Therefore the only thing that Jim could do was to have the two scamps watched. Certainly they might warn Frisco to clear out; but whatever Santiago did, Herrick felt sure that Joyce would not counsel such a course. The little man knew well enough that his safety depended upon Herrick, and would do nothing which might jeopardise his safety. The Mexican might plot and plan; but Joyce would certainly obey orders. Also, they could do little if closely watched. Herrick then gave his orders to Kidd and Belcher, and returned the next day to Saxham.
"If anything important occurs," he said to the ferret, "you can wire me."
"But we are in the dark," protested Belcher, "if you would only---"
"No, Belcher," interrupted Jim sharply, "we settled all that before. All you have to do, is to see if either of these men tries to leave the country, or if they meet a man who looks like a sailor. Then you can wire me. I shall come up to town at once and deal with the matter myself."
"What might be the sailor's name?"
"It might be anything," replied Herrick dryly. "It won't do Belcher. You are not to know my aims until I choose to let you know. If you will not work for me on these terms, just say so and I'll get some one else."
"I'll do whatever you like Dr. Herrick," said the ferret submissively, and went away to fulfil his duties devoured1 with curiosity. In spite of his regard for Dr. Jim, the man wanted to make money out of him. He therefore determined2 to learn all he could about Joyce and the Mexican, and treat with them on his own account if he gained any knowledge likely to be useful from a blackmailing3 point of view. The ferret and his partner were rogues4 in grain. They did not even keep faithful to their employer, or to each other for the matter of that. "Honour amongst thieves" was not a proverb practised in the Strand5 office.
Herrick had another talk with Joyce before he returned to Saxham. The little man had gone back to his flat. Having him all to himself, and the yoke6 of Don Manuel being to some extent broken, Dr. Jim was able to deal more easily with him. He promised the poor fool, that if he remained faithful and did not intrigue7 any more with his father or the Mexican, that he should be given a new chance of leading a clean existence. Indeed Herrick spoke8 so seriously that he reduced Joyce to tears, and to many protestations that henceforward he would be all that was good. It was not improbable that he would mend. He had had a severe lesson, and had narrowly escaped getting into the clutches of the law. With a less kindly9 man than Herrick, his position would indeed would have been a serious one. He therefore appreciated the kindness accorded to him--or said he did--and Jim departed satisfied that so far as Robin10 was concerned, he had nullified the schemes of Santiago. In this way he hoped to take the heart out of the conspiracy11 against Stephen and Stephen's money.
"The next person to deal with is Corn," he said to himself as he got into the train, "he is another fool if not worse, as Manuel told me. I seem to have dealt with nothing but fools and scoundrels ever since I started out on that unhappy walking tour. Colonel Carr was evil in his life, and he has left an evil influence behind him."
Later on Dr. Jim reproached himself for blaming the walking-tour. If it had brought him into trouble it had also given him a promise of future happiness. But for that walk he would never have met Bess. After all his anxiety in London Herrick wanted to have a quiet hour with the girl who was the light of his eyes. Jim did not call her this, for he was not a romantic person; but he felt he would like to be with her. And he was anxious to know what she had discovered about the pistol. Bess had not sent him a report as she had promised, and Herrick concluded that she had discovered nothing worth the sending. All the same he wished to see her at once. But he put off the happy hour. There was business to be done before pleasure could be taken.
It was after nine o'clock before Herrick arrived at the Beorminster Station. He had not sent for the cart, as he did not wish Stephen to know of his arrival at present. Dr. Jim had made up his mind to call in and get the truth out of the clergyman before returning to "The Pines." Therefore, determined to get his plans into thorough order, Jim left his portmanteau at Beorminster to be sent on the next morning and himself walked to Saxham.
In due time he arrived at the rectory, and was shown into the rector's study, where he found the man himself. The Revd. Pentland looked nervous at this untimely visit, and more so as he saw that Dr. Jim was not in evening dress and must therefore have come straight from town. Corn's conscience was uneasy, and every untoward12 event fluttered his nerves. However he composed himself with a strong effort, and asked Herrick to be seated.
"You have just come from town I see," he observed with a nervous glance.
"Yes! And I want particularly to have a chat with you before going to 'The Pines,' and on a painful subject, Mr. Corn."
The rector shivered, and turned even paler than usual. "Is there anything wrong?" he asked faintly. "Let me know the worst at once."
"Why should you expect any worst Mr. Corn?"
The man shook his head and passed a handkerchief across his dry lips. "I want to know the worst," he said again, without heeding13 the question. "I can see by your face that there is something wrong which concerns me."
Herrick gave a short laugh. "Upon my word you are a singularly indiscreet man Mr. Corn," he said, "you give yourself away right and left. When I met you first of all, you behaved in a foolish manner. Now you are very little better. You are a clergyman and a gentleman with an assured position. Why don't you assume the defensive14 and ask what I mean by such speeches as I have made--as I am now making!"
"Because I would have to tell you all about myself sooner or later," said Corn in a low voice. "You are a strong man, and I want to confide15 in someone like yourself. I am not strong. I was--once--but something happened," he sighed and nodded, "a terrible thing happened."
Herrick wondered if he was about to confess to the murder. However he did not wish to hurry the confession16, which he saw Corn was on the point of making. He wondered that such a smart and soldierly-looking man should own himself to be so weak. "I am quite at your service," he said coldly, "and for my own part Mr. Corn I do not think you have used either myself or Mr. Marsh17 over well."
"In what way?" This time Corn really did look amazed.
"You told a lie to shield Don Manuel. It was the Mexican who struck that blow at my friend, and you knew it. How could you a gentleman, and a clergyman stoop to shield a would-be murderer."
Corn rose to his feet and braced18 himself to a great effort. "You are right," he said frankly19, "but I was compelled to such a course."
Herrick nodded. "I know. I have heard all from Santiago."
Corn recoiled20. "He told you," he grasped sitting down.
"Yes. He told me how he had you in his power; how he forced you to lie for him. I made him tell me the truth; now I wished to hear the confirmation21 of this story from you."
"It is true; it is true!" cried Corn desperately22. "If he told you that I was a gambler, that I owed money--it is true----"
"I don t mean that so much," said Herrick sharply, "as to the accusation23 he makes against you of having murdered Colonel Carr."
The clergyman, who had been leaning his head on his arms in an agony of grief, looked up suddenly with a bewildered stare. "Santiago said that about me?" he demanded.
"It is not true?"
"It is the foulest24 lie he ever spoke!" cried Corn with indignation. "I am bad in many ways Dr. Herrick--yet I have my excuses, as you shall hear. But as to murdering Carr, I did nothing of the sort."
"How was it then that Don Manuel obtained from you the pistol with which the crime was committed?"
Corn looked round the room, and went to the door. Opening this he looked out for a moment to see that the coast was clear. Then he shut it locked it and came back to the fire-place looking more like a ghost than ever. "I picked it up," he said in a whisper, "yes, on the lawn of 'The Pines.' I knew that Colonel Carr had been shot with it. But I dare not tell."
"Why not? Were you afraid of being inculpated25?"
"No." Corn hesitated and wiped his face. "I must tell you," he said with a gasp26, "there is no help for it! This secret has weighed on my soul until I can bear it no longer. It was a woman who shot Carr."
Herrick rose slowly hardly believing his ears. "A woman?" he echoed.
Corn nodded and whispered again, "Mrs. Marsh," he said.
"That," said Herrick, "is a lie."
"It is the truth; I swear it is the truth. She shot Carr because he was about to disinherit her son. If you will sit down I will tell you all I know. I am glad that it has come to this," panted Corn wiping his forehead, "I am glad that I can tell you. The secret has nearly killed me."
"Did you tell Santiago?" asked Dr. Jim seated again and much bewildered.
"No, I told no one. Santiago on the evidence of that pistol really believed that I was guilty. But it is a lie--a lie, and he used it to force me to hide his wickedness. I protested my innocence27; but he would never believe me. And that because I refused to say who was guilty."
Herrick placed his hands on the shoulders of the agitated28 man and forced him into the chair. "Come," said he in a more friendly tone, "you are not so weak or so bad as I thought Corn. You took the blame on yourself. Oh, I know you protested your innocence to Santiago; still he would always think you guilty. He is not the man to believe that any human being would shield another. Why did you shield Mrs. Marsh?"
"For her son's sake," said Corn, "and for the sake of Ida Endicotte."
Herrick stared. "What has she got to do with it?"
"I love her," said Corn in a low voice shading his eyes with the palm of his hand, "but she told me that her whole life was wrapped up in Stephen's. If he knew that his mother had killed Carr, he is quixotic enough to throw up the whole fortune out of shame. Then he would not be able to marry Ida and her heart would be broken. It is for this reason that I held my peace."
"Yet you let Stephen be assaulted," said Herrick, "his death would have ruined the life of Ida just the same."
"I did not know about the assault until after it was committed," said Corn quickly, "then Santiago--but I cannot tell you the story in scraps29 like this. Better let me tell you all about myself, and what led to my present weakness. Then you will appreciate what I have gone through."
Herrick nodded, "it is best so. Go on. You can safely confide in me, Corn. I only retain the right to use such information as may clear up the mystery of this murder."
Corn seized his arm. "You will not tell about Mrs. Marsh?" he panted.
"Not without consulting you. Be certain Corn that I am too true a friend to Stephen, to do anything harmful to him. But there is much at stake and I must be allowed to use my own judgment30. You can rely on me."
"I am sure of that," said the clergyman in admiration31, "you are a strong-willed man. I was strong myself once--in a way. But my crime----"
"Crime! I thought you had not killed Carr."
"No," said Corn in a low voice, "But I have the blood of a fellow creature on my hands for all that," and he buried his face in his hands.
"I judge no man," said Herrick after a pause, "but do not tell me anything that may render it difficult for me to keep sacred your confidence."
"Oh, there is nothing you need fear from that," replied Corn drearily32. "It was an accident. Wait till I recover myself."
The man took a turn up and down the room. After five minutes he resumed his seat and spoke composedly. "My name is not Corn," he began, "Langham is my name--Francis Langham. I was in the army."
"So Bess Endicotte said," nodded Herrick.
Corn smiled faintly. "Yes! I let that slip one day, when she was talking of my looking like a soldier. But she does not know my real name. No one does save the Bishop33 who gave me this living. Ah! he was a good man. He is dead now. But I have to thank him for saving my reason and my life."
"How was that?" asked Herrick settling himself.
"I was quartered in the West Indies," said Corn after a pause, "and I there had a friend, who joined about the same time as I did. I need not tell you his name or the number of my regiment34. All you need know is the simple story of my misery35. My friend and I were always together; they called us David and Jonathan in the regiment. Well," here Corn nerved himself to a tremendous effort, "we were out shooting ducks. We were parted amongst the reeds on the borders of the lake. I thought I saw the brown back of a duck through some reeds. Without thinking I fired, and--I killed my friend! Oh, my God!"
When the man's head went down on the table, Herrick clasped him by the shoulder. He was profoundly moved by the miserable36 story, and could well understand how a once strong man had been changed by this tragic37 deed into a weak, tremulous, creature. He did not say a word of comfort. It would have been useless. After a time Corn recovered himself and continued in a dull hard voice.
"There was an inquiry38. I was exonerated39 from all blame. But I knew that I had killed my friend, that I had the blood of a fellow creature on my hands. I left my regiment and sent in my papers. Under another name I returned to England. All my relations were dead save my uncle the Bishop. He tried to calm me. I would not be calm. I would have committed suicide but that I felt that it was my duty to suffer for my crime."
"Not a crime," interposed Herrick gently "an accident."
"Yes! It was. Yet I can't help--but no matter. I took to gambling40 to drown my remorse41 and grief. I had never touched cards before. They became a passion with me. Other men take to drink,---I to cards. But all in vain. When the excitement of the game was over--in the morning, then my misery came back. I went to my uncle. He implored42 me to find peace in the bosom43 of the church, for he did not look upon me as the guilty wretch44 I was. I consented. As Pentland Corn I studied for the church. I became a priest,--a curate and worked in the slums of the East End. I left off gambling, and felt more at ease, thinking I was expiating45 my folly46. In an evil hour--after years of hard work--my uncle gave me this living. I took it. Shortly afterwards he died. Then I realised the folly of accepting a charge where I had time to brood. The past came back to me, and--I took to gambling again.
"That was weak Corn," said Herrick decisively.
"I know it was--but I was in a manner driven to it. There was little work to do here. Society had no attractions for me. So then I had long--long hours of agony. I wanted to forget the past, and"----
"You should have gone back to the East End."
Corn nodded. "I should have done many things," said he bitterly, "but that accident had taken all the manhood out of me. I drifted--drifted. Well to make a long story short, I took to going away to London at times to indulge in gambling and forget my sorrow."
"I know. And you went to that club in Pimlico."
"I did. Santiago told you that I suppose. I met him there. In an incautious moment I told him about Colonel Carr. Then I heard of the grudge47 he bore against him."
"Do you know the story of that expedition?"
"Most of it. I warned Colonel Carr against his enemy. He laughed, feeling safe in his tower. Then learning that I was fond of cards, Carr made me play with him. It was said that I went to 'The Pines' to convert the man. It was to gamble--so low had I sunk."
Herrick shook his head. But he was so sorry for the man that he could not blame him for his folly. Corn resumed.
"Night after night I gambled there. Also I went to London, and met Don Manuel at the Pimlico club. So, the life went on. And now for the story of that night." Here Corn drew his chair closer to that of his listener, and continued his revelation in a whisper.
"I knew Mrs. Marsh very well and saw much of her," he said, "she was a very violent and terrible woman."
"I know that," said Herrick remembering his own experiences.
"Oftentimes I tried to check her wrath48. She would call and see Carr, and they always fought when they met. I think Carr enjoyed tormenting49 her, for he never forbade her visits. He was a wicked man, Herrick."
"One of the worst, judging from his reputation."
"Yet he had his good points. He helped me with money to pay my gambling debts not twice, but thrice."
"Did he know your story?"
"No, I could not tell it to him, he would only have laughed at my remorse. It would have seemed foolish to him. He thought that I was simply a profligate50 clergyman, and liked me for that very reason, Oh, I do not defend myself Herrick; I sank low, very low, but my excuse must be the sorrow of my life. It took all the courage and self respect out of me. But after this I shall give up this charge and return to the East-End. There I will work hard and forget my folly, my sorrow. The gambling will lose its hold over me then."
"I think you will be wise. Go on."
"Well, on that day of the murder Mrs. March came to me in a rage. She had heard through Frisco--he had spoken in one of his drunken fits--that Carr was going to disinherit her son. She went to see him from this house. I tried to stop her; but she would go. They had a furious quarrel in the afternoon, and Mrs. Marsh swore that she would kill Carr if he disinherited Stephen."
"She did not kill him in the afternoon?"
"No. Because he was alive after five o'clock. Someone saw him at the window of the tower. Well, Mrs. Marsh dined with me. After dinner she worked herself into a rage. Carr had laughed at her on that afternoon, and had said that he would do what he liked with his money. In fact from all she told me, he treated her like a brute51; he was one you know Herrick," and Jim nodded, remembering the torture of the Indian.
"Stephen was to come for her," said the rector wearily; the telling of this story fatigued52 him. "Somewhere about nine o'clock she was to meet him at the Carr Arms, and take the bus back to Beorminster. After eight she went out. It was so early that I wanted her to stop. She refused. At nine Stephen arrived. He could not find his mother. She was not at the Carr Arms. I then guessed that she had gone to see Carr again. In my fear lest she might do something dreadful I blurted53 out my suspicions. At once Stephen understood what I meant. He went himself to 'The Pines;' I waited for some time. Then I was in such a state that I followed. The house was all ablaze54, but I heard nothing. This was about half past nine or a quarter to ten. I went up as far as the door. On the steps I picked up that pistol--which I guessed had been used by Mrs. Marsh. I slipped it into my pocket. Then I returned home. I went also to the Carr Arms and learned that Stephen and his mother had caught the bus some time after nine o'clock, I tried to think that Mrs. Marsh had not shot the man. I returned here to think it out. Santiago was waiting for me. He had come by the last bus from Beorminster, and had been waiting since nine. In fact he came just after I went after Stephen. It was really a quarter past nine when he came."
"Do you think he had been to 'The Pines?' asked Herrick keenly.
"I do not know. But you can learn that from the busman who drove him here. I did not inquire myself. He had come to get me to take him to see Carr. I refused, and without thinking I threw the pistol on the table. I was much agitated, and he saw that. He got out of me that I had been to 'The Pines.' After looking at the pistol he said he would go to 'The Pines' himself. I refused to let him go. After a time I gave him some money and persuaded him to go. I drove him to Heathcroft station in my cart. He took the pistol with him. I did not notice that he had done so. In a day or two when the murder became known he wrote and accused me of being the criminal. I denied it. But he had read the report of the death and how the wound had been inflicted55 by an old-fashioned weapon. When he came here with Joyce he insisted that I was guilty. I said that I was not but would say nothing about Mrs. Marsh. It was this knowledge that he used to make me hold my tongue about the assault on Stephen. What could I do Herrick?" said Corn piteously. "Appearances were against me. Santiago could prove that I had the pistol. I had been to 'The Pines,' and I owed Colonel Carr money. Also there was my own story. Had I been arrested, all would have come out. No! I had to do what Santiago told me."
"Humph!" said Jim, "I can see your dilemma56. And what about Mrs. Marsh? Did Stephen suspect her?"
"No. He told me that he had gone to 'The Pines' and looked at the house. He saw nothing and heard nothing. He therefore returned to the Carr Arms, and found his mother waiting for him. She said that he had missed her, and evidently invented a story which satisfied him. No Herrick, I do not think Stephen suspected his step-mother. But she shot the Colonel I am sure. She left my house in a rage and she several times threatened to kill him. Then she was not at the Carr Arms. After nine the man was shot."
Herrick nodded. "Did you ask Mrs. Marsh to explain?"
"No! She fell ill if you remember, and took to her bed. I could not bring myself to see her. I therefore held my tongue, and I should have continued to do so but that Don Manuel threatened me. Therefore I determined to tell you all when I could. What you heard from him is in the main true. But I did not kill Carr. The blood of one human being on my hands is enough. Do you despise me Herrick?"
Dr. Jim rose and took the hand of the unhappy man. "My friend, I pity you from the bottom of my soul. If you had only found some one to advise you, all this trouble would not have occurred."
"That is true. But my uncle who knew the story of my misery was dead. I shrank from telling anyone. But when I got to know you and saw how strong and self-reliant you were, and recognised also the goodness of your heart I felt that I could safely confide in you, You will not tell anyone what I have told you?"
"Need you ask me that!" said Herrick with a hearty57 shake of the hand. "Of course your secret is safe with me."
"And about Mrs. Marsh?"
"I shall see into that," said Herrick gravely. "Remember Santiago is a dangerous man. I do not know what trouble he may yet cause. If necessary I must use what you have told me about the crime. But you may be sure that for Stephen's sake and for yours, I shall be circumspect58 in my dealings with the matter. As for you, my friend, wait here until this mystery is quite solved; then go back to the East End, or to the Wild Lands as a missionary59."
"Yes," said Corn with a sigh, "I know. Only in that way shall I find rest."
The two men shook hands and parted very good friends. Corn returned to his study intensely relieved by the sympathy, and by the fact that he had some one to share his secret. Herrick walked home to "The Pines" wondering at the perplexity of the case. He thought less of Corn than of Mrs. Marsh. Suddenly he stopped.
"I see," he said to himself, "this was why Mrs. Marsh poisoned herself with an overdose of chloral. Poor woman!"
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1
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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blackmailing
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| 胁迫，尤指以透露他人不体面行为相威胁以勒索钱财( blackmail的现在分词 ) | |
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rogues
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| n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 )；无赖；调皮捣蛋的人；离群的野兽 | |
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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9
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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untoward
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| adj.不利的，不幸的，困难重重的 | |
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heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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foulest
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| adj.恶劣的( foul的最高级 )；邪恶的；难闻的；下流的 | |
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inculpated
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| v.显示（某人）有罪，使负罪( inculpate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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exonerated
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| v.使免罪，免除( exonerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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expiating
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| v.为（所犯罪过）接受惩罚，赎（罪）( expiate的现在分词 ) | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ablaze
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| adj.着火的，燃烧的；闪耀的，灯火辉煌的 | |
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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circumspect
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| adj.慎重的，谨慎的 | |
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missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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