Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source: Google Books
https://books.google.com/books?id=vjuWVeJ8s_4C
(the University of Wisconsin--Madison)
THE PURPLE FERN
THE PURPLE FERN
BY
FERGUS HUME
_Author of "The Mystery of a Hansom Cab," "The Yellow Holly,"
"The Silent House in Pimlico," &c., &c_.
LONDON
EVERETT & CO.
42 ESSEX STREET, STRAND, W.C.
1907
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. THE MAN IN GREY
II. AN ADVENTURE
III. TWINS
IV. A MYSTERY
V. THE VICAR
VI. A DISCOVERY
VII. DR. JERCE EXPLAINS
VIII. WHAT HAPPENED NEXT
IX. THE INQUEST
X. A CHANCE WHISPER
XI. THE DOG
XII. BUSINESS AFFAIRS
XIII. THE NEW EPOCH
XIV. PRUDENCE
XV. THE VICAR'S TROUBLES
XVI. A STRANGE COMMUNICATION
XVII. THE RECALL OF DR. JERCE
XVIII. THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS
XIX. ZARA, THE BUTTERFLY
XX. PROOF POSITIVE
XXI. ACKWORTH'S NEWS
XXII. THE ANONYMOUS LETTER
XXIII. AN IMPORTANT DISCOVERY
XXIV. FERDINAND BAIRD AT BAY
XXVI. NEMESIS
THE PURPLE FERN
CHAPTER I
THE MAN IN GREY
THE train to Crumel was late. Due at four o'clock, it failed to reach
its destination, until ten minutes past the hour. This was not the
fault of the branch-line authorities. The London express had been
behind time at Werry Junction, whereby the local had been forced to
wait. The delay mattered little to the majority of the passengers, as
time in the wilds of Essex is of less value than a similar commodity
in the metropolis. But Dr. Jerce, being a famous urban physician, felt
annoyed, as he had come down hurriedly, in this unpleasant weather, to
see a patient, and wished to be back in Harley Street by nine o'clock.
Also Dr. Jerce was Napoleonic in his love for precision, and the
failure of the Company to obey the time-table irritated his usually
bland temper.
Jerce was not unlike the great Corsican in looks,--that is, he was
short and stout, calm in his manner and impenetrable in expression.
His clean-shaven face, classical in outline, save that the jaw was of
the bull-dog order, did not betray his present feelings of
exasperation at the pin-prick of delay. When the belated local finally
steamed leisurely into the terminus, he buttoned his sable-lined coat,
adjusted his shining silk hat, and dusted unnecessarily his smart
patent leather boots, so unsuitable to the season. Finally, with the
same imperturbable air, he collected the Christmas magazines he had
been reading on the way down, and stepped on to the thronged platform.
A man in a grey coat, grey gloves, grey trousers, and a grey Homburg
hat, leaped from the adjoining carriage, and followed closely at the
heels of the popular physician. Jerce did not turn his head, as no
sixth sense told him that he was being watched.
It wanted only a week to Christmas, and the weather was quite of the
traditional Dickens kind. Deep snow almost overwhelmed the quaint
little Essex town, and this, hardened by many nights of frost,
sparkled like jewels in the clear radiance of street-lamps and
shop-lights. The short winter's day drew to a bitterly cold close, and
although the pedestrians, crowding the narrow, twisted streets, were,
for the most part, warmly clad, many of the more sensitive shivered in
the cutting east wind. But Jerce, having a sufficiency of flesh to
cover his bones, and a fur-lined overcoat to protect that same flesh,
stepped out briskly and comfortably, without regard to the chills of
the season. The man in grey followed him at a respectful distance,
keenly observant.
The shops, already decked for Yule-tide, looked unusually lavish with
their blaze of lights, their mistletoe, and red-berried holly
branches, and their extra display of Santa Claus presents and
Christmas provisions. But the doctor did not look at the glittering
windows, nor did the man in grey. Jerce, who appeared to be well
known, nodded smilingly, right and left, to respectful townspeople,
and his follower took note of this popularity. Finally, the physician
turned down a somewhat dark side-lane--for it was not yet an official
street--and entered an iron gate on the left-hand side, some distance
down. This admitted him into the grounds of a large, square Georgian
mansion of mellow red brick, covered with ivy and snow, and looking
like a house with a history. The watcher was compelled to remain
outside the high iron railings, as he was unable to give any plausible
reason for entering. When Jerce rang the bell and finally disappeared
inside the mansion, the grey man muttered an impatient word or two,
and resigned himself to sauntering up and down the lane, until such
time as the doctor should emerge.
But the air was nipping, while the man in grey was thin and thinly
clothed. Shortly he began to shiver and turn blue. Glancing down the
semi-lane, where it led into the truly rural country, he noticed the
brilliant lights of an ambitious inn. Measuring with his eye the
distance from the Georgian mansion to this hostel, the man in grey saw
that he could shelter therein, and yet keep an eye on the gate, out of
which the doctor presumably would come. The opportunity was too
tempting. Crossing the road, he entered the bar, which looked warm and
cheery. Jerce would scarcely return to London for an hour or so,
therefore the watcher thought that, with an occasional glance out of
the bar-room door, he could very well keep guard over the doctor's
comings and goings. But the first thing he did, when inside, was to
demand a Bradshaw.
"Lor' now," prattled the lady behind the counter, in a thin mincing
voice, the very ghost of speech and with restless volubility, "if I
didn't see it only an hour ago. Yes, I did, say what you like. Mr.
Ferdinand,--though to be sure you don't know him,--but Mr. Ferdinand
came in for a Scotch and Polly, and asked to look up the London trains
for this evening. He had that Bradshaw in the private bar, if I
remember, which I can't be certain. Through that door, sir, if you
please. I'm sure I'll be able to oblige, though I can't be positive."
When this incoherent speech terminated, the thin stranger passed
through a narrow door in a partition, plastered with gaudy almanacks
and sober advertisement sheets, to enter a small cupboard cut off from
the bar by the aforesaid partition. It contained two deal chairs, a
deal table covered with a red cloth and strewn with newspapers and
guide books, and nothing else. Dimly lighted by a smelling swing lamp
dangling over the table, and better illuminated by a bright fire, it
looked comfortable enough, when contrasted with the snowy world
outside. The lady who talked so much, suddenly appeared from somewhere
like a jack-in-the-box, and after turning up the lamp, poked the fire
vigorously and unnecessarily, chattering all the time.
"You see, sir, only the gentry come to this private bar," she said, in
her high-pitched voice, and taking stock of the stranger all the time,
"and there's no gentry hereabouts to-night. Mr. Ferdinand,--but you
don't know him, of course, but Mr. Ferdinand, and a pleasant young
gentleman he is, was the last to look at that Bradshaw. Oh, yes, you
were asking for it, sir,--of course, you were, though where it can be,
I can't say, happy as I'd be to oblige you. But the table is so very
untidy, sir,--" making it worse by tossing about papers and books and
pamphlets,--"people won't leave things where they ought to, and this
Bradshaw, which is a new one,--oh, here you are, sir. You'll be sure
to find the train you want, or perhaps the local time-table," she
snatched up a pink sheet, "which is published as an advertisement by
my uncle, who keeps the baker's shop on the left hand side of our High
Street, going towards the station. Oh, you prefer Bradshaw, sir. Well,
sir, some likes this and some that, but I never, never could
understand Bradshaw myself, my head for figures not being like my
brother, who is truly wonderful, and quite a phenomenon. Figures is
child's bricks to him, and--oh, there's someone asking for beer.
You'll excuse me, sir, won't you," with a winning smile. "I'll attend
to this customer and return, when I set Lydia to watch the others."
With these highly unnecessary remarks to a wearied listener, the brisk
landlady, who was thin and small, tight-laced, and highly-coloured,
disappeared as suddenly as she had presented herself, and was heard a
moment later exchanging interminable greetings with the last person
who had entered to toast the Season. The man in grey shrugged his lean
shoulders and breathed a sigh of relief, when Mrs. Talkative departed.
Shortly he nodded contentedly over the Bradshaw. The next London train
did not leave Crumel until seven o'clock, so if Dr. Jerce intended to
go to town on this night, he would have to be at the station at that
hour. Of course, there was a chance that the doctor might remain, but
the grey man did not think that this was likely, as he had observed
the absence of a bag. Still, it was as well to provide against
emergencies, and, when the landlady returned, the stranger asked a
question in a deep, grave voice, which suggested, in some uncanny way,
cemeteries and funerals.
"I may have to remain here to-night," said he, surveying the
brightly-dressed, would-be fashionable lady, "can I have a bed,
please?"
With all her frivolous exterior, the little woman had a head for
business, and first glanced round the room to see if the visitor had
brought a bag. He guessed the meaning of her hesitation.
"I shall pay for a bed and for two meals in advance," he remarked,
solemnly, "that is, if I find it necessary to remain, Miss--Miss--"
"There, now," giggled the hotel fairy, pleasantly confused, "if I
ain't always saying to Lydia--who is the housemaid--that strangers
will call me Miss, though I should look married, having heard the
wedding service three times, and the funeral words as often. My last
name was Dumps, if you please, sir,--John Dumps, and a dear man he
was, though not extraordinarily handsome. He left me this hotel--the
Savoy Hotel," added the landlady, with emphasis, "and you can call me
Mrs. Dumps."
The grave man listened impassively, with his keen eyes on the airy
female, so gorgeously arrayed. He might have been of bronze for all
the impression this speech seemed to make. Yet it conveyed to him the
idea that Mrs. Dumps was a confirmed gossip, and sufficiently free
with her tongue to tell him everything he wished to know concerning
Crumel and its inhabitants. Making a mental note of this, the grey man
reverted to his first statement. "I shall pay in advance, Mrs. Dumps,"
he remarked, "and the price."
"Seven shillings for supper and bed and breakfast. I can't say fairer
than that, look as you like, Mr.--Mr.--lor, now, I don't know your--"
"Osip is my name," interrupted the man, and tendered two halfcrowns
and a single florin.
Mrs. Dumps' claw-like fingers closed on the money in a way which
suggested the miser. "Osip. Really! Osip! A strange name, Osip."
"I am a strange man," replied the other curtly, "would you mind
getting me a glass of ginger beer, Mrs. Dumps?"
"Oh, Mr. Osip, really, Mr. Osip. Surely, port or whiskey at Christmas,
let alone the freezing weather, and the frost causing thirst."
"I never drink alcohol, Mrs. Dumps."
"Lor now," said the landlady, confidentially, "if you aren't exactly
like me on the mother's side, as I come of a full-blooded family given
to choking and apoplexy. I don't believe in strong drink myself, Mr.
Osip, say what you like."
"Then why sell it?" was the not unnatural question.
"I must live," said Mrs. Dumps, plaintively; then to avoid further
remarks, she hopped into the bar like a wren, although her plumage was
less sober. Presently she returned with the ginger beer. "And won't
you take something to eat, Mr. Osip?" she asked, with her fashionable
head on one side, more like a bird than ever.
"No, thank you," Osip paused, then faced her abruptly. "I am a
stranger in Crumel and I think of taking a house here. Do you know of
any to let, Mrs. Dumps?"
"My cousin does, Mr. Osip. Arthur Grinder, Grocer and Land-agent, with
an insurance office and a dog-cart, in which he drives round our
beautiful and interesting country. All orders----"
Osip cut Mrs. Dumps short in her description, which was evidently
culled from the local guide-book, or from one of Mr. Grinder's
pamphlets. "I shall see him to-morrow, if I stay," said he, hurriedly.
"But, surely, Mr. Osip, you'll stay, seeing you have paid?"
"Circumstances may arise which may make it necessary for me to return
to London to-night. But I can afford the loss."
This speech made the landlady sweeter than ever. Apparently the
stranger was rich, so she prepared to make herself aggressively
agreeable. "If you become one of us," chirped Mrs. Dumps, more like a
roguish bird than ever. "I dare say you'll like to know about the
town."
Osip sat down near the fire and folded his arms.
"Information of that kind has its advantages," he said, dryly, "can
you tell me anything about Crumel and its inhabitants?"
"Can I tell?" echoed Mrs. Dumps, shrilly contemptuous, "why, I was
born and bred here. It is thirty years since I saw the light of day in
dear Crumel. Thirty years," repeated Mrs. Dumps, challenging
contradiction, which she seemed to expect with regard to her age. Osip
might have suggested with some truth that she was over forty, but he
did not judge it wise to interrupt the flowing current of her gossip.
Nodding gravely he looked into the fire and Mrs. Dumps talked on
rapidly, reverting again to the guide-book or to the pamphlet of Mr.
Grinder, who was her cousin.
"Crumel," explained Mrs. Dumps, breathlessly, "has three thousand
inhabitants, more or less, chiefly less, and the surrounding country
is dotted with the delightful residence of well-to-do gentry. Formerly
the place was called Legby, in the time of Charles the First; but when
General Cromwell visited the then village, during one of his wars, the
prosperity increased so greatly through his having made it his
headquarters, that the inhabitants, in compliment to the great man,
called the then village, Cromwell, which by time has become corrupted
to Crumel."
"Very interesting," yawned Osip, visibly bored.
"The minster is tenth century, and very fine," continued the
guide-book, "and also Low Church, the vicar being the Rev. Nehemiah
Clarke, who is quite a Puritan, out of compliment, no doubt, to
Cromwell, or Crumel, to whom the town, formerly the village of Legby,
owes its greatness. And they do say," continued Mrs. Dumps, dropping
the guide-book, to become merely a gossip, "that Mr. Clarke's
daughter, Miss Prudence,--did you ever hear such a name, sir, and she
isn't a bit prudent, well, then, Miss Prudence would rather her pa was
High Church. I dare say Mr. Ferdinand, who loves Miss Prudence, would
like it also, he being quite artistic."
"You have mentioned Mr. Ferdinand several times, Mrs. Dumps. Who is
he?"
"An orphan, and so is his sister, Miss Clarice Baird,--wealthy
orphans, too, Mr. Osip, I assure you," and Mrs. Dumps nodded
vigorously.
Osip showed that he was becoming weary of this conversation, since he
was not gathering precisely the information he required. Abruptly he
changed the subject. "In this lane----"
"Street," interpolated Mrs. Dumps, indignantly.
"Very good: street. And nearly opposite to this inn----"
"Hotel, if you please, Mr. Osip. The Savoy Hotel."
"So be it, Mrs. Dumps. Well, then, in this street and nearly opposite
to the Savoy Hotel, there is a red brick mansion, which I should like
to purchase, if it is for sale."
"Lor, now, how funny that is, say what you like, seeing it's the very
house where the Baird orphans live."
"Alone, Mrs. Dumps?"
"Oh, dear me, no, sir. They board, so to speak, with their guardian,
Mr. Henry Horran, who suffers from some disease the doctors can't put
a name to. He's been ailing, off and on, for over ten years; but the
doctors can't cure him nohow, not knowin' what's wrong with his
inside. Mr. Ferdinand ought to find out, seeing he's lived with Mr.
Horran all his life, though to be sure, he ain't old, being but three
and twenty."
"Mr. Ferdinand Baird is not a doctor, then?"
"He will be some day, if his brains hold out. He's a medical student,
and what you might call an apprentice to Dr. Jerce."
"Ha!" said Osip, quickly, "your local doctor?"
"Lor, no, whatever made you think that, Mr. Osip. Dr. Wentworth's our
local, and he isn't bad, though I know more about insides than he
does. But what can you expect, as I always say, when he's unmarried,
and can't understand ladies? Why, Sampson Tait can cure better than
our Dr. Wentworth."
"Sampson Tait?"
"Our chemist," explained Mrs. Dumps, "my second cousin on my father's
side."
"You seem to have endless relatives, Mrs. Dumps."
"Heaps and heaps, and they're always dying, which makes mourning come
expensive. But I'm lonely, all the same, Mr. Osip, I do assure you, as
no one can live lightheartedly, after burying three husbands. Of
course, there's my daughter Zara, but she's in London. Her pa had her
christened Sarah, but Zara to my mind is more romantic."
"Undoubtedly. Well, then, this Dr. Jerce?"
"Not to know him," interrupted Mrs. Dumps, throwing up her hands, "is
to argue yourself unknown. He's famous in Harley Street, London, and
they do say that he'll be knighted some day soon. A great day for
Crumel that will be, as he's a native, and we're proud of him, not
that it's to be wondered at, for a better man never lived."
"A better doctor?" said Osip, inquiringly.
"A better man," reiterated Mrs. Dumps, firmly. "He's kind to the poor,
and lavish with money, and why, with such a loving heart, as I know he
has, he never will marry, beats me hollow. But they do say as he loves
Miss Clarice, though he'll never get her, say what you like, she being
engaged, I do hear, to a soldier officer, called Captain Anthony
Ackworth, who fires guns at Gattlinsands, five miles away on the
seashore."
"Oh, and is Miss Baird rich?"
"She will be and so will her brother, when they and reach the age of
five and twenty, being twins, though she's got the brains of the two.
Mr. Horran is the guardian, and looks after the money, but since he's
ill--and Lord knows what his illness is about--I dare say Dr. Jerce
helps him to see that things are kept straight. The Bairds were a
Scotch family in the time of James the First," added Mrs. Dumps,
becoming again like a guide-book, "and that Stuart king gave them
lands about Crumel, then the village of Legby. The old Manor-House is
three miles from Crumel, and is let to a rich American, until the
Baird orphans prefer to live in it; they meanwhile dwelling with Mr.
Horran, who is their guardian by law constituted. That is Miss
Clarice,--bless her--lives with Mr. Horran, but Mr. Ferdinand is
usually in town, where he boards with Dr. Jerce, who is like a father
to him, and I dare say would like to be a brother-in-law, not that
he's likely to be so, with Captain Ackworth in the way."
"Does Dr. Jerce come down often?"
"Once a week at least, Mr. Osip, to see Mr. Horran. He's interested no
end in the case, but he don't know what's wrong with the man."
"And Dr. Jerce is a good fellow," said Osip, thoughtfully.
"One of the very best. But won't you drink up your ginger beer, sir,
and partake of some more? We must rejoice at Christmas time."
"I'll rejoice when I return," said Osip; then rose unexpectedly, and
buttoned up his threadbare overcoat. "Meanwhile, I'll stroll through
the town and inspect the shops."
"Be sure you look into the butcher's window," screamed Mrs. Dumps, as
he passed out, "he being my nephew by his mother's side."
Osip made no reply, but vanished into the night, as Mrs. Dumps
fluttered back to the bar, to charm fresh customers. A clouded sky
revealed neither moon nor stars, but the hard snow emitted a kind of
sepulchral radiance, which created a luminous atmosphere. By an odd
inversion the light seemed to come from below, instead of being shed
from above, as usual, and the effect was weird in the extreme.
Walking towards the red-brick mansion, Osip pondered over what he had
heard from the chattering landlady, and congratulated himself on
securing information, while not appearing to seek for the same.
Opposite the Georgian mansion, he halted for a few seconds, and, as
there appeared to be no one about, he made up his mind to venture into
the grounds. Noiselessly opening the gate, he skirted the leafless
hedge, and reached the side of the house. Here he found two French
windows, giving on to a miniature terrace. The blinds were not down,
nor were the curtains drawn, so the lamp-light poured forth across the
snow in a gleaming stream. Osip cautiously peered in, and beheld Jerce
talking to a pretty young girl, whom he took to be Clarice Baird.
Without hesitation, he pressed his ear against the wall, and listened
with all his ears.