by Fergus Hume
CHAPTER XV
THE GIPSY RING
Almost at the very time Mosk was congratulating his daughter on theconquest of the curate, Captain Pendle was paying a visit to the JennyWren nest. He had only succeeded in obtaining a Saturday to Monday leavefrom his colonel, who did not approve of young officers being too longor too often absent from their duties, and was rejoining his regimentthat very evening. As soon as he could get away from the palace he hadleft his portmanteau at the station and had come up to the CathedralClose to see Mab. Much to his gratification he found her alone in thequaint old drawing-room, and blessed the Providence which had sent himthither at so propitious an hour.
'Aunty is lying down,' explained Mab, who looked rather worried andpale; 'she has been so upset over this horrid murder.'
'Egad! it has upset everyone,' said George, throwing himself into achair. 'My father is so annoyed at such a thing happening in his diocesethat he has retreated to his library and shut himself up. I could hardlyget him to say good-bye. Though, upon my word,' added George, waxingwarm, 'I don't see that the death of a wretched tramp is of such moment;yet it seems to have annoyed everyone.'
'Including yourself,' said Mab, remarking how worried her lover looked,and how far from being his pleasant, natural self.
'Yes, my dearest, including myself. When the bishop is annoyed my motherfidgets over him until she makes herself ill. Knowing this, he isusually careful not to let her see him when he is out of sorts, butto-day he was not so discreet, and the consequence is that my mother hasan attack of nerves, and is lying on her sofa bathed in tears, withLucy in attendance. Of course, all this has upset me in my turn.'
'Well, George, I suppose it is natural that the bishop should be putout, for such a terrible crime has not been committed here for years.Indeed, the _Chronicle_ of last week was remarking how free from crimethis place was.'
'And naturally the gods gave them the lie by arranging a first-classmurder straight away,' said George, with a shrug. 'But why everybodyshould be in such a state I can't see. The palace is like anundertaker's establishment when business is dull. The only person whoseems at all cheerful is that fellow Cargrim.'
'He ought to be annoyed for the bishop's sake.'
'Faith, then, he isn't, Mab. He's going about rubbing his hands andgrinning like a Cheshire cat. I think the sight of him irritated me morethan the mourners. I'm glad to go back to my work.'
'Are you glad to leave me?'
'No, you dear goose,' said he, taking her hand affectionately; 'that isthe bitter drop in my cup. However, I have brought you something to drawus closer together. There!'
'Oh, George!' cried Mab, looking in ecstasy at the ring he had slippedon her finger, 'what a lovely, lovely ring, and what a queer one!--threeturquoise stones set in a braid of silver. I never saw so unique apattern.'
'I daresay not. It's not the kind of ring you'll come across every day,and precious hard work I had to get it.'
'Did you buy it in Beorminster?' asked Miss Arden, putting her head onone side to admire the peculiar setting of the blue stones.
'No; I bought it from Mother Jael.'
'From Mother Jael!--that old gipsy fortune-teller?'
'Precisely; from that very identical old Witch of Endor. I saw it on herlean paw when I was last in Beorminster, and she came hovering round totell my fortune. The queer look of it took my fancy, and I determined tosecure it for our engagement ring. However, the old lady wasn't to bebribed into parting with it, but last night I rode out to the camp onSouthberry Common and succeeded in getting it off her. She is a regularJew at a bargain, and haggled for an hour before she would let me haveit. Ultimately I gave her the price she asked, and there it is on yourpretty hand.'
'How sweet of you, George, to take so much trouble! I shall value thering greatly for your sake.'
'And for your own too, I hope. It is a lucky ring, and came from theEast, Mother Jael said, in the old, old days. It looks rather Egyptian,so perhaps Cleopatra wore it when she went to meet Anthony!'
'Such nonsense! but it is a dear, lovely ring, and I'll wear it always.'
'I think I deserve a kiss from you for my trouble,' said George, drawingher lovely, glowing face towards him. 'There, darling; the next ring Iplace on your finger will be a plain golden one, not from the East, butfrom an honest Beorminster jeweller.'
'But, George'--Mab laid her head on his breast--'I am not sure if Iought to accept it, really. Your father does not know of ourengagement.'
'I intend to tell him when I next visit Beorminster, my love. Indeed,but that he takes this wretched murder so much to heart I would havetold him to-day. Still, you need not scruple to wear it, dearest, foryour aunt and my mother are both agreed that you will make me thesweetest of wives.'
'Aunty is always urging me to ask you to tell your father.'
'Then you can inform her that I'll do so next--why, here _is_ your aunt,my dear.'
'Aunty!' cried Mab, as Miss Whichello, like a little white ghost, movedinto the room. 'I thought your head was so bad.'
'It is better now, my dear,' replied the old lady, who really lookedvery ill. 'How do you do, Captain Pendle?'
'Hadn't you better call me George, Miss Whichello?'
'No, I hadn't, my dear man; at least, not until your engagement with Mabis an accomplished fact.'
'But it is an accomplished fact now, aunty,' said Mab, showing the ring.'Here is the visible sign of our engagement.'
'A strange ring, but very charming,' pronounced Miss Whichello,examining the jewel. 'But does the bishop know?'
'I intend to tell him when I come back next week' said George, promptly.'At present he is too upset with this murder to pay much attention to mylove affairs.'
'Upset with this murder!' cried the little lady, dropping into a chair.'I don't wonder at it. I am quite ill with the news.'
'I'm sure I don't see why, aunty. This Jentham tramp wasn't a relative,you know.'
Miss Whichello shuddered, and, if possible, turned paler. 'He was ahuman being, Mab,' she said, in a low voice, 'and it is terrible tothink that the poor wretch, however evil he may have been, should havecome to so miserable an end. Is it known who shot him, Captain Pendle?'
'No; there are all sorts of rumours, of course, but none of them veryreliable. It's a pity, too,' added George, reflectively, 'for if I hadonly been a little earlier in leaving Mother Jael I might have heard theshot and captured the murderer.'
'What do you mean, Captain Pendle?' cried Miss Whichello, with a start.
'Why, didn't I tell you? No, of course I didn't; it was Mab I told.'
'What did you tell her?' questioned the old lady, with some impatience.
'That I was on Southberry Heath last night.'
'What were you doing there?'
'Seeing after that gipsy ring for Mab,' explained George, pulling hismoustache. 'I bought it of Mother Jael, and had to ride out to the campto make the bargain. As I am going back into harness to-day, therewasn't much time to lose, so I went off last night after dinner, betweeneight and nine o'clock, and the old jade kept me so long fixing up thebusiness that I didn't reach home until eleven. By Jove! I got a jollyducking; looked like an insane river god dripping with wet.'
'Did you see anything of the murder, Captain Pendle?'
'No; didn't even hear the shot, though that wasn't to be wondered at,considering the row made by rain and thunder.'
'Where was the body found?'
'Somewhere in a ditch near the high road, I believe. At all events, itwasn't in the way, or my gee would have tumbled across it.'
Miss Whichello reflected. 'The bishop was over at Southberry yesterday,was he not?' she asked.
'Yes, at a confirmation service. He rode back across the common, andreached the palace just before I did--about half an hour or so.'
'Did he hear or see anything?'
'Not to my knowledge; but the truth is, I haven't had an opportunity ofasking questions. He is so annoyed at the disgrace to the diocese
by thecommittal of this crime that he's quite beside himself. I was justtelling Mab about it when you came in. Six o'clock!' cried CaptainGeorge, starting up as the chimes rang out. 'I must be off. If I'm lateat barracks my colonel will parade me to-morrow, and go down my throat,spurs, boots and all.'
'Wait a moment, Captain Pendle, and I'll come with you.'
'But your headache, aunty?' remonstrated Mab.
'My dear, a walk in the fresh air will do me good. I shall go withCaptain Pendle to the station. Make your adieux, young people, while Iput on my bonnet and cloak.'
When Miss Whichello left the room, Mab, who had been admiring her ringduring the foregoing conversation, was so impressed with its quaintbeauty that she again thanked George for having given it to her. Thispiece of politeness led to an exhibition of tenderness on the part ofthe departing lover, and during the dragon's absence this foolish youngcouple talked the charming nonsense which people in their conditionparticularly affect. Realism is a very good thing in its own way, but toset down an actual love conversation would be carrying it to excess.Only the exaggerated exaltation of mind attendant on love-making canenable lovers to endure the transcendentalism with which they bore oneanother. And then the look which makes an arrow of the most triflingphrase, the caress which gives the merest glance a most eloquentmeaning--how can prosaic pen and ink and paper report these fittingly?The sympathetic reader must guess what George and Mab said to oneanother. He must fancy how they said it, and he or she must see in hisor her mind's eye how young and beautiful and glowing they looked whenMiss Whichello, as the prose of their poetry, walked into the room. Thedear old lady smiled approvingly when she saw their bright faces, forshe too had lived in Arcady, although the envious gods had turned herout of it long since.
'Now, Captain Pendle, when you have done talking nonsense with thatchild I'm ready.'
'Do call me George, Miss Whichello,' entreated the captain.
'No, sir; not until your father gives this engagement his episcopalianblessing. No nonsense. Come along.'
But Miss Whichello's bark was worse than her bite, for she discreetlyleft the room, so that the love-birds could take a tender leave of eachother, and Captain Pendle found her standing on the steps outside with abroad smile on her face.
'You are sure you have not forgotten your gloves, Captain Pendle?' sheasked smilingly.
'No,' replied George, innocently, 'I have them with me.'
'Oh!' exclaimed Miss Whichello, marching down the steps like a toysoldier, 'in my youth young men in your condition _always_ forgot theirgloves.'
'By Jove! I have left something behind me, though.'
'Your heart, probably. Never mind, it is in safe keeping. None of yourtricks, sir. Come, come!' and Miss Whichello marched the captain offwith a twinkle in her bright eyes. The little old lady was one of thoseloved by the gods, for she would undoubtedly die young in heart.
Still, as she walked with Captain Pendle to the station in the gatheringdarkness, she looked worried and white. George could not see her face inthe dusk, and moreover was too much taken up with his late charminginterview to notice his companion's preoccupation. In spite of hersympathy, Miss Whichello grew weary of a monologue on the part ofGeorge, in which the name of 'Mab' occurred fifty times and more. Shewas glad when the train steamed off with this too happy lover, andpromised to deliver all kinds of unnecessary messages to the girl Georgehad left behind him.
'But let them be happy while they can,' murmured Miss Whichello, as shetripped back through the town. 'Poor souls, if they only knew what Iknow.'
As Miss Whichello had the meaning of this enigmatic speech in her mind,she did not think it was necessary to put it into words, but, silent andpensive, walked along the crowded pavement. Shortly she turned down aside street which led to the police-station, and there paused in a quietcorner to pin a veil round her head--a veil so thick that her featurescould hardly be distinguished through it. The poor lady adopted this asa kind of disguise, forgetting that her old-fashioned poke bonnet andquaint silk cloak were as well known to the inhabitants of Beorminsteras the cathedral itself. That early century garb was as familiar to therascality of the slums as to the richer citizens; even the police knewit well, for they had often seen its charitable wearer by the bedsidesof dying paupers. It thus happened that, when Miss Whichello presentedherself at the police-station to Inspector Tinkler, he knew her at once,in spite of her foolish little veil. Moreover, in greeting her hepronounced her name.
'Hush, hush, Mr Inspector,' whispered Miss Whichello, with a mysteriousglance around. 'I do not wish it to be known that I called here.'
'You can depend upon my discretion, Miss Whichello, ma'am,' said theinspector, who was a bluff and tyrannical ex-sergeant. 'And what can Ido for you?'
Miss Whichello looked round again. 'I wish, Mr Inspector,' said she, ina very small voice, 'to be taken by you to the dead-house.'
'To the dead-house, Miss Whichello, ma'am!' said the iron Tinkler,hardly able to conceal his astonishment, although it was against hisdisciplinarian ideas to show emotion.
'There is a dead man in there, Mr Inspector, whom I knew under verydifferent circumstances more than twenty years ago.'
'Answers to the name of Jentham, perhaps?' suggested Mr Inspector.
'Yes, he called himself Jentham, I believe. I--I--I wish to see hisbody;' and the little old lady looked anxiously into Tinkler's purpleface.
'Miss Whichello, ma'am,' said the ex-sergeant with an official air,'this request requires reflection. Do you know the party in question?'
'I knew him, as I told you, more than twenty years ago. He was then avery talented violinist, and I heard him play frequently in London.'
'What was his name, Miss Whichello, ma'am?'
'His name then, Mr Inspector, was Amaru!'
'A stage name I take it to be, ma'am!'
'Yes! a stage name.'
'What was his real name?'
'I can't say,' replied Miss Whichello, in a hesitating voice. 'I knewhim only as Amaru.'
'Humph! here he called himself Jentham. Do you know anything about thismurder, Miss Whichello, ma'am?' and the inspector fixed a blood-shotgrey eye on the thick veil.
'No! no! I know nothing about the murder!' cried Miss Whichello inearnest tones. 'I heard that this man Jentham looked like a gipsy andwas marked with a scar on the right cheek. From that description Ithought that he might be Amaru, and I wish to see his body to be certainthat I am right.'
'Well, Miss Whichello, ma'am,' said the stern Tinkler, after somedeliberation, 'your request is out of the usual course of things; butknowing you as a good and charitable lady, and thinking you may throwsome light on this mysterious crime--why, I'll show you the corpse withpleasure.'
'One moment,' said the old lady, laying a detaining hand on theinspector's blue cloth sleeve. 'I must tell you that I can throw nolight on the subject; if I could I would. I simply desire to see thebody of this man and to satisfy myself that he is Amaru.'
'Very good, Miss Whichello, ma'am; you shall see it.'
'And you'll not mention that I came here, Mr Inspector.'
'I give you my word, ma'am--the word of a soldier. This way, MissWhichello, this way.'
Following the rigid figure of the inspector, the little old lady wasconducted by him to a small building of galvanised tin in the rear ofthe police-station. Several idlers were hanging about, amongst thembeing Miss Bell Mosk, who was trying to persuade a handsome youngpoliceman to gratify her morbid curiosity. Her eyes opened to theirwidest width when she recognised Miss Whichello's silk cloak and pokebonnet, and saw them vanish into the dead-house.
'Well I never!' said Miss Mosk. 'I never thought she'd be fond ofcorpses at her time of life, seeing as she'll soon be one herself.'
The little old lady and the inspector remained within for five or sixminutes. When they came out the tears were falling fast beneath MissWhichello's veil.
'Is that the man?' asked Tinkler, in a low voice.
'Yes!' replied
Miss Whichello; 'that is the man I knew as Amaru.'
