Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon

by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

  The express had cleared Grandchester by this time, tearing along a viaduct above a forest of tall chimneys, and then, with a sweeping curve, away to the windy open country, a land as wild and fresh and free as if there were no such things s factories and smoky chimneys in the world. Mr. Caulfield had for the first ten minutes or so felt relieved by his inability to see his companion’s face. It had been a comfort to him to behold her placidly asleep yonder, requiring no attention, leaving him free to dip into Tennyson’s last idyll, which he carried uncut in his travelling bag. But so variable is the human mind, so fanciful and altogether irrational at times, that now Mr. Caulfield began to feel vaguely curious about the face hidden under the blue gauze veil. He began to wonder about it. Was it so very pale, so deadly white, as it seemed to him under that gauze veil, in the dim light of the oil-lamp? No, it was the blue gauze, no doubt, which gave that ghastly pallor to the sharply cut features, the sunken cheeks

  The young lady’s eyes were altogether hidden by the shadow of her hat, but Mr. Caulfield felt sure that she was asleep. She was breathing so quietly that he could scarcely see tiny indication of the faint breath that must be stirring her breast in gentle undulations. Sometimes he fancied he saw the folds of the Rob Roy shawl rise and fall in. regular pulsations. Sometimes it seemed to him that nothing stirred save the shadows moved by the flickering of the windblown flame.

  He sat and watched that quiet figure in the corner, only taking his eyes away now and then to look out at the dark land through which they were speeding, to see a cosy village, lit by half-a-dozen farthing rushlights, flit by like a phantom, or a town that made a patch of angry glare on the edge of the horizon. Useless to think of enjoying Tennyson by the sickly gleam of that wretched lamp! He curled himself up in his warm rug, he closed his eyes, and tried to sleep. In vain. He was thinking of the face under the blue veil. He was broad awake — hopelessly awake. He could do nothing but sit and contemplate the figure reposing so quietly in the opposite corner. How he longed for Milldale junction! He looked at his watch. The inexorable dial told him that it was only half-an-hour since he left Grandchester. His own sensations told him that it was a long night of agony.

  Naturally a nervous man, to-night his nerves were getting the mastery over him.

  ‘I never took such a miserable journey,’ he said to himself. ‘If she would only throw back that veil — if she would only speak to me — if she would only stir, or make some little sign of life! It is like travelling with Death personified. Were she to lift that veil this instant I should expect to see a grinning skull underneath.’

  He had been told not to speak to her, but the inclination to disobey that injunction was every instant intensifying. Yet, if she were sleeping as placidly as she seemed to sleep, it would be cruel to disturb her; and he was a man overflowing with the milk of human kindness.

  He took out his Tennyson, and cut the leaves, puzzling out a few lines here and there by the uncertain lamplight. This helped him to while away a quarter of an hour. He looked at his watch. God be praised! fifteen minutes more and the train would be at Milldale. What bliss to deliver that poor creature into the keeping of her friends — to have done with that muffled figure and that unseen face for ever!

  The train was fast approaching the junction; seven minutes more alone remained of the hour, and this night mail was famed for its punctuality.

  Just at the last that feeling of morbid curiosity which had been tormenting the curate for the greater part of the journey became an irresistible impulse. He changed his seat to that directly opposite his silent companion. Here he could see the form of the delicate features under the blue veil. How cruelly illness bad sharpened that outline? The girl’s ungloved hand hung listlessly over the morocco-covered arm which divided her seat from the’ next. Such a pallid hand, so nerveless in its attitude. Something, he knew not what, prompted Mr. Caulfield to touch those pale fingers. He bent over and laid his hand lightly upon them.

  Great God, what an icy hand! He had felt the touch of death on many a sad occasion in the path of duty, but this was colder than death itself. A cry of horror burst from his lips. He snatched aside the gauze veil, and saw a face purpled by the awful shadow of death.

  ‘Milldale Junction! Change here for Broughborough, Mudford, Middlebridge, Slougheombe—’ Here followed a string of names that dwindled into silence far away along the platform.

  George Caulfield sprang out of the railway carriage like a man. distraught. He seized upon the nearest guard.

  ‘For God’s sake tell me what to do!’ he cried. ‘There is a lady in that carriage dead, or dying. Indeed, I fear she is actually dead. She was placed in my charge by a stranger at Grandchester. She is to be met by friends here. It will be an awful shock for them — near relatives, perhaps. How am I to find them? How am I to break the sad news to them?’

  He was pale to the lips, cold drops of sweat were on his brow. All the pent-up excitement of the last hour burst from him now with uncontrollable force. The guard was as calm as a man of iron.

  ‘Fetch the stationmaster here, will you?’ he said to a passing porter. ‘Sad thing, sir,’ he said to the agitated curate; ‘but you’d better keep yourself quiet. Such misfortunes will happen. We’ll get a medical man here presently. I dare say there’s one in the train. Perhaps the lady has only fainted. Hadn’t you better step inside and sit with her?’

  They were standing at the door of the carriage. George Caulfield glanced with a shudder at that muffled figure in the furthest corner.

  ‘No,’ he answered, profoundly agitated, ‘I could do no good. I fear there is no hope. I fear she is dead.’

  ‘No relation of yours, sir, the lady?’ asked the guard, scrutinising the curate rather curiously.

  ‘I never saw her till to-night;’ and then, in flurried accents, Mr. Caulfield related the circumstances of his departure from Grandchester.

  ‘Here comes the station-master,’ said the guard, without vouchsafing any comment on the curate’s story.

  The station-master was a business-like man, of commanding presence, and Mr. Caulfield turned to him as for protection.

  ‘What am I to do?’ he asked, when the guard had briefly stated the case.

  ‘Nothing, I should think,’ answered the station-master, shortly; ‘but you’d better stay to see the upshot of the business. Where are the lady’s friends, I wonder? They ought to have turned up by this time. Johnson, just you go along the platform and look out for anybody waiting to meet a lady from Grandchester, and send some one else along the line to inquire for a doctor.’

  The guard departed on his errand; the station-master stayed. In three minutes a porter came, followed by an elderly man, bearded and spectacled.

  ‘Medical gentleman, sir,’ said the porter.

  The doctor got into the carriage and looked at the lady.

  ‘Bring me a better light,’ he asked, and a lamp was brought.

  A crowd was collecting by this time, travellers who scented some excitement, and thought they could not make a better use of their remaining five minutes than in finding out all about it.

  ‘You had better send for the police,’ exclaimed the doctor, reappearing at the door of the carriage. ‘This is a bad case.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ inquired the station-master.

  ‘I mean that this poor creature has died from the effects of a narcotic poison.’

  ‘Great heaven!’ cried the curate; ‘I had a presentiment there was something wrong.’

  The doctor and a porter lifted the muffled figure out of the carriage, and conveyed it to the nearest waiting-room. Three minutes more and the train would be moving.

  A police-constable appeared as if by magic, and planted himself at the curate’s side.

  The guard came back.

  ‘Nobody here to meet the lady,’ he said. ‘There must be a mistake somewhere.’

  ‘What am I to do?’ demanded George Caulfield, looking helplessly from the station-master to the doctor.


  ‘Keep yourself as quiet as you can, I should say,’ answered the station-master.

  ‘But, good heavens! I may be suspected of being concerned in this poor creature’s death unless her friends appear to verify my statement. Ah, by-the-bye, her brother gave me his card. I can tell you her name, at any rate.’

  He took the card from his breast pocket and handed it to the station-master.

  ‘Mr. Elsden, Briargate,’ the man read aloud.

  ‘Elsden, ‘said the doctor. ‘I know an Elsden of Briar-gate — a big man with large white whiskers?’ he interrogated, turning to the curate.

  ‘No, this was a young man: pale, dark, good-looking.’

  ‘Ah, I don’t know who he can be. There’ll have to be an inquest to-morrow morning, and the best thing we can do is to telegraph to Elsden, of Briargate, directly the office is open. Very strange that the lady’s friends should not have appeared.’

  ‘I shall lose my train,’ cried George Caulfield, seeing the last lingerers hurrying to their places. ‘Here’s my card,’ handing one to the doctor. ‘You can communicate to me at that address. Any assistance that I can give—’

  ‘Beg your pardon, sir,’ said the constable, laying an authoritative hand upon him. ‘I shall be obliged to detain you till this business is settled.’

  ‘I shall be wanted as a witness at the inquest?’

  ‘Yes, sir; most likely, sir. It will be my duty to detain you. Better not talk too freely, sir. Any statement you now make may be used against you later on.’

  The curate looked at him in surprise.

  ‘Do you mean to say that I am your prisoner — that you want to lock me up?’

  ‘Well, yes, sir. Very suspicious case, you see. Young lady poisoned — friends not forthcoming, No doubt you’ll be able to explain matters to-morrow; but for to-night you must consider yourself in custody.’

  ‘Yes, of course I shall be able to explain,’ said George Caulfield, calm and bold now that he found himself face to face with actual peril, ‘but it is a most painful position. I feel that a trap has been set for me.’

  ‘You had better hold your tongue,’ said the doctor.

  So the London mail left without George Caulfield, who was conveyed in a cab to Milldale Gaol, where he was subjected to the ignominious process of having his pockets searched by a gaoler. In one of them was found the little bottle given him by the gentleman at Grandchester, and this, together with a few other trifles, was handed over to the authorities for investigation.

  CHAPTER II. IN DURANCE VILE.

  INSTEAD of making any vain attempt at sleep, George Caulfield asked for pens, ink, and paper, and a lamp that would last him for the best part of the night; and on these luxuries being conceded, he sat down to write a long letter to his mother; relating all the circumstances of his miserable journey, and entreating her not to take alarm at his situation, whatever she might read about him in the newspapers. This letter, which would travel by the morning post, could be preceded by a telegram, informing the old lady that her son was safe, and detained at Milldale on business. Some hours of anxiety the son could not spare that beloved mother; and it was more painful to him to think of her trouble, when five o’clock came and brought no returning traveller, than to contemplate his own position.

  ‘Dear old lady! I can fancy her and all her neat and careful arrangements for my comfort,’ mused Mr. Caulfield. ‘I know how distrustful she will be of the maids, and how she will insist upon getting up at four o’clock in order to see about my breakfast. And then when the time comes, and no hansom drives up to the gate, what agonies she will suffer, for I have never accustomed her to disappointments. I have never broken my word to her in my life.’

  The curate fretted and fumed at the thought of his mother’s anxiety. He was an only and an adoring son — at thirty-two years of age a confirmed bachelor, loving no one on earth as well as he loved the widowed mother whose cherished companion he had been from childhood upwards. Had she not removed her dearly loved goods and chattels to Eton, and lived in a small house in the High Street all the time her boy was at school there? Had she not followed him to Cambridge as faithfully as a suttler follows a camp? And now she had one of the prettiest houses in South Kensington, and her son was first curate at the most intensely Gothic church in that locality. George Caulfield’s mother was the love of his life. He had been assisting at a choral festival at a small town near Grandchester, where an old college friend of his father’s was vicar, and had been only three days away from the dainty little nest at South Kensington, where blue china plates had just broken out, like pimples, on the sage green wall, and where the Queen Anne mania showed itself modestly in divers inexpensive details.

  ‘Poor mother!’ sighed George; ‘a telegram can hardly reach her before nine o’clock at the earliest.’

  He read his Tennyson; he dozed a little; he got rid of the night somehow, and at seven o’clock he had written and despatched two telegrams.

  The first was to his mother, the second was to the vicar, from whom he had parted at eleven o’clock the previous morning, and to whom he was inclined to look for succour, as one of the cleverest and most energetic men he knew.

  This latter message was brief: —

  ‘From George Caulfield, Milldale Gaol, to Edward Leworthy, Freshmead Vicarage. — Come to me at once, for God’s sake. I am in a great difficulty.’

  Mr. Caulfield’s janitor brought him a comfortable breakfast by-and-by, and was inclined to sympathise. He knew a gentleman when he saw one, he told the curate, though he had had to deal with a rough lot in this beastly hole. He had seen a good many murderers in his time, and the possibility of his prisoner’s guilt made very little difference to his feelings. Guilty or not guilty, a man who was free-handed with half-crown pieces was entitled to respect. The difference between a half-crown and a florin was just the difference between your real gentleman and the spurious article. The actual amount was not much; but that odd sixpence marked the distinction.

  This functionary informed Mr. Caulfield that the inquest was to take place at four o’clock that afternoon.

  ‘Which gives you time to communicate with your solicitor,’ he added, grandly.

  ‘But I haven’t any solicitor,’ answered the prisoner. ‘I never have had any law business in my life.’

  ‘So much the better for you, sir,’ responded the gaoler, sententiously; ‘but you must have a lawyer to watch this here case for you.’

  ‘I’ll wait till my friend the vicar of Fresh mead comes, and take his advice about it,’ said George. ‘I know he’ll come as soon as the rail can bring him.’

  His confidence was not ill-placed. Soon after noon Mr. Leworthy was ushered into his room. He was between fifty and sixty — a man with a countenance full of vivid intelligence, bright brown eyes, and grey hair, worn longer than the fashion. It was altogether a poetic head; but the man’s temperament fitted him for action and effort as thoroughly as his intellect gave him mastery in brain-work.

  Such a friend as this was verily a friend in need. The two men clasped hands, and for the first minute George Caulfield was speechless.

  ‘Tell me all about it,’ said the vicar, sitting down by his friend’s side with as cheerful an air as if it were a common thing for him to find a high-church curate in prison on suspicion of murder.

  George Caulfield related his dreadful adventure of the previous night, the vicar listening intently, with knitted brows.

  ‘It looks very like murder,’ he said at last. ‘The poor creature was carried to the station in a dying state, and that stertorous breathing you noticed when the train started was the last struggle. Don’t be afraid, my dear boy; there’s not the slightest reason for uneasiness. Our business is to find out all about this poor lady, and the man who placed her in the train. She must have been brought to the station in some kind of vehicle — cab, bath chair — something. The first thing to be done is to have inquiries made among the cabmen and cab proprietors. The police will do
all that; but I shall have to watch your interests in the matter. You must have a clever lawyer, too, to watch the case. Brockbank, of Grandchester, will be the man — always about the criminal court there, up to every move. I’ll telegraph for him instantly. The inquest is to be at four, you say. I must get it put off till five.’

  ‘How good you are!’ exclaimed George, ‘and how clever!’

  ‘I’m a man of the world, that’s all. Some pious people think that a parson has no right to be a man of the world, forgetting who it was that told us to be wise as serpents. I’m not the popular idea of a parson, you know, by any means; but I can serve a friend as well as your strait-laced specimen of the breed.’

  He was a man of abounding cheerfulness and infinite capacity for work, as prone to embellish his conversation with occasional flowers of modern slang now as he had been forty years ago at Eton. He was just the man George Caulfield wanted in this crisis of his life.

  He telegraphed to the Grandchester attorney; and he got the inquest postponed from four till five. He saw the medical man; he talked to the police., A police officer had started for Grandchester by an early train to hunt up the owner of the card, and to obtain as much information as could be go in a few hours.

  The inquest was held at the chief hotel in Milldale, in a large dining-room, which was only used on civic and particular occasions. Here, under a blaze of gas, the curate of St. Philemon’s, South Kensington, found himself for the first time in his life face to face with a British jury and a British coroner.

  Mr. Hargrave, M.R.C.S., general practitioner at Milldale, declared that the deceased, name unknown, had died from the effects of a large dose of laudanum. There had been no post-mortem, and he saw no necessity for one. The colour of the face, the odour of the lips, the abnormal coldness of the corpse, were sufficient evidence as to the nature of the poison. The bottle found in the prisoner’s possession contained laudanum.