Henry Dunbar by M. E. Braddon

M >> M. E. Braddon >> Henry Dunbar

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But Laura Jocelyn shook her head as she looked at the picture.

"I begin to despair of finding my father's portrait," she said; "I have
seen nothing at all like it yet."

The old man lifted up his bony hand, and pointed to the picture on the
easel.

"That's the best thing I ever did," he said, "the very best thing I ever
did. It was exhibited in the Academy six-and-thirty years ago--yes, by
gad, sir, six-and-thirty years ago! and the papers mentioned it very
favourably, sir; but the man who commissioned it, sent it back to me for
alteration. The expression of the face didn't please him; but he paid me
two hundred guineas for the picture, so I had no reason to complain; and
if I'd remained in England, the connection might have been advantageous
to me; for they were rich city people, sir--enormously
wealthy--something in the banking-line, and the name, the name--let me
see--let me see!"

The old man tapped his forehead thoughtfully.

"I remember," he added presently: "it was a great name in the City--it
was a well-known name--Dun--Dunbar--Dunbar."

"Why, father, that was the very name I was asking you about, half an
hour ago!"

"I don't remember your asking me any such thing," the old man answered,
rather snappishly; "but I do know that the picture on that easel is the
portrait of Mr. Dunbar's only son."

Mr. Kerstall the younger looked at Laura Jocelyn, full; expecting to see
her face beaming with satisfaction; but, to his own surprise, she looked
more disappointed than ever.

"Your poor father's memory deceives him," she said, in a low voice;
"that is not my father's portrait."

"No," said Philip Jocelyn, "that was never the likeness of Henry
Dunbar."

Mr. Frederick Kerstall shrugged his shoulders.

"I told you as much," he murmured, confidentially. "I told you my poor
father's memory was gone. Would you like to see the rest of the
pictures?"

"Oh, yes, if you do not mind all this trouble."

Mr. Kerstall brought down another heap of unframed canvases from shelf
number two. Some of these were fancy heads, and some sketches for grand
historical pictures. There were only about four portraits, and not one
of them bore the faintest likeness to the face that Laura wanted to see.

The old man chuckled as his son exhibited the pictures, and every now
and then volunteered some scrap of information about these various works
of art, to which his son listened patiently and respectfully.

So at last the inspection was ended. The baronet and his wife thanked
the artist very warmly for his politeness, and Philip gave him a
commission for a replica of the picture which Laura had admired in the
Luxembourg. Mr. Frederick Kerstall conducted his guests down the dingy
staircase, and saw them to the hired carriage that was waiting under the
archway.

And this was all that came of Laura Jocelyn's search for her father's
portrait.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

MARGARET'S LETTER.

Life seemed very blank to Clement Austin when he returned to London a
day or two after Margaret Wilmot's departure from the Reindeer. He told
his mother that he and his betrothed had parted; but he would tell no
more.

"I have been cruelly disappointed, mother, and the subject is very
bitter to me," he said; and Mrs. Austin had not the courage to ask any
further questions.

"I suppose I _must_ be satisfied, Clement," she said. "It seems to me as
if we had been living lately in an atmosphere of enigmas. But I can
afford to be contented, Clement, so long as I have you with me."

Clement went back to London. His life seemed to have altogether slipped
away from him, and he felt like an old man who has lost all the bright
chances of existence; the hope of domestic happiness and a pleasant
home; the opportunity of a useful career and an honoured name; and who
has nothing more to do but to wait patiently till the slow current of
his empty life drops into the sea of death.

"I feel so old, mother," he said, sometimes; "I feel so old."

To a man who has been accustomed to be busy there is no affliction so
intolerable as idleness.

Clement Austin felt this, and yet he had no heart to begin life again,
though tempting offers came to him from great commercial houses, whose
chiefs were eager to secure the well-known cashier of Messrs. Dunbar,
Dunbar, and Balderby's establishment.

Poor Clement could not go into the world yet. His disappointment had
been too bitter, and he had no heart to go out amongst hard men of
business, and begin life again. He wasted hour after hour, and day after
day, in gloomy thoughts about the past. What a dupe he had been! what a
shallow, miserable fool! for he had believed as firmly in Margaret
Wilmot's truth, as he had believed in the blue sky above his head.

One day a new idea flashed into Clement Austin's mind; an idea which
placed Margaret Wilmot's character even in a worse light than that in
which she had revealed herself in her own confession.

There could be only one reason for the sudden change in her sentiments
about Henry Dunbar: the millionaire had bribed her to silence! This
girl, who seemed the very incarnation of purity and candour, had her
price, perhaps, as well as other people, and Henry Dunbar had bought the
silence of his victim's daughter.

"It was the knowledge of this business that made her shrink away from me
that night when she told me that she was a contaminated creature, unfit
to be the associate of an honest man Oh, Margaret, Margaret! poverty
must indeed be a bitter school if it has prepared you for such
degradation as this!"

The longer Clement thought of the subject, the more certainly he arrived
at the conclusion that Margaret Wilmot had been, either bribed or
frightened into silence by Henry Dunbar. It might be that the banker had
terrified this unhappy girl by some awful threat that had preyed upon
her mind, and driven her from the man who loved her, whom she loved
perhaps, in spite of those heartless words which she had spoken in the
bitter hour of their parting.

Clement could not thoroughly believe in the baseness of the woman he had
trusted. Again and again he went over the same ground, trying to find
some lurking circumstance, no matter how unlikely in its nature, which
should explain and justify Margaret's conduct.

Sometimes in his dreams he saw the familiar face looking at him with
pensive, half-reproachful glances; and then a dark figure that was
strange to him came between him and that gentle shadow, and thrust the
vision away with a ruthless hand. At last, by dint of going over the
ground again and again, always pleading Margaret's cause against the
stern witness of cruel facts, Clement came to look upon the girl's
innocence as a settled thing.

There was falsehood and treachery in the business, but Margaret Wilmot
was neither false nor treacherous. There was a mystery, and Henry Dunbar
was at the bottom of it.

"It seems as if the spirit of the murdered man troubled our lives, and
cried to us for vengeance," Clement thought. "There will be no peace for
us until the secret of the deed done in the grove near Winchester has
been brought to light."

This thought, working night and day in Clement Austin's brain, gave rise
to a fixed resolve. Before he went back to the quiet routine of life, he
set himself a task to accomplish, and that task was the solution of the
Winchester mystery.

On the very day after this resolution took a definite form, Clement
received a letter from Margaret Wilmot. The sight of the well-known
writing gave him a shock of mingled surprise and hope, and his fingers
were faintly tremulous as they tore open the envelope. The letter was
carefully worded, and very brief.

"_You are a good man, Mr. Austin_," Margaret wrote; "_and though you
have reason to despise me, I do not think you will refuse to receive my
testimony in favour of another who has been falsely suspected of a
terrible crime, and who has need of justification. Henry Dunbar was not
the murderer of my father. As Heaven is my witness, this is the truth,
and I know it to be the truth. Let this knowledge content you, and allow
the secret of the murder to remain for ever a mystery upon earth, God
knows the truth, and has doubtless punished the wretched sinner who was
guilty of that crime, as He punishes every other sinner, sooner or
later, in the course of His ineffable wisdom. Leave the sinner, wherever
he may be hidden, to the judgment of God, which penetrates every
hiding-place; and forget that you have ever known me, or my miserable
story._

"MARGARET WILMOT."

Even this letter did not shake Clement Austin's resolution.

"No, Margaret," he thought; "even your pleading shall not turn me from
my purpose. Besides, how can I tell in what manner this letter may have
been written? It may have been written at Henry Dunbar's dictation, and
under coercion. Be it as it may, the mystery of the Winchester murder
shall be set at rest, if patience or intelligence can solve the enigma.
No mystery shall separate me from the woman I love."

Clement put Margaret's letter in his pocket, and went straight to
Scotland Yard, where he obtained an introduction to a
businesslike-looking man, short and stoutly built, with close-cropped
hair, very little shirt-collar, a shabby black satin stock, and a coat
buttoned tightly across the chest. He was a man whose appearance was
something between the aspect of a shabby-genteel half-pay captain and an
unlucky stockbroker: but Clement liked the steady light of his small
grey eyes, and the decided expression of his thin lips and prominent
chin.

The detective business happened to be rather dull just now. There was
nothing stirring but a Bank-of-England forgery case; and Mr. Carter
informed Clement that there were more cats in Scotland Yard than could
find mice to kill. Under these circumstances, Mr. Carter was able to
enter into Clement's views, and sequestrate himself for a short period
for the more deliberate investigation of the Winchester business.

"I'll look up a file of newspapers, and run my eye over the details of
the case," said the detective. "I was away in Glasgow, hunting up the
particulars of the great Scotch-plaid robberies, all last summer, and I
can't say I remember much of what was done in the Wilmot business. Mr.
Dunbar himself offered a reward for the apprehension of the guilty
party, didn't he?"

"Yes; but that might be a blind."

"Oh, of course it might; but then, on the other hand, it mightn't. You
must always look at these sort of things from every point of view. Start
with a conviction of the man's guilt, and you'll go hunting up evidence
to bolster that conviction. My plan is to begin at the beginning; learn
the alphabet of the case, and work up into the syntax and prosody."

"I should like to help you in this business," Clement Austin said, "for
I have a vital interest in the issue of the case."

"You're rather more likely to hinder than help, sir," Mr. Carter
answered, with a smile; "but you're welcome to have a finger in the pie
if you like, as long as you'll engage to hold your tongue when I tell
you."

Clement promised to be the very spirit of discretion. The detective
called upon him two days after the interview at Scotland Yard.

"I've read-up the Wilmot case, sir," Mr. Carter said; "and I think the
next best thing I can do is to see the scene of the murder. I shall
start for Winchester to-morrow morning."

"Then I'll go with you," Clement said, promptly.

"So be it, Mr. Austin. You may as well bring your cheque-book while
you're about it, for this sort of thing is apt to come rather
expensive."

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

NOTES FROM A JOURNAL KEPT BY CLEMENT AUSTIN DURING HIS JOURNEY TO
WINCHESTER.

"If I had been a happy man, with no great trouble weighing upon my mind,
and giving its own dull colour to every event of my life, I think I
might have been considerably entertained by the society of Mr. Carter,
the detective. The man had an enthusiastic love of his profession; and
if there is anything degrading in the office, that degradation had in no
way affected him. It may be that Mr. Carter's knowledge of his own
usefulness was sufficient to preserve his self-respect. If, in the
course of his duty, he had unpleasant things to do; if he had to affect
friendly acquaintanceship with the man whom he was hunting to the
gallows; if he was called upon to worm-out chance clues to guilty
secrets in the careless confidence that grows out of a friendly glass;
if at times he had to stoop to acts which, in other men, would be
branded as shameful and treacherous, he knew that he did his duty, and
that society could not hold together unless some such men as
himself--clear-headed, brave, resolute, and unscrupulous in the
performance of unpleasant work--were willing to act as watch-dogs for
the protection of the general fold, and to the terror of savage and
marauding beasts.

"Mr. Carter told me a great deal of his experience during our journey
down to Winchester. I listened to him, and understood what he said to
me; but I could not take any interest in his conversation. I could not
remember anything, or think of anything, except the mystery which
separates me from the woman I love.

"The more I think of this, the stronger becomes my conviction that I
have not been the dupe of a heartless or mercenary woman. Margaret has
not acted as a free agent. She has paid the penalty of her determination
to force herself into the presence of Henry Dunbar. By some inexplicable
means, by some masterpiece of villany and cunning, this man has induced
his victim's daughter to become the champion of his innocence, instead
of the denouncer of his guilt.

"There must be some hopeless entanglement, some cruel involvement, by
reason of which Margaret is compelled to falsify her nature, and
sacrifice her own happiness as well as mine. When she left me that day
at Shorncliffe, she suffered as cruelly as I could suffer: I know now
that it was so. But I was blinded then by pride and anger: I was
conscious of nothing but my own wrongs.

"Three times in the course of my journey from London to Winchester I
have taken Margaret's strange letter from my pocket-book, and have read
the familiar lines, with the idea of putting entire confidence in my
companion, and placing the letter in his hands. But in order to do this
I must tell him the story of my love and my disappointment; and I cannot
bring myself to do that. It may be that this man could discover hidden
meanings in Margaret's words--meanings that are utterly dark to me. I
suppose the science of detection includes the power to guess at thoughts
that lurk behind expressions which are simple enough in themselves.

* * * * *

"We got into Winchester at twelve o'clock in the day; and Mr. Carter
proposed that we should come straight to the George Hotel, at which
house Henry Dunbar stayed after the murder in the grove.

"'We can't do better than put up at the hotel where the suspected party
was stopping at the time of the event we're looking up,' Mr. Carter said
to me, as we strolled away from the station, after giving our small
amount of luggage into the care of a porter; 'we shall pick up all
manner of information in a promiscuous way, if we're staying in the
house; little bits that will seem nothing at all till you put them all
together, and begin at the beginning, and read them off the right way.
Now, Mr. Austin, there's a few words I must say before we begin
business; for you're an amateur at this kind of work, and it's just
possible that, with the best intentions, you may go and spoil my game.
Now, I've undertaken this affair, and I want to go through with it
conscientiously; under which circumstances I'm obliged to be candid. Are
you willing to act under orders?'

"I told Mr. Carter that I was perfectly willing to obey his orders in
everything, so long as what I did helped the purposes of our journey.

"'That's all square and pleasant,' he answered; 'so now for it. First
and foremost, you and me are two gentlemen that have got more time than
we know what to do with, and more money than we know how to spend. We've
heard a great deal about the fishing round Winchester; and we've come
down to spend an idle week or so, and have a look about the place
against next summer; and if we like the looks of the place, why, we
shall come and spend the summer months at the George, where we find the
accommodation in general, and say the fried soles, or the mock-turtle,
in particular, better than at any hotel in the three kingdoms. That's
number one; and that places us at once on the footing of good customers,
who are likely to be better customers. This will square the landlord and
the waiters, and there's nothing they can tell us that they won't tell
us willingly. So much for the first place. Now point number two is, that
we know nothing whatever of the man that was murdered. We know Mr.
Dunbar because he's a great man, a public character, and all that sort
of thing. We did see something about the murder in the papers, but
didn't take any interest in it. This will draw out the landlord or the
waiters, as the case may be, and we shall get the history of the murder,
with all that was said, and done, and thought, and suspected and hinted,
and whispered about it. When the landlord and the waiters have talked
about it a good deal, we begin to warm up, and take a kind of morbid
interest in the business; and then, little by little, I put in my
questions, and keep on putting 'em till every bit of information upon
this particular subject is picked away as clean as the meat that's torn
off a bone by a hungry dog. Now you'd like to help me in this business,
I dare say, Mr. Austin; and if you would, I think I can hit upon a plan
by which you might make yourself uncommonly useful.'

"I told my companion that I was very anxious to give him any help I
could afford, however insignificant that help might be.

"'Then, I'll tell you what you can do. I shan't go at the subject we
want to talk about at once; because, if I did, I should betray my
interest in the business and spoil my game; not that anybody would try
to thwart me, you understand, if they knew that I was detective officer
Henry Carter, of Scotland Yard. They'd be all on the _qui vive_ directly
they found out who I was, and what I was after, and they'd try to help
me. That's what they'd do; and Tom would tell me this, and Dick would
explain that, and Harry would remember the other; and among them they'd
contrive to muddle the clearest head that ever worked a difficult
problem in criminal Euclid. My game is to keep myself dark, and get all
the light I can from other people. I shan't ask any leading question,
but I shall wait quietly till the murder of Joseph Wilmot crops up in
the conversation; and I don't suppose I shall have to wait long. Your
business will be easy enough. You'll have letters to write, you will;
and as soon as ever you hear me and the landlord, or me and the waiter,
as the case may be, working round to the murder, you'll take out your
desk and begin to write.'

"'You want me to take notes of the conversation,' I said.

"'You've hit it. You won't appear to take any interest in the talk about
Henry Dunbar and the murder of his valet. You'll be altogether wrapped
up in those letters of yours, which must be written before the London
post goes out; but you'll contrive to write down every word that's said
by the people at the George bearing upon the business we're hunting up.
Never mind my questions; don't write them down, for they're of no
account. Write down the answers as plain as you can. They'll come all of
a heap, or anyhow; but that's no matter. It'll be my business to sort
'em, and put 'em ship-shape afterwards. You just keep your mouth shut,
and take notes, Mr. Austin; that's all you've got to do.'

"I promised to do this to the best of my ability. We were close to the
George by this time, and I could not help thinking of that bright
summer's day upon which Henry Dunbar and his victim had driven into
Winchester on the first stage of a journey which one of them was never
to finish. The conviction of the banker's guilt had so grown upon me
since that scene in St. Gundolph Lane, that I thought of the man now
almost as if he had been fairly tried and deliberately found guilty. It
surprised me when the detective talked of his guilt as open to question,
and yet to be proved. In my mind Henry Dunbar stood self-condemned, by
the evidence of his own conduct, as the murderer of his old servant
Joseph Wilmot.

"The weather was bleak and windy, and there were very few wanderers in
the hilly High Street of Winchester. We were received with very
courteous welcome at the George, and were conducted to a comfortable
sitting-room upon the first-floor, with windows looking out upon the
street. Two bedrooms in the vicinity of the sitting-room were assigned
to us. I ordered dinner for six o'clock, having ascertained that hour to
be agreeable to Mr. Carter, who was slowly removing his wrappings, and
looking deliberately at every separate article in the room; as if he
fancied there might be some scrap of information to be picked up from a
window-blind, or a coal-scuttle, or lurking mysteries hidden in a
sideboard-drawer. I have no doubt the habit of observation was so strong
upon this man that he observed the most insignificant things
involuntarily.

"It was a very dull unpleasant day, and I was glad to draw my chair to
the fire and make myself comfortable, while the waiter went to fetch a
bottle of soda-water and sixpenn'orth of 'best French' for my companion,
who was walking about the room with his hands in his pockets, and his
grizzled eyebrows knotted together.

"The reward which Government had offered for the arrest of Joseph
Wilmot's murderer was the legitimate price usually bidden for the head
of an assassin. The Government had offered to pay one hundred pounds to
any person or persons who should give such information as would lead to
the apprehension of the guilty party or parties. I had promised Mr.
Carter that I would give him another hundred pounds on my own account if
he succeeded in solving the mystery of Joseph Wilmot's death. The reward
at stake was therefore two hundred pounds; and this was a pretty high
stake, Mr. Carter told me, as the detective business went. I had given
him my written engagement to pay the hundred pounds upon the day of the
murderer's arrest, and I was very well able to do so without fear of
being compelled to ask help of my mother; for I had saved upwards of a
thousand pounds during my twelve years' service in the house of Dunbar,
Dunbar, and Balderby.

"I saw from Mr. Carter's countenance that he was thinking, and thinking
very earnestly. He drank the soda-water and brandy; but he said nothing
to the waiter who brought him that popular beverage. When the man was
gone, he came and planted himself opposite to me upon the hearth-rug.

"'I'm going to talk to you very seriously, sir,' he said.

"I assured him that I was quite ready to listen to anything he might
have to say.

"'When you employ a detective officer, sir,' he began, 'don't employ a
man you can't put entire confidence in. If you can't trust him don't
have anything to do with him; for if he isn't to be trusted with the
dearest family secret that ever was kept sacred by an honest man, why
he's a scoundrel, and you're much better off without his help. But when
you've got a man that has been recommended to you by those who know him,
trust him, and don't be afraid to trust him, don't confide in him by
halves; don't tell him one part of your story, and keep the other half
hidden from him; because, you see, working in the twilight isn't much
more profitable than working in the dark. Now, why do I say this to you,
Mr. Austin? You know as well as I do. I say it because I know you
haven't trusted me.'

"'I have told you all that was absolutely necessary for you to know,' I
said.

"'Not a bit of it, sir. It's absolutely necessary for me to know
everything: that is, if you want me to succeed in the business I'm
engaged upon. You're afraid to give me your confidence out and out,
without reserve. Lor' bless your innocence, sir; in my profession a man
learns the use of his eyes; and when once he's learnt how to use them,
it ain't easy for him to keep them shut. I know as well as you do that
you're hiding something from me: you're keeping something back, though
you've half a mind to trust me. You took out a letter three times while
we wore sitting opposite to each other in the railway carriage; and you
read the letter; and every now and then, while you were reading it, you
looked up at me with a hesitating you-would-and-you-wouldn't sort of
look. You thought I was looking out of the window all the time; and so I
was, being uncommonly interested in the corn-fields we were passing just
then, so flat and stumpy and picturesque they looked; but, lor', Mr.
Austin, if I couldn't look out of the window and watch you at the same
time, I shouldn't be worth my salt to you or any one else. I saw plain
enough that you had half a mind to show me that letter; and it wasn't
very difficult to guess that the letter had some bearing upon the
business that has brought us to Winchester.'

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