The Merrivale Mystery

Front matter

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Contents

THE First CRIME ; Ts Lapy MERRIVALE GUILTY?

WuHo OWNS MERRIVALE Hatt?

THE FRENCH MAN-SERVANT BANCROFT BLUNDERS!

Chapter III

OTWITHSTANDING the shock of the an- N nouncement, not a flicker disturbed Serge’s

features. He sat there like a Sphinx, and his face appeared carved in bronze. Moreton, aghast at the unexpectedness of the revelation, felt the poignancy of the moment.

‘Are you prepared to affirm that statement?” Serge spoke in the same gentle voice, for he saw the words were uttered on impulse. He looked into the brown eyes with a little glance of understanding, and she was grateful for the sympathy expressed in them.

“T cannot give you proof,” she answered quickly, “because I do not think proof exists, but I know my suspicions are correct. Stephen is a beast, and we are all afraid of him. He has no mercy, honour, or family pride, and he has been jealous of Philip for ages, nursing that hatred ever since they were boys. He hated Philip with all his soul, and I think he hates him now when he is silent in death. You do not know what it is to hate with an undying hate, but Stephen does, for he is a devil incarnate!”

. . She spoke with vehemence, her voice rising in a mad torrent of anger, her whole body trembling with the fury of her words.

Serge waited until the outburst had finished. When he spoke his voice was more sympathetic than ever.

Moreton wondered if the girl had lost her reason with the shock of the crime? Were her words those of a demented woman who is going insane?

“I am sorry I asked that question,” Serge continued with an air of apology. “I can see you are distraught, Lady Merrivale, and perhaps you are distorting matters out of all proportion to reality. One’s mind gets unhinged with a terrific shock of this kind, and in a few days you may regret what you have said in an unguarded moment. Seriously, you have no proof of any kind — Stephen Merrivale?”

Something in his voice caused the ice to break, and the anger melted from the lovely face. The next. second she had broken down completely. She was crying bitterly, crying for the first time since the tragedy had occurred. Moreton moved on one foot, and had he obeyed his desire, he would have rushed from the room. He hated to see a woman in tears, and this girl’s passionate grief moved him more than he cared to confess.

Serge was made of sterner stuff. He simply waited until the girl had regained control, because there were more questions to ask and there was no time for delay.

“You are right in saying I have no proof against Stephen,’ she murmured. ‘‘It was idiotic of me to speak like that, Mr. Serge, idiotic to make an accusation of that kind without evidence, but you do not understand everything. You do not realise what Merrivale Hall is like, nor what has been going on in this house for years. It is an abode of hate— terrible, bitter hate. We all hate each other, and if you went into that dining-room at present, you would get the surprise of your life. No one talks in that dining-room ; we are all suspicious of each other ; and no one is to be trusted. It is only afterwards when we break up into groups that we discuss everything, and then the hate breaks out afresh!”

“I begin to understand,’ Serge said quietly. ‘Some kind of family feud, I suppose, and the years have not softened it. But why are you all living together, Lady Merrivale? Surely this is your home? Surely you can get rid of all these people if you wish! You have only to say the word and they will pack their trunks!”

She looked at him with another glance of gratitude, a glance that conveyed volumes, but her agitation seemed to increase.

“You do not understand,” she repeated feverishly. “All these people must live here, Mr. Serge. That was my husband’s wish, and you will hear it in his will when it is read by the solicitor. Merrivale Hall is not mine, nor did it belong to my husband. We are simply tenants in possession, and we should all be sent away to-morrow if we did not fulfil certain conditions.”’

‘What are the conditions?”’

“TI can tell you no more at present, because my lips are sealed, and because this is a house of tragedy and despair. It has been going on for years!”

“You infer that your husband’s death is part of this tragedy?”

“Yes, and Stephen is mixed up in it!” she answered passionately. ‘‘They are all mixed up in it—every one of them. They are all guilty of Philip’s death. It is a diabolical conspiracy on the part of Stephen, and Philip has paid the penalty of the hate business. . . . This is only the beginning—only the beginning!’’ she declared with a shudder.

Serge folded his arms.

‘Lady Merrivale,” he said slowly, “I want you to try and be rational. Please understand I am anxious to help, but I must get to the bottom of this tragedy. I want to arrest the individual who shot your husband, the individual who murdered him in cold blood, who shot him down without a chance of self-defence—and take my word for it, that individual will be arrested. It may be a question of days or weeks, but an arrest will be made. I have fixed my mind on that. Now listen to me and be sensible. You are English and you understand what Justice means. That man lying there is your husband. You are anxious to bring his murderer to justice? Is that so?”

“Of course you must find the murderer!” she exclaimed earnestly. “I will give you all the help I can. Of course I will, but you must make allowance for the terrible environment in which we have been living. As you have only entered this house, you have no idea what Merrivale Hall is like, but when you speak to these other people, and when you observe their movements and listen to their conversation, you will understand the hate I have mentioned—the hate that seems to cling to the walls of this house. We all hate each other, Mr. Serge!”’

“But why hate each other?” Serge asked, with startling frankness. Even as he spoke he was conscious of the subtle perfume emanating from the girl’s clothes, a perfume that spoke of the woods and wild violets, of love, mystery, and romance. He even wondered why he could not meet her glance without an inner trepidation. What had come over him? What was the meaning of the fascination exercised by this girl? Was he not, above all things, an avowed woman-hater? Yet some glorious music was stealing into his brain, goading him to passion and madness. Even Moreton saw that Serge was affected by the girl’s presence.

“Tf I gave you the answer to that question,”’ she replied, ‘“‘you would probably think I was mad. You would not believe it. You would think we were all under a delusion, that we had all qualified for the asylum—and I believe we have. This atmosphere is enough to make anyone loopy! . . . But that is just the paradoxical part of it. We are all horribly sane and selfish, and what is worse, we are all treacherous. We plan to deceive each other from morn till night, but I beat them all at that game!”

“How long have you been in this place?”

“Something like five years!”

“In what capacity did you come here first?”

“JT was Philip’s secretary, but I am a distant relative as well—a third cousin or something. We are all related to each other—that is just the terrible part of it. It is a gruesome business, Mr. Serge, and you will regret the day you ever mixed up in this affair, It is only the beginning, I tell you. There will be a whole series of tragic events. I have a premonition of all that!”

Moreton, studying the speaker from a detached angle, was convinced that the girl spoke wildly, and for the first time he began to doubt her sanity in the scheme of things. To his astonishment, he saw that Serge was impressed by her words.

“You are not exaggerating matters?’’ he asked slowly. ‘‘You do not mean to suggest, Lady Merrivale, that there will be a repetition of the crime that has been committed?”

“T do not know what to think!” she said, with a further shudder. ‘‘But I have a woman’s instinct, and I feel I am right. I have the intuitive sense strongly developed and, since I came here as secretary to the baronet, everything that has happened I have always imagined would happen. I had a suspicion my husband would be killed when we returned from the Continent, and was surprised he was allowed to live so long!”

Serge reflected on those words, and Moreton perceived he was subjecting everything to a fierce analysis.

“So you knew the baronet’s life was threatened?”

“Yes, and we even joked about it. We knew the blow would fall one day, and there was no avoiding it. You see, we are in the grip of a mysterious influence, and if you reported this thing in the papers to-morrow, the British public would laugh at it. They would suggest our going to a home for incurables!”

Serge moved his hand through the air. ‘Never . mind the papers,” he said quietly. “I shall deal

THE MYSTERY DEEPENS 4I with them when the time comes, but for the present let us concentrate on my questions. I am afraid you are evading some of them. Now listen carefully, and try and help as far as you possibly can. If I send for your solicitor and family doctor, they will both be severely questioned, and I am bound to get at the root of the matter. Your lawyer will explain everything!”

When Serge made this announcement, Moreton was staggered out of his senses, not by what his friend had said, but by the violent laughter that came from the girl’s lips. It seemed to border on hysteria. It came in great peals that rang through the house, that must have been heard on the terrace itself. Serge looked stern, but he saw he was in the presence of a problem, a greater mystery than he had surmised.

“No, those two won’t tell you anything!” she said, controlling her hysteria with an effort. “They are all in the plot, all tarred with the same brush, and won’t utter a word to save their lives.”

“But that is absurd,’ Serge protested, “for the lawyer is bound to speak. The Courts can make him do so, and if he refuses to speak, if he will not tell the truth about Merrivale Hall, then it will be a case for a criminal prosecution. After the inquest, he must read your husband’s will, and your family doctor must give evidence. What they disclose will clear up the mystery!”

She looked at him compassionately, yet her face flushed as she met his earnest gaze.

“You do not understand,” she repeated, “and I am afraid you never will understand. The individual behind this is more powerful than you think, Mr. Serge. The mystery in which we are enveloped is impenetrable, and it will remain that until most of us are buried, then the big secret will be revealed to the world!”

Moreton could see that Serge was profoundly intrigued, that this problem had got him in its grip. He had received the stimulus of his life. Here was some semblance of the perfect crime at last—the master-mind of the century!

“You mean that both your doctor and solicitor are relatives?”’

It was a bold speculation on Serge’s part, but it hit the nail on the head.

“Yes, they are both distant relatives,’’ she assented, “and like myself they are tied up with the Merrivale family. We are all in the grip of this mysterious power, and even Scotland Yard won’t get to the bottom of it. This will prove one of the biggest mysteries of England, a mystery that no outside source can solve.”

That was a verdict which Serge was not prepared to accept. “‘I perceive you are still suffering from shock, Lady Merrivale,’ he said, “and believe me, you have all my sympathy”’—His eyes were eloquent. They conveyed a message of some kind that the girl understood, a message that baffled Moreton completely.

“You are in error,’ she said softly. ‘I never loved my husband, Mr. Serge. He was very kind and proved a generous employer, but you cannot _ expect me to love a man twice my age!”

“Then why did you marry him?” Serge asked bluntly. He was still under the wifchery of those brown eyes, and he read in them nothing but truth and honesty.

“There was no alternative,’ she said enigmatically.

“You wish me to understand that you were forced into this union, that you could not exercise your own free will?”

“Yes, I had no alternative but to marry Philip,” she answered in the same tragic voice. “It was arranged that we should marry, and the arrangement was carried out without any protest.”’

‘‘Who made the arrangement?”

“That I cannot answer.”

“It is part of the mystery?”

“Yes, it is the mystery you will never solve, and the others will not help you either. Our lips are sealed. Philip was fond of me, of course, and I was always a great aid to him in his work—he looked after the larger part of the estate—but I do not think he ever contemplated this second marriage!”

“How long was he a widower?”

“Ten years, but he has been away most of that time on the Continent, and we have rarely seen him except during the last three years.”

“When did he ask you to marry him?”

“Four months ago, and it came as a big surprise. I never thought that step was contemplated.”

“Prior to that date, you stayed here as confidential secretary to the baronet?”

“Yes, that was my job, and I understood it thoroughly. .. . As I mentioned, I myself am a third cousin to the Merrivale family.”

Serge looked at the dead body at his feet and seemed to draw inspiration from that glance.

“Lady Merrivale,” he continued gravely, ‘‘a very great wrong has been committed, and despite everything that has _ occured, notwithstanding the animosity which the members of the Hall show towards you, apart from the fact that you are not in love with your husband, you will admit that this ghastly murder must be avenged. You are the one to see it avenged. British justice will also see to that part of it, and society will expect you to render all the help in your power. You can give me valuable information at this moment; you can tell me exactly why your suspicions have been aroused; and, as the wife of the murdered man—the man to whom you made certain vows at the altar—it is your solemn duty to reveal everything which you are now concealing.”’

Serge spoke without an atom of impatience, and with that mastery of words for which he was famed.

During his appeal, the girl moved uneasily in the chair. One of her fingers twisted a handkerchief spasmodically, and her face showed signs of great agitation. There was something about Serge that told her she was a coward, and she resented that terribly. She wanted to stand high in his estimation, and those brilliant dark eyes moved her more than she cared to confess. She was very distressed, for she wanted to do as Serge suggested, and knew how impossible it was!

“TI will be quite honest,’ she answered in a low voice, a voice intended only for his ear. “T have my own suspicion that Stephen fired the shot, but I am afraid it is only a suspicion. There is nothing tangible—it is just a woman’s instinct—but you will find I am right.”

“You are drifting into phantasy,’ Serge reminded her, ‘“‘and I want you to keep to facts. Let us get back to the moment when you heard that revolver shot, the moment you left the dining-room and went upstairs. Where were the others at that critical period?”

She laughed fitfully again.

“We always break up into groups after dinner,” she explained, “which means that we all drift back to our rooms. You see, we are living here in a departmental state, each individual with a distinct suite of rooms, and we always return to our apartments after dinner. It is just like a large hotel, and run almost on the same lines. Last night we carried on in the usual fashion, Philip, as usual, going straight to the library. He spent a great deal of his time there, for he was fond of reading before the library fire, and he was rarely disturbed. We know each other’s habits, and they are seldom changed!”

“But if you all dislike each other so desperately, why is it necessary to dine together? I should have thought you would have waived convention in such circumstances! ”’

“Tt is all part of the arrangement,’ she said mysteriously, “and we always have dined together. We all meet in the dining-room—breakfast, lunch, tea, dinner, supper—and believe me, those are the most hateful moments of the day, for no one speaks at those meals unless it is a matter of absolute necessity. Even the servants respect our wishes on that point.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Ever since Philip returned three years ago from the Continent. He said something one evening that caused a sensation, and from that time the silence has not been broken in the dining-room. Outside, of course, we meet in pairs and try to behave as rational beings, but it is a difficult process, and life at the Hall is just one long nightmare!”

“But how do you amuse yourselves? Surely . -you do not keep eternally to the precincts. of Merrivale Hall?”

“Most of the time,’ was the cautious answer. “We are at liberty of course to go and return when we like—in that respect our freedom is not curtailed in the slightest—but we always find it better to remain at the Hall.”

“You visit London and go to theatres and dances?”

“At rare intervals. Indeed, you will find us an eccentric group of people, and when you get to know us a little better, Mr. Serge, you will dislike us as thoroughly as we hate each other.”

“There may be an exception,” he said significantly, and she coloured violently. ‘But you go motor-rides, play tennis and squash rackets, entertain and visit crowds of people? Surely you have not turned this beautiful place into a hermitage?”

“We have practically done that,’ she confessed,

“and as regards those other things you mention, we rarely indulge in any of those pastimes. It is true we go occasional motor-rides, and sometimes we pay a hurried visit to a neighbouring town, but there seems to be a general disposition to remain at the Hall, a disposition which we all understand. Not that we have any extraordinary love for the place, but it exercises a fascination we cannot resist!”

“T fear I am terribly dense!”

“The scenery and surroundings are beautiful,” she explained, ‘‘and as doubtless you have observed, we are living in an environment of peace and luxury. Nothing could surpass the beauty of the estate, which you can see for yourself in the sunlight to-morrow, and the Hall is probably the most. stylishly furnished in England. We are epicures of wealth and comfort, and we love opulence and luxury in every corner. We want for nothing. All is provided—even our special servants to attend our requirements. We have spacious grounds and a large park, a beautiful lake and lovely walks, an ideal summer-house and hundreds of flower-beds, countless attractions of every kind, making life a beautiful dream of ease and comfort. Perhaps the exotic beauty of the place accounts for our mad haste to get back to Merrivale Hall; perhaps it is something else, a nameless Fear we cannot define, but always persistent... .I assure you, we are not compelled to reside here against our will, but we are tied in chains to the place, and it has been like that for years!”

Serge was beginning to grasp what it meant, but he continued his questioning.

“And the servants?” he enquired. ‘‘Have they all succumbed to the same exotic lure, or do you find them strangely practical?”

“Most of the servants are foreign,” she explained, “and we are really indifferent whether they come or go, but most of them have been with us for years, and you will find they all speak excellent English.”

“You prefer these foreign servants?”

“We have no choice in the matter.”

“You have protested against their presence at the Hall?”

“Only once.”

“To whom, please?”

“T believe it was to Stephen.”

“And what did Stephen say?”

“He explained we had no option in the matter, and said it with such an air of finality that we never raised the point again. We do not engage the servants. They are selected and dismissed by our solicitor.”

“What is his name, and where does he reside?”

She laughed again—a musical laugh that could madden and torture with its absolute sweetness.

“Henry Merrivale, and he lives at the Hall with the rest of us.”

“Does the same answer apply to the doctor?”

She looked at Serge tearfully. She was doing her best to explain things, yet he was getting angry with her. Her lips quivered, the brown eyes took on an appealing look. Why, she asked herself, did . she want to keep high in the estimation of this man?

“No, Dr. Frank Merrivale lives at Dunseaton,”’ she answered, “and he is the only relative who lives away from the Hall—a reason has never been given on that point.”

“What is his full address?”

“He lives at 2 Cherry-tree Crescent, Dunseaton, is married, and has two lovely children!”

“Yes, Sybil adores those children, Mr. Serge!” a voice came from the doorway. “Bless her heart, she lives for those kiddies, and I am surprised she has not mentioned their existence before!”’

Serge turned and confronted the new-comer.

“That is Stephen!’”? Lady Merrivale exclaimed, rising to her feet in great agitation. “He has been listening to every word of our conversation. He is despicable enough for anything!” .. .

CHAPTER IV r “HE look on Stephen’s face was distinctly unpleasant. It contained all the malignity of hate, all the malevolence of evil, and even

at a normal moment the features were not prepos-

sessing. He towered before them in the doorway, hands in pockets, legs far apart, and everything about his huge bulk resembled the truculent pose of the blusterer, coward, and bully.

One concluded from his evening dress and appearance that he had just finished dinner. Moreton saw that those features somewhat resembled the dead baronet, but Stephen’s skin was swarthy, and it was evident he had gone in for a life of dissipation. He seemed forty years of age, and nothing was more repulsive than his protruding lips and weak chin, while his brown eyes blazed at sullen intervals. There was something repellent about the man, something that awakened antagonism and resentment at first glance, and Serge had seldom seen a more crafty face.

After regarding the intruder thoughtfully, Serge addressed him with distinct coldness.

“Do I understand you were listening to this conversation?”’

“Don’t be offended, Serge,’’ came the grinning reply. “Sybil and I are at daggers drawn, and she has revealed that fact to you already. Yes, I have been listening to some of your talk, and seeing a terrible murder has been committed and knowing the suspicion we all entertain of each other, you will admit I am justified in listening to all details. But I wonder why Sybil has told the truth for once? Perhaps she thought it would pay!”

Serge turned to Lady Merrivale.

“Tf you allow me,” he said politely, “I shall proceed to ask your relative a few questions, and, as you are not on the best terms with each other, perhaps you will leave us for the present?”

He was regarding her with that steadfast look that conveyed volumes, the same inscrutable glance that baffled Moreton, and her eyes drooped before

-his steady gaze. Then she rose, with stately grace, ignored Stephen as if he did not exist, and passed silently from the room. It was a dramatic exit, and Moreton was relieved when she had gone. That girl had a peerless beauty which every man had to instinctively worship.

Stephen swaggered forward as if to dominate the situation.

“What a ghastly place for.a chat!” he exclaimed. “Why not come into the smoke-room? We have the best cigars and wine in Europe, so surely you will oblige to this extent? I always objected to Madame Tussaud’s as a beauty parlour, and I have a horror of corpse-like bodies ever since. Much as I disliked Philip, I never wanted to see him in that state!’”” He shuddered as he gazed at the body, but his glance contained not the least friendly sentiment. It was a glance of aversion and enmity, and Serge noted that instantly.

However, he made no demur to the suggestion, for he was anxious to placate Stephen as much as possible, and the trio passed across the hall to the smoke-room. It was furnished in the same lavish style as the library, with a larger selection of chairs, and the Eastern carpet was more luxurious than ever. Moreton gazed with profound envy at the oil paintings, and he noted that Serge glanced with interest at the Japanese cabinet in the far corner. Serge had travelled a good deal in the East, and he knew there was only one replica of that cabinet in the world.

The fire was particularly inviting, so after Moreton was introduced, the three men sank into easy chairs,

Stephen extending his legs at the greatest possible length. He did so with a groan of relief that indicated he disliked exercise of any kind. He wanted four hours a day in some local gymnasium, but was too obtuse to see it.

“There are the cigars,’’ he said, pushing across a box on a small Viennese table, ‘“‘and the wine decanter is at your elbow.”

Serge realised he would have to change his tactics, so he selected a cigar with deliberation and lit it carefully. Moreton followed his example. He had taken a dislike to Stephen that he could not conceal, but one had to be diplomatique!

“TI am sorry to hear of the family feud,” Sere commenced affably, “but that is outside my range, Mr. Merrivale. I have not come here to interfere in your domestic environment, but to clear up what appears to be a serious crime, and I should like your help in the matter.”

“I tumble to that part,’’ Stephen said crisply, “and I know you are the famous Serge we are all raving about, but I think it is a shame you did not interview me first. Come to think of it, Sybil only gave you a garbled account of the affair, but I can tell you much more than that!”’

“You admit the impeachment of eavesdropping?”

“Of course I do, and am not ashamed of it. I had no intention of letting that vixen get her oar in first. You see, we entertain no affection for each other in this Hall, and I know Sybil has a particular animus against me. She has told you the tuth to a certain point, however, and I wonder why she has been so straightforward. Perhaps she guessed I was behind that door!”

“It was hardly a normal course of procedure,’ Serge said tactfully, ‘“‘but I expect you are all upset by what has happened, so we will let the incident pass!”

An unforgettable look passed Stephen’s face at that instant. His features seemed to grow pallid. Possibly a thought crossed his mind which disturbed him vastly, then he made a big effort at control and puffed at his cigar. He was about to speak, but refrained from doing so. There was something on his mind that blotted out even Serge and the dead body in the library. Moreton guessed that intuitively. He was watching the man critically.

“My next question,” Serge proceeded, “is with regard to the baronet. I am aware that a feud exists amongst all the members of this household. May I ask if your brother shared that resentment?”’

“Tf you want to know the truth,’’ Stephen declared, “Phillip and I hated each other like the devil—and I hate him now even in death!”

Moreton gasped, but Serge remained immovable as ever. He knew Stephen was speaking the truth, and he preferred that.

“T am trying to analyse this hatred,” he said quietly. ‘Was there a scandal of some kind—a woman, for instance?”

“Nothing like that!” Stephen answered explosively. ‘We all know that Sybil is the loveliest girl in England—why, the Academy men are fighting every day to paint her portrait—but I never wanted Sybil as a wife. I could have had her if I liked!”

“You mean you could have taken her from your brother?”

“Yes, but I never made the effort. I have always disliked Sybil, because I happened to know her too | well, and when it was arranged for Philip to marry her, I saw the poor devil had got the worst of the bargain. But he deserved it. I hated Philip more than I hate Sybil, and for that matter I hate every-_ one of them. I would murder them all if I had not a distaste for the scaffold!”