Chapter 6

"MR. BROCK'S ADDENDA."

In spite of herself Olive fretted. Her trouble had taken firm hold of her mind, and bade fair now to make havoc of her body. She lost flesh rapidly. In vain Mallow tried to combat this brooding over her father's wrong-doing. He pointed out the futility of it; he urged her--implored her--to make the effort to rouse herself. But without result. Her father's sin became with her an ever-present enormity. She was continually dwelling upon it. They tried to get her to work--to use her hands, employ herself actively, anyhow--at anything--so long as, for the time being, it was capable of absorbing her, and thus releasing the terrible tension under which she laboured. At last Mallow saw there was nothing for it but an entire change of scene and surroundings.

"You must go, Olive dear--away from here, away from all that reminds you of yourself. You shall go abroad at once, Mrs. Purcell shall go with you, and later I will join you, and in six months' time you will return, dear, a totally different woman--no longer Olive Bellairs, even in name, for we will be married, and you will laugh at yourself and these wretched phantoms of your own raising."

"You speak as though I were a child!" she cried petulantly. "Phantoms indeed!--facts, you mean. My father was a--oh, don't speak of it, the very thought drives me beside myself. And I have to keep it all to myself--all, all!"

"Oh, Olive," said Mallow, reproachfully, "am I not some help to you?"

"A man never understands--he does not feel these things."

"Really, Olive, I think the sooner you get away from Casterwell the better."

"I shall never be better--never, never!"

Mallow did not argue with her. He saw that it was quite useless. Actions, not words, were necessary if Olive was to be restored to a proper sense of what was due to herself and to others. Laurence recognized this, and took an early opportunity of calling at the Vicarage. Again Mr. Brock refused to see him; but next day Mallow received a note requesting him to call. He obeyed promptly.

On his way through the village he met Jeremiah looking distressed and lonely. "I want to see a clergyman," he whined peevishly; "I have so many sins to confess. I can find no one to help me."

Mallow looked at him. It appeared that Trall, under stress of religious emotion, might confess to a priest, much more than he would be likely to confide to a layman. In such circumstances it was not at all improbable that he might let drop much that would be useful.

"I will take you to see a clergyman, Trall--the best in this parish. I am now on my way there. If you will call at the Vicarage shortly--left-hand side of the church from the roadway--I will leave you with him. Then you will be able to unbosom your mind quite freely."

"Oh, thank you; thank you, Mr. Mallow. I have many sins to confess--many, many. When shall I come?"

Mallow glanced at his watch. "In three-quarters of an hour. Say about four o'clock. I would take you with me now, only I want first to see Mr. Brock myself on private business."

Trall was more than satisfied with this arrangement, and hobbled off, profuse in his expressions of gratitude. Mallow continued his way to the Vicarage.

"Good-day, Mr. Brock," said he, as the deaf housekeeper showed him into the study (now the sick-room); "I am glad to see you at last."

"Indeed, I must apologize for not receiving you before," replied the vicar, wearily, "but I have been busy arranging my papers against my death."

"Oh, come now, you are not going to die."

"I shall never leave this house alive, Mr. Mallow. My days are numbered. You can guess now that the reading of Carson's statement gave me a severe shock. All these years, I never suspected that it was Bellairs who murdered Singha. Indeed, I did not even know that he was murdered, for Rao Chunder, the heir, gave out that his father had died of apoplexy."

"Did you never return to Kikat?"

"No; I failed altogether to induce the Governor-General to move in the matter of the blackmailing, and, as the Rao's son was not very friendly to me I judged it wiser to keep away. Besides, I heard that Bellairs and Carson had left Kikat, and believed that their departure was due to the enmity of the new Rao. God forgive me, I never guessed the truth."

"Rao Singha never told you that Bellairs and Carson were inculpated in the blackmailing?"

"No. Trall made it out to be his own conspiracy, entirely, and kept their names out of his confession. Moreover, Singha had not received the incriminating letters with the forged names. They were afterwards burnt by the new Rao. He kept his own counsel. I never saw them; I never suspected that Bellairs and Carson had fallen so low."

"Do you think the names were forged, or do you believe that your friends were willing accomplices in the conspiracy?"

"I believe the names were forged," declared Brock decisively. "So far as I knew, both Bellairs and Carson were thoroughly honourable men. Trall entangled them by means of the forgeries, and, for their own sakes, they were compelled to act as accomplices."

"Did Bellairs ever hint at the truth?"

"Mr. Mallow,"--the vicar sat up and flushed indignantly--"had I been told the truth by Bellairs, do you think that I would have remained Vicar of Casterwell? No! For Olive's sake, perhaps I might have held my tongue but my first act would have been to vacate the living. Bellairs was as silent as the grave about Kikat. He hardly ever alluded to his life there, and then only casually."

"Guilty conscience, no doubt," suggested Mallow. "As a rule, a man doesn't particularly care to reperuse the smudged pages of his life-book. I suppose Bellairs never told you his reason for the betrothal of Olive to Angus?"

"Never! never! I thought it was simply and solely the outcome of his strong friendship for Carson. As to the will leaving me the money in the event of the marriage not taking place, I did not know its contents until Bellairs was dead."

"Well, the money is yours, now, Mr. Brock. Will you take it, knowing how it was earned?"

"My dear friend, believe me, it is superfluous to discuss what I will do with it. I am a dying man. By my will, I have restored the money to Olive; she can deal with it as she pleases."

"In that case it is her intention to restore it to the Indian Government."

"What good will that do?" said the vicar, with a sigh; "there is no Rao of Kikat now--the name, the family, the very kingdom has died out. Let Olive make restitution, if such be her wish, but the money will go into the wrong pockets if she sends it there."

"I don't care whose pockets it enters, neither does she," said Mallow; "the main point is to get rid of it--and there is twenty thousand pounds."

Mr. Brock started. "Only that. I understood----"

"That there was fifty. True enough; but thirty has gone across the seas with Boldini and his wife."

"Boldini! Who is he?"

"I forgot, you don't know the story. It is a long one, Mr. Brock, and not a pretty one for a clergyman to hear."

"As a rule, we hear the worst stories. But you talk strangely, Mr. Mallow. I do not understand. This Boldini! Who is he?

"Well, he is the man who masqueraded here as Angus Carson."

"As Angus Carson! Do you mean to tell me that it was not really Angus Carson who----"

"I will tell you all about it, if," said Mallow, with some hesitation, "you think you are quite strong enough to hear."

"Quite strong enough, and most anxious to hear" said Mr. Brock, feverishly. "Come, Mr. Mallow, explain this mystery."

"You may well call it a mystery, Mr. Brock, and it seems likely to remain one. I can begin the story and continue it to a certain point; but you must finish it for yourself."

Then Mallow related to the astonished vicar all the intrigues of the last few months. He was most minute in his recital, giving even the reasons which had induced him to take various steps. Mrs. Arne, Drabble, Boldini, Clara, he introduced all these people to Mr. Brock, placing them before him in their different capacities as vividly as he was able. But he refrained from expressing to the vicar his hope that Jeremiah would shortly aid towards the solution of the mystery. He could see that the old man was becoming exhausted as well as bewildered by what he had heard.

"Terrible, terrible!" he murmured. "Poor Olive! poor Angus! Oh, why, why did you not tell me all this before?"

"There was not much use in telling you," said Mallow, gloomily; "you could not have helped us. We are no nearer finding out the truth than we were before. Why was young Carson killed? that is what I want to know. What was the motive?"

"I can't think," replied Mr. Brock, staring before him; "it is all so dreadful. You don't think Drabble murdered the poor lad?"

"No; Drabble's interest was to keep him alive, unless he proved stubborn. Then----whew!" Mallow drew a long breath. From his experiences in the Soho house, he had little difficulty in guessing what Mrs. Arne would have done had young Carson proved obdurate. "But I don't think they killed him," he added; "no, I am sure they didn't."

"But who else could have a motive?" asked the vicar, wrinkling his brows. "They left him well, you say, and returned to find him dead. Some one, according to your theory, must have been in the house meanwhile."

"Undoubtedly. And that some one is the murderer. But who is he?"

"It is impossible to say. Angus lived all his days in India; he knew no one in England. Perhaps Major Semberry----"

"No." Mallow shook his head. "He denied it strenuously, and, so far as I can see, he had as much interest as the Anarchists in keeping Carson alive. Come, Mr. Brock, are you sure there was nothing that happened at Kikat likely to lead to this?"

"After thirty years--nothing. Besides, Carson was not married then; the boy was not born."

"I wonder," said Mallow, musingly, "if that bangle had anything to do with it?"

"How could it?" asked Mr. Brock, amazed.

"Well, I understand it was taken from an idol."

"No." Brock shook his head. "That is not correct. Singha gave the bangle to Carson--my friend--with the full permission of the priests. He cured the Rao of a severe illness, and the priests approved of the reward."

"Then Michael Trall must be the murderer."

"How do you make that out? Trall disappeared from Kikat thirty and more years ago. He has never been heard of since. Probably he is dead."

"Probably. But possibly he may be alive; and he may have killed young Carson."

"On what grounds--for what reason," said Mr. Brock. "Killing Angus would not give him the money, if that is what you are thinking of. No, I am sure Trall is dead. He was too restless and ambitious a man to remain quiet; and when he had exhausted his own share of the blackmail, he would, in all probability, come here for the purpose of blackmailing Bellairs."

"Perhaps he knew you were here, Mr. Brock."

"Perhaps. And, so far, I may have been a safeguard to Bellairs. But knowing Trall well as I do, I think he would have run even the risk of my denouncing him, had there been money to be gained."

"When did you see Trall last?"

"At Kikat. He followed me with the intention of frustrating my plans; and he would have done so at the cost of murder, I make no doubt. But I changed the route I had intended to take, and, I am thankful to say, he missed me."

At that moment the voice of the housekeeper could be heard raised in anger--evidently, from the deeper tones which followed, against some man. Mr. Brock grew deadly pale, and his heart beat wildly with sheer nervousness.

"See--see what it is, Mr. Mallow!" he gasped, "Oh, this will kill me!"

The young man ran to the door and threw it open. As though he had been waiting outside, Jeremiah shambled into the room amid the shrill expostulations of the sour spinster.

"I came as you told me," whimpered Trall, clutching Mallow. "Where is the clergyman? I must see the clergyman."

"Trall, this is disgraceful. Mr. Brock----"

"Aha!" breathed the vicar, and both men turned at the strangled sound to see him sitting up looking at the newcomer with vacantly staring eyes. On his side, Jeremiah released his hold of Mallow, and, as though drawn by a magnet, approached the sofa. The sick man and his visitor gazed blankly at one another.

"Why," whispered Trall, still gazing, "it's you--it's--it's--it's--why, it's Michael!"

"Michael?" repeated Mallow. "What Michael?"

"Michael Trall--my brother. Oh, Michael, I'm so glad to see you. I'm Jerry."

The man on the bed stared and stared, but spoke not a word. His face was blanched with fear, and he repeatedly put out his hands as though to keep the other back. Then quietly, silently, without a sign of recognition, he fell back dead.