Collected works of j s f.., p.299
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 299
“Easy to find all these things out?” she repeated.
Spargo caught, or fancied he caught, a note of anxiety in her tone. He was quick to turn his fancy to practical purpose.
“Oh, easy enough!” he said. “I could find out all about Maitland’s family through that boy. Quite, quite easily!”
Miss Baylis had stopped now, and stood glaring at him. “How?” she demanded.
“I’ll tell you,” said Spargo with cheerful alacrity. “It is, of course, the easiest thing in the world to trace all about his short life. I suppose I can find the register of his birth at Market Milcaster, and you, of course, will tell me where he died. By the by, when did he die, Miss Baylis?”
But Miss Baylis was going on again to the house.
“I shall tell you nothing more,” she said angrily. “I’ve told you too much already, and I believe all you’re here for is to get some news for your paper. But I will, at any rate tell you this — when Maitland went to prison his child would have been defenceless but for me; he’d have had to go to the workhouse but for me; he hadn’t a single relation in the world but me, on either father’s or mother’s side. And even at my age, old woman as I am, I’d rather beg my bread in the street, I’d rather starve and die, than touch a penny piece that had come from John Maitland! That’s all.”
Then without further word, without offering to show Spargo the way out, she marched in at the open window and disappeared. And Spargo, knowing no other way, was about to follow her when he heard a sudden rustling sound in the shadow by which they had stood, and the next moment a queer, cracked, horrible voice, suggesting all sorts of things, said distinctly and yet in a whisper:
“Young man!”
Spargo turned and stared at the privet hedge behind him. It was thick and bushy, and in its full summer green, but it seemed to him that he saw a nondescript shape behind. “Who’s there?” he demanded. “Somebody listening?”
There was a curious cackle of laughter from behind the hedge; then the cracked, husky voice spoke again.
“Young man, don’t you move or look as if you were talking to anybody. Do you know where the ‘King of Madagascar’ public-house is in this quarter of the town, young man?”
“No!” answered Spargo. “Certainly not!”
“Well, anybody’ll tell you when you get outside, young man,” continued the queer voice of the unseen person. “Go there, and wait at the corner by the ‘King of Madagascar,’ and I’ll come there to you at the end of half an hour. Then I’ll tell you something, young man — I’ll tell you something. Now run away, young man, run away to the ‘King of Madagascar’ — I’m coming!”
The voice ended in low, horrible cachinnation which made Spargo feel queer. But he was young enough to be in love with adventure, and he immediately turned on his heel without so much as a glance at the privet hedge, and went across the garden and through the house, and let himself out at the door. And at the next corner of the square he met a policeman and asked him if he knew where the “King of Madagascar” was.
“First to the right, second to the left,” answered the policeman tersely. “You can’t miss it anywhere round there — it’s a landmark.”
And Spargo found the landmark — a great, square-built tavern — easily, and he waited at a corner of it wondering what he was going to see, and intensely curious about the owner of the queer voice, with all its suggestions of he knew not what. And suddenly there came up to him an old woman and leered at him in a fashion that made him suddenly realize how dreadful old age may be.
Spargo had never seen such an old woman as this in his life. She was dressed respectably, better than respectably. Her gown was good; her bonnet was smart; her smaller fittings were good. But her face was evil; it showed unmistakable signs of a long devotion to the bottle; the old eyes leered and ogled, the old lips were wicked. Spargo felt a sense of disgust almost amounting to nausea, but he was going to hear what the old harridan had to say and he tried not to look what he felt.
“Well?” he said, almost roughly. “Well?”
“Well, young man, there you are,” said his new acquaintance. “Let us go inside, young man; there’s a quiet little place where a lady can sit and take her drop of gin — I’ll show you. And if you’re good to me, I’ll tell you something about that cat that you were talking to just now. But you’ll give me a little matter to put in my pocket, young man? Old ladies like me have a right to buy little comforts, you know, little comforts.”
Spargo followed this extraordinary person into a small parlour within; the attendant who came in response to a ring showed no astonishment at her presence; he also seemed to know exactly what she required, which was a certain brand of gin, sweetened, and warm. And Spargo watched her curiously as with shaking hand she pushed up the veil which hid little of her wicked old face, and lifted the glass to her mouth with a zest which was not thirst but pure greed of liquor. Almost instantly he saw a new light steal into her eyes, and she laughed in a voice that grew clearer with every sound she made.
“Ah, young man!” she said with a confidential nudge of the elbow that made Spargo long to get up and fly. “I wanted that! It’s done me good. When I’ve finished that, you’ll pay for another for me — and perhaps another? They’ll do me still more good. And you’ll give me a little matter of money, won’t you, young man?”
“Not till I know what I’m giving it for,” replied Spargo.
“You’ll be giving it because I’m going to tell you that if it’s made worth my while I can tell you, or somebody that sent you, more about Jane Baylis than anybody in the world. I’m not going to tell you that now, young man — I’m sure you don’t carry in your pocket what I shall want for my secret, not you, by the look of you! I’m only going to show you that I have the secret. Eh?”
“Who are you?” asked Spargo.
The woman leered and chuckled. “What are you going to give me, young man?” she asked.
Spargo put his fingers in his pocket and pulled out two half-sovereigns.
“Look here,” he said, showing his companion the coins, “if you can tell me anything of importance you shall have these. But no trifling, now. And no wasting of time. If you have anything to tell, out with it!”
The woman stretched out a trembling, claw-like hand.
“But let me hold one of those, young man!” she implored. “Let me hold one of the beautiful bits of gold. I shall tell you all the better if I hold one of them. Let me — there’s a good young gentleman.”
Spargo gave her one of the coins, and resigned himself to his fate, whatever it might be.
“You won’t get the other unless you tell something,” he said. “Who are you, anyway?”
The woman, who had begun mumbling and chuckling over the half-sovereign, grinned horribly.
“At the boarding-house yonder, young man, they call me Mother Gutch,” she answered; “but my proper name is Mrs. Sabina Gutch, and once upon a time I was a good-looking young woman. And when my husband died I went to Jane Baylis as housekeeper, and when she retired from that and came to live in that boarding-house where we live now, she was forced to bring me with her and to keep me. Why had she to do that, young man?”
“Heaven knows!” answered Spargo.
“Because I’ve got a hold on her, young man — I’ve got a secret of hers,” continued Mother Gutch. “She’d be scared to death if she knew I’d been behind that hedge and had heard what she said to you, and she’d be more than scared if she knew that you and I were here, talking. But she’s grown hard and near with me, and she won’t give me a penny to get a drop of anything with, and an old woman like me has a right to her little comforts, and if you’ll buy the secret, young man, I’ll split on her, there and then, when you pay the money.”
“Before I talk about buying any secret,” said Spargo, “you’ll have to prove to me that you’ve a secret to sell that’s worth my buying.”
“And I will prove it!” said Mother Gutch with sudden fierceness. “Touch the bell, and let me have another glass, and then I’ll tell you. Now,” she went on, more quietly — Spargo noticed that the more she drank, the more rational she became, and that her nerves seemed to gain strength and her whole appearance to be improved— “now, you came to her to find out about her brother-in-law, Maitland, that went to prison, didn’t you?”
“Well?” demanded Spargo.
“And about that boy of his?” she continued.
“You heard all that was said,” answered Spargo. “I’m waiting to hear what you have to say.”
But Mother Gutch was resolute in having her own way. She continued her questions:
“And she told you that Maitland came and asked for the boy, and that she told him the boy was dead, didn’t she?” she went on.
“Well?” said Spargo despairingly. “She did. What then?”
Mother Gutch took an appreciative pull at her glass and smiled knowingly. “What then?” she chuckled. “All lies, young man, the boy isn’t dead — any more than I am. And my secret is—”
“Well?” demanded Spargo impatiently. “What is it?”
“This!” answered Mother Gutch, digging her companion in the ribs, “I know what she did with him!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
REVELATIONS
SPARGO TURNED ON his disreputable and dissolute companion with all his journalistic energies and instincts roused. He had not been sure, since entering the “King of Madagascar,” that he was going to hear anything material to the Middle Temple Murder; he had more than once feared that this old gin-drinking harridan was deceiving him, for the purpose of extracting drink and money from him. But now, at the mere prospect of getting important information from her, he forgot all about Mother Gutch’s unfortunate propensities, evil eyes, and sodden face; he only saw in her somebody who could tell him something. He turned on her eagerly.
“You say that John Maitland’s son didn’t die!” he exclaimed.
“The boy did not die,” replied Mother Gutch.
“And that you know where he is?” asked Spargo.
Mother Gutch shook her head.
“I didn’t say that I know where he is, young man,” she replied. “I said I knew what she did with him.”
“What, then?” demanded Spargo.
Mother Gutch drew herself up in a vast assumption of dignity, and favoured Spargo with a look.
“That’s the secret, young man,” she said. “I’m willing to sell that secret, but not for two half-sovereigns and two or three drops of cold gin. If Maitland left all that money you told Jane Baylis of, when I was listening to you from behind the hedge, my secret’s worth something.”
Spargo suddenly remembered his bit of bluff to Miss Baylis. Here was an unexpected result of it.
“Nobody but me can help you to trace Maitland’s boy,” continued Mother Gutch, “and I shall expect to be paid accordingly. That’s plain language, young man.”
Spargo considered the situation in silence for a minute or two. Could this wretched, bibulous old woman really be in possession of a secret which would lead to the solving of the mystery of the Middle Temple Murder? Well, it would be a fine thing for the Watchman if the clearing up of everything came through one of its men. And the Watchman was noted for being generous even to extravagance in laying out money on all sorts of objects: it had spent money like water on much less serious matters than this.
“How much do you want for your secret?” he suddenly asked, turning to his companion.
Mother Gutch began to smooth out a pleat in her gown. It was really wonderful to Spargo to find how very sober and normal this old harridan had become; he did not understand that her nerves had been all a-quiver and on edge when he first met her, and that a resort to her favourite form of alcohol in liberal quantity had calmed and quickened them; secretly he was regarding her with astonishment as the most extraordinary old person he had ever met, and he was almost afraid of her as he waited for her decision. At last Mother Gutch spoke.
“Well, young man,” she said, “having considered matters, and having a right to look well to myself, I think that what I should prefer to have would be one of those annuities. A nice, comfortable annuity, paid weekly — none of your monthlies or quarterlies, but regular and punctual, every Saturday morning. Or Monday morning, as was convenient to the parties concerned — but punctual and regular. I know a good many ladies in my sphere of life as enjoys annuities, and it’s a great comfort to have ’em paid weekly.”
It occurred to Spargo that Mrs. Gutch would probably get rid of her weekly dole on the day it was paid, whether that day happened to be Monday or Saturday, but that, after all, was no concern of his, so he came back to first principles.
“Even now you haven’t said how much,” he remarked.
“Three pound a week,” replied Mother Gutch. “And cheap, too!”
Spargo thought hard for two minutes. The secret might — might! — lead to something big. This wretched old woman would probably drink herself to death within a year or two. Anyhow, a few hundreds of pounds was nothing to the Watchman. He glanced at his watch. At that hour — for the next hour — the great man of the Watchman would be at the office. He jumped to his feet, suddenly resolved and alert.
“Here, I’ll take you to see my principals,” he said. “We’ll run along in a taxi-cab.”
“With all the pleasure in the world, young man,” replied Mother Gutch; “when you’ve given me that other half-sovereign. As for principals, I’d far rather talk business with masters than with men — though I mean no disrespect to you.” Spargo, feeling that he was in for it, handed over the second half-sovereign, and busied himself in ordering a taxi-cab. But when that came round he had to wait while Mrs. Gutch consumed a third glass of gin and purchased a flask of the same beverage to put in her pocket. At last he got her off, and in due course to the Watchman office, where the hall-porter and the messenger boys stared at her in amazement, well used as they were to seeing strange folk, and he got her to his own room, and locked her in, and then he sought the presence of the mighty.
What Spargo said to his editor and to the great man who controlled the fortunes and workings of the Watchman he never knew. It was probably fortunate for him that they were both thoroughly conversant with the facts of the Middle Temple Murder, and saw that there might be an advantage in securing the revelations of which Spargo had got the conditional promise. At any rate, they accompanied Spargo to his room, intent on seeing, hearing and bargaining with the lady he had locked up there.
Spargo’s room smelt heavily of unsweetened gin, but Mother Gutch was soberer than ever. She insisted upon being introduced to proprietor and editor in due and proper form, and in discussing terms with them before going into any further particulars. The editor was all for temporizing with her until something could be done to find out what likelihood of truth there was in her, but the proprietor, after sizing her up in his own shrewd fashion, took his two companions out of the room.
“We’ll hear what the old woman has to say on her own terms,” he said. “She may have something to tell that is really of the greatest importance in this case: she certainly has something to tell. And, as Spargo says, she’ll probably drink herself to death in about as short a time as possible. Come back — let’s hear her story.” So they returned to the gin-scented atmosphere, and a formal document was drawn out by which the proprietor of the Watchman bound himself to pay Mrs. Gutch the sum of three pounds a week for life (Mrs. Gutch insisting on the insertion of the words “every Saturday morning, punctual and regular”) and then Mrs. Gutch was invited to tell her tale. And Mrs. Gutch settled herself to do so, and Spargo prepared to take it down, word for word.
“Which the story, as that young man called it, is not so long as a monkey’s tail nor so short as a Manx cat’s, gentlemen,” said Mrs. Gutch; “but full of meat as an egg. Now, you see, when that Maitland affair at Market Milcaster came off, I was housekeeper to Miss Jane Baylis at Brighton. She kept a boarding-house there, in Kemp Town, and close to the sea-front, and a very good thing she made out of it, and had saved a nice bit, and having, like her sister, Mrs. Maitland, had a little fortune left her by her father, as was at one time a publican here in London, she had a good lump of money. And all that money was in this here Maitland’s hands, every penny. I very well remember the day when the news came about that affair of Maitland robbing the bank. Miss Baylis, she was like a mad thing when she saw it in the paper, and before she’d seen it an hour she was off to Market Milcaster. I went up to the station with her, and she told me then before she got in the train that Maitland had all her fortune and her savings, and her sister’s, his wife’s, too, and that she feared all would be lost.”
“Mrs. Maitland was then dead,” observed Spargo without looking up from his writing-block.
“She was, young man, and a good thing, too,” continued Mrs. Gutch. “Well, away went Miss Baylis, and no more did I hear or see for nearly a week, and then back she comes, and brings a little boy with her — which was Maitland’s. And she told me that night that she’d lost every penny she had in the world, and that her sister’s money, what ought to have been the child’s, was gone, too, and she said her say about Maitland. However, she saw well to that child; nobody could have seen better. And very soon after, when Maitland was sent to prison for ten years, her and me talked about things. ‘What’s the use,’ says I to her, ‘of your letting yourself get so fond of that child, and looking after it as you do, and educating it, and so on?’ I says. ‘Why not?’ says she. ’Tisn’t yours,’ I says, ‘you haven’t no right to it,’ I says. ‘As soon as ever its father comes out,’ says I,’ he’ll come and claim it, and you can’t do nothing to stop him.’ Well, gentlemen, if you’ll believe me, never did I see a woman look as she did when I says all that. And she up and swore that Maitland should never see or touch the child again — not under no circumstances whatever.”
Mrs. Gutch paused to take a little refreshment from her pocket-flask, with an apologetic remark as to the state of her heart. She resumed, presently, apparently refreshed.
