The Stowmarket Mystery, Louis Tracy [best romance novels of all time .txt] 📗

irresistibly recalls the original enemy of the family, David Hume?”

“It is odd,” asserted Winter.

Someone rang, and was admitted.

“Mr. Holden,” announced Smith.

Chapter XXVII Holden’s Story

Return to Table of Contents

The long-nosed ex-sergeant entered. His sallow face was browned after his long journeys and exposure to the Italian sun in midsummer. He was soiled and travel-stained.

“Excuse my appearance,” he said. “I have had no time for even a wash since this morning. On board the boat I thought it best to keep a constant watch on Capella and his companions.”

“Who are they?” demanded Brett.

Mr. Holden looked at the barrister with an injured air.

“I am a man of few words, sir,” he said, “and if you do not mind, I will tell my story in my own way.”

Winter was secretly delighted to hear the “Old ’Un,” as they called him in the Yard, take a rise out of Brett in this manner.

“Perhaps,” exclaimed the barrister, “your few words will come more easily if you wet your whistle.”

“Well, I must admit that Italian wine—”

“Is not equal to Scotch; or is it Irish?”

“Irish, sir, if you please.”

Mr. Holden’s utterance having been cleared of cinders, he made a fresh start.

“As I was saying, gentlemen, I kept an observant eye on Capella and his companions, and at the same time occupied myself in the fashioning of certain little models with which to illustrate my subsequent remarks.”

He produced a map of Naples, which he carefully smoothed out on the table, pressing the creases with his fingers until Brett itched to tweak his long nose.

The man was evidently a Belfast Irishman, and the barrister forced himself to find amusement in speculating how such an individual came to speak Italian fluently. Speculation on this abstruse problem, however, yielded to keen interest in Mr. Holden’s proceedings.

On the face of the map he located a number of small wooden carvings, which were really very ingenious. They represented churches, an hotel, a mansion, three ordinary houses, a rambling building like a public institution, and a nondescript structure difficult to classify.

“I find,” said Mr. Holden, when the mise-en-scène was quite to his liking, “that a good map, and a few realistic models of the principal buildings dealt with in my discourse, give a lucidity and a coherence otherwise foreign to the narrative.”

Even Winter became restive under this style of address. Brett caught his eye, and moved by common impulse, they lessened the whisky-mark in a decanter of Antiquary.

“Allow me to remark,” interpolated Brett, “that your telegrams were admirably terse and to the point.”

“Thank you, sir. Many eminent judges have complimented me on my manner of giving evidence. And now to business. I arrived at the railway station here” (touching the non-descript building), “and took a room in the Villa Nuova here” (he laid a finger on the mansion), “which, as you see, is quite close to the Hotel de Londres here” (a flourish over the hotel), “at which, as I expected, Mr. Capella took up his abode. According to your instructions I obtained a competent assistant, a native of Naples, and we both awaited Mr. Capella’s arrival. He reached Naples at 10.30 a.m. the day following my advent at night, and after breakfast drove straight to the Reclusorio, or Asylum for the Poor, situated here” (he indicated the institution), “close to the Botanical Gardens. Mr. Capella arranged with the authorities to withdraw from the poorhouse an elderly woman named Maria Bresciano. It subsequently transpired that she was a nurse employed by a certain English gentleman named Fraser Beechcroft, who became entangled with a beautiful Italian girl named Margarita di Orvieto some twenty-eight years ago.”

Mr. Holden paid not the remotest attention to the looks of amazement exchanged between Brett and Winter. He merely paused to take breath and peer benignantly at the map, following lines thereon with the index finger of his right hand.

“It appears further,” he resumed, “that the Englishman and the Signorina di Orvieto could not marry, on account of some foolish religious scruples held by the young lady, but they entertained a very violent passion for each other, met clandestinely, and a female child was born, whose baptism is registered, under the name of Margarita di Orvieto, in the church of the village of La Scutillo here.” (He tapped a tiny spired edifice on the edge of the map.)

“The two were living there in great secrecy, as they were in fear of their lives, not alone from the young lady’s relatives, but from her discarded lover, the Marchese di Capella, father of the present Mr. Giovanni Capella, who has dropped his title in England. The old woman, Maria Bresciano, attended the signorina and her child, but unfortunately the mother died, and her death is registered both by the civil authorities in the Minadoi section here” (lifting a small house bodily off the map), “and by the ecclesiastical here” (he touched another spire).

“The affair created some stir in the Naples of that day, but Beechcroft’s suffering, the calm daring with which, after the girl’s death, he defied those who had vowed vengeance on him, and the generally passionate nature of the attachment between the two, created much public sympathy for him. Among others who were attracted to him were a Mr. and Mrs. Somers, and their daughter, then resident in Naples. Oddly enough, Beechcroft did not content himself with securing efficient care for his child, but brought the infant to the Hotel de Londres—you note the coincidence—where it was nurtured under his personal supervision.”

Brett drew a long breath. So this was Margaret’s secret and Capella’s vengeance! He was aroused, as from a dream, by Mr. Holden’s steady voice.

“Mr. Beechcroft always held that the Signorina di Orvieto was his true wife in the eyes of Heaven, for their marriage was only prevented by a most uncalled-for and unnatural threat of incurring her father’s dying curse it she dared to wed a Protestant. Eighteen months after her death he married Miss Somers at the British Consulate, and revealed his real name and rank—Sir Alan Hume-Frazer, baronet, of Beechcroft, near Stowmarket, England. His lady adopted the infant girl as her own, and local gossip had it that this was a part of the marriage contract, whilst the ceremony took place at an early date to give colour to the kindly pretence. The pair lived in a distant suburb, at Donzelle here” (another church fixed the spot), “and in twelve months a boy was born, birth registered locally and in the British Consulate. After four more years’ residence in Naples, Sir Alan and Lady Hume-Frazer left Italy with their two children. Mr. Capella found two of their old servants, Giuseppe Conti and Lola Rintesano, living in these small houses here and here” (the remaining houses were lifted into prominence).

“Mr. Capella married Miss Margaret Hume-Frazer in Naples last January, the marriage being properly registered. His estates are situated in the South of Italy, and his father retired thither permanently during the scandal that took place twenty-eight years ago. Mr. Capella has brought with him the persons named as the nurse and servants, together with certified copies of all the documents cited. I also have certified copies of those documents, I now produce them, together with a detailed statement of my expenses. Mr. Capella is residing in a neighbouring hotel.”

The methodical police-sergeant laid some neatly docketed folios on the table near the map, and sat down for the first time since entering the room.

As a matter of fact, he had not uttered an unnecessary word. Other men, describing similar complexities, would have given particulars of their adventures, how this thing had been done, and that person wheedled into confidences.

Mr. Holden rose superior to these considerations. His mission was all-important, and he had certainly fulfilled it to the letter.

“If ever a grateful country makes me a judge, Mr. Holden,” said Brett, “I will add another to the encomiums you have received from the Bench. Indeed, before this affair ends, that pleasant task may be performed by an existing judge, for I do not see now how we are going to keep out of the law-courts. Do you, Winter?”

“Looks like a murder case plus a divorce,” commented the detective.

“You are leaving out of count the biggest sensation, namely, the title to the Beechcroft estates. Under her father’s will, if it is very cleverly drawn, Mrs. Capella may receive £1,000 per annum. She has not the remotest claim to Beechcroft and its revenues or to her brother’s intestate estate.”

Winter whistled.

“My eye!” he exclaimed. “What is Capella going to get out of it?”

“Revenge! His is a legacy of hate, like most other benefactions in the Hume-Frazer family. The next move rests with him. I wonder what it will be!”

Chapter XXVIII Mr. and Mrs. Jiro

Return to Table of Contents

Chance, at times, tangles the threads on which human lives depend, and creates such a net of knots and meshes that intelligent foresight is rendered powerless, and plans that ought to succeed are doomed to utter failure.

It was so during the three days succeeding Capella’s return from Italy. Reviewing events in the lights of accomplished facts, Brett subsequently saw many opportunities where his intervention would have altered the fortunes of the men and women in whom he had become so interested.

Although he endeavoured to keep control of circumstances, it was impossible to predict with certainty the manner in which the fifth act of this tragedy in real life would unfold itself.

Would he have ordered things differently had he possessed the power? He never knew. It was a question he refused to discuss with Winter long after everybody was comfortably married or buried, as the case might be.

To divide labour and responsibility, he apportioned Ooma and his surroundings to Winter, Capella to Holden. The strict supervision maintained over the Jiro family was relaxed. Brett proposed dealing with them summarily and in person.

Holden had barely concluded his remarkable narrative when Hume’s reply came from Whitby, giving the address of the hotel where Fergusson resided.

Brett went there at once, and found the old butler on the point of retiring for the night.

Fergusson was at first disinclined to commit himself to definite statements. With characteristic Scottish caution, he would neither say “yes” nor “no” until the barrister reminded him that he was not acting in his young master’s interests by being so reticent.

“Weel, sir, I’m an auld man, and mebbe a bit haverin’ in my judgment. Just ask me what ye wull, an’ I’ll dae my best to answer ye,” was the butler’s ultimate concession.

“You remember the day of the murder?”

“Shall I ever forget it?”

“Before Mr. David Hume-Fraser arrived at Beechcroft from London, had any other visitors seen Sir Alan?”

This was a poser. No form of ambiguity known to Fergusson would serve to extricate him from a direct reply.

“Ay, Mr. Brett,” came his reply at last. “One I can swear to.”

“That was Mr. Robert Hume-Fraser, who met him in the park, and walked with him there about three to four o’clock in the afternoon. Were there others whom you cannot swear to?”

The butler darted a quick glance at the other.

“Ye ken, sir,” he said, “that the Hume-Frazers are mixed up wi’ an auld Scoatch hoose?”

“Yes.”

“Weel, sir, there’s things that happen in this world which no man can explain. Five are dead, and five had to die by violent means. Who arranged that?”

“Neither you nor I can tell.”

“That’s right, sir. I know that Mr. David or Mr. Robert never lifted a hand against their cousin, yet, unless the Lord blinded my auld een, I saw ane or ither in the avenue when I tried to lift Sir Alan frae the groond.”

“You said nothing of this at the time?”

“Would ye hae me speak o’ wraiths to a Suffolk jury, Mr. Brett? I saw no mortal man. ’Twas a ghaist for sure, an’ if I had gone into the box to talk of such things they wad hae discredited my evidence about Mr. David. I might hae hanged him instead o’ savin’