“We cannot,” Wilfred replied. “The poor old chap is perplexed enough now. To tell him what we know would only make his head swim, and if we were to tell the police—why, they would arrest everybody remotely concerned. No, the position is simply damnable. As I see it, there is bound to be a certain amount of suffering for some one, and Frank is best able to bear it. Should he be convicted, then we would have to table the evidence to clear him on appeal. But, the awful part of that would be that some one equally innocent would have to undergo the whole process again. It is terrible. But there is nothing to be done.”
“I still think that we ought to tell Mr. Benson,” Jill persisted. “He is far more sensible and clever even than you dream of, and he is a lawyer, you know, used to all these queer things that so perplex us.”
“The full knowledge would do nothing but lay down certain threads in his defence of Frank that would cause an arrest. You must know whom they would arrest?”
Jill nodded miserably. “Oh, Wilfred, my dear, why is it so hard to do right? I hate to think that I am deliberately suppressing something that might save Frank Gough, more particularly because I hate him so. It seems an incredibly mean thing to do.”
“But, my dear,” Wilfred protested, “you are not doing this to hurt Frank, but to save a whole lot of further trouble. I have already pledged myself to tell Mr. Benson the whole truth if Frank should be convicted. That would be in ample time for witnesses to be brought up for the appeal.”
For twenty minutes the lovers talked—Jill wanting to take the lawyer into their confidence, Wilfred determined not to do so. Meanwhile, Mr. Benson was admitted to Lady Evenden’s boudoir, and found the mistress of the Priory seated on a settee, clothed in a satin quilted dressing-gown. She had a slightly defiant little smile on her face as the lawyer entered; but she was manifestly nervous.
“I am quite relieved to see you looking so well, my dear Mr. Benson,” she greeted him. “I was very, very sorry to hear of your distressing experience.” There was genuine concern in the beautiful face.
Mr. Benson had worn rather a hard look as he entered the room, but he melted somewhat. However, he asked severely enough:
“Why did you let that man go?”
“I knew you would want to know about that. Naturally you would,” said Lady Evenden. “That is why I stayed here and asked them to tell you I wanted to see you.” The lawyer nodded and waited expectantly. She paused; but he did not speak, so she continued: “Well, I think I told you before that Dr. Laidlaw is an old friend of mine. The unfortunate affair in your room to-night is most regrettable; but I am sure that the doctor could account for it. I know he has my interests at heart even as you have, and I had to—I simply couldn’t help myself—I had to release him when I learnt that he had been detained by your orders.”
She spoke nervously, her words came in jerking delivery. From time to time, as she spoke, she glanced at her stern-faced adviser. The growing severity of the old lawyer’s expression increased her nervousness. She finished lamely, “I knew that you would understand.”
“Understand?” broke out Mr. Benson indignantly. “Understand your release of the man who attempted to murder me? Understand your release of the man who murdered your stepson? Understand your release of the man who systematically had blackmailed your late husband for seven years? My dear lady, pray set a limit to your estimate of my understanding. I am completely mystified. So far from understanding, my visit to you now is to try to obtain a reasonable explanation. Will you give it to me?”
While he spoke Lady Evenden showed manifest signs of acute distress. She looked at him from time to time, then looked away as if unable continually to meet his eyes. Her hands clenched and relaxed, she moved her position on the settee. Then with a great effort, she replied:
“I can understand that you must feel annoyed—very annoyed. But, my dear Mr. Benson, that is no excuse for such extravagant statements as you have made. Murdered my stepson! Blackmailed my late husband! How can you say such terrible things?”
“Because I can prove them,” said the lawyer calmly. Lady Evenden turned paler than ever—and the lawyer had been struck by her pallor upon entering the room.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“What I say,” responded Mr. Benson. “Look here, Lady Evenden, the time is rapidly approaching when I shall have to ask myself whether I am justified in acting for you any longer. I have had the honor to serve your late husband and his father, and, before my time, my father served his grandfather. This I tell you to make you understand how I value my association with this house. But there are things that an honorable man must value even more than old associations. One thing you may be sure of, and that is that I will not drop the reins so long as your son remains in jeopardy. I will see him through, come what may; but, unless I can be assured of a client’s confidence, I will in no circumstances act for that client.”
“But, Mr. Benson,” she exclaimed. “I cannot do without you. You cannot be serious. I must have you to act for me. Oh, Mr. Benson, don’t say that you are deserting me!”
“I am not deserting you!” said Mr. Benson. “I am saying quite plainly that I cannot act without the confidence of my clients. Tell me—since you wish me to continue to act—why did you release that murderer to-night?”
“He is not a murderer! How can you say that he is a murderer?” she countered at once.
“How can you say that he is not?” The old man was very stern as he asked the question, and his gaze was fixed and relentless.
“What do you mean?” Lady Evenden asked with frightened eyes turned up to the little lawyer.
“Let us finish all this beating about the bush!” Mr. Benson exclaimed impatiently. “Listen to me. On the night that your stepson was murdered, Lady Evenden, Dr. Laidlaw was seen by credible witnesses to visit the Prior’s Tower, and that by means of secret passages which communicate with the Prior’s Room—the scene of the murder. Now, I have that information absolutely definitely, beyond a peradventure, and also I know that you yourself were in the Prior’s Tower that night. Now, what I require of you is that you tell me what you know of Dr. Laidlaw’s movements on the night of the murder, what you yourself were doing in the Prior’s Tower that night, and who was the third woman present besides yourself and your companion, Miss Kilby?”
The effect of the lawyer’s words was startling to behold. Lady Evenden showed, to begin with, great agitation, which increased terribly as he continued; but the old man was remorseless; he went to the root of the matter, as he had intended to do. As the lawyer continued, however, surprise, as well as distress, was patent in Lady Evenden’s face. And the old man felt that she was speaking the truth when she said:
“I don’t in the least know what you are talking about. What on earth has Miss Kilby to do with the Prior’s Tower, and who is the other woman?”
“I’ll tell you all that in a moment. Answer me this to begin with. Lady Evenden, I want to warn you. You were actually seen—actually seen, mark you—in the Prior’s Tower on the night of the murder. Now then, what were you doing there? Why did you meet Laidlaw there? What was Laidlaw doing there?” Mr. Benson could not help but feel sorry for her—Lady Evenden looked distressed beyond measure. He hoped she would not faint before she gave him the all-important information.
“Who saw me?” she asked.
“Two credible witnesses,” replied Mr. Benson, “and they will certainly give evidence at the trial. For the love of heaven, Lady Evenden, why don’t you take me into your confidence? Tell me, what were you doing there?”
For several minutes she was silent. She looked at him as a bird might look at the snarer; then she said quietly, resignedly:
“I went there to meet Dr. Laidlaw.”
CHAPTER XII.
MR. BENSON FORMS A PLAN
“You went to see Dr. Laidlaw!” Mr. Benson repeated. “Why?”
Lady Evenden seemed almost as if she had expected and prepared for the question; for, a hard light came into her eyes and her chin set determinedly.
“Mr. Benson,” she said, “I once told you that nothing on earth will make me divulge certain things that concern only Dr. Laidlaw and myself. It is sufficient for me to tell you that occasionally I have to see Dr. Laidlaw. I saw him that fatal night in the Prior’s Tower. My visit to him, and his visit to the tower, had not the remotest connection with the murder, any more than it would have any connection with your murder, supposing that you were found dead outside this room, and it were proved that I had received Dr. Laidlaw here.”
“In view of my earlier experiences to-night, my dear lady,” said the old lawyer dryly, “I can scarcely congratulate you on the happiness of your simile. The little rat-faced scoundrel made two attempts on my life to-night.”
“He did not, Mr. Benson.” Lady Evenden spoke with quiet conviction.
“My dear lady, are you in possession of your senses? Do you infer that I imagined his presence in my bedroom and imagined this crack on the head the murdering little hound gave me, and that he aimed another with a stick when he thought I was lying on the ground?”
“He did not come to your room to do you any harm at all,” said Lady Evenden.
“Why did he come at all? Just to have a friendly little chat?” asked Mr. Benson facetiously.
“He came to try to recover certain papers.” The lady frowned.
Mr. Benson stared at her in mingled astonishment and horror.
“Did you know he was coming?” he asked in tones as sharp as the crack of a whip. She saw what was moving in his mind, shivered slightly, and answered:
“Oh, Mr. Benson, if you could only understand. No, of course I did not know he was coming. I would not dream of doing anything to hurt you, my best friend. I want you to clearly understand that my association with Dr. Laidlaw is a perfectly innocent one. He is necessary to me for certain reasons. What those reasons are I cannot divulge. It must be sufficient for me to tell you that should evil—I am sure it would be unmerited evil—come upon Dr. Laidlaw, then that day I should probably suffer horrors beyond compare—horrors that would make death preferable, and I should take death in preference.”
There was great earnestness in the agitated face as she spoke, but Mr. Benson remained hard.
“You must tell me at once what he is holding over you,” he said. “I must insist upon that. If you say that you did not know he was coming to my room to-night, how do you know he came to recover papers?”
“Because he told me so—since,” she replied, biting her lip.
“You’ve seen him since?” asked the lawyer. “God bless my soul! Where?”
“Oh, does all this questioning really matter?” she asked wearily. “I saw him in the Prior’s Room.”
“How?” Mr. Benson asked. “By assignation?”
“Yes,” she replied. “I told you it is necessary for me to see him on certain occasions.”
“This is absolutely the most terrible state of affairs I have ever heard of in my life,” declared the lawyer. “Your son awaits his trial for murder, and you, his mother, shield Dr. Laidlaw, who bled your late husband white by blackmail for seven years, and is bleeding you!”
“Whatever do you mean?” Lady Evenden’s great eyes opened wide. “Dr. Laidlaw merely acted as an inquiry agent for my husband, and made certain visits to Russia because he knew the language so well.”
“Who told you that?” Mr. Benson asked.
“My late husband,” she replied at once. “And Dr. Laidlaw confirmed it.”
“Then answer me this, my dear lady,” said the lawyer. “Why should the little hound be so particular about recovering certain papers, not even stopping at murder to get them? Listen to me. I saw murder in that man’s eyes to-night, and if I hadn’t rattled him by staring at him, and, later, by fighting him, then I should have followed your stepson——”
“Dr. Laidlaw did not kill my stepson,” she interrupted.
“Who did then?” Benson snapped back immediately.
“I do not know—none of us knows,” replied Lady Evenden.
“Who are ‘none of us’?” asked Mr. Benson.
“I mean neither Dr. Laidlaw, myself, the police, you, nor anyone else,” she replied.
“Who was the other woman in the tower besides you and your companion?” he asked, reminded that he had not had a reply to his previous question.
A puzzled look came into the eyes of Lady Evenden. “My companion?” she asked. “And another woman?” She looked at him for a moment in doubt; then, with suspicion, she asked, “Have you been employing my companion to spy upon me?”
“Don’t add stupidity to your stubbornness, for heaven’s sake,” the lawyer said impatiently. “Certainly not. Now listen to me. On the night of Sir John’s murder, there were three women in that tower. One was you, one was your companion, and what I want to know is, who was the other?”
“But, Mr. Benson, you frighten me. Do you really mean what you are saying?”
Lady Evenden could not possibly be acting, the lawyer decided. Her agitation was far too real for that.
“Jill Kilby in the Prior’s Tower? Another woman? Who was the other woman, and what did she want?”
“That is what I am trying to find out, of course,” said the lawyer. “When we get an explanation of all these various things, then we shall have the secret of the murder.”
“Tell me”—Lady Evenden made a great effort to remain calm, but her agitation was betrayed by her dilated eyes and the continual movement of her hands,—“what was Jill Kilby doing there?”
“I suppose she felt it her duty to keep near you. She was certainly instructed to be very careful that you got into no danger during the time of your terrible collapse following Sir Michael’s death,” he replied.
“My God!” she exclaimed. “What did she see?”
“That I do not know,” replied Mr. Benson gravely. “This much I do know, that if it is necessary I am going to put her on the witness stand, and you on the witness stand, and that little blackmailing doctor in the dock—to save your son.”
“You must not dream of doing anything of the sort.” Now she made no attempt to disguise her perturbation. She rose from her seat and threw herself down on her knees at the old lawyer’s feet, clasped his hand with both hers, and pleaded, “You know nothing of what you are doing! Oh! for pity’s sake, don’t do that! I am innocent of any wrong, Mr. Benson. Dr. Laidlaw is not the blackmailer you think——”
“Yes, he is,” Mr. Benson snapped. “He blackmailed Sir Michael for seven years. I have absolute proof of it in Sir Michael’s handwriting, and all the bank evidence complete.”
“Well, I can’t believe it.” Mr. Benson made an impatient movement and gave vent to an expression of exasperation. “In any case,” she went on, “I know it is terrible, Mr. Benson; I can’t see why he blackmailed my husband—he has money without that, and I understood he got a good income from my husband for his inquiry work. But that has nothing to do with my terrible position now. Listen, Mr. Benson. The moment anything happens to Dr. Laidlaw, I die. He has been the very best friend in some respects. Certainly I should have been dead without him—dead or worse. I cannot and will not have any complication in this matter for Dr. Laidlaw.”
At the end of her excitedly-spoken sentences Lady Evenden completely collapsed, bent her face down on the old lawyer’s knees, and sobbed—great, bitter sobs that shook her whole frame. Mr. Benson was deeply moved. He did not attempt to speak to her, but bent forward, laid one hand upon her shoulder, and, with the other, gently patted her head. The hardness had quite gone out of his eyes, and there was a look of infinite pity there, as he bent over the woman who had at last broken down under the deluge of troubles and fearful buffetings of erratic fate.
There were pity and tenderness reflected in the fine old face of the lawyer, but there was no despair. Indeed, behind the emotions, that were at present predominantly represented, there was an indefinable power, also, expressed. Mentally he was a giant among men, this veteran lawyer, and even while he patted his fair client’s bowed head, and the pity of it all surged over his heart like a tidal wave, yet all the while his mind was working—and working at lightning speed.
After a time she ceased her heart-breaking sobs and looked up.
“Forgive me,” she said. “I simply——”
“Not another word, my child,” ordered the lawyer. “Now just obey me. I’ll not distress you by talking about Laidlaw to-night. You get back to bed, and, before you go, take a good stiff glass of brandy; it’ll do you good. Whatever you do, don’t worry. I’ll manage everything all right. Only, my dear, whatever the consequence may seem to be to you, take my word for it that you’d probably be a happier woman if you came and told me everything.”
Lady Evenden was about to speak, when he overrode her interruption. “No, no—not to-night. I’m not going to worry you any more now. Don’t come to any decision to-night at all. Just don’t worry. Good night, my dear lady.”
“Good night, my dear friend,” she said. “Oh! what shall I do about Jill——”
“Nothing,” he answered, “nothing at all. Don’t mention a word about that—just forget it.” With a gentle smile and an old-world kiss of the fair hand, the chivalrous old man left the boudoir and returned along the corridor to the main staircase on his way to the library. There he found a little note from Wilfred to say that he would keep the appointment on the following day—later that day it was, really, for the hands of the clock pointed to ten minutes past four—and that he had nothing further to say that night.
“Well,” said Mr. Benson to himself, “you’ve had an exciting night for an old man. You’d better get yourself a drop of that excellent old whisky and see what that does. Aye, that’s better,” he said, after drinking some of the old liquor. “That’s better. That’s the thing too. The whole key lies in that little doctor. If he’s arrested he might possibly do harm. I doubt it myself, but he might. Yet he is the key, and he must be turned in the lock, so to speak. Yes, I’ll do it. A bit hot, perhaps, for nowadays, but I’ll do it. I’ll kidnap the little devil, that’s what I’ll do, and take him to that old farm, Swinerigmire. The house is empty, and I’ll get Joe Litt to act as his jailer, and if necessary we can have a quiet little bit of gentle torture—The little worm! Now, let’s go to bed.”
Mumbling away to himself in his quaint manner when alone, the venerable old fellow made his way to his room and lay down again. Just before his eyes closed he might have been heard mumbling a little disconnectedly, “Just the same, Alice—just the same. You’ve been gone nearly sixty years but you’re just the same. You shouldn’t have gone, Alice—night before our wedding day—too lonely, Alice. Yes—yes—soon now, Alice—a little more work to do—then——”
* * * * * * * *
Mr. Benson awoke in the morning, like a giant, refreshed, and ate a hearty breakfast, discarded his head bandage, and set about the day’s work. He communicated with the superintendent of the Norwich police and learnt that there were to be no applications for additional evidence. The Crown case as presented in the police court would be submitted at the assize court, and that only.
He read a long letter from Sir Courtney Caldecott’s clerk commenting on the defense brief, to which he replied. He telephoned to his office, and listened to the acting senior partner as he posted his chief in all the various ramifications of the work of that important office. Then he went round to the stables and asked for a hunter to be saddled.
“They’re a bit fresh, sir,” said the head groom a little dubiously. “You see, we haven’t been giving them much exercise lately.”
Mr. Benson stared at him incredulously for a moment. Then, with indignation which made the groom tremble, he asked:
“Are you suggesting that Chris Benson can’t manage any damned thing on four legs—or two either, if it comes to that?” he added truculently. “Saddle something that can take a fence or two. One with a bit of blood about it, my lad!”
“ ’Mazing old gentleman, that,” muttered the groom as Mr. Benson left. “Shouldn’t like to get into his black books. Only good jumper in the stable is Prince—an’ he’s a devil, he is. Well, if the poor old gentleman breaks his skull open, I got witnesses to prove he asked for a good jumper with a bit of blood about him.”
Mr. Benson meanwhile got Roberto to rake him out a pair of riding breeches and leggings to fit. And presently the lawyer appeared in the hall wearing his morning coat and vest above the riding breeches and leggings. He might have stepped right out of the sixties, with his drab, flat-topped hat and old-fashioned stock.
Prince, a great black colt of sixteen hands, was led round by the head groom, who seemed to have difficulty in controlling him. His mouth frothed in his excitement, and there was a dangerous white gleam in his rolling eyes. As Mr. Benson surveyed him, he smiled. Prince was a goodly sight to a lover of horses.
The lawyer bent his leg and the groom took it. With surprising speed, the old man sprang into the saddle; and, before Prince could do any further “showing off,” he found his rider to be a person with a light but firm hand, and, if necessary, a resolute spur. Prince decided to behave himself.
It was some time later that horse and rider approached an apparently deserted farm in the midst of poor, derelict fen land. A tall man, uncouth in appearance, but with big, honest eyes, came out.
“This is a sight for sore eyes, Mr. Benson,” he greeted the lawyer with a laugh. “I’ve seen you like this many a time when I was a lad, but never for the last thirty years, I’ll warrant.”
“There’s work to be done, Joe,” said the lawyer. “How many lads can you get in the next six hours—trusty and tight-mouthed?”
“Is it a poachin’ round-up?” asked Joe Litt, for that was the name of the man.
“No, it’s worse. But I’m backing it. How many?” the lawyer snapped.
“Three do?” asked the man.
“Ample,” agreed Mr. Benson, dismounting. “We’ll have a talk about it. Got an apple for this youngster?”
Joe Litt smiled and went back to the half-ruined house. When he returned he had two apples in his hand. Joe led Prince off to the stable. For an hour the lawyer and Joe were in close consultation. Then, at the end of that time, Prince was brought out again and the lawyer mounted.
“That’ll be all right, sir,” promised Joe Litt. “The four of us’ll be at the library window at nine o’clock.”
CHAPTER XIII.
TRAPPED
In ample time for his lunch appointment with Wilfred Barlow, Mr. Benson returned to Evenden Priory. The head groom’s astonishment, when he beheld the old lawyer sitting unconcernedly upon his mettlesome colt knew no bounds. He saw from the muddy condition of Prince’s legs that he had traveled across country, and the damp condition of his coat registered the speed at which he had been traveling.
Almost in awe, he watched the lawyer dismount, and remained stupefied as the latter handed him the reins. Mr. Benson grinned knowingly, left him, and went to his room, to change.
Punctually at one o’clock Wilfred came, and was ushered into the morning room, where Mr. Benson usually lunched. He was greeted with cordiality by his host, and the meal began. There was no other guest. Throughout the meal, Mr. Benson plied Wilfred with questions about his early days, his ambitions, and his connections. Never did the old man refer once to the all-important subject of the murder and the approaching trial.
He learnt that Wilfred was the son of a well-known Church dignitary whose benevolence had left his family very poor when, at the close of a comparatively short but strenuous career, he had passed on to another world. Wilfred had been at school then; and, with the assistance of an uncle of his mother, he had been enabled to complete his medical studies.
Mr. Benson showed keen sympathy, and soon Wilfred found himself talking to him as if he were an old friend. There was about Mr. Benson that which attracted confidence and compelled respect. Mr. Benson, Wilfred thought, as he watched the old man across the table, was one of the few men of whom it could be said that familiarity did not breed contempt. He could not imagine anyone being disrespectful to the possessor of those eyes—eyes which could twinkle with amusement, but could look like furnaces of fury in anger, and which conveyed continually an impression of power that was almost uncanny.
“I should think you would do fairly well in your exams?” asked the lawyer.
“Yes,” replied Wilfred. “Not too well—a good second class.”
The lawyer nodded approval. “I detest people who pass exams brilliantly,” he said. “When do you expect to get a country practice?”
Wilfred laughed. He had not told the old gentleman that he was seeking a country practice.
“Well,” he said, “I do want to get a decent country practice eventually, but they take a lot of acquiring. I must try to get in with some established practitioner who needs help. I cannot afford to buy a practice.”
“What about this part of the world? Would this suit you?” Mr. Benson watched his young friend closely. Wilfred looked up sharply, eagerness in his eyes.
“Rather,” he said. “Do you know of one, sir?” Mr. Benson ate in silence for a few seconds, then replied.
“I shall speak to a friend of mine in Norwich. I think it might be possible. I should judge that you are a pretty efficient all-round chap. You are obviously reliable, but I don’t think there is a great deal of brain power in you.”
Wilfred flushed a little in annoyance, then smiled. After all, this old man told the exact truth. He had never had any illusions about his capacity; but he knew, that as a country practitioner, he would be an unqualified success. Born in the country, he loved it, understood its people, gloried in its activities through its pageant of seasons, and drew his health and vigorous color from its clean winds and scented air.
Just before the meal was over, Mr. Benson made a reference to the case.
“You are a friend to the chief constable’s, by the way. Have you consulted him at all on this case?”
“Yes,” replied Wilfred, looking up from his plate; “we have had several chats about it. I have also met the Scotland Yard man.”
“Have you told them anything that you have not told me?” the lawyer next asked, watching him through shrewd eyes.
“No, I have not told them as much,” said Wilfred readily. “They gave me special facilities to look over the scene of the crime, and they thought I might learn something. They know the relations in which Miss Kilby and I stand to each other, and, without mentioning any name, I said I had seen a man prowling about outside the tower—the Prior’s Tower. I had Laidlaw in my mind. I thought that might make them doubt their present theory about Frank, who we all agree, is not guilty. I mean that you and I and all of us here agree he is not guilty.”
“I am rather sorry you told them that,” said Mr. Benson, looking towards the window. “Are they watching, do you know?”
“Yes, they are keeping the tower under observation,” Wilfred replied.
“Since when?” asked Mr. Benson.
“All the time, I suppose,” Wilfred replied. “I told them about Laidlaw, without mentioning his name, days ago—long before his last visit.”
“You didn’t say that anyone in the house knew, or received, this mysterious stranger, did you?” the lawyer asked, frowning.
“No—simply that I saw a man hanging around at the foot of the tower one night,” Wilfred replied. “I only told them that because I wanted, if possible, to give them some line to detract from Frank.”
“You see,” said the lawyer, “that is just the mistake an amateur always makes when dealing with the police. He imagines that they will look at the thing as through his eyes. They don’t. As soon as you gave them a line, the first thing they would do would be to set a fairly close watch; then, when that has failed, they would investigate the place where your mysterious stranger was alleged to have been seen; then, finding nothing there, they next pursue their investigations in the house—carefully, in a roundabout way. Finally, they begin to analyze your motives for putting them on what they think is a blind trail. The whole system in a murder inquiry is to gather a terrific quantity of information. They spend money like water, and put a whole army of people on, to gather information. Three or four experts tabulate the information at headquarters, and perhaps three men of something approaching genius are included in the whole gang conducting the inquiry. These three spend their time criticising each other’s brain waves and comparing them with their own. Marvel of marvels, the system actually succeeds! They get man after man. Yet little Laidlaw was not trapped. How do we account for that?”
“I think the police will watch the tower from the other side of the lawn,” replied Wilfred. “If anyone kept under the shadow of the wall they could reach the secret door without being in direct vision from the shrubbery, which is hidden by the contour of the tower.”
“Now, if I make a suggestion to you”—Mr. Benson leaned on his hands and looked keenly across at the young doctor—“will you give me your word not, under any circumstances, to divulge what I am about to say—even to your little spitfire?”
“Certainly,” replied Wilfred, “but really, Mr. Benson, Jill Kilby is not——”
“Tut-tut!” snapped the lawyer. “That’s beside the point. What I’m really saying is that you are pledged not to divulge this to a living soul.” Wilfred nodded wonderingly.
“Very well then, I’m going to kidnap the murdering little pest to-night, if he comes, in the tower, and I’m going to remove him to a nice quiet place where he can make statements with great facility and where he can practise his murdering tricks on the rats—a fine breed they are there, too. Now, what do you say about that?”
For a moment or two Wilfred was too greatly astonished to reply. There was evidently no limit to the astounding activities of the old lawyer. To kidnap a man! Yet, Wilfred reflected, the man was probably a murderer, and had actually tried to murder the lawyer. Above all this, there was such a look of confidence and self-assurance on the face of Mr. Benson that it inspired confidence in him, also.
If the great Mr. Benson, respected and sometimes feared in two counties, gave his sanction, even his active co-operation, to what seemed a terribly lawless proceeding, then there must be good reason for it. He made his decision.
“If I can help——” he began.
“Right!” said the lawyer. “I want some chloroform. I can’t have the little rat screeching the place down here before we tie him up. Will you get me some?”
“I’ll come myself and help you, if you like. It’s not easy to apply chloroform,” said Wilfred impulsively.
“Good man!” Mr. Benson shook hands with his young friend, and very shortly afterwards Wilfred left, promising to return in time to dine with the lawyer at seven o’clock and bring such things as were necessary for the work in hand.
“By the time he is up to the neck in this caper,” chuckled Mr. Benson to himself when Wilfred had gone, “he’ll be glad enough to tell me all he knows about the night of the murder. In any event, we’ll extract a tale out of that little pest, or my name isn’t Chris Benson.”
Then Mr. Benson went to have a confidential chat with the butler, and that gentleman promised to have a quantity of beer and sandwiches packed in the Prior’s Room by nine o’clock, and to maintain strict silence about the affair.
Then Mr. Benson sought Lady Evenden. She had risen late after the alarms of the previous night, and looked very ill. As soon as he saw her, Mr. Benson decided not to question her further, but contented himself by inquiring in his most fatherly manner after her health.
Then he returned to the library, his papers, and the telephone. Hour after hour went by, and still Mr. Benson was engaged. He telephoned through to London, three times, and he spoke to the governor of the jail, and to the chief constable of Norwich; then to a great detective agency.
It was twenty minutes to seven when the lawyer finally finished, locked certain papers away in the safe, and went to his room, to change. By seven he was welcoming Wilfred Barlow in the hall, where the young doctor stood talking to Jill.
The lawyer and his guest dined alone, Jill being engaged with her mistress and Lady Porter upstairs; for Lady Evenden rarely came down these days. Throughout the dinner, while the footmen waited on them, nothing was said about the coming “affair.” But, when they had retired to the library, Mr. Benson examined carefully the things the doctor had brought.
He took an impish delight in the bottle of chloroform, and listened with eagerness and ill-concealed glee as the doctor explained its effects and how it was to be administered. Nine o’clock came, and there was a light tap on the window-pane. Mr. Benson opened the long French window.
With a muttered “Come on!” to his followers, Joe Litt, dressed in his Sunday broadcloth jacket and vest, but with corduroy trousers, entered the room. Following at his heels were three sturdy farm hands. They entered the room sheepishly, caps in their hands. None of them wore an overcoat, though the night was cold, and several of them grinned a little foolishly at the strange surroundings.
Mr. Benson carefully closed the window, then turned to Joe Litt and said:
“Let me see now, here’s young Ben Howlett, Tom Sayers, and Bill Harris.” Each one of the rustic lads was known to Mr. Benson, and he had a word for each of them before he led them along the corridor, up the servants’ staircase, and along the service corridor of the first floor, to the Prior’s Tower. When the party entered the Prior’s Room, it was rather amusing to Mr. Benson to see the expressions of awe and wonder on the faces of the lads; and even Joe Litt seemed glad of company. There was not a man among those sturdy sons of Norfolk soil that would have dared to stay alone in that room all night. With awe-stricken looks they all took the oath of silence, and then Mr. Benson ordered them to pick up the two hampers the butler had left. Then, taking a lighted candle, he led the way through the great wardrobe, to the crypt chapel, below.
Arrived there, he established his party in the little vestry, where they sat on the great chest, and, by the light of a single candle, drank beer and ate sandwiches, to keep up their courage.
Strict silence was impressed upon them—quite unnecessarily, for none of them felt like talking, and the minutes began to lengthen into hours. Ten o’clock came, and then eleven. Finally it was nearly midnight; and Mr. Benson had almost given up hope for any success on this night, when there was a sound of something scraping, then a jolt, followed by a shuffling of feet, then the rasping sound of the moving lever replacing the hinged paving stone.
Mr. Benson looked carefully out and saw a man standing, bending over the bench where the candles stood. He struck a match; there was a flicker; then the candle was lit. The man shielded the flame with his hand and stood there until he was sure of its light. Then, he turned, and the light of the candle was reflected upon his face.
“Come on, lads,” said Mr. Benson. “Here he is.”
Instantly the six men left the little vestry; and, before the astonished intruder could realize what was happening, they were half way across the crypt. Instantly, Dr. Laidlaw—for it was he—realized the trap. With a startled expression, he jumped backwards, blew out the candle, and next instant there was a shot—followed by a yelp of pain from one of the yokels.
“Get him,” ordered Mr. Benson, holding aloft the candle he had brought out of the vestry, which was now near enough faintly to illumine the part from whence Dr. Laidlaw had fired. He tried to fire again. But, Joe Litt had his hand in an iron grip; and then he collapsed as Wilfred applied the chloroform mask to his face.
“Quickly now,” pressed Mr. Benson. “There may be some one else here shortly. That cursed shot! It may have roused heaven knows what. It sounded like a quarry being blasted. Anybody hurt?”
“Yes, me,” at once replied a man, holding a damaged wrist.
Wilfred Barlow quickly bound up the latter. Then, with two men carrying the unconscious figure of the little doctor, they set off, up the staircase which led to the secret door in the tower wall, Mr. Benson manipulating the mechanism. Arrived on the lawn, they skirted the tower, making their way to the circular sweep at the side of the house leading to the stables. There a large car was waiting, and they all entered it. The car set off. But, as it did so, a challenge rang out, and a police lantern shone.
CHAPTER XIV.
A DOCTOR IN DURANCE
“What’s that?” Wilfred Barlow asked nervously.
“A police lantern! What did you think it was?” replied the old man calmly. Then, putting his head out of the window, he ordered: “Sharp to the right, and through the low woods. Did you leave the gates open as I told you to?” The man on the driving seat mumbled something that was evidently satisfactory, and the car, swinging sharply to the right, rushed along a cart track used chiefly for communicating with the game preserves. Fainter and fainter grew the sounds of the whistles, and, as the driver got used to the road, the faster he drove the car.
“Through Eggleham and across the marsh!” again ordered Mr. Benson, and the driver nodded. They reached the main road after a run of two miles through woods and fields belonging to the Evenden Priory estate, and, for a few hundred yards, rushed along the great white thoroughfare, then turned down a by-road leading to the little hamlet of Eggleham. Swiftly, passing through the sleeping group of cottages, the car continued along the narrow road, until Joe Litt observed to Mr. Benson:
“Here’s the old occupation road, sir.”
“Then tell him to take it—if he knows it,” said the lawyer.
“Knows it like a book,” said Joe Litt, and spoke a word to the driver, who slowed the car down. Then, after crawling along for a few yards, he turned off the road and entered a grass-grown way, half field, half road.
In reality the road, or narrow field, belonged to no one now in these later days. Villagers with a cow or a horse could let the animals graze at will there. It wound erratically along, turning and bending for more than a mile, until it reached the marsh, when it lost itself in the treacherous, swampy waste ground that stretched for many miles to the Broads, in the south.
Now the car proceeded very carefully indeed; for, it was a work of great skill, even in the daytime, to thread a safe way through the hidden pools and morasses. The man driving, nearly stopped occasionally, but never quite, and only an anxious glance, that he kept giving over the side at the ground, told of their occasional nearness to disaster.
Through all the journey Laidlaw remained unconscious, Wilfred frequently feeling his pulse to make certain that he was in a safe condition.
At last the ruined farm was reached, and the car drew up at the door.
“I’ve made things as comfortable as I can,” said Joe Litt, “but there isn’t much need of comfort here, as you know, for me, sir.”
“That’ll be all right,” said Mr. Benson. “There’s not much comfort needed now, I give you my word. Take him in.”
The last words were addressed to the farm hands, who were alighting, and two of them immediately carried the insensible Dr. Laidlaw into the farm kitchen. A great fire was burning on the hearth, and another laborer got up sleepily from a settee on which he had been reclining.
“We’ll begin now as we mean to go on, Joe,” said the lawyer. “Appoint some one to remain with him, and never let him be alone for a single second, so that he can play no tricks. Where are you going to put him?”
“I’ve had a bit of fire lit in the old parlor, sir, and there’s big shutters to the window, and curtains, so no one can see a light there. I thought of putting him in there.”
“Yes, that’ll do all right, but I don’t see any reason to keep the window shuttered in the daytime. You can get warning of the approach of anyone within two miles, and then you can slip him in the barn, can’t you?”
“Yes, that was what I was thinking,” said Joe Litt. “If there was any search or anything, I would have him fastened up and muzzled and put under the hay.”
They carried the recumbent doctor through a door and along a damp-smelling passage, to a room which had once been the great parlor of the farm, but was now only the happy hunting ground of beetles and occasional rats.
The old farm of Swinerigmire—always pronounced locally in three words, Swine-Rig-Mire—had a curious history. Years ago it was in the occupation of a family called Foulder, and was a very prosperous farm on the outskirts of the marsh. The last of the Foulders married very late in life, and his wife bore him a daughter. She left him at the same moment that she presented him with the girl, who was to be the apple of his eye.
When Norah Foulder was sixteen she “kept company” with Joe Litt, then a lad of about twenty and her aged father’s right-hand man. Norah was wonderfully sweet, but her beauty turned out to be fatal to Joe Litt’s hopes. She met a young engineer taking a holiday in the Broad country, who had wandered afield in the marshes and met a vision of unexpected beauty in such a wilderness. Then, something happened that broke the old man’s life, and destroyed for Joe Litt any hopes of happiness.
The engineer deserted Norah, but he had told her enough of the life of the great cities to fire her imagination, and she went away with him. No one ever heard from her again. Joe Litt, who never before in his life had traveled beyond Norwich, journeyed to London, and for a week wandered round in pathetic helplessness, searching for Norah. Then he gave it up. Like her father, he gave up everything else, too, dismissed the staff, and just let the farm go to rack and ruin, only cultivating such acreage as was absolutely necessary to preserve life. The old man died a few months after his daughter had disappeared, leaving Joe the farm—and there he lived alone. His companions were a few sheep, a couple of cows, some poultry, and a horse which he yoked occasionally to a crazy old cart and drove to the market.
The marsh, ever jealous of ground once wrested from its depths, came into its own again after the centuries, slowly, ever so slowly, but with deadly certainty and little suckling sounds of satisfaction it encroached. Outlying fields were already bearing its mud and reeds in exchange for the poppies and gold of the days when the marsh was made to obey the behests of men, and reluctantly presented its master with rolling fields of grain.
But, though a recluse, Joe Litt was not a bitter man. The old lawyer was very fond of him. He had been of service to Mr. Benson on more than one occasion; and, indeed, Joe was always only too ready to help anyone. No farmer ever called to him in vain, and he was a giant among men as a worker. Uncouth in appearance, he was not without a gentleness of manner that endeared him to women and children and animals.
Joe’s life was in no sense an idle one—it was simply that he had lost interest in his own future, and took rather a sad delight in beholding the ruin of the once prosperous farm. It seemed suitable, he thought—a monument to the loss of the farm’s most precious inhabitant, a register of ruin.
The room into which the unconscious little doctor was now brought, still contained the faded furniture and the worn carpet of the old days. Everything suffered from damp; the room smelt musty, the walls were mildewed, the ceiling broken down in places, the floor boards dangerous and rotten. Joe knew that these were all heralds of the approaching marsh, but the lawyer sniffed.
“Joe, my lad,” he said, “this damp is enough to give a rhinoceros the rheumatics. Keep a good fire on, Joe, because I’m going to spend a bit of time with him to-morrow.”
Joe assented. And, after leaving two men in charge of Laidlaw, the others went to the great kitchen, where a huge pot of coffee was served, with rashers of ham.
“That smells good,” announced the lawyer. “Come on, Barlow, have a plate of ham. This your own curing, Joe?”
“Yes, Mr. Benson. I never buy nothing in the way of bacon and that sort of thing.” Mr. Benson nodded with his mouth full of the delicious ham.
“Now then, Joe,” he said presently, when the meal was over, “I shall be round about eleven o’clock to-morrow. Is my man ready?”
The driver was brought forward and the journey back across the marsh was begun. It was more difficult now; for, the moon that had been shining was set, and a mist was veiling the marsh. After a long time, however, they threaded their way safely back to the road. And then it was an easy matter to get to the Priory.
Mr. Benson stopped the car in the game coverts behind the house, and he and Wilfred walked the remaining quarter of a mile.
They approached the house from the rear, skirted the kitchens, and then very carefully surveyed the front of the building. There was not a sign of life. Keeping close to the wall, Mr. Benson approached the library window and opened it; then, followed by Wilfred, he stepped through.
“Now, my boy,” announced the old lawyer, “we’ll get some sleep; we’ve done a good night’s work, and we’ll do better work to-morrow, when we get that little murderer talking. I’ve arranged for a bed for you next door to me. Have a drink?”
The old lawyer and Wilfred talked for a further five minutes over a tot of whisky, then went to bed. In the morning, while Wilfred was still asleep, the old lawyer was up attending to his letters and telephoning. At breakfast, the butler said that the police had blown whistles and caused an alarm during the night. It appeared that a constable had seen some men appear, apparently from nowhere, near the Prior’s Tower, carrying a corpse to a waiting motor car.
“What had you been giving the constable to drink?” Mr. Benson asked the butler severely. “This is a very serious thing, you know.”
After a moment, during which the butler seemed unhappy, Mr. Benson looked up sharply. “What had you been giving the constable?”
“Well, sir,” said the butler, with a little cough, “the constable, sir, is rather partial to Helen, the housemaid, sir, and I am given to understand that he had a little game pie.”
“Game pies do not make constables see men appearing from nowhere, carrying corpses to waiting motor cars!” announced Mr. Benson with decision.
“No, sir, of course not,” agreed the butler seriously. “I am further informed, sir, that the constable had a little ale——”
“Send for Helen immediately,” interrupted Mr. Benson, who was thoroughly enjoying himself. Presently Helen appeared trembling. She was a pretty, buxom girl, very dark, with laughing blue eyes—an Irish type.
“What did the constable drink—your constable, I mean?” asked the lawyer.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” she replied, “He had a little beer, if you please, sir.”
“How many quarts?” asked Mr. Benson, thumping his fist upon the table and looking terrible.
“Oh, only one, sir—well, not more than one-and-a-half at the outside, sir.” Mr. Benson nodded solemnly.
“How much whisky?”
“Oh, sir, only a nip. Just a little to keep the cold out, sir. He suffers with a weak chest. Oh, sir, I hope he will not get into trouble.”
“No, I’ll fix it up for him,” said Mr. Benson, nodding towards the door.
The girl withdrew, and soon Wilfred appeared. When the butler left the room, Mr. Benson told him of the fortunate incident of the discredited constable on watch. Wilfred enjoyed the joke heartily, and after breakfast Mr. Benson sent for the constable’s sergeant and obtained from him an assurance that no disciplinary action would be taken against the constable for his stupid mistake.
Mr. Benson found that Lady Evenden was not so well that morning, and decided not to see her. Wilfred took advantage of the opportunity to spend half an hour with Jill, who was exceedingly surprised to see her lover in the house. Wilfred told her that he was assisting Mr. Benson in the general inquiry, and that, as there might be another nocturnal visitor for the old lawyer, he had offered to sleep near him—an offer, he said, which the lawyer had accepted.
Not a syllable did he breathe about the strange adventure in the night.
At half-past ten, Mr. Benson was dressed ready for riding; and, as a mount also had been arranged for Wilfred, the two set off across country to the lonely farm of Swinerigmire.
Long before they approached, they were seen by Joe Litt’s trustworthy watchers, and when they pulled up at the farm door, the master of the ruined house himself met them.
“He’s been going on something terrible, sir,” said Joe to Mr. Benson. “Cursing and threatening and all sorts of things.”
“Never mind, Joe,” said Mr. Benson darkly. “It’s nothing to how he’ll go on in a few minutes. Come on, Wilfred.”
Followed by Joe Litt, Wilfred and Mr. Benson walked through the kitchen, and through the darkened, damp passage to the parlor where Laidlaw was.
The doctor sat by the fire in a huge armchair, looking very white and sick, and glowering fiercely at two laborers who sat opposite him on bench, smoking clay pipes. Their eyes never left him.
As the lawyer and Wilfred entered the room, the doctor was in the midst of a tirade of threats, which was absolutely wasted upon his audience; they merely sat stolidly there, watching him and smoking their pipes. When he saw who his visitors were, Laidlaw stood up.
“What is the meaning of this outrage?” he asked. “I’ll have the law on you for this!”
“I certainly would, if I were you,” agreed Mr. Benson reasonably. “Your treatment includes a good many indictable offences. There is, for instance, the kidnaping—a most serious thing; there is the violence; then the question of illegal detention and false imprisonment arises. Oh, you have an unanswerable case against me—that’s why I’m going to murder you and bury you in the marsh.”
The lawyer spoke so quietly, and in such matter-of-fact tones, that, to begin with, the doctor could not understand whether he was being chaffed or whether the lawyer was actually stating a case seriously. At his last words, accompanied by a dangerous glint in Mr. Benson’s terrible eyes, Laidlaw positively quailed; he gasped, and, with eyes staring in horror at the lawyer, collapsed into his chair.
“Examine him,” said Mr. Benson briefly to Wilfred, and immediately the young doctor went over and felt the prisoner’s pulse and examined his eyes.
“H’m—not much wrong, beyond shock,” he declared. “I’ll give him a dose of something.”
“Yes, and I’ll give him a dose of something, too!” Mr. Benson said darkly, with an ominous nod of his head. And the unfortunate Laidlaw shivered again.
Wilfred Barlow gave the terrified man a stimulant, and, after a few moments, during which they watched the color return to his face, Mr. Benson dismissed the two laborers, and he and Wilfred were left alone with their prisoner.
“Now then,” began Mr. Benson, lighting a cigar. “To begin with, Dr. Laidlaw, we’ll just hear exactly what happened on the night of the murder of the late Sir John Evenden.”
“Ha! ha!” Laidlaw made a pathetic effort to laugh. “I thought as much. You daren’t hand me over to the police, in case I ruined Lady Evenden, so you struck the happy little idea of kidnaping me by violence, and trying to get me to talk. Well, Mr. Lawyer Benson, you’ve overreached yourself, for you’ll get nothing from me, understand? Nothing.
“What’s more, you’ll get punished—severely punished, the whole gang of you—toughs, crook lawyers, and kidnapers. Lady Evenden will be ruined, Frank Gough will hang, and I’ll laugh at the lot of you.”
In silence they listened to his outburst. Laidlaw was silent for a minute; he looked a little less at ease, then continued rather inconsistently: “What can you prove against me, anyway?”
“You’ve given the little rat too much stimulant, you know,” Mr. Benson said to Wilfred, with a disapproving shake of his head. “He imagines himself a man-eating tiger. Pity, because he might have told us something before he died.”
Mr. Benson walked to the door.
“Joe!” he shouted. “Joe Litt! Bring that coffin in!”
CHAPTER XV.
THE DOCTOR’S STORY
At the mention of “coffin” Dr. Laidlaw trembled. Fearfully, he looked at Mr. Benson, and then watched the open door.
“It will be ready in half an hour, sir,” shouted Joe Litt. “They are just lining it with pitch.” This little duologue had been prearranged between Mr. Benson and Litt. But the rat-faced little man, who did not know that, watched the lawyer gravely nod, heard him shout back:
“Don’t be longer, then; we’ll need it sooner than I thought.” Laidlaw feared the worst. Mr. Benson, with a glance at Wilfred, settled himself on one of the seats that had been vacated by the laborers who had guarded Laidlaw, and calmly smoked his cigar.
Absolute silence was maintained for fully five minutes. Wilfred gazed up at the damp and broken ceiling, Mr. Benson stared meditatively into the fire, while Laidlaw looked first at one of his captors, then at the other, occasionally glancing at the door.
At last the tension was too much for him, and he spoke.
“I might as well warn you that if anything happens to me, I shall be missed, and some one will have followed me here,” he said in sharp, nervous tones.
“You’re quite wrong,” Mr. Benson said. “You were not followed at all. Even if you had been, it wouldn’t really matter, for there are holes in the marsh deep enough to hold you and all your friends.”
“But—but——” Dr. Laidlaw swallowed; in the distance a door shut noisily. He shivered. “You can’t mean that you would commit a cold-blooded murder? Murder a defenseless man? It’s awful!”
“Normally speaking,” replied Mr. Benson calmly, “I certainly wouldn’t, of course. But, you see, this case is quite apart from normality. To begin with, I, who am a lawyer, have a great respect for the law. I believe in seeing the law properly administered if possible. But, where there seems to be every possibility of the law being defeated, then, by any means at all, however irregular, I believe in carrying out the law’s demands in the case of a murderer like yourself. The end justifies the means when it comes to visiting the prescribed penalty on a murderer.”
While he spoke, the old lawyer never took his eyes off Laidlaw, and his words were so quietly and yet so convincingly spoken that the doctor turned even paler than ever.
A cold sweat broke out on Laidlaw’s forehead, and in his despair he turned to address an appeal to Wilfred.
“You will not be a party to this terrible thing, will you, Dr. Barlow?” he asked. “Murder will out, you know—There are all sorts of curious ways in which your crime will become known.”
“I shall not interfere in anything that commends itself to Mr. Benson,” replied Wilfred decisively.
“But,” said Dr. Laidlaw, turning to the lawyer, “you are quite wrong. I have committed no murder. I give you my solemn assurance that I have committed no murder.”
“Will you prove that by telling us every detail of your relations with Lady Evenden?” asked Mr. Benson. “And also what you were doing in the Prior’s Room on the night Sir John Evenden was murdered?”
“I cannot—I simply cannot tell you the full facts of my association with Lady Evenden,” replied the little doctor. “Believe me, it would be no service to Lady Evenden for me to do so.”
“Very well,” agreed the lawyer. “You see, we are just where we began, and you must take the consequences. I personally think you murdered Sir John, and I shall act on that belief.”
“I did not! I did not!” replied Laidlaw, with terrible earnestness.
“Then who did?” the lawyer asked.
“I do not know,” said Dr. Laidlaw.
“We have wasted enough time,” said Mr. Benson. “Have you that hypodermic syringe ready?” He addressed his question to Wilfred, who immediately opened a pocket case and took out a syringe, a needle, and a small phial.
Dr. Laidlaw screamed at the top of his voice. Mr. Benson rose and went to the door.
“Come along, two of you!” he called, and immediately Joe Litt and another man came in.
“Hold him!” ordered the lawyer, and the little doctor was seized by the two powerful men; and, despite his yells, which, in fact, were quickly smothered by the large hand of Joe Litt, was soon lying on the bench, his feet held by one man, his arms and head by Joe Litt.
“How much does it take to kill him?” asked Mr. Benson with interest, watching Wilfred fill the syringe.
“This will be enough,” Wilfred replied. “He will suffer a good deal for a few minutes, then—probably in about ten minutes—the heart will give out.” Mr. Benson nodded.
“Go on, then,” he said. “Stick it into him.”
Frantically did the doctor struggle, and by vigorous movements of his head and eyes he indicated that he had something to say.
“What do you want?” asked Mr. Benson, with a sign to Joe Litt to uncover his mouth.
“My God!” gasped Laidlaw. “Oh, my God! I will tell—I will tell.” Mr. Benson gave a quick glance at Wilfred, then nodded in the direction of the door to Joe Litt and his assistant, who left the recumbent doctor and went out.
Several moments elapsed during which the doctor struggled for breath; then he turned to Mr. Benson, and there was cunning in his eyes as well as fear.
“If I tell—how do I know that I will be given my liberty?” he asked.
“I never said you would be given your liberty,” replied Mr. Benson at once. “Only this will I promise you—If you tell the whole truth, and out of what you tell you make it possible for me to secure the acquittal of my client without putting you on the witness stand—or, what is more likely, in the dock—then I will allow you to disappear.”
“But what guarantee have I?” pressed Laidlaw.
“None whatever,” said Mr. Benson, a hard line showing at the corners of his mouth. “I am not accustomed to give guarantees to such as you.”
“Well, don’t you agree that I would be a fool to speak——” began the doctor, when Mr. Benson again arose and went to the door.
“Come back, come back!” bleated Laidlaw. “I will take your word for it. Don’t—don’t call those terrible men back!”
“Well, what have you to say?” Mr. Benson seated himself again. “Have you got pen and paper?” he asked Wilfred, and Barlow immediately produced a notebook and fountain pen.
“Take it down as he speaks, or can you write shorthand? Good. Then put it down in shorthand, and have him sign it when you read it over to him. We can have it done fully, in proper form, later, and then he will sign the finished copy as well.
“Now you understand,” he said, turning to Dr. Laidlaw. “I take it that what you are going to say is the whole truth, without any qualifications or reservations. I shall submit your story to what test I can, and when I am convinced of its truth I will release you.”
Dr. Laidlaw nodded. “Have you a little brandy?” he asked. Wilfred gave him some. Then he began.
“I have known Lady Evenden for a good many years,” he said. “When I first met her she was the wife of an invalid called John Gough, and lived on the shores of Loch Lomond. I acted as locum tenens to a doctor there during his summer holidays, and was called in upon several occasions to attend the late Mr. John Gough. He suffered from G.P.I.—general paralysis of the insane.
“Her life with him was very unhappy. He had all sorts of delusions; indeed, he was quite certifiable. In the end, he became so much worse during my term of attendance upon him that I was inclined to have him certified for his wife’s sake. I considered him dangerous.
“One night he developed a frightful brain-storm—beyond anything that had gone before—and his wife sought refuge with friends. She brought back a friend—the head of a family living somewhere near—to find that her husband had suffered a stroke during the time she was out. He was lying on his back, foaming at the mouth, and in an unconscious condition. I was sent for, and found he had had an apoplectic stroke.
“We got him to bed, and I said I would call in the morning. In the morning he was found in the loch. There was an inquiry—they don’t have inquests in Scotland—and I said the stroke might have been only partial, and that he might have recovered sufficiently to rush out of the house, in a fit of madness, and drown himself in the lake.
“Well, Lady Evenden—Mrs. Gough, as she then was—went away, and I saw her frequently afterwards——”
“Why?” the lawyer asked.
“Well, I understood her condition. I had some considerable mental experience, as Barlow there can tell you, years ago.” The lawyer looked at Wilfred, who nodded assent. “Mrs. Gough’s condition at that time was very critical—I mean her mental condition. She was unfit to be left entirely alone. I was able to treat her, and I don’t hesitate to say that I saved her sanity. She followed a course of treatment that I outlined, and she consulted a mental specialist in Vienna, who endorsed my treatment and extended it, and she quite recovered.
“Later, as you know, she met Sir Michael Evenden, and lived many happy years—thanks to me,” Dr. Laidlaw finished complacently. He took a sip of brandy, then continued:
“I saw her from time to time——”
“Why?” Again it was the lawyer who spoke.
“Why, to see her, of course—to see that her mental condition remained strong and healthy. There is always danger of a relapse——”
“You blackmailed her!” Mr. Benson leant forward and bent the whole force of his terrible eyes on the quailing doctor. “Don’t lie, now!” he admonished him.
“Lady Evenden was very good to me,” the doctor said, after a pause. “When she became rich, she showed her generosity and her gratitude by rewarding me with various sums from time to time.”
“All the while you were blackmailing her husband,” said Mr. Benson.
“If I am to tell you all my relations with Sir Michael, and the journeys I went to Russia for him, I should never finish telling my story to-day,” protested Dr. Laidlaw. “Do you want me to tell you all that?”
“No—I know it,” said Mr. Benson. “Don’t you remember you came to my room to try to get the proofs? Don’t you remember you nearly murdered me for those proofs?”
The doctor turned white, looked nervously around him, then continued:
“I am very sorry. I did not intend murdering you, or harming you at all.”
“Never mind—get on,” said the lawyer. “I want to hear about John’s murder, and what you were doing there at all.”
“Well, as I said,” Dr. Laidlaw continued, “I saw Lady Evenden often. I saw her because I feared a relapse. Dr. Barlow there will tell you that in mental patients the great thing to avoid is intense emotional stress. The loss of a very close association—a husband or a wife, for instance—will frequently precipitate a relapse. Now, to put it at its lowest, I had reasons of my own for not wanting Lady Evenden shouting all sorts of wild things about the past. I did not want that Loch Lomond business raked up again, and so I lost no time in putting myself in touch, when I heard of the death of Sir Michael. I knew what he meant to her, and, to put it bluntly, I expected to find her insane—and I did.”
“What?” almost shouted Mr. Benson, while Wilfred stared, open-eyed.
“Yes,” repeatedly Dr. Laidlaw. “She was absolutely unbalanced. I’ll ask you a fair question, sir.” He turned to Mr. Benson, who watched him with eyes like those of an eagle. “Did you see Lady Evenden soon after the death of her husband?” Mr. Benson nodded without speaking.
“Well, what did you think of her mental condition yourself?” asked Laidlaw. With some reluctance the lawyer replied.
“I certainly thought she was very upset!” he said.
“Now do you remember the day you refused me an interview with her—when I succeeded in obtaining one later?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Benson.
“Well,” Dr. Laidlaw said, “throw your memory back to the morning following my interview with her. Did you not notice a decided improvement in her? Now, be fair.”
Keenly did Mr. Benson watch the little doctor, and the more he watched him, the more he hated him. He was plausible, this little blackmailer. But, despite himself, the lawyer had to admit that what the little man said was indeed true. He actually had noted an improvement, though the last thing he had thought of attributing it to was the man before him having visited her.
“I may have done. I certainly saw an improvement somewhere about that time, but I can’t say exactly when,” was the best reply that Mr. Benson felt he could make.
“If I had not come she would have been stark, raving mad,” said Dr. Laidlaw. “Well, to continue. It was not sufficient to see her once, but I had to see her frequently. I could not come openly, on account of my dealings with the late Sir Michael, which, by the way, she knew nothing about, and the possibility of the facts getting into some one’s hands who might have made trouble. So I had to see her privately, and, feeling the great need of me—for I assure you I can’t exaggerate that—Lady Evenden arranged to meet me in the Prior’s Tower. We used the secret room under her stepson’s bedroom.
“On the day he died I had seen her, as you know, in the afternoon, and I found it urgently necessary to get a certain drug from my bag and give her a draught that evening, hence our arrangement to meet in that secret room. Without the knowledge of a soul, she——”