“And do you know the other customer?” he asked.
“No, she was quite a stranger. She brought in a little boy from a cab and bought a lot of things for him — a suit of outdoor clothes, as well as the shoes.”
“Ah! now probably this is what I want. Can you remember anything of the child?”
“Yes, he was a pretty little fellow, about two years old or so, with curls. She called him Charley.”
“Did she put the things on him in the shop?”
“Not the frock; but she put on the outer coat, the hat and the shoes. I can remember it all now quite well, now I have had time to think.”
“Then what shoes did the child wear when he came in?”
“Rather old tan-coloured ones.”
“Then I think this is the person I am after. You say you never saw her at any other time before or since. Try to describe her.”
“Well, she was a lady well dressed, in black. She had a very high collar to hide a scar on her neck, like the scars people have sometimes after abscesses, I think. I could see it from the side when she stooped down.”
“And are you sure she had nothing sent home? Did she take everything with her?”
“Yes; nothing was sent, else we should know her address, you know.”
“She didn’t happen to pay with a banknote, did she?”
“No, in cash.”
Hewitt left with little more ceremony and made the best of his way to his friend the inspector at the police station. Here was the woman with the scarred neck again — Charley’s deliverer once, now his kidnapper. If only something else could be ascertained of her — some small clue that might bring her identity into view — the thing would be done.
At the station, however, there was something new. A man had just come in, very drunk, and had given himself into custody for kidnapping the child Charles Seton, whose description was set forth on the bill which still appeared on the notice-hoard outside the station. When Hewitt arrived the man was lolling, wretched and maudlin, against the rail, and, oblivious of most of the questions addressed to him, was ranting and snivelling by turns. His dress was good, though splashed with mud, and his bloated face, bleared eyes and loose, tremulous mouth proclaimed the habitual drunkard.
“I shay I’ll gimmeself up,” he proclaimed, with a desperate attempt at dignity; “I’ll gimmeself up takin’ away lil boy; I’ll shacrifishe m’self. Solemn duty shacrifishe m’self f’elpless woman, ain’t it? Ver’ well then; gimmeself up takin’ ‘way lil boy, buyin’ ‘m pair shoes. No harm in that, issher? Hope not. Ver’ well then.” And be subsided into tears.
“What’s your name?” asked the inspector.
“Whash name? Thash my bishnesh. Warrer wan’ know name for? Grapert — hence ask gellum’sh name. I’m gellum, thash whit’ I am. Besht of shisters too, besht shis’ers” — snivelling again— “an’ I’m ungra’ful beasht. But I shacrifishe ‘self; she shun’ get ‘n trouble. D’year? Gimmeself up shtealin’ lil boy. Who says I ain’ gellum?”
Nothing more intelligible than this could be got out of him, and presently he was taken off to the cells. Then Hewitt asked the inspector, “What will happen to him now?”
The inspector laughed.
“Oh he’ll get very sober and sick and sorry by the morning,” he said; “and then he’ll have to send home for some money, that’s all.”
“And as to the child?”
“Oh, he’ll forget all about that; that’s only a drunken freak. The child has been recovered. You know that, I suppose?”
“Yes, but I am still after the person who took it away. It was a woman. Indeed I’ve more than a suspicion that it was the woman who brought the child here when he was lost before — the one with the scar on the neck, you know.”
“Is that so?” said the inspector. “Well, that’s a rum go, ain’t it? What did she bring him back here for if she wanted him again?”
“That I want to find out,” Hewitt answered. “And now I want you to do me a favour. You say you expect that man below will want to send home in the morning for money. Well, I want to be the messenger.”
The inspector opened his eyes.
“Want to be the messenger? Well, that’s easily done; if you’re here at the time I’ll leave word. But why?”
“Well, I’ve a sort of notion I know something about his family, and I want to make sure. Shall I be here at eight in the morning, or shall we say nine?”
“Which you like; I expect he’ll be shouting for bail before eight.”
“Very well, we will say eight. Goodnight.”
And so Hewitt had to let yet another night go without an explanation of the mystery; but he felt that his hand was on the key at last, though it had only fallen there by chance. Prompt to his time at eight in the morning he was at the police-station, where another inspector was now on duty, who, however, had been told of Hewitt’s wish.
“Ah,” he said, “you’re well to time, Mr. Hewitt. That prisoner’s as limp as rags now; he’s begging of us to send to his sister.”
“Does he say anything about that child?”
“Says he don’t know anything about it; all a drunken freak. His name’s Oliver Neale, and he lives at 10 Morton Terrace, Hampstead, with his sister. Her name’s Mrs. Isitt, and you’re to take this note and bring her back with you, or at any rate some money; and you’re to say he’s truly repentant,” the inspector concluded with a grin.
The distance was short, and Hewitt walked it. Morton Terrace was a short row of pleasant old-fashioned villas, ivy-grown and neat, and No. 10 was as neat as any. To the servant who answered his ring Hewitt announced himself as a gentleman with a message from Mrs. Isitt’s brother. This did not seem to prepossess the girl in Hewitt’s favour, and she backed to the end of the hall and communicated with somebody on the stairs before finally showing Hewitt into a room, where he was quickly followed by Mrs. Isitt.
She was a rather tall woman of perhaps thirty-eight, and had probably been attractive, though now her face bore lines of sad grief. Hewitt noticed that she wore a very high black collar.
“Good-morning, Mrs. Isitt,” he said. “I’m afraid my errand is not altogether pleasant. The fact is your brother, Mr. Neale, was not altogether sober last night, and he is now at the police station, where he wrote this note.”
Mrs. Isitt did not appear surprised, and took the note with no more than a sigh.
“Yes,” she said, “it can’t be concealed. This is not the first time by many, as you probably know, if you are a friend of his.”
She read the note, and as she looked up Hewitt said —
“No, I have not known him long. I happened to be at the station last night, and he rather attracted my attention by insisting, in his intoxicated state, on giving himself up for kidnapping a child, Charles Seton.”
Mrs. Isitt started as though shot. Pale of cheek, she glanced fearfully in Hewitt’s face and there met a keen gaze that seemed to read her brain. She saw that her secret was known, but for a moment she struggled, and her lips worked convulsively —
“Charles Seton — Charles Seton?” she said.
“Yes, Mrs. Isitt, that is the name. The child, as a matter of fact, was stolen by the person who bought these shoes for it. Do you recognise them?”
He produced the shoes and held them before her. The woman sank on the sofa behind her, terrified, but unable to take her eyes from Hewitt’s.
“Come, Mrs. Isitt,” he said, “you have been recognised. Here is my card. I am commissioned by the parents of the child to find who removed him, and I think I have succeeded.”
She took the card and glanced at it dazedly; then she sank with a groaning sob with her face on the head of the sofa, and as she did so Hewitt could see a scar on the side of her neck peeping above her high collar.
“Oh, my God!” the woman moaned. “Then it has come to this. He will die! he will die!”
The woman’s anguish was piteous to see. Hewitt had gained his point, and was willing to spa
re her. He placed his hand on her heaving shoulder and begged her not to distress herself.
“The matter is rather difficult to understand, Mrs. Isitt,” he said. “If you will compose yourself perhaps you can explain. I can assure you that there is no desire to be vindictive. I’m afraid my manner upset you. Pray reassure yourself. May I sit down?”
Nobody could by his manner more easily restore confidence and trust than Hewitt, when it pleased him. Mrs. Isitt lifted her head and gazed at him once more with a troubled though quieter expression.
“I think you wrote Mrs. Seton an anonymous letter,” Hewitt said, producing the first of those which Mrs. Seton had brought him. “It was kind of you to reassure the poor woman.”
“Oh, tell me,” Mrs. Isitt asked, “was she much upset at missing the little boy? Did it make her ill?”
“She was upset, of course; but perhaps the joy of recovering him compensated for all.”
“Yes; I took him back as soon as I possibly could, really I did, Mr. Hewitt. And, oh! I was so tempted! My life has been so unhappy! If you only knew!” She buried her face in her hands.
“Will you tell me?” Hewitt suggested gently. “You see, whatever happens, an explanation of some sort is the first thing.”
“Yes, yes — of course. Oh, I am a wretched woman.” She paused for some little while, and then went on: “Mr. Hewitt, my husband is a lunatic.” She paused again.
“There was never a man, Mr. Hewitt, so devoted to his wife and children as my husband. He bore even with the continual annoyance of my brother, whom you saw, because he was my brother. But a little more than a year ago, as the result of an accident, a tumour formed on his brain. The thing is incurable except, as a remote possibility, by a most dangerous operation, which the doctors fear to attempt except under most favourable conditions. Without that he must die sooner or later. Meantime he is insane, though with many and sometimes long intervals of perfect lucidity. When the disease attacked him there was little warning, except from pains in the head, till one dreadful night. Then he rose from bed a maniac and killed our child, a little girl of six, whom he was devotedly attached to. He also cut my own throat with his razor, but I recovered. I would rather say nothing more of that — it is too dreadful, though indeed I think about little else. There was another child, a baby boy, about a year old when his sister died, and he — he died of scarlet fever scarcely four months ago.
“My husband was taken to a private asylum at Willesden, where he now is. I visited him frequently, and took the baby, and it was almost terrible to see — a part of his insanity, no doubt — how his fondness for that child grew. When it died I never dared to tell him. Indeed the doctors forbade it. In his state he would have died raving. But he asked for it, sometimes earnestly, sometimes angrily, till I almost feared to visit him. Then he began to demand it of the doctors and attendants, and his excitement increased day by day. I was told to prepare for the worst. When I visited him he sometimes failed to recognise me, and at others demanded the child fiercely. I should tell you that it was only just about this time that it was found that the tumour existed, and the idea of the operation was suggested; but of course it was impossible in his disturbed condition. I scarcely dared to go to see him, and yet I did so long to! Dr. Bailey did indeed suggest that possibly we might find he would be quieted by being shown another child; but I myself felt that to be very unlikely.
“It was while things were in this state, and about six or seven weeks ago, that, walking toward Cricklewood one morning, I saw a little fellow trotting along all alone, who actually startled me — startled me very much — by his resemblance to our poor little one. The likeness was one of those extraordinary ones that one only finds among young children. This child was a little bigger and stronger than ours was when he died, but then it was older — probably very nearly the age and size our own would have been had it lived. Nobody else was in sight, and I fancied the child looked about to cry, so I went to it and spoke. Plainly it had strayed, and could not tell me where it lived, only that its name was Charley. I took it in my arms and it grew quite friendly. As I talked to it suddenly Dr. Bailey’s suggestion came in my mind. If any child could deceive my poor husband surely this was the one. Of course I should have to find its parents — probably through the police; but why not at any rate take it to Willesden in the meantime for an hour or so? I could not resist the temptation — I took the first available cab.
“The result of the experiment almost frightened me. My poor husband received the child with transports of delight, kissed it, and laughed and wept over it like a mother rather than a father, and refused to give it up for hours. The child of course would not answer to its strange name at first, but he seemed an adaptable little thing, and presently began calling my poor husband ‘daddy.’ I had not been so happy myself for months as I was as I watched them. I. had told Dr. Bailey — what I fear was not strictly true — that I had borrowed the child from a friend. At length I felt I must go and take the boy to the police, and with great difficulty I managed to get it away, my poor husband crying like a child. Well, I took the little fellow to the station I judged nearest to where I found him, and gave him up to the care of the inspector. But I was a little frightened at having kept him so long, and gave a false name and address. Still I learned from the inspector that the child had been inquired after, and by whom.
“My husband was quiet for some days after this, but then he began to ask for his boy with more vehemence than ever. He grew worse and worse, and soon his ravings were terrible. Dr. Bailey urged me to bring the child again, but what could I do? I formed a desperate idea of going to Mrs. Seton, telling her the whole thing, and imploring her to let me take the child again. But then would that be likely? Would she allow her child to be placed in the arms of a lunatic — one indeed who had already killed a child of his own? I felt that the thing was impossible. Still I went to the house and walked about it again and again, I scarcely knew why. And my poor husband in his confinement screamed for his child till I dared not go near him. So it was when one morning — last Monday morning — I had passed the front of the Setons’ house and turned up the lane at the side. I could see over the low fence and hedge, and as I came to the French window with the steps I saw that the window was open at one side and little Charley was standing on the top step. He recognised me, smiled and called just as my own child would have done; indeed as I stood there I almost fell into the delusion of my poor mad husband. I took the gate in my hands, shaking it impatiently, and in attempting to open it from the wrong end, found the hinges lift out. I could see that nobody else was in the room behind the French window. There was the temptation — the overwhelming temptation — and I was distracted. I took the little fellow hurriedly in my anus and pulled the window to, so that the bottom bolt fell into the floor socket; then I replaced the gate as I found it and ran to where I knew there was a cabstand. Oh! Mr. Hewitt, was it so very sinful? And I meant to bring him back that same afternoon, I really did.
“The child was in indoor clothes, and had no hat. I called at a baby-linen shop and bought hat, cloak, frock and a new pair of shoes. Then I hurried to Willesden. Again the effect was magical. My husband was happy once more; but when at last I attempted to take the child away he would not let it go. It was terrible. Oh, I can’t describe the scene. Dr. Bailey told me that, come what might, I must stay that night in a room his wife would provide for me and keep the child, or perhaps I must sit up with my husband and let the child sleep on my knee. In the end it was the latter that I did.
“By the morning my senses were blunted and I scarcely cared what happened. I determined that as I had gone so far I would keep the child that day at least; indeed, as I say, whether by the influence of my husband I know not, but I almost felt myself falling into his delusion that the child was ours. I went home for an hour at midday, taking the child, and then my wretched brother saw it and got the whole story from me. He told me that reward bills were out about the child, and then I dimly realised
that its mother must be suffering pain, and I wrote the note you spoke of. Perhaps I had some little idea of delaying pursuit — I don’t know. At any rate I wrote it, and posted it at Willesden as I went back. My husband had been asleep when I left, but now he was awake again and asking for the child once more. There is little more to say. I stayed that night and the next day, and by that time my husband had become tranquil and rational as he had not been for months. If only the improvement can be sustained they think of operating to-morrow or the next day.
“I carried Charley back in the dusk, intending to put him inside one of the gates, ring, and watch him safely in from a little way off, but as I passel down the side lane I saw the French window open again and nobody near. I had been that way before and felt bolder there. I took his hat and cloak (I had already changed his frock) and, after kissing him, put him hastily through the window and came away. But I had forgotten the new shoes. I remembered them, however, when I got home, and immediately conceived a fear that the child’s parents might trace me by their means. I mentioned this fear to my brother, and it appeared to frighten him. He borrowed some money of me yesterday, and it seems got intoxicated. In that state he is always anxious to do some noble action, through he is capable, I am grieved to say, of almost any meanness when sober. He lives here at my expense, indeed, and borrows money from his friends for drink. These may seem hard things for a sister to say, but everybody knows it. He has wearied me, and I have lost all shame of him. I suppose in his muddled state he got the notion that he would accuse himself of what I had done and so shield me. I expect he repented of his self-sacrifice this morning though.”
Hewitt knew that he had, but said nothing. Also he said nothing of the anonymous letter he had in his pocket, wherein Mr. Oliver Neale had covertly demanded a hundred pounds for the restoration of Charley Seton. Ho guessed however that that gentleman had feared making the appointment that the advertisement answering his letter had suggested.
Delphi Complete Works of Arthur Morrison Page 39