FRIENDS IN COUNCIL
The Wattle Tree Hotel, to which Mr McIntosh had directed Pierre, was a
quiet little public-house in a quiet street. It was far away from the
main thoroughfares of the city, and a stranger had to go up any number
of quiet streets to get to it, and turn and twist round corners and down
narrow lanes until it became a perfect miracle how he ever found the
hotel at all.
To a casual spectator it would seem that a tavern so difficult of access
would not be very good for business, but Simon Twexby, the landlord,
knew better. It had its regular customers, who came there day after day,
and sat in the little back parlour and talked and chatted over their
drinks. The Wattle Tree was such a quiet haven of rest, and kept such
good liquor, that once a man discovered it he always came back again; so
Mr Twexby did a very comfortable trade.
Rumour said he had made a lot of money out of gold-mining, and that he
kept the hotel more for amusement than anything else; but, however this
might be, the trade of the Wattle Tree brought him in a very decent
income, and Mr Twexby could afford to take things easy--which he
certainly did.
Anyone going into the bar could see old Simon--a stolid, fat man, with
a sleepy-looking face, always in his shirt sleeves, and wearing a white
apron, sitting in a chair at the end, while his daughter, a sharp,
red-nosed damsel, who was thirty-five years of age, and confessed to
twenty-two, served out the drinks. Mrs Twexby had long ago departed this
life, leaving behind her the sharp, red-nosed damsel to be her father’s
comfort. As a matter of fact, she was just the opposite, and Simon often
wished that his daughter had departed to a better world in company with
her mother. Thin, tight-laced, with a shrill voice and an acidulated
temper, Miss Twexby was still a spinster, and not even the fact of her
being an heiress could tempt any of the Ballarat youth to lead her to
the altar. Consequently Miss Twexby’s temper was not a golden one, and
she ruled the hotel and its inmates--her father included--with a rod of
iron.
Mr Villiers was a frequent customer at the Wattle Tree, and was in the
back parlour drinking brandy and water and talking to old Twexby on the
day that Pierre arrived. The dumb man came into the bar out of the dusty
road, and, leaning over the counter, pushed a letter under Miss Twexby’s
nose.
‘Bills?’ queried that damsel, sharply.
Pierre, of course, did not answer, but touched his lips with his hand to
indicate he was dumb. Miss Twexby, however, read the action another way.
‘You want a drink,’ she said, with a scornful toss of her head. ‘Where’s
your money?’
Pierre pointed out the letter, and although it was directed to her
father, Miss Twexby, who managed everything, opened it and found it was
from McIntosh, saying that the bearer, Pierre Lemaire, was to have a bed
for the night, meals, drinks, and whatever else he required, and that
he--McIntosh--would be responsible for the money. He furthermore added
that the bearer was dumb.
‘Oh, so you’re dumb, are you,’ said Miss Twexby, folding up the letter
and looking complacently at Pierre. ‘I wish there were a few more men
the same way; then, perhaps, we’d have less chat.’
This being undeniable, the fair Martha--for that was the name of the
Twexby heiress--without waiting for any assent, walking into the back
parlour, read the letter to her father, and waited instructions, for she
always referred to Simon as the head of the house, though as a matter of
fact she never did what she was told save when it tallied with her own
wishes.
‘It will be all right, Martha, I suppose,’ said Simon sleepily.
Martha asserted with decision that it would be all right, or she would
know the reason why; then marching out again to the bar, she drew a pot
of beer for Pierre--without asking him what he would have--and ordered
him to sit down and be quiet, which last remark was rather unnecessary,
considering that the man was dumb. Then she sat down behind her bar
and resumed her perusal of a novel called ‘The Duke’s Duchesses, or
The Milliner’s Mystery,’ which contained a ducal hero with bigamistic
proclivities, and a virtuous milliner whom the aforesaid duke
persecuted. All of which was very entertaining and improbable, and gave
Miss Twexby much pleasure, judging from the sympathetic sighs she was
heaving.
Meanwhile, Villiers having heard the name of Pierre Lemaire, and knowing
he was engaged in the Pactolus claim, came round to see him and try
to find out all about the nugget. Pierre was sulky at first, and sat
drinking his beer sullenly, with his old black hat drawn down so far
over his eyes that only his bushy black beard was visible, but Mr
Villiers’ suavity, together with the present of half-a-crown, had a
marked effect on him. As he was dumb, Mr Villiers was somewhat perplexed
how to carry on a conversation with him, but he ultimately drew forth a
piece of paper, and sketched a rough presentation of a nugget thereon,
which he showed to Pierre. The Frenchman, however, did not comprehend
until Villiers produced a sovereign from his pocket, and pointed first
to the gold, and then to the drawing, upon which Pierre nodded his head
several times in order to show that he understood. Villiers then drew a
picture of the Pactolus claim, and asked Pierre in French if the nugget
was still there, as he showed him the sketch. Pierre shook his head,
and, taking the pencil in his hand, drew a rough representation of a
horse and cart, and put a square box in the latter to show the nugget
was on a journey.
‘Hullo!’ said Villiers to himself, ‘it’s not at her own house, and she’s
driving somewhere with it, I wonder where to?’
Pierre--who not being able to write, was in the habit of drawing
pictures to express his thoughts--nudged his elbow and showed him a
sketch of a man in a box waving his arms.
‘Auctioneer?’ hazarded Mr Villiers, looking at this keenly. Pierre
stared at him blankly; his comprehension of English was none of the
best, so he did not know what auctioneer meant. However, he saw that
Villiers did not understand, so he rapidly sketched an altar with a
priest standing before it blessing the people.
‘Oh, a priest, eh?--a minister?’ said Villiers, nodding his head to show
he understood. ‘She’s taken the nugget to show it to a minister! Wonder
who it is?’
This was speedily answered by Pierre, who, throwing down the pencil and
paper, dragged him outside on to the road, and pointed to the white top
of the Black Hill. Mr Villiers instantly comprehended.
‘Marchurst, by God!’ he said in English, smiting his leg with his open
hand. ‘Is Madame there now?’ he added in French, turning to Pierre.
The dumb man nodded and slouched slowly back into the hotel. Villiers
stood out in the blazing sunshine, thinking.
‘She’s got the nugget with her in the trap,’ he said to himself; ‘and
she’s taken it to show Marchurst. Well, she’s sure to stop there to tea,
and won’t start for home till about nine o’clock: it will be pretty dark
by then. She’ll be by herself, and if I--’ here he stopped and looked
round cautiously, and then, without another word, set off down the
street at a run.
The fact was, Mr Villiers had come to the conclusion that as his wife
would not give him money willingly, the best thing to be done would be
to take it by force, and accordingly he had made up his mind to rob her
of the nugget that night if possible. Of course there was a risk, for
he knew his wife was a determined woman; still, while she was driving in
the darkness down the hill, if he took her by surprise he would be able
to stun her with a blow and get possession of the nugget. Then he could
hide it in one of the old shafts of the Black Hill Company until he
required it. As to the possibility of his wife knowing him, there would
be no chance of that in the darkness, so he could escape any unpleasant
inquiries, then take the nugget to Melbourne and get it melted down
secretly. He would be able to make nearly twelve hundred pounds out
of it, so the game would certainly be worth the candle. Full of this
brilliant idea of making a good sum at one stroke, Mr Villiers went
home, had something to eat, and taking with him a good stout stick, the
nob of which was loaded with lead, he started for the Black Hill with
the intent of watching Marchurst’s house until his wife left there, and
then following her down the hill and possessing himself of the nugget.
The afternoon wore drowsily along, and the great heat made everybody
inclined to sleep. Pierre had demanded by signs to be shown his bedroom,
and having been conducted thereto by a crushed-looking waiter, who
drifted aimlessly before him, threw himself on the bed and went fast
asleep.
Old Simon, in the dimly-lit back parlour, was already snoring, and only
Miss Twexby, amid the glitter of the glasses in the bar and the glare
of the sunshine through the open door, was wide awake. Customers came
in for foaming tankards of beer, and sometimes a little girl, with a jug
hidden under her apron, would appear, with a request that it might be
filled for ‘mother’, who was ironing. Indeed, the number of women who
were ironing that afternoon, and wanted to quench their thirst, was
something wonderful; but Miss Twexby seemed to know all about it as she
put a frothy head on each jug, and received the silver in exchange.
At last, however, even Martha the wide-awake was yielding to the
somniferous heat of the day when a young man entered the bar and made
her sit up with great alacrity, beaming all over her hard wooden face.
This was none other than M. Vandeloup, who had come down to see Pierre.
Dressed in flannels, with a blue scarf tied carelessly round his waist,
a blue necktie knotted loosely round his throat under the collar of his
shirt, and wearing a straw hat on his fair head, he looked wonderfully
cool and handsome, and as he leaned over the counter composedly smoking
a cigarette, Miss Twexby thought that the hero of her novel must have
stepped bodily out of the book. Gaston stared complacently at her while
he pulled at his fair moustache, and thought how horribly plain-looking
she was, and what a contrast to his charming Bebe.
‘I’ll take something cool to drink,’ he said, with a yawn, ‘and also a
chair, if you have no objection,’ suiting the action to the word; ‘whew!
how warm it is.’
‘What would you like to drink, sir?’ asked the fair Martha, putting on
her brightest smile, which seemed rather out of place on her features;
‘brandy and soda?’
‘Thank you, I’ll have a lemon squash if you will kindly make me one,’ he
said, carelessly, and as Martha flew to obey his order, he added, ‘you
might put a little curacoa in it.’
‘It’s very hot, ain’t it,’ observed Miss Twexby, affably, as she cut up
the lemon; ‘par’s gone to sleep in the other room,’ jerking her head in
the direction of the parlour, ‘but Mr Villiers went out in all the heat,
and it ain’t no wonder if he gets a sunstroke.’
‘Oh, was Mr Villiers here?’ asked Gaston, idly, not that he cared much
about that gentleman’s movements, but merely for something to say.
‘Lor, yes, sir,’ giggled Martha, ‘he’s one of our regulars, sir.’
‘I can understand that, Mademoiselle,’ said Vandeloup, bowing as he took
the drink from her hand.
Miss Twexby giggled again, and her nose grew a shade redder at the
pleasure of being bantered by this handsome young man.
‘You’re a furriner,’ she said, shortly; ‘I knew you were,’ she went on
triumphantly as he nodded, ‘you talk well enough, but there’s something
wrong about the way you pronounces your words.’
Vandeloup hardly thought Miss Twexby a mistress of Queen’s English, but
he did not attempt to contradict her.
‘I must get you to give me a few lessons,’ he replied, gallantly,
setting down the empty glass; ‘and what has Mr Villiers gone out into
the heat for?’
‘It’s more nor I can tell,’ said Martha, emphatically, nodding her head
till the short curls dangling over her ears vibrated as if they were
made of wire. ‘He spoke to the dumb man and drew pictures for him, and
then off he goes.’
The dumb man! Gaston pricked up his ears at this, and, wondering what
Villiers wanted to talk to Pierre about, he determined to find out.
‘That dumb man is one of our miners from the Pactolus,’ he said,
lighting another cigarette; ‘I wish to speak to him--has he gone out
also?’
‘No, he ain’t,’ returned Miss Twexby, decisively; ‘he’s gone to lie
down; d’ye want to see him; I’ll send for him--’ with her hand on the
bell-rope.
‘No, thank you,’ said Vandeloup, stopping her, ‘I’ll go up to his room
if you will show me the way.’
‘Oh, I don’t mind,’ said Martha, preparing to leave the bar, but first
ringing the bell so that the crushed-looking waiter might come and
attend to possible customers; ‘he’s on the ground floor, and there ain’t
no stairs to climb--now what are you looking at, sir?’ with another
gratified giggle, as she caught Vandeloup staring at her.
But he was not looking at her somewhat mature charms, but at a bunch of
pale blue flowers, among which were some white blossoms she wore in the
front of her dress.
‘What are these?’ he asked, touching the white blossoms lightly with his
finger.
‘I do declare it’s that nasty hemlock!’ said Martha, in surprise,
pulling the white flowers out of the bunch; ‘and I never knew it was
there. Pah!’ and she threw the blossom down with a gesture of disgust.
‘How they smell!’
Gaston picked up one of the flowers, and crushed it between his fingers,
upon which it gave out a peculiar mousy odour eminently disagreeable. It
was hemlock sure enough, and he wondered how such a plant had come into
Australia.
‘Does it grow in your garden?’ he asked Martha.
That damsel intimated it did, and offered to show him the plant, so that
he could believe his own eyes.
Vandeloup assented eagerly, and they were soon in the flower garden at
the back of the house, which was blazing with vivid colours, in the hot
glare of the sunshine.
‘There you are,’ said Miss Twexby, pointing to a corner of the garden
near the fence where the plant was growing; ‘par brought a lot of seeds
from home, and that beastly thing got mixed up with them. Par keeps it
growing, though, ‘cause no one else has got it. It’s quite a curiosity.’
Vandeloup bent down and examined the plant, with its large, round,
smooth, purple-spotted stem--its smooth, shining green leaves, and the
tiny white flowers with their disagreeable odour.
‘Yes, it is hemlock,’ he said, half to himself; ‘I did not know it could
be grown here. Some day, Mademoiselle,’ he said, turning to Miss Twexby
and walking back to the house with her, ‘I will ask you to let me have
some of the roots of that plant to make an experiment with.’
‘As much as you like,’ said the fair Martha, amiably; ‘it’s a nasty
smelling thing. What are you going to make out of it?’
‘Nothing particular,’ returned Vandeloup, with a yawn, as they entered
the house and stopped at the door of Pierre’s room. ‘I’m a bit of a
chemist, and amuse myself with these things.’
‘You are clever,’ observed Martha, admiringly; ‘but here’s that man’s
room--we didn’t give him the best’--apologetically--‘as miners are so
rough.’
‘Mademoiselle,’ said Vandeloup, eagerly, as she turned to go, ‘I see
there are a few blossoms of hemlock left in your flower there,’ touching
it with his finger; ‘will you give them to me?’
Martha Twexby stared; surely this was the long-expected come at
last--she had secured a lover; and such a lover--handsome, young, and
gallant,--the very hero of her dreams. She almost fainted in delighted
surprise, and unfastening the flowers with trembling fingers, gave them
to Gaston. He placed them in a button-hole of his flannel coat, then
before she could scream, or even draw back in time, this audacious young
man put his arm round her and kissed her virginal lips. Miss Twexby was
so taken by surprise, that she could offer no resistance, and by the
time she had recovered herself, Gaston had disappeared into Pierre’s
room and closed the door after him.
‘Well,’ she said to herself, as she returned to the bar, ‘if that isn’t
a case of love at first sight, my name ain’t Martha Twexby,’ and she sat
down in the bar with her nerves all of a flutter, as she afterwards told
a female friend who dropped in sometimes for a friendly cup of tea.
Gaston closed the door after him, and found himself in a moderately
large room, with one window looking on to the garden, and having a
dressing-table with a mirror in front of it. There were two beds, one on
each side, and on the farthest of these Pierre was sleeping heavily, not
even Gaston’s entrance having roused him. Going over to him, Vandeloup
touched him slightly, and with a spring the dumb man sat up in bed as if
he expected to be arrested, and was all on the alert to escape.
‘It’s only I, my friend,’ said Gaston, in French, crossing over to the
other bed and sitting on it. ‘Come here; I wish to speak to you.’
Pierre rose from his sleeping place, and, stumbling across the room,
stood before Gaston with downcast eyes, his shaggy hair all tossed and
tumbled by the contact with the pillow. Gaston himself coolly relit his
cigarette, which had gone out, threw his straw hat on the bed, and then,
curling one leg inside the other, looked long and keenly at Pierre.
‘You saw Madame’s husband to-day?’ he said sharply, still eyeing the
slouching figure before him, that seemed so restless under his steady
gaze.
Pierre nodded and shuffled his large feet.
‘Did he want to know about his wife?’
Another nod.
‘I thought so; and about the new nugget also, I presume?’
Still another nod.
‘Humph,’ thoughtfully. ‘He’d like to get a share of it, I’ve no doubt.’
The dumb man nodded violently; then, crossing over to his own bed,
he placed the pillow in the centre of it, and falling on his knees,
imitated the action of miners in working at the wash. Then he arose to
his feet and pointed to the pillow.
‘I see,’ said M. Vandeloup, who had been watching this pantomime with
considerable interest; ‘that pillow is the nugget of which our friend
wants a share.’
Pierre assented; then, snatching up the pillow, he ran with it to the
end of the room.
‘Oh,’ said Gaston, after a moment’s thought, ‘so he’s going to run away
with it. A very good idea; but how does he propose to get it?’
Pierre dropped his pillow and pointed in the direction of the Black
Hill.
‘Does he know it’s up there?’ asked Vandeloup; ‘you told him, I
suppose?’ As Pierre nodded, ‘Humph! I think I can see what Mr Villiers
intends to do--rob his wife as she goes home tonight.’
Pierre nodded in a half doubtful manner.
‘You’re not quite sure,’ interrupted M. Vandeloup, ‘but I am. He won’t
stop at anything to get money. You stay all night in town?’
The dumb man assented.
‘So do I,’ replied Vandeloup; ‘it’s a happy coincidence, because I see
a chance of our getting that nugget.’ Pierre’s dull eyes brightened, and
he rubbed his hands together in a pleased manner.
‘Sit down,’ said Vandeloup, in a peremptory tone, pointing to the floor.
‘I wish to tell you what I think.’
Pierre obediently dropped on to the floor, where he squatted like a huge
misshapen toad, while Vandeloup, after going to the door to see that
it was closed, returned to the bed, sat down again, and, having lighted
another cigarette, began to speak. All this precaution was somewhat
needless, as he was talking rapidly in French, but then M. Vandeloup
knew that walls have ears and possibly might understand foreign
languages.
‘I need hardly remind you,’ said Vandeloup, in a pleasant voice, ‘that
when we landed in Australia I told you that there was war between
ourselves and society, and that, at any cost, we must try to make money;
so far, we have only been able to earn an honest livelihood--a way of
getting rich which you must admit is remarkably slow. Here, however, is
a chance of making, if not a fortune, at least a good sum of money at
one stroke. This M. Villiers is going to rob his wife, and his plan
will no doubt be this: he will lie in wait for her, and when she drives
slowly down the hill, he will spring on to the trap and perhaps attempt
to kill her; at all events, he will seize the box containing the nugget,
and try to make off with it. How he intends to manage it I cannot tell
you--it must be left to the chapter of accidents; but,’ in a lower
voice, bending forward, ‘when he does get the nugget we must obtain it
from him.’
Pierre looked up and drew his hand across his throat.
‘Not necessarily,’ returned Vandeloup, coolly; ‘I know your adage, “dead
men tell no tales,” but it is a mistake--they do, and to kill him is
dangerous. No, if we stun him we can go off with the nugget, and then
make our way to Melbourne, where we can get rid of it quietly. As
to Madame Midas, if her husband allows her to live--which I think is
unlikely--I will make our excuses to her for leaving the mine. Now, I’m
going up to M. Marchurst’s house, so you can meet me at the top of the
hill, at eight o’clock tonight. Madame will probably start at half-past
eight or nine, so that will give us plenty of time to see what M.
Villiers is going to do.’
They both rose to their feet. Then Vandeloup put on his hat, and, going
to the glass, arranged his tie in as cool and nonchalant a manner as
if he had been merely planning the details for a picnic instead of a
possible crime. While admiring himself in the glass he caught sight of
the bunch of flowers given to him by Miss Twexby, and, taking them from
his coat, he turned round to Pierre, who stood watching him in his usual
sullen manner.
‘Do you see these?’ he asked, touching the white blossoms with the
cigarette he held between his fingers.
Pierre intimated that he did.
‘From the plant of these, my friend,’ said Vandeloup, looking at them
critically, ‘I can prepare a vegetable poison as deadly as any of Caesar
Borgia’s. It is a powerful narcotic, and leaves hardly any trace. Having
been a medical student, you know,’ he went on, conversationally, ‘I made
quite a study of toxicology, and the juice of this plant,’ touching the
white flower, ‘has done me good service, although it was the cause of my
exile to New Caledonia. Well,’ with a shrug of the shoulders as he
put the flowers back in his coat, ‘it is always something to have in
reserve; I did not know that I could get this plant here, my friend. But
now that I have I will prepare a little of this poison,--it will always
be useful in emergencies.’
Pierre looked steadily at the young man, and then slipping his hand
behind his back he drew forth from the waistband of his trousers a
long, sharp, cruel-looking knife, which for safety had a leather sheath.
Drawing this off, the dumb man ran his thumb along the keen edge, and
held the knife out towards Vandeloup, who refused it with a cynical
smile.
‘You don’t believe in this, I can see,’ he said, touching the dainty
bunch of flowers as Pierre put the knife in its sheath again and
returned it to its hiding-place. ‘I’m afraid your ideas are still
crude--you believe in the good old-fashioned style of blood-letting.
Quite a mistake, I assure you; poison is much more artistic and neat
in its work, and to my mind involves less risk. You see, my Pierre,’ he
continued, lazily watching the blue wreaths of smoke from his cigarette
curl round his head, ‘crime must improve with civilization; and since
the Cain and Abel epoch we have refined the art of murder in a most
wonderful manner--decidedly we are becoming more civilized; and now, my
friend,’ in a kind tone, laying his slender white hand on the shoulder
of the dumb man, ‘you must really take a little rest, for I have
no doubt but what you will need all your strength tonight should M.
Villiers prove obstinate. Of course,’ with a shrug, ‘if he does not
succeed in getting the nugget, our time will be simply wasted, and
then,’ with a gay smile, touching the flowers, ‘I will see what I can do
in the artistic line.’
Pierre lay down again on the bed, and turning his face to the wall fell
fast asleep, while M. Vandeloup, humming a merry tune, walked gaily out
of the room to the bar, and asked Miss Twexby for another drink.
‘Brandy and soda this time, please,’ he said, lazily lighting another
cigarette; ‘this heat is so enervating, and I’m going to walk up to
Black Hill. By the way, Mademoiselle,’ he went on, as she opened the
soda water, ‘as I see there are two beds in my friend’s room I will stay
here all night.’
‘You shall have the best room,’ said Martha, decisively, as she handed
him the brandy and soda.
‘You are too kind,’ replied M. Vandeloup, coolly, as he took the drink
from her, ‘but I prefer to stay with my silent friend. He was one of the
sailors in the ship when I was wrecked, as you have no doubt heard, and
looks upon me as a sort of fetish.’
Miss Twexby knew all about the wreck, and thought it was beautiful that
he should condescend to be so friendly with a common sailor. Vandeloup
received all her speeches with a polite smile, then set down his empty
glass and prepared to leave.
‘Mademoiselle,’ he said, touching the flowers, ‘you see I still have
them--they will remind me of you,’ and raising his hat he strolled idly
out of the hotel, and went off in the direction of the Black Hill.
Miss Twexby ran to the door, and shading her eyes with her hands from
the blinding glare of the sun, she watched him lounging along the
street, tall, slender, and handsome.
‘He’s just lovely,’ she said to herself, as she returned to the bar ‘but
his eyes are so wicked; I don’t think he’s a good young man.’
What would she have said if she had heard the conversation in the
bedroom?