The Victorian Villains Megapack

by Arthur Morrison

  The constable looked at Pringle, who was still regarding the police-court with undiminished interest, apparently quite unaware of Mr. Schillinghammer’s movements.

  “What did he want to get out of the window for?” said the gentleman in blue inquisitively.

  “Window!” said Pringle, turning with a well-assumed start, and looking into the cab. “Do you mean the cab-window? By Jingo, so he has! Here, help me to stop him—he’s my prisoner!”

  The constable, with a condescending grin at Pringle’s innocence, obligingly started in pursuit of Mr. Schillinghammer, who by this time was nearly in Oxford Street. Pringle slipped a half-sovereign into the cabman’s hand, and followed at a pace scarcely commensurate with any great interest in the prospective capture. Halfway up Argyll Street he turned short off to the left, and entering Regent Street, hailed a cab.

  As the policeman, having reached Oxford Street, stood hopelessly scanning the crowd for a glimpse of the blackmailer, Pringle drove by on his way to Furnival’s Inn.

  Romney Pringle in THE LIZARD’S SCALE

  “You’ll have to ground-bait very carefully,” said the chatty old gentleman. “You won’t do much with the roach unless you do. I found them quite off yesterday.”

  “Which is the best Broad for the fishing?” inquired Pringle as he reached across the table for the coffee.

  “Pike! Ah, poor sport just now,” was the irrelevant reply. “No good before September.”

  Pringle repeated his question.

  “Eh? Yes, I’m on my way back to Stanlowe after breakfast. Sorry I didn’t hear you. I’ve gone rather deaf since I saw you last, and I can’t find my conversation-tube this morning.”

  Since he first took his seat at the table, the deaf one had treated Pringle with a cordiality unusual, to say the least of it, between total strangers, and it began to dawn upon him that the old gentleman mistook him for some one else. Mr. Pringle, having turned his back on the shadowy literary agency which he professed in Furnival’s Inn, had been bronzing his fair complexion for the last few days in the East Anglian sun. The fishing had proved disappointing, although the yachting had afforded some slender compensation, and the quietude of the little inn was not distasteful to a town-dweller.

  “Have I had the pleasure of meeting you before?” roared Pringle, as politely as the elevation of his voice permitted.

  “Windrush? I’ve not seen him for a week or so. He was asking if I had heard anything of you the last time I went over.”

  He was certainly very deaf, and a connected conversation seemed hopeless.

  “Who is that? I’m afraid I don’t know him,” Pringle vociferated in a supreme effort at disillusion.

  “Oh, he’s at Axford House, under Fernhurst’s care, you know. I forgot you were away North at the time.”

  Worse and worse, thought Pringle. And, abandoning any further attempt at explanation, he contented himself with smiling and bowing, as the other continued to discourse with the loudness characteristic of the deaf.

  “Yes, it was a sad business!” the old gentleman continued, “but what we should have done without Percy, I don’t know. Uncharitable people might say he’s making a good thing out of it; but, after all, he’s John’s nearest relative, and he was certainly most devoted in the way he looked after his brother. Indeed, he acted most sensibly throughout, and was entirely guided by my advice in all that he did. I must say I never cared very much for him before, and between ourselves I had regarded him as a bit of an unscrupulous adventurer, but I’ve quite altered my opinion of him now.” He rose and collected his fishing-tackle. “You should go over and see John at Axford. It’s only the fourth station beyond Stanlowe. But you ought to know the way! Tell him I shall be over next week if you do.” And cordially shaking hands, the chatty old gentleman mounted a dog-cart which had been brought round to the door, and drove off.

  “Who is that deaf old gentleman?” inquired Pringle of the landlord’s son as he entered the bar.

  “What! Dr. Toddington? Didn’t yew iver see him when yew was at Thorpe Stanlowe, sir? He’s gone won’ful deaf, sure.”

  Pringle gasped. Was the whole place inhabited by lunatics, he asked himself, or had he taken leave of his senses?

  “Look here,” he said desperately, “I never saw that old gentleman before, and I was never at Thorpe what-d’you-call-it in my life!”

  “Ain’t yew Mr. Coatbridge, then?”

  “Certainly not!” Pringle repudiated.

  “Sars o’ mine! Noo I come te look at yew I see he hain’t got that there mark on the cheek—beggin’ yar pardon fur amentionin’ it.”

  “But who is he?”

  “He were a great friend o’ Mr. Windrush.”

  “And who on earth is Mr. Windrush?”

  “My oo’d master at Thorpe Stanlowe.”

  “Am I so like Mr. Coatbridge, then?”

  “Like as tew peas, sir!”

  Pringle remembered that on arriving at the inn he had never been asked for his name, also that he had been welcomed with effusion; facts which at the time he ascribed to the rustic simplicity of the place. “I suppose Dr. Toddington do you say his name is?—he thought I was Mr. Coatbridge, too?”

  “Yes, sir! I toold him it were yew when he come here yes’day, an’ he said he’d stop th’ night jes’ to see yew, but yew’d garn to bed any.”

  After all, then, mused Pringle, the chatty old gentleman was not so eccentric as he had thought. There were possibilities too in having a double!

  “Does the Doctor live far away?” he asked at length.

  “Up Thorpe Stanlowe, agin’ th’ Hall, sir. Matter o’ ’leven mile from hare. Th’ rain’s kep’ awa’ wholly, sir, an’ ef yew care fur a sail I could come now fawther’s downd.”

  As they hoisted the little anchor and the sail filled, Pringle stretched his long limbs in the stern, and grasped the tiller in indolent attention to the discursive stream which flowed from the lips of the crew.

  “See him theer, sir!” exclaimed the youth presently; “doon’t he shine?”

  The sedges rustled, shook, and then parted, as a foot or so of delicate olive-green, with a splash of yellow at the near end, shot whiplike from the bank. For a moment its lustrous belly-scales flashed in the sun, and then the snake glided gracefully into the water with a frog writhing between its powerful little jaws.

  “Tropidonotos natrix,” murmured Pringle with an expansive yawn.

  “Iver see a fiery sarpent, sir?”

  “Do you mean fireworks?”

  “Noo, a rale livin’ one.”

  “Can’t say I ever did. Did you?”

  “Noo. Mr. Windrush did, tho’;” and hauling the sheet more aft, he sat down on the weather-gunwale, as the little craft heeled to the wind roaring in miniature hurricane across the lonely expanse of the Broad. “He were haunted by th’ funniest kinds of kewerious impets an’ things yew iver set eyes on, Ah! Th’ best master as iver breathed. I were under-gardener at Thorpe Stanlowe fur oover three yare. I were eighteen when I went theer, an’ stayed till the place were broke up. Mr. Percy wanted me to stay—didn’t want no truck with him! Soo’s fawther were a-gettin’ oo’d, an’ couldn’ manage th’ place, I come hoome.”

  “Who was Mr. Percy?”

  “The master’s brother, leastways half-brother. Fawther married twice, they said. But he’s th’ master now, Ah, I’m a-wishin’ it’d been him ’stids o’ Mr. Windrush.”

  “Why, is Mr. Windrush dead?”

  “Worser’n that,” said the youth, shaking his head mysteriously. “Noo, things was all right afore Mr. Percy come te live ’long with th’ master, but in ’bout six months Mr. Windrush went wrong in his head. Dr. Toddington said he mustn’t be ’loone, soo Mr. Percy took te sleepin’ in master’s dressin’-room. I didn’t see noo difference in him—seemed th’ same kinder-spoken gen’l’man he’
d always been. Howsiver, they called down ’nother doctor from Lun’on, an’ I hard they took an’ held a crowner’s ’quest on him, for all the warl’ as if he’d been dead! An’ jury they said he must goo ’way to a mad’us, an’ he’s now at Axford. Doctor from Lon’on couldn’t hev been much account anyways. I hard he thought Mr. Windrush drunk a won’ful lot, an’ a soberer man niver breathed! Theer were one o’ um lifted his little finger, but ’t ’twasn’t Mr. Windrush! Doon’t I mind how oo’d Percy fell oover some rails in th’ dark won night? Lork! His face were that swelled he couldn’t see outer his eyes fur a week. Nex’ day he took an’ had th’ rails a-painted with that theer whitey stuff that shines oof th’ dark, an’ th’ keyhole a-painted, soo’s he couldn’t miss aseein’ of it. Givin’ hisself a nice character, I calls it. Ah! Them tew differed as Wroxham and Barton. Oo’d Percy now’d niver take no notice o’ yew ’cept he gonned yew some order or other. A’most th’ only time I remember he iver did speak to me were once when Mr. Windrush were a-talkin’ to me ’bout yottin’, an’ Percy were a-standin’ by alistenin’, an’ a-grinnin’ from are to are, an’ he upped an’ says I were only a fresh-water sailor, an’ didn’t know nothin’ ’bout it—quite maliceful-like! Me, mind yew! Me as were born an’ bred on th’ Broads in the manner o’ speakin’! Some said he’d been to sea hisself, an’ I hard tell as he’d studied fur a doctor. Anyhow they said if Mr. Windrush hadn’t took pity on him he’d have had to go to th’ Work’us. Ah, he knowed a thing or two, did Percy.”

  “Yachting on the Broads for instance?” suggested Pringle slyly.

  The youth snorted contemptuously. “Seems to me all he knowed an’ all he didn’t know’d have made a big book! Howsiver, he were a riddy kind o’ chap. He were fur everlastin’ ’sperimentin’ with animals. Coachman’s gals kep’ guinea-pigs, an’ they used to bring ’um to Percy when they got over-run. I hard ’um say he’d git ’um to bring all manner o’ live animals; snakes like that theer, an’ lizards, an’ sech-like. Won day I found a pig jes’ a-dyin’ back o’ the tuleshed, an’ when I gonned it a tech, it shruck horrud! Seem’d ’s if that’s been shaved an’ painted all over with sticky stuff. Won o’ oo’d Percy’s ’speriments, I thot. A’most th’ only frien’ he had were th’ mad’us doctor fr’ Axford wheer master is now. Dr. Fernhurst an’ he were thick as thieves. Now th’ house ’tis hired-let, an’ Percy he lives up o’ Lon’on. He’s ’pointed to look tew th’ money fur Mr. Windrush, an’ lork! They’ve hot on th’ right man fur that job!” Here the youth digressed into a chronicle of Stanlowe small-beer, and Pringle, who had been an attentive listener up to this point, fell into a reverie which lasted for the rest of the voyage.

  The morning sail had given Pringle an appetite for lunch, and after a hearty meal he walked briskly to the little station and took the train to Axford. He had no difficulty in finding Dr. Fernhurst’s asylum. It was a three-story Manor-house built in the prim but substantial style of Queen Anne’s days, and as Pringle crossed the pleasaunce surrounding it, he noted, with the grateful eye of a connoisseur, the elaborate fanlight and the handsome pilasters which flanked the doorway supporting a pediment of chaste design. Pulling the wrought-iron bell-handle, he inquired for Mr. Windrush, and was ushered into a waiting-room. Here in a few moments he was joined by a smart young man looking like a superior valet, who introduced himself as the chief attendant of the Asylum.

  “Dr. Fernhurst is out at present,” he said, “but Mr. Windrush will be glad to see you if you will step this way. I believe, sir, that you are an old friend of his?”

  “Not so very,” replied Pringle ingenuously.

  Ascending the stairs, they entered a room on the first-floor, with a cheerful outlook over a formal garden bordered with yew-trees fantastically trimmed into the shape of mushrooms, peacocks, chickens, and, in one instance, of a cup and saucer. “Mr. Windrush, here is your friend Mr. Coatbridge to see you,” announced the attendant, immediately retiring and closing the door behind him. A tall, dejected-looking man, with a student’s stoop and hair prematurely grey, rose hesitatingly, with an exclamation of surprise, from the chair in which he had been reading.

  “Why, you’re never Coatbridge!” he cried.

  “Hush! Please don’t speak so loudly—I have something for your private ear alone.” Pringle sprang to the door and opening it, looked out for a moment, “Excuse me for this slight deception,” he continued, as he resumed his seat: “I took the liberty of assuming the name of one whom I know to be your friend in order to have freer access to you.”

  The lunatic subsided irresolutely into his chair and began to nervously finger the leaves of the book he held. He did not attempt to read, although he kept his eyes downcast, but threw an occasional furtive glance at Pringle as he spoke. “My real name is Pringle,” said that gentleman. “I live in London, and have accidentally acquired some information which leads me to think that the facts connected with your case appear to require investigation.” Windrush started and opened his lips as if to speak, but he repressed the impulse and continued to listen intently. “How I got to know of it is of no immediate consequence. I have been lucky enough to find you alone, and, as we may be interrupted at any moment, we mustn’t waste precious time. What I want you to understand at present is that I have come to see you with a view of extricating you from this very unpleasant position.”

  Still Windrush made no reply, but assuming a less constrained attitude he regarded Pringle more openly and with a shade less suspicion.

  “I am inclined to think,” continued Pringle, “that your old medical attendant, Dr. Toddington, has been the victim of a very suspicious train of circumstances.”

  “But surely,” exclaimed Windrush, at length breaking silence, “you did not get your information from him? He is the last person in the world to throw any fresh light upon the case! Why, the old simpleton firmly believes I am insane, and has been the chief means of putting me here!”

  “No, no! It was from quite a different source.”

  “I must confess,” said Windrush after a pause, during which he appeared to be reflecting deeply; “I must confess that I am very curious as to the means by which you, a total stranger, have got to know so much about my private affairs.”

  “I will tell you with the greatest pleasure, only, as I said before, time is precious, and I must ask you not to waste it by interrupting me. I will be as brief as I can.” And in a few words, Pringle informed him of his accidental interview with the Doctor and the innkeeper’s son. “Now,” he said in conclusion, “may I ask you to regard me as a friend, and to speak to me unreservedly?”

  “I really don’t know how you are going to help me, Mr. Pringle, but I can only say that I shall be eternally grateful to anyone who will rescue me from this miserable position. It is quite true that I see things at night, but I swear to you positively they are realities, and not delusions! Why, only last night I saw a fiery object of some sort while I was in bed. It was about six or eight inches long and appeared to run along the floor. I feel that if these things continue to trouble me much longer, my brain will indeed give way under the strain.” He covered his face with his hands and sobbed passionately. “You must excuse me,” said he, regaining his composure after a pause, during which Pringle had affected to be examining the garden, “but if you knew all that I have gone through during the last few months, you would wonder that I am as sensible as I am. I often wonder at it myself,” he added with a melancholy smile.

  “Do I understand you to say that these fiery apparitions only occur at nights’?” inquired Pringle.

  “They have never appeared at any other time. As a rule I see them on first retiring. I cannot even have the poor consolation of believing they are merely a nightmare horror.”

  “I should very much like to look at the room where all these things take place. Is your bedroom anywhere near?”

  “Only through here,” Windrush led the way into an adjoining a
partment where a man sat reading. “This is my attendant,” he said, as the man rose on their entry and bowed.

  “Would you mind asking him to inquire if Dr. Fernhurst is anywhere about the place? I should like to see him,” said Pringle.

  As the man departed on his errand, Pringle continued in a low voice, “I only want to get rid of him.”

  Windrush nodded with a look of intelligence, and opened a door on the further side of the room. The bedroom was plainly but substantially furnished, and overlooked the garden at a point where the clipped yews were replaced by a more pleasing vegetation, the mingled scent of jasmine and day-lily floating in through the open window.

  “Where does that lead to?” asked Pringle, pointing to a door opposite the one by which they had entered.

  “To Dr. Fernhurst’s room. The door is usually locked, but either he or Bonting, the chief attendant, always sleeps there in case I should want their services during the night. Then Jenkinson, my own attendant, always sleeps in the ante-room. I am well looked after you see!” Again the melancholy smile.

  Pringle went down on his hands and knees and commenced to make a rigid examination of the floor. The room was carpeted with a chocolate-coloured linoleum scattered over with a rug or two, and apparently presented nothing likely to repay such an elaborate investigation. After a prolonged tour of the room, including a temporary disappearance under the bedstead, Pringle rose to his feet and placed something carefully between the leaves of a book of cigarette-papers, just as the attendant was heard returning from a fruitless search.

  “Dr. Fernhurst is nowhere about, sir, and is not expected back till late,” the man announced.

  “Never mind,” said Pringle cheerily. “And now, Windrush, I must be going. I’m delighted to find you so comfortably housed and so well looked after. Keep up your spirits, I shall hope to see you again soon.” He grasped Windrush’s hand with an eloquent pressure which was gratefully returned.

  Walking slowly back to the station, Pringle took the train to Thorpe Stanlowe, and inquired for Dr. Toddington. He had had to wait some time for the train at Axford, and the evening was drawing in as he approached the house. The doctor was reading, or rather dozing, in his study when the servant announced “Mr. Pringle.” Seizing the conversation-tube which lay beside him, he adjusted it too late to grasp the name of his visitor, but rose to welcome the tall figure of Pringle as he entered, suave and well-groomed as ever.