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Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon

Page 315

by Mary Elizabeth Braddon


  “No, sir,’ answered the waiter, eagerly. ‘I were not, sir; and they do say as we ought every one of us to have been examined; for you see there’s little facks as one person will notice and as another won’t notice, and it isn’t a man’s place to come forward with every little trivial thing, you see, sir; but if little trivial things was drawn out of one and another, they might help, you see, sir.’

  “There could be no end gained by taking notes of this reply, so I amused myself by making a good nib to my pen while I waited for something better worth jotting down.

  “‘Some of your people were examined, I suppose?’ said Mr. Carter.

  “‘Oh, yes, sir,’ answered the waiter; ‘master, he were examined, to begin with; and then Brigmawl, the head-waiter, he give his evidence; but, lor’, sir, without unfriendliness to William Brigmawl, which me and Brigmawl have been fellow-servants these eleven year, our head-waiter is that wrapped up in hisself, and his own cravats, and shirt-fronts, and gold studs, and Albert chain, that he’d scarcely take notice of an earthquake swallering up half the world before his eyes, unless the muck and dirt of that earthquake was to spoil his clothes. William Brigmawl has been head-waiter in this house nigh upon thirty year; and beyond a stately way of banging-to a carriage-door, or showing visitors to their rooms, or poking a fire, and a kind of knack of leading on timid people to order expensive wines, I really don’t see Brigmawl’s great merit. But as to Brigmawl at an inquest, he’s about as much good as the Pope of Rome.’

  “‘But why was Brigmawl examined in preference to any one else?’

  “‘Because he was supposed to know more of the business than any of us, being as it was him that took the order for the dinner. But me and Eliza Jane, the under-chambermaid, was in the hall at the very moment when the two gentlemen came in.’

  “‘You saw them both, then?’

  “‘Yes, sir, as plain as I now see you. And you might have knocked me down with a feather when I was told afterwards that the one who was murdered was nothing more than a valet.’

  “‘You’re not getting on very fast with your letters,’ said Mr. Carter, looking over his shoulder at me.

  “‘I had written nothing yet, and I understood this as a hint to begin. I wrote down the waiter’s last remark.

  “‘Why were you so surprised to find he was a valet?’ Mr. Carter asked of the waiter.

  “‘Because, you see, sir, he had the look of a gentleman,’ the man answered; ‘an out-and-out gentleman. It wasn’t that he held his head higher than Mr. Dunbar, or that he was better dressed — for Mr. Dunbar’s clothes looked the newest and best; but he had a kind of languid don’t-careish way that seems to be peculiar to first-class gentlemen.’

  “‘What sort of a looking man was he?’

  “‘Paler than Mr. Dunbar, and thinner built, and fairer.’

  “I jotted down the waiter’s remarks; but I could not help thinking that this talk about the murdered man’s manner and appearance was about as useless as anything could be.

  “‘Paler and thinner than Mr. Dunbar,’ repeated the detective; ‘paler and thinner, eh? This was one thing you noticed; but what was it, now, that you could have said at the inquest if you had been called as a witness?’

  “‘Well, sir, I’ll tell you. It’s a small matter, and I’ve mentioned it many a time, both to William Brigmawl and to others; but they talk me down, and say I was mistaken; and Eliza Jane being a silly giggling hussey, can’t bear me out in what I say. But I do most solemnly declare that I speak the truth, and am not deceived. When the two gentlemen — which gentlemen they both was to look at — came into our hall, the one that was murdered had his coat buttoned tight across his chest, except one button; and through the space left by that one button I saw the glitter of a gold chain.’

  “‘Well, what then?’

  “‘The other gentleman, Mr. Dunbar, had his coat open as he got out of the carriage, and I saw as plain as ever I saw anything, that he had no gold-chain. But two minutes after he had come into the hall, and while he was ordering dinner, he took and bottoned his coat. Well, sir, when he came in, after visiting the cathedral, his coat was partially unbuttoned and I saw that he wore a gold-chain, and, unless I am very much mistaken, the same gold-chain that I had seen peeping out of the breast of the murdered man. I could almost have sworn to that chain because of the colour of the gold, which was a particular deep yaller. It was only afterwards that these things came back to my mind, and I certainly thought them very strange.’

  “‘Was there anything else?’

  “‘Nothing; except what Brigmawl dropped out one night at supper, some weeks after the inquest, about his having noticed Mr. Dunbar opening his desk while he was waiting for Joseph Wilmot to come home to dinner; and Brigmawl do say, now that it ain’t a bit of use, that Mr. Dunbar, do what he would, couldn’t find the key of his own desk for ever so long.’

  “‘He was confused, I suppose; and his hands trembled, eh?’ asked the detective.

  “‘No, sir; according to what Brigmawl said, Mr. Dunbar seemed as cool and collected as if he was made of iron. But he kept trying first one key and then another, for ever so long, before he could find the right one.’

  “‘Did he now? that was queer.’

  “‘But I hope you won’t think anything of what I’ve let drop, sir,’ said the waiter, hastily. ‘I’m sure I wouldn’t say any thing disrespectful against Mr. Dunbar; but you asked me what I saw, sir, and I have told you candid, and — —’

  “‘My good fellow, you’re perfectly safe in talking to me,’ the detective answered, heartily. ‘Suppose you bring us a little strong tea, and clear away this dessert; and if you’ve anything more to tell us, you can say it while you’re pouring out the tea. There’s so much connected with these sort of things that never gets into the papers, that really it’s quite interesting to hear of ’em from an eye-witness.’

  “The waiter went away, pleased and re-assured, after clearing the table very slowly. I was impatient to hear what Mr. Carter had gathered from the man’s talk.

  “‘Well,’ he said, ‘unless I’m very much mistaken, I think I’ve got my friend the master of Maudesley Abbey.’

  “‘You do: but how so?’ I asked. ‘That talk about the gold-chain having changed hands must be utterly absurd. What should Henry Dunbar want with Joseph Wilmot’s watch and chain?’

  “‘Ah, you’re right there,’ answered Mr. Carter. ‘What should Henry Dunbar want with Joseph Wilmot’s gold chain? That’s one question. Why should Joseph Wilmot’s daughter be so anxious to screen Henry Dunbar now that she has seen him for the first time since the murder? There’s another question for you. Find the answer for it, if you can.

  “I told the detective that he seemed bent upon mystifying me, and that he certainly succeeded to his heart’s content.

  “Mr. Carter laughed a triumphant little laugh.

  “‘Never you mind, sir,’ he said; you leave it to me, and you watch it well, sir. It’ll work out very neatly, unless I’m altogether wrong. Wait for the end, Mr. Austin, and wait patiently. Do you know what I shall do to-morrow?’

  “‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’

  “‘I shall waste no more time in asking questions. I shall have the water near the scene of the murder dragged. I shall try and find the clothes that were stripped off the man who was murdered last August!’”

  CHAPTER XXXIX.

  CLEMENT AUSTIN’S JOURNAL CONTINUED.

  “The rest of the evening passed quietly enough. Mr. Carter drank his strong tea, and then asked my permission to go out and smoke a couple of cigars in the High Street. He went, and I finished my letter to my mother. There was a full moon, but it was obscured every now and then by the black clouds that drifted across it. I went out myself to post the letter, and I was glad to feel the cool breeze blowing the hair away from my forehead, for the excitement of the day had given me a nervous headache.

  “I posted my letter in a narrow street near the hotel. As
I turned away from the post-office to go back to the High Street, I was startled by the apparition of a girlish figure upon the other side of the street — a figure so like Margaret’s that its presence in that street filled me with a vague sense of fear, as if the slender figure, with garments fluttering in the wind, had been a phantom.

  “Of course I attributed this feeling to its right cause, which was doubtless neither more nor less than the over-excited state of my own brain. But I was determined to set the matter quite at rest, so I hurried across the way and went close up to the young lady, whose face was completely hidden by a thick veil.

  “‘Miss Wilmot — Margaret,’ I said.

  “I had thought it impossible that Margaret should be in Winchester, and I was only right, it seemed, for the young lady drew herself away from me abruptly and walked across the road, as if she mistook my error in addressing her for an intentional insult. I watched her as she walked rapidly along the narrow street, until she turned sharply away at a corner and disappeared. When I first saw her, as I stood by the post-office, the moonlight had shone full upon her. As she went away the moon was hidden by a fleecy grey cloud, and the street was wrapped in shadow. Thus it was only for a few moments that I distinctly saw the outline of her figure. Her face I did not see at all.

  “I went back to the hotel and sat by the fire trying to read a newspaper, but unable to chain my thoughts to the page. Mr. Carter came in a little before eleven o’clock. He was in very high spirits, and drank a tumbler of steaming brandy-and-water with great gusto. But question him how I might, I could get nothing from him except that he meant to have a search made for the dead man’s clothes.

  “I asked him why he wanted them, and what advantage would be gained by the finding of them, but he only nodded his head significantly, and told me to wait.

  * * * * *

  “To-day has been most wretched — a day of miserable discoveries; and yet not altogether miserable, for the one grand discovery of the day has justified my faith in the woman I love.

  “The morning was cold and wet. There was not a ray of sunshine in the dense grey sky, and the flat landscape beyond the cathedral seemed almost blotted out by the drizzling rain; only the hills, grand and changeless, towered above the mists, and made the landmarks of the soddened country.

  “We took an early and hasty breakfast. Quiet and business-like as the detective’s manner was even to-day, I could see that he was excited. He took nothing but a cup of strong tea and a few mouthfuls of dry toast, and then put on his coat and hat.

  “‘I’m going down to the chief quarters of the county constabulary, he said. ‘I shall be obliged to tell the truth about my business down there, because I want every facility for what I’m going to do. If you’d like to see the water dragged, you can meet me at twelve o’clock in the grove. You’ll find me superintending the work.’

  “It was about half-past eight when Mr. Carter left me. The time hung very heavily on my hands between that time and eleven o’clock. At eleven I put on my hat and overcoat and went out into the rain.

  “I found my friend the detective standing in one of the smaller entrances of the cathedral, in very earnest conversation with an old man. As Mr. Carter gave me no token of recognition, I understood that he did not want me to interrupt his companion’s talk, so I walked slowly on by the same pathway along which we had gone on the previous afternoon; the same pathway by which the murdered man had gone to his death.

  “I had not walked half a mile before I was joined by the detective.

  “‘I gave you the office just now,’ he said, ‘because I thought if you spoke to me, that old chap would leave off talking, and I might miss something that was on the tip of his tongue.’

  “‘Did he tell you much?’

  “‘No; he’s the man who gave his evidence at the inquest. He gave me a minute description of Henry Dunbar’s watch and chain. The watch didn’t open quite in the usual manner, and the gentleman was rather awkward in opening it, my friend the verger tells me. He was awkward with the key of his desk. He seems to have had a fit of awkwardness that day.’

  “‘You think that he was guilty, and that he was confused and agitated by the hideous business he had been concerned in?’

  “Mr. Carter looked at me with a very queer smile on his face.

  “‘You’re improving, Mr. Austin,’ he said; ‘you’d make a first-class detective in next to no time.’

  “I felt rather doubtful as to the meaning of this compliment, for there was something very like irony in Mr. Carter’s tone.

  “‘I’ll tell you what I think,’ he said, stopping presently, and taking me by the button-hole. ‘I think that I know why the murdered man’s coat, waistcoat, and shirt were stripped off him.’

  “I begged the detective to tell me what he thought upon this subject; but he refused to do so.

  “‘Wait and see,’ he said; ‘if I’m right, you’ll soon find out what I mean; if I’m wrong, I’ll keep my thoughts to myself. I’m an old hand, and I don’t want to be found out in a mistake.’

  “I said no more after this. The disappearance of the murdered man’s clothes had always appeared to me the only circumstance that was irreconcilable with the idea of Henry Dunbar’s guilt. That some brutal wretch, who stained his soul with blood for the sake of his victim’s poor possessions, should strip off the clothes of the dead, and make a market even out of them, was probable enough. But that Henry Dunbar, the wealthy, hyper-refined Anglo-Indian, should linger over the body of his valet and offer needless profanation to the dead, was something incredible, and not to be accounted for by any theory whatever.

  “This was the one point which, from first to last, had completely baffled me.

  “We found the man with the drags waiting for us under the dripping trees. Mr. Carter had revealed himself to the constabulary as one of the chief luminaries of Scotland Yard; and if he had wanted to dig up the foundations of the cathedral, they would scarcely have ventured to interfere with his design. One of the constables was lounging by the water’s edge, watching the men as they prepared for business.

  “I have no need to write a minute record of that miserable day. I know that I walked up and down, up and down, backwards and forwards, upon the soddened grass, from noon till sundown, always thinking that I would go away presently, always lingering a little longer; hindered by the fancy that Mr. Carter’s search was on the point of being successful. I know that for hour after hour the grating sound of the iron drags grinding on the gravelly bed of the stream sounded in my tired ears, and yet there was no result. I know that rusty scraps of worn-out hardware, dead bodies of cats and dogs, old shoes laden with pebbles, rank entanglements of vegetable corruption, and all manner of likely and unlikely rubbish, were dragged out of the stream, and thrown aside upon the bank.

  “The detective grew dirtier and slimier and wetter as the day wore on; but still he did not lose heart.

  “‘I’ll have every inch of the bed of the stream, and every hidden hole in the bottom, dragged ten times over, before I’ll give it up,’ he said to me, when he came to me at dusk with some brandy that had been brought by a boy who had been fetching beer, more or less, all the afternoon.

  “When it grew dark, the men lighted a couple of flaring resinous torches, which Mr. Carter had sent for towards dusk, and worked, by the patches of fitful light which these torches threw upon the water. I still walked up and down under the dripping trees, in the darkness, as I had walked in the light; and once when I was farthest from the red glare of the torches, a strange fancy took possession of me. In amongst the dim branches of the trees I thought I saw something moving, something that reminded me of the figure I had seen opposite the post-office on the previous night.

  “I ran in amongst the trees; and as I did so, the figure seemed to me to recede, and disappear; a faint rustling of a woman’s dress sounded in my ears, or seemed so to sound, as the figure melted from my sight. But again I had good reason to attribute these fancies to th
e state of my own brain, after that long day of anxiety and suspense.

  “At last, when I was completely worn out by my weary day, Mr. Carter came to me.

  “‘They’re found!’ he cried. ‘We’ve found ‘em! We’ve found the murdered man’s clothes! They’ve been drifted away into one of the deepest holes there is, and the rats have been gnawing at ‘em. But, please Providence, we shall find what we want. I’m not much of a church-goer, but I do believe there’s a Providence that lies in wait for wicked men, and catches the very cleverest of them when they least expect it.’

  “I had never seen Mr. Carter so much excited as he seemed now. His face was flushed, and his nostrils quivered nervously.

  “I followed him to the spot where the constable and two men, who had been dragging the stream, were gathered round a bundle of wet rubbish lying on the ground.

  “Mr. Carter knelt down before this bundle, which was covered with trailing weeds and moss and slime, and the constable stooped over him with a flaming torch in his hand.

  “‘These are somebody’s clothes, sure enough,’ the detective said; ‘and, unless I’m very much mistaken, they’re what I want. Has anybody got a basket?’

  “Yes. The boy who had fetched beer had a basket. Mr. Carter stuffed the slimy bundle into this basket, and put his arm through the handle.

  “‘You’re not going to look ’em over here, then?’ said the local constable, with an air of disappointment.

  “‘No, I’ll take them straight to my hotel; I shall have plenty of light there. You can come with me, if you like,’ Mr. Carter answered.

  “He paid the men, who had been at work all day, and paid them liberally, I suppose, for they seemed very well satisfied. I had given him money for any expenses such as these; for I knew that, in a case of this kind, every insignificant step entailed the expenditure of money.

 

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