THE BRASS BUTTON BY CROSBY, BIRMINGHAM.
Mr. Matthew Harrison and Captain Prodder were both accommodated
with suitable entertainment at the sign of the Crooked Rabbit; but
while the dog-fancier appeared to have ample employment in the
neighbourhood,--employment of a mysterious nature, which kept him on
the tramp all day, and sent him home at sunset, tired and hungry, to
his hostelry,--the sailor, having nothing whatever to do, and a great
burden of care upon his mind, found the time hang very heavily upon his
hands; although, being naturally of a social and genial temper, he made
himself very much at home in his strange quarters. From Mr. Harrison
the captain obtained much information respecting the secret of all the
sorrow that had befallen his niece. The dog-fancier had known James
Conyers from his boyhood; had known his father, the "swell" coachman
of a Brighton Highflyer, or Sky-rocket, or Electric, and the associate
of the noblemen and gentlemen of that princely era, in which it was
the right thing for the youthful aristocracy to imitate the manners
of Mr. Samuel Weller, senior. Matthew Harrison had known the trainer
in his brief and stormy married life, and had accompanied Aurora's
first husband as a humble dependent and hanger-on in that foreign
travel which had been paid for out of Archibald Floyd's cheque-book.
The honest captain's blood boiled as he heard that shameful story
of treachery and extortion practised upon an ignorant school-girl.
Oh, that he had been by to avenge those outrages upon the child of
the dark-eyed sister he had loved! His rage against the undiscovered
murderer of the dead man was redoubled when he remembered how
comfortably James Conyers had escaped from his vengeance.
Mr. Stephen Hargraves, the "Softy," took good care to keep out of the
way of the Crooked Rabbit, having no wish to encounter Captain Prodder
a second time; but he still hung about the town of Doncaster, where
he had a lodging up a wretched alley, hidden away behind one of the
back streets,--a species of lair common to every large town, only to be
found by the inhabitants of the locality.
The "Softy" had been born and bred, and had lived his life, in such a
narrow radius, that the uprooting of one of the oaks in Mellish Park
could scarcely be a slower or more painful operation than the severing
of those ties of custom which held the boorish hanger-on to the
neighbourhood of the household in which he had so long been an inmate.
But now that his occupation at Mellish Park was for ever gone, and his
patron, the trainer, dead, he was alone in the world, and had need to
look out for a fresh situation.
But he seemed rather slow to do this. He was not a very prepossessing
person, it must be remembered, and there were not very many services
for which he was fitted. Although upwards of forty years of age, he
was generally rather loosely described as a young man who understood
all about horses; and this qualification was usually sufficient to
procure for any individual whatever some kind of employment in the
neighbourhood of Doncaster. The "Softy" seemed, however, rather to
keep aloof from the people who knew and could have recommended him;
and when asked why he did not seek a situation, gave evasive answers,
and muttered something to the effect that he had saved a little bit of
money at Mellish Park, and had no need to come upon the parish if he
was out of work for a week or two.
John Mellish was so well known as a generous paymaster, that this was
a matter of surprise to no one. Steeve Hargraves had no doubt had
pretty pickings in that liberal household. So the "Softy" went his
way unquestioned, hanging about the town in a lounging, uncomfortable
manner, sitting in some public-house taproom half the day and night,
drinking his meagre liquor in a sullen and unsocial style peculiar to
himself, and consorting with no one.
He made his appearance at the railway station one day, and groped
helplessly through all the time-tables pasted against the walls: but he
could make nothing of them unaided, and was at last compelled to appeal
to a good-tempered-looking official who was busy on the platform.
"I want th' Liverpool trayuns," he said, "and I can find naught about
'em here."
The official knew Mr. Hargraves, and looked at him with a stare of open
wonder.
"My word, Steeve," he said laughing, "what takes you to Liverpool? I
thought you'd never been further than York in your life?"
"Maybe I haven't," the "Softy" answered sulkily; "but that's no reason
I shouldn't go now. I've heard of a situation at Liverpool as I
think'll suit me."
"Not better than the place you had with Mr. Mellish."
"Perhaps not," muttered Mr. Hargraves, with a frown darkening over his
ugly face; "but Mellish Park be no pleace for me now, and arnt been for
a long time past."
The railway official laughed.
The story of Aurora's chastisement of the half-witted groom was pretty
well known amongst the townspeople of Doncaster; and I am sorry to say
there were very few members of that sporting community who did not
admire the mistress of Mellish Park something more by reason of this
little incident in her history.
Mr. Hargraves received the desired information about the railway route
between Doncaster and Liverpool, and then left the station.
A shabby-looking little man, who had also been mating some inquiries of
the same official who had talked to the "Softy," and had consequently
heard the above brief dialogue, followed Stephen Hargraves from the
station into the town. Indeed, had it not been that the "Softy" was
unusually slow of perception, he might have discovered that upon this
particular day the same shabby-looking little man generally happened to
be hanging about any and every place to which he, Mr. Hargraves, betook
himself. But the cast-off retainer of Mellish Park did not trouble
himself with any such misgivings. His narrow intellect, never wide
enough to take in many subjects at a time, was fully absorbed by other
considerations; and he loitered about with a gloomy and preoccupied
expression in his face, that by no means enhanced his personal
attractions.
It is not to be supposed that Mr. Joseph Grimstone let the grass
grow under his feet after his interview with John Mellish and Talbot
Bulstrode. He had heard enough to make his course pretty clear to him,
and he went to work quietly and sagaciously to win the reward offered
to him.
There was not a tailor's shop in Doncaster or its vicinity into
which the detective did not make his way. There was not a garment
_confectionée_ by any of the civil purveyors upon whom he intruded
that Mr. Grimstone did not examine; not a drawer of odds and ends
which he did not ransack, in his search for buttons by "Crosby, maker,
Birmingham." But for a long time he made his inquisition in vain.
Before the day succeeding that of Talbot's arrival at Mellish Park
was over, the detective had visited every tailor or clothier in the
neighbourhood of the racing metropolis of the north, but no traces
of "Crosby, maker, Birmingham," had he been able to find. Brass
waistcoat-buttons are not particularly affected by the leaders of
the fashion in the present day, and Mr. Grimstone found almost every
variety of fastening upon the waistcoats he examined, except that
one special style of button, a specimen of which, out of shape and
blood-stained, he carried deep in his trousers-pocket.
He was returning to the inn at which he had taken up his abode, and
where he was supposed to be a traveller in the Glenfield starch
and sugar-plum line, tired and worn out with a day's useless work,
when he was attracted by the appearance of some ready-made garments
gracefully festooned about the door of a Doncaster pawnbroker, who
exhibited silver teaspoons, oil-paintings, boots and shoes, dropsical
watches, doubtful rings, and remnants of silk and satin, in his
artistically-arranged window.
Mr. Grimstone stopped short before the money-lender's portal.
"I won't be beaten," he muttered between his teeth. "If this man has
got any weskits, I'll have a look at 'em."
He lounged into the shop in a leisurely manner, and asked the
proprietor of the establishment if he had anything cheap in the way of
fancy waistcoats.
Of course the proprietor had everything desirable in that way, and from
a kind of grove or arbour of all manner of dry goods at the back of the
shop, he brought out half a dozen brown-paper parcels, the contents of
which he exhibited to Mr. Joseph Grimstone.
The detective looked at a great many waistcoats, but with no
satisfactory result.
"You haven't got anything with brass buttons, I suppose?" he inquired
at last.
The proprietor shook his head reflectively.
"Brass buttons aint much worn now-a-days," he said; "but I'll lay I've
got the very thing you want, now I come to think of it. I got 'em an
uncommon bargain from a traveller for a Birmingham house, who was here
at the September meeting three years ago, and lost a hatful of money
upon Underhand, and left a lot of things with me, in order to make up
what he wanted."
Mr. Grimstone pricked up his ears at the sound of "Birmingham." The
pawnbroker retired once more to the mysterious caverns at the back of
his shop, and after a considerable search succeeded in finding what he
wanted. He brought another brown-paper parcel to the counter, turned
the flaming gas a little higher, and exhibited a heap of very gaudy and
vulgar-looking waistcoats, evidently of that species of manufacture
which is generally called slop-work.
"These are the goods," he said; "and very tasty and lively things they
are, too. I had a dozen of 'em; and I've only got these five left."
Mr. Grimstone had taken up a waistcoat of a flaming check pattern, and
was examining it by the light of the gas.
Yes; the purpose of his day's work was accomplished at last. The back
of the brass buttons bore the name of Crosby, Birmingham.
"You've only got five left out of the dozen," said the detective; "then
you've sold seven?"
"I have."
"Can you remember who you sold 'em to?"
The pawnbroker scratched his head thoughtfully.
"I think I must have sold 'em all to the men at the works," he said.
"They take their wages once a fortnight; and there's some of 'em drop
in here every other Saturday night to buy something or other, or to
take something out of pledge. I know I sold four or five that way."
"But can you remember selling one of them to anybody else?" asked the
detective. "I'm not asking out of curiosity; and I don't mind standing
something handsome by-and-by, if you can give me the information I
want. Think it over, now, and take your time. You couldn't have sold
'em all seven to the men from the works."
"No; I didn't," answered the pawnbroker after a pause. "I remember now,
I sold one of them--a fancy sprig on a purple ground--to Josephs the
baker, in the next street; and I sold another--a yellow stripe on a
brown ground--to the head-gardener at Mellish Park."
Mr. Joseph Grimstone's face flushed hot and red. His day's work had not
been wasted. He was bringing the buttons by Crosby of Birmingham very
near to where he wanted to bring them.
"You can tell me the gardener's name, I suppose?" he said to the
pawnbroker.
"Yes; his name's Dawson. He belongs to Doncaster, and he and I were
boys together. I should not have remembered selling him the waistcoat,
perhaps, for it's nigh upon a year and a half ago; only he stopped and
had a chat with me and my missis the night he bought it."
Mr. Grimstone did not linger much longer in the shop. His interest
in the waistcoats was evidently departed. He bought a couple of
second-hand silk handkerchiefs, out of civility, no doubt, and then
bade the pawnbroker good-night.
It was nearly nine o'clock; but the detective only stopped at his inn
long enough to eat about a pound and a quarter of beefsteak, and drink
a pint of ale, after which brief refreshment he started for Mellish
Park on foot. It was the principle of his life to avoid observation,
and he preferred the fatigue of a long and lonely walk to the risks
contingent upon hiring a vehicle to convey him to his destination.
Talbot and John had been waiting hopefully all the day for the
detective's coming, and welcomed him very heartily when he appeared,
between ten and eleven. He was shown into John's own room this evening;
for the two gentlemen were sitting there smoking and talking after
Aurora and Lucy had gone to bed. Mrs. Mellish had good need of rest,
and could sleep peacefully now; for the dark shadow between her and
her husband had gone for ever, and she could not fear any peril, any
sorrow, now that she knew herself to be secure of his love. John looked
up eagerly as Mr. Grimstone followed the servant into the room; but
a warning look from Talbot Bulstrode checked his impetuosity, and he
waited till the door was shut before he spoke.
"Now, then, Grimstone," he said; "what news?"
"Well, sir, I've had a hard day's work," the detective answered
gravely, "and perhaps neither of you gentlemen--not being
professional--would think much of what I've done; but for all that, I
believe I'm bringin' it home, sir; I believe I'm bringin' it home."
"Thank God for that!" murmured Talbot Bulstrode, reverently.
He had thrown away his cigar, and was standing by the fireplace, with
his arm resting upon the angle of the mantel-piece.
"You've got a gardener by the name of Dawson in your service, Mr.
Mellish?" said the detective.
"I have," answered John: "but, Lord have mercy upon us! you don't mean
to say you think it's him? Dawson's as good a fellow as ever breathed."
"I don't say I think it's any one as yet, sir," Mr. Grimstone answered
sententiously; "but when a man as had two thousand pound upon him in
bank-notes is found in a wood shot through the heart, and the notes
missin'--the wood bein' free to anybody as chose to walk in it--it's a
pretty open case for suspicion. I should like to see this man Dawson,
if it's convenient."
"To-night?" asked John.
"Yes: the sooner the better. The less delay there is in this sort of
business, the more satisfactory for all parties, with the exception of
the party that's wanted," added the detective.
"I'll send for Dawson, then," answered Mr. Mellish; "but I expect he'll
have gone to bed by this time."
"Then he can but get up again, if he has, sir," Mr. Grimstone said
politely. "I've set my heart upon seeing him to-night, if it's all the
same to you."
It is not to be supposed that John Mellish was likely to object to any
arrangement which might hasten, if by but a moment's time, the hour of
the discovery for which he so ardently prayed. He went straight off to
the servants' hall to make inquiries for the gardener, and left Talbot
Bulstrode and the detective together.
"There aint nothing turned up here, I suppose, sir," said Joseph
Grimstone, addressing Mr. Bulstrode, "as will be of any help to us?"
"Yes," Talbot answered. "We have got the numbers of the notes which
Mrs. Mellish gave the murdered man. I telegraphed to Mr. Floyd's
country house, and he arrived here himself only an hour ago, bringing
the list of the notes with him."
"And an uncommon plucky thing of the old gentleman to do, beggin' your
pardon, sir," exclaimed the detective with enthusiasm.
Five minutes afterwards, Mr. Mellish re-entered the room, bringing the
gardener with him. The man had been into Doncaster to see his friends,
and only returned about half an hour before; so the master of the house
had caught him in the act of making havoc with a formidable cold joint,
and a great jar of pickled cabbage, in the servants' hall.
"Now, you're not to be frightened, Dawson," said the young squire, with
friendly indiscretion; "of course nobody for a moment suspects you, any
more than they suspect me; but this gentleman here wants to see you,
and of course you know there's no reason that he shouldn't see you if
he wishes it, though what he wants with you--"
Mr. Mellish stopped abruptly, arrested by a frown from Talbot
Bulstrode; and the gardener, who was innocent of the faintest
comprehension of his master's meaning, pulled his hair respectfully,
and shuffled nervously upon the slippery Indian matting.
"I only want to ask you a question or two to decide a wager between
these two gentlemen and me, Mr. Dawson," said the detective with
reassuring familiarity. "You bought a second-hand waistcoat of Gogram,
in the market-place, didn't you, about a year and a half ago?"
"Ay, sure, sir. I bought a weskit at Gogram's," answered the gardener;
"but it weren't second-hand; it were bran new."
"A yellow stripe upon a brown ground?"
The man nodded, with his mouth wide open, in the extremity of his
surprise at this London stranger's familiarity with the details of his
toilet.
"I dunno how you come to know about that weskit, sir," he said, with
a grin; "it were wore out full six months ago; for I took to wearin'
of it in t' garden, and garden-work soon spiles anything in the way of
clothes; but him as I give it to was glad enough to have it, though it
was awful shabby."
"Him as you give it to?" repeated Mr. Grimstone, not pausing to amend
the sentence, in his eagerness. "You gave it away, then?"
"Yees, I gave it to th' 'Softy;' and wasn't th' poor fond chap glad to
get it, that's all!"
"The 'Softy'!" exclaimed Mr. Grimstone. "Who's the 'Softy'?"
"The man we spoke of last night," answered Talbot Bulstrode; "the
man whom Mrs. Mellish found in this room upon the morning before the
murder,--the man called Stephen Hargraves."
"Ay, ay, to be sure; I thought as much," murmured the detective. "That
will do, Mr. Dawson," he added, addressing the gardener, who had
shuffled a good deal nearer to the doorway in his uneasy state of mind.
"Stay, though; I may as well ask you one more question. Were any of the
buttons missing off that waistcoat when you gave it away?"
"Not one on 'em," answered the gardener, decisively. "My missus is too
particular for that. She's a reg'lar toidy one, she is; allers mendin'
and patchin'; and if one of t' buttons got loose she was sure to sew it
on toight again, before it was lost."
"Thank you, Mr. Dawson," returned the detective, with the friendly
condescension of a superior being. "Good-night."
The gardener shuffled off, very glad to be released from the awful
presence of his superiors, and to go back to the cold meat and pickles
in the servants' hall.
"I think I'm bringing the business into a nutshell, sir," said Mr.
Grimstone, when the door had closed upon the gardener. "But the less
said, the better, just yet awhile. I'll take the list of the numbers
of the notes, please, sir; and I believe I shall come upon you for
that two hundred pound, Mr. Mellish, before either of us is many weeks
older."
So, with the list made by cautious Archibald Floyd, bestowed safely in
his waistcoat-pocket, Mr. Joseph Grimstone walked back to Doncaster
through the still summer's night, intent upon the business he had
undertaken.
"It looked uncommon black against the lady about a week ago," he
thought, as he walked meditatively across the dewy grass in Mellish
Park; "and I fancy the information they got at the Yard would have put
a fool upon the wrong scent, and kept him on it till the right one got
worn out. But it's clearing up, it's clearing up beautiful; and I think
it'll turn out one of the neatest cases I ever had the handling of."