Horriston might fitly be compared to Jonah's gourd; it sprang up in a night, so to speak, and withered in the space of a day. In the earlier part of the Victorian era a celebrated doctor recommended its mineral springs, and invalids flocked to be cured at this new pool of Bethesda. Whether the cures were not genuine, or insufficiently rapid to please the sick folk, it is hard to say, but after fifteen or twenty years of prosperity the crowd of fashionable valetudinarians ceased to occupy the commodious lodging houses and hotels in Horriston. Other places sprang up with greater attractions and more certain cures, so the erstwhile fashionable town relapsed into its provincial dullness. No one lived there but a few retired army men, and no one came save a stray neurotic person in search of absolute quiet. Few failed to get that at Horriston, which was now as sleepy a place as could be found in all England. Even Thorston was more in touch with the nineteenth century than this deserted town.

As Tait drove through the streets on his way to the principal hotel, he could not help noticing the dreary look of the chief thoroughfare. Many of the shops were closed, some were unoccupied, and those still open displayed wares grimy and flyblown. The shopkeepers came to their doors in a dazed fashion to look at the new visitor in the single fly which plied between station and hotel, thereby showing that the event was one of rare occurrence. There were no vehicles in the street itself save a lumbering cart containing market produce, and the doctor's trap which stood at the doctor's door. A few people sauntered along the pavement in a listless fashion, and the whole aspect of the place was one of decay and desertion. But for the presence of shopkeepers and pedestrians, few though they were, Tait could almost have imagined himself in some deserted mining township on the Californian coast.

The principal hotel faced one side of a melancholy square, and was called "The Royal Victoria," out of compliment to the reigning monarch. It was a large barrack, with staring windows, and a flight of white steps leading up to a deserted hall. No busy waiters, no genial landlord or buxom barmaid, not even the sound of cheerful voices. Cats slept on the steps and fowls clucked in the square, while a melancholy waiter, peering out of the window, put the finishing touch to the lamentable dreariness of the scene. The sign "Royal Victoria" should have been removed out of very shame, and the word "Ichabod" written up in its place. The landlord was lacking in humor to let things remain as they were.

However, Tait, being hungry and dusty and tired, consoled himself with the reflection that it was at all events an hotel, and speedily found himself the sole occupant of the dining room, attended to by the melancholy waiter. The viands provided were by no means bad, and the wine was undeniably good; and small wonder, seeing it had been in the cellars for a quarter of a century for want of someone to drink it. This fact was confided to Tait by his sad Ganymede.

"We used to see a sight of company here," said this elderly person when he appeared with the claret, "but, bless you, it's like Babylon the fallen now, sir. You're the first gentleman as I have seen here for a week."

"Shouldn't think it would pay to keep the hotel open."

"It don't, sir," replied the waiter with conviction, "but master is well off – made his money in the days when Horriston was Horriston, and keeps this place as a sort of hobby. We have a club here in the evenings, sir, and that makes things a bit lively."

"Have you been here long?" asked Tait, noticing how gray and wrinkled was this despondent servitor.

"Over thirty years, sir," responded Ganymede, with a sigh as though the memory was too much for him; "man and boy I've been here thirty years."

"I'm glad of that. You're the man I want. Got a good memory?"

"Pretty good, sir. Not that there's much to remember," and he sighed again.

"H'm. Have you any recollection of a murder which took place at The Laurels twenty-five years ago?"

"That I have, sir," said the waiter, with faint animation, "it was the talk of the country. Captain Larcher, wasn't it, sir, and his wife, a sweetly pretty woman? She was accused of the murder, I think; but she didn't do it. No, nor Mr. Jeringham either, though some people think he did, 'cause he cleared out. And small blame to him when they were after him like roaring lions."

"Do you remember Jeringham?"

"I should think so, sir. Why he stopped in this very hotel, he did. As kind and affable a gentleman as I ever met, sir. He kill Captain Larcher? Not he! no more than did the wife, poor thing! Now I have my own opinion," said this wise person significantly, "but I didn't take to it for five years after the murder. As you might say twenty years ago, sir."

"Who do you think committed the crime, then?" asked Tait, rather impressed by the man's manner.

The waiter looked around, with the enjoyable air of a man about to impart a piece of startling information, and bent across the table to communicate it to Tait. "Denis Bantry was the man, sir," he said solemnly; "Captain Larcher's valet."

"Nonsense! What makes you think that?"

"I don't think it, sir. I know it. If you don't believe me, go to The Laurels and ask the old gardener, Dick Pental. He saw it," finished the waiter, in a tragic whisper.

"Saw what? The murder?" said Tait, with a startled look.

"Yes, sir. He saw the murder. I heard it all from him, I did; I forget the exact story he told me. But Denis Bantry should have been hanged, sir. Oh, there isn't the least doubt about it, sir."

"But if this Dick Pental saw the crime committed, why didn't he come forward and tell about it?"

"Well, sir, it was this way," said Ganymede, dusting the table with his napkin, "Dick aint all there. Not to be too delicate, sir, Dick's mad. He was always a softy from a boy, not that he's old now, sir. Forty-five, I believe, and he was twenty years of age when he was in Captain Larcher's service."

"And is he at The Laurels still?"

"Why, yes, sir. You see, after the murder, no one would take the house. They thought it haunted maybe, so Dick was put in as caretaker. He looked after it for twenty years, and then it was taken by a gentleman who didn't care for murders or ghosts. He's there now, sir, and so is Dick, who still looks after the garden."

"But why didn't Dick relate what he saw?"

"Because of his softness, sir," said the waiter deliberately. "You see Dick had been put into a lunatic asylum, he had, just before he came of age. Captain Larcher – a kind gentleman, sir – took him out, and made him gardener at The Laurels, so when Dick saw the murder done, he was afraid to speak, in case he should be locked up again. No head, you see, sir. So he held his tongue, he did, and only told me five years after the murder. Then it was too late, for all those who were at The Laurels on that night had disappeared. You don't happen to know where Denis Bantry is, sir, do you? For he ought to hang, sir; indeed he ought."

Tait did not think it wise to take this bloodthirsty waiter into his confidence, but rewarded him with half a sovereign for his information, and retired to bed to think the matter over. He was startled by this new discovery, which seemed to indicate Denis Bantry, alias Kerry, as the assassin, and wondered if he had been wrong all through in suspecting Hilliston. Yet if Kerry had committed the crime, Tait saw no reason why Hilliston should protect him, as he was evidently doing. Assuming that the waiter had spoken correctly, the only ground on which Tait could explain Hilliston's conduct was that Mrs. Larcher was implicated with the old servant in the murder. If Kerry were arrested he might confess sufficient to entangle Mrs. Larcher; and as Hilliston loved the woman, a fact of which Tait was certain, he would not like to run so great a risk to her liberty. But this reasoning was upset by the remembrance that Mrs. Larcher had already been tried and acquitted of the crime; and as according to law she could not be tried twice on the same charge, she was safe in any case. Tait was bewildered by his own thoughts. The kaleidoscope had shifted again; the combinations were different, but the component parts were the same; and argue as he might there seemed no solution of the mystery. Mrs. Larcher, Denis Bantry, his sister, Hilliston, and Mark Jeringham; who had killed the unfortunate husband? Tait could find no answer to this perplexing question.

In the morning he walked to The Laurels, which he had no difficulty in finding, owing to the explicit directions of his friend the waiter. It was a pretty, low-roofed house on a slight rise near the river, and built somewhat after the fashion of a bungalow. The gardens sloped to the river bank on one side, and on the other were sheltered from inland winds by a belt of sycamore trees; in front a light iron railing divided them from the road, which ran past the house on its way to the ferry. The gardens were some three acres in extent, very pretty and picturesque, showing at every turn that whatever might be the mental state of Dick Pental, he was thorough master of his business. Tait came into contact with him in a short space of time through the medium of the housekeeper.

This individual was a sour old maid, who informed him with some acerbity that Mr. Deemer, the present occupant of The Laurels, was away from home, and without his permission she could not show him the house. Perhaps she suspected Tait's errand, for she looked suspiciously at him, and resolutely refused to let him cross the threshold. However, as a concession she said he could inspect the grounds, which were well worth seeing; and called Dick Pental to show him round. As Tait had really no great desire to see the interior of the house, where he would learn nothing likely to be of service, and a great desire to speak alone with the mad gardener, he thankfully accepted the offer, and was then thrown into the company of the very man whom he most desired to see.

Dick Pental was a slender, bright-eyed man, with a dreamy-looking face; alert in his movements, and restless with his hands and feet. He did not seem unintelligent; but the germs of madness were plainly discernible, and Tait guessed that only his constant life in the open air kept him from returning to the asylum whence he had been taken by Captain Larcher. With justifiable pride this queer creature showed Tait over the grounds, but never by word or deed did he hint at the story which he had told the waiter. Still hopeful, Tait led the conversation on that direction, and finally succeeded in touching the spring in the man's brain which made him relate the whole matter. The opportunity occurred when the two men were standing on a slight rise overlooking the river. Here Tait made a remark concerning the view.

"What a peaceful scene," he said, waving his stick toward the prospect. "Corn lands, farmhouses, the square-towered church, and the ferry crossing the placid river. I can imagine nothing more homely, or so charged with pleasant memories. Here all is peace and quiet, no trouble, no danger, no crimes."

Dick thoughtfully rubbed the half crown given him by Tait, and looked dreamily at river and sky and opposite shore. To his abnormally active brain the scene looked different to what it did to this stranger; and he could not forbear alluding to the fact. Moreover, the gentleman had given him money, and Dick was greedy, so in the expectation of extracting another coin, he hinted that he could tell a startling story about this very place.

"Aint you fond of murders, sir?" he asked abruptly, turning his bright eyes on Tait.

"No, I don't think I am," replied the other, delighted to think he had succeeded in rousing the man's dormant intelligence. "Why do you ask? Murder is an ugly word, and can have nothing to do with so peaceful a scene as this."

"That's all you know, sir," said Dick eagerly. "Why, I could tell you of a murder as I seed myself in this very spot where we are now – or only a few yards from it, sir."

Tait glanced at his watch with an affectation of hurry, and shook his head. "I am afraid I can't wait," he said artfully. "I must return to Horriston in a few minutes."

"It won't take longer nor that to tell. Why, I've told it in ten minutes, I have. It's freezer to the blood. A murder at night, too," added Dick, in an agony lest Tait should go away, "with a lantern and a corpse – just like you read in novels."

"Hm!" observed Tait skeptically, not yet being sure of the man. "Is it true?"

"True as gospel, sir. I wouldn't tell a lie, I wouldn't. I've been brought up Methody, you know, sir, and scorn a falsehood as a snare of the Old 'Un. You make it worth Dicky's while, sir, and he'll give you goose flesh. Oh, that he will."

"Very good," said Tait, throwing himself on the sward. "I don't mind hearing the legend of this place. If it is as good as you say I'll give you half a sovereign."

"In gold?" asked Dick, with a grasping eagerness.

"In bright gold. See! here is the half sovereign. You tell the story and it is yours. Now, then, what is it all about?"

Dick Pental sat down beside Tait, but at some distance away, and chuckled as he rubbed his hands. He had a chance of making twelve-and-sixpence that morning, and was overjoyed at his good fortune. Resolved to begin with a startling remark, he glanced down to see that they were alone, and then brought it out.

"I could hang a man, I could," he said cheerfully. "I could hang him till he was a deader."

CHAPTER XXXIII
THE STORY OF THE MAD GARDENER

Having made this startling announcement, Dick Pental drew back to observe the effect on his hearer. Humoring the man's vanity, Tait expressed due surprise, and requested him to narrate the circumstance to which he referred.

"It is about twenty-five years ago, it is," said Dick, commencing his tale in a great hurry; "and I was the gardener here to Captain Larcher. You don't know him, sir; it aint to be expected as you should. He was a grown gentleman before you were, and a kind 'un he was; took me out of the asylum, he did. They said I was mad, you know, and put me into a strait waistcoat; but I wasn't a bit wrong in my head, sir, not I. Captain Larcher he saw that, so he took me out and made me his gardener. And aint I done a lot for the place? just you look round and see."

"Your work is admirable, Dick."

"It is that," replied the man with naïve vanity, "and you aint the first as has said that, sir. Oh, I'm fond of the garden, I am; flowers are much nicer company than human beings, I think. Not so cross with Dicky, you know, sir."

"No doubt," said Tait, seeing that the creature was following the wanderings of his poor wits. "But about this murder you – "

"I didn't know anything was wrong," interrupted the gardener earnestly; "I'd have kept out of the way if I'd known that; but I came here one night when I shouldn't have been here."

"How was that?"

"Hot rum and water," confessed Dick, with great simplicity. "I drank it – too much of it, and it went to my head. It isn't a strong head, so I came here to sleep it clear again. That was about twelve o'clock as near as I can tell, but, Lord bless you, my head made no account of time, when the hot rum and water was in it. I woke up and I was frightened finding myself in the dark, – I hate the dark, don't you, sir? – so I finished some rum that I had with me and went to sleep again. Then I woke up sudden, I did, and I saw it."

"The murder being committed?"

"No, not quite that! But I saw a man lying on the ground just over there, and he didn't move a bit. Another man was holding him in his arms, and Denis Bantry was standing by with a lantern."

"Who was the other man?"

"It was a gentleman called Mr. Jeringham. Oh, yes! My head was queer, but I knew him by his clothes, I did. I was at the grand ball of the gentry, you know; it was there I got drunk – and I saw Mr. Jeringham there in black clothes with gold trimmings. He had them on when he bent over Captain Larcher."

"How did you know the man on the ground was Captain Larcher?"

"I didn't, then," confessed Dick ingenuously; "but when I heard as they found him in the river, I knew it was him, I did. I saw them drop him in!"

"Denis Bantry and Mr. Jeringham?" exclaimed Tait, astonished at the minuteness of these details.

"Yes. They talked together for a bit, but my head was so queer that I couldn't make out what they said. But they picked up Captain Larcher, one at the head and the other at the heels, and they dropped him in – Splash! he went, he did. I was behind a tree and they couldn't see me. Ugh!" said the man, with a shiver, "how I did feel afraid when he went splash into the cold water. Then I went away and held my tongue."

"Why did you do that? It was your duty to have come forward and told the truth."

Dick Pental put on a cunning look, and shook his head. "Not me, sir," he said artfully. "They'd have said my head was queer and put me in an asylum again. No, no, Dicky was too clever for them, he was."

"But you say it was Denis Bantry who killed Captain Larcher," said Tait, after a moment's reflection. "How do you know that, when you did not see the blow struck? It might have been Mr. Jeringham."

Looking lovingly at the piece of gold which was now in his possession, Dick shook his head with great vigor.

"It wasn't Mr. Jeringham," he protested. "He was a good, kind gentleman. He gave Dicky half a crown the day before. He was fond of Captain Larcher's wife, so he couldn't have killed Captain Larcher."

Against this insane reasoning Tait had nothing to urge, as Dicky was evidently convinced that Denis Bantry was guilty, to the exclusion of Jeringham. Had the former given him money instead of the latter he would doubtless have accused Jeringham and sworn to the innocence of Denis. The man's brain was too weak to be depended upon; but Tait recognized that the report he gave of the occurrence of that fatal night was true and faithful in all respects. Dicky was not sufficiently imaginative to invent such a story.

Satisfied from the importance of the knowledge he had gained that his time had not been wasted, Tait wished to be alone to think out the matter. There was some difficulty in getting rid of Dicky, who was still greedily expectant of further tips, but in the end he induced the man to return to his work, and set out for Horriston at a brisk walk. He always thought better when exercising his limbs, and before he reached the town he had arrived at several conclusions respecting the case as seen under the new light thrown on it by the gardener.

For one thing, he concluded that Paynton was Jeringham. The reason for Denis being in his service had been explained by Dick Pental, as the two men were bound together by a common bond of guilt. Tait was inclined to think that Jeringham was innocent, for if he had killed Larcher there would have been no need for Denis to have screened him. On the other hand, circumstantial evidence was so strong against Jeringham that, if Denis had struck the blow, he would be forced to acquiesce in the silence of the real criminal – to become, as it were, an accessory to the crime. Denis could have sworn that Jeringham was guilty, and so placed him in danger of his life. Thus the two men had a hold on one another; Jeringham because circumstances were against him, Denis because he had killed Larcher. The motive for the crime was not difficult to discover after the story told by Mrs. Bezel. Bantry had killed his master as the destroyer of his sister's honor. Under the names of Paynton and Kerry the two men were dwelling together at Thorston in loathed companionship, each afraid to let the other out of his sight. Tait could imagine no more terrible punishment than that enforced comradeship. It reminded him of a similar situation in a novel of Zola's, where husband and wife were equally culpable, equally afraid, and filled with equal hatred the one toward the other.

Still this conclusion, supported as it was by facts, did not explain the attitude of Hilliston. Assuming the guilt of Denis Bantry, the complicity of Jeringham, there appeared to be no reason why Hilliston should protect them at Thorston, and throw obstacles in the way of the truth's discovery. Tait was completely nonplussed and could think of no explanation. And then he remembered Mrs. Bezel's letter, and the mention of Louisa Sinclair. Hilliston, according to Mrs. Bezel, knew this woman, and she knew who had committed the crime. But how could she know unless she had been concealed, like Dick Pental, in the garden on that night? Tait was quite certain that Denis Bantry was guilty, but the hint of Mrs. Bezel threatened to disturb this view; and yet what better evidence was obtainable than that of an eye-witness. Still Tait remembered that Dicky confessed he had not seen the blow struck. What if Louisa Sinclair had? That was the question he asked himself.

Under the circumstances it was necessary to find out who this woman was. Tait did not judge it wise to ask Hilliston, for the simple reason that the lawyer would not admit the truth. There was no obvious reason why he should not, but Tait had sufficient experience of Hilliston's trickery and evasion in the past to know that his admissions were untrustworthy. There only remained for him to search for Louisa Sinclair in Horriston, question her if she were alive, or learn all that he could if she were dead.

And now occurred a coincidence which unwittingly put Tait on the right track. When within half a mile of Horriston he met a clergyman swinging along at a good pace, and in him recognized a former college companion. The recognition and the delight were mutual.

"My dear Brandon, this is indeed a surprise!" exclaimed Tait, holding out his hand. "I had no idea that you were in these parts."

"I have only been vicar here for a year," answered Brandon cordially; "but what are you doing at Horriston, my friend?"

"Oh, I have come down partly on business and partly on pleasure."

"Then dismiss business for the moment, and come to luncheon with me. I am just going to my house. Where are you staying?"

"At the Royal Victoria."

"A dismal place. You must come frequently to see us while you stay here, and we will do what we can to cheer you up. Mrs. Brandon will be delighted to see you."

"Oh! So you are married?"

"For the last five years. Two children. Well, I am glad to see you again. Do you stay here long?"

"A few days only," replied Tait carelessly; "but it entirely depends on my business."

"Anything important?"

"Yes and no. By the way, you may be able to help me, Brandon. Do you know anyone in this parish called Miss Louisa Sinclair?"

The vicar reflected for a few moments, and shook his head. "No, I never heard the name. She must have been here before my time. Have you any reason for wanting to see her?"

"Naturally, or I should not have asked," said Tait, with faint sarcasm. "However, I must make a confidant of you, as I wish for your advice and assistance."

"I shall be delighted to give both," said his friend briskly. "But here we are at my house, and there is my wife in the porch. My dear, this is an old college friend of mine, Spenser Tait. We must make him welcome, for the days that have been."

Mrs. Brandon, a comfortable, rosy-cheeked matron, with two tiny Brandons clinging to her skirts, heartily welcomed Tait, and led the way to the dining room. Here an extra knife and fork were hastily produced for the guest, and they all sat down to luncheon in the best of spirits. For the moment Tait banished all thought of the case from his mind, and laid himself out to be agreeable to the vicar's wife. In this he succeeded, as she subsequently pronounced him to be a singularly charming man; while he pronounced her to be one of the most intelligent women it had been his fortune to meet.

After luncheon Brandon conducted Tait to his study, and there, over an excellent cigar, the little man related the story of the Larcher affair from the time that Claude became possessed of the papers. Needless to say the clergyman was much astonished by the recital, and agreed with Tait that it was difficult to know which way to turn in the present dilemma. He thought that Denis was guilty and Jeringham an accomplice by force of circumstances; but doubted whether the existence of Louisa Sinclair might not altogether alter the complexion of the case.

"Of course, the difficulty will be to find Louisa Sinclair," he said thoughtfully; "five-and-twenty years is a long time to go back to. She may be dead."

"So she may," rejoined Tait a trifle tartly; "on the other hand she may be alive. I found that waiter and that gardener who were at Horriston then. Both remember the case, so it is probable that I shall find this woman, or at least gain sufficient information to trace her whereabouts."

"I cannot recall her name, Tait. She has not been here in my time. Fortunately I can help you in this much; that an old parishioner of mine is calling to-day, and, as she has lived here for the last forty years and more, it is likely she will remember if such a person dwelt here."

"Who is this old lady?"

"My dear fellow, you must not call her an old lady. It is true she is over forty, but – well she is always young and charming in her own eyes. Miss Belinda Pike is her name, and I shouldn't like to come under the lash of her tongue."

"Is she such a Tartar?"

"She is – My dear fellow, you must not ask me to talk scandal about my parishioners; moreover, I see the lady in question is coming up the garden path. Once set her tongue going, and you will learn all the history of Horriston for the last hundred years."

"I only want to go back twenty-five," rejoined Tait, smiling; and at that moment Miss Belinda Pike was announced.

She was a tall, bony female with a hook nose, a false front, and an artificial smile. Dressed in voluminous raiment, she bore down on Brandon like a frigate in full sail; and proceeded to talk. All the time she remained in the study she talked, of herself, of parish work, of Dorcas meetings, of scandals new and old; and so astonished Tait by the extent of her petty information and the volubility of her tongue that he could only stare and wonder. Introduced to him she was graciously pleased to observe that she had heard of him and his inquiries.

"The waiter, you know, Mr. Tait," she said, smiling at his astonishment. "Sugden is his name; he told me all about you. Now, why do you wish to learn all about that Larcher crime?"

"For amusement merely," replied Tait, rather scandalizing the vicar by this answer. "The waiter began to speak of it, and I encouraged him; later on I heard the story from a gardener."

"From Dicky Pental," interrupted Miss Pike vivaciously. "Oh, he can tell you nothing – he is mad!"

"Mad or not, he told me a great deal."

"All false, no doubt. My dear Mr. Tait," continued the lady impressively, "only one person can tell you the truth of that case. Myself!"

"Or Louisa Sinclair."

"Louisa Sinclair! What do you know about her?"

"Nothing, save her name," replied Tait; "but I want to know more. Can you give me the required information?"

"Yes. Come and have afternoon tea with me to-day, and I'll tell you all. Oh, yes," said Miss Pike, with a self-satisfied nod, "I know who killed Captain Larcher."

"Jeringham – Denis, the valet – Hilliston?"

"No. Those three people are innocent. I can swear to it. I know it."

"Then who is guilty?"

"Why," said Miss Pike quietly, "Mrs. Larcher's maid – Mona Bantry."