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The Mystery Of An Old Murder Page 3


  "She must have been beautiful," said Marjorie, studying the portrait eagerly. It was the portrait of a young woman with flashing black eyes and delicately-cut features. Her powdered hair was brushed back from her forehead over a cushion, and hung in curls on her neck.

  "Yes, her father was very proud of her. And when she ran away with Mr. Carew, it almost broke his heart. He was a changed man ever afterwards, I have heard my mother say. He was my mother's stepfather; Aunt Ellen was his only child."

  "Was grandmother married when Aunt Ellen ran away?" asked Marjorie. She was still looking at the miniature she held; but she had begun to wonder whose that other miniature was, over which Aunt Nell's fingers were clasped so closely.

  "Yes, she had married the year before. Aunt Ellen and grandfather lived at the Manor House alone together. Then she went to Plymouth on a visit, and met Mr. Carew. He held some good post in the dockyards there, and many people thought her father foolish to oppose the marriage. But he had heard things which made him dislike Mr. Carew and mistrust him, and he would not give his consent. And then Mr. Carew persuaded her to run away with him, and they went to Scotland, and were married at Gretna Green. It is quite a romance, isn't it, Marjorie?" and Miss Lane smiled sadly as she met Marjorie's eager glance. "But it ended badly, as such romances so often do in real life. She only lived six years after her marriage. She had several long illnesses and lost her good looks, and her husband neglected her. He was a very handsome, brilliant man, the idol of Plymouth society, and nursing a sick wife was not to his taste. Then he was angry with her because she would not try harder to obtain her father's forgiveness. He seemed to think that if she would go to the Manor House with her boy she would be received. But she knew her father better than he did, and was sure he would refuse to see her. And after six years she died."

  "Was her father sorry then?" asked Marjorie eagerly. "Did he make friends with Mr. Carew?"

  "No, his grief made him still more bitter. For years he lived on at the Manor House alone, with only an old manservant to keep him company. We children used to be taken to see him now and then, and I remember how frightened I used to be at the big gloomy rooms and the silence of the place. It is a beautiful old house, Marjorie. You will see it next week as you drive from Bodmin."

  "It is shut up now, is it not?" asked Marjorie timidly.

  "Yes, I will tell you why presently. It has been shut up for years, my dear."

  There was a change in Aunt Nell's voice, and her lips were trembling, but she went hastily on: "Grandfather was a rich man, though he lived like a very poor one. The estate is not a large one, though once the Vyvyans owned all the land about St. Mawan. But there was a tin-mine on the downs—it is deserted now. You will see the shaft of it surrounded by heaps of rubbish, overgrown with grass and heather. But in grandfather's time it was very productive, and he made a great deal of money by it. Then he made still more by his ships; he had a number, some of them used for smuggling, I fear. Everybody smuggled in those days in St. Mawan. His great-uncle was called Miser Vyvyan, and after his death large sums of money were found hidden behind wainscotings and under the hearthstones, and in all sorts of queer places. And as grandfather became older the same love of hoarding grew upon him. My mother always believed he had a large amount of money hidden somewhere in the old house. I have heard her talking to my father about it, and saying it was not safe for him to live alone. That was before Robert came to live at the Manor House."

  Marjorie looked up quickly. Even to her youthful ears the way in which her aunt uttered her cousin's name said a great deal. Miss Lane hurried on:

  "You know who he was, Marjorie; Aunt Ellen's son. The land was entailed, and grandfather could not have willed it away from him. And when, after some years, Mr. Carew wrote, begging that his son might see the old house in which his mother had been born, and which was one day to be his own, grandfather consented to receive him, but on the condition that his father did not accompany him. He did not answer Mr. Carew's letter himself; his lawyer wrote. He was as determined as ever to hold no communication with him. Robert spent a month at St. Mawan that summer. He was just fifteen, and your mother and I were twelve. After that he came every year, and stayed longer and longer each time, till at last he really lived at the Manor House and only visited his father. I think Mr. Carew was glad to have him away from home. As was found out afterwards, he was deeply in debt, and had all kinds of difficulties about money-matters, which Robert knew nothing of. He was passionately attached to his father, and though his grandfather would not allow his name to be mentioned in his presence, he constantly talked to us about him. We were together a great deal. A day rarely passed without our seeing each other. Your mother and I loved being on the water, and Robert often took us out in his boat. Your grandmother never troubled about us if Robert was with us. She knew how careful he was."

  Miss Lane stopped, looking dreamily into the fire, a faint, sad smile on her lips. Marjorie knew she was thinking of those happy days so long ago. She kept breathlessly still; not by a word or a look would she have disturbed her aunt's thoughts. But it was only for a moment Miss Lane paused. She went on in a steady voice:

  "When Robert was eighteen he went to Oxford, and was there three years. He spent nearly all his vacations with us; grandfather was failing in health, and always grew restless and ill if he stayed more than a day or two, in Plymouth. And his father was more anxious than ever to keep Robert away from him. His affairs were in a desperate state; he had begun to be shunned by men of good position, and his most intimate friend was now a man named Baroni, who had lately come to Plymouth, and of whom very little was known. Robert disliked this man intensely, and it troubled him that he should be on terms of intimacy with his father. But he was as yet wholly ignorant of his father's bankrupt condition. Mr. Carew always spoke cheerfully to him. I think he really loved his son, and wanted to keep his good opinion. If he had only confided in him!"

  Marjorie had moved from her chair and was kneeling by her aunt's side. She put her arm round her as she heard her voice tremble, and Miss Lane turned and looked down at her with sad, loving eyes.

  "Darling, it is a terrible story I have to tell you. I will try to be as short as I can. The first time Robert learnt that his father was in great need of money was the autumn after he left Oxford. Mr. Baroni came to St. Mawan to survey some land which a company he was interested in thought of leasing for mining purposes.

  "He stayed at the inn for a fortnight or more, and spent a good deal of time in exploring the coast. He joined us in some of our boating expeditions, and I have never disliked anyone so much. We were all very glad when he went away. Little things he had said to Robert had made him very anxious about his father, and the next market-day after he left, Robert went to Plymouth to see Mr. Carew.

  "There was no coach between Bodmin and Plymouth then, but Tregelles's van went from St. Mawan to Bodmin on market-days, as I dare say it does still. And Robert used to go as far as Bodmin in that, and then post on from there. That morning I walked along the cliffs with him for a mile or two, and then across the downs to meet the van at the top of Polruan Hill. It was a lovely, fresh, breezy morning; I can remember every step of that walk. As we passed Blackdown Point we saw a small schooner off the point, and Robert laughingly remarked that if he was a revenue officer he should keep a sharp watch on her. She was a stranger; we knew every vessel belonging to St. Mawan, and we had never seen this particular schooner before. But we forgot all about her as we turned inland. And I did not go back by the cliffs.

  "That afternoon, as we were sewing in the parlour, Mr. Bulteel came in to tell us that Robert's father had just arrived in the town, and, leaving his horse at the inn, had gone to the Manor House. It was startling news, almost incredible; but Mr. Bulteel assured us there was no mistake. The landlord had talked with him for ten minutes or so. He had told him that Robert had started for Plymouth that morning, at which Mr. Carew had seemed greatly vexed. He had stayed the night at Padstow, he said,
and thus had not met his son. Mother wondered whether she ought to go up to the Manor House; she feared the effect of such a meeting on grandfather, who was very feeble. But Mr. Bulteel persuaded her not to go, and, indeed, that afternoon she was not fit for the exertion, for she had been ill for days with one of her heart attacks.

  "So we waited, expecting every moment to hear a knock at the front-door; for we felt sure that Mr. Carew would not go back to Plymouth without calling on us. Only the week before I had had a very kind letter from him. But just as the dusk had fallen Mr. Bulteel came again to startle us. Mr. Carew had gone without a word. He had gone into the courtyard of the inn and ordered his horse and ridden off at a gallop towards Padstow.

  "Marjorie, I do not know how to tell you the rest. Grandfather had sent his old servant, and the girl who had come to help him since Robert lived there, into Bodmin that afternoon for some stores. When they got back it was to find the house dark and silent, and their master lying dead in the arched passage leading from the hall to the kitchens. He had been shot through the heart."

  Marjorie's hands tightened their clasp on Aunt Nell's arm; she gave a low murmur of pity and horror, but did not speak. And it was a moment or two before Miss Lane could go on.

  "Mr. Carew was never found, Marjorie. They traced him to Padstow; his horse was brought to the inn by a boy to whom he had given it just outside the town. But nothing further was ever definitely known. People believe he escaped to France, perhaps in that vessel we saw off Blackdown Point. And there was one fact that seemed to prove that it was to France he went. He had papers of great importance with him, relating to our coast defences, and these were afterwards found in the possession of French officials. They may have been stolen from him, he may have sold them. It was said of him that he had been a spy for years in the pay of the French Government, like his friend Baroni, who had had to flee for his life from Plymouth almost directly after returning from St. Mawan. But I have never believed that of him, Marjorie, never. Robert could not have loved him so if that had been true. He was passionate, and grandfather had a bitter tongue. They quarrelled, and he became mad with rage. It was no premeditated act. I have never believed it."

  She gently loosed herself from Marjorie's clasp, and rose from her chair and moved away a few steps towards the window. Quietly as she had spoken, it had been a terrible task she had set herself, and now it was ended she felt faint and trembling.

  She leant against the window and looked out at the quiet garden, pressing her throbbing forehead against the cool glass. Marjorie sat and watched her, her heart too full to let her speak. She felt she would like to throw herself at her aunt's feet and kiss the hem of her garment. How had she been so cheerful, so loving, when all the joy of her own life had been taken away?

  Presently Miss Lane came back to her seat by Marjorie. She had something else to tell her, something Marjorie had guessed already. All the while she had been speaking she had been holding Robert Carew's miniature, but now she put it into Marjorie's hand.

  "This is my cousin Robert, dear," she said gently. "I want you to see it." And as Marjorie bent down to look at it by the firelight she added, "We were engaged, Marjorie. We were to have been married in the following year. But it was not to be."

  Marjorie hardly heard the last sadly-uttered words. She was gazing fixedly down, at the dark, handsome, vivid face of the young man in the miniature. Where had she seen that face before? She had seen it, she felt sure. And then it suddenly flashed upon her. The man who had been standing in the garden, gazing in at the window, was Robert Carew. He was greatly changed, all the youth had gone out of his face, but she was certain that it was he. And as she thought of him and Aunt Nell, the tears began to fall fast, and Miss Lane heard a little choking sob.

  She bent quickly over her. "Marjorie, I shall be sorry I told you. Dear child, you must not be unhappy over it."

  It was on Marjorie's lips to tell her that she had seen Robert Carew that afternoon, but she kept the words back. She remembered how he had hurried away. He had evidently wished to remain unknown, and she would not betray him. And before she could speak, her aunt went hastily on: "No one blamed him, no one could have blamed him. But he felt it right for us to part. And my mother insisted on it. He went away, and sometime afterwards we heard he had left England. I think he went to try and find his father. He would not believe him guilty, Marjorie."

  Marjorie looked quickly up. "Oh, Aunt Nell, do you think—?"

  Miss Lane interrupted her. "I fear there can be no doubt, Marjorie. Robert's love for his father blinded him. And perhaps by this time he thinks as we thought. It is sixteen years since we saw him."

  The tone in which she said this was quiet, but intensely sad; it pierced Marjorie's loving heart. She caught her aunt's hand, holding it close against her face with an inarticulate murmur of pity and love. Oh, if only she could do something to bring back Aunt Nell's lost happiness! If only the mystery surrounding Mr. Carew's fate could be solved and he could be proved an innocent man!

  CHAPTER 4

  marjorie leaves home

  It was on a bright sunshiny March morning that Marjorie and her father started for St. Mawan. They drove to Driscombe in time for the early coach, which, however, only availed them for the first stage of their journey. At Tresco, a small town on the Plymouth

  Road, Mr. Drew hired a post-chaise, and they drove by cross country roads to Bodmin, whence, as it was market-day, Tregelles's van would take them to St. Mawan, if Mr. Bulteel had not been able to meet them with his trap.

  Marjorie was delighted with Bodmin, which seemed a sort of metropolis to her. As she walked up the long hilly street, past the town-hall and the numerous shops, she felt the same elation a girl feels now on seeing Regent Street for the first time. And her eyes were busy at work as they passed the windows of the mantua-makers, where the latest fashions from Plymouth were displayed. Marjorie was not over-fond of dress, but it gratified her to see that her pelisse was just the right length, and that her mother had been right in putting three instead of two ostrich plumes on her bonnet.

  They were half-way up the street when Marjorie noticed a little crowd gathered round the arched gateway of the principal inn. They were waiting for the mail-coach from Plymouth, her father told her. It came in daily at this hour.

  "Do let us stop and see it," Marjorie begged eagerly. "It may bring some news from the war, father."

  The rector smiled at her eagerness, but was not at all loth to stop. He did not join the little throng of sightseers about the inn, however, but stood on the opposite side of the street, looking into the bookshop, where a tempting row of tall folios had caught his eye behind the small-paned windows; till presently there came the cheerful sound of a horn, and the mail-coach, the scarlet body and yellow wheels all splashed with mud, rattled gaily over the paved street and drew up at the inn, true to its time to a moment.

  There was only one inside passenger, a man of middle height, with thin sloping shoulders. He got slowly out and went up the steps of the inn, leaning on his stick. He wore a pair of large blue spectacles, and was apparently in feeble health. One of the outside passengers was known to the rector, a prosperous individual with farmer written all over him, from the top of his low-crowned beaver hat to the thick soles of his high boots. He wore a blue cloth coat buttoned tightly across his broad chest, with a large white neck cloth above it, and a bunch of heavy seals dangled at his fob. He hailed the rector in a loud, cheerful voice, and while Mr. Drew stepped across to speak to him, to exchange snuff-boxes and discuss the last news from the Peninsula, Marjorie had time to watch the cheerful scene. The coach went no farther than Bodmin at that time, and presently disappeared under the archway, into the courtyard, to remain there till the time came for its return journey to Plymouth. The coachman and guard were both Bodmin men, and a great deal of friendly raillery went on in broad Cornish between them and their neighbours. The landlord in shirt-sleeves, and his wife with a spotless lawn handkerchief folded over her
ample bosom, were at the inn door enjoying the fun, and occasionally taking part in it. Good-humour was in the air, and in those days people had leisure to be mirthful.

  But there was a cloud on the rector's brow when he rejoined Marjorie. He had just heard from his friend that Robert Carew was in England. He had been met in Plymouth the week before by a cousin of Mr. Willyams, and though he had said nothing about going to St. Mawan, the rector felt it most probable that he meant to return there. Mr. Drew was not by any means an unsympathetic person, and he pitied his wife's cousin from the bottom of his heart. But he wished he would stay out of Cornwall. Now Nell had forgotten the past and learnt to be happy again, he did not want her mind disturbed. But he said nothing of Robert Carew to Marjorie. He began to talk to her of the old friends to whose house he was taking her.

  "I hope you will see Mr. Paul's grandmother, child. She is an old, old woman, and remembers the death of Queen Anne. Just think of that!"

  Marjorie opened her blue eyes wide at this. Queen Anne's reign seemed to her to lie far back in the dim, mysterious past. It was with a shock of wonder she heard that there was anyone alive who could remember even the end of it.

  The Pauls lived in a delightful old house just outside the town. Captain Paul had made the voyage to India many times, and the parlour was full of all sorts of curiosities he had brought home with him.

  Marjorie spent a most interesting hour in examining them, and in talking to Mrs. Paul. But she was hoping all the time that she would be able to see the wonderful old lady her father had spoken of, and she eagerly looked her gratitude when Mrs. Paul suggested that they should go upstairs to her grandmother's room for a few moments.

  It was a tiny, shrivelled old woman in a high mob-cap and snowy frills who sat in the cushioned chair by the fire in the big cheery upper room. With her ebony stick and her gold-rimmed spectacles, and small sharp features, she looked, Marjorie thought, exactly like Cinderella's fairy godmother.