CHAPTER XVII UNEXPECTED EVIDENCE

The surprising discovery that the bullet was of silver, elevated the crime from the common-place to the romantic. That an old-fashioned weapon should have been used in these days when firearms have reached such a pitch of perfection, was remarkable enough, but that the assassin should have reverted to the superstitions of the Middle Ages for his missile, was almost beyond belief. In spite of her quick brain, Bess could not come to any decision. Failing a discussion with Dr. Jim she resolved to leave the vexed question at rest.

All the same she did not pause in her detective work. Having followed up one clue, until it ended--for the time being--in nothing, she hunted about for another. So far she had made two discoveries. The pistol which Joyce declared he had received from Don Manuel was certainly the weapon with which the murder had been committed; and the bullet was of silver. But this knowledge resulted in nothing. Certainly it cast a strong suspicion on the Mexican; but that part of the puzzle Bess felt she could safely leave to Herrick. So far as her particular business was concerned she could do no more, until she heard her colleague's report. Pending this, she began to work in a different direction. It occurred to her that she had never questioned Sidney about his doings in the Pine wood on the night of the murder. Possibly he might be able to supply some clue to the mystery.

"He was in the habit of watching the tower," said Bess to herself, "he said as much on that day when we had the picnic. I wonder if he saw anything suspicious on that night; then he might have seen that horrid little Joyce, or perhaps Frisco. I'll see what he knows."

Sidney was not an easy person to question. His fantasies of thought, had been laughed at so frequently, the truth of his statements so often denied, that he had grown reticent. What he saw, what he heard, he kept to himself, and not even his own family could get him to explain himself on occasions when they really desired information. The boy mooned about in a dreamy state of mind, saying little beyond the merest common places and for the most part lived in that world of fantasy which was anathema-maranatha to the people around him. He was like a wild animal, shy, timid, and intensely suspicious.

Bess thought that he might be more open with her, when he was--so to speak--in his native wilds. She therefore watched her opportunity, and followed him to one of his favourite haunts in the pine wood, where it fringed the moor. Here one afternoon, she found him seated in a secluded glade beside one of those remarkable circles, which the country people call fairy rings. So steadily was he gazing at this in the half-light which filtered through the overhead boughs, that he did not notice her approach. To be sure she trod softly and used the same precaution as she would have done when approaching the haunt of some timid animal.

Sidney had always been a puzzle to everyone, but Bess understood him better than most people. Besides she had discussed him frequently with Santiago, and was inclined to take the Mexican's view of the boy's peculiarities. Remembering the oft-quoted saying of Hamlet. Bess was less sceptical than those around her. She could' not see why Sidney should not possess the power of seeing,--what in the generally accepted sense is called the unseen. Considering what the lad had foretold with regard to the death of Mrs. Marsh and the accident to her step-son, it was impossible to say that Sidney was either a fool or a madman. There was some reason for his fantasies--so-called: and Bess regarded him with a certain amount of awe. She could not understand him; but she granted that he was a rare spirit, far removed from the common-place mortal.

"Well Thomas the Rhymer," said Bess gaily, when her shadow fell on the fairy-ring, "are you looking for the Queen of Elf-land?"

It was characteristic of Sidney that he was never taken by surprise. At the sound of her voice he neither started nor expressed any anger. All he did was to raise his serious eyes to her face, and observe quietly, "I knew you were coming, Bess dear."

She threw herself down beside him and nodded towards the fairy-ring. "Did they tell you?" she asked in low tone, and in all good faith.

"No, Bess. This is not the time for the little people to be abroad. I was only looking at their dancing-ground."

"Have you seen them here?"

"Often," replied Sidney with conviction, "small naked folk who dance and sing and play on queer instruments. They know that I see them; but they are not angry."

"I believe you are a fairy yourself Sidney."

"No. I have a soul--what you call a soul--and the fairies have none. They are only the creatures who attend to the works of Nature; her servants. I can see them because--" here Sidney broke off, "it is no use my telling you Bess, you would not understand."

Bess quite admitted this. She could not understand. All the same she did not tell her brother that he was a fool as many people would have done. She simply nodded, and passed the subject by. Her errand was to find out what Sidney had seen in the actual world. After the manner of her sex she approached the matter by a side-issue. "Sidney dear," said she, "do you know that Mr. Joyce has gone away to London?"

"No! I did not," replied Sidney gravely, "but I am very glad he has gone. A bad man Bess, and he would have done you harm."

"How? What do you mean." Sidney passed his hand across his face. "I cannot explain," he said in a troubled voice, "you see Bess, bad people carry about with them a bad atmosphere. That Mexican was very wicked; Joyce not so bad. Both of them made me feel quite ill. Did you never see how I refused to sit beside them? Well, that was because they gave me such pain. Not physical pain but a kind of uncomfortable feeling, which I can't put into words."

"In what an old-fashioned way you talk Sidney," said Bess puzzled, "one would think you were a hundred."

"I know more than I say. Corn did not teach me everything I know!

"Tell me Sidney. Do you like Mr. Corn?"

"I do--in a way. He is not bad, but he is weak. With good people he is good, with bad people he is bad. I am glad that Don Manuel has gone to Town. He was doing Mr. Corn a lot of harm. But if I told you what I know of these things you would only laugh at me."

"No, I would not Sidney," said his sister earnestly, "I am sure that you are so sensitive that you feel these influences you talk about."

"Sensitive," echoed Sidney, "yes! I suppose that is what you would call it. You have come here to ask me a question?" he said abruptly.

"How do you know that?" she demanded, then seeing him shrug his thin shoulders, she admitted the truth of what he said. "I want to ask you who you saw in the Pine wood on the night when Colonel Carr was killed?"

Sidney thought for a moment, then raised his eyes towards the gap in the trees formerly blocked by the tower. "I saw a lot of red mist about the tower," he said, "that was anger. I saw too--" he shook his head impatiently. "It is not these things you wish to know Bess?"

"I want to know who killed Colonel Carr?"

"I can't tell you Bess. If I knew I should tell. But I don't. On that night I came here, looking for things---" said Sidney with a side-glance to see if she were laughing, "and although I felt that there was a bad influence about the house, I never went near it. I kept away and wandered on to the moor. That is why you missed me, when you came to look for me. I did not mind the rain. But I saw your lantern, and thought you would be anxious, so I returned home. Then you came back yourself."

"Yes. That is all true. But tell me Sidney, did you see Mr. Joyce in the wood or on the moor?"

"No. I did not see him. Stephen was the only person I saw."

Bess started violently. "Stephen," she said, "surely you must be mistaken."

"No," replied the boy indifferently, "why should I be mistaken? You know I can see in the dark like a cat. Before I saw your lantern, I had seen Stephen on the lawn looking at the tower. I do not know what time it was, so don't ask me. You are always so particular about time," said Sidney peevishly, "as though it mattered."

Bess reflected. It was strange that Stephen should have been in the vicinity of the house on that night and yet have escaped her notice. But she remembered that being intent upon looking for her brother that she had not even seen Joyce, although he was lurking in the bushes at her elbow. True she had caught a glimpse of Frisco. But that was when she consciously looked at the door. It was possible that Sidney might have come across Stephen. "Did you speak to him?" she asked.

"No. Why should I have spoken to him?"

"Did he go into the house?"

"Not that I saw Bess. He was looking up at the tower, standing on the lawn by the trees. I went away to the other side of the wood, and out on to the moor. That is all I know."

"But Sidney, did you see Frisco crossing the moor?"

"I did not. When I saw your lantern I went home. I wish you would stop asking me questions," he cried irritably, "you make my head ache."

After this speech, he relapsed into one of his silent fits, and Bess could not get him to speak. Knowing from experience that Sidney was hopeless when in this mood, she left him still by the fairy ring, and took her way back to Biffstead. The house was empty, as Ida had gone to Beorminster to see Flo, and Frank was attending to the farm.

Bess sat down and wondered what could be the meaning of Stephen's presence at "The Pines" on that night. She knew that he had come over from Beorminster to escort his mother home. But then Mrs. Marsh had been with Mr. Corn the whole evening, and there was no reason why Stephen should have gone out of his way to visit "The Pines." It was in the afternoon that Mrs. Marsh had seen the Colonel, and Stephen must have known that she would not be at the great house after nine o'clock. This, Bess, calculating by her own movements, was the hour at which Sidney had seen him. He was looking up at the tower too, so Sidney said. "But he can't have had anything to do with it," she thought restlessly, "he disliked the Colonel, but he didn't--no, I won't even think of it! Such a thing if true, would kill Ida. Yet I must find out from Stephen himself why he was in the wood on that night."

She reflected. At this hour Stephen would be alone. Why should she not go over and see him. In one way or another she could tell him about the pistol and the silver bullet and see from the expression of his face if he knew anything about either. It was incredible that Stephen should have fired the shot. He was the Colonel's heir; but even to gain the money he certainly was too good a man to commit a crime. Yet if what Sidney said was true, Stephen had been on the lawn about the time Colonel Carr was shot. He must know something about the matter.

"I'll see him," said Bess putting on her hat again. "I shall not be able to sleep a wink until I know what he has to say."

In another half hour she was in the library where Stephen was established on the sofa. He looked thin, and rather worried, but his face brightened when he saw her. "This is good of you Bess," he said stretching out his hand, "I am all alone; Herrick is in Town; Ida at Beorminster. Not a soul to speak to. Draw that chair close to the fire. Shall I ring for tea?"

"It is too early yet," she said reassured by this bright talk. It was incredible that a man who spoke so lightly should have a black crime on his soul. "I just want to chatter for a bit; I am so tired of my own company."

"So am I. Well you talk about Jim, and I'll discourse about Ida. We shall be quite happy. By the way, when will Ida be back?"

"About dinner time. She will come over and see you afterwards."

"I wish she would come to dinner here," said Stephen, "you also and Frank and Sidney. I miss Jim horribly, and it is no fun eating a long solemn meal alone. Upon my word Bess, I sometimes long for the days when Petronella's macaroni could be eaten hurriedly, and without this formality. I would rather have a book than a footman about the table."

"What a mixed way of talking," said Bess pensively, "you _have_ a book on the table as a rule, I suppose you are glad all the same that you have the Colonel's money?"

"Of course I am," said Stephen frankly, "it enables me to marry Ida. I was so afraid lest she should marry someone else before I came into my kingdom. But I could not ask her to be my wife when I was a pauper could I Bess? She's a rare jewel that requires a rich setting."

"I don't think Ida values money so much as all that," said Bess gravely. "She would have married you without a sixpence. But I am glad all the same that the money came to you so soon. It is nice to be rich."

"So it is," admitted Stephen gladly. "I can buy whatever books I like."

Bess laughed at this speech. "I am afraid you will grow into a bookworm."

"No. Jim has got me out of bad habits in that respect. At one time I did nothing but read. Now I ride and swim and box and fence and shoot----"

Bess started at the last word. It gave her the opening she desired. "Are you a good shot?" she asked.

"I was always a good shot," said Stephen coolly, "that is, with a pistol. I never handled a gun until I came here."

"I did not know you had ever handled a pistol either?"

"Oh yes, I did. Young Capron gave me permission to shoot rabbits on his estate ages ago. I could not afford to buy a gun, but I did manage to get enough money to screw out a revolver--and a very good one. I believe it was brought here from Beorminster, unless Petronella overlooked it. But I have not used it for over a year. Rabbit shooting with a pistol is not much fun especially when one is alone."

"I should like to see the pistol," said Bess, after a pause.

"Go over then to the box behind that screen," said Stephen, "if it is anywhere it will be in there. There are all sorts of odds and ends, rag tag and bobtail of my former existence."

Bess did as she was told and walked slowly over and behind the large gilded screen which stood in a far corner of the library. Here, pushed to one side, was a moderately sized box, the lid of which was open. She found in it a few books, many manuscripts, pens, an inkstand, and all the paraphernalia of a writing table. These she enumerated aloud.

"I know," said Stephen from the sofa, "those are the the contents of my study. I expect Petronella threw all the things into that trunk. The pistol is bound to be there--in a small mahogany-box. I always kept it on the mantelpiece of my study. Be careful if you find it Bess. All six chambers are loaded."

After some search Bess came across just such a box, and opened it to find a neat little revolver of the most modern pattern. She carried this, box and all, to a table near the sofa. Again Stephen warned her that the weapon was loaded. "I kept it loaded because my mother was always afraid of thieves poor soul," he said, "though heaven knows there was little enough to steal in that dismal house of ours! What is it Bess?"

"There are only three chambers loaded," said Bess thickly. In a flash she remembered the three shots fired into the dead body--and the conical shape of the bullets. Those in the weapon she held were conical in shape.

"Nonsense," said Stephen nervously. "I always kept the whole six loaded. You must be making a mistake," he took the revolver from her and examined it closely. "You are right," he said with a long breath. "Three of them _are_ empty."

As he spoke he looked up apparently with indifference. When his eye caught hers he saw something in her expression which made him start and flush crimson. For a moment they looked at one another. Then Stephen swung himself up to a sitting position and laid the pistol on the side table. "Why do you look at me like that Bess?" he asked in a hurried tone.

For a minute she did not reply. But she felt that she must know the truth, and burst out hurriedly "Stephen! You were on the lawn on the night your uncle was killed!"

The young man started to his feet, and then fell back again on the sofa white, and amazed. "How do know?" he stuttered.

"Sidney saw you. He told me. Oh, Stephen,--three chambers of your revolver empty--three shots at----" she felt suffocated and could not continue.

"Wait! Wait" Stephen put his hand to his head. It felt confused. His face was of a deep purple. Bess thought that he would have a fit and blamed herself for having blurted out her suspicions.

"Wait! Wait" muttered Marsh-Carr again as she moved towards the bell to summon assistance. He sat down on the sofa, his face in his hands, rocking himself to and fro. Then he heaved a deep sigh, and looked up at her white haggard face. "You will not tell Ida," he said.

With her hands twisted in her hair Bess stepped back. She suppressed a shriek. "Stephen!" she cried hoarsely "You did not--you----"

"I did not murder him. No," replied the young man harshly. "He was already dead when I fired those three shots."

"Then it was you who?--"

"It was I," cried Stephen, rising to his feet with a fierce look, "and you are going to denounce me, I suppose!"

"No! No! how can you think I would do such a thing? But Ida, poor Ida!"

"You must not tell her," cried Stephen grasping her wrist until she winced with the pain. "Do what you like, but say nothing to Ida. I would rather break off our engagement on another plea than that she should know."

The pain of the twist he gave her arm brought Bess back to a more normal state of mind. She pulled herself together, and sat down. "Stephen," she said slowly, "no one but you and I will share this secret. Can you swear to me that Colonel Carr was already dead when you fired those shots? I want the truth!"

"He was already dead," said Marsh-Carr sitting down quietly, "did you not hear the medical evidence at the inquest? It was the bullet which killed him. My shots were fired at a carcase."

"Why did you do such a horrible thing?" wailed Bess. "Because I was mad for the time being," said Stephen gloomily, "I will tell you all if you are strong enough to hear it."

"After what I know, I am strong enough to hear anything. Oh! To think that you should have behaved in so barbarous a manner."

Stephen winced. "It was barbarous I confess," said he, "but I was mad for the time being. After all you must not be too hard on me. I did not kill my respected uncle," he sneered.

Bess shivered. She had never before seen this side of Stephen's character, and the new experience was unpleasant. It even stirred her into unconsidered indignation. "Since you went up that tower with a revolver, you must have intended to kill the man," she said.

"Perhaps I did, perhaps I did not," he answered in a most brazen manner, "but the plain truth is that I wanted to frighten him.

"And did you think a revolver would frighten a man who had faced death fifty and a hundred times?" said Bess with scorn. She recalled to her memory several episodes Carr had told her of his American doings; she well knew the dare-devilry latent in the man.

"Carr was old, and had lost his nerve. I counted upon that. I never intended to kill him. When I went up the tower the work had been done for me already."

"And who did it?"

"I do not know," said Stephen earnestly, "upon my soul Bess I do not know--the man was dead when I saw him. It was sheer rage that made me fire those three shots. The brute that is in me, as it is in every man, came to the surface. But of the real murderer I saw no trace. I did not see Frisco whom I take to be the man."

"It was not Frisco," flashed out Bess, "However," she continued sick at heart, "you had better tell me how it came about."

"Partly through my love for Ida, partly through my mother," said Marsh-Carr gloomily. "It came to my mother's ears that the Colonel intended to disinherit me. I suppose Frisco got the upper hand and induced him to alter his will--that is if he did alter it which I doubt."

"Of course he did not Stephen. If he had left the money to anyone else you would not be here."

"I am not so sure about that," replied the young man savagely. "Frisco might have taken the second will from the corpse. At all events I know that Frith and Frith drafted no new will. If it was drawn the Colonel must have drawn it himself. However Frisco let out in one of his drunken fits at Beorminster that Carr intended to cut me off. My mother heard the news and came home in a frenzy of rage. It was for that reason she called on Carr on the afternoon you know of. The twenty-fourth was it not? She intended to argue him into a better frame of mind. He only laughed at her and said he would leave his money as pleased him. She told me the next day. But Carr was dead then."

"What made you decide to frighten him?"

"Am I not telling you!" said Stephen impatiently. "When my mother went to Saxham I knew she would fail. A woman could not deal with a devil like my beloved uncle. I determined to see what I could do with a revolver. I would have fought a duel with him to keep my rights," said the young man fiercely, "but I would not have killed him in cold blood. No, indeed."

"Well go on," said Bess, "I want to know all."

"There is little to tell," said Marsh-Carr. "I was going to Saxham to fetch home my mother who was at the rectory. I thought I would visit 'The Pines' and see the Colonel. I did so, some time before nine."

"Ah! it was about that hour Sidney saw you."

"I daresay. I stood on the lawn looking at the tower, and could not make up my mind to enter the house. It was all ablaze with lights, and quite deserted."

"No," said Bess recalling her own experience. "I heard you fire the shots and saw Frisco at the door. He was drunk and hanging on to the post."

"You heard me fire the shots. I did not know you were about?"

"I was then. I had gone to look for Sidney. But you see Frisco--"

"It was Frisco," said Stephen vehemently. "I tell you Carr was dead when I went up, lying face downward. If Frisco was at the door, he was just clearing out after killing the man. He knew that he would be arrested."

"But he must have heard the shots?"

"Then he knew that someone had discovered the body which would make him run for it all the more quickly. However to make a long story short I fired the three shots you know of, and then returned to my mother at the rectory. I said nothing about the matter, as I had not killed Carr. If Frisco is not the murderer I do not know who is. That is all I can tell you Bess, you see I am not such a guilty wretch as you thought."

"I know that," said Bess impetuously, "If you were I should insist upon your leaving Ida. To fire at the dead was savage, but, as I know the man must have been dead at the time--the medical evidence proves that, I will say nothing. Why did you not tell me of this before?"

"What use would it have been?" said Stephen raising his eyebrows, "I cannot tell you anything likely to lead to the capture of the assassin, and beside it is not a pleasant thing to tell about myself. I should not have told you now, but that you have been one too many for me. I should have re-loaded the three chambers of that revolver. But I forgot and put it away thinking all six were loaded. I should be ashamed to let Jim or Ida know that I had been such a beast."

"I shall say nothing to them," said Bess coldly, "but I am disappointed in you Stephen."

"I know," said the young man humbly, "I should have had more self-control. But you will not turn your back on me for this Bess?"

"No. All the same I can't feel as I did towards you. Let me go away and think Stephen. And--put away that revolver."

Marsh-Carr nodded, and slipped the weapon into his pocket. But he made no attempt to detain Bess. She went away with a sore heart.