Chapter 7

"THE CIPHER DIARY."

Even in the first shock of this untimely death, though timely discovery, Mallow kept his wits about him. That Brock was truly Michael Trall he made no doubt. For, in truth, Jeremiah had neither the capacity nor the reason to simulate relationship of the kind. Moreover, nothing surely could be more conclusive than the fatal effect which this unexpected meeting had had for Brock, beside whom now the wretched man dropped into prayer and supplication. He called upon him to recover, implored him for a sign--a look. He wept bitterly. Mallow did not molest him. He was totally unfit for rational conversation. Poor Brock--he may still be called so for the avoidance of confusion--was quite dead. Mallow slipped his hand under his clothes on to the heart to make quite sure. The sight of his brother, and the knowledge of what would follow, had done their work and snuffed him out of this life.

"Come now, Trall," said Mallow. "You must try and pull yourself together, and, what's more, you must not say a word about this. No one must know--understand, Trall, no one. As Mr. Brock he lived--as Mr. Brock he died."

"But he is my own brother Michael."

"I believe you, Trall; but reticence, absolute silence on that point, is necessary, if only for your own safety. Remember the Brotherhood!"

That was quite enough for Trall. He promised implicit obedience. "And I'll sit in this corner as quiet as a mouse, Mr. Mallow," he concluded, "if only you'll let me. Don't! oh, don't take me away."

"Well, you may remain there for the present. But, remember, not a word to any one about this."

Mallow deemed it advisable to alarm the household. He rang the bell, and the acidulated housekeeper duly appeared. She immediately lost all control of herself. She cried out aloud, and gesticulated wildly. Her fellow-servants followed suit, and in a very few moments the usually tranquil Vicarage was a very pandemonium of weeping and wailing Promptly Mallow sent a messenger for Mr. Timson, and another for Lord Aldean, with strict injunctions not in any way to alarm the ladies at the Manor House. He determined not to leave the place himself until he had possession of the cipher-diary. Seeing now that without doubt this was Michael Trall, he expected much in the way of revelation from the diary. It is a passion with some of perverted instincts to set down their deeds and misdeeds in black and white, and such documents are invariably to be relied upon. They are usually perfectly unfettered in their utterance--the tangible communion of such people with themselves. Mallow anticipated difficulty only so far as the unravelling of the cipher was concerned. This might prove obstinately difficult, or it might not. But, he argued, there was no cipher invented by man that man could not unravel--and unravel it he would, even though he took years in the doing of it. It remained now to secure the document itself. Within an hour Mr. Timson arrived, and seemed in nowise astonished at the suddenness of Mr. Brock's death.

"Just what I expected," he chirped in his pessimistic way. "Cardiac failure--pure and simple. He was excited in some way, I presume, Mr. Mallow?

"Yes; he became very excited while I was talking with him," said Laurence, evasively.

"Quite so--quite so. I warned him. I told him how it would be. Dear, dear! Most regrettable, but natural all the same--quite natural." Mr. Timson was moved not a hair's-breadth from his habitual complacency.

"Don't you think the body should be removed to the bedroom?" said Mallow. He hardly liked to begin his search for the diary with the dead man's body lying there.

"Certainly, certainly! More decent. Quite right."

So, superintended by the little man, Mr. Brock's remains were carried out of the study. The progress to the bedroom drew forth further lamentations from the female servants. Timson took himself off then. As he went out of the hall Lord Aldean entered. He was full of sympathy, and amazed.

"Poor old chap!" he said, as Mallow conducted him to the study. "Died of heart failure, I suppose? I'm awfully sorry for the poor old fellow. He was a good sort--Brock."

"Yes, I'm sorry, too," said Mallow, grimly, "but not quite for your reasons. The dead man is Michael Trall--not Brock."

"Trall! What do you mean?" Aldean cast a glance at Jeremiah. "Is not this Trall, then?"

"It is Michael--my poor brother," sighed the creature in the corner.

"Mr. Brock your brother! Well, I----"

"Wait a moment, Aldean, I'll tell you all about it directly." Then, turning to Jeremiah, Mallow asked, "Was your brother a good man?"

"No--o--o," replied Trall. "He was clever, but he was not a good man. He deserted his wife and poor little Clara. But I was fond of him; a brother is always a brother."

"Oh!" Mallow paused. He did not wish to reflect in any way upon the dead man, and he was afraid to trust Jeremiah out of his sight, lest in his weakness he should reveal his connection with the late vicar. "I wish to speak privately with Lord Aldean," he said at length. "Go you, Trall, into the next room for half an hour. Stay there, and, mind, not a word to any one about what has happened."

"Very well, Mr. Mallow," replied Jeremiah, submissively, creeping towards the door.

Laurence followed him and made him comfortable in the dining-room. The sour spinster--now a very Niobe--all tears--was informed that Mr. Trall was suffering from shock at the unexpected death of the vicar, and was not on any account to be disturbed. Having arranged thus for Jeremiah's seclusion, Mallow returned to the study, where he found Aldean in a state of intense expectancy. The situation and hints of mystery puzzled him.

"What's all this business about?" he asked, when he saw his friend lock the door.

"It's about Michael Trall, alias Brock, who, I truly believe, Jim, is the murderer for whom we have searched so long."

"Mr. Brock the murderer of Carson! Impossible! You must be mistaken, surely!"

"Well, perhaps; but I don't think so. I will give you my grounds for saying so, and I think you will agree, Jim, that they are pretty strong."

Rapidly, but tersely, Mallow related the story as set forth by Dr. Carson. He concealed nothing, not even Bellairs' guilt. Finally he expressed his conviction that in Mr. Brock's diary would be found the key to the whole mystery. Jim was amazed; still, he could not agree with his friend.

"Murderers don't write accounts of their crimes," he pronounced, decisively; "not such fools as to make up their own brief for the prosecution."

"That's just where you're wrong, Jim. There are not a few cases on record," said Mallow. "I can recollect one, in particular, where a clerk wrote in his diary: 'To-day, fine and hot; killed a little girl in Croft's spinney.' That line hanged him."

"Glad it did," growled Jim, in disgust, "for being such a fool. I confess I have no sympathy for a man who gives himself away like that."

"Perhaps not, Jim; but there seems to be a peculiar fascination about confession which some of these men can't resist. It may be that there is great relief for them in unburdening their minds, even on paper. If we can judge Michael Trall's character from Carson's story, he has heaped up a goodly pile of wickedness these thirty and more years. Moreover, if his diary were guileless reading, he would not resort to cipher. No, Jim, I believe the man has sought to ease his conscience by setting down his sins."

"May have, Mallow; but the cipher's a teaser."

"No doubt. I don't anticipate it will be child's play, by any means. Still, it is a fact that there is no cipher invented by the ingenuity of man which--given time and application--cannot be unravelled. This diary may take days, even months, to straighten into Queen's English; but, sooner or later, I shall master its contents, if only to learn why Brock killed Carson."

"You speak confidently, Mallow. But Brock may be innocent, even yet."

"Possible; but, to my mind, improbable. If Brock be not guilty, I don't know who is. However, it's no use theorizing when we have facts before us. Brock's keys are under the pillow."

"Sure we have the right to search, Mallow?"

"I'll take the risk of that," said Laurence, with composure, and forthwith went to work, assisted by Aldean.

Manifestly, the most promising hunting-ground was the escritoire near the window, at which Michael Trall in clerical capacity had been accustomed to compile his sermons. Mallow first explored the pigeon-holes and their papers, scrutinizing the writing of each in turn; but, so far, failed to find anything at all incriminating. He unlocked the drawers, and went through them systematically from top to bottom. In the right-hand corner of the lowest drawer they found the diary carelessly thrown in without attempt at concealment. It was contained in a stout volume, bound in red cloth, and on the back was written, in ink, "No. 21."

"Oh!" said Mallow, examining the neat cipher writing. "The rogue evidently posted his criminal ledgers with the utmost regularity. Where are the other twenty?"

They were not in his desk, for by this time they had searched every inch of it. Jim examined the bookcases filled to overflowing, and occupying three walls of the room. Near the top of one of them he found, shamelessly exposed, the remaining twenty volumes. The astute Mr. Brock had evidently acted upon the conviction that in attempting no concealment he aroused no curiosity. His readings had no doubt included the stories of Edgar Allan Poe.

"Cheek of the beggar," grumbled Aldean, tumbling down these ledgers promptly; "he had every faith in his cipher."

"And in his reputation as the Rev. Manners Brock," said Mallow, receiving the books below, and arranging them on the table. "I expect there is material enough for a dozen detective novels in this lot. Eh! What's up now, Jim? Don't swear!"

Aldean, suppressing further imprecation, scrambled down the ladder.

"Look here, Mallow! Just look!"

"Watch, chain, studs, and the missing wrist-button," counted Laurence, coolly; "it is no more than I expected. There can be no doubt after this, Jim. Here is the dead man's jewellery. The lying brute--he said that Drabble gave him the other wrist-button as a curiosity."

They surveyed the tarnished gold and the double pile of red books in silence. Then said Aldean slowly--

"God! to think of that murderous scoundrel saying he was a parson. Makes me sick to think of it. Might have lived to marry Tui and me. By Gum!" Jim started as the discovery slowly evolved itself in his brain. "Say, Mallow, all the marriages in this parish must be wrong 'uns. What's to be done about them?"

"We must wait until we read the diary before considering matters of such minor importance as that," said Mallow, tapping the books. "I expect it won't be easy to straighten out Brock's crooked ways."

"Don't call him Brock. Makes me feel bad."

"Brock he must be called, Jim, for the present. None of the ladies must know the truth until we get through these books. Manners Brock is dead, not Michael Trall."

"I understand. But Jeremiah----"

"I'll manage him. Ha! there he is, I expect. Open the door, Jim."

Aldean did so, and Trall, looking white and agitated, crept into the room. "I'm afraid to be alone," he whimpered. "Can't I stop here?"

"We must go home now, Trall," said Mallow, soothingly. "Can you read this cipher?" and he opened out a book to Jeremiah in the faint hope of receiving an affirmative answer.

To his surprise and delight it came.

"I can read it, Mr. Mallow. It's Michael's cipher. I taught it to him when we were boys."

"Hurrah!" sang Aldean, slapping Trall's back. "You shall translate it, then."

"Michael's diary!" said Jeremiah, quicker in understanding than might have been expected. "I see. Ah, Michael was always clever with his pen."

"Been a sight too clever this time," muttered Jim, assisting his friend to tie up the books in neat bundles.

Here operations ceased for the moment, and Mallow and Aldean, with Jeremiah in charge, returned home after a few directions to the deaf housekeeper. Then came the difficult task of explaining certain rumours which had already reached the Manor House. Jim discreetly held his tongue and left things to his friend, who vouchsafed as little information as was consistent with allaying the general alarm. Mr. Brock had died suddenly from heart failure, he declared, refraining carefully from all mention of the dead man's identity with the Michael Trall of Carson's story, and from any reference to the cipher diary. In the lamentations which ensued, further questions were spared him.

"The man must be buried as Mr. Brock," said Mallow to Aldean, a day or two later. "There is no other course open, if the story is to be kept quiet."

"Yes, I suppose so. It will save all trouble over those marriages. Better let him have a decent name over his tombstone, though he doesn't deserve it."

As the pseudo Brock had no relatives--for Mallow insisted that Jeremiah should suppress the fact of his relationship--Olive, as the Lady of the Manor, charged herself with the funeral. So the scoundrel was buried in fine style, although it is only fair to state that he had kept his false name clean enough, so far as concerned the parish. They could not but feel his loss, and there was much weeping and eulogy by the graveside as Michael Trall, of Kikat, was laid under the turf of the churchyard in the odour of sanctity. Mallow thought this was one of life's greater ironies.

"Good Lord!" was his aside to Jim, "how the rogue must chuckle at this mummery if his spirit has eyes to see. He might be a canonized saint for the fuss they make."

"Must have had some good in him," replied Aldean, meditatively; "as Mr. Brock he was straight enough. That I know."

"A serpent in a bamboo cannot be otherwise than straight," said Mallow. "Casterwell Vicarage was our friend's bamboo. But a triple murderer! Faugh!"

"Triple! How triple?"

"He murdered Carson, I'm certain. Brock was despatched by him so that he could assume the missionary's lambskin, and I shouldn't be surprised to learn that he, and not Bellairs, made away with Rao Singha. He was capable of it."

"But as Mr. Brock----"

"As Mr. Brock, Jim, there should be inscribed upon his tomb the couplet of some Byronic imitator--

He settled with a little pious leaven
To give the fag-end of his life to Heaven."

Jeremiah did not attend the funeral. Mallow induced him to remain at home, lest in his grief his tongue might get the better of him. So he sat in his room and painfully translated the rascalities of Michael into plain English--and he taught Laurence the cipher, and Laurence toiled likewise. It was an affair of many weeks--indeed, it lasted until Mrs. Purcell announced her determination to take Olive abroad. At the same time Tui received a cablegram announcing that her delighted parents were on their way to England.

Much of the diary has no bearing on this story, but in the last volume or so there were notes which shed a flood of light upon much that was before hopelessly obscure. One discovery in particular was of the greatest satisfaction to Mallow. Indeed, it led him to communicate the latter portion of the diary to Olive, Miss Slarge, and Mrs. Purcell. Tui the matter did not concern.

It must not be supposed that Laurence gave this information in the precise words of the diary, for this proved to be a hastily compiled composition, thrown together at odd moments--Heaven knows what for, unless for the sheer egotistical gratification of its author. He shifted all extraneous matter, translated the notes of the earlier to the later years, and in one way and another drew together the story of the Carsons and the events at Kikat into a concise narrative. This he wrote out carefully, and one evening, when Tui and Aldean were love-making over the billiard-table, he read it out to an audience of three. So it is that the following narrative must be regarded strictly as Mallow's version--compiled by him from the materials supplied by the twenty-one volumes of the diary, and told by him, in the first person, from its author's point of view.