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Stowmarket Mystery, or, a Legacy of Hate

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<h3>Chapter III</h3> <h2>The Dream</h2> Return to Table of Contents “Thank you,” was the quiet answer. “You hinted at some supernatural influence in relation to this crime. What did you mean?” “Ah, that is the unpublished part of the affair. We are a Scots family, as our name implies. The first Sir Alan Frazer became a baronet owing to his services to King George during the ’45 Rebellion. There was some trouble about a sequestered estate—now our place in Scotland—which belonged to his wife’s brother, a Hume and a rebel. Anyhow, in 1763, he fought a duel with Hume’s son, his own nephew by marriage, and was killed.” “Really,” broke in Brett, “this ancient history—” “Is quite to the point. Sir Alan the first fought and died in front of the library at Beechcroft.” The barrister commenced to study the moulding in the centre of the ceiling. “He was succeeded by his grandson, a little lad of eight. In 1807, after a heavy drinking bout, the second Sir Alan Hume-Frazer cut his throat, and chose the scene of his ancestor’s duel for the operation.” “A remarkable coincidence!” “In 1842, during a bread riot, the third baronet was stabbed with a pitchfork whilst facing a mob in the same place. Then a long interval occurred. Again a small child became the heir. Three years ago the fourth baronet expired whilst the library windows were being opened to admit the litter on which he was carried from the hunting-field. The fate of the fifth you know.” Brett’s chair emitted a series of squeaks as he urged it closer to the wall. At the proper distance he stretched out his leg and pressed an electric bell with his toe. “Decanters and syphons, Smith,” he cried, when the door opened. “Which do you take, whisky or brandy, Mr. Hume?” he inquired. “Whisky. But I assure you I am quite serious. These things—” “Serious! If my name were Hume-Frazer, nothing less than a runaway steam-engine would take me to Beechcroft. I have never previously heard such a marvellous recital.” “We are a stiff-necked race. My uncle and cousin knew how strangely Fate had pursued every heir to the title, yet each hoped that in his person the tragic sequence would be broken. Oddly enough, my father holds that the family curse, or whatever it is, has now exhausted itself.” “What grounds has he for the belief?” “None, save a Highlander’s readiness to accept signs and portents. Look at this seal.” He unfastened from his waistcoat his watch and chain, with a small bunch of pendants attached, and handed them to Brett. The latter examined the seal with deep interest. It was cut into a bloodstone, and showed a stag’s head, surmounted by five pointed rays, like a crown of daggers. “I cannot decipher the motto,” he said; “what is it?” “Fortis et audax.” “Hum! ‘Strong and bold.’ A stiff-necked legend, too.” He reached to his bookcase for Burke’s “General Armoury.” After a brief search, he asked: “Do you know anything about heraldry?” “Nothing whatever.” “Then listen to this. The crest of your, house is: ‘A stag’s head, erased argent, charged with a star of five rays gules.’ It is peculiar.” “Yes, so my father says; but why does it appeal to you in that way?” “Because ‘erased’ means, in this instance, a stag’s head torn forcibly from the body, the severed part being jagged like the teeth of a saw. And ‘gules’ means ‘red.’ Now, such heraldic rays are usually azure or blue.” “By Jove, you have hit upon the old man’s idea. He contends that those five blood-coloured points signify the founder of the baronetcy and his four lineal descendants. Moreover, the race is now extinct in the direct succession. The title goes to a collateral branch.” Brett stroked his chin thoughtfully. “It is certainly very strange,” he murmured, “that the dry-as-dust knowledge of some member of the College of Heralds should evolve these armorial bearings with their weird significance. Does this account for your allusion to the supernatural?” “Partly. Do not forget my dream.” “Tell it to me.” “During the trials, my counsel, a very able man, by the way—you know him, of course, Mr. Dobbie, K.C.—only referred to the fact that I dreamed my cousin was in some mortal danger, and that my exclamation ‘He is murdered!’ was really a startled comment on my part induced by the butler’s words. That is not correct. I never told Mr. Dobbie the details of my dream, or vision.” “Oh, didn’t you? Men have been hanged before to-day because they thought they could construct a better line of defence than their counsel.” “I had nothing to defend. I was innocent. Moreover, I knew I should not be convicted.” The barrister well remembered the view of the case taken by the Bar mess. Even the redoubtable Dobbie was afraid of the jury. His face must have conveyed dubiety with respect to Hume’s last remark, for the other continued eagerly: “It is quite true. Wait until I have concluded. After the footman brought the whisky and soda to the library that night I took a small quantity, and pulled an easy-chair in front of the fire. I was tired, having travelled all the preceding night and part of the day. Hence the warmth and comfort soon sent me to sleep. I have a hazy recollection of the man coming in to put some coal on the fire. In a sub-conscious fashion I knew that it was not my cousin, but a servant. I settled down a trifle more comfortably, and everything became a blank. Then I thought I awoke. I looked out through the windows, and, to my astonishment, it was broad daylight. The trees, too, were covered with leaves, the sun was shining, and there was every evidence of a fine day in early summer. In some indefinite way I realised that the library was no longer the room which I knew. The furniture and carpets were different. The books were old-fashioned. A very handsome spinning-wheel stood near the open window. There was no litter of newspapers or magazines. “Before I could begin to piece together these curious discrepancies in the normal condition of things, I saw two men riding up the avenue, where the yew trees, by the way, were loftier and finer in every way than those really existing. The horsemen were dressed in such strange fashion that, unfortunately, I paid little heed to their faces. They wore frilled waistcoats, redingotes with huge lapels and turned-back cuffs, three-cornered hats, and gigantic boots. They dismounted when close to the house. One man held both horses; the other advanced. I was just going to look him straight in the face when another figure appeared, coming from that side of the hall where the entrance is situated. This was a gentleman in very elegant garments, hatless, with powdered queue, pink satin coat embroidered with lace, pink satin small-clothes, white silk stockings, and low shoes. As he walked, a smart cane swung from his left wrist by a silk tassel, and he took a pinch of snuff from an ivory box. “The two men met and seemed to have a heated argument, bitter and passionate on one side, studiously scornful on the other. This was all in dumb show. Not a word did I hear. My amazed wits were fully taken up with noting their clothes, their postures, the trappings of the horses, the eighteenth century aspect of the library. Strange, is it not, I did not look at their faces?” Hume paused to gulp down the contents of his tumbler. Brett said not a word, but sat intent, absorbed, wondering, with eyes fixed on the speaker. “All at once the dispute became vehement. The more stylishly attired man disappeared, but returned instantly with a drawn sword in his hand. The stranger, as we may call him, whipped out a claymore, and the two fought fiercely. By Jove, it was no stage combat or French duel. They went for each other as if they meant it. There was no stopping to take breath, nor drawing apart after a foiled attack. Each man tried to kill the other as speedily as possible. Three times they circled round in furious sword-play. Then the stranger got his point home. The other, in mortal agony, dropped his weapon, and tried with both hands to tear his adversary’s blade from his breast. He failed, and staggered back, the victor still shoving the claymore through his opponent’s body. Then, and not until then, I saw the face of the man who was wounded, probably killed. It was my cousin, Alan Hume-Fraser.” David Hume stopped again. His bronzed face was pale now. With his left hand he swept huge drops of perspiration from his brow. But his class demands coolness in the most desperate moments. He actually struck a match and relighted his cigarette. “I suppose you occasionally have a nightmare after an indigestible supper, Mr. Brett,” he went on, “and have experienced a peculiar sensation of dumb palsy in the presence of some unknown but terrifying danger? Well, such was my exact state at that moment. Alan fell, apparently lifeless. The stranger kissed his blood-stained sword, which required a strong tug before he could disengage it, rattled it back into the scabbard, rejoined his companion, and the two rode off, without once looking back. I can see them now, square-shouldered, with hair tied in a knot beneath their quaint hats, their hips absurdly swollen by the huge pockets of their coats, their boots hanging over their knees. They wore big brass spurs with tremendous rowels, and the cantles of their saddles were high and brass-bound. “Alan lay motionless. I could neither speak nor move. Whether I was sitting or standing I cannot tell you, nor do I know how I was supposed to be attired. A darkness came over my eyes. Then a voice—Helen’s voice—whispered to me, ‘Fear not, dearest; the wrong is avenged.’ I awoke, to find the trembling butler shouting in my ear that his master was lying dead outside the house. Now, Mr. Brett, I ask you, would you have submitted that fairy tale to a jury? I was quite assured of a verdict in my favour, though the first disagreement almost shook my faith in Helen’s promise, but I did not want to end my days in a criminal lunatic asylum.” He did not appear to expect an answer. He was quite calm again, and even his eyes had lost their intensity. The mere telling of his uncanny experience had a soothing effect. He nonchalantly readjusted his watch and chain, and noted the time. “I have gone far beyond my stipulated half hour,” he said, forcing a deprecatory smile. “Yes; far beyond, indeed. You carried me back to 1763, but Heaven alone knows when you will end.” “Will you take up my case?” “Can you doubt it? Do you think I would throw aside the most remarkable criminal puzzle I have ever tackled?” “Mr. Brett, I cannot find words to thank you. If you succeed—and you inspire me with confidence—Helen and I will strive to merit your lifelong friendship.” “Miss Layton knows the whole of your story, of course?” “Yes; she and my father only. I must inform you that I had never heard the full reason of the duel between the first Sir Alan and his nephew. But my father knew it fairly well, and the details fitted in exactly with my vision. I can hardly call it a dream.” “What was the nephew’s name?” “David Hume!” Brett jumped up, and paced about the room. “These coincidences defy analysis,” he exclaimed. “Your Christian name is David. Your surname joins both families. Why, the thing is a romance of the wildest sort.” “Unhappily, it has a tragic side for me.” “Yes; the story cannot end here. You and your fiancée have suffered. Miss Layton must be a very estimable young lady—one worth winning. She will be a true and loyal wife.” “Do you think you will be able to solve the riddle? Someone murdered my cousin.” “That is our only solid fact at present. The family tradition is passing strange, but it will not serve in a court of law. I may fail, for the first time, but I will try hard. When can you accompany me to Stowmarket?” The question disconcerted his eager auditor. The young man’s countenance clouded. “Is it necessary that I should go there?” he asked. “Certainly. You must throw aside all delicacy of feeling, sacrifice even your own sentiments. That is the one locality where you don’t wish to be seen, of course?” “It is indeed.” “I cannot help that. I must have the assistance of your local and family knowledge to decide the knotty points sure to arise when I begin the inquiry. Can you start this afternoon?” “Yes.” “Very well. Come and lunch with me at my club. Then we will separate, to meet again at Liverpool Street. Smith! Pack my traps for a week.” Brett was in the hall now, but he suddenly stopped his companion. “By the way, Hume, you may like to wire to Miss Layton. My man will send the telegram for you.” David Hume’s barrier of proud reserve vanished from that instant. The kindly familiarity of the barrister’s words to one who, during many weary days, suspected all men of loathing him as a murderer at large, was directed by infinite tact. Hume held out his hand, “You are a good chap,” he said. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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