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(the New York Public Library)
The Lost Parchment
_A Detective Story_
BY
FERGUS HUME
AUTHOR OF "THE MYSTERY OF A HANSOM CAB," "THE MYSTERY QUEEN,"
"THE RAINBOW FEATHER," "RED MONEY," "THE SEALED MESSAGE,"
"THE SECRET PASSAGE," "THE STEEL CROWN," ETC.
G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY
G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY
_The Lost Parchment_
Press of
J. J. Little & Ives Co.
New York
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. Schoolfellows
II. The Vicar
III. Lovers
IV. The Cottage
V. A Revelation
VI. Counsels Opinion
VII. A Nine Days Wonder
VIII. Mallien Speaks
IX. A Serious Position
X. Dorinda
XI. Carringtons Advice
XII. On the Track
XIII. Confession
XIV. A Clue
XV. Circumstantial Evidence
XVI. A New Witness
XVII. Difficulties
XVIII. Setting a Trap
XIX. Resurgam
XX. A Weird Story
XXI. A Final Surprise
THE LOST PARCHMENT.
CHAPTER I
SCHOOLFELLOWS
"So this is your kingdom, Hendle?" said the visitor, looking round the
garden which glowed with rainbow tints in the hot July sunshine; "and
a very jolly kingdom it is. When did you enter into it?"
"When I was fifteen, twelve years ago," replied the Squire, smiling.
"Don't you remember how I wrote and told you of the death of my
father? You had just left school for the 'Varsity. Those were capital
days at Rugby, weren't they, Carrington?"
"They were. I have had few capital days since."
"But surely at Oxford----"
Carrington shrugged his shoulders and made a frank admission. "Oh,
yes! Oxford was all right until my father died and left me without a
sixpence. It was hard work, I can tell you, qualifying for the Bar on
next to nothing. And I can't say that I have made my fortune as a
barrister. You, lucky dog, don't need to bother about pounds,
shillings, and pence."
"I have certainly nothing to complain of on that score," said Hendle
in a satisfied tone and extending his cigarette case. "It was a pity
we drifted apart, Carrington, as we were such chums at Rugby. I might
have helped you."
"You were always a good chap, Hendle, and that is why I took to you,
when we were in our teens. But we saw nothing of each other all these
years because you had money and I hadn't. Besides, you went to
Cambridge, while I patronized Oxford. It is my fault that our
friendship has not continued unbroken, as I never answered your many
letters. But you see I was always too much involved in law studies to
bother. You, I presume, were looking after your snug little kingdom."
Hendle nodded. "I am a very stay-at-home person, and the place
requires a good deal of supervision."
"Lucky dog!" repeated the barrister. "You have a fine income, too."
"So-so. Four thousand a year."
"The deuce! And, like Bottom, I support life on sixpence a day, which,
unlike Bottom, I have to earn. There is no Theseus to give me a
pension."
"You didn't seem to be so very hard up when I met you six months ago
in the _Criterion Restaurant_," said the young squire dryly.
"Oh, one has to keep up some sort of appearance and dress in purple
and fine linen, even if one cannot afford to do so," answered
Carrington easily. "It is only your rich man who can dispense with
Solomon-in-all-his-glory raiment, old fellow. Anyhow, poor or rich, I
was delighted to meet you again."
"Were you?" Hendle appeared to be a trifle sceptical. "You didn't
hurry yourself to come down to Barship anyhow."
"I didn't; that's a fact. I thought you might fancy that I would
borrow, if I came too speedily. Hence the six months' hesitation."
"Oh, rot! You know that I'm not the sort of fellow to grudge a loan to
an old school chum if he asks for it."
"You were always a good chap, Hendle," said Carrington again. "But I
am not going to ask. I have bread and butter, if not jam, and one must
be grateful for the necessities of life in these hard times."
Hendle nodded with a lazy laugh and the young men lighted fresh
cigarettes as they crossed the lawn to gain the avenue which sloped
gradually for a quarter of a mile in the direction of the village.
Behind them they left a delightfully ugly mansion of Georgian
architecture mellowed by time into positive beauty. The Big House--its
local name--draped itself majestically in dark trailing ivy, showing
here and there the bland softened hue of its ruddy brick walls.
"My mind to me a kingdom is," quoted Carrington with a backward glance
at the peace and beauty they were leaving. "A poetic, but truly
unsatisfactory saying, Hendle. Your acres are a more tangible
possession than the stuff of which dreams are made. Let us go hence."
The Squire in his simple honesty laughed at the fantastic remarks of
his visitor, not guessing that a considerable amount of acid envy
underlay the amiable compliments. Hendle was one of those honorable,
good-natured creatures, who believed that his fellow-men were as
open-minded and straightforward as he was himself. His florid
complexion, fair crisp hair, big limbs and general air of latent
strength revealed plainly his Saxon ancestry, and he resembled a
good-natured bull content with plentiful grass and water and the
freedom of wide meadows. He was markedly good-looking, with sleepy
blue eyes and a heavy moustache of a russet hue, which he usually
tugged at to help on his slow-moving thoughts. His name, Rupert,
suggested swift dash and impetuous daring. But there was nothing of
these things about this somewhat drowsy giant, although he had ample
courage when necessary. It took much to rouse him, but once the dam of
his self-restraint broke, everything and everyone were swept away like
straws in a torrent of Berserk fury. When Rupert did fight, nothing
could stand against his enormous physical power; and the use of this,
being tempered by strong common-sense, invariably gained him the
victory. But he usually preferred peace to war, and it took much to
stimulate his passions to an outbreak.
Dean Carrington himself was to his friend like a Georgian rapier to a
Crusader's sword. He was small and lean, quick-witted and nimble, with
dark hair and dark eyes and a swarthy complexion. His clean-shaven
face with its regular features and keen expression suggested the born
intriguer, who gained his ends rather by cunning than force. Always
perfectly dressed, always amiable, an accomplished squire-of-dames,
well-read and yet a man-of-the-world, Carrington was the exact
opposite of Hendle, and perhaps had made him his friend because of the
vast difference in their natures. Having a more alert though not a
stronger mind, he dominated Rupert in a most dexterous manner, never
showing the iron hand without its velvet glove. Nevertheless, this
ascendency had been achieved at Rugby, and owed its strength to the
admiration of the dull boy for the clever boy; to the hero-worship of
the younger for the older. But if Carrington was now thirty, Rupert
was now twenty-seven, and might not be so easily mastered, presuming,
as might be the case, the latter had developed qualities with which
the former could not cope. This remained to be seen, and it was to
see, that Carrington had come down for a Saturday to Monday rest. Now
that he judged Rupert to be much the same and saw how luxurious were
his surroundings, the astute barrister determined to reëstablish his
sway over a wealthy friend too long neglected. Therefore he made
himself delightfully agreeable. He had spent Saturday and Sunday with
the Squire, and now was strolling through the village on Monday
afternoon, before catching the evening train. So far, owing to
Rupert's frank intimacy, he foresaw no obstacle to his making use of
the young man. But there was one possibility to be reckoned with,
which had to be looked into, and this Carrington approached in a
roundabout manner, after his usual custom.
"A delightful place," said the barrister with a sigh of pleasure, as
they sauntered along the cobblestone street, with its quaint houses on
either side. "You are a king here. When you conduct the queen to the
throne at the Big House, the serfs will lie down and allow you both to
walk over them."
"I haven't any wish to walk over them," said Hendle, shrugging his
mighty shoulders, "and I don't think the villagers would like to hear
you call them serfs, Carrington."
"Pooh! They wouldn't know the meaning of the word. And, after all, it
is only my picturesque way of speaking. But you evade my question."
"I didn't know you asked any. You simply made a remark."
"The Lord mend your wit, then. I must be plain, I see. What about a
wife?"
"Oh, that's all arranged for," replied the Squire stolidly, and with
never a blush, so matter-of-fact was he.
"And you never told me," murmured Carrington reproachfully.
"You never asked me."
"No," said the other, wondering at this phlegmatic nature. "I didn't."
Then he lapsed into musing, and Rupert, never a talker at the best of
times, strode beside him silent and comfortably happy.
So the possibility had become a probability, and a feminine influence
had to be reckoned with after all. This was what Carrington had
dreaded, and he blamed himself for not having asked the question
before. Had he done so, he might have been introduced to the lady and
then would have been able to judge what sort of a marplot she would
prove to be. However, he hoped to meet her when he next came down,
which would be very soon, and meanwhile, true to his plan of campaign,
he laughed amiably at Rupert's reticence.
"You always did take things stolidly at school, Hendle," he said,
arching his finely penciled eyebrows, "and you have not changed in
this respect. Who is she?"
"My cousin--a third or fourth cousin. We have known each other all our
lives, and that is why we know we will be happy."
"Familiarity doesn't breed contempt in this case, then," said the
barrister lightly. "As you have known her all her life, I presume she
lives hereabouts?"
"Oh, yes. At the other end of the village."
"I should like to see her," suggested Carrington persuasively.
"Next time you come down you shall. I shall ask her father and Dorinda
to dinner at the Big House."
"Who is her father?"
"A second or third cousin of mine."
"What is his name?"
"Mallien--Julius Mallien."
"I am little the wiser," said the barrister ironically, "and I don't
want to exercise my profession of cross-examining people in the
country. Can't you give me details?"
"I am," said the other, slightly surprised. "I am giving you details."
"Yes, when I ask you incessant questions. But make some sort of a
speech. I want to know what kind of a person Mallien is; I want a
description of the lady; I desire to learn what the father does, and
if he will give his daughter a dowry. In fact, I wish to know all
about it, as naturally I take the greatest interest in the welfare of
my old school chum."
"Good old man," said Rupert, giving Carrington's arm so affectionate a
squeeze that the barrister winced with the pain. "Well, Mallien's a
beast, like Timon of Athens--you remember the play we read at school.
I don't like Mallien, as he's always grousing at everyone and
everything."
"You give me the key to his character by mentioning Timon. Your future
father-in-law is a misanthrope."
Rupert nodded. "Very much so. And Dorinda is----"
"An angel. I know what you are about to say."
"I don't think you do. Dorinda is a good sort."
"Is that all the praise you can bestow on your future wife?"
"It's all she wants. Dorinda doesn't like compliments."
"What an unnatural girl!" laughed Carrington, "and her looks?"
Hendle filled his pipe while he replied and halted in the village
square while he did so. "She's got black hair and blue eyes and a
ripping figure and is heaps cleverer than I am."
"What a bald description! Has she two eyes and a nose with a mouth
under it?"
"How you chaff, Carrington. However, when you come down again, you
will see Dorinda for herself. Hallo, here's Kit."
"Who is Kit?" questioned the other, as a smart motor car slipped
easily out of the crooked street to halt in the square, as the village
green was grandiloquently entitled.
"The son of my housekeeper, Mrs. Beatson."
"That sour-looking woman with the hard eye?"
"The same. She has been hammered hard by misfortune, but is a lady
born and bred for all that. Morning, Kit."
"Good morning, Squire. Hot, isn't it? I can only get some sort of wind
by running the machine at top speed."
"You'll be roped in by the police if you don't mind your eye, Kit. My
friend, Mr. Dean Carrington. This is Mr. Christopher Beatson,
Carrington. He's a reckless hero, who plays with the whiskers of death
on all and every occasion."
"That is the habit of the present generation," said Carrington, with a
nod to the handsome young fellow in the car. "Motors, aeroplanes,
scenic railways and looping-the-loop. Youth enjoys nothing nowadays
unless it has in it an element of danger. To go out and never know if
you will be home to supper, Mr. Beatson: that is your delight."
"There is much truth in what you say, Mr. Carrington," returned Kit,
laughing. "After all, it's life."
"This is the frantic age," said Hendle sententiously. "How's business,
Kit?"
"Ripping! I sold three cars last week on behalf of the firm. One to a
lady."
"Who was taken with your good looks, I suppose. Take care Miss Tollart
doesn't grow jealous, Kit."
"You will have your joke, Mr. Hendle," answered Beatson, his bronzed
skin growing crimson and his brown eyes sparkling. "But Sophy knows
that I have to play up to the customers to get the stuff sold." He
turned from the wheel to look round generally. "Have you seen her?
She's to meet me here and go with me for a spin."
Just then Miss Tollart appeared hurrying to the rendezvous as fast as
her hobble-skirt would permit. She revealed herself as a fine-looking
and decidedly flamboyant young woman with an independent air which
suggested the suffragist. It could easily be seen, and by a less
observant person than Carrington, that Kit would be known as "Mrs.
Beatson's husband" when the ring was on the lady's finger. His chin
betrayed a rather weak nature, and his eyes had much too kind a look
in them to hint at mastery, while the tall black-browed young woman,
who swung toward the group with the air of conquering Semiramis,
appeared quite capable of dominating an empire, much less a husband.
Carrington did not envy Kit's approaching connubial bliss.
"Mr. Carrington, Miss Tollart," said the Squire, introducing his
friend to the new arrival. "Carrington, Miss Tollart is the daughter
of our doctor."
Sophy winced at the mention of her father and Carrington wondered why
she should. However, the emotion passed in a flash and Miss Tollart
inspected the barrister much as a naturalist inspects a microbe under
the microscope. The sniff with which she concluded her scrutiny hinted
at dissatisfaction, if not at contempt. But then Sophy as an ardent
suffragist never did think much of the male, and straightway flew her
colors in the face of this particular one. "I am going to Elbowsham to
speak at a meeting, Squire. Have I your good wishes?"
"That you will come home safe and sound?" queried Hendle with
twinkling eyes. "You have. Don't insult the crowd more than you can
help, Miss Tollart."
"I shall not conceal my opinions," retorted the lady, tightening her
lips.
"Ah!" Carrington looked her up and down, "in that case I am glad Mr.
Beatson and his car will be at hand to rescue you."
"I can fight my own battles," said Miss Tollart coolly. "But I see
that you don't believe in Votes for Women."
"My dear lady," replied Carrington smoothly, "when I am in your
presence I believe in anything you like to advance."
Sophy sniffed. "Hedging!" she observed aggressively. "Men never can
give a straight answer. I only wish," she continued as she turned to
Hendle, "that I could infect Dorinda with my ardor. But she won't
uphold the banner, and sulks in her tent."
"I am afraid that I have exhausted all my persuasive power in inducing
her to join me as my future wife," said the Squire politely.
Sophy nodded her approval. "Dorinda's a nice girl and a good girl, and
a very pretty girl," she said, in her deep-toned voice, "but she is as
weak as any man in this village. As weak as you are, Squire, as the
vicar, as my father, and you know what he is." She winced again, then
turned aggressively on Kit. "But I can't stay here all day, as the
meeting at Elbowsham is waiting. Five miles, Kit; you must do it in
five minutes."
"What about the police?" asked Carrington.
"I despise the police," cried Miss Tollart, as she was borne away
hurriedly by her lover to prevent further trouble. "They know me."
Carrington looked leisurely after the machine until it vanished and
Sophy's trumpet tones of defiance died away. "What an uncomfortable
young woman," he observed, turning toward his friend.
"Oh, Sophy's a good sort," said Hendle soberly. "She's had heaps of
trouble."
"It doesn't seem to have knocked much sense into her, anyway. Trouble.
Bother, I see. Her father, I expect?"
The Squire looked astonished. "Yes. But how you guessed----"
"I saw her wince when you and she mentioned Dr. Tollart," explained
the barrister.
They crossed the green, passing an ancient cross of worn stone, which
stood in the center of a vast expanse of grass burnt brown with the
long-enduring heat. Round the square were various cottages with
white-washed walls and thatched roofs, each standing in its own tiny
garden brilliant with flowers. _The Hendle Inn_, with the arms of the
family swinging from a signpost, was the largest building in sight,
and presented an attractive sight to an artist, since it dated from
Tudor times, and its upper story overhung the lower. With its
red-tiled roof and dark oaken beams deeply embedded in its flint and
stone walls it caught the eye of Carrington straightway. He had seen
it before, but its quaint beauty lured him again to contemplation.
"That's a delightful old inn," he said, looking backward as they
passed out of the square. "Quite the place for an adventure."
"There are no adventures in Barship," replied the Squire heavily. "We
are very dull people hereabouts. Leigh is our bright and shining
light, as he goes in for old manuscripts and ancient buildings and
queer customs and----"
"In a word, Leigh is an archæologist," interrupted Carrington, who
found Rupert somewhat prolix. "And who is Leigh?"
"If we had gone to church yesterday, you would have seen him in the
pulpit, Carrington. He is the vicar, and, if you don't mind being
blamed for nonattendance, we are going to look him up now."
"Oh, I don't mind in the least," said the barrister briskly. "If he
talks religion, I can talk science. Argument is always amusing with a
fanatic."
"I don't think Leigh is a fanatic. He is fonder of his hobby than of
his profession. But he's all right as a parson, although he doesn't
visit his parishioners as often as I could wish. Yonder's the church
where all my people are buried. Picturesque?"
The barrister gave the building his grave approval "But everything is
picturesque about here in the best style of art. You ought to be
happy."
"I am. Very happy. But I shall be happier when I marry Dorinda!"
"Amen to that. And let me be your best man," said Carrington gaily.
"If Dorinda doesn't mind, yes," replied Hendle, exasperatingly matter
of fact.