Run to Earth - Mary Elizabeth Braddon (ebook reader .txt) 📗

this morning she

reappeared, and claimed the right to remain beneath this roof.”

 

“And where had she passed the night?”

 

“Not in her own apartments. Of that I have been informed by her maid,

who believed that she had left Raynham for good.”

 

“Strange!” exclaimed the magistrate. “If she is guilty, why does she

remain here, where her guilt is known—where she maybe suspected of a

crime, and the most terrible of crimes?”

 

“Of what crime?”

 

“Of murder, Mr. Eversleigh. I regret to tell you that these two medical

gentlemen concur in the opinion that your uncle’s death was caused by

poison. A post-mortem examination will be made to-night.”

 

“Upon what evidence?”

 

“On the evidence of an empty glass, which is under lock and key in

yonder cabinet,” answered the doctor from Plimborough; “and at the

bottom of which I found traces of one of the most powerful poisons

known to those who are skilled in the science of toxicology: and on the

further evidence of diagnostics which I need not explain—the evidence

of the dead man’s appearance, Mr. Eversleigh. That your uncle died from

the effects of poison, there cannot be the smallest doubt. The next

question to be considered is, whether that poison was administered by

his own hand, or the hand of an assassin.”

 

“He may have committed suicide,” said Reginald, with some hesitation.

 

“It is just possible,” answered Gilbert Ashburne; “though from my

knowledge of your uncle’s character, I should imagine it most unlikely.

At any rate, his papers will reveal the state of his mind immediately

before his death. It is my suggestion, therefore, that his papers

should be examined immediately by you, as his nearest relative and

acknowledged heir—by me, as magistrate of the district, and in the

presence of Mr. Dalton, who was your uncle’s confidential solicitor.

Have you any objection to offer to this course, Mr. Eversleigh, or Sir

Reginald, as I suppose I ought now to call you?” It was the first time

Reginald Eversleigh had heard himself addressed by the title which was

now his own—that title which, borne by the possessor of a great

fortune, bestows so much dignity; but which, when held by a poor man,

is so hollow a mockery. In spite of his fears—in spite of that sense

of remorse which had come upon him since his uncle’s death—the sound

of the title was pleasant to his ears, and he stood for the moment

silent, overpowered by the selfish rapture of gratified pride.

 

The magistrate repeated his question.

 

“Have you any objection to offer, Sir Reginald?”

 

“None whatever, Mr. Ashburne.”

 

Reginald Eversleigh was only too glad to accede to the magistrate’s

proposition. He was feverishly anxious to see the will which was to

make him master of Raynham. He knew that such a will had been duly

executed. He had no reason to fear that it had been destroyed; but

still he wanted to see it—to hold it in his hands, to have

incontestable proof of its existence.

 

The examination of the papers was serious work. The lawyer suggested

that the first to be scrutinized should be those that he had found on

the table at which Sir Oswald had been writing.

 

The first of these papers which came into the magistrate’s hand was

Mary Goodwin’s letter. Reginald Eversleigh recognized the familiar

handwriting, the faded ink, and crumpled paper. He stretched out his

hand at the moment Gilbert Ashburne was about to examine the document.

 

“That is a letter,” he said, “a strictly private letter, which I

recognize. It is addressed to me, as you will see; and posted in Paris

nearly two years ago. I must beg you not to read it.”

 

“Very well, Sir Reginald, I will take your word for it. The letter has

nothing to do with the subject of our present inquiry. Certainly, a

letter, posted in Paris two years ago, can scarcely have any connection

with the state of your uncle’s mind last night.”

 

The magistrate little thought how very important an influence that

crumpled sheet of paper had exercised upon the events of the previous

night.

 

Gilbert Ashburne and the lawyer examined the rest of the packet. There

were no papers of importance; nothing throwing any light upon late

events, except Lady Eversleigh’s letter, and the will made by the

baronet immediately after his marriage.

 

“There is another and a later will,” said Reginald, eagerly; “a will

made last night, and witnessed by Millard and Peterson. This earlier

will ought to have been destroyed.”

 

“It is not of the least consequence, Sir Reginald,” replied the

solicitor. “The will of latest date is the true one, if there should be

a dozen in existence.”

 

“We had better search for the will made last night,” said Reginald,

anxiously.

 

The magistrate and the lawyer complied. They perceived the anxiety of

the expectant heir, and gave way to it. The search occupied a long

time, but no second will was found; the only will that could be

discovered was that made within a week of the baronet’s marriage.

 

“The will attested last night must be in this room,” exclaimed

Reginald. “I will send for Millard; and you shall hear from his lips an

exact account of what occurred.”

 

The young man tried in vain to conceal the feeling of alarm which had

taken possession of him. What would be his position if this will should

not be found? A beggar, steeped in crime.

 

He rang the bell and sent for the valet. Joseph Millard came, and

repeated his account of the previous night’s transaction. It was clear

that the will had been made. It was equally clear that if it were still

in existence, it must be found in that room, for the valet declared

that his master had not left the library after the execution of the

document.

 

“I was on the watch and on the listen all night, you see, gentlemen,”

said Joseph Millard; “for I was very uneasy about master, knowing what

trouble had come upon him, and how he’d never been to bed all the night

before. I thought he might call me at any minute, so I kept close at

hand. There’s a little room next to this, and I sat in there with the

door open, and though I dropped off into a doze now and then, I never

was sound enough asleep not to have heard this door open, if it did

open. But I’ll take my Bible oath that Sir Oswald never left this room

after me and Peterson witnessed the will.”

 

“Then the will must be somewhere in the room, and it will be our

business to find it,” answered Mr. Ashburne. “That will do, Millard;

you can go.”

 

The valet retired.

 

Reginald recommenced the search for the will, assisted by the

magistrate and the lawyer, while the two doctors stood by the fireplace, talking together in suppressed tones.

 

This time the search left no crevice unexamined. But all was done

without avail; and despair began to gain upon Reginald Eversleigh.

 

What if all the crime, the falsehood, the infamy of the past few days

had been committed for no result?

 

He was turning over the papers in the bureau for the third or fourth

time, with trembling hands, in the desperate hope that somehow or other

the missing will might have escaped former investigations, when he was

arrested by a sudden exclamation from Mr. Missenden, the Plimborough

surgeon.

 

“I don’t think you need look any farther, Sir Reginald,” said this

gentleman.

 

“What do you mean?” cried Reginald, eagerly.

 

“I believe the will is found.”

 

“Thank Heaven!” exclaimed the young man.

 

“You mistake, Sir Reginald,” said Mr. Missenden, who was kneeling by

the fireplace, looking intently at some object in the polished steel

fender; “if I am right, and that this really is the document in

question, I fear it will be of very little use to you.”

 

“It has been destroyed!” gasped Reginald.

 

“I fear so. This looks to me like the fragment of a will.”

 

He handed Reginald a scrap of paper, which he had found amongst a heap

of grey ashes. It was scorched to a deep yellow colour, and burnt at

the edges; but the few words written upon it were perfectly legible,

nevertheless.

 

These words were the following:—

 

“—_Nephew, Reginald Eversleigh—Raynham Castle estate—all lands and

tenements appertaining—sole use and benefit_—”

 

This was all. Reginald gazed at the scrap of scorched paper with wild,

dilated eyes. All hope was gone; there could be little doubt that this

morsel of paper was all that remained of Sir Oswald Eversleigh’s latest

will.

 

And the will made previously bequeathed Raynham to the testator’s

window, a handsome fortune to each of the two Dales, and a pittance of

five hundred a-year to Reginald.

 

The young man sank into a chair, stricken down by this overwhelming

blow. His white face was the very picture of despair.

 

“My uncle never destroyed this document,” he exclaimed; “I will not

believe it. Some treacherous hand has been thrust between me and my

rights. Why should Sir Oswald have made a will in one hour and

destroyed it in the next? What could have influenced him to alter his

mind?”

 

As he uttered these words, Reginald Eversleigh remembered that fatal

letter of Mary Goodwin, which had been found lying uppermost amongst

the late baronet’s papers. That letter had caused Sir Oswald to

disinherit his nephew once. Was it possible that the same letter had

influenced him a second time?

 

But the disappointed man did not suffer himself to dwell long on this

subject. He thought of his uncle’s widow, and the triumph that she had

won over the schemers who had plotted so basely to achieve her

destruction. A savage fury filled his soul as he thought of Honoria.

 

“This will has been destroyed by the one person most interested in its

destruction,” he cried. “Who can doubt now that my uncle was poisoned,

and the will destroyed by the same person?—and who can doubt that

person to be Lady Eversleigh?”

 

“My dear sir,” exclaimed Mr. Ashburne, “this really will not do. I

cannot listen to such accusations, unsupported by any evidence.”

 

“What evidence do you need, except the evidence of truth?” cried

Reginald, passionately. “Who else was interested in the destruction of

that paper?—who else was likely to desire my uncle’s death? Who but

his false and guilty wife? She had been banished from beneath this

roof; she was supposed to have left the castle; but instead of going

away, she remained in hiding, waiting her chances. If there has been a

murder committed, who can doubt that she is the murderess? Who can

question that it was she who burnt the will which robbed her of wealth

and station, and branded her with disgrace?”

 

“You are too impetuous, Sir Reginald,” returned the magistrate. “I will

own there are grounds for suspicion in the circumstances of which you

speak; but in such a terrible affair as this there must be no jumping

at conclusions. However, the death of your uncle by poison immediately

after the renunciation of his wife, and the burning of the will which

transferred the estates from her to you, are, when considered in

conjunction, so very mysterious—not to say suspicious—that I shall

consider myself justified in issuing a warrant for the detention of

Lady Eversleigh, upon suspicion of being concerned in the death of her

husband. I shall hold an inquiry here to-morrow, immediately after the

coroner’s inquest, and shall endeavour to sift matters most thoroughly.

If Lady Eversleigh is innocent, her temporary arrest can do her no

harm. She