"If he is asleep it would not do to disturb him, but there is a chance
of his being awake now. I don't quite understand about the papers, I
wish I did. It would be best for you to see him certainly; follow me
upstairs."
"And I tell you what," called Wickham after us, "I'll go and engage a
cab, so that you shall lose as short a time as possible, Mr. Bell."
I thanked him and followed the wife upstairs. The stairs were narrow and
steep, and we soon reached the small landing at the top. Four bedrooms
opened into it. Mrs. Murdock turned the handle of the one which exactly
faced the stairs, and we both entered. Here the blinds were down, and
the chamber was considerably darkened. The room was a small one, and the
greater part of the space was occupied by an old-fashioned Albert
bedstead with the curtains pulled forward. Within I could just see the
shadowy outline of a figure, and I distinctly heard the feeble groans of
the sick man.
"Ah! what a pity, my husband is still asleep," said Mrs. Murdock, as she
turned softly round to me and put her finger to her lips. "It would
injure him very much to awaken him," she said. "You can go and look at
him if you like; you will see how very ill he is. I wonder if I could
help you with regard to the papers you want, Mr. Bell?"
"I want the documents referred to in Schedule A," I answered.
"Schedule A?" she repeated, speaking under her breath. "I remember that
name. Surely all the papers relating to it are in this drawer. I think I
can get them for you."
She crossed the room as she spoke, and standing with her back to the
bedstead, took a bunch of keys from a table which stood near and fitted
one into the lock of a high bureau made of mahogany. She pulled open a
drawer and began to examine its contents.
While she was so occupied I approached the bed, and bending slightly
forward, took a good stare at the sick man. I had never seen Murdock
before. There was little doubt that he was ill--he looked very ill,
indeed. His face was long and cadaverous, the cheek bones were high, and
the cheeks below were much sunken in; the lips, which were clean-shaven,
were slightly drawn apart, and some broken irregular teeth were visible.
The eyebrows were scanty, and the hair was much worn away from the high
and hollow forehead. The man looked sick unto death. I had seldom seen
any one with an expression like his--the closed eyes were much sunken,
and the moaning which came from the livid lips was horrible to listen
to.
After giving Murdock a long and earnest stare, I stepped back from the
bed, and was just about to speak to Mrs. Murdock, who was rustling
papers in the drawer, when the most strong and irresistible curiosity
assailed me. I could not account for it, but I felt bound to yield to
its suggestions. I turned again and bent close over the sick man. Surely
there was something monotonous about that deep-drawn breath; those
moans, too, came at wonderfully regular intervals. Scarcely knowing why
I did it, I stretched out my hand and laid it on the forehead. Good God!
what was the matter? I felt myself turning cold; the perspiration stood
out on my own brow. I had not touched a living forehead at all. Flesh
was flesh, it was impossible to mistake the feel, but there was no flesh
here. The figure in the bed was neither a living nor a dead man, it was
a wax representation of one; but why did it moan, and how was it
possible for it not to breathe?
Making the greatest effort of my life, I repressed an exclamation, and
when Mrs. Murdock approached me with the necessary papers in her hand,
took them from her in my usual manner.
"These all relate to Schedule A," she said. "I hope I am not doing
wrong in giving them to you without my husband's leave. He looks very
ill, does he not?"
"He looks as bad as he can look," I answered. I moved towards the door.
Something in my tone must have alarmed her, for a curious expression of
fear dilated the pupils of her light blue eyes. She followed me
downstairs. A hansom was waiting for me. I nodded to Wickham, did not
even wait to shake hands with Mrs. Murdock, and sprang into the cab.
"Central Station!" I shouted to the man; and then as he whipped up his
horse and flew down the street, "A sovereign if you get there before
seven o'clock."
We were soon dashing quickly along the streets. I did not know Liverpool
well, and consequently could not exactly tell where the man was going.
When I got into the hansom it wanted twelve minutes to seven o'clock;
these minutes were quickly flying, and still no station.
"Are you sure you are going right?" I shouted through the hole in the
roof.
"You'll be there in a minute, sir," he answered. "It's Lime Street
Station you want, isn't it?"
"No; Central Station," I answered. "I told you Central Station; drive
there at once like the very devil. I must catch that train, for it is
the last one to-night."
"All right, sir; I can do it," he cried, whipping up his horse again.
Once more I pulled out my watch; the hands pointed to three minutes to
seven.
At ten minutes past we were driving into the station. I flung the man
half a sovereign, and darted into the booking-office.
"To Brent, sir? The last train has just gone," said the clerk, with an
impassive stare at me through the little window.
I flung my bag down in disgust and swore a great oath. But for that
idiot of a driver I should have just caught the train. All of a sudden a
horrible thought flashed through my brain. Had the cabman been bribed by
Wickham? No directions could have been plainer than mine. I had told the
man to drive to Central Station. Central Station did not sound the
least like Lime Street Station. How was it possible for him to make so
grave a mistake?
The more I considered the matter the more certain I was that a black
plot was brewing, and that Wickham was in the thick of it. My brain
began to whirl with excitement. What was the matter? Why was a lay
figure in Murdock's bed? Why had I been taken upstairs to see it?
Without any doubt both Mrs. Murdock and Wickham wished me to see what
was such an admirable imitation of a sick man--an imitation so good,
with those ghastly moans coming from the lips, that it would have taken
in the sharpest detective in Scotland Yard. I myself was deceived until
I touched the forehead. This state of things had not been brought to
pass without a reason. What was the reason? Could it be possible that
Murdock was wanted elsewhere, and it was thought well that I should see
him in order to prove an alibi, should he be suspected of a ghastly
crime? My God! what could this mean? From the first I had mistrusted
Wickham. What was he doing in Murdock's house? For what purpose had he
bribed the driver of the cab in order to make me lose my train?
The more I thought, the more certain I was that Cressley was in grave
danger; and I now determined, cost what it might, to get to him that
night.
I left the station, took a cab, and drove back to my hotel. I asked to
see the manager. A tall, dark man in a frock-coat emerged from a door at
the back of the office and inquired what he could do for me. I begged
permission to speak to him alone, and we passed into his private room.
"I am in an extraordinary position," I began. "Circumstances of a
private nature make it absolutely necessary that I should go to a place
called Cressley Hall, about fourteen miles from Brent. Brent is sixty
miles down the line, and the last train has gone. I could take a
'special,' but there might be an interminable delay at Brent, and I
prefer to drive straight to Cressley Hall across country. Can you
assist me by directing me to some good jobmaster from whom I can hire a
carriage and horses?"
The man looked at me with raised eyebrows. He evidently thought I was
mad.
"I mean what I say," I added, "and am prepared to back my words with a
substantial sum. Can you help me?"
"I dare say you might get a carriage and horses to do it," he replied;
"but it is a very long way, and over a hilly country. No two horses
could go such a distance without rest. You would have to change from
time to time as you went. I will send across to the hotel stables for my
man, and you can see him about it."
He rang the bell and gave his orders. In a few moments the jobmaster
came in. I hurriedly explained to him what I wanted. At first he said it
was impossible, that his best horses were out, and that those he had in
his stables could not possibly attempt such a journey; but when I
brought out my cheque-book and offered to advance any sum in reason, he
hesitated.
"Of course there is one way in which it might be managed, sir. I would
take you myself as far as Ovenden, which is five-and-twenty miles from
here. There, I know, we could get a pair of fresh horses from the Swan;
and if we wired at once from here, horses might be ready at Carlton,
which is another twenty miles on the road. But, at our best, sir, it
will be between two and three in the morning before we get to Brent."
"I am sorry to hear you say so," I answered; "but it is better to arrive
then than to wait until to-morrow. Please send the necessary telegram
off without a moment's delay, and get the carriage ready."
"Put the horses in at once, John," said the manager. "You had better
take the light wagonette. You ought to get there between one and two in
the morning with that."