seemed to feel it an affront that she should be supposed to know
anything of Mrs. Butcher, and Hewitt consequently started for the
greengrocer’s. Now this was just one of those cases in which
dependence on information given by other people put Hewitt on the
wrong scent. He spent that day in a fatiguing pursuit of Mrs.
Butcher’s servant, with adventures rather amusing in themselves, but
quite irrelevant to the Seton case. In the end, when he had captured
her, and proceeded to open a cunning battery of inquiries, under plea
of a bet with a friend that the shoes could not be matched, he soon
found that _she_ had been the purchaser who, after buying just such a
pair of shoes, had returned and exchanged them for something cheaper.
And the only outcome of his visit to the baby-linen shop was the
waste of a day. It was indeed just one of those checks which, while
they may hamper the progress of a narrative for popular reading, are
nevertheless inseparable from the matter-of-fact experience of
Hewitt’s profession.
With a very natural rage in his heart, but with as polite an
exterior as possible, Hewitt returned to the baby-linen shop in the
evening. The whole case seemed barren of useful evidence, and at each
turn as yet he had found himself helpless. At the shop the
self-confident young lady calmly admitted that soon after he had left
something had caused her to remember that it was the other customer
who had kept the white shoes, and not Mrs. Butcher’s servant.
“And do you know the other customer?” he asked.
“No; she was quite a stranger. She brought in a little boy from a
cab and bought a lot of things for him--a suit of outdoor clothes as
well as the shoes.”
“Ah! now probably this is what I want. Can you remember anything of
the child?”
“Yes; he was a pretty little fellow, about two years old or so, with
curls. She called him Charley.”
“Did she put the things on him in the shop?”
“Not the frock; but she put on the outer coat, the hat and the
shoes. I can remember it all now quite well--now I have had time to
think.”
“Then what shoes did the child wear when he came in?”
“Rather old tan-coloured ones.”
“Then I think this is the person I am after. You say you never saw
her at any other time before or since. Try to describe her.”
“Well, she was a lady well dressed, in black. She had a very high
collar to hide a scar on her neck, like the scars people have
sometimes after abscesses, I think. I could see it from the side when
she stooped down.”
“And are you sure she had nothing sent home? Did she take everything
with her?”
“Yes; nothing was sent, else we should know her address, you know.”
“She didn’t happen to pay with a banknote, did she?”
“No; in cash.”
Hewitt left with little more ceremony, and made the best of his way
to his friend the inspector at the police station. Here was the woman
with the scarred neck again--Charley’s deliverer once, now his
kidnapper. If only something else could be ascertained of her--some
small clue that might bring her identity into view--the thing would
be done.
At the station, however, there was something new. A man had just
come in, very drunk, and had given himself into custody for
kidnapping the child Charles Seton, whose description was set forth
on the bill which still appeared on the notice-board outside the
station. When Hewitt arrived, the man was lolling, wretched and
maudlin, against the rail, and, oblivious of most of the questions
addressed to him, was ranting and snivelling by turns. His dress was
good, though splashed with mud, and his bloated face, bleared eyes
and loose, tremulous mouth proclaimed the habitual drunkard.
“I shay I’ll gimmeself up,” he proclaimed, with a desperate attempt
at dignity; “I’ll gimmeself up takin’ away lil boy; I’ll shacrifishe
m’self. Solemn duty shacrifishe m’self f’elpless woman, ain’t it?
Ver’ well then; gimmeself up takin’ ’way lil boy, buyin’ ’m pair
shoes. No harm in that, issher? Hope not. Ver’ well then.” And he
subsided into tears.
“What’s your name?” asked the inspector.
[Illustration: “‘WHAT’S YOUR NAME?’ ASKED THE INSPECTOR.”]
“Whash name? Thash my bishnesh. Warrer wan’ know name for?
Grapertnence ask gellumshname. I’m gellum, thash wha’ I am. Besht of
shisters too, besht shis’ers”--snivelling again--“an’ I’m ungra’ful
beasht. But I shacrifishe ’self; she shan’ get ’n trouble. D’y’ear?
Gimmeself up shtealin’ lil boy. Who says I ain’ gellum?”
Nothing more intelligible than this could be got out of him, and
presently he was taken off to the cells. Then Hewitt asked the
inspector, “What will happen to him now?”
The inspector laughed.
“Oh he’ll get very sober and sick and sorry by the morning,” he
said; “and then he’ll have to send home for some money, that’s all.”
“And as to the child?”
“Oh, he’ll forget all about that; that’s only a drunken freak. The
child has been recovered. You know that, I suppose?”
“Yes; but I am still after the person who took it away. It was a
woman. Indeed, I’ve more than a suspicion that it was the woman who
brought the child here when he was lost before--the one with the scar
on the neck, you know.”
“Is that so?” said the inspector. “Well, that’s a rum go, ain’t it?
What did she bring him back here for if she wanted him again?”
“That I want to find out,” Hewitt answered. “And now I want you to
do me a favour. You say you expect that man below will want to send
home in the morning for money. Well, I want to be the messenger.”
The inspector opened his eyes.
“Want to be the messenger? Well, that’s easily done; if you’re here
at the time I’ll leave word. But why?”
“Well, I’ve a sort of notion I know something about his family, and
I want to make sure. Shall I be here at eight in the morning, or
shall we say nine?”
“Which you like; I expect he’ll be shouting for bail before eight.”
“Very well, we will say eight. Good-night.”
And so Hewitt had to let yet another night go without an explanation
of the mystery; but he felt that his hand was on the key at last,
though it had only fallen there by chance. Prompt to his time at
eight in the morning he was at the police station, where another
inspector was now on duty, who, however, had been told of Hewitt’s
wish.
“Ah,” he said, “you’re well to time, Mr. Hewitt. That prisoner’s as
limp as rags now; he’s begging of us to send to his sister.”
“Does he say anything about that child?”
“Says he don’t know anything about it; all a drunken freak. His
name’s Oliver Neale, and he lives at 10, Morton Terrace, Hampstead,
with his sister. Her name’s Mrs. Isitt; and you’re to take this note
and bring her back with you, or at any rate some money; and you’re to
say he’s truly repentant,” the inspector concluded with a grin.
The distance was short, and Hewitt walked it. Morton Terrace was a
short row of pleasant, old-fashioned villas, ivy-grown and neat, and
No. 10 was as neat as any. To the servant who answered his ring
Hewitt announced himself as a gentleman with a message from Mrs.
Isitt’s brother. This did not seem to prepossess the girl in Hewitt’s
favour, and she backed to the end of the hall and communicated with
somebody on the stairs before finally showing Hewitt into a room,
where he was quickly followed by Mrs. Isitt.
She was a rather tall woman of perhaps thirty-eight, and had
probably been attractive, though now her face bore lines of sad
grief. Hewitt noticed that she wore a very high black collar.
“Good-morning, Mrs. Isitt,” he said. “I’m afraid my errand is not
altogether pleasant. The fact is, your brother, Mr. Neale, was not
altogether sober last night, and he is now at the police station,
where he wrote this note.”
Mrs. Isitt did not appear surprised, and took the note with no more
than a sigh.
“Yes,” she said, “it can’t be concealed. This is not the first time
by many, as you probably know, if you are a friend of his.”
She read the note, and as she looked up Hewitt said--
“No, I have not known him long. I happened to be at the station last
night, and he rather attracted my attention by insisting, in his
intoxicated state, on giving himself up for kidnapping a child,
Charles Seton.”
Mrs. Isitt started as though shot. Pale of cheek, she glanced
fearfully in Hewitt’s face and there met a keen gaze that seemed to
read her brain. She saw that her secret was known, but for a moment
she struggled, and her lips worked convulsively--
“Charles Seton--Charles Seton?” she said.
“Yes, Mrs. Isitt, that is the name. The child, as a matter of fact,
was stolen by the person who bought these shoes for it. Do you
recognise them?”
He produced the shoes and held them before her. The woman sank on
the sofa behind her, terrified, but unable to take her eyes from
Hewitt’s.
“Come, Mrs. Isitt,” he said, “you have been recognised. Here is my
card. I am commissioned by the parents of the child to find who
removed him, and I think I have succeeded.”
She took the card and glanced at it dazedly; then she sank with a
groaning sob with her face on the head of the sofa, and as she did so
Hewitt could see a scar on the side of her neck peeping above her
high collar.
[Illustration: “SHE SANK WITH A GROANING SOB WITH HER FACE ON THE
HEAD OF THE SOFA.”]
“Oh, my God!” the woman moaned. “Then it has come to this. He will
die! he will die!”
The woman’s anguish was piteous to see. Hewitt had gained his point,
and was willing to spare her. He placed his hand on her heaving
shoulder and begged her not to distress herself.
“The matter is rather difficult to understand, Mrs. Isitt,” he said.
“If you will compose yourself, perhaps you can explain. I can assure
you that there is no desire to be vindictive. I’m afraid my manner
upset you. Pray reassure yourself. May I sit down?”
Nobody could by his manner more easily restore confidence and trust
than Hewitt when it pleased him. Mrs. Isitt lifted her head and gazed
at him once more with a troubled though quieter expression.
“I think you wrote Mrs. Seton an anonymous letter,” Hewitt said,
producing the first of those which Mrs. Seton had brought him. “It
was kind of you to reassure the poor woman.”
“Oh, tell me,” Mrs. Isitt asked, “was she much upset at missing the
little boy? Did it make her ill?”
“She was upset, of course; but perhaps the joy of recovering him
compensated for all.”
“Yes; I took him back as soon as I possibly could, really I did, Mr.
Hewitt. And, oh! I was so tempted! My life has been so unhappy! If
you only knew!” She buried her face in her hands.
“Will you tell me?” Hewitt suggested gently. “You see, whatever
happens, an explanation of some sort is the first thing.”
“Yes, yes--of course. Oh, I am a wretched woman.” She paused for
some little while, and then went on: “Mr. Hewitt, my husband is a
lunatic.” She paused again. “There was never a man, Mr. Hewitt, so
devoted to his wife and children as my husband. He bore even with the
continual annoyance of my brother, whom you saw, _because_ he was my
brother. But a little more than a year ago, as the result of an
accident, a tumour formed on his brain. The thing is incurable
except, as a remote possibility, by a most dangerous operation, which
the doctors fear to attempt except under most favourable conditions.
Without that he must die, sooner or later. Meantime he is insane,
though with many and sometimes long intervals of perfect lucidity.
When the disease attacked him there was little warning, except from
pains in the head, till one dreadful night. Then he rose from bed a
maniac and killed our child, a little girl of six, whom he was
devotedly attached to. He also cut my own throat with his razor, but
I recovered. I would rather say nothing more of that--it is too
dreadful, though indeed I think about little else. There was another
child, a baby boy, about a year old when his sister died, and he--he
died of scarlet fever scarcely four months ago.
“My husband was taken to a private asylum at Willesden, where he now
is. I visited him frequently, and took the baby, and it was almost
terrible to see--a part of his insanity, no doubt--how his fondness
for that child grew. When it died, I never dared to tell him. Indeed,
the doctors forbade it. In his state he would have died raving. But
he asked for it, sometimes earnestly, sometimes angrily, till I
almost feared to visit him. Then he began to demand it of the doctors
and attendants, and his excitement increased day by day. I was told
to prepare for the worst. When I visited him he sometimes failed to
recognise me, and at others demanded the child fiercely. I should
tell you that it was only just about this time that it was found that
the tumour existed, and the idea of the operation was suggested; but
of course it was impossible in his disturbed condition. I scarcely
dared to go to see him, and yet I did so long to! Dr. Bailey did
indeed suggest that possibly we might find he would be quieted by
being shown another child; but I myself felt that to be very unlikely.
“It was while things were in this state, and about six or seven
weeks ago, that, walking toward Cricklewood one morning, I saw a
little fellow trotting along all alone, who actually startled
me--startled me very much--by his resemblance to our poor little one.
The likeness was one of those extraordinary ones that one only finds
among young children. This child was a little bigger and stronger
than ours was when he died, but then it was older--probably very
nearly the age and size our own would have been had it lived. Nobody
else was in sight, and I fancied the child looked about to cry, so I
went to it and spoke. Plainly it had strayed, and could not tell me
where it lived, only that its name was Charley. I took it in my arms
and it grew quite friendly. As I talked to it suddenly Dr. Bailey’s
suggestion came in my mind. If any child could deceive my poor
husband, surely this was the one. Of course I should have to find its
parents--probably through the police; but why not at any rate take it
to Willesden in the meantime for an hour or so? I could not resist
the temptation--I took the first available cab.
“The result of the experiment almost frightened me. My poor husband
received the child with transports of delight, kissed it, and laughed
and wept over it like a mother rather than a father, and refused to
give it up for hours. The child of course would not answer to its
strange name at first, but he seemed an adaptable little thing, and
presently began calling my poor husband ‘daddy.’ I had not been so
happy myself for months as I was as I watched them. I had told Dr.
Bailey--what I fear was not strictly true--that I had borrowed the
child from a friend. At length I felt I must go and take the boy to
the police, and with great difficulty I managed to get it away, my
poor husband crying like a child. Well, I took the little fellow to
the station I judged nearest to where I found him, and gave him up to
the care of the inspector. But I was a little frightened at having
kept him so long, and gave a false name and address. Still, I learned
from the inspector that the child had been inquired after, and by
whom.
[Illustration: “DADDY!”]
“My husband was quiet for some days after this, but then he began to
ask for his boy with more vehemence than ever. He grew worse and
worse, and soon his ravings were terrible. Dr. Bailey urged me to
bring the child again, but what could I do? I formed a desperate idea
of going to Mrs. Seton, telling her the whole thing, and imploring
her to let me take the child again. But then would that be likely?
Would she allow her child to be placed in the arms of a lunatic--one
indeed who had already killed a child of his own? I felt that the
thing was impossible. Still, I went to the house, and walked about it
again and again, I scarcely knew why. And my poor husband in his
confinement screamed for his child till I dared not go near him. So
it was when one morning--last Monday morning--I had passed the front
of the Setons’ house and turned up the lane at the side. I could see
over the low fence and hedge, and as I came to the French window with
the steps I saw that the window was open at one side and little
Charley was standing on the top step. He recognised me, smiled and
called just as my own child would have done; indeed, as I stood there
I almost fell into the delusion of my poor mad husband. I took the
gate in my hands, shaking it impatiently, and in attempting to open
it from the wrong end, found the hinges lift out. I could see that
nobody else was in the room behind the French window. There was the
temptation--the overwhelming temptation--and I was distracted. I took
the little fellow hurriedly in my arms and pulled the window to, so
that the bottom bolt fell into the floor socket; then I replaced the
gate as I found it, and ran to where I knew there was a cab-stand.
Oh! Mr. Hewitt, was it so very sinful? And I meant to bring him back
that same afternoon, I really did.
“The child was in indoor clothes, and had no hat. I called at a
baby-linen shop and bought hat, cloak, frock and a new pair of shoes.
Then I hurried to Willesden. Again the effect was magical. My husband
was happy once more; but when at last I attempted to take the child
away he would not let it go. It was terrible. Oh, I can’t describe
the scene. Dr. Bailey told me that, come what might, I must stay that
night in a room his wife would provide for me and keep the child, or
perhaps I must sit up with my husband and let the child sleep on my
knee. In the end it was the latter that I did.
“By the morning my senses were blunted, and I scarcely cared what
happened. I determined that as I had gone so far I would keep the
child that day at least; indeed, as I say, whether by the influence
of my husband I know not, but I almost felt myself falling into his
delusion that the child was ours. I went home for an hour at midday,
taking the child, and then my wretched brother saw it and got the
whole story from me. He told me that reward bills were out about the
child, and then I dimly realised that its mother must be suffering
pain, and I wrote the note you spoke of. Perhaps I had some little
idea of delaying pursuit--I don’t know. At any rate I wrote it, and
posted it at Willesden as I went back. My husband had been asleep
when I left, but now he was awake again and asking for the child once
more. There is little more to say. I stayed that night and the next
day, and by that time my husband had become tranquil and rational as
he had not been for months. If only the improvement can be sustained,
they think of operating to-morrow or the next day.
“I carried Charley back in the dusk, intending to put him inside one
of the gates, ring, and watch him safely in from a little way off,
but as I passed down the side lane I saw the French window open again
and nobody near. I had been that way before and felt bolder there. I
took his hat and cloak (I had already changed his frock) and, after
kissing him, put him hastily through the window and came away. But I
had forgotten the new shoes. I remembered them, however, when I got
home, and immediately conceived a fear that the child’s parents might
trace me by their means. I mentioned this fear to my brother, and it
appeared to frighten him. He borrowed some money of me yesterday,
and, it seems, got intoxicated. In that state he is always anxious to
do some noble action, though he is capable, I am grieved to say, of
almost any meanness when sober. He lives here at my expense, indeed,
and borrows money from his friends for drink. These may seem hard
things for a sister to say, but everybody knows it. He has wearied
me, and I have lost all shame of him. I suppose in his muddled state
he got the notion that he would accuse himself of what I had done and
so shield me. I expect he repented of his self-sacrifice this
morning, though.”
Hewitt knew that he had, but said nothing. Also he said nothing of
the anonymous letter he had in his pocket, wherein Mr. Oliver Neale
had covertly demanded a hundred pounds for the restoration of Charley
Seton. He guessed, however, that that gentleman had feared making the
appointment that the advertisement answering his letter had suggested.
To Mr. and Mrs. Seton Hewitt told the whole story, omitting at first
names and addresses. “I saw plainly,” he said in course of his talk,
“that the child might easily have been taken from the French window.
I did not say so, for Mrs. Seton was already sufficiently distressed,
and the notion that the child was kidnapped, and not simply lost,
might have made her worse just then. The toys--the cart with the
string on it in particular--had been dragged in the direction of the
window, and then nothing would be easier than for the child to open
the window itself. There was nothing but a drop bolt, working very
easily, which the child must often have seen lifted, and you will
remember that the catch did not act. Once the child had opened the
window and got outside, the whole thing was simple. The gate could be
lifted, the child taken, and the window pulled to, so that the bolt
would fall into its place and leave all as before.
“As to the previous occasion, I thought it curious at first that the
child should stray before lunch and yet not be heard of again till
the evening, and then apparently not be over-fatigued. But beyond
these little things, and what I inferred from the letter, I had very
little to help me indeed. Nothing, in fact, till I got the shoes, and
they didn’t carry me very far. The drunken rant of the man in the
police station attracted me because he spoke not only of taking away
the child, but of buying it shoes. Now nobody could know of the
buying of the shoes who did not know something more. But I knew it
was a woman who had taken Charley, as you know, from the heel-mark
and the evidence of the shop people, so that when the bemused fool
talked of his sister, and sacrificing himself for her, and keeping
her out of trouble, and so on, I ranged the case up in my mind, and,
so far as I ventured, I guessed it aright. The police inspector knew
nothing of the matter of the shoes, nor of the fact of the person I
was after being a woman, so thought the thing no more than a drunken
freak.
“And now,” Hewitt said, “before I tell you this woman’s name, don’t
you think the poor creature has suffered enough?”
Both Mrs. Seton and her husband agreed that she had, and that, so
far as they were concerned, no further steps should be taken. And
when she was told where to go, Mrs. Seton went off at once to offer
Mrs. Isitt her forgiveness and sympathy. But Mrs. Isitt’s punishment
came in twenty-four hours, when her husband died in the surgeon’s
hands.
THE CASE OF THE WARD LANE TABERNACLE
I
Among the few personal friendships that Martin Hewitt has allowed
himself to make there is one for an eccentric but very excellent old
lady named Mrs. Mallett. She must be more than seventy now, but she
is of robust and active, not to say masculine, habit, and her
relations with Hewitt are irregular and curious. He may not see her
for many weeks, perhaps for months, until one day she will appear in
the office, push directly past Kerrett (who knows better than to
attempt to stop her) into the inner room, and salute Hewitt with a
shake of the hand and a savage glare of the eye which would appall a
stranger, but which is quite amiably meant. As for myself, it was
long ere I could find any resource but instant retreat before her
gaze, though we are on terms of moderate toleration now.