A SECRET OF THE SEA.
Mr. Byrne had been in the habit of writing a line to Ambrose Murray
every few days, in order to satisfy the latter as to how matters were
progressing at the house in Spur Alley. In one of his brief notes he
mentioned that Van Duren had left home on business for a couple of
days. Gerald Warburton happened to be at Miss Bellamy's when this note
came to hand, and Murray at once proposed that he and Gerald should
visit Byrne and his daughter in Spur Alley, while Van Duren was out of
town. Gerald assented, and at six o'clock that evening they found
themselves at Van Duren's door. Mrs. Bakewell, as she ushered them
upstairs, informed them that Miss Byrne had gone out about an hour
previously, but that the old gentleman would no doubt be very glad to
see them.
There was no answer to the woman's knock at Mr. Byrne's door. "Poor
old gentleman, he gets weaker and deafer every day," she said. "He's
not long for this world, I'm afraid." Then she opened the door, and
went into the room. Mr. Byrne was sitting, as he seemed ever to sit,
in his great easy-chair in front of the fire. Mrs. Bakewell touched
him on the shoulder, and shouted in his ear: "Two gentlemen to see
you, sir."
"Ech, ech! two gentlemen to see me? Tell 'em to come in: tell 'em to
come in. And shut that door as soon as you can. That draught's enough
to cut one in two." And with that he turned feebly round and
confronted his visitors. And then his cough began to trouble him, and
he could not find a word to say till Mrs. Bakewell had gone out and
shut the door behind her.
A moment later he was on his feet and grasping his visitors warmly by
the hand. "Welcome to Spur Alley, gentlemen!" he said. "You could not
have come at a more opportune time, except in one respect--that my
daughter is not here to receive you as well as I. But the kettle is on
the hob, and I've a bottle of prime Kinahan in the cupboard, together
with a few choice Henry Clays, that were sent me by a friend the other
day. An it please you, we will make ourselves as comfortable as
present circumstances will admit of."
After a little conversation of no particular moment, said Byrne: "I am
glad that you have come to see me, Mr. Murray. Had you not come here,
I should have made a point of calling upon you in the course of a few
days."
"Have you anything of importance to communicate?"
"No, it is not exactly that; but I think the time has come for me to
tell you what I have done already, and what I hope to accomplish
before I am many days older; together with my reasons for going about
this matter in the way I have gone about it."
"I shall be very glad to hear anything you may have to say, Mr. Byrne;
but if you would rather defer your revelation for a little while
longer, pray do so. As I have told you already, I have every
confidence in your management of the affair, and shall continue to
have, whether you choose to-day to tell me anything or nothing."
"You are very kind, Mr. Murray, but I think that I shall feel more
comfortable if I tell you everything. I want either your approval or
your disapproval of what I am doing: I want to feel the ground firm
under my feet."
"In that case I have nothing more to say. You know what an intense
interest this matter has for me in all its bearings, great or small."
"Before beginning what I have to tell you," said Byrne, "it may be
just as well to lock the door. It was only the other day that Pringle,
Van Duren's clerk, opened the door suddenly and put his head into the
room. I felt sure at the time that he had either seen or suspected
something, and would tell his master. I suppose I was mistaken, but
for all that I don't care to run the same risk again."
Having locked the door, Mr. Byrne proceeded to light a cigar, and then
to brew himself a tumbler of grog with all the care and deliberation
to which so important a proceeding was entitled at his hands. Gerald
joined him over a cigar. Murray never smoked.
"When you first came to me, Mr. Warburton, and spoke to me about this
business," began Byrne after a few preliminary puffs, "I was more
surprised than I cared to let you see. And when you told me what it
was that you wanted me to do, I was still more surprised. And well I
might be, as you will hear presently. You came to me, Mr. Warburton,
in the first place, because you thought that there might be a faint
possibility of my being able to assist you to discover the whereabouts
of Max Jacoby. I was able to assist you in a way that you little
dreamt of. My brother, who is two years older than I am, was
originally a sergeant in the detective police. He retired some years
ago, and he now keeps a little country tavern in the neighbourhood of
Dorking. I told my brother what I wanted; he gave me a note to a
particular friend of his who is still in the force, and it was through
the kindness of this latter gentleman that I was enabled to inform you
that our friend Mr. Max lived here, under this very roof, in Spur
Alley. Having obtained that information for you, I naturally concluded
that my task was at an end; but when you told me what further you
wanted from me, that opened up an entirely fresh phase of the
question."
Here Mr. Byrne paused to stir his grog and refresh himself with a
hearty drink.
"The point urged by both of you," resumed Byrne, "was your belief that
Max Jacoby was the murderer of Paul Stilling; and the question you put
before me was: By what means is it possible to bring his guilt home to
him? Gentlemen, what method of procedure I might have adopted under
different circumstances in order to find an answer to your question I
cannot, of course, say, but the one which I did adopt had its origin
in a very peculiar occurrence, which I will presently explain to you.
My plan was this: to take lodgings in this house--my daughter and I.
To make the acquaintance of Van Duren. To invite him to tea or supper,
in order that he might have an opportunity of associating with Miriam,
who, on her part, was to do her best to fascinate him--to make him
fall in love with her, and, if possible, to propose to her. Of this
scheme Miriam was the hinge. Everything depended upon her--upon her
good looks and powers of fascination. But knowing the sort of man I
had to deal with, I determined to smooth for him still further the
road I wanted him to travel. With this end in view, I led Van Duren on
to believe that I was rich, and I caused to be drawn up in due form a
fictitious will, in which I bequeathed fifteen thousand pounds to my
daughter, and of which I made Van Duren himself one of the executors.
The bait took, as I expected it would take. Van Duren, smitten already
by my daughter's good looks, was conquered entirely when he found that
she was also an heiress. A few evenings ago he fell on his knees
before her and implored her to marry him. Miriam, by my instructions,
accepted him conditionally: he is to be a month on probation, and if
at the end of that time she finds that she can like him sufficiently
well, she is to accept him as her future husband. But before the month
of probation shall have come to an end, the particular object which
has necessitated all this scheming and preparation will, I trust, have
been fully accomplished."
Mr. Byrne had allowed his cigar to go out while talking. He now
proceeded to relight it. This done, he again paid his respects to the
grog.
Both Ambrose Murray and Gerald were utterly puzzled. That Byrne should
have allowed, and, by his own confession, encouraged, Van Duren to
make love and propose to his daughter, was to them an altogether
incomprehensible proceeding. They awaited his further revelations with
impatience.
"You have certainly succeeded in exciting our curiosity, Mr. Byrne,"
said Gerald, "and I hope you won't send us away till you have
thoroughly satisfied it."
"Never fear, sir. You shall have the whole history before you leave
the room. With your permission, we will retrace our steps a little. I
have already told you that I have a brother who was formerly a
sergeant in the detective force. He held this position at the same
time that I was confidential clerk to Mr. Frodsham. As both of you are
aware, I happened to be in court on the very day that you, Mr. Murray,
were tried for the murder of Paul Stilling. One of the chief witnesses
at the trial was our friend, Mr. Max Jacoby. After my return to
London, I called one evening to smoke a pipe with my brother, and in
the course of conversation the Tewkesbury murder case cropped up. I
told Dick, who likes to hear of such matters, all about the trial.
Jacoby's name was mentioned, and I remember remarking to my brother
that he had far more the look of a murderer than the man in the
dock--meaning you, sir. Well, gentlemen, some three or four months,
passed away, when, one day, I met my brother casually in the street.
Says he to me, 'Peter, when next you come up to my crib, I can show
you a bit of paper that may perhaps interest you a little--a bit of
paper with some writing on it, I mean.'--'Is the writing by anybody
that I know?' said I. 'It's a letter,' said he, 'and the signature to
it is "Max Jacoby"--the name of the fellow, isn't it, who was a
witness in the Tewkesbury murder case?' 'That's the name, sure
enough,' replied I. 'But how did a letter signed by him come into your
possession?' 'Oh, the fellow to whom it was addressed got into a
little difficulty. I had to search his rooms, and I found this letter
among a lot of other papers. I took a copy of it before handing over
the original, as I thought it might interest you.' Well, gentlemen, I
thought very little more of the matter, as, indeed, why should I?
Dick, however, did not forget, and the next time I called on him he
produced the letter. I read the letter, and looked upon the affair as
one of those curious coincidences which so frequently happen in real
life; but I speedily forgot all about it, and the chances are that I
should never have thought about it again had not your visit to me
brought all the old circumstances back to my mind. After that visit I
made it my first business to go down to Dorking and see my brother.
The question was, had he, after all these years, got the copy of Max
Jacoby's letter still by him? Fortunately for us, Dick is one of those
cautious souls who hardly ever destroy anything, and who have an
almost superstitious reverence for any scrap of paper with writing on
it. In short, gentlemen, the letter was still in existence. Dick gave
it up to me without difficulty, and it is in my writing-desk at the
present moment. Before reading the letter to you, I may just add that,
having regard to my brother's great experience, I have taken the
liberty of consulting him at each step of this affair. It is some
pleasure to me to be able to say that he takes the same view of the
contents of the letter that I take, and that he agrees with all that I
have done up to the present time."
"You were quite right in consulting your brother, Mr. Byrne," said
Murray. "It only proves still more clearly how thoroughly you have
identified yourself with the case."
Byrne crossed the room, unlocked his writing-desk, and came back with
the letter in his hand.
"The letter bears no date," said he, "but as it was found by my
brother in the lodgings of the man to whom it was addressed only some
three or four months after the murder--subsequent to which occurrence
it was, in my opinion, written--the exact date is a matter of very
minor consequence. The address given is simply, 'My old lodgings,'
and as it was found without an envelope, there is no clue to the
post-mark. But that, too, is a matter of little consequence. And now
you shall hear what the letter says."
Mr. Byrne threw the end of his cigar into the fire, cleared his
throat, and opening the yellow, time-worn paper, read as under:--
"My dear Legros,
"You will be surprised to hear from me so quickly after our last
farewell, and to see the place from which this letter is written. Yes,
I am back once more in the old spot--penniless--a beggar! I have met
with a most terrible misfortune. I have been shipwrecked, and
everything I had in the world has gone to the bottom. When I say
_everything_, you know what I mean. I mean that which cost me so
dear--that which I ran so terrible a risk for--that for which one
man's life, and another man's happiness, were sacrificed. But the
curse of blood rested on it, and it has gone. You remember that when
you parted from me on board ship, I had every prospect of a fair
voyage, but during the night the wind began to rise, and by daylight
next morning a terrific gale was blowing. We were still in sight of
land, and having sprung a leak, we put back towards a little harbour
with which our captain was acquainted. But before we could reach it,
the ship began to founder, and then it was every man for himself. We
saved our bare lives, and that was all. I tried all I could to bribe
the men to take my box with them in the boat, but it was of no avail.
'Life's sweeter than all the gold in the world,' they said. 'Your box
may go to the devil, and we'll send you after it if we have any of
your nonsense.' There was no use in my going abroad when I had lost
the only inducement which would have taken me there. So here I am once
more, the world all before me. I have just enough money left to buy me
to-morrow's dinner. After that----? But I need not say more. I trust
to you, my dear Legros, to send me a five-pound note by return. In
fact, I must have it. I know too much of you, and you know too much of
me, for either of us to decline these sweet little offices of
friendship for the other.
"Thine,
"Max Jacoby."
The three men looked at each other in silence as Byrne slowly refolded
the letter.
"Your familiarity with the contents of this letter," said Gerald at
last, "has enabled you to arrive at certain conclusions in your own
mind such as we, to whom the letter comes as an utter surprise, can no
more than barely guess at. Do you mind telling us what those
conclusions are?"
"The conclusions I have come to are very few and very simple," said
Byrne; "simple, inasmuch as, to my mind, knowing what I know, they are
plainly discoverable through the thin veil of obscurity in which the
contents of the letter are purposely involved. My conclusions are
these: That this letter was written within a very short time after the
murder and subsequent trial. That the property whose loss Jacoby
bewails in such bitter terms was neither more nor less than the
proceeds of the murder, with which he was going abroad. That when the
ship went to the bottom, Jacoby's ill-gotten gains went with her, and
that Jacoby himself, having no longer the means of going abroad, came
back to London in a state of utter destitution, as is evidenced by his
begging the loan of a five-pound note from his quondam friend."
"Yes," said Gerald, after a few minutes of silent thought, "I quite
agree with you that the construction which you have put upon the
contents of this letter is a most feasible one, and I am inclined to
think that it is also the true one. But even granting that such be the
case, I confess I am still at a loss to understand in what way a
proposal of marriage from Jacoby to your daughter can forward by one
single step the special end we have in view--to bring home the crime
to the real murderer."
"That, too, is where I am puzzled," said Murray; "for, singular as
this letter is, and confirmatory as it is of the belief I have all
along maintained, that Jacoby is the guilty man, I altogether fail to
see in what way Mr. Byrne's late proceedings tend to fix the guilt
upon him."
Byrne, looking from one to the other, rubbed his hands and chuckled.
"I thought that part of the business would prove a stumbling-block,"
he said. "But if you will allow me, I can lift you over it very
easily. You will have observed that Jacoby's letter enters into no
particulars. It gives neither the name of the ship, the date of
sailing, nor the port he sailed from. We cannot advance a step beyond
the letter till we make ourselves masters of that information. It is
quite evident that there is only one source from which we can obtain
it, and that is from Jacoby himself. How are we to get out of him any
information respecting this, the great secret of his life? Were you or
I to question him, we should merely arouse his suspicions and shut his
lips for ever. Gentlemen, no one can worm the secret out of this man
but a woman--and only a woman that he loves. Gentlemen, Max Jacoby
loves my daughter, and has asked her to become his wife. On my
daughter, therefore, devolves the duty of making this man reveal what
he has probably never told yet to any living soul. And now you
understand the point at which we have arrived."
"Clearly," said Gerald; "and upon my word, I am doubtful whether the
same result could have been arrived at by means other than those which
you have seen fit to make use of."
Ambrose Murray did not speak, but he put out his arm, and grasped
Byrne by the hand in a fashion far more eloquent than words.
"If Mr. Byrne will allow me, I will proceed just one step further in
the matter," said Gerald. "Assuming for a moment that we have
succeeded in getting out of Jacoby all the information we want from
him; that we know when and from where he sailed, and the name of the
ship--what then? The only evidence on which it would be possible to
convict him will still be at the bottom of the sea."
Before Byrne could say a word in reply, there came a sudden knocking
at the door, and the voice of Bakewell was heard outside: "A letter
for Mr. Byrne."
Murray, his mind impressed with what had gone before, said solemnly:
"Yes, it will still be, what it must remain for ever--a Secret of the
Sea!"
Byrne held up a warning finger. In one minute he seemed to become
twenty years older. He hobbled feebly towards the door, coughing
meanwhile in a way that was pitiful to hear. "All right, Bakewell, I'm
coming--I'm coming," he cried, querulously. Then, as he opened the
door, Miriam's voice was heard carolling gaily as she ran quickly
upstairs.