Kitabı oku: «A Fair Mystery: The Story of a Coquette», sayfa 38

CHAPTER LXXXII
HOW THE NEWS WAS TOLD

Lord Linleigh rushed from the room like one mad – he was utterly lost. That his beautiful daughter, who was to have been married that day, lay there murdered and dead, was an idea too terrible to contemplate. He fled from the place, but he could not fly from reality. How, in Heaven's name, was he to confront the mother of this unhappy girl? How was he to tell her lover? What was he to do?

For once the courage of the Studleighs – oh, fatal boast! – failed him. He sank down on the last step of that fatal staircase, white, sick, trembling, and unmanned.

"What shall I do?" he moaned to himself. "Oh, Heaven, what shall I do?"

It must be told – there was no time to lose: even now he could hear a hurried murmur, as of expectation and fear.

When he rose to return his limbs trembled like those of a little child; he was compelled to clutch the iron rail and the boughs of the trees for support. It was not sorrow – he had not realized yet that it was his daughter, his only child who lay dead – he was simply stunned with horror. The dead face, the crimson-stained hair, the bare white breast with its terrible wound, the sun shining over the ghastly scene.

The hall-door was open as he had left it, and he saw the servants hurrying on their different affairs; no murmur of dread had reached them. There was to be a wedding, and, on the strength of it, they had each of them received a handsome present. Their faces were all smiles; but one or two, passing along, looked aghast as the master of that superb mansion, with his white face and horror-stricken eyes, came in.

The library was the nearest room at hand. He went in.

"Tell Miss Brace I want to see her directly," he said.

And in a few minutes Mattie stood trembling before him.

"There is something the matter," she said, in a low voice, "and, Lord Linleigh, you are afraid to tell me what it is."

He could only hold out his hands toward her with a trembling cry:

"Oh, great Heaven! how shall I tell her?"

She knelt down by his side, and held both his hands in hers. She felt that he was trembling – the strong figure was almost falling.

"Tell me!" she cried, calmly. "I am strong; you can trust me; I will help you all I can."

The good, kindly face grew almost beautiful in its look of high, patient resolve.

He raised his haggard eyes to her face.

"Mattie!" he said, in a low, hoarse voice. "Doris is dead!"

She grew very pale, but no word passed her lips; she saw that so much would depend on her; she must not lose her self-control for one minute.

"Doris is dead!" he repeated; "and that is not all – she has been foully, terribly murdered! and she was to have been married to-day!"

She was quite silent for some minutes, trying to realize the meaning of his words; then her old prayer stole to her lips:

"We must try to spare Earle," she said. "Heaven save Earle!"

Lord Linleigh caught hold of her.

"Mattie," he said, in a low, gasping voice, quite unlike his own, "I have not realized yet that it is my child, Doris; I can only understand a murder has been done. Have I lost my reason?"

"No. You must be brave," she said. "Think of Lady Linleigh. Such a blow is enough to kill her."

His head fell on his hands, with a low moan.

"You do not know – you do not know all," he said.

Just at that moment they heard the voice of Lady Estelle in the hall. He started up, everything forgotten except the wife he loved so dearly, the mother whose child lay dead.

"Do one thing for me, Mattie," he gasped. "Go to her – on some pretext or other – take her to her own room; she must not see, she must not know. Keep her there; I must tell Earle."

Mattie hastened to obey him. Lady Estelle was speaking to one of the servants in the hall.

"Mattie," she said, "I do not understand this delay. If some one does not hurry matters a little, we shall have no wedding to-day."

Then the girl's anxious face and pale lips struck her.

"Surely," she said, "there is nothing wrong! Has Doris changed her mind?"

"No, dear Lady Linleigh: she is not quite well; and probably there will be no wedding to-day. I want you to come with me to your own room – I want to talk to you."

"I shall go to Doris," said the countess: "if she is not well, my place is with her."

But Mattie caught her hands, and the countess, always yielding, went with her.

"Is she really ill, Mattie? Is it some terrible fever – some terrible plague? Never mind – I will go and kiss it from her lips; I must be with her."

The poor lady wrung her hands in a paroxysm of despair; her face quivered with grief. Mattie tried all that was possible to console her. What could she do? It was the heartbroken cry of a mother for a child; but she could not tell.

"We must be patient, dear lady," she said, "and wait until Lord Linleigh sends or comes."

She persuaded the countess to lie on the couch. She complied, trembling, weeping.

"You must be hiding something from me," she said. "She was to have been married this morning. Oh, Mattie, tell me what it is?"

Mattie Brace passed through many hours of sorrow and sadness, but none so dark as that which she spent shut up with Lady Linleigh. She could hear the sound of hurried footsteps. Once or twice she heard a cry of fear or dismay. She heard the rapid galloping of horses, and she knew that they were gone in search of the doer of the deed. Yet all that time she had to sit with assumed calm by the side of Lady Estelle. No one came near them. The silence of death seemed to reign over that part of the house; while from Mattie's heart, if not from her lips, went every minute the prayer:

"Heaven save Earle!"

What had passed was like a terrible dream to all those who shared in it. Lord Linleigh had gone in search of Earle. He found him busied in his preparations; happy and light of heart, as he was never to be again. He turned with a musical laugh to the earl.

"We have just ten minutes," he said. "I hope Doris is ready."

Then the smile died on his lips, for he caught one glimpse of the white face and terrified eyes. With one bound he had cleared the distance between them, and stood impatiently clutching Lord Linleigh's arm.

"What is that in your face?" he cried. "What is it? What is the matter?"

"Heaven help you, my poor boy!" said the earl, in a broken voice. "It would seem better to take away your life at once than to tell what I have to tell."

"Doris is ill. She – no – she cannot have changed her mind again – she cannot have gone away!"

"You will not be married to-day," said the earl, sadly. "My poor Earle."

"I cannot believe it," he cried. "Is Heaven so cruel; would God let that sun shine – those birds sing – those sweet flowers bloom? Yes, kill me, slay me, take my love away. I will not believe it."

"Hush," said the earl, laying his hand on the quivering lips; "hush, my poor Earle. Whatever happens, we must not rail against Heaven."

"It is not Heaven," he cried. "I tell you, God would not do it. He would not take my darling from me. You are afraid to say what has happened. I know she has gone away and left me, as she did before. Oh! my love, my love! you shall not cheat me! I will follow you over the wide world; I will find you, and love you, and make you my own! Oh! speak to me, for mercy's sake! Speak – has she gone?"

"My dear Earle, I do not know how to tell you, words seem to fail me. Try to bear it like a man, though it is hard to bear – Doris is dead!"

He saw the young lover's face grow gray as with the pallor of death.

"Dead?" he repeated, slowly – "dead!"

"Yes; but that is not all. She has been – you must bear it bravely, Earle – she has been cruelly murdered!"

He repeated the word with the air of one who did not thoroughly understand.

"Murdered! Doris! You cannot be speaking earnestly. Who could, who would murder her?"

Lord Linleigh saw that he must give him time to realize, to understand, and they both sat in silence for some minutes, that ghastly gray pallor deepening on the young lover's face. Suddenly the true meaning of the words occurred to him, and he buried his face in his hands with a cry that Lord Linleigh never forgot. So they remained for some time; then Lord Linleigh touched him gently.

"Earle," he said, "you have all your life to grieve in. We have two things to do now."

The white lips did not move, but the haggard eyes seemed to ask, "What?"

"We have to bury her and avenge her; we have to find out who murdered her while we slept so near."

The word murder seemed to come home to him then in its full significance; his face flushed, a flame of fire came into his eyes. He clutched the earl's hand as with an iron grasp.

"I was bewildered," he said. "I did not really understand. Do you mean that some one has killed Doris?"

"Yes; she lies in her own room there, with a knife in her white breast. Listen, Earle: I have my own theory, my own idea. I was always most uncomfortable about that staircase; the door opens right into her room. I have so often begged of her to be sure and keep it locked. I fancy that, by some oversight, the door was left open, and some one, intent on stealing her jewelry, perhaps, made his way to her room. She was no coward; she would try to save it; she would, perhaps, defy and exasperate the burglar, and he, in sudden fury, stabbed her; then, frightened at his own deed, he hastened away. There are signs of a struggle in the room, but I cannot say if there is anything missing."

"I must go to her," said Earle.

"Nay," replied Lord Linleigh, gently; "the sight will kill you."

"Then let me die – I have nothing to live for now! Oh, my darling! my dear lost love!"

He knelt down on the ground, sobbing like a child. Lord Linleigh stole away gently, leaving him there.

In another five minutes the whole household was aroused, and the dismay, the fear, the consternation could never be told in words.

The servants at first seemed inclined to lose themselves, to wander backward and forward without aim, weeping, wringing their hands, crying out to each other that their lady had been murdered while they slept; but Lord Linleigh pointed out forcibly that some one must have done the deed, and it behooved them to search before the murderer could make good his escape. No one was to enter the room until the detectives had arrived, and men were to mount the fleetest horses, to gallop over to Anderley, and bring the police officers back with them.

Then, when all directions were given, he went back to Earle. He was no coward, but he could not yet face the wife whose only child lay dead. Earle was waiting for him. Terrible as the moment was, he could not help noticing the awful change that had come over that young face: the youth and the brightness had all died from it; it was haggard and restless; he looked up as the earl entered the room.

"Lord Linleigh," he said, and every trace of music had died from his voice, "it was no fancy of mine last night – that sound I heard last night was from Doris: it was her smothered cry for help, perhaps her last sound. Oh, Heaven! if I had but flown when I heard it – flown to her aid! Yet I did go. I went to the very door of her room, and all was perfect silence. Let me go to her – do not be hard upon me – I must look upon the face of my love again."

"So you shall, but not yet."

Lord Linleigh shuddered.

"I would to Heaven that I had never seen the terrible sight," he said; "but you, Earle, believe me, you could not see it and live!"

CHAPTER LXXXIII
THE CAPTAIN ASKS STRANGE QUESTIONS

Two hours had passed; it was the full glowing noon now of the summer day. The sun shone so brightly and warmly it was difficult to bear its rays; the air was faint with the rich odor of countless flowers; it was musical with the song of a thousand birds; the bright-winged butterfly hovered round the roses. Then the sweet summer silence was broken by the gallop of horses and the tramp of men.

Captain Ayrley had arrived with two clever officers; the whole town of Anderley was astir: in the silence of the soft summer night, red-handed murder had been among them, and robbed them of the fairest girl the sun had ever shone on. Foul, sneaking, red-handed murder! The whole town was roused: some went to the church where the rector awaited the bride, and told him the beautiful girl who was to have been married that day had been found dead, with a knife in her heart.

Up the broad staircase leading to the grand corridor they went slowly, that little procession of strong men. Captain Ayrley would not use the spiral staircase, he wished to see the place just as it was.

"If the outer door is locked," he said, "we will soon force it."

The next sound heard in that lordly mansion was the violent breaking open of a door; then, the earl being with them, they entered, accompanied by the doctor.

He could do nothing but declare how many hours she had been dead.

"Since two in the morning," he believed, and the earl shivered as he listened.

That was the time when Earle had heard the stifled cry.

Captain Ayrley was shrewd and keen, a man of great penetration; nothing ever escaped him. He asked each person to stand quite still while he looked round the room.

"There has been no violent entrance," he said; "the murderer must have come up the spiral staircase gently enough, there is not a leaf of the foliage destroyed! he evidently entered no other room but this. Strange – if he came for the purpose of robbery; for there, in the sleeping chamber, I see costly jewels that would have repaid any mere burglar."

He looked around again.

"There are no less than three bells," he said. "Where do they sound?"

"One went to the maid's room, another to the servants' hall, the third to the housekeeper's room."

"It was a strange thing," said Captain Ayrley, "that the young lady, having these bells at hand, did not sound an alarm; she had plenty of time."

"How do you know," asked the earl, "that she had plenty of time?"

The officer pointed to the bridal costume, all lying in shreds upon the floor.

"It must have taken some time to destroy those," he said; "they could not have been so completely destroyed in one single instant. Look again; you will find that they have been done with clean hands – there is not a mark upon them. That was done before the murder; the proof is that the lady has fallen, as you perceive, on the debris."

"You are right," said Lord Linleigh.

Then, with the same skill and care, he examined every other detail. The earl told him about the knife.

"It is, you perceive," he said, "a pruning-knife. It was fetched from one of the hot-houses yesterday, to cut some branches Lady Studleigh said darkened her room. I saw it yesterday afternoon lying on that table, when I had come to speak to my daughter. Would to Heaven I had taken it away with me!"

Captain Ayrley looked very thoughtful.

"If that be the case, then it is quite evident the person did not come prepared to do murder! it must have been an afterthought."

"Perhaps my daughter made some resistance – tried to call for help, or something of that kind," said the earl.

Still the captain looked puzzled.

"Why not have called for help while these things were being destroyed?" he said. "I am sure there is a mystery in it, something that does not quite meet the eye at the first glance. Will you call Lady Studleigh's maid. Throw – throw a sheet over there first; that is not a fitting sight for any woman's eye."

Then came Eugenie, with many tears and wailing cries. She had nothing to tell, except that last evening her lady had, for the first time, spoken to her of her marriage, and had shown her the wedding costume.

"I took up the dress and looked at it," she said, "then I laid it over that chair. My lady wanted to see how large the veil was. I opened it, and we placed it on this chair: the wreath lay in a small scented box on the table. I remember seeing the knife there; it was left yesterday after the branches were cut. My lady told me to take it back, but I forgot it."

She knew no more, only that she had tried her hardest to open the door that morning, and had not succeeded. She was evidently ignorant and unconscious enough.

"Had your lady any enemy?" asked the earl.

"No," replied the maid; "I believe every one who saw her worshiped her.

"Was there any tramp or poacher to whom she had refused alms, or anything of that kind?" asked the captain.

"I should say not; my lady always had an open hand."

"She expressed no fear last evening, but seemed just as usual?" asked the earl.

"She was happier than usual, if anything, my lord," was the reply.

Then the medical details were taken down, and the body of the dead girl was raised from the ground. The doctor and the maid washed the stains from the golden hair. The housekeeper was summoned, and the two women, with bitter tears, laid the fair limbs to rest. She was so lovely, even in death! The cruel wound could not be seen. They would have arrayed her in her wedding-dress had it not been destroyed. They found a robe of plain white muslin, and put it on her: they brushed out the shining ripples of golden hair, and let it lie like a long veil around her; they crossed the perfect arms, and laid them over the quiet breast. Though she had died so terrible a death, there was no trace of pain on the beautiful face: it was calm and smiling, as though the last whisper from her lips had been anything rather than the terrible words.

"Oh, God! I am not fit to die!" – anything rather than that.

Eugenie went down into the garden and gathered fair white roses, she crowned the golden head with them; she laid them on the white breast, and over the silent figure, perfect in its pale loveliness as sculptured marble; so beautiful, so calm! Oh, cruel death, to have claimed her! Then the maid wept bitter tears over her, she could not tear herself from the room where the beautiful figure lay. Silently the earl entered, and bowed his head over the cold face, hot tears fell from his eyes upon it.

"I will avenge you, my darling," he said. "I will hunt your murderer down."

He went back to the room, where Captain Ayrley awaited him, with a strange expression on his face.

"I do not like to own myself defeated, Lord Linleigh," he said; "but I must own I am baffled here. I can see no motive for this most cruel murder."

"Robbery," said the earl, shortly.

"No: I cannot think so. The maid, who evidently understands her business, tells me that there is not so much as a ring, or an inch of lace missing; whatever the motive may have been, it was certainly not robbery; if so, when the victim lay helpless and dead, why not have carried off the plunder? There is jewelry enough here to have made a man's fortune; if any one risked murder for it, why not have taken it away?"

"Perhaps there was some noise, some interruption; the man grew frightened and ran away."

"I see no sign of it; there is nothing disturbed. Besides, my lord, there is another thing that puzzles me more than all. Why should a man, whose object was simply plunder, employ himself in tearing a wedding-dress and bridal-veil to pieces; why should he have delayed in order to crush her wedding-wreath in his hand, and trample it underneath his feet, especially when, as circumstantial evidence goes to prove, his victim must have been in his presence – must, if she had any fear, have had plenty of time to have rung for help. I do not understand it."

"It certainly seems very mysterious," said Lord Linleigh. "I do not at all understand the destruction of the wedding costume."

"Do not think me impertinent, my lord, if I ask whether there was any rival in the case? This is not a common murder – I would stake the whole of my professional skill on it. It is far more like a crime committed under the maddening influence of jealousy than anything else."

"I do not see that it is possible. My daughter, as was only natural for a beautiful girl in her position, had many admirers; but there was no one who would be likely to be jealous. Another thing is, by her own especial wish and desire, the fact of her marriage was to be kept a profound secret; no one knew one single word about it except ourselves."

"And that was by her own especial desire?" said Captain Ayrley.

"Yes, it was her whim – her caprice."

"She may have had a reason for it," said the captain, gravely. "I should imagine she had."

"And what would you imagine that reason to be?" asked the earl.

"I should say that, for some reason or other, she was afraid of its being known. There are many things hidden in lives that seem calm and tranquil; it seems to me that the unfortunate young lady was afraid of some one, and perhaps had reason for it."

The earl sat in silence for some minutes, trying to think over all his daughter's past life; he could not remember anything that seemed to give the least color to the officer's suspicions. He raised his eyes gravely to the shrewd, keen face.

"You may be right, Captain Ayrley," he said; "it is within the bounds of possibility. But, frankly, on the honor of a gentleman, I know of nothing in my daughter's life that bears out your suspicions; therefore I should wish you not to mention them to any one else; they can only give pain. For my part, not understanding the destruction of the wedding-dress, I firmly believe that it is a case of intended burglary, and that either while trying to defend herself or to give the alarm, she was cruelly murdered. I believe that, and nothing more. At the same time, if you like to follow out any clew, I will do all in my power to help you. For the present we will not add to horror and grief by assuming that such a crime can be the result of jealous or misspent love. Try by all means to catch the murderer – never mind who or what he is."

Captain Ayrley promised to obey. Yet, though they searched and searched well, there was not the least trace, no mark of footsteps, no broken boughs, no stains of red finger marks, nor could they find any trace, in the neighborhood, of tramps, vagrants, or burglars. It seemed to Captain Ayrley, that the Linleigh Court murder would be handed down as a mystery to all time.

Lord Linleigh did not enter the room, where lay the beautiful, silent dead, with Earle, he dreaded the sight of his grief, he could not bear the thought of his sorrow.

Earle went in alone, closing the door behind him, that none might hear or see when he bade his love farewell. Those who watched in the outer room heard a sound of weeping and wild words: they heard sobs so deep and bitter, that it was heartrending to remember it was a strong man weeping there in his agony. They did not disturb him: perhaps Heaven in its mercy sent him some comfort – none came from earth; nothing came to soften the madness of anguish when he remembered this was to have been his wedding day, and now his beautiful, golden-haired darling lay dead, cold, silent, smiling – dead! What could lessen such anguish as his?