by Fergus Hume
CHAPTER XIII
THE DETECTIVE'S VIEWS
As Paul expected, the next letter from his father contained a revocationof all that had pleased him in the former one. Beecot senior wrote manypages of abuse--he always did babble like a complaining woman whenangered. He declined to sanction the marriage and ordered his son atonce--underlined--to give up all thought of making Sylvia Norman hiswife. It would have been hard enough, wrote Beecot, to have received heras a daughter-in-law even with money, seeing that she had no positionand was the daughter of a murdered tradesman, but seeing also that shewas a pauper, and worse, a girl without a cognomen, he forbade Paul tobestow on her the worthy name of Beecot, so nobly worn by himself. Therewas much more to the same effect, which Paul did not read, and theletter ended grandiloquently in a command that Paul was to repair atonce to the Manor and there grovel at the feet of his injured father.
To this despotic epistle the young man answered in a few lines. He saidthat he intended to marry Sylvia, and that nothing would make him giveher up, and that he would not meet his father again until that fatherremembered that his son was an Englishman and not a slave. Paul signedhis letter without the usual "your affectionate son," for he felt thathe had small love for this imperious old man who declined to control hispassions. So he now, knew the worst. The breach between himself and hisfather was wider than ever, and he had only his youth and his brains todepend upon, in making a living for himself and a home for Sylvia.Strange to say, Paul's spirits rose, and he braced himself bravely to dobattle with fortune for his beloved.
Sylvia, under the charge of Deborah, and escorted by Bart Tawsey, hadduly left Gwynne Street, bag and baggage, and she was now established inRose Cottage, Jubileetown. The house was a small one, and there was nota single rose in the garden around it. Indeed, as the cottage had beennewly erected, there was not even a garden, and it stood amidst a bareacre with a large drying-ground at the back. But the cottage, on theoutskirts of the new suburb, was, to all intents and purposes, in thecountry, and Sylvia's weary eyes were so gladdened by green fields andglorious trees that she forgot the nakedness of her immediatesurroundings. She was assigned the best room in the small abode, and oneof the first things she did was to write a letter to Paul asking him torepair to Rose Cottage to witness the marriage of Deborah and Bart. Thehandmaiden thought this was necessary, so that she could make full useof her intended husband.
"If he wasn't here allays," said the bride-elect, "he'd be gadding aboutidling. I know him. An' me getting a business together won't be easyunless I've got him at 'and, as you may say, to take round the bills,let alone that he ought to sleep in the 'ouse in case burgulars gits in.And sleep in the 'ouse without the blessin' of matrimony he can't, mypretty, so that's all about it."
Deborah, as an American would say, was a "hustler," and having made upher mind, she did not let grass grow under her feet. She called on thevicar of the parish and explained herself at great length, butsuppressed the fact that she had formerly lived in Gwynne Street. Shedid not want the shadow of the murder to cast a gloom over her new home,and therefore said nothing about the matter. All the vicar, good, easysoul, knew, was that Deborah had been a servant in a respectable family(whereabouts not mentioned); that the father and mother had died, andthat she had brought the only daughter of the house to live with her andbe treated like a lady. Then Deborah demanded that the banns should beput up, and arranged that Bart should take up his abode in the parishfor the necessary time. This was done, and for three Sundays Deborah hadthe pleasure of hearing the banns announced which foretold that BartTawsey and herself would soon be man and wife. Then the marriage tookplace.
The future Mrs. Tawsey had no relatives, but Bart produced a snuffy oldgrandmother from some London slum who drank gin during thewedding-feast, much to the scandal of the bride. Paul acted as best manto Bart, and Sylvia, in her plain black dress, was bridesmaid. Mrs.Purr, the grandmother, objected to the presence of black at a wedding,saying it was unlucky, and told of many fearful incidents which hadafterwards occurred to those who had tolerated such a funeral garb. ButDeborah swept away all opposition.
"What!" she shouted in her usual style, "not 'ave my own sweet pretty toarsk a blessing on my marriage, and she not able to git out of 'erblacks? I'm astonished at you, Mrs. Purr, and you an old woman asoughter know better. I doubt if you're Bart's granny. I've married intoan ijit race. Don't talk to me, Mrs. Purr, if you please. Live clean an'work 'ard, and there's no trouble with them 'usbands. As 'as to love,honor and obey you."--And she sniffed.
"Them words you 'ave t' saiy," mumbled Mrs. Purr.
"Ho," said Deborah, scornfully, "I'd like to see me say 'em to sich ascrub as Bart."
But say them she did at the altar, being compelled to do so by thevicar. But when the ceremony was over, the newly-made Mrs. Tawsey tookBart by the arm and shook him. He was small and lean and of a nervousnature, so he quivered like a jelly in his wife's tremendous grip.Deborah was really ignorant of her own strength.
"You 'ark to me, Bart," said she, while the best man and bridesmaidwalked on ahead talking lovingly. "I said them words, which you oughter'ave said, 'cause you ain't got no memory t' speak of. But they ain't mybeliefs, but yours, or I'll know the reason why. Jes' you say them now.Swear, without Billingsgate, as you'll allays love, honor an' obey yourlovin' wife."
Bart, still being shaken, gasped out the words, and then gave his arm tothe lady who was to rule his life. Deborah kissed him in a loud, heartyway, and led him in triumph to the cottage. Here Mrs. Purr had prepareda simple meal, and the health of the happy pair was proposed by Paul.Mrs. Purr toasted them in gin, and wept as she did so. A dismal, tearfulold woman was Mrs. Purr, and she was about to open her mouth, in orderto explain what she thought would come of the marriage, when Mrs. Tawseystopped her.
"None of them groans," cried Deborah, with vigor. "I won't have myweddings made funerals. 'Old your tongue, Mrs. Purr, and you, Bart, jes'swear to love, honor an' obey my pretty as you would your own lawfulwife, and the ceremonies is hoff."
Bart performed the request, and then Paul, laughing at the oddity of itall, took his leave. On walking to the gate, he was overtaken by Mrs.Purr, who winked mysteriously. "Whatever you do, sir," said the lean oldcreature, with many contortions of her withered face, "don't havenothin' to do with Tray."
"Tray," echoed Paul in surprise. "Mr. Pash's office boy?"
"Him and none other. I knows his grandmother, as 'as bin up for drunktwo hundred times, and is proud of it. Stretchers is as common to her,sir, as kissings is to a handsome young gent like you. An' the boy takesarter her. A deep young cuss," whispered Granny Purr, significantly.
"But why should I beware of him?" asked Beecot, puzzled.
"A nod's a wink to a blind 'un," croaked Mrs. Purr, condensing theproverb, and turning away. "Jus' leave that brat, Tray, to his ownwickedness. They'll bring him to the gallers some day."
"But I want to know--"
"Ah, well, then, you won't, sir. I ses what I ses, and I ses no more norI oughter say. So good-night, sir," and Mrs. Purr toddled up thenewly-gravelled path, and entered the cottage, leaving an odor of ginbehind her.
Beecot had half a mind to follow, so strange was the hint she had givenhim. Apparently, she knew something which connected him with Tray, andPaul wondered for the fiftieth time, if the boy had picked up the opalbrooch. However, he decided to leave the matter alone for the present.Mrs. Purr, whom Deborah had engaged to iron, was always available, andPaul decided, that should anything point to Tray's being implicated inthe finding of the opal serpent, that he would hand him over to Hurd,who would be better able to deal with such a keen young imp of thegutter. Thus making up his mind, Paul dismissed all thought of Mrs.Purr's mysterious utterance, and walked briskly to the nearestbus-stand, where he took a blue vehicle to the Bloomsbury district. Allthe way to his garret he dreamed of Sylvia, and poor though was thehome he had left her in, he was thankful that she was there in the safeshelter of Mrs. Deborah Tawsey's arms.
It was five o'clock when Paul arrived at the door of the stairs leadingto his attic, and here he was touched on the shoulder by no less aperson than Mr. Billy Hurd. Only when he spoke did Paul recognize him byhis voice, for the gentleman who stood before him was not the brownindividual he knew as the detective. Mr. Hurd was in evening dress, withthe neatest of patent boots and the tightest of white gloves. He wore abrilliantly-polished silk hat, and twirled a gold-headed cane. Also hehad donned a smart blue cloth overcoat with a velvet collar and cuffs.But though his voice was the voice of Hurd, his face was that of quite adifferent person. His hair was dark and worn rather long, his moustacheblack and large, and brushed out _a la Kaiser_, and he affected aneye-glass as immovable as that of Hay's. Altogether a wonderfullychanged individual.
"Hurd," said Paul, starting with surprise.
"It's my voice told you. But now--" he spoke a tone higher in a shrillsort of way and with a foreign accent--"vould you me discover, mon ami?"he inquired, with a genuine Parisian shrug.
"No. Why are you masquerading as a Frenchman, Hurd?"
"Not Hurd in this skin, Mr. Beecot. Comte de la Tour, a votre service,"and he presented a thin glazed card with a coronet engraved on it.
"Well, Count," said Beecot, laughing, "what can I do for you?"
"Come up to your room," said the pseudo count, mounting the stairs;"there's something to be talked over between us."
"No bad news, I hope?"
"Ah, my poor friend," said the detective, in his usual genial voice,"you have had enough bad news, I am aware. To lose a lovely wife and afine fortune at once. Eh, what a pity!"
"I have lost the money, certainly," said Beecot, lighting his lamp, "butthe wife will be mine as soon as I can save sufficient to give her abetter home than this."
Monsieur le Comte de la Tour sat down and gracefully flung open hisovercoat, so as to expose a spotless shirt front. "What?" he asked,lifting his darkened eyebrows, "so you mean to marry that girl?"
"Of course," said Paul, angrily; "do you think I'm a brute?"
"But the money?"
"What does that matter. I love her, not the money."
"And the name. Her birth--"
"I'll give her my own name and then we'll see who will dare to say aword against my wife."
Hurd stretched out his hand, and, grasping that of Beecot's, shook itwarmly. "Upon my word you are a man, and that's almost better than beinga gentleman," he said heartily. "I've heard everything from Mr. Pash,and I honor you Mr. Beecot--I honor you."
Paul stared. "You must have been brought up in a queer way, Hurd," hesaid drily, "to express this surprise because a man acts as a man andnot as a blackguard."
"Ah, but you see in my profession I have mixed with blackguards, andthat has lowered my moral tone. It's refreshing to meet a straight,honorable man such as you are, Mr. Beecot. I liked you when first I seteyes on you, and determined to help you to discover the assassin ofAaron Norman--"
"Lemuel Krill you mean."
"I prefer to call him by the name we both know best," said Hurd, "butas I was saying, I promised to help you to find out who killed the man;now I'll help you to get back the money."
Paul sat down and stared. "What do you mean?" he asked. "The money can'tbe got back. I asked a legal friend of mine, and put the case to him,since that monkey of a Pash has thrown us over. My friend said that asno name was mentioned in the will, Maud Krill would undoubtedly inheritthe money. Besides, I learn that the certificate of marriage is allright. Mrs. Krill undoubtedly married Aaron Norman under his rightfulname thirty years ago."
"Oh, yes, that's all right," said Hurd, producing a dainty silvercigarette case, which was part of his "get-up." "Mrs. Krill is the widowof the murdered man, and the silly way in which the will has been madegives the five thousand a year to her daughter, whom Mrs. Krill hasunder her thumb. It's all right as I say. But I shouldn't be surprisedto learn that there were circumstances in Aaron Norman's past life whichled him to leave his wife, and which may lead Mrs. Krill into buyingsilence by giving Miss Norman half the income. You could live on twothousand odd a year, eh?"
"Not obtained in that way," said Beecot, filling his pipe and passing amatch to Hurd. "If the money comes legally to Sylvia, well and good;otherwise she will have nothing to do with it."
Hurd looked round the bleak garret expressively and shrugged hisshoulders again. "I think you are wrong, Mr. Beecot. You can't bring herhere."
"No. But I may make enough money to give her a better home."
"Can I help you?"
"I don't see how you can. I want to be an author."
"Well," said Hurd, whose British speech was in strange contrast to hisforeign appearance, "it's not a bad game to be an author if you get agood serial connection. Oh, don't look surprised. I know aboutnewspapers and publishers as I know about most things. See here, Mr.Beecot, have you ever tried your hand at a detective story?"
"No. I write on a higher level."
"You won't write on a more paying level," replied Hurd, coolly. "I knowa newspaper which will give you--if I recommend you, mind--one hundredpounds for a good detective yarn. You apply for it."
"But I couldn't make up one of those plots--so intricate."
"Pooh. It's a trick. You set your puppets in such and such a way andthen mix them up. I'll give you the benefit of my experience as a 'tec,and with my plot and your own writing we'll be able to knock up a storyfor the paper I talk of. Then, with one hundred pounds you'll have anest-egg to start with."
"I accept with gratitude," said Beecot, moved, "but I really don't knowwhy you should trouble about me."
"Because you're a white man and an honorable gentleman," said thedetective, emphatically. "I've got a dear little wife of my own, andshe's something like this poor Miss Norman. Then again, though youmightn't think so, I'm something of a Christian, and believe we shouldhelp others. I had a hard life, Mr. Beecot, before I became a detective,and many a time have I learned that prayers can be answered. But this isall beside the question," went on Hurd quickly, and with that nervousshame with which an Englishman masks the better part of himself. "I'llsee about the story for you. Meanwhile, I am going to a card-party tomeet, incidentally, Mr. Grexon Hay."
"Ah! You still suspect him?"
"I do, and with good reason. He's got another mug in tow. Lord GeorgeSandal, the son of Lord--well I needn't mention names, but Hay's tryingto clear the young ass out, and I'm on the watch. Hay will never know meas the Count de la Tour. Not he, smart as he is. I'm fly!"
"Do you speak French well?"
"Moderately. But I play a silent part and say little. I shut my mouthand open my eyes. But what I came here to say is, that I intend to findout the assassin of Aaron Norman."
"I can't offer you a reward, Hurd," said Paul, with a sigh.
"Oh, that's all right. The widow, by the advice of Pash, has doubled thereward. One thousand pounds it is now--worth winning, eh?"
"Humph!" said Paul, moodily, "I shouldn't think she loved her husband somuch as that."
Hurd's brown eyes shot a red flame which showed that he was excited,though he was cool enough externally. "Yes," he admitted in a carelessmanner, "she certainly does act the weeping widow in rather anexaggerated fashion. However, she's got the cash now--or at least herdaughter has, which is the same thing. The two have taken up theirquarters in a fashionable hotel in the West End, and are looking for ahouse. The old woman manages everything, and she will be one too manyfor Mr. Hay."
"What? Does he know Mrs. Krill? He said he didn't."
"Quite right. He didn't when the ladies went first to Pash's office. ButHay, on the look-out for a rich wife, got Pash to introduce him to theladies, who were charmed with him. He's making up to the daughter, evenin the few weeks that have elapsed, and now is assisting them to find ahouse. The daughter loves him I fancy, but whether the mother willallow the marriage to take place I can't say."
"Surely not on such a short acquaintance."
Hurd bent
forward as about to say something, then changed his mind."Really, I don't know--Hay is fascinating and handsome. Have you been tosee him yet?"
"No. He asked me, but all these troubles have put him out of my head.Why do you ask?"
"Because next time he invites you, go."
"You warned me against him."
"And I warn you again," said the detective, dryly. "Don't ask me toexplain, for I can't. But you go to see Hay when he invites you, andmake yourself agreeable, especially to Mrs. Krill."
"Am I likely to meet her?" asked Paul, with repugnance.
"Yes, I fancy so. After all, you are engaged to the daughter of the deadman, and Mrs. Krill--I don't count Maud, who is a tool--is a deucedlyclever woman. She will keep her eye on you and Miss Norman."
"Why? She has the money and need take no further notice."
Hurd closed one eye in a suggestive manner. "Mrs. Krill may not be sosure of the money, even though possession is nine points of the law. Youremember that scrap of paper found by the maid?"
"In which Norman warned Sylvia against allowing his real name to becomeknown? Yes."
"Well, the letter wasn't finished. The old man was interrupted, Isuppose. But in the few lines of writing Norman says," here Hurd took ascrap of paper--a copy--out of his book and read, "'If the name of Krillgets into the papers there will be great trouble. Keep it from thepublic, I can tell you where to find the reasons for this as I havewritten'--and then," said Hurd, refolding the paper, "the writing ends.But you can see that Aaron Norman wrote out an account of his reasons,which could not be pleasant for Mrs. Krill to hear."
"I still don't understand," said Paul, hopelessly puzzled.
"Well," said the detective, rising and putting on his smart hat, "it'srather a muddle, I confess. I have no reason to suspect Mrs. Krill--"
"Good heavens, Hurd, you don't think she killed her husband?"
"No. I said that I have no reason to suspect her. But I don't like thewoman at all. Norman left his wife for some unpleasant reason, and thatreason, as I verily believe, has something to do with his death. I don'tsay that Mrs. Krill killed him, but I do believe that she knows ofcircumstances which may lead to the detection of the criminal."
"In that case she would save her thousand pounds."
"That's just where it is. If she does know, why does she double thereward? A straightforward woman would speak out, but she's a crookedsort of creature; I shouldn't like to have her for my enemy."
"It seems to me that you do suspect her," said Paul dryly, but puzzled.
Hurd shrugged his shoulders. "No, but I'm in a fix, that's a truth,"said he, and sauntered towards the door. "I can't see my way. There'sthe clue of Mrs. Krill's past to be followed up, and the hint containedin this scrap of paper. The old man may have left a document behindlikely to solve the whole business. He hints as much here."
"True enough, but nothing was found."
"Then again," went on Hurd, "the request for the jewels to be deliveredto that sailor chap was in Norman's handwriting and signed with hisname."
"A forgery."
"No. Pash, who knows his writing better than any other man, says thedocument is genuine. Now then, Mr. Beecot, what made Aaron Norman writeand sign those lines giving up his property--or a part of it--justbefore his death?"
"It may have been done in good faith."
"No. If so, the messenger would not have cleared out when Pash startedfor Gwynne Street. That nautical gent knew what the lawyer would find atthe house, and so made himself scarce after trying to get the jewels.This scrap of paper," Hurd touched his breast, "and that request for thejewels in Pash's possession. Those are my clues."
"And the opal serpent?" asked Paul.
Hurd shook his head gloomily. "It's connection with the matter is beyondme," he confessed.
