The House 'Round the Corner

by Louis Tracy

  CHAPTER X

  ARMATHWAITE STATES A CASE

  After endeavoring, with no marked success, to console a fretfulinvalid with promises of alleviation of his sufferings by askilled hand--promises made with the best of intent, thoughdoomed to disappointment, because the immediate use of a tightbandage was precisely the treatment which any doctor would haverecommended--Armathwaite joined Marguerite in a belated meal.

  The spirit of an infuriated cook must have raged in Mrs. Jackson'sbreast when she bade Betty "tell 'em to mak' the best of it, becauseeverything is spiled." Nevertheless, they dined well, since Yorkshirelove of good fare would not permit a real _debacle_ among the eatables.

  Marguerite was utterly downcast when Armathwaite informed her that PercyWhittaker would be lucky if he could trust his weight on the injuredankle within the next month.

  "What a load of misfortune I carried with me yesterday over the moor!"she cried bitterly. "Yet, how could I foresee that an interfering womanlike Edith Suarez would send Percy hotfoot in pursuit?"

  "I have formed a hazy idea of Mrs. Suarez from various remarks droppedby her brother and you," said Armathwaite. "If it is correct in theleast particular, I am surprised that she ever let you leave Chester onsuch an errand."

  "She didn't. I came away without her knowledge!"

  "Ah!"

  "You needn't say 'Ah!' in that disapproving way. Why shouldn't I visitElmdale and this house if I wanted to?"

  "You have quite failed to understand my exclamation. It was aninvoluntary tribute to my own powers."

  "If you mean that Edith is a cat, I agree with you. When she hears thatPercy has fallen downstairs and lamed himself, she won't believe a wordof it. Before we know where we are she will be here herself."

  "We have five bedrooms. The house will then be full," he said placidly.

  "Five? Oh! you include my mother in your reckoning. Bob, don't you thinkI ought to telegraph early in the morning and tell her not to come?"

  "No. If you adopt the scheme I have evolved for the routing of allWalkers and the like, the arrival of your mother will be the one thingrequisite to insure its complete triumph."

  Then he laid bare his project. Stephen Garth was dead and buried. Lethim remain so. Mrs. Ogilvey herself would be the first to approve of anyfair means which would save her husband from the probing and prying ofthe police. There was always the probability that he was innocent of anycrime. Even if, from the common-sense point of view, they must assumethat he knew of the ghastly secret which the house could reveal sooneror later, it did not necessarily follow that such cognizance was aguilty one. Thus did Armathwaite juggle with words, until his hearer wasconvinced that he could secure her a respite from the tribulations ofthe morrow, at least, though the graver problem would remain to vex thefuture.

  They were yet talking earnestly when the iron hasp of the gate clickedin its socket.

  "Dr. Scaife!" cried Marguerite, rising hurriedly. Then she bethoughtherself. "I suppose it doesn't really matter now who sees me," sheadded, "and I should so much like to meet him. He is one of our oldestfriends in Yorkshire."

  "Meet him, by all means; but don't forget your new role. In fact, itwould be well if you rehearsed it at once. The doctor will be a valuablefactor in the undoing of Walker."

  The bell rang. Armathwaite himself went to the door. A slightly-built,elderly man, wearing a bowler hat and an overcoat, was standing there.In the lane beyond the gate gleamed the lamps of a dog-cart, and a groomwas holding the horse's head.

  "I'm Doctor Scaife," announced the newcomer. "I'm told you have had anaccident of some sort here!"

  "Yes," said Armathwaite. "Come in, doctor! You've probably heard myname--Armathwaite. I've just rented this place for the summer, and ayoung friend of mine, who arrived unexpectedly to-day, had the ill-luckto slip on the stairs and sprain his ankle. I've done what I could byway of first-aid. I hope you received my message correctly?"

  "About the india-rubber bandage, do you mean? Yes, I've brought one.Lucky your man caught me. I was just starting for another village; but Ican make the call on my way home. Where is the patient?"

  At that minute the doctor set eyes on Marguerite, who had come to thedoor of the dining-room. Her face was in shadow, because the lamp on thetable was directly behind her.

  "Well, Uncle Ferdie, you dear old thing--don't you know me?" she cried.

  Dr. Scaife was not a man of demonstrative habit; but, for once in hislife, he literally gasped with surprise.

  "Meg!" he stammered. "My own little Meg!"

  He grasped her hands in both of his. A dozen questions were hovering onhis lips, yet all he could find to say was:

  "Is Mrs. Garth here, too?"

  "No; mother comes to-morrow, or next day at latest."

  "You intend remaining, I hope?"

  "Well, our movements are rather erratic, but we shall have severalopportunities of meeting you before we go."

  Betty appeared, carrying a lamp, which she set on a bracket at thecorner of the stairs. Scaife, still holding Meg's hand, drew her to thelight.

  "Come here!" he said. "Let me have a good look at you. Prettier thanever, 'pon me soul! And how is your dear mother? Where have you buriedyourself all this time? How long is it? Two years! Never a line to aforlorn uncle, even at Christmas! I shan't forgive you to-morrow, butI'm so pleased to see you to-night that at present I'll forget yourneglect."

  "Uncle Ferdie, it was not my fault. Mother couldn't bear me to mentionElmdale or any of its associations."

  "Ah, of course! of course! But time is the great healer. I'll pray forcontinued fine weather, so that her beloved moor may smile on herarrival. Well, well! I feel as though I had seen--er--seen a fairy. Mindyou don't vanish before I come downstairs. I'm ready now, Mr.Armathwaite."

  The worthy doctor had nearly blundered, but he had executed whatAmericans call a "side-step" neatly enough. Armathwaite smiled at thegirl. She had passed this initial test with honors. A couple more suchexperiences, and James Walker would be flouted as a mischievous fool ifhe talked of Stephen Garth being alive.

  As he piloted the doctor upstairs, Armathwaite glanced at the window ofill-omen. The light of the lamp had conquered the external gloaming. Theleaded divisions of colored glass were apparently of one uniform tint.Even the somber figure in black armor had lost its predominance.

  Whittaker, who was lying on his back, tried to turn when the two menentered his bedroom. He groaned, and said querulously:

  "Couldn't you have got here sooner, doctor? I'm suffering the worst sortof agony. This confounded ankle of mine must have been tied up allwrong."

  "We'll soon put that right," said Scaife, with professionalcheerfulness. "Will you hold the lamp, Mr. Armathwaite, while I have alook? What time did the accident happen?"

  "Exactly at half-past seven," said Armathwaite.

  The doctor consulted his watch.

  "Oh, come now, you're really very fortunate, Mr.----"

  "Whittaker," put in Armathwaite.

  "Ah, yes! Did you mention the name? The mere sight of Meg Garth droveeverything else from my mind. But it's only a quarter to nine, Mr.Whittaker, and a messenger had to reach me at Bellerby, three milesaway. Hello, who tied this bandage? You, Mr. Armathwaite? Have you hadhospital training?"

  "No; nothing beyond the rough and ready ways of a camp. A friend in theIndian Medical certainly taught me how to adjust a strip of lint."

  "You shouldn't grumble, young man; you've been looked after infirst-class style," said the doctor, smiling at Percy. "It may relieveyour mind if I tell you that I couldn't have done any better myself. Or,perhaps, if the pain is very bad, you'll think that the poorest sort ofconsolation. Fortunately, Mr. Armathwaite warned me as to what hadhappened, so I've brought a lotion which will give you some relief. Now,tell me when I touch a sore place. I shan't hurt you more than is neededto find out exactly where the trouble lies."

  In a few minutes Scaife had reached the same conclusion as Armathwaite.Indeed, he gave the
latter a look which was easily understandable. If itwere not for the moral effect of his presence on the sufferer, he neednot have been summoned from Bellerby that night. He applied the soothinglotion, however, and substituted a thin, india-rubber strip for thelinen bandage. Then he and Armathwaite assisted Whittaker to undress,and placed him in bed as comfortably as possible.

  "Now, I want to assure you that the prompt attention you receivedprevented a very awkward swelling," said the doctor, before taking hisdeparture. "You've sprained that ankle rather badly. If it had beenallowed to swell it would have given you a very nasty time. As it is, ifyou're careful, you'll be able to hobble about in a fortnight."

  "A fortnight!" Whittaker almost shrieked. "I can't lie here afortnight!"

  "Whether you remain here or not, you'll be lucky if you can put thatfoot on the ground within that time. You may be moved, if you'recarried, though I don't advise it."

  "But it's perfect rot to talk about being stewed up in this room allthat time," protested the other, his eyes gleaming yellow, and hisfingers plucking nervously at the bed-clothes. "This isn't my house. I'ma stranger here. Besides, there are things I must do. I have to be upand about to-morrow, without fail."

  Dr. Scaife nodded. He was far too wise a person to argue with an excitedpatient.

  "Well, wait till I examine you in the morning," he said. "Sometimes,injuries of the sprain order yield very rapidly to treatment. Take this,and you'll have a night's rest, at any rate."

  He shook some crystals out of a small bottle into a little water, andwatched Whittaker drinking the decoction.

  "Lie quiet now," he went on soothingly. "You'll soon be asleep. If thatbandage hurts when you wake, you must grin and bear it. I'll be hereabout ten o'clock."

  Downstairs, he told Armathwaite that he had given Whittaker a stiff doseof bromide.

  "Here's the bottle," he said. "If he's awake in half an hour's time, lethim have a similar lot. Don't be afraid. He can stand any amount ofit."

  Armathwaite smiled, and Scaife smiled back at him. They understood,without further speech, that a youngster of pronounced neurotictemperament could withstand a quantity of the drug that would provedangerous to the average man.

  "Who is he?" continued the doctor. "I haven't seen him here before. Isthere any difficulty about his remaining in the Grange?"

  "He is a friend of Meg's," explained Armathwaite. "She was staying withhis sister at Chester, and we all reached Elmdale within a few hours ofone another."

  Thus was another pitfall safely skirted. By the time Dr. Scaife was inthe dining-room and talking to Meg, he had arrived at conclusions whichwere perfectly reasonable and thoroughly erroneous.

  In response to Armathwaite, he promised to bring a nurse in the morning,as he was confident that the sprain would keep Whittaker bed-ridden atleast a couple of weeks. Then he took his leave.

  "I'll go and sit with Percy a little while now," said Marguerite. "Poorfellow! What a shame he should have met with this mishap after hisgallant walk to-day. Perhaps that is why he fell. His muscles may haverelaxed owing to over-exertion. Will you ever forgive me, Bob, for allthe worry I have caused you?"

  "No," he said. "I want you to remind me of it so often that we shalllose count of the number of times. But, before you go upstairs, let mewarn you that Dr. Scaife gave our young friend about twenty grains ofbromide in one gulp. He may be dozing. If he is, don't wake him."

  In a couple of minutes she was back in the library, where Armathwaitewas seated with a book and a pipe.

  "He's asleep," she whispered.

  "I'm glad to hear it. Now, come and sit down. Are you too tired toanswer questions?"

  "Try me."

  "Concerning your change of name--can you explain more definitely how itcame about?"

  "I told you. It was on account of a legacy."

  "But from whom? Who was the Ogilvey who left the money? A relative onyour father's side, or your mother's?"

  "Dad's, I understood."

  "Did you ever hear of anyone named Faulkner?"

  "Yes. Some people of that name lived here years ago. We were distantlyrelated. In fact, that is how the property came into dad's possession.But he never really went into details. One day he said he had made awill, leaving me everything, subject to a life interest for mother, andthat when he was dead a lawyer would tell me all that I ought to know.Then I cried at the horrid thought that he would have to die at all, andhe laughed at me, and that was the last I ever heard of it. Why do youask?"

  "You remember that we promised not to hide anything from one another?"

  "Of course I remember."

  "Well, then, I think I have hit on a sort of a clew to the Ogilvey partof the mystery, at any rate. By the merest chance, while awaiting thereturn of Mr. Burt's man from the village, our talk turned on thehistory of this house. He spoke of the Faulkners, and mentioned the factthat the eldest son of a daughter of the family, a Mrs. Ogilvey, wasborn here. That would be some fifty odd years ago. How old is yourfather?"

  "Fifty-four."

  "The dates tally, at all events."

  Meg knitted her brows over this cryptic remark.

  "But," she said, "if you imply that my father may be the son of a Mrs.Ogilvey, that would mean that his name never was Garth."

  "Exactly."

  "Isn't such a guess rather improbable? I am twenty-two, and I was bornin this very house, and I lived here twenty years except during schoolterms at Brighton and in Brussels, and we were known as Garths duringall that long time."

  Armathwaite blew a big ring of smoke into the air, and darted a numberof smaller rings through it. The pattern, beautifully distinct at first,was soon caught in a current from an open window, and eddied intoshapelessness. He was thinking hard, and had acted unconsciously, so itwas with a sense of surprise that he heard the girl laughhalf-heartedly.

  "I've been forming mad and outrageous theories until my poor headaches," she said, answering the unspoken question in his eyes. "Some ofthem begin by being just as perfectly proportioned as your smoke-rings,but they fade away in the next breath."

  "My present theory is nebulous enough," he admitted, "but it is notaltogether demolished yet. Can you endure a brief analysis of mythoughts? You won't be afraid, and lie awake for hours?"

  "No. I mean that I want to hear everything you wish to tell me."

  "The man who died here two years ago must have resembled your father inno common degree. Dr. Scaife is not the sort of person who makes amistake in such a vital matter as the identification of a dead body,especially when the subject is an old and valued friend of his. By theway, you called him uncle, but that, I take it, was merely anaffectionate mode of address dating from your childhood?"

  "Yes. It's a Yorkshire custom among intimates."

  "Have you ever heard of a real uncle--your father's brother--or of afirst cousin who was very like him?"

  "No. I have asked my people about relatives but we seemed to have none.Even the Ogilvey of the legacy was never mentioned by either of themuntil mother read me a letter from dad received while we were in Paris."

  "Exactly. This testamentary Ogilvey appeared on the scene soon afterStephen Garth died and was buried. Your father was well aware of thatoccurrence, because he contrived it. He knew that the man who died wascoming here, so he sent your mother and you to Paris to get you safelyout of the way. Now, don't begin to tremble, and frighten yourself intothe belief that I am proving your father's guilt of some dreadful crime.You yourself are convinced that he is incapable of any such act. May Inot share your good opinion of him, yet try to reach some sort of firmground in a quagmire where a false step may prove disastrous? Suppose,Mr. Garth, as he was called at that time, merely got rid of his wife anddaughter until an unwelcome guest had been received and sent on his wayagain, and that fate, with the crassness it can display at times,contrived that the visitor died, or was killed, or committed suicide, atthe most awkward moment it is possible to conceive, can you not imaginea hapless, middle-aged scholar ava
iling himself of the most unlikelykind of expedient in order to escape a scandal? Your father is astudent, a writer, almost a recluse, yet such a man, driven suddenlyinto panic-stricken use of his wits, oft-times devises ways and means ofhumbugging the authorities which an ordinarily clever criminal wouldneither think of nor dare. I am insisting on this phase of the matter sothat you and I may concentrate our intelligence on the line of inquirymost likely to yield results. Let me tabulate my contentions inchronological sequence:

  _A._--Mr. Garth received some news which led him to disturb the peaceful conditions of life which had obtained during twenty years. His first care was to send his wife and daughter to a place far removed from Elmdale.

  _B._--Mrs. Garth shared her husband's uneasiness, and agreed to fall in with the plan he had devised.

  _C._--In order to secure complete secrecy, the whole staff of servants was dismissed, practically at a moment's notice, and probably paid liberal compensation.

  _D._--After a week of this gradual obliteration of himself in Elmdale, Mr. Garth is missed, with the inevitable outcome that his dead body is found hanging in the hall, and, lest there should be any doubt as to his identity, a letter is left for the coroner, in which he asserts a thing, which his friend, Dr. Scaife, knew to be untrue, namely, that he was suffering from incurable disease. The statement, conveyed otherwise than in a letter, would have been received with skepticism; it was made with the definite object of giving a reason for an apparent suicide, and leaving testimony, in his own handwriting, that the disfigured body could be that of no other person than Stephen Garth. If a general resemblance of the dead to the living did not suffice--if the wearing of certain clothes, and the finding of certain documents and trinkets, such as a watch and chain, for instance--"

  Marguerite, who had been listening intently, could no longer restrainher excitement.

  "Yes," she cried, "that is so correct that it is quite wonderful. Myfather had a half-hunter gold watch and a chain of twisted leather whichhe wore as long as I can remember. Both had gone when he came to us inParis; when I missed them, and asked what had become of them, he saidthey were lost, much to his annoyance, and he had been obliged to buy anew watch in London."

  "There is nothing wonderful in treating a watch and chain as the firstobjects which would lead to a man's identification," said Armathwaite."Now, don't let your admiration for the excessive wisdom of the courttempt you to interrupt again, because the court has not fully made upits own mind and is marshaling its views aloud in order to hear how theysound. Where were we? Still in Section D, I think. Well, granted that anobtuse policeman or a perplexed doctor refused to admit that StephenGarth was dead, the letter would clinch the matter. Indeed, from thereport of the inquest, we see that it did achieve its purpose. Theremaining heads of the argument may be set forth briefly:

  _E._--Stephen Garth is buried at Bellerby, and Stephen Ogilvey steps into new life in Paris, wearing a literary cloak already prepared by many years of patient industry, though no one in Elmdale knew that its well-known resident was a famous writer on folk-lore.

  _F._--After some months of foreign travel, it was deemed safe to return to England, and Cornwall was chosen as a place of residence. The connection between rural Cornwall and rural Yorkshire is almost as remote as the influence of Mars on the earth. Both belong to the same system, and there would be trouble if they became detached, but, otherwise, they move in different orbits; they have plenty of interests in common, but no active cohesion. In a word, Stephen Ogilvey ran little risk in Cornwall of being recognized as Stephen Garth.

  _G._--Mrs. Ogilvey, a most estimable lady, and quite as unlikely as her scholar-husband to be associated with a crime, was a party to all these mysterious proceedings, and the combined object of husband and wife was to keep their daughter in ignorance of the facts for a time, at least, if not forever.

  "I don't think I need carry the demonstration any further to-night. Youare not to retire to your room and sob yourself into a state of hysteriabecause your coming to Elmdale has threatened with destruction anedifice of deceit built with such care and skill. I am beginning torecognize now a fatalistic element in the events of the past twenty-fourhours that suggests the steady march of a Greek tragedy to itspredestined end. But the dramatic art has undergone many changes sincethe days of Euripides. Let's see if we cannot avail ourselves of modernmethods, and keep the tragic _denouement_ in the place where it has beenput already, namely, in Bellerby churchyard."

  The girl stood up, and gave him her hand.

  "I'm almost certain, Bob, that if you and dad had five minutes' talk,there would be an end of the mystery," she said.

  "And a commencement of a long friendship, I hope," he said.

  Their eyes met, and Meg's steady gaze faltered for the first time. Shealmost ran out of the room, and Armathwaite sat many minutes in utterstillness, looking through the window at the dark crest of the moorsilhouetted against a star-lit sky. Then he refilled his pipe, andpicked up the book he had taken haphazard from the well-stored shelvesof that curiously constituted person, Stephen Ogilvey.

  It was a solid tome, entitled: "Scottish Criminal Trials," and lay sideby side with "The Golden Bough," which Marguerite had spoken of, and aGerman work, "Geschichte des Teufels." Turning over the leaves, he foundthat someone had marked a passage with ink. The reference had been notedmany years ago, because the marks were faded and brown, but theparagraph thus singled out had an extraordinary vivid bearing on theday's occurrences.

  It read:

  "A statute of James I., still in force, enacts that all persons invoking an evil spirit, or consulting, covenanting with, entertaining, employing, feeding or rewarding any evil spirit, shall be guilty of felony and suffer death."

  Instantly there flitted before Armathwaite's vision a picture of thebesotted Faulkner offering libations of wine to the black figurescowling from the stained-glass window. Perhaps the old toper had beenlifting his head in a final bumper when he fell backward down the stairsand broke his neck.

  Armathwaite shut the book with a bang. When he went out, he found thatBetty had forgotten to leave a candle in the hall, and he must eithergo upstairs in the dark or carry with him the lamp still burning on itsbracket.

  He glared steadily at the dull outline of the effigy in armor.

  "I'm not superstitious," he muttered, "but if I could have my own waywith you, my beauty, I'd smash you into little bits!"

  Then, to show his contempt for all ghouls and demons, he extinguishedthe lamp, and felt his way by holding the banisters. It was creepy work.Once, he was aware of a curious contraction of the skin at the nape ofhis neck. He turned in a fury, and eyed the window. Now that no lightcame from the hall, some of its color was restored, and certain blue andorange tints in the border were so perfect in tone that he was movedfrom resentment to admiration.

  "Not for the first time in the history of art, the frame is better thanthe picture," he thought. "Very well, you imp of darkness, some day, andsoon, I hope, we'll dislodge you and keep your setting."

  He did not ask himself whom he included in that pronoun "we." There wasno need. The mighty had fallen at last. He loved Marguerite Ogilvey, andwould marry her if she would accept him though her parents had committedall the crimes in the calendar, and her ancestors were wizards andnecromancers without exception.