At the sound of Alan's voice Mrs. Warrender started like a guilty thing. He was astonished beyond measure at finding her in the same unsavory neighborhood as himself, bound, for all he knew, on the same errand. At all events, it was surely more than a coincidence that she should be on the threshold of Gramp's dwelling, so to speak.
"Mrs. Warrender," he said, gravely lifting his hat, "this is indeed a surprise. Of course, you know what has happened at Heathton?"
"I know all," answered the woman, in a rich, low voice. "Jarks, the sexton, told my servant this morning what has happened to poor Julian, and that his body has been found in the Marlow vault."
"Are you sure you did not know of it last night?" asked Alan quietly.
"Mr. Thorold!"
The color rushed to her face.
"I mean that the letter which disturbed you so much might have hinted at the murder."
"A letter? How do you know I got a letter last night?"
"The Rector called to break the news to you this morning, and your servant told him that you already knew it; also that you had left for London--with your jewels, Mrs. Warrender," added Alan significantly.
"And you followed me!" cried the woman savagely. "Do you intend to accuse me of my husband's murder?"
"I certainly do not; and I did not follow you. I am here on the same errand as yourself."
She looked terrified.
"How do you know what my errand is?"
"Because I can put two and two together, Mrs. Warrender. I also received a letter--at least, Miss Marlow did, and from the same man--the man who lives here."
"Cicero Gramp?"
"That is the name. You see, I was right. Does he intend to blackmail you also, and did you bring your jewels to satisfy his demands?"
She looked down the court. They were comparatively alone. A few ragged children were playing about, and some slatternly women were watching them from doorways. A man or two, brutalized by drink, hovered in the distance. But a smart constable, who passed and repassed the entrance of the cul-de-sac, casting inquisitive glances at Alan and his companion, kept these birds of prey from any nearer approach. Finding that they were out of earshot, Mrs. Warrender produced a letter and handed it to Alan. It was written on the same thick, creamy paper, and in the same elegant handwriting as had been the communication to Sophy. He read it in silence. As he had expected, it informed Mrs. Warrender that her husband was dead, and that Cicero Gramp, on payment of two hundred pounds, could inform her where the body could be found. His price had evidently gone up. But what struck Alan most was the nature of the information now offered. Cicero declared that he could tell the widow where her husband's body was to be found. The body had already been discovered in the Marlow vault. Ergo, Cicero Gramp knew it was there. If so, had he seen the murder committed and the body taken into the vault? It seemed probable. Indeed, it seemed likely that he could solve the whole mystery; but, strangely enough, the prospect did not seem to afford Mr. Thorold much satisfaction. He handed back the letter with a dissatisfied smile.
"I think you have wasted your time coming up," he said. "Jarks, no doubt, told your servant that the doctor's body had already been discovered. Why, then, come up to pay blackmail?"
"I want to find out who killed Julian," she said.
"Then you are on your way to see this man?"
"Yes." She shuddered. "But this terrible place. I am afraid."
"Then why come here? I am going to see Mr. Gramp on Miss Marlow's behalf. If you like, I will represent you also."
"No, thank you; I must see him myself."
"Very well. I suppose you are not staying in town?"
"Yes, at the Norfolk Hotel. I shall remain until to-morrow, so as to sell my jewels and bribe this man."
"There will be no need to sell your jewels," said Alan soothingly. "I will be responsible for the blackmail. Have you the jewels with you?"
"No, I dared not bring them. He might have robbed me. They are in my bedroom at the hotel."
"Then go back at once and look after them. I will bring this man there in, let us say, an hour."
"Thank you, Mr. Thorold," she said. "I accept your offer. I am really afraid to go down that slum."
He gazed after her fine figure as she walked hurriedly away. Somehow that haughty air and resolute gait did not fit in well with her expression of fear. It was curious. He felt there was something strange about Mrs. Warrender. However, she had been open enough with him, so he did not choose to think badly of her.
The man he sought was not easy to find. Mr. Cramp had his own reasons for keeping clear of the police. The whole alley was known by the name of Dixon's Rents, and Thorold had no idea in which of the houses to ask for him. He questioned a stunted street Arab with wolfish eyes, emphasizing his request with a sixpence.
"Oh, Cicero!" yelped the lad, biting the coin. "Yuss, he's round about. Dunno! Y'ain't a 'tec?"
"What's that?"
"A de-tec-tive," drawled the boy. "Cicero ain't wanted, is he?"
"Not by me. Is Cicero generally--er--wanted?" inquired Alan delicately.
The urchin closed one eye rapidly, and grinned with many teeth. But, instead of replying he took to shouting hoarsely for "Mother Ginger." The surrounding population popped out of their burrows like so many rabbits, and for the next few minutes "Mother Ginger" was asked for vigorously. Alan looked round at the ragged, blear-eyed slum-dwellers, but could see nothing of the lady in question. Suddenly his arm was twitched, and he turned to find a dwarf no higher than his waist trying to attract his attention. Mother Ginger, for it was she, had a huge head of red hair, fantastically decked with ribbons of many colors. Her dress, too, was rainbow-hued, like Joseph's coat. She had carpet slippers on her huge feet, and white woolen gloves on her large hands. Her face was as large as a frying-pan and of a pallid hue, with expressionless blue eyes and a big mouth. Alan saw in her a female Quasimodo.
"Wot is it?" she inquired. Evidently Mother Ginger was vain of her finery and of the attention she attracted. "Is it Mr. Gramp you want, m'dimber-cove?"
"Yes. Can you take me to him?" asked Thorold, wincing at the penny-whistle quality of her voice. "Is he at home?"
"P'r'aps he is, p'r'aps he ain't," retorted Mother Ginger, with a fascinating leer. "Wot d'ye want with him?"
"This will explain." And Alan put Cicero's letter into her hand. "Give him that."
She nodded, croaked like a bull-frog, and vanished amongst the crowd. Mr. Thorold found himself the center of attraction and the object of remark.
This somewhat unpleasant position was put an end to by the appearance of Mother Ginger, who clawed Alan, and drew him into a house at the end of the court. The tatterdemalions gave a yell of disappointment at the escape of their prey, and their prey congratulated himself that he had not made his visit at night. He felt that he might have fared badly in this modern Court of Miracles. However, it appeared that he was safe under the protection of Mother Ginger. With the activity of a monkey, she conducted him up a dirty staircase and into a bare room furnished with a bed, a chair, and a table. Here Alan was greeted by a bulky creature in a gorgeous red dressing-gown, old and greasy, but still pretentious. He had no difficulty in recognizing the man whom he had seen reciting on the parade at Bournemouth.
"I welcome you, Mr. Thorold," said Cicero in his best Turveydrop style. "Mother Ginger, depart."
To get rid of the woman, Mr. Thorold placed a shilling in her concave claw, upon which she executed a kind of war-dance, and vanished with a yelp of delight. Left alone with the pompous vagabond, the young man took the only chair, and faced his host, who was sitting majestically on the bed, his red dressing-gown wrapped round him in regal style.
"So you are Cicero Gramp?" began Alan. "I have seen you----"
"At Bournemouth," interrupted the professor of elocution and eloquence. "True, I was there for the benefit of my health."
"And to blackmail Miss Marlow."
"Blackmail--a painful word, Mr. Thorold."
"How do you know my name?"
"It is part of my business to know all names," was the answer--"ex nihilo nihil fit, if you understand the tongue of my namesake. If I did not know what I desire to know, my income would be small indeed. I visited the salubrious village of Heathton, and learned there that Miss Marlow and Mr. Thorold, to whom she was engaged, were recreating themselves at the seaside with an inferior companion. Bournemouth was the seaside, and I went there. On seeing a young lady with a spinster and a gentleman in attendance, I noted Miss Marlow, Mr. Thorold, and Miss Parsh."
"And made yourself scarce?"
"I did," admitted Cicero frankly. "I departed as soon as you were out of sight, knowing that my letter would be delivered, and that you might call in the police."
"Ah, a guilty conscience!"
"Far from it." Cicero flung open his dressing-gown and struck his chest. "Here purity and innocence and peace are enthroned. I did not wish to be taken by the minions of the law, lest they should wrest from me for nothing what I should prefer to sell for a few pounds. Besides, I wished to see you in my own house. A poor establishment," said Mr. Gramp, looking round the meager room, "but mine own."
He bowed gracefully, as if for applause.
"Come, Mr. Gramp," said Alan diplomatically, "let us get to business. What do you know about this matter?"
"About the hundred pounds?" asked the man with an appearance of great simplicity.
"I'll pay you that, more or less, when I know what your information is worth."
"More or less won't do, Mr. Thorold. I want, from Miss Marlow or from you, one hundred pounds."
"I know, and two hundred from Mrs. Warrender."
"Ah!"--Cicero did not move a muscle--"she has told you that I can give you information about the body of her husband?"
"Yes, and she has come to town to see you. However, I have intercepted her, and she is waiting to see you in a place I know of. You must come with me, Mr. Gramp."
But Cicero shook his head uneasily.
"An Englishman's house is his castle," he said. "This is my house, my keep, my donjon.Quod erat demonstrandum!"
"Oh, confound your dictionary Latin!" cried Alan impatiently. "You are afraid of the police?"
"Far from it, Mr. Thorold. I have nothing to fear from them. For one hundred pounds I lay bare my heart."
"I'll give you fifty pounds on condition you tell me all you know. From Mrs. Warrender you won't receive a penny."
"Then she shall never know where lies the body of her late lamented partner."
"She knows that already," said Alan coolly.
"Ha!"--Cicero gave a dramatic start--"you seek to deceive me!"
"Indeed, I do nothing of the sort; I found the body myself."
"Where, may I ask?" said Gramp, his thoughts going back to the hut on the heath.
"In the Marlow vault, in the coffin of the dead man who was carried away."
Cicero's jaw fell. He was truly surprised.
"How the devil did it get there from the hut?" he said.
"The hut--what hut?"
"I want my money before I tell you that, Mr. Thorold."
Alan took five ten-pound notes out of his pocket.
"Here is fifty pounds," he said; "it will be yours if you tell me all you know, and come with me to see Mrs. Warrender."
"Aha!" Cicero's eyes glittered, and his fingers longed to clutch the money. Such wealth had not been his for many a long day. "And the police?"
"I thought you did not fear them?" was the reply.
"I don't, for I have done nothing to put myself in the power of the law. But I am afraid, as this body has been found, that you will have me arrested, and so I shall lose the money."
"If you are innocent of the murder and the sacrilege, you won't be arrested, Gramp. And the money I will give you after we have seen Mrs. Warrender."
"On your word of honor as a gentleman?"
"Yes, on my word of honor. If you can throw light on this mystery, and bring home these crimes to the person who has committed them, I am quite willing to pay you."
"I don't know about bringing home the crimes, Mr. Thorold," said Cicero, rising, "but I will tell you all I know in the presence of Mrs. Warrender. Permit me to assume my visiting garb. Where is the lady?"
"At the Norfolk Hotel."
"I know it. Many a glass which cheers have I drained there.Dulce desipere in loco. You don't know Horace, perhaps?"
"I suspect you don't," said Alan, annoyed by this hedge-Latin. "Hurry up!"
"Fifty pounds, Mr. Thorold."
"After our interview with Mrs. Warrender," amended the other significantly.
"Command my services," said Cicero, and rapidly put on his frock-coat, battered hat and gloves.
After he had brushed his greasy broadcloth, and dusted his large boots with the red bandana, he announced that he was ready.
The oddly-assorted pair proceeded to the Norfolk Hotel through the Lambeth slums. Cicero seemed to be very well known and very popular. He exchanged greetings with shady acquaintances, patted ragged children on the head, and arrived at the hotel swelling with pride. He felt that he had shown Alan he was a man of consequence. Arrived at their destination, they were shown by a slipshod waiter into a shabby sitting-room on the first floor where they found Mrs. Warrender. She rose, and on seeing Cicero, gave a shriek of surprise.
"Bill!" she cried with a gasp.
"Clara Maria!" exclaimed the so-called Cicero, "my beloved sister! What a surprise!"
"Well, I never!" gasped the widow, who, womanlike, was the first to find her tongue. "Is it really you, Billy?--but I might have guessed it, from your writing. Yet it never entered my head!" She stopped and grew suddenly furious. "My husband, you wretch!--have you killed him?"
"No, Clara Maria, no! I came here to give information about his poor body. I did not expect to find my sister--the celebrated Miss de Crespigny--in the person of Mrs. Warrender!"
"What is all this about?" demanded Alan quietly. "Is this your brother, Mrs. Warrender?"
"To my shame, sir, I confess this--this creature"--Mrs. Warrender brought out the word with a hiss--"this degraded beast, is my brother."
"Oh, Clara Maria, how can you----"
"Hold your tongue!" interrupted the lady angrily. "You were always a drunkard and a scoundrel! Now you've come to blackmailing! Two hundred pounds from me, you wretch! Not one sixpence!"
"I have already," said her brother majestically, "arranged pecuniary matters with my friend Mr. Thorold. But I wonder at you, Clara Maria, I really do, considering how we parted. Is this the greeting of flesh and blood?" cried Mr. Gramp in a soaring voice, and standing on tiptoe. "Is this what human nature is made of? The late Sir Isaac Newton was a prophet indeed when he made that remark."
"Mountebank!" hissed Mrs. Warrender, curling her handsome lip.
"We were both mountebanks at one time, Mr. Thorold," he said, turning to Alan, who, in spite of his anxiety, was watching the scene with unconcealed amusement. "My sister was the celebrated Miss de Crespigny; I, the once noted actor, Vavasour Belgrave----"
"And his real name is Billy Spinks!" put in Mrs. Warrender scornfully.
"William Spinks," corrected Mr. Gramp, as it may be convenient to call him. "Billy is merely an endearing term to which, alas! your lips have long been strangers. But you needn't talk," said Cicero, becoming angry, and therewith a trifle vulgar; "your name is Clara Maria Spinks!"
"And a very good name, too," retorted the lady. "Cut the scene short, Billy."
"That is my advice also," put in Alan, who was growing weary. "I do not want to know any more about your relationship. That you are brother and sister is nothing to me."
"I hope, Mr. Thorold, that you won't reveal my degraded connection in Heathton," cried Mrs. Warrender, much agitated. "It would ruin me. With great difficulty I attained a position by marrying my poor dear Julian, and I don't want to fall back into the mud where this worm writhes." She darted a vicious glance at Cicero.
"Be content, Mrs. Warrender; your secret is safe with me."
"Denying her own flesh and blood!" moaned Gramp, and sat down.
Speech and attitude were most effective, and Mrs. Warrender, with a spark of her old theatrical humor, played back.
"Yes, I deny you," she cried, rising quickly and stretching out a denunciatory hand. "You were always a brute and a disgrace to me. Look at that creature, Mr. Thorold! He is my brother. Our parents were on the stage--barnstormers they were--and played in the provinces for bite and sup. They put us on the stage, and when thy died, left a little money to Billy there. He was to bring me up. How did he fulfil his trust? By making me work for him. As an actor, even in the meanest parts, he was a failure. I am not much of an actress myself, although I was well known as Miss de Crespigny, and billed all over London. It was my figure and my looks that did it. I appeared in burlesque ten or twelve years ago, and I had wealth at my feet."
"I have heard of you," said Alan, recalling his college days and certain photographs of the most beautiful burlesque actress in London. He wondered he had not recognized her long before. Mrs. Warrender, shaking with passion, went on as though she had not heard him.
"Wealth was at my feet," went on the widow--"wealth and dishonor. He," she cried, and pointed the finger of scorn at the unabashed Cicero, "he lived on me! He would have me stoop to dishonor for his sake! Then I lost my voice. The creature treated me basely. I left him; I ran away to the States of America, and appeared in ballets for my looks alone. In New Orleans I met Julian Warrender--he was old, but he was madly in love with me--and I married him for a home. We came to England five years ago, and settled at Heathton. I always did my best to be a good wife, although I dare say I was extravagant. Diamonds! yes, I have diamonds, and I made Julian buy me all he could. And why?--to provide against the days of poverty which I knew would come. They have come--my husband is dead. God help me!" Her voice rose to a scream. "Murdered!" she cried.
"This," interpolated Gramp, addressing no one in particular, "is very painful."
"You beast! Why do you come into my life again? I wanted to know about my poor husband's death, and I brought up my jewels to bribe the man who called himself Cicero Gramp into confessing who had murdered him. I find that my own brother is the blackmailer. You would extort money from me, you wretch! Never! never! never! I disown you--I cast you out! William Spinks, blackguard you were! Cicero Gramp, scoundrel, thief, blackmailer, and, for all I know, murderer, you are! Away with you--away!" and Mrs. Warrender, very white in face and very exhausted in body, sat down.
"Very good," said her brother, rising; "I go."
"Without your fifty pounds?" asked Alan, sneering.
"I forgot that," he said, smiling blandly.
"Don't give him a penny, Mr. Thorold!" cried the woman with vehemence.
"I promised him the money, and he shall have it," replied Alan coldly. "I have heard your story, Mrs. Warrender, and it is safe with me. No one in Heathton shall know. Your brother will not speak of it either."
"How do you know that?" asked Cicero, with an evil look.
"Because you shall not have the fifty pounds until I have your promise to hold your tongue about your relationship to Mrs. Warrender while you are in Heathton."
"I am not going to Heathton," growled Gramp like a sulky bear.
"Yes, you are. You are coming to tell your story to Inspector Blair. If you don't, not only will you lose your fifty pounds, but I will have you arrested as a suspicious character."
"You promised that the police should not touch me."
"I promised nothing of the sort. Now, tell me what you saw of these crimes--for there are two: sacrilege and murder--and then come to Heathton. Behave well, keep Mrs. Warrender's secret, and you shall have fifty pounds and your freedom. Otherwise----" Alan held up his finger.
"Oh, Mr. Thorold!" cried the widow, wringing her hands, "if this horrible man comes to Heathton, I am lost!"
"Indeed no! He will hold his tongue. Won't you?"
"You seem very sure of it," said the professor of eloquence.
"Of course I am. You see, Mr. Gramp, I have the handling of the late Mr. Marlow's money, and I can buy your silence."
"Not for fifty pounds."
"We shall see about that. It's either fifty pounds or the police. Choose!"
Cicero folded his arms, and bowed his head.
"I will take the money," he said, "and I will hold my tongue--while I am at Heathton giving my evidence. Afterwards----" he looked at his sister.
"Afterwards," said Alan smoothly, "we will make other arrangements. Now tell your story."
"And tell the truth!" put in Mrs. Warrender sharply.
"Clara Maria!" Cicero was about to break forth in furious speech, but he restrained himself. "Hodie mihi eras tibi!" said Mr. Gramp, with a strange look at Alan--"if you understand Latin."
"I think I am able to follow you, my friend. You mean 'To-day to me, to-morrow to thee,' which would be all right if it was I who quoted the saying. But this time it is not your day, and as to your to-morrow, it may never come."
"We shall see about that," said Cicero savagely and pointedly.
Alan felt an unpleasant thrill run through him, for the man's look was evil beyond telling. But he betrayed nothing of this, and signed to Gramp to continue.
Quite understanding the position, Cicero reverted to his grand theatrical manner. He rose from his chair, rested one hand on the back of it, and thrust the other into his breast. As from a rostrum he delivered his speech, and dwelt upon his own words with the gusto of a modern Micawber.
"Mr. Thorold and Clara Maria," he began in deep tones, "a few days ago circumstances connected with money turned me weary and hungry from the seaport of Southampton. I went--let us be plain--I went on the tramp, and in the course of my peregrinations I drew near Heathton, a salubrious village, notorious at the present moment for the crimes which have been committed there. I spun a coin, my only sixpence, to decide if an intrusion into that village would bring me good or evil fortune. The coin said good, so to Heathton I went. As I shall shortly pocket fifty quid--a vulgar term, but eloquent, Clara Maria, so don't frown--I dare not say that my only sixpence told me a lie. That sixpence bought me a meal in the Heathton public-house. Where is that meal or sixpence now?Eheu! Fuit Ilium."
"Go on," said Alan curtly, for the orator paused.
"At the Good Samaritan I heard much about Mr. Marlow and the funeral, and learned a few facts which were of use to me afterwards."
"When you thrust yourself into the kitchen at the Moat House, I presume?"
"You are correct, Mr. Thorold. I did good business there; and I learned, from the irresponsible chatter of the domestics, a few other facts which may also prove valuable."
He looked directly at Alan as he said this.
"Go on! go on!" said Thorold again. But he felt uneasy.
"I was turned out of the Good Samaritan by a hard-hearted landlady called--appropriately, I confess--Mrs. Timber. As the night was fine, I slept in the churchyard, opposite the tomb of Mr. Marlow. Soon after midnight I was awakened by voices. I looked out, and saw two men, one tall, the other short."
"Who were they?" Alan asked anxiously.
"One I knew later; the other one I am still in doubt about, as I did not see his face."
"But the names?"
"You shall hear the names, Clara Maria, when I am ready, not before. These men went into the tomb, remained there for some time, and came out with the body. They lifted it over the low wall of the churchyard, and went, I think, across the moor."
"You followed?" cried Alan breathlessly.
"No. I was afraid I might get into trouble, so I ran in the opposite direction. I slept the rest of the night in a hayrick far from the churchyard. Next day I sought the Moat House kitchen, and listened to the talk of the servants. Then I went away with the idea of seeing Miss Marlow at Bournemouth, as the servants said she was there with Mr. Thorold. On the moor I saw a hut. I went into it to eat a frugal meal. In it I found"--Cicero paused to give his words due effect--"a corpse."
"Whose corpse?"
"That of the man who had assisted to steal the body, Clara Maria. Your husband, Dr. Warrender!"
"You liar!" shrieked the widow, making a bound at him. "Oh, you liar!"
Alan flung himself between these affectionate relatives, or it might have fared badly with Cicero.
"Hold hard, Mrs. Warrender!" he said, holding her back; "let us listen."
"Listen to his lies! Do you hear that he says my husband stole Mr. Marlow's body?"
"So he did," said Cicero doggedly. "I'm telling you what I shall tell to the police. The tall man was Dr. Warrender. I saw his face in the lantern-light. Who the short man was I do not know."
"How did you recognize Dr. Warrender?" demanded Alan, when Mrs. Warrender had sat down again.
"I didn't know him at the time; but I had his description from the servants."
"Tall, yellow beard, bald head?" said Thorold rapidly.
"Yes, that was the man who assisted to remove the body, and that is the description of the corpse I found in the hut."
"My husband's body was found in the vault, you liar!" cried the widow.
"Was it, Clara Maria? Well, all I can say is I don't know how it got there. I left it in the hut myself."
"Why did you not give information to the police?"
"What! And get locked up on suspicion of murder? No, thank you, Mr. Thorold. I ran away from that corpse as I would have done from the devil."
"Whose child you are," said his sister bitterly.
"Don't miscall your own father, Clara Maria. Well, sir, I went on to Bournemouth, and wrote two letters, one to Miss Marlow, and one to my sister, although I did not know she was my sister then. Had I known I had a relative in Heathton," said Cicero with pathos, "I should have asked for a bed."
"And your sister, Billy Spinks, would have set the dogs on you."
"I am sure you would, Clara Maria. You were always one for sentimental scenes."
"Tell me, Gramp, is this all you know of these crimes?" put in Alan.
"All, Mr. Thorold. I think, sir, it is worth fifty pounds."
"Humph! We'll see what the police say. You have no objection, I suppose, to come with me to Heathton and repeat this story?"
"Having a clear conscience," said Cicero, with a superior smile, "I can safely say that I have not. But the fifty, Mr. Thorold?"
"Will be paid after you have told Blair this story."
"If you are so poor," put in Mrs. Warrender, "where did you get money to buy that writing-paper? It was costly paper."
"It was," admitted Mr. Gramp with pride--"it was, Clara Maria. I always do things in style. If you remember, I got a prize at school for letter-writing."
"Where did you get the money?"
"From a nautical man called Joe Brill--a sovereign."
"A sovereign from Joe Brill?" cried Alan, starting. "Why?"
"Ah! you may ask," said Cicero. "In my opinion it was hush-money."
"Hush-money! What do you mean, man?"
"Mean! I mean that I believe Joe Brill was the short man I saw that night. Yes, Mr. Thorold, Joe stole the corpse, and Joe killed foully, with a knife, my respected brother-in-law.Hinc illæ lachrymæ!"
Whilst Alan Thorold was dealing with Cicero and his sister in London, Inspector Blair was co-operating with the Rector in obtaining evidence relating to the murder. The inspector was a dry, dour, silent man, born in England, but of Scotch descent. He was cautious to a fault, and never expressed an opinion without having well considered what he was going to say. It was now a common sight in Heathton for his long, lean figure and the Rector's short, plump one to be seen constantly together.
He was now in the Rectory dining-room with a good glass of port beside him, and Mr. Phelps, standing on the hearthrug, was supplying him with all the details he had collected in connection with the mystery. The case was getting so much more interesting than Blair, the sad and silent, had expected that he was becoming, for him, quite vivacious. He asked the Rector one question after another.
"Mr. Thorold has gone to Dixon's Rents, sir?"
"Yes, Mr. Inspector; I expect he'll have some news for us when he returns to-night."
"He seems a clever young gentleman," Blair said musingly. "I dare say he will bring this man Gramp with him."
"Do you think that Gramp can point out the guilty person?"
"That, sir, I am not prepared to say offhand. If convenient, I should like to take a look round."
"Certainly. Where shall we go, Mr. Inspector?" and Mr. Phelps rose briskly.
"To the vault, if you please, sir. Afterwards we will call on Mrs. Marry."
The Rector paused at the door.
"I told you all Mrs. Marry had to say about Brown."
"Quite so, sir. But I wish to have a look at the rooms occupied by the man. Also, I think it would be as well to examine his luggage."
"Can you do that without a warrant?"
"I'll take the risk," said Blair coolly. "An examination may not be quite legal under the circumstances, but as Brown undoubtedly procured the key of the vault by that forged letter, I am entitled to look upon him as a suspicious character. Should he come back, sir--of which I have my doubts--I can account for my action."
"Humph! I think you are right. Come, then, and look at the vault."
To the vault they went, and found Jarks showing the outside of it to a crowd of morbid sightseers. Indeed, the tragedy had drawn people from far and near to Heathton, and the usually quiet place buzzed like a hive. Mrs. Timber was making her fortune, and blessed the day she had turned Cicero the tramp out of her house. To him alone did Mrs. Timber ascribe the theft of the body. As to his connection with the murder of Dr. Warrender, she was not so certain.
"Come, come!" cried Mr. Phelps, in his fussy manner, on finding Jarks haranguing the crowd. "This is most ridiculous--most out of place. Jarks, I am astonished at your desecrating the graveyard in this way."
"No desecration, reverend sir," said Jarks, in his rusty voice, "I wos only showing 'em where I laid Muster Marlow by, comfortable. Go----"
"Go away--go away, all of you!"
"Come on to the right!" shouted Jarks. "I'll show 'ee where a soocide as they brought in crazy is tucked away. A lovely grave with a good view, an' as nice a stone as I iver seed. In my young days he'd have been buried in cross-roads with a stake, but they do trate 'em kindly nowadays. Ah yis. This way to the soocide, neighbors!" And Jarks headed the crowd to the other side of the graveyard. The keen, cold eye of Inspector Blair cleared them out more quickly than Jarks' invitation.
"Dear me! most indiscreet of Jarks!" said the Rector, opening the door of the vault. "Come in, Mr. Inspector. Here's a candle. Tut, tut! I've burnt my fingers. Deuce take---- Hum--God forgive me for bad language! This is the niche, Mr. Inspector; yonder the coffin--a very handsome one. The lead is cut, you perceive. Ah, poor soul! And we meant it to last till the Great Day."
While the Rector ran on in this fashion, Blair the silent examined the empty coffin. He noted that the lead casing had been cut with a sharp instrument, and very neatly done--so neatly that the inspector became thoughtful.
"That wasn't done by a man in a hurry," he mused. But he said nothing, and merely turned to Mr. Phelps with a question: "Who screwed down the coffin?"
"Who?--bless me, let me think! Yes, yes. Dr. Warrender--poor soul!--and Joe Brill. Faithful fellow, Joe! Would see the last of his master."
"Wasn't the undertaker present?"
"Crank? Well, yes, he was. But I am sorry to say, Mr. Inspector"--here the face of the Rector became severe--"that on that day Crank was intoxicated."
"H'm! Who made him drunk?"
"Himself, I suppose," rejoined Mr. Phelps, a trifle tartly. "Crank requires no one to tempt him."
"Few men do, sir," said Blair, and again examined the coffin. He passed his long, delicate hand over every inch of it, particularly fingering the lid; then he looked round the niche where it rested, peered into the others, and considered well all that he saw, while Mr. Phelps chattered. "Quite so," said the detective at length; "let us go outside."
He examined the graveyard as carefully as he had done the vault. In the angle formed by the Lady Chapel he found the long grass crushed down, and part of it torn up to make a pillow.
"Humph! a squatting-place," said Blair, who had read a good deal about prehistoric man. "A tramp has been sleeping here."
"A tramp!" repeated the Rector. "Of course that was Cicero Gramp, who wrote the letter."
"No doubt. I dare say he saw the whole business." Blair continued his researches, and came to a halt at the wall which divided church-yard from pine-wood. He pointed to a loose stone which had been knocked off. "Did you observe this before, sir?"
"No," replied Mr. Phelps, raising his pince-nez. "But that's nothing. You see, the wall has been put together without mortar--simply stones piled one on top of the other. A high wind, now----"
"I don't think a high wind knocked this stone off. You will notice, sir, that it has fallen on the other side. Excuse me," and Blair, active as a deer, leaped over the wall and disappeared into the pine-belt. Phelps rubbed his nose, not understanding these Red Indian methods. In ten minutes the inspector returned. "I can't find the trail," said he, "but from the evidence of that wall, I suspect the body was carried over it."
"Where to, Mr. Inspector?"
"Probably to a cart waiting on the highroad, which runs across the moor. But, of course, I'm in the dark as to that. Let me see the keyhole of the vault-door." He went back and had a good look at it. There were no scratches to be seen. "Humph!" said the inspector; "this was opened quietly enough, and by a man who knew what he was about. There was no hurry or fumbling in putting in the key."
"Ah!" said the Rector, looking wise. "What key? Not this one?"
"No, Mr. Phelps, I don't suspect you. Probably the key was that stolen from Mr. Thorold's desk by the Quiet Gentleman."
"You speak as though you were not quite sure."
"There might have been a third key," Blair said cautiously.
"If so, why should Brown have stolen Thorold's key?"
"That's one of the things I have to find out. Let us call on Mrs. Marry."
Mrs. Marry was a voluble, buxom woman, with rosy cheeks, and a great amount of curiosity as to matters which did not concern her. But, clever as she was, it seemed that she had nothing to tell about Mr. Brown. With many curtsies and much talk she conducted Rector and inspector into a gimcrack parlor full of gaudy furniture, Berlin wool mats, antimacassars, and wax flowers.
"When Jeremiah died," explained the widow with pride, "I spent the nest-egg he left me on that elegant set of chairs and sofa, also on the curtains, table, and glass lusters, which are considered very fine. It was my intent, gentlemen, as a lone widder, to take in single gentlemen, and they likes something to tickle the eye."
"A most inviting room, Mrs. Marry," said the Rector, perching himself carefully on a fragile chair, all varnish and design, but entirely wanting in solidity; "but Mr. Brown----"
"Ah, sir, he's gone where we must all go;" and Mrs. Marry wiped away an imaginary tear.
But her remark called forth a question from Blair, who had been making a close examination of the room:
"How do you know he is dead?"
"Bless the man! wouldn't he be back if he wasn't? I'm sure he was comfortable enough, and my cooking is above blame, thank Heaven! If any one----"
"Mr. Brown went out at nine o'clock?" said Blair, cutting her short.
"I won't deceive you, Mr. Policeman, he did. He stayed in most of the day, and went out in the afternoon. At six he came back for his bit and sup, and at nine he went out again to take the air. He said so, at least, and I ain't set eyes on him since."
"He said so?" remarked Mr. Phelps.
"On his fingers, of course. He was dumb, sir, but not deaf, and he conversed on his fingers wonderful. I can talk myself that way," said Mrs. Marry gravely, "having a niece as is deaf and dumb in an asylum. I expect it was my knowing the language as brought Mr. Brown here to lodge."
"Where did he come from?"
"London town, he gave me to understand, sir. But he didn't talk much--on his fingers--about himself. He was very quiet, ate and drank, read books----"
"What kind of books?"
"Novels, sir--yellow novels, in a foreign tongue. Here, sir, is the rosewood bookcase. He also wrote a great deal, but what I don't know. I thought he had ideas of becoming a writing person himself."
Blair opened the bookcase, and one by one examined a dozen or so of French novels ranged on the lower shelf. They were all by good authors, the usual paper-covered cheap editions--nothing strange about them. No name was written in any one of them. He shut up the bookcase with a look of disappointment.
"Was your lodger a Frenchman?" he asked.
"Lor', sir, I dunno! He talked English with his fingers. I've seen him reading the newspapers."
"He did not look like a foreigner," remarked the Rector.
"Ah! I quite forgot you knew the man, Mr. Phelps. Can you describe his looks?"
"He was not very tall, had long white hair and a beard, ruddy cheeks, and dark eyes. He was usually dressed in a gray suit, and walked with a stout stick."
"Gout in his feet," put in Mrs. Marry, not at all pleased at being left out in the cold. "He wore cloth boots for his gout--walked very badly, did Mr. Brown."
"Strange!" murmured Blair, again looking round the room. "How could an old man helpless through gout in the feet carry off a dead body? Humph!"
"He carried off no dead body!" cried Mrs. Marry, crimson with wrath, "if it's Mr. Marlow's corpse you're talking of. I believe Mr. Brown's bin murdered like the doctor."
"Why do you believe so?"
"Because I've made up my mind to believe it," said Mrs. Marry fiercely. "And I'd like to see the man as would change my mind."
"So should I," remarked Blair. "Well, Mrs. Marry, show me Mr. Brown's room. I must examine his luggage."
"There's only one box, and that's locked."
"I'll take the liberty of opening it."
"But you can't. I'm an honest woman. What'll Mr. Brown say when he comes back and finds his things gone? Besides, there's a trifle of rent, and----"
"Hold your tongue!" said the inspector, with a glance which quelled her. "I will take nothing away. You forget who I am, Mrs. Marry. Show me the bedroom." And the landlady, thinking better of it, obeyed without further argument.
The box was there--a common, brown-painted traveling-box. There was no name on it, and it proved to be locked. The inspector asked for a chisel, and forced it open. Within he found three suits of gray clothes, some linen and socks, together with a pair of cloth boots--nothing else. No name on the shirts, no tailor's tag on the clothes. Evidently nothing of Mr. Brown's identity was to be learned from his belongings.
"The man from nowhere," said Phelps, gazing blankly around him.
But Inspector Blair was not yet satisfied. He searched both sitting-room and bedroom, questioned Mrs. Marry, looked at some torn pieces of paper in the fireplace, and--found nothing. Rector and inspector walked out of the cottage as wise as when they had entered it. So far their search had been a failure.
All that afternoon Blair hunted the village for evidence. He heard how Warrender had called at Mrs. Marry's house, how he had left there to follow the Quiet Gentleman, who had been seen by the peasant going in the direction of the moor. Blair recalled the loose stone dropped from the churchyard wall, and his own theory that the corpse had been taken to a cart on the road. He sent out the police, and had the heath searched, even to the hut where the corpse had been, but all with no result. And as yet he was ignorant of what Cicero knew.
Tired and baffled, he returned to Heathton to the inn. Here he found a messenger from Mr. Phelps, asking him to call at the Rectory. He hurried there, and was met by Alan Thorold, who presented Cicero and Mrs. Warrender. Then the tramp told the story of all that he had seen. Blair rubbed his chin.
"Can the doctor have helped Brown to do it?" he said half aloud.
"No, he did not!" cried Mrs. Warrender angrily. "My husband was as good a man as ever lived. Why should he steal a corpse?"
"Humph! Why indeed!"
Blair recollected something he had seen in the vault of which he cared not to speak until he could be more certain. So he held his peace.
"Even if the late lamented Dr. Warrender did violate the sanctity of the tomb," said Cicero softly, "who killed the late lamented Dr. Warrender?"
"Perhaps the shorter man who helped him," said the Rector.
"That was----"
"Hold your tongue just now," whispered Alan, for Cicero was about to mention Joe Brill's name; "we'll come to that later. Who's that?"
It proved to be Mrs. Marry, who came in with part of a torn envelope in her hand. On the envelope was an obliterated stamp, but the writing had been torn off.
"I found this in Mr. Brown's room," she said, "on the floor by the edge of the carpet. How it escaped my dusting I don't know."
Blair looked at this piece of evidence.
"Jamaica stamp," he said.
"Strange!" cried the Rector. "I know Marlow was at one time in Jamaica."
"And my husband, Dr. Warrender, came from Jamaica," said the widow.
There was silence. They looked at one another. But no one had any explanation to offer.