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The Opal Serpent
By
Fergus Hume
AUTHOR OF
"THE MYSTERY OF A HANSOM CAB," "THE RAINBOW FEATHER,"
"A COIN OF EDWARD VII.," "THE PAGAN'S CUP,"
"THE SECRET PASSAGE," "THE RED WINDOW,"
"THE MANDARIN'S FAN," ETC.
G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1905, BY
G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY.
_Issued July, 1905._
[Illustration: "LOOK! LOOK!" CRIED SYLVIA, GASPING--"THE MOUTH!"]
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. DON QUIXOTE IN LONDON 7
II. DEBORAH JUNK, DUENNA 19
III. DULCINEA OF GWYNNE STREET 32
IV. THE UNFORESEEN 44
V. TROUBLE 56
VI. A NOISE IN THE NIGHT 68
VII. A TERRIBLE NIGHT 80
VIII. THE VERDICT OF THE JURY 91
IX. CASTLES IN THE AIR 103
X. A BOLT FROM THE BLUE 115
XI. A CUCKOO IN THE NEST 126
XII. THE NEW LIFE 137
XIII. THE DETECTIVE'S VIEWS 148
XIV. MR. HAY'S LITTLE DINNER 161
XV. A NEW CLUE 172
XVI. SYLVIA'S THEORY 185
XVII. HURD'S INFORMATION 196
XVIII. AT CHRISTCHURCH, HANTS 208
XIX. CAPTAIN JESSOP 219
XX. PART OF THE TRUTH 228
XXI. MISS QIAN'S PARTY 241
XXII. FURTHER EVIDENCE 254
XXIII. WHAT PASH SAID 266
XXIV. MRS. KRILL AT BAY 278
XXV. A CRUEL WOMAN 291
XXVI. A FINAL EXPLANATION 306
CHAPTER I
DON QUIXOTE IN LONDON
Simon Beecot was a country gentleman with a small income, a small estate
and a mind considerably smaller than either. He dwelt at Wargrove in
Essex and spent his idle hours--of which he possessed a daily and
nightly twenty-four--in snarling at his faded wife and in snapping
between whiles at his son. Mrs. Beecot, having been bullied into old age
long before her time, accepted sour looks and hard words as necessary to
God's providence, but Paul, a fiery youth, resented useless nagging. He
owned more brain-power than his progenitor, and to this favoring of
Nature paterfamilias naturally objected. Paul also desired fame, which
was likewise a crime in the fire-side tyrant's eyes.
As there were no other children Paul was heir to the Beecot acres,
therefore their present proprietor suggested that his son should wait
with idle hands for the falling in of the heritage. In plain words, Mr.
Beecot, coming of a long line of middle-class loafers, wished his son to
be a loafer also. Again, when Mrs. Beecot retired to a tearful rest, her
bully found Paul a useful person on whom to expend his spleen. Should
this whipping-boy leave, Mr. Beecot would have to forego this enjoyment,
as servants object to being sworn at without cause. For years Mr.
Beecot indulged in bouts of bad temper, till Paul, finding twenty-five
too dignified an age to tolerate abuse, announced his intention of
storming London as a scribbler.
The parents objected in detail. Mrs. Beecot, after her kind, dissolved
in tears, and made reference to young birds leaving the nest, while her
husband, puffed out like a frog, and redder than the wattles of a
turkey-cock, exhausted himself in well-chosen expressions. Paul
increased the use of these by fixing a day for his departure. The female
Beecot retired to bed with the assistance of a maid, burnt feathers and
sal volatile, and the male, as a last and clinching argument,
figuratively buttoned up his pockets.
"Not one shilling will you get from me," said Beecot senior, with the
graceful addition of vigorous adjectives.
"I don't ask for money," said Paul, keeping his temper, for after all
the turkey-cock was his father. "I have saved fifty pounds. Not out of
my pocket-money," he added hastily, seeing further objections on the
way. "I earned it by writing short stories."
"The confounded mercantile instinct," snorted paterfamilias, only he
used stronger words. "Your mother's uncle was in trade. Thank Heaven
none of my people ever used hands or brains. The Beecots lived like
gentlemen."
"I should say like cabbages from your description, father."
"No insolence, sir. How dare you disgrace your family? Writing tales
indeed! Rubbish I expect" (here several adjectives). "And you took money
I'll be bound, eh! eh!"
"I have just informed you that I took all I could get," said Beecot
junior, quietly. "I'll live in Town on my savings. When I make a name
and a fortune I'll return."
"Never! never!" gobbled the turkey-cock. "If you descend to the gutter
you can wallow there. I'll cut you out of my will."
"Very good, sir, that's settled. Let us change the subject."
But the old gentleman was too high-spirited to leave well alone. He
demanded to know if Paul knew to whom he was talking, inquired if he had
read the Bible touching the duties of children to their parents,
instanced the fact that Paul's dear mother would probably pine away and
die, and ended with a pathetic reference to losing the prop of his old
age. Paul listened respectfully and held to his own opinion. In defence
of the same he replied in detail,--
"I am aware that I talk to my father, sir," said he, with spirit; "you
never allow me to forget that fact. If another man spoke to me as you do
I should probably break his head. I _have_ read the Bible, and find
therein that parents owe a duty to their children, which certainly does
not include being abused like a pick-pocket. My mother will not pine
away if you will leave her alone for at least three hours a day. And as
to my being the prop of your old age, your vigor of language assures me
that you are strong enough to stand alone."
Paterfamilias, never bearded before, hastily drank a glass of port--the
two were enjoying the usual pleasant family meal when the conversation
took place--and said--but it is useless to detail his remarks. They were
all sound and no sense. In justice to himself, and out of pity for his
father, Paul cut short the scene by leaving the room with his
determination unchanged. Mr. Beecot thereupon retired to bed, and
lectured his wife on the enormity of having brought a parricide into the
world. Having been countered for once in his life with common-sense, he
felt that he could not put the matter too strongly to a woman, who was
too weak to resent his bullying.
Early next day the cause of the commotion, not having swerved a
hair's-breadth from the path he had marked out, took leave of his
mother, and a formal farewell of the gentleman who described himself as
the best of fathers. Beecot senior, turkey-cock and tyrant, was more
subdued now that he found bluster would not carry his point. But the
wave of common-sense came too late. Paul departed bag and baggage, and
his sire swore to the empty air. Even Mrs. Beecot was not available, as
she had fainted.
Once Paul was fairly out of the house paterfamilias announced that the
glory of Israel had departed, removed his son's photograph from the
drawing-room, and considered which of the relatives he had quarrelled
with he should adopt. Privately, he thought he had been a trifle hard on
the lad, and but for his obstinacy--which he called firmness--he would
have recalled the prodigal. But that enterprising adventurer was beyond
hearing, and had left no address behind him. Beecot, the bully, was not
a bad old boy if only he had been firmly dealt with, so he acknowledged
that Paul had a fine spirit of his own, inherited from himself, and
prophesied incorrectly. "He'll come back when the fifty pounds is
exhausted," said he in a kind of dejected rage, "and when he does--" A
clenched fist shaken at nothing terminated the speech and showed that
the leopard could not change his spots.
So Paul Beecot repaired to London, and after the orthodox fashion began
to cultivate the Muses on a little oatmeal by renting a Bloomsbury
garret. There he wrote reams on all subjects and in all styles, and for
six months assiduously haunted publishers' doors with varying fortunes.
Sometimes he came away with a cheque, but more often with a bulky
manuscript bulging his pocket. When tired of setting down imaginary
woes he had time to think of his own; but being a cheerful youth, with
an indomitable spirit, he banished trouble by interesting himself in the
cheap world. By this is meant the world which costs no money to
view--the world of the street. Here he witnessed the drama of humanity
from morning till night, and from sunset till dawn, and on the whole
witnessed very good acting. The poorer parts in the human comedy were
particularly well played, and starving folks were quite dramatic in
their demands for food. Note-book in hand, Paul witnessed spectacular
shows in the West End, grotesque farces in the Strand, melodrama in
Whitechapel and tragedy on Waterloo Bridge at midnight. Indeed, he quite
spoiled the effect of a sensation scene by tugging at the skirts of a
starving heroine who wished to take a river journey into the next world.
But for the most part, he remained a spectator and plagiarised from real
life.
Shortly, the great manager of the Universal Theatre enlisted Paul as an
actor, and he assumed the double _role_ of an unappreciated author and a
sighing lover. In the first capacity he had in his desk ten short
stories, a couple of novels, three dramas and a sheaf of doubtful
verses. These failed to appeal to editor, manager or publisher, and
their author found himself reduced to his last five-pound note. Then the
foolish, ardent lad must needs fall in love. Who his divinity was, what
she was, and why she should be divinised, can be gathered from a
conversation her worshipper held with an old school-fellow.
It was in Oxford Street at five o'clock on a June afternoon that Paul
met Grexon Hay. Turning the corner of the street leading to his
Bloomsbury attic, the author was tapped on the shoulder by a resplendent
Bond Street being. That is, the said being wore a perfectly-fitting
frock-coat, a silk hat, trousers with the regulation fold back and
front, an orchid buttonhole, grey gloves, boots that glittered, and
carried a gold-topped cane. The fact that Paul wheeled without wincing
showed that he was not yet in debt. Your Grub Street old-time author
would have leaped his own length at the touch. But Paul, with a clean
conscience, turned slowly, and gazed without recognition into the
clean-shaven, calm, cold face that confronted his inquiring eyes.
"Beecot!" said the newcomer, taking rapid stock of Paul's shabby serge
suit and worn looks. "I thought I was right."
The voice, if not the face, awoke old memories.
"Hay--Grexon Hay!" cried the struggling genius. "Well, I am glad to see
you," and he shook hands with the frank grip of an honest man.
"And I you." Hay drew his friend up the side street and out of the human
tide which deluged the pavement. "But you seem--"
"It's a long story," interrupted Paul flushing. "Come to my castle and
I'll tell you all about it, old boy. You'll stay to supper, won't you?
See here"--Paul displayed a parcel--"a pound of sausages. You loved 'em
at school, and I'm a superfine cook."
Grexon Hay always used expression and word to hide his feelings. But
with Paul--whom he had always considered a generous ass at Torrington
school--a trifle of self-betrayal didn't matter much. Beecot was too
dense, and, it may be added, too honest to turn any opportunity to
advantage. "It's a most surprising thing," said Hay, in his calm way,
"really a most surprising thing, that a Torrington public school boy, my
friend, and the son of wealthy parents, should be buying sausages."
"Come now," said Paul, with great spirit and towing Hay homeward, "I
haven't asked you for money."
"If you do you shall have it," said Hay, but the offer was not so
generous a one as would appear. That was Hay all over. He always said
what he did not mean, and knew well that Beecot's uneasy pride shied at
loans however small.
Paul, the unsophisticated, took the shadow of generosity for its
substance, and his dark face lighted up. "You're a brick, Hay," he
declared, "but I don't want money. No!"--this in reply to an eloquent
glance from the well-to-do--"I have sufficient for my needs, and
besides," with a look at the resplendent dress of the fashion-plate
dandy, "I don't glitter in the West End."
"Which hints that those who do, are rich," said Grexon, with an arctic
smile. "Wrong, Beecot. I'm poor. Only paupers can afford to dress well."
"In that case I must be a millionaire," laughed Beecot, glancing
downward at his well-worn garb. "But mount these stairs; we have much to
say to one another."
"Much that is pleasant," said the courtly Grexon.
Paul shrugged his square shoulders and stepped heavenward. "On your
part, I hope," he sang back; "certainly not on mine. Come to Poverty
Castle," and the fashionable visitor found his host lighting the fire in
an apartment such as he had read about but had never seen.
It was quite the proper garret for starving genius--small, bleak, bare,
but scrupulously clean. The floor was partially covered with scraps of
old carpet, faded and worn; the walls were entirely papered with
pictures from illustrated journals. One window, revealing endless rows
of dingy chimney-pots, was draped with shabby rep curtains of a dull
red. In one corner, behind an Indian screen, stood a narrow camp
bedstead, covered with a gaudy Eastern shawl, and also a large tin bath,
with a can of water beside it. Against the wall leaned a clumsy deal
bookcase filled with volumes well-thumbed and in old bindings. On one
side of the tiny fireplace was a horse-hair sofa, rendered less slippery
by an expensive fur rug thrown over its bareness; on the other was a
cupboard, whence Beecot rapidly produced crockery, knives, forks, a
cruet, napkins and other table accessories, all of the cheapest
description. A deal table in the centre of the room, an antique mahogany
desk, heaped high with papers, under the window, completed the
furnishing of Poverty Castle. And it was up four flights of stairs like
that celebrated attic in Thackeray's poem.
"As near heaven as I am likely to get," rattled on Beecot, deftly frying
the sausages, after placing his visitor on the sofa. "The grub will soon
be ready. I'm a first-class cook, bless you, old chap. Housemaid too.
Clean, eh?" He waved the fork proudly round the ill-furnished room. "I'd
dismiss myself if it wasn't."
"But--but," stammered Hay, much amazed, and surveying things through an
eye-glass. "What are you doing here?"
"Trying to get my foot on the first rung of Fame's ladder."
"But I don't quite see--"
"Read Balzac's life and you will. His people gave him an attic and a
starvation allowance in the hope of disgusting him. Bar the allowance,
my pater has done the same. Here's the attic, and here's my
starvation"--Paul gaily popped the frizzling sausages on a chipped hot
plate--"and here's your aspiring servant hoping to be novelist,
dramatist, and what not--to say nothing of why not? Mustard, there you
are. Wait a bit. I'll brew you tea or cocoa."
"I never take those things with meals, Beecot."
"Your kit assures me of that. Champagne's more in your line. I say,
Grexon, what are you doing now?"
"What other West-End men do," said Grexon, attacking a sausage.
"That means nothing. Well, you never did work at Torrington, so how can
I expect the leopard to change his saucy spots."
Hay laughed, and, during the meal, explained his position. "On leaving
school I was adopted by a rich uncle," he said. "When he went the way of
all flesh he left me a thousand a year, which is enough to live on with
strict economy. I have rooms in Alexander Street, Camden Hill, a circle
of friends, and a good appetite, as you will perceive. With these I get
through life very comfortably."
"Ha!" said Paul, darting a keen glance at his visitor, "you have the
strong digestion necessary to happiness. Have you the hard heart also?
If I remember at school--"
"Oh, hang school!" said Grexon, flushing all over his cold face. "I
never think of school. I was glad when I got away from it. But we were
great friends at school, Paul."
"Something after the style of Steerforth and David Copperfield," was
Paul's reply as he pushed back his plate; "you were my hero, and I was
your slave. But the other boys--" He looked again.
"They hated me, because they did not understand me, as you did."
"If that is so, Grexon, why did you let me slip out of your life? It is
ten years since we parted. I was fifteen and you twenty."
"Which now makes us twenty-five and thirty respectively," said Hay,
dryly; "you left school before I did."
"Yes; I had scarlet fever, and was taken home to be nursed. I never went
back, and since then I have never met an old Torrington boy--"
"Have you not?" asked Hay, eagerly.
"No. My parents took me abroad, and I sampled a German university. I
returned to idle about my father's place, till I grew sick of doing
nothing, and, having ambitions, I came to try my luck in town." He
looked round and laughed. "You see my luck."
"Well," said Hay, lighting a dainty cigarette produced from a gold case,
"my uncle, who died, sent me to Oxford and then I travelled. I am now on
my own, as I told you, and haven't a relative in the world."
"Why don't you marry?" asked Paul, with a flush.
Hay, wary man-about-town as he was, noted the flush, and guessed its
cause. He could put two and two together as well as most people.
"I might ask you the same question," said he.
The two friends looked at one another, and each thought of the
difference in his companion since the old school-days. Hay was
clean-shaven, fair-haired, and calm, almost icy, in manner. His eyes
were blue and cold. No one could tell what was passing in his mind from
the expression of his face. As a matter of fact he usually wore a mask,
but at the present moment, better feelings having the upper hand, the
mask had slipped a trifle. But as a rule he kept command of expression,
and words, and actions. An admirable example of self-control was Grexon
Hay.
On the other hand, Beecot was slight, tall and dark, with an eager
manner and a face which revealed his thoughts. His complexion was swart;
he had large black eyes, a sensitive mouth, and a small moustache
smartly twisted upward. He carried his head well, and looked rather
military in appearance, probably because many of his forebears had been
Army men. While Hay was smartly dressed in a Bond Street kit, Paul wore
a well-cut, shabby blue serge. He looked perfectly well-bred, but his
clothes were woefully threadbare.
From these and the garret and the lean meal of sausages Hay drew his
conclusions and put them into words.
"Your father has cut you off," said he, calmly, "and yet you propose to
marry."
"How do you know both things?"
"I keep my eyes open, Paul. I see this attic and your clothes. I saw
also the flush on your face when you asked me why I did not marry. You
are in love?"
"I am," said Beecot, becoming scarlet, and throwing back his head. "It
is clever of you to guess it. Prophesy more."
Hay smiled in a cold way. "I prophesy that if you marry on nothing you
will be miserable. But of course," he looked sharply at his open-faced
friend, "the lady may be rich."
"She is the daughter of a second-hand bookseller called Norman, and I
believe he combines selling books with pawnbroking."
"Hum," said Hay, "he might make money out of the last occupation. Is he
a Jew by any chance?"
"No. He is a miserable-looking, one-eyed Christian, with the manner of a
frightened rabbit."
"One-eyed and frightened," repeated Hay, musingly, but without change of
expression; "desirable father-in-law. And the daughter?"
"Sylvia. She is an angel, a white lily, a--"
"Of course," said Grexon, cutting short these rhapsodies. "And what do
you intend to marry on?"
Beecot fished a shabby blue velvet case out of his pocket. "On my last
five pounds and this," he said, opening the case.
Hay looked at the contents of the case, and saw a rather large brooch
made in the form of a jewelled serpent. "Opals, diamonds and gold," he
said slowly, then looked up eagerly. "Sell it to me."