Читать книгу Monsieur Judas: A Paradox - Fergus Hume - Страница 6

That night, after a comfortable dinner—and the "Hungry Man's" dinners were something to be remembered—Mr. Fanks sat in front of the fire staring into a chaos of burning coals, and thinking deeply. It was in the commercial-room, of course, but there were no commercial travellers present. Mr. Fanks with a world of thought in his shrewd face was the only occupant of the room, and sat within the cheery circle of light proceeding from the red glare of the fire and the yellow flame of the lamp, while at his back the place was in semi-darkness. Cold, too—a nipping, chilly, frosty feeling, as if winter was giving the world a foretaste of his Christmas quality, and outside on the four tall windows beat the steady rain, while occasionally a gust of wind made their frames rattle.

Here, however, in this oasis of light in a desert of gloom, everything was pleasant and agreeable, except perchance Mr. Fanks, who sat with his cup of coffee standing on the table at his elbow untasted, while he frowned thoughtfully at the chaotic fire as though he had a personal spite against it.

A clever face, a very clever face, clean shaven, with sharply cut features, dark hair, touched with gray at the temples, and cut short in the military fashion, keen eyes of a bluish tint, with a shrewd twinkle in their depths, and a thin-lipped, resolute mouth—perhaps a trifle too resolute for so young a man (he was not more than thirty); but then, Mr. Fanks, although young in years, was old in experience, and every line on his features was a record of something learned at the cost of something lost, and on that account never forgotten. A smart, alert figure, too, had Mr. Fanks, well-clothed in a rough gray tweed suit, slender, sinewy hands with a ring—signet ring—on the little finger of the left one, and well-formed feet, neatly shod in boots of tanned leather.

A gentleman! Yes, decidedly the London detective was a gentleman—that could be seen by his whole appearance; and as to his dress, well, he wore his clothes like a man who went to a good tailor and valued him accordingly.

Quoth Mr. Fanks, after some minutes of deep thought, during which he removed his keen eyes from gazing fire-wards, and looked doubtfully at a pill-box which he held in his left hand:

"This is the only clue I can possibly obtain. The chemist who made up these pills has kindly put his name and address—in print—on the box. If, then, I go to this chemist, I will be able to find out the name of the dead man—after that the circumstances of his life, and then—well, after all, I may be wrong, and these country bumpkins right. It may be a case of suicide—I suppose, under the circumstances, they could hardly bring in any other verdict, and yet it is so strange. Why should he have poisoned himself with morphia, when he could have done so with an overdose of these pills? Easier death, I dare say. Morphia is a narcotic, and arsenic an irritant. Humph! it's a strange case altogether—very strange. I don't know exactly what to make of it."

He relapsed into silence, slipped the pill-box into his pocket, and taking the cup from the table began to sip his coffee slowly. Coffee—black coffee, hot and strong, as Mr. Fanks was now taking it—clears the brain, and renders it intensely sharp and wakeful; so after a few minutes the detective put down the cup, and thrusting his hands into his trousers pockets, stretched out his long legs, and began to think aloud once more, as was his fashion when alone.

"It's a fine profession that of a detective, but one gets tired of commonplace murders; this, however, isn't a commonplace murder. Query. Is it a murder at all? Jury say 'No.' I say 'Yes'—eh! I wonder who is right! Egotism on my part, probably, but I believe in my own idea. Why should a man come down to this out-of-the-way place to die? Why should he take the trouble to explain that he intends to stop here for a week if he intended to commit suicide? No! I can't and won't believe it's suicide. As to that theory of Carr's, that he brought just enough morphia to poison himself. Rubbish! Suicides don't take so much trouble as a rule. My belief," continued Mr. Fanks, reflectively, "my belief is that he took something innocently and it killed him. Now what would he take innocently? These pills, of course! Yet, if they killed him, it would be arsenic, not morphia. Hang it, what the deuce does it all mean?"

There being no answer to this question, he caught his chin between his finger and thumb, staring hard at the fire meanwhile, as if thereby to solve his doubts. A hard case, this Jarlchester Mystery; a difficult case; and yet it fascinated Mr. Fanks by its very difficulty. He was fond of difficulties, this young man. In his childish days, Chinese puzzles—most perplexing of mysteries—had been his delight. As a schoolboy, he adored algebraical problems and newspaper cryptograms, so now in his early manhood he found his true vocation in solving those inexplicable enigmas which the criminal classes, and very often the non-criminal classes—principally the latter—present to the world for solution.

Mr. Fanks was suddenly aroused from his problematical musings by the sudden opening of the door, and on turning his head with a start, saw it was being closed by a tall young man, who immediately afterwards advanced slowly towards the fire.

"As this is the warmest room in the house," said the new-comer, carelessly, "I've ventured to intrude my company upon you for an hour or so."

"Very pleased, indeed," murmured Mr. Fanks, pushing his chair to one side, so as to allow the stranger to have a fair share of the fire. "It's dull work sitting alone."

This movement on the part of Mr. Fanks and the sitting down of the stranger brought both their faces within the mellow radiance of the lamp, whereupon a sudden look of recognition flashed into the eyes of each.

"Roger Axton!" cried the detective, springing to his feet.

"Fanks!" said the other, also rising and cordially clasping the hand held out to him. "My dear old schoolfellow!"

"And your dear old schoolfellow's nickname also," remarked Fanks, as they shook hands heartily. "What a curious coincidence, to be sure! It is only the mountains that never meet."

"Ten years ago," said Axton, resuming his seat with a sigh. "Ten years ago, Octavius!"

"And it seems like yesterday," observed Octavius, smiling. "Strange that I should meet little Axton at Jarlchester, of all places in the world. What brought you here, old boy?"

"My own legs," said Roger, complacently. "I'm in the poet trade, and have been trying to draw inspiration from nature during a walking tour."

"A poet, eh! Yes, I remember your rhapsodies about Shelley and Keats at school. So you've followed in their footsteps, Roger. 'The child's the father of the man.' That's the Bible, isn't it?"

"I've got a hazy idea that Wordsworth said something like it," responded Axton, drily. "Yes, I'm a poet. And you?"

"I'm the prose to your poetry. You study nature, I study man."

"Taken Pope's advice, no doubt. A novelist?"

"No; not a paying line nowadays. Overcrowded."

"A schoolmaster?"

"Worse still. We can't all be Arnolds."

"Let us say a phrenologist?"

"Pooh! do I look like a charlatan?"

"No, indeed, Fanks! Eh, Fanks," repeated Axton, struck with a sudden idea, and pushing his chair away from that of his companion. "Why, you're a detective down here about that—that suicide."

"What wonderful penetration!" said Octavius, laughing. "How did you hit upon that idea, my friend?"

Roger Axton's hand went up to his fair moustache, which hardly concealed the quivering of his lips, and he laughed in an uneasy manner.

"Circumstantial evidence," he said at last, hurriedly. "The barmaid told me that a London detective called Fangs was down here on account of the—the suicide, and allowing for her misuse of the name, and your unexpected presence here, it struck me—"

"That I must be the man," finished Fanks, shooting a keen glance at the somewhat careworn face of his school friend. "Well, you are perfectly right. I am Octavius Fanks, of Scotland Yard, detective, formerly Octavius Rixton, of nowhere in particular, idler. You don't seem to relish the idea of my being a bloodhound of the law."

"I—I—er—well, I certainly don't see why a detective shouldn't be as respectable as any other man. Still—"

"There's a kind of Dr. Fell dislike towards him," responded Octavius, composedly. "Yes, that's true enough, though intensely ridiculous. People always seem to be afraid of a detective. I don't know why, unless, maybe, it's their guilty conscience."

"Their conscience?" faltered Axton, with an obvious effort.

"I said 'their guilty conscience'" corrected Fanks, with emphasis. "I'll tell you all about it, Roger. But first take your face out of the shadow, and let me have a look at you. I want to see how the boy of seventeen looks as the man of seven-and-twenty."

Reluctantly—very reluctantly, Roger Axton did as he was requested, and when the yellow light shone full on his face, the detective stared steadily at him, with the keen look of one accustomed to read every line, every wrinkle, every light, every shadow on the features of his fellow-men, and skilled to understand the meanings thereof.

It was a handsome young face of the fresh-coloured Saxon type, but just now looked strangely haggard and careworn. Dark circles under the bright blue eyes, the complexion faded from healthy hues to a dull unnatural white; and the yellow hair tossed in careless disorder from off the high forehead, whereon deep lines between the arched eyebrows betrayed vexation or secret trouble—perhaps both. A face that should have worn a merry smile, but did not; lips that should have shown the white teeth in a happy laugh, but did not; eyes that should have burned with poetic fire, with jocund good-humour, with love fire, but did not. No! this face that was young, and should have looked young, bore the impress of a disturbed mind, of a spirit ill at ease, and the keen-eyed detective, withdrawing his gaze with a sigh from the face, let it rest on the figure of Roger Axton.

No effeminacy there, in spite of the girlish delicacy of the face and the gentle look in the blue eyes. On the contrary, a stalwart, muscular frame, well developed, and heavily knit. Plenty of bone, and flesh, and muscle, over six feet in height, an undefinable look of latent strength, of easy consciousness of power. Yes, Roger Axton was not an antagonist to be despised, and looked more like a fighting man-at-arms than a peaceful poet.

He bore the scrutiny of Mr. Fanks, however, with obvious discomposure, and the hand holding the well-worn briar-root, which he was filling from his tobacco-pouch, trembled slightly in spite of all his efforts to steady the muscles.

"Well!" he said at length, striking a match, "I see you bring your detective habits into private life, which must be pleasant for your friends. May I ask if you are satisfied?"

"The face," observed Octavius, leisurely waving his hand to disperse the smoke-clouds rolling from the briar-root of his companion, "the face is not that of a happy man!"

"It would be very curious if it was," replied Axton, sulkily, "seeing that the owner is not happy."

"Youth, good looks, genius, health," said Fanks, reflectively. "With all these you ought to be happy, Roger."

"No doubt! But what I ought to be and what I am, are two very different things."

"Judging by your face, they certainly are," retorted the detective, drily; "but what is the matter with you, grumbler? Are you hard up?"

"No! I have a sufficiency of this world's goods."

"The critics have been abusing your last poems, perhaps?"

"Pooh! I'm used to that."

"Ah! then there's only one reason left. You are in love?"

"True, oh king," said Roger, drawing hard at his pipe, "I am in love."

"Tell me all about it," said Fanks, curling himself up luxuriously in his chair. "I adore love confidences. When you were a small nuisance at school, you told me all your troubles, and I consoled you. Do so now, and—"

"No! no!" cried Axton, suddenly, "you can't console me now. No one can do that."

"That remains to be seen," said Fanks, smiling. "Come now, Roger, tell me your trouble. Though we have been parted for ten years, I have often thought of my school friend. Unburden your heart to me; it will relieve your mind if it does nothing else."

Thus adjured, Roger brightened up, and settling himself comfortably in his chair, put his feet against the mantelpiece, blew a thick cloud of smoke, and began to tell his story.

"I'm afraid my story hasn't the merit of novelty," he said, candidly. "After you left school I remained, as you know. Then my parents died—within a few months of each other—and I found myself a well-provided orphan. When I say well-provided, I mean that I had an income of three hundred a year, and one can always live comfortably on six pounds a week, if not extravagant. Being thus independent of the world, the flesh, and the devil, meaning thereby the employer, the publisher, and the critic, I went in for writing poetry. It didn't pay, of course, this being the age of sensational literature; but verse manufacturing amused me, and I wandered all over England and the Continent in a desultory sort of way. A kind of grand tour in the poet line, midway between the poverty of Goldsmith and the luxury of Byron. I published a book of poems and the critics abused it—found plenty of faults and no virtues. Well, I was wrathful at this new massacre of the literary innocents and fled to the land of Egypt—in plain English I went down to Ventnor in the Isle of Wight. There I met Her—"

"With a large 'H,' of course," murmured Mr. Fanks, sympathetically.

"For the second time. I then—"

"Ah! May I ask where you met her for the first time?"

"Oh, in some other place," said Roger, evasively; "but that's got nothing to do with the subject. The first time we met—well, it was the first time."

"I didn't think it was the second, fond lover. But I understand the second time was the critical one."

"Exactly! It was last August," said Axton, speaking rapidly, so as to give Fanks no further opportunity of interrupting. "I was, as I have stated, at Ventnor, with the idea of writing a drama—Shakespearean, of course—Elizabethan style, you understand, with a dash of modern cynicism, and fin de siècle flippancy in it. Wandering about Ventnor, I came across Judith Varlins."

"For the second time of asking—I mean meeting," interpolated Fanks, lightly. "So her name was Judith. Heroic name, suggestive of queenly woman, dark-browed Cleopatra, and all that sort of thing. I picture to myself a grand Semiramis."

Roger shook his head.

"No; she was not a handsome woman. Tall, graceful, dark-browed, if you like, but not pretty."

"Pshaw! who ever called regal Semiramis pretty? Such a weak adjective. But I guess your meaning. Her mind was more beautiful than her face."

"If her face had been as beautiful as her mind, sir," replied Axton, in the Johnsonian style, "she would have been the most beautiful woman in the world."

"Like Dulcinea, eh, Don Quixote Roger? Well; and you met often—juxtaposition is fatal—and love sprang up like Jonah's gourd in one night."

"No; she was not a woman to be lightly won. Judith had with her a cousin—a pretty, golden-haired damsel, whom she worshipped."

"Oh! had you met Golden-hair before?"

"Yes; but I didn't take much notice of her."

"Of course. Preferred brunette to blonde!"

"Decidedly. Well, Florry Marson—"

"The blue-eyed darling?"

"Yes. Florry Marson was a foolish, frivolous little thing, who had been confided to Judith's care by her dead mother."

"Whose dead mother, Florry's or Judith's?" asked Fanks, lightly.

"Florry's, of course," replied Roger, impatiently; "and Judith looked after her like the apple of her eye, though I'm afraid she had rather a hard task, for Miss Marson was one of those irritating girls who did all manner of things without thinking. She was engaged to marry a man called Spolger."

"Anything to do with 'Spolger's Soother, a Good Night's Rest'?"

"Yes; he's the owner."

"Oh! and frivolous Florry didn't like him."

"How do you know?" asked Roger, in a startled tone.

"Because I've seen Spolger's Soother, and he's not pretty enough for such an empty-headed minx as you describe Miss Marson."

"You are right. She was engaged to him by her father's desire, but she loved a scamp—good-looking, of course, with no money, and had been exiled to Ventnor to escape him."

"Eh! It's quite a romance," said Fanks, gaily. "What was the scamp's name?"

Roger fidgeted in his chair before replying, which action did not escape the lynx eyes of Mr. Fanks, who said nothing, but waited.

"I don't know," said Roger, turning away his head.

"That's a lie," thought Octavius, as he saw the manner in which Mr. Axton replied to a seemingly simple question. "Queer! Why should he tell me such a useless lie?"

"I don't know anything about the scamp," went on Axton, hurriedly; "but he is the cause of all my unhappiness."

"How so?"

"Because Judith—Miss Varlins—refused to marry me on his account."

"What! she loved him also. Fascinating scamp!"

"I don't know if she loved him exactly," said Axton, in a musing tone. "The reason she gave me for her rejection of my proposal was that she could not leave her cousin Florence; but she seemed strangely moved when she spoke of—of Florry's lover."

"Don't you remember his name?" asked Fanks, noticing the momentary hesitation.

"No, I don't," replied Roger, angrily. "Why do you keep asking me that question?"

"Oh, nothing," said Octavius, quietly; "only I thought that as these two girls had told you so much about themselves, they might have told you more."

"Judith Varlins is a very reserved woman."

"And Miss Marson?"

"I didn't see much of her," answered Roger, moodily, "nor did I wish to—a frivolous little minx, who came between me and my happiness. Well, there's nothing more to tell. After my rejection I left Ventnor for London, and ultimately came down here on a walking tour."

"You've not seen Miss Varlins since, I suppose?"

Again Roger turned away his head, and again the action is noted by Mr. Fanks.

"No," replied Axton, in a low voice. "I—I have not seen her since."

"Lie number two," thought Octavius, wonderingly. "What does it all mean? Do you correspond with her?" he asked, aloud.

"No! Confound it, Fanks, don't put me in the witness-box," cried Roger, rising to his feet.

"I beg your pardon, old fellow," said Octavius, meekly, "it's a habit I've got. A very bad one, I'm afraid. Well, I hope things will go well with you and the marriage with Miss Varlins will take place."

Roger, who was walking rapidly up and down the long room, now vanishing into the chill shadow, anon emerging into the warm lamp-light, stopped at the sound of the name and flung up his arms with a low cry of anguish.

"Never! never!" he cried bitterly, "I shall never marry her."

"Poor old chap, you do seem to be hard hit," said Octavius, sympathetically, "but hope for the best. Florry will marry her patent medicine man, and forget the scamp. Judith will marry you and forget Florry, so things will come out all straight in the long run."

"I hope so," said Axton, resuming his seat, rather ashamed of his emotion; "but they don't look very promising at present. Ah, well, it's no use fighting Destiny. Do you remember the grim view old Sophocles takes of that deity? A classic Juggernaut, crushing all who oppose her. I trust I won't be one of her victims, but I'm doubtful. However, now I've told you my story, what about your own?"

"Mine," said Mr. Fanks, lightly; "bless you, Roger, I'm like Canning's knife-grinder, I've got none to tell. As you know, I'm the eighth son of an impoverished country gentleman, hence my name, Octavius. All my brothers were put into the army, the navy, the Church, and all that sort of thing, so when my turn came to make a début in life there was nothing left for me to do. My father, at his wits' end, suggested the colonies, that refuge for destitute younger sons, but I didn't care about turning digger or sheep farmer, and positively refused to be exiled. I came up to London to look round, and made my choice. Being fond of puzzles and cryptograms, I thought I would turn my ingenuity in unravelling enigmas to practical account, and became a detective. The family cast me off; however, I didn't mind that. I left off the name of Rixton and took that of Fanks—my old school name, you remember—so I didn't disgrace the Rixtons of Derbyshire. Being a gentleman doesn't mean bread and butter in these democratic days; and though my pedigree's as long as the tail of a kite, it was quite as useless in a commercial sense. Besides, the detective business is just as honourable as any other, and also very exciting, so I don't regret having gone in for it. I get well paid also, and the life suits me."

"Is your father reconciled to you yet?"

"Oh, yes, in a sort of a way; but the Vidocq business sticks in his throat and he can't swallow it. However, I visit the paternal acres sometimes, and no one thinks Octavius Rixton, gentleman, has anything to do with Octavius Fanks, detective."

"And you like your profession?"

"I adore it. Mystery has a wonderful charm for human nature, and there's a marvellous fascination in joining together a criminal puzzle. I've had all kinds of queer cases through my hands dealing with the seamy side of humanity, and have been uniformly successful with the lot. This affair, however, puzzles me dreadfully."

"It's a horrible thing," said Roger, relighting his pipe, which had gone out. "I went for a long walk to-day so as to avoid the inquest."

"Ah, you poets have not got strong nerves."

"I'm afraid not. I hear the verdict was suicide."

"Yes, and I don't agree with the verdict."

Roger turned round quickly, and looked straight at his companion, who was staring absently at the fire.

"Indeed," he said at length. "Why not?"

"Eh! Oh, I don't know; I've got my reasons," replied Fanks, coolly, evidently not wishing to continue the subject. "By the way, how long are you going to stop here?"

"Just for to-night; I'm off to-morrow."

"So am I. London?"

"No, I'm going to continue my walking tour."

"Ah, sly dog," cried Fanks, gaily, "I understand. You are going to look up Miss Varlins again."

Roger bit his nether lip hard, and replied, coldly, in a somewhat sober fashion, neither affirming nor denying the insinuation:

"I won't find her down here at all events."

"Oh! Then she's still at Ventnor?"

"No! She and Miss Marson have gone home."

"Really! And where is home?"

"My dear Fanks, your cross-examination is most trying."

"I beg your pardon," said Octavius, ceremoniously, "I was not aware I had asked an impertinent question."

"Nor have you, my dear fellow," cried Axton, cordially. "Don't mind my bad temper, I can't help it. My nerves are all unstrung with this horrible business of the inquest. There's no reason why I should not tell you where Miss Varlins lives."

"Oh, never mind," said Fanks, a trifle coldly; "I don't want to know."

"Don't get offended at nothing, Octavius," replied Roger, in an injured tone; "I will tell you if it's only to make amends for my rudeness. Miss Varlins lives at Ironfields."

The detective jumped to his feet with a sudden ejaculation, at which Axton also arose, looking pale and alarmed.

"What's the matter, Fanks?" he asked, hurriedly.

For answer, Octavius Fanks drew the pill-box from his pocket, and placing it silently on the table, pointed to the inscription on the lid:

"Wosk & Co.

Chemists, Ironfields."