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Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu - "The Purcell Papers, Volume 1"

Nettie Garmer Barker - "Kansas Women in Literature"

Arthur Conan Doyle - "A Study In Scarlet"

Rudyard Kipling - "Actions and Reactions "

The Bittermeads Mystery

E >> E. R. Punshon >> The Bittermeads Mystery




He had spoken so quickly and quietly, in the very act of turning away,
that none of the onlookers could have told that a word had passed, but
for the very violent start that Walter Dunsmore made and his quick
movement forward as if to follow the other. Immediately Dunn turned
back towards him with a swift warning gesture of his hand.

"Careful, you fool, they're looking," he said in a quick whisper,
and in a loud voice: "Very sorry, sir; beg pardon--I'm sure
I didn't mean anything."

Walter Dunsmore swung round upon his heel and went quickly back to
where Lord Chobham waited; and his face was like that of one who
has gazed into the very eyes of death.

"Lord in Heaven," he muttered, "it's all over, I'm done." And his
hand felt for a little metal box he carried in his waistcoat pocket
and that held half a dozen small round tablets, each of them a strong
man's death.

But he took his hand away again as he rejoined his cousin, patron,
and employer, old Lord Chobham.

"What's the matter, Walter?" Lord Chobham asked. "You look pale."

"The fellow was a bit impudent; he made me angry," said Walter
carelessly. He fingered the little box in his waistcoat pocket and
thought how one tablet on his tongue would always end it all. "By
the way, oughtn't Rupert to be back soon?" he asked.

"Yes, he ought," said Lord Chobham severely. "It's time he married
and settled down--I shall speak to his father about it. The boy
is always rushing off somewhere or another when he ought to be
getting to know the estate and the tenants."

Walter Dunsmore laughed.

"I think he knows them both fairly well already," he said. "Not a
tenant on the place but swears by Rupert. He's a fine fellow, uncle."

"Oh, you always stick up for him; you and he were always friends,"
answered Lord Chobham in a grumbling tone, but really very pleased.
"I know I'm never allowed to say a word about Rupert."

"Well, he's a fine fellow and a good friend," said Walter, and the
two disappeared into the house by a small side-door as Dunn pushed
his way through the group of tourists who looked at him with marked
and severe disapproval.

"Disgraceful," one of them said quite loudly, and another added: "I
believe he said something impudent to that gentleman. I saw him go
quite white, and look as if he were in two minds about ordering the
fellow right out of the grounds." And a third expressed the general
opinion that the culprit looked a real ruffian with all that hair
on his face. "Might be a gorilla," said the third tourist. "And
look what a clumsy sort of walk he has; perhaps he's been drinking."

But Dunn was quite indifferent to, and indeed unaware of this popular
condemnation as he made his way back to the hotel garage where he had
left their car. He seemed rather well pleased than otherwise as he
walked on.

"Quite a stroke of luck for once," he mused, and he smiled to
himself, and stroked the thick growth of his untidy beard. "It's
been worth while, for he didn't recognize me in the least, and had
quite a shock, but, all the same, I shan't be sorry to shave and
see my own face again."

He had the car out and ready when Ella and Allen came back. Allen
at once made an excuse to leave them, and went into the hotel bar
to get a drink of whisky, and when they were alone, Ella, who was
looking very troubled and thoughtful, said to Dunn

"We saw Lord Chobham in the garden with a gentleman some one told
us was a relative of his, a Mr. Walter Dunsmore. Did you see them?"

"Yes," answered Dunn, a little surprised, and giving her a quick
and searching look from his bright, keen eyes. "I saw them. Why--"

"I think I've seen the one they said was Mr. Walter Dunsmore before,
and I can't think where," she answered, puckering her brows.
"I can't think--do you know anything about him?"

"I know he is Mr. Walter Dunsmore," answered Dunn slowly, "and I
know he is one of the family, and a great friend of Rupert Dunsmore's.
Rupert Dunsmore is Lord Chobham's nephew, you know, and heir, after
his father, to the title and estates. His father, General Dunsmore,
brought him and Walter up together like brothers, but recently Walter
has lived at the Abbey as Lord Chobham's secretary and companion.
The general likes to live abroad a good deal, and his son Rupert is
always away on some sporting or exploring expedition or another."

"It's very strange," Ella said again. "I'm sure I've seen Walter
Dunsmore before but I can't think where."

Allen came from the bar, having quenched his thirst for the time
being, and they started off, arriving back at Bittermeads fairly
early in the evening, for Dunn had brought them along at a good
rate, and apparently remembered the road so well from the afternoon
that he never once had occasion to refer to the map.

He took the car round to the garage, and Allen and Ella went into
the house, where Allen made his way at once to the breakfast-room,
searching for more whisky and cigars, while Ella, after a quick
word with her mother to assure her of their safe return, went to
find Deede Dawson.

"Ah, dear child, you are back then," he greeted her. "Well, how
have you enjoyed yourself? Had a pleasant time?"

"It was not for pleasure we went there, I think," she said
listlessly.

He looked up quickly, and though his perpetual smile still played
as usual about his lips, his eyes were hard and daunting as they
fixed themselves on hers. Before that sinister stare her own eyes
sank, and sought the little travelling set of chessmen and board
that were before him.

"See," he said, "I've just brought off a mate. Neat isn't it?
Checkmate."

She looked up at him, and her eyes were steadier now.

"I've only one thing to say to you," she said. "I came here to say
it. If anything happens at Wreste Abbey I shall go straight to the
police."

"Indeed," he said, "indeed." He fingered the chessmen as though all
his attention were engaged by them. "May I ask why?" he murmured.
"For what purpose?"

"To tell them," she answered quietly, "what I--know."

"And what do you know?" he asked indifferently. "What do you know
that is likely to interest the police?"

"I ought to have said, perhaps," she answered after a pause, "what
I suspect."

"Ah, that's so different, isn't it?" he murmured gently. "So very
different. You see we all of us suspect so many things."

She did not answer, for she had said all she had to say and she was
afraid that her strength would not carry her further. She began to
walk away, but he called her back.

"Oh, how do you think your mother is today?" he asked. "Do you know,
her condition seems to me quite serious at times. I wonder if you
are overanxious?"

"She is better--much better!" Ella answered, and added with a sudden
burst of fiercest, white-hot passion: "But I think it would be better
if we had both died before we met you."

She hurried away, for she was afraid of breaking down, and Deede
Dawson smiled the more as he again turned his attention to his
chessmen, taking them up and putting them down in turn.

"She's turning nasty," he mused. "I don't think she'll dare--but
she might. She's only a pawn, but a pawn can cause a lot of trouble
at times--a pawn may become a queen and give the mate. When a pawn
threatens trouble it's best to--remove it."

He went out and came back a little late and busied himself with a
four-move chess problem which absorbed all his attention, and which
he did not solve to his satisfaction till past midnight. Then he
went upstairs to bed, but at the door of his room he paused and went
on very softly up the narrow stairs that led to the attics above.

Outside the one in which Dunn slept, he waited a little till the
unbroken sound of regular breathing from within assured him that
the occupant slept.

Cautiously and carefully he crept on, and entered the one adjoining,
where he turned the light of the electric flashlight he carried on a
large, empty packing-case that stood in one corner.

With a two-foot rule he took from his pocket he measured it
carefully and nodded with great satisfaction.

"A little smaller than the other," he said to himself. "But, then,
it hasn't got to hold so much." He laughed in his silent, mirthless
way, as at something that amused him. "A good deal less," he thought.
"And Dunn shall drive."

He laughed again, and for a moment or two stood there in the
darkness, laughing silently to himself, and then, speaking aloud,
he called out:

"You can come in, Dunn."

Dunn, whom a creaking board had betrayed, came forward unconcernedly
in his sleeping attire.

"I saw it was you," he remarked. "At first I thought something was
wrong."

"Nothing, nothing," answered Deede Dawson. "I was only looking at
this packing-case. I may have to send one away again soon, and I
wanted to be sure this was big enough. If I do, I shall want you to
drive."

"Not Miss Cayley?" asked Dunn.

"No, no," answered Deede Dawson. "She might be with you perhaps, but
she wouldn't drive. Night driving is always dangerous, I think, don't
you?"

"There's things more dangerous," Dunn remarked.

"Oh, quite true," answered Deede Dawson. "Well, did you enjoy your
visit to Wreste Abbey?"

"No," answered Dunn roughly. "I didn't see Rupert Dunsmore, and it
wouldn't have been any good if I had with all those people about."

"You're too impatient," Deede Dawson smiled. "I'm getting everything
ready; you can't properly expect to win a game in a dozen moves. You
must develop your pieces properly and have all ready before you start
your attack. As soon as I'm ready--why, I'll act--and you'll have
to do the rest."

"I see," said Dunn thoughtfully.



CHAPTER XXI

DOUBTS AND FEARS


In point of fact Dunn had not been asleep when Deede Dawson came
listening at his door. Of late he had slept little and that little
had been much disturbed by evil, haunting dreams in which perpetually
he saw his dead friend, Charley Wright, and dead John Clive always
together, while behind them floated the pale and lovely face of Ella,
at whom the two dead men looked and whispered to each other.

In the day such thoughts troubled him less, for when he was under
the influence of Ella's gentle presence, and when he could watch her
clear and candid eyes, he found all doubt and suspicion melting away
like snow beneath warm sunshine.

But in the silence of the night they returned, returned very
dreadfully, so dreadfully that often as he lay awake in the darkness
beads of sweat stood upon his forehead and he would drive his great
hands one against the other in his passionate effort to still the
thoughts that tormented him. Then, in the morning again, the sound
of Ella's voice, the merest glimpse of her grave and gracious
personality, would bring back once more his instinctive belief in
her.

The morning after Deede Dawson had paid his visit to the attic there
was news, however, that disturbed him greatly, for Mrs. Barker, the
charwoman who came each morning to Bittermeads, told them that two
men in the village--notorious poachers--had been arrested by the
police on a charge of being concerned in Mr. Clive's death.

The news was a great shock to Dunn, for, knowing as he thought he
did, that the police were working on an entirely wrong idea, he had
not supposed they would ever find themselves able to make any arrest.
As a matter of fact, these arrests they had made were the result of
desperation on the part of the police, who unable to discover
anything and entirely absorbed by their preconceived idea that the
crime was the work of poachers, had arrested men they knew were
poachers in the vague hope of somehow discovering something or of
somehow getting hold of some useful clue.

But that Dunn did not know, and feared unlucky chance or undesigned
coincidence must have appeared to suggest the guilt of the men and
that they were really in actual danger of trial and conviction. He
had, too, received that morning, through the secret means of
communication he kept open with an agent in London, conclusive proof
that at the moment of Clive's death Deede Dawson was in town on
business that seemed obscure enough, but none the less in town,
and therefore undoubtedly innocent of the actual perpetration of
the murder.

Who, then, was left who could have fired the fatal shot?

It was a question Dunn dared not even ask himself but he saw very
plainly that if the proceedings against the two arrested men were
to be pressed, he would be forced to come forward before his
preparations were ready and tell all he knew, no matter at what cost.

All the morning he waited and watched for his opportunity to speak
to Ella, who was in a brighter and gayer mood than he had ever seen
her in before.

At breakfast Deede Dawson had assured her that he could not conceive
what were the suspicions she had referred to the night previously,
and while he would certainly have no objection to her mentioning
them at any time, in any quarter she thought fit if anything happened
at Wreste Abbey--and would indeed be the first to urge her to do so
--he, for his part, considered it most unlikely that anything of the
sort she seemed to dread would in fact occur.

"Not at all likely," he said with his happy, beaming smile that
never reached those cold eyes of his. "I should say myself that
nothing ever did happen at Wreste Abbey, not since the Flood, anyhow.
It strikes me as the most peaceful, secluded spot in all England."

"I'm very glad you think so," said Ella, tremendously relieved and
glad to hear him say so, and supposing, though his smooth words and
smiles and protestations deceived her very little, that, at any rate,
what she had said had forced him to abandon whatever plans he had
been forming in that direction.

Her victory, as it seemed to her, won so easily and containing good
promise of further success in the future, cheered her immensely, and
it was in almost a happy mood that she went unto the garden after
lunch and met Dunn in a quiet, well-hidden corner, where he had been
waiting and watching for long.

His appearance startled her--his eyes were so wild, his whole
manner so strained and restless, and she gave a little dismayed
exclamation as she saw him.

"Oh, what's the matter?" she asked. "Aren't you well? You look--"

She paused for she did not know exactly how it was he did look;
and he said in his harshest, most abrupt manner

"Do you remember Charley Wright?"

"Why do you ask?" she said, puzzled. "Is anything wrong?"

"Do you remember John Clive?" he asked, disregarding this. "Have
you heard two men have been arrested for his murder?"

"Mrs. Barker told me so," she answered gravely. He came a little
nearer, almost threateningly nearer.

"What do you think of that?" he asked.

She lifted one hand and put it gently on his arm. The touch of it
thrilled him through and through, and he felt a little dazed as he
watched it resting on his coat sleeve. She had become very pale
also and her voice was low and strained as she said

"Have you had suspicions too?"

He looked at her as if fascinated for a moment, and then nodded
twice and very slowly.

"So have I," she sighed in tones so low he could scarcely hear them.

"Oh, you, you also," he muttered, almost suffocating.

"Yes," she said. "Yes--perhaps the same as yours. My stepfather,"
she breathed, "Mr. Deede Dawson."

He watched her closely and moodily, but he did not speak.

"I was afraid--at first," she whispered. "But I was wrong--quite
wrong. It is as certain as it can be that he was in London at the
time."

From his pocket Dunn took out the handkerchief of hers that he had
found near the body of the dead man.

"Is this yours?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered. "Yes, where did you get it?"

He did not answer, but he lifted his hands one after the other, and
put them on her shoulder, with the fingers outspread to encircle her
throat. It seemed to him that when she acknowledged the ownership
of the handkerchief she acknowledged also the perpetration of the
deed, and he became a little mad, and he had it in his mind that the
slightest, the very slightest, pressure of his fingers on that soft,
round throat would put it for ever out of her power to do such things
again. Then for himself death would be easy and welcome, and there
would be an end to all these doubts and fears that racked him with
anguish beyond bearing.

"What are you going to do?" she asked, making no attempt to resist
or escape.

Ever so slightly the pressure of his hands upon her throat
strengthened and increased. A very little more and the lovely
thing of life he watched would be broken and cold for ever. Her
eyes were steady, she showed no sign of fear, she stood perfectly
still, her hands loosely clasped together before her. He groaned,
and his arms fell to his side, helpless. Without the slightest
change of expression, she said:

"What were you going to do?"

"I don't know," he answered. "Do you ever go mad? I do, I think.
Perhaps you do too, and that explains it. Do you know where Charley
Wright is?"

"Yes," she answered directly. "Why? Did you know him, then?"

"You know where he is now?" Dunn repeated.

She nodded quietly.

"I heard from him only last week," she said.

"I am certainly mad or you are," he muttered, staring at her with
eyes in which such wonder and horror showed that it seemed there
really was a touch of madness there.

"What is the matter?" she asked.

"You heard from him last week," he said again, and again she
answered:

"Yes--last week. Why not?"

He leaned forward, and before she knew what he intended to do he
kissed her pale, cool cheek.

Once more she stood still and immobile, her hands loosely clasped
before her. It might have been that he had kissed a statue, and
her perfect stillness made him afraid.

"Ella," he said. "Ella."

"Why did you do that?" she said, a little wildly now in her turn.
"It was not that you were going to do to me before."

"I love you," he muttered excusingly.

She shook her head.

"You know too little of me; you have too many doubt and fears," she
said. "You do not love me, you do not even trust me."

"I love you all the same," he asserted positively and roughly. "I
loved you--it was when I tied your hands to the chair that night
and you looked at me with such contempt, and asked me if I felt
proud. That stung, that stung. I loved you then."

"You see," she said sadly, "you do not even pretend to trust me. I
don't know why you should. Why are you here? Why are you disguised
with all that growth of hair? There is something you are preparing,
planning. I know it. I feel it. What is it?"

"I told you once before," he answered, "that the end of this will
be Deede Dawson's death or mine. That's what I'm preparing."

"He is very cunning, very clever," she said. "Do you think he
suspects you?"

"He suspects every one always," answered Dunn. "I've been trying
to get proof to act on. I haven't succeeded. Not yet. Nothing
definite. If I can't, I shall act without. That's all."

"If I told him even half of what you just said," she said, looking
at him. "What would happen?"

"You see, I trust you," he answered bitterly.

She shook her head, but her eyes were soft and tender as she said:

"It wasn't trust in me made you say all that, it was because you
didn't care what happened after."

"No," he said. "But when I see you, I forget everything. Do you
love me?"

"Why, I've never even seen you yet," she exclaimed with something
like a smile. "I only know you as two eyes over a tangle of hair
that I don't believe you ever either brush or comb. Do you know,
sometimes I am curious."

He took her hand and drew her to sit beside him on the bench under
a tree near by. All his doubts and fears and suspicions he set far
from him, and remembered nothing save that she was the woman for
whom yearned all the depths of his soul as by pre-ordained decree.
And she, too, forgot all else save that she had met her man--her
man, to her strange, aloof, mysterious, but dominating all her life
as though by primal necessity.

When they parted, it was with an agreement to meet again that
evening, and in the twilight they spent a halcyon hour together,
saying little, feeling much.

It was only when at last she had left him that he remembered all
that had passed, that had happened, that he knew, suspected, dreaded,
all that he planned and intended and would be soon called upon to put
into action.

"She's made me mad," he said to himself, and for a long time he sat
there in the darkness, in the stillness of the evening, motionless
as the tree in whose shade he sat, plunged in the most profound and
strange reverie, from which presently his quick ear, alert and keen
even when his mind was deep in thought, caught the light and careful
sound of an approaching footstep.

In a moment he was up and gliding through the darkness to meet who
was coming, and almost at once a voice hailed him cautiously.

"There you are, Dunn," Deede Dawson said. "I've been looking for
you everywhere. Tomorrow or next day we shall be able to strike;
everything is ready at last, and I'll tell you now exactly what we
are going to do."

"That's good news," said Dunn softly.

"Come this way," Deede Dawson said, and led Dunn through the
darkness to the gate that admitted to the Bittermeads grounds from
the high road.

Here he paused, and stood for a long time in silence, leaning on
the gate and looking out across the road to the common beyond.
Close beside him stood Dunn, controlling his impatience as best he
could, and wondering if at last the secret springs of all these
happenings was to be laid bare to him.

But Deede Dawson seemed in no hurry to begin. For a long time he
remained in the same attitude, silent and sombre in the darkness,
and when at last he spoke it was to utter a remark that quite took
Dunn by surprise.

"What a lovely night," he said in low and pensive tones, very unlike
those he generally used. "I remember when I was a boy--that's a
long time ago."

Dunn was too surprised by this sudden and very unexpected lapse into
sentiment to answer. Deede Dawson went on as if thinking to himself:

"A long time--I've done a lot--seen a lot since then--too much,
perhaps--I remember mother told me once--poor soul, I believe she
used to be rather proud of me--"

"Your mother?" Dunn said wondering greatly to think this man should
still have such memories.

But Deede Dawson seemed either to resent his tone or else to be
angry with himself for giving way to such weakness. In a voice more
like his usual one, he said harshly and sneeringly:

"Oh, yes, I had a mother once, just like everybody else. Why not?
Most people have their mothers, though it's not an arrangement I
should care to defend. Now then, Ella was with you tonight; you
and she were alone together a long time."

"Well," growled Dunn, "what of it?"

"Fine girl, isn't she?" asked Deede Dawson, and laughed.

Dunn did not speak. It filled him with such loathing to hear this
man so much as utter Ella's name, it was all he could do to keep
his hands motionless by his side and not make use of them about the
other's throat.

"She's been useful, very useful," Deede Dawson went on meditatively.
"Her mother had some money when I married her. I don't mind telling
you it's all spent now, but Ella's a little fortune in herself."

"I didn't know we came to talk about her," said Dunn slowly. "I
thought you had something else to say to me."

"So I have," Deede Dawson answered. "That's why I brought you here.
We are safe from eavesdroppers here, in a house you can never tell
who is behind a curtain or a door. But then, Ella is a part of my
plans, a very important part. Do you remember I told you I might
want you to take a second packing-case away from here in the car
one night?"

"Yes, I remember," said Dunn slowly. "I remember. What would be
in it? The same sort of thing that was in--that other?"

"Yes," answered Deede Dawson. "Much the same."

"I shall want to see for myself," said Dunn. "I'm a trustful sort of
person, but I don't go driving about the country with packing-cases
late at night unless I've seen for myself what's inside."



CHAPTER XXII

PLOTS AND PLAYS


"Very wise of you," yawned Deede Dawson. "That's just what Ella
said--what's that?"

For instinctively Dunn had raised his hand, but he lowered it again
at once.

"Oh, cut the cackle," he said impatiently. "Tell me what you want
me to do, and make it plain, very plain, for I can tell you there's
a good deal about all this I don't understand, and I'm not inclined
to trust you far. For one thing, what are you after yourself? Where
do you come in? What are you going to get? And there's another
thing I want to say. If you are thinking of playing any tricks on
me don't do it, unless you are ready to take big risks. There's only
one man alive who ever made a fool of me, and his name is Rupert
Dunsmore, and I don't think he's today what insurance companies call
a good risk. Not by any manner of means." He paused to laugh
harshly. "Let's get to business," he said. "Look here, how do I
know you mean all you say about Rupert Dunsmore? What's he to you?"

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