Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye

“Then they told you what wasn’t true. For it does. See here!”

What the Major calls upon him to look at are some bits of pasteboard, like butterflies, fluttering in the air, and settling down over the copestone of the dock. They are the fragments of the torn ticket.

“Now, old boy! You’re booked for Boulogne.”

The melancholy smile, up to that time on Ryecroft’s face, broadens into a laugh at the stratagem employed to detain him. With cheerfulness for the time restored, he says:

“Well, Major, by that you’ve cost me at at least one pound sterling. But I’ll make you recoup it in boarding and lodging me for – possibly a week.”

“A month – a year, if you should like your lodgings and will stay in them. I’ve got a snug little compound in the Rue Tintelleries, with room to swing hammocks for us both; besides a bin or two of wine, and, what’s better, a keg of the ‘raal crayther.’ Let’s along and have a tumbler of it at once. You’ll need it to wash the channel spray out of your throat. Don’t wait for your luggage. These Custom-house gentry all know me, and will send it directly after. Is it labelled?”

“It is; my name’s on everything.”

“Let me have one of your cards.” The card is handed to him. “There, Monsieur,” he says, turning to a douanier, who respectfully salutes, “take this, and see that all the baggage bearing the name on it be kept safely till called for. My servant will come for it. Garçon!” This to the driver of a voiture, who, for some time viewing them with expectant eye, makes response by a cut of his whip, and brisk approach to the spot where they are standing.

Pushing Captain Ryecroft into the back, and following himself, the Major gives the French Jehu his address, and they are driven off over the rough, rib-cracking cobbles of Boulogne.

Volume Two – Chapter Twenty

Hue and Cry

The ponies and pet stag on the lawn at Llangorren wonder what it is all about. So different from the garden parties and archery-meetings, of which they have witnessed many a one! Unlike the latter in their quiet stateliness is the excited crowd at the Court this day; still more, from its being chiefly composed of men. There are a few women, also, but not the slender-waisted creatures, in silks and gossamer muslins, who make up an out-door assemblage of the aristocracy. The sturdy dames and robust damsels now rambling over its grounds and gravelled walks are the dwellers in roadside cottages, who at the words “Murdered or Missing,” drop brooms upon half-swept floors, leave babies uncared-for in their cradles, and are off to the indicated spot.

And such words have gone abroad from Llangorren Court, coupled with the name of its young mistress. Gwen Wynn is missing, if she be not also murdered.

It is the second day after her disappearance, as known to the household; and now it is known throughout the neighbourhood, near and far. The slight scandal dreaded by Miss Linton no longer has influence with her. The continued absence of her niece, with the certainty at length reached that she is not in the house of any neighbouring friend, would make concealment of the matter a grave scandal in itself. Besides, since the half-hearted search of yesterday new facts have come to light; for one, the finding of that ring on the floor of the pavilion. It has been identified not only by the finder, but by Eleanor Lees and Miss Linton herself. A rare cluster of brilliants, besides of value, it has more than once received the inspection of these ladies – both knowing the giver, as the nature of the gift.

How comes it to have been there in the summer-house? Dropped, of course; but under what circumstances?

Questions perplexing, while the thing itself seriously heightens the alarm. No one, however rich or regardless, would fling such precious stones away; above all, gems so bestowed, and, as Miss Lees has reason to know, prized and fondly treasured.

The discovery of the engagement ring deepens the mystery instead of doing aught towards its elucidation. But it also strengthens a suspicion, fast becoming belief, that Miss Wynn went not away of her own accord; instead, has been taken.

Robbed, too, before being earned off. There were other rings upon her fingers – diamonds, emeralds, and the like. Possibly in the scramble, on the robbers first seizing hold and hastily stripping her, this particular one had slipped through their fingers, fallen to the floor, and so escaped observation. At night and in the darkness, all likely enough.

So for a time run the surmises, despite the horrible suggestion attaching to them, almost as a consequence. For if Gwen Wynn had been robbed she may also be murdered. The costly jewels she wore, in rings, bracelets, and chains, worth many hundreds of pounds, may have been the temptation to plunder her; but the plunderers identified, and fearing punishment, would also make away with her person. It may be abduction, but it has now more the look of murder.

By midday the alarm has reached its height – the hue and cry is at its loudest. No longer confined to the family and domestics – no more the relatives and intimate friends – people of all classes and kinds take part in it. The pleasure grounds of Llangorren, erst private and sacred as the Garden of the Hesperides, are now trampled by heavy, hobnailed shoes; while men in smocks, slops, and sheepskin gaiters, stride excitedly to and fro, or stand in groups, all wearing the same expression on their features – that of a sincere, honest anxiety, with a fear some sinister mischance has overtaken Miss Wynn. Many a young farmer is there who has ridden beside her in the hunting-field, often behind her no-ways nettled by her giving him the “lead;” instead, admiring her courage and style of taking fences over which, on his cart nag, he dares not follow – enthusiastically proclaiming her “pluck” at markets, race meetings, and other gatherings wherever came up talk of “Tally-ho.”

Besides those on the ground drawn thither by sympathetic friendship, and others the idly curious, still others are there in the exercise of official duty. Several magistrates have arrived at Llangorren, among them Sir George Shenstone, chairman of the district bench; the police superintendent also, with several of his blue-coated subordinates.

There is a man present about whom remark is made, and who attracts more attention than either justice of the peace or policeman. It is a circumstance unprecedented – a strange sight, indeed – Lewin Murdock at the Court! He is there, nevertheless, taking an active part in the proceedings.

It seems natural enough to those who but know him to be the cousin of the missing lady, ignorant of the long family estrangement. Only to intimate friends is there aught singular in his behaving as he now does. But to these, on reflection, his behaviour is quite comprehensible. They construe it differently from the others – the outside spectators. More than one of them, observing the anxious expression upon his face, believe it but a semblance – a mask to hide the satisfaction within his heart – to become joy if Gwen Wynn be found – dead.

It is not a thing to be spoken of openly, and no one so speaks of it. The construction put upon Lewin Murdock’s motives is confined to the few; for only a few know how much he is interested in the upshot of that search.

Again it is set on foot, but not as on the day preceding. Now no mad rushing to and fro of mere physical demonstration. This day there is due deliberation; a council held, composed of the magistrates and other gentlemen of the neighbourhood, aided by a lawyer or two, and the talents of an experienced detective.

As on the day before, the premises are inspected, the grounds gone over, the fields traversed, the woods as well, while parties proceed up and down the river, and along both sides of the backwash. The eyot also is quartered, and carefully explored from end to end.

As yet the drag has not been called into requisition; the deep flood, with a swift, strong current preventing it. Partly that, but as much because the searchers do not as yet believe – cannot realise the fact – that Gwendoline Wynn is dead, and her body at the bottom of the Wye! Robbed and drowned! Surely it cannot be?

Equally incredible that she has drowned herself. Suicide is not thought of – incredible under the circumstances.

A third supposition, that she has been the victim of revenge – of a jealous lover’s spite – seems alike untenable. She, the heiress, owner of the vast Llangorren estates, to be so dealt with – pitched into the river like some poor cottage girl, who has quarrelled with a brutal sweetheart! The thing is preposterous!

And yet this very thing begins to receive credence in the minds of many – of more, as new facts are developed by the magisterial enquiry, carried on inside the house. There a strange chapter of evidence comes out, or rather is elicited. Miss Linton’s maid, Clarisse, is the author of it. This sportive creature confesses to having been out on the grounds as the ball was breaking up; and, lingering there till after the latest guest had taken departure, heard high voices, speaking as in anger. They came from the direction of the summer-house, and she recognised them as those of Mademoiselle and Le Capitaine – by the latter meaning Captain Ryecroft.

Startling testimony this, when taken in connection with the strayed ring: collateral to the ugly suspicion the latter had already conjured up.

Nor is the femme de chambre telling any untruth. She was in the grounds at that same hour, and heard the voices as affirmed. She had gone down to the boat-dock in the hope of having a word with the handsome waterman; and returned from it reluctantly, finding he had betaken himself to his boat.

She does not thus state her reason for so being abroad, but gives a different one. She was merely out to have a look at the illumination – the lamps and transparencies, still unextinguished – all natural enough. And questioned as to why she said nothing of it on the day before, her answer is equally evasive. Partly that she did not suppose the thing worth speaking of, and partly because she did not like to let people know that Mademoiselle had been behaving in that way – quarrelling with a gentleman.

In the flood of light just let in, no one any longer thinks that Miss Wynn has been robbed; though it may be that she has suffered something worse. What for could have been the angry words? And the quarrel; how did it end?

And now the name Ryecroft is on every tongue, no longer in cautious whisperings, but loudly pronounced. Why is he not here?

His absence is strange, unaccountable, under the circumstances. To none seeming more so than to those holding counsel inside, who have been made acquainted with the character of that waif – the gift ring – told he was the giver. He cannot be ignorant of what is passing at Llangorren. True, the hotel where he sojourns is in a town five miles off; but the affair has long since found its way thither, and the streets are full of it.

“I think we had better send for him,” observes Sir George Shenstone to his brother justices. “What say you, gentlemen?”

“Certainly; of course,” is the unanimous rejoinder.

“And the waterman, too?” queries another. “It appears that Captain Ryecroft came to the ball in a boat. Does anyone know who was his boatman?”

“A fellow named Wingate” is the answer given by young Shenstone. “He lives by the roadside, up the river, near Bugg’s Ferry.”

“Possibly he may be here, outside,” says Sir George. “Go see!” This to one of the policemen at the door, who hurries off. Almost immediately to return – told by the people that Jack Wingate is not among them.

“That’s strange, too!” remarks one of the magistrates. “Both should be brought hither at once – if they don’t choose to come willingly.”

“Oh!” exclaims Sir George, “they’ll come willingly,” no doubt. Let a policeman be despatched for “Wingate. As for Captain Ryecroft, don’t you think gentlemen, it would be only politeness to summon him in a different way. Suppose I write a note requesting his presence, with explanations?”

“That will be better,” say several assenting.

This note is written, and a groom gallops off with it; while a policeman on foot makes his way to the cottage of the Widow Wingate.

Nothing new transpires in their absence; but on their return – both arriving about the same time – the agitation is intense. For both come back unaccompanied; the groom bringing the report that Captain Ryecroft is no longer at the hotel – had left it on the day before by the first train for London!

The policeman’s tale is, that Jack Wingate went off on the same day, and about the same early hour; not by rail to London, but in his boat, down the river to the Bristol Channel!

Within less than a hour after a police officer is despatched to Chepstow, and further if need be; while the detective, with one of the gentlemen accompanying, takes the next train for the metropolis.

Volume Two – Chapter Twenty One

Boulogne-sur-Mer