The Third Volume

by Fergus Hume

  CHAPTER XXII.

  IN THE CHURCH.

  THORSTON MANOR, built in broad meadow land, about a quarter of a milefrom the village, was now the property of Spencer Tait. He had purchasedit lately at a small price from old Miss Felcar, the last representativeof that ancient family. She, unable to maintain the house in itsoriginal splendor, got quit of it altogether in this way, and shortlyafterward took up her quarters at Eastbourne, leaving the house of herancestors in the possession of a stranger.

  The house itself was of no great pretensions, or age, dating only fromthe second George--a square, red-brick mansion, only redeemed fromactual ugliness by the mellow beauty of its hues. The grounds themselveswere better, and the trees best of all. An avenue curved nobly to thegate, which gave on the highroad, and to the right of this, fronting thehouse, was a delightful garden, laid out in the Dutch fashion. Therewere yew trees cut into quaint shapes, stiff and formal hedges runningin straight lines, and beds of old-fashioned flowers. A fountain, asummer house, and a statue or two completed the furniture of thispleasant ground, to which Tait introduced his friend with unconcealedpride.

  "I paid for this," he said, looking round as they paced the broad walks."By itself the house is a monstrosity, only rendered endurable by itsyears; but you must confess that the garden is worth the money."

  "It is certainly quaint," replied Larcher, looking around with an absentair, "but I do not care for nature in buckram. The formality of thisplace offends my eye."

  "Ah, my dear fellow, you have been used to the wildness of New Zealandwoods of late. You will find these grounds grow on you. I shall leaveyou alone this afternoon to make the attempt."

  "Indeed," said Larcher, in some surprise at this cavalier treatment,"and what do you intend to do?"

  "I am going to church."

  "To church--on a week-day?"

  "Oh, I am not bent on devotion, Claude. But Miss Paynton is the organistof the parish. To-day is Wednesday, when she is accustomed to practicebetween three and five. I propose to see her there."

  "Why?"

  "Can't you guess? To forestall her with Hilliston. That gentleman is atEastbourne, and will probably come over to-day or to-morrow to ask Jennyto hold her tongue. As we can't afford to run such a risk, I must getall I can out of her to-day."

  "Can I come also?"

  "No!" replied Tait promptly. "It would be necessary for me to introduceyou."

  "What of that? Does it matter?"

  "It matters a great deal. Miss Paynton has, we believe, obtained theplot of Linton's novel from a report of the trial. She will know thename of Larcher, and when she hears that you are called so, she willprobably take fright and hold her tongue."

  "But why should she think I have anything to do with the case?"

  "Your own name. Your guardian's," answered Tait quietly. "Both arementioned in the report of the trial. Oh, I assure you, Jenny is aclever girl, and knows that two and two make four. She will put this andthat together, with the result that nothing will be gained by theinterview."

  "Well, well, go alone," said Claude crossly; "though I envy you thechance. She is a pretty girl, from the glimpse I caught of her."

  "And as wise as she is pretty," laughed Tait. "I will need all my witsto deal with her. Now, is it settled?"

  "Yes. You go to your organist, and I'll potter about these green alleysand think myself an abbe of Louis XIV.'s time."

  Having come to this amicable understanding, they went in to luncheon,after which Tait gave Claude a sketch of the people in the neighborhood.Later on he sent him into the Dutch garden with a cigar and a book, thenbetook himself by a short cut through the park to the Church of St.Elfrida. Shortly after four he entered by the main door, and foundhimself in the aisle listening to the rolling notes of the organ.

  There was no attempt at decoration in that church, for the vicar wasbroad in his views, and hating all ritualism from his soul, took a pridein keeping the edifice bare and unadorned. The heavy arches of graystone, the white-washed walls, with here and there a mural tablet, theplain communion table under the single stained-glass window; nothingcould be less attractive. Only the deep hues of roof and pews, thegolden pipes of the organ, and the noble lectern, with its brazen eagle,preserved the church from looking absolutely irreverent. Through theglazed windows of plain glass poured in the white light of day, so thatthe interior lacked the reverent gloom, most fitted to the building, andthe marks of time were shown up in what might be termed a cruel manner.Of old, St. Elfrida's had been rich in precious marbles, in splendidaltars, and gorgeous windows, many-hued and elaborate; but the Puritanshad destroyed all these, and reduced the place to its present bareness,which the vicar took a pride in preserving. It seemed a shame that sonoble a monument of Norman architecture should be so neglected.

  The red curtains of the organ loft hid the player, but Tait knew that itwas Jenny by the touch, and sat down in a pew to wait till she hadfinished her practising. One piece followed the other, and the statelymusic vibrated among the arches in great bursts of sound, a march, ananthem, an offertory, till Tait almost fell asleep, lulled by the droneof the pipes. At length Jenny brought her performance to an end, andhaving dismissed the boy who attended to the bellows, tripped down theaisle with a music book under her arm. She looked as fresh and pink as arose, but quite out of place in that bare, bleak building. Toward herTait advanced with a bow.

  "Here I am, you see, Miss Paynton," he said, shaking her by the hand. "Iheard your music, and could not help coming in to listen. I hope you donot mind my intrusion."

  "Oh, the Lord of the Manor can go anywhere," said Jenny demurely. "I amglad to see you again, Mr. Tait. The second time to-day, is it not?"

  "Yes; I drove past you in the market place, if I remember rightly. Won'tyou sit down, Miss Paynton, and give me all the news. I am terriblyignorant of local gossip, I assure you."

  Nothing loath, the girl seated herself in a pew near the door, andoccupied herself in fixing her glove. Remembering the conversation withLinton, she was slightly uneasy at Tait's very direct request, butthinking that it could not possibly have anything to do with the plot ofLinton's novel, resigned herself to circumstances. Before theconversation ended she wished that she had refused to speak to Tait atthat moment; but it was then too late.

  "News," she repeated with a laugh, "do we ever have any news in thisdreary place. I should rather ask you for news, Mr. Tait, who are freshfrom London."

  "Oh, but no doubt our young author has already told you all that isworth hearing," said Tait, deftly leading up to his point; "he has beenquite the lion of the season."

  "Yes. He has been very fortunate," replied Jenny carefully. She did notrelish the sudden introduction of this forbidden subject.

  "And he owes it to you, I believe."

  "To me. Good gracious, Mr. Tait! what have I to do with Frank'ssuccess?"

  "According to what he says, everything."

  "What do you mean," she said, sitting up very straight, with a deepercolor than usual on her cheek.

  "Why," said Tait, looking directly at her, and thereby adding to herconfusion, "Frank told me that you supplied the plot of 'A Whim ofFate.'"

  "And what if I did, Mr. Tait?"

  "Oh, nothing, only I must compliment you on your--shall we say selectionor invention?"

  "The former," replied Jenny, with extraordinary quickness. "Since Frankmakes no secret of it, why should I? The plot was told him by me, and Ifound it set forth as a trial in a newspaper of 1866."

  "H'm! In the _Canterbury Observer_, I believe?"

  "How do you know that is the name of the paper?" she asked in a nervoustone.

  "I learned it from the same source that supplied me with the history ofthe Larcher affair."

  "What! You also know the name of the case?"

  "As you see."

  "Frank does not know it. I did not show him the papers. I suppressed allnames when I told the story," she said inco
herently; "but nowyou--you----"

  "I know all. Yes, you are right," observed Tait complacently. "I ambetter acquainted with the plot of 'A Whim of Fate' than John Parverhimself."

  Jenny sat looking at him in a kind of wild amazement. From thesignificance of his tone, the extent of his knowledge, she vaguely feltthat something was wrong. Again, the anger of Kerry, the conversation ofLinton, came into her mind, and she saw into what difficulty the chancetelling of that ancient crime had led her. Tait noticed that she wasperplexed and frightened, so dexterously strove to set her more at easeby making a clean breast of it, and enlisting her sympathy for Claude.

  "You saw the friend who was with me in the cart, Miss Paynton?"

  "Yes. Who is he?"

  "Claude Larcher!"

  "Claude La----What do you mean, Mr. Tait? I am in the dark. I do notunderstand. Have I done anything wrong in--in----"

  "In telling the case to Linton?" finished Tait smoothly. "By no means.As a matter of fact you have done my friend a service."

  "He is called Larcher! Who is he?" she asked again with an effort.

  "He is the son of George Larcher, who was murdered at Horriston in1866."