Three weeks went by--dull, dreary weeks of constant anxiety. With the
assistance of Eric--to whom I had, of course, explained the tragic
incident in the home of John Parham--I was ever on the alert, compelled
to go down to Neate Street at infrequent intervals in secret from Eric
and pose for a few hours in the daytime as the husband of little Mrs
Morton.
Poor Tibbie led a dreary life in that drab mean street. Mrs Williams
was kind and pleasant, pitying the young wife so constantly separated
from her husband. But if my work took me away, well, she ought not to
grumble, the good woman declared. There were lots of compositors out of
work she had heard, now that those linotypes were so universally
adopted. And so she cheered Tibbie up, and the latter sought
distraction by doing fancy needlework.
Each time I visited her I ran the risk of being followed by some person
in the employ of Winsloe, who was, we knew, ever active in his efforts
to discover her whereabouts. Her mother had raised a terrible
hue-and-cry after a week had passed without news of her. Jack had
unfortunately gone to Scotland Yard and given his sister's description,
as Cynthia had begun to express a fear that she had met with foul play.
As soon as I heard of this I persuaded Tibbie to write a letter to her
mother, assuring her that she was quite well and happy, that she was
with friends, and that she would return in the course of a few days.
This letter I sent to a friend in Glasgow, and it was posted from there.
Time after time I looked in wonder at the photograph of the dead unknown
which I had abstracted from Mr Parham's drawing-room. And time after
time I reflected whether it would be wise to suddenly confront Tibbie
with it and demand the truth. Sometimes I was sorry that I had not left
the portrait where I had found it, for I might, when calling upon Mrs
Parham, have made casual inquiry regarding the original. Now that it
was in my possession, however, I was unable to approach the subject.
Undoubtedly she had missed it, and perhaps believed that in the
confusion of that memorable evening it had been stolen, perhaps for the
value of its frame.
One night about ten o'clock, while Eric and I sat by the fire in my
chambers, my friend cast aside the _Pall Mall Gazette_ which he had been
reading, exclaiming,--
"So the Parham affair seems to have concluded to-day. At the adjourned
inquest they've returned the usual verdict--wilful murder against
someone unknown. Poor girl! She was an entirely innocent victim."
"Yes," I remarked, smoking my pipe reflectively, "strange that the
police haven't a scrap of a clue as to who did it."
"We have the only clue that exists," was his answer. "You saw one of
the men."
"Yes, but I doubt if I'd recognise him again. It was only like a shadow
passing across the room. He was tall and thin, but I was too far away
to distinguish his features."
"Mrs Parham has apparently made no statement to the police of any
value, and Parham himself is still absent. He fears, I suppose, certain
inquiries regarding the possession of that gruesome object which we
found in the false bottom of the secret hiding-place."
"I'd like to meet this man Parham," I said. "Recollect that he
undoubtedly knew the man who was killed in Charlton Wood."
"Yes," remarked Eric, slowly. "It certainly seems strange that he
doesn't turn up again. He may, of course, be travelling abroad, as his
wife seems to think he is. She has told the police that he's often
abroad, and she frequently does not hear from him for a fortnight or
three weeks. It appears that only a short time ago he remarked that he
might be compelled to go out to India on business connected with some
jewels which an Indian prince has for sale. Perhaps he has gone, and
will write to her from Port Said. That is what the police believe."
"And if he does?"
"Well, I should think it most probable that he'll be detained at Bombay
and asked to return at once to London, to explain how the human eye came
into his possession."
"I wish we could get sight of a photograph of Parham," I said. "It
would help us so much."
"He's never had his portrait taken--objects to it, I hear. The police
told me so. They always look with suspicion upon a man who objects to
being photographed."
I entertained the same suspicions regarding Parham as did the police,
and resolved to revisit his wife and endeavour to discover something
further.
Next day, however, receiving an urgent express letter from Tibbie, I was
compelled to assume the guise of William Morton and travel by a
circuitous route down to Camberwell. She had the midday dinner of roast
sirloin and vegetables ready prepared for me, cooked by herself, and
looked a thoroughly capable housewife in her cheap black gown and white
apron. The clothes she had bought were well fitted to the station she
had assumed, and beyond a smart saying or two which now and then escaped
her, she passed well as the lady's-maid married to an honest,
hard-working compositor.
"The only thing I can't do," she confided to me, as we sat together at
the clean little dinner-table, "is the washing. I put it out, and I
fear that the landlady thinks me horribly extravagant. But the truth is
I don't know how to wash, and if I tried I'd at once betray my
ignorance," she laughed.
I glanced at her hands, now rather red and rough by unaccustomed work,
and smiled.
"Let them think what they may," I said. "You play your part far better
than I ever thought you would."
"Oh, sometimes I find it quite amusing," she declared. "One sees more
of the realities of life in Camberwell than in Mayfair. Here I see how
the poor live, and I pity them. I was ignorant of how hard are the
lives of the working people; how they have to struggle to keep the wolf
from the door, or of the long hours of work, and the cutting down, of
wages. Do you know, Wilfrid, I sometimes hear stories of poverty and
distress that make my heart bleed. I want to help them, but how can I?
To give them money would be to arouse suspicion against myself. I've
found a method, however. I send them groceries and meat from certain
shops in the Old Kent Road and Camberwell Road, and pay for it myself.
They don't then know where it comes from."
I was somewhat surprised to discover this sympathetic trait in her
character. I had never believed that, gay butterfly of fashion as she
was, she entertained any thought of the poor seamstress who worked all
night upon her ball-dress, or the consumptive shop-girl who danced
attendance upon her, compelled to indulge her every whim. The
Scarcliffs, if a wild race, were a proud one. They regarded "the
people" as being different from themselves and treated all their
underlings, save grave old Adams at Ryhall, without thought or
consideration.
Yes, the few weeks that Tibbie had lived estranged from her fast, exotic
set, and with the example of the workaday world before her eyes, had
wrought a great change in her.
Yet, was this really so? To what cause could I attribute this sudden
outburst of charitable feeling?