CHAPTER II.

A GRIM STORY

When Jill Kirby recognized her mistress in the taxi with Dr. Laidlaw, her first impulse was to withdraw with her companion out of the range of Lady Evenden’s vision. But, the effect upon her fiancé was more startling still.

“Good heavens!” he exclaimed. “I say, Jill, does your mistress know that little scoundrel, Laidlaw?”

“You mean the man she is with?” Jill replied. “I don’t know, really, but I have seen him once before. He called upon Sir Michael once. I remember seeing him standing in the hall waiting for Sir Michael to receive him.”

“I wonder what on earth Sir Michael Evenden has to do with him?” Wilfred Barlow mused aloud. “And, more particularly still, do I wonder what Lady Evenden has to do with him?”

“Why, Wilfred?” Jill asked. “Who is he? What do you know about him?”

“Nothing good, I’m afraid,” replied Barlow. “And I don’t mind telling you he hates me like anything. Wait a minute--they’re just moving on.” At that moment the traffic block was released, and the car containing Lady Evenden and Dr. Laidlaw passed on.

“Do tell me what you know about that man, Wilfred,” persisted Jill.

“Well, briefly--this,” Wilfred answered, frowning slightly as at the recollection of some unpleasant memory. “Some years ago, when I was attached to St. Lawrence’s Hospital, an elderly man was admitted suffering from unmistakable signs of poisoning. In his semi-conscious state he told me that it was the second time his wife had tried to poison him. I took a statement and passed it on to the police, who came and interrogated the man, but he completely reversed the statement when the police came, saying that his mind must have been wandering.

“Nothing could be done of course, and later on he recovered and left the hospital. I saw his wife once--an unpleasant type. Just three months afterwards the man died, and his death was unobserved by anyone of importance until after he was buried, when some question from the insurance company arose which drew the police’s attention. I think the total amount of the dead man’s insurance had been recently increased--and that to a suspicious degree.

“The police made inquiries and found that Dr. Laidlaw had issued a death certificate for angina pectoris--a heart trouble, my dear.

“The insurance people insisted upon exhumation, and obtained the necessary order from the Home Office. Upon a post-mortem, he was found to have been poisoned with arsenic--the same poison from which he was suffering when admitted to St. Lawrence’s.

“Well, after an inquest--and an inquiry before the Medical Council--our friend Laidlaw just managed to scrape through. The coroner’s jury exonerated him--to the chagrin of the coroner, who censured him in round terms. I had to attend the inquiry, and my evidence was in constant opposition to Laidlaw’s.

“He had to leave London. That is my knowledge of Laidlaw--a nasty little fellow--a disgrace to our profession.”

Jill was thoughtful for a few moments, then she spoke.

“You know, Wilf,” she said, “I’ve always been under the impression that there is some dark secret in Lady Evenden’s life, and I’m sure that man has something to do with it. Otherwise why should she want to meet a man like that?”

“So you’ve told me before,” responded Wilfred, “and yet you have very little evidence to go on. In any event it isn’t your affair so long as it doesn’t directly affect you. The best thing you can do is to keep your eyes open and say nothing. Far more important at present is your avoiding the attentions of her caddish son, Frank.”

“Yes, yes,” Jill replied, adding hastily, “but now I really must go. Lady Evenden will be back at the hotel and will miss me. Good-by, dear.”

Jill found Lady Evenden in her sitting room, looking perfectly composed. Certainly, at present, there were no traces of any dark secret in her life.

Dinner that night was late; for, the baronet had not returned from the city, and Lady Evenden insisted on waiting. Frank Gough had gone on to Evenden Priory to arrange certain things in advance; so, Jill and her mistress were alone.

At last, very late--it was nearly eight o’clock--Sir Michael arrived, looking very tired and weary. He greeted his wife and Jill, then passed straight to his dressing room to prepare for dinner.

When dinner was served he ate next to nothing, and throughout the meal he seemed preoccupied, replying to questions monosyllabically. At last it was over. But, evidently the day’s work was not yet done; for, Sir Michael said he would have to go out again. When his wife remonstrated, and begged him to rest, he almost curtly told her not to interfere. Jill heard him say to Lady Evenden that he had an important appointment at the Russian Consulate.

Jill had retired for the night when he ultimately returned, but the next day Sir Michael seemed frenziedly active. The telephone bell rang all the morning, and in the afternoon he made a round of visits. Three telephone calls were made to New York, and Jill gathered that some serious crisis had developed in his affairs.

In point of fact the baronet did not take even his wife into his confidence. The fact was that the oil-war was still waging, and causing him terrible anxiety. Millionaire manipulators came over from the Continent to see him, and one magnate was even at that moment on his way from America, as fast as the _Olympic_ could bring him.

A conference was held in London when all the interested speculators had arrived, and the results soon were forthcoming. A great newspaper suddenly changed hands--and incidentally changed its policy. Two other newspapers, which, up to now, had not taken sides, stated a fair case for the purchasing of Soviet oil. Within a week the battle was over--the attack on Soviet oil had been defeated by the tremendous interests involved, and Sir Michael Evenden announced his intention of proceeding to Evenden Priory at once.

So, it came about that, a week after their arrival in London, Sir Michael, Lady Evenden, and Jill, arrived at the wayside station of Little Evenden, where a car was waiting to drive them the three miles to the Priory.

Evenden Priory was a most delightful old residence. Dating from the eleventh century, it was the seat of the Priors of Evenden (“Evenedene,” as it was then called), who had certain far-reaching powers over a wide tract of country. They held their temporalities from the Abbots of Yeleham and the Bishops of Norwich, and great was the early history of the Priory. It was a seat of learning, for many valuable early histories and theological works had been compiled there by the diligent monks, in the far-off days of its activity.

Great had been the charity of the brothers; indeed, it had been made the subject of many a folk song. The old Priory Church, now in ruins, once had been a marvel of architectural beauty. The Priory lay in a grassy hollow, sheltered by banks of woodland.

Long and low in style, like all the buildings of monastic character in the early Middle Ages, it had been added to in Elizabethan times, after it had passed into the Evenden family.

At the time of the dissolution in 1537, Henry the Eighth had presented the Priory, with its rich demesne, to Sir Thomas Evenden, a gentleman of his Court. And, in the Evenden family it had remained since, from generation to generation, right down to the year before the war. Then the present baronet, crippled in finance, and indeed on the verge of bankruptcy, reluctantly had to let it go to cover debts and mortgages that had been increasing through the last two generations. But circumstances had since altered with Sir Michael; and, when Dame Fortune later smiled on him, the first thing he had done was to buy back his old heritage from a plum-and-apple jam manufacturer.

There seemed to be a spirit of peace enshrined in the Priory and in the green woods that formed its setting--a spirit that might have descended from the old monks who, in the long ago, had lived so quietly and happily there. Certainly, under the peaceful influence of his surroundings, Sir Michael seemed to rally. Possibly it was in part the happy issue from his financial troubles; the fact remained, however, that the baronet seemed to take a new lease on life. In the late summer days, he walked about his estate with his keepers and watched the young clutches of partridge that were particularly strong that year. He talked of the prospects of an excellent shooting season. And he and Lady Evenden prepared the lists of guests to be invited.

Needless to say, Lady Evenden was intensely happy. The dark threat to her husband’s life that came at Montreux seemed very unreal at Evenden. She had a curious sort of feeling that if her husband would remain at Evenden all would be well. She felt she hated the villa at Montreux. She never wanted to go there again. Meanwhile, she was happy to live in the present, accompanying her husband on visits to friends in the county, and entertaining the various neighbors who called on her husband and herself.

Jill also would have had a very happy time had it not been for the constant and unwelcome attentions of Frank Gough. Though he never attempted any distressing love-making, that young man had far from given up his intention of winning Jill Kilby.

Many and strange were the maneuvers he employed for getting a _tête-à-tête_ with her. Frequently he would be very disarming for a while. But, invariably, he would return ultimately to the old subject. Her constant refusals only spurred him on to stronger efforts. It is probable that if, in the first place, Jill had consented to flirt with him, he would have got as tired of her as he had got of Brenda Trenchard, three years ago. Frank Gough possessed a curiously persistent nature. The refusals in themselves made the girl precious to him. He never stopped to think of what she would actually represent to him if he did win her.

Jill Kilby divined something of this, and she hated him for it; but she determined to accept the challenge. She would not consult his mother, but would simply stand her ground. He was determined? Then she would show him that she was not less so. Nevertheless, as the months went by, the nervous strain began to tell on her. Only one interval of relief did she have, and that was when Frank went away to sit for his law examinations.

He was away a fortnight, and that fortnight was heaven to Jill; but, at the end of that time, he came back with the light of battle in his eyes and full of the encouragement of victory; for, he had done well in the examinations.

So, with everyone happy except Jill, the summer wore away very pleasantly at Evenden Priory, and very gently, almost imperceptibly, ushered in autumn.

At last the invitations were sent out for the first shooting-party of the season, and amongst the intimations was one sent to Jack, the baronet’s eldest son. It was a pleasant custom in the Evenden family that, when it was necessary to write to Jack, Lady Evenden always wrote the longer letter, her husband sending merely a note. With Frank the same was applied, his own mother merely sending a note, while his stepfather sent a long and affectionate letter.

On this occasion the invitation to Jack was accompanied by a long letter from Lady Evenden, his stepmother. Also, she enclosed a copy of the latest studio portrait she had had taken.

Jack was proud of his beautiful stepmother, and set the photograph upon the bureau in his cabin aboard H.M.S. _Invulnerable_. The day before he left to join the party at Evenden--for he had secured fourteen days leave--his great friend, Basil Towers, the gunnery lieutenant, dropped in for a chat and a whisky-and-soda.

Jack and Basil were very close friends; and, it was Jack’s intention to take Basil with him to Evenden. But, unfortunately they could not both get leave together.

Presently Basil’s eyes roamed over the small cabin and rested on the photograph, on the bureau. He gazed for a second, with puzzled eyes; then he got up and crossed the cabin, still looking almost unbelievably at the features. Jack watched him with amusement--he was accustomed to hearing compliments passed on the beauty of his stepmother--but he certainly did not expect what came next.

“Good Lord, Jack, old man, you don’t mean to say you know her?”

There was a world of horror and contempt in the voice of his friend. Jack sat for a second--petrified. He was on the verge of assuming the outraged dignity he felt, and of pointing out that it was his stepmother, when he reflected in a flash that Basil Towers was one of the cleanest, straightest fellows living. No retailer of foul gossip this; indeed, Jack had never heard him speak of any woman in terms of anything but respect. He made up his mind to “draw” Basil, and replied:

“Well--slightly. Do you?”

“I should say I do--or, rather, did,” Basil replied, taking up the photograph and examining the beautiful features closely.

“Tell me about her, old man,” Jack begged.

“Well, one hardly likes to---- Is she a friend of yours, Jack?” Basil gazed at his friend with a troubled face.

“Better say acquaintance,” Jack responded, wondering what gave him the power to be so cunning, or even so perfidious, as to deny his stepmother like this. But, he knew that, if he told his friend the truth, nothing would drag the story from him. He felt a little reassured now, however. There must be some mistake. After he had listened to his friend’s yarn, he would prove it to be untrue and tell him the truth. Basil’s chagrin would be amusing. It was not quite sporting, perhaps; but, then, the beggar should be more careful of what he said about ladies!

“How long have you known her?” Basil asked.

“Oh, not long,” Jack replied. “For heaven’s sake, man, get on with your yarn. You’re like a confounded Joanna Southcott’s box of mystery, standing there like a great goat. Let’s have your yarn, man.”

“Well, it isn’t a pleasant one,” replied the other. “Her name is Margaret Gough--or was. Old John Gough was a friend of my father, and he was considerably older than his wife. They lived in a little house on the shores of Loch Lomond. I believe there were many rows. I remember going there once with the pater, and there was a furious time. He--old Gough--accused her of meeting men friends, visitors to the district, you know. My pater said afterwards that old Gough probably suffered from delusions.”

Jack listened intently, while Basil poured himself out a drink and continued.

“One night, there was the devil of a trouble.” He shuddered at the remembrance. “We lived about three miles from the Goughs, and Margaret Gough came over in great distress. Her husband had accused her of some improper friendship with an artist fellow, with whom, as a matter of fact, she had been seen once or twice. She said her husband threatened to murder her. My father went back with her. He found the husband foaming at the mouth--he had had a paralytic stroke--couldn’t move. They put him to bed and sent for a doctor. The doctor was away and had a locum tenens, a little fellow called Laidlaw. He came over and saw the man, said it was a stroke, gave some directions, and said he would send a nurse in the morning. Mind you, in all this, Margaret Gough was in a state bordering on hysterics. She did not appreciate what was said about her husband, but only exhibited absolute terror of him. My father ultimately left, and Margaret Gough and two maids remained in the house with the stricken man--who could not walk, mark you…”

Again Basil stopped, knocked the ash off his cigarette, then continued.

“In the morning old John Gough was found drowned in the lake.”

“Great heavens!” exclaimed Jack in horror, realizing the significance of the statement.

“In Scotland,” Basil continued, “there is no coroner’s inquest, but there is a court of inquiry, and at that court the little locum tenens deliberately reversed a previous verdict of total paralysis. My father gave no evidence, but he said at the time that the legs of the man dragged like lead when they were putting him to bed.

“Dr. Laidlaw said the stroke was partial and had certainly affected his brain, and that, in his view, the man committed suicide, while temporarily insane.”

“Well, damn it all, Basil,” Jack burst out, “mightn’t it be so? Why think the worst? He might have recovered and got up. He seemed to be a mad sort of chap, anyhow.”

“Well, that may be--I don’t know,” Basil returned. “But you can’t escape the facts of the figures. At ten o’clock at night the man is helpless--totally paralyzed; at seven in the morning he is found in the lake. The artist chap, who had been a well-known figure in the neighborhood, completely disappeared. Margaret Gough was never heard of again after selling the cottage--and, the little doctor who gave the evidence, which, in my opinion, saved her, disappeared from the scene.”

“Well, it’s a very sad story,” Jack said slowly. “I am sure I would not condemn--off hand. I----”

“My dear old chap,” Basil broke in, “if she is a very close friend of yours, why didn’t you tell me? You seem quite bowled over.”

“No, no--that’s all right,” Jack replied. “I asked, and I’m glad you told me. I can’t believe, mind you, that that woman would do anything terrible like that.”

“Well, of course, I was very young when it happened, Jack,” replied Basil. “I have always carried it in my mind as an awful secret--something never to let out. I wouldn’t have done so to-day but for the curious fact of finding her photograph in the possession of my best pal.”

“You’ve done quite right, old son,” Jack assured him. “And now I’m going to chuck you out. I’ve a thousand and one things to get done before the good ship sails for home in the morning.”

“Good-night, old man.” Basil rose. “You’re sure----”

“Of course, of course; good night.” Jack patted his friend jocularly on the shoulder, saw him out, then closed the door.

For long he remained deep in thought. His cigarette went out and fell from his hand unnoticed, but he sat motionless. At last he rose, and there was resolution on his face. He took up the photograph and, as if speaking to the lovely woman there portrayed, he said:

“No, mum, I’ll not condemn you unheard. I’ll ask you if dad knows. If he does, then that’s good enough for me. Good night, mum dear--see you soon.” He kissed the photograph, placed it back in its place of honor, then tumbled into his bunk.