"I'm not losing any time, sir," he said, in answer to Talbot's inquiries; "my sort of work's quiet work, and don't make no show till it's done. I've reason to think the man we want is in Doncaster; so I stick in Doncaster, and mean to, till I lay my hand upon him—unless I should get information as would point farther off. Tell Mr. Mellish I'm doing my duty, sir, and doing it conscientious; and that I shall neither eat, nor drink, nor sleep more than just as much as'll keep human nature together, until I've done what I've set my mind on doing."
"But you've discovered nothing fresh, then?" said Talbot; "you've nothing new to tell me?"
"Whatever I've discovered is neither here nor there yet a while, sir," answered the detective, vaguely. "You keep your heart up, and tell Mr. Mellish to keep his heart up, and trust in me."
Talbot Bulstrode was obliged to be content with this rather doubtful comfort. It was not much, certainly, but he determined to make the best of it to John Mellish.
He rode out of Doncaster, past the "Reindeer" and the white-fronted houses of the wealthier citizens of that prosperous borough, and away upon the smooth high-road. The faint shimmer of the pale early moonlight lit up the tree-tops to right and left of him as he left the suburb behind, and made the road ghostly beneath his horse's feet. He was in no very hopeful humor, after his interview with Mr. Grimstone, and he knew that hungry-eyed members of the Doncaster constabulary were keeping stealthy watch upon every creature in the Mellish household, and that the slanderous tongues of a greedy public were swelling into a loud and ominous murmur against the wife John loved. Every hour, every moment, was of vital importance. A hundred perils menaced them on every side. What might they not have to dread from eager busybodies, anxious to distinguish themselves, and proud of being the first to circulate a foul scandal against the lovely daughter of one of the richest men upon the Stock Exchange? Hayward, the coroner, and Lofthouse, the rector, both knew the secret of Aurora's life; and it would be little wonder if, looking at the trainer's death by the light of that knowledge, they believed her guilty of some share in the ghastly business which had terminated the trainer's service at Mellish Park.
What if, by some horrible fatality, the guilty man should escape, and the truth never be revealed. For ever and for ever, until her blighted name should be written upon a tombstone, Aurora Mellish must rest under the shadow of this suspicion. Could there be any doubt that the sensitive and highly-strung nature would give way under the unendurable burden? that the proud heart would break beneath the undeserved disgrace? What misery for her! and not for her alone, but for every one who loved her, or had any share in her history. Heaven pardon the selfishness that prompted the thought, if Talbot Bulstrode remembered that he would have some part in that bitter disgrace; that his name was allied, if only remotely, with that of his wife's cousin; and that the shame which would make the name of Mellish a by-word must also cast some slur upon the escutcheon of the Bulstrodes. Sir Bernard Burke, compiling the romance of the county families, would tell that cruel story, and, hinting cautiously at Aurora's guilt, would scarcely fail to add, that the suspected lady's cousin had married Talbot Raleigh Bulstrode, Esq., eldest son and heir of Sir John Walter Raleigh Bulstrode, Baronet, of Bulstrode Castle, Cornwall.
Now, although the detective had affected a hopeful and even mysterious manner in his brief interview with Talbot, he had not succeeded in hoodwinking that gentleman, who had a vague suspicion that all was not quite right, and that Mr. Joseph Grimstone was by no means so certain of success as he pretended to be.
"It's my firm belief that this man Hargraves has given him the slip," Talbot thought. "He said something about believing him to be in Doncaster, and then the next moment added that he might be farther off. It's clear, therefore, that Grimstone does n't know where he is; and in that case, it's as likely as not that the man's made off with his money, and will get away from England in spite of us. If he does this—"
Mr. Bulstrode did not finish the sentence. He had reached the north lodge, and dismounted to open the iron gate. The lights of the house shone hospitably far away beyond the wood, and the voices of some men about the stable-gates sounded faintly in the distance; but the north lodge and the neglected shrubbery around it were as silent as the grave, and had a certain phantom-like air in the dim moonlight.
Talbot led his horse through the gates. He looked up at the windows of the lodge as he passed, half involuntarily; but he stopped with a suppressed exclamation of surprise at the sight of a feeble glimmer, which was not the moonlight, in the window of that upper chamber in which the murdered man had slept. Before that exclamation had wellnigh crossed his lips the light had disappeared.
If any one of the Mellish grooms or stable-boys had beheld that brief apparition, he would have incontinently taken to his heels, and rushed breathless to the stables, with a wild story of some supernatural horror in the north lodge; but Mr. Bulstrode, being altogether of another mettle, walked softly on, still leading his horse, until he was well out of earshot of any one within the lodge, when he stopped and tied the Red Rover's bridle to a tree, and turned back toward the north gates, leaving the corn-fed covert hack cropping greedily at dewy hazel-twigs, and any green meat within his reach.
The heir of Sir John Walter Raleigh Bulstrode crept back to the lodge almost as noiselessly as if he had been educated for Mr. Grimstone's profession, choosing the grassy pathway beneath the trees for his cautious footsteps. As he approached the wooden paling that shut in the little garden of the lodge, the light which had been so suddenly extinguished reappeared behind the white curtain of the upper window.
"It's queer!" mused Mr. Bulstrode, as he watched the feeble glimmer; "but I dare say there's nothing in it. The associations of this place are strong enough to make one attach a foolish importance to anything connected with it. I think I heard John say the gardeners keep their tools there, and I suppose it's one of them. But it's late, too, for any of them to be at work."
It had struck ten while Mr. Bulstrode rode homeward, and it was more than unlikely that any of the Mellish servants would be out at such a time.
Talbot lingered by the wicket-gate, irresolute as to what he should do next, but thoroughly determined to see the last of this late visitor at the north lodge, when the shadow of a man flitted across the white curtain—a shadow even more weird and ungainly than such things are—the shadow of a man with a humpback!
Talbot Bulstrode uttered no cry of surprise; but his heart knocked furiously against his ribs, and the blood rushed hotly to his face. He never remembered having seen the softy, but he had always heard him described as a humpbacked man. There could be no doubt of the shadow's identity; there could be still less doubt that Stephen Hargraves had visited that place for no good purpose. What could bring him there—to that place above all other places, which, if he were indeed guilty, he would surely most desire to avoid? Stolid, semi-idiotic as he was supposed to be, surely the common terrors of the lowest assassin, half brute, half Caliban, would keep him away from that spot. These thoughts did not occupy more than those few moments in which the violent beating of Talbot Bulstrode's heart held him powerless to move or act; then, pushing open the gate, he rushed across the tiny garden, trampling recklessly upon the neglected flower-beds, and softly tried the door. It was firmly secured with a heavy chain and padlock.
"He has got in at the window, then," thought Mr. Bulstrode. "What, in Heaven's name, could be his motive in coming here?"
Talbot was right. The little lattice-window had been wrenched nearly off its hinges, and hung loosely among the tangled foliage that surrounded it. Mr. Bulstrode did not hesitate a moment before he plunged head foremost into the narrow aperture through which the softy must have found his way, and scrambled as he could into the little room. The lattice, strained still farther, dropped, with a crashing noise, behind him; but not soon enough to serve as a warning for Stephen Hargraves, who appeared upon the lowest step of the tiny corkscrew staircase at the same moment. He was carrying a tallow
candle in a battered tin candlestick in his right hand, and he had a small bundle under his left arm. His white face was no whiter than usual, but he presented an awfully corpse-like appearance to Mr. Bulstrode, who had never seen him or noticed him before. The softy recoiled, with a gesture of intense terror, as he saw Talbot; and a box of lucifer-matches, which he had been carrying in the candlestick, rolled to the ground.
"What are you doing here?" asked Mr. Bulstrode, sternly; "and why did you come in at the window?"
"I warn't doin' no wrong," the softy whined, piteously; "and it a'n't your business neither," he added, with a feeble attempt at insolence.
"It is my business. I am Mr. Mellish's friend and relation; and I have reason to suspect that you are here for no good purpose," answered Talbot. "I insist upon knowing what you came for."
"I have n't come to steal owght, anyhow," said Mr. Hargraves; "there's nothing here but chairs and tables, and 't a'n't loikely I've come arter them."
"Perhaps not; but you have come after something, and I insist upon knowing what it is. You would n't come to this place unless you'd a very strong reason for coming. What have you got there?"
Mr. Bulstrode pointed to the bundle carried by the softy. Stephen Hargraves' small, red-brown eyes evaded those of his questioner, and made believe to mistake the direction in which Talbot looked.
"What have you got there?" repeated Mr. Bulstrode; "you know well enough what I mean. What have you got there, in that bundle under your arm?"
The softy clutched convulsively at the dingy bundle, and glared at his questioner with something of the savage terror of some ugly animal at bay, except that in his brutalized manhood he was more awkward, and perhaps more repulsive, than the ugliest of lower animals.
"It's nowght to you, nor to anybody else," he muttered sulkily. "I suppose a poor chap may fetch his few bits of clothes without bein' called like this?"
"What clothes? Let me see the clothes."
"No, I won't; they're nowght to you. They—it's only an old weskit as was give me by one o' th' lads in th' steables."
"A waistcoat!" cried Mr. Bulstrode; "let me see it this instant. A waistcoat of yours has been particularly inquired for, Mr. Hargraves. It's a chocolate waistcoat, with yellow stripes and brass buttons, unless I'm very much mistaken. Let me see it."
Talbot Bulstrode was almost breathless with excitement. The softy stared aghast at the description of his waistcoat, but he was too stupid to comprehend instantaneously the reason for which this garment was wanted. He recoiled for a few paces, and then made a rush toward the window; but Talbot's hands closed upon his collar, and held him as if in a vice.
"You'd better not trifle with me," cried Mr. Bulstrode; "I've been accustomed to deal with refractory Sepoys in India, and I've had a struggle with a tiger before now. Show me that waistcoat."
"I won't."
"By the Heaven above us, you shall."
"I won't!"
The two men closed with each other in a hand-to-hand struggle. Powerful as the soldier was, he found himself more than matched by Stephen Hargraves, whose thick-set frame, broad shoulders, and sinewy arms were almost herculean in their build. The struggle lasted for a considerable time—or for a time that seemed considerable to both of the combatants but at last it drew toward its termination, and the heir of all the Bulstrodes, the commander of squadrons of horse, the man who had done battle with the blood-thirsty Sikhs, and ridden against the black mouths of Russian cannon at Balaklava, felt that he could scarcely hope to hold out much longer against the half-witted hanger-on of the Mellish stables. The horny fingers of the softy were upon his throat, the long arms of the softy were writhing round him, and in another moment Talbot Bulstrode lay upon the floor of the north lodge, with the softy's knee planted upon his heaving chest.
Another moment, and in the dim moonlight—the candle had been thrown down and trampled upon in the beginning of the scuffle—the heir of Bulstrode Castle saw Stephen Hargraves fumbling with his disengaged hand in his breast-pocket.
One moment more, and Mr. Bulstrode heard that sharp metallic noise only associated with the opening of a clasp-knife.
"E'es," hissed the softy, with his hot breath close upon the fallen man's cheek, "you wanted t' see th' weskit, did you? but you shan't, for I'll sarve you as I sarved him. 'T a'n't loikely I'll let you stand between me and two thousand pound."
Talbot Raleigh Bulstrode had a faint notion that a broad Sheffield blade flashed in the silvery moonlight; but at this moment his senses grew confused under the iron grip of the softy's hand, and he knew little, except that there was a sudden crashing of glass behind him, a quick trampling of feet, and a strange voice roaring some seafaring oath above his head. The suffocating pressure was suddenly removed from his throat; some one or something was hurled into a corner of the little room; and Mr. Bulstrode sprang to his feet, a trifle dazed and bewildered, but quite ready to do battle again.
"Who is it?" he cried.
"It's me, Samuel Prodder!" answered the voice that had uttered that dreadful seafaring oath. "You were pretty nigh done for, mate, when I came aboard. It a'n't the first time I've been up here after dark, takin' a quiet stroll and a pipe, before turning in over yonder"—Mr. Prodder indicated Doncaster by a backward jerk of his thumb. "I'd been watchin' the light from a distance, till it went out suddenly five minutes ago, and then I came up close to see what was the matter. I don't know who you are, or what you are, or why you've been quarrelling; but I know you've been pretty near as nigh your death to-night as ever that chap was in the wood."
"The waistcoat!" gasped Mr. Bulstrode; "let me see the waistcoat!"
He sprang once more upon the softy, who had rushed toward the door, and was trying to beat out the panel with his iron-bound-clog; but this time Mr. Bulstrode had a stalwart ally in the merchant-captain.
"A bit of rope comes uncommon handy in these cases," said Samuel Prodder, "for which reason I always make a point of carrying it somewhere about me."
He plunged up to his elbow in one of the capacious pockets of his tourist peg-tops, and produced a short coil of tarry rope. As he might have lashed a seaman to a mast in the last crisis of a wreck, so he lashed Mr. Stephen Hargraves now, binding him right and left, until the struggling arms and legs, and writhing trunk, were fain to be still.
"Now, if you want to ask him any questions, I make no doubt he'll answer 'em," said Mr. Prodder, politely. "You'll find him a deal quieter after that."
"I can't thank you now," Talbot answered, hurriedly; "there'll be time enough for that by and by."
"Ay, ay, to be sure, mate," growled the captain; "no thanks is needed where no thanks is due. Is there anything else I can do for you?"
"Yes, a good deal presently; but I must find this waistcoat first. Where did he put it, I wonder? Stay, I'd better try and get a light. Keep your eye upon that man while I look for it."
Captain Prodder only nodded. He looked upon his scientific lashing of the softy as the triumph of art; but he hovered near his prisoner in compliance with Talbot's request, ready to fall upon him if he should make any attempt to stir.
There was enough moonlight to enable Mr. Bulstrode to find the lucifers and candlestick after a few minutes search. The candle was not improved by having been trodden upon; but Talbot contrived to light it, and then set to work to look for the waistcoat.
The bundle had rolled into a corner. It was tightly bound with a quantity of whipcord, and was harder than it could have been had it consisted solely of the waistcoat.
"Hold the light for me while I undo this," Talbot cried, thrusting the candlestick into Mr. Prodder's hand. He was so impatient that he could scarcely wait while he cut the whip-cord about the bundle with the softy's huge clasp-knife, which he had picked up while searching for the candle.
"I thought so," he said, as he unrolled the waistcoat; "the money's here."
The money was there, in a small Russia-leather pocket-book, in which Aurora had given it to the murdered man. I
f there had been any confirmation needed for this fact, the savage yell of rage which broke from Stephen's lips would have afforded that confirmation.
"It's the money," cried Talbot Bulstrode. "I call upon you, sir, to bear witness, whoever you may be, that I find this waistcoat and this pocket-book in the possession of this man, and that I take them from him after a struggle in which he attempts my life."
"Ay, ay, I know him well enough," muttered the sailor; "he's a bad 'un; and him and me have had a stand further, before this."
"And I call upon you to bear witness that this man is the murderer of James Conyers!"
"WHAT?" roared Samuel Prodder; "him! Why, the double-dyed villain, it was him that put it into my head that it was my sister Eliza's chi—that it was Mrs. Mellish—"
"Yes, yes, I know. But we've got him now. Will you run to the house, and send some of the men to fetch a constable, while I stop here?"
Mr. Prodder assented willingly. He had assisted Talbot in the first instance without any idea of what the business was to lead to. Now he was quite as much excited as Mr. Bulstrode. He scrambled through the lattice, and ran off to the stables, guided by the lighted windows of the grooms' dormitories.
Talbot waited very quietly while he was gone. He stood at a few paces from the softy, watching Mr. Hargraves as he gnawed savagely at his bonds, in the hope, perhaps, of setting himself free.
"I shall be ready for you," the young Cornishman said, quietly, "whenever you're ready for me."
A crowd of grooms and hangers-on came with lanterns before the constable could arrive; and foremost among them came Mr. John Mellish, very noisy and very unintelligible. The door of the lodge was opened, and they all burst into the little chamber, where, heedless of grooms, gardeners, stable-boys, hangers-on, and rabble, John Mellish fell on his friend's breast and wept aloud.
L'ENVOI.
Aurora Floyd Page 54
