WHAT MR. SCARSE ADMITTED.
For the next week Brenda lived in a state of bewilderment. Everything
seemed to go wrong. Her father did not return, but wrote that his
things were to be sent on to London, and that Brenda herself was to
leave the cottage in charge of Mrs. Daw, and come up in a fortnight's
time. Van Zwieten bowed himself out of Chippingholt without having
told her of his interview with Harold. With his usual cunning, he had
left Harold himself to do that; but Harold, leaving a message for
Brenda that he was suddenly recalled to his regimental duties, had
himself left by a later train, without either explanation or word of
farewell.
Brenda was hopelessly at a loss to understand her lover's action, and
in her despair sought Lady Jenny.
It was a week after the inquest, and the two women were seated in Lady
Jenny's boudoir, a pleasant rose-hued room which looked out on to a
Dutch garden. The usual verdict of willful murder against some person
or persons unknown had been brought in by the usual opaque country
jury, directed by a not over-intelligent coroner. Gilbert Malet's body
had been laid away in the family vault, and Lady Jenny was utilizing
for her husband the mourning she had worn for her father.
Brenda was paying her now a visit of condolence; but Lady Jenny showed
clearly by her manner and curt speech that she stood in no need of
sympathy. It was amazing to see the change that had taken place in her
since her husband's death. Formerly she had been a gay, frivolous
little woman, with ever a smile on her face; now Brenda found her a
small image of stone, as hard, and every whit as cold. She could
scarcely believe it was the same woman.
Finding that her sympathetic references to the dead man were received
with coldness, Brenda tactfully changed the conversation. She
mentioned her own anxiety about Harold's abrupt departure, and found
Lady Jenny quite ready to talk on that subject. She loved Brenda and
admired Harold, and wished to see them married. Consequently she was
only too glad to smooth down Brenda's feathers, which were a good deal
ruffled by her lover's strange behavior.
"My dear, you know a soldier's time is not his own," she said. "I
expect Harold got a telegram, and had just time to pack and catch the
first train."
"He should have sent for me," said Brenda; "I should have seen him off
at the station."
"Well, I've no doubt he will explain his reasons when you meet in
town. You go there next week, and Harold is only at Aldershot. He has
written to you?"
"Several times, and always fondly. But he has never explained his
leaving without seeing me. It's no good, Lady Jenny; I confess I am
angry. Yet he may have avoided seeing me on account of the murder."
Lady Jenny looked up sharply. "Why should he?" Brenda hesitated. She
was thinking of Harold's suspicions regarding her father, and did not
want to tell them to the dead man's widow. For the moment she had
forgotten to whom she was speaking. But, having committed herself so
far, she was obliged to get out of the difficulty as best she could.
"You know Inspector Woke suspected Harold?" she said, nervously
avoiding Lady Jenny's sharp black eyes; "he said----"
"I know--I know. Woke told me of his suspicions. He's a fool--to
suspect Harold of killing Gilbert just because they had a few words is
ridiculous, and I told him so. Nobody will ever know who killed
Gilbert."
"You speak very confidently," said Brenda, amazed at her hard tone.
"Because I feel confident," retorted the other. "There is not a scrap
of evidence against any one. All that could be said was said at the
inquest. Woke and his police have been doing their best to get at the
truth, and have failed. The revolver was not found; no one knew why
Gilbert went out walking on that night, or whom he met, and--oh, the
whole thing is over and done with. It is only one more of the many
undiscovered crimes."
"Do you suspect any one?"
"Not a soul. Why should I? Gilbert had many enemies--so he said--but I
don't know any of them, and I don't suppose any one of them would have
gone the length of murder."
"The police here are such sillies," put in Brenda. "Why don't you get
a clever detective down from London?"
"Because I think the case is hopeless, my dear," said the widow,
gloomily, "and because it would cost a great deal too much money. I
have not yet gone into the affairs of the estate, but I am afraid I
shall not be over well off. Gilbert would play, and I suppose I was
extravagant. We lived far beyond our means. This place is mortgaged
heavily."
"What--the Manor?" asked Brenda, startled.
"Yes, all our property is mortgaged. I expect I shall be left with
nothing but the ten thousand pounds for which Gilbert's life was
insured. Fortunately it was settled on me at the time of our marriage,
so his creditors can't touch it. I hate being poor," cried Lady Jenny,
viciously; "and, so far as I can see, I shall be--very poor."
"I had no idea things were so bad."
"Nor had I until six months ago, when Gilbert told me. We have lived
from hand to mouth since then. All Gilbert's efforts have been
directed to staving off ruin."
Brenda's heart sank within her. "What about Harold's money?"
"Oh, Harold and Wilfred are all right," said Lady Jenny, hastily; "at
least, I suppose so. Gilbert always said that he took good care of
their money, and I think he did. He was not the man to place himself
within reach of the law by appropriating trust monies--at least, I
can't believe he would do such a thing. But next week the whole matter
will be gone into. Then I suppose you and Harold will get married."
"Of course. In any case--money or no money--we shall be married."
"Oh, I don't know. It's absurd marrying on nothing. Gilbert was well
off when I became his wife, or I shouldn't have married him; had I
known he was a gambler, I should have refused him. He made a nice mess
of his life."
"I thought you loved him."
"I did, a deal better than he deserved," said Lady Jenny, bitterly.
"But--but--oh, what is the use of talking! He was a bad man--another
woman--his fault--and I--my dear, don't you trust Harold. All men are
bad."
"I always understood Mr. Malet was devoted to you."
"So did I--until I found him out. It came about in the strangest
way--the discovery, I mean." Lady Jenny paused, as though considering
whether to speak out or not. Finally she decided to hold her tongue.
"But then these things concern only myself," said she, abruptly. "He
deceived me--I was jealous--that is all you need know. But I cannot
say that I sorrow for him now that he is dead."
"Oh, how can you speak so?"
"Because I am a woman, and jealous. When Harold deceives you, Brenda,
you will feel as I do--feel that you could kill him with your own
hand." Lady Jenny looked suddenly at the girl's blonde beauty. "But
no! you are a cold Saxon girl, with little such spirit in you. I--my
father was Irish, my mother Italian, and I have in me all the fire of
Celt and Latin. It was well for Gilbert that he died when he did," she
said between her teeth; "I don't know what I should have done!"
The bitterness and passion with which she spoke were both new to
Brenda, who had never suspected her of such depth of feeling. Being in
the dark, more or less, concerning its cause, she hardly knew what to
say, so she held her peace. She felt that nothing she could say would
alter her friend's feelings, and might possibly even aggravate them.
After a turn up and down the room, the widow resumed her seat, and
seemed to become calmer.
"Where are you going to stay in town, Brenda?"
"With my aunt, Mrs. St. Leger, in Kensington. My father always lives
in his own rooms, you know. He doesn't want to be troubled with a
grown-up daughter."
"He won't be troubled long if Harold is to be believed."
"You mean our marriage? No! But you know my father doesn't approve of
it. He wants me to marry Mr. van Zwieten."
"That Dutchman! Horrid creature! I never could bear him. Gilbert liked
him, though."
"Indeed!" said Brenda, rather surprised. "Mr. van Zwieten told me he
and Mr. Malet were not friendly."
Lady Jenny laughed in a way not good to hear. "Very likely. Van
Zwieten is cunning--slim, as his countrymen call it. I know more about
him though than he thinks."
"Do you know who he is?"
"Yes, I know who he is, and how he makes his money, and why he is in
England."
"How did you find out?" asked Brenda, breathlessly.
"Oh, _that_ I mustn't tell you--suppose you were to tell Van Zwieten?"
"Tell him!" repeated Miss Scarse, her face crimson, her eyes bright.
"Why, I hate him more than any man I ever knew. He wants to marry me,
and won't take a refusal. My father supports him, and, for Harold's
sake, I have to fight them both."
"And you are not afraid of so formidable a foe?" said the widow,
seeing her eyes droop.
"Not of my father, but I am afraid of Mr. van Zwieten. He is a
terrible man, and has so powerful a will that he can almost impose it
on mine. There is something hypnotic about him, and I feel scarcely
mistress of myself when he is near me."
"Nonsense! You are fanciful, child."
"Indeed--indeed I am not," protested the girl, eagerly. "But you don't
know how strong and obstinate he is. He never loses his temper, he
just looks and looks with those terrible eyes of his, and repeats his
desire--his will--his intentions--over and over again. I feel like a
rabbit in the presence of a snake. And that's why I want Harold and me
to be married soon, because I feel, if we are not, Mr. van Zwieten
will compel me in spite of myself."
Lady Jenny bent forward and caught Brenda's wrists. "My dear, if Van
Zwieten tries these pranks on, you send for me. If any one can save
you from him, I can."
"But how?"
"That is my affair. Van Zwieten may be all you say, but I can make him
afraid of me. Now you must go, my dear. I have a lot of letters to
write."
Brenda went off much puzzled over Lady Jenny's attitude toward Van
Zwieten. Evidently she knew something to the man's disadvantage. But
Brenda was doubtful whether her friend could use her knowledge
sufficiently cleverly to crush the Dutchman. His resource was
extraordinary, and he was clever and unscrupulous enough to be able to
defend himself in an emergency. However, she felt it was no use trying
to forecast the future. She resolved to keep out of Van Zwieten's way
and get Harold to marry her as soon as possible. Once she was Mrs.
Burton, the Dutchman would be obliged to cease persecuting her.
For the next few days Brenda was fully occupied with her packing. As
Harold was in London, or rather so near London that he could come up
there quickly, she was glad to be going. She felt she must see him and
have from him an explanation, and an understanding as to when their
marriage could take place. At her aunt's she would be safe from Van
Zwieten, since Mr. St. Leger did not like him; but Brenda knew well
that for his own ends--whatever these might be--her father would, as
ever, insist on her favoring Van Zwieten.
The only way to put an end to the intolerable situation was to marry
Harold. With that, her father would no doubt wash his hands of her,
but at least she would be relieved from the persecutions of the
Dutchman, and would have some one to love and protect her. So it was
with thankfulness that Brenda left the cottage.
In the train she found a travelling companion whom she did not
expect--none other than Harold's brother. Wilfred's foot was now quite
well, and he looked better in health than when Brenda had last seen
him. He joined her at Langton Junction, and they travelled up in the
same carriage, which they were fortunate enough to have to themselves.
She was pleased that it was so, for she wanted to talk confidentially
with Wilfred. They were the best of good friends.
"I am so glad your foot is all right again, Wilfred," she said
cheerfully. "It is such a painful thing--a sprain."
"Yet for all that I am not sorry I sprained it," said Wilfred, turning
his thin white face toward the girl.
"Not sorry! What do you mean?"
"Oh, it's an ill wind--you know."
"Yes, I suppose it is. But it's difficult to see what sort of 'good'
one can look for from a sprained ankle!"
"Well, in this instance I fancy it did me a good turn. You see it
rendered me physically helpless for the time being."
"My dear Wilfred--I confess you puzzle me."
"Do I? Well, I'll tell you what I mean. The night, almost the hour, I
sprained my ankle, poor Malet was shot. So no one can possibly accuse
_me_ of having shot him!"
"But who _would_ dare to accuse you of such a thing?"
"Oh, I don't know; that fool of an inspector was quite prepared to fix
his beastly suspicions on Harold--told me as much."
"I know; but then you see Harold and Mr. Malet quarrelled. That was
the reason Mr. Woke was suspicious. But of course Harold laughed at
the idea."
"I should think so. I confess the whole thing licks me. I can't
imagine who can have done it."
"No one knows. Lady Jenny says no one ever will know!"
"I suppose not. It seems to be relegated to the list of undiscovered
crimes. Do you know, Brenda, I _have_ had my suspicions!"
A cold hand clutched the girl's heart. She immediately thought of her
father. "Have you?" she faltered. "Of whom?"
"Well, I wouldn't tell every one, as I have really no sort of basis
for them. They are the purest suspicions. But I suspect that big
Dutchman who was staying at your place."
"Van Zwieten!" Brenda's mind ran over the events of that terrible
night. The Dutchman had been out; he had come in after her. But again
her father had told the servants that Van Zwieten was in the study
with him--a distinct falsehood. Whichever way she looked at it, her
father seemed to be mixed up in the matter. "Yet what possible motive
could Van Zwieten have had to impel him to such a crime?" she asked
Wilfred.
"It might be a political crime," said the young man, his face lighting
up as it invariably did when he talked politics. "Gilbert was an
Imperialist--always preaching and writing against the Boers. Van
Zwieten is Dutch, and is going out to an appointment at Pretoria; also
he is an intimate friend of Dr. Leyds. He might have wished to get
Gilbert out of the way because he was dangerous to his schemes."
"Surely he wouldn't have gone the length of murder for such a reason."
"Oh, I don't know. If he could without being found out, I am certain
he would. I don't say Van Zwieten fired the shot himself, but he might
have hired some one to do it."
"What makes you think that, Wilfred?"
"Well, I was talking to the station-master at Chippingholt. He said
that a man in a dark overcoat with a soft hat pulled over his eyes
went to Langton Junction by the 10:30 train--the last train on that
night. Van Zwieten saw him off at the station. He was seen to follow
the man to the compartment and put his head through the window. There
was evidently an understanding between them. Now you know, Brenda, few
strangers come to Chippingholt, for there is nothing to see there. It
was odd, to say the least of it, that Van Zwieten should have seen
this fellow off. Moreover, he just left after the murder was
committed."
"I don't see though how you are justified from this in thinking that
either Van Zwieten or the other man is implicated in the murder," said
Brenda after a pause. "They might simply have met on business."
"What sort of business?"
"I can't say, I am not in Mr. van Zwieten's confidence."
Wilfred's eyes flashed. "I wish I was!" he said emphatically. "I
believe the fellow is a Boer spy!"
"I thought so too, and I told him so."
"What did he say?"
"He denied it. Wilfred, did any one see the face of this stranger?"
"No. He kept his coat collar turned up, and his hat well over his
eyes. Why?"
"Nothing, I was only wondering." Brenda dreaded lest she should hear
that the stranger was he who so closely resembled her father. She
wondered, too, whether it was possible her father could have assisted
this man to escape after he had shot Mr. Malet, for that the crime had
been committed by the same man who wore the black crape scarf seemed
conclusively proved by the presence of that piece of it in the
victim's hand.
"I intend to keep a pretty close watch on Mr. van Zwieten," went on
Wilfred. "In fact, that is why I have come up to town. If, as I
suspect, he is a spy, the authorities must know of it. In the event of
hostilities breaking out between this country and the Transvaal, he
would of course be arrested at once."
"But you cannot prove his complicity in this matter, Wilfred?"
"I intend to have a shot at it any way," replied the young man,
grimly. "But come, Brenda, here we are at Victoria. Let me put you in
a hansom."
"Do come and see me, Wilfred. I'm at Mrs. St. Leger's."
"Thanks; I will. I may ask you to help me too in my pursuit of this
Dutchman."
"How you seem to hate Mr. van Zwieten, Wilfred," she exclaimed. "Have
you any especial reason to dislike him?"
"I hate him because he is the enemy of my country."
As the cab drove away, Brenda mused on the fervent patriotism of the
man. Frail, neurotic, frequently ailing, a prey to chronic
melancholia, yet he was of the stuff of which such men as Hampden, Pym
and Cromwell are made. He believed in the greatness of England as he
did in the existence of God. Her every triumph sent a thrill through
him, her lightest disaster cut him to the quick. It was as if he were
ever under the influence of a fixed idea. But if he were, the idea was
at least a noble and an elevating one. His spirit was strong as his
body was weak, and through his body he paid dearly for his patriotic
emotions.
It had been Brenda's intention to drive at once to Kensington, but
when she recalled all that Wilfred had said, she felt she must see her
father, if only to clear her mind of suspicion. Had he assisted--as
seemed probable--in the escape of the unknown man, he must have known
that the creature was a murderer, since there could be no other reason
for such a hurried and secretive flight. She felt she could not rest
until she had the truth from his own lips. Hence she told the man to
drive to his chambers in Star Street.
Fortunately the old man was in. He looked leaner and whiter, she
thought, than ever. He was buried in the evening papers, from which he
was cutting out slips, which he proceeded to paste into a large book.
It was from these clippings of editorial opinion and collected data
that he constructed his speeches, throwing in as flavoring a dash of
his own dogmatic optimism, and some free expression reflecting the
true humanity of other nations as compared with that of his own brutal
country, of which, in truth, he had little to say that was not
abusive.
As usual, he received Brenda coldly, and wondered why she had not
driven at once to her aunt's. She soon explained to him her reasons.
"Father, I am worrying myself to death about that man with the crape
scarf."
Scarse colored and averted his eyes. "Why, pray?" he asked.
"Because I can't get over his resemblance to you. Is he a relative?"
"No." Scarse cleared his throat and spoke. "The fact is, Brenda, I
wore that crape scarf and snuff-colored coat myself. I am the man
Harold saw."