by Guy Boothby
CHAPTER X
"Murbridge found," said Jim to himself as he stood holding the telegramin his hand. "At last, thank goodness, at last!"
Alice, however, said nothing. She had more of her dead father'sforgiving spirit in her, and she was aware that he would have been thelast to have desired vengeance on his assailant.
"What do you mean to do?" she asked.
"Catch the 8.40 train up to Town," said Jim, "and see Murbridge as soonas possible. The telegram says 'Come at once.' That is sufficientevidence that there is no time to be lost. Perhaps he has been woundedin a desperate struggle with the police. In fact, there are a thousandpossibilities."
He gave the necessary instructions for dinner to be hurried forward, hisbag to be packed, and the carriage to be ready immediately afterwards totake him to the station.
"You will not mind being left alone for one evening, will you, Alice?"he said to his sister, half apologetically. "Terence will be in thehouse and will keep a careful eye upon you. If you think you will belonely I will take you up to Town with me, drop you at the hotel, andthen I will go on to Upper Bellington Street."
Alice, however, would not hear of this arrangement. She declared thatshe would be quite content to remain where she was.
"Besides," she said, "if any news were to come from Helen, I should behere to receive it. It would not be wise for both of us to be away atthis juncture."
Jim thereupon went out and sent word to Terence to come to him in hisstudy.
"I am called up to Town to-night, Terence," he said, "and I am going toleave Miss Alice in your charge. I know she could not be in a better."
"You may be very sure of that, sir," Terence replied; "I wouldn't standby and see anything happen to Miss Alice, and I think she knows it."
"I am sure she does," Jim returned, and then went on to explain thereason for the journey he was about to undertake.
An hour and a-half later he was seated in a railway carriage and beingwhirled along towards London at something like fifty miles an hour. Ifever a young man in this world was furnished with material for thought,James Standerton that evening was that one. There was his errand toLondon in the first place to be considered, the singular behaviour ofthe Black Dwarf a few nights before for another, and the declarationthat Helen had made to him that afternoon for a third. In the light ofthis last catastrophe the finding of the man whom he felt sure was hisfather's murderer sank into comparative insignificance.
What if the madman should wreak his vengeance upon her? What if in asudden fit of fury he should drive her from his house? If the latterwere to come to pass, however, he felt certain that the place she wouldfly to would be the Manor House, and in that case Alice would take herin and Terence would see that she was safe from the old man's fury.
It was nearly eleven o'clock when he reached Paddington. Hailing a cab,he bade the man drive him first to his hotel, where he engaged his usualroom. When he had consulted a directory, he made his way into the streetagain. His cabman, whom he had told to wait, professed to be familiarwith Upper Bellington Street, but later confessed his entire ignoranceof its locality. Jim set him right, and then, taking his place in thecab, bade him drive him thither with all speed. Once more they set off,down Piccadilly, through Leicester Square, and so by way of Long Acreinto Holborn. Then the route became somewhat more complicated. Throughstreet after street they passed until Jim lost all idea of the directionin which they were proceeding. Some of the streets were broad andstately, others squalid and dejected, some wood paved, otherscobble-stones, in which the rain that had fallen an hour previous stoodin filthy puddles.
How long they were driving, Jim had no sort of idea, nor could he havetold you in what portion of the town he was then in. At last howeverthey entered a street which appeared to have no ending. It was illuminedby flaring lamps from coster barrows, drawn up beside the pavement,while the night was made hideous by the raucous cries of the vendors ofwinkles baked potatoes and roasted chestnuts.
"This is Upper Bellington Street, sir," said the cabman, through theshutter. "At what number shall I pull up?"
"Thirteen," Jim replied; "but you will never be able to find it in thiscrowd. Put me down anywhere here, and I'll look for it myself."
The cabman did as he was directed, and presently Jim found himselfmaking his way along the greasy pavement--which even at that late hourwas crowded with pedestrians--in search of the number in question. Itwas as miserable an evening as ever he could remember. A thin drizzlewas falling; the sights and sounds around him were sordid and depressingin the extreme; while the very errand that had brought him to thatneighbourhood was of a kind calculated to lower the spirits of theaverage man to below the mental zero.
After an examination of the numbers of the various houses and shops inthe vicinity, he came to the conclusion that Thirteen must be situatedat the further end of the street. This proved to be the case. When hereached it, he knocked upon the grimy door, which was immediately openedto him by a police officer.
"What is your name?" asked that official.
"James Standerton," Jim replied. "I received a telegram fromDetective-sergeant Robins this evening asking me to come up."
"That's all right, sir," the man answered. "Come in; we have beenexpecting you this hour or more."
"But how is it your prisoner is here, and not at the police station?"
"I doubt if he'll ever trouble any police station again," returned theofficer. "He's just about done for. In fact, I shouldn't be surprised ifhe wasn't dead by now."
"What is the matter with him?"
"Pneumonia, sir, the doctor says. He says he can't last out the night."
At that moment Robins himself appeared at the head of the dirty stairsthat descended to the hall, and invited him to ascend. Jim accordinglydid so.
"Good evening, Mr. Standerton," he said, "I regret having to inform youthat we have caught our bird too late. We discovered him at midday, andhe was then at the point of death. He was too ill to be moved, and as hehad no one to look after him, we got a doctor and a nurse in at once.But I fear it is a hopeless case."
"Will it be possible for me to see him, do you think?"
"Oh yes, sir; he's been calling for you ever since we found him, so Itook the liberty of telegraphing to you to come up."
"I am glad you did," said Jim. "There are some questions I must put tohim."
"In that case, please step this way, sir, and I'll speak to the doctor.You shall not be kept waiting any longer than I can help."
He led Jim along the landing, then opened a door and disappeared into aroom at the further end. While he was absent Jim looked about him andtook stock of his position. The small gas-jet that lit up the well ofthe staircase, served to show the dirty walls in all their dreariness.The sound of voices reached him from above and below, while the cries ofthe hawkers in the street came faintly in and added to the generalsqualor. Then as he stood there he recalled that first meeting withMurbridge beside the Darling River. In his mind's eye he saw the eveningsun illumining the gums on the opposite bank, the soft breeze rufflingthe surface of the river, an old pelican fishing for his evening meal inthe back-water, and lastly, Richard Murbridge stretched out beside hisnewly-lighted fire. This would be their third meeting; and in what aplace, and under what terribly changed circumstances! He was indulgingin this reverie when the door opened once more, and a small, grey-hairedman emerged.
"Good evening, my dear sir," he said, "I understand that you're Mr.Standerton, the son of the man the poor wretch inside is suspected ofhaving murdered. However, they have captured him too late."
"You mean, I suppose, that he will not live?" said Jim, interrogatively.
"If he sees the light of morning I shall be very much surprised," saidthe doctor; "in point of fact he is sinking fast. You wish to see him,do you not?"
"I do," said Jim. "There is some mystery connected with him that I amvery desirous of clearing up."
"I see," said the medico, "and in that case I presu
me that you wouldwish to see him alone?"
"If you can permit it," Jim replied.
"I think it might be managed," answered the other. "But if you will stayhere for a moment I will let you know."
He returned to the room, and when he stood before Jim once more, invitedhim to follow him. He did so, to find himself in a small apartment, someten feet long by eight feet wide. It was uncarpeted, and its furnitureconsisted of a broken chair, a box on which stood an enamelled basin,and a bed which was covered with frowsy blankets. On this bed lay a manwhom, in spite the change that had come over him, Jim recognised at onceas being Richard Murbridge. A nurse was standing beside him, and Robinswas at the foot of the bed.
"Do not make the interview any longer than you can help," whispered thedoctor, and then beckoned to the detective and the nurse to leave theroom with him. They did so, and the door closed behind them. Then Jimwent forward and seated himself upon the chair by the bedside of thedying man. The latter looked up at him with a scowl.
"So they sent for you after all?" he said in a voice that was littleabove a whisper. "They even took that trouble?"
"I received the message just before dinner, and came away immediatelyafterwards."
"Left your luxurious mansion to visit Upper Bellington Street? Howself-denying of you! Good Lord, to think that it should be my luck todie in such a hole as this! I suppose you know that I _am_ dying?"
"I have been informed that your recovery is unlikely," Jim replied."That fact made me doubly anxious to speak to you."
There was a little pause, during which Murbridge watched him intently.
"You mean about the murder, I suppose?" he whispered.
"Yes!" Jim answered. "God forgive me for feeling revengeful at such amoment, but you took from me and my sister the kindest and best fatherthat man ever had."
"You still think that it was I who committed the murder, then?"
"I am certain of it," Jim answered. "You were at the house that night;you cherished a deadly hatred against my father; you vowed that youwould be even with him, happen what might, and you ran away fromChilderbridge immediately afterwards. Surely those facts are blackenough to convict any man?"
"They would have gone some way with a Jury, I have no doubt," the otherreplied. "But, as a matter of fact, I did _not_ commit the murder.Bitterly as I hated your father, I am not responsible for his death."
Jim looked at him incredulously.
"Ah, I can see you do not believe me. Now, listen, James Standerton, andpay attention to what I say, for I shan't be able to say it again. I'vebeen a pretty tough sort of customer all my life. There have not beenmany villainies I haven't committed, and still fewer that I wouldn'thave committed if they tended to my advantage. The record I shall carryaloft with me will not bear much looking into. But on the word of adying man, may"--(here he swore an awful oath which I feel would bebetter not set down)--"if I am not absolutely guiltless of your father'sdeath. Will you believe me now?"
But still Jim looked incredulous.
"Ah, I can see that you still doubt me. How can I convince you? Thinkfor a moment, what have I to gain or lose by saying such a thing? Ishall be gone hence in a few hours, perhaps minutes. Even if I were themurderer, the police could not take me now. With old Bony behind me Ican laugh at them and at you."
"But why did you run away if you were innocent?"
"Because I saw what a hole I had got myself into. You remember that Iwent up to the house and had an interview with your father? He turned meout, and in the hearing of yourself and the servant I vowed to be evenwith him. That vow I certainly should have kept, had not somebody elsethat night stepped in and took the case out of my hands. When I left thehouse, I went for a long walk. I knew my own temper, and also that Idared not trust myself with human beings just then. Good heavens, man!You don't know how desperate I was. I had followed your father toEngland, and the voyage had taken nearly all my money. What little wasleft I spent in liquor, and then went down to Childerbridge to screwmore from your father. He refused point blank to help me except oncertain conditions, which I would not comply with. Knowing hisstubbornness of old, I cleared out of Childerbridge by the first train,vowing that I would be even with him by some means. Then in an eveningpaper I saw that he had been murdered. In a flash I realised myposition, and saw that if I was not very careful I should find myself inQueer Street. Then came your reward, and from that moment I hid myselflike a 'possum in a gum log. I didn't care very much about my miserableneck, but--but--well, you see, strange though it may seem, I was agentleman once."
Jim did not know what to say. If this man's tale were true, and it borethe impression of truth, then they had been on a false scent from thefirst.
"I wonder what your mother would have said had she been alive to see itall," said Murbridge, after a pause. "Good Lord, to think that JaneStanderton's brother should end his days in a hole like this."
"What?" cried Jim, scarcely believing that he had heard aright. "Whosebrother did you say?"
"Why, your own mother's to be sure," returned Murbridge. "Do you mean tosay that your father never told you after all?"
"Can such a thing be possible?" Jim continued, in an awed voice.
"Yes; I am Jane Standerton's brother sure enough. If you look in thatold bag under the bed, you will find evidence enough to convince you ofthat fact. My real name is Richard McCalmont, though you wouldn't thinkit to look at me, would you? That was how I got my hold upon yourfather, don't you see? I was convicted of forgery at the age oftwenty-one"--(the man spoke as if he were proud of it)--"and did mythree years. For a while after that I went straight, but at twenty-sixthere was another little mistake, with the details of which I will nottrouble you, but which was sufficient, nevertheless, to again cause meto spend some years in durance vile. At the age of thirty-two they triedto convict me of an Insurance Fraud, combined with a suspicion ofmurder. They would have done so but for certain technicalities that werebrought forward by my Counsel, who, by the way, was employed by yourfather. You see I am perfectly candid with you."
"And you are my mother's brother?" said Jim slowly, as if he were stilltrying to believe it.
"And your father's brother-in-law, too. And your uncle. Don't forgetthat, James," said the other. "Lord! How your father hated me! Oncertain occasions I made it my custom to call upon him in a friendlyway. At the end of my last term of exile, I found that my sister wasdead, and that you and Alice were growing up. It was my desire to playthe part of the kindly uncle. But your father made himselfobjectionable, and vowed that if ever I dared to betray my relationshipto you he would cut off supplies. As there was never a time in my lifein which I did not stand in need of money, I was perforce compelled todeprive you of a life's history that would certainly have provedinteresting, if not instructive, to you. However, I now have thesatisfaction of knowing that I shall not die without having accomplishedthat task."
Here he was interrupted by a violent fit of coughing, which left himspeechless for upwards of a minute. As for Jim, he was thinking of themental agony his father must have suffered, year after year, with thisdespicable creature, the brother of the woman he loved so fondly,continually holding this threat over his children's heads.
"God help you for a miserable man," he muttered at last. "Why didn't mypoor father tell me this before? He might have known that this would nothave made the least difference."
"He was too proud," replied the other, when he recovered his speech."Well, it doesn't matter much now, and in a little while it will matterstill less. The police and I have been on the most friendly terms allour lives, and it gives one a homely sort of feeling to know that evenmy last moments will be watched over by their tender care."
He tried to laugh at his own hideous joke, but the attempt was afailure.
"For my mother's sake, is there anything I can do for you?" Jimenquired, drawing a little closer to the bed.
The other only shook his head. The effort he had made to talk had provedtoo much for him, and had
materially hastened the end.
Seeing that his condition was growing desperate, Jim rose and went insearch of the doctor. He found him in an apartment close at hand.
"I believe he is sinking fast," said Jim. "I think you had better go tohim."
The doctor accordingly returned to the sick-room, leaving Jim alone withRobins.
"Well, sir," asked the latter, "did he confess?"
"We have been deceived," said Jim. "The man is as innocent of the crimeas I am. I am convinced of that!"
"God bless my soul, you don't mean to say so," said the astonisheddetective, and asked the same questions Jim had put to the dying man.Jim answered them as the other had done.
"Well, this is the most extraordinary case I have ever had to do with,"said Robins. "If Murbridge had wanted to place a halter round his neckhe could not have gone to work in a better fashion. If he is not theman, then where are we to look for the real murderer?"
"Goodness only knows," replied Jim. "The case is now shrouded in evengreater mystery than before."
Half an hour went by, then an hour, and still they waited. At twoo'clock the doctor rejoined them.
"It is all over," he said solemnly. "He is dead."
