A FRIEND IN NEED
I returned to Murchester, rather annoyed to find that I had a rival,
even though he was but a gardener. There was no denying that the
fellow was uncommonly handsome, and thus might captivate the
affections of a woman above him in stations. As I have said before, I
can lay no claim to good looks, so if Miss Monk was a young lady whose
heart was in her eye, as the saying goes, I stood rather a poor
chance. Certainly Striver, while professing that he loved her, had not
ventured to say that there was any response to his daring. Still, for
all I knew, the romance might be a reversal of King Cophetua and the
beggar-maid, in which not unlikely case, a journey to Burwain would
certainly destroy my peace of mind. If I loved the picture of the
goddess, how much more would I love the goddess herself, when she
became flesh and blood to my hungry eyes. When searching for an
adventure, I had not counted upon this entanglement.
However, on reflection, I did not see why I should not stand as good a
chance as the gardener. He assuredly was better-looking and younger,
possessing a certain amount of money, if not a man of any exalted
rank. I was a gentleman, in the prime of life, and well on the way to
make a comfortable income, if not exactly a fortune. Also I possessed
a recognised position as a rising dramatist, and I had a large circle
of pleasant, well-to-do friends to whom I could introduce my wife. So
I made up my mind to stick to my guns, or in other words, to see Miss
Monk, and learn how the land lay. Of course if she loved young
Striver, there was nothing more to be said; but if she did not, and
the love was all on his part, I could then try my luck. And at this
point I recalled the memory of that infernal glass eye.
If good looks did not tempt the lady, fifty thousand pounds might do
so, and should Striver become possessed of the glass eye he stood a
remarkably good chance of securing that fortune. So far we were equal,
for I knew as much about the case as he did. Nay, I knew more, since I
had found the famous cloak with the initial embroidery. I wondered
whether it would be better to tell Miss Monk nothing about my
discovery, or dare the utmost, and show her that she was in my power.
She certainly was, as the mere production of the cloak would result in
her arrest. With regard to possession of the goddess, I was therefore
in a stronger position that Mr. Striver, and yet I did not see how I
could make use of the weapon I had in my hand. A man could not very
well force a lady to marry him because he could hang her if she did
not. Moreover she might be able to exonerate herself completely,
although I did not see how, and then would scornfully refuse to have
anything more to do with--let me put it plainly--such a blackmailing
ruffian.
No! Come what might, I decided to play the game fair. Not only that,
but I decided to use my information, as best I could, to protect Miss
Monk from the gardener. In making inquiries, he might possibly chance
upon a clue which would reveal the fact that Miss Monk was the heroine
of the missing motor car. In that case, it might be that he would use
his knowledge to insist upon the unequal marriage. I could then
intervene,--I did not see very plainly at the moment to what
purpose,--but at any rate I could offer myself as the lady's champion.
But then--here was the crux of the matter--for all I knew Miss Monk
might be as much in love with Striver as he apparently was with her.
Only a visit to Burwain and a personal interview with my goddess would
prove the truth of that.
Then another thing occurred to me while I slowly dressed for dinner.
If Miss Monk had stolen the motor car and had locked me in the back
room along with the dead Mrs. Caldershaw, she must necessarily be the
possessor of the glass eye. On the face of it, she appeared to be
guilty, but I could not bring myself to condemn her. Yet she could
scarcely have the glass eye unless she had murdered her old nurse with
that damned hat-pin, which was so grave a proof that the assassin was
a woman. But the eye was the clue to some concealed treasure--this
appeared to be plain enough from what Striver had said of his late
aunt's babble--so if Miss Monk became unexpectedly wealthy, it would
prove that she was a thief, if not a murderess. It seemed to be that
there was nothing to be done but to take up my abode in Burwain, meet
the lady if possible, and then play a waiting game. Whether Mr.
Striver or his master's daughter got the fifty thousand pounds, her
guilt would be manifest, since he could only get the glass eye from
her, to learn the clue to the treasure. And if she had the glass eye,
she must have----
"No no! no!" I said aloud at this point, and startled Cannington's
servant, who was valeting me. "It's nothing, Johnston," I said, and
went on mentally with my defence of Miss Monk, although I could not
deduce a single particle of evidence in her favor. "She can't be
guilty," my thoughts ran furiously, "she is much too lovely to be
guilty. There must be some mistake. She undoubtedly will be able to
explain. And yet--and yet--oh, hang it, I'll not decide the question
either one way or the other until I see her."
This being settled so far--although I unsettled my mind again and
again through the long night--I went to mess and made a pretence of
eating. Cannington and his friend had not yet returned, which made me
believe that the two featherheads had smashed my car. If so it was a
great nuisance, as I wanted the Rippler to drive over to Burwain on
the morrow. However, the two arrived about midnight with a long
account of a police trap which had detained them, and I went off to
bed, leaving them to their supper. Cannington came to my bedside to
relate his London adventures, but I used such bad language that he
retreated promptly. Next morning I departed immediately after
breakfast, more puzzled than ever over the problem I was setting out
to solve. Had Miss Monk the glass eye? If so, was she guilty? If she
had not the glass eye, who had? Did she love Joseph Striver? Would he
find the glass eye, and consequently the fortune? If he did, would he
marry Miss Monk, etc. etc. etc.: my brain was an absolute chaos.
"Well, good-bye, old chap," said Cannington, taking leave, and looking
very spic and span in his uniform. "Tell me all about it in London."
"Tell you what?"
"I may not mention her name," he said, and winked solemnly.
"Don't be an ass," I retorted, leaning down to whisper, "things are
much more serious than you guess."
"What? Have you learned anything about--"
"Shut up! When I return from Burwain to town I may need your
assistance."
"Right oh," said Cannington, looking grave, for he saw I was in deadly
earnest.
"And don't tell anyone where I am going."
"No. You're supposed to be on your way to London. But, I say----"
"Oh, I can't stop to chatter. Hold your tongue and wait until I see
you again, boy. Understand?"
"Yes, that is----"
He would have detained me for I had, very cruelly perhaps, raised his
curiosity immensely. But I gave the steering-wheel a twist, and the
machinery being in motion, glided away before he could ask further
questions. I glanced back to see him shake his fist at me, and then
spun rapidly through the gritty square of the Barracks, down the road,
into the street, and finally emerged through a steep lane into the
country proper. A long smooth Roman road without twists or turns lay
before me, and as there was no policeman in sight I let the Rippler go
up to her full speed of forty miles an hour. The motion somewhat
relieved my mind, which was considerably worried. I wondered if I was
held up for exceeding the speed limit, and if my second portmanteau
was examined, what the police would say. I knew very well what they
would do, that is, lodge me in the nearest jail as an accomplice of
the lady in the white cloak. Fortunately the luck held, and I got
through safely.
I can't say that my drive was over-pleasant, as the rain came on, just
after I left Murchester and it poured steadily throughout the day.
Then as the wheels would not bite in particularly soaked and slippery
places, the car skidded considerably; also the gear jammed on two
occasions, and once I ran short of petrol. Never was there such a
series of accidents, and my temper was none of the best when I struck
Tarhaven. Here I halted for luncheon, and went to the post-office to
see if any letters awaited me. I found only one from my agent, but as
that contained two weeks' fees for my new melodrama it proved to be
most acceptable. A visit to the haberdasher's took up some of my time,
and it was late in the afternoon when I turned the Rippler in the
direction of Burwain. However, the distance from Tarhaven was but a
short one, and I soon slowed down before the one hotel of the village.
I call it an hotel, but it was really a tumbledown inn, quaint,
old-fashioned, and comfortable, with a robin red-breast for its sign.
Burwain is an isolated little place, lying low in a hollow depression
of the land, some distance from the sea. On its outskirts the road ran
through levels of stunted shrubs not big enough to be called trees,
and there were also tall hedges, which muffled the village as though
it were wrapped in cotton-wool. By reason of this the place is stuffy,
and the air seems to be twice breathed. The streets stretch to the
four quarters in the form of a crooked cross, and there was a
tolerably wide green in the centre, which is faced by the Robin
Redbreast Inn. I pulled up, and jumped out to meet the landlady in the
passage and receive a great surprise.
"Cuckoo!" I said, halting in much astonishment. "Well, I'm blest."
"Mrs. Gilfin now, Master Cyrus," said the old lady, as amazed as I
was. "Well, well to think that you of all gentlemen should come here."
"It's fate," said I, for I knew that from Mrs. Gilfin, if anyone, I
could obtain all necessary news, unless she had changed her gossiping
habits, which I did not think at all likely.
Still exclaiming at our unexpected meeting, Mrs. Gilfin led the way to
a small sitting-room, and we faced one another to talk over the past.
Mrs. Gilfin had been my mother's cook when I was a schoolboy, and then
we had been the greatest of friends. As a child I had always called
her Cuckoo, from some dim association with her employment, and many a
time had I been indebted to her for tit-bits. When the home was broken
up she had vanished into the unknown, but now reappeared in the
character of a married woman and the landlady, of this old-world inn.
She was a fat little woman, with a pudding-face, who wore spectacles,
behind which sharp little pig's eyes twinkled knowingly. In old days
she had always been a great talker, and did not seemed to have changed
in this respect: a cause of rejoicing to me, since I hoped to learn
all I could about Miss Monk and her dead nurse.
"What brought you to Burwain, Master Cyrus?" asked Mrs. Gilfin, when
we had complimented each other on the gentle way in which time had
dealt with our looks.
I had already arranged what to say, as, if I wanted Mrs. Gilfin's
assistance, it was necessary to take her, in some degree, into my
confidence. Moreover, I knew of old that she was a very worthy and
silent--when it suited her--woman. "Love brings me here, Cuckoo," I
replied, "and love will keep me here for at least a week, if not
longer. So give me a sitting-room and a bedroom and recall the special
dishes I like. Don't ask questions just yet. I shall tell you all when
I have had dinner, but just now I am much too hungry to talk. Have you
been long here?" I asked, contradicting my last assertion.
"Ten years, Master Cyrus. First as cook, and afterwards as mistress.
My husband had this inn from his father, but was letting it go to
wreck and ruin when I arrived, owing to his being fat. So he married
me, so that I could look after it. I would only stay when I saw the
wedding-ring."
"Owing to his being fat?" I questioned, rather puzzled.
"Come Master Cyrus and see?" said Mrs. Gilfin, and led me into a
low-ceiling bar of the Dickens epoch, all white-wash and smoky oaken
beams. Here I beheld a pre-historic ingle-nook in which was placed a
capacious armchair, and in it was seated the fattest man I had ever
set eyes on. He smoked a churchwarden pipe and drank beer from a huge
tankard placed on a small table beside him. "This is my husband," said
Mrs. Gilfin and introduced me.
Mr. Gilfin, who smoked with his eyes closed, opened them sleepily!
"Glad to see you sir. I hope you'll be comfortable. The missus will
look after you. It's fine weather for this time of the year, although
I ain't been out to see!" and having made these original remarks, he
closed his eyes again and pulled at his pipe, a large mass of adipose,
contented and purely animal.
"He doesn't talk much," explained Mrs. Gilfin, beaming through her
spectacles on her Daniel Lambert, "but folk come for miles to see his
size. He don't go out of doors either, Master Cyrus, but sits there
smoking and eating and drinking so as to keep himself in good
condition to be a draw."
"To be a draw?" I echoed, while Mr. Gilfin blinked drowsily.
"Customers come to look at him, and wish they were like him, Master
Cyrus. I look after things, but John is the attraction. The Burly
Beast of Burwain they call him, and though it ain't polite, it makes
people curious to call. And you can see, Master Cyrus," added Mrs.
Gilfin, as she left her husband to his pipe and beer, "how the inn,
with such a man, was going to wreck and ruin. It was a good job he
married me, not but what I'm thankful to be the mistress of the Robin
Redbreast. It's poor work being a cook at my age, and under mistresses
who don't know their place ain't in the kitchen. Your poor dear ma,
now, Master Cyrus, always stopped in the doring-room, as a lady
should."
I assented, as there was little use in arguing with Mrs. Gilfin,
who--as I knew of old--always had an answer to the most pertinent
objections. Although not so fat as her spouse, she was still very
stout, and her looks, along with those of John, said a good deal for
the style of living obtainable at the inn. I engaged the sitting-room
in which we had our first conversation and a bedroom immediately over
head. Then I had my traps taken into the house, and having stowed away
the Rippler in a convenient outhouse, sat down to besiege Burwain in
due form. After dinner--and a very good dinner it was too--I told Mrs.
Gilfin as much as I thought necessary, which did not include any
reference to the discovery of the cloak.
"Dear! dear!" said Mrs. Gilfin, who had frequently raised her fat
hands at intervals, during my narrative, "to think of the young
gentleman, who was so fond of my custards, being in love, and with
Miss Gertrude, of all young ladies. Well, she's the beauty of the
world, and no mistake, Master Cyrus."
"So I thought from the photograph, Cuckoo. By the way, did you not
know this poor woman who was murdered?"
"Do I know the nose on my face?" asked Mrs. Gilfin, severely. "Of
course I knew her well, when she was housekeeper to Mr. Miser Monk."
"Miser Monk--you mean Gabriel Monk?"
"No I don't, Master Cyrus, if you'll excuse me for contradicting you.
Gabriel he was christened, I daresay, but Miser he was called by them
who knew how he hoarded up money."
"He was a genuine miser then?"
"Genuine." Mrs. Gilfin's fat hands flew up, and her pigs' eyes
twinkled, "he would skin a flea for its hide and squeeze blood out of
a stone, and take the trousers off a Highlandman, Master Cyrus. A
nasty stooping lean old man, with a black-velvet skull-cap and a stick
and a suit of clothes you wouldn't have picked up off the dung-hill.
Of good family too," added Mrs. Gilfin, nodding, until her cap-ribbons
quivered. "The Monks are an old Essex family, who used to own Burwain
and all the land from Gattlingsands to Tarhaven. But they came down in
the world, and only The Lodge remained to Mr. Miser Monk, as his
father was a spendthrift, and scattered everything. But the miser
invested what was left, Master Cyrus, and I believe had an income of
five hundred golden pounds a year, although he never spent a penny of
it. He never repaired The Lodge, or attended to the garden, or gave a
farthing to the poor, but saved and saved. As he lived for eighty
years, Master Cyrus, you may guess that his savings came to a pretty
penny. He died five years ago, when Anne Caldershaw took her savings
and herself to live at Mootley."
"What became of his money?" I asked, anxiously.
"Ask me something I know, Master Cyrus? The Lodge and the few acres
round it and the five hundred a year, which was so tied up that it
couldn't be touched, went to Mr. Walter Monk. Miss Destiny didn't like
that, though why she should have expected to be remembered in the
will, when she was only Mr. Miser Monk's brother's sister-in-law, I
can't make out."
"She lived with Mr. Monk, didn't she?"
Mrs. Gilfin nodded. "For years and years, and so got into his misery
habits."
"Ah," said I, recalling certain traits of the little old lady at
Mootley, "so I should imagine. Miss Monk lived with her uncle also, it
seems."
Mrs. Gilfin nodded again. "Mr. Miser Monk loved his niece: she was the
only person he ever loved. Mr. Walter Monk was always away, as he is
now, and being a widower, there was no one to look after the child.
Mr. Miser Monk took Miss Gertrude to live with him, when she was quite
a baby, and asked Miss Destiny to come to him also. Anne looked after
the house, and the four lived together in that tumbledown old place
like rats in a cheese. If Miss Gertrude hadn't gone for years to a
boarding-school at Hampstead and got good food there, she never would
have grown into the handsome young lady she is."
"Ah," I exclaimed, greatly interested, "then she is handsome?"
"As paint, Master Cyrus, and the sweetest young lady you ever met.
Takes after her pa, she does, who is nice enough, though he's selfish
I don't deny."
"In what way?"
"Why," said Mrs. Gilfin, casting about in her mind for an explanation,
"he's hardly ever at home, being always in London, on business he
says, though I think he's too lazy to do much, especially," added Mrs.
Gilfin with emphasis, "as he has five hundred a year sure. But he only
comes down here once in a blue moon, as you might say, and leaves that
poor young lady to live the life of a nun at The Lodge along with one
servant to do all the housework."
"Why doesn't Miss Destiny continue to live with her niece?" I asked.
"Ah!" Mrs. Gilfin nodded vigorously, "she'd be glad to do so, as being
a miser like the late Mr. Gabriel Monk, it would save her living
expenses. But the fact is, Master Cyrus, that Miss Destiny don't like
Miss Gertrude, and Miss Gertrude don't like Miss Destiny: nor does Mr.
Walter Monk, for the matter of that. The five hundred a year being
left to him is a sore point with Miss Destiny, so she cleared out when
Mr. Miser Monk died, and now lives at the end of the village in a
small cottage along with that half-mad creature, Lucinda Tyke, she
picked up in the Rochford workhouse, and don't pay no wages to."
I was playing with the poker as Mrs. Gilfin spoke. "Then I take it
that Mr. Walter Monk has five hundred a year, and no more?"
"Except The Lodge and the three or four acres round about, Master
Cyrus. He spends most of the money on himself too, and Miss Gertrude
has enough to do to make both ends meet, though from her looks she
should be a queen and sit on a throne."
"But if the late Mr. Gabriel Monk was a miser, what became of his
savings?"
"Ah!" said Mrs. Gilfin, significantly, "now you're growing hot, Master
Cyrus, as the children say. The will left the money and the property
to Mr. Walter Monk, and the savings--he didn't mention the amount--to
Miss Gertrude with her uncle's dear love. But search as they might,
they could not find out where the money was hidden. And as Mr. Miser
Monk saved nearly five hundred a year for eighty years more or less,
he must have hidden away a heap of gold. Forty thousand pounds I
daresay," ended Mrs. Gilfin with relish.
"Or fifty thousand," I mused, recalling the sum mentioned by the
gardener, and beginning to see light. "Have they searched everywhere?"
"Everywhere," echoed Mrs. Gilfin, nodding again. "Miss Gertrude's an
innocent, who believes that her pa's an angel, which he ain't, though
nice enough in his ways. She'd give him her head if he asked her and
never complains of him keeping her short and being always away
spending his five hundred a year. He knew if he found his brother's
savings--forty thousand pounds, I'm certain," added Mrs. Gilfin
decidedly, "that, though lawfully Miss Gertrude's, she'd hand them
over to him. So he turned the house upside down, and even dug up the
garden, to say nothing of searching the meadows. He wanted the
spending of the money, you see, Master Cyrus. But they couldn't find
even as much as a shilling. What's become of all the money, no one
knows, unless Mr. Miser Monk gambled and lost. He certainly went up to
London every now and then," mused the landlady, "and them old men
can't be trusted any more than the young ones, saving your presence,
Master Cyrus, But there it is, sir," she spread out her pudgy hands
and shrugged her fat shoulders, "plenty of money, belonging to that
poor young lady hidden away, and she with scarcely enough to dress on,
let alone keep the bread in her mouth, though to be sure she hasn't
got to pay rent, and her pa gives the servant her wages regular. Ah,"
Mrs. Gilfin sighed, "and such a beauty. I wonder she ain't been
married ages ago."
"Does her father love her?"
"Yes and no. He loves her when she don't cross his path, and thinks
her a bother when she do. Some times he takes her to London for a
treat, being free with his money, when he spends it on himself. He got
her picture taken by a swell photographer once, but I daresay that was
to show her to one of his rich friends and get her married off well,
so that he could live on his son-in-law."
"That must have been one of the photographs I saw on the mantlepiece
in the Mootley corner shop," I exclaimed.
"Like enough, Master Cyrus. And I daresay her pa gave her the silver
frame when he was feeling generous-like, as he do on occasions.
Queer," said Mrs. Gilfin rubbing her nose, "one brother a miser, and
the other taking after his father is a spendthrift. Luckily the five
hundred a year's so tied up that he can't get at the principal, and it
comes to Miss Gertrude when her pa joins Mr. Miser Monk in the
graveyard. So she's all right, the dear sweet young lady she is."
"Have you ever seen the photograph, Cuckoo?"
"Oh yes, Master Cyrus. Mr. Joseph Striver's got one. Begged it off
her, and she being an angel gave it to him, though he's only the
gardener."
"Does she love him?" I asked tremulously.
"No, she don't," said Mrs. Gilfin shortly.
"Does he love her?" I persisted.
"He do: the impertinence! him only being a gardener, though handsome,
I will say. Mr. Walter Monk don't pay him much for gardening at The
Lodge, yet he stays on there because he loves Miss Gertrude, as if
she'd look on such dirt as Anne Caldershaw's nephew. His father left
him with fifty pounds a year so that's why he can afford to stop on,
and now I hear he's come in for money from his aunt. But if he dares
to raise his eyes to Miss Gertrude, Master Cyrus, you break his neck,"
advised Mrs. Gilfin.
"But if she loves him----"
"How can she, when he ain't a gentleman born," snapped Mrs. Gilfin,
"she don't love anybody but a dog she have, and lives in that shabby
old house like a nun in a convent, or a toad in a stone. Where the
young men's eyes are I don't know," ended Mrs. Gilfin, virtuously
indignant.
My spirits rose as she spoke. "I'm glad she's fancy free," I said,
rejoicingly, "there's a chance for me then?"
"You being well-looking, I should think so, Master Cyrus," said Mrs.
Gilfin.