The Mystery of Mr. Bernard Brown ebook

Contents

Book I

CHAPTER I. THE NEW TENANT

CHAPTER II. THE MURDER NEAR THE FALCON’S NEST

CHAPTER III. MR. BERNARD BROWN

CHAPTER IV. AN EVIL END TO AN EVIL LIFE

CHAPTER V. THE INNER ROOM AT THE FALCON’S NEST

CHAPTER VI. A TERRIBLE ENEMY

CHAPTER VII. HELEN THURWELL’S SUSPICIONS

CHAPTER VIII. DID YOU KILL SIR GEOFFREY KYNASTON?

CHAPTER IX. MR. BROWN DINES AT THE COURT

CHAPTER X. THE TRAGEDY OF RACHEL KYNASTON

CHAPTER XI. LEVY & SON, PRIVATE AGENTS

CHAPTER XII. A JEWEL OF A SON

CHAPTER XIII. A STRANGE MEETING

CHAPTER XIV. HELEN THURWELL ASKS A DIRECT QUESTION

Book II

CHAPTER I. A LITERARY CELEBRITY

CHAPTER II. A SNUB FOR A BARONET

CHAPTER III. BERNARD MADDISON AND HELEN THURWELL

CHAPTER IV. A CHEQUE FOR £1,000

CHAPTER V. AN UNPLEASANT DISCOVERY FOR BERNARD BROWN

CHAPTER VI. GOD! THAT I MAY DIE!

CHAPTER VII. SIR ALLAN BEAUMERVILLE HAS A CALLER

CHAPTER VIII. “GOD FORBID IT!”

CHAPTER IX. LOVERS

CHAPTER X. A WOMAN’S LOVE

CHAPTER XI. MR. LEVY, JUNIOR, GOES ON THE CONTINENT

CHAPTER XII. HELEN DECIDES TO GO HOME

CHAPTER XIII. MR. THURWELL MAKES SOME INQUIRIES

CHAPTER XIV. SIR ALLAN BEAUMERVILLE VISITS THE COURT

Book III

CHAPTER I. THE SCENE CHANGES

CHAPTER II. BENJAMIN LEVY RUNS HIS QUARRY TO EARTH

CHAPTER III. BENJAMIN LEVY WRITES HOME

CHAPTER IV. A STRANGE TRIO OF PASSENGERS

CHAPTER V. VISITORS FOR MR. BERNARD MADDISON

CHAPTER VI. ARRESTED

CHAPTER VII. COMMITTED FOR TRIAL

CHAPTER VIII. MR. LEVY PROMISES TO DO HIS BEST

CHAPTER IX. BERNARD A PRISONER

CHAPTER X. “THERE IS MY HAND. DARE YOU TAKE IT?”

CHAPTER XI. MR. BENJAMIN LEVY IS BUSY

CHAPTER XII. A STRANGE BIRTHDAY PARTY

CHAPTER XIII. INNOCENT

CHAPTER XIV. AT LAST

Book I

CHAPTER I. THE NEW TENANT

Thurwell Court, by Thurwell-on-the-Sea, lay bathed in the quiet freshness of an early morning. The dewdrops were still sparkling upon the terraced lawns like little globules of flashing silver, and the tumult of noisy songsters from the thick shrubberies alone broke the sweet silence. The peacocks strutting about the grey stone balcony and perched upon the worn balustrade were in deshabille, not being accustomed to display their splendours to an empty paradise, and the few fat blackbirds who were hopping about on the lawn did so in a desultory manner, as though they were only half awake, and had turned out under protest. Stillness reigned everywhere, but it was the sweet hush of slowly-awakening day rather than the drowsy, languorous quiet of exhausted afternoon. With one’s eyes shut one could tell that the pulse of day was only just beginning to beat. The pure atmosphere was buoyant with the vigorous promise of morning, and gently laden with the mingled perfumes of slowly opening flowers. There was life in the breathless air.

The sunlight was everywhere. In the distance it lay upon the dark hillside, played upon the deep yellow gorse and purple heather of the moorland, and, further away still, flashed upon a long silver streak of the German Ocean. In the old-fashioned gardens of the Court it shone upon luscious peaches hanging on the time-mellowed red-brick walls; lit up the face and gleamed upon the hands of the stable clock, and warmed the ancient heart of the stooping, grey-haired old gardener’s help who, with blinking eyes and hands tucked in his trousers pockets, was smoking a matutinal pipe, seated on the wheelbarrow outside the tool shed.

Around the mansion itself it was very busy, casting a thousand sunbeams upon its long line of oriel windows, and many quaint shadows of its begabled roof upon the lawns and bright flower-beds below. On one of the terraces a breakfast-table was laid for two, and here its splendour was absolutely dazzling. It gleamed upon the sparkling silver, and the snow-white table-cloth; shone with a delicate softness upon the freshly-gathered fruit and brilliant flowers, and seemed to hover with a gentle burnished light upon the ruddy golden hair of a girl who sat there waiting, with her arm resting lightly upon the stone balustrade, and her eyes straying over the quaint well-kept gardens to the open moorland and dark patches of wooded country beyond.

“Good morning, Helen! First, as usual.”

She turned round with a somewhat languid greeting. A tall, well-made man, a little past middle-age, in gaiters and light tweed coat, had stepped out on to the balcony from one of the open windows. In his right hand he was swinging carelessly backwards and forwards by a long strap a well-worn letter-bag.

“Is breakfast ready?” he inquired.

“Waiting for you, father,” she answered, touching a small handbell by her side. “Try one of those peaches. Burdett says they are the finest he ever raised.”

He stretched out his hand for one, and sinking into a low basket chair, commenced lazily to peel it, with his eyes wandering over the sunny landscape. A footman brought out the tea equipage and some silver-covered dishes, and, after silently arranging them upon the table, withdrew.

“What an exquisite morning!” Mr. Thurwell remarked, looking up at the blue, cloudless sky, and pulling his cap a little closer over his eyes to protect them from the sun. “We might be in Italy again.”

“Indeed we might,” she answered. “I am going to imagine that we are, and make my breakfast of peaches and cream and chocolate! Shall I give you some?”

He shook his head, with a little grimace.

“No, thanks. I’m Philistine enough to prefer devilled kidneys and tea. I wonder if there is anything in the letters.”

He drew a key from his waistcoat pocket, and, unlocking the bag, shook its contents upon the table-cloth. His daughter looked at the pile with a faint show of interest. There were one or two invitations, which he tossed over to her, a few business letters, which he put on one side for more leisurely perusal later on, and a little packet from his agent which he opened at once, and the contents of which brought a slight frown into his handsome face.

Helen Thurwell glanced through her share without finding anything interesting. Tennis parties, archery meetings, a bazaar fête; absolutely nothing fresh. She was so tired of all that sort of thing–tired of eternally meeting the same little set of people, and joining in the same round of so-called amusements. There was nothing in Northshire society which attracted her. It was all very stupid, and she was very much bored.

“Some news here that will interest you, Helen,” her father remarked suddenly. “Who do you think is coming home?”

She shook her head. She was not in the least curious.

“I don’t remember any one going away lately,” she remarked. “How warm it is!”

“Sir Geoffrey Kynaston is coming back.”

After all, she was a little interested. She looked away from the sunny gardens and into her father’s face.

“Really!”

“It is a fact!” he declared. “Douglas says that he will be here to-day or to-morrow. Let me see, it must be nearly fifteen years since he was in England. Time he settled down, if he means to at all.”

“Was he very wild, then?” she asked.

The squire nodded.

“Rather!” he answered dryly. “I dare say people will have forgotten all about it by now, though. Forty thousand a year covers a multitude of sins, especially in a tenth baronet!”

She asked no more questions, but leaned back in her chair, and looked thoughtfully across the open country towards the grey turrets of Kynaston Towers, from which a flag was flying. Mr. Thurwell re-read his agent’s letter with a slight frown upon his forehead.

“I don’t know what to do here,” he remarked.

“What is it?” she asked absently. She was watching the flag slowly unfurling itself in the breeze, and fluttering languidly above the tree-tops. It was odd to think that a master was coming to rule there.

“It’s about Falcon’s Nest. I wish I’d never thought of letting it!”

“Why? It would be a great deal better occupied surely!”

“If I could let it to a decent tenant, of course it would. But, you know that fellow Chapman, of Mallory? He wants it!”

She looked up at him quickly.

“You surely would not let it to a man like that?”

“Certainly not. But, on the other hand, I don’t want to offend him. If I were to decide to stand for the county at the next election, he would be my most useful man in Mallory, or my worst enemy. He’s just the sort of fellow to take offence–quickly, too.”

“Can’t you tell him it’s let!”

“Not unless I do let it to some one. Of course not!”

“But are there no other applications?”

“Yes, there is one other,” he answered; “but the most awkward part of it is that it’s from a complete stranger. Fellow who calls himself ‘Brown.’ ”

“Let me see the letter,” she said.

He passed it over the table to her. It was written on plain notepaper, in a peculiar, cramped handwriting.

“London, May 30.

“Dear Sir,–

“I understand from an advertisement in this week’s Field, that you are willing to let ‘Falcon’s Nest,’ situated on your estate. I shall be happy to take it at the rent you quote, if not already disposed of. My solicitors are Messrs. Cuthbert, of Lincoln’s Inn; and my bankers, Gregsons. I may add that I am a bachelor, living alone. The favour of your immediate reply will much oblige,

“Yours faithfully,

Bernard Brown.”

She folded the letter up, and returned it to her father without remark.

“You see,” Mr. Thurwell said, “my only chance of escaping from Chapman, without offending him, is to say that it is already let, and to accept this fellow’s offer straight off. But it’s an awful risk. How do I know that Brown isn’t a retired tallow-chandler, or something of that sort?”

“Why not telegraph to his solicitors?” she suggested; “they would know who he was, I suppose.”

“That’s not a bad idea!” he declared. “Morton shall ride over to Mallory at once. I’m glad you thought of it, Helen.”

Having come to this Mr. Thurwell turned round and made an excellent breakfast, after which he and his daughter spent the day very much in the same manner as any other English country gentleman and young lady are in the habit of doing. He made a pretence of writing some letters and arranging some business affairs with his agent in the library for an hour, and, later on in the morning, he drove over to Mallory, and took his seat on the magistrates’ bench during the hearing of a poaching case. After lunch, he rode to an outlying farm to inspect a new system of drainage, and when he returned, about an hour before dinner-time, he considered that he had done a good day’s work.

Helen spent the early part of the morning in the garden, and arranging freshly-cut flowers about the house. Then she practised for an hour, solely out of a sense of duty, for she was no musician. Directly the time was up, she closed the piano with a sigh of relief, and spent the rest of the time before two o’clock reading a rather stupid novel. After luncheon she made a call several miles off, driving herself in a light-brown cart, and played several sets of tennis, having for her partner a very mild and brainless young curate. At dinner-time she and her father met again, and when he entered the room he had two slips of orange-coloured paper in his hand.

“Well, what news?” she inquired.

He handed the telegrams to her without a word, and she glanced them through. The first was from the bankers.

“To Guy Davenant Thurwell, Esq.,

Thurwell Court, Northshire.

“We consider Mr. Brown a desirable tenant for you from a pecuniary point of view. We know nothing of his family.”

The other one was from his lawyers.

“To Guy D. Thurwell, Esq.,

Thurwell Court, Northshire.

“Mr. Brown is a gentleman of means, and quite in a position to rent ‘Falcon’s Nest.’ We are not at liberty to say anything as to his antecedents or family.”

“What am I to do?” asked Mr. Thurwell, undecidedly. “I don’t like the end of this last telegram. A solicitor ought to be able to say a little more about a client than that.”

Helen considered for a moment. She was so little interested in the matter that she found it difficult to make up her mind either way. Afterwards she scarcely dared think of that moment’s indecision.

“Perhaps so,” she said. “All the same, I detest Mr. Chapman. I should vote for Mr. Brown.”

“Mr. Brown it shall be, then!” he answered. “Douglas shall write him to-morrow.”

A fortnight later Mr. Bernard Brown took up his quarters at Falcon’s Nest.

CHAPTER II. THE MURDER NEAR THE FALCON’S NEST

“I call it perfectly dreadful of those men!” Helen Thurwell exclaimed suddenly. “They’re more than an hour late, and I’m desperately hungry!”

“It is rank ingratitude!” Rachel Kynaston sighed. “I positively cannot sit still and look at that luncheon any longer. Groves, give me a biscuit.”

They were both seated on low folding-chairs out on the open moorland, only a few yards away from the edge of the rugged line of cliffs against which, many hundreds of feet below, the sea was breaking with a low, monotonous murmur. Close behind them, on a level stretch of springy turf, a roughly-improvised table, covered with a cloth of dazzling whiteness, was laden with deep bowls of lobster salad, pâtés de foie gras, chickens, truffled turkeys, piles of hothouse fruit, and many other delicacies peculiarly appreciated at al fresco symposia; and, a little further away still, under the shade of a huge yellow gorse bush, were several ice-pails, in which were reposing many rows of gold-foiled bottles. The warm sun was just sufficiently tempered by a mild heather-scented breeze, and though it flashed gaily upon the glass and silver, and danced across the bosom of the blue water below, its heat was more pleasant then oppressive. The two women who sat there looked delightfully cool. Helen Thurwell especially, in her white holland gown, with a great bunch of heather stuck in her belt, and a faint healthy glow in her cheeks, looked as only an English country girl of good birth can look–the very personification of dainty freshness.

“There go the guns again!” she exclaimed. “Listen to the echoes. They can’t be far away now.”

There was a little murmur of satisfaction. Every allowance is to be made for such a keen sportsman as Mr. Thurwell on the glorious twelfth, but the time fixed for the rendezvous had been exceeded by more than an hour.

“I have reached the limit of my endurance!” Rachel Kynaston declared, getting up from her seat. “I must either lunch or faint! As a matter of choice, I prefer the former.”

“They will be here directly, miss,” Groves remarked, as he completed the finishing touches which he had been putting to the table, and stepped back a little to view the effect. So far as he was concerned they might come any time now. For once his subordinates had not failed him. Nothing had been forgotten; and, on the whole, he felt that he had reason to be proud of his handiwork.

He glanced away inland again, shading his eyes with his hand.

“They’ll be coming round the Black Copse in five minutes,” he said, half to himself. “James, get the other chairs out of the wagon.”

Rachel Kynaston was still standing up looking around her. Suddenly her eyes fell upon a quaintly-built cottage, perched upon the edge of the cliff about a mile away.

“I meant to ask you before, Helen,” she exclaimed. “Who lives in that extraordinary-looking building–Falcon’s Nest, I think you call it?”

She moved her parasol in its direction, and looked at it curiously. A strange-looking abode it certainly was; built of yellow stone, with a background of stunted fir trees which stretched half-way down the cliff side.

Helen Thurwell looked across at it indifferently.

“I can tell you his name, and that is all,” she answered. “He calls himself Mr. Brown–Mr. Bernard Brown.”

“Well, who is he? What does he do?”

Helen shook her head.

“Really, I haven’t the least idea,” she declared. “I do not even know what he is like. He has been there for two months, and we haven’t seen him yet. Papa called upon him, but he was out. He has not returned the call! He–oh, bother Mr. Brown, here they come! I’m so glad!”

They both got up and looked. Rounding the corner of a long plantation, about half a mile away, were several men in broken line, with their guns under their arms; and a little way behind came three keepers, carrying bags.

Rachel Kynaston looked at them fixedly.

“One, two, three, four, five,” she counted. “One short. I don’t see Geoffrey.”

Helen moved to her side, and shaded her eyes with her hand. On the fourth finger a half-hoop of diamonds, which had not been there three months ago, was flashing in the sunlight.

“Neither do I,” she said. “I wonder where he is.”

Her tone was a little indifferent, considering that it was her fiancé who was missing. But no one ever looked for much display of feeling from Helen Thurwell, not even the man who called himself her lover. Indeed, her unresponsiveness to his advances–a sort of delicate composure which he was powerless in any way to break through–had been her strongest attraction to Sir Geoffrey Kynaston, who was quite unused to anything of the sort.

The men quickened their pace, and emptying their guns into the air, soon came within hailing distance. On that particular day of the year there was only one possible greeting, and Helen and her companion contented themselves with a monosyllable.

“Well?”

Mr. Thurwell was in the front rank, and evidently in the best of spirits. It was he who answered them.

“Capital sport!” he declared heartily. “Birds a little wild, but strong, and plenty of them. We’ve made a big bag for only three guns. Sir Geoffrey was in capital form. Groves, open a bottle of Heidseck.”

“Where is Geoffrey?” asked Rachel–his sister.

Mr. Thurwell looked round and discovered his absence for the first time.

“I really don’t know,” he answered, a little bewildered; “he was with us a few minutes ago. What’s become of Sir Geoffrey Kynaston, Heggs?” he asked, turning round to one of the gamekeepers.

“He left us at the top of the Black Copse, sir,” the man answered. “He was coming round by the other side–shot a woodcock there once, sir, he said.”

They glanced across the moor towards Falcon’s Nest. There was no one in sight.

“He’s had plenty of time to get round,” remarked Lord Lathon, throwing down his gun. “Perhaps he’s resting.”

Mr. Thurwell shook his head.

“No; he wouldn’t do that,” he said. “He was as keen about getting here as any of us. Hark! what was that?”

A faint sound was borne across the moor on the lazily-stirring breeze. Helen, whose hearing was very keen, started, and the little party exchanged uneasy glances.

“It must have been a sea-gull,” remarked Lord Lathon, who wanted his luncheon very badly indeed. “We’d better not wait for him. He’ll turn up all right; Geoffrey always does. Come––”

He broke off suddenly in his speech and listened. There was another sound, and this time there was no mistake about it. It was the low, prolonged howl of a spaniel–a mournful sound which struck a strange note in the afternoon stillness. There was breathless silence for a moment amongst the little group, and the becoming glow died out of Helen’s cheek.

Rachel Kynaston was the first to recover herself.

“Had Sir Geoffrey a dog with him, Heggs?” she asked quickly.

“Yes, miss,” the man answered. “His favourite spaniel had got unchained somehow, and found us on the moor. I saw her at heel when he left us. She was very quiet, and Sir Geoffrey wouldn’t have her sent back.”

“Then something has happened to him!” she cried. “That was Fido’s howl.”

“Has any one heard his gun?” Mr. Thurwell asked.

There was no one left to answer him. They had all started across the moor towards the black patch of spinneys around which Sir Geoffrey should have come. Mr. Thurwell, forgetting his fatigue, hurried after them; and Helen, after a moment’s hesitation, followed too, some distance behind.

She ran swiftly, but her dress caught often in the prickly gorse, and she had to pause each time to release herself. Soon she found herself alone, for the others had all turned the corner of the plantation before she reached it. There was a strong, sickly sense of coming disaster swelling in her heart, and her knees were tottering. Still she held on her way bravely. A few yards before she reached the corner of the plantation, she almost ran into the arms of Lord Lathon, who was hurrying back to meet her. There was a ghastly shade in his pale face, and his voice trembled.

“Miss Thurwell,” he exclaimed in an agitated tone, “you must not come! Let me take you back. Something–has happened! I am going to Rachel. Come with me.”

She drew away from him, and threw off his restraining arm.

“No; I must see for myself. Let me pass, please–at once.”

He tried again to prevent her, but she eluded him. A few rapid steps and she had gained the corner. There they all were in a little group scarcely a dozen yards away. A mist floated before her eyes, but she would see; she was determined that she would see this thing for herself. She struggled on a few steps nearer. There was something lying on the grass around which they were all gathered; something very much like a human shape. Ah! she could see more plainly now. It was Sir Geoffrey–Sir Geoffrey Kynaston. He was lying half on the grass and half in the dry ditch. His white face was upturned to the cloudless sky; by his side, and discolouring his brown tweed shooting-coat, was a dark, wet stain. In the midst of it something bright was flashing in the sunlight.

She stood still, rooted to the spot with a great horror. Her pulses had ceased to beat. The warm summer day seemed suddenly to have closed in around her. There was a singing in her ears, and she found herself battling hard with a deadly faintness. Yet she found words.

“Has he–shot himself?” she cried. “Is it an accident?”

Her father turned round with a little cry, and hastened to her side.

“Helen!” he gasped. “You should not be here! Come away, child! I sent Lathon––”

“I will know–what it is. Is it an accident? Is he–dead?”

He shook his head. The healthy sunburnt tan had left his face, and he was white to the lips.

“He has been murdered!” he faltered. “Foully, brutally murdered!”

CHAPTER III. MR. BERNARD BROWN

Murder is generally associated in one’s mind with darkness, the still hours of night, and bestiality. It is the outcome of the fierce animal lust for blood, provoked by low passions working in low minds. De Quincey’s brilliant attempt to elevate it to a place amongst the fine arts has only enriched its horrors as an abstract idea. Even detached from its usual environment of darkness, and ignorance, and vice, it is an ugly thing.

But here was something quite different. Such a tragedy as this which had just occurred was possessed of a peculiar hideousness of its own. It seemed to have completely laid hold of the little group of men gathered round the body of Sir Geoffrey Kynaston; to have bereft them of all reasoning power and thought, to have numbed even their limbs and physical instincts. It was only a few minutes ago since they had left him, careless and debonair, with his thoughts intent upon the business, or rather the sport, of the hour. His laugh had been the loudest, his enjoyment the keenest, and his gun the most deadly of them all. But now he lay there cold and lifeless, with his heart’s blood staining the green turf, and his sightless eyes dull and glazed. It was an awful thing!

Physically, he had been the very model of an English country gentleman, tall and powerful, with great broad shoulders, and strikingly upright carriage, full of vigorous animal life, with the slight restlessness of the constant traveller banished by his sudden passion for the girl who had so lately promised to be his wife.

She drew a little nearer–they were all too much overcome by the shock of this thing to prevent her–and stood with glazed eyes looking down upon him. Everything, even the minutest article of his dress, seemed to appeal to her with a strange vividness. She found herself even studying the large check of his shooting-coat and the stockings which she had once laughingly admired, and which he had ever since worn. Her eyes rested upon the sprig of heliotrope which, with her own fingers, she had arranged in his button-hole, as they had strolled down the garden together just before the start; and the faint perfume which reached her where she stood, helped her to realize that she was in the thrall of no nightmare, but that this thing had really happened. She had never loved him, she had never even pretended to love him, and it was less any sense of personal loss than the hideous sin of it which swept in upon her as she stood there looking down upon him. She recognized, as she could never have done had he been personally dear to her, the ethical horror of the thing. The faintness which had almost numbed her senses passed away. In that swift battle of many sensations it was anger which survived.

Her voice first broke the deep, awed stillness.

“Who has done this?” she cried, pointing downwards.

Her words were like a sudden awakening to them all. They had been standing like figures in a silent tableau, stricken dumb and motionless. Now there was a stir. The fire in her tone had dissolved their torpor. She was standing on rising ground a little above the rest of them, and her attitude, together with the gesture by which she enforced her words, was full of intense dramatic force. The slim undulating beauty of her form was enhanced by the slight disorder of her dress, and her red-gold hair–she had lost her hat–shone and glistened in the sunlight till every thread was shining like burnished gold. They themselves were in the shade of the dark pine trees, and she, standing upon the margin of the moor with the warm sunlight glowing around her, seemed like a being of another world. Afterwards when they recalled that scene–and there was no one there who ever forgot it–they could scarcely tell which seemed the most terrible part to them–the lifeless body of the murdered man with the terrible writing of death in his white face, or the tragic figure of Helen Thurwell, the squire’s cold, graceful daughter, with her placid features and whole being suddenly transformed with this wave of passion.

Mr. Thurwell drew a few steps backward, and his keen grey eyes swept the open country round.

“There was no one in sight when we got here; but the blackguard can’t be far away!” he said. “Heggs, and you, Smith, and you, Cook, go through the spinney as fast as you can, one in the middle and one on each side, mind! I will go up Falcon’s Hill and look round. Jem, run to Mallory as fast as you can for Dr. Holmes, and on to the police station. Quick! all of you. There’s not a moment to lose!”

The desire for action was as strong in them now as had been their former torpor. Mr. Thurwell and his daughter were alone in less than a minute.

“Helen, I forgot you!” he exclaimed. “I can’t leave you alone, and some one must stay here. Where is Lathon?”

“He has gone on to take Rachel home,” she answered. “I will stay here. I am not afraid. Quick! you can see for miles from the top of the hill, and you have your field-glass. Oh, do go. Go!”

He hesitated, but she was evidently very much in earnest.

“I will just climb the hill and hurry down again,” he said. “I cannot leave you here for more than a few minutes. If only we had more men with us!”

He turned away, and walked swiftly across the moor towards the hill. For a minute or two she stood watching his departing figure. Then she turned round with a shudder, and buried her face in her clasped hands. Her appearance was less hard now and more natural, for a sickly sense of horror at the sight of his body was commencing to assert itself over that first strange instinct of passionate anger. It was none the less dreadful to her because in a certain way his removal was a release. She had promised to marry this man, but there had been scarcely a moment since when she had not found herself regretting it. Now the sense of freedom, which she could not altogether evade, was like torture to her. She dropped on her knees by his side, and took his cold hand in hers. A few hours ago she dared not have done this, knowing very well that at the caressing touch of her fingers, she would have felt his strong arms around her in a passionate and distasteful embrace. But there was no fear of this now. She would never have to shrink away from him again. He was dead!

The warm sunlight was glancing amongst the thickly-growing pine trees in the plantation by her side, casting quaint shadows on the cone-strewn ground, across the little piece of broken paling in the bottom of the dry ditch, and upon the mossy bank where his head was resting upon a sweet-smelling tuft of heather. Most of all it flashed and glittered upon the inch or two of steel which lay buried in his side–a curiously-shaped little dagger which, although she strove to keep her eyes away from it, seemed to have a sort of fascination for her. Every time her eyes fell upon it, she turned away quickly with a little shudder; but, nevertheless, she looked at it more than once–and she remembered it.

The deep stillness of the autumn afternoon presently became almost oppressive to her. There was the far-off, sweet low murmur of a placid sea rolling in upon the base of the cliffs, the constant chirping of ground insects, and the occasional scurrying of a rabbit through the undergrowth. Once a great lean rat stole up from the ditch, and–horrible–ran across his body; but at the sound of her startled movement it paused, sat for a moment quite still, with its wide-open black eyes blinking at her, and then to her inexpressible relief scampered away. She was used to the country, with its intense unbroken silence, but she had never felt it so hard to bear as on that afternoon. Time became purely relative to her. As a matter of fact, she knew afterwards that she could not have been alone more than five minutes. It was like an eternity. She listened in vain for any human sound, even for the far-off sweep of the scythe in the bracken, or the call of the labourer to his horses. The tension of those moments was horrible.

She plucked a handful of bay leaves from the ditch, and strove, by pressing them against her temple, to cool the fever in her blood. Then she took up once more her position by his side, for horrible though the sight of it was, his body seemed to have a sort of fascination for her, and she could not wander far away from it. Once or twice she had looked round, but there had been no human figure in sight, nor any sign of any. But as she knelt there on the short turf, pressing the cool leaves to her aching forehead, she was suddenly conscious of a new sensation. Without hearing or seeing anything, she knew that some one was approaching, and, stranger still, she was conscious of a distinct reluctance to turn her head and see who it was. She heard no footsteps; the soft stillness was broken by the sound of no human voice. She wished to turn round, and yet she shrank from it. Something fresh was going to happen–something was at hand to trouble her. She made a great effort, and rose to her feet. Then, breaking through her conscious reluctance, she turned round.

A single figure, at that moment on a slightly elevated ridge of the bare moor, stood out against the sky. He was walking swiftly towards her, and yet without any appearance of hurry; and from the direction in which he was coming, it was evident that he had just left Falcon’s Nest. This fact and his being unknown to her sufficiently established his identity. It was her father’s tenant, Mr. Bernard Brown.

CHAPTER IV. AN EVIL END TO AN EVIL LIFE

They say that, as a rule, the most grotesquely unimportant trifles flash into the mind and engage the last thoughts of a drowning man. Regarding this in the light of an analogy, something of the same sort was now happening to Helen Thurwell.

With her mind steeped in the horror of the last few hours, she yet found that she was able afterwards to recall every slight particular with regard to this man’s appearance, and even his dress. She remembered the firm evenness of his movements, swift, yet free from all ungraceful haste; the extreme shabbiness of his coat, his ill-arranged neck-tie, escaped from all restraint of collar and waistcoat, and flying loosely behind him; his trousers very much turned up, and very much frayed, and the almost singular height of his loose, angular figure. His face, too–she remembered that better than anything–with its pale hollow cheeks and delicate outline, deep-set dark blue eyes, black eyebrows, and long, unkempt hair, which would have looked very much the better for a little trimming. A man utterly regardless of his appearance, untidy, almost slovenly in his attire, yet with something about him different from other men.

He was within a few yards of her, when she saw a sudden change flash into his face as their eyes met. He hesitated and a faint colour came into his cheeks, only to fade away again immediately, leaving them whiter than ever. There was something in his intense gaze which at that time she had no means of understanding. But it was over in a moment. He advanced rapidly, and stood by her side.

She still watched him. She could see that his whole frame was vibrating with strong internal emotion as he looked downwards on the glazed eyes and motionless form of the murdered man. His lips were pallid, and his hands were tightly clasped together. There was one thing which seemed to her very strange. He had not started, or exhibited the least sign of surprise at the dreadful sight. It was almost as though he had known all about it.

“This is a terrible thing,” she said in a low tone, breaking the silence between them for the first time. “You have heard of it, I suppose?”

He dropped down on one knee, and bent close over the dead man, feeling his heart and pulses. In that position his face was hidden from her.

“No; I knew nothing. Has he been killed–like this?”

“Yes.”

“Did any one see it? Is the man caught?”

“We know nothing,” she answered. “We found him like this. There was no one in sight.”

He rose deliberately to his feet. Her heart was beating fast now, and she looked searchingly into his face. It told her little. He was grave, but perfectly composed.

“How is it that you are alone here?” he asked. “Does no one else know of this?”

She moved her head in assent.

“Yes; but they have all gone to hunt for the murderer. If only you had been looking from your window, you would have seen it all!”

He did not look as though he shared her regret. He was standing on the other side of the dead man, with his arms folded and his eyes fixed steadily upon the cold, white face. He seemed to have forgotten her presence.

“An evil end to an evil life,” he said slowly to himself, and then he added something which she did not hear.

“You knew him, then?”

He looked at her for a moment fixedly, and then down again into the dead man’s face.

“I have heard of him abroad,” he said. “Sir Geoffrey Kynaston was a man with a reputation.”

“You will remember that he is dead,” she said slowly, for the scorn in his words troubled her.

He bowed his head, and was silent. Watching him closely, she could see that he was far more deeply moved than appeared on the surface. His teeth were set together, and there was a curious faint flush of colour in his livid cheeks. She followed his eyes, wondering. They were fixed, not upon the dead man’s face, but on the dagger which lay buried in his heart, and the handle of which was still visible.

“That should be a clue,” he remarked, breaking a short silence.

“Yes. I hope to God that they will find the wretch!” she answered passionately.

She looked up at him as she spoke. His eyes were travelling over the moor, and his hand was shading them.

“There is some one coming,” he said. “We shall know very soon.”

She followed his rapt gaze, and saw three men coming towards them. One was her father, another the underkeeper, and the third was a stranger.

CHAPTER V. THE INNER ROOM AT THE FALCON’S NEST

Together they watched the approaching figures. Helen, standing a little apart, had the better view.

“There is my father, and Heggs, and some one whom I do not know,” she announced quietly. “I wonder if it is a doctor.”

He did not answer her. She glanced towards him, wondering at his silence and rigid attitude. His eyes were still bent upon the three men, and there was a hard, strained look in his white face. While she was watching him she saw a spasm of what seemed almost like physical pain pass across his countenance. Certainly this was no unfeeling man. In his way he seemed as deeply moved as she herself was.

They were quite close now, and she had a good view of the stranger. He did not look, by any means, a person to be afraid of. In all her life she thought she had never seen such a handsome old gentleman–and gentleman he most assuredly was. His hair was quite white, and his beard–carefully trimmed and pointed after the fashion of one of Velasquez’ pictures–was of the same colour. Yet his walk was upright and vigorous, and he carried himself with dignity. His high forehead, and rather long, oval face, with its delicate, clearly-cut features, had at once the stamp of intellect and benevolence, and, as though preserved by careful and refined living, had still much of the freshness of youth. He was dressed in a rough tweed walking-suit, with gaiters and thick boots, and carried under his arm a somewhat ponderous book, and a botanical specimen case. Helen felt a woman’s instinctive liking for him before she had even heard him speak.

“Have you thought us long, Helen?” her father exclaimed anxiously. “We haven’t seen anything of the scoundrel, but Heggs was fortunate enough to meet Sir Allan Beaumerville on the moor, and he very kindly offered to return.”

Sir Allan was on his knees by the body before Mr. Thurwell had finished his sentence. They all watched his brief examination.

“Poor fellow! poor fellow!” he exclaimed in a shocked tone. “That wretched thing”–lightly touching the handle of the dagger–“is clean through his heart. It was a strong, cruel arm that drove that home. Nothing can be done, of course. He must have died within a few seconds!” He rose from his knees and looked around. “What is to be done with the body?” he asked. “It must be removed somewhere. Sir Geoffrey Kynaston, did you say it was? Dear me! dear me! I knew his sister quite well.”

“She is not far away,” Mr. Thurwell said. “She and my daughter were awaiting luncheon for us on the cliffs yonder, when this horrible thing occurred. Lathon went back to look for her. We were afraid that she might follow us here. She was very fond of her brother, and he had only just returned home after many years’ travelling.”

“Poor fellow!” Sir Allan said softly. “But about moving him. Who lives in that queer-looking place yonder?”

Mr. Thurwell, who knew his tenant by sight, although they had never spoken, looked at him and hesitated. Sir Allan did the same.

“That is where I live,” Mr. Brown said slowly. “If Mr. Thurwell thinks well, let him be taken there.”

He spoke without looking round, or addressing any one in particular. His back was turned upon the celebrated physician.

“The nearest place would be best, in a case like this,” Sir Allan remarked. “Have you sent for any help?”

“Some of my men are coming across the moor there,” Mr. Thurwell said, pointing them out. “They can take a gate off the hinges to carry him on.”

A little troop of awed servants, whom Lord Lathon had sent down from the Court, together with some farm-labourers whom they had picked up on the way were soon on the spot.

Mr. Thurwell gave some brief directions, and in a few minutes the high five-barred gate, with “private” painted across it in white letters, was taken from its hinges, and the body carefully laid upon it. Then Mr. Thurwell turned resolutely to his daughter.

“Helen, you must go home now,” he said firmly. “Jackson will take you. We can spare him easily.”

She shook her head.

“I would rather stay,” she said quietly. “I shall not faint, or do anything stupid, I promise you.”

Sir Allan Beaumerville looked at her curiously. It was a strange thing to him, notwithstanding his wide experience, to find a girl of her years so little outwardly moved by so terrible a tragedy. Mr. Thurwell, too, was surprised. He knew that she had never loved Sir Geoffrey Kynaston, but, nevertheless, he had expected her to show more emotion than this, if only for the horror of it all. And yet, looking at her more closely, he began to understand–to realize that her calmness was only attained by a strenuous repression of feeling, and that underneath it all was something very different. Though her voice was firm, her cheeks were deadly pale, and there was a peculiar tightening of the lips and light in her eyes which puzzled him. Her expression seemed to speak less of passive grief, than of some active determination–some strong desire. She had all the appearance of a woman who was bracing herself up for some ordeal, nerving herself with all the stimulus of a firm will to triumph over her natural feelings, and follow out a difficult purpose. Mr. Thurwell scarcely recognized his own daughter. She was no longer a somewhat languid, beautiful girl, looking out upon the world with a sort of petulant indifference–petulant, because, with all the high aspirations of a somewhat romantic disposition, she could see nothing in it to interest her. All that had passed away. The warm breath of some awakening force in her nature seemed to have swept before it all her languor, and all her petulance. They were gone, and in their place was a certain air of reserve and thoughtful strength which seems always to cling to those men and women who face the world with a definite purpose before them. Mr. Thurwell knitted his brows, and had nothing to say.

A sad little procession was formed, and started slowly for the cottage on the cliff side, the four stalwart men stooping beneath their heavy burden, and somehow falling into the measured steady tramp common to corpse-bearers. None of them ever forgot that walk. Slowly they wound their way around many brilliant patches of deep yellow gorse and purple heather, and the warm sunlight glancing across the moor and glittering away over the water threw a strange glow upon the still, cold face of their ghastly burden. A soft breeze sprung from the sea, herald of the advancing eventide, following the drowsy languor of the perfect autumnal day. The faintly-stirred air was full of its quickening exhilaration, but it found no human response in their heavy hearts. Solemn thoughts and silence came over all of them. Scarcely a word was spoken on the way to their destination.