Red Money

by Fergus Hume

  CHAPTER XIX.

  MOTHER COCKLESHELL.

  It was late in the afternoon when Lambert got back to the village inn,and he felt both tired and bewildered. The examination of Silver hadbeen so long, and what he revealed so amazing, that the young man wishedto be alone, both to rest and to think over the situation. It was a veryperplexing one, as he plainly saw, since, in the light of the newrevelations, it seemed almost impossible to preserve the name of thefamily from disgrace. Seated in his sitting room, with his legsstretched out and his hands in his pockets, Lambert moodily glared atthe carpet, recalling all that had been confessed by the foxy secretaryof Miss Greeby. That he should accuse her of committing the crime seemedunreasonable.

  According to Silver, the woman had overheard by chance the scheme tolure Pine to The Manor. Knowing that the millionaire was coming toAbbot's Wood, the secretary had propounded the plan to Garvington longbefore the man's arrival. Hence the constant talk of the host aboutburglars and his somewhat unnecessary threat to shoot any one who triedto break into the house. The persistence of this remark had roused MissGreeby's curiosity, and noting that Silver and his host were frequentlyin one another's company, she had seized her opportunity to listen. Forsome time, so cautious were the plotters, she had heard nothingparticular, but after her recognition of Hearne as Pine when she visitedthe gypsy camp she became aware that these secret talks were connectedwith his presence. Then a chance remark of Garvington's--he was alwaysloose-tongued--gave her the clue, and by threats of exposure she managedto make Silver confess the whole plot. Far from thwarting it she agreedto let them carry it out, and promised secrecy, only extracting apromise that she should be advised of the time and place for thetrapping of the millionaire. And it was this acquiescence of MissGreeby's which puzzled Lambert.

  On the face of it, since she was in love with him, it was better for herown private plans that Pine should remain alive, because the marriageplaced Agnes beyond his reach. Why, then, should Miss Greeby haveremoved the barrier--and at the cost of being hanged for murder? Lamberthad asked Silver this question, but had obtained no definite answer,since the secretary protested that she had not explained her reasons.Jokingly referring to possible burglars, she had borrowed the revolverfrom Silver which he had obtained from Garvington, and it was thisaction which first led the little secretary to suspect her. Afterward,knowing that she had met Pine in Abbot's Wood, he kept a close watch onher every action to see if she intended to take a hand in the game. ButSilver protested that he could see no reason for her doing so, and evenup to the moment when he confessed to Lambert could not conjecture whyshe had acted in such a manner.

  However, it appeared that she was duly informed of the hour when Pinewould probably arrive to prevent the pretended elopement, and alsolearned that he would be hanging about the blue door. When Silverretired for the night he watched the door of her bedroom--which was inthe same wing of the mansion of his own. Also he occasionally looked outto see if Pine had arrived, as the window of his room afforded a fairview of the blue door and the shrubbery. For over an hour--as he toldLambert--he divided his attention between the passage and the window. Itwas while looking out of the last, and after midnight, that he saw MissGreeby climb out of her room and descend to the ground by means of theivy which formed a natural ladder. Her window was no great height fromthe ground, and she was an athletic woman much given to exercise.Wondering what she intended to do, yet afraid--because of Pine'sexpected arrival--to leave the house, Silver watched her cautiously. Shewas arrayed in a long black cloak with a hood, he said, but in thebrilliant moonlight he could easily distinguish her gigantic form as sheslipped into the shrubbery. When Pine arrived, Silver saw him dash atthe blue door when it was opened by Garvington, and saw him fall backafter the first shot. Then he heard the shutting of the door;immediately afterward the opening of Lady Agnes's window, and noted thatPine ran quickly and unsteadily down the path. As he passed theshrubbery, the second shot came--at this point Silver simply gave thesame description as Lady Agnes did at the inquest--and then Pine fell.Afterward Garvington and his guests came out and gathered round thebody, but Miss Greeby, slipping along the rear of the shrubbery, doubledback to the shadow at the corner of the house. Silver, having to playhis part, did not wait to see her re-enter the mansion, but presumed shedid so by clambering up the ivy. He ran down and mingled with the guestsand servants, who were clustered round the dead man, and finally foundMiss Greeby at his elbow, artlessly inquiring what had happened. For thetime being he accepted her innocent attitude.

  Later on, when dismissed by Jarwin and in want of funds, he sought outMiss Greeby and accused her. At first she denied the story, but finally,as she judged that he could bring home the crime to her, she compromisedwith him by giving him the post of her secretary at a good salary. Whenhe obtained the forged letter from Chaldea--and she learned this fromLambert when he was ill--Miss Greeby made him give it to her, allegingthat by showing it to Agnes she could the more positively part the widowfrom her lover. Miss Greeby, knowing who had written the letter, countedupon Agnes guessing the truth, and had she not seen that it had enteredher mind, when the letter was brought to her, she would have given ahint as to the forger's name. But Agnes's hesitation and sudden palenessassured Miss Greeby that she guessed the truth, so the letter was leftto work its poison. Silver, of course, clamored for his blackmail, butMiss Greeby promised to recompense him, and also threatened if he didnot hold his tongue that she would accuse him and Garvington of themurder. Since the latter had forged the letter and the former hadborrowed the revolver which had killed Pine, it would have beentolerably easy for Miss Greeby to substantiate her accusation. As to hershare in the crime, all she had to do was to deny that Silver had passedthe borrowed revolver on to her, and there was no way in which he couldprove that he had done so. On the whole, Silver had judged it best tofall in with Miss Greeby's plans, and preserve silence, especially asshe was rich and could supply him with whatever money he chose to askfor. She was in his power, and he was in her power, so it was necessaryto act on the golden rule of give and take.

  And the final statement which Silver made to Lambert intimated thatGarvington was ignorant of the truth. Until the bullet was produced inthe library to fit the revolver it had never struck Garvington that theother weapon had been used to kill Pine. And he had honestly believedthat Silver--as was actually the case--had remained in his bedroom allthe time, until he came downstairs to play his part. As to Miss Greebybeing concerned in the matter, such an idea had never enteredGarvington's head. The little man's hesitation in producing therevolver, when he got an inkling of the truth, was due to his dread thatif Silver was accused of the murder--and at the time it seemed as thoughthe secretary was guilty--he might turn king's evidence to save hisneck, and explain the very shady plot in which Garvington had beenengaged. But Lambert had forced his cousin's hand, and Silver had beenbrought to book, with the result that the young man now sat in his roomat the inn, quite convinced that Miss Greeby was guilty, yet wonderingwhat motive had led her to act in such a murderous way.

  Also, Lambert wondered what was best to be done, in order to save thefamily name. If he went to the police and had Miss Greeby arrested, thetruth of Garvington's shady dealings would certainly come to light,especially as Silver was an accessory after the fact. On the other hand,if he left things as they were, there was always a chance that hintsmight be thrown out by Chaldea--who had everything to gain and nothingto lose--that he and Agnes were responsible for the death of Pine. Ofcourse, Lambert, not knowing that Chaldea had been listening to theconversation in the cottage, believed that the girl was ignorant of thetrue state of affairs, and he wondered how he could inform her that theactual criminal was known without risking her malignity. He wanted toclear his character and that of his wife; likewise he wished to save thefamily name. But it seemed to him that the issue of these things lay inthe hands of Chaldea, and she was bent upon injuring him if she could.It was all very perplexing.

  It was at th
is point of his meditation that Mother Cockleshell arrivedat the inn. He heard her jovial voice outside and judged from its tonethat the old dame was in excellent spirits. Her visit seemed to be ahint from heaven as to what he should do. Gentilla hated Chaldea andloved Agnes, so Lambert felt that she would be able to help him. As soonas possible he had her brought into the sitting room, and, having madeher sit down, closed both the door and the window, preparatory totelling her all that he had learned. The conversation was, indeed, animportant one, and he was anxious that it should take place withoutwitnesses.

  "You _are_ kind, sir," said Mother Cockleshell, who had been suppliedwith a glass of gin and water. "But it ain't for the likes of me to besitting down with the likes of you."

  "Nonsense! We must have a long talk, and I can't expect you to stand allthe time--at your age."

  "Some Gentiles ain't so anxious to save the legs of old ones," remarkedGentilla Stanley cheerfully. "But I always did say as you were a goldenone for kindness of heart. Well, them as does what's unexpected getswhat they don't hope for."

  "I have got my heart's desire, Mother," said Lambert, sitting down andlighting his pipe. "I am happy now."

  "Not as happy as you'd like to be, sir," said the old woman, speakingquite in the Gentile manner, and looking like a decent charwoman."You've a dear wife, as I don't deny, Mr. Lambert, but money is whatyou want."

  "I have enough for my needs."

  "Not for her needs, sir. She should be wrapped in cloth of gold and havea path of flowers to tread upon."

  "It's a path of thorns just now," muttered Lambert moodily.

  "Not for long, sir; not for long. I come to put the crooked straight andto raise a lamp to banish the dark. Very good this white satin is," saidMother Cockleshell irrelevantly, and alluding to the gin. "And terbaccergoes well with it, as there's no denying. You wouldn't mind my taking awhiff, sir, would you?" and she produced a blackened clay pipe which hadseen much service. "Smoking is good for the nerves, Mr. Lambert."

  The young man handed her his pouch. "Fill up," he said, smiling at theidea of his smoking in company with an old gypsy hag.

  "Bless you, my precious!" said Mother Cockleshell, accepting the offerwith avidity, and talking more in the Romany manner. "I allers did sayas you were what I said before you were, and that's golden, my Gorgiousone. Ahime!" she blew a wreath of blue smoke from her withered lips,"that's food to me, my dearie, and heat to my old bones."

  Lambert nodded. "You hinted, in Devonshire, that you had something tosay, and a few moments ago you talked about putting the crookedstraight."

  "And don't the crooked need that same?" chuckled Gentilla, nodding."There's trouble at hand, my gentleman. The child's brewing witch'sbroth, for sure."

  "Chaldea!" Lambert sat up anxiously. He mistrusted the younger gypsygreatly, and was eager to know what she was now doing.

  "Aye! Aye! Aye!" Mother Cockleshell nodded three times like a veritableMacbeth witch. "She came tearing, rampagious-like, to the camp an houror so back and put on her fine clothes--may they cleave with pain to herskin--to go to the big city. It is true, rye. Kara ran by the side ofthe donkey she rode upon--may she have an accident--to Wanbury."

  "To Wanbury?" Lambert looked startled as it crossed his mind, and notunnaturally, that Chaldea might have gone to inform Inspector Darbyabout the conversation with Garvington in the library.

  "To Wanbury first, sir, and then to Lundra."

  "How can you be certain of that?"

  "The child treated me like the devil's calls her," said GentillaStanley, shaking her head angrily. "And I have no trust in her, for awitchly wrong 'un she is. When she goes donkey-wise to Wanbury, I saysto a chal, says I, quick-like, 'Follow and watch her games!' So the chalruns secret, behind hedges, and comes on the child at the railway linemaking for Lundra. And off she goes on wheels in place of tramping thedroms in true Romany style."

  "What the deuce has she gone to London for?" Lambert asked himself in alow voice, but Gentilla's sharp ears overheard.

  "Mischief for sure, my gentleman. Hai, but she's a bad one, that same.But she plays and I play, with the winning for me--since the good cardsare always in the old hand. Fear nothing, my rye. She cannot hurt,though snake that she is, her bite stings."

  The young man did not reply. He was uneasy in one way and relieved inanother. Chaldea certainly had not gone to see Inspector Darby, so shecould not have any intention of bringing the police into the matter. Butwhy had she gone to London? He asked himself this question and finallyput it to the old woman, who watched him with bright, twinkling eyes.

  "She's gone for mischief," answered Gentilla, nodding positively. "Formischief's as natural to her as cheating is to a Romany chal. But I'm adealer of cards myself, rye, and I deal myself the best hand."

  "I wish you'd leave metaphor and come to plain speaking," cried Lambertin an irritable tone, for the conversation was getting on his nerves byreason of its prolixity and indirectness.

  Mother Cockleshell laughed and nodded, then emptied the ashes out of herpipe and spoke out, irrelevantly as it would seem: "The child has takenthe hearts of the young from me," said she, shaking her grizzled head;"but the old cling to the old. With them as trusts my wisdom, my rye, Igoes across the black water to America and leaves the silly ones to thechild. She'll get them into choky and trouble, for sure. And that's atrue dukkerin."

  "Have you the money to go to America?"

  "Money?" The old woman chuckled and hugged herself. "And why not, sir,when Ishmael Hearne was my child. Aye, the child of my child, for I amthe bebee of Hearne, bebee being grandmother in our Romany tongue, sir."

  Lambert started from his seat, almost too astonished to speak. "Do youmean to say that you are Pine's grandmother?"

  "Pine? Who is Pine? A Gentile I know not. Hearne he was born and Hearnehe shall be to me, though the grass is now a quilt for him. Ohone! Haimai! Ah, me! Woe! and woe, my gentleman. He was the child of my childand the love of my heart," she rocked herself to and fro sorrowfully,"like a leaf has he fallen from the tree; like the dew has he vanishedinto the blackness of the great shadow. Hai mai! Hai mai! the sadness ofit."

  "Hearne your grandson?" murmured Lambert, staring at her and scarcelyable to believe her.

  "True. Yes; it is true," said Gentilla, still rocking. "He left theroad, and the tent, and the merry fire under a hedge for your Gentilelife. But a born Romany he was and no Gorgio. Ahr-r-r!" she shookherself with disgust. "Why did he labor for gold in the Gentile manner,when he could have chored and cheated like a true-hearted black one?"

  Her allusions to money suddenly enlightened the young man. "Yours is thename mentioned in the sealed letter held by Jarwin?" he cried, withgenuine amazement written largely on his face. "You inherit themillions?"

  Mother Cockleshell wiped her eyes with a corner of her shawl andchuckled complacently. "It is so, young man, therefore can I take thosewho hold to my wisdom to the great land beyond the water. Ah, I am richnow, sir, and as a Gorgious one could I live beneath a roof-tree. Butfor why, I asks you, my golden rye, when I was bred to the open and thesky? In a tent I was born; in a tent I shall die. Should I go, Gentile,it's longing for the free life I'd be, since Romany I am and ever shallbe. As we says in our tongue, my dear, 'It's allers the boro matcho thatpet-a-lay 'dree the panni,' though true gypsy lingo you can't call itfor sure."

  "What does it mean?" demanded Lambert, staring at the dingy possessor oftwo millions sterling.

  "It's allers the largest fish that falls back into the water,"translated Mrs. Stanley. "I told that to Leland, the boro rye, and hegoes and puts the same into a book for your readings, my dearie!" thenshe uttered a howl and flung up her arms. "But what matter I am rich,when my child's child's blood calls out for vengeance. I'd give all thered gold--and red money it is, my loved one," she added, fixing a brightpair of eyes on Lambert, "if I could find him as shot the darling of myheart."

  Knowing that he could trust her, and pitying her obvious sorrow, Lamberthad no hesitation in
revealing the truth so far as he knew it. "Itwasn't a him who shot your grandson, but a her."

  "Hai!" Gentilla flung up her arms again, "then I was right. My old eyesdid see like a cat in the dark, though brightly shone the moon when hefell."

  "What? You know?" Lambert started back again at this second surprise.

  "If it's a Gentile lady, I know. A red one large as a cow in themeadows, and fierce as an unbroken colt."

  "Miss Greeby!"

  "Greeby! Greeby! So your romi told me," shrieked the old woman, throwingup her hands in ecstasy. "Says I to her, 'Who's the foxy one?' and saysshe, smiling like, 'Greeby's her name!'"

  "Why did you ask my wife that?" demanded Lambert, much astonished.

  "Hai, she was no wife of yours then, sir. Why did I ask her? Because Isaw the shooting--"

  "Of Pine--of Hearne--of your son?"

  "Of who else? of who else?" cried Mother Cockleshell, clapping herskinny hand and paddling on the floor with her feet. "Says Ishmael tome, 'Bebee,' says he, 'my romi is false and would run away with thegolden rye this very night as ever was.' And says I to him, 'It's notso, son of my son, for your romi is as true as the stars and purer thangold.' But says he, 'There's a letter,' he says, and shows it to me.'Lies, son of my son,' says I, and calls on him to play the trustfulrom. But he pitches down the letter, and says he, 'I go this night tostop them from paddling the hoof,' and says I to him, 'No! No!' says I.'She's a true one.' But he goes, when all in the camp are sleepingdeath-like, and I watches, and I follers, and I hides."

  "Where did you hide?"

  "Never mind, dearie. I hides securely, and sees him walking up and downbiting the lips of him and swinging his arms. Then I sees--for Oliverwas bright, and Oliver's the moon, lovey--the big Gentile woman comeround and hide in the bushes. Says I to myself, says I, 'And what's yourgame?' I says, not knowing the same till she shoots and my child's childfalls dead as a hedgehog. Then she runs and I run, and all is over."

  "Why didn't you denounce her, Gentilla?"

  "And for why, my precious heart? Who would believe the old gypsy? Ratherwould the Poknees say as I'd killed my dear one. No! no! Artful am I andpatient in abiding my time. But the hour strikes, as I said when I spoketo your romi in Devonshire no less, and the foxy moll shall hang. Yousee, my dear, I waited for some Gentile to speak what I could speak, tosay as what I saw was truth for sure. You speak, and now I can tell mytale to the big policeman at Wanbury so that my son's son may sleepquiet, knowing that the evil has come home to her as laid him low. But,lovey, oh, lovey, and my precious one!" cried the old woman dartingforward to caress Lambert's hand in a fondling way, "tell me how youknow and what you learned. At the cottage you were, and maybe out in theopen watching the winder of her you loved."

  "No," said Lambert sharply, "I was at the cottage certainly, but in bedand asleep. I did not hear of the crime until I was in London. In thisway I found out the truth, Mother!" and he related rapidly all that hadbeen discovered, bringing the narrative right up to the confession ofSilver, which he detailed at length.

  The old woman kept her sharp eyes on his expressive face and hugged hishand every now and then, as various points in the narrative struck her.At the end she dropped his hand and returned back to her chairchuckling. "It's a sad dukkerin for the foxy lady," said Gentilla,grinning like the witch she was. "Hanged she will be, and rightfulit is to be so!"

  "I agree with you," replied Lambert relentlessly. "Your evidence andthat of Silver can hang her, certainly. Yet, if she is arrested, and thewhole tale comes out in the newspapers, think of the disgrace to myfamily."

  Mother Cockleshell nodded. "That's as true as true, my golden rye," shesaid pondering. "And I wish not to hurt you and the rani, who was kindto me. I go away," she rose to her feet briskly, "and I think. What willyou do?"

  "I can't say," said Lambert, doubtfully and irresolutely. "I mustconsult my wife. Miss Greeby should certainly suffer for her crime, andyet--"

  "Aye! Aye! Aye! The boro rye," she meant Garvington, "is a bad one forsure, as we know. Shame to him is shame to you, and I wouldn't have therani miserable--the good kind one that she is. Wait! aye, wait, myprecious gentleman, and we shall see."

  "You will say nothing in the meantime," said Lambert, stopping her atthe door, and anxious to know exactly what were her intentions.

  "I have waited long for vengeance and I can wait longer, sir," saidMother Cockleshell, becoming less the gypsy and more the respectablealmshouse widow. "Depend upon my keeping quiet until--"

  "Until what? Until when?"

  "Never you mind," said the woman mysteriously. "Them as sins must sufferfor the sin. But not you and her as is innocent."

  "No violence, Gentilla," said the young man, alarmed less the lawlessgypsy nature should punish Miss Greeby privately.

  "I swear there shall be no violence, rye. Wait, for the child is makingmischief, and until we knows of her doings we must be silent. Give meyour gripper, my dearie," she seized his wrist and bent back the palm ofthe hand to trace the lines with a dirty finger. "Good fortune comes toyou and to her, my golden rye," she droned in true gypsy fashion."Money, and peace, and honor, and many children, to carry on a stainlessname. Your son shall you see, and your son's son, my noble gentleman,and with your romi shall you go with happiness to the grave," shedropped the hand. "So be it for a true dukkerin, and remember GentillaStanley when the luck comes true."

  "But Mother, Mother," said Lambert, following her to the door, as he wasstill doubtful as to her intentions concerning Miss Greeby.

  The gypsy waved him aside solemnly. "Never again will you see me, mygolden rye, if the stars speak truly, and if there be virtue in thelines of the hand. I came into your life: I go out of your life: andwhat is written shall be!" she made a mystic sign close to his face andthen nodded cheerily.

  "Duveleste rye!" was her final greeting, and she disappeared swiftly,but the young man did not know that the Romany farewell meant, "Godbless you!"