CONFESSION
Paralyzed by extreme fright, Mrs. Beatson stood as motionless as a
stone image, staring blankly at her captors with open mouth and
unwinking eyes. Her face was whiter than the dingy parchment of which
she had been deprived, and her breath came and went in short quick
gasps, which echoed audibly through the still night. Rupert looked at
her for a moment and then turned away his head; his manhood was shamed
by the silent agony of the miserable creature. Carrington, more
hardened by experience, stooped to the light, and read, "This is the
Last Will and Testament of John Hendle," in vividly black Latin
lettering. That was enough to assure him of the truth, and, rolling up
the parchment, he turned sternly on the panic-struck woman.
"You are a clever fool, Mrs. Beatson," he remarked quietly--"clever in
getting the will and hiding it so skillfully; but a fool to examine so
compromising a document here, when the village policeman may pass at
any moment."
The word "policeman" galvanized Mrs. Beatson into life and action.
With a final gasp she suddenly became, as it seemed, conscious of her
peril, and bolted. Down the road and across the road she sped, and was
in the spinney before the two men could grasp the situation. For a
single moment they stared after the flying figure, then simultaneously
started in pursuit. With terror-winged feet the housekeeper fled as
swiftly as the wind, and it was not until the brick wall, encircling
the park, again loomed through the shadows that they caught up to her.
Instinctively, like a homing pigeon, she made for the only place where
she thought she would be safe. Much, as Carrington grimly thought,
after the fashion of a child, who believes himself to be free from
danger when smuggled between the blankets. It was while she was
fumbling with the lock of the postern that he laid a detaining hand on
her shoulder. With a terrified cry she dropped on her knees.
"Mercy! Mercy! I am innocent--innocent," she wailed, and hugged his
legs in a frenzy of fear.
"Here, get up!" said the barrister, roughly pulling her to her feet.
"Come inside and explain yourself."
"There's nothing to explain," cried Mrs. Beatson, suddenly defiant;
"and you are not my master."
"I am more than your master; I am the man who has found you out,"
stated Carrington, in a hard tone, and pushing open the postern. "Walk
in, I tell you."
"Gently, Carrington, gently," said Rupert, sorry for the shaking
woman, who was desperate enough to say anything or do anything. "We
can deal with this matter reasonably. Take my arm, Mrs. Beatson, and
come to the house. You can no doubt give us an explanation."
"I shan't give it to him," muttered the housekeeper, trying to control
her shattering emotions. "What has he got to do with me, I should like
to know? You are always a gentleman, Mr. Hendle, and I wish you a
better friend. Spying and prying, watching and following. Call
yourself a man, do you? Ha! Ha! call yourself a man? God help the
woman who marries you, say I."
Neither of the two made any reply to this aimless speech, and babbling
incoherently, Mrs. Beatson was led by Hendle to the house. Fortunately
none of the servants were in the entrance-hall, and when Rupert
opened the door with his latch-key, Mrs. Beatson swept in toward the
drawing-room, which was lighted up. Carrington and his friend followed
close behind, to find her seated in an armchair, fanning her heated
face with the hood which she had removed. Her color had returned and
her self-possession, so that she eyed the pair defiantly. Her
attentions were mostly directed toward Carrington, and if a look could
have slain him, he would have dropped dead there and then.
"Come now," said the barrister, when the door was closed and the trio
were alone, "what have you got to say to all this?"
"I shan't answer you," snapped Mrs. Beatson viciously. "You aren't
going to bully me."
"I think you had better answer," said Hendle, sternly. "This is not
the time to play the fool."
"Are you against me also, sir?"
"I am advising you for your good. As to being against you, what
attitude do you expect me to assume toward you, seeing how
treacherously you have behaved, Mrs. Beatson?"
"Treacherously?"
"Yes! You listened to a conversation not meant for your ears and
reported the same to Mr. Mallien."
"Did he tell you so?"
"There was no need for him to tell Mr. Hendle," said Carrington
pointedly. "The mere fact that Mr. Mallien knows about this will
proclaims your guilt."
"Guilt! Guilt!" repeated the housekeeper violently. "I shall thank
you, sir, not to use that word in connection with me."
"I shall use it. Don't be a fool, woman! You knew about this will
before Mr. Leigh was murdered, and you killed him to get it."
"It's a lie!"
"Then how do you explain your possession of the will?"
"What is your supposition?" demanded Mrs. Beatson, more like a judge
than a criminal.
"If you will have it," returned the barrister, smoothly. "I believe
you murdered the vicar to get the will, and having found it, buried
the same in that jungle. Then you made your terms with Mr. Mallien,
and he agreed to give you an annuity of two hundred a year, if you
passed the will along to him. When you thought that all was safe, you
went to dig the will up again, and here it is."
Carrington pulled the soiled parchment from his pocket, where he had
placed it for safety, doubled up into a packet, and shook it in her
face. Mrs. Beatson changed from red to white, and from white to red,
but maintained a scornful look. "You are talking nonsense," she said
briefly.
"Perhaps," put in Hendle quietly, "and we wait for you to talk sense."
"I shall say nothing," said the woman, obstinately.
"In that case I shall send for Kensit and give you in charge."
"You would not do that, Mr. Hendle."
"Indeed, I shall do it within ten minutes if you do not speak out."
"I can--I can--exonerate--exonerate myself," stuttered Mrs. Beatson,
her dry lips scarcely able to form the words.
"You had better do so to us," advised Carrington agreeably.
"And if I don't?" she snarled, turning on him.
"Then Inspector Lawson shall examine you."
"What do I care when I know that I am innocent?"
"Well,"--Carrington shrugged his shoulders--"it's your own affair.
Ring the bell, Hendle, and send one of the servants down for Kensit."
"No, don't!" cried Mrs. Beatson, when she saw her master walk toward
the fireplace to touch the ivory button. "I can explain."
Hendle nodded and returned to his seat, while Carrington replaced the
will in his pocket and waited for the confession. Mrs. Beatson wiped
her face and glared at the two like a tigress at bay. Only the
knowledge that she was driven into a corner made her speak out. "I
overheard your conversation with Mr. Leigh, sir," she said to her
master and ignoring Carrington. "Oh, I didn't mean to, you know. I
only listened as I thought you intended to discharge me when you
married Miss Mallien, and fancied you might explain yourself on that
point to the vicar."
"I understand. But why did you report the conversation to my cousin?"
Mrs. Beatson looked down sullenly. "You don't know what it is to be
poor," she muttered irrelevantly. "I am born a lady, and through the
fault of a spendthrift husband I am reduced to act as your
housekeeper. It is only natural that I should try and improve my
position, so when I learned about a will which would give your
property to Mr. Mallien, I thought it wise to make money by speaking
about it to him."
"Why not to me in the first instance?"
"Because you are too honest," burst out the woman, raising her pale
eyes. "If you got the will you would have made its contents public,
even though, as Mr. Leigh stated, you would lose all. For that reason
I had no hold on you and would never have got money from you. By
telling Mr. Mallien I managed to extract a promise from him that when
he came into the property he would give me an annuity."
"Of two hundred a year?" inquired Carrington.
"We did not mention any sum," retorted Mrs. Beatson, "but that was the
amount I intended to ask."
"And the amount which you told your son a mythical aunt was leaving
you."
"I had to give my son some reason for being possessed of the annuity."
"Hum!" said Carrington with a shrug. "You haven't got the annuity yet,
and now you never will have."
"I am not so sure of that. After all, if I hadn't told, Mr.
Carrington, the cousin of my master would never have known of his good
fortune."
"Then the will really does leave the property to Eunice Filbert?"
questioned Rupert nervously.
"I don't know. I have not read the will."
"Come now," said Carrington contemptuously, "you don't expect us to
believe that. You must have read the will before you buried it."
"I didn't bury it."
The barrister heaved a weary sigh and glanced at Rupert as if to
invite his attention to the way in which the woman was lying. "I don't
know why you are wasting our time in this fashion," said Carrington
sharply. "Why can't you speak straightforwardly? Twisting and turning
won't help you now. You are in a corner, and however you may fight you
will not get out of it. Be frank, Mrs. Beatson, and tell us how you
killed the vicar."
Mrs. Beatson rose white-faced and trembling, holding on to the back of
the chair as she replied. "I did not kill the vicar," she insisted. "I
would not do such a thing. I haven't the nerve, and I'm honest enough
as people go. Only the sudden temptation to make money easily made me
tell Mr. Mallien about the will. But I did no more. I wasn't near the
vicarage, and no one was more astonished than I was when I heard of
the murder."
"Listen to me," said Carrington, making a sign to Rupert that he
should hold his tongue and leave the examination to him. "The police
could not find out any reason why the vicar should have been killed,
because they knew nothing about this will. Kensit unconsciously hinted
at the truth when he said that the papers and books in the vicarage
study were all in disorder, as if some search had been made. I believe
that such a search was made, and by you, for this will, after you
murdered the poor man."
"It's a lie!" screamed Mrs. Beatson savagely. "How dare you sit there
and tell lies about me?"
"If it is a lie," said Carrington, quite unmoved by her sudden fury,
"how comes it that the will is in your possession?"
"I dug it up."
"And how did you know the spot where it was buried?"
"The letter told me."
"The letter!" Rupert looked up surprised. "What letter?"
Mrs. Beatson fumbled in her breast, and pulling out a torn envelope
threw it across the room into Hendle's lap. "I got that this morning,"
she declared in sullen tones, "and acted as it advised. As there is no
name to it, I don't know who wrote it. Don't let Mr. Carrington get
it; I trust you, sir, not him."
Rupert picked up the envelope and examined it, while the barrister
looked over his shoulder. It was directed to "Mrs. Beatson, The Big
House, Barship, Essex," and had evidently, judging from the postmark,
been sent through the General Post Office of the metropolis. Having
ascertained this, the young man took out a double sheet of tolerably
good notepaper, upon which in a backward sloping hand probably
disguised, were written a few lines, to which no signature was
appended. These intimated abruptly that the will of John Hendle was to
be found buried at the foot of the sundial in the vicarage garden, and
that Mrs. Beatson could find it by searching. While the two men read
and reread this anonymous letter, the housekeeper went rambling on.
"I intended at first to keep it, and show Mr. Mallien when he
returned. But then I thought--not trusting him--that if I had the will
I could hold it until he gave me a deed making safe the annuity I
wanted. For that reason I took advantage of your dining at the
cottage, Mr. Hendle, to go and get it. I knew that the sundial was
hidden among the grasses and shrubs of the vicarage garden, so there
was no difficulty in finding the place mentioned. I did not think that
you would return early from the dinner, and so left the thing until it
was too late. I dug up the will easily, as it was only a little way
under ground and the earth was piled loosely over it. Then I came out
and stopped at the gate to make sure that it was the will I had
found."
"A silly thing to do, seeing that Kensit on his rounds might have
caught you," said Carrington, returning to his seat. "Now how much of
this tale are we to believe?"
"The whole of it," retorted Mrs. Beatson, distinctly amazed. "It's the
truth."
"Hum!" said Carrington reflectively, "it may be; but did you not send
that letter from yourself to yourself?"
"Me!" Mrs. Beatson's voice leaped an octave.
"Hush! hush!" said Hendle, hurriedly glancing at the door. "You'll
bring in the servants. I need hardly tell you that it is best to
thresh out this matter among the three of us."
Thus warned, the housekeeper sank her voice, and took refuge in angry
tears, always a woman's last resource. "I'm so tired of being
insulted," she sobbed loudly. "Ever since you came across me, Mr.
Hendle, that friend of yours has been taking away my character."
"I rather think you have taken it away yourself by behaving so
treacherously to me," said Rupert grimly. "However, I don't agree with
Mr. Carrington that you sent that letter to yourself from yourself."
"How could I," sobbed Mrs. Beatson, "when I haven't been near London?
And I'm not a conspirator. It's a shame blaming me for trying to help
myself. Why can't you leave me alone? Two men on to one woman. You
ought to go on your knees and beg my pardon."
This amazing view of the case extorted a contemptuous smile from
Carrington. He had much experience in his profession of the fair sex,
and knew the marvellous way in which women extricated themselves from
difficulties which would overwhelm a mere man. Logic, as he was well
aware, formed no part of the feminine nature. "I shan't try to argue
with you," he said mildly, "for you would be sure to get the better of
me. But you have behaved very badly to Mr. Hendle."
"No, I haven't. I had a right to look after myself."
"Not at his expense. He has always treated you kindly and----"
"Well, why shouldn't he?" demanded Mrs. Beatson, rolling up her
handkerchief into a damp ball and dabbing her red eyes. "I have always
done my duty, I hope, and at a small salary, too. I could get a better
place any day."
"Then I advise you to look out for one," said Rupert, astonished at
this ingratitude. "You certainly shan't stay here."
"What?" Mrs. Beatson gasped and stared.
"Well, why should you when you can be happier elsewhere?"
"I didn't say that I would. And if you discharge me--as I knew you
would when you talked of marrying Miss Mallien--I shall ask for one
year's wages and a letter saying how thoroughly I attended to my
duties."
"I had no idea of discharging you until I discovered your treachery,"
protested Hendle sharply. "It's your own fault and----"
"Mrs. Beatson's future can be settled later," interrupted Carrington
at this point of the argument. "Just now she must answer me some
questions."
"I shan't!" raged the woman, furious at her humiliating position.
"It's all your fault that I have lost my----"
"If you don't answer," interrupted the barrister again, "I shall hand
you over to Kensit to be taken to Lawson at Tarhaven."
"You wouldn't dare. Mr. Hendle wouldn't let you."
"Oh, yes, I should," said Rupert sternly. "I'm not going to play fast
and loose with the law."
Mrs. Beatson's sour face became gray and pinched. "I know nothing
about the matter, more than I have told you," she cried, greatly
terrified at the prospect of being locked up. "I told Mr. Mallien
about the will, and I dug it up when I got that letter."
"When did you tell Mr. Mallien?" asked Rupert, remembering how he had
intended to put this question before and had not.
"On the day after I overheard the conversation," whimpered the
housekeeper, very much subdued.
"When I was in London?"
"Yes. I went in the afternoon to the cottage. Miss Mallien had gone to
tea with Miss Tollart, and I saw Mr. Mallien. He told me to hold my
tongue and he would speak to you about the matter. Also he said that
if he got the property he would give me an annuity."
"Did you tell him before the crime was committed?" asked Carrington.
"Am I not saying so?" shrieked Mrs. Beatson, virulently. "I told him
on the very afternoon of the next day, and you know quite well that it
was at eleven o'clock of the same night that Mr. Leigh was murdered.
And no one was more astonished than I was."
"Had you any idea who murdered him?"
"No. How should I have any idea?"
"Have you any idea now?"
"No, I haven't, unless it was the person who sent that letter?"
"Who sent it?"
Mrs. Beatson stamped. "What a fool your are, Mr. Carrington! You have
the letter and know as much about the matter as I do."
The barrister thought for a few moments, then turned his back on the
angry woman to address Rupert. "Do you think she is speaking the
truth, Hendle?"
"Yes, I do."
"Of course you do," cried the housekeeper, looking viciously at the
pair. "I am not accustomed to having my word doubted."
"Hold your tongue, or it will be the worse for you," said Carrington
sharply. "You have behaved very badly and ought to be locked up. All
the same, I advise Mr. Hendle to leave matters as they are for a day
or so, until we examine this will and make inquiries as to who sent
this letter."
"That letter is mine!" cried Mrs. Beatson, stretching out her hand.
Rupert put it into his pocket. "It will go to the police if you don't
hold your peace," he threatened, for strong measures were necessary in
dealing with such a woman. "I agree with Mr. Carrington. Go away and
say nothing about anything, not even to Mr. Mallien. Do you hear?"
"What are you going to do?"
"Never mind. You know what _you_ have to do." Rupert walked to the
door and opened it. "Now go to bed."
Mrs. Beatson tossed her head and moved toward the door. She greatly
wished to continue the conversation and defend herself, but a glance
at Hendle's stern face made her change her mind. Never had she seen
her good-tempered master so angry and so decided. Foolishly as she had
talked, the woman was well aware that her position was a critical one,
therefore she refrained from making bad worse. "I'm going and I'll say
nothing," she snarled; "but when you are turned out of this house----"
"Please," said Rupert, nodding toward the hall.
"Beast!" said Mrs. Beatson under her breath lest the servants should
hear, "both of you, beasts!" and she sailed out of the room
triumphantly, having secured the last word, and so soothed her angry
mind.
Hendle closed the door and returned to Carrington. "Take out the will
and let us have a look at it," he said in a weary voice.
"Won't you wait until to-morrow?" asked Carrington, glancing at him.
"This row has upset you."
"No. I want to see the will now. It may disappear again."
Carrington took out the crumpled parchment from his pocket. "Look
after it yourself, then, and you can be certain that it is safe."
"All right. But let us look at it together. Move that lamp nearer."
Carrington did so, and Hendle spread out the rustling sheets--three or
four of them, as the will was tolerably long. It was written, as wills
of the early nineteenth century usually were, on parchment in a clear,
scholarly hand, the writing being excellently engrossed and
excellently preserved. The parchment itself was soiled and dog-eared,
blotched here and there with coffee-brown stains: but it had suffered
little damage during its hundred years' imprisonment in the muniment
chest. With Carrington seated beside him the Squire slowly read the
faded brown writing, and gradually made himself master of the
contents. When he came to the signature of the testator and the names
of the two witnesses, he drew a long breath and looked at the
barrister in frank dismay.
"It seems quite legal," he said in a despairing voice.
"Quite," agreed Carrington. "So far I can't see anything wrong."
"And John Hendle by this"--Rupert struck the parchment--"leaves all
his property, with the exception of sundry legacies to people now dead
and buried, to Eunice Hendle, afterward Eunice Filbert, and her heirs.
Yes. Leigh said as much. Frederick would have been disinherited had
this will been produced in the year 1815. I wonder how it got lost."
"Frederick may have----"
"No, he didn't," interrupted the barrister sharply. "Frederick knew
nothing about it, or he would have put it into the fire. I expect John
Hendle made it--or rather his solicitor did--and then threw it into
the chest where it was overlooked. Queer that the solicitor didn't
mention it when the old man died."
"Perhaps he did," said Rupert sadly. "We know nothing of what took
place at Hendle's death, save that Frederick inherited and that there
was no question of Eunice coming into the property. But the same is
left to her and her descendants; so Mallien, as her sole
representative, inherits."
"Will you dispute the will?" asked Carrington anxiously.
"No," said Rupert, putting the document into his pocket; "it seems
fair enough, and I must act honorably. When Mallien returns I shall
give it to him--or rather I shall take it to our family lawyer along
with Mallien."
"And lose the property?"
"My honor," said the young man gravely, "is dearer to me than money."