DONE IN THE DARKNESS.
Before Thomas Milsom, otherwise Black Milsom, could express his
surprise, the landlord of the 'Jolly Tar' returned from his business
excursion, and presented himself in the dingy little room, where it was
already beginning to grow dusk.
Milsom told Dennis Wayman how he had discovered the captain sleeping
uneasily, with his head upon the table; and on being pressed a little,
Valentine Jernam told his dream as freely as it was his habit to tell
everything relating to his own affairs.
"I don't see that it was such a very bad dream, after all," said Dennis
Wayman, when the story was finished. "You dreamt you were at sea in a
dead calm, that's about the plain English of it."
"Yes; but such a calm! I've been becalmed many a time; but I never
remember anything like what I saw in my dream just now. Then the
loneliness; not a creature on board besides myself; not a human voice
to answer me when I called. And the face--there was something so awful
in the face--smiling at me, and yet with a kind of threatening look in
the smile; and the hand pointing to the tombstone! Do you know that I
was thirty-three last December?"
The sailor covered his face with his hands, and sat for some moments in
a meditative attitude. Bold and reckless though he was, the
superstition of his class had some hold upon him; and this bad dream
influenced him, in spite of himself.
The landlord was the first to break the silence. "Come, captain," he
said; "this is what I call giving yourself up to the blue devils. You
went to sleep in an uncomfortable position, and you had an
uncomfortable dream, with no more sense nor reason in it than such
dreams generally have. What do you say to a hand at cards, and a drop
of something short? You want cheering up a bit, captain; that's what
you want."
Valentine Jernam assented. The cards were brought, and a bowl of punch
ordered by the open-handed sailor, who was always ready to invite
people to drink at his expense.
The men played all-fours; and what generally happens in this sort of
company happened now to Captain Jernam. He began by winning, and ended
by losing; and his losses were much heavier than his gains.
He had been playing for upwards of an hour, and had drunk several
glasses of punch, before his luck changed, and he had occasion to take
out the bloated leathern pocket-book, distended unnaturally with notes
and gold.
But for that rum-punch he might, perhaps, have remembered Joyce
Harker's warning, and avoided displaying his wealth before these two
men. Unhappily, however, the fumes of the strong liquor had already
begun to mount to his brain, and the clerk was completely forgotten. He
opened his pocket-book every time he had occasion to pay his losses,
and whenever he opened it the greedy eyes of Dennis Wayman and Black
Milsom devoured the contents with a furtive gaze.
With every hand the sailor grew more excited. He was playing for small
stakes, and as yet his losses only amounted to a few pounds. But the
sense of defeat annoyed him. He was feverishly eager for his revenge:
and when Milsom rose to go, the captain wanted him to continue to play.
"You shan't sneak off like that," he said; "I want my revenge, and I
must have it."
Black Milsom pointed to a little Dutch clock in a corner of the room.
"Past eight o'clock," he said; "and I've got a five-mile walk between
me and home. My girl, Jenny, will be waiting up for me, and getting
anxious about her father."
In the excitement of play, and the fever engendered by strong drink,
Valentine Jernam had forgotten the ballad-singer. But this mention of
her name brought the vision of the beautiful face back to him.
"Your daughter!" he muttered; "your daughter! Yes; the girl who sang
here, the beautiful girl who sang."
His voice was thick, and his accents indistinct. Both the men had
pressed Jernam to drink, while they themselves took very little. They
had encouraged him to talk as well as to drink, and the appointment
with his brother had been spoken of by the captain.
In speaking of this intended meeting, Valentine Jernam had spoken also
of the good fortune which had attended his latest trading adventures;
and he had said enough to let these men know that he carried the
proceeds of his trading upon his person.
"Joyce wanted me to bank my money," he said; "but none of your banking
rogues for me. My brother George is the only banker I trust, or ever
mean to trust."
Milsom insisted upon the necessity of his departure, and the sailor
declared that he would have his revenge. They were getting to high
words, when Dennis Wayman interfered to keep the peace.
"I'll tell you what it is," he said; "if the captain wants his revenge,
it's only fair that he should have it. Suppose we go down to your
place, Milsom! you can give us a bit of supper, I dare say. What do you
say to that?"
Milsom hesitated in a sheepish kind of manner. "Mine's such a poor
place for a gentleman like the captain," he said. "My daughter Jenny
will do her best to make things straight and comfortable; but still it
is about the poorest place that ever was--there's no denying that."
"I'm no fine gentleman," said the captain, enraptured at the idea of
seeing the ballad-singer; "if your daughter will give us a crust of
bread and cheese, I shall be satisfied. We'll take two or three bottles
of wine down with us, and we'll be as jolly as princes. Get your trap
ready, Wayman, and let's be off at once."
The captain was all impatience to start. Dennis Wayman went away to get
the vehicle ready, and Milsom followed him, but they did not leave
Captain Jernam much time for thought, for Dennis Wayman came back
almost immediately to say that the vehicle was ready.
"Now, then, look sharp, captain!" he said; "it's a dark night, and we
shall have a dark drive."
It was a dark night--dark even here in Wapping, darker still on the
road by which Valentine Jernam found himself travelling presently.
The vehicle which Dennis Wayman drove was a disreputable-looking
conveyance--half chaise-cart, half gig--and the pony was a
vicious-looking animal, with a shaggy mane; but he was a tremendous
pony to go, and the dark, marshy country flew past the travellers in
the darkness like a landscape in a dream.
The ripple of the water, sounding faintly in the stillness, told
Valentine Jernam that the river was near at hand; but beyond this the
sailor had little knowledge of his whereabouts.
They had soon left London behind.
After driving some six or seven miles, and always keeping within sound
of the dull plash of the river, the landlord of the 'Jolly Tar' drew up
suddenly by a dilapidated wooden paling, behind which there was a
low-roofed habitation of some kind or other, which was visible only by
reason of one faint glimmer of light, flickering athwart a scrap of
dingy red curtain. The dull, plashing sound of the river was louder
here; and, mingling with that monotonous ripple of the water, there was
a shivering sound--the trembling of rushes stirred by the chill night
wind.
"I'd almost passed your place, Tom," said the landlord, as he drew up
before the darksome habitation.
"You might a'most drive over it on such a night as this," answered
Black Milsom, "and not be much the wiser."
The three men alighted, and Dennis Wayman led the vicious pony to a
broken-down shed, which served as stable and coach-house in Mr.
Milsom's establishment.
Valentine Jernam looked about him. As his eyes grew more familiar with
the locality, he was able to make out the outline of the dilapidated
dwelling.
It was little better than a hovel, and stood on a patch of waste
ground, which could scarcely have been garden within the memory of man.
By one side of the house there was a wide, open ditch, fringed with
rushes--a deep, black ditch, that flowed down to the river.
"I can't compliment you on the situation of your cottage, mate," he
said; "it might be livelier."
"I dare say it might," answered Black Milsom, rather sulkily. "I took
to this place because everybody else was afraid to take to it, and it
was to be had for nothing. There was an old miser as cut his throat
here seven or eight year ago, and the place has been left to go to
decay ever since. The miser's ghost walks about here sometimes, after
twelve o'clock at night, folks say. 'Let him walk till he tires himself
out,' says I. 'He don't come my way; and if he did he wouldn't scare
me.' Come, captain."
Mr. Milsom opened the door, and ushered his visitor into the lively
abode, which the prejudice of weak-minded people permitted him to
occupy rent-free.
The girl whom Jernam had seen at the Wapping public-house was sitting
by the hearth, where a scrap of fire burnt in a rusty grate. She had
been sitting in a listless attitude, with her hands lying idle on her
lap, and her eyes fixed on the fire; but she looked up as the two men
entered.
She did not welcome her father's return with any demonstration of
affection; she looked at him with a strange, wondering gaze; and she
looked with an anxious expression from him to his companion.
Dennis Wayman came in presently, and as the girl recognized him, a
transient look, almost like horror, flitted across her face, unseen by
the sailor.
"Come, Jenny," said Milsom; "I've brought Wayman and a friend of his
down to supper. What can you give us to eat? There's a bit of cold beef
in the house, I know, and bread and cheese; the captain here has
brought the wine; so we shall do well enough. Look sharp, lass. You're
in one of your tempers to-night, I suppose; but you ought to know that
don't answer with me. I say, captain," added the man, with a laugh, "if
ever you're going to marry a pretty woman, make sure she isn't troubled
with an ugly temper; for you'll find, as a rule, that the handsomer a
woman is the more of the devil there is in her. Now, Jenny, the supper,
and no nonsense about it."
The girl went into another room, and returned presently with such fare
as Mr. Milsom's establishment could afford. The sailor's eyes followed
her wherever she went, full of compassion and love. He was sure this
brutal wretch, Milsom, used her badly, and he rejoiced to think that he
had disregarded all Joyce Harker's warnings, and penetrated into the
scoundrel's home. He rejoiced, for he meant to rescue this lovely,
helpless creature. He knew nothing of her, except that she was
beautiful, friendless, lonely, and ill-used; and he determined to take
her away and marry her.
He did not perplex himself with any consideration as to whether she
would return his love, or be grateful for his devotion. He thought only
of her unhappy position, and that he was predestined to save her.
The supper was laid upon the rickety deal table, and the three men sat
down. Valentine would have waited till his host's daughter had seated
herself; but she had laid no plate or knife for herself, and it was
evident that she was not expected to share the social repast.
"You can go to bed now," said Milsom. "We're in for a jolly night of
it, and you'll only be in the way. Where's the old man?"
"Gone to bed."
"So much the better: and the sooner you follow him will be so much the
better again. Good night."
The girl did not answer him. She looked at him for a few moments with
an earnest, inquiring gaze, which seemed to compel him to return her
look, as if he had been fascinated by the profound earnestness of those
large dark eyes; and then she went slowly and silently from the room.
"Sulky!" muttered Mr. Milsom. "There never was such a girl to sulk."
He took up a candle, and followed his daughter from the room.
A rickety old staircase led to the upper floor, where there were three
or four bed-chambers. The house had been originally something more than
a cottage, and the rooms and passages were tolerably large.
Thomas Milsom found the girl standing at the top of the stairs, as if
waiting for some one.
"What are you standing mooning there for?" asked the man. "Why don't
you go to bed?"
"Why have you brought that sailor here?" inquired the girl, without
noticing Milsom's question.
"What's that to you? You'd like to know my business, wouldn't you? I've
brought him here because he wanted to come. Is that a good answer? I've
brought him here because he has money to lose, and is in the humour to
lose it. Is that a better answer?"
"Yes," returned the girl, fixing her eyes upon him with a look of
horror; "you will win his money, and, if he is angry, there will be a
quarrel, as there was on that hideous night three years ago, when you
brought home the foreign sailor, and what happened to that man will
happen to this one. Father," cried the girl, suddenly and passionately,
"let this man leave the house in safety. I sometimes think my heart is
almost as hard as yours; but this man trusts us. Don't let any harm
come to him."
"Why, what harm should come to him?"
For some time the girl called Jenny stood before her father in silence,
with her head bent, and her face in shadow; then she lifted her head
suddenly, and looked at him piteously.
"The other!" she murmured; "the other! I remember what happened to him."
"Come, drop that!" cried Milsom, savagely; "do you think I'm going to
stand your mad talk? Get to bed, and go to sleep. And the sounder you
sleep the better, unless you want to sleep uncommonly sound for the
future, my lady."
The ruffian seized his daughter by the arm, and half pushed, half flung
her into a room, the door of which stood open. It was the dreary room
which she called her own. Milsom shut the door upon her, and locked it
with a key which he took from his pocket--a key which locked every door
in the house. "And now, I flatter myself, you're safe, my pretty
singing-bird," he muttered.
He went down stairs, and returned to his guest, who had been pressed to
eat and drink by Dennis Wayman, and who had yielded good-naturedly to
that gentleman's hospitable attentions.
* * * * *
Alone in her room, Jenny Milsom opened the window, and sat looking out
into the inky darkness of the night, and listening to the voices of the
three men in the room below.
The voices sounded very distinctly in that dilapidated old house. Every
now and then a hearty shout of laughter seemed to shake the crazy
rafters; but presently the revellers grew silent. Jenny knew they were
busy with the cards.
"Yes, yes," she murmured; "it all happens as it happened that
night--first the loud voices and laughter; then the silence;
then--Great Heaven! will the end be like the end of that night?"
She clasped her hands in silent agony, and sank in a crouching position
by the open window, with her head lying on the sill.
For hours this wretched girl sat upon the floor in the same attitude,
with the cold wind blowing in upon her. All seemed tranquil in the room
below. The voices sounded now and then, subdued and cautious, and there
were no more outbursts of jovial laughter.
A dim, gray streak glimmered faint and low in the east--the first pale
flicker of dawn. The girl raised her weary eyes towards that chill gray
light.
"Oh! if this night were only ended!" she murmured: "if it were only
ended without harm!"
The words were still upon her lips, when the voices sounded loud and
harsh from the room below. The girl started to her feet, white and
trembling. Louder with every moment grew those angry voices. Then came
a struggle; some article of furniture fell with a crash; there was the
sound of shivered glass, and then a dull heavy noise, which echoed
through the house, and shook the weather-beaten wooden walls to their
foundations.
After the fall there came the sound of one loud groan, and then subdued
murmurs, cautious whispers.
The window of Jenny Milsom's room looked towards the road. From that
window she could see nothing of the sluggish ditch or the river.
She tried the door of her room. It was securely locked, as she had
expected to find it.
"They would kill me, if I tried to come between them and their victim,"
she said; "and I am afraid to die."
She crept to her wretched bed, and flung herself down, dressed as she
was. She drew the thin patchwork coverlet round her.
Ten minutes after she had thrown herself upon the bed, a key turned in
the lock, and the door was opened by a stealthy hand. Black Milsom
looked into the room.
The cold glimmer of day fell full upon the girl's pale face. Her eyes
were closed, and her breathing was loud and regular.
"Asleep," he whispered to some one outside; "as safe as a rock."
He drew back and closed the door softly.
* * * * *
Joyce Harker worked his hardest on board the 'Pizarro', and the repairs
were duly completed by the 4th of April. On the morning of the 5th the
vessel was a picture, and Joyce surveyed her with the pride of a man
who feels that he has not worked in vain.
He had set his heart upon the brothers celebrating the first day of
their re-union on board the trim little craft: and he had made
arrangements for the preparation of a dinner which was to be a triumph
in its way.
Joyce presented himself at the bar of the 'Jolly Tar' at half-past
eleven on the appointed morning. He expected that the brothers would be
punctual; but he did not expect either of them to appear before the
stroke of noon.
All was very quiet at the 'Jolly Tar' at this hour of the day. The
landlord was alone in the bar, reading a paper. He looked up as Joyce
entered; but did not appear to recognize him.
"Can I step through into your private room?" asked Joyce; "I expect
Captain Jernam and his brother to meet me here in half an hour."
"To be sure you can, mate. There's no one in the private room at this
time of day. Jernam--Jernam, did you say? What Jernam is that? I don't
recollect the name."
"You've a short memory," answered Joyce; "you might remember Captain
Jernam of the 'Pizarro'; for it isn't above a week since he was here
with me. He dined here, and slept here, and left early in the morning,
though you were uncommonly pressing for him to stay."
"We've so many captains and sailors in and out from year's end to
year's end, that I don't remember them by name," said Dennis Wayman;
"but I do remember your friend, mate, now you remind me of him; and I
remember you, too."
"Yes," said Joyce, with a grin; "there ain't so many of my pattern.
I'll take a glass of rum for the good of the house; and if you can lend
me a paper, I'll skim the news of the day while I'm waiting."
Joyce passed into the little room, where Dennis took him the newspaper
and the rum.
Twelve o'clock struck, and the clerk began to watch and to listen for
the opening of the door, or the sound of a footstep in the passage
outside. The time seemed very long to him, watching and listening. The
minute-hand of the Dutch clock moved slowly on. He turned every now and
then towards the dusky corner where the clock hung, to see what
progress that slow hand had made upon the discoloured dial.
He waited thus for an hour.
"What does it mean?" he thought. "Valentine Jernam so faithfully
promised to be punctual. And then he's so fond of his brother. He'd
scarcely care to be a minute behindhand, when he has the chance of
seeing Captain George."
Joyce went into the bar. The landlord was scrutinizing the address of a
letter--a foreign letter.
"Didn't you say your friend's name was Jernam?" he asked.
"I did."
"Then this letter must be for him. It has been lying here for the last
two or three days; but I forgot all about it till just this minute."
Joyce took the letter. It was addressed to Captain Valentine Jernam, of
the 'Pizarro', at the 'Jolly Tar', care of the landlord, and it came
from the Cape of Good Hope.
Joyce recognized George Jernam's writing.
"This means a disappointment," he thought, as he turned the letter over
and over slowly; "there'll be no meeting yet awhile. Captain George is
off to the East Indies on some new venture, I dare say. But what can
have become of Captain Valentine? I'll go down to the 'Golden Cross,'
and see if he's there."
He told Dennis Wayman where he was going, and left a message for his
captain. From Ratcliff Highway to Charing Cross was a long journey for
Joyce; but he had no idea of indulging in any such luxury as a
hackney-coach. It was late in the afternoon when he reached the hotel;
and there he was doomed to encounter a new disappointment.
Captain Jernam had been there on the second of the month, and had never
been there since. He had left in the forenoon, after saying that he
should return at night; and in evidence that such had been his
intention, the waiter told Joyce that the captain had left a
carpet-bag, containing clean linen and a change of clothes.
"He's broken his word to me, and he's got into bad hands," thought
Harker. "He's as simple as a child, and he's got into bad hands. But
how and where? He'd never, surely, go back to the 'Jolly Tar', after
what I said to him. And where else can he have gone? I know no more
where to look for him in this great overgrown London than if I was a
new-born baby."
In his perfect ignorance of his captain's movements, there was only one
thing that Joyce Harker could do, and that was to go back to the "Jolly
Tar," with a faint hope of finding Valentine Jernam there.
It was dusk by the time he got back to Ratcliff Highway, and the
flaring gas-lamps were lighted. The bar of the tavern was crowded, and
the tinkling notes of the old piano sounded feebly from the inner room.
Dennis Wayman was serving his customers, and Thomas Milsom was drinking
at the bar. Joyce pushed his way to the landlord.
"Have you seen anything of the captain?" he asked.
"No, he hasn't been here since you left."
"You're sure of that?"
"Quite sure."
"He's not been here to day; but he's been here within the week, hasn't
he? He was here on Tuesday, if I'm not misinformed."
"Then you _are_ misinformed," Wayman said, coolly; "for your seafaring
friend hasn't darkened my doors since the morning you and he left to go
to the coach-office."
Joyce could say nothing further. He passed through the passage into the
public room, where the so-called concert had begun. Jenny Milsom was
singing to the noisy audience.
The girl was very pale, and her manner and attitude, as she sat by the
piano, were even more listless than usual.
Joyce Harker did not stop long in the concert-room. He went back to the
bar. This time there was no one but Milsom and Wayman in the bar, and
the two seemed to be talking earnestly as Joyce entered.
They left off, and looked up at the sound of the clerk's footsteps.
"Tired of the music already?" asked Wayman.
"I didn't come here to hear music," answered Joyce; "I came to look for
my captain. He had an appointment to meet his brother here to-day at
twelve o'clock, and it isn't like him to break it. I'm beginning to get
uneasy about him."
"But why should you be uneasy? The captain is big enough, and old
enough, to take care of himself," said the landlord, with a laugh.
"Yes; but then you see, mate, there are some men who never know how to
take care of themselves when they get into bad company. There isn't a
better sailor than Valentine Jernam, or a finer fellow at sea; but I
don't think, if you searched from one end of this city to the other,
you'd find a greater innocent on shore. I'm afraid of his having fallen
into bad hands, Mr. Wayman, for he had a goodish bit of money about
him; and there's land-sharks as dangerous as those you meet with on the
sea."
"So there are, mate," answered the landlord; "and there's some queer
characters about this neighbourhood, for the matter of that."
"I dare say you're right, Mr. Wayman," returned Joyce; "and I'll tell
you what it is. If any harm has come to Valentine Jernam, let those
that have done the harm look out for themselves. Perhaps they don't
know what it is to hurt a man that's got a faithful dog at his heels.
Let them hide themselves where they will, and let them be as cunning as
they will, the dog will smell them out, sooner or later, and will tear
them to pieces when he finds them. I'm Captain Jernam's dog, Mr. Dennis
Wayman; and if I don't find my master, I'll hunt till I do find those
that have got him out of the way. I don't know what's amiss with me
to-night; but I've got a feeling come over me that I shall never look
in Valentine Jernam's honest face again. If I'm right, Lord help the
scoundrels who have plotted against him, for it'll be the business of
my life to track them down, and bring their crime home to them--and
I'll do it."
After having said this, slowly and deliberately, with an appalling
earnestness of voice and manner, Joyce Harker looked from Dennis Wayman
to Black Milsom, and this time the masks they were accustomed to wear
did not serve these scoundrels so well as usual, for in the faces of
both there was a look of fear.
"I am going to search for my captain," said Joyce. "Good night, mates."
He left the tavern. The two men looked at each other earnestly as the
door closed upon him.
"A dangerous man," said Dennis Wayman.
"Bah!" muttered Black Milsom, savagely; "who's afraid of a hunchback's
bluster? I dare say he wanted the handling of the money himself."
All that night Joyce Harker wandered to and fro amidst the haunts of
sailors and merchant captains; but wander where he would, and inquire
of whom he would, he could obtain no tidings of the missing man.
Towards daybreak, he took a couple of hours' sleep in a tavern at
Shadwell, and with the day his search began again.
Throughout that day the same patient search continued, the same
inquiries were repeated with indomitable perseverance, in every likely
and unlikely place; but everywhere the result was failure.
It was towards dusk that Joyce Harker turned his back upon a tavern in
Rotherhithe, and set his face towards the river bank.
"I have looked long enough for him among the living," he said; "I must
look for him now amongst the dead."
Before midnight the search was ended. Amongst the printed bills
flapping on dreary walls in that river-side neighbourhood, Joyce Harker
had discovered the description of a man "found drowned." The
description fitted Valentine Jernam, and the body had been found within
the last two days.
Joyce went to the police-office where the man was lying. He had no need
to look at the poor dead face--the dark, handsome face, which was so
familiar to him.
"I expected as much," he said to the official who had admitted him to
see the body; "he had money about him, and he has fallen into the hands
of scoundrels."
"You don't think it was an accident?"
"No; he has been murdered, sir. And I think I know the men who did it."
"You know the men?"
"Yes; but my knowledge won't help to avenge his death, if I can't bring
it home to them--and I don't suppose I can. There'll be a coroner's
inquest, won't there?"
At the inquest, next day, Joyce Harker told his story; but that story
threw very little light on the circumstances of Valentine Jernam's
death.
The investigation before the coroner set at rest all question as to the
means by which the captain had met his death. A medical examination
demonstrated that he had been murdered by a blow on the back of the
head, inflicted by some sharp heavy instrument. The unfortunate man
must have died before he was thrown into the water.
The verdict of the coroner's jury was to the effect that Valentine
Jernam had been wilfully murdered by some person or persons unknown.
And with this verdict Joyce Harker was obliged to be content. His
suspicions he dared not mention in open court. They were too vague and
shadowy. But he called upon a celebrated Bow Street officer, and
submitted the case to him. It was a case for secret inquiry, for
careful investigation; and Joyce offered a handsome reward out of his
own savings.
While this secret investigation was in progress, Joyce opened the
letter addressed to Valentine by his brother George.
"DEAR VAL," wrote the sailor: "_I have been tempted to make another
trip to Calcutta with a cargo shipped at Lisbon, and shall not be able
to meet you in London on the 5th of April. It will be ten or twelve
months before I see England again; but when I do come back, I hope to
add something handsome to our joint fortunes. I long to see your honest
face, and grasp your hand again; but the chance of a big prize lures me
out yonder. We are both young, and have all the world before us, so we
can afford to wait a year or two. Bank the money; Joyce will tell you
where, and how to do it; and let me know your plans before you leave
London. A letter addressed to me, care of Riverdale and Co., Calcutta,
will be safe. Good luck to you, dear old boy, now and always, and every
good wish.--From your affectionate brother_," "GEORGE JERNAM."
It was Joyce Harker's melancholy task to tell Valentine Jernam's
younger brother the story of the seaman's death. He wrote a long
letter, recording everything that had happened within his knowledge,
from the moment of the 'Pizarro' reaching Gravesend to the discovery of
Valentine's body in the river-side police office. He told George the
impression that had been made upon his brother by the ballad-singer's
beauty.
"_I think that this girl and these two men, her father, Thomas Milsom,
and Dennis Wayman, the landlord of the 'Jolly Tar', are in the
secret--are, between them, the murderers of your brother. I think that
when he broke his promise to me, and came back to this end of London,
before the fifth, he came lured by that girl's beauty. It is to the
girl we must look for a key to the secret of his death. I do not expect
to extort anything from the fears of the men. They are both hardened
villains; and if, as I believe, they are guilty of this crime, it is
not likely to be the first in which they have been engaged. The police
are on the watch, and I have promised a liberal reward for any
discoveries they may make; but it is very slow work_."
This, and much more, Joyce Harker wrote to George Jernam. The letter
was written immediately after the inquest; and on the night succeeding
that inquiry, Joyce went to the 'Jolly Tar', in the hope of seeing
Jenny Milsom. But he was doomed to disappointment; for in the
concert-room at Dennis Wayman's tavern he found a new singer--a fat,
middle-aged woman, with red hair.
"What has become of the pretty girl who used to sing here?" he asked
the landlord.
"Milsom's daughter?" said Wayman. "Oh, we've lost her She was a regular
she-devil, it seems. Her father and she had a row, and the girl ran
away. She can get her living anywhere with that voice of hers; and I
don't suppose Milsom treated her over well. He's a rough fellow, but an
honest one."
"Yes," answered Joyce, with a sneer; "he seems uncommonly honest.
There's a good deal of that sort of honesty about this neighbourhood, I
think, mate. I suppose you've heard about my captain?"
"Not a syllable. Is there anything wrong with him?"
"Ah! news seems to travel slowly down here. There was an inquest held
this morning, not so many miles from this house."
The landlord shrugged his shoulders.
"I've been busy in-doors all day, and I haven't heard anything," he
said.
Joyce told the story of his captain's fate, to which Dennis Wayman
listened with every appearance of sympathy.
"And you've no idea what has become of the girl?" Harker asked, after
having concluded his story.
"No more than the dead. She's cut and run, that's all I know."
"Has her father gone after her?"
"Not a bit of it. He's not that sort of man. She has chosen to take
herself off, and her father will let her go her own way."
"And her grandfather, the old blind man?"
"He has gone with her."
There was no more to be said about the girl after this.
"I'll tell you what it is, Mr. Wayman," said Joyce, "I'm likely to be a
good bit down in this neighbourhood, while I'm waiting for directions
about my poor captain's ship from his brother Captain George, and as
your house suits me as well as any other, I may as well take up my
quarters here. I know you've got plenty of room, and you'll find me a
quiet lodger."
"So be it," answered the landlord, promptly. "I'm agreeable."
Joyce deliberated profoundly as he walked away from the 'Jolly Tar'
that night.
"He's too deep to be caught easily," he thought. "He'll let me into his
house, because he knows there's nothing I can find out, watch as I may.
Such a murder as that leaves no trace behind it. If I had been able to
get hold of the girl, I might have frightened her into telling me
something; but it's clear to me she has really bolted, or Wayman would
never let me into his house."
For weeks Joyce Harker was a lodger at the 'Jolly Tar'; always on the
watch; always ready to seize upon the smallest clue to the mystery of
Valentine Jernam's death; but nothing came of his watching.
The police did their best to discover the key to the dreadful secret;
but they worked in vain. The dead man's money had been partly in notes
and gold, partly in bills of exchange. It was easy enough to dispose of
such bills in the City. There were men ready to take them at a certain
price, and to send them abroad; men who never ask questions of their
customers.
So there was little chance of any light being thrown on this dark and
evil mystery. Joyce watched and waited with dog-like fidelity, ready to
seize upon the faintest clue; but he waited and watched in vain.
* * * * *