by Ellen Wood
“Will it!” was the sarcastically emphatic retort “Not if Cattacomb and the girls can help it. It’s neither cold nor heat that will stop them!”
“Well, I am not sure about the law, Miss Diana. I don’t know that St. Henry is, either.”
“Look here, Sir Karl. If the law is not strong enough to put down these places, there’s another remedy. Let all the clergy who officiate at them be upwards of fifty years old and married. — It would soon be proved whether, or not, the girls go for the benefit of their souls.”
Sir Karl burst into a laugh.
“It is these off-shoots of semi-religious places, started up here and there by men of vanity, some of whom, I venture to say it, are not licensed clergymen, that bring the shame and the scandal upon the true church,” concluded Miss Diana. “There: don’t let us talk of it further. Have you come from the train?”
“Yes. I had to run up to London for an hour or two to-day.”
“Then I daresay you are tired. Give my love to your wife,” added Miss Diana, as she wished Sir Karl good evening and turned into St. Jerome’s again to watch over her niece Jemima.
Sir Karl strode onwards He had just come home from his interview with Mr. Burtenshaw. Miss Diana Moore and her sentiments had served to divert his mind for a moment from his own troubles, but they were soon all too present again. The hum of the voices and sound of the footsteps came back to him from the crowd, pursuing its busy way to the village: he was glad to keep on his own solitary course and lose its echo.
Some one else, who had come out of St. Jerome’s but who could not be said properly to pertain to the crowd, had kept on the solitary road — and that was Mr. Strange. He knew the others would take the direct way to the village and Mrs. Jinks’s, and perhaps that was the reason why he did not. But there was no accounting for what Mr. Strange did: and one thing was certain — he had been in the habit lately of loitering in that solitary road a good deal after dusk had fallen, smoking his cigar there between whiles.
Sir Karl went on. He had nearly reached the Maze, though he was on the opposite side, when at a bend of the road there suddenly turned upon him a man with a cigar in his mouth, the end of it glowing like an ember. The smoker would have turned his head away again, and passed on, but Sir Karl stopped. He had recognized him: and his mind had been made up on the way from London, to speak to this man.
“I beg your pardon. Mr. Tatton, I think.”
Mr. Tatton might possibly have been slightly taken to at hearing himself addressed by his own name: but there was no symptom of it in his voice or manner.
“The same, sir,” he readily answered, taking the cigar from his mouth.
“I wish to say a few words to you,” pursued Sir Karl. “As well perhaps say them now as later.”
“Better, sir. No time like the present: it’s all we can make sure of.”
“Perhaps you know me, Mr. Tatton?”
“Sir Karl Andinnian — unless I am mistaken,” replied the detective, throwing away his cigar.
Sir Karl nodded, but made no assent in words. He would have given a portion of his remaining life to discern whether this man of law, whom he so dreaded, knew, or suspected, that he had not a right to the title.
“I have just come from London,” pursued Sir Karl. “I saw Mr. Burtenshaw there to-day. Finding that you were down here, I wished to ascertain whether or not you had come here in search of one Philip Salter. And I hear that it is so.”
The officer made no remark to this. It might be, that he was uncertain how far he might trust Sir Karl. The latter observed the reticence: guessed at the doubt “We may speak together in perfect confidence, Mr. Tatton. But for me, you would not have been sent here at all. It was in consequence of a communication I made myself, that the suspicion as to Salter reached Scotland Yard.”
“I know all about that, Sir Karl,” was the reply. “To tell you the truth, I should have made my presence here at Foxwood known to you at once, and asked you to aid me in my search; but I was warned at Scotland Yard that you might possibly obstruct my work instead of aiding it, for that you wished to screen Salter.”
“Scotland Yard warned you of that!” exclaimed Sir Karl.
“Yes. They had it from Grimley.”
“The case is this,” said Sir Karl, wishing with his whole heart he could undo what he had done. “Some short while back, I had a reason for making some enquiries respecting Philip Salter, and I went to my solicitors, Plunkett and Plunkett They could not give me any information, and referred me to Mr. Burtenshaw. Burtenshaw introduced Grimley to me, and I saw them both twice. But I most certainly never intended to imply that Salter was in this neighbourhood, or to afford just grounds for sending down to institute a search after him.”
“But I presume that you do know Salter is here, Sir Karl.”
“Indeed I do not.”
The officer was silent He thought Sir Karl was intending to deceive him.
“I can tell you that he is here, Sir Karl — to the best of my belief. I could put out my hand at this minute and almost touch the dwelling that contains him.”
They were nearly opposite the Maze gates, close upon the gate of Clematis Cottage. Karl wondered, with an anxiety, amounting to agony, which of the two dwellings was meant. It would be almost as bad for this man to take Salter as to take Adam Andinnian, since the capture of the former might lead to that of the latter.
“You say to the best of your belief, Mr. Tatton. You are not sure, then?”
“I am as sure as I can be, Sir Karl, short of actual sight.”
“Good night, Sir Karl.”
The interruption came from Mr. Smith, who was leaning over his gate, smoking a pipe. Karl returned the salutation and passed on.
“He seems to have a jolly kind of easy life of it, that agent of yours, Sir Karl?” remarked the officer.
“Do you know him?” questioned Karl.
“Only by sight. I have seen Mr. Smith about on the land; and I took the liberty this afternoon, meeting him by chance near the Brook field, of asking him what the time was. The spring of my watch broke last night as I was winding it.”
Karl’s heart was beating. Had he been mistaken in supposing Philip Smith to be Philip Salter? Had he been nursing a foolish chimera, and running his head — or, rather, his poor brother’s head — into a noose for nothing? God help him, then!
“You seem to know my agent well by sight,” he breathed, in a tone kept low, lest its agitation should be heard.
“Quite well,” assented the officer.
“Is he — does he bear any resemblance to Salter?”
“Not the slightest.”
Karl paused. “You are sure of that?”
Tatton took a look at Sir Karl in the evening dusk, as if not able to understand him. “He is about the height of Salter, and in complexion is somewhat similar, if you can call that a resemblance,” said he. “There is no other.”
Karl spoke not for a few moments: the way before him was darkening. “You knew Salter’s person well, I conclude?” he said presently.
“As well as I know my own brother’s.”
Another pause; and then Karl laid his hand upon the officer’s arm, bespeaking his best attention.
“I am sorry for all this,” he said; “I am vexed to have been the cause of so much trouble. Your mission here may terminate as soon as you will, Mr. Tatton, for it is Smith that I was suspecting of being Salter!”
“No!” cried Tatton in surprised disbelief.
“On my solemn word, I assert it. I suspected my agent, Smith, to be Salter.”
“Why, Sir Karl, I can hardly understand that. You surely could not suppose it to be within the bounds of probability that Philip Salter, the fugitive criminal, would go about in the light of day in England as your agent goes — no matter how secluded the spot might be! And five hundred pounds on his head!”
How a word of ridicule, of reason even, will serve to change our cherished notions! Put as the cool and experienced po
lice officer put it, Karl seemed to see how poor and foundationless his judgment had been.
“The whole cause of the affair was this,” he said, hoping by a candid explanation to disarm the suspicions he had raised. “A circumstance — I own it was but a slight one — put it into my head that Philip Smith, of whom I had known nothing until he came here a few months ago as my agent, might be the escaped prisoner Philip Salter. The idea grew with me, and I became anxious — naturally you will say — to ascertain whether there were any real grounds for the suspicion. With this view I went up to see if Plunkett’s people could give me any information about Salter or describe his person; and they referred me to Mr. Burtenshaw.”
“Well, sir?” interposed Tatton, who was listening attentively.
“I am bound to say that I obtained no corroboration of my suspicions, except in regard to the resemblance,” continued Sir Karl. “Burtenshaw did not know him; but he summoned the man who had let him escape, Grimley. As Grimley described Salter, it seemed to me that it was the precise description of Smith.”
“There is a kind of general resemblance, I admit, Sir Karl, and the description of one might perhaps sound like that of the other. But if you knew the two, you would see how unlike they are.”
“Grimley’s description seemed to me to be that of Smith” went on Karl. “I came back here, strengthened in my opinion: but not fully confirmed. It was not a satisfactory state of things, and the matter continued to worry me. I longed to set it at rest, one way or the other; and I went up again to town and saw Grimley and Mr. Burtenshaw. When I came back once more, I felt nearly as sure as a man can feel that it was Salter.”
“And yet you did not denounce him, Sir Karl. You would never have done it, I suppose?”
“I should not,” admitted Karl. “My intention was to tax Smith with it privately, and — and send him about his business. Very wrong and illegal of me, no doubt: but I have suffered too severely in my own family by the criminal law of the land, to give up another man gratuitously to it.”
At this reference to Sir Adam Andinnian, Mr. Tatton remained silent from motives of delicacy. He could understand the objection; especially as coming from a refined, sensitive, and merciful natured man, as Sir Karl appeared to be.
“Well, sir, I can only say for myself that I wish your agent had been Salter,” he resumed: “my hands would have been upon him before to-night. But is it true that you have no other suspicion, Sir Karl?”
“What suspicion?”
“That the real Salter is in hiding at Foxwood.” Karl’s heart beat a shade faster. “So far from having any suspicion of that kind, I am perfectly certain, now that you have proved to me Smith is not Salter, that he is not at Foxwood. I know every soul in the place and around it.”
“Were you acquainted with the real Salter, Sir Karl?”
“No.”
“You take no interest in him, I presume?”
“None whatever.”
During the conversation they had been slowly pacing onwards, had passed the Court gates, and were now fairly on the road to Foxwood. It seemed as if Sir Karl had a mind to escort Mr. Tatton to his home.
“By the way,” he said, “why did you call yourself Strange down here?”
“I never did,” answered Tatton, laughing slightly. “The widow Jinks gave me that name: I never gave it myself. I said to her I was a stranger, and she must have misunderstood me; for I found afterwards that she was calling me Mr. Strange. It was rather convenient than otherwise, and I did not set it right.”
Karl strolled on in silence, wondering how all this would end and whether this dangerous man — dangerous to him and his interests — was satisfied, and would betake himself to town again. A question interrupted him.
“Do you know much of a place here called the Maze, Sir Karl?”
“The Maze is my property. Why?”
“Yes, I am aware of that. What I meant to ask was, whether you knew much of its inmates.”
“It is let to a lady named Grey. Her husband is abroad.”
“That’s what she tells you, is it? Her husband is there, Sir Karl, if he be her husband. That is where we must look for Philip Salter.”
Something born of emotion, of sudden fear, seemed to flash across Karl’s eyes and momentarily blind him. A wild prayer went up for guidance, for help to confront this evil.
“Why do you say this?” he asked, his voice controlled to a calm indifference.
“I have information that some gentleman is living at the Maze in concealment, and I make no doubt it is Salter. The description of his person, so far as I have it, answers to him. Until to-night, Sir Karl, I have believed that it was to the Maze your own suspicions of Salter were directed.”
“Certainly not — on my word of honour as a gentleman,” was the reply. “I feel sure you are mistaken; I know you are. Mrs. Grey lives alone at the Maze, save for her servants: two old people who are man and wife.”
“I am aware the general belief is that she lives alone. It’s not true, though, for all that, Sir Karl.”
“Indeed it is true,” returned Karl, calmly as before, for he did not dare to show too much zeal in Mrs. Grey’s cause. “I have been over there pretty often on one matter or another — the house is an old one, and no end of repairs seem to be wanted to it — and I am absolutely sure that no inmate whatever is there, save the three I have mentioned: the lady, and the man and woman. I do not count the infant.”
“Ay; there; the infant. What does that prove?”
“Nothing — as to your argument. Mrs. Grey only came to the place some five or six months ago. Not yet six, I think.”
“Rely upon it, Sir Karl, the lady has contrived to blind you, in spite of your visits, just as she has blinded the outside world. Some one is there, concealed; and I shall be very much surprised if it does not turn out to be Salter. As to the two old servants, they are bound to her interests; are of course as much in the plot as she is.”
“I know you are mistaken. I could stake my life that no one else is there. Surely you are not going to act in any way on this idea!”
“I don’t know,” replied Mr. Tatton, with inward craft. “Time enough. Perhaps I may get some other information before long. Should I require a search-warrant to examine the house, I shall apply to you, Sir Karl. You are in the commission of peace, I believe.”
Sir Karl nodded. “If you must have one, I shall be happy to afford it,” he said, remembering that if it came to this pass, his being able to avert the Maze privately beforehand, would be a boon. And with that they separated: the detective continuing to pace onwards towards Paradise Row, Sir Karl turning back to his own house.
But the events of the evening, as concerning the Maze interests, were not altogether at an end. Miss Blake was the last to come out of the confessional, for the rest had taken their turn before her. It was tolerably late then; quite dark; and both Aunt Diana and Tom Pepp were rampant at being kept so long. They all turned, out of St. Jerome’s together, including Mr. Cattacomb; and all, save Miss Blake and the boy, went in the direction of the village. Tom Pepp, having locked up and doffed his bell-ringing garments, proceeded the other way, accompanied by Miss Blake.
She was going to visit a sick woman who lived next door to Tom’s mother. Miss Blake had her good points, though she was harsh of judgment. This poor woman, Dame Bell, was dying of consumption; the end was drawing near, and Miss Blake often went to sit by and read to her. The boy had told her at vespers that night that it was thought she could hardly live till morning: hence the late visit. She found her very ill, and stayed to do what she could.
It was striking ten when Miss Blake quitted the cottage: she heard the quarters and the strokes told out from the distant church at Foxwood. The night was a still one. Tom Pepp, waiting outside, gallantly offered to attend her home. She accepted the escort readily, not caring to go alone, as it was so late.
“But I fear it will be keeping your mother up, Tom,” she said, in hesitation. “I kno
w you go to bed early.”
“That’s nothing, um,” said Tom. “Mother have got her clothes from the wash to fold to-night. She telled me I was not to let you go back alone. It have been a rare good day for drying.”
So they set off together, talking all the way, for Tom was an intelligent companion, and often had items of news to regale the public with. When they came within view of the Maze gates and Clematis Cottage, the loneliness of the way was over, and Miss Blake sent the lad back again, giving him a threepenny-bit She was on the Maze side of the way, not having crossed since leaving Mrs. Bell’s cottage. And she had all but reached the gates, when the sound of advancing footsteps grew upon her ear. Drawing back amidst the trees — not to watch for Sir Karl Andinnian as she had watched at other times, for she believed him to be in London, but simply to shield herself from observation, as the hour was so late — Miss Blake waited until the footsteps should have gone by.
The footsteps did not go by. They halted at the gate: and she, peeping through the leaves, saw it was Sir Karl. He took the key from his pocket as usual, opened the gate, locked it after him, and plunged into the maze. Miss Blake heaved a sigh at man’s inventions, and kept still until there was no fear that her rustling away would be heard. Then she moved.
She had never been in all her life so near screaming. Taking one step forward to depart, she found herself right in the arms of somebody who had coat sleeves on; another watcher like herself.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am.”
“Good gracious, Mr. Strange, how you frightened me!” she whispered. “Whatever are you doing here!”
“Nay, I may ask what you were doing,” was the smiling retort. “On your way home, I take it. As for me, I was smoking my cigar, and it has gone out. That was our friend, Sir Karl Andinnian, I fancy, who let himself in there.”
“Oh yes, it was Sir Karl,” was the contemptuous answer, given as they walked on together. “It is not the first night by a good many he has been seen stealing in at those gates.”