the vale was situated in one of the lovely valleys of north devon on the borders of somerset. in the distance could be seen the mendip hills. here the summer stayed on when autumn had taken hold of less favoured spots.
it was a fine old house, half-timbered, nestling in the valley, almost hidden in trees and covered with ivy. the gardens had been the special joy of sir james watson. it was here he led his simple home life away from the factions of westminster and the labours of his thankless office.
he was a cold, haughty, reserved man, with few friends. his one joy in a rather lonely life was his daughter mabel. like so many widowers with an only daughter, he was somewhat selfish, and could never believe that she had grown up. he had watched with anxiety the attentions which had been paid to her by the many who had appeared as possible suitors.
she, unconscious of it all, had led a secluded life among her flowers; she hated the times she had to spend in the gloomy house in town, and had no liking for london or its gaieties.
her mother had died when she was a baby, and no cloud of sorrow except one had crossed her path.
that one had been when her brother, quite a boy, had been sent down from oxford, and her father had sternly pointed to the door, and told him never to come back till he had redeemed his character.
he had provided ample funds for the young, man to make a fresh start, and had recommended him to the care of an old friend in monte video. he had refused to tell his daughter where the brother had gone, lest they should write to each other.
mabel had been only a child at the time, but she never forgot her brother. as she sat in the garden after breakfast no shadow crossed her mind. the letters and papers had not arrived, as they were out of the beaten track.
john, the butler, approached her from the house with a salver, on which he bore a visiting card.
“a gentleman wishes to see you, miss mabel,” he said, and handed the card. she took it and read,
mr. sylvester collins,
14, severn street,
london, w.
“what does he want?” said she.
“i do not know, miss, but he asked if you could see him on an important matter. he has come down by the night train from london.”
“oh, i’ll come and see him,” and she got up and went in.
collins had slept on the way down, and had breakfasted on the train. he felt quite fresh after a motor ride from wilton-on-sea, but he had a strong distaste for his task.
he walked up and down the fine old drawing-room, through the open windows of which came the scent of roses.
the girl entered, and he was struck with her simple beauty, without any of the adornments of the modern girl, and in her dainty morning frock of cretonne.
he knew that in a few moments her present happiness would be turned to bitter sorrow. she advanced towards him at once, and took his hand in a friendly way.
“you are a friend of my father’s, i suppose,” she said.
“miss watson,” he said gravely. “it is no good beating about the bush. i have some bad news for you. you must try and be brave.”
“my father,” she said, with quick instinct.
he nodded.
“don’t tell me anything has happened to him. he only left me the day before yesterday. is he ill?”
in her excitement she had not let go of his hand, and her fingers retained their hold.
“you must try and bear up, a terrible thing has happened. the worst that can happen.”
“you mean,” she said, her face turning pale, “that he is dead.”
“yes,” he said.
the shock of such an announcement does not, as a rule, have the instant effect that is supposed to take place. the mind cannot at once grasp the facts. it is like a shell wound. for a moment the wounded man gazes in surprise at a stump where his arm was a moment before. it takes some seconds before realization or pain is felt.
so it was with mabel. it was as though someone were telling her a tale of some remote happening which did not concern her.
“how was it?” she whispered.
he had expected tears, possibly a fainting fit. this calm surprised him for the moment.
“shall i tell you?” he said.
“please.”
“he was found shot in his library yesterday.”
“do you mean murdered?” she said, dismissing the thought of suicide unconsciously.
“i am afraid so,” he replied. the sweat stood on his forehead. what a fool he had been to undertake this task!
“and you have come to tell me about it? how kind of you,” she said, as in a dream. he saw this could not last, and with quick instinct rang the bell.
the door opened, and an old servant with a sweet face came in. she had been mabel’s nurse, and had remained with her as a sort of companion and friend. at the sight of her something seemed to snap in the girl’s head, and she ran to her.
“oh, nanna,” she cried. “my father has been murdered.”
the woman looked indignantly at collins, as though he had struck her darling, and took her in her arms, where the tears came at last.
collins withdrew to the farther side of the room, and looked at the garden. when he turned, the room was empty.
irresolute, he strolled into the old garden. what a catastrophe had he brought by his news! better, perhaps, if he had wired.
still, he must go through with it. he could not study the feelings of the poor girl when larger issues were at stake.
presently he saw the butler coming towards him.
the old man was bent, and he had been crying.
“my mistress is too upset to see you, sir,” he said; “but i was to ask you to make yourself at home. and would you like some refreshment?”
“thank you,” he replied. “i have had breakfast. i do not need anything. you have heard the sad news.”
“yes, sir, the papers have come, and the post. they all know now,” and he broke down.
“come, come, man,” said collins almost roughly. “it’s all right for women to cry.”
“i had known him for twenty-five years, sir,” said the old man simply, “and i wish it had been me instead of him. do you think they will catch the murderer?”
“surely,” said collins. “but perhaps i had better go.”
“oh, no, sir, miss mabel wants to see you when she is a bit better. she particularly asked me to say so.”
“well, then, if so, perhaps you could give me a minute? i would like to ask a question or two.”
the old butler bowed and waited.
“you were here when sir james’ son went away?”
“master ronald? oh, sir, i am sure he is nothing to do with this terrible murder.”
“whoever said he was? but he is now heir to his father’s baronetcy even if he has been cut out of his father’s will, and we must try and find him.”
“you'll excuse me, sir,” said the old man. “but are you a friend of the family?”
“i hope so,” said collins cheerily, and not to commit himself.
“what exactly did young ronald do? anything very dreadful?” he asked.
the butler drew himself up with dignity.
“i think, sir, you had better ask someone else,” he said.
“that’s very stupid of you,” said collins, with a smile which took the sting from his words. “you only make me believe it was something very dreadful, and i don’t expect it was at all.”
the butler was not sharp, he fell at once.
“oh, no, sir, not at all, it was only when he was at oxford. he went off to the ‘derby’ without leave, and lost a lot of money there. it was what he had for the term, and when he was sent down he had to tell sir james. he had been rather wild before, and that’s what happened,” he concluded lamely.
“hum,” muttered collins. “i see, and nothing has been heard from him for some time?”
“no, sir, he seems to have quite disappeared. i don’t think he is dead, or we should have heard. still, if you were to advertise for him he might come back. he ought to be here to look after miss mabel till she is married.”
collins looked up sharply.
“is she engaged, then?” he said.
“well, not exactly, but how my tongue does go. i must get back to the house.” he moved to go.
“one moment,” said collins quietly. “you can trust me; who is the fortunate gentleman who is—well—nearly, eh?”
the butler looked at him doubtfully. had he offered a bribe he would have refused information, but collins was too old a hand for that.
“well, seeing as poor sir james is gone, i don’t think it matters. it is mr. eric.”
“mr. eric what?”
“i thought you would know, being a friend of the family. mr. eric sanders, sir james’ private secretary,” and he looked at collins with suspicion.
he saw the look. “oh, that’s it,” said he. “of course, i ought to have guessed, and how does his suit prosper?”
“i beg your pardon, sir?” said the other.
“i mean are they engaged, or just likely to become so?”
“sir james wouldn’t hear of it, and last time mr. eric was here they had words over it, for i heard them, but i must really be going.”
“all right, john, i will wait here till miss mabel wants to see me. you might bring me any papers you have.” the butler bowed and made his way to the house.
“so that’s it, is it?” he said to himself. “there are at least two candidates for honours. we are getting on.” the papers told him nothing. sinclair had been to work, and apart from a bald statement of the facts, and obituary notices, there was nothing striking. of course, there were leading articles on the perils of foreign anarchists and on the saintly character of the deceased, but this was old stock-in-trade, kept ready for any assassination of a notable person which might occur, and adapted to circumstances.
“as long as this country continues to harbour, etc.,” said one daily. he tossed them aside, one by one. sir james, of course, had a good selection of papers sent to his house, and they arrived whether he was there or not.
he sat long in deep thought, smoking continuously. presently he put his hand into his pocket, and drew out his pocket book. he looked round with his habitual caution, and then took out a visiting card. on one side was the name of mr. eric sanders, and the address of a well-known london club, and on the other was written in pencil—
“for god’s sake, see me. i will not detain you.”
“sinclair, my friend, you would have liked to get this—pushed under the door. mrs. simmons, you were not telling the whole truth. i think this requires further investigation.”
he rose from his seat and strolled through the old garden with its gorgeous, herbaceous beds of late summer, where delphiniums and hollyhocks and the bright blue of borage made a dream of colour.
it was all very fair, and quiet after the dust and sweat of london. he returned to the house filled with a vague disquiet. entering the hall, he was met by a maid.
“miss mabel would like to see you in her own room,” she said, and on his nodding assent she conducted him to a sweet sitting room, fragrant with flowers and furnished with the taste of a girl who had the means to gratify her every wish.
she was seated on a sofa, white faced, and dressed all in black.
she had conquered her emotion. her old nurse stood by her like a sentry on duty.
“mr. collins,” she said: “i am puzzled to know why you undertook this long journey to break this sad news to me. were you a friend of my father’s? i am very grateful,” she continued hastily, as though fearing she was too frigid in her manner.
“really, to tell the truth, i don’t know myself why i came,” he answered. “when this terrible event happened, your old housekeeper was quite unnerved, and there seemed no one to undertake the job. it did not seem right that you should see it first in the papers, or get a telegram.”
“i am much obliged to you. you must not think me ungrateful, but of course i am rather upset at present. i have read what the newspapers have to say. perhaps you can tell me more?” and she motioned him to sit.
“i won’t go into details, miss watson,” he said. “the accounts in the papers are accurate as far as they go. i can, however, tell you this. your father did not suffer at all. his look was most peaceful, and it appears that he was shot while asleep.”
a look of pain crossed her face, but she mastered her emotion.
“i am thankful for even that,” she said. “have the police any idea at all who can have done this cruel thing. i do not believe my father had any enemies, he was such a good and upright man that no one could have a grudge against him.”
“at present all is dark,” he replied, “but of course you must remember that as home secretary your father was brought in contact with the worst criminals in the country, and one of them may have been trying to avenge a fancied wrong. then, again, it may have been the work of a lunatic. that is more than probable.”
“in a way i hope it was,” she said. “one could feel that it was the sort of accident that might happen to anyone. it is so dreadful to think that someone has deliberately murdered him.”
she stumbled over the ill-omened word, and nearly broke down. the watchful nurse came near and laid a hand on her head. a look of gratitude shone for a moment in her eyes, and she reached up and took the hand in hers.
it was a pathetic picture.
“you will forgive me asking,” she continued, “but i do not quite see what you were doing there, mr. collins, you are not in the police force?”
“i am a barrister by profession,” he replied, “and had gone there with superintendent sinclair, who is an old friend of mine. now, can i do anything for you before i go? you will forgive a stranger saying so, but you seem so entirely alone. oh, i know you have the most loyal and faithful servants,” he added hastily, “but you don’t seem to have a friend to help you. haven’t you some relation i can wire for?”
“i have no near relative. we have led a very secluded life. you see we are so much in town. my father had many acquaintances, but no real friends. those who did not know him thought him very reserved. he was not really so, you know.”
“you were an only child?” he said carelessly.
“mr. collins, i am going to tell you. it will all come out now. i had a brother, ten years older than i. he quarrelled with my father. it was nothing very dreadful, but father thought he was doing no good and getting into bad company, so he sent him off to south america. for some years now we have lost sight of him. it was a great grief to father. he had hoped that ronald would have come back and settled down here.”
“well, we must find him now, as he will be the new baronet, and there will be advertisements everywhere for him. i suppose there is no reason why he should not come back?”
“none whatever,” she said proudly. “what he did was only a boy’s escapade when at oxford, there was nothing criminal.”
“well, i expect there will be little difficulty in finding him now,” he said hopefully; “but it will take some time. meanwhile, isn’t there anyone who could help?”
the colour rose to her pale face.
“i think you ought to wire for mr. sanders,” she said, “he was my father’s private secretary, and knows more about his affairs than anyone else.”
collins gave her one keen look. “certainly,” he said. “he is obviously the man to come. where shall i find him?”
“at the home office,” she said. “he is certain to be there, but i expect he has been round to leveson square this morning.”
“i will send off a wire at once, and then i will take my leave.”
“certainly not,” she said. “you must stay to lunch, if you don’t mind a house of mourning,” she added sadly.
at that moment a knock came at the door, and the butler entered.
“the post, miss,” he said, presenting a salver, “and the postman brought this telegram at the same time. is there any answer?”
she broke the envelope and read, a look of pleasure passing over her face.
“this is from eric—mr. sanders, he is coming down here to-day. i am so glad. it will save you the trouble of wiring.”
collins said nothing. the butler had handed him a letter in sinclair’s writing. he put it into his pocket, and rose to his feet. “i am very glad for your sake,” he said. “you will be glad to have a man’s advice. i suppose you will be coming to town?”
“of course. i ought to go at once, but it is such a shock. i think i must wait till tomorrow.”
“if you will excuse me, i will just go and read this letter, then,” he said, and took his departure.
he went into the garden and to his old seat, and broke the seal of the letter.
it was short, and he read it twice, a puzzled look on his face. it ran:
“dear collins,
if you are expecting to find out anything in devonshire, you are on a wild goose chase. lewis has fled, and we have damning evidence against him. come at once if you want to be in at the death. what's your game, anyway?
yours in haste,
a. sinclair.”
“i must get back,” he muttered to himself. “whatever is sinclair after?”
a gong sounded within the house, and he slowly rose to his feet and went in. miss watson was waiting for him, and they sat down. she was lost in her own mournful thoughts, and would scarcely eat anything. she tried hard to rouse herself. collins was a brilliant conversationalist, and had a charm of manner which few could resist. he set himself to interest her, not without success.
at the end of the meal he told her he must get back at once, and noticed that she gave a look almost of relief, though she tried to hide it.
“i am deeply grateful to you for coming down here, and for your offer of help,” she said.
“not at all,” he answered. “i will go to your house and do anything i can in london. of course, there will have to be an inquest, but we will spare you all we can.”
“we?” she said, in surprise. “then you are mixed up in this?”
“oh, there is no secret,” he said. “i am a barrister, as i told you, but i do a little in helping in an amateur way with these sort of cases. it is my hobby.”
“a rather horrible hobby,” she said, “but of course it is necessary. i hope you find out the criminal—and yet, i don’t know, in some ways i hope you don’t.”
“the murderer of your father,” he blurted out, scandalised at such sentiments.
“oh, i know i ought to want him punished, and yet, the awful trial, the cold cell, and then the last horrible scene. i am afraid i am always on the side of the criminal. of course, you think that’s dreadful.”
“i think it does more justice to your heart than to your head,” said he with a smile.
“english justice is such a cold, merciless thing. when i hear of people who come forward to what they call ‘further the ends of justice,’ i always think it is either for notoriety or for reward.”
he laughed.
“it’s a good thing everyone does not think as you do,” said he.
“i was taught as a child that vengeance belongs to god, not to man, and i believe it is a worse punishment to leave the criminal to his conscience than to punish him.”
“you say that because you have never come in contact with the real criminal,” said he. “he has no conscience.”
“i don’t believe that. i am sure i would always rather hide a fugitive from justice than give him up.”
“this is rank treason,” he said; “but i admire your sentiments.”
“but don’t agree with them?”
“we must each of us act according to our lights,” he answered more gravely than he intended.
she held out her hand.
“if you will excuse me, i will say goodbye. the car will be ready for you, and, i hope, we shall meet again in happier circumstances,” and she gave a pathetic little smile.
when she had gone, he stood where he was.
“what a fool i was to start bandying words with her in her present state. now for london. you’ve no time for sentiment.”
