Kitabı oku: «If Sinners Entice Thee», sayfa 3
“I have not the power to say all I feel. My words sound so harsh and cold; but, Liane, Liane, I love you! God made not the heart of man to be silent, but has promised him eternity with the intention that he should not be alone. There is for me but one woman upon earth. It is you.”
He looked imploringly into her face.
“Yes, George, I feel that you love me,” she said, with a sweet smile behind her veil. “It is very nice to be loved.”
He covered her hand with eager kisses; but she withdrew it softly, her lips compressed.
“My darling!” His arm was about her waist, and he kissed her lips. He spoke in strong suppressed agitation; his voice trembled. He recollected he was penniless.
She freed herself from his embrace. “No, no,” she murmured. “We may love, but we must not marry. There are so many other girls who would make you far happier than I should.”
He went on to tell her how much he reverenced her character, how good and pure and lovely she was, and how completely she fulfilled his ideal of what a woman ought to be.
Slowly she shook her head. “That shows you know so little of me, George.”
“I know only what you have told me, dearest,” he answered.
Then a moment later he regretted that he had not adhered to his resolve and exercised more self-control. Was he not without means? Yet he had asked her to marry him! Could he tell her in the same breath that he was penniless? No, he dared not, lest she might cast him aside.
Liane stood like one in a dream, her beautiful face suffused by blushes, her eyes downcast, her breast slowly heaving.
He could resist his own passion – he could keep back what he felt – no longer.
“I love you!” cried he.
She stretched out her hands in a sort of mute appeal, and seemed as if she would fall; but in that instant she was again clasped to his heart, and held there with a tender force that she had neither the power nor the will to withstand.
He wished to marry her! Was it possible? And she loved him. With that thought her face was hidden on his shoulder, and she yielded herself to those protecting arms. He felt the shy loving movement as she nestled close to him, and her frame was shaken by a sob.
“My darling – my darling – my own darling!” he cried, triumph in his voice, and passionate joy in his eyes. “You love me – you love me!”
But again she drew herself away from him, then turned aside, held her breath, and shuddered. The lace ruffles on her bosom slowly rose and fell. The movement was as though she were shrinking from him with repulsion. But it was only momentary, and he did not notice it. Next instant she again turned, lifting her clear grey eyes to his with their frank innocent gaze.
“Yes,” she said, almost in a whisper, “I love you.”
Chapter Four
Hairpins
The tragedy caused the greatest excitement in the neighbourhood. Journalistic artists, those industrious gentlemen who produce such terribly distorted portraits, came from London and sketched the spot in Cross Lane and the exterior of Captain Brooker’s house. One had the audacity to call and request him to lend them a photograph of the murdered girl. This he declined, with a few remarks more forcible than polite, for he had been greatly annoyed by the continual stream of interviewers, who continually rang his bell. Hundreds of persons walked or drove over from Reading to view the spot where Nelly had been found, and in addition to the local detectives, Inspector Swayne, a well-known officer from Scotland Yard, had been sent down to direct the inquiries.
At the inquest, held at the King’s Head, two days later, it was expected by everybody that some interesting facts would be brought to light. Erle Brooker had never troubled to earn the good will of his neighbours, therefore they were now spitefully eager for any scandal that might be elicited, and long before the hour for which the jury had been summoned, congregated around the village inn. It was known that on the day following the tragedy the Captain had paid a mysterious visit to London, and the object of this trip had been a subject of much discussion everywhere. The murder of his adopted daughter had been a terrible blow to him, and when seen on his way to the station it was noticed that his face, usually smiling and good-humoured, wore a heavy, preoccupied look.
As he walked with Liane from his cottage to the inn, the crowd, gaping and hushed, opened a way for them to pass in; then, when they had entered, there was an outburst of sympathy and sneers, many of the latter reaching the ears of George Stratfield when, a few moments later, he followed them.
After a long wait, the Coroner at length took his seat, the jury were duly sworn, and the witnesses, ordered out of the crowded room, were ushered into a small ante-room, the table of which had recently been polished with stale beer. Here Liane introduced her lover to her father, and the men exchanged greetings. George, however, did not fail to notice the rustiness of the Captain’s shabby frock-coat, nor the fact that his black trousers were shiny at the knees; yet as they grasped hands, the ring of genuine bonhomie about his voice favourably impressed him. By his tone and manner George instinctively knew that Erle Brooker, the man against whom his dead father entertained such an intense dislike, was a gentleman.
“Our meeting is in very tragic circumstances, Mr Stratfield,” the Captain observed huskily, his grave face unusually pale. “They told me that you had discovered poor Nelly, but I had not the pleasure of your acquaintance, although I had, of course, heard of you often from the villagers.”
Liane and George looked at one another significantly.
“I must regret your sad bereavement, and both you and Liane have my sincerest sympathy,” the young man answered.
The Captain glanced quickly at the Baronet’s son with a strange, puzzled expression. He had spoken of his daughter familiarly by her Christian name, and evidently knew her well. He had not before suspected this.
At that moment, however, the door opened, and a constable putting his head inside called his name. In obedience to the policeman’s request he rose and followed him into the room wherein the court of inquiry had assembled. Having advanced to the table and been sworn, the Coroner addressing him, said, —
“Your name is Captain Erle Brooker, late of the Guards, I believe?”
“Yes.”
“And you identify the body of the deceased. Who was she?”
“Helen Mary Bridson, daughter of a brother officer, Captain Bridson. She was left an orphan eleven years ago, and I brought her up.”
“Did her father die in London?”
“No, on the Continent.”
“Had she no relatives on her mother’s side?”
The Captain slowly stroked his moustache, then answered.
“I knew of none.”
“Were you acquainted with her mother?”
“No, I was not,” he replied after a moment’s reflection.
“And you have no suggestion to make, I suppose, regarding any person who might have entertained ill-will towards the unfortunate girl?” inquired the grey-haired Coroner.
“None whatever.”
“When did you last see her alive?”
“On Monday evening, when she accompanied a visitor to the station to see him off on his return to London. She rode her cycle, and announced her intention of going on to Burghfield to make a purchase. She was found later on,” he added, hoarsely.
“Who was this visitor? What was his name?”
“He was a friend, but I decline to give his name publicly,” the Captain replied firmly. “I will, however, write it for your information, if you desire,” and taking a pencil from his pocket he wrote the name of Prince Zertho d’Auzac and handed it to the Coroner.
The eager onlookers were disappointed. They had expected some sensational developments, but it seemed as though the crime was too enshrouded in mystery to prove of any very real interest. They did not, however, fail to notice that when the Coroner read what the Captain had written, an expression of astonishment crossed his face.
“Are you certain that the – this gentleman – left by the train he went to catch?” he asked.
“Quite,” answered Brooker. “Not only have the police made inquiry at my instigation, but I have also accompanied a detective to London, where we found my visitor. Inspector Swayne, as a result of his investigations, was entirely satisfied.”
“Had the unfortunate young lady any admirer?”
“I think not.”
“Then you can tell us absolutely nothing further?” observed the Coroner, toying with his quill.
“Unfortunately I cannot.”
The Captain, after signing his depositions, was directed to one of a row of empty chairs near the Coroner’s table, and his daughter was called.
Liane, pale and nervous, neatly dressed in black, entered quietly, removed her right glove, and took the oath. Having given her name, the Coroner asked, —
“When did you last see the deceased, Miss Brooker?”
“When she set out to go to the railway station,” she answered, in a low faltering voice.
“Have you any idea why she should have gone to Cross Lane? It was entirely out of her way home from Burghfield to Stratfield Mortimer, was it not?”
“I cannot tell,” Liane replied. “We went along that road on our cycles only on one occasion, and found it so rough that we agreed never to attempt it again.”
“I presume, Miss Brooker, that the deceased was your most intimate friend?” observed the Coroner. “She would therefore be likely to tell you if she had a lover. Were you aware of the existence of any such person?”
“No,” she replied, flushing slightly and glancing slowly around the hot, crowded room.
“You had a visitor whose name your father has just given me upon this paper,” observed the Coroner. “Was that visitor known to the deceased?”
The eyes of the father and daughter met for a single instant as she glanced around upon the long lines of expectant countenances.
“Oh, yes,” she replied. “The gentleman who came unexpectedly to see us has been known to us all for fully five or six years.”
“And has always been very friendly towards the unfortunate girl?”
“Always.”
“The only thing taken from the young lady appears to have been a diamond brooch. Do you know anything of it?”
“Of what?” gasped Liane nervously, her face paling almost imperceptibly behind her black veil.
“Of the brooch, of course.”
“I only know that she prized it very much, as it was a present from a gentleman she had met while on the Riviera eighteen months ago.”
“He was not her lover?” inquired the grave-faced man, without looking up from the sheet of blue foolscap whereon he was writing her statement.
“Not exactly. I have no knowledge of her possessing any admirer.”
The Coroner at last paused and put down his quill. “And this miniature, which was discovered beside the body, have you ever before seen it in the possession of the deceased?” he asked, holding it up to her gaze.
“No,” she answered. “Never.”
The jury not desiring to ask any questions, Liane was then allowed to retire to a chair next her father, and the doctor was called.
“Will you kindly tell us the result of the post mortem, Dr Lewis?” the Coroner requested, when the medical man had been sworn.
At once the doctor explained in technical language the injuries he had discovered, and described the exact position in which he had found the body when he reached the spot.
“And what, in your opinion, was the cause of death?” asked the Coroner in dry, business-like tones.
“She was shot at close quarters while ascending the incline leading from the railway arch towards Stratfield Mortimer. The weapon used was an Army revolver. I produce the bullet I have extracted,” he answered, taking it from his vest-pocket and handing it across the table. “The deceased’s assailant stood on her left-hand side, and must have shot her as she rode along. She evidently mounted her cycle at the commencement of the incline, and having run down swiftly and passed beneath the arch, was again descending when the shot was fired.”
“Was death instantaneous?” inquired the foreman of the jury.
“Scarcely,” answered the doctor. “Such a wound must, however, cause death. Immediate attention could not have saved her.”
A thrill of horror ran through the crowded court. Nearly everyone present had seen Nelly Bridson, with her smiling happy face, riding about the village and roads in the vicinity, and the knowledge that she had met with an end so terrible yet mysterious, appalled them.
Some further questions were put to the doctor, after which George Stratfield entered. As he raised the greasy copy of Holy Writ to his lips, his eyes fell upon Liane. She was sitting, pale and rigid, with a strange haggard expression upon her beautiful countenance such as he had never before beheld. He gazed upon her in alarm and surprise.
The Coroner’s questions, however, compelled him to turn towards the jury, and in reply he explained how, on that fateful evening after his father’s death, he was riding along Cross Lane, and was horrified by discovering the body of Nelly Bridson. In detail he described every incident, how he had lifted her up, and finding her quite dead, had ridden on into the village to obtain assistance.
Liane listened to his story open-mouthed. Her hands were closed tightly, and once or twice, when questions were put to him by Coroner or jury, she held her breath until he had answered. She was as one paralysed by some unknown fear. Their gaze met more than once, and on each occasion he fancied he detected, even through her veil, that her eyes were dark and haggard, like one consumed by some terrible dread.
“You have, I believe, some knowledge of this miniature,” the Coroner observed, again taking the small oval bejewelled portrait in his hand.
“Yes,” he answered. “It is undoubtedly the one which has been missing from my late father’s collection for more than twenty years. It was supposed to have been stolen, but by whom could never be ascertained. My father had several times offered handsome rewards for its recovery, as it is a family portrait.”
“You have no idea, I suppose, by what means it could have come into the unfortunate girl’s possession?”
“None whatever. The unexpected discovery amazed me.”
“You have not told us what caused you to ride along Cross Lane on that evening,” the foreman of the jury observed presently.
Again Liane held her breath.
“I had an appointment,” he answered, not without considerable hesitation, “and was proceeding to keep it.”
“Did you know Miss Bridson?”
“We had met on several occasions.”
The detective from Scotland Yard bent across the table and uttered some words, after which the Coroner, addressing George, said, —
“Inspector Swayne desires to ascertain whether it was with the deceased you had an appointment?”
“No,” he replied promptly.
Again the Coroner and the inspector exchanged some hurried words.
“Who was the person you intended to meet?” the Coroner asked, looking inquiringly at the witness.
“A lady.”
“Am I right in presuming that it was Miss Brooker?”
George paused for an instant, bit his lip in displeasure at being thus compelled to publicly acknowledge his clandestine meetings with Liane, and then nodded in the affirmative.
“Then you were about to meet Miss Brooker, but instead, found Miss Bridson lying in the roadway dead?” the Coroner observed.
“I did.”
“Are you aware that Miss Brooker wrote to you expressing her inability to keep the appointment?” the Coroner asked.
“She has told me so,” he answered. “The letter was given, I believe, to the unfortunate young lady to post, but I have not received it.”
“There appears to be some mystery about that letter,” the Coroner said, turning to the jury. “I have it here. It was discovered in fragments yesterday by the police, thrown into a ditch at the roadside not far from where the body was found;” and taking from among his papers a sheet of foolscap whereon the pieces of Liane’s letter had been pasted together, he handed it to the jury for their inspection.
At that instant a sudden thought occurred to George. This last fact pointed alone to one conclusion, namely, that Nelly being given the letter by Liane, and knowing its contents, kept the appointment herself, desiring to speak to him alone upon some subject the nature of which he could not, of course, guess. This would not only account for her presence at the spot where he found her, but also for her dismounting and resting at the gateway where they had discovered the curious marks in the dust, and for the fragments of the letter being recovered near.
A similar theory appeared to suggest itself to the minds of the jury, for a moment later the foreman asked —
“Would the deceased have any definite object in seeking an interview with you?”
“None whatever,” he promptly replied, puzzled nevertheless that the remains of Liane’s note should have been recovered in Cross Lane.
“You assisted the police to search the road for any traces of the assassin, I believe, Mr Stratfield,” continued the Coroner. “Did you discover anything?”
George raised his eyes and met the curious gaze of the woman he loved. At that moment her veil failed to hide the strange look of dread and apprehension in her face, so intense it was. Her lips, slightly parted, quivered, the pallor of her cheeks was deathlike, and her whole attitude was that of one who feared the revelation of some terrible truth.
“During my search I discovered a lady’s hairpin lying in the grass at the roadside,” George replied, after a silence, brief but complete. He was not thinking of the question, but was sorely puzzled at the extraordinary change in the woman who had promised to become his wife. The transformation was amazing.
“That pin is here,” the Coroner explained to the jury, passing it across for their inspection. “I will call Henry Fawcett, hairdresser, of Reading, who will give evidence regarding it.”
The man referred to was called in, and in reply to a formal question, took the hairpin in his hand, saying, —
“I have, at the instigation of the police, minutely compared this pin with those worn by the young lady at the time of her death, and also those found upon her dressing-table. I find that although apparently the same make it is nevertheless entirely different. Some of them found upon her dressing-table were of similar length and size, but while the pins she used were of the ordinary kind, such as may be purchased at any draper’s, this one is of very superior quality. By the shape of its points, together with its curve, I can distinguish that this is the pin manufactured solely by Clark and Lister, of Birmingham, and sold by first-class hairdressers.”
“Your theory is that this pin was never worn by the deceased?” the Coroner said, thoughtfully stroking his grey beard.
“I feel confident it never was, for the pin is quite new, and they are sold in large boxes,” was the reply.
“In that case it seems probable that another woman was with her immediately before her death,” observed the foreman to his brother jurors.
George looked again at Liane. Her eyes were still staring into space, her lips were trembling, her face was ashen pale. She started at the ominous words which fell upon her ear, then feigned to busy herself in re-buttoning the black glove she had removed before taking the oath.
“It, of course, remains for the police to prosecute further inquiries and to discover the owner of that hairpin,” the Coroner said. “Most of us are aware that ladies frequently use various kinds of pins in dressing their hair, but in this case not a single one of the peculiar sort found on the spot was discovered in the deceased’s possession; and this fact in itself certainly lends colour to a suggestion that immediately prior to the tragedy Miss Bridson was not alone.”
George having concluded his evidence, had taken a seat beside his well-beloved. Only once she glanced at him, then evaded his gaze, for in her grey eyes was an expression as though she were still haunted by some unknown yet terrible dread. His statement regarding the hairpin had unnerved her. Did she, he wondered, wear similar pins in her own dark, deftly-coiled tresses?
Instantly, however, he laughed the wild, absurd idea to scorn. That she feared lest some startling truth should be elucidated was apparent; but the suspicion that a pin from her own hair had fallen unheeded upon the grass he dismissed as utterly preposterous. Was she not his enchantress? Surely he had no right to suspect her of all women, for he loved her with all his soul. Yet neither police, jury, nor he himself had inquired where she had been at the hour the tragedy was enacted. The thought held him appalled.
While these and similar reflections passed through his mind some words of the Coroner suddenly arrested his attention. The court was at once hushed in expectation, every word being listened to with eager attention.
“In the dress-pocket of the deceased has been found this letter, of a somewhat extraordinary character. As it is written in French it may be best if I read an English translation,” he said, spreading out the missive before him. “It is on superior note-paper of English make, bears traces of having been written by an educated person, and was sent to the post office, Stratfield Mortimer, where the police have ascertained that the deceased called for it about ten days ago. No address is given, and the envelope is missing, but the communication is to the following effect: – ‘Dear Nelly, – The cord is now drawn so tight that it must snap ere long. England is safer than the south, no doubt, but it will not be so much longer. Therefore I remain here, but fortunately not “en convalescence.” Do not tell Liane anything, but remember that the matter must be kept a profound secret, or one or other of us must pay the penalty. That would mean the end. For myself, I do not care, but for you it is, of course, entirely different. We are widely separated, yet our interests are entirely identical. Remember me, and be always on your guard against any surprise. Au revoir.’ It will be noticed, gentlemen, by those of you who know French,” the Coroner added, “that the words ‘en convalescence’ occur here in a rather curious sense. It is, in fact, nothing less than thieves’ argot, meaning under police surveillance; and it is strange that it should be written by one who otherwise writes well and grammatically. The name of the dead girl’s mysterious correspondent is a rather uncommon one – Mariette Lepage.”
“Mariette Lepage!” George cried aloud in a tone of dismay, causing not a little consternation among those assembled.
The strange-sounding foreign name was only too deeply impressed upon his memory. The writer of that curious letter, with its well-guarded expression in the argot of the Paris slums, was the unknown woman to whom, under his father’s will, he was compelled to offer marriage.
