The Evidence of the Chemist's Assistant
Ironfields is not a pretty place; not even its warmest admirer could
say it was pretty, but then its warmest admirer would not want to say
anything of the kind. Well drained, well laid out, well lighted, it
could--according to the minds of its inhabitants--easily dispense
with such mere prettiness or picturesqueness as crooked-streeted,
gable-mansioned towns, dating from the Middle Ages, could boast of.
Poor things, those sleepy cathedral towns, beautified by the hand of
Time--poor things indeed compared with vast Ironfields, the outcome of
a manufacturing century and a utilitarian race! Ironfields with its
lines of ugly model houses, its broad, treeless streets, its muddy
river flowing under a hideous railway bridge, its mighty foundries
with their tall chimneys that belched forth smoke in the daytime,
and fire at night, and its ceaseless clamour that roared up to the
smoke-hidden sky six days in the week.
The inhabitants were a race of Cyclops. Rough, swarthy men of
herculean build, scant of speech and of courtesy, worn-looking women,
with vinegary faces peering sharply at every one from under the shawls
they wore on their tousled heads, and tribes of squalling brats, with
just enough clothes for decency, grimy with the smoky, sooty
atmosphere, looking like legions of small devils as they played in the
barren streets, piercing the deafening clamour with their shrill,
unchildlike voices. A manufacturing town, inhabited by humanity with
no idea of beauty, with no desire beyond an increase of weekly wage,
or an extra drink at the public-house. Humanity with a hard, unlovely
religion expounded in hideous little chapels by fervid preachers of
severe principles. A glorious triumph of our highest civilisation,
this matter-of-fact city, with its creed of work, work, work, and its
eyes constantly on the sordid things of this earth, and never raised
to the blue sky of heaven. A glorious triumph indeed--for the
capitalists.
When it rained--which it did frequently--Ironfields was sloppy, and
when Ironfields was sloppy it was detestable; for the rain coming down
through the smoky cloud that constantly lowered over the town, made
everything, if possible, more grimy than before. But Ironfields was
quite content; it was a name of note in commercial circles, and its
products went forth to the four quarters of the world, bringing back
in exchange plenty of money, of which a great deal found its way into
the pockets of the master, and very little into those of the man.
The country around was not pretty. Nature, with that black, ugly,
clamorous city constantly before her eyes, lost heart in her work, and
did not attempt to place beauties before the eyes of people who did
not know anything about beauty, and would have thought it a very
useless thing if they had. So the fields lying round Ironfields were
only a shade better than the city itself, for the shadow of smoke lay
over everything, and where sunshine is not, cheerfulness is wanting.
On one side of Ironfields, however, Nature had made a feeble attempt
to assert herself, but then it was in a queer little village which had
been the germ from whence arose this noisy town. In the old days the
queer little village had stood amid green fields beside a sparkling
river; but now the fields had disappeared, the sparkling river had
turned to a dull, muddy stream, and the little village was improved
out of all recognition. Like Frankenstein, it had created a monster
which dominated it entirely, which took away even its name and reduced
it from a quaint, pretty place, redolent of pastoral joys, to a dull
little suburb, mostly inhabited by poor people. True, beyond stood the
mansions of the Ironfields millionaires, glaring and unpicturesque, in
equally glaring gardens laid out with mathematical accuracy; but the
upper ten merely drove through the village on their way to these
Brummagem palaces, and did not acknowledge its existence in any way.
Yet a good many of their progenitors had lived in the dull suburb
before Ironfields was Ironfields, but they forgot all about that in
the enjoyment of their new-found splendours, and the miserable village
was now a kind of poor relation, unrecognised, uncared for, and very
much despised.
In the principal street, narrow and winding, with old houses on either
side, standing like dismal ghosts of the past, was the chemist's shop,
a brand-new place, with plate-glass windows, and the name, "Wosk &
Co.," in bright gold letters on a bright blue ground. Behind the
plate-glass windows appeared huge bottles containing liquids red, and
yellow, and green in colour, which threw demoniacal reflections on the
faces of passers-by at night, when the gas flared behind them. All
kinds of patent medicines were there displayed to the best advantage;
bottles of tooth-brushes, cakes of Pears' soap, phials of queer
shape and wondrous virtue, sponges, jars of leeches, queer-looking
pipes compounded of glass and india-rubber tubing, packets of
fly-exterminators, and various other strange things pertaining to the
trade, all calling attention to their various excellencies in neat
little printed leaflets scattered promiscuously throughout.
Within, a shining counter of mahogany laden with cures for the various
ills which flesh is heir to; and at the far end, a neat little glass
screen with a gas-jet on top, above which could be seen the gray-black
head of Mr. Wosk and the smooth red head of Mr. Wosk's assistant.
Mr. Wosk (who was also the Co.) was a slender, serious man, always
clothed in black, with a sedate, black-bearded countenance, a habit of
washing his hands with invisible soap and water, and a rasping little
cough, which he introduced into his conversation at inopportune
moments. He would have made an excellent undertaker, an ideal mute,
for his cast of countenance was undeniably mournful, but Fate had
fitted this round peg of an undertaker into the square hole of a
chemist in a fit of perverse anger. He bore up, however, against his
uncongenial situation with dreary resignation, and dispensed his own
medicines with an air of saying, "I hope it will do you good, but I'm
afraid it won't." He was the pillar of the Church in a small way, and
stole round the chapel on Sundays with the plate in a melancholy
fashion, as if he was asking some good Christian to put some food on
the plate and despaired of getting it. Ebenezer was his name, and his
wife, an acidulated lady of uncertain age, ruled him with a rod of
iron, perhaps from the fact that she had no children over whom to
domineer.
Mrs. Wosk, however, could not rule the assistant, much as she desired
to do so. Not that he made any show of opposition, but always twisted
this way and turned that in an eel-like fashion until she did not know
quite where to have him. In fact, the assistant ruled Mrs. Wosk (of
which rule she had a kind of uneasy consciousness), and as Mrs. Wosk
ruled Mr. Wosk, including the Co., M. Jules Guinaud may have been said
to have ruled the whole household.
A hard name to pronounce, especially in Ironfields, where French was
in the main an unknown tongue, so suburban Ironfields, by common
consent, forgot the surname of the assistant, and called him, in
friendly fashion, Munseer Joolees, by which appellation he was known
for a considerable time. Mrs. Wosk, however, who meddled a good deal
with the shop and saw a good deal of the assistant, being learned in
Biblical lore (as the wife of a deacon should be), found a certain
resemblance suggested by the name and appearance of the assistant
between Munseer Joolees and Judas Iscariot, whereupon, with virulent
wit, she christened him by the latter name, and Monsieur Joolees
became widely known as Monsieur Judas, which name pleased the
Ironfields worthies, being easy to pronounce and containing a certain
epigrammatic flavour.
The name suited him, too, this slender, undersized man with the
stealthy step of a cat; the unsteady greenish eyes that appeared to
see nothing, yet took in everything; the smooth, shining red hair
plastered tightly down on his egg-shaped skull; and the delicate, pink
and white-complexioned, hairless face that bore the impress of a kind
of evil beauty--yes, the name suited him admirably, and as he took no
exception to it, being in suburban Ironfields opinion an atheist, and
therefore ignorant of the Biblical significance of the title, nobody
thought of addressing him by any other.
He spoke English moderately well, in a soft, sibilant voice with a
foreign accent, and sometimes used French words, which were Greek to
all around him. Expressive, too, in a pantomimic way, with his habit
of shrugging his sloping shoulders, his method of waving his slim
white hands when in conversation, and a certain talent in using his
eyes to convey his meaning. Lids drooping downwards, "I listen humbly
to your words of wisdom, monsieur." Suddenly raising them so as to
display full optic, "Yes, you may look at me; I am a most guileless
person." Narrowing to a mere slit, like the pupil of a cat's eye,
"Beware, I am dangerous," and so forth, all of which, in conjunction
with the aforesaid shrugs and pantomimic action of his hands, made the
conversation of Monsieur Judas very intelligible indeed, in spite of
his foreign accent and French observations.
It was raining on this particular morning--seasonable weather, of
course; but as far as rain went, all the months were the same in
Ironfields, and a thick, black fog pervaded the atmosphere. A cold,
clammy fog, with a sooty flavour, that crept slowly through the
streets and into the houses, like a wounded snake dragging itself
along. Here and there pedestrians looming large in the opaque cloud
like gigantic apparitions, gas-lamps flaring drearily in the thick
air, cabs and carts and carriages all moving cautiously along like
endless funerals. And only two o'clock in the afternoon. Surely the
darkness which spread over the land of Egypt could be no worse than
this; nay, perhaps it was better, Egypt being tropical and lacking the
chill, unwholesome moisture which permeated the air, wrapping the
dingy houses, the noisy foundries, and the cheerless streets in a
dull, sodden pall.
Gas glared in the shop of Wosk & Co., behind the glass doors, which
kept out as much of the fog as they were able--gas which gave forth a
dim, yellow light to Mr. Wosk behind the screen, looking over
prescriptions, and to Monsieur Judas at the counter making up neat
packages of medicine bottles. At the little window at the back which
looked into the Wosk dwelling-house, an occasional vision of Mrs.
Wosk's head appeared like that of a cross cherub, keeping her eye on
chemist and assistant.
"Bur-r-r," says Monsieur Judas, blowing on his lean fingers, "it is to
me the most coldness of times. Aha! le brouillard! it makes itself to
be all the places to-day."
"Seasonable, seasonable!" murmurs Mr. Wosk, washing his hands in a
contemplative fashion. "Good for--ahem!--good for business--that is,
business in our line--ahem!"
"Eh, Monsieur Vosks! mais oui, mon ami," answered the Frenchman,
raising his eyebrows, "and for de--what you call de coffins man.
L'homme des funerailles."
"That, ahem!" said Mr. Wosk, with his rasping cough, "is what we
must try and prevent. The undertaker--not coffins man, Monsieur
Judas, that is not--ahem--correct Anglo-Saxon--is the last, the
very last resource of a sick man. Prevention--ahem--in the person
of ourselves is better than--ahem--dear me--I don't think the remark
is app--ahem--applicable."
At this moment the glass doors opened to admit a stranger, enveloped
in a comfortable fur coat, and also gave admission to a cloud of fog
that had been waiting for the opportunity for some time. The stranger
made his appearance like a Homeric deity, in a cloudy fashion, and
when the attendant fog dispersed, Monsieur Judas (inquisitive) and Mr.
Wosk (mournfully indifferent) saw that he was a keen-faced young
gentleman with a sharp, decisive manner.
"Wosk & Co., eh!" queried the stranger, who was none other than Mr.
Octavius Fanks.
"Yes, sir," said Mr. Wosk, advancing, "the name--ahem--my name, sir,
is in front of the--the shop, sir."
"So is the fog," replied the detective, drily, leaning over the
counter. "I could hardly see the shop, much less the name."
"De fog is still heavier, monsieur?" said Judas, taking in the
appearance of Mr. Fanks in a comprehensive fashion.
Octavius swung sharply round at the sound of the foreign voice,
and instantly took an intuitive dislike to the appearance of the
red-haired young man.
"Oui," he replied, looking at him sharply; "n'êtes-vous pas Français?"
"Monsieur a beaucoup de pénétration," said Judas, startled at hearing
his own tongue.
His eyes had narrowed into those dangerous slits which betokened that
he was on his guard against this clever--too clever Englishman. The
two men looked at one another steadily for a moment, and two ideas
flashed rapidly through their respective minds.
The Fanks idea, suggested by the suspicious appearance (to a
detective) of Monsieur Judas:
"This man has a past, and is always on his guard."
The Guinaud idea, inspired by a naturally suspicious nature:
"This Englishman is a possible enemy. I must be careful."
There was really no ground for such uncomplimentary ideas on the part
of these two men who now met for the first time, except that
instinctive repulsion which springs from the collision of two natures
antipathetic to one another.
Mr. Wosk, being warned by the apparition of Mrs. Wosk's head at the
little window that he was wasting time, addressed himself at once to
his customer in a business fashion:
"What can I do for you, sir?"
Octavius withdrew his eyes from the face of the assistant, and
producing a pill-box, laid it down on the counter before Mr. Wosk.
"I want to know the name of the gentleman for whom you made up these
pills."
"Rather difficult to say, sir," said Mr. Wosk, taking up the box; "we
make up so many boxes like this."
"They were made up for a gentleman who left Ironfields shortly
afterwards."
The chemist, never very clear-headed at any time, looked perfectly
bewildered at being called upon to make such a sudden explanation, and
turned helplessly to his assistant, who stood working at his medicine
bottles with downcast eyes.
"I'm afraid--ahem--really, my memory is so bad," he faltered,
childishly; "well, I scarcely--ahem--but I think Monsieur Judas will
be able to tell you all about it. I have the--ahem--I have the fullest
confidence in Monsieur Judas."
"It's more than I should have," thought Fanks, as the assistant
silently took the pill-box from his master and opened it.
"Eight pilules," he said, counting them.
"Yes, eight pills," replied Fanks, taking a seat by the counter, "but,
of course, when you made up the prescription there must have been
more."
"De monsieur weeth de pilules did he geeve dem to monsieur?"
"No; I want to know the gentleman's name."
"An' for wy, monsieur?"
"Never you mind," retorted Octavius, coolly; "you do what you're
asked, my good fellow."
The "good fellow" gave Mr. Fanks an ugly look; but in another moment
was bland and smiling as ever. Mr. Wosk (beckoned by the cherub's
head) had gone into the back premises, so the two men were quite
alone, of which circumstance Mr. Fanks took advantage by speaking to
Monsieur Judas in French, in order to understand him better.
Translated, the conversation (guarded on both sides by mutual
suspicion) was as follows:
"Will monsieur permit me to ask him a few questions? Otherwise," said
Judas, with a shrug, "I cannot hope to find the name monsieur
requires."
"Ask whatever questions you like."
"Does monsieur know when the gentleman left this town?"
Mr. Fanks made a rapid calculation, and answered promptly: "I'm not
quite sure; after the 6th and before the 13th of the present month.
But your best plan will be to go back from the 13th of November."
"Certainly, monsieur."
Judas disappeared behind the neat screen, and rapidly turned up the
order book beginning with the 13th of November, as directed.
"They are tonic pills, I see, monsieur," he called out.
"Yes, it is marked on the box."
In another moment Fanks heard an exclamation of surprise behind the
screen, and shortly afterwards Monsieur Judas emerged, carrying the
order book with him. He was visibly agitated, and his lean hands
trembled as he placed the book on the counter.
"What is the matter?" asked Fanks, suspiciously, rising to his feet.
"I will explain to monsieur later on," said Judas, with a sickly
smile. "At present, however, here is what you want. These pills were
made up for Monsieur Sebastian Melstane."
"Sebastian Melstane," muttered Fanks, thoughtfully. "Oh, that was his
name."
"Yes, Sebastian Melstane," said Judas, slowly. "He bought these pills
on the 11th of November, and went down to Jarlchester the next day."
"How do you know he went to Jarlchester?" asked Fanks, considerably
startled.
"Because I know Sebastian Melstane, monsieur. We lodged at the same
pension. He makes me the confidence that he was going to that place,
and, I believe, took these pills with him. Now you have the box, but
my friend, where is he?"
Monsieur Judas threw out his hands with a fine dramatic gesture, and
fixed his crafty eyes on the impassive face of the detective.
"Do you read the papers?" asked Octavius, with great deliberation.
"Yes; but I read English so bad."
"Get some one to translate for you, then," said Fanks, coolly, "and
you will see that an unknown man committed suicide at Jarlchester.
That man was Sebastian Melstane."
"Gave himself the death?"
"Yes; read the papers. By the way, Monsieur Judas that is your name, I
believe--as you knew Sebastian Melstane, I may want to ask you some
questions about him."
Monsieur Judas pulled out a card with some writing on it and handed it
to Fanks with a flourish.
"My name, monsieur--my habitation, monsieur! If monsieur will do me
the honour to call at my pension, I will tell him whatever he desires
to know."
"Humph! I'm afraid that's beyond your power, M. Guinaud," replied
Fanks, glancing at the card. "However, I'll call round this evening at
eight o'clock; but at present I want to know about these pills."
"They were bought by my friend on the 11th," said Judas, showing the
entry. "Behold, monsieur, the book speaks it."
"Who signed the prescription?"
"A doctor, monsieur, a doctor. I cannot say the name, it is hard for
my tongue; but, monsieur"--struck with a sudden idea--"you shall see
his own writing."
Once more he vanished behind the screen, and shortly afterwards
reappeared with a sheet of note-paper, which he placed before
Octavius.
"There it is, monsieur."
Fanks took up the paper, and read as follows:
R. Acid. Arsen. g i.
Pulv. Glycyrrh. gr. xv.
Ext. Glycyrrh. gr. xxx.
Misce et divide in pilule.
No. XII.
Sig. Tonic pills.
One to be taken before retiring nightly.
Jacob Japix, M.D.
"I see you made up twelve pills," said Fanks, after he had perused
this document.
"Yes, monsieur, twelve pills. It is the usual number." Octavius looked
thoughtful for a moment, then, turning his back on the assistant,
walked to the door, where he stood gazing out at the fog, and thinking
deeply in this fashion: "There were twelve pills in the box when
Melstane bought it on the 11th of this month. According to his
statement to Miss Chickles he took a tonic pill regularly every night.
On the 11th, therefore, he took one. Left Ironfields on the 12th, and
must have slept in London, as the journey is so long. There he took
another pill; and at Jarlchester, on the 13th, he took a third. Dr.
Drewey analysed three pills, so that's six accounted for out of the
twelve. Exactly half, so there ought only to be six left. But there
are eight in the box now. Good Heavens! what is the meaning of those
two extra pills?"
Turning sharply round, he walked back to the counter.
"Are you sure you are not making a mistake?" he said, quickly; "you
must have made up fourteen pills."
"But, monsieur, behold!" said Judas, pointing to the prescription,
"No. XII."
"Yes, that's twelve, sure enough," observed Fanks, trying to appear
calm, but feeling excited at the thought that he had stumbled on some
tangible evidence at last.
"Did you make up the pills?"
"Yes, I myself, monsieur."
"And you are sure you only made up twelve?"
"On my word of honour, monsieur," said Judas, opening his eyes with
their guileless look; "but I do not ask monsieur to believe me if he
has doubt. Eh, my faith, no! Monsieur my master also counted the
pills."
"That is the custom, I believe," said Mr. Fanks, thoughtfully, "a kind
of check."
"But certainly, monsieur, without doubt."
At this moment, as if he knew his presence was required, Mr. Wosk
walked into the shop, whereupon Monsieur Judas at once explained the
matter to him.
"My assistant is--ahem--correct," said Mr. Wosk, sadly, as if he
rather regretted it than otherwise. "I remember Mr. Melstane's tonic
pills, and I--ahem--did count them. There were--ahem--twelve."
"You are sure?"
"I am certain."
"An' I to myself can assure it," remarked Judas, in English; "but if
monsieur would make to himself visits at monsieur le docteur, he could
know exactly of the numbers. Eh bien. Je le crois."
"Where does Dr. Japix live?" asked Fanks, picking up the pill-box and
putting it in his pocket. "I will call round and see him."
Mr. Wosk wrote out the address and handed it to the detective with a
bow.
"There's nothing wrong with the--ahem--medicine, I trust," he said,
nervously. "I am--ahem--most careful, and my assistant, Monsieur
Judas, is much to be--ahem--trusted."
"I don't know if anything's wrong with these pills," said Octavius,
touching his breast coat-pocket, "but you know the saying, 'There is
more in this than meets the eye.' Shakespeare, you observe. Wonderful
man--appropriate remark for everything. Monsieur Guinaud, I will see
you to-night. Mr. Wosk, to-morrow expect me about these pills. Good
afternoon."
When he had vanished into the fog, which he did as soon as he went
outside, Mr. Wosk turned to his assistant with some alarm.
"I trust, Monsieur Judas, that the pills--the pills--"
"They are in themselves qui' right. Eh! oh, yes," replied Monsieur
Judas, letting his eyelids droop over his eyes. "To-morrow I to you
will speke of dis--dis--eh! le mystère--vous savez, monsieur. Le
Mystère Jarlcesterre."
"That thing in the paper," cried Mr. Wosk, aghast. "Why--ahem--what
has it got to do--ahem--with us?"
Monsieur Judas shrugged his shoulders, spread out his hands with a
deprecating gesture, and spoke slowly:
"Eh, le voila! I myself am no good to rread les journaux anglais--les
feuilletons. If you so kine vil be to me, monsieur, an' rread de
Mystère Jarleesterre, I vil to you explin moch, eh! Il est bien
entendu."
"But what has the Jarlchester Mystery got to do with us?" repeated Mr.
Wosk, helplessly, like a large child.
"Eh, mon ami, qui sait?" replied Monsieur Judas, enraged at his
master's stupidity. "De man dead is he who took ze pilules."
"Sebastian Melstane!" cried Mr. Wosk, thunder-struck.
"Oui, c'est le nom!"
And Monsieur Judas narrowed his eyes, spread out his lean hands, and
smiled complacently at the look of horror on the face of Mr. Wosk.