Run to Earth by Mary Elizabeth Braddon (have you read this book TXT) 📖

can lend

me a paper, I’ll skim the news of the day while I’m waiting.”

 

Joyce passed into the little room, where Dennis took him the newspaper

and the rum.

 

Twelve o’clock struck, and the clerk began to watch and to listen for

the opening of the door, or the sound of a footstep in the passage

outside. The time seemed very long to him, watching and listening. The

minute-hand of the Dutch clock moved slowly on. He turned every now and

then towards the dusky corner where the clock hung, to see what

progress that slow hand had made upon the discoloured dial.

 

He waited thus for an hour.

 

“What does it mean?” he thought. “Valentine Jernam so faithfully

promised to be punctual. And then he’s so fond of his brother. He’d

scarcely care to be a minute behindhand, when he has the chance of

seeing Captain George.”

 

Joyce went into the bar. The landlord was scrutinizing the address of a

letter—a foreign letter.

 

“Didn’t you say your friend’s name was Jernam?” he asked.

 

“I did.”

 

“Then this letter must be for him. It has been lying here for the last

two or three days; but I forgot all about it till just this minute.”

 

Joyce took the letter. It was addressed to Captain Valentine Jernam, of

the ‘Pizarro’, at the ‘Jolly Tar’, care of the landlord, and it came

from the Cape of Good Hope.

 

Joyce recognized George Jernam’s writing.

 

“This means a disappointment,” he thought, as he turned the letter over

and over slowly; “there’ll be no meeting yet awhile. Captain George is

off to the East Indies on some new venture, I dare say. But what can

have become of Captain Valentine? I’ll go down to the ‘Golden Cross,’

and see if he’s there.”

 

He told Dennis Wayman where he was going, and left a message for his

captain. From Ratcliff Highway to Charing Cross was a long journey for

Joyce; but he had no idea of indulging in any such luxury as a hackney-coach. It was late in the afternoon when he reached the hotel; and

there he was doomed to encounter a new disappointment.

 

Captain Jernam had been there on the second of the month, and had never

been there since. He had left in the forenoon, after saying that he

should return at night; and in evidence that such had been his

intention, the waiter told Joyce that the captain had left a carpet-bag, containing clean linen and a change of clothes.

 

“He’s broken his word to me, and he’s got into bad hands,” thought

Harker. “He’s as simple as a child, and he’s got into bad hands. But

how and where? He’d never, surely, go back to the ‘Jolly Tar’, after

what I said to him. And where else can he have gone? I know no more

where to look for him in this great overgrown London than if I was a

new-born baby.”

 

In his perfect ignorance of his captain’s movements, there was only one

thing that Joyce Harker could do, and that was to go back to the “Jolly

Tar,” with a faint hope of finding Valentine Jernam there.

 

It was dusk by the time he got back to Ratcliff Highway, and the

flaring gas-lamps were lighted. The bar of the tavern was crowded, and

the tinkling notes of the old piano sounded feebly from the inner room.

 

Dennis Wayman was serving his customers, and Thomas Milsom was drinking

at the bar. Joyce pushed his way to the landlord.

 

“Have you seen anything of the captain?” he asked.

 

“No, he hasn’t been here since you left.”

 

“You’re sure of that?”

 

“Quite sure.”

 

“He’s not been here to day; but he’s been here within the week, hasn’t

he? He was here on Tuesday, if I’m not misinformed.”

 

“Then you are misinformed,” Wayman said, coolly; “for your seafaring

friend hasn’t darkened my doors since the morning you and he left to go

to the coach-office.”

 

Joyce could say nothing further. He passed through the passage into the

public room, where the so-called concert had begun. Jenny Milsom was

singing to the noisy audience.

 

The girl was very pale, and her manner and attitude, as she sat by the

piano, were even more listless than usual.

 

Joyce Harker did not stop long in the concert-room. He went back to the

bar. This time there was no one but Milsom and Wayman in the bar, and

the two seemed to be talking earnestly as Joyce entered.

 

They left off, and looked up at the sound of the clerk’s footsteps.

 

“Tired of the music already?” asked Wayman.

 

“I didn’t come here to hear music,” answered Joyce; “I came to look for

my captain. He had an appointment to meet his brother here to-day at

twelve o’clock, and it isn’t like him to break it. I’m beginning to get

uneasy about him.”

 

“But why should you be uneasy? The captain is big enough, and old

enough, to take care of himself,” said the landlord, with a laugh.

 

“Yes; but then you see, mate, there are some men who never know how to

take care of themselves when they get into bad company. There isn’t a

better sailor than Valentine Jernam, or a finer fellow at sea; but I

don’t think, if you searched from one end of this city to the other,

you’d find a greater innocent on shore. I’m afraid of his having fallen

into bad hands, Mr. Wayman, for he had a goodish bit of money about

him; and there’s land-sharks as dangerous as those you meet with on the

sea.”

 

“So there are, mate,” answered the landlord; “and there’s some queer

characters about this neighbourhood, for the matter of that.”

 

“I dare say you’re right, Mr. Wayman,” returned Joyce; “and I’ll tell

you what it is. If any harm has come to Valentine Jernam, let those

that have done the harm look out for themselves. Perhaps they don’t

know what it is to hurt a man that’s got a faithful dog at his heels.

Let them hide themselves where they will, and let them be as cunning as

they will, the dog will smell them out, sooner or later, and will tear

them to pieces when he finds them. I’m Captain Jernam’s dog, Mr. Dennis

Wayman; and if I don’t find my master, I’ll hunt till I do find those

that have got him out of the way. I don’t know what’s amiss with me to-night; but I’ve got a feeling come over me that I shall never look in

Valentine Jernam’s honest face again. If I’m right, Lord help the

scoundrels who have plotted against him, for it’ll be the business of

my life to track them down, and bring their crime home to them—and

I’ll do it.”

 

After having said this, slowly and deliberately, with an appalling

earnestness of voice and manner, Joyce Harker looked from Dennis Wayman

to Black Milsom, and this time the masks they were accustomed to wear

did not serve these scoundrels so well as usual, for in the faces of

both there was a look of fear.

 

“I am going to search for my captain,” said Joyce. “Good night, mates.”

 

He left the tavern. The two men looked at each other earnestly as the

door closed upon him.

 

“A dangerous man,” said Dennis Wayman.

 

“Bah!” muttered Black Milsom, savagely; “who’s afraid of a hunchback’s

bluster? I dare say he wanted the handling of the money himself.”

 

All that night Joyce Harker wandered to and fro amidst the haunts of

sailors and merchant captains; but wander where he would, and inquire

of whom he would, he could obtain no tidings of the missing man.

 

Towards daybreak, he took a couple of hours’ sleep in a tavern at

Shadwell, and with the day his search began again.

 

Throughout that day the same patient search continued, the same

inquiries were repeated with indomitable perseverance, in every likely

and unlikely place; but everywhere the result was failure.

 

It was towards dusk that Joyce Harker turned his back upon a tavern in

Rotherhithe, and set his face towards the river bank.

 

“I have looked long enough for him among the living,” he said; “I must

look for him now amongst the dead.”

 

Before midnight the search was ended. Amongst the printed bills

flapping on dreary walls in that river-side neighbourhood, Joyce Harker

had discovered the description of a man “found drowned.” The

description fitted Valentine Jernam, and the body had been found within

the last two days.

 

Joyce went to the police-office where the man was lying. He had no need

to look at the poor dead face—the dark, handsome face, which was so

familiar to him.

 

“I expected as much,” he said to the official who had admitted him to

see the body; “he had money about him, and he has fallen into the hands

of scoundrels.”

 

“You don’t think it was an accident?”

 

“No; he has been murdered, sir. And I think I know the men who did it.”

 

“You know the men?”

 

“Yes; but my knowledge won’t help to avenge his death, if I can’t bring

it home to them—and I don’t suppose I can. There’ll be a coroner’s

inquest, won’t there?”

 

At the inquest, next day, Joyce Harker told his story; but that story

threw very little light on the circumstances of Valentine Jernam’s

death.

 

The investigation before the coroner set at rest all question as to the

means by which the captain had met his death. A medical examination

demonstrated that he had been murdered by a blow on the back of the

head, inflicted by some sharp heavy instrument. The unfortunate man

must have died before he was thrown into the water.

 

The verdict of the coroner’s jury was to the effect that Valentine

Jernam had been wilfully murdered by some person or persons unknown.

And with this verdict Joyce Harker was obliged to be content. His

suspicions he dared not mention in open court. They were too vague and

shadowy. But he called upon a celebrated Bow Street officer, and

submitted the case to him. It was a case for secret inquiry, for

careful investigation; and Joyce offered a handsome reward out of his

own savings.

 

While this secret investigation was in progress, Joyce opened the

letter addressed to Valentine by his brother George.

 

“DEAR VAL,” wrote the sailor: “_I have been tempted to make another

trip to Calcutta with a cargo shipped at Lisbon, and shall not be able

to meet you in London on the 5th of April. It will be ten or twelve

months before I see England again; but when I do come back, I hope to

add something handsome to our joint fortunes. I long to see your honest

face, and grasp your hand again; but the chance of a big prize lures me

out yonder. We are both young, and have all the world before us, so we

can afford to wait a year or two. Bank the money; Joyce will tell you

where, and how to do it; and let me know your plans before you leave

London. A letter addressed to me, care of Riverdale and Co., Calcutta,

will be safe. Good luck to you, dear old boy, now and always, and every

good wish.—From your affectionate brother_,” “GEORGE JERNAM.”

 

It was Joyce Harker’s melancholy task to tell Valentine Jernam’s

younger brother the story of the seaman’s death. He wrote a long

letter, recording everything that had happened within his knowledge,

from the moment of the ‘Pizarro’ reaching Gravesend to the discovery of

Valentine’s body in the river-side police