CHAPTER XII
MR. BERDENSTEIN'S SISTER
Three days after that memorable conversation with my father afly drove up to the door, and from where I was sitting in ourlittle drawing room I heard a woman's anxious voice inquiring forMr. Ffolliot. A moment or two later the maid knocked at my door.
"There is a young lady here, miss, inquiring for the Vicar. I told herthat Mr. Ffolliot would not be in for an hour or two, and she asked ifshe could speak to any other member of the family."
"Do you know what she wants, Mary?" I asked.
The girl shook her head.
"No, miss. She would not say what her business was. She just wants tosee one of you, she said."
"You had better tell her that I am at home, and show her in here ifshe wishes to see me," I directed.
She ushered in a young lady, short, dark, and thin. Her eyes wereswollen as though with weeping, and her whole appearance seemed toindicate that she was in trouble. She sank into the chair to which Imotioned her, and burst into tears.
"You must please forgive me," she exclaimed, in a voice broken withsobs. "I have just come from abroad, and I have had a terrible shock."
Some instinct seemed to tell me the truth.
My heart stood still.
"Are you any relation of the gentleman who was--who died here lastweek?" I asked, quickly.
She nodded.
"I have just been to the police station," she said. "It is hiswatch--the one I gave him--and his pocket book, with a half-writtenletter to me in it. They have shown me his photograph. It is mybrother, Stephen Berdenstein. He was the only relative I had left inthe world."
I was really shocked, and I looked at her pitifully. "I am so sorry,"I said. "It must be terrible for you."
She commenced to sob again, and I feared she would have hysterics. Shewas evidently very nervous, and very much overwrought. I was neverparticularly good at administering consolation, and I could think ofnothing better to do than to ring the bell and order some tea.
"He was to have joined me in Paris on Saturday," she continued aftera minute or two. "He did not come and he sent a message. When Mondaymorning came and there was no letter from him, I felt sure thatsomething had happened. I bought the English papers, and by chance Iread about the murder. It seemed absurd to connect it with Stephen,especially as he told me he was going to be in London, but thedescription was so like him that I could not rest. I telegraphed tohis bankers, and they replied that he had gone down into the country,but had left no address. So I crossed at once, and when I found thathe had not been heard of at his club in London or anywhere else formore than ten days, I came down here. I went straight to the policestation, and--and----"
She burst into tears again. I came over to her side and triedmy best to be sympathetic. I am afraid that it was not a verysuccessful attempt, for my thoughts were wholly engrossed in anotherdirection. However, I murmured a few platitudes, and presently shebecame more coherent. She even accepted some tea, and bathed her facewith some eau de Cologne, which I fetched from my room.
"Have you any idea," I asked her presently, "why your brother came tothis part of the country at all. He was staying at Lady Naselton's,was he not? Was she an old friend?"
She shook her head.
"I never heard him speak of her in my life. He wrote me of a youngMr. Naselton who had visited him in Rio, but even in his last letterfrom Southampton he did not say a word about visiting them. He wouldhave come straight to me, he said, but for a little urgent business inLondon."
"And yet he seems to have accepted a casual invitation, and came downhere within a day or two of his arrival in England," I remarked.
"I cannot understand it!" she exclaimed, passionately. "Stephen andI have not met for many years--he has been living in South America,and I have been in Paris--but he wrote to me constantly, and in everyletter he repeated how eagerly he was looking forward to seeing meagain. I cannot think that he would have come down here just as anordinary visit of civility before coming to me, or sending for me tocome to him. There must be something behind it--something of which Ido not know."
"You know, of course, that Naselton Hall is shut up and that theNaseltons have gone to Italy?" I asked her.
"They told me so at the police station," she answered. "I have sentLady Naselton a telegram. It is a long time since I saw Stephen, andone does not tell everything in letters. He may have formed greatfriendships of which I have never heard."
"Or great enmities," I suggested, softly.
"Or enmities," she repeated, thoughtfully. "Yes; he may have madeenemies. That is possible. He was passionate, and he was wilful. Hewas the sort of a man who made enemies."
She was quite calm now, and I had a good look at her. She wascertainly plain. Her face was sharp and thin, and her eyes were adull, dark color. She was undersized and ungraceful, in additionto which she was dressed much too richly for traveling, and inquestionable taste. So far as I could recollect there was not theslightest resemblance between her and the dead man.
She surprised me in the middle of my scrutiny, but she did not seem tonotice it. She had evidently been thinking something out.
"You have not lived here very long, Miss Ffolliot?" she asked, "haveyou?"
I shook my head.
"Only a month or so."
"I suppose," she continued, "you know the names of most of theprincipal families round here. A good many of them would call uponyou, no doubt?"
"I believe I know most of them, by name at any rate," I told her.
"Do you know any family of the name of Maltabar?" sheasked--"particularly a man called Philip Maltabar?"
I shook my head at once with a sense of relief which I could notaltogether conceal.
"No, I never heard it in my life," I answered. "I am quite sure thatthere is no family of that name of any consequence around here. I musthave heard it, and it is too uncommon a one to be overlooked."
The brief light died out of her face. She was evidently disappointed.
"You are quite sure?"
"Absolutely certain."
She sighed.
"I am sorry," she said. "Philip Maltabar is the one man I know whohated my brother. There has been a terrible and lifelong enmitybetween them. It has lasted since they were boys. I believe that itwas to avoid him that my brother first went to South America. If therehad been a Maltabar living anywhere around here I should have knownwhere to go for vengeance."
"Is it well to think of that, and so soon?" I asked, quietly. Thegirl's aspect had changed. I looked away from her with a littleshudder.
"What else is there for me to think of?" she demanded. "Supposing itwere you, it would be different. You have other relatives. I havenone. I am left alone in the world. My brother may have had hisfaults, but to me he was everything. Can you wonder that I hate theperson who has deprived me of him?"
"You are not sure--it is not certain that there was not anaccident--that he did not kill himself," I suggested.
She dismissed the idea with scorn.
"Accident! What accident could there have been? It is not possible. Asto taking his own life, it is ridiculous! Why should he? He was toofond of it. Other men might have done that, but Stephen--never! No. Hewas murdered in that little plantation. I know the exact spot. I havebeen there. There was a struggle, and some one, better prepared thanhe, killed him. Perhaps he was followed here from London. It may beso. And yet, what was he doing here at all? That visit to NaseltonHall was not without some special purpose. I am sure of it. It wasin connection with that purpose that he met with his death. He musthave come to see some one. I want to know who it was. That is what Iam going to find out--whom he came to see. You can blame me if youlike. It may be unchristian, and you are a parson's daughter. I do notcare. I am going to find out."
I was silent. In a measure I was sorry for her, but down in my heartthere lurked the seeds of a fear--nameless, but terribly potent--whichput me out of all real sympathy with her. I began to wish thatshe would g
o away. I had answered her questions, and I had doneall--more--than common courtesy demanded. Yet she sat there withoutany signs of moving.
"I suppose," she said at last, finding that I kept silent, "that itwould not be of any use waiting to see your father. He has not beenhere any longer than you have. He would not be any more likely to knowanything of the man Maltabar?"
I shook my head decidedly.
"He would be far less likely to know of him than I should," I assuredher. "He knows a good deal less of the people around here. Hisinterests are altogether amongst the poorer classes. And he has leftmy sister and me to receive and pay all the calls. He is not at allfond of society."
"Philip Maltabar may be poor--now," she said musingly. "He was neverrich."
"If he were poor, he would not be living here," I said. "The poor ofwhom I speak are the peasantry. It is not like a town, you know. Anyman such as the Mr. Maltabar you speak of would be more than ever amarked figure living out of his class amongst villagers. In any casehe would not be the sort of man whom my father would be likely tovisit."
"I suppose you are right," she answered, doubtfully. "At anyrate--since I am here--there would be no harm in asking your father,would there?"
"Certainly not," I answered. "I daresay he will be here in a fewmoments."
Almost as I spoke he passed the window, and I heard his key in thefront door. The girl, who had seen his shadow, looked up quickly.
"Is that he?" she asked.
I nodded.
"Yes. You can ask him for yourself now."
"I should like to," she answered. "I am so glad I stayed."
Some instinct prompted me to rise and leave the room. I went out andmet my father in the hall.
"Father," I said, "there is a girl here who says she has identifiedthat man. She is his sister. She is waiting to see you."
My father had evidently come in tired out; he leaned against the wallfor support. He was out of breath, too, and pale.
"What does she want with me?" he asked, sharply.
"She came to ask if we knew of any family of the name ofMaltabar. Philip Maltabar, it seems, is the name of a man who has beenher brother's enemy. She thinks that this thing must have been hisdoing. She cannot think of any one else with whom he has ever been onbad terms. I have told her that there is no one of that name in theseparts."
He cleared his throat. He was very hoarse and ghastly pale.
"Quite right, Kate," he said. "There is no one of that name aroundhere. What more does she want? What does she want of me?"
"I told her that I knew of no one, but she came to see you in thefirst place. She does not seem quite satisfied. She wants to ask youherself."
He drew back a step.
"No! no! I cannot see her. I am tired--ill. I have walked toofar. Tell her from me that there is no one of that name living inthese parts. I am absolutely sure of it. She can take it for grantedfrom me."
"Hadn't you better see her just for one moment, as she has waited forso long?" I said. "She will be better satisfied."
He ground his heel down into the floor.
"No! I will not! I have had too much worry and trouble in connectionwith this affair already. My nerves are all unstrung. I cannot discussit again with any one. Please let her understand that from me askindly as possible, but firmly. I am going to my study. Don't come tosee me again until she has gone."
He crossed the hall and entered his own room. I heard the key turn inthe lock after him. It was useless to say anything more. I went backto my visitor.
I entered noiselessly, as I was wearing house shoes, and was surprisedto find her with the contents of my card-plate spread out beforeher. She flushed up to the temples when she saw me standing on thethreshold, yet she was not particularly apologetic.
"I am very rude," she said, brusquely. "I had no right, of course, totake such a liberty, but I thought--it might be barely possible--thatyou had forgotten the name, that some one might have called when youwere not at home, or that, perhaps, your sister might have met them."
"Oh, pray satisfy yourself," I said, icily. "You are quite welcome tolook them through."
She put the card-plate down.
"I have looked at all of them," she said. "There is no name anythinglike it there. Is your father coming in?"
"He is not very well," I told her, "and is quite tired out. He haswalked a long way this afternoon. He wishes you to excuse him, and tosay that he is quite sure that there is no one of that name, rich orpoor, living anywhere in this neighborhood."
She seemed by no means satisfied.
"But shall I not be able to see him at all, then?" she exclaimed. "Ihad hoped that as he was the clergyman here, and was one of those whowere with my brother when he died, that he would be certain to helpme."
I shook my head.
"I am afraid that you will think it very selfish," I said, "but myfather would rather not see you at all. He is in very delicate health,and this affair has already been a terrible shock to him. He does notwant to have anything more to do with it directly or indirectly. Hewants to forget it if he can. He desires me to offer you his mostsincere sympathy. But you must really excuse him."
She rose slowly to her feet; her manner was obviously ungracious.
"Oh, very well!" she said. "Of course if he has made up his mindnot to see me, I cannot insist. At the same time, I think it verystrange. Good afternoon."
I rang the bell, and walked with her to the door.
"Is there anything else which I can do for you?" I asked.
"No, thank you. I think I shall telegraph to London for a detective. Ishall see what they say at the police station. Good afternoon."
She did not offer to shake hands, nor did I. I think of all the womenI had ever met, I detested her the most.
I watched her walk down the drive with short, mincing steps and getinto a fly. Then I went to the door of my father's room and knocked.