Timson ran to the area rails and leaned over as far as he could, gesticulating furiously with one arm, as he exclaimed loud enough for his friend to hear —
“I couldn’t go away without telling you I’m sure of it, sir. There! I’ll take my oath it’s the Papist.”
Volume Two – Chapter Twenty Three.
At Fault
Harry Clayton was fortunate, for he was shown into the great Mr Whittrick’s presence directly; and, as soon as seated, he had the pleasure of feeling that the private inquirer was mentally photographing him, though, all the same, his words were quiet and urbane. But it seemed as if Mr Whittrick made use of all his faculties at once; he talked to his visitor; he listened to him; he gazed at him tremendously at times; he seemed to be smelling him; and, from the motion of his fingers, he evidently had a strong inclination to feel his visitor, for purposes of future recognition.
“No, sir – at present, none; but we are doing all that is possible.”
“But have you nothing definite to communicate?” said Harry, despondently.
“No, sir – at present, nothing,” said Mr Whittrick. “But – if I might be so bold – there was an advertisement in the Times this morning, placed there of course by Sir Francis Redgrave. I was not consulted over the matter. I think, you know, sir, that Sir Francis is wrong. I see that he has the Scotland Yard people at work. Not a good plan, I think, sir. They are very able men there – Falkner’s good; but too many cooks, you know, spoil the broth. Humble aphorism, but true, sir. However, Sir Francis may depend upon my doing my best.”
Harry Clayton rose with a sigh and left the office, feeling very little hope of success in this direction. Jealousy was evidently at work, and he could not but own to himself that Sir Francis had taken a wrong step.
What should he do next? he asked himself. He had not been to Brownjohn Street the last day or two; why should he not go there again? He might obtain some news.
It was hardly worth while going, he thought, only it was possible he might see the bird-dealer himself, and perhaps obtain some little information likely to prove of use.
But D. Wragg was not in, when he reached Brownjohn Street; and in place of seeing either him or poor Janet, Clayton encountered the round pleasant playbill-rayed face of Mrs Winks, rising like a fleshy sun from behind the paint-cloudy counter, to the loud song of the larks; for Mrs Winks had just been stooping to hide the weakness which she kept for her own private use in a ginger-beer bottle. Mrs Winks’ head was only to be seen without curl-papers when she attended the theatres by night, in the full-dress of curls and blue merino, ready to supply the mental and bodily wants of the frequenters of Drury Lane Theatre gallery. Upon this occasion, the playbill used had been one of the newest, the result being, that a good deal of ink had been transferred from the larger letters to Mrs Winks’ forehead, giving it a somewhat smudgy look.
The good lady, though, was quite in ignorance of her personal aspect, and after laying aside her weakness, carefully corked, she was bringing out of a capacious pocket a saveloy, wrapped in another of the never-failing play-bills – the delicacy being intended for her lunch – when the appearance of Harry Clayton arrested her, and, escaping from the paper, the saveloy slipped back to the depths of her pocket, to be kept warm till required.
Mrs Winks rose to meet the visitor with a smile, which gave place to a puzzled look upon his inquiring for D. Wragg, and then for Janet.
“I’ll go and tell her, sir,” said the old lady, and she puffed up-stairs to Janet’s room, whence she returned in a few minutes, saying —
“She’ve got a bad ’eadache, sir, and ain’t well; but if you’d leave any message?”
“No!” said Clayton, thoughtfully. “You might, though, tell the French gentleman that I called.”
“Which he really is a thorough gentleman,” said. Mrs Winks, enthusiastically; “as you’d say if you knowed more of him, and heard him paint and play on the fiddle. I mean – I beg your pardon, sir – seen him play on the fiddle and paint. He’s a gentleman, every inch of him, if he do lodge in Decadia, which ain’t nothing after all, is it, sir? But I’ll tell him when he comes back; and your name too?”
Clayton gave her a card, and then walked thoughtfully back, but not without stopping in front of a blank wall, where a knot of rough-looking fellows were reading a placard, commencing – “Two hundred pounds reward!” and then he shuddered, as one of the party said – “I ’spose they’d hand over all the same, if he happened to be a dead ’un?”
There was no news when he reached Regent Street, and though Sir Francis had but just concluded an interview with a police sergeant, the mystery seemed as far as ever from solution.
“I think I will go out now, Clayton,” said the baronet, in an excited and feverish manner. “It is so hard to stay in, walking up and down, as if caged, and waiting eagerly for every knock and ring. You’ll take my place – you won’t leave – you won’t leave, in case of a call while you are away.”
“You may trust me, Sir Francis.”
“Yes, yes, I know – I know,” said the old gentleman, wringing his hands, “I feel it! But, Clayton,” he said, anxiously, “if any people should come with information in answer to the advertisements, keep them till I come back.”
“I will, decidedly!” said Clayton; “but may I ask where you are going now?”
“Only to see if the bills are well posted; and, you know, I might see some one who had news, – it is possible.”
“I did see one bill posted up,” said Harry, but he did not mention the remark he had heard made.
“That’s well, Clayton – that’s well! and I hope and trust that this state of anxiety may soon be at an end.”
The young man walked with Sir Francis to the door, and felt shocked to see the way in which he had altered during the past few days; then, returning to his seat, he began to think over the strange disappearance, recalling, too, that evening when he had determined to part from Lionel – their visit to the dog-fancier’s, and the strange feelings that had been aroused; and now, troubled at heart and reluctant, he was pondering upon whether it was not his duty to place in the hands of the police the knowledge he possessed of Lionel’s many visits to Decadia. He could not quite reconcile himself to the task, for he knew that it must result in much unpleasantness to Janet; but it struck him suddenly that the behaviour of the deformed girl was strange, though it had not appeared so at the time. Could she know anything? Had the foolish young man been inveigled to some den, robbed, and murdered? and did the horrified aspect Janet had worn mean that she was in possession of the secret? He shuddered as such thoughts arose, and again and again asked himself what he should do, ending by coming to the determination that he would wait, at least until the following day, and then go to the house and warn them of what was about to be done. And yet, if anything were wrong, it would be putting them upon their guard. But their treatment of him seemed to demand that courtesy, and whatever was wrong, he felt that it would be hard for the innocent to be amongst the sufferers. He could not put them to unnecessary pain.
Then came again a cloud of doubt and suspicion, which hung over him till a couple of hours later, when Sir Francis Redgrave returned – pale, anxious, and tired – to look inquiringly at Harry, and receive for answer a shake of the head, the young man feeling the while that he was not acting openly with his elder, in keeping from him all he knew – information which he was unable to decide whether or not he should impart.
In the evening, as they were seated together – Harry thoughtful and silent, and Sir Francis with his face turned from the light – the baronet spoke —
“I cannot suffer this inaction much longer,” he said. “It is always the same answer from the police – ‘Leave it in our hands, sir; we are hard at work; though, so far, we have nothing to show.’ They say that every – every deadhouse has been searched; the men at the water-side have been told to be on the look-out; hospitals have been visited; everything possible done; but who can be satisfied? We must begin on fresh ground to-morrow, Clayton. What’s that? Did some one knock?”
Mr Stiff entered to announce that there was a man below waiting to see some one respecting the reward.
Sir Francis started instantly to his feet.
“Show him up at once, Stiff!” he exclaimed; and then, not content to wait, in his anxiety he followed the landlord to the stairs, re-entering the room in a few minutes with the heavy-faced young fellow before introduced as Mr John Screwby.
“Now, my man, sit down; don’t stand there!” exclaimed Sir Francis, thrusting a chair forward; “now, tell us quickly.”
“Don’t keer to sit down, thanky,” said the fellow, surlily, taking a sidelong glance round the room, ending by fixing his eyes for a moment on the door, as if to make sure that there was a retreat open in case of need.
“Well, well!” exclaimed Sir Francis; “now tell us what you know, and why you have come. Did you see the advertisement, or one of those placards?”
“Bla’guards?” said the fellow, inquiringly.
“Yes, yes! the bills.”
“Yes; I saw a bill – two ’underd pound reward – and I’ve come for that there two ’underd pound reward.”
“But your information – what do you know?” broke in Harry.
The man turned and stared at him heavily.
“Ah! I didn’t know you at first, without no hat on; but I knows you now. You was with him once when he came down our way. I seed you then, and I ain’t forgot you. But, first of all, who’s going to pay this here money? Is it you, or is it him?”
“I’ll pay you – I’ll pay you, my man!” exclaimed Sir Francis; “and what is your information? – what do you know?”
“What I know’s worth two ’underd pound now,” said the fellow, winking at Harry; “but if I tells it, then, praps, it won’t be worth nothin’ to me.”
“You are dealing with a gentleman, my good fellow,” said Harry, “and you need be under no apprehension.”
“But how do I know as I shan’t be done?” was the offensive reply. “Nobody don’t trust me nothin’; and I don’t see why I should trust nobody. I’m a plain-spoke sort of a chap, I am; and I allers says what’s in my mind. So now, lookye here – you says as you’ll give two ’underd pound to them as’ll tell you where a tall young man’s gone – that’s it, ain’t it?”
Harry nodded.
“Werry good, then. I comes here, and I says, ‘’And over the stiff!’ ‘What for?’ says you. ‘’Cos I knows wheer he is,’ says I. ‘So, now then,’ I says, ‘hand over the tin.’”
Without another word, Sir Francis went to a small writing-case, opened it, and took from a book a ready-signed cheque for the amount.
“Stop!” exclaimed Harry. “Excuse me, Sir Francis; but your anxiety overleaps your caution. How do we know that this man’s information is worth having?”
“He says he knows where – where – you know what he says,” said Sir Francis, piteously.
“Yes,” said Harry; “but let him prove his words.”
“What! are yer agoin’ to run back from it, or are yer agoin’ to hand over the stiff?” said the man, uneasily.
“When you have earned it,” said Harry, almost fiercely. “Now, look here, my man, show us the value of your information, and restore this gentleman to his friends; and without any reference to such complicity as you may have had in the transaction, the two hundred pounds are yours.”
“But lookye here,” said the man, leaning towards him; “suppose as he’s – you know what?” and he whispered the last words.
“The money is yours all the same,” said Harry, in the same tone.
But the man was apparently still far from satisfied, muttering, biting pieces out of his cap-lining, and spitting them upon the carpet, till a bright thought seemed to strike him, to which he gave birth.
“Lookye here, gents. Let’s have the money posted fair for both sides. I knows a genleman down our way as keeps a beer-shop as’d see fair, and make all square. Now, what do you say?”
What would have been said was arrested by a sudden start, or rather jump, on the part of Mr John Screwby, who, following the direction of Sir Francis’ eyes, found that another person had entered the room, and taken a place at his elbow, where he had stood for some few moments listening to the conversation.
Volume Two – Chapter Twenty Four.
Screwby’s “Tip.”
Mr John Screwby’s face would have formed a worthy study for a painter; or, could some instantaneous photographer have secured his aspect, a carte could have been produced that would have made the fortune of any speculator in heads of eminent men. For, as he started away, his jaw half dropped, his eyes staring, and fists clenched, he seemed, for the moment, turned into stone – a statue gazing at the quiet unmoved intruder upon the scene.
“How do, Jack?” said the new-comer, quietly, as he took a slight glance from the corners of his eyes at the informer.
“You’re werry civil all ’twunst,” said the fellow, recovering himself a little; “but you ain’t got nothin’ agen me!”
“Not I, Jack – at least, not yet,” said the new-comer, smiling. “But what brings you here? Smelt the reward?”
The man stared, sniffed, rubbed his nose viciously upon his sleeve, and shuffled uneasily from foot to foot; but he did not answer.
“He professes to hold the required information,” said Sir Francis; “and he is afraid that we shall not duly perform our part of the contract. He is suspicious lest we should withhold part of the money – my friend here thinking that he ought first to prove the value of his tidings.”
“Of course,” said the new-comer, with a commendatory nod of the head at Clayton; “he knows what business is, evidently. Not though, that our friend Jack Screwby here would do anything but what was of the most honourable description. He’s a gent who would scorn a mean action, and as to taking advantage of anybody, there, bless your heart, you might trust him with a baby unborn.”
“None o’ your gammon, now, can’t you?” growled Jack.
“Gammon! nonsense, Jack! It’s all straightforward and above-board. You shall be all right. Now, look here – what do you know? If it’s worth the two hundred pounds, you shall have the money clean down in your fist. I’ll see that you do. Now are you satisfied?”
“Fain sweatings,” growled Mr Screwby, who was apparently far from being in as confident a state as he could have wished.
“What does he say?” exclaimed Sir Francis.
“He means, sir, that he don’t want the reward money to be fiddled.”
“Fiddled?” said Sir Francis.
“Yes, sir – thinned down, and deducted from.”
“Oh, no! let him earn the reward, and he shall have it in full,” exclaimed Sir Francis.
“To be sure,” said the new-comer. “There, Jack, do you hear? All fair and above-board. Money down as soon as the gentleman is found —by your information, mind.”
“Well, never mind about no informations,” growled Screwby; “if I find him, eh?”
“Yes, if you find the gentleman.”
“Dead or alive?” said Screwby, brutally.
“Dead or alive,” said the new-comer, turning, as did also Clayton, to glance at Sir Francis Redgrave, who was very pale, but who remained unmoved, save for the corners of his mouth, which twitched sharply.
Mr John Screwby evidently had great faith in his own powers as a reader of physiognomy, for he glanced from one to the other, and allowed his eyes to rest long upon each face; then he had a long stare at the door, and another at the window, as if meditating flight, or probably from his foxy wild-beast-like nature, which prompted him to mistrust everybody, and to have both an avenue of entrance and another for escape. Then he took another vicious rub at his nose, and refreshed himself with a nibble at his cap, off which he evidently obtained a few woolly scraps; but at last he allowed his furtive-looking eyes to rest upon the new-comer, who had been all the time thoughtfully tapping his teeth with his pencil, and apparently taking not the slightest notice of him whatever.
The fellow then prepared to speak, by hitching himself closer to the stranger, who only gave him a nod, which was interpreted to mean – “Stay where you are!”
For Mr John Screwby stood shuffling from foot to foot, and then placed his hand before his mouth, to direct the flow of his discourse only into the stranger’s ear.
“Speak out, Jack!” said the latter, coolly; “you needn’t be afraid.”
“Who’s afeard?” growled Jack, sourly.
“Oh! not you, Jack, of course,” said the other; “you’ve a heart above that sort of thing, you know.”
“You’re gallus witty, you are,” growled Jack, below his breath.
“Well, speak up, Jack; the gentlemen would like to hear what you have to say, I’m sure.”
“Look ye here, then, Master Falkner,” said Jack, in a hoarse whisper, that sounded as harsh and grating as the sharpening of a saw, – “look ye here; that there young chap’s been hanging about D. Wragg’s crib for months past.”
“To be sure he has, Jack – to be sure; we know that; and what does it mean? Pigeons, or rats, or dogs, or something of that sort, eh?”
Mr Falkner, sergeant of police, half closed his eyes as he spoke, and thrust his hands beneath his coat-tails, as, with head on one side, he waited to hear further news.
“Pigins – dorgs! Not a bit of it. He warn’t arter them,” said Screwby. “Gents like him don’t have no ’casion to come our way; ’cos why? Lots o’ dealers comes arter them, and’ll bring ’em any number o’ rats, or dorgs either, for the matter o’ that. You knows better nor that, Master Falkner. If I was to tell you as I come down here to make these here gents’ minds easy, you wouldn’t believe me, would you?”
“Well, not to put too fine a point on it, Jack Screwby,” said the sergeant, “no, I should not.”
“No,” said the fellow, chuckling, “in coorse you wouldn’t; and no more you don’t believe as he went down our way arter rats or dorgs.”
“Well, suppose he did not: what then?” said the sergeant.
“Don’t you hurry no man’s cattle; you may have a moke o’ your own some day,” said Screwby, with a grin. “I’m a coming to it fast, I am; so look out. Look ye here, governor,” he said in his hoarse whisper, and he craned his neck towards the impassive officer, “lars Chewsday night was a week as I see him go in theer all alone.”
“Go in where, Jack – in where?” said the sergeant, quietly, but with his eyes a little closer, his ears twitching, and every nerve evidently on the strain.
“Why, ain’t I a tellin’ on ye? – in theer!”
“To be sure, yes, of course,” said the sergeant, quietly, “in there – all right!”
“Yes,” continued Screwby, “in theer – in at D. Wragg’s; and,” continued the fellow, in deep tones, harsh, husky, and like a hoarse whisper sent through some large tube – “and he didn’t come out no more.”
Volume Two – Chapter Twenty Five.
Taking up the Clue
As the rough, brutal fellow uttered those, words, accompanying them with a low cunning grin of satisfaction at his success, the walls of the room seemed to swim round before Harry Clayton’s eyes; but recovering himself, he ran to the side of Sir Francis, just as he was staggering and would have fallen.
“It’s nothing, my dear boy – nothing at all,” he gasped; “only a slight touch of faintness. Ring – a glass of wine – a little water – thanks! I am a little overdone with anxiety – a trifle unnerved. Sergeant, you will see to this directly, we will go with you.”
“Better not, sir – better not,” said the officer, bluntly; “leave it in my hands.”
“Sergeant Falkner,” said the old man, piteously, “you are not a father, or you would not speak like that.”
“Ain’t I, by Jove, sir!” cried the sergeant, heartily; “I’ve got ten already, and goodness knows how many more to come. I’ve had butcher-and-baker on-the-brain any time this ten years, sir; let alone boots. But I beg your pardon, Sir Francis; I won’t say another word. Here, you, Screwby, go and sit in that chair,” and he pointed to the one farthest from the door. Then, walking across with the man, he to a certain extent seemed to seat him in the chair, the great hulking rascal being like so much plastic clay in his hands.
The next moment Sergeant Falkner was at the low window, which he threw open, and stepped out upon the balcony, but in an instant he came back – very hastily back – into the room, and hurried to the door, which he opened, to take the key from the outside and carefully lock it from within – the key being afterwards placed in his pocket.
A few seconds more, and, to the surprise of Sir Francis and Clayton, he was again in the balcony, where he uttered a low cough.
There was a pause of a few moments, when he stooped over, and leaning down, spoke to some one beneath.
Apparently satisfied, he re-entered the room, closed the window, unlocked the door, and began to walk up and down thoughtfully, tapping his teeth the while with the end of his pencil.
“For what are we waiting, sergeant?” said Sir Francis, anxiously.
“Cab, sir,” said the officer, curtly; “and here it is. After you, gentlemen!”
As he spoke, there was the sound of wheels grating against the kerb below; and a few minutes after the party was rattling through the streets, but only to stop before long at a quiet-looking office.
Springing out, the sergeant signed to a policeman, who seemed to be there by accident, but all the same was ready to take his place by the cab-door, adding nothing to the ease and comfort of Mr John Screwby, who was quite as fidgety when, after a few minutes, the sergeant returned, gave a few instructions to the driver, and they were once more rattling through the gas-lit streets.
“Rather a tight fit, gentlemen,” said the sergeant, “four in one of these cabs; but it won’t be for long.”
In effect, sooner than Clayton anticipated, the cab stopped and the sergeant again sprang out.
“Now, gentlemen,” he said, “perhaps you’ll have the goodness to follow at a little distance. It’s two streets off yet; but in this extremely pleasant and salubrious region, we don’t want to make any fuss. My dear friend Mr John Screwby and I will go on together, so as to show the way. You need not be afraid,” he whispered to Clayton. “Keep tight hold of the old gentleman’s arm, and bring him along quickly. There’s plenty of help close at hand.”
Clayton nodded, and then, as he drew the baronet’s arm through his own, he hastily glanced round to see once more the thronging types of misery and vice that he had encountered on his previous visits: there were the same hulking ruffians, short of hair, sallow of face, and low of brow – own brothers in aspect of the gentleman who had turned informer; there, too, were the same slatternly women, old and young; children who never seemed to have been young; and at nearly every corner the gin-palace in full levée, its courtiers thronging in and out as the doors swung to and fro.
Harry read this at a glance, and then followed the sergeant through the crowded streets, attracting as little notice as was possible; but from time to time the young man could see that some ruffianly head or another was turned to gaze after Screwby and his companion; intelligent nods and winks, too, were passed from one observer to another, and once Harry heard the whispered words —
“What’s up?”
No one seemed to care, though, to follow figures that were evidently well-known, and so great was the attention bestowed upon them, that little, so far as he could see, fell to the share of Sir Francis and himself.
They soon reached the shop of Mr D. Wragg, the shutters of which natural history emporium were up, but both side and shop doors were wide open, closing after them, though, by invisible agency, as it appeared, until Harry turned to find that, springing as it were from that invisible region they are said so much to affect when wanted, a couple of policemen were at his elbow, whose duty it had doubtless been to close the portals against the curious crowd, certain to collect as soon as it was bruited abroad that there was “a case on” at the house of “Mr D. Wragg, naturalist.”