I.
THE MAN WHO CUT OFF MY HAIR
My name is Judith Lee. I am a teacher of the deaf and dumb. I teach
them by what is called the oral system--that is, the lip-reading
system. When people pronounce a word correctly they all make exactly
the same movements with their lips, so that, without hearing a sound,
you only have to watch them very closely to know what they are saying.
Of course, this needs practice, and some people do it better and
quicker than others. I suppose I must have a special sort of knack in
that direction, because I do not remember a time when, by merely
watching people speaking at a distance, no matter at what distance if
I could see them clearly, I did not know what they were saying. In my
case the gift, or knack, or whatever it is, is hereditary. My father
was a teacher of the deaf and dumb--a very successful one. His father
was, I believe, one of the originators of the oral system. My mother,
when she was first married, had an impediment in her speech which
practically made her dumb; though she was stone deaf, she became so
expert at lip-reading that she could not only tell what others were
saying, but she could speak herself--audibly, although she could not
hear her own voice.
So, you see, I have lived in the atmosphere of lip-reading all my
life. When people, as they often do, think my skill at it borders on
the marvellous, I always explain to them that it is nothing of the
kind, that mine is simply a case of “practice makes perfect.” This
knack of mine, in a way, is almost equivalent to another sense. It has
led me into the most singular situations, and it has been the cause of
many really extraordinary adventures. I will tell you of one which
happened to me when I was quite a child, the details of which have
never faded from my memory.
My father and mother were abroad, and I was staying, with some old and
trusted servants, in a little cottage which we had in the country. I
suppose I must have been between twelve and thirteen years of age. I
was returning by train to the cottage from a short visit which I had
been paying to some friends. In my compartment there were two persons
beside myself--an elderly woman who sat in front of me, and a man who
was at the other end of her seat. At a station not very far from my
home the woman got out; a man got in and placed himself beside the one
who was already there. I could see they were acquaintances--they began
to talk to each other.
They had been talking together for some minutes in such low tones that
you could not only not hear their words, you could scarcely tell that
they were speaking. But that made no difference to me; though they
spoke in the tiniest whisper I had only to look at their faces to know
exactly what they were saying. As a matter of fact, happening to
glance up from the magazine I was reading, I saw the man who had been
there first say to the other something which gave me quite a start.
What he said was this (I only saw the fag-end of the sentence):
“… Myrtle Cottage; it’s got a great, old myrtle in the front garden.”
The other man said something, but as his face was turned from me I
could not see what; the tone in which he spoke was so subdued that
hearing was out of the question. The first man replied (whose face was
to me):
“His name is Colegate. He’s an old bachelor, who uses the place as a
summer cottage. I know him well--all the dealers know him. He’s got
some of the finest old silver in England. There’s a Charles II
salt-cellar in the place which would fetch twenty pounds an ounce
anywhere.”
The other man sat up erect and shook his head, looking straight in
front of him, so that I could see what he said, though he spoke only
in a whisper.
“Old silver is no better than new; you can only melt it.”
The other man seemed to grow quite warm.
“Only melt it! Don’t be a fool; you don’t know what you’re talking
about. I can get rid of old silver at good prices to collectors all
over the world; they don’t ask too many questions when they think
they’re getting a bargain. That stuff at Myrtle Cottage is worth to us
well over a thousand; I shall be surprised if I don’t get more for
it.”
The other man must have glanced at me while I was watching his
companion speak. He was a fair-haired man, with a pair of light blue
eyes, and quite a nice complexion. He whispered to his friend:
“That infernal kid is watching us as if she were all eyes.”
The other said: “Let her watch. Much good may it do her; she can’t
hear a word--goggle-eyed brat!”
What he meant by “goggle-eyed” I didn’t know, and it was true that I
could not hear; but, as it happened, it was not necessary that I
should. I think the other must have been suspicious, because he
replied, if possible, in a smaller whisper than ever:
“I should like to twist her skinny neck and throw her out on to the
line.”
He looked as if he could do it too; such an unpleasant look came into
his eyes that it quite frightened me. After all, I was alone with
them; I was quite small; it would have been perfectly easy for him to
have done what he said he would like to. So I glanced back at my
magazine, and left the rest of their conversation unwatched.
But I had heard, or rather seen, enough to set me thinking. I knew
Myrtle Cottage quite well, and the big myrtle tree; it was not very
far from our own cottage. And I knew Mr. Colegate and his collection
of old silver--particularly that Charles II salt-cellar of which he
was so proud. What interest had it for these two men? Had Mr. Colegate
come to the cottage? He was not there when I left. Or had Mr. and Mrs.
Baines, who kept house for him--had they come? I was so young and so
simple that it never occurred to me that there could be anything
sinister about these two whispering gentlemen.
They both of them got out at the station before ours. Ours was a
little village station, with a platform on only one side of the line;
the one at which they got out served for quite an important place--our
local market town. I thought no more about them, but I did think of
Mr. Colegate and of Myrtle Cottage. Dickson, our housekeeper, said
that she did not believe that anyone was at the cottage, but she owned
that she was not sure. So after tea I went for a stroll, without
saying a word to anyone--Dickson had such a troublesome habit of
wanting to know exactly where you were going. My stroll took me to
Myrtle Cottage.
It stood all by itself in a most secluded situation on the other side
of Woodbarrow Common. You could scarcely see the house from the
road--it was quite a little house. When I got into the garden and saw
that the front-room window was open I jumped to the very natural
conclusion that some one must be there. I went quickly to the
window--I was on the most intimate terms with every one about the
place; I should never have dreamt of announcing my presence in any
formal manner--and looked in. What I saw did surprise me.
In the room was the man of the train--the man who had been in my
compartment first. He had what seemed to me to be Mr. Colegate’s
entire collection of old silver spread out on the table in front of
him, and that very moment he was holding up that gem of the
collection--the Charles II salt-cellar. I had moved very quietly,
meaning to take Mr. Colegate--if it was he--by surprise; but I doubt
if I had made a noise that that man would have heard me, he was so
wrapped up in that apple of Mr. Colegate’s eye.
I did not know what to make of it at all. I did not know what to
think. What was that man doing there? What was I to do? Should I speak
to him? I was just trying to make up my mind when some one from behind
lifted me right off my feet and, putting a hand to my throat, squeezed
it so tightly that it hurt me.
“If you make a sound I’ll choke the life right out of you. Don’t you
make any mistake about it--I will!”
He said that out loudly enough, though it was not so very loud
either--he spoke so close to my ear. I could scarcely breathe, but I
could still see, and I could see that the man who held me so horribly
by the throat was the second man of the train. The recognition seemed
to be mutual.
“If it isn’t that infernal brat! She seemed to be all eyes in the
railway carriage, and, my word, she seems to have been all ears too.”
The first man had come to the window.
“What’s up?” he asked. “Who’s that kid you’ve got hold of there?”
My captor twisted my face round for the other to look at.
“Can’t you see for yourself? I felt, somehow, that she was listening.”
“She couldn’t have heard, even if she was; no one could have heard
what we were saying. Hand her in here.” I was passed through the
window to the other, who kept as tight a grip on my throat as his
friend had done.
“Who are you?” he asked. “I’ll give you a chance to answer, but if you
try to scream I’ll twist your head right off you.”
He loosed his grip just enough to enable me to answer if I wished. But
I did not wish. I kept perfectly still. His companion said:
“What’s the use of wasting time? Slit her throat and get done with
it.”
He took from the table a dreadful-looking knife, with a blade eighteen
inches long, which I knew very well. Mr. Colegate had it in his
collection because of its beautifully chased, massive silver handle.
It had belonged to one of the old Scottish chieftains; Mr. Colegate
would sometimes make me go all over goose-flesh by telling me of some
of the awful things for which, in the old, lawless, blood-thirsty days
in Scotland, it was supposed to have been used. I knew that he kept it
in beautiful condition, with the edge as sharp as a razor. So you can
fancy what my feelings were when that man drew the blade across my
throat, so close to the skin that it all but grazed me.
“Before you cut her throat,” observed his companion, “we’ll tie her
up. We’ll make short work of her. This bit of rope will about do the
dodge.”
He had what looked to me like a length of clothes-line in his hand.
With it, between them, they tied me to a great oak chair, so tight
that it seemed to cut right into me, and, lest I should scream with
the pain, the man with the blue eyes tied something across my mouth in
a way which made it impossible for me to utter a sound. Then he
threatened me with that knife again, and just as I made sure he was
going to cut my throat he caught hold of my hair, which, of course,
was hanging down my back, and with that dreadful knife sawed the whole
of it from my head.
If I could have got within reach of him at that moment I believe that
I should have stuck that knife into him. Rage made me half beside
myself. He had destroyed what was almost the dearest thing in the
world to me--not because of my own love of it, but on account of my
mother’s. My mother had often quoted to me, “The glory of a woman is
her hair,” and she would add that mine was very beautiful. There
certainly was a great deal of it. She was so proud of my hair that she
had made me proud of it too--for her sake. And to think that this man
could have robbed me of it in so hideous a way! I do believe that at
the moment I could have killed him.
I suppose he saw the fury which possessed me, because he laughed and
struck me across the face with my own hair.
“I’ve half a mind to cram it down your throat,” he said. “It didn’t
take me long to cut it off, but I’ll cut your throat even quicker--if
you so much as try to move, my little dear.”
The other man said to him:
“She can’t move and she can’t make a sound either. You leave her
alone. Come over here and attend to business.”
“I’ll learn her,” replied the other man, and he lifted my hair above
my head and let it fall all over me.
They proceeded to wrap up each piece of Mr. Colegate’s collection in
tissue paper, and then to pack the whole into two queer-shaped
bags--pretty heavy they must have been. It was only then that I
realized what they were doing--they were stealing Mr. Colegate’s
collection; they were going to take it away. The fury which possessed
me as I sat there, helpless, and watched them! The pain was bad
enough, but my rage was worse. When the man who had cut off my hair
moved to the window with one of the bags held in both his hands--it
was as much as he could carry--he said to his companion, with a glance
towards me: “Hadn’t I better cut her throat before I go?”
“You can come and do that presently,” replied the other; “you’ll find
her waiting.” Then he dropped his voice and I saw him say: “Now you
quite understand?” The other nodded. “What is it?”
The face of the man who had cut my hair was turned towards me. He put
his lips very close to the other, speaking in the tiniest whisper,
which he never dreamed could reach my ears: “Cotterill, Cloak-room,
Victoria Station, Brighton Railway.”
The other whispered, “That’s right. You’d better make a note of it; we
don’t want any bungling.”
“No fear, I’m not likely to forget.” Then he repeated his previous
words, “Cotterill, Cloak-room, Victoria Station, Brighton Railway.”
He whispered this so very earnestly that I felt sure there was
something about the words which was most important; by the time he had
said them a second time they were printed on my brain quite as
indelibly as they were on his. He got out of the window and his bag
was passed to him; then he spoke a parting word to me.
“Sorry I can’t take a lock of your hair with me; perhaps I’ll come
back for one presently.”
Then he went. If he had known the passion which was blazing in my
heart! That allusion to my desecrated locks only made it burn still
fiercer. His companion, left alone, paid no attention to me whatever.
He continued to secure his bag, searched the room, as if for anything
which might have been overlooked, then, bearing the bag with the other
half of Mr. Colegate’s collection with him, he went through the door,
ignoring my presence as if I had never existed. What he did afterwards
I cannot say; I saw no more of him; I was left alone--all through the
night.
What a night it was. I was not afraid; I can honestly say that I have
seldom been afraid of anything--I suppose it is a matter of
temperament--but I was most uncomfortable, very unhappy, and each
moment the pain caused me by my bonds seemed to be growing greater. I
do believe that the one thing which enabled me to keep my senses all
through the night was the constant repetition of those mystic words:
“Cotterill, Cloak-room, Victoria Station, Brighton Railway.” In the
midst of my trouble I was glad that what some people call my curious
gift had enabled me to see what I was quite sure they had never meant
should reach my understanding. What the words meant I had no notion;
in themselves they seemed to be silly words. But that they had some
hidden, weighty meaning I was so sure that I kept saying them over and
over again lest they should slip through my memory.
I do not know if I ever closed my eyes; I certainly never slept. I saw
the first gleams of light usher in the dawn of another morning, and I
knew the sun had risen. I wondered what they were doing at
home--between the repetitions of that cryptic phrase. Was Dickson
looking for me? I rather wished I had let her know where I was going,
then she might have had some idea of where to look. As it was she had
none. I had some acquaintances three or four miles off, with whom I
would sometimes go to tea and, without warning to anyone at home, stay
the night. I am afraid that, even as a child, my habits were erratic.
Dickson might think I was staying with them, and, if so, she would not
even trouble to look for me. In that case I might have to stay where I
was for days.
I do not know what time it was, but it seemed to me that it had been
light for weeks, and that the day must be nearly gone, when I heard
steps outside the open window. I was very nearly in a state of stupor,
but I had still sense enough to wonder if it was that man who had cut
my hair come back again to cut my throat. As I watched the open sash
my heart began to beat more vigorously than it had for a very long
time. What, then, was my relief when there presently appeared, on the
other side of it, the face of Mr. Colegate, the owner of Myrtle
Cottage. I tried to scream--with joy, but that cloth across my mouth
prevented my uttering a sound.
I never shall forget the look which came on Mr. Colegate’s face when
he saw me. He rested his hands on the sill as if he wondered how the
window came to be open, then when he looked in and saw me, what a jump
he gave.
“Judith!” he exclaimed. “Judith Lee! Surely it is Judith Lee!”
He was a pretty old man, or he seemed so to me, but I doubt if a boy
could have got through that window quicker than he did. He was by my
side in less than no time; with a knife which he took from his pocket
was severing my bonds. The agony which came over me as they were
loosed! It was worse than anything which had gone before. The moment
my mouth was free I exclaimed--even then I was struck by the funny,
hoarse voice in which I seemed to be speaking:
“Cotterill, Cloak-room, Victoria Station, Brighton Railway.”
So soon as I had got those mysterious words out of my poor, parched
throat I fainted; the agony I was suffering, the strain which I had
gone through, proved too much for me. I knew dimly that I was tumbling
into Mr. Colegate’s arms, and then I knew no more.
When I came back to life I was in bed. Dickson was at my bedside, and
Dr. Scott, and Mr. Colegate, and Pierce, the village policeman, and a
man who I afterwards knew was a detective, who had been sent over
posthaste from a neighbouring town. I wondered where I was, and then I
saw I was in a room in Myrtle Cottage. I sat up in bed, put up my
hands--then it all came back to me.
“He cut off my hair with MacGregor’s knife!” MacGregor was the name of
the Highland chieftain to whom, according to Mr. Colegate, that
dreadful knife had belonged.
When it did all come back to me and I realized what had happened, and
felt how strange my head seemed without its accustomed covering,
nothing would satisfy me but that they should bring me a
looking-glass. When I saw what I looked like, the rage which had
possessed me when the outrage first took place surged through me with
greater force than ever. Before they could stop me, or even guess what
I was going to do, I was out of bed and facing them. That cryptic
utterance came back to me as if of its own initiative; it burst from
my lips.
“‘Cotterill, Cloak-room, Victoria Station, Brighton Railway!’ Where
are my clothes? That’s where the man is who cut off my hair.”
They stared at me. I believe that for a moment they thought that what
I had endured had turned my brain, and that I was mad. But I soon made
it perfectly clear that I was nothing of the kind. I told them my
story as fast as I could speak; I fancy I brought it home to their
understanding. Then I told them of the words which I had seen spoken
in such a solemn whisper, and how sure I was that they were pregnant
with weighty meaning.
“‘Cotterill, Cloak-room, Victoria Station, Brighton Railway’--that’s
where the man is who cut my hair off--that’s where I’m going to catch
him.”
The detective was pleased to admit that there might be something in my
theory, and that it would be worth while to go up to Victoria Station
to see what the words might mean. Nothing would satisfy me but that we
should go at once. I was quite convinced that every moment was of
importance, and that if we were not quick we should be too late. I won
Mr. Colegate over--of course, he was almost as anxious to get his
collection back as I was to be quits with the miscreant who had shorn
me of my locks. So we went up to town by the first train we could
catch--Mr. Colegate, the detective, and an excited and practically
hairless child.
When we got to Victoria Station we marched straight up to the
cloak-room, and the detective said to one of the persons on the other
side of the counter:
“Is there a parcel here for the name of Cotterill?”
The person to whom he had spoken did not reply, but another man who
was standing by his side.
“Cotterill? A parcel for the name of Cotterill has just been taken
out--a hand-bag, scarcely more than half a minute ago. You must have
seen him walking off with it as you came up. He can hardly be out of
sight now.” Leaning over the counter, he looked along the platform.
“There he is--some one is just going to speak to him.”
I saw the person to whom he referred--a shortish man in a light grey
suit, carrying a brown leather hand-bag. I also saw the person who was
going to speak to him; and thereupon I ceased to have eyes for the man
with the bag. I broke into exclamation.
“There’s the man who cut my hair!” I cried. I went rushing along the
platform as hard as I could go. Whether the man had heard me or not I
cannot say; I dare say I had spoken loudly enough; but he gave one
glance in my direction, and when he saw me I have no doubt that he
remembered. He whispered to the man with the bag. I was near enough to
see, though not to hear, what he said. In spite of the rapidity with
which his lips were moving, I saw quite distinctly.
“Bantock, 13 Harwood Street, Oxford Street.” That was what he said,
and no sooner had he said it than he turned and fled--from me; I knew
he was flying from me, and it gave me huge satisfaction to know that
the mere sight of me had made him run. I was conscious that Mr.
Colegate and the detective were coming at a pretty smart pace behind
me.
The man with the bag, seeing his companion dart off without the
slightest warning, glanced round to see what had caused his hasty
flight. I suppose he saw me and the detective and Mr. Colegate, and he
drew his own conclusions. He dropped that hand-bag as if it had been
red-hot, and off he ran. He ran to such purpose that we never caught
him--neither him nor the man who had cut my hair. The station was full
of people--a train had just come in. The crowd streaming out covered
the platform with a swarm of moving figures. They acted as cover to
those two eager gentlemen--they got clean off. But we got the bag;
and, one of the station officials coming on the scene, we were shown
to an apartment where, after explanations had been made, the bag and
its contents were examined.
Of course, we had realized from the very first moment that Mr.
Colegate’s collection could not possibly be in that bag, because it
was not nearly large enough. When it was seen what was in it,
something like a sensation was created. It was crammed with small
articles of feminine clothing. In nearly every garment jewels were
wrapped, which fell out of them as they were withdrawn from the bag.
Such jewels! You should have seen the display they made when they were
spread out upon the leather-covered table--and our faces as we stared
at them.
“This does not look like my collection of old silver,” observed Mr.
Colegate.
“No,” remarked a big, broad-shouldered man, who I afterwards learned
was a well-known London detective, who had been induced by our
detective to join our party. “This does not look like your collection
of old silver, sir; it looks, if you’ll excuse my saying so, like
something very much more worth finding. Unless I am mistaken, these
are the Duchess of Datchet’s jewels, some of which she wore at the
last Drawing Room, and which were taken from her Grace’s bedroom after
her return. The police all over Europe have been looking for them for
more than a month.”
“That bag has been with us nearly a month. The party who took it out
paid four-and-sixpence for cloak-room charges--twopence a day for
twenty-seven days.”
The person from the cloak-room had come with us to that apartment; it
was he who said this. The London detective replied:
“Paid four-and-sixpence, did he? Well, it was worth it--to us. Now, if
I could lay my hand on the party who put that bag in the cloak-room, I
might have a word of a kind to say to him.”
I had been staring, wide-eyed, as piece by piece the contents of the
bag had been disclosed; I had been listening, open-eared, to what the
detective said; when he made that remark about laying his hands on the
party who had deposited that bag in the cloak-room, there came into my
mind the words which I had seen the man who had cut my hair whisper as
he fled to the man with the bag. The cryptic sentence which I had seen
him whisper as I sat tied to the chair had indeed proved to be full of
meaning; the words which, even in the moment of flight, he had felt
bound to utter might be just as full. I ventured on an observation,
the first which I had made, speaking with a good deal of diffidence.
“I think I know where he might be found--I am not sure, but I think.”
All eyes were turned to me. The detective exclaimed:
“You think you know? As we haven’t got so far as thinking, if you were
to tell us, little lady, what you think, it might be as well, mightn’t
it?”