WANTED, A CLUE.

IN TWO CHAPTERS.—CHAP. I.

‘“Companion required for a Young Lady. Must be cheerful, musical, and of good family. Salary, £60 per annum.”’ Such was the advertisement my aunt Margaret read out to me one morning, as we sat at breakfast in her neat little house in London.

I am the orphan daughter of a missionary, and my aunt’s was the only home I had ever known. For the past three years I had been resident governess in a wealthy family in Yorkshire; but my employers’ purse-proud arrogance was too much for my self-respect, and I had to leave, resolving if possible to try and obtain a post as companion.

Tempted by the excellent salary offered, I at once wrote to the address indicated. Promptly I received a reply, from Mr Foster of Great Gorton Hall, Westernshire. He stated that companionship was required for his step-daughter, Miss Thorndyke, a delicate girl of eighteen, who resided with him and his widowed sister, Mrs Morrell; her mother, his dear late wife, having died the previous year. He added that my acquirements and credentials were satisfactory; and requested to know whether I had ever been in Westernshire, and if I had any friends or connections there.

I replied that I was an entire stranger to the county and to all the people in it; and in a few days I was overjoyed at receiving the nomination to the post; for I was unwilling to be a burden on my aunt’s slender means.

Gorton Hall was a fine building of gray stone, standing in beautiful grounds, on the outskirts of a pretty country village. I was shown into a spacious drawing-room, where a middle-aged lady in black greeted me very pleasantly, introducing herself as Mrs Morrell. She kindly bade me be seated, and sent a servant in search of her brother.

Mr Foster was a fine-looking man, with iron-gray hair, and a keen and searching expression—a man whom I instinctively felt it would be dangerous to offend. His manner to me, like his sister’s, was courtesy itself. He explained the duties expected from me. ‘And one thing more I must add, Miss Armitage,’ he said in conclusion—‘although willing to concede everything reasonable, there is one thing I cannot permit in members of my household—gossiping with strangers concerning my family. I prefer that my daughter’s companion should have no friends or acquaintances in this neighbourhood; and I must request that during your residence here, you discourage any intimacy which people at Gorton or any of the neighbouring villages may seek to establish with you. I have seen so much mischief caused by gossip and tittle-tattle, that I am obliged to request this.’

The stipulation seemed a very reasonable one, and I readily acceded to it. Mr Foster then went on to speak of his step-daughter.

‘Our darling Edith is not so strong as we could wish, and indeed is frequently confined to the sofa. The doctor orders her to keep early hours and avoid all excitement; she therefore goes but little into society; but we hope the companionship of a bright and lively girl will prove beneficial. Keep her amused and happy, Miss Armitage, and we ask no more from you.’

I found my future charge in the drawing-room, when I descended dressed for dinner. She was a fragile-looking creature, with light hair and large blue eyes. She greeted me very kindly. Her manner was childish, considering her age; but I was much relieved not to find her a fine fashionable young lady. She was still in mourning for her mother.

We had a musical evening. Mrs Morrell and I executed several duets on the piano, accompanied by Mr Foster on the violin, which he played very well. Edith kissed me very kindly as she said good-night; and before I went to rest, I sat down and wrote to my aunt in glowing terms, saying that Gorton Hall was an earthly paradise.

Nor did I see reason to change my opinion for many weeks. I soon felt perfectly at ease in my new home. Edith was so gentle, so unassuming, and so considerate, that it was impossible not to love her; and Mr Foster and his sister were most kind. I was treated as a gentlewoman and an equal; and my duties were very light, being chiefly to drive Edith in a pretty pony-carriage, to play duets, and occasionally to read aloud.

We did not mix very much in society, although Mrs Morrell received a due amount of calls from the ladies in the neighbourhood. A few quiet garden-parties and dinners were the limit of our dissipations, on Edith’s account. I was always included in any scheme of pleasure, and Mr Foster made quite a point of introducing me to all visitors.

There was a fine old church in the village, to which we all went on Sundays. It was a mile and a half across the fields; but we usually drove, on account of Edith. I had been nearly six months at the Hall, when one fine Sunday morning in July it fell to my lot to go to church alone, for the first time since my arrival. Mr Foster was in London; Edith had a headache; and Mrs Morrell would not leave her, although she was urgent that I should go. The service over, I was returning across the first field, when I heard steps behind me, and a gentleman’s voice said: ‘Miss Armitage!’

I turned round in surprise, to see a young man who was a perfect stranger to me. Lifting his hat politely, he begged for the honour of a few words with me.

I was both amazed and indignant, and somewhat loftily informed him that I was not in the habit of conversing with total strangers; so saying, I was walking on, when he interrupted me, and begged me to listen, for Edith Thorndyke’s sake.

‘My father, Dr Archer, was her father’s oldest friend, Miss Armitage. My family is well known in this neighbourhood; and I live in the next village, Little Gorton, where I am in partnership with Dr Selby. You are well known to me by name, and for some time I have endeavoured to contrive an interview with you, in vain. I could not come up to the Hall,’ he added, no doubt seeing amazement written on my face. ‘The fact is, Miss Armitage, I love Edith Thorndyke; but her step-father considers my position inferior to hers, and refuses to allow me to see her until she is of age. Doubtless you are aware that she will inherit a great deal of property.’

‘I strongly disapprove of discussing these family matters with a total stranger, sir,’ I said, trying to move away. ‘Also, Mr Foster has absolutely forbidden it.—Good-morning.’

‘One moment!’ he pleaded. ‘Edith Thorndyke’s very life may depend upon it! Have you heard the terms of her mother’s will?’

‘They are nothing to me, sir.’

‘Oh, but please, Miss Armitage! I entreat you! Do listen to me! When Mrs Foster’s first husband died, he left her some thousands a year, in addition to Gorton Hall and the estates, entirely at her own disposal. She married again, and died last year, when it was found that she had left her husband Edith’s sole guardian until she should be twenty-one, when she would enter into the possession of the Thorndyke property. In case she died before attaining her majority, one half of the property would devolve upon Mr Foster, and half upon relatives of the Thorndykes. Even the half is a very large sum, Miss Armitage—quite enough to tempt a man like Mr Foster to—to—— In short, I sadly fear Edith Thorndyke will not be allowed to live until she is twenty-one.’

‘This is downright madness!’ I exclaimed. ‘Mr Foster is the kindest and best of men—quite incapable of harbouring designs upon his step-daughter’s life.’

‘I know Lawrence Foster; you do not,’ he answered quietly. ‘I know him to be bold and cunning and unscrupulous. Edith believes in him and his sister; but she is sadly deceived. I hoped to be able to enlist you on my side, Miss Armitage, when I heard of your arrival at the Hall. I should be glad to feel sure that Edith has one disinterested friend in the house.’

‘But I ought not to speak to you at all,’ I said, feeling very uncomfortable. ‘Mr Foster has strictly forbidden me to gossip with strangers.’

‘Because he is afraid that you might hear the truth.’

‘But if he is what you say, why does he have a companion for his step-daughter at all? I must be a check on his movements. I see all that goes on; he never hides anything from me.’

‘Don’t you see that your presence is an additional security for him? It disarms suspicion. Supposing Edith—well, died suddenly; people would say: “Miss Armitage was there; she knows all about it;” and no comment would be excited; whereas it would probably seem suspicious, at all events to the Thorndyke family, who are by no means satisfied with the terms of the will, if Edith were to die whilst living alone with Mr Foster and his sister. There can be no doubt that the money must be an immense temptation to him. He has nothing of his own. Ten thousand a year, and only one fragile girl’s life in the way!’

I must say the speaker’s earnestness and unmistakable sincerity began to make an impression upon me. I had fancied once or twice that Mr Foster exercised an unusually close surveillance over Edith and me. Were Dr Archer’s words true, and was I merely a lay-figure at Gorton Hall, to deceive the world? Had I been taken into society by my employers, and my praises trumpeted forth to all their acquaintances, merely in order that my presence should disarm suspicion? ‘You have made me very uncomfortable,’ I candidly confessed.

‘Believe me, Miss Armitage, I would not have taken this course but that I was compelled by necessity. Edith’s step-father has such a complete ascendency over her, that it is difficult to know what to do. But you are always with her, and can watch over her.’

‘But I am only a paid companion, liable to dismissal at any time.’

‘True; but I hope you will try and stay as long as you can, for Edith’s sake.’

‘I fear she is very delicate.’

‘She is delicate; she needs care. But, as she gets older, her health will probably improve. There is really no reason, humanly speaking, why she should not live for many years. But I fear—I fear many things, but chiefly poison, slow and secret. Mr Foster is an accomplished chemist; and his antecedents—better known to me than to most people—give me little confidence in him. If you knew as much as I do about him, Miss Armitage, you would not wonder at my suspicions. But be sure of this: there is danger. I have no proof against Mr Foster, and therefore cannot interfere in any way. Promise, promise me, Miss Armitage, that you will inform me of everything suspicious that you may see from this time. Here is my address.’

I hastily took the proffered card and gave the promise, anxious to return before Mrs Morrell should be uneasy at my absence. She laughingly remarked that the sermon must have been unusually long, and in a casual manner asked what was the text. Luckily, I was able to supply chapter and verse and a lengthy catalogue of my fellow-worshippers. It then struck me for the first time that if, by chance, I was allowed to go out alone, either Mr Foster or Mrs Morrell might find out, by skilfully put questions, everything I had said, seen, and done.

Now that suspicion had once entered my mind, I saw grounds for it everywhere, as might have been expected. The most absurd fancies entered into my head. I persuaded Edith in secret to lock her door at night before retiring to rest, which she had never done before. I do not know what I expected to happen. The precaution was a senseless one; for the foes I was fighting against were far too clever and subtle to contemplate anything so foolish as commonplace midnight murder.

I will do my employers the justice to say that with all this I spent a delightful summer. They took Edith and me to Scotland for a two months’ tour; and I never enjoyed a holiday so much. A more charming cicerone than Mr Foster could not be. Then we went back to Gorton, and settled down for the winter. For some time, absolutely nothing of any importance occurred. I wrote occasionally a brief, reassuring, cautious note to Dr Archer, but carefully refrained from speaking when we met, to avert suspicion. Edith and I grew daily more attached; and nothing could exceed my employers’ kindness.

Edith had been decidedly better in health, until she received a severe chill in November. Mrs Morrell at once sent for the doctor, the same old family practitioner who had attended her from her birth.

Dr Stevens was a worthy man, and once a skilful physician, no doubt; but when I saw him, he was nearly eighty and quite past his work. Feeble, weak in sight and hearing, the old man seemed more fit to be in bed himself, than to be employed in his professional capacity. I hinted as much to Edith; but she was quite indignant, and reiterated her assurances that she had more confidence in Dr Stevens than in any one else; so I had to rest satisfied.

Miss Thorndyke’s illness dragged on with fluctuating strength. She was too delicate to shake off anything easily; and she had frequent relapses, which sadly weakened her strength. Mrs Morrell nursed her most assiduously, declining professional attendance, but permitting me to help her to the best of my ability. But although I was allowed to be in the invalid’s room all day, if I chose, Mrs Morrell would not permit me to exhaust my strength in night-nursing. She had had her bed placed in a dressing-room communicating with Edith’s room, and there she slept, ready, at the slightest movement of the invalid, to spring up and wait upon her. Edith spoke warmly of Mrs Morrell’s kindness and devotion; and certainly she spared no pains to humour the fancies of the sick girl.

About Christmas, the disease assumed a new phase. Symptoms of stomach derangement set in, which Dr Stevens attributed to the long-continued recumbent position and lack of exercise; and he set himself to combat the new evil by every means in his power. This was all discussed in my presence, for no mystery was made of the matter; and indeed I was usually accustomed to administer Edith’s food and medicines when I sat in her room. This, however, never occurred in the evening; for Mr Foster so pathetically pleaded his loneliness in the deserted drawing-room after dinner, when his sister always went to the invalid, that in common civility I could not refuse to play chess and cribbage with him, and occasionally accompany his violin on the piano.

But one night about nine o’clock I slipped quietly out of the drawing-room, and went up-stairs to Edith’s room to see if she was awake. She had been worse that day, and I was beginning to feel rather anxious about her. For a wonder, Mrs Morrell was not on duty, and I entered unchallenged. I had not been into Edith’s room so late as this since the beginning of her illness, and was astonished to find it lighted up by eight large wax candles, dispersed about the apartment, although the glare was carefully screened from the invalid’s face. I stooped over the thin face on the pillow, and received a faint smile. I could not help remarking: ‘How light your room is! I wonder you can sleep in such a blaze.’

‘Mrs Morrell likes it,’ was the languid answer. ‘She always burns eight candles like that, all night. I don’t mind them.—O Alice dear, I am so tired of lying here! and I’m always so thirsty, so dreadfully thirsty! Do give me something to drink!’

I poured out a tumblerful of a cooling drink from a handsome red glass jug on the table near me. She drank it eagerly, and sank back on her pillow as Mrs Morrell came into the room.

I fancied that an angry gleam shot at me from under the widow’s black eyebrows; but if so, she smoothed away her irritation before she addressed me. ‘Alice, my dear, it is most kind of you to be here, but I left my darling girl, as I hoped, to sleep. She is more likely to get a good night’s rest, if she is not disturbed by late visitors. After nine o’clock, please, I must request you for the present, dear, not to come here again.’

I apologised, and said good-night, turning, however, at the door to ask if Mrs Morrell did not think so much light might have a disturbing effect upon the invalid.

‘Now, my dear Miss Armitage, that is not like your usual common-sense,’ answered the widow sweetly. ‘Above all things, plenty of light is essential in a sickroom, where medicines have to be accurately measured out, and where at any moment the nurse may be summoned to her patient’s side. I should be tumbling over the furniture in the dark, if the candles were not kept burning. And now, my dear girl, I must really request that you go; Edith is nearly asleep. Good-night.’ So I ran down-stairs, to be gently scolded by Mr Foster for my long absence.

When a week went by and Edith grew worse every day, I became seriously alarmed, and expressed my uneasiness in a letter to Dr Archer, which I posted myself, for fear of accidents. He sent me a brief note by a trusty messenger, in reply, which did not tend to allay my fears:

‘Your account of her symptoms was most alarming. You say she is wasted and prostrate, and suffers from painful cramps and insatiable thirst. These are the symptoms of arsenical poisoning. You must contrive to secure portions of all her food and medicine, and bottle them securely, and bring them to me. Be in the fir plantation at four o’clock to-morrow to meet me; it is a matter of life and death.’

You may imagine how terrified I was; but luckily I had nerve enough to hide it. I looked out all the small bottles I could find, washed them out carefully, and determined to put them into my pocket one at a time, to fill as occasion should serve. At the same time I could hardly believe that Dr Archer was right in his suspicions. I believed they could not poison Edith without my knowledge. I was in and out of the sickroom all day, from about ten o’clock in the morning, until I was dismissed at five to dress for dinner; and at least half of her food and medicine I administered with my own hands. The medicine bottles I frequently opened fresh from Dr Stevens’ wrappings; and it was difficult to imagine that poison could get into puddings and jellies brought straight from the kitchen to the bedside. I could only conclude that at night must occur Mrs Morrell’s opportunity—if at all.

I felt like a conspirator, as I contrived to secrete small portions of everything of which Edith partook. I secured the last drops remaining of the cooling drink which Mrs Morrell had had to administer to the invalid during the night; also a portion of the farinaceous pudding which Miss Thorndyke had had for her dinner, a part of her sleeping-draught, a wine-glassful of the mixture she was taking every two hours, and some of the beef-tea which Dr Stevens had ordered for her. If poison were really being administered, it must be present in one or other of these. I chiefly suspected the remains of the cooling drink. I was young and unsophisticated, and my experience as a novel-reader made me believe it quite possible that Mrs Morrell should carry small packets of arsenic about in her pocket, to mix in Edith’s medicines and food, as occasion should serve. I can only smile at my credulity now.

It was a difficult matter to meet Dr Archer in the fir plantation unobserved. Mrs Morrell had first to be evaded, and then Mr Foster, who manifested a most amiable and pressing desire to accompany me in my walk. I dared not linger, but hastily thrust the phials into the young doctor’s hands, telling him I particularly suspected the cooling drink. He informed me that he was going to send them at once to an eminent analyst at one of the London hospitals; and that, if they proved to contain poison, he should instantly apply to a magistrate for a warrant.

I could not control my feelings that evening sufficiently well to prevent Mr Foster remarking, as we sat at chess: ‘Your walk to-day did not do you much good, Miss Armitage.’

‘I have rather a headache,’ I hastily answered. It was perfectly true. ‘I sat with Edith all the morning, and her room seemed to me very stuffy.’ Indeed, I had frequently noticed a strange closeness pervading it, especially when I first entered it in the morning; and I very often found my head the worse for a prolonged sojourn in it.

‘As soon as Dr Stevens will allow it, she shall be moved into a larger room,’ he answered, as if he wished to evade a discussion of the subject.