Mr. Peters looked round at the attentive party with a glance of triumph, rubbed his hands by way of a full-stop, and went on with his manual recital.
“For why?” said the fingers, interrogatively, “for why did I think as this ‘ere gent was no good for this ‘ere murder; for why did I think them chaps at Slopperton had got on the wrong scent? Because he was cheeky? Lor’ bless your precious eyes, miss” (by way of gallantry he addresses himself here to Isabel), “not a bit of it! When a cove goes and cuts another cove’s throat off hand, it ain’t likely he ain’t prepared to cheek a police-officer. But when I reckoned up this young gent’s face, what was it I see? Why, as plain as I see his nose and his mustachios — and he ain’t bad off for neither of them,” said the fingers, parenthetically—”I see that he hadn’t done it. Now, a cove what’s screwed up to face a judge and jury, maybe can face ‘em, and never change a line of his mug; but there isn’t a cove as lives as can stand that first tap of a detective’s hand upon his shoulder as tells him, plain as words, ‘The game is up.’ The best of ‘em, and the pluckiest of ‘em, drops under that. If they keeps the colour in their face — which some of ’em has got the power to do, and none as never tried it on can guess the pain — if they can do that ‘ere, the perspiration breaks out wet and cold upon their for’eds, and that blows ‘em. But this young gent — he was took aback, he was surprised, and he was riled, and used bad language; but his colour never changed, and he wasn’t once knocked over till Jinks, unbusiness-like, told him of his uncle’s murder, when he turned as white as that ‘ere ‘ed of Bon-er-part.” Mr. Peters, for want of a better comparison, glanced in the direction of a bust of the victor of Marengo, which, what with tobacco-smoke and a ferocious pair of burnt cork moustachios, was by no means the whitest object in creation.
“Now, what a detective officer’s good at, if he’s worth his salt, is this ‘ere: when he sees two here and another two there, he can put ’em together, though they might be a mile apart to anybody not up to the trade, and make ’em into four. So, thinks I, the gent isn’t took aback at bein’ arrested; but he is took aback when he hears as how his uncle’s murdered. Now, if he’d committed the murder, he’d know of it; and he might sham surprise, but he wouldn’t be surprised; and this young gent was knocked all of a heap as genuine as—” Mr. Peters’s ideas still revert to the bust of Napoleon—”as ever that ‘ere forring cove was, when he sees his old guard scrunched up small at the battle of Waterloo.”
“Heaven knows, Peters,” said Richard, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and looking up from his stooping position over the fire, “Heaven knows you were right; I did feel my heart turn cold when I heard of that good man’s death.”
“Well, that they’d got the wrong un I saw was as clear as daylight — but where was the right un? That was the question. Whoever committed the murder did it for the money in that ‘ere cabinet: and sold agen they was, whoever they was, and didn’t get the money. Who was in the house? This young gent’s mother and the servant. I was nobody in the Gardenford force, and I was less than nobody at Slopperton; so get into that house at the Black Mill I couldn’t. This young gent was walked off to jail, and I was sent about my business — my orders bein’ to be back in Gardenford that evenin’, leavin’ Slopperton by the three-thirty train. Well, I was a little cut up about this young gent; for I seed that the case was dead agen him; the money in his pocket — the blood on his sleeve — a cock-and-a-bull story of a letter of introduction, and a very evident attempt at a bolt — only enough to hang him, that’s all; and, for all that, I had a inward conwiction that he was as hinnercent of the murder as that ‘ere plaster-of-Paris stattur.” Mr. Peters goes regularly to the bust for comparisons, by way of saving time and trouble in casting about for fresh ones.
“But my orders,” continued the fingers, “was positive, so I goes down to the station to start by the three-thirty; and as I walks into the station-yard, I hears the whistle, and sees the train go. I was too late; and as the next train didn’t start for near upon three hours, I thought I’d take a stroll and ‘av a look at the beauties of Slopperton. Well, I strolls on, promiscuous like, till I comes to the side of a jolly dirty-looking river; and as by this time I feels a little dry, I walks on, lookin’ about for a public; but ne’er a one do I see, till I almost tumbles into a dingy little place, as looked as if it did about half-a-pint a-day reg’lar, when business was brisk. But in I walks, past the bar; and straight afore me I sees a door as leads into the parlour. The passage was jolly dark; and this ‘ere door was ajar; and inside I hears voices. Well, you see, business is business, and pleasure is pleasure; but when a cove takes a pleasure in his business, he gets a way of lettin’ his business habits come out unbeknownst when he’s takin’ his pleasure: so I listens. Now, the voice I heerd fust was a man’s voice; and, though the place was a sort of crib such as nobody but navvies or such-like would be in the habit of going to, this ‘ere was the voice of a gentleman. I can’t say as I ever paid much attention to grammar myself, though I daresay it’s very pleasant and amusin’ when you enter into it; but, for all that, I’d knocked about in the world long enough to know a gent’s way of speakin’ from a navvy’s, as well as I know’d one tune on the accordion from another tune. It was a nice, soft-spoken voice too, and quite melodious and pleasant to listen to; but it was a-sayin’ some of the cruelest and hardest words as ever was spoke to a woman yet by any creature with the cheek to call hisself a man. You’re not much good, my friend, says I, with your lardy-dardy ways and your cold-blooded words, whoever you are. You’re a thin chap, with light hair and white hands, I know, though I’ve never seen you; and there’s very little in the way of wickedness that you wouldn’t be up to on, a push. Now, just as I was a-thinkin’ this, he said somethin’ that sent the blood up into my face as hot as fire—’I expected a sum of money, and I’ve been disappointed of it,’ he said; and before the girl he was a-talkin’ to could open her lips, he caught her up sudden—’Never you mind how,’ he says, `never you mind how.’
“He expected a sum of money, and he’d been disappointed of it! So had the man who had murdered this young gent’s uncle.”
“Not much in this, perhaps. But why was he so frightened at the thoughts of her asking him how he expected the money, and how he’d bin disappointed? There it got fishy. At any rate, says I to myself, I’ll have a look at you, my friend; so in I walks, very quiet and quite unbeknownst. He was a-sittin’ with his back to the door, and the young woman he was a-talkin’ to was standin’ lookin’ out of the winder; so neither of ’em saw me. He was buildin’ up some cards into a ‘ouse, and had got ’em up very high, when I laid my hand upon his shoulder sudden. He turned round and looked at me.” Mr. Peters here paused, and looked round at the little group, who sat watching his fingers with breathless attention. He had evidently come to a point in his narrative.
“Now, what did I see in his face when he looked at me? Why, the very same look that I missed in the face of this young gent when Jinks took him in the mornin’. The very same look that I’d seen in a many faces, and never know’d it differ, whether it came one way or another, always bein’ the same look at bottom — the look of a man as is guilty of what will hang him and thinks that he’s found out. But as you can’t give looks in as evidence, this wasn’t no good in a practical way; but I says to myself, if ever there was anything certain in this world since it was begun, I’ve come across the right un: so I sits down and takes up a newspaper. I signified to him that I was dumb, and he took it for granted that I was deaf as well — which was one of those stupid mistakes your clever chaps sometimes fall into — so he went on a-talking to the girl.
“Well, it was a old story enough, what him and the girl was talkin’ of; but every word he said made him out a more cold-blooded villain than the last.
“Presently he offered her some money — four sovereigns. She served him as he ought to have been served, and threw them every one slap in his face. One cut him over the eye; and I was gla
d of it. ‘You’re marked, my man,’ thinks I, ‘and nothin’ could be handier agen I want you.’ He picked up three of the sovereigns, but for all he could do he couldn’t find the fourth. So he had the cut (which was a jolly deep un) plastered up, and he went away. She stared at the river uncommon hard, and then she went away. Now I didn’t much like the look she gave the river, so as I had about half an hour to spare before the train started, I followed her. I think she knew it; for presently she turned short off into a little street, and when I turned into it after her she wasn’t to be seen right or left.
“Well, I had but half-an-hour, so I thought it was no use chasin’ this unfortunate young creature through all the twistings and turnings of the back slums of Slopperton; so after a few minutes’ consideration, I walked straight to the station. Hang me if I wasn’t too late for the train again. I don’t know how it was, but I couldn’t keep my mind off the young woman, nor keep myself from wonderin’ what she was agoin’ to do with herself, and what she was agoin’ to do with that ‘ere baby. So I walks back agen down by the water, and as I’d a good hour and a half to spare, I walks a good way, thinking of the young man, and the cut on his forehead. It was nigh upon dark by this time, and foggy into the bargain. Maybe I’d gone a mile or more, when I comes up to a barge what lay at anchor quite solitary. It was a collier, and there was a chap on board, sittin’ in the stern, smokin’, and lookin’ at the water. There was no one else in sight but him and me; and no sooner does he spy me comin’ along the bank than he sings out,
“‘Hulloa! Have you met a young woman down that way?’
“His words struck me all of a heap somehow, comin’ so near upon what I was a-thinkin’ of myself. I shook my head; and he said,
“‘There’s been some unfort’nate young girl down here tryin’ to dround her baby. I see the little chap in the water, and fished him out with my boat-hook. I’d seen the girl hangin’ about here, just as it was a-gettin’ dark, and then I heard the splash when she threw the child in; but the fog was too thick for me to see anything ashore by that time.’
“The barge was just alongside the bank, and I stepped on board. Not bein’ so fortunate as to have a voice, you know, it comes awkward with strangers, and I was rather put to it to get on with the young man. And didn’t he sing out loud when he came to understand I was dumb; he couldn’t have spoke in a higher key if I’d been a forriner.
“He told me he should take the baby round to the Union; all he hoped he said, was, that the mother wasn’t a-goin’ to do anything bad with herself.
“I hoped not too; but I remembered that look of hers when she stood at the window staring out at the river, and I didn’t feel very easy in my mind about her.
“I took the poor little wet thing up in my arms. The young man had wrapped it in an old jacket, and it was a-cryin’ piteous, and lookin’, oh, so scared and miserable.
“Well, it nay seem a queer whim, but I’m rather soft-hearted on the subject of babies, and often had a thought that I should like to try the power of cultivation in the way of business, and bring a child up from the very cradle to the police detective line, to see whether I couldn’t make that ‘ere child a ornament to the force. I wasn’t a marryin’ man, and by no means likely ever to ‘av a family of my own; so when I took up that ‘ere baby in my arms, somehow or other the thought came into my ‘ed of adoptin’ him, and bringin’ of him up. So I rolled him up in my greatcoat, and took him with me to Gardenford.”
“And a wonderful boy he is,” said Richard; “we’ll educate him, Peters, and make a gentleman of him.”
“Wait a bit,” said the fingers very quickly; “thank you kindly, sir; but if the police force of this ‘ere country was robbed of that ‘ere boy, it would be robbed of a gem as it couldn’t afford to lose.”
“Go on, Peters; tell them the rest of your story.”
“Well, though I felt in my own mind that by one of those strap chances which does happen in life, maybe as often as they happen in story-books, I had fallen across the man who had committed the murder, yet for all that I hadn’t evidence enough to get a hearin’. I got transferred from Gardenford to Slopperton, and every leisure minute I had I tried to come across the man I’d marked; but nowhere could I see him, or hear of any one answering his description. I went to the churches; for I thought him capable of anything, even to shammin’ pious. I went to the theayter, and I see a young woman accused of poisonin’ a fam’ly, and proved innocent by a police cove as didn’t know his business any more than a fly. I went anywhere and everywhere, but I never see that man; and it was gettin’ uncommon near the trial of this young gent, and nothin’ done. How was he to be saved? I thought of it by night and thought of it by day; but work it out I couldn’t nohow. One day I hears of an old friend of the pris’ner’s being sup-boned-aed as witness for the crown. This friend I determined to see; for two ‘eds” — Mr. Peters looked round, as though he defied contradiction—”shall be better than one.”
“And this friend,” said Gus, “was your Nimble servant; who was only too glad to find that poor Dick had one sincere friend in the world who believed in his innocence, besides myself.”
“Well, Mr. Darley and me,” resumed Mr. Peters, “put our ‘eds together, and we came to this conclusion, that if this young gent was mad when he committed the murder, they couldn’t hang him, but would shut him in a asylum for the rest of his nat’ral life — which mayn’t be pleasant in the habstract, but which is better than hangin’, any day.”
“So you determined on proving me mad,” said Richard.
“We hadn’t such very bad grounds to go upon, perhaps, old fellow,” replied Mr. Darley; “that brain fever, which we thought such a misfortune when it laid you up for three dreary weeks, stood us in good stead; we had something to go upon, for we knew we could get you off by no other means. But to get you off this way we wanted your assistance, and we didn’t hit upon the plan till it was too late to get at you and tell you our scheme; we didn’t hit upon it till twelve o’clock on the night before your trial. We tried to see your counsel; but he had that morning left the town, and wasn’t to return till the trial came on. Peters hung about the court all the morning, but couldn’t see him; and nothing was done when the judge and jury took their seats. You know the rest; how Peters caught your eye—”
“Yes,” said Dick, “and how seven letters upon his fingers told me the whole scheme, and gave me my cue; those letters formed these two words, ‘Sham mad.’”
“And very well you did it at the short notice, Dick,” said Gus; “upon my word, for the moment I was almost staggered, and thought, suppose in getting up this dodge we are only hitting upon the truth, and the poor fellow really has been driven out of his wits by this frightful accusation?”
“A scrap of paper,” said Mr. Peters, on his active fingers, “gave the hint to your counsel — a sharp chap enough, though a young un.”
“I can afford to reward him now for his exertions,” said Richard, “and I must find him for that purpose. But Peters, for heaven’s sake tell us about this young man whom you suspect to be the murderer. If I go to the end of the world in search of him, I’ll find him, and drag him and his villany to light, that my name may be cleared from the foul stain it wears.”
Mr. Peters looked very grave. “You must go a little further than the end of this world to find him, I’m afraid, sir,” said the fingers. “What do you say to looking for him in the next? for that’s the station he’d started for when I last saw him; and I believe that on that line, with the exception of now and then a cock-and-a-ball-lane ghost, they don’t give no return tickets.”
“Dead?” said Richard. “Dead, and escaped from justice?”
“That’s about the size of it, sir,” replied Mr. Peters. “Whether he thought as how something was up, and he was blown, or whether he was riled past bearin’ at findin’ no money in that ‘ere cabinet, I can’t take upon myself to say; but I found him six months after the murder out upon a heath, dead, with a laud
anum-bottle a-lying by his side.”
“And did you ever find out who he was?” asked Gus.
“He was a usher, sir, at a ‘cademy for young gents, and a very pious young man he was too, I’ve heard; but for all that he murdered this young gent’s uncle, or my name isn’t Peters.”
“Beyond the reach of justice,” said Richard; “then the truth can never be brought to light, and to the end of my days I must bear the stigma of a crime of which I am innocent.”
BOOK THE FIFTH. THE DUMB DETECTIVE.
CHAPTER I. THE COUNT DE MAROLLES AT HOME.
THE denizens of Friar Street and such localities, being in the habit of waking in the morning to the odour of melted tallow and boiling soap, and of going to sleep at night with the smell of burning bones under their noses, can of course have nothing of an external nature in common with the inhabitants of Park Lane and its vicinity; for the gratification of whose olfactory nerves exotics live short and unnatural lives, on staircases, in boudoirs, and in conservatories of rich plate-glass and fairy architecture, where perfumed waters play in gilded fountains through the long summer days.
It might be imagined, then, that the common griefs and vulgar sorrows — such as hopeless love and torturing jealousy, sickness, or death, or madness, or despair — would be also banished from the regions of Park Lane, and entirely confined to the purlieus of Friar Street. Any person with a proper sense of the fitness of things would of course conclude this to he the case, and would as soon picture my lady the Duchess of Mayfair dining on red herrings and potatoes at the absurd hour of one o’clock p.m., or blackleading her own grate with her own alabaster fingers, as weeping over the death of her child, or breaking her heart for her faithless husband, just like Mrs. Stiggins, potato and coal merchant on a small scale, or Mrs. Higgins, whose sole revenues come from “Mangling done here.”
Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon Page 27