Gwen Wynn Part 59

But he keeps his thoughts to himself, an occasional whisper to his companion being merely by way of direction, as they replace the lid upon the coffin, cover all up as before, shake in the last fragments of loose earth from the sheet, and restore the grave turf--adjusting the sods with as much exact.i.tude as though they were laying tesselated tiles!

Then, taking up their tools, they glide back to the boat, step into it, and shove off.

On return down stream they reflect in different ways, the old boatman of Llangorren still thinking it but a case of body-s.n.a.t.c.hing, done by Coracle d.i.c.k, for the doctors, with a view to earning a dishonest penny.

Far otherwise the thoughts of Jack Wingate. He thinks, nay, hopes--almost happily believes--that the body exhumed was not dead--never has been--but that Mary Morgan still lives, breathes, and has being!

CHAPTER LXI.

IN WANT OF HELP.

"Drowned? No! Dead before she ever went under the water. Murdered, beyond the shadow of a doubt."

It is Captain Ryecroft who thus emphatically affirms. And to himself, being alone, within his room in the Wyeside Hotel; for he is still in Herefords.h.i.+re.

More in conjecture, he proceeds,--

"They first smothered, I suppose, or in some way rendered her insensible; then carried her to the place and dropped her in, leaving the water to complete their diabolical work? A double death, as it were; though she may not have suffered its agonies twice. Poor girl! I hope not."

In prosecuting the inquiry to which he has devoted himself, beyond certain unavoidable communications with Jack Wingate, he has not taken any one into his confidence. This partly from having no intimate acquaintances in the neighbourhood, but more because he fears the betrayal of his purpose. It is not ripe for public exposure, far less bringing before a court of justice. Indeed, he could not yet shape an accusation against any one, all that he has learnt now serving only to satisfy him that his original suspicions were correct; which it has done, as shown by his soliloquy.

He has since made a second boat excursion down the bye-channel--made it in the daytime, to a.s.sure himself there was no mistake in his observations under the light of the lamp. It was for this he had bespoken Wingate's skiff for the following day; for certain reasons reaching Llangorren at the earliest hour of dawn. There and then to see what surprised him quite as much as the unexpected discovery of the night before--a grand breakage from the brow of the cliff; but not any more misleading him. If the first "sign" observed there failed to blind him, so does that which has obliterated it. No natural rock-slide, was the conclusion he came to, soon as setting eyes upon it; but the work of human hands! And within the hour, as he could see by the clods of loosened earth still dropping down and making muddy the water underneath; while bubbles were ascending from the detached boulder lying invisible below!

Had he been there only a few minutes earlier, himself invisible, he would have seen a man upon the cliff's crest, busy with a crowbar, levering the rock from its bed, and tilting it over--then carefully removing the marks of the iron implement, as also his own footprints!

The man saw him through the blue-grey dawn, in his skiff, coming down the river; just as on the preceding night under the light of the moon.

For he thus early astir and occupied in a task as that of Sysiphus, was no other than Father Rogier.

The priest had barely time to retreat and conceal himself, as the boat drew down to the eyot--not this time crouching among the ferns, but behind some evergreens, at a farther and safer distance. Still, near enough for him to observe the other's look of blank astonishment on beholding the _debacle_, and note the expression change to one of significant intelligence as he continued gazing at it.

"_Un limier veritable!_" A hound that has scented blood, and's determined to follow it up, till he find the body whence it flowed. Aha!

The game must be got out of his way. Llangorren will have to change owners once again, and the sooner, the better.

At the very moment these thoughts were pa.s.sing through the mind of Gregoire Rogier, the "veritable bloodhound" was mentally repeating the same words he had used on the night before: "No accident--no suicide--murdered!" adding, as his eyes ranged over the surface of red sandstone, so altered in appearance, "This makes me all the more sure of it. Miserable trick! Not much Mr. Lewin Murdock will gain by it."

So thought he then. But now, days after, though still believing Murdock to be the murderer, he thinks differently about the "trick." For the evidence afforded by the former traces, though slight, and pointing to no one in particular, was, nevertheless, a substantial indication of guilt against somebody; and these being blotted out, there is but his own testimony of their having ever existed. Though himself convinced that Gwendoline Wynn has been a.s.sa.s.sinated, he cannot see his way to convince others--much less a legal tribunal. He is still far from being in a position openly to accuse, or even name the criminals who ought to be arraigned.

He now knows there are more than one, or so supposes, still believing that Murdock has been the princ.i.p.al actor in the tragedy; though others besides have borne part in it.

"The man's wife must know all about it," he says, going on in conjectural chain; "and that French priest--he probably the instigator of it. Ay! possibly had a hand in the deed itself. There have been such cases recorded--many of them. Exercising great authority at Llangorren--as Jack has learned from his friend Joe--there commanding everybody and everything! And the fellow Dempsey--poacher, and what not--he, too, become an important personage about the place! Why all this? Only intelligible on the supposition that they have had to do with a death by which they have been all benefited. Yes; all four, acting conjointly, have brought it about!

"And how am I to bring it home to them? 'Twill be difficult indeed, if at all possible. Even that slight sign destroyed has increased the difficulty.

"No use taking the 'great unpaid' into my confidence, nor yet the sharper stipendiaries. To submit my plans to either magistrate or policeman might be but to defeat them. 'Twould only raise a hue and cry, putting the guilty ones on their guard. That isn't the way--will not do!

"And yet I must have some one to a.s.sist me; for there is truth in the old saw, 'Two heads better than one,' Wingate is good enough in his way, and willing, but he can't help me in mine. I want a man of my own cla.s.s; one who----Stay! George Shenstone? No! The young fellow is true as steel and brave as a lion, but--well, lacking brains. I could trust his heart, not his head. Where is he who has both to be relied upon? Ha!

Mahon! The man--the very man! Experienced in the world's wickedness, courageous, cool--except when he gets his Irish blood up against the Sa.s.senachs--above all, devoted to me, as I know; he has never forgotten that little service I did him at Delhi. And he has nothing to do--plenty of time at his disposal. Yes; the Major's my man!

"Shall I write and ask him to come over here. On second thoughts, no!

Better for me to go thither; see him first, and explain all the circ.u.mstances. To Boulogne and back's but a matter of forty-eight hours, and a day or two can't make much difference in an affair like this. The scent's cold as it can be, and may be taken up weeks hence 's well as now. If we ever succeed in finding evidence of their guilt, it will, no doubt, be mainly of the circ.u.mstantial sort; and much will depend on the character of the individuals accused. Now I think of it, something may be learnt about it in Boulogne itself; or, at all events, of the priest.

Since I've had a good look at his forbidding face, I feel certain it's the same I saw inside the doorway of that convent. If not, there are two of the sacerdotal tribe so like, it would be a toss up which is one and which t'other.

"In any case, there can be no harm in my making a scout across to Boulogne, and inst.i.tuting inquiries about him. Mahon's sister being at school in the establishment will enable us to ascertain whether a priest named Rogier holds relations with it, and we may learn something of the repute he bears. Perchance, also, a trifle concerning Mr. and Mrs. Lewin Murdock. It appears that both husband and wife are well known at Homburg, Baden, and other like resorts. Gaming, if not game, birds, in some of their migratory flights they have made short sojourn at the French seaport, to get their hands in for those grander h.e.l.ls beyond.

I'll go over to Boulogne!"

A knock at the door. On the permission to enter, called out, a hotel porter presents himself.

"Well?"

"Your waterman, sir, Wingate, says he'd like to see you, if convenient?"

"Tell him to step up!"

"What can Jack be coming after? Anyhow, I'm glad he has come. 'Twill save me the trouble of sending for him, as I'd better settle his account before starting off." [Jack has a new score against the Captain for boat hire, his services having been retained, exclusively, for some length of time past.] "Besides, there's something I wish to say--a long chapter of instructions to leave with him. Come in, Jack!"

This, as a shuffling in the corridor outside tells that the waterman is wiping his feet on the door-mat.

The door opening, displays him; but with an expression on his countenance very different from that of a man coming to dun for wages due. More like one entering to announce a death, or some event which greatly agitates him.

"What is it?" asks the Captain, observing his distraught manner.

"Somethin' queer, sir; very queer indeed."

"Ah! Let me hear it!" demands Ryecroft, with an air of eagerness, thinking it relates to himself and the matter engrossing his mind.

"I will, Captain. But it'll take time in the tellin'."

"Take as much as you like. I'm at your service. Be seated."

Jack clutches hold of a chair, and draws it up close to where the Captain is sitting--by a table. Then glancing over his shoulder, and all round the room, to a.s.sure himself there is no one within earshot, he says, in a grave, solemn voice,--

"I do believe, Captain, _she be still alive_!"

CHAPTER LXII.

STILL ALIVE.

Impossible to depict the expression on Vivian Ryecroft's face, as the words of the waterman fall upon his ear. It is more than surprise--more than astonishment--intensely interrogative, as though some secret hope once entertained, but long gone out of his heart, had suddenly returned to it.

"Still alive!" he exclaims, springing to his feet, and almost upsetting the table. "Alive!" he mechanically repeats. "What do you mean, Wingate?

And who?"