Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  But now, as capricious fortune had it, who should be in that self-same train but Miss Blake! Miss Blake was going up to London en cachette. That is to say, she had not intended Sir Karl and Lady Andinnian to know of the journey. Some grand piece of work, involving choice silks and much embroidery, was being projected by Miss Blake for Mr. Cattacomb’s use at St. Jerome’s: she had determined to get the silks at first hand, which she could only do in London; and took the train this morning for the purpose. “If I am not in to luncheon, don’t think anything of it: I can get a biscuit out,” she said to Lucy: and Miss Blake’s general out-of-door engagements appeared to be so numerous — what with the church services, and the hunting-up little ragamuffins from their mothers’ cottages for instruction — that Lucy would have thought nothing of it had she been away all day long. Miss Blake, however, intended to get back in the afternoon.

  Seated in her compartment, waiting for the train to start, she had seen Sir Karl Andinnian come running on to the platform; and she drew her face back out of sight. She saw him put into a carriage just behind her own: and she felt a little cross that he should be going to London at all.

  “What is taking him, I wonder?” she thought. “He never said a word about it at breakfast. I don’t believe Lucy knows it.”

  Arrived at the terminus, Miss Blake, knowing that gentlemen mostly leap out of a train before it has well stopped, held back herself. Cautiously peeping to see him pass and get fairly off, she saw what she had not expected to see — Sir Karl helping out a lady. They passed on quickly: Sir Karl carrying a large clasped reticule bag, and the lady clinging to his arm. She was closely veiled: but Miss Blake’s keen eyes knew her through the veil for Mrs. Grey.

  Miss Blake could have groaned the roof off the carriage. She was the only passenger left in it. “The deceitful villain!” she exclaimed: and then she burst on to the platform, and sheltered herself behind a projecting board to look after the criminals.

  Sir Karl was putting Mrs. Grey into a four-wheeled cab. He handed in her reticule bag after her, shook hands, gave a direction to the driver, and the cab went off. Then he looked round for a hansom, and was driven away in his turn. Miss Blake, making good her own departure, believed she had not yet suspected, half the tricks and turns there must be in this wicked world.

  “Poor Lucy! poor wife!” she murmured, pityingly. “May Heaven look down and shield her!”

  Karl’s errand in London was to find out what he could about Philip Salter. On the Saturday night, patiently searching the file of newspapers — the “Times” — he at length came upon the case. One Philip Salter had been manager to a financial firm in London, and for some years managed it honestly and very successfully. But he got speculating on his own account, lost and lost, and continued to lose, all the while using the funds, that were not his, to prop him up, and prevent exposure. To do this, unsuspected, he was forced to resort to forgery: to fabricate false bonds; to become, in short, one of the worst of felons. The day of discovery came; but Mr. Salter had not waited for it. He was off, and left no trace, as he thought, behind him. Some clue, however, fancied or real, was obtained by a clever ordinary police officer. He went down to Liverpool, seized Philip Salter on board an American vessel just about to steam out of port, and started with him for London at once by the night train, disguised as he was. Midway on the road, Salter did what only a desperate man, fighting for very life, would have dared to do — he jumped from the carriage and made his escape.

  So much Karl read: but, though he searched onwards, he could see nothing else. Some of the newspapers were missing; had not been filed; and, it might be, that they were the very papers that spoke further. He then resolved to seek information elsewhere.”

  All day on the Sunday it had been floating through his mind. His wife’s ankle was better. He walked to church with her as usual, sitting by her side in their conspicuous pew — placed sideways to the pulpit and exposed to the eyes of all the congregation. Throughout the service, throughout the sermon, Karl’s mind was dwelling on the suspicion connecting Philip Smith with Philip Salter. Lucy thought him very still: as still and sad as herself. The only other conspicuous pew was opposite; it belonged to the vicarage. Margaret Sumnor was in it alone, in the half-reclining seat that had been made for her; Mrs. Sumnor rarely went to church in the morning: the younger daughters were of course at St. Jerome’s.

  “I will go to London to-morrow,” decided Karl in his own mind that night. “Could Smith be got away from his post of espionage it might be Adam’s salvation.” And that’s what brought him taking the eleven o’clock train on Monday morning.

  His hansom cab conveyed him to Plunkett and Plunkett’s. That he must conduct this inquiry in the most cautiously delicate manner, he knew well; or he might only make bad worse, and bring the hornet’s nest, that he was always dreading, about his brother’s head. Once let Smith — if he were really Salter — suspect that inquiries were being made about himself, and he might in revenge denounce Sir Adam.

  Mr. Plunkett, with whom Karl as well as the rest of the family had always transacted business, was not in town. Mr. George Plunkett saw him, but he was to Karl comparatively a stranger. Even this seemed to fetter him and make him feel more uneasily, but without reason, the necessity of caution. In a decidedly hesitating way, he said that he had a reason for wishing to learn some particulars about a man who had cheated the community a year or two ago and had made his escape, one Philip Salter: he wanted to know whether he had been re-caught; or, if not, where he was now supposed to be. Mr. George Plunkett immediately asked — not supposing there was any reason why he should not be told — for what purpose Sir Karl wished for the information. Was it that any of his friends had been sufferers and were hoping to get back what they had lost? And Karl contrived, without any distinct assertion, to leave this impression on the lawyer’s mind. Mr. Plunkett, however, could give him no information about Salter, beyond the fact — or rather, opinion, for he was not sure — that he had never been retaken. The matter was not one they had any interest in, he observed; and he recommended Sir Karl to go to Scotland Yard.

  “I will write a note of introduction for you to one of the head officers there, Sir Karl,” he said. “It will insure you attention.”

  But Karl declined this. “If I went to Scotland Yard at all,” he said, “it would be as an unknown, private individual, not as Sir Karl Andinnian. I don’t much care to go to Scotland Yard.”

  “But why?” exclaimed Mr. George Plunkett. And then, all in a moment an idea flashed across him. He fancied that Sir Karl was shy of presenting himself there as the brother of the unfortunate man who had stood his trial for murder.

  “I have reasons for not wishing it to be known that I am stirring in this,” admitted Karl. “Grave reasons. At Scotland Yard they might recognize me, and perhaps put questions that at present I would rather not answer.”

  “Look here, then,” said the lawyer. “I will give you a letter to one of the private men connected with the force — a detective, in fact You can see him at his own house. He is one of the cleverest men they have, and will be sure to be able to tell you everything you want to know. There’s not the least necessity for me to mention your name to him, and he’ll not seek to learn it. I shall say you are a client and friend of ours, and that will be sufficient.”

  “Thank you, that will be best,” replied Karl. Mr. George Plunkett wrote the note there and then, and gave it to Karl. It was addressed to Mr. Burtenshaw, Euston Road. He took a cab and found the house — a middling-sized house with buff-coloured blinds to the windows. A maid servant came to the door, and her cap flew off as she opened it.

  “Can I see Mr. Burtenshaw?” asked Sir Karl.

  “Mr. Burtenshaw’s out, sir,” she replied, stooping to pick up the “cap,” — a piece of bordered net the size of a five-shilling piece. “He left word that he should be back at five o’clock.”

  “If I were a detective officer, my servants should wear caps on their heads,” t
hought Karl, as he turned away, and went to get some dinner.

  The church clocks were striking five when he was at the door again. Mr. Burtenshaw was at home; and Karl, declining to give his name, was shown to an upstairs room. A little man of middle age, with a sallow face and rather nice grey eyes, was standing by a table covered with papers. Karl bowed, and handed him Mr. George Plunkett’s note.

  “Take a seat, sir, pray, while I read it,” said Mr. Burtenshaw, instinctively recognising Karl for a gentleman and a noble one. And Karl sat down near the window.

  “Very good; I am at your service, sir,” said the detective, drawing a chair opposite Karl’s. “What can I do for you?”

  With less hesitation than he had shown to Mr. George Plunkett, for he was gathering courage now the ice was broken, Karl frankly stated why he had come, and what he wanted — some information about the criminal, Philip Salter.

  “Do you know much about the case?” continued Karl — for Mr. Burtenshaw had made no immediate reply, but sat in silence.

  “I believe I know all about it, sir. I was wondering whether you had unearthed him and were come to claim the reward.”

  “The reward! Is there an offered reward out against him?”

  “Five hundred pounds. It was offered after he had made his desperate escape, and it stands still.”

  “He has not been retaken then?”

  “No, never. We have failed in his case, I am ashamed to say. What particulars are they, sir, that you wish to hear of him? Those connected with his frauds and forgeries?”

  “Not those: I have read of them in some of the old papers. I want to know where he is supposed to be; and what he is like in person.”

  “Our belief is that he is still in Great Britian; strange though it may sound to you to hear me say it. England or Scotland. After that escapade, all the ports were so thoroughly guarded and watched, that I don’t think he could have escaped. We have a more especial reason, which I do not speak of, for suspecting that he is here still: at least that he was three months ago.”

  “There are a hundred places in England where he may be hiding,” spoke Karl impulsively. “Where he may be living as an ordinary individual, just like the individuals about him.”

  “Exactly so.”

  “Living openly as may be said, but cautiously. Perhaps wearing a disguise.”

  “No doubt of the disguise. False hair and whiskers, spectacles, and all that.”

  Karl remembered Mr. Smith’s green spectacles. His hair might not be his own: he wished he had taken better note of it.

  “And in person? What is he like?”

  “That I cannot tell you,” said Mr. Burtenshaw. “I never saw him. Some of us know him well. Grimley especially does.”

  “Who is Grimley?”

  “The man who let him escape. He has been under a cloud since with us. My wonder is that he was not dismissed.”

  “Then you don’t know at all what Salter is like?”

  “No.”

  “Are there no photographs?”

  “I think not I have seen none. Is it very essential your ascertaining this?”

  “The most essential point of all. Is this Grimley to be got at? If I could see him to-day and get Salter’s description from him, I should be more than glad.”

  Mr. Burtenshaw took some ivory tablets from his pocket and consulted them. “I will send for Grimley here, sir. Will eight o’clock be too late for you?”

  “Not at all,” replied Karl, thinking he could get away by the half-past nine train.

  Mr. Burtenshaw escorted him to the head of the stairs, and watched him down, making his mental comments.

  “I wonder who he is? He looks too full of care for his years. But he knows Salter’s retreat as sure as a gun — or thinks he knows it. Won’t denounce him till he’s sure.”

  When Karl got back at eight o’clock, some disappointment was in store for him. Grimley was not there. The detective showed the scrap of message returned to him, scribbled in pencil on a loose bit of paper. Karl read as follows, “Can’t get to you before eleven: might be a little later. Suppose it’s particular? Got a matter on hand, and have to leave for the country at five in the morning.”

  “Will you see him at that late hour, sir?”

  Karl considered. It would involve his staying in town for the night, which he had not prepared for. But he was restlessly anxious to set the question at rest, and resolved upon waiting.

  He walked away through the busy London streets, seemingly more crowded than usual that Monday evening, and sent a telegraphic message to his wife, saying he could not be home until the morrow. Then he went into the Charing Cross Hotel and engaged a bed. Before eleven he was back again at Mr. Burtenshaw’s. Grimley came in about a quarter past: a powerful, tallish man with a rather jolly face, not dressed in his official clothes as a policeman, but in an ordinary suit of pepper-and-salt.

  “You remember Philip Salter, Grimley?” began the superior man at once, without any circumlocution or introduction.

  “I ought to remember him, Mr. Burtenshaw.”

  “Just describe his person to this gentleman as accurately as you can.”

  “He’s not dropped upon at last, is he?” returned the man, his whole face lighting up.

  “No. Don’t jump to conclusions, Grimley, but do as you are bid.” Upon which rebuke Grimley turned to Sir Karl.

  “He was about as tall as I am, sir, and not unlike me in shape: that is, strongly made, and very active. His real hair was dark brown, and almost black — but goodness only knows what it’s changed into now.”

  “And his face?” questioned Karl. As yet the description tallied.

  “Well, his face was a fresh-coloured face, pleasant in look, and he was a free, pleasant man to talk to you. His eyes — I can’t be sure, but I think they were dark brown: his eyebrows were thick and rather more arched than common. At that time his face was clean-shaved, whiskers and all: daresay it’s covered with hair now.”

  “Was he gentlemanly in his look and manners?”

  “Yes, sir, I should say so. A rather bustling, business-kind of gentleman: I used to see him often before he turned rogue. Leastways before it was known. You’d never have thought it of him: you’d have trusted him through thick and thin.”

  Smith at Foxwood was not bustling in his manners: rather quiet But, as Sir Karl’s thoughts ran, there was nothing there for him to be bustling over: and, besides, the trouble might have tamed him. In other particulars the description might have well served for Smith himself, and Karl’s hopes rose. Grimley watched him keenly.

  “Have you a photograph of him!” asked Karl. “No, sir. ’Twas a great pity one was never took. I might have had it done at Liverpool that day; but I thought I’d got himself safe, and it didn’t occur to me. Ah! live and learn. I never was done before, and I’ve not been since.”

  “You let him escape you in the train?”

  “I let him: yes, sir, that’s the right word; as things turned out. ‘Don’t put the handcuffs on me, Grimley,’ says he, when we were about to start for the up-night train. ‘It’s not pleasant to be seen in that condition by the passengers who sit opposite you. I’ll not give you any trouble: you’ve got me, and I yield to it.’

  ‘On your honour, sir?’ says I. ‘On my word and honour,’ says he. ‘To tell you the truth, Grimley,’ he goes on, ‘I’ve led such a life of fear and suspense lately that I’m not sorry it’s ended.’ Well, sir, I put faith in him: you’ve heard me say it, Mr. Burtenshaw: and we took our seats in the carriage, me on one side, my mate, Knowles, on the other, and Salter, unfettered, between us. He had got a great thick fluffy grey wrapper on, half coat, half cloak, with them wide hanging sleeves: we touched the sleeves on both sides, me and Knowles, with our arms and shoulders. There was one passenger besides; he sat opposite Knowles, and slept a good deal. Salter slept too — or seemed to sleep. Well, sir, we had got well on in our journey, when from some cause the lamp goes out. Soon after, the train shoo
ts into a tunnel, and we were in utter darkness. Salter, apparently, was sleeping fast. A glimmer of light arose when we were half way through it, from some opening I suppose, and I saw the opposite passenger, as I thought, leaning out at the far window, the one next Knowles. The next minute there was a sound and a rush of air. Good heavens he has fell out, I says to Knowles: and Knowles — I say he had been asleep too — rouses up and says ‘Why the door’s open.’ Sir, when we got out of the tunnel, the rays of the bright lamp at its opening shone in; the opposite passenger was safe enough, his head nodding on his breast, but my prisoner was gone.”

  Karl caught up his breath; the tale excited him. “How could it have been done?” he exclaimed.

  “The dickens knows. There was his thick rough coat again our arms, but his arms was out of it. How he had managed to slip ’em out and make no stir, and get off his seat to the door, I shall never guess. One thing is certain — he must have had a railway key hid about him somewhere and opened the door with it: he must have been opening it when I thought it was the passenger leaning out.”

  “What did you do?”

  “We could do nothing, sir. Except shout to arouse the guard; we did enough of that, but the guard never heard us. When the next station was reached, a deal of good time had been lost. We told what had occurred, and got the tunnel searched. That Salter would be found dead, everybody thought. Instead of that he was not found at all; not a trace of him.”

  “He must have received injuries,” exclaimed Karl.

  “I should say so,” returned Grimley. “Injuries that perhaps he carries from that day to this.” And Karl half started as he remembered the arm always in a sling.

  Just for a single moment the temptation to denounce this man came over him, in spite of his wish and will. Only for the moment: he remembered the danger to his brother. Besides, he would not have betrayed Smith for the world.

  “What age is Salter?” he resumed.