MISS ARNOTT
The unfortunate Mr. Johnson was so dazed by the many accusations that
were made against him, that this last astonished him scarcely so much
as it should have done. He stared at Captain Jacob in blank
bewilderment, and it was some time before he made any reply. His
silence was misunderstood by the blackmailer--for Shackel was nothing
else--who proceeded with his attack in more explicit terms.
"I guess you ain't got brass enough to tell me I'm a liar," said
Jacob, with a twinkle in his one eye. "When you came to me with that
yarn of Tera lighting out for a place as you didn't know of, I thought
it was a bit queer. I couldn't make out your game, but I made up my
mind to keep an eye on you. That trip you came back here; but two
weeks later you skedaddled to London."
"That is perfectly true," admitted Johnson, quietly. "I went up again
to London in connection with some debts I owed."
"Oh, rats! You went up about them pearls."
"Let us waive that question for the moment, Captain Jacob. I admit
that I was in London two weeks after my visit to you about the
disappearance of Bithiah. May I ask how you knew?"
"Oh, there ain't no harm in telling that," answered the captain,
graciously. "I didn't cotton to the idea of the Kanaka gal
disappearing while she was in your house, so I wanted to see your game
and spile it in the interests of justice. I dropped a line to Papa
Brand, as was hanging out here, and asked him to keep an eye lifted
your way. He wired as you were going to London by a certain train----"
"Korah Brand! He must have watched me!"
"You bet, he just did; and I did ditto t'other end. I saw you come out
of Victoria Station and follered you. It was Hatton Garden as you made
for, and you sneaked into a pop-shop when you thought no one was
looking. I just thought to myself, arter the gal disappeared, as you'd
be by way of sellin' them pearls, so I waited till you kim out, and
dodged in on my own hook. The Sheeny--Abraham Moss is his name, and
you know it--was just putting the pearls back in the bag, and I
recognized them straight off."
"What! the pearls. Impossible!"
"Well," drawled Shackel, rather disconcerted, "if I didn't twig the
pearls, I knew the bag was Tera's, 'cause she showed it to me when I
brought you to England, and I knew the kind of tattoo mark as Buli put
on it. Oh, the bag and pearls were Tera's, right enough, but I didn't
surmise as you'd put the gal in her little wooden overcoat. No, sir!
'Pears now as you did, seeing as a perlice cove says she was murdered.
If I'd knowed that," cried Jacob, with a show of virtuous wrath, "I'd
yanked you into quod. I would, by thunder!"
Johnson listened to the man without moving a muscle. He looked him
calmly in the face.
"Captain Shackel," said he, coldly, "allow me to inform you that there
is not a word of truth in the statement by means of which you propose
to blackmail me. I visited London the first time to inquire if you had
seen my ward, who I thought might have gone to you for shelter. You
denied that she had been with you, so, believing your statement, I
returned to Grimleigh. Two weeks after her disappearance, I was in
great trouble about some money I owed. From some unknown person I
received my several bills, receipted. They were placed on this very
desk one day when I was out visiting. Much astonished, I went to
London and saw my creditors, to learn, if possible, who had paid the
money. They one and all refused to inform me, as they had promised my
benefactor not to reveal his name. Failing in this attempt, I returned
for the second time to Grimleigh, and since then I have hardly left my
home. Tera has been murdered, but I do not know who murdered her. I
myself am wholly innocent. I never saw the pearls after the night she
disappeared. I was never near Hatton Garden. I know nothing of the
pawnshop you mention or of its Jew owner. The name of Moss is unknown
to me. In short, Captain Shackel, I deny your accusation."
Jacob, in no wise put about by this denial, winked his one eye and
became vulgarly familiar.
"That's right, sonny, you stick to it," said he; "it's your only
chance of saving your neck. See here, though, you Johnson," he added,
in a more threatening tone, "I hold you in the hollow of my hand. I've
got a schooner of sorts as I'm sailing round the Horn in, to do
trading business in the Islands. It's taken all my savings to buy her;
now I want money to buy stores and fit her out properly with rations
for the voyage. That money I came here to get from you. Those pearls
were worth a mint of coin, and I'm going to have my share--say, five
'undred quid. Pay me that, and I'll tie up my tongue about your
killin' the gal and sellin' her pearls. But you refuse me, my son, and
I guess you'll be singing psalms in quod this time to-morrow."
"There is the door, captain; you can go;" and the minister, pale, but
firm, rose to dismiss his visitor.
"You won't part?" urged the little man, shuffling to his feet.
"I won't pay your blackmail, sir. Your attempt to levy it is, I may
remind you, of itself a criminal offence."
"What's murder, then?" asked the captain. "Well, I guess I ain't a
hard man, and it's true this thing's come on you sudden-like. Me and
Finland 'ull give you twelve hours to think about it."
"Finland! Is he with you?"
"I guess so. First mate. He was coming here to smash you for murdering
his sweetheart, but I sent him off to his uncle Carwell, and come
myself in his place, being milder-like. Well, what's to be done?"
"Nothing, so far as I am concerned. You can go."
"Twelve hours, my son," threatened the captain, making for the door.
"It's either five hundred pounds to me, or gaol and the gallows for
you. Figure it out your own way. So-long;" and the wrinkled embodiment
of evil left the room with the utmost nonchalance. Evidently Captain
Jacob was satisfied that the game was in his own hands.
Left to himself, Johnson gave himself up to a survey of his position.
He was almost in despair. This was not the first disagreeable
interview through which he had gone that day; for, before the funeral,
Brand had been with him urging him to flight.
In his desire to save Johnson and avert disgrace from Bethgamul, Korah
had broken his promise to Slade, and had related the discovery of the
stolen curtain cord. A tri-coloured silken rope had been taken from
the study; a tri-coloured silken rope had been used to strangle Tera.
Were these one and the same? It certainly seemed so. Who could have
stolen it? Who could have committed the murder? Johnson was strong in
the consciousness of his own innocence, and he was sustained by his
belief in the justice of God; yet the evidence against him was so
explicit that he could not but see how difficult it would be to
extricate himself from the position in which he was placed. He had
been near the field the very night on which Tera had been killed
there! his debts had been paid by some person whom he could not even
name; the cord used to strangle the girl had been taken from his
study; and public opinion was dead against him as the actual criminal.
The wretched man knew not how best to combat this evil--how to
disprove this evidence. He felt that he was in a net, the meshes of
which were gradually closing round him. It was better, perhaps, to
adopt Brand's suggestion and fly, lest worse should befall.
"It is friendly advice," said Johnson to himself, with a groan; "yet,
dare I accept it? After all, how do I know that Brand is my friend? If
he were a true friend he would hardly spy on me on Shackel's behalf.
This suggested flight may be but a snare to make me inculpate myself.
And the selling of the pearls? How can I show that I did not sell
them? I was in London! Shackel swears that he saw me enter Abraham
Moss's shop. The murderer must have been disguised as myself in order
to throw the guilt on my shoulders. What can I do? Tell all these
things to Chard? No; then I stand in immediate danger of arrest, and I
can offer no defence. Fly? By doing that I make a tacit acknowledgment
of guilt. O God, in Thy mercy inspire me with some plan of action.
Tera, honour, good name--all gone. And now my life is in danger. What
shall I do to help myself?"
He paced up and down the narrow room in a frenzy of anguish and futile
thought. Then, growing calmer, he determined to question his mother as
to Tera's movements and behaviour on the night she disappeared. It
might be that the girl had had some enemy of whom he knew nothing. She
might perchance have let fall some word which, if followed up, might
be likely to elucidate the mystery of her terrible death. In any case
there was a chance that his mother might know something which would
prove of use to help him. A drowning man will clutch at a straw.
Johnson, in his state of distraction, looked on his mother as that
straw. He went to look for her. His hope of her aid was faint; still,
it was a hope, and that was something.
"Mother," he said, as he watched her peeling potatoes, "I want you to
tell me what Bithiah did on the night she disappeared."
Mrs. Johnson looked up querulously. The name of the murdered girl
disturbed her, and she gave a pious moan, such as she sometimes gave
vent to in chapel when moved by the words of the sermon.
"Bithiah, George! Oh, don't talk of her. She has gone into outer
darkness, and I am not quite satisfied about her soul. The misery I've
had over that poor heathen you wouldn't believe."
"Bithiah was not a heathen, mother, but a Christian, duly received
into the fold. But tell me, what did Bithiah do on that evening?"
"Nothing more than usual," replied Mrs. Johnson, with another moan.
"She was mostly in her bedroom attending to her clothes. I was quite
angry at her, George; indeed I was, for the supper was behind, and she
would not help. Indeed, no! After leaving her room, she sat in the
parlour like a fine lady, talking to Miss Arnott."
"What!" cried Johnson, seizing on this admission, "was Miss Arnott
here on that evening?"
"Didn't I tell you, George? No, of course I didn't. Miss Arnott asked
me not to, as she did not wish you to know about her quarrel with
Bithiah."
"You amaze me, mother. Why should Miss Arnott quarrel in my house?"
"Ah," moaned Mrs. Johnson, wagging her head over a potato, "Why,
indeed! But the heart of man, and likewise woman, is bad and wicked.
Miss Arnott and Bithiah quarrelled over you, my son."
Johnson looked at his mother in amazement. "Quarrelled over me?" he
said blankly.
"They both loved you."
A bitter smile curved the minister's lips. "At least Bithiah did not,"
he said.
"Nonsense," replied Mrs. Johnson. "Why, she even struck Miss Arnott
out of love for you. I am glad she's gone--but I'm sorry she's dead. I
could not have my son marry a heathen; besides, she was most careless
about housekeeping, too; you'd much better marry Miss Arnott, George.
She's not young, but she's both rich and godly. She hated Bithiah."
Johnson waited to hear no more, but returned to his study. Miss Arnott
loved him; she hated Bithiah. These words rang in his ears. A fresh
thought was born of them, which he at first refused to entertain, but
it forced itself upon him. It formed itself into a question--into a
series of questions: Had Miss Arnott followed and strangled Bithiah?
Was it Miss Arnott who had concealed the girl's body in the field? She
had frequently been in his study; she had quarrelled with Bithiah on
the very night of the latter's disappearance. So she might have stolen
the cord and killed Tera.
"She was an actress once," muttered Johnson, "and in spite of grace
she may have yielded to temptation. But no!" he shuddered, "even if
the woman does love me, she would not have lost her soul by murder."
To put an end to this new doubt with which he was battling, Johnson
made up his mind to call on Miss Arnott. Since the rumours against him
had been rife in the town he had been shy of going out; but in this
instance there was no need for him to go far. Miss Arnott was his next
door neighbour, and a very few steps would bring him to her door. Only
a broken fence of slabs divided her garden from his, and there was
really no need for him to step outside the boundary of his own
grounds. However, he determined to pay his call with due ceremony, and
putting on his tall hat, he stepped out of his own gate and through
that of Miss Arnott.
The whilom actress was a tall and stately woman. She had been
beautiful, and was even now not without some remains of her early
beauty. Her figure was still shapely and graceful. Not even the
somewhat formless garments she now wore could hide completely the
curves of her figure. In truth, she was but forty years of age,
although her life of rigorous asceticism and self-denial made her
look much older. Her eyes were large and dark--wonderfully eloquent
in expression. There was no mistaking the look of devotion with
which they fixed themselves on Johnson, as he was shown into her
drawing-room.
"This is indeed an honour," said she, giving him her hand with much
grace. "Pray sit down, Mr. Johnson. You must have some tea."
"No, thank you," replied the minister, who felt rather uncomfortable
in her presence. "I have come to talk seriously, Miss Arnott."
"Is this a duty call as a pastor?" asked the woman, biting her lip.
"Have you come to talk religion to me?"
"I have come to talk about Bithiah!"
Miss Arnott's thin hands clenched themselves on her lap, and she
flashed an anxious glance on her visitor.
"About that poor murdered heathen?"
"Yes, about Tera--although she was no heathen. Do you know, Miss
Arnott, that I am accused of having murdered her?"
"I have heard the lie," said Miss Arnott, with quiet scorn; "but I
need hardly tell you that I do not believe it."
"Thank you. My mother tells me that you saw Bithiah shortly before she
left the house. I fancied she might have said something in your
presence likely to throw light, perhaps, on the darkness of this
mystery."
Miss Arnott flushed through her sallow skin, but kept her black eyes
on the minister.
"I asked your mother to say nothing about that meeting," she remarked
angrily. "Bithiah acted like the savage she was."
"I know she did. Miss Arnott, and I am deeply sorry to know it. It
was, of course, because the poor girl's passions were those of a
partially uncivilized being, that she so far forgot herself as to
strike you."
"She did strike me," said Miss Arnott, drawing a long breath; "struck
me and tore the ear-ring from my left ear. It was a ring of gold, and
her hand or sleeve caught in it so roughly that the clasp gave way. My
ear bled from her savage attack."
"I am deeply grieved," said Johnson, horrified at this instance of
Tera's savage nature; "but, as I have said, she was but half
civilized."
"She was sufficiently civilized to steal my ear-ring, however,"
retorted Miss Arnott. "I never got it back."
"I must see to that. What did you quarr----"
Johnson stopped suddenly, for he remembered what his mother had said
was the cause of the quarrel.
"We quarrelled about you," said Miss Arnott, in a low voice. "Yes, I
can now acknowledge my love for you without shame. While you were
prosperous and popular, with a stainless name, I kept silent--there
was no other course open to me. Now that you are despised and accused
of murder, I can tell you how dear you are to me. If you had not come
to me to-day, I should still have told you."
The minister rose to his feet, horrified at this bold and, as it
seemed to him, shameless confession.
"Miss Arnott," he stammered, "I--I--I cannot listen to this; I must
go."
"No, stay!" she cried, with a theatrical gesture; "I have some claim
on you."
"Claim on me?" replied Johnson. He could not understand her.
Miss Arnott looked at him steadily. "It was I who paid your debts,"
she said.