CHAPTER II.
WHO KILLED LADY CLARICE?
The news spread like lightning; the men, as they rode furiously in search of her husband and doctor, told the story to those who listened with horror-stricken faces.
“Lady Alden of Aldenmere has been drowned in the river Lee, that part called the Pool, in Holme Woods.”
In the meantime they had carried the body of the hapless lady to her own chamber; the weeping, terrified servants filled the room, and Mrs. Glynn, the housekeeper, armed with authority, sent them all away except Mary Thorne. They laid her on the sumptuous bed, with its pink silk and white lace hangings; they wrung the water from her long, fair hair, and then there came the sound of an arrival.
“All the doctors on earth could not help her, poor lady,” said Mrs. Glynn, with a long-drawn sigh. But the doctors came in and tried their best.
“Stone dead—she has been dead over two hours,” said Dr. Mayne. “How did it happen?”
Before there was time for a reply the door opened again, and Sir Ronald Alden, the lady’s husband, master of Aldenmere, entered.
He walked quickly up to the bedside and his eyes fell upon the silent figure lying there. The ghastly fear in his face deepened as he gazed.
“What is it?” he said, clutching Dr. Mayne’s arm. “What has happened—what is this?”
“You must bear it bravely, Sir Ronald,” said the doctor, pityingly. “Lady Alden has met with a terrible accident.”
He bent over her with trembling hands and wild, desperate horror in his face.
“She is dead?” he cried.
“Yes,” said the doctor, quietly; “she is dead. Poor lady; she has been dead for two hours.”
Sir Ronald sank back in a chair. He repeated the words with a gasping sob, more terrible than tears.
“Dead!” he said, “my wife—Clarice—dead!”
They went away, doctors and servants, thinking it would be better to leave him alone with his dead, to give him time for the first sharp pain to vent itself in tears and words.
But to their surprise, in a few minutes he followed them, with the ghastly pallor on his face.
“How did it happen?” he cried; “you have not told me that.”
“We do not know,” replied Dr. Mayne. “It has all been so strange, so awfully sudden. Half an hour ago one of your grooms galloped over to my house and told me Lady Alden had been found drowned in the river. I came at once, and found she had been dead two hours and more. You will hear more details from the servants.”
“You are sure she is dead?” he repeated. “There have been wonderful cases of resuscitation after apparent drowning. Has all been done that is possible?”
“Only God could restore her to life,” said the doctor, reverently. While the words were yet on his lips, the door of the library opened and the housekeeper came in, looking so ill and alarmed that Dr. Mayne went near to her.
“Oh, sir!” she cried, “will you come upstairs?—will you come up to my lady’s room?”
“Certainly.” And the doctor, wondering much what had happened, rose to go.
“Stay!” said Sir Ronald. “What is it, Mrs. Glynn?”
“I cannot tell you, Sir Ronald, it is too horrible. My lady was not drowned.”
“Not drowned!” they repeated.
“No,” said the woman, with a shudder; “it is worse than that.”
Dr. Mayne waited to hear no more; he went to the poor lady’s room at once; Sir Ronald followed him. There they found the maid wringing her hands and crying aloud that it was a wicked and a cruel deed.
“Tell me what it is,” said the doctor, firmly.
Then Mrs. Glynn turned down the blue satin quilt.
“Look, sir,” she said; “when we began to undress the poor lady we found this.”
Dr. Mayne bent down and saw through the silken robe and fine white linen a cut made by some sharp instrument, evidently very small and pointed. He tore away the dress, and there on the white skin was a deep wound just over the heart. Only a few drops of blood had fallen from it; it was not large enough for a knife to have done it, it must have been caused by some sharp instrument long enough to have pierced the heart.
“How awful!” cried the doctor, hoarsely; “why, Lady Alden has been murdered—murdered, I say, Sir Ronald, and flung into the water—look!”
Sir Ronald bent down and saw the mark.
“She has been stabbed through the heart. She must have died in an instant, and then have been thrown into the water. This is no accident, but foul, black, treacherous murder! I cannot even imagine what weapon has been used. It was evidently not much larger than a common bodkin, but long and sharp. Who can have done such a deed, Sir Ronald?”
“I cannot tell; she had not an enemy in the world. I cannot guess.”
“You had better come away from this room,” said the doctor, compassionately; “we can do no good; it only makes you wretched.”
“I will go to my room,” said Sir Ronald, hoarsely; “I—I cannot bear it, doctor—you must see to everything for me.”
And Sir Ronald, with tottering steps, went from the death chamber, where the horror seemed to be deepening every hour, and Dr. Mayne was left to do the best he could.
“It is too horrible,” he said to Mrs. Glynn. “I do not think such an event ever happened before in the memory of man. Will you see that one of the grooms goes at once to Leeholme and brings back the inspector of police?—there is no time to lose.”
If the little bird which had sung upon the branches could have spoken and have told what had happened that summer morning in the Holme Woods!