Читать книгу Bertha Shelley - Aubrey Burnage - Страница 5

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There's a divinity that shapes our ends,

Rough hew them as we will.

—SHAKSPEARE.

Directly after breakfast, next morning, Percy Sinclair saddled Marlborough and rode into York to look about for a successor to his old friend. It was upon Marlborough that he had received his first riding lessons, and the old horse had served him faithfully for so long, that he had now fairly earned his pension. A false step the night before, which nearly resulted in a fall, urged his master to superannuate him at once, though, with care, there was plenty of work in him yet. Percy Sinclair was so absorbed in 'reading up,' that he could not rest till he removed all excuse for leaving his studies, and so lost no time in setting forth on his horse dealing expedition. He had barely ridden half-way, when he met a rough-looking man, mounted upon a beautiful brown cob. He drew rein and gazed upon it with admiration. It was a deep-chested animal, with a magnificent barrel, and a splendid set of legs. It came along proudly champing its bit, and prancing (the rider was touching it with the further spur); and with its arched neck, and fiery, glancing eyes, was a grand looking horse. As the rider came abreast of Percy Sinclair, he reined in, and, wheeling the cob half round, said, 'There, Mr. Sinclair! Don't see a piece of horseflesh like this every day.'

'He is a splendid animal, certainly. Will you sell him?' Percy inquired, as he recognised in the speaker the notorious Darby Gregson.

'What do you think he's worth?' asked the cautious Darby, in reply. He intended wringing as much as he could from his victim, though he was not to 'stick at a price.'

'That is not for me to say!' returned Percy Sinclair. 'What is it you want for him? Name your figure, and if it is not too high, I may purchase him. I want another horse.'

'Yes; I know. I was bringing him out to Elmsdale to show him to you.'

'Indeed! Why, I only returned home last night.'

'I know; I saw Mr. George Darrell at the Royal Hotel this morning; and I heard him telling Mr. Werning about your old chestnut stumbling yesterday. He said you wanted a new one.'

'Yes. The old fellow is getting rather shaky now.'

'Well, what do you say to half a century?' said Darby, half inclined to ask for a whole one.

'Fifty pounds! Yes, I will give you that for him, if he is as sound as he looks!' Sinclair replied.

'Curse it! he'd have given the hundred, if I had only asked,' muttered Darby savagely. His avarice was whetted by the readiness with which Sinclair agreed to the price. 'Don't you think he's worth seventy-five?'

'To be candid with you; if he is as good as he looks, he ought to be worth a hundred guineas,' replied Sinclair; 'but with me, it is not so much what he is worth, as what I can afford to give. Will you take the fifty; I can give no more.'

'You are going into York? asked Darby, who could not sell without Bow being by to witness.

'Yes!'

'Well, he is not mine; he belongs to my mate. But he wants to sell him; and if you will go with me, I dare say he'll take fifty; though it really isn't enough.

Disregarding the last suggestion, Sinclair replied, 'Thank you, I will see your mate; and if you have no objection to changing horses, I will try his on the way.'

Darby raising none, they changed; and the cob acquitted himself so well that Sinclair felt half inclined to give the other twenty-five that Darby had asked for; but recollecting several expensive books he required, he decided to buy a commoner horse, if he could not get him for the fifty.

Bow was wailing for them at a livery stable in one of the back streets.

'Mr. Sinclair 'll give fifty for the cob, Bow, and I think you had better take it,' said Darby to his companion, as he dismounted from Marlborough.

'He can have him at that,' answered Bow, in a husky voice.

Darby Gregson looked at his mate with a frown, and said significantly, 'You'd better go over to Turner's and get a glass of brandy. This cold weather's too much for your nerves. Just go and warm 'em up a bit!'

Bow hurried off as if glad to be released. He looked more like a culprit going to his own funeral, or a lovelorn swain at a rival's wedding, than the thriving horse-dealer Darby had introduced him to Sinclair as. He had not been himself since the night of the conspiracy. He had undertaken work that his heart was not in; and conscience, that still small voice that will be heard, was making him very uncomfortable.

After the sale was effected, and Darby Gregson with his usual cunning had contrived to let all the idlers about the stables understand that Mr. Sinclair was the purchaser of the splendid brown cob at the door, they went across the street to Turner's Weaver's Arms, to settle and give a receipt. A couple of betting-men were at the door; one of them recognised Clayton's horse. 'Holloa, Gregson,' he exclaimed, 'What are you doing with the Captain?'

'O, Clayton sold him to my mate, Bow; and he has just sold him again to Mr. Sinclair, here, for fifty notes. Dirt cheap, isn't it?' answered Darby.

'Has the cob foundered, or what's wrong with him?' the betting man asked with a significant leer.

'Nothing. He's sound as a bell,' returned Darby, grinning.

The betting man shrugged his shoulders incredulously, and Darby Gregson followed Sinclair into the parlor. Bow was already there, and held in his hand the five ten-pound notes that Sinclair had just given him. Darby Gregson wrote out a receipt, as Sinclair was impatient to get away; and the pretended horse-dealer signed it with a cross. Wishing the villains good day, Percy Sinclair left the parlor; and, sending Marlborough back to Elmsdale by the ostler, he mounted 'Whirlwind,' as he called his new horse, and rode on to pay his promised flying visit to George Darrell, little dreaming of the terrible storm that was brewing. It must have been some strange presentiment of impending trouble, that led him to give his horse so ominous a name. An awful whirlwind was about to burst on his devoted head.

As soon as Mr. Sinclair left the room, Darby Gregson filled in the cheque with the amount received for the horse, and then rang for drinks. As the bar-maid entered, the cheque slipped from his fingers, and fluttered away under the table. He stooped down and searched for it with great diligence, but in an opposite direction, and the girl picked it up and handed it to him.

'Ah! thank you, Dora!' he said, with a grin, intended for a smile; and taking the paper from her, asked if she didn't think the signature a strange one.

'John Greville! Yes, it is a curious scrawl—the G's more like an E,' she said, carelessly. 'What shall I bring you?'

'Dark brandy! And you, Bow?'

Bow shook himself up from his brown study, and jerked out 'Gin,' and then relapsed again. Poor Bow, he would have given his life to undo the work of the last ten minutes; but had not the courage to inform against Clayton and Gregson.

After swallowing the spirits, the pair went into the bar; and Darby offered the cheque to the publican to take out the price of their drinks.

'Fifty pounds! No, I haven't it by me! John Greville, who's he? I don't know the name,' said Mr. Turner, as he drew a pint of half-and-half for a thirsty mason.

'I don't know the man; but the cheque's right enough. I got it from Mr. Percy Sinclair just now, for the horse I sold him,' Darby said.

'I dare say it's safe; but I haven't the change,' returned the publican.

Darby's infamous purpose being served, he pocketed the cheque, and paid in silver for the drinks, and then, followed by the miserable Bow, left the hotel.

As soon as they were in the street, Darby proposed taking the cheque to the bank at once to get it off their hands; so they repaired to the Bank of Yorkshire, and presented it for payment. As if fate was party to the atrocious conspiracy, Mr. Inspector Barlow, of the York detective force, stepped in just after them.

'I want this cheque cashed,' said Gregson to the cashier. He felt rather confused, despite his bombast, for he felt the Inspector's eyes to be upon him, as a cat's upon its anticipated prey. Many a time the Inspector had run him close; but hitherto, by his cunning stratagems, Darby had foiled him.

The cashier glanced at the cheque. John Greville! This is a Cambridge cheque, I see. There will be a discount to deduct; and you must endorse it,' he said, regarding Darby and his queer-looking companion with suspicion.

'Ah! that reminds me! I offered the cheque just now to one of my tradesmen to take a small account out; and the man (he comes from Cambridge) says the name is a forgery. Now, if it is, I am not going to endorse it. Am I?'

At the mention of forgery, Mr. Inspector Barlow pricked up his official ears, and listened attentively, though he was just then very busy searching the "Wanteds" in the mornings Guardian.

'If you have anything about with his signature on, you might compare them;' suggested Darby, who was anxious to get away out of the inspector's sight as soon as possible.

'A cheque of Sir John's was passed through this bank yesterday,' said the cashier, after a moment's reflection. 'We can soon see if this one is genuine,' saying which he went in search of it.

'Where did you get that cheque from?' asked Mr. Inspector Barlow, authoritatively, as he took out his memorandum book.

Bow hung down his head, self-condemned; but Darby replied with the lie he had new repeated at least a dozen times in the last hour, 'From young Mr. Sinclair, of Elmsdale.'

'What business transactions had you with Mr. Sinclair?' pursued the inspector, as he jotted the information down.

'I sold him a horse this morning,' returned Darby, quailing beneath the piercing eyes of his old enemy.

Here the cashier returned with a genuine cheque. After a careful study of the two signatures be called the inspector, and said, 'Mr. Barlow, just look here a moment; this is as clever a forgery as I ever saw!'

The inspector examined the cheques attentively for a few seconds. 'Yes, Mr. Ingram, it is a forgery; and a clever one!'

'Not so clever, but there is a blunder in it,' replied the cashier, looking at the names through a pocket microscope. 'See, Sir John's second initial is L—Lionel, I think—and in joining the last letter of John to the surname he makes a minute capital L in the hairline. There is only a curve in the forged signature.'

'You are right!' exclaimed Mr. Barlow, admiringly. 'Pity you never joined the force. You would have made a good detective.'

'Here, Mr. Barlow, this is more your business than mine; you will know best what to do with it,' said the cashier, handing the cheque to the inspector.

'Yes, I think I can work up a case!' the officer replied. 'And now what about these men?'

'Well, I think the best thing you can do, sir, is to go back to the "Weaver's Arms" with me and Bow, and old Joe Turner and the barmaid can prove who paid it to me,' said Darby.

Mr. Barlow scratched his head very deliberately for a couple of minutes, and then, saying, 'Just wait here for a moment,' darted out into the street, and across to the barracks, from whence he returned almost immediately with a brand-new policeman.

'Murphy, stay with these two gentlemen till I come back; I shall be back in half an hour!' said the Inspector, and then darted off again.

Mr. Murphy, alive to the great responsibility of his position, planted himself firmly by the wall close to the opening of the door, from which situation he eyed his prisoners, much as a cat would a mouse, always seeming to be looking somewhere else, yet ready to pounce upon them if the least attempt was made to escape. After a professional survey of his charge, out of the corners of his eyes, Mr. Murphy decided that Bow, whose face was pale as pipeclay, and whose whole appearance exhibited symptoms of remorse, was the one that would swing, Mr. Darby Gregson being only 'accomplish.' Mr. Murphy, having been in the force only about a fortnight, formed very decided opinions, and prided himself upon being able to see through a prisoner 'like a lamplighter.' In what particular way the simile of the lamplighter was used I am not in a position to say. Probably Mr. Murphy's meaning had reference to the traditionary expedition of that remarkable biped. With a withering glance at poor Bow, and a grave shake of his judicial head, Mr. Murphy muttered, 'Yer jist up for infanticide or bigamy, ye spalpeen, as sure as I'm one of his Majesty's officers of the pace! Ah! yer don't think it p'r'aps, but I can see through yer jist like a lamplighter.'

Altogether unconscious of being seen through like a lamplighter, poor Bow stood in the farthest corner of the room, diligently counting the flooring boards within view, while Darby Gregson spent the time chatting loquaciously with the various customers that passed in and out of the bank. In half an hour Mr. Inspector Barlow returned. 'The people at the 'Weavers' Arms' corroborate your statement about your receiving the cheque from young Mr. Sinclair for the horse,' he said, addressing Darby. 'I daresay some one else passed it into his hands; but the next step is to see him and learn where he got it!'

'You don't want me or Bow any longer?' asked Darby, anxiously. He was alarmed lest Bow should turn informer.

'Murphy, go to the station and tell Sergeant Hawkins to meet me at the corner of the Haymarket in an hour; he is to be mounted, and to bring my horse with him.'

'Yes, sir,' answered Mr. Murphy, in his deep-toned, professional voice.

'In plain clothes, tell him!' Mr. Barlow called after the expeditious Murphy, who was already out on the pavement.

'And now, Mr. Gregson, I don't think I shall need the attendance of either yourself or your mate any farther to day.'

'Will you take down our address?' asked Darby.

'O, no; not at all necessary, my dear fellow. We will keep our eyes upon you, never fear. We'll catch you quick enough when we want you.'

Rather disconcerted by the abrupt manner of the inspector, Darby called on Bow to follow, and the pair slunk off, leaving that gentleman in earnest conversation with the bank officials, about an embezzlement that had been lately discovered in the bank accounts.