Читать книгу The Evil That Men Do - M.P. Shiel - Страница 11

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Meantime, as was said before, Oswald had slept a night at the "Anchor Inn" in exile from Pall Mall and from those two rooms behind Piccadilly where his man, Magee, made Irish bulls, and told to Oswald whatever Oswald did not already know of the doings and movements of people in the great world.

Precisely why he had slept a night in such a "hole," as Oswald called the "Anchor," he could not have told, but he had wished to be on the spot. Something very odd in "James's" denial to him that he knew Letty Barnes, when he certainly did, and in her strange disappearance, without taking any hat with her, stirred up some interest in Oswald's rather dull mind. It was not like him to be there in a bed of that "Anchor" tavern, but no one is always a fossil and there Oswald was.

By the next morning the countryside was eagerly talking about the girl. Letty's appearance, dress, habits, were described in the Norfolk papers, with comments on her good name, her "walk and conversation," her place and use in the little local world where she had lived and run her course. She had been a good chapel-goer, and, till lately, had taught in the Sunday school, and kept a missionary-box, had gone to spend three weeks with an aunt in Cromer during the summer, but had spent only two, though Barnes, her father, still maintained that she had spent three. The newspapers, however, had definitely found out from the aunt that she had spent only two, and Oswald thought that that third week of her absence from the tavern of which Barnes was so sure, may have been spent with his brother, for he remembered that Drayton had been to Cromer that summer.

On the whole, it was pitiful, the girl seemed to have been snatched away by the Harpies, somehow. Her poor feet had strayed, the Maelstrom had caught her, clouds and darkness were round about her.

Oswald breakfasted on an excellent lobster in that room of the tavern where writing-materials had been placed that night of the murder, for his brother James. Oswald was alone in the room: Barnes had not risen that morning, or, at least, had refused to unlock his door to the old grandmother of the place. The tavern was closed to the public, and a presence like death was all about it.

By Oswald's plate was a note-book made of very thin ivory-leaves, and on these, as he ate, he re-read a few notes which he had made.

His mind, like all his personality, was slow in movement and too standoffish to get very near to truth; but still he was knowing, versed in men and things, and had minutely questioned Barnes and spurred his memory the previous evening.

He had now, therefore, on his note book the facts about how McCalmont first, and then Barnes, had seemed to hear a cry somewhere outside the tavern, though Barnes still seemed to be certain that it was the wind that rough night. How Drayton, meantime, was upstairs writing--"For how long?" Oswald had asked. Barnes could not be too sure, but quite half-an-hour; for when Drayton came down, McCalmont had said: "Why, you must have written ten letters," and Drayton had replied: "Only one, boy, but that one required some thinking." James, then, had had plenty of time to talk to Letty. That he had talked to her (supposing her then in the tavern), was almost proved by the fact that Oswald had found a shred of her writing in James's coat-pocket. James knew her, as to that no further proof was wanting.

"My good James," thought Oswald, "what, then, have you done with this Letty? He had no house hereabouts—yes, he has, though! Corton Chantry can't be very far, and that is where Letty is! He made her go down by the back stairs to get to the motor car, and then whipped her off to Corton some time before the accident. But why on earth without a hat? With her watch and chain—but without a hat."

Then again Oswald considered the words "cruel bru" on the shred of paper. If cruel brute meant James, then Letty was angry, which was against the Corton Chantry theory, unless, indeed, he took her to conciliate her. Oswald had, of course, shown the shred to no one: the one motive of his interest in the matter was, by means of this handle, to wheedle and force £500, which he needed, from his brother, if he could once get at the certainty that Drayton had abducted the girl. So far the notion that she might be dead had hardly taken root in any mind.

Oswald rose from breakfast with his wits all in confusion, he could see no light, and thinking was as burdensome to him as running is to a fat man. He lit a cigar, and slowly limped about the room. He decided at one moment that he would go to Corton Chantry, and see. But then again, the uncertainty of discovering anything made that a bore. No, he would return to London, but first would telegraph to Walker to come down, and put Walker on to see if he could find out anything. Walker was not altogether a fool. (Walker was a young man in London who did shorthand writing and Oswald had him from time to time to write his letters and to write statements for the lawyers about an endlessly long and vague lawsuit which Oswald had in the courts.)

Oswald had written some letters the previous evening at a worm-eaten oak cabinet in which there was some paper, and going now and again to it he wrote to Walker the words:

"I want you to come here at once. Get a pound from Magee." He then opened an assurance-almanac which lay at his elbow to blot the words, and, in doing this, he saw some inverted writing which looked like his brother's.

This astonished him. James, then, did actually write a letter in that room, as he had pretended to want to do. Had he two motives in coming here, then?—one motive to write and one to see Letty? For he certainly did see Letty. Oswald neatly tore out the leaf of the blotting-paper, and held it before a spotted piece of mirror hung from the white-washed timber and now, though the leaf was rather thick with blots, he could read in the mirror the words: "Now is the time for all good men," and again lower down, "now is, the time for all good men to come to the rescue of the."

Odd words, but certainly in James writing. This, then, was that letter that "wanted some thinking." Oswald searched through the assurance-almanac, but could find nothing more in Drayton's hand. He sat at a window and considered it, and in his effort of thought little sweat-grains stood out on his square bald head. "Now is the time for all good men to come"—it was all a blind! a thousand to one. It would be interesting to see the whole of that "letter."

But, if a blind, James must have been terribly in earnest to hide his relation with Letty at the moment when he was at the pains to sit down and write those words. He was not a cautious man, took consequences breezily, pooh-poohed most things. Why, then, this special anxiousness in the case of Letty, shown, too, in his denial at Aylsham that he knew her.

Now first arose in Oswald's mind the thought: "Suppose we are seeking a living girl, when we should be seeking a dead? 'Cruel bru' seemed to indicate passion!"

At this thought, sitting at a window overlooking the kitchen garden, Oswald went off into a day-dream about a steam yacht of Drayton's called the Sempronia, about banquets at Claridge's and the Carlton, and mingled with it all in his dream was a ceremony at St. Peter's, Eaton Square, in which the soft face of Julia, Lady Methwold, with its peachy painting would be present, and he, Oswald, by her side—If James had, by chance, killed Letty, and if he, Oswald, could clearly prove it to himself and to James, then James' banking-account would become Oswald's to the last penny; or in the last resort the clown might hang—why not? Oswald had cringed to his brother too many years, despising him the while, not to dislike him now.

That was indeed a dream about the Sempronia and St. Peter's—if one had only the wit, energy, and patience to realise it! if one could hit upon the right clues, hide them from the police, and hold them as a Damocles sword over the head of James, till James had formally made over everything—But wit, energy, and patience were an infernal bore. One could not if one could not, one was no longer so young as one had been. It made one pant to think and achieve things. And was the primary assumption correct? It seemed improbable. Mr Jimmy was certainly a shadier beggar than most people supposed, but murder was a tallish order.

Yet that alone explained about the hat. She had gone without a hat. James, therefore, while supposed to be writing, might all the time have been with Letty, and done her some harm. Who could tell? But in that case the body would not be far—

It grew toward noon. Oswald went up three little steps to his bedroom, took his hat, coat, and stick, descended, sent the telegram by a stable-lad to Walker, his shorthand man, and went out at the back of the inn. Barnes, so far, had not shown himself that day.

The day was not cold, but wintry looking, with that dead mist which belongs to winter. Oswald had already examined the grounds without result, and though a new thought was now in him, he went languidly limping, not at all believing in his own conclusion. He sauntered into a fir plantation, smoking a cigar. Yonder, in a hollow sheltered by sweeps of meadow-land, appeared dimly through a veil of mist a little Norfolk church of flint, with a thatched roof and a round tower, and beyond stood a farmstead of neat red brick, with crow-stepped gables. On the ground no trace was now to be seen of Drayton's and Betty's terrible struggle. It had rained in torrents since then and many feet, moreover, had passed over the spot in the search for her. Oswald came to the fateful place—a kind of gut.

"It she were really killed," he thought, "she would be somewhere about here."

All along the lower part of the two walls of the gut there was bush, growing high and rank at some points, such as furze, nettle, grasses, tufts of scabious thistle. Midway between the two walls, where the gut is slightly deeper, there ran a rivulet among rocks, some of which were of considerable size. Half a mile to the south of the tavern the gut is crossed by a one-arch bridge—

Oswald went that way, toward the bridge: but he had not gone far when he stood still, for at a shelving spot at the edge of the gut a stone happened to roll before his foot down into the gut. He heard it fall through the bushes at the bottom, and at once he heard another sound, a rushing sound through the bushes, which caused him to peep over, and with a shudder of disgust he saw a black cat scamper guiltily out from a mass of bush which was infested with a swarm of water gnats. The stone had fallen near the cat and frightened it in what it was doing. Oswald guessed, he even knew, then.

Always with his deliberate slight limp, but now with a wild heart, he returned to the house. He asked the old grandmother in the parlour where Barnes was, made his way to Barnes' room, and persisted in knocking at the door, till Barnes looked out.

"You had better come with me, Barnes," said Oswald, "get some things on. But you will have to keep your courage up, my good sir."

Barnes drew on a pair of boots and, without lacing them, came out in his shirt and trousers, with the braces hanging down. He did not say anything, but silently followed Oswald, with that angry-looking frown which always made his heavy eyes look like blue slits. When they reached the gate in the hedge, Barnes must have been struck by some misapprehension, for he turned pale and hesitated, but he said nothing, and after a moment continued to follow Oswald. And soon he was standing by the gut, and Oswald's stick was pointing.

Barnes looked at Oswald steadily, stupidly, for some time, with a piercing frown and with the tip of his tongue out on his lower lip, as if trying to read Oswald's soul, and failing; he was stunned. Then the poor man's lips went crooked, and he smiled, looking down where she lay, and he crooned: "Well, Letty—"

Oswald turned away, murmuring something. There was that in the face of Barnes which could not be looked at. The poor Barnes suddenly gave way beneath his weight, and fell, bawling out in distress.

Oswald could not get him to lift himself, and had to leave him while he himself went back to the inn to send a message to the police. Barnes remained there till near five, when two country constables and a detective hot from London arrived with a stretcher. They were a party of nine and Barnes was with them, grimly calm now, when she was drawn out of the bush. He saw her face in a minute in the failing light, before the macintosh covered it. It was engorged, violence was evident, and Barnes uttered a threat against her destroyer.

He trudged steadily by the body in his undress all the way into Aylsham, following her desperately, taking no notice of anyone or of any question, only trudging behind her like a machine, following her to the very last. He did not droop nor weep. It was only near eight o'clock in the evening, when he was forcibly removed from near her at the mortuary, that he dropped his arms and head upon an officer's shoulders like a man shot, and there gave way to sobbing.

Barnes was returning to "The Anchor" in a trap from "The Black Dogs" in Aylsham, when he met Oswald and Oswald's shorthand man, Walker, who were being driven from "The Anchor" to Aylsham in Barnes's own trap. For Walker, summoned by Oswald's telegram, had arrived at "The Anchor" from London at seven. Barnes called out to Oswald as they met:

"A word with you, sir," and, sitting next each other in the two traps, Oswald and Barnes conversed in subdued voices.

"I've wondered," said Barnes, "why you have been so particular about knowing Mr Drayton's doings that night. I ask you, fair and square, if you suspect him of knowing my girl."

"He may have. I do not know, Barnes."

"He's a friend or relation of yours, I take it, for I saw you in his room at 'The Black Dogs' yesterday."

"Yes, an acquaintance; but my interest in the case has no reference to him, but is simply due to my chance nearness to the scene."

"Do you think—fair and square that Drayton had anything—?"

"I have really come to no conclusion," said Oswald, and in mere motiveless enmity to his brother he added, "I only see that it would be stupid to take it for granted that he was in that room all the time he was supposed to be writing there. He may have gone down the back stair—"

"Then, God help him, if it's so!" cried Barnes, furiously. "I want no Law—a life for a life! Drive on, my lad!"

Oswald and Walker then went on to Aylsham, and thence to North Walsham together, where they separated, Oswald for London, Walker for Cromer, the latter full of Oswald's instructions as to the search which lay before him. Walker's task was to discover someone about Cromer who had seen Drayton and Letty together, and to this end Walker had with him a photograph of Letty, stolen by Oswald from the album in the little drawing-room of "The Anchor." The shred which Oswald had found in Drayton's coat was, of course, a proof to himself only that Drayton knew Letty: for he had no proof to show that he had really taken the shred from the coat. Drayton could deny that it was ever there, and his word would be as good as Oswald's. Further evidence, therefore, that Drayton knew Letty was essential in order that Oswald might become "James'" master, and bitterly Oswald now cursed his luck in losing the letter which Letty had written him, asking for the date of Drayton's marriage with Lady Methwold.

Walker, therefore, had instructions to search well for some witness of Drayton's and Letty's friendship, to keep a mum tongue in his head, giving no reason to anyone why he asked his questions, and, if he discovered anything, he was to give hints of a bribe to the person from whom he discovered it, on condition that that person would tell what he had seen to no one but Walker. Above all Walker was to be very quick, for Oswald feared that the police might get some scent from somewhere of the acquaintance of Drayton and Letty, and might be beforehand with him in bringing home the guilt of the murder to Drayton, in which case Oswald would be baulked of his power over his brother's cheque book.

But, as a matter of fact, no quickness on the part of Walker was necessary, for the police were without the clues which had led Oswald to suspect Drayton, namely, the shred of Letty's letter and the blotting-leaf with the nonsense-words. These were in Oswald's safe-keeping. Even after a long time Letty and Drayton were not in the slightest degree connected in any mind, except in Oswald's, and vaguely, through Oswald, in Barnes'. The police did not even trouble to go to ask Hartwell if "he" had seen her in "The Anchor" on the night of the murder, when "he" had written a letter there, for Barnes told them that Drayton had told him the next morning at "The Black Dogs" in Aylsham that he had not seen her. That Letty had had a lover was certain, and the police ransacked Norfolk, including Cromer, where Letty had been that summer, to find him.

But they unearthed nothing, and after two futile arrests remained agape at the mystery of the girl's death. By the merest chance, however, Walker, without the least merit on his part, discovered something where the police failed, for of the two people in question, Walker had the photograph of the girl and knew the man, but the police only knew the girl, the man being anybody to them. But Oswald should have conducted his researches in person, for Walker, a young "cockney" clerk, was hardly born for research, and bungled matters. After five useless days in Cromer itself, he wandered out in the direction of Overstrand and that group of villages, much frequented by visitors where, as the local saying goes:

"Gimmingham, Trimmingham, Knanton, and Trunch,

Northrepps and Southrepps lie all of a bunch."

About each of these villages Walker loitered in turn, liking this vague life of research, till he grew to know the lighting-up minute of the lighthouse, the tombstones round the ruined church-tower on the cliffs, the flocks of Christmas turkeys, the coast-guardman's telescope, and the postman's tread in the distance at evensong. He made languid research in a straw-hat at inns, and questioned every chance acquaintance in a tone of mystery, but Oswald was thinking of recalling him when, wandering one afternoon in a lane near Overstrand, Walker saw in a window across the breadth of a courtyard, an old piece of cardboard with the word "Lodgings" written on it.

It was an abandoned farmhouse embowered in old trees, most of it a rambling ruin of gables and lattices, but one small part of it was modern, and before this part there was a garden plot full of cottage flowers, and there was some poultry in the court-yard. It was occupied by one Gissing, a hale old fellow, one of those amphibious men who live near the coast, a thatcher and reaper, but also a waterman. To say that he had a beard grown back from the chin, like a fringe tied round the jaws, is to describe him. His wife, a hearty, large countrywoman of forty, kept a shop of little oddments in one window, and they had one daughter, named Sarah, seventeen years of age.

Walker went in, really to drink a glass of milk, but, being there, he began to chat; and soon this question arose whether a gentleman with a long black beard, and a fair girl (photograph produced) had been seen by any of them that summer, to which the wife answered:

"Why, they, were here with us a week. They would be Mr Drayton and his lady."

Here, then, was the treasure struck. Walker was so proud of himself, that he decided at once to become a detective. The same day he sent the news to Oswald. But he was a talkative, loose, swaggering fellow, and talked too much to the Gissings during his repeated visit of the next two days. His unnecessary insistance upon silence, his large promises, his hints of Drayton's importance in the world, all this turned the Gissings' head with fabulous hopes. Gissing himself was no brilliant wit, but "mother" was canny. What the matter was they did not quite know, did not even know that the girl whose face they saw in the photograph was dead, but it was clear that the great Drayton was in danger—of something, that Walker was his enemy and that, if they received £50 from Walker's side, they might well receive a thousand pounds if they took the other side.

So on the third morning—four days before Christmas—just when Oswald was turning in his tiresomely slow mind the project of going down to Gissing, Gissing went up to Drayton. He and the wife had plotted it darkly in their heads upon their beds. Walker had mentioned Fenchurch Street as being the place where Drayton's office was. Gissing would be easily able to find it by making inquiries, said the wife, and with almost the last of his £7 harvest money Gissing, saying not one word to anyone, but cannily taking the tide of fortune at the flood, took ticket for London, and so, not knowing to what manner of man he was going, bid a long farewell to his native Poppyland.