The Master of the Priory

by Annie Haynes

  Suddenly, as he waited, he heard a curious, strangled sound from among the bushes beside him; at first he thought it came from some animal in pain, but as it went on he became aware that it was distinctly human, a hoarse, persistent sobbing in which some distinguishable words seemed to mingle. It died away at last into a low moaning.

  Sir Oswald stepped across quickly and parted the bushes. Something lay on the ground shaking and choking. At first it was difficult to distinguish anything, but as Sir Oswald’s eyes grew clearer, he saw that it was a boy—a big, overgrown lad who crouched there in a forlorn, shapeless heap.

  “What is the matter?” asked Sir Oswald gently.

  The boy started violently, lay still for a minute, then slowly lifted a tear-stained, miserable face, and, after one stare at Sir Oswald, shambled to his feet and prepared to make off.

  Sir Oswald caught his shoulder. “What is your name, lad? And what are you doing here?”

  There was a series of wild jerks from side to side, and then the boy accepted capture.

  “I come to look for feyther,” he explained sullenly.

  “And who is feyther?” Sir Oswald questioned further, with an authoritative shake.

  “Retford, the keeper,” the lad stammered. “Let me go, sir! He’ll be looking for me. And it is a hiding I get if his dinner is late.”

  He swung up a tin from the ground as he spoke, and Sir Oswald slackened his hold on the boy’s arm.

  “And what were you howling in that fashion for, young Retford?”

  The lad returned no answer; ducking his head he made a sudden bolt for liberty and reached the open.

  Sir Oswald made no effort to recapture him. He walked on in the direction of Carlyn Hall, frowning as he walked. So this lad was Esther Retford’s brother, the boy who had been the first to find John Winter’s body, and who had had fits and been softy like ever since, as the landlord had said. What brought the lad back to the scene of his terrible discovery, and what memory accounted for his sobbing fit? Sir Oswald could not see clearly yet, but some instinct seemed to warn him that the first thread that was to lead to the undoing of the mystery of John Winter’s death had been placed in his hands to-day.

  He felt as if Fate and something stronger than Fate was on his side and Rosamond’s at last.

  As he came in sight of the wicket-gate leading into the park, Fortune favoured him once more. Frank Carlyn came across the grass, moving slowly, with his head bent as if in thought. He stared in amazement when he saw Sir Oswald.

  “Why, Davenant, what lucky wind has blown you here?” he cried.

  But it was noticeable that he did not hold out his hand and that Sir Oswald did not offer his or pass to Carlyn’s side of the gate. Instead he leaned over the top bar.

  “I came on purpose to see you, Carlyn. I heard you had returned from your big game expedition.”

  “Yes. We had bad luck there,” Carlyn grumbled. “But why on earth didn’t you let a fellow know you were coming, Davenant? And where is your luggage? Have you left it at the station?”

  “My bag is at the ‘Carlyn Arms,’” Sir Oswald said quietly. “I did not come to trespass on your hospitality, Carlyn. I want to claim your help.”

  “My help?” Carlyn raised his eyebrows. “In what way?” he questioned briefly.

  Davenant looked him squarely in the eyes.

  “I have come here to find the murderer of John Winter.”

  Carlyn’s face became suddenly set like a mask.

  “Why do you come to me for help?”

  Sir Oswald’s gaze did not relax.

  “Because I believe that but for his murderer you were the last person to see John Winter alive.”

  Carlyn turned his head aside.

  “Very possibly I might have been,” he returned in a voice made intentionally indifferent. “I had just given the man notice. The coverts were in a disgraceful state, and when I spoke of it he was insolent.”

  “Quite possibly. But it was not about the coverts you quarrelled,” Sir Oswald said in the same cool, level voice.

  Carlyn swung round and faced him.

  “What do you know about a quarrel? And what business is it of yours, anyhow? What have you to do with John Winter?”

  “I have nothing whatever to do with John Winter,” Sir Oswald said slowly. “But it is my business to inquire into his murder, because I mean to marry his widow.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  THERE WAS a moment’s tense silence, then Carlyn spoke in a harsh, changed voice: “I cannot help you in any way. I must ask you not to speak to me of the matter again.” He turned on his heel.

  Sir Oswald swung the gate aside and strode after him.

  “Perhaps you will answer one question, Carlyn. Did you, in the heat of your quarrel, pick up John Winter’s gun and, either by accident or intention, fire it at him?”

  Carlyn’s face was white with rage as he faced his interlocutor.

  “Why don’t you call me a murderer at once?” he demanded roughly. “But I will answer a fool according to his folly. I did not fire Winter’s gun. I did not even see it. When I parted from him he was as well as you or I. Now are you satisfied?

  “Not quite,” Sir Oswald said quietly “How was it that you did not reassure Mrs. Winter as to your entire innocence in the matter when you met her in my house as Miss Martin?

  Carlyn uttered a sharp, incredulous sound, then he stood still.

  “I have said all I mean to say, Davenant. For anything else I must refer you to Mrs. Winter herself.”

  “Perhaps I can answer my question,” Sir Oswald went on in a perfectly unmoved voice. “Because you believe that Mrs. Winter fired the fatal shot herself. Suppose I tell you that all along she has believed the same of you, and thought herself responsible only in so far as her friendship for you might have given Winter some cause for anger. It is to clear this matter up that I have come here, and I shall not rest until the real murderer is brought to justice.”

  Carlyn’s face altered indefinably; there was something very like pity in his eyes as he looked at the other man.

  “You will never do that, old chap. Let me advise you, go back to the Priory and forget all about John Winter’s—death.” He paused before the last word. It was obvious that he had been about to substitute another.

  “I think not,” Sir Oswald remarked, tightening his lips. “My present intention is to go back to the inn and to devote myself to going over all the details of the case. I shall want your help later, Carlyn, and I shall call upon you to give it. Just now I am going up to the rectory. I want to see Miss Burford. I am the bearer of various messages from—Elizabeth.” He could not bear to think or speak of his lovely, dainty Elizabeth by the dead man’s name, he had not yet accustomed himself to the new Rosamond.

  “To Barbara!” Carlyn’s tone was insensibly softened. “But why should Mrs. Winter send messages to Barbara?”

  “Because Barbara helped her to escape from the Priory when the detectives were at her heels.” Sir Oswald looked somewhat surprised in his turn. “Didn’t you know? She helped her with the tenderest pity and womanly compassion. It would be impossible to tell you all we owe to Barbara Burford.”

  Frank Carlyn pushed his cap back from his brow, his eyes were full of bewilderment.

  “Barbara helped her to escape!” he repeated. “But why should Barbara help her?”

  There was a dawning smile in Sir Oswald’s grey eyes as he looked at the young man’s puzzled face.

  “Do you know, Carlyn,” he said very deliberately. “I think that is one of the questions you should put to Barbara herself.”

  He did not wait for any rejoinder. For the present he had learned all he had expected from Carlyn; the rest he must do for himself, though, as he had said, he might need the young man’s help later on.

  Carlyn stood looking after his retreating figure, his mind a whirl of perplexity. Barbara’s rejection of him had gone deeper than he had thought at the time; she had been so intertwined
with his life that he had not realized at first how dismal it would be without her. He had never been able to understand that sudden change in her, the apparent coldness that resulted from her visit to the Priory. Was it possible that Sir Oswald knew something that he did not? But puzzle over it as he might he was no nearer guessing the truth.

  A strange restlessness possessed him. He could settle to nothing. Some friends from a neighbouring house drove over to tea and tennis, and he made a most unobservant, absent-minded host. He could not talk society platitudes while his mind was full of Barbara—Barbara, with her shy, sweet eyes, her slender, elusive grace. He had likened her sometimes during their brief engagement to an English rose, and it was as a rose he thought of her now, with her fair complexion, her crown of dusky hair, and the smile that came and went upon her lips and lay hidden in her eyes.

  After dinner he strolled across the park with his cigar and the dog, Bruno. Insensibly his feet led him towards the village in the direction of the Rectory. As he neared the familiar gate he caught sight of a white dress in the garden and knew that Barbara, as was her custom, was walking up and down waiting for her father, who was probably dozing in the dining-room, but who liked to find her ready when he came out for a saunter round the garden in the twilight.

  Carlyn stood looking at her silently, but his cigar would have betrayed his presence even if Bruno had not bounded forward with his welcome.

  “Ah, Frank!” Barbara said quietly. “Somehow I thought you might walk over this evening. Sir Oswald Davenant is dining with us.” Her eyes were troubled, her lips trembled as they shook hands.

  “Oh, I didn’t know,” Carlyn said almost indifferently as he held her hand a minute. “Oh, yes, I remember. He said he had messages for you. Did he tell you his news?”

  The sadness in Barbara’s eyes deepened.

  “Yes, he told me. I am so sorry, Frank.”

  “Well, every man must please himself,” Carlyn observed philosophically. “You never told me that you engineered the escape from the Priory, Barbara.”

  Barbara was thankful that the gathering dusk hid the colour that leapt into her cheeks. “Oh, didn’t I?” she said lamely.

  “No.” Carlyn looked down at her curiously. “You are a plucky little girl. But what put it into your head, Barbara?”

  “I don’t know,” Barbara answered evasively. “I was sorry for her, of course.”

  “And now you are sorry Davenant is going to marry her,” Carlyn said gravely. “Did you think she was guilty of the murder when you helped her?”

  “I don’t know,” the girl murmured restlessly. “Oswald does not.”

  Carlyn laughed dryly. “Obviously he does not. He did me the honour to ask if I had been the murderer, just now.”

  “What—you?” Barbara said incredulously. “How dare he? He must be mad.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” Carlyn said generously. “Except on one point, perhaps. He told me to ask you why you helped Mrs. Winter to escape.”

  Barbara’s face altered suddenly. “Oh, did he? I wonder what should make him do that?”

  “So do I,” Carlyn assented. “I have been puzzling about it ever since. Just now, when you said you were sorry to hear his news, a glimmering of an idea came to me. I suppose it wasn’t right, Barbara?”

  Barbara turned aside, and plucking a spray of sweet-scented syringa held it to her lips.

  “I shouldn’t think it was likely,” she said unsteadily. “I believe I ought to go back now, Frank. Father is sure to want some music, as Sir Oswald is here.”

  “The idea came to me when I saw your eyes,” Carlyn went on. “They seemed—they looked as if they were sorry for me.”

  “Oh, you can’t tell anything by people’s eyes,” Barbara said, and her laugh had a touch of hysteria in its ring. “You mustn’t be fanciful, Frank.”

  “I wish you were,” Frank said gravely. “Because I have been very sorry for myself—ever since you threw me over, Barbara.”

  He caught the hand that still held the syringa and crushed it in his.

  “Ah, Barbara, Barbara, you are a hard-hearted little girl. Won’t you take pity on me again? I can’t do without you. Your face haunted me day and night while I was away.”

  Barbara’s hand lay quiescent in his now, the syringa dropped unheeded to the ground.

  “But I thought you cared for someone else,” she stammered.

  Carlyn took both her hands now and held them tightly gripped in one of his.

  “And I thought you didn’t care for me,” he whispered. “Oh, Barbara, hasn’t it been just one big mistake, little girl?”

  Barbara’s brown head drooped very low.

  “I think perhaps it has,” she stammered with quivering lip.

  Carlyn’s arms found their way round her waist, her head was drawn upon his shoulder. “Sweetheart,” he said passionately, as his lips sought hers, “this is the real thing, isn’t it? That other last time was only make-believe. But you do care a little now, don’t you?”

  “Just a little,” Barbara said in a trembling voice. “Oh, Frank, Frank, you silly boy, didn’t you know I always cared?”

  “Umph!” Carlyn said dryly, his eyes just a trifle misty. “How could I know? You took such a remarkably queer way of showing it, Miss Burford.”

  “Oh, Frank!” Barbara drew back and held him at arm’s length, her hands resting on his breast. “I couldn’t go on with it—our engagement—while—while I thought you liked her best.”

  “Liked who best?” Carlyn demanded. “Come, Barbara, I must know.”

  Barbara’s eyelids sank.

  “Why, her—Mrs. Winter,” she replied. “People said you did, you know, Frank.”

  “And you believed them?” Carlyn said, giving her a fond, possessive shake. “Ah, you silly, silly little girl! Are you always going to believe everything you hear against me, Barbara?”

  “No, no!” the girl whispered, clinging to him. “Never again, Frank.”

  Carlyn’s eyes wandered proudly over the small flower-like head, the delicate, high-bred face.

  “So you helped her to escape, though you thought I cared for her, but you could not stand me afterwards.”

  “Yes, yes,” Barbara agreed feverishly. “Of course that was how it was. I knew her directly I saw her at the Priory.”

  “Did you?” A new light was dawning in Carlyn’s eyes, his expression was very tender as he gazed downwards at the pretty, confused face. “And then you found out that the detectives had come to take her?”

  “Yes.” A tiny smile crept round Barbara’s mouth. “I played the eavesdropper, Frank. I overheard a detective talking to Sybil Lorrimer and I listened.”

  Carlyn smiled too.

  “A good thing for her you did. And you managed to circumvent them?”

  “Yes,” Barbara said with deepening colour. “At first I couldn’t think of anything, then I remembered that Algy Turner was coming in his car, and everything was very easy. It was quite simple, really.”

  “Quite,” Carlyn assented with a little twist of his mouth. “And you did all this, took all this responsibility upon yourself for the woman you thought I loved. Why did you do it, Barbara?”

  “I told you,” the girl began; then she lifted her eyes, and she met the look in his, she yielded herself in sudden soft surrender. “It was for your sake,” she whispered. “Because I thought you loved her.”

  Carlyn’s arm had stolen round her again, his head was very near hers. “Why did you do it for my sake, Barbara?”

  Barbara turned her face away. “Because I—” Then gathering up her courage she lifted up her face bravely—“because I—any woman would do anything for the sake of the man she loved.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  MR. GREGG stood in the door of the post office at Bathurat, the nearest town to Porthcawel, of which it was within an easy ride. The detective was looking down the street somewhat anxiously. Presently he saw the man for whom he was looking, and went to meet him.


  Mr. Marlowe’s usually satisfied face looked worried and anxious. “No luck again, sir.”

  Mr. Gregg took his arm. “Hush, Marlowe! Remember any passer-by may know the secret that is puzzling us. I always try to think of that. Wait till you get to my room.”

  He led the way to a bright and spacious apartment, overlooking the street in the principal commercial hostelry of Bathurat. There he seated himself in a comfortable arm-chair and motioned Marlowe to the one opposite.

  “Well, what now?”

  Mr. Marlowe wiped his brow with a large handkerchief. “Of all the females I have ever met she is the most elusive!” he burst out. “Here have I been making inquiries of every one at Porthcawel, scraping acquaintance with the servants at the Hold, and all to no purpose. Not one word of her, or anyone like her, could I hear. Then yesterday, when I made up my mind we were on the wrong track altogether, suddenly I saw her, straight there before me.”

  “You saw her!” For once Mr. Gregg was stirred out of his habitual calm. “What did you do?”

  Marlowe scratched his head sheepishly. “I let her give me the slip again, sir, that’s what I did. I’ll just tell you how it was. This last week or two I have got a bit friendly with one of the maids at the Hold, and though there didn’t seem anything to be got out of her she had promised to come out for a chat with me yesterday afternoon. I was waiting for her, keeping myself out of sight among the rocks, for they don’t welcome visitors at the Hold, when all of a sudden I heard a little noise behind me. I turned round, thinking that my friend had come, and there just behind me, as large as life stood Mrs. Winter.”

  He paused dramatically.

  Mr. Gregg’s face did not alter. “Well?”

  The ex-constable looked a little disappointed. “I jumped up. I was sitting on a bit of stone, and there we stood staring at one another—the woman and me. She knew me too; I saw that in her eyes, and her face went very white, and she looked frightened to death. I was too taken aback with the suddenness of it all to move, and so I think was she. But at last she turned and ran back. I went after her as fast as I could. Right up against the Rock she went into a sort of cave. It was all dark inside, but I was gaining on her every instant. I could hear her deep breathing, I could almost catch her skirts when my feet gave way under me. I fell suddenly down, hitting my head as I went a nasty crack.”