Circumstantial Evidence

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLII, Issue 8, 24 February 1909, Page 55

Circumstantial Evidence

By

Beatrice Heron-Maxwell

Author of The Murder at Lyndean

I Stovp. —

IT was a typically happy home, that of the Dyarts; a “menage a deux” in which only one mutual wish and will prevailed—an ideality realised. And in these days of incompatibilities it is always refreshing to find a husband and wife who are sensible enough to know their own minds, and to show other people that they know them. For after all it is rather a lame confession to make to the world —that you have voluntarily chosen as your partner in life, a person who is distasteful to you, and whom you hold up to contempt ami dislike both privately and publicly. There is something so much more admirable, in demonstrating that you have made your choice wisely, and are content with it. To begin with, Sir Francis Dyart had married for love, although he was a poor man with a good old name as a passport to the Land of Dollars, and Clementina Hope brought him little but her own charming, clever, enigmatical personality, and a capacity, amounting to a genius, for making friends. She made them — ; at it were—by the grace of God; and this gift, in its perfection, is an asset scarcely less valuable than that of making money. So that Sir Francis found himself, soon after their marriage, in a ■well-paid berth which was almost a sinecure, and with an unlimited supply of invitations to shoot, fish, hunt, or kill time in the d< lights of the London sason, in return for the society of his popular wife. Everyone liked Lady Dyart—women as well as men, and the number of her devoted admirers was legion. Therefore a dinner party at the little fiat in Mount-street was a social event in their circle, and an invitation to one a coveted privilege not lightly refused. “1 have no business to be here,” said Lord Wrexham cofidentially to Mrs. Heywood as they took their places, places, “but man is weak and woman unprincipled. Lady Dyart knew I was pledged to my regimental dinner tonight and yet she asked me—you see the. result.” “I’m worse,” replied Mrs. Heywood, “I ve thrown over a family banquet at n.y mother-in-law’s, and am in absolute disgrace. But- Clementina has a mag- - netie. attraction that one can’t resist.” “T know everybody,” .continued his lordship glancing down the oval table, “more or less, except one. Who is Lady Dyart’s next door neighbour?” “The man who has made such a record in diplomacy,” was the reply. “Eustace de Freyne—only 29. and an ambassador already! He goes to his new post tomorrow. “English?” queried Lord Wrexham. “With a touch of Mexico,” she assented, “they say men of mixed nationality come to the front the soonest.” Lord Wrexham shook his head. “European perhaps,” he said, “but when you cross the herring-pond you are apt to get too mixed. Good looking chap though.” Mr. de Freyne was certainly distinguished both in looks and bearing, though a critical physiognomist, while admitt’nig his good points, would have been dubious over certain characteristics of his face. However, his dark handsome head looked well, in contrast to the fair spiritual beauty of* liis hostess, and ths animation of their talk showed tfiat each was interested in the other. Lady Dyart h manner was a shade less equable than usual, for as a rule she cjiarmed. pa«ssive’ly rather than actively; but’ bn bins particular evening there was a new

brilliance about her as though she fascinated by intention. Her husband, always affectionately observant of her, noticed it, and sent an appreciative glance now and again across the table. It was at dessert that the conversation suddenly became general, on a subject which had been occupying a good deal of newspaper attention, that of justifiable crime. Mr. de Freyne was relating a Mexican experience of his own, in which a murderer had been almost canonised because, the motive lor the deed was considered so exemplary, and in the argument that ensued hi»s sympathies seemed to be all on the side of those who took the law into their own hands* “ft must need tremendous courage or tremendous callousness to commit murder,” said Lady Dyart, “and 1 can never understand how a woman is capable of it. I always think it is indirectly the fault of a ma*n, because he has so tortured her as to change her nature. ’ Her husband smiled. “Clem is a great believer in her own sex,” he said. “In the most cold blooded murder that I have been mixed up in was done by a woman.” “Don’t say ‘mixed up in,’ Frank,” remonstrated his wife, “it sounds as if you had had a hand in it.” He smiled again at her vehemence. “I was sharing a bungalow in Burmah,” he said, “with poor Goodlake, when it happened. He had given some slight offence to a native woman, the wife of his cook, and she showed the utmost ingenuity and deliberation in her revenge. She strung grains of rice on some long hairs from her own head, cut each grain separate so that the rice looked as usual, and then gave it to her liusbatd to boil for the Sahib’s curry. I was dining put that night, luckily for me. It was poor Goodlake’s last meal.” “It killed him?” asked Mrs. Heywood in am a wets truck voice. “Chopped hair has a surer result than many poisons,” said Sir Francis; “there is no antidote; he died after some, days of acute agony. I fancy powdered glass haf> the same, effect. And it is almost impossible to bring the crime home.” “A neat way of disposing of an undesirable wife,” suggested Lord M rexham. “Dr husband,’’ added Mr. de Freyne; ‘ r the method oppeals more to feminine natures. A man prefers a knife, or a pistol generally.” His dark eyes gleamed, and he made a slight swift gesture as of one who strikes an enemy. Lady Dyart looking at him gave a. little shudder. “I don't

think you ought to tell that story, Frank,” she said to her husband; “it suggests such an easy way of getting ritl of people. It’s demoralising.” “On my own head be it!” he answered lightly; “if I perish from chopped hair, or powdered glass, I shall only have myself to blame.” And then Lady Dyart with a reproachful glance at him for his levity, gave the signal of departure and the men were left to themselves. Lord Wrexham made a point of talking to the man who had been honoured •by Lady Dyart’s special attention, and came to the conclusion that his first undefined impression of de Freyne was correct. The diplomatist, tactful as his address was, gave him a vague feeling of antagonism. There was, Wrexham felt sure, a touch of the savage underlying the polish of the English gentieman. However, there was no doubt that he was in favour with Lady Dyart ; she permitted him to monopolise her for the greater part of the evening, and to take a very lingering farewell of her when at last he departed. They spoke of some future meeting that was to happen abroad, during the autumn, when the Dyarts would be passing through Mr do Fre.yne's new administration, and Lord Wrexham noticed that Sir Francis was not so cordial in his good-bye to Mr de Freyne as the intimacy between them seemed to demand. •Still these details made less impression on his mind at the time, than they did later, when he recalled them with an uneasy sense of summing up evidence against a person whom he, desired to believe innocent. For, as it happened, he heard nothing more of de Freyne. and saw very little of the Dyarts for the rest of the season, and it was with some surprise that he found Mr de Freyne in Lady Dyart’s drawing-room on her first at-home day in the late autumn. “You two have met already.” she said, “so I need not introduce you.” “I thought you were engrossed in affairs of State somewhere abroad.” said WTexham as they shook hands. “So I am—vicariously,” replied Mr de Freyne, “but they worked me rather hard this year, so I'm on leave for a month.” A transient thought passed through Wrexham's mind as to whether, this fact would be as welcome to Frank Dyart, as it obviously was. to his wife, but he dismissed it for the moment. Tt recurred once or twice during the

month especially when he observed tha v Lady Dyart was generally escorted by Mr de Freyne and that sir Francis seemed busier than he used to b e and less available for society work. Still there was nothing to cause remark, and de Freyne Was. after ail. only one of a crowd of men who would gladly be in his place. I he month had just come to an end when \\ rexham. turning into his club one afternoon w it It a vague intention of having a chat with Sir Francis, received a pi<‘<-<. of information that was a violent shock to him. Sii I'tancis Dyart was dead-- in the v< ry prime of his life after a few hour>’ illness only, from some mysterious disorder that resoinbled irritant poisoning. There was an enquiry and a postH.iortem, but the only result was a confirmation of t he doctor's certificate, which left no definite or reasonable grounds for supposing that anything but an accidental cause had brought about tlio disaster. Art a whisper was breathed here, and a hint theie. and significant glances were exchanged; ami the story of the dinner party, recalled by sonname who was present at it. was circulated, until it cairn* to lx* understood that there was some thing sinister in Lady Dyart’s sudden widowhood. “Do you know what people ar<» saving?” said Mrs Hevwood one day in the New Year to Lord Wrexham, “that the Dyarts did not hit if off together latterly, and their life was a sort of armed truce. They say too ” her voice trailed away and she hesitated. “I would rather not hear," said Wrexham. “where is she?” “Clementina was so shattered with grief that she had to go abroad,” said Mrs Heywood, “at least so 1 am told. I hear that she looked quite lovely in her weeds. She has given up the flat and there -<‘ems to be no sign of her return.” Lord Wrexham was silent. lie had a problem to face that concerned Lady Dyart and himself very closely. For. bemnith all th“ social exigencies, that, had made impossible the revelation on his part of any deep feeling for her, while still permitting him to enrol himself as one of her manv preux chevaliers. lie had in reality loved Clenientiiia with as much fervour and as little hope as any Knight of the Hound Table might have done. Ami there was.no tangible reason why, in t he -con r-e of lime, he should not. seek

tier out and tell her so, without disloyalty to his dead friend. Yet, before doing this, he must resolve certain doubts that, ngaiust his will, Continually troubled his mind. The weeks grew into months and still lie found these questions unanswered, until one day the matter for his debate >vas settled by the news that Lady Dyart — the widow' of a year — was to be married again and to Mr. de Freyne. 'The talk ateut her, which had abated, flowed once more and reached so high a tide that some of it was carried to Clemj entina herself. It had such an effect on her tha,t she broke off her engagement, and retired from social life, realising at last the reason why so many of her former friends had made no attempt to draw' her from the seclusion of her time of mourning. When laird Wrexham heard that she had thrown Mr. de Freyne over and had shut herself up in a lonely villa in Italy, his sensation was one of relief. His faith in her, dimmed by all that had happened, revived; and he wrote at once telling her he would soon be yachting in the Mediterranean and wished very much to ace her. But before her answer came, a curious thing happened—one of those coincidences that occur in real life, and seem stranger than fiction. He was motoring on his way to Southampton to join his yacht when he came upon the scene of an accident in which a woman had teen knocked down by a runaway horse and badly hurt. He conveyed her to the nearest infirmary and .was present when she died there, almost immediately. Just before the end, to his surprise, she recognised him and said she had known him well by sight in her days of service, when she was cook to Sir Francis and Ladj' Dyart, in Mountst. It was her last place; she had been living on her savings since then. ‘■Her ladyship was an angel,” sire faltered in broken sentences, “and I worshipped her. I wasn’t the only one —she had a lot of love given to her. I did What I woudn’t have done for anyone else

in the world; I soiled my hands to get her free. She wasn’t happy and 1 knew what she wanted—and gave it to ter.” ‘•What do you. mean’” questioned Wrexham eagerly. “Won’t you tell me—> for Lady Dyart’s sake?” The woman looked at him comprehensively. “I see!” she said, “We’ll I’ll tell you for .your own sake, because you were a good friend to her and she liked you. I gave Sir Francis what the Indian woman gave her master.” “Of your own acord?” demanded Wrexham breathlessly. “Lady' Dyart knew nothing about it,” the woman answered evasively. “She wouldn’t have harmed a fly—let alone her husband. Sir Francis and she had drifted apart, not through her fault either, and—l thought I would set things 1 ight. And then, with a sigh, the woman died. But Lord A\ rexham, with a lightened heart, went on his way rejoicing and before many days had passed found himself at the A ilia Andrea, on the shores of an Italian lake. Lady Dyart was in her garden, and as she came through the cvpress trees towards him, he thought what a lovely, desolate figure she looked, in her black dress, and how changed, in her pensive sadness, to the brilliant Society star whom he had last seen. Yet there seemed a new gentleness and sweetness about her that made her, to him. infinitelv more attractive. “Aou are the first of my old friends to come to me, ’ she said, as she gave him her hand. “I thought I had lost them all.” He kept the hand in his while he answered: “I was coming two months ago, and then I heard some news that stopped me.” “You mean about my engagement,* she said quite simply. “But that is all over now, over and done with, for good.” Then as he looked surprised she went on: “I should like to tell you all about it, Lord Wrexham, if I may. We arc such old friends and—and I wish to justify myself to you.”

‘•Before you justify yourself,” he said, “I want to tell you that I love you —that I have loved you all along—and that I have come here to ask you to be my wife.” She made an exclamation of surprise, and flushed rose-red, while her eyes had the shimmer of sudden tears. “You care for me?” she said wonderingly. “You telieve in me—in spite of all that has teen said and thought?” “I believed in you, thank God, when I wrote and asked yofl to see me. Since then I have learnt something that I will tell you when you have given me my answer. Will you marry me, Clem? I have waited a long time—and very hopelessly—for you. Will you make me happy at last?” “But are you sure it would make you happy?” she questioned. “Happiness seems far away from me, and I am. doubtful of myself and you. 1 have felt so lonely—so deserted!” “You shall never be lonely any more,” he said, and he took her in his arms. A little later, when they sat on the terrace together, she told him of all that had happened to change her life. “I think Eustace de Freyne had a strange influence over me,” she said. “I have wondered sometimes whether he did not east a spell on me. He was a Mexican, you know, on his mother’s side, and had curious thoughts and ways that made him different from Europeans. I always wanted to please and attract him, jet when I did so it repelled me. I was frightened of him. Frank had a great dislike to him, and gradually he seemed to create a barrier between my husband and myself. We never, had a real quarrel, Frank and I, but we ceased to be companions—we grew distant and constrained to one another. And then Frank died—so suddenly, you know—and I felt miserable and self-reproachful, and made up my mind never to see Eustace again. But he seemed to have the power to magnetise me, and when we met at last and he told me I must marry him, I had no courage to resist. But one day a rumour reached me that I was suspected of causing poor Frank's death.

I went to Eustace and' told him of it with indignation, and he laughed iu my face. “‘lt may te true.’ he said; ‘you may have caused it indirectly, and in any case it was a happy release for you.’ “Then the scales seemed to fall from my eyes, and I saw him suddenly as he really was—saw him as Frank must have seen him, and then and there I left him. He has tried entreaties, threats, commands ;they are all useless. He has lost his power over me. I no longer dread him. He is nothing to me. “I have been realising all I have lost through him, and I have even dared to think ” She broke off in agitation, her face white and anguished. “Think of it no more,” said Lord Wrexham. “The past is done, and cannot te undone. Come home to your own country, to jour old friends, with me, and forget this man’s existence. Your future is in my care now, Clem., and I mean to make it worth living—for both of us.”