Kitabı oku: «The Silent Shore», sayfa 5

CHAPTER VIII

About the same time that Sir Paul Raughton received the telegram from London, and was taking counsel with one or two of his elder guests as to whether he should at once tell Ida the dreadful news or leave it till the morning, Lord Penlyn entered his hotel in town. A change had come over the young man-a change of such a nature that any one, who had seen him twenty-four hours before, would scarcely have believed him to be the same person. His face, which usually bore a good colour, was ghastly pale, his eyes had great hollows and deep rings round them, and even his lips looked as if the blood had left them. He had come from his club-where, since it had been discovered who the victim of last night's tragedy was, nothing else but the murder had been talked about, as was also the case in every club and public place in London-and he now mounted the steps of the hotel with the manner of a man who was either very weak or very weary.

"Do you know where my servant is?" he asked of the hall porter, who held the door open for him; and even this man noticed that his voice sounded strange and broken, and that he looked ill.

"He is at his tea, my lord; shall I send for him?"

"No, but send him to me when he has finished. We shall return to my house to-night."

The porter bowed, and said, "I have sent a letter to your room, my lord," and Penlyn went on. His apartment, consisting of a sitting-room and bed-room, was on the ground floor of the hotel, and was usually given to guests of distinction (who were likely, in the landlord's opinion, to pay handsomely for the accommodation), as it saved them the trouble of going up any stairs. The hotel was a private one; a house that did not welcome persons of whom it knew nothing, but made those whom it did know, entirely at their ease. It was very quiet, shutting its doors at midnight unless any of its visitors were at a ball or party, in which case, if some of those visitors were ladies, the porter's deputy sat up for them; but, when they were gentlemen, furnishing them with latch-keys. As sometimes there were not more than three or four gentlemen in this extremely select hotel at one time, this was an obviously better system than having a night-porter.

Lord Penlyn took up the letter that was lying on his table, and proceeded to open it, throwing himself at the same time wearily into an arm-chair. He recognised Ida's handwriting, and as he did so he wondered if, by any possibility, the letter could be about the subject of which all London was talking to-day-the murder of Walter Cundall. When he saw that there was another one inclosed in it, the handwriting of which he did not know, his curiosity was so aroused (for he wondered how a stranger to him should know, or suppose, that he was at Belmont), that he opened this one first and read it. Read it carefully from beginning to end, and then dropped it on the floor as he put his hands up to his head, and wailed, "Murdered! Oh my God! Murdered! When he had written this letter only an hour before." And then he wept long and bitterly.

The letter ran:

My Brother,

"Since I saw you last Saturday I have been thinking deeply upon what passed between us, and I have come to the conclusion that, after all, it will be best for nothing to be said to any one on the subject of our father's first marriage; not even to Miss Raughton or her father. By keeping back the fact that you have an elder brother, no harm is done to any one. I shall never marry now, and consequently, you are only taking possession of what will be yours, or your children's, eventually. No one but you, your friend Mr. Smerdon, and I, know of this secret; let no one ever know it. We love the same woman, and, when she is your wife, I shall have the right to love her with a brother's love. Let us unite together to make her life as perfectly happy as possible. To do this we must not begin by undeceiving her as to the position she is to hold.

"I suggest this, nay, I command you to do this, because of my love for her, a love which desires that her life may be without pain or sorrow. I shall not witness her happiness with you, not yet at least, for I do not think I could bear that; but, in some future years, it may be that time will have so tempered my sorrow to me, that I shall be able to see you all in all to each other, perhaps to even witness your children playing at her knee, and to feel content. I pray God that it may be so.

"Remember, therefore, what I, by my right as your elder brother-which I exert for the first and last time! – charge you to do. Retain your position, still be to the world what you have been, and devote your life to her.

"I have one other word to say. The Occleve property is a comfortable, though not a remarkably fine, one. You have heard of my means, and they are scarcely exaggerated. If, at any time, there is any sum of money you or she may want, come to me and you shall have it.

"Let us forget the bitter words we each spoke in our interview. Our lives are bound up in one cause, and that, and our relationship, should prevent their ever being remembered.

"Your brother,

"Walter."

When he was calmer, he picked the letter up again and read it through once more, having carefully locked his door before he did so, for he did not wish his valet to see his emotion. But the re-reading of it brought him no peace, indeed seemed only to increase his anguish. When the man-servant knocked at his door he bade him go away for a time, as he was engaged and could not be disturbed; and then he passed an hour pacing up and down the room, muttering to himself, starting at the slightest sound, and nearly mad with his thoughts. These thoughts he could not collect; he did not know what steps to take next. What was he to tell Ida or Sir Paul-or was he to tell them anything? The dead man, the murdered brother, had enjoined on him, in what he could not have known was to be a dying request, that he was to keep the secret. Why then should he say anything? There was no need to do so! He was Lord Penlyn now, there was nothing to tell! No one but Philip, who was trustworthy, knew that he had ever been anything else. No one would ever know it. And he shuddered as he thought that, if the world did ever know that Walter Cundall had been his brother, then the world would believe him to be his murderer! No! it must never be known that he and that other were of the same blood.

He could not sit still, he must move about, he must leave the house! He rang for his man and told him to pack up and pay the bill, and take his things round to Occleve House, and that he should arrive there late; and the man seemed surprised at his orders.

"Will you not dress, my lord?" he asked. "You were to dine out to-night."

"To-night? Yes! true! I had forgotten it; but I shall not go. Mr. Cundall who was killed last night was a friend of mine; I am going to his club to hear if any more particulars have been made known." And then he went out.

The valet was a quiet, discreet man, but as he packed his master's portmanteaus he reflected a good deal on the occurrences of the past few days. First of all, he remembered the visit of Mr. Cundall on Saturday to Occleve House, and that the footman had told him that he had heard some excited conversation going on as he had passed the room, though he had not been able to catch the words and he also called to mind that, an hour afterwards, Lord Penlyn had told him to take some things round to this hotel (which they were now leaving as suddenly as they had come), and also that they would not pay their visit to Sir Paul Raughton's for the Ascot week. Was there any connecting link between Mr. Cundall's visit to his master, and his master leaving the house and giving up Ascot? And was there any connection between all this and the murder of Mr. Cundall, and the visible agitation of Lord Penlyn? He could not believe it, but still it did seem strange that this visit of Mr. Cundall's should have been followed by such an alteration of his master's plans, and by his own horrible death.

"What time did my governor come in last night?" he said to the porter, as he and that worthy stood in the hall waiting for a cab that had been sent for.

"I don't know," the porter answered. "There was only his lordship and another gent staying in the house, except the Dean's family upstairs, and some foreign swells, and none of them keep late hours, so we gave him and the other gent a key and left a jet of gas burning in the 'all. But both on 'em must have come in precious late, for Jim, who sleeps on the first floor, said he never heard either of them. I say, this is a hawful thing about this Mr. Cundall."

"It is so! Well, there's the cab. Jim, put the portmanteaus on the top. Here you are, porter!" and he slipped the usual tip into the porter's hand, and wishing him "good evening," went off.

"Well," he said to himself as he drove to Occleve House, "I should like to know what we went to that hotel for three days for! It wasn't because of the Dean's daughters nor yet for the foreign ladies, because he never spoke to any of them. Well, I'll buy a 'Special' and read about the murder."

Lord Penlyn walked on to Pall Mall, going very slowly and in an almost dazed state, and surprised several whom he met by his behaviour to them. Men whom he knew intimately he just nodded to instead of stopping to speak with for a moment, and some he did not seem to see at all. He was wondering what further particulars he would hear when he got to Cundall's club, and also when Smerdon would be back. That gentleman had started for Occleve Chase on Monday morning, but must by now have received a telegram Penlyn had sent him, telling him to return at once. In it he had cautiously, and without mentioning any names, given him to understand that their visitor of last Saturday had died suddenly, and he expected that he would return by the next train.

He had started off for Cundall's club, thinking to find out what was known, but, when he got there, he reflected that he could scarcely walk into a club, of which he was not a member, simply to make inquiries about even so important a subject as this. He could give no grounds for his eagerness to learn anything fresh, could not even say that he was particularly intimate with the dead man. Would it not look strange for him to be forcing his way in and making inquiries? Yes! and not only that, but it would draw attention on him, and it would be better to gather particulars elsewhere. He would go to his own club and find out what was known there.

So, looking very wan and miserable, he walked on to "Black's," and there he found the murder as much a subject of discussion as it was everywhere else. All the evening papers were full of it; the men who always profess to know something more than their fellows, whether it be with regard to a dark horse for a race, an understanding with Germany, or the full particulars of the next great divorce case-these men had heard all sorts of curious stories-that Cundall had a wife who had tracked him from the Tropics to slay him; that he had committed suicide because he was ruined; that he had been murdered by an outraged husband! There was nothing too far-fetched for these gentlemen!

Sifted down as the case was thoroughly by the papers, the facts that had come out, since first his body was discovered, amounted to this: He had been at his club late in the evening, and his brougham was waiting outside for him when the storm began. Then he had sent word down to his coachman to say that, as he had a letter to write, the carriage had better go home and he would take a cab later on. Other testimony, gathered by the papers, went on to show that he had sat on at his club, reading a little, and then going to a writing-table where he had sat some time; that when he had written his letter he went to a large arm-chair and read it over more than once, and then put a stamp on it, and, putting it in his pocket, still sat on and on, evidently thinking deeply. Two or three members said they had spoken to him, and one that he had told Cundall he did not seem very gay, but that he had replied in his usual pleasant manner, that he was very well, but had a good deal to occupy his mind. It was some time past two o'clock (the club, having a large number of Members of Parliament on its roll, was a late one) before the storm was over, and he rose to go. The hall-porter was apparently the last person who spoke to him alive, asking him if he should call a cab, but receiving for answer that, as the air was now so cool and fresh, he would walk home through the Park, it being so near to Grosvenor Place. The porter standing at the door of the club, himself to inhale the air, saw Mr. Cundall drop a letter in the pillar-box close by, and then go on. The only other person he noticed about, at that time, was a man who looked like a labourer, who was going the same way as Mr. Cundall. The sentries who had been on duty at, and around, St. James's Palace were also interrogated, and the one who had been outside Clarence House, stated that he distinctly remembered a gentleman answering to Mr. Cundall's description passing by him into the Park, at about a quarter to three. It was still raining slightly, and he had his umbrella up. He, too, saw the labourer, or mechanic, walking some fifteen yards behind him, and supposed he was going to his early work. From the time Mr. Cundall passed this man until the policeman found him dead, no one seemed to have seen him.

With the exception of the medical evidence, which stated that he had been stabbed to, and through, the heart by one swift, powerful blow, that must have caused instantaneous death, there was little more to be told. Judging from the state of the ground, there had been no struggle, a fact which would justify the idea that the murder had been planned and premeditated. The workman might have easily planned it himself in the time he followed him from outside his club to the time they were in the Park together, but he would have had to be provided with an extraordinarily long knife, such as workmen rarely carry. But, even had he not been the murderer, he must have seen the murder committed, since he was close at hand. It was, therefore, imperative that this man should be found. But to find one man in a city with four millions and a quarter of inhabitants was no easy task, especially when there was nothing by which to trace him. The sentry by whom he passed nearest thought he seemed to be a man of about five or six and twenty, with a brown moustache. But how many thousands of men were there in London to whom this description would apply!

Lord Penlyn sat there reading the "Specials," listening to the different opinions expressed, and particularly noting the revengeful utterances of men who had known Cundall. Their grief was loud, and strongly uttered, and it was evident that the regular police, or detective, force might be, if necessary, augmented by amateurs who would leave no stone unturned to try and get a clue to the murderer. Amongst others, he noticed one young man who was particularly grief-stricken, and who was constantly appealed to by those who surrounded him; and, on asking a fellow-member who he was, he learnt that he was a Mr. Stuart, the secretary of his dead brother. It happened that he had been brought into the club by a man who had known Cundall well.

"To-morrow," Penlyn heard him say, and he started as he heard it, "I am going to make a thorough investigation of all his papers. As far as I or his City agents know, he hadn't a relation in the world; but surely his correspondence must give us some idea of whom to communicate with. And, until this morning, I should have said he had not got an enemy in the world either."

"You think, then, that this dastardly murder is the work of an enemy, and not for mere robbery?" the gentleman asked who had brought him into the club.

"I am sure of it! As to the workman who is supposed to have done it-well, if he did do it, he was only a workman in disguise. No! he had some enemy, perhaps some one who owed him money, or whose path he had been enabled by his wealth to cross, and that is the man who killed him. And, by the grace of Heaven, I am going to find that man out."

Penlyn still sat there, and as he heard Stuart utter these words he felt upon what a precipice he stood. Suppose that, in the papers which were about to be ransacked, there should be any that proved that Walter Cundall was his eldest brother, and that he, Penlyn, had only learnt it two days before he was murdered. Would not everything point to him as the Cain who had slain his brother, and was he not making appearances worse against him by keeping silence? He must tell some one, he could keep the horrible secret no longer. And he must have the sympathy of some one dear to him; he would confide in Ida! Surely, she would not believe him to be the murderer of his own brother! Yes, he would go down to Belmont and tell her all. Better it should come from him than that Stuart should discover it, and publish it to the world.

"I hope you may find him out," several men said in answer to Stuart's exclamation. "The brute deserves something worse than hanging. If Cundall's murderer gets off, it is the wickedest thing that ever happened." Then one said: "Is there any clue likely to be got at through the wound?"

"No," Stuart answered, "I think not. Though the surgeon who has examined it says that it was made by no ordinary knife or dagger."

"What does he think it was, then?" they asked.

"He says the wound is more like those he has seen in the East. The dagger, he thinks, must have been semicircular and of a kind the Arabs often use, especially the Algerian Arabs."

"I never knew that!" one said; "but then I have never been to Algiers. Who has? Here, Penlyn, you were there once, weren't you?"

"Yes," Penlyn said, and his tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of his mouth as he uttered the words; "but I never saw or heard of a knife or dagger of that description."

Stuart looked at Lord Penlyn as he spoke, and noticed the faltering way in which he did so. Then, in a moment, the thought flashed into his mind that this was the man who had won the woman whom his generous friend and patron had loved. Could he-but no, the idea was ridiculous! He was the winner, Cundall the loser. Successful men had no reason to kill their unsuccessful rivals!

CHAPTER IX

After a wretched night spent in tossing about his bed, in dreaming of the murdered man, and in lying awake wondering how he should break the news to Ida, Lord Penlyn rose with the determination of going down to Belmont. But when the valet brought him his bath he told him that Mr. Smerdon had arrived from Occleve Chase at six o'clock, and would meet him at breakfast. So, when he heard this, he dressed quickly and went to his friend.

"Good Heavens!" Philip said, when he saw him. "How ill you look! What is the matter?"

"Matter!" the other answered, "is there not matter enough to make me look ill? I have told you that Cundall is dead, and you know how he died."

"Yes, I know. But surely you must be aware of what it has freed you from."

"It has freed me from nothing. Read this; would that not have freed me equally as well?" and he handed him the letter that his brother had written a few hours before his death.

The other's face darkened as he read, and then he said:

"He was a man of noble impulses, but they were only impulses! Would you have ever felt sure while he lived that he might not alter his mind again at any moment?"

"Yes! He loved Ida, and I do not believe he was a man who would have ever loved another woman. I should have been safe in his hands."

Then they began to talk about the murder itself, and Smerdon asked who was suspected, or if any one was?

"No," Penlyn said, "no one is suspected-as yet. A labourer was seen following him on that night, and suspicion naturally falls on him, because, if he did not do it himself, he must have been close at hand, and would have helped him or given an alarm. There is only one road through the Park, which they must both have taken."

"Is there any trace of this man?"

"None whatever, up to last night. Meanwhile, his friend and secretary, Mr. Stuart, says that he is confident that the murder was committed by some one who had reason to wish him out of the way, and he is going through his papers to-day to see if any of them can throw any light on such an enemy."

"He cannot, I suppose, find anything that can do you any harm?"

"Supposing he finds those certificates he showed us?"

"Supposing he does! You are Lord Penlyn now, at any rate. And it would give you an opportunity of putting in a claim to his property. You are his heir, if he has left no will."

"His heir! To all his immense wealth?"

"Certainly."

"I shall never claim it, and I hope to God he has destroyed every proof of our relationship."

"Why?"

"Why! Because will not the fact that I held a position which belonged to him, and was the heir to all his money-of which I never thought till this moment-give the world cause for suspecting-?"

"What?"

"That I am his murderer."

"Nonsense! I suppose you could prove where you were at the time of his death?"

"No, I could not. I entered the hotel at two, but there was not a creature in the house awake. I could hear the porter's snores on the floor above, and there is not a living soul to prove whether I was in at three or not."

"Nor whether you were out! If they were all asleep, what evidence could they give on either side?"

"Even though there should be no evidence, how could I go through life with the knowledge that every one regarded me as his unproved murderer?"

"You look at the matter too seriously. To begin with, after that letter he wrote you, he would very likely destroy all proofs of his identity-"

"He had no chance. He was murdered, in all probability-indeed must have been-a quarter of an hour after he posted it in Pall Mall."

"He might have destroyed them before-when he made up his mind to write the letter."

"Certainly, he might have done so. But I am not going to depend upon his having destroyed them. This secret must be told by me, and I am going to Belmont to-day to tell it to Ida."

"You must be mad, I think!" Smerdon said, speaking almost angrily to him. "This secret, which only came to light a week ago, is now buried for ever, and, since he is dead, can never be brought up again. For what earthly reason should you tell Miss Raughton anything about it?"

"Because she ought to know," the other answered weakly. "It is only right that she should know."

"That you were not Lord Penlyn when you became engaged to her, but that you are now. And that Cundall being your brother, you must mourn him as a brother, and consequently your marriage must be postponed for at least a year. Is that what you mean?"

Lord Penlyn started. This had never entered into his head, and was certainly not what he would have meant or desired. Postponed for a year! when he was dying to make her his wife, when the very thought that his brother might step in and interrupt his marriage had been the cause of his brutality of speech to him. It had not been the impending loss of lands and position that had made him speak as he had done, he had told himself many times of late; it had been the fear of losing his beloved Ida. And, now that there was nothing to stand between them, he was himself about to place an obstacle in the way, an obstacle that should endure for at least a year. Smerdon was right, his quick mind had grasped what he would never have thought of-quite right! he would do well to say nothing about his relationship to the dead man. It is remarkable how easily we agree with those who show us the way to further our own ends!

"I never thought of that," he said, "and I could not bear it. After all," he went on weakly, "you are right! I do not see any necessity to say anything about it, and he himself forbade me to do so."

"There is only one thing, though," Smerdon said, "which is that, if you do not proclaim yourself his brother, I cannot see how you are to become possessed of his money."

"Don't think about it-I will never become possessed of it. It may go to any one but me, to some distant relative, if any can be found, or to the Crown, or whatever it is that takes a man's money when he is without kinsmen; but never to me. He was right when he said that I had been Jacob to his Esau all my life, but I will take no more from him, even though he is dead."

"Quixotic and ridiculous ideas!" Smerdon said. "In fact you and he had remarkably similar traits of character. Extremely quixotic, unless you have some strong reason for not claiming his millions. For instance, if you had really murdered him I could understand such a determination! But I suppose you did not do that!"

Lord Penlyn looked up and saw his friend's eyes fixed on him, with almost an air of mockery in them. Then he said:

"I want you to understand one thing, Philip. There must be no banter nor joking on this subject. Even though I must hold my peace for ever, I still regard it as an awful calamity that has fallen upon me. If I could do so, I would set every detective in London to work to try and find the man who killed him; indeed, if it were not for Ida's sake, I should proclaim myself his brother to-morrow."

"But for Ida's sake you will not do so?"

"For Ida's sake, and for the reason that I do not wish his money, I shall not; and more especially for the reason that you have shown me our marriage would be postponed if I did so. But never make such a remark again to me. You know me well enough to know that I am not of the stuff that murderers and fratricides are made of."

"I beg your pardon," Philip said; "of course I did not speak in earnest."

"On this subject we will, if you please, speak in nothing else but earnest. And, if you will help me with your advice, I shall be glad to have it."

"Let us go over the ground then," his friend said, "and consider carefully what you have to do. In the first place you have to look at the matter from two different points of view. One point is that you lose all claim to his money-yes, yes, I know," as Lord Penlyn made a gesture of contempt at the mention of the money-"all claim by keeping your secret. It is better, however, that you should so keep it. But, on the other hand, there is, of course, the chance-a remote one, a thousand to one chance, but still a chance-that he may have left some paper behind him which would prove your relationship to each other. In that case you would, of course, have no alternative but to acknowledge that you were brothers."

"And what would the world think of me then?"

"That you had simply done as he bade you, and kept the secret."

"It would think that I murdered him. It would be natural that the world should think so. He stood between me and everything, except Ida's love, and people might imagine that he possessed that too. And his murder, coming so soon after he disclosed himself to me, would make appearances against me doubly black."

"Who is to know when he disclosed himself to you? For aught the world knows, you might have been aware of your relationship for years."

"Then I was living a lie for years!"

"Do not wind round the subject so! And remember that, in very fact, you have done no harm. A week ago you did not know this secret."

"Well," Penlyn said, springing up from his chair, "things must take their course. If it comes out it must; if not, I shall never breathe a word to any one. Fate has cursed me with this trouble, I must bear it as best I can. The only thing I wish is that I had never gone to that hotel. That would also tell against me if anything was known."

"It was a pity, but it can't be helped. Now, go to Belmont, but be careful to hold your tongue."

Lord Penlyn did go to Belmont, having previously sent a telegram saying he was coming, and he travelled down in one of the special trains that was conveying a contingent of fashionable racing people to the second day at Ascot. But their joyousness, and the interest that they all took in the one absorbing subject, "What would win the Cup?" only made him feel doubly miserable. Why, he pondered, should these persons be so happy, when he was so wretched? And then, when they were tired of discussing the racing, they turned to the other great subject that was now agitating people's minds, the murder in St. James's Park. He listened with interest to all they had to say on that matter, and he found that, whatever the different opinions of the travellers in the carriage might be as to who the murderer was, they were all agreed as to the fact that it was no common murder committed for robbery, but one done for some more powerful reason.

"He stood in some one's light," one gentleman said, whom, from his appearance, Lord Penlyn took to be a barrister, "and that person has either removed him from this earth, or caused him to be removed. I should not like to be his heir, for on that man suspicion will undoubtedly fall, unless he can prove very clearly that he was miles away from London on Monday night."

Penlyn started as he heard these words. His heir! Then it would be on him that suspicion would fall if it was ever known that he was the heir; and, as he thought that, among his brother's papers, there might be something to prove that he was in such a position, a cold sweat broke out upon his forehead. How could he prove himself "miles away from London" on that night? Even the sleepy porter could not say at what time he returned to the hotel! Nothing, he reflected, could save him, if there was any document among the papers (that Stuart was probably ransacking by now) that would prove that he and Cundall were brothers.

He thought that, after all, it would be better he should tell Ida, and he made up his mind by the time he had arrived at the nearest station to Belmont, that he would do so. It would be far better that the information, startling as it might be, should come from him than from any other source. And while he was being driven swiftly over to Sir Paul's villa, he again told himself that it would be the best thing to do. Only, when he got to Belmont, he found his strength of mind begin to waver. The news of Cundall's dreadful death had had the effect of entirely breaking up the baronet's Ascot party. Every one there knew on what friendly terms the dead man had been both with father and daughter, and had been witness to the distress that both had felt at hearing the fatal tidings-Ida, indeed, had retired to her room, which she kept altogether; and consequently all the guests, with the exception of Miss Norris, had taken their departure. That young lady, whose heart was an extremely kind one, had announced that nothing should induce her to leave her dear friend until she had entirely recovered from the shock, and she had willingly abandoned the wearing of her pretty new frocks and had donned those more suited to a house of mourning; and she resigned herself to seeing no more racing, and to the loss of Mr. Fulke's agreeable conversation, and had devoted herself to administering to Ida. But, as Mr. Fulke and young Montagu had betaken themselves to an hotel not far off and had promised that they would look round before quitting the neighbourhood, she probably derived some consolation from knowing that she would see the former again.