Sensation!
The railway guard and station-master stated all they knew about the arrival of the deceased at Milldale Junction. Both described the prisoner as violently agitated.
The constable who had been sent to Grandchester was next examined.
He had found Mr. Elsden, of Briargate — a man of sixty, stout, grey, bald, in every attribute unlike the man described so graphically by Mr. Caulfield. Mr. Elsden had been able to offer no suggestion as to the stranger who had made such a shameful use of his card.
The constable had afterwards gone to no less than four cab-yards, where he had made all inquiries possible in a limited time. He had been unable to find any cabman who had driven an invalid lady to the station on the previous evening. He had next hunted out the only bath chair proprietor to be found in Grandchester, with the same result. Time had not allowed him to visit the numerous chemists’ shops in that thriving city, and that remained to be done.
There was no evidence on Mr. Caulfield’s behalf, except the vicar of Freshmead’s evidence as to his character and antecedents, and to the fact that he only parted with him at eleven o’clock on the previous morning at the Freshmead Road Station. Freshmead was seven miles from Grandchester.
‘What was Mr. Caulfield going to do when he left you?’ asked the coroner.
‘He was going to spend the day in Grandchester.’
‘Has he friends or acquaintances in that city?’
‘No. He was going to look at the cathedral and law-courts, and to spend an hour or two in the Oldbury Library.’
‘He was to dine somewhere, I suppose?’
‘He meant to dine at a restaurant. There are a good many dining-places in Grandchester; he could take his choice among them.’
After this witness had been examined, the inquiry was adjourned for a week.
At the close of the proceedings Mr. Brockbank, the lawyer, asked if his client might be released on bail, the vicar of Freshmead being prepared to offer himself as security to any amount, but the coroner replied that the case was of too serious a nature to admit of bail.
So Mr. Caulfield went back to the stony place whence he had come, where the utmost privilege that could be accorded him was the liberty to. see his friends at stated hours, and to have his meals supplied from an adjacent hotel.
His spirits would have assuredly gone down to the point of utter despondency on that gloomy winter evening, when the mouldy fly that had conveyed him to the George Hotel carried him back to the gaol, had he not been supported and sustained by the indomitable cheerfulness of his friend the vicar.
‘What do you think of the case now? ‘he asked.
‘Think!’ cried Mr. Leworthy. ‘Why, that I shall have so much to do in Grandchester, ferretting out this mystery of yours, during the next six days that I don’t know how the deuce my parish work is to get done.’
‘Won’t you employ the police?’
‘Of course I shall; but I shall employ myself too. Don’t you be down-hearted, George. I mean to see you safely through this business, and I shall do it right away, as they say on the other side of the Atlantic.’
George Caulfield’s confidence in his father’s old friend was unbounded. He had seen in the past how the vicar of Freshmead could conquer difficulties which the ruck of men would have found insurmountable. Mr. Leworthy dined with him as cheerfully as if they had been eating whitebait at Greenwich or turtle in Aldersgate Street under the most exhilarating circumstances; and stimulated by the force of example, George Caulfield, who had scarcely broken his fast since he left Grandchester, found himself enjoying the tavern steak and the tavern claret.
His friend left him. soon after dinner to go back to Grandchester by the nine o’clock train; and then came a dreary interval until ten, when the prisoner lay down on his pallet bed and slept soundly, exhausted by the bewildering emotions of the last twenty-four hours. He was very downhearted now that he had before him the prospect of a week’s solitude in that miserable cell, for Mr. Leworthy had told him that he should not return to Milldale until the day fixed for the adjourned inquiry, by which time he hoped to have unearthed the man who had used Mr. Elsden’s card.
An agitating surprise awaited Mr. Caulfield next morning. While he was breakfasting dismally upon tea and dry toast, the guardian of his solitude came in to tell him that a lady wished to see him.
‘A lady!’ cried the curate. ‘There must be some mistake. I don’t know a creature in the town. Pray don’t let me be made a show of, to gratify any one’s morbid curiosity.’
‘Lord love you, sir, as if we should do such a thing! It’s all right; the lady’s got an order. She’s a relative, no doubt.’
The man withdrew into the stony passage outside; then came a rustling sound George Caulfield knew well — a sweeping, stately step, and an elderly lady, grey and tall and slim, came quickly in and threw her arms round his neck.
‘Mother,’ cried the curate, ‘ how could you do such a thing?’
‘How could I do anything else?’ said his mother, striving heroically to be cheerful. ‘Do you suppose I was going to stay in London after I received your letter? The postman brought the letter at seven, Sophia had my trunk packed by half-past, and Jane had a cab at the door — such good girls, and so anxious about you! I was at Euston by ten minutes past eight, and caught the train that leaves at eight-fifteen. I was at Milldale half-an-hour after midnight — too late to come here, of course, so I went to the nearest hotel. The chambermaid told me they were sending you your meals. I felt quite interested in them, and at home with them directly.’
She was a wonderful old lady, carried herself so bravely, spoke so brightly, looked at her son with eyes so full of confidence and hope. He would have been unworthy of such a mother had he not faced his position unfalteringly. They sat down side by side on the prison bench, and he told her all that had happened since he wrote his letter to her, and spoke as if nothing were more certain than his speedy justification.
CHAPTER III. STAGE THE FIRST.
WHILE George Caulfield was talking to his mother the vicar of Freshmead was plodding up and down the streets of Grandchester, eager, hopeful, determined to unravel the tangled skein of the nameless woman’s fate. Who was she, what was she? Had she actually been murdered, and if so, for what reason? Who was the gainer by her death, and in what way?
Mr. Leworthy started at an advantage. Everybody in Grandchester knew him, and he knew everybody. The police were ready to confide in him freely. The local magistrates would be glad to help him. But on this occasion he was inclined to rely on his own wits. The police were at work for Mr. Brockbank’s client. If they succeeded, well and good. But the vicar was not going to work with them.
His first visit was to the office of a daily paper, where he handed in the following advertisement:—’Missing, since November 30, a young lady; when last seen she wore a Rob Roy tartan shawl, a brown straw hat, and blue gauze veil. Any one affording information will be handsomely rewarded on applying to E. L., care.of Mr. Brockbank, solicitor, Deansgate.’
This advertisement Mr. Leworthy took to the three local dailies.
His next visit was to Mr. Elsden, of Briargate.
‘A man would hardly make use of another man’s card unless he had some business or social relations with that other man,’ reflected the vicar, as he tramped along, sturdy in bearing, determined in step. ‘A man does not pick up a visiting-card in the street.’
He found Mr. Elsden elderly and plethoric, a man who rarely got through a business letter without stopping in the middle to mop his highly polished cranium with a crimson silk handkerchief. This gentleman was amiable, but not brilliant. He had read the report of yesterday’s inquest, and was therefore posted in the facts: but he had no ideas to offer.
‘How did that young man get hold of your card? asked the vicar. ‘He must have picked it up in some illegitimate way, unless he is among the number of your personal acquaintance.’
Mr. Elsden gave a supercilious laugh.
&
nbsp; ‘I hope my friendships do not lie among secret murderers, he said.
‘Of course, we all hope that, naturally; but one can never tell. My friend describes this young man as of gentlemanly appearance and good manners. Good-looking, too, quite an interesting countenance — pale, with dark eyes, silky brown moustache — what is generally called a poetic style of face.’
The Grandchester merchant seemed to retire within himself, and to be absorbed in profound thought. Presently he gave a sigh, and began to mop his polished brow and the barren arch above it, whereon no hair had grown for the last decade.
‘I don’t want to mix myself up in this business,’ he said at last. ‘It is sure to entail trouble.’
‘As a Christian, as an honest man, you are bound not to withhold any information that can tend to exculpate the innocent,’ urged the vicar, with some warmth.
‘But how do I know that I can give any such information?’ demanded Mr. Elsden, testily. ‘If I give utterance to my ideas I may be only putting you on a false scent.’
‘Better hazard that than withhold anything.’
‘I know absolutely nothing. But your description might apply to a young man called Foy, who was in my employment three years ago.’
‘What character did he bear when you knew him?’
‘Excellent. He left me of his own accord, in order to improve his position. He was a talented young man — first-rate accountant, good linguist — and I had no situation to give him worthy of his talents. He left me to go to Kibble and Umpleby’s, packers, in Deansgate, as corresponding clerk. I was only able to give him seventy-five pounds a year. He was to “have two hundred at Kibble’s. They do a great deal of business with Spanish America, and the French colonies, and they wanted a clerk who could write good French and. Spanish.’
‘I see. Do you suppose that he is still at Kibble and Umpleby’s?’
‘I have not heard the contrary.’
‘Was this Mr. Foy a native of Grandchester? Had he family or friends here?’
‘No. He was quite alone. I believe he was of French extraction. He used to boast that he was descended from some famous family called De Foix.’
‘I should be very grateful to you if you could give me any further information about this young man.’
‘What kind of information? My acquaintance with him never extended beyond my office. I know that he was clever. He was regular in his business habits, and I had every reason to suppose he was well-behaved. He brought me a letter of recommendation from a firm at Lyons with which I do business. I engaged him on the strength of that letter.’
‘I see. Then he was a stranger in Grandchester. Something you can tell me, however — the house in which he lodged while he was in your employment. You must have known his address then.’
‘Certainly,’ replied Mr. Elsden; and then he put his lips to an ivory mouth-piece, and murmured some order down a gutta-percha tube.
Five minutes afterwards a clerk appeared with a slip of paper, which he laid before his employer.
‘That is the address, sir.’
Mr. Elsden handed the paper to the vicar.
‘There it is, sir. You see there is only one address, and the young man was with me nearly two years — an indication of steady habits, I think.’
‘No doubt. I dare say Mr. Foy is a most estimable person. But I must find the dark-eyed, pale-faced young man who gave your card to my friend, and whether I find him in Mr. Foy’s shoes or in anybody else’s I’ll make it rather hot for him.’
And with this unchristian speech the vicar took leave of Mr. Elsden.
CHAPTER IV. THE MYSTERY OF ROSE COTTAGE.
MR. LEWORTHY’S next call was at Kibble and Umpleby’s. Here he acted with greater subtlety. He asked to see the head clerk, and informed that gentleman that he had been recommended to apply there for a small service which he had been unable to get done anywhere else. He wanted a letter written to a correspondent at Cadiz, and he had not found anybody in Grandchester who knew enough Spanish to write such a letter for him. He had particular reasons for not writing in French or English, as his communication was of a strictly private character, and the gentleman to whom he had occasion to write understood no language but his own.
‘I am told you have a clerk who is a first-rate Spanish scholar,’ Mr. Leworthy said in conclusion.
‘Quite true, sir. Our foreign clerk, Mr. Foy, knows Spanish as well as he knows French, and can write you as good a letter in Italian or Portuguese as in either. It’s rather lucky you looked in this morning; though. To-morrow would have been too late.’
‘Why? Is he leaving you?’
The clerk grinned.
‘Only for a fortnight’s holiday — rather an important event in his life. He’s going to be married to-morrow morning — to the daughter of our junior partner, the youngest Miss Umpleby.’
‘Oh, he is going to be married to-morrow morning! I congratulate him — and the young lady. Has it been a long engagement?’
‘A year and a half. The old gentleman was very much against it at the first — thought his daughter might have looked higher — as of course she might, though she’s one of a large family. But the firm had been pleased with the young man, and the young man had got a footing in the firm’s houses, which is more than the common ruck of us do — unless it’s a bit of a kick-up at Christmas-time, in a condescending way, which we may appreciate or may not, according to the bent of our minds. But this young Foy is musical, and he’s half a foreigner, and those two things have stood him in good stead with the firm’s families; and the upshot of it all is that he’s going to be married to the youngest Miss Umpleby the day after to-morrow.’
‘Could I see him for a few minutes? I shan’t detain him long.’
‘Certainly, sir. I’m sure he’ll be happy to oblige you,’ said the clerk, who knew all about the vicar of Freshmead, one of the most popular men within twenty miles of Grandchester.
The clerk went to fetch Mr. Foy, and returned presently with that accomplished young man. The vicar was a student of character. He had not spent all his days amidst the green pastures of Freshmead. Seven years of his life had been devoted to preaching and teaching, and doing all manner of good works, in one of the vilest and most populous districts of East London. He had had plenty to do with scoundrelism in his time; he knew a scoundrel when he saw one, and his first glance at Gaston Foy convinced him that this young favourite of fortune was as dark a villain as ever wore a smooth face to gull the world.
Yes, despite his polished manners, his gentle and insinuating smile, and the oily blandness of his legato tones, the vicar made up his mind that this was the villain he wanted. This was the man who had brought his dying victim to the railway station and transferred the burden of his crime to a stranger.
George Caulfield had minutely described the man’s appearance, and this man, in every feature, corresponded with that description. That he seemed perfectly happy and at ease did not surprise Mr. Leworthy. To a creature of this kind dissimulation is second nature.
The vicar stated his business, and sat down at the clerk’s desk to write a rough draft of the letter to be translated, but after writing a sentence he stopped abruptly.
‘It’s a business that requires some thought,’ he said. ‘If you’ll look in at my hotel this evening and let me dictate the letter quietly there I shall esteem it a favour. I won’t keep you half-an-hour, and you’ll be doing me an inestimable service.’
Mr. Foy looked at him rather suspiciously.
‘My time is not my own just now,’ he said. ‘If you’ll send me your letter I’ll put it into Spanish for you, but I have no time to call at your hotel.’
This was said with a decided tone that settled the question.
‘I see,’ thought the vicar. ‘He is not the man to walk into any little trap that I may set for him.’
‘I’ll send the letter to your private address this evening,’ he said.
‘You had better send it here. I live
a little way out of Grandchester.’
The vicar assented, wished Mr. Foy ‘Good morning,’ and went away. Ten minutes afterwards he went back to Kibble and Umpleby’s, saw the clerk he had seen first, and said:
‘I may as well have Mr. Foy’s address, in case I shouldn’t be able to get my letter written before he leaves business.’
‘Certainly, sir. Mr. Foy lives at Parminter — Rose Cottage, Lawson Lane.’
“Thanks. I may not want to send to him there, but it’s as well to be on the safe side. Good morning.’
‘Good morning, sir,’ said the clerk aloud. ‘Fidgetty old gentleman,’ he ejaculated inwardly.
Parminter was a rustic village five miles from Grandchester. It did not lie in the direction affected by Grandchester merchants or Grandchester tradespeople. Here were no Gothic mansions, no fair Italian villas, springing like mushrooms from the soil — one year a confusion of lime and mortar tubs, stacked flooring-boards, and rough-hewn stone, and the next all smiling amongst geranium beds and ribbon bordering, velvet lawns and newly-planted shrubberies. None of the commercial wealth of Grandchester had found its way to Parminter. The village was still a village — a mere cluster of labourers’ cottages, two or three old homesteads, and half-a-dozen small dwellings of a shabby-genteel type.
Among these last was Rose Cottage, a small, square house with plaster walls, bright with greenery and scarlet berries, even in this wintry season. A bow window below, rustic lattices above. Just such a house as a man with considerable taste and an inconsiderable income would choose for himself. The small garden in front of the bow window was in admirable order, yet the place had a deserted look somehow, Mr. Leworthy thought, as he rang the bell.
He rang once, twice, three times, with no more effect than if Rose Cottage had been a toy house inhabited by Dutch dolls. This was aggravating. There was a meadow on one side of the cottage, where half-a-dozen sheep were browsing contentedly. The vicar climbed the hurdle which divided this pasture from Lawson Lane, and went round to the back of the Cottage. Here there was a small garden, neatly and tastefully laid out, but there was no more appearance of human life at the back of the house than in the front.
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