The Mystery Of An Old Murder (9 page)

CHAPTER 10

the cry from the cliffs

The news that Mr. Bulteel had been robbed of the diamonds caused a profound sensation in St. Mawan. Highway robbery was almost unknown in Cornwall, and to hear of a masked highwayman on the Bodmin Road would have been enough to thrill the most stolid, even if his victim had been a far less important person than the banker, and the booty he had carried off a few guineas, instead of the famous Barmouth diamonds.

Next day the quiet High Street was crowded with country people, who had come in to find out all that was known of the mysterious affair. "Anybody would think 'twas Whitsun Fair," the old constable from Bodmin said to Captain O'Brien as they went up the street together to the bank, where the vicar and Robert Carew, and one or two other gentlemen who had been engaged all night in searching for the thief, were holding a council of war.

Captain O'Brien had remembered noticing a man with red hair and narrow shoulders, corresponding to the banker's confused description of the thief, lurking under a high hedge near Polruan Church Tower, and the constable had been endeavouring to follow up this clue. But nothing had come of it; no red-haired man had been seen in the neighbourhood. If the ground had opened and swallowed him up, the highwayman could not have disappeared more completely.

Captain O'Brien repeated what the old constable had said about the street looking as if it was fair-time to the vicar as they stood together at the drawing-room window.

Mr. Fortescue shook his head and sighed anxiously as he looked down at the crowd below. It had thickened round the bank, and there was much coming and going through the open doors.

"They are in no holiday humour," he said in a low voice. "I fear this is going to be a bad business for poor Bulteel."

"Oh, I hope not!" returned Captain O'Brien cheerfully. "He will be well again in a week or two, the doctor thinks. And we shall get the diamonds back. The man will be caught, never fear. He is bound to be."

"But too late maybe to save the bank, unless he is taken in the next few hours," said the vicar gloomily. "Look at the faces down there, O'Brien. Do you see that woman pressing through the crowd with a bundle of notes in her hand. I know her well. She is the most gentle, timid creature in the parish. But she would try to tear down the doors with her naked hands if they shut just now. She is mad with fear. And fear is catching."

Captain O'Brien peered down at the crowd through his spectacles, and then turned to the vicar, his face very grave. "Then you fear a run on the bank?" he said, sinking his voice to a whisper.

The vicar nodded. "It has begun," he said. "Luckily it is three o'clock already, and there is the night before us. Carew is off to Plymouth. We shall all do what we can, but I am afraid of tomorrow."

Captain O'Brien had given a quick glance over his shoulder as the vicar mentioned Robert Carew, who had just come into the room.

"Mr. Carew has been absent some years, I think," he said. "It is strange that he should have found Mr. Bulteel. Mrs. Carah has told me his sad story. Your Cornwall is not at all the quiet, innocent place I always thought it."

Mr. Fortescue made some hasty answer, but he was not in the mood to talk of anything but what was uppermost in his thoughts; he moved back into the room to say a last word or two to Robert Carew, who was just on the point of starting with one of the bank clerks on his long drive to Plymouth. Captain O'Brien remained at the window, engaged in watching the crowd below. He did not turn round till Robert Carew had gone.

The clerk was waiting with the trap at the Manor House. It was thought best that as little as possible should be known of this journey to Plymouth, as it amounted to a confession that the bank was in danger.

Robert Carew left the bank by the side-door, and walked through the long garden to a gate that led directly to the green fields behind the town. He walked quickly, looking neither to right nor to left. For the moment, he had put his own troubles away from him. His dark eyes had a steady brightness in them, his firm lips were closely locked together. If "Bulteel's" could be saved, he meant to save it. He had not forgotten what Mr. Bulteel and his wife had been to him in his hour of trial.

He crossed the fields at the back of the Vicarage, and after following the highroad for a time, turned up a narrow grass-grown lane, which led out on the downs not far from the deserted mine. It gave him a start when he was nearly at the top of the lane, to see Marjorie running lightly across the downs above him, her straw bonnet in her hand, and her fair curls tossed in the wind. She did not see him at once, and he watched her with a paling cheek. It was as if the past had come back again, and Nell was there before him in her beautiful youth. The girl he had loved in that other life was no longer first with him. The image he held enshrined in his heart of hearts was that of a woman with sad eyes and sweet smiling lips, whom, unseen, he had watched from outside the Vicarage window. But to see Marjorie so suddenly thrilled him in every nerve. He had not realized, the night before, the wonderful likeness she bore to her aunt. She came quickly down the slope to meet him. She and Kitty were staying at the Vicarage, but she had been at the Manor House since dinner, sitting with Mr. Bulteel, who had insisted on coming downstairs that morning, though he still seemed dazed and confused, and had no very clear recollection of what had happened the night before.

"Have you seen Mrs. Bulteel, cousin Robert?" she asked. "She has gone to the bank. She hoped to find you there."

He looked troubled. "No, I have not seen her. I am sorry she has gone into the town, Marjorie. Are you going to the Vicarage?"

"No, I am taking a letter to Mr. Prior, which Mr. Bulteel forgot till now. Cousin Robert, why do you wish Mrs. Bulteel had not gone into the town? Is there something wrong at the bank? Mrs. Richards said something to me just now which made me think there might be."

"Yes, there is something very wrong," he said, gravely. "A run has begun on it. Do you know what that means, Marjorie? All the people who have money in the bank want it out at once, and it is difficult to pay them. Go after Mrs. Bulteel, dear. Persuade her to come back with you."

She asked him no more questions, and would have hastened at once to do his bidding, but he spoke again very quickly. "Tell her I shall be back without fail before the bank opens tomorrow. I am going to Plymouth; they can give us no help worth speaking of at Padstow or Bodmin. When people go mad with fear, as they are doing now, Marjorie, nothing but actual golden sovereigns will satisfy them. Even Bank of England notes will not. And the gold that was stored in the bank cellars this morning is nearly all gone."

"But can you be back from Plymouth in time?" she asked in a very anxious, wondering voice. His manner showed her how real the danger was.

"Yes, I shall be back," he said confidently. He wished he could have felt as sure that he would bring the gold that meant safety to the bank with him, but he did not say this aloud. "Tell Mrs. Bulteel that I am certain to be back, Marjorie. Do not go through the High Street. Go across the fields to the garden door."

He hurried away, and Marjorie went down the lane towards the Vicarage fields. She would have much preferred to continue her walk across the downs and along the harbour to the High Street. But her cousin Robert was a person to be obeyed. She felt quite sure that he had good reason for all he said. Marjorie did not give her trust lightly, but she had given it unreservedly, and at once, to this grave, strong man, whose very voice had such help and comfort in it.

She walked quickly across the fields, and soon reached the door leading into the long garden, a green, beautiful place, fragrant with violets this sweet March afternoon. No sound but the singing of the birds greeted her as she entered it; but on approaching the house a dull murmur reached her from the street, the murmur of many voices, and through the iron railings of the little paved court at the side of the house she could see that the street was crowded.

The dining-room had a French window opening on the garden. Marjorie passed through this, half expecting to find Mrs. Bulteel in the room. But she was not there, and Marjorie went to seek her upstairs. Just outside the dining-room was a green baize door, cutting off the rooms used for the bank from the rest of the house. Close to this door Mrs. Bulteel was standing, clutching the door-handle with both hands as she bent to listen. She turned with a start as Marjorie opened the dining-room door. Her round face, that seemed meant for smiles and happy looks, was pinched and drawn, and the colour of ashes. She did not speak, but holding up her hand for Marjorie to be silent, bent again to listen. The sound of tramping feet came from the outer office; people seemed to be ceaselessly coming and going. As Marjorie listened, holding Mrs. Bulteel's hand tight, she began to tremble, she hardly knew why. Suddenly above the sound of the footsteps came the clear voice of the church clock striking four. Mrs. Bulteel drew herself upright with a low sobbing breath, and then, as she heard the heavy doors swing to, and the great iron bolts slide into their places, she burst into tears, hiding her face against Marjorie's shoulder.

Marjorie drew her into the dining-room, soothing her as if she had been a child. And Mrs. Bulteel clung to her, weeping. But she composed herself, and hastily dried her eyes as she heard the baize door open.

"It is Mr. Prior, my dear," she said to Marjorie hastily.

The old clerk came in, his face as white as his neck cloth. The vicar and Lord Barmouth's steward were with him. They had come to ask Mrs. Bulteel if she thought her husband had recovered sufficiently to be told the serious position the bank was in. If the run upon it had begun an hour earlier, it would have had to stop payment that afternoon.

Marjorie slipped away into the garden, feeling that she was not wanted. She found old Tregony roaming aimlessly about, his brown, wrinkled face the picture of consternation.

"The folks must be mazed, my dear," he said to Marjorie, in a voice full of angry bewilderment. "I've bin tellin"em so. They'm like a pack o' silly sheep. Hearken to 'em out there. Do they think the bank's goin' to disappear afore tomorrer mornin'? Drat 'em, like the duckin' of a few of 'em in Perran Pool. Do 'ee knaw what they'm sayin' now, miss? That the maister niver met no high-wayman at all! Did 'ee ever hear o' sich ungrateful folks, arter all the maister's done for 'em. But they'm mazed."

Marjorie was staring at him, not able to understand. "What do they say, Tregony?" she asked.

"'Taint no wonder you'm muddled, my dear. It takes fools and knaves to think o' sich lies. But that's what they'm sayin'; that the maister's got the diamonds hisself an' manes to run off with 'em an' the money in the bank. Catch 'em sayin' it to me. My missus heard Tregelles a-talkin' of it. That lodger of his put 'en up to thinkin' sich wicked stuff, I'll be bound. I met 'en coming down the strate just now, smilin' to hisself as though 'twere all a bit o' play-actin' got up to amuse 'en."

Marjorie hardly heard these last words. "Tregony, they can't believe such a thing of Mr. Bulteel," she exclaimed, almost inclined to laugh, yet thrilled with indignation.

"My dear, they'm mazed," the old man repeated in a tone of intense bitterness. "But I'm goin' out to talk to 'em again. I come in here to cool down a bit. 'Taint no good to try to argy with a pack o fools if you can't kape your temper."

He went off, and after a few moments Marjorie saw Mrs. Bulteel coming to her from the house. She was not alone. Lady Barmouth was with her.

The countess shook hands with Marjorie and smiled encouragingly at her. "Get the colour back into your cheeks, my, child. I am going to do some shopping in the town, and I want you and Mrs. Bulteel to come with me." She tapped Marjorie's cheek. "Run up to your room and put a tippet on. It is getting chill, and we shall have to drive slowly. All the world seems to be in the High Street this afternoon."

Mrs. Bulteel had shrunk in painful distress from the thought of appearing in the crowded street, but Lady Barmouth was determined to have her way, and she had been forced to submit, especially as the vicar and Mr. Prior both urged her to accept the countess's invitation. They knew why Lady Barmouth was anxious that St. Mawan should see her and Mrs. Bulteel together, and after her talk with old Tregony Marjorie knew too.

They drove to the top of the street and then down, calling at several shops. Lady Barmouth would have driven up the street again, but a glance at Mrs. Bulteel's face made her alter her mind. The banker's wife had done her best to follow Lady Barmouth's advice and look as if her mind was perfectly at ease, and the crowd in the street a mere holiday crowd having nothing to do with the bank. She had sat perfectly upright, with her trembling hands hidden under the fur carriage-rug, smiling at intervals when Lady Barmouth addressed her, though not attempting to speak much. But it was a dreadful ordeal for her to be stared at by hard, suspicious eyes, to feel that those pale-faced men and women in the crowd, who yesterday were friends and neighbours, were ready now to ruin her husband in their selfish terror.

After that sharp glance at her face, Lady Barmouth pulled her pony up. "We will go back to the Manor House," she said. "But I want to see Captain O'Brien, who seems to be the only person who caught sight of that wretched thief. Do you know Tregelles's cottage, my dear?" she added, turning to Marjorie. "Could you take a message for me? Say Lady Barmouth is at the Manor House and would be glad to see Captain O'Brien."