Chapter Twenty Six. And You—A Clergyman.

“Where is Mr Holt? I must see him at once.”

“He’s in the vestry, miss, talking to a gentleman. But he’ll be disengaged in a moment,” the verger replied.

“Very well. I’ll wait.”

The girl who had listened with disgust to the Sunday morning sermon preached by the Rev. Hubert Holt, and who had afterwards gone round to the vestry of the church of St. Barnabas, Camberwell, was Dolly Vivian.

A few days previously, while walking along Buckingham Palace Road, she unexpectedly passed the man who called himself Mansell. Attired as he was in the garb of a clergyman, she was not quite certain as to his identity with the man who had assisted in her abduction. Yet, with justifiable curiosity, she turned and set herself to watch him. For hours she dogged his footsteps, always at a respectable distance. First he went up Victoria Street, and along the Embankment to the City, then he crossed London Bridge and continued through the Borough and Walworth Road, ultimately entering one of a terrace of smoke-begrimed houses in Boyson Road, Camberwell. Once or twice while following him she contrived to obtain an uninterrupted view of his features, and each time felt more convinced that he was the man for whom she was in search.

When he had disappeared she returned, and noticed upon the railing outside the house was a small, tarnished brass plate bearing the name, “Rev. Hubert Holt.” Carefully noting the number, she proceeded to make diligent inquiries, and was not long in discovering that Holt and Mansell was one and the same person, and that he was curate of St. Barnabas church, which was situated at the end of the road.

At first she was prompted to call upon him at once and denounce him; but on reflection she saw that such a course might not effect the object she had in view. She regarded him as a scoundrel, and in consequence carefully prepared a tableau by which she could obtain the information she sought, and if possible, compass his ruin. The vindictive nature latent in every woman was aroused in her when she discovered his hypocrisy, and she saw that if she met him face to face in the midst of his holy duties her revenge could be rendered more complete.

As she stood awaiting the interview her cheeks were flushed by excitement, and she nervously toyed with the buttons of her gloves. Her lips were compressed, her fair forehead was furrowed by an unbecoming frown of resolution, for she had resolved to meet him boldly, and show him no mercy.

“What name shall I tell Mr Holt, miss?” the verger asked, re-entering the small, bare anteroom a moment later.

“Never mind,” she replied. “He—he doesn’t know my name.” Then the verger went out.

While she was uttering these words the curate’s visitor—a tall, military-looking old gentleman—emerged from the vestry, leaving the door ajar.

Dolly pushed the door open and walked in, closing the door after her.

Holt was still in his surplice, standing beside the small writing-table.

He looked up as the intruder entered. The colour left his face, and he drew back in dismay when he recognised her.

“You!” he stammered. “I—I did not know you were here!”

“Yes,” replied she sternly. “I’m not a welcome visitor, am I? Nevertheless, now I’ve found you, we have an account to settle.”

He did not reply; but, the subject being distasteful to him, he walked quickly round the table and opened the door, which led into the church. She saw that his intention was to escape.

“Shut that door, if you don’t wish our conversation to be overheard,” she said, pale and determined. “Remember, you are in my hands, my reverend murderer!”

Starting at the word “murderer,” he closed the door slowly, and stood with his back against it, and head bowed before her.

“Now,” she said, advancing towards him, “first of all, I want to know what harm I have ever done you that you should drug me, and then attempt to kill me.” The pointed question was asked in a tone that was the reverse of reassuring.

“I did not.”

“To deny it is useless,” she declared vehemently. “I have ample proof of your villainy; moreover, I intend that you shall be justly punished.”

“Why, what do you mean to do?” he cried in alarm. He had been cleverly entrapped, and saw no means of escape from his irate victim.

“What I do depends entirely upon your attitude towards me,” answered she in a calm tone. “Like a foolish girl, I trusted implicitly to your honour, and you—a clergyman—tried to kill me.”

“I did not do it—indeed I did not.”

“No; I am well aware that you were too cowardly to draw the knife across my throat. But you enticed me to dine with you: you put a narcotic into my wine and conveyed me to that house—for what purpose? Why, so that your cowardly accomplice might kill me.” He was thoroughly alarmed. She evidently knew the whole circumstances, and it was useless, he thought, to conceal the truth.

“If—if I admit all this, may I not ask your pardon—your mercy?”

“Mercy!” she repeated. “What mercy did you show me when I was helpless in your hands? Only by a mere vagary of Fate I am not now in my grave. You thought you were safe—that your holy habiliments would prevent you being recognised as the man with whom I dined. But you made a great mistake, and I have found you.”

“Will you not accept my apology?” he asked in a low voice.

“Upon one condition only.”

“What is that?” he inquired eagerly.

“That you tell me the reasons which caused you to drug me, and the name of the scoundrel who assisted you,” she replied calmly.

Their conversation was interrupted at this juncture by the reappearance of the verger, who inquired whether he would be wanted any more, as he had locked up the church, and was ready to go to his dinner. Holt replied in the negative, and the feeble old man departed, swinging his great bunch of jingling keys as he went.

When they were alone, the artist’s model again referred to her stipulation, and pressed for an answer.

“No,” he replied decisively, “I cannot tell you—I cannot.”

“For what reason, pray?”

“The reason is best known to myself,” he answered, endeavouring to assume an air of unconcern.

“You flatly refuse?”

“I do.”

“In that case, then, I shall call the police, and have you arrested.”

“No, my God! not that!” he cried; “anything but that.”

“Ah, I can quite understand that police inquiries would be distasteful to you.”

She paused, reflecting whether she should hazard a statement which she had overheard among other things in the conversation of her janitors at the lonely house near Twickenham.

At length she resolved to make an assertion, and watch its effect.

“If I’m not mistaken,” she continued, regarding him closely, “the police are very desirous of interviewing you. They might like to hear some of your glib remarks about spiritual welfare, like those you made in the pulpit this morning.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“If I speak plainer possibly you will. Some months ago a man was found dead on the railway. The affair is being investigated by the police, and—”

“God! You know of that!” he cried hoarsely, as he rushed towards her, and gripped her white throat with his hands in a frenzy of madness. “Speak lower—whisper—or—”

“No,” urged Dolly, as coolly as she was able. “It would only add another crime to your list. Besides, if you comply with my stipulations, your secret will still be safe.”

Her words had the desired effect. He released his hold, and, grasping her hand, pleaded forgiveness.

Flinging himself upon his knees before her, he pleaded for mercy, declaring that the injury he had done her was under sheer compulsion. He admitted he was a base, heartless villain, undeserving of pity or leniency; still he implored forgiveness on the ground that he had been sufficiently punished by a remorseful conscience.

But Dolly was inexorable to his appeals, and turned a deaf ear to his expressions of regret. She had come there for a fixed purpose, which she meant to accomplish at all hazards. It was evident he had some connection with the crime which she had heard discussed by the man and woman who had kept her prisoner, and it was likewise apparent that he was in deadly fear of the police. The effect of her remark about the murder had been almost magical, and she was at a loss how to account for it.

“Your entreaty is useless,” she said coldly, after a few moments’ reflection, stretching forth her hand and assisting him to his feet. She despised the cringing coward. “Before you need hope for leniency, I desire to know where Hugh Trethowen is to be found.”

“I don’t know him. How should I know?” he stammered confusedly.

By his agitation she was convinced he was not telling the truth.

“Oh, perhaps you will tell me next that you are unacquainted with Mr Egerton, the artist,” she observed, with a curious smile.

“I’ve met him once, I think,” replied the curate, with feigned reflection.

“And you declare solemnly that you know nothing of Hugh Trethowen?” she asked incredulously.

He shook his head.

“Then you are speaking falsely,” she said angrily; “and the sooner we understand each other the better. You believe me to be a weak girl, easily cajoled, but you’ll discover your mistake, sir, when it’s too late—when you have fallen into the clutches of the police and your crime has been exposed.”

“Do you think I’m going to allow you to give information!” he cried fiercely, shaking his fist threateningly before her face.

This outburst of passion did not intimidate her. Laughing, she said—

“I’m well aware that we are alone, and I’m completely in your power. If you are so anxious to murder me, you’d better set about it at once.”

“Bah!” he exclaimed, turning from her with chagrin. “Why do you taunt me like this? Why did you come here and incite me to lay murderous hands upon you?”

“Merely because I desire some information—nothing more.”

“Why do you seek it of me?”

“Because I know that with your assistance I can discover Hugh Trethowen. But we have parleyed long enough. I ask you now, for the last time, whether you wish me to show you mercy—whether you will answer my questions in confidence?”

He drew a deep breath, and stood motionless, perplexed and hesitating. They had emerged from the vestry, and were standing close to the altar. About her fair face shone a stream of richest life. This came from the painted window above—three bars of coloured sunlight, that bathed the hair in fire and left the dark body in deepest shadow.

“By betraying the secret I should run a great risk—how great you have little idea.”

“Will not the risk be greater if you refuse to answer me?” she asked, looking at him steadily.

Her argument was conclusive. A few minutes, and he had apparently decided.

“Well, if you compel me, I suppose I must tell you,” said he, dropping into a hoarse whisper. “If I do, you’ll promise never to repeat it?”

“Yes,” she replied eagerly.

“Swear to keep the secret. Indeed, it was through my efforts that your life was saved.”

“I’ll preserve silence,” she promised. “Then, the truth is that you were the dangerous rival of a woman in the affections of a man whom she desired should marry her. The man merely admired her, but loved you. Having set her mind upon marrying him, she deliberately planned that you, the only obstacle, should be removed. The woman—”

“Whose name is Valérie Dedieu,” interposed Dolly calmly.

“Why, how did you know?” he asked in surprise.

“I know more than you anticipate,” replied she meaningly.

“Ah, it was a diabolical plot! The woman—I mean Valérie—planned it with Victor.”

“Victor? Who is Victor?”

“Bérard—the man who attempted to take your life. But I was about to tell you how it was that I became complicated in the affair. The truth is, they compelled me. The Frenchwoman holds a certain power over me which causes me to be absolutely ruled by her caprices. In her hands I am helpless, for she can order me to perform any menial service, any crime, being fully aware that I could not—that I dare not—disobey her.”

He spoke with heartfelt bitterness, as if the whole of the transactions were repugnant to him.

“And you—a clergyman!” Dolly incredulously observed.

“Yes. Unfortunately, our evil deeds pursue us. At times, when we least anticipate, the closed pages of one’s life are reopened and revealed in all their hideousness.”

“Yours is a bitter past, then?” she said in a tone of reproach. “Ah! now I understand. You are bound to mademoiselle with the same bond of guilt as Jack Egerton?”

“Who—who told you it was guilt?” he stammered.

“You and Mr Egerton are bound to Valérie Dedieu by a secret,” she said.

An astounding thought had just crossed her mind. The Christian name Victor occurred frequently in the report in the Gaulois, which she had had translated, and which she had since treasured carefully, determined to use it as a final and unimpeachable document to bring Nemesis upon her enemy when occasion offered.

“I understand. Much is now plain to me,” she continued in a firm, harsh voice. “Yet you have not answered my first question. Mademoiselle’s husband left England some months ago, and has not since been heard of. Tell me, where is he?”

“I’m quite as ignorant of his whereabouts as yourself.”

“Then, I’ll put the question in another form. Why has Hugh Trethowen disappeared?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m convinced that you know where he is.”

“I do not. How should I?” he asked impatiently. “It is futile to prevaricate. If you are one of mademoiselle’s myrmidons, as you admit, you surely can form some idea why he has disappeared so mysteriously. Are you not aware that he is no longer living with her, and that all efforts to discover him have been in vain?”

“I—I really know nothing, and care less, about your lover,” he answered disdainfully. “Besides, why should you renew your friendship with him now he is married?”

His words maddened her. She had attacked her adversary with circumspection, but in her sudden ebullition of passionate indignation she gave vent to a flood of words, which, as soon as they were uttered, she regretted.

“I did not ask you to assist Hugh,” she cried. “I know he—like myself—has fallen a victim to the machinations of your hired assassins. But you refuse to tell me where I can find him, and speak of him as my lover. Even if we do love one another, what does it concern you? Would you preach to me of morals?” This last remark caused him to start, and he scowled at her ominously. “I warn you,” she said. “The day is not far distant when the whole mystery will be cleared up, and your villainy exposed.”

“Perhaps so,” he replied, with a forced laugh. “I’m sure I don’t care.”

“But you will, I fancy. You’ll be glad enough, when the time arrives, to fall upon your knees, as you did just now, and beg for mercy.”

“You’re mad,” he said in a tone of disgust.

She did not heed his remark, but continued—

“Perhaps,” she cried, “you will deny that a celebrated case was recently investigated by the Assize Court of the Seine, and was popularly known as the Mystery of the Boulevard Haussmann. Perhaps you will deny that Valérie Dardignac and Mrs Trethowen are the same person; that she—”

“What are you saying?”

“The truth. Moreover, I tell you I intend having satisfaction from you who lured me almost to my death.”

“Oh! How?” he asked defiantly.

“By a very simple process. I have merely to place the police in possession of the true facts regarding the crime which startled Paris not long ago. You shall not escape me now.”

He stood erect, glaring at her, his mouth twitching, his face pale, with a murderous expression upon it.

“So those are your tactics, miss?” he cried, with rage, springing upon her, and clutching with both hands at her throat. “You are the only person who knows our secret.”

“Help! police!” she shouted in alarm, noticing his determined manner.

Her cries echoed through the great empty church, but no assistance came.

His fingers tightened their hold upon her throat. He was strangling her.

The light had died away from above, and the shadows mingled in a shapeless mass.

“Help! help!” she screamed again; but her voice was fainter, for she was choking.

“Silence!” he hissed. “It’s you—you who would brand me as a murderer, and send me to the gallows! Do you think I’m going to allow you to do that! By heaven, you shan’t do it!”

She attempted to scream, but he placed his hand over her mouth.

His face was blanched, and his eyes gleamed with murderous hate as he glanced quickly around. His gaze fell upon the altar. Releasing her, he bounded towards it, and snatched up a heavy brass vase.

She saw his intention, but was powerless to recede.

“Help!” she shrieked.

Upon her throat she felt a hot hand; she saw the heavy vase uplifted above her.

“Take that!” he cried, as he brought it down upon her head with a crushing blow, and she fell senseless upon the stone pavement.

For a second or two he looked at her, wondering if she were dead. Then tearing off his surplice, he rushed into the vestry, and, putting on his coat and hat, fled from the church, locking the door after him.

The upturned face of the prostrate girl was calm and deathlike. She lay motionless upon the cold grey flags. The sun shone out again, and the coloured light, streaming from the stained-glass window, fell full upon her handsome features. But its warmth did not rouse her; she gave no sign of life.

Late in the afternoon, however, she struggled back to consciousness, and sat for a long time on the pulpit steps trying to calm herself and decide how to act.

The excruciating pain in her head would not allow her thoughts to shape sufficiently, so she made a tour of the building to discover some mode of egress. It was not long before she found that in one of the main doors the key had been left, and, unlocking it, she stepped out into the bright, warm afternoon with a feeling that a strange, oppressive weight had suddenly clouded her brain.

That evening the city clerks, small shopkeepers, with their wives and relations, who comprise the majority of the congregation of St. Barnabas, Camberwell, were agog when it transpired that their popular spiritual guide, the Rev. Hubert Holt, had suddenly thrown up his curacy. The vicar took the service, and at the conclusion announced with regret that his assistant had written to him that afternoon resigning his appointment, stating that a pressing engagement made it imperative that he should leave England at once. He gave no reason, but when the vicar sent round to his lodgings to request him to call and wish him adieu, it was discovered that he had packed a few things hurriedly, and already departed.

Then a local sensation was produced in the district between Denmark Hill and Camberwell Gate, and the devout parishioners prayed for the preservation and well-being of their popular but absent curate.