EPHRAIM JUDD CUTS HIS HAND.
Ephraim Judd was the victim of an insatiable curiosity with regard to
the affairs of other people. To pry into the private business and
personal histories of his fellow clerks, and of those with whom he was
brought into contact in business, was with him a sort of mania. He had
a special bunch of keys, procured it would be impossible to say how,
which gave him access to nearly every drawer in the office; and many
an evening when he stayed after the other clerks had gone, and was
supposed to be busily at work, he was, in reality, engaged in prying
into private correspondence, and other matters with which he had no
manner of concern. It was not that the knowledge thus surreptitiously
obtained was of any value to him, or was made use of to the detriment
of those from whom it was stolen; it was simply hoarded up in his
memory, where so much useless knowledge was stored up already,
doubtless greatly to the satisfaction of his curiosity, which was the
sole end he had in view. He was stopping to-night after John
Brancker's departure because, in the course of the day, John had
received a letter by post, the contents of which had seemed to puzzle
him greatly, and Ephraim was hungering to know what the letter could
possibly be about. After reading the letter two or three times, and
wrinkling his brows over it, John had put it away in one of his
drawers, and Ephraim was in the hopes of finding it there now.
John Brancker had not been gone more than ten minutes before Ephraim
wiped his pen and laid it down. Then he sat perfectly still for a few
moments, listening intently with those large, flexible ears of his.
Nothing was to be heard save, now and then, the footsteps of someone
passing in the street. With a hop and a skip, Ephraim was off his
stool and at the door. Long practice had enabled him to turn the
handle noiselessly. Holding the door half open, he waited and listened
again. Sweet was probably downstairs getting his supper. A moment
later Ephraim was on one knee against Mr. Hazeldine's door, and
peering through the keyhole. In his india rubber overshoes he moved
without a sound. He kept his eye to the keyhole for about a couple of
minutes, and then he went back noiselessly to his own office.
"He doesn't seem to have much to do that need keep him so late,"
muttered Ephraim to himself. "I wonder what he's thinking about. He's
got something on his mind, I'm positive he has. He's not the same man
he was half a year ago."
While speaking thus he drew from one of his pockets a steel ring, on
which were strung about a dozen keys. Selecting one of them, he
inserted it into the lock of John Brancker's drawer, which it opened
as easily as the proper key could have done. A crafty smile lighted up
Ephraim's thin, sallow face as his fingers gripped the handle of the
drawer. He pulled, but the drawer stuck and would only open to the
extent of a few inches. A little patience would have remedied this,
but Ephraim was in a hurry; Obed Sweet might come his rounds at any
moment, so into the drawer went his long, lean fingers in search of
the letter.
Now, John Brancker was in the habit of using a quill pen nearly as
often as he used a steel one, and in his drawer was an office-knife,
almost as sharp as a razor, which he used for the making and mending
of the former. Ephraim never thought about the knife till his hand
came in contact with the blade, a gash being the immediate result. He
drew back his hand with an exclamation of pain, but not till the
contents of the drawer had been sprinkled with sundry drops of blood.
At this moment Sweet's premonitory cough was audible, and then the
door was opened, and his head protruded into the room. Ephraim was
obliged to stand still and let his wounded hand hang by his side.
"Not gone yet, sir?" said Sweet.
"No, but I'm just about done, and shall be off in a few minutes,"
answered Mr. Judd.
"All right, sir," responded Sweet. "The Guv'nor seems as if he was
going to stick at it late to-night," he added. And with that he went
on to talk of the weather, and lingered for fully five minutes before
he finally went.
Looking down, Ephraim saw with dismay that there was quite a little
pool of blood on the floor by this time. He had no means of cleaning
it up, and was utterly at a loss what to do. He tied his handkerchief
round his hand, and stood thinking for a minute or two. At length he
decided that he would leave the floor as it was for to-night, and come
to the Bank an hour earlier than usual in the morning, when the woman
who cleaned the offices would be at work. He would give her sixpence,
and with her soft soap and scrubbing-brush she would quickly efface
the stains from the floor; or, if by chance any signs still remained,
a little ink spilled carefully over the place would effectually hide
them. Five minutes by daylight would suffice to so re-arrange the
contents of the drawer, that John, who was the most unsuspicious of
mortals, would never find out that they had been disturbed. Having
thus decided on his plan, Ephraim proceeded to re-lock the drawer,
then he put on his overcoat, muffler and hat, and took possession of
his stick, after which he turned off the gas. At the door he paused to
listen, but all was silent.
About half way along the main corridor, and nearly opposite the door
of Mr. Hazeldine's office, was a spiral, iron staircase which gave
access to certain upper rooms used as storerooms for old books and
papers transferred from the offices below. Up this staircase mounted
Ephraim Judd till he reached a certain height, and then he paused.
Over Mr. Hazeldine's door was a fanlight which could be used as a
ventilator if so required. From his perch on the stairs Ephraim could
see through the fanlight into the interior of the office. He could
see, too, as previous experience had taught him, Mr. Hazeldine's table
as well as Mr. Hazeldine himself, if that gentleman happened to be
seated at it. He was so seated now, and for a space of about a dozen
seconds Ephraim's eyes seemed as though they would transfix him. "What
can he be after? What is he going to do?" he muttered to himself in
genuine surprise, and with somewhat of a scared look on his face.
But there was no time for further prying. He heard Sweet's footsteps
ascending the stairs from the lower premises. Half a minute later, and
he had opened one of the big outer doors and had let himself into the
street. He set off homeward in a more thoughtful mood than ordinary.
Twice he turned to look at the lighted windows of Mr. Hazeldine's
office. With the exception of them and the fanlight over the main
entrance, the building was in darkness; Sweet's rooms in the basement
having windows that looked the opposite way.
His tea was waiting for him when he reached home. After he had
partaken of it he sat awhile, puzzling himself over a chess problem in
a magazine; then he decided that he would go for a walk. He had not
gone far before John Brancker nearly ran against him at the corner of
a street.
"Hallo! Mr. B., whoever thought of meeting you at this time of night?"
cried Ephraim.
"I'm on my road to William Strong's," answered John. "I hear that he's
ill, and I'm doubtful whether he will be able to attend to the organ
next Sunday. That was a spot of rain. Now that I'm so near the Bank, I
may as well step in and get my umbrella, which I forgot to bring away
this evening. Sweet will hardly have shut up for the night yet."
Ephraim's heart sank within him. Should John light the gas in the
office, he would infallibly discover the bloodstains on the floor, and
his doing so would lead to inquiry; but all he said aloud was:
"I daresay you will find Mr. H. still in his office."
Then the two men bade each other good-night, and John turned off
towards the Bank.
Ephraim turned off too, but only to take another road which led to the
Bank a little further on. He strode along with his stick and
overshoes, making no noise as he went. Coming to a dark corner within
sight of the Bank, he halted there and was just in time to see John go
in. Mr. Hazeldine's office was still lighted up. Ephraim stood and
watched with a beating heart. Would John light the gas, or would he
not? His anxiety was of short duration. In three minutes John was out
of the Bank again with his umbrella in his hand. He had found it in
the dark. Ephraim breathed a sigh of relief, and then slunk further
into his corner till John's footsteps had died away. The clock of St.
Mary's Church was chiming the half-hour past ten as he turned up the
street again.
From ten o'clock at night till six o'clock in the morning it was Obed
Sweet's duty to perambulate the Bank premises once an hour and satisfy
himself that everything was safe. At six o'clock Mrs. Sweet rose and
got her husband's breakfast ready, after which Sweet generally went to
bed for four or five hours. At seven o'clock Peggy Lown, who assisted
Mrs. Sweet to clean the offices, rang and was admitted.
John Brancker had not been gone more than three or four minutes after
fetching his umbrella when Obed Sweet came slowly up from the lower
regions with the intention of locking up the premises for the night.
He had heard, as he fancied, the front door clash, and he never
doubted that it was Mr. Hazeldine who had gone home at last. Mr.
Brancker had let himself in with his pass-key, of which he and Mr.
Hazeldine each possessed one, and Sweet had not heard him enter.
Feeling sure that Mr. Hazeldine was no longer there, Obed opened the
door of the private office without any preliminary knock. He was quite
startled at finding the "Guv'nor" still there, and the latter was
evidently just as much startled at being so suddenly intruded upon. He
put something away hastily into a drawer, and turned an ashen face on
the night-watchman.
"Ah, Sweet, I did not hear you knock," he said in a faint, weary
voice, very unlike his usual decisive way of speaking.
"Beg pardon, sir," answered Sweet, in a flurry, "but I made sure that
I heard you go out about five minutes since."
"I shall be about half an hour yet. I will let myself out when I am
ready. I suppose everyone else has gone?"
"Yes, sir; some time ago."
"That will do. You need not trouble further."
Sweet retired and shut the door very gently. Then he stood on the mat
for a few moments, rubbing his nose thoughtfully.
"I could a' sworn I heard somebody shut the front door," he muttered;
"and yet Mr. Judd went away more than an hour ago. I suppose I'm
getting old and stoopid."
He tried the front door and found it fast. Then he opened the door of
the general office and peeped in, but all was darkness there.
Satisfied that he must have been mistaken, Sweet made his way
downstairs to his cosy little room and lighted his pipe. His wife had
gone to bed by this time, and he sat for nearly an hour, smoking and
sipping occasionally at his mug of beer, and listening for the sounds
of Mr. Hazeldine's departure. But Sweet's listening was in vain; no
sound broke the silence. By-and-bye he put his pipe down and finished
his beer. The room was warm and the ale was old; Sweet's eyelids
drooped, shut, opened and shut again: the night-watchman was asleep.
This was no uncommon occurrence during his long, lonely vigils; but he
had a happy knack of waking up, alert and fresh, at the end of about
half an hour. So it was in the present instance. Sweet awoke with a
start and a shiver. The fire had burned low, and the clock pointed to
half-past eleven. "The Guv'nor must surely have gone by this time," he
said to himself, as he got up and yawned. Then he lighted his lantern
and went upstairs.
Placing his lantern on one of the chairs in the corridor, he went to
the door of Mr. Hazeldine's room and knocked. He was not going to make
a breach in his manners again. But there came no response. He waited a
few seconds, and then he opened the door and looked in. Everything was
in darkness, as he had expected it would be; both the gas and the fire
were out. Sweet shut and locked the door, the key being outside. Then
he bolted and barred the heavy front door, and after a final glance
into the other offices, he locked them also. His last act was to
extinguish the gas in the corridor, after which his duties were over
for another hour.
Next morning, a few minutes before seven o'clock, Peggy Lown rang the
bell and was duly admitted by Mrs. Sweet. It was Peggy's duty to clean
the two general offices and the passage, while Mrs. Sweet herself
looked after Mr. Hazeldine's and Mr. Avison's rooms. The first thing
Peggy did was to draw up the blinds and let more daylight in through
the heavily-barred windows. She had got her broom and her pail of
water and was about to set to work, when her eye was caught by a
splash of something dark on the floor. She stooped to examine it more
closely. Was it nothing more than some red ink which had been spilled,
or was it blood? Peggy shuddered involuntarily. At this moment she
heard Mrs. Sweet's cough in the corridor, so she went and beckoned to
her and brought her in and pointed out the stain on the floor without
a word.
Mrs. Sweet stooped as Peggy had done. "It's blood!" she exclaimed
next moment, and the two women looked at each other in mute
questioning.
Peggy was the first to speak.
"Look at these red finger-marks on this drawer," she said.
"Why, that's Mr. Brancker's drawer! What can it all mean?" queried
Mrs. Sweet.
Peggy shook her head.
"Perhaps the gentleman has only cut his finger," she ventured to
suggest.
Mrs. Sweet brightened up.
"That must be it; it sent me all of a shake, though, when I set eyes
on it," she said.
"I shall have some trouble in getting them stains out," remarked
Peggy. "I should have thought such a particular gentleman as Mr.
Brancker might have tied his handkercher round his finger."
But Mrs. Sweet had gone, being in a hurry to get on with her own share
of the work.
Peggy drew back the fender and fire-irons, and was on the point of
sweeping up the hearth, when she was startled by a piercing shriek.
"Lord a' mercy! What's that?" she cried, as she let her brush fall and
ran out into the corridor. The door of Mr. Hazeldine's room was open.
She rushed in. Half way across the floor lay the body of Mrs. Sweet in
a dead faint. A few yards further away lay another body, that of Mr.
Hazeldine, cold and stark. Not far from it, gleaming brightly in the
morning light, lay a long-bladed, murderous-looking knife.