The cart drew up opposite to the stretcher, which the policemen, one of whom was a sergeant, dragged close alongside. Then the three fishermen and the labourer proceeded to draw from the cart an elongated object wrapped in a boat sail which they carried to the stretcher and deposited thereon with elaborate care; notwithstanding which, the canvas became slightly displaced and a bare foot projected at the end. The sergeant, observing the foot, stooped and tenderly replaced the canvas covering. Then he turned back the canvas at the other end, glanced inside, ejaculated “Good God!” and hurriedly replaced it.
Meanwhile one of the fishermen had climbed into the cart and now descended with a bundle of clothing in his arms. “Here’s his clothes,” said he, addressing the sergeant. “You’ll want them to find out who he is.”
“Yes, by the Lord!” the sergeant agreed. “There won’t be much chance of identification otherwise. Bring them along.”
Andrew watched with profound interest as the fisherman handed the clothes, garment by garment, to the sergeant, who, as he received them, laid them over the shrouded figure on the stretcher, excepting the shoes and the crushed hat, which he tucked under his arm. “That seems to be the lot,” he remarked, as he took these last articles. “There was nothing else? No walking stick?”
“No; that’s the lot,” was the reply. “I suppose you don’t know what is in the pockets?”
“No,” the fisherman replied rather gruffly. “’Twasn’t no business of ourn. We just grabbed ’em up and stowed ’em in the boat. Another five minutes and they’d have been awash.”
“Well,” said the sergeant, “we will go through them when we get them inside. Do you mind lending a hand with the stretcher as I’ve got these things to carry?”
The fisherman took his place at the foot end between the handles as the constable took his at the head. The latter gave the word, when they both stooped, grasped the handles and lifted, and then the whole procession moved off under the arch and disappeared down the alley, excepting the carter, who remained in charge of the horse and was now engaged in adjusting the nosebag.
When he had seen the last of the procession, Andrew turned away and began to walk slowly up the street, his retreat being somewhat accelerated by signs of impending conversation on the part of the carter. It had been a strange experience and he was conscious of a certain surprise at his own state of mind. As the clothes—his own clothes—had been transferred, he had watched with a curiously detached interest, checking each garment and making a mental note of the contents of its pockets, not without a passing thought as to the information that they would convey to the observer who should presently turn them out. Yet he had felt no sense of proprietorship in them. Once they had been his; but now they belonged to the corpse on which they lay. They appertained to a past which had been blotted out and had no connection with the present—at least with his present. And his mental attitude towards the corpse, itself, also surprised him in a vague way. The thrill of horror which had affected him at the time of the catastrophe had now no counterpart. In the whirl of events which had followed it, the tragedy had dwindled to a mere incident, which concerned him only in respect of its consequences. And these consequences were what he would presently have to consider. But, for the moment, there was the immediately important question of the night’s lodging. When he arrived at the middle of the street, he perceived that there was now a light in the window of the ground-floor room of Number 16. This rather disconcerted him; but, since the thing had to be done sooner or later, he screwed up his courage to make the attempt forthwith. Taking the key out of his pocket, he crossed the road and walked boldly up to the door.
It was evidently the right key, for it entered and turned in the lock without difficulty. He pushed the door open softly and stepped into the hall. There was no light in it excepting what came through the open door of the room. He looked into the latter, which appeared to be a bed-sitting room, for it contained a bedstead, an easy-chair and a good-sized table. On the table was a shaded oil lamp and, what was of much more importance to him, his own attache case.
As there could be no doubt that this was Ronald’s room, he walked in confidently and was about to shut the door when a voice from somewhere upstairs called out: “Is that you, Mr. Green?”
He was on the point of replying “No,” when he fortunately remembered Ronald’s alias; whereupon he answered: “Yes.”
“Oh!” said the voice, “so you have come back. I began to think you had gone for good.”
The voice did not impress Andrew as an amicable voice; and when it took visible shape as a rather slatternly-looking middle-aged woman, the impression was confirmed. “I thought that perhaps you’d hopped off,” she explained, standing in the doorway and regarding him with a truculent eye.
“Now, why should you think that?” he asked in a conciliatory tone and wondering what the deuce her name was.
“Well,” she replied, “you are not usually so late as this. Mighty punctual for your meals you are as a rule, and nearly a fortnight’s board and lodging owing, and no luggage to speak of excepting this”-indicating the attache case-”if it belongs to you. I haven’t seen it before.”
Andrew thought it best not to discuss this point; but the arrears (which did not surprise him in the least) had better be settled at once. The difficulty was that the money was in the case, and, as his ownership had been questioned, it might be a little awkward to produce it from that source in the lady’s presence. “I am sorry to be so behind hand,” he said, meekly, “but I can settle up now if you would be so kind as to let me have an account of what is owing.”
“I gave you my bill days ago,” said she. “You know I did.”
“Yes,” said Andrew, “but that was only for last week. I think I had better settle up for the fortnight, Would you mind making out a fresh bill?”
“Up to Thursday, the day after tomorrow? That will be the fortnight.”
“Yes, I think that will be best.”
The lady thought so too, by the light of experience, and in a slightly mollified frame of mind retired, shutting the door after her.
As soon as she was gone, Andrew proceeded with some anxiety to open the case, which, fortunately in the circumstances, had no lock. But his anxiety was relieved by the first glance. Whatever the landlady’s shortcomings were, dishonesty was not one of them, for the contents of the case were exactly as he had left them. Hurriedly, he took ten of the pound-notes from the bundle and, having shut the case, bestowed the notes in his wallet. Then he began rapidly to consider his future movements.
There was no object in his remaining at Crompton and there was a very good reason why he should go up to London without delay. His main banking account was kept at the head office in Cornhill, and he was accustomed to keep a rather large balance there. The account at the Bunsford branch was only for local expenditure and he fed it with cheques on the London office. He had had to pay in a London cheque to get the fifty pound-notes.
Now, the cheque that he had drawn for Ronald was drawn on the London office, and there he would have to go to cash it. He did not know much about banking, but it occurred to him that if he was to cash that cheque, he must do so without delay. On the morrow at some time there would be a rumour of his death, and he presumed that with the death of the drawer the cheque would be unpayable at the bank; and he did not want to be referred to the executors. What he would do about the question of his death, was a matter that he would have to consider later. At that moment, it was vitally important that he should have that fifty pounds.
By which it will be seen that his power of coherent thinking was reviving and also that he was beginning, even if half-unconsciously, to realize the compelling force of events.
The landlady’s bill was not a masterpiece of calligraphy, but it supplied some indispensable information. It set forth that Mr. W. Green was indebted to Mrs. Sarah Baxter in the sum of four guineas, being two weeks’ board residence at the rate of two guineas per week. It seemed a mod
est charge, and he suspected that Mrs. Baxter had not made an extravagant profit. He handed over the sum and, when the bill had been receipted, he dropped it into the attache case. “Shall you be staying on after Thursday?” Mrs. Baxter asked.
“Well, no,” he replied. “I have finished my business in Crompton and I have to go up to London tomorrow. Probably I shall have to stay there some time, so I shall take my luggage with me. If I should have occasion to come back, I will write to you.”
“I can’t keep the rooms vacant, you know,” said she.
“Of course you can’t,” he agreed. “I must take my chance. Do you know how the morning trains for London go?”
“There’s a fast train at eight-thirty-five,” she replied. “It’s the best train in the day; gets to London at a quarter to ten. I should go by that if I was you.”
“I think I will,” said he, “if my going so early will not inconvenience you.”
She looked at him with amused surprise. “You’re mighty considerate all of a sudden,” she remarked. “But, Lord bless you, I am up before six every morning. You’ll have your breakfast by seven o’clock and, if you’ll put your shoes outside the door, I’ll give them a brush. They look as if they wanted it.”
Andrew thanked her (but not too profusely, as she seemed unaccustomed to excessive manifestations of politeness) whereupon she wished him “good night” and retired.
When he was once more alone, he sat down in the easy-chair and tried to think out his position. But the fatigues and agitations of the day, combined with the effects of his recent meal, began to make themselves felt. A comfortable drowsiness stole over him. The cigarette which he had lighted, went out and fell from his fingers. His thoughts grew muddled, and he felt a growing desire for sleep. After nodding in his chair for half an hour he got up, searched for Ronald’s pyjamas and, having found them hidden under the bedclothes, undressed and turned into bed.
CHAPTER VI
Two Inquests
It was but a quarter of an hour after the time for opening when Andrew presented himself at the bank. He entered with a studiously assumed air of unconcern, but with a curious feeling of unreality and a distinct and unpleasant consciousness of the fact that he was falsely personating the payee of the cheque which he was about to present for payment. He knew the place well—his own bank, where he had kept an account for years and where he had at this moment some four hundred pounds to his credit—and most of the clerks and cashiers knew him well enough by sight. Yet he was entering in the guise of a stranger; for though some of the cashiers had seen Ronald, it was unlikely that any of them would remember him.
Nevertheless, he maintained a calm exterior and, selecting a cashier who was a stranger to him, laid his cheque on the counter and pushed it under the brass screen. He had already endorsed it with a copy from memory of the too-familiar signature.
The cashier took up the cheque, looked at the signature, turned it over to see that it was endorsed, and then retired, presumably to compare it with the recorded signature in the book. But Andrew watched him with a shade of uneasiness lest there should be some other kind of investigation. He had not seen the morning paper and could not, therefore, judge whether his assumed death had yet become publicly known, or whether, if it had, the bank would take notice of it. Hence he waited in anxious suspense while the formalities were being disposed of; and he breathed a sigh of relief when the man, reappearing from behind a screen, approached the counter, laid the cheque on it and opened the drawer in evident preparation to pay. “How would you like it?” the cashier asked. “Five pound notes?”
“Thank you,” said Andrew, “but I think pound-notes would be more convenient.”
“Yes,” the cashier agreed, “five pound Bank of England notes are not quite what they were when you could change them into gold.”
He counted the notes out from a new bundle and passed them across the counter to Andrew; who counted them and bestowed them in his wallet. Then he wished the cashier “Good morning” and took his departure with a faint sense of having received yet another push from “circumstance” in a direction which was not that of his own choice. He had cashed Ronald’s cheque, and thereby he had tacitly assumed the identity of the payee.
The sense of compulsion became more pronounced as he turned over once again the question of his immediate future. He had already decided that it was not practicable for him to go home at once. The identity of his clothes would have been already ascertained from the letters and visiting cards in the pockets, and, by this time, it was probable that the police had communicated with Molly. He might even find them at the house and become involved in the inquiries. But the very thought of any kind of contact with the police filled him with horror. The risk was not to be entertained for a moment.
But after the initial inquiries, there would be the inquest. Of course, Molly would have to attend; and she would have to identify the body. That consideration gave him pause, for it opened up fresh possibilities. He knew of no recognizable differences between Ronald and himself, apart from their respective faces; and as the body had, apparently, no recognizable face, comparison in that respect was impossible. But might it be that he had some bodily peculiarity which Ronald had not, whereby Molly would be able to decide that the body was not that of her husband? The thing was conceivable. It was not even so very improbable. And if she did so decide, or even express a doubt as to the identity of the corpse, matters would be greatly simplified for him in regard to his explanations to her, though a doubt as to the identity of the body would be an element of danger.
The conclusion which emerged was that he had better wait and see what happened at the inquest. Meanwhile, he had to make some arrangements for food and lodging. Hotels he dismissed on the score of expense and especially of publicity-for he still had an instinctive urge to keep out of sight as far as was possible. The alternative was a bed-sitting-room or furnished apartments; and, having decided on the latter, he bought a morning paper and betook himself to a tea-shop to study the advertisements over a cup of coffee.
His choice settled on three sets of apartments, all in the neighbourhood of Hampstead, a locality with which he had been familiar before he married. Having finished his coffee, he tucked the newspaper under his arm and made his way to the Broad Street terminus, where he took a ticket for the Heath Station and, selecting an empty compartment, opened the newspaper and searched its pages vainly for some notice of the Crompton tragedy. Apparently the news had not reached London when the paper went to press.
In the matter of lodgings he was fortunate, for his first essay brought him to a pleasant, old-fashioned house in a small close off the High Street, where he was offered a ground-floor room, with a bedroom over it, which seemed in every respect so desirable that he engaged them at once. Then, having paid a deposit to establish the tenancy, he returned to town to lunch and to collect his scanty luggage from the cloakroom at Cannon Street Station.
The latter part of the programme, however, he deferred until later in the day, for he had no object in returning to his lodgings before the evening, and he found some relief in walking about the crowded city streets while he turned over again and again the various possibilities of escape from the perplexities in which he was involved. He looked in, for a while, at the Guildhall Art Gallery and found some comfort in the companionship of the pictures. Then he had a late and leisurely tea, after which he repaired to Cannon Street Station, and, having redeemed his luggage—Ronald’s suitcase and his own attache case—made his way to Broad Street Station. And here he had a most surprising and disturbing experience.
As he reached the top of the broad staircase, he observed that a train was waiting at the platform and he judged by the hiss of escaping steam that it was ready to start; an opinion that was confirmed by the ticket collector who urged him to “look sharp” as “she was just off.” On this, he started forward at a run, threading his way as well as he could through a dense crowd of people who were waiting for the next train. But
he nearly missed his passage, for, as he struggled towards the open door of an empty compartment, the engine-driver sounded his whistle and the train began to move. He barely managed to fling his luggage in at the open door and scramble up to the foot-board as the protesting guard rushed at him, pushed him in and slammed the door.
As soon as he was shut in, he turned and thrust his head out of the window to compare his wrist-watch with the station clock. But the comparison was never made; for at that moment he met the eyes of a woman at the edge of the crowd and then only a few feet away, who was gazing at him with a most singular expression. As their eyes met, she uttered an exclamation and started forward, making as if she were about to try to board the train. She did, in fact, run alongside for a short distance until a porter, suspecting her intentions, firmly headed her off; and then Andrew, gazing at her in the utmost astonishment, saw her standing, still staring at him with that strange expression, until distance and a curve of the line hid her from his view.
It was an amazing affair. Who could she be? She was a total stranger to him-that is, to Andrew Barton. But he was Andrew Barton no longer. The reflection was a distinctly uncomfortable one. He had taken over the reversion of Ronald’s nose. Might there be some other reversions of which he knew nothing? It seemed far from improbable, judging by the little that he knew of his late cousin’s moral character and manner of life.
He tried to recall the woman’s appearance. It was not difficult, for she was a somewhat unusual-looking woman; rather big, with a marked suggestion of energy and muscular strength and by no means uncomely. She had a good deal of hair of a coppery tint and eyes of a pale, bluish grey. Certainly not a woman whose appearance would be easily forgotten.
But what was the meaning of that singular expression? Astonishment undoubtedly. But the flushed face and the truculent grey eyes suggested emotions other than surprise. There was no denying that the woman’s expression and manner had been definitely hostile. She was an unmistakably angry woman.
The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 170