ON THE TRACK
Generally speaking, it seemed as though Mallien's prophecy of
Carrington picking Rupert's pockets was likely to come true. Owing to
circumstances, the barrister had found a perfectly legitimate way of
getting money from his friend, and intended to take every advantage of
the opportunity. He explained to Hendle that it would be necessary for
him to remain at The Big House until all these crooked affairs were
straightened out, and that, his time being valuable, he would require
a handsome fee for his services. The Squire professed himself quite
willing that things should be so arranged, but he was scarcely so
dense as Carrington believed him to be. He saw that the visitor was
anxious to make money, and concluded that perhaps it was best to
settle matters on this coldly legal basis. The cut-and-dried situation
was thus perfectly understood by both men, and they got on very
amicably together. On the surface everything was as it should be.
But below the surface, things were scarcely so pleasant. Rupert's
susceptibilities for Carrington, dating from Rugby days, had received
a shock. He had looked to find in the barrister an intimate friend,
only to discover that he was a hard business man. Had Carrington
looked into matters without stipulating for a fee, and had behaved as
a chum, Hendle would have gladly dealt handsomely with him, knowing
that he was not particularly successful in his profession. But the
Squire, with the memory of his school hero-worship in his mind, was
dismayed to find that his former idol had feet of clay, and that
Carrington was quite willing to use him as a means to an end. Rupert
was by no means sentimental, yet he felt anxious for sympathy in his
present unpleasant position. That sympathy should be sold, as the
barrister was selling it, chilled his ardent nature, and made him less
confidential with his school-friend than otherwise he would have been.
Everything seemed to be for sale, and nothing appeared to be given as
a gift. Mallien, Mrs. Beatson, Carrington, all had an eye to the main
chance; and even the late vicar had hinted in a veiled way that the
will would be given up if his Yucatan expedition was financed. It
seemed to Rupert that his only true friend was Dorinda, who loved him
for himself, and not for what she could get out of him. And Dorinda
was nearer and dearer than a friend, since she was to be his wife.
Hendle, who was deeply religious in his unobtrusive way, silently
thanked God that he had one staunch comrade. And such Dorinda was,
therefore their marriage would certainly be happier, when founded upon
so solid a foundation, than if it were a mere romantic passion.
For the next three days, the two men paid daily visits to the Vicarage
and hunted high and low for the missing will. They examined every
paper; they opened every book; they looked through the pockets of old
clothes, and turned out every cupboard. Rupert expected that Mallien,
being so keen about his rights, would search also; but the day after
Carrington's arrival, he went up to London, and remained absent for
some time. Apparently he disliked coming into contact with the
sharp-tongued barrister, and probably would not return until his enemy
took his departure. Carrington, of course, was not Mallien's enemy, as
he had no reason to be, but Mallien in his odd misanthropic way
regarded him as such. He therefore would not have been pleased had he
learned that on the third day of his absence, Dorinda entertained the
two men at dinner.
Miss Mallien did not like Carrington any more than did her father, but
for the sake of helping Rupert, she extended the hand of hospitality.
In fact she gave quite a little dinner-party, as Kit Beatson and Miss
Tollart were also present. The master of the house always objected to
these small entertainments, as they cost money; but Dorinda paid no
attention to his objections, as she claimed a reasonable right to
amuse herself. Nevertheless, she considered her father's feelings so
far as only to ask her neighbors to luncheon, afternoon tea and dinner
when he was absent. Yet, notwithstanding this concession, there was
always trouble when Mallien returned; and, since Carrington had been
invited, it was probable that, on this occasion, there would be a
royal row. Dorinda did not mind, as she was used to rows. The only way
in which she could make her situation bearable was by standing up for
herself and defying her father in small matters. If she did not do so,
he would bully her still more, for every inch she gave meant several
ells with him. Her mild entertainments were therefore useful in
preserving her independence, and in coloring a somewhat drab
existence.
With the assistance of the small servant, Miss Mallien had prepared a
simple but appetizing meal, which was done full justice to by the
quartette of guests. Afterward, they sat in the tiny drawing-room, and
enjoyed a real old English evening of the Albert Period type,
including games and music. Carrington had brought some jig-saw puzzles
from London, and when the excitement of putting tricky pictures
together palled, music supplied new pleasure. Sophy Tollart, who had
been well-trained, rendered scraps of very up-to-date harmony, which
began anyhow and ended nowhere. Kit sang sentimental ballads in a
pleasant uncultivated tenor, and Dorinda delighted her hearers with
old time songs such as "Kathleen Mavourneen" and "Robin Adair."
Finally, as the evening waned, the company gathered near the open
window to chat about this and that and the other thing. Sophy
recounted her experience as a militant suffragist; Kit informed
everyone of what progress the motor industry was making, and, of
course, the coming of the new vicar supplied interesting conversation.
It was Miss Tollart who introduced the topic.
"He will arrive in a fortnight," she explained, bending her black
brows in quite a tragic way, "and has a family of four girls. I hope
to interest them all in the movement."
"Votes for Women?" asked Carrington, who found Sophy very amusing,
since she knew little and asserted much.
"Of course. What other Movement is there?"
"Well, you see, Miss Tollart, Women's Rebellion isn't the only pebble
on the beach. Humanity has other interests also."
"Then it shouldn't have," retorted Sophy daringly. "Until women have
votes, the world will never be put right."
"Things have gone on very well so far," ventured Rupert, only to be
crushed.
"How can you say so, Mr. Hendle, when there's nothing but war and
bankruptcy, and silly football matches, and smart society, and----"
"Sophy! Sophy! that's enough to go on with," cried Dorinda, smiling.
"Don't give us too much to think about."
"You never think at all, Dorinda. You are fainthearted about our
votes."
"I don't think you'll get them by destroying property and having
hunger strikes," replied Dorinda, with a shrug. "What do you say,
Kit?"
Kit blushed and wriggled, for Sophy's eye was on him. "I don't say
anything you know. I never do. The motor business takes up all my
attention." Then he hurriedly changed the subject, lest his lady-love
should fall foul of him for his shirking. "I hope Sophy will gain her
ends easier in Australia."
"I'm not going to Australia, Kit. I told you that and I told your
mother."
"Mrs. Beatson," said Carrington, pricking up his ears. "Does she want
you to go to Australia, Miss Tollart?"
"She wants to go herself."
"That's news to me," observed Hendle, with a start.
"It's news to all of us," put in Kit, dismally. "The worst of mother
is that you never know what she'll be up to next. The other day she
came to me and said that she soon hoped to inherit an annuity of two
hundred a year and intended to go to Australia. She wants Sophy and me
to come with her."
Hendle, Dorinda and Carrington exchanged glances. "Who is leaving this
annuity to your mother?" asked Rupert, guessing the source of the
windfall.
"She didn't say," replied Kit, "some old aunt, I fancy. But I don't
want to go with mother. She and Sophy never get on well together."
"How can we when she wants everyone to bow down to her?" said
Miss Tollart, who hated Mrs. Beatson thoroughly. "I'm not of the
bowing-down sort. And when I marry, I want my house to myself."
"Natural enough," observed Carrington, who was listening eagerly. "And
Mrs. Beatson wants you all to live together on her annuity?"
"Not exactly that," said Kit reluctantly. "She won't keep us, but
hopes that in Australia I shall make more money out of motors."
"She may hope," said Sophy positively; "and, if she is disappointed,
she will have to be. You are not going to Australia, Kit. My father
needs my care, and I can't leave him."
It seemed to Carrington that between Kit's mother and his future
wife's father, the poor young fellow was in a most uncomfortable
position. However, for obvious reasons, connected with Sophy, he did
not say so and contented himself with the remark that he thought Dr.
Tollart very clever. "When I came down here first, I called in to get
a cure for toothache and he gave me one which acted like a charm."
Sophy, who seemed to have a deep affection for her disreputable
parent, colored with pleasure as she rose to go. "Father has his
faults, but he is a very clever man," she said emphatically; "but for
his failing he would be in Harley Street as a Specialist."
"Great men have more room for faults than small men," quoted
Carrington. "Don't look angry, Miss Tollart; I really mean what I say.
Your father is clever."
"I'm glad to hear that some one does him justice," said the girl
bitterly, and looking more womanly as she spoke. "Usually everyone is
against him. But Kit will help me to keep him straight when we are
married. Mrs. Beatson would drive him crazy."
"Sophy! Sophy! She is my mother," expostulated Kit, blushing.
"I know that," snapped Miss Tollart tartly. "It is the only thing I
have against you as my husband. But so long as she lives at a
distance--well, it's no use talking. Dorinda, I'm going now."
She went out to put on her hat and cloak, while Kit stood irresolutely
by the door he had just opened, looking so downcast that Hendle
clapped him on the back. "Cheer up, old boy; it will be all right," he
said, feeling profoundly sorry for the lad since Mrs. Beatson was
decidedly a very disagreeable mother. And then Carrington put a
question.
"When does your mother expect her annuity?"
"She says she may get it at any time," replied Kit, rather stiffly, as
he did not see why a stranger like the barrister should interfere;
"but I know very little about it. All she told me was that she was to
get two hundred a year and would leave Mr. Hendle to go to Australia."
"Oh, I shall place no obstacle in her path," observed Rupert somewhat
grimly. "After all, as I soon marry Miss Mallien, there will be no
need for me to have a housekeeper."
It was at this moment and before Carrington could ask further
questions, which he very much wished to do, that Sophy returned.
Evidently she had been crying, for her eyes were red, but her emotions
were quite under control and, after taking leave of her hostess and
the two men, she went away with Kit. They seemed to be rather a
forlorn young couple. Dorinda remarked as much when she returned to
the drawing-room after seeing them to the door.
"What else can you expect," asked Carrington coolly, "when they are
connected with a drunkard like Tollart and a shrew like Mrs. Beatson?
So she intends to go to Australia, does she? I don't want to hurt your
feelings, Miss Mallien, but I see your father's finger in this."
"Say as little about my father as is possible," answered Dorinda, with
a rich color flushing her fair cheeks. Little as she respected her
shady parent she did not intend to discuss him with a stranger whom
she disliked.
Carrington was diplomatic enough to skate away from the thin ice.
"Rupert and I have taken all the papers and clothes and odds and ends
of Leigh to The Big House," he remarked; "and there they can stay
until we hear from the Australian sea-captain who inherits. The London
lawyer has written him."
"And the will?"
"We have not found it yet."
"I don't think we ever will find it," commented Hendle soberly. "I
have searched the Vicarage from cellar to attic without success. I
really believe, Dorinda, that, after all, Leigh was dreaming, and that
the will doesn't exist."
"Either that," said Carrington deliberately, "or Mrs. Beatson made
away with Leigh and stole it."
"I can't believe that," protested Dorinda, turning pale. "I told you
so before when you first broached the idea, Mr. Carrington. She is not
a nice woman, but I don't think she would commit a murder."
"There is nothing Mrs. Beatson would not do, if she were assured that
her crime would remain undiscovered," insisted the barrister grimly.
"After all, if Mrs. Beatson didn't kill Leigh, who did? Rupert and I
and the housekeeper knew of the will and of its value. As I was in
town I am innocent, and we know, Miss Mallien, that Rupert is not the
man to commit such a crime. There only remains Mrs. Beatson, who told
your father, when she made all things safe."
Dorinda started, and looked searchingly at the barrister. "How do you
mean?"
Carrington smiled meaningly. "I believe that Mrs. Beatson murdered
Leigh and now has the will. She intends to sell it to your father for
this annuity."
Dorinda grew red and her eyes grew bright. "How dare you say such a
thing to me, Mr. Carrington? In the first place, my father would never
condone a crime even to gain a fortune; in the second, the moment Mrs.
Beatson offered to sell him the will, he would know her to be guilty."
"Yes, of course," replied Carrington soothingly, "and naturally would
hand her over to the police. It was only the idea of the annuity which
suggested the idea to me, and maybe it is far-fetched. I apologize,
Miss Mallien."
Dorinda bowed silently. She did not like the ironical tone in which
the barrister spoke, as she felt convinced that he still held to his
preposterous idea. What is more, in her own mind, she did not consider
that the idea was so preposterous as she declared. Her father had been
prepared to hush up the matter when he believed Rupert to be guilty,
so it was not improbable that he would make terms with Mrs. Beatson,
provided he secured the will. Still, the girl did not intend to let
Carrington know what she thought, and therefore stood up for her
absent parent. "I don't believe that Mrs. Beatson is guilty of such
wicked conduct," she repeated, after a pause. "What grounds have you
to say such a thing?"
"Well," murmured Carrington with a shrug. "No very good grounds, I
admit. But Mrs. Beatson knew about the will before Leigh was murdered,
and I firmly believe that he was got rid of for the sake of the will.
This suggestion of an annuity hints that she has the will and is
trying to dispose of it at a price. Perhaps Hendle----"
"She has said nothing to me," interrupted Rupert quickly, "and, after
all, Carrington, you have watched her for the last few days without
seeing anything suspicious."
"Mrs. Beatson is a sly creature, who will not give herself away
easily," returned the barrister dryly. "I shall continue to watch her.
There's ten o'clock, Hendle," he added, as the mellow tones of the
church bell floated through the warm night. "We must not keep Miss
Mallien from her beauty sleep."
Dorinda did not suggest that they should remain, although she would
have liked to speak privately with her lover. But while Carrington
was at his elbow, that was impossible, and she did not wish to talk
freely in the presence of a man she mistrusted. The two young men said
good-night to their hostess and went away, leaving Dorinda in anything
but a happy frame of mind. What had been suggested about her father
trading with the housekeeper worried her considerably. There might or
might not be some truth in the idea. She tried to dismiss it from her
mind; but it would not be dismissed, and troubled her far into the
small hours of the morning.
Meanwhile, Rupert and his friend sauntered leisurely homeward. It was
so hot that they did not wear coats over their evening suit, and so
dry underfoot that they walked to and from the cottage in shoes. The
sky was radiant with innumerable stars, and although there was no
moon, there was ample light in which to see surrounding objects.
Through the shadowy world, warm and peaceful, the young men wandered,
taking their way across the fields, as the high-road was so dusty and
hard. For a time neither spoke, for each was busy with his own
thoughts, which had to do with the case. Finally, Carrington broke the
silence, and spoke soft, as though he feared listeners.
"I did not press my point, Hendle," he remarked significantly, "as the
little I did say rather offended Miss Mallien."
"You were rather libellous about her father, you know, Carrington."
"If the saying, that the greater the truth the greater the libel is
true, I certainly was," retorted the barrister, "for what I said I
hold to."
"That Mrs. Beatson is the guilty person?"
"Yes. And that she is trading with Mallien to give him what he wants."
"The will?"
"Of course. I am as certain of that fact as I am that I live. She has
the will, and she intends to deliver it to him--if she hasn't done so
already--on condition that he gives her the two hundred a year
annuity, which she told her son comes from a mythical aunt."
"Well," said Rupert, after a pause, "since Mallien was willing to come
to terms with me, I see no reason why he should not come to terms with
Mrs. Beatson, always provided that she is guilty."
"She is," insisted Carrington bluntly. "It is no use my giving you my
reasons again, I think."
"If things are as you say I don't see how Mrs. Beatson's part of the
business can be concealed. The will is of no use to Mallien unless he
makes it public. And if he does, he will have to explain how he became
possessed of it. I suppose his confession of the deal with Mrs.
Beatson would bring him into trouble as an accessory-after-the-fact?"
"It would, and I am wondering how Mallien intends to make himself safe
on that score. There is only one thing to be done, Hendle. We must
wait until Mallien produces the will. Then we can move."
"It's an infernal messy business altogether," growled the big man,
restlessly; "and I wish we were all well out of it. I don't want
Mallien to get into any trouble for Dorinda's sake."
"I think you can be pretty certain that Mallien will look after his
own precious skin," said the barrister dryly; "and if--hush!--not a
word." He dropped his voice to a whisper. "Who's that?"
"What?" Rupert looked round, as Carrington caught his arm, and pulled
him off the footpath into a clump of hazels.
"Don't speak," whispered Carrington with his mouth close to Rupert's
ear; "and button your coat as well as you can over your shirt-front.
The white may betray us." He acted on his own advice, and kept Hendle
well behind the shelter of the leafy trees. "Now watch."
Hendle did so with all his eyes, straining his sight through the
shadowy night, and by this time had seen the reason of Carrington's
action and caution. The two men had reached the red brick wall which
ran round the park, and saw that the postern gate through which they
intended to pass was open. A tall dark figure in flowing robes was
slipping out, and when Carrington pulled his friend into shelter
behind the hazels, the woman--for such it was--closed the postern
stealthily. After a glance to right and left, she walked swiftly along
the footpath, going in the direction whence the watchers had come. As
she swept past the hazel clump, Rupert nearly uttered an exclamation,
for, in spite of the black-silk hood pulled well over her head and
face, he was absolutely certain that this night walker was none other
than his respectable housekeeper. What she was doing outside the house
at this time of night and whither she was going he could not
conjecture. But Carrington could, and when the woman passed away into
the shadows, he whispered an exultant explanation.
"It's Mrs. Beatson, Hendle. She's going to look for the will. Quick!
let us follow; but take care she doesn't see us."
"The will!" breathed Rupert, cautiously, as they stole out on the
trail. "What do you mean?"
"She has hidden the will somewhere, I am sure, and now is going to get
it. We will catch her red-handed if we are careful. What luck!"
"But it's impossible, and----"
"Don't talk," interrupted Carrington, in a savage whisper. "Do you
want to give the show away? It's a wonderful chance of learning the
truth. Come."
Hendle silently agreed with his companion, although he found it hard
to believe that Mrs. Beatson was such a conspirator. Whether her night
excursion had to do with the missing will or not, he could not be
sure; but it was evident that she was bent upon some shady business,
into which he should inquire, as her master. The adventure appealed to
him as a welcome break in his monotonous existence, and he felt his
nerves thrill, as with Carrington he followed cautiously. In the
half-light they saw the black figure of the woman climb the stile at
the end of the meadow and enter a spinney, which belted the high road.
By the time they reached this, and emerged on to the travelled
thoroughfare, Mrs. Beatson had vanished. Carrington bent to run, but
halted a moment to whisper.
"If there is any truth in my belief, she has gone to the Vicarage.
There, if anywhere, she has hidden the will in the jungle."
Hendle nodded without reply, and the two men sped swiftly along the
road until they came to the bend. They were just in time to see Mrs.
Beatson vanish through the rickety gate, which, as usual, was standing
wide open. Carrington stopped, dodged, stooped, then crossed the road
to run alongside the hedge until he halted just outside the gate.
Peering round the corner with Rupert breathing hard beside him, the
barrister saw that Mrs. Beatson carried a lantern, which she had just
lighted, for it gleamed like a star in the darkness of the tall trees.
"We can wait here," whispered Carrington, delaying Rupert, who wanted
to enter the grounds. "She will come back this way. We may attract her
attention if we make any noise in that jungle."
This was good advice which Rupert was sensible enough to take. Keeping
well within the shadow of the hedge, and looking up the avenue, they
waited for the woman's return. They had put their collars up and had
buttoned their dress coats over the shining expanse of shirt-front, so
there was no gleam of white to betray them, as they crouched, two dark
figures, in the dry ditch under the hedge. With beating hearts they
waited anxiously, taking a peep every now and then. Mrs. Beatson was a
long time absent--Hendle judged about a quarter of an hour. Then,
unexpectedly, she appeared running swiftly down the grass-grown avenue
with her lantern swinging in her hand. At the gate and within touch,
she waited to extinguish the light, but before doing so set it on the
ground to look at a rustling parchment by its gleam. The moment she
stooped with the document, Carrington's arm shot out and it was
snatched away. With a shriek Mrs. Beatson straightened herself to face
her master and his guest. She had, indeed, been caught red-handed.