THE DIVIDED HOUSE
"Superintendent Narkom waitin' upstairs in your room, sir. Come
unexpected and sudden like about five minutes ago," said Dollops, as the
key was withdrawn from the lock and Cleek stepped into the house. "Told
him you'd jist run round the corner, sir, to get a fresh supply of them
cigarettes you're so partial to, so he sat down and waited. And, oh, I
say, guv'ner?"
"Yes?" said Cleek inquiringly, stopping in his two-steps-at-a-time
ascent of the stairs.
"Letter come for you, too, sir, whilst you was out. Envellup wrote in a
lady's hand, and directed to 'Captain Burbage.' Took it up and laid it
on your table, sir."
"All right," said Cleek, and resumed his journey up the stairs, passing
a moment later into his private room and the presence of Maverick
Narkom.
The superintendent, who was standing by the window looking out into the
brilliant radiance of the morning, turned as he heard the door creak,
and immediately set his back to the things that had nothing to do with
the conduct of Scotland Yard, and advanced toward his famous ally with
that eagerness and enthusiasm which he reserved for matters connected
with crime and the law.
"My dear Cleek, such a case; you'll fairly revel in it," he began
excitedly. "As I didn't expect to find you out at this hour of the
morning, I dispensed with the formality of 'phoning, hopped into the
car, and came on at once. Dollops said you'd be back in half a minute,
and," looking at his watch, "it's now ten since I arrived."
"Sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Narkom," broke in Cleek, "but--look
at these," pulling the tissue paper from an oblong parcel he was
carrying in his hand and exposing to view a cluster of lilies of the
valley and La France roses. "They are what detained me. Budleigh, the
florist, had his window full of them, fresh from Covent Garden this
morning, and I simply couldn't resist the temptation. If God ever made
anything more beautiful than a rose, Mr. Narkom, it is yet to be
discovered. Sit down, and while you are talking I'll arrange these in
this vase. No; it won't distract my attention from what you are saying,
believe me. Somehow, I can always think better and listen better when
there are flowers about me, and if----"
He chopped off the sentence suddenly and laid the flowers down upon his
table with a briskness born of sudden interest. His eye had fallen upon
the letter of which Dollops had spoken. It was lying face upward upon
the table, so that he could see the clear, fine, characterful hand in
which it was written and could read clearly the Devonshire postmark.
"My dear Cleek," went on Narkom, accepting the invitation to be seated,
but noticing nothing in his eagerness to get to business, "my dear
Cleek, never have I brought you any case which is so likely to make your
fortune as this, and when I tell you that the reward offered runs well
into five figures----"
"A moment, please!" interjected Cleek agitatedly. "Don't think me rude,
Mr. Narkom, but--your pardon a thousand times. I must read this letter
before I give attention to anything else, no matter how important!"
Then, not waiting for Narkom to signify his consent to the interruption,
as perforce he was obliged to do in the circumstances, he carried the
letter over to the window, broke the seal, and read it, his heart
getting into his eyes and his pulses drumming with that kind of
happiness which fills a man when the one woman in the world writes him a
letter.
Even if he had not recognized her handwriting, he must have known from
the postmark that it was from Ailsa Lorne, for he had no correspondent
in Devonshire, no correspondent but Narkom anywhere, for the matter of
that. His lonely life, the need for secrecy, his plan of
self-effacement, prevented that. But he had known for months that Miss
Lorne was in Devon, that she had gone there as governess in the family
of Sir Jasper Drood, when her determination not to leave England had
compelled her to resign her position as guide and preceptress to little
Lord Chepstow on the occasion of his mother's wedding with Captain
Hawksley. And now to have her write to him--to him! A sort of mist got
into his eyes and blurred everything for a moment. When it had passed
and he could see clearly, he set his back to Narkom and read these
words:
The Priory, Tuesday, June 10th.
DEAR FRIEND:
If you remember, as I so often do, that last day in London,
when you put off the demands of your duty to see me safely in
the train and on my way to this new home, you will perhaps
also remember something that you said to me at parting. You
told me that if a time ever came when I should need your
friendship or your help, I had but to ask for them. If that is
true, and I feel sure that it is, dear Mr. Cleek, I need them
now. Not for myself, however, but for one who has proved a
kind friend indeed since my coming here, and who, through me,
asks your kind aid in solving a deep and distressing mystery
and saving a threatened human life. No reward can be offered,
I fear, beyond that which comes of the knowledge of having
done a good and generous act, Mr. Cleek, for my friend is not
in a position to offer one. But I seem to feel that this will
weigh little with you, and it emboldens me to make this
appeal. So, if no other case prevents, and you really wish to
do me a favour, if you can make it convenient to be in the
neighbourhood of the lych-gate of Lyntonhurst Church on
Wednesday morning at eleven o'clock, you will win the
everlasting gratitude of--
Your sincere friend,
AILSA LORNE.
The superintendent heard the unmistakable sound of the letter being
folded and slid back into its envelope, and very properly concluded that
the time of grace had expired.
"Now, my dear Cleek, let us get down to business," he began forthwith.
"This amazing case which I wish you to undertake and will, as I have
already said, bring you a colossal reward----"
"Your pardon, Mr. Narkom," interjected Cleek, screwing round on his heel
and beginning to search for a railway guide among the litter of papers
and pamphlets jammed into the spaces of a revolving bookcase, "your
pardon, but I can undertake no case, sir--at least, for the present. I
am called to Devonshire, and must start at once. What's that? No, there
is nothing to be won, not a farthing piece. It's a matter of friendship,
nothing more."
"But, Cleek! God bless my soul, man, this is madness. You are simply
chucking away enough money to keep you for the next three years."
"It wouldn't make any difference if it were enough to keep me for the
next twenty, Mr. Narkom. You can't buy entrance to paradise for all the
money in the world, my friend, and I'm getting a day in it for nothing!
Now then," flirting over the leaves of the guide book, "let's see how
the trains run. Dorset--Darsham--Dalby--Devonshire. Good! Here you are.
Um-m-m. Too late for that. Can't possibly catch that one, either. Ah,
here's the one--1.56--that will do." Then he closed the book, almost ran
to the door, and, leaning over the banister, shouted down the
staircase, "Dollops--Dollops, you snail, where are you? Dol---- Oh,
there you are at last, eh? Pack my portmanteau. Best clothes, best
boots, best everything I've got, and look sharp about it. I'm off to
Devonshire by the 1.56."
And, do all that he might, Narkom could not persuade him to alter his
determination. The 1.56 he said he would take; the 1.56 he did take; and
night coming down over the peaceful paths and the leafy loveliness of
Devon found him putting up at the inn of "The Three Desires," hours and
hours and hours ahead of the appointed time, to make sure of being at
the trysting place at eleven next morning.
He was. On the very tick of the minute he was there at the old
moss-grown lych-gate, and there Miss Lorne found him when she drove up
in Lady Drood's pony phaeton a little time afterward. She was not alone,
however. She had spoken of a friend, and a sharp twitch disturbed
Cleek's heart when he saw that a young man sat beside her, a handsome
young man of two-or three-and-twenty, with a fair moustache, a pair of
straight-looking blue eyes, and that squareness of shoulder and
uprightness of bearing which tells the tale of a soldier.
In another moment she had alighted, her fingers were lying in the close
grasp of Cleek's, and the colour was coming and going in rosy gusts over
her smiling countenance.
"How good of you to come!" she said. "But, there! I knew that you would,
if it were within the range of possibility; I said so to Mr. Bridewell
as we came along. Mr. Cleek, let me have the pleasure of making you
acquainted with Lieutenant Bridewell. His fiancée, Miss Warrington, is
the dear friend of whom I wrote you. Lieutenant Bridewell is home on
leave after three years' service in India, Mr. Cleek; but in those three
years strange and horrible things have happened, are still happening, in
his family circle. But now that you have come---- We shall get at the
bottom of the mystery now, lieutenant; I feel certain that we shall. Mr.
Cleek will find it out, be sure of that."
"At least, I will endeavour to do so, Mr. Bridewell," said Cleek
himself, as he wrung the young man's hand and decided that he liked him
a great deal better than he had thought he was going to do. "What is the
difficulty? Miss Lorne's letter mentioned the fact that not only was
there a mystery to be probed but a human life in danger. Whose life, may
I ask? Yours?"
"No," he made reply, with a sort of groan. "I wish to heaven it were no
more than that. I'd soon clear out from the danger zone and put an end
to the trouble, get rid of that lot at the house and put miles of sea
between them and me, I can tell you. It's my dad they are killing--my
dear old dad, bless his heart--and killing him in the most mysterious
and subtle manner imaginable. I don't know how, I don't know why, that's
the mystery of it, for he hasn't any money nor any expectations, just
the annuity he bought when he got too old to follow his calling (he used
to be a sea captain, Mr. Cleek), and there'd be no sense in getting rid
of him for that, because, of course, the annuity dies with him. But
somebody's got some kind of a motive and somebody's doing it, that's
certain, for when I went out to India three years ago he was a hale and
hearty old chap, fit as a fiddle and lively as a cricket, and now, when
I come back on leave, I find him a broken wreck, a peevish, wasted old
man, hardly able to help himself, and afflicted with some horrible
incurable disease which seems to be eating him up alive."
"Eating him?" repeated Cleek. "What do you mean by 'eating' him, Mr.
Bridewell? The expression is peculiar."
"Well, it exactly explains the circumstances, Mr. Cleek. If I didn't
know better, I should think it a case of leprosy. But it isn't. I've
seen cases of leprosy, and this isn't one of them. There's none of the
peculiar odour, for one thing; and, for another, it isn't contagious.
You can touch the spots without suffering doing so, although he suffers,
dear old boy, and suffers horribly. It's just living decay, Mr.
Cleek--just that. Fordyce, that's the doctor who's attending him, you
know, says that the only way he has found to check the thing is by
amputation. Already the dear old chap has lost three fingers from the
right hand by that means. Fordyce says that the hand itself will have to
go in time if they can't check the thing, and then, if that doesn't stop
it, the arm will have to go."
Cleek puckered up his brows and began to rub his thumb and forefinger up
and down his chin.
"Fordyce seems to have a pronounced penchant for amputation, Mr.
Bridewell," he said after a moment. "Competent surgeon, do you think?"
"Who--Fordyce? Lord bless you, yes! One of the 'big pots' in that line.
Harley Street specialist in his day. Fell heir to a ton of money, I
believe, and gave up practice because it was too wearing. Couldn't get
over the love of it, however, so set up a ripping little place down
here, went in for scientific work, honour and glory of the profession
and all that sort of thing, you know. God knows what would have become
of the dad if he hadn't taken up the case! might be in his grave by this
time. Fordyce has been a real friend, Mr. Cleek; I can't be grateful
enough to him for the good he has done: taking the dear old dad into his
home, so to speak, him and Aunt Ruth and--and that pair, the Cordovas."
"The Cordovas? Who are they? Friends or relatives?"
"Neither, I'm afraid. To tell the truth, they're the people I suspect,
though God knows why I should, and God forgive me if I'm wrong. They're
two West Indians, brother and sister, Mr. Cleek. Their father was mate
of the _Henrietta_, under my dad, years and years ago. Mutinied, too,
the beggar, and was shot down, as he ought to have been, as _any_
mutineer ought to be. Left the two children, mere kiddies at the time.
Dad took 'em in, and has been keeping them and doing for them ever
since. I don't like them--never did like them. Fordyce doesn't like
them, either. Colonel Goshen does, however. He's sweet on the girl, I
fancy."
Cleek's eyebrows twitched upward suddenly, his eyes flashed a sharp
glance at the lieutenant, and then dropped again.
"Colonel Goshen, eh?" he said quietly. "Related, by any chance, to that
'Colonel Goshen' who testified on behalf of the claimant in the great
Tackbun case?"
"Don't know, I'm sure. Never heard of the case, Mr. Cleek."
"Didn't you? It was quite a sensation some eighteen months ago. But you
were in India, then, of course. Fellow turned up who claimed to be the
long-lost Sir Aubrey Tackbun who ran away to sea when a boy some thirty
odd years ago and was lost track of entirely. Lost his case at that
first trial, and got sent to prison for conspiracy Is out again now.
Claims to have new and irrefutable refutable evidence, and is going to
have a second try for the title and estates. A Colonel Goshen, of the
Australian militia, was one of his strongest witnesses. Wonder if there
is any connection between the two?"
"Shouldn't think so. This Colonel Goshen's an American or he says he is,
and I've no reason to doubt him. Deuced nice fellow, whatever he is, and
has been a jolly good friend to the pater. As a matter of fact, it was
through him that Fordyce got to know the dad and became interested in
his case, and---- What's that? Lud, no! No possible means of connecting
my old dad with any lost heirs, sir--not a ghost of one. Born here in
Devon, married here, lived all his life here, that is, whenever he was
on land, and he'll die here, and die soon, too, if you don't get at the
bottom of this and save him. And you will, Mr. Cleek, and you will,
won't you? Miss Lorne says that you've solved deeper mysteries than
this, and that you will get at the bottom of it without fail."
"Miss Lorne has more faith in my ability than most people, I fear, Mr.
Bridewell. I will try to live up to it, however. But suppose you give me
the facts of the case a little more clearly. When and how did it all
begin?"
"I think it was about eight months ago that Aunt Ruth wrote me about
it," the lieutenant replied. "Aunt Ruth is my late mother's maiden
sister, Mr. Cleek. My mother died at my birth, and Aunt Ruth brought me
up. As I told you, my father retired from the sea some years ago, and,
having purchased an annuity, lived on that. He managed to scrape enough
together to have me schooled properly and put through Sandhurst, and
when I got my lieutenancy, and was subsequently appointed to a
commission in India, I left him living in the little old cottage where I
was born. With him were Aunt Ruth and Paul and Lucretia Cordova. Up to
about eight months or so ago he continued to live there, devoting
himself to his little garden and enjoying life on land as much as a man
who loves the sea ever can do. Then, of a sudden, Lucretia Cordova fell
in with Colonel Goshen, and introduced him to the pater. A few days
after that my father seems to have eaten something which disagreed with
him, for he was suddenly seized with all the symptoms of ptomaine
poisoning. He rallied, however, but from that point a strange weakness
overcame him, and at the colonel's suggestion he went for a sail round
the coast with him. He did not improve. The weakness seemed to grow, but
without any sign of the horrible bodily suffering with which he is now
afflicted.
"Colonel Goshen is a great friend of Dr. Fordyce's, and through that
friendship managed to interest him in the case to such a degree that he
made a twenty-mile trip especially to see my father. They struck up a
great friendship. Fordyce was certain, he said, that he could cure the
dad if he had him within daily reach, and, on the dad saying that he
couldn't afford to come over to this part of the country and keep up two
establishments, Fordyce came to the rescue, like the jolly brick he is.
In other words, his place here being a good deal larger than he
requires, he's a bachelor, Mr. Cleek, he put up a sort of partition to
separate it into two establishments, so to speak, put one-half at the
dad's disposal rent free, and there he is housed now, and Aunt Ruth and
the two Cordovas with him. Yes, and even me, now; for as soon as he
heard that I was coming home on leave, Fordyce wouldn't listen to my
going to 'The Three Desires' for digs, but insisted that I, too, should
be taken in, and a clinking suite of rooms in the west wing put at my
disposal.
"But in spite of all his hopes for the dear old dad's eventual cure,
things in that direction have grown steadily worse. The horrible malady
which is now consuming him manifested itself about a fortnight after his
arrival, and it has been growing steadily worse every day. But it isn't
natural, Mr. Cleek; I know what I am saying, and I say that! Somebody is
doing something to him for some diabolical reason of which I know
nothing, and he is dying--dying by inches. Not by poison, I am sure of
that, for since the hour of my return I have not let him eat or drink a
single thing without myself partaking of it before it goes to him and
eating more of it after it has gone to him. But there is no effect in my
case. Nothing does he touch with his hand that I do not touch after him;
but the disease never attacks me, yet all the while he grows worse and
worse, and the end keeps creeping on. There! that's the case, Mr. Cleek.
For God's sake, get at the bottom of it and save my father, if you
can."
Cleek did not reply for a moment. Putting out his hands suddenly, he
began to drum a thoughtful tattoo upon the post of the lych-gate, his
eyes fixed on the ground and a deep ridge between his puckered brows.
But, of a sudden:
"Tell me something," he said. "These Cordovas--what reason have you for
suspecting them?"
"None, only that I dislike them. They're half-castes, for one thing,
and--well, you can't trust a half-caste at any time."
"Hum-m-m! Nothing more than that, eh? Just a natural dislike? And your
Aunt Ruth; what of her?"
"Oh, just the regulation prim old maid: sour as a lemon and as useful. A
good sort, though. Fond of the pater, careful as a mother of him, temper
like a file, and a heart a good deal bigger than you'd believe at first
blush. Do anything in the world for me, bless her."
"Even to the point of putting up a friend of yours for a couple of
days?"
"Yes; if I had one in these parts, which I haven't."
"Never count your chickens--you know the rest," said Cleek, with a
smile. "A fellow you met out in India, a fellow named George Headland,
lieutenant, remember the name, please, has just turned up in these
parts. You met him quite unexpectedly, and if you want to get at the
bottom of this case, take him along with you and get your Aunt Ruth to
put him up for a day or two."
"Oh, Mr. Cleek!"
"George Headland, if you please, Miss Lorne. There's a great deal in a
name, Shakespeare or anybody else to the contrary."
II
It was two o'clock in the afternoon when, after lunching with Cleek at
the inn of "The Three Desires," Lieutenant Bridewell turned up at the
divided house with his friend, "George Headland," and introduced him to
the various occupants thereof; and, forthwith, "Mr. George Headland"
proceeded to make himself as agreeable to all parties as he knew how to
do. He found Aunt Ruth the very duplicate of what young Bridewell had
prepared him to find, namely, a veritable Dorcas: the very embodiment of
thrift, energy, punctiliousness, with the graceful figure of a ramrod
and the martial step of a grenadier; and he decided forthwith that, be
she a monument of all the virtues, she was still just the kind of woman
he would fly to the ends of the earth rather than have to live with for
one short week. In brief, he did not like Miss Ruth Sutcliff, and Miss
Ruth Sutcliff did not like him.
Of the two Cordovas, he found the girl Lucretia a mere walking vanity
bag: idle, shiftless, eager for compliments, and without two ideas in
her vain little head. "Whoever is at the bottom of the affair, she
isn't," was his mental comment. "She is just a gadfly, just a gaudy,
useless insect, born without a sting, or the spirit to use one if she
had it."
Her brother Paul was not much better. "A mere lizard, content to bask in
the sunshine and caring not who pays for the privilege so long as he
gets it. I can see plainly enough why a fellow like young Bridewell
should dislike the pair of them, and even distrust and suspect them,
too; but, unless I am woefully mistaken, they can be counted out of the
case entirely. Who, then, is in it? Or is there really any case at all?
Is the old captain's malady a natural one, in spite of all these
suspicions? I'll know that when I see him."
[Illustration: WITH THAT HE STRIPPED DOWN THE COUNTERPANE, LIFTED THE
WATER-JUG FROM ITS WASHSTAND AND EMPTIED ITS CONTENTS OVER THE
MATTRESSES]
When he _did_ see him, about an hour after his arrival at the divided
house, he did know it, and decided forthwith, whatever the mysterious
cause, foul play was there beyond the question of a doubt. Somebody had
a secret reason for destroying this old man's life, and that somebody
was quietly and craftily doing it. But how? By what means? Not by
poison, that was certain, for no poison could have this purely local
effect and confine itself to the right side of the body, the right hand,
the right arm, the right shoulder, spread to no other part and simply
corrode the flesh and destroy the bone there as lime or caustic might,
and leave the left side wholly unblemished, entirely without attack.
Wholly unlike the case of old Mr. Bawdrey, in the affair of the
"Nine-fingered Skeleton," this could be no poison that was administered
by touch, injected into the blood through the pores of the skin; for
whatsoever Captain Bridewell touched, his son touched after him, and no
evil came of it to him. Then, too, there was no temptation of wealth to
inherit, as in old Bawdrey's case, for the little that Captain Bridewell
possessed would die with him. He had no expectations; he stood in no
one's way to an inheritance. Why, then, was he being done to death?--and
how?
A dear, kindly, lovable old fellow, with a heart as big as an ox's, a
hand ever ready to help those in need, as witness his adoption of the
mutineering mate's children, a mind as free from guile as any child's,
he ought, in the natural order of things, to have not one enemy in the
world, one acquaintance who did not wish him well; and yet----
"I must manage to get a look at that maimed hand somehow and to examine
that peculiar eruption closely," said Cleek to Bridewell, when they were
alone together. "I could get so little impression of its character on
account of the bandages and the sling. Do you think I could get to see
it some time without either?"
"Yes, certainly you can. Fordyce always dresses it in the evening. We'll
make it our business to be about then, and he'll be sure to let you see
it if you like."
"I should, indeed," said Cleek. "And by the way, I haven't seen Dr.
Fordyce yet. Isn't he about?"
"Not just at present; be in to tea, though. He's off on his rounds at
present. Makes a practice of looking after the poor for the simple
humanity of the thing. Never charges for his services. You'll like
Fordyce, he's a ripping sort."
And so indeed he seemed to be when, at tea, Cleek met him for the first
time and found him a jovial, round-faced, apple-cheeked, rollicking
little man of fifty-odd years.
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Headland--very pleased indeed," he said gaily,
when young Bridewell introduced them. "Londoner, I can see, by the cut
of you, Londoner and soldier, too. No mistaking military training when a
man carries himself like that. Londoner myself once upon a time. But no
place like the country for health, and no part of the country like
Devon. Paradise, sir, Paradise. Well, Captain, and how are we to-day,
eh? Better?"
"No, I'm afraid not, doctor," replied the old seaman. "Pain's been a
little worse than yesterday. Never was so bad as when I woke up this
morning; and, if you'll pardon my saying it, sir, that lotion you gave
me doesn't seem to have done a bit of good."
"Oho! there's a lotion, is there?" commented Cleek mentally, when he
heard this. "I'll have a look at that lotion before I go to bed
to-night." Yet, when he did, he found it a harmless thing that ought to
have been beneficial even if it had not.
"I say, Fordyce," put in young Bridewell, remembering Cleek's desire and
seeing a chance of gratifying it sooner than he had anticipated, "don't
you think it would be a good thing to have a look at the pater's arm
now? He says the pain's getting up to the shoulder, and so bad at times
he can hardly bear it. Do look at it, will you? I hate to see him
suffering like this."
"Oh, certainly, of course I will. Just wait until I've had my tea, old
chap," replied the doctor; and, when he had had it, moved over to the
deep chair where the captain sat rocking to and fro and squeezing his
lips together in silent agony, and proceeded to remove the bandages. He
had barely uncovered the maimed hand, however, ere Cleek sauntered over
in company with the old seaman's son and stood beside him. He was close
enough now to study the character of the eruption, and the sight of it
tightened the creases about his lips, twitched one swift gleam of light
through the darkness of his former bewilderment.
"Good God!" he said, swept out of himself for the moment by the
appalling realization which surged over him; then, remembering himself,
caught the doctor's swiftly given upward look and returned it with one
of innocent blankness. "Awful, isn't it, doctor? Don't think it's
smallpox, or something of that sort, do you?"
"Rubbish!" responded the doctor, with laughing contempt for such a silly
fool as this. "Smallpox, indeed! Man alive, it isn't the least thing
like it. I should think a child would know that. No, Captain, there
isn't any change in its condition, despite the increased pain, unless it
may be that it is just a shade better than when I dressed it this
morning. There, there, don't worry about its going up to the shoulder,
Lieutenant. We'll save the arm, never fear." And then, without examining
that arm at all, proceeded to rebandage the maimed hand and replace it
in the supporting sling; and, afterward, went over and talked with Aunt
Ruth before passing out and going round to his side of the divided
house. But so long as he remained in sight, Cleek's narrowed eyes
followed him and the tense creases seamed Cleek's indrawn, silent lips.
But when he broke that silence it was to speak to the captain and to say
some silly, pointless thing about that refuge of the witless--the
weather.
"Bridewell," he said ten minutes later, when, upon Aunt Ruth's objecting
to it being done indoors, the lieutenant invited him to come outside for
a smoke, "Bridewell, tell me something: Where does your father sleep?"
"Dad? Oh, upstairs in the big front room just above us. Why?"
"Nothing, but, I've a whim to see the place, and without anybody's
knowledge. Can you take me there?"
"Certainly. Come along," replied the lieutenant, and led the way round
to a back staircase and up that to the room in question. It was a pretty
room, hung with an artistic pink paper which covered not only the
original walls but the wooden partitions which blocked up the door
leading to Dr. Fordyce's own part of the house; and close against that
partition and so placed that the screening canopy shut out the glare
from the big bay window, stood a narrow brass bedstead equipped with the
finest of springs, the very acme of luxury and ease in the way of soft
mattresses, and so piled with down pillows that a king might have envied
it for a resting-place.
Cleek looked at it for a moment in silence, then reached out and laid
his hand upon the papered partition.
"What's on the other side of this?" he queried. "Does it lead into a
passage or a room?"
"Into Fordyce's laboratory," replied the lieutenant. "As a matter of
fact, this used to be Fordyce's own bedroom, the best in the house. But
he gave it up especially for the dad's use as the view and the air are
better than in any other room in the place, he says, and he's a great
believer in that sort of thing for sick people. Ripping of him, wasn't
it?"
"Very. Suppose you could get your father not to sleep here to-night for
a change?"
"Wouldn't like to try. He fairly dotes on that comfortable soft bed.
There's not another to compare with it in the house. I'm sure he
wouldn't rest half so well on a harder one, and wouldn't give this one
up unless he was compelled to do so by some unforeseen accident."
"Good," said Cleek. "Then there is going to be 'some unforeseen
accident'--look!" With that he stripped down the counterpane, lifted the
water-jug from the washstand and emptied its contents over the
mattresses, and when the pool of water had been absorbed, replaced the
covering and arranged the bed as before.
"Great Scot, man," began the lieutenant, amazed by this; but Cleek's
hand closed sharply on his arm, and Cleek's whispered "Sh-h-h!" sounded
close to his ear. "Keep your father up after everybody else has gone to
bed, especially Aunt Ruth," he went on. "If she's not at hand, the
damage can't be repaired for this night at least. Give him your room and
you come in with me. Bridewell, I know the man; I know the means; and
with God's help to-night I'll know the reason as well!"
III
Everything was carried out in accordance with Cleek's plan. The captain,
trapped into talking by his son, sat up long after Miss Sutcliff and the
one serving maid the house boasted had gone to bed, and when, in time,
he, too, retired to his room, the soaked mattress did its work in the
most effectual manner. Whimpering like a hurt child over the unexplained
and apparently unexplainable accident, the old man suffered his son to
lead him off to his own room; and there, unable to rest on the harder
mattress, and suffering agonies of pain, he lay for a long time before
the door swung open, the glimmer of a bedroom candle tempered the
darkness to a sort of golden dusk, and the very double of Dr. Fordyce
came softly into the room. It was Cleek, wrapped in a well-padded
dressing-gown and carrying in addition to the candle a bottle of lotion
and a fresh linen bandage.
"Why, doctor," began the old captain, half rising upon the elbow of his
uninjured arm. "Whatever in the world brings you here?"
"Study, my dear old friend, study," returned a voice so like to Dr.
Fordyce's own that there was scarcely a shade of difference. "I have
been sitting up for hours and hours thinking, reading, studying until
now I am sure, very, very sure, Captain, that I have found a lotion that
will ease the pain. For a moment after I let myself in by the partition
door and found your room empty I didn't know where to turn; but
fortunately your moans guided me in the right direction, and here I am.
Now then, let us off with that other bandage and on with this new one,
and I think we shall soon ease up that constant pain."
"God knows I hope so, doctor, for it is almost unbearable," the old man
replied, and sat holding his lips tightly shut to keep from crying out
while Cleek undid the bandage and stripped bare the injured arm from
finger-tips to shoulder. His gorge rose as he saw the thing, and in
seeing, knew for certain now that what he had suspected in that first
glance was indeed the truth, and in that moment there was something akin
to murder in his soul. He saw with satisfaction, however, that, although
the upper part of the arm was much swollen, as yet the progress of decay
had not gone much beyond the wrist; and having seen this and verified
the nature of the complaint, he applied the fresh lotion and was for
bandaging the arm up and stealing out and away again when he caught
sight of something that made him suck in his breath and set his heart
hammering.
The captain, attracted by his movement and the sound of his thick
breathing, opened his pain-closed eyes, looked round and met the
questioning look of his.
"Oh," he said with a smile of understanding. "You are looking at the
tattooing near my shoulder, are you? Haven't you ever noticed it
before?"
"No," said Cleek, keeping his voice steady by an effort. "Who did it
and why? There's a name there and a queer sort of emblem. They are not
yours, surely?"
"Good heaven, no! My name's Samuel Bridewell and always has been. Red
Hamish put that thing there--oh, more than five-and-twenty years ago.
Him and me was wrecked on a reef in the Indian Ocean when the _Belle
Burgoyne_ went down from under us and took all but us down with her. It
might as well have took Red Hamish, too, poor chap, for he was hurt
cruel bad, and he only lived a couple of days afterward. There was just
me alone on the reef when the _Kitty Gordon_ come sailin' along, see my
signal of distress, and took me off near done for after eight days'
fastin' and thirstin' on that bare scrap of terry firmer as they calls
it. I'd have been as dead as Red Hamish himself, I reckon, in another
twenty-four hours."
"Red Hamish? Good heavens, who was Red Hamish?"
"Never heard him called any other name than just that. Must have had
one, of course; and it's so blessed long ago now I disremember what it
was he put on the back of my shoulder. A great hand at tattooing he was.
Fair lived with his injy ink and his prickin' needles. Kept 'em in a
belt he wore and had 'em on him when the _Belle Burgoyne_ went down and
I managed to drag him on to the reef, poor chap.
"'Had your call, Red,' I says to him when I got him up beside me. 'I
reckon you're struck for death, old man.' 'I know it,' says he to me.
'But better me than you, cap'n', he says, ''cause there ain't nobody
waitin' and watchin' for me to come home to her and the kid. Though
there is one woman who'd like to know where I'd gone and when and how
death found me,' he says, after a moment. 'I'd like to send a word--a
message--a sign just to her, cap'n. She'd know--she'd understand
and--well, it's only right that she should.'
"'Well, give it to me, Red,' I says. 'I'll take it to her if I live,
old man.' But, bless you, there wasn't anything to write the message on,
of course; and it wasn't for a long time that Red hit upon a plan.
"'Cap'n,' he says, 'I've got my inks and my needles. Let me put it on
your shoulder, will you? Just a name and a sign. But she'll understand,
she'll know, and that's all I want.' Of course I agreed--who wouldn't
for a mate at a time like that? So I lays down on my face and Red goes
at me with the needles and works till he gets it done.
"'There,' he says when he'd reached the end of it. 'If ever anybody
wants to know who died on this here reef, cap'n, there's Red Hamish's
answer,' he says. 'She'll know, my mother, the only one that cares,'
says he, and chucks his belt into the sea and that's all.
"Thanky, doctor, thanky. It does feel better, and I do believe that I
shall sleep now. At first I missed the hummin' of that electric fan in
your laboratory, I fancy, but bless you, sir, I feel quite drowsy and
comfortable now. Remember me to Colonel Goshen when you go back to your
rooms, will you? I see him go round the angle of the buildin' and into
your side of the house just after you left me to-night, sir, and I
thought likely he'd come round and call, but he didn't. Good-night,
sir--good-night, and many thanks!"
But even before he had finished speaking Cleek had gone out of the room,
and was padding swiftly along the passage to where Lieutenant Bridewell
awaited him.
"Well?" exclaimed the young man breathlessly as the fleet-moving figure
flashed in and began tearing off the beard, the dressing-gown, and the
disguising wig. "You found out? You learned something, then?"
"I have learned everything, everything!" said Cleek, and pouncing upon
his portmanteau whisked out a couple of pairs of handcuffs. "Don't stop
to ask questions now. Come with me to the partition door and clap those
things on the wrists of the man that gets by me. There are two of them
in there, your Dr. Fordyce and your Colonel Goshen, and I want them
both."
"Good heavens, man, you don't surely mean that they, those two dear
friends----"
"Don't ask questions, come!" rapped in Cleek, then whirled out of the
room and flew down the passage to the partition door, and pounded
heavily upon it. "Doctor Fordyce, Doctor Fordyce, open the door, come
quickly. Something has happened to Captain Bridewell," he called. "He's
not in his room, not in the house, and it looks as if somebody had
spirited him away!"
A clatter of footsteps on the other side of the partition door answered
this; then the bolt flashed back, the door whirled open, two
figures--one on the very heels of the other--came tumbling into sight,
and then there was mischief!
Cleek sprang, and a click of steel sounded. The doctor, caught in a sort
of throttle-hold, went down with him upon the floor; the colonel, unable
to check himself in time, sprawled headlong over them, and by the time
he could pull himself to his knees young Bridewell was upon him, and
there were gyves upon his wrists as well as upon the doctor's.
"Got you, you pretty pair!" said Cleek, as he rose to his feet and shut
a tight hand upon the collar of the manacled doctor; "got you, you dogs,
and your little game is up. Oh, you needn't bluster, doctor; you needn't
come the outraged innocence, Colonel. You'll, neither of you, bolster up
the rascally claim of your worthy confederate, the Tackbun Claimant; and
your game with the X-rays, your devil's trick of rotting away a man's
arm to destroy tattooed evidence of a rank imposter's guilt is just so
much time wasted and just so many pounds sterling thrown away."
"What's that?" blustered the colonel. "What do you mean? What are you
talking about? Tackbun Claimant? Who's the Tackbun Claimant? Do you
realize to whom you are speaking? Fordyce, who and what is this
infernally impudent puppy?"
"Gently, gently, Colonel. Name's Cleek, if you are anxious to know it."
"Cleek? Cleek?"
"Precisely, doctor. Cleek of Scotland Yard, Cleek of the Forty Faces, if
you want complete details. And if there are more that you feel you would
like to know, I'll give them to you when I hand you over to the
Devonshire police for your part in this rascally conspiracy to cheat the
late Lady Tackbun's nephew out of his lawful rights and to rot off the
arm of the man who constitutes the living document which will clearly
establish them. The lost Sir Aubrey Tackbun is dead, my friend, dead as
Julius Cæsar, dead beyond the hopes of you and your confederates to
revive even the ghost of him now. He died on a coral reef in the Indian
Ocean five-and-twenty years ago, and the proof of it will last as long
as Captain Bridewell can keep his arm and lift his voice to tell his
story, and I think that will be a good many years, now that your little
scheme is exploded. You'll make no X-ray martyr of that dear old man, so
the money you spent in the instrument on the other side of that board
partition, the thing whose buzzing you made him believe came from an
electric fan, represents just so many sovereigns thrown away!"
* * * * *
"Yes, it was a crafty plot, a scheme very well laid indeed," said Cleek,
when he went next day to the lych-gate to say good-bye again to Ailsa
Lorne. "Undoubtedly a mild poison was used in the beginning, as an
excuse, you know, for the 'colonel' to get him away and into the charge
of the 'doctor,' and, once there, the rest was easy if subtle. The huge
X-ray machine would play always upon the partition whilst the captain
was sleeping, and you know how efficacious that would be when there was
only a thin board between that powerful influence and the object to be
operated upon. Then, too, the head of the bed was so arranged that the
captain's right side would always be exposed to the influence, so there
was no possibility of evading it.
"How did I suspect it? Well, to tell you the truth, I never did suspect
it until I saw the captain's hand. Then I recognized the marks. I saw
the hand of a doctor, an X-ray martyr, who sacrificed himself to science
last year, Miss Lorne, and the marks were identical. Oh, well, I've
solved the riddle, Miss Lorne, that's the main point, and now--now I
must emulate 'Poor Joe' and move on again."
"And without any reward, without asking any, without expecting any. How
good of you--how generous!"
He stood a moment, twisting his heel into the turf and breathing
heavily. Then, quite suddenly:
"Perhaps I did want one," he said, looking into her eyes. "Perhaps I
want one still. Perhaps I always hoped that I should get it, and that it
would come from you!"
A rush of sudden colour reddened all her face. She let her eyes fall,
and said nothing. But what of that? After all, actions speak louder than
utterances, and Cleek could see that there was a smile upon her lips. He
stretched forth his hand and laid it gently on her arm.
"Miss Lorne," he said very softly, "if, some day when all the wrongs I
did in those other times, are righted, and all the atonement a man can
make on this earth has been made, if then--in that time--I come to you
and ask for that reward, do you think--ah! do you think that you can
find it in your heart to give it?"
She lifted up her eyes, the eyes that had saved him, that had lit the
way back, that would light it ever to the end of life and, stretching
out her hand, put it into his.
"When that day dawns, come and see," she said, and smiled at him through
happy tears.
"I will," he made answer. "Wait and I will. Oh, God, what a good, good
thing a real woman is!"