His own accuser

Front matter

PRICE SIXPENCE,

Se

SAY a

Contents

THE LIVING AND THE DEAD—HIS OWN ACOUSER wae THE DINNER AT THE ‘‘STAG’’ AND WHAT CAME OF IT—THE INQUEST—‘‘ WITHOUT A STAIN UPON HIS CHARACTER ” ous pt ee fe a THE PRICE OF SILENCE—THE LAWYER MAKES A BOLD CONFESSION ... abe wae Hi ie ice A FIGHT WITH CONSCIENCE—SHOULD HE TELL HER? THE GUN IN THE WOOD—WHOSE IS IT ?—ANOTHER SHOOTING AFFAIR—A VOICE IN THE STORM aad THE GUN! THE GUN!—THE REAL TRUTH ABOUT THE MURDER ae aes ae oes ane HOW EDDIE WILDE CAME BY HIS E£ND—HIS MURDERER AND HIS METHODS ... wee Bae $e PAULINE AND HER FATHER—A QUARREL AND A TRAGEDY ave Bat Abe is BGG sen PHIL RAYNOR’S MOST VULNERABLE POINT—PUTTING ON THE SCREW—A DASTARDLY REVENGE—COR-

NERED tee eee eee eee see

PAGE it

Chapter I. The Living And The Dead—his Own Accuser

THE grey dawn is breaking gently over a lonely field on a Somersetshire farm—breaking slowly spice a heavy September mist.

In the field, as the purple dawn penetrates the cold grey clouds, a long, straggling footpath opens upon the view leading away up the slope till it is lost in the feathery mist which envelopes the still and silent wold.

In the middle of the field lie the bodies of two men—both young and handsome—stretched out athwart the footpath as though in death.

‘Bend over and look at them well. Note that near each lies & gun. One man clutches the-stock of his weapon, The other gun has fallen from its owner’s hand, never to be clasped again.

Look again. Look very closely at the two men, One, whose gun has fallen from his hand, lies to the left, prone upon his face—dead. See how the diamond dew glistens upon his ice-cold face and upon his glossy hair: he must have been dead some time.

There is no dew upon the hands of the prostrate man at the right, though it clings in diamonds on his rippling hair. He lies outstretched upon his back as one. who has fallen asleep.

His face, which is turned upwards to the sky, has not the 9 grey-green pallor of death. There is a red fash on n his cheeks, and he breathes, for he is not dead, merely sleeping off the stupor of a pernicious drug.

Never before has Phil Raynor slept like thateom Shep 80 heavy, so stupefying. It would be unfair to say he is drunk, for there never lived a more temperate man. He has been dosed with a drug which some call alcohol and others poison.

See, he moves!

His eyes open and he notices the mist-filled sky. Then he rubs his eyes with his cold, benumbed hand ; stretches out and clutches the cold, wet grass; his limbs are cold, the air he breathes is cold.

Slowly he raises himself upon his hands, and looks at the ground beneath and the pall of mist around him, but he does not see the dead man behind him yet. He can scarcely hold up his head for the dull, leaden pain which weighs it down and throbs all over him.

“ What—what is this?’ is his first incoherent thought, Then gradually the situation dawns upon him.

“Tt is morning—morning, and—last night? I have not been home since—since the dinner last night at the “ Stag.” My head, oh, how it whirls! How did I come here? ”’

Then the painful truth dawns upon him with a shock that sends a blush tingling through him. ‘I must have been drunk! May Heaven forgive me! I remember now.

“T remember they were all standing on chairs round the table in the big dining-room at the ‘Stag,’ drinking health and long life to me and Pauline in bumpers of champagne, cheering with shouts like thunder, while the room was whirling round, and—and Eddie, my good friend Eddie, was there telling me to come home with him, and I would not.

‘“‘Tremember—yes, I struck him in the face. I felt a fury in me like madness—and he called me a fool—and I snatched up my gun and—they took it away from me, and langhed—and I felt the fury of hell within me, and everything was confused, I swore I would shoot him. But how—? Eddie!—you too!”

His eyes fell for the first time upon the prostrate form behind him, and he tried to laugh, but it was a sickly, hollow ve) LS " ee 4 eet? . ‘f ron ~ i

THE DINNER AT THE “STAG. 1 laugh. He half crawled to where Eddie Wilde lay, and shook him gently by the arm.

“‘Eiddie, old man, wake ; we’ve——’

The words froze upon his lips; his eyes set with horror as his gaze fell upon the ashen face of his friend—dead, with a bullet-hole in his fair forehead, from which the purple blood had trickled in a thin streak to the damp earth.

“Dead!” he gasped. ‘* Dead! Shot!—Shot!”’

_ He leaped to his feet and struggled for breath. In his hand he was still grasping his gun, and now became conscious of its presence.

Awestruck, he gazed from the gun to his dead friend, from the dead back to the weapon of death, and then with a flash the real horror of the scene came upon him.

Breaking into a wild cry of agony he threw up his arms and | dropped the gun as though it seared the hand which held it, and, falling upon his knees, he cried aloud to heaven:

“O God, forgive me—a murderer! Eddie, my friend—my brother Eddie, wake! Look up!”

But the still clay lay on the wet grass, and did not move. One hand lay palm upward to the sky, and in the hollow of it the heavy dew had settled, making a little pool, as it often does on things of earth that have no life.

Phil gazed in growing fear upon the silent thing, fascinated with the horror of it, and as he gazed, the light and joy of life melted out of his heart. He knelt there, bowed down over the still form, weeping for the happiness that was his before the curse of Cain descended upon him. And as he wept there rose to his lips a name, broken by sobs of agony—the name of a pure and beautiful woman he loved.

Chapter II

THE DINNER AT THE ‘STAG’ AND WHAT CAME OF IT—THE INQUEST—‘‘ WITHOUT A STAIN UPON HIS CHARACTER.”

THE name of that woman was Pauline Chester, the daughter of the most popular doctor in Ilchester. No girl in Ilchester received more homage ; ; all the young men raved about her; and recently, to the astonishment of many, it was announced that she had given her heart to Phil Raynor.

The young men of Ilchester marvelled much at this. Phil _ Raynor was only the handsome, penniless son of a bankrupt, the son of a father whose life had been spent in fighting a lawsuit, and had died before the case was ended.

But following quickly on the news of Pauline’s engagement came the news of the end of the Raynor lawsuit, and the accession of Phil to the Chesfield estates. Every one was glad, and congratulations poured in upon him from all sides.

Phil and his impetuous friend Eddie Wilde were prime favourites everywhere. They were inseparable chums, the erack shots of the neighbourhood, the maddest daredevils that ever risked their necks behind the hounds, and the leaders of all good sport and fun among the youth of Ichester.

But of the two, Eddie was always the leader. It was always ‘‘ Eddie and Phil,” never ‘Phil and Eddie.” Naturally every one was surprised to hear that Pauline Chester was loved by and had accepted Phil, and not Eddie.

It was decided that Phil must be féted in honour of a triple event—his engagement to the ‘‘ Rose of Ilchester,’”’ as she was called, his coming of age, and his accession to the Chesfield estates and its fine shooting—especially the shooting.

The big room at the Stag Inn was engaged and a ieee royal feast provided. The choice spirits at Ilchester decided, too, that they must make a day of it, and accordingly, upon the invitation of Phil, a big shooting party was arranged to shoot over the Chesfield estates upon the first day of his taking possession, The house was not yet ready for occupation, so the ‘‘ Stag” at Ilchester was chosen for the dinner in the evening.

* * * ** *

The guests are assembling at ‘‘the Stag ” in merry mood, each carrying his gun and bringing with him a hearty English appetite. They have had a grand day’s sport and are in excellent spirits.

_ When the dinner is served Phil is half hustled, half carried to the head of the table amid shouts of approval from the thirty or forty young men assembled.

THE DINNER AT THE “STAG.” 13

They are not all young men though. There is one there, a pale, thin, cadaverous man of forty, who seems out of place among the rollicking young fellows at the board.

Note him well. He is Stephen Markham, solicitor, agent, and trustee of the Chesfield estates. He has been invited as a matter of form, though no one cares for his company. He is the deadhead at the feast and sits near Phil, Already he has been insulted by some facetious young man who has - dropped a remark in an aggressive half whisper about ‘* Lantern-jaws.’’ He flashes an ugly look in the direction from which the words come; it is the look of a man who knows how to hate. .

The fun grows fast and furious; the wine flows not wisely but too well, and as the evening advances the landlord glances nervously at his plate-glass mirrors and the other breakable ware in dangerous proximity to the more rowdy revellers.

Stephen Markham is the only one who does not drink freely. Phil half banteringly, half sneeringly, chides him for looking so gloomy, and annoys him by asking if the friends of his youth never taught him how to drink champagne. The deadhead darts a look of fierce resentment and tries to laugh, but in vain.

More wine, more drinking of healths, more shouting. Phil is beginning to feel he has had nearly enough.

“The toast! The toast! Pauline Chester! The Rose of Ilchester! Long life and happiness! ”’ shouts the deep voice of Eddie Wilde above the din, as, glass in hand, he leaps upon his chair.

One or two of the more sober ones noted that his face was very pale and his strong voice husky. It must have cost him a pang to propose that toast.

The whole party follow his example and shout a wild hurrah. Somebody fills up half a tumbler of champagne for Phil. He does not notice it, neither does he see the glass of fiery liqueur which a foolhardy, half-drunken youth dashes into it. It is pressed into his hand and he tosses it off. The room begins to whirl, and the laughter and shouting become deafening with a noise like thunder.

After that he only has a vague recollection of what happened. But he remembers that there was a fierce altercation about nothing, and that Eddie told him ‘not to be a fool, but

come out and get home.” He remembers, also, being con- —

vulsed with a mad rage against his friend, and snatching up

his gun with an unconquerable desire to shoot him. He

recalls the shout of laughter that went up as they held him

back, and then—then all was a whirl, a blank. And now—— * x * * x

His horror as he gazed upon the dead body of his friend was very terrible. With the first instinct of guilt he gazed fearfully round, and saw that he was alone with the dead and the: morning mists, and that near him stood no witness. Through his mind flashed all the probabilities of the future—the disgrace, the inquest, the trial, the gallows, and—Pauline.

It would kill her. She would loathe him—she who had given him her great love, and told him it was her very life. Was there no escape ?

No one had seen the deed. Should he turn coward and fly ? Oh, the dull throbbing of his brain—if it would only stop and let him think !

Gradually he saw the situation more clearly. There was no escape. Yet—Pauline! He could not face her with this stain upon his soul. He could not bear to think that she would know him to be a drunkard and a murderer—it was too horrible. He must escape.

Tremblingly he picked up the fatal weapon and his hat. With one last look of terror, and one great sob of grief, he bent over the prostrate form of his dead friend, murmuring, “Eddie! Eddie! I did not mean it, Eddie!” He put out his hand to touch the cold clay in a last farewell, but a sudden fear came over him, and he crept away and walked with hurried, unsteady steps, never looking backward till he reached his home.

He let himself in with a key, as he would have done late the night before, and no one saw him enter old Chesfield Hall. Besides, there was only an elderly housekeeper in the wandering old place. He had only formally taken possession the day before, and there were no other servants yet.

Acting more on impulse than discretion, he undressed and went to bed. He realised flight was useless; he would be passive and wait for the next to happen.

THH INQUEST. 15

When the morning sun was well up a labourer on his way to

- work found the dead body of Edgar Wilde, shot in the head.

The news spread like wildfire, and all those who had seen him the night before marvelled, while all sorts of rumours went flying about.

Phil rose from bed at eight o’clock in the morning at the call of his housekeeper as though nothing had happened. He went about the house and the garden the ghost of his former self, striving to keep up an appearance of naturalness andinnocence. But before the day was over he realised the hopelessness of his position, and prepared himself for the worst.

In the evening of that day he received a subpoena to appear at the inquest in the morning. He felt it was his death warrant.

After a sleepless night, he arrayed himself in black, and,

_whilking like one in a trance, made his way to the Stag Inn, where the coroner and his jury were assembled.

His face was blanched to a deathly hue, and as he approached, the knot of idlers outside the inn made way for him respectfully. Some touched their hats, others whispered together.

Like a man moving to the scaffold, he entered the courtroom, speaking to nobody, appearing not to notice his friends, many of whom were assembled there, and seated himself in a chair at the far end of the room. Every one respected his grief, and he was left alone.

Presently Dr. Chester enters, and leaning on his arm is his daughter Pauline. She is of medium height, with the face of an angel, a clear white skin, lustrous, thoughtful eyes, and a lithsome step. She is very grave and pale to-day, and there is no sign of the bewitching smile and the rippling laugh that lingered so long in the memory of the love-sick swain who came under the spell of her beauty.

Phil staggers to his feet. The colour comes and goes in his lips. She advances to him, and takes his cold hand.

‘Oh, Phil, this is dreadful—dreadful.” Tears fill her eyes as she sees the awful agony in his face. He sinks back again in his chair. ‘‘ Never mind, Phil,” she whispers, pressing his listless hand in hers; ‘‘ you have lost hum, but you have still got me.”

‘She does not know yet,” he thinks, and sits bowed down, silent and resigned for the coming dénouement. ‘The blow has not fallen yet. If she could only be spared. How could he get her out of the court?”

The jury are dropping in one by one,.and the coroner oe arrived. He holds a short consultation in whispers with his officer, and seeing Phil (whom he knows) looking so terribly dejected, and the cynosure of all eyes, goes over and speaks to him in an undertone.

“IT hope you are not upset by the idle gossip that is going about,’’ he says; ‘there is no cause for anxiety. My officer tells me that the case is very plain and simple, and there is a very clear solution of the whole sad business.

His cheerful tone raises a faint look of surprise.

The court is assembled, and the hideous inquisition begins. Phil’s hands clench; there is fight left in him yet. He determines to say no more than he can help. Pauline watches the working of his face, and hears nothing of the proceedings. Her tears flow freely in sympathy as she watches her lover's agony.

“‘ How he must have loved Eddie,” she thinks. ‘‘Can I do nothing to soften his grief? Does he love me like that, I wonder ?”

Phil’s heart is throbbing and his brain reeling. He dimly realises that witnesses are being called to give evidence of identification, and he hears the grating voice of Stephen Markham say that he is there to represent the family of the deceased, instructed by telegram from America, where the deceased’s parents are travelling.

A farm labourer gives evidence of the finding of the body; also an inspector of police. Then the landlord of the ‘“ Stag” comes forward and says that he last saw the deceased leaving the inn in company with Mr. Phil Raynor; “ taking Mr. Phil home, sir,” explained the innkeeper.

“How do you mean ‘taking him home?’” asked the coroner.

“ Well, sir, Mr. Phil was a little the worse for liquor.”

All eyes were turned to Phil. He looked down on the ground and did not see them, but he could feel them like go many hot coals glowing around him.

UPR roy pate ho iy Nay F a

| THE INQUEST. ‘air ae

“The occasion was an unusual one, I believe?” said the ~ eoroner; ‘there had been a good deal of champagne. drunk, ‘ had there not, and much merriment ?”’

coMagieine’:

** Was the deceased, in your opinion, sober himself ?”’

«Yes, sir, quite sober. I noticed particularly that, though he usually takes a good deal, he hardly drank anything at all; but he was very noisy and excited, sir.”

‘Thank you, that will do.”

** May I ask the witness a question?” said Stephen Markham in his dryest tone. ‘ Was there anything during the evening like an altercation, or any sign of ill-feeling between Mr. Raynor and the deceased ?”’

A murmur ran round the court.

** Nothing that I saw, sir.”

Markham repeated the question in an aggressive manner, but the coroner quickly silenced him by reminding him that the question had already been answered.

Phil felt the first blow had been struck, and by his own agent, his servant, his lawyer, Stephen Markham, and it rankled. His blood tingled, and he again resolved to make a fight for his life.

He heard his name called, and all eyes were turned upon him. Rising to his feet, he advanced to the end of the long table opposite the coroner. The Book was presented to him, and he took the oath.

The ground seemed to sink beneath his feet, the room to become mist before his eyes; but among all the faces there he only saw one, the pallid, haggard face of Stephen Markham, whose malignant eyes were fixed upon him as though trying to read his very soul.

The coroner, pitying his embarrassment, put to him a series of questions.

“You were at the dinner mentioned He previous witnesses ? ””

Yes,”

«The deceased was your friend—your greatest friend, I believe ?”’

ses.”

¢ You had been drinking freely—were intoxicated, in fact?”

isn HIS OWN ACCUSER.

‘Yes, for the first time in my life,” said the hollow voice — of Phil. Pauline’s face flushed crimson, and she bowed her head.

Dr. Chester shifted uneasily in his seat.

“‘ But you doubtless rernember all that oceurred ? ”

‘““T believe go.”

«The deceased saw you home?”

Yes,”

“‘ Where did he leave you?”

“« At the lodge gate.”’

The lie came out with an effort; it stuck in his throat. - The Book upon which he had been sworn was on the edge of the table, and his hand resting upon it. But he was lying for his life.

“Did he seem in his usual spirits?”

‘“T believe so.”

Phil raised his hand to his forehead and swayed unsteadily, as though about to fall.

“That will do, thank you.”

Stephen Markham rose to his feet again.

“If you have any questions to ask the witness,” said the coroner, sharply, ‘‘ he can be recalled after the evidence of the next witness. Mr. Raynor is suffering under considerable emotion. Let him sit down awhile.”

Truly he was suffering. He would surely have fallen but for the helping hand of a juryman who guided him to a chair. Pauline’s face reflected his suffering, and her heart bled for her lover,

“Inspector Grant, you have a pocket diary found upon the deceased, I believe?”

The inspector stepped to the table.

‘Will you kindly hand it tome? This diary, gentleman,” explained the coroner, “ contains, I think, the solution of the whole business. I will read the entries only which refer to this sad case, and leave you to form your own conclusion.”

He slowly turned over the leaves of the little book he held in his hand.

‘‘T will read the first entry which appears to bear on this case,’ he said, and commenced in a low, reverent voice to read the words of the dead:

‘THE INQUEST. he

# “«« September 12th.

«<6 To. -day I have received a terrible blow. My life is at an end, for Phil tells me he has asked Pauline to be his wife, and she has accepted him. The ‘“ Rose of Ilchester ” is not for me. What is there for me to do but to put an end to my miserable life? ’’’

Pauline gave a little gasp of astonishment, and a murmyr. ran round the room.

‘¢¢ September 13th.

““*T think I shall shoot myself. A broken heart isn’t like. a broken head. I can endure a good deal, but I am hard hit. If I had a gun here I’d do it now. Can I go to the dinner to-morrow and put a brave face upon it? I know Phil is not the changeable man that Iam; he will make her happier than I, but

‘« Here the entry breaks off,” said the coroner.

‘«¢ September 14th. *««T’ll go to the dinner and wish them joy, and then I think the best thing I can do is to drink myself blind drunk and shoot myself.’

‘‘There is no entry after that, gentlemen,” added the coroner.

A general sigh of relief and suppressed whispering followed this sudden change in the complexion of the whole ete aese and attention was again directed to Phil.

He did not see his chance of escape, nor did he realise the importance of what had beenread. He knew Eddie’s temperament, and they did not. He knew very well that Eddie was the sort of fellow to make entries like that in his diary after losing his last fiver on a racehorse. He had heard him threaten to shoot himself in almost these very words because the weather was bad and he couldn’t go hunting.

It was his ordinary exaggerated vernacular. He wasa youth of variable mood, his spirits up one minute and down the next. Phil himself never for a moment credited the theory of suicide,

ZAC ay Spt,

20 HIS OWN ACCUSE#.

i though it was at once fully accepted by everybody.* Pauline buried her face in her hands, and the sound of her gobs oe, silenced the hubbub in court, and added to Phil’s sufferings till he could almost have shrieked aloud, ‘‘I—Z am the mur- * derer!”’ but he sat still like one stunned.

Dr. Chester, who was much moved by his daughter’s grief, gave his medical evidence labouring under strong emotion. The coroner cut it as short as possible, and there remained nothing but the verdict of the jury.

A lot of talking and whispering and asking of questions, and passing to and fro of blue papers and the pocket diary for a few minutes. And then one man stood up and spoke to the coroner a few words, and Phil realised that the proceedings were over, the jury having decided unanimously that Edgar Wilde had committed suicide whilst in a state of unsound mind, and that Mr. Phil Raynor left the court without a stain upon his character.

The words cut into his heart like knives. He stood up as if about to speak. But his last chance of unburdening his conscience was gone. He was hustled to and fro in the breaking up of the court; a few friends crowded round him and shook him by the hand; Pauline slipped hers into his and spoke to him, but he did not hear what she said. At last he managed to say that he wished to be completely alone; and, respecting what seemed to Dr. Chester his great grief, Pauline was drawn __ away by her father, and Phil left to himself,

Stunned and trembling, he turned to leave the place, but at the door he was met by Stephen Markham, who extended his hand with a sneering smile. Phil took it mechanically. I¢ was ag cold as his own.

‘‘ Allow me, Mr. Raynor, to congratulate you on your narrow escape,’ said Markham, with an emphasis upon the last words that was full of meaning.

Phil looked into the snake-like eyes of the man whom from ° that moment he knew to be his master. The man had read the truth, and held his secret.

Better’ for Phil would it have been to have unburdened his _ soul then ; better for Pauline, for Stephen Markham had his own game to play.

Outside the inn an immense concourse of people had

* THE INQUEST. © v1 assembled. All sorts of rumours had been flying about. It had been freely circulated that Mr. Phil Raynor, the new Squire of Chesfield, had murdered his friend Eddie Wilde ; again, that

_ Mr. Wilde had committed suicide; others heard that his death was caused by an accident. Consequently a great crowd had come in from all the country round to obtain reliable information.

The result of the inquest already was communicated to them, and the sigh of relief that went up from everybody showed how unwelcome would have been a verdict of wilful murder against so estimable a young man as Phil Raynor.

Few had really credited the rumour. Nevertheless, the suspense had been so great that wlen Phil, with ashen face and bloodshot eyes, emerged from the inn, the crowd, despite the solemnity of the occasion, sent up a great cheer. Only one -half-suppressed cheer, for the voices were stilled by the sight of the grief-stricken youth.

Phil stared guiltily at the greeting. The innumerable eyes in that unexpected crowd of faces seemed to scorch him. He longed to turn back and hide himself. But many of the young men in the front of the crowd were his friends, and they hurried up to him and shook him heartily by the hand.

“‘ Bravo, Phil!” cried the first one to grasp his hand. | ‘‘ We knew it was all an infernal lie.”’ \ . Teft the court without a stain on his character,” said another. :

“So you have, Phil! so you have!” cried half a dozen ~ others.

“The idea of anybody suspecting yow of shooting Eddie Wilde! Preposterous!”

The crowd in the road, seeing the young man on the steps of the inn congratulated by at least a dozen friends, all doing their best to shake his arms off, were anxious to express their sense of apology due to him. It took the form of a buzz of conversation, and a loud murmur of indignation against the persons who had circulated the infamous report. They were as ready to honour him now as they would have been to revile him had he emerged from the inn in custody of the police as some had expected.

“Left the court without a stain on his character.” The

“iy

99 HIS OWN ACCUSER. Cue

5 Piet sentence went rapidly from mouth to mouth, Phil heard it, IM and it stung him like a lash.

“Come away out of this. Come inside and haye something i to drink, you're upset,’’ said a voice at his elbow. He felt the hand of Stephen Markham placed upon his arm, and like a child allowed himself to be drawn inside out of sight of the crowd. Markham motioned back the friends who were about — to follow.

‘‘ This is not a merry-making, gentlemen,” he snapped out. “There is a dead body upstairs.”

Had Phil remained there another moment he would have been goaded to madness—would have struck aside his effusive friends, and shrieked to the crowd, ‘It is true! itis true! I¢ was I who murdered Eddie Wilde! Reyile me; tear me to pieces; take me away !”’

But the voice of Stephen Markham brought back his senses like cold water dashed in his face.

“Take something strong to drink,” said Markham, as soon as they were alone; ‘in another moment you would have said something and committed yourself.”