A WARNING
As was to be expected, the Coroner’s Jury returned a verdict of “Murder
against some person or persons unknown.”
From the medical evidence it transpired that death was caused by heart
failure, due to shock, though it was stated that the wound in the
throat would have been sufficient to kill. As to what caused the wound,
there was no clear indication, the evidence merely stating, “some blunt
instrument of a peculiar nature.”
The discovery was, of course, the central topic of the neighbourhood
for days, and did not subside until some time after the remains of the
Rev. Henry Thornton had been decently interred in the churchyard.
The police made a thorough search of the priory ruins, and hopes ran
high that some clue to Elsie Hobson’s disappearance would be found; but
in spite of all their efforts, nothing of any consequence occurred, and
gradually the general excitement waned.
During this period Shepperton, although he gave the police all the help
he could, deliberately withheld from them the one item of information
which, had he chosen to give it, might have at once brought matters
to an issue. The photograph which he had picked up was probably the
key to the mystery; but he had determined that until he had sufficient
evidence to condemn the Master of Storton he would work alone. There
was no doubt in his mind that Brentwood knew all about it, and he had
every reason to believe that the crimes had been perpetrated by him.
If the photograph had not been sufficient to indicate that he knew
something, the start which he gave (Shepperton remembered particularly
that he uttered no exclamation) when he examined the body, and saw the
wound in the throat, was sufficient to show that the Master of Storton
was deeply involved in the case, if not actually guilty. Further, the
whole circumstances pointed to the conclusion that the wound had some
sort of a connection with the footprints.
He pondered over it almost daily, and the more he thought about it, the
more the idea gained strength that Brentwood was the culprit. In that
case, if he were going to bring the crime home to his door, he would
have to act very carefully. It would not be easy to circumvent the
subtlety of a man who, evidently guilty, had the cleverness to be one
of the first to come forward to help clear the matter up. Shepperton
saw that such a course served a double purpose. It not only enabled the
criminal to know what the genuine investigators were doing, it gave him
every opportunity to mislead them; and, of course, it was hardly likely
that anyone would suspect the man, when working in co-operation with
him.
One consideration which caused him to adopt this course was, that he
determined to leave nothing undone likely to bring the criminal to
justice—he had no doubt that Elsie was dead.
While deliberating, it occurred to him that perhaps it would be as well
to put the Vicar and his sister on their guard against Brentwood. It
would not be just on his part to let them get too far involved with
the Master of Storton, when it lay in his power to warn them. But they
would have to faithfully promise to keep his secret of the photograph.
Be it to his credit, that he should thus think of others during his own
hours of bitterness.
After further thinking it over, he decided that the only thing to do
would be to take the Vicar and his sister entirely into his confidence.
If he must tell them anything at all, he might as well tell them
everything. No sooner had he made up his mind than he decided to act
upon it. Accordingly he went straight to the Vicarage that afternoon on
leaving his office.
Alletson welcomed him in his kind way, and Constance invited him to
join them at tea, which was ready on the table. During the meal they
conversed on ordinary topics, and it was not until Martha had cleared
the table and quietly closed the door after her that Shepperton
mentioned he had something of grave importance to impart to them.
The Vicar’s face grew stern, while Constance poked the fire uneasily,
and for a short time there was silence. Seeing that he hesitated,
Alletson said kindly:
“Well, Mr. Shepperton, what is the trouble?”
The remark seemed to enable Shepperton to pull himself together, and
leaning his elbows on the table, he answered deliberately:
“To tell you the simple truth, I’ve come to warn you against the Master
of Storton!”
Constance stared at him curiously, and the Vicar uttered a surprised
“Oh!”
“I’m sorry to startle you, Mr. Alletson,” he continued, “but I’m so
sure of my ground. If I had had any doubts, I should not have come. All
I ask is that you will both respect my confidence; further than that,
I do not want to bind you in any way. The missing links in the chain I
will seek out myself.”
“Surely, surely it is not possible that Mr. Brentwood can be the
perpetrator of such abominable crimes?” exclaimed the Vicar in a pained
voice.
Why, he did not know, but turning suddenly to Constance, Shepperton
asked:
“What is your opinion, Miss Alletson?”
To the surprise of both men, Constance did not reply. She simply shook
her head and turned her gaze to the fire.
During the interval of silence that ensued, her brother looked at her
in pure astonishment. He could not understand her not agreeing with
what he himself thought; being, of course, quite innocent of what had
occurred during the experiment at the Manor.
“Well, after you have heard all I have to say, I think you will agree
that there is radical ground upon which to suspect Mr. Brentwood; and,
further, that it will take little more to bring the crimes home to him.”
Whereupon, producing the photograph, Shepperton related all that he
knew.
There was a painful interval after Shepperton’s story, which did not
tend to make him feel very comfortable, and he glanced uneasily first
from the Vicar to his sister, then back again. Alletson had risen and
was pacing the room with short, nervous steps; he was clearly agitated.
Constance remained looking dully at the fire. She was thinking about
that weird experience she had gone through a fortnight ago, and the
very thought of what she had suffered tended to unnerve her.
Unable to bear the suspense longer, Shepperton turned to the Vicar and
asked in a doubtful voice:
“Don’t you think my grounds of suspicion satisfactory?”
Alletson clenched his hands as though something hurt him.
“Certainly, certainly, Mr. Shepperton, they seem at first sight only
too clear. It is not that I question things in any way, but—but”—the
words seemed to be forced from him—“you see, we have been friends.”
The expression on the Vicar’s face made Shepperton feel sorry that he
had had to hurt his feelings.
Constance looked at her brother sympathetically, and half rose as if
to go over to him; but remembering that they were not alone, sat down
again.
Her movements attracted Shepperton’s attention to her, and he said:
“It is fairly clear, don’t you think, that Mr. Brentwood is pretty
thoroughly mixed up in this matter?”
“There hardly seems to be any doubt about it,” she replied slowly.
“And further, I think I had better tell you that—that—” Her sudden
hesitation caused both men to look at her significantly, eager to hear
what she had to say, but no words came from her lips. Instead, she sat
with open mouth, staring hard at the wall, the colour coming and going
in her cheeks, and her bosom heaving as though she were suppressing
some undue excitement. Shepperton stood up, and looked at her in
amazement, while her brother glanced askance at the wall, thinking that
he could see something there. Then jumping up, he quickly crossed the
room, and taking her hand exclaimed:
“Constance, Constance, what is the matter?”
But for a minute she did not move, and continued to stare at the wall,
as though it fascinated her.
“Speak, Constance!” But she did not seem to hear his voice. At last,
heaving a deep sigh, she lay back in the chair and smiled faintly,
while her face went very white.
“Fetch me some water, Philip,” she whispered. He hurried to carry out
her bidding, and during his absence Shepperton, evidently embarrassed,
said:
“I am so sorry, Miss Alletson; I hope you are not ill. I sincerely
trust that what I have said to-night has not upset you?”
She looked at him vacantly, and then despair came into her eyes.
Raising her hand to her head in a bewildered manner, she ejaculated:
“I cannot do it!”
“Do what?” he queried, not understanding.
But she did not answer. Instead, she rose slowly from her chair, and
going to the window, looked out into the twilight which was fast
gathering.
She must have stood there several minutes gazing into nothingness, and
her brother, who had meanwhile entered the room, had, at a warning
glance from Shepperton, come to a standstill, watching her. Shepperton
noticed that his hand trembled, and sat vacantly looking at the water
in the tumbler quivering from side to side, until a little of it
splashed on the carpet. Involuntarily he looked at Alletson’s face, and
his expression told him at once that something further had occurred.
Turning quickly to the figure at the window, he noticed that Constance
was standing with her hands over her ears, as though to shut out some
sound, and her face—which they could see in profile—was ashen colour,
and set with an intensity almost agonising.
All at once she dropped her hands, and turning round to her brother
remarked, in what seemed quite a rational manner:
“Philip, I am going out for a little while!” and calmly walked towards
the door. Almost instinctively her brother determined that she should
not; she was evidently not her normal self. From being nervously
excited, he suddenly grew calm—men of his particular temperament
usually do when confronted with danger—and quickly walking over to his
sister, quietly led her into a chair, and gently, but firmly, made her
sit down. Then proffering the glass of water, said kindly:
“Drink this.”
She looked at him rebelliously, as though she bitterly resented the
course he had taken with her, and at first it seemed as if she would
violently resist him. Indeed, he was greatly surprised at the fierce
strength she showed in her eyes. But the more she struggled, the more
determined he grew, and gradually, the great power of his pure and
noble mind, developed to a high degree by a life of inward growth and
self-sacrifice, overcame the strange abnormal manifestation of his
sister’s will, though she fought to the last in a way that he knew was
not natural.
When she had ceased to struggle, he put the water to her lips, and she
drank mechanically, then exclaiming, “Oh dear!” she closed her eyes,
and lying back in the chair, seemed to rest peacefully enough.
Gently loosing her hands, Philip put the glass of water on the table,
and looked at Shepperton, who asked in a whisper:
“Shall I fetch Dr. Trestlewood?” He did not look at all comfortable,
and felt that in some way he had been the cause of this strange scene.
“No, thanks, I don’t think it necessary at present at any rate,”
replied Alletson. “If she should get worse, I can send Martha.”
“I do hope that what I have said this evening has not caused——”
“No, no,” interrupted the Vicar. “I don’t for a moment think that, Mr.
Shepperton.”
He looked much relieved at the Vicar’s remark.
“Is there anything I can do?” he asked.
“No, thank you, Mr. Shepperton, I think she will be all right shortly.”
“Then I think I will be going.”
They walked silently into the hall, and Alletson quietly opened the
front door.
“Good night,” he said kindly.
“Good night,” returned the other. Then he hesitated for a moment,
drumming his fingers on the door post, with a troubled look on his
face. The Vicar eyed him tentatively, and at last he spoke:
“You will keep my secret about that photograph, Mr. Alletson, won’t
you?”
“Need you ask?” returned the Vicar. “You gave me your confidence, and I
shall respect it.”
Shepperton looked apologetic, and then, with expressive thanks, shook
hands and took his departure.
Carefully closing the door, Alletson quickly returned to the
dining-room, and, glancing at his sister, satisfied himself that she
was resting peacefully enough by the fire.
“Do you feel better, Constance?” he asked in his kind voice.
She sighed, and did not answer at once. At last she said emotionally,
“Yes, Philip, thanks to you,” and her eyes filled with tears.
“All right,” he answered soothingly. “Don’t worry, my dear; sit quietly
while I write two or three letters.”
He saw that she was distressed, and, much as he wanted to know what it
was that had upset her, he refrained from asking questions.
Obtaining ink and paper from his own room, he settled himself down,
and for nearly half an hour nothing was audible but the occasional
scratching of his pen and the falling in of the fire, as it gradually
burned away.
He had barely sealed the last envelope, when a sort of scratching noise
on the French window caused them both to turn suddenly.
“What’s that?” queried Constance in a startled voice.
She had hardly spoken, when a mournful howl came from outside, followed
by the unmistakable whimper of a dog. With a frown the Vicar rose,
and, walking straight to the window, deliberately opened it. He had no
sooner done so, when, to his surprise and annoyance, a great dog pushed
past him, and, going up to his sister, put his muzzle in her hand, and
started wagging his tail with evident delight.
“Good gracious!” she exclaimed. “Why, it’s Hector!”
Alletson’s astonishment was so great, that for a moment he could only
look; then he made a remark which the average person would be shocked
to hear from the lips of a clergyman.
“Good Lord!” he exclaimed irritably, and then, sitting down, he started
to laugh heartily as the comical side of the thing appealed to him.
He was brought to a sudden halt in his merriment by Constance remarking:
“Philip, it may appear funny, but what on earth has brought the animal
to me?”
Her brother assumed his usual gravity, and, after thinking a moment,
shook his head.
“Anyway, he can’t stay here.”
Rising, he opened the door, and said in a loud voice:
“Here, get out!”
The dog, who had settled himself down by Constance’s chair, raised
his head for a moment on hearing the Vicar’s voice, and eyed him
contemptuously, as much as to say, “Put me out, then,” and resumed his
previous position.
Crossing the room, Alletson seized the dog’s collar, and started to
pull him toward the door.
“Come out of it, you brute!” he said sternly.
Hector, with a shake of his great head, freed himself, and coolly lay
down again by the chair.
The Vicar sat down, an amused look in his eyes; then he said:
“Perhaps he will go for you, Constance?”
“Possibly,” she replied. She rose and walked to the door; the dog
immediately followed, so, opening the front door, she made as if to go
out; and as soon as the animal crossed the threshold, she slipped back,
and shut him out. But she had hardly got back to the dining-room before
a loud howling was heard outside. They listened for a time, hoping that
he would go away, but he kept whimpering and scratching the door, and
eventually made such a row that Martha appeared with a scared look on
her face.
“Don’t be frightened, Martha,” said her mistress; “it is only a dog.”
Martha went back to the kitchen doubtingly.
“We had better let him in, Philip, and send a note to the Manor to ask
Mr. Brentwood to fetch him away in the morning.”
Her brother nodded, and reached for ink and paper, while she went
to the door and opened it. Hector immediately stopped howling, and,
following Constance into the house, went and resumed his old position
by her chair in the dining-room.
“It is quite beyond my comprehension, Philip.”
“It is extraordinary,” he replied, without ceasing to write.
“Wherever shall we put him?”
“He cannot stop in the house, that’s certain,” responded the Vicar.
But Hector decided that problem for himself. He slept on the mat
outside Miss Alletson’s bedroom door.