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Stowmarket Mystery, or, a Legacy of Hate

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<h3>Chapter XXIX</h3> <h2>Margaret’s Secret</h2> Return to Table of Contents At his chambers Brett found Holden awaiting him, with the tidings that Capella had gone to Whitby. The Italian’s agents, Messrs. Matchem & Smith, had evidently ferreted out Margaret’s whereabouts. Her husband, full of vengeful thoughts and base schemings, hastened after her, rejoicing in the knowledge that her cousins and Miss Layton would also be present. “As I knew exactly where he was going, and assumed his object to be a domestic quarrel, I did not think it necessary to accompany him until I had first consulted you, sir,” said the imperturbable Holden. “You acted quite rightly. Wait until the little beast returns to London!” exclaimed the barrister, with some degree of warmth. Capella’s conduct reminded him of a spiteful child which deserved a sound spanking. He telegraphed to Hume to inform him of the fiery visitor who might be expected at the hotel that evening. Oddly enough, Helen, David, and the Rev. Mr. Layton, tempted by a marine excursion to Scarborough and back, left Whitby Harbour on a local steamer at 11 a.m., and were timed to return about 9 p.m. Margaret was not a good sailor, so Robert Hume-Frazer remained with her, the two going for a protracted stroll along the cliffs. During their walk, the golden influences of the hour unlocked Margaret’s heart. She was overwhelmed with the consciousness of the wretched mistakes of her life. She could not help contrasting the manly, gallant, out-spoken sailor by her side with the miserable foreigner whom she had espoused under the influence of a genuine but too violent passion. The knowledge that Robert might, under happier conditions, have been her husband was crushing and terrible. There came to her some half-defined resolve to show her cousin how unworthy she was of his affections. Stopping defiantly at a moment when he casually called her attention to a lovely glimpse of rock-bound sea framed in a deep gorge, she said to him: “Robert, I have something to tell you. I was on the point of telling Mr. Brett the last time I saw him in London, but he would not permit it. You are my cousin, and ought to know.” “My dear girl,” he cried, “why this solemnity? You give me shivers when you speak in that way!” “Pray listen to me, Robert. This is no matter for jesting. I am your cousin, but only in a sense. In the eyes of the law I am a nameless outcast. My mother was not Alan’s mother. I was born before my father married the lady who treated me as her daughter until her death. My mother was an Italian, who died at my birth, and whom my father never married.” Frazer looked at the beautiful woman who addressed these astonishing words to him, and amazement, incredulity, a spasm almost of fear, held him dumb. “It is too true, Robert. I did not know these things until a few short months ago. Some one, I believe, told my husband the truth soon after our marriage, and it was this discovery that so changed his feelings towards me. At first I was utterly unable to explain the awful alteration in his attitude. Not until I returned to England and settled down at Beechcroft did I become aware of the facts.” “Surely, Rita, you are romancing?” “No, there can be no doubt about it. I have seen the proofs.” “Proofs! How can you be certain? Who made these statements to you?” “I have been blackmailed, bled systematically for large sums of money. At first I was beguiled into a correspondence. My curiosity was aroused by references to my husband and to my father’s will. Finally, I received copies of documents which made matters clear even to my bewildered brain. More than that, I was sent a memorandum, written by my father, in which he gave Alan all the particulars, corroborated by extracts from registers, and explaining the reasons which actuated him in framing his will so curiously. We were never closely knit together, as you know. I think now that he regarded me as the living evidence of the folly of his earlier years, and perhaps my sensitive nature was quick to detect this hidden feeling.” “May I ask who blackmailed you?” Robert’s face grew hard and stern. The woman experienced a tumultuous joy as she saw it. She had at least one defender. “That is the hard part of my story,” she murmured, in a voice broken with emotion. “The correspondence took place with a man named Ooma, a person I never even met at that time, and—can you believe it, Robert—within the past few days I have good reason to know that he is the murderer of my brother, the man who endeavoured to kill both you and David.” Frazer caught her by the shoulder. “Rita,” he said, “what has come to you? Are you hysterical, or dreaming?” “Oh, for pity’s sake, believe me!” she moaned. “Mr. Brett knows it is true. What is worse, he knows that I know it. I cannot bear this terrible secret any longer. I went to this man’s house in London the other night, and boldly charged him with the crime. He denied it, but I could see the lie and the fear in his eyes. To avoid a terrible family scandal I came here with you all. But I can bear it no longer. God help me and pity me!” “He will, Margaret. You have done no wrong that deserves so much suffering.” For a little while there was silence. Frazer was only able to whisper gentle and kindly words of consolation. He would have given ten years of his life to have the right to take her in his arms and tell her that, let the world view her conduct as it would, in his eyes she was blameless and lovable. But this was denied him. She was the wife of another, of one who, instead of shielding and supporting her, was even then engaged in plotting her ruin. “I nearly went mad,” she continued at last, “when I first became acquainted with the truth concerning my parentage. With calmer moments came the reflection that, after all, I was my father’s child, the sister of Alan, and entitled morally, if not legally, to succeed to the property. My wealth has not benefited me, Robert, but at least I have tried to do good to others.” “You have, indeed,” he said tenderly. “But tell me about this fiend, Ooma. You say you saw him. Then you were in possession of his address?” “Yes, during the past five months. When Mr. Brett first appeared on the scene, I feared lest he should discover my secret. How could I connect it with the death of my brother? The explanation given to me was that the documents were purloined by a servant years ago. It was not until the attacks on you and Davie, and the chance mention he made of some curious marks in a type-written communication received by Mr. Winter, that a horrible suspicion awoke in my mind. I had received several type-written letters” (Mr. Jiro, it would appear, had not told “evelything” to Brett), “and I compared some of those in London with the description given by Davie. They corresponded exactly! Then I resolved to make sure, no matter what the risk to myself, so I went to a place in Kennington the last night we were in town, and there I saw Ooma. Oh, Robert, he is so like you and Davie that at first it seems to be a romance! Only you two look honest and brave, whereas he has the appearance of a demon.” Frazer looked at his watch. “Brett ought to know all these things at once,” he said. “Let us walk back to the hotel and wire him. Perhaps it will be necessary for David and me to return to London immediately.” “Why? You are safe here? Why should you incur further risk?” He could not help looking at her. A slight colour suffused her face. Then he laughed savagely. “There will be no risk, Rita. Once let me meet Mr. Ooma as man to man and I will teach him a trick or two, if only for your sake. The law will deal with him for Alan’s affair. He has an odd name! It has a Japanese ring, yet you say he resembles our family?” Margaret, of course, could only describe him in general terms. As they returned to the hotel she explained her strange story in greater detail, largely on the lines already known to Brett. In the office they found a telegram addressed to David, but his cousin opened it, believing it might be from Brett. It was, and read as follows:— <blockquote> “Capella arrives Whitby five o’clock. I know everything he has to tell you. If he becomes offensive, boot him.” </blockquote> Robert did not show the message to his cousin. He gave her its general purport, and added: “Prepare yourself for an ordeal, but be brave. Perhaps your husband is in the hotel now, as he must have reached here half an hour ago.” He had barely uttered the words when Mrs. Capella’s maid approached. “Mr. Capella is here, madam,” she said “and awaits you in your sitting-room.” Margaret became, if possible, a shade whiter. “What about you, Robert?” she whispered. “Me! I am going with you. Brett’s telegram is my authority.” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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