The Stowmarket Mystery Part 30

"Because my husband, with all his faults, is innocent of that crime. He was with me in London the night that Alan met his death."

"And I, too, was in London. I left Stowmarket at six o'clock."

"Having reached the place at 2.20?" interposed Brett.

The other turned to him with eager pleading.

"In Heaven's name, Mr. Brett, if you know all about my movements that day, disabuse Margaret's mind of the terrible idea that prompted her question."

"Why did you come here on that occasion?"

"The truth must out now. My two uncles swindled my father--that is, Margaret, your father led my Uncle David with him in a most unjust proceeding. My father took up some risky business in City finance, on the verbal understanding with his brothers that they would share profits or bear losses equally. The speculation failed, and your father basely withdrew from the compact, persuading the other brother to follow his lead. Perhaps there may have been some justification for his action, but my poor old dad was very bitter about it. The affair killed him. I made my own way in the world, and came here to ask Alan to undo the wrong done years ago, and help me to get on my feet. He was not in the best of tempers, and we fell out badly, using silly recriminations. I went back to London, and next day travelled to Monte Carlo, where I lost more money than I could afford. Believe me, I never even knew of Alan's death until I saw the reports of Davie's trial."

"Why did you not come forward then?"

"Why? No man could have better reasons. First, it seemed to me that Davie had killed him. Then, when the second trial ended, I came to the conclusion--Lord help my wits--that there was some underhanded work about the succession to the property, and my doubts appeared to receive confirmation by the news of Margaret's marriage. In any case, if I turned up to give evidence, I could only have helped to hang one of my own relatives."

"It never occurred to you that you might be suspected?"

"Never, on my honour! The suggestion is preposterous. You seem to know everything. Tell Margaret that I did leave Stowmarket by the train I named, that I stayed in the Hotel Victoria the same night, and left for the Riviera at 11 a.m. next day. Margaret, don't you believe me? You and I were sweethearts as children. Can you think I murdered your brother? Why, dear girl, I refrained from seeing your husband lest I should wound you by revealing my thoughts."

He placed his hands on her shoulders, and looked at her with such genuine emotion that she lifted her swimming eyes to his, and faltered:

"Forgive me, Robert, though I can never forgive myself. Your words shocked me. I am sorry. I am not mistaken now. You are innocent as I am."

"You have also convinced me, Mr. Frazer," said Brett quietly.

Robert gazed quickly from one to the other. Then he laughed constrainedly.

"I have been accused of several offences in my time," he said, "but this notion that got into your heads licks creation."

"What is the matter now?" said David Hume, entering through the window.

CHAPTER XVII

"CHERCHEZ LA FEMME"

The three men drove to Stowmarket in the same vehicle, the grooms returning in the second dog-cart.

On the way Robert Frazer--who may be designated by his second surname to distinguish him from his cousin--was anxious to learn what had caused the present recrudescence of inquiry into Alan's death. This was easily explained by David, and Brett took care to confine the conversation to general details.

Frazer was naturally keen to discover how the barrister came to be so well posted in his movements, and David listened eagerly whilst Brett related enough of the stationmaster's story to clear up that point.

Hume broke in with a laugh:

"That shows why he was so unusually attentive when I arrived this evening.

He spotted me getting out of the train, and would not leave me until I was clear of the station. He was evidently determined to ascertain my exact ident.i.ty without any mistake, for he began by asking if I were not Mr.

David Hume-Frazer, laying stress on my Christian name. It surprised me a little, because I thought the old chap knew me well."

"Are you both absolutely certain that there are no other members of your family in existence?" asked Brett.

"It depends on how many of our precious collection you are acquainted with," said Robert.

"The only person Mr. Brett is not acquainted with is my father," exclaimed David stiffly.

"I was not alluding to him, of course. Indeed, I had no individual specially in my mind."

"Surely you had some motive for your remark?" questioned David. "The only remaining relative is Mrs. Capella."

"There again--how do you define the word 'relative.' I suppose, Mr. Brett, you are fairly well posted in the history of our house?"

"Yes."

"Well, has it never struck you that there was something queer about the manner of my Uncle Alan's marriage--Margaret's father, I mean?"

"Perhaps. What do you know about it?"

"Nothing definite. When I was a mid-s.h.i.+pman on board the _Northumberland_ I have a lively recollection of a fiendish row between a man named Somers and another officer who pa.s.sed some chaffing remark about my respected uncle's goings on in Italy. The officer in question had forgotten, or never knew, that Sir Alan married Somers's sister--they were Bristol people, I think--but he stuck to it that Sir Alan had an Italian wife. He had seen her."

Brett was driving, Frazer sitting by his side, and David leaning over the rail from the back seat. Had a bombsh.e.l.l dropped in their midst the two others could not have been more startled than by Robert's chance observation.

"Good Heavens!" cried Hume, "why has Capella gone to Italy?"

"That question may soon be answered," said Brett.

"Was that one of the other reasons you hinted at in the library when telling us why you did not volunteer evidence at the trial?" he asked Robert.

"It was. The cat is out of the bag now. I did not know where the affair might end, so I held my tongue. It also accounts for my unwillingness to meet Capella. I am very fond of Margaret. She is straight as a die, and I would not do anything to cause her suffering. In a word, I let sleeping dogs lie. If you can manage your matrimonial affairs without all this fuss, Davie, I should advise you to do the same."

"What are you hinting at? What new mystery is this?" cried Hume.

"Let us keep to solid fact for the present," interposed the barrister. "I wish I had met you sooner, Mr. Frazer. I would be nearing Naples now, instead of entering Stowmarket Have you any further information?"

"None whatever. Even what I have told you is the recollection of a boy who did not understand what the row was about. Where does it lead us, anyhow?

What is known about Capella?"

"Very little. Unless I am much mistaken, he will soon tell us a good deal himself. I am beginning to credit him with the possession of more brains and powers of malice than I was at first inclined to admit. He is a dangerous customer."

"Look here," exclaimed Robert angrily. "If that wretched little Italian annoys Margaret in any way I will crack his doll's head."

They reached the hotel, where a room was obtained for Frazer, and David undertook to equip him out of his portmanteau. Brett left the cousins to arrange matters, and hurried to his sitting-room, where a number of telegrams awaited him.

Those from Hume he barely glanced at. David could tell his own story.