The Ninth Customer and the Casket
HAGAR HAD ALMOST a genius for reading people's characters in their faces. The curve of the mouth, the glance of the eyes – she could interpret these truly; for to her feminine instinct she added a logical judgment masculine in its discretion. She was rarely wrong when she exercised this faculty; and in the many customers who entered the Lambeth pawn-shop she had ample opportunities to use her talent. To the sleek, white-faced creature who brought for pawning the Renaissance casket of silver she took an instant and violent dislike. Subsequent events proved that she was right in doing so. The ninth customer – as she called him – was an oily scoundrel. In appearance he was a respectable servant – a valet or a butler – and wore an immaculate suit of black broad-cloth. His face was as white as that of a corpse, and almost as expressionless. Two tufts of whisker adorned his lean cheeks, but his thin mouth and receding chin were uncovered with hair. On his badly-shaped head and off his low narrow forehead the scanty hair of iron-gray was brushed smoothly. He dropped his shifty grey eyes when he addressed Hagar, and talked softly in a most deferential manner. Hagar guessed him to be a West-end servant; and by his physiognomy she knew him to be a scoundrel.
This 'gentleman's gentleman' – as Hagar guessed him rightly to be – gave the name of Julian Peters, and the address 42, Mount Street, Mayfair. As certainly as though she had been in the creature's confidence, Hagar knew that name and address were false. Also, she was not quite sure whether he had come honestly by the casket which he wished to pawn, although the story he told was a very fair and, apparently, candid one.
'My late master, miss, left me this box as a legacy,' he said deferentially, 'and I have kept it by me for some time. Unfortunately, I am now out of a situation, and to keep myself going until I obtain a new one I need money. You will understand, miss, that it is only necessity which makes me pawn this box. I want fifteen pounds on it.'
'You can have thirteen,' said Hagar, pricing the box at a glance.
'Oh, indeed, miss, I am sure it is worth fifteen,' said Mr Peters (socalled): 'if you look at the workmanship – '
'I have looked at everything,' replied Hagar, promptly – 'at the silver, the workmanship, the date, and all the rest of it.'
'The date, miss?' asked the man, in a puzzled tone.
'Yes; the casket is Cinque Cento, Florentine work. I dare say if you took it to a West-end jeweler you could get more on it than I am prepared to lend. Thirteen pounds is my limit.'
'I'll take it,' said Peters, promptly. 'I don't care about pawning it in the West-end, where I am known.'
'As a scoundrel, no doubt,' thought Hagar, cynically. However, it was not her place to spoil a good bargain – and getting the Renaissance casket for thirteen pounds was a very good one – so she made out the ticket in the false name of Julian Peters, and handed it to him, together with a ten-pound note and three sovereigns. The man counted the money, with a greedy look in his eyes, and turned to depart with a cringing bow. At the door of the shop he paused, however, to address a last word to Hagar.
'I can redeem that casket whenever I like, miss?' he asked, anxiously.
'To-morrow, if it pleases you,' replied Hagar, coldly, 'so long as you pay me a month's interest for the loan of the money.'
'Thank you, miss; I shall take back the box in a month's time. In the meantime I leave it in your charge, miss, and wish you a very good day.'
Hagar gave a shudder of disgust as he left the shop; for the man to her was a noxious thing, like a snake or a toad. If instinct were worth anything, she felt that this valet was a thief and a scoundrel, who was abusing the trust his employer placed in him. The casket was far more likely to have been thieved than to have come to Mr Peters by will. It is not usual for gentlemen to leave their servants legacies of Cinque Cento caskets.
The box, as Peters called it, was very beautiful; an exquisite example of goldsmith's art, worthy of Benvenuto Cellini himself. Probably it was by one of his pupils. Renaissance work certainly, for in its ornamentation there was visible that mingling of Christianity and paganism which is so striking a characteristic of the re-birth of the Arts in the Italy of Dante and the Medici. On the sides of the casket in relief there were figures of dancing nymph and piping satyr; flower-wreathed altar and vine-crowned priest. On the lid a fulllength figure of the Virgin with upraised hands; below clouds and the turrets of a castle; overhead the glory of the Holy Ghost in the form of a wide-winged Dove, and fluttering cherubs and grave saints. Within the casket was lined with dead gold, smooth and lusterless; but this receptacle contained nothing.
Without doubt this tiny gem of goldsmith's art had been the jewelcase of some Florentine lady in that dead and gone century. Perhaps for her some lover had ordered it to be made, with its odd mingling of cross and thyrsus; its hints of asceticism and joyous life. But the Florentine beauty was now dust; all her days of love and vanity and sin were over; and the casket in which she had stored her jewels lay in a dingy London pawn-shop. There was something ironic in the fate meted out by Time and Chance to this dainty trifle of luxury.
While examining the box, Hagar noticed that the gold plate of the case within was raised some little distance above the outside portion. There appeared to her shrewd eyes to be a space between the base of the casket and the inner box of gold. Ever on the alert to discover mysteries, Hagar believed that in this toy there was a secret drawer, which no doubt opened by a concealed spring. At once she set to work searching for this spring.
'It is very cleverly hidden,' she murmured, having been baffled for a long time; ' but a secret recess there is, and I intend to find it. Who knows but what I may stumble on the evidence of some old Florentine tragedy, like that of the Crucifix of Fiesole?'
Her fingers were slender and nimble, and had a wonderfully delicate sense of feeling in their narrow tips. She ran them lightly over the raised work of beaten silver, pressing the laughing heads of the fauns and nymphs. For some time she was unsuccessful, until by chance she touched a delicately-modeled rose, which was carven on the central altar of one side. At once there was a slight click, and the silver slab with its sculptured figures fell downward on a hinge. As she had surmised, the box was divided within into two unequal portions; the upper one, visible when the ordinary lid was lifted, was empty, as has been said; but in the narrowness of the lower receptacle, between the false and the real bottoms of the box, there was a slim packet. Pleased with her discovery – which certainly did credit to her acute intelligence – Hagar drew out the papers. 'Here is my Florentine tragedy!' said she, with glee, and proceeded to examine her treasure-trove.
It did not take her long to discover that the letters – for they were letters, five or six, tied up with rose-hued ribbon – were not fifteenth century, but very late nineteenth; that they were not written in Italian, but in English. Penned in graceful female handwriting upon scented paper – a perfume of violets clung to them still – these letters were full of passionate and undisciplined love. Hagar only read one, but it was sufficient to see that she had stumbled upon an intrigue between a married woman and a man. No address was given, as each letter began unexpectedly with words of fire and adoration, continuing in such style from beginning to end, where the signature appended was 'Beatrice'. In the first one, which Hagar read – and which was a sample of the rest – the writer lamented her marriage, raged that she was bound to a dull husband, and called upon her dearest Paul – evidently the inamorato's name – to deliver her. The passion, the fierce sensual love which burnt in every line of this married woman's epistles, disgusted Hagar not a little. Her pure and virginal soul shrank back from the abyss revealed by this lustful adoration; trembled at the glimpse it obtained of a hidden life. There was, indeed, no tragedy in these letters as yet, but it might be – with such a woman as she who had penned them – that they would become the prelude to one. In every line there was divorce.
'What a liar that valet is!' thought Hagar, as she tied the letters up again. 'This caske
t was left to him as a legacy, was it? As if a man would entrust such compromising letters to the discretion of a scoundrel like Peters! No, no; I am sure he doesn't know of this secret place, or of the existence of these letters. He stole this casket from his master, and did not know that it was used to hide these epistles from a married woman. I'll keep the casket safely, and see what comes of it when Mr Peters returns.'
But she did not put the letters back in their secret recess. It might be that the valet would return before the conclusion of the month; and if she were out of the shop at the time, her assistant would give back the casket. Hagar felt that it would be wrong to let the letters get into the hands of so unscrupulous a scoundrel as she believed Peters to be. Did he find out the secret of the hiding-place, and the letters were within, he was quite capable of making capital out of them at the expense of the unhappy woman or his own master. He had the face of a blackmailer; so Hagar reclosed the casket, and put away the letters in the big safe in the parlor.
'She is a light woman – a bad woman,' she thought, thinking of that Beatrice who had written those glowing letters – 'and deserves punishment for having deceived her husband. But I won't give her into the power of that reptile; he would only fatten on her agony. If he comes back for the casket, he shall have it, but without those letters.'
Hagar did not think for a moment that Peters knew of the existence of these epistles, else in place of pawning the box he would have levied blackmail on the wretched Beatrice or her lover. But when in two weeks – long before the conclusion of the month – the valet again appeared, he showed Hagar very plainly that he had learnt the secret in the meantime. How and from whom he had learnt it Hagar forced him to explain. She was able to do this, as he wanted back the casket, yet had not the money to redeem it. This circumstance gave her a power over the man which she exercised mercilessly: and for some time – playing with him in cat-and-mouse fashion – she pretended to misunderstand his errand. But at first sight she saw from his greedy eyes and the triumphant look on his face that he was bent on some knavery.
'I wish to look at my box, if you please, miss,' said he, on first entering the shop. 'I cannot redeem it as yet, but if you would permit me to examine it I – '
'Certainly!' said Hagar, cutting him short; she had no patience with his flowery periods. 'Here is the box. Look at it as long as you please.'
Peters seized the casket eagerly, opened it, and looked into the empty space within; then he shook it, and turned it upside down, as though he expected the inner box to fall out. In a moment Hagar guessed that he had become aware, since pawning the casket, that it contained a secret receptacle, and was looking for the same. With an ironic smile she watched him fingering the delicate carvings with his clumsy hands, and saw that with such coarse handling the casket would never yield up its secret. She therefore revealed it to him, not for his satisfaction, but because she wanted to know the history of the love-letters. For these, without doubt, the creature was looking, and Hagar congratulated herself that she had obeyed her instinct, and had placed the letters beyond his reach.
'You can't find it, I see,' she observed, as Peters put down the casket in disgust.
'Find what?' he asked, with a certain challenge in his regard.
'The secret drawer for which you are looking.'
'How do you know that I look for a secret drawer, miss?'
'I can guess as much from the persistent way in which you press the sides of that box. Your late master, who left you the casket as a legacy, evidently did not explain its secrets. But if you wish to know, look here?' Hagar picked up the box deftly, touched the altar rose with a light finger, and revealed to Mr Peters the secret recess. His face fell, as she knew it would, at the sight of the vacant space.
'Why, it's empty!' he said aloud in a chagrined tone. 'I thought – I thought – '
'That you would find some letters within,' interrupted Hagar, smartly. 'No doubt; but you see, Mr Peters – if that is your name – I happen to have anticipated you.'
'What? You have found the letters?'
'Yes; a neat little bundle of them, which lies in my safe.'
'Please give them to me,' said the man, with tremulous eagerness.
'Give them to you!' repeated Hagar, contemptuously. 'Not I; it is not my business to encourage blackmailing.'
'But they are my letters!' cried Peters getting red, but not denying the imputation of blackmailing. 'You cannot keep my letters!'
'Yes, I can,' retorted Hagar, putting the box on the shelf behind her; 'in the same way that I can keep this casket if I so choose.'
'How dare you!' said the man, losing all his suavity. 'The box is mine!'
'It is your master's, you mean; and the letters also. You stole the casket to get money, and now you would steal the letters, if you could, to extort money from a woman. Do you know what you are, Mr Peters? You are a scoundrel.'
Peters could hardly speak for rage; but when he did find his voice, it was to threaten Hagar with the police. At this she laughed contemptuously.
'The police!' she echoed. 'Are you out of your mind? Call a policeman if you dare, and I give you in charge for thieving that box.'
'You cannot; you do not know my master's name.'
'Do I not?' retorted Hagar, playing a game of bluff. 'You forget that the name and address of your master are in those letters.'
Seeing that he was baffled in this direction, the man changed his high tone for one of diplomacy. He became cringing and wheedling, and infinitely more obnoxious than before. Hagar could hardly listen to his vile propositions with calmness; but she did so advisedly, as she wished to know the story of the letters, the name of the woman who had written them, and that of the man – Peters' master – to whom they had been sent. But the task was disagreeable, and required a great deal of self-restraint.
'Why not share the money with me?' said Peters, in silky tones; 'those letters are worth a great deal. If you let me have them, I can sell them at a high price either to my master or to the lady who wrote them.'
'No doubt,' replied Hagar, with apparent acquiescence; 'but before I agree to your proposal I must know the story.'
'Certainly, miss. I shall tell it to you. I – '
'One moment,' interrupted Hagar. 'Is Peters your real name?'
'Yes, miss; but the address I gave was false; also the Christian name I gave you. I am John Peters, of Duke Street, St. James's, in the employment of Lord Averley.'
'You are his valet?'
'Yes; I have been with him for a long time; but I lost some money at cards a week or two ago, so I – I – '
'So you stole this casket,' finished Hagar, sharply.
'No, miss, I didn't,' replied Peters, with great dignity. 'I borrowed it from my lord's room for a few weeks to get money on it. I intended to redeem and replace it within the month. I shall certainly do so, if our scheme with these letters turns out successful.'
Hagar could scarcely restrain herself from an outbreak when she heard this wretch so coolly discuss the use he intended to make of the profits to be derived from his villainy. However, she kept herself calm, and proceeded to ask further questions with a view to gaining his entire confidence.
'Well, Mr Peters, we will say you borrowed it,' she remarked, ironically; 'but don't you think that was rather a dangerous proceeding?'
'I didn't at the time,' said Peters, ruefully, 'as I didn't know my lord kept letters in it. I did not fancy he would ask after it. However, he did ask two days ago, and found that it was lost.'
'Did he think you had taken it?'
'Lor' bless you, no!' grinned the valet. 'I ain't quite such a fool as to be caught like that. My lord's rooms have been done up lately, so he thought as perhaps the paper-hangers or some of that low lot stole the box.'
'In that case you are safe enough,' said Hagar, enraged at the ingenious villainy of the creature. 'But how did you come to learn that there were letters hidden in this box? You didn't know of them when you pawned it.'
'No, miss, I didn't,' confessed Peters, regretfully; 'but yesterday I heard my lord say to a friend of his that there were letters to him from a married lady in the secret place of the box, so I thought – '
'That you would find the secret place, and use the letters to get money out of the married lady.'
'Yes, I did. That's what we are going to do, ain't it?'
'Is the married lady rich?' asked Hagar, answering the question by asking another.
'Lor', miss, her husband, Mr Delamere, has no end of money! She'd give anything to get those letters back. Why, if her husband saw them he would divorce her for sure! He's a proud man, is Delamere.'
'Has he any suspicion of an intrigue between his wife and Lord Averley?'
'Not he, miss; he'd stop it if he had. Oh, you may be sure she'll give a long price for those letters.'
'No doubt,' assented Hagar. 'Well, Mr Peters, as I am your partner in this very admirable scheme, you had better let me see Mrs Delamere. I'll get more out of her than you would.'
Rivals of Sherlock Holmes, The Page 27
