by Ellen Wood
“What brings you over to-day, Emma?” asked the squire of Mrs. Lewis, as the meal proceeded. “Anything turned up?”
A rather ambiguous question, the latter one, to uninitiated ears; but the squire had been burning to put it, and Mrs. Lewis understood. He looked covertly at her for a moment with his blinking eyes, and then dropped them again.
“I only came over to see Ben, papa,” she answered. “The news reached me this morning that he had come home. I have not had time to do anything yet.”
Now, the fact was, Squire Carr had placed his daughter, knowing her admirable ferreting propensities, in Marmaduke Carr’s house for one sole purpose — that of visiting its every hole and corner. “There may be a will,” the squire had said to himself, in his caution, several times since the death. “I don’t think there is; I could stake a great deal that there is not, for Marmaduke was not likely to make one; but it’s as well to be on the safe side, and such things have been heard of as wills hid away in houses.” And when the squire saw Mrs. Lewis, whom he had not expected that day, he began to fear that something of the sort had “turned up.” The relief was great.
“Oh, to see Ben. You’ll see enough of him, I expect, before he’s off again.”
“Are you going to make a long stay here, this time, Ben?” asked Mr. Arkell.
“Yes, I think I shall. Will you take some more ham, Emma?”
“Your name is the same as my wife’s,” observed the young clergyman, with a smile, as he passed Mrs. Lewis’s plate for more ham: for it was Squire Carr’s pleasure that servants did not wait at luncheon.
“Is it? It is a very ugly one,” roughly replied Mrs. Lewis, who could not recover her equanimity in the presence of this gentleman. “I can’t think how they came to give it me, for my part. I have a prejudice against the name ‘Emma.’ The woman bore it whom, of all the women I have known in the world, I most disliked.”
“It was your mother’s name, my dear,” said the squire.
“And I think a charming name,” said Robert Carr. “I am not sure but it was Emma D’Estival’s name that first attracted me to her.”
The squire looked up with a sort of start. He remembered the letter written by “Emma Carr, née D’Estival.” Of course! she was this young man’s wife.
“You look young to have a wife,” was all the squire said.
“You look, to me, as if you had no business with one at all,” added Mrs. Lewis with blunt plainness. “Sickly men should be cautious how they marry, lest they leave their wives widows. I have been so left. I threw aside my widow’s cap only last week.”
Robert Carr explained to them what his hurt had been, and how his chest had suffered at times since. He was aware he looked unusually ill just now, he said; but he had looked just as much so about a year and a half before — had coughed also. He should get well now, he supposed, like he did then. For one thing, speaking of his present looks, this matter was harassing him a good deal, and there had been his father’s sudden death.
“Oh, by the way, Mr. Arkell, let me ask you something,” exclaimed Mrs. Lewis suddenly. “I have heard the strangest thing. That a gentleman, a Mr. Dundas, or some such name, had been drowned or murdered, or something, at Geneva; a relative of your wife’s. What is the truth of it?”
“That is the truth, as far as we can learn it,” replied Mr. Arkell. “It was Mr. Dundyke, the husband of Mrs. Arkell’s sister. You saw her once, I know, at my mother’s house, a great many years ago; she was Miss Betsey Travice then — —”
“But about the murder?” interrupted Mrs. Lewis. “Was he murdered? Roland ran home from Mr. Wilberforce’s for a minute last night, and I heard it from him. I think he said the young Prattletons told him. I know he was quite up in arms about it. What is it?”
Mr. Arkell pointed to Robert Carr. “That gentleman can tell you better than I can,” he said. “He heard the particulars from Mrs. Dundyke herself. I only heard them from Mr. Prattleton secondhand.”
“I suppose you want me to tell the story, instead of yourself,” said Robert Carr, with a glance and a smile at Mr. Arkell. “Mr. Prattleton was on the spot, and instituted the search, so his information cannot be secondhand.”
They began it between them, but Mr. Arkell gradually ceased, and left it to Robert Carr. It appeared to take a singular hold on the squire’s interest. He had just asked his son for more ham, but was too absorbed to send his plate for it. Ben held the slice between his knife and fork, and had to let it drop at last.
“Then he was not murdered!” exclaimed Mrs. Lewis. “It was only a case of drowning, after all!”
“Of drowning,” assented Robert Carr. “At least that is the most probable supposition.”
“It may rather be called at present a case of mysterious disappearance, as the sensational weekly papers would phrase it,” interposed Mr. Arkell, speaking again. “Mrs. Dundyke at one time felt convinced that a murder had been committed, as Mr. Prattleton tells me, and afterwards modified her opinion. Now she feels her doubts renewed again.”
“What a shocking thing!” exclaimed Mrs. Lewis. “And who does she think murdered him — if he was murdered?”
“The Mr. Hardcastle of whom mention has been made. Mrs. Dundyke has discovered that he was an impostor.”
“Has she!” exclaimed Robert Carr.
“Mr. Prattleton heard from her by last evening’s post, and he came in late, and showed me her letters,” said Mr. Arkell. “This man, Hardcastle, had passed himself off as being a partner of the great Hardcastle house in Leadenhall-street — a nephew of its head and chief — whereas he turns out to be entirely unknown to them.”
“And she thinks he did the murder?” quickly cried Mrs. Lewis, who was possessed of all a woman’s curiosity on such subjects.
“She thinks the suspicions look very dark against him,” said Mr. Arkell. “I confess I think the same.”
“But I thought Mr. Carr, here, said she had completely exonerated this Mr. Hardcastle!” cried the squire. “Be quiet, Emma; you would let nobody speak but yourself, if you had your way.”
“So I believe she did exonerate him,” returned Mr. Arkell; “but in all cases the same facts wear so different an aspect, according to their attendant surroundings. When Mr. Hardcastle was supposed to be Mr. Hardcastle, one of the chief partners of the great East India house, the nephew of its many-years’ chief, it was almost impossible to suppose that he could have committed the murder, however little trifling circumstances might seem to give point to the suspicion. But when we know that this man was not Mr. Hardcastle, but an impostor — probably a chevalier d’industrie, travelling about to see what prey he could bring down — those same trifling circumstances change into alarming facts, every one of which bears its own significance.”
“I don’t clearly understand what the facts were,” said the squire. “He borrowed money, didn’t he?”
“He borrowed money — twenty pounds; he would have borrowed a hundred, but Mr. Dundyke had it not with him. He, poor Mr. Dundyke, was utterly taken in by them from the first — never had a shadow of suspicion that anything was wrong; Mrs. Dundyke, on the contrary, tells Mr. Prattleton that she had. She feels quite sure that their running account at the hotel, for which she knows they were pressed, was paid with that twenty pounds, or part of it; and she says they — —”
“In saying ‘they,’ of whom do you speak besides Mr. Hardcastle?” asked the squire.
“Of his wife. And Mrs. Dundyke did not like her. But let us come to the day of the disappearance. On that morning, as they sat at breakfast, Mr. Dundyke told Mr. Hardcastle that he was about to leave; and that some money he had written for, notes for thirty pounds, had come that morning — were inclosed in two letters which Mr. Hardcastle saw him receive and put in his pocket. Mrs. Dundyke says that she shall never forget the strangely eager glance — something like a wolf’s when it scents prey — that he cast on Mr. Dundyke at mention of the thirty pounds. Mr. Dundyke went out alone, and hired a boat, as you
have heard; and they afterwards saw him on the lake bearing away to the spot where he landed; Mr. Hardcastle saw him, and then walked away. Nothing more was seen of either of them until dinner-time, six o’clock, when Mr. Hardcastle returned; he came creeping into the house as if he wished to shun observation, travel-soiled, dusty, his face scratched, his hand hurt — just as if he had been taking part in some severe struggle; and Mrs. Dundyke is positive that his face turned white when she rushed up and asked where her husband was.”
“Did she suspect him then?”
“Oh dear no; not with the faintest suspicion. That same night she heard a fearful quarrel between Mr. and Mrs. Hardcastle; weepings, lamentings, reproaches from Mrs. Hardcastle, ill-language from him; and twice she heard her husband’s name mentioned. She told Mr. Prattleton subsequently that it was just as though the fact of the murder had been then disclosed to Mrs. Hardcastle, and she, the wife, had received it with a storm of horror and reproach. But the most suspicious circumstance was the pencil-case.”
“What was that?” came the eager question from the squire and his daughter, for this had not yet been named.
“Well, what Mr. Prattleton tells me is this,” said Mr. Arkell. “When Mr. Dundyke went out in the boat he had his pencil-case with him; Mrs. Dundyke saw him return it to his pocket-book the last thing before leaving the breakfast-room, and put the book in his pocket. It was the same pocket-book in which he had just placed the letters containing the bank-notes. The pencil-case was silver; it had been given to Mr. Dundyke by my cousin Mildred, and had his initials upon it; Mrs. Dundyke says he never carried any other — had not, she feels convinced, any other with him that morning. After he had landed on the opposite side of the lake, he must have made use of this pencil to write the note, which note he sent back to the hotel by the boatmen. So that it appears to be a pretty certain fact that, whatever evil overtook Mr. Dundyke, this pencil must have been about him. Do you follow me?”
“Yes, yes,” answered the squire, testily. He did not like the narrative to be interrupted by so much as a thread.
“Good. But this same pencil-case was subsequently found in Mr. and Mrs. Hardcastle’s room at the hotel.”
“What!” exclaimed Benjamin Carr, looking up as if startled to sudden interest.
“The droll question is, how did it come there?” continued Mr. Arkell. “It was found in the room the Hardcastles had occupied at the hotel. They had left there some days; had gone on, they said, to Genoa. Mr. Prattleton’s daughter was put in this room after their departure, and the silver pencil-case was picked up from behind the drawers. Mr. Prattleton and Mrs. Dundyke were in the chamber at the time, and the latter was dreadfully agitated; she quite startled him, he says, by saying that Mr. Hardcastle must have murdered her husband.”
“Bless my soul!” exclaimed Squire Carr. “I see. The pencil-case which was lost with Mr. Dundyke reappeared in their room! How very strange! I should have had the man apprehended.”
“The hypothesis of course is, that Mr. Hardcastle had in some manner possessed himself of the things the missing man had about his person,” pursued Mr. Arkell. “Mr. Prattleton thought at the time that this could perhaps have been explained away. I mean the finding of the pencil-case — that Mr. Dundyke might have dropped it on going out from breakfast, and the other have picked it up; but since the arrival of Mrs. Dundyke’s letter yesterday, he says he does not like the look of it at all.”
“And the bank-notes that Mr. Dundyke had undoubtedly about his person were found to have been changed the subsequent day in Geneva,” spoke up Robert Carr. “The money-changer thought they had been changed by a man whose appearance agreed with that of Mr. Hardcastle. And then there was the testimony of the Swiss peasant.”
“What was the testimony?” asked the squire.
“A peasant, or small farmer, testified that he saw two gentlemen together walking away from the direction of the lake on the day of the disappearance; and in describing them, he exactly described the persons and dress of Mr. Hardcastle and Mr. Dundyke. I told Mrs. Dundyke,” added the clergyman, “that I did not like her account of this Mr. Hardcastle; and she had expressed to me no suspicion of him then.”
“And why did they not cause him to be apprehended?” asked the squire. “There could not well be a clearer case. I have committed many a man upon half the evidence. What sort of a man was he in person, this Hardcastle?”
“A tall, strong man, very dark; a fine man, Mrs. Dundyke says. I should think,” added the clergyman, ranging his eyes around, lest haply he might find anyone in the present company to illustrate his meaning by ever so slight a likeness, as we are all apt to do in trying to describe a stranger— “I should think — —”
Robert Carr stopped; his eyes were resting on the white face of Benjamin Carr. Those sallow, dark faces when they turn white are not pleasant to look upon.
“I should think,” he continued, “that he must have been some such a man as your son here, sir. Yes, just such another; tall, strong, dark — —”
“How dare you?” shouted Benjamin Carr, with a desperate oath. “How dare you point at me as the — the — as Mr. Hardcastle?”
The whole table bounded to their feet as if electrified. Benjamin had risen to his full height; his eyes glared on the clergyman; his fist was lifted menacingly to his face. Had he gone out of his senses? Some of them truly thought so. That he had momentarily allowed himself to lose his presence of mind, there could be no question.
“What on earth has taken you, Ben?”
The words came from Mrs. Lewis. Her brother’s demeanour had been puzzling her. He had sat, with that one slight interruption mentioned, with his head down, looking sullen, as if he took no interest in the narrative; and she had seen his face grow whiter and whiter. She supposed it to be caused by the story; and said to herself, that she should not have thought Ben was chicken-hearted.
The squire followed suit. “Have you taken leave of your senses, sir? What’s the matter with you? What is it, I say?”
“Your visitor offended me, sir,” replied Benjamin Carr, slowly sitting down in his chair again, and beginning to recollect himself. “How dare he say that I bear a resemblance to this Hardcastle?”
“He never did say it,” angrily returned the squire. “If you cause such a startling interruption at my table again, I shall request you to think twice before you sit down to it.”
Mrs. Lewis was staring at her brother with a sort of wondering stare. Mr. Arkell could not make him out; and the young clergyman stood perfectly confounded. Altogether, Benjamin Carr was under a sea of keen eyes; and he knew it.
“I’m sure I beg your pardon if my words offended you,” began Robert Carr. “I meant no offence. I only wished to convey an impression of what this Mr. Hardcastle was like — a tall, fine, dark man, as described to me. I never saw him. The same description would apply to thousands of men.”
“I thought you did intend offence,” said Benjamin Carr in a distinct tone. “Your words and manner implied it, at any rate.”
“Don’t show yourself a fool, Benjamin,” cried out the squire. “I shall begin to think you are one. The clergyman no more meant to liken you to the man, than he meant to liken me; he was only trying to describe the sort of person. What has taken you? You must have grown desperately thin-skinned all on a sudden.”
“Can’t you let it drop?” said Benjamin, angrily. The squire sent up his plate as he spoke, for the ham that had been waiting all this while; perhaps by way of creating a divertissement; and Ben lifted the slice with a jerk, and then jerked the knife and fork down again. Mrs. Lewis, who had never come out of the prolonged stare, apparently arrived now at the solution of the problem.
“I know what it is, Ben,” she quietly said. “This Hardcastle must be an acquaintance of yours. You know you do pick up all sorts of — —”
“It is a lie,” interrupted Ben, regardless of his good manners.
“Papa” — turning to the squire— “rely upon it I a
m right. Ben no doubt fell in with this Hardcastle on his travels, grew intimate with him, and now does not like to hear him aspersed.”
“Be quiet, Emma,” cried Ben, but his voice was lowered now, as if with concentrated passion, or policy. “You talk like a fool.”
“Well, perhaps I do,” retorted Mrs. Lewis, “but I think it is as I say for all that. You would not put yourself out like this for nothing. I dare say you did know the man; it was just the time that you were at Geneva.”
“I was not at Geneva.”
“You were at Geneva,” she persisted. “You know you wrote home from thence.”
“Why yes, of course you did, Ben,” added the squire. “Valentine showed us the letter: you said you were hard up in it. But that’s nothing new.”
“I swear that I never saw this Hardcastle in my life,” said Ben Carr, his white face turning to a dusky red. “What time did this affair happen?” he continued, suddenly addressing Mr. Arkell. “If I had been in Geneva at the time, I must have heard of it.”
“I can tell you,” said Robert Carr. “Mr. and Mrs. Dundyke went to Geneva the middle of July, and this must have happened about the second week in August.”
Benjamin Carr poured himself out a glass of wine as he listened. He was growing cool and collected again.