THE NAME OF THE VICTIM.
The cook at Mr. Scarse's cottage was in a great state of alarm. She
did not mind an ordinary tempest of respectable English character
coming at its due and proper season. But this gale, at the close of a
quiet summer day, arriving with so little warning and raging with such
fury, had frightened her beyond measure. As a precautionary measure
against the frequent lightning, she concealed the knives, covered up
all the mirrors and reflective surfaces generally, and threw the
fire-irons into the garden. Having thus safeguarded the cottage
against the bolts of heaven, Mrs. Daw--so she was called--insisted
that the housemaid, a whimpering orphan of meagre intelligence, should
go round the house with her to see if any one or anything had been
struck. They found dining-room, drawing-room and bedrooms deserted,
and the door of their master's study locked.
"Lor'!" said Mrs. Daw, her fat face ashen pale, "an' 'e may be lyin' a
corp in there, poor dear!"
"Oh, no, he ain't," responded the shaking housemaid; "I 'ear voices.
Jus' put your eye to the key-hole, cook."
But the cook's valor did not extend thus far. She also heard the
murmur of voices, and, thinking her master and his friend the Dutchman
were within, knocked at the door to bring them out for company. "We
may as well go to 'eaven in a 'eap," said Mrs. Daw, knocking steadily
like a woodpecker.
The door opened so suddenly that the two women recoiled with shrieks
against the wall of the passage. Scarse, looking pale and upset,
stepped out and closed the door after him. Judging him by themselves,
they attributed his scared appearance to fright at the storm, and were
ready to receive any amount of sympathy. But it soon appeared that
their master had none to give them.
"What's all this? Why are you here?" he demanded, angry and
suspicious.
"It's the storm, sir," whimpered Mrs. Daw, holding on to the
housemaid. "I'm that feared as never was. Miss Brenda's hout, sir, and
Mr. van Zwieten's with you, and me an' Tilda's a-shakin' like jelly."
"Miss Brenda out!" repeated Scarse, starting. "Oh, yes, I recollect
she said something about going to the Rectory." This was untrue, but
he seemed to think it necessary to make some excuse even to the
servants. "I dare say Miss Brenda has been storm-bound there, and, as
you say, Mr. van Zwieten is with me. There is nothing to be afraid of.
Go back to the kitchen."
"The 'ouse may be struck, sir!
"The house won't be struck," said Scarse, impatiently. "Don't be a
fool. It is almost ten o'clock--go to bed," and stepping back into the
study, he closed and locked the door. Cook and housemaid tottered back
to the kitchen.
"I'll give notice to-morrer," wailed the former. "It ain't right for
two lone women to be without a manly arm. If 'e only kep' a footman or
a coachman it 'ud be a 'elp. 'And me the Church Service, Tilda, an'
we'll pray as we may not be took."
"Ow, ain't it orful!" yelped Tilda, as a fiercer blast than usual
shook the cottage. "Turn up the Berryial Service, cook."
This request the cook hurriedly obeyed, and the two were soon
cheerfully employed in drawing what comfort they could from this
somewhat depressing selection. The clock struck ten, and so unstrung
were their nerves that they simultaneously jumped and shrieked.
Tilda declared that the candle burned blue; that a coal in the form of
a coffin had jumped out of the kitchen range; and meanwhile the storm
raved and howled without, shaking the house, tearing at doors and
windows as though twenty thousand demons were trying to force an
entrance. In their terrified frame of mind Mrs. Daw and her factotum
actually believed that such might be the case.
But they soon had further cause for alarm. The kitchen door was tried,
but Mrs. Daw had locked it. Immediately there came a furious knocking,
insistent and incessant. Tilda shrieked, and scrambled under the
table. Mrs. Daw dropped the Church Service, and grasped the poker with
a trembling hand. There was a crash of thunder which went grinding
over the roof--then the battering at the door again.
"Quick! Quick! Let me in!" wailed a voice, thin, high-pitched and
terrified.
"Don't, don't!" shrieked Tilda, grovelling under the table. "Oh, lor',
wot a bad girl I 'ave been."
But Mrs. Daw, somewhat recovered from her terror, thought she
recognized the voice, in spite of its accent of pain. "Yer's a fool,
Tilda. It's Miss Brenda!" and she unlocked the door, still grasping
the poker in case she should be mistaken. As the door flew open a wild
blast tore into the kitchen, and Tilda shrieked again. Mrs. Daw, too,
uttered an exclamation, for Brenda fell forward, flung into her arms.
The girl was soaking wet, wild-eyed and white-faced with terror. She
could hardly speak, and clung, choking and shaking, to the terrified
cook. The door banged to with a crash.
"Murder! Help!" gasped Brenda, hoarsely. "Oh, my God! he is dead!"
"Dead! Murder!" shrieked Mrs. Daw, dropping the poker, and Tilda
wailed in sympathetic chorus. "Lor', miss! Who's 'e?"
"I don't know--he is dead--shot--in the orchards," said Brenda, and
fell down in a dead faint for the second time that night. Usually she
was not given to such feminine weakness, but the terrors of the night
had proved altogether too much for her.
Having something human to deal with, Mrs. Daw recovered her presence
of mind and unloosened Brenda's cloak. "Poor dear! she's frightened
out of her wits, an' no wonder. Tilda, tell 'er pa there's murders and
faintings. Look sharp!"
Tilda crawled from under the table and across the floor. She raised
herself with a sudden effort of will, and was soon hammering at the
study door.
"Master--sir! 'Elp--murder--perlice! Oh, sir," as Scarse came out
hurriedly, "Miss Brenda's in the kitchen, an' there's murder!"
He seized her wrists with an ejaculation of alarm. "Who is murdered?
Speak, girl!"
"I don't know. Miss Brenda sez as there's murder. Oh, lor', what will
become of us!"
Scarse shook her so that her teeth chattered. "Go back to the
kitchen," he said sternly. "I'll follow directly," and Tilda found
herself hurled against the wall, with the study door closed and
locked. Her surprise at such treatment overcame even her terror.
"Well, 'e is a father!" she gasped, and her wits being somewhat more
agile now that she was less afraid, she flew to the dining-room and
snatched the spirit-stand from the sideboard. With this she arrived in
the kitchen and found Brenda regaining her senses.
"Ain't 'e comin'?" asked Mrs. Daw, slapping Brenda's hands violently
as a restorative measure.
"In a minute. 'Ere, give 'er some brandy. Where's a glarss? Oh, a
cup'll do. Oh, ain't it all dreadful; just 'ear the wind!"
"Hold your tongue and lock the door," said Mrs. Daw, snatching the cup
from Tilda. "Come, miss, try and drink this."
She forced the strong spirit down Brenda's throat. The girl gasped and
coughed, then the color slowly mounted to her cheeks, and she raised
her head feebly.
"What is it?" she asked faintly. Then she shuddered and covered her
face. "Ah! the murder! Shot!--shot--oh, God, how terrible!"
"Don't you be afraid, miss; the doors are all locked, an' nothin' or
no one can git in." Then a shriek from Mrs. Daw followed a sudden
clanging of the bell. "Whatever's that?"
"Front door," replied Tilda, casting a glance at the row of bells.
"I'll answer; give 'er more brandy, cook."
As the housemaid left, Brenda moaned and struggled to her feet. "Oh,
the terrible darkness--the body--his body--in the wet grass! Father!
Where is my father?"
"'E's a comin', dearie," said Mrs. Daw, giving her more brandy. "Take
another sup, dearie. Who is it as is murdered, miss?" she asked in a
scared whisper.
"I don't know. I could not see--the darkness--I fell over the body. I
saw nothing. Oh!" She started up with a shriek. "Oh, if it really
should be Harold!" Then she was overcome with anguish, and Tilda
darted back to the kitchen.
"Would you believe," cried she to Mrs. Daw, "it's the furriner! An'
master said as 'e was in 'is study talkin' to 'im!"
"Lor', so 'e did!" said Mrs. Daw, awestruck at having detected her
master in a lie. "And 'e was out all the time! What does Mr. van
Zwieten say, Tilda?"
"Van Zwieten!" shrieked Brenda, who was clinging to the table. "Has he
been out? Ah! he hated Harold--the dead man--oh!" her voice leaped an
octave, "he has killed my Harold!"
"What!" shrieked the other woman in turn, and Mrs. Daw, throwing her
apron over her head, began to scream with the full force of her lungs.
Tilda joined in, losing all remnant of control, and Brenda sank in a
chair white-faced and silent. The conviction that Harold had been
murdered stunned her.
At this moment there was heard the sound of foot-steps coming rapidly
nearer. Scarse, with an angry and terrified expression, appeared on
the scene. Close behind him came Van Zwieten, who seemed, as ever,
quite undisturbed and master of himself. Brenda caught sight of him,
and darting forward, seized the man by the lapels of his coat.
"Harold!" she cried, "you have killed my Harold!"
"Harold--Burton!" replied Scarse, aghast. "Is he dead?"
"Dead--murdered! Oh, I am certain of it. And you killed him. You!
You!"
Van Zwieten said not a word, but remained perfectly calm. He saw that
the girl was beside herself with terror and grief, that she knew not
what she was saying or doing. Without a word he picked her up in his
strong arms and carried her moaning and weeping into the drawing-room.
Scarse rated Mrs. Daw and Tilda sharply for so losing their heads, and
followed the Dutchman. But before leaving the kitchen he was careful
to take with him the key of the back door. "No one leaves this house
to-night," he said sharply "I must inquire into this. Give me that
spirit-stand. Now go to bed, you fools."
"Bed!" wailed Mrs. Daw, as her master left the room. "Lor', I'll never
sleep again--not for weeks any'ow. I daren't lie alone. Oh, what an
'orful night. I'll give notice to-morrow, that for sure!"
"So'll I," squeaked Tilda. With this the two went shivering to a
common couch, full of prayers and terror, and prepared to die--if die
they must--in company.
In the drawing-room Brenda was huddled up in a chair, terrified out of
her wits. Van Zwieten, calm and masterful, stood before the fireplace
with his big hands clasped loosely before him. His trousers were
turned up, his boots were soaking, and there were raindrops in his
curly hair. For the rest he was dry, and the storm had not made the
slightest impress on his strong nerves. When Scarse entered he threw a
steely and inquisitive glance at the old man, who winced and shrank
back with an expression of fear on his face. Van Zwieten, ever on the
alert for the signs of a guilty conscience, noted this with secret
satisfaction.
"Now then, Brenda," said her father, recovering at last some of his
presence of mind, "what is all this about? You say that Burton is
dead--that Mr. van Zwieten killed him."
"Ah!" interposed the Dutchman, stroking his beard, "I should like to
know how I managed that."
"You hated him!" cried Brenda, sitting up straight with a sudden
access of vigor. "You told me so to-night at dinner!"
"Pardon me; I said I did not like Captain Burton. But as to hating
him--" Van Zwieten shrugged his shoulders; "that is an extreme word to
use. But even if I did hate him you can hardly deduce from that that I
should kill him!"
"He was shot, shot in the orchards, not far from the Manor gates. You
were out----"
"That is scant evidence to justify a charge of murder," interposed
Scarce, angrily. "You are unstrung and hysterical, Brenda. How did you
come to be out yourself in such a storm?"
"I went to see Lady Jenny at the Manor, about--about Harold's money.
She was not in, so I came back by the short cut through the orchards.
A flash of lightning showed him to me there, standing under a tree.
Then there was a shot and a cry, and I ran forward, and fell over his
body."
"Whose body?"
"I don't know--at least, I think it was Harold's body. Mr. van Zwieten
hated him."
"It may not be Harold at all," said her father, impatiently; "you are
jumping to conclusions--the wildest conclusions, Brenda. Did you see
his face?"
"No; how could I? It was dark."
"Then how on earth do you know it was Captain Burton?"
"I am not sure, of course; but I think so. Oh, father, do you
think---- Oh, perhaps, after all, it may not have been Harold."
Scarse shook off her clinging hands. "I think you're a fool," he said
sharply, "and this wild talk of Burton's being dead is pure
imagination on your part."
"I hope so--oh, how I hope so!" and Brenda shivered.
Van Zwieten, who had been listening with a cynical smile on his face,
burst into a laugh, at which Brenda looked angrily at him. "Excuse me,
Miss Scarse," he said politely, "but it is my opinion no one is dead
at all. The shot and cry were no doubt the outcome of a thundercrash.
You were upset by the storm, and it seemed to you like--what you say."
"But a man is dead," protested Brenda, rising. "In my anxiety for
Harold I may have been mistaken in thinking it was he. Still, some one
was shot--I fell over the body and fainted."
"The man may have fainted also," suggested her father.
"If I may make a suggestion," said Van Zwieten, with strong common
sense, "we are all talking without any reasonable sort of basis.
Before we assume that a crime has been committed, I would suggest that
we go to the orchards and see if we can find the body."
"No, no," cried Scarse, shrinking back. "Impossible at this hour, and
on such a night."
"The storm is dying away," said the Dutchman, derisively. "However, if
you don't care to come, I can go myself."
"I will go with you," cried Brenda, springing to her feet.
"For you, Miss Scarse, I think it is hardly wise. You are very much
upset. Had you not better go to bed?"
"I couldn't sleep with this on my mind. I must know if it is Harold or
not. If it is, I am certain you shot him, and until I know the truth I
don't let you out of my sight."
"Very good." Van Zwieten bowed and smiled. "Come, then, and guide me."
"Brenda, you can't go out now. I forbid you--it is not fit or proper."
"What do I care for propriety in such a case as this?" cried Brenda,
in a passion. "Come with me then, father."
"No, I can't--I am too ill."
Van Zwieten cast an amused look at Scarse, and the old man winced
again. He turned away and poured himself out a glass of brandy.
Without taking any further notice of him, Brenda put on her wet cloak
and left the room, followed almost immediately by the Dutchman. Van
Zwieten had many questions to ask his host, for he knew a good deal,
and guessed more; but this was not the time for cross-examination. It
was imperative that the identity of the deceased should be
ascertained, and Van Zwieten wished to be on the spot when the
discovery was made. As he left the room he heard the glass in Scarse's
trembling hand clink against the decanter, and the sound made him
smile. He guessed the cause of such perturbation.
The rain had ceased for the moment, but the wind was still high, and
dense black clouds hurtled across the sky. A pale moon showed herself
every now and then from behind the flying wrack, and fitfully lighted
the midnight darkness.
As she was with Van Zwieten, Brenda took a wide circle through the
village street. There were many people about in spite of the bad
weather--some with lanterns--but Brenda could not gather from the
scraps of conversation she heard whether the report of the dead man
lying in the orchards had got abroad.
In silence Van Zwieten strode along beside her, apparently indifferent
to anything. His attitude irritated the girl, and when the wind lulled
for a moment she demanded sharply where he had been on that night.
"You will be surprised to hear, Miss Scarse, that I went to see
Captain Burton."
"And why?" asked Brenda, taken aback by this answer--the last she had
expected to hear.
"To warn him," replied Van Zwieten, coolly. "Warn him--about
what--against whom?"
"About my engagement to you--against myself."
"I am not engaged to you, but to him," said Brenda, almost with a cry
of despair.
It seemed impossible to make this man understand how she hated him.
"I think you are engaged to me," said the Dutchman, deliberately. "You
say no, but that is girl's talk. I am not to be beaten by a girl. I
always get what I want, and I want you."
The wind rose again, and further conversation was impossible. Brenda
walked on, praying for strength to escape this terrible man. She could
not rid herself of the idea that the dead man was her own true lover.
Van Zwieten might have seen him, as he said, might have quarreled with
him and shot him. The fear chilled her heart, and when next the wind
fell she again taxed Van Zwieten. "You killed him?" she cried.
"You will insist on that, but you are wrong. I never saw Captain
Burton. He was not at the inn when I called."
"He had gone to town," said Brenda, breathless with joy.
"No, he had gone to the Rectory."
Brenda stopped short. Lady Jenny had gone to the Rectory also. Perhaps
Harold had seen her, and had asked for her aid. While she was
wondering if this might be so, there was a great shouting, and in the
distance she saw the blaze of torches borne by many people. The wind
made them flare furiously.
"Ach!" said Van Zwieten under his breath, "they know now."
In the high wind Brenda did not hear him. Guessing that the concourse
meant the discovery of the body, she flew along the road like a
lapwing. The procession was coming toward the Manor gates from the
direction of the orchards. Some men were shouting, some women
screaming, but the solid group surrounded by the red, smoking lights
remained silent. Van Zwieten followed noiselessly, and reached the
group almost as soon as Brenda.
"You see," he breathed in the girl's ear, "he is alive!"
Brenda gave a cry of joy and flung herself into the arms of the
foremost man.
"Harold! Harold! Thank God you are safe!"
"Brenda! What are you doing here? Go back! go back!"
"No, no. Tell me who--who is dead. Who has been murdered?"
Seeing she knew so much, Harold signed to the men carrying the body to
stop. They set down the gate on which it rested.
"Malet!" cried Brenda, as she recognized the features of the corpse.
"It is Mr. Malet!"