AN ENCOUNTER IN PICCADILLY
I couldn't make it out. Nor could Mr. FitzHoward.
'Well,' said Mr. FitzHoward to me, 'your governor certainly is a
caution'--which I was far from denying it--'but this beats anything;
it does that.'
And tilting his hat on to the back of his head, he looked at the
ceiling, as if in the hope of seeing James up there. But nothing of
the kind.
'You say you've heard nothing of him,' he continued. 'You're quite
sure? This isn't a little game he's playing off on me, in which you're
taking a hand?'
'Mr. FitzHoward, I'm not that sort of person. I've not heard one word;
nor half a one. He came home that night after he'd been doing that
sleep at the Aquarium--well, he'd been drinking.'
'You'd have been drinking if you'd only just woke up after being
asleep for thirty days.'
'No, Mr. FitzHoward, I should not; though I can quite understand what
an awful feeling it must be. And how he can go wasting his life like
that----'
'You don't call it wasting his life when he earns nearly a hundred
pounds in a month?'
'It's the first I've heard of it if he did earn nearly a hundred
pounds. He gave me the money to pay the rent, and five pounds to pay
the bills, and another five pounds to buy the children and me some
clothes--it's a lucky thing I didn't buy them, or I should have been
penniless--and that's all the money I ever heard of. That was on the
Sunday morning. He had on a suit of clothes which I'd never seen
before, and in them he looked a perfect gentleman.'
'He's a gentleman to his finger-tips--when he likes.'
'When he chooses he's anything and everything. His equal I never knew
or heard tell of. I'm not a superstitious woman, but it's sometimes my
belief that he has dealings with those he didn't ought to.'
'I shouldn't be surprised.'
I could tell from his tone that he was laughing; as I let him see.
'You may laugh, Mr. FitzHoward, and welcome. But I know more about him
than you do, and he's done things which make me believe he has traffic
with the powers of evil.'
'You'd better tell him so.'
'I have told him so, more than once; and then he's spoken as if he was
running a sword right through me. Not cross--that's one of his queer
ways--he never is cross; you can't make him cross. But for sarcasm
there never was his match. He makes you wish that you'd bitten your
tongue off before you spoke. Well, as I was saying, that Sunday
morning he came down with a new suit of clothes on, laid the money on
the table, said what it was for, and walked right out. I didn't dare
to ask him where he was going to.'
'They aren't many wives like you, Mrs. Merrett.'
'And there aren't many wives, Mr. FitzHoward, who've got husbands like
mine. However, though I asked no questions I thought that, after being
away a month, he'd be home for dinner, especially as I had expressly
told him that I'd got as good a dinner for him as man could want. The
children and I waited till the dinner was spoilt, but he never came. I
cried; I was disappointed. That's nearly a fortnight ago, and from
that hour to this I've seen and heard nothing of him.'
'Has he done this kind of thing before?'
'Plenty of times. Sometimes he's been away months at a stretch.'
'And left you penniless?'
'He's never done that. Money's always come along just as I was
beginning to want it; with nothing, except his writing on the
envelope, to show from whom it came.'
'He's a curiosity.'
'He's more than that. He's a mystery.'
'I don't know if you're aware that he's entered into certain
contracts, and that, if he doesn't keep them, it'll be a serious thing
for me.'
'He thinks nothing of breaking contracts; not he.'
'That's pleasant hearing. I hope he'll think something of breaking
these.' He stood biting his fingernails; which is a habit I can't
abide.
'Do you know anything about a man named Smith?'
'I've known something about a good many Smiths.'
'Yes, but this is a particular Smith. A very tall, well-set man; swell
written large all over him; a military swagger; and a big brown
moustache just turning grey.'
'I can't say that I recognise him from your description. But there's
very few of my husband's friends I do know. Was this Mr. Smith a
friend of his?'
'That's what I would like to know. I can give you one piece of
information, Mrs. Merrett. When your husband left here that Sunday
morning I can tell you where he went.'
'Perhaps you can tell me where he is now.'
'I wish I could. It would be a weight off my mind. He's booked to open
at Manchester next week, and I want to see him to make arrangements.
That Sunday morning he went to the York Hotel. There he engaged a
private sitting-room, in which he had an interview, by appointment,
with Mr. John Smith. After Mr. Smith went he had dinner.'
'Did he?'
'He did; and a good one, too--from what I hear. He stayed at the York
Hotel all day; he slept there that night.'
'How could he! And I sat up half the night hoping and longing for him
to come home.'
'He left very early the next morning, without leaving word where he
was going; and where he did go is what I want to know.'
'How do you know all this?'
'It's no secret. I happened to mention, in the hearing of the young
lady behind the bar, that I couldn't make out what had become of
Babbacombe, and she said that he'd slept there one night. Then the
boss told me all there was to tell.'
'Who is this Mr. Smith James had the interview with?'
'That's another thing I want to know; and that's why I asked if you
knew. The first time I saw him was on the Thursday--the twenty-eighth
day of your husband's sleep. When he caught sight of your governor he
turned quite queer.'
'Queer? What do you mean?'
'Why, he went so white and tottery that, for all the big man he is, I
thought he was going to faint. If he hadn't seen your husband before,
and wasn't precious sorry to see him again, I'm a Dutchman. The next
day, Friday, he turned up again. Then he said that if I'd manage to
let him speak to your husband he'd give me a five-pound note.'
'Good gracious! He must have been very anxious to speak to him.'
'He was--uncommon. Sure enough on the Saturday night he was there.
After your husband had finished his show, I told him that a party
named Smith wanted to see him.'
'Did you tell him he had offered to give you a five-pound note?'
'No; I didn't think that was necessary. The governor said, "Show him
in." As I showed him in he slipped me the fiver. When I came back, I
saw that something had taken place between them which had put your
husband in a mood I couldn't understand. He must have made an
appointment with this Smith for the next morning--though he said
nothing about it to me. As he kept that appointment, and after keeping
it disappeared, it looks very much as if Smith knew where he
disappeared to, and why: if we could only find him.'
'If you take my advice, Mr. FitzHoward, you won't interfere in my
husband's private affairs any more than you can help. He's not the
kind of man who takes interference kindly.'
'His private affairs in this case are mine. At his request I have made
certain engagements for him. If he doesn't keep them I shall be
blamed. I'm a man, Mrs. Merrett, to whom professional reputation is
dear. If he doesn't keep them it shall be through no fault of mine. If
what you call interference is necessary to induce him to keep them,
I'm going in for just as much of it as ever I can.'
'Very well, Mr. FitzHoward. Only don't ask me to help you. I've long
since given up interfering with Mr. Merrett's comings and goings,
either by word or deed.'
'As I said before, Mrs. Merrett, you're a remarkable wife. You see,
I'm only his business manager; so I expect I'm actuated by different
motives.'
Shortly after that he took himself away. And I wasn't sorry to see him
go. Though, when he went, he left behind him as unhappy a woman as
you'd find in England.
James used to tell me I was pretty. He tells me so sometimes now. I
wish he'd say it oftener; because it won't be true of me much longer,
and my prettiness is all I ever had. I'm not a bit clever. I'm an
ignorant, common woman. That's all. My father was a small farmer over
Horsham way. James came to lodge with us one summer; for we took
lodgers sometimes, when we could get them. He hadn't been in the house
a week before he was all the world to me. He was years and years older
than I was; nigh as old as father. But that made no difference. There
never was another man like him. Not all the other men put together
would make his equal. I thought so then, and I think so now.
The strange thing was that he cared for me. He told me so one
afternoon. And while I was half beside myself with joy they came and
told me father was dead. He had been thatching the big barn, and had
slipped off the roof and broken his neck. The day after father was
buried, I went over with James to Horsham, and was married at the
registrar's by special licence. Father was all the relation I had, and
me being alone in the world, with no money, James thought it would be
best.
James being as near as possible a stranger, it wasn't till after we
were married that I learned anything at all about him; and then only
what he chose to tell me. It wasn't long, however, before I began to
find out that I'd got a queer one for a husband; but how queer I don't
believe I know to this very hour. I'm not one to tell tales of my own
man, the father of my children, but I could tell tales which would
make some people's hair stand up on end. Some of the things he's done
have made me wonder if he's not in league with the devil. Not that I
wasn't happy--at least until I saw that to him a woman was just
nothing at all. Though he loved me in his way. But his way was such a
funny one. For a week together he'd be so nice that I'd begin to think
I was in Heaven. Then he'd go out, as I'd think just for a stroll, and
I'd never see him again for weeks, and sometimes months. Where he went
to, or what he did, he'd never tell me. And, in time, I gave up
asking; because the way he treated me when I did ask made me more
miserable than ever.
I'm not old now. I've not been married six years, and I wasn't
seventeen when I was married. And twenty-three isn't old compared to
some. And I've two of the dearest little children. I believe they're a
blessing God has given me to make up for what I have to bear from
James. Jimmy, he's four and a half, and good as gold; and Pollie,
she's three, the prettiest and best child that ever lived. They say
that she takes after me; but I'm sure that I don't know. What I should
do without them I tremble to think.
And now here was James gone off again! He'd been giving some dreadful
performance--though, to my thinking, performance was not the word--at
the Royal Aquarium. Actually been to sleep for thirty days on end. It
made my blood run cold to think of it. What people could see in such a
thing beats me. But there--you never know. Some like all kinds of
things. There was once a lady who lived near me who called herself the
Boneless Wonder. She was a wonder! She'd twist herself into the most
horrid shapes you ever saw. Yet she seemed to like to do it, and
people paid to see her. One afternoon when I was having a cup of tea
with her, she did such awful things right in front of me upon the
kitchen table that I was ill for a week.
There are some women who wish their husbands never would come home.
But I'm not that sort. When James has been away, how I've waited and
watched for him no one knows, or ever will. And prayed too. And I've
taught the children to pray for Daddy to come home. We've all three
knelt down together, though they can hardly speak. And when Jimmy says
'Please, God, send Daddy soon,' it goes right through me. I wish He
would--to stop. Every footfall I've hoped was his, and at a rap at the
door my heart stopped beating. And then when he did come, he'd be as
cool and as calm as if he'd never been away. If you ran to him, and
made a fuss, he'd say something that would cut you like a knife. But
if you kept yourself in as tight as you could, and waited for him to
start the fussing, sometimes he'd be that nice that I'd forget all my
heavy heart and weary watching, and be as happy as the day was long.
Mr. FitzHoward hadn't got used to him like I had. He hadn't been his
'business manager' for long--though what business James had that he
was manager of was beyond me altogether--and the way in which James
had taken himself away again seemed to worry him even more than it did
me. So far as I could make out, James had bound himself to go to
certain towns on certain dates; and if he didn't go Mr. FitzHoward
would have to pay. He didn't like the idea of that at all. And I can't
say that I blame him. He was in and out sometimes two or three times a
day to know if there was news of him. What with his constant worrying,
and James keeping away, it was almost more than I could stand. It was
only the children kept me up. If I hadn't loved my husband it wouldn't
have mattered; but I did. And though I let no one guess it, least of
all Mr. FitzHoward, my heart kept crying out for him as if it would
break.
One morning, two days after he'd been telling me about that mysterious
Mr. Smith, he came rushing into the house without even so much as
knocking. He was so excited that he made me excited too. I went up to
him with my hands clenched at my sides, feeling all of a tremble.
'Well, where is he?'
His answer made me go as cold as I'd gone hot.
'I'd give a five-pound note to know; the one presented me by Mr.
Smith, with another one on top of it.'
'What's the matter with you then, if you don't know?'
He seemed to think that there was something singular in my appearance.
'I say--Mrs. Merrett--don't hit me!' As if I was going to hit him.
Though he deserved shaking for making me think such things. I went
back to the roly-poly pudding I was making for the children's dinner.
'I tell you what it is, Mrs. Merrett; I'm beginning to feel uneasy.'
'Who cares what you feel?'
Disappointment had made me angry.
'Not many people, I admit. It's a solemn fact that my feelings are not
of national importance; but when you've heard what I've got to say,
perhaps you'll begin to feel uneasy; then it'll be my turn to make
inquiries. You know that Mr. Smith I told you about?' I nodded. I had
heard enough of the mysterious Smith. 'Yesterday afternoon, as I was
going along Piccadilly on a 'bus, I saw him on the pavement.
'Alone?'
'He was alone right enough; though, for all I know, a ghost ought to
have been walking by his side.'
'Mr. FitzHoward! What do you mean?'
'Aren't I going to tell you, if you'll wait? Even the best of
women--and, Mrs. Merrett, you must pardon my saying that you are the
best I ever met, and I've met some--are impatient.' I wished he'd stop
his nonsense. 'I jumped off the 'bus, went up to Mr. Smith from
behind, reached out my hand, and touched him on the shoulder. He gave
such a jump that he made me jump too. I never saw a man so startled.
He didn't look much happier when he saw me; he knew me right enough.
"Good God!" he said. "You!" "Yes," I said. "Mr.--Mr. Smith, might I be
permitted to inquire what you've done with Mr. Babbacombe?" I don't
know what made me ask the question, at least in that way. It must have
been a kind of inspiration. For when I did ask it, it seemed to strike
him all of a heap. He gave a lurch so that I thought that he was going
to fall; and if the wall of St. James's Church hadn't been handy for
him to lean against, he'd have come a cropper. The sight he was took
me quite aback. It made me think all sorts of things. I couldn't make
it out at all. It was some time before he'd got hold of himself enough
to speak; and then it was with a stammer. "What--what do you mean
by--by asking me such a question?" "I asked it because I want an
answer. What's become of him since you had that interview with him at
the York Hotel?" "How do you know I had an interview with him?"
"That's tellings. I know one or two things, and I want to know one or
two more. Mr. Smith, what have you done with Mr. Babbacombe?" "I know
nothing whatever, sir, of the person to whom you refer." He tried to
pull himself together, and pass things off with an air. But it wasn't
altogether a success. Just as he was making as if to take himself off,
a friend came rushing up to him. "Hollo, Howarth!" he cried, "you're
the very man I wanted to see." I pricked up my ears at this. "Excuse
me, sir," I said. "Is this gentleman's name Howarth?" The friend
looked me up and down; like those swells do. "Who's this?" he asked.
Mr. Smith--or Mr. Howarth--took his arm. "Some person who wishes to
make himself offensive to me." And he was going to walk off. But I got
in front of him. "Excuse me, Mr. Smith, or Mr. Howarth, or whatever
your name is, but before you go perhaps you'll tell me what you've
done with Mr. Babbacombe." He was more himself by now, and looked at
me in a way I didn't like; as if I was so much dirt under his feet.
"What's he mean?" asked his friend. My gentleman beckoned to a
policeman who was standing a little way off. "Officer," he said, "be
so good as to prevent this person from annoying me." "Constable," I
said in my turn, "I want to know what this gentleman has done with a
friend of mine." However, Mr. Smith, or Mr. Howarth, called a cab; and
as the bobby had as near as a toucher, planted himself on my toes, I
had to let him get into it. "Who's that?" I asked the copper, as he
was driving off. "That's the Honourable Douglas Howarth. What do you
want with him?" "I want to know what size he takes in boots," I said.
That gentleman in blue had given me the needle. There's a Court Guide
where I live. When I opened it this morning the first name I saw was
Howarth. The Hon. Douglas Howarth is the third son of the late Earl of
Barnes, and the uncle of the present Earl. He's a bachelor. He has a
sister, Lady Violet, who's unmarried; and he lives in Brook Street,
Grosvenor Square. All of which sounds very different to "John Smith."'
'But why should he have called himself Smith? And what was it he was
so anxious to say to James?'
'Exactly. That's what you're going to find out.'
'I! Mr. FitzHoward!'
'You--Mrs. Merrett! Who's entitled to know who killed the husband if
it isn't his wife?'
'Mr. FitzHoward!'
'So this afternoon you're going to call on the Hon. Douglas Howarth,
alias Mr. John Smith, at his residence in Brook Street, to make
inquiries.'