The Mystery Of An Old Murder (11 page)

Kitty was thankful to get back to the daylight, but she would not let go of Marjorie's hand even then. And they hurried out together to find Richards.

"And then we must go to meet cousin Robert," cried Marjorie, with sparkling eyes, "for the bank will be all right now, Kitty. There must be thousands of pounds there, Mrs. Richards says,—and all in golden guineas!"

CHAPTER 12

the run on the bank

As Kitty said, people had begun to pour into  the town before the sun was up. At nine o'clock there was scarcely standing-room in the High Street, and those who had fought for and gained places close to the bank doors had hard work to prevent themselves being pushed away by the surging, swaying crowd.

Fear is the most selfish of the emotions, and neighbourly feeling, so strong among Cornish folk, was almost forgotten that morning. Not quite, however.

The vicar, looking down from the drawing-room window with eyes that had pity in them, as well as anxiety, on the faces of those below, changed almost out of recognition by the fear that sharpened every feature, saw old Auntie Polwhele being pushed through the crowd by kindly force, those in front making room for her to pass, and those behind thrusting her gently forwards, till the poor trembling old soul was close to the bank doors, her little bundle of notes safely in her hand. An odd, quavering, half-ashamed cheer went up from the crowd when they saw her on the steps.

"You'm safe now, Aunt Martha! You'm all right!" they called to her, and then clutched their own notes tighter, each trying to edge a step nearer the pavement and thrust his neighbours back.

The vicar turned away with a choking sensation in his throat. Deeply anxious as he was for the Bulteels, he had only pity for that panic-stricken crowd.

He went downstairs to the back parlour, where a group of the banker's friends had gathered to assist the old head-clerk with their advice. They sat, pale and anxious, round the table. Ten o'clock was drawing near, and there was no sign of Robert Carew.

"I knew he could never do it. I told him it was impossible," said Mr. Hargreaves, the largest land-owner in the parish, except Robert Carew. "Just think of the state of the roads, Fortescue. He cannot be here."

"He will be," said the vicar confidently. "It is not ten o'clock yet, remember."

"Very nearly," murmured Mr. Pengelly, the Wesleyan grocer, glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece. How the hands were galloping! He had a large balance in the bank, and the cold grasp of fear had laid hold of him. But he meant to be loyal to Mr. Bulteel, who had helped him over a rough bit of road a year or two before.

It was now within a minute or two of ten. Fists began to beat on the closed doors; a dull, inarticulate, terrifying sound, the voice of a threatening crowd, swelled louder and louder.

Mr. Prior, his knees visibly trembling under him, looked from one white face to another. " Gentlemen, what am I to do?" he asked.

In the dead silence that followed his despairing question, the timepiece began to strike, its silvery chime being followed an instant after by the deeper notes of the church clock. The old clerk wrung his hands, and the tears burst from his eyes. He appealed to those around him again, in a voice that was like a cry :

"Gentlemen, what am I to do?"

The question had not left his lips, no one had had time to answer it, when the hammering at the doors suddenly ceased. For an instant there was silence outside the bank, as well as in; then came the sound of shouting from the bottom of the street, a loud unmistakable cheer! Mr. Hargreaves sprang to his feet. "Prior, open the doors! Carew has come! Be quick! Don't let them say Bulteel's kept them waiting for a moment!"

The old white-headed clerk himself rushed out, and drew back the heavy bolts and flung wide the doors just as the last notes of the church clock died away. He had been waiting in sickening dread for that moment ever since the bank closed the night before. But how different the reality was to his visions of it! The crowd, indeed, flowed in as the doors opened, pressed forward by the weight of those behind. But there was no rush to the counter, no frenzied demands for the gold he could not give. A few over-cautious women, Aunt Polwhele among them, exchanged their notes for gold, but the rest of the crowd had lost all their fears. They were cheering like mad people, throwing hats and caps and handkerchiefs into the air to welcome the trap that was coming up the street with Robert Carew and the young clerk sitting in front, and the back heaped up with brandy kegs that literally overflowed with gold.

From lip to lip the news had gone like a lightning flash. Robert Carew had found his grandfather's hoards, thousands on thousands of golden guineas, and was bringing them to the bank to pay them into his account. And the panic was over. Bulteel's was safe!

• • • • • • •

An hour afterwards Robert Carew was sitting alone in the dining-room. Breakfast had been prepared for him, but he had pushed it away untasted; and he was now sitting with his head supported by one hand, staring out into the garden, his dark eyes full of painful thought. The vicar, before going to the Manor House to see how Mr. Bulteel bore the good news, had tried to make him promise to take some rest. But weary as he was—he had not slept for two nights, and had driven more than a hundred miles in the last eighteen hours — sleep was impossible. He had never felt so intensely wakeful in his life. Though for Mr. Bulteel's sake he had rejoiced in Marjorie's discovery, for the coin he had been able to collect in Plymouth at such short notice would have proved wholly insufficient for the needs of the bank; though his heart had throbbed with responsive gladness as he heard the cheers of the crowd, he had hated the sight of the gold itself. He believed that his father must have somehow learnt of the hidden treasure, and finding Mr. Vyvyan alone, had tried to force the secret from the helpless old man. A violent quarrel, a struggle, had ensued, and his father had fled from the house in the darkness, the guilt of murder on his soul.

For some time Robert Carew had clung to the hope that his father was innocent; that if, indeed, it was he who fired that fatal shot, it had been by accident, with no intent to kill. A thousand times over he had pictured to himself how it might have happened. His grandfather, wild with rage at the unlooked-for appearance of the man he hated, might have rushed upon him, old man as he was, and attacked him with the heavy stick that had been found beside him. To defend himself, his father had drawn the pistol, and in the struggle it went off, killing Mr. Vyvyan on the spot. He could not, would not believe, black as his father's flight had made things look against him, that he had deliberately been guilty of murder. And as for the other charge brought against him, that he had sold information to the French, he put that aside with scorn. His father had no need to be defended against such a lie as that!

But very soon he was forced to give up his belief in his father's innocence. He had made the acquaintance of a French prisoner, an officer on parole, and when in his company one day, was painfully startled to see him wearing a ring that had belonged to his grandfather, and which had the Vyvyan crest stamped on the inside. In answer to his inquiries, the officer readily told him its history. He had won it at cards from an Englishman who had had to fly his country for some reason, and was living at Paris in the service of the Government. It was not the only thing he had won from him, and he showed Robert another ring, an intaglio with a finely-cut head of Medusa. Robert knew every line in those snaky coils about her head. His father had constantly worn the ring.

He managed somehow to hide his profound emotion, and the French officer never guessed. it. But he saw he was interested in his renegade countryman, and told him all he knew about him. He had called himself Jean Carois, and passed for a Belgian; only a few knew that he was an Englishman. He bore a bad reputation, and at last, after being concerned in a brawl that ended in murder, he was sentenced to the galleys for a term of years, which had not yet expired.

Robert could feel no doubt that Jean Carois was his father John Carew, and the iron entered deep into his soul. From that moment he shrank from the society of his fellow-men, as one with a brand upon him. He felt he could never go back to the Manor House now, never disturb Nell by reminding her of his existence. The memory of that convict in the galleys never left him. It poisoned his life.

He had lived chiefly in London, employing himself in literary work, but writing always under a feigned name, and caring nothing for the reputation he began to make in the world of letters. Only urgent matters of business connected with his estate had brought him to Cornwall. He had never intended to enter the town at all, or allow his presence at the Manor House to be known more than was inevitable. And though he could not resist the temptation to look at Nell's home, he had been careful that only Tamsin should see him. He had come and gone in the darkness.

Circumstances had forced him to depart from his intention as far as St. Mawan was concerned. For two days he had taken a leading part among his townsmen, had felt and acted as though he was one of them, had been welcomed home with a heartiness that had deeply touched him. But now that the need for his help was over, and there was no more for him to do, he longed to get back to his solitary lodgings in London; if it had been possible he would have gone that very day.

His gloomy thoughts were broken in upon by Mr. Prior. The old clerk came hurriedly in. "Mr. Carew, would you step into the bank, sir. Tregelles is here with the strangest story. His money has been stolen. And he says that Captain O'Brien is missing. Captain O'Brien is his lodger. You saw him here yesterday, a gentleman with blue spectacles."

"Did I see him? I do not remember. He is Mrs. O'Brien's cousin, an Indian officer, is he not? But what has he to do with Tregelles's money? Tregelles does not accuse him of taking it, does he?"

"That is exactly what he does," said Mr. Prior, trying to repress a chuckle. It was evident that he found a spice of enjoyment in Tregelles's misfortunes. "But come in and speak to him, sir. He's just crazy. Old fool, why did he not leave his precious money with us! He deserves to lose it."

"He must be crazy to accuse Captain O'Brien," said Robert, rather impatiently. "But I will speak to him, Prior. You had better send for the constable."

It was plain that Tregelles had been driven very nearly out of his wits by the loss of his money. Robert found it difficult to make sense at first of his confused story, told as it was in disjointed, half-inarticulate sentences. When he spoke of Captain O'Brien, he could hardly get his words out. Fury seemed to choke him.

But he cooled down a little under Robert's incisive questioning, and at last was brought to admit that his only reasons for suspecting the captain were that his missus couldn't abide him, and that he had apparently disappeared from the neighbourhood.

"Dan Tregony met 'en goin' home yesterday afternoon jist afore four o'clock. Us was in the town then, my missus an' me. He had the house to hisself for four hours an' more. But there wasn't no sign of 'en when us got home. He'd gone, an' the money with 'en. I'm as sartain he took it, Maister Robert, as if I'd seed 'en with these eyes."

"But you did not miss the money till this morning, you say? Did you not feel anxious about your lodger when you found he did not come home last night?" Robert asked. " It is his custom to come home, I suppose?"

"Us thought he was out sarchin' for the highwayman. The night afore he never come home till daybreak. Maister Robert, you may belave me or disbelave me, but he's got my money. An' maybe he's got the diamonds too."

"Come, come, Tregelles, this won't do," exclaimed Robert. "I'm sorry for you, but anybody may have broken into your house if you left it empty. And Captain O'Brien is a stranger here. Why, he might have fallen over the cliffs. We must set to work to search for him."

Tregelles shook his head, his face settling into its most obstinate lines. But Robert's suggestion had a different effect on Mr. Prior and Mr. Pengelly, who had been called in to assist at the colloquy. They looked at each other with startled faces.

"The fog!" ejaculated Mr. Pengelly; and the old clerk addressed Robert in an anxious voice.

"There was the thickest fog I remember for years for an hour or two last night, Mr. Carew. It's as likely as possible he's met with an accident, when you come to think of it. He told me only yesterday how weak his eyesight was. Let us hope we shall not find the poor gentleman at the bottom of Blackdown Cliffs."

CHAPTER 13

a rescue

Kitty was in the most radiant mood that morning. She no longer had to complain of St. Mawan being a dull place; the last few days had been brim-full of excitement. And now everything had come right Mr. Bulteel was fast recovering, the danger to the bank was over, and Marjorie's discovery had made her cousin a rich man, so that people would now be glad to forget what his father had done.

Certainly the diamonds were missing still. But Cornwall was not like London; the thief was sure to be discovered, it was only a question of a day or two.

"How can you be so low-spirited, Marjorie?" she remonstrated. "What can be the matter? You ought to be as happy as possible after what you have done. For it is you who saved the bank, everybody is saying so."

"It was cousin Robert's money," said Marjorie softly. "But I am glad I found it."

"Then look glad," demanded Kitty, drawing a little nearer her. They were sitting in the fir-wood, on the red trunk of a fallen tree. Marjorie had her lap full of primroses, which she had been picking in the little dell below. She was tying them up into loose bunches for the little blue Nanking bowls in the Vicarage drawing-room. But her fingers moved slowly, and her face was far too grave to please Miss Kitty.

"There was nothing in your letters, no bad news?" Kitty went on, bent on finding out what it could possibly be that was troubling her. "What long ones they were, Marjorie! But there was no bad news in them?"

Marjorie looked up with the smile that always came when she talked of home. "Of course not, Kitty. It was all good news. You must read Jack's letter when Mr. Bulteel has finished with it. He thinks that the war will end before long. What must it be like to have peace, Kitty! The first thing I can remember is father reading something from the newspaper, and mother and Aunt Nell looking very sad. We were going to war again, mother told me. And there has been war ever since."

But Kitty was not interested in the prospects of peace. She wanted to find out what was troubling Marjorie. "Do tell me what made you sigh so just now, Marjorie. I shan't believe you are going to have me for a real friend if you do not tell me."

Marjorie looked quickly up, and Kitty saw there were tears in her eyes. "It is only that I was thinking of cousin Robert."

"And of Aunt Nell," she might have added. Primroses were her aunt's favourite flowers, and she knew why now. She had never seen lovelier primroses than these from the little dell below the Manor House.

"That money will not make him any happier, Kitty. He was only glad about it because of Mr. Bulteel. And but for that I could wish I had never opened that panel."

"Money is always a good thing," said Kitty sagely. "Whatever makes you say you wish you had not found it?"

"I don't wish it; I am glad," said Marjorie hastily.

She could not explain to Kitty, but she instinctively knew how her cousin was feeling. He was glad too, and yet the discovery was intensely painful to him.

She had finished tying up the primroses, and she put them in her basket and jumped up. "Let us go up to the cliff's, Kitty. The sea must be glorious this morning."

Kitty eagerly agreed. She had no love for the sea, but she was tired of sitting still.

She went back to the subject of the hidden treasure as they passed from the fir-wood out on the open down.

"Marjorie, do you really think that somebody had found out the way through the caves to that room? Did you show your cousin that bag?"

"No, I never thought of it again. There was so little time. Hark, Kitty! Did you not hear something? What was it?"

Kitty clutched her arm with a little shriek. "Marjorie, come back! It is that cry from the Point; it frightens me. Come back!"

Marjorie lifted her hand. She had turned paler than Kitty. "Hush!" she said. "Listen, Kitty."

Kitty dragged at her arm again. "It is; I can hear it quite plainly now. Oh, do come back, Marjorie!"

"But, Kitty, it is low tide. It cannot be that cry. Yet, listen! It is exactly as I heard it last night, only louder." She dragged her arm from Kitty's, and ran forward to the ridge of the downs. But it was only a moment she stopped there. She flew back. "Kitty, it comes from the mine; there is someone there. Someone has fallen into the shaft! Run back to the house quick, and get Richards to come with ropes. I saw some men ploughing in the field just now; I will go and call them."

• • • • • • • •

Robert was just starting for the harbour, to get a party of men together to search the cliffs, when one of the clerks came running after him to say that Richards had come to the house through the garden, and wanted to see him.

"They have found the captain, sir," he added. His voice came in gasps. The amazement with which he had listened to Richards' astounding story had almost taken away his breath. "He was in the mine-shaft, clinging to the timbers at the top. And he'd got the diamonds on him, Mr. Carew. He was the highwayman."

Robert learnt further details from Richards as they walked back to the Manor House together. Mr. Bulteel had sent an urgent message, begging him to come home at once, as he wished most particularly to see him. Captain O'Brien had been carried to Tregelles's cottage. Dr. Bell was with him. They had sent for the doctor as soon as they got him out. He was quite conscious, but the shock and exposure had been too much for him. In Richards' opinion he was a dying man.

"How 'twas he lived through the night passes me," Richards said in a voice that had very little pity in it. "Thieves has got nine lives, like cats, I reckon. He must be a wily one,—eh, Maister Robert? He's desaived every mother's son of us; for he ain't Cap'n O'Brien more than I be. An' if it hadn't been for the fog, he'd have been off weth them diamonds, and Tregelles's guineas into the bargain. A mighty good thing that shaft's niver been filled up, sir."

"We'll have it filled up now," said Robert, with a shudder. It was horrible to think of the poor wretch clinging, all the long night through, to the rotting beam, shrieking in vain for help.

"Where do you think he was going, Richards? Could he have meant to walk to Bodmin? He must have known he would be missed. And he could not have carried that money. Those bags must be heavy."

"Heavy enough," said Richards, with a chuckle. " They'm lying at the bottom o' the mine-shaft now, sir. The money would be better in the bank, wouldn't it? 'Twill cost Tregelles a pretty penny to get it up, I'm thinkin'. He dropped the bags, you see, to save hisself. 'Twas a marvel he didn't go to the bottom too. He couldn't have held on much longer, he told us. The timbers he'd got his feet on was givin' away. A moment or two more an' he'd have gone down like a stone, an' us shouldn't have seen no more of 'en."

By this time they were close to the house, and Richards went off towards the stables, while Robert crossed the lawn to the hall door. Mrs. Bulteel was waiting alone in the hall, and she came quickly to meet him, smiling, but with tears in her eyes. Robert took her outstretched hands and pressed them gently, himself much moved.

"Shall I go up to Mr. Bulteel?" he asked.

"In a moment. I want to thank you, Robert, but I can't. But for you—"

"It is Marjorie we must thank," he said lightly. "Where is she?"

"She has gone to the cottage with some broth for that poor creature in the shaft. Poor Kitty was much too frightened to go with her. She is lying down, quite knocked up. It was Kitty and Marjorie who heard his cries—did you know that, Robert? What an awful, awful night it must have been for him. I cannot but pity him, though he plotted so wickedly against us. He had the diamonds on him, Robert. He must have had them when he came into the Vicarage."

She shivered and cast a hasty look behind her, as if afraid even now he might suddenly appear. Her nerves had been thoroughly shaken by the events of the morning. She sobbed a little as she spoke.

Robert had not much more pity than Richards to spare for the discovered thief. He began to speak of Mr. Bulteel. "I suppose you have told him we had the diamonds safe. How is he, Mrs. Bulteel? Is it right for him to see me, do you think? I will not stay more than a moment."

"I do not think he will rest till he has seen you. He begged that Richards should go for you at once. Yes, he knows how the diamonds were found. Dr. Bell was here; they came to fetch him. And he said James should be told. I wish now that I had waited, it excited him terribly. But he will be more content when he has seen you, Robert. Will you go up? He wishes to see you alone."

Mr. Bulteel was sitting up in bed, propped up by pillows. His ruddy complexion had faded to a dull blotchy white, and his skin hung in loose, flabby wrinkles round his eyes, making him look like an old man. Robert was shocked at his appearance. But he spoke cheerfully.

"I am only allowed to stay a moment," he said. "What you have to do now is to get well, Mr. Bulteel. There is no need to be anxious about anything. Prior is a host in himself at the bank."

Mr. Bulteel did not seem to hear what he was saying, though his eyes were fixed on his face. "Sit down, Robert," he said in a hollow voice. "There is something I must say to you, something you ought to know. God grant I am wrong, my boy."

Mrs. Bulteel waited in the hall with some impatience for Robert's reappearance. She felt that her husband was not strong enough for a lengthened interview, and even that day she found it in her heart to blame Robert, when the moments dragged themselves out and he did not come.

She heard him descending the stairs at last. He was walking very slowly. Her heart began to beat wildly again as she heard that slow, heavy step. What was he coming to tell her? She went to the foot of the stairs to meet him, and at the first sight of her face he spoke quickly. "I do not think our talk has done him harm, Mrs. Bulteel. Will you go to him?"

She caught his arm. "Robert, what is it? What has he told you? Is it anything Dr. Bell has said to him?"

He put his hand over hers. "No, no; he speaks hopefully of himself. Do not be alarmed." He paused a moment as if trying to find the right words, and then said quite simply, "He believes that this man who called himself Captain O'Brien is my father."

She fell back from him with a little cry of horror. "Oh, no, no, Robert, it cannot be!"

"I think it is very probable," he said, again taking refuge in the barest words. "I am going to the cottage to satisfy myself."

She let him go. Words failed her altogether before the agony she saw stamped on his pale, rigid face.

He crossed the hall, walking slowly but firmly, and she heard the door close behind him.