XXXI
THE CHARITY OF SILENCE
Dr. Mowbray, coming first thing in the morning, declared that thepatient had passed a better night than he had hoped for; but he toldColonel Bristo privately that he must count on nothing as yet, and beprepared for anything.
To his surprise and delight, the physician found his patient in thehands of a gentle, intelligent nurse. This was the more fortunate sincehe had failed to find in Melmerbridge a capable woman who was able tocome. Whoever the dark, shabbily-dressed woman was, she must not beallowed to leave the bedside for the present. "She is a godsend," saidDr. Mowbray on coming downstairs. Colonel Bristo, for his part, knewnothing of the woman; he supposed she was from Gateby. Mrs. Parish, nodoubt, knew all about her; and after the doctor's account of herservices, the Colonel made no inquiries.
Edmonstone and Pinckney were to drive back to Melmerbridge with thedoctor to attend the inquest on the body of the suicide. Before theystarted the Colonel called the two young men aside, and a brief, earnestcolloquy took place.
During the drive Dr. Mowbray mentioned a strange report that had reachedhim before leaving Melmerbridge; it was noised in the village, at thatearly hour, that the dead man had moved one of his hands during thenight.
"It will show you," the doctor said, "the lengths to which the rusticimagination can stretch. The fact is, they are terribly excited andprimed with superstition, for there hasn't been a suicide in the parishin the memory of this generation. What is more," added the oldgentleman, suddenly, "I'm not sure that there's been one now!"
There was some excuse, perhaps, for the string of excited questionsreeled off on the spur of the moment by young Pinckney: "Why? How couldit be anything else but suicide? Had they not got the pistol--Miles'sown pistol? Had not Dr. Mowbray himself said that the bullet extractedfitted the one empty cartridge found in the revolver? Besides, Miles hadnot denied shooting himself when asked by Edmonstone what he had done."
"But did he admit that he had shot himself?" asked Dr. Mowbray, turningto Edmonstone.
"No, he did not."
"Was his manner, up to the last, that of a man who had deliberately shothimself?"
"No, it was not. It might have been an accident."
"Neither the one nor the other," said the doctor. "Now I'll tell you twosomething that I shall make public presently: a man cannot point apistol at himself from a greater distance than two feet at the outside;but this shot was fired at three times that range!"
"How can you tell, sir?" asked Pinckney, with added awe and subtractedvehemence.
"The clothes are not singed; the hole might have been made by a drill,it was so clean."
The young man sat in silent wonder. Then Dick put a last question:
"You think it has been--murder?"
"Personally, I am convinced of it. We shall say all we know, and get anadjournment. At the adjourned inquest Colonel Bristo will attend, andtell us his relations with the dead man, who, it appears, had no otherfriend in the country; but to-day that is not absolutely necessary, andI shall explain his absence myself. Meanwhile, detectives will be sentdown, and will find out nothing at all, and the affair will end in averdict against some person or persons unknown, at best."
Dr. Mowbray's first prediction was forthwith fulfilled: the inquest wasadjourned. The doctor at once drove back to Gateby with the two youngmen. As they drove slowly down the last hill they descried twostrangers, in overcoats and hard hats, conversing with Colonel Bristo inthe road. Philip Robson was standing by, talking to no one, and lookinguncomfortable.
When the shorter of the two strangers turned his face to the gig, Dickejaculated his surprise--for it was the rough, red, good-humoured faceof the Honourable Stephen Biggs.
"What has brought you here?" Dick asked in a low voice when he hadgreeted the legislator.
By way of reply, Biggs introduced him to the tall, grave, black-bearded,sharp-featured gentleman--Sergeant Compton, late of the VictorianMounted Police.
There was an embarrassed silence; then Philip Robson stepped forward.
"It was my doing," he said, awkwardly enough; and he motioned Dick tofollow him out of hearing of the others. "I listened," he thenconfessed, "to a conversation between you and Miles. I heard you read aletter aloud. From what passed between you, I gathered that Miles was ablackleg of some kind, whom you were screening from the police. Milesfound that I had overheard you, and swore to me that you were the victimof a delusion. When I reflected, I disbelieved him utterly. I copied theaddress of the letter you had written, and the next day I wrote myselfto Mr. Biggs, describing Miles as well as I could, and saying where hewas. I did not dream that Miles was a bushranger, even then--I thoughthe was merely a common swindler. However, that's the whole truth.Edmonstone, I'm sorry!"
Dick's first expression of contempt had vanished. Frank admissions turnaway wrath more surely than soft answers. Besides, Robson had behavedwell yesterday: without him, what might not have happened before Dr.Mowbray arrived?
"I believe," said Dick, "that you were justified in what you did,only--I'm sorry you did it."
Mr. Biggs was in close conversation with Colonel Bristo. SergeantCompton stood aloof, silent and brooding; in the hour of triumph Deathhad baulked him of his quarry; his dark face presented a study in fiercemelancholy.
"If only," the Colonel was saying piteously, "the tragedy could stop atthe name of Miles! The scandal that will attach to us when the wholesensation comes to light is difficult to face. For my part, I would faceit cheerfully if it were not--if it were not for my daughter Alice. And,after all, it may not annoy her. She may not live to hear it."
The last words were broken and hardly intelligible.
The rugged face of Stephen Biggs showed honest concern, and honestsympathy too. It did not take him long to see the case from theColonel's point of view, and he declared very bluntly that, for hispart, he would be glad enough to hush the thing up, so far as the deadman's past life was concerned (and here Mr. Biggs jingled handfuls ofcoins in his pockets), but that, unfortunately, it did not rest withhim.
"You see, Colonel," he explained, "my mate here he's been on Ned Ryan'strail, off and on, these four years. Look at him now. He's just mad atbeing cheated in the end. But he's one of the warmest traps in thisColony--I mean out in Vic.; and, mark me, he'll take care to let thewhole Colony know that, if he warn't in at Sundown's death, he wasnearer it than any other blessed 'trap.' There's some personal feelingin it, Colonel," said Biggs, lowering his voice. "Frank Compton hassworn some mighty oath or other to take Ned Ryan alive or dead."
"Suppose," said the Colonel, "we induce your friend here to hold histongue, do you think it would be possible for us to let this poor fellowpass out of the world as Miles, a squatter, or, at worst, an unknownadventurer?"
"How many are there of you, Colonel, up here who know?"
"Four."
"And there are two of us. Total six men in the world who know that NedRyan, the bushranger, died yesterday. The rest of the world believesthat he was drowned in the Channel three months ago. Yes, I think itwould be quite possible. Moreover, I don't see that it would do theleast good to any one to undeceive the rest of the world; but FrankCompton--"
"Is he the only detective after Miles in this country?"
"The only one left. The others went back to Australia, satisfied thattheir man was drowned."
"But our police--"
"Oh, your police are all right, Colonel. They've never so much as heardof Sundown. They're easily pleased, are your police!"
It was at this point that Dr. Mowbray reappeared on the steps. ColonelBristo went at once to learn his report, which must have been no worsethan that of the early morning, for it was to speak of the inquest thatthe Colonel hurried back the moment the doctor drove away.
"Dick," said he, in a voice that all could hear (Edmonstone was stilltalking to Robson--Compton still standing aloof), "you never told me theresult. The inquest is
adjourned; but there is a strong impression itseems that it is not a case of suicide after all, gentlemen--but one ofwilful murder."
The personal bias mentioned by Biggs had not altogether extinguishedordinary professional instincts in the breast of Sergeant Compton; for,at this, his black eyes glittered, and he pulled his patron aside.
Biggs, in his turn, sought a private word with the Colonel.
"Compton," he said, "is bent on at once seeing the spot where Ryan wasshot. Will you send some one with us? I'll bring my man back thisevening, and we'll try to talk him over between us; but I fear it'shopeless."
Between three and four that afternoon the body of Jem Pound was found atthe bottom of the cliff, a mile from Melmerbridge, among the fir-trees.
Between eight and nine that evening, in the little gun-room at theshooting-box, Biggs--in the presence of Colonel Bristo--made a lasteffort to induce Sergeant Compton to join the conspiracy of silenceregarding the identity of Miles, the Australian adventurer, now lyingdead at Melmerbridge, with Sundown, the Australian bushranger, supposedto have been drowned in the Channel in the previous April. All to nopurpose. The Sergeant remained obdurate.
"Mr. Biggs," said he, "and you, sir, I must declare to you firmly andfinally that it is impossible for me to hold my tongue in a case likethis. I will not speak of fairness and justice, for I agree that no onewill be a bit the better off for knowing that Ned Ryan died yesterdayinstead of last spring. I will be perfectly candid. I will ask you tothink for a moment what this means to me. It means this: when I get backto Melbourne I will be worth twice what I was before I sailed. The factof having been the only man to disbelieve in Ryan's drowning, and thefact of having as near as a touch taken both Ryan and Pound alive, willmake my fortune for me out there."
Honest Biggs rattled the coins in his pockets, and seemed about tospeak.
"No, sir," said Compton, turning to his patron. "My silence won't begiven--it cannot be bought. I have another reason for tellingeverything: my hatred for Ned Ryan--that death cannot cool!"
These words Compton hissed out in a voice of low, concentrated passion.
"I have not dogged him all these years for mere love of the work. No! Hebrought disgrace upon me and mine, and I swore to take him alive ordead. I keep my oath--I take him dead! All who know me shall know that Ihave kept my oath! As for Jem Pound, his mate and his murderer--"
The door opened, and the nurse stood panting on the threshold. Even inher intense excitement she remembered that she had left her chargesleeping lightly, and her words were low:
"What is it you say? Do you say that Jem Pound murdered my husband?"Colonel Bristo and the Sergeant started simultaneously. "Well, I mighthave known that--I might have told you that. But upstairs--I have beenforgetting! I have been forgetting--forgetting! Yet when I heard yougentlemen come in here I remembered, and it was to tell you what I knewabout Jem Pound that I came down."
Sergeant Compton had turned an ashen grey; his eyes never moved from theface of the woman from the moment she entered the room. Elizabeth Ryancrossed the room and stood in front of him. His face was in shadow.
"You, sir--I heard your voice as my hand was on the door-handle; and Iseemed to know your voice; and, while I stood trying to remember whosevoice it was, I heard what you said. So you will not let the dead manrest! So, since he escaped you by his death, you would bring all theworld to hoot over his grave! Oh, sir, if the prayers of his wife--hiswidow--"
She stopped. The man had risen unsteadily from his chair. His face wasclose to hers. She sprang back as though shot.
Sergeant Compton whispered one word: "Liz!"
Biggs and the Colonel watched the pale dark woman and the dark pale manin silent wonder. There was a likeness between man and woman.
"Liz!" repeated the Sergeant in a low, hoarse voice.
"Who--who are you? Are you--are you--"
"I am Frank!"
"Frank!" she whispered to herself, unable to realise all at once whoFrank had been--it was so long since there had been a Frank in her life."What!" she exclaimed in a whisper; "not my brother Frank?"
"Yes, your brother Frank. But--but I thought you were out there, Liz. Ithought he had long ago deserted you; and that made me thirst all themore--"
His sister flung herself at his feet.
"Oh, Frank! Frank!" she wailed. "Since the day I married I have spokento none of my own kith and kin until this night. And this is how wemeet! Frank!--Frank!"--her voice fell to a tremulous whisper--"do onething for me, and then, if you are still so bitter against me, go awayagain. Only one thing I ask--a promise. Promise, for your part, to keepsilence! Let the dead man--let the dead man sleep peacefully. If thewhole truth will come out, come out it must; but don't let it be throughyou, Frank--never let it be through you! Speak. Do you promise?"
The low, tearful, plaintive tones ceased, and there was silence in theroom. Then Francis Compton bent down, and lifted his sister Elizabeth inhis arms.
"I promise," he whispered in a broken voice. "God knows you havesuffered enough!"