Complete Works of E W Hornung

by E. W. Hornung

  “Ha!” said Tom. “So it was you who followed my master from the bank, and tried to break into his desk last night! You’ve succeeded a bit too late. My master’s got his money in his pocket — and he isn’t here!”

  With these words Tom remembered where his master was, but only for an instant: small eyes were glinting through the mask, and the crumbling teeth showed again in a contemptuous grin.

  “I ain’t after ‘is money,” said a harsh high voice.

  “What then?”

  “What you’ve got in your ‘and.”

  “This!” cried Tom. “Who are you?”

  “Name’s Wyeth. I’m a lag, same as you.”

  “Let me see your face.”

  Again that grin below the mask, ere it was whipped off, and Tom’s eyes lit upon a horrible face horribly disfigured. It was perfectly flat; disease had razed the nose to below the level of the sunken cheeks; and the beady eyes seemed more prominent by contrast, as they glittered upon Tom’s visible abhorrence. In an instant, however, the abhorrence changed to recognition, and a great light blinded Tom.

  “My God!” he gasped. “The man that did it!”

  “Did what?”

  “What I’m here for — the murder of Captain Blaydes! It was you who killed him — it was you! I saw you close to the spot that night. Never shall I forget you — and this is the receipt I gave him! I took it just now from your hand!”

  “An’ where do yer think I took it from?”

  “The dead man’s pocket”

  “That there desk!”

  In the cool dark study there followed no immediate sound save the importunate ticking of the kettle-drum clock — beating a roll-call to deaf ears. At last Tom said, “Tell me — tell me!” And his voice was very weak; he was leaning heavily on the chimney-piece, and now his elbow hid the time.

  Wyeth removed a hand from the back of his head, looked at the blood upon it, and grimly showed it to Tom.

  “You’ve been rough with me, you ‘ave, when you should ha’ taken me to your ‘art; but I will tell you, ‘cos I ain’t that much to lose, an’ it may mean my ticket if you stand by me like a true man. Say you’ll do that an’ I’ll tell you every blessed thing!”

  “I will stand by you through thick and thin,” said Tom.

  The other eyed him for several seconds.

  “I do believe you will,” said he. “It’s a bargain between true man and true man! Well, then, that night—”

  “Stop!” said Tom. “We will have another pair of ears.” He went to the door and called loudly for Peggy. No answer; his voice reverberated through an empty house. He had seen the Fawcetts start for Sydney an hour ago (even now he did not realise why); but Peggy had wilfully deserted; and he was alone on the premises with this hideous ruffian.

  “Go on,” said he. “What about that night? I met you not three hundred yards from the stile where the body was found; and you were going that way!”

  “I was,” said Wyeth, “an’ when I come near, what d’ye think I heard? A couple of swells having a row; in ‘alf a shake it come to blows, an’ I counted five before there was a bit of a thud, and the one who’d been calling out ‘My Gawd — my Gawd!’ ‘e shut up, but the other went on saying ‘You devil!’ — through ‘is teeth — jes’ like that — until I come up. I keeps quiet and sees one swell take a lot o’ papers outer the other swell’s pocket, when in I steps. You should ha’ seen the one as was pocketin’ the papers! Up he jumps, with a thick stick dripping at the end, and before you can say Jack Robinson ‘e ‘as me on the conk, an’ that’s the end o’ me!”

  “Did you ever see him again?” Tom’s voice rang strange with horror and weariness; he did not want his freedom; he was sick of the life that Daintree had given him back, of the world to which Daintree had restored him. His benefactor! The man filled his mind in that first light only — and in this last!

  “Yes, I see him at your trial,” said Wyeth; “but I’m coming to that. Meanwhile I’m only silly, and what do I find when I come to? A dead man, a bloody stick, an’ me lyin’ alongside! Nice, wasn’t it? The moon was on ‘im, an’ he made me feel nice, I can tell yer. But I soon see it wasn’t robbery; there was that there diamond pin. I boned it, an’ there was some loose silver in his pockets, an’ that come in ‘andy too. I took to ufy ‘eels an’ did a slant the way I come, an’ I never see that swell no more till your trial I thought ‘e might be there, an’ ‘e was; so the first day I lied in wait for ‘im, but the Charles knoo me an’ I got frightened an’ went an’ lost ‘im. The next night I lost ‘im again — an accident ‘appened — an’ I come out ‘ere, I dessay in the ship arter you. An’ yesterday I see ‘is lordship comin’ outer the Noo South Wales Bank, as bold as brarse! He never seed me till you got afloat, an’ that’s what upset you all. Arter that I dogged ‘im, but dursn’t say a word till I found a card or two to shove up my sleeve. So, thinks I, the man who steals papers may steal ‘em to keep; we’ll ‘ave a look! An’ so it was; an’ now them papers is yours, an’ you’re as good as a free man. You’ll put in a word for that ticket when you git your own free parding? You won’t go an’ round on a pore chap Gawd Almighty ‘as rounded on?” And a hand went in front of the ghastly face, with a gesture which would have added pity to repulsion in a harder heart than Tom’s.

  “Heaven forbid!” said Tom, from his knees. “You shall have your ticket if this can get it you and I can help.” He was gathering all the smooth blue letters together again, and thinking of an account which Daintree had given him in that very room, that very week, of his own proceedings on the night of the murder. Suddenly he sprang to his feet, jumped on a chair, and examined the silver cups on the top of the bookshelf, one by one. There were seven; all were for winning the mile; it was his old distance from Avenue Lodge to the hollow tree in the fields, between the Finchley Road and Haverstock Hill. Tom remembered his master’s anger, inexplicable no longer, on the day he cleaned the cups. He jumped down and was looking at the inscription on the clock when it struck eleven in his face.

  Tom clapped his hand to his head.

  “WE SHALL BE TOO LATE!”

  “Too late wot for?”

  “She will be married to a murderer. And I forgot that. God forgive me! God forgive me!” He reeled into the verandah. “No — no — there is one chance. The ring — the ring! This way for your life!”

  CHAPTER XL

  MADNESS AND CRIME

  THE pair dashed to the stables: by seven minutes past eleven the curricle cleared the gate-posts, with Tom driving furiously and Wyeth seated grimly at his side. At twenty past they turned into Macquarie Street, were rattling up Hunter Street next minute, then into George Street — the whip whistling — a wheel on the curb at every corner — pedestrians flying and constables challenging — and so up Charlotte Place to the church. The clock on the round castellated tower made it 11.24: time yet if they had waited for the ring. But there were no carriages outside, and Tom’s heart stopped as he saw a woman emerge and lock the church door behind her.

  “Is the marriage over?” he screamed.

  “There’s no marriage this morning. It’s put off!”

  “For the ring?”

  “No, for the bride; she never came!”

  “Never came?”

  But the woman had been robbed of her fees, and the loss involved that of her temper. “Better go to the Pulteney Hotel if you want to know more,” said she, and four wheels would have locked in the mad whirl with which Tom turned curricle and horses.

  Over the bridge to O’Connell Street; a vehicle was ahead of them at the Pulteney, a waiter spoke to the occupants, and it drove off without one of them getting out. Meanwhile Tom had seen the Fawcetts in the gaping crowd outside; had left them on guard over the curricle and Wyeth, and himself rushed into the hotel.

  “There’s no wedding; the guests are being sent away,” said a waiter, standing in his path.

  “Where’s Mr. Daintree?”

  “In the ball-room, b
ut there’s a gentleman—”

  Tom hurled him on one side, and was in the ball-room himself next instant. It was a spacious saloon, the best in Sydney at that time, and the first thing Tom saw was the long table with the vista of silver and glass leading to a snow-clad mountain of a wedding-cake at the far end. The chairs were empty, the table untouched, and only two men were in the room: the bridegroom in his marriage garments, and a person of equal stature, in top-boots and a pea-jacket, whose face Tom could not see. Next moment Nicholas Harding turned his head. It was to him Daintree had drunk in the grey dawn that seemed a year ago.

  The ruddy hair was shot with silver, the massive face refined by suffering; he had aged ten years in eighteen months.

  Tom went straight to his old enemy, turning his back on his old friend.

  “You came out to stop this marriage, sir?”

  “I did — it was the only way.”

  “I congratulate you on arriving in time. You would have had a murderer for your son-in-law!”

  Daintree gave a cry; Tom had turned upon him with flashing eyes.

  “How do you know?” cried Harding in amazement.

  “I will tell you. This man has been my best friend. He paid for my defence, and he took me away from the iron-gang. Do you know why?”

  “I know one reason.”

  “So do I, but there was another. He’s been hedging matters with his God. He murdered Blaydes himself.”

  “Blaydes!”

  And Mr. Harding flung up his hands, while Daintree sank into a chair, as yellow as a guinea, but with hot eye-balls fixed searchingly upon Tom.

  “Your proofs!” said he hoarsely. “Your proofs in support of this — monstrous — charge!”

  “I have clear proof in my pocket,” said Tom to Mr. Harding, as he buttoned up his coat. “I have the receipt I gave Blaydes for his watch and chain!”

  Daintree sprang up: he was trembling from head to foot, but his fists and his teeth were clenched.

  “Thief!” he hissed. “You have broken open my desk! I saved you from the gallows. You think you’ll hound me there in return — you fool, when you know what I know! What you have stolen is no proof at all.

  Ingrate! serpent! it will only tighten the rope round your own ungrateful neck!”

  He turned on his heel, and wrote something on a card. He rang a bell, met the waiter at the door and handed him what he had written.

  “That may be so,” said Tom to Nicholas Harding. “I may swing yet — but, thank God! not for Blaydes!”

  “It is really the receipt?”

  “Undoubtedly: written by Blaydes and signed by me: it will clear me of that crime, if it doesn’t convict him. I don’t want to convict him.”

  The other shrugged his shoulders.

  “It would be useless. There’s madness in his blood, as well as crime! But is that your only evidence?”

  “No, I have a witness outside who all but saw him do it. He did see him taking the papers from the dead man’s pocket.”

  “Papers!” cried Mr. Harding. His high colour fled and came again. “They belonged to me: give them to me, Erichsen, for God’s sake!”

  “Then keep your eye on him, and you shall have all but the one I may want. I saw they were letters to you.” And in an instant they were in Nicholas Harding’s pocket, all but the one with the receipt upon the back; and he also buttoned up his coat.

  Meanwhile, Daintree was at the other end of the long room, guarding the door; and now they saw him fling it open with an evil smile. Next moment a strange gang entered: two constables, Ginger, Nat Sullivan — and Peggy O’Brien.

  Peggy’s presence is only too easily explained: when her own ears heard Tom consent to leave the country, she shut her teeth and swore that he should not. In New South Wales he should remain, though back he went to the chain-gang, but she trusted to her own testimony to save his neck. So she slipped out of the bungalow while the master was being dressed, followed the Fawcetts into Sydney, and went straight to the Pulteney Hotel to tell Nat Sullivan the truth about Tom. She found that worthy in his usual state when in town. Ginger complained that there was no doing anything with him. And so powerfully did the blear-eyed, thicklipped sot repel Peggy, now she saw him again, and in this condition, that she had told him nothing when Daintree’s message was brought to Nat’s rooms.

  Nat read it in his shirt-sleeves, and staggered off to achieve a measure of outward decency, leaving Peggy in a strange turmoil. She could have betrayed Tom herself — so she still thought — but the idea of the master turning traitor in this way was to her intolerable. She had heard the marriage was put off, she divined some all-sufficient cause, and with the ebbing of her last hopes of Tom, her first generous good-will to him returned. She looked at Ginger and found Ginger looking at her. At Castle Sullivan he had been a furtive admirer; he was an open one now Nat was in the next room.

  “Well, Ginger, an’ what is it y’ intind to say?”

  “I shall have to swear to him, though I’d never have let this out in my sober senses. He saved my life. I meant to save his.”

  “An’ you will do that same: say you made a mistake — it’s his life ye’ll be swearin’ away!”

  “But it’s true, Peggy!”

  “An’ it’s meself’ll be thruer still, Ginger darlin’, if you will but say the word an’ do by Tom as lie did by you!”

  She had not thought of it before: it was a sudden inspiration of the quick Irish brain, a sudden impulse of the warm Irish heart. When Nat came in, with wet hair plastered over his thick skull, the coal-black head and the fiery beard were far enough apart. But it had not been so during every minute of his absence. And a pretty fiasco awaited him in the ball-room.

  Led up to Erichsen, the overseer shook his head. “No,” said he, “the bushranger was inches taller. I can’t swear to him after all.”

  “Not swear to him?” roared Mr Nat. “Why, you took your oath he was the man!”

  “Not swear to him?” said Daintree, stepping forward. “Happily, my good fellow-”

  But Tom’s eye was on him, and the police were in the room.

  “Try the girl,” said one constable.

  “Ginger is right,” said Peggy promptly. “It’s a taller man he was entirely.”

  “But you’re looking at his feet!”

  Peggy raised her eyes, and calmly and coldly they met Tom’s for the last time.

  “No,” said she; “this is not the man at all.”

  “The — liars!” Nat Sullivan screamed. “They’ve made up their minds to lie; and you two fools stand there and listen!” He stormed and wept; grew violently abusive, and was put out by the constables before they left themselves. In the scuffle and confusion Ginger found an opportunity both to grip Tom’s hand and to whisper that one good turn deserved another. But Peggy O’Brien turned her back without word or look.

  Warm heart and nimble brain had done Tom Erichsen their last service; had undone their first and only injury; and this was the end between these two.

  When the three men had the great room once more to themselves, Tom turned quietly to Daintree, who was now perfectly livid with rage and chagrin, and simply inquired whether he still denied his own crime.

  “Deny it!” cried Daintree. “It is too preposterous to be worth denying. Show me what you have stolen; let us see this precious proof!”

  “I have a live witness, too, if you force me to call him in.”

  Tom went to a window and had thrown up a sash before the other two joined him. Outside was the curricle and Wyeth seated at Fawcett’s side.

  “Stop — stop — don’t call to him!” whispered Daintree, in a choking voice.

  “Do you deny it now?”

  “Yes — no — listen to me!”

  “Which do you mean?”

  “I — killed him.”

  “Good God!” cried Nicholas Harding.

  Tom shut down the sash.

  “Yes, I killed him,” cried Daintree, recovering his spirits
; “and I’d do it again this minute. Why? You shall hear — and then Claire shall hear — for I mean to see her; it will take all Sydney to keep us apart. That night she refused me — God alone knows why — she loves me now and will stick to me in spite of you all — but she refused me then. I stayed for an hour where she left me. Then I got out by the back way and wandered through the fields — just as I was — thinking of her! At last — I hardly knew where I was or what I was doing —— I heard voices — his was one. Yours was the other, Erichsen — I dicing know it then — and you were just leaving. I heard him say he was thinking of being married. I joined him when you had gone, and asked who the happy lady might be. What do you think he said? What do you think? What do you think?”

  “Claire?” said Nicholas Harding.

  “Yes — Claire!” screamed Daintree. “That incarnate devil — and my angel! He said he loved her — that smooth hound — and she had hinted she did care for somebody. God knows what more he said! You would consent — he had you in his power. Either he said that or I saw it. At any rate he taunted me — maddened me — and when I looked about for something to strike him with, there was the very thing at my feet. I killed him! I meant to kill him! I have never for one moment regretted killing him! What do you suppose was the first thing I found in his pocket? No, Harding, I’m not thinking of you, my honest friend! It was a letter that showed the kind of cur he had been. I let Claire see it. I thought of a way. I showed her that dead devil in his true colours — I cured her of her folly —— and I thanked God I’d put him out of her way and mine! Regret it? Repent it? Never for an instant — never to this hour!”

  And the man trembled no more, save with his savage passion. His eyes flashed, his face shone, and never had he looked finer or handsomer than now, as he drew himself up in his wedding-garments and impiously gloried in his crime. The deep chest swelled beneath the pale buff kerseymere waistcoat. The stubborn chin rose proudly above spotless Prussian collar and dazzling white satin cravat. Bearing and countenance alike were those of a conscious hero rather than of a criminal self-convicted and self-confessed.