Boothby Guy
The Childerbridge Mystery

"I am glad that Helen has at least a spark of gratitude," the other answered with a sneer. "It is a fact that she does owe everything to me. And now for this idea of yours."

"What I was going to propose is," said Jim, "that in six months' time, or so, you should permit me to marry your ward, and from that day forward should take up your residence with us."

The old man looked at him in astonishment. Then he burst into a torrent of speech.

"Such a thing is not to be thought of," he cried. "I could not consider it for a moment; it would be little short of madness. I am a recluse. I care less than nothing for society. My books are my only companions; I want, and will have, no others. Besides, I could not live in that house of yours, were you to offer me all the gold in the world."

Here he grasped Jim's arm so tightly that the young man almost winced.

"I have, of course, heard of your father's death," he continued. "It is said that he was murdered. But, surely, knowing what you do, you are not going to be foolish enough to believe that?"

"And why not?" Jim enquired in great surprise. "I can do nothing else, for every circumstance of the case points to murder. Good heavens! Mr. Bursfield, if my father were not murdered, how did he meet his death?"

The other was silent for a moment before he replied. Then he drew a step nearer, and, looking up at Jim, asked in a low voice:

"Have you forgotten what I said to you concerning the mystery of the house? Did I not tell you that one of the former owners was found dead in bed, having met his fate in identically the same manner as your father did? Does not this appear significant to you? If not, your understanding must indeed be dull."

The new explanation of the mystery was so extraordinary, that Jim did not know what to say or think about it. That his father's death had resulted from any supernatural agency had never crossed his mind.

"I fear I am not inclined to agree with you, Mr. Bursfield," he said somewhat coldly. "Even if one went so far as to believe in such things, the evidence given by the doctor at the inquest would be sufficient to refute the idea."

"In that case let us drop the subject," Bursfield answered. "My only desire was to warn you. It is rumoured in the village that on the night of your father's death one of your domestics was confronted by the spectre known as the Black Dwarf, and fainted in consequence. My old man-servant also told me this morning that your butler had seen it on another occasion. I believe the late Lord Childerbridge also saw it, and in consequence determined to be rid of the place at any cost. No one has been able to live there, and I ask you to be warned in time, Mr. Standerton. For my own part, as I have said before, though it is the home of my ancestors, I would not pass a night at Childerbridge for the wealth of all the Indies."

"In that case you must be more easily frightened than I am," said Jim. "On the two occasions you mention, the only evidence we have to rely upon is the word of a hysterical maid-servant, and the assurance of a butler, who, for all we know to the contrary, may have treated himself more liberally than usual, on that particular evening, to my father's port."

"Scoff as you will," Bursfield returned, "but so far as you are concerned I have done my duty. I have given you your warning, and if you do not care to profit by it, that has nothing to do with me. And now to return to the matter upon which I hastened after you this evening. I refer to your proposed marriage with my ward."

Jim said nothing, but waited for Mr. Bursfield to continue. He had a vague feeling that what he was about to hear would mean unhappiness for himself.

"I informed you the other day," the latter continued, "that it was impossible for me to sanction your proposal. I regret that I am still compelled to adhere to this decision. In point of fact, I feel that it is necessary for me to go even further, and to say that I must for the future ask you to refrain from addressing yourself to Miss Decie at all."

"Do you mean that you refuse me permission to see her or to speak with her?" Jim asked in amazement.

"If, by seeing her, you mean holding personal intercourse with her, I must confess that you have judged the situation correctly. I am desirous of preventing Miss Decie from falling into the error of believing that she will ever be your wife."

"But, my dear sir, this is an unheard-of proceeding. Why should you object to me in this way? You know nothing against me, and you are aware that I love your ward. You admitted, on the last occasion that I discussed the matter with you, that Miss Decie might expect little or nothing from you at your death. Why, therefore, in the name of Commonsense, are you so anxious to prevent her marrying the man she loves, and who is in a position to give her all the comfort and happiness wealth and love can bestow?"

"You have heard my decision," the other replied quietly. "I repeat that on no consideration will I consent to a marriage between my ward and yourself. And, as I said just now, I will go even further, and forbid you most positively for the future either to see or to communicate with her."

"And you will not give me your reasons for taking this extraordinary step?"

"I will not. That is all I have to say to you, and I have the honour to wish you a good evening."

"But I have not finished yet," said Jim, whose anger by this time had got the better of him. "Once and for all, let me tell you this, Mr. Bursfield: I have already informed you that I am determined, at any cost, to make Miss Decie my wife. I might add now, that your tyrannical behaviour will only make me the more anxious to do so. If the young lady deems it incumbent upon her to await your consent before marrying me, I will listen to her and not force the matter; but give her up I certainly will not so long as I live."

"Beware, sir, I warn you, beware!" the other almost shrieked.

"If that is all you have to say to me I will bid you good evening."

But Bursfield did not answer; he merely turned on his heel and strode back in the direction of the Dower House. Jim stood for a moment looking after his retreating figure, and when he could no longer distinguish it, turned and made his way homewards.

On reaching the Manor House he informed his sister of what had taken place between himself and Helen's guardian.

"He must be mad to treat you so," said Alice, when her brother had finished. "He knows that Helen loves you, and surely he cannot be so selfish as to prefer his own comfort to her happiness."

"I am afraid that is exactly what he does do," said Jim. "However, I suppose I must make allowances. Old age is apt to be selfish. Besides, we have to remember, as Helen says, that she owes much to him. No! we will do as we proposed, and wait six months, and see what happens then!"

But though he spoke so calmly he was by no means at ease in his own mind. He was made much happier, however, by a note which was brought to him as he was in the act of retiring to rest.

It was in Helen's handwriting, and he tore it open eagerly.

"My own dear love," it ran, "Mr. Bursfield has just informed me of what took place between you this evening. It is needless for me to say how sorry I am that such a thing should have occurred. I cannot understand his behaviour in this matter. That something more than any thought of his own personal comfort makes him withhold his consent, I feel certain. Whatever happens, however, you know that I will be true to you; and if I cannot be your wife, I will be wife to no other man.

"Your loving Helen."

CHAPTER VI

While the letter from Helen cheered James Standerton wonderfully, it did not in any way help him out of his difficulty with Mr. Bursfield. The latter had most decisively stated his intention not to give his consent to the marriage of his adopted granddaughter with the young Squire of Childerbridge. What his reasons were for taking such a step, neither Jim nor Helen could form any idea. It was a match that most guardians would have been only too thankful to have brought about. In spite of Helen's statements, he could only, after mature consideration, assign it to the old man's natural selfishness, and, however bitterly he might resent his treatment, in his own heart he knew there was nothing for it but to wait with such patience as he could command for a change in the other's feelings towards himself. He had the satisfaction of knowing, however, that Helen loved him, and that she would be true to him, happen what might. He was not a more than usually romantic young man, but I happen to know that he carried that letter about with him constantly, while he had read it so often that he must have assuredly known its contents by heart. All things considered, it is wonderful what comfort it is possible for a love-sick young man to derive from a few commonplace words written upon a sheet of notepaper.

After the momentous interview with Mr. Bursfield, the days went by with their usual sameness at Childerbridge. No news arrived from the detective, Robins. Apparently it was quite impossible for him to discover the smallest clue as to Murbridge's whereabouts. To all intents and purposes he had disappeared as completely as if he had been caught up into the skies. The reward, beyond bringing a vast amount of trouble and disappointment to Jim, had not proved of the least use to any one concerned.

Numerous half-witted folk, as is usual in such cases, had come forward and given themselves up, declaring that they had committed the murder, but the worthlessness of their stories was at once proved in every case. One man, it was discovered, had been on the high seas another had never been near Childerbridge in his life; while a third, and this was a still more remarkable case, was found to have been an inmate of one of Her Majesty's convict establishments at the time the murder was committed.

"Never mind," said Jim to himself; "he must be captured sooner or later. If the police authorities cannot catch him, I'll take up the case myself, and run him to ground, wherever he may be."

As he said this he looked up at the portrait of his father, which hung upon the wall of his study.

"Come what may, father," he continued, "if there is any justice in the world, your cruel murder shall be avenged."

Another month went by, and still the same want of success attended the search for Murbridge.

"Alice, I can stand it no longer," said Jim to his sister one evening, after he had read a communication from Robins. "I can gather from the tone of this letter that they are losing heart. I ought to have taken up the case myself at the commencement, and not have wasted all this precious time. The man may now be back in Australia, South America, or anywhere else."

Alice crossed the room and placed her hand on his shoulder.

"Dear old Jim," she said, "I am sure you know how I loved our father."

"Of course I do," said Jim, looking up at her. "No one knows better. But I can see there is something you want to say to me. What is it?"

"Don't be angry with me, Jim," she replied, seating herself on the arm of his chair "but deeply as that man has wronged us, I cannot help thinking that we should not always be praying for vengeance against him, as we are doing. Do you think it is what our father, with his noble nature, would have wished?"

Jim was silent for a moment. The desire for vengeance by this time had taken such a hold upon him, and had become such an integral part of his constitution, that he was staggered beyond measure by her words.

"Surely you don't mean to say, Alice," he stammered, "that you are willing to forgive the man who so cruelly killed our father?"

"I shall try to forgive him," the girl replied. "I say again, that I am sure it is what our father would have wished us to do."

"I am no such saint," Jim returned angrily. "I wish to see that man brought to justice, and, what's more, if no one else will, I mean to bring him. He took that noble life, and he must pay the penalty of his crime. An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth, was the old law. Why should we change it?"

Alice rose and crossed the room to her own chair with a little sigh. She knew her brother well enough to be sure that, having once made up his mind, he would carry out his determination.

On the morning following this conversation, Jim was standing after breakfast at the window of his sister's boudoir, looking out upon the lawn, across which the leaves were being driven by the autumn wind. His brow was puckered with thought. As a matter of fact, he was wondering at the moment how he should commence his search for Murbridge. London was such a great city, and for an amateur to attempt to find a man in it, who desired to remain hidden, was very much like setting himself the task of hunting for a needle in a bundle of hay. He neither knew where or how to begin. While he was turning the question over in his mind, his quick eye detected the solitary figure of a man walking across the park in the direction of the house. He watched it pass the clump of rhododendrons, and then lost it again in the dip beyond the lake. Presently it reappeared, and within a few moments it was within easy distance of the house. At first Jim had watched the figure with but small interest; later, however, his sister noticed that he gradually became excited. When the stranger had passed the corner of the house he turned excitedly to his sister.

"Good gracious, Alice!" he cried, "it surely cannot be."

"What cannot be?" asked Alice, leaving her chair, and approaching the window.

"That man coming up the drive," Jim replied. "It doesn't seem possible that it can be he, yet I've often boasted that I should know his figure anywhere. If it were not the most improbable thing in the world, I should be prepared to swear that it's Terence O'Riley."

"But, my dear Jim, what could Terence be doing here, so many thousand miles from our old home?"

But Jim did not wait to answer the question. Almost before Alice had finished speaking he had reached the front door, had opened it, and was wildly shaking hands with a tall, spare man, with a humorous, yet hatchet-shaped face, so sunburnt as to be almost the colour of mahogany.

The newcomer, Terence O'Riley, was a character in his way. He boasted that he knew nothing of father or mother, or relations of any sort or kind. He had received his Hibernian patronymic from his first friend, a wild Irishman on the diggings where he was born. He had entered William Standerton's service at the age of twelve, as horse-boy, and for upwards of thirty years had remained his faithful henchman. In every respect he was a typical Bushman. He could track like a blackfellow, ride any horse that was ever foaled, find his way in the thickest country with unerring skill, was a first-class rifle shot, an unequalled judge of cattle, a trifle pugnacious at certain seasons, but, and this seems an anomaly, at other times he possessed a heart as tender as a little child. When William Standerton and his family had left Australia, his grief had been sincere. For weeks he had been inconsolable, and it meant a sure thrashing for any man who dared to mention James' name in his hearing.

"What on earth does this mean, Terence?" asked Jim, who could scarcely believe that it was their old servant who stood before him.

"It means a good many things, Master Jim," said Terence, with the drawl in his voice peculiar to Australian Bushmen. "It's a longish yarn, but, my word, I am just glad to see you again, and, bless me, there's Miss Alice too, looking as pretty as a grass parrot on a gum log."

With a smile of happiness on her face, that had certainly not been there since her father's death, Alice came forward and gave Terence her hand. He took it in his great palm, and I think, but am not quite sure, that there were tears in his eyes.

"Come in at once," said Jim. "You must tell us your tale from beginning to end. Even now I can scarcely realise that it is you. Every moment I expect to see you vanish into mid-air. If I had been asked where you were at this moment, I should have said 'out in one of the back paddocks, say the Bald Mountain, riding along the fence on old Smoker, with Dingo trotting at his heels.'"

"No, sir," Terence answered, looking round the great hall as he spoke, "I sold Smoker at Bourke before I came away, and one of the overseers has Dingo, poor old dog. The fact of the matter was, sir, after you left I got a bit lonesome, and the old place didn't seem like the same. I had put by a matter of between four and five hundred pounds, and, thinks I to myself, there's the Old Country, that they say is so beautiful, and to think that I've never set eyes on it. Why shouldn't I make the trip, and just drop in and see the Boss, and Master Jim, and Miss Alice in their new home. Who knows but that they might want a colt broken for them. As soon as I made up my mind, I packed my bag and set off for Melbourne, took a passage on board a ship that was sailing next day, and here I am, sir. I hope your father is well, sir?"

There was an awkward pause, during which Alice left the room.

"Is it possible you haven't heard, Terence?" Jim enquired, in a hushed voice.

"I've not heard anything, sir," Terence answered. "I was six weeks on the water, you see. I do hope, sir, there is nothing wrong."

Jim thereupon told Terence the whole story of his father's death. When he had finished the Bushman's consternation may be better imagined than described. For some moments it deprived him of speech. He could only stare at Jim in horrified amazement.

"Tell me, sir, that they've got the man who did it," he said at last, bringing his hand down with a bang on the table beside which he was seated. "Tell me that they're going to hang the blackguard who killed the kindest master in all the world, or I'll say that there's not a trooper in England that's fit to call himself a policeman."

The poor fellow was genuinely affected.

"They haven't caught him yet, Terence," said Jim. "The police have been searching for him everywhere for weeks past, but without success."

"But they must find him, run him down, and hang him, just as we used to string up the cowardly dingoes out back when they worried the sheep. If I have to track him like a Nyall blackfellow, I'll find him."

"Terence, I believe you've come at the right time," said Jim, holding out his hand. "Seeing the way the police Authorities are managing affairs, I've decided to take up the case myself. You were a faithful servant to my father, and you've known me all my life. You've got a head on your shoulders – do you remember who it was that found out who stole those sheep from Coobalah Out Station? Come with me, old friend, and we'll run the villain down together. I would not wish for a better companion."

"I'm thankful now that I came, sir," Terence replied. "You mark my words, we'll find him, wherever he's stowed himself away."

From that day Terence was made a member of the Childerbridge household. In due course, accompanied by Jim, he inspected the stables and was more than a little impressed by the luxury with which the animals were surrounded.

"Very pretty," he muttered to himself, "and turned out like racehorses; all the same, I wouldn't like to ride 'em after cattle in the Ranges on a dark night."

The sedate head coachman could not understand the situation. He was puzzled as to what manner of man this might be, who, though so poorly dressed, while treating his master with the utmost respect, conversed with him on terms of perfect equality. His amazement, however, was turned into admiration later in the day when Mr. O'Riley favoured him with an exposition of the gentle art of horse-breaking.

"He's a bit too free and easy in his manners towards the governor for my likin'," he informed the head gardener afterwards, "but there's no denyin' the fact that he's amazin' clever with a youngster. They do say as 'ow he did all Mr. Standerton's horse-breaking in foreign parts."

It soon became apparent that Terence was destined to become one of the most popular personages at Childerbridge. His quaint mannerisms, extraordinary yarns, and readiness to take any sort of work, however hard, upon his shoulders, won for him a cordial welcome from the inhabitants of the Manor House. As for Jim and Alice, for some reason best known to themselves they derived a comfort from his presence that at any other time they would scarcely have believed possible.

On the day following Terence's arrival James stood on the steps at the front door, watching him school a young horse in the park. The high-spirited animal was inclined to be troublesome, but with infinite tact and patience Terence was gradually asserting his supremacy. Little by little, as he watched him, Jim's thoughts drifted away from Childerbridge, and another scene, equally familiar, rose before his eyes. He saw a long creeper-covered house, standing on the banks of a mighty river. A man was seated in the verandah, and that man was his father. Talking to him from the garden path was another – no less a person than Terence. Then he himself emerged from the house and stood by his father's side – a little boy of ten, dressed in brown holland, and wearing a broad-brimmed straw hat upon his head. Upon his coming his father rose, and, taking him by the hand, led him down to the stock-yard, accompanied by Terence. In the yard stood the prettiest pony that mortal boy had ever set eyes on.

"There, my boy," said his father, "that is my birthday present to you. Terence has broken him."

And now here was this self-same Terence in England, of all places in the world, making his hunters for him, while the father, who all his life had proved so generous to him, was lying in his grave, cruelly murdered. At that moment Alice came up behind him.

"What are you thinking of, Jim?" she enquired.

"I was thinking of Mudrapilla and the old days," he answered. "Seeing Terence out there on that horse brought it back to me so vividly that for a moment I had quite forgotten that I was in England. Do you know, Alice, that sometimes a wild longing to be back there takes possession of me. If only Helen were my wife, I'm not quite certain that I should not want to take you both back – if only for a trip. It seems to me that I would give anything to feel the hot sun upon my shoulders once again, to smell the smoke of a camp fire, to see the dust rise from the stock-yards, and to scent the perfume of the orange blossoms as we sit together in the verandah in the evening. Alice, that is the life of a man; this luxurious idleness makes me feel effeminate. But there, what am I talking about? I've got my duty to do in England before we go back to Mudrapilla."

At that moment Terence rode up, very satisfied with himself and with the animal upon whose back he was seated. He had scarcely departed in the direction of the stable before Jim descried a carriage entering the park. It proved to be a fly from the station, and in it Robins, the detective, was seated.

"Good afternoon, sir," he said, as he alighted; "in response to your letter, I have come down to see you personally."

"I am very glad you have done so," Jim replied, "for I have been most anxious to see you. Let us go into the house."

He thereupon led the way to his study, where he invited the detective to be seated.

"I hope you have some good news for me," Jim remarked, as he closed the door. "Have you made any discovery concerning Murbridge?"

The detective shook his head.

"I am sorry to say," he answered, "that our efforts have been entirely unsuccessful. We traced the man from Paddington to a small eating-house in the vicinity of the station, but after that we lost him altogether. We have kept a careful watch on the out-going ships, tried the hotels, lodging-houses, Salvation Army Shelters and such places, and have sent a description of him to every police station in the country, but so far without an atom of success. Once, when the body of a man was found in the river at Greenwich, I thought we had discovered him. The description given of the dead man tallied exactly with that of Murbridge. I was disappointed, however, for he turned out to be a chemist's assistant, who had been missing from Putney for upwards of a fortnight. Then a man gave himself up to the police at Bristol, but he was found to be a mad solicitor's clerk from Exeter. This is one of the deepest cases I have ever been concerned in, Mr. Standerton, and though I am not the sort of man who gives up very quickly, I am bound to confess that, up to the present, I have been beaten, and beaten badly."

"You are not going to abandon the case, I hope?" Jim asked anxiously. "Because you have been unsuccessful so far, you are surely not going to give it up altogether?"

"The law never abandons a case," the other observed sententiously. "Of course it's quite within the bounds of possibility that we may hit upon some clue that will ultimately lead to Murbridge's arrest; it is possible that he may give himself up in course of time; at the present, however, I must admit that both circumstances appear remarkably remote."

"Well," returned Jim, "I can assure you that, whatever else happens, I am not going to give up. If the authorities are going to do so, I shall take it up myself and see what I can do."

There was a suspicion of a smile upon the detective's face as he listened. Was it possible that an amateur could really believe himself to be capable of succeeding where the astute professionals of Scotland Yard had failed?

"I am afraid you will only be giving yourself needless trouble," he said.

"I should not consider it trouble to try and discover my father's murderer," Jim returned hotly. "Even if I am not more successful than the police have been, I shall have the satisfaction of knowing that I have done my best. May I trouble you for the name of the eating-house to which Murbridge proceeded on leaving Paddington?"

Taking a piece of paper from the writing-table, Robins wrote the name and address of the eating-house upon it, and handed it to Jim. The latter placed it carefully in his pocket-book, and felt that he must make the house in question his starting point.

When the detective took his departure half an hour later, Jim gave instructions that Terence should be sent to him.

"Terence," he began, when the other stood before him, "I am going up to London to-morrow morning to commence my search for Murbridge. I shall want you to accompany me."

"Very good, sir," Terence replied, "I've been hoping for this, and it'll go hard now if we can't track him somehow. But you must bear in mind, sir, that I've never been in London. If it was in the Bush, now, I won't say but what I should not be able to find him, but I don't know much about these big cities, so to speak. It will be like looking for a track of one particular sheep in a stock-yard after a mob of wild cattle have been turned into it."

Jim smiled. He saw that Terence had not the vaguest notion of what London was like.

That evening he informed Alice of the decision he had come to. She had been expecting it for some days past, and was not at all surprised by it. She only asked that he would permit her to accompany him.

"I could not remain here," she said, "and I'll promise that I'll not be in your way. It will be so desolate in this house without you, especially as Mr. Bursfield will not allow Helen to visit us, and I have no other companion."

"By all means come with me," said Jim, "I shall choose a quiet hotel in the West End, and you must amuse yourself as best you can while I am absent."

Later in the evening he wrote a note to his sweetheart informing her of his decision, and promising to let her know, day by day, what success attended his efforts.

Next morning they left Childerbridge Station at eleven o'clock for London. As the train steamed out of the village past the little churchyard, Jim looked down upon his father's grave, which he could just see on the eastern side of the church.

"Dear father," he muttered to himself, "If have to devote the rest of my life in bringing your murderer to justice, I'll do it."