the intimate friends of the Wynn family, who knew
of its affairs relating to the property with the conditions on which the
Llangorren estates were held. Up to this time only a limited number of
individuals has been aware of their descent to Lewin Murdock. And when
at length this fact comes out, and still more emphatically by the
gentleman himself taking possession of them, the thoughts of the people
revert to the mystery of Miss Wynn's death, so unsatisfactorily cleared
up at the coroner's inquest.
Still, the suspicions thus newly aroused, and pointing in another
quarter, are confined to those acquainted with the character of the new
man suspected. Nor are they many. Beyond the obscure corner of Rugg's
Ferry there are few who have ever heard of, still fewer ever seen him.
Outside the pale of "society," with most part of his life passed abroad,
he is a stranger, not only to the gentry of the neighbourhood, but most
of the common people as well. Jack Wingate chanced to have heard of him
by reason of his proximity to Rugg's Ferry, and his own necessity for
oft going there. But possibly as much on the account of the intimate
relations existing between the owner of Glyngog House and Coracle Dick.
Others less interested know little of either individual, and when it is
told that a Mr. Lewin Murdock has succeeded to the estates of
Llangorren--at the same time it becoming known that he is the cousin of
her whom death has deprived of them--to the general public the
succession seems natural enough; since it has been long understood that
the lady had no nearer relative.
Therefore, only the few intimately familiar with the facts relating to
the reversion of the property held fast to the suspicion thus excited.
But as no word came out, either at the inquest or elsewhere, and nothing
has since arisen to justify it, they also begin to share the universal
belief, that for the death of Gwendoline Wynn nobody is to blame.
Even George Shenstone, sorely grieving, accepts it thus. Of unsuspicious
nature, incapable of believing in a crime so terrible, a deed so dark,
as that would infer, he cannot suppose that the gentleman, now his
nearest neighbour--for the lands of Llangorren adjoin those of his
father--has come into possession of them by such foul means as murder.
His father may think differently, he knowing more of Lewin Murdock. Not
much of his late life, but his earlier, with its surroundings and
antecedents. Still Sir George is silent, whatever his thoughts. It is
not a subject to be lightly spoken of, or rashly commented upon.
There is one who, more than any other, reflects upon the sad fate of her
whom he had so fondly loved, and differing from the rest as to how she
came to her death; this one is Captain Ryecroft. He, too, might have
yielded to the popular impression of its having been accidental, but for
certain circumstances that have come to his knowledge, and which he has
yet kept to himself. He has not forgotten what was, at an early period,
communicated to him by the waterman Wingate, about the odd-looking old
house up the glen; nor yet the uneasy manner of Gwendoline Wynn, when
once, in conversation with her, he referred to the place and its
occupier. This, with Jack's original story, and other details added,
besides incidents that have since transpired, are recalled to him
vividly on hearing that the owner of Glyngog has also become owner of
Llangorren.
It is some time before this news reaches him; for, just after the
inquest, an important matter had arisen affecting some property of his
own, which required his presence in Dublin, there for days detaining
him. Having settled it, he has returned to the same town and hotel where
he had been the summer sojourning. Nor came he back on errand aimless,
but with a purpose. Ill-satisfied with the finding of the coroner's
jury, he is determined to investigate the affair in his own way.
Accident he does not believe in--least of all that the lady, having made
a false step, had fallen over the cliff. When he last saw her, she was
inside the pavilion, leaning over the baluster rail, breast high,
protected by it. If gazing after him and his boat, the position gave her
as good a view as she could have. Why should she have gone outside? And
the cry heard so soon after? It was not like that of one falling, and so
far. In descent, it would have been repeated, which it was not.
Of suicide he has never entertained a thought, above all, for the reason
suggested--jealousy of himself. How could he, while so keenly suffering
it for her? No; it could not be that--nor suicide from any cause.
The more he ponders upon it, the surer grows he that Gwendoline Wynn has
been the victim of a villainous murder. And it is for this reason he has
returned to the Wye, first to satisfy himself of the fact, then, if
possible, to find the perpetrator, and bring him to justice.
As no robber has done the drowning, conjecture is narrowed to a point,
his suspicions finally becoming fixed on Lewin Murdock.
He may be mistaken, but will not surrender them until he find evidence
of their being erroneous, or proof that they are correct. And to obtain
it he will devote, if need be, all the rest of his days, with the
remainder of his fortune. For what are either now to him? In life he has
had but one love, real, and reaching the height of a passion. She who
inspired it is now sleeping her last sleep--lying cold in her tomb--his
love and memory of her alone remaining warm.
His grief has been great, but its first wild throes have passed, and he
can reflect calmly--more carefully consider what he should do. From the
first some thoughts about Murdock were in his mind; still only vague.
Now, on returning to Herefordshire, and hearing what has happened
meanwhile--for during his absence there has been a removal from Glyngog
to Llangorren--the occurrence, so suggestive, restores his former train
of reflection, placing things in a clearer light.
As the hunter, hitherto pursuing upon a cold trail, is excited by
finding the slot fresher, so he. And so will he follow it to the
end--the last trace or sign. For no game, however grand--elephant, lion,
or tiger--could attract like that he believes himself to be after--a
human tiger--a murderer.