Chapter XVII: An Arrest

It was the fact that Melville shirked a conversation with his brother immediately after the reading of the will; the mental strain had been so great that he could not be sure of his temper or judgment, and that being so, common prudence dictated a delay which would enable him to consider the new situation in all its bearings before risking a final rupture with the new lord of the Manor. He sought a temporary refuge at The Grange, where he knew he would receive commiseration upon his terrible disappointment, and where he might derive some sardonic satisfaction from the knowledge that his presence by Gwendolen's side would involve Ralph's absence from the same desirable spot. Mrs. Austen was quite frank in her condemnation of Sir Geoffrey's action.

"Whatever Melville may or may not have done, it is unfair to allow a young fellow to grow up without any profession or occupation, in the belief that he will inherit a considerable fortune, and then to ignore his existence in this way."

Gwendolen agreed with the abstract proposition, but could not believe that Sir Geoffrey would have taken such drastic measures without good reason; she hinted as much, but her mother would have none of it.

"I dare say Sir Geoffrey had plenty to put up with from Melville," she said, "but that is the penalty of having children, whether they are your own or adopted by you. What makes this will so inexplicable is that it was made such a little while ago, for just lately Melville seemed to be on better terms with his uncle than he had been for years. I'm sure there is some mischief-maker at the bottom of it all, and if it had not been for this terrible murder Sir Geoffrey would have got at the rights of the story, whatever it was, and made a new will."

"Melville is fortunate in having such a brother as Ralph," said Gwendolen; "it isn't as if the money were left to strangers. I don't suppose there will be any difference really."

"What nonsense!" said Mrs. Austen testily. "Ralph is a very charming young man, and I'm delighted you're going to be his wife, but I have a very warm place in my heart for Melville, and I think it's quite possible he has been misjudged; and your most excellent Ralph goes about with the cheerful expression of a professional mute whenever Melville comes down. Lately, for instance, since Melville has been here so frequently we haven't seen half so much of Ralph."

Gwendolen sighed. She had not failed to observe the fact, but she could throw no light upon the reason of it. Ralph resembled Sir Geoffrey in being very taciturn where his private feelings were concerned; she remembered the day when Sir Geoffrey said he had a bone to pick with Ralph. The discussion ended satisfactorily, but she connected the slight trouble in some way with Melville, who, as she afterwards learned, had seen his uncle the previous night, and Ralph's championship of his brother's cause had been discontinued from that time; since then, indeed, he never talked about him. It was all very puzzling and sad.

In the meantime, Melville forsook the neighbourhood. He accepted Mrs. Austen's hospitality for a couple of nights, and then, frankly confessing that the proximity of the Manor House with its associations was intolerable to him in his present frame of mind, returned to London, outwardly calm enough, but inwardly consumed by a raging fire of evil passions. As he paced his chambers, secure from prying eyes, hate and fear, chagrin and lust for revenge swept across his pallid face, and sometimes, as he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror, he thought the whole world must be able to read his secret in the careworn lines, which in reality it ascribed to laudable grief and natural disappointment. It is a kind-hearted place, this same world of ours, provided its patience and generosity are not unduly taxed, and just now it laid itself out to make things easier for Melville. He accepted the proffered sympathy gratefully, and won a new sort of popularity by his quiet pluck and his gentle air of resignation. Old people thought he was chastened by his trouble; young ones thought he was to be pitied; and Melville made the most of this occasion to make new friends among the children of this world.

But he did not forget his vow that Ralph should live to be sorry for having contributed, however indirectly, to his disinheritance, and wherever he went he sowed scandal with both hands. It is an invisible seed, of which the fruit is more deadly than the upas tree, and in sowing it as he did it is possible that Melville himself had no idea of what the harvest would be. Society knew little of Sir Geoffrey, who lived a comparatively retired life in his fine old Surrey home, but the mystery attaching to the unknown Lady Holt tickled its palate, and the murder of a man who was one of its order was not lightly to be forgotten. Thus at many a dinner party, where the subject was delicately broached, and at many a little luncheon in the clubs, where the conversation veered upon the question of undetected criminals, remarks were made--no one could afterwards precisely say by whom--which went to direct the general suspicion towards one point.

"What is the good of all this parrot-talk about motives," he said on one occasion. "When once you set to work imputing motives you need never stop. Anybody can tell you that half the murders in the world are due to drink or jealousy. Neither comes into this case. And England isn't like Sicily or Corsica, where vendetta is an institution. Sir Geoffrey could not have had an enemy in the world, so you may rule out revenge as well."

"How about the lady?" someone suggested, but Melville disposed of the idea.

"She can't have got her knife into him, or she would not have lain so low all these years. Besides, it looks as if Sir Geoffrey believed her to be dead, for he made some funny arrangements about her annuity. Anyhow, all that is pretty certain to come to light, for I believe there is a big reward offered to anyone who will produce her. No; I don't see much use in fooling after motives."

That was as far as he allowed himself to go then, but elsewhere, and to another audience, he took a different line and seemed interested in hearing the general opinion on this same subject of motives. He sat silent until the end of the conversation, when he appeared disinclined to endorse the verdict of the rest.

"It's too jolly dangerous," he said gravely, "to go about suggesting people who might commit a crime, and then inventing reasons why they should do it. It's very easy to vary the amusement, until you begin to believe you have found the motive and the man by a process of exhaustion. Why, Sir Geoffrey once told me he had made no will; is there sufficient motive there for me to kill him so that I might benefit under an intestacy? On the other hand, my brother knew he had made one, though I don't suppose he knew its tenour. Is there sufficient motive there for him to kill the old man on the chance of coming in? The thing is absurd on the face of it. We were both dependent on him, and I venture to say that no two fellows were ever fonder of their father than we were of our uncle."

It was not often he was as precise as that. For the most part he contented himself with the vaguest remarks, all harmless individually, but totalling up to an incredible strength when put together by skilful brains; and skilful brains were doing it, brains owned by men who, in spite of all detractors, are marvellously shrewd, and who do not often have to confess themselves beaten in the end, although they may sometimes take a long time upon the journey, and even make errors by the way. Whose business it was to gather these rumours and carry them to the detectives engaged upon the case, it matters not to enquire; popular opinion is no evidence, but it is often useful as indicating where evidence may be found, and, Melville's expressed opinion notwithstanding, all lawyers attach importance to motive in arguing for or against the criminality of individuals. At any rate, they agreed in the advisability of making an arrest upon suspicion, and their selection of the individual was partly influenced by some of these random and irresponsible remarks.

The Manor House was looking its best in the mellow light of an ideal summer evening. It had been one of those days when it is impossible not to feel delight in life, and Ralph awoke to full consciousness of the fact that he had youth and love and wealth to comfort himself withal. He spent the morning at The Grange, and after luncheon punted Gwendolen up the river, arranging for Mrs. Austen to join them at the Manor House. There was no flaw in his happiness that day, and, perhaps because of the violent contrast between its morning and its night, it always stood out afterwards with particular distinctness in his memory. Returning from Longbridge, he put on his evening clothes and went to The Grange to fetch Gwendolen and her mother; they strolled leisurely down to the Manor House and lingered over dinner, discussing idly many little plans for alterations to be made in the old place for the fuller satisfaction of its new mistress.

Martin hovered about them, anticipating their every want, and when at last they left the dining-room they resumed the discontinued custom, and decided to have their coffee brought to them on the houseboat. It seemed to mark the closing of a tragedy and the resumption of the pleasant routine of their country life.

And as on that evening--which now seemed so long ago--when the last of the guests, summoned to congratulate them on their betrothal, had departed, and Sir Geoffrey and Mrs. Austen joined Ralph and Gwendolen, so now the sound of music was borne to them from other houseboats on the river, so now a stray punt was poled swiftly down the stream, and the swans floated out from their nooks under the willows and rocked gracefully in its wake. Everything goes on just the same, although the best and greatest of us die.

Mrs. Austen was dozing comfortably in her chair, and Ralph sat close to Gwendolen, smoking in perfect content. Both were seeing visions of the future, a future of unbroken peace and happiness spent in each other's company, and the interruption of their waking dream by the sound of footsteps coming on board was not unwelcome, as it only suggested another little touch in the picture of material prosperity of which they themselves furnished the human interest.

Martin deposited his tray in the kitchen in the tender, and came up to Ralph.

"May I speak to you for a moment, sir?" he said almost in a whisper.

Ralph looked up surprised.

"What is it, Martin? Anything the matter?"

"I should like to speak to you alone, sir, if I may."

Martin followed him to the top of the ladder.

"A gentleman has come--in connection with the murder," he said, an odd look of embarrassment upon his face, "and he says he must see you at once; he won't be denied."

"Of course I must see him at once," said Ralph. "Why should he be denied?"

The look on Martin's face was pitiful.

"I can't tell you what I mean, Mr. Ralph," he said, "but I'm sure there is some hideous mistake. I think--I think he thinks you know something about it."

Ralph stared at the old servant in blank astonishment, utterly failing to comprehend his meaning.

"Where is the gentleman?" he said, but the question was answered for Martin. A tall figure was standing at the foot of the stairway, and bowed to Ralph as he reached the bottom step.

"Mr. Ralph Ashley?"

"At your service," Ralph answered pleasantly. "I understand you want to see me about this murder. Have you discovered anything?"

"I am sorry you have company, Mr. Ashley," the officer said in a quiet tone, so that his words might not be overheard upstairs. "I am a detective, and I hold a warrant for your arrest in connection with the murder of Sir Geoffrey Holt."

"My arrest?" cried Ralph.

"Yes, sir," the officer replied. "You understand, of course, that I am only acting in accordance with my instructions, and it is my duty to remind you that anything you say will be available as evidence."

Ralph's first impulse was to laugh, but the grotesque horror of the situation was too much for him. He drew himself up with dignity.

"I will come with you at once," he said. "Excuse me for a moment. I must tell my guests that I am compelled to bid them good-night."

The detective hesitated, and Ralph flushed as he understood.

"By all means come upstairs," he said, with cold hauteur. "You will, doubtless, excuse me if I refrain from introducing you to the lady who is going to do me the honour of becoming my wife." He went upstairs again, but his native instincts of a gentleman reasserting themselves in the brief interval, he turned to the detective as they gained the roof. "I beg your pardon for saying that," he said, with wonderfully winning courtesy; "perhaps you will oblige me by allowing me to present you to Miss Austen. Your name is----?"

"Anstruther," the man answered.

Ralph went up to Gwendolen.

"I'm sorry to cause you a minute's distress or anxiety, darling," he said, "but this gentleman, Mr. Anstruther, requires my attendance in the matter of Uncle Geoffrey's death."

Gwendolen started up.

"Requires----?"

Ralph stroked her hand.

"I would rather you knew it from me, since you must know it. Mr. Anstruther is instructed to detain me on suspicion of being somehow implicated." He looked imploringly at the detective, who came gallantly to his rescue.

"Merely on suspicion, Miss Austen," he said, in a full rich voice that conveyed confidence somehow. "I am more sorry than I can say that it falls to me to come on such an errand, but I fancy you would be the last to wish me not to do my duty."

Ralph kissed Gwendolen, who clung to him.

"We must show a brave front, Gwen," he said. "It's horrible to think that anybody can suspect me of having had a hand in the dear old man's death, but since somebody does, the only thing now is to clear myself before the world." He turned to Mrs. Austen. "If I should happen to be unable to come home to-morrow, I wonder if you would mind taking up your quarters at the Manor House? I should like to think that you and Gwen were there, and it might be well if someone was available to help Mr. Tracy if necessary."

"Of course we will if you wish it," Mrs. Austen said. She was boiling over with indignation at the outrage, but controlled herself admirably, partly for her daughter's sake and partly from a natural pride which forbade her to betray emotion. Indeed, they were all wonderfully self-possessed.

"A thousand thanks," Ralph said gratefully. "Martin will see you home and will come on to get me anything I may want. Good-night, Mrs. Austen. Good-night, my darling."

He pressed his lips passionately upon her mouth, and she returned him kiss for kiss. Then, with head erect and a proud look on his frank and boyish face, he led the way downstairs, followed by the detective; while, on the houseboat, Gwendolen, clasping her mother's hand, strained longing eyes upon his figure until it was lost to sight amid the shadows of the trees.