DANDY CHATER COMES FROM THE GRAVE
Dr. Cripps—partly from excitement, partly from sheer vindictiveness
against Ogledon—was only too ready for the expedition. Indeed, both
men were so eager for it, though each for a different reason, that
Philip almost forgot the caution that was necessary, in his own case;
he would have started off, in broad daylight that very hour, to track
down the man of whom he was in search, had not Cripps pointed out to
him the madness of such a course.
“You see, my dear Chater,” he said—“you’ll get me into trouble, as
well as yourself; it’s a dangerous thing to be running about the
country with a notorious criminal—I beg that you will excuse the
expression; but you really are a bit notorious, you know—and I have no
wish to appear in the dock, for anything beyond my own private
sins—and they are heavy enough, Heaven knows. So that, if I might
suggest, I think it would be wiser for us to smuggle you to London, in
some way or other—that is, if you are really resolved on going.”
“Of course I am resolved,” cried Philip, eagerly; “nothing shall turn
me back. Cripps, I won’t believe you are so bad as men have painted
you, or made you—or as you have made yourself. There’s a heart in you
somewhere, and all the brandy in the world hasn’t washed it out of you.”
“Thank you,” said Cripps, in a low voice; and hung his head.
“Let me tell you this; that I love this girl with all my heart and
soul; she is in danger—and I know that Ogledon will not hesitate to
add another crime to his list. The question is (for you are right about
the necessity for smuggling me) how am I to get to London?”
They decided to consult Betty Siggs forthwith; and, although that lady
was at first very chary of holding any communication with Cripps, she
cheerfully accepted Philip’s assurance that the little man was to be
trusted, and set about devising a plan to help them. Taking Toby into
her confidence, also, she brought him up to the room, where Philip and
Cripps were waiting, and they put the case before him.
Toby Siggs thought about it for a long time; turned it over this way
and that, but could make nothing of it. Betty, after all, settled the
difficulty in her own quick fashion.
She happened to be standing near the window, looking down into the yard
at the back of the inn; when she suddenly clapped her hands, and
laughed aloud. “’Ere you are!” she exclaimed—“the very thing!”
Philip ran to her side, and looked down into the yard. A heavy wagon,
laden with hay, had drawn into the yard, and the carter was at that
moment climbing down, ready to enter the house.
“See, dear lad,” whispered Betty—“the man is a stranger, and ’alf a
sov’rin will be a fortune to ’im, an’ ’e’ll ask no questions. You ain’t
above roughing it—an’ you an’ the other man can creep in under the
tarpaulin, and get to town, without no one bein’ any the wiser. It’ll
be slow—but it’ll be better than bein’ caught ’arf-way, an’ ’avin’ yer
journey for nothin’—won’t it?”
The plan seemed an excellent one; and Betty went downstairs at once to
arrange it. The carter, being an easy fellow, earning small wages, was
delighted at the prospect of gathering in ten shillings with so little
trouble; and, in half an hour Cripps and Philip Chater were lying
snugly on top of the sweet-smelling hay, under the tarpaulin,
travelling slowly but surely on the road to London.
Cripps was very valiant—in whispers—on the road; professing his
ability to run Ogledon to earth, and openly charge him with the murder
of Dandy Chater. Repentance was strong upon him for the time, and he
was ready to perform impossible deeds, by way of reparation for past
misdeeds. In particular, he was anxious about the bank notes which had
been handed to Philip at The Three Watermen.
“For of course I know, by this time, Mr. Chater, that they were handed
to you,” he said—“and not to the man who is dead. Let me warn you, for
your own sake, not to deal in them; they are stopped, and keenly
watched for already.”
“The warning comes too late,” replied Philip, with a groan. “I dealt in
them almost at once. I had to cover up a—well, call it a mistake—on
the part of my late brother, and I paid away the notes as hush-money.”
“To whom did you pay it?”
“To a money-lender—a man bearing the distinctive name of Isaacson,”
replied Philip.
“That sounds bad,” said the little man. “He would be sure to find out
about the notes before any one. Have you heard nothing from him?”
“How should I? I have not been to Chater Hall since that time; Heaven
knows how many letters may be waiting for me—or for Dandy Chater. At
all events, it’s no use worrying about it, or wondering what is going
to happen within the next twenty-four hours.”
The cart in which they travelled was heavily laden, and slow; and the
carter stopped many times upon the road, on the strength of the ten
shillings he had received, for refreshment. They chafed at the delay,
but could do nothing; for they dared not express impatience, for fear
of arousing suspicion. Worse than all, from the Doctor’s standpoint, at
least, it was impossible for them to stir from under the tarpaulin, or
to show themselves; so that, through the dust and heat of many hours,
they had the melancholy satisfaction of seeing the carter bury his face
in huge tankards of ale, whilst nothing came their way. At such moments
as these, the Doctor buried _his_ face in the hay, and positively
groaned aloud.
It was quite late in the afternoon, when they came into London, and the
cart was hacked into a huge stable-yard. There, another delay occurred;
for night was still far off, and they dared not stir in daylight.
Fortunately, the hay was not to be disturbed until the next morning, so
that they lay there, listening to the busy noise of the streets, and
longing for darkness.
Dusk at last, and the noises in the streets growing fainter. They had
agreed upon their plan of action, and had decided to take a
four-wheeled cab to Woolwich—choosing that conveyance, as being likely
to attract less attention than a hansom—and then to walk to The Three
Watermen. They slipped down the side of the hay wagon, and crept out of
the stable-yard into the streets.
Philip dived into the first crawling “growler” he saw, leaving Cripps
to give the necessary directions. Philip leaned back in the cab, as
much out of sight as possible, and began to wonder, with fiery
impatience, whether they would be too late—or whether they would miss
those of whom they were in pursuit—or whether Madge had really come to
London, and, if so, where she was at that time.
After a long journey through endless streets, Cripps stopped the
vehicle, and they alighted. Philip found himself at the corner of a
narrow and very dirty street, in a neighbourhood evidently of the
poorest class—and yet a neighbourhood which seemed familiar.
“Now, Mr. Chater,” said the little man, who was evidently growing more
nervous at every step they took—“Now comes the necessity for greater
caution than ever. We—we may absolutely ruin everything, if we are too
precipitate. We must find out first where Ogledon is, and whether or
not he has gone to the hut spoken of by the Shady ’un. Ah—you don’t
know what Ogledon is—or what he is capable of.”
“I can guess,” said Philip, quietly—“and that makes me the more
anxious to get on without delay. How far are we from the place?”
“A hundred yards or so,” replied Cripps, who was beginning to tremble
like a leaf. “You don’t—don’t feel that you would like—like to turn
back, I suppose?”
“Turn back!” cried Philip with a grim laugh. “Turn back now—when I am
within touch of this man! No—not if greater dangers than any I have
met yet fronted me. Show me the way, wherever it may be!”
The Doctor led the way down a side street, which brought them, with
another sharp turn to the left to The Three Watermen; Philip knew it in
a moment.
“I know the way now,” he said—“I have been to the spot before. Come
on—let us waste no further time.”
In his eagerness, he dived himself into that small alley-way, into
which he had gone on that first night of his coming to the place. Only
when he reached the end of it, did he look round for his companion; but
Cripps was gone. His fears had been too much for him, and, watching his
opportunity, he had fled. There was no time to wait for him, or to look
for him; Philip made his way rapidly in the direction of those
tumble-down out-houses he had noticed on the night he found his
brother’s body.
Coming within sight of these, he suddenly stopped, and dropped down
behind the shelter of a ruined boat, which lay half buried in the mud.
For, at the door of one of those dilapidated buildings, stood the Shady
’un, as if on guard.
Probably Mr. Shadrach Nottidge had never been so surprised or terrified
in all his life, as he was when a figure suddenly sprang up before him,
and he felt himself caught by the throat, with a grip which threatened
to choke him with the least possible delay. And, when he looked into
the eyes of Philip Chater, and remembered how much cause that gentleman
had for wreaking vengeance upon him, by reason of the treachery he had
displayed in handing him over to the police, his fears were increased a
thousand-fold.
“Now—you sly sneaking villain,” whispered Philip between his
teeth—“you runner and crawler for other rogues—where’s your master?”
The Shady ’un, wholly unable to speak, by reason of that grip upon his
throat, faintly moved his head in the direction of the hut.
“Is the lady you brought here with him?” asked Philip, in the same
cautious voice.
The Shady ’un contrived to nod, and to screw his head again in the
direction of the door; Philip, glancing at it, saw that it stood some
two inches open. Giving the Shady ’un one final squeeze and shake, he
flung him away, so that he fell on his back on the mud—gently pushed
open the door—and crept in. The Shady ’un, the instant that Philip had
disappeared into the hut, got slowly to his feet, and then scurried
away in the darkness towards the streets.
Inside the hut, Philip found himself in a maze of poles, and ropes, and
planks, and dusty tattered sails; gliding among these—(the shed had
evidently belonged to a boat-builder, and had long been abandoned)—he
peered past them into the shed itself, where a faint light glimmered.
As his eyes became accustomed to the twilight of the place, he saw that
the light in it came from a guttering candle, thrust into the neck of a
bottle, and stood upon a table. Near this table, and at the further end
of the room, stood Madge Barnshaw. At the side of it nearest to where
Philip stood concealed, and with his back towards the door, stood
Ogledon. With his hands clasped behind his back, and his head thrust
forward towards the girl, he seemed to menace her, even while he was
silent. And yet, though he seemed to have her at his mercy, he had
about him a dogged air of being at bay himself, and desperate. From the
first words Philip heard, as he stood there in the darkness watching
them, it appeared that Madge had only just reached the place, and was
still ignorant of the full extent of her own danger.
“You sent for me in desperate haste, Mr. Ogledon,” she said—“to tell
me about Dandy Chater—to tell me the truth about him.”
“Yes—I’ll tell you all the truth about Dandy Chater,” he said,
sneeringly.
“I have taken a long journey, in the full hope that you might help
him—that you might show me a way to prove his innocence, and set him
free,” she said, in the same earnest pleading voice. “If you can do
that—if you will help him—I will bless you from the depths of my
grateful heart; I will believe that you are true and kind and generous;
and I will beg you to forget any harsh thing I may ever have said to
you.”
He moved nearer to the table, and leant his hands upon it, and looked
at her across the flickering candle-light. “I have read somewhere,” he
said, slowly—“in some book made for babes and sucklings—that the love
of a woman will make an angel of a man—and raise him up, and exalt
him. It’s a lie; no such thing ever happened. So far as I have loved,
the love of a woman is a thing wherein are bound up hatred and
bitterness and murder—and every devil-made thing that belongs to the
darkness. They talk of a woman scorned; what think you of a man
scorned? What think you of a man, who—eating his heart out for one
smile—one word of tenderness from a mere slip of a girl—is met by
looks which show him only disgust and repugnance? You thought it a fine
thing to fling aside the love of a man like myself, and take up with a
mere boy—didn’t you?”
“I never flung aside your love,” replied the girl, scornfully. “I told
you, from the first, that I could not care for you—that I loved some
one else. Had you been a gentleman—even a man——”
“A gentleman!” he sneered. “What has gentility to do with this
business? It’s a question between a man and a woman—and you shall find
that the man wins. Oh—my pretty maid—I swore a long time ago that no
other man should stand between you and myself; I swore that I would
have you, and would bend you as it pleased me—or break you.
Yes—you’ve roused a lurking devil in me—and I’ll stick at nothing
now. First—let us understand each other, in regard to Dandy Chater.”
He took a turn or two about the room, with his head bent, as though
undecided what to say, or what to leave unsaid. At last, going to his
former position near the table and standing there, he began to say what
he had to say.
“You loved Dandy Chater—oh—don’t interrupt me; you would say you love
him still, I suppose?—I knew that, from your own lips, as well as from
what I saw and heard when you were together. I wonder if you would love
him now—if you could see him?”
“I don’t understand you,” she said, in a low voice. “Why should I not?”
“Because—well because he wouldn’t look nice,” he responded, with a
grim laugh. “In a word—because he’s dead.”
Through the mind of the girl there floated the words the little man who
had accompanied Harry had spoken—“One is dead—the other living!” But
she said nothing; she was almost afraid to speak, because she wanted so
desperately to hear what he had to say in explanation of that mystery.
“Yes—he’s dead. He stood in my way—blocked up the path which led to
my desires. More than that, I had made a tool of him for years—had
used him for every mean and petty thing I did not care to soil my own
hands with. He might have told tales. Do you know what I did with him?”
She looked at him with a face of horror, and slowly shook her head.
“Look round these walls—look at this miserable place in which you
stand. It should have a value in your eyes; for it has heard his death
scream. Within a dozen yards of it, on the bank of this river—at
night—I struck him down. And I’d strike him down again to-night, if he
stood alive before me. And you—you thought to defy a man who felt the
killing of that puny lover of yours no more than he would have felt the
killing of a rat!”
He had felt it, though—and he felt it still; or why did his hands
tremble in their grip of the table, and why did he glance for a moment,
with that blanched face, behind him?
She, too, began to fear him now, as she had not feared him before;
looked about her wildly, as if for a way of escape.
“Ah—you shake and tremble now—do you?” he said, mockingly. “You’ll
tremble more when you know what I intend to do. Think of it. You’re
here, far away from any houses, and you may scream your heart out, and
no one will hear you. Whatever love I felt for you has gone—turned
into a viler thing. By God—pretty Miss Innocence”—he brought his fist
down heavily on the table—“you shall dally with me an hour or two—for
the first and last time; and then go join your lover in the river!”
He darted round the table towards her; but she evaded him, screaming,
and made straight towards where Philip stood. Ogledon, in his mad rush,
tripped and fell; and, at the same moment, Philip caught the girl,
swung her round into the darkness where he had been standing, and
stepped out into the light.
It was all done so rapidly, that Ogledon was on his feet, and had
actually come on, with a blind rush, before he saw who stood in his
path; and even then, he had no time to stop himself—scarcely time even
to cry out. In a moment, Philip had him by the throat, and had forced
him to his knees; bending over him, and looking full into his ghastly
face, he spoke the first words that rose to his lips; re-assumed, for a
moment, that character he had taken upon himself near that very spot
but a week or two before.
“Dandy Chater is dead—is he? Struck down by your hand from behind in
the dark—murderer! Do you look into his eyes now—in this place where
you killed him—or will you still cry that Dandy Chater has not come
back from the grave?”
The face into which Philip Chater looked, suddenly changed horribly;
mouthed and chattered at him, in some unearthly tongue; and the head
fell backwards. He felt the body relax, and droop under his hands;
heard a sort of gasping cry; and then it slid out of his grasp to the
floor. At the same moment, the door was flung open, and the place
seemed full of people.
In the front of them were some constables—and, just behind them, the
face of the Shady ’un. Philip had a dim idea that Madge had come out
into the light, and was bending over the prostrate form of Ogledon. He
knew, too, that handcuffs were on his wrists, and that he was strongly
held by a couple of men. Some others had gone to Ogledon, and were
raising him up.
“Yes—take me,” he cried, recklessly; “I don’t mind now; my innocence
is proved. Look to that man”—he pointed towards Ogledon—“he knows my
story; he is my chief witness!”
One of the men, who had been bending over Ogledon, got up and adjusted
his chin-strap, and looked at Philip curiously.
“I’m afraid your witness won’t do you much good,” he said, shortly.
“The man is dead!”