When it became known--chiefly through the agency of Mrs. Mellin--that
a baronet was living at Maranatha the excitement was very great. It
appeared strange to one and all that a titled and wealthy gentleman
should leave the pleasures of London to take up his residence in a
dull place such as Hedgerton truly was. Originally a rude fishing
village, it had of late years been exploited by the jerry-builder, so
that it might be improved into a watering-place and a play-ground for
trippers. A huddle of quaint houses was buried in a hollow by the
shore and faced the estuary of the Thames into which stretched for no
great distance a rough stone pier. Sometimes floating on water and
sometimes stranded on mud were many fishing-smacks, which went out
regularly to the harvest of the sea, while river steamers occasionally
called to discharge cargoes or to land passengers. Since Hedgerton had
been dignified by the name of a watering-place the steamers called
more frequently, especially in summer, and on the whole did fairly
well. But somehow they did not bring to Hedgerton the prosperity
anticipated by the jerry-builder.
The place did not thrive in spite of doctors' recommendations, cheap
fares, and lavish advertisement. Above the hollow wherein nestled the
original town stretched a flat, well-wooded country, dotted sparsely
with houses, and there was a railway station at Redleigh, three miles
away. New Hedgerton, as it was called, consisted of many hastily-built
bungalows extending in a lean line along the cliffs, but those were
occupied only in summer, and therefore remained empty for the greater
part of the year. There was an asphalt esplanade running spaciously
from east to west in front of these bungalows, a small bandstand, and
a crude hall for public entertainments roofed with galvanised iron. At
intervals roads branched at right angles from the esplanade, passing
between houses old and new to run finally through woodlands or between
the hedges which divided vast meadows from the highway. In spring and
summer the country looked very picturesque with the foliage of trees,
the blossom of orchards, and the rainbow hue of multitudinous flowers,
but the change was marked in autumn and winter. Then the balmy air
grew raw and chill; there were damp mists overlying the land morning
and evening, while the lack of life gave the place a melancholy
aspect. At the fall of the year the inhabitants of the district
retired into their houses like rabbits in burrows, as the climate of
this particular part of England did not tempt them to lead an
out-of-door life. On the whole, therefore, Hedgerton was not a
desirable locality either for a pleasure-seeker or for an invalid in
summer.
This being the case, the Hedgerton gossips asked one another daily why
Sir Hector Wyke had come down to the place during the season of mists
and rain, of leafless boughs and ruined orchards. No one was able to
give an answer, although it was frequently suggested that the
baronet's health was bad. But a man in bad health would scarcely come
to so unhealthy a place at so unhealthy a time.
Therefore, there must be some other reason. Everyone tried to learn
what it was, and everyone failed. No information was supplied by the
tenant of Maranatha, who lived a very secluded life and appeared
greatly desirous to be left to himself. He saw no one, and when he
took his solitary walks he spoke to no one. Even Mr. Craver was denied
admittance when he sought to welcome the stranger to his parish and he
returned home to tell his wife that Wyke was probably a misanthropic
creature, who disliked his fellow-men.
The description aroused Mrs. Craver's curiosity, and she was even more
particular than usual in examining Mrs. Mellin when that spy came to
report what had taken place in the parish during the week. The
washerwoman could only state, after three weeks watching, that her
bills and the bills of the tradespeople were paid regularly, and she
saw no one but Mrs. Vence, who as not inclined to be communicative,
and that the house appeared to be as neglected now as it was when Sir
Hector first went to live in it. It would seem that the mysterious
baronet did not so much live in Maranatha as camp in it, since no
attempt was made to brush up the residence or improve the garden in
any way. Sir Hector, save for occasional walks, stayed indoors, like a
snail in a shell, and Mrs. Mellin augured ill from this suspicious
retirement. She chiefly blamed the house itself for the doings of its
tenant.
"There's a cuss on it," she declared with relish, when Mrs. Craver was
speculating as to the meaning of the whole queer business. "If Solomon
hisself, as was 'appy with a thousand wives, lived in that 'ouse he'd
ha' been miserable within the week. Why, the name tells you what it
is, ma'am. What do Maranatha whisper to you but ruin, which there 'as
been, and suicide, which 'appened, and bankruptcy, with the elopement
of gels--which we know is common there. No ma'am, say what you like,
it'll be murder nex'; and 'Eaven be betwixt us and 'arm, save and
bless us." Mrs. Mellin always ended these dismal prognostications with
the observation that she hoped she would not be called upon to give
evidence at the inquest, as murders got on her nerves.
Mrs. Craver was little less fortunate with her son when she asked
questions, for all that Edwin could say amounted to nothing. Sir
Hector Wyke was a rich man, and a popular man, who had been in the
army, and was now a gentleman at large. Edwin had met him in Society,
and liked him fairly well although--as he put it--Wyke was not a man
he would care to make a chum of.
Mrs. Craver suggested that he should call on the baronet and renew his
acquaintance, but this Edwin refused to do. He said that if Wyke
wished to improve the acquaintance he could call at the Rectory, and
as the recluse showed no disposition to do this, it would be best to
leave him alone. The Rector agreed with his son, and Mrs. Craver
therefore found herself in the minority. All the same, she remained
intensely curious, and frequently wondered what mystery lay behind the
whole business. She even questioned, in a delicate way, Hall the
postman and Jervis the policeman, but was unable to learn anything
from either. Hall simply said that he delivered very few letters,
which were received by Mrs. Vence--whom he described as an old hag,
while Jervis declared that he saw nothing and knew nothing and heard
nothing likely to say why the tenant of Maranatha lived so
hermit-like. It was quite painful for brisk little Mrs. Craver to
learn that she could discover nothing--she knew the history and daily
doings of every soul in Hedgerton.
"I'm sure, George." she said plaintively, to the Rector, "one-half the
world does not know how the other half lives."
"Then I'm sure it isn't your fault or Mrs. Mellin's or Miss Pyne's
either," retorted her husband, whereat she was offended, and wondered
more than ever if she would discover the truth.
To inflame her curiosity still more an event occurred at the end
of four weeks which startled her and startled everyone with its
far-reaching consequences. Sir Hector had been leading his secluded
life for quite a month when the event happened. It began in quite a
commonplace way with the delivery of a letter by Hall at Maranatha.
About seven o'clock on a foggy November evening Hall was travelling
along the esplanade on his red-painted Government bicycle when he
alighted to examine his bag. He knew that he had delivered all letters
save one, and searched his bag to find the last missive. By the light
of the lamp the postman looked at the address, and saw that it was
directed to Sir Hector Wyke at Maranatha. With a grunt of satisfaction
that his duties for the day would soon be over, Hall was about to
mount his machine again when Jervis appeared. The bulky form of the
constable loomed portentously through the mists, and Hall guessed who
he was.
"Jervis," said the postman, pausing for a moment.
"Hall," answered the officer, as if delivering a countersign, and
flashed his bull's-eye on the weather-beaten face of the first
speaker, "a shocking night, ain't it? Rain and fog, and bitter cold."
"Why not? 'Tain't June roses as you'll smell in November, Jervis."
"No, worse luck, and night dooty ain't no catch at this time of the
year. Now, I'll be bound, Hall, as you're nearly finished, and can get
home to your warm bed sharp."
"And to tripe and onions, as my old woman does do a turn, Jervis,"
said Hall, licking his lips. "I've only got this one letter to deliver
to Sir Hector Wyke, as folks is talking about so."
"Don't see why they should talk," said the officer bluffly. "Sir
Hector pays his way and keeps himself quiet. Ain't any of my business,
or of yours."
"But he never sees no one, and never comes out, and never has any
callers."
"He's got one to-night," said Jervis unexpectedly. "You know Sankey?"
"Him as drives the trap to and fro this place and Redleigh?"
Jervis nodded and stuck his big thumbs in his belt. "Got a rotten old
fly on the job. Well, I saw it to-night with a fare in it, when Sankey
stopped to ask me where Maranatha was. I gave him the tip as it was in
Ladysmith Road, so Sankey drove off. I wonder his blessed old nag did
the three miles without falling a corpse."
"Did you see who was the fare?" asked Hall, pondering.
"No. Wasn't any of my business. I see you're as curious as the rest of
'em about that bar'nit. Why, Mrs. Craver herself has asked questions
by the dozen, as you might say. Anyhow, Sankey left his passenger at
Maranatha and drove back to Redleigh, for I see him returning."
"Oh," remarked Hall, in guttural tones, "so his fare stops all night
with Sir Hector, I s'pose."
"Why shouldn't he or her, for whether the fare was a male or a female
I don't rightly know."
"Well, Sir Hector ain't 'ad no one to stay with him before."
"Dessay," returned the policeman, carelessly, "but he has to make a
start. I just tell you what, Hall, you're getting like the rest of the
folk hereabouts with their jaw."
"Sir Hector do live such a queer life, Jervis."
"He lives the life as pleases him, as I s'pose he's got the right to."
"I tell you there's something strange in a baronet coming down to
this dull place when the weather's so bad," persisted the postman,
ominously. "Have you seen the gent?"
"Twice. A little gent with a waxed moustache and dressed up to the
nines with fine clothes. I touched my helmet but he only nodded, and
never stopped to pass the time o' day."
"Well, he wouldn't, he being a swell and you only a copper, Jervis."
"That's a nasty way of talking, Hall. S'pose I was to report you to
your superior for idling when your letter should be delivered."
"And s'pose I was to tell Sergeant Purse at Redleigh as you stopped me
on the esplanade to gossip about what ain't any business of yours,"
retorted Hall, tartly. "Two can play at that game, policeman."
"Go and earn your salary." said Jervis, loftily, and walked away.
"You go and hang yourself," was the not very obvious reply of the
postman; and the two opponents were parted by the heavy fog which
dropped its curtain between them.
Chuckling over having had the last word, Hall mounted his machine and
pedalled slowly round the corner, only too anxious to deliver the last
letter and get home to his tripe and onions. He knew that the next
turning was in Ladysmith Road, and it was as well that he did, for the
mists were so thick that he proceeded with some difficulty. The man
could hear the noise of the waves through the fog, and shivered in the
chill, raw air. As there were few lamps he found himself in complete
darkness when he bicycled up the road, and therefore had to ride
cautiously. Finally, he was compelled to dismount, and take his
machine on to the pavement, feeling for guidance along the fence on
the right-hand side. Shortly he came to the first gate, and the
electric torch he carried showed him in black-painted letters "The
Firs," but he passed that gate as not being the one he wanted. The
second gate he also passed, as it was inscribed "The Elms," and then
he walked for quite a long way in the dense gloom to find Maranatha
which stood by itself. Finally, he stumbled on the third gate, the
inscription of which told him that he had reached his goal when he
flashed the electric torch on to the black letters. Hall left his
machine leaning against the fence in the dim light of the street
lamp--for at this point there was one--and opened the gate to walk
slowly up the path between the tangled herbage and under the dripping
trees. It curved gradually--a cobble-stone path overgrown with
weeds--until it ended in an open space before the house. Through the
mists a light beamed from a fanlight over the door, and Hall, anxious
to get home, rapped loudly in the approved style of the postman. There
was no answer, although he waited for quite a minute, and he searched
with his torch for the letterbox. Just as he found it and was about to
slip in the letter the door suddenly opened. A stream of radiance
poured forth to illuminate the untidy garden, and a man dashed out in
a violent hurry. In his exit, he drove Hall against one of the brick
pillars of the porch, and by the time the postman recovered his breath
the man had disappeared, running swiftly.
"Here's a rum go," said Hall, speaking to himself. "I wonder if that's
the blessed baronite, and what he's up to? Here!"--he raised his voice
as he faced the open door--"anyone in? I can't wait here all night!"
There was no reply. The house preserved an ominous silence, which made
Hall shiver, as Mrs. Mellin had done. Fearing that there was something
wrong, and remembering the sinister chatter of the neighbourhood, Hall
stepped hastily into the hall. It was of no great size, carpeted
throughout, and furnished with a black oak settle on one side and a
small rosewood table on the other, together with a hat-rack and an
umbrella-stand. Doors were visible right and left; while beyond were
stairs and a narrow passage beside them leading towards the back of
the house. A swinging lamp illuminated the hall, and in its light
everything appeared to be dusty and uncared for. Mrs. Vence certainly
was not a particularly good housekeeper, or she would not have
neglected her work in this fashion.
Astonished by the continued silence, the postman stood hesitating in
the hall, while the sea-fog poured in like smoke through the open
door. He did not know what to do. The sudden opening of the door, and
the violent exit of the unknown man, and now this ominous silence
disconcerted Hall. He had just opened his mouth to call again, when
there came the sound of a long, faint sigh, and the door on the left
opened slowly to reveal the tottering figure of an old woman. She
gasped when she saw the postman, and suddenly appeared to gather
strength as she moved forward to seize his arm.
"Where is he?" she demanded, faintly, and with a gasp. "Did you catch
him?"
"Catch who, Mrs. Vence?" asked Hall, placing the letter on the
rosewood table, since Mrs. Vence did not seem capable of taking it.
"The man who ran out."
"No. He opened the door and pushed past me, and bolted."
"Bolted!" Mrs. Vence screamed. "The villain!"
"Come!" With unnatural strength she dragged the startled postman
through the door on the left and into a comfortable study, cleaner in
looks than was the hall. On the hearthrug before the fire lay a man in
evening dress face upward with a knife in his heart. Hall uttered a
cry of horror, and his teeth chattered like castanets. "Murder!" he
gasped.
"Murder!" echoed Mrs. Vence, with a shrill scream. "He did it--the man
who bolted. Catch him. Catch him!" She pushed the postman fiercely out
of the room in a tremendous hurry. "Get a policeman. Catch him. Quick!
Quick!"
Hall did not need much urging. With a pale face and dry lips he ran
out of the house, down the path, and through the gate, intending to
mount his bicycle and race for Jervis, who could not be far away. Then
he made a startling discovery. His bicycle was gone. Not a sign of it
remained.
"The murderer has gone off on it," said Hall, blankly.