A DETECTIVE ON THE TRACK.
Boarding-house life tends to make one selfish; “each for himself and God
for us all,” is the boarders’ motto. Where people come and go, drifting
in and out like weeds upon the tide, deep interests or affections are
rare, but even in boarding-houses men are sometimes thoughtful, and
women sympathetic. This is especially true in cases of illness. The
medical lady and Mrs. Dumaresq rushed to the assistance of Prudence when
she stumbled off the sofa in a dead faint. She was conveyed to her room,
smelling-salts, strong brandy-and-water from Major Jones’ private store,
burnt feathers, and other powerful but unpleasant remedies were applied
until she opened her eyes and gasped:
“Where am I? What has happened?”
Before anyone could answer, memory apparently came back to her, for she
went into a fit of the wildest hysterics.
“There now! there now!” said Mrs. Dumaresq soothingly.
“Don’t talk to her like that, or she will be twice as bad,” observed
Miss Lord in a low stern voice. “Now, Miss Semaphore,” she continued
sharply, “that is quite enough. Just you stop laughing and crying, or I
shall try the effect of a pail of cold water on you.”
She evidently meant it, and with a few gasping, choking sobs, Prudence
subsided. Though there were two or three violent relapses, each was
promptly checked in turn, so that she allowed herself to be undressed,
put to bed, tucked in, and left quietly weeping, until she fell asleep
from sheer exhaustion.
Next morning she was too ill and unstrung to rise. The consuming anxiety
that urged her to be up and doing, to recover her lost sister and flee
from London, worked her into a fever. The medical woman, who, much to
the patient’s distaste, had established herself in the sick-room, and
ruled with a rod of iron, absolutely refused to let her rise. Seeing the
papers, and reading or writing letters were likewise prohibited.
Prudence had neither the bodily strength nor the firmness of character
to resist. She simply wept and moaned, and wrung her hands, and
swallowed all the nauseous doses the medical woman prepared for her.
Meantime, the fever increased so rapidly, and the poor creature was so
prostrate, that Miss Lord advised calling in Dr. Creedy,
physician-in-ordinary to the Misses Semaphore. Accordingly, without
consulting Prudence, Dr. Creedy was sent for. He was a little, fat,
bald-headed man, of few words, and thought Prudence very ill indeed.
When he left her room he had a long conversation with the medical woman
and Mrs. Dumaresq, pronounced the patient to be suffering apparently
from the effect of shock, and enquired where her sister was. Mrs.
Dumaresq told him Miss Semaphore had gone to the seaside for a change,
having herself been seriously and mysteriously ill.
“I think she ought to be communicated with,” said the doctor, “I should
not alarm her, but this may be a grave matter, and it would be wise to
let her know that Miss Prudence is not very well. She might help us to
soothe her, for Miss Prudence has evidently some trouble on her mind.
Unless we can remove the cause of her anxiety, my medicines will have
little effect.”
“But we don’t know Miss Semaphore’s address, doctor,” objected Mrs.
Dumaresq. “I believe she wrote yesterday to say she was better, but her
sister did not tell anyone where she had gone to.”
“No doubt our patient will give it to you if you ask her,” said the
doctor. He prescribed a composing draught, ordered a certain course of
treatment, which the medical woman guaranteed to carry out, then took
his hat and his departure.
Mrs. Dumaresq, like Miss Lord, loved anything that gave her a little
temporary importance, so Dr. Creedy had no sooner gone than she
approached the bedside of Miss Prudence, and said in her sweetest tones:
“I think, dear Miss Semaphore, that perhaps your sister may be uneasy if
she does not hear from you. You know the doctor says you are to make no
exertion for a day or two. I forget where you said she was staying, but
if you will give me her address, I shall have much pleasure in writing
to her and telling her all the news.”
To the speaker’s intense alarm, she had not concluded this apparently
harmless sentence when Prudence had a relapse so sudden and violent that
it at once brought the medical woman on the scene. Without ceremony—her
manners had never pleased Mrs. Dumaresq—she bundled the diplomatic lady
into the corridor, and left her reflecting bitterly that since the new
boarder’s wife had betrayed such inconvenient knowledge of her family,
Miss Lord had been much less civil.
After about twenty minutes the medical woman joined her, and enquired
abruptly:
“What were you saying to her to set her off like that again?”
“Nothing at all. I cannot account for it. I only asked her for her
sister’s address that I might write to her. You heard the doctor say she
ought to be told how ill Miss Prudence is.”
“Look here,” exclaimed the medical woman, “this is more of the mystery
about her sister which I feel persuaded is at the bottom of her illness.
You shouldn’t have mentioned her at all, and the woman in such a state
of nerves. I wish I could find out what really is the matter. It seems
to me to be all of a piece.”
“Oh! I don’t believe it has anything to do with her sister,” said Mrs.
Dumaresq, offended. “Why, she went off in a dead faint last night when
no one was speaking of her sister. I thought at the time it was
something in that case Major Jones was reading out that affected her.”
“About the baby farming woman?” asked the medical woman. “Why, what
earthly effect could that have on her? She could have nothing to do with
that.”
“I confess,” said Mrs. Dumaresq, “I don’t see exactly how it could, but
I’m persuaded there is some connection between the two. Did you notice
her face when he began to read? No? Well, I did, and I never saw horror
more plainly depicted on a human countenance. I have been thinking
matters over, and putting two and two together. Do you remember the
extraordinary tipsy woman that called before dinner on Tuesday? I am
certain I heard her say something about a cheque and bringing back a
baby. I happened to be going upstairs at the moment, as you may
recollect, and stopped on the landing to tie my shoe string.”
“Oh, that’s absurd on the face of it,” said the medical woman. “Miss
Semaphore is a perfectly respectable woman, and not likely to be mixed
up with people of that kind. Why I was on the stairs at the same time,
and I did not hear a word of this; there was certainly something said
about a cheque, but not about a baby.”
“But I beg your pardon,” said Mrs. Dumaresq with asperity, “perhaps your
hearing is not as good as mine. I certainly heard the woman say
threateningly she would bring back the child, or the infant, I forget
which word was used, if something were not done.”
“They are charitable,” reflected the medical woman, “perhaps they
subscribe to a home or institution, and this was some tipsy pensioner.”
“Perhaps so,” said Mrs. Dumaresq oracularly, “time will tell.”
“I’m certain she is upset about her sister’s mysterious illness.”
“And I’m certain she is upset about that woman’s visit, and that there
is some connection between it and the case in the papers. I have an
instinct in such matters.”
“Take care it does not mislead you,” said the medical woman. Mrs.
Dumaresq again noticed bitterly that her friend was much less
deferential since the new boarder’s wife had spoken so abruptly of her
brother.
Whatever the cause of the younger Miss Semaphore’s illness, there was no
doubt that it had alarmingly increased since Mrs. Dumaresq injudiciously
questioned her. Fever, extreme excitability, restlessness, and a
tendency to delirium, all manifested themselves, and it was only when a
composing draught had been administered, that the patient sank into a
troubled slumber. As she sat watching her, the medical lady heard a
slight knock at the door, and opened it cautiously.
It was Mary the maid.
“Please ’m,” she said, “there’s a gentleman in the ’all wanting to see
Miss Prudence Semaphore.”
“What does he want with her?” asked the medical woman surprised. “Did
you tell him she was ill?”
“Please ’m, I don’t know. I did tell him she was ill, but ’e said ’e
should see ’er whether or no.”
“I shall go down to him,” said the medical woman with dignity, and she
went.
“My good sir,” she began, “Miss Semaphore is extremely ill, and must on
no account be disturbed. If you have any message for her, I shall be
pleased to deliver it when she is strong enough to attend to business.”
“I come from Scotland Yard, madam,” said the man respectfully, “and my
business is with Miss Semaphore herself. I shall not detain her long,
but I must see her.”
“Quite impossible,” said the medical woman with decision. “The doctor
would never allow it. She is extremely restless and feverish, and has
just been given a sleeping draught, so that it would be most dangerous
to rouse her. But what do you want with her?”
“She is required to give evidence in a case.”
Her conversation with Mrs. Dumaresq flashed through the mind of the
medical woman. Could it be that her theory was right after all? Without
considering what she was saying, she asked with an air of confidence and
knowledge:
“Is it the baby farming case?”
“Yes,” said the stranger.
“My good gracious heavens!” said the medical woman, sitting down
abruptly and heavily on the hall chair. “Who would have thought it? What
has _she_ to do with the case?” she asked insinuatingly, but the
stranger from Scotland Yard had already repented saying “yes,” and
replied:
“I really can tell you nothing about it, madam, my business is entirely
personal to Miss Semaphore.”
“Well, she cannot see you, you know,” repeated the medical woman. “I am
nursing her, and will not take the responsibility. Can you not call
again?”
The stranger hesitated.
“I suppose I shall have to. When do you think she will be able to
receive me?”
“If she has a good night, and is kept perfectly quiet to-morrow, she may
be able to see you next day, but I can’t answer for it.”
“Very well,” said the man, “I will call again the day after to-morrow.”
The medical woman belied the statement that great bodies move slowly,
for she broke the record in speeding to Mrs. Dumaresq’s room. She had
scarcely patience to wait for a “come in” in reply to her agitated
knock, when she burst out with:
“I do believe you were right after all.”
“How? What do you mean? About what?”
“About that baby farming case. A detective—a detective”—and she paused
to observe the look of horror that the face of Mrs. Dumaresq assumed at
the word—“has just been here from Scotland Yard to see Miss Semaphore. I
told him she was too ill, and asked his business. He said she was
required to give evidence in a case, and when I said, ‘Is it a baby
farming case?’ he said ‘Yes.’”
“I knew it,” said Mrs. Dumaresq, clasping her hands with fervour. “I
knew it from the very moment I saw her face of guilt and terror. Oh! to
think that I should be in the same house with such a woman. As sure as
you stand there, this address will get into the papers, and what will
become of us? If my friends see it, I am lost.”
The two women stood looking at each other blankly.
“The best thing to do,” said the medical woman, “is to go to Mrs.
Wilcox, tell her our suspicions, and insist on this—this person being
moved the very first moment she is fit.”
“It is horrible, horrible,” ejaculated Mrs. Dumaresq. “When do you think
she will be able to go?”
“Not for a couple of days, I fear,” said the medical woman. “It is
better to say nothing about this detective to her. It will only agitate
her and throw her back, and spoil the chance of her speedy recovery,
which, of course, we must promote in every way.”
“My position,” said Mrs. Dumaresq, “is horrible. The idea of knowing
such people! What will my friends say?”
“What will all our friends say?” exclaimed the medical woman abruptly.
“We are every one in the same position. It will be an awful scandal, and
the worst of it is, that I fear this is not the whole story. You take my
word, there is more to come out. I had my suspicions from the first, but
I am naturally good-natured, and could not bring myself to believe them.
Every day, however, confirms their truth. A woman who could for so long
deceive us as to her real character, a woman who led me, _me_, to look
on her as, at worst, a harmless fool, and was all the time mixed up with
police and criminals and baby farmers, is capable of anything.”
“Then you think she is?—she has?” queried Mrs. Dumaresq breathlessly.
“I shan’t say what I think just yet,” said the medical woman. “I will
make some searching enquiries first, and if my worst fears are
confirmed, I will reveal all to Mrs. Wilcox this evening, and let her
take action. My dear, we are lucky if we find she has been guilty of
baby farming alone.”