A TERRIBLE NIGHT
"Go back!--go back, my precious!" cried Deborah, her first thought being
how to spare Sylvia the sight.
But the girl, remembering that agonized cry which had awakened her,
faint and far away as it sounded, pushed past the servant and ran into
the middle of the shop. The lamp, held high by Deborah over her head,
cast a bright circle of light on the floor, and in the middle of this
Sylvia saw her father breathing heavily. His hands were bound behind his
back in a painful way, his feet were tightly fastened, and his head
seemed to be attached to the floor. At least, when the body (as it
seemed from its stillness) suddenly writhed, it rolled to one side, but
the head remained almost motionless. The two women hung back, clutching
each other's hands, and were almost too horrified to move at the sight.
"Look! Look!" cried Sylvia, gasping, "the mouth!" Deborah looked and
gave a moan. Aaron's mouth was rigidly closed under a glittering jewel.
Deborah bent down, still moaning, so great did the horror of the thing
paralyse her speech, and saw the lights flash back from many diamonds:
she saw bluish gleams and then a red sparkle like the ray of the setting
sun. It was the opal serpent brooch, and Aaron's lips were fastened
together with the stout pin. On his mouth and across his agonised face
in which the one eye gleamed with terrific meaning the jewelled serpent
seemed to writhe.
"Oh, poor soul!" cried Deborah, falling on her knees with the lamp still
held above her head. "Sylvia see--"
The girl gasped again, and impulsively knelt also, trying with nerveless
fingers to unfasten the cruel pin which sealed the man's lips. He still
lived, for they heard him breathing and saw the gleaming eye: but even
as they looked the face grew black: the eye opened and closed
convulsively. Deborah set down the lamp and tried to raise the head. She
could not lift it from the floor. Then the bound feet swung in the air
and fell again with a dull thud. The eye remained wide open, staring in
a glassy, manner: the breathing had stopped: and the body was
motionless. "He's dead," said Deborah, leaping to her feet and catching
away the girl. "Help! Help!"
Her loud voice rang fiercely through the empty shop and echoed round and
round. But there came no answering cry. Not a sound could be heard in
the street. On the bare floor was the lamp shining on that dreadful
sight: the body with sealed lips, and the glittering jewel, and leaning
against the wall were the two women, Deborah staring at her dead master,
but with Sylvia's eyes pressed against her bosom so that she might not
witness the horror. And the stillness deepened weirdly every moment.
Sylvia tried to move her head, but Deborah pressed it closer to her
breast. "Don't, my pretty--don't," she whispered harshly.
"I must--I--ah!" the girl freed her head from those kind arms with a
wrench, and looked at the gruesome sight. She staggered forward a few
steps, and then fell back. Deborah received her in her arms, and,
thankful that Sylvia had fainted, carried her up the stairs to lay the
unconscious girl on her own bed. Then she descended rapidly, locked the
door leading from the shop to the stairs, and again looked at the body.
The time she had been away was about seven or eight minutes, and the
body still remained with the one open eye staring meaninglessly at the
ceiling. Deborah, drawn by fascination like a bird by a serpent, crept
forward and touched the head. It moved, and she again tried to lift it.
This time she found she could do so. The head she lifted against her
breast, and then laid it down with horror when she found the bosom of
her nightgown was stained with blood. Pulling her wits together, for she
felt that she needed them every one, she examined the head and neck. To
her horror she found round the throat a strong thin copper wire, which
disappeared through a hole in the floor. Apparently this had been pulled
so tightly as to keep the head down and to choke the old man, and so
cruelly as to cut deeply into the flesh. With a moan of horror Deborah
dropped the head and ran to the trap-door in the corner. If anywhere,
those who had murdered Aaron Norman were lurking in the cellar. But the
trap-door would not open, and then she remembered that it was closed by
a bolt underneath. She could not reach the midnight assassin that way.
"The front door," she gasped, and ran to unbolt it. The bolts were
easily removed, but the door was also locked, and Aaron usually had the
key deposited nightly in the cellar by Bart. Repugnant as it was for her
to approach the dead body, Deborah again went forward and felt in the
pockets and loose clothing. The man was completely dressed, even to an
overcoat which he wore. But she could not find the key and wondered what
she was to do. Probably the key had been hung up in the cellar as usual.
Necessity being the mother of invention, she remembered that the
window-glass was fragile, and ran up in the hope of breaking through.
But the stout shutters were up, so Deborah found that she was sealed in
the house. Almost in a state of distraction, for by this time her nerve
had given way, she unlocked the door to the stairs and ran up three
steps at a time to the sitting-room. Here she opened the window and
scrambled out on to the ledge among Sylvia's flower-pots. Just as she
was wondering how she could get down, the measured tread of a policeman
was heard, and by craning her neck Deborah saw him coming leisurely
along the street, swinging his dark lantern on the windows and doors. It
was a moonlight night and the street was extraordinarily well lighted as
the moon shone straightly between the houses. Gathering her strength for
a last effort, Deborah yelled as only she could yell, and saw the
startled officer spinning round, looking up and down and sideways to see
where the shrieks came from. "Up--up--oh, look up, you fool!" screamed
Deborah. "Murder--oh, murder! Burst in the door, call the police, drat
you! Help!--help!"
By this time she was the centre of a circle of bright light, for the
policeman had located her, and his lantern was flashing on her white
nightgown as she clung to the window-sill.
"What are you making that noise for?" called up the officer, gruffly.
"Murder, you fool!" screamed Deborah. "Master's murdered. Number
forty-five--the door's locked--break it open. Police!--police!"
Before she finished the sentence the officer blew his whistle shrilly
and ran to the door of the shop, against which he placed his shoulder.
Deborah climbed in again by the window, and ran down again, but even
then, in her excitement and horror, she did not forget to lock the door
leading to the stairs, so that Sylvia might not be disturbed. As she
descended she flung a thick shawl over her shoulders, which she had
caught up when leaving her room, though for the rest she had nothing on
but a nightgown. But the poor woman was too terrified to be troubled by
any scruples at the moment, and reached the shop to hear heavy blows on
the door. Between the thuds Deborah could hear footsteps running inward
from every quarter. "I ain't got the key!" she shrieked through the
keyhole; "break in the door, drat you! Murder!--murder!"
From the noise she made those without concluded that some terrible crime
was taking place within, and redoubled their efforts. Deborah had just
time to leap back after a final scream when the door fell flat on the
floor, and three policemen sprang into the room with drawn batons and
their lights flashing like stars. The lamp was still on the floor
shedding its heavy yellow light on the corpse. "Master!" gasped Deborah,
pointing a shaking finger. "Dead--the--the cellar--the--" and here she
made as to drop. A policeman caught her in his arms, but the woman shook
herself free. "I sha'n't faint--no--I sha'n't faint," she gasped, "the
cellar--look--look--" She ran forward and raised the head of the dead
man. When the officers saw the dangling slack wire disappearing through
a hole in the floor they grasped the situation. "The passage outside!"
cried Deborah, directing operations; "the trap-door," she ran to it,
"fast bolted below, and them murdering people are there."
"How many are there?" asked a policeman, while several officers ran
round the back through the side passage.
"Oh, you dratted fool, how should I know!" cried Deborah, fiercely;
"there may be one and there may be twenty. Go and catch them--you're
paid for it. Send to number twenty Park Street, Bloomsbury, for Bart."
"Who is Bart?"
"Go and fetch him," cried Deborah, furious at this delay; "number twenty
Park Street, Bloomsbury. Oh, what a night this is! I'm a-goin' to see
Miss Sylvia, who has fainted, and small blame," and she made for the
locked door. An officer came after her. "Go away," shrieked Deborah,
pushing him back. "I've got next to nothink on, and my pretty is ill. Go
away and do your business."
Seeing she was distracted and hardly knew what she was saying, the man
drew back, and Deborah ran up the stairs to Sylvia's room, where she
found the poor girl still unconscious.
Meanwhile, an Inspector had arrived, and one of the policemen was
detailing all that had occurred from the time Deborah had given the
alarm at the window. The Inspector listened quietly to everything, and
then examined the body. "Strangled with a copper wire," he said, looking
up. "Go for a doctor one of you. It goes through the floor," he added,
touching the wire which still circled the throat, "and must have been
pulled from below. Examine the cellar."
Even as he spoke, and while one zealous officer ran off for a medical
man, there was a grating sound and the trap-door was thrown open. A
policeman leaped into the shop and saluted when he saw his superior. By
this time the gas had been lighted. "We've broken down the back door,
sir," said he, "the cellar door--it was locked but not bolted. Nothing
in the cellar, everything in order, but that wire," he pointed to the
means used for strangling, "dangled from the ceiling and a cross piece
of wood is bound to the lower end."
"Who does the shop belong to?"
"Aaron Norman," said the policeman whose beat it was; "he's a
second-hand bookseller, a quiet, harmless, timid sort of man."
"Anyone about?"
"No, sir. I passed down Gwynne Street at about a quarter past twelve and
all seemed safe. When I come back later--it might have been twenty
minutes and more--say twenty-five--I saw the woman who was down here
clinging to a window on the first floor, and shouting murder. I gave the
summons, sir, and we broke open the door."
Inspector Prince laid down the dead man's head and rose to his feet with
a nod. "I'll go upstairs and see the woman," he said; "tell me when the
doctor comes."
Upstairs he examined the sitting-room, and lighted the gas therein; then
he mounted another storey after looking through the kitchen and
dining-room. In a bedroom he found an empty bed, but heard someone
talking in a room near at hand. Flinging open the door he heard a
shriek, and found himself confronted by Deborah, who had hastily flung
on some clothes. "Don't come in," she cried, extending her arm, "for I'm
just getting Miss Sylvia round."
"Nonsense," said the Inspector, and pushing her roughly aside he stepped
into the room. On the bed lay Sylvia, apparently still unconscious, but
as the man looked at her she opened her eyes with a long sigh. Deborah
put her arms round the girl and began to talk to her in an endearing
way. Shortly Sylvia sat up, bewildered. "What is it?" she asked. Then
her eyes fell on the policeman. "Oh, where is my father?"
"He's dead, pretty," said Deborah, fondling her. "Don't take on so."
"Yes--I remember--the body on the floor--the serpent across the
mouth--oh--oh!" and she fainted again.
"There!" cried Deborah, with bitter triumph, "see what you've done."
"Come--come," said Inspector Prince, though as gently as possible. "I
am in charge of this case. Tell me what has happened."
"If you'd use your blessed eyes you'd see murder has happened," said
Miss Junk, savagely. "Let me attend to my pretty."
Just at this moment a tall young man entered the room. It was the
doctor. "The policemen said you were up here," he said in a pleasant
voice. "I've examined the body, Inspector. The man is quite dead--he has
been strangled--and in a cruel manner with that copper wire, which has
cut into the throat, to say nothing of this," and the doctor held out
the brooch.
"That, drat it!" cried Deborah, vigorously, "it's the cause of it all, I
do believe, if I died in saying so," and she began to rub Sylvia's hands
vigorously.
"Who is this young lady?" asked the doctor; "another patient?"
"And well she may be," said Miss Junk. "Call yourself a doctor, and
don't help me to bring her to."
"Do what you can," said Prince, "and you," he added to Deborah, "come
down with me. I wish to ask you a few questions."
Deborah was no fool and saw that the Inspector was determined to make
her do what he wanted. Besides, Sylvia was in the hands of the doctor,
and Deborah felt that he could do more than she, to bring the poor girl
to her senses. After a few parting injunctions she left the room and
went downstairs with the Inspector. The police had made no further
discovery.
Prince questioned not only the Gwynne Street policeman, who had given
his report, but all others who had been in the vicinity. But they could
tell him nothing. No one suspicious had been seen leaving Gwynne Street
north or south, so, finding he could learn nothing in this direction,
Prince turned his attention to the servant. "Now, then, what do you
know?" he asked. "Don't say anything likely to incriminate yourself."
"Me!" shouted Deborah, bouncing up with a fiery face. "Don't you be
taking away my character. Why, I know no more who have done it than a
babe unborn, and that's stupid enough, I 'opes, Mr. Policeman. Ho!
indeed, and we pays our taxes to be insulted by you, Mr. Policeman." She
was very aggravating, and many a man would have lost his temper. But
Inspector Prince was a quiet and self-controlled officer, and knew how
to deal with this violent class of women. He simply waited till Deborah
had exhausted herself, and then gently asked her a few questions.
Finding he was reasonable, Deborah became reasonable on her part, and
replied with great intelligence. In a few minutes the Inspector, by
handling her deftly, learned all that had taken place on that terrible
night, from the time Sylvia had started up in bed at the sound of that
far-distant cry of a soul in agony. "And that, from what Miss Sylvia
says," ended Deborah, "was just before the church clock struck the hour
of twelve."
"You came down a quarter of an hour later?"
"I did, when Miss Sylvia woke me," said Deborah; "she was frightened out
of her seven senses, and couldn't get up at once. Yes--it was about
twenty minutes after the hour we come down to see--It," and the woman,
strong nerved as she was, shuddered.
"Humph," said the Inspector, "the assassin had time to escape."
"Begging your pardon, sir, them, or him, or her, or it as murdered
master was below in the cellar when we saw the corp--not that it was
what you'd call a corp then."
"Will you say precisely what you mean?"
Deborah did so, and with such wealth of detail that even the hardened
Inspector felt the creeps down his official back. There was something
terribly merciless about this crime. The man had been bound like a
sheep for the slaughter; his mouth had been sealed with the brooch so
that he could not cry out, and then in the sight of his child and
servant he had been slowly strangled by means of the copper wire which
communicated with the cellar. One of the policemen brought up an auger
which evidently had been used to bore the hole for the wire to pass
through, for the fresh sawdust was still in its whorls. "Who does this
belong to?" Prince asked Deborah.
"It's Bart's," said Deborah, staring; "he was using it along with other
tools to make some deal boxes for master, who was going away. I expect
it was found in the cellar in the tool-box, for Bart allays brought it
in tidy-like after he'd done his work in the yard, weather being fine,
of course," ended Deborah, sniffing.
"Where is this Bart?"
"In bed like a decent man if he's to be my husband, which he is," said
Miss Junk, tartly. "I told one of them idle bobbies to go and fetch him
from Bloomsbury."
"One has gone," said another policeman. "Bart Tawsey isn't he?"
"Mr. Bartholemew Tawsey, if you please," said the servant, grandly. "I
only hope he'll be here soon to protect me."
"You're quite safe," said Prince, dryly, whereat there was a smile on
the faces of his underlings, for Deborah in her disordered dress and
with her swollen, flushed, excited face was not comely. "But what about
this brooch you say is the cause of it all?"
Deborah dropped with an air of fatigue. "If you kill me I can't talk of
it now," she protested. "The brooch belonged to Mr. Paul Beecot."
"And where is he?"
"In the Charing Cross Hospital if you want to know, and as he's engaged
to my pretty you needn't think he done it--so there."
"I am accusing no one," said the Inspector, grimly, "but we must get to
the bottom of this horrible crime."
"Ah, well you may call it that," wailed Deborah, "with that serping on
his poor mouth and him wriggling like an eel to get free. But 'ark,
there's my pretty a-calling," and Miss Junk dashed headlong from the
shop shouting comfort to Sylvia as she went.
Prince looked at the dead man and at the opal serpent which he held in
his hand. "This at one end of the matter, and that at the other. What is
the connecting link between this brooch and that corpse?"