A Mysterious Disappearance by Louis Tracy (read a book .txt) 📖

the addition afterwards.”

“Well, sir, this yer lydy was a-missin’ early in November. She tykes a ticket at Victoria Station on the District for Richmond; she gives it up to me at Sloane Square, arsks a newsboy the w’y to Raleigh Mansions, for ’e tell’d me so after you’d bin to see me, an’ from what you s’y, ’as bin swallered up ever since.”

“The Lord Chief couldn’t state the case more simply.”

“That’s the first two. Now, for the second two, an’ you won’t forgit as I knew nothink about the lydy bein’ dead, or I should ’ave opened my mouth long afore this.”

“Go on. No one can blame you.”

“There’s an old chap—Foxey they calls ’im, but I don’t know ’is right nyme—who drives a four-wheeler around Chelsea, an’ ’e ’ad tyken a fare from the Square to the City. It might be four o’clock or it might be five, but ’e was on ’is w’y back from Cornhill when a gent, a tall, good-looking gent, a youngish, military chap, ’ails ’im and says: ‘Cabby, drive me to Sloane Square. There’s no ’urry, but tyke care, because it’s foggy.’ Old Foxey nearly jumped out of ’is skin at this bit of good luck. ’E was pretty full then, for ’e’s a regular beer-barrel, ’e is, but ’e made up ’is mind to ’ave a fair old skinful that night. Well, Foxey drives ’im all right to the Square. The gent gives ’im five bob and says: ‘Wite ’ere for me, cabby. You can drive me ’ome in about an hour’s time.’ This was at 5.30. Foxey drew up near the stytion, tells me all about it, an’ stan’s me two beers, ’e was that pleased with ’isself. ’E goes to give ’is ’oss the nose-bag, in comes the Richmond train, and out pops the lydy with the Richmond ticket. D’ye follow me?”

“Every word.”

“An’ you see now ’ow it is I can fix the d’y?”

“Perfectly.”

“Well, I sees no more of Foxey. I missed ’im about the Square, so one d’y I axes at the rank,—‘Where’s Foxey?’ An’ where d’ye think ’e was?”

“I can not tell.”

“In quod.”

“In jail. Why?”

“That’s hit. That’s number two of the twos. Pardon me, but I’m gettin’ a bit mixed. Well, it seems that that very night, comin’ back from Putney as drunk as a lord, old Foxey runs over a barrer. ’E an’ the coster ’as a fight. The police come, and Foxey dots one bobby in the blinkers and another on the boko. You wouldn’t think it was in ’im. ’E must ’ave bin paralytic.”

“So he was locked up?”

“Locked up! ’E was dragged there by the ’eels. Next mornin’ ’e comes before the beak. ‘We was all drunk together, your wurshup,’ ’e says. ‘I took a fare from the City to Sloane Square, an’ ’e left me for more’n an hour. ’E comes back excited like—bin boozin’ ’ard, I suppose—brings my keb up to a ’ouse, carries in a lydy who was that ’toxicated she couldn’t stand, an’ tells me to drive to Putney. We gits there, an’ I says ‘you’ve nearly killed my ’oss, guv’nor.’ With that ’e tips me a fiver—a five-pun note, your wurshup.’ ‘What has that got to do with the charge?’ says the beak. ‘Wot?’ says Foxey. ‘If a chap give you a fiver for drivin’ ’im to Putney wouldn’t you get drunk?’ With that the magistrate gives ’im three months for assaulting the police, and fines ’im the balance of the fiver for bein’ drunk in charge of a ’oss and keb.”

The ticket collector took a long drink after this recital.

“I hope you will not follow Foxey’s example,” said Bruce, rising.

“’Ow do you mean, sir?”

“Because I am going to keep my word. Here are the four sovereigns I owe you. In your case your two and two have made five.”

“Thank you, sir. You’re a brick. No fear of me meltin’ this little lot. The missus will be on ’em like a bird w’en I tell her.” And the man spat upon the coins with evident relish as he handled them.

“One word more,” said Bruce. “Where was this man tried?”

“At the West London Police Court.”

“You can get me his real name and post it to me?”

“Sure, sir. Anyway, I’ll try.”

“I am greatly obliged to you.”

“An’ ’as my yarn bin of any use to you, sir?”

“The greatest. It has solved a puzzle. However, I will see you again. Good-bye. Don’t forget to write.”

“Cornhill is the direct line from Leadenhall Street,” mused Claude, when he was alone. “Any one coming to Sloane Square from Dodge & Co.’s office would pass through it. Upon my word, things look very black against Mensmore. Yet I cannot believe it.”

CHAPTER XVII A POSSIBLE EXPLANATION

Bruce now had several lines of inquiry open.

Apart from the main and vital question as to the exact method of Lady Dyke’s death, and the identity of the person responsible for it, a number of important matters required attention.

Why had Jane Harding quitted her situation so suddenly?

Whence did she obtain the money that enabled her to blossom forth as Marie le Marchant?

Who was Sydney H. Corbett?

Why did Mensmore adopt a false name; and, in any case, why adopt the name of Corbett?

Why did Mrs. Hillmer exhibit such sudden terror lest her brother might be guilty?

Whom did Mrs. Hillmer marry? Was her husband alive or dead?

Was the man who conveyed Lady Dyke’s body from Raleigh Mansions to Putney responsible also for her death?

Finally, why did he select that particular portion of the Thames banks for the bestowal of his terrible burden?

Many other minor features suggested themselves for careful attention, but the barrister knew that if he elucidated some of the major questions the rest would answer themselves.

The last query promised to yield a good crop of information should it be satisfactorily dealt with. Turning to his notes, he found that the former owner of the Putney house was a tutor or preparatory schoolmaster, named the Rev. Septimus Childe.

Could it be that this was the school in which both Sir Charles Dyke and Mensmore were fellow-students? If so, Bruce failed to see why he should not forthwith place the whole of the facts in his possession at the service of the police, and allow the law to take its course.

On this supposition, the case against Mensmore was very black; not, indeed, incapable of explanation—for circumstantial evidence occasionally plays strange pranks with logic—but of such a grave nature that no private individual would be justified in keeping his knowledge to himself.

The deduction was intensely disagreeable; but Bruce resolved to coerce his thoughts, and do that which was right, irrespective of consequences.

He did not possess a Clergy List. No letter came from Mrs. Hillmer, so he walked across the Park to his club in Pall Mall to consult the appropriately bound black and white volume which gives reference to the many degrees of the Church of England.

Septimus Childe was a distinctive, though simple, name. And it was not there. There was not a Childe with a final “e” in the whole book. Without that important letter, as his informant might be mistaken, there were several. Close scrutiny of each man’s designation and duties convinced him that though any of these might be one of the particular Childe’s children, none answered to the description of the gentleman he sought.

Of course, he could always apply to Sir Charles Dyke, but he dreaded approaching the grief-stricken baronet on this matter. Now there was no help for it. The barrister was beginning to feel impatient at the constant difficulties which barred progress in each direction. After all, it was a small thing merely to ask his friend if he ever knew a reverend gentleman named Childe.

Bruce was sure that Sir Charles would not be acquainted with Mr. Childe, and also with the fact that the Putney house had served as his school, for it would be strange beyond credence if it were so that he had not mentioned it.

The weather was still clear and cold, and a wintry sun made walking pleasant. Claude, on quitting his club, set out again on foot. He crossed St. James’s Square, Jermyn Street, and Piccadilly, and made his way to Oxford Street up New Bond Street.

Not often did he frequent these fashionable thoroughfares, and he had an excellent reason. When walking, he was given to abstraction, and seldom saw his acquaintances if he encountered them in unusual quarters. He would thus cut dead a woman at whose house he had dined the previous evening, or, when he was in practice at the Bar, fail to notice the salutation of his own leader.

To Claude himself this short-coming was intolerable; consciousness of it when in the West made him the most alert man in the crowd to note anybody whom he knew, except on the rare occasions when he forgot his failing.

This morning Bond Street was pleasantly full. People were beginning to return to town. Parliament re-assembled in a few days, and he passed many who were on his visiting list.

Outside a well-known costumer’s he saw a brougham, into which a lady had just been assisted by the commissionaire.

It is no uncommon thing to recognize an acquaintance by the color of his horse, or the peculiar cut of the coachman’s whiskers. This time Bruce knew the driver as well as the equipage, but the lady was not Mrs. Hillmer.

Instantly he was at the door, with his hat lifted; he assumed an expression of polite regret as he saw Dobson, the maid, in her mistress’s place.

“Sorry,” he said, “I knew the carriage, and thought that Mrs. Hillmer was inside. She is well, I trust.”

“Not very, sir,” answered the maid with an angry pout.

“Indeed, what is the matter?”

“Madame is going away, and has put us all on board wages.”

Dobson had some of the privileges of a companion, and resented this relegation to the servants’ hall.

“Going away?” cried Bruce. “A sudden departure, eh?”

The girl was arranging some parcels on the seat in front of her. She was not disinclined for a conversation with this good-looking gentleman, so she smiled archly, as she said: “Didn’t you know, sir? I thought you would know all about it.”

What he might have ascertained by a longer chat the barrister could not tell, for an interruption occurred. The coachman was more loyal to his mistress than the maid.

“Beg pardon, sir,” he cried, “but the missus told us to hurry”; and he whipped his steed into the passing stream of carriages.

“More complications,” murmured Claude. “Mrs. Hillmer contemplates a bolt. Shall I pay her another visit and surprise her? No, confound it, I will not. Let her go, and let things take their course.”

Not in the most amiable frame of mind at this discovery, he pursued his walk to Portman Square.

Sir Charles Dyke was at home. He always was, now.

“For goodness’ sake, Mr. Bruce,” whispered Thompson in the hall, “try to persuade Sir Charles to quit smokin’, and readin’, and thinkin’. He sits all day in the library and ’ardly has anything to eat.”

Claude reproached himself for having neglected his resolution to stir his friend into something like animation. He was wondering what he should do in the matter, when the baronet rose at his entrance, saying, with a weary smile:

“Well, old fellow, what news?”

The other suddenly decided to throw all questioning to the winds for the moment. “I have come to bring you out. I won’t hear of a refusal. Let us walk to the club and have lunch and a game of billiards.”

Sir Charles protested. He had slept badly and was tired.

“All the more reason that you should sleep well to-night. Come, now, be advised. You will allow yourself to become a hopeless invalid if you go on in this way.”

Dyke unwillingly consented, and they left the house. The older man brightened up considerably amidst the bustle