A month ago had anyone prophesied that I, Spenser Tait, would be engaged in playing the part of an amateur detective, I should have flatly contradicted his prognostication. Yet here I am doing my best to solve the mystery which hangs round the death of my friend's father. I cannot say that I object to the task, for there is something tremendously exciting in this man hunt. My friendship for Claude is the principal factor which induces me to meddle with the business; but a slight flavoring of selfishness is also present.

Hitherto we had been fairly successful, and have at least found a clew likely to lead to some certain result. Between Mrs. Bezel, Hilliston, and Linton's book, we have learned a good deal of the case; and all our knowledge points to an interview with Jenny Paynton as the next step to be taken.

To-morrow we start for Thorston for this purpose, but before exploring the new field I judge it wise to set down all the facts which have come to our knowledge, and to deduce therefrom, if possible, a logical reason for our future actions. I have my suspicions, but these are vague and intangible. Claude has his suspicions, but these do not coincide with mine. He believes Jeringham to be guilty of the crime. I think Hilliston is likely to prove the assassin. Both of us may be wrong.

To take the case of Mr. Hilliston. His attitude is decidedly aggressive at the present moment, and he is doing his best to dissuade Claude from investigating the case. Why should he do so? George Larcher was his dearest friend, and met with a cruel fate. If there is any chance of his fate being avenged, surely Hilliston should be the first to prosecute the inquiries. Instead of doing so he hangs back, and throws cold water on my efforts and on Claude's. He must have some reason for his actions. Is that reason to be found at Clarence Cottage in Hampstead?

This question brings me to a delicate point. My work is hampered by the fact that Mrs. Bezel is Claude's mother, and I dare not express myself as I should wish. I gather from the report of the trial that Mrs. Larcher was a vain and silly coquette, who threw away the love of a good man for the indulgence of her own selfish instincts. Guilty she may have been, but not with Jeringham. If she had any lover, it was Francis Hilliston. After a visit to Clarence Cottage I believe the view taken of the case by the novelist to be the right one.

During my interview with Mrs. Bezel I noted her every look and action. When Hilliston's name occurred she flushed up and looked savage; she was anxious to know all about the wife at Kensington Gore, and in every way showed that she had more interest in the man than she cared to confess. Again, she told me that her illness was of ten years' duration. Hilliston has been married ten years. What is more likely than that he should have wearied of the invalid, and so deserted her for Mrs. Derrick, the rich widow.

Mrs. Bezel is jealous of Hilliston and of his wife. Her love has changed to hatred, and I verily believe that she would harm him if she could. Already she has attempted to do so, for it was only her threat to reveal all to Claude that made Hilliston produce that report of the Larcher affair. She has told me all she knows, but I cannot help thinking that she is keeping back certain facts connected with the case. There is a hesitancy and doubt in her speech which points to some secret. If I could learn that secret it might establish the guilt of Hilliston.

And yet I cannot believe that. No woman, however vain, however frivolous, would have lived with the man who murdered her husband, who slew the father of her child. Mrs. Bezel's secret may not directly inculpate Hilliston, but it may point toward him as the possible assassin. But I cannot believe that she thinks him guilty. Their relations with one another forbids so horrible a supposition.

Nevertheless, Hilliston is afraid of the truth coming to light. He denies that the garnet scarfpin ever existed, while Mrs. Bezel said she saw it herself. If the lawyer is not afraid, why should he tell a deliberate lie? It is his word against that of Mrs. Bezel, and as her statement is backed up by the description in the novel, I believe she is telling the truth. Can it be possible that the scarfpin belonged to Hilliston and was dropped by him in the garden of The Laurels on the night of the struggle?

Here Hilliston proves an alibi. He stated to Claude that at the hour of three o'clock, when the crime was presumably committed, he was at the ball in the Horriston Town Hall. If that can be proved, he must, perforce, be innocent.

Another supposition: Can Mrs. Larcher be actually guilty of her husband's death, and, knowing this, is Hilliston anxious to stop Claude in his investigations lest he should learn so terrible a truth? I cannot believe this, for Mrs. Larcher, or Bezel, set the ball rolling herself, and were she guilty she certainly would not have run such risk.

Then, again, Jeringham fled on the night of the murder. For what reason? If Hilliston killed Larcher why should Jeringham fly? If Mrs. Bezel killed her husband why should Jeringham fly? I see no reason in his flight, and yet if he were guilty and Hilliston knew him to be guilty why should he try and screen him at the present time? Altogether the case is so confusing that I do not know what to think or whom to suspect.

I wonder what has become of Mona Bantry and her child? Mrs. Bezel said she had not seen the girl or her brother for twenty-five years. Yet they must be somewhere. Circumstances point to Jenny Paynton having heard the story of the tragedy from Denis, for no one else could have revealed the episode of the scarfpin, or have described the jewel. If Denis told her he must live at Thorston, and if he lives there his sister must be with him. If this pair, who were in the house on the night of the murder, can be found, the truth may come to light.

After searching Thorston and finding out all I can from the Bantrys, – presuming them to be there, – it is my intention to go down to Horriston and find out someone who remembers the case. In spite of the lapse of time there must be some old people alive who danced at that ball in their hot youth. They may be able to say if George Larcher was there present in the character of Darnley, and at what time Hilliston left the ball. I may also hear what they think of Jeringham, and of the conduct of Mrs. Bezel. In making these investigations I shall not take Claude, as I shrewdly suspect the opinions of these oldsters regarding his mother are anything but flattering to that lady. If I go to Horriston I must go alone.

On reading over these notes I am hardly satisfied with them. They do not seem to give me much basis on which to work. I suspect this person and the other, but I have very little evidence to back me up in such suspicions. The only thing that seems clear to me is that Hilliston has some object in thwarting our plans. What the object is I must find out. Perhaps I shall do so at Thorston, where I am certain to meet both Hilliston and his wife.

And that reminds me of what Claude related about her emotion this evening. It is certainly curious, but the worst of dabbling in detective business is that one is apt to get over-suspicious. In this case I think there is no ground for suspicion. Mrs. Hilliston is an American, and came to England twelve years ago. I know this for certain, for I remember when she made her début in society. This being the case, she cannot possibly have any connection with Horriston, and her emotion must have been merely the recollection of the story related by her husband when he told her of Claude.

Well, it is past midnight, and I had better end these unsatisfactory notes. Detective business is harder than I thought. How am I to evolve order out of all this chaos I hardly know, save to trust to luck and Jenny Paynton. And so to bed, as saith worthy Samuel Pepys.

CHAPTER XXI
THORSTON

It is astonishing how closely one village resembles another in appearance. The square-towered church, the one winding street, the low-roofed inn, and red-tiled cottages, isolated by narrow alleys; corn lands and comfortable farms around, and still further the mansions, more or less stately, of the county families. Go where you will in the southern countries, all the villages are so constituted; one description serves for all, though on occasions the expanse of the Channel introduces a new feature into the landscape. Thorston was of the same class, but, in its own opinion, had more pretentions to grandeur than its neighbors.

Before the Conquest it had been a considerable Saxon town, and, as its name indicates, had flourished before the introduction of Christianity into England. There, according to tradition, a temple to Thor the Thunderer had stood on the hill now crowned with the church; hence the name of Thor's town. Report said that Edward the Confessor had built the church, but of his work little remained, and the present building was due to the piety or fears of a Norman baron, who wished to expiate his sins after the fashion of those times, by erecting a house to some interceding saint. In the present instance this church was dedicated to St. Elfrida, the holy daughter of Athelstan, who renounced her father's court to found a nunnery by the winding river Lax, famous for salmon, as is plainly hinted by its Scandinavian appellation. Yet notwithstanding church and tradition, Thorston had never since been of much importance, and it was now but an ordinary rural village, quaint and sleepy.

From Eastbourne the road, winding, dipping, rising, and curving like a white snake, ran over hill, through dale, along plain, till it ultimately formed the High Street of Thorston. Thence it ran again into the country, but at this point it made its way between houses, thatched and old; and toward the center opened into a market-place adorned by an antique cross. The Inn of St. Elfrida, with an effigy of the saint for a sign, stood on the right of this square, fronting the battered cross; directly opposite a narrow road led on to the village green, at the end of which rose the low hill whereon the Church of St. Elfrida stood amid its trees. Lower down by the Lax could be seen the ruins of her nunnery, and a well frequented by her was to be inspected in the near neighborhood. Here, said the legend, she fought with the devil, who strove to carry away the tower of the church, and being worsted, as the demons always were by Mother Church, he dropped the tower a few yards off the main building. As a matter of fact the square tower is detached from the church, but, as has before been stated, it was built by the Normans long after Elfrida was laid to rest. But the legend took no account of dates, nor did the natives of Thorston, who would have been highly offended had anyone denied the authenticity of their story. In confirmation thereof they referred to the guide book – a notable authority truly.

The whole neighborhood was full of St. Elfrida, who must have been a busy saint in her day, and numerous tourists came to view church, and tower, and holy well. The village derived quite an income from her reputation, and valued the saint accordingly. Amid ancient oaks stood the gray church with its detached tower; around lichened tombstones leaned over one another, and rank grass grew up to the verge of the low stone wall which ran like a battlement round the crest of the little hill. A flight of rugged steps led up to the lych-gate, and here stood a pretty girl in converse with Frank Linton, alias John Parver.

It was a hot summer's day, and the golden light, piercing through the foliage of the trees, enveloped the girl in a glittering haze. She was extremely pretty; dark-eyed, dark-haired, with a complexion of roses and lilies, and as neat a figure as was ever seen. Envious people said that Miss Paynton pinched her waist, but such was not the case, for she was too careless of her appearance, and too careful of her health, to sacrifice the latter to the former. As a matter of fact, she appreciated brains more than beauty, and much preferred to exercise the first in clever conversation than to be complimented on the second. Linton, who had known her for many years, skillfully combined the two modes of paying homage to his divinity. That he received hard words in return was to be expected, for Jenny knew her power over the youth, and liked to exercise it. She was the least vain of mortals, but could not hide from herself that she was clever and pretty, and therefore entitled to indulge in coquetry.

"You grow more beautiful every day, Jenny," said Linton, who had lately arrived from town and was making up for lost time.

"And you more stupid," retorted Miss Paynton, climbing up on the low wall, where she sat and smiled at him from under her straw hat. "If you have come here to pay me compliments you can go away again. I want you to talk sense, not nonsense."

"What shall I talk about?"

"As if there were any question of that," said she, in supreme disdain. "Are you not famous now? Tell me of your success."

"You know about it already. I sent you all the papers. 'A Whim of Fate,' is the book of the season."

"Oh, just think of that now! Oh, lucky, lucky Frank! So young and so successful. You ought to be happy."

"I am happy, because I now see a chance of making you my – "

"Now you are talking nonsense," cried Jenny, ruthlessly interrupting him. "I won't hear a word more, you ridiculous boy. You are my brother, nothing more."

"But – "

"Don't talk about it, Frank. Be sensible. Come now, you have not yet told me how your father received the news."

"Oh, he is pleased, of course," said Linton, unwillingly changing the subject; "but he reserves his opinion till he has read the book. If he doesn't like it he'll very likely order me to stop writing."

"I'm sure he won't," said Jenny promptly. "You'll make more as an author than as a lawyer."

"No doubt, if you continue to supply me with such excellent plots. I wish I had your invention, Jenny."

"It was not invention. You know that quite well. I found an account of the trial in an old bundle of provincial newspapers. I couldn't have made up such a story."

"Jenny," asked Linton, with some apprehension, "has your father read the book?"

"No; I asked him to do so, but he refuses to read novels. History is what he likes – kings and dates, and battles. Father wouldn't waste a minute over fiction."

"I hope he won't be angry at your giving me the plot, Jenny."

Miss Paynton stared at him in surprise, and burst into a merry laugh. His objection seemed supremely ridiculous to her at that moment.

"My dear boy, why should he? The account of an old murder case can have nothing to do with him. I found the papers in the garret among a heap of old books. I don't suppose he knows of their existence."

"It was a real case, wasn't it?"

"Yes; it took place at Horriston in 1866. But of course the public need not know that."

"Well, I told someone about it."

"Oh, you are an idiot, Frank; or else," added Jenny more graciously, "you are very honest. I suppose you explained that the story was founded on fact?"

"Yes."

"Who asked you about it?"

"Three people. An old gentleman, and two young men."

"What are their names?" asked Jenny curiously.

"I forget. The third one was called Tait, I think, but I don't remember the names of the other two. It doesn't matter, you know," continued the novelist hastily; "lots of authors found their plots on episodes in real life."

"Oh, it's of no consequence," said Jenny idly. "I suppose they thought the plot was too clever for you to invent. At all events the credit is due to you for solving the mystery."

"Ah! But did I solve it properly? Do you think Michael Dene committed the crime?"

"No, I don't!" rejoined Jenny promptly. "I think Jeringham did."

"Jeringham. Who is he?"

"I forgot," said Jenny, with some dismay, "I did not tell you the real names of the people. Jeringham is the man you call Markham in the book. If you remember, I wanted you to make him commit the crime."

"If I had done so no one would have read the book," protested the author. "His flight made it so patent that he was guilty; and I had to put the crime on to someone like Dene, whom no reader would suspect. Do you think that Markham – Jeringham really committed the murder?"

"Yes, I do. If he was innocent why did he fly?"

"Was he ever found again," asked Linton, with some curiosity.

"Never! It is five-and-twenty years ago since the murder was committed, and it is a mystery to this day."

"I'd like to read that newspaper report for myself," said the author, after a pause. "Could you not let me see it?"

Jenny shook her head. "I'm afraid not," she replied guiltily. "You see Kerry found me with the papers one day and took them away. He was very angry, and said I had no business to look at them."

"My stars!" cried Linton, in a startled tone; "what will he say when he finds out that you and I have made use of them?"

"He won't find out," replied Jenny, jumping down off the wall. "Kerry never reads novels, and no one will tell him. Oh, it's quite safe, Frank, quite safe."

"I'm not so sure of that, Jenny. My father will talk about my book to Mr. Paynton, and he'll tell Kerry."

"Well, what if he does," cried Jenny, skipping down the steps. "I'm sure I don't care if Kerry does know. Who cares for a musty, fusty old crime of five-and-twenty years ago? Don't trouble about it, Frank. I'll take the blame."

Linton walked on in silence beside her, and they entered the market place on their way to the vicarage, He was beginning to have some qualms about the matter. Kerry had a very bad temper, and Linton was by no means anxious to encounter him.

"I wish we had left it alone," he said gloomily, pausing by the cross in the square.

"Nonsense! Don't be a moral coward," said Jenny pettishly. "I'll take the blame on myself. Kerry can't kill me be – "

At this point she was interrupted by a dog-cart containing two young men, which spun past rapidly. The driver took off his hat to Miss Paynton with a smile.

"Oh!" said Jenny composedly, when the vehicle had vanished, "there is our new Lord of the Manor, Mr. Tait."

"Why, those are the two fellows who questioned me about my story!" cried Linton.

"Are they? Yes, you mentioned the name of Tait," said Jenny quietly; "but what does it matter? What a fuss you make over nothing."

"Jenny," said Linton solemnly, "there is going to be trouble over that story."

Miss Paynton stared at him in surprise, then pointed an accusing finger at him.

"Francis Linton," she said slowly, "you are a silly fool. If ever I help you again in your writing, I give you leave to marry me."

Then she ran away and left him dumfounded in the market place. But she was by no means so light-hearted as she appeared to be. Kerry's anger, the questions of the two strangers, made her feel uneasy, and she thought it would have been better had she left the provincial newspapers in the garret. But Fate decided otherwise, and Jenny Paynton, though she knew it not, was an unconscious instrument to revive interest in a forgotten case, to solve a mystery of five-and-twenty years, and to bring an unknown criminal to justice. Life is a chess board, we are the puppets, and Fate plays the game.

CHAPTER XXII
IN THE CHURCH

Thorston Manor, built in broad meadow land, about a quarter of a mile from the village, was now the property of Spencer Tait. He had purchased it lately at a small price from old Miss Felcar, the last representative of that ancient family. She, unable to maintain the house in its original splendor, got quit of it altogether in this way, and shortly afterward took up her quarters at Eastbourne, leaving the house of her ancestors in the possession of a stranger.

The house itself was of no great pretensions, or age, dating only from the second George – a square, red-brick mansion, only redeemed from actual ugliness by the mellow beauty of its hues. The grounds themselves were better, and the trees best of all. An avenue curved nobly to the gate, which gave on the highroad, and to the right of this, fronting the house, was a delightful garden, laid out in the Dutch fashion. There were yew trees cut into quaint shapes, stiff and formal hedges running in straight lines, and beds of old-fashioned flowers. A fountain, a summer house, and a statue or two completed the furniture of this pleasant ground, to which Tait introduced his friend with unconcealed pride.

"I paid for this," he said, looking round as they paced the broad walks. "By itself the house is a monstrosity, only rendered endurable by its years; but you must confess that the garden is worth the money."

"It is certainly quaint," replied Larcher, looking around with an absent air, "but I do not care for nature in buckram. The formality of this place offends my eye."

"Ah, my dear fellow, you have been used to the wildness of New Zealand woods of late. You will find these grounds grow on you. I shall leave you alone this afternoon to make the attempt."

"Indeed," said Larcher, in some surprise at this cavalier treatment, "and what do you intend to do?"

"I am going to church."

"To church – on a week-day?"

"Oh, I am not bent on devotion, Claude. But Miss Paynton is the organist of the parish. To-day is Wednesday, when she is accustomed to practice between three and five. I propose to see her there."

"Why?"

"Can't you guess? To forestall her with Hilliston. That gentleman is at Eastbourne, and will probably come over to-day or to-morrow to ask Jenny to hold her tongue. As we can't afford to run such a risk, I must get all I can out of her to-day."

"Can I come also?"

"No!" replied Tait promptly. "It would be necessary for me to introduce you."

"What of that? Does it matter?"

"It matters a great deal. Miss Paynton has, we believe, obtained the plot of Linton's novel from a report of the trial. She will know the name of Larcher, and when she hears that you are called so, she will probably take fright and hold her tongue."

"But why should she think I have anything to do with the case?"

"Your own name. Your guardian's," answered Tait quietly. "Both are mentioned in the report of the trial. Oh, I assure you, Jenny is a clever girl, and knows that two and two make four. She will put this and that together, with the result that nothing will be gained by the interview."

"Well, well, go alone," said Claude crossly; "though I envy you the chance. She is a pretty girl, from the glimpse I caught of her."

"And as wise as she is pretty," laughed Tait. "I will need all my wits to deal with her. Now, is it settled?"

"Yes. You go to your organist, and I'll potter about these green alleys and think myself an abbe of Louis XIV.'s time."

Having come to this amicable understanding, they went in to luncheon, after which Tait gave Claude a sketch of the people in the neighborhood. Later on he sent him into the Dutch garden with a cigar and a book, then betook himself by a short cut through the park to the Church of St. Elfrida. Shortly after four he entered by the main door, and found himself in the aisle listening to the rolling notes of the organ.

There was no attempt at decoration in that church, for the vicar was broad in his views, and hating all ritualism from his soul, took a pride in keeping the edifice bare and unadorned. The heavy arches of gray stone, the white-washed walls, with here and there a mural tablet, the plain communion table under the single stained-glass window; nothing could be less attractive. Only the deep hues of roof and pews, the golden pipes of the organ, and the noble lectern, with its brazen eagle, preserved the church from looking absolutely irreverent. Through the glazed windows of plain glass poured in the white light of day, so that the interior lacked the reverent gloom, most fitted to the building, and the marks of time were shown up in what might be termed a cruel manner. Of old, St. Elfrida's had been rich in precious marbles, in splendid altars, and gorgeous windows, many-hued and elaborate; but the Puritans had destroyed all these, and reduced the place to its present bareness, which the vicar took a pride in preserving. It seemed a shame that so noble a monument of Norman architecture should be so neglected.

The red curtains of the organ loft hid the player, but Tait knew that it was Jenny by the touch, and sat down in a pew to wait till she had finished her practising. One piece followed the other, and the stately music vibrated among the arches in great bursts of sound, a march, an anthem, an offertory, till Tait almost fell asleep, lulled by the drone of the pipes. At length Jenny brought her performance to an end, and having dismissed the boy who attended to the bellows, tripped down the aisle with a music book under her arm. She looked as fresh and pink as a rose, but quite out of place in that bare, bleak building. Toward her Tait advanced with a bow.

"Here I am, you see, Miss Paynton," he said, shaking her by the hand. "I heard your music, and could not help coming in to listen. I hope you do not mind my intrusion."

"Oh, the Lord of the Manor can go anywhere," said Jenny demurely. "I am glad to see you again, Mr. Tait. The second time to-day, is it not?"

"Yes; I drove past you in the market place, if I remember rightly. Won't you sit down, Miss Paynton, and give me all the news. I am terribly ignorant of local gossip, I assure you."

Nothing loath, the girl seated herself in a pew near the door, and occupied herself in fixing her glove. Remembering the conversation with Linton, she was slightly uneasy at Tait's very direct request, but thinking that it could not possibly have anything to do with the plot of Linton's novel, resigned herself to circumstances. Before the conversation ended she wished that she had refused to speak to Tait at that moment; but it was then too late.

"News," she repeated with a laugh, "do we ever have any news in this dreary place. I should rather ask you for news, Mr. Tait, who are fresh from London."

"Oh, but no doubt our young author has already told you all that is worth hearing," said Tait, deftly leading up to his point; "he has been quite the lion of the season."

"Yes. He has been very fortunate," replied Jenny carefully. She did not relish the sudden introduction of this forbidden subject.

"And he owes it to you, I believe."

"To me. Good gracious, Mr. Tait! what have I to do with Frank's success?"

"According to what he says, everything."

"What do you mean," she said, sitting up very straight, with a deeper color than usual on her cheek.

"Why," said Tait, looking directly at her, and thereby adding to her confusion, "Frank told me that you supplied the plot of 'A Whim of Fate.'"

"And what if I did, Mr. Tait?"

"Oh, nothing, only I must compliment you on your – shall we say selection or invention?"

"The former," replied Jenny, with extraordinary quickness. "Since Frank makes no secret of it, why should I? The plot was told him by me, and I found it set forth as a trial in a newspaper of 1866."

"H'm! In the Canterbury Observer, I believe?"

"How do you know that is the name of the paper?" she asked in a nervous tone.

"I learned it from the same source that supplied me with the history of the Larcher affair."

"What! You also know the name of the case?"

"As you see."

"Frank does not know it. I did not show him the papers. I suppressed all names when I told the story," she said incoherently; "but now you – you – "

"I know all. Yes, you are right," observed Tait complacently. "I am better acquainted with the plot of 'A Whim of Fate' than John Parver himself."

Jenny sat looking at him in a kind of wild amazement. From the significance of his tone, the extent of his knowledge, she vaguely felt that something was wrong. Again, the anger of Kerry, the conversation of Linton, came into her mind, and she saw into what difficulty the chance telling of that ancient crime had led her. Tait noticed that she was perplexed and frightened, so dexterously strove to set her more at ease by making a clean breast of it, and enlisting her sympathy for Claude.

"You saw the friend who was with me in the cart, Miss Paynton?"

"Yes. Who is he?"

"Claude Larcher!"

"Claude La – What do you mean, Mr. Tait? I am in the dark. I do not understand. Have I done anything wrong in – in – "

"In telling the case to Linton?" finished Tait smoothly. "By no means. As a matter of fact you have done my friend a service."

"He is called Larcher! Who is he?" she asked again with an effort.

"He is the son of George Larcher, who was murdered at Horriston in 1866."