Every small community, permanent or temporary, comprises at least one
old woman of the male sex, frequently more than one.
It is difficult to particularise whence this product springs. The
average club perhaps is pre-eminently its forcing house, for there you
shall find the growth both multifold and luxuriant. Likewise on board
passenger ships it thrives and flourishes; indeed, so well known is the
type as not to need defining here. In up-country townships, too, its
roots strike most congenial soil, and in such surroundings its ramblings
not unfrequently tend to bestir the monotony of life, even if they
should occasionally meet with rough and violent usage.
Now Doppersdorp was no exception to the universal rule, for that
historic place owned a really prize specimen of the male "old woman."
This was a brisk, elderly, dapper individual, the primary article of
whose creed was that what he didn't know was not worth knowing. In
aspect he was somewhat Hebraic, with the predatory eye and prominent
"beak" of a certain phase of "the tribes." He was shortish of stature,
and wore his curly grey hair brushed up aggressively over his ears and
neck, eke a beard of the same hue and texture. By profession he
described himself as an "agent," a nondescript term which might mean
anything or nothing, and how he procured the requisite equivalent for
the necessaries of life was ever a dark mystery. But that the highest
heaven and a fairly sordid section of the lower depths of earth might
meet in his individuality, he rejoiced in the name of Michael Chandler.
In saying he knew everything we are short of his merit, for he knew a
great deal more than everything. He knew very much more than really
existed or had ever happened. You could not mention a name or a place
but forthwith would stream copious anecdote either relating to
individual or locality, delivered in a darkly mysterious tone. Certain
it was that no event concerning anybody could be mentioned in his
hearing, but that event became common property throughout Doppersdorp
within the space of half a day at the furthest.
He had a spiritual side, too, as befitted one thus named from the
angelic spheres. He would deliver himself of highly moral and consoling
precepts for the improvement of those who sat daily at Jones' not too
well-appointed board; eke would he invent anecdotes whose first
narration had, according to him, moved the most hardened to tears. He
was full up with unction, too, and would frequently "expound" from the
pulpit of a certain chapel of the "omnium gatherum" persuasion, whence
was dispensed Sabbath nourishment to the bulk of English-speaking
Doppersdorp. And he loved not Roden Musgrave.
Now the said Michael Chandler, commonly known among the irreverent as
"Old Buzfuz," held the office of librarian of the Doppersdorp public
library; wherefore Lambert's proposal to endow that useful institution
with some of the files of newspapers bequeathed him by his predecessor,
was hailed with genuine elation. The idea was an excellent one. There
was plenty of room, and old records were always most interesting.
Perhaps though--er--he suggested, turning on some unction, perhaps--er--
Dr Lambert would not mind him looking over some of the files he so very
kindly wished to present, just to make sure there was nothing
objectionable in them. All sorts of people used the library; all ages
and sexes, he explained, with another unctuous gulp.
Lambert could have yelled with laughter. Why, this was the very thing
they had intended. So with many protestations to the effect that the
other's scruples did him the greatest credit, and so forth, he loaded up
"Old Buzfuz" with three or four previously assorted files, deftly
contriving that that of the _Bryonville Sentinel_ should occupy the most
prominent place among them, and thus engage attention first.
All was going magnificently. This time the plot could not miscarry.
Sonnenberg was half beside himself with vindictive elation. He had got
his enemy in the hollow of his hand, and would crush him utterly.
Now, towards evening there came a knock at Lambert's door, which opened
to admit Chandler, looking very solemn and mysterious indeed. Would the
doctor kindly step round with him to his rooms? Lambert, affecting the
greatest surprise and mystification, was not slow to acquiesce. Then,
when Chandler, having carefully locked the door, proceeded to draw forth
and spread upon the table the sheet containing the very portrait which
had so dumfoundered himself the previous night, he was ready to choke
with stifled mirth. The long and unctuous rigmarole wherein the other
set forth the painful--the extremely painful--discovery he had so
unexpectedly made, was all thrown away. Lambert was struggling hard to
preserve his gravity and keep up the assumed mystification; and it was a
struggle.
"By Jove!" he cried, "I never was more astounded in my life. Why, you
might knock me down with a feather. But, hang it, the thing can't be
genuine. It's only an extraordinary coincidence--a likeness. A
devilish good one, but still a mere likeness."
"It's more than that, unless the name is a coincidence too. Look at the
name!"
"By Jove!" cried Lambert again, staring with admirably feigned amazement
at the paper handed to him.
"When people are so very reserved about themselves it usually means that
their past has not been a creditable one--ahem!" ejaculated Old Buzfuz,
piously shaking his head. "But this is awful--awful. A murderer, too.
A murderer!"
"But, what's to be done? We'd better destroy the papers and keep it to
ourselves--eh?" said Lambert. "You see, the thing ends in an acquittal
of a sort. How about actions for libel? I don't want to risk anything
of that kind."
This was putting matters uncomfortably. "Old Buzfuz" cleared his
throat.
"There is no question of anything of that kind," he said. "You see, Dr
Lambert, you offered to present these files of papers to the Doppersdorp
public library. Now, besides looking through them myself, it will be my
duty to submit them to Mr Shaston, who, as chairman of the institution,
has a considerable voice in admitting or excluding its contents."
"Eh, what?" cried Lambert, in pretended alarm. "Why, it may get
Musgrave into trouble. He might get the sack."
"Any action which Mr Shaston may take rests with himself, not with us.
Meanwhile, my duty is plain, and I propose to discharge it
unswervingly."
And "Old Buzfuz" pulled a very long face, heaved a very deep sigh, and
looked the other straight in the eyes. These two humbugs thoroughly
understood each other now.
A couple of mornings later, Roden Musgrave, emerging from his quarters,
was surprised to behold two or three groups scattered on the footway and
on the other side of the road, intently but furtively watching his
house. He noticed, too, that those composing them turned away as he
came forth, as though to disguise their intent. And simultaneously with
the quick flash of vision in which he took in all this, his eye was
attracted to something on his front door, and if his nerves were
momentarily shaken it is little to be wondered at. For right across his
door, boldly drawn in charcoal, its head daubed with splotches of red,
was a great axe; and underneath this, in red lettering, were inscribed
the words,
"Stillwell's Flat."
The suddenness of the bolt might well have staggered him--the utter
unexpectedness of it. How had this grim skeleton been thus dug up from
its far-away and long-covered grave, and dangled here before him? Who
had done it? And, as his gaze wandered over the groups, it met that of
Sonnenberg, and on the evil countenance of the Jew was a smirk of
vindictive triumph. _He_ did not avert his glance.
The sight, however, was of all things the best that could possibly have
happened. It acted as a tonic. His nerves completely braced now, Roden
turned and deliberately examined the daub, looking it up and down from
top to bottom. Those furtive groups began to peer anxiously, eager to
see what he was going to do next. They expected to see him blanch, grow
agitated, perhaps turn faint; instead of which he stood examining the
hideous practical joke, with the ghost of a satirical grin drooping the
corners of his mouth. He had not turned a hair.
Then he called a native who was limping along on the other side of the
street.
"Tom."
It was indeed the _ci-devant_ warrior, now the priest's stable-boy. He
trotted across, grinning, and saluted.
"Where are you off to now, Tom?"
The Kaffir explained that he was going nowhere in particular. His
master was absent, and times were easy.
"Very well. Go inside and get a bucket and brush, and clean that
beautiful drawing off my door, while I'm at breakfast," said Roden,
chucking the boy a sixpence, and strolling leisurely down the street in
the direction of the Barkly.
Cool though he was, however, the incident had disturbed him not a
little. How had this thing come about? Who there could know anything
of his past? He saw in this the beginning of the end.
Was it with design, too, that throughout breakfast Chandler should so
persistently keep dragging round the conversation to the year 1868? It
looked like it. Nor was there any mistaking, either, the constraint in
the manner of others. Well, if they intended that sort of annoyance
they should learn that they might just as well spare themselves the
trouble.
Thus musing he went down to the office. A few Court cases had to be
disposed of, during which from his seat in front of the bench he could
see Tasker, the agent, who bore him no goodwill either, ostentatiously
sketching a gallows on his blotting pad. Darrell was absent, having
returned to the Main Camp.
"Would you mind stepping this way, Mr Musgrave?" said Mr Shaston, when
the court had risen, leading the way into his private office. "Sit
down, please. There is a matter of very serious moment on which I
should like a little conversation with you. Perhaps it will save a
great deal of explanation, and beating around the bush, if we come to
the point at once. In a word, _this_ has come under my notice--no
matter how--and if you have any explanation to offer I shall be glad to
hear it."
"This" being the file of the _Bryonville Sentinel_ open at the report of
the Stillwell's Flat case. Roden took it, and looked at it hard and
earnestly--his own portrait, lifelike at the present day, the
sensational headlines, the equivocal verdict, the acquittal.
This, then, was how the matter had been unearthed; for as he glanced at
the paper he recalled old Dr Simpson's hobby. That kindly-natured old
man would not have stirred a finger to harm him. It was Lambert who had
unearthed this, Lambert whom he had to thank. Ten long years ago! and
now here, in another hemisphere thousands and thousands of miles away,
this blood-spectre sprang up once more, hideous and blighting.
"Well?" said Shaston, as he handed it back.
"I have no explanation to offer."
"Do I understand then that you admit your identity with the--er--the
person, whose trial is here reported?"
"You will please understand that I admit nothing. I do not feel in the
least called upon to make either admissions or explanations. I will,
however, just add this remark. The person, whoever he may be, whose
trial is there reported, appears to have been acquitted. That means, I
take it, that he has been cleared of the charge."
"All very well as a legal fiction, Mr Musgrave," was the icy rejoinder;
"but you and I know perfectly that the manner of a person's acquittal
makes all the difference in the world."
"Then, if a man is once under suspicion, he is always under it, no
matter how completely or publicly he may have been cleared? Is that
your deliberate opinion, Mr Shaston?"
The other turned white with rage as he glared blankly and furiously at
his imperturbable subordinate, whose countenance betrayed no sign of
purpose underlying his rejoinder. Yet the latter contained about as
hard a hit as could have been dealt, for rumour darkly hinted that
Shaston in his younger days had been badly mixed up in some defaulting
transaction; and although exonerated, on inquiry, from anything more
culpable than gross negligence, the circumstance had placed a black mark
against his record, materially retarding his advancement in the Service.
As a matter of fact, however, the shaft was an accidental one, Roden
being entirely unaware of such an occurrence.
"That may be why I afforded you the opportunity of making an
explanation," said Shaston as soon as he had recovered himself; "for I
have considered the matter very carefully, and deem it my duty to bring
it to the notice of the Government; unless, of course, you would prefer
to resign of your own accord, and thus avoid unnecessary scandal and
publicity. In that case I shall be willing to stretch a point."
"I shall certainly do nothing of the kind, Mr Shaston. And allow me,
with great respect, to recommend you to consider the matter yet more
carefully; for any step you may take in it as regards myself will be
taken at your own serious risk. The same holds good concerning others."
"As you refuse explanation, I may tell you, sir, that I have no doubt
whatever as to your identity with the Roden Musgrave mentioned here.
Moreover, I am informed that the inhabitants of this place are preparing
a strong memorial on the subject. I have even reason to fear that you
may become the object of a most unpleasant popular demonstration. All
this means scandal to the Service, and serious detriment to the
efficiency and smooth working of my establishment. Wherefore you must
see, I am sure, that in bringing the matter officially under notice, I
am discharging a most necessary though painful duty."
"We are alone, I believe, Mr Shaston," answered Roden, and there was a
look in his face which the other had never seen there before and did not
half like now. "That being so, we may as well talk with a little more
plainness. I would ask you, therefore, to glance at that report; and
granting, for the sake of argument, that your theory as to my identity
is correct, to say whether you think it likely that the man whose record
is there given is the man to be bullied into anything, let alone cowed
by such a threat as that of a `popular demonstration,' on the part of
the runaway swindlers and fraudulent bankrupts and forgers and
ex-convicts who form such an important element in the population of this
highly moral village? Do you really share such an opinion?"
The other stared. He simply did not know what answer to make. Roden
continued--
"It might be as well, if I may respectfully say so, before undertaking
the grave responsibility of branding me or anybody else as a murderer on
the strength of a report in so authoritative an organ as the _Bryonville
Sentinel_, to ascertain first, that there is such a place as Stillwell's
Flat; secondly, that a murder actually was committed there; and, lastly,
that I ever was there in my life. And now, have I your permission to
return to my work, sir?"
"You have, sir. It's only fair to tell you that my opinion and the
course of action I have decided upon in consequence of this--er--of this
revelation, remains unchanged."
But, after his subordinate had withdrawn, Shaston felt horribly
uncomfortable. That last bolt had gone right home. What if the whole
thing should turn out a fiasco after all?