by Fergus Hume
CHAPTER XV
A NEW CLUE
"I don't wish to talk of Miss Norman," said Paul, bluntly.
"Then you can be no true lover," retorted the widow.
"I disagree with you. A true lover does not talk to all and sundryconcerning the most sacred feelings of his heart. Moreover, your remarksat our last meeting were not to my taste."
"I apologize," said Mrs. Krill, promptly, "and will not offend in thatway again. I did not know you then, but since Mr. Hay has spoken aboutyou to me, I know and appreciate you, Mr. Beecot."
But Paul was not to be cajoled in this manner. The more suave the womanwas, the more he felt inclined to be on his guard, and he very wiselyobeyed the prompting of his instinct. "I fear you do _not_ know me, Mrs.Krill," said he as coldly as Hay could have spoken, "else you wouldhardly ask me to discuss with you, of all people, the lady whom I intendto make my wife."
"You are rather a difficult man to deal with," she replied, drawing herthick white eyebrows together. "But I like difficult men. That is why Iadmire Mr. Hay: he is not a silly, useless butterfly like that younglord there."
"Silly he is not, but I doubt his being useful. So far as I can see Haylooks after himself and nobody else."
"He proposes to look after my daughter."
"So I understand," replied Beecot, politely, "but that is a matterentirely for your own consideration."
Mrs. Krill still continued to smile in her placid way, but she wasrather nonplussed all the same. From the appearance of Beecot, she hadargued that he was one of those many men she could twist round herfinger. But he seemed to be less easily guided than she expected, andfor the moment she was silent, letting her hard eyes wander towards thecard-table, round which sat the four playing an eager and engrossinggame of bridge. "You don't approve of that perhaps?"
"No," said Paul, calmly, "I certainly do not."
"Are you a Puritan may I ask?"
Beecot shook his head and laughed. "I am a simple man, who tries to dohis duty in this world," said he, "and who very often finds it difficultto do that same duty."
"How do you define duty, Mr. Beecot?"
"We are becoming ethical," said Paul, with a smile. "I don't know that Iam prepared with an answer at present."
"Then the next time we meet. For I hope," said Mrs. Krill, smoothing herface to a smile--it had grown rather sombre--"that we shall often meetagain. You must come and see us. We have taken a house in Kensington."
"Chosen by Mr. Hay?"
"Yes! He is our mentor in London Society. I don't think," added Mrs.Krill, studying his face, "that you like Mr. Hay."
"As I am Mr. Hay's guest," said Paul, dryly, "that is rather an unkindquestion to ask."
"I asked no question. I simply make a statement."
Beecot found the conversation rather embarrassing. In place of hispumping Mrs. Krill, she was trying to pump him, which reversal of hisdesign he by no means approved of. He changed the subject ofconversation by drawing a powerfully attractive red herring across thetrail. "You wish to speak to me about Miss Norman," he remarked.
"I do," answered Mrs. Krill, who saw through his design, "but apparentlythat subject is as distasteful as a discussion about Mr. Hay."
"Both subjects are rather personal, I admit, Mrs. Krill. However, if youhave anything to tell me, which you would like Miss Norman to hear, I amwilling to listen."
"Ah! Now you are more reasonable," she answered in a pleased tone. "Itis simply this, Mr. Beecot: I am very sorry for the girl. Through nofault of her own, she is placed in a difficult position. I cannot giveher a name, since her father sinned against her as he sinned in anotherway against me, but I can--through my daughter, who is guided byme--give her an income. It does not seem right that I should have allthis money--"
"That your daughter should have all this money," interpolated Beecot.
"My daughter and I are one," replied Mrs. Krill, calmly; "when I speakfor myself, I speak for her. But, as I say, it doesn't seem right weshould be in affluence and Miss Norman in poverty. So I propose to allowher five hundred a year--on conditions. Will she accept, do you think,Mr. Beecot?"
"I should think her acceptance would depend upon the conditions."
"They are very simple," said Mrs. Krill in her deep tones, and lookingvery straightly at Paul. "She is to marry you and go to America."
Beecot's face did not change, since her hard eyes were on it. But he waspuzzled under his mask of indifference. Why did this woman want Sylviato marry him, and go into exile? He temporized. "With regard to yourwish that Miss Norman should marry me," said he, quietly, "it is ofcourse very good of you to interest yourself in the matter. I fail tounderstand your reason, however."
"Yet the reason is patent," rejoined Mrs. Krill, just as quietly andquite as watchful as before. "Sylvia Norman is a young girl without muchcharacter----"
"In that I disagree with you."
"Well, let us admit she has character, but she certainly has noexperience. In the world, she is exposed to much trouble and, perhaps,may be, to temptation. Since her position is the fault of her father,and she is entirely innocent, I want her to have a happy life. For thatreason I wish her to marry you."
Paul bowed, not believing a word of this philanthropic speech. "Again, Isay it is good of you," said he with some irony; "but even were I out ofthe way, her nurse, Deborah Tawsey, would look after her. As mattersstand, however, she will certainly become my wife as soon as we canafford a home."
"You can afford it to-morrow," said Mrs. Krill, eagerly, "if you willaccept my offer."
"A home in America," said Paul, "and why?"
"I should think both of you would like to be away from a place where youhave seen such a tragedy."
"Indeed." Paul committed himself to no opinion. "And, supposing weaccept your offer, which I admit is a generous one, you suggest weshould go to the States."
"Or to Canada, or Australia, or--in fact--you can go anywhere, so longas you leave England. I tell you, Mr. Beecot, even at the risk ofhurting your feelings, that I want that girl away from London. Myhusband treated me very badly--he was a brute always--and I hate tohave that girl before my eyes."
"Yet she is innocent."
"Have I not said that a dozen times," rejoined Mrs. Krill, impatiently."What is the use of further discussion. Do you accept my offer?"
"I will convey it to Miss Norman. It is for her to decide."
"But you have the right since you are to be her husband."
"Pardon me, no. I would never take such a responsibility on me. I shalltell Miss Norman what you say, and convey her answer to you."
"Thank you," said Mrs. Krill, graciously. But she was annoyed that hergolden bait had not been taken immediately, and, in spite of hersuavity, Paul could see that she was annoyed, the more so when she beganto explain. "Of course you understand my feelings."
"I confess I don't quite. Naturally, the fact that you are connectedwith the murder in the public eyes--"
"Pardon me," said the woman, swiftly, "but I am not. The name of Krillhas hardly been noticed. The public know that Aaron Norman was murdered.No one talks of Lemuel Krill, or thinks that I am the widow of themurdered man. Possibly I may come across some people who will connectthe two names, and look askance at me, but the majority of people--suchas Lord George there," she pointed with her fan, "do not think of me inthe way you say. As he did, they will think they remember the name--"
"Lord George did not say that to you," said Paul, swiftly.
"No. But he did to Mr. Hay, who told me," rejoined Mrs. Krill, quite asswiftly.
"To-night?" asked Beecot, remembering that Hay had not spoken privatelyto Mrs. Krill since they came in from the dining-room.
"Oh, no--on another occasion. Lord George has several times said that hehas a faint recollection of my name. Possibly the connection between meand the murder may occur to his mind, but he is really so very stupidthat I hope he will forget all about the matter."
"I wonder you don't change you
r name," said Paul, looking at her.
"Certainly not, unless public opinion forces me to change it," she saiddefiantly. "My life has always been perfectly open and above board, notlike that of my husband."
"Why did he change his name?" asked Beecot, eagerly--too eagerly, infact, for she drew back.
"Why do you ask?" she inquired coldly.
Paul shrugged his shoulders. "An idle question, Mrs. Krill. I have nowish to force your confidence."
"There is no forcing in the matter," responded the woman. "I have takenquite a fancy to you, Mr. Beecot, and you shall know what I do."
"Pray do not tell me if you would rather not."
"But I would rather," said Mrs. Krill, bluntly; "it will prevent yourmisconception of anything you may hear about us. My husband's real namewas Lemuel Krill, and he married me thirty years ago. I will be frankwith you and admit that neither of us were gentlefolks. We kept apublic-house on the outskirts of Christchurch in Hants, called 'The RedPig.'" She looked anxiously at him as she spoke.
"A strange name."
"Have you never heard of it before?"
"No. Had I heard the name it would have remained in my memory, from itsoddity."
Paul might have been mistaken, but Mrs. Krill certainly seemed relieved.Yet if she had anything to conceal in connection with "The Red Pig,"why should she have mentioned the name.
"It is not a first-class hotel," she went on smoothly, and again withher false smile. "We had only farm laborers and such like as customers.But the custom was good, and we did very well. Then my husband took todrink."
"In that respect he must have changed," said Paul, quickly, "for all thetime I knew him--six months it was--I never saw him the worse for drink,and I certainly never heard from those who would be likely to know thathe indulged in alcohol to excess. All the same," added Paul, with anafter-thought of his conversation with Sylvia in the Embankment garden,"I fancied, from his pale face and shaking hands, and a tightness of theskin, that he might drink."
"Exactly. He did. He drank brandy in large quantities, and, strange tosay, he never got drunk."
"What do you mean exactly?" asked Beecot, curiously.
"Well," said Mrs. Krill, biting the top of her fan and looking over it,"Lemuel--I'll call him by the old name--never grew red in the face, andeven after years of drinking he never showed any signs of intemperance.Certainly his hands would shake at times, but I never noticedparticularly the tightness of the skin you talk of."
"A certain shiny look," explained Paul.
"Quite so. I never noticed it. But he never got drunk so as to lose hishead or his balance," went on Mrs. Krill; "but he became a demon."
"A demon?"
"Yes," said the woman, emphatically, "as a rule he was a timid, nervous,little man, like a frightened rabbit, and would not harm a fly. Butdrink, as you know, changes a nature to the contrary of what it actuallyis."
"I have heard that."
"You would have seen an example in Lemuel," she retorted. "When he drankbrandy, he became a king, a sultan. From being timid he became bold;from not harming anyone he was capable of murder. Often in his fits didhe lay violent hands on me. But I managed to escape. When sober, hewould moan and apologize in a provokingly tearful manner. I hated anddespised him," she went on, with flashing eyes, but careful to keep hervoice from reaching the gamblers. "I was a fool to marry him. My fatherwas a farmer, and I had a good education. I was attracted by the goodlooks of Lemuel, and ran away with him from my father's farm inBuckinghamshire."
"That's where Stowley is," murmured Paul.
"Stowley?" echoed Mrs. Krill, whose ears were very sharp. "Yes, I knowthat town. Why do you mention it?"
"The opal serpent brooch with which your husband's lips were fastenedwas pawned there."
"I remember," said Mrs. Krill, calmly. "Mr. Pash told me. It has neverbeen found out how the brooch came to fasten the lips--so horrible itwas," she shuddered.
"No. My father bought the brooch from the Stowley pawnbroker, and gaveit to my mother, who sent it to me. When I had an accident, I lost it,but who picked it up I can't say."
"The assassin must have picked it up," declared Mrs. Krill, decisively,"else it would not have been used in that cruel way; though why such abrooch should have been used at all I can't understand. I suppose myhusband did not tell you why he wanted to buy the brooch?"
"Who told you that he did?" asked Paul, quickly.
"Mr. Pash. He told me all about the matter, but not the reason why myhusband wanted the brooch."
"Pash doesn't know," said Beecot, "nor do I. Your husband fainted whenI first showed him the brooch, but I don't know why. He said nothing."
Again Mrs. Krill's face in spite of her care showed a sense of relief athis ignorance. "But I must get back to my story," she said, in a hardtone, "we have to leave soon. I ran away with Lemuel who was thentravelling with jewellery. He knew a good deal about jewellery, youknow, which he turned to account in his pawnbroking."
"Yes, and amassed a fortune, thereby."
"I should never have credited him with so much sense," said Mrs. Krill,contemptuously. "While at Christchurch he was nothing but a drunkard,whining when sober, and a furious beast when drunk. I managed all thehouse, and looked after my little daughter. Lemuel led me a dog's life,and we quarrelled incessantly. At length, when Maud was old enough to bemy companion, Lemuel ran away. I kept on 'The Red Pig,' and waited forhim to return. But he never came back, and for over twenty years I heardnothing of him till I saw the hand-bills and his portrait, and heard ofhis death. Then I came to see Mr. Pash, and the rest you know."
"But why did he run away?" asked Paul.
"I suppose he grew weary of the life and the way I detested him," washer reply. "I don't wonder he ran away. But there, I have told you all,so make what you can of it. Tell Miss Norman of my offer, and make hersee the wisdom of accepting it. And now"--she rose, and held out herhand--"I must run away. You will call and see us? Mr. Hay will give youthe address."
"What's that," said Hay, leaving the card-table, "does Beecot want youraddress? Certainly." He went to a table and scribbled on a card. "Thereyou are. Hunter Street, Kensington, No. 32A. Do come, Beecot. I hopesoon to call on your services to be my best man," and he cast a coldlyloving look on Maud, who simply smiled as usual.
By this time the card-party had broken up. Maud had lost a few pounds,and Lord George a great deal. But Miss Qian and Hay had won.
"What luck," groaned the young lord. "Everything seems to go wrong withme."
"Stop and we'll try another game when the ladies have gone," suggestedHay, his impassive face lighting up, "then Beecot--"
"I must go," said the young gentleman, who did not wish to be calledupon as a witness in a possible card scandal.
"And I'll go too," said Lord George. "Whenever I play with you, Hay, Ialways seem to lose."
"What do you mean by that?" asked Grexon, fiercely.
"Oh, he doesn't mean anything," said Miss Qian, sweetly, and putting hercloak round her. "Mr. Beecot, just take me to my cab."
"I'll take you to your carriage," said Hay, offering an arm to Mrs.Krill, which she accepted graciously.
Lord George followed, grumbling, with the ever-smiling Maud. Miss Qianskipped into a hansom, and offered Paul a drive back to town which herefused. As the cab was driving off she bent down and whispered, "Becareful," with a side-glance at Hay.
Paul laughed. Everyone seemed to doubt Hay. But that gentleman handedMrs. Krill and her daughter into their carriage, and looked towards LordGeorge. "You don't want your revenge to-night?" he asked.
"No, confound you!" said the young man, sulkily.
"In that case I'll drive into Kensington with Mrs. Krill, and borrow hercarriage for a trip to Piccadilly. Good-night, Sandal. Good-night,Beecot."
He waved his hand, and the ladies waved theirs, and then the three droveaway. Lord George lighted a cigar, and putting his arm within that ofBeecot, strolled down the road. "Come to my club," he sai
d.
"No, thank you," answered Paul, politely, "I must get home."
"But I wish you'd come. I hate being by myself and you seem such a goodsort of chap."
"Well," said Beecot, thinking he might say a word in season to thisyoung fool, "I don't gamble."
"Oh, you cry down that, do you?"
"Well, I think it's foolish."
"It is," assented Lord George, frankly, "infernally foolish. And Hay hasall the luck. I wonder if he plays square."
This was dangerous ground, and Paul shied. "I really can't say," he saidcoldly, "I don't play cards."
"But what do you know of Hay?" asked Sandal.
"Only that he was at school with me at Torrington. We met by accidentthe other day, and he asked me to dinner."
"Torrington. Yes. I had a brother at that school once," said LordGeorge, "but you and Hay wouldn't get on well together, I should think.You're straight, and he's--"
"You forget, we have been dining with him," said Paul, quickly.
"What of that. I've dined often and have paid pretty dearly for theprivilege. I must have lost at least five thousand to him within thelast few months."
"In that case I should advise you to play cards no more. The remedy iseasy," said Paul, dryly.
"It isn't so easy to leave off cards," rejoined Sandal, gloomily. "I'mthat fond of gambling that I only seem to live when I've got the cardsor dice in my hand. I suppose it's like dram-drinking."
"If you take my advice, Lord George, you'll give up card-playing."
"With Hay, do you mean?" asked the other, shrewdly.
"With anyone. I know nothing about Hay beyond what I have told you."
"Humph," said Sandal, "I don't think you're a chap like him at all. Imay look a fool, but I ain't, and can see through a brick wall same asmost Johnnies."
"Who can't see at all," interpolated Paul, dryly.
"Ha! ha! that's good. But I say about this Hay. What a queer lot he hadthere to-night."
"I can't discuss that," said Paul, stiffly. He was not one to eat aman's bread and salt and then betray him.
Sandal went on as though he hadn't heard him. "That actress is a jollylittle woman," said he. "I've seen her at the Frivolity--a ripping finesinger and dancer she is. But those other ladies?"
"Mrs. and Miss Krill."
The young lord stopped short in the High Street. "Where have I heardthat name?" he said, looking up to the stars; "somewhere--in the countrymaybe. I go down sometimes to the Hall--my father's place. I don'tsuppose you'd know it. It's three miles from Christchurch."
"In Hants," said Paul, feeling he was on the verge of a discovery.
"Yes. Have you been there?"
"No. But I have heard of the place. There's an hotel there called 'TheRed Pig,' which I thought--"
"Ha!" cried young Sandal, stopping again, and with such a shout thatpassers-by thought he was drunk. "I remember the name. 'The Red Pig'; awoman called Krill kept that."
"She can hardly be the same," said Paul, not wishing to betray the lady.
"No. I guess not. She'd hardly have the cheek to sit down with me if shedid. But Krill. Yes, I remember--my aunt, you know."
"Your aunt?"
"Yes," said Sandal, impatiently, "she was murdered, or committed suicidein that 'Red Pig' place. Rachel Sandal--with her unlucky opals."
"Her unlucky opals! What do you mean?"
"Why, she had a serpent set with opals she wore as a brooch, and itbrought her bad luck."
