WHILE the townspeople and country folks read and wondered at the printed handbills, the father and mother of the missing girl wandered about their now desolate home, listless, aimless, well-nigh broken-hearted hearted. The first sharp pang, it is true, was past, and the sorrow had settled down to a dull leaden weight on heart and brain. The servants walked about the house slowly and silently, speaking in subdued voices. Day and night lay old Presto, Amy’s favourite deerhound, at the house door, waiting and listening, and never seeming to eat nor sleep. Her maid carefully each day fed her birds and watered her flowers, and every one in the household vied with each other in endeavouring to carry out every known wish or fancy the young lady had ever had (and it must be confessed they were not a few) as they would endeavour to carry out the wishes of some dear one dead. On every side, in every room, were traces of the lost darling. Here, the open piano with a roll of new music; there, the uncovered harp. In the little morning room piece after piece of unfinished needlework, and here in a little “studio,” as Amy was pleased to call it, numberless pencil sketches, an oil landscape commenced, a water-colour three-parts done, and a crayon head, “all but” finished. A whole tableful of china-painting accessories, and commenced cups, saucers, and plates; and there, in a corner, a cabinet of fret-work tools, with brackets, card trays, and picture frames enough to stock a small shop.
From all this it may be seen that the young lady’s tastes and pursuits were numerous and varied—change, to her, the one great necessity of life. A too great indulgence from her earliest infancy had developed in her character an impatience of restraint, an impetuosity and wilfulness which, unless it had been counterbalanced, as in her case it was, by an unusually loving, playful, tender disposition, would have rendered her imperious and domineering. As it was, every one in the household, from her father downwards, adored her and bowed to her sway. “I must not be kept waiting an instant” was a remark which might be heard every hour of the day from Miss Amy’s lips. And kept waiting she never was, for the simple reason that it was an impossibility to keep her in any posture of tranquillity for five minutes at a time. Every thought or idea that entered into her brain must be executed there and then and, scarcely completed, must be thrown on one side to make way for another.
“Were you ever thus in your very young days, Stephen?” Mrs. Warden would sometimes enquire of her husband. And the husband would smile and shake his head, and declare he had never been half so fascinating as his wilful, loving, teasing little daughter, “the music and sunshine of his life,” as he was wont to call her.
And now all was changed! The music was hushed, the sunlight had died out. Would the shadows ever be lifted from the home again? Would the quick, light step ever be heard again, and the sweet, young, ringing voice, exclaiming in its old familiar tones, “I must not be kept waiting an instant?”
So the father and mother asked themselves, as, standing side by side in their dining room verandah, they looked across the bright August landscape to where the groom was leading out Amy’s pony for its morning canter.
Mr. Warden, at this time, was about forty-five years of age, looking considerably younger. A well-featured, muscular man, with energy, determination, and many other good qualities plainly written on his face. A more complete contrast to him than his wife could not well be imagined. She was very tiny, very fair, very gentle, with amiability, want of will, and weakness of character marked in every line and feature. Her one god was her husband, her one thought how to please him, and her every opinion and wish was simply an echo of his.
“A doll, my dear, nothing more,” was old Lady Nugent’s summing up, after her first introduction to Mrs. Warden, some twelve years previously. Mr. Warden had come among them a perfect stranger, buying one of the largest estates in the county which happened to be for sale. He had resided, so he had said, nearly all his life in the south of France, but his family and connections were well known in the Midland Counties as wealthy and nobly connected. Of his wife, however, nothing was known, nor could be discovered, so she was set down, and perhaps justly, as having been an English governess in some French family, and as such, most probably, Mr. Warden had first known her.
“What men can see in dolls to induce them to marry them, I cannot see,” pursued the dowager, “they simply need a glass case, some good clothes, and their work in life is done.” Nevertheless, in spite of Lady Nugent’s comments, Mrs. Warden had been well received in Harleyford for her husband’s sake, and now, in the time of her sorrow, nothing could exceed the kindness and sympathy extended to her on all sides. Carriage after carriage sweeps along their drive, letter after letter is brought to the house, some containing wild and improbable suggestions, others opening here and there a door of hope, all full of warm and earnest sympathy, and offers of help.
“What can any of them do that has not already been done?” says Mr. Warden, handing to his wife a joint letter from Frank Varley and Lord Hardcastle, relating their solemn vow, and placing their services at Mr. Warden’s disposal.
“They are noble young fellows, and worthy of a true-hearted girl’s love. But what can they do? God help us all and teach us how to act for the best, for my brains are nearly worn out with thinking and supposing.”
“The gentleman from London, sir, Mr. Hill, wishes to see you,” says the butler at his elbow, having entered the room with a quiet, solemn tread, as though serving at a funeral feast.
“Ah, the detective,” says Mr. Warden, thankful to have the pressure of thought lifted for an instant; “show him into the library; I will see him at once.”
Mr. Hill, a slight, gentleman-like man, with the eye of an eagle, and the nose of a deerhound, seats himself at the library table, and spreads his memoranda before him.
“I bring you my latest report, Mr. Warden, and I grieve to say it amounts to very little. The only additional information I have obtained, and that, I fear, is scarcely reliable, is from the postman, John Martin. He tells me that on the morning of the 14th he met your daughter in the park lands, and, at her request, handed to her her morning’s letters. I questioned him as to how he recollected it was on that day, and he at once admitted he could not be positive, as it was the young lady’s custom, whenever she met him, thus to ask for and receive her letters. I questioned him as to the general appearance of her letters, whether directed in masculine or feminine hand-writing—(I beg your pardon, sir, such questions must be asked)—and his reply is, he never recollects bringing Miss Warden any but letters in ladies’ writing. You must take the evidence for what it is worth; I fear it counts for very little, but, such as it is, I have entered it in my case book.”
“I scarcely see whither your questions tend,” remarks Mr. Warden, somewhat stiffly. “Miss Warden, I am convinced, had no correspondents with whom I am unacquainted. She has been brought up at home, under careful supervision, and has never visited anywhere without Mrs. Warden or myself. If you are inferring some unknown attachment existed, such a supposition is entirely without foundation. I have every reason to believe that my daughter’s affections have been given, and with my approval, to a very dear young friend and neighbour.”
“All this I know, sir. Indeed, I think there is very little you or any one else can tell me on this matter. There is not a man or woman in the place whom I have not sounded to their very depths, questioned and cross-questioned in every imaginable way. I have here, in my pocket, a map of my own sketching, containing every field and river, every shady nook and hollow within thirty miles round. I have also a directory with the names, ages, occupation, and household of every human being within the same area. Very little, indeed, remains now to be done.”
“Don’t tell me that,” exclaims Mr. Warden, excitedly, jumping to his feet, and pacing the room; “don’t tell me that your work here is over, and no result for your three weeks’ labour. Don’t, I implore you, crush me down into utter despair. Have you no hope, ever so slight, to hold out to me—no advice of any sort to give?”
“I have both, Mr. Warden,” replies the detective, calmly; “I need not tell you now how I have worked out my theory, nor how, step by step, I have come to the conclusion that your daughter is not dead. This is the hope I hold out to you.”
“Then, if not dead, worse than death has happened to her,” groans the poor father, covering his face with his hands; “better death, than dishonour.”
For a moment both are silent; then, Mr. Warden, slowly recovering himself, enquires, “And what is the advice you have to give, Mr. Hill? let me have that, at any rate.”
“Simply to watch, and to wait, sir; at present, nothing more can be done. We have exhausted every theory, we have followed out every clue, or pretence of one. If there are accomplices in the matter, my presence here puts them on their guard, and as long as I remain nothing will transpire; when I have left, and things have settled down to their usual course, I feel sure some one will betray him or herself unawares. I repeat, wait and watch; and directly your suspicions are aroused in the slightest degree, communicate with me, and I will advise you to the best of my ability.”
“Wait!” groans Mr. Warden, “wait! ‘let things settle down to their usual course;’ how is it possible for a man to live through such a life of torture and suspense? Is there nothing—absolutely nothing—that can be done before you leave us?”
“Only one thing, and that, with your permission, I will do at once. With the men of your household, I have been on tolerably familiar terms, and know pretty well what they could, or could not do; but about the women I am not so sure. If you will allow me, I will have the whole of your female servants in here in succession, from the scullery maids, upwards—take their names, ages, occupations, &c., from their own lips. I may, possibly, seem to you, sir, to ask a great many irrelevant questions, but while I am questioning, I am watching and noting, and I will under take to say there will be no one with a guilty conscience who will hide it from my eye.”
Mr. Warden rings the bell, and gives the order to the footman, who conveys it to the housekeeper, who forthwith summons all the maids of the household to be paraded in succession before their master, and the detective.
Mr. Hill requests that the housekeeper will remain in the room the whole time. “I may have occasion,” he explains, “to refer to you from time to time, as to the truth or otherwise of some of the statements made.”
First, the kitchen-maids enter, looking very red, and very much ashamed of themselves. Mr. Hill glances at them, looks them through and through, and contents himself with simply noting down their names, ages, and position in Mr. Warden’s household. The cooks are almost as quickly dismissed, and between the exit of one staff of servants and entrance of another, Mr. Hill’s eyes are occupied in scrutinizing the elderly housekeeper, and in addressing to her various friendly remarks.
The housemaids undergo a much longer examination; one girl turns red, another pale. One answers wide of the mark, and is reprimanded by Mr. Hill; another is detected in a wilful fib by the housekeeper, who forthwith brings her to book. Eventually, however, they are dismissed, and the detective, turning to the housekeeper, enquires where Miss Warden’s maid is.
“I have to apologize for her, sir,” replies the housekeeper, “will you kindly excuse her? The poor girl was taken with a violent sick-headache about an hour ago, and went to lie down in her own room. I believe, however, I can answer any questions for her you may wish to put.”
“About an hour ago,” muses Mr. Hill, “just when the order for the servants’ parade was given out.” Then, aloud to the housekeeper, “Is this young person often troubled with violent headaches, Mrs. Nesbitt?”
“Oh dear no, sir,” replies Mrs. Nesbitt, “I never knew her taken in this way before, but you see we have all of us had such an upset, sir, lately. Dear me! such an upset!” and the old lady glances furtively at her master.
“Exactly, Mrs. Nesbitt, exactly,” said Mr. Hill, sympathetically. “That is just what I am thinking. Will you kindly take a message from me to this young person? Tell her I have merely one or two unimportant questions to put as a matter of form, as to her duties, &c., as Miss Warden’s maid, but I must have the answers from her own lips. If it will suit her better I will go with you to her own room, but in any case I must see her.”
Mrs. Nesbitt at once departs on her errand, and after a delay of some ten minutes, returns with the maid, a round-faced, small-featured girl, somewhat fashionably dressed for her position, and with an assumption of refinement and dignity evidently intended as a copy of her young mistress’s style.
Mr. Hill preserves his careless suavity of manner, regrets, politely, he should have been compelled to disturb her, hopes she will soon recover her usual health. Meantime his eye is fixed full on her face, and throughout the short interview his gaze is never once lifted.
“Your name, if you please?” he asks.
“Lucy Williams,” replies the girl, quivering and tremulous under his fixed gaze.
“Are your parents living, Miss Williams?”
“No,” she replies, shortly, “I have no relations of any sort.”
“Not even a brother,” he enquires, “who was once gamekeeper on an estate the other side of Dunwich, and who subsequently sailed for America?”
Here the girl breaks down utterly, and gives way to a flood of tears. “How dare you insult me thus?” she enquires angrily. “What do you know of my brother Tom? He may be dead and buried for anything I care.”
“I know very little about your brother Tom, Miss Williams, beyond the fact of his having caused your parents a great deal of anxiety. In fact it was the disgrace of their son’s dismissal from his situation, charged with conspiring with poachers to rob his master, which, I believe, broke their hearts. However, I have only one more question to ask. Have you seen or heard anything of your brother since his return to this neighbourhood? He was seen, I believe, not very far from this house on the morning of the 15th of August.”
Another passionate burst of sobbing from the girl, and this time an appeal to Mr. Warden.
“Will you allow me, sir, to be insulted in this way in your presence?” she demands. “I vow and declare since I have been in your service, I have always been an honest, faithful servant; I have never wronged any one by word or deed. I have always”—here another flood of tears.
“Gently, gently, Lucy,” expostulates Mr. Warden, “no one is bringing any charge against you.” Then, to the detective, “Is it not possible to waive this question, Mr. Hill? I really think you are going almost too far.”
“I will waive it with a great deal of pleasure, sir, and as far as that goes, I do not see any necessity for prolonging the interview. Miss Williams, I should certainly advise you to get a little quiet sleep in your own room, it will do more for you than anything else. Good morning, Mrs. Nesbitt, I am much obliged to you for the trouble you have taken for me.” He politely opens the door for the housekeeper, who conducts the still sobbing girl out of the room.
Then the man’s manner undergoes an entire change. He turns abruptly to Mr. Warden. “Keep your eye on that girl, sir; I have not passed the greater part of my life among rogues of all sorts not to know a guilty face when I see it. That girl is keeping something back, but what I am at present at a loss to imagine. Take my word for it, within a fortnight she will do one of two things, either request permission to leave on account of the dulness of the house or else run away. I think the latter, from the irresolution and want of nerve she has shown this morning, but I am not sure. I can only reiterate the advice I have already given you, watch and wait, and the moment your suspicions are aroused, communicate with me.”
And the detective takes his leave, and as Mr. Warden’s horses convey him swiftly along the high road to Dunwich, he shakes his head gravely and mutters, “This is a bad business, and I fear there is worse to come. I was never before so thoroughly at a loss; I cannot see one inch before me in the matter; however, we can only watch and wait.”