The Mystery Of An Old Murder Read online

  It was a dreary spot, made still more dreary by the decaying timbers and the grass-grown heaps of rubbish, which spoke of a time when the place had echoed with the cheerful sounds of labour.

  The girls went to the mouth of the shaft and looked into it. Marjorie dropped a stone, and it splashed into water far below.

  "Come away, do," cried Kitty, dragging her by the arm. "I am frightened out of my life. It must go down to the middle of the earth."

  Marjorie laughed at her, but she herself was glad to go; the splash of that stone had set her shivering. They climbed back over the grass-grown heaps and turned towards the fir-trees, whose tops rose above the hillside, marking the position of the Manor House. But they had only gone a step or two when Kitty again clutched Marjorie's arm.

  "What is that? Listen, can you hear?"

  It was a strange, long-drawn melancholy cry which Kitty had heard, a haunting cry. As they stood listening, it came again, though not so distinctly.

  "It must be what father told me of," said Marjorie, after listening in vain for it to be repeated. "The air trying to get out of the cave."

  But Kitty walked quickly on. "Old Tregony believes the Point is haunted," she said in a whisper, as if afraid to hear her own voice. "And I would not come here at night, Marjorie, no, not for a thousand pounds."

  It was pleasant to get into the fir-wood, where the rooks were building their nests in the forks of the tall trees. The wood had looked gloomy to Marjorie from the road as she drove past the day before, but she found it was full of light and cheerfulness. A squirrel looked down at them with bright brown eyes as they passed, and then swung himself gaily away from branch to branch. Kitty had never seen a squirrel before, and she was delighted with the cunning little fellow. Then a couple of rabbits darted across their path, and hid themselves in the withered bracken that made a carpet of gold under the trees. And Marjorie's quick eyes espied a nest in a thick bramble bush that had already two speckled eggs in it. But for the fear of keeping Mr. Drew and Mr. Bulteel waiting they would have liked to linger in the wood; as it was, Marjorie found it difficult to get Kitty away from the nest. Grand scenery bored Kitty, and she frankly detested the sea, but the wood with its wonders fascinated her.

  The path through the wood led to the lawn, beautiful even in its neglect, with its fine trees and deep velvety turf. But it was on the house the girls fixed their eyes, Marjorie's full of sadness. She was thinking that this might have been Aunt Nell's home, but for the terrible shadow on it.

  It was an Elizabethan mansion, with wide mullioned windows and a noble doorway. It was built of gray stone, the mullions and doorway of granite, and the effect would have been cold and severe but for the warm reds and yellows with which time had enriched the cold hue of the stone, and the plentiful wealth of creepers.

  The upper windows were shuttered, but those on the lower floor were open, and as the girls passed along the gravel terrace in front of the house, they saw in one of the rooms Mr. Drew talking to a little old woman in a mob-cap and red knitted crossover.

  The great door leading into the hall was flung back, and as they approached it, Mr. Bulteel came out of the hall, an odd, worried look on his ruddy face, as if something had happened to puzzle him greatly.

  "Why, girls, we began to think you were lost," he called out to them. "Well, do you want to go down a mine-shaft, eh? I'll drive you over to Wheal Lizzy tomorrow if you particularly wish it."

  Kitty declared fervently that she never wanted to see a mine again. "And that shaft is a horrible place, Uncle James. Anybody might fall down it and never be heard of any more."

  "Poor Kit, you wish yourself safe home in London again, don't you?" laughed her uncle. "But nobody is going to throw you down the shaft, you need not be afraid. But come in. Captain O'Brien is here, taking a look at the old house."

  Captain O'Brien was standing before the portrait of Jasper Vyvyan, which hung over the mantelpiece, but he turned as Mr. Bulteel and the girls entered, and came slowly towards them across the shining oak floor, leaning on his stick. He held his hat in his hand, and looked much younger without it, white as his hair was.

  He appeared eager to improve his acquaintance with Mr. Bulteel, and Kitty, at least, was charmed by his courtly manners.

  But Marjorie could not put away her first unreasoning dislike of him. His deathly-pale face, with the long, livid scar that distorted the upper lip, drawing it up on the left side showing the teeth, at once fascinated and repelled her. And she knew what strange, piercing black eyes those blue spectacles hid. She felt they were looking through and through her every time he turned to address her.

  She moved away as soon as she could, and wandered round the panelled hall looking at the portraits, while he talked to Kitty and Mr. Bulteel. An open door she came to, gave her a glimpse of an arched passage, panelled and roofed in dark shining oak like the hall. She stepped within the door to examine it more closely, and then hastily retreated, remembering with a shiver that this must be the passage in which Mr. Vyvyan's body had been found. But she had noticed the rich carving that ornamented each rib of the roof and each panel of the walls, and the date, sixteen hundred and seven, cut deeply in Roman figures above the doorway opposite to that by which she had entered.

  She went back into the hall and closed the door softly behind her. The others were still standing by the wide fireplace; Kitty and Captain O'Brien were talking of the delights of London, and Mr. Bulteel stood a little apart, rubbing one hand slowly over the other, a trick of his when deep in thought, as Marjorie had already noticed.

  She passed him without speaking, and stood looking up at Jasper Vyvyan's portrait. It was a dark, handsome face she looked at, strong, and yet full of sweetness. The firmly-closed lips looked as if they had the trick of smiling; the dark eyes were both keen and tender. It was a little like the miniature Aunt Nell had shown her, more like what Robert Carew might have been if life had gone well with him. Jasper Carew had been a man of thirty-five when this portrait was painted—years of happy prosperity lay behind him. And there was little in the portrait to remind Marjorie of the man she had seen for an instant in the Rectory garden.

  Her attention turned presently to the carving of the mantel-piece, and after studying it for a moment or two, she turned eagerly to Mr. Bulteel, pulling out the lid of the snuff-box from her pocket.

  "Mr. Bulteel, look at this queer creature on the box. Is it not exactly like those on the chimneypiece?"

  Mr. Bulteel turned with a start.

  "Eh, my dear?"

  She repeated her words, putting her finger on one of the dragons, forked of tongue and fiery of tail, which appeared again and again in the carving of the mantelpiece.

  She was holding out the snuff-box lid as she spoke, and Kitty stretched her hand eagerly for it.

  "Oh, let me see, Marjorie. Why, it is exactly the same! Just look, Captain O'Brien."

  She had taken it from Marjorie, and now held it out to Captain O'Brien. He gave a violent start at the sight of it, and his lips twitched. But he recovered himself instantly, and bent to look at it with polite interest, but without taking it from Kitty.

  "What is it?" he asked. "It is prettily chased."

  "Marjorie found it in the cave just now," said Mr. Bulteel, who was looking at the chimneypiece, and had not noticed his start. "It has the Vyvyan dragon on it. You will find the dragon all over the house. Come and look at the passage leading into the kitchen—the carving is wonderful. That part of the house was built by Black Jasper's son in James the First's time."

  He led the way, and Kitty and Captain O'Brien followed him. But Marjorie had no wish to go into the passage again. She crossed the hall, intending to go out on the terrace, but before she reached the door her father came out of the dining-room, where he had been talking to Tamsin Richards, Robert Carew's housekeeper, who, with her husband, had charge of the house.

  "Marjorie, will you come here a moment," he said to his daughter; "Mrs. Richards would like to see you."


  The old woman took both her hands, looking eagerly at her.

  "I knawed your mother and your aunt well, my dear," she said. "You'ra the very picter of your Aunt Nell—God bless her !—ain't she, sir?"

  "We like to think so," said the rector, putting his hand on his girl's shoulder.

  "An' your brothers be away to the wars, your feyther says," the old woman went on. "Drat that Bonyparte! It's my belief there'll never be no peace while he's above-ground. You've never been in St. Mawan afore, have 'ee, my dear? Would her like to go over the house, passen? It's all in order. Maister Robert could ha' come home any day an' found it ready for 'en."

  "Your cousin Robert will be here next week, Marjorie," said the rector gravely, "but only for a day or two. We will not stay to go through the house this morning, Tamsin. Marjorie must come and see you again."

  "Yes, do 'ee, my dear," the old woman answered. "It's main lonely here sometimes. Come an' have a cup o' tay one arternoon, an' bring the Lunnon young lady weth 'ee." She glanced back over her shoulder as Mr. Bulteel and the others came back into the hall. "Cap'n O'Brien is a nice-spoken gentleman, ain't he, sir? He came to bring me a silk handkercher, knawin' Mrs. O'Brien had allus been a friend to me. But it did give me a start to find 'en in the hall just now. I made sartain sure the door was bolted, but he'd found it open, an' jist walked in. It sent me all of a twitter to see 'en standin' there, but I felt as if I'd knawed 'en for years when he told me he was Cap'n O'Brien. Mrs. O'Brien was allus talkin' about 'en."

  Kitty began to talk of Captain O'Brien as they walked down the narrow, heath-clad valley to the boat. They would meet him again that evening, she told Marjorie. He was to be at Mrs. Carah's tea-party. Mrs. Carah was his cousin's greatest friend, and she was going to help him to divide the ornaments and the other things Mrs. O'Brien had left. He had been to see her that morning, and to ask her advice.

  "He wants everyone who knew Mrs. O'Brien to have something in remembrance of her. Do you not think it is very generous of him, Marjorie?"

  "Very," said Marjorie, as heartily as she could.

  Mr. Bulteel turned sharply round to her. He had detected the grudging note in her voice. "Eh, don't you like our visitor from India, Miss Marjorie?"

  Marjorie was slightly taken aback at Mr. Bulteel's quickness in divining her thoughts. "I have only seen him twice, sir," she said, evasively.

  But Mr. Bulteel would not be content with her answer, and questioned her as to the grounds of her dislike. But Marjorie could not explain; and as soon as she could she escaped from Mr. Bulteel, running on to join Kitty.

  Mr. Drew was slightly vexed with her. Marjorie was a child, and had no right to form opinions about her elders. And when she ran on, he made some remark to this effect. Mr. Bulteel shook his head.

  "She hasn't formed an opinion, Drew; she is too modest for that. But the likes and dislikes of a quick-witted, innocent creature like that girl of yours are worth attending to. And you may laugh at me if you will, but I have my doubts about that fellow."

  The rector stared at him. "About Captain O'Brien?"

  "Yes. I have a shrewd suspicion that my worthy old friend was mistaken about her cousin, that is, if he is her cousin at all! What proofs have we that he is?"

  "But what has he to gain by imposing on us?" argued the rector, only checked in his desire to laugh by the evident earnestness with which Mr. Bulteel spoke. "Mrs. O'Brien left no property, did she?"

  "Not a halfpenny. All he could claim are those presents he sent her and those he is going to distribute among her friends. But a respectable name is a valuable commodity sometimes. It may be his own name; I do not seriously doubt it."

  "Why should you?" said the rector rather warmly. "What reason can you have?"

  "None at all, I own it. And I don't doubt it. But why can he not speak in a natural voice, eh? Why does he walk like a cat at one moment, and the next moment want the help of his stick? And why does he pretend never to have been in France when he speaks with a decided French accent?"

  Mr. Bulteel had stopped, leaning on his own stick, and his voice gathered emphasis as he went on, his bushy eyebrows working. Mr. Drew began to see that he was in earnest.

  "Come, Bulteel, what do you mean to imply?" he said, a trifle impatiently. "Do you think he is a Bonapartist spy?"

  The question irritated the banker. "It never crossed my mind. It takes a parson to be really censorious, Drew. What did occur to me was that smuggling is a profitable business. He wants a boat. He is coming to the harbour this evening to see Tregony about it. What does he want a boat for? And he means to go out alone in her. I told him it was mad of him to attempt it, not knowing the coast. But it is my belief that he knows the coast well enough. He dropped a word just now that showed it."

  The rector was grave enough now. "Bulteel, there is more in your mind than you are telling me. You have more reason to suspect this stranger than I know of."

  But Mr. Bulteel would not admit this. "I am an old fool, I dare say, Drew. I have told myself so often enough this last hour. But I am keeping nothing back that I know of. Perhaps it was Marjorie's finding that box of poor Vyvyan's which has upset me."

  "Do you suggest that O'Brien dropped it?" asked the rector drily. "But you know that is impossible, just as well as I do. He could never have climbed down the Point to the cave; he is not equal to it. And—"

  "Of course he did not drop it. Though how it came there— But I am an old fool, as you are thinking at this moment, Drew. Let us go on. The girls are waiting for us."

  CHAPTER 8

  mr bulteel’s suspicions

  Mr. Drew had to leave early next morning to be in time for the Plymouth coach. Mr. Bulteel drove him to Bodmin in his high trap, Marjorie and Kitty sitting behind, looking very gay in their best bonnets and spencers. Kitty had insisted on their wearing them. Her uncle had promised to let her have an hour for shopping in Bodmin, and she wanted to look the young lady of fashion she was.

  A little distance from the town they met Tregelles. He touched his hat and gave some muttered answer to Mr. Bulteel's loud, friendly greeting, but his face had its most sullen expression, and he stood for a moment looking darkly after them. For years he had kept his savings in a couple of leather bags under the hearthstone, but quite lately he had been persuaded to place them in the bank. He was regretting now that he had done so. Some apparently chance words of his lodger had perturbed his mind greatly.

  Captain O'Brien was a travelled man, a gentleman to be trusted. If he thought Mr. Bulteel too fond of his own pleasure to be properly careful of other people's money, his opinion was not to be disregarded. And Tregelles, after a last sulky look at the trap, tramped on, half resolved to draw out his savings and put them back under the hearthstone, where he could watch over them himself.

  The girls thoroughly enjoyed the long drive. The horse was a good one, and though they stopped for more than an hour in Bodmin, they were home before one o'clock. It was the day the post went out, and after dinner Kitty sat down to write her weekly letter to her mother.

  Marjorie's letters had been written the night before, and were safely in Mr. Drew's pocket. As he was only going to stop a night at Plymouth, her mother and Aunt Nell would get them more quickly from him than if she had sent them by post.

  While Kitty wrote her letter, Marjorie sat on the window-seat with the Milton book Mrs. Trelawny had given her on her lap. It was open, and now and then she knit her pretty brows and read a line or two, dutifully trying to follow her father's advice. But her eyes constantly wandered away to the cheerful scene without; and presently the book slipped to the floor, as she leant forward to watch a chubby little lad in a Holland smock, who had evidently been down to the harbour with his father's dinner, and was proudly swinging the tin can that had contained it. Marjorie had a healthy interest in her fellow-creatures, young and old, and she watched the happy little chap out of sight with a smile on her lips. Then she picked up the Milton, scolding herself for her laziness. She
opened it at the title-page, and the next moment she put the book hastily down again and ran out of the room.

  "What did you forget?" asked Kitty, as she came flying back again. She put her pen down, studying Marjorie with a critical eye. "Was it your necklace? But you had it on."

  "I went to get this," Marjorie said, showing the lid of the snuff-box. "Yes, it is exactly the same. I wonder what those figures mean."

  Kitty came to her side and leaned over her shoulder "What funny spelling, Marjorie! But it is a very old book, isn't it?"

  "More than a hundred years old. It belonged to the Jasper Vyvyan whose portrait we saw yesterday. Not Black Jasper, Kitty; he lived long before. But it is this drawing I am looking at. It is meant for the Vyvyan dragon, of course."

  "It might be meant for anything," said Kitty, looking at the snuff-box and then at the rough pen-and-ink drawing. "It is as much like a pig as a dragon."

  "No, it is the dragon. That couldn't be the tail of a pig, and here is his forked tongue. I wonder what those figures mean."

  Kitty yawned a little. "What is the use of bothering about it, Marjorie? I dare say they don't mean anything at all. And I must finish my letter."

  She went back to her desk, but Marjorie remained intent on the figures. There were five of them in a row—1607 + 3. What connection could they have with that queer caricature of the Vyvyan dragon?

  She was still bending over the book with the lid of the snuff-box by her side, when Mr. Bulteel came upstairs. He looked sharply at the little golden lid. "Marjorie, put that away," he said, in a voice so different from his ordinary one that she looked up in surprise. "I thought you had given it to your father. It belongs to your cousin Robert Carew. Let me have it, my dear. He is coming to St. Mawan next week, and I will see that he gets it." He patted her shoulder. "Does it seem too bad to take it away from you, little girl? You shall have something else instead of it."

  Marjorie felt a little hurt. "I don't want anything instead of it, sir. But did it really belong to cousin Robert? I am glad I found it."