by Ellen Wood
“Sharp men,” acquiesced Mr. Fauntleroy, nodding his head with a fellow-feeling of approval; “but we have got the whip hand of them in your case, Mrs. Carr.”
“I thought it better to tell you this,” said she, rising. “It has made me so uneasy that I have scarcely slept since; for I know Mr. Littelby would not discourage me without cause.”
“Without fancying he has cause,” corrected Mr. Fauntleroy. “Be at ease, ma’am: the marriage is as certain as that oak and ash grow. Where are you staying in Westerbury?”
“In some lodgings I was recommended to in College-row,” answered she, producing a card. “Perhaps you will take down the address — —”
“Oh, no need for that,” said Mr. Fauntleroy, glancing at it, “I know the lodgings well. Mind they don’t shave you.”
Mrs. Carr was shown out, and Mr. Fauntleroy called in his managing clerk. “Kenneth,” said he, “let the Carr cause be completed for counsel; and when the brief’s ready, I’ll look over it to refresh my memory. Send Omer down to St. James the Less, to take a copy of the marriage.”
“I thought Omer brought a copy,” observed Mr. Kenneth.
“No; I don’t think so. It will save going again if he did. Ask him.”
Mr. Kenneth returned to the clerks’ office. “Omer, did you bring a copy of the marriage in the case, Carr v. Carr, when you searched the register at St. James’s church?” he demanded.
“No,” replied Omer.
“Then why did you not?”
“I had no orders, sir. Mr. Fauntleroy only told me to look whether such an entry was there.”
“Then you must go now —— What’s that you are about? Winter’s settlement? Why, you have had time to finish that twice over.”
“I have been out all the morning with that writ,” pleaded Omer, “and could not get to serve it at last. Pretty well three hours I was standing in the passage next his house, waiting for him to come out, and the wind whistling my head off all the time.”
Mr. Kenneth vouchsafed no response to this; but he would not disturb the clerk again from Winter’s deed. He ordered another, Mr. Green, to go to St. James’s church for the copy, and threw him half-a-crown to pay for it.
Young Mr. Green did not relish the mission, and thought himself barbarously used in being sent upon it, inasmuch as that he was an articled clerk and a gentleman, not a paid nobody. “Trapesing through the weather all down to that St. James’s!” muttered he, as he snatched his hat and greatcoat.
It struck three o’clock before he came back. “Where’s Kenneth?” asked he, when he entered.
“In the governor’s room. You can go in.”
Mr. Green did go in, and Mr. Kenneth broke out into anger. “You have taken your time!”
“I couldn’t come quicker,” was Mr. Green’s reply. “I had to look all through the book. The marriage is not there.”
“It is thrift to send you upon an errand,” retorted Mr. Kenneth. “You have not been searching.”
“I have done nothing else but search since I left. If the entry had been there, Mr. Kenneth, I should have been back in no time. It is not exactly a day to stop for pleasure in a mouldy old church that’s colder than charity, or to amuse oneself in the streets.”
Mr. Fauntleroy looked up from his desk. “The entry is there, Green: you have overlooked it.”
“Sir, I assure you that the entry is not there,” repeated Mr. Green. “I looked very carefully.”
“Call in Omer,” said Mr. Fauntleroy. “You saw the entry of Robert Carr’s marriage to Martha Ann Hughes?” he continued, when Omer appeared.
“Yes, sir.”
“You are sure of it?”
“Certainly, sir. I saw it and read it.”
“You hear, Mr. Green. You have overlooked it.”
“If Omer can find it there, I’ll do his work for a week,” retorted young Green. “I will pledge you my veracity, sir — —”
“Never mind your veracity,” interrupted Mr. Fauntleroy; “it is a case of oversight, not of veracity. Kenneth, you have to go down to Clark’s office about that bill of costs; you may as well go on to St, James’s and get the copy.”
“Two half-crowns to pay instead of one, through these young fellows’ negligence,” grumbled Mr. Kenneth. “They charge it as many times as they open their vestry.”
“What’s that to him? it doesn’t come out of his pocket,” whispered Green to Omer, as they returned to their own room. “But if they find the Carr marriage entered there, I’ll be shot in two.”
“And I’ll be shot in four if they don’t,” retorted Omer. “What a blind beetle you must have been, Green!”
Mr. Kenneth came back from his mission. He walked straight into the presence of Mr. Fauntleroy, and beckoning Omer in after him, attacked him with a storm of reproaches.
“Do you drink, Mr. Omer?”
“Drink, sir!”
“Yes, drink. Are the words not plain enough?”
“No, sir, I do not,” returned Omer, in astonishment.
“Then, Mr. Omer, I tell you that you do. No man, unless he was a drunken man, could pretend to see things which have no place. When you read that entry of Robert Carr’s marriage in the register, you saw double, for it never was anywhere but in your brain. There is no entry of the marriage in St. James’s register,” he added, turning to Mr. Fauntleroy.
Mr. Fauntleroy’s mouth dropped considerably. “No entry!”
“Nothing of the sort!” continued Mr. Kenneth. “There’s no name, and no marriage, and no anything — relating to Robert Carr.”
“Bless my heart, what an awful error to have been drawn into!” uttered Mr. Fauntleroy, who was so entirely astounded by the news, that he, for the moment, doubted whether anything was real about him. “All the expense I have been put to will fall upon me; the widow has not a rap, certain; and to take her body in execution would bring no result, save increasing the cost. Mr. Omer, are you prepared to take these charges on yourself, for the error your carelessness has led us into? I should not have gone on paying costs myself but for that alleged entry in the register.”
Mr. Omer looked something like a mass of petrifaction, unable to speak or move.
“But for the marriage being established — as we were led to suppose — we never should have gone on to trial. Mrs. Carr must have relinquished it,” continued Mr. Fauntleroy.
“Of course we should not,” chimed in the managing clerk.
“I thought there must be some flaw in the wind; I declare I did, by the other side’s carrying it on, now that I find Mynn and Mynn knew of the alleged marriage,” exclaimed Mr. Fauntleroy. “I shall look to you for reimbursement, Omer. And, Mr. Kenneth, you’ll search out some one in his place: we cannot retain a clerk in our office who is liable to lead us into ruinous mistakes, by asserting that black is white.”
Mr. Omer was beginning to recover his senses. “Sir,” he said, “you are angry with me without cause. I can be upon my oath that the marriage of Robert Carr with Martha Ann Hughes is entered there: I repeated to you, sir, the date, and the names of the witnesses: how could I have done that without reading them?”
“That’s true enough,” returned Mr. Fauntleroy, his hopes beginning to revive.
“Here’s a proof,” continued the young man, taking out a worn pocket-book. “I am a bad one to remember Christian names, so I just copied the names of the witnesses here in pencil. ‘Edward Blisset Hughes,’ and ‘Sophia Hughes,’” he added, holding it towards Mr. Fauntleroy.
“They were her brother and sister,” remarked Mr. Fauntleroy, in soliloquy, looking at the pencilled marks. “Both are dead now; at least, news came of her death, and he has not been heard of for years: she married young Pycroft.”
“Well, sir,” argued Omer, “if these names had not been in the register, how could I have taken them down? I did not know the names before, or that there ever were such people.”
The argument appeared unanswerable, and Mr. Fauntleroy looked at his hea
d clerk. The latter was not deficient in common sense, and he was compelled to conclude that he had himself done what he had accused Mr. Green of doing — overlooked it.
“Allow me to go down at once to St. James’s, sir,” resumed Omer.
“I will go with you,” said Mr. Fauntleroy. The truth was, he was ill at ease.
They proceeded together to St. James’s church, causing old Hunt to believe that Lawyer Fauntleroy and his establishment of clerks had all gone crazy together. “Search the register three times in one day!” muttered he; “nobody has never done such a thing in the memory of man.”
But neither Omer nor his master, Mr. Fauntleroy, could find any such entry in the register.
CHAPTER III.
DETECTION.
Afternoon school was over. Mr. Wilberforce had been some time at home, and was bestowing a sharp lecture on his son Edwin for some delinquency, when he was told that Lawyer Fauntleroy waited in his study. The master brought his anger to a summary conclusion, and went into the presence of his visitor.
“My business is not of a pleasant nature,” he premised. “I must tell you in confidence, Mr. Wilberforce, that after all the doubt and discredit cast upon the affair, Robert Carr was discovered to have married that girl at St. James’s — your church now — and the entry was found there.”
“I know it,” said Mr. Wilberforce. “I saw it in the register.”
The lawyer stared. “Just repeat that, will you?” said he, putting his hand to his ear as if he were deaf.
“I heard it was to be found there, and the first time afterwards that I had occasion to make an entry in the register, I turned back to the date, out of curiosity, and read it.”
“Now I am as pleased to hear you say that as if you had put me down a five-hundred pound note,” cried Mr. Fauntleroy. “I daresay you’ll not object, if called upon, to bear testimony that the marriage was registered there.”
“The register itself will be the best testimony,” observed Mr. Wilberforce.
“It would have been,” said the lawyer; “but that entry has been taken out of the register.”
“Taken out!” repeated Mr. Wilberforce.
“Taken out. It is not in now.”
“Stuff and nonsense!” cried the master.
“So I said, when my clerks brought me word to-day that it was not in. The first sent, Green — you know the young dandy; it’s but the other day he was in the college school — came back and said it was not there. Kenneth gave him a rowing for carelessness, and went himself. He came back and said it was not there. Then I thought it was time to go; and I went, and took Omer with me, who saw the entry in the book last November, and copied part of it. Green was right, and Kenneth was right; there is no such entry there.”
“This is an incredible tale,” exclaimed Mr. Wilberforce.
The old lawyer drew forward his chair, and peered into the rector’s face. “There has been some devilry at work — saving your calling.”
“Not saving it at all,” retorted Mr. Wilberforce, as hot as when he had been practically demonstrating of what birch is made in the college schoolroom. “Devilry has been at work, in one sense or another, and nothing short of devilry, if it be as you say.”
“It has not only gone, but there’s no trace of it’s going, or how it went. The register looks as smooth and complete as though it had never been in any hands but honest ones. But now,” added the lawyer, “there’s another thing that is puzzling me almost as much as the disappearance itself; and that is, how you got to know of it.”
“I heard of it from Travice Arkell.”
“From Travice Arkell!”
“Yes, I did. And the way I came to hear of it was rather curious,” continued the master. “One of my parishioners was thought to be dying, and I was sent for in a hurry, out of early school. Mr. Prattleton generally attends these calls for me, but this poor man had expressed a wish that I myself should go to him. It was between eight and nine o’clock, and Travice Arkell was standing at their gates as I passed, reading a letter which the postman had just delivered to him. It was from Mrs. Dundyke, with whom the Carrs were stopping — —”
“When was this?” interrupted Mr. Fauntleroy.
“The beginning of November. Travice Arkell stopped me to tell of the strange news that the letter conveyed to him; that a paper had been found in Robert Carr the elder’s writing, stating that the marriage had taken place at St. James the Less, the morning he and Miss Hughes left Westerbury, and it would be found duly entered in the register. The news appeared to me so excessively improbable, that I cautioned Travice Arkell against speaking of it, and recommended him to keep it to himself until the truth or falsehood of it should be ascertained.”
“What made you give him this caution?”
“I tell you; I thought it so improbable that any such marriage should have taken place. I thought it a hoax, set afloat out of mischief, probably by the Carrs of Eckford; and I did not choose that my church, or anything in it, should be made a jest of publicly. Travice Arkell agreed with my view, and gave me his promise not to mention it. His father was away at the time.”
“Where?”
“I really forget. I know he had come home only the day before from a short visit to London, and went out again, somewhere the same day. Travice said he did not expect him back that second time for some days.”
“Well?” said Mr. Fauntleroy, in his blunt manner, for the master had stopped, in thought.
“Well, the next morning Travice Arkell called upon me here. He had had a second letter from Mrs. Dundyke, begging him not to mention to anyone what she had said about the marriage, for Mrs. Carr had received a hasty letter from Mr. Fauntleroy, forbidding her to speak of it to anyone. So, after all, that caution that I gave to Travice might have been an instinct.”
“And do you think he had not mentioned it?”
“I feel sure that he has never allowed it to escape his lips. He has too great a regard for his aunt, Mrs. Dundyke. She feared she had done mischief, and was most anxious. On the following Sunday, when I was marrying a couple in my church before service, and had got the register out, I looked back to the date, and there, sure enough, was the marriage duly entered.”
“And you have not spoken of it?”
“I have not. If, as you say, the marriage is no longer there, it is a most strange thing; an incredible thing. But I’ll see into it.”
“Somebody must see into it,” returned the lawyer, as he departed. “A parish register ought to be kept as sacred as the crown jewels.”
Mr. Wilberforce — a restless man when anything troubled him — started off to Clark Hunt’s, disturbing that gentleman at his tea. “Hunt, follow me,” said he, as he took the key from its niche, “and bring some matches and a candle with you. I want to examine the register.”
“If ever I met with the like o’ this!” cried Hunt, when the master had walked on. “Register, register, register! my legs is aching with the tramping back’ards and for’ards, to that vestry to-day.”
He walked after Mr. Wilberforce as quickly as his lameness would allow. The latter was already in the vestry. He procured the key of the safe (kept in a secret place which no one knew of save himself, the clerk, and the Reverend Mr. Prattleton) opened it, and laid the book before him. Mr. Wilberforce knew, by the date, where the entry ought to be, where it had been, and he was not many minutes ascertaining that it was no longer there.
“Gone and left no trace, as Fauntleroy said,” he whispered to himself. “How can it have been done? The leaf must have been taken out! oh yes, it’s as complete a thing as ever I saw accomplished: and how is it to be proved that it’s gone? This comes of their careless habit of not paging their leaves in those old days: had they been paged, the theft would have been evident. Hunt,” cried he, aloud, raising his head, “this register has been tampered with.”
“Law, sir, that’s just what that great lawyer, Fauntleroy, wanted to persuade me on. He has been a-putting it into your
head, maybe; but don’t you be frighted with any such notion, sir. ‘Rob the register!’ says I to him; ‘no, not unless they robs me of my eyesight first. It’s never touched, nor looked at,’ says I, ‘but when I’m here to take care on it.’”
“A leaf has been taken out. Who has had access here?”
“Not a soul has never had access to this vestry, sir, unless I have been with ‘em, except yourself or Mr. Prattleton,” persisted the old register keeper. “It’s not possible, sir, that the book has been touched.”
“Now don’t argue like that, Hunt,” testily returned Mr. Wilberforce, “I tell you that the register has been rifled, and it could not have been done without access being obtained to it. To whom have you entrusted the key of the church?”
“Never to nobody, save the two young college gents, what comes to play the organ,” said the clerk, stoutly.
“And they could not get access to the register. Some one else must have had the key.”
The old man sat down on a chair, opposite Mr. Wilberforce; placing his two hands on his knees, he stared very fixedly on vacancy. Mr. Wilberforce, who knew his countenance, fancied he was trying to recal something.
“I remember a morning, some time ago,” cried he, slowly, “that one of them senior college gents — but that couldn’t have had nothing to do with the register.”
“What do you remember?” questioned Mr. Wilberforce.
“Your asking if anybody had had the key, put me in mind of it, sir. One of them college seniors; Lewis, it was; came to my house soon after I got up. A rare taking he seemed to be in; with fright, or something like it; and wanted me to lend him the key of the church. ‘No, no, young gent,’ says I, ‘not without the master’s orders.’ He was a panting like anything, and looked as resolute as a bear, and when he heard that, he snatched the key, and tore off with it. Presently, back he comes, saying it was the wrong key and wouldn’t undo the door. Mr. George Prattleton had come round then: Mr. Prattleton had told him to ask about the time fixed for a funeral — which, by token, I remember was Dame Furbery’s — and he took the key from Mr. Lewis, and hung it up, and railed off at me for trusting it to the college gents. Lewis finding he couldn’t get it from me, went after Mr. George Prattleton, and they came back, and Mr. George took the key from the hook to go to the church with Lewis. What it was Lewis had said to him, I don’t pertend to guess, but they was both as white as corpses — as white I know, as ever was dead Dame Furbery in her coffin: which was just about then a being screwed down. After all, they hung the key up again, and didn’t go into the church.”