Read Ebook: The Markenmore Mystery by Fletcher J S Joseph Smith

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Ebook has 2129 lines and 78784 words, and 43 pages

"A good way--sometimes," said Harborough. "Why not?"

The brother and sister looked at each other.

"It's entailed," said Valencia.

She glanced at Harborough with meaning in her eyes, and Harborough nodded.

"Just so," he remarked. "But--that could be got over if--if your elder brother was agreeable."

Once more the other two exchanged glances.

"We don't know where Guy is," said Harry. "Nobody does--at least, nobody that we know. He's never been heard of for--I think it's nearly seven years."

"It is seven years," remarked Valencia. "I remember." She looked again at Harborough. "He went away, suddenly, just before you did," she added. "And that's seven years ago."

Harborough moved a little uneasily in his chair. He had no wish to be drawn into discussion of the Markenmore family secrets. But he felt a certain curiosity.

"Do you mean that--literally?" he asked.

"Absolutely!" replied Valencia. "None of us--and no one connected with us--have heard a word of him since then."

"But--money matters?" suggested Harborough. "He'd want money. Has he never applied for any?--some allowance, for instance?"

"He'd money of his own," said Harry. "His mother's money all came to him at her death. No--it's as Val says, we've never heard anything of him since he left Markenmore, and we don't know where he is. I wish we did!--my father can't last long."

Harborough rose from his chair.

"Well, I must go," he said. "You'll be sure to let me know if there's anything I can do? But you say Sir Anthony's not in immediate danger?"

"Not immediate," replied Harry. "But--any time. And, as he's fidgety about not being left, you'll excuse me if I go back to him? If he seems a bit stronger tomorrow, I'll tell him you're home again, and no doubt you can see him when you look in. You'll come again soon?"

"Surely!" said Harborough. He walked into the hall with Valencia when Harry had gone, and once more gave her an admonitory look. "You'll not forget to send for me if I can ever give any help?" he continued. "I'm not to be treated as a mere neighbour, you know--now that I'm back!"

"I'll not forget," she answered. She glanced round: at the far end of the shadow-laden hall Braxfield was just appearing, key in hand; she motioned Harborough aside. "There's something I want to ask you," she whispered. "Have you any idea why my brother Guy left home, and why he's never returned? You!--yourself?"

Her eyes, big and dark, were fixed upon him with a peculiar earnestness, and she saw him start a little and compress his lips.

"Tell--me!" she said. "Me!"

Harborough, too, glanced at Braxfield: the old butler, unconscious of this intimate question--and--answer, was drawing nearer.

"I may know--something," murmured Harborough. "If--if I think--on reflection--I ought to tell you--I will. Later."

She gave him an understanding nod, a whispered word of thanks, and went away up the dark staircase behind them. And Braxfield, after a word or two with Harborough, let the visitor out, and locked the big door, and drew across it a weighty chair which had done duty in that respect for many a generation of Markenmores. The house was secured for the night.

Braxfield went back to his pantry--a snug and comfortable sitting-room at the end of the big main corridor. There was a bright fire there, and his easy, well-cushioned arm-chair placed by it. Now was his time of rest and recreation. All done, all quiet, he would smoke his pipe, read the newspaper, and enjoy his glass of whisky. His pipe lay ready to hand: the newspaper flanked it; he went to the cupboard to get out his decanter and his glass. And just as he laid hands on these things, Braxfield heard a sound. His fingers relinquished their hold, dropped to his side, began to tremble. For Braxfield knew that sound--it was familiar enough to him, though it was seven years since he had heard it last. He stood, listening--it came again; a tap, light but firm, three times repeated on the pantry window. And at that he left the room, turned down a side-passage, and opened a door that admitted to the rose garden. A man stepped in, and in the dim light of a neighbouring lamp the butler saw his face.

"Good Lord ha' mercy!" he exclaimed, shrinking back against the wall. "Mr. Guy?"

THE BUTLER'S PANTRY

The man whom Braxfield thus addressed, and who, in spite of the well-remembered signal on the pantry window was the last person in the world he had thought of seeing, turned a sharp, inquisitive, suspicious glance down the narrow passage, which opened on the main corridor of the house. It shifted just as sharply to the old butler's amazed and troubled face--and the question that followed on it was equally sharp.

"The rest of 'em--in bed?"

Braxfield was beginning to tremble. In the old days, he had often let Guy Markenmore in, late at night, at that very door; the thrice-repeated tap was an arranged signal between them. And in those days he had had that very question put to him more times than he could remember. It had not troubled him then, but now, hearing it again, after the questioner's unexplained absence of seven years, it frightened him. Why did the heir to the Markenmore baronetcy and estates come sneaking to his father's house, late at night, seeking secret entrance, obviously nervous about something? Braxfield looked at him doubtfully.

"Gone to their rooms, Mr. Guy," he answered. "Or--they may be in your father's. Sir Anthony's about--at his end, sir."

Again Guy Markenmore looked along the passage. While he looked, Braxfield looked at him. He had altered little, thought Braxfield. He had always been noted since boyhood, for his good looks: he was still good-looking at thirty-five; tall, slim, dark, intense of gaze; the sort of man to attract and interest women. But he looked like a man who had lived hard; a man who had seen things on the seamy side of life, and there was a sinister expression about his fine eyes and the lines of the mouth, scarcely concealed by a carefully kept dark moustache, which would have warned watchful observers to put little trust in him. Eyes and lips alike were wary and keen as they turned again on the butler.

"Come on to your pantry, Braxfield," he said quietly. "Fasten that door."

He walked rapidly up the passage and turned into the corridor when he had issued the order: when the butler, after discharging it, followed him, he stood just within the pantry, holding the door in his hand. And after Braxfield, still upset and wondering, had entered, Guy put the door to and turned the key.

"Look here!" he said in a low voice, motioning Braxfield to the fireside and its cheery blaze, "I want to know something--I thought I saw somebody as I came along. You'll know. Is John Harborough home again?"

Braxfield felt his perceptions quicken at the tone of this question. He nodded, searching Guy's face.

"Yes, sir!" he answered. "Came home today--this very afternoon."

"Has he been here?" demanded Guy.

"Yes, sir--this evening."

"Why? What did he come for?"

"He'd heard your father was ill, Mr. Guy--he came to ask about him."

"Did he mention me?"

"Not--not to my knowledge, sir. He--he saw Mr. Harry and Miss Valencia."

"Has he come back for--for good? To settle down?"

"I understand that he has, sir."

Braxfield was wondering what these questions meant, and his face showed his wonder. But Guy's face had become sphinx-like. He turned away from the butler, took off his smart hat, overcoat, and gloves, threw them into an easy chair in a corner, and drawing a case from his breast-pocket, selected a cigar, and leisurely lighted it. Braxfield knew enough of cigars to know that that was an expensive one; he knew, too, that as far as appearances went the lost son, of seven years' silence had not come home like a prodigal. Guy was dressed in the height of fashion; his grey tweed suit, bearing the unmistakable stamp of Savile Row, stood out in striking contrast to the worn and ancient garments in which Harry Markenmore went about the old place. And on the hand which raised a match to the cigar glittered a fine diamond ring, acting as a sort of keeper to another ring, of curious workmanship and appearance, on the third finger.

"Look here!" said Guy again. "Another question. I've heard that Mrs. Tretheroe--who was Miss Veronica Leighton--is in these parts again. Is that so?"

"Yes, sir," replied Braxfield. "She's come back, too--quite recently. She's taken the Dower House, Mr. Guy--you know, sir, at the bottom of our park. She took it a month or so ago, from Mr. Harry--he acts in everything now, sir--and she's moved into it."

"She took it?" exclaimed Guy, with emphasis on the personal pronoun. "She! What? . . . is Colonel Tretheroe dead, then?"

"Died out in India, sir--so I'm given to understand--a year since," answered Braxfield. "So--she returned home and came looking for a house about here, and, as I say, has got our Dower House. And she looks no older, Mr. Guy--not a bit! Handsomer than ever, sir."

Braxfield was regaining his confidence, and his tongue. He wanted to talk, now.

"They say she's a very wealthy young widow, Mr. Guy," he went on. "Colonel Tretheroe, he left her everything--and he was a rich man, I'm told. Seems like it, too--she's got a fine staff of servants, and she's spent a lot of money on the house already, and is spending more. Got a house-party there just now--London people I believe. Seems inclined to enjoy herself, I think, sir."

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