MR. TATLOW ON THE TRACK.
"Mr. Tatlow?" said Humphrey Statham, as his visitor entered.
"Servant, sir," said Mr. Tatlow, a Somewhat ordinary-looking man,
dressed in black.
"I had no idea this case had been placed in your hands, Mr. Tatlow,"
said Humphrey. "I have heard of you, though I have never met you
before in business, and have always understood you to be an
experienced officer."
"Thank you, sir," said Mr. Tatlow, with a short bow. "What may have
altered your opinion in that respect now?"
"The length of time which has elapsed since I first mentioned this
matter in Scotland-yard. That was three years ago, and from that day
to this I have had no communication with the authorities."
"Well, sir, you see," said Mr. Tatlow, "different people have
different ways of doing business; and when the inspector put this case
into my hands, he said to me, 'Tatlow,' said he, 'this is a case which
will most likely take considerable time to unravel, and it's one in
which there will be a great many ups and downs, and the scent will
grow warm and the scent will grow cold, and you will think you have
got the whole explanation of the story at one moment, and the next
you'll think you know nothing at all about it. The young woman is
gone,' the inspector says, 'and you'll hear of her here and you'll
hear of her there, and you'll be quite sure you've got hold of the
right party, and then you'll find it's nothing of the sort, and be
inclined to give up the business in despair; and then suddenly,
perhaps, when you're engaged on something else, you'll strike into the
right track, and bring it home in the end. Now, it's no good worrying
the gentleman,' said the inspector, 'with every little bit of news you
hear, or with anything that may happen to strike you in the inquiry,
for you'll be raising his spirits at one time, and rendering him more
wretched in another; and my advice to you is, not to go near him until
you have got something like a clear and complete case to lay before
him.' Those were the inspector's words to me, sir--upon which advice I
acted."
"Very good counsel, Mr. Tatlow, and very sensible of you to follow
it," said Humphrey Statham. "Am I to understand from this visit that
your case is now complete?"
"Well, sir, as complete as I can make it at present," said Mr. Tatlow.
"You have found her?" cried Humphrey Statham eagerly, the blood
flushing into his cheeks.
"I know where the young woman is now," said Mr. Tatlow evasively; "but
do not build upon that, sir," he added, as he marked his questioner's
look of anxiety. "We were too late, sir; you will never see her
again."
"Too late!" echoed Humphrey. "What do you mean? Where is she? I insist
upon knowing!"
"In Hendon churchyard, sir," said Mr. Tatlow quietly; "that's where
the young woman is now."
Humphrey Statham bowed his head, and remained, silent for some few
moments; then, without raising his eyes, he said: "Tell me about it,
Mr. Tatlow, please; I should like to have all details from first to
last."
"Don't you think," said Mr. Tatlow kindly--"don't you think I might
look in some other time, sir?--you don't seem very strong just now;
and it's no use a man trying his nerves when there is no occasion for
it."
"Thank you," said Humphrey Statham, "I would sooner hear the story
now. I have been ill, and am going out of town, and it may be some
little-time before I return, and I should like, while I am away, to be
able to think over what has--to know about--tell me, please, at once."
"The story is not a long one, sir," said Mr. Tatlow; "and when you see
how plain and clear it tells, I daresay you will think the case was
not a difficult one, for all it took so long to work out; but you see
this is fancy-work, as I may call it, that one has to take up in the
intervals of regular business, and to lay aside again whenever a great
robbery or a murder crops up, and just as one is warm and interested
in it, one may be sent off to Paris or New York, and when you come
back you have almost to begin again. There was one advantage in this
case, that I had it to myself from the start, and hadn't to work up
anybody else's line. I began," continued Mr. Tatlow, after a momentary
pause, taking a notebook from his pocket and reading from its pages,
"at the very beginning, and first saw the draper people at Leeds,
where Miss Mitchell was employed. They spoke very highly of her, as a
good, industrious girl, and were very sorry when she went away. She
gave them a regular month's notice, stating that she had an
opportunity of bettering herself by getting an engagement at a
first-class house in London. Did the Leeds drapers, Hodder by name,
say anything to Miss M.'s friends? No, they did not," continued Mr.
Tatlow, answering himself; "most likely they would have mentioned it
if the uncle had been alive--a brisk, intelligent man--but he was dead
at that time, and no one was left but the bedridden old woman. After
her niece's flight she sent down to Hodder and Company, and they told
her what Miss M. had told them, though the old woman and her friends
plainly did not believe it. It was not until some weeks afterwards
that one of Hodder's girls had a letter from a friend of hers, who had
previously been with their firm, but was now engaged at Mivenson's,
the great drapers in Oxford-street, London, to say that Emily Mitchell
had joined their establishment; she was passing under the name of
Moore, but this girl knew her at once, and agreed to keep her
confidence. Now to page forty-nine. That's only a private memorandum
for my own information," said Mr. Tatlow, turning over the leaves
of his book. "Page forty-nine. Here you are! Mivenson's, in
Oxford-street--old gentleman out of town--laid up with the gout--saw
eldest son, partner in the house--recollected Miss Moore perfectly,
and had come to them with some recommendation--never took young
persons into their house unless they were properly recommended, and
always kept register of reference. Looking into register found Emily
M. had been recommended by Mrs. Calverley, one of their customers,
most respectable lady, living in Great Walpole-street. Made inquiry
myself about Mrs. C., and made her out to be a prim, elderly,
evangelical party, wife of City man in large way of business. Emily M.
did not remain long at Mivenson's. Not a strong girl; had had a
fainting fit or two while in their employ, and one day she wrote to
say she was too ill to come to work, and they never saw her again.
Could they give him the address from which she wrote?" Certainly.
Address-book sent for; 143 Great College-street, Camden Town. Go to
page sixty. Landlady at Great College-street perfectly recollected
Miss Moore. Quiet, delicate girl, regular in her habits; never out
later than ten at night; keeping no company, and giving no trouble.
Used to be brought home regular every night by a gentleman--always
the same gentleman, landlady thought, but couldn't swear, as she
had never made him out properly, though she had often tried. Seen
from the area, landlady remarked, people looked so different.
Gentleman always took leave of Miss Moore at the door, and was never
seen again in the neighbourhood until he brought her back the next
night. Landlady recollected Miss Moore's going away. When she gave
notice about leaving, explained to landlady that she was ill and was
ordered change of air; didn't seem to be any worse than she had been
all along, but, of course, it was not her (the landlady's) place to
make any objection. At the end of the week a cab was sent for, Miss
Moore's boxes were put into it, and she drove away. Did the landlady
hear the address given to the cabman? She did. 'Waterloo Station,
Richmond line.' That answer seemed to me to screw up the whole
proceedings; trying to find the clue to a person, who, months before,
had gone away from the Waterloo Station, seemed as likely as feeling
for a threepenny-piece in a corn-sack. I made one or two inquiries,
but heard nothing, and had given the whole thing up for as good as
lost, when--let me see, page two hundred and one.
"Here you are! Memoranda in the case of Benjamin Biggs, cashier in the
Limpid Water Company, charged with embezzlement. Fine game he kept up,
did Mr. Biggs. Salary about two hundred a year, and lived at the rate
of ten thousand. Beautiful place out of town, just opposite Bobbington
Lock, horses, carriages, and what you please. I was engaged in Biggs'
matter, and I had been up to Bobbington one afternoon--for there was a
notion just then that Biggs hadn't got clear off and might come home
again--so I thought I'd take a lodging and hang about the village for
a week or two. It was pleasant summer weather, and I've a liking for
the river and for such a place as Bushey Park, though not with many
opportunities of seeing much of either. I had been through Biggs'
house, and was standing in Messenger's boat-yard, looking at the
parties putting off in the water, when a voice close to my ear says,
'Hallo, Tatlow! What's up?' and looking round I saw Mr. Netherton
Whiffle, the leading junior at the Bailey, and the most rising man at
the C.C.C. I scarcely knew him at first, for he had got on a round
straw hat instead of his wig, and a tight-fitting jersey instead of
his gown; and when I recognised him and told him what business I had
come down upon, he only laughed, and said that Biggs knew more than me
and all Scotland-yard put together; and the best thing that I could do
was to go into the 'Anglers' and put my name to what I liked at his
expense. He's a very pleasant fellow, Mr. Whiffle; and while I was
drinking something iced I told him about my wanting a lodging, and he
recommended me to a very respectable little cottage kept by the mother
of his gardener. A pretty place it was to not looking on the river,
but standing in a nice neatly-kept garden, with the big trees of
Bushey Park at the back of you, and the birds singing beautiful. I
fancy, when I am superannuated I should like a place of that sort for
myself and Mrs. T. Nice rooms too; the lodgings, a bedroom and
sitting-room, but a cut above my means. I was saying so to the old
woman--motherly old creature she was--as we were looking round the
bedroom, when I caught sight of something which fixed my attention at
once. It was an old black box, like a child's school-trunk, with on
the outside lid 'E. M.' in brass letters, and a railway label of the
G.N.R., 'Leeds to London,' still sticking on it. Something told me I
had 'struck ile,' as the Yankees say; and I asked the old woman to
whom that box belonged. 'To her,' she said, she supposed; 'leastways
it had been there for many months, left behind by a lodger who had
gone away and never sent for it.' It took a little hot rum-and-water
to get the lodger's story out of that old lady, sir; not a refreshing
drink on a summer's day, but required to be gone through in the course
of duty, and it was worth it, as you will see.
"In the previous summer the rooms had been taken by a gentleman who
gave the name of Smith, and who the next day brought down the young
lady and her boxes. She was pretty but very delicate-looking, and
seemed to have very bad health. He came down three or four times a
week, and then she brightened up a bit, and seemed a little more
cheerful; but when she was alone she was dreadfully down, and the
landlady had seen her crying by the hour together. They lived very
quietly; no going out, no water-parties, no people to see them, bills of
lodging paid for every week; quite the regular thing. This went on for
two or three months; then the gentleman's visits grew less frequent, he
only came down once or twice a week, and, on more than one occasion,
the old woman sitting in the kitchen thought she heard high words
between them. One Saturday afternoon, when Mr. Smith had gone away,
about an hour after his departure the lady packed all her things, paid
up the few shillings which remained after his settlement, and ordered a
fly to take her to the station. There was no room on the fly for the
little box which I had seen, and she said she would send an address to
which it could be forwarded. On the Monday evening Mr. Smith came down
as usual; he was very much astonished to find the lady gone, but, after;
reading a letter which she had left for him, he seemed very much
agitated, and sent out for some brandy; then he paid the week's rent,
which was demanded instead of the notice, and left the place. The box
had never been sent for, nor had the old woman ever heard anything
farther of the lady or the gentleman.
"The story hangs together pretty well, don't it, sir? E. M. and the
railway ticket on the box (r forgot to say that I looked inside, and
saw the maker's, name, 'Hudspeth, of Boar-lane, Leeds') looked pretty
much like Emily Mitchell, and the old woman's description of Mr. Smith
tallied tolerably with that given by the lodging-house keeper in
Camden Town, who used to notice the gentleman from the area. But there
we were shut up tight again. The flyman recollected taking the lady to
the station, but no one saw her take her ticket; and there was I at a
standstill.
"It is not above a fortnight ago, sir," said Mr. Tatlow, in
continuation, "that I struck on the scent again; not that I had
forgotten it, or hadn't taken the trouble to pull at anything which
I thought might be one of its threads when it came in my way. A
twelvemonth ago I was down at Leeds, after a light-hearted chap
who had forgotten his own name, and written his master's across the
back of a three-and-sixpenny bill-stamp; and I thought I'd take the
opportunity of looking in at Hodder the draper's, and ask whether
anything had been heard of Miss M. The firm hadn't heard of her, and
was rather grumpy about being asked; but I saw the girl from whom I
had got some information before--she, you recollect, sir, who had a
friend at Mivenson's in Oxford-street, and told me about E. M. being
there--and I asked her and her young man to tea, and set the pumps
agoing. But she was very bashful and shamefaced, and would not say a
word, though evidently she knew something; and it was only when she
had gone up to put her bonnet on, that I got out of the young man that
Emily Mitchell had been down there, and had been seen in the dusk of
the evening going up to the old cottage at Headingley, and carrying a
baby in her arms."
"A baby!" cried Humphrey Statham.
"Yes, sir," said Mr. Tatlow, "a female child a few weeks old. She was
going up to her aunt, no doubt, but the old woman was dead. When they
heard at Hodder's that Emily was about the place, and with a child
too, the firm was furious, and gave orders that none of their
people should speak to or have any communication with her; but this
girl--Mary Keith she's called; I made a note of her name, sir,
thinking you would like to know it--she found out where the poor
creature was, and offered to share her wages with her and the child to
save them from starvation."
"Good God!" groaned Humphrey Statham; "was she in want, then?"
"Pretty nearly destitute, sir," said Tatlow; "would have starved
probably, if it had not been for Mary Keith. She owned up to that
girl, sir, all her story, told her everything, except the name of the
child's father, and that she could not get out of her anyhow. She
spoke about you too, and said you were the only person in the world
who had really loved her, and that she had treated you shamefully.
Miss Keith wanted her to write to the child's father, and tell him how
badly off she was; but she said she would sooner die in the streets
than ask him for money. What she would do, she said, would be to go
to you--she wanted to see you once more before she died--and to
ask you to be a friend to her child! She knew you would do it, she
said--though she had behaved to you so badly--for the sake of old
days.
"I sha'n't have to try you with very much more, sir," said Tatlow
kindly, as he heard a deep groan break from Humphrey Statham's lips,
and saw his head sink deeper on his breast. "Miss Keith advised E. M.
to write to you; but she said no--she wanted to look upon your face
again before she died, she said, and she knew that event was not far
off. So she parted with her old friend, taking a little money, just
enough to pay her fare up to town. She must have changed her mind
about that, from what I learned afterwards. I made inquiries here and
there for her in London in what I thought likely places, but I could
hear nothing of her, so the scent grew cold, and still my case was
incomplete. I settled it up at last, as I say, about a fortnight ago.
I had occasion to make some inquiries at Hendon workhouse about a
young man who was out on the tramp, and who, as I learned, had slept
there for a night or two in the previous week; and I was talking
matters over with the master, an affable kind of man, with more
common-sense than one usually finds in officials of his sort, who are
for the most part pig-headed and bad-tempered. The chap that I was
after had been shopman to a grocer in the City, and had run away with
his master's daughter, having all the time another wife; and this I
suppose led the conversation to such matters; and I, always with your
case floating in my head, asked him whether there were many instances
of foundlings and suchlike being left upon their hands? He said no;
that they had been very lucky--only had one since he had been master
there, and that one they had been fortunate enough to get rid of. How
was that, I asked him; what was the case? Case of a party"--and here
Mr. Tatlow referred to his note-book again--"found the winter before
last by Squire Mullins' hind lying against a haystack in the four-acre
meadow, pressing her baby to her breast--both of them half-frozen. She
was taken to the workhouse, but only lived two days, and never spoke
during that time. Her shoes were worn very thin, and she had parted
with most of her clothing, though what she kept had been good, and
still was decent. No wedding-ring, of course. One thing she hadn't
parted with; the master's wife saw the old woman try to crib it from
the dead body round whose neck it hung, and took it from her hand. It
was a tiny gold cross--yes, sir, I see you know it all now--inscribed
'H. to E., 30th March 1864'--the very trinket which you had described
to our people; and when I heard that, I knew I had tracked Emily
Mitchell home at last."
Mr. Tatlow ceased speaking; but it was some minutes before Humphrey
Statham raised his head. When at length he looked up, there were
traces of tears on his cheeks, and his voice was broken with emotion
as he said, "The child--what about it? did it live?"
"Yes, sir," replied Tatlow, "the child lived, and fell very
comfortably upon its legs. It was a bright, pretty little creature,
and one day it attracted the notice of a lady who had no children of
her own, and, after some inquiries, persuaded her husband to adopt
it."
"What is her name, and where does she live?" asked Mr. Statham.
"She lives at Hendon, sir, and her name is Claxton. Mr. Claxton is,
oddly enough, a sleeping partner in the house of Mr. Calverley, whose
good lady first recommended E. M. to Mivenson's, as you may
recollect."
There was silence for full ten minutes--a period which Mr. Tatlow
occupied in a deep consultation with his note-book, in looking out of
window, at the tips of his boots, at the wall in front of him;
anywhere rather than at the bowed head of Humphrey Statham, who
remained motionless, with his chin buried in his chest. Mr. Tatlow had
seen a good deal of suffering in his time, and as he noticed, without
apparently looking at the tremulous emotion of Mr. Statham's hands,
tremulous despite their closely-interlaced fingers, and the shudder
which from time to time ran through his massive frame, he knew what
silent anguish was being bravely undergone, and would on no account
have allowed the sufferer to imagine that his mental tortures were
either seen or understood. When Humphrey Statham at length raised his
head, he found his visitor intently watching the feeble gyrations of a
belated fly, and apparently perfectly astonished at hearing his name
mentioned.
"Mr. Tatlow," said Humphrey, in a voice which, despite his exertions
to raise it, sounded low and muffled, "I am very much your debtor;
what I said at the commencement of our interview about the delay
which, as I imagined, had occurred in clearing-up this mystery, was
spoken in ignorance, and without any knowledge of the facts. I now see
the difficulties attendant upon the inquiry, and I am only astonished
that they should have been so successfully surmounted, and that you
should have been enabled to clear-up the case as perfectly as you have
done. That the result of your inquiries has been to arouse in me the
most painful memories, and to--and to reduce me in fact to the state
in which you see me--is no fault of yours. You have discharged your
duty with great ability and wondrous perseverance, and I have to thank
you more than all for the delicacy which you have shown during the
inquiry, and during the narration to me of its results."
Mr. Tatlow bowed, but said nothing.
"For the ordinary charges of the investigation," continued Humphrey
Statham, "your travelling expenses and suchlike, I settle, I believe,
with the people at Scotland-yard; but," he added, as he took his
cheque-book from the right-hand drawer of his desk, "I wish you to
accept for yourself this cheque for fifty pounds, together with my
hearty thanks."
He filled-up the cheque, tore it from the book, and pushed it over to
the detective as he spoke, at the same time holding out his hand.
Mr. Tatlow rose to his feet, looking somewhat embarrassed. It had
often been his good fortune to be well paid for his services, but to
be shaken hands with by a man in the position of Mr. Statham, had not
previously come in his way. He was confused for an instant, but
compromised the matter by gravely saluting after the military fashion
with his left hand, while he gave his right to his employer.
"Proud, sir, and grateful," he said. "It has been a long case, though
not a particularly stiff one, and I think it has been worked clean out
to the end. I could have wished--but, however, that is neither here
nor there," said Mr. Tatlow, checking himself with a cough. "About the
child, sir; don't you wish any farther particulars about the child?"
"No," said Humphrey Statham, who was fast relapsing into his moody
state; "no, nothing now, at all events. If I want any farther
information, I shall send to you, Tatlow, direct; you may depend upon
that. Now, once more, thanks, and good-bye."
Half an hour had elapsed since Mr. Tatlow had taken his departure, and
still Humphrey Statham sat at his desk buried in profound reverie, his
chin resting on his breast, his arms plunged almost elbow-deep into
his pockets. At length he roused himself, locked away the cheque-book
which lay fluttering open before him, and passing his hand dreamily
through the fringe of hair on his temples, muttered to himself:
"And so there is an end of it. To die numbed and frozen in a
workhouse-bed. To bear a child to a man for whom she ruined my life,
and who in his turn ruined hers. My Emily perishing with cold and
want! I shall meet him yet, I know I shall. Long before I heard of
this story, when I looked upon him only as a successful rival, who was
living with her in comfort and luxury, and laughing over my
disappointment, even then I felt convinced that the hour would come
when I should hold him by the throat and make him beg his miserable
life at my hands. Now, when I know that his treatment of her has been
worse even than his treatment of me, he will need to beg hard indeed
for mercy, if I once come across his path. Calverley, eh?" he
continued, after a moment's pause, and in a softer voice, "the husband
of the lady who has adopted the child, is a partner in Calverley's
house, Tatlow said. That is the house for which Tom Durham has gone
out as agent. How strangely things come about! for surely Mrs.
Calverley, doubtless the wife of the senior partner of the firm, is
the mother of my old friend Martin Garwood? What two totally different
men! Without doubt unacquainted with each other, and yet with this
curious link of association in my mind. Her child! Emily's child
within a couple of hours' ride! I could easily find some excuse to
introduce myself to this Mrs. Claxton, and to get a glimpse of the
girl--she is Emily's flesh and blood, and most probably would be like
her. I have half a mind to--No, I am not well enough for any extra
excitement or exertion, and the child, Tatlow says, is happy and
well-cared for; I can see her on my return--I can then manage the
introduction in a more proper and formal manner; I can hunt-up Martin
Gurwood, and through him and his mother I can obtain an introduction
to this partner in Calverley's house, and must trust to my own powers
of making myself agreeable to continue the acquaintance on a footing
of intimacy, which will give me constant opportunities of seeing
Emily's child. Now there is more than ever necessity to get out of
this at once. All clear now, except those two packets; one Tom
Durham's memorandum, which must be kept anyhow, so in it goes
into the safe. The other, the instructions for Tatlow--that can be
destroyed--no, there is no harm in keeping that for a little; one
never knows how things may turn out--in it goes too." And as he spoke
he placed the two packets in the drawer, closed and locked the safe.
"Collins!" he called; and the confidential clerk appeared. "You have
all that you want--the cheques, the duplicate key of the safe, the
pass-book?"
"Yes, sir," said Collins; "everything except your address."
"By Jove," said Humphrey Statham, "I had forgotten that! even now I am
undecided. Tossing shall do it. Heads the Drumnovara snipe-bog; tails
the Tresco pilot-boat. Tails it is! the pilot-boat has won. So,
Collins, my address--never to be used except in most urgent
necessity--is, 'P.O., Tresco, Scilly,' left till called for. Now you
have my traps in the outer office; tell them to put them on a hansom
cab, and you will see no more of me for six weeks."
As the four-fifty "galloper" for Exeter glided out of the Paddington
Station, Humphrey Statham was seated in it, leisurely cutting the
leaves of the evening paper which he had just purchased. The first
paragraph which met his eye ran as follows:
"(REUTER'S TELEGRAM.)
"_Gibraltar_.
"The captain of the Peninsular and Oriental Company's steam-ship
Masillia, just arrived here, announces the supposed death, by
drowning, of a passenger named Durham, agent to Messrs. Calverley and
Company, of Mincing-lane, who was proceeding to Ceylon. The
unfortunate gentleman retired to bed on the first night of the
vessel's sailing from Southampton, and as he was never seen
afterwards, it is supposed he must have fallen overboard during the
night, when the Masillia was at anchor off Hurst Castle."