MISS INDERWICK’S EXCURSION
While these events were taking place in London, Marie, isolated in The
Monastery, anxiously waited to hear news from her lover. As arranged,
Mr. Fuller met her at the Lewes station and drove her to Belstone in
his trap. As Alan had guessed, the vicar was in full possession of all
that had taken place, and invited the girl to stay with himself and his
wife until matters were more settled. While in London Marie had
complained of her loneliness at the big house, and had looked forward
to some such invitation. But on the way down in the train she had
changed her mind, since she felt that she could think things out better
when alone. However, she did not object to dining at the vicarage, and
explained the whole matter to her hostess. They were naturally
horrified, as no such event had ever before disturbed the village.
“I can’t believe that Mr. Sorley would commit a crime,” said Mrs.
Fuller, greatly distressed, “gentlemen don’t do these things.”
The vicar drew down his long upper lip. “I fear that gentlemen do what
suits them, when the temptation is strong, my dear.”
“Does that mean that you believe Uncle Ran is guilty?” flashed out
Marie in a resentful tone.
“Not necessarily. I am not yet acquainted with the whole story, save
what scraps you told me as we drove here.”
Marie looked round the room, and seeing that the servants had taken
their departure, leaving those at the table to walnuts and wine, she
concluded that the moment had come to make a clean breast of things. In
a low voice, and entirely without emotion, she related all that she had
heard from Alan and Dick. The story sounded black enough, and the faces
of Mr. and Mrs. Fuller grew longer as she proceeded. When she ended
there ensued a silence which rasped Marie’s nerves.
“Well?” she asked sharply, and looking from one to the other, “what do
you think of it?”
“The weight of evidence is decidedly in favor of Sorley’s guilt,” said
Mr. Fuller sadly.
“I daresay. All the same he is innocent.”
“How can you prove that, my dear girl?”
“I can’t prove it,” responded Miss Inderwick in a truly feminine way,
“but Uncle Ran never did it for all that.”
“It is all very dreadful,” moaned Mrs. Fuller, shaken out of her usual
state of placid happiness. “I wonder you can speak so quietly, Marie.”
“I cried awfully in London,” acknowledged the girl frankly; “but I
can’t cry any more. Tears won’t help Uncle Ran, and common-sense will.
He is not going to be hanged if I can help it.”
“Oh, my dear.” Mrs. Fuller shuddered at the mention of the sinister
word.
“You intend to prove your uncle’s innocence—or what you presume to be
his innocence?” asked the vicar, looking at her doubtfully.
“Yes, only I don’t presume anything. I know that Uncle Ran never killed
that poor thing. I don’t know who did, but he didn’t.”
“How are you going to set about the matter?”
“I can’t say,” said Marie curtly, although this statement was not quite
true, for she had an idea of making a start, which she did not intend
to place before these two ordinary people.
“Of course, if your uncle had the peacock, my dear——”
“Mrs. Fuller, I am quite sure that Miss Grison brought down the peacock
on that day when she paid a visit unasked to The Monastery. She hates
Uncle Ran because she thinks he ruined her brother, and is only too
glad to get him into trouble.”
“But how could she get the peacock?”
“From her brother. He had it all the time. Alan said so, and he knows a
very great deal about matters.”
“Alan has a good head,” said the vicar approvingly. “I think Marie you
had better allow him to look into the matter, and stay with us
meanwhile. We can send over to The Monastery for your clothes, my
dear.”
“No thank you. I wished at one time to stay here until Uncle Ran was
proved innocent, but I think it is best for me to return to the house
in case he should come back again.”
“Oh, I hope not,” cried Mrs. Fuller in alarm, “he would assuredly be
arrested as soon as the news got about.”
“It wouldn’t get about,” said Marie resolutely, “for I should hide
Uncle Ran somewhere until we learned the truth. There are plenty of
secret places in the house where he could be concealed.”
Mr. Fuller passed over this latter statement to remark upon the first.
“The question is, what is the truth? If Sorley is innocent, and I
sincerely trust that he is, who murdered this unfortunate Baldwin?”
“Morad-Bakche,” said Marie promptly.
“Who is he? You never mentioned him before,” said Mrs. Fuller,
startled.
“Did I not?” observed Miss Inderwick with a lightness she was far from
feeling. “Oh, he is an Indian who wants to get the jewels because he
says that they belong to the royal family of Kam. He came down here and
stopped a night at The Red Fox.”
Mr. Fuller nodded. “I fancy I heard something about a foreigner staying
there,” he said quietly, “in July last was it not?”
Marie nodded. “He learned all about the peacock from Mrs. Verwin—the
common talk of the village, that is.”
“Oh that woman is a terrible gossip,” exclaimed Mrs. Fuller distressed.
“I dread her tongue. What did she say exactly, my dear?”
Marie reported the interview between herself and Mrs. Verwin and Alan,
and shortly, the vicar and his wife were acquainted with the way in
which Morad-Bakche had traced the peacock to Belstone and afterwards to
London. “And I believe that he learned Mr. Grison had it,” finished
Marie, “and must have tried to get it from him. A man like that is much
more likely to murder a person than poor dear Uncle Ran, though he has
his faults, and has always been horrid over my engagement to Alan.”
“But are you really engaged to Alan?” asked the vicar sharply.
“Yes, I am. Uncle Ran said that if Alan found the jewels that we could
be married, so I look upon myself as being engaged to him.”
“But Alan has never found the jewels,” objected Mrs. Fuller
tremulously. “He may never find them, my dear.”
“It doesn’t matter,” replied Marie, getting on her feet; “we shall
marry all the same. But the first thing to be done is to save Uncle
Ran, and I am doing what I can—that is, I intend to do what I can. Alan
will work also, and Mr. Latimer, though he doesn’t seem to think Uncle
Ran is innocent.’
“On the face of it it looks as though he were not,” said the vicar
doubtfully, and rising in his turn, “however we can talk over the
matter in the drawing-room.”
“No,” said Marie standing very erect, and looking at the elderly pair
with very bright eyes. “I am now going home to think out things.”
“Oh, Marie, won’t you stay here?”
“I think it is best to go home,” repeated the girl gently, but kissing
the soft and withered old cheek. “I am all right with granny and Henny
and Jenny to look after me. If Mr. Bakche comes I shan’t be afraid.”
“My dear girl, you may suspect him wrongly,” said Mr. Fuller.
“Well, other people are suspecting Uncle Ran wrongly,” retorted Miss
Inderwick, “so that balances things. Now I must go away. Good-night Mr.
Fuller; good-night, Mrs. Fuller. If I learn anything I shall come and
tell you.”
“I shall write at once to Alan and ask him to explain things
precisely,” said the vicar, as he saw his guest at the door; “and keep
up your heart my dear child. This trouble, like all troubles, is a
blessing in disguise.”
“It is a very good disguise, then” said Marie sadly, “no, don’t come
with me,” she added when Mr. Fuller assumed his soft hat and took his
stick. “I can get home by myself.”
“No,” said the clergyman grimly, and took her arm, “after you have
hinted about that Indian, I think it is just as well to see you safely
into the hands of your servants.”
“But you don’t think——”
“I think that one should always be on the safe side, my dear. If this
man wants the peacock, he may try and enter the house. If he does I am
sorry for him, as Henny and Jenny are as strong as men. By the way
where is that wretched bird, which has caused so much trouble?”
“I don’t know,” sighed Marie, as they walked through the village,
“uncle took it away with him I think, although he has left his gems.”
“I should think if Sorley clears his name he will have had enough of
gems for the rest of his life,” remarked Mr. Fuller rebukingly, but as
Marie did not answer, and he did not wish to cause her pain, he said no
more. They passed through Belstone, and into the park, and Marie said
good-bye to the vicar when Henny with a noisy joy received her at the
door. Mr. Fuller was now at ease in his mind, as he knew how devoted
the Dutch dolls were, and returned home wondering how these crooked
things would straighten out.
Granny and the two servants were overcome with delight when their young
mistress was within doors, for they had troubled considerably over her
visit to London. Marie laughed them out of their fears and assured them
that she was quite able to look after herself. They asked after Mr.
Sorley, who was no great favorite with the three, but of course Marie,
ignorant of what had taken place at Miss Grison’s, could give them no
information. In her opinion Uncle Ran had gone abroad, and would wait
there until his innocence could be proved.
“Well, my dear Miss Marie,” said granny polishing her spectacles. “God
forbid as I should say what I shouldn’t say, but there’s no doubt as
Mr. Sorley ain’t the proper person to be your guardian, my dear. He’s
took your money and kept you short and mewed you up here like a nun, to
say nothing of having behaved very badly to that poor Miss Grison, not
that I’m fond of her myself.”
“Did Uncle Ran ever care for her?” asked Miss Inderwick anxiously.
“Well he did and he didn’t. She was pretty, in a light-haired skimpy
way, I don’t deny, and I thought as he loved her; and then—but it’s too
long a story, Miss Marie. I’ll tell it you to-morrow when you are
rested. Let us hope that Mr. Sorley won’t be hanged, which would be a
sore disgrace to the family, and that you’ll marry Master Alan, who is
just the kind-hearted gentleman to look after your interests properly.”
“Look after them and me also, you mean, granny,” said Marie, who was
really too weary to listen to an account of her uncle’s early
delinquencies. “I shall go to bed now,” and she did, feeling quite worn
out. But before falling asleep she arranged in her own mind to go to
London the next day.
The fact is, Marie being anxious and wilful, was not at all pleased to
remain passive while things were so unpleasant for her uncle, and
incidentally for herself, since she was his niece. Alan had insisted
that she should not see Mother Slaig, whereupon Marie, although
promising to obey him, mentally vowed that she would do so. Mother
Slaig, if anyone, would know the truth and might be persuaded to reveal
it to a dexterous questioner. Of course this was Marie’s own opinion,
and she intended to prove to Alan that she was right. Sorley had given
her twenty pounds, so there was no lack of money, and the girl decided
firmly to do a little detective business on her own account. For no
visible reason she believed that Bakche had something to do with the
death of Grison, if not indeed the actual doer of the deed. Should her
surmise prove to be correct Mother Slaig might be able to say if the
Indian had haunted the slum, or had come into touch with the deceased.
And Marie wished her uncle would return home if only to tell her that
he had seen Bakche at Rotherhithe, which was not impossible,
considering that Mr. Sorley had been too often to interview Grison. But
Sorley, as she sadly reflected, did not dare to come back, for the
detective left behind by Moon was still in the house, and would arrest
him at once.
Of course granny made an outcry the next morning, when Marie announced
her intention of going again to London. All her arguments were in vain,
however, and Miss Inderwick left the house early so as to catch a
morning train. She promised to be back again by six o’clock, but did
not tell granny where she was going—that is she admitted that the
metropolis was her goal, but did not specify whither she would
precisely go. Granny, believing that the wilful girl was to meet her
lover, felt fairly comfortable in her mind. Had she known that Miss
Inderwick purposed exploring a slum, she would have sent a telegram to
Fuller to stop the excursion. Marie guessed this, so held her peace.
The girl knew exactly how to get to Rotherhithe, as she had peeped into
an ABC. before leaving Belstone. On arrival at Victoria it was
necessary to take the underground route, which would conduct her
directly to her destination. When on the spot Marie hoped by enquiries
to learn the precise whereabouts of Mother Slaig, and moreover had a
faint idea that the slum the harridan lived in was called Gibson’s
Rents. To explore this low neighborhood she had put on an old serge
frock and a shabby black jacket, so that she was as well disguised as
her uncle had been when he sought Barkers Inn. Not that Marie was ever
so well dressed as Mr. Sorley, for he never gave her sufficient money
to be extravagant.
The venturesome damsel duly reached Victoria Station, and had no
difficulty in dropping downward to the nether railway line. Being yet a
schoolgirl and feeling hungry, she bought some pastry of the jam-puff
order and devoured it in the first-class compartment, which she shared
with other ladies. Marie travelled in this most expensive fashion,
because she thought she would be safer from being accosted by
strangers. Destiny protected her in this especial way, and she gained
Rotherhithe without having a single remark addressed to her. When she
emerged into the open air once more, she looked helplessly around, not
knowing which way to go. But she felt sure that Gibson’s Rents was the
name of the slum, and asked a tall and burly policeman where it was to
be found.
The officer looked at her keenly, and saw that she was a lady in spite
of her shabby clothes. “Why do you wish to go there, miss?” he asked,
and touched his helmet, “it’s a rough place.”
“I wish to see a woman called Mrs. Slaig.”
“Mother Slaig. Why, miss, she’s one of the worst creatures in the slum.
I don’t think it is wise of you to go, miss, I don’t indeed. You’re a
district visitor, I take it, miss,” went on the man, who could conceive
of no other object but philanthropy which would take the young lady
into such a hole, “and Mother Slaig don’t want tracts.”
Marie did not deny the identity the policeman attributed to her, as she
was quick enough to see that such a character would expedite her
journey, and would conceal her real intentions. She did not wish to be
asked questions lest she should get into trouble, by interesting
herself in a police-court case, such as the murder of Grison truly was.
“I shall be all right, officer,” she answered lightly; “no one will
hurt me.”
“Well, miss, I don’t think they will, for they think a heap of district
visitors at Gibson’s Rents, as these ladies give them money. But I can
take you to the end of my beat and pass you on to another officer, who
will show you the way. Come along, miss.”
Marie conceived a high estimate of the guardians of the law, for her
friend passed her along to another, who transferred her to a third, and
all three men were courteous and considerate in every way. Perhaps
Marie’s good looks, and engaging manners had something to do with this
suavity, but she was certainly charmed with her guides. It was a fourth
policeman, tall, slim and military-looking who conducted her down the
crooked alley, near the riverside, where Mother Slaig had her
boarding-house. There were numbers of disreputable people about, both
male and female, and when the oaths of these unfortunate creatures
struck her ear, and her eyes rested on their animal faces, the girl
felt glad that she had a constable at her elbow. In her ignorance, she
had never thought that the neighborhood was so vile as this, and half
regretted coming. However, she had the high spirit of the Inderwicks,
and declined to turn back, for having put her hand to the plough, the
did not intend to leave it until she had driven her furrow.
The fourth policeman saw her shudder of disgust, when they stopped
before a disreputable house, dingy, tumble-down, and dilapidated. “I
shall stay here while you give Mother Slaig your tracts, miss,” he said
politely, also taking her for a district visitor, “and if anything goes
wrong, you just call for me.”
Perhaps for this reason Mother Slaig received Marie graciously, when
she ventured into the evil-smelling place. It was like a rabbit-warren
with innumerable doors, passages, stairs, and rooms, all equally foul.
Men and women in ragged garbs swarmed in and out, while children
tumbled here there and everywhere, shrilly crying and swearing and
quarrelling. The police introduced Marie to the landlady of this
thieves’ kitchen, as it truly was, and then took up his station at the
door with his thumbs in his belt, to look benignly on the ebbing and
flowing of the populace in and out of the lane, and in and out of the
dens which bordered it. Mother Slaig, not approving of district
visitors—for Marie had been presented as one—led the young lady into a
small dark room on the ground floor, and sat down with a sniff,
prepared to battle for her rights as an Englishwoman, who declined to
be converted. She was a shapeless stout old creature swathed in various
rags which had long since lost their color. Her face was so swarthy as
to suggest gipsy blood, and her snappy black eyes and the quantity of
cheap jewellery she wore emphasised the fact that she probably belonged
to the gentle Romany.
“I don’t want no Bible talk, young lady,” she said in a harsh voice,
“nor no tracts, nor no arsking if I’m saved. Whether I am or I ain’t’s
my look out, so just say your say and git, though I don’t deny,” added
Mother Slaig in a whining tone, “as a shilling or two, let alone gold,
would help me to bear me sorrers better, bless you, my dearie.”
“I shall give you a pound if you will let me have a talk with you,”
said Marie, smiling, for in spite of the woman’s disreputable looks
there was something oddly attractive about her.
“A pound, and what’s a pound, miss?” grumbled Mother Slaig.
“Not much, but it is all I can afford. You are a kind-hearted woman,
Mrs. Slaig, I am quite sure.”
“Me!” Mother Slaig stared. “Why I’m the tork of the place for me
languidge and slappings.”
“Ah,” said Marie diplomatically, “no one has taken you in the right
way.”
“P’raps they ’ave an’ p’raps they ’avn’t,” growled the woman
restlessly, for Marie’s charm of manner softened her, “an what’s all
this oil and butter for, miss. You want something, you do. Oh trust you
fur that.”
“Yes, Mrs. Slaig, I do want something, and I am going to throw myself
on your mercy, because I trust you.”
The old hag stopped scratching her elbow, and stared harder than ever.
“I never was spoke delicate-like to afore,” she muttered. “You ain’t
the sort of lady with tracts as I’ ’ad ’ere, bullying me no end.”
“I hope I’m not,” said Marie with a girlish laugh, which brought a
perplexed smile in answer on the old woman’s dirty wrinkled face. It
was rare that such pure innocent laughter was heard in Gibson’s Rents.
“I know you will help me, Mrs. Slaig.”
“Well, I don’t say as I won’t, for there’s no denying you’ve got a way
with you, as ain’t bad. What is it?”
“It’s about the murder of Mr. Grison?” said Marie slowly.
Mother Slaig aroused with a subdued screech, “Blimme if you ain’t one
o’ them wimin ’tecs. Now ain’t y’, ain’t y’?”
“No; I am the niece of Mr. Randolph Sorley who is accused of the
crime.”
Mother Slaig dropped again into her chair a shapeless bundle of
clothes, and with a bewildered look in her eyes. “Ho! you’re her, are
y’?” she growled, but not in a hostile manner. “Moon—he’s the head
peeler hereabouts, dearie’s been nosin’ round about that murder. Only
this mornin’ he comes an’ ses as they caught that Sorley cove larst
night, and he got away in th’ bloomin’ fog. Yuss,” said Mother Slaig,
anticipating Marie’s question. “I knows the Sorley cove. Many a time
he’s come t’ see that Grison chap, as was a rotten bad egg, and guv me
shillin’s and tanners endless. A swell, a toff, he was tryin’ to look
what wasn’t his age, but a good ’un wiff his cash. I ’adn’t got no row
with him, nohow,” and she nodded vigorously.
“You don’t think he murdered Mr. Grison?” asked Marie apprehensively.
“Blimme if I knows,” said Mother Slaig reflectively, and scratching her
elbow again, “and what odd’s ’f he did anyhow, miss. Grison was better
undergroun’ than above it in my opinion. Never paid his rent rigler he
did, cuss him,” swore Mother Slaig furiously, “an’ if I’d knowed about
that gold hen as they’re makin’ sich a fuss round, I’d ha’ had it out
of him for a whelp as he allays was, an’ that same, you kin taike fro’
me, miss.”
“Well I don’t believe that my uncle murdered Mr. Grison,” said Marie in
a resolute voice, and looking hard at the harridan.
“That’s right, dearie, allys stick up fur them as is relatives, though
I don’t think much o’ mine leavin’ me ’ere to slave cruel, and never
givin’ no cash whiff their stingyness. He was ’ere that night y’ know
anyhow.”
“He came away at eight o’clock and Mr. Grison wasn’t killed till
after,” declared the girl.
“So he ses,” murmured Mother Slaig, “p’raps some frien’ of him es
Grison stuck paid him out in th’ saime waif.”
“What do you mean?” asked Marie who had not heard of the man’s act.
“Didn’t y’ know,” cried Mother Slaig with relish “why, bless y’
miss—an’ bless y’ I kin, fur I’ve kind o’ taiken a fancy t’ y’—Grison
killed a cove es he smoked wiff in, that Chinky’s den. We fun’ the
watch of th’ cove an’ his juwulery in Grison’s room. A frien’ of him es
wos done fur may ’ave stuck Grison out of revenge, and no blame t’ him,
dearie.”
“Do you know if any relatives of this dead man came down here?”
“No, I never did. I don’t know anything, miss, and what’s more I don’t
want to i’ case I shud come bunkin’ against them beastly perlice, as is
allays interferin’ with an honest woman who’s tryin’ to git ’er
livin’.”
“Well then,” asked Marie coming to the point “can you tell me if an
Indian called Morad-Bakche ever came to see Mr. Grison?”
“Don’ no th’ naime,” said Mother Slaig, after a moment’s thought, “an
there’s lots of them dagoes abaout ’ere, lascars an’ mulletters and all
that sort o’ scum. Grison torked t’ one an’ all. What like’s the cove’s
y’ve got in yer mind, miss?”
As Marie had heard Bakche described both by Alan and Mrs. Verwin she
was able to convey to Mother Slaig’s shrewd intelligence a fair picture
of the man. The old hag reflected again, then slapped her fat knees
with both fat hands. “Know ’im, dearie; ’course I knows him,
’Aughty-like, fur a nigger, an’ looked on me, es is a free born British
woman jus’ like mud. I guv him bits of m’ mind when he sneaked round
’ere.”
“Then he _did_ come to see Mr. Grison?” asked Marie, delighted that she
had succeeded in establishing the fact of Bakche’s acquaintance with
the dead man. “Did he come often?”
“Carn’t keep count, miss, me not ’aving a ’ead fur figures, tho’ me
sister was grand at them, dearie. But he comes times an’ again. Oh,
yuss,” she went on as the memory returned to her, “he was stan’orf fur
a nigger. ’Thort he was a lascar at fust, but he wasn’t, tho’ he did
live on rice and water like them sweeps. Dress’d like one of them
stokers tho’—if y’ know what a seedee boy is, miss, which of course y’
wudn’t, bein’ a lady. I sawr as he was a cut above them, I did. He wore
a snake?”
“Wore a snake,” repeated Marie bewildered.
“On his right arm, below th’ elber,” explained Mother Slaig,
“’tattooted it was, as them sailors ’ave a fancy fur; twistin’ round’
an’ roun’ till it made me giddy t’ look at it.”
Marie was glad she had heard this mark of identification was to be
found on the haughty dark gentleman who had visited Grison. She was
certain that the man in question was Bakche in search of the peacock,
but it was just as well that Mother Slaig could identify him by means
of the tattooed snake. “Was he here on the night of the murder?” asked
Marie anxiously.
“Ah, now you ’as me,” said Mother Slaig in an expansive fashion, “me,
on th’ night as he was done fur, bein’ ’appy.”
“Happy?” Marie did not know what was meant.
“Gin,” explained Mother Slaig rocking to and fro. “White satin as some
call it, tho’ blue ruin is my naime fur it. I got half a quid fro’ that
Sorley chap, es he come in or wen’ out—I dunno which. ’Laid it all out
in gin wiff frien’s o’ mine, and we did ’ave a time t’ dream of. Never
thort I cud ha’ swallered such oachings o’ gin; but I did, an’ the
thust as was on me nex’ mornin’, dearie, you’d never believe.”
“But isn’t it bad to drink so much,” asked Marie, rising timidly.
“Fur sich es you es is a flower it is,” agreed Mother Slaig, rolling
out of the chair and getting on her feet with an effort, since she was
so stout, “but not fur me, es ’as a ’ard time, dearie. You’ve fun’ me
sober thro’ me not ’aving—where’s that there quid y’ promised?” she
demanded suddenly.
“There,” said Marie, taking the money from her pocket, “but don’t drink
it away, Mrs. Slaig. It’s a pity such a nice woman as you should drink
gin.”
“Well, I don’t git no shampin down ’ere, dearie,” said Mrs. Slaig
crossly, and, like Jotty, biting the gold to make sure it was genuine.
“We taikes what we can. Wan’t t’ know anythin’ else, lovey dovey?”
“No,” answered Marie, walking into the passage, for the smell and
closeness of the place was making her feel faint. “But you needn’t tell
anyone what I asked you about.”
“Sha’n’t nohow,” said Mother Slaig firmly. “Y’ve browt back daiys when
I was a pretty girl and ’ad all the men arter me, furious-like. You’re
a breath o’ fresh air an’ a smell of country roses, an’ a sight o’
green fields, t’ yours truly, dearie. An, never a word shell I say,
save as you’re a visitor with tracts—tho’ you ain’t guv me one, but
summit better.” Mother Slaig felt for her sovereign as she spoke. “But
if there’s police, dearie, an’ I ’as t’ saive m’ bacon, I mus’ speak.”
“There will be no trouble with the police,” Marie assured her in a low
and hurried voice, for her friendly constable was just at the end of
the passage. “Good-bye, Mrs. Slaig.”
“Go’bye, dearie,” she attempted a curtsey, but failed for want of
breath. “’An bless y’ fur an angil o’ delight wiff stars roun’ yer
’ead.”
Marie laughed and hurried away in the shadow of the policeman, who
refused to accept a tip. Again she was passed from one constable to
another, until she regained the station, and every one of her temporary
guides declined money.
“The most chivalrous men in the world,” said Marie afterwards, “are
London policemen!” and she never changed her opinion on this point.