The Splendid Sacrifice

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 232, 20 December 1927, Page 5

The Splendid Sacrifice

By

J.B. Harris-Burland.

Author of; '* The Half-Closed Door,* 1 “ The Black Moon,” ** The Felflat* Taint ’ ” The Poison League,” Ac.. &c

CHAPTER XVII. (Continued). “Good evening. Inspector,” said Britton. “I’ve heard all about this terrible affair from my wife. I think she has told you pretty well all she knows about the man, hasn’t she?” Mr. Farrell looked steadily at Britton’s face. “Pretty well everything, sir, I think,” he replied slowly, and then, as if it were an afterthought. “When did you last see Mr. Smith, sir?” “To-night,” Britton answered calmly. “I went round to 29 River Row to see him. I gave him a good thrashing. I got a bit knocked about myself, as you can see.” A hardened and stupid criminal would have looked upon this confession as the tamest of all surrenders. But to Mary it seemed inevitable, and the Inspector regarded it as a clever piece of work. “I must warn you, sir,” he said, ‘that anything you may say will be used in evidence against you.” “I see. You think I was too rough with Mr. Smith—that I killed him. But he was very much alive when I left his house.” “Air. Farrell did not speak for a few moments. Then he said, “I’m afraid, sir, that it will bc my duty to arrest you.”

Arthur Britton laughed, but his face was the face of a man who was looking on something worse than death. “I don’t see how you can do otherwise,” he replied. “But of course, the medical evidence will show that the man was killed after nine o’clock, the hour at which I left him. And I’ve no doubt there’ll be finger-prints and other evidence which will put you on the track of the real murderer. I know I ought to have come forward, but I wished to avoid a scandal, and as I was quite certain that the murderer would be found very soon, I wanted to keep out of it.” “A very dangerous course to take, sir—if I may say so. Will you put on your coat, sir? It is still raining.” Alary fetched the black coat from the hall, and helped her husband to put his arm in it. Then she flung her arms round his neck and kissed him. “Don’t worry, Alary,” he said gently. “You’ll have Joan with you, and there’s nothing to worry about.”

She clung to him, but he said, “Good-night, Alary, dear, and—and you’ll explain to Joan.” Air. Farrell’s lips tightened as he heard the name. “A horrible little Judas,” he said to himself. “And they seem to be fond of her —ugh! the little beast” But aloud he said, “Please come along, sir.” They walked together to the hall door, Britton first and Farrell following, and Alary last of all. As the door opened, Mary saw two other policemen outside. “Good-night, Arthur, darling, she cried out. He turned his head and smiled at her. Then the door closed behind him. . .. A few minutes passed and then Mary locked and bolted the door. She went back to her bedroom, and fell on her knees and prayed. There was no room in her mind for wonder —for the question, “Why has this incredible thing happened? Why did Air- Farrell return and ask to see Arthur. She only knew that it had happened, and that no human hand could stay the swift rush of disa.ster. She prayed to God, but it was as if she had prayed for some miracle to happen. And. miracles, she knew well enough, did not happen in these days. CHAPTER XVIH. Joan had lit the match, and it was as though she had put the tiny flame to a ripe field of standing corn, fair, and beautiful in the sunlight. Everything—all the world—as Arthur Britton and his wife had known it—flared up in one vast conflagration, and they looked out on a waste of ashes and blackened earth. The jury at the inquest brought in a verdict of wilful murder against Arthur Britton. They could not very well do otherwise, under the circumstances. The motive was clear enough, and the doctor’s evidence did not preclude the possibility of Robert Smith

having been murdered about 9 p.m. Even the high moral character of the accused could not weigh against the facts. It accounted for Arthur Briton’s confession, but it did not make the crime impossible- Lawyers and doctors and even ordinary people knew well enough that the best and holiest of men are liable, under provocation, to fierce outbursts of rage, and the loss of all self-control. Arthur Britton was committed for trial. The secret of Mary’s imprisonment became public property. The whole edifice of their lives seemed, for the time at any rate, like a scorched and roofless ruin. Even Joan herself had not escaped. On the morning after Britton’s arrest she suddenly collapsed, and her husband, summoned by telephone, took her back to Carne Court. Later on in the day Mary received a telegram saying that her sister was seriously ill with brain fever. “Poor little girl,” thought Mary, believing that the terrible catastrophe had been the cause of her sister’s illness. And, even in the midst of her

own great tragedy, Mary shed tears for “poor little Joan.” But there was one person who shed no tears as he sat by Joan’s bedside and listened to the ravings of her delirium. Sir Richard's face was hard and grim and terrible. Once even he put out his hands to grip the sick girl by the throat, and choke the life out of her. But he only drew back his hands, and bent over her, and kissed her on the lips. And then the door opened, and the doctor entered the room. “The Inspector from Winton has called to see you. Sir Richard, ’ he said. “The nurse will be here at five o’clock. I’ll stay with Lady Pynson until you come back.” “A doctor is like a priest, is he not: queried Sir Richard. “Anything he may hear from a patient in a delirium is like a secret told in the confessional —I think that is so, isn’t it?” Dr. Tabley, an old grey-haired man, who had brought Sir Richard Pynson into the world, smiled. “I think that is so, Pynson,” he said, “and if it were not there is a code of honour among gentlemen.” “Sorry, Tabley,” said Sir Richard. “I did not mean to insult you. But I suppose the same rule of conduct does not apply to nurses.” “Not always, lam afraid. Of course your sister-in-law could not come down?” “I doubt it. You have heard, of course?” “Yes; my brother telephoned to me from Mirehester. It is all nonsense. Don't worry about that.” Sir Richard left the room, and found Mr. Belman waiting for him in the library. “Well, Belman,” he said, “any news?” “You will be wanted, Sir Richard,

over this Smith affair. The man was blackmailing you, I understand?” “Yes, and a good job he is dead. A more thorough scoundrel never lived. The jury ought to have brought in a verdict of justifiable homicide. But of course Britton never killed the fellow. Britton’s a saint —he would not kill a rabbit.” “Oh, he’ll be all right, Sir Richard. The jury had to bring in that verdict. You see, there’s the case before the magistrate yet, and then the assizes. They will have found the actual murderer by then. Don’t worry about it, Sir Richard.” “My wife,” said Pynson slowly, “the sister of a thief. What about those finger-prints, Belman?” “No use at all, sir—wasted my time.” “Well, you need not think any more of it —I have found the jewels.” “You have found them, Sir Richard?” “Yes, but only an hour ago—l must have taken them myself. They were locked away in a cupboard in my bedroom. I walk in my sleep, and I must have opened the safe myself and carried the wretched things upstairs.” “But you were awake when you found the safe empty, Sir Richard.” “Oh, yes; I must have taken them the night before. I have no doubt there was a burglar, but if he’d opened the safe he would have found nothing. He was frightened, and cleared off. The explanation is quite simple, and it explains why the safe was opened without breaking the lock or cutting a hole in the steel. I was the only person who knew the word—even my wife did not know it.”

Mr. Belman stroked his chin, glanced at Sir Richard Pynson’s face, and then said: “Well, there’s an end of it, sir; Nothing missing?” “Nothing at all. But look here —I

want this hushed up. I don’t want to have all England laughing at me.” “Nothing has been said about the jewels as yet, sir. I don’t think anything need be made public. We are looking for the notes.” “I have found them as well, Belman. I am willing to pay to have this hushed up.” “Yes, sir—l quite understand. But what about the finger-prints—the ones that were not yours, Sir Richard?” “Oh, I can’t explan them.” “Your wife’s, perhaps, Sir Richard?” “Yes, yes, of course. I remember showing her the safe and the jewels —that afternoon —how stupid of me— I ought to have remembered that. Belman, I hate the idea of being branded as a fool. I trust to you to let the matter drop. It will mean a thousand pounds to you.” The Inspector smiled. “I have not earned so much, sir,” he said, quietly. Sir Richard went to the safe, opened it, and took out a bundle of bank notes. He counted out ten notes of a hundred pounds apiece, and gave them to the Inspector. “You’ve earned part of the money,"

he said, “and you are going to earn the rest of it.” “I’ll do my best, sir. I—l can’t thank you enough for your kindness.” A few minutes later Mr. Belman had taken his departure, and Sir Richard sat at his desk, his face buried in his hands. He had found • the* jewels in his wife’s trunk, packed away in a common cardboard box—just where he had expected to find them. Mary was glad of the opportunity to leave River Cottage and go to Carne Court. She could do nothing for her husband, and it seemed to her that her duty lay with her sister —so seriously ill that it was possible she would not live. Britton himself urged her to go, and she travelled down in Sir Richard’s car the day after the inquest. “I know the truth now,” said Sir Richard, a few minutes after her arrival. “Joan has told the truth in her delirium. Mary, you’re one of the most splendid women I’ve ever known. You make all the rest of us seem mean and contemptible. When I think of all I have said to you—and all I’ve thought of you.” He leant back in his chair and laughed mirthlessly. “Forbidding you to see Joan—lest you should corrupt her,” he said, and then after a pause, “She is ’ a mass of corruption—it is impossible to believe that such a child —with so lovely a face —Mary, may God forgive me—but if you knew — you shall know—ybu will hear it from her own lips—you had better know — that is why I sent for you. No one else must know —I cannot trust a nurse—the doctor and I have taken turns—no one else must know.” He covered his face with his hands, and Mary saw that he was shaking like a man with the ague. “Dick, Dick,” she cried. “You must not think hardly of Jackie—a mere child—Dick, if Jackie were to—if she didn’t get over this—all your life you’d remember these terrible words—these terrible thoughts. They’d crush you, break you, make you wish for death.” “I do wish for death, Mary, and it would be better for Joan if she were dead. She stole the jewels, and her lover was her accomplice. They were to have met in London, and left England. But God intervened. Her lover is dead.” His voice was harsh and horrible. It had risen from a whisper almost to a scream. Mary glanced at the door. They were in the library and it was a big room. But still that harsh, high-pitched cry, “Her lover is dead!” “I must not speak so loud,” said Sir Richard, after a pause, and he told her quietly about the jewels in the safe. “You had better g> upstairs and look after your patient,” he added. “Nothing she says will surprise you now.” “I think you ought to have kept this to yourself, Dick.” “No, it was better to tell you. You will hear it all right. And I daresay you—you suspected. You Knew about this lover, eh.” “Yes, and that was why I did not wish you to separate me from Jackie. I hoped I could influence her. Dick, you must be merciful. Perhaps it’s just been a little your own fault.” “My fault! God, how I loved her.” “Yes, but she was afraid of you. And when she learnt about the jewels and you would not let her have a single ornament —by the bye, how did she learn about the jewels?” “I may have talked about them in my sleep. And I must have mentioned the word that would open the safe. Lover! Ha-ha! A capital word that.” “Dick, please, please cortrol yourself. Nothing has happened. Joan never pretended to really love you. But, after this —in time —DRk, ba kind to her. She is so fragile, so helpless, so frail. And she may die, Dick—she may die.” He did not answer. He sat there, his eyes fixed on the safe. She asked him another question, but he did not give her a reply. She left the library went upstairs to Joan’s bedroom. “We shall pull her through,” said the doctor. “We shall pull her through, poor little soul.’* Mary glanced at him and understood that he knew the truth. Then she bent over Joan and kissed the flushed face. “Like Judas,” cried Joan, “for thirty pieces of silver—no, no, for love—for my dead lover.” But neither Mary nor the doctor knew what she was talking about. (To be Continued)