Popular prejudice regards Essex as a damp, marshy flat, inhabited by mosquitoes, rheumatic yokels, and children of the sea-mist. But Eustace Jarman dwelt on a far-extending plateau, whence from his study window he surveyed Tilbury, Gravesend, the mouth of Thames river, and vast tracts of meadow-lands divided into irregular squares by erratic hedges. His home was three miles from the nearest railway station as the crow flies, and, being cut off from civilisation, by acres of furze-grown common, was as isolated as his misanthropic soul could desire.
Jarman had the reputation of being a solitary man, and those who knew him in literary circles hinted at the destroying influences of the inevitable woman. But Eustace never explained. After a journalistic career in town he disappeared into the Essex wilds, and devoted himself to writing music-hall sketches, short tales, and articles on countries he had visited. As he had been round the world twice or thrice, and knew the manners and customs of various peoples, he was well paid for his contributions. The cost of living at Wargrove was nil, and Jarman was supposed to be saving money. At times he would vanish into the Far East, or seek South America when there was a chance of trouble between tin-pot republics, but he always returned to his Essex plateau, to live a hermit's life. Miss Cork waited on him, and looked after his simple needs, and Miss Cork mentioned frequently that he was the queerest gent she ever set eyes on.
"The Shanty," as he called his place, was an old farmhouse, buried amongst elm and oak trees, and surrounded by an orchard and a flower garden, all more or less in ruins. Jarman would not allow the place to be tidied up, as Miss Cork suggested, loving better the eccentric untrimmed look of his property. The hedges grew sprawling at their own sweet will, long grass flourished up to the very door, and poppies, sun-flowers, and straggling rose-trees showed above this miniature jungle. Eustace possessed three rooms, two of which were occupied by beds for himself and any chance friend, and a third apartment, large and airy, which served as a study, a dining-room, a smoking-room, and a parlour. In this last were collected trophies of Jarman's travels, ranging from Japanese curiosities to South Sea oddities. Books also--but these were everywhere, and overflowed from the study into the passages, into the hall, up the stairs, and in some degree into the bedrooms. Everywhere there was a scent of tobacco smoke, and Eustace loafed about in flannel bags with an old shooting jacket and a worn cricketing cap on the back of his head.
The house was not very large, and Jarman was over six feet. But he moved with a dexterity remarkable in so huge a man, and was as handy as a woman in looking after his housekeeping. Miss Cork lived at the back, and merely acted as lieutenant in carrying out her master's orders. When she wished to introduce feminine innovations Eustace protested. He loved his savage bachelor life and his hermit-crab shell too much to desire new-fangled customs. Extra civilisation, especially of the womanly kind, meant extra work, and Eustace was a lazy man.
It was a wet July night when Lancaster sought this refuge. All day it had been raining hard, and Jarman was just thinking of putting on his waders for his usual walk, when Miss Cork entered to announce a visitor. On her heels followed Frank, and Eustace stared when he saw him. The stare was excusable, for Lancaster appeared in a silk hat, a frock-coat, and patent-leather boots. He was mired with clay from the roads, torn by the furze of the common, and dripped like an insane river-god. Also, without invitation, he collapsed into the nearest chair, while Jarman's jaw fell still lower at the sight of his white face, his clenched mouth, and his glassy eyes. Miss Cork, half blind, saw few of these things, but she withdrew to the kitchen to soliloquise on the costume of the visitor, inappropriate alike to the weather and the country. Meanwhile Jarman, behind closed doors, continued to stare.
"What is the matter?" he asked at last.
"I caught the last train from Liverpool Street," explained Frank, in faint tones, "and walked across the Common. I'm dead beat. Give me a whisky and soda."
Jarman supplied this refreshment speedily, and again demanded explanations. "But you'd better get into a dry kit before you make 'em," said he, bustling about. "What a crazy rig to negotiate the country in. Been drinkin'?"
"Do I ever drink, you ass?"
"Not your style, I know, but that's the sort that generally goes a mucker in the end. Cut into my bedroom and I'll hand you out a few things. Hang it, man, hold up!"
Lancaster, who had lurched against the big man's shoulder, pulled himself straight, and tried to smile. Jarman could see that the poor young fellow was on the verge of hysterics, being overwrought, and quite broken down. Therefore he spoke roughly to brace the slack nerves. With a few choice expletives he chased Frank into the bedroom, made him strip to the skin, and after a thorough towelling, saw him inducted into a pair of flannel trousers and a faded blazer, together with a woollen shirt and a pair of old slippers. Then he demanded if Frank was hungry, and led him back to the parlour.
"No, I'm not hungry," said Frank, dropping into a chair near the fire, for Eustace approved of a fire when the rain fell; "but another whisky--"
"Not a bit of it. You'll get squiffy. You must eat!"
"But I want to tell you--"
"Later! Later! Meantime, bread and meat."
Jarman looted the kitchen, and, having sent Miss Cork to bed, boiled the kettle and returned with a tray. This he placed before his guest, and stood over him while Frank forced ham and bread down a most unwilling throat. Then he gave the young man a pipe, mixed him a second glass of whisky of the weakest description, and demanded explanations.
"I can give them in one word," said Frank, now more composed. "Murder!"
Jarman stared again, and whistled. Then he went to see that the door was closed, and returned to his seat. "Who have you been killing?"
"No one. But I'm in danger of being accused. I am innocent--I swear I am innocent, Eustace?"
"All right, old man," replied Jarman, patting his junior on the back. "I know you wouldn't come to me if you were guilty."
"If I were, would you shelter me?"
"H'm! Depends upon the kind of murder. I don't mind a fair fight sort o' killing. 'Fact, I've shot a man or two myself in the Great Waste Lands."
"But I didn't shoot Starth. I really didn't."
"Starth! What, is he--"
"Dead! Dead! Shot dead. But not by me--not by me."
Eustace chewed his pipe, and stared into the fire, pulling hard. He appeared to be worried.
"Poor girl!" said he at length.
Frank understood on the instant. "Does she love her brother?"
"Do you know her?" asked Eustace, without looking up.
Lancaster shook his head. "I saw her last night at the theatre. Her brother insulted me, and asked me to see him to-day, as he wanted to apologise--"
"Wait!" Jarman threw up his hand. "The whole truth, if you please."
"I'm telling the truth, if you will only listen."
"Apologising doesn't sound like Starth," objected Eustace.
"I thought so when I got his note, and I am convinced now that his invitation was a trap."
"To have you shot?"
"How do I know?" He was shot himself.
"By whom?"
"I can't say. I was lying in a stupor when it happened."
"Drugged--with opium?" hinted Jarman.
"Yes. Did you know that Starth--"
"All along." Jarman placed the tips of his fingers together. "See here, Frank, I know Miss Starth very well. She lives here with an old lady called Mrs. Perth. Their cottage is only a stone's throw away from my diggings. I met the brother there in the long ago, and--"
"And introduced him to me. I wish you hadn't."
"It's too late now, seeing that the man's dead, to raise objections. I never approved of Walter Starth. A bad lot--a very bad lot. He never liked you. I don't know why. But I didn't think it would come to this."
"Jarman"--Frank started from his seat--"you don't suppose--"
"Sit down, you ass." Jarman pushed Lancaster back into his chair. "I wouldn't take things so quietly if you had killed him. Barring that, I'm glad the man's out of the world. He was no use in it."
"My own words--my own words!"
"When and where?"
"At the Piccadilly Theatre last night. I shouted them in the bar after I knocked him down."
"H'm! Shouldn't talk like that, Frank, it's foolish."
"I know it is. I'm in a fix, that's why I come to you."
"Well," said Eustace, refilling his briar, "the best thing you can do is to tell me everything from the start.
"Where am I to start from. You know about Fairy Fan?"
"Yes; and about Starth's love for her. He looked upon you as a rival, and the knowledge didn't increase his liking for you. Well?"
Frank straightened himself, and forthwith delivered a succinct account of all that had taken place, from the encounter on the previous night to his leaving the house in Sand Lane, South Kensington.
"I took the Underground to Liverpool Street and caught the down train by the skin of my teeth. I didn't even return to my diggings, as I was afraid of being arrested. I'm a marked man now, Eustace. The police will hunt me down. And I am innocent."
"Why didn't you give the alarm when you found Starth dead?"
"Man alive, that would have delivered me into the power of the law."
"I know that. Just asked the question to see what you'd say. H'm! It's a nasty case for you. The circumstantial evidence--"
"I know--I know. Who knows better than I?" Frank rose to pace the room anxiously. "I spoke foolishly about Starth being better out of the world, at the theatre. I took my pistol with me--I was alone in the house with him!--that servant saw me leave, and I daresay noticed my agitation. Jarman, it's awful. I don't see how I'm going to get out of the danger. They'll hang me."
"Steady, old man. They won't hang you. I won't let them."
"Then you'll help me to get out of the country?"
"No. If you cut, you'll surely be caught. By to-morrow every seaport in the kingdom will be watched. You must stay here."
"But I'll be traced."
"I don't think so. Plenty of men go up and down on this line in frock-coats and tall hats. I don't suppose anyone took particular notice of you."
"The train was crowded."
"All the better. There's safety in a crowd. No, Frank, don't leave England. Stop here, and I'll fix you up some sort of disguise. The very daring of the thing may be your salvation. The police will never think that you will remain so near town. I'll make things safe with Miss Cork, and she's the only person who has seen you. When we get time to turn round we can sift matters out."
"What a good chap you are, Jarman!"
"Nothing of the sort. If you were guilty I shouldn't chance the risk of being an accessory after the fact. As it is, I'll see you through the business. It's a nasty affair, there's no denying that. I expect the sister will come over to-morrow to ask for my assistance."
"Oh!" Frank jumped up nervously. "Do you think she'll recognise me?"
"Of course not. She only saw you once, and that at a distance, Besides, I don't suppose she inquired your name. Finally, as I intend to disguise you, she won't guess that anything is wrong. You work the typer?"
"Yes."
"Good! Then you'll stop here as my secretary. I'll dictate, and you'll work the machine. With your moustache cut off, dyed black hair, a stained face, and a pair of goggles for weak eyes, no one will recognise you."
"But no one hereabouts knows me, except Miss Starth, and she only saw me in the glare of the electrics for a few minutes."
"Frank, you're an ass! The _Police Gazette_ will have a full description of you. Everyone will be on the look-out. Thank Heaven, you're of the commonplace type. Pink and white, fair hair, blue eyes, well-groomed, military figure, and all the rest of it."
"How will my blue eyes match black hair?"
"We'll say you're Irish, and you can fix up a brogue. Trust me. I've been in several holes myself, and know how to get out of the deepest."
"But, Jarman, who do you think killed the man?"
"I can't say that until I know more. The reason is to be found in Walter Starth's past. He has sown the wind pretty freely, and I can hardly wonder at his reaping this whirlwind."
"Do you think he intended to trap me?" asked Lancaster.
"Yes. He's not the man to apologise. And the house being empty on that evening shows that Starth was up to some trickery. Maybe he intended to kill you. However, he never intended to die himself."
"How do you know? He may have committed suicide."
"Bosh! Starth was the last man in the world to have such an idea. He wasn't cowardly enough. I will say that. Besides, if he wished to commit suicide he would scarcely invite you to see him do it."
"I don't know. He might have left a letter saying I shot him, and then got out of the world to hang me."
Jarman shrugged his huge shoulders. "That's an extreme measure of revenge. If he wanted to get you into trouble, he would certainly like to be present to see how you took your gruel. Another thing, from what you say, your pistol was used."
"I think so. At all events, it was taken from my pocket."
"H'm! He searched you. Anything else missing?"
"The note in which he asked me to call."
"That proves Starth set a trap. I think--no I don't; I can't deliver an opinion until I know more. Go to bed and sleep."
"I can't sleep," said Frank, passionately. "I'm ruined."
But for all that he dropped into a deep slumber almost as soon as his head touched the pillow.
"Worn out, poor wretch!" said Eustace.
"What do you think of my new secretary, Miss Cork?" asked Jarman next morning, when his housekeeper was laying the table. He put the question purposely to arrange matters for the disguise.
"I didn't see quite rightly, Mr. Jarman, my eyes being weak. Young?"
"And dark and Irish. His eyes are weak to the extent of blue glasses."
"I didn't see them, sir."
"No, poor chap. He broke them crossing the Common, left his baggage in London, and got lost in our country."
"Oh, he'll know it soon, Mr. Jarman. I'm an Essex woman myself--Billericay way--and the country is easy. What's the gentleman's name, Sir?"
"Desmond," said Eustace, lying with an unmoved face. "Desmond O'Neil."
"I'll remember, sir."
"And, oh, Miss Cork, I shouldn't mention about his late arrival and loss of baggage if I were you. The Irish are sensitive."
"As well I know from politics, Mr. Jarman. No, sir, I'll say nothing."
Miss Cork was a tall, lean woman with watery grey eyes and grey hair screwed into a cast-iron knob behind. Her lips were thin, and her nose red by reason of tight-lacing. Miss Cork had a good figure and improved it, in her own opinion, by making her waist smaller. She usually wore a grey dress with cloth slippers, and moved like a shadow. For many years she had been with Eustace, who had produced her from a London police-court where she was being charged with vagrancy. But he never told anyone this, and Miss Cork bore a high character. But she was not popular, as she never gossiped. And a woman who does not gossip in a village is not fit companion for those who want to know their neighbours' affairs. Eustace knew that she would hold her tongue. Nevertheless, he was glad that her limited vision had not been able to take in Frank Lancaster as he had been.
As it was, Mr. Desmond O'Neil appeared late at the breakfast, and Miss Cork, bringing in the bacon and eggs, silently avowed the truth of her master's description. The new secretary was brown-skinned, with dark hair, and a clean-shaven face, shaded about the eyes with blue spectacles. Miss Cork was rather doubtful about the clean-shaving. From the glimpse she got of him on the previous night she fancied he had worn a moustache, and this she mentioned to Jarman. "It was a smear of clay," explained Eustace. "The poor chap was tumbling in the mud all the time. Were you mired, O'Neil?" he asked, aloud.
"I was that!" responded the Irish gentleman, wondering why his host kicked him under the table.
"The mud do splash high in Essex," said Miss Cork. "I'm a Billericay woman myself, Mr. O'Neil." Then she left the room, and Jarman explained. But Frank continued uneasy.
"I don't like the looks of that woman," he said. "Is she honest?"
"Oh, quite, except what she says about Billericay. She's invented the idea of being a native of those parts, as the villagers here don't like strangers. But she's been with me for three years. I picked her up in London."
"Where?"
"Well, it isn't fair to give her away. She's had a past, although I don't know the rights or wrongs of it. But she'll hold her tongue."
"Suppose a reward is offered, will she?"
"Sure. She owes me too much to play me false," said Jarman, pouring out the coffee. "And where's the reward to come from?"
"The Government--"
"Pooh! Government won't offer much, even if it offers any, which isn't likely. No one else will plank down the money. Miss Starth hasn't much, and there are no relatives. Make your mind easy about the reward. There won't be a cent offered for your apprehension."
"What's Miss Starth's name?" asked Frank, who made a fair breakfast.
"Mildred," responded Jarman, with a flush. "She's the sweetest girl you ever met."
"I saw that from the glimpse I caught of her," said Lancaster, and wondered why Jarman coloured through his tan. He scented a rival, but could not be sure, and, of course, was unable to ask questions. Besides, in spite of his newly-born passion, his position was so dangerous, that he had but one thought, namely, how to escape being hanged on circumstantial evidence.
Frank wished to talk of the matter the moment breakfast was over, but this Eustace would not allow. "You'll have enough of it before you win free," he said. "We must wait until we hear what the newspapers have to say. I daresay there's nothing in the morning lot; but this afternoon we may read something. Then, again, I expect to see Mildred--I mean Miss Starth. She's sure to be wired for."
Frank noticed the slip, and became convinced that Eustace admired the girl more than a little. However, his brain was too filled with his own danger to think of anything else, and he accompanied Jarman on an exploring tour round the village. The idea was that his arrival and appearance and position as secretary should be made as public as possible, so that he might become an accepted fact. After the first few days the villagers would accept him as part of the Shanty household, and cease to discuss him. The subsequent indifference would be another element of safety.
So round the village that afternoon the two went, arm-in-arm. Jarman took his new secretary into several shops, and then to the post-office, which was conducted by a fat woman, who read all the letters and made all the mischief she could. Early as it was, she had a piece of news.
"Oh! Mr. Jarman," said she, puffing, for the day was hot and muggy after the rain, "whatever's come to Miss Starth? I saw her driving like a mad thing to catch the two train. And she only keeps a donkey too--leastways, it's Mrs. Perth who does."
"I suppose she was going to town, Mrs. Baker."
"Then I hope it isn't to a funeral, Mr. Jarman, for her face was as white as a winding sheet. Ah, well, it ain't none of our business."
"No!" said Eustace, emphatically; "it certainly is not."
"That's what I say," replied Mrs. Baker, not seeing the intended rebuke. "As I always says to Baker, if people managed their own affairs without being talked about, people wouldn't be so bothered. And how do you like the country, sir?" This last was to Frank.
"It is extremely pretty," replied Lancaster, cautiously.
"Ah, when you're here long enough, you'll say so, sir. But I suppose you've just come?"
"He came last night, Mrs. Baker, from Ireland?"
"Dear me! I get butter from there. And will you be staying long, sir?"
"I hope so," answered Lancaster, seeing why Jarman had brought him into the company of this inquiring lady. "I am Mr. Jarman's secretary."
"Well, I'm glad you've a companion at last, Mr. Jarman, though a wife would be more to a single gentleman's mind. And I always thought--"
"Good-morning!" interposed Eustace, hastily, and left the shop, tucking a bundle of newspapers and letters under his arm. When they got some distance along the road he laughed.
"What do you think of Mrs. Baker?" he asked.
"She seems to be a kind of gazette. I suppose you took me in so that she could talk of my personal appearance, and my engagement as a secretary, and all the rest of it."
"Precisely. The wider you are known the safer you will be. Mrs. Baker will describe your appearance, and detail how you came from Ireland where she gets her butter. We'll send a few letters through her hands, addressed to Desmond O'Neil, and then she'll drop talking. So even if you are traced by any chance, Frank, there will be no danger of a detective connecting you with the man who is wanted."
Lancaster shuddered. "It's like a nightmare," he said. "Yesterday I was a free man, with a career before me; now I'm an outlaw, with a price set on my head."
"It's unpleasant. But wait--wait. Time works wonders. The real criminal may be discovered. Let us hear what news has come to Rose Cottage."
"Is that where Miss Starth lives?"
"Yes. She and Mrs. Perth share the place. Their united incomes are just enough to keep them in comfort."
"Is Miss Starth engaged?" asked Lancaster, with a side glance.
"No," said the other, with unnecessary fierceness. "Why do you ask?"
"Well, she's so pretty that I thought--"
"Oh, bother your thinking!" broke in Eustace, testily. "Mildred isn't the girl to get engaged in a hurry."
"You seem to know her well, calling her by her name."
"I've known her for some years, and as she is something of a poetess I help her to get her poems into print. She looks on me as a kind of--of father," added Jarman, colouring.
Frank nodded. He guessed the truth, but was too languid to argue it. But he couldn't help asking what Mrs. Baker had been about to observe when Eustace left the shop. "Was she speaking of Miss Starth?"
"I don't know. Mrs. Baker is by way of being a matchmaker, and always couples names. There was a rumour that I was engaged to Mildred."
"It wasn't true?"
"No. I've had enough of women. Seven years ago in 'Frisco--" Jarman checked himself impatiently. "What's the use of raking up old tales. You seem very interested in Miss Starth?"
"Naturally," said Lancaster, sadly, "seeing what I am supposed to have done. If she knew, she would denounce me."
"Not on the evidence you have placed before me," said Jarman. "She's a sensible girl. And the death of her brother will add to her income."
"What an unpleasant speech!" said Frank, in vexed tones.
"We live in a world of facts, my boy. Besides, that beauty is no loss."
By this time they had arrived at the Common. Here Jarman turned down a shady lane, and passed through an arcade of chestnut trees. At the end of this was an open space surrounded by trees, and amidst these a thatched cottage that might have come out of a fairy-tale from the quaint look of it. The walls were whitewashed, the windows of lattice work, and in front of it flourished a garden filled with old-fashioned flowers, evidently the delight of those who had planted them. A white paling fence separated it from the lane, and over the gate of this leant an elderly lady. Frank recognised Mrs. Perth.
She was a delicate old dame, with an ivory-hued face, smooth white hair, and dressed severely in black from head to foot, even to a black straw hat. She beckoned to Eustace. He knew well enough why she was in mourning, but for obvious reasons asked questions.
"Why are you in black, Mrs. Perth? No bad news, I hope?"
"I don't know if you call it bad or good," she replied, with some asperity. "Walter has been murdered."
Frank, in the background, winced, and dug his cane into the turf. But Eustace took the intelligence with well-feigned surprise. "Murdered! Mrs. Perth! How terrible. Who murdered him?"
"Ah! that's what has to be discovered. Mildred received a letter this morning, telling her that Walter had been found last night shot through the head in his rooms in Sand Lane. Also he was stabbed in the breast--right through the heart."
"Stabbed also," began Frank, incautiously, when Jarman interposed.
"My new secretary, Mrs. Perth--Mr. Desmond O'Neil. He comes from Ireland."
"I am happy to meet you, Mr. O'Neil," said the old lady in a most stately manner. "What was it you said?"
"I was--was--only expressing--my--my surprise," stammered Frank.
"That the man should be stabbed as well as shot," put in Jarman, ever watchful. "I don't wonder at it. Wasn't one mode of death enough?"
"Apparently not. The shot must have killed him, too, as it was under the right eye!"
"The _right_ eye," objected Frank, and it was on the tip of his tongue to correct the speech, but he swallowed his words. "How horrible!"
"You may well say that. We don't know all the details yet," said Mrs. Perth, addressing Eustace, "and Mildred has gone up to town to hear what she can. The police are in possession of the house. Let us hope the assassin will be found."
"Let us hope so," muttered Frank, and then aimlessly strolled away to a little distance to overcome a qualmish feeling.
"He's rather a nervous chap," explained Jarman to Mrs. Perth; "bad health and weak eyes."
"He does indeed look pale, Mr. Jarman. I fear I'm not looking well myself this morning."
"No wonder," said Eustace. "The shock--"
"Well, it was a shock to us both," interrupted Mrs. Perth, speaking low. "But to tell you the truth, Mr. Jarman, Mildred is more grieved than I am. I never liked Walter. Heaven forgive me for speaking ill of the dead, but--well, Mr. Jarman, you know what a bad man he was."
"We'll bury his reputation with him, poor wretch."
But this Mrs. Perth did not seem inclined to do. "He led Mildred a truly awful life," she continued. "But for my influence she would have parted with her income to him. Moreover, he wished her to marry one of his disreputable friends."
"I never knew that!" cried Eustace, and looked displeased now that he had acquired the knowledge. "Who is it?"
"Mr. Denham. You met him here when Walter brought him down."
"Ugh!" Jarman looked disgusted. "An effeminate little dandy. But I don't think there was any harm in him, Mrs. Perth. He was an ass, pure and simple."
"And disreputable," insisted Mrs. Perth. "He came from the United States, and neither his manners nor his principles are English. I believe he had money, and for that reason Walter desired to bring about the marriage."
Eustace fidgeted. "I oughtn't to ask, of course," said he, "but did this--did Denham propose?"
"Certainly not," said the old lady, promptly, "I saw to that. No, Mr. Jarman, say what you will, Walter is better out of the world than in it. Had he lived he would certainly have ended in gaol. Think what such a disgrace would have meant to Mildred!"
"Oh, I think Starth would always have kept on the safe side," said Jarman. "He had a great notion of looking after his own skin, had Starth. Have you--has his sister any idea as to who killed him?"
"No. Walter's life was distinctly apart from ours. I never allowed him to come to Rose Cottage more often than was necessary, as he worried Mildred, and, indeed, myself. He knew a bad lot of people, and most probably met his death at the hands of one of them. But I must say," added Mrs. Perth, frankly, "that it was kind of this Mr. Berry to inform us of the tragedy."
"Berry?" cried Lancaster, who had again strolled within earshot.
"Yes! Mr. Banjo Berry--a most peculiar name. Do you know him?"
Jarman answered for obvious reasons. "I was speaking about him this morning," said he, hastily. "I suppose the mention of the name in connection with this case recalled it to your mind, O'Neil?"
"Yes," said Frank, taking his cue. "Banjo Berry is not an ordinary name. Did you ever meet him, Mrs. Perth?"
"No. Mr. Starth's friends were not mine," replied the old dame, stiffly; "but this Mr. Berry must have been most intimate with Walter, as he says in his letter to Mildred" (she was again addressing Jarman) "that he intends to offer a reward of two hundred pounds for the detection of the assassin."
Lancaster dropped his stick in sheer amazement and to prevent any betrayal, Eustace took his arm with a significant pressure. "Well, Mrs. Perth, anything I can do shall be done," he said cheerily. "You will let me know when Miss Starth returns?"
"Certainly. We shall both be thankful for your aid."
Mrs. Perth retired into the cottage, and the two friends went on their way, Frank in a state of bewilderment. "What does Berry mean by offering a reward?" he gasped.
"He means to hang you," said Jarman, promptly.
"But he's my friend."
"H'm! He--as you told me--has said that so often that I begin to think he is your enemy."
"Why? I have given him no cause to hate me."
"H'm! Who knows? He was a friend of Starth's."
"That didn't matter," said Lancaster. "Starth himself hinted that Berry wished me to marry his niece. If I was undesirable as her husband before, I am still more undesirable as an outlaw."
Jarman thought, then asked questions. "How did you meet Berry?"
"He called to ask me to write some songs for Fairy Fan, having seen my poetry in the magazines."
"I see. Observe, Frank. Berry sought your acquaintance--you did not seek his. He brought you and Starth together again?"
"Well, he did. I dropped Starth's acquaintance, as you know, because we didn't get on well. He came to know Fairy Fan somehow, and I was constantly meeting him there."
"And this woman made running with you both?"
"Well, she was capricious. Some days she would snub me and flirt with Starth; on other days she would give him the go-by and stick to me."
"Quite so. She divided her favours to arouse jealousy between you."
Frank coloured and looked uneasy. "If you put it that way, she did."
"What was Berry's attitude"
"I can hardly say, save that whenever he was present Starth and I always had a row."
"H'm! A kind of male Ate," said Jarman, musingly. "Berry was speaking to Starth last night, before Starth insulted you?"
"Yes. But what has that got to do with it."
"Everything! Frank, I tell you this man Berry is at the bottom of the whole mystery. He got you into the trouble, now he means to hang you!"
Lancaster stared. "But his reason?" he asked.
Jarman made an extraordinary reply. "Because of the Scarlet Bat."
There was considerable excitement over the murder in Sand Lane, especially in theatrical and journalistic circles. The deceased was a well-known figure in Bohemia, as for years he had consorted with actors, with reporters, and with sundry idle men, who, doing nothing themselves, sought the company of those gifted with creative and mimetic powers. Walter Starth, being cursed with enough to live on, had developed into a thorough loafer, and chose Bohemia to dwell in, because its gaslight attractions were congenial to his mind. Occasionally he wrote an article or short story himself, and sometimes walked on in a melodrama as a guest; but he never did any real work, preferring idle talk and constant drinking. He was not a favourite with the Slaves of the Lamp, but his burly figure and red head were excessively familiar. Consequently there was immense curiosity manifested regarding his untimely and terrible death.
Who had killed him? That was the first question which everyone asked. But before the inquest took place it was known that Frank Lancaster was the assassin. How the rumour had started no one knew, but somehow, within twenty-four hours after the discovery of the body, Lancaster's name was on every lip. Now, Frank, moving in the same Bohemia, was as great a favourite as Starth was the reverse, and at the outset everyone declined to believe that he had slain Starth in so brutal a manner. But afterwards the open enmity between the two men was recalled, their attentions to Fairy Fan were mentioned, and an exaggerated version was given of the quarrel in the Piccadilly Theatre. When the inquest was held it was quite believed that Lancaster was the guilty man. His flight proved his guilt.
Frank, concealed under the dyed hair and brown face of Desmond O'Neil, wished Eustace to be present at the inquest, but Jarman did not think it wise to put in an appearance.
"Captain Berry will be there," said he, "and, as I stated before, I am pretty sure that for some unexplained reason he is your enemy. It is probable that he has made himself acquainted with as much of your sayings and doings as he can gather, and he doubtless knows that I am your friend. I'll keep out of it, Frank, lest Captain Berry should be induced to run down here and ask questions. If so, he might spot you in spite of your disguise. Besides, we'll see all that there is to be seen in the papers, and what isn't reported Mildred will explain when she returns."
"Is she stopping in town for the inquest?"
"Yes. Mrs. Perth has gone up also, as the poor girl is much cut up. A brother is a brother, however bad he may be."
Frank reflected for a few moments. "Eustace," said he at last, "do you remember what I told you about Starth taunting me with not knowing my father. That's true, you know."
"Yes. But afterwards he confessed that he said that only to get you dandered."
"How did he know that he would rile me in that way? Why should he hit the bull's-eye with a pot-shot? I fancied at the time that you might have told him something."
"No!" denied Jarman. "I keep my pores open and my mouth shut. It's probable that Starth learnt something about your family history from the egregious Berry."
"But how does Berry come to know anything?"
"That's one of the things we must find out, one of the elements connected with his attitude towards you."
"Do you think he knows what the Scarlet Bat means?"
"Yes. He knows more than you do, and, on the face of it, he purposely made your acquaintance to get you into trouble. Witness the way in which he brought you and Starth together, and secured Fairy Fan's aid to make bad blood between you. He wanted Starth dead and you hanged. At least, I think so; but, of course, I'm groping in the dark."
"But what's hanging to it?" asked Frank, much puzzled.
"I don't know. Money, I should say."
"So far as I know, there's no money worth all this trouble on Berry's part coming my way."
"Observe, my son," said Jarman, paternally, "so far as you know. That is the crux of the whole thing. You are as puzzled as myself over the meaning of the Scarlet Bat. As it's the only mystery about you, save the reason of Berry's enmity, I take leave to jam the two mysteries together. When they make one, we may perhaps be able to get at the truth."
"I don't see how we're to start," said Lancaster, knitting his brows.
"Nor I. Wait till the inquest is over. Then we'll have something to go upon. Berry will be a witness as to your quarrelling with the dead man. Berry will collect evidence to make the case blacker. And when Berry has done his worst, we'll know his cards. See! Then you and I will play our game with a hidden hand. And now, my son, start in with the typing. I have to get this story sent in to-morrow, and you must do something to keep up the fiction of being my secretary."
While Jarman and his friend were engaged in literary pursuits in Essex, the inquest was being held in London on the body of Walter Starth. After the jury had surveyed the corpse, and had particularly examined the bullet hole and the knife wound, either one of which was sufficient to cause death, the police inspector in charge of the case detailed facts. He had been called in by Mrs. Betts, the landlady of the deceased, and found Walter Starth dead in his sitting-room. The body was on the floor, with a wound in the heart and a bullet hole under the left eye. No knife had been found, but a pistol--to be more accurate, a Derringer revolver--was discovered in the fireless grate. There was no sign of a struggle. Everything was in its place. The man, apparently taken by surprise, must have died instantly. It was impossible to say whether he was knifed first or shot afterwards--but that was part of the doctor's evidence. A card had been found torn in two and lying on the floor. It bore the name of Frank Lancaster, and an address. On the silver plate of the Derringer were the initials "F. L.," so the inspector, presuming that Lancaster, owner of the pistol, was the assassin, had called at that address given on the card to arrest him.
At this point the coroner said that witness was assuming too much.
Inspector Herny submitted that the revolver used was the property of Lancaster, that the torn card bore his name, and that the servant Matilda Samuels stated that a man answering to the description of Lancaster had called to see the deceased. Also Lancaster and Starth had quarrelled at the Piccadilly Theatre on the night before the committal of the crime, and Lancaster had been heard to threaten the deceased. Finally, Captain Berry, whom the inspector had come into contact with at Lancaster's chambers--where he was paying a visit--stated that the two men were bitter rivals for the hand of his niece, Miss Berry, known on the stage as Fairy Fan.
"Why was not Lancaster arrested?" asked the coroner.
"He fled, sir," replied Herny. "After the committal of the crime, he did not return to his rooms. The last seen of him was when he passed Matilda Samuels a few minutes after nine o'clock."
The doctor who had examined the body deposed that either wound was sufficient to cause death. From the condition of the body he thought that the man was killed between six and eight o'clock. It was the doctor's opinion that Starth had been shot first and stabbed afterwards. He could give no absolute reason, save that if the suspected person using a knife had thus secured his end, he would hardly fire a shot into a dead body, especially into the head. "The noise would have attracted the neighbours," said the doctor, "and as the man was dead, there would be no sense in acting so foolishly. But in a vindictive spirit the assassin might certainly have mutilated the body with the knife. I am convinced that he killed Starth with the revolver."
The coroner interposed. Twice the witness had referred to the assassin as "he." How did he know that the criminal was a man?
The doctor answered that he did _not_ know, but the presumption favoured a male criminal. It was improbable that a woman would be such a straight shot (the doctor had been in South America and talked so), and, moreover, the knife had been driven so deeply into the heart that he doubted whether a woman would have strength to make such a wound. Besides, after firing the shot and securing her purpose, a woman would never have had the nerve to stop in the room for over an hour.
"There is no evidence that any woman stopped in the room for an hour."
The witness explained that he was thinking of Inspector Herny's remark of Lancaster having been seen by the servant leaving at nine. If Lancaster were guilty, he must have stopped in the room with his victim's body for over an hour. The murder took place between six and eight, and Lancaster did not leave till after nine.
"Most irregular, these remarks," said the coroner, discontentedly. "You have no right to assume so much. Which wound killed the man?"
"Either wound would cause death," said the doctor, sticking to his opinion, "but it is my belief the shot was the cause. The mutilation was an after-thought."
When this witness stepped down, Mrs. Betts the landlady was called. She knew nothing at all. On that day she had gone to a wedding--one of her cousins--and had been absent from midday till half-past nine. She returned to find Tilly (the servant) in hysterics, and her lodger dead. She then called in the police. Mrs. Betts never knew that her lodger expected anyone. He had said nothing to her. She had never given Tilly permission to go out during her absence, and had severely reprimanded her for leaving the house. It was Tilly's duty to have remained in until Mrs. Betts returned. The landlady declared that she never heard of any quarrel, that she never saw Lancaster, and that she knew of no one likely to have killed her lodger. Mr. Starth was a quiet gentleman in the house, whatever he may have been outside. He rarely had a visitor. Captain Berry was one of the few who called. Sometimes Mr. Starth would go away for a week, and always returned looking ill.
All this and much more of little account was extracted from the garrulous landlady, but she could throw no light on the darkness of the crime. She was succeeded as a witness by Tilly, whose evidence was delivered amidst floods of tears. The poor little wretch had been severely frightened when she entered the house after leaving her young man.
"I went to take Mr. Starth's lamp," she said, sobbing, "as he allays liked oil an' not gas. He was lying a deaden, so I 'owled and dropped, till missus shook me up. There wasn't anyone in the house. But that gentleman what called come out just as I wos talking to Alf. He looked white an' queer like. I spoke of the long time he'd bin, but he said nothin', and jus' cut."
"Were the two men on good terms?" asked the coroner.
"Well, sir," said Tilly, hesitating, "I can't 'ardly say for certing. I wos left in the 'ouse when missus went to the weddin', and Mr. Starth, he called me up, arskin' if I wos in the humour to see Alf, which is my young man, a bricklayer. I sed, 'Right oh!' and he tells me I could cut when a gentleman called to see him. 'There might be a row,' ses he, 'cos this gent 'ates me awful, an' I don't want you to 'ear bad language,' ses he. So I gets ready for Alf, and when the gent comes after four, and very late he wos, I shoves him into the room and cuts."
"Did you hear the greeting given by Starth to Lancaster?"
"No! I jus' shoves him in, and cuts."
"It was Lancaster who called?"
"Yuss. Mr. Starth ses as the gent he expected wos Lancaster by name, an' a fair, yeller-'aired cove. He seemed to 'ate 'im, tho' he ses as it wos Lancaster who 'ated 'im," finished Tilly, confusedly.
"Do you think Mr. Starth got you out of the house so as to quarrel freely with his visitor?"
"Yuss. He said as there would be a row."
"Could anyone have got into the lower part of the house during your absence?"
Tilly stole a look at hard-faced Mrs. Betts. "Why, bless y'no, sir. I wos perticler about lockin' an' barrin' the winders. But Mr. Starth could 'ave let anyone in. I left him with Mr. Lancaster, that's all I knows. W'en I come back after leaving Alf, I sawr 'im dead, w'en I brought the lamp. I nearly dropped with 'orror, an' after puttin' the lamp down I ran to woller on the kitchen floor with fear till missus come an' shook me up. I wos too feared to holler fur the perlice."
When Tilly was dismissed with a streaming face to the companionship of Alf, who lurked at the back of the court, Captain Berry was called. The little skipper looked harder than ever, and delivered his evidence in a dry fashion, with unwinking eyes and without saying more than was needful. His language smacked of the Great Waste Lands.
"Yes, sir, I guess I knew the corpse, and Lancaster. They fair hated one another, and there was always a shine between them when they met. My niece sent 'em fair crazy. They both wanted to marry her, but she shied when they asked her. She didn't want to run in double harness with either. Not much. I tried to make them two boys friends, but they wouldn't cotton to one another nohow. Starth _did_ liquidate considerable, and at the Piccadilly Theatre made trouble. Oh! he came right along, callin' Lancaster high-and-mighty names. I wanted to put the stopper on Starth's jaw, but Lancaster sailed in and levelled him straight. A pretty hitter is Lancaster; but I don't call it square of a man to wish another out of the world."
"Did Lancaster say that?" asked the coroner.
Berry spat and nodded. "Several times, you bet. He said he'd like to wring Starth's neck, that he'd be better out of the world than in it, and that he'd like to kick him out of the world. Oh, there was an holy show. I took Starth home, but he never let on that he was goin' to make it up with Lancaster next day. They made no appointment as I heard on. Oh! I guess Lancaster had a row with Starth in his own shanty, and let out at him with the Derringer. A clean shot, sir." Berry spat again. "The knife? Don't know anythin' of th' knife. But I heard as Lancaster was in 'Frisco once, so he might have imported a bowie. Yes, sir, that wound was made by a bowie."
Berry said much more to the same effect, and appeared to be quite sure that Lancaster was guilty. He was followed by Baird, who had been imported into the case by the skipper on a word to Inspector Herny. Baird admitted reluctantly that Lancaster had threatened to kick Starth out of the world, and that the two men were on the worst of terms.
Afterwards followed the cause of the trouble. Fairy Fan, exquisitely dressed, and quite overcome with emotion, deposed that the two men both asked her to marry them. She refused both, as she wished to stay with her dear uncle. Starth and Lancaster hated one another, but she never thought it would come to this. Starth usually started the quarrel, but it was always Lancaster who threatened. He frequently expressed a wish that Starth was dead. Lancaster told her that when slumming for his newspaper he sometimes carried a revolver. The weapon produced in court was his. She had seen it once. It had belonged to his father, Lancaster said. The elder Lancaster's name was Frank also, hence the initials on the silver plate. The death of Starth and the wickedness of Lancaster had inflicted two several shocks on her, so that she had been out of the bill at the Piccadilly Theatre. She never thought Lancaster was so bloodthirsty. He always seemed to be such a quiet young man. Starth's language was certainly most insulting.
Mildred Starth was then called. She deposed that she was a sister of the deceased. She lived in Essex, and saw very little of her brother. They got on pretty well, but she was fond of a quiet life, and her brother was never happy unless he was leading a fast one. On the night previous to the murder she was in town. Her brother was in the box at the Piccadilly Theatre; that was the last she saw of him. He seemed excited and a little overcome with drink. She had heard him express hatred of Lancaster, but he was careful in her presence not to explain the reason. She had never heard him threaten Lancaster, but twice she had heard him express fears lest Lancaster should kill him. He described Lancaster as a ruffian from San Francisco. Witness had never seen the accused man.
This formed the gist of evidence collected by the police, and it was quite enough to permit the coroner making a speech strongly condemning Lancaster. He said that no doubt Lancaster had intimated his intention of calling on Starth, as there was no reason to believe that Starth, who was manifestly afraid of his opponent, had invited him to come. Lancaster had undoubtedly brought the revolver with him, and it would seem that he had called on deceased with the intention of committing the murder. Perhaps Starth--as seemed probable--had torn Lancaster's card in two (the pieces having been found), and the insult had fired Lancaster's rage. Hence the murder. It seems that no one heard the shot; at all events no one could be found who could give such evidence. The jury must therefore take the doctor's opinion that Starth had been shot between six and eight. It was impossible to say why Lancaster had remained behind with his victim's body until nine. But he apparently did, as he was seen leaving the house by the servant, Matilda Samuels. The jury had inspected the body, they had heard the evidence and the cause of death, and on the facts before them would give their verdict.
This was easily given. Without the least hesitation the jury brought in a verdict of wilful murder against Frank Lancaster. After that the crowd went out, and the neighbourhood buzzed with excitement. The one question asked was whether the police knew the whereabouts of the guilty man.
The police did not, and to a reporter Inspector Herny confessed that he had absolutely no clue. Lancaster had vanished like a water bubble.