CHAPTER XIV
Between the time when Lord Penlyn, Mr. Fordyce, and Stuart had consulted together as to the way in which some endeavours should be made to discover the murderer of Walter Cundall, and when the Señor Guffanta paid his visit to the former, a week had elapsed, a week in which a good many things had taken place.
The rewards offered both by the Government and by "the friends of the late Mr. Cundall," had been announced, and the magnitude of them, especially of the latter, had caused much excitement in the public mind, and had tended to keep the general interest in the tragedy alive. The Government reward of "five hundred pounds and a free pardon to some person, or persons, not the actual murderers," had been supplemented by another of one thousand pounds from the "friends and executors;" and the walls of every police-station were placarded with the notices. There was, moreover, attached to them a statement describing, as nearly as was possible from the meagre details known, the man who, in the garb of a labourer or mechanic, was last seen near the victim; and for his identification a reward was also offered.
But it was known in London, or, at least, very generally believed, that out of these rewards nothing whatever in the way of information had come; and, although the murder had not yet ceased to be a topic of conversation in all classes of society, it was generally spoken of as a case in which the murderer would never be brought to justice. Whoever had committed the crime had now had more than a week with which, either to escape from the neighbourhood or the country, or to entirely conceal his identity. It was not likely now, people said, that he would ever be found. And the world was also asking who were the friends, and, presumably, the heirs of the dead man, who were offering the large reward? To this question no one as yet had discovered the answer; all that was known, or told, being that two lawyers of standing, Mr. Bell, of Lincoln's Inn, and Mr. Fordyce, of Paper Buildings, were acting for these friends, and for Mr. Cundall's City representatives.
The detectives themselves, though they were careful not to say so, had really very little hope that they would ever succeed in tracing the assassin. Dobson (who, in spite of the stolidity of manner, and heaviness of appearance that had excited the contempt both of Señor Guffanta and of the landlord, Zarates, was not by any means lacking in shrewdness) plainly told Stuart, in one of their many interviews, that he did not think much would be done by finding the man called Corot, even if he were successful in doing so, which he very much doubted.
"You see, sir," he said, "it's this way. He evidently had some claim or other upon Mr. Cundall, or else it isn't likely that every time he wrote for money he would have got it, and that in good sums too. Then we've only seen the notes made by Mr. Cundall on the letters, saying that he sent this and that sum; but who's to know, when he sent them, if he didn't also send some friendly letter or other, acknowledging the justice of this man's demands? He evidently-I mean this Corot-did have some claim upon him; and supposing that he was-if we could find him-to prove that claim and show us the letters Mr. Cundall wrote him in return, where should we be then? The very fact of his being able to draw on him whenever he wanted money, would go a long way towards showing that he wouldn't be very likely to kill him."
"He threatens him in the last letter we have seen. Supposing that Mr. Cundall stopped the supplies after that, would not that probably excite his revengeful passions? These Spanish Americans do not stick at taking life when they fancy themselves injured."
"He evidently didn't stop them when he answered that letter, because he sent five hundred dollars. And it was written so soon before they both must have started-almost close together-from Honduras, that it wouldn't be likely any fresh demands would have been made," Dobson answered.
"They might have met in London, and quarrelled," Stuart replied; "and after the quarrel this Corot might have tracked him till he found a fitting opportunity, and then have killed him."
"Yes, he might," Dobson said, meditatively. "Anything might have happened."
"Only you don't think it likely?" the other asked.
"Well, frankly, Mr. Stuart, I don't. He had always got money out of him, and it wasn't likely the supplies would be stopped off altogether, so that to kill him would be killing the goose with the golden eggs."
"Who on earth could have killed him, then? Who would have had any reason to do so? You know everything connected with the case now, and with Mr. Cundall's life and strange, unknown, real position-do you suspect any one?"
"No," the detective said after a pause; "I can't say I do. Of course, at first, when I heard everything, the idea did strike me that Lord Penlyn, as the most interested person, might have done it."
"So it did me," Stuart said; "but after the interview Mr. Fordyce and I had with him the idea left my mind."
"Where does he say he was on the night of the murder-the night he was staying at that hotel?"
"He says he stayed at his club until twelve, and that then he walked about the streets till nearly two, thinking over the story his brother had told him, and then let himself into the hotel and went to bed."
"It is strange that he should have been about on that night alone. If he was going to be tried for the murder, it would tell badly against him; that is, unless he could prove that he was in the hotel before Mr. Cundall started to walk to Grosvenor Place from his club."
"He couldn't prove it, because all the servants were asleep; but, nevertheless, I am certain he did not do it."
"I don't think he did," Dobson replied, "and, at the same time, I can't believe Corot did it. But I wish I could find him, all the same."
"Do you think there is still a chance of your doing so?"
"There is always a chance," the other answered; "but I have exhausted nearly everything. You see, I have so little to go on, and I am obliged to say out openly, in every inquiry I make, that I am looking for a certain man of the name of Corot. And they all give me the same answer, that they never heard of such a name. Yet his name must have been Corot."
"I do not think so," Stuart said. "A Spaniard would sign an initial before his name just the same as an Englishman would, and no Englishman would sign himself simply 'Jones,' or 'Smith.'"
"It can't be a Christian name," Dobson said, "or they would have been sure to say so, and ask me 'What Corot?' or 'Corot who' is it that you are looking for?"
"Lord Penlyn thinks it is a nickname," Stuart remarked.
"Then I shall certainly never find him. A man when he is travelling in a strange country doesn't use his nickname, and, as far as I can learn, there isn't any one here from the Republic of Honduras who ever heard of him; and it isn't any good asking people from British Honduras."
"Well," Stuart said, "we must go on trying by every means, and in the hopes that the amount of the rewards will lead to something. But there seems little prospect of our ever finding the cowardly assassin who slew him. Perhaps, after all, that labourer killed him for his watch and chain, and any money he might have about him. Such things have been done before."
"I don't believe that," Dobson said. "There was a motive for his murder. But, what was that motive?"
Then they parted, Stuart to have an interview with Lord Penlyn, and Dobson to again continue his investigations in similar resorts to the Hôtel Lepanto.
Meanwhile, Penlyn had nerved himself for another interview with Ida Raughton, an interview in which he was to tell her everything, and he went down to Belmont to do so.
He found her alone in her pretty drawing-room, Sir Paul having gone to Windsor on some business matter, and Miss Norris being out for a walk. She was still looking very pale, and her lover noticed that a paper was lying beside her in which was a column headed, "The murder of Mr. Cundall." Had she been reading that, he wondered, at the very time when he was on his way to tell her of the relationship that had existed between him and that other man who had loved her so dearly? When he had kissed her, wondering, as he did so, if it was the last kiss she would ever let him press upon her lips after she knew of what he had kept back from her at their last interview, she said to him:
"And now tell me what you have done towards finding Mr. Cundall's murderer? What steps have you taken, whom have you employed to search for that man?"
"It is thought," he answered, "that there is some man, now in England, who may have done it. A man whose name is Corot, and who was continually obtaining money from him."
"How is this known?"
"By some letters that have been found amongst Cundall's papers. Letters asking for money, and, in one case, threatening him if some was not sent at once; and with notes in his handwriting saying that different sums had been sent when demanded."
"Corot," she said, repeating the name to herself in a whisper, "Corot." Then, after a pause, she said, "No! That man is not the assassin."
"Not the assassin, Ida!" Penlyn said. "Why do you think he is not?"
"Because I have never known him, because the form of the man who slew him in my dream was familiar to me, and this man's form cannot be so."
"My darling," he said, "you place too much importance on this dream. Remember what fantasies of the brain they are, and how few of them have ever any bearing on the actual events of life."
"This was no fantasy," she answered, "no fantasy. When the murderer is discovered-if he ever is-it will be seen that I have known him. I am as sure of it as that I am sitting here. But who was he? Who was he? I have gone over and over again every man whom I have ever known, and yet I cannot bring to my mind which of all those men it is that that shrouded figure resembles." She paused again, and then she asked: "Has it been discovered yet whether he had any relations?"
"Yes, Ida," he said, rising from his seat and standing before her, while he knew that the time had come now when everything must be told. "Yes, he had one relation!"
"Who was he?" she asked, springing to her feet, while a strange lustre shone in her eyes. "Who was he? Tell me that."
"Oh, Ida," he said, "there is so much to tell! Will you hear me patiently while I tell you all?"
"Tell me everything," she replied. "I will listen."
Then he told her, standing there face to face with her. As he proceeded with his story, he could give no guess as to what effect it was having upon her, for she made no sign, but, from the seat into which she had sunk, gazed fixedly into his face. Once she shuddered slightly, and drew her dress nearer to her when he confessed that he had refused to part from him in peace; and, when she had read the letter that he had written on the night of his death, she wept silently for a few moments.
It had taken long in the telling, and the twilight of the summer night had come before he finished and she had learnt everything.
"That is what I came to tell you, Ida. Speak to me, and say that you forgive me for having kept it from your knowledge when last we met!"
"You said an hour ago," she replied, taking no heed of his prayer for forgiveness, "that dreams were idle fantasies of the brain. What if mine was such? What, if after all, I have seen the form of the man who murdered him, have spoken to him and let him kiss me, and have not recognised him?"
"Ida!" he said, "do you say this to me, to the man to whom you have plighted your love and faith? Do you mean that you suspect me of being my brother's murderer?"
"You did nothing," she answered, "to find out his murderer; you would have done nothing had that Will not been discovered."
"I obeyed his behest," he said, "and what I did was done also through my love of you."
Again she paused before she spoke, and then she said:
"It is time that you should go now, it is time that there should be no more love spoken of between us. But, if a time should ever come when it will be fitting for me to hear you speak of love to me once more-"
"Yes?"
"It will be when you can come to me and say that his murderer is brought to justice."
"And until that time shall come, you cast me off?"
"If you take it in that light, – yes."
"I have sworn," he said, and she could not but notice the deep intensity of his voice, "upon his grave that my life shall be devoted to avenging him, and no power on earth shall stop me if I can but see my way to find the man who killed him. Even though I had still another brother, whom I had loved all my life, and he had done this deed, I would track him and bring him to punishment. I swear it before God-swear that I would not spare him! And my earnest and heartfelt prayer is that the day may arrive when, as you and I desire, I may be able to come and tell you that he is brought to justice."
"Ah! yes."
"Only," he continued, still with a deep solemnity of voice that went to her heart, "when I do so come I shall come to tell you that alone-there will be with that news no pleadings of love upon my tongue. You have doubted, but just now, whether you have not seen my brother's murderer standing before you, whether the kiss of Cain has not been upon your lips. You have reproached me for my silence, you have cast me off, unless I can prove myself not an assassin. Well, so be it! By the blessing of heaven, I will prove it-but for the love which you have withdrawn from me I will ask no more. You say it is to be mine again conditionally. I will not take it back, either with or without conditions. It is restored to you; it would be best that henceforth you should keep it."
Then, with but the slightest inclination of his head, he left her, and went out from the house. And Ida, after once endeavouring to make her lips utter the name of Gervase, fell prostrate on the couch.
"He will never come back to me," she wailed; "he will never come back. I have thrown his love away for ever. God forgive and pity me."
CHAPTER XV
"I knew him intimately," Señor Guffanta said, "it is about him and his murder that I have come to talk."
These were the words with which he had responded to Lord Penlyn's reception of him; and, as he uttered them, a hope had sprung up into the young man's breast that, in the handsome Spaniard who stood before him, some one might have been found who, from his knowledge of his brother, would be able to throw some light upon, or clue to, his death.
"I cannot tell you," he said, "how welcome this information is to me. We have tried everything in our power to gather some knowledge that might lead towards finding-first, some one who would be likely to have a reason for his death; and, afterwards, the man who killed him. If you knew him intimately, it may be that you can assist us."
The Señor had taken the seat offered him by Penlyn, and from the time that he had first sat down, until now, he had not removed his dark piercing eyes from the other's face. But, as he continued to fix his glance upon Penlyn, there had come into his own face a look of surprise, a look that seemed to express a baffled feeling of consternation.
"Caramba," he said to himself while the other was speaking. "Caramba, what mystery is there here? I have made a mistake. I have erred in some way; how have I deceived myself? Yet I could have sworn by the blood of San Pedro that I was sure."
Then, when Lord Penlyn had ceased speaking, he said aloud:
"You will pardon me-but I am labouring under no mistake? You are Lord Penlyn?"
The other looked at him for a moment, wondering what such a question meant. Then he answered him:
"There is no mistake. I am Lord Penlyn."
The Spaniard passed his hand across his eyes as he heard this, but did not speak; and Lord Penlyn said:
"May I ask why you inquire?"
"Because-because I had thought-because I wished to be sure of whom I was speaking with."
"You may rest assured. And now, sir, let me ask you what you know about this unhappy Mr. Cundall and his life?"
"I know much about him. To begin with, I know that he was your brother-your elder brother-and that you have come to possess his fortune."
Lord Penlyn started and said: "You know that? May I ask how you know it?"
"It is not necessary for me to say. It is sufficient that I do know it. But it is not of that that I have come to talk."
"Of what have you come to talk then?"
"Of his murderer."
"Of his murderer!" the other repeated. "Oh! Señor Guffanta, is it possible that you can have any clue, is it possible that you think you will be able to find the man who killed him?"
"I am sure of it."
Lord Penlyn stared at him as he spoke, stared at him while in his mind there was a feeling of astonishment, mixed with something like awe, of his strange visitor. This dark, powerful-looking stranger, sat there before him perfectly calm and unmoved, looking straight at him as he spoke these words of import, "I am sure of it," and spoke them as though he was speaking of some ordinary incident. And in his calmness there was something that told the other that it was born of certainty.
"If you can do that, Señor Guffanta," he said, "there is nothing that you can ask from me, there is nothing that I can give that-"
"There is nothing I want of you," the Spaniard said, interrupting him, and making a disdainful motion with his long, brown hand. "I am not a paid police spy."
"I beg your pardon," the other answered. "I had no thought of offence. Only, sir, it is the wish of my life, and of some others who knew and loved him, to see him avenged.
"And it is the wish of my life also. Will you hear a short story?"
"I will hear anything you have to say."
"Then listen. I was born in Honduras, the child of a Spanish lady and of a friend of the old Englishman, Cundall, him from whom your brother's wealth was derived. That friend was a scoundrel, a man who tricked my mother into a marriage with him under a false name, who never was her husband at all. When they had been married, as she thought, for some few years, and when another child, my sister, had been born, she found out the deception, and-she killed him."
"Killed him!" Penlyn exclaimed.
"Yes, dead! We Spaniards brook no dishonour, we never allow a wrong to pass unavenged. She showed him the evidence of his falsehood in one hand, and with the other she shot him dead upon his own verandah. She was tried and instantly acquitted, and, in consideration of the wrong she had suffered, a law was made constituting her legally his wife, and making us children legitimate. But the disgrace was to her-a high-minded, noble woman-too much; she fell ill and died. Then the old man, Cundall, seeing that it was his friend's evil-doing that had led to our being orphans, said that henceforth we should be his care. So we grew up, and I had learnt to look upon myself and my sister as his heirs, when one day there came another who, it was easy to see, had supplanted us. It was the English lad, Walter Cundall."
"I begin to see," Penlyn said.
"At first," Señor Guffanta went on, "I hated him for spoiling our chances, but at last I could hate him no longer. Gradually, his gentle disposition, his way of interceding for me with his uncle, when I had erred, above all his tenderness to my poor sister, who was sick and deformed, won my love. Had he been my brother I could not have loved him more. Then-then, as years went on, I committed a fault, and the old man cast me off for ever. Another man tried to take from me the woman I loved-she was a vile thing worth no man's love; but-no matter how-I avenged myself. But from that day the old man turned against me, and would neither see nor hear of me again.
"A year or two passed and then I heard from Walter, for my sister and I had left Los Torros (the town where we had all lived) and had gone elsewhere, that the old man was dead. 'He has left everything to me,' Walter wrote, 'and there is no mention of you nor Juanna, but be assured neither of you shall ever want for anything.'"
"Stop," Lord Penlyn said, "you need tell me no more. I know the rest."
"You know the rest?" Señor Guffanta said, looking fixedly at him, "You know the rest?"
"Yes. You are Corot."
A bewildered look came over the Spaniard's face, and then, after a second's pause, he said:
"Yes. I am Corot. It was the name given me by the Mestizos amongst whom I played as a boy, and it kept to me. It is you, then, Lord Penlyn, who has set this Dobson to look for me?"
"Yes; we found your letters to him, and from one of them we believed you to be in England. We thought that-that-"
"That I killed him?"
"You threatened him in one of your letters. We were justified in thinking so."
"He, at least, did not think so. Read this."
He took from his pocket a letter written by Walter Cundall during the few days he had been back in England, and gave it to Penlyn. It ran:
"June, 188-.
"My Dear Corot,
"I am delighted to hear you are in England, and have got an appointment as agent for Don Rodriguez in London. Perhaps, now, I shall have some respite from those fearful threats which, at intervals, from your boyhood, you have hurled at me, at Juanna, and every one you really love. Come and see me when you can, only come as late as possible as I am out much; and we will have a talk about the old place and old times.
"Ever yours, in haste, W. C.
"P.S. – I wish poor Juanna could have lived to know of your good fortune."
"Do you think I should murder that man, Lord Penlyn?" Señor Guffanta asked quietly. "That man who, when he heard of my good fortune, could think of how happy it would have made my beloved sister-she who is now in her grave."
"Whatever I may have thought must be ascribed to the intense desire I and my friends have to find his murderer, and you must pardon the suspicion that came to our minds in reading your letters. But, Señor Guffanta, let us forget that and speak about finding him, since you also are anxious to avenge Walter, and feel sure that you can do so."
"I am perfectly sure. And before long I shall stand face to face with him. Then his doom is certain!"
Again Lord Penlyn noticed the self-constrained calm of the man, and again he told himself that he spoke with such an air of certainty that it was impossible to doubt him. For one moment the thought came to his mind that this apparent calmness, this certainty of finding the murderer, might be a rôle assumed by Guffanta to prevent suspicion falling upon him. But on reflection that thought took flight. Had he been the murderer he would never have revealed himself, would never have allowed it to be known that he was Corot, the man against whom circumstances had looked so black. And Cundall's letter was sufficient to show that what the Señor had told him, about the friendship that had existed between them, was true.
"You must know more than any of us, Señor Guffanta, as no doubt you do-to inspire you with such confidence of finding him. Had he any enemy in Honduras, who may now be in England, and have done this deed?"
"To my knowledge, none. He was a man who made friends, not enemies."
"How then, do you hope to find the man who killed him?"
"I hope nothing, Lord Penlyn, for I am sure to find him. What will you say when I tell you that I have seen his murderer's face?"
"You have seen his face? You know it!" the other exclaimed, springing to his feet. "Oh, let me at once send for the detectives and the lawyers, so that you may describe him to them, and let them endeavour to find him. But," he said suddenly, "where have you seen him?"
There was an almost contemptuous smile upon the Señor Guffanta's face as he said:
"Send for no one-at least, not yet. If by the detectives you mean Dobson, the heavy man, he will not assist me, and of the lawyers I know nothing; and at present I will not tell you when and where I have seen this man. But, sir-but, Lord Penlyn, I know one thing. When that man and I once more stand face to face, Walter Cundall, who shielded me from his uncle's wrath, who was as a brother to my beloved Juanna, will be avenged."
"What will you do?" Penlyn asked in an almost awestruck whisper. "You will not take the law into your own hands and kill him?"
"No; it maybe not! But with these hands alone," and he held them out extended to Penlyn as he spoke, "I will drag him to a prison which he shall only leave for a scaffold. Drag him there, I say, unless my blood gets the better of my reason, and I throttle him like a dog by the way."
He, too, had risen in his excitement; and as he stood towering in his height, which was great, above the other, and extended his long sinewy hands in front of him, while his deep brown skin turned to an almost darker hue, Penlyn felt that this man before him would be the avenger of his brother's death. So terrible did he look, that the other wondered how that murderer would feel when he should be in his grasp.
He stepped forward to Guffanta and held out his hand to him. "Sir," he said, "I thank God that you and I have met. But can we do nothing to assist you in your search? May I not tell the detectives what you know?"
"You may tell them everything I have told you; it will not enable them to be in my way. But what I have to do I must do by myself." He paused a moment; then he said: "It may be that when you do tell them, they will still think that I am the man-"
"No, no!"
"Yes, it may be so. Well, if they want to spy upon my actions, if they want to know what I do and where I go, I am to be found at the Hôtel Lepanto-that is when I am not here in this house, for I must ask you-I have a reason-to let me come to you as I want."
Penlyn bowed, and said some words to the effect that he should always be free of the house, and the other continued:
"My business here as agent for Don Rodriguez, a wealthy merchant of Honduras, will not occupy me much at present, the rest of my time will be devoted to the one purpose of finding that man."
"I pray that you may be successful."
"I shall be successful," the Spaniard answered quietly. "And now," he said, "I will ask you to do one thing."
"Ask me anything and I will do it."
"You have a garden behind your house," Señor Guffanta said, "how is admission obtained to it?"
Lord Penlyn stared at him wonderingly, not knowing what this question might mean, and then he said:
"There is an entrance from the back of this house, and another from an iron gate in the side street. But why do you ask? no one ever goes into it. It is damp, and even the paths are partly overgrown with weeds."
"There are keys to those entrances?"
"Yes."
"And in your possession?" and, as he spoke, his dark eyes were fixed very intently on the young man.
"They are somewhere about the house, but they are never used."
"I wish them found. Then, when they are found, I must ask you to give me your word of honour that no living creature, not even you yourself, will enter that garden without my knowing it. Will you do this?"
"I will do it," Penlyn said. "But I wish you would tell me your reason."
"I will tell you nothing more at present. But remember that I have a task to perform and that I shall do it."
Then he left him, and walked away to the neighbourhood of Leicester Square.
"What I have seen to-day," he said to himself, "would have baffled many a man. But you, Miguel, are different from other men. You are not baffled, you are only still more determined to do what you have to do. But who is he? – who is he? Caramba! he is not Lord Penlyn!"