Rupert Godwin

THE HOUSEKEEPER’S STORY.

After his conversation with Mr. Godwin’s servant, Lionel Westford felt more than ever that duty and honour alike urged him to an immediate and most vigorous investigation of the mystery connected with the deserted wing of Wilmingdon Hall.

Had there been no such person as Julia Godwin in existence, had the banker and the banker’s kindred been alike indifferent to him, the young man would not for a moment have thought of acting on his own responsibility.

He would have gone at once to Scotland-yard, and would have placed the whole matter in the hands of the detective police—laying before them a full statement of the case, and relying on their skill in the unravelment of such dark enigmas as that which cast its black shadow on Wilmingdon Hall. Mr. Pollaky of Paddington-green, or some other gentleman of Mr. Pollaky’s profession, would have been provided with one of those mysterious cases which seem designed for the development of detective genius, and all the complicated machinery of detection would have been set in motion.

But for Julia’s sake Lionel Westford refrained from doing this; for her sake he determined not to make any communication to the police until his dark suspicions became certainty, and duty compelled him to denounce the father of the girl he loved.

In the mean time he felt that his task of investigation would be very difficult, and would demand all the subtlety of his intellect, all the strength of his will.

On thinking over what the servant had told him, he came to the conclusion that old Caleb had indeed witnessed some appalling scene in one of the rooms in the northern wing.

But, granting this, what was the nature of that scene?

The old gardener described a murder—a foul and treacherous murder. Yet how could a murder have been committed in that deserted wing without suspicion having been sooner or later aroused?

The victim could scarcely have entered the building without the fact of his presence there being known; and in that case, how had Rupert Godwin been able to account for his disappearance?

At present it was all a dark mystery, the clue to which Lionel Westford could only hope to obtain by long and patient toiling in the obscurity. It was a tangled skein, which could only be unravelled inch by inch.

He pondered much upon what the man-servant had told him, and came to the conclusion that the person most likely to assist his search—unconsciously, of course—was the old housekeeper, of whom the man had spoken.

This woman was a cousin of Caleb Wildred’s, and from her girlhood had lived in the service of the Godwins, rising through all the gradations of service, from under scullery-maid to housekeeper.

Many secrets of the banker’s history were, in all probability, known to this woman; and, if carefully sounded, she could scarcely fail to give some clue to any mystery that might lurk behind the commonplace story of his life.

Lionel determined to seek the earliest opportunity of placing himself in confidential relations with the housekeeper. Old servants are generally garrulous and communicative, unless they have some special motive for reserve. Lionel therefore hoped much from an interview with Mrs. Beckson.

A very little consideration suggested a means of approaching her.

There were a great number of old pictures at Wilmingdon Hall—old portraits of dead-and-gone grandees who had flourished there when the original lords of the soil still held their own, before the days when rich mercantile men had come to occupy the dwellings of the noble. The hall and staircase, the billiard-room and music room, were decorated with portraits of the departed Wilmingdons, painted by Sir Peter Lely and Sir Godfrey Kneller, and let into the richly-carved panelling of the rooms. These portraits formed, therefore, a part of the walls they enriched, and had passed to the banker’s father with the house itself. But these the elder Mr. Godwin had looked on as so much furniture; and being a connoisseur of no mean powers, he had amassed a large collection of old and modern pictures, to which his son had added, bringing home many treasures from his continental ramblings.

Pictures of considerable value adorned almost every wall in the house; and Lionel remembered having heard Julia say that there were some very fine old Dutch paintings in the housekeeper’s room.

“Papa is a believer in the modern school,” she had said; “and the Jan Steens and Ostades have been banished from the dining-room, to make way for Frith and Elmore, Leighton and Millais, whose pictures please me a great deal better than those perpetual brown Dutchmen, who are always lighting their tiresome pipes in their dingy tavern-parlours, or those wooden-faced Dutchwomen, who seem to pass their existence between the brown little kitchen where they peel vegetables, and the brown little parlour where they play upon a queer-shaped organ.”

What could better serve Lionel as an excuse for approaching the housekeeper than his very natural wish to see these valuable old pictures?

He sent Mrs. Beckson a message by the servant who waited upon him, requesting that he might be allowed to see the Dutch pictures in her apartment, and received a prompt and most gracious reply, to the effect that Mrs. Beckson would be delighted to see Mr. Wilton at any time; but she would feel herself especially honoured if he would condescend so far as to drink tea with her at five o’clock that afternoon.

Nothing could suit Lionel’s purpose better than this. He was, of course, only on a level with the housekeeper in that establishment, where he gave his services for a weekly stipend, and was content to sink his status as a gentleman in order to earn a livelihood for those he loved.

He sent the servant back to Mrs. Beckson to say that he would be most happy to avail himself of her kind invitation.

“But you don’t dine till seven o’clock, sir. Mrs. Beckson has such old-fashioned notions,” the man remonstrated.

“I will go without my dinner to-day for the sake of a leisurely inspection of Mrs. Beckson’s Dutch pictures,” Lionel answered. “Tell her I accept her invitation with thanks.”

The servant departed, wondering at what he called “the rum ways of that artist chap, who’d sacrifice a good dinner for the sake of looking at a lot of dingy old pictures, that seem every one of ’em as if they’d been hung up a smoky chimney.”

At five o’clock precisely Lionel Westford presented himself in the housekeeper’s room. Mrs. Beckson had made quite a little festival of the occasion, and had adorned her table with preserves and cakes, an old-fashioned silver tea-and-coffee equipage, covered dishes of buttered toast, and a stand of new-laid eggs, as if she had expected a party.

Lionel could scarcely refrain from a smile as he looked at the worthy housekeeper’s preparations, and thought how utterly her dainties were wasted on a guest whose mind was completely absorbed by one dark and terrible subject.

The old dame had dressed herself in her stateliest attire, her most formidable head-gear and brownest and crispest wig. She received Lionel with a sweeping curtsey that might have done honour to an old-fashioned court in the days when the minuet was danced by powdered beaux and belles.

One by one she pointed out the old pictures which adorned her room, telling all she knew of their history, and the value that had been set upon them by connoisseurs whom Mr. Godwin had brought to look at them.

Lionel had no occasion to pretend an interest in these pictures. His artistic taste was aroused at once by their merits, and he lingered long before them, delighted and enthusiastic; so long indeed, that he sorely tried the patience of the old housekeeper, who was anxious to see him seated at her well-furnished tea-table, and was afflicted by the fear that the toast would become leathery and the eggs hard, while her visitor was dwelling on the details of a Jan Steen.

At last, however, the inspection was finished, and he seated himself opposite her, taking care to place himself with his back to the window, so that the varying expressions of his own face would not be seen, while, on the other hand, he would be able to perceive any change in the countenance of his companion.

The tea was poured out. Of course, there was a little preliminary conversation as to its merits; and then Lionel set to work, very cautiously and slowly. He began to speak of Mr. Godwin, and found the housekeeper nothing loth to talk of her master.

It was scarcely strange that the banker should form one of the chief subjects of his servants’ discourse; for as they rarely passed beyond the park-gates, they had little else to talk of besides the habits and affairs of their master. People who cry out against the gossiping propensities of servants should at least remember that in many cases servants are kept close prisoners, very rarely seeing or hearing anything of the outer world. Is it strange that, under such circumstances, they should attach an undue importance to what they do see and hear?

“The present Mr. Godwin is a good master,” said Mrs. Beckson, after some little discussion of general subjects; “he’s a liberal paymaster, and his servants have nothing to complain of. But he’s not like his father. He’s got a silent and gloomy way with him that’s apt to set people against him—not strangers, for his manners to strangers are generally considered very pleasing; but in his own house he gives himself up to thought like, and doesn’t seem to take either rest or pleasure. I never did see such a gentleman to think. He’s always thinking, always brooding; and this last year, judging by the little we’ve seen of him, I do believe he’s been worse than ever—brooding, brooding, brooding, as if he’d got all the troubles in this world upon his own mind. And if that’s all the good riches bring a body, give me poverty, say I.”

“And you have not seen much of him lately?”

“Very little indeed. I don’t know why it is, I suppose it’s business—or it may be pleasure, for they do say Mr. Godwin leads a very wild life in London; but somehow or other, ever since last summer, counting from about the time my poor cousin Caleb was taken ill with brain-fever, our master has kept away from this place, almost as if it was haunted.”

Lionel could not repress a slight start as Mrs. Beckson said this. Every word that he heard seemed to point to the same conclusion, every little circumstance so casually revealed led up to one terrible fact—the crime that had been committed by Rupert Godwin in the summer of the preceding year.

“Your cousin Caleb and I have become very good friends, Mrs. Beckson,” Lionel said, after a brief pause in which he reflected upon what the housekeeper had told him; “we meet often in the garden, and he always talks to me a little wildly at first, but he gets quite rational afterwards.”

“Yes, yes, to be sure; Caleb’s apt to be very wild, very wild indeed, sir. It isn’t everybody that would have patience with him. But I’m his own cousin, you see, sir, his own flesh and blood, and we were boy and girl together. So I bear with all his vagaries. I think there’s not many beside me could have nursed him through that dreadful brain-fever.”

“And that fever was the result of a sudden fright, I have heard?” said Lionel.

“Yes, sir; they do say poor Caleb was frightened; but, sir, there’s no knowing; it might have been some delusion of his poor weak brain. The women servants will have it that he saw a ghost in the northern wing; but I don’t believe in any such nonsense, though I have heard stories about those deserted old rooms that would make your blood run cold, and it certainly isn’t every gentleman that would have as much courage as our master.”

“How so?”

“Why, I mean that he’s not a bit afraid of being for hours and hours, sometimes in the dead of the night, shut up alone in those dreary rooms. He’s got an office in the northern wing, bless you, sir, and they say he keeps all his most valuable documents and securities and such-like locked in iron safes there, and up to last June twelvemonth he used to work there once in a way, looking over his papers, and such-like, I’ve heard Miss Godwin say.”

“Up to last June twelvemonth? But not since that time?” asked Lionel.

“Why, don’t I tell you, sir, that since last midsummer twelvemonth Mr. Godwin has scarcely come home once in a month? He’s seemed to shun the place somehow, and I can’t help thinking that he has some kind of trouble on his mind, and that he tries to drown it in the racketing and rioting of that rampageous London. You see, sir, he and his only son didn’t agree well together, and young Mr. Godwin left home two or three years ago, and it may be that preys on our Mr. Godwin’s mind.”

“But he used to work in an office in the northern wing?”

“Yes; and that’s one of the reasons why I feel sure our poor Caleb saw no ghost on the night he was taken ill.”

“How is that?”

“Why, you see, sir, the very night Caleb was taken, Mr. Godwin was in his office; and it isn’t likely the most audacious ghosts would show themselves when there were lights burning, and a city gentleman and his friend in the office.”

“His friend! Mr. Godwin was not alone then?”

“No; there was a gentleman with him—a strange gentleman. I can remember it all as if it had happened yesterday. I suppose it must have been Caleb’s illness that impressed it upon my mind, you see, sir. It was a very hot evening, and the house felt so oppressive like, that me and my niece Susan, who is head-housemaid here, we took a turn in the garden. It was quite dark when we went out, but it was very pleasant for all that. Mr. Godwin’s confidential clerk, Jacob Danielson, happened to be down here that evening, and was sitting in the dining-room, when the strange gentleman came.”

“Indeed! the stranger came late then?”

“Yes; it must have been dark when he came. My niece and me were sitting under one of the great cedars on the lawn, and the dining-room windows being open and the lamps lighted, we could see everything that was going on in the room. We saw the stranger walk in through one of the windows, while master and his clerk were sitting quietly over their wine; and the strange gentleman seemed excited about something, as we could guess from his manner. But Mr. Godwin, he was as quiet as a stone statue, and presently, after Jacob Danielson had gone away in a dog-cart to catch the train from Hertford, the stranger and master left the dining-room together, and went to the library; for me and my niece could see the lights through the great painted window, though we couldn’t see anything of what was going on inside. But presently, through the open doors of the hall—for, being such a hot, oppressive night, all the doors were left wide open—we saw Mr. Godwin and the stranger going towards the corridor leading to the northern wing, Mr. Godwin carrying a lamp.”

The housekeeper paused to draw breath after this long speech. Lionel Westford was terribly excited, and it was with difficulty that he concealed the extent of his agitation.

“And after this?” he said interrogatively.

“After this me and my niece walked about a bit, first here, then there, keeping out in the cool till supper-time; and we’d been walking about nigh upon an hour, and were strolling along one of the pathways close to the north garden, when who should come upon us sudden like but Jacob Danielson, which we had thought to have started by the train from Hertford! We couldn’t help being a little startled by his coming upon us so sudden, and there was something in his manner that seemed as if he’d been excited, or almost frightened like; and this was something out of the way for him, for, generally speaking, he’s more like a machine made out of cast iron than a human being. ‘Where’s the gentleman?’ says he to me and my niece,—‘where’s the strange gentleman? Have you seen him go away?’ ‘No,’ I replied; ‘Mr. Danielson, I have not.’ ‘O,’ says he, ‘I thought you might have seen him; it’s of no consequence; good evening;’ and with that he walks off very fast; and though there wasn’t much in what he said, there was something in his manner that seemed to make me and my niece turn all cold and shivery like, in spite of the sultry evening.”

“And did you see the stranger after this?”

“No; he left as quietly as he came. I daresay Mr. Godwin showed him the short cut across the park, for none of us in the servants’ hall saw him go away.”

“Indeed! And this was the night upon which your cousin Caleb was taken with the fever?”

“It was, sir.”

“Well; I can’t help feeling a sort of curiosity about this haunted northern wing. I’m not exactly a believer in ghosts; but I’ve often wondered whether there might not be some little truth in the numerous stories so firmly believed by many sensible people. I should like very much to explore those old rooms. Is there any way of getting into that part of the building?”

The housekeeper shook her head.

“No, sir. Mr. Godwin keeps the keys locked up in his own library, and wouldn’t let them out of his hands on any account.”

“But he allows the servants to clean the rooms sometimes, I suppose?”

“Not he, sir. He says he’d rather have the dust a foot deep than he’d have his papers pried into or meddled with. But there is a way of getting into those rooms for all that, Mr. Wilton, if anyone had the courage to go that way.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes. This place is very old, you know, sir, hundreds of years old; and they do say that there was all sorts of queer hiding-places made in the days of the Lollards. However that may be, the cellars under the northern wing are almost big enough for a regiment to hide in, and there’s an underground passage leading from the cellars to a grotto at one end of the laurel-walk.”

“I know the grotto,” answered Lionel eagerly. “I noticed it some days ago.”

“It’s a regular ruinous place; but if you grope your way through the archway at the back, you’ll find a flight of stone steps leading down underground, and at the bottom of those steps there’s a passage leading, as I’ve heard say long ago when I was a girl, to the cellars. But, mind you, Mr. Wilton, I never knew anyone to go down that underground passage, and goodness knows what state it may be in. I don’t suppose Mr. Godwin so much as knows of its existence. So if you go, Mr. Wilton, you know the risk you’ve got to run.”

Lionel Westford laughed aloud at the old dame’s warning. Fortunately, the housekeeper’s ear was not acute enough to discover the artificial sound of that laughter.

“You needn’t be afraid of my running any risk, my dear Mrs. Beckson,” he said. “I should very much like to see a ghost, if I could meet the gentleman or lady without putting myself to any very great trouble. But I certainly have no inclination to tempt the perils of an underground journey, even though I might be rewarded by an introduction to all the phantoms in shadowland. No, no; I’m no coward; but I have no wish to be entombed alive, and some of the old brickwork of your passage might happen to give way, perhaps, and bury me under its ruins.” This is what Lionel Westford said. What he intended to do was something very different.

“I must watch my opportunity,” he thought, “and pay a secret visit to the northern wing when every member of this household is sleeping.”