Kitabı oku: «Guilty Bonds», sayfa 9
Chapter Twenty Two
The Verge of a Discovery
My first impulse was to call the police, but he noticed my intention, and his hand was laid hurriedly upon my mouth.
“There’s nothing to fear – I’m not the man,” he said. “Make no noise, and keep your own counsel. I can tell you plenty about this, if you care to listen.”
The words fell dimly and indistinctly upon my ears. I was stunned and speechless – it was as if some vast substance had struck me an annihilating blow, which, while paralysing my senses to a certain degree, yet left me half oblivious. It was clear we were in a cab, driving aimlessly about London streets at a late hour. It was also true that I had once more seen that fatal, horrible symbol, associated with which were the most terrifying and agonising events of my life. I could not, however, speak, and it was only by great effort that I retained my courage.
My companion stooped and picked up something that had fallen at our feet. It was the paper to which the seal was affixed, that had dropped from my nerveless fingers.
Suddenly an icy-cold hand was laid upon my forehead.
“Wake up! wake up! – be a man! I’ve told you to fear nothing with me. We’re wasting precious time. Arouse yourself for once in your life!”
My senses returned as suddenly as they had fled. The horror of feeling his hand – a hand that had in its possession the seal – recalled me. I sat upright and drew to my side of the cab as much as I could.
“Ah!” he exclaimed bitterly, “you are still afraid of me. See here, now,” and he leaned across, speaking deliberately and with quiet emphasis, “I may die to-night, but – ”
“What!” I exclaimed, “you die to-night?”
“Yes,” he replied, in the same cool and determined tone. “You seem incredulous, but I am sure. Look!”
He put his hand to the back of his head and withdrew it, holding it before my eyes.
“Blood! Good heavens?” I ejaculated, as again the light revealed his thin grimy fingers.
“True, and I’ve not long to live – all the more reason, is it not, that I should make haste? Will you come to my home, now?”
“At once. But let us drive to a doctor and see about your head.” All my repugnance had vanished.
“Wait,” he said, shouting to the cabman an address. I remember that we at once altered our course, but whither we were proceeding I cared not – knew not. Here was, perhaps, an elucidation of the mystery forthcoming, and I had nearly done my utmost to prevent it.
“Go on; tell me all you can,” I demanded, when, after considerable persuasion, he had consented to have his head bound up as well as my slight knowledge of surgery permitted.
“Presently. When we get home – or what was once my home,” he rejoined. He was paler than before, and leaned back in a state apparently of the utmost exhaustion. His necktie had been loosened, and I had placed my travelling rug around the thinly-covered chest, yet in spite of this the severe reaction affected him severely. Sometimes he closed his eyes, and every now and then, when we passed along streets where the lights were more brilliant than in others, he stared vacantly at the roof of the cab.
Once, when I was leaning over him, making him a little more comfortable, a tear rolled down the thin, haggard cheek.
The journey seemed interminable. Street after street we traversed, and yet our journey’s end appeared as far off as ever. We had evidently wandered a long way before our driver received a definite address, or possibly he was lengthening the course for his own benefit.
The fact was that, in my impatience, it appeared longer than it really would have done.
Eventually we regained the Strand, and shortly afterwards our conveyance came to a standstill in what appeared to be anything but an inviting neighbourhood. Not a soul was about, and the empty street rattled loudly as we clattered along it.
We were in Drury Lane, before the entrance to a narrow squalid court.
As we stopped I turned with a sigh of relief to my companion, who, however, stirred not.
A fearful misgiving entered my heart. Was it possible he was dead?
Profoundly thankful I felt when, after shaking him, he turned and opened his eyes.
“Come; is this the place?” I asked, assisting him to his feet.
He followed me mechanically, but leaned very heavily on my arm as we stood for a moment while I paid the cabman.
“Where is it?” was my next question.
With an effort he composed himself, passing his hand wearily over his eyes. He appeared much changed. Inwardly deploring my forgetfulness, I drew my flask from my pocket and tendered him a pull, which he accepted with feverish energy.
“Ah! that puts new life into one!” he exclaimed, with a gasp.
His tone struck me as peculiar, and, regarding him attentively, it was plainly to be seen that he was in a very faint condition.
“This way,” he continued, as, bracing himself up, he led the way up the court.
“Here – here was where I found her, murdered!”
“Who?” I asked, instantly.
“My wife.”
The words were simple ones, and might have been spoken and heard a thousand times on any day; but at that time, and in those circumstances, they thrilled me indescribably. If those two words had been uttered by an enthusiastic lover to his bride for the first time, they could not have been more tenderly breathed.
Brushing aside all sentiment, however, I inquired, coldly, “When was this?”
“On the night of the fourth of March.”
“What! that was the night after I returned from Russia!” I exclaimed, involuntarily. “And the seal. Was that found upon her?”
“It was. But hush! we may be overheard. Let us go in.”
Filled with horror and amazement, I followed him up the tortuous stairs of a house in close proximity to the spot. After mounting several flights in utter darkness, we entered an attic – as it proved on striking a match – containing only the scantiest possible furniture. In one corner stood a bed, and by it a broken wicker-bottomed chair. An old box was placed near the broken fireplace rusted by damp, and that, with a few other articles, formed the whole contents of the miserable apartment.
He lighted the piece of candle which was upon the box, and after carefully closing the door, we sat down.
Scarcely had we done this, however, than he fell forward with a crash upon the bare floor, the blood at the same time gushing out afresh from the wound at the back of the head, and forming a small pool. Greatly to my relief he spoke almost immediately, although in such low tones as to be scarcely audible.
“It’s useless to call for assistance, for the house is empty. Lay me on the bed, if you can, and I’ll tell you all – everything.”
“But you are hurt, and must be attended to,” I said. There was a pang at my heart all the time, for, with my selfish desire to solve the mystery at once, this new wound meant fresh delay.
“If you leave me you will, on returning, find me dead. Lay me on the bed; keep quiet, and listen.”
Those were the words he spoke, and strangely calm and composed they seemed. With a precipitation which I have never ceased to deplore, I lifted him as he desired, and gave up the idea of trying to obtain medical aid at that hour in a quarter unknown to me.
He was soon arranged as comfortably as possible. The spectacle he presented – spare, pale and gaunt, propped up on a squalid bed, the pillows all stained with blood – will never be erased from my memory.
At a sign from him I snuffed the cheap candle and drew closer to his side.
“A year ago on the fourth of next March,” he commenced, speaking deliberately, but in a very weak voice, “my wife left me for a few hours. We were in utter poverty, for our little all had been stolen from us by my wife’s brother-in-law. You may have guessed already that I was not always what I appear now. At one time – ”
“But,” I interrupted, “had you not better tell me why you have brought me here, before – ”
“Before it is too late, eh? You’re right. Well, my wife left me on a desperate errand. She went to ask for money from some one over whom she had a great hold – and – and she never came home.”
He paused to gain breath. My heart beat violently as I noted the great effort he had to make for respiration.
“The man she went to see was – who?”
“Wait! By mere accident she knew his secret. One night, a long time ago, she told me that a gold mine had been opened to her. In the City, at a public-house where she had called, she met her sister Jane, who gave her a five-pound note. A few days afterwards Nell went to see some gentleman, and came home with a lot of money. She said she knew a secret out of which we both might make our fortunes. In the meantime Jane had disappeared. They were sisters, and so much alike that one could scarcely tell the difference. Open the box with this key, and give me the portrait you’ll find there.”
Chafing with impatience I did as he required and quickly found the picture.
The little photograph was of the ordinary cheap pattern, and presented the features of a rather attractive young woman.
“This,” said my strange narrator, taking it in his trembling hand, “is my wife’s picture, and it will do very well for Jane’s. We saw little of her, as she moved about so much, sometimes in England and sometimes abroad.”
“Really this does not throw much light on the occurrence,” I remarked. “What connects me with all this?”
“The fact that you witnessed the murder at Bedford Place,” he replied. “You have seen the man who killed Mrs Inglewood, and he also, I am certain, murdered my wife! You may well stare; but consider well, as I have done, and you will come to the same conclusion. When Nell left me she said, ‘Good-bye Ned; I know it’s a dangerous errand I’m on, but don’t fret.’ It was dangerous – fatal. When I found she did not return I went out. It was dark, and a very few steps from my door I stumble on a drunken woman lying in a corner. When I looked closer my head reeled, and I nearly fainted – it was Nell! On her breast was the – the – ”
“The seal!” I exclaimed.
He did not answer. Gradually his voice had become fainter, till it was only by placing my ear almost to his mouth that I caught the feebly-uttered syllables.
Putting the candle to his face I saw that his eyes were fixed on vacancy, while huge drops of dank perspiration stood upon the tightly-drawn skin of the forehead.
Evidently my mysterious acquaintance was dying rapidly. What was to be done?
The fatal secret was yet locked in his bosom.
Maddened with a feverish anxiety I emptied the brandy remaining in the flask down his throat, afterwards wiping his pallid face with my handkerchief.
My efforts for a time seemed in vain, but by degrees the breathing became more perceptible. Presently he opened his eyes.
“Thanks, thanks,” he murmured, his hands clutching convulsively over mine with each respiration.
“Are you better now?” I asked.
He disregarded my question, and appeared to be endeavouring to recall his thoughts.
“Ah, yes, it was the seal that was on Nell, – yes, the seal, and I took it off. It’s in the box, along with the portrait.”
“And you wanted me – for what?” I said, inquiringly, for he seemed to be losing himself again.
“You? Who are you?”
The question fell with a terrible weight upon my ears – it was clear that the man’s senses had fled.
“Frank Burgoyne is my name,” was my reply. “You were going to tell me who it was your wife went to see, and why you wanted me.”
“Wanted you? Ah, yes! I’ve seen you before – in Drury Lane. Nell showed you to me, for you gave evidence at the inquest. Yes, I’ve seen you!”
In a moment the remembrance of that mysterious encounter in Drury Lane came vividly back to me.
Was this the suspicious character who had come up as if he meant to speak to me, and who afterwards vanished?
There was something very awful in the ravings of that man during the next quarter of a hour. At times he was apparently hiding like a beaten hound, cringing and whining, while from the mention of the Junior Garrick Club it struck me that he was, in imagination, pleading to be allowed to stay outside the club house.
“I will see him! I will wait, if I stay here till I die!” he yelled wildly, struggling to rise.
My endeavours to hold him down were at length successful, and, apparently exhausted, he lay back, groaning and muttering.
Slowly and wearily the time passed. When at last I looked at my watch its hands pointed to the hour of half-past four.
In a frenzy of excitement I listened breathlessly for every word, hoping to catch some clue to the problem. The sick man moaned and ground his teeth, ever and anon raising his voice, startling me with the suddenness of the outbursts. Lower and lower sank the candle in its socket, until I feared that unless the day soon dawned we should be in darkness.
A cold shiver ran through me.
Then strain was beginning to take effect; my limbs trembled with the tension to which my nerves subjected them.
Presently the day broke, and never was it more welcome.
The candle had just flickered and died out when the injured man spoke with startling distinctness.
“You shall be revenged, Nell, never fear! I’ll find him. He has seen him once – red-handed then. The blood was upon him – he shall be richly repaid!”
Was he talking of me? I had seen the murderer once, certainly.
“I tell you I will! My oath is sacred. Who will believe me, without him – without Burgoyne?” he continued in his delirium.
Hoping a sudden fright might bring him to consciousness, I laid my hand upon his arm sharply, and exclaimed, —
“What do you want me to do?”
Seemingly startled for a moment, he was silent. Then he asked, —
“What time is it?”
“Half-past six,” I answered.
“I’ve told you all. That cursed fall last night has done for me; or I would have gone with you – gone with you to – to – ”
Again he faltered. The fingers which I clasped seemed to stiffen around mine and grow cold.
He was dying!
“For Heaven’s sake bear up a few moments!” I implored. “There must be a doctor about now. See, it’s getting light!”
Those dark eyes which had pierced me on the previous night once more turned to mine. In their depths a film was gathering. He motioned that he wished to speak, and I leaned down till my face almost touched his.
“Well?” I inquired, kindly and softly.
“It’s – for – Nell – I – ”
All was over!
For a few seconds I was stunned. It seemed impossible that he was dead – it was not to be realised, in spite of the inanimate body before me.
Then suddenly I gazed about me.
The noise of busy London was in my ears; the day was before me. No more could be learnt from the corpse – why should I stay?
Hastily putting the photograph and the piece of sealed paper into my pocket, I turned and left the room.
The energy of the movement was so great that as I opened the door my attention was attracted by the skirt of a woman’s dress disappearing round a corner of the landing.
In spite of my haste, however, the person had gone when I reached the door of the house and stepped into the street. There was no one visible.
Then I remembered an omission.
Retracing my steps, I regained the attic. The body lay rigid and cold as I had left it a few minutes before.
I closed the eyes, and then went home.
Chapter Twenty Three
The Dead Woman’s Picture
About seven that evening I turned out of the Charing Cross Hotel, where I had taken up a temporary abode, and strolled down the Strand towards the club, having arranged to dine there with Bob and Rivers.
Deeply meditating, endeavouring to account for the strange events of the early morning, I was heedless of those around me, and unconscious of the presence of any one I knew until I felt a smart slap on the back and heard a voice shout, —
“Hulloa, old fellow! Found you at last! Why, you look as glum as if you’d been to a funeral.”
It was Demetrius Hertzen.
“What! you in London?” I cried in genuine surprise, heartily glad to meet him.
“Yes, you left the Dene in such an uncommonly mysterious manner, and Vera is so cut up, that I thought I’d come to town, find you, and prevail upon you to return.”
Linking his arm in mine, he walked in my direction, as he added, “What’s the meaning of all this? Surely you can confide in me, my dear fellow; I am your wife’s cousin.”
I hesitated. Should I tell him? I longed to do so, and was on the verge of disclosing my secret feelings when suddenly I remembered the promise I had made to Vera to wait three weeks for her explanation.
“Well,” I replied endeavouring to smile, but scarcely succeeding, “it is all owing to a few hasty words. Husbands and wives will have little differences sometimes, you know.”
He laughed lightly, and regarding me critically for a moment, said, —
“Ah! I see. A lover’s quarrel, eh? Why don’t you return to Elveham and end all this unpleasantness? It would be far better.”
I felt his advice was well-meant, and from the bottom of my heart I thanked him, yet how could I act upon it? Three long anxious weeks must pass before any explanation.
“No,” I answered, “I’ll remain in London, at least for the present. I don’t know exactly when I shall return.”
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, don’t talk so despondently. Remember it’s only a petty quarrel, after all,” he declared, endeavouring to cheer me up.
I tried again to laugh, saying, “Yes, that’s true, but absence makes the heart grow fonder – we’re told.”
“Very well, old fellow, if you won’t take my advice I can’t help it,” he observed disappointedly.
By this time we were at the corner of Adam Street, and I exclaimed, “By the way, what are you doing with yourself this evening?”
“Nothing.”
“Come and have a bit of dinner with Bob Nugent and myself at the Junior Garrick; I’m on my way there.”
“Thanks, you’re very kind. By Jove, I’ve had nothing to eat since I left the Dene, and I’m getting a trifle peckish!”
“Then come along,” I commanded. We turned into the Adelphi, and entered the club.
In the pleasant oak-panelled dining-room, the windows of which commanded a view of the Embankment Gardens and the river, half-a-dozen men had assembled. At one of the tables Nugent and Rivers were awaiting me.
They both rose and gave me a hearty greeting on entering, and, in turn, I introduced Demetrius, who, by his ready wit and entertaining manner, soon ingratiated himself with my two old friends.
Rivers was, like most members of that Bohemian institution, a devil-may-care, erratic fellow, whom the outside world regarded as rather a shady character. Nobody knew exactly what was his profession. Since I first became acquainted with him, in the days when I was a working journalist, he had been, first, an actor, then manager of a touring dramatic company, a playwright, and afterwards traveller for a firm of wine merchants, besides executing commissions on the turf. Cards and billiards he played with skill acquired by long practice, and was usually victor whenever he took a hand at nap or baccarat.
I had not seen him since my Italian tour, as he had suddenly embarked for Australia, presumably upon business connected with a theatrical speculation, although compulsory exile had more than once been hinted at by those who were not his friends.
Be that how it may, he was back again. His age was about thirty, tall, dark, and not bad looking. The beard he had grown had considerably altered his appearance, and had I met him in the street I confess I should scarcely have recognised him.
Many were the whispers I had heard that Ted Rivers was not a model of uprightness; nevertheless, I had always found him a good-hearted, genial Philistine in my bachelor days, and now, over our meal, he cracked his jokes and beamed with that bonhomie as was his wont in times gone by.
Bob, Ted, Demetrius and myself, were a merry quartette, despite the anxiety and the many maddening thoughts gnawing constantly at my heart. The dinner passed off pleasantly, Ted giving a humorous description of life among Australian squatters. Although he asserted that dramatic business took him to the Antipodes, he admitted that he had been compelled to go up-country in search of work, and that his employment at one period had been that of a shepherd in Gippsland.
His description of the shifts which he had been put to in order to obtain a crust – he, a curled darling of Society, whilom actor at a West End theatre, and pet of the ladies – was very amusing, and caused us to roar with laughter.
“And how have you been all this time, Burgoyne?” he asked of me, when he had finished his narrative.
“Oh! Frank’s a Benedict now,” interposed Bob, laughing. “Married a fair Russian.”
“What!” exclaimed Ted in surprise. “Well, well, it’s what all of us must come to, sooner or later. But Burgoyne’s different from us poor beggars; he’s rich, and can afford matrimony.”
“I don’t see what money has to do with it,” I said. “Many poor men are happy with good helpmates.”
“Oh! don’t you,” exclaimed Rivers. “My idea is that marriage without money is suicide under an euphonious name.”
“Opinions differ on that point,” remarked Demetrius. “If I married a woman I loved, I think I should be happy with her, money or no money. But excuse me a moment, you fellows, I’ve left my cigar-case in my overcoat,” and rising, he left the table.
“Ah, cigars?” I said, suddenly remembering. “I’ve some somewhere,” and feeling in my pocket for my case, pulled forth a number of letters and papers with it.
I did so without a thought, but a second later I regretted, for from between the letters there fell a photograph, face upwards upon the table-cloth.
It was the picture the dead man had given me on the previous night.
I placed my hand upon it, but before I could do so, Bob had snatched it up, exclaiming, —
“Hulloa! carrying Vera’s photo about like a love-sick swain, eh? By Jove?” he ejaculated when he had glanced at it. “Ah! – I’ve caught you, have I? Why, this isn’t Vera, but some other woman! I’m surprised at you,” and he feigned the utmost indignation.
“Let’s look!” demanded Rivers, taking it from Bob’s hand, as I vainly endeavoured to regain possession of it.
“Ah – Heavens?” exclaimed Ted with a repugnant gesture, when his eyes fell upon it.
“What! you know her, then?” asked Bob.
“No – er – no, my dear fellow,” replied the other hurriedly, with a curious smile. “Never saw her in my life. The likeness is very like some one – some one I once knew,” he added hastily, as he scrutinised it carefully, looking upon the back at the name of the photographer. “But I see I – I’m mistaken, it isn’t she.”
And he returned the picture to me.
“Who’s the lady?” inquired Bob. “Pretty woman, without a doubt.”
“Ask no questions,” I replied, smiling mysteriously. “A purely private matter.”
“Hum! – those private matters are entertaining, sometimes,” remarked Ted, as he and Bob laughed at my confusion; but as Demetrius returned just at that moment, the subject dropped.
We went to the smoking-room and sat chatting over coffee and liqueurs, but I noticed a marked difference in the manner of Rivers. He was no longer gay, but gloomy and taciturn, and more than once I caught him regarding me with an evil, angry glitter in his dark eyes, and a scowl upon his features. The others noticed it also, but made no remark.
When the clock chimed ten Ted rose, and addressing Nugent, said: “You must excuse me, old fellow, but I’ve an engagement which I must keep. Sorry to have to leave you so early, but it’s a matter of rather urgent business.”
“Oh, no. Stay another hour; the evening’s young yet,” urged Demetrius.
“Very sorry; but I cannot.”
“Put off your engagement till to-morrow,” I suggested, but he made no reply, affecting not to have heard me.
“Well, if you must go, au revoir,” Bob said, offering his hand. “I’m here every evening, so I hope you’ll often drop in, now you have returned to civilisation.”
“Thanks, I shall be glad to accept your hospitality until I can be re-elected a member.”
He shook hands with Demetrius, but only placed the tips of his fingers in my hand, withdrawing them as if he were touching some unclean thing.
Without wishing me good-night, he departed.
An hour afterwards I returned to the hotel in deep soliloquy, wondering what this latest development meant. What connection could Rivers have with the murder of the woman whose photograph I had in my pocket?
Why did he start on seeing the picture, and afterwards deny all knowledge of its original? Why did he eye me so suspiciously?
Was he the murderer of the dead man’s wife, the unfortunate Nell, who was found killed by an unknown hand, on the night after my return from Russia?
Deeply exercised in mind over this increased complication, I sat in my room until the small hours, then – heartily sick of it all – I sought repose.
