by Ellen Wood
Meanwhile Lord Hartledon remained in London. When the term for which they had engaged the furnished house was expired he took lodgings in Grafton Street; and there he stayed, his frame of mind restless and unsatisfactory. Lady Hartledon wrote to him sometimes, and he answered her. She said not a word about the discovery she had made in regard to the alleged action-at-law; but she never failed in every letter to ask what he was doing, and when he was coming home — meaning to Hartledon. He put her off in the best way he could: he and Carr were very busy together, he said: as to home, he could not mention any particular time. And Lady Hartledon bottled up her curiosity and her wrath, and waited with what patience she possessed.
The truth was — and, perhaps, the reader may have divined it — that graver motives than the sensitive feeling of not liking to face the Ashtons were keeping Lord Hartledon from his wife and home. He had once, in his bachelor days, wished himself a savage in some remote desert, where his civilized acquaintance could not come near him; he had a thousand times more reason to wish himself one now.
One dusty day, when the excessive heat of summer was on the wane, he went down to Mr. Carr’s chambers, and found that gentleman out. Not out for long, the clerk thought; and sat down and waited. The room he was in looked out on the cool garden, the quiet river; in the one there was not a soul except Mr. Broom himself, who had gone in to watch the progress of his chrysanthemums, and was stooping lovingly over the beds; on the other a steamer, freighted with a straggling few, was paddling up the river against the tide, and a barge with its brown sail was coming down in all its picturesque charm. The contrast between this quiet scene and the bustling, dusty, jostling world he had come in from, was grateful even to his disturbed heart; and he felt half inclined to go round to the garden and fling himself on the lawn as a man might do who was free from care.
Mr. Carr indulged in the costly luxury of three rooms in the Temple; his sitting-room, which was his work-room, a bedroom, and a little outer room, the sanctum of his clerk. Lord Hartledon was in the sitting-room, but he could hear the clerk moving about in the ante-room, as if he had no writing on hand that morning. When tired of waiting, he called him in.
“Mr. Taylor, how long do you think he will be? I’ve been dozing, I think.”
“Well, I thought he’d have been here before now, my lord. He generally tells me if he is going out for any length of time; but he said nothing to-day.”
“A newspaper would be something to while away one’s time, or a book,” grumbled Hartledon. “Not those,” glancing at a book-case full of ponderous law-volumes.
“Your lordship has taken the cream out of them already,” remarked the clerk, with a laugh; and Hartledon’s brow knitted at the words. He had “taken the cream” out of those old law-books, if studying them could do it, for he had been at them pretty often of late.
But Mr. Taylor’s remarks had no ulterior meaning. Being a shrewd man, he could not fail to suspect that Lord Hartledon was in a scrape of some sort; but from a word dropped by his master he supposed it to involve nothing more than a question of debt; and he never suspected that the word had been dropped purposely. “Scamps would claim money twice over when they could,” said Mr. Carr; and Elster was a careless man, always losing his receipts. He was a short, slight man, this clerk — in build something like his master — with an intelligent, silent face, a small, sharp nose, and fair hair. He had been born a gentleman, he was wont to say; and indeed he looked one; but he had not received an education commensurate with that fact, and had to make his own way in the world. He might do it yet, perhaps, he remarked one day to Lord Hartledon; and certainly, if steady perseverance could effect it, he would: all his spare time was spent in study.
“He has not gone to one of those blessed consultations in somebody’s chambers, has he?” cried Val. “I have known them last three hours.”
“I have known them last longer than that,” said the clerk equably. “But there are none on just now.”
“I can’t think what has become of him. He made an appointment with me for this morning. And where’s his Times?”
Mr. Taylor could not tell where; he had been looking for the newspaper on his own account. It was not to be found; and they could only come to the conclusion that the barrister had taken it out with him.
“I wish you’d go out and buy me one,” said Val.
“I’ll go with pleasure, my lord. But suppose any one comes to the door?”
“Oh, I’ll answer it. They’ll think Carr has taken on a new clerk.”
Mr. Taylor laughed, and went out. Hartledon, tired of sitting, began to pace the room and the ante-room. Most men would have taken their departure; but he had nothing to do; he had latterly shunned that portion of the world called society; and was as well in Mr. Carr’s chambers as in his own lodgings, or in strolling about with his troubled heart. While thus occupied, there came a soft tap to the outer door — as was sure to be the case, the clerk being absent — and Val opened it. A middle-aged, quiet-looking man stood there, who had nothing specially noticeable in his appearance, except a pair of deep-set dark eyes, under bushy eyebrows that were turning grey.
“Mr. Carr within?”
“Mr. Carr’s not in,” replied the temporary clerk. “I dare say you can wait.”
“Likely to be long?”
“I should think not. I have been waiting for him these two hours.”
The applicant entered, and sat down in the clerk’s room. Lord Hartledon went into the other, and stood drumming on the window-pane, as he gazed out upon the Temple garden.
“I’d go, but for that note of Carr’s,” he said to himself. “If — Halloa! that’s his voice at last.”
Mr. Carr and his clerk had returned together. The former, after a few moments, came in to Lord Hartledon.
“A nice fellow you are, Carr! Sending me word to be here at eleven o’clock, and then walking off for two mortal hours!”
“I sent you word to wait for me at your own home!”
“Well, that’s good!” returned Val. “It said, ‘Be here at eleven,’ as plainly as writing could say it.”
“And there was a postscript over the leaf telling you, on second thought, not to be here, but to wait at home for me,” said Mr. Carr. “I remembered a matter of business that would take me up your way this morning, and thought I’d go on to you. It’s just your careless fashion, Hartledon, reading only half your letters! You should have turned it over.”
“Who was to think there was anything on the other side? Folk don’t turn their letters over from curiosity when they are concluded on the first page.”
“I never had a letter in my life but I turned it over to make sure,” observed the more careful barrister. “I have had my walk for nothing.”
“And I have been cooling my heels here! And you took the newspaper with you!”
“No, I did not. Churton sent in from his rooms to borrow it.”
“Well, let the misunderstanding go, and forgive me for being cross. Do you know, Carr, I think I am growing ill-tempered from trouble. What news have you for me?”
“I’ll tell you by-and-by. Do you know who that is in the other room?”
“Not I. He seemed to stare me inside-out in a quiet way as I let him in.”
“Ay. It’s Green, the detective. At times a question occurs to me whether that’s his real name, or one assumed in his profession. He has come to report at last. Had you better remain?”
“Why not?”
Mr. Carr looked dubious.
“You can make some excuse for my presence.”
“It’s not that. I’m thinking if you let slip a word—”
“Is it likely?”
“Inadvertently, I mean.”
“There’s no fear. You have not mentioned my name to him?”
“I retort in your own words — Is it likely? He does not know why he is being employed or what I want with the man I wish traced. At present he is working, as far as that goes, in the dark. I might
have put him on a false scent, just as cleverly and unsuspiciously as I dare say he could put me; but I’ve not done it. What’s the matter with you to-day, Hartledon? You look ill.”
“I only look what I am, then,” was the answer. “But I’m no worse than usual. I’d rather be transported — I’d rather be hanged, for that matter — than lead the life of misery I am leading. At times I feel inclined to give in, but then comes the thought of Maude.”
CHAPTER XXIV.
SOMEBODY ELSE AT WORK.
They were shut in together: the detective officer, Mr. Carr, and Lord Hartledon. “You may speak freely before this gentleman,” observed Mr. Carr, as if in apology for a third being present. “He knows the parties, and is almost as much interested in the affair as I am.”
The detective glanced at Lord Hartledon with his deep eyes, but he did not know him, and took out a note-book, on which some words and figures were dotted down, hieroglyphics to any one’s eyes but his own. Squaring his elbows on the table, he begun abruptly; and appeared to have a habit of cutting short his words and sentences.
“Haven’t succeeded yet as could wish, Mr. Carr; at least not altogether: have had to be longer over it, too, than thought for. George Gordon: Scotch birth, so far as can learn; left an orphan; lived mostly in London. Served time to medical practitioner, locality Paddington. Idle, visionary, loose in conduct, good-natured, fond of roving. Surgeon wouldn’t keep him as assistant; might have done it, he says, had G.G. been of settled disposition: saw him in drink three times. Next turns up in Scotland, assistant to a doctor there; name Mair, locality Kirkcudbrightshire. Remained less than a year; left, saying was going to Australia. So far,” broke off the speaker, raising his eyes to Mr. Carr’s, “particulars tally with the information supplied by you.”
“Just so.”
“Then my further work began,” continued Mr. Green. “Afraid what I’ve got together won’t be satisfactory; differ from you in opinion, at any rate. G.G. went to Australia; no doubt of that; friend of his got a letter or two from him while there: last one enclosed two ten-pound notes, borrowed by G.G. before he went out. Last letter said been up to the diggings; very successful; coming home with his money, mentioned ship he meant to sail in. Hadn’t been in Australia twelve months.”
“Who was the friend?” asked Mr. Carr.
“Respectable man; gentleman; former fellow-pupil with Gordon in London; in good practice for himself now; locality Kensington. After last letter, friend perpetually looking out for G.G. G.G. did not make his appearance; conclusion friend draws is he did not come back. Feels sure Gordon, whether rich or poor, in ill-report or good-report, would have come direct to him.”
“I happen to know that he did come back,” said Mr. Carr.
“Don’t think it,” was the unceremonious rejoinder.
“I know it positively. And that he was in London.”
The detective looked over his notes, as if completely ignoring Mr. Carr’s words.
“You heard, gentlemen, of that mutiny on board the ship Morning Star, some three years ago? Made a noise at the time.”
“Well?”
“Ringleader was this same man, George Gordon.”
“No!” exclaimed Mr. Carr.
“No reasonable doubt about it. Friend of his feels none: can’t understand how G.G. could have turned suddenly cruel; never was that. Pooh! when men have been leading lawless lives in the bush, perhaps taken regularly to drinking — which G.G. was inclined to before — they’re ready for any crime under the sun.”
“But how do you connect Gordon with the ringleader of that diabolical mutiny?”
“Easy enough. Same name, George Gordon: wrote to a friend the ship he was coming home in — Morning Star. It was the same; price on G.G.’s head to this day: shouldn’t mind getting it. Needn’t pother over it, sir; ’twas Gordon: but he’d never put his foot in London.”
“If true, it would account for his not showing himself to his friend — assuming that he did come back,” observed Mr. Carr.
“Friend says not. Sure that G.G., whatever he might have been guilty of, would go to him direct; knew he might depend on him in any trouble. A proof, he argues, that G.G. never came back.”
“But I tell you he did come back,” repeated the barrister. “Strange the similarity of name never struck me,” he added, turning to Lord Hartledon. “I took some interest in that mutiny at the time; but it never occurred to me to connect this man or his name with it. A noted name, at any rate, if not a very common one.”
Lord Hartledon nodded. He had sat silent throughout, a little apart, his face somewhat turned from them, as though the business did not concern him.
“And now I will relate to you what more I know of Gordon,” resumed Mr. Carr, moving his chair nearer the detective, and so partially screening Lord Hartledon. “He was in London last year, employed by Kedge and Reck, of Gray’s Inn, to serve writs. What he had done with himself from the time of the mutiny — allowing that he was identical with the Gordon of that business — I dare say no one living could tell, himself excepted. He was calling himself Gorton last autumn. Not much of a change from his own name.”
“George Gorton,” assented the detective.
“Yes, George Gorton. I knew this much when I first applied to you. I did not mention it because I preferred to let you go to work without it. Understand me; that it is the same man, I know; but there are nevertheless discrepancies in the case that I cannot reconcile; and I thought you might possibly arrive at some knowledge of the man without this clue better than with it.”
“Sorry to differ from you, Mr. Carr; must hold to the belief that George Gorton, employed at Kedge and Reck’s, was not the same man at all,” came the cool and obstinate rejoinder. “Have sifted the apparent similarity between the two, and drawn conclusions accordingly.”
The remark implied that the detective was wiser on the subject of George Gorton than Mr. Carr had bargained for, and a shadow of apprehension stole over him. It was by no means his wish that the sharp detective and the man should come into contact with each other; all he wanted was to find out where he was at present, not that he should be meddled with. This he had fully explained in the first instance, and the other had acquiesced in his curt way.
“You are thinking me uncommon clever, getting on the track of George Gorton, when nothing on the surface connects him with the man wanted,” remarked the detective, with professional vanity. “Came upon it accidentally; as well confess it; don’t want to assume more credit than’s due. It was in this way. Evening following your instructions, had to see managing clerk of Kedge and Reck; was engaged on a little matter for them. Business over, he asked me if I knew anything of a man named George Gorton, or Gordon — as I seemed to know something of pretty well everybody. Having just been asked here about George Gordon, I naturally connected the two questions together. Inquired of Kimberly why he suspected his clerk Gorton should be Gordon; Kimberly replied he did not suspect him, but a gentleman did, who had been there that day. This put me on Gorton’s track.”
“And you followed it up?”
“Of course; keeping my own counsel. Took it up in haste, though; no deliberation; went off to Calne, without first comparing notes with Gordon’s friend the surgeon.”
“To Calne!” explained Mr. Carr, while Lord Hartledon turned his head and took a sharp look at the speaker.
A nod was the only answer. “Got down; thought at first as you do, Mr. Carr, that man was the same, and was on right track. Went to work in my own way; was a countryman just come into a snug bit of inheritance, looking out for a corner of land. Wormed out a bit here and a bit there; heard this from one, that from another; nearly got an interview with my Lord Hartledon himself, as candidate for one of his farms.”
“Lord Hartledon was not at Calne, I think,” interrupted Mr. Carr, speaking impulsively.
“Know it now; didn’t then; and wanted, for own purposes, to get a sight of him and a word with him. Went to his place: sa
w a queer old creature in yellow gauze; saw my lord’s wife, too, at a distance; fine woman; got intimate with butler, named Hedges; got intimate with two or three more; altogether turned the recent doings of Mr. Gorton inside out.”
“Well?” said Mr. Carr, in his surprise.
“Care to hear ‘em?” continued the detective, after a moment’s pause; and a feeling crossed Mr. Carr, that if ever he had a deep man to deal with it was this one, in spite of his apparent simplicity. “Gorton went down on his errand for Kedge and Reck, writ in pocket for Mr. Elster; had boasted he knew him. Can’t quite make out whether he did or not; any rate, served writ on Lord Hartledon by mistake. Lordship made a joke of it; took up the matter as a brother ought; wrote himself to Kedge and Reck to get it settled. Brothers quarrelled; day or two, and elder was drowned, nobody seems to know how. Gorton stopped on, against orders from Kimberly; said afterwards, by way of excuse, had been served with summons to attend inquest. Couldn’t say much at inquest, or didn’t; was asked if he witnessed accident; said ‘No,’ but some still think he did. Showed himself at Hartledon afterwards trying to get interview with new lord; new lord wouldn’t see him, and butler turned him out. Gorton in a rage, went back to inn, got some drink, said he might be able to make his lordship see him yet; hinted at some secret, but too far gone to know what he said; began boasting of adventures in Australia. Loose man there, one Pike, took him in charge, and saw him off by rail for London.”
“Yes?” said Mr. Carr, for the speaker had stopped.
“That’s pretty near all as far as Gorton goes. Got a clue to an address in London, where he might be heard of: got it oddly, too; but that’s no matter. Came up again and went to address; could learn nothing; tracked here, tracked there, both for Gordon and Gorton; found Gorton disappeared close upon time he was cast adrift by Kimberly. Not in London as far as can be traced; where gone, can’t tell yet. So much done, summed up my experiences and came here to-day to state them.”
“Proceed,” said Mr. Carr.
The detective put his note-book in his pocket, and with his elbows still on the table, pressed his fingers together alternately as he stated his points, speaking less abruptly than before.