The surprising information given by the stationmaster impressed the barrister as so much unexpected trover which would assert its value in the progress of events. He certainly did not anticipate the discovery of three David Humes, though he had hoped to find traces of two.
Before he reached his hotel he experienced a spasm of doubt. Was his client telling the truth about his movements on that memorable Christmas Eve? David’s story was fully corroborated by the railway official and the servants at the Hall, whose sworn evidence was in Brett’s possession. But how about Hume’s counterfeit presentments arriving by the earlier trains—coming from where and bound on what errands?
He resolutely closed down the trap-door opened by his imagination.
“The pit does not yawn for me,” he communed, “but for the man who killed Sir Alan. Assuredly he will fall into it before many days. Nothing on earth can stop the meeting of two or more of the hidden channels now being opened up, and when they do meet there must be a dramatic outcome.”
His chief purpose in revisiting Stowmarket was to seek further confidences from Mrs. Capella. He argued that the sudden journey of her husband to Naples would cause her much uneasiness, and she might now be inclined to reveal circumstances yet hidden.
He refused to take her at a disadvantage. From the hotel he sent a cyclist messenger with a note asking for an interview, and within an hour he received a cordial request to come at once.
Nevertheless, he was not a little astonished to find Helen Layton awaiting him in Margaret’s boudoir.
The girl showed signs of recent agitation, but she explained her presence quietly enough.
“Mrs. Capella sent for me when your note reached her, Mr. Brett. She is greatly upset by recent events, and was actually on the point of telegraphing to Davie to ask him to bring you here at once when your message was handed to her. She will be here presently. Please do not press her too closely to reveal anything she wishes to withhold. She is so emotional and excited, poor thing, that I fear her health may be endangered.”
Miss Layton’s words were not well chosen. She was conscious of the fact, and blushed furiously when Brett received her request with a friendly nod of comprehension.
“I do not know what to say for the best,” she went on desperately. “I am so sorry for Margaret, and it seems to me to be a terrible thing that my proposed marriage with her cousin should be the innocent cause of all this trouble.”
“Is it the cause?” he asked.
“What else can it be? Certainly not Mr. Capella’s foolish actions. If Davie and I were married, and far away from this neighbourhood, we would probably never see him again. I assure you I attach no serious significance to his mad fancy for me. The real reason for the present bother is Davie’s desire to reopen the story of the murder. Of that I am convinced.”
“Then what do you wish me to do?”
Helen’s eyes became suspiciously moist.
“How am I to decide?” she said tremulously. “Naturally, I want the name of my future husband to be cleared of the odium attached to it, but it is hard that this cannot be done without driving a dear woman like Margaret to despair, perhaps to the grave.”
“I do not see why the one course should involve the other.”
“Nor do I; but the fact remains. Mr. Capella’s decision to go to Naples is somehow bound up with it. Oh, dear! During the last two years a dozen or more girls have been happily married in this village without any one being killed, or running away, or dying of grief. Why should those things descend upon my poor little head?”
“Perhaps you are mistaken. Events have conspired to point to you as the unconscious source of a good deal that has happened. Personally, Miss Layton, I incline to the belief that you are no more responsible than David Hume-Frazer. If the mystery of Sir Alan’s death is ever solved, I feel assured that its genesis will be found in circumstances not only beyond your control, but wholly independent, and likely to operate in the same way if both you and your fiancé had never either seen or heard of Beechcroft Hall.”
“Oh, Mr. Brett,” she cried impulsively, “I wish I could be certain of that!”
“Try and adopt my opinion,” he answered, with a smile, for the girl’s dubiety was not very flattering.
“I know I am saying the wrong thing. I cannot help it. Margaret’s distress tried me sorely. Be gentle with her—that is all I ask.”
The door opened, and Mrs. Capella entered. Helen’s observations had prepared Brett to some extent, yet he was shocked to see the havoc wrought in Margaret’s appearance by days of suffering and nights of sleepless agony.
Her face was drawn and ivory-white, her eyes unnaturally brilliant, her lips bloodless and pinched. She was again garbed in black, and the sombre effect of her dress supplied a startling contrast to the deathly pallor of her features.
She recognised Brett’s presence by a silent bow, and sank on to a couch. She was not acting, but really ill, overwrought, inert, physically weak from want of food and sleep.
Helen ran to her side, and took her in a loving clasp.
“You poor darling!” she cried. “Why are you suffering so?”
Now there was nothing on earth Brett detested so thoroughly as a display of feminine sentiment, no matter how spontaneous or well-timed. At heart he was conscious of kindred emotions. A child’s cry, a woman’s sob, the groan of a despairing man, had power to move him so strangely that he had more than once allowed a long-sought opportunity to slip from his grasp rather than sear his own soul by displaying callous indifference to the sufferings of others.
The tears of these two, however, set his teeth on edge. What were they whining about—the affections of a doll of a man whose antics had been rightly treated by David when he proved to Capella that there is nothing like leather.
For the barrister laboured under no delusions respecting either woman. Margaret, who secretly feared her husband, was only pining for his rekindled admiration, whilst Helen, though true as steel to David Hume, could not be expected to regard the Italian’s misplaced passion as utterly outrageous. No woman can absolutely hate and despise a man for loving her, no matter how absurd or impossible his passion may be. She may proclaim, even feel, a vast amount of indignation, but in the secret recesses of her soul, hidden perhaps from her own scrutiny, she can find excuses for him.
Brett regarded Capella as an impressionable scamp, endowed with a too vivid imagination, and he determined forthwith to stir his hearers into revolt, defiance—anything but languishing regret and condolence.
Margaret soon gave him an opportunity. Recovering her self-possession with an effort, she said:
“I am glad you are here, Mr. Brett. Helen has probably told you that we need your presence—not that I have much to say to you, but I must have the advice of a wiser and clearer head than my own in the present position of affairs.”
“Exactly so,” replied the barrister cheerily. “As a preliminary to a pleasant chat, may I suggest a cup of tea for each of us?”
The ladies were manifestly astonished. Tea! When broken hearts were scattered around! The suggestion was pure bathos.
Margaret, with a touch of severity, permitted Brett to ring, and coldly agreed with Helen’s declaration that she could not think of touching any species of refreshment at such a moment.
“Then,” said Brett, advancing and holding out his hand, “I will save your servants from needless trouble, Mrs. Capella. I am equally emphatic in my insistence on food and drink as primary necessities. For instance, a cup of good tea just now is much more important in my eyes than your husband’s vagaries.”
“Surely you will not desert me?” appealed Margaret.
“Mr. Brett, how can you be so heartless?” cried Helen.
“Your words cut me to the bone,” he answered, with an easy smile, “but in this matter I must be adamant. My dear ladies, pray consider. What a world we should live in if people went without their meals because they were worried. Three days of such treatment would end the South African War, give Ireland Home Rule, bring even the American Senate to reason. A week of it would extinguish the human race. If the system has such potentialities, is it unreasonable to ask whether or not any single individual—even Mr. Capella—is worth the loss of a cup of tea because he chooses to go to Naples?”
A servant entered.
“Is it to be for three, or none?” inquired Brett, compelling Margaret to meet his gaze.
“James, bring tea at once,” said Mrs. Capella.
The barrister accepted this partial surrender. He looked out over the park.
“What lovely weather!” Brett exclaimed. “How delightful it must be at the sea-side just now! Really, I am greatly tempted to run up to Whitby for a few days. Have you ever been there, Mrs. Capella? Or you, Miss Layton? No! Well, let me recommend the north-east coast of Yorkshire as a cure for all ills. Do you know that, within the next fortnight, you can, if energetic enough, see from the cliffs at Whitby the sun rise and set in the sea? It is the one place in England where such a sight is possible. And the breeze there! When it blows from the north, it comes straight from the Polar Sea. There is no land intervening. Naples—evil-smelling, dirty Naples! Pah! Who but a lunatic would prefer Naples to Whitby in July!”
Margaret was now incensed, Helen surprised, and even slightly amused.
Brett rattled on, demanding and receiving occasional curt replies. The tea came.
Whatever the failings of Beechcroft might be, they had not reached the kitchen. Delightful little rolls of thin bread and butter, sandwiches of cucumber and paté de foie gras, tempting morsels of pastry, home-made jam, and crisp biscuits showed that the housekeeper had unconsciously adopted Brett’s view of her mistress’s needs.
Margaret, hardly knowing what she did, toyed at first with these delicacies, until she yielded to the demands of her stimulated appetite. Helen and Brett were unfeignedly hungry, and when Brett rose to ring for more cucumber sandwiches, they all laughed.
“The first time I met you,” said Margaret, whose cheeks began to exhibit a faint trace of colour, “I told you that you could read a woman’s heart. I did not know you were also qualified to act as her physician.”
“If the first part of my treatment is deemed successful, then I hope you will adopt the second. I am quite in earnest concerning Whitby, or Cromer, if you do not care to go far north.”
“But, Mr. Brett, how can I possibly leave Beechcroft now?”
“Did Mr. Capella consult you when he went to Naples? Are you not mistress here? Take my advice. Give the majority of your servants a holiday. Close your house, or, better still, have every room dismantled on the pretence of a thorough renovation. Leave it to paperhangers, plasterers, and caretakers. The rector may be persuaded to allow Miss Layton to come with you to London, where you should visit your dressmaker, for you can now dispense with mourning. When your husband returns from Naples, let him rage to the top of his bent. By that time I may be able to spare Mr. Hume to look after both of you for a week or so. Permit your husband to join you when he humbly seeks permission—not before. Believe me, Mrs. Capella, if you have strength of will to adopt my programme in its entirety, the trip to Naples may have results wholly unexpected by the runaway.”
“Really, Margaret, Mr. Brett’s advice seems to me to be very sensible. It happens, too, that my father needs a change of air, and I think we could both persuade him to come with us to the coast.”
Helen, like all well regulated young Englishwomen, quickly took a reasonable view of the problem. Already Capella’s heroics and his wife’s lamentations began to appear ridiculous.
Margaret looked wistfully at both of them.
“You do not understand why my husband has gone to Naples,” she said slowly, seemingly revolving something in her mind.
“I think I can guess his motive,” said the barrister.
“Tell me your explanation of the riddle,” she answered lightly, though a shadow of fear crossed her eyes.
“Soon after your marriage he imagined that he discovered certain facts connected with your family—possibly relative to your brother’s death—which served to estrange him from you. Whatever they may be, whether existent or fanciful, you are in no way responsible. He has gone to Naples to obtain proofs of his suspicions, or knowledge. He will come back to terrorise you, perhaps to seek revenge for imaginary wrongs. Therefore, I say, do not meet him half-way by sitting here, blanched and fearful, until it pleases him to return. Compel him to seek you. Let him find you at least outwardly happy and contented, careless of his neglect, and more pleased than otherwise by his absence. Tell him to try Algiers in August and Calcutta in September.”
Margaret’s eyes were widely distended. Her mobile features expressed both astonishment and anxiety. She covered her face with her hands, in an attitude of deep perplexity.
They knew she was wrestling with the impulse to take them wholly into confidence.
At last she spoke:
“I cannot tell you,” she said, “how comforting your words are. If you, a stranger, can estimate the truth so nearly, why should I torture myself because my husband is outrageously unjust? I will follow your counsel, Mr. Brett. If possible, Nellie and I will leave here to-morrow. Perhaps Mrs. Eastham may be able to come with us to town. Will you order my carriage? A drive will do me good. Come with Nellie and me, and stay here to dinner. For to-day we may dispense with ceremony.”
She left the room, walking with a firm and confident step.
Brett turned to Miss Layton.
“Capella is in for trouble,” he said, with a laugh. “He will be forced to make love to his wife a second time.”
During the drive the presence of servants rendered conversation impossible on the one topic that engrossed their thoughts.
The barrister, therefore, had an opportunity to display the other side of his engaging personality, his singular knowledge of the world, his acquaintance with the latest developments in literature and the arts, and so much of London’s vie intime as was suited to the ears of polite society.
Once he amused the ladies greatly by a trivial instance of his faculty for deducing a definite fact from seemingly inadequate signs.
He was sitting with his back to the horses. They passed a field in which some people were working. Neither of the women paid attention to the scene. Brett, from mere force of habit, took in all details.
A little farther on he said: “Are we approaching a village?”
“Yes,” answered Miss Layton, “a small place named Needham.”
“Then it will not surprise me if, during the next two minutes, we meet a horse and cart with a load of potatoes. The driver is a young man in his shirt sleeves. Sitting by his side is a brown-eyed maid in a poke bonnet. Probably his left arm follows the line of her apron string.”
His hearers could not help being surprised by this prediction. Helen leaned over the side and looked ahead.
“You are wrong this time, Mr. Brett,” she laughed merrily. “The only vehicle between us and a turn in the road is a dog-cart coming this way.”
“That merely shows the necessity of carefully choosing one’s words. I should have said ‘overtake,’ not ‘meet.’”
The carriage sped swiftly along. Helen craned her head to catch the first glimpse of the yet hidden stretch of road beyond the turning.
“Good gracious!” she cried suddenly.
Even Margaret was stimulated to curiosity. She bent over the opposite side.
“What an extraordinary thing!” she exclaimed.
Brett sat unmoved, anything in front being, of course, quite invisible to him. On the box the coachman nudged the footman, as if to say:
“Did you ever! Well, s’elp me!”
For, in the next few strides, the horses had to be pulled to one side to avoid a cart laden with potatoes, driven by a coatless youth who had one arm thrown gracefully around the waist of a girl in a huge bonnet.
Nellie turned and stared at them in most unladylike manner, much to their discomfiture.
“I do declare,” she cried, “the girl has brown eyes! Mr. Brett, do tell us how you did it.”
“I will,” he replied gaily. “Those labourers in a field half a mile away were digging potatoes. Among the women sorters was a girl who was gazing anxiously in this direction, and who resumed work in a very bad temper when another woman spoke to her in a chaffing way. The gate was left open, and there were fresh wheel-tracks in this direction. The men were all coatless, so I argued a young man driving and a girl by his side, hence the annoyance of the watcher in the field, owing particularly to the position of his arm. The presence on the road of several potatoes, with the earth still damp on them, added certainty to my convictions. It is very easy, you see.”
“Yes, but how about the colour of the girl’s eyes?”
“That was hazardous, to an extent. But five out of every six women in this county have brown eyes.”
“Well, you may think it easy; to me it is marvellous.”
“It is positively startling,” said Margaret seriously; and if the barrister indulged in a fresh series of deductions he remained silent on the topic.
He tried to lead the conversation to Naples, but was foiled by Mrs. Capella’s positive disinclination to discuss Italy on any pretext, and Miss Layton’s natural desire not to embarrass her friend.
Indeed, so little headway did he make, so fully was Margaret’s mind taken up with the new departure he had suggested, that when the carriage stopped at the rectory to drop Helen—who wished to tell her father about the dinner and to change her costume—he was strongly tempted to wriggle out of the engagement.
Inclination pulled him to his quiet sitting-room in the County Hotel; impulse bade him remain and make the most of the meagre opportunities offered by the drift of conversation.
“I hope,” said Helen, at parting, “that I may persuade you to come here and dine with my father some evening when Mrs. Capella and I are in town. If you take any interest in old coins he will entertain you for hours.”
“Then I depend on you to bring an invitation to the Hall this evening. I expect to be in Stowmarket next week.”
“Are you leaving to-morrow?” inquired Mrs. Capella.
“I think so.”
“Would you care to walk to the house with me now?”
“I will be delighted.”
So the carriage was sent off, and the two followed on foot. Brett thought that impulse had led him aright.
Once past the lodge gates, Margaret looked at him suddenly, with a quick, searching glance. Hume was not in error when he spoke of her “Continental tricks of manner.”
“You wonder,” she said, “why I do not trust you fully? You know that I am keeping something back from you? You imagine that you can guess a good deal of what I am endeavouring to hide?”
“To all those questions, I may generally answer ‘Yes.’”
“Of course. You observe the small things of life. The larger events are built from them. Well, I can be candid with you. My husband believes that I not only deceived him in regard to my marriage, but he is, or was, very jealous of me.”
She paused, apparently unable to frame her words satisfactorily.
“Having said so much,” put in the barrister gently, “you might be more specific.”
His cool, even voice reassured her.
“I hardly know how best to express myself,” she cried. “Question me. I will reply so far as I am able.”
“Thank you. You have told me that you first met Mr. Capella on New Year’s Eve two years ago, at Covent Garden?”
“That is so.”
“Had you ever heard of him before?”
“Never. He was brought to my party by an Italian friend.”
“Did the acquaintance ripen rapidly?”
“Yes. We found that our tastes were identical in many respects. I did not know of my brother’s death until the 2nd of January. No one in Beechcroft had my address, and my solicitor’s office was closed on the holiday. Mr. Capella called on me, by request, the day after the ball, and already I became aware of his admiration. Italians are quick to fall in love.”
“And afterwards?”
“When poor Alan’s murder appeared in the press, Giovanni was among the first to write me a sympathetic letter. Later on we met several times in London. I did not come to reside in the Hall until all legal formalities were settled. A year passed. I went to Naples. He came from his estate in Calabria, and we renewed our friendship. You do not know, perhaps, that he is a count in his own country, but we decided not to use the title here.”
“Then Mr. Capella is not a poor man?”
“By no means. He is far from rich as we understand the word. He is worth, I believe, £1,500 a-year. Why do you ask? Had you the impression that he married me for my money?”
“There might well be other reasons,” thought Brett, glancing at the beautiful and stately woman by his side. But it was no moment for idle compliments.
“Such things have been done,” he said drily.
“Then disabuse your mind of the idea. He is a very proud man. His estates are involved, and in our first few days of happiness we did indeed discuss the means of freeing them, whilst our marriage contract stipulates that in the event of either of us predeceasing the other, and there being no children, the survivor inherits. But all at once a cloud came between us, and Giovanni has curtly declined any assistance by me in discharging his family debt.”
Brett could not help remembering Capella’s passionate declaration to Helen, but Margaret’s words read a new meaning into it. Possibly the Italian was only making a forlorn hope attack on a country maiden’s natural desire to shine amidst her friends. Well, time would tell.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Capella’s outburst of confidence was valuable.
“A cloud!” he said. “What sort of a cloud?”
“Giovanni suddenly discovered that his father and mine were deadly enemies. It was a cruel whim of Fate that brought us together. Poor fellow! He was very fond of his father, and it seems that a legacy of revenge was bequeathed to him against an Englishman named Beechcroft. I remembered, too late, that he once asked me how our house came to be so named, and I explained its English meaning to him. I joked about it, and said the place should rightly be called Yewcroft. During our honeymoon at Naples he learnt that my father, for some reason, had travelled over a large part of Italy in an assumed name—”
“How did he learn this?” broke in Brett.
“I cannot tell you. The affair happened like a flash of lightning. We had been to Capri one afternoon, and I was tired. I went to my room to rest for a couple of hours, fell asleep, and awoke to find Giovanni staring at me in the most terrifying manner. There was a fierce scene. We are both hot-tempered, and when he accused me of a ridiculous endeavour to hoodwink him in some indefinable way I became very indignant. We patched up a sort of truce, but I may honestly say that we have not had a moment’s happiness since.”
“But you spoke of jealousy also?”
“That is really too absurd. My cousin Robert—”
“What, the gentleman from the Argentine?”
“Yes; I suppose David told you about him?”
“He did,” said the barrister grimly.
“Robert is poor, you may know. He is also very good-looking.”
“A family trait,” Brett could not avoid saying.
“It has not been an advantage to us,” she replied mournfully.
They were standing now opposite the library, almost on the spot where her brother fell. They turned and strolled back towards the lodge.
“Robert came to see me,” she resumed. “He paid a visit in unconventional manner—waylaid me, in fact, in this very avenue, and asked me to help him. He declined to meet my husband, and was very bitter about my marriage to a foreigner. However, I forgave him, for my own heart was sore in me, and he also had been unfortunate in a different way. We had a long talk, and I kissed him at parting. I afterwards found that Giovanni had seen us from his bedroom. He thought Robert was David. I do not think he believed me, even when I showed him the counterfoil of my cheque-book, and the amount of a remittance I sent to Robert next day.”
“How much was the sum?”
“Five hundred pounds.”
“And where did you send it?”
“To the Hotel Victoria.”
“In his own name?”
“Certainly.”
“Have you ever met him since?”
“Yes, unfortunately. I was in London, driving through Regent Street in a hansom, when I saw him on the pavement. I stopped the cab, and asked him to come to luncheon. We have no town house, so I was staying at the Carlton alone. Yet how stupidly compromising circumstances can occasionally become! I returned to Beechcroft. I did not mention my meeting with Robert because, indeed, Giovanni and I were hardly on speaking terms. One day, in the library, I was sorting a number of accounts, when I was summoned elsewhere for a few minutes. On top of the pile was my receipted hotel bill. My husband came in, glanced at the paper, and saw a charge for a guest. When I returned he asked me whom I had been entertaining. I told him, and could not help blushing, the affair being so flagrantly absurd.”
“Is that all?”
“I declare to you, Mr. Brett, that you are now as well informed as I am myself concerning our estrangement.”
“There is, I take it, no objection on your part to the inquiry I have undertaken—the fixing of responsibility for your brother’s death, I mean?”
Margaret was silent for a few seconds before she said, in a low and steady voice:
“We are a strange race, we Hume-Frazers. Somehow I felt, when I first saw you and Davie together, that you would be bound up with a crisis in my life. I dread crises. They have ever been unfortunate for me. I cannot explain myself further. I know I am approaching an eventful epoch. Well, I am prepared. Go on with your work, in God’s name. I cannot become more unhappy than I am.”
A clock in the church tower chimed the half-hour.
“We dine at seven,” said Mrs. Capella. “Let us return to the house. I told the housekeeper to prepare a room for you. Would you care to remain for the night? One of the grooms can bring from Stowmarket any articles you may need.”
Brett declined the invitation, pleading a certain amount of work to be done before he retired to rest, and his expectation of finding letters or telegrams at the hotel.
They walked more rapidly up the avenue, and the barrister noted the graceful ease of Margaret’s movements.
“Is it a fact” he asked, “that you suffer from heart disease?”
She laughed, and said, with a certain charming hesitation:
“You are both doctor and lawyer, Mr. Brett. My heart is quite sound. I have been foolish enough to seek relief from my troubles in morphia. Do not be alarmed. I am not a morphinée. I promised Nellie yesterday to stop it, and I am quite certain to succeed.”
The dinner passed uneventfully.
As Brett was unable to change his clothes, neither of the ladies, of course, appeared in elaborate costumes.
Helen wore a simple white muslin dress, with pale blue ribbons. Margaret, mindful of the barrister’s hint concerning her attire, now appeared in pale grey crêpe de chine, trimmed with cerise panne velvet.
When she entered the drawing-room she almost startled the others, so strong was the contrast between her present effective garments and the black raiment she had affected constantly since her return to Beechcroft after her marriage.
“The reform has commenced,” she cried gaily, seeing how they looked at her. “My maid is in ecstasies about the proposed visit to my dressmaker’s. She insisted on showing me a study for an Ascot frock in the Queen.”
“Ah, she is a Frenchwoman?” said Brett.
“Yes; and pray what mystery have you elucidated now?”
“Not a mystery, but a sober fact. A Frenchwoman must be in the mode. Anybody else would have told you to copy yourself. Fashions are a sealed book to me, but I do claim a certain taste in colour effect, and you have gratified it.”
“And have you nothing nice to say to me, Mr. Brett?” pouted Helen.
“So much that I must remain dumb. I have a vivid recollection of Mr. Hume’s tragic air when he asked me to give you ‘his kind regards.’”
“The dear boy! You have not yet told us why you left him in London.”
In view of Mrs. Capella’s outspokenness concerning her cousin, this was a poser. Brett fenced with the query, and the announcement of dinner stopped all personal references. The barrister’s eyes wandered round the dining-room. The shaded candles on the table did not permit much light to fall on the walls, but such portraits as were visible showed that David was right when he said the “Hume-Frazers were all alike.” They were a handsome, determined-looking race, strong, dour, inflexible.
The night was beautifully fine. The day seemed loth to die, and the twilight lingering on the pleasant landscape tempted them outside, after the butler had handed Brett a box of excellent cigars.
They went through the conservatory into the park, and sauntered over the springy pastureland, whilst Brett amused the ladies by a carefully edited account of his visit to the Jiro family.
An hour passed in pleasant chat. Then Miss Layton thought it was time she went home, and Brett proposed to escort her to the Rectory, subsequently picking up his conveyance at the inn.
They walked obliquely across the park towards the house, regaining it through a clump of laurels and the conservatory.
It chanced that for a moment they were silent. Margaret led the way. Helen followed. Brett came close behind.
When the mistress of Beechcroft Hall stepped on to the turf in front of the library, a man who was standing under the yews a little way down the avenue moved forward to accost her.
She uttered a little cry of alarm and retreated quickly.
“Why, Davie,” cried Helen, “surely it cannot be you!”
The stranger made no reply, but paused irresolutely. Even in the dim light Brett needed no second glance to reveal to him the astounding coincidence that this mysterious prowler was Robert Hume-Frazer.
“Good evening,” he said politely. “Do you wish to see your cousin?”
“And who the devil may you be?” was the uncompromising answer.
“A friend of Mrs. Capella’s.”
“H’m! I’m glad to hear it. I thought you could not be that beastly Italian.”
“You are candour itself; but you have not answered me?”
“About seeing my cousin? No. I will call when she is less engaged.”
He turned to go, but Brett caught him by the shoulder.
“Will you come quietly,” he said, “or by the scruff of the neck?”
The other man wheeled round again. That he feared no personal violence was evident. Indeed, it was possible Brett had over-estimated his own strength in suggesting the alternative.
The Argentine cousin laughed boisterously.
“By the Lord Harry,” he cried, “I like your style! I will come in, if only to have a good look at you.”
They approached the two frightened women. Margaret had recognised his voice, and now advanced with outstretched hand.
“I am glad to see you, Robert,” she said in tones that vibrated somewhat. “Why did you not let me know you were coming?”
“Because I did not know myself until an hour before I left London. Moreover, you might have wired and told me to stop away, so I sailed without orders.”
The position was awkward. The new-comer had evidently walked from Stowmarket. He had the appearance of a gentleman, soiled and a trifle truculent, perhaps, but a man of birth and good breeding.
Helen was gazing at him in sheer wonderment. He was so extremely like David that, at a distance, it was easy to confuse the one with the other.
Brett, too, examined him curiously. He recalled “Rabbit Jack’s” pronouncement—“either the chap hisself or his dead spit.”
But it behoved him to rescue the ladies from an impasse.
“When you reached Stowmarket did the stationmaster exhibit any marked interest in you?” he inquired.
“Well, now, that beats the band,” cried Robert. “He looked at me as though I had seven heads and horns to match. But how did you know that?”
“Merely on account of your marked resemblance to David Hume-Frazer. It puzzled the stationmaster some time ago. By the way, you appear to like the shade of the yew trees outside. Do you always approach Beechcroft Hall in the same way?”
The ex-sailor’s bold eyes did not fall before the barrister’s penetrating glance.
“What the deuce has it got to do with you?” he replied fiercely. “Who has appointed you grand inquisitor to the family, I should like to know? Margaret, I beg your pardon, but this chap—”
“Is my friend, Mr. Reginald Brett. He is engaged in unravelling the manner and cause of poor Alan’s death. He has my full sanction, Robert, and was brought here, in the first instance, by David. I hope, therefore, you will treat him more civilly.”
“I will treat him as he treats me. I owe him nothing, at any rate.”
They were talking in the ill-fated library, having entered the house through the centre window. The unbidden guest faced the others, and although the cloud of suspicion hung heavily upon him, the barrister was far too shrewd an observer of human nature to attribute his present defiant attitude to other than its true origin—a feeling of humiliated pride.
Brett understood that to question him further was to risk a scene—a thing to be avoided at all costs.
“No doubt,” he said, “you wish to speak privately to Mrs. Capella. I was on the point of escorting Miss Layton to her house. Shall I return and drive you back to Stowmarket? I will be here in fifteen minutes.”
“It would be better than walking,” replied Robert wearily, settling into a chair with the air of a man physically tired and mentally perturbed.
Again there was a dramatic pause. Helen, more alarmed than she wished to admit, gave Margaret a questioning look, and received a strained but reassuring smile.
“Then I will go now—” she began, but instantly stopped. Like the others, she heard the quick trot of a horse, and the sound of rapid wheels approaching from the lodge.
“Who on earth can this be?” cried Margaret, blanching visibly,
The vehicle, a dog-cart, drew nearer. They all went to the window. Even the indifferent Robert rose and joined them.
Helen startled them by running out to the side of the drive.
“This time I am not mistaken,” she cried hysterically. “It is Davie!”
The proceedings of the gentleman who jumped from the dog-cart left no doubt on the point. He brazenly kissed her, and in her excitement she seemed to like it.
She evidently whispered something to him, for his first words to Brett were:
“How did you find out—”
But the barrister was not anxious to let the cousin from Argentina into the secret of the search for him.
“I have found out nothing,” he interrupted. “I have been at Beechcroft all the afternoon and evening. Meanwhile, you must be surprised to meet Mr. Robert Hume-Frazer here so unexpectedly.”
David luckily grasped his friend’s intention. Such information as he possessed must wait until they were alone. “How d’ye do, Bob?” he said, frankly holding out his hand. “Why have you left us alone all those years, to turn up at last in this queer way?”
The young man’s kind greeting, his manly attitude, had an unlooked-for effect.
Robert ignored the proffered hand. He reached for his hat.
“I feel like a beastly interloper,” he growled huskily. “Accept my apologies, Margaret, and you, Miss Layton. I will call in the morning. Mr. Brett, if you still hold to your offer, I will await you at the lodge, or any other place you care to name.”
With blazing eyes, and mouth firmly set, he endeavoured to reach the open window. Brett barred his way.
“Sit down, man,” he said sternly. “Why are you such a fool as to resist the kindness offered to you? I tried to make matters easy for you. Now I must speak plainly. You are weak with hunger.”
He had seen what the others had missed. The colour in Robert’s face was due to exposure, but he was otherwise drawn and haggard. His clothes were shabby. He had walked from Stowmarket because he could not afford to hire any means of conveyance.
The abject confession compelled by Brett’s words was too much for him. He again collapsed into a chair and covered his face with his hands.
Brett was the only person present who kept his senses. Margaret was too shocked, the lovers too amazed, to speak coherently.
“Mr. Hume-Frazer has allowed himself to become run down,” said the barrister, with the nonchalance of one who discussed the prospects of to-morrow’s weather. “What he needs at the moment is some soup and a few biscuits. You, Mrs. Capella, might procure these without bringing the servants here, especially if Miss Layton were to help you.”
Without a word, the two ladies quitted the room.
Robert looked up.
“You ring like good metal,” he said to the barrister. “Is there any liquor in the dining-room? I feel a trifle hollow about the belt. A drink would do me good.”
“Not until you have eaten something first,” was the firm answer. “Are you so hard up that you could not buy food?”
“Well, the fact is, I have been on my beam ends during the past week. To-day I pawned a silver watch, but unfortunately returned to my lodgings, where my landlady made such a fiendish row about the bill that I gave her every penny. Then I pawned my overcoat, raising the exact fare to Stowmarket. I could not even pay for a ’bus from Gower Street to Liverpool Street. All I have eaten to-day was a humble breakfast at 8.30 a.m., and I suppose the sun and the journey wore me out. Still, you must be jolly sharp to see what was the matter. I thought I kept my end up pretty well.”
David sat down by his side.
“Forgive me, old chap,” continued Robert. “It broke me up to see that you were happy after all your troubles. You are engaged to a nice girl; Alan is dead; I am the only unlucky member of the family.”
The man was talking quite sincerely. He even envied his murdered cousin. Nothing in his words, his suspicious mode of announcing his presence, the vague doubts that shadowed his past career, puzzled Brett so greatly as that chance phrase.
The ladies came back, laden with good things from the kitchen, which they insisted on carrying themselves, much to the astonishment of the servants.
All women are born actresses. Their behaviour before the domestics left the impression that some huge joke was toward in the library.
The tactful barrister drew Hume and Helen outside to discuss immediate arrangements. David promised faithfully to return from the rectory in fifteen minutes, and Brett re-entered the library.
Robert Hume-Frazer gave evidence of his semi-starvation. He tried to disguise his eagerness, but in vain. Biscuits, sandwiches, and soup vanished rapidly, until Margaret suggested a further supply.
“No, Rita,” said her cousin; “I have fasted too often on the Pampas not to know the folly of eating too heartily. I will be all right now, especially when Mr. Brett produces the whisky he spoke about.”
The barrister brought a decanter from the dining-room. The stranger was still an enigma. He placed bottle and glass on the table, wondering to what extent the man would help himself.
The quantity was small and well diluted. So this member of the family was not a drunkard.
“How did you come to be in such a state?” asked Margaret nervously. “It is hardly six months since I sent you £500; not a very large sum, I admit, but all you asked me for, and more than enough to live on for a much longer period.”
Robert laughed pleasantly. It was the first token of returning confidence. He reached for a cigar, and sought Margaret’s permission to smoke.
“My dear girl,” he answered, “I am really a very unfortunate person. I own a hundred thousand acres of the best land in South America, and I have been in England nearly two years trying to raise capital to develop it. If I owned a salted reef or an American brewery I could have got the money for the asking. Because my stock-raising proposition is a sound paying concern, requiring a delay of at least three years before a penny of profit can be realised, I have worn my boots out in climbing up and down office stairs to no purpose. Out of your £500, nearly £400 went out at once to pay arrears of Government taxation to save my property. Of the remaining hundred I spent fifty in a fortnight on dinners and suppers given to a gang of top-hatted scoundrels, who, I found subsequently, were not worth a red cent. They hoped to fleece me in some way, and their very association discredited me in the eyes of one or two honest men. Oh, I have had a bad time of it, I can assure you!”
“Why did you not write to me again?”
He looked at her steadily before he explained:
“Because you are a woman.”
“What has that got to do with it? I am your relative, and rich. How much do you want? If your scheme is really sound, I imagine my solicitors might sanction my co-operation.”
Again he hesitated.
“Thank you, Rita. You are a good sort. But I am not here on a matter of high finance. I want you to lend me, say, £250. I will return to the Argentine, and take twenty years to accomplish what I could do in five with the necessary capital.”
“Come and see me in the morning. The sum you name is absurdly small, in any case. Perhaps Mr. Brett will accompany you. His advice will be useful to both of us. Come early. I leave here to-morrow.”
“Going away! Where to?”
“To Whitby, in Yorkshire.”
“Well, that is curious,” said Robert, who clearly did not like to question her about her husband.
“Mr. Capella is in Naples,” she added. “I cannot say when he will return.”
Her cousin’s look was eloquent of his thoughts. He did not like the Italian, for some inexplicable reason, for to Margaret’s knowledge they had never met.
The barrister naturally did not interfere in this family conclave. He listened intently, and had already drawn several inferences from the man’s words. For the life of him he could not classify Robert Hume-Frazer. The man was either a consummate scoundrel, the cold-blooded murderer of Margaret’s brother, or a maligned and ill-used man.
Within a few minutes he would be called upon to treat him in one category or the other. A few questions might elucidate matters considerably.
The hiatus in the conversation created by the mention of Capella gave him an opportunity.
“Did you endeavour to raise the requisite capital for your estate in London only?” he inquired.
“No; I tried elsewhere,” was the quick rejoinder.
“Here, for instance, on the New Year’s Eve before last?”
“Now, how the blazes did you learn that?” came the fierce demand, the speaker’s excitement rendering him careless of the words he used.
“It is true, then?”
“Yes, but—”
“Robert!—” Margaret’s voice was choking, and her face was woefully white once more—“were you—here—when Alan—was killed?”
“No, not exactly. This thing bewilders me. Let me explain. I saw him that afternoon. We had a furious quarrel. I never told you about it, Rita. It was a family matter. I do not hold you responsible. I—”
“Hold me responsible! What do you mean? Did you kill my brother?”
She rose to her feet. Her eyes seemed to peer into his soul. He, too, rose and faced her.
“By God,” he cried, “this is too much! Why didn’t you ask your husband that question?”
“Because my husband, with all his faults, is innocent of that crime. He was with me in London the night that Alan met his death.”
“And I, too, was in London. I left Stowmarket at six o’clock.”
“Having reached the place at 2.20?” interposed Brett.
The other turned to him with eager pleading.
“In Heaven’s name, Mr. Brett, if you know all about my movements that day, disabuse Margaret’s mind of the terrible idea that prompted her question.”
“Why did you come here on that occasion?”
“The truth must out now. My two uncles swindled my father—that is, Margaret, your father led my Uncle David with him in a most unjust proceeding. My father took up some risky business in City finance, on the verbal understanding with his brothers that they would share profits or bear losses equally. The speculation failed, and your father basely withdrew from the compact, persuading the other brother to follow his lead. Perhaps there may have been some justification for his action, but my poor old dad was very bitter about it. The affair killed him. I made my own way in the world, and came here to ask Alan to undo the wrong done years ago, and help me to get on my feet. He was not in the best of tempers, and we fell out badly, using silly recriminations. I went back to London, and next day travelled to Monte Carlo, where I lost more money than I could afford. Believe me, I never even knew of Alan’s death until I saw the reports of Davie’s trial.”
“Why did you not come forward then?”
“Why? No man could have better reasons. First, it seemed to me that Davie had killed him. Then, when the second trial ended, I came to the conclusion—Lord help my wits—that there was some underhanded work about the succession to the property, and my doubts appeared to receive confirmation by the news of Margaret’s marriage. In any case, if I turned up to give evidence, I could only have helped to hang one of my own relatives.”
“It never occurred to you that you might be suspected?”
“Never, on my honour! The suggestion is preposterous. You seem to know everything. Tell Margaret that I did leave Stowmarket by the train I named, that I stayed in the Hotel Victoria the same night, and left for the Riviera at 11 a.m. next day. Margaret, don’t you believe me? You and I were sweethearts as children. Can you think I murdered your brother? Why, dear girl, I refrained from seeing your husband lest I should wound you by revealing my thoughts.”
He placed his hands on her shoulders, and looked at her with such genuine emotion that she lifted her swimming eyes to his, and faltered:
“Forgive me, Robert, though I can never forgive myself. Your words shocked me. I am sorry. I am not mistaken now. You are innocent as I am.”
“You have also convinced me, Mr. Frazer,” said Brett quietly.
Robert gazed quickly from one to the other. Then he laughed constrainedly.
“I have been accused of several offences in my time,” he said, “but this notion that got into your heads licks creation.”
“What is the matter now?” said David Hume, entering through the window.
The three men drove to Stowmarket in the same vehicle, the grooms returning in the second dog-cart.
On the way Robert Frazer—who may be designated by his second surname to distinguish him from his cousin—was anxious to learn what had caused the present recrudescence of inquiry into Alan’s death. This was easily explained by David, and Brett took care to confine the conversation to general details.
Frazer was naturally keen to discover how the barrister came to be so well posted in his movements, and David listened eagerly whilst Brett related enough of the stationmaster’s story to clear up that point.
Hume broke in with a laugh:
“That shows why he was so unusually attentive when I arrived this evening. He spotted me getting out of the train, and would not leave me until I was clear of the station. He was evidently determined to ascertain my exact identity without any mistake, for he began by asking if I were not Mr. David Hume-Frazer, laying stress on my Christian name. It surprised me a little, because I thought the old chap knew me well.”
“Are you both absolutely certain that there are no other members of your family in existence?” asked Brett.
“It depends on how many of our precious collection you are acquainted with,” said Robert.
“The only person Mr. Brett is not acquainted with is my father,” exclaimed David stiffly.
“I was not alluding to him, of course. Indeed, I had no individual specially in my mind.”
“Surely you had some motive for your remark?” questioned David. “The only remaining relative is Mrs. Capella.”
“There again—how do you define the word ‘relative.’ I suppose, Mr. Brett, you are fairly well posted in the history of our house?”
“Yes.”
“Well, has it never struck you that there was something queer about the manner of my Uncle Alan’s marriage—Margaret’s father, I mean?”
“Perhaps. What do you know about it?”
“Nothing definite. When I was a mid-shipman on board the Northumberland I have a lively recollection of a fiendish row between a man named Somers and another officer who passed some chaffing remark about my respected uncle’s goings on in Italy. The officer in question had forgotten, or never knew, that Sir Alan married Somers’s sister—they were Bristol people, I think—but he stuck to it that Sir Alan had an Italian wife. He had seen her.”
Brett was driving, Frazer sitting by his side, and David leaning over the rail from the back seat. Had a bombshell dropped in their midst the two others could not have been more startled than by Robert’s chance observation.
“Good Heavens!” cried Hume, “why has Capella gone to Italy?”
“That question may soon be answered,” said Brett.
“Was that one of the other reasons you hinted at in the library when telling us why you did not volunteer evidence at the trial?” he asked Robert.
“It was. The cat is out of the bag now. I did not know where the affair might end, so I held my tongue. It also accounts for my unwillingness to meet Capella. I am very fond of Margaret. She is straight as a die, and I would not do anything to cause her suffering. In a word, I let sleeping dogs lie. If you can manage your matrimonial affairs without all this fuss, Davie, I should advise you to do the same.”
“What are you hinting at? What new mystery is this?” cried Hume.
“Let us keep to solid fact for the present,” interposed the barrister. “I wish I had met you sooner, Mr. Frazer. I would be nearing Naples now, instead of entering Stowmarket Have you any further information?”
“None whatever. Even what I have told you is the recollection of a boy who did not understand what the row was about. Where does it lead us, anyhow? What is known about Capella?”
“Very little. Unless I am much mistaken, he will soon tell us a good deal himself. I am beginning to credit him with the possession of more brains and powers of malice than I was at first inclined to admit. He is a dangerous customer.”
“Look here,” exclaimed Robert angrily. “If that wretched little Italian annoys Margaret in any way I will crack his doll’s head.”
They reached the hotel, where a room was obtained for Frazer, and David undertook to equip him out of his portmanteau. Brett left the cousins to arrange matters, and hurried to his sitting-room, where a number of telegrams awaited him.
Those from Hume he barely glanced at. David could tell his own story.
There were three from Winter. The first, despatched at 1.10 p.m., read:
“Capella and valet left by club train. Nothing doing Japanese.”
The second was timed 4.30 p.m.:
“Jap, accompanied by tall, fat man, left home 2.45. They separated Piccadilly Circus. Followed Jap—(“Oh, Winter!” groaned Brett)—and saw him enter British Museum. Four o’clock he met fat man again outside Tottenham Court Road Tube Station. They drove west in hansom. Heard address given. Am wiring before going same place.”
This telegram had been handed in at an Oxford Street office.
The third, 7.30., p.m.:
“Nothing important. All quiet. Wiring before your local office closes.”
The facetious Winter had signed these messages “Snow.”
Brett promptly wrote a telegram to the detective’s private address:
“Your signature should have been ‘Frost.’ If that fat man turns up again follow him. Call on Jap and endeavour to see his wife. You may be sadder but wiser. Meet me Victoria Street, 5 p.m. to-day.”
He called a waiter and gave instructions that this message should be sent off early next morning. Then he lit a cigar to soothe his disappointment.
“I cannot emulate the House of Commons bird,” he mused, “or at this moment I would be close to Jiro’s flat in Kensington, and at the same time crossing Lombardy in an express. What an ass Winter is, to be sure, whenever a subtle stroke requires an ingenious guard. Jiro dresses his wife in male attire and sends her on an errand he dare not perform himself. The fact that they depart together from their residence is diplomatic in itself. If they are followed, the watcher is sure to shadow Jiro and leave his unknown friend. Just imagine Winter dodging Jiro around the Rosetta Stone or the Phoebus Apollo, whilst the woman is visiting some one or some place of infinite value to our search. It is positively maddening.”
Perhaps, in his heart, Brett felt that Winter was not so greatly to blame. The sudden appearance on the scene of a portly and respectable stranger was disconcerting, but could hardly serve as an excuse for leaving Jiro’s trail at the point of bifurcation.
Moreover, it is difficult to suspect stout people of criminal tendencies. Winter had the best of negative evidence that they are not adapted for “treasons, spoils, and stratagems.” Even a convicted rogue, if corpulent, demands sympathy.
But Brett was very sore. He stamped about the room and kicked unoffending chairs out of the way. His unfailing instinct told him that a rare opportunity had been lost. It was well for Winter that he was beyond reach of the barrister’s tongue. A valid defence would have availed him naught.
David entered.
“I just seized an opportunity—” he commenced eagerly, but Brett levelled his cigar at him as if it were a revolver.
“You want to tell me,” he cried, “that before you were two hours in Portsmouth you ascertained Frazer’s address from an old friend. You caught the next train for London, went to his lodgings, encountered a nagging landlady, and found that your cousin had taken his overcoat to the pawnbroker’s to raise money for his fair to Stowmarket You drove frantically to Liverpool Street, interviewed a smart platform inspector, and he told you—”
“That all I had to do was to ask Brett, and he would not only give me a detailed history of my own actions, but produce the very man he sent me in search of,” interrupted David, laughing. Nothing the barrister said or did could astonish him now.
“What has upset you?” he went on. “I hope I made no mistakes.”
“None. Your conduct has been irreproachable. But you erred greatly in the choice of your parents. There are far too many Hume-Frazers in existence.”
“Please tell me what is the matter?”
“Read those.” Brett tossed the detective’s telegrams across the table.
Hume puzzled over them.
“I think we ought to know who that fat man was,” he said.
“We do know. She is a fat woman, the ex-barmaid from Ipswich. Next time, they will send out the youthful Jiro in a perambulator.”
“But why are you so furious about it?” demanded Hume. “Was it so important to ascertain what she did during that hour and a quarter?”
“Important! It is the only real clue given us since ‘Rabbit Jack’ saw a man like you standing motionless in the avenue.”