“Beg pardon, Cap’en Kemp,” she said in a low, but a very thick voice, “but might I speak to you a moment, sir?”
My grandfather looked at her sharply. “Well,” he said, “what is it?”
“In regards to a man as sold you a watch las’ night—”
“No,” Grandfather Nat interrupted with angry decision, “he didn’t.”
“Beg pardon, sir, jesso sir—’course not; which I mean to say ’e sold it to a man near to your ’ouse. Is it brought true as that party—not meanin’ you, sir, ’course not, but the party in the street near your ’ouse—is it brought true as that party’ll buy somethink more—somethink as I needn’t tell now, sir, p’raps, but somethink spoke of between that party an’ the other party—I mean the party as sold it, an’ don’t mean you, sir, ’course not?”
It was plain that the woman, who had begun in trepidation, was confused and abashed the more by the hard frown with which Captain Nat regarded her. The frown persisted for some moments; and then my grandfather said: “Don’t know what you mean. If somebody bought anything of a friend o’ yours, an’ your friend wants to sell him something else, I suppose he can take it to him, can’t he? And if it’s any value, there’s no reason he shouldn’t buy it, so far as I know.” And Grandfather Nat strode on.
The woman murmured some sort of acknowledgment, and fell back, and in a moment I had forgotten her; though I remembered her afterward, for good reason enough.
In fact, it was no later than that evening. I was sitting in the bar-parlour with Grandfather Nat, who had left the bar to the care of the potman. My grandfather was smoking his pipe, while I spelled and sought down the narrow columns of Lloyd’s List for news of my father’s ship. It was my grandfather’s way to excuse himself from reading, when he could, on the plea of unsuitable eyes; though I suspect that, apart from his sight, he found reading a greater trouble than he was pleased to own.
“There’s nothing here about the Juno, Grandfather Nat,” I said. “Nothing anywhere.”
“Ah,” said my grandfather, “La Guaira was the last port, an’ we must keep eyes on the list for Barbadoes. Maybe the mail’s late.” Most of Lloyd’s messages came by mail at that time. “Let’s see,” he went on; “Belize, La Guaira, Barbadoes”; and straightway began to figure out distances and chances of wind.
Grandfather Nat had been considering whether or not we should write to my father to tell him that my mother was dead, and he judged that there was little chance of any letter reaching the Juno on her homeward passage.
“Belize, La Guaira, Barbadoes,” said Grandfather Nat, musingly. “It’s the rough reason thereabout, an’ it’s odds she may be blown out of her course. But the mail—”
He stopped and turned his head. There was a sudden stamp of feet outside the door behind us, a low and quick voice, a heavy thud against the door, and then a cry—a dreadful cry, that began like a stifled scream and ended with a gurgle.
Grandfather Nat reached the door at a bound, and as he flung it wide a man came with it and sank heavily at his feet, head and one shoulder over the threshold, and an arm flung out stiffly, so that the old man stumbled across it as he dashed at a dark shadow without.
I was hard at my grandfather’s heels, and in a flash of time I saw that another man was rising from over the one on the doorsill. But for the stumble Grandfather Nat would have had him. In that moment’s check the fellow spun round and dashed off, striking one of the great posts with his shoulder, and nearly going down with the shock.
All was dark without, and what I saw was merely confused by the light from the bar-parlour. My grandfather raised a shout and rushed in the wake of the fugitive, toward the stairs, and I, too startled and too excited to be frightened yet, skipped over the stiff arm to follow him. At the first step I trod on some object which I took to be my grandfather’s tobacco-pouch, snatched it up, and stuffed it in my jacket pocket as I ran. Several men from the bar were running in the passage, and down the stairs I could hear Captain Nat hallooing across the river.
“Ahoy!” came a voice in reply. “What’s up?” And I could see the fire of a purl-boat coming in.
“Stop him, Bill!” my grandfather shouted. “Stop him! Stabbed a man! He’s got my boat, and there’s no sculls in this damned thing! Gone round them barges!”
And now I could distinguish my grandfather in a boat, paddling desperately with a stretcher, his face and his shirt-sleeves touched with the light from the purl-man’s fire.
The purl-boat swung round and shot off, and presently other boats came pulling by, with shouts and questions. Then I saw Grandfather Nat, a black form merely, climbing on a barge and running and skipping along the tier, from one barge to another, calling and directing, till I could see him no more. There were many men on the stairs by this time, and others came running and jostling; so I made my way back to the bar-parlour door.
It was no easy thing to get in here, for a crowd was gathering. But a man from the bar who recognised me made a way, and as soon as I had pushed through the crowd of men’s legs I saw that the injured man was lying on the floor, tended by the potman; while Mr. Cripps, his face pallid under the dirt, and his nose a deadly lavender, stood by, with his mouth open and his hands dangling aimlessly.
The stabbed man lay with his head on a rolled-up coat of my grandfather’s, and he was bad for a child to look at. His face had gone tallowy; his eyes, which turned (and frightened me) as I came in, were now directed steadily upward; he breathed low and quick, and though Joe the potman pressed cloths to the wound in his chest, there was blood about his lips and chin, and blood bubbled dreadfully in his mouth. But what startled me most, and what fixed my regard on his face despite my tremors, so that I could scarce take my eyes from it, was the fact that, paleness and blood and drawn cheeks notwithstanding, I saw in him the ugly, broken-nosed fellow who had been in the private compartment last night, with a watch to sell; the watch, with an initial on the back, that now lay in Grandfather Nat’s cash-box.
Chapter 9
Stephen’s Tale
Somebody had gone for a doctor, it was said, but a doctor was not always easy to find in Wapping. Mrs. Grimes, who was at some late work upstairs, was not disturbed at first by the noise, since excitement was not uncommon in the neighbourhood. But now she came to the stairfoot door, and peeped and hurried back. For myself, I squeezed into a far corner and stared, a little sick; for there was a deal of blood, and Joe the potman was all dabbled, like a slaughterman.
My grandfather returned almost on the doctor’s heels, and with my grandfather were some river police, in glazed hats and pilot coats. The doctor puffed and shook his head, called for cold water, and cloths, and turpentine, and milk. Cold water and cloths were ready enough, and turpentine was easy to get, but ere the milk came it was useless. The doctor shook his head and puffed more than ever, wiped his hands and pulled his cuffs down gingerly. I could not see the man on the floor, now, for the doctor was in the way; but I heard him, just before the doctor stood up. The noise sent my neck cold at the back; though indeed it was scarce more than the noise made in emptying a large bottle by up-ending it.
The doctor stood up and shook his head. “Gone,” he said. “And I couldn’t have done more than keep him alive a few minutes, at best. It was the lung, and bad—two places. Have they got the man?”
“No,” said Grandfather Nat, “nor ain’t very likely, I’d say. Never saw him again, once he got behind a tier o’ lighters. Waterside chap, certain; knows the river well enough, an’ these stairs. I couldn’t ha’ got that boat o’ mine off quicker, not myself.”
“Ah,” said one of the river policemen, “he’s a waterside chap, that’s plain enough. Any other ’ud a-bolted up the street. Never said nothing, did he—this one?” He was bending over the dead man; while the others cleared the people back from the door, and squeezed Mr. Cripps out among them.
“No, not a wo
rd,” answered Joe the potman. “Couldn’t. Tried to nod once when I spoke to ’im, but it seemed to make ’im bleed faster.”
“Know him, Cap’en Nat?” asked the sergeant.
“No,” answered my grandfather, “I don’t know him. Might ha’ seen him hanging about p’raps. But then I see a lot doin’ that.”
I wondered if Grandfather Nat had already forgotten about the silver watch with the M on it, or if he had merely failed to recognise the man. But I remembered what he had said in the morning, after he had bought the spoons, and I reflected that I had best hold my tongue.
And now voices without made it known that the shore police were here, with a stretcher; and presently, with a crowding and squeezing in the little bar-parlour that drove me deeper into my corner and farther under the shelf, the uncomely figure was got from the floor to the stretcher, and so out of the house.
It was plain that my grandfather was held in good regard by the police; and I think that his hint that a drop of brandy was at the service of anybody who felt the job unpleasant might have been acted on, if there had not been quite as many present at once. When at last they were gone, and the room clear, he kicked into a heap the strip of carpet that the dead man had lain on; and as he did it, he perceived me in my corner.
“What—you here all the time, Stevy?” he said. “I thought you’d gone upstairs. Here—it ain’t right for boys in general, but you’ve got a turn; drink up this.”
I believe I must have been pale, and indeed I felt a little sick now that the excitement was over. The thing had been very near, and the blood tainted the very air. So that I gulped the weak brandy and water without much difficulty, and felt better. Out in the bar Mr. Cripps’s thin voice was raised in thrilling description.
Feeling better, as I have said, and no longer faced with the melancholy alternatives of crying or being ill, I bethought me of my grandfather’s tobacco-pouch. “You dropped your pouch, Gran’father Nat,” I said, “and I picked it up when I ran out.”
And with that I pulled out of my jacket pocket—not the pouch at all; but a stout buckled pocket-book of about the same size.
“That ain’t a pouch, Stevy,” said Grandfather Nat; “an’ mine’s here in my pocket. Show me.”
He opened the flap, and stood for a moment staring. Then he looked up hastily, turned his back to the bar, and sat down. “Whew! Stevy!” he said, with amazement in his eyes and the pocket-book open in his hand; “you’re in luck; luck, my boy. See!”
Once more he glanced quickly over his shoulder, toward the bar; and then took in his fingers a folded bunch of paper, and opened it. “Notes!” he said, in a low voice, drawing me to his side. “Bank of England notes, every one of ’em! Fifties, an’ twenties, an’ tens, an’ fives! Where was it?”
I told him how I had run out at his heels, had trodden on the thing in the dark, and had slipped it into my pocket, supposing it to be his old leather tobacco-pouch, from which he had but just refilled his pipe; and how I had forgotten about it, in my excitement, till the people were gone, and the brandy had quelled my faintness.
“Well, well,” commented Grandfather Nat, “it’s a wonderful bit o’ luck, anyhow. This is what the chap was pulling away from him when I opened the door, you can lay to that; an’ he lost it when he hit the post, I’ll wager; unless the other pitched it away. But that’s neither here nor there.… What’s that?” He turned his head quickly. “That stairfoot door ain’t latched again, Stevy. Made me jump: fancied it was the other.”
There was nothing else in the pocket-book, it would seem, except an old photograph. It was a faded, yellowish thing, and it represented a rather stout woman, seated, with a boy of about fourteen at her side; both very respectably dressed in the fashion of twenty years earlier. Grandfather Nat put it back, and slipped the pocket-book into the same cash-box that had held the watch with the M engraved on its back.
The stairfoot door clicked again, and my grandfather sent me to shut it. As I did so I almost fancied I could hear soft footsteps ascending. But then I concluded I was mistaken; for in a few moments Mrs. Grimes was plainly heard coming downstairs, with an uncommonly full tread; and presently she presented herself.
“Good law, Cap’en Kemp,” exclaimed Mrs. Grimes, with a hand clutching at her chest, and her breath a tumultuous sigh; “Good law! I am that bad! What with extry work, an’ keepin’ on late, an’ murders under my very nose, I cannot a-bear it—no!” And she sank into a chair by the stairfoot door, letting go her brush and dustpan with a clatter.
Grandfather Nat turned to get the brandy-bottle again. Mrs. Grimes’s head drooped faintly, and her eyelids nearly closed. Nevertheless I observed that the eyes under the lids were very sharp indeed, following my grandfather’s back, and traversing the shelf where he had left the photograph; yet when he brought the brandy, he had to rouse her by a shake.
Chapter 10
Stephen’s Tale
I went to bed early that night—as soon as Mrs. Grimes was gone, in fact. My grandfather had resolved that such a late upsitting as last night’s must be no more than an indulgence once in a way. He came up with me, bringing the cash-box to put away in the little wall-cupboard against his bed-head where it always lay, at night, with a pistol by its side. Grandfather Nat peeped to see the pocket-book safe once more, and chuckled as he locked it away. This done, he sat by my side, and talked till I began to fall asleep.
The talk was of the pocket-book, and what should be done with the money. Eight hundred pounds was the sum, and two five-pound notes over, and I wondered why a man with so much money should come, the evening before, to sell his watch.
“Looks as though the money wasn’t his, don’t it?” commented Grandfather Nat. “Though anyhow it’s no good to him now. You found it, an’ it’s yours, Stevy.”
I remembered certain lessons of my mother’s as to one’s proper behaviour toward lost property, and I mentioned them. But Grandfather Nat clearly resolved me that this was no case in point. “It can’t be his, because he’s dead,” Captain Nat argued; “an’ if it’s the other chap’s—well, let him come an’ ask for it. That’s fair enough, you know, Stevy. An’ if he don’t come—it ain’t likely he will, is it?—then it’s yours; and I’ll keep it to help start you in life when you grow up. I won’t pay it into the bank—not for a bit, anyhow. There’s numbers on bank notes: an’ they lead to trouble, often. But they’re as good one time as another, an’ easy sent abroad later on, or what not. So there you are, my boy! Eight hundred odd to start you like a gentleman, with as much more as Grandfather Nat can put to it. Eh?”
He kissed me and rubbed his hands in my curls, and I took the occasion to communicate my decision as to being a purlman. Grandfather Nat laughed, and patted my head down on the pillow; and for a little I remembered no more.
I awoke in an agony of nightmare. The dead man, with blood streaming from mouth and eyes, was dragging my grandfather down into the river, and my mother with my little dead brother in her arms called me to throw out the pocket-book, and save him; and throw I could not, for the thing seemed glued to my fingers. So I awoke with a choke and a cry, and sat up in bed.
All was quiet about me, and below were the common evening noises of the tavern; laughs, argumentation, and the gurgle of drawn beer; though there was less noise now than when I had come up, and I judged it not far from closing time. Out in the street a woman was singing a ballad; and I got out of bed and went to the front room window to see and to hear; for indeed I was out of sorts and nervous, and wished to look at people.
At the corner of the passage there was a small group who pointed and talked together—plainly discussing the murder; and as one or two drifted away, so one or two more came up to join those remaining. No doubt the singing woman had taken this pitch as one suitable to her ware—for she sang and fluttered at length in her hand one of the versified last dying confessions that even so late as this were hawked
about Ratcliff and Wapping. What murderer’s “confession” the woman was singing I have clean forgotten; but they were all the same, all set to a doleful tune which, with modifications, still does duty, I believe, as an evening hymn; and the burden ran thus, for every murderer and any murder:—
Take warning by my dreadful fate,
The truth I can’t deny;
This dreadful crime that I are done
I are condemned to die.
The singular grammar of the last two lines I never quite understood, not having noticed its like elsewhere; but I put it down as a distinguishing characteristic of the speech of murderers.
I waited till the woman had taken her ballads away, and I had grown uncommonly cold in the legs, and then crept back to bed. But now I had fully awakened myself, and sleep was impossible. Presently I got up again, and looked out over the river. Very black and mysterious it lay, the blacker, it seemed, for the thousand lights that spotted it, craft and shore. No purlmen’s fires were to be seen, for work on the colliers was done long ago, but once a shout and now a hail came over the water, faint or loud, far or near; and up the wooden wall I leaned on came the steady sound of the lapping against the piles below. I wondered where Grandfather Nat’s boat—our boat—lay now; if the murderer were still rowing in it, and would row and row right away to sea, where my father was, in his ship; or if he would be caught, and make a dying confession with all the “haves” and “ams” replaced by “ares”; or if, indeed, he had already met providential retribution by drowning. In which case I doubted for the safety of the boat, and Grandfather would buy another. And my legs growing cold again, I retreated once more.
The Arthur Morrison Mystery Page 212