A CLUE
Needless to say, as it had been agreed to keep the discovery secret
for the present, Hendle did not discharge Mrs. Beatson forthwith. Such
an action, justifiable though it would have been, might lead to
awkward questions being asked, and Carrington, for obvious reasons,
advised caution. As things now stood the housekeeper would keep silent
for her own sake, so the next day she went about her usual duties as
if nothing had happened. None of the servants knew about her
excursion, as it was supposed she had remained in her own room,
according to her usual custom. So far as the outside world was
concerned everything was safe, and the two men had time to look into
matters at their leisure. It made Rupert's gorge rise to have the
treacherous woman under his roof, but until he was assured of the
truth of the will, he did not dare to get rid of her. Driven to bay,
Mrs. Beatson being a woman, who would wreck continents for a whim,
would ruin herself and everyone else in a whirlwind of rage. Being
left alone, she nursed her disappointed anger in secret.
Rupert's expressed intention was to take the will up to London and
show it to the family lawyer, who would be able to explain matters. He
had intended to do this the very next day, but Carrington dissuaded
him from being too impulsive. It was no use for the Squire to burn his
boats too soon, said the astute barrister, and to make public the
document would be to burn his boats with a vengeance.
"I think you should take time and turn the matter over in your mind,"
observed Carrington artfully. "It is just as well to be cautious."
"I don't see what I gain by waiting," argued the Squire. "The most
honest thing to do is to take the will to the lawyers. I shall have to
do that sooner or later, you know."
"Will you?" questioned Carrington significantly.
"Of course. What do you take me for?"
If Carrington had spoken his mind, he would have answered that he took
the young man for a superfine fool. To throw away a fine position, a
fine house, and a fine income out of sheer honesty, was not
Carrington's notion of common sense. But then the barrister's notions
of right and wrong had become somewhat warped by a struggling life. A
penniless man is always more unscrupulous in dealing with money
matters than one who has never been poor, and it seemed to Carrington
that his friend's self-sacrificing honor was the result of ignorance.
Had Hendle lived from hand to mouth, he would not be so ready to
surrender his possessions. Moreover Carrington wanted to pick Rupert's
pockets, as Mallien surmised he would. This was the real reason why he
urged Hendle not to strip himself of his wealth. But such urging had
to be done delicately, for the Squire was by no means a man to be
handled easily. With this in his mind the barrister replied carefully,
and did not translate his real thoughts into words.
"I take you for one of the best fellows in the world," he said warmly;
"but there is such a thing as overdoing honesty, you know."
"I don't know," retorted the other positively. "One must be one thing
or the other. There can be no tampering with honor."
"Of course not. I should never suggest such a thing. However, I do
suggest that you should wait for a day or so before seeing your
lawyer."
"Why?"
"You forget that the will is mixed up with a crime. If your lawyers
decide that Mallien must have the money, the matter is bound to be
made public. In that case it will become known to Lawson that Leigh
possessed the will. I leave you to guess what complications will
ensue."
Hendle tugged at his brown moustache moodily. "It's an infernally
difficult business," he said after a pause. "What do you suggest?"
Carrington, rejoicing that he had succeeded thus far, had his answer
ready. "I suggest that you wait for a few days, and meanwhile come
with me to the vicarage."
"What for?"
"To look at the sundial, and see where the will was buried."
"What good will that do?"
"One never knows," said Carrington sententiously.
"Who do you think buried the will?"
"The man who murdered Leigh to get it."
"And his name?"
"Pouf! Ask me another. How do I know?"
"Mrs. Beatson?"
"Well, why not she as well as another? She had much to gain by
possessing the will, and the will was in her possession last night.
But for the chance of our stumbling across her when she went to
unearth it, we would never have known that."
"I can't think that Mrs. Beatson, bad as she is, would commit a
murder," mused the Squire reflectively. "After all, if she had the
will on the night Leigh was got rid of, and committed the crime, why
should she bury it?"
"My dear fellow, that is where the woman's artfulness comes in," said
Carrington quickly. "She had to give some reason for possessing the
will. By hiding it in a hole, and then writing to herself that
anonymous letter saying where it was to be found, she does away with
all suspicion against her."
"Not in your mind apparently," said Hendle, dryly.
"Of course not. But a long course of criminal law has opened my eyes
to the habits of the animals. I may be unduly suspicious, I grant you,
still the fact remains that the story Mrs. Beatson told us last night
is too thin. Granting that the woman is innocent, why should the real
criminal tell her where to find that which he risked his life to
obtain?"
"It does seem strange. And yet----"
"Oh, you are full of scruples, Hendle!" cried the barrister pettishly.
"What is Mrs. Beatson to you that you should defend her so warmly?"
"She is a woman, and I have a great respect for women."
Carrington made a grimace. "You answer like a raw boy. My experience
of the sex has not led me to respect any single one."
"Yet you know Dorinda?"
"There speaks the lover. Well then, I do respect her, if that
concession will satisfy your chivalrous ideas. But I don't believe
this cock-and-bull story of Mrs. Beatson, and I certainly don't
respect her."
"Neither do I. All the same, I credit her story."
Carrington shrugged his shoulders at this persistent optimism. "Then
let us agree to consider her innocent until we prove her to be guilty.
But you must see that if you interview your lawyers to-day, within the
week a whole avalanche of troubles will descend on your thick head."
"Well," replied the Squire, wavering, "I shall wait for a few days, as
you advise. I wonder what Dorinda will say?"
"Don't tell her," said the barrister quickly, for it was difficult
enough for him to deal with one honest person without tackling a
second. "She will tell her father about the discovered will if you
do."
"I don't care if she does. Mallien has to know some time, since he is
so deeply concerned in the matter."
"Hendle," said Carrington seriously, "you are a child. Don't say a
word to Mallien, or to his daughter, who might tell him, until you
have seen your lawyers. That's common sense."
On reflection Rupert was obliged to confess that it was, since his
cousin would certainly make trouble straightway. It would be best to
have the opinion of the lawyers beforehand, so that the situation
might be adjusted so far as possible before the probable inheritor
came into the matter. Of course he knew that Dorinda would tell her
father nothing if asked to keep silent, but to so ask would be to lay
another burden on her. Mallien was suspicious, brooding and
pertinacious. If he thought that she was keeping anything from him, he
certainly would never rest until he learned what it was.
"I shall not tell Dorinda until I have seen the lawyers," said Rupert.
"And you will see them----?"
"In two or three days. Now let us go out for a walk--to the vicarage
if you like. I can't stay indoors worrying over things which at
present I cannot remedy. Come!"
"Won't it be better for us to have another look at the will before we
go?"
"I don't think so. I know the will by heart, and have locked it safely
away, Carrington. It disinherits Frederick, from whom I am descended,
legally enough; and if the lawyers are of the same opinion with their
larger knowledge, why then my cousin must enter into his own."
"There is the Statute of Limitations, you know," hinted Carrington
pointedly.
"I shall take advantage of that and of anything else if I can do so
consistently with my honor. But what is the use of arguing?" said
Hendle with a burst of bitterness, for the position pained him
greatly. "We can do nothing just now. Let us go for a walk."
Carrington was too politic to press the matter further, as he saw how
the Squire winced. But he had by no means given up the hope of
inducing Hendle to refrain from publishing the possible loss of his
estates, and intended to talk about the affair when the young man was
more off his guard. Now with diplomatic skill bred from years of
experience of shady doings, he put on his straw hat and sauntered out
of doors along with his host, talking of many matters which had
nothing to do with the burning question of the disputed inheritance.
But as they walked down the avenue Carrington spoke of a matter which
really interested him. And that was of a qualm he felt when passing
under the spreading branches of the oaks. He had felt that qualm
before when he had first visited Barship, and in the same place.
"I'm walking over my grave again," he muttered uneasily, and although
he would not confess to superstition, the coincidence struck him as
disagreeable.
"What's that?" asked Rupert absently. He had been busy with his own
painful thoughts and had not paid much attention to his companion's
light nothings.
"You know the saying that when one shivers, or has what the Scotch
call a grue, one is walking over one's grave. Well, I had some such
uncanny feeling in this very avenue when I came to see you first, and
now, hang it all, I have it again. I don't like it."
Hendle, now more attentive, laughed. "A lawyer and superstitious?"
"Oh, bosh! I am not in the least superstitious. But there are some
things which are hard to explain. It's gone!" Carrington wiped his
perspiring face and looked round with an air of relief.
"What's gone?"
"That feeling of walking over my own grave."
"Rubbish!" said Hendle, who was much too stolid to believe in such
things. "I expect it was only a sudden chill."
"I dare say, although it is odd that I should get a chill in this
blazing sunshine," muttered the barrister, who was more impressed than
he cared to admit. "But there are more things in heaven and earth----"
"What a well-worn quotation! You need bucking up. Come into the inn
and we will each have a tankard."
"I don't like drinking in the morning."
"Nor do I. I never do. But all this worry has knocked me out of time
and you aren't feeling up to the mark. Come along. Mrs. Pansey has
known me all the days of my life and is distinctly a good sort. I
often look in and have a chat."
"As an Olympian descending among mortals," said Carrington smiling,
for by this time his odd feeling had passed away.
Mrs. Pansey, who was a rosy-faced, stout old dame, received her
landlord with respectful joy, and soon supplied them with tankards of
cool beer acceptable to the thirst on a hot day. Carrington noted how
popular Rupert was with the villagers, who came and went, passed and
repassed, each with a curtsey, or a touch of the forelock. And Hendle
greeted one and all by name with kindly inquiries and genial smiles. A
feeling of envy stirred the barrister's selfish heart, but he
cynically consoled himself with the reflection that very soon Rupert
would be ousted in favor of Mallien. Out of sheer annoyance with this
favorite of Fortune, he would have liked to see such a toppling down,
but nevertheless, for the gaining of his own ends, he was determined
to prevent such a change of landlords. Meanwhile, he listened to the
incessant chatter of Mrs. Pansey, which was mostly concerned with the
new vicar.
"Such a nice gentleman they say he is," she observed, beaming, "and
will be here in a fortnight lodging with Mrs. Jones while the Vicarage
is being put to rights. His family come later. Have you seen him,
sir?"
"No," answered Rupert promptly; "but my friend and I are now on our
way to the Vicarage to see what's doing. We may meet him there."
"I don't think so, sir. He came yesterday to set the men to work and
won't come to-day. The workmen are painting and papering the house and
digging up the garden and making a nice place of it. Mrs. Jabber
remains on as caretaker until the family arrive. She'd like to stay on
altogether, but Lord bless you, sir, what would the vicar do with such
a slut? He's a much more particular gentleman than Mr. Leigh, I do
hear."
Hendle put an end to the landlady's babble by finishing his beer and
departing, although the commonplace gossip had distracted his worrying
mind for a few moments. As Carrington crossed the square beside his
host he ventured a remark.
"Let us hurry on, Hendle, and have a look at the hole by the sundial
before the workmen turn up the ground."
"What good will that do?" snapped the Squire sharply.
"One never knows. It is just as well to look round. Who knows but what
the assassin may not have left some clue?"
Hendle stared. "What clue could he, or would he, possibly leave?"
Carrington laughed. "Oh, it's only an idea--a silly one, maybe. But I
have an idea that we will stumble upon some clue."
"You and your ideas, Carrington. First your walking over your
confounded grave business and now the chance of picking up some
impossible clue. It's all imagination."
The barrister laughed again, but said no more. Hendle was less amiable
than usual, which was scarcely to be wondered at considering what was
in his mind. He walked fast enough toward their destination, as if he
wished to rid himself of disagreeable thoughts by swift movement.
Shortly they came to the rickety gate, and passed up the grass-grown
avenue, dank and unwholesome, and not to be warmed even by the blazing
summer sun. The surroundings were the same, but the place had lost its
uncanny isolating atmosphere, and there was a stir of life in house
and grounds, which showed that the place was waking up. Many men were
moving in and out of the open doors; there was the noise of
conversation and cheerful whistling, and scaffolding was being erected
against the ivy-draped walls. Even in the jungle two gardeners were at
work cutting down the tall tangled forest of weeds, and opening out
the spaces between the trees. Most of the men employed were strangers,
but some of the village workers had been pressed into service and
these greeted the Squire and his friend respectfully. Hendle nodded
absently in return, then strolled through the bare house, watching the
ancient paper being stripped off the walls, and the replacing of
mouldering boards. Afterward he and Carrington walked into the jungle
and, at the far end of a winding path, found the lichen-covered
sundial, half buried among luxuriant weeds. It had not yet been
disturbed.
"I say, Hendle," remarked Carrington, as they crushed the lush grasses
under foot, "this dial is pretty well hidden in this jungle."
"Yes?"
"I gather from that," continued the barrister musingly, "that it would
not be easy to find."
Rupert nodded. "Not unless a person knew where to find it," he
answered.
"Exactly. Well then, if the assassin of Leigh was a stranger, he would
never have buried the will in a place of which he knew nothing."
"You infer that the assassin of Leigh was not a stranger?"
"I do. And that makes me believe still more that Mrs. Beatson is the
guilty person. She knew where to find the sundial in this tangle of
greenery and in the darkness of night. Therefore she must have----"
"Oh, let us give her the benefit of the doubt," retorted the Squire,
cutting short this theorizing and walking forward to peer among the
weeds. "I say, here is the hole--not a very deep one."
It certainly was but a shallow hole. The earth had simply been scraped
away for a few inches, the document deposited and the loose mold
heaped up in a kind of miniature mound. At least the two presumed so
as Mrs. Beatson had swept aside a small quantity of earth when
uncovering the parchment. There was nothing much to see, and after
staring for a moment or so, Hendle turned away moodily. Scarcely had
he done so when Carrington touched him on the shoulder, and drew his
attention to a small object which glittered in the long grass near the
edge of the hole.
"What's that?" he asked, pointing with his finger.
Rupert said nothing, but stooped and picked up the object. "Why," he
said, in a tone of surprise, "it's the jewel which Mallien wears on
his watch chain."
The barrister exclaimed also, as he stared at the gleam in Hendle's
hand. It certainly was the opal in the matrix, to which Mallien had
drawn his attention at their first meeting. Such a distinctive
ornament was not easily forgotten. After a look and an exclamation he
drew back and pondered.
"Surely Mallien never----"
"Nonsense! Nonsense!" interrupted the Squire sharply. "What can
Mallien have to do with the matter?"
"That is what I am trying to think out," said Carrington dryly. "You
must admit that it is strange."
"What is strange?" asked Rupert, determined not to commit himself.
"Finding this ornament here, near where the will was hidden. If we had
found it on the high road now----"
"Yes! Yes! It is odd, I admit," interrupted the Squire again; "but
that does not prove Mallien's implication in this sorry business."
"It proves that he was here in this secluded spot at one time or
another, since he lost the opal among those grasses."
"Mallien may have wandered round the garden as we are doing."
"We came deliberately here because the will was found in this place by
Mrs. Beatson. But what took Mallien to the sundial?"
Rupert slipped the ornament into his waistcoat pocket. "You will find
it difficult to fasten the guilt of the crime on Mallien," he said
dryly.
"You say that because the man is Miss Mallien's father and you wish to
shield her," returned the barrister coolly. "All the same, if Lawson,
for instance, knew the circumstances, he would build up a very pretty
case against our disagreeable friend."
"As how?"
"Mallien knew about the will before Leigh was murdered, as you know
from the story of Mrs. Beatson. The will meant much to him, so it is
just possible that he came to the Vicarage to get it from Leigh.
Failing to get it given to him freely, he struck----"
"No! No! I can't believe that."
"What else can you believe when the ornament, which we both know
belongs to Mallien, is found on the edge of the hole where the will
was buried?"
"Mallien may be able to explain."
"Oh, undoubtedly. And the more precisely he explains the less I shall
believe his explanation. He has missed this ornament, you may be sure,
long ago, and has had plenty of time to make up a story accounting for
the loss. However, whether he is guilty or innocent, the finding of
this opal in the matrix will settle him."
"In what way?"
"Hang it, Hendle, you are slow in the uptake," cried Carrington
exasperated. "Why, a child could understand. All you have to do is to
go to Mallien and threaten to show this jewel to Lawson, calling me as
a witness, and accusing him of murdering the vicar. Then he'll climb
down and you won't need to consider him with regard to the fortune."
Rupert said nothing for the moment, but turned on his heel and forced
his way through the tangled path back to the rickety gate. When he and
the barrister were well on the road home, he spoke again and very
dryly.
"It seems to me, Carrington, that you regard me as a man who will do
anything for money. I think I told you that my honor was dearer to me
than money. I intend to give up the property to Mallien, if it is
legally his, even if it leaves me, as it will, a pauper. The finding
of this jewel will make no difference. You understand?"
"Yes. But if the man is guilty he should be punished."
"We can't be sure if he is guilty."
Carrington laughed grimly. "It seems to me that what we have
discovered is an excellent proof of his guilt when taken in connection
with the known facts of the case."
"I don't want to think about it."
"But you must. For the sake of justice, if not for your own sake.
Confound it, Hendle, take advantage of the chance which Providence has
placed in your hands to save your skin. Only you and I and Mrs.
Beatson know about the will being discovered; only you and I know
about this jewel which brings Mallien perilously near the gallows. For
your sake I shall hold my tongue, and you can have this Timon on
toast."
"There is something in that, Carrington. But I can't expect you to
hold your tongue for nothing."
"Oh, my terms won't be exorbitant. And, of course," added the
barrister, making light of his knavery, "as a poor man I must make hay
while the sun shines."
"Oh, that is your opinion, is it?" asked Rupert dryly, and, on
receiving a smiling nod, walked on rapidly in silence. He had laid a
trap for Carrington and the man had fallen into it. He was little more
than a blackmailer, who was prepared to make use of his power to
enrich himself. To prevent such a thing Rupert temporized, although he
could scarcely stop himself from catching Carrington by the throat and
hurling him into the ditch. "You must give me time to think over the
matter," said Hendle at last.
"Oh, there's no hurry. We are both on the same string, you know. We
can make Mallien squeal now."
"Yes," assented Rupert, wondering that the man should think him
capable of such baseness, "we can make him squeal!"