George Manville Fenn (continued 5)
Reading edition
“Look here, Lawrence, I’ve been thinking that a glass of toddy and one of the old Partagas apiece would be good medicine, eh? Excusable under the circumstances?”
“My dear Hampton, you ought to have been a physician,” said the doctor smiling.
“There, Mr Blank,” whispered the old lawyer, rubbing his hands; “indorsed by the faculty. Here are the cigars,” he said, opening the cabinet and taking out a box; “and here is a spirit-stand, but it is empty, I know; but I thought of going to the cellar and getting a bottle of that old Cognac from the far bin. Would you mind letting me reach to that drawer? Bless my heart, I seem to be quite at home in the old place.”
He opened the drawer, took out the cellar keys softly, nodded to the doctor, and, followed by George Harrington, went out, closed the door carefully, and then descended the passage and the few steps leading to the cellar door.
“Now, I do not hold, Mr Blank,” said the old man, pausing, candle in one hand, keys in the other, before the door, “that you are the rightful heir here; but I do say this, that the real Simon Pure will own as fine a cellar of wine as any man in the country.”
“Many a good bottle of which, my dear sir, I hope we shall discuss.”
“Ah, that remains to be proved. Would you mind holding the candle? Thanks. Look like burglars or debauchees, opening cellars at this time of the night; but my poor old friend had some very choice Cognac. Come along. Now, the other door. Hold up the light. Bin number twenty-four. Bless my soul, what’s that?”
A long, low, dismal howl close behind them nearly made the lawyer drop the long-necked bottle.
“That dog escaped?” cried George Harrington excitedly; and as there was a panting noise, he caught at the collar of the dimly-seen dog as it came by him; but instead of struggling, the great beast rose upon its hind legs, planted its paws upon his breast, threw up its head again, and uttered its dismal howl.
“The gardener must have let him out,” said George quickly.
“And Saul Harrington must be dead,” said the old lawyer, in a solemn whisper, which seemed to run along the roof of the gloomy, crypt-like place.
Chapter Thirty Eight.
New Mortar.
They hurried to the door as soon as they had recovered from the first shock.
“Look here, sir,” said George, “what shall we do about the dog?”
“Ah, I forgot him. It would be too horrible to let him get into the room where the poor fellow is. Yes, poor fellow! De mortuis, et cetera. Come along, Mr Blank, and we’ll lock the dog in here for a few hours.”
“Good idea,” was the reply; and the outer door of the cellar was locked upon Bruno, who made no attempt to follow; but when they reached the study door, all was perfectly still, and upon George’s turning the handle softly, the doctor quickly raised his head and gave them a nod.
“Got it?” he said. “I’ll have mine here.”
“How is Mr Saul?” said the old lawyer in a trembling voice.
“Unchanged. He will have another paroxysm, though, when the effects of the medicine pass off.”
“Doctor Lawrence,” said George quickly, as he gazed searchingly in the old man’s eyes, “are not these symptoms very similar to those which would occur if a man had been bitten by a savage or mad dog?”
“Almost identical, sir,” said the old doctor. “But Mr Saul assured me that the wound was not a bite, but an abrasure that had gone bad, consequent upon ignorant treatment by a foreign doctor, and was poisoning the blood.”
“Thank you, sir,” said the young man gravely; and as soon as the lawyer had replaced the keys, they quietly left the room, and were on their way to prepare the hot spirit and water, when they stopped short, and Mr Hampton grasped his companion’s arm, as from the cellar, sounding smothered and strange, there came the low howl of the dog.
“We must stop that,” said the lawyer excitedly. “I don’t think I’m at all superstitious, but when you know a patient is in a dangerous state, it is too horrible to have a dog uttering those blood-curdling howls.”
“It does not sound pleasant,” said George thoughtfully.
“Stop a moment; I know,” whispered Mr Hampton; and he went down the passage, and unhooked a baize door fastened back against the wall, the effect being that the sound was deadened, though not destroyed.
“That must do for the present,” he said. “I dread our having another scene with that brute.”
“Is he always as savage and fierce as I saw him?” asked George.
“Oh, dear, no. As a rule the quietest and most docile of animals, but he never seems to have liked Saul Harrington.”
“Is anything the matter?” said a voice in a low whisper, and they found that Gertrude had come softly down the stairs, and that Mrs Hampton was looking over the balustrade.
“No, nothing is wrong,” said George hastily.
“But I heard Bruno howling. Yes: there it is again.”
George explained the reason, and after a few moments’ conversation they were about to return upstairs when, in spite of the closed doors, the dog’s howl came in a deep, low, thrilling tone, and directly after he began to bark in a deep utterance that seemed to vibrate through the house.
“He’ll set that young fellow off again,” said George Harrington sharply. “I’ll try and get him back to the stable.”
“I’ll come and help you,” said Gertrude quietly.
“No; the animal developed such strange ferocity that I don’t think it is safe.”
“Safe? Bruno would not hurt me,” said Gertrude, with a smile.
“Not intentionally, perhaps; but leave him to me.”
There was so much decision in the request—a request which almost sounded like an order, that Gertrude, hardly knowing why, gave way at once, and returned with Mrs Hampton to their room, while in company with the lawyer, George Harrington went back to the cellar door, just within which they could hear the dog snuffing, and every now and then uttering his uneasy whine, followed by a howl.
“What is it, my lad?” said George, with his mouth to the key-hole.
The effect was magical, for the dog seemed to raise himself up against the door, barking wildly, and then they could hear him scratching away the sawdust.
“Lie down, old chap! Lie down, Bruno!” cried George.
There was at this another sharp burst of barking, as if the dog was excitedly striving to get out.
“Shut that baize door, sir,” said George; “and then we must get him out, and back to the stable. He’ll worry the doctor’s patient to death.”
The key was brought forth, and George proceeded to open the door.
“Do you think there’s any danger?” whispered the old lawyer.
“Not a bit.”
“But he seems so savage.”
“Not with me,” said George, as he threw open the door. “Here, Bruno!” he cried.
The dog bounced out, and for the moment it seemed to Mr Hampton that he was about to attack the young man, for he rose on his hind legs, and placed his paws breast-high, barking furiously.
“Come, come; what’s the matter?” said George, seizing him with both hands by the collar. “Don’t you like to be shut up there. Some folks would; eh, sir?”
“I don’t think the brute is safe,” said Mr Hampton. “Pray get him out.”
“Yes, I’ll take him to the stable. Now, Bruno, old chap. Will you lock that door, sir?”
George Harrington had to speak loudly, for the dog was keeping up his excited bark, and mingling it with whines; but the moment the old lawyer moved towards the door the animal dropped down on all fours, shook himself free, and dashed back into the wine-cellar.
“Come out, sir!” cried the lawyer. “I thought he didn’t like the place?”
“Here—Bruno, Bruno!”
The dog responded with a sharp, angry bark, evidently from some distance.
“Oh, I see what it is; he can smell rats.”
“But we can’t have him making that noise in the middle of the night.”
“Come out, sir!” cried George, entering the cellar and calling the dog, who came bounding towards him; but as an effort was made to seize his collar, he sprang round and dashed back.
“Give me the candle, Mr Hampton.”
“No,” said the old man; “you’ll want both hands to him. I’ll light you, or you’ll think I’m a terrible coward. I’m not used to dogs.”
He looked smilingly in his companion’s face, and went to the front.
“I know the cellar better than you do, sir. Good heavens, dog?”
The lawyer and the light were both nearly upset, for as he moved forward Bruno literally rushed at him, but only to turn again and run back right into the depths of the cellar.
“Here, Bruno! Come here, sir!” cried George sternly. “We don’t want to go ratting now.”
But the dog paid no heed to the call, and went on barking furiously, while the next minute they reached the spot where he stood with his head outstretched, making the place echo.
“Come here, you old stupid!” said George good-humouredly; and, taking hold of the dog’s collar with one hand, he patted his head with the other. “Now, then, we don’t want to find rats. Come along.”
The dog looked up in his face, whined, and then swung round and going to the blank patch of whitewashed wall, threw up his head and howled.
“Yes, it must be rats,” said the old lawyer, “behind that bricked-up part. Try and drive him out.”
George Harrington turned sharply on the lawyer.
“Bricked-up part?” he said.
“Yes, there’s another cellar there through that arch, where old Mr Harrington laid down a quantity of wine for his grandson. Well, what is it? Yes; that’s the place.”
George had snatched the candle, and gone to the wall to hold the light close to the whitewashed bricks.
As he did so the dog grew more uneasy and excited, looking from one to the other, and barking at the wall.
“Well?” said the old lawyer, as his companion turned sharply and looked him full in the eyes.
“You said you did not understand dogs, Mr Hampton?”
“No, not a bit; but I think we ought to get this noisy brute out of the house.”
“I do understand them a little,” said George excitedly. “Mr Hampton, there’s something wrong here.”
“What do you mean?”
“You say that is a bricked-up part of the cellar?”
“Yes; the old man did it for his heir.”
“And it has never been opened since?”
“Of course not.”
George looked at the brickwork again, scanning it very narrowly with the candle close to the wall.
“Yes, it has,” he said, taking out his knife, and trying the mortar between the bricks, and then the other parts. “This mortar is comparatively soft.”
“Dampness of the place.”
“Newness of the mortar, sir. That dog, by his wonderful instinct, knows that something is wrong behind here.”
“Then he’s a precious clever dog if he does, that’s all I can say, because if you are right that inner cellar has been robbed and carefully built up again.”
“This cellar has certainly been opened, sir, and built up again,” said George, drawing his breath with a peculiar hiss as a curious suspicion seemed to flash through the dark parts of his brain.
Meanwhile the dog had watched every movement in silence, but only to grow excited again and stand barking.
“I’m of opinion,” said the old lawyer dogmatically, “that Bruno smells a rat, and that you have discovered a mare’s nest. Why, hang it, man, don’t look at me in that ghastly manner. What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know, sir, but I have a horrible suspicion.”
“Good heavens! My dear young friend, what do you mean?”
“I may be wrong, sir, but look at that dog.”
“Yes, I believe he is going mad.”
“I do not, sir. He has made a discovery.”
“Yes, of rats,” said the lawyer pettishly.
“I tell you once more, sir, I may be wrong; but Bruno seems to have found the clue I sought in vain.”
“Clue?—what clue?”
“We have been searching for the man who called himself George Harrington.”
“You have, sir. I have not.”
“Well, I have. It may sound romantic and strange, but at the present moment I have a horrible dread that we have found him at last.”
“What do you mean—where?”
For answer George Harrington pointed to the wall.
“What?” ejaculated the old man, in a hoarse whisper, and he caught at and held tightly by his companion’s arm.
“I have had suspicions flashing about in a vague way in my brain, sir, but I could not arrange them. Now they begin to assume shape.”
“Great heavens!”
“Look here, sir. This dog has been lying half dead ever since the disappearance of that man.”
“Yes.”
“What does he do as soon as he encounters Saul Harrington?”
“Fly at him.”
“Yes. Why should he? Surely he has not been in the habit of trying to get at the throat of a relative and visitor of the house.”
“That’s quite true; certainly.”
“You see the dog is as gentle with us as can be. Go to him yourself, and pat him.”
“I hardly—Yes, I will,” said the old man, mastering his dislike and dread; and, taking a couple of steps forward, he patted the dog’s head. “Why, Bruno, old dog, what’s the matter?” he said in an awe-stricken whisper.
The dog swung round, looked at him, barked loudly, then rose up at him, placing his paws on his shoulders, and howled mournfully.
“There, you see,” said George, laying his hand on the dog’s head. “Mad? No more than we are.”
“But—but what has that to do with your theory of the man’s disappearance?”
“Mr Hampton, I am not going to place it before you in words. My suspicion is that there has been foul play, and unless I am wrong, that man lies murdered behind yonder wall.”
The old lawyer caught him by the arm, and looked in his face with his own turning quite white.
“You horrify me,” he whispered in awe-stricken tones. “Surely it is impossible. Then you think that Mr Saul—”
“Never mind what I think,” cried George Harrington sharply. “I only say that I have a horrible suspicion that there has been foul play.”
“Then—then,” cried the lawyer with trembling voice, “you—Oh, it is impossible!”
“No, sir; we have heard of such things before.”
“Yes. Then, of course, we must have a search—the police.”
“No, sir; we may be wrong.”
“Yes, yes—of course,” cried the old man eagerly—“Yes; you must be wrong.”
“Look at that dog,” whispered George.
The old man turned to see that the dog was snuffing about the wall, and ended by beginning to tear away the sawdust at the bottom.
“This is too horrible,” whispered the old man, wiping his damp brow. “What would you advise?”
“Finding out the truth, sir; and at once.”
“But how. Whom would you trust?”
“Ourselves,” said George sternly. “Let me see: the gardener is in the house. He must be got rid of, and we must not let the ladies or anyone know what we are going to do.”
“But what we are going to do?”
“You are going to hold the light, sir, while I tear down that wall.”
The lawyer gazed at him in speechless horror, but seemed to yield at once to the stronger mind.
“Bruno!” cried George sharply.
The dog bounded to him.
“Lie down! Watch! Watch!”
The dog uttered a low growl, and followed him as he pointed to the wall, crouched directly, and remained silent and motionless as they left the cellar, and closed and locked the door.
Chapter Thirty Nine.
Following the Clue.
Just as they reached the hall a door opened upstairs and Gertrude came out, candle in hand.
“Bruno is quiet now,” said George, looking up to her. “I’ll see how Mr Harrington is, and tell you.”
He went quickly to the study, and looked in.
“Quite unchanged,” said the doctor, nodding his head.
“Do you want to be relieved?”
“Oh, no; but you might have remembered me with the spirits and water.”
“I beg your pardon,” said George, and hastily supplying the lapse he had made, he went and reported progress to Gertrude, who smiled her thanks, and returned to where Mrs Hampton was nodding on a couch.
“Had we not better wait?” said the lawyer, in a trembling voice.
“Wait, sir? Impossible. Come with me.”
They went into the kitchen where they were saluted by a heavy snore, and found the gardener fast asleep by the fireside.
He was roused and sent home as not being again necessary; and as soon as the door was closed upon him, George turned upon the lawyer.
“Now, sir, where can I find tools: a hammer and chisel?”
“Tools? Oh, yes. There are some, I believe, in the little room by the garden door.”
He led the way to a little cupboard-like ante-room where garden implements, seeds, and odds and ends were stored; and here the necessary implements were soon found. Armed with these and a fresh candle they returned to the cellar, where the dog was evidently patiently watching their return.
“Stop a moment, my dear young friend,” said the old lawyer, whose face was damp with perspiration, and he laid his hand upon the young man’s arm.
“What for, sir?”
“Don’t you think our proceedings will be a little rash. Suppose the gentleman whom I am bound to look to as the owner of this place returns, and finds how great a liberty we have taken with his place. What am I to say?”
“Mr Hampton, we are going to find him—here.”
“What!”
“And unable to reproach you for what you have done.”
“But surely you do not really believe—”
“I believe, sir, that I shall find means here of proving to you that I am the man I profess to be—the man whom, in your legal fashion, you refuse to acknowledge; but whom in your heart as a gentleman you know to be your old friend’s grandson.”
The lawyer looked wistfully in the young man’s eyes, and then as he unlocked and took out the cellar door-key, after carefully closing the baize door, he followed him into the mouldy, damp place; saw that he locked inner and outer door, and then as they went to the farther portion found the dog as they had left him in the darkness, crouching by the blank wall.
Mr Hampton drew a long breath but he made no further protest, merely holding the candle as George Harrington threw off coat and vest, rolled up his shirt sleeves, and then taking hammer and chisel proceeded to force the latter between two of the bricks.
There was no need to make any noise by striking with the hammer, for after the first tap the iron chisel was used as a lever, and the first brick soon prized out to show that though the whitewash had dried the mortar was soft enough to give way easily, and before long brick after brick was loosened, thrown into a heap, and a hole was made large enough to admit the passage of a man.
“Lie still!” cried George sharply to the dog, who exhibited a great desire to get through; and kneeling down the young man passed his candle into the inner cellar, crept through, and to his surprise found that the old lawyer did not hesitate to follow him.
“There, sir,” he cried half angrily, as the candle was held up, and they found they were standing in a moderate-sized cellar with a row of bricked-up bins on either side, all neatly whitewashed over and labelled with the name of the wine within, the vintage, and quantity.
George Harrington made no reply, but candle in hand walked over the carefully smoothed sawdust from end to end, peering eagerly at the different bins.
“Well, sir, are you satisfied?” said the lawyer.
“Satisfied, sir? No. Here, Bruno?”
The dog leaped through the hole and uttered a low bark, as he began to snuff about uneasily.
“Good dog! Seek!”
The dog ran excitedly here and there for a few moments, now with his nose in the air, now snuffing at the sawdust, and then he stopped short before the bricked-up bottom bin at the far left-hand corner of the cellar, and uttered an eager bark.
George Harrington drew forth and opened his knife again, tried the blade on the joints of two of the bins, to find that the mortar was hard. Then going to the one where the dog stood watching him, he plunged the point in easily between the bricks.
“Look, sir,” he said hoarsely; “and you can see the whitewash is hardly dry. The proofs of all I have said are in there.”
Chapter Forty.
Self-Condemned.
Mr Hampton caught George Harrington by the arm, and his voice was low and husky with emotion as he said:
“No, no; in heaven’s name, no. It is too horrible.”
“Horrible enough, sir. Down, Bruno! Watch!”
The dog couched directly, growling low the while.
“Think of Gertrude—my wife. No, no; it is impossible.”
George pointed at the dog.
“I’ve more faith in him, sir, than in our ideas.”
“Then, if it is true, we must have in the police. Let them make the discovery.”
“No,” said George shortly. “If there is a discovery to be made, I’ll be the first to make it; and then we must have in the police at once.”
As he spoke, he attacked the brickwork with the chisel, easily removed one brick, and the others came more easily still.
“These bricks have not been untouched for years, Mr Hampton.”
“No, sir, no,” said the old man feebly, as he wiped his face. “But it may mean a robbery by some old servant—of the wine.”
“Yes, sir, it may,” said George hoarsely, as he worked away hastily, the dog growing more excited as brick after brick was thrown down into the growing heap, his hair about his neck bristling and his hind-quarters all on the move, as if he were gathering himself up for a spring.
The bricks were all laid endwise so as to form nine-inch work, and as they were taken out it was plain to see that some were whitewashed on both ends, others only on one end, and here both ends were whitened; one end was hard and dry, the other, or outer end, had a coating of moist wash. A trifle, but pregnant with meaning to him who worked.
“You have enough out now,” said the old man, holding forward the light. “There: it is a mistake, thank heaven! Look: bottles.”
The light glanced upon the concave bottoms of rows of bottles with laths between, but George Harrington toiled on.
“My dear sir, this is madness,” said the lawyer petulantly.
“Yes, sir: with a method,” said George, working away. “Look; the whole of the brick-laying is fresh. We must have them all out.”
“But what for?”
“Wait,” cried the young man fiercely; and he worked with furious energy till the last brick was removed, and the bin laid bare.
“Now, are you satisfied?” said the old man.
“No.”
The bottles rose from the floor to the iron supported division which formed the place into two, and the top row was drawn out and set on end, first one at a time, then, as there was more room, two by two, till a couple of layers were standing in the sawdust.
Then George Harrington paused and wiped his own brow.
“Now, Mr Hampton,” he said, “if my suspicions are right, there are no bottles behind there, but—what we seek.”
“Then, in heaven’s name, sir, satisfy yourself, and let’s end—Good God!”
He started back, clapping the handkerchief he held to his nose and mouth, as George Harrington thrust his arm through the opening, and drew back a handful of lime, while the dog uttered a hoarse, low growl, and a horrible odour slowly made its way into the cellar where they stood.
Then they started towards the door, for the dog leaped up, barking furiously, as distant cries were heard, sounding muffled and strange, and they could distinguish their names.
By the time they reached the opening George Harrington had first made, the dog was through, and George followed, thrusting his hand back to take the candle.
“Come along, sir, quick!” he said, “and mind the ladies are not told—yet.”
The old lawyer crept through trembling, the cries being plain now those of appeals for help, the dog’s loud barking adding to the excitement, as he stood by the inner door.
But George Harrington did not lose his head. He threw open the inner door, and passed through the first.
“Now close and lock that, sir,” he said, as he laid his hand on the key in the outer door. “Down, Bruno!” he cried in a deep, threatening tone, as the inner door was locked. “Watch, sir. Watch!”
The dog responded with a threatening growl, and tore at the outer door.
“Be ready to slip out, sir. I’ll follow, but this brute must not come. He must be locked in this place.”
“Yes; I understand,” groaned the old man, who was trembling, and looked a pitiable spectacle, with his white face, and his evening dress covered with lime and whitewash.
“Down, Bruno! Watch?” roared George, as he unlocked the outer door and drew out the key.
The dog growled but obeyed, the door was opened enough to let the lawyer pass through, and as he did the cries without sounded terrible, and nearly maddened the dog, who once more sprang at the door. But George seized him by the collar, dragged him back, there was a brief struggle, and he managed to hurl him into a corner, and slip through the door, locking it as he banged it to, and then placing the key in his pocket, he ran through the baize door to where a terrible struggle was going on between Saul Harrington and the doctor, while Mrs Hampton and Gertrude were making the place echo with their appeals for help.
Stirred to the heart by the position in which he saw his old friend, Mr Hampton had rushed to his assistance, but Saul Harrington in his wild fit of delirium made naught of their joint efforts, and was in the act of dashing them off as George Harrington appeared at the study door, and confronted the wretched maniac, who leaped at him with a howl that did not seem human.
There was a desperate struggle for a minute, during which George strove hard to throw Saul Harrington, who fixed his teeth in George’s collar as he grasped him like a vice; and it was only by a sudden wrench that the young man saved his throat. He leaped here and there, and at last, in a despairing effort, George threw all his strength into the lifting of his adversary, but overbalancing himself in the act, they both fell with a crash, and Saul leaped up and darted through the door.
Sick and giddy, George Harrington rose painfully to his feet, and staggered to the door, for a wild cry rang through the house.
“Gertrude!” he groaned, and he made for the passage, only to be driven back by Saul, who passed him and tore through the baize door, which banged to behind him.
“Can you help?” said George hoarsely. “We must master him somehow.”
“Yes, yes,” came from the two old men; and together they followed him as he laid his hand upon the door, panting heavily for breath.
“One moment,” he said, and then in a loud voice, “Gertrude—Mrs Hampton, for heaven’s sake lock yourselves in one of the rooms till this man is secured.”
A low wail came back in answer, but it was followed by the banging of a door.
“Now, gentlemen—and together,” whispered George. “The moment I seize him try your best to throw him down. Never mind me. He must be thrown.”
Nerving himself for the coming struggle, George Harrington flung back the door, and leaped at the maniac, but paused as he saw him striving wildly to get through the cellar door—going through the motion of unlocking it, and impatiently stamping again and again, as the dog bayed furiously within.
“Curse him! He has found it,” he cried hoarsely. “It would have killed any other dog. What’s the matter with this key—now then—beast—devil—must I kill you again? Down, brute! Hush! Curse him, they’ll hear. Ah! has that silenced you? Bite, would you? How sharp his teeth are! But that finished him!”
As he spoke in a low, hoarse, muttering tone he went through the motion of a struggle with some animal, striking at it with an imaginary stick; and then, blind to the presence of those who crept nearer to him to catch him unawares, he seemed to be binding up his injured arm.
“Only mad dogs do harm,” he said with a curious laugh, as he gazed wildly round. “Only mad dogs. Yes, but you’re dead now, brute. Only mad dogs do harm, and you were not mad, you savage beast! There! now what next—what next? Can I—can I think of anything more—the money—the watch and chain—the ring? There’s plenty without them, and some day, perhaps, some day—when he’s forgotten—Yes—George Harrington, I’m—master now. Ah!”
He uttered a wild yell, twisted completely round as if struck by a bullet, and fell face downwards upon the floor.
George Harrington was in the act of springing upon him to secure him, but the doctor caught his arm.
“No need,” he whispered; and stepping forward, he went down on one knee, the light from the guttering candle left upon a side table shining down faintly upon a distorted face, quivering in the last throes of death.
Chapter Forty One.
Home!
A double inquest and a long inquiry, too, in which an intelligent British jury returned a verdict of wilful murder against Saul Harrington—the most satisfactory of circumstantial evidence going to prove that he had, by a deep-laid scheme slowly insinuated himself into the good graces of the man he believed to be the cousin, who stood between him and fortune and the woman he loved. He had drugged him night after night during their drinking bouts while in the study; and during his victim’s insensibility, with diabolical ingenuity, prepared his tomb—the keys thereof being within his reach, and being replaced when he had done. Then when all was ripe on the night following his supposed start for the Continent, the victim disappeared. Saul returning and entering the house by the staircase window to find that the whiskey he had left well drugged had thoroughly done its work.
He might have let it seem to be that his victim had died of poison, but that would have meant ugly inquiries, and their intercourse and his position as heir have thrown suspicion upon him. He thought his own plan the better, and the pseudo George Harrington disappeared—his going off appearing the more natural from the fact that he had been drawing large sums of money from the estate.
The work was cunningly done, and to Saul Harrington’s brain so sure that he thought the safer way was to bury with his victim the money he had drawn; watch, chain, everything. But murderers’ brains are generally clever up to a certain point, and then shallow as that of a child.
So Saul Harrington did his work cleverly and completely, toiling at the completion of his task in the cellar with the skill of one to the manner trained; and then just before daybreak escaped down the garden to encounter an old enemy in the shape of the dog.
“It was a mere bite that would soon heal,” Saul said laughingly as he made his way to Paris, and then on to Switzerland; but it did not heal; and then came the fiction of the accident on the ice slope, then the news of something wrong at The Mynns; and he returned to play his part—a desperate one—but with a tremendous prize as reward for having helped a worthless man to a rather earlier end, when, like a thunder clap, it came upon him that his labour had been in vain. He had slain the would-be murderer of his cousin—the impostor who had struck George Harrington down, robbed him, and taken his place with sufficient ability to be received as the acknowledged heir.
Doctors argued over the question of its being genuine hydrophobia from which Saul died. A bad wound, combined with mental disturbance, certainly did cause his end; and there were those who said it was better so than through the vengeance of the law.
There is no need to dwell upon the horrors of the discovery completed by the police—of the lime and its effect, and the points by which George Harrington proved at the inquest that these were the remains of his old treacherous companion, Dan Portway.
For without seeing them he swore to there being a peculiar ridge upon the skull, the result of a tomahawk wound, and to there being either a hole or the trace of a hole in the scapula, where Nature had covered the passage through of a revolver bullet. He swore, too, that the watch found on the murdered man was made in a particular way, contained a certain inscription, and that the ring upon his finger was roughly beaten out of virgin gold, and contained his initials “GH,” and the date when he had idly formed it with a hammer and a chisel, out of a Rocky Mountain nugget.
He proved then, and afterwards by means of communication from the States, enough to satisfy the most sceptical, that he was the real George Harrington; while now the gardener could come forward with divers little bits of evidence to add to the certainty of Saul Harrington’s guilt.
“Why didn’t I say so afore?” the gardener said in the kitchen, in answer to a question, “’cause I didn’t think it was no consequence. If I see larks going on, with footmarks under windows, and holes in yew hedges, why, I thinks to myself, ‘young men will be young men, and if young gardeners goes to see young housemaids and cooks that way, it’s only nat’ral as gents with lots of money should do likewise.’ ’Cause I find a lot of my lime as I uses for the gardens been took, and my whitewash brush as I uses to do out the greenus, is it nat’ral as I should go and holler murder? No.”
Time glided on. For a whole year The Mynns had been closed, passing people stopping to gaze at the shuttered windows as seen through the open work of the great ornamental gates, and talk about the horrible murder, and the body found buried in lime in the bin of the old cellar; but after the first few weeks the faces seen peering in by old Denton grew fewer. For, asked if she would mind staying on in the house she looked up inquiringly, and said simply:
“Why? Didn’t I stop in the house when poor old master died?”
It was a little different, though, with the other servants, who held a consultation, and had nearly decided upon going, cook heading the parliament by declaring that she “couldn’t abear ghosts, though she had a slight weakness for spirits.” The gardener, however, who was present, gave it as his opinion dogmatically, that even if there were such things as ghosts, he never knew them do anyone any harm; and them as threw up good places for such “rubbidge” as that might think themselves very clever, but he was going to stay.
Hence it was that there was plenty of busy excitement and preparations at The Mynns one bright summer’s day about a year after the discovery. The shutters were open, windows clean, gravel paths freshened up with red sand, and all giving the place a cheery aspect, which had been long absent, when Mrs Hampton alighted with her husband from the station-fly, and the big bell clanged.
“Yes, Denton; I know they will not be here till seven, but I thought I’d come down and chat with you, and ask you if you had not forgotten any of my instructions.”
“You shall see, ma’am, if you’ll come in; and then, perhaps, you’ll like a bit of lunch; and why, if there isn’t Doctor Lawrence?”
“Ah. Denton; how do! Well, I call it pride—and after all these years.”
“Pride? What is?” said the old lawyer.
“You two trotting off in your station flies, and passing an old friend on the road without offering him a lift.”
“Why, how did you come down?”
“Same train, second-class. I’m not a first-class person. I only wanted to see that all was right for the young folks.”
Mrs Hampton bridled a little, and then smiled.
It was a pleasant social little lunch the old friends had together, the old lawyer praising the sherry highly.
“So much body in it,” he said, holding it up to the light.
“I hope not,” said the doctor drily, and Mrs Hampton looked horrified.
And so it was that there was plenty of familiar faces to welcome the happy pair, as they drove up to the gate at seven, Gertrude being kissed roundly by all, and George Harrington’s hand shaken, as pleasant allusions were made to the honeymoon.
Then there was an interruption in the shape of a peal of dog thunder, and Bruno, who had been let loose by Mrs Denton, dashed into the hall, upset the umbrella stand, knocked over a chair with one sweep of his tail, and then seemed to go mad with joy to see his young mistress and new master once more; his way of showing his affection for the former being by pawing at her and licking her gloves, and for the latter by butting at him ram-fashion, as if to show how sound the damaged head had grown.
He grew so boisterous at last that orders were given for his removal, but at the first intimation he uttered a doleful howl.
“Then lie down, Bruno! Watch!” cried George Harrington.
The result was that Bruno turned himself into a noble-looking ornament on the hall mat.
“Well, impostor,” said the old lawyer chuckling, “I suppose we must acknowledge you now?”
“Yes, and you, too, you wicked little impostress,” cried Doctor Lawrence. “Eh? What? Drink their healths? To be sure. Come, Mrs Hampton, let me fill your glass.”
“No, no—I couldn’t,” said the old lady. “Well, then, half full. God bless you both, my dears; and I wish the world was full of such impostors.”
“Amen,” said the two old men in a breath.
“Here’s old Denton,” cried Doctor Lawrence, seizing the decanter and a fresh glass. “Come, old lady: a glass of James Harrington’s port. Drink every drop to the health of the happy pair.”
The old lady slowly and tearfully drained, her glass, and then tried to kiss Gertrude’s hand, but it was hastily withdrawn, and the young wife’s lips were proffered in its place.
“Home, my darling,” said George, when at last they were alone. “There is no mystery about The Mynns now. Do you know, I was sorely pressed to sell it by a speculative builder, and I hesitated, feeling that it would be as well, for that you would have a repugnance to the place.”
“Oh, George!”
“Ah, I was right, then. My little wife has too much good sense to be set against it for that. The world is full of horrors.”
“Yes,” said Gertrude, laying her head upon his breast; “and yet it is full of joys.”
The End.
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Chapter 1
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Chapter 2
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Chapter 3
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Chapter 4
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Chapter 5
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Chapter 6
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Chapter 7
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Chapter 8
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Chapter 9
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Chapter 10
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Chapter 11
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Chapter 12
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Chapter 13
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Chapter 14
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Chapter 15
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Chapter 16
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Chapter 17
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Chapter 18
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Chapter 19
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Chapter 20
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Chapter 21
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Chapter 22
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Chapter 23
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Chapter 24
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Chapter 25
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Chapter 26
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Chapter 27
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Chapter 28
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Chapter 29
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Chapter 30
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Chapter 31
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Chapter 32
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Chapter 33
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Chapter 34
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Chapter 35
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Chapter 36
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Chapter 37
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Chapter 38
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Chapter 39
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Chapter 40
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Chapter 41
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