AUNT JUDY.
For a while Brenda did not grasp the full significance of her father's
admission. She stared at him blankly. Then the recollection of that
morsel of crape in the dead man's hand, and all that it meant, came
upon her with overwhelming force. She could not cry, but a choking
sensation came at her throat. Her father was the man who had worn the
crape scarf--then her father was the man who had murdered Gilbert
Malet!
"What is it, Brenda? Why do you look at me like that?" he asked
nervously.
He stood beyond the circle of light cast by the lamp on the table, and
she could not see his face, but by the tremor of his voice she guessed
that he was badly frightened. She pulled herself together--what the
effort cost her no one but herself knew--and came at once to the gist
of the thing.
"Father, did you shoot Mr. Malet?"
"I? No. Are you mad, girl, to say such a thing? How dare you--to me,
your father?" Indignation apparently choked further speech on the part
of Mr. Scarse.
"God help me! yes, you are my father," wailed Brenda. She threw
herself face downwards on the sofa and sobbed bitterly. There was that
in her father's nervous denial which impelled her to believe that her
suspicions were correct. If he had not himself killed Malet, at least
he knew who had. But at the present moment Brenda firmly believed that
his own hand had fired the fatal shot.
"Brenda, listen to me; you speak foolishly; we must understand one
another. What grounds have you for making such a terrible accusation
against me?"
The old man's voice was now steady, and he spoke harshly. He poked the
fire and expanded his thin, dry hands to the blaze. It was a haggard
face which the spurting flames illumined; but the mouth was firmly
set, and there was a hard, dogged expression in the eyes. As Brenda
made no reply, and still continued to sob, he cast an impatient glance
at her prostrate figure and went over to the sideboard. Thence he
returned with a glass of wine.
"Drink this, Brenda, and don't be a fool. I did not murder the man."
The girl sat up and slowly drank the wine. Her father crossed over to
the door and locked it, upon which the girl laughed contemptuously.
"Do you think I have the police in waiting?" she said.
"That is not the way to speak to your father," snarled he, sitting
down.
But the wine had put new life into Brenda, and she was regaining
courage with her returning color. Not by this man--the father who had
been no father to her--was she to be daunted. With a quick movement
she removed the lampshade, and the sudden spread of the light showed
her Mr. Scarse biting his nails with anything but a reassuring
expression on his face. At that moment Brenda felt she hated the
author of her being.
"You are my father in name, nothing more," she said coldly. "In no way
have you ever attempted to gain my affection. You kept me at school as
long as you could, and only when it was forced upon you did you take
charge of my life. I have no love for you, nor have you for me; but I
always respected you until now."
Scarse winced, and his parchment-like skin grew pink. "And why don't
you respect me now?"
"Because I am certain that, even if you did not kill him, you had
something to do with the death of Mr. Malet!"
"That is untrue," replied he, composedly.
Brenda looked at him keenly. "The murderer wore a crape scarf. Of that
I have direct evidence. I also know that you burnt that scarf."
"How do you know that?" he snapped.
"I found the ashes under the grate, and I picked up a scrap of the
crape. Nevertheless, in spite of your admission, I am not certain now
in my own mind that it was you who wore it. Father, you were not the
man whom Harold met."
"I am--I was," insisted Scarse, doggedly. "I put on that old coat
because I couldn't find the one I usually wear. As to the scarf, I
wore it in token of my sorrow for the way in which this country is
being ruined by its statesmen."
But Brenda declined to accept this explanation.
"You are not mad, father," she said quietly; "and only a madman would
wear yards of crape round his neck in mourning for the delinquencies
of his country's leaders; and only a madman would have killed Mr.
Malet!" She paused, and, as he made no reply, continued: "The man
Harold mistook for you was seen by other people, who also made the
same mistake. What he came to Chippingholt for I know as well as you
do. He came with the full intention of killing Mr. Malet."
"Go on, go on," jeered her father; "you are making out a fine case
against me."
"Not against you, but against this relative of yours. Ah! you wince. I
am right. He _is_ a relative. No person who wasn't could bear so
strong a resemblance to another. He is some relation of whom you are
ashamed--a twin brother, for all I know. He was in your study that day
when you said it was Van Zwieten who was with you."
"He was not!" retorted Scarse, angrily. "How dare you make me out a
liar? Van Zwieten was with me. I locked the door of the study because
we had quarrelled. He insisted on leaving the room, and, as I refused
to open the door, he stepped out of the window, and went round and
rang the front-door bell for admittance."
"That is an ingenious, but a far-fetched explanation, father."
"It is the true one. You can take or leave it."
"I leave it, then," said Brenda, calmly. "You had the stranger in your
study, and you afterwards sent him off by the 10:30 train. He was seen
at the station!"
Scarse started. "By whom?" he asked hurriedly.
"By Van Zwieten and the station-master!"
"Van Zwieten?" repeated Scarse, irritably. "He saw--who told you all
this rubbish?"
"Wilfred. The station-master told him. Besides, it is not rubbish. Oh,
father, why won't you be frank with me? We have not much feeling for
one another, but still I am your daughter, and I want to help you; so
does Harold----"
"What has he to do with it?" asked Scarse, sharply.
"It was Harold who searched the corpse before it was taken to the
Manor," replied Brenda, speaking slowly. "In the clenched right hand a
morsel of black crape was found. Father, it was torn off that scarf!"
"You cannot be certain of that."
"How otherwise could so strange a material as crape come to be in the
dead man's hand? He cried out before he was shot; I heard him. He must
have clutched at his assailant and torn a piece from his scarf."
"Did you see me shoot Mr. Malet?"
"I saw no one shoot him; but I am certain it was that man."
Scarse rose and paced up and down the room. "I was the man, I tell
you, who wore the scarf," he said for the third time, "and I never
even saw Malet on that night. I have no brother, no relatives of any
kind, save your aunt, Mrs. St. Leger."
"You won't trust me?" said Brenda, sadly.
"There is nothing more to say," replied her father, his features set
hard as a flint. "It is useless my giving you the facts if you won't
believe them. I have no idea who the man was who was seen at the
station. Van Zwieten said nothing to me about it. I am the man
Harold took for a stranger, and I cut Captain Burton because I
dislike him very much. I did not see Mr. Malet--certainly I did not
kill him--and--and I have no more to say."
"How do you account for that piece of crape in the hand of----"
"Brenda!" interrupted he, turning on her, "I could give you an
explanation of that which would amaze you; but I will rest content
with saying that the scrap you refer to was not torn off the scarf
I wore. I burnt the scarf after I had had it on once, because I
thought--well, because I thought it was foolish of me."
"Father, I am certain you are not speaking openly."
"No, I am not. If I did, you would at once see that you were wrong in
suspecting me of this crime. I am not guilty of it."
"No, I don't think you are," said Brenda; "but you are shielding some
one."
"Perhaps I am," replied he, smiling sourly; "but not the stranger you
have invented--he does not exist." He paused, and then asked abruptly,
"Has Burton mentioned this matter to any one?"
"Only to me. For your sake he keeps silent."
"Oh!" Scarse smiled sourly again. "I suppose he thinks he'll force me
into consenting to your engagement that way. But he won't. You shall
marry Van Zwieten."
Brenda rose and drew her cloak around her. "I have told you I will
marry no one but Harold," she said coldly. "There is no need to
discuss the matter further. My cab is waiting, so I'll drive on to
Aunt Judy's."
"With your mind somewhat more at rest, I trust," said he, as she
unfastened the door.
"Yes, so far as you personally are concerned. But you know who
murdered that man, and you are shielding him."
"I deny that!" Then, as she went out of the door, he ran after her,
and said in a loud whisper, "Think if there is no one else who wears
crape at Chippingholt?"
Before she could make reply to this he closed the door. She did not
pay much attention to it, because she had made up her mind about the
stranger, whom she felt convinced her father was shielding. She went
down the stairs and got into her cab. In a few moments she was again
in Piccadilly on her way west. There at Aunt Judy's she felt sure at
least of a warm welcome.
A stout, good-natured woman was Mrs. St. Leger. She conceived it to be
her one duty in life to keep her husband in a good temper. And
experience had proved to her that the only means of performing this
was by a strict attention to his diet--no easy task, seeing that he
was a peppery old Indian colonel with a liver and a temper. He had
long since retired from the army after a career of frontier
skirmishing in Northern India, and now passed his time between his
home in Kensington and his military club. In both places he was
greatly feared for his hectoring manner and flow of language, which
was well-nigh irresistible. Mrs. St. Leger was always thankful when
the meals passed off without direct conflict, and she spent most of
her day reading cookery books for the unearthing of delicacies, and
having unearthed them, in consulting the cook how to prepare them for
the fastidious palate of her lord and master.
The old couple were fond of Brenda--Aunt Judy because the girl was a
comfort to her in some vague sort of way which she could not define,
and Uncle Bill because Brenda was not in the least in awe of his
temper, and gave him every bit as good as she received.
To each other Colonel and Mrs. St. Leger were always Julia and
William; but Brenda from her earliest childhood had known them as Aunt
Judy and Uncle Bill, and to those fond appellations she still clung.
Had any one else dared to address the colonel so, he would assuredly
have taken an apoplectic fit on the spot, being so predisposed and of
"full habit"; but Brenda he graciously permitted to be thus familiar.
To sum up the worthy colonel's character, it may be stated that he
hated Mr. Scarse as bitterly as he hated cold meat; and to any one who
knew him the comparison would have been all sufficient.
"Dear, dear child," cooed Mrs. St. Leger as Brenda sipped her cup of
tea in the drawing-room, "how good it is to see you again.
William----"
"Very glad, very glad," rasped the colonel, who was glowering on the
hearthrug. "I want to hear all about this iniquitous murder. Poor
Malet! Clever chap, but always contradicting--good fellow all the
same. Wrote and talked well against these damned Little Englanders.
Gad! I'd forgive Judas Iscariot if he did that!"
"Have they caught the murderer, dear?" asked Aunt Judy, with a beaming
smile on her fat face.
"No," replied Brenda. "Nor do I believe they ever will catch him."
"Him!" roared Uncle Bill, chuckling. "Egad! and how d'you know it's a
'him'? Might be a 'her.' Eh, what? I suppose in these days a woman can
fire a revolver as well as a man, eh?"
"A woman!--why a woman?"
"Eh, why? I don't know. Why should the poor devil have been killed at
all?"
"Yes, why should he have been killed at all, that's what William and I
want to know," bleated Aunt Judy. "How does Lady Jenny take it,
Brenda, dear?"
"Oh, very quietly. She is much less grieved than I had expected her to
be."
"H'm!" rasped the colonel, in a parade voice. "I dare say she is
pleased for that matter. Most of 'em are when they bury their
husbands. I can fancy Julia smiling when I toddle."
"Oh, William, how can you? By the way, has Lady Jenny been left well
off, Brenda?"
"No, I am afraid not. She says Mr. Malet was terribly extravagant."
"He was a gambler," shouted the colonel, "well known round the clubs.
When he wasn't dropping it at Monte Carlo, he was running amuck on
'Change. Always had bad luck that chap," added he, rubbing his nose;
"lost thousands. The wonder is he didn't go under long ago. Shouldn't
be surprised to hear Lady Jenny had been left without a sixpence."
"Oh, no, uncle; she has ten thousand pounds at least; her husband's
life was insured for that, and she says his creditors can't touch
that."
"Perhaps not, but hers can. I knew old Lord Scilly--no end of a
spendthrift, and his daughter's like him, or I'm mistaken. Women are
all spendthrifts----"
"Well, I'm sure, William----"
"Oh! you're all right, Julia. There are worse than you. Nice little
woman Lady Jenny, though, all the same--good sporting sort, shoots
jolly straight, and all that."
"A thing I highly disapprove of," said Mrs. St. Leger, shaking her
head mildly. "I'm glad, dear child," turning to Brenda, "that you
don't do that sort of thing. It is so unladylike, I think."
"Perhaps it's a pity I don't, aunt. If I go to the front with Harold I
might be all the better for knowing how to pull the trigger of a gun
or a revolver."
"Harold!--what, young Burton!" growled the colonel. "Are you going to
marry him? Is it settled? It is! Well, he's not a bad young fellow;
but as a soldier! pooh! there are no soldiers nowadays. The army's
going to the dogs."
"But, Brenda, dear child, what would you be doing at the front?" asked
the old lady. "There is no war."
"Not yet; but every one says there is going to be war in South
Africa."
"Of course there will be," snapped the colonel. "Do you think we're
goin' to be defied by a couple of punny little Republics? Damnable
insolence, I call it. They ought to be whipped, and they will be. Your
father supports the beggars, Brenda, and he's a----"
"William! Her father--my brother!"
"Beg pardon, Julia; but he is, and you know he is. Going against his
own country. Ha! here are the evening papers. We'll see what further
rubbish these pro-Boer idiots have been talking. Julia, please see
that dinner is punctual. And, Brenda, don't you be late. I hate
waiting for my meals!"
Thus saying, the colonel plunged out of the room, and Mrs. St. Leger
took Brenda upstairs. The old lady was delighted at the news of her
engagement to Harold, and congratulated and embraced the girl with
much effusion, and insisted upon her asking Captain Burton to dine;
all of which Brenda received with the best of good grace,
notwithstanding that she was in no mood for conversation and longed to
be alone. At last Mrs. St. Leger left her.
Then she fell to thinking of the subject which was all the time
uppermost in her mind. That last remark of her father's forced itself
upon her. Who else was there in Chippingholt who wore crape? Then
suddenly it flashed across her mind that Lady Jenny did. Of course,
she was in mourning for her father. Then came the colonel's words--She
was a good shot!
Trembling all over, she sat down and wrestled with these two facts.
They were all significant.
"Could it--could it really be Lady Jenny?" she asked herself.
But to that question she could find no answer.