Collected works of j s f.., p.17
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 17
“This is the exact spot, sir,” said Mr. Johnson. “He was laid on his face with the revolver lying close by.”
“Um!” said Mr. Cadd. “That thar’s a hoist?”
“Yes, sir; we had that put up some six months ago. We find it very convenient.”
“They air mighty convenient things,” said Mr. Cadd. He stepped into the well of the hoist and looked up.
“It’s been out of order this last fortnight,” said Mr. Johnson, “and we’ve been too much put about by Mr. Aylmer’s sad death and the bankruptcy business to have it attended to; in fact, I don’t know when it will be attended to, for the firm’s dished up now.”
“Whar is the hoist?” asked Mr. Cadd, still looking up.
“It’s fixed at the top story,” answered Mr. Johnson. “The chains got wrong.”
Mr. Cadd, looking intently upwards, became aware, as his eyes got used to the semi-darkness, of an object attached to the wall of the well, which glittered in a ray of light stealing through a crack. It was not much above the reach of his arm.
“These yar things often get out of order,” he said, feeling about him for something whereby to climb. “And having had some experience of ’em, I should say that the chain of this is locked at the top.”
He had struck a ledge with his hand, and now, as he talked carelessly to Mr. Johnson, he reached up and secured the glittering object and rapidly thrust it into the pocket of his coat. He had not the slightest idea as to his proceeding, but he was one who often acted on impulse.
“Good oaken board,” he said to Mr. Johnson, as if explaining his movements. “Well polished all the way up. Well, sir, I will go in search of Murgatroyd.”
He gave a keen glance round the cellar, and followed the under-manager upstairs. As they passed under a gas-jet on the dark staircase, Mr. Cadd pulled the glittering object from his pocket and gave it a quick look. It was a peculiarly shaped trinket of gold attached to about three inches of gold chain. And Mr. Cadd recognized it at once as part of Leonard Aylmer’s watch-chain.
He said good day to Mr. Johnson at the door, and walked up the street towards the nearest cabstand. There he hailed the first cab, and ordered the driver to take him at once to Mr. Murgatroyd’s cottage on the Waste, “It’s a rough bit of ground to go over, maister,” said the driver. “There’s no regular road over it.”
“Then drive to where a man can cross it on foot,” said Mr. Cadd.
It was getting dusk as he approached the cottage. There was not a sound on the Waste. The roar of the town came to him as he walked across, wondering what had become of Leonard, and trying to estimate the value of the evidence that had so wonderfully come in his way. He felt certain now that Leonard had not only been in Millford, but had presented himself at his uncle’s office.
He went up to the cottage warily. A light in one of the windows induced him to peep in before knocking at the door. There was no blind or curtain drawn, and Mr. Cadd stole up gently and looked in. An involuntary exclamation of surprise burst from him as he did so, for the first thing he saw was Andrewlina. She was kneeling, all her terrible ugliness made worse by the weird light, before the fireplace, blowing the coals into flame. As the flames rose and fell on her strange countenance, Mr. Cadd wondered whether he was not dreaming. He stood at the window and watched her as if petrified.
When she had blown the fire into thoroughgoing order, Andrewlina began to tidy up the room. She turned back the carpet and swept the bricks. And when she came to the corner where Simon kept his treasures, she paused, and looked at it carefully and shyly.
Cadd, watching her every movement through the window, and thinking her the most awful compound of ugliness that it had ever been his lot to see, saw her presently kneel down and try to lift the bricks. She was some little time fumbling with them, but at last she lifted two or three from their place, and bent over the cavity. The watcher at the window saw then that the hole in the floor contained a box.
Andrewlina put the bricks back, finished her sweeping, and turned down the carpet. She was thinking about the grand dinner cooking in the kitchen, when a knock came at the door. She stumped along the passage, and threw the door open, expecting to see her master. But, instead of Simon, a tall stranger stepped in, not giving her time even to ask his business.
“Wall, my girl,” said Mr. Cadd, “is Mr. Murgatroyd in?”
“Nay,” answered Andrewlina, “he’s not. He’s awaay out o’ t’ tahn.”
“But he’ll be home to dinner, eh?” said Mr. Cadd.
“Ay, he’ll be hooam by six o’clock.”
Mr. Cadd stepped further in. “Thet’s all right,” said he. “I’ll come in and wait. I’m going to have dinner with him.”
Andrewlina looked at him wonderingly, but did not venture to remonstrate. “If yo’r goin’ to hev dinner wi’ him,” she said, “yo can seat yorself i’ t’ parlour till he comes. Ah dunnot know yo, but Ah expect it’ll be all reight wi’ t’ maister if yo’re a friend o’ his.”
“Thet’s right,” said Mr. Cadd, not quite comprehending her West Riding speech, but bent on making a satisfactory impression and gaining her confidence. “And so your master’s gone out o’ town, has he, girl?”
“He went laate last neet,” replied Andrewlina, simple and unsuspecting. “It wor varry near mid-neet, and Ah’m afraaid he’ll ha’ takken a cowd in his heead. Yo can sit yo down, maister, till he comes.”
Mr. Cadd went into the parlour and sat down. Andrewlina drew the blinds and lighted a lamp. Then she withdrew to the kitchen to look after her dinner, and Cadd, left alone, began to look round him. His only thought just then was for Simon’s speedy return.
On the table close to his elbow lay two things — a newspaper and a railway guide. Out of pure want of occupation Mr. Cadd picked up the paper and glanced at it, and like Simon on the previous evening, his eye went straight to the advertisement of Dr. Bishop. But while Simon had seen its import at once, Cadd read it over without at first gathering anything from it. Suddenly, however, a gleam of intelligence flashed into his mind. He read it again. Snatching up the railway guide, he saw that it was open at the heading, “Birmingham, Bath, Bristol, and the West of England.” He looked down the list of stations, and saw Millford Dorset And then the full significance of the advertisement dawned upon him. He could not make out all, but he evolved enough to see that Leonard Aylmer was at Millford, in Dorset, ill, and that Simon Murgatroyd had some interest in his being there.
Cadd was a man of action. He decided that he must go to Leonard at once, without waiting for Simon’s return. There was a mystery somewhere, he felt sure. The bit of broken watch-chain, the advertisement, Simon Murgatroyd’s hasty night journey, Leonard ill, and evidently some distance away — what did it all mean?
His eye fell on the corner of the room, and he remembered what he had seen through the window. He drew a half-sovereign from his pocket and went to the door of the kitchen.
“Look hyar, girl,” he said, “we must have a drop of wine to drink your master’s health. Has he got any in the house?”
“Nay,” said Andrewlina, “we’ve some sperrits, but noaa wine. But there’s a gooid public across t’ Waaste, and Ah can run aht and buy yo some if yo loike.”
She took the half-sovereign, and, putting on her shawl, set off into the darkness as rapidly as her unequally lengthened legs would allow. Before she was many yards away Cadd was kneeling in the corner of the room. Up came the carpet, up came the bricks, and the box was in Cadd’s hands. It was locked, but he made little of the difficulty; he drew a piece of fine steel wire from his waistcoat pocket and had the lid open in a twinkling. And then he took out the bank-notes and examined them. There were some loose ones, and there was a bundle, held together by an india-rubber band. He turned his attention to the bundle.
Twenty notes of a thousand pounds each! Cadd remembered that Leonard had told him how, when he reached Liverpool, he meant to change his money into such a sum, and carry it proudly to Martin and Rose Aylmer. Could it be that this was Leonard’s money?
Quick as thought he drew a pencil and paper from his pocket and took down the numbers. He had just finished doing this, and had put the notes back in their hiding-place, returned the bricks, and turned down the carpet again, when he heard Andrewlina returning. She came into the parlour to find Mr. Cadd yawning before the fire, and deposited her bottles and the change in front of him.
“Keep it, girl,” said Mr. Cadd, pushing the change into her hand. “Look hyar; I’m à going out for a minute or two till yer master arrives.”
He did not stop for further parley, but strode away. More than once, going across the unfamiliar Waste, he stumbled and fell. But he kept on, guided by the lighted Town Hall clock, and after half an hour’s wandering he turned up at the police office, and asked to see the head of the detective department.
“Look hyar,” he said; “I’m Obadiah F. Cadd, and money, sir, is no object to me. You see this list of notes. Stop payment of every’ one of ’em in every bank in England before tomorrow morning as quietly as possible. You understand?”
“It will cost money, sir,” said the official.
“There,” said Mr. Cadd, “is two hundred pounds. I shall be in here again some time to-morrow.”
He ran out into the street and hailed the first cab, and told the driver to take him to the Midland Station. He felt like a war-horse that snuffs the battle from afar and longs to be in the thick of it.
CHAPTER XI.
ANDREWLINA’S DEVOTION.
SIMON REACHED THE cottage on the Waste within an hour of Mr. Cadd’s departure, and found Andrewlina in a state of profound amazement. She had not recovered from the stranger’s hasty leave-taking, and no sooner did she see her master than she broke into voluble speech.
“Ah’m glad tha’s coomed, maister,” she said, “There’s been sich a straange man here nobbut an hour or two agooa. He wanted to knaw if yo wor in, and when Ah said yo wor aht, he said he’d coom to hev his dinner wi’ yo, and he coomed in and set hisself dahn. Wor it reyt, maister?”
“Where is he?” asked Simon.
“Nay, he’s gone nah. He sent ma out for two bottles o’ wine, and as sooin as Ah’d gotten back wi’ ’em he went away reyt haâsty like.”
“You didn’t leave him in the house alone, did you, girl?” shouted Simon, who had no doubt whatever that the visitor was Cadd, “Ah left him for abaht ten minutes, maister. He said he wor a friend of yors, and yo were expectin’ him to dinner.”
Simon rushed to the corner of the room and turned up the carpet. The bricks looked just as he had left them. He took them out and unlocked the box. Everything was intact.
“You should never leave the house when I’m away, girl,” he said. “And now listen to me. I’m going away, going to leave England to-night, and I shall never come back here again.”
“Goin’ away — nicer comin’ back!”
The poor thing’s face had turned quite pale, and the words came hoarse and thick. Simon, busy in stuffing the notes and gold into his pocket-book, was too much preoccupied to notice her agitation, “Yes,” he said, “I’m going at once. You’ll get another place, my girl, easily. Now see here’s twenty pounds for you in this purse. Put it in your pocket and take care of it. Now I’m going. You can stop here to-night, and tomorrow morning you can lock the house up and carry the key to the landlord of the inn over there, and tell him I’ve gone away for good.”
He gave her a nod, and, picking up his rug, hurried away. While he had talked to her he had noticed that the Millford Observer, with the damning advertisement in it, was still lying on the table with the railway guide at its side. He began to see how Cadd had secured his information, and he cursed himself for his folly in not burning the paper as soon as he had read it.
“If I had shot Leonard Aylmer with his uncle,” he said, “I should have been safe.”
It was now eight o’clock in the evening. Simon, reaching the lighted streets, called the first cab he met, and instructed the driver to take him to Miss Aylmer’s house in the North Park. There was, he knew, a train to London at a quarter to ten, and he had little time to do all that he wished to do before catching it. Now that the critical moment had come he was cool, calculating, and bold. He was playing a dangerous game, and he meant to win it.
When they reached Miss Aylmer’s house Simon told the cabman to wait. He rang the bell and looked the very picture of impatience when the housemaid opened the door, “Is Miss Aylmer in?” he said. “Take me to her, quick! Stop — has Mr. Cadd been here to-day?”
“Mr. Cadd, sir?”
“The man who came last night when I was with Miss Aylmer.”
“Oh yes, sir. No, sir, he has not been here to-day. Miss Aylmer has not had any visitors except Mrs. Lattimer.”
Simon walked into the drawing-room, still holding his travelling rug. Rose, surprised at seeing him, rose and advanced towards him.
“Miss Aylmer,” Simon began before she could address him, “you will forgive me for bursting in on you in this manner, I have news of Mr. Leonard—”
Rose’s face flushed and she held out her hands. “Not bad news, Mr. Murgatroyd?”
“No,” he said, “not very bad. He is ill—”
“Oh!”
“But it is not dangerous. He will be better soon. He wants me to take you to him.”
Rose, who had resumed her seat, now sprang up again. “Can we go just now?” she asked. “I can be ready in two minutes.”
“We can’t leave till nine forty-five,” said Simon, “so you have plenty of time, Miss Aylmer.”
“The nine forty-five? Is not that a London train?”
“It is. Mr. Leonard is in London.”
“If you are sure we have time tell me about it, Mr. Murgatroyd. Where did you find him?” Simon laid his rug over a chair and took a seat. “I have had a terribly hard day, Miss Aylmer,” he said. “I got to hear last night that Mr. Leonard was in London, and I set off there at once.”
“That was kind of you,” said Rose.
“I found him, after some searching, on board a vessel in the East London Docks,” continued Simon; “he had met with a slight accident there, and had been obliged to remain on board.”
“But why had he not written — why did he not let me know?”
“I suppose,” said Simon, “he was unable to do so. Anyway, Miss Aylmer, he wants you to go to him, and I came back post-haste to fetch you.”
“It is very good of you, Mr. Murgatroyd,” said Rose, “Ought we not to let Mr. Cadd know?”
“I sent a telegraph to Mr. Cadd early this morning, and I expect he is with Mr. Leonard by this time, I should have wired to you, Miss Aylmer, but I feared to disturb you.”
Rose went away to get ready then, and Simon left alone, congratulated himself on the success of his scheme so far. It was evident that Rose had a complete trust in him, and that made matters much easier in every way. It was not difficult, he thought, to deceive her, and when the moment came for making her aware of the plot she would be beyond the help of any one. While Simon was inveigling Rose into this midnight journey, Andrewlina was sitting at the cottage in a state of something like stupor. Her master’s return and departure had been so sudden, that it was some little time before she was able to grasp either as facts. She sat down in the nearest chair after Simon rushed away, staring stupidly at the purse he had thrust into her trembling hands. And all she could think of was — he had gone! Gone! Never coming back again! She was never going to cook another dinner for him, never have his slippers warming again, never watch for him coming home across the Waste. He had told her to lock up the old cottage which had been her home for three years, and to find another place. Another place! She laughed savagely at the idea. Who would engage her — a poor, misshapen thing like her? Everybody would laugh at her, as everybody had laughed at her in the weary days of tramping at the end of which she came to Simon Murgatroyd’s door and he took her in.
She began, as she sat there staring at the purse, to remember all the kindnesses that she had experienced at her master’s hands. Once when she had been sick and heavy with headache he had brought her a cup of tea, and had sent in a neighbouring girl to do the work, bidding her to lie and rest till she was better. Every year he had brought her a piece of stuff from the warehouse so that she might have a new gown. He had said when he engaged her that he could give her no wages, but she remembered now that on every anniversary of her coming he had given her a five-pound note, and told her to take it to the little branch post-office across the Waste and deposit it in the savings bank. Nor were these all his good deeds. She remembered how he had always given her a half-crown every Boxing Day, and told her to go down into the town and see the sights. Every pantomime time he had got a neighbour’s girl to go with her to the theatre, and once, when Andrewlina had declined to go, saying that the folks stared and laughed at her, he had taken her himself and found her and her companion good seats, and given them oranges and sweets, and looked round at the people close by as if to dare them to laugh at the poor hunchback. Oh yes, she thought, he had been a good and a kind master. And — he was gone!
Gone! The poor thing’s heart felt as if it would burst within her breast. Her eyes filled with tears. The trouble was greater than she could bear.
Suddenly a thought came into her mind. He had gone; but why could she not follow him? He was perhaps going where there were no people who knew how to cook. She had money, lots of money; she would take it and follow him.
With Andrewlina to think was to act. She hobbled upstairs to her attic and gathered together her best wearing apparel. Then she opened a little box in which she kept her few treasures. There was a broken pipe which had belonged to Simon Murgatroyd; an old Bible, once the property of her mother; and a silhouette portrait of her father, cut in black paper. She treasured all these things with exceeding reverence, and she thrust them now into the pocket of her best dress, so that they might go with her on her travels. And from the box she also took her Post-Office Savings Bank book with its credited deposits of fifteen pounds. And then she got downstairs again and attired herself by the kitchen fire, all heedless of the fact that the grand dinner she had been preparing was burning to a cinder in the various pots and pans. What did it matter? Her master was not going to eat it.
