WHAT DORA DISCOVERED.
When Dora took leave of Allen, she returned to the Red House with the
firm conviction that to save the doctor she would be obliged to marry
Joad. In the face of this old man's evidence, she did not see how
Allen could defend himself. It was true that he could produce the
letter of Mr. Edermont, giving him a midnight invitation to his study;
but such production would not mend matters. It would only show that he
had been present at the very hour of the murder, and would confirm the
evidence of Joad. Once that was proved, what plea could he put forward
to prove his innocence? None. A quarrel might have taken place on the
subject of their previous conversation, and Allen might have killed
Edermont in a fit of rage. That was the view, Dora truly believed,
which the judge and jury would take of the matter. And on the face of
it what view could be more reasonable?
It was no use bringing Lady Burville into the question, for her
evidence could throw no light on the subject. When she left the house
Edermont was alive; when Scott arrived the old man was dead, and there
was nothing to show that anyone had been in the study between Lady
Burville's departure and Dr. Scott's arrival. Medical evidence could
prove that Lady Burville was too feeble a woman to strike so terrible
a blow, of too nervous a character to carry out so brutal a crime. No;
if Lady Burville came into court, it would be to save herself, and to
condemn Allen. Under these circumstances, it only remained to hush the
matter up by granting Joad's wish. Dora hated the man, but for the
sake of Allen she decided to marry him. Yet, as she still had a few
days' grace before giving him his answer, she resolved to say nothing
of her resolution at present. It might be that in the interval the
real criminal might be discovered.
All that night Dora tossed and tossed on her bed, courting sleep in
vain. She was like a rat in a trap, running round and round in the
endeavour to escape. She would have done anything rather than consent
to this marriage with Joad; but unless some miracle intervened, she
saw no chance of escaping the ceremony. To be saddled with such a
husband! to live in constant companionship with such a satyr! The poor
girl wept bitterly at the very thought. What would she feel when Joad
demanded payment of the price of his silence?
Towards morning she fell into an uneasy slumber, and awoke more
despondent than ever. It was with a listless air that she descended to
breakfast, and only with a strong effort could she force herself to
eat. Meg Gance, who brought in the meal, informed her Mr. Joad was
already in the library, engrossed in his daily occupation.
"He come here afore nine," said Meg, who was a large, stupid
countrywoman, with more muscle than brains; "it wasn't so when master
lived, was it, Miss Dora?"
"No. But I don't suppose it matters much now when Mr. Joad comes,
Meg."
"I dunno 'bout that," said the servant, putting her large hands on her
hips; "it takes long to clean up bookshop, it do. I rarely get it done
afore nine. I declare, miss, when Mr. Joad come this morn, I couldn't
believe 'twas so late. Thought I, Clock's gone wrong again."
"What clock?" asked Dora, remembering the strange remark made by
Pallant.
"Lor, miss, how sharp you speak!" said Meg, rather startled by the
abruptness of the question. "Why, clock in hall, for sure!"
"Was it ever wrong, Meg?"
"A whole hour, miss; though how it could have lost hour in night I
dunno. But it was ten when I looked at it in morning, while kitchen
clock was nine. Too fast by hour, Miss Dora."
"On what night was it wrong?" asked Dora, eagerly feeling that she was
on the verge of a discovery.
"Why, miss, it went wrong on night master had head bashed. Not as I
wonder, miss, for my aunt had husband as died, and clock--her clock,
miss--struck thirteen. Seems as clock knows of deaths and funerals,"
concluded Meg reflectively.
"Was the clock in the hall wrong by an hour when you saw it in the
morning after the crime had been committed?"
"For sure, Miss Dora. But Lor' bless you, miss, it don't matter. I
jes' put it right by kitchen clock, as has never lost a minute since I
came here, and that's six years, miss."
"Why did you not mention that the clock was wrong when you gave your
evidence?"
Meg stared at her mistress.
"I never thought, miss," she said gravely; "and I wasn't asked about
clock. It didn't matter, I hope?"
"No," replied Dora carelessly, "it didn't matter. You need say nothing
about it to Mr. Joad, or, indeed, to anyone."
"I aren't much of a chat at any time, miss," cried Meg, tossing her
head; "and as for Mr. Joad, I'd as lief speak to blackbeetle! I won't
say naught, bless you, no, miss."
"Very well, Meg. You can clear away."
This Meg did with considerable clatter and clamour; while Dora left
the room, and without putting on a hat walked slowly across the lawn,
in the dewy freshness of the morning. On reaching the beehive chair
under the cedar, which was Joad's favourite outdoor study, the girl
sat down, and looked contemplatively at the scene before her. A space
of sunlit lawn, with a girdle of flaming rhododendrons fringing it on
the right; tall poplars, musical with birds, bordering the ivy-draped
wall; and beyond the wall itself the red-tiled roof of Joad's cottage,
showing in picturesque contrast against the delicate azure of an
August sky. After regarding the scene to right and left, as it lay
steeped in the yellow sunlight, Dora's gaze finally rested on the
glimpse of Joad's house. There it stayed; and her thoughts reverted to
the remark about the clock made by Pallant, and to the later
explanation given by Meg Gance. What connection these things had with
Joad may be gathered from the girl's thoughts.
They ran something after this fashion: "Could it be possible that Joad
had killed Edermont? There seemed to be no motive for his committing
the crime, and he was not the kind of man to run needlessly into
danger. Yet the discovery about the clock was certainly very strange.
I knew it was correct on the night of the murder," meditated Dora. "I
set my watch by it before I went upstairs. That was at half-past nine,
and my watch has been right ever since. When Meg looked at it in the
morning, it was an hour wrong; therefore, somebody must have put it
wrong with intent. It is impossible that so excellent a clock could
suddenly slip for an hour, and then go on again. Could Joad have been
in the house on that night, and have put it on an hour? At the time of
the murder the clock struck one, and at that hour Joad, according to
his own showing and Mr. Pride's corroboration, was in the cottage. If
the clock had been put wrong, the murder must have taken place at
twelve, since it was an hour fast in the morning. There was ample time
for Joad to commit the crime at twelve, and be back in his cottage by
one."
Dora got up, and walked restlessly to and fro. She could not quite
understand why the clock should have been put on an hour, so as to
give a false time, when there was no one to hear it in the night. That
she had woke up and heard it strike was quite an accident, although
there had been nights when she had heard every hour, every chime,
strike till dawn. Suddenly she remembered that once she had said
something to Joad about her sleepless nights. On the impulse of the
moment she walked into the library.
"Mr. Joad," she said to the old man, who was reading near the window,
"that hall clock."
It seemed to Dora that a pallor crept over the red face of the man she
addressed. However, he looked up quietly enough, and spoke to her with
the greatest calmness.
"What about the hall clock, Miss Dora?" he asked in a puzzled tone.
"It is disturbing me again. I really must have it removed. In the dead
hours I hear it strike in the most ghostly, graveyard fashion. As it
did on that night," she concluded under her breath.
"Do you have many sleepless nights now?"
"How do you know that I have sleepless nights at all?" she asked
quickly.
Joad looked at her in surprise.
"You told me so yourself shortly before we lost Julian," he said
quietly. "It was toothache, was it not?"
"Yes--something of that sort," she answered carelessly. "But it is not
toothache now. Still, I lie awake thinking."
"Of me?" said Joad with a leer.
"The week is not yet over, Mr. Joad," she said coldly; "till the end
of it you have no right to ask me such a question. Good-bye for the
present; I am going out on my bicycle."
This was an excuse. Confident that Joad had altered the clock, on the
chance that she would hear it during her sleepless nights, she was
confident also that for such reason, and for a more terrible one, he
had been in the house on the night of the murder.
"He put on the clock so as to prove an alibi," she thought, wheeling
her bicycle down the path to the gate. "If he killed Edermont at
twelve o'clock--the right time when it struck one--he would have ample
opportunity of getting back to his cottage through the postern. I
quite believe that he was with Pride at one o'clock; but I also
believe he was in the study at twelve."
She had proved to her own satisfaction that Joad could have been in
the house; she wished to discover if he had killed Edermont. The
assassin had committed the crime to obtain the manuscript containing
the story of her guardian's life. If Joad were guilty, that manuscript
would be in his possession. This was why Dora excused herself on a
plea of riding her bicycle. She was determined to search Joad's
cottage, and find out if the manuscript was hidden there.
With this intent she hid the bicycle behind the hedge on the other
side of the road, and went to the cottage. There was plenty of time
for her to search, as Joad took his mid-day meal in the Red House and
never returned to his house until nine at night. She had the whole day
at her disposal, and determined to search in every corner for the
manuscript she believed he had hidden. If she found it, she would then
be able to prove Allen guiltless and Joad guilty. It would be a
magnificent revenge on her part. The man would be caught in his own
trap.
It can be easily guessed by what steps Dora had arrived at this
conclusion--the chance remark of Pallant anent the possibility of the
clock being wrong; the chance explanation of Meg which proved that the
clock was an hour fast on the morning after the murder had taken
place; the memory of her own remark to Joad about her sleepless
nights; and the conclusion that the old man had put the clock wrong
for purposes of his own. The inference to be drawn from these facts
was that Joad had been in the house on the night of the second of
August. If he had been in the house, it was probable that he had
killed Edermont, since Allen and Lady Burville, the only other people
who had been present at the same hour, were innocent. It had been
proved by sundry scraps of evidence that the murder had been committed
to obtain possession of the manuscript. Therefore, if Joad were
guilty, he must have hidden the fruits of his crime. Where? In the
cottage, without doubt.
The front door of the cottage was locked, so Dora went round to the
back. She knew that Joad was in the habit of hiding the key of the
back door under the water-butt, and sure enough she found it there. To
open the door and pass into his study was the work of a moment. So
here she was in the stronghold of the enemy. But where was the
manuscript?
The room was not very large, and lined on all four sides with books. A
writing-desk, littered with papers, stood before the single window,
and a few chairs were scattered round. There were also a horsehair
sofa, a small sideboard of varnished deal, three or four china
ornaments, and a little clock on the mantelpiece. The floor was
covered with straw matting, but what the pattern of the paper was like
no one could tell, for it was hidden completely by the books. The
whole apartment looked penurious in the extreme and very untidy. Books
lay on chairs and sofas, and the fireplace was filled with torn-up
letters, newspapers, and hastily scribbled manuscripts.
"The books first," decided Dora, after a look at this chaos.
There was no need to go through them one by one, for dust lay thickly
upon bindings and shelves. She had only to glance to see those which
had been disturbed within the last few weeks. Those that had been
taken down she examined carefully, but could find no trace of the
manuscript. She looked on the top of the bookcase, went down on her
knees to search the lower shelves, and still found nothing. At the end
of an hour Dora had gone through the whole library of Joad, but had
come across no trace of the wished-for paper. He had hidden it--always
presuming that it was in his possession--more cunningly than she had
thought.
"Now for the desk."
Another hour's search in drawers and pigeonholes and blotting-pad
likewise revealed nothing. Dora emptied out the wastepaper basket, and
sorted every scrap, and still she was unsuccessful. Then she lifted
portions of the matting, removed the cushions of the chairs, searched
the sideboard, and dived into the recesses of the sofa. All to no
purpose.
"Perhaps he has not got it after all," thought Dora, disappointed, "or
he has burnt it."
Burning suggested the fireplace; but she saw that there had not been a
fire for months in the grate. It then struck her that Mr. Joad might
have taken an idea from Poe's "Purloined Letter," and have hidden the
manuscript in some conspicuous place. The fireplace alone was
unsearched, so she went down on her knees and turned out the
disorderly mass of papers. Her patience was rewarded at last. From
under the heap she drew forth a crumpled mass of paper, foolscap size,
and spread it out carefully. Then she uttered a cry. "The Confession
of Julian Dargill, better known as Julian Edermont," she read. "Ah! I
was right. Here is the stolen story of the past, and Joad is the man
who killed my guardian."