by Tom Gallon
CHAPTER XI
MISS VINT HEARS VOICES
Philip stood, for some moments, turning over in his mind the probablecause of the extraordinary terror evinced by the Captain, while hewatched the flying figure of that gentleman, careering down the street.After some little thought, he put down that sudden desire, on theCaptain’s part, to get away from him, to a knowledge of the murder; andto a natural dread and abhorrence of the man he supposed to be guiltyof it. He turned away, with bitterness in his heart, feeling that allthe world was against him; and made his way back towards London bytrain. Arriving at Charing Cross, he bought an evening paper, andturned to see what news there might be concerning the dreadful thingwhich was always in his mind.
More than a column was devoted to it—with interviews with whollyuninteresting people, of whom he had never heard, nor, indeed, any oneelse—giving their several versions of the matter; how this one hadheard a scream—and another a dog bark—and how a third had an aunt,who had dreamed of a man with a red mark on his forehead, about a weekbefore the occurrence. But there was absolutely nothing in any reportwhich connected him with the affair—at least, by name.
It was stated that the police had several clues; but that was to beexpected. Only, at the end of the column, was a suggestion that thepolice had issued a warrant against a man well known in theneighbourhood, who had disappeared some two days before. That was froma telegram dated that afternoon—Friday.
Philip Chater sat down, on a seat in the station, and pondered thematter again. “The warrant is for me—that’s certain. But there is nomention of my name—so that that idea about the Captain goes to thewinds. Now—what on earth can have startled him in that fashion?”
Turning the paper over in his hands, he came upon a “Stop-Press”telegram, in the small space reserved for such things, and read it.
“The body of an unknown man—well dressed—was taken from the riverbelow Woolwich this afternoon. Nothing in pockets to lead toidentification.”
Once again, Philip Chater seemed to stand at the corner of the darkstreet in Woolwich; once again, he seemed to see the ghastly face ofthe startled Captain, as he backed away. Philip Chater folded the paperrapidly, and got up, with an excited face.
“By all that’s wonderful!—he’s found the real Dandy Chater!” hemuttered.
That thought, and all that it might involve for him and so many others,set him walking at a rapid pace, thinking hard as he went, and withoutpaying much attention as to the direction he took. But his thoughts,coming, by a natural transition, to the girl who would be most affectedby any news of Dandy Chater, leapt from thence to the quiet garden,wherein he had walked and talked with her. Then in a flash, his mindwent back, over the discovery of the road which led him to the cottage,to the plan on the scrap of paper—and to the reason for that plan.
“‘Friday night—as soon after ten o’clock as possible. Only women todeal with!’ Great Heavens!” he exclaimed—“and this is Friday night!”
He hailed a hansom, and shouted to the man to drive to Liverpool StreetStation. Arriving there in hot haste, he found that he could catch anexpress, which would land him at a small town a few miles from thestation at which he had before alighted for Bamberton. Taking his seatin this, a few moments before its departure, he found himself, somewhatto his consternation, in the company of a couple of men who werediscussing the murder in the wood—evidently newspaper men, judging bywhat they said.
“Yes,” said the first—“I’m going down, so as to be on the spot ifthere’s anything fresh. In any case, I must wire up about half acolumn.”
“I think we shall probably have some news to-night,” replied the secondman. “Our people have got hold of an idea that the police have spottedtheir man, and may get hold of him within the next few hours. I hearthat Tokely has the case in hand.”
“Ah—smart man, Tokely,” said the other nodding. “I wonder if thatswell who was spoken about had anything to do with it?”
“I dare say,” replied his friend, coolly. “If so, it’ll make rare goodcopy—won’t it? Trusting village maiden—young Squire—and all theother details. By Jove—won’t our people lick it up!”
Philip Chater, sick at heart, turned away, and tried to busy himself inthe paper he had bought. But the more he tried to read, and to fix hismind on the page before him, the more hopeless became the tangle intowhich the words seemed to form themselves. He thought of himself—afugitive; of his brother, fished out of the river, and perhaps by thistime identified. Philip Chater had but to think, for an instant, of thecontents of his own pockets at that moment, to realise the desperateposition in which he stood.
He had the dead man’s watch and chain—his cheque book and otherpapers; he had upon him also, a large number of bank-notes, which heknew must have been stolen, and part of which he had paid away to coverup a forgery which he was also supposed to have committed. More thanall, he was venturing now into the very heart of the enemy’s country,in the hope to stop a robbery, with which he was also connected—and atthe house of the woman he loved. It is small wonder that he saw, in allthis, a resistless tide, which must sooner or later sweep him todestruction.
Arriving at the small station for which he had taken his ticket, healighted with the two newspaper men, and saw them get into a vehiclewhich had evidently been ordered for them. Not wishing to ask any morequestions than were absolutely necessary, he watched this carriage, asit drove away, and followed the road it took. Glancing at the watch hecarried, by the light of the last lamp he passed, he saw that it wasnearly eight o’clock; and he had, so far as he could judge, nearlyeleven miles to go before reaching Bamberton. But his purpose was astrong one, and the night was fine; he set out to walk the distance,knowing that he dared not ask for a lift from any passing cart, lest heshould be recognised.
At one or two points on his journey, where sign-posts were tooillegible to be read, or the night too dark to see them clearly, he wascompelled to wait—fuming and impatient—until such time as aslow-footed, slow-voiced countryman should come in sight. At such timesPhilip Chater pulled his hat down as far as possible over his face, andkept in the shadow. But he got through each interview safely, untilwithin a mile or two of the village—when taking a wrong turning andlosing his bearings hopelessly, he was obliged to wait again, in thehope of some one passing him.
This time, it was a woman; and she civilly directed him—showing him ashort cut, which would bring him she said, within a short distance ofChater Hall. He thanked her, and was turning away, when she camerapidly nearer to him, and peered into his face; cried his name, in asort of shriek; struck at him; and ran off towards some cottages, wherelights were gleaming, screaming—“Murder!”
He lost no time in getting away from the spot, and ran as hard as hecould in the direction she had indicated. He had heard the deep boom ofa church clock strike ten some time before, and his one desperate fearwas that he might arrive too late to prevent the robbery. At thatthought, he redoubled his efforts, and did not stop until he saw thehuge bulk of Chater Hall looming up against the sky.
Hunted—wretched—forlorn—exhausted, the unhappy man stood, for a fewmoments, leaning against a tree, and contemplating the place that wasrightfully his. He was even in a mood to curse the father who hadbanished him, and who was sleeping, peacefully enough, in thechurchyard near at hand. He almost wished that his own troubles wereended, and that he was beyond the reach of pursuit.
“It’s hard,” he muttered, savagely—“that I, who have never wronged anyliving creature knowingly, should be in this plight now. If I had hadthe chance that was given to my brother, should I have used itbetter—or have I merely kept out of temptation, because temptationkept out of me? Heaven knows! But, while I stand here cursing my fate,those wretches have got to work, I’ll be bound, and may be clear awayagain before I reach the place. Now to remember the roads I traversedbefore—and yet to keep out of the sight of all men, and”—he added, asan
after-thought—“all women!”
With these words, he crept round, as near as he dared, to the front ofthe house, and struck off cautiously from there in the direction of thecottage.
Now it happened that night that Madge Barnshaw, being wholly occupiedwith sad thoughts, and having no friendly being in whom she couldconfide, or to whom she felt disposed to tell the tragic story whichwas by this time in every mouth, had gone early to her room, leavingMiss Vint—her distant cousin and guardian—nodding over the fire.Arthur Barnshaw, who had arrived from town only the day before, was inthe room he called his “den,” reading and smoking, and the house wasvery quiet. Miss Vint, being very comfortable, fell asleep.
When she awoke, the fire had long gone out, and the room was chilly.Miss Vint rose, shuddering and yawning, and, having extinguished thelight, went out into the hall; took her candle, and slowly and sleepilymounted the stairs to her chamber.
Passing a window on the staircase, immediately below the level ofher own room, Miss Vint stopped suddenly, and became very wideawake. Clearly and distinctly, in the death-like silence whichpervaded everything, Miss Vint had heard a voice—muffled andcautious—apparently proceeding from below. What the words werethat were spoken, she could not say; but she had distinctly heard avoice—and that voice the voice of a man.
Before the worthy lady had had time to decide what to do, anothervoice—as muffled and cautious as the first—answered; only, in thiscase, it appeared to come from above—almost as though (but the ideawas, of course, too ridiculous to be entertained) the first speaker hadbeen outside, in the garden, and the second at an open window, speakingdown at him.
Miss Vint’s first natural thought was to rush downstairs, and summonArthur Barnshaw to her assistance. But it was a long way downstairs,and there was a dark and ghostly corridor to be traversed before shecould reach him. On the other hand, her room was quite close; she hadbut to dash up three steps, open the door, plunge in, and find herselfin safety.
Accordingly, Miss Vint took the plunge; flung open the door—shut ithurriedly—and locked it on the inside. At the same instant, MissVint’s candle was softly blown out, and a strong firm hand was placedover Miss Vint’s mouth—a hand which pressed her, not tooceremoniously, against the door she had locked.
“Not a word,” whispered a voice, huskily. “Scream—and I’ll knock yerbloomin’ brains out. I ain’t alone; there’s pals o’ mine outside, asmightn’t be so considerate of a lady’s feelin’s. Now—are yer goin’ tobe quiet?”
Miss Vint nodded her head, as well as she could for the steady pressureof the hand upon her mouth, and the man relaxed his hold. She couldjust dimly discern his figure, looming large above her, in the dimlight which came from outside the window.
“What do you want?” asked Miss Vint, in a frightened whisper.
“We’ve got wot we want,” replied the man, in a low voice—“an’ nobodyain’t ’urt a bit. I found my way into the young lady’s room, withoutwakin’ of ’er—an’ now I’ll wish you good-night. On’y mind”—the manpaused, for a moment, to give his words greater effect—“I’ve gotsomething ’ere wot’ll keep yer quiet, if I ’ears any noise from yer.”Miss Vint felt something hard and cold touch her forehead.
“My good man,” whispered Miss Vint, tremulously, “you may be sure Iwill not place you under the necessity for doing violence upon me. Iwould only beg that you will join your companions—I hesitate, in yourpresence, to call them depraved, although I fear they are not what theyshould be—and leave me in peace. Your friends are evidently impatientto see you.” This last was in reference to a low whistle, which soundedfrom the lawn.
The man, after hesitating for a moment, moved slowly towards thewindow, which Miss Vint noticed, for the first time, was wide open; andgot one leg over the sill; looking back at her, he shook a fist, by wayof caution to her to be quiet; lifted the other leg over, and slowlydisappeared—apparently down a ladder—from her view.
Then it was that Miss Vint, no longer restrained by the fear of hispresence, opened her mouth, and emitted a long and piercing shriek—ashriek so tremendous, that it brought Arthur Barnshaw tumbling out ofhis den, half asleep, and stumbling blindly in the darkness; andbrought another man, who had been crouching behind a hedge, leapingover it, and hurrying to the scene. Having accomplished these usefulpurposes, Miss Vint backed towards her bed, and fainted away, withpropriety and comfort.
The second man, who had leapt the hedge, was no other than PhilipChater; and, as he hurried to the scene, he caught a momentary glimpseof the little drama that was going forward. In the first place, he sawa man hurriedly and unceremoniously coming down a ladder from a window;saw him thrust something into the hands of another man, who stood nearat hand, and make off in another direction, clearing the low hedge at abound, and vanishing in the darkness. While this was happening, thedoor of the house had been wrenched open from inside, and a young manhad dashed out, and grappled with a taller figure, standing also nearthe ladder—a taller figure which, after a short struggle, threw theman who grappled with him, and made off also, in the same direction asthe first. All this passed within a few seconds, and before Philip hadhad time to do anything. But he saw, at this moment, that the man intowhose hands that something had been thrust, by the man who had comedown the ladder, was making off also—not with the strength of theothers, but as though he were older and weaker. This man Philip Chaterimmediately seized; when, to his consternation, the man in hisgrip—(and who was no other than our friend Dr. Cripps)—after onehorrified glance into his face, fell upon his knees, babbling andstuttering; and then, casting from him what he held, broke away, andwent careering like a madman across the garden.
Philip, for his part, was so astonished, that he made no effort tofollow the little man; but, seeing something gleaming, in the faintlight of the stars, on the ground at his feet, stooped, and picked itup. Having dropped on one knee in doing this, he was absolutelypowerless to defend himself, when a man sprang upon him, caught him bythe throat, and forced him backwards to the ground.
“I’ve got one of you, at least,” cried a voice which sounded curiouslyfamiliar. “It’s no use struggling; you won’t get away, I can assureyou.” Then, as he caught sight of the face of his prisoner, he droppedhis hands from Philip’s throat, and struggled to his feet, and stoodstaring down at him. It was Arthur Barnshaw.
For a moment or two, there was a death-like silence between the twomen; then Philip spoke, although he knew that what he had to say wouldsound futile and absurd.
“I—I heard that this robbery was to be committed—and I came here, asrapidly as I could, in the hope to prevent it,” he said, in a low voice.
Barnshaw’s voice was cold and hard when he replied. “Indeed? How didyou hear of it?”
“In—in London—quite by accident.”
“What is that you have in your hand?” asked Barnshaw, in the same tone.
Philip slowly raised his hand, which held the thing Dr. Cripps haddropped, and held it up in the light; it sparkled and glittered, andthrew back a hundred changing brilliancies to the night.
“It is my sister’s necklace,” said Barnshaw. “Give it to me.” Then, ashe took it in his hand, he said slowly—“This was taken out of thehouse to-night, by the men who have escaped. They have all gotaway—except yourself——”
“Good God, Barnshaw,” faltered the other—“you surely don’t think——”
“You knew that the robbery was to be committed; so much, on your ownconfession. I find you hiding in the garden, with this actually in yourhands.” Without another word, he turned, and walked slowly back to thehouse.
For some moments, Philip knelt upon the ground where the other had lefthim, staring after Barnshaw like one stunned. Then, slowly and heavily,he rose from his knees and went out of the garden, with bowed head, andwithout once looking round.
Meanwhile, Dr. Cripps, being incapable of the feat of agility which hadcarried his friends over the hedge, went crashing straight through it;duck
ed suddenly, and ran along on the other side, beneath it, in orderto keep out of the view of any one who might be on the lookout for him.And, running thus, he dashed straight into the arms of a man who wasalso crouching down behind it. After a very brief struggle, feelinghimself in a grip from which it was impossible to escape, he resignedhimself to circumstances, remained passive, and looked up at his captor.
“Ogledon!” he ejaculated. “I thought it was a policeman!”
The man into whose hands he had fallen shook him until his teeth seemedto rattle, and whispered angrily—“So you’ve bungled it, haveyou?—rousing the house in that fashion. Who’s got the necklace?”
“D-D-Dandy C-C-Chater!” stuttered Cripps, faintly.
The man dropped him, as hurriedly as though he had been red-hot; lookedall about him; and seemed to breathe hard.
“What do you mean? What the devil are you talking about?” He spoke inwhat seemed almost a frightened whisper.
The little man, bewildered alike by the shaking, and by the suddenchange in the demeanour of Ogledon, lost his balance completely, andstammered out—
“It’s no good—the devil is in everything. I fished him out of theriver only this very day, and laid him on the bank, as dead as twentydoornails; yet he caught me in the garden here just now, and staredstraight into my eyes—and he’s got the diamond necklace!”
“You’re mad!” whispered the other, in the same uneasy fashion.
“I’m not—I’m not—but I soon shall be!” muttered Cripps. “I tell youthat Dandy Chater is dead—been dead for days; and yet he’s got thenecklace, and is in that garden”—he pointed awfully behind him, as hespoke—“at the present moment. As sure as I’m a living sinner—DandyChater has come to life again!”
