Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source:
http://arrow.latrobe.edu.au/store/3/4/6/5/2/public/B26995177.pdf
La Trobe University, Melbourne Australia
_SOME OPINIONS OF THE PRESS_
_ON_
"The Carbuncle Clue."
BY FERGUS HUME.
UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME.
===============
"Everywhere throughout its source there is evident the same
wonderful originality that distinguished his first success. It
is as clever a piece of detective story writing as 'The Leavenworth
Case.'"--_Dundee Advertiser_.
"To say that Mr. Fergus Home's 'The Carbuncle Clue' is one of his best
stories hardly does justice to its merits. Very clever must be the
reader who, in the earlier chapters, finds even a faint clue in this
labyrinth of crime and intrigue."--_Morning Post_.
"It is in all truth a mystery, and one which when dipped into will be
followed with the greatest interest in all its maze of detail. There
is scarcely one of the opening chapters that does not reveal some new,
startling, and apparently inexplicable fact."--_The Scotsman_.
"Among the more successful of the purveyors of the detective order of
fiction is Mr. Fergus Hume. All who love mystery will find his last
story exactly to their taste."--_Publishers' Circular_.
"We were becoming afraid that Mr. Hume was over-producing--a fear
greatly allayed by 'The Carbuncle Clue.' Mr. Hume keeps his story well
in hand, and although the mystery changes its aspect many times, he
never allows it to drag; and in the end he springs the secret on
us in a way that effectually discounts any feeling of superiority
we may have cherished as to our powers of playing the amateur
detective."--_Literary World_.
"Apart from the author's reputation, 'The Carbuncle Clue,' standing on
its own undoubted merits, will commend itself to those of the reading
public who can admire a clever plot, with just a sufficient dash of
sensationalism. The skilful manner in which the plot is evolved and
the machinations of the conspirators disclosed, place the work on a
much higher level than the average detective story."--_Chester
Courant_.
"A capital story, one that will hold its reader enthralled to the end.
The clever detective--Mr. Fanks, alias Rixton--is, we think greatly
superior to Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his many followers, inasmuch as he
is not omniscient, and is quite capable of making mistakes and getting
exasperated over them. He follows the slender clue with the sagacity
and patience of a bloodhound, and the mystery is so well maintained
that its solution only breaks on us as we turn the last page.--_Pall
Pall Gazette_.
"Mr. Hume is great in mysteries, but almost excels himself in the
complications of this carbuncle clue. It is brightly and briskly
written, and goes on without a hitch or momentary loss of interest
from beginning to end. The actors are admirably described. It is the
ordinary man and woman that Mr. Hume brings on the stage, and he pulls
the wires so deftly that it is with a sigh of regret that we close the
book. The publishing world has been inundated with detective stories
recently, but if all were so good as 'The Carbuncle Clue' there would
not be much reason to complain of the fashion."--_Manchester Courier_.
"One of the best detective stories that have appeared for a long
time."--_Manchester Guardian_.
"The whole plot is very ingeniously contrived. The interest never
flags, and, together with the mystery, is kept up to the very end of
the story."--_Glasgow Herald_.
"In 'The Carbuncle Clue' the author elucidates with his accustomed
skill a highly mysterious murder. The story is thrilling and
ingenious."--_Yorkshire Post_.
"Mr. Fergus Hume is a wonderful producer of books, and he proves
himself the possessor of considerable resource, while he is also very
versatile. 'The Carbuncle Clue' will be read with avidity by lovers of
this particular class of work, while it will also be found to contain
a goodly share of attraction for the general novel reader."--_Western
Daily Mercury_.
"For some time past the feeling has been that the detective story has
had its day, living only in the memory of the immortal Sherlock
Holmes. After perusing the mystery of 'The Carbuncle Clue,'
however, we feel inclined to change our mind. Mr. Fergus Hume
has a more than ordinary talent for the making and unravelling of
enigmas."--_Liverpool Mercury_.
"There are few weavers of mystery like Mr. Fergus Hume. In 'The
Carbuncle Clue' his best qualities as an adept in the art of
mystification are apparent. He is a magician in mystery and a wizard
in working up a sensation without divulging the denouement until the
opportune moment."--_Newsagent_.
"A splendid story, and the identity of the murderer of the unknown
man so mysteriously found stabbed to death in the chambers of a man
about town is cleverly concealed until the last. There is not a dull
line in the book, and the interest is never for a moment allowed to
flag."--_Blackburn Times_.
"A story replete with sensational excitement from the first to the
last. In our opinion it is one of the best novels he has yet
produced."--_The People_.
"A peculiar faculty is necessary for the composition of a really
ingenious story of the detective type, and Mr. Fergus Hume undeniably
possesses it in an unusual degree. 'The Carbuncle Clue' is a really
clever piece of work of its school. The mystery suffices to keep the
reader on the alert till he comes to the final page."--_Court
Journal_.
London: FREDERICK WARNE & CO., and New York.
TRACKED BY A TATTOO
TRACKED
BY A TATTOO
_A MYSTERY_
BY
FERGUS HUME
AUTHOR OF
"THE MYSTERY OF A HANSOM CAB," "MONSIEUR JUDAS,"
"THE CARBUNCLE CLUE," "THE WHITE PRIOR,"
ETC.
LONDON
FREDERICK WARNE & CO.
AND NEW YORK
_Copyright.
Entered at Stationers' Hall_.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER
I. The Crime
II. A Recognition
III. The Result Of The Crime
IV. Another Discovery
V. The Red Star Advertisement
VI. A Startling Incident
VII. Difficulties
VIII. A Mysterious Parcel
IX. Vaud and Vaud
X. Exit Dr. Renshaw
XI. Another Link in the Chain
XII. The Intervention of Chance
XIII. The Tattooed Cross
XIV. Fanks Makes Up his Mind
XV. Coming Events
XVI. Unhappy Lovers
XVII. Two against One
XVIII. On the Twenty-First of June
XIX. The Defiance of Anne Colmer
XX. The Green Overcoat
XXI. The Eight Bells Enigma
XXII. Mrs. Boazoph Receives a Shock
XXIII. The Confession of Hersham
XXIV. The Clue of the Handwriting
XXV. At Mere Hall, Hants
XXVI. Mrs. Prisom's Story
XXVII. Mrs. Prisom's Story--_continued_
XXVIII. Sir Louis Explains
XXIX. Dr. Binjoy Protests
XXX. A Letter from Hersham, Senior
XXXI. The Secret is Revealed
XXXII. Mrs. Boazoph Tells the Truth
XXXIII. How and Why the Deed was Done
XXXIV. The Same
XXXV. The Opinion of Octavius Fanks
Tracked by a Tattoo.
CHAPTER I.
THE CRIME.
On the twenty-first of June, in the year one thousand eight hundred
and ninety-four Mr. Fanks, of New Scotland Yard, detective, was
walking down the Strand, between the hours of seven and eight in the
evening, in the character of Octavius Rixton, of the West End, idler.
It may be as well to repeat here, what is no doubt already known--that
this individual led a dual existence. He earned his money as a
detective, and spent it as a man about town. East of Trafalgar Square
he was called Fanks; westward he was known by his real name of Rixton.
But few people, were aware that the idler and the worker were one and
the same. Nevertheless of necessity four or five persons possessed
this knowledge, and of these one was Crate, a brother officer of
Fanks, who had worked with him in many cases, and who had a profound
respect for his capabilities. Fanks had obtained this ascendancy over
Crate's mind by his skilful unravelling of the Chinese Jar mystery.
This especial evening Rixton had cast off the name, clothes, and
personality of Fanks; and in "propriâ personâ," he was about to treat
himself to a melodrama at the Adelphi Theatre. As he was passing
through the vestibule, at a quarter to eight, a man came forward and
touched him on the arm. To the surprise of Rixton he recognised Crate.
"You mentioned that you were coming here this evening, Mr. Rixton,"
said this latter, who had been instructed to so address his chief on
particular occasions. "And I have been waiting for the last half hour
to see you."
"What is the matter, Crate?"
The subordinate beckoned Rixton to a quiet corner, and in a low tone
said one word, which made him dismiss from his mind the idea of
attending the theatre on that evening. The whispered word was
"murder."
"Where?" asked Fanks, assuming the detective on the instant.
"Down Tooley's Alley."
"Man or woman or child?"
"Man! I think a gentleman."
"When was the crime committed?"
"Between six and seven this evening."
"In a house or on the street?"
"In a house. The Red Star public-house."
"I know it," said Fanks, with a sharp nod, "a cut-throat place at the
bottom of Tooley's Alley. The assassin chose an excellent locality.
Poison, steel, or bludgeon?"
"The first I fancy; there are no marks of violence on the body. But
you had better come and see for yourself."
"I agree with you. Return to the Red Star, Crate, while I go to my
rooms to change my clothes. I am Rixton at present, and I don't want
to mix up my two personalities. Expect me in half an hour."
Crate departed with prompt obedience, and Rixton drove off in a swift
hansom to his chambers in Duke Street, St. James. In ten minutes he
had assumed his detective clothes and Fanks personality; in twenty he
was returning eastward; and at the expiration of half an hour he was
standing at the door of the house wherein the crime had been
committed. Such promptitude was characteristic of the man.
Tooley's Alley is a narrow zig-zag street, which, beginning at a point
in Drury Lane, twists its way through a mass of malodorous houses
until blocked finally by the Red Star Hotel. It is a famous Rialto of
rogues and vagabonds, for here "they most do congregate;" and here
come the police, when any especial criminal is wanted by the law. An
evil district with an evil name; a plague spot, which cannot be
eradicated either by law or by religion. There are many such in
London, and of all Tooley's Alley is the worst. It was plausible
enough that a gentleman should be trapped, robbed, and murdered in
this quarter; but it was more difficult to surmise what errand had
brought a gentleman into so dangerous a neighbourhood. A gentleman
done to death in Tooley's Alley! Fanks scented a mystery.
The Red Star was a gorgeous gin-palace, all gas, and glare, and
glitter. It was licensed to Mrs. Boazoph, a widow, whose character was
more than suspected by the police; but who contrived by a circumspect
demeanour to keep on the right side of the law. By virtue of her
position, her supposed wealth, and above all by reason of her talents,
she was quite the queen of Tooley's Alley. Why she should have been
permitted to hold her disreputable court in this hotbed of crime was
best known to the authorities; but hold it she did, and made money out
of her ragged subjects. In the neighbourhood she was popularly known
as Queen Beelzeebub.
Attracted by the news of the murder, a mob of raffish men and
slatternly women had collected round the Red Star, but the presence of
four policemen prevented them from entering the bar and drinking, as
they desired to do.
Fanks had no need to push through the crowd, for on recognising him
they fell to right and left to leave him a free passage. Under his
keen gaze a quiver of fear passed over many of the brutalised faces;
and here and there some especial rogue, scared by the memory of lately
committed crimes, shrank back into the shadows, lest this man, who
personified the law, should discover and punish. Fanks was the Nemesis
of Tooley's Alley; the god they desired to propitiate, and he was at
once hated and feared by his debased worshippers.
After exchanging a few words with the guardian policemen, Fanks
entered the house, and was met in the passage by Crate and by Mrs.
Boazoph. This latter, who appeared to be between forty and fifty years
of age, was a slender and pallid-faced woman, with almost white hair
smoothed back from her high forehead. She spoke habitually with folded
hands and downcast eyes, and her voice was low and soft, with a
refined accent. One would have taken this demure figure, clad in a
plain dress of lustreless black, for an hospital nurse, or for a
housekeeper. Yet she was--as the police asserted--the most dangerous
woman in London, hand and glove with thieves and rogues: not for
nothing had she gained her reputation and queenly title.
"Well, Mrs. Boazoph," said Fanks, abruptly, "this last scandal will add
largely to the excellent reputation already gained by your house."
"No doubt of it, sir," replied the landlady, without raising her eyes;
"it is most unfortunate."
"And most unexpected?"
"Certainly most unexpected, sir."
The detective looked at her sharply, and noticed that her fingers
played nervously with the stuff of her gown. Also he heard a tremor in
her voice as she answered. Now Mrs. Boazoph was not easily upset; yet,
as Fanks well saw, only her unusual self-control prevented her from
having an attack of hysteria. To many men the circumstance of the
crime having been committed in the house would have accounted for
this. Fanks was too well acquainted with Queen Beelzeebub to give her
the benefit of the doubt. She was disturbed by something more than the
mere fact of the murder.
"Do you know the man?" he asked, keeping his eyes fixed on her face.
"No!" retorted Mrs. Boazoph, with suspicious promptitude. "I never set
eyes on him until this evening."
And with this hinted defiance she stared Fanks boldly in the face.
When she saw that he was watching her twitching fingers, they became
motionless on the instant. Only one conclusion could the detective
draw from this behaviour; she knew more than she would own to, and she
was afraid lest he should find it out. After another look, which
discovered nothing--for she was now on her guard--Fanks turned sharply
to Crate.
"Where is the body?"
"Upstairs, in one of the bedrooms."
"Was the murder committed in one of the bedrooms?"
"No, Mr. Fanks. It was committed in the room at the end of this
passage."
"And why was the body removed out of that room?"
"I removed the body," said Mrs. Boazoph, in a low voice.
"You had no right to do so," rebuked Fanks, sharply. "It was your duty
to leave things as they were, when you discovered that a crime had
been committed, and to give immediate information to the police."
"I did do so, sir. The police were in this house ten minutes after I
saw the dead body."
"Nevertheless, you found time to remove it in that ten minutes."
"I thought it best to do so," said Mrs. Boazoph, obstinately.
"No doubt. I shall not forget your zeal," was Fanks' rejoinder.
The woman could not repress a shudder at the ironical tone of the
detective, and her pale face turned yet paler. However, she passed
discreetly over the remark and turned the conversation briskly.
"Shall I take you upstairs to see the body, sir?
"No; I shall first examine the room. Afterwards I shall hear your
story and inspect the corpse. Come with me, Crate."
Still preserving an impenetrable countenance, Mrs. Boazoph preceded
the two men into the little room at the end of the passage. It was an
apartment of no great size, furnished in a scanty, almost in a
penurious fashion. A window draped with faded curtains of red rep
faced the entrance There was no fireplace, and the furniture consisted
of a mahogany horse-hair sofa placed against the right-hand wall
looking from the door, a round table covered with a stained red cloth,
which stood in the centre of the room, and on either side of this two
chairs. A crimson felting carpeted the floor, and a few racing
pictures, crudely coloured, adorned the salmon-tinted walls. Beyond
this the room contained nothing, save an iron gas-pipe suspended from
the roof, by which two jets flaring in pink globes lighted the
apartment.
Fanks glanced slowly round, taking in every detail, and walked across
to the window. It was locked, the curtains were drawn, the blind was
down. As it was too dark to see the outlook, Fanks turned to Mrs.
Boazoph for information.
"What does this window look out on to?"
"A yard, sir."
"Is there any outlet from the yard?"
"No, sir, excepting through the kitchen where the servants have been
all the evening."
"When you entered the room and discovered the fact of the murder,
where was the body?"
"Huddled up on yonder sofa, sir."
"Was the room in the same state as it is now?"
"In precisely the same state, Mr. Fanks."
"Wait a moment," interposed Crate; "you told me that you took some
glasses out of the room."
Mrs. Boazoph darted a tigerish glance at the detective, which revealed
the hidden possibilities of her nature. However, she replied with all
possible meekness--
"I quite forgot that, sir I did take two glasses off that table."
Recalling Crate's remark that the deceased had probably been poisoned,
Fanks was rendered angry and suspicious by this action; but as it was
mere folly to quarrel with so clever a woman as Mrs. Boazoph he made
light of the circumstance, and observed casually that no doubt the
glasses had been washed and put away.
"Yes, sir," assented the landlady, "they were washed and put away by
my own hands."
"I have always known you to be an extremely tidy woman," said Fanks,
ironically. "Two glasses, you say? Then there were two gentlemen in
this room between six and seven?"
"There were two men in this room between six and seven," replied Mrs.
Boazoph, making the correction with emphasis.
"Two men, you say? And they came to have a chat--by appointment?"
"I think so, sir. The white man came at six, and the black man arrived
an hour later."
"Ho! ho!" said Fanks, rather taken by surprise; "so one of the men was
a negro. I see. And who lies dead upstairs?"
"The white man, sir."
"And the negro assassin; what of him?"
"We have no proof that the negro committed the crime, Mr. Fanks,"
protested Mrs. Boazoph, forgetting her caution for the moment. "There
are no marks of violence on the body."
"Of course not," said Fanks, with grim humour. "No doubt the white man
died a convenient and natural death, while the negro, for no reason,
fled in alarm. I am obliged to you for the suggestion, Mrs. Boazoph.
Probably it is as you say."
Not sufficiently clever to see the irony of this remark, Crate looked
surprised. But the woman was clearer sighted; and, seeing that she had
over-reached herself by saying too much, she relapsed into silence.
The detective, feeling that he had scored, smiled grimly, and went on
with his examination of the room.
"The body was on the sofa, you say?" he said after a pause.
"Yes; it was tumbled in a heap against the wall."
"And the glasses were on the table?"
"On the table and on the tray."
"Were there any signs of a struggle?"
"Not that I saw, Mr. Fanks."
"Can you describe the appearance of the white man; no, stop, I'll see
his body when I go upstairs. What of the black man?"
"He was a tall, burly, fat creature, sir, just like any other negro."
"How was he dressed?"
"In a black opera hat, dark trousers, brown boots, and a long green
overcoat with brass buttons," said Mrs. Boazoph, concisely.
"Rather a noticeable dress," said Fanks, carelessly; "had you ever
seen the negro before?"
"No, sir."
"Nor the white man?"
"I never saw white or black man in my life till this evening."
By this time the patience of Mrs. Boazoph was nearly worn out, and her
self-control was gradually giving way. She evidently felt that she
could hold out no longer, for, after replying to the last question,
she left the room suddenly. But that Fanks interfered Crate would have
stopped her.
"Let her go," said the former, "we can see her later on. In the
meantime," he continued, pointing to the table, "what is all this?"
Crate bent forward, and on the dingy red tablecloth he saw a number of
tiny black grains scattered about.
"It is a powder of some sort," he said; "I told you that I thought the
man had been poisoned."
Even as Crate spoke the gaslight went out, leaving them in complete
darkness.
"Ah!" said Fanks, rather startled by the unexpected incident, "Mrs.
Boazoph is fiddling with the meter."
"What the deuce did she do that for?" asked Crate, as his superior
struck a match.
"Can't you guess? She saw these black grains on the tablecloth, and
wants to get rid of them. That was why she left the room and turned
off the gas. She hopes that the darkness will drive us out. Then she
will explain the incident by a lie, and enter before us to relight the
gas."
"Well?" said Crate, stolidly.
"Well!" repeated Fanks, crossly. "I shall never make you understand
anything, Crate. Before lighting the gas she will pull off the
tablecloth and scatter the grains."
"Do you think she's in this, Mr. Fanks?"
"I can't say--yet. But she knows something. You get a candle,
and--hang this match," cried Fanks, "it has burnt my fingers."
As he uttered the exclamation the match, still alight, dropped on the
table among the black grains to which allusion has been made. There
was a flicker, a sparkle of light, and when Fanks struck another match
the grains had disappeared.
"Gunpowder!" said the detective, in a puzzled tone; "now, what
possible connection can gunpowder have with this matter?"
To this there was no answer; and by the glimmer of the single match,
the two men looked blankly at one another.