by Fergus Hume
‘You can tell Mr. Penrith that I will bring back the cart in two hours to the hotel,’ she said.
‘Don’t you want me to come, Miss?’ asked the groom, hesitating.
Anne whipped up the horse. ‘There is no necessity. I am going for a drive and will return in two hours.’ She was wise enough not to mention her destination in case it should be suspected that she had aided the retreat of Sir Hannibal.
Shortly she found the baronet, with his hat well pulled over his eyes and muffled up in his long coat. No words passed between them, but Sir Hannibal swung himself on to the trap at once. In another minute they were driving along the almost deserted road which led to Gwynne, a local station some six miles distant from St. Ewalds. Only when they were clear of the town did the baronet speak.
‘I cannot thank you sufficiently for your help,’ he said gratefully.
‘I am only too glad,’ responded Miss Stretton, looking at him with her bold, black eyes in a rather quizzical manner; ‘but you must think me very forward to come and overhear your private conversation.’
‘As I said, my dear girl, there need be no secrets between us,’ replied Sir Hannibal eagerly, and would have possessed himself of her hand but that she was holding the reins. ‘Now that the ice is broken between us, and you know that I love you, there is nothing you will not know. And our marriage?’
‘I have not thought of that yet,’ said Anne thoughtfully. The fact being that she did not intend to finally commit herself until she could be quite sure that Sir Hannibal had the money. She had no idea of marrying a pauper, however easy-going and well-preserved he might be.
‘Why cannot we get married while I am in town?’
‘What about your daughter?’ questioned Anne in her turn.
‘Dericka?’ Sir Hannibal waved his hand vaguely. ‘Oh, she will be quite pleased. She likes you, my dear Anne.’
‘I don’t think she does,’ responded the lady dryly. ‘However, she cannot prevent our marriage.’
‘Certainly not; I am my own master.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘She went out to see a friend and said that she would not be back until late.’
‘I fear she will be surprised to find that you have gone.’
Sir Hannibal shrugged his shoulders.
‘It cannot be helped, and I daresay she will soon learn that the cause of my flight—for that it is—is due to the feeling against me in St. Ewalds. By the way, have those rascally quarrymen sacked the house?’
‘Oh, no. I told them that you were at the Grange, and they have gone there to look for you.’
‘How clever you are. My dear girl, you are one in a thousand. I have always admired and loved you.’
Further compliments of this sort passed between them as they drove to Gwynne Station. Anne was certain that she now had Sir Hannibal fast, and looked forward to becoming the mistress of sixty thousand a year. She had some qualms of conscience regarding Penrith, whom she had led to believe would be her husband; but she dismissed these when she thought of the brilliant future before her. On the whole, Anne Stretton was thankful that matters had turned out as they had done, as in this way she had been enabled to capture Sir Hannibal. Not that he was a very shy bird, but it was necessary, as she had frequently found in her career, to make absolutely certain. Many a time had she proved the truth of the proverb, ‘There’s many a slip betwixt cup and lip.’
But she would not have been so easy in her mind had she known that Sir Hannibal, on stumbling into a first-class carriage, found that his travelling companion was none other than Dericka. There she was, comfortably ensconced in the corner, with a large bag packed away on the shelf overhead.
‘Dericka?’ cried her father in amazement; ‘what are you doing here?’
‘I am going to London,’ she replied, equally astonished. ‘And you, father, why are you going to town?’
Sir Hannibal explained, whereat Dericka was suitably angered that her father should be suspected of such a vile crime. All the same, when he had ended she significantly remarked:
‘It is just as well that I am going to London to see Oswald.’
‘Is that your reason for this secret journey?’
‘Yes. I knew if I asked you to let me go you would not consent. And I know, also, that Oswald is the sole man who can help you to find out who killed Mr. Bowring. I am going to stop with Aunt Lavinia, and then will call on Oswald at the Temple and explain everything.’
‘You should have told me, Dericka,’ fumed the baronet.
‘I think not,’ she answered calmly; ‘you would only have argued. It has been in my mind for several days to go up and see Oswald, as I have been aware of the feeling against you. But I did not expect that it would take the form of a demonstration such as you tell me about. You cannot return to St. Ewalds, father, until your character is cleared.’
‘And who will clear it, if it does need clearing?’
‘Oswald will clear it—at a price.’
‘Oh, indeed! And the price, Dericka?’
‘My hand,’ she answered, and Sir Hannibal grunted. He recognised that he was in a hole, and needed all the friends he could muster. All the same, he was by no means pleased at the prospect of having a penniless barrister as his son-in-law.
Chapter VIII An Amateur Detective
Miss Lavinia Quinton was the sister of Dericka’s mother, a wealthy spinster, who disliked Sir Hannibal as much as she loved his daughter. She also liked Oswald Forde, and was disposed to forward his suit, both on account of his good looks and because the baronet did not approve of him as Dericka’s suitor. There must have been some Irish blood in Miss Lavinia, for she was always in the opposition, and would never cease to argue while she had breath left in her spare body. Dericka was very fond of her, and Aunt Lavinia approved of Dericka, saying that all the sense in the girl came from her mother, which remark was a side slap at Sir Hannibal.
The house of this odd personage was in a quiet Kensington square, where the rents were high and the dwellers in the various mansions well-to-do. Everything in that square went by clockwork, and the Judgment Day would have found the inhabitants dressed in their best bibs and tuckers ready to listen to the last trump. Miss Quinton herself was one of the precise old ladies in the place—tall, slender and aristocratic-looking. Her silvery hair was worn in the fashion of Marie Antoinette, and suited her wrinkled, oval face with its arched nose and thin lips. She always dressed in grey, like a demure nun, and like a nun she was given to religious works, mostly concerned with an extremely high church round the corner. Walking very erect, with her nose held aloft as though disdaining meaner clay, Miss Lavinia passed for being proud and cold. Proud she certainly was, but not cold, as many a poor person knew how warm hearted she could be when there was charitable work to be done. But she assuredly possessed sharp eyes and a sharp tongue, and could make herself eminently disagreeable on occasions. She chose to do so when Sir Hannibal and Dericka arrived from Cornwall.
‘H’m!’ said Miss Lavinia, kissing Dericka warmly, and greeting her brother-in-law coldly; ‘so you are here. Why?’
‘I thought that I would come and see you, Aunt,’ said Dericka, who knew that Miss Lavinia was pleased.
‘H’m! Your father has been making himself disagreeable again?’
‘I never make myself disagreeable unless there is a cause,’ said the baronet, coldly.
‘You usually find cause,’ snapped the old lady. ‘Dericka looks pale, I notice. H’m! Is Oswald Forde the cause of that, or—’ Miss Lavinia’s eye sought the tired face of her brother-in-law.
‘I’ve got nothing to do with it,’ said Sir Hannibal hastily.
‘Papa is all right, Aunty,’ whispered Dericka quickly; ‘don’t be hard on him, he is very worried.’
‘On account of that Bowring murder? H’m.’
‘What do you know of that, Lavinia?’
‘All that I read in the papers. Well, the man’s gone, so there is no use in saying anything,
but I never liked him.’
‘I did not know that you knew him well, Lavinia?’
‘I knew him much better than you think, Hannibal. You told me about him when you came from Africa, and I made it my business to have a few conversations with him when he came to town.’
‘Why, in Heaven’s name?’ asked the baronet, puzzled.
‘For the sake of your good name, Hannibal.’
‘My—good—name?’
‘Certainly. You more than hinted that this Bowring had done some shady business in South Africa, and as you were mixed up with him I wanted to know what that business was, so that I might help you should occasion arise.’
‘There was no need,’ said Sir Hannibal testily. ‘Bowring and I did do business together in Cape Town, and he did not treat me well. All the same, I was quite able to manage him. But if you are going to make yourself disagreeable, Lavinia, I shall go to an hotel.’
‘And waste your money. Nonsense.’
‘Money doesn’t matter to me now, Lavinia. I am rich.’
‘Indeed! And how did you make money?’
‘I didn’t make it. Bowring has left me sixty thousand a year.’
Miss Lavinia, who was seated bolt upright in her chair, fell back with a gasp of astonishment when she heard the news.
‘In Heaven’s name why did he do that, seeing that he has a son?’
‘An insane son,’ put in Dericka sharply.
‘Well,’ said Sir Hannibal, revolving what Mrs. Krent had said to him and anxious to set the rumour of an engagement going, ‘the money was left to me, in a way—on account of Dericka and Morgan.’
‘The son? Well?’
‘Bowring wanted Dericka to marry Morgan, and I was, so to speak, to hold the money in trust. The will did not put that in so many words, but the hint is enough for me.’
‘Hint! Hint!’ cried Miss Lavinia with rising anger. ‘Good heavens, do you mean to say that you want Dericka to marry a lunatic?’
‘There is no chance of that,’ said Dericka angrily. ‘Papa, you really cannot mean what you are saying. You would not like me to marry that fearful creature?’
‘There is no chance of your marrying him, my dear; but it will be as well to let everyone think that I am willing you should become Morgan’s wife so that some reason may be assigned for this money being left to me.’
Miss Lavinia looked at Dericka, and Dericka looked at Miss Lavinia. It was the latter lady who spoke first.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Then I can’t explain just now,’ retorted Sir Hannibal, wearily, and resting his head on his hand; ‘but if you will wait until Forde comes I’ll make everything clear.’
‘Oh, indeed, Hannibal. And pray, have you asked Mr. Forde to come to my house and without requesting my permission?’
‘No! No!’ interposed Dericka hastily, to prevent an angry reply on the part of the incensed lady; ‘I took that liberty.’
Miss Lavinia rubbed her aristocratic nose.
‘It is a liberty, my dear—that is, it would be if anyone but yourself took it. I shall be glad to see Mr. Forde to dinner. Does he know—’
‘I sent a wire from the station asking him to come here at seven.’
‘And if you object to his coming here, Lavinia, I will send another telegram and invite him to the Guelph Hotel, where I propose to stay.’
Miss Lavinia was sharp, and not over fond of Sir Hannibal, whom she regarded as a weakling. All the same, she was hospitable and saw that her despised brother-in-law looked worried.
‘My dear Hannibal, I should not think of your going to an hotel,’ she said cordially; ‘you must stop here. Your cab is there,’—she glanced out of the window on to the quiet square—‘and your luggage also? I will send—’
Her hand was on the button of the bell.
‘I have no luggage, Lavinia.’
The maiden lady’s hand dropped. ‘No—luggage?’
‘No. I left St. Ewald’s in a hurry. For Heaven’s sake wait until Forde comes. I’ll tell my story once, but not twice.’
The spinster looked again at Dericka, but that young lady shook her head.
‘I can give no explanation, Aunty. Father refuses to enlighten me until he sees Oswald.’
‘In that case we may as well drop the subject. But you did not tell me, Hannibal, how you came up?’
‘We came by the night train, Lavinia, and stopped at the Guelph Hotel.’
‘Why did you not come here?’ asked Miss Lavinia, putting up a lorgnette and speaking severely. ‘It is now three o’clock in the afternoon.’
‘Aunty’—it was Dericka who explained—‘I wanted to come to you, and had I been travelling by myself I should have come on, however late the hour. But father joined me at Gwynne Station, and said that we had better stop at the Guelph Hotel instead of troubling you. We were shopping this morning, and—’
‘You should have come here.’
‘I didn’t want to,’ said Dericka quickly. ‘I sent a wire, as I said, from the station when we arrived asking Oswald to come here this evening, and did not wish to come until the afternoon.’
‘Why?’ asked Miss Lavinia, snappishly.
‘It was my fault,’ interposed Sir Hannibal. ‘I had to see a doctor.’
‘Oh, then the shopping excuse is a lie?’
‘No. We did do some shopping, Aunty.’
‘H’m! And why, Hannibal, did you see a doctor?’
‘I have had a shock.’
‘What sort of a shock?’
‘Oh!’ Sir Hannibal rose and shook himself. ‘Do stop asking questions, Lavinia. The shock has to do with what I have to tell you in the presence of Forde. As to the shopping, since I came away without baggage I have had to get a few things.’
‘Which are in the cab?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then, when you said that you had no luggage you told a—
‘Damn!’ cried the baronet, goaded beyond endurance.
Far from being angry, Miss Lavinia seemed amused.
‘I apologise,’ she said with very good grace; ‘I fear my questions worry you.’
‘They do. And I apologise in my turn for bad language.’
‘I accept.’ Miss Lavinia smiled grimly and shook out her grey skirts in a gracious manner. ‘Well, then, I’ll send Augustus’—this was the butler—‘to get your—your—purchases.’ Miss Lavinia was determined not to say ‘luggage’—‘and you can amuse yourself here while I take Dericka to her room.’
Sir Hannibal nodded and sat down again—he had risen in his anger.
Miss Lavinia gave her instructions, and escorted her niece to a very pretty bedroom next to her own. When the two were alone, and the door was closed, the spinster turned on Dericka with a look which spoke volumes. ‘Marriage,’ said Miss Lavinia.
‘Whose marriage?’ inquired Dericka, smiling rosily.
‘Not yours, my dear. Hannibal’s.’
The rosy flush died out of the girl’s face.
‘My father? Oh, you must be mistaken.’
‘I am very seldom mistaken,’ said the spinster frigidly. ‘Hannibal is one of those well-preserved old beaux who are the easy prey of any adventuress who comes along.’
‘Oh!’ Dericka remembered that this was her term for Miss Stretton. ‘Do you mean—’
‘Anne. Of course I mean Anne. She is well-born, and not bad-looking, even though she is older than she admits. She came to m e some months ago saying that she wanted to go to St. Ewald’s to join that art school there, and asked me to give her a letter of introduction or two. I think myself she is an adventuress, but I had a regard for her poor father. I therefore introduced her to you, my dear. But it never struck me that she would make love to your father.’
‘She has done so, however,’ said Dericka swiftly, ‘and I rather think that father admires her.’ And she related the conduct of Miss Stretton at the fete. ‘I believe father will marry her,’ ended Dericka.
‘So do I,’ said Mis
s Lavinia, who had listened grimly; ‘and foolish I was to send her to you, my dear. Of course, I knew that your father was poor and that Anne wanted to marry money, so, even if such a thought had crossed my mind, I should not have considered your father to be in any danger. However, the mischief is done. What your father wants to explain to Mr. Forde is that he is willing you should become his wife provided you are willing to receive Anne as a step-mother.’
