Читать книгу Charles Peace, or The Adventures of a Notorious Burglar - Anonymous - Страница 64

Mr. Wrench was under the full impression that he was a remarkably clever fellow. This fact, however, he had been duly impressed with on very many occasions, but perhaps he was never better pleased with himself than when he left Mrs. Maitland’s residence with the proofs of her reputed daughter’s identity. He had ascertained from the amiable and worthy widow herself, that Aveline had a beautiful little boy, who was between two and three years old. This he considered a valuable piece of information, in addition to the facts with which he was already furnished.

Taken altogether, our detective congratulated himself upon being singularly fortunate.

He went by train that same night to Broxbridge Hall, and was rather vexed when the model footman told him that his master was some miles away. Lord Ethalwood was on a visit at the house of a distinguished baronet.

“And his lordship will not return till late to-morrow evening, or it may be the day hafter,” said the radiant Henry Adolphus.

Mr. Wrench had no other alternative than to await the return of the earl. It would never do to take the liberty of seeing him at his friend’s house.

“He’s a bumptious starchy sort of customer,” murmured Mr. Wench, “and stands a good deal upon etiquette, and all that sort of thing. I must eke out the time as best I can until he returns. Hang it all, what does he want to go away for at this particular time?”

Mr. Wrench made the best of his way to the hostelry kept by Brickett.

It was market day, and there were a number of strangers in the “Lion,” in addition to its regular frequenters.

A noise and clatter as of many voices were heard proceeding from the public room, as the detective arrived at the front entrance of the house.

“You are unusually busy, it would seem,” said he addressing the landlord, and glancing significantly the carts and other vehicles in front of the habitation.

“Yes, I have had a regular rush of it all day,” returned the landlord, “but I’m glad to see ’ee back, sir, and hope as how ye’ve brought good news.”

“Pretty well for that. Where is Mr. Peace?”

“He be in the parlour, keeping ’em all alive. Shall I call him?”

“No; I’ll go in there myself.”

Upon entering the public room Mr. Wrench found it three parts filled with people, most of whom were in some way or other connected with agriculture.

Peace rose from his seat and drew near the detective, who had taken his place in a corner near the door.

It was not Mr. Wrench’s usual practice to make persons acquainted with his movements or proceedings, but in this case he felt that Peace had a perfect right to know, and he therefore narrated to him the successful nature of his expectations.

This, perhaps, was not altogether a prudent thing to do in a public room, even though the conversation between the two was carried on in a tone which was but a little beyond a whisper.

But our detective was under the full impression that there were none present who even comprehended their discourse, and certainly none who were in any way interested in the same.

But even detectives, with all their caution, are sometimes at fault.

This has been made apparent recently to a very painful extent.

The Kurr and Benson case took people by surprise, and shook the confidence of the public in police detectives. Everybody vaguely felt that an official inquiry must be held. Our detectives are seldom men of much education.

In books of superior fiction they figure as prodigies of acuteness, but the testimony of all who come in contact with them professionally is that they are rather dull and unenterprising, and somewhat thirsty officials, and that the chase of a criminal will be much stimulated by occasional consultations at bars and public-house parlours.

They have sprung from the ranks, and have gained promotion for qualities which are chiefly of use in tracking down and “running in” a receiver of stolen goods, or in apprehending a notorious pickpocket who was “wanted.”

The ordinary detective is of service in watching the movements of ticket-of-leave men or persons under the surveillance of the police.

In short, he is a match for the stupid, small-brained criminal, but he is of little use when society bids him capture gentlemanly rogues with plenty of money, ingenuity, and address.

It is, however, unavoidable that, if crime is to be tracked, there should be a set of policemen acting in secret.

It is obvious to what dangers the men who are thus employed must be constantly exposed.

The atmosphere in which they live is not a wholesome one.

They have to mix in an insidious manner with the criminal classes—​to resort to all sorts of tricks and stratagems in order to collect particulars which could not be obtained in a straightforward way.

Moreover, men in such a position have a great deal of power in their hands, and may be tempted to use it nefariously, by making terms with those after whom they are sent, and by giving them hints of danger or opportunities of escape.

Detectives have, in the ordinary course of their duty, to place themselves in equivocal positions with those with whom they are watching and studying, in order to get proofs of their guilt, and there are doubtless cases in which appearances may be against them, though they are only loyally fulfilling their duties to their superiors in ferreting out the secrets of suspected people.

What is wanted under such circumstances is a very cheap system of supervision and control.

Officers employed in this way ought to be bound to keep a detailed diary of their proceedings, and to report continually to headquarters what they have in view and what they are doing.

Something ought also to be done to raise the character of the men and perhaps the rate of their pay.

It is quite certain that our system is at fault somewhere.

Mr. Wrench was an officer perhaps a little beyond others of his class. As we have already seen, he was persevering and intelligent, and Mr. Chicknell had acted wisely in securing his services for Lord Ethalwood.

Charles Peace was perfectly astounded when he became aware of the facts detailed to him by the detective.

He had never heard of the jewellery taken from the dead body of the lady in the infirmary—​had never for a moment imagined that there was any doubt about the paternity of Aveline, whom he implicitly believed to be the daughter of Mrs. Maitland.

He was almost bewildered by the discovery made by the officer, who gave the details in a matter-of-fact sort of way, which left no doubt as to their accuracy.

Mr. Wrench remained in the public room for some time drinking with Peace, to whom he stood divers and sundry potations. After this he whispered to our hero that he was about to retire, wished him goodnight, and betook himself to his bedchamber.

Peace did not leave the parlour for an hour or two after the withdrawal of his companion.

He played several pieces on his violin, much to the delight of the assembled guests, and then in his turn retired to his room.

He was, however, too restless and fidgetty to seek repose. He sat himself on the edge of his bed and thought over all the strange incidents which had come to his knowledge in respect to Aveline.

The whole affair seemed to be like the disjointed fragments of a nightmare.

“Was it possible that Aveline, whom he had loved in an earlier day, was a descendant of a great and honoured line?”

“I say it seems like a dream,” murmured Peace, “altogether like a dream to think that I should have proposed to one of such high birth; but no, it cannot be. To think, also, that I should be the means of tracing her out—​that is still more wonderful.”

While thus ruminating he was startled by a noise as of something heavy thrown against the window of his little room.

He arose suddenly and threw open the casement.

Something was flung into the window. It fell upon the floor.

Peace picked it up. It was a small pebble, around which was a piece of note paper.

“What’s the meaning of this?” exclaimed our hero, peering curiously out of the window.

No one was to be seen.

He sat down again and unfolded the paper, spread it out on his knee, and saw written thereon these words:—

“Be cautious. Keep watch and ward. Somebody’s in the house, a stranger, who is of no good. Take warning!—​A Friend.”

“I can’t make this out. ‘Somebody’s in the house who is no good.’ Curse it, I wish the writer had been a little more explicit; this is most incomprehensible.”

Again he looked out of his window in every direction, but could not see a living creature.

The handwriting on the paper he failed to recognise.

“This is most remarkable,” he ejaculated. “Who is in the house, I wonder, that means no good? Some robber, I suppose—​some suspected person. Well, I’ll have my revolver handy in case of any attack; but after all it may only be a grim joke of one of my parlour acquaintances?”

He tried to persuade himself that this last hypothesis was the correct one, but signally failed in doing so.

Not a sound disturbed the unbroken stillness of the night.

Peace was not a man to give way to idle or groundless fears.

Nevertheless he could not but acknowledge that the circumstance was singular, and, taken altogether, was of an exceptional character.

“Who could have thrown the stone and paper into the room?” murmured he. “If it came from a friend why did he not show himself?”

During his sojourn at the “Carved Lion” he had made it a practice to have his dog Gip sleep in the same room as himself, and he had not departed from that rule on the present occasion.

He had with him also a six-chambered revolver, which he had not come too honestly by. He had, in fact, stolen it when in Sheffield.

He had always a passion for fire-arms, as also for musical instruments, and had never been very particular how he obtained either.

He glanced at “Gip,” who was lying on a rug placed for his accommodation near the door of his room.

The animal looked wistfully at his master.

“Well,” murmured our hero; “no one will be able to enter the apartment without my hearing it, for Gip will be sure to give an alarm. At the same time it would be as well perhaps to take this precaution.”

He walked towards the door and slid the bolt into its socket.

Then he sat once more on the side of his bed.

“It may be after all but a hoax of some mischievously-disposed fool!” he exclaimed. “In all probability such is the case. Any way, I shall not put myself about, or take further trouble in the matter.”

He remained for an hour or so after this, watching and waiting, but could not detect the faintest sound.

All was silent within the house, and all was silent without.

He got fairly worn out, and threw himself on his couch without undressing, drew the rug over him, and sank to sleep.

How long he had remained thus he could not say, but he was awoke by a low moan or whine from Gip, who, upon discovering his master awakening, wagged his tail and came to the side of the bed; then he crept towards the door and sniffed at its base.

“Something’s amiss,” whispered our hero. “The sagacious brute hears or noses somebody—​that’s quite certain.”

He crept softly to the door, against which he placed his ear.

He heard the sounds of soft footsteps on the outside, but they were so faint as to be hardly audible.

With revolver in hand he awaited the issue.

The dog in the meantime was in an evident state of anxiety.

Peace, before stretching himself on his bed, had taken the precaution to place his lighted chamber-candle in the fireplace, which effectively prevented its feeble rays penetrating into the passage on the outside.

“Somebody or something is stirring,” he muttered. “I can’t stand this state of suspense any longer—​so here goes.”

He slid the bolt back as noiselessly as possible, and flung open the door.

A flood of moonlight streamed in from the window on the landing.

Beyond this was a wide oak staircase, and ascending this he beheld a strange-looking figure, clad in a long steel-coloured cloak.

To all appearance the figure was that of a woman.

But Peace had never remembered to have seen any such person in the hostelry since he had dwelt there.

“Holloa there—​who are you? Speak, woman,” shouted out Peace.

No answer was vouchsafed to this.

“If you don’t speak and say who you are I’ll fire. I’ve a loaded pistol in my hand. Do you hear? For the last time I say speak, if it only be to save your life.”

The figure turned the angle of the stairs, but made no answer.

A buxom servant wench opened the door of her bedroom, and exclaimed—

“Mother Brickett’s ghost!”

She then uttered a series of piercing screams, and rushed back into her room in a state of abject terror.

Peace made for the bottom of the stairs, and fired one chamber of his revolver.

He did not aim at the receding figure, his object being only to frighten.

In this he succeeded, as far as the inmates were concerned.

Mr. Wrench came out in his night shirt, pale as a parsnip. Brickett made his appearance in the passage, and exclaimed, in a loud voice—

“For mercy’s sake, tell me what’s the matter! Are there robbers in the house, or what?”

“It be missus’s ghost, that’s what it be!” exclaimed the servant girl, from her bedroom. “Ah, woe is me that I should live to see such a dreadful sight!”

“You little fool,” cried Peace, “hold your cursed tongue, will you? Ghost, indeed!—​more like a robber.”

“I’ve lost the jewels; they’ve been stolen!” said the detective. “Lost them! Don’t let anyone leave the house.”

He returned to his bedroom, slipped on his trousers and boots. Meanwhile Peace turned to Brickett, and said—

“Who’s in the house besides ourselves? Any stranger?”

“Yes, one.”

“Which is his room?”

“No. 9, on the next floor,” said the landlord, who had never been so puzzled and alarmed in his life.

Peace rushed back into his bedroom, snatched up the chamber candlestick, and flew up the wide staircase, never pausing till he had reached the upper floor. The door of the No. 9 bedroom was wide open.

Our hero entered the apartment, which was tenantless. He rushed into each of the other rooms on the same floor.

One was occupied by the little maid who acted as supplementary waitress—​another was tenanted by an old woman, and another was where the potman slept. All the occupants were scared at beholding our hero with his revolver in one hand, and his chamber candlestick in the other.

In answer to his queries they one and all declared they had neither seen nor heard anybody about since they had retired to rest, with the exception of their interlocutor.

At the further end of the passage was a double window, which opened sideways on hinges, as is often the case in old English houses and inns. One of the casements of this was partially open.

Peace’s suspicions were aroused at once. He ran to the window, threw it back, and looked out. At the further extremity of the roof he beheld the figure of a man who flung himself off the roof on to one of the branches of a large chestnut tree, by means of which he reached the ground in safety.

“He’s got clean off, and done it very cleverly, I am free to confess,” exclaimed Peace; “but we may yet hunt him down.”

Mr. Wrench in a state of trepidation now made his appearance.

“Have you discovered anything?” he ejaculated, in a tone of the deepest anxiety.

“He’s off,” cried Peace.

“Who?”

“How should I know? The robber, whoever he may be. But not a moment is to be lost. Follow me.”

Our hero descended the stairs with the speed of an antelope, and was followed by the detective. They both made for the front door, which unfortunately for them was locked and barred most securely.

“How shall we get out of this cursed house?” cried Wrench.

“Here, Brickett—​Brickett!” shouted out Peace. “Bring the keys and open the front door.”

The landlord hastened to the spot, and undid the fastenings.

Then Peace, without another word, sallied forth.

It is an old saying, “set a thief to catch a thief,” and it was never more exemplified than in this instance.

No one, however, at the time suspected that our picture-frame maker was a notorious burglar, who, however, it must be admitted had been conducting himself in a very proper manner.

He ran out into the high road, and saw at about a hundred and fifty yards the figure of the same man he had seen on the roof.

“He’s got a good start, it’s true,” he observed to the detective, “but here goes,” and with these words Peace ran after the fugitive at the very top of his speed.

He was followed by Mr. Wrench, who, as a matter of course, ran his hardest.

They had the satisfaction of finding that they gained upon the robber, who had, unfortunately for him, injured one of his ankles in dropping from the tree.

Had this not been the case the chances would have been all in his favour.

Peace and Mr. Wrench found they were gaining rapidly on the robber. This acted as an incentive for them to put forth their energies to the fullest extent.

Beyond the fields which the fugitive was new traversing was a narrow stream—​a small river. This, although possibly he did not know at the time, would form a barrier to his progress.

Peace ran better perhaps than he had ever done in his life, and this is saying a great deal. He was far ahead of the detective, who was by this time winded, and was within from twenty to five-and-twenty paces of the robber, who had now come close to the river.

His capture seemed inevitable; but being well-nigh driven to desperation, he made a flying leap, and plunged into the stream just as Peace had made sure of seizing him.

The thief was evidently an expert swimmer. He struck out and made for the opposite shore.

“Curse him! he’ll get clear off after all,” shrieked out the detective, in an agony of despair. “Can you swim?”

“No, I can’t, and I don’t intend to try,” returned Peace. “Can you?”

“A little, but not well enough to venture with my clothes on in a running stream like this.”

“Then wait till he reaches the opposite bank,” cried our hero, levelling his pistol.

The robber now got into shallow water, through which he waded as quick as possible.

Peace fired and wounded the fugitive, who staggered, but had sufficient strength left to run behind a large granary in the opposite meadow, which sheltered him from any further discharge from the revolver.

“He’s wounded and wet to the skin. He can’t run far. I’ll after him,” exclaimed our hero, who made for a small wooden bridge, situated at about sixty or seventy yards from where he stood. He reached the bridge in the space of a minute or two, passed over it, and gained the field beyond.

He then ran towards the granary.

All this had been done so rapidly that Mr. Wrench did not very well know what his more active companion was endeavouring to compass. The wooden bridge was concealed by a dense mass of foliage, and Mr. Wrench did not know of its existence. He was therefore greatly surprised at seeing Peace run rapidly across the opposite meadow, and stood watching his movements with the deepest anxiety.

The robber was equally surprised at beholding Peace. Seeing his danger he once more took to his heels.

“If you don’t stop I’ll shoot you down like a dog,” shouted out his pursuer, in a voice of thunder. “You can’t escape. Yield, and save your life while you have a chance.”

“I know that voice,” cried the man. “Don’t fire, old fellow. I’m cornered, and give in.”

Peace rushed forward and collared the speaker.

“Don’t you know me?” said the man.

“Why, hang me if it isn’t the gipsy.”

“That’s right enough; it is the gipsy, who’s nearly done over. What with water and fire I’ve had my dose. But I say, old fellow, you aint agoin’ to hand me over to the ‘crushers.’ You don’t want to see a fellow lagged? Look here, this is all I’ve taken—​it is as I’m a sinner. There it is; I give it up. Let me go!”

Peace took the case of jewels from the gipsy. He opened it, and saw that the articles corresponded with the description given by the detective.

“I don’t want you to be quodded,” said he, “but I shall just have a search before I let you go.”

“S’help me goodness,” ejaculated the gipsy, “that’s every blessed thing I’ve taken; I swear to you it is, and I’ll take my Bible hoath on it. I wouldn’t deceive you. Lord! how my leg do pain me.”

He turned his pockets inside out, and convinced our hero that for once he had spoken the truth.

“No more burglary bis’ness for me,” cried the gipsy. “I aint good at it. One pill’s a dose.”

“What made you attempt this one?”

“Well, if yer must know, I was put up to it by a swell. Ah! you’ve sent a bullet into my leg, and maimed me for life, perhaps, and a stopped me a getting a couple o’ hundred quid—​that’s what you’ve been and done. But you’ll let me go?”

“I don’t know how you are to get clean off. I expect the officer here every minute.”

“I’ve got a fast trotting prod not fifty yards hence. If I’ve strength enough left, which I think I have, to mount him, the devil himself wont catch me when once on his back.”

“Go your way then—​I will return,” cried our hero, as he thrust into his coat pocket the much-treasured jewel case, and made again for the wooden bridge.

He passed over this, when he was met by Brickett and the detective.

“Well,” said the latter, “he’s got clean off, then, after all?”

“What matters that?” whispered Peace to the officer. “This is all you want—​isn’t it?” and he handed the case and its contents to Wrench, who could not conceal his delight.

“I am greatly indebted to you. Accept my most heartfelt thanks,” murmured the detective. “You have indeed afforded me most timely assistance.”

“Keep dark for the present,” whispered Peace. “We can discuss this subject at our leisure. For the present, let it be known only to ourselves.”

The detective nodded, and bent his steps in the direction of the “Carved Lion.”