by Fergus Hume
‘Thank you, Mrs. Tregar, but my father would never have insisted upon my marrying Morgan Bowring.’
‘I should think not, Miss, and you engaged to such a handsome young gentleman. When will the marriage take place, Miss?’
Dericka sighed. ‘I can’t say,’ she replied quietly; ‘we are in great trouble, Mrs. Tregar.’
‘Don’t take that to heart, Miss,’ entreated Mrs. Tregar. ‘Your pa will come out white as moor snow. Him guilty? I wouldn’t believe that,’ concluded the landlady stoutly, ‘if all the judges and jury in Great Britain said as much. There!’
While Dericka was thanking this sympathetic friend Forde came to say that the trap was waiting, and in a few minutes they drove away. Oswald had brought the driver, as it would be necessary to leave someone in charge of the vehicle while they went on the moors.
The day was fine after the rain, and the air breathed clean and fresh, especially when they came to the top of the hill overlooking St. Ewalds. The two said very little during the journey, since what they had to speak about was not meant for the driver’s ears, and an unguarded remark might reveal too much.
They drove past the scene of the murder, past the quarries, where the men were working hard, and rounded the curve behind which lay Penrith’s village and Manor House. The hamlet was of grey stone, severe-looking and bleak, and so suited to the grimness of the country that it appeared as though it was the work of Nature. The Penriths had been settled in these parts before the Flood, and both village and Manor House were called after their name.
Forde, informed by Miss Trevick, knew that the Pengelly mine was not very far up the hill, which hung above the winding road, and therefore instructed the driver to take the trap to the ‘Penrith Crest’, the sole public-house of the village. He and Dericka alighted on the road just under the hill, and choosing a sheep-track, climbed the steep, stony ascent, which was covered with bracken and wiry grass, and sown thickly with lumps of granite.
On the top there appeared a mighty cromlech, and here, somewhat out of breath, they halted for a few minutes.
‘There!’ said Dericka, pointing to a tall chimney some distance away.
Forde nodded, but wasting no words, since time was valuable, led the way down the slope of the hill to the depression, where the abandoned mining works littered the ground. They made their way amongst rubble and refuse, and under broken roofs, and between ruined outhouses. The gaping mouth of the mine yawned near the tall chimney, and on approaching the brink they saw a very perpendicular ladder going down into the depths.
Miss Trevick remembered that a few months before the mine had been reopened by a London speculator, who had drained the levels and readjusted the ladder; but since the work had proved unremunerative, he had abandoned the mine. Still, the depths were clear of water, and comparatively safe, and it was here that Sir Hannibal had found refuge.
‘How horrid!’ said Dericka, after she had imparted this information to her companion.
‘Let me go,’ suggested Forde; ‘you stop here.’
Dericka gave him one look of indignant surprise and replied by placing a dainty foot on the ladder. In a moment or so she disappeared, and Forde, admiring her courage, followed with due care.
Down and down the adventurers dropped into the humid gloom, carefully feeling their way as they approached the unknown. Oswald heard Dericka singing the inappropriate tune which was to be the signal to Sir Hannibal that friends were at hand. He guessed that she had reached the level wherein the baronet had taken up his abode like a troglodyte. Strangely enough, both had forgotten the necessity of taking lanterns or candles, and found themselves involved in deepest gloom a considerable distance below the earth’s surface.
Hand in hand they lingered at the foot of the long ladder which led to the upper world, and shivered in the damp atmosphere.
‘What’s to be done?’ asked Dericka in a whisper, for the place was awesome in its loneliness.
‘Sing again,’ suggested the barrister; ‘these long galleries carry sound for great distances.’
In a somewhat tremulous manner Miss Trevick lifted up a voice clear, sweet and true as that of a lark, and the silvery sound vibrated throughout the sullen depths. Minute after minute passed, and Forde was beginning to think that they had mistaken the mine when far away his quick eye caught the glimmer of a candle.
Seizing the girl’s hand, he guided her towards the gleam, and they stumbled over trolley-rails laid down on the wet uneven ground. At times they had to stop in case they should knock their heads against the dripping roof. The gleam grew stronger and stronger, and once or twice disappeared. When this happened Dericka again sang a snatch of song, and the light reappeared.
Finally, at the end of the gallery, and within a circle of light, they saw the form of a man.
‘Father!’ called out Miss Trevick in her strong, young voice.
‘At last,’ Sir Hannibal called back, and in tremulous tones; ‘oh, thank Heaven that you have come, Dericka.’
Chapter XVIII A Discovery
Miss Trevick, still holding on to Forde, stretched out her hand to the baronet, who, grasping it firmly, drew her and the barrister round a curve in the gallery and led them some distance further on. Then he stepped off the trolley-lines, and, setting down the light on a deal box, illuminated three or four other candles, until there was quite a blaze of light. The visitors found themselves in a kind of niche which had been hollowed out of the live rock by former workers in the mine. The floor of this niche was slightly above the level of the gallery, and therefore was comparatively dry.
By the light of the candles Dericka saw a pile of dried bracken and grass in one corner, which, as she guessed, served her unfortunate father for a bed. There was also a box containing provisions, and a wood fire smouldered on the verge of the niche, where the smoke could ascend through the gallery. There were no seats, naturally, and the trio had to sit on the rocky ground, which, fortunately, was dry.
Having taken in these details of this cave of Adullam, Dericka looked at her father, and was surprised to see what a change there was in his appearance. Formerly he had been a well-preserved, elderly gentleman, handsome and haughty. Now he was worn and pale, white-haired, and unshaven. His shoulders were bowed, and his waxen face was wrinkled, while his eyes appeared dull and unintelligent.
Dericka was terribly shocked to see what a wreck the poor man had become, and gasped as she looked. Her emotions were too deep to find vent in mere words. Sir Hannibal guessed what she felt, and also he caught sight of the pained expression in Forde’s eyes.
‘Yes,’ said Trevick bitterly, ‘you may well look startled, both of you. This is a change from the Dower House.’
‘A change that will not last long,’ said Forde with a brisk confidence he was far from feeling, ‘you will soon be back again, sir.’
‘Ah, that depends,’ said Trevick significantly.
‘Father!’ Dericka caught his hand convulsively; ‘you will never make me believe that you killed Mr. Bowring.’
‘No, dear; no.’ The baronet patted her hand and seemed pleased to hear her speak in this manner. ‘I am, of course, perfectly innocent, but I have enemies who will use all means to ruin me.’
‘But why, father?’
‘Ah!’ Sir Hannibal heaved a weary sigh; ‘that is a long story.’
‘And probably,’ remarked Forde quickly, ‘the very story we have come to hear, Sir Hannibal.’
The hunted man looked up quickly in his turn.
‘What’s that?’
‘Since you left Gwynne Station for London,’ went on the barrister, ‘we—that is, Dericka and myself—have heard strange things.’
‘About me?’ Trevick’s breath came quickly.
Forde nodded. ‘Yes; and about Polwin.’
‘Polwin—my steward?’
‘Yes,’ said Dericka pointedly; ‘about your steward, Samuel Krent.’
The baronet started, and squeezed his daughter’s hand so severely t
hat she winced.
‘How do you know that Polwin’s name is Krent?’
‘Ah,’ said Dericka, mimicking her father’s former speech, ‘that is a long story.’
‘I don’t understand your tone, my child,’ said Sir Hannibal, trying to suppress his agitation.
‘We don’t understand one another,’ remarked Forde with a shrug. ‘It will be best that you should tell us everything.’
‘About what?’ asked the baronet, persistently obstinate.
‘About the Death’s Head, for one thing.’
‘I know nothing about that, Forde.’
‘What, not about Moolu and his—’
‘Who told you that?’ interrupted Trevick imperiously, and much agitated by the significant tone of the barrister.
‘Mrs. Bowring.’
‘Who is she? Bowring’s wife died years ago.’
‘I mean young Mrs. Bowring—Morgan’s wife.’
‘You know about that secret marriage, then,’ stammered Trevick.
Forde looked at him steadily.
‘You seem to have forgotten a great deal, Sir Hannibal,’ said he dryly; ‘of course we know. Do you remember some time ago, we—’
‘Yes, yes,’ Sir Hannibal interrupted again; ‘of course. The rumour was to be put about that I agreed to Dericka marrying Morgan, and then Mrs. Krent was to announce the former marriage. I know—I know; but, what with trouble and nervous fears, I forget much.’
‘Poor father,’ said Miss Trevick softly; ‘but we have not much time to remain here, father. Tell us all quickly, and we will see how you can come back to the Dower House.’
‘I cannot do that, Dericka. Things are too black against me.’
‘You must come, father; you must meet your accusers.’
‘Dericka, I dare not face that warrant. I was absent from the fete when Bowring was killed, but how can I prove that?’
‘Polwin can prove it,’ said Forde quickly.
‘Polwin won’t,’ said Sir Hannibal bitterly. ‘The man is a villain, and wants to ruin me. Why, I can’t say, seeing that he has received nothing but kindness at my hands.’
‘Many people resent kindness,’ said Forde, with a shrug, ‘and try to harm the person who has benefited them. But the position is this, Sir Hannibal; Polwin declares that after Miss Stretton left the fete with Mr. Penrith you went out on your motor-bicycle by the second road, which runs behind the hill. He—Polwin, that is—met you somewhere on the moors, and you asked him if he had seen Miss Stretton. He had not, as they had driven by the other road. Had you gone by that one, you would have caught them up. As it was, you gave the bicycle to Polwin and sent him on to Penrith Manor with a letter for Miss Stretton. Then you—’
‘Then I returned to St. Ewalds,’ continued Trevick quickly, ‘but not to the fete. Listen, Forde, and you, Dericka. I love Miss Stretton, I want to marry her. On the day of the fete had you not appeared I should have asked her to be my wife. But there was no time, and she went away with Penrith, whom I knew was in love with her. I thought he might propose before I did and that I would lose Anne. I therefore wrote a hasty letter asking her to be my wife, and took my motor-bicycle, intending to catch her up and give her the letter.’
‘Was there any need of such a letter?’ asked Dericka pointedly. ‘You could have caught up Miss Stretton and proposed.’
‘What, when Penrith was there? How ridiculous you are, Dericka. I intended to slip the letter into her hand on some excuse and then return. Unfortunately I took the second road, whereas Penrith had driven home by the first road.’
‘Where the murder took place?’
‘Precisely. When I was on the second road, about opposite to this mine, I met Polwin coming across the hill from the quarries. I was tired, and asked him to take the motor-bicycle and follow up Miss Stretton. He consented. Then I walked home and strolled on the beach below the Manor House until dinner time.’
‘Why did you not return to the fete?’ asked Dericka.
The baronet’s pale cheek reddened.
‘I was in love, you see, Dericka, as I am now, and wished to think of the woman I loved. But you see I cannot prove an alibi, as no one to my knowledge saw me on the beach. Consequently, as Bowring, with whom I had quarrelled, was murdered at the time, I am in a dangerous position.’
‘Miss Stretton saw you on the bank near the granite mass which was afterwards heaved on to the road to smash Bowring’s motor.’
‘Forde!’ said the baronet, starting violently when the barrister made this speech. ‘Miss Stretton is my friend: she would not say that.’
‘Is it true, father?’
‘No, Dericka; on my soul it is not true. I acted as I said, and when Polwin went off on the motor I walked back to wander on the beach.’
Dericka looked at Forde, and he at her.
‘Strange!’ said the barrister, much puzzled. ‘I wonder, Sir Hannibal, if anyone was masquerading as you? Miss Stretton declares that she saw you.’
‘I don’t know who can or who did masquerade as me,’ said Trevick calmly, ‘but I assuredly was not near the scene of the murder at that time. But you had better tell me all you know, and then we may see light.’
‘I’ll tell you everything,’ said Forde, after a pause; ‘but in return you must be absolutely frank.’
‘I promise that. Go on.’
The barrister was obliged to be content with this curt promise, and therefore related all that had taken place since his arrival in St. Ewalds. He related the interview with Polwin, the visit of Morgan with the letter dropped by Miss Stretton in Anak’s hut, and finally detailed the strange story about Polwin, alias Krent, related by young Mrs. Bowring.
Trevick listened quietly, with his hand in that of his daughter, and did not interrupt until nearly the end of the story. Then his frequent interruptions showed how indignant he was. Finally, when Oswald had nearly, but not quite, concluded, his indignation took the form of words.
‘You have told quite enough,’ he said angrily; ‘Krent is my enemy.’
‘Oh,’ cried Dericka, ‘do you think that he killed Mr. Bowring?’
‘No,’ said Sir Hannibal sharply; ‘he and Bowring were hand in glove to ruin me. There is considerable truth in what Mrs. Krent says, and some truth in her husband’s story. Polwin, or Krent, or whatever he chooses to call himself, is a villain. He was in partnership with myself and Bowring in Africa, but we had to kick him out since he behaved so badly. He was always getting us into trouble with the natives.’
‘Is it true about the forged bills?’ asked Forde.
‘Perfectly true. But I never held them in terror over Bowring. I simply kept them so that he should not do me any harm. I don’t say that all the business I did over diamonds in Africa was altogether straight, but I was no worse than anyone else. Bowring knew everything, and frequently threatened to make use of his knowledge in St. Ewalds to ruin me. But I said that if he did I would prosecute him for forging the bills. The bills,’ repeated Sir Hannibal bitterly; ‘yes, Bowring forged them in an evil hour, and I obtained possession of them through Krent. Bowring was making all the money and had no need to forge; but he did it in order to bring off a big deal. I could not get the money from him, and consequently he became the millionaire, while I remained poor.’
‘But with the bills you could have got the money,’ suggested Forde.
‘No,’ said Trevick quietly. ‘I did not care about blackmail. I have done many wrong things, but not that, Forde.’
‘But if the money coming from sale of the diamonds was partly yours, Sir Hannibal, you should have received it.’
‘Quite so. When I was in Cape Town, and Bowring up in the Rand, he used my name by these forged bills to get money, and bought a lot of diamonds, intending to bolt. Through Krent, however—’
‘Call him Polwin, father; we will understand better.’
Sir Hannibal nodded and amended his statement.
‘Through Polwin I got hold of the bills and swore to prosecu
te Bowring should he try to clear out with the diamonds, half of which were rightfully mine. He agreed and stopped on. Then came the episode of the Death’s Head, and that to some extent placed me in his power.’
‘Father!’ cried Dericka, alarmed, ‘did you kill Moolu’s son?’
‘No. It was Bowring; but he and Polwin for their own ends put the blame on to me, and as the diamond which Moolu’s son possessed, and for which Bowring killed him, was in my possession, things looked black against me. Bowring gave me the diamond, and refused to take it back.’
‘Why did you not throw it away?’ asked Forde quickly.