Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon

by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

  The girl named the morning on which had been discovered the disappearance of Sir Oswald’s daughter.

  “He went away pretty early, I suppose?” said Mr. Larkspur, with assumed indifference.

  “I should rather think he did,” answered the girl. “I was up at six that morning, but my master had gone clean off when I came down stairs. There weren’t a sign of him.”

  “He must have gone very early.”

  “That he must; and the strangest part of it is that he was up very late the night before,” added the girl, who was one of those people who ask nothing better than the privilege of telling all they know about anything or anybody.

  “Oh,” said Mr. Larkspur; “he was up late the night before, was he?”

  “Yes. It was eleven when he sent me to bed, ordering me off as sharp as you please, which is just his way. And he couldn’t have gone to bed for above an hour after that, for I lay awake, on the listen, as you may say, wondering what he was up to downstairs. But though I lay awake above an hour, I didn’t hear him come up stairs at all; so goodness knows what time he went to bed. You see he had a party that night.”

  “Oh, he had a party, had he?” remarked the police-officer, who saw that he had no occasion to question this young lady, so well-inclined was she to tell him all she knew.

  “Yes, sir. His friends came to have a hand at cards and a hot supper; and didn’t it give me plenty of trouble to get it all ready, that’s all. You see, master’s friends are some of the gentlemen up at the castle; and they live so uncommon well up there, that they’re very particular what they eat. It must be all of the best, and done to a turn, master says to me; and so it was. I’m sure the steak was a perfect picture when I laid it on the dish, and the onions were fried a beautiful golden brown, as would have done credit to the Queen of England’s head-cook, though I says it as shouldn’t perhaps,” added the damsel, modestly.

  “And which of the gentlemen from the castle came to supper with your master that night?” Mr. Larkspur asked, presently.

  “Well, sir, you see there was three of them. Mr. Brook, the coachman, a good-natured, civil-spoken man as you’d wish to meet, but a little given to drink, folks say; and there was James Harwood, the under-groom; and Stephen Plumpton, the footman, a good-looking, fresh-coloured young man, which is, perhaps, beknown to you.”

  “Oh, yes,” answered Mr. Larkspur, “I know Stephen, the footman.”

  Mr. Larkspur and the damsel conversed a good deal after this; but nothing of particular interest transpired in this conversation. The gentleman departed from the “Cat and Fiddle” very well satisfied with his evening’s work, and returned to the castle in time to take a comfortable cup of tea in the housekeeper’s room.

  He was quite satisfied in his own mind as to the identity of the delinquent who had stolen the child.

  The next thing to be discovered was the manner in which the landlord of the “Cat and Fiddle” had left Raynham. It must have been almost impossible for him to leave in any public vehicle, carrying the stolen child with him, as he must have done, without attracting the attention of his fellow-passengers. Andrew Larkspur had taken care to ascertain all possible details of the man’s habits from the communicative barmaid, and knew that he had no vehicle or horse of his own. He must, therefore, have either gone in a public vehicle, or on foot.

  If he had left the village on foot, under cover of darkness, he might have left unseen; but he must have entered some other village at daybreak; he must sooner or later have procured some kind of conveyance; and wherever he went, carrying with him that stolen child, it was more than probable his appearance would attract attention.

  After a little trouble, the astute Andrew ascertained that Mr. Maunders had certainly not left the village by any public conveyance.

  It was late when Mr. Larkspur returned to the castle, after having mastered this fact. He found that Lady Eversleigh had been inquiring for him; and he was told that she had requested he might be sent to her apartments at whatever time he returned.

  In obedience to this summons, he followed a servant to the room occupied by the mistress of Raynham Castle.

  “Well, Mr. Larkspur,” Honoria asked, eagerly, “do you bring many hope?”

  “I don’t exactly know about that, my lady,” answered the ever-cautious Andrew; “but I think I may venture to say that things are going on pretty smoothly. I ain’t wasting time, depend upon it; and I hope in a day or two I may have something encouraging to tell you.”

  “But you will tell me nothing yet?” murmured Honoria, with a despairing sigh.

  “Not yet, my lady.”

  No more was said. Lady Eversleigh was obliged to be content with this small comfort.

  Early the next morning Mr. Larkspur set out on his voyage of discovery to the villages within two, three, four, and five hours’ walk of Raynham.

  CHAPTER XXXVI.

  ON THE TRACK.

  The next day Mr. Larkspur spent in the same manner, and returned to the castle late at night, and very much out of sorts. He had of late been spoiled by tolerably easy triumphs, and the experience of failure was very disagreeable to him.

  On both evenings he was summoned to Lady Eversleigh’s apartments, and on each occasion declined going. He sent a respectful message, to the effect that he had nothing to communicate to her ladyship, and would not therefore intrude upon her.

  But early on the morning after the second day’s wasted labour, the post brought Mr. Larkspur a communication which quite restored him to his accustomed good humour.

  It was neither more nor less than a brief epistle from one of the officials of the police-staff at Murford Haven, informing Mr. Larkspur that an old woman had produced the silken coverlet advertised for, and claimed the offered reward.

  Mr. Larkspur sent a servant to inquire if Lady Eversleigh would be pleased to favour him with a few minutes’ conversation that morning. The man came back almost immediately with a ready affirmative.

  “My lady will be very happy to see Mr. Larkspur.”

  “Oh, Mr. Larkspur!” exclaimed Honoria, as the police-officer entered the room, “I am certain you bring me good news; I can see it in your face.”

  “Well, yes, my lady; certainly I’ve got a little bit of good news this morning.”

  “You have found a clue to my child?”

  “I have found out something about the coverlet,” answered Andrew; “and that’s the next best thing, to my mind. That has turned up at Murford Haven, thirty miles from here; though how the man who stole Miss Eversleigh can have got there without leaving a single trace behind him is more than I can understand.”

  “At Murford Haven! — my darling has been taken to Murford Haven!” cried

  Honoria.

  “So I conclude, my lady, by the coverlet turning up there,” replied Mr. Larkspur. “I told you the handbills would do the trick. Murford Haven is a large manufacturing town, and the sort of place a man who wanted to keep himself out of sight of the police might be likely enough to choose. Now, with your leave, my lady, I’ll be off to Murford Haven as soon as I can have a post-chaise got ready for me.”

  “And I will go with you,” exclaimed Lady Eversleigh; “I shall feel as if I were nearer my child if I go to the town where you hope to find the clue to her hiding-place.”

  “I, too, will accompany you,” said Captain Copplestone.

  “Begging you pardon, sir,” remonstrated Mr. Larkspur, “if three of us go, and one of those three a lady, we might attract attention, even in such a busy place as Murford Haven. And if those that have got little missy should hear of it, they’d smell a rat. No, my lady, you let me go alone. I’m used to this sort of work, and you ain’t, and the captain ain’t either. I can slip about on the quiet anywhere like an eel; and I’ve got the eye to see whatever is to be seen, and the ear to pick up every syllable that’s to be heard. You trust matters to me, and depend upon it, I’ll do my duty. I’ve got a clue, and a clue is all I ever want. You keep to this spo
t, my lady, and you, too, captain; for there may come some kind of news in my absence, and you may have to act without me. I shan’t waste time, you may rely upon it; and all you’ve got to do, my lady, is to trust to me, and hope that I shall bring you back good news from Murford Haven.”

  Very little more was said, and half an hour after this interview, the police-officer left Raynham in a post-chaise, on the first stage of the journey to Murford Haven.

  Words are too weak to describe the sufferings of the mother of the lost child, and of the friends to whom she was hardly less dear. They waited very quietly, with all outward show of calmness, but the pain of suspense was not less keen. They sat silent, unoccupied, counting the hours — the minutes even — during the period which must elapse before the return of the police-officer.

  He came earlier than Honoria had dared to expect him, and he brought with him so much comfort that she could almost have fallen on her knees, like Thetis at the feet of Jove, in the extremity of her gratitude for his services.

  “I’ve got the coverlet,” said Mr. Larkspur, dragging the little silken covering from his carpet-bag, and displaying it before those to whom it was so familiar. “That’s about the ticket, I think, my lady. Yes, just so. I found a nice old hag waiting to claim her five pounds reward; for, you see, the men at the police-office at Murford Haven contrived to keep her dancing attendance backward and forwards — call again in an hour, and so on — till I was there to cross-question her. A precious deep one she is, too; and a regular jail-bird, I’ll wager. I soon reckoned her up; and I was pretty sure that whatever she knew she’d tell fast enough, if she was only paid her price. So, after a good deal of shilly-shally, and handing her over five-and-twenty pounds in solid cash, and telling her that she’d better beware how she trifled with a gentleman belonging to Bow Street, she consented to tell me all about the little girl. The man that stole little missy had been to her precious hovel, and old Mother Brimstone had found a change of clothes for little missy, in token of which, and on payment of another sovereign, the old harpy gave me little missy’s own clothes; and there they are.”

  Hereupon Mr. Larkspur dragged from his capacious carpet-bag the delicate little garments of lawn and lace which had been worn by the cherished heiress of Raynham. Ah! who can describe the anguish of the mother’s heart as she gazed upon those familiar garments, so associated with the form of the lost one?

  “Well,” gasped Honoria, “go on, I entreat! She told you the child had been there. But with whom? Did she tell you that?”

  “She did,” returned Andrew Larkspur. “She told me that the scoundrel who holds little missy in his keeping is no other than the man suspected of a foul murder — a man I have long been looking for — a man who is well known amongst the criminal classes of London by the name of Black Milsom.”

  Black Milsom! the face of Lady Eversleigh, pale before, grew almost ghastly in its pallor, as that hated name sounded in her ears, ominous as a death-knell.

  “Black Milsom!” she exclaimed at last. “If my child is in the power of that man, she is, indeed, lost.”

  “You know him, my lady?” cried Andrew Larkspur, with surprise. “Ah, I remember, you seemed familiar with the details of the Jernam murder. You know this man, Milsom?”

  “I do know him,” answered Honoria, in a tone of utter despair. “Do not ask me where or when that man and I have met. It is enough that I know him. My darling could not be in worse hands.”

  “He can have but one motive, and that to extort money,” said Captain

  Copplestone. “No harm will come to our darling’s precious life. You

  have reason to rejoice that your child has not fallen into the hands of

  Sir Reginald Eversleigh.”

  “Tell me more,” said Honoria to Mr. Larkspur. “Tell me all you have discovered.”

  “All I could discover was that the man Milsom had taken the child to London by a certain coach. I went to the inn from which that particular coach always starts; and here, after much trouble and delay, I was lucky enough to see the guard. From him I derived some valuable information; or perhaps, I ought to say some information that I think may turn up trumps. He perfectly remembered the man Milsom by my description of him, I having got the description from old Mother Brimstone; and he remembered the child, because of her crying a deal, and the passengers pitying her, and being pleased with her pretty looks, and trying to comfort her, and so on. The guard himself took a deal of notice of the child, and thought the man was not much good; and when they got to London, he felt curious like, he said, to know where the two would go, and what would become of them.”

  “And did he find out?” gasped Lady Eversleigh.

  “As good luck would have it, he did. The man got into a hackney-coach, and the guard heard the driver tell him to go to Ratcliff Highway — that was all.”

  “Then I will find him,” exclaimed Honoria, with feverish excitement. “I know the place well — too well! I will go with you to London, Mr. Larkspur, and I myself will help you to find my treasure.”

  In the extremity of her excitement she was reckless what secrets she betrayed. She had but one thought, one consideration, and that to her was life or death.

  “Don’t question me,” she said to Captain Copplestone, who stared at her in amazement; “my girlhood was spent in a den of thieves — my womanhood has been one long struggle against pitiless enemies. I will fight bravely to the last. And now, in this most bitter trial of my life, the experience of my miserable youth shall serve in the contest with that villain.”

  She would brook no delay; she would explain nothing.

  “Do not question me,” she repeated. “You have counselled me to trust in the experience of Mr. Larkspur, and I will confide myself to his wisdom; but I must and will accompany him in his search for my child. Let a post-chaise be ordered immediately. Can you dispense with rest, and take a hurried dinner before you start, Mr. Larkspur?” she added, turning to her ally.

  “Dispense with rest? Bless your innocent heart, my lady, I don’t know the meaning of rest when I’m in business; and as for dinner, a ham sandwich and a glass of brandy out of a pocket-pistol is as much as I ask for when my blood’s up.” “You shall be richly rewarded for your exertions.”

  “Thank you kindly, ma’am. The promise of a reward is very encouraging, of course; but, upon my word, my heart’s more in this business than it ever was before in anything under a murder; and I feel as if it was in me to do wonders.”

  No more was said. Andrew Larkspur hurried away to eat as good a dinner as he could get through in ten minutes, and Honoria went to her dressing-room to prepare herself for her journey.

  “Pray for me, kind and faithful friend,” she said, earnestly, as she bade adieu to the captain.

  In a few minutes more she was once again speeding along the familiar road which she had travelled under such different circumstances, and with such different feelings. She remembered the first time she had driven through those rustic villages, past those swelling uplands, those woods and hills.

  Then she had come as a bride, beloved, honoured, seated by the side of an adoring husband — a happy future shining before her, a bright horizon without one cloud.

  Only one shadow to come between her and the sunshine, and that the shadow of a cruel memory — the haunting recollection of that foul deed which had been done beneath the shelter of the darkness, by the side of the ever-flowing river. Even to-day, when her heart was full of her child’s sweet image, that dark memory still haunted her. It seemed to her as if some mystic influence obliged her to recall the horrors of that night.

  “The curse of innocent blood has been upon me,” she thought to herself. “I shall never know rest or peace till the murder of Valentine Jernam has been avenged.”

  Lady Eversleigh went at once to her rooms in Percy Street, and Mr. Andrew Larkspur betook himself to certain haunts, in which he expected to glean some information. That he was not entirely unsuccessful will appear from his su
bsequent conversation with Lady Eversleigh. After an absence, in reality short, but which, to her suspense and impatience appeared of endless duration, Mr. Larkspur presented himself before her.

  “Well, Mr. Larkspur, what news?” she cried, eagerly, as he entered the room.

  “Not much, my lady; but there’s something done, at any rate. I’ve found out one fact.”

  “And what is that?”

  “That the little lady has not been taken out of the country. Now, you seem to know something of the man Milsom, my lady. Have you any idea whether there is any particular place where he’d be likely to take little missy?”

  For some minutes Lady Eversleigh remained silent, evidently lost in thought.

  “Yes,” she said, at last, “I do know something of that man’s past career; so much, that the very mention of his name sends a thrill of horror through my heart. Yes, Mr. Larkspur, it is my misfortune to have known Black Milsom only too well in the bitter past.”

  “If your ladyship wouldn’t consider it a liberty,” said the police-officer, with some hesitation, “I should very much like to put a question.”

  “You are free to ask me what questions you please.”

  “What I should like to ask is this,” replied Mr. Larkspur, “when and where did your ladyship happen to meet Black Milsom? If you would only be so kind as to speak freely, it might be a great help to me in the work I’ve got in hand.”

  Honoria did not answer him for some moments. She had risen from her chair, and was walking up and down the room in deep thought.

  “Will it help you in your search for my child,” she said, at length, “if I tell you all I know?”

  “It may help me. I cannot venture to say more than that, my lady.”

  “If there is even a chance, I must speak,” replied Honoria. “I will tell you, then,” she said, throwing herself into a chair, and fixing her grave, earnest eyes upon the face of her companion. “In order to tell you what I know of Black Milsom, I must go back to the days of my childhood. My first memories are bright ones; but they are so vague, so shadowy, that it is with difficulty I can distinguish realities from dreams; and yet I believe the things which I remember must have been real. I have a faint recollection of a darkly beautiful face, that bent over me as I lay in some bed or cradle, softer and more luxurious than any bed I ever slept in for many years after that time. I remember a soft, sweet voice, that sang me to sleep. I remember that in the place I called home everything was beautiful.”