A FRIEND IN NEED
Popular prejudice regards Essex as a damp, marshy flat, inhabited by
mosquitoes, rheumatic yokels, and children of the sea-mist. But
Eustace Jarman dwelt on a far-extending plateau, whence from his study
window he surveyed Tilbury, Gravesend, the mouth of Thames river, and
vast tracts of meadow-lands divided into irregular squares by erratic
hedges. His home was three miles from the nearest railway station as
the crow flies, and, being cut off from civilisation, by acres of
furze-grown common, was as isolated as his misanthropic soul could
desire.
Jarman had the reputation of being a solitary man, and those who knew
him in literary circles hinted at the destroying influences of the
inevitable woman. But Eustace never explained. After a journalistic
career in town he disappeared into the Essex wilds, and devoted
himself to writing music-hall sketches, short tales, and articles on
countries he had visited. As he had been round the world twice or
thrice, and knew the manners and customs of various peoples, he was
well paid for his contributions. The cost of living at Wargrove was
nil, and Jarman was supposed to be saving money. At times he would
vanish into the Far East, or seek South America when there was a
chance of trouble between tin-pot republics, but he always returned to
his Essex plateau, to live a hermit's life. Miss Cork waited on him,
and looked after his simple needs, and Miss Cork mentioned frequently
that he was the queerest gent she ever set eyes on.
"The Shanty," as he called his place, was an old farmhouse, buried
amongst elm and oak trees, and surrounded by an orchard and a flower
garden, all more or less in ruins. Jarman would not allow the place to
be tidied up, as Miss Cork suggested, loving better the eccentric
untrimmed look of his property. The hedges grew sprawling at their own
sweet will, long grass flourished up to the very door, and poppies,
sun-flowers, and straggling rose-trees showed above this miniature
jungle. Eustace possessed three rooms, two of which were occupied by
beds for himself and any chance friend, and a third apartment, large
and airy, which served as a study, a dining-room, a smoking-room, and
a parlour. In this last were collected trophies of Jarman's travels,
ranging from Japanese curiosities to South Sea oddities. Books
also--but these were everywhere, and overflowed from the study into
the passages, into the hall, up the stairs, and in some degree into
the bedrooms. Everywhere there was a scent of tobacco smoke, and
Eustace loafed about in flannel bags with an old shooting jacket and a
worn cricketing cap on the back of his head.
The house was not very large, and Jarman was over six feet. But he
moved with a dexterity remarkable in so huge a man, and was as handy
as a woman in looking after his housekeeping. Miss Cork lived at the
back, and merely acted as lieutenant in carrying out her master's
orders. When she wished to introduce feminine innovations Eustace
protested. He loved his savage bachelor life and his hermit-crab shell
too much to desire new-fangled customs. Extra civilisation, especially
of the womanly kind, meant extra work, and Eustace was a lazy man.
It was a wet July night when Lancaster sought this refuge. All day it
had been raining hard, and Jarman was just thinking of putting on his
waders for his usual walk, when Miss Cork entered to announce a
visitor. On her heels followed Frank, and Eustace stared when he saw
him. The stare was excusable, for Lancaster appeared in a silk hat, a
frock-coat, and patent-leather boots. He was mired with clay from the
roads, torn by the furze of the common, and dripped like an insane
river-god. Also, without invitation, he collapsed into the nearest
chair, while Jarman's jaw fell still lower at the sight of his white
face, his clenched mouth, and his glassy eyes. Miss Cork, half blind,
saw few of these things, but she withdrew to the kitchen to
soliloquise on the costume of the visitor, inappropriate alike to the
weather and the country. Meanwhile Jarman, behind closed doors,
continued to stare.
"What is the matter?" he asked at last.
"I caught the last train from Liverpool Street," explained Frank, in
faint tones, "and walked across the Common. I'm dead beat. Give me a
whisky and soda."
Jarman supplied this refreshment speedily, and again demanded
explanations. "But you'd better get into a dry kit before you make
'em," said he, bustling about. "What a crazy rig to negotiate the
country in. Been drinkin'?"
"Do I ever drink, you ass?"
"Not your style, I know, but that's the sort that generally goes a
mucker in the end. Cut into my bedroom and I'll hand you out a few
things. Hang it, man, hold up!"
Lancaster, who had lurched against the big man's shoulder, pulled
himself straight, and tried to smile. Jarman could see that the poor
young fellow was on the verge of hysterics, being overwrought, and
quite broken down. Therefore he spoke roughly to brace the slack
nerves. With a few choice expletives he chased Frank into the bedroom,
made him strip to the skin, and after a thorough towelling, saw him
inducted into a pair of flannel trousers and a faded blazer, together
with a woollen shirt and a pair of old slippers. Then he demanded if
Frank was hungry, and led him back to the parlour.
"No, I'm not hungry," said Frank, dropping into a chair near the fire,
for Eustace approved of a fire when the rain fell; "but another
whisky--"
"Not a bit of it. You'll get squiffy. You must eat!"
"But I want to tell you--"
"Later! Later! Meantime, bread and meat."
Jarman looted the kitchen, and, having sent Miss Cork to bed, boiled
the kettle and returned with a tray. This he placed before his guest,
and stood over him while Frank forced ham and bread down a most
unwilling throat. Then he gave the young man a pipe, mixed him a
second glass of whisky of the weakest description, and demanded
explanations.
"I can give them in one word," said Frank, now more composed.
"Murder!"
Jarman stared again, and whistled. Then he went to see that the door
was closed, and returned to his seat. "Who have you been killing?"
"No one. But I'm in danger of being accused. I am innocent--I swear I
am innocent, Eustace?"
"All right, old man," replied Jarman, patting his junior on the back.
"I know you wouldn't come to me if you were guilty."
"If I were, would you shelter me?"
"H'm! Depends upon the kind of murder. I don't mind a fair fight sort
o' killing. 'Fact, I've shot a man or two myself in the Great Waste
Lands."
"But I didn't shoot Starth. I really didn't."
"Starth! What, is he--"
"Dead! Dead! Shot dead. But not by me--not by me."
Eustace chewed his pipe, and stared into the fire, pulling hard. He
appeared to be worried.
"Poor girl!" said he at length.
Frank understood on the instant. "Does she love her brother?"
"Do you know her?" asked Eustace, without looking up.
Lancaster shook his head. "I saw her last night at the theatre. Her
brother insulted me, and asked me to see him to-day, as he wanted to
apologise--"
"Wait!" Jarman threw up his hand. "The whole truth, if you please."
"I'm telling the truth, if you will only listen."
"Apologising doesn't sound like Starth," objected Eustace.
"I thought so when I got his note, and I am convinced now that his
invitation was a trap."
"To have you shot?"
"How do I know?" He was shot himself.
"By whom?"
"I can't say. I was lying in a stupor when it happened."
"Drugged--with opium?" hinted Jarman.
"Yes. Did you know that Starth--"
"All along." Jarman placed the tips of his fingers together. "See
here, Frank, I know Miss Starth very well. She lives here with an old
lady called Mrs. Perth. Their cottage is only a stone's throw away
from my diggings. I met the brother there in the long ago, and--"
"And introduced him to me. I wish you hadn't."
"It's too late now, seeing that the man's dead, to raise objections. I
never approved of Walter Starth. A bad lot--a very bad lot. He never
liked you. I don't know why. But I didn't think it would come to
this."
"Jarman"--Frank started from his seat--"you don't suppose--"
"Sit down, you ass." Jarman pushed Lancaster back into his chair. "I
wouldn't take things so quietly if you had killed him. Barring that,
I'm glad the man's out of the world. He was no use in it."
"My own words--my own words!"
"When and where?"
"At the Piccadilly Theatre last night. I shouted them in the bar after
I knocked him down."
"H'm! Shouldn't talk like that, Frank, it's foolish."
"I know it is. I'm in a fix, that's why I come to you."
"Well," said Eustace, refilling his briar, "the best thing you can do
is to tell me everything from the start.
"Where am I to start from. You know about Fairy Fan?"
"Yes; and about Starth's love for her. He looked upon you as a rival,
and the knowledge didn't increase his liking for you. Well?"
Frank straightened himself, and forthwith delivered a succinct account
of all that had taken place, from the encounter on the previous night
to his leaving the house in Sand Lane, South Kensington.
"I took the Underground to Liverpool Street and caught the down train
by the skin of my teeth. I didn't even return to my diggings, as I was
afraid of being arrested. I'm a marked man now, Eustace. The police
will hunt me down. And I am innocent."
"Why didn't you give the alarm when you found Starth dead?"
"Man alive, that would have delivered me into the power of the law."
"I know that. Just asked the question to see what you'd say. H'm! It's
a nasty case for you. The circumstantial evidence--"
"I know--I know. Who knows better than I?" Frank rose to pace the room
anxiously. "I spoke foolishly about Starth being better out of the
world, at the theatre. I took my pistol with me--I was alone in the
house with him!--that servant saw me leave, and I daresay noticed my
agitation. Jarman, it's awful. I don't see how I'm going to get out of
the danger. They'll hang me."
"Steady, old man. They won't hang you. I won't let them."
"Then you'll help me to get out of the country?"
"No. If you cut, you'll surely be caught. By to-morrow every seaport
in the kingdom will be watched. You must stay here."
"But I'll be traced."
"I don't think so. Plenty of men go up and down on this line in
frock-coats and tall hats. I don't suppose anyone took particular
notice of you."
"The train was crowded."
"All the better. There's safety in a crowd. No, Frank, don't leave
England. Stop here, and I'll fix you up some sort of disguise. The
very daring of the thing may be your salvation. The police will never
think that you will remain so near town. I'll make things safe with
Miss Cork, and she's the only person who has seen you. When we get
time to turn round we can sift matters out."
"What a good chap you are, Jarman!"
"Nothing of the sort. If you were guilty I shouldn't chance the risk
of being an accessory after the fact. As it is, I'll see you through
the business. It's a nasty affair, there's no denying that. I expect
the sister will come over to-morrow to ask for my assistance."
"Oh!" Frank jumped up nervously. "Do you think she'll recognise me?"
"Of course not. She only saw you once, and that at a distance,
Besides, I don't suppose she inquired your name. Finally, as I intend
to disguise you, she won't guess that anything is wrong. You work the
typer?"
"Yes."
"Good! Then you'll stop here as my secretary. I'll dictate, and you'll
work the machine. With your moustache cut off, dyed black hair, a
stained face, and a pair of goggles for weak eyes, no one will
recognise you."
"But no one hereabouts knows me, except Miss Starth, and she only saw
me in the glare of the electrics for a few minutes."
"Frank, you're an ass! The _Police Gazette_ will have a full
description of you. Everyone will be on the look-out. Thank Heaven,
you're of the commonplace type. Pink and white, fair hair, blue eyes,
well-groomed, military figure, and all the rest of it."
"How will my blue eyes match black hair?"
"We'll say you're Irish, and you can fix up a brogue. Trust me. I've
been in several holes myself, and know how to get out of the deepest."
"But, Jarman, who do you think killed the man?"
"I can't say that until I know more. The reason is to be found in
Walter Starth's past. He has sown the wind pretty freely, and I can
hardly wonder at his reaping this whirlwind."
"Do you think he intended to trap me?" asked Lancaster.
"Yes. He's not the man to apologise. And the house being empty on that
evening shows that Starth was up to some trickery. Maybe he intended
to kill you. However, he never intended to die himself."
"How do you know? He may have committed suicide."
"Bosh! Starth was the last man in the world to have such an idea. He
wasn't cowardly enough. I will say that. Besides, if he wished to
commit suicide he would scarcely invite you to see him do it."
"I don't know. He might have left a letter saying I shot him, and then
got out of the world to hang me."
Jarman shrugged his huge shoulders. "That's an extreme measure of
revenge. If he wanted to get you into trouble, he would certainly like
to be present to see how you took your gruel. Another thing, from what
you say, your pistol was used."
"I think so. At all events, it was taken from my pocket."
"H'm! He searched you. Anything else missing?"
"The note in which he asked me to call."
"That proves Starth set a trap. I think--no I don't; I can't deliver
an opinion until I know more. Go to bed and sleep."
"I can't sleep," said Frank, passionately. "I'm ruined."
But for all that he dropped into a deep slumber almost as soon as his
head touched the pillow.
"Worn out, poor wretch!" said Eustace.