“It appears very strange that one man should have employed two distinct instruments of this kind,” observed Mervyn, after a pause. A silence followed.
“Yes, strange; it does seem strange,” said Marston, clearing his voice.
“Yet, it is clear,” said another of the jury, “that the same hand did employ them. It is proved that the knife was in Merton’s possession just as he left his chamber; and proved, also, that the dagger was secreted by him after he quitted the house.”
“Yes,” said Marston, with a grisly sort of smile, and glancing sarcastically at Mervyn, while he addressed the last speaker— “I thank you for recalling my attention to the facts. It certainly is not a very pleasant suggestion, that there still remains within my household an undetected murderer.”
Mervyn ruminated for a time, and said he should wish to put a few more questions to Smith and Carney. They were accordingly recalled, and examined in great detail, with a view to ascertain whether any indication of the presence of a second person having visited the chamber with Merton was discoverable. Nothing, however, appeared, except that the valet mentioned the noise and the exclamations which he had indistinctly heard.
“You did not mention that before, sir,” said Marston, sharply.
“I did not think of it, sir,” replied the man, “the gentlemen were asking me so many questions; but I told you, sir, about it in the morning.”
“Oh, ah — yes, yes — I believe you did,” said Marston; “but you then said that Sir Wynston often talked when he was alone; eh, sir?”
“Yes, sir, and so he used, which was the reason I did not go into the room when I heard it,” replied the man.
“How long afterwards was it when you saw Merton in your own room?” asked Mervyn.
“I could not say, sir,” answered Smith; “I was soon asleep, and can’t say how long I slept before he came.”
“Was it an hour?” pursued Mervyn.
“I can’t say,” said the man, doubtfully.
“Was it five hours?” asked Marston.
“No, Sir; I am sure it was not five.”
“Could you swear it was more than half-an-hour?” persisted Marston.
“No, I could not swear that,” answered he.
“I am afraid, Mr. Mervyn; you have found a mare’s nest,” said Marston, contemptuously.
“I have done my duty, sir,” retorted Mervyn, cynically; “which plainly requires that I shall have no doubt, which the evidence of the witness can clear up, unsifted and unsatisfied. I happened to think it of some moment to ascertain, if possible, whether more persons than one were engaged in this atrocious murder. You don’t seem to think the question so important a one; different men, sir, take different views.”
“Views, sir, in matters of this sort, especially where they tend to multiply suspicions, and to implicate others, ought to be supported by something more substantial than mere fancies,” retorted Marston.
“I don’t know what you call fancies,” replied Mervyn, testily; “but here are two deadly weapons, a knife and a dagger, each, it would seem, employed in doing this murder; if you see nothing odd in that, I can’t enable you to do so.”
“Well, sir,” said Marston, grimly, “the whole thing is, as you term it, odd; and I can see no object in your picking out this particular singularity for long-winded criticism, except to cast scandal upon my household, by leaving a hideous and vague imputation floating among the members of it. Sir, sir, this is a foul way,” he cried, sternly, “to gratify a paltry spite.”
“Mr. Marston,” said Mervyn, rising, and thrusting his hands into his pockets, while he confronted him to the full as sternly, “the country knows in which of our hearts the spite, if any there be between us, is harbored. I owe you no friendship, but, sir, I cherish no malice, either; and against the worst enemy I have on earth I am incapable of perverting an opportunity like this, and inflicting pain, under the pretence of discharging a duty.”
Marston was on the point of retorting, but the coroner interposed, and besought them to confine their attention strictly to the solemn inquiry which they were summoned together to prosecute.
There remained still to be examined the surgeon who had accompanied the coroner, for the purpose of reporting upon the extent and nature of the injuries discoverable upon the person of the deceased. He, accordingly, deposed, that having examined the body, he found no less than three deep wounds, inflicted with some sharp instrument; two of them had actually penetrated the heart, and were, of course, supposed to cause instant death. Besides these, there were two contusions, one upon the back of the head, the other upon the forehead, with a slight abrasion of the eyebrow. There was a large lock of hair torn out by the roots at the front of the head, and the palm and fingers of the right hand were cut. This evidence having been taken, the jury once more repaired to the chamber where the body lay, and proceeded with much minuteness to examine the room, with a view to ascertain, if possible, more particularly the exact circumstances of the murder.
The result of this elaborate scrutiny was as follows: — The deceased, they conjectured, had fallen asleep in his easy chair, and, while he was unconscious, the murderer had stolen into the room, and, before attacking his victim, had secured the bedroom-door upon the inside. This was argued from the non-discovery of blood upon the handle, or any other part of the door. It was supposed that he had then approached Sir Wynston, with the view either of robbing, or of murdering him while he slept, and that the deceased had awakened just after he had reached him; that a brief and desperate struggle had ensued, in which the assailant had struck his victim with his fist upon the forehead, and having stunned him, had hurriedly clutched him by the hair, and stabbed him with the dagger, which lay close by upon the chimneypiece, forcing his head violently against the back of the chair. This part of the conjecture was supported by the circumstance of there being discovered a lock of hair upon the ground at the spot, and a good deal of blood. The carpet, too, was tumbled, and a water-decanter, which had stood upon the table close by, was lying in fragments upon the floor. It was supposed that the murderer had then dragged the half-lifeless body to the bed, where, having substituted the knife, which he had probably brought to the room in the same pocket from which the boy afterwards saw him take the dagger, he dispatched him; and either hearing some alarm — perhaps the movement of the valet in the adjoining room, or from some other cause — he dropped the knife in the bed, and was not able to find it again. The wounds upon the hand of the dead man indicated his having caught and struggled to hold the blade of the weapon with which he was assailed. The impression of a bloody hand thrust under the bolster, where it was Sir Wynston’s habit to place his purse and watch, when making his arrangements for the night, supplied the motive of this otherwise unaccountable atrocity.
After some brief consultation, the jury agreed upon a verdict of willful murder against John Merton, a finding of which the coroner expressed his entire approbation.
Marston, as a justice of the peace, had informations, embodying the principal part of the evidence given before the coroner, sworn against Merton, and transmitted a copy of them to the Home Office. A reward for the apprehension of the culprit was forthwith offered, but for some months without effect.
Marston had, in the interval, written to several of Sir Wynston’s many relations, announcing the catastrophe, and requesting that steps might immediately be taken to have the body removed. Meanwhile undertakers were busy in the chamber of death. The corpse was enclosed in lead, and that again in cedar, and a great oak shell, covered with crimson cloth and goldheaded nails, and with a gilt plate, recording the age, title, &c. &c., of the deceased, was screwed down firmly over all.
Nearly a fortnight elapsed before any reply to Marston’s letters was received. A short epistle at last arrived from Lord H —— , the late Sir Wynston’s uncle, deeply regretting the “sad and inexplicable occurrence,” and adding, that the will, which, on receipt of the “distressing intelligence,” was immediately
opened and read, contained no direction whatever respecting the sepulture of the deceased, which had therefore better be completed as modestly and expeditiously as possible, in the neighborhood; and, in conclusion, he directed that the accounts of the undertakers, &c., employed upon the melancholy occasion, might be sent in to Mr. Skelton, who had kindly undertaken to leave London without any delay, for the purpose of completing these last arrangements, and who would, in any matter of business connected with the deceased, represent him, Lord H —— , as executor of the late baronet.
This letter was followed, in a day or two, by the arrival of Skelton, a well-dressed, languid, impertinent London tuft-hunter, a good deal faded, with a somewhat sallow and puffy face, charged with a pleasant combination at once of meanness, insolence, and sensuality — just such a person as Sir Wynston’s parasite might have been expected to prove.
However well disposed to impress the natives with high notions of his extraordinary refinement and importance, he very soon discovered that, in Marston, he had stumbled upon a man of the world, and one thoroughly versed in the ways and characters of London life. After some ineffectual attempts, therefore, to overawe and astonish his host, Mr. Skelton became aware of the fruitlessness of the effort, and condescended to abate somewhat of his pretensions. Marston could not avoid inviting this person to pass the night at his house, an invitation which was accepted, of course; and next morning, after a late breakfast, Mr. Skelton observed, with a yawn— “And now, about this body — poor Berkley! — what do you propose to do with him?”
“I have no proposition to make,” said Marston, drily. “It is no affair of mine, except that the body may be removed without more delay. I have no suggestion to offer.”
“H — — ‘s notion was to have him buried as near the spot as may be,” said Skelton.
Marston nodded.
“There is a kind of vault, is not there, in the demesne, a family burial-place?” inquired the visitor.
“Yes, sir,” replied Marston, curtly.
“Well?” drawled Skelton.
“Well, sir, what then?” responded Marston.
“Why, as the wish of the parties is to have him buried — poor fellow! — as quietly as possible, I think he might just as well be laid there as anywhere else!”
“Had I desired it, Mr. Skelton, I should myself have made the offer,” said Marston, abruptly.
“Then you don’t wish it?” said Skelton.
“No, sir; certainly not — most peremptorily not,” answered Marston, with more sharpness than, in his early days, he would have thought quite consistent with politeness.
“Perhaps,” replied Skelton, for want of something better to say, and with a callous sort of levity; “perhaps you hold the idea — some people do — that murdered men can’t rest in their graves until their murderers have expiated their guilt?”
Marston made no reply, but shot two or three lurid glances from under his brow at the speaker.
“Well, then, at all events,” continued Skelton, indolently resuming his theme, “if you decline your assistance, may I, at least, hope for your advice? Knowing nothing of this country, I would ask you whither you would recommend me to have the body conveyed?”
“I don’t care to advise in the matter,” said Marston; “but if I were directing, I should have the remains buried in Chester. It is not more than twenty miles from this; and if, at any future time, his family should desire to remove the body, it could be effected more easily from thence. But you can decide.”
“Egad! I believe you are right,” said Skelton, glad to be relieved of the trouble of thinking about the matter; “and I shall take your advice.”
In accordance with this declaration the body was, within four-and-twenty hours, removed to Chester, and buried there, Mr. Skelton attending on behalf of Sir Wynston’s numerous and afflicted friends and relatives.
There are certain heartaches for which time brings no healing; nay, which grow but the sorer and fiercer as days and years roll on; of this kind, perhaps, were the stern and bitter feelings which now darkened the face of Marston with an almost perpetual gloom. His habits became even more unsocial than before. The society of his son he no longer seemed to enjoy. Long and solitary rambles in his wild and extensive demesne consumed the listless hours or his waking existence; and when the weather prevented this, he shut himself up, upon pretence of business, in his study.
He had not, since the occasion we have already mentioned, referred to the intended departure of Mademoiselle de Barras. Truth to say, his feelings with respect to that young lady were of a conflicting and mysterious kind; and as often as his dark thoughts wandered to her (which, indeed, was frequently enough), his muttered exclamation seemed to imply some painful and horrible suspicions respecting her.
“Yes,” he would mutter, “I thought I heard your light foot upon the lobby, on that accursed night. Fancy! Well, it may have been, but assuredly a strange fancy. I cannot comprehend that woman. She baffles my scrutiny. I have looked into her face with an eye she might well understand, were it indeed as I sometimes suspect, and she has been calm and unmoved. I have watched and studied her; still — doubt, doubt, hideous doubt! — is she what she seems, or — a tigress?”
Mrs. Marston, on the other hand, procrastinated from day to day the painful task of announcing to Mademoiselle de Barras the stern message with which she had been charged by her husband. And thus several weeks had passed, and she began to think that his silence upon the subject, notwithstanding his seeing the young French lady at breakfast every morning, amounted to a kind of tacit intimation that the sentence of banishment was not to be carried into immediate execution, but to be kept suspended over the unconscious offender.
It was now six or eight weeks since the hearse carrying away the remains of the illfated Sir Wynston Berkley had driven down the dusky avenue; the autumn was deepening into winter, and as Marston gloomily trod the woods of Gray Forest, the withered leaves whirled drearily along his pathway, and the gusts that swayed the mighty branches above him were rude and ungenial. It was a bleak and somber day, and as he broke into a long and picturesque vista, deep among the most sequestered woods, he suddenly saw before him, and scarcely twenty paces from the spot on which he stood, an apparition, which for some moments absolutely froze him to the earth.
Travelsoiled, tattered, pale, and wasted, John Merton, the murderer, stood before him. He did not exhibit the smallest disposition to turn about and make his escape. On the contrary, he remained perfectly motionless, looking upon his former master with a wild and sorrowful gaze. Marston twice or thrice essayed to speak; his face was white as death, and had he beheld the specter of the murdered baronet himself, he could not have met the sight with a countenance of ghastlier horror.
“Take me, sir,” said Merton, doggedly.
Still Marston did not stir.
“Arrest me, sir, in God’s name! here I am,” he repeated, dropping his arms by his side; “I’ll go with you wherever you tell me.”
“Murderer!” cried Marston, with a sudden burst of furious horror, “murderer — assassin — miscreant — take that!”
And, as he spoke, he discharged one of the pistols he always carried about him full at the wretched man. The shot did not take effect, and Merton made no other gesture but to clasp his hands together, with an agonized pressure, while his head sunk upon his breast.
“Shoot me; shoot me,” he said hoarsely; “kill me like a dog: better for me to be dead than what I am.”
The report of Marston’s pistol had, however, reached another ear; and its ringing echoes had hardly ceased to vibrate among the trees, when a stern shout was heard not fifty yards away, and, breathless and amazed, Charles Marston sprang to the place. His father looked from Merton to him, and from him again to Merton, with a guilty and stupefied scowl, still holding the smoking pistol in his hand.
“What — how! Good God — Merton!” ejaculated Charles.
“Aye, sir, Merton; ready to go to gaol, or whe
rever you will,” said the man, recklessly.
“A murderer; a madman; don’t believe him,” muttered Marston, scarce audibly, with lips as white as wax.
“Do you surrender yourself, Merton?” demanded the young man, sternly, advancing toward him.
“Yes, sir; I desire nothing more; God knows I wish to die,” responded he, despairingly, and advancing slowly to meet Charles.
“Come, then,” said young Marston, seizing him by the collar, “come quietly to the house. Guilty and unhappy man, you are now my prisoner, and, depend upon it, I shall not let you go.”
“I don’t want to go, I tell you, sir. I have traveled fifteen miles today, to come here and give myself up to the master.”
“Accursed madman,” said Marston unconsciously, gazing at the prisoner; and then suddenly rousing himself, he said, “Well, miscreant, you wish to die, and, by —— , you are in a fair way to have your wish.”
“So best,” said the man, doggedly. “I don’t want to live; I wish I was in my grave; I wish I was dead a year ago.”
Some fifteen minutes afterwards, Merton, accompanied by Marston and his son Charles, entered the hall of the mansion which, not ten weeks before, he had quitted under circumstances so guilty and terrible. When they reached the house, Merton seemed much agitated, and wept bitterly on seeing two or three of his former fellow servants, who looked on him in silence as they passed, with a gloomy and fearful curiosity. These, too, were succeeded by others, peeping and whispering, and upon one pretence or another crossing and recrossing the hall, and stealing hurried glances at the criminal. Merton sate with his face buried in his hands, sobbing, and taking no note of the humiliating scrutiny of which he was the subject. Meanwhile Marston, pale and agitated, made out his committal, and having sworn in several of his laborers and servants as special constables, dispatched the prisoner in their charge to the county gaol, where, under lock and key, we leave him in safe custody for the present.
Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu Page 706
