"Gracious Heavens, Clara! What brings you here?" uttered Markworth,
half in astonishment, half in terror, as he suddenly turned round, and
was confronted by Miss Kingscott, immediately after Susan had fallen
back over the precipice.
"Murderer!" she exclaimed, standing right before him in the narrow
pathway. "Thank God! I came in time to witness your crime!"
"Woman!" cried Markworth, trying to brush past her. "You're mad! What
do you mean? Let me pass!"
"Murderer!" she repeated, with withering bitterness, still blocking the
way. "Murderer!"
"Good God! Clara, what do you mean?"
"Mean, Allynne Markworth? What do I mean! That you are caught at last
in your own toils! I knew you were a swindler, a cheat, a villain! I
can now prove that you are a murderer as well!"
"For God's sake, Clara, do not say that! You don't think I've murdered
the girl?"
She still looked him full in the face, but made no reply; so he went on
hurriedly--
"Why, she fell over the cliff herself! I never touched her! I was
just--"
"Ha! ha!" she laughed, a cold, bitter laugh. "Tell that to the officers
of justice who will be soon in pursuit of you! To the jury who will try
you! To the judge who will sentence you to your final end! I don't
want to hear your lying story!"
Markworth turned pale and shook with fear. "What do you mean, woman?
Who will accuse me? God knows I never meant the poor girl any harm!
She slipped, and fell back by accident; and I was just hastening down to
her assistance when you--you--"
"Murderer!"
"Let me go, woman!" he cried, excitedly, shoving past the governess, who
threw her arms round him and tried to hold him back.
"She's dying, perhaps! I'll be too late! Curse you, let me go!"
"Help! Help! Murder!" she screamed. "You're mad! Let me go at once
or it will be the worse for you." And he struggled with her to get
away, while the air rung with her loud screams for help. At length he
got one arm free, although she still clung with desperation to him.
"Curse you!" he muttered, between his clenched teeth, raising his fist
and dealing her a savage blow in the face. "You've brought it on
yourself!"
Another half-uttered scream was checked on her lips, and she sank back
in a heap on the ground, while Markworth rushed past her, and flew
rather than ran down the heights.
In spite of lung logic, Clara Kingscott's cries for help remained
unheard. No one came to her assistance; and when she recovered her
consciousness after the insensibility produced by Markworth's blow, she
found herself cold and alone, lying stretched out along the side of the
narrow path where she had fallen. And he? Where was he?
Gone!
After one half-stupefied thought as to where she was, she recollected
all, and nerved herself up to the determination of following Markworth
to the death! The blood was still trickling down her face from the
dastardly blow she had received: it animated her with additional
strength and fresh courage; and she seemed like a tigress, and snarled,
as it were, at the sight of her own blood!
Rising to her feet, she nearly stumbled at first from stiffness and
faintness, but by force of will she quickly recovered her strength, and
in a few moments felt better, and able to walk.
She had marked the spot where Susan had disappeared; thither she bent
her steps, and gazed down into the deep descent, hidden now, and black
with the dark veil of night.
Turning round, and retracing her steps down the winding path, she
proceeded to search below. As she projected round an abrupt turn of the
road she jostled against a _sergent de ville_--mutual astonishment--
explanations.
Speaking rapidly to him in his native tongue, with which she was even
better conversant than Markworth, and knew almost as well as a genuine
Parisienne, she represented matters to the guardian of the peace. "A
murder and an assault has been committed," she said, eagerly
gesticulating in her emotion.
"I saw the villain throw a girl over that precipice above, and she or
her body must be here! Let us search for her; help me to arrest the
murderer! Have you heard no cries, seen no one?"
No, the _sergent de ville_ had seen no one: he had only just come up the
road: the officer whom he had relieved had reported no disturbance.
"Had madame cried out? _Mon Dieu_! really? He had heard no cries, in
faith! It was very late for madame to be out--did she know what time it
was?"
"I suppose it is nearly ten o'clock," replied Miss Kingscott.
"_Ma foi_! Why it is close on morning. Madame cannot be well"--he
meant that the lady, who certainly looked very bedraggled and
disorderly, was something infinitely worse.
"I tell you, officer," exclaimed the governess, stamping her foot, and
speaking angrily, "I am not mad or drunk; and, no matter what time it
is--night or morning--I am telling you the truth! I know the man that
has done this; his name is Markworth, and an Englishman; and I saw him
shove the girl over the precipice, for I was close behind him at the
time! I tried to stop him. He struck me; here is the cut on my
forehead; you can see for yourself that I don't lie. The blow made me
faint, and I must have been insensible much longer than I supposed, but
it is not too late! We may catch the villain yet. It is your duty to
aid me! But let us first search for the girl; her body must be here!"
Although strongly inclined to believe that the lady who addressed him
was under the influence of absinthe or eau de vie, and that she had lost
her way amongst the heights, and tumbling down had hurt herself, thus
accounting for her blood-stained face and wild appearance, the _sergent
de ville_ was somewhat thrown off his first-formed opinion by her
enthusiasm and the coherency of her story. He accordingly adjusted his
lantern, and they looked about together in silence for some time.
However, when no body of any murdered person was to be found, no traces
of a sanguinary struggle to be seen, and everything looked as usual
about the place, the _sergent de ville_ returned to his original
opinion.
"I said Madame was not well!" he observed, in an aggrieved tone. "She
had better go home to bed, and not be talking of any fabulous murders!
Where does Madame reside?"
"I tell you I saw the thing with my own eyes! He must have carried the
body away and hidden it!"
"Hush! _ma petite_," said the man, soothingly. "Go home: it will be all
right to-morrow!"
"I won't go home. I am quite in my senses, and it will be your fault if
that man escapes. You ought to do your duty and arrest him. I shall
complain to the Maire! Where does he live? I must see him! Take me
there at once."
"_C'est impossible_!" replied the officer, coldly; "but Madame will find
that I will do my duty," he added, meaningly.
"I must see the Maire! The murderer will escape!" went on the
governess, hysterically.
The _sergent de ville_ placed her arm firmly within his own.
"Madame will come with me," he said, and he led her away.
He was not going to wake up the Maire or Juge de Paix at that late hour
of the night, or rather early hour of the morning, with such a cock and
a bull story from a drunken woman. Why, he might lose his promotion
should he disturb the slumbers of his superiors!
Finding, therefore, that his entreaties for her to go home were treated
only as deaf words, and that she would neither go herself nor tell where
she lived, the astute officer conducted her carefully to the
guard-house, under the plea of showing her where the Maire lived in
order to get her along quietly, and had her comfortably locked up.
The tables were turned with a vengeance! Markworth had got off scot
free; and here was Clara Kingscott locked up in a police-station for the
night as a disorderly character! Some allowance must be made, however,
for the _sergent de ville_. Her story was so improbable, and she looked
so strange and talked so excitedly, that the mistake might have been
made even by one of our very bright and intelligent guardians of the
peace, who never make such mistakes as, say, locking up a dying man
perhaps on the charge of inebriety!
Be that as it may, however, there was Clara Kingscott incarcerated in a
cell, and powerless of action. There are strange things happen
sometimes in fiction; but stranger things often occur in real life.
Volume 3, Chapter II.
"MISHTER SHOLOMONSHON" PREPARES TO ACT: MUCH HE GAINS BY IT!
Matters seem somewhat forestalled, and a brief retrospect is needed.
How came she there--his Nemesis? Politely bowed out, after she had
avowed her share in Markworth's conspiracy to Mr Trump, Clara Kingscott
walked away from the lawyers' offices in a perfect frenzy. She was ever
tasting the cup of revenge, which she would have so gladly drunk to the
dregs, and yet as she raised it to her lips it was ever being dashed
away.
It was maddening to her now to think that when she had planned to ruin
Markworth at the eleventh hour, just when he was confident of success,
by her appearance against instead of for him in the suit, that
circumstances should so occur to defeat his ends without her aid being
required. She had intended all along that her hand should deal him the
blow, and that he should know it.
True it was that all his hopes for getting Susan Hartshorne's fortune
were all passed away like last winter's snow; that was some satisfaction
for her to know, but then Markworth's ill-luck was not caused by her;
there was where the shoe pinched, and she felt foiled.
What should she do now? She could not remain inactive. Reflecting a
moment, she turned and walked hurriedly onward across Holborn, and down
Chancery Lane, until she came to the offices of Solomonson and Isaacs.
It was late now; so the place was closed up, and the children of Israel
were gone home: After ringing in vain for some time, she had to give up
her project until the morrow, and depart in peace.
"He'll escape me yet," she muttered, "but I will be here early, and make
assurance doubly sure."
And she turned on her heel and went away. Before she went home to her
lodgings, however, she took the trouble to go round to the hotel where
she had learnt that Markworth was staying, to ask whether he was there
still. She was so afraid of his getting off before her vengeance could
be felt. The porter told her that he was out, but that he had not left
the hotel yet: he was expecting him in every minute, for a messenger had
just brought a letter for him.
"A messenger to see him?"
She pondered a moment, and then she recollected that it must be the
lawyers' clerk, sent by Mr Trump to appoint the interview for the next
day, when Markworth would hear the worst. She gave a sigh of
satisfaction, and went to her lodgings contentedly.
Messrs. Solomonson and Isaacs came to their offices the next day at
their usual time, about half-past ten o'clock, and proceeded to set
about their introductory business. Letters had to be opened, documents
arranged, the list of bankrupts in the papers looked to and compared
with another list of their own of the men indebted to them; in fact, all
the minutiae of their daily routine had to be seen to before setting
actually to work and "interviewing" their clients, or more properly
speaking, customers or borrowers, for they did more in usury than law,
although the appellation "solicitors" was on their door plate. The term
indeed was better suited to the clients than the firm.
Mister Isaacs was at the moment engaged upon comparing the bankrupt
lists, when a sudden exclamation from his partner Solomonson, who was
opening the letters and glancing at their contents, startled him.
"Father Abrahamsh!" ejaculated that worthy. "Gott in Himmell! how about
der monish?"
"Vat's der matter, my tearsh?" enquired Isaacs, in anxious suspense.
"Noting's wrongsh mit der bank?"
"No, mine Isaacs, it is not ter banksh! Mein Gott, der monish! der
monish! It is all oop wit Markevorts; der shoot is ruined!"
"Sholomonshon, ma tearsh, vat you mean? The suit lost! Vy it ain't
tried yet."
"No mein sohn, it is not trite and perhaps never vills!"
And then he explained the purport of the letter.
"It's a svindel!" said Isaacs. "Ow butch did he get from you,
Solomonshon?" he asked, although he well knew.
"Eleving hundert! And we vos to get tree tousand--tree tousand pounds!"
He told Isaacs a lie, and Isaacs knew it.
"And now ve can't get himsh? Is he got no monish?"
"No monish, but vat der shoot vood have bringsh."
"And it is all gonesh?"
"Ja, tso! all gonesh if de lettersh be true!"
"And ve vood 'ave got tree tousaud, Sholomonshon?"
"Ja! tree tousand pound! der villainsh! der swindlersh! Tree tousand
poundsh, and look'd as shafe as der bank! Tree tousand poundsh; never
no moresh!"
The Jew repeated this over and over again, and almost wept in his
anguish. It should have been mentioned before that Solomon was a Hebrew
of Teutonic proclivities, and had emigrated from the _Juden Strasse_ in
Berlin, where he had originally belonged before he took up with his
partner Isaacs and set up business in Chancery Lane, London.
After a hasty consultation Solomonson and Isaacs rushed off together to
the offices of Messrs. Trump, Sequence, and Co., to hear whether the
ill-fated news was true.
Any hopes they might have had were quickly dispelled. Mr Trump, who
could not repress his dislike for the men who now confronted him, did
not mince matters with them. He showed them all the proofs, and gave
them the additional evidence that Markworth himself had been there at
his especial notification, and was satisfied that the opposition was too
great for him to continue the suit.
Solomonson and Isaacs were not satisfied until they had read every
tittle of the evidence, including Roger Hartshorne's will, the baptismal
certificate of Susan, and the marriage registry. It was all perfectly
true, so they then heaped reproaches on Mr Trump for letting Markworth
know before communicating with them. Indeed, they were both so violent
that Mr Trump had to order them out of his office. They saw it was all
up with them, and returned chagrined to their own den in Chancery Lane,
to concert about what more should they do.
They had no doubt that Markworth would be off early, but it was their
business to try and catch him if possible. Never let it be said in
Jewry that a debtor got off clear from their clutches: it would be a
standing reproach against them from Dan even unto Beersheba, and they
would never hear the end of it. Besides the money, the money, they
could not afford to lose that!
Once more the scene changes back to their den of usury. Solomonson had
just taken out the bills Markworth had given from an escritoire in the
corner of the room, and both he and Isaacs are pondering them over, and
looking at the shares securities that their client had given them for
the advance. The shares were in a financial company whose smash they
had just read of in that morning's paper! This news added "bad" to
"worse."
"Fader Abrahamsh!" ejaculated Solomonson. "Oh der villainsh! der
shvindlersh! Tree tousand pounds, Isaacs, all gonesh!" and they
bewailed their fate in concert.
Behold the children of Israel weeping and wailing, and making much
lamentation over the loss of the presumptive three thousand pounds,
which they would have gained if Markworth had won his suit against the
old dowager of The Poplars. To them enters Clara Kingscott, governess,
at present detective, Nemesis, and follower of their unlucky client.
Affecting meeting.
She went like another Ruth to glean what she could towards affecting her
purpose in the fields of the rich Boaz. The Hebrews, although sharp
enough, were at their wits' end when Miss Kingscott entered, but she
quickly worked them up to the point of action, after explaining the
reason of her visit.
"The news is true enough," she said. "I was there and heard it all--
when that letter was written to you; but have you not sent round yet to
those lawyers? what do you propose to do?"
"Doosh? Vat can ve doosh! der shoot is gone! and der svindlersh is gone
too, and he has no monish!" said Solomonson, in the most lugubrious
tones.
"Why don't you act?" said the governess, excitedly. "If I were a man I
would arrest him and clap him into jail, and let him rot there until I
got my money back. If I could not get my money I would get his life!"
"De womansh is right, Sholomonshon, my shon," said Isaacs.
"Of course I am. An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth--that is
your creed, is it not? Can't you get out a warrant against that
villain, or something else, and have him stopped before he leaves the
country? Why even I will go after him: he shall never escape my hate!"
"Ja, tso!" exclaimed Solomonson, now fired by her words and animated by
her desire for vengeance; "but a varrantsh ish no goots!"
"A Kay shay?" suggested Isaacs.
"Ja, dat is goot--der villainsh! But he was alvays squaresh vas mishter
M., and it seems hart."
"Pshaw!" exclaimed Clara Kingscott, with intense scorn. "Do you think
he will pay you if you let him get away?"
That settled any lingering reluctance they might have had to proceed to
extremities with their client, besides the loss of the money was
rankling in their minds; so "Mishter Sholomonshon" started off down to
the courts at Westminster to invoke the aid of her gracious Majesty
"Victoria R. by the grace of God" in a documentary form.
While the Hebrews were concerting measures for Markworth's apprehension,
Clara Kingscott proceeded down to his hotel to see whether the "biter"
had yet been "bitten," and if he had returned from the interview
appointed with Mr Trump.
She found he had come, and gone. The bird had flown! The porter said
he had left in a cab with all his luggage for the Waterloo Station.
Making sure he was off to Havre, where she had previously found out his
address, she started off to Southampton, intending to follow him
wherever he went. Before doing this she sent a few hasty lines to
Messrs. Solomonson and Isaacs by a _commissionaire_, telling them where
Markworth was gone and she would follow him up, and let them know
further; although certainly her information would not be of much use to
them if he were out of the kingdom.
The Jews in the meanwhile were crying "Havoc!" and trying very hard to
"let loose the dogs of war." They had some difficulty in obtaining
their _ca ca_. No Judge was at chambers when they first went down; and
then they lost much valuable time in swearing to an affidavit that
Markworth was going to leave the country. Not that the fact of swearing
any number of oaths, whether true or false, troubled them much--but he
was "gone," as the auctioneer cries, before they could touch him on the
shoulder.
A bailiff and detective were sent down after the absconding debtor to
Southampton--Miss Kingscott had telegraphed up to the Jews late in the
evening to say that she had seen him there; but they arrived too late,
notwithstanding that the Jews had not spared the expense of luring a
special train for them: they never grudged money when hunting money.
But they arrived too late! The _ca ca_ and _ne exeat regno_ were both
useless.
Just as the Havre steamer had cast loose her fastenings, and was going
out into the stream, the myrmidons of the law came down with the warrant
for Markworth's arrest: the proverb "better late than never" did not
hold true in their case, however, for the man they were after could
laugh them to scorn with every revolution of the steamboat's paddles.
Jewry was "sold" by the Gentile, and there went up a wail in Chancery
Lane.
Volume 3, Chapter III.