OFF THE SCENT.
It is scarcely necessary to say, that, with the button by Crosby in his
pocket, and with the information acquired from Dawson the gardener,
stowed away carefully in his mind, Mr. Joseph Grimstone looked with an
eye of particular interest upon Steeve Hargraves the "Softy."
The detective had not come to Doncaster alone. He had brought with him
a humble ally and follower, in the shape of the little shabby-looking
man who had encountered the "Softy" at the railway station, having
received orders to keep a close watch upon Mr. Stephen Hargraves. It
was of course a very easy matter to identify the "Softy" in the town of
Doncaster, where he had been pretty generally known since his childhood.
Mr. Grimstone had called upon a medical practitioner, and had submitted
the button to him for inspection. The stains upon it were indeed that
which the detective had supposed--blood; and the surgeon detected a
minute morsel of cartilage adhering to the jagged hasp of the button;
but the same surgeon declared that this missile could not have been the
one used by the murderer of James Conyers. It had not been through the
dead man's body; it had inflicted only a surface wound.
The business which now lay before Mr. Grimstone was the tracing of one
or other of the bank-notes; and for this purpose he and his ally set
to work upon the track of the "Softy," with a view of discovering all
the places which it was his habit to visit. The haunts affected by Mr.
Hargraves turned out to be some half-dozen very obscure public-houses;
and to each of these Joseph Grimstone went in person.
But he could discover nothing. All his inquiries only elicited the fact
that Stephen Hargraves had not been observed to change, or to attempt
to change, any bank-note whatever. He had paid for all he had had,
and spent more than it was usual for him to spend, drinking a good
deal harder than had been his habit heretofore; but he had paid in
silver, except on one occasion, when he had changed a sovereign. The
detective called at the bank; but no person answering the description
of Stephen Hargraves had been observed there. The detective endeavoured
to discover any friends or companions of the "Softy;" but here again he
failed. The half-witted hanger-on of the Mellish stables had never made
any friends, being entirely deficient in all social qualities.
There was something almost miraculous in the manner in which Mr. Joseph
Grimstone contrived to make himself master of any information which
he wished to acquire; and before noon on the day after his interview
with Mr. Dawson the gardener, he had managed to eliminate all the facts
set down above, and had also succeeded in ingratiating himself into
the confidence of the dirty old proprietress of that humble lodging in
which the "Softy" had taken up his abode.
It is scarcely necessary to this story to tell how the detective went
to work; but while Stephen Hargraves sat soddening his stupid brain
with medicated beer in a low tap-room not far off, and while Mr.
Grimstone's ally kept close watch, holding himself in readiness to give
warning of any movement on the part of the suspected individual, Mr.
Grimstone himself went so cleverly to work in his manipulation of the
"Softy's" landlady, that in less than a quarter of an hour he had taken
full possession of that weak point in the intellectual citadel which is
commonly called the blind side, and was able to do what he pleased with
the old woman and her wretched tenement.
His peculiar pleasure was to make a very elaborate examination of
the apartment rented by the "Softy," and any other apartments,
cupboards, or hiding-places to which Mr. Hargraves had access. But
he found nothing to reward him for his trouble. The old woman was in
the habit of receiving casual lodgers, resting for a night or so at
Doncaster before tramping further on their vagabond wanderings; and
the six-roomed dwelling-place was only furnished with such meagre
accommodation as may be expected for fourpence and sixpence a night.
There were few hiding-places,--no carpets, underneath which fat bundles
of bank-notes might be hidden; no picture-frames, behind which the
same species of property might be bestowed; no ponderous cornices or
heavily-fringed valances shrouding the windows, and affording dusty
recesses wherein the title-deeds of half a dozen fortunes might lie
and rot. There were two or three cupboards, into which Mr. Grimstone
penetrated with a tallow candle; but he discovered nothing of any
more importance than crockery-ware, lucifer-matches, fire-wood,
potatoes, bare ropes, on which an onion lingered here and there and
sprouted dismally in its dark loneliness, empty ginger-beer bottles,
oyster-shells, old boots and shoes, disabled mouse-traps, black
beetles, and humid fungi rising ghost-like from the damp and darkness.
Mr. Grimstone emerged dirty and discomforted, from one of these dark
recesses, after a profitless search, which had occupied a couple of
weary hours.
"Some other chap'll go in and cut the ground under my feet, if I
waste my time this way," thought the detective. "I'm blest if I don't
think I've been a fool for my pains. The man carries the money about
him,--that's as clear as mud; and if I were to search Doncaster till my
hair got gray, I shouldn't find what I want."
Mr. Grimstone shut the door of the last cupboard which he had examined,
with an impatient slam, and then turned towards the window. There was
no sign of his scout in the little alley before the house, and he had
time therefore for further business.
He had examined everything in the "Softy's" apartment, and he had paid
particular attention to the state of Mr. Hargraves' wardrobe, which
consisted of a pile of garments, every one of which bore in its cut and
fashion the stamp of a different individuality, and thereby proclaimed
itself as having belonged to another master. There was a Newmarket
coat of John Mellish's, and a pair of hunting-breeches, which could
only have built by the great Poole himself, split across the knees,
but otherwise little the worse for wear. There was a linen jacket, and
an old livery waistcoat that had belonged to one of the servants at
the Park; odd tops of every shade known in the hunting-field, from the
spotless white, or the delicate champagne-cleaned cream colour of the
dandy, to the favourite vinegar hue of the hard-riding country squire;
a groom's hat with a tarnished band and a battered crown; hob-nailed
boots, which may have belonged to Mr. Dawson; corduroy breeches that
could only have fitted a dropsical lodge-keeper, long deceased; and
there was one garment which bore upon it the ghastly impress of a
dreadful deed that had but lately been done. This was the velveteen
shooting-coat worn by James Conyers, the trainer, which, pierced with
the murderous bullet, and stiffened by the soaking torrent of blood,
had been appropriated by Mr. Stephen Hargraves in the confusion of the
catastrophe. All these things, with sundry rubbish in the way of odd
spurs and whip-handles, scraps of broken harness, ends of rope, and
such other scrapings as only a miser loves to accumulate, were packed
in a lumbering trunk covered with mangy fur, and secured by about a
dozen yards of knotted and jagged rope, tied about it in such a manner
as the "Softy" had considered sufficient to defy the most artful thief
in Christendom.
Mr. Grimstone had made very short work of all the elaborate defences in
the way of knots and entanglements, and had ransacked the box from one
end to the other; nay, had even closely examined the fur covering of
the trunk, and had tested each separate brass-headed nail to ascertain
if any of them had been removed or altered. He may have thought it just
possible that two thousand pounds' worth of Bank of England paper
had been nailed down under the mangy fur. He gave a weary sigh as he
concluded his inspection, replaced the garments one by one in the
trunk, reknotted and secured the jagged cord, and with a weary sigh
turned his back upon the "Softy's" chamber.
"It's no good," he thought. "The yellow-striped waistcoat isn't among
his clothes, and the money isn't hidden away anywhere. Can he be deep
enough to have destroyed that waistcoat, I wonder? He'd got a red
woollen one on this morning; perhaps he's got the yellow-striped one
under it."
Mr. Grimstone brushed the dust and cobwebs off his clothes, washed his
hands in a greasy wooden bowl of scalding water, which the old woman
brought him, and then sat down before the fire, picking his teeth
thoughtfully, and with his eyebrows set in a reflective frown over his
small gray eyes.
"I don't like to be beat," he thought; "I don't like to be beat." He
doubted if any magistrate would grant him a warrant against the "Softy"
upon the strength of the evidence in his possession--the blood-stained
button by Crosby of Birmingham; and without a warrant he could not
search for the notes upon the person of the man he suspected. He had
sounded all the out-door servants at Mellish Park, but had been able
to discover nothing that threw any light upon the movements of Stephen
Hargraves on the night of the murder. No one remembered having seen
him; no one had been on the southern side of the wood that night. One
of the lads had passed the north lodge on his way from the high-road to
the stables, about the time at which Aurora had heard the shot fired in
the wood, and had seen a light burning in the lower window; but this,
of course, proved nothing either one way or the other.
"If we could find the money _upon him_," thought Mr. Grimstone; "it
would be pretty strong proof of the robbery; and if we find the
waistcoat off which that button came, in his possession, it wouldn't
be bad evidence of the murder, putting the two things together; but we
shall have to keep a precious sharp watch upon my friend, while we hunt
up what we want, or I'm blest if he won't give us the slip, and be off
to Liverpool and out of the country before we know where we are."
Now the truth of the matter is, that Mr. Joseph Grimstone was not,
perhaps, acting quite so conscientiously in this business as he might
have done, had the love of justice in the abstract, and without any
relation to sublunary reward, been the ruling principle of his life. He
might have had any help he pleased, from the Doncaster constabulary,
had he chosen to confide in the members of that force; but, as a very
knowing individual who owns a three-year old, which he has reason to
believe "a flyer," is apt to keep the capabilities of his horse a
secret from his friends and the sporting public, while he puts a "pot"
of money upon the animal at enormous odds, so Mr. Grimstone desired
to keep his information to himself, until it should have brought him
its golden fruit in the shape of a small reward from Government, and a
large one from John Mellish.
The detective had reason to know that the Dogberries of Doncaster,
misled by a duplicate of that very letter which had first aroused the
attention of Scotland Yard, were on the wrong scent, as he had been at
first; and he was very well content to leave them where they were.
"No," he thought, "it's a critical game; but I'll play it
single-handed, or, at least, with no one better than Tom Chivers to
help me through with it; and a ten-pound note will satisfy him, if we
win the day."
Pondering thus, Mr. Grimstone departed, after having recompensed the
landlady for her civility by a donation which the old woman considered
princely.
He had entirely deluded her as to the object of his search by telling
her that he was a lawyer's clerk, commissioned by his employer to hunt
for a codicil which had been hidden somewhere in that house by an old
man who had lived in it in the year 1783; and he had contrived, in
the course of conversation, to draw from the old woman, who was of a
garrulous turn, all that she had to tell about the "Softy."
It was not much, certainly. Mr. Hargraves had never changed a bank-note
with her knowledge. He had paid for his bit of victuals as he had it,
but had not spent a shilling a day. As to bank-notes, it wasn't at all
likely that he had any of them; for he was always complaining that he
was very poor, and that his little bit of savings, scraped together out
of his wages, wouldn't last him long.
"This Hargraves is a precious deep one for all they call him soft,"
thought Mr. Grimstone, as he left the lodging-house, and walked slowly
towards the sporting public-house at which he had left the "Softy"
under the watchful eye of Mr. Tom Chivers. "I've often heard say that
these half-witted chaps have more cunning in their little fingers than
a better man has in the whole of his composition. Another man would
have never been able to stand against the temptation of changing one of
those notes; or would have gone about wearing that identical waistcoat;
or would have made a bolt of it the day after the murder; or tried on
something or other that would have blown the gaff upon him; but not
your 'Softy!' He hides the notes and he hides the waistcoat, and then
he laughs in his sleeve at those that want him, and sits drinking his
beer as comfortably as you please."
Pondering thus, the detective made his way to the public-house in
which he had left Mr. Stephen Hargraves. He ordered a glass of
brandy-and-water at the bar, and walked into the taproom, expecting to
see the "Softy" still brooding sullenly over his drink, still guarded
by the apparently indifferent eye of Mr. Chivers. But it was not
so. The taproom was empty; and upon making cautious inquiries, Mr.
Grimstone discovered that the "Softy" and his watcher had been gone for
upwards of an hour.
Mr. Chivers had been forbidden to let his charge out of sight under
any circumstances whatever, except indeed if the "Softy" had turned
homewards while Mr. Grimstone was employed in ransacking his domicile,
in which event Tom was to have slipped on a few paces before him,
and given warning to his chief. Wherever Stephen Hargraves went, Mr.
Thomas Chivers was to follow him; but he was, above all, to act in such
a manner as would effectually prevent any suspicion arising in the
"Softy's" mind as to the fact that he was followed.
It will be seen, therefore, that poor Chivers had no very easy task
to perform, and it has been seen that he had heretofore contrived
to perform it pretty skilfully. If Stephen Hargraves sat boozing in
a taproom half the day, Mr. Chivers was also to booze or to make a
pretence of boozing, for the same length of time. If the "Softy" showed
any disposition to be social, and gave his companion any opportunity
of getting friendly with him, the detective's underling was to employ
his utmost skill and discretion in availing himself of that golden
chance. It is a wondrous provision of Providence that the treachery
which would be hateful and horrible in any other man, is considered
perfectly legitimate in the man who is employed to hunt out a murderer
or a thief. The vile instruments which the criminal employed against
his unsuspecting victim are in due time used against himself; and the
wretch who laughed at the poor unsuspecting dupe who was trapped to
his destruction by _his_ lies, is caught in his turn by some shallow
deceit, or pitifully hackneyed device, of the paid spy, who has been
bribed to lure him to his doom. For the outlaw of society, the code of
honour is null and void. His existence is a perpetual peril to innocent
women and honourable men; and the detective who beguiles him to his end
does such a service to society as must doubtless counterbalance the
treachery of the means by which it is done. The days of Jonathan Wild
and his compeers are over, and the thief-taker no longer begins life
as a thief. The detective officer is as honest as he is intrepid and
astute, and it is not his own fault if the dirty nature of all crime
gives him now and then dirty work to do.
But Mr. Stephen Hargraves did not give the opportunity for which Tom
Chivers had been bidden to lie in wait; he sat sullen, silent, stupid,
unapproachable; and as Tom's orders were not to force himself upon
his companion, he was fain to abandon all thought of worming himself
into the "Softy's" good graces. This made the task of watching him all
the more difficult. It is not such a very easy matter to follow a man
without seeming to follow him.
It was market-day too, and the town was crowded with noisy country
people. Mr. Grimstone suddenly remembered this, and the recollection by
no means added to his peace of mind.
"Chivers never did sell me," he thought, "and surely he won't do it
now. I dare say they're safe enough, for the matter of that, in some
other public. I'll slip out and look after them."
Mr. Grimstone had, as I have said, already made himself acquainted
with all the haunts affected by the "Softy." It did not take him long,
therefore, to look in at the three or four public-houses where Steeve
Hargraves was likely to be found, and to discover that he was not there.
"He's slouching about the town somewhere or other, I dare say,"
thought the detective, "with my mate close upon his heels. I'll stroll
towards the market-place, and see if I can find them anywhere that way."
Mr. Grimstone turned out of the by-street in which he had been walking,
into a narrow alley leading to the broad open square upon which the
market-place stands.
The detective went his way in a leisurely manner, with his hands in
his pockets and a cigar in his mouth. He had perfect confidence in
Mr. Thomas Chivers, and the crowded state of the market-place and its
neighbourhood in no way weakened his sense of security.
"Chivers will stick to him through thick and thin," he thought; "he'd
keep an eye upon his man if he had to look after him between Charing
Cross and Whitehall when the Queen was going to open Parliament. He's
not the man to be flummuxed by a crowd in a country market-place."
Serene in this sense of security, Mr. Grimstone amused himself by
looking about him, with an expression of somewhat supercilious wonder,
at the manners and customs of those indigenæ who, upon market-day,
make their inroad into the quiet town. He paused upon the edge of a
little sunken flight of worn steps leading down to the stage-door of
the theatre, and read the fragments of old bills mouldering upon the
door-posts and lintel. There were glowing announcements of dramatic
performances that had long ago taken place; and above the rain and
mud stained relics of the past, in bold black lettering, appeared the
record of a drama as terrible as any that had ever been enacted in that
provincial theatre. The bill-sticker had posted the announcement of
the reward offered by John Mellish for the discovery of the murderer
in every available spot, and had not forgotten this position, which
commanded one of the entrances to the market-place.
"It's a wonder to me," muttered Mr. Grimstone, "that that blessed bill
shouldn't have opened the eyes of these Doncaster noodles. But I dare
say they think it's a blind, a planned thing to throw 'em off the scent
their clever noses are sticking to so determined. If I can get my man
before they open their eyes, I shall have such a haul as I haven't met
with lately."
Musing thus pleasantly, Mr. Grimstone turned his back upon the
theatre, and crossed over to the market. Within the building the
clamour of buying and selling was at its height: noisy countrymen
chaffering in their northern _patois_ upon the value and merits of
poultry, butter, and eggs; dealers in butchers' meat bewildering
themselves in the endeavour to simultaneously satisfy the demands of
half a dozen sharp and bargain-loving housekeepers; while from without
there came a confused clatter of other merchants and other customers,
clamouring and hustling round the stalls of greengrocers and the slimy
barrows of blue-jacketed fishmongers. In the midst of all this bustle
and confusion, Mr. Grimstone came suddenly upon his trusted ally, pale,
terror-stricken, and--ALONE!
The detective's mind was not slow to grasp the full force of the
situation.
"You've lost him!" he whispered fiercely, seizing the unfortunate Mr.
Chivers by the collar, and pinning him as securely as if he had serious
thoughts of making him a permanent fixture upon the stone-flags of the
market-place. "You've lost him, Tom Chivers!" he continued, hoarse with
agitation. "You've lost the party that I told you was worth more to
me than any other party I ever gave you the office for. You've lost
me the best chance I've ever had since I've been in Scotland Yard,
and yourself too; for I should have acted liberal by you," added the
detective, apparently oblivious of that morning's reverie, in which he
had pre-determined offering his assistant ten pounds, in satisfaction
of all his claims,--"I should have acted very liberal by you, Tom. But
what's the use of standing jawing here? You come along with me; you can
tell me how it happened as we go."
With his powerful grasp still on the underling's collar, Mr. Grimstone
walked out of the market-place, neither looking to the right nor the
left, though many a pair of rustic eyes opened to their widest as he
passed, attracted no doubt by the rapidity of his pace and the obvious
determination of his manner. Perhaps those rustic bystanders thought
that the stern-looking gentleman in the black frock-coat had arrested
the shabby little man in the act of picking his pocket, and was bearing
him off to deliver him straight into the hands of justice.
Mr. Grimstone released his grasp when he and his companion had got
clear of the market-place.
"Now," he said, breathless, but not slackening his pace,--"now I
suppose you can tell me how you came to make such an"--inadmissable
adjective--"fool of yourself? Never you mind where I'm goin'. I'm goin'
to the railway station. Never you mind why I'm goin' there. You'd guess
why, if you weren't a fool. Now tell me all about it, can't you?"
"It aint much to tell," the humble follower gasped, his respiratory
functions sadly tried by the pace at which his superior went over the
ground. "It aint much. I followed your instructions faithful. I tried,
artful and quiet-like, to make acquaintance with him; but that warn't
a bit o' good. He was as surly as a bull-terrier, so I didn't force
him to it; but kept an eye upon him, and let out before him as it was
racin' business as had brought me to Doncaster, and as I was here to
look after a horse, what was in trainin' a few miles off, for a gent
in London; and when he left the public, I went after him, but not
conspicuous. But I think from that minute he was fly, for he didn't go
three steps without lookin' back, and he led me such a chase as made
my legs tremble under me, which they trembles at this moment; and then
he gets me into the market-place, and he dodges here, and he dodges
there, and wherever the crowd's thickest he dodges most, till he gets
me at last in among a ring of market-people round a couple o' coves
a-millin' with each other, and there I loses him. And I've been in and
out the market, and here and there, until I'm fit to drop, but it aint
no good; and you've no call to lay the blame on me, for mortal man
couldn't have done more."
Mr. Chivers wiped the perspiration from his face in testimony of his
exertions. Dirty little streams were rolling down his forehead and
trickling upon his poor faded cheeks. He mopped up these evidences of
his fatigue with a red cotton handkerchief, and gave a deprecatory sigh.
"If there's anybody to lay blame on, it aint me," he said mildly. "I
said all along you ought to have had help. A man as is on his own
ground, and knows his own ground, is more than a match for one cove,
however hard he may work."
The detective turned fiercely upon his meek dependent.
"Who's blaming you?" he cried impatiently. "I wouldn't cry out before I
was hurt, if I were you."
They had reached the railway station by this time.
"How long is it since you missed him?" asked Mr. Grimstone of the
penitent Chivers.
"Three-quarters of a hour, or it may be a hour," Tom added doubtfully.
"I dare say it _is_ an hour," muttered the detective.
He walked straight to one of the chief officials, and asked what trains
had left within the last hour.
"Two--both market trains: one eastward, Selby way; the other for
Penistone, and the intervening stations."
The detective looked at the time-table, running his thumb-nail along
the names of the stations.
"That train will reach Penistone in time to catch the Liverpool train,
won't it?" he asked.
"Just about."
"What time did it go?"
"The Penistone train?"
"Yes."
"About half an hour ago; at 2.30."
The clocks had struck three as Mr. Grimstone made his way to the
station.
"Half an hour ago," muttered the detective. "He'd have had ample time
to catch the train after giving Chivers the slip."
He questioned the guards and porters as to whether any of them had
seen a man answering to the description of the "Softy:" a white-faced,
hump-backed fellow, in corduroys and a fustian jacket; and even
penetrated into the ticket-clerk's office to ask the same question.
No; none of them had seen Mr. Stephen Hargraves. Two or three of them
recognized him by the detective's description, and asked if it was one
of the stable-men from Mellish Park that the gentleman was inquiring
after. Mr. Grimstone rather evaded any direct answer to this question.
Secrecy was, as we know, the principle upon which he conducted his
affairs.
"He may have contrived to give 'em all the slip," he said
confidentially to his faithful but dispirited ally. "He may have got
off without any of 'em seeing him. He's got the money about him, I'm
all but certain of that; and his game is to get off to Liverpool.
His inquiries after the trains yesterday proves that. Now I might
telegraph, and have him stopped at Liverpool--supposing him to have
given us all the slip, and gone off there--if I like to let others
into the game; but I don't. I'll play to win or lose; but I'll play
single-handed. He may try another dodge, and get off Hull way by
the canal-boats that the market-people use, and then slip across to
Hamburg, or something of that sort; but that aint likely,--these
fellows always go one way. It seems as if the minute a man has taken
another man's life, or forged his name, or embezzled his money, his
ideas get fixed in one groove, and never can soar higher than Liverpool
and the American packet."
Mr. Chivers listened respectfully to his patron's communications.
He was very well pleased to see the serenity of his employer's mind
gradually returning.
"Now, I'll tell you what, Tom," said Mr. Grimstone. "If this chap
has given us the slip, why he's given us the slip, and he's got a
start of us, which we sha'n't be able to pick up till half-past ten
o'clock to-night, when there's a train that'll take us to Liverpool.
If he _hasn't_ given us the slip, there's only one way he can leave
Doncaster, and that's by this station; so you stay here patient and
quiet till you see me, or hear from me. If he is in Doncaster, I'm
jiggered if I don't find him."
With which powerful asseveration Mr. Grimstone walked away, leaving his
scout to keep watch for the possible coming of the "Softy."