“Aye, she's a sharp one, though she certainly has no friends hereabout.”
“Why, whatever do you mean?”
“Well I don't like to talk ill of folks,” (this was as arrant a lie as ever crossed the lips of man, by the by – the disreputable old soul loved nothing better) “but there's been dark muttering abroad as to how exackly the old gent met his end, so to say. The doctors all said there weren't nothing really wrong with him, as they could find, and yet he faded away and faded away and finally died.”
“Aye, and young Sam, the carriers boy, swears as he w-was coming home one night last autumn, for he lives out Abbey Farm way, he seed her – the widder, that is – a w-walking and a-talking with some low feller in the woods. And what business a dacent woman has w-walking with that manner of man, let alone by moonlight and not a creature by, I don't know.”
“How very odd. Was he a local man?”
“Nay, that's the mystery of it. It seems nobody ever seen him before or seen him again.”
“Now then, that aint strictly true,” chipped in George, who had hitherto held his tongue. “Some say as how it must have been that feller as made all the ruckus with Miss Adeline, as used this very inn once or twice.”
“A ruckus with a lady? that sounds very particular. And was the man actually staying here? I am shocked!”
“Miss Adeline is the widder's daughter – there's 2 girls up at the Trent place, and a sad life they've had of it this last year. Some ruffian tried to drag her from out of a carriage – last June or so, if I recall. And about that time there was a stranger seen about the place once or twice, but he weren't staying hereabouts – at least not in the village. He just used the coffee room to write a letter or two, the barman sez, and nobody could say for sartin if it were him, so he were let alone. He never come back after about November, to my knowledge at least.”
Dick Dodds expressed an appropriate amount of concern and surprise at this, and the conversation passed on to less interesting (to him) subjects. After another half hour or so of unedifying gossip, the detective passed out into the moonlight, to clear his head of the fug of brandy-fumes and tobacco-smoke, and arrange his thoughts.
So, this M Wade had been seen several times in the village, which seemed to suggest that for at least some time between June and November last he had been staying somewhere close enough to Allenham to make regular visits. Richard Dodd decided that his next move would to be to ask around the surrounding farms and villages, in the hopes that Mr Wade had taken lodging in that locality. With this determination, he returned to the inn, this time using the saloon bar entrance to avoid his three aged informants, and so to bed.
He arose early on the following morning, and made an indifferent breakfast of overcooked ham and undercooked eggs. He also made enquiry of his landlady as to the names and locations of the farms that surrounded the village, as he had an interest in agriculture and wished to explore the local habits and customs in that earthy science. His landlady was happy to furnish him with a long list, adding a running commentary concerning the habits, peccadilloes, feuds and relationships of the inhabitants. Looking alarmed at the sheer number of agricultural enterprises in the locale of Allenham, he begged to enquire where he could hire a horse, and was given the choice of the inn's stables.
A meagre choice it was, and the detective rode forth a half hour later on a skinny, jaded mare, who seemed inclined to make up for the deficiencies of the stable diet by stooping and cropping dandelions at every opportunity. And this was the best mount the inn had to offer!
It was late that evening when the detective returned to the inn, thoroughly disgusted with his recalcitrant steed, and ordered his chop and pint of porter. He had obtained little useful information at the farms immediately surrounding the village, having wound around and about the muddy lanes at the mare's sweet will. He was fairly confident, however, that he had visited all the farms within an hours ride of Allenham, and he determined to spread his net wider tomorrow.
After his solitary dinner, who should happen to drop in on him in the hope of news, but Alfred. The elder man was happier than he showed at the prospect of a little intelligent society, and though his countenance and manner were schooled to calm indifference, he moved with some alacrity to mix two hospitable glasses of brandy-and-water, hot, opened his cigar-case invitingly, and pulled the two easiest chairs in the room up to the fire.
“So, sir, how have your researches fared thus far?” opened Alfred, once the two men had made themselves comfortable.
“Well, I have pretty much established in my own mind that the gentleman we are in search of was staying hereabouts between June and November last. As to where he was lodging, or what became of him, I am as yet no wiser. Such a lot of bucolic ignorance and stupidity I have never encountered. The farms hereabouts either do not keep lodgers; or they don't know if they do or they don't; or they do but take no heed of their names, appearances or habits; or else they do but don't have the records to hand, or I need to speak to some dairymaid who is 'gone to market, sir, and not due back til early tomorrow morning'.
“the upshot being, therefore, that I have had a day's uncomfortable ride for nothing. But I am not yet at a loss, Mr Denham, and plan to repeat the process in the neighbouring villages tomorrow.”
“Well, that is a disappointment,” said Alfred, “but no doubt some clue to the man must surface sooner or later. I have every confidence in you.”
A pause succeeded this, during which Alfred smoked a cigar, and Mr Dodds sipped his brandy-and-water, with his feet propped on the fender, for he had walked through more than one muddy puddle today, and the day was cold, for all that it was April.
“By the by,” said Mr Dodds, as Alfred rose to take his leave, “I am almost ashamed to ask it, but is it at all possible you could mount me? I do believe another day on one of the beasts this place can provide would be the death of me – most likely of apoplexy.”
Alfred, with a laugh, declared himself ready to oblige, and it was arranged that he would have his hack saddled and sent round to the inn door by nine the next day.
The horse was returned by the inn servant a few days later, and very little was heard of the detective for two or three weeks.
His silence was broken by a scrawled note, asking leave to call upon Alfred and the young ladies to discuss the case. Accordingly, they arranged to meet, as if by accident, in the woods near the house – Lydia having become more and more suspicious of her mother-in-law and deeming such discussion in the house to be unsafe.
It was a fine morning in late April, and the weather was very pleasant for walking. The trees were bright with new leaves and fragrant with blossom, and nesting birds filled the little copse with song. It was a pity and a waste, really, that the young ladies, Adeline in particular, had neither eyes nor ears for nature's beauty that day. To Adeline, the most welcome sight of all the sweet prospects to be seen in that little patch of woodland just then springing into life, was a dilapidated gentleman in a greasy waistcoat.
“Oh, Mr Dodds, you have found him?” cried Adeline breathlessly, for to wish is to hope, and to hope is to expect, in such ardent natures.
“No, Miss.” the detective said, bluntly but kindly.
“But you have some clue to him, have you not?” queried Lydia.
“No, not that either. I'll tell you how it is. I spent some time asking about the farms and villages, last I was here, trusting that he had lodged somewhere nearby, last year, and weary work enough it was, by the by. Anyhow, I had been at it four days, with as much of a trace of him as if he had been a ghost, then on my way home on the fourth day, I found I had missed my way, it being dark, and somewhat cloudy. However, I spied the light of a cottage, and stopped there in hopes that I could get a clue to the right road. I don't know why I had not thought to ask at cottages before, but it occurred to me, once inside – for the hospitable old body that inhabited the place would not hear of my setting out again without a little something inside to warm
me, though I don't much care for tea and such slop as that – where was I? Oh yes, I began to make a few polite enquiries on the account of our missing friend.
'This is a very pretty place, it almost makes me loath to leave this fireside' says I. 'Do you ever let lodging at all?'
'Oh no, sir, not since my William died,' says she, 'being a woman alone and all.'
I commiserated her on her unhappy loss, and enquired when that dismal event had taken place, to which she informed me it had been but 4 months ago – to wit, January – when her earthly friend and helpmeet had departed this mortal coil.
'Ah, well, I expect you are quite right. I suppose you meet some queer types.' was my next remark.
'Well, no sir, I can't say as we have had any trouble of that sort. My last lodger, for instance – if I had been alone I would not have let him in the door, for he was terrible rough-looking, for all he was so free with his money. But Mr Wade – Malcolm, as he bid us call him – was as friendly a gent as you could hope to meet, though oft-times he would brood and brood, then spring up and go out to walk off his ill humour.'
Here was my clue, dropped into my lap by a mis-step!
'Malcolm Wade?' I enquired incredulously, 'Why, I wonder if it could be the same Malcolm Wade as I went to school with – last that I heard of him he had emigrated – Australia or California or one of those places. Well, if he has come back he must have failed, poor chap.'
'Oh yes, Mr Wade had just returned from Australia. He used to talk to us sometimes of the queer things he had seen there – creatures like giant jumping rats, with pockets in their fronts, and beetles as big as your hand, and all manner of things, though half the time I suspect he was jesting, for the good Lord never did give a creature pockets, I'm sure on it. But to be sure he hadn't failed – he did not boast or anything, but he never quibbled about a halfpenny and always seemed to have enough to spare and more.'
'Really? Well, I'll be blessed. Did he leave you his address at all, or give any hint as to where he was going? I would dearly love to see the old chap again and talk over old times.'
'No, sir. He got a letter that sent him off to London in a fever, last November it was, but he didn't leave a direction, and he said he would send for his things, though he never did, and I have his box still, in hopes as he'd come back for it.'
My mind was racing at the thought he might have left some clue to his whereabouts in that box, but how to get at it I knew not.
At any rate, I now knew the gentleman's full name, and that he was last seen on his way to London. To London, then, I must go, and I pretty much ascertained, by asking at all the inns on the road, that he reached that metropolis. After that, I drew a blank. I did, however, dispatch a telegram in that gentleman's name, to the good biddy at the cottage, asking for my – ahem, his – box to be sent to my private chambers in London. However, there too I drew a blank. The box contained no correspondence, no papers, no cards, no books, nothing whatever that could give the slightest clue to the man – nothing but a few items of clothing, unmarked. I searched for secret compartments, but could find none, and so must assume that any private papers he had, any letters from your Mamma, he either destroyed, or took with him.
My dear ladies, we need the other half of that correspondence. Mrs Trent has received letters from him, she may well have them still. I have yet another tack to try to solve this mystery, which will take me out of this part of the country, so I charge you with this task. Find the letters!”
Chapter the 14th
Adeline and Lydia pledged themselves to get at those letters if they should still be in existence, but the question was, how?
It was Lydia who made the first attempt. The plan required acting a part, which innocent Adeline was incapable of.
“I should blush and tremble so, for fear of discovery, and would not be able to hide my true feelings in the slightest.” she confessed, and Lydia was fain to agree.
And so that very afternoon, Lydia bearded the lion in her den, and tapped politely on the door of her stepmother's sitting-room.
“Mrs Trent, I wonder if I might come and sit with you for a while. I know that we have not been close of late, but I...” Lydia blushed prettily and looked down, “I should greatly value your advice upon a... a personal matter.”
A look of annoyance flashed across Evelyn's face, but she hid it in a moment.
“Of course, if my advice can be of any value to you, you are welcome to it. Come in.”
The two ladies sat in silence for a moment. Lydia poking uncertainly at her knitting, and Evelyn (oh fate!) engaged in writing a letter. On the table at which Evelyn sat lay an elegant writing-desk, open, with several tantalising bundles of paper visible within it's recesses. Lydia was busy trying to get a good look at these while appearing to be entirely absorbed by her knitting, when Evelyn laid down her pen and said;
“Well?”
Poor Lydia had only the haziest idea exactly what advice she might be supposed to require. She had decided the most plausible story would be a matter of the heart, and she uttered the first name that sprang into her head.
“I don not know exactly where to begin, but it is about – about the Captain. You may be aware, Mamma – I mean Mrs Trent – of our growing acquaintance with the young gentleman. We have spent a good deal of time together, and, without wishing to appear vain, I think - that is - I begin to suspect that, perhaps, he may be wishing for a yet closer tie than friendship.”
“Well? And what are your wishes?”
“To own the truth, I am not exactly sure. That is what I wanted you to advise me.”
“What is the young man's fortune? What are his prospects?”
“I believe he has several thousand pounds in prize-money. He is yet young, and may well rise in his profession.”
“Hmph, well, you are not a beauty, and with only two-and-a-half thousand of your own you could do a lot worse. I do not see any harm in encouraging him a little.”
“But when my feelings are so undecided, would it not be unfair to attempt to excite in him an affection I may find myself unable to return?”
“Dear me, Lydia, what does that have to do with anything? If you wish to marry well, you must learn to be a little less squeamish.”
Lydia was becoming more and more uncomfortable by the moment. Not only was she laying claim to the heart of a man she was certain had never looked upon her with any warmer feeling than friendship, but every word that fell from her stepmother's lips was deepening her disgust of the woman, and of her cold, worldly heartlessness.
It was a relief when Estelle, Mrs Trent's maid, put her head round the door to consult with her mistress about something. Evelyn sighed.
“I find I must leave you for a few moments,” she said with her habitual acid sweetness. “Do excuse me.”
Lydia's heart leapt within her as she thought of the desk – but to her dismay her stepmother stepped across to the table, shut up the desk, and turned the key in the lock, before leaving the room.
Lydia examined the desk and tried the lid, but it was firmly locked with a patent Bramah lock, and the lid could neither be moved or picked (even had Lydia known how to pick a lock, which useful science she was in ignorance).
When Mrs Trent returned, a few moments later, Lydia thanked her for her advice, and excused herself.
“Well,” she philosophised to herself, “at least we are one step closer in knowing she keeps some letters and papers in her writing-desk. But how to get at them?”
This was a conundrum indeed, but it was not many days before the girls made a second attempt.
"Please, Ma'am, Miss Adeline feels awfully ill, and is asking for you?" said Bessie nervously, half-edging into Mrs Trent's sitting room.
Evelyn sighed, and put down her work.
"Oh, how tiresome. Well, I suppose I had better go, though ten to one it is nothing more than a headache or some other trifling indisposition." and she swept out of the room, followed by Bessie.
Adeline was
of course shamming illness, but her nervousness made her pale and flushed by turns, her throat constricted and her lips were dry, making her voice weak and uncertain, and her eyes flashed in a way that was almost genuinely feverish, with the consequence that she actually appeared to be truly ill. Her goal, of course, was to detain her mother for as long as possible, in order to give Lydia adequate time to attempt to gain access to the desk. Fortunately, her natural reluctance to lie forced her to give evasive answers to the questions her mother put to her, which actually prolonged the conversation to almost half-an-hour. At the end of this time, Evelyn declared that she believed there was nothing much the matter with the girl.
"Aye, there was nothing much the matter with the master, either." grumbled Bessie darkly.
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