“And you have written to him, I conclude, madam?”
“ I have written week after week. I have sent letters to the Post Office at San Francisco and at Dawson City, where my son told me to address him — letter after letter.”
“Have you communicated with Colonel Rannock’s late body-servant?”
“Chater? Yes, naturally. What do you know of Chater?”
“Very little, madam. I happened to hear of him from a gentleman who had also been making inquiries about your son.”
“ For what reason?”
“In Lady Perivale’s interest. The gentleman has since married Lady Perivale.”
“ Mr. Haldane! Yes, I heard of the marriage. I was glad to hear of it. Lady Perivale had suffered a great injustice from her likeness to that wretched woman.”
“ Pardon me, madam. You know the saying — Cherchez la femme. If you can tell me anything about that woman, and Colonel Rannock’s relations with her, it may help me in my search for him.”
“Oh, it is a sad, sad story. My dear son began life so well, in his grandfather’s regiment. There had been Rannocks in the Lanarkshire ever since Killicrankie. He was a fine soldier, and distinguished himself in Afghanistan, and it was only after he made that wretched woman’s acquaintance that he began to go wrong — seriously wrong. He may have been a little wild even before then, but not more than many other young men. It was that woman and her surroundings that ruined him.”
“I take it that happened about ten years ago.”
“Ten years? Yes. How did you know that?” “I had occasion to look into Miss Delmaine’s past life, madam. Pray tell me all you can about her.”
“It was an infatuation on my son’s part. He saw her at the theatre, where people made a great fuss about her on account of her beauty, though she was no actress. She had a fine house in St. John’s Wood, at the expense of a young man of large means — whom she ruined, and who died soon after. My son became a frequent visitor at the house. There were Sunday dinners, and suppers after the theatre, and my son was always there, madly in love with Miss Delmaine. Whether she was more to him than an acquaintance in those days I cannot say. Certainly he had no quarrel with Sir Hubert Withernsea. But after that unhappy young man’s death Kate Delmaine’s influence upon my son wrecked his career. He left the Army when the Lanarkshire was ordered to Burmah, rather than leave her, and not daring to take her with him. I don’t know what kind of life he lived after that, although I saw him from time to time; but I know he was under a cloud, and there were only a few of his father’s old friends who were civil to him, and asked him to their houses.”
“Did you know of Colonel Rannock’s courtship of Lady Perivale, madam?”
“Yes, indeed. It was my earnest hope that he would succeed in it.”
“Did you know the lady, and know of her likeness to Miss Delmaine?”
“No. I go very little into society. I am an old woman, and only like to see old friends. And you must understand that I never saw Miss Delmaine.”
“Do you think your son was in love with Lady Perivale?”
“Yes, I believe he was. Or it may be that he only liked her because of her resemblance to that woman.”
“And was he very angry when she refused him?”
“Yes, I know he was wounded — and even angry.”
“Do you think that disappointment, and other troubles, might have induced him to take his own life?”
“No, no, no; I couldn’t believe that for one moment. My son has faced death too often — has risked his life in a good cause, and would never throw it away like a coward. I know how brave he is, what a strong will he has — a will strong enough to overcome difficulties. It was like him to think of Klondyke when he was ruined.”
“Did you know that he was in Algiers with Miss Delmaine last February?”
“Not till I read the report of Lady Perivale’s libel suit. I thought he had broken with her finally two years ago, and I believe at the time he had. I need not tell you that I did not obtain my knowledge of that unhappy connection from my son himself. You will understand a mother’s keen anxiety, and that I had other sources of information.”
“Yes, madam, I can understand. I do not think I need give you any further trouble today; but if you will oblige me with your son’s Again the uncontrollable tears welled into her eyes. She rose, and Faunce took the movement as his dismissal.
“You may rely upon my most earnest endeavours, madam,” he said, and quietly withdrew, as she stretched a trembling hand to the bell.
“Poor soul! I’m afraid there must be sorrow for those grey hairs before we come to the end of the story,” mused Faunce, as he walked back to his rooms.
He wrote to Chater, the valet, asking him to call in Essex Street next morning on particular business concerning Colonel Rannock; and the valet appeared, with exact punctuality, neatly clad, with well-brushed hat and slim umbrella, and a little look about the clean-shaved chin, broad chest, and close-cut hair, that told Faunce he had once shouldered arms, and swung round to the “Right turn!” in the white dust of a barrack-yard.
Chater was eminently a man of the world, very easy to get on with, when he had heard Faunce’s credentials, and knew what was wanted of him, in Mrs. Rannock’s interests. He had been Rannock’s soldier-servant in Afghanistan, and had lived with him between eleven and twelve years.
“And I think you liked him,” said Faunce.
“Yes, sir; I liked my master. He was a devil, but he was the kind of devil I like.”
“And I suppose you knew Miss Delmaine?”
“Couldn’t help that, sir. She was a devil, and the kind of devil I don’t like. She was the ruin of my master — blue ruin, Mr. Faunce. He might have kept inside the ropes but for her.”
“Did you know anything of his courtship of Lady Perivale?”
“Of course I did, sir. I had to carry the’ cello backwards and forwards between the Albany and Grosvenor Square.”
“Do you think he cared much for Lady Perivale?”
“Well, I believe he did, in a way. He was cuts with Miss Delmaine just then. She’d been going on a little too bad. There was a prize-fighter, a man she’d known from her childhood, that was always after her, and the Colonel wouldn’t stand it. Mind you, I don’t believe — to give the devil his due — she ever cared for the fellow, but I think she liked making my master jealous. She is that kind of aggravating creature that knows her power over a man, and can’t be happy until she’s made him miserable. And then there were rows, and a regular burst up, and the Colonel swore he’d never see her again.”
“And it was after the quarrel that he courted Lady Perivale?”
“Yes, it was after. He was knocked all of a heap the first time he met her ladyship, on account of her likeness to Kate. ‘She’s the loveliest woman I ever saw since Mrs. Randall was at her best,’ he said, for he was always free with me, having lived under canvas together, and me nursing him through more than one bout of Indian fever—’and she’s an oof-bird,’ he said, ‘and I shall be on the pig’s back if I marry her.’ And I know he meant to marry her, and tried hard — left off cards and drink, and cut all the young fools that he used to have hanging about him, and turned over a new leaf. I’d never known him keep steady so long since we came from India. But when he found it was all no go, and Lady Perivale wouldn’t have him, he was furious. And when she went off to Italy in the autumn, he took to the cards again, and drank harder than ever, and went a mucker one way and another, and by December he had made it up with Kate, and they went off to Nice together the week before Christmas, with the intention of crossing over to Ajaccio.”
“Why didn’t you go with your master?”
“I had business to do for him in town. He wanted to get rid of his chambers and furniture, and I had to find a purchaser, and he wanted it all carried through very quietly, for there was a money-lender who thought he had a bill of sale on the goods.”
“You succeeded in that?”
“Yes; I got him a fair price for his lease and furniture. I would give a good deal to know where he is, and what became of that money.”
“Was it much?”
“Six hundred and forty pounds. Three hundred for the lease, which had only two years to run, and three hundred and forty for the furniture, at a valuation.”
“Did he take all the money with him when he started for America?”
“No; he paid me half a year’s wages, on account of a year and a half due, and he spent a little on himself, but he had five hundred and fifty pounds in his pocket-book, in bank-notes, when he left Waterloo.”
“In bank-notes. Do you know the figures?”
“Yes; there were two hundred-pound notes, and four fifties, the rest tens and fives. I wrote a list of the numbers at his dictation.”
“Have you kept that list?”
“I believe I have a copy of it among my papers. I copied the figures, knowing what a careless beggar the Colonel is, and that he was as likely as not to lose his list.”
“Why did he take the money in bank-notes?”
“He had been told that a cheque-book wouldn’t be of much use to him in San Francisco, and no use at all at Dawson City, where he would have to buy most of his outfit — furs, and mining tools, and a lot more.”
“What put Klondyke into his head, do you think?”
“A pal of his, a Yankee, was going to try his luck there. My master was always fond of adventure, and never minded roughing it; so the scheme took his fancy.”
Chater,” said Faunce, in a very earnest voice, “do you think Colonel Rannock ever got as far as Klondyke? — as far as Dawson City? — as far as ‘Frisco? — as far as New York?”
“God knows, sir! I think the case looks — fishy.”
“I have reason to know that he wasn’t at ‘Frisco in time to start for Vancouver with the pal you talk of, Mr. Bamford — and that Bamford and another friend sailed without him.”
“I know that, sir. Mr. Haldane, the gentleman who came to me for information, told me the result of his inquiry.”
“And this made you rather uneasy, didn’t it, Chater?”
“Well, I didn’t like to hear it, Mr. Faunce. But my master is a rum sort. He might change his mind at the last minute. He might go back to her.”
“He didn’t do that, Chater. I can answer for him.”
“What do you know about her?”
“A good deal. Was she at Waterloo to see your master off by the boat-train?”
“Not she! They had one of their quarrels in Paris — and he left her there to find her way home by herself.”
“You say home? Had she any house in London?”
“No, she’d never owned a house since the Abbey Road. She was in lodgings near Cheyne Walk before she went to Nice.”
“Decent lodgings?”
“Oh yes, topping.”
“And she didn’t show up at the boat train?” “He didn’t travel by the boat-train. He went the night before — by the Bournemouth express.”
“The four-fifty-five?”
“Yes.”
“Was he going to stay in Southampton that night?”
“I suppose so. He didn’t tell me what was up. He seemed a bit excited and put out, and hadn’t a word to throw at a dog.”
“Did he promise to write to you from America?”
“Yes, he was to write to me directly he landed. He had instructions to give me.”
“Do you know of any Southampton friends of Colonel Rannock’s?”
“Can’t say I do. He has had yachting pals there sometimes in summer, but there wouldn’t be any of that sort in March.”
“Mrs. Rannock is alarmed at being without letters from her son since last March. Do you consider that an alarming circumstance?”
“Yes, Mr. Faunce, I do. My master was fond of his mother, in his way. He didn’t mind victimizing her to the extent of her last sovereign, poor old lady, when he was hard pushed; but he was attached to her, in his way. And I don’t think he would have made her unhappy by not writing to her, if it had been in his power to write. I give him that much credit.”
“Well, Chater, we shall have to set the cable at work, and find out what we can at Dawson City. And now tell me your opinion of Mrs. Randall, alias Delmaine. You describe her as a bit of a shrew; but do you know if she was really attached to the Colonel?”
“I believe she worshipped him, in her way. I — well, a letter she wrote him after their worst quarrel — the row that parted them for over two years — forced itself on my attention — happening to take it up in a casual way — and I must say it was a letter to melt a stone; but it came just when the Colonel was going all he knew for Lady Perivale, and he took no notice of it.”
“And two years after he went back to her. That was weak, wasn’t it?”
“I suppose it was, sir. But, after being much with a stuck-up person like Lady Perivale, a spirited, free and easy creature like Kate Delmaine would exercise a fascination.”
“And you don’t think she ever played him false? You don’t think she cared for the prizefighter? What was his name, by-the-by; Bolisco, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, sir, Jim Bolisco. No, she never cared a straw for him — a great ugly brute, with a cockeye. She’d known him when she was a child — for her people were very low — father kept a small public out Battersea way; and it ain’t easy for a woman to shake off that sort of friend. Bolisco was took up by Sir Hubert Withernsea, and used to dine at the Abbey Road sometimes, much to the Colonel’s disgust. No, I don’t believe Kate ever had the slightest liking for that man; but I sometimes used to fancy she was afraid of him.”
CHAPTER XVI.
“Later or sooner by a minute then,
So much for the untimeliness of death, —
And as regards the manner that offends,
That rude and rough, I count the same for gain —
Be the act harsh and quick!”
His interview with Chater left John Faunce troubled in mind, and deeply meditative. Had there been a crime, or was the disappearance of Colonel Rannock a fact easily accounted for in the natural course of events? The mother’s conviction that some evil had befallen him was after all founded on an inadequate reason. If he had gone to Klondyke, as he intended, the whole fabric of his life would have been changed, and the man who while in the civilized world corresponded regularly with his mother, might well forget his filial duty, in the daily toil and hourly dangers, hopes, and disappointments of the struggle for gold, It was difficult to judge a man so placed by previous experience or everyday rules. The most dutiful son might well leave home letters unwritten; or a letter, trusted to a casual hand, might easily go astray.
Then there was always the possibility that he had changed his plans; that he had stayed in New York or in San Francisco; that he had chosen some other portion of the wild West for his hunting ground; that he had spent the summer fishing in Canada, or the autumn shooting in the Alleghanies; and, again, that his letters to England had been lost in transit.
Faunce would not have been disposed to suspect foul play on so slight a ground as the absence of news from the wanderer, but there had been that in Mrs. Randall’s manner and countenance which had excited his darkest suspicions, and which had been the cause of his undiminished interest in her proceedings.
If there had been a crime she knew of it, had been in it, perhaps. He had watched her and studied her, but he had never questioned her. The time was not ripe for questioning. He did not want to alarm her by the lightest hint of his suspicions. She was too important a factor in the mystery.
He called on her on the evening after his interview with Chater, and persuaded her to go to a theatre with him. It was the first time he had assumed the attitude of established friendship, but although she seemed surprised at the invitation, she accepted it.
“I shall be glad to get out of this hole for a few hours,” she said, with an impatient sigh, as she pinned on her hat before the glass
over the mantelpiece, the little fur toque in which she had charmed the jury.
Faunce took her to see a musical comedy, a roaring farce from start to finish, in which the most popular low comedian in London gave a free rein to his eccentricities; and he watched his companion’s face from time to time while the auditorium rocked with laughter at the wild fun. Not a smile illumined that gloomy countenance. He could see that she was hardly conscious of the scene, at which she stared with fixed melancholy eyes. Once she looked round at the people near her, with a dazed expression, as if she wondered why they were laughing.
It is recorded of the first Napoleon that he once sat through a broad farce with an unchanged countenance; but then his shoulders bore the burden of empire, the lives and fortunes of myriads.
The experience of this evening went far to confirm Faunce’s ideas. He took Mrs. Randall to an oyster shop, and gave her some supper, and then put her into a cab and sent her back to Selburne Street.
Just at the last, when he had paid the cabman and given her the man’s ticket, her face lighted up for a moment with a forced smile.
“Thank you no end for a jolly evening,” she said.
“I’m afraid it hasn’t been very jolly for you, Mrs. Randall. You didn’t seem amused.”
“Oh, I don’t think I’m up to that sort of trash now, I had too much of it when I was on the boards. And the more comic the show is, the more I get thinking of other things.”
“You shouldn’t think too much; it’ll spoil your beauty.”
“Oh, that’s gone,” she said, “or, if it ain’t, I don’t care. I’d as leave be a nigger as a ‘has been,’ any day. Good night. Come and see me soon; and perhaps, if you take me to a tragedy next time, I may laugh,” she added.
“There’s something bitter bad behind that,” mused Faunce, as he tramped across the bridge to Waterloo Station for the last Putney train, “but, for all that, I can’t believe she’s a murderess.”
Faunce spent the next morning in his den in Essex Street poring over a book to which he had frequent recourse, and of which he was justly proud, since it was the wife of his bosom who had compiled this register of passing events for his study and use, a labour of love on her part, achieved with abnormal slowness, and kept closely up to date. The book was carried home to Putney on the first of every month, and Mrs. Faunce’s careful hands added such paragraphs bearing on the scheme of the work, as she had cut out of the newspapers during the previous four weeks.
Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon Page 998
