Without a moment’s delay I sent a reply in the affirmative, and, after searching in the “A.B.C.,” found that I had a train at three o’clock from King’s Cross. This I took, and after an anxious journey arrived duly at the Manor, all the blinds of which were closely drawn.

Parkinson, white-faced and agitated, a thin, nervous figure in a coat too large for him, had been watching my approach up the drive, and held open the door for me.

“Ah, Doctor!” the old fellow gasped. “It’s terrible – terrible! To think that poor Miss Mary should die like that!”

“Tell me all about it,” I demanded, quickly. “Come!” and I led the way into the morning room.

“We don’t know anything about it, sir; it’s all a mystery,” the grey-faced old man replied. “When one of the housemaids went up to Miss Mary’s room at eight o’clock this morning to take her tea, as usual, she received no answer to her knock. Thinking she was asleep she returned half-an-hour later, only to find her absent, and that the bed had not been slept in. We told the mistress, never thinking that such an awful fate had befallen poor Miss Mary. Mistress was inclined to believe that she had gone off on some wild excursion somewhere, for of late she’s been in the habit of going away for a day or two without telling us. At first none of us dreamed that anything had happened, until, just before twelve o’clock, Reuben Dixon’s lad, who’d been out fishing, came up, shouting that poor Miss Mary was in the water under some bushes close to the stile that leads into Monk’s Wood. At first we couldn’t believe it; but, with the others, I flew down post-haste, and there she was, poor thing, under the surface, with her dress caught in the bushes that droop into the water. Her hat was gone, and her hair, unbound, floated out, waving with the current. We at once got a boat and took her out, but she was quite dead. Four men from the village carried her up here, and they’ve placed her in her own room.”

“The police know about it, of course?”

“Yes, we told old Jarvis, the constable. He’s sent a telegram to Oundle, I think.”

“And what doctor has seen her?”

“Doctor Govitt. He’s here now.”

“Ah! I must see him. He has examined the body, I suppose?”

“I expect so, sir. He’s been a long time in the room.”

“And how is it believed that the poor young lady got into the water?” I asked, anxious to obtain the local theory.

“It’s believed that she either fell in or was pushed in a long way higher up, because half-a-mile away, not far from the lock, there’s distinct marks in the long grass, showing that somebody went off the path to the brink of the river. And close by that spot they found her black silk shawl.”

“She went out without a hat, then?” I remarked, recollecting that when she had met her husband in secret she had worn a shawl. Could it be possible that she had met him again, and that he had made away with her? The theory seemed a sound one in the present circumstances.

“It seems to me, sir, that the very fact of her taking her shawl showed that she did not intend to be out very long,” the butler said.

“It would almost appear that she went out in the night in order to meet somebody,” I observed.

The old man shook his head sorrowfully, saying:

“Poor Miss Mary’s never been the same since her husband died, Doctor. She was often very strange in her manner. Between ourselves, I strongly suspect it to be a case of deliberate suicide. She was utterly broken down by the awful blow.”

“I don’t see any motive for suicide,” I remarked. Then I asked, “Has she ever been known to meet anyone on the river-bank at night?”

Old Parkinson was usually an impenetrable person. He fidgeted, and I saw that my question was an awkward one for him to answer without telling a lie.

“The truth will have to be discovered about this, you know,” I went on. “Therefore, if you have any knowledge likely to assist us at the inquest it is your duty to explain.”

“Well, sir,” he answered, after a short pause, “to tell the truth, in this last week there have been some funny rumours in the village.”

“About what?”

“People say that she was watched by Drake, Lord Nassington’s gamekeeper, who saw her at two o’clock in the morning walking arm-in-arm with an old gentleman. I heard the rumour down at the Golden Ball, but I wouldn’t believe it. Why, Mr. Courtenay’s only been dead a month or two. The man Drake is a bragging fellow, and I think most people discredit his statement.”

“Well,” I said, “it might possibly have been true. It seems hardly conceivable that she should go wandering alone by the river at night. She surely had some motive in going there. Was she only seen by the gamekeeper on one occasion?”

“Only once. But, of course, he soon spread it about the village, and it formed a nice little tit-bit of gossip. As soon as I heard it I took steps to deny it.”

“It never reached the young lady’s ears?”

“Oh, no,” the old servant answered. “We were careful to keep the scandal to ourselves, knowing how it would pain her. She’s had sufficient trouble in her life, poor thing.” And with tears in his grey old eyes, he added: “I have known her ever since she was a child in her cradle. It’s awful that her end should come like this.”

He was a most trustworthy and devoted servant, having spent nearly thirty years of his life in the service of the family, until he had become almost part of it. His voice quivered with emotion when he spoke of the dead daughter of the house, but he knew that towards me it was not a servant’s privilege to entirely express the grief he felt.

I put other questions regarding the dead woman’s recent actions, and he was compelled to admit that they had, of late, been quite unaccountable. Her absences were frequent, and she appeared to sometimes make long and mysterious journeys in various directions, while her days at home were usually spent in the solitude of her own room. Some friends of the family, he said, attributed it to grief at the great blow she had sustained, while others suspected that her mind had become slightly unhinged. I recollected, myself, how strange had been her manner when she had visited me, and inwardly confessed to being utterly mystified.

Doctor Govitt I found to be a stout middle-aged man, of the usual type of old-fashioned practitioner of a cathedral town, whose methods and ideas were equally old-fashioned. Before I entered the room where the unfortunate woman was lying, he explained to me that life had evidently been extinct about seven hours prior to the discovery of the body.

“There are no marks of foul play?” I inquired anxiously.

“None, as far as I’ve been able to find – only a scratch on the left cheek, evidently inflicted after death.”

“What’s your opinion?”

“Suicide. Without a doubt. The hour at which she fell into the water is shown by her watch. It stopped at 2.28.”

“You have no suspicion of foul play?”

“None whatever.”

I did not reply; but by the compression of my lips I presume he saw that I was dubious.

“Ah! I see you are suspicious,” he said. “Of course, in tragic circumstances like these the natural conclusion is to doubt. The poor young lady’s husband was mysteriously done to death, and I honestly believe that her mind gave way beneath the strain of grief. I’ve attended her professionally two or three times of late, and noted certain abnormal features in her case that aroused my suspicions that her brain had become unbalanced. I never, however, suspected her of suicidal tendency.”

“Her mother, Mrs. Mivart, did,” I responded. “She told me so only a few days ago.”

“I know, I know,” he answered. “Of course, her mother had more frequent and intimate opportunities for watching her than we had. In any case it is a very dreadful thing for the family.”

“Very!” I said.

“And the mystery surrounding the death of Mr. Courtenay – was it never cleared up? Did the police never discover any clue to the assassin?”

“No. Not a single fact regarding it, beyond those related at the inquest, has ever been brought to light.”

“Extraordinary – very extraordinary!”

I went with him into the darkened bedroom wherein lay the body, white and composed, her hair dishevelled about her shoulders, and her white waxen hands crossed about her breast. The expression upon her countenance – that face that looked so charming beneath its veil of widowhood as she had sat in my room at Harley Place – was calm and restful, for indeed, in the graceful curl of the lips, there was a kind of half-smile, as though, poor thing, she had at last found perfect peace.

Govitt drew up the blind, allowing the golden sunset to stream into the room, thereby giving me sufficient light to make my examination. The latter occupied some little time, my object being to discover any marks of violence. In persons drowned by force, and especially in women, the doctor expects to find red or livid marks upon the wrists, arms or neck, where the assailant had seized the victim. Of course, these are not always discernible, for it is easier to entice the unfortunate one to the water’s edge and give a gentle push than grapple in violence and hurl a person into the stream by main force. The push leaves no trace; therefore, the verdict in hundreds of cases of wilful murder has been “Suicide,” or an open one, because the necessary evidence of foul play has been wanting.

Here was a case in point. The scratch on the face that Govitt had described was undoubtedly a post-mortem injury, and, with the exception of another slight scratch on the ball of the left thumb, I could find no trace whatever of violence. And yet, to me, the most likely theory was that she had again met her husband in secret, and had lost her life at his hands. To attribute a motive was utterly impossible. I merely argued logically within myself that it could not possibly be a case of suicide, for without a doubt she had met clandestinely the eccentric old man whom the world believed to be dead.

But if he were alive, who was the man who had died at Kew?

The facts within my knowledge were important and startling; yet if I related them to any second person I felt that my words would be scouted as improbable, and my allegations would certainly not be accepted. Therefore I still kept my own counsel, longing to meet Jevons and hear the result of his further inquiries.

Mrs. Mivart I found seated in her own room, tearful and utterly crushed. Poor Mary’s end had come upon her as an overwhelming burden of grief, and I stood beside her full of heartfelt sympathy. A strong bond of affection had always existed between us; but, as I took her inert hand and uttered words of comfort, she only shook her head sorrowfully and burst into a torrent of tears. Truly the Manor was a dismal house of mourning.

To Ethelwynn I sent a telegram addressed to the Hennikers, in order that she should receive it the instant she arrived in town. Briefly I explained the tragedy, and asked her to come down to the Manor at once, feeling assured that Mrs. Mivart, in the hour of her distress, desired her daughter at her side. Then I accompanied the local constable, and the three police officers who had come over from Oundle, down to the riverside.

The brilliant afterglow tinged the broad, brimming river with a crimson light, and the trees beside the water already threw heavy shadows, for the day was dying, and the glamour of the fading sunset and the dead stillness of departing day had fallen upon everything. Escorted by a small crowd of curious villagers, we walked along the footpath over the familiar ground that I had traversed when following the pair. Eagerly we searched everywhere for traces of a struggle, but the only spot where the long grass was trodden down was at a point a little beyond the ferry. Yet as far as I could see there was no actual sign of any struggle. It was merely as though the grass had been flattened by the trailing of a woman’s skirt across it. Examination showed, too, imprints of Louis XV. heels in the soft clay bank. One print was perfect, but the other, close to the edge, gave evidence that the foot had slipped, thus establishing the spot as that where the unfortunate young lady had fallen into the water. When examining the body I had noticed that she was wearing Louis XV. shoes, and also that there was still mud upon the heels. She had always been rather proud of her feet, and surely there is nothing which sets off the shape of a woman’s foot better than the neat little shoe, with its high instep and heel.

We searched on until twilight darkened into night, traversing that path every detail of which had impressed itself so indelibly upon my brain. We passed the stile near which I had stood hidden in the bushes and overheard that remarkable conversation between the “dead” man and his wife. All the memories of that never-to-be-forgotten night returned to me. Alas! that I had not questioned Mary when she had called upon me on the previous day.

She had died, and her secret was lost.

CHAPTER XXIV.
ETHELWYNN IS SILENT

At midnight I was seated in the drawing-room of the Manor. Before me, dressed in plain black which made her beautiful face look even paler than it was, sat my love, bowed, despondent, silent. The household, although still astir, was hushed by the presence of the dead; the long old room itself, usually so bright and pleasant, seemed full of dark shadows, for the lamp, beneath its yellow shade, burned but dimly, and everywhere there reigned an air of mourning.

Half-demented by grief, my love had arrived in hot haste about ten o’clock, and, rushing to poor Mary’s room, had thrown herself upon her knees beside the poor inanimate clay; for, even though of late differences might have existed between them, the sisters were certainly devoted to each other. The scene in that room was an unhappy one, for although Ethelwynn betrayed nothing by her lips, I saw by her manner that she was full of remorse over the might-have-beens, and that she was bitterly reproaching herself for some fact of which I had no knowledge.

Of the past we had not spoken. She had been too full of grief, too utterly overcome by the tragedy of the situation. Her mournful figure struck a sympathetic chord in my heart. Perhaps I had misjudged her; perhaps I had attributed to her sinister motives that were non-existent. Alas! wherever mystery exists, little charity enters man’s heart. Jealousy dries up the milk of human kindness.

“Dearest,” I said, rising and taking her slim white hand that lay idly in her lap, “in this hour of your distress you have at least one person who would console and comfort you – one man who loves you.”

She raised her eyes to mine quickly, with a strange, eager look. Her glance was as though she did not fully realize the purport of my words. I knew myself to be a sad blunderer in the art of love, and wondered if my words were too blunt and abrupt.

“Ah!” she sighed. “If only I believed that those words came direct from your heart, Ralph!”

“They do,” I assured her. “You received my letter at Hereford – you read what I wrote to you?”

“Yes,” she answered. “I read it. But how can I believe in you further, after your unaccountable treatment? You forsook me without giving any reason. You can’t deny that.”

“I don’t seek to deny it,” I said. “On the contrary, I accept all the blame that may attach to me. I only ask your forgiveness,” and bending to her in deep earnestness, I pressed the small hand that was within my grasp.

“But if you loved me, as you declare you have always done, why did you desert me in that manner?” she inquired, her large dark eyes turned seriously to mine.

I hesitated. Should I tell her the truth openly and honestly?

“Because of a fact which came to my knowledge,” I answered, after a long pause.

“What fact?” she asked with some anxiety.

“I made a discovery,” I said ambiguously.

“Regarding me?”

“Yes, regarding yourself,” I replied, with my eyes fixed full upon hers. I saw that she started at my words, her countenance fell, and she caught her breath quickly.

“Well, tell me what it is,” she asked in a hard tone, a tone which showed me that she had steeled herself for the worst.

“Forgive me if I speak the truth,” I exclaimed. “You have asked me, and I will be perfectly frank with you. Well, I discovered amongst old Mr. Courtenay’s papers a letter written by you several years ago which revealed the truth.”

“The truth!” she gasped, her face blanched in an instant. “The truth of what?”

“That you were once engaged to become his wife.”

Her breast heaved quickly, and I saw that my words had relieved her of some grave apprehension. When I declared that I knew “the truth” she believed that I spoke of the secret of Courtenay’s masquerading. The fact of her previous engagement was, to her, of only secondary importance, for she replied:

“Well, and is that the sole cause of your displeasure?”

I felt assured, from the feigned flippancy of her words, that she held knowledge of the strange secret.

“It was the main cause,” I said. “You concealed the truth from me, and lived in that man’s house after he had married Mary.”

“I had a reason for doing so,” she exclaimed, in a quiet voice. “I did not live there by preference.”

“You were surely not forced to do so.”

“No; I was not forced. It was a duty.” Then, after a pause, she covered her face with her hands and suddenly burst into tears, crying, “Ah, Ralph! If you could know all – all that I have suffered, you would not think ill of me! Appearances have been against me, that I know quite well. The discovery of that letter must have convinced you that I was a schemer and unworthy, and the fact that I lived beneath the roof of the man who had cast me off added colour to the theory that I had conceived some deep plot. Probably,” she went on, speaking between her sobs, “probably you even suspected me of having had a hand in the terrible crime. Tell me frankly,” she asked, gripping my arm, and looking up into my face. “Did you ever suspect me of being the assassin?”

I paused. What could I reply? Surely it was best to be open and straightforward. So I told her that I had not been alone in the suspicion, and that Ambler Jevons had shared it with me.

“Ah! that accounts for his marvellous ingenuity in watching me. For weeks past he has seemed to be constantly near me, making inquiries regarding my movements wherever I went. You both suspected me. But is it necessary that I should assert my innocence of such a deed?” she asked. “Are you not now convinced that it was not my hand that struck down old Mr. Courtenay?”

“Forgive me,” I urged. “The suspicion was based upon ill-formed conclusions, and was heightened by your own peculiar conduct after the tragedy.”

“That my conduct was strange was surely natural. The discovery was quite as appalling to me as to you; and, knowing that somewhere among the dead man’s papers my letters were preserved, I dreaded lest they should fall into the hands of the police and thereby connect me with the crime. It was fear that my final letter should be discovered that gave my actions the appearance of guilt.”

I took both her hands in mine, and fixing my gaze straight into those dear eyes wherein the love-look shone – that look by which a man is able to read a woman’s heart – I asked her a question.

“Ethelwynn,” I said, calmly and seriously, “we love each other. I know I’ve been suspicious without cause and cruel in my neglect; nevertheless the separation has quickened my affection, and has shown that to me life without you is impossible. You, darling, are the only woman who has entered my life. I have championed no woman save yourself; by no ties have I been bound to any woman in this world. This I would have you believe, for it is the truth. I could not lie to you if I would; it is the truth – God is my witness.”

She made me no answer. Her hands trembled, and she bowed her head so that I could not see her face.

“Will you not forgive, dearest?” I urged. The great longing to speak out my mind had overcome me, and having eased myself of my burden I stood awaiting her response. “Will you not be mine again, as in the old days before this chain of tragedy fell upon your house?”

Again she hesitated for several minutes. Then, of a sudden, she lifted her tear-stained face towards me, all rosy with blushes and wearing that sweet look which I had known so well in the happy days bygone.

“If you wish it, Ralph,” she faltered, “we will forget that any breach between us has ever existed. I desire nothing else; for, as you well know, I love no one else but you. I have been foolish, I know. I ought to have explained the girlish romantic affection I once entertained for that man who afterwards married Mary. In those days he was my ideal. Why, I cannot tell. Girls in their teens have strange caprices, and that was mine. Just as schoolboys fall violently in love with married women, so are schoolgirls sometimes attracted towards aged men. People wonder when they hear of May and December marriages; but they are not always from mercenary motives, as is popularly supposed. Nevertheless I acted wrongly in not telling you the truth from the first. I am alone to blame.”

So much she said, though with many a pause, and with so keen a self-reproach in her tone that I could hardly bear to hear her, when I interrupted —

“There is mutual blame on both sides. Let us forget it all,” and I bent until my lips met hers and we sealed our compact with a long, clinging caress.

“Yes, dear heart. Let us forget it,” she whispered. “We have both suffered – both of us,” and I felt her arms tighten about my neck. “Oh, how you must have hated me!”

“No,” I declared. “I never hated you. I was mystified and suspicious, because I felt assured that you knew the truth regarding the tragedy at Kew, and remained silent.”

She looked into my eyes, as though she would read my soul.

“Unfortunately,” she answered, “I am not aware of the truth.”

“But you are in possession of certain strange facts – eh?”

“That I am in possession of facts that lead me to certain conclusions, is the truth. But the clue is wanting. I have been seeking for it through all these months, but without success.”

“Cannot we act in accord in this matter, dearest? May I not be acquainted with the facts which, with your intimate knowledge of the Courtenay household, you were fully acquainted with at the time of the tragedy?” I urged.

“No, Ralph,” she replied, shaking her head, and at the same time pressing my hand. “I cannot yet tell you anything.”

“Then you have no confidence in me?” I asked reproachfully.

“It is not a question of confidence, but one of honour,” she replied.

“But you will at least satisfy my curiosity upon one point?” I exclaimed. “You will tell me the reason you lived beneath Courtenay’s roof?”

“You know the reason well. He was an invalid, and I went there to keep Mary company.”

I smiled at the lameness of her explanation. It was, however, an ingenious evasion of the truth, for, after all, I could not deny that I had known this through several years. Old Courtenay, being practically confined to his room, had himself suggested Ethelwynn bearing his young wife company.

“Answer me truthfully, dearest. Was there no further reason?”

She paused; and in her hesitation I detected a desire to deceive, even though I loved her so fondly.

“Yes, there was,” she admitted at last, bowing her head.

“Explain it.”

“Alas! I cannot. It is a secret.”

“A secret from me?”

“Yes, dear heart!” she cried, clutching my hands with a wild movement. “Even from you.”

My face must have betrayed the annoyance that I felt, for the next second she hastened to soften her reply by saying:

“At present it is impossible for me to explain. Think! Poor Mary is lying upstairs. I can say nothing at present – nothing – you understand.”

“Then afterwards – after the burial – you will tell me what you know?”

“Until I discover the truth I am resolved to maintain silence. All I can tell you is that the whole affair is so remarkable and astounding that its explanation will be even more bewildering than the tangled chain of circumstances.”

“Then you are actually in possession of the truth,” I remarked with some impatience. “What use is there to deny it?”

“At present I have suspicions – grave ones. That is all,” she protested.

“What is your theory regarding poor Mary’s death?” I asked, hoping to learn something from her.

“Suicide. Of that there seems not a shadow of doubt.”

I was wondering if she knew of the “dead” man’s existence. Being in sisterly confidence with Mary, she probably did.

“Did it ever strike you,” I asked, “that the personal appearance of Mr. Courtenay changed very considerably after death. You saw the body several times after the discovery. Did you notice the change?”

She looked at me sharply, as though endeavouring to discern my meaning.

“I saw the body several times, and certainly noticed a change in the features. But surely the countenance changes considerably if death is sudden?”

“Quite true,” I answered. “But I recollect that, in making the post-mortem, Sir Bernard remarked upon the unusual change. He seemed to have grown fully ten years older than when I had seen him alive four hours before.”

“Well,” she asked, “is that any circumstance likely to lead to a solution of the mystery? I don’t exactly see the point.”

“It may,” I answered ambiguously, puzzled at her manner and wondering if she were aware of that most unaccountable feature of the conspiracy.

“How?” she asked.

But as she had steadfastly refused to reveal her knowledge to me, or the reason of her residence beneath Courtenay’s roof, I myself claimed the right to be equally vague.

We were still playing at cross-purposes; therefore I urged her to be frank with me. But she strenuously resisted all my persuasion.

“No. With poor Mary lying dead I can say nothing. Later, when I have found the clue for which I am searching, I will tell you what I know. Till then, no word shall pass my lips.”

I knew too well that when my love made up her mind it was useless to try and turn her from her purpose. She was no shallow, empty-headed girl, whose opinion could be turned by any breath of the social wind or any invention of the faddists; her mind was strong and well-balanced, so that she always had the courage of her own convictions. Her sister, on the contrary, had been one of those giddy women who follow every frill and furbelow of Fashion, and who take up all the latest crazes with a seriousness worthy of better objects. In temperament, in disposition, in character, and in strength of mind they had been the exact opposite of each other; the one sister flighty and thoughtless, the other patient and forbearing, with an utter disregard for the hollow artificialities of Society.

“But in this matter we may be of mutual assistance to each other,” I urged, in an effort to persuade her. “As far as I can discern, the mystery contains no fewer than seven complete and distinct secrets. To obtain the truth regarding one would probably furnish the key to the whole.”

“Then you think that poor Mary’s untimely death is closely connected with the tragedy at Kew?” she asked.

“Most certainly. But I do not share your opinion of suicide.”

“What? You suspect foul play?” she cried.

I nodded in the affirmative.

“You believe that poor Mary was actually murdered?” she exclaimed, anxiously. “Have you found marks of violence, then?”

“No, I have found nothing. My opinion is formed upon a surmise.”

“What surmise?”

I hesitated whether to tell her all the facts that I had discovered, for I was disappointed and annoyed that she should still preserve a dogged silence, now that a reconciliation had been brought about.

“Well,” I answered, after a pause, “my suspicion of foul play is based upon logical conclusions. I have myself been witness of one most astonishing fact – namely, that she was in the habit of meeting a certain man clandestinely at night, and that their favourite walk was along the river bank.”

“What!” she cried, starting up in alarm, all the colour fading from her face. “You have actually seen them together?”

“I have not only seen them, but I have overheard their conversation,” I answered, surprised at the effect my words had produced upon her.

“Then you already know the truth!” she cried, in a wild voice that was almost a shriek. “Forgive me – forgive me, Ralph!” And throwing herself suddenly upon her knees she looked up into my face imploringly, her white hands clasped in an attitude of supplication, crying in a voice broken by emotion: “Forgive me, Ralph! Have compassion upon me!” and she burst into a flood of tears which no caress or tender effort of mine could stem.

I adored her with a passionate madness that was beyond control. She was, as she had ever been, my ideal – my all in all. And yet the mystery surrounding her was still impenetrable; an enigma that grew more complicated, more impossible of solution.