The Third Volume

by Fergus Hume

  CHAPTER XXXIII.

  THE STORY OF THE MAD GARDENER.

  HAVING made this startling announcement, Dick Pental drew back toobserve the effect on his hearer. Humoring the man's vanity, Taitexpressed due surprise, and requested him to narrate the circumstance towhich he referred.

  "It is about twenty-five years ago, it is," said Dick, commencing histale in a great hurry; "and I was the gardener here to Captain Larcher.You don't know him, sir; it aint to be expected as you should. He was agrown gentleman before you were, and a kind 'un he was; took me out ofthe asylum, he did. They said I was mad, you know, and put me into astrait waistcoat; but I wasn't a bit wrong in my head, sir, not I.Captain Larcher he saw that, so he took me out and made me his gardener.And aint I done a lot for the place? just you look round and see."

  "Your work is admirable, Dick."

  "It is that," replied the man with _naive_ vanity, "and you aint thefirst as has said that, sir. Oh, I'm fond of the garden, I am; flowersare much nicer company than human beings, I think. Not so cross withDicky, you know, sir."

  "No doubt," said Tait, seeing that the creature was following thewanderings of his poor wits. "But about this murder you----"

  "I didn't know anything was wrong," interrupted the gardener earnestly;"I'd have kept out of the way if I'd known that; but I came here onenight when I shouldn't have been here."

  "How was that?"

  "Hot rum and water," confessed Dick, with great simplicity. "I drankit--too much of it, and it went to my head. It isn't a strong head, so Icame here to sleep it clear again. That was about twelve o'clock as nearas I can tell, but, Lord bless you, my head made no account of time,when the hot rum and water was in it. I woke up and I was frightenedfinding myself in the dark,--I hate the dark, don't you, sir?--so Ifinished some rum that I had with me and went to sleep again. Then Iwoke up sudden, I did, and I saw it."

  "The murder being committed?"

  "No, not quite that! But I saw a man lying on the ground just overthere, and he didn't move a bit. Another man was holding him in hisarms, and Denis Bantry was standing by with a lantern."

  "Who was the other man?"

  "It was a gentleman called Mr. Jeringham. Oh, yes! My head was queer,but I knew him by his clothes, I did. I was at the grand ball of thegentry, you know; it was there I got drunk--and I saw Mr. Jeringhamthere in black clothes with gold trimmings. He had them on when he bentover Captain Larcher."

  "How did you know the man on the ground was Captain Larcher?"

  "I didn't, then," confessed Dick ingenuously; "but when I heard as theyfound him in the river, I knew it was him, I did. I saw them drop himin!"

  "Denis Bantry and Mr. Jeringham?" exclaimed Tait, astonished at theminuteness of these details.

  "Yes. They talked together for a bit, but my head was so queer that Icouldn't make out what they said. But they picked up Captain Larcher,one at the head and the other at the heels, and they dropped himin--Splash! he went, he did. I was behind a tree and they couldn't seeme. Ugh!" said the man, with a shiver, "how I did feel afraid when hewent splash into the cold water. Then I went away and held my tongue."

  "Why did you do that? It was your duty to have come forward and told thetruth."

  Dick Pental put on a cunning look, and shook his head. "Not me, sir," hesaid artfully. "They'd have said my head was queer and put me in anasylum again. No, no, Dicky was too clever for them, he was."

  "But you say it was Denis Bantry who killed Captain Larcher," said Tait,after a moment's reflection. "How do you know that, when you did not seethe blow struck? It might have been Mr. Jeringham."

  Looking lovingly at the piece of gold which was now in his possession,Dick shook his head with great vigor.

  "It wasn't Mr. Jeringham," he protested. "He was a good, kind gentleman.He gave Dicky half a crown the day before. He was fond of CaptainLarcher's wife, so he couldn't have killed Captain Larcher."

  Against this insane reasoning Tait had nothing to urge, as Dicky wasevidently convinced that Denis Bantry was guilty, to the exclusion ofJeringham. Had the former given him money instead of the latter he woulddoubtless have accused Jeringham and sworn to the innocence of Denis.The man's brain was too weak to be depended upon; but Tait recognizedthat the report he gave of the occurrence of that fatal night was trueand faithful in all respects. Dicky was not sufficiently imaginative toinvent such a story.

  Satisfied from the importance of the knowledge he had gained that histime had not been wasted, Tait wished to be alone to think out thematter. There was some difficulty in getting rid of Dicky, who was stillgreedily expectant of further tips, but in the end he induced the man toreturn to his work, and set out for Horriston at a brisk walk. He alwaysthought better when exercising his limbs, and before he reached the townhe had arrived at several conclusions respecting the case as seen underthe new light thrown on it by the gardener.

  For one thing, he concluded that Paynton was Jeringham. The reason forDenis being in his service had been explained by Dick Pental, as the twomen were bound together by a common bond of guilt. Tait was inclined tothink that Jeringham was innocent, for if he had killed Larcher therewould have been no need for Denis to have screened him. On the otherhand, circumstantial evidence was so strong against Jeringham that, ifDenis had struck the blow, he would be forced to acquiesce in thesilence of the real criminal--to become, as it were, an accessory to thecrime. Denis could have sworn that Jeringham was guilty, and so placedhim in danger of his life. Thus the two men had a hold on one another;Jeringham because circumstances were against him, Denis because he hadkilled Larcher. The motive for the crime was not difficult to discoverafter the story told by Mrs. Bezel. Bantry had killed his master as thedestroyer of his sister's honor. Under the names of Paynton and Kerrythe two men were dwelling together at Thorston in loathed companionship,each afraid to let the other out of his sight. Tait could imagine nomore terrible punishment than that enforced comradeship. It reminded himof a similar situation in a novel of Zola's, where husband and wife wereequally culpable, equally afraid, and filled with equal hatred the onetoward the other.

  Still this conclusion, supported as it was by facts, did not explain theattitude of Hilliston. Assuming the guilt of Denis Bantry, thecomplicity of Jeringham, there appeared to be no reason why Hillistonshould protect them at Thorston, and throw obstacles in the way of thetruth's discovery. Tait was completely nonplussed and could think of noexplanation. And then he remembered Mrs. Bezel's letter, and the mentionof Louisa Sinclair. Hilliston, according to Mrs. Bezel, knew this woman,and she knew who had committed the crime. But how could she know unlessshe had been concealed, like Dick Pental, in the garden on that night?Tait was quite certain that Denis Bantry was guilty, but the hint ofMrs. Bezel threatened to disturb this view; and yet what better evidencewas obtainable than that of an eye-witness. Still Tait remembered thatDicky confessed he had not seen the blow struck. What if Louisa Sinclairhad? That was the question he asked himself.

  Under the circumstances it was necessary to find out who this woman was.Tait did not judge it wise to ask Hilliston, for the simple reason thatthe lawyer would not admit the truth. There was no obvious reason why heshould not, but Tait had sufficient experience of Hilliston's trickeryand evasion in the past to know that his admissions were untrustworthy.There only remained for him to search for Louisa Sinclair in Horriston,question her if she were alive, or learn all that he could if she weredead.

  And now occurred a coincidence which unwittingly put Tait on the righttrack. When within half a mile of Horriston he met a clergyman swingingalong at a good pace, and in him recognized a former college companion.The recognition and the delight were mutual.

  "My dear Brandon, this is indeed a surprise!" exclaimed Tait, holdingout his hand. "I had no idea that you were in these parts."

  "I have only been vicar here for a year," answered Brandon cordially;"but what are you doing at Horriston, my friend?"

  "Oh, I have come
down partly on business and partly on pleasure."

  "Then dismiss business for the moment, and come to luncheon with me. Iam just going to my house. Where are you staying?"

  "At the Royal Victoria."

  "A dismal place. You must come frequently to see us while you stay here,and we will do what we can to cheer you up. Mrs. Brandon will bedelighted to see you."

  "Oh! So you are married?"

  "For the last five years. Two children. Well, I am glad to see youagain. Do you stay here long?"

  "A few days only," replied Tait carelessly; "but it entirely depends onmy business."

  "Anything important?"

  "Yes and no. By the way, you may be able to help me, Brandon. Do youknow anyone in this parish called Miss Louisa Sinclair?"

  The vicar reflected for a few moments, and shook his head. "No, I neverheard the name. She must have been here before my time. Have you anyreason for wanting to see her?"

  "Naturally, or I should not have asked," said Tait, with faint sarcasm."However, I must make a confidant of you, as I wish for your advice andassistance."

  "I shall be delighted to give both," said his friend briskly. "But herewe are at my house, and there is my wife in the porch. My dear, this isan old college friend of mine, Spenser Tait. We must make him welcome,for the days that have been."

  Mrs. Brandon, a comfortable, rosy-cheeked matron, with two tiny Brandonsclinging to her skirts, heartily welcomed Tait, and led the way to thedining room. Here an extra knife and fork were hastily produced for theguest, and they all sat down to luncheon in the best of spirits. For themoment Tait banished all thought of the case from his mind, and laidhimself out to be agreeable to the vicar's wife. In this he succeeded,as she subsequently pronounced him to be a singularly charming man;while he pronounced her to be one of the most intelligent women it hadbeen his fortune to meet.

  After luncheon Brandon conducted Tait to his study, and there, over anexcellent cigar, the little man related the story of the Larcher affairfrom the time that Claude became possessed of the papers. Needless tosay the clergyman was much astonished by the recital, and agreed withTait that it was difficult to know which way to turn in the presentdilemma. He thought that Denis was guilty and Jeringham an accomplice byforce of circumstances; but doubted whether the existence of LouisaSinclair might not altogether alter the complexion of the case.

  "Of course, the difficulty will be to find Louisa Sinclair," he saidthoughtfully; "five-and-twenty years is a long time to go back to. Shemay be dead."

  "So she may," rejoined Tait a trifle tartly; "on the other hand she maybe alive. I found that waiter and that gardener who were at Horristonthen. Both remember the case, so it is probable that I shall find thiswoman, or at least gain sufficient information to trace herwhereabouts."

  "I cannot recall her name, Tait. She has not been here in my time.Fortunately I can help you in this much; that an old parishioner of mineis calling to-day, and, as she has lived here for the last forty yearsand more, it is likely she will remember if such a person dwelt here."

  "Who is this old lady?"

  "My dear fellow, you must not call her an old lady. It is true she isover forty, but--well she is always young and charming in her own eyes.Miss Belinda Pike is her name, and I shouldn't like to come under thelash of her tongue."

  "Is she such a Tartar?"

  "She is----My dear fellow, you must not ask me to talk scandal about myparishioners; moreover, I see the lady in question is coming up thegarden path. Once set her tongue going, and you will learn all thehistory of Horriston for the last hundred years."

  "I only want to go back twenty-five," rejoined Tait, smiling; and atthat moment Miss Belinda Pike was announced.

  She was a tall, bony female with a hook nose, a false front, and anartificial smile. Dressed in voluminous raiment, she bore down onBrandon like a frigate in full sail; and proceeded to talk. All thetime she remained in the study she talked, of herself, of parish work,of Dorcas meetings, of scandals new and old; and so astonished Tait bythe extent of her petty information and the volubility of her tonguethat he could only stare and wonder. Introduced to him she wasgraciously pleased to observe that she had heard of him and hisinquiries.

  "The waiter, you know, Mr. Tait," she said, smiling at his astonishment. "Sugden is his name; he told me all about you. Now, why do you wish tolearn all about that Larcher crime?"

  "For amusement merely," replied Tait, rather scandalizing the vicar bythis answer. "The waiter began to speak of it, and I encouraged him;later on I heard the story from a gardener."

  "From Dicky Pental," interrupted Miss Pike vivaciously. "Oh, he cantell you nothing--he is mad!"

  "Mad or not, he told me a great deal."

  "All false, no doubt. My dear Mr. Tait," continued the ladyimpressively, "only one person can tell you the truth of that case.Myself!"

  "Or Louisa Sinclair."

  "Louisa Sinclair! What do you know about her?"

  "Nothing, save her name," replied Tait; "but I want to know more. Canyou give me the required information?"

  "Yes. Come and have afternoon tea with me to-day, and I'll tell you all. Oh, yes," said Miss Pike, with a self-satisfied nod, "I know who killedCaptain Larcher."

  "Jeringham--Denis, the valet--Hilliston?"

  "No. Those three people are innocent. I can swear to it. I know it."

  "Then who is guilty?"

  "Why," said Miss Pike quietly, "Mrs. Larcher's maid--Mona Bantry."