Collected works of j s f.., p.16
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 16
Andrewlina’s ugly face brightened. “Ah will, maister! Ah’ll hev a reyt gooid dinner ready.”
She watched him go swiftly away in the darkness across the Waste, and then shut and bolted the cottage door and climbed to her attic, thinking what a grand time she would have on the morrow in preparing her master’s dinner. She would spend an hour or two in deciding what she should provide, and she would have all the afternoon to cook it in. Such simple pleasures as these were enough to fill the poor thing’s soul with wonderful joy. It would be reward enough for her if Simon said, “That’s a nice dinner, my girl.”
Simon, shivering under his rug in a first-class carriage of the express, wondered how ever Leonard had got to Millford in Dorset; for between the Millford in Yorkshire — the big Millford — and the Millford in Dorset — the little Millford — there was a distance of over two hundred miles. How, he wondered, had Leonard Aylmer managed to traverse it?
It had not been such a difficult task as Simon supposed. When Leonard Aylmer fell down the hoist he had been saved from instant death by coming in contact with a large bale of cloth, which was standing in the well at the bottom ready to be elevated to an upper floor. The cloth had broken his fall, but the effect had still been dreadful. He was thrown into a state of paralysis, in which every function of the body was rendered incapable for the time being of exercising its powers. For all practical purposes he was dead.
The shot from Simon’s revolver had roused him. A ray of returning consciousness dawned on him, and he opened his eyes to see his uncle’s body lying close by, and the dark face of Simon Murgatroyd bending towards his victim. The sight was a terrible one to the injured man, and he relapsed again into his death-like state.
When he regained consciousness he found himself lying on his back in a cold damp cell, with every limb aching and his shoulder feeling bruised and painful. He felt all round him with his hands, and realized that he was lying on bare rock. He struggled to his feet and tried to stand. The effort was too much for his weak limbs, numbed with the cold, and he sank down again. After a while he again essayed to rise, and succeeded in getting into a sitting position. Bit by bit he got to his feet. He began to feel around him, and at last, reaching the wall of his prison, groped along to the door, and felt it give way at his touch.
Now it happened that the very moment when Leonard pushed open the door, was the one in which the warehouseman Robinson made his terrible discovery in the cellar, Leonard, looking out from the door, saw a man carrying a lantern come down the stairs and walk into the cellar. He saw the man suddenly stumble over some object on the floor, throw up his hands in horror, and then, dropping his lantern, rush up the stairs again. And Leonard, weak in the head, and not knowing what he was doing, went after him, bruising himself in the semi-darkness, but still keeping on. He reached the open door and went out, following the man Robinson as he thought. But Robinson had gone one way; Leonard chose another. He went up the streets, still in darkness, for it was not yet many minutes past five o’clock. He tried to think, to remember who he was, where he was, what he wanted, but his brain refused to exercise its functions. He was in a state of mental paralysis. Literally he was unable to think. His body had sustained the shock, and was rapidly reasserting itself; but his mind was still in a death-like state. Yet there was one thought running in his head, or rather, one word was perpetually sounding in his ears. It was the word “Millford.”
He walked up the street, the heat returning to his starved limbs with the exercise, until he found himself in front of the railway station. By that time he had forgotten all that had taken place within the last fifteen minutes; he was not, in fact, able to remember it. He had seen it all just as a new-born baby sees things, without the power to understand them. But as he reached the, station the word “Millford” dawned upon his clouded mind again; “Millford, Millford.” He wanted to go to Millford.
He got somehow to the ticket-office, probably because a bright light shone through the latticed window. A sleepy clerk looked up at him through the little opening; and then Leonard’s voice came back to him.
“Millford,” he said.
The clerk looked puzzled for an instant, but suddenly recollected himself. The gentleman was not asking for a ticket for the place where he just then was, but for a ticket for that other Millford in the South. The morning express for Bath and Bristol and the West was just about to start. He threw a ticket for Millford, Dorset, before Leonard.
“Twenty-six shillings and fivepence, sir,” he said.
Leonard looked at him with vacant eyes. The clerk repeated his demand. Something dawned on Leonard. He drew a purse from his pocket, and held it out. The clerk selected two sovereigns, gave him thirteen shillings and sevenpence change, and pushed the ticket towards him.
“A foreigner, evidently,” he said. “Here, Bill,” he continued, addressing a porter, “here’s a foreign party here for the West of England express. Put him in safely.”
The man beckoned Leonard to follow. Leonard, seeing it all and yet not comprehending anything, went after him holding the ticket in his hand.
“Millford,” he said, as the porter opened the door of a carriage.
“Yes, sir, right away for Millford. Here, guard, this here’s a Frenchy as can’t speak no English, and wants to go to Millford. Look after him, will yer?”
The guard locked the door, and the train almost immediately afterwards moved away. Leonard, still mentally befogged, sank on the seat. When the guard went to look at him at Sheffield, where the first stop was: made, he was fast asleep. He slept all the way to Derby, and was again asleep at Bath, where the guard had to consign him to a branch train going into Dorset. He awoke at the guard’s touch and looked up with vacant eyes, “Millford” was still all he could say.
He followed the guard like a lamb, and was put into the local train, where he again went to sleep. It was twelve o’clock noon when he arrived at Millford and was aroused by the guard. He stood on the platform when the train had gone on. The station-master, coming to collect his ticket, remembered that the guard had described him as a foreigner.
“Can I direct you anywhere, sir?” he asked as he took the ticket which Leonard had held tightly in his hand all through the seven hours’ journey. Leonard gave him a vacant stare.
“Millford,” he said.
“Yes, sir, this is Millford. That’s the town,” replied the station-master, pointing to the houses and church beyond the station.
Leonard’s eyes followed the direction of the outstretched finger. He suddenly turned on his heel and walked out of the station. His legs carried him along, but his mind was as blank as ever except for that word “Millford.” But the strain on his powers was soon too great for him. Sleep had kept him up till then, and now he was beginning to feel faint and ill from pain and shock and want of food. He sank suddenly in a heap at the gates of a large house standing on the road-side. A gentleman just about to enter his carriage noticed the fall and had him carried in.
“Fortunate that that poor fellow fell just here,” he said later in the day to his wife, “He is suffering from temporary paralysis of the brain, brought on by shock. I wonder who he is. No papers, no card, money in his pocket, but not a clue.”
Thus it came about that Dr. Bishop, the gentleman at whose gates Leonard fell, and at whose house he was now lying terribly ill, was led to send an advertisement to the papers at Millford in Yorkshire. He had made inquiries at the station when he found that no one came forward to claim his patient, and on finding that Leonard had travelled from the other Millford he decided on advertising there.
It was a little past breakfast-time when Simon Murgatroyd arrived at Millford in Dorset. He drove straight to Dr. Bishop’s house, and was shown into the doctor’s presence at once.
“I am very glad you have come, Mr. Murgatroyd,” said the doctor, when Simon had explained the object of his visit and had announced himself as Leonard’s cousin. “Your cousin is dangerously ill. It is quite possible that he may not recover. How came he to get here?”
“The only explanation that I can give,” said Simon, “is that he escaped from his friends ten days ago, and by some means got to this Millford instead of our Millford.”
“Dear me,” said Dr. Bishop. “But he had a very serious fall somewhere. Do you know anything of that?”
“Nothing,” said Simon. “He has met with that in the course of his wanderings. Well, Dr. Bishop, my time is short. I was just starting for America when I saw your advertisement, and I must leave to pursue my journey. Can my cousin speak?”
“Not at present, Mr. Murgatroyd. He is totally unconscious, and will remain so for at least a week.”
“How soon can he be moved?”
“Not for a month or six weeks — if he lives.”
Simon produced a hundred - pound note. “You will please accept this, Dr. Bishop,” he said, “as a little payment on account. I shall be back from America within six weeks, and shall come straight here on my return. If my poor cousin should die you will—”
“I shall pay every attention to him, living or dead,” said the good doctor. “Is there no one in England to whom I can send news of him?”
“There is no one,” said Simon. “He and I are the only members of our family.’
He had a hasty glimpse of Leonard, lying insensible in his bed, and then he went away and took the first train for Bath, there to catch the afternoon mail for the North. As he went homewards he made his plans.
“The game is up now,” he said to himself. “I must take the money, inveigle the girl away to-night on some pretext, and leave England to-morrow morning. It has been a trying time and a dangerous one; but I shall win yet.”
For Simon Murgatroyd had an object in all he had done, and was engaged in playing for a high stake. He meant to make Rose Aylmer his wife. He had hoped that time would have helped him in this; but now that Mr. Obadiah F. Cadd had turned up, and Leonard proved to be alive, he felt that if he was to win his prize he must have recourse to the cunning unscrupulousness which had already served him so well.
It was late that evening when he got back to his own town. As the train was drawing up into the station another was moving out. Simon’s eyes, wandering along the line of brilliantly lighted carriages, suddenly caught sight of Mr. Cadd, settling himself comfortably amongst shawls and rugs in a first-class compartment. He drew his head back. Cadd had not seen him.
He jumped from his compartment as the train stopped, and seized a porter.
“What train is that?” he said, pointing to the tail-light receding in the distance.
“That, sir? Midland express for Birmingham.”
Simon hurried to the ticket-office. The booking-clerk was a friend of his.
“Jones,” said he, “you had an American fellow here just now for a ticket?”
“A fellow with a very gorgeous lot of jewellery?” asked Mr. Jones.
“That’s the man,” said Simon. “Where’s he gone to?”
“Let’s see,” said Mr. Jones. “Oh, he took a ticket for Millford in Dorset.”
Simon went outside the station. “Found out!” he said. “I mustn’t lose an instant now.”
CHAPTER X.
MR. CADD’S DISCOVERIES.
WHILE SIMON MURGATROYD was making arrangements with Dr. Bishop about Leonard’s future Mr. Obadiah F. Cadd was seated in his private room at the Dragon Hotel alternately blaming himself for sleeping till a late hour, and objurgating Murgatroyd for not making his expected call, Simon had promised to be with him by nine o’clock; it was now nearly eleven, for Mr: Cadd had slept two hours beyond his usual time, and yet Simon did not put in an appearance.
“Blamed ef I stop in this air gilded cell any longer,” said Mr. Cadd as the clock chimed eleven. “I’ll go out and hunt up this un-punc-too-al cuss! Hyar, waiter, bring me my coat and hat, and tell me how far it is to the office of Aylmer and Aylmer.”
“Aylmer and Aylmer? Yes, sir; close by, sir,” said the waiter, going to the window and directing Mr. Cadd’s gaze to the street beneath.
“You see the Town Hall, sir? G’long there, turn up Brown Street by the Town Hall corner, and you’ll see Aylmer and Aylmer’s sign, sir, straight before you.”
Mr. Cadd left the hotel and went forth, his hands in his trousers’ pockets, his hat at the back of his head, and a cigar between his lips. It was his usual attitude, and nothing could cure him of assuming it. As he walked along the busy High Street he was much admired and stared at; but being used to admiration and stares, he took no notice of either, and went serenely on. He found the warehouse of Aylmer and Aylmer without any difficulty, and going inside, turned to a window marked “Inquiries,” and asked for Mr. Simon Murgatroyd. “I don’t think Mr. Murgatroyd’s come down yet, sir,” cried the clerk, glancing at a small clock; “but I’ll see, if you’ll wait a moment.”
He returned presently, shaking his head, “Not come yet, sir,” he said; “but he maybe in any minute.”
“About what time,” asked Mr. Cadd, “does he usually reckon for to start his day’s labour?”
“He’s generally here at nine o’clock sharp, sir. Don’t know how it is he isn’t here this morning.”
“He has probably gone away?” asked Cadd.
“I think not, sir, to-day. If you look in again in half an hour I dare say you’ll find him here.”
Mr. Cadd nodded, and went forth into the streets. He wandered about among the warehouses until the Town Hall clock chimed the three-quarters, and then he went back again, Simon Murgatroyd had not yet arrived.
“This air strange,” said Mr. Cadd. “He was to meet me at my hotel, the Dragon, at nine o’clock, and it air now close upon twelve.”
“Perhaps he’s ‘waiting for you there, sir?” suggested the clerk.
“Thet may be,” said Mr. Cadd. “Guess I’ll go back. If he comes in tell him I’m waitin’ at the hotel.”
“The clerk promised to observe Mr. Cadd’s wishes, and the latter returned to the Dragon. He sat smoking by the fire in his private room for a while, and then, feeling somewhat hipped and yet not desirous of conversation, he rang the bell and asked the waiter if he would get him the local papers containing the account of the late Mr. Aylmer’s suicide; for Obadiah had been thinking about it that morning, and felt a desire to know something of the details. The waiter was afraid it was almost impossible. The papers, he said, were soon burnt in their house. However, it might be possible, he said, to obtain a copy of the Observer for the 2nd of January at the office, which was not far away. Probably, however, the copy would cost more than a penny, as there was a great demand for that day’s issue.
Mr. Cadd pulled out a shilling, and intimated that if the waiter could persuade the newspaper folks to part with that particular issue for elevenpence, he might keep the extra penny for his own trouble. The waiter departed, sent a boy with a penny to the Observer office, and put Mr. Cadd’s shilling in his pocket. The paper having arrived, he took it up to Mr. Cadd, and condescended to point out to that gentleman the particular column containing a description of Mr. Martin Aylmer’s suicide. Mr. Cadd, over a succession of cigars, went carefully through the evidence given at the coroner’s inquiry. A good deal of it he read more than once. When he came to the end he: read the last few words aloud, as if to a listener —
“‘The coroner having briefly summed up, the jury, without leaving their seats, returned a verdict of suicide whilst labouring under temporary insanity.’”
Mr. Cadd flung the paper aside. “There air,” he said, still speaking aloud, “some ornery fools and some fools which is worse than ornery. But what may these be which thinks that a man would go down into his cellar for the purpose of shooting himself? Didn’t want to spile the office carpet, mebbe. It may have been suicide; it may not. And now whar’s thet thar Murgatroyd?”
It was after two o’clock by that time, and Mr. Cadd felt that he was being ill-used. His time — and time was very valuable to Mr. Cadd — was being wasted, and that was what he decidedly objected to. He fidgeted about his room for a while, and then put on his overcoat again and went towards Aylmer and Aylmer’s.
“Thet air unpunctooal cuss arrived?” he asked of the clerk, who looked at him through the inquiry window.
“No, sir, he hasn’t. Don’t know how it is, I’m sure. Perhaps you’d like to see Mr. Johnson?”
“Who is Mr. Johnson?”
“Under-manager, sir; next to Mr. Murgatroyd.”
“Trot Mr. Johnson out,” said Mr. Cadd laconically. “Mornin’, sir,” as Mr. Johnson came up. “I am inquiring after Mr. Simon Murgatroyd.”
“Oh yes,” answered Mr. Johnson. “Murgatroyd hasn’t been down to-day. I don’t know how it is. It is just possible he’s gone out of town on business, though I think he’d have let me know if he had. I was thinking of sending up to him.”
“Whar does he live?” asked Mr. Cadd.
“I’ll spare yer the trouble of sending up if you’ll tell me that I’ve nothing to do till I see him, and I guess I can do my own biz and yourn too.”
“Well,” said Mr. Johnson dubiously, “it’s rather a strange place to get to. It’s a cottage on the Waste, but I don’t know how you’ll find it.”
“Murgatroyd cottage on the Waste,” said Mr. Cadd. “Right I’ll go there straight away. I can find anything, sir.”
He nodded to the under-manager, and was turning away, when a thought seemed to strike him.
“Oh,” he said, “ain’t this whar Mr. Martin Aylmer shot himself a short while ago?”
“It is, sir,” answered Mr. Johnson.
“Is thar any objection to my inspectin’ the spot whar the body was found?” asked Mr. Cadd.
“Not at all, sir. Step this way,” said Mr Johnson. “Happy to be of use to any friend of Mr. Murgatroyd’s.”
He led the way to the cellar steps, and piloted Mr. Cadd into the depth below, pointing out the exact spot where the dead man’s body was found. The floor, despite many scrubbings and washings, was still stained by the blood.
