"Wosk & Co.Chemists, Ironfields."
Roger Axton stood looking at the pill-box on the table, and Octavius Fanks stood looking at Roger Axton, the former lost in a fit of painful musing (evident from his pale face, his twitching lips, his startled expression), the latter keenly observant, according to his usual habits. At last Roger with a deep sigh drew his hand across his brow and resumed his seat, while Mr. Fanks, picking up the pill-box, gave it a cheerful rattle as he followed his example.
"What a strange coincidence," he said, thoughtfully; "but I'm not astonished. This sort of thing occurs in real life as well as in novels. 'Truth is stranger than fiction.' I don't know who first made that remark, but he was a wise man, you may depend, and wonderfully observant of events before he crystallised his experience in those five words."
"It certainly is curious," replied Roger, absently, as though he were thinking of something else. "Fancy finding the name of the town where She—"
"With a large S, of course."
"Where she lives, printed on a pill-box," finished Roger, and then, after a pause: "What do you think of it, Fanks?"
"Think!" repeated Octavius, thoughtfully. "Oh, I think it is the clue to the whole mystery."
"Why, what do you mean?" asked Roger, in a startled tone.
"What I say," retorted Fanks, twirling the pill-box round and round. "It's not difficult of comprehension. Man, name unknown, comes down here, and dies shortly after his arrival. Inquest; verdict, suicide! Fiddle-de-dee! Murder! And this pill-box is the first link in the chain that will bind the criminal. By the way," said Octavius, suddenly struck with a new idea, "how long have you been at Jarlchester?"
"A week."
"Oh! Then you were here when the man died?"
"I was."
"Humph! Excuse my witness-box manner!"
"Don't apologise," said Roger, quietly. "Cross-examine me as much as you like. It seems second nature with detectives to suspect every one."
"Suspect!" repeated Octavius, in an injured tone. "Good heavens, Axton, what are you talking about? I'd as soon think of suspecting myself, you peppery young ass. But I'm anxious to find out all about this affair, and naturally ask the people who lived under the same roof as the dead man. You are one of the people, so I ask you."
"Ask me what?"
"Oh, several things."
"Well, go on; but I warn you I know nothing," said Roger, gloomily.
"I tell you what, young man," observed Mr. Fanks, sententiously, "you need shaking up a bit. This love affair has made you view all things in a most bilious fashion. An overdose of love, and poetry, and solitude incapacitates a human being for enjoying life, so if you are wise—which I beg leave to doubt—you will brace up your nerves by helping me to find out this mystery."
"I'm afraid I'd make a sorry detective, Octavius."
"That remains to be proved. See here, old boy. I was called down here about this case, and as the wiseacres of Jarlchester have settled it to their own satisfaction that there is—to their minds—no more need for my services, I am discharged—dismissed—turned out by Jarlchester & Co.; but as I don't often get such a clever case to look after, I'm going to find out the whole affair for my own pleasure."
"It seems a disease with you, this insatiable curiosity to find out things."
"Ay, that it is. We call it detective fever. Join me in this case, and you'll find yourself suffering from the disease in a wonderfully short space of time."
"No, thank you; I prefer my freedom."
"And your idleness! Well, go your own way, Roger. If you won't take the medicine I prescribe, you certainly won't be cured. Unrequited love will lie heavy on your heart, and your health and work will suffer in consequence. Both will be dull, and between doctors and critics you will have a high old time of it, dear boy."
"What nonsense you do talk!" said Roger, fretfully.
"Eh! do you think so? Perhaps I'm like Touchstone, and use my folly as a stalking-horse behind which to shoot my wit. I'm not sure if I'm quoting rightly, but the moral is apparent. However, all this is not to the point—to my point, I mean—and if you have not got detective fever I have, so I will use you as a medicine to allay the disease."
"Fire away, old fellow," said Axton, turning his chair half round so as to place his tell-tale face in the shadow, thereby rendering it undecipherable to Fanks; "I'm all attention."
Octavius at once produced his secretive little note-book and vicious little pencil, which latter assumed dramatic significance in the nervous fingers that held it.
"I'm ready," said Fanks, letting his pencil-point jest on a clean white page. "Question first: Did you know this dead man?"
"Good heavens, no. I don't even know his name nor his appearance."
"You have never seen him?"
"How could I have seen him? I am exploring the neighbourhood, and generally start on my travels in the morning early and return late. This man arrived at five, went to bed at nine, and as I didn't come back till ten o'clock I didn't see him on that night; next morning he was dead."
"Did you not see the corpse?"
"No," said Roger, with a shudder, "I don't care for such 'wormy circumstance.'"
"Wormy circumstance is good," remarked Fanks, approvingly. "Keats, I think. Yes, I thought so. I see you don't care for horrors. You are not of the Poe-Baudelaire school of grave-digging, corpse-craving poesy."
"Hardly! I don't believe in going to the gutter for inspiration."
"Ah! now you are thinking of MM. Zola and Gondrecourt, my friend; but, dear me, how one thing does lead to another. We are discussing literature instead of murder. Let us return to our first loves. Why didn't you attend the inquest?"
"Because I didn't want to."
"An all-sufficient reason, indeed," remarked Mr. Fanks, drily, making digs at his book with the pencil. "I wonder you weren't called as a witness."
"No necessity. I know nothing of the affair."
"Absolutely nothing?" (interrogative).
"Absolutely nothing." (decisive).
Mr. Fanks twirled his vicious little pencil in his fingers, closed his secretive little book with a snap, and replaced them both in his pocket with a sigh.
"You are a most unsatisfactory medicine, my dear Roger. You have done nothing to cure my detective fever."
"Am I so bad as that? Come now, I'll tell you one thing: I slept in the room next to that of the dead man."
"You did?"
"Yes."
"And you heard nothing on that night!"
"If you walked twenty miles during the day, Fanks, you would have been too tired to listen for the sounds of a possible murder."
"Yes, yes, of course. What a pity we can't look twenty-four hours ahead of things; it would save such a lot of trouble."
"And prevent such a lot of murders. If such prophetic power were given to humanity, I'm afraid your occupation would be gone."
"Othello's remark! yes, of course; but I'm sorry you slept so soundly on that night, as some one might have been in the dead man's room."
"Why do you think so?" asked Roger, quickly.
"Because the door was slightly ajar," replied Fanks, sagaciously; "a nervous man would not have slept with his door like that. You're sure you heard nothing?"
"Quite sure."
"It's a pity—a great pity. By the way, have you ever been to Ironfields?"
Roger hesitated, turned uneasily in his chair, and at last blurted out:
"No; I have never been to Ironfields."
"Humph!" said Fanks, looking doubtfully at him. "I thought you might have met Miss Varlins there for the first time."
"So I might," replied Roger, equably; "at the same time I might have met her in London."
"So you don't know anything about Ironfields."
"Only that it is a manufacturing town given over to the domination of foundries and millionaires in the iron interest; to me it is simply a geographical expression."
"I plead guilty to the same state of ignorance, but I will shortly be wiser, because I am going down to Ironfields."
"What for?" demanded Roger, with a start.
"I shouldn't let you into the secrets of the prison house," said Mr. Fanks, severely; "but as you are 'mine own familiar friend'—Shakespeare again, ubiquitous poet well, as you are mine own familiar friend, I don't mind telling you in confidence, I'm going down to see Wosk & Co., of Ironfields, Chemists."
"And your object?"
"Is to find out the name of the gentleman who bought those pills."
"I don't see what good that will do."
"Blind, quite blind," said Octavius, nodding his head mournfully. "I will unfold myself—the immortal bard for the third time. When I find out the name of the deceased, which I can do through that pill-box, I will be able to find out all about his antecedents. Satisfied on that point, it is possible, nay probable, that I may find some one who has ill-feelings towards him."
"And therefore poisons him in Jarlchester while they remain at Ironfields," said Roger, ironically. "I congratulate you on your clear-sightedness."
"It's puzzling, certainly, very puzzling," replied Fanks, rubbing his head with an air of vexation. "I've got absolutely nothing to work on."
"And are going to work on it. Pish! sandy foundations."
"Now look here, Roger," cried the detective, with great energy, "let us survey this case from a common-sense point of view. This man couldn't have come down to Jarlchester to commit suicide; he could have done that at Ironfields."
"Perhaps he wanted to spare his friends—if he had any—the pain of knowing that he died by his own hand."
"Rubbish! Suicides are not so considerate, as a rule. They generally make away with themselves in a most public manner, so as to draw attention to their wrongs. No, I can't and won't believe that this man, who gave no hint of wishing to die, came down here to do so."
"Then if he did not kill himself, who did?"
"Ah, that's what I've got to find out."
"Yes, and what if you don't find out."
"Perhaps yes, perhaps no. Murder will out. Clever remark that. But to continue: I always look on both sides of the question. It may be a case of suicide."
"It is a case of suicide. I believe the jury are right," said Roger, firmly.
"You seem very certain about it," remarked Fanks, a trifle annoyed.
"I only judge from what I have heard."
"Rumour, mere rumour."
"Not at all. Facts, my friend, facts. I allude to the evidence at the inquest."
Octavius made no reply at first, but jumping up from his chair, began to walk to and fro with a frown on his face.
"I dare say you're right," he said, at length; "taking the evidence as a whole, I suppose the jury could only bring in a verdict of suicide. No one could have poisoned him. No one here knew him, therefore had no reason to get rid of him. He took that morphia, opium, or whatever it was, sure enough, and I firmly believe of his own free will. Judging from that theory, it looks decidedly like suicide; but then, again, he may have taken the morphia, not knowing it was poison. It could not have been the pills, for they only contain arsenic. He might certainly have taken morphia in order to get to sleep, as from all accounts he suffered from insomnia—nerves, I suppose. But then some portion of what he took would have been found, and if not that, then the bottle that held the drug or sleeping draught; but nothing was found, absolutely nothing. He is discovered dead from an overdose of morphia, and no traces of morphia—bottle or otherwise—are found in his room. If it was suicide, he would not have taken such precautions, seeing he had nothing to gain by concealing the mode of his death. If it was murder, some one must have administered it to him under the guise of a harmless drug; but then no one here knew him, so no one could have done so. You see, therefore, my dear Roger, from this statement of the case, that I am absolutely at a stand still."
"Yes, I think you can do nothing, so your best plan is to accept the verdict of suicide, and forget all about it."
"And this pill-box?"
"Well, you gain nothing from that except the name of the place where the dead man bought it. If you go to the chemist you will find out his name, certainly."
"And the circumstances of his life also. You forget that."
"No, I don't. But such discovery will hardly account for his murder here. If you find out from your inquiries at Ironfields that the dead man had an enemy, you will have to prove how that enemy came down here and secretly poisoned him. Judging from all the evidence, there is no trace of poison left behind, no one has been staying in this inn except myself, so I really don't see how you are going to bring the crime home to any particular person."
Having finished this speech, Roger arose to his feet with a yawn, and knocked the ashes out of his pipe against the mantelpiece.
"Where are you going?" asked Fanks, stopping in his walk.
"To bed, of course. I've had a long day."
"You continue your walking tour to-morrow?"
"Yes. I start at ten o'clock. And you?"
"I am going down to Ironfields."
"On a wild-goose chase."
"That remains to be proved," retorted Fanks, grimly.
"I'm certain of it, so your wisest plan is to accept the inevitable and give this case up," replied Axton, holding out his hand. "Good night."
"Good night, old boy," said Octavius, cordially. "I'm very pleased to meet you again. By the way, don't let us lose sight of one another. My address is Scotland Yard—my Fanks address, of course. And yours?"
"Temple Chambers, Fleet Street."
Out came Mr. Fanks' secretive little note-book, in which, he wrote down the address with a gay laugh.
"Ha! ha! Like all literary men, you start with the law and leave it for the profits."
"Of poetry. Pshaw!"
"Eh, who knows? Every scribbler carries the Laureate-ship in his brain. By the way, if I see Miss Varlins at Ironfields, shall I give her any message?"
"No; she won't have anything to do with me," replied Roger, dismally. "I've no doubt I'll get married some day, but it won't be to Judith Varlins."
"Ardent lover!" said Fanks, laughing. "Well, good night, and pleasant dreams."
"With that body upstairs. Ugh!" cried Roger Axton, and vanished with a shudder.
Mr. Fanks stood beside the dying fire, leaning his two elbows on the mantelpiece, and thinking deeply.
"He's very much altered," he thought, drearily. "Not the bright boy of ten years ago. How trouble does change a man, and love also! I'll make a point of seeing Miss Varlins when I go down to Ironfields. Rather a dismal love story, but what the devil did he tell me two lies for?"
He left the room, took his candle from Miss Chickles, and returned to bed. As he closed the door of his room, his thoughts reverted to Roger Axton once more.
"He told me two deliberate lies," he thought, with a puzzled expression on his face. "I could see that by his face, or, rather, his manner. Humph! I don't like this."
Having placed the candle on the dressing-table, Mr. Fanks sat down, and having produced his secretive note-book, proceeded to make therein a memorandum (in shorthand) of his conversation with Axton.
No reason for doing so; certainly not. Still, name on pill-box, Ironfields; residence of Judith Varlins, Ironfields. Curious coincidence—very. Nothing may come of it. Highly improbable anything could come of it. Still, those few lines of queer signs, recording an unimportant conversation, may be of use in the future. Who knows? Ah, who, indeed? There's a good deal in chance, and fate sometimes puts a thread into our hands which conducts through tangled labyrinths to unknown issues.
"Two lies," said Mr. Fanks for the third time, as he rolled himself up in the bed-clothes and blew out the candle. "He hadn't seen her since Ventnor. He hadn't heard from her since Ventnor. Wonderful self-denial for a young man in love. I'd like to know more about Roger's little romance."
"Can't make Axton out . . . Most curious conversation—inquisitive on my part, evasive on his . . . He told me two lies . . . In fact, during the whole conversation he seemed to be on his guard. . . . I don't like the look of things . . . I have no right to pry into Axton's affairs, but I can't understand his denials—denials which I could tell from his manner were false . . . Queer thing about Ironfields . . . The dead man came from Ironfields . . . Miss Varlins lives at Ironfields . . . Qy. Can there be any connection between the deceased and Miss Varlins? . . . Impossible, and yet it's very strange . . . I don't like that open door either . . . That is extraordinary . . . Then the letter written by the deceased . . . I asked at the post office here about it . . . They could tell me nothing . . . I wonder to whom that letter was sent? . . . I think it's the key to the whole affair . . . Can Roger Axton be keeping anything from me? . . . Did he know the dead man? . . . I am afraid to answer these questions . . . Well, I'll go down to Ironfields and find out all about the dead man . . . Perhaps my inquiries will lead me to Miss Varlins . . . But no, there can be no connection, and yet I doubt Roger . . . I mistrust him . . . I don't like his manner . . . his evasive replies . . . And then he's connected with Miss Varlins—she is connected with Ironfields . . . That is connected with the deceased . . . All links in a chain . . . Most extraordinary.
"Mem.—To go at once to Ironfields."
Ironfields is not a pretty place; not even its warmest admirer could say it was pretty, but then its warmest admirer would not want to say anything of the kind. Well drained, well laid out, well lighted, it could—according to the minds of its inhabitants—easily dispense with such mere prettiness or picturesqueness as crooked-streeted, gable-mansioned towns, dating from the Middle Ages, could boast of. Poor things, those sleepy cathedral towns, beautified by the hand of Time—poor things indeed compared with vast Ironfields, the outcome of a manufacturing century and a utilitarian race! Ironfields with its lines of ugly model houses, its broad, treeless streets, its muddy river flowing under a hideous railway bridge, its mighty foundries with their tall chimneys that belched forth smoke in the daytime, and fire at night, and its ceaseless clamour that roared up to the smoke-hidden sky six days in the week.
The inhabitants were a race of Cyclops. Rough, swarthy men of herculean build, scant of speech and of courtesy, worn-looking women, with vinegary faces peering sharply at every one from under the shawls they wore on their tousled heads, and tribes of squalling brats, with just enough clothes for decency, grimy with the smoky, sooty atmosphere, looking like legions of small devils as they played in the barren streets, piercing the deafening clamour with their shrill, unchildlike voices. A manufacturing town, inhabited by humanity with no idea of beauty, with no desire beyond an increase of weekly wage, or an extra drink at the public-house. Humanity with a hard, unlovely religion expounded in hideous little chapels by fervid preachers of severe principles. A glorious triumph of our highest civilisation, this matter-of-fact city, with its creed of work, work, work, and its eyes constantly on the sordid things of this earth, and never raised to the blue sky of heaven. A glorious triumph indeed—for the capitalists.
When it rained—which it did frequently—Ironfields was sloppy, and when Ironfields was sloppy it was detestable; for the rain coming down through the smoky cloud that constantly lowered over the town, made everything, if possible, more grimy than before. But Ironfields was quite content; it was a name of note in commercial circles, and its products went forth to the four quarters of the world, bringing back in exchange plenty of money, of which a great deal found its way into the pockets of the master, and very little into those of the man.
The country around was not pretty. Nature, with that black, ugly, clamorous city constantly before her eyes, lost heart in her work, and did not attempt to place beauties before the eyes of people who did not know anything about beauty, and would have thought it a very useless thing if they had. So the fields lying round Ironfields were only a shade better than the city itself, for the shadow of smoke lay over everything, and where sunshine is not, cheerfulness is wanting.
On one side of Ironfields, however, Nature had made a feeble attempt to assert herself, but then it was in a queer little village which had been the germ from whence arose this noisy town. In the old days the queer little village had stood amid green fields beside a sparkling river; but now the fields had disappeared, the sparkling river had turned to a dull, muddy stream, and the little village was improved out of all recognition. Like Frankenstein, it had created a monster which dominated it entirely, which took away even its name and reduced it from a quaint, pretty place, redolent of pastoral joys, to a dull little suburb, mostly inhabited by poor people. True, beyond stood the mansions of the Ironfields millionaires, glaring and unpicturesque, in equally glaring gardens laid out with mathematical accuracy; but the upper ten merely drove through the village on their way to these Brummagem palaces, and did not acknowledge its existence in any way. Yet a good many of their progenitors had lived in the dull suburb before Ironfields was Ironfields, but they forgot all about that in the enjoyment of their new-found splendours, and the miserable village was now a kind of poor relation, unrecognised, uncared for, and very much despised.
In the principal street, narrow and winding, with old houses on either side, standing like dismal ghosts of the past, was the chemist's shop, a brand-new place, with plate-glass windows, and the name, "Wosk & Co.," in bright gold letters on a bright blue ground. Behind the plate-glass windows appeared huge bottles containing liquids red, and yellow, and green in colour, which threw demoniacal reflections on the faces of passers-by at night, when the gas flared behind them. All kinds of patent medicines were there displayed to the best advantage; bottles of tooth-brushes, cakes of Pears' soap, phials of queer shape and wondrous virtue, sponges, jars of leeches, queer-looking pipes compounded of glass and india-rubber tubing, packets of fly-exterminators, and various other strange things pertaining to the trade, all calling attention to their various excellencies in neat little printed leaflets scattered promiscuously throughout.
Within, a shining counter of mahogany laden with cures for the various ills which flesh is heir to; and at the far end, a neat little glass screen with a gas-jet on top, above which could be seen the gray-black head of Mr. Wosk and the smooth red head of Mr. Wosk's assistant.
Mr. Wosk (who was also the Co.) was a slender, serious man, always clothed in black, with a sedate, black-bearded countenance, a habit of washing his hands with invisible soap and water, and a rasping little cough, which he introduced into his conversation at inopportune moments. He would have made an excellent undertaker, an ideal mute, for his cast of countenance was undeniably mournful, but Fate had fitted this round peg of an undertaker into the square hole of a chemist in a fit of perverse anger. He bore up, however, against his uncongenial situation with dreary resignation, and dispensed his own medicines with an air of saying, "I hope it will do you good, but I'm afraid it won't." He was the pillar of the Church in a small way, and stole round the chapel on Sundays with the plate in a melancholy fashion, as if he was asking some good Christian to put some food on the plate and despaired of getting it. Ebenezer was his name, and his wife, an acidulated lady of uncertain age, ruled him with a rod of iron, perhaps from the fact that she had no children over whom to domineer.
Mrs. Wosk, however, could not rule the assistant, much as she desired to do so. Not that he made any show of opposition, but always twisted this way and turned that in an eel-like fashion until she did not know quite where to have him. In fact, the assistant ruled Mrs. Wosk (of which rule she had a kind of uneasy consciousness), and as Mrs. Wosk ruled Mr. Wosk, including the Co., M. Jules Guinaud may have been said to have ruled the whole household.
A hard name to pronounce, especially in Ironfields, where French was in the main an unknown tongue, so suburban Ironfields, by common consent, forgot the surname of the assistant, and called him, in friendly fashion, Munseer Joolees, by which appellation he was known for a considerable time. Mrs. Wosk, however, who meddled a good deal with the shop and saw a good deal of the assistant, being learned in Biblical lore (as the wife of a deacon should be), found a certain resemblance suggested by the name and appearance of the assistant between Munseer Joolees and Judas Iscariot, whereupon, with virulent wit, she christened him by the latter name, and Monsieur Joolees became widely known as Monsieur Judas, which name pleased the Ironfields worthies, being easy to pronounce and containing a certain epigrammatic flavour.
The name suited him, too, this slender, undersized man with the stealthy step of a cat; the unsteady greenish eyes that appeared to see nothing, yet took in everything; the smooth, shining red hair plastered tightly down on his egg-shaped skull; and the delicate, pink and white-complexioned, hairless face that bore the impress of a kind of evil beauty—yes, the name suited him admirably, and as he took no exception to it, being in suburban Ironfields opinion an atheist, and therefore ignorant of the Biblical significance of the title, nobody thought of addressing him by any other.
He spoke English moderately well, in a soft, sibilant voice with a foreign accent, and sometimes used French words, which were Greek to all around him. Expressive, too, in a pantomimic way, with his habit of shrugging his sloping shoulders, his method of waving his slim white hands when in conversation, and a certain talent in using his eyes to convey his meaning. Lids drooping downwards, "I listen humbly to your words of wisdom, monsieur." Suddenly raising them so as to display full optic, "Yes, you may look at me; I am a most guileless person." Narrowing to a mere slit, like the pupil of a cat's eye, "Beware, I am dangerous," and so forth, all of which, in conjunction with the aforesaid shrugs and pantomimic action of his hands, made the conversation of Monsieur Judas very intelligible indeed, in spite of his foreign accent and French observations.
It was raining on this particular morning—seasonable weather, of course; but as far as rain went, all the months were the same in Ironfields, and a thick, black fog pervaded the atmosphere. A cold, clammy fog, with a sooty flavour, that crept slowly through the streets and into the houses, like a wounded snake dragging itself along. Here and there pedestrians looming large in the opaque cloud like gigantic apparitions, gas-lamps flaring drearily in the thick air, cabs and carts and carriages all moving cautiously along like endless funerals. And only two o'clock in the afternoon. Surely the darkness which spread over the land of Egypt could be no worse than this; nay, perhaps it was better, Egypt being tropical and lacking the chill, unwholesome moisture which permeated the air, wrapping the dingy houses, the noisy foundries, and the cheerless streets in a dull, sodden pall.
Gas glared in the shop of Wosk & Co., behind the glass doors, which kept out as much of the fog as they were able—gas which gave forth a dim, yellow light to Mr. Wosk behind the screen, looking over prescriptions, and to Monsieur Judas at the counter making up neat packages of medicine bottles. At the little window at the back which looked into the Wosk dwelling-house, an occasional vision of Mrs. Wosk's head appeared like that of a cross cherub, keeping her eye on chemist and assistant.
"Bur-r-r," says Monsieur Judas, blowing on his lean fingers, "it is to me the most coldness of times. Aha! le brouillard! it makes itself to be all the places to-day."
"Seasonable, seasonable!" murmurs Mr. Wosk, washing his hands in a contemplative fashion. "Good for—ahem!—good for business—that is, business in our line—ahem!"
"Eh, Monsieur Vosks! mais oui, mon ami," answered the Frenchman, raising his eyebrows, "and for de—what you call de coffins man. L'homme des funerailles."
"That, ahem!" said Mr. Wosk, with his rasping cough, "is what we must try and prevent. The undertaker—not coffins man, Monsieur Judas, that is not—ahem—correct Anglo-Saxon—is the last, the very last resource of a sick man. Prevention—ahem—in the person of ourselves is better than—ahem—dear me—I don't think the remark is app—ahem—applicable."
At this moment the glass doors opened to admit a stranger, enveloped in a comfortable fur coat, and also gave admission to a cloud of fog that had been waiting for the opportunity for some time. The stranger made his appearance like a Homeric deity, in a cloudy fashion, and when the attendant fog dispersed, Monsieur Judas (inquisitive) and Mr. Wosk (mournfully indifferent) saw that he was a keen-faced young gentleman with a sharp, decisive manner.
"Wosk & Co., eh!" queried the stranger, who was none other than Mr. Octavius Fanks.
"Yes, sir," said Mr. Wosk, advancing, "the name—ahem—my name, sir, is in front of the—the shop, sir."
"So is the fog," replied the detective, drily, leaning over the counter. "I could hardly see the shop, much less the name."
"De fog is still heavier, monsieur?" said Judas, taking in the appearance of Mr. Fanks in a comprehensive fashion.
Octavius swung sharply round at the sound of the foreign voice, and instantly took an intuitive dislike to the appearance of the red-haired young man.
"Oui," he replied, looking at him sharply; "n'êtes-vous pas Français?"
"Monsieur a beaucoup de pénétration," said Judas, startled at hearing his own tongue.
His eyes had narrowed into those dangerous slits which betokened that he was on his guard against this clever—too clever Englishman. The two men looked at one another steadily for a moment, and two ideas flashed rapidly through their respective minds.
The Fanks idea, suggested by the suspicious appearance (to a detective) of Monsieur Judas:
"This man has a past, and is always on his guard."
The Guinaud idea, inspired by a naturally suspicious nature:
"This Englishman is a possible enemy. I must be careful."
There was really no ground for such uncomplimentary ideas on the part of these two men who now met for the first time, except that instinctive repulsion which springs from the collision of two natures antipathetic to one another.
Mr. Wosk, being warned by the apparition of Mrs. Wosk's head at the little window that he was wasting time, addressed himself at once to his customer in a business fashion:
"What can I do for you, sir?"
Octavius withdrew his eyes from the face of the assistant, and producing a pill-box, laid it down on the counter before Mr. Wosk.
"I want to know the name of the gentleman for whom you made up these pills."
"Rather difficult to say, sir," said Mr. Wosk, taking up the box; "we make up so many boxes like this."
"They were made up for a gentleman who left Ironfields shortly afterwards."
The chemist, never very clear-headed at any time, looked perfectly bewildered at being called upon to make such a sudden explanation, and turned helplessly to his assistant, who stood working at his medicine bottles with downcast eyes.
"I'm afraid—ahem—really, my memory is so bad," he faltered, childishly; "well, I scarcely—ahem—but I think Monsieur Judas will be able to tell you all about it. I have the—ahem—I have the fullest confidence in Monsieur Judas."
"It's more than I should have," thought Fanks, as the assistant silently took the pill-box from his master and opened it.
"Eight pilules," he said, counting them.
"Yes, eight pills," replied Fanks, taking a seat by the counter, "but, of course, when you made up the prescription there must have been more."
"De monsieur weeth de pilules did he geeve dem to monsieur?"
"No; I want to know the gentleman's name."
"An' for wy, monsieur?"
"Never you mind," retorted Octavius, coolly; "you do what you're asked, my good fellow."
The "good fellow" gave Mr. Fanks an ugly look; but in another moment was bland and smiling as ever. Mr. Wosk (beckoned by the cherub's head) had gone into the back premises, so the two men were quite alone, of which circumstance Mr. Fanks took advantage by speaking to Monsieur Judas in French, in order to understand him better.
Translated, the conversation (guarded on both sides by mutual suspicion) was as follows:
"Will monsieur permit me to ask him a few questions? Otherwise," said Judas, with a shrug, "I cannot hope to find the name monsieur requires."
"Ask whatever questions you like."
"Does monsieur know when the gentleman left this town?"
Mr. Fanks made a rapid calculation, and answered promptly: "I'm not quite sure; after the 6th and before the 13th of the present month. But your best plan will be to go back from the 13th of November."
"Certainly, monsieur."
Judas disappeared behind the neat screen, and rapidly turned up the order book beginning with the 13th of November, as directed.
"They are tonic pills, I see, monsieur," he called out.
"Yes, it is marked on the box."
In another moment Fanks heard an exclamation of surprise behind the screen, and shortly afterwards Monsieur Judas emerged, carrying the order book with him. He was visibly agitated, and his lean hands trembled as he placed the book on the counter.
"What is the matter?" asked Fanks, suspiciously, rising to his feet.
"I will explain to monsieur later on," said Judas, with a sickly smile. "At present, however, here is what you want. These pills were made up for Monsieur Sebastian Melstane."
"Sebastian Melstane," muttered Fanks, thoughtfully. "Oh, that was his name."
"Yes, Sebastian Melstane," said Judas, slowly. "He bought these pills on the 11th of November, and went down to Jarlchester the next day."
"How do you know he went to Jarlchester?" asked Fanks, considerably startled.
"Because I know Sebastian Melstane, monsieur. We lodged at the same pension. He makes me the confidence that he was going to that place, and, I believe, took these pills with him. Now you have the box, but my friend, where is he?"
Monsieur Judas threw out his hands with a fine dramatic gesture, and fixed his crafty eyes on the impassive face of the detective.
"Do you read the papers?" asked Octavius, with great deliberation.
"Yes; but I read English so bad."
"Get some one to translate for you, then," said Fanks, coolly, "and you will see that an unknown man committed suicide at Jarlchester. That man was Sebastian Melstane."
"Gave himself the death?"
"Yes; read the papers. By the way, Monsieur Judas that is your name, I believe—as you knew Sebastian Melstane, I may want to ask you some questions about him."
Monsieur Judas pulled out a card with some writing on it and handed it to Fanks with a flourish.
"My name, monsieur—my habitation, monsieur! If monsieur will do me the honour to call at my pension, I will tell him whatever he desires to know."
"Humph! I'm afraid that's beyond your power, M. Guinaud," replied Fanks, glancing at the card. "However, I'll call round this evening at eight o'clock; but at present I want to know about these pills."
"They were bought by my friend on the 11th," said Judas, showing the entry. "Behold, monsieur, the book speaks it."
"Who signed the prescription?"
"A doctor, monsieur, a doctor. I cannot say the name, it is hard for my tongue; but, monsieur"—struck with a sudden idea—"you shall see his own writing."
Once more he vanished behind the screen, and shortly afterwards reappeared with a sheet of note-paper, which he placed before Octavius.
"There it is, monsieur."
Fanks took up the paper, and read as follows:
R. Acid. Arsen. gi.Pulv. Glycyrrh. gr. xv.Ext. Glycyrrh. gr. xxx.Misce et divide in pilule.No. XII.Sig. Tonic pills.One to be taken before retiring nightly.Jacob Japix, M.D.
"I see you made up twelve pills," said Fanks, after he had perused this document.
"Yes, monsieur, twelve pills. It is the usual number." Octavius looked thoughtful for a moment, then, turning his back on the assistant, walked to the door, where he stood gazing out at the fog, and thinking deeply in this fashion: "There were twelve pills in the box when Melstane bought it on the 11th of this month. According to his statement to Miss Chickles he took a tonic pill regularly every night. On the 11th, therefore, he took one. Left Ironfields on the 12th, and must have slept in London, as the journey is so long. There he took another pill; and at Jarlchester, on the 13th, he took a third. Dr. Drewey analysed three pills, so that's six accounted for out of the twelve. Exactly half, so there ought only to be six left. But there are eight in the box now. Good Heavens! what is the meaning of those two extra pills?"
Turning sharply round, he walked back to the counter.
"Are you sure you are not making a mistake?" he said, quickly; "you must have made up fourteen pills."
"But, monsieur, behold!" said Judas, pointing to the prescription, "No. XII."
"Yes, that's twelve, sure enough," observed Fanks, trying to appear calm, but feeling excited at the thought that he had stumbled on some tangible evidence at last.
"Did you make up the pills?"
"Yes, I myself, monsieur."
"And you are sure you only made up twelve?"
"On my word of honour, monsieur," said Judas, opening his eyes with their guileless look; "but I do not ask monsieur to believe me if he has doubt. Eh, my faith, no! Monsieur my master also counted the pills."
"That is the custom, I believe," said Mr. Fanks, thoughtfully, "a kind of check."
"But certainly, monsieur, without doubt."
At this moment, as if he knew his presence was required, Mr. Wosk walked into the shop, whereupon Monsieur Judas at once explained the matter to him.
"My assistant is—ahem—correct," said Mr. Wosk, sadly, as if he rather regretted it than otherwise. "I remember Mr. Melstane's tonic pills, and I—ahem—did count them. There were—ahem—twelve."
"You are sure?"
"I am certain."
"An' I to myself can assure it," remarked Judas, in English; "but if monsieur would make to himself visits at monsieur le docteur, he could know exactly of the numbers. Eh bien. Je le crois."
"Where does Dr. Japix live?" asked Fanks, picking up the pill-box and putting it in his pocket. "I will call round and see him."
Mr. Wosk wrote out the address and handed it to the detective with a bow.
"There's nothing wrong with the—ahem—medicine, I trust," he said, nervously. "I am—ahem—most careful, and my assistant, Monsieur Judas, is much to be—ahem—trusted."
"I don't know if anything's wrong with these pills," said Octavius, touching his breast coat-pocket, "but you know the saying, 'There is more in this than meets the eye.' Shakespeare, you observe. Wonderful man—appropriate remark for everything. Monsieur Guinaud, I will see you to-night. Mr. Wosk, to-morrow expect me about these pills. Good afternoon."
When he had vanished into the fog, which he did as soon as he went outside, Mr. Wosk turned to his assistant with some alarm.
"I trust, Monsieur Judas, that the pills—the pills—"
"They are in themselves qui' right. Eh! oh, yes," replied Monsieur Judas, letting his eyelids droop over his eyes. "To-morrow I to you will speke of dis—dis—eh! le mystère—vous savez, monsieur. Le Mystère Jarlcesterre."
"That thing in the paper," cried Mr. Wosk, aghast. "Why—ahem—what has it got to do—ahem—with us?"
Monsieur Judas shrugged his shoulders, spread out his hands with a deprecating gesture, and spoke slowly:
"Eh, le voila! I myself am no good to rread les journaux anglais—les feuilletons. If you so kine vil be to me, monsieur, an' rread de Mystère Jarleesterre, I vil to you explin moch, eh! Il est bien entendu."
"But what has the Jarlchester Mystery got to do with us?" repeated Mr. Wosk, helplessly, like a large child.
"Eh, mon ami, qui sait?" replied Monsieur Judas, enraged at his master's stupidity. "De man dead is he who took ze pilules."
"Sebastian Melstane!" cried Mr. Wosk, thunder-struck.
"Oui, c'est le nom!"
And Monsieur Judas narrowed his eyes, spread out his lean hands, and smiled complacently at the look of horror on the face of Mr. Wosk.