CHAPTER VIIA NINE DAYS' WONDER

The information concerning the vicar's violent death was so extraordinary and so wholly unexpected that Rupert could not believe it to be entirely true. However, Mrs. Beatson's tempestuous announcement spoiled his breakfast, and, leaving the meal unfinished, the Squire hurried down to the village. Here everything was in a state of commotion, as it was rarely that so untoward an event disturbed the placidity of Barship. No one--from the flying rumors Hendle gathered during his progress--appeared to be acquainted with the exact facts of the case. Some said that Mr. Leigh had committed suicide; others, that a burglar, surprised at midnight, had struck the blow; while a few declared that the vicar was only wounded and would recover. But when Hendle reached the untidy house, he learned from the tearful Mrs. Jabber that the information was only too true. Mr. Leigh, with a nasty ragged wound on his right temple, had been found dead in his study at seven o'clock in the morning, and Kensit, the village constable, was already on the premises looking into the matter along with Dr. Tollart. The two, it seemed, had arrived simultaneously, Kensit having picked up the doctor on the road.

"And you could have knocked me down with a feather when them two walked in," wailed Mrs. Jabber, who was all rags and tears; "me expecting to be taken to jail straight off, though being, as you may guess, sir, as innocent as new-born infants. Ten o'clock was the hour as me and Jabber went to bed, as I can take my alfred davit in any court of lawr, and never a sound or a whisper did we hear, both being heavy sleepers. And when I come with a duster and a broom into the library, to clean it for the day, there I sees that blessed man lying on the floor under his writing table bleeding like a pig, face downward. As you may think, sir, I went white, and felt my inwards quaking, as I said to Jabber when we took someat strong later to keep our legs from giving way. I hollered and Jabber come to see if I was in a fit. Then says he, 'This is murder,' and runs out to shriek for the perlice, which is here with Dr. Tollart, hardly sober if you can believe me, sir. And that's the Bible truth of the whole thing, as I'd swear on my mother's corpse, though she's been an angel these many years. And what 'ull happen to me and Jabber," ended the good lady, dissolving in many tears, "is more than I can say, having no gift in prophets."

Considering her prolixity, Mrs. Jabber's account was fairly clear, and the chubby policeman was inclined to believe that she spoke the truth. He informed the Squire that he had already sent to Tarhaven for his Inspector, and that Dr. Tollart was examining the body with a view to learning the exact cause of death.

"Though to be sure, sir, that isn't hard to see," said Kensit, who was of a more chatty disposition than his position warranted. "There's a knock on the head as 'ud kill a navvy, much less a delicate gentleman as we know Mr. Leigh always was. He was struck down by a loaded cane or a bludgeon, unexpected like, if my experience goes for anything."

"But who on earth could have murdered him, Kensit?" asked Rupert, greatly puzzled. "Mr. Leigh was such a harmless man and had no enemies."

"P'raps a burglar, sir," suggested the constable wisely.

"But who would commit a burglary here?" said Rupert, looking round the entrance hall where they were standing. "There is nothing to carry off except books, and no man would risk a rope round his neck for such antique rubbish."

"True enough, Mr. Hendle. And, knowing that he had nothing worth stealing, Mr. Leigh never bothered himself to lock up the house at night. There's no catches to speak of on the windows, and the bolts of the doors ain't up to much. Anyone could walk in and walk out at any time without trouble, as he did."

"Oh. Then you think that the assassin was a man?"

"Well, sir, I don't suppose a female would come along assaulting people with blows on the back of the head. To be sure, there's Miss Sophy Tollart, who is a suffragist," mused the constable; "but Mr. Leigh never argued with her over them votes for women as I've ever heard."

In spite of the seriousness of the case, Hendle could not help smiling. "I think we can acquit Miss Tollart, Kensit," he observed. "The militant suffragist destroys property and not human beings. Ah, here is the doctor. Well?"

Tollart emerged into the hall as the Squire spoke, but did not seem to be over-eager to reply. He was a tall, bulky man, with a large red perspiring face, eyes like poached eggs, and a loose mouth suggestive of the hard drinker. As Mrs. Jabber had hinted, he had already had his morning dram, and his wits seemed to be muddled. Not at all the man, as Rupert thought with some disgust, to examine a murdered fellow-mortal's remains.

"Whew, isn't it hot, Hendle?" he remarked, mopping his streaming face with a dingy handkerchief. "That in there"--he jerked his head toward the study--"will have to be buried pretty smart; it won't keep long. The sooner he's under ground the better."

"He won't be put under ground," said Kensit, smartly. "The Leighs have their family vault, you know, doctor."

"Well! Well, vault or grave, the weather's too hot to keep the thing sweet," was Tollart's unpleasant reply. "Nice business, isn't it, Hendle? I always thought that the old man would be knocked on the head."

"Why?" asked the Squire, and Kensit looked the same question.

"Why!"--Tollart leaned against the pile of books near the wall, as his constant nipping made him shaky on his ponderous legs--"why, because he never locked up the house, and it stands away from the village in quite a lonely fashion. Anyone could break in here, or rather walk in, as Leigh never bothered about bolts and bars."

"There was nothing to guard, Tollart. I don't think it was worth any burglar's while to risk his neck for nothing."

"The man who downed Leigh was of a different opinion," said Tollart grimly.

"Do you think a burglar killed him, sir?" asked Kensit anxiously.

"Who else?"

"But Mrs. Jabber says that there is nothing missing."

"Isn't there? How does she know? Anyhow, his papers and books are all turned topsy-turvy. The burglar had a good hunt for loot, anyhow."

"The room is rather in a mess," observed Kensit thoughtfully.

"It always was in a mess," said Rupert, with a shrug. "When did the death take place, doctor?"

"Judging from the condition of the corpse I should say at eleven o'clock last night, Hendle. Did you see any stranger about the village when you were on your rounds last night, Kensit?"

"Not a soul, sir. But at eleven o'clock," Kensit reflected for a moment, "I was at the other end of the village. But when I passed the Vicarage about ten there was no one to be seen and nothing suspicious visible. The gate was open, as usual, and the door I expect was simply jammed to, as it usually was. Mrs. Jabber saw the vicar last, just before she went to bed with her husband at ten o'clock, and she left him busy at his writing and books as usual. I suppose the blow on the head killed him, sir?"

"Partly it was the blow on the head and partly heart disease," mumbled Tollart, staring at the two men with a glazed eye. "Leigh never was very strong, and I always told him to take care of his heart."

"I never knew it was weak," observed Rupert, "and he could not have thought so himself, as he was contemplating an expedition to Central America."

"Sheer madness," muttered Tollart. "However, he's gone on a longer journey now, Hendle. Kensit, when is your Inspector coming?"

"I expect him here every moment, sir."

"Well, the sooner he comes the better, as that corpse must be screwed down without delay. Have the inquest this afternoon if you can. It will be a mere formality, as the cause of death is apparent enough. There, you won't want me here now. I'll be at home at one if the Inspector from Tarhaven wants me, Kensit. Meanwhile I'm off to get a drink. Thirsty weather," and the doctor stumbled away in a hurry to get some beer.

"I don't think the weather makes much difference to the doctor's thirst, sir," said Kensit disapprovingly, and his chubby face looked severe. "However, it ain't any of my business, Mr. Hendle. You'll excuse me, sir, but I'll go and see that no one enters that library. Nothing must be touched until my Inspector sees the room. You haven't any idea as to who killed Mr. Leigh, sir?"

"Not the least idea," replied Rupert, lingering at the hall door. "I saw the vicar the night before last when he dined with me, and yesterday morning I called to see him on my way to London."

"So Mrs. Jabber said, and she said also, sir, that you said you'd call in the evening."

"I did, but did not," Rupert hesitated, for Kensit was looking at him keenly. "I really hadn't very much to say to him, and intended to call this morning."

"Do you know if he expected visitors, sir?"

"No. He made no mention to me of expecting any."

"Then it was a burglar," declared Kensit, positively.

Hendle shrugged his shoulders. "I don't see what there was to steal," he replied carelessly, and then he went away, after leaving a message that he would like to interview the Tarhaven Inspector when he was at leisure.

There was a crowd round the rickety gate--now closed for the first time for many years--but a policeman, summoned by Kensit from a neighboring village, was on guard, and would not allow anyone to enter. He saluted Rupert as he passed out, and the young man mechanically touched his hat in response. Down the road he came suddenly upon old Titus Ark, who was ruminating against a stone wall, looking more prehistoric than ever. The ancient grunted as the young Squire sauntered along thoughtfully in the blazing sunshine, and raised a gnarled hand to his battered hat. Considering that he was Leigh's bodyguard, who followed him everywhere like a dog, Hendle expected to find the old man tearful with the weakness of age. But Titus was smiling in a way which showed his toothless gums, and piped out an ordinary greeting, quite oblivious of the tremendous event which was disturbing the village.

"Morning, Squoire," said Ark, with his usual grunt. "Fine weather fur they crops I du think. Hor! Hor! Hor!"

Rupert stopped to rebuke this levity. "Don't you know that Mr. Leigh is dead?"

"Oh, no, he bain't dead," said the ancient easily. "A knock on the head don't settle such as he."

"Nonsense, man! Why, the vicar was extremely weak, and a mere tap would settle him. What are you talking about?"

"About Muster Leigh. Hor! Hor! Hor! He ain't dead. I've seen him dead afore, but he nivir come my way fur the berryin', Squoire."

"He'll come your way this time, Titus, I am afraid," replied Rupert, wondering why the old man was so stubborn. He surmised that, as Leigh--according to the doctor--had heart disease, he must have fainted at times in Ark's presence, which would account for the sexton's saying he had seen him dead. "I suppose you don't know who murdered him?"

"He bain't murdered, Squoire."

"Then you don't know who struck him?" said Hendle, amending his question.

"Naw. Muster Leigh, he said good-bye to me last night at six when he left Mussus Pattens, who is my datter. She's taken a turn for the better."

"I'm glad to hear it, Titus. Did Mr. Leigh say if he expected any visitor last night?"

"Naw," said the ancient again. "He niwer told naught to I, Squoire. You can ask him himself when he comes aloive again."

Plainly Ark declined to believe that his lifelong friend was dead, and it seemed useless to impress him with the undoubted fact. He complained that the policeman would not allow him to enter the Vicarage, and that no one would take any notice of his protestations that Leigh was not dead. Rupert, although in a hurry to return to his unfinished breakfast, stayed to persuade Titus to take a more reasonable view of the situation.

"Dr. Tollart says that Mr. Leigh has passed away. Besides the knock on the head he had heart disease, and either the one or the other was enough to kill him."

"Dr. Tollart," grunted Ark stolidly, "he be better wi beer than wi curing folk. I nivir heard tell as Muster Leigh had heart-badness. He be aloive, I tell ee, Squoire."

"Well, Titus, have your own way. But it will be your duty within a couple of days if not less, seeing that the weather is hot, to put our late vicar in his family vault."

"Oh, I'll put him there, Squoire; but he bain't dead fur all that. Hor! Hor! Hor!"

With another shrug Rupert passed on, and returned to The Big House to find Dorinda. She greeted him hastily and appeared to be very dismayed at the dreadful news of the vicar's murder. "Who could have hurt him, Rupert?" she asked, again and again. "He had no enemies. He would not have harmed a fly."

"I'm sure I can't tell you, dear. Kensit seems to think that it was a burglar did the trick."

"But there was nothing in the Vicarage to rob," protested Dorinda.

"Just what I say. However, some burglar from London might have believed that Leigh was a miser and had treasure."

"Has any stranger from London been seen about the village?"

"No. Kensit can't make head nor tail of it," Rupert shook his head and thought for a moment. "Unless some very startling evidence turns up, Dorinda, I don't believe that the truth will ever become known. What does your father say, dear?"

"Nothing. You know father did not care much for Mr. Leigh. He told me that he was sorry, but that Leigh was a fool, or he would have locked up his house regularly every night."

"Your father hasn't much sympathy, Dorinda."

"He never has. You know how badly he thinks of everyone. What is to be done about the murder, Rupert?"

"The Inspector from Tarhaven is coming to-day, and he will arrange for an inquest this afternoon or to-morrow. Upon what evidence is obtainable will depend the next step. I expect the body"--Dorinda quivered and turned pale--"will be buried almost immediately."

"Why. Don't they keep bodies a week?"

"Sometimes. But in this case, Tollart says that the sooner poor Leigh is buried the better. The corpse"--Rupert hesitated--"won't keep."

"Oh, don't"--Dorinda made a wry face--"poor Mr. Leigh. He was such a good man, Rupert. Who inherits his books, which are all he has left."

"I think there's a distant cousin of sorts, a ship captain. He won't benefit much by Leigh's death. I wonder if the old man made a will."

"Oh, yes. He told me a year ago that he had, but did not mention to whom he had left his library. You are the executor."

"Am I, indeed? That is news to me, as Leigh never asked my permission. However"--Hendle was thinking of the probability of his ancestor's will being among the papers and books--"it is just as well under the circumstances."

"What do you mean by that?"

Hendle tugged at his moustache and replied in an embarrassed fashion, "Oh, nothing, only I can look after things better than a stranger, you know. By the way, Dorinda, I forgot to tell you that Carrington is coming down by the midday train."

"Coming again so soon," said Dorinda, remembering her father's warnings against the barrister, "and why?"

"Only about some business I went up to town about yesterday," answered Rupert confusedly. "Will you walk with me to the station to meet him?"

"No," said the girl promptly. "I don't want to meet Mr. Carrington again. I don't like him overmuch."

"Ah, you've been listening to your father, dear. Mallien likes no one."

"I saw Mr. Carrington myself, Rupert, and I didn't like him. I don't require my father to judge for me."

"What a spitfire you are!" laughed Hendle, putting his arm round her waist.

"Because I want you all to myself, and I think Mr. Carrington is not a good friend for you."

"Jealous."

"Sensible. There, Rupert, don't worry me." She slipped out of his arms, much to his surprise, and he showed his feelings so visibly that she colored. "I am rather out of sorts this morning," she said hurriedly. "Father has been rather trying."

"Never mind, dear; in a month you will be with me forever."

"I hope so," sighed Dorinda, "but somehow this death of the vicar suggests to me the possibility that something will occur to prevent our marriage."

"Oh, nonsense!" Rupert stared. "What could prevent our marriage?"

"It's only a feeling," persisted Dorinda, "and I dare say it is a foolish, silly feeling; but it's here for all that," and she laid her hand on her heart.

Rupert took as much pains to argue away this fancy as he had done to argue away the fancy of Titus Ark. But Dorinda was quite as stubborn in her belief that evil fortune was coming to prevent the marriage, as the sexton was that Leigh was alive. Finally, because Rupert laughed at her, she parted from him rather irritated at the corner, where he branched off to the station road. She would not even look back when her lover went away, and Rupert walked on to meet Carrington with the reflection that women were kittle cattle, as the Scotch say. As a rule, Dorinda was amiable and calm, so it seemed strange that she should be so easily annoyed this morning. But there was a reasonable excuse after all, as Hendle concluded, since the girl, always having been markedly friendly with the vicar, the poor man's violent death naturally shocked and upset her greatly. Moreover, the heartless comments which Mallien the cynic was more than likely to make, assuredly would add to Dorinda's distress. By the time he reached the station, Rupert had explained away to his own satisfaction the unusual emotion of the girl.

True to his promise Carrington arrived by the midday train and hopped out onto the platform as lively as a cricket. In gray flannels, a straw hat and brown shoes, the barrister looked handsome, well-bred and very much alive. The sight of his keen face and intelligent dark eyes comforted Hendle, as he knew that Carrington, if anyone, would be helpful in the matter of the vicar's mysterious murder.

"Here you are and here I am, Hendle," cried the new arrival briskly, as he gave up his ticket and walked out of the station along with the Squire. "I say, old chap, you're worrying considerably over this will business. There's a drawn, tired look on your face, which shows that you haven't slept a wink."

"Well, I didn't have a particularly restful night," admitted the other with a sigh. "And what has happened this morning doesn't help to make me feel any happier, Carrington."

"Eh, what?" the barrister stopped. "Then Leigh has found the will and----"

"Leigh is dead," Hendle informed him abruptly.

"Dead!" Carrington stared. "Dead! What are you talking about?"

"About what has happened," replied the other heavily. "Leigh was found dead in his study this morning."

Carrington looked at Hendle doubtfully. "You're pulling my leg," he said, in a disbelieving tone.

"I don't pull people's legs over such a serious matter. I tell you positively that the vicar is dead. All the village is in commotion."

"Dead!" repeated Carrington once more as they moved on toward Barship. "The unexpected has happened with a vengeance. Well, well, he wasn't young, and looked like a delicate man, who would pop off at any moment."

"This death has nothing to do with delicacy, Carrington. Leigh has been murdered."

"Oh, Lord!" Man of the world as he was, Carrington received a shock. "Poor old chap. Murdered! What a beastly thing to happen! Who murdered him?"

"No one knows. The police are looking into the matter now. He was found dead in his study at seven this morning, and there is a wound on the right temple. So far, the only conclusion arrived at is that some one tried to rob the house, and, being discovered, struck Leigh down."

"I can't see that there was anything in the house worth a burglar committing such a crime for," remarked Carrington, taking off his hat.

"There wasn't. No one in the village would have attempted a burglary, since Leigh was known to be very poor. Besides, Leigh was too popular for anyone to hurt him. But a stranger----"

"Ah," broke in Carrington swiftly, "a stranger. Has any stranger been seen hovering about the Vicarage?"

"No. Kensit, our village policeman, was on his rounds as usual last night, but declares that he saw no one."

"But some tramp----"

"No tramps have been hanging about the village of late."

Carrington looked puzzled. "It seems to be a mystery. At what time was the poor chap murdered?"

"No one knows. But Dr. Tollart thinks the blow was struck about eleven o'clock last night."

"Has the weapon been found?"

"No!"

"Did that housekeeper hear any noise?"

"No! Nothing was known of the murder until she found her master dead near his writing table. The Inspector has been sent for to Tarhaven and will be here shortly. Indeed, I expect he is here now. He will take charge of the house and look into the matter."

"Humph!" remarked the barrister thoughtfully. "As I said before, it seems to be a mystery. This Inspector will take charge of all Leigh's books and papers, I suppose."

"Yes. Why not?"

"Oh, I am not saying against his handling them. But the will----"

"The will. Yes?"

"Can't you see, Hendle. If this Inspector looks through the papers left by Leigh, which he probably will, he is bound to come across that hundred-year-old testament you mentioned yesterday."

Rupert winced. "I expect he will, unless poor Leigh has so carefully mislaid it that it cannot be found. But what if he does?"

"Well, then all the fat will be on the fire," said Carrington with an air of finality.

"I suppose you mean that the will must be made public. Why not? If it is a legitimate document, Mallien must get the money, and if it isn't, my position remains unchanged. In any case, whether Leigh lived or died, what he discovered would have to be shown all round."

"Quite so. But you didn't want it to be shown all round until you looked into the matter privately along with me," argued Carrington, quickly.

"True enough. I should like to have seen the document before Mallien became aware that it existed. However, as things stand, the will is bound to be found, and Mallien is bound to know. We must thresh out the matter openly straightway, and I shall do my best to avoid trouble."

"I don't see how you can avoid it, Hendle. Mallien is not the man to let a chance of getting a fortune go."

"I am sure he isn't," retorted the Squire positively. "And he is certain to make things as disagreeable for me as possible. But if I surrender the property, should the will prove to be legal, I don't see that he can worry me."

"You will lose everything," warned the barrister, significantly.

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Including Miss Mallien."

"I suppose so," admitted the Squire reluctantly. "Even if she remains true to me, as I am sure she will, I can't ask her to marry me on nothing a year."

There was silence for a few minutes as the two men walked into the village, and it was Carrington who spoke first. "I'm awfully sorry for you, old man."

"I'm rather sorry for myself. However, what must be must be, so there's no more to be said. By the way, Dorinda told me that Leigh had made me his executor. I never knew that he had, until she told me."

"Leigh took your friendship for granted, it seems. Who inherits?"

"I don't know. His sole relative is a sea captain, somewhere in Australia. I have heard him speak of the young fellow--a cousin of sorts--as the last of the Leighs. There isn't much to leave in the way of property."

"So you are executor," murmured Carrington thoughtfully. "In that case, you will have the handling of the papers, and may be able to get possession of the will before the Inspector lays hands on it."

"What good will that do?" asked Hendle, irritably.

"You can suppress the will."

"I shouldn't think of doing such a thing."

"You'll lose all if the will proves to be genuine," Carrington warned him.

"Then I must lose all."

"That's quixotic."

"So you said yesterday. But I mean to be honest." And again there was silence, Carrington secretly considering his friend an honorable ass.