But Hurd gave the pretty, quaint hostel only a passing glance. He was staring at a woman who stood in the doorway shading her eyes with the palm of her hand from the setting sun. In her the detective saw the image of Deborah Junk, now Tawsey. She was of the same gigantic build, with the same ruddy face, sharp, black eyes and boisterous manner. But she had not the kindly look of Deborah, and of the two sisters Hurd preferred the one he already knew.
"This is my brother, Miss Junk," said Aurora, marching up to the door; "he will only stay until to-morrow."
"You're welcome, sir," said Matilda in a loud and hearty voice, which reminded the detective more than ever of her sister. "Will you please walk in and 'ave some tea?"
Hurd nodded and repaired to the tiny sitting-room, where he saw the photograph of Hay on the mantelpiece. Aurora, at a hint from her brother, went to her bedroom to change her dress, and Hurd spoke to Matilda, when she brought in the tray. "I know your sister," said he.
Miss Junk nearly dropped the tray. "Lor', now, only think! Why, we ain't wrote to one another for ten years. And I left London eleven years back. And how is she, sir? and where is she?"
"She is well; she has a laundry in Jubileetown near London, and she is married to a fellow called Bart Tawsey."
"Married!" cried Matilda, setting down the tray and putting her arms akimbo, just like Deborah, "lor', and me still single. But now I've got this 'ouse, and a bit put by, I'll think of gittin' a 'usband. I ain't a-goin' to let Debby crow over me."
"Your sister was in the service of Mr. Norman before she took up the laundry," observed Hurd, pouring out a cup of tea.
"Was she, now? And why did she leave?"
The name of Norman apparently was unknown to Matilda, so Hurd tried the effect of another bombshell. "Her master was murdered under the name of Lemuel Krill."
"Mercy," Matilda dropped into a chair, with a thud which shook the room; "why, that's my ladies' husband and father."
"What ladies?" asked Hurd, pretending ignorance.
"My ladies, Mrs. Krill and Miss Maud. They had this 'ouse, and kep' it for years respectable. I worked for 'em ten, and when my ladies comes in for a forting, for a forting there is, they gave me the goodwill of 'The Red Pig.' To think of Debby being the servant of poor Mr. Krill as was killed. Who killed 'im?"
"Doesn't your mistress know?"
"She," cried Matilda, indignantly, and bouncing up. "Why, she was always a-lookin' for him, not as she loved him over much. And as he is dead, sir, it's no more as what he oughter be, seeing as he killed a poor lady in this very 'ouse. You'll sleep in 'er room to-night," added Matilda, as if that was a pleasure. "Strangled, she was."
"I think I heard of that. But Lady Rachel Sandal committed suicide."
Matilda rubbed her nose, after the Deborah fashion. "Well, sir, my ladies were never sure which it was, and, of course, it was before my time considerable, being more nor twenty year back. But the man as did it is dead, and lef' my ladies his money, as he oughter. An' Miss Maud's a-goin' to marry a real gent"—Matilda glanced at the photograph—"I allays said he wos a gent, bein' so 'aughty like, and wearing evening dress at meals, late."
"Was he ever down here, this gentleman?"
"He's been comin' and goin' fur months, and Miss Maud loves 'im somethin' cruel. But they'll marry now an' be 'appy."
"I suppose your ladies sometimes went to see this gent in town?"
"Meanin' Mr. Hay," said Matilda, artlessly. "Well, sir, they did, one at a time and then together. Missis would go and miss would foller, an' miss an' missus together would take their joy of the Towers an' shops and Madame Tusord's and sich like, Mr. Hay allays lookin' after 'em."
"Did they ever visit Mr. Hay in July?"
"No, they didn't," snapped Matilda, with a change of tone which did not escape Hurd; "and I don't know, sir, why you arsk them questions."
"My good woman, I ask no questions. If I do, you need not reply. Let us change the subject. My sister tells me you make good curries in this hotel."
"Hokar do, me bein' but a plain cook."
"Oh! He's an Indian?"
"Yes, he is, sir. A pore Indian castaway as missus took up with when he come here drenched with rain and weary. Ah, missus was allays good and kind and Christian-like."
Privately Hurd thought this description did not apply very well to the lady in question, but he was careful not to arouse Matilda's suspicions again by contradicting her. He pretended to joke. "I wonder you don't marry this Indian, and keep him here always to make the curries I have heard of."
"Me marry a black!" cried Matilda, tossing her rough head. "Well, sir, I never," her breath failed her, "an' him goin' about the country."
"What do you mean by that?"
"What I say," said Miss Junk; "he'll stop here, Christian-like, for days, and then go orf to sell things as a 'awker. My par was a 'awker, sir, but a white, white man of the finest."
Hurd was about to ask another question when a husky voice was heard singing somewhat out of tune. "What's that?" asked Hurd, irritably.
"Lor', sir, wot nervses you 'ave. 'Tis only Cap'n Jessop makin' hisself 'appy-like."
"Captain Jessop," Hurd laughed. He had run down his man at last.
Table of Contents
CAPTAIN JESSOP
Apparently Matilda Junk was quite ignorant of anything being wrong about her ladies, although she did shirk the question regarding their possible visit to London in July. However, Hurd had learned that Grexon Hay not only was an old friend, but had been engaged to Maud for many months. This information made him the more certain that Hay had robbed Beecot of the opal brooch at the time of the accident, and that it had passed from Mr. Hay's hands into those of the assassin.
"I wonder if Mrs. Krill murdered her husband in that cruel way," thought the detective, sitting over his tea; "but what could have been her object? She could have gone up on learning from Hay that Aaron Norman was her husband—as I believe she did—and could then have made him give her the money, by threatening him with the murder of Lady Rachel. I daresay Aaron Norman in his Krill days did strangle that lady to get the opal brooch and his wife could have used what she knew to govern him. There was no need of murder. Hum! I'll see about getting the truth out of Hay. Aurora," he cried. "Oh, there you are," he added, as she entered the room. "I want you to go back to town this night."
"What for, Billy?"
"Can you get Hay into trouble?"
Aurora nodded. "I have proofs of his cheatingLord George and others, if that's what you mean," she said; "but you didn't want them used."
"Nor do I. He's such an eel, he may wriggle out of our clutches. But can't you give a party and invite Lord George and Hay, and then get them to play cards. Should Hay cheat, denounce him to George Sandal."
"What good would that do?" asked Miss Qian, with widely open eyes.
"It will make Hay confess about the brooch to save himself from public shame. His reputation is his life, remember, and if he is caught red-handed cheating, he'll have to clear out of town."
"Pooh, as if that mattered. He's going to marry Miss Krill."
"If Miss Krill keeps the money, and I doubt if she will."
"But, Billy—"
"Never mind. Don't ask me any more questions, but go and pack. This Captain Jessop is in the bar drinking. I may probably have to arrest him. I got a warrant on the chance of finding him here. I can arrest him on suspicion, and won't let him go until I get at the truth. Your business is to bring Hay to his knees and get the truth out of him about the opal serpent. You know the case?"
"Yes," grumbled Aurora, "I know the case. But I don't like this long journey to-night."
"Every moment is precious. If I arrest Jessop, Matilda Junk will tell her ladies, who will speak to Hay, and then he may slip away. As the brooch evidence is so particular, and, as I believe he can give it, if forced, you can see the importance of losing no time."
Miss Qian nodded and went away to pack. She wanted money and knew Billy would give her a goodly share of the reward. In a few minutes Miss Junk, of "The Red Pig," learned that Miss Qian wassuddenly summoned to town and would leave in an hour. Quite unsuspectingly she assisted her to pack, and shortly Aurora was driving in a hired vehicle to the railway station on her way to trap Grexon Hay.
When she was safely off the premises, Hurd walked to the telegraph office, and sent a cipher message to the Yard, asking for a couple of plain clothes policemen to be sent down. He wanted to have Hokar and Miss Matilda Junk watched, also the house, in case Mrs. Krill and her daughter should return. Captain Jessop he proposed to look after himself. But he was in no hurry to make that gentleman's acquaintance, as he intended to arrest him quietly in the sitting-room after dinner. Already he had informed Matilda that he would ask a gentleman to join him at the meal and taste Hokar's curry.
The thought of the curry brought the Indian to his mind, and when he got back to the Red Pig, he strolled round the house, inspecting the place, but in reality keeping eyes and ears open to talk to the Hindoo. Thinking he might meet the man some time, Hurd had carefully learned a few phrases relating to Thuggism—in English of course, since he knew nothing of the Indian tongues. These he proposed to use in the course of conversation with Hokar and watch the effect. Soon he found the man sitting cross-legged under a tree in the yard, smoking. Evidently his work for the day was over, and he was enjoying himself. Remembering the description given by Bart, the detective saw that this was the very man who had entered the shop of Aaron Norman. He wore the same dress and looked dirty and disreputable—quite a waif and a stray.
"Hullo," said Hurd, casually, "what are you doing. Talk English, eh?"
"Yes, sir," said Hokar, calmly. "I spike good Englis. Missionary teach Hokar Englis."
"I'm glad of that; we can have a chat," said Hurd, producing his pipe. He also produced something else with which he had provided himself on the way back from the post-office. In another minute Hokar was staring at a small parcel of coarse brown sugar. With all his Oriental phlegm the man could not keep his countenance. His eyes rolled until they threatened to drop out of his head, and he looked at Hurd with a certain amount of fear. "Goor," said that gentleman, pointing to the sugar with the stem of his pipe, "goor!"
Hokar turned green under his dark skin, and half-rose to go away, but his legs failed him, and he sat still trying to recover himself. "So you worship Bhowanee?" went on his tormentor.
The Indian's face expressed lively curiosity. "The great goddess."
"Yes. Kalee, you know. Did you make Tupounee after you used your roomal on Aaron Norman?"
Hokar gave a guttural cry and gasped. Tupounee is the sacrifice made by the Thugs after a successful crime, and roomal the handkerchief with which they strangled their victims. All this was information culled from Colonel Meadow Taylor's book by the accomplished detective. "Well," said Hurd, smoking placidly, "what have you to say, Mr. Hokar?"
"I know nozzin'," said the man, sullenly, but in deadly fear.
"Yes, you do. Sit still," said Hurd, with sudden sternness. "If you try to run away, I'll have you arrested. Eyes are on you, and you can't take a step without my knowing."
Some of this was Greek to the Indian, owing to his imperfect knowledge of English. But he understood that the law would lay hold of him if he did not obey this Sahib, and so sat still. "I know not anysing," he repeated, his teeth chattering.
"Yes, you do. You're a Thug."
"Zer no Thug."
"I agree with you," said Hurd; "you are the last of the Mohicans. I want to know why you offered Aaron Norman to Bhowanee?"
Hokar made a strange sign on his forehead at the mention of the sacred name, and muttered something—perhaps a prayer—in his native tongue. Then he looked up. "I know nozzing."
"Don't repeat that rubbish," said Hurd, calmly; "you sold boot laces in the shop in Gwynne Street on the day when its master was killed. And he was the husband of the lady who helped you—Mrs. Krill."
"You say dat," said Hokar, stolidly.
"Yes, and I can prove it. The boy Tray—and I can lay my hands on him—saw you, also Bart Tawsey, the shopman. You left a handful of sugar, though why you did so instead of eating it, I can't understand."
Hokar's face lighted up, and he showed his teeth disdainfully. "Oh, you Sahibs know nozzin'!" said he, spreading out his lean brown hands. "Ze shops—ah, yis. I there, yis. But I use no roomal."
"Not then, but you did later."
Hokar shook his head. "I use no roomal. Zat Sahib one eye—bad, ver bad. Bhowanee, no have one eye. No Bhungees, no Bhats, no—"
"What are you talking about?" said Hurd, angrily. His reading had not told him that no maimed persons could be offered to the goddess of the Thugs. Bhungees meant sweepers, and Bhats bards, both of which classes were spared by the stranglers. "You killed that man. Now, who told you to kill him?"
"I know nozzin', I no kill. Bhowanee no take one-eye mans."
For want of an interpreter Hurd found it difficult to carry on the conversation. He rose and determined to postpone further examination till he would get someone who understood the Hindoo tongue.But in the meantime Hokar might run away, and Hurd rather regretted that he had been so precipitate. However, he nodded to the man and went off, pretty sure he would not fly at once.
Then Hurd went to the village police-office, and told a bucolic constable to keep his eye on Miss Junk's "fureiner," as he learned Hokar was called. The policeman, a smooth-faced individual, promised to do so, after Hurd produced his credentials, and sauntered towards "The Red Pig," at some distance from the detective's heels. A timely question about the curry revealed, by the mouth of Miss Junk, that Hokar was still in the kitchen. "But he do seem alarmed-like," said Matilda, laying the cloth.
"Let's hope he won't spoil the curry," remarked Hurd. Then, knowing Hokar was safe, he went into the bar to make the acquaintance of his other victim.
Captain Jarvey Jessop quite answered to the description given by Pash. He was large and sailor-like, with red hair mixed with grey and a red beard that scarcely concealed the scar running from temple to mouth. He had drunk enough to make him cheerful and was quite willing to fall into conversation with Hurd, who explained himself unnecessarily. "I'm a commercial gent," said the detective, calling for two rums, plain, "and I like talking."
"Me, too," growled the sailor, grasping his glass. "I'm here on what you'd call a visit, but I go back to my home to-morrow. Then it's ho for Callao," he shouted in a sing-song voice.
Hurd knew the fierce old chanty and sized Captain Jarvey up at once. He was of the buccaneer type, and there was little he would not do to make money and have a roaring time. Failing Hokar, with his deadly handkerchief, here was the man who might have killed Aaron Norman. "Drinkup," shouted Hurd in his turn, "we'll have some more.
"On no condition, is extradition,Allowed in Callao."
"On no condition, is extradition,Allowed in Callao."
"Gum," said Captain Jessop, "you know the chanty."
Hurd winked. "I've bin round about in my time."
Jessop stretched out a huge hand. "Put it there, mate," said he, with a roar like a fog-horn, "and drink up along o' me. My treat."
Hurd nodded and became jovial. "On condition you join me at dinner. They make good curries here."
"I've had curry," said Captain Jessop, heavily, "in Colombo and Hong-Kong frequent, but Hokar's curries are the best."
"Ah!" said Hurd in a friendly curious way, "so you know this shanty?"
Jessop looked at him with contempt. "Know this shanty," said he, with a grin, "why, in coorse, I do. I've been swinging my hammock here time in and out for the last thirty year."
"You'll be a Christchurch man, then?"
"Not me, mate. I'm Buckinghamshire. Stowley born."
Hurd with difficulty suppressed a start. Stowley was the place where the all-important brooch had been pawned by a nautical man, and here was the man in question. "I should have thought you'd lived near the sea," he said cautiously, "say Southampton."
"Oh, I used t'go there for my ship," said the captain, draining his glass, "but I don't go there no more."
"Retired, eh?"
Jessop nodded and looked at his friend—as he considered Hurd, since the invitation to dinner—with a blood-shot pair of eyes. "Come storm, come calm,"he growled, "I've sailed the ocean for forty years. Yes, sir, you bet. I was a slip of a fifteen cabin-boy on my first cruise, and then I got on to being skipper. Lord," Jessop smacked his knee, "the things I've seen!"
"We'll have them to-night after dinner," said Hurd, nodding; "but now, I suppose, you've made your fortune."
"No," said the captain, gloomily, "not what you'd call money. I've got a stand-by, though," and he winked.
"Ah! Married to a rich wife?"
"Not me. I've had enough of marriage, having been the skipper of a mermaid with a tongue. No, sir," he roared out another line of some song floating in his muzzy head, "a saucy bachelor am I," then changed to gruff talk, "and I intends being one all my days. Stand-by, I have—t'ain't a wife, but I can draw the money regular, and no questions asked." Again he winked and drank another glass.
Hurd reflected that perhaps Jessop had killed Aaron Norman for Mrs. Krill, and she was paying him blood-money. But he did not dare to press the question, as Jessop was coming perilously near what the Irish call "the cross drop." He therefore proposed an adjournment to the sitting-room. Jessop agreed quite unsuspectingly, not guessing he was being trapped. The man was so large and uncouth that Hurd felt behind his waist to see that his revolver was loose and could be used should occasion arise.
Miss Junk brought in the dinner with her own fair hands, and explained that Hokar had made the curry, but she didn't think it was as good as usual. "The man's shakin' like a jelly," said Matilda. "I don't know why."
The detective nodded, but did not encourage conversation. He was quite sure that Hokar was being watched by the smooth-faced policeman, and couldnot get away. Besides, he wished to talk to Captain Jessop. Miss Junk, seeing that she was not needed, retreated, after bringing in the curry, and left the gentlemen to help themselves. So here was Hurd in a pleasant room, seated before a well-spread table, and with a roaring fire at his back, waiting his opportunity to make Captain Jarvey Jessop confess his share in the dual murders of Lady Rachel Sandal and Aaron Norman.
Table of Contents
PART OF THE TRUTH
Captain Jessop ate as greedily as he drank strong waters, and did full justice to the curry, which was really excellent. Hurd did not broach any unpleasant topic immediately, as he wished the man to enjoy his meal. If Jessop was guilty, this dainty dinner would be the last of its kind he would have for many a long day. Moreover, Hurd wished to learn more of the mariner's character, and plied him with questions, which the unsuspecting sailor answered amiably enough.
"Me an' you might become mates, as it were," said Jessop, extending his large hand again and again. "Put it there."
"Well, we'd want to know something more about one another to become real mates," laughed Hurd.
"Oh, you're a commercial traveller, as you say, and I'm the captain of as fine a barkey as ever sailed under Capricorn. Leastways I was, afore I gave up deep-sea voyages."
"You must miss the ocean, living at Stowley."
"Inland it is," admitted the mariner, pulling out a dirty clay pipe, at the conclusion of the meal, "and ocean there ain't round about fur miles. But I've got a shanty there, and live respectable."
"You are able to, with the stand-by," hinted Hurd.
Jessop nodded and crammed black tobacco, very strong and rank, into the bowl of his pipe with a shaking hand. "It ain't much," he admitted; "folksbeing stingy. But if I wants more," he struck the table hard, "I can get it. D'ye see, Mister Commercial?"
"Yes, I see," replied Hurd, coolly. Jessop was again growing cross, and the detective had to be careful. He knew well enough that next morning, when sober, Jessop would not be so disposed to talk, but being muzzy, he opened his heart freely. Still, it was evident that a trifle more liquor would make him quarrelsome, so Hurd proposed coffee, a proposition to which the sailor graciously assented.
"Cawfee," he observed, lighting his pipe, and filling the room with evil-smelling smoke, "clears the 'ead, not as mine wants clearing, mind you. But cawfee ain't bad, when rum ain't t' be 'ad."
"You'll have more rum later," hinted Hurd.
"Put it there," said Jessop, and again the detective was forced to wince at the strong grip of a horny hand.
Miss Junk appeared in answer to the tinkle of the bell and removed the food. Afterwards she brought in coffee, hot and strong and black, and Jessop drank two cups, with the result that he became quieter. Then the two men settled down for a pleasant conversation. At least, Jessop thought so, for he frequently expressed the friendliest sentiments towards his host. Then Matilda appeared with a bottle of rum, a kettle and two glasses. When she departed, Hurd intimated that he would not require her services again that night. This he whispered to her at the door, while Jessop was placing the kettle on the fire, and before returning to his seat, he quietly turned the key. So he had the mariner entirely to himself and got to business at once while the kettle boiled.
"You have known this place for years I believe," said Hurd, taking a chair opposite to that of Jessop."Did you ever drop across a man, who used to live here, called Lemuel Krill?"
The other man started. "Whatever makes you arsk that?" he inquired in a husky voice.
"Well, you see, as a commercial I trade in books, and had to do with a second-hand bookseller in Gwynne Street, Drury Lane. It seems that he was murdered," and he eyed Jessop attentively.
The sailor nodded and composed himself with a violent effort. "Yes," said he in his husky voice, "so I heard. But what's he got to do with Lemuel Krill?"
"Oh," said Hurd, carelessly, "it is said Aaron Norman was Krill."
"Might ha' bin. I don't know myself," was the gruff reply.
"Ah! Then you did not know Lemuel Krill?"
"Well," admitted the captain, reluctantly, "I did. He wos the landlord of this here pub, and a cuss to drink. Lor', 'ow he could drink, and did too. But he run away from his wife as used to keep this shanty, and she never heard no more of him."
"Until she found he was rich and could leave her five thousand a year," said Hurd, absently; "so like a woman."
"You seem to know all about it, mister?" said the sailor, uneasily.
"Yes, I read the papers. A queer case that of Norman's death. I expect it was only right he should be strangled seeing he killed Lady Rachel Sandal in the same way."
Jessop, resting his hands on the arms of his chair, pushed it back and stared with a white face. "You know of that?" he gasped.
"Why not? It was public talk in this place over twenty years ago. I understand you have been here-abouts for thirty years," went on Hurd, carelessly, "possibly you may recollect the case."
Jessop wiped his forehead. "I heard something about it. That there lady committed suicide they say."
"I know what they say, but I want to know what you say?"
"I won't be arsked questions," shouted the captain, angrily.
"Don't raise your voice," said the detective, smoothly; "we may as well conduct this conversation pleasantly."
"I don't converse no more," said Jessop in a shaky voice, and staggered to his feet, rapidly growing sober under the influence of a deadly fear. Hurd did not move as the man crossed the room, but felt if the key was safe in his pocket. The sailor tried to open the door, and then realized that it was locked. He turned on his host with a volley of bad language, and found himself facing a levelled revolver.
"Sit down," said Hurd, quietly; "go back to your chair."
Jessop, with staring eyes and outspread hands, backed to the wall. "Who are you anyhow?" he demanded, hardly able to speak.
"Perhaps that will tell you," said Hurd, and threw the warrant on the table. Jessop staggered forward and looked at it. One glance was sufficient to inform him what it was, and he sank back into his chair with a groan, leaving the warrant on the table. Hurd picked it up and slipped it into his pocket. He thought Jessop might destroy it; but there was no fight in the mariner.
"And now that we understand one another," said Hurd, putting away his weapon, "I want to talk."
"Sha'n't talk," said Jessop, savagely.
"Oh, yes, I think so; otherwise I can make things unpleasant for you."
"You can't arrest me. I've done nothing."
"That may be so, but arrest you I can and I have done so now. To-morrow morning you will go toLondon in charge of a plain-clothes policeman, while I go to Stowley."
"To my crib. No, I'm blest if you do."
"I sha'n't go immediately to your crib," rejoined Hurd, dryly, "though I may do so later. My first visit will be to that old pawnbroker. I think if I describe you—and you are rather a noticeable man, Captain Jessop—he will recognize the individual who pawned an opal serpent brooch with him shortly after the death of Lady Rachel Sandal, to whom the said brooch belonged."
"It's a lie," said Jessop hoarsely, and sober enough now.
"Quite so, and perhaps it is also a lie that a man resembling yourself tried to get certain jewellery from a lawyer called Pash—"
Jessop lost his self-control, which he was trying desperately to preserve, and rose to his feet, white-faced and haggard. "Who are you?" he shouted, "who are you?"
"Doesn't the warrant tell you," replied his companion, not at all upset. "My name is Billy Hurd. I am the detective in charge of the Norman murder case. And I've been looking for you for a long time, Mr. Jessop."
"I know nothing about it."
"Yes, you do; so sit down and talk away."
"I'll break your head," cried the captain, swinging his huge fists.
"Try," Hurd whipped out his revolver, but did not rise, "at the risk of getting a bullet through you. Pshaw, man, don't be a fool. I'm making things as easy for you as possible. Create a disturbance, and I'll hand you over to the police. A night in the village lock-up may cool your blood. Sit down I tell you."
The sailor showed his teeth like those of a snarling dog and made as to strike the seated detective; but suddenly changing his mind, for he saw well enoughin what danger he stood, he dropped into his chair, and, covering his face with his hands, groaned aloud. Hurd put away his revolver. "That's better," said he, pleasantly; "take a tot of rum and tell me all you know."
"I'm innocent," groaned Jessop.
"Every man is innocent until convicted by a jury," said Hurd, calmly. "Consider me a jury and I'll size up your case, when I hear all. Are you innocent of both murders?"
"Lady Rachel committed suicide," said Jessop, raising a haggard face. "Yes—I stick to that, sir. As to Krill's death in London, I didn't touch him; I swear I didn't."
"But you saw him on that night?"
"How can you prove that?"
"Very simply. Norman—or Krill if you prefer the old name—took certain jewellery to Pash for safe keeping shortly before his death. You presented to Pash a paper, undeniably written and signed by the old man, saying that the jewellery was to be given up to bearer. Now, before taking the jewellery to Pash, Krill could not have written that paper, so you must have seen him during the few hours which elapsed between his visit to Pash and his death."
This was clearly argued, and Jessop could not contradict. "I left him quite well and hearty."
"In the cellar in Gwynne Street?"
"Yes, in the cellar," admitted Jessop.
"At what time?"
"About half-past eight—say between eight and nine."
"Well, what happened?" asked Hurd, smoking quietly.
The sailor twisted his big hands and groaned. Then he laid his head on the table and began to sob, talking brokenly and huskily. "I'm done for," he gasped. "I'd know'd it would come—no—I ain'tsorry. I've had a nightmare of a time. Oh—since I pawned that brooch—"
"Ah. Then you did pawn the brooch at Stowley?"
Jessop sat up and wiped his eyes. "Yes, I did. But I pulled my cap down over my eyes and buttoned up my pea-jacket. I never thought old Tinker would ha' knowed me."
"Wasn't it rather rash of you to pawn the brooch in a place where you were well known?"
"I wasn't well known. I only come at times, and then I went away. Old Tinker hadn't seen me more nor once or twice, and then I pulled down my cap and—" Jessop, badly shaken, was beginning to tell the episode over again, when Hurd stopped him.
"See here," said the detective. "You say that you are innocent?"
"I swear that I am," gasped Jessop.
"Well, then, I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. My business is not to hang innocent people. Take a glass of rum and tell me all you know, beginning with your first meeting with Krill and running down through the death of Lady Rachel to your last meeting in the Gwynne Street cellar."
"And when you know all?"
"Then I'll see what is to be done."
"Will you arrest me?"
"I have arrested you. Don't make conditions with me, man," said Hurd, with a stern face. "The night is growing late and I want to get to the bottom of this business before we go to bed. Take some rum."
Seeing there was nothing for it but to make a clean breast, Captain Jarvey Jessop wasted no further time in useless lamentation. He could have smashed Hurd easily enough, even though there was the risk of being shot. But the fracas would bring others on the scene, and Jessop knew he could notdeal with the police. Therefore, he took a stiff peg and became quieter. In fact, when once started on his confession, he appeared to be rather relieved.
"It's been a nightmare," said he, wiping his forehead. "I'm glad it's come to the lawr, that I am. I met Krill, as he wos then, some twenty-five year back by chance, as you may say"—he cast a strange look at the detective, which the latter noted—"yes, by chance, Mr. Hurd. I found he kep' the pub here, and this bein' no distance from Southampton I took to runnin' down here when the barkey was at anchor. Me an' Krill became great mates, and I'd what you might call free quarters here—yes, sir—it's a frozen fact."
"Very generous of Mr. Krill," remarked Hurd, dryly, and wondering what the man was keeping back.
"Oh, he was right enough as a mate when not drunk; but the liquor made a howling dorg of him. I've seen many drunk in many places," said Jessop, "but anyone who held his liquor wuss nor Krill I never did see. He'd knife you as soon as look at you when drunk."
"But he evidently preferred strangling."
"Hold on, mate," said Jessop, with another deep pull at the rum. "I'm comin' to that night. We wos both on the bust, as y'may say, and Mrs. Krill she didn't like it, so got to bed with the child."
"How old was the child?"
"Maud? Oh, you might say she was thirteen or fifteen. I can't be sure of her age. What's up?"
For Hurd, seeing in this admission a confirmation that Maud was either not Krill's child or was illegitimate, and could not inherit the money, had showed his feelings. However, he made some trivial excuse, not wishing to be too confidential, and begged Jessop to proceed.
"Well, mate," said the captain, filling anotherglass of rum, "y'see the lady had come earlier and had been put to bed by the missus. I never saw her myself, being drinking in this very room along o' Krill. Buthesaw her," added Jessop, emphatically, "and said as she'd a fine opal brooch, which he wish he'd had, as he wanted money and the missus kept him tight."
"Krill was a judge of jewels?"
"Travelled in jewels once," said the captain. "Bless you, he could size up a precious stone in no time. But he sat drinking with me, and every now and then got out of the room, when he'd stop away for perhaps a quarter of an hour at the time."
"Did he mention the opal brooch again?"
"No," said Jessop, after reflection, "he didn't. But he got so drunk that he began to show fight, as he always did when boozy, though a timid chap when sober. I concluded, wishing no row, to git to my hammock, and cut up stairs. Then I went by mistake into the room of that pore lady, carrying a candle, and saw her tied to the bedpost stone dead, with a silk handkerchief round her neck. I shouted out blue murder, and Mrs. Krill with the kid came tumbling down. I was so feared," added Jessop, wiping his forehead at the recollection, "that I ran out of doors."
"What good would that do?"
"Lor', I dunno," confessed the man, shivering, "but I wos skeered out of my life. It wos rainin' pitchforks, as y'might say, and I raced on through the rain for an hour or so. Then I thought, as I wos innocent, I'd make tracks back, and I did. I found Krill had cut."
"Did his wife tell you?"
"Oh, she wos lying on the floor insensible where he'd knocked her down. And the kid—lor'," Jessop spat, "she was lying in the corner with her lips fastened together with the brooch."
"What?" cried Hurd, starting to his feet. "The same as her—the same as Norman's was?"
Jessop nodded and drank some rum. "Made me sick it did. I took th' brooch away and slipped it into my pocket. Then the kid said her father had fastened her lips together and had knocked her mother flat when she interfered. I brought Mrs. Krill round and then left her with the kid, and walked off to Southampton. The police found me there, and I told them what I tell you."
"Did you tell about the brooch?"
"Well, no, I didn't," confessed Jessop, coolly, "an' as the kid and the mother said nothing, I didn't see why I shouldn't keep it, wantin' money. So I went to Stowley and pawned it, then took a deep sea voyage for a year. When I come back, all was over."
"Do you think Krill murdered the woman?" asked Hurd, passing over for the moment the fact that Jessop had stolen the brooch.
"He said he didn't," rejoined the man with emphasis, "but I truly believe, mister, as he did, one of them times, when mad with drink and out of the room. He wanted the brooch, d'ye see, though why he should have lost the loot by sealin' the kid's mouth with it I can't say."
"When did you come across Krill again?"
"Ho," said Jessop, drawing his hand across his mouth, "'twas this way, d'ye see. I come round here lots, and a swell come too, a cold—"
"Grexon Hay," said Hurd, pointing to the photograph.
"Yes. That's him," said Jessop, staring, "and I hated him just, with his eye-glass and his sneerin' ways. He loved the kid, now a growed, fine gal, as you know, and come here often. In June—at the end of it anyhow—he comes and I hears him tells Mrs. Krill, who was always looking for her husband, thata one-eyed bookseller in Gwynne Street, Drury Lane, had fainted when he saw the very identical brooch showed him by another cove."
"Beecot. I know. Didn't you wonder how the brooch had left the pawnshop?" asked Hurd, very attentive.
"No, I didn't," snarled Jessop, who was growing cross. "I knew old Tinker's assistant had sold the brooch and he didn't oughter t' have done it, as I wanted it back. Mrs. Krill asked me about the brooch, and wanted it, so I said I'd get it back. Tinker said it was gone, but wrote to the gent as bought it."
"Mr. Simon Beecot, of Wargrove, in Essex."
"That wos him; but the gent wouldn't give it back, so I 'spose he'd given it to his son. Well, then, when Mrs. Krill heard of the one-eyed man fainting at sight of the brooch, she knew 'twas her husband, as he'd one eye, she having knocked the other out when he was sober."
"Did she go up and see him?"
"Well," said Jessop, slowly, "I don't rightly know what she did do, but she went up. I don't think she saw Krill at his shop, but she might have seen that Pash, who was Mr. Hay's lawyer, and a dirty little ape o' sorts he is."
"Ha," said Hurd, to himself, "I thought Pash knew about the women beforehand. No wonder he stuck to them and gave poor Miss Norman the go-bye," he rubbed his hands and chuckled. "Well, we'll see what will come of the matter. Go on, Jessop."
"There ain't much more to tell," grumbled the captain. "I heard of this, and I wasn't meant to hear. But I thought I'd go up and see if I could get money out of Krill by saying I'd tell about the murder of Lady Rachel."
"Youarea scoundrel," said Hurd, coolly.
"I wos 'ard up," apologized the captain, "or I wouldn't, not me. I'm straight enough when in cash. So I went up in July."
"On the sixth of July?"
"If that was the day of the murder—yes. I went up and loafed round until it wos dark, and then slipped through that side passage at eight o'clock to see Krill."
"How did you know where to find him?"
"Why, that Hay knew about the chap, and said as he did business in a cellar after eight. So Krill let me in, thinking, I 'spose, I wos a customer. He'd been drinking a little and was bold enough. But when I said, as I'd say, he'd killed Lady Rachel, he swore he was an innercent babe, and cried, the drink dyin' out of him."
"The same as it died out of you lately," said Hurd, smiling.
"Go slow," grunted the captain, in a surly tone. "I ain't afraid now, as I ain't done nothing. I said to Krill I'd say nothin' if he'd give me money. He wouldn't, but said he'd placed a lot of pawned things with Pash, and I could have them. He then gave me a paper saying I was to have the things, and I went to Pash the next morning and had trouble. But I heard by chance," again Jessop cast a strange look at Hurd, "that Krill had been murdered, so I didn't wait for the lawyer to come back, but cut down to Southampton and went on a short voyage. Then I come here and you nabbed me," and Jessop finished his rum. "That's all I know."
"Do you swear you left Aaron Norman alive?"
"Meaning Krill? I do. He wasn't no use to me dead, and I made him give me the jewels Pash had, d'ye see."
"But who warned you of the death when you were waiting?"
Jessop seemed unwilling to speak, but whenpressed burst out, "'Twas a measily little kid with ragged clothes and a dirty face."
"Tray," said Hurd. "Hum! I wonder how he knew of the murder before it got into the papers?"