The Black Opal (31 page)

She need have had no qualms. Everything went according to plan and I think the guests were so interested in the conversation that they would not have been aware of it if it had not.

We had left the table and had gone to the drawing-room for coffee when Dorothy started to talk about a book she had read.

“You would not suspect Dorothy of being interested in such gruesome subjects, would you?” said Lawrence.

“But crime has always fascinated her.”

“I know she wrote a book on the subject,” I said.

“She lent it to me.

I found it fascinating. “

“It was inspired by the Jameson case,” said Dorothy.

“Do you remember it? It took place years ago. A Martin Jameson married women for their money and then, when he had arranged for it all to come to him, he just disposed

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of them. The interesting thing was that he was such a charmer. No one believed he could commit such crimes, and he was able to operate with success for some time. “

“The charm would equip him for the work he had decided to do, I imagine,” said Lucian.

“But it was not exactly a pose. The man was kind … it turned out that he had helped lots of people. They came forward to testify for him. He was highly respected wherever he went. And all the time, he was seeking out these women with money, going through a form of marriage with them, then murdering them. Right up to the moment of his death, he was gentle and charming.”

“There must have been some violence in him,” said Lawrence.

“And don’t forget, he did it for the money.”

“A murderer deserves to hang,” said Bernard.

“I think Dorothy wanted to understand the man,” explained Lawrence.

“To discover what his thoughts were as he put aside his gentler instincts and became a killer.”

“That’s clear enough,” put in Uncle Harold.

“He wanted the money.”

“And so he was hanged,” said Gertie.

“Anyone who kills someone deserves to hang.” She looked at Bernard.

“Especi ally husbands who kill their wives.”

“I’m listening,” said Bernard.

“I don’t think you’d think what I’ve got would be worth while,” retorted Gertie.

“Well,” replied Bernard, “I shall have to look into it!”

Dorothy had no intention of allowing this kind of lovers’ banter to intrude on a serious subject.

“It’s interesting to study these cases,” she said.

“It gives one a certain understanding of people, and people are fascinating. There is this case I have just been reading about. A young girl was shot in a place called Cranley Wood. It is in Yorkshire. This was some years ago. There is a possibility that they hanged the wrong man.”

Lucian leaned forward, listening.

“I don’t remember this case,” he said.

“There was not a great deal of publicity about it. I think people thought the man who confessed some time after was mad.”

“Do tell us,” said Lucian.

“I am sure Dorothy will,” replied Lawrence.

“She’s on her favourite hobbyhorse.”

“Murder is so interesting,” said Gertie.

“Briefly, this is the case,” began Dorothy.

“Marion Jackson was the daughter of a farmer. She was engaged to marry Tom Eccles, also a farmer living in the neighbourhood. A small landowner, also in the district and known to be something of a lady’s man, had been abroad and when he came back, a number of the local girls were fascinated by him, and it seems that Marion was one of those who fell under his spell. It is not a very usual story. Marion was seduced by the philanderer and became pregnant. She made an attempt to pass off the child as Tom Eccles’s. There was a scene in the woods between Marion and Tom, which was overheard. Tom had discovered that the child was not his and made Marion confess who was in fact the father. That afternoon Marion was found in the woods, shot through the heart.”

“The farmer fiance did it,” said Gertie.

“I expect he was furious.”

“Understandably,” said Bernard.

“So it was thought,” went on Dorothy.

“There was an inquiry. There was nothing special about the shot. It was fired from an ordinary sort of gun. Tom Eccles had one, so did Marion’s father and countless other people around the district.”

“What about the philanderer?” asked Aunt Beatrice.

“He too, I dare say. Several people had heard the shot. Tom Eccles could not account for his whereabouts at that time. He had, however, been heard to say, ” I’ll kill you for

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this,” during the scene with Marion earlier on; and he was in a rather hysterical state at the time. The trial did not last long. It seemed certain that, overcome by an excess of jealousy, Tom Eccles had killed Marion Jackson. He was found guilty and hanged. That happened more than twenty years ago. You might say it was a perfectly commonplace crime, the sort of thing that has happened again and again.”

“No crime is ordinary,” suggested Uncle Harold.

Dorothy turned to him.

“You are right. That is why it is so. fascinating to study these things. As I said, this happened a long time ago. A crime was committed and a man was hanged. Has it ever occurred to you that there might be other occasions when a person can be hanged for a crime he or she did not commit, although all the evidence may point to that person’s guilt?”

Lucian said quietly: “It has.”

Dorothy nodded at him approvingly.

“This is what has interested me about this case. Five years ago … that is, fifteen years after Tom Eccles was hanged, a man wrote a letter to the press. He was on his deathbed and for a long time, it seemed, he had been troubled by his conscience. It was just possible that he had been the murderer of Marion Jackson, although he had never known her had never even seen her.”

“Then how could he have been the murderer?” cried Gertie.

“It is very strange and yet … plausible. His name was David Crane.

He was in those woods that day when Marion died. His hobby was pigeon-shooting. His home was in Devonshire and he was on a walking holiday in Yorkshire, going wherever the fancy took him. Sometimes he’d stop at an inn; sometimes he would sleep out of doors if the weather was good enough. He’d fire a shot at a rabbit, pigeon or a

hare when the fancy took him. It was a pigeon at this time. He missed and did not think much more about it, but when he realized that it was at that very spot where Marion had been killed, he began to consider.

“Some years later, he returned to the woods; he discovered that exact spot where Marion’s body had been found, and it occurred to him that his shot might well have been the one which killed her. Tom Eccles’s last words were, ” I swear to God I did not kill Marion. ” David Crane could not forget it. He went back again to those woods. He encountered Tom Eccles’s father and talked to him about the case. The old man was sure Tom had not committed the crime. He swore he was not in the woods at that time but alas, he could not prove it. True, Tom possessed the kind of gun from which the shot had been fired, but so did hundreds of others.

“Tom would never have died with a lie on his lips,” declared the old man fervently, and that was when David Crane’s conscience began to trouble him. “

We were all listening intently now. Dorothy was on her favourite topic and she knew how to hold an audience.

Lucian said: “And this old man … what did he do about it?”

“He wrote the letter on his deathbed.”

“He waited till then!”

“He would have reasoned that, if he had come forward, he could not have saved Tom Eccles.”

“No,” said Lucian firmly.

“There was nothing he could have done.”

“What a thing to have on one’s conscience!” said Lawrence.

“I can understand his feelings,” added Lucian.

“I understand absolutely.”

“Imagine,” said Dorothy, ‘a normal sort of person having to ask himself, “Did I kill someone?”

“It must have worried him for years,” said Lucian.

“An innocent man hanged for what he had done.”

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“Exactly,” went on Dorothy.

“Poor man, he did not know how to act. He was afraid to come forward and accuse himself, and he would reason there was nothing he could do to save Tom Eccles.”

“He was right. There was no point in bringing up the matter,” suggested Lucian.

“Except, of course, that he would clear Tom Eccles’s name,” reasoned Dorothy.

“He was dead,” said Lucian.

“There was his family,” Lawrence put in.

“For instance, the old father. People don’t like to have murderers in the family, particularly one who has been hanged. People talk about these things.

There’s a slur. “

“Well,” said Dorothy.

“He did nothing until he was on the point of death. Then he wrote that letter to the press. No doubt it cleared his conscience.”

“After all,” said Lawrence, ‘he couldn’t be sure that he had fired the fatal shot. “

“No. That was the point. It was just that he might have. No one will ever know.”

“I suppose that sort of thing has happened before?” asked Lucian.

“It must have,” replied Dorothy.

“But I have never come across it.”

“If it were so, it is a case of accidental killing.”

“All very intriguing,” added Lawrence.

“You can see why Dorothy has this passion.”

The discussion had sobered everyone and the mood had changed. I guessed we were all thinking about that poor young man who had been hanged for a murder he probably had not committed.

After the guests had gone, I sat in the drawing-room with Gertie and the Hysons.

“Well, Aunt Bee,” Gertie was saying, “I think you can congratulate yourself on being a very successful hostess.”

“I was rather dreading that Sir Lucian,” replied Aunt Beatrice with a giggle.

“But he turned out to be ever so easy.”

“You had the right assortment of guests, you clever old thing,” said Gertie.

“Dorothy was good, wasn’t she? She’s a real entertainer.”

“My word, wasn’t that Sir Lucian interested in all that about the murder?” said Aunt Beatrice.

“As much as any of us, I’d say.”

A week after the dinner-party, I was surprised to receive a letter from Lady Crompton.

Dear Carmel [she wrote], Lucian has to go away for a few days next week and I should be so pleased if you could come and stay with me. It is always pleasant to talk to you, and when Lucian is here, he does tend to monopolize you.

I thought, if you were agreeable, we might have a quiet time together.

I have so enjoyed your visits and now that I am incapacitated, I do feel a little lonely. I should be so pleased if you could come.

Do not hesitate to say if it is inconvenient. Isabel Crompton.

I was rather intrigued by the idea, and wrote back at once accepting.

Gertie was amused.

“This could mean one of two things,” she prophesied.

“Either you are going to be granted parental approval, or you will be told some ghastly secret which is designed to warn you to keep off the grass.”

“Don’t be so absurdly melodramatic,” I retorted.

“This is just a lonely old lady seeking a little diversion.”

“Oh, isn’t it fun! Life is so amusing.”

“Particularly to people whose wedding-day is looming!”

“Or for those who have a trio of suitors.”

2. I was met at the station by one of the grooms, and taken to the Grange, where I was warmly welcomed.

“Lucian was so pleased when he heard you were coming. He’s very sorry not to be here. He was telling me about the delightful dinner-party your friends gave. How I wished I could have been there!”

“It was interesting, and so good of the Hysons to give it for my friends.”

“He was telling me about the doctor and his lively sister. They are very good friends of yours, I gather.”

“Oh yes. The doctor was a friend of my father, and then I met him on the ship again when I was coming over.”

“Yes, Lucian has told me.”

Later in the evening, she talked a little about Lucian’s marriage.

“It was unfortunate. So unlike Lucian. This girl, she was not right for him at all. Of course, she was very pretty. I suppose he must have been carried away. Young men do such foolish things. I knew from the moment she came into the house that it would not be a good thing. I wish he could make a sensible marriage now. The name has been in the family for three hundred years. In a family like ours, one feels there are obligations.”

“If Bridget had been a boy …” I said.

“I’m rather glad she’s not. With a mother like that…”

“She seems a very bright and delightful child.”

“Children can be delightful. No, I am glad she is a girl. I wouldn’t have wanted that woman’s child to have inherited. I did wonder whether she was Lucian’s child, you know.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I don’t know. It was all so hurried and wrong from the start. I don’t think he really cared for her. I imagined he was caught up in some way. It was a horrible time. I was most unhappy.”

“Does it distress you to talk of it. Lady Crompton?”

“No, my dear child. I want you to know. He never really cared for her.

There are some things I do not understand. There is something rather secretive about Lucian at times. He used not to be like that. He was such a frank sort of boy, if you know what I mean. So serene. He took everything in his stride. Now he has changed. All of a sudden he became . well, moody. I think introspective is the word . reflective . as though something worried him. I am so glad he enjoys your company. “

“I’m glad to hear it. I enjoy his.”

“And that friend of yours, the doctor … ?”

“Lawrence Emmerson?”

“The one with the clever sister. Lucian wondered about them. I’m not sure whether he likes them or not. The doctor is a bachelor, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Attractive, presentable … dominated by his sister. Is that so?”

“Well, not really dominated. They are very fond of each other, and she looks after him. She gives herself entirely to the task. She is a very strong-minded person. She would tell you what she thought ought to be done, and you’d find that she was right most of the time. She is very practical and really is a wonderful person.”