by Fergus Hume
The servants looked at one another. Here was more trouble, more excitement.
‘And the Quiet Gentleman?’ asked the cook with ghoulish interest.
‘He’s gone, too. Went out larst night, an’ never come back. Mrs Marry thinks he’s bin murdered.’
There was a babel of voices and cries, but after a moment quiet was restored. Then Cicero placed his hand on the boy’s head.
‘My boy,’ he said pompously, ‘who is the Quiet Gentleman? Let us be clear upon the point of the Quiet Gentleman.’
‘Don’t you know, sir?’ put in the eager cook. ‘He’s a mystery, ’aving bin staying at Mrs Marry’s cottage, she a lone widder taking in boarders.’
‘I’ll give a week’s notice!’ sobbed the scullery-maid. ‘These crimes is too much for me.’
‘I didn’t say the Quiet Gentleman ’ad been murdered,’ said Billy, the page; ‘but Mrs Marry only thinks so, cos ’e ain’t come ’ome.’
‘As like as not he’s cold and stiff in some lonely grave!’ groaned Mrs Crammer hopefully.
‘The Quiet Gentleman,’ said Cicero, bent upon acquiring further information—‘tall, yellow-bearded, with a high forehead and a bald head?’
‘Well, I never, sir!’ cried Jane, the housemaid. ‘If you ain’t describing Dr Warrender! Did you know him, sir?’
Cicero was quite equal to the occasion.
‘I knew him professionally. He attended me for a relaxed throat. I was vox et praeterea nihil until he cured me. But what was this mysterious gentleman like? Short, eh?’
‘No; tall and thin, with a stoop. Long white hair, longer beard and black eyes like gimblets,’ gabbled the cook. ‘I met ’im arter dark one evenin’, and I declare as ’is eyes were glow-worms. Ugh! They looked me through and through. I’ve never bin the same woman since.’
At this moment a raucous voice came from the inner doorway.
‘What the devil’s all this?’ was the polite question.
Cicero turned, and saw a heavily-built man surveying the company in general, and himself in particular, anything but favourably. His face was a mahogany hue, and he had a veritable tangle of whiskers and hair. The whole cut of the man was distinctly nautical, his trousers being of the dungaree, and his pea-jacket plentifully sprinkled with brass buttons. In his ears he wore rings of gold, and his clenched fists hung by his side as though eager for any emergency, and ‘the sooner the better’. That was how he impressed Cicero, who, in nowise fancying the expression on his face, edged towards the door.
‘Oh, Joe!’ shrieked the cook, ‘wot a turn you give me! an’ sich news as we’ve ’ad!’
‘News?’ said Joe uneasily, his eyes still on Cicero.
‘Mrs Warrender’s lost her husband, and the Quiet Gentleman’s disappeared mysterious!’
‘Rubbish! Get to your work, all of you!’
So saying, Joe drove the frightened crowd hither and thither to their respective duties, and Cicero, somewhat to his dismay, found himself alone with the buccaneer, as he had inwardly dubbed the newcomer.
‘Who the devil are you?’ asked Joe, advancing.
‘Fellow,’ replied Cicero, getting into the doorway, ‘I am a friend of your late master. Cicero Gramp is my name. I came here to see Dick Marlow, but I find he’s gone aloft.’
Joe turned pale, even through his tan.
‘A friend of Mr Marlow,’ he repeated hoarsely. ‘That’s a lie! I’ve been with him these thirty years, and I never saw you!’
‘Not in Jamaica?’ inquired Cicero sweetly.
‘Jamaica? What do you mean?’
‘What I wrote in that letter your master received before he died.’
‘Oh, you liar! I know the man who wrote it.’ Joe clenched his fists more tightly and swung forward. ‘You’re a rank impostor, and I’ll hand you over to the police, lest I smash you completely!’
Cicero saw he had made a mistake, but he did not flinch. Hardihood alone could carry him through now.
‘Do,’ he said. ‘I’m particularly anxious to see the police, Mr Joe Brill.’
‘Who are you, in Heaven’s name?’ shouted Joe, much agitated. ‘Do you come from him?’
‘Perhaps I do,’ answered Cicero, wondering to whom the ‘him’ might now refer.
‘Then go back and tell him he’s too late—too late, curse him! and you too, you lubber!’
‘Very good.’ Cicero stepped out into the hot sunshine. ‘I’ll deliver your message—for a sovereign.’
Joe Brill tugged at his whiskers, and cast an uneasy glance around. Evidently, he was by no means astute, and the present situation was rather too much for him. His sole idea, for some reason best known to himself, was to get rid of Cicero. With a groan, he plunged his huge fist into his pocket and pulled out a gold coin.
‘Here, take it and go to hell!’ he said, throwing it to Cicero.
‘Mariner, fata obstant,’ rolled Gramp in his deep voice.
Then he strode haughtily away. He looked round as he turned the corner of the house, and saw Joe clutching his iron-grey locks, still at the kitchen door.
So with a guinea in his pocket and a certain amount of knowledge which he hoped would bring him many more, Cicero departed, considerable uplifted. At the village grocery he bought bread, meat and a bottle of whisky, then he proceeded to shake the dust of Heathton off his feet. As he stepped out on to the moor he recalled the Latin words he had used, and he shuddered.
‘Why did I say that?’ he murmured. ‘The words came into my head somehow. Just when Joe was talking of my employer, too! Who is my employer? What has he to do with all this? I’m all in the dark! So Dr Warrender’s gone, and the Quiet Gentleman too. It must have been Dr Warrender who helped to steal Marlow’s body. The description tallies exactly—tall, fair beard and bald. I wonder if t’other chap was the Quiet Gentleman? And what on earth could they want with the body? Anyway, the body’s gone, and, as it’s a millionaire corpse, I’ll have some of its money or I’m a Dutchman!’
He stopped and placed his hand to his head.
‘Bournemouth, Bournemouth!’ he muttered. ‘Ah, that’s it—the Soudan Hotel, Bournemouth!’
It was now the middle of the afternoon, and, as he plodded on, the moor glowed like a furnace. No vestige of shade was there beneath which to rest, not even a tree or a bush. Then, a short distance up the road, he espied a hut. It seemed to be in ruins. It was a shepherd’s hut, no doubt. The grass roof was torn, the door was broken, though closed, and the mud walls were crumbling. Impatient of any obstacle, he shoved his back against it and burst it open. It had been fastened with a piece of rope. He fell in, headlong almost. But the gloom was grateful to him, though for the moment he could see but little.
When his eyes had become more accustomed to the half-light, the first object upon which they fell was a stiff human form stretched on the mud floor—a body with a handkerchief over the face. Yelling with terror, Cicero hurled himself out again.
‘Marlow’s body!’ he gasped. ‘They’ve put it here!’
With feverish haste he produced a corkscrew knife, and opened his whisky bottle. A fiery draught gave him courage. He ventured back into the hut and knelt down beside the body. Over the heart gaped an ugly wound, and the clothes were caked with blood. He gasped again.
‘No fit this, but murder! Stabbed to the heart! And Joe—what does Joe know about this—and my employer? Lord!’
He snatched the handkerchief from the face, and fell back on his knees with another cry, this time of wonderment rather than of terror. He beheld the dead man’s fair beard and bald head.
‘Dr Warrender! And he was alive last night! This is murder indeed!’
Then his nerves gave way utterly, and he began to cry like a frightened child.
‘Murder! Wilful and horrible murder!’ wept the professor of elocution and eloquence.
CHAPTER III
AN ELEGANT EPISTLE
ON Bournemouth cliffs, where pine-trees cluster to the edge, sat an elderly spinster, knitting a homely s
tocking. She wore, in spite of the heat, a handsome cashmere shawl, pinned across her spare shoulders with a portrait brooch, and that hideous variety of Early Victorian head-gear known as the mushroom hat. From under this streamed a frizzy crop of grey curls, which framed a rosy, wrinkled face, brightened by twinkling eyes. These, sparkling as those of sweet seventeen, proved that their owner was still young in heart. This quaint survival of the last century knitted as assiduously as was possible under the circumstances, for at a discreet distance were two young people, towards whom she acted the part of chaperon. Doubtless such an office is somewhat out-of-date nowadays; but Miss Victoria Parsh would rather have died than have left a young girl alone in the company of a young man.
Yet she knew well enough that this young man was altogether above reproach, and, moreover, engaged by parental consent to the pretty girl to whom he was talking so earnestly. And no one could deny that Sophy Marlow was indeed charming. There was somewhat of the Andalusian about her. Not very tall, shaped delicately as a nymph, she well deserved Alan Thorold’s name. He called her the ‘Midnight Fairy’, and, indeed, she looked like a brunette Titania. Her complexion was dark, and faintly flushed with red; her mouth and nose were exquisitely shaped, while her eyes were wells of liquid light—glorious Spanish orbs. About her, too, was that peculiar charm of personality which defies description.
Alan her lover was not tall, but uncommonly well-built and muscular, as fair as Sophy was dark—of that golden Saxon race which came before the Dane. Not that he could be called handsome. He was simply a clean, clear-skinned, well-groomed young Englishman, such as can be seen everywhere. Of a strong character, he exercised great control over his somewhat frivolous betrothed.
Miss Vicky, as the little spinster was usually called, cast romantic glances at the dark head and the fair one so close to one another. As a rule she would have been shocked at such a sight, but she knew how keenly Sophy grieved for the death of her father, and was only too willing that the girl should be comforted. And Miss Vicky occasionally touched the brooch, which contained the portrait of a red-coated officer. She also had lived in Arcady, but her Lieutenant had been shot in the Indian Mutiny, and Miss Vicky had left Arcady after a short sojourn, for a longer one in the work-a-day world. At once, she had lost her lover and her small income, and, like many another lonely woman, had had to turn to and work. But the memory of that short romance kept her heart young, hence her sympathy with this young couple.
‘Poor dear father!’ sighed Sophy, looking at the sea below, dotted with white sails. ‘I can hardly believe he is gone. Only two weeks ago and he was so well, and now—oh! I was so fond of him! We were so happy together! He was cold to everyone else, but kindly to me! How could he have died so suddenly, Alan?’
‘Well, of course, dear, a fit is always sudden. But try and bear up, Sophy dear. Don’t give way like this. Be comforted.’
She looked up wistfully to the blue sky.
‘At all events, he is at peace now,’ she said, her lip quivering. ‘I know he was often very unhappy, poor father! He used to sit for hours frowning and perplexed, as if there was something terrible on his mind.’
Alan’s face was turned away now, and his brow was wrinkled. He seemed absorbed in thought, as though striving to elucidate some problem suggested by her words.
Wrapped up in her own sorrow, the girl did not notice his momentary preoccupation, but continued:
‘He never said good-bye to me. Dr Warrender said he was insensible for so long before death that it was useless my seeing him. He kept me out of the room, so I only saw him—afterwards. I’ll never forgive the doctor for it. It was cruel!’
She sobbed hysterically.
‘Sophy,’ said Alan suddenly, ‘had your father any enemies?’
She looked round at him in astonishment.
‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. Why should he? He was the kindest man in the world.’
‘I am sure he was,’ replied the young man warmly; ‘but even the kindest may have enemies.’
‘He might have made enemies in Africa,’ she said gravely. ‘It was there he made his money, and I suppose there are people mean enough to hate a man who is successful, especially if his success results in a fortune of some two millions. Father used to say he despised most people. That was why he lived so quietly at the Moat House.’
‘It was particularly quiet till you came, Sophy.’
‘I’m sure it was,’ she replied, with the glimmer of a smile. ‘Still, although he had not me, you had your profession.’
‘Ah! my poor profession! I always regret having given it up.’
‘Why did you?’
‘You know, Sophy. I have told you a dozen times. I wanted to be a surgeon, but my father always objected to a Thorold being of service to his fellow-creatures. I could never understand why. The estate was not entailed, and by my father’s will I was to lose it, or give up all hope of becoming a doctor. For my mother’s sake I surrendered. But I would choose to be a struggling surgeon in London any day, if it were not for you, Sophy dear.’
‘Horrid!’ ejaculated Miss Marlow, elevating her nose. ‘How can you enjoy cutting up people? But don’t let us talk of these things; they remind me of poor dear father.’
‘My dear, you really should not be so morbid. Death is only natural. It is not as though you had been with him all your life, instead of merely three years.’
‘I know; but I loved him none the less for that. I often wonder why he was away so long.’
‘He was making his fortune. He could not have taken you into the rough life he was leading in Africa. You were quite happy in your convent.’
‘Quite,’ she agreed, with conviction. ‘I was sorry to leave it. The dear sisters were like mothers to me. I never knew my own mother. She died in Jamaica, father said, when I was only ten years old. He could not bear to remain in the West Indies after she died, so he brought me to England. While I was in the convent I saw him only now and again until I had finished my education. Then he took the Moat House—that was five years ago, and two years after that I came to live with him. That is all our history, Alan. But Joe Brill might know if he had any enemies.’
‘Yes, he might. He lived thirty years with your father, didn’t he? But he can keep his own counsel—no one better.’
‘You are good at it too, Alan. Where were you last night? You did not come to see me.’
He moved uneasily. He had his own reasons for not wishing to give a direct answer.
‘I went for a long walk—to—to—to think out one or two things. When I got back it was too late to see you.’
‘What troubled you, Alan? You have looked very worried lately. I am sure you are in some trouble. Tell me, dear; I must share all your troubles.’
‘My dearest, I am in no trouble’—he kissed her hand—‘but I am your trustee, you know and it is no sinecure to have the management of two millions.’
‘It’s too much money,’ she said. ‘Let us dispose of some of it, then you need not be worried. Can I do what I like with it?’
‘Most of it—there are certain legacies. I will tell you about them later.’
‘I am afraid the estate will be troublesome to us, Alan. It’s strange we should have so much money when we don’t care about it. Now, there is Dr Warrender, working his life out for that silly extravagant wife of his!’
‘He is very much in love with her, nevertheless.’
‘I suppose that’s why he works so hard. But she’s a horrid woman, and cares not a snap of her fingers for him—not to speak of love! Love! why, she doesn’t know the meaning of the word. We do!’ And, bending over, Sophy kissed him.
Then promptly there came from Miss Parsh the reminder that it was time for tea.
‘Very well, Vicky, I dare say Alan would like you to give him a cup,’ replied Sophy.
‘Frivolous as ever, Sophia! I give up a hope of forming your character—now!’
‘Alan is doing that,’ replied the girl.
‘Thank you, lady,’ said he; ‘the first of many, I hope.’
Alan frowned, and drew his fiancée away. He took little heed of the remark at the time; but it occurred to him later when circumstances had arisen which laid more stress on its meaning.
Miss Vicky presided over the tea—a gentle feminine employment in which she excelled. She did most of the talking; for Sophy was silent, and Alan inclined to monosyllables. The good lady announced that she was anxious to return to Heathton.
‘The house weighs on my mind,’ said she, lifting her cup with the little finger curved. ‘The servants are not to be trusted. I fear Mrs Crammer is addicted to ardent spirits. Thomas and Jane pay too much attention to one another. I feel a conviction that, during my absence, the bonds of authority will have loosened.’
‘Joe,’ said Alan, setting down his cup; ‘Joe is a great disciplinarian.’
‘On board a ship, no doubt,’ assented Miss Vicky; ‘but a rough sailor cannot possibly know how to control a household. Joseph is a fine, manly fellow, but boisterous—very boisterous. It needs my eye to make domestic matters go smoothly. When will you be ready to return, Sophy, my dear?’
‘In a week—but Alan has suggested that we should go abroad.’
‘What! and leave the servants to wilful waste and extravagance? My love!’—Miss Vicky raised her two mittened hands—‘think of the bills!’
‘There is plenty of money, Vicky.’
‘No need there should be plenty of waste. No; if we go abroad, we must either shut up the house or let it.’
