MRS. LARKINS.
George Morton, of ⸺, Redcliffe Square, was supposed by his many friends
to be a retired solicitor. He was a man who lived in a comfortable
and respectable way, who gave largely to charities, who was a good
Church member, an affectionate father, and a kind husband. He was much
respected and looked up to in the neighbourhood, and no one would suspect
him of having anything to do with that disgraceful thing, an alias.
Nevertheless, Long John, of the Silver School, and George Morton, of
Redcliffe Square, were one and the same individual. He received Rowton’s
letter in the course of the evening, and its contents by no means
surprised him. The telegram, which had come early in the day, had given
him quite to understand that this troublesome member of his mob or school
was in a state of insurrection. Morton read the letter calmly, slipped
it into his pocket, and proceeded to discuss the soup in his plate. His
wife, a pretty little woman, who had not the faintest idea that her
husband was other than what he represented himself to be, looked at him
with the dawn of anxiety on her face.
“Does anything worry you, George?” she asked.
“No, nothing. Why do you ask?” he replied. He gave her a glance out of
his big and beautiful eyes, and she knew at once that he did not wish to
be questioned further.
“Have you to go out to-night, dear?” was her next query.
“Yes,” he answered; “I have just received a letter which requires
immediate attention.”
“Has it anything to do with the telegram which I opened in your absence?”
she asked—“the telegram with the queer words, ‘death imminent.’”
“I wish, Alice,” he answered, “that in future you would not open my
telegrams. No, the letter has nothing whatever to do with the telegram.
The latter referred to an affair on the Stock Exchange, and was a cipher.”
“Oh!” she answered, looking puzzled, as he meant her to be. “Then you
cannot come with me to the Norrises’ ‘At Home’?“ she said after a longer
pause.
“Not to-night; I must go to my club. I cannot say when I shall be in, so
will take the latchkey. Don’t sit up for me.”
Having finished his dinner, Morton presently went out.
His wife nodded brightly to him when he bade her good-bye, and soon
afterwards she went upstairs to her nursery. She kissed her children and
heard them say their prayers, and then went to dress for the “At Home,”
to which Morton could not accompany her.
* * * * *
At about the time that Long John, or Morton, received Rowton’s letter,
the detective, Crossley, had an epistle of extreme interest from Jacob
Short, the footman at Rowton Heights. He read it over with care and
conned the last sentence with special interest.
“There’s no doubt,” wrote Short, “that we have found our man.
He answers in every respect to the description which you
have had by you for so many years. The only thing now left
to discover is the mark on the upper lip. The man whom we
suspect—for safety I name no names here—although clean shaven
otherwise, wears a long and heavy moustache. I have tried once
or twice to steal secretly into his room when he was sleeping.
It even occurred to me to drug his wine, in order to ensure
that he might have such deep repose that I could lift his
moustache without his noticing it; but that opportunity has
never come. I doubt, too, whether the man, who is naturally
all suspicion, could arrive at such a state of slumber that
I could effect my object. It is necessary, of course, to
discover this mark, and it is my opinion that the wife is
the only person who will be able to find out whether her
husband conceals under his moustache the death’s head and
arrow.”
“True,” said Crossley to himself, “too true.”
Having finished his letter he put it into his pocket, and soon afterwards
went out. Hailing a cab, he drove to an address in Lambeth. His hansom
turned into a shabby side street, and drew up before a small and
decidedly common order of house. Crossley ran up the steps and rang the
bell. After a moment’s delay, a woman opened the door and stood before
him. She was a pale, anxious-faced woman, of middle age, untidy in
appearance, with unkempt, disorderly hair. Her eyes were sunken into her
head as if she had indulged in much and constant weeping. When she saw
Crossley, the colour rushed into her face, and she gave a violent and
perceptible start.
“How do you do, Mrs. Larkins?” said the detective.
Mrs. Larkins dropped a curtsey. Her words, when they did come out, were
uttered so quickly that they seemed to tumble one on top of the other.
“I beg your pardon, sir, I did not know you for the instant, standing
with your back to the light. Come in, sir, if you please.”
Crossley entered the little house without a word. The woman took him
into her parlour. She was a sempstress; a sewing machine stood on the
centre table, and a lot of plain linen was scattered about. A couple of
children, dirty and ill-fed, were quarrelling on the hearth-rug. They did
not look up or desist from their occupation of pulling each other’s hair
when Crossley and the mother entered.
“Send them away,” said the detective, pointing to them; “I want to see
you alone, and I am in a great hurry.”
“Run upstairs to granny, dears,” said the woman to the children. “Ask
granny to give you a bit of supper and put you to bed.”
“Granny says there ain’t nothing for supper except dry bread,” piped the
elder child, “and I don’t want dry bread; do you, Bobby?”
“No,” said Bobby, beginning to whimper. “I want cake.”
“Here,” said Crossley, putting his hand into his pocket and pulling out
half-a-crown, “take this to your granny and tell her to buy you some
cake.”
The elder child, young as she was, knew the value of money. She clutched
the coin eagerly, and ran out of the room, followed by her small brother.
“Them children, and myself, for that matter, are half starved,” said Mrs.
Larkins. “I’ve worked ’ard, as you can see, sir, but I can’t make the two
ends meet, no matter how I try. It do seem bitter ’ard, Mr. Crossley,
that you should not let me have the twenty pounds my husband hid away for
me. He knew well when he hid the money in that mug behind the dresser
that an evil day would come. He knew I would be safe to find the money
the first time I turned the room out. I say again, sir, it do seem ’ard
you should have taken it, for it were meant for me.”
“Shut up, woman,” said Crossley, “and let me speak. I did what I did for
a good purpose, and could do no otherwise. Your husband’s trial comes on
at the next assizes; he is certain to get his five years at the least.”
“Do you think so, indeed, sir? Oh, my poor Bill. And whatever will become
of me?” The woman raised her apron to her eyes and began to sob.
“It is impossible for me to say. Now, listen and stop crying if you can.
The fact is this; I know your case is a hard one. I have thought a good
bit about you and that twenty pounds which your husband saved away for
you in case he should be nabbed, as nabbed he was certain to be in the
end.”
“Yes, yes, sir, I am not going to defend him, but that money I do believe
he come by honest.”
“The less we talk on that subject, the better,” said Crossley. “Well,
now, look here. I found the money, and as, of course, I ought, I took it
with me because you had no possible right to it; but it so happens that
at the present moment I have got twenty pounds in my pocket—here, in my
waistcoat.” Crossley tapped himself as he spoke.
“Oh, sir, _that_ twenty pounds?”
“No matter to you what twenty pounds. I have twenty pounds in my pocket,
and you shall have it—yes, every penny of it, all in gold sovereigns,
too, if you’ll do what I want.”
“I’m sure there’s nothing I would not do for the money,” began Mrs.
Larkins.
“Then that is all right; you are a sensible woman when all is said and
done. Now, you just give me a little bit of information.”
At these words the poor woman’s face, which had gradually begun to
assume an expression of hope, turned once again to its old death-in-life
appearance. She shook her head feebly, and taking up a long seam of
needlework began to sew at it. “I cannot tell on poor Bill’s pals,”
she said; “no, I can’t, it’s no use asking me, so there. I won’t give
evidence agin them.”
“Very well,” said Crossley, “I can only say I am sorry for you. It is
quite out of my power to give you twenty pounds for nothing. If you help
me, I’ll help you. That is fair and above board, isn’t it? Now, will you
speak or will you not?”
“I cannot, sir; I really cannot.”
“Well, well, you have something to sell, and I want to buy it. I offer a
good price, but if you won’t accept, there’s an end of the matter. Good
evening to you, Mrs. Larkins.” Crossley placed his hat on his head as he
spoke and made for the door.
“Oh, sir!” said the poor woman, “if only you would see your way to give
me five pounds out of the twenty. Even five would save me, sir. I can’t
pay the rent, and we’ll be turned out next week, and everybody knows I am
the wife of a thief, and I can’t get employment, except this sort, and
this sort is starvation, it really is.”
“Now look here, my good woman,” said Crossley, returning once more and
taking up his stand on the hearth rug, “don’t you think you are a bit of
a fool? What are you making all these bones about? You want the money,
and I am willing to give it to you. I want to buy something which you can
sell. Now, if I promise absolute secrecy, will you tell me what you know
on a certain point?”
“Oh, if I thought it would never get abroad, of course I would,” said the
woman.
“Your name will never be breathed in the business—that I swear to you. I
want this information for my own private reasons.”
“And you’ll give me Bill’s twenty pounds, sir?”
“I’ll give you twenty pounds before I leave this house, but you need not
call it Bill’s unless you like. I advise you not to for your own sake.”
The woman was silent for a moment. Taking out a handkerchief, she wiped
some moisture from her forehead. After a pause, she said abruptly:
“Very well, I’ll tell. I hope to heaven I ain’t doing nothing wrong.”
“Of course you’re not; you are a wise woman who simply knows when her
bread is buttered. Come here to the light. Do you know this? Have you
ever seen anything like it before?”
As he spoke, Crossley held a fragment of the letter, which for so many
years he had kept in his possession, before Mrs. Larkins’ eyes.
“Yes, sir, I seem to know it,” she replied, turning white.
“It is queer writing, is it not?”
“Oh, yes, sir, very queer.”
“And you are sure you have seen it before?”
“Well, yes, sir, I am positive.”
“Tell me when and how.”
“Well, my husband got letters writ like that more than once—several
times. Once he left a letter about and I puzzled to read it. Of course, I
could not make out a single word, and he laughed at me trying to get at
the back of the cipher as he called it.”
“You are quite right; this letter is written in cipher. Now, can you tell
me the name of the writer?”
“No, sir.”
“No, Mrs. Larkins! Remember your twenty pounds.”
“Even for that I cannot tell what I do not know, sir. I do not know the
name of the writer of that letter.”
“Have you ever seen him?”
“Oh, that’s another matter,” said Mrs. Larkins. “Yes, I’ve seen him; he
come here once or twice—once he came and stayed over an hour; he and my
husband talked in this ’ere room.”
“And you saw him?”
“I see him come and go. The light fell on his face.”
“You would know him again, would you?”
“Yes, sir, well.”
“Well enough to swear to him?”
“I think so, sir.”
“What sort of a man was he? Describe him as well as you can.”
“So dark that he looked almost like a foreign chap,” said Larkins’ wife;
“taller than most men, and broader. He wore a hat slouched down over his
eyes, so I could not see his face, but his voice was deep and full, and
had a fierce sort of note in it.”
“Would you say, now, that he was a gentleman?”
“Oh, yes, he had the way of one—’aughty he were, and proud as a lord.”
“Well, now, think a minute: you are quite sure you never heard his name?”
“No, that I didn’t; but Bill was mighty flustered the last time he came
here. I were in the next room for a bit, and I ’eard my husband and this
gentleman talk about a robbery which they meant to commit in the north of
England. I believe it were a bank they wanted to rob. Someone, whose name
I could not catch, had said they were to do the job between them—that is,
my man was to do the real business, and the other man was to watch and
to look on. That’s all I ever heard, and it’s my belief the robbery never
came off—but I remember they planned it.”
“Here,” said Crossley suddenly, taking a photograph out of his pocket;
“you say you would know your man if you saw him again?”
“I would, sir.”
“Was he anything like this?”
[Illustration: “Here,” said Crossley, taking a photograph out of his
pocket; “was he anything like this?”—_Page 259._]
“Why, yes, sir,” said Mrs. Larkins, turning pale, “that were ’im. I could
not mistake him. Oh, sir, you swear you won’t get me into trouble for
this. It seems as if I were telling you too much.”
“Not a bit of it. I swear that your name shall never come out in this
matter. Now, here’s your twenty pounds. I believe you have told me all
you know truthfully, and you can do no more.”
“Heaven bless you, sir,” called Mrs. Larkins after him when Crossley went
away.
Before the indefatigable detective went to bed that night he wrote the
following letter, which was addressed to Mrs. Adrian Rowton, Rowton
Heights, near Pitstow, Yorkshire, and ran as follows:
“MADAM,
“I have some painful news to impart to you in connection with
the business which has occupied my attention for so many years.
I wish to heaven your father were still alive so that I might
break it to him instead of to you, but it being your express
wish that the thing should go on to the bitter end, I have no
help for it, but to summon you to town as quickly as possible.
On receipt of this letter, which I calculate will reach you
about noon to-morrow, will you take the next train from Pitstow
to King’s Cross? I will meet you at King’s Cross and bring
you straight here to my own house. I shall have something to
communicate to you then which will fall as a blow on you,
madam. I trust to your good sense, however, to keep up under
these afflicting circumstances, and to remember the solemn
promise you are under to your late father.
“I am, Madam,
“Your respectful servant,
“ROBERT CROSSLEY.”