A Fair Mystery: The Story of a Coquette

"Perhaps there was some noise, some interruption; the man grew frightened and ran away."

"I see no sign of it; there is nothing disturbed. Besides, my lord, there is another thing that puzzles me more than all. Why should a man, whose object was simply plunder, employ himself in tearing a wedding-dress and bridal-veil to pieces; why should he have delayed in order to crush her wedding-wreath in his hand, and trample it underneath his feet, especially when, as circumstantial evidence goes to prove, his victim must have been in his presence – must, if she had any fear, have had plenty of time to have rung for help. I do not understand it."

"It certainly seems very mysterious," said Lord Linleigh. "I do not at all understand the destruction of the wedding costume."

"Do not think me impertinent, my lord, if I ask whether there was any rival in the case? This is not a common murder – I would stake the whole of my professional skill on it. It is far more like a crime committed under the maddening influence of jealousy than anything else."

"I do not see that it is possible. My daughter, as was only natural for a beautiful girl in her position, had many admirers; but there was no one who would be likely to be jealous. Another thing is, by her own especial wish and desire, the fact of her marriage was to be kept a profound secret; no one knew one single word about it except ourselves."

"And that was by her own especial desire?" said Captain Ayrley.

"Yes, it was her whim – her caprice."

"She may have had a reason for it," said the captain, gravely. "I should imagine she had."

"And what would you imagine that reason to be?" asked the earl.

"I should say that, for some reason or other, she was afraid of its being known. There are many things hidden in lives that seem calm and tranquil; it seems to me that the unfortunate young lady was afraid of some one, and perhaps had reason for it."

The earl sat in silence for some minutes, trying to think over all his daughter's past life; he could not remember anything that seemed to give the least color to the officer's suspicions. He raised his eyes gravely to the shrewd, keen face.

"You may be right, Captain Ayrley," he said; "it is within the bounds of possibility. But, frankly, on the honor of a gentleman, I know of nothing in my daughter's life that bears out your suspicions; therefore I should wish you not to mention them to any one else; they can only give pain. For my part, not understanding the destruction of the wedding-dress, I firmly believe that it is a case of intended burglary, and that either while trying to defend herself or to give the alarm, she was cruelly murdered. I believe that, and nothing more. At the same time, if you like to follow out any clew, I will do all in my power to help you. For the present we will not add to horror and grief by assuming that such a crime can be the result of jealous or misspent love. Try by all means to catch the murderer – never mind who or what he is."

Captain Ayrley promised to obey. Yet, though they searched and searched well, there was not the least trace, no mark of footsteps, no broken boughs, no stains of red finger marks, nor could they find any trace, in the neighborhood, of tramps, vagrants, or burglars. It seemed to Captain Ayrley, that the Linleigh Court murder would be handed down as a mystery to all time.

Lord Linleigh did not enter the room, where lay the beautiful, silent dead, with Earle, he dreaded the sight of his grief, he could not bear the thought of his sorrow.

Earle went in alone, closing the door behind him, that none might hear or see when he bade his love farewell. Those who watched in the outer room heard a sound of weeping and wild words: they heard sobs so deep and bitter, that it was heartrending to remember it was a strong man weeping there in his agony. They did not disturb him: perhaps Heaven in its mercy sent him some comfort – none came from earth; nothing came to soften the madness of anguish when he remembered this was to have been his wedding day, and now his beautiful, golden-haired darling lay dead, cold, silent, smiling – dead! What could lessen such anguish as his?

CHAPTER LXXXIV

A MOTHER'S ANGUISH

They wondered why Lord Linleigh allowed no one to take the fatal news to his wife but himself. The secret of her early ill-starred love and marriage had been so well kept all those years, it was useless to betray it now. He knew well what her anguish would be. He dreaded all scenes of sorrow, but he loved his wife, and no one must be with her in the first hour of her supreme trouble and bereavement.

He went to her room when the detectives left, and found Mattie still keeping watch over her. Before speaking one word to his wife, he turned to Mattie.

"Thank you, my dear," he said, gently; "you have carried out my wishes most faithfully. Will you go to Earle? Eugenie will take you where he is."

Then when she had quitted the room, Lady Estelle flung herself into his arms.

"Ulric," she cried, "tell me what is the matter? I know that something terrible has happened to Doris – what is it?"

"My darling wife," he said, "try to bear it. I have sad news for you – the saddest that I could bring you. Doris is dead!"

But even he, knowing how dearly the mother loved her child, was hardly prepared for the storm of anguish that broke over her.

"Dead!" she cried, "and never knew me as her mother! Dead! and never clasped her sweet arms round my neck! Dead! without one word! I cannot believe it, Ulric. How did it happen? Oh, my darling, my golden-haired child, come back to me, only just to call me mother! How did it happen, Ulric? Oh, I cannot believe it!"

He was obliged to tell her the pitiful story. Not one word did he say of the wedding costume destroyed, or the captain's suspicion – not one syllable; yet, strange to say, the same idea occurred to her. His wife had lain her head on his breast; she was weeping bitterly, and he clasped his arm round her. He said in a grave voice quite unlike his own:

"It must have been some beggar or tramp, who knew the secret of that spiral staircase, and had resolved upon breaking into the house by that means – some one who had learned, in all probability, that our daughter's jewels were kept in her chamber. Perhaps she carelessly left the outer door unlocked, and, while she was sitting dreaming, the burglar entered noiselessly; then, when she rose in her fright to give the alarm, he stabbed her."

She did not think just then of asking if the jewels were stolen or not; but, strange to say, she started up with a sudden cry.

"Oh, Ulric, Ulric! was it all right with her, do you think? I have always been afraid – just a little afraid – since I heard how she begged for secrecy over her wedding. Do you think she was frightened at any one? Perhaps some one else loved her, and was madly jealous of her."

He did not let her see how her words startled him – so like those used by Captain Ayrley. He tried to quiet her.

"No, my darling Estelle. Doris had many lovers – we knew them – men of high repute and fair renown; but there was not one among them who would have slain her because she loved Earle. Remember yet one thing more – no one know she was going to marry Earle; it had not even been whispered outside of our own house. It was a robbery, and nothing else, carefully planned by some one who knew the only weak spot in the house. I have no doubt of it."

Then she broke down again, and cried out with wild words and burning tears for her child – her only child, who had never known her as her mother.

They wondered again why the earl, with his own hand led Lady Linleigh to the silent death-chamber. He did not wish any one to be near, to see or to hear her.

He lived long after, but he never forgot that terrible scene; he never forgot how the mother flung herself by the side of that silent figure – how caressingly her hands lingered on the golden hair, on the sweet, dead face; he never forgot the passionate torrent of words – words that would have betrayed her secret over and over again a thousand times had any one been present to hear them. She laid her face on the pale lips.

"My darling," she cried, "come back to me, only for one hour: come back, while I tell you that I was your mother, darling – your own mother. My arms cradled you, my lips kissed you, my heart yearned over you. I am your own mother, darling. Come back and speak one word to me – only one word. Oh, Ulric, is it death? See, how beautiful she is! Her hair is like shining gold, and she is smiling! Oh, Heaven, she is smiling! She is not dead!"

But he drew her back, telling her it was only a sunbeam shining on the dead face – that she was dead, and would never smile again.

"Only touch one hand," he said; "there is nothing so cold as death."

She could only cry out, "her darling! her darling!" Oh, for the days that were gone – spent without her! How dearly she would love her if she would but come back again!

Lord Linleigh was always thankful that he had brought her there alone; and though he knew such indulgence in violent sorrow to be bad for her, he would not ask her to go away until it was almost exhausted; then he knelt down by her side.

"Estelle," he said, "you remember that it was for your father's sake we resolved to keep this secret – nay, we promised to do so. You must not break this promise now. You kept it while our darling lived; keep it still. Control your sorrow for your father's sake. Kiss the quiet lips, love, and tell our darling that you will keep our secret for all time."

She had exhausted herself by passionate weeping and passionate cries, she obeyed him, humbly and simply, as though she had been a child. She laid her quivering lips on the cold white ones, and said:

"I shall keep our secret, Doris."

Then he led her away.

That same day Lord Linleigh sent telegrams to the Duke and Duchess of Downsbury and to Brackenside. Before the noon of the next day the duke and duchess had reached Linleigh Court. The duke took an active part in all the preparations for the ceremony of interment. The duchess shut herself up in her daughter's room, and would not leave her. Later on in the day Mark and Mrs. Brace came: their grief was intense. Lord Linleigh little knew how near he was then to the solving of the mystery; but the same carefully prepared story was told to them as was told to every one else – a burglar had broken into her room, and, in the effort to give an alarm, Lady Doris Studleigh had been cruelly murdered. Nothing was said of the crushed bridal wreath or the torn wedding-dress.

Honest Mark never heard that there was any other mystery connected with the murder than the wonder of who had done it. Perhaps had he told the story of Lord Vivianne's visit to Brackenside, it would have furnished some clew; but the earl was deeply engrossed and troubled. Mark never even remembered the incident. Had he heard anything of the captain's suspicions, he might have done so. It did not seem to him improbable that the young girl had been slain in the effort to save her jewelry; and jewel robberies, he read, were common enough.

Though the summer's sun shone and the flowers bloomed, the darkest gloom hung over Linleigh Court. Who could have believed that so lately it had been gay with preparations for a wedding? Lady Doris lay white, still, and beautiful in her silent room. Earle had shut himself up in the solitude of his chamber, and refused to come out into the light of day. Lady Estelle was really ill, and the duchess never left her. The one source of all help and comfort, the universal consoler, was Mattie; in after times they wondered what they should have done without her.

The duke and Lord Linleigh were incessantly engaged.

For many long years nothing had made so great a sensation as this murder – all England rang with it. So young, so beautiful, so highly accomplished, heiress to great wealth, and on the point of marriage with the man she loved best in all the world. It was surely the most sad and pathetic affair within the memory of man. There was a suspicion of romance in it, too – murdered on the eve of her marriage.

Some of the best detective skill in England was employed to trace out the murderer; but it was all in vain. The duke offered an unprecedented reward, the earl another, and government another; but it was all in vain; there did not seem to be the slightest clew – no handkerchief with the murderer's name, no weapon bearing his initials, no trace of any kind could be discovered of one of the most horrible crimes in the whole annals of the country.

There had been an inquest. The maid Eugenie, Mattie Brace, Earle, and Lord Linleigh, all gave their evidence; but when it was sifted and arranged, there was absolutely nothing in it; so that the verdict given was, "Found murdered, by some person or persons unknown."