“He may have committed suicide,” said Reginald, with some hesitation.
“It is just possible,” answered Gilbert Ashburne; “though from my knowledge of your uncle’s character, I should imagine it most unlikely. At any rate, his papers will reveal the state of his mind immediately before his death. It is my suggestion, therefore, that his papers should be examined immediately by you, as his nearest relative and acknowledged heir — by me, as magistrate of the district, and in the presence of Mr. Dalton, who was your uncle’s confidential solicitor. Have you any objection to offer to this course, Mr. Eversleigh, or Sir Reginald, as I suppose I ought now to call you?” It was the first time Reginald Eversleigh had heard himself addressed by the title which was now his own — that title which, borne by the possessor of a great fortune, bestows so much dignity; but which, when held by a poor man, is so hollow a mockery. In spite of his fears — in spite of that sense of remorse which had come upon him since his uncle’s death — the sound of the title was pleasant to his ears, and he stood for the moment silent, overpowered by the selfish rapture of gratified pride.
The magistrate repeated his question.
“Have you any objection to offer, Sir Reginald?”
“None whatever, Mr. Ashburne.”
Reginald Eversleigh was only too glad to accede to the magistrate’s proposition. He was feverishly anxious to see the will which was to make him master of Raynham. He knew that such a will had been duly executed. He had no reason to fear that it had been destroyed; but still he wanted to see it — to hold it in his hands, to have incontestable proof of its existence.
The examination of the papers was serious work. The lawyer suggested that the first to be scrutinized should be those that he had found on the table at which Sir Oswald had been writing.
The first of these papers which came into the magistrate’s hand was Mary Goodwin’s letter. Reginald Eversleigh recognized the familiar handwriting, the faded ink, and crumpled paper. He stretched out his hand at the moment Gilbert Ashburne was about to examine the document.
“That is a letter,” he said, “a strictly private letter, which I recognize. It is addressed to me, as you will see; and posted in Paris nearly two years ago. I must beg you not to read it.”
“Very well, Sir Reginald, I will take your word for it. The letter has nothing to do with the subject of our present inquiry. Certainly, a letter, posted in Paris two years ago, can scarcely have any connection with the state of your uncle’s mind last night.”
The magistrate little thought how very important an influence that crumpled sheet of paper had exercised upon the events of the previous night.
Gilbert Ashburne and the lawyer examined the rest of the packet. There were no papers of importance; nothing throwing any light upon late events, except Lady Eversleigh’s letter, and the will made by the baronet immediately after his marriage.
“There is another and a later will,” said Reginald, eagerly; “a will made last night, and witnessed by Millard and Peterson. This earlier will ought to have been destroyed.”
“It is not of the least consequence, Sir Reginald,” replied the solicitor. “The will of latest date is the true one, if there should be a dozen in existence.”
“We had better search for the will made last night,” said Reginald, anxiously.
The magistrate and the lawyer complied. They perceived the anxiety of the expectant heir, and gave way to it. The search occupied a long time, but no second will was found; the only will that could be discovered was that made within a week of the baronet’s marriage.
“The will attested last night must be in this room,” exclaimed Reginald. “I will send for Millard; and you shall hear from his lips an exact account of what occurred.”
The young man tried in vain to conceal the feeling of alarm which had taken possession of him. What would be his position if this will should not be found? A beggar, steeped in crime.
He rang the bell and sent for the valet. Joseph Millard came, and repeated his account of the previous night’s transaction. It was clear that the will had been made. It was equally clear that if it were still in existence, it must be found in that room, for the valet declared that his master had not left the library after the execution of the document.
“I was on the watch and on the listen all night, you see, gentlemen,” said Joseph Millard; “for I was very uneasy about master, knowing what trouble had come upon him, and how he’d never been to bed all the night before. I thought he might call me at any minute, so I kept close at hand. There’s a little room next to this, and I sat in there with the door open, and though I dropped off into a doze now and then, I never was sound enough asleep not to have heard this door open, if it did open. But I’ll take my Bible oath that Sir Oswald never left this room after me and Peterson witnessed the will.”
“Then the will must be somewhere in the room, and it will be our business to find it,” answered Mr. Ashburne. “That will do, Millard; you can go.”
The valet retired.
Reginald recommenced the search for the will, assisted by the magistrate and the lawyer, while the two doctors stood by the fire-place, talking together in suppressed tones.
This time the search left no crevice unexamined. But all was done without avail; and despair began to gain upon Reginald Eversleigh.
What if all the crime, the falsehood, the infamy of the past few days had been committed for no result?
He was turning over the papers in the bureau for the third or fourth time, with trembling hands, in the desperate hope that somehow or other the missing will might have escaped former investigations, when he was arrested by a sudden exclamation from Mr. Missenden, the Plimborough surgeon.
“I don’t think you need look any farther, Sir Reginald,” said this gentleman.
“What do you mean?” cried Reginald, eagerly.
“I believe the will is found.”
“Thank Heaven!” exclaimed the young man.
“You mistake, Sir Reginald,” said Mr. Missenden, who was kneeling by the fire-place, looking intently at some object in the polished steel fender; “if I am right, and that this really is the document in question, I fear it will be of very little use to you.”
“It has been destroyed!” gasped Reginald.
“I fear so. This looks to me like the fragment of a will.”
He handed Reginald a scrap of paper, which he had found amongst a heap of grey ashes. It was scorched to a deep yellow colour, and burnt at the edges; but the few words written upon it were perfectly legible, nevertheless.
These words were the following: —
“ — Nephew, Reginald Eversleigh — Raynham Castle estate — all lands and tenements appertaining — sole use and benefit—”
This was all. Reginald gazed at the scrap of scorched paper with wild, dilated eyes. All hope was gone; there could be little doubt that this morsel of paper was all that remained of Sir Oswald Eversleigh’s latest will.
And the will made previously bequeathed Raynham to the testator’s window, a handsome fortune to each of the two Dales, and a pittance of five hundred a-year to Reginald.
The young man sank into a chair, stricken down by this overwhelming blow. His white face was the very picture of despair.
“My uncle never destroyed this document,” he exclaimed; “I will not believe it. Some treacherous hand has been thrust between me and my rights. Why should Sir Oswald have made a will in one hour and destroyed it in the next? What could have influenced him to alter his mind?”
As he uttered these words, Reginald Eversleigh remembered that fatal letter of Mary Goodwin, which had been found lying uppermost amongst the late baronet’s papers. That letter had caused Sir Oswald to disinherit his nephew once. Was it possible that the same letter had influenced him a second time?
But the disappointed man did not suffer himself to dwell long on this subject. He thought of his uncle’s widow, and the triumph that she had won over the schemers who had plotted so basely
to achieve her destruction. A savage fury filled his soul as he thought of Honoria.
“This will has been destroyed by the one person most interested in its destruction,” he cried. “Who can doubt now that my uncle was poisoned, and the will destroyed by the same person? — and who can doubt that person to be Lady Eversleigh?”
“My dear sir,” exclaimed Mr. Ashburne, “this really will not do. I cannot listen to such accusations, unsupported by any evidence.”
“What evidence do you need, except the evidence of truth?” cried Reginald, passionately. “Who else was interested in the destruction of that paper? — who else was likely to desire my uncle’s death? Who but his false and guilty wife? She had been banished from beneath this roof; she was supposed to have left the castle; but instead of going away, she remained in hiding, waiting her chances. If there has been a murder committed, who can doubt that she is the murderess? Who can question that it was she who burnt the will which robbed her of wealth and station, and branded her with disgrace?”
“You are too impetuous, Sir Reginald,” returned the magistrate. “I will own there are grounds for suspicion in the circumstances of which you speak; but in such a terrible affair as this there must be no jumping at conclusions. However, the death of your uncle by poison immediately after the renunciation of his wife, and the burning of the will which transferred the estates from her to you, are, when considered in conjunction, so very mysterious — not to say suspicious — that I shall consider myself justified in issuing a warrant for the detention of Lady Eversleigh, upon suspicion of being concerned in the death of her husband. I shall hold an inquiry here to-morrow, immediately after the coroner’s inquest, and shall endeavour to sift matters most thoroughly. If Lady Eversleigh is innocent, her temporary arrest can do her no harm. She will not be called upon to leave her own apartments; and very few outside the castle, or, indeed, within it, need be aware of her arrest. I think I will wait upon her myself, and explain the painful necessity.”
“Yes, and be duped by her plausible tongue,” cried Reginald bitterly.” She completely bewitched my poor uncle. Do you know that he picked her up out of the gutter, and knew no more of her past life than he knew of the inhabitants of the other planets? If you see her, she will fool you as she fooled him.”
“I am not afraid of her witcheries,” answered the magistrate, with dignity. “I shall do my duty, Sir Reginald, you may depend upon it.”
Reginald Eversleigh said no more. He left the library without uttering a word to any of the gentlemen. The despair which had seized upon him was too terrible for words. Alone, locked in his own room, he gnashed his teeth in agony.
“Fools! dolts! idiots that we have been, with all our deeply-laid plots and subtle scheming,” he cried, as he paced up and down the room in a paroxysm of mad rage, “She triumphs in spite of us — she can laugh us to scorn! And Victor Carrington, the man whose intellect was to conquer impossibilities, what a shallow fool he has shown himself, after all! I thought there was something superhuman in his success, so strangely did fate seem to favour his scheming; and now, at the last — when the cup was at my lips — it is snatched away, and dashed to the ground!”
* * * * *
CHAPTER XII.
A FRIEND IN NEED.
While the new baronet abandoned himself to the anguish of disappointed avarice and ambition, Honoria sat quietly in her own apartments, brooding very sadly over her husband’s death.
She had loved him honestly and truly. No younger lover had ever won possession of her heart. Her life, before her meeting with Sir Oswald, had been too miserable for the indulgence of the romantic dreams or poetic fancies of girlhood. The youthful feelings of this woman, who called herself Honoria, had been withered by the blasting influence of crime. It was only when gratitude for Sir Oswald’s goodness melted the ice of that proud nature — it was then only that Honoria’s womanly tenderness awoke — it was then only that affection — a deep-felt and pure affection — for the first time occupied her heart.
That affection was all the more intense in its nature because it was the first love of a noble heart. Honoria had reverenced in her husband all that she had ever known of manly virtue.
And he was lost to her! He had died believing her false.
“I could have borne anything but that,” she thought, in her desolation.
The magistrate came to her, and explained the painful necessity under which he found himself placed. But he did not tell her of the destruction of the will, nor yet that the medical men had pronounced decisively as to Sir Oswald’s death. He only told her that there were suspicious circumstances connected with that death; and that it was considered necessary there should be a careful investigation of those circumstances.
“The investigation cannot be too complete,” replied Honoria, eagerly. “I know that there has been foul play, and that the best and noblest of men has fallen a victim to the hand of an assassin. Oh, sir, if you are able to distinguish truth from falsehood, I implore you to listen to the story which my poor husband refused to believe — the story of the basest treachery that was ever plotted against a helpless woman!”
Mr. Ashburne declared himself willing to hear any statement Lady Eversleigh might wish to make; but he warned her that it was just possible that statement might be used against her hereafter.
Honoria told him the circumstances which she had related to Sir Oswald; the false alarm about her husband, the drive to Yarborough Tower, and the night of agony spent within the ruins; but, to her horror, she perceived that this man also disbelieved her. The story seemed wild and improbable, and people had already condemned her. They were prepared to hear a fabrication from her lips; and the truth which she had to tell seemed the most clumsy and shallow of inventions.
Gilbert Ashburne did not tell her that he doubted her; but, polite as his words were, she could read the indications of distrust in his face. She could see that he thought worse of her after having heard the statement which was her sole justification.
“And where is this Mr. Carrington now to be found?” he asked, presently. “I do not know. Having accomplished his base plot, and caused his friend’s restoration to the estates, I suppose he has taken care to go far away from the scene of his infamy.”
The magistrate looked searchingly at her face. Was this acting, or was she ignorant of the destruction of the will? Did she, indeed, believe that the estates were lost to herself?
* * * * *
Before the hour at which the coroner’s inquest was to be held in the great dining-room, Reginald Eversleigh and Victor Carrington met at the appointed spot in the avenue of firs.
One glance at his friend’s face informed Victor that some fatal event had occurred since the previous day. Reginald told him, in brief, passionate words, of the destruction of the will.
“You are a clever schemer, no doubt, Mr. Carrington,” he added, bitterly; “but clever as you are, you have been outwitted as completely as the veriest fool that ever blundered into ruin. Do you understand, Carrington — we are not richer by one halfpenny for all your scheming?”
Carrington was silent for awhile; but when, after a considerable pause, he at length spoke, his voice betrayed a despair as intense in its quiet depth as the louder passion of his companion.
“I cannot believe it,” he exclaimed, in a hoarse whisper. “I tell you, man, you must, have made some senseless mistake. The will cannot have been destroyed.”
“I had the fragments in my hand,” answered Reginald. “I saw my name written on the worthless scrap of burnt paper. All that was left besides that wretched fragment were the ashes in the grate.”
“I saw the will executed — I saw it — within a few hours of Sir Oswald’s death.”
“You saw it done?”
“Yes, I was outside the window of the library.”
“And you — ! oh, it is too horrible,” cried Reginald.
“What is too horrible?”
“The deed that was done that night
.”
“That deed is no business of ours,” answered Victor; “the person who destroyed the will was your uncle’s assassin, if he died by the hand of an assassin.”
“Do you really believe that, Carrington; or are you only fooling me?”
“What else should I believe?”
The two men parted. Reginald Eversleigh knew that his presence would be required at the coroner’s inquest. The surgeon did not attempt to detain him.
For the time, at least, this arch-plotter found himself suddenly brought to a stand-still.
The inquest commenced almost immediately after Reginald’s return to the castle.
The first witness examined was the valet, who had been the person to discover the death; the next were the two medical men, whose evidence was of a most important nature.
It was a closed court, and no one was admitted who was not required to give evidence. Lady Eversleigh sat at the opposite end of the table to that occupied by the coroner. She had declined to avail herself of the services of any legal adviser. She had declared her determination to trust in her own innocence, and in that alone. Proud, calm, and self-possessed, she confronted the solemn assembly, and did not shrink from the scrutinizing looks that met her eyes in every direction.
Reginald Eversleigh contemplated her with a feeling of murderous hatred, as he took his place at some little distance from her seat.
The evidence of Mr. Missenden was to the effect that Sir Oswald Eversleigh had died from the effects of a subtle and little-known poison. He had discovered traces of this poison in the empty glass which had been found upon the table beside the dead man, and he had discovered further traces of the same poison in the stomach of the deceased.
After the medical witnesses had both been examined, Peterson, the butler, was sworn. He related the facts connected with the execution of the will, and further stated that it was he who had carried the carafe of water, claret-jug, and the empty glass to Sir Oswald.
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