The Lost Parchment E-Book

Fergus Hume

• Herausgeber: Publisher s11838
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

The Lost Parchment: A Detective Story written by Fergus Hume who  was a prolific English novelist.  This book is one of many works of him. It has already Published in 1914. Now republish in ebook format. We believe this work is culturally important in its original archival form. While we strive to adequately clean and digitally enhance the original work, there are occasionally instances where imperfections such as blurred or missing pages, poor pictures or errant marks may have been introduced due to either the quality of the original work. Despite these occasional imperfections, we have brought it back into print as part of our ongoing global book preservation commitment, providing customers with access to the best possible historical reprints. We appreciate your understanding of these occasional imperfections, and sincerely hope you enjoy reading this book.

Leseprobe

The Lost Parchment

A Detective Story

By

Fergus Hume

Table of Contents

CHAPTER I. SCHOOLFELLOWS

CHAPTER II. THE VICAR

CHAPTER III. LOVERS

CHAPTER IV. THE COTTAGE

HAPTER V. A REVELATION

CHAPTER VI. COUNSEL'S OPINION

CHAPTER VII. A NINE DAYS' WONDER

CHAPTER VIII. MALLIEN SPEAKS

CHAPTER IX. A SERIOUS POSITION

CHAPTER X. DORINDA

CHAPTER XI. CARRINGTON'S ADVICE

CHAPTER XII. ON THE TRACK

CHAPTER XIII. CONFESSION

CHAPTER XIV. A CLUE

CHAPTER XV. CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE

CHAPTER XVI. A NEW WITNESS

CHAPTER XVII. DIFFICULTIES

CHAPTER XVIII. SETTING A TRAP

CHAPTER XIX. RESURGAM

CHAPTER XX. A WEIRD STORY

CHAPTER XXI. A FINAL SURPRISE

CHAPTER I. SCHOOLFELLOWS

"So this is your kingdom, Hendle?" said the visitor, looking round the garden which glowed with rainbow tints in the hot July sunshine; "and a very jolly kingdom it is. When did you enter into it?"

"When I was fifteen, twelve years ago," replied the Squire, smiling. "Don't you remember how I wrote and told you of the death of my father? You had just left school for the 'Varsity. Those were capital days at Rugby, weren't they, Carrington?"

"They were. I have had few capital days since."

"But surely at Oxford——"

Carrington shrugged his shoulders and made a frank admission. "Oh, yes! Oxford was all right until my father died and left me without a sixpence. It was hard work, I can tell you, qualifying for the Bar on next to nothing. And I can't say that I have made my fortune as a barrister. You, lucky dog, don't need to bother about pounds, shillings, and pence."

"I have certainly nothing to complain of on that score," said Hendle in a satisfied tone and extending his cigarette case. "It was a pity we drifted apart, Carrington, as we were such chums at Rugby. I might have helped you."

"You were always a good chap, Hendle, and that is why I took to you, when we were in our teens. But we saw nothing of each other all these years because you had money and I hadn't. Besides, you went to Cambridge, while I patronized Oxford. It is my fault that our friendship has not continued unbroken, as I never answered your many letters. But you see I was always too much involved in law studies to bother. You, I presume, were looking after your snug little kingdom."

Hendle nodded. "I am a very stay-at-home person, and the place requires a good deal of supervision."

"Lucky dog!" repeated the barrister. "You have a fine income, too."

"So-so. Four thousand a year."

"The deuce! And, like Bottom, I support life on sixpence a day, which, unlike Bottom, I have to earn. There is no Theseus to give me a pension."

"You didn't seem to be so very hard up when I met you six months ago in the Criterion Restaurant," said the young squire dryly.

"Oh, one has to keep up some sort of appearance and dress in purple and fine linen, even if one cannot afford to do so," answered Carrington easily. "It is only your rich man who can dispense with Solomon-in-all-his-glory raiment, old fellow. Anyhow, poor or rich, I was delighted to meet you again."

"Were you?" Hendle appeared to be a trifle sceptical. "You didn't hurry yourself to come down to Barship anyhow."

"I didn't; that's a fact. I thought you might fancy that I would borrow, if I came too speedily. Hence the six months' hesitation."

"Oh, rot! You know that I'm not the sort of fellow to grudge a loan to an old school chum if he asks for it."

"You were always a good chap, Hendle," said Carrington again. "But I am not going to ask. I have bread and butter, if not jam, and one must be grateful for the necessities of life in these hard times."

Hendle nodded with a lazy laugh and the young men lighted fresh cigarettes as they crossed the lawn to gain the avenue which sloped gradually for a quarter of a mile in the direction of the village. Behind them they left a delightfully ugly mansion of Georgian architecture mellowed by time into positive beauty. The Big House—its local name—draped itself majestically in dark trailing ivy, showing here and there the bland softened hue of its ruddy brick walls.

"My mind to me a kingdom is," quoted Carrington with a backward glance at the peace and beauty they were leaving. "A poetic, but truly unsatisfactory saying, Hendle. Your acres are a more tangible possession than the stuff of which dreams are made. Let us go hence."

The Squire in his simple honesty laughed at the fantastic remarks of his visitor, not guessing that a considerable amount of acid envy underlay the amiable compliments. Hendle was one of those honorable, good-natured creatures, who believed that his fellow-men were as open-minded and straightforward as he was himself. His florid complexion, fair crisp hair, big limbs and general air of latent strength revealed plainly his Saxon ancestry, and he resembled a good-natured bull content with plentiful grass and water and the freedom of wide meadows. He was markedly good-looking, with sleepy blue eyes and a heavy moustache of a russet hue, which he usually tugged at to help on his slow-moving thoughts. His name, Rupert, suggested swift dash and impetuous daring. But there was nothing of these things about this somewhat drowsy giant, although he had ample courage when necessary. It took much to rouse him, but once the dam of his self-restraint broke, everything and everyone were swept away like straws in a torrent of Berserk fury. When Rupert did fight, nothing could stand against his enormous physical power; and the use of this, being tempered by strong common-sense, invariably gained him the victory. But he usually preferred peace to war, and it took much to stimulate his passions to an outbreak.

Dean Carrington himself was to his friend like a Georgian rapier to a Crusader's sword. He was small and lean, quick-witted and nimble, with dark hair and dark eyes and a swarthy complexion. His clean-shaven face with its regular features and keen expression suggested the born intriguer, who gained his ends rather by cunning than force. Always perfectly dressed, always amiable, an accomplished squire-of-dames, well-read and yet a man-of-the-world, Carrington was the exact opposite of Hendle, and perhaps had made him his friend because of the vast difference in their natures. Having a more alert though not a stronger mind, he dominated Rupert in a most dexterous manner, never showing the iron hand without its velvet glove. Nevertheless, this ascendency had been achieved at Rugby, and owed its strength to the admiration of the dull boy for the clever boy; to the hero-worship of the younger for the older. But if Carrington was now thirty, Rupert was now twenty-seven, and might not be so easily mastered, presuming, as might be the case, the latter had developed qualities with which the former could not cope. This remained to be seen, and it was to see, that Carrington had come down for a Saturday to Monday rest. Now that he judged Rupert to be much the same and saw how luxurious were his surroundings, the astute barrister determined to reëstablish his sway over a wealthy friend too long neglected. Therefore he made himself delightfully agreeable. He had spent Saturday and Sunday with the Squire, and now was strolling through the village on Monday afternoon, before catching the evening train. So far, owing to Rupert's frank intimacy, he foresaw no obstacle to his making use of the young man. But there was one possibility to be reckoned with, which had to be looked into, and this Carrington approached in a roundabout manner, after his usual custom.

"A delightful place," said the barrister with a sigh of pleasure, as they sauntered along the cobblestone street, with its quaint houses on either side. "You are a king here. When you conduct the queen to the throne at the Big House, the serfs will lie down and allow you both to walk over them."

"I haven't any wish to walk over them," said Hendle, shrugging his mighty shoulders, "and I don't think the villagers would like to hear you call them serfs, Carrington."

"Pooh! They wouldn't know the meaning of the word. And, after all, it is only my picturesque way of speaking. But you evade my question."

"I didn't know you asked any. You simply made a remark."

"The Lord mend your wit, then. I must be plain, I see. What about a wife?"

"Oh, that's all arranged for," replied the Squire stolidly, and with never a blush, so matter-of-fact was he.

"And you never told me," murmured Carrington reproachfully.

"You never asked me."

"No," said the other, wondering at this phlegmatic nature. "I didn't." Then he lapsed into musing, and Rupert, never a talker at the best of times, strode beside him silent and comfortably happy.

So the possibility had become a probability, and a feminine influence had to be reckoned with after all. This was what Carrington had dreaded, and he blamed himself for not having asked the question before. Had he done so, he might have been introduced to the lady and then would have been able to judge what sort of a marplot she would prove to be. However, he hoped to meet her when he next came down, which would be very soon, and meanwhile, true to his plan of campaign, he laughed amiably at Rupert's reticence.

"You always did take things stolidly at school, Hendle," he said, arching his finely penciled eyebrows, "and you have not changed in this respect. Who is she?"

"My cousin—a third or fourth cousin. We have known each other all our lives, and that is why we know we will be happy."

"Familiarity doesn't breed contempt in this case, then," said the barrister lightly. "As you have known her all her life, I presume she lives hereabouts?"

"Oh, yes. At the other end of the village."

"I should like to see her," suggested Carrington persuasively.

"Next time you come down you shall. I shall ask her father and Dorinda to dinner at the Big House."

"Who is her father?"

"A second or third cousin of mine."

"What is his name?"

"Mallien—Julius Mallien."

"I am little the wiser," said the barrister ironically, "and I don't want to exercise my profession of cross-examining people in the country. Can't you give me details?"

"I am," said the other, slightly surprised. "I am giving you details."

"Yes, when I ask you incessant questions. But make some sort of a speech. I want to know what kind of a person Mallien is; I want a description of the lady; I desire to learn what the father does, and if he will give his daughter a dowry. In fact, I wish to know all about it, as naturally I take the greatest interest in the welfare of my old school chum."

"Good old man," said Rupert, giving Carrington's arm so affectionate a squeeze that the barrister winced with the pain. "Well, Mallien's a beast, like Timon of Athens—you remember the play we read at school. I don't like Mallien, as he's always grousing at everyone and everything."

"You give me the key to his character by mentioning Timon. Your future father-in-law is a misanthrope."

Rupert nodded. "Very much so. And Dorinda is——"

"An angel. I know what you are about to say."

"I don't think you do. Dorinda is a good sort."

"Is that all the praise you can bestow on your future wife?"

"It's all she wants. Dorinda doesn't like compliments."

"What an unnatural girl!" laughed Carrington, "and her looks?"

Hendle filled his pipe while he replied and halted in the village square while he did so. "She's got black hair and blue eyes and a ripping figure and is heaps cleverer than I am."

"What a bald description! Has she two eyes and a nose with a mouth under it?"

"How you chaff, Carrington. However, when you come down again, you will see Dorinda for herself. Hallo, here's Kit."

"Who is Kit?" questioned the other, as a smart motor car slipped easily out of the crooked street to halt in the square, as the village green was grandiloquently entitled.

"The son of my housekeeper, Mrs. Beatson."

"That sour-looking woman with the hard eye?"

"The same. She has been hammered hard by misfortune, but is a lady born and bred for all that. Morning, Kit."

"Good morning, Squire. Hot, isn't it? I can only get some sort of wind by running the machine at top speed."

"You'll be roped in by the police if you don't mind your eye, Kit. My friend, Mr. Dean Carrington. This is Mr. Christopher Beatson, Carrington. He's a reckless hero, who plays with the whiskers of death on all and every occasion."

"That is the habit of the present generation," said Carrington, with a nod to the handsome young fellow in the car. "Motors, aeroplanes, scenic railways and looping-the-loop. Youth enjoys nothing nowadays unless it has in it an element of danger. To go out and never know if you will be home to supper, Mr. Beatson: that is your delight."

"There is much truth in what you say, Mr. Carrington," returned Kit, laughing. "After all, it's life."

"This is the frantic age," said Hendle sententiously. "How's business, Kit?"

"Ripping! I sold three cars last week on behalf of the firm. One to a lady."

"Who was taken with your good looks, I suppose. Take care Miss Tollart doesn't grow jealous, Kit."

"You will have your joke, Mr. Hendle," answered Beatson, his bronzed skin growing crimson and his brown eyes sparkling. "But Sophy knows that I have to play up to the customers to get the stuff sold." He turned from the wheel to look round generally. "Have you seen her? She's to meet me here and go with me for a spin."

Just then Miss Tollart appeared hurrying to the rendezvous as fast as her hobble-skirt would permit. She revealed herself as a fine-looking and decidedly flamboyant young woman with an independent air which suggested the suffragist. It could easily be seen, and by a less observant person than Carrington, that Kit would be known as "Mrs. Beatson's husband" when the ring was on the lady's finger. His chin betrayed a rather weak nature, and his eyes had much too kind a look in them to hint at mastery, while the tall black-browed young woman, who swung toward the group with the air of conquering Semiramis, appeared quite capable of dominating an empire, much less a husband. Carrington did not envy Kit's approaching connubial bliss.

"Mr. Carrington, Miss Tollart," said the Squire, introducing his friend to the new arrival. "Carrington, Miss Tollart is the daughter of our doctor."

Sophy winced at the mention of her father and Carrington wondered why she should. However, the emotion passed in a flash and Miss Tollart inspected the barrister much as a naturalist inspects a microbe under the microscope. The sniff with which she concluded her scrutiny hinted at dissatisfaction, if not at contempt. But then Sophy as an ardent suffragist never did think much of the male, and straightway flew her colors in the face of this particular one. "I am going to Elbowsham to speak at a meeting, Squire. Have I your good wishes?"

"That you will come home safe and sound?" queried Hendle with twinkling eyes. "You have. Don't insult the crowd more than you can help, Miss Tollart."

"I shall not conceal my opinions," retorted the lady, tightening her lips.

"Ah!" Carrington looked her up and down, "in that case I am glad Mr. Beatson and his car will be at hand to rescue you."

"I can fight my own battles," said Miss Tollart coolly. "But I see that you don't believe in Votes for Women."

"My dear lady," replied Carrington smoothly, "when I am in your presence I believe in anything you like to advance."

Sophy sniffed. "Hedging!" she observed aggressively. "Men never can give a straight answer. I only wish," she continued as she turned to Hendle, "that I could infect Dorinda with my ardor. But she won't uphold the banner, and sulks in her tent."

"I am afraid that I have exhausted all my persuasive power in inducing her to join me as my future wife," said the Squire politely.

Sophy nodded her approval. "Dorinda's a nice girl and a good girl, and a very pretty girl," she said, in her deep-toned voice, "but she is as weak as any man in this village. As weak as you are, Squire, as the vicar, as my father, and you know what he is." She winced again, then turned aggressively on Kit. "But I can't stay here all day, as the meeting at Elbowsham is waiting. Five miles, Kit; you must do it in five minutes."

"What about the police?" asked Carrington.

"I despise the police," cried Miss Tollart, as she was borne away hurriedly by her lover to prevent further trouble. "They know me."

Carrington looked leisurely after the machine until it vanished and Sophy's trumpet tones of defiance died away. "What an uncomfortable young woman," he observed, turning toward his friend.

"Oh, Sophy's a good sort," said Hendle soberly. "She's had heaps of trouble."

"It doesn't seem to have knocked much sense into her, anyway. Trouble. Bother, I see. Her father, I expect?"

The Squire looked astonished. "Yes. But how you guessed——"

"I saw her wince when you and she mentioned Dr. Tollart," explained the barrister.

They crossed the green, passing an ancient cross of worn stone, which stood in the center of a vast expanse of grass burnt brown with the long-enduring heat. Round the square were various cottages with white-washed walls and thatched roofs, each standing in its own tiny garden brilliant with flowers. The Hendle Inn, with the arms of the family swinging from a signpost, was the largest building in sight, and presented an attractive sight to an artist, since it dated from Tudor times, and its upper story overhung the lower. With its red-tiled roof and dark oaken beams deeply embedded in its flint and stone walls it caught the eye of Carrington straightway. He had seen it before, but its quaint beauty lured him again to contemplation.

"That's a delightful old inn," he said, looking backward as they passed out of the square. "Quite the place for an adventure."

"There are no adventures in Barship," replied the Squire heavily. "We are very dull people hereabouts. Leigh is our bright and shining light, as he goes in for old manuscripts and ancient buildings and queer customs and——"

"In a word, Leigh is an archæologist," interrupted Carrington, who found Rupert somewhat prolix. "And who is Leigh?"

"If we had gone to church yesterday, you would have seen him in the pulpit, Carrington. He is the vicar, and, if you don't mind being blamed for nonattendance, we are going to look him up now."

"Oh, I don't mind in the least," said the barrister briskly. "If he talks religion, I can talk science. Argument is always amusing with a fanatic."

"I don't think Leigh is a fanatic. He is fonder of his hobby than of his profession. But he's all right as a parson, although he doesn't visit his parishioners as often as I could wish. Yonder's the church where all my people are buried. Picturesque?"

The barrister gave the building his grave approval "But everything is picturesque about here in the best style of art. You ought to be happy."

"I am. Very happy. But I shall be happier when I marry Dorinda!"

"Amen to that. And let me be your best man," said Carrington gaily.

"If Dorinda doesn't mind, yes," replied Hendle, exasperatingly matter of fact.

CHAPTER II. THE VICAR

By this time the Squire and his friend were approaching a rickety five-barred gate which stood wide open, as the hinges being useless, it could not easily be shut. Passing through this, they advanced up a wide untidy drive overgrown with grass, and this dismal path conducted them to a weedy stony expanse, girdled by an uncultivated jungle. Flowers, shrubs, herbs, trees, docks and darnels were all mixed up together in a way, suggesting only too clearly the sluggard's garden and almost aggressively presented an aspect of decay. The vicarage thoroughly matched this desolation, although in skilful hands it could have been made into a most charming residence. Carrington viewed this deadly solitude with disgust.

"Are you taking me to see the ruins of Babylon?" he asked, noting that even the blazing sunshine could not impart an aspect of cheerfulness to the place. "Is your vicar an owl or a jackal that he can live here?"

Hendle laughed deeply and pulled at his pipe. "Leigh is too much wrapped up in his hobby to care about the necessaries of life."