 
1. Book Scan Source:
THE "UNKNOWN" LIBRARY
THE LONE INNA MYSTERY
BYFERGUS HUMEAUTHOR OF "THE MYSTERY OF A HANSOM CAB," | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
CONTENTS | |
| CHAPTER | |
| I. | THE ADVENTURE AT THE INN. |
| II. | THE SEQUEL TO THE ADVENTURE AT THE INN. |
| III. | FELIX OR FRANCIS? |
| IV. | OLIVIA'S EVIDENCE. |
| V. | AN ASTOUNDING DISCOVERY. |
| VI. | THE MAN IN PARIS. |
| VII. | LINKS IN THE CHAIN OF EVIDENCE. |
| VIII. | A CLEW TO THE MYSTERY. |
| IX. | ANOTHER SURPRISE. |
| X. | A WOMAN SCORNED. |
| XI. | TRANSFORMATION. |
| XII. | BACK FROM THE GRAVE. |
| XIII. | PERPLEXITY. |
| XIV. | THE HUNTING OF MAN. |
| XV. | WHAT REALLY HAPPENED AT THE FEN INN. |
CHAPTER I.
THE ADVENTURE AT THE INN.
If there be aught in presentiments I was well warned by that first glimpse of the inn. The monstrous bulk of gables, sloping roofs, and lean chimneys, hunched blackly against the sky, would have scared a bolder spirit than mine. All day I had walked under blue sky, between green hedgerows, with light heart and whistling lip. Confronted in the twilight by so sinister a scene I felt qualmish. Ragged clouds dropped their fringes over sullen western red, around spread the salt marshes, evil in their desolation, and I with chilled blood stared at the lonely mansion dominating the outlook. Here, thought I, an adventure awaits me. The hour, the house, the scene, hint at romance, and that of the strangest.
So much were my spirits dashed by these ominous environments, that it was in my mind to walk the further ten miles and shelter for the night at Marshminster. Yet some fate compelled my unwilling feet toward that inhospitable door, and almost before I knew my own mind I was knocking loudly. It opened while my hand was still raised for the final rap, and a handsome woman presented herself to my astonished eyes. What beauty did among the tombs I know not, yet there she smiled. Though handsome, she was not a lady, and lacked the undefinable stamp of birth. At the same time she was above the commonality. Not a lady, not a servant; but something between the two. Her appearance confirmed the promise of romance.
"I have walked from Eastbury," said I, cap in hand, "and wish to put up here for the night."
"Marshminster is only ten miles away," answered she, in nowise disposed to admit me.
"And for that reason I want a bed here. Twenty or more miles walking under a hot sun has wearied me considerably."
"I am sorry we cannot accommodate you, sir."
"This is an inn," I said, glancing at the sign.
"The Fen Inn, sir," she replied, still smiling, "and full of guests for the time being."
"Full of guests, in this locality! You must then entertain waterfowl, for I have seen no human being for the last twelve miles."
She made no direct answer, but shook her head and prepared to close the door. Piqued by the discourtesy, and still more by the mystery of this reception, I was about to insist upon admission, when my attention was attracted to a face at the near window. I recognized it as that of a college friend, and waved my stick in greeting.
"Halloa, Briarfield!" I shouted lustily. "Come and help me to a night's lodgings."
The girl was surprised by my remark, and, as I thought, changed color. She stepped aside to let Briarfield pass, and exhibited further astonishment at the urbanity of our greeting.
"What wind blows you here, Denham?" asked Briarfield, shaking my hand.
"I am on a walking tour," I answered, "and hoped to have reached Marshminster to-night. But as it is ten miles away and I feel weary I wish to sleep here. This young lady, however, says the inn is full of guests and----"
"Full of guests!" interrupted Briarfield, looking at the girl. "Nonsense, Rose, I am the only guest here!"
"We expect others, sir," said Rose obstinately.
"You can't expect a sufficient number to fill the house," he retorted; "surely Mr. Denham can have a bed?"
"I shall ask my father, sir!"
When she disappeared Briarfield turned to me with a smile, and asked a strange question.
"Now, I'll be bound," said he, "that you don't know my first name?"
"Felix."
"No! You are wrong, I am not the rich Felix, but the poor Francis."
"You see the result of being one of twins," said I impatiently; "if at college I could not distinguish between you how can you expect me to do so now? I haven't seen either you or your brother for at least two years. Where is Felix?"
"At Marshminster."
"And what are you doing here?"
"Ah, that's a long story. If you----"
"Please to walk in, sir," interrupted Rose at this moment, "my father desires to speak with you."
"I have then to submit myself to the approval of the landlord," said I, and forthwith entered the house, followed by Francis Briarfield.
The landlord, a lean, saturnine man, above the common height, saluted me with a sour smile. In appearance and demeanor he was quite in keeping with that dreary inn. About him lurked a Puritanic flavor, not ill suited to his somber attire and unctuous speech. He was less like an innkeeper than a smug valet. I mistrusted the man at first sight.
"I can give you supper and a bed, sir," said he, bending his body and rubbing his hands, "neither, I regret to say, of the first quality."
"Never mind," I answered, unstrapping my knapsack. "I am too tired and hungry to be particular."
"We have only lately taken up this house, sir," he continued, still bowing, "and things are a trifle disordered."
I glanced round. Despite the cheerful blaze of a fire, the room had a mildewed look, as though long uninhabited. Traces of hasty cleansing were visible in all corners, and in the dim light filtered through dusty panes, the apartment had a singularly uninviting aspect. Again that premonition of misfortune came over me.
"I wonder you took up the house at all," said I. "You won't make your fortune in this locality."
The landlord made no reply, but muttering something about supper left the room. His daughter had already departed, presumably in the direction of the kitchen, and I found myself alone with Francis Briarfield. He was absently looking out at the window, and started when I addressed him directly. I augured mystery therefrom.
"What's the meaning of these mysteries?" I asked abruptly. The horror of the place was already influencing my spirits.
"What mysteries?" demanded Briarfield, in a listless manner.
"This inn has been uninhabited for some considerable period. A suspicious looking rascal and his pretty daughter have taken up their abode here with no possible chance of getting customers. I stumble on this Castle Grim in the twilight and find you here--you of all men, whom I believed to be in South America. Don't you call these mysteries?"
"If you put it that way I admit the mysteries," replied Francis, coming toward the fire. "I know little about the inn--still less about the landlord and his daughter. As to myself--I am here by appointment to meet my brother Felix. Came from London to Starby, and rode from thence to this inn."
"Why meet him in this murderous looking house?"
"He named the place of meeting himself."
"And you?"
"I only arrived this month in England from South America. I wrote him from London asking to see him. He appointed this inn as neutral ground for us to meet, so here I am."
"Why neutral ground? Have you quarreled!"
"Bitterly."
"You did so at college," said I looking steadily at him. "Strange that such ill blood should exist between twin brothers."
"The inevitable woman," said Francis, in a harsh tone, quite at variance with his usual soft speech.
"Oh! And her name?"
"Olivia Bellin!"
"I know her. Do you mean to say, Briarfield, that----"
"Hush!" he said, rapidly indicating the door, and there stood the girl Rose listening to our conversation. Her face was pale and it was evident that the mention of the name had powerfully affected her. Seeing our eyes were on her, she apologized in a low, nervous voice.
"Your pardon, gentlemen," she said, placing a tray on the table. "I did not intend to interrupt your conversation. Allow me to lay the table for supper!"
"First show me my room," said I, picking up my knapsack. "I am dusty, and wish to give myself a brush up."
Rose nodded, and preceded me out of the apartment. I glanced back, and saw that Francis had returned to his old post by the window. Evidently he was watching for the arrival of his brother.
"When does Mr. Felix Briarfield arrive?" I asked Rose, as we ascended the stairs.
"I don't know the name, sir," she said with an obvious effort.
"You don't know the name," I repeated, seeing she was lying, "yet Mr. Francis Briarfield is here to meet his brother."
"It may be so, sir! But I know nothing about it. Mr. Briarfield is a stranger to me, like yourself."
"It is to be hoped you received him more willingly than you did me."
My words fell on the empty air, for after her last remark she hastily departed. I mechanically attended to my wants, and wondered what could be the meaning of the girl's attitude.
"She knows Miss Bellin and Felix Briarfield," I thought, "perhaps not personally, but at least their names. She is also aware of the intended visit of Felix to this place. I must find out from Francis the reason of that visit, and it may throw some light on the demeanor of Rose. I am glad I came here to-night, for that landlord is scarcely a person to be trusted. Certainly my presentiment of romance is coming true."
When I descended to the dining room I found supper laid, and Francis impatiently awaiting my arrival. A lamp was lighted, and for the first time I saw his face plainly. The alteration in his looks and demeanor since our college days was astonishing. Felix had always been the graver of the twins, and it was the distinguishing mark between them. Now the livelier spirits of Francis had calmed down to a subdued gravity which made the resemblance between them still greater. We seated ourselves at the table in silence, and he colored as he caught my earnest look.
"You find me altered?" he asked, with manifest discomposure.
"Very much altered, and more like Felix than ever!"
"I haven't seen him for over a year," said Briarfield abruptly, "so I don't know if the resemblance is still strong."
"It is stronger," I answered emphatically. "I saw Felix two months ago, and now I look at you to-night I can scarcely believe it is Francis, and not Felix seated before me."
"We are alike to outward view, Denham, but I hope our natures are different."
"What do you mean?"
"Felix," said he, with marked deliberation, "is a thief, a liar, and a dishonorable man!"
"You speak strongly!"
"I have reason to."
"The before-mentioned reason, Briarfield," said I, alluding to the feminine element.
"Yes! By the way," he added feverishly, "you said Miss Bellin was known to you."
"In a casual way only. She is a society beauty, and I have met her once or twice; also her very silly mother. The latter is as remarkable for folly as the former is for beauty. Well, Briarfield, and what about Miss Bellin?"
"I was engaged to her."
"You are engaged to her?"
"I said I 'was,'" he replied, with emphasis; "now she is engaged to my brother."
"Of her own free will?"
"I don't know," said Briarfield, "I really don't know. When I went to Chili I was her affianced lover. Now I return and learn that she is to marry my brother."
"What explanation does he make?"
"None as yet. To-night or to-morrow morning he comes here to explain."
"But why here, of all places?"
"Miss Bellin is in Marshminster. Felix is staying there also, and in his letter asked me to see him at the Fen Inn, as he wished to explain his conduct fully before I met Olivia again."
"And you agreed?"
"As you see."
"In your place," said I meditatively, "I should have gone at once to Marshminster and confronted both. There is some trickery about this."
"You think so?"
"I am by nature suspicious," I answered, "perhaps too much so. Yes! I think there is some trickery."
Francis frowned and glanced at his watch.
"It is now eight o'clock," he said, replacing it in his pocket, "too late to go to Marshminster.'
"Besides which," I added, "our worthy landlord has doubtless neither trap nor horse."
By this time we had finished supper and Rose came in to clear away. Thoughtfully filling my pipe I watched her closely. Undeniably she was a very beautiful woman, and ill suited to her present occupation. Why a girl so handsome should bury herself in this lonely inn was a mystery to me. I felt sure that there was a purpose connected with her presence here, and that inimical to Briarfield. The landlord did not make his appearance, which was to me a matter of some relief. I disliked the fellow greatly.
Francis, smoking hard, sat staring at the fire, and took no heed of Rose. Once or twice she glanced in his direction, and looked as though about to address him. Catching my eye, she bit her lip and desisted. Finally she disappeared from the room with manifest anger at not having accomplished her design.
"Strange," said I, lighting my pipe.
"What is strange?" asked Briarfield, looking up.
"That girl knows your brother."
"It's not impossible," he answered carelessly; "Felix always had an eye for pretty faces, and as he appointed this inn as a meeting place, he has probably been here before. Rose Strent no doubt draws him hither by her beauty."
"That is not a compliment to Miss Bellin."
"I know it. Felix is a profligate scamp, and will make her a bad husband. He shall not marry her!" added Briarfield angrily. "I say he shall not marry her and make her life miserable! I'll kill him first!"
"Man! man! think of what you are saying--your own brother."
"My own brother--my twin brother," scoffed Francis; "is that any reason why he should take away from me the woman I love?"
"She is not worth regretting if she forgets you so soon."
"She has not forgotten me," he said earnestly; "I assure you, Denham, she loves me still. The last letter I received from her gave no hint that she wearied of me. As you say, there is some trickery about it. I'll have an explanation from Felix," continued he, striking the table with his fist, "or, by Heaven, I'll kill him!"
"Where did you meet her?" I asked, ignoring his last remark, which was but idle.
"In town, over a year ago," he replied, calming down. "She is, as you know, very beautiful, and her mother wished her to make a great match. I am comfortably off, but have not a title, therefore Mrs. Bellin would not sanction the engagement. Then I had to go out to South America on business connected with my property. Before I left she promised to become my wife, and swore that nothing should part us or render her false to me. See, here is the ring she gave me," he added, stretching out his hand, "this pearl ring. I was to be back in six months, and our engagement was to be made public. I am back in six months, and the first news I hear is that she is to marry Felix."
"Did she write and tell you so?"
"No, but Felix did, and asked me to meet him here before seeing her."
"Now, I wonder if this apparent treachery of Miss Bellin has anything to do with your twinship."
"What do you mean?" asked Briarfield, starting up.
"You are so like in appearance," said I, "that no one could tell you apart. You have lived constantly together save for the last six months, and know every action of each other's lives. It may be that Felix has passed himself off to Miss Bellin as you."
"Impossible! She would detect the deception."
"I doubt it, save by intuition. I assure you, Briarfield, that the resemblance between you is most perplexing. There is not the slightest difference. You dress the same, you have the same features, you almost think the same. It is scarce possible to tell which is which when apart. I thought to-night that you were Felix."
"It cannot be, it cannot be," he muttered feverishly; "her own heart would tell her the truth."
"Did you tell Felix of your engagement?" I asked abruptly.
"Yes; I told him all."
"And when did you hear last from Miss Bellin?"
"Some three months ago. It was because she did not reply to my letters that I came back so soon."
"To whom were your letters sent?"
"To her, of course!"
"Care of Felix?" said I, with instinctive suspicion.
"Why, yes," he said, with a sudden frown. "I did not want Mrs. Bellin to know of our engagement, so did not dare to write openly. Felix undertook to deliver the letters."
"He may have undertaken to do so, but," I added forcibly, "he did not."
"Denham!"
"The whole case is as clear as day," said I. "Felix was in love with Miss Bellin, and wished to marry her. Knowing she was in love with you, he was well aware he had no chance, so resorted to trickery. When you left for Chili, he gave her your letters for three months, then saying he was going abroad, ostensibly left England, but really stayed, and presented himself as--you."
"As me!"
"Yes. He has traded on the marvelous resemblance between you. He knows all your life, all your love affairs, and I have no doubt that Miss Bellin believes that he is Francis Briarfield, her lover, returned from South America in three months instead of six."
"If I thought so," muttered Francis, biting his fingers, "if I thought so----"
"I am sure it is so. Now you see why it is imperative that he should interview you before you meet Miss Bellin. He wishes to reveal the deception and throw himself on your mercy."
"He'll get no mercy from me if this is so," said Briarfield, in a somber tone. "Oh, fool that I was not to write direct to Olivia when I came back to England! But it is not too late. When he comes here I'll learn the truth, and denounce him to Olivia. Then our troubles will be over."
"A man capable of such a trick is capable of worse," said I sententiously. "I advise you to be on your guard against Felix."
"Do you think he'll kill me?"
"I don't go as far as that," I replied cautiously; "but your meeting will be--productive of trouble. Just now you expressed a wish to kill him."
"And I shall, if he has tricked me as you say."
"Nonsense, Briarfield; you talk wildly. This matter can surely be settled in a less melodramatic fashion. I am glad I am here, as perhaps you will permit me to be present at the interview."
"Willingly. I know how clever you are, Denham. You may assist me to unmask Felix."
"Do you think he'll come to-night?" said I, going to the window.
"His letter said to-night or to-morrow!"
"Then it will be to-morrow! Felix wouldn't risk meeting you at night if he has thus betrayed you. Let us go to bed and to-morrow settle the matter."
At first Francis was unwilling to retire, but when the landlord came to lock up for the night, and laughed at the idea of anyone coming there from Marshminster, he fell in with my desire. Together we went upstairs and parted on the threshold of his room. It was five or six doors away from mine.
"Lock your door," said I as we parted.
"What! do you think I'll be murdered in my sleep?"
"No! but I don't like the inn, and I dislike the face of Strent, the landlord. Besides," I continued, tapping Briarfield's breast, "that girl Rose!"
"What about her?"
"She knows Miss Bellin. Goodnight!"
With that I departed, notwithstanding his desire for an explanation of my last words. So wearied was I that despite my suspicions of the inn I speedily fell asleep.
CHAPTER II.
THE SEQUEL TO THE ADVENTURE AT THE INN.
It was close on ten o'clock when I awoke next morning. My long tramp of the previous day had tired me more than I thought. Nevertheless, I was annoyed at oversleeping myself, and astonished that Francis had not called me earlier. I knew how anxious he was about the proposed meeting with his brother, and fancied that his impatience would have drawn him to my room at dawn. Apparently he was less curious concerning the interview than I thought. Yet, leaving him out of the question, I ought certainly to have been roused by Strent or his daughter, and determined to reprove them for such neglect. After all, an inn is an inn, and one has a right to attentions for which one pays. Judging from the landlord's looks, I did not think my bill would err on the side of cheapness.
These thoughts passed through my mind as I hastily dressed myself. Opening the window, I looked out on the marshes, golden in the sunshine. A keen wind was blowing from the sea, and the smell of brine struck into the heavy atmosphere of my bedroom. An absolute stillness prevailed both inside and out. I felt as though I had awakened in the spellbound palace of the sleeping beauty. An inn, of all places, should be full of bustle and noise, but there was something uncanny in the silence which reigned in this marsh-locked hostel. It hinted trouble, and I felt uneasy.
In no very good temper I descended to the dining room, with the intention of apologizing to Francis for my tardy appearance and of rating the landlord for his negligence. To my astonishment, neither Francis nor anyone else was seen, and the room was in precisely the same condition as on the previous night. The fire was unlighted, the table not set out for breakfast, even the window blinds were down. For the moment I was sick with apprehension, as it was impossible to conjecture the reason of this neglect and absence of human life. The stillness was as absolute as had prevailed upstairs, and when I rang the bell it echoed throughout the house as though mocking my efforts to summon landlord, maid, or friend.
Twice, thrice, I pulled the bell-rope without result; then, somewhat unnerved by the silence in which I found myself, went to the back part of the premises. Here the condition of things was the same as in the dining room. The kitchen was empty, nor were there any signs of fire or of food. I explored the whole of the ground floor and found nobody. The conclusion forced itself upon me that Strent and his daughter had left the inn during the night.
What was the meaning of this sudden flight? What reason could be sufficiently powerful to force them to vacate the premises? Asking myself these questions I entered room after room, but in none of them did I find any answer. The front door was bolted and barred, the back entrance was in the same condition, and there was no key in either lock. I considered the features of the case, and saw that the air was full of mystery, perhaps of--but no, in that lonely house I could not bring myself to utter that terrible word.
I knew not what had happened during my sleep, but felt certain that some event had taken place. Otherwise there could be no reason for this state of things. Almost against my will I searched the house again, but could discover neither Strent nor his daughter Rose. I was alone in the house! But Francis----
"Francis!" said I, repeating my thoughts aloud, "aye, Francis. I wonder if he has left the inn also, or whether he has overslept himself, and is still in his room."
To make sure, I went upstairs to his bedroom. Pray observe that all this time I had not connected these things with crime. It is true I had a faint suspicion that there might possibly be some foul play, but as there was nothing to confirm such a belief I abandoned the idea. I declare that when I knocked at the door of Briarfield's room I had no more idea of the horrid truth than a babe unborn. My premonitions pointed to mystery, but not to murder. Yet from the conversation of the previous night I might have guessed what had happened. The house was as accursed as the palace of the ArtidÆ and Ate bided on the threshold stone.
Not until I had thrice knocked without receiving any answer did my suspicions begin to form. Then they took shape in an instant. I tried the door. It was locked. The ominous silence still hinted at unspeakable horrors. My knocking echoed jarringly through the stillness. At that moment there flashed before my eyes the picture of two figures flying across a red horizon against which blackened the beams of a gallows. It was the shadow of the future. I knocked, I called his name, and finally in desperation at the continued silence set my shoulder against the crazy door. It yielded with a tearing sound, and I entered the room amid a cloud of fine dust.
He was lying on the bed stiff and cold. I had no need to call, to touch his shoulder, to place my hand on his heart. He was dead! With the clothes drawn up smoothly to his chin lay the man with whom I had conversed the previous night. The right arm lay outside the counterpane. On the hand glistened a pearl ring. I looked at that bauble, I glanced at the waxen face. The matter was beyond all doubt. Francis Briarfield was dead.
Before I could further examine the body or the room I was forced to run for my brandy flask. For the moment I was deadly sick, and it needed a long draft of the fiery spirit to speed the stagnating blood through my veins. The strange circumstance was a sufficient apology for such qualmishness. This lonely inn set on a hand breadth of living ground amid quaking bogs, this dead body of what had once been a friend, this solitude by which I found myself environed, these were sufficient to shake the strongest nerve. It looks in a manner prosaic on black and white, but think of the horror of the actual experience!
For the moment I could formulate no ideas on the subject. That my friend should be dead was sufficient to stun me. When reason came back I asked myself how he died and who was responsible for the crime. The landlord, the maid, the brother--one of these three had murdered Francis Briarfield. But in what way?
I examined the body. It was clothed in a nightgown and the clothes lay folded up on the chair by the bedside. The face was calm, there were no marks of violence on the throat or on the frame. Only on the violet lips lingered a slight curl of foam. The smooth bedclothes drawn up to the chin forbade the idea of a struggle. I looked at the right arm lying on the counterpane, at the hand, and there in the palm was a ragged wound from thumb to little finger. It was discolored at the edges, and looked green and unwholesome. This livid appearance made me think of poison, but I was not sufficiently a doctor to diagnose the case correctly. Yet I was certain of one thing. That Francis Briarfield had come by his death in some foul fashion, and that at the hands of--whom?
Aye! there was the rub. So far as I knew the landlord had no motive to commit such a crime. Suspicions pointed toward the maid who had wished to speak with the dead man after supper. Yet why should she desire his death? From the lips of Francis himself I had heard that he knew neither Strent nor Rose, nor indeed aught of the Fen Inn. Hither he had been brought by his brother's letter to keep an appointment, and was as ignorant of the inn, of its inmates, of its surroundings as I.
Could Felix have committed the crime? True, if my theory were correct, and he had passed himself off to Olivia Bellin as Francis, there were some grounds for believing he wished his brother out of the way. Francis would undoubtedly refuse to permit the deception to be carried on, so it was just possible that Felix, in a frenzy of wrath and terror at the idea of his treachery being exposed, might have slain his brother. Yet all this fine theory was upset by the fact that Felix had not arrived on the previous night to keep the appointment. He therefore must be guiltless.
If so, what of the landlord and his daughter? Certainly they had no reason to slay a stranger who had sheltered under their roof for the night. Yet their flight looked suspicious. If they were innocent why did they leave the inn?
Another question pregnant with meaning was the reason of their being alone in the inn. I had seen no servants either indoors or out. Father and daughter appeared to do all the work, yet it was beyond all reason that they should have no assistance. Where was the cook, the waiter, the hostler, the chambermaid? The house was a large one. Two people with all the will in the world could not thoroughly attend to the domestic economy of so great a mansion. Moreover, the girl had looked unused to work. That in itself was suspicious.
"Can it be?" I thought. "Can it be that these two hired this inn to compass the death of Francis Briarfield, and that he was drawn here as into a snare by his brother's letter? On the face of it, it looks absurd, and yet in what other way can I explain the absence of servants, the mildewed aspect of the rooms? Now Francis is dead, and they without a word to me have departed."
I could not solve the mystery. Far from doing so, the more I thought, the more I examined the surroundings, the deeper grew the mystery. The door had been locked and I could find no key. The window also was locked, and even had it not been, no one could have entered thereby, so considerable was the height from the ground. How, then, had the assassin gained admittance? Yet sure was I that Briarfield had been murdered, but by whom it was hard to say--nay, impossible.
I did indeed think that he had committed suicide, but this was too wild an idea to entertain even for a moment. When I parted from him on the previous night he was in the best of health, looking forward to meeting Miss Bellin, and was passably content with his life. There was no hint of self-destruction either in speech or action. The thought that his brother had deceived him would not have engendered such an idea. Rather was he determined to unmask the traitor, and regain his promised wife by force. Murder it might be, suicide was out of the question.
Thus far I threshed out the matter, yet arrived at no logical conclusion. As there seemed no signs of landlord and maid, it behooved me to consider what I should do. According to Francis, his brother was due at the meeting place that morning, so I deemed it advisable to wait until he arrived, and then explain the circumstances to him. If he was in league with Strent to murder his brother he would hardly be able to disguise his joy at hearing the success of his plot. I therefore determined to watch his face during the interview, and if I saw therein any signs of guilt, to there and then in that lonely inn accuse him as a second Cain. By thus terrorizing his soul with such accusation and with the sight of his victim I might force him into confession.
If he were guilty, I guessed the plea behind which he would shelter himself: That he had not been near the place on the previous night. This I would counter by the accusation that his emissaries had carried out his orders and then sought safety in flight. It might be that I suspected Felix wrongly, yet, after the story told me by Francis, I could not but think he was connected in some unseen way with the death of the latter. But, after all, these suspicions were yet vague and aimless. All I knew for certain was that Francis Briarfield was dead. I swore on the instant to devote myself to finding out and punishing his detestable assassin.
Having come to this resolution, I propped up the open door, so as to close the entrance to the chamber of death, and descended to the lower regions. Finding victuals and fuel in the kitchen, I cooked myself a meal, and made a sufficiently good breakfast. Then I lighted my pipe and took my seat at the front door, to watch for the coming of Felix Briarfield. Whether my suspicions would be dispelled or confirmed by his demeanor I was, of course, unable to say until the interview took place. But I was most anxious to know.
All that morning I looked down the winding road to Marshminster, but saw no one coming therefrom. Not a soul was in sight, and if I did for a moment think that Strent and his daughter might return and declare themselves innocent, the thought was banished by a few hours' outlook. The inn, as I said before, was on a slight rise, and I could see far and wide. No human being was to be seen, and as the hours passed I grew almost horrified at the gruesome solitude. To be alone with a dead body in a lonely house in a lonely moor is hardly healthy for the mind.
Toward noon I took a resolution.
"If," said I, "the mountain won't come to Mahomet--why, then, Mahomet must go to the mountain."
The interpretation of this was that I intended to see Felix Briarfield at Bellin Hall, Marshminster. Face to face with him, I would force him to explain why he had not kept the appointment. It seemed to me a suspicious circumstance. Perhaps Strent had told him Francis was dead, and therefore it would be useless for him to ride to the Fen Inn. If this were so, it would go a long way toward implicating him in the crime.
I re-entered the house, locked up everything, and, strapping on my knapsack, took my departure toward Marshminster. Some way down the road I looked back at the ruin, and saw it loom more grim and ghastly than ever. Even in the bright sunshine it could not appear otherwise than eerie, and it was with great pleasure that I left it behind. Yet under those sloping roofs Francis Briarfield lay dead, and it was to discover his assassin and to avenge his death that I set my face toward Marshminster.
CHAPTER III.
FELIX OR FRANCIS?
Late in the afternoon I tramped into Marshminster. It was by no means my first visit to that sleepy provincial town. Under the shadow of the cathedral tower dwelt relatives with whom I had aforetime spent school and college holidays. Their house was the goal of my pilgrimage, and a week's rest was to recoup me for the toils of the walking tour. The tragic occurrence at the Fen Inn altered all my plans. With an assassin to be tracked, there was no time for comfortable idleness. Francis Briarfield had been my friend, and I owed it to his memory to avenge his death. It was no easy task I had set myself; I recognized that from the first.
In place, therefore, of seeking the center of the town and my maiden aunt's, I turned off at the outskirts and made for Bellin Hall. According to the story of Francis, his brother was staying with the Bellins, and it was necessary that I should see him at once about the matter. My acquaintance with Mrs. Bellin and her daughter was confined to casual conversation at crowded "at homes" during the season. I had hardly the right to thrust myself on them uninvited, but my business brooked of no delay. The sooner Felix knew the truth the better it would be for him. If he were guilty, I could punish him for his crime by denouncing him at once to the authorities; if innocent, he need lose no time in hunting down those who had slain his brother. Besides, I wished to put Olivia on her guard against the man masquerading as Francis Briarfield. That I intended to do in any case, whether he was innocent or guilty.
Bellin Hall was a grotesque specimen of architecture, built by Jeremiah Bellin, who had made his money out of blacking. It was uncommonly like a factory, but perhaps the deceased Jeremiah liked something to remind him of the origin of his fortune and keep him from thinking his ancestors came over with William the Conqueror. He married the daughter of a baronet, and then took his departure to the next world, leaving his widow well provided for and his daughter an heiress in her own right. Mrs. Bellin was a pretty woman, with no brains and a giggling laugh. Her daughter had the beauty of her mother and the brains of her father, so she was altogether a charming girl. How she could tolerate her silly dolly of a mother I could never understand. Perhaps twenty-three years of constant forbearance had inured her to the trial.
On arriving at the front door I learned that Mr. Briarfield was within, and sent up my card, requesting a private interview. For the present I did not wish to see Olivia, as it was my intention to warn Felix that I was cognizant of his trickery. My theory was proved correct by the following dialogue:
Myself: "Is Mr. Briarfield within?"
Footman: "Yes, sir. Mr. Francis Briarfield has just returned from town."
After which question and answer I was shown into a room. Observe that I said "Mr. Briarfield," and the footman answered "Mr. Francis Briarfield." Now, as I well knew that the man bearing that name was lying dead at the Fen Inn, it was conclusive proof that Felix, to gain the hand of Olivia, was masquerading as his brother. I had just argued this out to my complete satisfaction when Felix made his appearance.
The resemblance between the brothers was extraordinary. I had some difficulty in persuading myself that the man before me was not he whom I had seen dead that morning. The same pale face, dark hair, and jaunty mustache, the same gestures, the same gravity of demeanor, and actually the same tones in the voice. There was not the slightest difference between Felix and Francis; the one duplicated the other. I no longer wondered that Olivia was deceived. Despite my acquaintance with the brothers, I should have been tricked myself. As it was I stared open-mouthed at the young man.
"This is a pleasant surprise, Denham," he said, looking anxiously at me. "I did not know you were in this part of the world."
"Nor was I until yesterday. I am on a walking tour, and last night slept at the Fen Inn."
"The Fen Inn," he repeated, with a slight start; "what took you to that out of the way place?"
"I came by the marshes, and, as I was belated, had to take the shelter that offered."
"But, man alive!" said Felix, raising his eyebrows, "the inn is empty."
This time it was my turn to be astonished. If Felix thought the inn was empty, why did he appoint it as a meeting place for his brother? He either knew too much or too little, so it behooved me to conduct the conversation with the utmost dexterity.
"It was not empty last night, at all events," I retorted, keeping my eyes fixed on his face.
"Indeed! Are gypsies encamped there?" he said coolly.
"Well, not exactly," I answered, emulating his calm; "it was in charge of a man called Strent, and his daughter."
"This is news to me. I was always under the impression that the Fen Inn was quite deserted."
"You have not been near it lately?"
"No! Nobody goes near it. They say it is haunted."
"Pshaw," I answered angrily, "an old wife's tale. And yet," I added, after a moment's thought, "it may well be haunted after what took place there last night."
"This begins to grow interesting," said Felix. "Had you an adventure?"
"Yes! I met with your brother."
"Impossible! My brother Felix is in Paris."
"I am talking of Francis."
"Francis!" he repeated, with a disagreeable smile. "Francis! Well, Denham! I am Francis."
"I think you are making a mistake, Briarfield," said I coldly; "your brother Francis slept at the Fen Inn last night."
"I slept in this house."
"I quite believe that. But you are Felix!"
"Oh!" said Briarfield, bursting into a harsh laugh. "I see you are making the inevitable mistake of mixing me up with my brother. It is pardonable under the circumstances, otherwise I might resent your plain speaking."
The assurance of the man was so complete that I wondered if he knew that his secret was safe by the death of his brother. Such knowledge would account for his complacency. Yet it was quite impossible that he could know of the death, as he certainly had not been to the inn. I knew that from my own knowledge.
"If you are Francis," said I slowly, "you are engaged to Miss Bellin."
"I am," he answered haughtily, "but by what right you----"
"One moment, Mr. Briarfield. Miss Bellin gave her lover Francis a pearl ring. I do not see it on your finger."
He glanced down at his hand and grew confused.
"I lost it," he muttered, "I lost it some time ago."
"That is not true!"
"Do you dare to----"
"I dare anything in connection with what I know to be a fraud. You are passing yourself off as your brother Francis."
"By what right do you make this mad assertion?"
"From what Francis told me last night."
"But I tell you I am Francis," he said savagely. "Don't I know my own name?"
"If you are the man you assert yourself to be, where is the pearl ring?"
"I lost it."
"You did not! You never had it! I saw it on the finger of Francis no later than last night."
"I think you are mad, Denham!" said Felix, white with passion; "or else you must be talking of Felix, who is in Paris."
"That untruth will not serve," I said coldly. "Felix is before me, and Francis is lying dead at the Fen Inn."
"What, Francis dead?" he cried unguardedly.
"Ah! you admit it is Francis!"
"No, I don't," he retorted quickly. "I only re-echoed your words. What do you mean by saying such a thing?"
For answer I rose from my seat and made for the door. The farce wearied me.
"Where are you going, Denham?" he asked, following me up.
"For the police!" I answered, facing him. "Yes, I am determined to find out the mystery of Francis Briarfield's death. You, his brother, decline to help me, so I shall place the matter in the hands of the authorities!"
"Upon my soul, Denham," said Felix, detaining me, "you are either mad or drunk. I declare most solemnly that I am Francis Briarfield. From this story of yours I should think it was my brother Felix who is dead, did I not know he is in Paris."
"A fine story, but it does not impose on me," I answered scoffingly. "Listen to me, Briarfield. Your brother Francis went out to South America some six months ago. Before he went he was engaged to Miss Bellin. The mother would not hear of the marriage, so the engagement was kept quiet. You alone knew of it and took advantage of such knowledge to suppress the letters sent to Miss Bellin through you by Francis, and represent yourself to Olivia as her lover returned three months before his time. You, I quite believe, are supposed to be in Paris, so that you may the more easily carry out the game."
"This is mere raving!"
"It is the truth, and you know it. As Miss Bellin did not answer his letters, Francis thought something was wrong and returned home. Afraid lest he should find out your plot, you asked him to meet you at the Fen Inn, and there either intended to throw yourself on his mercy or--to murder him!"
"Murder him!" he repeated fiercely; "it is false!"
"That will be for the police to determine!"
"But surely, Denham, you don't intend to inform the police?"
"I am going to do so now."
Felix seized me by the arm and dragged me back to my seat. He was now much agitated, but made every effort to restrain his emotion.
"Sit down," he said in a hoarse tone. "You do me wrong, Denham--on my soul you do me wrong. I was engaged! I am engaged to Olivia Bellin; her mother consented to our engagement after I returned to England three months ago. Felix, I believe, is in Paris! I don't know whom you met at the inn last night. It was not I--it could not have been Felix. There was no appointment between us. I am not masquerading as Francis, because I am Francis."
"I don't believe you!"
"You must! I can bring forward witnesses to prove my identity!"
"They may be misled by the resemblance. Remember you and Francis are twins."
"I said before, and I say it again, you are mad!" he cried, roughly casting me off. "Who ever heard of an appointment being made at a ruined inn? No one has lived there for months. Anyone in Marshminster will tell you so."
"Strent and his daughter Rose----"
I began, when he cut me short.
"Who are they? I never heard of them. They are figments of some dream. You went into that ruined inn last night and dreamed all this."
"You don't believe my story?"
"Not one word," said Felix, coolly looking me straight in the face.
"Then I don't believe one word of yours!" I cried, jumping up; "let us place the matter in the hands of the authorities and see who will be believed."
"What are you going to say, Denham?"
"Say! that Francis Briarfield has died in the Fen Inn."
"You won't believe that I am Francis?" he said, evidently making some resolve.
"No, you are Felix!"
"One moment," he said, going to the door; "I shall prove my identity, and in a manner that will admit of no denial."
With that he vanished, and I waited to see what further evidence he would bring forward to back up his imposture.
CHAPTER IV.
OLIVIA'S EVIDENCE.
Here was no doubt that Felix intended to continue passing himself off as Francis. For how long I was uncertain; perhaps for the rest of his natural life, or until he made Olivia his wife. In this latter event he could reveal the fraud with impunity and revert to his own identity. I could not help thinking that he had been informed beforehand of the death of his brother, else he would not have dared to keep up his imposture with a possible revelation so near at hand. Even assuming such ignorance, I had now told him of the death myself, and so strengthened his position. I regretted that I had not been more cautious.
I was curious to see whom he would bring forward as a witness to his identity. Scarcely Olivia, as if she once had a suspicion of the truth she would never rest until all was cleared up to her satisfaction. I hardly thought Felix would run such a risk, the more so as his story of losing the pearl ring could not stand against my assertion that it was on the finger of the dead man. If he still persisted in declaring himself to be Francis, I determined that he should ride with me to the Fen Inn and there see the corpse of the man whose name he had so shamelessly assumed. That would surely settle the matter.
Felix was bolder than I gave him credit for, as his witness proved to be none other than Olivia Bellin. She entered the room with assumed lightness, but her face was anxious and she glanced every now and then at Felix, as though to seek his aid and countenance. He, as was natural, wore a haggard expression. His nerves were tensioned up to the highest pitch, a matter of small wonderment, seeing that his life's happiness depended upon this interview.
"What is this strange story you bring, Mr. Denham?" asked Olivia, greeting me coldly. In our best days we were never overfriendly.
"Has not Mr. Briarfield told you?"
"I have not had the time," interposed Felix quickly; "beyond a few hints of the truth she knows nothing."
"Not even that you are Felix Briarfield?"
"Felix!" repeated Miss Bellin in surprise. "But you are making a mistake, Mr. Denham; this is Francis."
"So he says!"
"You see, Olivia," said Briarfield, addressing Miss Bellin, "Denham insists upon taking me for my brother Felix."
"How absurd! I assure you, Mr. Denham, that Felix is in Paris. I only received a letter from him this morning."
"Impossible!" said I, taken aback by the authority of her tone.
"It is quite true," she continued hurriedly. "Excuse me for a moment, and I shall fetch the letter. You must believe the evidence of your own eyes."
When she left the room, Felix turned toward me with a gleam of triumph in his eyes.
"Are you convinced?" he asked mockingly.
"No; I am puzzled."
"In what way?"
"To think how you managed to get that letter sent on from Paris without being there yourself."
"Against stupidity the gods themselves fight in vain," quoth Felix, shrugging his shoulders. "I assure you that my brother Felix is in Paris. Miss Bellin is about to produce a letter received from him only this morning, and yet you insist that I am not myself, and that he whom I pretend to be is dead. You are mad."
"Here is the letter," said Miss Bellin, entering at this moment. "You see it bears the date of yesterday, He is at present staying at the HÔtel des Étrangers, Rue de St. HonorÉ, but talks of going to Italy."
I examined the letter closely. It was genuine enough; of that there was no doubt, as it bore the French and English postmarks. I quite believed that it was written by Felix, but also that it had been forwarded from Paris by an emissary of the young man in order to keep up the needful deception. Certainly Felix had a marked talent for intrigue.
"If Felix Briarfield is in Paris," said I, handing back the letter to Olivia, "who was it I met at the Fen Inn last night?"
"The Fen Inn!" replied Olivia, with a puzzled look; "why, no one lives there now, Mr. Denham. It is in ruins, and has been empty for over two years."
"Nevertheless, it was tenanted last night, and I slept there. Also I met Francis Briarfield at the same place."
"Francis was not out of the house last night," declared Olivia decisively.
"Quite true," he replied. "I went to bed early with a bad headache."
"It was not you I met at the inn last night, but your brother Francis."
"How can you persist in so foolish a story?" said Olivia angrily. "This is Francis, and Felix is in Paris. You could not have met either of them at the Fen Inn last night, and, indeed, I can't believe that you slept there at all!"
"I did, Miss Bellin, and there I met Francis."
"If you did, where is he now? Why not clear up the mystery by bringing him here with you?"
"Because he is dead!"
"Dead!" she echoed, catching the arm of Felix. "Dead! Who is dead?"
"Francis Briarfield."
"He is mad," she said to Felix in a low tone, her face white with fear.
"Upon my word, I am beginning to think so myself," I said, losing my temper; "but I declare on my oath that I speak the truth. There is only one way of solving the riddle. Come out with me to the Fen Inn, and look on the face of the dead man I say is Francis Briarfield. A single glance will give the lie to the assertion of this man who pretends to be your lover!"
Felix looked at Olivia, she at him. It seemed to me that they grew a shade paler. I wondered whether any guilty bond existed between them, as certainly they seemed to understand one another very well. Olivia appeared anxious to protect Felix from harm. Either she really believed him to be Francis, or had taken her heart from one brother and given it to the other. It was she who spoke first in and throughout the interview; the woman played a more daring game than did the man. Her attitude puzzled me, and for the moment I was quite in the dark as to what were her real thoughts regarding my story and that of the pseudo Francis.
"We cannot go to-night," she said, with some hesitation, "but tomorrow morning, if you like, we will ride out to the inn."
I glanced at my watch.
"It is now five o'clock," said I; "and will be light up to nine or thereabouts. There is plenty of time for us to ride to the Fen Inn, and I think it advisable to do so at once."
"Why not to-morrow morning?" objected Felix.
"Great Heavens, Briarfield! have you no natural affection? Don't I tell you that your brother is lying dead there? Can't you understand the necessity of attending to so serious a matter without delay? If you have no affection, you might at least have decency."
"I decline to believe that my brother is dead," said Briarfield coolly; "that letter shown to you by Olivia proves that he was in Paris yesterday. He could not have come over so quickly, and, besides, would have no reason to go to the Fen Inn."
"Of course, if you insist upon assuming your brother's name, I can say nothing, but I know the truth, and had it from the lips of Francis."
"What do you mean?" asked Olivia.
"I mean that Francis returned from Chili a few days ago and went to the Fen Inn by appointment in order to hear the explanation of Felix."
"What explanation?"
"The reason of Felix passing himself off as Francis."
"You are utterly mistaken, Mr. Denham. I swear that this is Francis, the man to whom I am engaged!"
"Can you wish for stronger proof?" asked Felix, with the marked intention of insulting me.
I paid no attention to his sneer, but turned round to Miss Bellin, and asked a pertinent question.
"Where is the pearl ring you gave Francis, Miss Bellin?"
"The pearl ring!" she said, much agitated. "Yes, I did give Francis a pearl ring, but he lost it. Did you not lose it, Francis?" she added, turning toward her lover.
"Two months ago."
"Well, Miss Bellin," said I deliberately, "if you come out with me to the Fen Inn, I will show you the pearl ring on the finger of the dead man."
"It cannot be--it is impossible," she murmured, clasping her hands together in great distress. "I am utterly bewildered by your talk. Francis returned from Chili three months ago, and my mother consented to our engagement."
"It was not Francis who returned," I asserted doggedly, "but Felix--Felix, who pretends to be in Paris."
"But this letter!"
"Bah! That was written here by Briarfield, and forwarded to a friend in Paris to be posted back to you."
"Liar!" cried Felix, dashing forward with clenched fists; "if you don't retract that statement, I'll----"
"For pity's sake be quiet," entreated Olivia, throwing herself between us. "Do not bring my mother here. Francis, you do not know the harm you are doing. Mr. Denham," she added, turning to me as he suddenly stepped back, "do you say this gentleman is Felix?"
"I do! Most decidedly.
"I tell you, sir, it is not so. This is my affianced lover, Francis. Great Heavens! could a woman make a mistake in so serious a matter?"
"I believe the resemblance between the brothers would deceive anyone."
"Let us settle the question by going to the Fen Inn," said Felix sharply. "I'll wager that there we find neither landlord nor anyone."
"You don't believe me," said I quickly.
"I do not, sir. I believe you have dreamed all this rubbish. I am here--I, Francis Briarfield; Felix, my brother, is in Paris; and as to your cock and bull story of a murder at the Fen Inn, I don't believe a word of it."
"Very well, Briarfield," I said, picking up my hat. "You have chosen your course, I will now choose mine. Hitherto I have kept the affair quiet for your sake and for that of Miss Bellin. Now I will place the matter in the hands of the authorities, and wash my hands of the whole affair."
"Do what you think fit," retorted Briarfield fiercely, and turned his back on me. Stung by his contemptuous manner, I walked smartly toward the door, but was stopped on the threshold by Miss Bellin.
"It is no use your going to see the police, Mr. Denham," she said anxiously. "I assure you it will only get you into trouble. Your story is too wild to believe. They will say you are mad."
"I'll take the risk of that. I am not yet so mad as not to believe the evidence of my own eyes. Let me pass, Miss Bellin."
"Stay!" she said in a peremptory tone. "Let me speak a moment with Francis."
I bowed my head in token of acquiescence, and she glided back to where Felix was looking out of the window. For a few minutes they spoke together in low, hurried voices. She seemed to be entreating and he refusing. At length he evidently yielded to her prayers, for he sank into a chair with a gesture of despair, and she returned to my side.
"I don't wish you to get into trouble, Mr. Denham," she said coldly, "nor do I wish you to use my name, as you assuredly will do in making your report to the police. I believe this story of yours to be an hallucination, and, in order to convince you of it, am willing to ride out to the Fen Inn to-morrow with you and Francis. When we arrive there, I assure you we shall see nothing."
"I am certain you'll see more than you bargain for," said I dryly. "I would rather you went there tonight."
"I cannot. My mother would not allow me to go. Be a little considerate, Mr. Denham."
I saw the justice of this reasoning, and forebore to press the point. After all, so long as they went the time did not much matter.
"Then let it be to-morrow morning," I said coldly, "at ten o'clock. I will be at your park gates. If you and Briarfield are not there, I go at once to the police office and give information concerning the murder of Francis."
CHAPTER V.
AN ASTOUNDING DISCOVERY.
After that momentous interview I presented myself to my astonished relatives. These were two lovable old maids, sisters of my mother, who had passed the best part of their existence in the Cathedral Square of Marshminster. They knew everybody and all about everybody, and pottered through life with the assistance of a comfortable income which they shared in common, a trifle of gossip, and a series of afternoon teas. At the daily services of the cathedral they were always to be seen, and were intimately acquainted with the dean and chapter. Even the bishop condescended to take tea with them on occasions, and they held their heads high in consequence. Moreover, they loved me greatly, though I was but a graceless nephew to the good souls.
When I made my appearance, the Misses Durrant received me with open arms. They had not expected me till much later in the month, but had already prepared for my reception. My portmanteau, which I had ordered to be sent down from London, had arrived, the bedding of my room was thoroughly well aired, and Rachel, their handmaiden, spread for me a sumptuous meal. When I washed and clothed myself anew, I made an excellent meal, for the long tramp from the Fen Inn made me hungry, I then sat down for a chat and a smoke.
"I think he may, Jane," hinted Sophia gently.
"If he sits near the open window, Sophia," was the firm reply, whereupon, this little comedy having been gone through as usual, I produced my pipe and took my appointed station. Thus settled I made inquiries about Bellin Hall and its inmates.
"I see you have the London beauty down here, aunt."
"Olivia Bellin," said they both in a breath, and then sighed.
"Is there anything to mourn about, Aunt Jane?" I asked, pricking-up my ears for useful information which I knew these gossips could supply.
"Ah," sighed Aunt Jane, folding her withered hands, "who knows the wickedness of the heart?"
"Olivia's heart?"
"Dear me, no, Lionel," said Aunt Sophia, scandalized; "she is a good girl,--as good as she is lovely,--and not so silly as her mother," concluded the old lady, with feminine spite.
"Then to whose heart do you allude?"
This question started a duet between the two old ladies.
"Francis Briarfield! You remember, Jane."
"Yes, Sophia! That hussy with the feather boa----"
"Was seen speaking to him in the cathedral by Bishop Jevon's tomb."
"And he seemed very intimate with her."
"Still, Jane, he was glad when she left Marshminster."
"Rather relieved, I think, Sophia."
"And poor Olivia Bellin knew nothing about his wickedness," they concluded together.
My heart beat rapidly. In this idle talk I saw a link which would bind Felix Briarfield to the girl at the Fen Inn.
"Was she a pretty girl?" I asked with well-simulated carelessness.
"Handsome is that handsome does," snorted Aunt Jane, who was remarkably plain herself.
"Sure, sister, she was not ill-looking," said the gentler Sophia, who had been a toast in her youth; "she had a good figure and dark hair and eyes. I admired her complexion, Jane! it was like cream, and a dimple here," finished Sophia, touching her chin, "a pretty-pretty dimple."