“Oh, yes, quite well, thank God,” she answered, more collectedly— “quite well, but, of course, greatly, dreadfully shocked.”
“I will go to him, mother — I will see him,” said he, turning towards the door.
“He has been wretchedly depressed and excited for some days,” said Mrs. Marston, dejectedly, “and this dreadful occurrence will, I fear, affect him most deplorably.”
The young man kissed her tenderly and affectionately, and hurried down to the library, where his father usually sat when he desired to be alone, or was engaged in business. He opened the door softly. His father was standing at one of the windows, his face haggard as from a night’s watching, unkempt and unshorn, and with his hands thrust into his pockets. At the sound of the revolving door, he started, and seeing his son, first recoiled a little, with a strange, doubtful expression, and then rallying, walked quickly towards him with a smile, which had in it something still more painful.
Charles, I am glad to see you,” he said, shaking him with an agitated pressure by both hands— “Charles, this is a great calamity, and what makes it still worse, is, that the murderer has escaped; it looks badly, you know.”
He fixed his gaze for a few moments upon his son, turned abruptly, and walked a little way into the room — then, in a disconcerted manner, he added, hastily turning back —
“Not, that it signifies to us, of course — but I would fain have justice satisfied.”
“And who is the wretch — the murderer?” inquired Charles.
“Who? Why, every one knows! — that scoundrel, Merton,” answered Marston, in an irritated tone— “Merton murdered him in his bed, and fled last night; he is gone — escaped — and I — suspect Sir Wynston’s man of being an accessory.”
“Which was Sir Wynston’s bedroom?” asked the young man.
“The room that old Lady — had — the room with the portrait of Grace Hamilton in it.”
“I know — I know said the young man, much excited— “I should wish to see it.”
“Stay,” said Marston; “the door from the passage is bolted on the inside, and I have locked the other — here is the key, if you choose to go — but you must bring Hughes with you, and do not disturb anything — leave all as it is — the jury ought to see, and examine for themselves.”
Charles took the key, and, accompanied by the awestruck servant, he made his way by the back stairs to the door opening from the dressing-room, which, as we have said, intervened between the valet’s chamber and Sir Wynston’s. After a momentary hesitation, Charles turned the key in the door, and stood “In the dark chamber of white death.”
The shutters lay partly open, as the valet had left them some hours before, on making the astounding discovery, which the partially-admitted light revealed. The corpse lay in the silk-embroidered dressing-gown, and other habiliments, which Sir Wynston had worn, while taking his ease in his chamber, on the preceding night. The coverlet was partially dragged over it. The mouth was gaping, and filled with clotted blood; a wide gash was also visible in the neck, under the ear — and there was a thickening pool of blood at the bedside, and quantities of blood, doubtless from other wounds, had saturated the bedclothes under the body. There lay Sir Wynston, stiffened in the attitude in which the struggle of death had left him, with his stern, stony face, and dim, terrible gaze turned up.
Charles looked breathlessly for more than a minute upon this mute and unchanging spectacle, and then silently suffered the curtain to fall back again — and stepped, with the light tread of awe, again to the door. There he turned back, and pausing for a minute, said, in a whisper, to the attendant —
“And Merton did this?”
“Troth, I’m afeard he did, sir,” answered the man, gloomily.
“And has made his escape?” continued Charles.
“Yes, sir; he stole away in the night-time,” replied the servant, “after the murder was done” (and he glanced fearfully toward the bed)— “God knows where he’s gone.”
“The villain!” muttered Charles; “but what was his motive? why did he do all this — what does it mean?”
“I don’t know exactly, sir, but he was very queer for a week and more before it,” replied the man; « there was something bad over him for a long time.”
“It is a terrible thing,” said Charles, with a profound sigh— “a terrible and shocking occurrence.”
He hesitated again at the door, but his feelings had sustained a terrible revulsion at sight of the corpse, and he was no longer disposed to prosecute his purposed examination of the chamber and its contents, with a view to conjecturing the probable circumstances of the murder.
“Observe, Hughes, that I have moved nothing in the chamber from the place it occupied when we entered,” he said to the servant, as they withdrew.
He locked the door, and as he passed through the hall, on his return, he encountered his father, and, restoring the key, said —
“I could not stay there — I am almost sorry I have seen it — I am overpowered — what a determined, ferocious murder it was — the place is all in a pool of gore — he must have received many wounds.”
“I can’t say — the particulars will be elicited soon enough — those details are for the inquest — as for me, I hate such spectacles,” said Marston, gloomily; “go, now, and see your sister; you will find her there.”
He pointed to the small room where we have first seen her and her fair governess, and Charles obeyed the direction, and Marston proceeded himself to his wife’s sitting-room.
PART II.
“When Lust hath conceived, it bringeth forth Sin: and Sin, when it is finished, bringeth forth Death.”
Charles Marston and his father parted, after the brief interview recorded in our last number, in the hall of Dunoran, upon the gloomy morning succeeding the murder of Sir Wynston. The young man, dispirited and horrified by the awful spectacle he had just contemplated, hurried to the little study occupied by his sister. Marston himself ascended, as we have said, the great staircase leading to his wife’s private sitting-room.
“Mrs. Marston,” he said, entering, “this is a hateful occurrence, a dreadful thing to hare taken place here; I don’t mean to affect grief which I don’t feel — but, the thing is very shocking, and particularly so, as haring occurred under my roof — but that cannot now be helped. I hare resolved to spare no exertions, and no influence, to bring the assassin to justice — and a coroner’s jury will, within a few hours, sift the evidence which we hare succeeded in collecting — but, my purpose in seeking you now is, to recur to the conversation we yesterday had, respecting a member of this establishment.”
“Mademoiselle de Barras?” suggested the lady.
“Yes, Mademoiselle de Barras,” echoed Marston; “ I wish to say, that, haring reconsidered the circumstances affecting her, I am absolutely resolved that she shall not continue to be an inmate of this house.”
He paused — and Mrs. Marston said —
“Well, Richard, I am sorry, very sorry for it; but your decision shall never be disputed by me.”
“Of course,” said Marston, drily; “ and, therefore, the sooner you acquaint her with it, and let her know that die must go, the better.”
Haring said this, he left her, and went to his own chamber, where he proceeded to make his toilet with elaborate propriety, in preparation for the scene which was about to take place under his roof.
Mrs. Marston, meanwhile, suffered from a horrible uncertainty. She never harboured, it is true, one doubt as to her husband’s perfect innocence of the ghastly crime which filled their house with fear and gloom; but, at the same time that she thoroughly and indignantly scouted the possibility of his, under any circumstances, being accessory to such a crime, she experienced a nervous and agonising anxiety lest any one else should possibly suspect him, however obliquely and faintly, of any participation whatever in the foul deed. This vague fear tortured her — it had taken possession of her mind; and it was the more acutely pain
ful, because it was of a kind which precluded the possibility of her dispelling it, as morbid fears so often are dispelled, by taking counsel upon its suggestions with a friend.
The day wore on, and strange faces began to fill the great parlour. The coroner, accompanied by a physician, had arrived. Several of the gentry in the immediate vicinity had been summoned as jurors, and now began to arrive in succession. Marston, in a handsome and sober suit, received these visitors with a stately and melancholy courtesy, befitting the occasion. Mervyn and his son had both been summoned, and, of course, were in attendance. There being now a sufficient number to form a jury, they were sworn, and immediately proceeded to the chamber where the body of the murdered man was lying.
Marston accompanied them, and with a pale and stern countenance, and in a clear and subdued tone, called their attention successively to every particular detail which he conceived important to be noted. Haring thus employed some minutes, the jury again returned to the parlour, and the examination of the witnesses commenced.
Marston, at his own request, was first sworn and examined. He deposed merely to the circumstance of his parting, on the night previous, with Sir Wynston, and to the state in which he had seen the room and the body in the morning. He mentioned also the fact, that on hearing the alarm in the morning, he had hastened from his own chamber to Sir Wynston’s, and found, on trying to enter, that the door opening upon the passage was secured on we inside. This circumstance shewed that the murderer must have made his egress at least through the valet’s chamber, and by the backstairs. Marston’s evidence went no further.
The next witness sworn was Edward Smith, the servant of the late Sir Wynston Berkley. His evidence was a narrative of the occurrences we have already stated. He described the sounds which he had overheard from his master’s room, the subsequent appearance of Merton; and the conversation which had passed between them. He then proceeded to mention, that it was his master’s custom to have himself called at seven o’clock, at which hour he usually took some medicine, which it was the valet’s duty to bring to him; after which he either settled again to rest, or rose in a short time, if unable to sleep. Having measured and prepared this dose in the dressing-room, the servant went on to say, he had knocked at his master’s door, and receiving no answer, had entered the room, and partly unclosed the shutters. He perceived the blood on the carpet, and on opening the curtains, saw his master lying with his mouth and eyes open, perfectly dead, and weltering in gore. He had stretched out his hand, and seized that of the dead man, which was quite stiff and cold; then, losing heart, he had run to the door communicating with the passage, but found it locked, and turned to the other entrance, and ran down the backstairs, crying “murder.” Mr. Hughes, the butler, and James Carney, another servant, came immediately, and they all three went back into the room. The key was in the outer door, upon the inside, but they did not unlock it until they had viewed the body. There was a great pool of blood in the bed, and in it was lying a red-handled case-knife, which was produced, and identified by the witness. Just then they heard Mr. Marston calling for admission, and they opened the door with some difficulty, for the lock was rusty.
Mr. Marston had then ordered them to leave the things as they were, and had used very stern language to the witness. They had then left the room, securing both doors.
This witness underwent a severe and searching examination, but his evidence was clear and consistent.
In conclusion, Marston produced a dagger, which was stained with blood, and asked the man whether he recognised it.
Smith at once stated this to have been the property of his late master, who, when travelling, carried it, together with his pistols, along with him. Since his arrival at Dunoran, it had lain upon the chimneypiece in his bedroom, where he believed it to have been upon the previous night.
James Carney, one of Marston’s servants, was next sworn and examined. He had, he said, observed a strange and unaccountable agitation and depression in Merton’s manner for some days past; be had also been several times disturbed at night by his talking aloud to himself, and walking to and fro in his room. Their bedrooms were separated by a thin partition, in which was a window, through which Carney had, on the night of the murder, observed a light in Merton’s room, and, on looking in, had seen him dressing hastily. He also saw him twice take up, and again lay down, the red-hafted knife which had been found in the bed of the murdered man. He knew it by the handle being broken near the end. He had no suspicion of Merton having any mischievous intentions, and lay down again to rest. He afterwards heard him pass out of his room, and go slowly up the backstairs leading to the upper story. Shortly after this he had fallen asleep, and did not hear or see him return. He then described, as Smith had already done, the scene which presented itself in the morning, on his accompanying him into Sir Wynston’s bedchamber.
The next witness examined was a little boy, who described himself as “a poor scholar.” His testimony was somewhat singular. He deposed that he bad come to the house on the preceding evening, and had been given some supper, and was afterwards permitted to sleep among the hay in one of the lofts. He had, however, discovered what he considered a snugger berth.
This was an unused stable, in the further end of which lay a quantity of hay. Among this he had lain down, and gone to sleep. He was, however, awakened in the course of the night, by the entrance of a man, whom he saw with perfect distinctness in the moonlight, and his description of his dress and appearance tallied exactly with those of Merton. This man occupied himself for some time in washing his hands and face in a stable bucket, which happened to stand by the door; and, during the whole of this process, he continued to moan and mutter like one in woful perturbation. He said, distinctly, twice or thrice, “by — , I am done for and every now and then he muttered, “and nothing for it, after all.” When he had done washing his hands, he took something from his coatpocket, and looked at it, shaking his head; at this time he was standing with his back turned toward the hay, so that he could not see what this object might be. The man, however, put it into his breast, and then began to search hurriedly, as it seemed, for some hiding-place for it. After looking at the pavement, and poking at the chinks of the wall, he suddenly went to the window, and forced up the stone which formed the sill; under this ‘he threw the object which the boy had seen him examine with so much perplexity, and then he readjusted the stone, and removed the evidences of its having been recently stirred. The boy was a little frightened, but very curious at all that he saw; and when the man left the stable in which he lay, he got up, and following to the door, peeped after him. He saw him putting on an outside-coat and hat, near the yard gate; and then, with great caution, unbolt the wicket, constantly looking back towards the house; and so, let himself out. The boy was uneasy, and sat in the hay, wide awake, until morning. He then told the servants what he had seen, and one of the men having raised the stone, which he had not strength to lift, they found the dagger which Smith had identified as belonging to his master. This weapon was stained with blood; and some hair, which was found to correspond in colour with Sir Wynston’s, was sticking in the crevice between the blade and the handle.
“It appears very strange that one man should have employed two distinct instruments of this kind,” observed Mervyn, after a pause. A silence followed.
“Yes, strange; it does seem strange,” said Marston, clearing his voice.
“Yet, it is clear,” said another of the jury, “that the same hand did employ them — it is proved that the knife was in Merton’s possession just as he left his chamber, and proved also that the dagger was secreted by him, after he quitted the house.
“Yes,” said Marston, with a grizly sort of smile, and glancing sarcastically at Mervyn, while he addressed the last speaker— “I thank you for recalling my attention to the facts — it certainly is not a very pleasant suggestion, that there still remains within my household an undetected murderer.”
Mervyn ruminated for a time, and said he sho
uld wish to put a few more questions to Smith and Carney. They were accordingly recalled, and examined in great detail, with a view to ascertain whether any indication of the presence of a second person having visited the chamber with Merton was discoverable. Nothing, however, appeared, except that the valet mentioned the noise and the exclamations which he had indistinctly heard.
“You did not mention that before, sir,” said Marston, sharply.
“I did not think of it, sir,” replied the man, “the gentlemen were asking me so many questions; but I told you, sir, about it in the morning.”
“Oh, ah — yes, yes — I believe you did,” said Marston; “but you then said that Sir Wynston often talked when he was alone — eh, sir?”
“Yes, sir, and so he used, which was the reason I did not go into the room when I heard it,” replied the man.
“How long afterwards was it when you saw Merton in your own room?” asked Mervyn.
“I could not say, sir,” answered Smith; “I was soon asleep, wad can’t say how long I slept before he came.”
“Was it an hour?” pursued Mervyn.
“I can’t say,” said the man, doubtfully.
“Was it five hours?” asked Marston.
“No, sir; I am sure it was not five.”
“Could you swear it was more than half-an-hour?” persisted Marston.
No, I could not swear that,” answered he.
“I am afraid, Mr. Mervyn, you have found a mare’s nest,” said Marston, contemptuously.
“I have done my duty, sir,” retorted Mervyn, cynically; “ which plainly requires that I shall leave no doubt which the evidence of the witnesses can clear up, unsifted and unsatisfied. I happened to think it of some moment to ascertain, if possible, whether more persons than one were engaged in this atrocious murder — you don’t seem to think the question so important a one — different men, sir, take different views.”
“Views, sir, in matters of this sort, especially where they tend to multiply suspicions, and to implicate others, ought to be supported by somethin? more substantial than mere fancies,” retorted Marston.
Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu Page 839