The House 'Round the Corner

"And I'd bear you out," agreed his father. "Not that I can see any reason why it should come into court. He paid up promptly, and we have nothing to bother about until the next quarter is due."

"I'm not so sure of that," was the well-calculated answer.

"What are you driving at, Jim?"

"This. He's no more Meg Garth's cousin than I am. There's some queer game bein' played, and I'm a Dutchman if there isn't a row about it. I tell you, Meg Garth is there, alone, and, when I met her, she calmly informed me that her father was alive. She nearly jumped down my throat because I said he wasn't, and that fellow, Armathwaite, took her part. The Jacksons, too, mother and daughter, are mixed up in it somehow. If Stephen Garth is living, who is the man that was found hanged in the Grange two years ago, and why is he buried in Bellerby churchyard in Stephen Garth's name?"

"I say, Jim, you should be careful what you're saying."

Walker, senior, was troubled. He, like Dobb, fancied that strong liquor was inducing this fantasy, yet his son seldom erred in that respect; to-day his manner and appearance gave no other signs of intemperance.

"I'm tellin' you just what took place. Who should know Meg Garth if I didn't? She called Armathwaite 'Bob,' and he called her 'Meg,' and they were as thick as thieves; but they left me in no doubt as to old Garth bein' still on the map. In fact, we had a regular row about it."

"By Jove!" cried Banks, moistening his thin lips with his tongue. "This promises to be a sensation with a vengeance. Have you told the police?"

"No. It's not my business."

"I'm not so sure of that. Why, man, Stephen Garth left a letter for the coroner. Dr. Scaife was inclined to question the cause of death, but Mr. Hill closed him up like an oyster. Don't you see what it means? If Stephen Garth is living now, some unknown man was murdered in the Grange. He could neither have killed himself nor died from natural causes, since no one in their senses would have tried to conceal his death by letting it appear that they themselves were dead."

Mr. Banks expressed himself awkwardly, but his deduction was not at fault, and left his hearers under no doubt as to its significance. His eyes glistened. He could see the circulation of the Nuttonby Gazette rising by thousands during the next few weeks, and at a time, too, when people were generally too busy to read newspapers, or buy extra copies for dispatch to friends in other parts of the country. What a thrice happy chance that this thing should have come to light on a Thursday evening! There was nothing in it yet that he dared telegraph to the morning newspapers in York and Leeds, but, by skillful manipulation, he could make plenty of it for his own sheet.

"But it simply can't be true!" bleated Walker, senior, in a voice that quavered with sheer distress.

"What isn't true?" demanded his son. "You don't doubt what I'm tellin' you, do you? Ask Tom Bland if Meg Garth isn't in Elmdale. He saw her, and she nodded at him through a window, but, when he asked about her, that pup, Armathwaite, swore she wasn't there, and that Bland had seen some other young lady. He couldn't take that line with me, because he was out when I called, and Meg and I were at it, hammer and tongs, when he came in."

"At what, hammer and tongs?" gasped his father distractedly.

"Arguin' about old Garth, she sayin' he was alive and well, and makin' out I was lyin' when I said he was dead."

"Excuse me, gentlemen, I must be off," said Banks, and the man who was still sore from the grip of Armathwaite's hands and the thrust of Armathwaite's boot knew that the first direct assault on the stronghold of Meg Garth's pride had begun.

"Look here, young fellow," said Walker, senior, recovering his wits with an effort, "you've set in motion more mischief than you reckon on. I wish to goodness you hadn't blurted out everything before Banks. You know what he is. He'll make a mountain out of a molehill."

"I've found no molehill at Elmdale – don't you believe it," came the angry retort. "Why, you ought to have seen my face when Meg sprang that tale on me about her father. I just laughed at it. 'Tell that to the marines,' I said. By jing, it's no make-believe, though. Between you and me, it's as clear as a whistle that Stephen Garth committed a murder, and humbugged the whole countryside into thinkin' he had killed himself. Just throw your mind back a bit, and you'll see how the pieces of the puzzle fit. Mother and daughter get out of the way; servants are discharged; the man is brought to the house over the moor from Leyburn, just as old Garth escaped and Meg returned, for I'll swear she never came through Nuttonby station. Dr. Scaife was the only man who half guessed at the truth, but fussy Hill squelched him, all because of the letter. Then, neither Holloway & Dobb, nor ourselves were given a free hand to deal with the house. Mrs. Garth didn't mean to part with it – twig? Of course, Garth daren't show his nose there, but, when he pegs out in reality, the other two can come back. It's all plain as a white gate when you see through it, and, when we get hold of Armathwaite's connection with it, we'll know every move in the game. He's in it, somehow, and up to the neck, too. You want to blame me for speakin' before Banks, but you've forgotten that Tom Bland told me this afternoon he had seen Miss Meg, and that lots of people knew I was there later. If she goes round tellin' folk her father isn't dead it would soon come out that she and I quarreled about it. Where would I be then? When you're not quite so rattled you'll admit that I was bound to speak, and that I've chosen just the right way to do it. If the police want me now as a witness they'll have to come to me, and that's a jolly sight better than that I should go to them. Do, for goodness' sake, give me credit for a little common sense!"

And, having an eye on the clock, Walker, junior, bounced out, apparently in high dudgeon; but really well pleased with his own Machiavellian skill. Indeed, judged solely from a standard of evil-doing, he had been most successful. He knew well that Banks would go straight to the local superintendent of police, ostensibly for further information, but in reality to carry the great news, and set in motion the official mill which would grind out additional installments. But Walker's masterstroke lay with Dobb, who, in a sense, represented Mrs. Garth and her daughter. If Dobb could be brought to appreciate the gravity of the girl's statements anent her father – and his reception of Walker's story showed that he was prepared to treat it seriously – he would either write to Meg, asking her to visit Nuttonby, or go himself to Elmdale. In either event, she would be crushed into the dust. The elderly and trustworthy solicitor's testimony would carry weight. She could no longer deny that Stephen Garth was reputedly in his grave; she would be faced with the alternative that her father was an adroit criminal of the worst type, because public opinion invariably condemns a smug rogue far more heavily than the ne'er-do-well, who seems to be branded for the gallows from birth.

Yet, by operation of the law that it is the unexpected that happens, James Walker, the second, was fated not to retire for a night's well-earned and much-needed repose with a mind wholly freed from anxiety.

This came about in a peculiar way. By Mrs. Garth's request, soon after her departure from Elmdale, the solicitor invariably addressed her as Mrs. Ogilvey. At last, the notion got embedded in Mr. Dobb's mind that she had undoubtedly quarreled with her husband long before the latter committed suicide, and that the outcome of Garth's death was her speedy remarriage! From his recollection of her, she was certainly not the sort of woman whom he would credit with such a callous proceeding, but no man can spend a lifetime in a lawyer's office without gaining an insight into strange by-ways of human nature. The profession necessitates a close knowledge of the hidden lives and recondite actions of scores of one's fellow-creatures. Mr. Dobb knew a vicar who had committed bigamy, and a county magistrate who had been a petty thief for years before he was caught. That Mrs. Garth should marry again within a few weeks of her husband's burial might indeed be strange, but it sank into a commonplace category in comparison with other queer events he could name.

Behold, then, young James arriving at The Beeches – a charming old house situated on the outskirts of Nuttonby; the "nut," as was becoming, was attired in a nut-brown suit, black shoes, a brown Homburg hat, socks and tie to match a shirt with heliotrope stripes, and yellow gloves.

He had passed in at the gate in full view of a couple of girls of his acquaintance, and knew that they were glancing over a yew hedge when the front door opened and he was admitted. He was shown into a library, where Mr. Dobb awaited him. The lawyer motioned him to a chair.

"Now, Mr. Walker," he said curtly, "would you mind telling me exactly what happened at Elmdale this afternoon?"

James sat down. Unfortunately, the furniture provided a placid harmony in oak, so the seat of the chair was hard, even though it shone with the subdued polish of a hundred years of careful use and elbow grease applied by many generations of vigorous housemaids.

"With your permission, sir, I – er – think I'd better begin – er – a little earlier."

"What's the matter? Isn't that chair comfortable?"

Mr. Dobb was clerk to the magistrates in the Nuttonby Petty Sessions; his pet abhorrence was a fidgety witness, and Walker was obviously ill at ease.

"The fact is, sir, I'm a bit saddle-galled. If you don't mind – "

"Certainly. Take that easy chair. What occurred 'a little earlier' which you think I ought to know?"

Walker had been disagreeably reminded of Armathwaite, but he kept a venomous tongue well under control. He told the lawyer the circumstances under which Armathwaite, confessedly a complete stranger, had entered into the tenancy of the Grange, and described the journey to Elmdale, together with the curious behavior of the Jackson family. He was scrupulously accurate in his account of the cause and extent of his visit that day, even going so far as to admit that there was "a sort of a scuffle" between Armathwaite and himself.

Mr. Dobb listened in silence. At the end, he fixed a singularly penetrating glance on the narrator.

"In plain English, I suppose," he said, "this man, Armathwaite, bundled you out neck and crop?"

"No, sir. Not exactly that. But I couldn't fight him in Miss Meg's presence."

"Yet, from what you have told me, I gather that Mr. Armathwaite is a gentleman?"

"He has all the airs of one," said Walker.

"And he must have thought you had behaved discourteously to his cousin before he would use actual violence towards you!"

"Nothing of the sort, sir. Miss Meg jumped down my throat for no reason whatever. Of course, Mr. Armathwaite hadn't heard the beginning of it, and may have imagined I was to blame, but I wasn't."

"Perhaps there is an explanation that may be news to you. You are not aware, I take it, that Mrs. Garth is now Mrs. Ogilvey?"

"By jing!" cried Walker, rather forgetting himself, "that's the name Tom Bland tried to tell me, but he couldn't rightly get his tongue round it."

"Probably. But don't you see the bearing this important fact has on to-day's proceedings? I have reason to believe that Mrs. Garth and her daughter disagreed with Mr. Garth before his death. At any rate, she seems to have married again within a very short time, and Miss Meg may have fancied that you were trying purposely to insult and annoy her by referring to a bygone tragedy. The mere presence of this Mr. Armathwaite, who is wholly unknown here, lends color to that assumption. He may be a 'cousin' by the second marriage. It is even conceivable that Mrs. Ogilvey, as Mrs. Garth now is, did not wish her second husband's relatives to know of the way in which her first husband met his death. The fact that Mr. Armathwaite rented the Grange can be regarded as nothing more than an ordinary coincidence. Isn't it possible, Mr. Walker, that you blundered very seriously in thrusting yourself into Miss Meg's presence, and forcing an unpalatable revelation on her?"

Walker's red face positively blanched. For one instant his nerve failed him.

"I never thought of that," he muttered, in dire confusion.

"It strikes me as a perfectly tenable theory," said Dobb, rising, and thereby showing that the interview was at an end. "You took me rather by surprise when you called me out of my office this afternoon, but I have given the matter some calm reflection in the interim, and have come to the conclusion that you found in Elmdale what is vulgarly known as a mare's nest."

Walker stood up, too. He realized that he was being dismissed with ignominy, and resented it. Thumping an oak table with his clenched fist, he cried passionately:

"Not me! You'll see in a day or two, Mr. Dobb, who's makin' the mistake. If I'm wrong I'll eat humble pie, but I'm not eatin' any now, thank you. I came to you, meanin' to do a good turn to all parties – "

"Restrain yourself, please," broke in the solicitor, speaking with cold dignity. "What kind of 'good turn' is it that rakes up bygone troubles, and spreads scandalous gossip?"

"You've missed my point entirely, Mr. Dobb," protested Walker. "I thought that you, being a friend of the Garths, could drop a quiet hint to Miss Meg not to talk about her dead-and-gone father as though he might arrive here by the next train – that's all."

"But it is not all. If it were, your attitude would be understandable, even praiseworthy. What you are saying indirectly is that Mr. Stephen Garth is alive, and that some unknown person lies in Bellerby churchyard."

Thus cornered, Walker floundered badly.

"I'm not able to argue with you, sir, and that's the truth," he said. "Neither do I want to be drawn into a squabble of this sort. Of course, I know nothing of any second marriage; but, even if I did, Miss Meg isn't a little girl, who might have forgotten her real father. Look here! I stick to my notion, and that's the long and the short of it. There's a mystery at Elmdale, and it's bound to come out, no matter what difference of opinion there may be between you and me."

A parlormaid entered with a telegram.

"Excuse me one moment," said Mr. Dobb; "that is, unless you wish to go!" he added.

Walker was constrained to put on a bold front before the servant.

"I can wait another couple of minutes," he said off-handedly. The lawyer smiled; but, for his own purposes, he did not wish to quarrel outright with his visitor. He opened the buff envelope, and read, and not even the experience of a lifetime served to mask the incredulous dismay which leaped to his face.

For the message ran:

"Have reason to believe that a gentleman passing under the name of Robert Armathwaite is in or near Nuttonby. Kindly make guarded inquiries and wire result. – Sigmatic."

Now, "Sigmatic" was the code address of a department of the India Office in which Mr. Dobb's eldest son held a responsible position. That phrase, "passing under the name of," suggested many possibilities to the legal mind. Moreover, the fact that a Government department was interested, and that the ordinary official channel for investigation was not employed, gave him furiously to think. In any event, he had been saved from the exceeding unwisdom of treating James Walker too cavalierly.

"I'll just answer this, as the messenger is waiting," he said pleasantly. "If you're not in a hurry, Mr. Walker, sit down again. I'll send in a decanter of sherry and some cigarettes. Help yourself, will you?"

He went out. James Walker grinned, and plunged his clenched fists into his trousers pockets.

"That telegram knocked old Dobb into a cocked hat," he mused. "Wonder what was in it? Something to do with the Garths, I'll bet! Keep a steady hand on the reins, Jimmy, my boy, and you'll finish with the best of 'em yet!"

CHAPTER XII

THE DAWN OF A BLACK FRIDAY

There were three bedrooms and a bathroom on the first floor of the Grange, all nearly of equal size, and remarkably spacious, since they corresponded in area with the rooms beneath. Percy Whittaker occupied the westerly front room, Marguérite had pre-empted the easterly one, and Armathwaite's room lay in the north-east angle. Thus, he was early aroused by the morning sun, and was up and about long before Mrs. Jackson or Betty put in an appearance. For lack of the bath which he had been prevented from ordering through Tom Bland, he splashed in an old-fashioned shallow zinc contrivance which reminded him of former days in Baluchistan. Crossing the landing afterwards, meaning to look in on Percy Whittaker, he glanced at the now oddly familiar black figure in the stained-glass window.

At the moment his thoughts were not dwelling on the topic which had occupied them, well nigh to the exclusion of all else, since he had first set eyes on Elmdale, yet, by some occult influence, no sooner did he meet the cold, unseeing glare of the painted effigy than his brain began to calculate the significance of certain dates. The Nuttonby Gazette dated Saturday, June 22nd, of two years ago, had stated that the inquest on Stephen Garth was held at the Fox and Hounds Inn, Elmdale, "to-day" (so the enterprising Banks had evidently brought out a special edition). Mrs. Jackson and Police Constable Leadbitter had deposed to the finding of the body on "Friday evening," which would be the 21st. Mrs. Jackson and Betty had last seen Garth alive on the Wednesday. Certain post-mortem indications showed that the death had taken place that night, the 19th. To-day, Friday, two years later, was the 19th! Armathwaite was not a nervous subject, but he was aware once more of a creepy sensation when he realized that this sunlit morning probably heralded in the fatal anniversary.

Seen in a clear and penetrating light, and closely examined at an hour when each line stood out boldly, the face of the figure revealed certain peculiarities. Artists in stained glass seldom attempt to convey subtleties in flesh tints. At best, their craft is mainly decorative, and effects are obtained by judicious grouping of colors, each of a distinct tone value, rather than by the skilled merging of light into shadow, which is the painter's chief aim. But, in this instance, a deliberate attempt had been made to depict features of a truly malevolent cast. The oval formed by the open visor of the helmet gave scope for the use of an almost invisible casing of lead, which also provided the larger outline of the helmet itself, and of an enormous raven, with outstretched wings, perched on the crest.

Yet, instead of the youthful and noble countenance which tradition would surely ascribe to a gallant prince, the face which peered from the casque was that of an evil-minded ascetic. Indeed, the longer Armathwaite looked, the more he was convinced that the artist had tried to suggest a mere skull covered with dead skin. The nose was pinched, and the nostrils were unpleasantly prominent. The lips were mere seams of dried parchment, and the cavernous eyes were really two empty sockets.

This sinister and ghoul-like visage was totally at variance with the remainder of the work. The armor was correct from helm to sollerets, with hauberk and corselet, greaves and jambards, while the gauntleted hands were crossed, in true warrior fashion, on the hilt of a long, straight sword. The vignette border of tendrils and vine-leaves was charming in design and rich in well-blended color, and an observer of critical taste could not fail to compare the gross offense of the portrait with the quiet beauty of its setting. To some minds, there is an element in art which denies a true sense of harmony to a distorted imagination, and the notion was suddenly borne in on Armathwaite that the same hand had never limned that demoniac face and the remainder of the window. The one might have been the product of some debauchee steeped in the worst excesses of a libidinous society, while the other breathed the calm serenity of the Renaissance. Armathwaite had in full measure the hunter's instinct which incites mankind to seek out and destroy ferocious beasts. If he had a weapon in his hands at the moment he would have smashed that diabolical mask out of existence.

The unaccountable spasm passed, and he entered Whittaker's room, to find that disconsolate youth lying on his back, wide awake, and staring blankly at the ceiling.

"Hullo!" he said cheerily. "Had a good night's rest?"

"Pretty fair," muttered the invalid, turning his eyes dully on the other. "That doctor chap doped me, I expect. Anyhow I slept till I heard you splashin' in the bath."

"How's the ankle?"

"Rotten. Look here, Mr. Armathwaite, you seem to understand this sort of thing. Bar jokes, how long must I remain here?"

"In bed, do you mean?"

"Yes."

"A week, at least. After that, you may be able to hop about on one leg."

"If you were in my place, would you stop in bed a week?"

"What else could I do? Even walking with a crutch is impossible because of the strain on the ligaments."

Whittaker moved involuntarily, and was given a sharp reminder that his informant was not exaggerating his disability.

"All right," he said sullenly. "What time is it?"

"About six o'clock. Betty will bring you some tea and an egg before seven."

"Miss Ogilvey isn't up yet?"

"No."

Half unconsciously, Armathwaite resented the studied formality of that "Miss Ogilvey." He fully appreciated its intent. He was a stranger and must be kept at arm's length. Moreover, the crippled Percy held him at a disadvantage. The younger man might be as insolent as he chose – Armathwaite was muzzled.

"Can I do anything for you," he said.

"In what way?"

"Well, if the pain is very bad, an extra bandage, soaked in cold water, will relieve the burning sensation."

"No, thanks. I'll wait till the doctor comes."

"He is bringing a nurse, by the way. You'll need proper attention for the next few days."

"Right. Don't let me keep you. I think I can sleep another hour or so."

Armathwaite was at no loss to understand why the cub wished to be rid of him. Whittaker was not only torturing himself with the knowledge that his host would be free to enjoy Marguérite Ogilvey's company without let or hindrance, but he also felt a grudge against the fates which had snatched him out of active participation in the day's events. Neither dreamed that the accident would precipitate the crisis each wished to avoid. In fact, in view of what did actually happen, it would be interesting to speculate on the probable outcome if, by chance, Armathwaite had been disabled instead of Whittaker. But history, whether dealing with men or nations, recks little of "what might have been." It is far too busily occupied in fashioning the present and concealing the past, for, let students dig and delve ever so industriously, they seldom obtain a true record of occurrences which have shaken the world, while, in the lives of the few people with whom this chronicle deals, there were then at work certain minor influences which no one of them ever discerned in their entirety. There was nothing surprising in this. A crystal-minded woman like Marguérite Ogilvey could never adjust her perceptive faculties to the plane of a decadent Percy, while Robert Armathwaite was too impatient of ignoble minds that he should ever seek to uncover the mole-burrowings of James Walker.

Certain developments took place which affected each and all in relative degrees, and each acted according to his or her bent. Beyond that, analysis of cause and effect can hardly be other than sheer guesswork.

Armathwaite rummaged in the larder for a crust, chewed it, and, having thus appeased the laws of hygiene, lighted the first joyous pipe of the morning.

He was smoking contentedly in the garden when a bent, elderly man approached. Though twisted with rheumatism – the painful tribute which Mother Earth exacts from those of her sons who know how to obtain her chief treasures – this man quickened into a new life when he saw Armathwaite. He cast a sorrowing glance at the wilderness of weeds as he came up the garden path, but his weather-lined face broke into a pleasant smile as he halted in front of the new tenant.

"Good mornin', sir," he said, touching his hat, though the action was devoid of any semblance of servility. "Things are in a nice mess, aren't they?" and he wheeled round to gaze at dandelions rampant in a bed sacred to begonias.