CHAPTER XXIX

"AS A TALE THAT WAS TOLD"

"My God!" It was Ross Duggan who spoke. "Just to think of it! Just to think! That _my_ father----"

"Don't forget he's dead, Ross, and beyond all chance of your remonstrating with him, and that the dead cannot speak up for themselves!" cried Maud Duggan, in a wrung voice. "Don't say anything you will be sorry for, I beg of you! Mr. Cleek, this has come as something in the nature of a shock to my brother and me, and--and it's going to take some time to let this part of your story sink in. It seems dreadful that one's own father...."

"And yet there are many who have done worse--far worse," threw in Cleek, with uplifted hand, as she paused and looked at him out of anguished eyes. "Youth must learn to forgive, Miss Duggan. That is a lesson which both you and your brother have got to learn, and don't forget, will you, in the learning, that this thing took place more than seventeen years ago--before your father was married to his present wife. Raking up dead ashes is a poor sort of game, and an unprofitable one. I would never have spoken only that therein lay the motive of James Tavish's crime, and for seventeen long years he has worked for it. The unutterable patience of the man! the appalling sense of revenge! For at the end of that time his bitterness to the man who had wronged his sister was even greater than when the thing itself took place. How long has he been in your father's employ?"

"Twelve years."

"And I take it he was well known locally before that?"

"The family was certainly an old local one, Mr. Cleek, and, in fact, I have heard the story go that they were descendants of the original Peasant Girl on her mother's side."

"Oho! Well, that may or may not be. Vendettas are not only carried out in southern climes, Miss Duggan. I've learned that lesson to my cost many times since I took up this profession. And the Scotch temperament is a dour one, and not forgiving. A grudge is a grudge, even if it lasts through several centuries--and who knows but that this belief lent colour to his hatred of your father? At any rate, whether it is true or not, James Tavish killed Sir Andrew because he was the betrayer of his sister--and took seventeen years to bring his vengeance to full maturity. Gad! what a character to bear! It makes one's blood run cold!... Constables, I think you may remove your prisoner now to the nearest lock-up. We've done with him for the present, thanks."

So saying, he waved his hand toward the door, opened it, and waited until the little cavalcade had taken its dismissal; meanwhile those within the room of that house of discord sat silent as dead people, thinking back over the doings of seventeen years ago, and of a dead man who had betrayed an innocent woman. It was an unpleasant thought at best. They were glad when Cleek came back into the room, closed the door, and took his seat among them again. His pleasant voice dispelled the repellent weavings of their own brains.

"And now," said he, "to continue with our story. It is nearly done, but there are points which I know each one of you would like to have cleared up before I take my leave. What's that, Lady Paula? How did I come to suspect your brother in the first place? Ah, that involves a long story with which I will not bore you, for you have had enough already of this distressing affair, I'm sure. Only this: That I happened to go up into your boudoir yesterday, when you were making your way up the Great Free Road"--he paused a moment as she coloured, and gave a significant smile. "You see, I know more than I tell, eh? Well, I discovered a note screwed up on the floor, and signed 'A. M.' Antoni Matei, we now know it was. Once I suspected Captain Macdonald--simply because the footprints outside of the window of the library were made by his hunting-boots--discovered afterward by my man, mud-caked and hidden in some shrubs near Tavish's cottage. Which leads me, Miss Duggan, to that very particular point of the size of the gentleman's boots. You remember? I won't call that incident to your mind further. Only--you were a little mistaken, that's all. But let that pass. Every woman acts upon the dictates of her own heart, and if those dictates are a trifle mistaken--yes, that was how I found out, Lady Paula. After seeing Captain Macdonald's handwriting I knew that he had _not_ written that note. A further investigation upon the part of my lad Dollops and myself last night led to the elucidation of who it was who _had_ written it. Your brother himself disclosed his relation to you last night, after we had our talk in the village lock-up. After that, the thing was as easy as A B C.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Duggan? And where exactly did Captain Macdonald come in! Why, when one meets a man running agitatedly away from the particular part of the Castle where the crime had taken place--and just _after_ it--one is inclined to be a little suspicious of that man. It is only natural. Though, thank Heaven, my suspicions were soon quieted, after I discovered that your gallant Captain had really come into the grounds--with your having left the gate ajar for him so that Rhea's bell would not sound--to meet _you_ clandestinely, as he had been forbidden the house. Love will always find a way, you know. Only, it was unfortunate at the time that he should have chosen that night of all others to have come to meet you. You knew of the crime, then, Captain? Or what was it that sent you pelting away so hard from the house that held your affianced bride?"

"Simply because I had heard a woman's scream, had seen the lights all over the Castle switch up, and did not want my meeting with Maud to be discovered--lest a more certain means should be taken to keep us apart ever afterward," returned the Captain, a trifle heatedly. "And I must confess that I was a bit nonplussed and--and angered when you mistook _me_ for a murderer and held me under suspicion."

"For which you might readily give your apology, as a better mannered man has already done," apostrophized Cleek inwardly. "Still, we can't help a man's nature, and he seems a likely enough chap, as men go. _And_ she loves him. And it's no affair of mine as to how he behaves himself--so long as he was not the guilty party." Then, aloud, "I see. Well, Miss Duggan will explain to you how your hunting-boots came to be here, and to lead to your being suspected along with the other. Just ask her afterward--eh, Miss Duggan? And love her still more for her womanly sentiment, if I may be permitted to tender any advice.

"I think that is really all. Only, I should like just a word with Sir Ross and Cyril alone, if I may be granted the favour? And then I must be going. Mr. Narkom and I have other affairs to attend to in this neighbourhood which are very pressing and will want a lot of careful handling to bring home to their proper destination.... Thanks very much."

He got to his feet instantly as the women arose, followed by Captain Macdonald, and quietly left the room. Only Sir Ross, Cyril, and Mr. Narkom remained. As the door closed behind them, Ross Duggan spoke up.

"What is it that you wish to say, Mr. Cleek?" he said quietly. "I'll be glad if you will go easy with Cyril. He's not a bad boy, you know. Only a trifle misguided, and I shall make it my duty in future to keep a sharper eye upon him. The boy has had no other companions but his books of adventure and his own imagination."

"And a very unfortunate mess those two things have made of him," returned Cleek quietly, crossing over and laying a hand along Cyril's shoulder. "School, and boarding-school, is the best place for _him_, my friend, and good healthy companionship with others of his own age. It's just the devil of that reading which made him act as he did. I found him out, late last night in company with his uncle, doing some very nefarious work on the hillside below here."

"_What?_"

"Gently, gently, my friend. Don't forget, will you, that Cyril has not been given the same chances as other boys. And his is an active brain. The work in question was illicit whisky-stills--in fact, the very thing for which I originally came down here, Mr. Narkom. James Tavish and Antoni Matei and Cyril have all had a hand in it. And the still itself, you will find, if you go down to your own dungeon, Sir Ross, to where the Peasant Girl is supposed to have her haunts o' nights."

"Cinnamon! Cleek!"

"Yes--and, by James! Mr. Narkom. And that's the actual truth, too. I discovered it first of all. A little looking on the part of Dollops and me brought the thing to light, through a susceptible maid-servant at present in your employ, Sir Ross. She fell for my Cockney lad's 'ginger 'air.' And he made use of his opportunity. And it was then--even as late as last night--that my suspicions were finally pinned upon James Tavish as the murderer of your father. For I saw him, in company with the Dago, wearing your tweed coat, which I noted hanging on a hook in the passage earlier in the day, and had even seen you wearing during the morning, before you changed into that dark suit yesterday afternoon--and if it hadn't been for _me_ that same tweed coat might have led you into some rather unfortunate feminine revelations from one of the ladies who are at present in your house. But let that pass.... Mr. Narkom, we must go. There's a gang to be rounded up, and unfortunately, through a foolish woman, some inkling of our presence here has become known, and it will take us all our time to trace the rest of the participants in this pleasant affair before they have had time to show nothing more than a very clean pair of heels for our benefit. We must be making tracks. Sir Ross, take an older fellow's advice and fight for that boy's rights to go to a decent English school. I've no doubt that the house will be divided now, since these revelations have been made. One could hardly go on living with a woman for a stepmother who--who had even contemplated such things, although she did it for the benefit of her own boy. But--fight for him. And get him away from--unfortunate influence if you can. Or you'll be losing for the Empire an otherwise good little citizen. There's no doubt about the presence of the uncle now--with that whisky-still business on hand, and that's what brought the two men together, no doubt. But get this boy clear of it all. Try a public school where his _moral_ outlook will be as well cared for as his physical, and--get him there _quick_.

"Good-bye, Cyril--shake hands, won't you? And you might write a line to me now and then, to let me know how you're getting on. I'd have had a boy of your age myself, no doubt, if--if I hadn't made a fool of myself earlier in life, and I've got to make up for it now. But it makes me rather soft for youngsters. Good-bye, Sir Ross, and good luck. Clear out of this ill-fated inheritance for a time, until things blow over. You'll find there'll be a different aspect of affairs when you come back with your vision cleared. Mr. Narkom, come along. At least we've beaten the Coroner at his own business, and that's always a feather in a policeman's cap, eh, old friend?"

And, so speaking, he passed out of that house of discord, which, however, he was to visit later, many times, as friend and confidant of the new owner of it, out into the clear sunshine of an early noon, and the paths that lay ahead.

THE END

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