So thought he then. But now, days after, though still believing Murdock to be the murderer, he thinks differently about the “trick.” For the evidence afforded by the former traces, though slight, and pointing to no one in particular, was, nevertheless, a substantial indication of guilt against somebody; and these being blotted out, there is but his own testimony of their having ever existed. Though himself convinced that Gwendoline Wynn has been assassinated, he cannot see his way to convince others—much less a legal tribunal. He is still far from being in a position openly to accuse, or even name the criminals who ought to be arraigned.
He now knows there are more than one, or so supposes; still believing that Murdock has been the principal actor in the tragedy; though others besides have borne part in it.
“The man’s wife must know all about it?” he says, going on in conjectural chain; “and that French priest—he probably the instigator of it? Aye! possibly had a hand in the deed itself? There have been such cases recorded—many of them. Exercising great authority at Llangorren—as Jack has learned from his friend Joe—there commanding everybody and everything! And the fellow Dempsey—poacher, and what not—he, too, become an important personage about the place! Why all this? Only intelligible on the supposition that they have had to do with a death by which they have been all benefited. Yes; all four acting conjointly have brought it about!
“And how am I to bring it home to them? ’Twill be difficult, indeed, if at all possible. Even that slight sign destined has increased the difficulty.
“No use taking the ‘great unpaid’ into my confidence, nor yet the sharper stipendiaries. To submit my plans to either magistrate or policeman might be but to defeat them. ’Twould only raise a hue and cry, putting the guilty ones on their guard. That isn’t the way—will not do!
“And yet I must have some one to assist me. For there is truth in the old saw ‘Two heads better than one.’ Wingate is good enough in his way, and willing, but he can’t help me in mine. I want a man of my own class; one who—stay! George Shenstone? No! The young fellow is true as steel and brave as a lion, but—well, lacking brains. I could trust his heart, not his head. Where is he who has both to be relied upon? Ha! Mahon! The man—the very man! Experienced in the world’s wickedness, courageous, cool—except when he gets his Irish blood up against the Sassenachs—above all devoted to me, as I know; has never forgotten that little service I did him at Delhi. And he has nothing to do—plenty of time at his disposal. Yes; the Major’s my man!
“Shall I write and ask him to come over here. On second thoughts, No! Better for me to go thither; see him first, and explain all the circumstances. To Boulogne and back’s but a matter of forty-eight hours, and a day or two can’t make much difference in an affair like this. The scent’s cold as it can be, and may be taken up weeks hence as well as now. If we ever succeed in finding evidence of their guilt it will, no doubt, be mainly of the circumstantial sort; and much will depend on the character of the individuals accused. Now I think of it, something may be learnt about them in Boulogne itself; or at all events of the priest. Since I’ve had a good look at his forbidding face, I feel certain it’s the same I saw inside the doorway of that convent. If not, there are two of the sacerdotal tribe so like it would be a toss up which is one and which t’other.
“In any case there can be no harm in my making a scout across to Boulogne, and instituting inquiries about him. Mahon’s sister being at school in the establishment will enable us to ascertain whether a priest named Rogier holds relations with it, and we may learn something of the repute he bears. Perchance, also, a trifle concerning Mr and Mrs Lewin Murdock. It appears that both husband and wife are well known at Homburg, Baden, and other like resorts. Gaming, if not game, birds, in some of their migratory flights they have made short sojourn at the French seaport, to get their hands in for those grander Hells beyond. I’ll go over to Boulogne!”
A knock at the door. On the permission to enter, called out, a hotel porter presents himself. “Well?”
“Your waterman, sir, Wingate, says he’d like to see you, if convenient?”