Beatrice was both surprised and alarmed when she heard of Vivian's abrupt departure without seeing her. It argued that he was guilty, and feared to face her. Yet, try as she might, it was impossible for her to believe him to be a murderer.
"Why didn't he come to see me?" she asked Dinah.
"He wanted to," replied the freckled girl. "But then he said that he had important business to attend to, connected with you, and went up to town the day before yesterday. I have not heard from him since, and don't know when he is coming back."
"Business connected with me!" repeated Miss Hedge, much perplexed. "I don't understand."
"Neither do I, dear. But don't worry. Vivian loves you, and whatever he does will be for your benefit. I do wish you'd come to the Grange, Beatrice, and let Mrs. Lilly look after you--she knows about herbs and things, and you look so pale. And no wonder, seeing what a shock you have had. I wouldn't stop in this place for anything, seeing ghosts and spooks--ugh!" and Dinah ended her somewhat incoherent speech with a shudder.
"I cannot come until the inquest is over," said Beatrice, rapidly surveying the situation.
"And then?"
"Then, perhaps. It depends upon Mr. Paslow."
"Vivian, you mean," said Dinah quickly.
"I have no right to call him Vivian," replied Beatrice proudly.
"Yes, you have. Vivian told me that he had asked you to be his wife, and that you had accepted."
"Dinah"--Beatrice looked directly at the girl "did he tell you where he proposed?"
"Yes; under the----"
"Hush!" Miss Hedge sank her voice to a whisper as she saw a blue-coated constable moving heavily round the garden, and gradually drawing nearer. "Not a word. Hold your tongue about that meeting."
"But why?" asked the amazed Dinah.
"I'll tell you later," said Beatrice hurriedly; "that is, when I have seen Vivian. Have you his address?"
"No. He went away, and said he would be back soon. Oh dear!" cried Dinah fretfully; "there is such a lot of mystery about Vivian, and has been for ages and ages. Sometimes he's jolly, and then he's as dismal as a sick cow. I thought it was love, for Jerry often is the same--silly boy. But I don't believe it is love," concluded Dinah decidedly. "Vivian has something on his mind."
"What do you mean?"
"Something horrid. I don't know what it is, but I fear the worst."
"Don't be a fool, Dinah," said Beatrice impatiently, for she winced at hearing her own doubts put into speech. "It's money troubles that annoy him, and probably, now that Mr. Alpenny is dead, he has gone to see the executors, to know how his mortgage will stand."
"As if he couldn't ask you," cried Dinah, rising and throwing her riding-skirt over her arm. "You'll get the money, of course. It ought to be a lot, Beatrice, for Jerry, who has had dealings with money-lenders, says they make heaps and heaps."
"I know nothing until the will is read. Go away, dear, and come back after poor Mr. Alpenny is buried."
"Poor Mr. Alpenny!" mocked Dinah. "Well, you are forgiving, Beatrice. He was a nasty old man, and never did any good in his life. He is more useful to me and Jerry dead than alive."
"Dinah!"
"Oh, I know it's horrid of me," said Miss Paslow penitently, "but we must live--I mean Jerry and I must think about our marriage. His father won't allow him any money, and Mrs. Snow is a cat. Our only chance of getting married, and living in a tweeny-weeny house, with a general servant, is for Jerry to get a rise. Now, if Jerry writes something picturesque about this murder, he'll get the rise and----"
"Oh, go away," cried Beatrice, for this disconnected talk grated on her over-strung nerves, "and don't tell even Jerry that I met Vivian--I mean Mr. Paslow--under the Witches' Oak."
"I won't say anything," promised Dinah firmly; "and I suppose it was improper for you to meet Vivian so late without a chaperone. But you will marry Vivian, darling, won't you?" she went on coaxingly. "He is so poor, and loves you; and then Mr. Alpenny's money--I mean your money--can set up the family again, and----"
The patience of Beatrice was at an end. She took Dinah firmly by the arm and led her out of the gates past the sleepy policeman, who blinked in the sunshine like an over-fed cat. "Go and assist Jerry to write paragraphs," she said sharply; "you are a tiresome girl."
"It's your nerves," said Dinah, not at all annoyed by this abrupt dismissal. "I feel that way myself, when Jerry is irritating. He is such a---- Well, I'm going. There's Tommy Tibbs holding Fly-by-Night. Hi, Tommy, bring her here. Good-bye, darling: keep your spirits up. I'll come and see you later. You must come to the Grange, and----"
Beatrice closed the babbling lips with a kiss, and went inside, while Dinah argued with Tommy about the price of holding her horse for one long hour. The policeman opened his eyes and looked at the tall, slim young lady with approval as she went past him. He thought she was a trifle too pale, and she had black circles under her eyes; but otherwise he approved, and smiled graciously. Beatrice took no notice of him, but went to her parlour, to think over the strange conduct of Vivian Paslow.
Dinah was right He certainly had something on his mind, and did not seem to be a free agent. Something hampered him in every way. He had long desired to propose to her, and yet had only done so when some cause, which he declined to explain, had been removed. Again, he had gone up to town on hearing of Alpenny's murder, and without ascertaining whether she had reached home, or not, on that fearful night. He had not even left a message; and then in her pocket was his handkerchief, dyed with the life-blood of the miser. These things were strange and disquieting, and Beatrice resolved that before reaffirming her decision to marry him, he would have to explain what underhand causes were at work to make him behave so mysteriously.
No time was lost in holding the inquest on the body of Jarvis Alpenny. The weather was hot, and it was just as well to place the remains underground as speedily as possible. A doctor was summoned from Hurstable to examine the body, and pronounce if possible the hour when the murder had taken place. Then the corpse was conveyed to the solitary inn of Hurstable, a few miles away, and there the jury looked it over. Afterwards the Coroner summoned them into the inn parlour, and Inspector Grove related all that had been discovered by the police.
It was not much, and threw no light on the authorship of the crime. The deceased--so ran the official narrative--was a money-lender of great repute, and that none of the best. He possessed a small office in London--52 Trunk Street, Cheapside--but seldom went there, as he preferred the quiet of the country--probably on account of his age, which was considerable. Nevertheless, from habit apparently, Mr. Jarvis continued to do business up to the very hour of his death. He died in harness, as might be said; for on the table, whereunder he lay, were letters from people--who need not be mentioned--asking for loans of money. These he was apparently considering, when he was struck down.
"I understood, and I have seen," said the Coroner emphatically, "that the deceased's throat was cut."
Inspector Jones assented, but pointed out that the old man was first felled by a blow from behind, as was apparent from a wound at the back of the head. The assassin had evidently entered stealthily, and had taken his victim by surprise. The murder was very deliberate, as the criminal had first stunned the old man, and then had cut his throat in a most brutal and thorough fashion. Therefore, as the Inspector suggested, the motive of the crime was more than mere robbery. A robber, having stunned his victim, could have taken what he desired, and escaped before Mr. Jarvis regained consciousness. But the death had taken place from the throat-cutting, and not from the blow on the head.
"Has anything been taken from the room?" asked a juryman.
"You mean the railway carriage," corrected the Inspector, who was pedantic in speech, and particular as to facts. "Yes; the safe was opened with the keys of the deceased--probably taken by the assassin from the dead body--and all, the papers have been taken away."
"What do you mean, exactly?" asked the Coroner.
Inspector Jones held up his right hand. "I mean," he declared emphatically, "that the safe was as bare as the palm of my hand. All papers were removed, the drawers were emptied, and nothing was left--absolutely nothing."
"The assassin must have carried quite a load?"
"As the safe is a large one, and probably was fairly filled, it is extremely likely," replied the Inspector. Then he went on to state that the fact of the death was discovered the next morning by Mrs. Snow, the vicar's wife, who was paying a visit to Miss Hedge. The police were called in, and everything had been done to discover the whereabouts of the assassin, but in vain. Villagers, labourers, railway officials, chance folk travelling in carts and motor-cars and on bicycles had been questioned, but no suspicious character had been observed. The assassin had stolen in upon the old man out of the night; and when his detestable task had been executed, he had again vanished into the night with his plunder, leaving not a footprint behind by which he could be traced.
"Yet the night was rainy," said the Coroner sapiently.
"And the grassy sward," retorted Jones, "runs right up to the railway carriage wherein the crime was executed. I have inquired at the Trunk Street office, and cannot learn from the confidential clerk there that Mr. Alpenny was threatened in any way, or feared for his life or property. The affair is a mystery."
"And is likely to remain so, with such an ass as you at the head of affairs," murmured the Coroner, as the Inspector, severely official, stepped down to give place to a rosy little man.--"Well, doctor," he asked aloud, "what do you know about this sad business?"
Dr. Herman knew very little, save from a medical standing-point He lived in Hurstable, some miles distant from the scene of the crime, and drove round all the surrounding district to see his patients. A constable stopped him on the day after the crime had been committed, and he had been asked to examine the corpse. He found that it was that of an old man. The body was badly nourished, but healthy enough for a man who certainly was over eighty. The blow on the head would not have killed a man with such vitality, old as he was. Death had ensued from the cutting of the throat. "Which was neatly done," said the doctor, with professional approval. "I should think a very sharp instrument was used, and a very dexterous hand had used it. No bungling about that affair," concluded Dr. Herman.
"Humph!" said the Coroner doubtfully; "and what does that mean? Do you insinuate that a doctor cut the throat and used a surgical instrument to do so?"
"I insinuate nothing of the sort," said Herman hotly, for he did not like the sneer of the Coroner; "it might have been a butcher, who is quite as dexterous with a knife as a medical man, although not quite in the same way."
"Pooh! pooh! We're all animals, doctor," laughed the Coroner, "and you are all butchers, whether you are called so or not. Come, now, at what time did Mr. Jarvis Alpenny meet his death?"
"I cannot be sure of that--I cannot commit myself to an exact opinion," said the little doctor doubtfully. "I should say the crime was committed between eight and nine of the previous night But, as I say, I cannot be quite certain."
"Between eight and nine of the previous night," wrote the Coroner, and called the next witness.
This was Mrs. Snow, who gave her evidence with much volubility. She had called on Miss Hedge to ask for money in order to get the spire of Hurstable Church mended. Miss Hedge had stated that her stepfather was from home, but she--witness--had glanced into the railway carriage which was called the counting-house of Mr. Alpenny. There she had seen the deceased--dead, lying in a pool of blood. At once she gave the alarm, and Durban, the servant, burst open the door with a beam.
"The door of the carriage was locked, then?"
"Oh yes," assented Mrs. Snow. "I tried it myself. I expect the assassin killed poor Mr. Alpenny, and after robbing the safe, went out with his plunder, and locked the door after him. He had the keys."
"One moment," said Durban, rising in the body of the room. "My master carried the keys--all the keys, including that of the counting-house, on a single ring. The keys were in the safe, and----"
"We'll hear you later," said the Coroner sharply.--"Go on, Mrs. Snow."
"I have nothing further to say," said the vicar's wife, trying to convey a sympathetic look in her eyes, "save that I am sorry for Miss Hedge. And I may add," she continued, after a moment of hesitation, "that Colonel Hall was murdered at Convent Grange twenty-five years ago, in the same way."
"I remember the case," said the Coroner, who was an old resident of the neighbourhood. "And what do you infer?"
"That the assassin of Colonel Hall and the assassin of Mr. Alpenny are one and the same," said Mrs. Snow promptly.
"Why should you connect the two?" asked the Coroner coldly, and very much puzzled.
"Colonel Hall and Mr. Alpenny had much to do with one another," said Mrs. Snow, "and did some business together. That their two throats should be cut, is a coincidence."
"Only that and nothing more, Mrs. Snow. I cannot see what the old crime has to do with the new one."
"I am sure there is some connection," snapped the sour woman, and then stepped down from the witness-box with a triumphant glance in the direction of Beatrice. Why that glance, and one of such a nature, was sent, Beatrice could not guess. But then the conduct of Mrs. Snow was perplexing her more and more.
Durban's evidence was to the effect that he had been absent when the crime took place. Mr. Alpenny had sent him to town with a letter, and he had returned the next morning to find the old man dead. Mrs. Snow had first informed him of the fact. He had burst open the door with a beam, as it was locked, and then had discovered that Mr. Alpenny's throat was slit from ear to ear. "And I saw," added the witness quickly, "that the keys of the deceased, including the key of the counting-house, were on the ring which dangled from the key used to open the safe."
"Then you do not think that the assassin could have locked the door after him?"
"Certainly not, seeing that the key was left behind."
"Was there not another key?"
"No. My master had the only key of the counting-house; it was one of a most peculiar make, and there was no duplicate. Mr. Alpenny was always careful to lock up his papers, and to keep the door of the counting-house locked."
"Then there must be another way of getting into the counting-house."
Inspector Jones rose to assure the Coroner that the place had been thoroughly examined. "There is no way of entering the railway carriage which is called the counting-house, save by the door."
"But if the door was locked, and the key inside, the assassin must have got out by another way. What about the window?"
"It's so small and so barred that a child could not get through it."
The Coroner scratched his head, and looked at Durban. "You were the confidential servant of the deceased," he said helplessly; "perhaps you can explain?"
"I can explain nothing," said Durban promptly, and quite at his ease; "certainly I was Mr. Alpenny's servant, but he made no confidant of me. I took letters to the London office, but what was in them I never knew. I was cook and general servant--that is all."
"You were often in the counting-house?"
"I was never in the counting-house in my life, sir. Mr. Alpenny would not allow either Miss Hedge or myself to enter."
"Humph!" said the Coroner again; "the whole mystery seems to centre round the counting-house. Had Mr. Alpenny enemies?"
"The usual sort a money-lender is bound to have," said Durban, with a shrug. "People sometimes came and called him names; and he told me that many borrowers objected to the high interest he charged."
"Did the deceased ever give you to understand that his life was in danger?"
"Never. He appeared quite happy in his own way."
"Was he expecting any one on the night he was murdered?"
"I cannot say. He sent me to town with the letter, and I was to come back next morning--which," added the witness pointedly, "I did."
"Mr. Alpenny did not expect to be killed?"
"No. He would have taken some precautions had he thought that, as he feared death."
After this several jurymen asked questions, and the Coroner cross-examined the half-caste. But he could tell nothing likely to lead to a discovery of the assassin. He simply declared that he was not in his late master's confidence, and knew nothing: that he had gone to town on the night of the murder, and had only learned of it through Mrs. Snow. The Coroner and, incidentally, Inspector Jones were annoyed; they had quite counted on a solution of the mystery when Durban was examined. But he could tell nothing, and they saw no reason to doubt his evidence.
Beatrice was called as the final witness, and told very much the same story as she had related to the sergeant. Only on this occasion she stated the time when she had returned. The Coroner asked her how she knew that she had entered at nine, whereupon she detailed the episode of the fallen watch. "I am sure that when I knocked it down, it stopped at nine," she said; "at that hour I returned."
"Why did you not go in and see Mr. Alpenny?"
"In the first place, I was worn out," said the witness; "in the second, there was no light in the window of the counting-house; and in the third, I found the note left by Mr. Alpenny, which I handed to the sergeant. And in the fourth place," added Beatrice, before the Coroner could make an observation, which he seemed inclined to do, "I saw the assassin!"
Everyone was startled, and a confused murmur filled the room. "You saw the assassin?" said the Coroner, aghast.
"When I entered the gates of The Camp at nine o'clock. He is a tall man, with a black patch over the left eye."
"A black patch!" cried Mrs. Snow, rising, much excited. "Colonel Hall was also murdered by a man with a black patch. I swear it."