by Fergus Hume
‘Well, and how do you intend to set about the matter?’
‘I shall start looking for the coat first.’
‘Ah! you think he has hidden it.’
‘I am sure of it. My theory is this. When Moreland got out of the cab at Powlett Street—’
‘But he didn’t,’ interrupted Calton, angrily.
‘Let us suppose, for the sake of argument, that he did,’ said Kilsip, quietly. ‘I say when he left the cab he walked up Powlett Street, turned to the left, down George Street, and walked back to town through the Fitzroy Gardens, then knowing that the coat was noticeable, he threw it away, or rather hid it, and walked out of the gardens through the town—’
‘In evening dress—more noticeable than the coat.’
‘He wasn’t in evening dress,’ said Kilsip quietly.
‘No more he was,’ observed Calton eagerly, recalling the evidence at the trial. ‘Another blow to your theory. The murderer was in evening dress—the cabman said so.’
‘Yes; because he had seen Mr Fitzgerald, in evening dress a few minutes before, and thought that he was the same man who got into the cab with Whyte.’
‘Well, what of that?’
‘If you remember, the second man had his coat buttoned up. Moreland wore dark trousers—at least I suppose so—and with the coat buttoned up it was easy for the cabman to make the mistake, believing, as he did, that it was Mr Fitzgerald.’
‘That sounds better,’ said Calton, thoughtfully. ‘And what are you going to do?’
‘Look for the coat in the Fitzroy Gardens.’
‘Pshaw! a wild goose chase.’
‘Possibly,’ said Kilsip, as he arose to go.
‘And when shall I see you again?’ said Calton.
‘Oh, tonight,’ said Kilsip, pausing at the door. ‘I had nearly forgotten, Mother Guttersnipe wants to see you.’
‘Why, what’s up?’
‘She’s dying, and wants to tell you some secret.’
‘Rosanna Moore, by Jove,’ said Calton, ‘she’ll tell me something about her. I’ll get to the bottom of this yet—All right, I’ll be here at eight o’clock.’
‘Very well, sir,’ and the detective glided out.
‘I wonder if that old devil knows anything,’ said Calton to himself, as he resumed his seat. ‘She might have overheard some conversations between Whyte and his mistress, and is going to split. Well, I’m afraid when Fitzgerald does confess I will know all about it beforehand.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
MOTHER GUTTERSNIPE JOINS THE MAJORITY
Punctual to his appointment, Kilsip called at Calton’s office at eight o’clock, in order to guide him through the squalid labyrinths of the slums, and found the barrister waiting impatiently for him. The fact is, Calton had got it into his head that Rosanna Moore was at the bottom of the whole mystery, and every new piece of evidence he discovered went to confirm this belief. When Rosanna Moore was dying, she might have confessed something to Mother Guttersnipe, which would hint at the name of the murderer, and he had a strong suspicion that the old hag had received hush-money in order to keep quiet. Several times before, Calton had been on the point of going to her and trying to get the secret out of her—that is, if she knew it; but now Fate appeared to be playing into his hands, and a voluntary confession was much more likely to be a true one than when dragged piecemeal from unwilling lips. Consequently, when Kilsip made his appearance, Calton was in a perfect fever of excitement, which he concealed under a calm exterior.
‘I suppose we’d better go at once,’ he said to Kilsip, as he lit a cigar. ‘That old hag may go off at any moment.’
‘She might,’ assented Kilsip, doubtfully; ‘but I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if she pulled through. Some of these old women have nine lives like a cat.’
‘Not improbable,’ retorted Calton, as they passed into the brilliantly lighted street, ‘her nature seemed to me to be essentially feline; but tell me,’ he went on, ‘what’s the matter with her—old age?’
‘Partly; drink also, I think,’ answered Kilsip. ‘Besides, her surroundings are not very healthy, and her dissipated habits have pretty well settled her.’
‘It isn’t anything catching, I hope?’ cried the barrister, with a shudder, as they passed into the crowd of Bourke Street.
‘Don’t know, sir, not being a doctor,’ answered the detective, stolidly.
‘Oh!’ ejaculated Calton, in dismay.
‘It will be all right, sir,’ said Kilsip, reassuringly; ‘I’ve been there dozens of times, and I’m all right.’
‘I dare say,’ retorted the barrister; ‘but I may go there once and catch it, whatever it is.’
‘Take my word, sir, it’s nothing worse nor old age and drink.’
‘Has she a doctor?’
‘Won’t let one come near her—prescribes for herself.’
‘Gin, I suppose? Humph! Much nicer than the usual run of medicines.’
They went into Little Bourke Street, and after going through the narrow and dark lanes, which now seemed quite familiar to Calton, reached Mother Guttersnipe’s den, for, in truth, it could be called nothing else. After climbing the rickety stairs, which groaned and creaked beneath their weights, they entered the room, and found Mother Guttersnipe lying on the bed in the corner, and the elfish child with the black hair playing cards with a slatternly looking girl at the deal table by the faint light of a tallow candle. They both sprang to their feet as the strangers entered, and the elfish child pushed a broken chair in a sullen manner towards Mr Calton, while the other girl shuffled into a far corner of the room, and crouched down there like a dog. The noise of their entry awoke the hag from an uneasy slumber into which she had fallen, and sitting up in bed, she huddled the clothes round her, and presented such a gruesome spectacle that Calton involuntarily recoiled. Her white hair was all unbound, and hung in tangled masses over her shoulders in snowy confusion. Her face, parched and wrinkled, with the hooked nose and beady, black eyes, like those of a mouse, was poked forward, and her skinny arms, bare to the shoulder, were waving wildly about as she grasped at the bedclothes with her claw-like hands. The bottle of square and the broken cup lay beside her, and filling herself a dram, she lapped it up greedily. Some of it went the wrong way, and she was seized with a paroxysm of coughing, which lasted till the elfish child shook her up, and took the cup from her.
‘Greedy old beast,’ muttered this amiable infant, peering into the cup, ‘ye’d drink the Yarrer dry, I b’lieve.’
‘Go t’ ’ell,’ muttered the old woman, feebly. ‘Whose they, Lizer?’ she said, shading her eyes with one trembling hand, while she looked at Calton and the detective.
‘The perlice cove an’ the swell,’ said Lizer, sullenly. ‘Come to see ye turn up yer toes.’
‘I ain’t dead yet, ye whelp,’ snarled the hag, with sudden energy, ‘an’ if I gits up I’ll turn up yer blarsted toes, cuss ye.’
Lizer give a shrill laugh of disdain, and Kilsip stepped forward.
‘None of this,’ he said, sharply, taking Lizer by one thin shoulder, and pushing her over to where the other girl was crouching; ‘stop there till I tell you to move.’
Lizer tossed back her tangled, black hair, and was about to make some impudent reply, when the other girl who was older and wiser put out her hand, and pulled her down beside her.
Meanwhile, Calton was addressing himself to the old beldame in the corner.
‘You wanted to see me?’ he said, gently, for notwithstanding his repugnance to her, she was, after all, a woman, and dying.
‘Yes, blarst ye,’ croaked Mother Guttersnipe, lying down, and pulling the greasy bedclothes up to her neck. ‘You ain’t a parson?’ with sudden suspicion.
‘No! I am a lawyer.’
‘I ain’t a-goin’ to ’ave them cussed parsons aprowlin’ round ’ere,’ growled the old woman, viciously. ‘I ain’t a-goin’ to die yet, cuss you; I’m goin’ to git well and strong, an’ ’ave a good time of it.’
‘I’m afraid you won’t recover,’ said Calton, gently. ‘You had better let me send for a doctor.’
‘No, I shan’t,’ retorted the hag, aiming a blow at him with all her feeble strength. ‘I ain’t a-goin’ to ’ave my inside spil’d with salts and senner. I don’t want neither parsons nor doctors, I don’t. I wouldn’t ’ave a lawyer, only I’m a-thinkin’ of makin’ my will, I am, blarst it.’
‘Mind I gits the watch,’ yelled Lizer, from the corner. ‘If you gives it to Sal, I’ll tear her eyes out.’
‘Silence!’ said Kilsip, sharply, and with a muttered curse, Lizer sat back in her corner.
‘Sharper than a serpent’s tooth, she are,’ whined the old woman, when quiet was once more restored. ‘That young devil ’ave fed at my ’ome, an’ now she turns, cuss her.’
‘Well, well,’ said Calton, rather impatiently, ‘what is it you wanted to see me about?’
‘Don’t be in such a ’urry,’ said the hag, with a scowl, or I’m blamed if I’ll tell you anythin’, s’elp me Gawd.’
She was evidently growing very weak, so Calton turned to Kilsip, and told him in a whisper to get a doctor. The detective scribbled a note on some paper, and giving it to Lizer, ordered her to take it. At this the other girl arose, and putting her arm in that of the child’s, they left together.
‘Them two young ’ussies gone?’ said Mother Guttersnipe. ‘Right you are, for I don’t want what I’ve to tell to git into the noospaper, I don’t.’
‘And what is it?’ asked Calton, bending forward.
The old woman took another drink of gin, and it seemed to put life into her, for she sat up in the bed, and commenced to talk rapidly, as though she were afraid of dying before her secret was told.
‘You’ve bin ’ere afore,’ she said, pointing one skinny finger at Calton, ‘and you wanted to find out all about ’er; but you didn’t, blarst ye. She wouldn’t let me tell, for she was allays a proud jade, a-flouncin’ round while ’er pore mother was a-starvin’.’
‘Her mother! Are you Rosanna Moore’s mother?’ cried Calton, considerably astonished.
‘May I die if I ain’t,’ croaked the hag. ‘’Er pore father died of drink, cuss ’im, an’ I’m a follerin ’im to the same place in the same way. You weren’t about town in the old days, or you’d a bin arter her, blarst you.’
‘After Rosanna?’
‘The werry girl,’ answered Mother Guttersnipe. ‘She were on the stage, she were, an’ my eye, what a swell she were, with all the coves a-dyin’ for ’er, and she dancin’ over their black ’earts, cuss ’em; but she was allays good to me till ’e came.’
‘Who came?’
‘’E!’ yelled the old woman, raising herself on her arm, her eyes sparkling with vindictive fury. ‘’E, a-comin’ round with di’monds and gold, and a-ruinin’ my pore girl; an’ how ’e’s ’eld ’is bloomin’ ’ead up all these years as if he were a saint, cuss ’im—cuss ’im!’
‘Who does she mean?’ whispered Calton to Kilsip.
‘Mean!’ screamed Mother Guttersnipe, whose sharp ears had caught the muttered question. ‘Why, Mark Frettlby!’
‘Good God!’ Calton rose up in his astonishment, and even Kilsip’s inscrutable countenance displayed some surprise.
‘Aye, ’e were a swell in them days,’ pursued Mother Guttersnipe, ‘and ’e comes a-philanderin’ round my gal, blarst ’im, an’ seduces ’er, and leaves ’er an’ the child to starve, like a black ’earted villain as ’e were.’
‘The child! Her name?’
‘Bah,’ retorted the hag, with scorn, ‘as if you didn’t know my gran’darter Sal.’
‘Sal. Mark Frettlby’s child?’
‘Yes, an’ as pretty a girl as the other, tho’ she ’appened to be born on the wrong side of the ’edge. Oh, I’ve seen ’er a-sweepin’ along in ’er silks an’ satins as tho’ we were dirt—an’ Sal ’er ’alf sister—cuss ’er.’
Exhausted by the efforts she had made, the old woman sank back in her bed, while Calton sat in a dazed manner thinking over the astounding revelation that had just been made. That Rosanna Moore should turn out to be Mark Frettlby’s mistress, he hardly wondered at; after all, he was but a man, and in his young days had been no better and no worse than the rest of his friends. Rosanna Moore was pretty, and was evidently one of those women who—rakes at heart—prefer the untrammelled freedom of being a mistress to the sedate bondage of a wife. In questions of morality so many people live in glass houses that there are few nowadays who can afford to throw stones, so Calton did not think any the worse of Frettlby for his youthful follies. But what he did wonder at, was that Frettlby should be so heartless as to leave his child to the tender mercies of an old hag like Mother Guttersnipe. It was so entirely different from what he knew of the man, that he was inclined to think it was some trick of the old woman’s.
‘Did Mr Frettlby know Sal was his child?’ he asked.
‘Not ’e,’ snarled Mother Guttersnipe, in an exultant tone. ‘’E thought she was dead, ’e did, arter Roseanner gave ’im the go-by.’
‘And why did you not tell him?’
‘’Cause I wanted to break ’is ’eart, if ’e ’ad any,’ said the old beldame, vindictively. ‘Sal was a-goin’ to ’ell as fast as she could till she was tuk from me. If she had gone and got into quod I’d ’ave gone to ’im, and said, “Look at yer darter! ’Ow I’ve ruined her as you did mine.”’
‘You old devil,’ said Calton, revolted at the malignity of the scheme. ‘You sacrificed an innocent girl for this.’
‘None of yer preachin’,’ retorted the hag sullenly, ‘I ain’t bin brought up for a saint, I ain’t—an’ I wanted to pay ’im out, blarst ’im—’e paid me well to ’old my tongue about my darter, an’ I’ve got it ’ere,’ laying her hand on the pillow, ‘All gold, good gold—an’ mine, cuss me.’
Calton arose; he felt quite sick at this exhibition of human depravity, and longed to be away. As he was putting on his hat, however, the two girls entered with the doctor, who nodded to Kilsip, cast a sharp scrutinising glance at Calton, and then walked over to the bed. The two girls went back to their corner, and waited in silence for the end. Mother Guttersnipe had fallen back in the bed, with one claw-like hand clutching the pillow, as if to protect her beloved gold, and over her face a deadly paleness was spreading, which told the practised eye of the doctor that the end was near. He knelt down beside the bed for a moment, holding the candle to the dying woman’s face.
She opened her eyes, and muttered drowsily, ‘Who’s you, go t’ell,’ but then she seemed to grasp the situation again, and she started up with a shrill yell, which made the hearers shudder, it was so weird and eerie.
‘My money!’ she yelled, clasping the pillow in her skinny arms. ‘It’s all mine, ye shan’t have it—blarst ye.’
The doctor arose from his knees, and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Not worthwhile doing anything,’ he said, coolly. ‘She’ll be dead soon.’
The old woman, mumbling over her pillow, caught the word, and burst into tears.
‘Dead! dead! my pore Rosanna, with ’er golden ’air, always lovin’ ’er pore mother till ’e took ’er away, an’ she came back to die—die—ooh.’
Her voice died away in a long melancholy wail, that made the two girls in the corner shiver, and put their fingers in their ears.
‘My good woman,’ said the doctor, bending over the bed, ‘would you not like to see a minister?’
She looked at him with her bright beady eyes, already somewhat dimmed with the mists of death, and said, in a harsh, low whisper, ‘Why?’
‘Because you have only a short time to live,’ said the doctor gently. ‘You are dying.’
Mother Guttersnipe sprang up, and seized his arm with a scream of terror.
‘Dyin’, dyin’—no! no!’ she wailed, clawing his sleeve. ‘I ain’t fit to die—cuss me; save me—save me; I don’t know where I’d go to, s’elp me—save me.’
The doctor tried to
remove her hands, but she held on with wonderful tenacity.
‘It is impossible,’ he said, briefly.
The hag fell back in her bed.
‘I’ll give you money to save me,’ she shrieked, ‘good money—all mine—all mine. See—see—’ere—suverains,’ and tearing her pillow open she took out a canvas bag, and from it poured a glittering stream of gold. Gold—gold—it rolled all over the bed, over the floor, away into the dark corners, yet no one touched it, so enchained were they by the horrible spectacle of the dying woman clinging to life. She clutched up some of the shining pieces, and held them up to the three men as they stood, silently, beside the bed, but her hands trembled so that sovereigns kept falling from them on to the floor, with metallic clinks.
‘All mine—all mine,’ she shrieked loudly. ‘Give me my life—gold—money—cuss you—I sold my soul for it—save me—give me my life,’ and, with trembling hands, she tried to force the gold on them. They did not say a word, but stood silently looking at her, while the two girls in the corner clung together, and trembled with fear.
‘Don’t look at me—don’t,’ cried the hag, falling down again amid the shining gold. ‘You want me to die, blarst ye—I shan’t—I shan’t—give me my gold,’ clawing at the scattered sovereigns. ‘I’ll take it with me—I shan’t die—Gawd—Gawd—’ whimpering. ‘I ain’t done nothin’—let me live—give me a Bible—save me, Gawd—cuss it—Gawd—Gawd—’ and she fell back on the bed, a corpse.
The faint light of the candle flickered on the shining gold, and the dead face, framed in tangled white hair; while the three men, sick at heart, turned away in silence to seek assistance, with that wild cry still ringing in their ears—
‘Gawd—save me, Gawd!’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
MARK FRETTLBY HAS A VISITOR
According to the copy books of our youth, ‘Procrastination is the thief of time,’ and certainly Brian found that the remark was a true one. He had been nearly a week in town, yet could not make up his mind to go and see Calton, and though morning after morning he set out with the determination to go straight to Chancery Lane, yet he never arrived there. He had gone back to his lodgings in East Melbourne, and passed his time either in the house or in taking long walks in the gardens, or along the banks of the muddy Yarra. When he did go into town on business connected with the sale of his station, he drove there and back in a hansom, for he had a curious shrinking against seeing any of his friends. He quite agreed with Byron’s remark about ‘damned good-natured friends,’ and was determined that he would not meet or talk with people, whose every word and action would imperceptibly remind him of the disgrace which had fallen on him of standing in the criminal dock. Even when walking by the Yarra he had a sort of uneasy feeling that he was looked upon as an object of curiosity, and as being very handsome, many people turned and looked at him, he attributed their admiration to a morbid desire for seeing a man who had nearly been hanged for murder.
