". . . I feel much more at ease now I have seen Roger . . . He has explained away my suspicions . . . It is true that his story tells very much against him, but to my mind this fact assures me of his innocence, as no guilty man would tell a story so much against himself . . . Yes, I am sure he is not guilty . . . He acted foolishly in obeying Miss Varlins' instructions—in keeping the truth from me at Jarlchester . . . Nevertheless, his conduct has not been that of a guilty man, and whosoever poisoned Sebastian Melstane, it was certainly not Roger Axton . . .
". . . I am much troubled about the disappearance of those letters, and would like to see them . . . There must be something in them which may throw light on this mysterious affair . . . I have no grounds for declaring this, but I think so . . . If Mr. Marson, who did not want his daughter to marry Melstane, wrote, his letters must be in that packet . . . It is his letters I wish to see . . . Now, however, by the unfortunate mistake of the postmistress, the letters are in the possession of Judas . . . This again implicates him in the affair . . . I don't like the attitude of Judas at all . . . Could he—but no, it's impossible; he has no motive . . . Sebastian Melstane was his friend, so there was no reason he should wish him out of the way . . . I believe that Judas holds the letters in order to make capital out of them with Mr. Marson . . . I'll thwart him on the point, however . . .
"Mem.—To see the postmistress to-morrow and find out for certain if the packet was delivered—as I verily believe—to Judas."
Suburban Ironfields being, as has been stated, a poor relation of the opulent city, fared badly enough in all respects, after the fashion of all poor relations. Every comfort, every luxury, every improvement pertaining to nineteenth century civilisation was to be found in Ironfields itself; but the quondam village from whence it had sprung retained many of its primitive barbarisms.
This was especially the case with the post office, a low-roofed, dingy little house squeezed into an odd corner of the crooked main street, and presided over by an elderly lady named Mrs. Wevelspoke and her son Abraham. Ironfields magnates—dwellers in the palatial residences beyond the village—received their correspondence straight from the prompt, businesslike office of the city itself; but this unhappy little town depended for the transmission and delivery of its letters on old Mrs. Wevelspoke and her snail-footed son.
Many complaints had been made about the disgraceful way in which this place was conducted; but as the complainants were mostly poor people, no attention was paid to their remonstrances, and Mrs. Wevelspoke and her son went on in their own quiet way, delivering letters late, delivering them to the wrong people, and very often not delivering them at all.
The postmistress herself was a snuffy old woman of great antiquity, with a shrivelled face, two dull eyes like those of a dead codfish, a toothless mouth, and a wisp of straggling gray hair generally hidden under a dingy black straw bonnet with rusty velvet trimmings; she wore a doubtfully black gown, which had acquired a greenish tinge from great age, a tartan shawl of faded colours pinned over her bony shoulders, and rusty mittens on her skinny hands. She always wore her bonnet—it was her badge, her symbol, her sign of authority; and although, perhaps, she did not, as scandal averred, sleep in it all night, she certainly wore it all day. She was deaf, too, and spoke to other people in a shrill, loud voice, like a querulous wind, as if she thought, as she did, that they suffered from the same infirmity. She was also doubtful as to her powers of vision, so it can easily be seen that the Suburban Ironfielders had good ground for complaint against her. As to Abraham, he was a dull-looking youth, who thought of nothing but eating, and only delivered the letters because walking gave him an appetite for his meals. He never hurried himself, and at the present moment was deliberating as to whether he would then take the letters in his hand to their recipients, or let them wait until the afternoon.
"Now then, Abraham," piped Mrs. Wevelspoke, viciously, "ain't you gone yet?"
"You see I ain't," growled Abraham, in a fat voice.
"Don't say you won't go," said his mother, shrilly, "'cause you've got to earn bread and butter. Not that it's good, for that baker's failin' off awful, and as to the butter, it ain't got nothin' to do with the cows, I'm certin. But bread and butter's butter an' bread, so git out and git it."
"I'm goin', I'm goin'!" grumbled Abraham, slowly, putting on his hat, "but I ain't well, mar, I ain't. That corfee's a-repeatin' of itself like 'istory, an' the h'eggs weren't fresh! Poach 'em, fry 'em, or biled, they taste of the chicken."
"Pickin'," said Mrs. Wevelspoke, giving her rusty bonnet a hitch, "pickin' up the letters, which you don't do, Abraham. Do 'urry, there's a good boy. Mrs. Wosk is waitin' for that blue un—a bill, maybe—and Mr. Manks is gettin' noos of 'is son from Australy in that thin paper un, an' there's Drip and Pank and Wolf all waitin' to 'ear the 'nocker, so lose no time, my deary."
"It's all right as I don't lose no letters, mar," retorted Abraham, going to the door. "I'm orf, I am, mar. I'll be back by six, mar, and do see arter the tripe yourself; it don't agree overcooked."
When Abraham had departed, his parent busied herself with sorting the letters and newspapers into their respective pigeon-holes, communing with herself aloud as she glanced at the addresses on each.
"Drat 'em!" she said, alluding to the writers of the letters. "Where's their eddication, as they don't write plain? If I were a Board School, which I ain't, I'd school-board 'em, with their curly 'p's' and 'q's,' as like pigs' tails as ever was, to say nothin' of leavin' the 'i's' and 't's' undone for want of dottin'. 'Ow do they expect 'em to be delivered straight wen I ain't no scholard to read their alphabets?"
"Mrs. Wevelspoke," said a full, rich voice proceeding from a lady on the outside of the counter.
"P-h'o-h's-t," spelt Mrs. Wevelspoke, slowly, not hearing that she was called, and not seeing that any one was present by reason of her back being turned; "that spells post, but it don't look like one. M.—that's for Mary, I dare say; M. J-u-h'l-e-h's; ho, it's for that Judas thing at Wosk's. If 'is name's Judas, why do he call himself G-u—"
"Mrs. Wevelspoke," repeated the lady, rapping her umbrella on the counter quickly, "is that letter for me?" The postmistress, having a faint idea that she heard some distant noise, turned round slowly, and saw Miss Varlins leaning forward with an eager look on her face.
"Is that letter for me?" she repeated, pointing to the envelope still in Mrs. Wevelspoke's hand.
"This un?" said Mrs. Wevelspoke, seeing by the gesture what was meant. "Oh dear, no, Miss Varlins. Your name ain't Mary—nor July, I take it."
"But it's Judith."
"What?" asked Mrs. Wevelspoke, deafly.
"Judith," said Miss Varlins, very loudly.
"Oh, your fust name, miss. You speak so muddled like, mum, as I can't make out your 'ollerin', miss. But if your fust name's Judith, mum, your last ain't—ain't G-u-i-h'n-h'a-u-d."
"Mrs. Wevelspoke, let me look at the letter, please," cried Judith, impatiently, taking the envelope from the old woman. "I can tell you if it's for me in a moment."
It certainly was not for her, as the direction was plain enough:
"M. Jules Guinaudc/o Wosk & Co.,Chemists,Suburban Ironfields."
"M. Jules Guinaudc/o Wosk & Co.,Chemists,Suburban Ironfields."
"No, it's not for me," said Miss Varlins, handing it back reluctantly with a sigh of regret. "But are you sure you have no packet addressed to Miss Judith?"
"It ain't for her," said Mrs. Wevelspoke, putting the Frenchman's letter into the pigeon-hole marked "J." "You want a letter, I s'pose, miss?"
"Yes."
"There ain't no Varlins," said Mrs. Wevelspoke, after a cursory glance at the "V's". "No, miss, your letters is all sent to the 'All."
"This letter I want was addressed to Miss Judith, and would not be sent to the Hall."
"To 'Judas'?" said Mrs. Wevelspoke, catching the name wrongly. "Ho, his letters go to the shop, mum."
"I thought as much," remarked a quiet voice behind Miss Varlins, as she turned to find herself face to face with the speaker and Roger Axton.
"We've been listening, Miss Varlins," explained Roger, hastily, as she shook hands with him. Then seeing the startled look on her face, he went on hurriedly: "I can explain the reason, but first let me introduce Mr. Rixton, a friend of mine."
Judith bowed coldly, and waited for Roger's promised explanation, which was to be given by the gentleman called Mr. Rixton.
"Allow me, my dear Roger," he said, genially. "The fact is, Miss Varlins, my friend here told me about this packet of letters addressed to you as 'Miss Judith,' and I put forward a theory accounting for their non-delivery, so Mr. Axton and myself came here to see if my theory was correct."
"But what is your theory?" asked Judith, rather bewildered.
"That the letters were delivered by that old woman to Monsieur Judas, instead of to you."
"But Judas is a nickname," said Miss Varlins, quickly; "all his letters would be addressed to Monsieur Guinaud."
"Quite correct," replied Octavius, quietly, "but with such an unintelligent postmistress mistakes are sure to occur. I'm pretty certain she delivered the packet to our red-headed friend, and I'm going to try to find out. You posted the packet at Jarlchester on the 13th of this month, did you not, Roger?"
"Yes; on the morning of the 13th."
"Then it would get to London late in the afternoon, and go on to Ironfields at once. I should think it would be ready for delivering here about midday on the 15th. Did you call here on the 15th, Miss Varlins?"
"No; I did not expect the packet so soon. But I came next day."
"Too late, I'm afraid," said Octavius, advancing to the counter. "Here, old lady. Was there a letter here on the 15th, directed to Miss Judith?"
"Judas!" replied Mrs. Wevelspoke for the second time. "Drat it, what's come to the man, sir, as you're all talkin' of him? He's at Wosk's if you want him."
"Did you send any letters to him this month?" asked Fanks, loudly.
"Letters! all his letters go to the shop," retorted Mrs. Wevelspoke, obstinately.
"Were there any this month—November?"
"Remember!" cried the postmistress, twitching her bonnet, "of course I remember—I can remember things afore you were born, young man. I sends all letters to Mr. Judas at the shop. Two this month, and there's another waitin' 'im."
"Let me see it!" said Fanks, quickly glancing at Roger, "it may reveal something, Miss Varlins."
"Steal," remarked Mrs. Wevelspoke, sharply. "No, you don't steal here, sir! I'm an honest woman, I am."
"And a very stupid one," said Fanks, ruefully, in despair at getting any information out of this old dame.
"I have seen the letter she talks about, Mr. Rixton," said Miss Varlins, quickly, "and it is not the one we want."
At this moment Abraham rolled into the office, and Fanks at once pounced on him as being more likely to give information than his superior.
"Oh, here's the postman," he cried, radiantly. "Here, postman, did you deliver a letter to Monsieur Guinaud at Wosk's shop about the beginning of this month?"
"I can't tell State secrets," said Abraham in his fat voice, "it's treesin."
"Oh, you won't come to Tower Hill for telling me this," replied Fanks, good-humouredly.
"I don't know nothin' about your Tower Hills," growled the portly one, sulkily, "but I ain't going to tell nothin', I ain't. Mother and me's sworn, we are."
Fanks did not want his true occupation to be known, but he saw perfectly well that he would get nothing out of the faithful Abraham unless he adopted strong measures, so he made up his mind how to act at once.
"Look here, my man," he said, taking Abraham to one side and speaking sharply. "I'm a detective, and you must give me a plain answer to a plain question."
"I ain't bin doin' nothin' wrong," whimpered Abraham, edging away from the representative of the law; "I'll tell you anythin' you like as long as it isn't State secrets."
"This isn't a State secret," said Fanks, quickly, putting a half-a-crown into the lad's fat hand; "just tell me if you delivered a thick packet to Monsieur Guinaud on the 15th of this month?"
The faithful servant of the State was not proof against bribery, so he answered at once:
"Yes, sir, I did! Only the letter was to Monsieur Judas."
"Not to Miss Judith?"
"Lor, sir, I don't know; mother said it were Monsieur Judas, and as there's only one Judas here, I took it to him."
"At Wosk & Co.?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did he take it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very well, that will do," said Fanks, in a gratified tone; "now hold your tongue and say nothing to nobody."
"But mother, sir!"
"Not even to your mother. If you told her, all the town would hear, she's so deaf."
So Abraham the faithful grinned, and slipping his half-a-crown into his pocket, retired, while Fanks went outside, where he found Judith seated in her carriage and Roger talking to her.
"It is as I thought," said Octavius, anticipating their questions; "the postman told me he delivered the packet to Judas."
Judith uttered an exclamation of horror, upon hearing which the detective glanced sharply at her.
"Are you afraid of Judas seeing those letters?" he asked, quickly.
Miss Varlins passed her handkerchief across her dry lips, and after a pause answered with great deliberation, showing thereby how strong was her self-control.
"I don't know anything of the man," she said, quickly, "beyond that he was a friend of Mr. Melstane; but that in itself is sufficient to make me anxious. The letters contain nothing more than the usual romantic nonsense a girl would write. At the same time, knowing this Frenchman to be, as I verily believe, an unscrupulous wretch, I am afraid he may use the letters for his own ends."
"But what can he gain by showing them," said Fanks, sagaciously, "seeing they contain nothing of importance?"
He spoke with such pointed significance and emphasis that Judith, fiery-tempered by nature, flashed out suddenly with great spirit.
"I don't know how much Mr. Axton has told you, sir, but I question your right to speak to me in this manner."
"Oh, Fanks doesn't mean anything," interposed Roger, unthinkingly.
"Fanks!" cried Judith, with a start, looking at Octavius, "I thought your name was Rixton?"
"My real name is Rixton," said Fanks, glancing reproachfully at Roger, "but I use the name of Octavius Fanks—"
"For your detective business," finished Judith, coolly. "Oh, you need not look surprised, sir. I have read the Jarlchester Mystery, and I know you have the case in hand."
"If that is so, perhaps you will help me in the matter?"
"I—I cannot help you," she said, faintly, again passing the handkerchief over her lips.
"You can in one way," said Fanks, quietly.
She looked at him sharply, but unable to read anything on his impassive countenance, threw herself back in the carriage with an uneasy laugh.
"How so?"
"By letting me read those letters now in the possession of Judas."
"No!"
She said it so firmly that both Fanks and Axton glanced at her in surprise, upon which she leaned forward with a pale face, and spoke hurriedly.
"There is nothing—really nothing in those letters beyond foolish girlish talk; I assure you, Mr. Rixton, there is nothing at all."
"Then why refuse to let me see them?" asked Octavius, quickly.
"They are private."
"Not when the law desires to see them. I am the law, and I intend to see those letters."
"What do you mean, Fanks?" said Roger, angrily, indignant at this tone being used to Miss Varlins.
"What I say," responded Fanks, coolly. "Axton, Miss Varlins, this case is in my hands, and I am determined to find out who killed Sebastian Melstane, and for reasons of my own I wish to see those letters. Will you let me look at them?"
Judith twisted her handkerchief in her gloved hands evidently trying to control herself, then putting up one hand to her throat, gave a hysterical laugh.
"Yes, on one condition.
"And that condition?"
"That you let me look over them before you read them."
The detective fixed his hawk-like eyes on her face, as if he would drag the meaning of the words from her unwilling lips, but she gave no sign likely to guide him, and seeing that he had to deal with a will as iron as his own, compromised the matter.
"You can look over them," he said, calmly, "in my presence."
Roger Axton turned furiously on his friend.
"How dare you insult Miss Varlins?" he said, fiercely. "Are you a gentleman?"
"I am a detective," replied Fanks, significantly.
"There is no need to quarrel, gentlemen," said Judith, quietly. "I agree to Mr. Rixton's request. If you will both get into the carriage we can drive to Wosk's, obtain the letters, and settle Mr. Rixton's doubts at once."
Fanks bowed in silence, and stepped into the carriage without further remark, but Roger turned sullenly away. "Thank you, I prefer not to come," he said, stiffly.
"I want you to come, please," observed Fanks, quietly. Roger did not reply, but looked at Judith, who made him an almost imperceptible sign, upon which he sprang in without further objection, and the carriage went on to the chemist's at once. Octavius had noticed the sign, and wondered thereat, but like a wise man said nothing.
"I can afford to wait," he thought, rapidly; "but I wish I saw the end of this case. I'm afraid of what I may find out."
At the door of the shop of Wosk & Co. they all alighted, and Miss Varlins, followed by the two men, entered. Judas came forward as they stood by the counter, and on seeing his visitors narrowed his eyes down at once to their most dangerous expression.
"Humph!" thought Fanks, grimly, "Judas knows our errand."
"Monsieur Guinaud," said Judith, calmly, "there was a packet directed to Miss Judith at the post office here, which, I learn, was delivered to you by mistake. May I ask you to return it to me?"
Judas shot a glance of amazement at Fanks, with whom he credited this tracking of the letters, and opening his crafty eyes to their widest, looked guilelessly at the lady.
"Mais oui, mademoiselle," he said, with a shrug, "de lettres you do tell me of are with me. C'est bien certain ze postage was mistook. Mais why to you I gif zem?"
"Because the packet was meant for me."
"Yes; I posted it," said Roger, quickly. "It was given to you by mistake."
"It is de name 'Mademoiselle Judith," observed Guinaud, doubtfully.
"Which was how the mistake occurred," explained Fanks, easily. "Come, Monsieur Guinaud, hand over those letters at once, if you please."
"Eh, très-bien," answered Judas, promptly. "I haf no wis to them keep. Zey are nosing to me. I did not know ze person zey were to."
"Well, you know now," cried Fanks, sharply. "Please give them to this lady without delay."
"Mais certainement," replied the Frenchman, with a bow. "Pardon, monsieur."
He retired quickly, and in a few minutes returned with the packet of letters—open.
"Have you read these?" cried Judith, indignantly, as she took the packet.
Monsieur Judas smiled in a deprecating manner, and shook his head.
"I am a man of the honour, mademoiselle," he said with great dignity, "an' I haf not read ze lettres. I tawt de lettres pour moi, and I did open zem. But wen I do zee zem in anglais I see it is mistook, an' read zem not."
Fanks kept his eyes on Judas as he spoke, to see if he was speaking the truth, but was quite unable to arrive at any decision, so calm was the Frenchman's voice, so immobile the expression of his face.
"Well, at all events we have got the letters," he said to Miss Varlins. "And now—"
"Now you can take them home to read," replied Miss Varlins, contemptuously, tossing the packet to him.
"But are you not going to examine them?"
"I have done so."
"Are all the letters there?"
"Monsieur," cried Judas, "do you tink—"
"I'm addressing Miss Varlins," retorted Fanks, coldly. "Are all the letters there, Miss Varlins?"
"Yes, I think so," she replied, with faint hesitation.
"You are not sure?"
"As sure as I can be," she replied, keeping her temper wonderfully. "I think they are all there. Will you please read the letters, and then return them to me?"
"Certainly."
"Thank you. Good morning," replied Judith, coldly. "Mr. Axton."
Roger bowed and conducted her to the carriage, while Fanks, with the bundle of letters in his hands, stood looking after her in an irresolute manner.
Suddenly he felt a cold touch on his hand, and turned round to see Judas looking at him with a strange smile on his crafty face.
"You are afraid," he said, in French.
"Of what?" answered Fanks, coldly.
"Of those," pointing to the letters; "of her," indicating Judith; "of him," nodding in the direction of Roger; "of all. You are afraid, monsieur, of what you may discover."
Fanks looked steadily at him, made no reply, and walked quickly out of the shop.
This is the episode of Mr. Spolger, which came about in this wise. Roger was very indignant with his friend for speaking so plainly to Judith, and told him so in somewhat strong language when the carriage had departed. Fanks said nothing at first, being much exercised in his own mind over the peculiar attitude taken up towards him by Miss Varlins, but Axton was so very free in his condemnations, that for the moment he lost his self-control, and answered sharply.
"I've taken up this case, Roger, and I intend to carry it out to the bitter end, if only for your sake; but you must let me act in every way as I think best, otherwise—"
"Otherwise!" repeated Axton, angrily, as Octavius paused.
"I will throw up the whole affair."
"No, you must not do that," said Roger, quickly. "I want to see the end of this for my own sake, as you very truly say, so don't leave me in the lurch for the sake of a few hasty words. But you must admit, old fellow, that you spoke rather sharply to Judith."
The philosophic Fanks thereupon recovered his temper and said sententiously:
"Women are the devil."
"Eh, how so?"
"They cause trouble whenever they get mixed up in any affair. This case was difficult yesterday; to-day it is more difficult because feminine influence is now at work."
"With whom?"
"With me, with you, with Judas, with us all. May I say something without being thought rude?"
"If it's about Judith—"
"It is about Judith."
"Then don't say it," retorted Roger, in a huff.
"Very well," replied Fanks, resignedly; "but if you take away my guiding stars I'll never find my way across the ocean of mystery."
Roger made no reply, but walked on rapidly with a frown on his good-looking face. Suddenly he stopped so dead short that Fanks, also using his legs in no slow fashion, shot past him a yard or so before he could pull up.
Quoth Roger savagely:
"Say your say and have done with it."
Mr. Fanks surveyed his friend with a quiet smile, and then took him gently by the arm.
"Come and have luncheon with me," he said, persuasively.
"No."
"They've got an excellent cook at the 'Foundryman.'"
"I won't come."
"I can give you a good bottle of claret."
Axton exploded furiously.
"Confound it, Fanks, why do you treat me like a child?"
"Because you are one at present."
"Oh, indeed," said Roger, with a sneer, "from your point of view."
"From a common-sense point of view," replied Fanks, with great good-humour. "Come, don't be silly, my good fellow! You're sore because I don't worship your idol. Be easy, I'll do so when this case is finished."
"But if—"
"Oh, come to luncheon," said Fanks, and marched him off without further parley.
The luncheon was good, both as regards victuals and wine, while Fanks, in the capacity of host, behaved in a wondrously genial fashion, so by the time they finished and were smoking socially by the fire, Roger had quite recovered his temper, and felt ashamed of his fit of ill-humour.
"But you know," he said, guiltily, "I'm in love."
"Business first, pleasure afterwards," quoth the philosopher, sagely.
"Apropos of what?"
"This case. I know you are in love, I know the lady you love. I quite approve of that love. Marriage, however, should begin with no secrets between man and wife."
"Pish!"
"In this case the wife would have a secret from the husband."
"Rubbish!"
"It may be, but it's rubbish that concerns those letters."
"Perhaps you'll accuse Judith of the murder," cried Roger, in great wrath.
A blank wall would have been more expressive than the face of the detective.
"Why didn't she want me to read those letters?" he asked, quietly.
"There are the letters—read them."
"Thank you," replied Fanks, imperturbably, "I will." And he did so slowly and carefully, taking note of the dates and arranging the letters in due order. Having finished, he tied the letters up again and handed them over to Roger.
"Please deliver them to Miss Judith."
"Oh, ho," said Roger, slipping the parcel into his pocket. "So the letters are no use to you?"
"Not the letters that are there."
"What, do you think some of the letters are missing?"
"I'm certain of it."
"Then who is the thief?"
"Judas."
"Oh!"
Roger flung himself back in his chair with a sigh of relief, as if he had half expected to hear another name, and that a name similar in sound.
"There are in that bundle," said Fanks, gravely, "letters written at Ironfields—so far so good. But they are only silly girlish letters!"
"As Judith told you!"
"Exactly, as Judith told me," responded Octavius, suavely, "but I want to see the letters written in London and in Ventnor."
"Perhaps she never wrote any in those two places."
"Humph! the chances are she did."
"You are excessively mysterious," said Roger, sarcastically, "but the question can easily be settled. Ask Miss Marson herself."
"I thought I heard Miss Varlins say she was ill!"
"So she is, poor child," said Roger, soberly; "I blurted out the fact of Melstane's death too suddenly, and she fainted. Now she is very ill."
"Oh! brain fever?"
"I'm afraid so!"
"In that case I can get nothing out of her," said Fanks, coolly; "it's a pity. By the way, do you know who I think knows a good deal about this case?"
"Monsieur Judas."
"You'll make a good detective some day," replied Fanks, approvingly. "Yes! I mean Monsieur Judas. He's a crafty wretch, that same Frenchman, and knows a good deal."
"About Melstane and Miss Marson?"
"Probably."
"And Melstane's death?"
"Possibly."
"You don't suspect him?" asked Roger, breathlessly.
"I don't suspect any one—at present, as I said before," replied Fanks, with a sudden movement of irritation. "Confound it, the more I go into this case the more mixed up it seems to get. It seems to me it all depends on those pills. The box went from Wosk's shop into the hands of Melstane, certainly—"
"Yes, and it went from Melstane's hands into those of Spolger," said Axton, with sudden recollection.
"What do you mean?" asked Fanks, eagerly.
Whereupon, Roger, in a terrible state of excitement, told his friend all about Melstane's interview with Spolger—of the pill-box left behind, and of the sending of it back to Melstane.
"And don't you see, Fanks," cried Axton, in great excitement, "Spolger is a bit of a chemist, so he could easily put in the two extra pills before he sent back the box. Melstane would never suspect, and so would come by his death. Oh, Spolger's the man who killed Melstane, I'm certain of it."
"Wait a bit," said Fanks, rapidly making a few notes in his pocket-book. "When a crime is committed, the first thing is to look for a motive. Now, what motive had Spolger for killing Melstane?"
"Motive!" repeated Roger, in amazement, "the strongest of all motives. He was in love with Florry and wanted to marry her. She, however, was in love with Melstane, and while he lived Spolger had no chance. So of course he removed his rival by death. It's as clear as daylight."
"Why! 'of course'?" said the detective, putting his note-book in his pocket. "Even love would hardly make a man like Spolger commit a crime."
"He's a scoundrel."
"Eh! but a nervous one."
"He's fond of Florry."
"And fond of his own skin."
"I tell you I'm convinced he committed the crime."
"Don't jump to conclusions."
"I'm not jumping to conclusions," retorted Axton, hotly. "Look at the case, you blind bat. Spolger loves—adores Florry. He wants to marry her, but finds out she won't have him because she loves another man. Chance, by means of the forgotten pill-box, throws in his way the means of injuring that other man. What is more natural? He takes advantage of the chance."
"Injuring a man doesn't mean killing him."
"Who said it did? Put it in this way. Spolger intended to merely injure him, but in making up the morphia pills he puts in too much of the drug, and kills Melstane without intending to do so."
"Theory! Pure theory!"
"Well, as far as I can see, the case is all pure theory at present."
"By no means. We have ascertained the cause of death; the way in which the drug was taken; also a number of suspicious circumstances connected with Melstane's past life. That's not all theory."
"I think the most suspicious theory connected with Melstane's past life is Monsieur Jules Guinaud, better known as Judas."
"Because he has red hair and a crafty face," said Fanks, coolly.
"No; because he loves Florry."
"How do you know?"
"I think so."
"Ah, that's theory," replied Fanks, nodding his head; "purely theoretical, if you like. Well, we must be off."
"Where to?"
"To test your theory. I'm going to see Mr. Jackson Spolger."
"He'll tell you nothing," said Axton, putting on his coat.
"Perhaps not; but his face may. He's a nervous man. Japix told me that, so if he knows anything about this murder, he may betray himself unconsciously. Come along."
So they went down into the sloppy street and hired a cab, but just as they were going to step in, Fanks suddenly darted to the window of a brougham standing a short distance away. It was a large brougham, and contained a large man, who put out his head when he saw Fanks, and roared out a welcome in a stentorian voice:
"Hey, Monsieur Fouché!"
"Don't advertise me so publicly, Japix."
"Pooh! no one here knows Fouché. They think he's a Chinese."
"It's best to be on the safe side, anyhow."
"Very well, Mr. Rixton."
"That's better. I say, Doctor, do you believe in patent medicines?"
"No," roared Japix, indignantly, "I don't."
"But I've been advised to take Spolger's Soother."
"Then don't take it. Who advised you?"
"A lady."
"Humph! Only a woman would give such silly advice. If you're ill, come to me like Spolger, and I'll cure you, but don't touch his medicine."
"Is it dangerous?"
"Not very. The pills are only bread, gum, and morphia."
"Morphia?"
"Yes; small quantity, of course. Not like that pill you gave me to analyse the other day. Good heavens!" exclaimed Japix, as a sudden idea struck him, "what do you mean?"
"I'll tell you to-night."
"When you come to dinner?"
"Yes; can I bring Axton with me?"
"By all means. Good day!"
"Good day!" replied Fanks, and darted back to his cab, where he found Roger awaiting him.
"Roger," he said, when the vehicle started towards the Spolger residence, "there may be something in that idea of yours after all."
"I think so. But why do you say that?"
"Because I've just discovered that Spolger puts morphia in his pills."
The residence of Mr. Spolger, situate about a mile beyond the town, was a large and particularly ugly building constructed on strictly hygienic principles. The inventor of the "Soother" had lived in an ancient mansion, badly drained and badly ventilated, which had been erected many years before; but when his son entered in possession of his inheritance, he had pulled down the old house, and built a barrack-like structure in which beauty gave way entirely to utility. Square, aggressively square, with walls of glaring white stone, it stood in the midst of a large piece of ground perfectly denuded of trees, as Mr. Spolger deemed trees damp and unhealthy, so the bare space was gravelled and asphalted like a barrack-yard. Plenty of staring plate-glass windows admitted light into the interior, which was composed of lofty square rooms, lofty oblong corridors, all smoothly whitewashed.
The floors of polished wood, innocent of carpets, were dangerous to the unwary, and the furniture, all of solid oak, was made for strength rather than loveliness. There were few pictures on the walls, as Mr. Spolger thought that looking at works of art strained the optic nerve, and there were no draperies on the windows in case any disease might lurk in them. The bare inside looked out on to the bare barrack ground, and the treeless barrack ground looked into the glaring inside, so it was all very nice and healthy and abominably ugly.
In the midst of this fairy-like creation sat the proprietor thereof, by a hot-air stove, wrapped in a woollen dressing-gown, and engaged in measuring out his daily drops. A respectful manservant, wrinkled like a snake, and black-clothed like a rook, stood beside Mr. Spolger with a small printed form of directions, which he was reading for his master's information, with regard to the effects of the drops. The servant, Gimp by name, was moist about the eyes, a fact which suggested drink, and he read the dull little pamphlet in a subdued whisper which was pleasant to the ears of the valetudinarian.
"The effect of these drops," droned Gimp, with a weary sigh, for the pamphlet was by no means exciting, "is to raise the spirits. Mrs. Mopps, of Whitechapel, who suffered from rheumatics engendered by her daily occupation of charing, was advised to try them by a humble friend who had been cured by them of liver complaint. Mrs. Mopps did so, and took four drops daily in a wine-glassful of gin. She is now cured—"
"Ah!" said Spolger, with great satisfaction, "she is now cured."
"And doesn't suffer more than three days a week," finished Gimp, in a depressed tone.
"Oh, she's not quite cured, then," observed his master, regretfully; "it must have been the gin. Gin is so very bad."
"Very bad, sir," replied Gimp, like a parrot.
"It makes the eyes moist."
Mr. Gimp closed his own eyes tightly, aware that they betrayed him; but his master was too busy with his own ailments to trouble about the looks of any one else, and went on carefully with his measuring.
"Eight," he said, handing the bottle back to Gimp, "I think that will do for a beginning. How many diseases does it cure, did you say?"
"Seven," said Gimp, drearily; "liver, rheumatism, headache, bed sores, nerves, consumption, and delirious trimmings."
"Quite an all-round medicine. I've got a liver, and I often have a headache. I had rheumatism the winter before last; my nerves, of course, I always have. Bed sores? No, I've not had bed sores—yet."
"Not been in bed long enough, sir, I think," hinted Gimp, respectfully.
"No, quite right; but I may come to it. Consumption? Well, you know, Gimp, I'm not quite sure of my lung? What's the last?"
"Delirious trimmings, sir."
"I've not had that—I don't think I ever will have it; drink is death to me. I hope these drops will do me good. Give me the water, please. Ah, there that's right. Now!"
He drank off the mixture slowly, with the air of a connoisseur, and gave the empty glass to the servant.
"Not much taste, Gimp. No; I've tasted nastier. Put the glass away, please. Have you heard how Miss Marson is to-day?"
"Just the same, sir. Delirious."
"Ah! how terrible! I wonder if those drops would do her good?"
"I think not, sir," said Gimp, drifting towards the door; "it's 'er 'ead, ain't it, sir, not drink?"
"Yes, yes! You're quite right, Gimp. I must go over and see her again; and the day's so damp. Oh, dear, dear! Close the door, please, there's such a draught."
Gimp did as he was told, and retreated noiselessly from the room, after which Mr. Spolger went over all his ailments in his own mind to make sure that he had forgotten none of them, examined his tongue in the mirror, felt his pulse carefully, and having thus ministered to his own selfishness, gave a thought to the lady he was engaged to.
"Poor Florry!" he moaned thoughtfully, "how she must have loved that man, and he wasn't healthy. I'm sure there was consumption in his family. I wonder if she loves me as much. Ah, that faint was such a shock to my nerves; so unexpected. I'd had pins and needles in the left leg. That is the first sign of paralysis. Oh, I do hope I'm not going to get paralysis."
This idea so alarmed him that he arose hastily to see if his limbs would support him, and fell back in his chair with a subdued shriek as the shrill tones of an electric bell rang through the room.
"The front-door bell," he said, peevishly. "Oh, my nerves! I must really have the sound softened. I wonder who wants to see me. I won't be seen. Who is it?"
This question was addressed to Mr. Gimp, who had entered the room in his usual stealthy manner, and now handed his master two cards.
"Mr. Roger Axton and Mr. Octavius Fanks," read Spolger, slowly. "I can't see them, Gimp, I really can't. The action of the drops demands perfect quiet."
"The gentlemen have druv from town, sir."
"Well, they must just drive back again," said his master, crossly. "My compliments, Gimp, and I'm too ill to see them."
Gimp obediently retreated, but shortly afterwards returned with a curt message.
"Mr. Axton ses he must see you, sir."
"Oh, dear, dear!" moaned Spolger, irritably, "those healthy people have no consideration for an invalid. Well, if I must, Gimp, I must. But I see them under protest. Let them understand distinctly—under protest."
Gimp once more disappeared, and on his reappearance ushered in Axton and Fanks, whom Mr. Spolger received with peevish politeness.
"I'm sorry I kept you waiting, gentlemen," he said, waving his hand, "but my health, you know. I'm a mere wreck. I don't want to be jarred on. Pray be seated! Mr. Axton, you don't look well. Mr.—Mr.—"
"Fanks," said that gentleman, introducing himself, "Octavius Fanks, detective."
"Oh, indeed," replied Spolger, starting, "a detective, eh! I think I've seen your name in the papers lately."
"Yes," said Axton, bluntly, "in connection with the Jarlchester affair."
"Oh, indeed," repeated their host once more; "suicide, I believe, although Mr. Melstane did look consumptive. I incline to the latter. Now which idea do you favour, Mr. Fanks—suicide or consumption?"
"Neither! It was a case of murder."
"Murder!"
Mr. Spolger jumped up in his chair as if he had been shot, and his face turned a chalky white.
"Pooh pooh!" he said at length, with an attempt at jocularity, "absurd, monstrous! The jury said suicide."
"I'm aware of that," responded Fanks, coolly, "but I don't agree with the jury. Sebastian Melstane was murdered."
"By whom?"
"That's the mystery."
Spolger said nothing, but wriggled uneasily in his chair under the somewhat embarrassing gaze of his visitors, and at length burst out into feeble protests against their candour.
"Why do you speak to me like this? I don't know anything about murders. They upset my nerves. I'm quite unstrung with all I've come through. What with Miss Marson's illness, and Melstane's death, and all kind of things, I'm quite uneasy in my mind."
"What about?" asked Fanks, sharply.
"I've mentioned what about," retorted Spolger, tartly. "I wish you would go away."
"So we will when you've answered our questions."
"I won't answer any questions."
"Oh, yes, you will. It will be wiser for you to do so."
"I—I—don't understand," stammered Spolger, feebly.
"Then I'll explain," said Fanks, composedly. "Melstane died from taking a morphia pill, which was placed in a box of tonic pills by some unknown person."
"And what's that got to do with me?"
"Everything," said Axton, suddenly speaking. "Remember the story you told at Mr. Marson's the other day. You had the box of tonic pills in your possession for a time, and—"
"Oh," interrupted Spolger, very indignantly. "And I suppose you'll say that I put the morphia pill into the box in order to kill Melstane!"
"That's the idea," said Fanks, coolly.
"A very ridiculous one."
"I don't see it. You did not like Melstane, because he was loved by Miss Marson. You use morphia for your 'Soother,' so what was to prevent your acting as you suggest?"
"Don't—don't!" cried Spolger, putting out his shaking hands with a sudden movement of terror. "You'll argue the rope round my neck before I can defend myself. I did not like Melstane, certainly, but I had not the slightest idea of killing him. I'll swear it."
Fanks suddenly arose to his feet, and walked across the room to a shelf whereon were displayed a number of drugs in glass bottles. The invalid had risen to his feet, and was looking steadily at him, while Axton, similarly fascinated by Fanks' actions, leaned forward to see what he was doing.
The detective's hand hovered lightly over the array of bottles, then suddenly swooped down with the swiftness of a hawk upon one which he bore to the table. It was a large glass bottle half filled with a white powder, and labelled "Morphia."
"There!" he said, as he placed it before Spolger, triumphantly.
"I know that bottle. But what has that to do with this murder?"
"Melstane died from morphia."
"It's no good going over the old ground," said Spolger, with a scowl. "I can easily prove my innocence. Please touch that bell, Mr. Axton."
Roger did so, whereupon a shrill sound rang through the house, and Mr. Spolger dropped back into his chair with an expression of acute suffering on his face. Then Gimp made his appearance with such marvellous rapidity that it was quite plain that he must have been listening outside the door, but he walked into the room with the utmost composure, and waited to be addressed.
"Gimp," said his master, sharply, "do you remember the day Mr. Melstane called?"
"I do, sir."
"Do you remember what took place?"
"Certainly, sir."
"Then tell these gentlemen all about it."
Gimp at once addressed himself to Fanks, who stood by the table with one hand on the jar of morphia and the other in his pocket, looking at the servant to see if he was speaking the truth.
"Mr. Melstane called, sir," said the respectable Gimp, deliberately, "a few weeks ago to see my master. He saw him, and I believe, sir, they had words."
Spolger nodded his head to affirm that such was the case. "I was called in, sir, to show Mr. Melstane out. I did so, and he swore awful."
"And after you showed Mr. Melstane out?"
"I came back, sir, to this room, and found my master much agitated—nerves, I think, sir."
"Yes; a bad attack!"
"My master pointed to a pill-box on the floor, and told me to run after Mr. Melstane with it. I did so, but could not see him, so I took the pill-box down to Mr. Melstane's lodgings that evening."
"The pill-box was in your possession the whole time?"
"Yes, sir! It was wrapped in white paper, and sealed with red wax, sir. I didn't know it was a pill-box till master told me."
"And I knew it was, because Melstane held it out to me and asked me if I made pills like that," said Spolger, savagely. "Well, Mr. Axton, I hope you are satisfied."
"Perfectly," said Fanks, with great politeness; "but please tell me, when did you use this morphia last?"
"Not for months," replied Spolger; "the pills are made at the factory, and I never trouble about them. I don't know if you've noticed it, sir, in your desire to make out a case against me, but that bottle is tied with string across the stopper and sealed."
"Ah! that's the very thing I'm coming to. The seal is broken."
"Impossible!" cried Spolger, coming to the table to examine the bottle; "I haven't used it for a long time, and sealed it when I last used it! Gimp, how is this?"
"I'm sure I don't know, sir; the bottle ain't been touched to my knowledge."
"Does any one else come into this room?"
"None of the servants," said Spolger, after a pause;
"Gimp looks after everything here."
"Oh! what about your visitors?"
"Well, now and then I see some one here—just like yourselves."
There was a faint hesitation in his tone, which Fanks was quick to detect, and which prompted his next question: "Has Mr. Marson been in here?"
"Often!"
"And Miss Varlins?"
"Oh, yes! both the ladies have been here; but they would not touch any of my drugs. They know how particular I am."
Fanks said nothing, but remained for a time in meditative silence, which Spolger broke by asking him if he would take some refreshment.
"No, thank you," he replied, quickly. "I'm much obliged to you, sir, for your courtesy. Are you ready, Roger?"
"Oh, yes, I'm coming," said Axton, rising to his feet. "Have you heard how Miss Marson is to-day, Spolger?"
"Just the same, I believe."
"Poor girl!"
"Yes, it's dreadful!" responded Spolger, with a groan; "of course the marriage will have to be put off. I'm not sorry, because I'm so upset. Fancy being taken for a murderer!"
"Oh! not as bad as that," said Fanks, good-naturedly; "I only thought you might throw some light on the mysterious affair."
"Well, I can't," said Spolger, curtly.
"No; I see that. Good day, sir."
"Good day," replied their host, with a bow. "I hope you'll be successful in your search for the real criminal."
Fanks made no reply, as he had his own idea regarding Mr. Spolger's good wishes, but departed, followed by Axton; the last thing they heard being the voice of the invalid complaining about the door being left open.
When they were seated in their cab and once more on their way to Ironfields, Fanks broke the silence first.
"Roger, it was a mare's nest after all."
"Yes; he knows nothing."
"I'm not so sure about that."
"Do you mean to say he is concealing something?"
"I don't know what to say," said Fanks, testily, "but I think some one else is concealing something."
"Whom do you mean?"
"You'll be angry if I tell you."
"No, I won't. Who is it?"
"Judith Varlins!"