DR. CRIPPS IS INCOHERENT
When that unfortunate and much battered football of Fate—Dr.
Cripps—was left, stranded and alone, at Liverpool Street Station, he
cast about in his mind as to what was best to be done. His small share
of the spoils of the Sheffield robbery had been passed into the hands
of a person, who had promised to effect a safe exchange; and Cripps
was, as usual, remarkably short of money.
He remembered too, not with contrition, but with something of alarm,
that he had, in a moment of forgetfulness, struck a man on a vital spot
with a decanter, and left him apparently dead; so that there might be
consequences to be feared. On the other hand, money must be screwed out
of somebody, and he was at a loss to know to whom to turn for it.
Woolwich was barren country; for the recent tragic events, and the stir
created by the bank robbery, had scattered the band, and it was quite
unlikely that he would have a chance of meeting any member of it.
However, the barren country had to be tried; much liquid refreshment
was necessary to him, and it had to be obtained somewhere. Accordingly,
for nearly a week he haunted those shady, out-at-elbows places near the
river, in the hope of meeting a friend. But friends were scarce and
shy; and, although he met one or two, and pleaded his position
successfully, it was hard and uphill work. At the end of a week, he had
come perilously near to spirituous starvation—and was, in direct
consequence, more sober than he had been for years past.
His wits being much sharpened, as his brain became clearer, he began to
think, with rising hope, of Bamberton, from which he had so
unceremoniously taken flight. The idea appealed to him; with growing
confidence, he remembered, in these more sober moments, that the man he
had assaulted with the decanter had had but a passing glimpse of him,
and might not be likely to recognise him. At all events, the distance
was not great, and the place had a public-house—two public-houses,
unless his eyes had deceived him. Brightened with this thought, and
with the prospect of having a new field in which to borrow, and finding
that he had sufficient money in his pocket to pay for the journey, he
set off for Liverpool Street; and, in a little time, was standing—an
incongruous figure enough in the spring landscape—outside the little
station which was within a few miles of Bamberton, moistening his dry
lips with his tongue, and wondering where he was to get a drink.
In the days—over a quarter of a century before—when Cripps had known
Bamberton, the little town where the railway now ended had been but an
insignificant village, and the railway (which had made its fortune) a
thing undreamt of. At the present time, therefore, the Doctor stood on
strange ground; and the past was so far away, that he had absolutely no
idea in which direction Bamberton lay. Divided between the necessity
for reaching the village, and the more pressing need for refreshment,
the little man looked about him for some promising stranger, who might
have a kindly heart and a spare threepence in his pocket.
Standing almost at his elbow, and staring down the road, in altogether
as gloomy a fashion as himself, was a young man, quietly dressed in
country style—a mere lad. Cripps, after glancing at him once or twice,
edged towards him.
“I suppose, my friend,” he said—“I suppose you don’t happen to know
the way towards Bamberton—do you?”
The young man looked at him for a moment, and then smiled. “I ought to
know the way, sir,” he replied; “I was born there.”
“And a most excellent place to be born in, I should imagine,” said
Cripps. “Delightful scenery, and—and a public-house or two, just—just
to relieve the monotony of things. Er—by the way—they don’t seem to
have one just about here—eh?”
“Just across the road,” replied the young man, jerking his head in that
direction.
Dr. Cripps began to conceive a dislike for the lad, as one who could
not understand the true meaning of a hint; but he tried again. “Is—is
the liquor there worth drinking?” he asked, in a confidential tone.
“It’s a long time since I tried it,” replied the young man carelessly.
Cripps saw an opening here; he laughed feebly, and clapped the young
man on the shoulder. “Ha—ha—very good,” he cried—“very good indeed.
But you wouldn’t object to tasting it now, I suppose?”
The young man shrugged his shoulders, without looking at Cripps, and
made no reply. But the little man, whose thirst was rapidly getting the
better of every other consideration, promptly seized him by the arm,
and began to lead him across the road in a desperate hurry.
“You shall taste it, my young friend,” he cried, in an ecstasy of
good-fellowship. “Not—mind you—not that I would have any young man
follow in my footsteps—for I, my young friend, am a wreck. But a
little stimulant—especially at this hour of the day—(indeed, I might
say, at any hour of the day)—is very necessary; it gives tone to the
constitution.”
It appeared to have given something besides tone to the Doctor’s
constitution; but he did not say so. He walked with his new friend into
the little Railway Inn, and ordered refreshments for both; discovering,
to his dismay, when asked for the price of them, that he had no money.
He had performed the same excellent trick so often, that he was an
adept at it; and tears of indignation actually sprang to his eyes, as
he solemnly cursed the unknown man who must have stolen his
purse—“containing gold, sir—gold—and my dear and sainted mother’s
portrait—a miniature, sir, from which I would not have parted, except
at the sacrifice of my last drop of blood. The gold, sir, was
nothing—but the miniature——” Here the old sinner hid his face in the
folds of a very doubtful-looking handkerchief, and appeared to weep.
The young man, whatever his suspicions may have been, was a
good-natured fellow, and he paid the reckoning. Immediately, the little
man became all smiles again, and raising his glass, insisted on
drinking the young man’s health.
“If, my dear young friend, I could have the privilege of knowing to
whom I am indebted—I should be glad; if I could pledge you by name——”
“My name’s Routley—Harry Routley,” replied the lad. “Your health, sir.”
“And yours, Mr. Routley,” responded Cripps. “Whatever station of life
may be yours, sir, I am convinced that it is a station you adorn.
Bamberton should be proud of you, Mr. Routley.”
Harry shrugged his shoulders, and laughed a little bitterly. “At the
present time,” he said—“neither Bamberton nor any other place is
particularly proud of me, I think. And I have no distinct position in
life.”
“That’s a pity—a great pity,” said Cripps gravely, shaking his head.
“If a man has no position, the devil is likely to find him one. My
young friend—I am sorry for you.”
“You needn’t be,” replied Harry, savagely. “It’s my own fault—and my
own business, if it comes to that. I deserve everything I get. I sold
the best man and the best master ever a lad had—and I don’t care what
becomes of me.”
“Sold a man!” exclaimed Cripps. “I don’t understand you.”
“Don’t suppose you do,” replied Harry, recklessly. “Maybe, not
belonging to these parts, you haven’t heard of Mr. Dandy Chater—eh?”
The unfortunate Cripps, with a gasp, dropped his glass to the floor,
and fled. But, before he had managed to wrench open the door, Harry had
laid a strong hand on his shoulder, and was hauling him back again.
“Let me go—let me go!” cried Cripps wildly. “I won’t be pestered with
that devilish name any more. Let me go! I’ve found him in the river;
he’s got the diamond necklace; he’s got the bank-notes; he’s frightened
the Count and myself out of our senses; and I can’t have a quiet drink
with a stranger, without hearing of him again. Let me go!”
“Stop a bit,” said Harry quickly, with his carelessness and reckless
demeanour gone—“stop a bit! What do you know of Dandy Chater?”
“A great deal too much,” said the Doctor, shaking his head, and looking
all about him. “What do you know about him?”
“I was his servant,” replied Harry, casting down his eyes, and speaking
in a low voice. “And I—I betrayed him, and handed him over to the
police.”
The little Doctor looked at Harry for some moments with great gravity,
and then shook his head at him reproachfully. “My young friend—my dear
young friend,”—he became quite melancholy over him—“it’s very evident
to me that you are on the downward path—in the very devil’s clutches.
You’ve been dreaming. Dandy Chater is as dead as Pharoah.”
“God forbid!” exclaimed Harry, turning very white. “What do you mean?”
“Dandy Chater was drowned—a week or two back—in that noble stream,
the Thames.”
Harry burst into a roar of laughter. “A week or two back,” he
exclaimed. “You must be out of your mind! Why, he’s been down here
within these past few days—has been in Chelmsford Jail, to stand his
trial for murder; and is now at large about the country somewhere—God
be good to him, wherever he is—with the police hunting high and low
for him.”
Cripps sat down suddenly on a bench. “Would you be so kind—so very
kind, young man—as to call for a little drop of brandy—neat?” he
said, in a shaky voice. “I’ve been persuading myself, for the last
week, that I’d dreamed it all; and now I find that it’s all true.”
Harry called for the brandy and Cripps swallowed it, murmuring to
himself, over and over again as he set down the empty glass—“Dandy
Chater in the river—Dandy Chater got the necklace—Dandy Chater in
Chelmsford Jail—Dandy Chater running about the country, with the
police after him. And Ogledon said that he——”
He checked himself hurriedly there and got up. “You are a most
estimable young man,” he said, addressing Harry—“and I would recommend
you to drink as little as possible, and not to see more Dandy Chaters
than you can help at once. Now, if you are going towards Bamberton,
perhaps you’ll be good enough to put me on my road.”
Harry expressing his willingness to do so, the two went out of the inn
together, and set off. For a long time, they walked in silence; but the
Doctor’s mind was busy. Perhaps the mere fact of coming again in
daylight among old well-remembered scenes jogged that blurred and faded
thing, his memory; perhaps the sight, in the distance, of the towers of
Chater Hall helped it still more. Whatever it may have been, he
suddenly stopped in the road, just before they came to the village and
clapped his hands together, with a cry; burst into a shriek of
laughter; and began to dance and caper wildly about in the dust. Harry
fully convinced, that the man had suddenly gone mad, backed away from
him and stood ready to defend himself.
“Ho—ho—ho—!” screamed the Doctor, slapping his thighs, punching
himself in the ribs, and still dancing as wildly as ever—“here’s a
joke! Here’s a business! Here’s a topsy-turvy devilish upside-down
affair! Ho—ho—ho—! It’s the other child; it’s the twin that was
smuggled away!”
Harry, feeling at last that the man was serious, and that his
disjointed remarks had a meaning which the other could not fathom,
sprang at him, shook him, and demanded to know what he meant.
“Oh, you idiots!—you blunderers!” Cripps was still laughing
boisterously. “Don’t you see that there are two of them? One
dead—t’other living!”
Further than that, he would say nothing; he still continued to dance
about in the dust, and to clap his hands, and to shriek with laughter,
and to shout, over and over again, that one was dead and t’other
living. Harry, filled with repentance for the trouble he had brought
upon his master, and keenly anxious to do all in his power to undo the
wrong he felt he had committed, began to feel that this man might know
something concerning Dandy Chater which would be useful—that he might
be able, in some strange way, to save the man against whom that fearful
charge of murder had been made. Looking at him, Harry began to wonder
what to do; how to force from this man the information he probably
held. Feeling his own weakness in the matter, he cast about in his mind
to discover to whom he might turn for help.
He must find, in the first place, a friend of the man he desired to
assist—some one about whose loyalty to Dandy Chater there could be no
faintest doubt. The name of one person after another occurred to
him—only to be immediately rejected, as an avowed believer in his
guilt, or as too weak to be of use. Suddenly there came the thought of
Miss Barnshaw—the woman who loved Dandy Chater—who was rich, and had
powerful friends; he decided to go to her at once, and to take Cripps
with him.
To go to her was easy enough; to take the little man was another
matter. For Cripps already began to repent of having said anything to a
stranger, even in the natural excitement attending the discovery he
felt he had made; on Harry suggesting, with much eagerness, that they
should go together to see Miss Barnshaw, he at once became very grave
again, and resolutely shook his head. Visions of Ogledon—of the body
he had assisted to drag from the river—of many other things—floated
before him; he decided to hold his tongue.
Feeling, however, on second thoughts, that it might be possible that
this young and rich lady would be willing to assist so forlorn an
outcast, in need of considerable refreshment, he at length consented to
accompany the lad to her house; and was hurried along, at a most
undignified pace, by Harry, immediately his consent had been obtained.
Harry stipulated that he should first see the young lady alone, in
order to prepare her for whatever communication Cripps might have to
make; and that gentleman, complying with so reasonable a request, took
a seat in the hall, while Harry was shown into the presence of Madge,
who was alone.
There, his courage and resolution began to fail him at once—the more
so, that she came eagerly towards him, with a flush on her face, and
with her eyes lit up with a faint hope that he had news for her.
“What is it, Harry; what have you to tell me?” she asked, quickly.
“I want to be fair and just, Miss,” he said; “I want to undo some of
the wrong I have done, and have so bitterly repented of.”
“What wrong?” she asked.
Harry hung his head a little lower. “I sold Master Dandy, Miss; I gave
him up to the police, when he might have escaped; I put them on his
track.”
“You! But I thought——”
“Oh yes, Miss,” he said bitterly, glancing up at her—“I know what you
thought; I know what every one thought. You believed that I loved him,
and was devoted to him. So I was; I would have died for him; I would
die now to undo what I did that night. But I was mad, Miss Barnshaw; I
felt that he had done me a wrong, and I forgot—forgot all the rest.
But now—now I want to put things right—to help him if I can—to prove
his innocence.”
“Yes—yes—he is innocent, Harry; there can be no question about that,”
she said firmly. “I believe that with all my heart.”
“And so do I, Miss Barnshaw,” replied the lad. “I feel now that he
could never have struck down an unprotected girl—I know that, whatever
mystery there may be about it all, the Master Dandy we know could never
have done that deed. And there is a man here, Miss, a man I met by
accident, who knows him, and who has some strange story to tell about
him. I could make nothing of it myself, so I brought him here, in the
hope that you would see him, Miss, and try to get the story from him.
He has been babbling about twins—and there being two of them (two
Dandy Chaters, he seemed to mean, Miss)—and one dead, and the other
living.”
She looked at him in perplexity for a moment, and then, following the
direction of his eyes, and of a hasty movement he made towards the
door, opened it swiftly, and looked into the hall. She beckoned to
Cripps, who got up somewhat diffidently, and came into the room.
He had had time to think about the matter while he sat alone in the
hall. Having a deadly fear of Ogledon, and of his own connection with
those shady characters at Woolwich, he had come to the conclusion that
the less he said the better would it be for him. At the same time, he
wanted money; and, if this woman wanted information, she must pay for
it, no matter how meagre that information might be. Putting on an air
of deep humility, he faced the girl, hat in hand, and waited for her to
speak.
“I am told,” she said at last, in a low voice, “that you have something
to tell me, concerning Mr. Dandy Chater—something that may help
him—perhaps save him from the fate which seems to be sweeping down
upon him. Will you tell me what you know?”
Cripps moistened his lips with his tongue—looked all round the
room—looked into his hat—and finally raised his eyes to her face.
“Owing to circumstances I cannot explain, my dear young lady,” he said,
in his weak treble—“I run a very great risk in telling you anything;
so great a risk that—I hardly know how to put the matter—that it will
be necessary for you—or any one else—to make it worth my while to say
anything.”
“If you can help him—if you can tell me anything of service—you shall
be paid liberally,” she responded eagerly.
The weak eyes of the little man twinkled and he moistened his lips
again. “I want—say fifty pounds?” he hazarded.
“It is yours. Tell me what you know.”
“I should like”—he hesitated, and turned his hat round and round—“I
should like an open cheque—first.”
She went straight to a desk in a corner of the room; was busy for a
moment; and then looked round at him. “To whom shall I make it
payable?” she asked.
“Cripps is my name—Dr. J. Cripps, if you please.”
She brought him the piece of paper, and he read it greedily and thrust
it in his pocket; seemed to hesitate a little longer; and finally said
what he had made up his mind to say.
“My dear young lady—I am not usually sober enough to give a clear
opinion upon anything; force of circumstances has kept me sober for
nearly a week, and I am clearer about the head than usual. I can only
say this: to the best of my knowledge and belief, there are two Dandy
Chaters.”
“Two!” she echoed, in a whisper.
“Two. One was fished out of the Thames some days ago, and has been
buried as an unknown man; the other is in Chelmsford Jail—or wandering
about the country—I don’t know which. I only know that there are two
of them.”
“But—great heavens, man,” she cried—“I have known one Dandy Chater
since his boyhood; we have grown up side by side. What other man can
there be in his likeness?”
“I don’t care anything about that,” said the Doctor, obstinately, “and
I’m not going to tell you more. I know that there are two—that one is
dead, and t’other living; that’s all.”
“But, my good man—I implore you to relieve my anxiety. Can’t you see
my position? Which of these men is it who committed the murder of which
the living one is accused; and which has been my friend—and my lover?”
The Doctor shook his head helplessly. “The Lord only knows,” he said;
“_I_ don’t!”