I had seen the body. My evidence alone might send him to a murderer’s grave.
But if, finding himself cornered, he wove a web about me, in what plight should I find myself? This startling thought impressed itself upon me one morning as, sitting alone in my chambers, I had been reading a half-column of “Latest Details” hashed up by an enterprising reporter who had carefully “written around the facts” without carrying his reader any further. There was just a chance that Bethune might give information against me and cause my arrest. In such circumstances it would, I realised not without alarm, be very easy for him to give some damning circumstantial evidence. Yet he could not allege that he had found me searching the spot where the body had lain, otherwise his evidence would show that he had previous knowledge of the crime, and some awkward cross-examination would follow regarding the disposal of the body. No! Careful consideration of any evidence that might be given against me brought me to the gratifying conclusion that he dare not adopt the bold course of accusing me of firing the fatal shot I had determined to seek a solution of the mysterious link that I felt more than ever convinced connected the tragic end of Gilbert Sternroyd with my strange marriage and Sybil’s death; yet I knew not in what direction to seek. The Countess had admittedly been acquainted with her; Markwick had, I knew from personal knowledge, held some mystic influence over her; and the murdered man had known her so intimately that, at her own desire, their photographs had been exhibited together in Regent Street. Either Mabel or Markwick could, if they chose, tear aside the veil and present the facts undistorted; but from neither could I hope for any assistance, for the man had disclaimed all knowledge of me prior to our formal introduction at Wadenhoe, while Lady Fyneshade made perjury the price of her secret.
I had, therefore, to act on my own initiative, as before, and again at this time the strange words written on my card that had been attached to the wreath in Woking Cemetery urged me to still prosecute my search after truth. The mysterious message, apparently from the dead and intended no doubt for me, had read, “Seek and you may find.” That hour I renewed my search with increased vigour and a keen desire to revenge the death of Sybil, which I felt convinced had been brought about by foul play.
For many days I wandered aimlessly about London, expecting to hear of Jack’s arrest, and scarcely daring to glance at the contents bills of the evening papers lest my eyes should fall upon the words I dreaded there to see.
Since my meeting with Sybil and the inexplicable and startling events that had followed I had become so utterly world-weary that I cared nothing for the festivities I attended. I accepted invitations merely out of habit, but truth to tell, had it not been for the keen desire to elucidate the ever-deepening mystery I should have returned to the country or gone abroad. I felt, however, that in London alone a clue might be discovered, therefore I remained; but, although day after day, I racked my brains in an endeavour to form some plan of action, I could see no ray of light through the impenetrable veil. On several occasions I had met Grindlay accidentally, and had tried in vain to learn from him whether any further evidence had been obtained against Bethune. He always affected ignorance, and the only point on which he deigned to enlighten me was that the two men he had pointed out to me at the Empire had successfully succeeded in eluding him.
Dora, having remained three weeks at Wadenhoe, had returned to Lady Stretton at Blatherwycke, and was daily expected in town for the season; Jack had left and gone to North Wales, for the purpose of getting local colour for a new historical romance dealing with life in Wales in the sixteenth century; and, as far as I could ascertain, the Earl of Fyneshade had gone to the Continent. I had not seen Mabel for nearly a month, and had not the slightest desire to meet her, but I heard rumours that she went about a good deal with Markwick, who was a constant visitor at her house. The Earl’s friendship with this man on that memorable evening at the Empire was extraordinary. There was some deep motive underlying his feigned good-nature, but what it was I was utterly unable to discover. That it must be of a sinister character I knew, but further I could surmise nothing.
Alone, my brain ever racked by the torments of this tantalising mystery, I strove with every endeavour to learn something of the movements of the polished adventurer who had been designated as a “vile, despicable coward,” but could hear little beyond the fact that Mabel and he were close friends.
She had distinctly denied the insinuation that there was a liaison between them, and I confess I believed her words were true. If he had not been attracted by her beauty then his friendship meant conspiracy. The conversation I had overheard at Blatherwycke was sufficient proof of this.
It was in a despairing, uncertain state of mind when, alone in my room one afternoon, I reverently drew Sybil’s portrait from its hiding-place and looked lingeringly at it. Her grave eyes peered forth with just that sweet expression of sadness that had puzzled me in that gay little mountain town where we had first met. What strange secret was hidden in her mind? What suspicion, deep rooted, terrible perhaps, had caused that woeful look upon her flawless countenance? Through my brain there floated memories of the past—sweet, tender memories of the few brilliant sun-lit idle days among the mountains; sad, bitter memories of a never-to-be-forgotten night, each event of which was photographed indelibly upon my memory. All recurred to me. The meeting with Markwick at Richmond, his devilish cunning, and the weird and tragic ceremony in that mysterious mansion. The recollection of the house in Gloucester Square caused me to deeply ponder. I remembered that I had set out to inspect the place on one occasion, and the persons who had prevented me had been Mabel and her murdered admirer, Gilbert. Was there any reason why she had met me at the door? Could it have been possible that she had followed me with the determination that I should not enter there? On calm reflection it certainly seemed as if such had actually been the case, even though I remembered there was a board up announcing that the great house was to let.
I locked the photograph away and sat motionless for a long time thinking, at last resolving to revisit the house. I had a morbid desire to again stand in that great drawing-room wherein I had been married, and where Sybil had died; I wanted to inspect the house and refresh my memory as to its details. The solution of the mystery was now the sole object of my life. All previous effort having failed, I determined to revert again to the very beginning.