CHAPTER IV.
A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY.
Margaret Carne's message as to her inability to come down to dinner wasscarcely a veracious one. She was not given to headaches, and had not,so far as she could remember, been once laid up with them, but afterwhat had been said, she did not feel equal to going downstairs andfacing Charlie Gulston. She had never quite admitted to herself that sheloved the young sailor who had for the last few weeks been so much atthe house, and of whose reason for so coming she had but little doubt;but now, as she sat alone in the room, she knew well enough the answershe should give to his question, when it came.
At present, however, the discovery of her own feelings caused alarmrather than pleasure. There had been no signs of fear in her face whenher cousin raged and threatened, but she did not believe that thethreats were empty ones; he had often frightened her when she was achild by furious bursts of passion, and although it was many years nowsince she had seen him thus, she felt sure that he would do as he hadthreatened, and was likely enough to take any violent step that mightoccur to him in his passion, to carry out his threat.
Although she had put a bold front on it, Margaret felt at heart that hisreproach was not altogether unjustified. There had been a boy and girlunderstanding between them, and although it had not been formallyratified of late years, its existence was tacitly recognised in bothfamilies, and until a few months before she herself had considered thatin the natural course of events she should some day be Ronald Mervyn'swife.
Had he reproached her gently, she would have frankly admitted this, andwould have asked him to forgive her for changing her mind now that yearshad wrought a change in her feelings; but the harshness and suddennessof his attack had roused her pride, and driven her to take up the groundthat there was no formal engagement between them, and that as he had notrenewed the subject for years she was at perfect liberty to considerherself free. She had spoken but the truth in saying that their nearrelationship was in her eyes a bar to their marriage. Of late years shehad thought much more than she had when a girl over the history of thefamily and the curse of the Carnes, and although she had tried her bestto prevent herself from brooding over the idea, she could not disguisefrom herself that her brother was at times strange and unlike other men,and her recollections of Ronald's outbursts of temper, as a boy, inducedthe suspicion that he, too, had not altogether escaped the fatal taint.Still, had not Charlie Gulston come across her path, it was probablethat she would have drifted on as before, and would, when the time camehave accepted Ronald Mervyn as her husband.
The next morning, when Ruth Powlett went as usual to call her mistress,she started with surprise as she opened the door, for the blind wasalready up and the window open. Closing the door behind her, she went inand placed the jug of hot water she carried by the washstand, and thenturned round to arouse her mistress. As she did so a low cry burst fromher lips, and she grasped a chair for support. The white linen wasstained with blood, and Margaret lay there, white and still, with hereyes wide open and fixed in death. The clothes were drawn a short waydown in order that the murderer might strike at her heart. Scarce hadshe taken this in, when Ruth felt the room swim round, her feet failedher, and she fell insensible on the ground.
In a few minutes the cold air streaming in through the open windowaroused her. Feebly she recovered her feet, and, supporting herselfagainst the wall, staggered towards the door. As she did so her eye fellon an object lying by the side of the bed. She stopped at once withanother gasping cry, pressed her hand on her forehead, and stood as iffascinated, with her eyes fixed upon it. Then slowly and reluctantly, asif forced to act against her will, she moved towards the bed, stoopedand picked up the object she had seen.
She had recognised it at once. It was a large knife with a spring blade,and a silver plate let into the buckhorn handle, with a name, G.Forester, engraved upon it. It was a knife she herself had given to herlover a year before. It was open and stained with blood. For a minute ortwo she stood gazing at it in blank horror. What should she do, whatshould she do? She thought of the boy who had been her playmate, of theman she had loved, and whom, though she had cast him off, she had neverquite ceased to love. She thought of his father, the old man who hadalways been kind to her. If she left this silent witness where she hadfound it there would be no doubt what would come of it. For some minutesshe stood irresolute.
"God forgive me," she said at last. "I cannot do it." She closed theknife, put it into her dress, and then turned round again. She dared notlook at the bed now, for she felt herself in some way an accomplice inher mistress's murder, and she made her way to the door, opened it, andthen hurried downstairs into the kitchen, where the servants, who werejust sitting down to breakfast, rose with a cry as she entered.
"What is it, Ruth? What's the matter? Have you seen anything?"
Ruth's lips moved but no sound came from them, her face was ghastlywhite, and her eyes full of horror.
"What is it, child?" the old cook said, advancing and touching her,while the others shrank back, frightened at her aspect.
"Miss Margaret is dead," came at last slowly from her lips. "She hasbeen murdered in the night," and she reeled and would have fallen againhad not the old servant caught her in her arms and placed her in achair. A cry of horror and surprise had broken from the servants, thencame a hubbub of talk.
"It can't be true." "It is impossible." "Ruth must have fancied it." "Itnever could be," and then they looked in each other's face as if seekinga confirmation of their words.
"I must go up and see," the cook said. "Susan and Harriet, you comealong with me; the others see to Ruth. Sprinkle some water on her face.She must have been dreaming."
Affecting a confidence which she did not feel, the cook, followedtimidly by the two frightened girls, went upstairs. She stood for amoment hesitating before she opened the door; then she entered the room,the two girls not daring to follow her. She went a step into the room,then gave a little cry and clasped her hands.
"It is true," she cried; "Miss Margaret has been murdered!"
Then the pent-up fears of the girls found vent in loud screams, whichwere echoed from the group of servants who had clustered at the foot ofthe stairs in expectation of what was to come.
A moment later the door of Reginald Carne's room opened, and he came outpartly dressed.
"What is the matter? What is all this hubbub about?"
"Miss Margaret is murdered, sir," the two girls burst out, pausing foran instant in their outcry.
"Murdered!" he repeated, in low tones. "You are mad; impossible!" andpushing past them he ran into Margaret's room.
"Ah!" he exclaimed, in a long, low note of pain and horror. "Good God,who can have done this?" and he leaned against the wall and covered hisface with his hands. The old servant had advanced to the bed, and laid ahand on the dead girl. She now touched her master.
"You had better go away now, Mr. Reginald, for you can do nothing. Sheis cold, and must have been dead hours. We must lock the door up tillthe police come."
So saying, she gently led him from the room, closed the door and lockedit. Reginald Carne staggered back to his room.
"Poor master," the old servant said, looking after him, "this will be aterrible blow for him; he and Miss Margery have always been together.There's no saying what may come of it," and she shook her head gravely;then she roused herself, and turned sharply on the girls.
"Hold your noise, you foolish things; what good will that do? Getdownstairs at once."
Driving them before her, she went down to the kitchen, and out of thedoor leading to the yard, where one of the maids was at the momenttelling the grooms what had happened.
"Joe, get on a horse and ride off and fetch Dr. Arrowsmith. He can't beof any good, but he ought to come. Send up Job Harpur, the constable,and then ride on to Mr. Volkes; he is the nearest magistrate, and willknow what to do."
Then she went back into the kitchen.
"She has come to, Mrs. Wilson; but she don't see
m to know what she isdoing."
"No wonder," the cook said, "after such a shock as she has had; and sheonly just getting well after her illness. Two of you run upstairs andget a mattress off her bed and two pillows, and lay them down in theservants' hall; then take her in there and put her on them. Jane, getsome brandy out of the cellaret and bring it here; a spoonful of thatwill do her good."
A little brandy and water was mixed, and the cook poured it betweenRuth's lips, for she did not seem to know what was said to her, andremained still and impassive, with short sobs bursting at times from herlips. Then two servants half lifted her, and took her into the servants'hall, and laid her down on the mattress. All were sobbing and crying,for Margaret Carne had been greatly loved by those around her.
In half an hour the doctor arrived.
"Is it possible the news is true?" he asked as he leapt from his gig;the faces of those around were sufficient answer. "Good Heavens, what aterrible business! Tell Mr. Carne I am here."
Reginald Carne soon came down. He was evidently terribly shaken. He heldout his hand in silence to the doctor.
"What does it all mean?" the latter said, huskily. "It seems toohorrible to be true. Can it be that your sister, whom I have known sinceshe was a child, is dead? Murdered, too! It seems impossible."
"It does seem impossible, doctor; but it is true. I have seen hermyself," and he shuddered. "She has been stabbed to the heart."
The doctor wiped his eyes.
"Well, I must go up and see her," he said. "Poor child, poor child. No,you need not ring. I will go up by myself."
Dr. Arrowsmith had attended the family for many years, and knewperfectly well which was Margaret's room. The old cook was standingoutside the door of the drawing-room.
"Here is the key, sir. I thought it better to lock the door till youcame."
"Quite right," the doctor replied. "Don't let any one up till Mr. Volkescomes. The servant said he was going for him. Ah, here is Harpur. Thatis right, Harpur; you had better come up with me, but I shouldn't touchanything if I were you till Mr. Volkes comes; besides, we shall behaving the Chief Constable over here presently, and it is better toleave everything as it is." They entered the room together.
"Dear, dear, to think of it now," the constable murmured, standingawe-struck at the door, for the course of his duty was for the most partsimple, and he had never before been face to face with a tragedy likethis.
The doctor moved silently to the bed, and leant over the dead girl.
"Stabbed to the heart," he murmured; "death must have beeninstantaneous." Then he touched her arm and tried to lift it.
"She has been dead hours," he said to the constable, "six or sevenhours, I should say. Let us look round. The window is open, you see.Can the murderer have entered there?" He looked out. The wall wascovered with ivy, and a massive stem grew close to the window. "Yes," hewent on, "an active man could have climbed that. See, there are someleaves on the ground. I think, Harpur, your best plan will be to go downand take your station there and see no one comes along or disturbsanything. See, this jewel-box on the table has been broken open and thecontents are gone, and I do not see her watch anywhere. Well, that isenough to do at present; we will lock this room up again until Mr.Volkes comes."
When they came downstairs, the cook again came out.
"Please, sir, will you come in here? Ruth Powlett, Miss Margaret's maid,seems very bad; it was she who first found it out, and it's naturallygiven her a terrible shock. She came down looking like a mad woman, thenshe fainted off, and she doesn't seem to have any sort of consciousnessyet."
"Ruth Powlett! why, I have been attending her for the last three weeks.Yes, such a shock may be very serious in her case," and the doctor wentin.
"Have you any sal volatile in the house?" he asked, after he had felther pulse.
"There's some in the medicine chest, I think, sir, but I will soon see."
She went out and presently returned with a bottle. The doctor poured ateaspoonful into a glass and added a little water. Then he lifted Ruth'shead, and forced it between her lips. She gasped once or twice, and thenslightly opened her eyes.
"That is right, Ruth," the doctor said, cheeringly, "try and rouseyourself, child. You remember me, don't you?" Ruth opened her eyes andlooked up.
"That's right, child, I mustn't have you on my hands again, you know."Ruth looked round with a puzzled air, then a sharp look of pain crossedher face.
"I know, Ruth," said the doctor, soothingly; "it is terrible for everyone, but least terrible for your poor young mistress; she passed awaypainlessly, and went at once from life into death. Every one loved her,you know; it may be that God has spared her much unhappiness."
Ruth burst into a paroxysm of crying; the doctor nodded to the oldservant.
"That's what I wanted," he whispered, "she will be better after this.Get a cup of hot tea for her, or beef-tea will be better still if youhave any, make her drink it and then leave her for a time. I will seeher again presently."
Immediately the doctor left him, Reginald Carne wrote a telegram to theChief Constable of the county, and despatched a servant with orders togallop as fast as he could to the station and send it off.
Mr. Volkes, the magistrate, arrived half an hour later, terribly shockedby the news he had heard. He at once set about making inquiries, andheard what the doctor and constable had to say. No one else had been inthe room except the old cook, Mr. Carne, and the poor girl's own maid.
"It would be useless for you to question the girl to-day, Volkes. She isutterly prostrate with the shock, but I have no doubt she will be ableto give her evidence at the inquest. So far as I can see there does notseem to be the slightest clue. Apparently some villain who knowssomething about the house has climbed through the window, stabbed her,and made off with her jewellery."
"It is a hideous business," the magistrate said; "there has not beensuch a startling crime committed in the county in all my experience. Andto think that Margaret Carne should be the victim, a girl every oneliked; it is terrible, terrible. What's your opinion, doctor? Somewandering tramp, I suppose?"
"I suppose so. Certainly it can be none of the neighbours. In the firstplace, as you say, every one liked her and in the second, a crime ofthat sort is quite out of the way of our quiet Devonshire people. Itmust have been some stranger, that's evident. Yet on the other hand itis singular that the man should have got into her room. I don't supposethere has been a window fastened or a door locked on the ground floorfor years; the idea of a burglary never occurs to any one here. By theway, the coroner ought to be informed at once. I will speak to Carneabout it; if we do it this morning he will have time to send over thisevening and summon a jury for to-morrow; the sooner it is over thebetter. Directly the Chief Constable arrives he will no doubt send roundorders everywhere for tramps and suspicious persons to be arrested.Plymouth is the place where they are most likely to get some clue; inthe first place it's the largest town in this part, and in the secondthere are sure to be low shops where a man could dispose of valuables."
In the afternoon, Captain Hendricks, the Chief Constable, arrived, andtook the matter in hand. In the first place he had a long privateconversation with Job Harpur, who had been steadily keeping watch in thegarden beneath the window, leaving him with strict orders to let no oneapproach the spot.
He then, with a sergeant who had arrived with him, made a thoroughsearch of the bedroom. After this he examined every one who knewanything about the matter, with the exception of Ruth Powlett, for whomthe doctor said absolute quiet was necessary, as to all they knew aboutit. Then he obtained a minute description of the missing watch andjewels, and telegraphed it to Plymouth and Exeter. Having done this hewent out into the garden again, and there a close search was made on thegrass and borders for the marks of footsteps. When all this was done hehad a long private conversation with Reginald Carne.
The news of Margaret Carne's murder created an excitement in Carnesford,such as had never been equalled since the day
when Lady Carne murderedher child and the curse of Carne's Hold began its work. There was not asoul in the valley but knew her personally, for Margaret had taken greatinterest in village matters, had seen that soups and jellies were sentdown from The Hold to those who were sick, had begged many a man off hisrent when laid up or out of work, and had many pensioners who receivedweekly gifts of money, tea, or other little luxuries. She gave prizes inthe school; helped the parson with his choir; and scarcely a day passedwithout her figure being seen in the streets of Carnesford. That shecould be murdered seemed incredible, and when the news first arrived itwas received with absolute unbelief. When such confirmation was receivedthat doubt was no longer possible, all work in Carnesford was suspended.Women stood at their doors and talked to their neighbours and weptfreely. Men gathered in knots and talked it over and uttered threats ofwhat they would do if they could but lay hands on the murderer. Boys andgirls walked up the hill and stood at the edge of the wood, talking inwhispers and gazing on the house as if it presented some new andmysterious attraction. Later in the day two or three constables arrived,and asked many questions as to whether any one had heard any one passingthrough the street between one and three in the morning; but Carnesfordhad slept soundly, and no one was found who had been awake between thosehours.
The little conclave in the sanctum at the "Carne's Arms" met half anhour earlier than usual. They found on their arrival there a strangerchatting with the landlord, who introduced him to them as Mr. Rentford,a detective officer from Plymouth.
"A sad affair, gentlemen, a sad affair," Mr. Rentford said, when theyhad taken their seats and lit their churchwardens. "As sad an affair, Ishould say, as ever I was engaged in."
"It is that," Jacob Carey said. "Here's Mr. Claphurst here, who has beenhere, man and boy, for nigh eighty years. He will tell you that such anaffair as this has never happened in this part in his time."
"I suppose, now," the detective said, "there's none in the village hasany theory about it; I mean," he went on, as none of his hearersanswered, "no one thinks it can be any one but some tramp or stranger tothe district?"
"It can't be no one else," Jacob Carey said, "as I can see. What do yousay, Hiram Powlett? I should say no one could make a nearer guess thanyou can, seeing as they say it was your Ruth as first found it out."
"I haven't seen Ruth," Hiram said; "the doctor told me, as he came down,as she was quite upset with the sight, and that it would be no good mygoing up to see her, as she would have to keep still all day. So I can'tsee farther into it than another; but surely it must be some stranger."
"There was no one about here so far as you have heard, Mr. Powlett, whohad any sort of grudge against this poor lady?"
"Not a soul, as far as I know," Hiram replied. "She could speak upsharp, as I have heard, could Miss Carne, to a slatternly housewife or adrunken husband; but I never heard as she made an enemy by it, though,if she had, he would have kept his tongue to himself, for there were notmany here in Carnesford who would have heard a word said against MissCarne and sat quiet over it."
"No, indeed," Jacob Carey affirmed, bringing down his fist with a heavythump on his knee. "The Squire and his sister were both well liked, andI for one would have helped duck any one that spoke against them in theDare. She was the most liked, perhaps, because of her bright face andher kind words and being so much down here among us; but the Squire iswell liked, too; he is not one to laugh and talk as she was, but he is agood landlord, and will always give a quarter's rent to a man as getsbehindhand for no fault of his own, and if there is a complaint about aleaky roof or any repairs that want doing, the thing is done at once andno more talk about it. No, they have got no enemies about here as I knowof, except maybe it's the poachers down at Dareport, for though theSquire don't shoot himself, he preserves strictly, and if a poacher'scaught he gets sent to the quarter sessions as sure as eggs is eggs."
"Besides," the old clerk put in, "they say as Miss Carne's watch andthings has been stolen; that don't look as if it was done out ofrevenge, do it?"
"Well, no," the detective said, slowly; "but that's not always to betaken as a sign, because you see if any one did a thing like that, outof revenge, they would naturally take away anything that lay handy, soas to make it look as if it was done for theft."
The idea was a new one to his listeners, and they smoked over itsilently for some minutes.
"Lord, what evil ways there are in the world," Reuben Claphurst said atlast. "Wickedness without end. Now what do you make out of this,mister? Of course these things come natural to you."
The detective shook his head. "It's too early to form an opinion yet,Mr. Claphurst--much too early. I dare say we shall put two and twotogether and make four presently, but at present you see we have got tolearn all the facts, and you who live close ought to know more than wedo, and to be able to put us on the track to begin with. You point meout a clue, and I will follow it, but the best dogs can't hunt untilthey take up the scent."
"That's true enough," the blacksmith said, approvingly.
"Have there been any strangers stopping in the village lately?" thedetective asked.
"There have been a few stopping off and on here, or taking rooms in thevillage," the landlord answered; "but I don't think there has been anyone fishing on the stream for the last few days."
"I don't mean that class; I mean tramps."
"That I can't tell you," the landlord replied; "we don't take tramps inhere; they in general go to Wilding's beershop at the other end of thevillage. He can put up four or five for the night, and in summer he isoften full, for we are just about a long day's tramp out from Plymouth,and they often make this their first stopping-place out, or their laststopping-place in, but it's getting late for them now, not many comealong after the harvest is well over. Still, you know, there may havebeen one there yesterday, for aught I know."
"I will go round presently and ask. Any one who was here the nightbefore might well have lain in the woods yesterday, and gone up and doneit."
"I don't believe as you will ever find anything about it. There's acurse on Carne's Hold, as every one knows, and curses will workthemselves out. If I were the Squire, I would pull the place down,every stick and stone of it, and I would build a fresh one a bit away. Iwouldn't use so much as a brick or a rafter of the old place, for thecurse might stick to it. I would have everything new from top tobottom."
"Yes, I have heard of the curse on Carne's Hold," the detective said. "Aman who works with me, and comes from this part of the country, told meall about it as we came over to-day. However, that has nothing to dowith this case."
"It's partly the curse as that heathen woman, as Sir Edgar brought homeas his wife, laid on the place," the old clerk said, positively; "and itwill go on working as long as Carne's Hold stands. That's what I says,and I don't think as any one else here will gainsay me."
"That's right enough," the blacksmith agreed, "I think we are all withyou there, Mr. Claphurst. It ought to have been pulled down long agoafter what has happened there. Why, if Mr. Carne was to say to me, 'Havethe house and the garden and all rent free, Jacob Carey, as long as youlike,' I should say, 'Thank you, Squire, but I wouldn't move into it,not if you give me enough beside to keep it up.' I call it just flyingin the face of Providence. Only look at Hiram Powlett there; he sendshis daughter up to be Miss Carne's maid at The Hold, and what comes ofit? Why, she tumbles down the hill a-going up, and there she lies threeweeks, with the doctor coming to see her every day. That was a clearwarning if ever there was one. Who ever heard of a girl falling down andhurting herself like that? No one. And it would not have happened if ithadn't been for the curse of Carne's Hold."
"I shouldn't go so far as that," Hiram Powlett said. "What happened tomy lass had nothing to do with The Hold; she might have been walking upthe hill at any time, and she might have slipped down at any time. Agirl may put her foot on a loose stone and fall without it havinganything to say to The Hold one way or the other. Besides, I have neverheard it said as
the curse had aught to do except with the family."
"I don't know about that," the smith replied. "That servant that waskilled by the Spanish woman's son; how about him? It seems to me as thecurse worked on him a bit, too."
"So it did, so it did," Hiram agreed. "I can't gainsay you there, JacobCarey; now you put it so, I see there is something in it, though neverbefore have I heard of there being anything in the curse except in thefamily."
"Why, didn't Miles Jefferies, father of one of the boys as is in thestables, get his brains kicked out by one of the old Squire's horses?"
"So he did, Jacob, so he did; still grooms does get their brains kickedout at other places besides The Hold. But there is something in what yousay, and if I had thought of it before, I would never have let my Ruthgo up there to service. I thought it was all for the best at the time,and you knows right enough why I sent her up there, to be away from thatGeorge Forester; still, I might have sent her somewhere else, and Iwould have done if I had thought of what you are saying now. Sure enoughno good has come of it. I can't hold that that fall of hers had aught todo with the curse of the Carnes, but this last affair, which seems to meworse for her than the first, sure enough comes from the curse."
"Who is this George Forester, if you don't mind my asking the question?"the detective said. "You see it's my business to find out about people."
"Oh, George hadn't nothing to do with this business," Hiram replied."He's the son of a farmer near here, and has always been wild and atrouble to the old man, but he's gone away weeks ago. He got into apoaching scrape, and one of the keepers was hurt, and I suppose hethought he had best be out of it for a time; anyhow, he has gone. But heweren't that sort of a chap. No, there was no harm in George Forester,not in that way; he was lazy and fonder of a glass than was good forhim, and he got into bad company down at Dareport, and that's what ledhim to this poaching business, I expect, because there was no call forhim to go poaching. His father's got a tidy farm, and he wanted fornothing. If he had been there he couldn't have wanted to steal MissCarne's jewellery. He was passionate enough, I know, and many a quarrelhas he had with his father, but nothing would have made me believe, evenif he had been here, that old Jim Forester's son had a hand in a blackbusiness like this; so don't you go to take such a notion as that intoyour head."
"He would not be likely to have any quarrel with Miss Carne?" thedetective asked.
"Quarrel? No," Hiram replied sharply, for he resented the idea that anypossible suspicion of Margaret Carne's murder should be attached to aman with whom Ruth's name had been connected. "I don't suppose MissCarne ever spoke a word to him in her life. What should she speak to himfor? Why, he had left the Sunday school years before she took to seeingafter it. 'Tain't as if he had been one of the boys of the village."
As Jacob Carey, Reuben Claphurst, and the landlord, each gave anassenting murmur to Hiram's words, the detective did not think it worthwhile to pursue the point further, for there really seemed nothing toconnect this George Forester in any way with Margaret Carne's death.
"Well," he said, taking up his hat, "I will go round to this beershopyou speak of, and make inquiries as to whether any tramps have beenstaying there. It is quite certain this young lady didn't put an end toherself. What we have got to find out is: Who was the man that did it?"