The Hand in the Dark
mother a vicarious sacrifice for the misdeeds of the son.
But the bitterest blow to Miss Heredith's family pride was the news of
Phil's marriage. Till then she had pinned her faith, like a wise woman,
in the reformative influence of a good marriage. Although a spinster
herself, she was aware that there was no better method of reducing the
showy nettlesome paces of youth to the sober jog-trot of middle-age than
the restraining influence of the right kind of yokefellow. The qualities
Phil most needed in a wife were those possessed by a sober-minded,
unimaginative, placid girl of conventional mould. Such maidens are not
unknown in rural England, and Miss Heredith had not much difficulty in
picking upon one in the county sufficiently well-born to mate with the
Herediths. Miss Heredith perfected her plan in detail, and had even gone
to the length of drafting the letter which was to bring Phil down from
London to be matrimonially snared, when the news came that he had snared
himself in London without his aunt's assistance.
She did not like his wife from the first, and it was equally certain
that Phil's wife did not like her. It was a marvellous thing to Miss
Heredith that a shallow worldly girl like Violet should have captured
the heart of a young man like her nephew so completely as to cause him
to alter his ways of life for her. Phil loved Nature, and books, and
solitary ways; his wife detested such things. Phil, in his eagerness to
please her, and banish her apparent boredom with country life, had
suggested asking some people from London with whom, at one time, he
would have had very little in common. Perhaps his London life had
changed him, but if so, it was a change for the worse for a young man,
and a Heredith, to be so much under the thumb of his wife as to give up
his own habits of life at her behest. But Phil was so much in love that
he had done so, cheerfully and willingly. Violet's lightest wish was his
law.
These thoughts, and others like them, passed and repassed through Miss
Heredith's mind as she sat, day after day, in her nephew's sick room. It
was her custom to take her needlework there of an afternoon, and relieve
the nurse for two or three hours. But her sewing frequently lay idle in
her lap, and she leaned back in her chair, absorbed in thought, glancing
from time to time at Phil's worn face on the pillow, where he lay like
one exhausted and weary, reluctant to return to the turmoil of life. He
took his food and medicine with the docility of a child, and
occasionally smiled at his aunt when she ministered to him. Gradually he
mended and increased in bodily strength until he was able to sit up, and
smoke an occasional cigarette. Sometimes he talked a little with his
aunt, but always on indifferent subjects. He never asked about his wife,
or spoke of the murder, as he had done in his delirium. It was apparent
to those about him that his recollection of the events which had brought
about his illness had not yet returned. Nature had, for the time being,
soothed his stricken brain with temporary oblivion.
Then one day the change that Miss Heredith anticipated and feared came
on him as swiftly as a dream. She entered the room to find him up and
dressed, walking up and down with a quick and hurried stride. One glance
from his quick dark eyes conveyed to her that his wandering senses had
recrossed the border-line of consciousness, and entered into the horror
and agony of remembrance.
"Phil, dear," she said, hastening to his side, "is this wise?"
"How long have I been lying here?" he demanded impatiently, as though he
had not heard her speak.
"It is ten days since you were taken ill," she replied, in a low voice.
"Ten days!" he repeated in a stupefied tone, as though unable to realize
the import of the lapse of time. "It is incredible! It seems to me as
though it was only a few hours. What has happened? What has been done by
the police? Has the murderer been arrested?"
It came to Miss Heredith with a shock that his dormant brain had
awakened to leap back to the thing which had paralysed it, and with that
knowledge came the realization that the dreaded moment for the
revelation she had to make had arrived. And, like a woman, she sought to
postpone it.
"Phil," she said weakly, "do not talk about it--until you are stronger."
"I am strong enough not to be treated as a child," he rejoined
fretfully, turning on her a sallow face, with a bright spot in each
cheek. "Is the funeral over?"
"Some days ago," she murmured, and there was a thankful feeling in her
heart that it was so.
Before he had time to speak again there was a tap at the door, and a
maidservant entered.
"Mr. Musard would like to speak to you for a moment, ma'am," she said to
Miss Heredith.
Miss Heredith caught eagerly at the respite.
"Tell him I will come at once. Phil," she added, turning to her nephew,
"I will send Vincent to you. He can tell you better than I. He has been
here all through your illness, and has looked after everything."
She hurried from the room without waiting for his reply. She saw the
tall form of Musard standing in the hall, and went rapidly to him.
"Phil has come to his senses, Vincent," she exclaimed, in an agitated
voice. "He wants to know everything that has happened since he was taken
ill. What shall we do?"
"He must be told, of course," replied Musard, with masculine decision.
"It is better that he should know than be kept in suspense. How is he?"
"He seems quite normal and rational. Will you see him and tell him?"
"Yes. As a matter of fact it is advisable that he should know everything
without delay. I sent for you to tell you that Detective Caldew has just
arrived to ascertain if Phil can identify the revolver. I told him Phil
was still ill, but he is persistent, and thinks that he ought to be
allowed to see him. It would be better if Phil could see him, and settle
the point."
"Oh, Vincent, do you think it is wise?"
"Yes. Phil has had a shock, but it is not going to kill him, and the
sooner he takes up his ordinary life again the better it will be for
him. Come, now, everything will be all right." He smiled at her anxious
face reassuringly. "Leave it to me. I will see that nothing is done to
agitate Phil if I do not think him strong enough to bear it. Now, let us
go to him."
The bedroom door was open and Phil was standing near it as though
awaiting their appearance. He held out his hand to Musard, who was
surprised by the strength of his grip. He eyed the young man critically,
and thought he looked fairly well considering the ordeal he had passed
through.
"I am glad to see you better, Phil," he said. "How do you feel? Not very
fit yet?"
"I am all right," responded Phil quickly. "Now, Musard, I want you to
tell me all that has happened since I have been lying here. I am
completely in the dark. Has anybody been arrested for the murder of my
wife?"
He spoke in a dry impersonal tone as though of some occurrence in which
he had but a remote interest, but Musard was too keen a judge of men to
be deceived by his apparent calmness. He thought that it was better for
him to learn the truth at once.
"Yes, Phil," he said quietly, "there has been an arrest. Hazel Rath has
been arrested for the murder of Violet."
"Who?" The tone of detachment disappeared. The interrogation was flung
at Musard's head with a world of incredulity and amazement.
"Hazel Rath, the housekeeper's daughter."
"In the name of God, why?"
"Gently, laddie. Sit down, and take it quietly. I'll tell you all."
Phil controlled himself with a painful effort, and took a chair near the
bedside.
"Go on," he said hoarsely.
Musard seated himself on the edge of the bed at his side, and entered
upon a narration of the circumstances which had led to the arrest of
Hazel Rath. Phil listened attentively, but the expression of amazement
never left his face. When Musard finished he was silent for a moment,
and then impetuously broke out:
"I feel sure Hazel Rath did not commit this crime."
Musard was silent. That was a question upon which he did not feel called
upon to advance an opinion. Miss Heredith was too moved to speak.
"Why do you not say something?" exclaimed Phil, turning on her angrily.
"Surely you do not think Hazel guilty?"
"Oh, Phil," responded his aunt piteously, "it seems hard to believe, but
what else can we think? There was the revolver and the handkerchief
found in her mother's room, and the little greenstone brooch you gave
her was picked up in Violet's bedroom."
"Why do they think she has killed her? Tell me that!"
Musard, in his narration of the facts, had omitted mention of the
supposed motive, but he now made a gesture to Miss Heredith to indicate
that she had better tell Phil.
"It was because the police believe that Hazel was--was in love with you,
Phil," she falteringly said. "They think she murdered Violet in a fit of
jealousy."
"Hazel in love with me?" He echoed the phrase in mingled scorn and
amazement. "That is preposterous. If the police have nothing better than
that to go on--"
"They have," interrupted Musard. "They are going on the clues I have
mentioned--the brooch, the handkerchief, and the revolver."
"Where did Hazel get the revolver?"
"It is thought she got it from the gun-room."
"There are no revolvers in the gun-room," rejoined Phil quickly. "We
have no revolvers, unless father bought one recently. What make is it?"
"The ownership of the revolver is a point the police have not yet been
able to settle," returned Musard. "It is only an assumption on their
part that Hazel got it from the gun-room. They thought it either
belonged to the house or was left behind by one of the guests. Neither
your aunt nor I knew, and Sir Philip was unable to settle the point. The
police thought you might know. As a matter of fact, one of the
detectives engaged in the investigations has just arrived from London
and brought the revolver with him to see if you can identify it."
"I should like to see him. Where is he?"
"In the library. I will bring him in."
Musard left the room and quickly returned with Caldew, who entered with
a business-like air.
"This is Mr. Heredith," said Musard.
"I trust you are better, Mr. Heredith," said the detective smoothly. "I
am sorry to trouble you so soon after your illness, but there is a point
we would like to settle before the trial of the woman who is charged
with murdering your wife. We want, if possible, to establish the
ownership of the weapon with which the murder was committed." He
produced a revolver from the pocket of his light overcoat as he spoke.
"In view of the evidence, the identification of the weapon does not
matter much one way or another, but it is as well to fix the point, if
we can. The girl refuses to say where she obtained the revolver--indeed,
she remains stubbornly silent about the crime, and refuses to say
anything about it. That doesn't matter very much either, because the
evidence against her is so strong that she is bound to be convicted. Can
you tell me anything about the revolver, Mr. Heredith? Do you recognize
it?"
Phil was turning the revolver over in his hands, examining it closely.
"Yes," he said. "I recognize it. It belongs to Captain Nepcote."
"Captain Nepcote? Who is he?"
"He is a friend of my nephew's who was staying here, but left the
afternoon of the day the murder was committed," said Miss Heredith. "He
was recalled to the front, I understand. I gave his name to
Superintendent Merrington as one of the guests who had been staying
here."
"How do you identify the revolver as his property?" asked Caldew,
turning to Phil.
"By the bullet mark in the handle. The day before my wife was killed it