Lumsden remembered that she had used those very words when he was in the shop yesterday, but he did not know that it was Jerry who had originally said them, and that they had made a terrible impression on the poor ill-treated old creature.
“Do you think that you’ll keep on the shop now that the old man is gone?” the young constable asked, out of curiosity as to her reply, and finding nothing better to say.
“Yes. I’ll allays mind the shop now—allays—me and Con, with a clean cap and a white apron; and no one’ll beat me and knock me about.”
The old woman’s eyes now glowed with an almost fierce pleasure; she drew up her head, and wagged it at Lumsden in an alarming manner as she spoke. He drew, back scarcely knowing whether to be shocked at her apparent insensibility or not, when Cooney appeared behind him in the doorway.
“I wish we could find that key, Lumsden,” he said, not observing the old woman; “it’s very awkward not to be able to lock the body in.”
“I’ve got no key,” almost shrieked Mrs. Jones, as she stood up and faced the speaker; “why don’t you take him away? Tell the Dead Hearse to come and take him away, quick!” and she almost fell into the old chair again, trembling and shaking all over.
“She’s not even half-witted,” Lumsden said. “What on earth will become of her? Do you think the old man was any way well in?”
“I don’t know,” replied Cooney, who was closely observing the old creature, who sat shaking in her chair. All at once she got up, and, muttering some indistinct words, tottered away into the kitchen, and from it to her own room, and they heard her locking the door behind her.
“Have you heard anything fresh?” inquired Lumsden of Cooney, who was staring after Mrs. Jones in an odd way.
“I’ve been talking to the doctor. He says that when he was called here this morning, Jones had been dead five or six hours. Do you remember what you said last night about that groan you heard, Lumsden? You said it was real, at any rate, and so it was. It was about that time, or a little before, that he got his death stab. And you know the weapon has not been found, Lumsden. Whoever had that light you saw last night knows something of the murder.”
“You have changed your mind about it’s being Jerry, then?”
“I don’t know; he might have come back again—went for knife, perhaps. But several of his neighbours are ready to that the blood on his clothes was on it yesterday—he sells rabbits sometimes, it appears. And another thing—the doctor says the weapon must have been an unusual one, long and narrow, and sharp at the sides—such a wound as is in his breast could not be made by even an ordinary carving knife. I am going to make a very thorough search of the premises. Con?”
“Yes, sir.”
The two constables had been passing through the kitchen while Cooney was speaking, and when Con was called they were stand ing under the verandah between the two skillion rooms.
“Con?” questioned Cooney, “the old man has been killed with a long, narrow kind of knife, the doctor says; do you know of anything about the house answering that description?”
“A long, narrow knife?” repeated the boy, thoughtfully; “master used to have an old thing like that—I think he used it in the cellar. I saw him sharpening it on the grindstone yesterday morning—it was rusty and had a black handle.”
“You haven’t seen it since?”
“No sir.”
“What are you driving at, Cooney? Is it very likely the murderer would find and leave his weapon here on the premises?”
“I’m going to have a hunt for it, at any rate.”
Lumsden went out of the yard and across to Turner’s, for he had a mind for a talk with the woodman about his visit to Jones’s last night. He found Turner very busy sawing in his yard, but with such a serious face that it was evident the murder of his neighbour had agitated him greatly.
“Yes,” he said, as he sat down on a wood heap and wiped his face with the loose sleeve of his shirt, “I’m awfully cut up about it, though Jones was not a man any of his neighbours cared for; but, you see, I must have been the last man that talked to him before he was killed.”
“It was you I saw last night, then?”
“Oh, yes, it was me; and it’s a good job the boy heard the old man bidding me good night, or I might have been suspected myself. I went over to get paid for a little job I’d been doing for him.
“Clearing out the still, maybe?” Lumsden asked suspiciously.
“Nonsense—not that I’ll deny the old man did once work a private still in his cellar, for he owned as much to me last night. And I want to tell you something else. They say you saw that “Phantom Hearse” last night?”
“Yes, I saw it,” was the short answer.
“Well, Jones told me a queer story about that last night. He said that he would never again have anything to do with illicit distilling—he was getting too old, and that the Dead Hearse he had encouraged such talk about all these years was nothing but the conveyance that used to come for the whiskey now and again. Some man was in the secret with him, it seemed, and they had a black cover, and so on, made for the cart so as to frighten people.”
“I’ll take my oath!” cried Lumsden, angrily, as Turner concluded, “that what I saw last night was no real conveyance. I went as close to it as I am to you, and I put out my hand twice to try and touch it, but I had only air in my grip. And how could a natural thing disappear from under my very eyes when there wasn’t a thing from end to end of the street but moonlight like day?”
Turner smiled as he remembered that this defender of the supernatural had only yesterday scouted the very idea of a ghostly appearance, but he only said—
“’Tis impossible to account for these things, but there’s an old saying that ‘mocking is catching.’ It may have been the real thing last night, as a sort of warning for people not to imitate the dead. Have ye found any kind of clue to the murderer?”
“Swipes is arrested, you know.”
“Oh, he never did it, no more than I did; he’s low and drunken, and foul-tongued, is Jerry, but he wouldn’t spill blood.”
“Who do you think did, then?”
“Ah, constable, if I had any suspicions I’d keep ’em to myself. It’s rather a dangerous thing to accuse an innocent person; but I’ll go so far as to say that I think both the lost key of the old man’s door and the knife that killed him never left his own home.”
And Turner turned to his work again.
Turner’s opinion that the lost key and murderous weapon were in the corner house renewed the young policeman’s interest in it, and he returned to see the result of Cooney’s careful search.
“I haven’t left a corner hardly,” said Cooney, in reply to his question, “and Con has been helping me. We’ve found nothing bearing on the murder. Con, go and try if you can get the old lady out of her room. Say she’s wanted in the shop; that’ll fetch her, I think.”
“Cooney, are you going to search her room?”
“Yes.”
“You have some suspicions?”
“I can’t answer you now—follow me and you will see. I must get into that room by hook or by crook. Won’t she come out, Con?”
“She won’t answer at all,” replied the boy, who was knocking at the door in the kitchen.
Cooney went ’round to the small window of the skillion room—there was a coarse curtain over it, but perceiving that it was simply hung on hinges and opened outwards, the experienced constable soon drew it open, and was master of the situation. Lifting the curtain aside, he saw Mrs. Jones sitting on a box opposite to him, quite immobile. It appeared as if extraordinary emotion of some sort had frozen into helplessness every bit of brain power of which the poor old creature was possessed.
“Mrs. Jones, there’s half a dozen customers in the shop; don’t you hear Con calling you? Open the door and let him in.”
She got up mechanically, still keeping her eyes fixed on Cooney, who was leaning in the open window, but she seemed glued to t
he spot where she stood, and kept her hands behind her in such a strange way that the policeman decided on active measures, and he had bounded through the open window and was standing before the now trembling old creature in a moment.
Cooney’s first act was to open the door, and then having Lumsden and Con as witnesses, he put a hand on Mrs. Jones arm and drew her forward. The instant she was touched her hands dropped to her sides, and there was a sound of something falling. Lying on the floor behind her were the key of her dead husband’s door and the long, rusty weapon the unfortunate man had sharpened for his own murder.
“I thought it was something this way,” said Cooney, as he stooped for the articles. “God help her; she’s not accountable. How did you come to kill the old man, missis?”
“It was quite true,” she said stonily. “Watch him and you’ll see. I must go and mind the shop.”
Past the horrified Con she staggered, and her shaking hands groped before her as one in the dark. Opposite the door leading into the shop she paused unsteadily, looking towards that of the death chamber which was on her right hand. Then she turned to the right, opened the door of the darkened room, and glided in. All this time the men and boy were watching and following her. When the poor old creature crossed the threshhold, she put out her hands in an attitude of entreaty, as though to the dead, and falling on her knees by the bedside, her face sank to the reddened coverlid, over which her outstretched hands lay. She spoke no word—not even a moan passed her lips, and when Cooney had waited vainly for a moment or two, thinking to hear some word of prayer or entreaty, he stepped forward quickly and raised her face. She was dead.
“So best,” he murmured, “she’s gone to keep shop in comfort in the ‘big city.’ I’ll never believe she knew what she was doing.”
“It seems to me a matter of impossibility that an arm like that could strike such a blow,” muttered Lumsden.
“She struck through no bones, and the way the man was lying made it an easy job. I’ve been hearing something from Con that made all plain to me. It seems that Jerry Swipes told her to watch the old man yesterday. The fool was only amusing himself trying to excite the poor old creature’s jealousy, but a fool’s words often makes the devil’s opening. It was she that took the key of the door, so that Jones could not lock himself in, and the devil laid that long knife handy to her. May God have mercy on her soul!”
“And maybe that’s more than was said for the man she murdered,” Lumsden discontentedly remarked.
“Maybe he doesn’t want it so bad. At all events, he had no blood on his hands.”
No more need be said, save that never from that day to this has the Phantom Hearse been seen near “Jones’s Corner.”
AYLMER VANCE AND THE VAMPIRE, by Alice and Claude Askew
Aylmer Vance had rooms in Dover Street, Piccadilly, and now that I had decided to follow in his footsteps and to accept him as my instructor in matters psychic, I found it convenient to lodge in the same house. Aylmer and I quickly became close friends, and he showed me how to develop that faculty of clairvoyance which I had possessed without being aware of it. And I may say at once that this particular faculty of mine proved of service on several important occasions.
At the same time I made myself useful to Vance in other ways, not the least of which was that of acting as recorder of his many strange adventures. For himself, he never cared much about publicity, and it was some time before I could persuade him, in the interests of science, to allow me to give any detailed account of his experiences to the world.
The incidents which I will now narrate occurred very soon after we had taken up our residence together, and while I was still, so to speak, a novice.
It was about ten o’clock in the morning that a visitor was announced. He sent up a card which bore upon it the name of Paul Davenant.
The name was familiar to me, and I wondered if this could be the same Mr. Davenant who was so well known for his polo playing and for his success as an amateur rider, especially over the hurdles? He was a young man of wealth and position, and I recollected that he had married, about a year ago, a girl who was reckoned the greatest beauty of the season. All the illustrated papers had given their portraits at the time, and I remember thinking what a remarkably handsome couple they made.
Mr. Davenant was ushered in, and at first I was uncertain as to whether this could be the individual whom I had in mind, so wan and pale and ill did he appear. A finely-built, upstanding man at the time of his marriage, he had now acquired a languid droop of the shoulders and a shuffling gait, while his face, especially about the lips, was bloodless to an alarming degree.
And yet it was the same man, for behind all this I could recognize the shadow of the good looks that had once distinguished Paul Davenant.
He took the chair which Aylmer offered him—after the usual preliminary civilities had been exchanged—and then glanced doubtfully in my direction. “I wish to consult you privately, Mr. Vance,” he said. “The matter is of considerable importance to myself, and, if I may say so, of a somewhat delicate nature.”
Of course I rose immediately to withdraw from the room, but Vance laid his hand upon my arm.
“If the matter is connected with research in my particular line, Mr. Davenant,” he said, “if there is any investigation you wish me to take up on your behalf, I shall be glad if you will include Mr. Dexter in your confidence. Mr. Dexter assists me in my work. But, of course—.”
“Oh, no,” interrupted the other, “if that is the case, pray let Mr. Dexter remain. I think,” he added, glancing at me with a friendly smile, “that you are an Oxford man, are you not, Mr. Dexter? It was before my time, but I have heard of your name in connection with the river. You rowed at Henley, unless I am very much mistaken.”
I admitted the fact, with a pleasurable sensation of pride. I was very keen upon rowing in those days, and a man’s prowess at school and college always remain dear to his heart. After this we quickly became on friendly terms, and Paul Davenant proceeded to take Aylmer and myself into his confidence.
He began by calling attention to his personal appearance. “You would hardly recognize me for the same man! was a year ago,” he said. “I’ve been losing flesh steadily for the last six months. I came up from Scotland about a week ago, to consult a London doctor. I’ve seen two—in fact, they’ve held a sort of consultation over me—but the result, I may say, is far from satisfactory. They don’t seem to know what is really the matter with me.”
“Anaemia—heart,” suggested Vance. He was scrutinizing his visitor keenly, and yet without any particular appearance of doing so. “I believe it not infrequently happens that you athletes overdo yourselves—put too much strain upon the heart—”
“My heart is quite sound,” responded Davenant. “Physically it is in perfect condition. The trouble seems to be that it hasn’t enough blood to pump into my veins. The doctors wanted to know if I had met with an accident involving a great loss of blood—but I haven’t. I’ve had no accident at all, and as for anaemia, well, I don’t seem to show the ordinary symptoms of it. The inexplicable thing is that I’ve lost blood without knowing it, and apparently this has been going on for some time, for I ye been getting steadily worse. It was almost imperceptible at first—not a sudden collapse, you understand, but a gradual failure of health.”
“I wonder,” remarked Vance slowly, “what induced you to consult me? For you know, of course, the direction in which I pursue my investigations. May I ask if you have reason to consider that your state of health is due to some cause which we may describe as super-physical?”
A slight colour came to Davenant’s white cheeks.
“There are curious circumstances,” he said in a low and earnest tone of voice. “I’ve been turning them over in my mind, trying to see light through them. I daresay it’s all the sheerest folly—and I must tell you that I’m not in the least a superstitious sort of man. I don’t mean to say that I’m absolutely incredulous, but I’ve never given tho
ught to such things—I’ve led too active a life. But, as I have said, there are curious circumstances about my case, and that is why I decided upon consulting you.”
“Will you tell me everything without reserve?” said Vance. I could see that he was interested.
He was sitting up in his chair, his feet supported on a stool, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands—a favourite attitude of his. “Have you,” he suggested, slowly, “any mark upon your body, anything that you might associate, however remotely, with your present weakness and ill-health?”
“It’s a curious thing that you should ask me that question,” returned Davenant, “because I have got a curious mark, a sort of scar, that I can’t account for. But I showed it to the doctors, and they assured me that it could have nothing whatever to do with my condition. In any case, if it had, it was something altogether outside their experience. I think they imagined it to be nothing more than a birthmark, a sort of mole, for they asked me if I’d had it all my life. But that I can swear I haven’t. I only noticed it for the first time about six months ago, when my health began to fail. But you can see for yourself.”
He loosened his collar and bared his throat. Vance rose and made a careful scrutiny of the suspicious mark. It was situated a very little to the left of the central line, just above the clavicle, and, as Vance pointed out, directly over the big vessels of the throat. My friend called to me so that I might examine it, too. Whatever the opinion of the doctors may have been, Aylmer was obviously deeply interested. And yet there was very little to show. The skin was quite intact, and there was no sign of inflammation. There were two red marks, about an inch apart, each of which was inclined to be crescent in shape. They were more visible than they might otherwise have been owing to the peculiar whiteness of Davenant’s skin.
“It can’t be anything of importance,” said Davenant, with a slightly uneasy laugh. “I’m inclined to think the marks are dying away.”
The Occult Detective Megapack Page 34
