A Coin of Edward VII: A Detective Story
"Are you sorry?"
Giles felt that she was pushing home the point and that it behooved him to be extra careful. "Yes, I am sorry," he said frankly. "Miss Denham is a most interesting woman."
"Does that mean – "
"It means nothing personal, Daisy," he broke in hastily; then to change the subject, "I hope you have enjoyed the ride."
"It is heavenly, Giles. How good of you to take me!"
"My dear, I would do much more for you. When we are married we must tour through England in this way."
"You and I together. How delightful! That is if you will not get tired of me."
"I am not likely to get tired of such a charming little woman."
Then he proceeded to pay her compliments, while his soul sickened at the avidity with which she swallowed them. He asked himself if it would not be better to put an end to this impossible state of things by telling her he was in love with Anne. But when he glanced at the little fragile figure beside him, and noted the delicacy and ethereal look in her face, he felt that it would be brutal to destroy her dream of happiness at the eleventh hour. Of himself he tried to think not at all. So far as he could see there was no happiness for him. He would have to go through life doing his duty. And Anne – he put the thought of her from him with a shudder.
"What is the matter, Giles? Are you cold?" asked Daisy.
"No; I expect a white hare is loping over my grave."
"Ugh! Don't talk of graves," said Daisy, with a nervous expression.
"Not a cheerful subject, I confess," said Giles, smiling, "and here we are in the very thick of them," he added, as the motor slowed down before the lych-gate.
Daisy looked at the innumerable tombstones which thrust themselves up through the snow and shivered. "It's horrible, I think. Fancy being buried there!"
"A beautiful spot in summer. Do you remember what Keats said about one being half in love with death to be buried in so sweet a place?"
"Giles," she cried half hysterically, "don't talk like that. I may be dead and buried before you know that a tragedy has occurred. The cards say that I am to die young."
"Why, Daisy, what is the matter?"
She made no reply. A memory of the anonymous letter and its threat came home vividly to her as she stepped inside the churchyard. Who knew but what within a few days she might be borne through that self-same gate in her coffin? However, she had promised to say nothing about the letter, and fearful lest she should let slip some remark to arouse the suspicions of Giles, she flew up the path.
Already the village folk were thronging to the midnight service. The bells were ringing with a musical chime, and the painted windows of the church glittered with rainbow hues. The organist was playing some Christmas carol, and the waves of sound rolled out solemnly on the still air. With salutation and curtsey the villagers passed by the young squire. He waited to hand over his car to his servant, who came up at the moment, breathless with haste. "Shall I wait for you, sir?"
"No, take the car to the inn, and make yourself comfortable. In an hour you can return."
Nothing loth to get indoors and out of the bitter cold, the man drove the machine, humming like a top, down the road. The sky was now clouding over, and a wind was getting up. As Giles walked into the church he thought there was every promise of a storm, and wondered that it should labor up so rapidly considering the previous calm of the night. However, he did not think further on the matter, but when within looked around for Daisy. She was at the lower end of the church staring not at the altar now glittering with candles, but at the figure of a woman some distance away who was kneeling with her face hidden in her hands. With a thrill Giles recognized Anne, and fearful lest Daisy should be jealous did he remain in her vicinity, he made his way up to his own pew, which was in the lady chapel near the altar. Here he took his seat and strove to forget both the woman he loved and the woman he did not love. But it was difficult for him to render his mind a blank on this subject.
The organ had been silent for some time, but it now recommenced its low-breathed music. Then the choir came slowly up the aisle singing lustily a Christmas hymn. The vicar, severe and ascetic, followed, his eyes bent on the ground. When the service commenced Giles tried to pay attention, but found it almost impossible to prevent his thoughts wandering towards the two women. He tried to see them, but pillars intervened, and he could not catch a glimpse of either. But his gaze fell on the tall figure of a man who was standing at the lower end of the church near the door. He was evidently a stranger, for his eyes wandered inquisitively round the church. In a heavy great-coat and with a white scarf round his throat, he was well protected against the cold. Giles noted his thin face, his short red beard, and his large black eyes. His age was probably something over fifty, and he looked ill, worried, and worn. Wondering who he was and what brought him to such an out-of-the-way place as Rickwell at such a time, Giles settled himself comfortably in his seat to hear the sermon.
The vicar was not a particularly original preacher. He discoursed platitudes about the coming year and the duties it entailed on his congregation. Owing to the length of the sermon and the lateness of the hour, the people yawned and turned uneasily in their seats. But no one ventured to leave the church, although the sermon lasted close on an hour. It seemed as though the preacher would never leave off insisting on the same things over and over again. He repeated himself twice and thrice, and interspersed his common-place English with the lordly roll of biblical texts. But for his position, Giles would have gone away. It was long over the hour, and he knew that his servant would be waiting in the cold. When he stood up for the concluding hymn he craned his head round a pillar to see Daisy. She had vanished, and he thought that like himself she had grown weary of the sermon, but more fortunate than he, she had been able to slip away. Anne's place he could not see and did not know whether she was absent or present.
Giles wondered for one delicious moment if he could see her before she left the church. Daisy, evidently wearied by the sermon, had gone home, there was no one to spy upon him, and he might be able to have Anne all to himself for a time. He could then ask her why she was going, and perhaps force her to confess that she loved him. But even as he thought his conscience rebuked him for his treachery to Daisy. He fortified himself with good resolutions, and resolved not to leave his seat until the congregation had dispersed. Thus he would not be tempted by the sight of Anne.
The benediction was given, the choir retired with a last musical "Amen," and the worshippers departed. But Giles remained in his seat, kneeling and with his face hidden. He was praying for a strength he sorely needed to enable him to forget Anne and to remain faithful to the woman whom his father had selected to be his wife. Not until the music of the organ ceased and the verger came to extinguish the altar candles did Giles venture to go. But by this time he thought Anne would surely be well on her homeward way. He would return to his own place as fast as his motor could take him, and thus would avoid temptation. At the present moment he could not trust to his emotions.
Outside the expected storm had come on, and snow was falling thickly from a black sky. The light at the lych-gate twinkled feebly, and Giles groped his way down the almost obliterated pathway quite alone, for every one else had departed. He reached the gate quite expecting to find his motor, but to his surprise it was not there. Not a soul was in sight, and the snow was falling like meal.
Giles fancied that his servant had dropped asleep in the inn or had forgotten the appointed hour. In his heart he could not blame the man, for the weather was arctic in its severity. However, he determined to wend his way to the inn and reprove him for his negligence. Stepping out of the gate he began to walk against the driving snow with bent head, when he ran into the arms of a man who was running hard. In the light of the lamp over the gate he recognized him as Trim, his servant.
"Beg pardon, sir, I could not get here any sooner. The car – " The man stopped and stared round in amazement. "Why, sir, where's the machine?" he asked, with astonishment.
"In your charge, I suppose," replied Ware angrily. "Why were you not here at the time I appointed?"
"I was, begging your pardon, sir," said Trim hotly; "but the lady told me you had gone to see Miss Kent back to The Elms and that you wanted to see me. I left the car here in charge of the lady and ran all the way to The Elms; but they tell me there that Miss Daisy hasn't arrived and that nothing has been seen of you, sir."
Ware listened to this explanation with surprise. "I sent no such message," he said; "and this lady, who was she?"
"Why, Miss Denham, sir. She said she would look after the car till I came back, and knowing as she was a friend of yours, sir, I thought it was all right." Trim stared all round him. "She's taken the car away, I see, sir."
The matter puzzled Giles. He could not understand why Anne should have behaved in such a manner, and still less could he understand why the car should have disappeared. He knew well that she could drive a motor, for he had taught her himself; but that she should thus take possession of his property and get rid of his man in so sly a way perplexed and annoyed him. He and Trim stood amidst the falling snow, staring at one another, almost too surprised to speak.
Suddenly they heard a loud cry of fear, and a moment afterward an urchin – one of the choir lads – came tearing down the path as though pursued by a legion of fiends. Giles caught him by the collar as he ran panting and white-faced past him.
"What's the matter?" he asked harshly. "Why did you cry out like that? Where are you going?"
"To mother. Oh, let me go!" wailed the lad. "I see her lying on the grave. I'm frightened. Mother! mother!"
"Saw who lying on the grave?"
"I don't know. A lady. Her face is down in the snow, and she is bleeding. I dropped the lantern mother gave me and scudded, sir. Do let me go! I never did it!"
"Did what?" Giles in his nervous agitation shook the boy.
"Killed her! I didn't! She's lying on Mr. Kent's grave, and I don't know who she is."
He gave another cry for his mother and tried to get away, but Giles, followed by Trim, led him up the path. "Take me to the grave," he said in a low voice.
"I won't!" yelped the lad, and tearing his jacket in his eagerness to escape, he scampered past Trim and out of the gate like a frightened hare. Giles stopped for a moment to wipe his perspiring forehead and pass his tongue over his dry lips, then he made a sign to Trim to follow, and walked rapidly in the direction of Mr. Kent's grave. He dreaded what he should find there, and his heart beat like a sledge-hammer.
The grave was at the back of the church, and the choir boy had evidently passed it when trying to take a short cut to his mother's cottage over the hedge. The snow was falling so thickly and the night was so dark that Giles wondered how the lad could have seen any one on the grave. Then he remembered that the lad had spoken of a lantern. During a lull in the wind he lighted a match, and by the blue glare he saw the lantern almost at his feet, where the boy had dropped it in his precipitate flight. Hastily picking this up, he lighted the candle with shaking fingers and closed the glass. A moment later, and he was striding towards the grave with the lantern casting a large circle of light before him.
In the ring of that pale illumination he saw the tall tombstone, and beneath it the figure of a woman lying face downward on the snow. Trim gave an exclamation of astonishment, but Giles set his mouth and suppressed all signs of emotion. He wondered if the figure was that of Anne or of Daisy, and whether the woman, whomsoever she was, was dead or alive. Suddenly he started back with horror. From a wound under the left shoulder-blade a crimson stream had welled forth, and the snow was stained with a brilliant red. The staring eyes of the groom looked over his shoulder as he turned the body face upwards. Then Giles uttered a cry. Here was Daisy Kent lying dead – murdered – on her father's grave!
CHAPTER V
AFTERWARDS
Never before had any event created such a sensation in the village of Rickwell. From the choir boy and his mother the news quickly spread. Also Giles had to call in the aid of the rector to have the body of the unfortunate girl carried to The Elms. In a short time the churchyard was filled with wondering people, and quite a cortege escorted the corpse. It was like the rehearsal of a funeral procession.
Mrs. Morley had gone to bed, thinking the two girls might be reconciled in church and come home together. Her husband, not so sanguine, had remained in the library till after midnight, ready to play the part of peace-maker should any fracas occur. He appeared in the hall when poor dead Daisy was carried through the door, and stared in surprise at the spectacle.
"Great heavens!" he cried, coming forward, his ruddy face pale with sudden emotion. "What is all this?"
Giles took upon himself the office of spokesman, which the rector, remembering that he had been engaged to the deceased, tacitly delegated to him.
"It's poor Daisy," he said hoarsely. "She has been – "
"Murdered! No. Don't say murdered!"
"Yes, we found her lying on her father's grave, dead; a knife-thrust under the left shoulder-blade. She must have died almost instantaneously."
"Dead!" muttered Morley, ghastly white. And he approached to take the handkerchief from the dead face. "Dead!" he repeated, replacing it. Then he looked at the haggard face of Ware, at the silent group of men and the startled women standing in the doorway, where the rector was keeping them back.
"Where is her murderess?" he asked sharply.
"Murderess!" repeated Giles angrily. "What do you mean?"
"Mean? Why, that Miss Denham has done this, and – "
"You are mad to say such a thing."
"I'll tax her with it to her face. Where is she? Not at home, for I have been waiting to see her."
"She's run way on Mr. Ware's motor-car," volunteered Trim, only to be clutched violently by his master.
"Don't say that, you fool. You can't be sure of that, Mr. Morley," he added, turning to the scared man. "Make no remark about this until we can have a quiet talk about it."
"But I say – "
"You can say it to the police officer in the morning."
"She'll have escaped by that time," whispered Trim to his master.
Giles saw the danger of Anne – supposing her to be guilty, as the groom thought her – and made up his mind at once.
"Go home, Trim, and saddle a couple of horses. We'll follow the track of the car, and when we find it – "
"You'll never find it," put in Morley, who had been listening with all his ears. "The falling snow must have obliterated any wheel-marks by this time. When did this occur?"
"I don't know," replied Giles coldly. "And instead of chattering there, you had better have the – the – " he stammered, "the body taken into some room and attended to. Poor Daisy," he sighed, "what an end to your bright young life!"
Here Mr. Drake, the rector, thought it necessary to assert himself, and waved aside the throng.
"All you men and women, go to your homes," he said. "Nothing can be done to-night, and – "
"The car might be followed," said a voice.
"And the car will be followed," said Giles, pushing his way to the door. "Come, Trim, we'll ride at once. Did no one see the car pass out of the village?"
No one had seen it, as most of the villagers had been inside the church and the rest in their homes.
There was some talk and suggestions, but Ware, with a nod to Morley, took a hasty departure and disappeared into the stormy night.
"He might track the car," said the rector.
"He won't," replied Morley bitterly; "he'll lead Trim on a wrong scent. He liked Miss Denham too well to let her drop into the hands of the police."
"Then you really think she did it?" asked Drake, horrified.
"I am perfectly certain," was the reply. "Come into the library, and I'll show you what evidence I have."
Meantime the hall was cleared of the eager listeners, and all present went to their homes less to sleep than to argue as to the guilt or innocence of Anne. The body of the girl was taken to her bedroom, and poor scared Mrs. Morley, roused from her bed to face this tragedy, did all that was needful, assisted by two old women, who remained behind to offer their services. This was all that could be done till dawn, and Mrs. Morley, thinking of the dead Daisy and the missing Anne, wept till the first streaks of daylight. As yet her limited understanding could not grasp the horror of the thing.
Morley conducted Mr. Drake to the library. He related how his wife had heard Anne threaten to kill Daisy, produced the anonymous letter, detailed Daisy's accusation that the governess was in love with Ware, and finally pointed out the damning fact of the flight. The rector was quite convinced by this reasoning that Anne was guilty.
"And now I come to think of it," he said, stroking his shaven chin, "Miss Kent was in church."
"Yes, so was Miss Denham; but I don't think they sat together, as they were on the worst possible terms. Did you see Daisy?"
Drake nodded. "She went out when I was half-way through my sermon. I remember that I felt a little annoyed that she should leave when I was doing my best to inculcate good habits for the year in my congregation. She must have gone to pray at her father's grave, and there – " Drake stopped with sudden terror in his eyes.
"And there Miss Denham stabbed her. Ware said the wound was beneath the left shoulder-blade. That looks as though Daisy was struck from behind. I can see it all," cried Morley, with a shudder. "The poor child praying by her father's grave, and the stealthy approach of that woman armed with a – "
"Ah!" interposed Drake, "there you are. We have not yet found the weapon; and after all, Morley, the evidence is purely circumstantial. We do not know for certain that Miss Denham is the guilty person."
"Why did she fly, then?" demanded Morley fiercely. "If she were innocent – if she had not left the church until the others did – she would have returned, and now been in bed. But from what Trim says she fled on Ware's motor-car."
"Humph! She can't get far on that. Such a night, too."
And the rector walked to the window to watch the still falling snow.
Morley shook his head. "Miss Denham knows the country for miles and miles, and Ware taught her how to drive the motor. I shouldn't be surprised if she got away after all, in spite of the weather."
Drake looked uneasy, and placed himself before the fire with a shiver. He rather admired Miss Denham, and could not yet bring himself to believe that she was guilty. Even if she were, he cherished a secret hope that she might escape the police. It was terrible to think that one woman should be dead, but it was more awful to look forward to the trial, condemnation, and hanging of the other.
"I blame Ware a good deal for this," continued Morley gloomily. "He openly admired Miss Denham, and encouraged her to flirt with him. A rash thing to do to one who has negro blood in her veins. I expect passion carried her beyond herself."
"How do you know she has negro blood?"
"She said so herself."
"Did you know that when you engaged her?"
"I never engaged her at all, Drake. My wife did. I must say that Miss Denham's credentials were good. She had been governess in an Italian family, and ha! – " He stopped suddenly, and started up. "In Italy she might have procured a stiletto. From the nature of the wound – which is small and deep – I should think it was inflicted with such a weapon."
"How do you know that the wound is small and deep?"
"My wife told me when she came to the door that time. You did not hear her. She says the wound is quite small. In that case it must be deep, or the death would not have occurred so suddenly."
Drake shook his head. "We don't know that it did occur suddenly."
Morley contradicted this angrily. "If Daisy had not died at once she would have had time to shriek, and the cry would have been heard in the church."
"I doubt it. The people were deeply interested in my sermon."
The other man shrugged his shoulders. It was scarcely worth while arguing this point with the rector. He relapsed into a brown study, until roused to reply to a question asked by his guest.
"Have you ever seen a stiletto?" asked Drake.
"I have one here," replied Morley, running his eye along the wall; "one that I got in Italy myself. It was said to have belonged to Lucrezia Borgia. I wonder where it is."
"Rather difficult to discover it amidst all these weapons, Mr. Morley. Good heavens! what is the matter?"
He might well ask. His host was clutching his arm in a vice-like hold, and was pointing to a certain part of the wall whereon hung a pair of ancient pistols, a crusader's shield, and an old helmet.
"The stiletto was there. It is gone!" gasped Morley.
"Impossible. Who can have taken it?"
"Miss Denham! Miss Denham! Oh, and you believe her to be innocent!" cried the other. "She came into this very room at nine o'clock, or a little after. I was outside on the terrace seeing a visitor off. She was alone in the room for a time. She must have taken the weapon."
"No, no; why should she have?"
"Because she intended to murder my poor Daisy. It was all arranged in her black heart. Drake," he added solemnly, "I have done my best to believe that woman innocent. I defended her against Daisy, and my wife defended her also. We tried to believe that she had no ill intention, and see – see what comes of it. She steals the stiletto, and kills the child in the most brutal manner. I swear to hunt her down. I swear – !"
The rector caught down the uplifted hand which Morley was raising to the heavens. "Be yourself," he said sternly; "there is no need for a man to call upon God to witness a blood-thirsty oath. If the woman is guilty, let her be punished. But give her the benefit of the doubt. Appearances are against her, I admit. All the same, she may be able to prove her innocence."
"You might as well talk to the wind as to me. She is a murderess; I'll do my best to have her hanged."
Morley spoke with such vehemence that Drake looked closely at him. He wondered if the man had any grudge against Anne Denham that he spoke of her with such bitterness. Certainly her crime was a terrible one, and she deserved to be condemned. But it would only be fair that she should be first tried. Morley, on the contrary, had already judged her, without waiting to hear what she had to say in her own favor.
"Well, Mr. Morley, there is nothing more to be said," he remarked coldly, for he disliked this melodrama; "we must wait till the police come in the morning. Meanwhile I shall go to my home and get some sleep."
"I can't sleep with that in the house," replied Morley, abruptly rising; "I'll go with you."
"Where?"
"To the churchyard – to the grave. I intend to look for the weapon. It may have been left there – tossed aside by the assassin after the crime."
"But the night is dark – the snow is falling. You will not be able to do anything. Be advised, and – "
"No. I'll come with you now. If I find nothing, it is all the better for her. If I do – " He shook his hand again fiercely.
Drake argued no longer, seeing that the man's brain was in such a state that it was best to humor him. They went out together, but at the church-gate Drake excused himself and retired to his home. He had no wish to see Morley groping amongst the graves like a ghost. Pausing until the little man disappeared into the gloom, the rector went to his house, wondering at the sudden change in Morley's character. He had been a light-hearted and rather frivolous creature; fond of gaiety and overflowing with the milk of human kindness. Now he was fierce and savage enough for a Caliban. "He must have loved that poor girl very dearly," sighed Drake, "but I can't believe that such a charming woman as Miss Denham committed so cruel a crime. There is some mystery about this," and in this last speech he was right. There was a mystery about the death, and a much deeper one than a shallow man like the rector could fathom.