CHAPTER XII
As was to be expected, the Coroner’s Jury returned a verdict of “Murder against some person or persons unknown.”
From the medical evidence it transpired that death was caused by heart failure, due to shock, though it was stated that the wound in the throat would have been sufficient to kill. As to what caused the wound, there was no clear indication, the evidence merely stating, “some blunt instrument of a peculiar nature.”
The discovery was, of course, the central topic of the neighbourhood for days, and did not subside until some time after the remains of the Rev. Henry Thornton had been decently interred in the churchyard.
The police made a thorough search of the priory ruins, and hopes ran high that some clue to Elsie Hobson’s disappearance would be found; but in spite of all their efforts, nothing of any consequence occurred, and gradually the general excitement waned.
During this period Shepperton, although he gave the police all the help he could, deliberately withheld from them the one item of information which, had he chosen to give it, might have at once brought matters to an issue. The photograph which he had picked up was probably the key to the mystery; but he had determined that until he had sufficient evidence to condemn the Master of Storton he would work alone. There was no doubt in his mind that Brentwood knew all about it, and he had every reason to believe that the crimes had been perpetrated by him. If the photograph had not been sufficient to indicate that he knew something, the start which he gave (Shepperton remembered particularly that he uttered no exclamation) when he examined the body, and saw the wound in the throat, was sufficient to show that the Master of Storton was deeply involved in the case, if not actually guilty. Further, the whole circumstances pointed to the conclusion that the wound had some sort of a connection with the footprints.
He pondered over it almost daily, and the more he thought about it, the more the idea gained strength that Brentwood was the culprit. In that case, if he were going to bring the crime home to his door, he would have to act very carefully. It would not be easy to circumvent the subtlety of a man who, evidently guilty, had the cleverness to be one of the first to come forward to help clear the matter up. Shepperton saw that such a course served a double purpose. It not only enabled the criminal to know what the genuine investigators were doing, it gave him every opportunity to mislead them; and, of course, it was hardly likely that anyone would suspect the man, when working in co-operation with him.
One consideration which caused him to adopt this course was, that he determined to leave nothing undone likely to bring the criminal to justice—he had no doubt that Elsie was dead.
While deliberating, it occurred to him that perhaps it would be as well to put the Vicar and his sister on their guard against Brentwood. It would not be just on his part to let them get too far involved with the Master of Storton, when it lay in his power to warn them. But they would have to faithfully promise to keep his secret of the photograph. Be it to his credit, that he should thus think of others during his own hours of bitterness.
After further thinking it over, he decided that the only thing to do would be to take the Vicar and his sister entirely into his confidence. If he must tell them anything at all, he might as well tell them everything. No sooner had he made up his mind than he decided to act upon it. Accordingly he went straight to the Vicarage that afternoon on leaving his office.
Alletson welcomed him in his kind way, and Constance invited him to join them at tea, which was ready on the table. During the meal they conversed on ordinary topics, and it was not until Martha had cleared the table and quietly closed the door after her that Shepperton mentioned he had something of grave importance to impart to them.
The Vicar’s face grew stern, while Constance poked the fire uneasily, and for a short time there was silence. Seeing that he hesitated, Alletson said kindly:
“Well, Mr. Shepperton, what is the trouble?”
The remark seemed to enable Shepperton to pull himself together, and leaning his elbows on the table, he answered deliberately:
“To tell you the simple truth, I’ve come to warn you against the Master of Storton!”
Constance stared at him curiously, and the Vicar uttered a surprised “Oh!”
“I’m sorry to startle you, Mr. Alletson,” he continued, “but I’m so sure of my ground. If I had had any doubts, I should not have come. All I ask is that you will both respect my confidence; further than that, I do not want to bind you in any way. The missing links in the chain I will seek out myself.”
“Surely, surely it is not possible that Mr. Brentwood can be the perpetrator of such abominable crimes?” exclaimed the Vicar in a pained voice.
Why, he did not know, but turning suddenly to Constance, Shepperton asked:
“What is your opinion, Miss Alletson?”
To the surprise of both men, Constance did not reply. She simply shook her head and turned her gaze to the fire.
During the interval of silence that ensued, her brother looked at her in pure astonishment. He could not understand her not agreeing with what he himself thought; being, of course, quite innocent of what had occurred during the experiment at the Manor.
“Well, after you have heard all I have to say, I think you will agree that there is radical ground upon which to suspect Mr. Brentwood; and, further, that it will take little more to bring the crimes home to him.”
Whereupon, producing the photograph, Shepperton related all that he knew.
There was a painful interval after Shepperton’s story, which did not tend to make him feel very comfortable, and he glanced uneasily first from the Vicar to his sister, then back again. Alletson had risen and was pacing the room with short, nervous steps; he was clearly agitated. Constance remained looking dully at the fire. She was thinking about that weird experience she had gone through a fortnight ago, and the very thought of what she had suffered tended to unnerve her.
Unable to bear the suspense longer, Shepperton turned to the Vicar and asked in a doubtful voice:
“Don’t you think my grounds of suspicion satisfactory?”
Alletson clenched his hands as though something hurt him.
“Certainly, certainly, Mr. Shepperton, they seem at first sight only too clear. It is not that I question things in any way, but—but”—the words seemed to be forced from him—“you see, we have been friends.”
The expression on the Vicar’s face made Shepperton feel sorry that he had had to hurt his feelings.
Constance looked at her brother sympathetically, and half rose as if to go over to him; but remembering that they were not alone, sat down again.
Her movements attracted Shepperton’s attention to her, and he said:
“It is fairly clear, don’t you think, that Mr. Brentwood is pretty thoroughly mixed up in this matter?”
“There hardly seems to be any doubt about it,” she replied slowly. “And further, I think I had better tell you that—that—” Her sudden hesitation caused both men to look at her significantly, eager to hear what she had to say, but no words came from her lips. Instead, she sat with open mouth, staring hard at the wall, the colour coming and going in her cheeks, and her bosom heaving as though she were suppressing some undue excitement. Shepperton stood up, and looked at her in amazement, while her brother glanced askance at the wall, thinking that he could see something there. Then jumping up, he quickly crossed the room, and taking her hand exclaimed:
“Constance, Constance, what is the matter?”
But for a minute she did not move, and continued to stare at the wall, as though it fascinated her.
“Speak, Constance!” But she did not seem to hear his voice. At last, heaving a deep sigh, she lay back in the chair and smiled faintly, while her face went very white.
“Fetch me some water, Philip,” she whispered. He hurried to carry out her bidding, and during his absence Shepperton, evidently embarrassed, said:
“I am so sorry, Miss Alletson; I hope you are not ill. I sincerely trust that what I have said to-night has not upset you?”
She looked at him vacantly, and then despair came into her eyes. Raising her hand to her head in a bewildered manner, she ejaculated:
“I cannot do it!”
“Do what?” he queried, not understanding.
But she did not answer. Instead, she rose slowly from her chair, and going to the window, looked out into the twilight which was fast gathering.
She must have stood there several minutes gazing into nothingness, and her brother, who had meanwhile entered the room, had, at a warning glance from Shepperton, come to a standstill, watching her. Shepperton noticed that his hand trembled, and sat vacantly looking at the water in the tumbler quivering from side to side, until a little of it splashed on the carpet. Involuntarily he looked at Alletson’s face, and his expression told him at once that something further had occurred. Turning quickly to the figure at the window, he noticed that Constance was standing with her hands over her ears, as though to shut out some sound, and her face—which they could see in profile—was ashen colour, and set with an intensity almost agonising.
All at once she dropped her hands, and turning round to her brother remarked, in what seemed quite a rational manner:
“Philip, I am going out for a little while!” and calmly walked towards the door. Almost instinctively her brother determined that she should not; she was evidently not her normal self. From being nervously excited, he suddenly grew calm—men of his particular temperament usually do when confronted with danger—and quickly walking over to his sister, quietly led her into a chair, and gently, but firmly, made her sit down. Then proffering the glass of water, said kindly:
“Drink this.”
She looked at him rebelliously, as though she bitterly resented the course he had taken with her, and at first it seemed as if she would violently resist him. Indeed, he was greatly surprised at the fierce strength she showed in her eyes. But the more she struggled, the more determined he grew, and gradually, the great power of his pure and noble mind, developed to a high degree by a life of inward growth and self-sacrifice, overcame the strange abnormal manifestation of his sister’s will, though she fought to the last in a way that he knew was not natural.
When she had ceased to struggle, he put the water to her lips, and she drank mechanically, then exclaiming, “Oh dear!” she closed her eyes, and lying back in the chair, seemed to rest peacefully enough.
Gently loosing her hands, Philip put the glass of water on the table, and looked at Shepperton, who asked in a whisper:
“Shall I fetch Dr. Trestlewood?” He did not look at all comfortable, and felt that in some way he had been the cause of this strange scene.
“No, thanks, I don’t think it necessary at present at any rate,” replied Alletson. “If she should get worse, I can send Martha.”
“I do hope that what I have said this evening has not caused——”
“No, no,” interrupted the Vicar. “I don’t for a moment think that, Mr. Shepperton.”
He looked much relieved at the Vicar’s remark.
“Is there anything I can do?” he asked.
“No, thank you, Mr. Shepperton, I think she will be all right shortly.”
“Then I think I will be going.”
They walked silently into the hall, and Alletson quietly opened the front door.
“Good night,” he said kindly.
“Good night,” returned the other. Then he hesitated for a moment, drumming his fingers on the door post, with a troubled look on his face. The Vicar eyed him tentatively, and at last he spoke:
“You will keep my secret about that photograph, Mr. Alletson, won’t you?”
“Need you ask?” returned the Vicar. “You gave me your confidence, and I shall respect it.”
Shepperton looked apologetic, and then, with expressive thanks, shook hands and took his departure.
Carefully closing the door, Alletson quickly returned to the dining-room, and, glancing at his sister, satisfied himself that she was resting peacefully enough by the fire.
“Do you feel better, Constance?” he asked in his kind voice.
She sighed, and did not answer at once. At last she said emotionally, “Yes, Philip, thanks to you,” and her eyes filled with tears.
“All right,” he answered soothingly. “Don’t worry, my dear; sit quietly while I write two or three letters.”
He saw that she was distressed, and, much as he wanted to know what it was that had upset her, he refrained from asking questions.
Obtaining ink and paper from his own room, he settled himself down, and for nearly half an hour nothing was audible but the occasional scratching of his pen and the falling in of the fire, as it gradually burned away.
He had barely sealed the last envelope, when a sort of scratching noise on the French window caused them both to turn suddenly.
“What’s that?” queried Constance in a startled voice.
She had hardly spoken, when a mournful howl came from outside, followed by the unmistakable whimper of a dog. With a frown the Vicar rose, and, walking straight to the window, deliberately opened it. He had no sooner done so, when, to his surprise and annoyance, a great dog pushed past him, and, going up to his sister, put his muzzle in her hand, and started wagging his tail with evident delight.
“Good gracious!” she exclaimed. “Why, it’s Hector!”
Alletson’s astonishment was so great, that for a moment he could only look; then he made a remark which the average person would be shocked to hear from the lips of a clergyman.
“Good Lord!” he exclaimed irritably, and then, sitting down, he started to laugh heartily as the comical side of the thing appealed to him.
He was brought to a sudden halt in his merriment by Constance remarking:
“Philip, it may appear funny, but what on earth has brought the animal to me?”
Her brother assumed his usual gravity, and, after thinking a moment, shook his head.
“Anyway, he can’t stay here.”
Rising, he opened the door, and said in a loud voice:
“Here, get out!”
The dog, who had settled himself down by Constance’s chair, raised his head for a moment on hearing the Vicar’s voice, and eyed him contemptuously, as much as to say, “Put me out, then,” and resumed his previous position.
Crossing the room, Alletson seized the dog’s collar, and started to pull him toward the door.
“Come out of it, you brute!” he said sternly.
Hector, with a shake of his great head, freed himself, and coolly lay down again by the chair.
The Vicar sat down, an amused look in his eyes; then he said:
“Perhaps he will go for you, Constance?”
“Possibly,” she replied. She rose and walked to the door; the dog immediately followed, so, opening the front door, she made as if to go out; and as soon as the animal crossed the threshold, she slipped back, and shut him out. But she had hardly got back to the dining-room before a loud howling was heard outside. They listened for a time, hoping that he would go away, but he kept whimpering and scratching the door, and eventually made such a row that Martha appeared with a scared look on her face.
“Don’t be frightened, Martha,” said her mistress; “it is only a dog.”
Martha went back to the kitchen doubtingly.
“We had better let him in, Philip, and send a note to the Manor to ask Mr. Brentwood to fetch him away in the morning.”
Her brother nodded, and reached for ink and paper, while she went to the door and opened it. Hector immediately stopped howling, and, following Constance into the house, went and resumed his old position by her chair in the dining-room.
“It is quite beyond my comprehension, Philip.”
“It is extraordinary,” he replied, without ceasing to write.
“Wherever shall we put him?”
“He cannot stop in the house, that’s certain,” responded the Vicar.
But Hector decided that problem for himself. He slept on the mat outside Miss Alletson’s bedroom door.