by Ellen Wood
“No,” as quietly, and certainly as calmly, came the answer, “I had no cause to injure Mr. Ollivera. I never saw him in my life. I am not sure that I knew there was a barrister of the name. I don’t think I ever heard of him until after he was in the grave where he is now lying.”
“But — you must have known Mr. Ollivera was so-yourning in Mrs. Jones’s house at the same time that you were?”
“I beg your pardon, Sir Thomas; I did not know that anyone was lodging there except myself. Miss Rye, whom I saw for a few minutes occasionally, never mentioned it, neither did the servant, and they were the only two inmates I conversed with. For all I knew, or thought, Mrs. Jones occupied the drawing-room herself. I once saw her sitting there, and the maid was carrying out the tea-tray. No,” emphatically concluded the speaker, “I did not know Mr. Ollivera was in the house; and if I had known it, I should not have sought to harm him.”
The words were simple enough; and they were true. Judge Kene, skilled in reading tones and looks, saw that much. The party felt at a non-plus: as far as Alletha Rye went, the taking her into custody appeared to have been a mistake.
“You will swear to this testimony of yours, Mr. — Winter?”
“When you please. The slight amount of facts — the sounds — that reached me in regard to what took place in Mr. Ollivera’s room, I have related truthfully. Far from Miss Rye’s having had ought to do with it, she was not even in the house at the time: I affirm it as before heaven.”
“Who was the man?” asked Judge Kene — and Mr. Butterby, as he heard the question, gave a kind of derisive sniff. “Come; tell us that, Mr. Winter.”
“I cannot tell you,” was George Winter’s answer. “Whoever it was, he went down the stairs quickly. I was looking over top balustrades then, and caught but a transient glimpse of him.”
“But you saw his face beforehand? — when he looked out of the room?”
“I saw some one’s face. Only for a minute. Had I known what was to come of it later, I might have noticed better.”
“And this is all you have to tell us?” cried Henry William Ollivera in agitation.
“Indeed it is all. But it is sufficient to exonerate Miss Rye.”
“And now, Bede, what do you know?” suddenly spoke Mr. Greatorex. “You have acknowledged to me that you suspected at the time it was not a case of suicide.”
Bede Greatorex came forward. All eyes were turned upon him. That he was nerving himself to speak, and far more inwardly agitated than appeared on the surface, the two practised observers saw. Judge Kene looked at him critically and curiously: there was something in the case altogether, and in Bede himself, that puzzled him.
“It is not much that I have to tell,” began Bede, in answer to his father, as he put his hand heavily on the table, it might be for a support to rest on: and his brow seemed to take a pallid hue, and the silver threads in his once beautiful hair were very conspicuous as he stood. “A circumstance caused me to suspect that it was not a case of suicide. In fact, that it was somewhat as Mr. Brown has described it to be — namely, that some one else caused the death.”
A pause of perfect silence. It seemed to Bede that the very coals, cracking in the grate, sounded like thunder.
“What was the circumstance?” asked Mr. Greatorex, for no one else liked to interrupt. “Why did you not speak of it at the time?”
“I could not speak of it then: I cannot speak of it fully now. It was of a nature so — so — so — .” Bede came to a full stop: was he getting too agitated to speak, or could he not find a word? “What I would say is,” he continued, in a firm low tone, rallying his nerves, “that it was sufficient to show me the facts must have been very much as Mr. Brown now states them.”
“Then you only think that, Bede?”
“It is more than thinking. By all my hopes of Heaven, I declare that Alletha Rye had not, and could not have had, anything to do with John’s death,” he added with emotion. “Father, you may believe me: I do know so much.”
“But why can you not disclose what it is you know?”
“Because the time has not come for it. William, you are looking at me with reproachful eyes: if I could tell you more, I would. The secret — so much as I know of it — has lain on me with a leaden weight: I would only have been too glad to disburthen myself of it at first, had it been possible.”
“And what rendered it impossible?” questioned the clergyman.
“That which renders it so now. I may not speak; if I might, I should be far more thankful than any of you who hear me.”
“Is it a secret of trust reposed in you?”
Bede paused. “Well, yes; in a degree. If I were to speak of what I know, I do not think there is one present” — and Bede’s glance ran rapidly over each individual face— “but would hush it within his own breast, as I have done.”
“And you have a suspicion of who the traitor was?”
“A suspicion I may have. But for aught else — for elucidation you and I must be content alike to wait.”
“Elucidation!” spoke the clergyman, in something like derision. “It will not, I presume, ever be allowed to come.”
“Yes, it will, William,” answered Bede, quietly. “Time — events — heaven — all are working rapidly on for it. Alletha Rye is innocent; I could not affirm that truth to you more solemnly if I were dying. She must be set at liberty.”
As it was only on the question of her guilt or innocence that the council had been called, it seemed that there was nothing more to do than to break it up.
An uncomfortable sensation of doubt, dissatisfaction, and mystery, lay on all. The clergyman stalked away in haughty displeasure. Bede Greatorex, under cover of the crowd, slid his hand gratefully for a moment into that of George Winter, his sad eyes sending forth their thanks. Then he turned to the Judge.
“You can give the necessary authority for the release, Sir Thomas.”
“Can I?” was the answer, as Sir Thomas looked at him. “I’ll talk about it with Butterby. But I should like to have a private word first with Mr. Winter.”
“Why! you do not doubt that she is innocent?”
“Oh dear no; I no longer doubt that. Winter,” he added in a whisper, laying his hand on the clerk’s shoulder to draw him outside, “whose face was it that you saw at the door of the room?”
“Tell him,” said Bede suddenly, for he had followed them. “You will keep the secret, Kene, as I have kept it?”
“If it be as I suspect, I will,” emphatically replied the Judge. —
“Tell him,” repeated Bede, as he walked away. “Tell him all that you know, Winter, from first to last.” It caused Mr. Greatorex and Butterby to be left alone together. The former, not much more pleased than William Ollivera, utterly puzzled, hurt at the want of confidence displayed by Bede in not trusting him, was in a downright ill-temper.
“What the devil is all this, Butterby?” demanded he. “What does it mean?”
Mr. Butterby, cool as a cucumber, let his eyelashes close for a moment over his non-betraying eyes, and then answered in meek simplicity.
“Ah, that’s just it, sir — what it means. Wait, says your son Mr. Bede; wait patiently till things has worked round a bit, till such time as I can speak out. And depend upon it, Mr. Greatorex, he has good cause to give the advice.”
“But what can it be that he has to tell? And why should he wait at all to tell it?”
“Well, I suppose he’d like to be more certain of the party,” answered Butterby, with a dubious cough. “Take a word of advice from me too, Mr. Greatorex, on this here score, if I may make bold to offer it — do wait. Don’t force your son to disclose things afore they are ripe. It might be better for all parties.”
Mr. Greatorex looked at him. “Who is it that you suspect?”
“Me!” exclaimed Butterby. “Me suspect! Why, what with one odd thought or another, I’d as lieve say it must have been the man in the moon, for all the clue we’ve got. It was not Miss Rye: ther
e can’t be two opinions about that. I told you, sir, I had my strong doubts when you ordered her to be apprehended.”
“At any rate, you said she confessed to having done it,” sharply spoke Mr. Greatorex, vexed with everybody.
“Confound the foolish women! what would the best of ’em not confess to, to screen a sweetheart? Alletha Rye has been thinking Winter guilty all this while, and when it came to close quarters and there seemed a fear that he’d be taken up for it, she said what she did to save him. I see it all. I saw it afore Godfrey Pitman was half way through his tale: and matters that have staggered me in Miss Rye, are just as clear to read now as the printing in a big book. When she made that there display at the grave — which you’ve heard enough of, may be, Mr. Greatorex — she had not had her doubts turned on Godfrey Pitman; she’d thought he was safe away earlier in the afternoon: when she got to learn he had come back again in secret, and was in the house at the time, why then she jumped to the conclusion that he had done the murder. I remember.”
Mr. Butterby was right. This was exactly how it had been. Alletha Rye had deemed George Winter guilty all along; on his side, he had only supposed she shunned him on account of the affair at Birmingham. There had been mutual misunderstanding; tacit, shrinking avoidance of all explanation; and not a single word of confidence to clear it up. George Winter could not seek to be too explicit so long as the secret he was guarding had to be kept: if not for his own sake, for that of others, he was silent.
“As to what Bede’s driving at, and who he suspects, I am in ignorance,” resumed Mr. Greatorex. “I am not pleased with his conduct: he ought to let me know what he knows.”
“Now, don’t you blame him afore you hear his reasons, sir. He’s sure to have ‘em: and I say let him alone till he can take his own time for disclosing things.” Which won’t be of one while, was the detective’s mental conclusion.
“About Miss Rye? Are you here, Butterby?”
The interruption came from Judge Kene. As he walked in, closing the door after him, they could but be struck with the aspect of his face. It was all over of a grey pallor; very much as though its owner had received some shock of terror.
“What is the matter, Judge?” hastily asked Mr. Greatorex. “Are you ill?”
“I’ll? No. Why do you ask? Look so! — Oh, I have been standing in a room without fire and grew rather cold there,” carelessly replied the Judge.
CHAPTER XLI.
A Telegram for Roland Yorke.
LOUNGING quite back in the old elbow horsehair chair, his feet stretched out on the hob on either side the fire, which elegant position he had possibly learnt at Port Natal, sat Mr. Roland Yorke. He had just come home to his five o’clock tea, and took the occasion to indulge in sundry reminiscences while waiting for it to be brought to him. Christmas had passed, these two or three days now; the brief holiday was over, and working days were going on again.
Roland’s mood was a subdued one. All things seemed to be, more or less, tinted with gloom. Hamish Channing was dying; a summons had been sent for his friends; the last hour could not now be very far off: and Roland felt it deeply. The ill, worked by his brother Gerald, seemed never to go out of his mind for a moment, sleeping or waking. Vexation of a different kind was also his. Day after day in his sanguine temperament he had looked for a letter from Sir Vincent Yorke, appointing him to the post of bailiff; and no such letter came. Roland, who had heard nothing of the slight accident caused by Gerald (you may be very sure Gerald would not be the one to speak of it), supposed the baronet was in Paris with Miss Trehern. A third source of discomfort lay in the office. Bede Greatorex, whose health since the past few days had signally failed, avowed himself at last unequal to work, and an extra amount of it fell upon his clerks. Roland thought it a sin and a shame that before Christmas Day had well turned, he should have, as he phrased it, to “stick to it like any dray-horse.” A rumour had arisen in the office that Bede Greatorex was going away with his wife for change and restoration, and that Mr. Brown was to be head of the department in Bede’s place. Roland did not regard the prospect with pleasure: Mr. Brown being a regular martinet in regard to keeping the clerks to their duty.
The grievance that lay uppermost on his mind this evening, was the silence of Sir Vincent. For Hamish he had grieved until it seemed that he could grieve no longer; the rumoured change in the office might never be carried out; but on the score of Sir Vincent’s neglect there was no palliation.
“I’d not treat him so,” grumbled Roland, his complaint striving to find relief in words. “Even if the place was gone when I applied, or he thought I’d not suit, he might write to me. It’s all very fine for him, kicking up his heels in Paris, and dining magnificently in the restaurants off partridges and champagne, and forgetting a fellow as he forgets me; but if his whole hopes in life lay on the die, he’d remember, I know. If I knew his address over there, I’d drop him another letter and tell him to put me out of suspense. For all the answer that has come to me, one might think he had never had that first letter of mine. He has had it though, and it’s a regular shame of him not to acknowledge it, when my heart was set on being able to carry Hamish the cheering news, before he died, that Annabel was provided for. If Dick would only give ns a pretty little cottage down yonder and a couple of hundreds a-year! It wouldn’t be much for Dick to give, and I’d serve him bravely day and night. I declare I go into Hamish’s room as sheep-faced as a calf, with the shame of having no news to tell. Annabel says — Oh, it’s you, Miss Rye, is it! Precious cold to-night!”
Miss Rye had come in with the small tea-tray: the servant was busy. She wore a knot of blue ribbon in her hair, and looked otherwise bright. Since a private interview held with Mr. Butterby and George Winter, when they returned to release her from custody, she had appeared like a different woman. Her whole aspect was changed: the sad, despairing fear on her face had given place to a look of rest and hope. Roland had taken occasion to give Mr. Butterby a taste of what that gentleman called “sauce,” as to his incurable propensity for apprehending the wrong person, and was advised in return to mind his own business. While Mrs. Jones had been existing since in a chronic state of tartness; for she could not come to the bottom of things, and Alletha betrayed anything but a readiness to enlighten her.
“What’s for tea?” asked Roland, lazily, turning his head to get a view of the tray.
“They have boiled you an egg,” replied Miss Rye. “There was nothing else in the house. Have you seen your letter, Mr. Yorke?”
“A letter!” exclaimed Roland, starting up with so much alacrity as to throw down the chair, for his hopes suddenly turned to the vainly-expected communication from Sir Vincent. “Where is it? When did it come? Good old Dick!”
It had come just as he went out after dinner, she answered, as she took the letter — which bore a foreign post-mark — from the mantlepiece to hand to him. And eager Roland’s spirits went down to zero as he tore it open, for he recognised the writing to be, not Dick Yorke’s, but Lord Carrick’s.
“Oh, come though, it’s rather good,” said he, running his eyes down the plain and sprawling hand — very much like his own. “Carrick has come out of his troubles; at least, enough of them to show himself by daylight again in the old country; he will be over in London directly. I say, Miss Rye, I’ll bring him here, and introduce him to you and Mrs. J.”
And Miss Rye laughed as she left the room more freely than she had laughed for many a day.
“Perhaps Carrick can put me into something!” self-communed Roland, cutting off the top of his egg, and taking in a half-slice of inch-thick bread-and-butter at a bite. “I know he’ll not want the will when I tell him about Annabel.”
The last morsel was eaten, and Roland was on the point of demanding more, for his appetite never failed, when he heard some one come to the house and enquire for Mr. Yorke. Visions of the arrival of Lord Carrick flashed over him; he made a dash to the passage, and very nearly threw down a meek little gentleman, who was
being shown into his room.
“Halloa!” said Roland, the corners of his mouth dropping with disappointment. “Is it only you?”
For the visitor was nobody but little Jenner. He had brought a communication from Mr. Greatorex, and took off his hat while he delivered it.
“You are to go back with me to the office at once, if you please, Mr. Yorke. Mr. Greatorex wants you.”
“What have I done now?” questioned Roland, anticipative of a reprimand.
“It is not for anything of that sort, sir. I believe Sir Vincent Yorke has telegraphed for you to go down to him at Sunny Mead. The despatch said you were to lose no time.”
Whether Roland leaped highest or shouted loudest, the startled house could not have decided. The anticipated bailiff’s place was, in his imagination, as surely his, as though he had been installed in it formally. To wash his hands, brush his hair, and put on a superfine coat took but a minute, before he was striding to the office, little Jenner on the run by his side, and to the presence of Mr. Greatorex.
Into which he went with a burst. The lawyer received him calmly and showed the message from Surrey.
“Sir Vincent Yorke to Mr. Greatorex.
“Send Roland Yorke down to me by first train. Lose no time.”
“Good old Dick!” repeated Roland, in the fulness of his heart. “I thought he’d remember me; and there was I, reproaching him like an ungrateful Tomcat! It is to appoint me to the bailiff’s place, Mr. Greatorex.”
“Well — it may be,” mused Mr. Greatorex. “But I had fancied the post was filled up.”
“Not it, sir. Long live Dick! When did he come back from Paris?”
“I know nothing about Sir Vincent’s recent movements, Mr. Yorke. You had better be getting to the Waterloo Station. Have you money for the journey?”
“I’ve got about sevenpence-halfpenny, sir.”
Mr. Greatorex took a half-sovereign from his desk, and ten shillings in silver. “I don’t know how often the trains run,” he observed, “but if you go at once to the station, you will be all right for the first that starts.”