Transcriber's Notes:
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https://books.google.com/books?id=K8IsAAAAYAAJ
(Princeton University)
[Front cover]
_The Crimson_
CRYPTOGRAM
A Detective Story
By FERGUS HUME
_Author of "The Mystery of a Hansom
Cab," "The Dwarf's Chamber," Etc_.
New Amsterdam Book Company
156 Fifth Avenue: New York: 1902
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I. A Midnight Surprise.
II. The Writing in Blood.
III. An Open Verdict.
IV. The Reading of the Blood Signs.
V. Mrs. Moxton seeks Counsel.
VI. A Fresh Discovery.
VII. What the Cabman knew.
VIII. A Music-Hall Star.
IX. The Austrian.
X. A Strange Denial.
XI. A Half Confession.
XII. Mr. Busham, Solicitor.
XIII. Mrs. Moxton's Surrender.
XIV. The Pimlico House.
XV. What Mrs. Amber knew.
XVI. Another Mystery.
XVII. A Life History.
XVIII. What Really Happened.
XIX. The Red Pocket-Book.
XX. Busham at Bay.
XXI. The Blind Girl.
XXII. Janet's Discovery.
XXIII. The Beginning of the End.
XXIV. The Truth.
XXV. A Confession,
XXVI. The End of the Story..
The Crimson Cryptogram
CHAPTER I
A MIDNIGHT SURPRISE
"Poverty, naked and unconcealed! One can endure that, with some
patience, as a beaten soldier in the battle of life. But genteel
pauperism--the semi-poverty of the middle-class, that lives a
necessary lie at the cost of incessant worry and constant
defeat--there you have the true misery of life. Believe me, Cass,
there is no torture like that of an ambition which cannot be attained
for lack of money."
"I did not know you were ambitious, Ellis."
"Not of setting the Thames on fire. My desires are limited to a good
practice, a moderate income, a home, and a wife to love me. These
wishes are reasonable enough, Heaven knows, yet some cursed Fate
prevents their realisation. And I have to sit down and wait; a doctor
can do nothing else. I must listen with such philosophy as I have for
the ring of the door bell to announce my first patient, and the ring
never comes. The heart grows sick, the brain rusty, the money goes,
the temper sours, and so I pass the best days of my life."
"All things come to him who knows how to wait," said Cass, knocking
the ashes out of a well-smoked briar.
"And the horse is the noblest of all animals," retorted Ellis. "I
never _did_ find consolation in proverbs of that class."
The two men sat in their dingy sitting-room talking as usual of a
problematical future. Every night they discussed the subject, and
every discussion ended without any definite conclusion being arrived
at. Indeed, only Fortune could have terminated the arguments in a
satisfactory manner, but as yet the fickle deity showed no disposition
to make a third in the conversation. Therefore, Robert Ellis, M.D.,
and Harry Cass, journalist, talked, and talked, and talked. They also
hoped for the best, a state of mind sufficiently eloquent of their
penniless position. Unless they or their relatives are sick, rich
people have no need to hope for the best. The second virtue dwells
almost exclusively with the poor and ambitious, as do her two sisters.
Supper was just over, but even cold beef, pickles and bottled beer,
with the after comfort of a pipe, could not make Ellis happy. The more
philosophical Cass lay on the ragged sofa and digested his meal, while
the doctor walked up and down the room railing at Fate. He was a tall
young man, clean-limbed, and sufficiently good-looking. Poverty and
former opulence showed themselves in the threadbare velveteen smoking
suit he wore; and the past recurred to him as he flicked some ash off
this relic of bygone days.
"O Lord!" he said regretfully, "how jolly life was when I bought these
clothes some five years ago! My father had not died a bankrupt country
squire then; and I was a rowdy medico, with plenty of money, and a
weakness for the other sex."
"You haven't strengthened in that direction, Bob."
"Perhaps not; but I never think of women now--not even of a possible
wife. Matrimony is a luxury a poor man must dispense with, if he wants
to get on. I have dispensed with every blessed thing short of the bare
necessities of existence, yet I don't get any reward. Every dog has
his day, they say: but the day of this poor cur never seems to dawn."
"You are more bitter than usual, Ellis."
"Because I am sick of my life. You have some compensations, Harry, in
connection with that newspaper you write for. You mix with your
fellow-men; you exchange ideas; you have your finger on the pulse of
civilisation. But I sit in this dismal room, or walk about this
B[oe]otian neighbourhood, in the vain hope of getting a start. I can't
rush out and drag in someone to be dosed; I can't go from house to
house soliciting patients. I can only wait wait, wait; until I feel
inclined to blow my brains out."
"If you did that, Bob, the folly of the act would prove that you have
none," said Cass. "Come, old man, buck up; something is sure to turn
up when you least expect it."
"Then nothing will turn up, for I am always in a state of expectation.
I wish I hadn't set up my tent at Dukesfield, Harry. It is the
healthiest London suburb I know: no one seems ill, and the graveyard
is almost empty. I don't believe people ever fall sick or die in this
salubrious spot."
Cass ran his fingers through a shock of bronze-coloured hair, and
laughed at this professional view of the situation. "Haven't you seen
any likely patient?" he asked, in his most sympathetic manner.
"Not one!" rejoined Ellis, sitting down and relighting his pipe. "Oh,
yes, by the way, that young Moxton."
"Who the deuce is he?"
"A young ass I have met several times in the underground train, and
with whom I have had some conversation at various times."
"Why do you call him an ass?"
"Because he is one," growled the doctor; "he is burning the candle at
both ends, and killing himself with dissipation. Tallow face,
blood-shot eyes, dry lips. Oh, Mr. Moxton is making for the graveyard
at racing speed!"
"Why don't you warn him?"
"It isn't my business to meddle with a stranger. I don't care if he
lives or dies--unless he takes me as his medical attendant. Even then
my interest in him would be purely professional. He is a detestable
young cub."
"There is a want of pity about that speech, Bob!"
"Want of money, you mean. I have no pity for anyone save mine own poor
self. Give me success, give me an income, and I'll overflow with the
milk of human kindness. Poverty and disappointment is drying it all
up. Hullo! Come in, Mrs. Basket."
This invitation was induced, not by a rap at the door, but by the
sound of stertorous breathing outside it. Mrs. Basket's coming was
audible long before she made her appearance; so Ellis, forewarned,
usually saved her the trouble of knocking. She rolled heavily into the
room, labouring like a Dutch lugger in a heavy sea. Indeed, she was
built on similar lines, being squat and enormously stout--so bulky,
indeed, that she could hardly push herself through the door. Like most
fat women, Mrs. Basket had a weakness for bright colours; and now
presented herself in a vividly blue dress, a crimson shawl, and a
green tulle cap decorated with buttercups of an aggressive yellow hue.
Her unshapely figure, her large proportions and barbaric splendour,
would have made the eyes and heart of an artist ache; but as Mrs.
Basket's lodgers knew little of art, they never troubled about her
looks. Moreover, they liked and respected her as a kindly soul, for on
several occasions, when funds were low, she had pressed neither of
them for rent. Mrs. Basket was immensely proud of having a medical man
under her roof; and always personally polished the brass plate with
"Robert Ellis, M.D.," inscribed on it. For Cass she had less respect,
as being merely a "writing person;" but she tolerated him as the
doctor's friend. Like the moon, he shone with a reflected and weaker
glory.
"Lor', gentlemen, how them stairs do try me!" said the good lady,
panting in the doorway and patting her ample breast; "they're that
steep and that narrer, as to squeeze the breath out of me."
"You'll stick halfway up some day!" said Cass, chuckling, "then we
shall have to send for a carpenter to saw you out!"
Mrs. Basket laughed, in nowise offended, and announced that she had
come to clear away supper, which she did with much clatter and hard
breathing. Once or twice she glanced at the doctor's gloomy face, and
blew a sigh with considerable noise. She knew of her lodger's bad
fortune, and pitied him profoundly; but not daring to speak, she
resumed her work with a mournful wag of the buttercup cap. Ignoring
this by-play, which invited conversation, the young men resumed the
subject of Moxton. Mrs. Basket, dying to join in, at once espied an
opportunity of doing so. The mere mention of the name was enough to
set her off.
"Lor', gentlemen, you do turn me cold to my bones. Moxton! Why, the
name makes me shiver," and Mrs. Basket shivered duly to prove the
truth of her words.
Usually the lodgers did not encourage their landlady to talk, as her
tongue, once set wagging, was difficult to stop. But on this occasion
her speech was so significant of mystery that Ellis wheeled round his
chair to face her, and the reporter on the sofa, with true
journalistic instinct, was at once on the alert for news. Mrs. Basket,
pleased with these tokens of interest, improved upon her speech.
"He has a wife!" said she, and closed her eyes with another shiver.
"Is that a remarkable circumstance?" asked Cass, drily.
"P'r'aps not, sir," replied Mrs. Basket, with great dignity. "But what
that pore young thing suffers the butcher and the baker do know."
"Does Moxton ill-treat her?"
"'Eaven only knows what he do do, doctor. Nobody's ever seen
her save the telegraph boy as called after dark, to be met with a
carving-knife."
"A carving-knife! This is interesting. Who had the carving-knife, Mrs.
Basket?"
"Mrs. Moxton, of course. She is young and pretty, I do assure you,
gentlemen, yet she came on the child with a knife in her 'and like
Lady Macbeth in the play."
"What was that for?"
Mrs. Basket wagged her head and the buttercups responded. "She told
the boy as she thought he was robbers, and came out with the wepping
to protect the silver. But it looks like loonatics to me."
"Do you mean to say she is mad?"
"Doctor, I says nothing, being above scandal, But this I do say, as
she ought to be mad if she ain't. That Moxton"--Mrs. Basket shivered
like a jelly--"goes out night after night, leaving her shut up in that
lonely 'ouse."
"Is the house lonely?"
"Mr. Cass, I won't deceive you. It's that lonely as graveyards is
company to it. Myrtle Viller they calls it, and it's the larst 'ouse
of the row as is spreading out in the brickfield direction. The other
villers are unfinished, the contractor as was building them 'aving
died with only Myrtle Viller ready to move into. His relatives is
a-quarrelling so over his money as they've let the villers be for six
months. Mr. and Mrs. Moxton took up 'ouse in the larst of 'em three
months come next week, and they're the only pair as lives in that
'orrible lonely road."
As Mrs. Basket drew breath after this long speech and lifted the tray,
Ellis put a leading question: "Don't they keep a servant?"
"No, they don't, sir, not as much as a work'us orfan. She is all alone
in the 'ouse night after night, as I tells you, and it ain't no wonder
as she keeps the carving-knife 'andy."
"Where does Moxton go so regularly?"
"Ah, Mr. Cass, where indeed? P'r'aps the perlice may know."
"Come now, Mrs. Basket, you have no ground for making such a
statement."
"Oh, 'aven't I?" cried Mrs. Basket, indignantly. "Why, he's well orf
and passes his days indoors doing nothing. 'Ow then does he earn his
money? Why does he leave her alone? What's she doing with no servant
and a carving-knife? No grounds!" Mrs. Basket waddled towards the
door, nose in air, and paused there to deliver a last word: "I
shouldn't be surprised at 'earing of a tragedy between 'em. Oh, that
dratted bell! And at half-past eleven, too! Decent folk should be
a-bed."
The night-bell of Ellis's was ringing furiously, and Mrs. Basket,
putting down the tray, squeezed through the door as hurriedly as her
unwieldy form permitted. As the tail of her blue skirt whisked out of
sight, Cass jumped up from the sofa and smote the doctor's shoulder.
"Here is your first patient, Bob. Fortune is knocking at the door!"
"Ringing, you mean," said Ellis, joking, to hide his agitation.
As he spoke, the voice of Mrs. Basket was heard in wordy
expostulation, and a light-footed visitor flitted along the passage
and into the room. The new-comer proved to be a woman, young and
pretty, bareheaded, and apparently wild with terror. Her entrance and
appearance were dramatic.
"The doctor!" she gasped, leaning against the door-post to support her
trembling limbs.
"I am a doctor," said Ellis, advancing. "What is it?"
"My husband--my husband is--dead!" She paused with a catching in the
throat, then her voice leaped to alto: "Murdered!"
"Murdered!" exclaimed both men, with a simultaneous movement forward.
"Murdered, in the garden! Doctor, come! come!"
"Who is your husband?" stammered Ellis, his wits not quite under
control. "What is his name?"
"Moxton! Moxton!" she answered impatiently. "Come, doctor, don't lose
time! I am Mrs. Moxton. My husband has been murdered!"