Run to Earth by M. E. Braddon

M >> M. E. Braddon >> Run to Earth

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General Desmond declared his intention of remaining until after the
funeral.

"I may be of some use in watching the interests of my dear friend," he
said to Reginald Eversleigh. "There is only one person who will feel
your uncle's death more deeply than I shall, and that is poor old
Copplestone. He is still in the castle, I suppose?"

"Yes, he is confined to his rooms still by the gout."

Reginald Eversleigh was by no means pleased by the general's decision.
He would rather have been alone in the castle. It seemed as if his
uncle's old friend was inclined to take the place of master in the
household. The young man's pride revolted against the general's love of
dictation; and his fears--strange and terrible fears--made the presence
of the general very painful to him.

Joseph Millard had come to Reginald a little time after the discovery
of the baronet's death, and had told him the contents of the new will.

"Master told us with his own lips that he had left you heir to the
estates, sir," said the valet. "There was no need for it to be kept a
secret, he said; and we signed the will as witnesses--Peterson, the
butler, and me."

"And you are sure you have made no mistake, Millard. Sir Oswald--my
poor, poor uncle, said that?"

"He said those very words, Mr. Eversleigh; and I hope, sir, now that
you are master of Raynham, you won't forget that I was always anxious
for your interests, and gave you valuable information, sir, when I
little thought you would ever inherit the estate, sir."

"Yes, yes--you will not find me ungrateful, Millard," answered
Reginald, impatiently; for in the terrible agitation of his mind, this
man's talk jarred upon him. "I shall reward you liberally for past
services, you may depend upon it," he added.

"Thank you very much, sir," murmured the valet, about to retire.

"Stay, Millard," said the young man. "You have been with my uncle
twenty years. You must know everything about his health. Did you ever
hear that he suffered from heart-disease?"

"No, sir; he never did suffer from anything of the kind. There never
was a stronger gentleman than Sir Oswald. In all the years that I have
known him, I don't recollect his having a day's serious illness. And as
to his dying of disease of the heart, I can't believe it, Mr.
Eversleigh."

"But in heart-complaint death is almost always sudden, and the disease
is generally unsuspected until death reveals it."

"Well, I don't know, sir. Of course the medical gentlemen understand
such things; but I must say that _I_ don't understand Sir Oswald going
off sudden like that."

"You'd better keep your opinions to yourself down stairs, Millard. If
an idea of that kind were to get about in the servants' hall, it might
do mischief."

"I should be the last to speak, Mr. Eversleigh. You asked me for my
opinion, and I gave it you, candid. But as to expressing my sentiments
in the servants' hall, I should as soon think of standing on my head.
In the first place, I don't take my meals in the servants' hall, but in
the steward's room; and it's very seldom I hold any communication
whatever with under-servants. It don't do, Mr. Eversleigh--you may
think me 'aughty; but it don't do. If upper-servants want to be
respected by under-servants, they must first respect themselves."

"Well, well, Millard; I know I can rely upon your discretion. You can
leave me now--my mind is quite unhinged by this dreadful event."

No sooner had the valet departed than Reginald hurried from the castle,
and walked across the garden to the gate by which he had encountered
Victor Carrington on the previous day. He had no appointment with
Victor, and did not even know if he were still in the neighbourhood;
but he fancied it was just possible the surgeon might be waiting for
him somewhere without the boundary of the garden.

He was not mistaken. A few minutes after passing through the gateway,
he saw the figure of the pedlar approaching him under the shade of the
spreading beeches.

"I am glad you are here," said Reginald; "I fancied I might find you
somewhere hereabouts."

"And I have been waiting and watching about here for the last two
hours. I dared not trust a messenger, and could only take my chance of
seeing you."

"You have heard of--of--"

"I have heard everything, I believe."

"What does it mean, Victor?--what does it all mean?"

"It means that you are a wonderfully lucky fellow; and that, instead of
waiting thirty years to see your uncle grow a semi-idiotic old dotard,
you will step at once into one of the finest estates in England."

"You knew, then, that the will was made last night?"

"Well, I guessed as much."

"You have seen Millard?"

"No, I have not seen Millard."

"How could you know of my uncle's will, then? It was only executed last
night."

"Never mind how I know it, my dear Reginald. I do know it. Let that be
enough for you."

"It is too terrible," murmured the young man, after a pause; "it is too
terrible."

"What is too terrible?"

"This sudden death."

"Is it?" cried Victor Carrington, looking full in his companion's face,
with an expression of supreme scorn. "Would you rather have waited
thirty years for these estates? Would you rather have waited twenty
years?--ten years? No, Reginald Eversleigh, you would not. I know you
better than you know yourself, and I will answer for you in this
matter. If your uncle's life had lain in your open palm last night, and
the closing of your hand would have ended it, your hand would have
closed, Mr. Eversleigh, affectionate nephew though you be. You are a
hypocrite, Reginald. You palter with your own conscience. Better to be
like me and have no conscience, than to have one and palter with it as
you do."

Reginald made no reply to this disdainful speech. His own weakness of
character placed him entirely in the power of his friend. The two men
walked on together in silence.

"You do not know all that has occurred since last night at the castle,"
said Reginald, at last; "Lady Eversleigh has reappeared."

"Lady Eversleigh! I thought she left Raynham yesterday afternoon."

"So it was generally supposed; but this morning she came into the hall,
and demanded to be admitted to see her dead husband. Nor was this all.
She publicly declared that he had been murdered, and accused me of the
crime. This is terrible, Victor."

"It is terrible, and it must be put an end to at once."

"But how is it to be put an end to?" asked Reginald. "If this woman
repeats her accusations, who is to seal her lips?"

"The tables must be turned upon her. If she again accuses you, you must
accuse her. If Sir Oswald were indeed murdered, who so likely to have
committed the murder as this woman--whose hatred and revenge were, no
doubt, excited by her husband's refusal to receive her back, after her
disgraceful flight? This is what you have to say; and as every one's
opinion is against Lady Eversleigh, she will find herself in rather an
unpleasant position, and will be glad to hold her peace for the future
upon the subject of Sir Oswald's death."

"You do not doubt my uncle died a natural death, do you, Victor?" asked
Reginald, with a strange eagerness. "You do not think that he was
murdered?"

"No, indeed. Why should I think so?" returned the surgeon, with perfect
calmness of manner. "No one in the castle, but you and Lady Eversleigh,
had any interest in his life or death. If he came to his end by any
foul means, she must be the guilty person, and on her the deed must be
fixed. You must hold firm, Reginald, remember."

The two men parted soon after this; but not before they had appointed
to meet on the following day, at the same hour, and on the same spot.
Reginald Eversleigh returned to the castle, gloomy and ill at ease, and
on entering the house he discovered that the doctor from Plimborough
had arrived during his absence, and was to remain until the following
day, when his evidence would be required at the inquest.

It was Joseph Millard who told him this.

"The inquest! What inquest?" asked Reginald.

"The coroner's inquest, sir. It is to be held to-morrow in the great
dining-room. Sir Oswald died so suddenly, you see, sir, that it's only
natural there should be an inquest. I'm sorry to say there's a talk
about his having committed suicide, poor gentleman!"

"Suicide--yes--yes--that is possible; he may have committed suicide,"
murmured Reginald.

"It's very dreadful, isn't it, sir? The two doctors and Mr. Dalton, the
lawyer, are together in the library. The body has been moved into the
state bed-room."

The lawyer emerged from the library at this moment, and approached
Reginald.

"Can I speak with you for a few minutes, Mr. Eversleigh?" he asked.

"Certainly."

He went into the library, where he found the two doctors, and another
person, whom he had not expected to see.

This was a country gentleman--a wealthy landed squire and magistrate--
whom Reginald Eversleigh had known from his boyhood. His name was
Gilbert Ashburne; and he was an individual of considerable importance
in the neighbourhood of Raynham, near which village he had a fine
estate.

Mr. Ashburne was standing with his back to the empty fireplace, in
conversation with one of the medical men, when Reginald entered the
room. He advanced a few paces, to shake hands with the young man, and
then resumed his favourite magisterial attitude, leaning against the
chimney-piece, with his hands in his trousers' pockets.

"My dear Eversleigh," he said, "this is a very terrible affair--very
terrible!"

"Yes, Mr. Ashburne, my uncle's sudden death is indeed terrible."

"But the manner of his death! It is not the suddenness only, but the
nature--"

"You forget, Mr. Ashburne," interposed one of the medical men, "Mr.
Eversleigh knows nothing of the facts which I have stated to you."

"Ah, he does not! I was not aware of that. You have no suspicion of any
foul play in this sad business, eh, Mr. Eversleigh?" asked the
magistrate.

"No," answered Reginald. "There is only one person I could possibly
suspect; and that person has herself given utterance to suspicions that
sound like the ravings of madness."

"You mean Lady Eversleigh?" said the Raynham doctor.

"Pardon me," said Mr. Ashburne; "but this business is altogether so
painful that it obliges me to touch upon painful subjects. Is there any
truth in the report which I have heard of Lady Eversleigh's flight on
the evening of some rustic gathering?"

"Unhappily, the report has only too good a foundation. My uncle's wife
did take flight with a lover on the night before last; but she returned
yesterday, and had an interview with her husband. What took place at
that interview I cannot tell you; but I imagine that my uncle forbade
her to remain beneath his roof. Immediately after she had left him, he
sent for me, and announced his determination to reinstate me in my old
position as his heir. He would not, I am sure, have done this, had he
believed his wife innocent."

"And she left the castle at his bidding?"

"It was supposed that she left the castle; but this morning she
reappeared, and claimed the right to remain beneath this roof."

"And where had she passed the night?"

"Not in her own apartments. Of that I have been informed by her maid,
who believed that she had left Raynham for good."

"Strange!" exclaimed the magistrate. "If she is guilty, why does she
remain here, where her guilt is known--where she maybe suspected of a
crime, and the most terrible of crimes?"

"Of what crime?"

"Of murder, Mr. Eversleigh. I regret to tell you that these two medical
gentlemen concur in the opinion that your uncle's death was caused by
poison. A _post-mortem_ examination will be made to-night."

"Upon what evidence?"

"On the evidence of an empty glass, which is under lock and key in
yonder cabinet," answered the doctor from Plimborough; "and at the
bottom of which I found traces of one of the most powerful poisons
known to those who are skilled in the science of toxicology: and on the
further evidence of diagnostics which I need not explain--the evidence
of the dead man's appearance, Mr. Eversleigh. That your uncle died from
the effects of poison, there cannot be the smallest doubt. The next
question to be considered is, whether that poison was administered by
his own hand, or the hand of an assassin."

"He may have committed suicide," said Reginald, with some hesitation.

"It is just possible," answered Gilbert Ashburne; "though from my
knowledge of your uncle's character, I should imagine it most unlikely.
At any rate, his papers will reveal the state of his mind immediately
before his death. It is my suggestion, therefore, that his papers
should be examined immediately by you, as his nearest relative and
acknowledged heir--by me, as magistrate of the district, and in the
presence of Mr. Dalton, who was your uncle's confidential solicitor.
Have you any objection to offer to this course, Mr. Eversleigh, or Sir
Reginald, as I suppose I ought now to call you?" It was the first time
Reginald Eversleigh had heard himself addressed by the title which was
now his own--that title which, borne by the possessor of a great
fortune, bestows so much dignity; but which, when held by a poor man,
is so hollow a mockery. In spite of his fears--in spite of that sense
of remorse which had come upon him since his uncle's death--the sound
of the title was pleasant to his ears, and he stood for the moment
silent, overpowered by the selfish rapture of gratified pride.

The magistrate repeated his question.

"Have you any objection to offer, Sir Reginald?"

"None whatever, Mr. Ashburne."

Reginald Eversleigh was only too glad to accede to the magistrate's
proposition. He was feverishly anxious to see the will which was to
make him master of Raynham. He knew that such a will had been duly
executed. He had no reason to fear that it had been destroyed; but
still he wanted to see it--to hold it in his hands, to have
incontestable proof of its existence.

The examination of the papers was serious work. The lawyer suggested
that the first to be scrutinized should be those that he had found on
the table at which Sir Oswald had been writing.

The first of these papers which came into the magistrate's hand was
Mary Goodwin's letter. Reginald Eversleigh recognized the familiar
handwriting, the faded ink, and crumpled paper. He stretched out his
hand at the moment Gilbert Ashburne was about to examine the document.

"That is a letter," he said, "a strictly private letter, which I
recognize. It is addressed to me, as you will see; and posted in Paris
nearly two years ago. I must beg you not to read it."

"Very well, Sir Reginald, I will take your word for it. The letter has
nothing to do with the subject of our present inquiry. Certainly, a
letter, posted in Paris two years ago, can scarcely have any connection
with the state of your uncle's mind last night."

The magistrate little thought how very important an influence that
crumpled sheet of paper had exercised upon the events of the previous
night.

Gilbert Ashburne and the lawyer examined the rest of the packet. There
were no papers of importance; nothing throwing any light upon late
events, except Lady Eversleigh's letter, and the will made by the
baronet immediately after his marriage.

"There is another and a later will," said Reginald, eagerly; "a will
made last night, and witnessed by Millard and Peterson. This earlier
will ought to have been destroyed."

"It is not of the least consequence, Sir Reginald," replied the
solicitor. "The will of latest date is the true one, if there should be
a dozen in existence."

"We had better search for the will made last night," said Reginald,
anxiously.

The magistrate and the lawyer complied. They perceived the anxiety of
the expectant heir, and gave way to it. The search occupied a long
time, but no second will was found; the only will that could be
discovered was that made within a week of the baronet's marriage.

"The will attested last night must be in this room," exclaimed
Reginald. "I will send for Millard; and you shall hear from his lips an
exact account of what occurred."

The young man tried in vain to conceal the feeling of alarm which had
taken possession of him. What would be his position if this will should
not be found? A beggar, steeped in crime.

He rang the bell and sent for the valet. Joseph Millard came, and
repeated his account of the previous night's transaction. It was clear
that the will had been made. It was equally clear that if it were still
in existence, it must be found in that room, for the valet declared
that his master had not left the library after the execution of the
document.

"I was on the watch and on the listen all night, you see, gentlemen,"
said Joseph Millard; "for I was very uneasy about master, knowing what
trouble had come upon him, and how he'd never been to bed all the night
before. I thought he might call me at any minute, so I kept close at
hand. There's a little room next to this, and I sat in there with the
door open, and though I dropped off into a doze now and then, I never
was sound enough asleep not to have heard this door open, if it did
open. But I'll take my Bible oath that Sir Oswald never left this room
after me and Peterson witnessed the will."

"Then the will must be somewhere in the room, and it will be our
business to find it," answered Mr. Ashburne. "That will do, Millard;
you can go."

The valet retired.

Reginald recommenced the search for the will, assisted by the
magistrate and the lawyer, while the two doctors stood by the fire-
place, talking together in suppressed tones.

This time the search left no crevice unexamined. But all was done
without avail; and despair began to gain upon Reginald Eversleigh.

What if all the crime, the falsehood, the infamy of the past few days
had been committed for no result?

He was turning over the papers in the bureau for the third or fourth
time, with trembling hands, in the desperate hope that somehow or other
the missing will might have escaped former investigations, when he was
arrested by a sudden exclamation from Mr. Missenden, the Plimborough
surgeon.

"I don't think you need look any farther, Sir Reginald," said this
gentleman.

"What do you mean?" cried Reginald, eagerly.

"I believe the will is found."

"Thank Heaven!" exclaimed the young man.

"You mistake, Sir Reginald," said Mr. Missenden, who was kneeling by
the fire-place, looking intently at some object in the polished steel
fender; "if I am right, and that this really is the document in
question, I fear it will be of very little use to you."

"It has been destroyed!" gasped Reginald.

"I fear so. This looks to me like the fragment of a will."

He handed Reginald a scrap of paper, which he had found amongst a heap
of grey ashes. It was scorched to a deep yellow colour, and burnt at
the edges; but the few words written upon it were perfectly legible,
nevertheless.

These words were the following:--

"--_Nephew, Reginald Eversleigh--Raynham Castle estate--all lands and
tenements appertaining--sole use and benefit_--"

This was all. Reginald gazed at the scrap of scorched paper with wild,
dilated eyes. All hope was gone; there could be little doubt that this
morsel of paper was all that remained of Sir Oswald Eversleigh's latest
will.

And the will made previously bequeathed Raynham to the testator's
window, a handsome fortune to each of the two Dales, and a pittance of
five hundred a-year to Reginald.

The young man sank into a chair, stricken down by this overwhelming
blow. His white face was the very picture of despair.

"My uncle never destroyed this document," he exclaimed; "I will not
believe it. Some treacherous hand has been thrust between me and my
rights. Why should Sir Oswald have made a will in one hour and
destroyed it in the next? What could have influenced him to alter his
mind?"

As he uttered these words, Reginald Eversleigh remembered that fatal
letter of Mary Goodwin, which had been found lying uppermost amongst
the late baronet's papers. That letter had caused Sir Oswald to
disinherit his nephew once. Was it possible that the same letter had
influenced him a second time?

But the disappointed man did not suffer himself to dwell long on this
subject. He thought of his uncle's widow, and the triumph that she had
won over the schemers who had plotted so basely to achieve her
destruction. A savage fury filled his soul as he thought of Honoria.

"This will has been destroyed by the one person most interested in its
destruction," he cried. "Who can doubt now that my uncle was poisoned,
and the will destroyed by the same person?--and who can doubt that
person to be Lady Eversleigh?"

"My dear sir," exclaimed Mr. Ashburne, "this really will not do. I
cannot listen to such accusations, unsupported by any evidence."

"What evidence do you need, except the evidence of truth?" cried
Reginald, passionately. "Who else was interested in the destruction of
that paper?--who else was likely to desire my uncle's death? Who but
his false and guilty wife? She had been banished from beneath this
roof; she was supposed to have left the castle; but instead of going
away, she remained in hiding, waiting her chances. If there has been a
murder committed, who can doubt that she is the murderess? Who can
question that it was she who burnt the will which robbed her of wealth
and station, and branded her with disgrace?"

"You are too impetuous, Sir Reginald," returned the magistrate. "I will
own there are grounds for suspicion in the circumstances of which you
speak; but in such a terrible affair as this there must be no jumping
at conclusions. However, the death of your uncle by poison immediately
after the renunciation of his wife, and the burning of the will which
transferred the estates from her to you, are, when considered in
conjunction, so very mysterious--not to say suspicious--that I shall
consider myself justified in issuing a warrant for the detention of
Lady Eversleigh, upon suspicion of being concerned in the death of her
husband. I shall hold an inquiry here to-morrow, immediately after the
coroner's inquest, and shall endeavour to sift matters most thoroughly.
If Lady Eversleigh is innocent, her temporary arrest can do her no
harm. She will not be called upon to leave her own apartments; and very
few outside the castle, or, indeed, within it, need be aware of her
arrest. I think I will wait upon her myself, and explain the painful
necessity."

"Yes, and be duped by her plausible tongue," cried Reginald bitterly."
She completely bewitched my poor uncle. Do you know that he picked her
up out of the gutter, and knew no more of her past life than he knew of
the inhabitants of the other planets? If you see her, she will fool you
as she fooled him."

"I am not afraid of her witcheries," answered the magistrate, with
dignity. "I shall do my duty, Sir Reginald, you may depend upon it."

Reginald Eversleigh said no more. He left the library without uttering
a word to any of the gentlemen. The despair which had seized upon him
was too terrible for words. Alone, locked in his own room, he gnashed
his teeth in agony.

"Fools! dolts! idiots that we have been, with all our deeply-laid plots
and subtle scheming," he cried, as he paced up and down the room in a
paroxysm of mad rage, "She triumphs in spite of us--she can laugh us to
scorn! And Victor Carrington, the man whose intellect was to conquer
impossibilities, what a shallow fool he has shown himself, after all! I
thought there was something superhuman in his success, so strangely did
fate seem to favour his scheming; and now, at the last--when the cup
was at my lips--it is snatched away, and dashed to the ground!"

* * * * *

CHAPTER XII.

A FRIEND IN NEED.

While the new baronet abandoned himself to the anguish of disappointed
avarice and ambition, Honoria sat quietly in her own apartments,
brooding very sadly over her husband's death.

She had loved him honestly and truly. No younger lover had ever won
possession of her heart. Her life, before her meeting with Sir Oswald,
had been too miserable for the indulgence of the romantic dreams or
poetic fancies of girlhood. The youthful feelings of this woman, who
called herself Honoria, had been withered by the blasting influence of
crime. It was only when gratitude for Sir Oswald's goodness melted the
ice of that proud nature--it was then only that Honoria's womanly
tenderness awoke--it was then only that affection--a deep-felt and pure
affection--for the first time occupied her heart.

That affection was all the more intense in its nature because it was
the first love of a noble heart. Honoria had reverenced in her husband
all that she had ever known of manly virtue.

And he was lost to her! He had died believing her false.

"I could have borne anything but that," she thought, in her desolation.

The magistrate came to her, and explained the painful necessity under
which he found himself placed. But he did not tell her of the
destruction of the will, nor yet that the medical men had pronounced
decisively as to Sir Oswald's death. He only told her that there were
suspicious circumstances connected with that death; and that it was
considered necessary there should he a careful investigation of those
circumstances.