The Mere Cliquelle and her husband, "_son pet.i.t bon homme_," as she called him, were then examined to the same purport as already detailed by the Chef to Miss Kingscott, Dechemal corroborating what had been previously told him, and certifying to their arrest by him, and importation before the Juge de Paix.

Auguste, the other of the Chefs inquisitors, had little to tell. He had searched the _cabarets_ and hotels, and enquired at the office of the Steamboat Company, and along the quays. No Englishman, or any one else resembling Markworth's description had been seen or heard of since yesterday evening, or had taken pa.s.sage for England.

This was all the evidence that could be obtained, and on it Monsieur le Juge de Paix framed the _acte d'accusation_, by which the charge of wilful murder was established against Markworth, and a warrant issued for his arrest.

The police, therefore, acting under the orders of the Chef, were on the alert.

Directions were also given to the fishermen and sailors about the quays to look out for a body in the river: the Seine was then dragged with better effect, for the very next day the surmises of the Judge and the Chef were set at rest.

The body of a fair woman, with light brown hair and about twenty-one or twenty-two years of age, was discovered floating beneath the battlements of the centre quay. The features were nearly indistinguishable from the action of the water or the attacks of crustacea, but the remains of a crimson merino dress still clung around the body, which Miss Kingscott immediately recognised and identified as that of Susan Hartshorne. The Mere Cliquelle and her husband were also certain that the remains were those of the poor English lady, although neither were positive about the dress. Madame Cliquelle said that she had never observed any particular colour in the dress of Madame (Miss Kingscott had testified in her deposition that Susan Hartshorne always wore robes of bright hue, different, as a rule, from anyone else), but she might have worn this particular dress and gone out in it that evening without her having noticed it. _Helas_! however, what need had they to be particular about a worthless dress when they had the body of the poor Madame before them!

The Mere Cliquelle wept over the lifeless sh.e.l.l of humanity; and even her little husband shed tears as he recounted how he and _la pauvre belle ange Anglaise_ used to "spik Inglese togeders."

The afternoon of the same day, too, a fisherman from Honfleur communicated with the police, and gave evidence that about ten o'clock on the night of the murder he had conveyed an Englishman, answering in every respect to the description of Markworth, across from Havre to his own village: he had been out to sea and along the coast since then, and had consequently not heard of the inquiry before.

There was no doubt of this being Markworth, as the fisherman described him to a hair with two or three telling word-strokes. The landlord of the Auberge, also, where he had stopped at Honfleur, produced a torn envelope which had been carelessly dropped by his guest. It was addressed "Allynne Markworth, Esqr.;" that settled the question.

Two clear days, however, had pa.s.sed; and although the object of their search was traced to Paris, all further clue of his track was lost, and where he had gone remained an unsolved problem.

The French police, with all their acuteness and _finesse_, in the exercise of which they are far ahead of our blundering English detectives (and those vile, social-inquisitorial dens of humbug and area-sneakishness called "Private Inquiry Offices," too) were at fault, and the game had to be given up. From some papers found amongst the things he had left behind him at the Rue Montmartre, it was surmised that Markworth had gone to America; a photograph of himself was also discovered, which he had had taken with one of his wife--it may be remembered that Markworth had shown a carte de visite of Susan to Mr Trump, when he had gone to the lawyers to tell of his marriage, and claim the reward for the missing girl. These photographs were carefully preserved by the police, and copies of Markworth's likeness despatched to various points to secure his arrest in case he put foot on French ground.

Nothing more could be done, however, by the Juge de Paix or the Chef.

The machinery of justice had been set in motion; and although its wheels were greased it had to stop working; its _but_ was non-apparent.

The depositions and evidence of the witnesses, who were now released from surveillance, were preserved until the occasion should arise for their utility.

Miss Kingscott was a potent pursuer, but the prey had escaped her again: she had still to wait for vengeance.

In the meantime the body of the girl was kept for burial until word should be received from England,

The chief of the police had communicated with the mother of Markworth's victim, having written to the _veuve_ Hartshorne, according to the address given by Miss Kingscott; the latter personage had also sent her version of the affair to the widow lady's lawyers, and both were now awaiting response.

Volume 3, Chapter VI.

THE DOWAGER AROUSED--THE DOWAGER STRUCK DOWN!

Dead!

"What? Susan dead!" She could not believe it; she wouldn't, and that was a fact. "Stuff and nonsense! don't tell me," she exclaimed; "I won't believe it."

"But, my dear madam," interposed Mr Trump, who had come down especially to The Poplars, for the purpose of breaking the news, and considering what was to be done on receiving Miss Kingscott's letter. "But, my dear madam, I have received the most satisfactory intelligence about the unfortunate event, and we must do something."

"Nonsense! don't tell me! Susan dead, indeed! What should make her die? She is a hale, strong girl, much stronger than I am, and I am not going to die yet. It's all some lying nonsense or other; that woman, the governess, who wrote to you, is capable of anything, after what you told me of her helping that villain to go away--and she as meek as a mouse all the time as if b.u.t.ter would not melt in her mouth! Stuff and nonsense! It's all a lie from beginning to end." But the old dowager did not speak with her customary absolute quality of expression. There was a lingering dread in her voice as if she wanted to be a.s.sured of the truth of what she herself had declared, and as if she feared the worst to be confirmed.

Mr Trump, from his previous knowledge of the family, did not think that Mrs Hartshorne would grieve very much about her daughter, and so he did not mince matters. He took out Miss Kingscott's letter, and showed it her.

The old lady grasped it with trembling hands, and read it from first to last in silence, although her fingers shook, and the paper rustled in her clutch.

"I can't read it," she said, after a long pause, in a faint voice, without its usual querulous intonation. "My eyes are weak; they are not so strong as they were. The light to-day is very bad. That handwriting is so small, I cannot make it out. Here, take the worthless thing and read it out to me yourself. I cannot make head or tail of it."

Mr Trump resumed possession of the doc.u.ment; his sight was not deficient, nor the light too bad for him, or the calligraphy beyond his comprehension. He read as follows, in his loud, clear voice:--

"Havre.

"Mr Trump,--

"Sir,--You will remember our conversation some days since with reference to the abduction of Susan Hartshorne by Markworth, and the desire I expressed to avow my share in the conspiracy? I have something now far more dreadful to communicate; the poor girl Susan has been murdered by that villain, Markworth! Finding, I suppose, all his hopes of gaining the girl's fortune fruitless, after his explanation with you, he returned to Havre the same evening. For reasons of my own, I followed him over from England. The very same evening he returned here he took out the girl for a walk, and this ended in his throwing her over a precipice and murdering her--I suppose, in order to get rid of her, as he could not secure the money. How I came to be present will be explained in the accompanying attested copies of my deposition, and that of the other witnesses taken before the Juge de Paix, or princ.i.p.al magistrate of this town. The body of the poor girl was found this afternoon, floating in the river Seine, close to the scene of the brutal murder. I have seen it, and there is no doubt of its being Susan Hartshorne, but the authorities need some further identification by some member of the unfortunate victim's family (or by some person authorised by them) before it is buried, or any further proceedings taken. I entreat you, my dear sir, to come over here at once. The murderer has escaped, the police seem undetermined; and although I have done all I could to stir them up, still I am only a woman, and cannot have that influence over them which a man would possess. They say that Markworth has gone to America, but surely something ought to be done, so you had better come over here, if you have got any interest in the fate of the poor girl. I believe the chief of the police has written to Mrs Hartshorne, but whether she will be able to come I do not know, and I think she had better not. Pray come yourself at once, or else the murderer will escape, and his crime be unavenged; and, besides, there are many other things to be attended to, notwithstanding that I have done my best. Come at once, and see what is to be done; you can take the night boat, which leaves Southampton at midnight, after seeing Mrs Hartshorne on your way.

"Yours, in haste,

"Clara Kingscott.

"Messrs. Trump, Sequence, and Co.,

"Bedford Row, London."

The old lady never moved, or spoke once during the time which Mr Trump was occupied in reading the governess's long letter and the legal doc.u.ments that accompanied it, although if the lawyer had looked at her, instead of at the papers, which he was perusing, he would have observed a strange and wonderful change in her face.

"Is that all? Have you done?" she asked, in a deep, hollow voice, so unlike her own, that the lawyer started and looked at her inquiringly.

"That is all," he answered.

The old dowager had received no intimation before of the startling news.

The Chef had undoubtedly forwarded a communication to the _veuve_ bereaved; but, addressed as it was _au sud de l'Angleterre_, it would take some weeks for it to reach The Poplars, if it ever got there.

Mr Trump waited in vain for some time for what the old lady would say, glancing over the depositions, which Clara Kingscott had had translated for his benefit.

At last the dowager spoke.

"Go! Go!" she screamed out in a shrill, unearthly voice. "Pursue him!

The murderer! The villain! The swindling rogue!"

As Mr Trump looked at her in amazement her face became of a blue and livid colour.

"I--I will go too! Get my--" The blue colour had now turned to black, and the old lady seemed to draw herself up as she exclaimed in disjointed sentences. "Get my--Susan!--Husband!--Where am I!"

And with a still shriller shriek she fell forward on her face on the floor.

"Apoplexy, my dear sir," as Mr Trump said afterwards in detailing the circ.u.mstance to a _confrere_. "Apoplexy, my dear sir! It often happens to people like her from a sudden shock!" But he was wrong, it was a more insidious if not so fatal a disease--it was paralysis, the fell enemy of muscularity.

The lawyer at once sent for a doctor; and "Garge," the messenger despatched, went to Bigton for Doctor Jolly, as he was the only medical man recognised in the country round. But our old friend was not at home, he had not returned yet from his unusual absence abroad; and Dobbins, the whilom coal merchant, who was acting in his stead, shortly came to see the dowager. After a hasty inspection he saw what was the case, and telling Mr Trump that further a.s.sistance would be required, the lawyer telegraphed up to London for the great doctor, Stephanos Jenner, who arrived in the evening. This great authority confirmed the opinion of the lesser medical light. He said, after a preliminary "Ha!

Hum!" that the treatment of the patient was everything that could be desired; and, accepting a fee of fifty guineas, which Mr Trump presented him by cheque, went off again to London after a few minutes'

consultation, leaving the dowager in the hands of Dobbins, who, to do him justice, knew what he was about; and of Mr Trump, who hardly knew what to do.

The lawyer was puzzled at the first; but his logical mind, keen to action, comprehended the situation, and prepared to act. He could not help moralising for a moment, however, on the vanity of human wishes, and the truthfulness of the proverb which tells us that "_L'homme propose mais le bon Dieu dispose_." The dowager had not been "going to die yet;" she had been ready to do anything and everything, and derided the idea of death and sickness; but here she was struck down in all her strength, and lying stretched out there a senseless lump of humanity without either the power or even the will to do anything. _Tali sunt solicitae vitae_!

However, as she could not, he had to act. So, after a hasty whisper with Dobbins--it was now getting late in the December night--he determined to proceed to Havre alone. Somebody had to go, for much had to be done; so much does not fall on all lawyer's shoulders as rested on Mr Trump's then. The dowager was accordingly left in the hands of Dobbins--who said that Doctor Jolly would probably return the next day, when he would undoubtedly take charge--and of the old woman-servant, who had described herself as being as hard-worked as "a pore n.i.g.g.e.r slave,"

but who now cheerfully attended to her mistress, with whom she had lived for some twenty years, having treated with indignation the suggestion of calling in a hired nurse. "Not if I knows it," she said, vehemently, "these hands wot 'ave worked for her twenty year will nuss her now; I should like ter know who else has any right to displace I?" So Dobbins conceded the points, at all events until Aesculapius proper should return; and he and the old woman nursed the dowager between them, and got her to bed, while Mr Trump went off on his travels. There was quite a revolution and a dark shadow in the old house, while the leafless poplars which encircled it seemed like funeral plumes, and the old house itself a hea.r.s.e, in the hazy light of the dull December night.