Bold Speculations on Murder.
George Vavasor was not in a very happy mood when he left Queen Anne
Street, after having flung his gift ring under the grate. Indeed
there was much in his condition, as connected with the house which
he was leaving, which could not but make him unhappy. Alice was
engaged to be his wife, and had as yet said nothing to show that she
meditated any breach of that engagement, but she had treated him in
a way which made him long to throw her promise in her teeth. He was
a man to whom any personal slight from a woman was unendurable. To
slights from men, unless they were of a nature to provoke offence,
he was indifferent. There was no man living for whose liking or
disliking George Vavasor cared anything. But he did care much for the
good opinion, or rather for the personal favour, of any woman to whom
he had endeavoured to make himself agreeable. "I will marry you,"
Alice had said to him,--not in words, but in acts and looks, which
were plainer than words,--"I will marry you for certain reasons of my
own, which in my present condition make it seem that that arrangement
will be more convenient to me than any other that I can make; but
pray understand that there is no love mixed up with this. There is
another man whom I love;--only, for those reasons above hinted, I
do not care to marry him." It was thus that he read Alice's present
treatment of him, and he was a man who could not endure this
treatment with ease.
But though he could throw his ring under the grate in his passion, he
could not so dispose of her. That he would have done so had his hands
been free, we need not doubt. And he would have been clever enough
to do so in some manner that would have been exquisitely painful to
Alice, willing as she might be to be released from her engagement.
But he could not do this to a woman whose money he had borrowed, and
whose money he could not repay;--to a woman, more of whose money he
intended to borrow immediately. As to that latter part of it, he did
say to himself over and over again, that he would have no more of
it. As he left the house in Queen Anne Street, on that occasion, he
swore, that under no circumstances would he be indebted to her for
another shilling. But before he had reached Great Marlborough Street,
to which his steps took him, he had reminded himself that everything
depended on a further advance. He was in Parliament, but Parliament
would be dissolved within three months. Having sacrificed so much
for his position, should he let it all fall from him now,--now, when
success seemed to be within his reach? That wretched old man in
Westmoreland, who seemed gifted almost with immortality,--why could
he not die and surrender his paltry acres to one who could use them?
He turned away from Regent Street into Hanover Square before he
crossed to Great Marlborough Street, giving vent to his passion
rather than arranging his thoughts. As he walked the four sides of
the square he considered how good it would be if some accident should
befall the old man. How he would rejoice were he to hear to-morrow
that one of the trees of the "accursed place," had fallen on the
"obstinate old idiot," and put an end to him! I will not say that he
meditated the murder of his grandfather. There was a firm conviction
on his mind, as he thought of all this, that such a deed as that
would never come in his way. But he told himself, that if he chose
to make the attempt, he would certainly be able to carry it through
without detection. Then he remembered Rush and Palmer--the openly
bold murderer and the secret poisoner. Both of them, in Vavasor's
estimation, were great men. He had often said so in company. He had
declared that the courage of Rush had never been surpassed. "Think of
him," he would say with admiration, "walking into a man's house, with
pistols sufficient to shoot every one there, and doing it as though
he were killing rats! What was Nelson at Trafalgar to that? Nelson
had nothing to fear!" And of Palmer he declared that he was a man
of genius as well as courage. He had "looked the whole thing in the
face," Vavasor would say, "and told himself that all scruples and
squeamishness are bosh,--child's tales. And so they are. Who lives
as though they fear either heaven or hell? And if we do live without
such fear or respect, what is the use of telling lies to ourselves?
To throw it all to the dogs, as Palmer did, is more manly." "And
be hanged," some hearer of George's doctrine replied. "Yes, and be
hanged,--if such is your destiny. But you hear of the one who is
hanged, but hear nothing of the twenty who are not."
Vavasor walked round Hanover Square, nursing his hatred against the
old Squire. He did not tell himself that he would like to murder his
grandfather. But he suggested to himself, that if he desired to do
so, he would have courage enough to make his way into the old man's
room, and strangle him; and he explained to himself how he would be
able to get down into Westmoreland without the world knowing that he
had been there,--how he would find an entrance into the house by a
window with which he was acquainted,--how he could cause the man to
die as though, those around him should think, it was apoplexy,--he,
George Vavasor, having read something on that subject lately. All
this he considered very fully, walking rapidly round Hanover Square
more than once or twice. If he were to become an active student in
the Rush or Palmer school, he would so study the matter that he would
not be the one that should be hung. He thought that he could, so far,
trust his own ingenuity. But yet he did not meditate murder. "Beastly
old idiot!" he said to himself, "he must have his chance as other
men have, I suppose," And then he went across Regent Street to Mr.
Scruby's office in Great Marlborough Street, not having, as yet, come
to any positive conclusion as to what he would do in reference to
Alice's money.
But he soon found himself talking to Mr. Scruby as though there were
no doubts as to the forthcoming funds for the next elections. And
Mr. Scruby talked to him very plainly, as though those funds must
be forthcoming before long. "A stitch in time saves nine," said Mr.
Scruby, meaning to insinuate that a pound in time might have the
same effect. "And I'll tell you what, Mr. Vavasor,--of course I've my
outstanding bills for the last affair. That's no fault of yours, for
the things came so sharp one on another that my fellows haven't had
time to make it out. But if you'll put me in funds for what I must be
out of pocket in June--"
"Will it be so soon as June?"
"They are talking of June. Why, then, I'll lump the two bills
together when it's all over."
In their discussion respecting money Mr. Scruby injudiciously
mentioned the name of Mr. Tombe. No precise caution had been given
to him, but he had become aware that the matter was being managed
through an agency that was not recognized by his client; and as that
agency was simply a vehicle of money which found its way into Mr.
Scruby's pocket, he should have held his tongue. But Mr. Tombe's name
escaped from him, and Vavasor immediately questioned him. Scruby, who
did not often make such blunders, readily excused himself, shaking
his head, and declaring that the name had fallen from his lips
instead of that of another man. Vavasor accepted the excuse without
further notice, and nothing more was said about Mr. Tombe while he
was in Mr. Scruby's office. But he had not heard the name in vain,
and had unfortunately heard it before. Mr. Tombe was a remarkable
man in his way. He wore powder to his hair,--was very polite in his
bearing,--was somewhat asthmatic, and wheezed in his talking,--and
was, moreover, the most obedient of men, though it was said of him
that he managed the whole income of the Ely Chapter just as he
pleased. Being in these ways a man of note, John Grey had spoken of
him to Alice, and his name had filtered through Alice and her cousin
Kate to George Vavasor. George seldom forgot things or names, and
when he heard Mr. Tombe's name mentioned in connection with his own
money matters, he remembered that Mr. Tombe was John Grey's lawyer.
As soon as he could escape out into the street he endeavoured to put
all these things together, and after a while resolved that he would
go to Mr. Tombe. What if there should be an understanding between John
Grey and Alice, and Mr. Tombe should be arranging his money matters
for him! Would not anything be better than this,--even that little
tragedy down in Westmoreland, for which his ingenuity and courage
would be required? He could endure to borrow money from Alice. He
might even endure it still,--though that was very difficult after
her treatment of him; but he could not endure to be the recipient of
John Grey's money. By heavens, no! And as he got into a cab, and had
himself driven off to the neighbourhood of Doctors' Commons, he gave
himself credit for much fine manly feeling. Mr. Tombe's chambers were
found without difficulty, and, as it happened, Mr. Tombe was there.
The lawyer rose from his chair as Vavasor entered, and bowed his
powdered head very meekly as he asked his visitor to sit down. "Mr.
Vavasor;--oh, yes. He had heard the name. Yes; he was in the habit of
acting for his very old friend Mr. John Grey. He had acted for Mr. John
Grey, and for Mr. John Grey's father,--he or his partner,--he believed
he might say, for about half a century. There could not be a nicer
gentleman than Mr. John Grey;--and such a pretty child as he used to
be!" At every new sentence Mr. Tombe caught his poor asthmatic breath,
and bowed his meek old head, and rubbed his hands together as though
he hardly dared to keep his seat in Vavasor's presence without the
support of some such motion; and wheezed apologetically, and seemed
to ask pardon of his visitor for not knowing intuitively what was the
nature of that visitor's business. But he was a sly old fox was Mr.
Tombe, and was considering all this time how much it would be well
that he should tell Mr. Vavasor, and how much it would be well that he
should conceal. "The fat had got into the fire," as he told his old
wife when he got home that evening. He told his old wife everything,
and I don't know that any of his clients were the worse for his doing
so. But while he was wheezing, and coughing, and apologizing, he made
up his mind that if George Vavasor were to ask him certain questions,
it would be best that he should answer them truly. If Vavasor did ask
those questions, he would probably do so upon certain knowledge, and
if so, why, in that case, lying would be of no use. Lying would not
put the fat back into the frying pan. And even though such questions
might be asked without any absolute knowledge, they would, at any
rate, show that the questioner had the means of ascertaining the
truth. He would tell as little as he could; but he decided during his
last wheeze, that he could not lie in the matter with any chance of
benefiting his client. "The prettiest child I ever saw, Mr. Vavasor!"
said Mr. Tombe, and then he coughed violently. Some people who knew
Mr. Tombe declared that he nursed his cough.
"I dare say," said George.
"Yes, indeed,--ugh--ugh--ugh."
"Can you tell me, Mr. Tombe, whether either you or he have anything to
do with the payment of certain sums to my credit at Messrs. Hock and
Block's?"
"Messrs. Hock and Block's, the bankers,--in Lom--bard Street?" said Mr.
Tombe, taking a little more time.
"Yes; I bank there," said Vavasor, sharply.
"A most respectable house."
"Has any money been paid there to my credit, by you, Mr. Tombe?"
"May I ask you why you put the question to me, Mr. Vavasor?"
"Well, I don't think you may. That is to say, my reason for asking it
can have nothing to do with yours for replying to it. If you have had
no hand in any such payment, there is an end of it, and I need not
take up your time by saying anything more on the subject."
"I am not prepared to go that length, Mr. Vavasor,--not altogether to
go that length,--ugh--ugh--ugh."
"Then, will you tell me what you have done in the matter?"
"Well,--upon my word, you've taken me a little by surprise. Let me
see. Pinkle,--Pinkle." Pinkle was a clerk who sat in an inner room,
and Mr. Tombe's effort to call him seemed to be most ineffectual. But
Pinkle understood the sound, and came. "Pinkle, didn't we pay some
money into Hock and Block's a few weeks since, to the credit of Mr.
George Vavasor?"
"Did we, sir?" said Pinkle, who probably knew that his employer was
an old fox, and who, perhaps, had caught something of the fox nature
himself.
"I think we did. Just look Pinkle;--and, Pinkle,--see the date, and
let me know all about it. It's fine bright weather for this time of
year, Mr. Vavasor; but these easterly winds!--ugh--ugh--ugh!"
Vavasor found himself sitting for an apparently interminable number
of minutes in Mr. Tombe's dingy chamber, and was coughed at, and
wheezed at, till he begun to be tired of his position; moreover, when
tired, he showed his impatience. "Perhaps you'll let us write you a
line when we have looked into the matter?" suggested Mr. Tombe.
"I'd rather know at once," said Vavasor. "I don't suppose it can take
you very long to find out whether you have paid money to my account,
by order of Mr. Grey. At any rate, I must know before I go away."
"Pinkle, Pinkle!" screamed the old man through his coughing; and
again Pinkle came. "Well, Pinkle, was anything of the kind done, or
is my memory deceiving me?" Mr. Tombe was, no doubt, lying shamefully,
for, of course, he remembered all about it; and, indeed, George
Vavasor had learned already quite enough for his own purposes.
"I was going to look," said Pinkle; and Pinkle again went away.
"I'm sorry to give your clerk so much trouble," said Vavasor, in an
angry voice; "and I think it must be unnecessary. Surely you know
whether Mr. Grey has commissioned you to pay money for me?"
"We have so many things to do, Mr. Vavasor; and so many clients. We
have, indeed. You see, it isn't only one gentleman's affairs. But I
think there was something done. I do, indeed."
"What is Mr. John Grey's address?" asked Vavasor, very sharply.
"Number 5, Suffolk Street, Pall Mall East," said Mr. Tombe. Herein
Mr. Tombe somewhat committed himself. His client, Mr. Grey, was, in
fact, in town, but Vavasor had not known or imagined that such was
the case. Had Mr. Tombe given the usual address of Nethercoats, nothing
further would have been demanded from him on that subject. But he
had foolishly presumed that the question had been based on special
information as to his client's visit to London, and he had told the
plain truth in a very simple way.
"Number 5, Suffolk Street," said Vavasor, writing down the address.
"Perhaps it will be better that I should go to him, as you do not
seem inclined to give me any information." Then he took up his hat,
and hardly bowing to Mr. Tombe, left the chambers. Mr. Tombe, as he
did so, rose from his chair, and bent his head meekly down upon the
table.
"Pinkle, Pinkle," wheezed Mr. Tombe. "Never mind; never mind." Pinkle
didn't mind; and we may say that he had not minded; for up to that
moment he had taken no steps towards a performance of the order which
had been given him.