MR. DETECTIVE SHEARMAN IS OUTSPOKEN――A STORY OF WOMAN’S WRONGS AND
MAN’S BASENESS.
Dr. Bourne, after Wrench had taken his departure, was calm and
thoughtful; he was by no means so self-confident and overbearing in
his manner as heretofore. Indeed, he might be said to be considerably
cowed, why or wherefore it would, perhaps, not be so easy to
determine, but the storm of passion had passed over, and was succeeded
by a dead calm.
The doctor busied himself in his surgery. He had to make up several
prescriptions, with which he purposed drenching his patients.
Nevertheless, the compounding of deleterious drugs occupied some time.
It served one good purpose. While thus engaged Bourne’s mind was in a
measure released from the weight that seemed to oppress him; but
despite his employment a foreboding of coming evil seemed to fall upon
him. This he found it impossible to dispossess himself of.
Late in the evening he sallied forth, paying a visit to one or more of
his familiar acquaintances. With this be whiled away the time till
long past midnight. All the occupants of the house had retired to
rest. This is precisely what the owner of the establishment desired.
He did not trouble himself to inquire after his wife, for at this time
they occupied separate apartments, and saw as little of each other as
possible. To say that there was no love lost between them would be but
making use of a very mild figure of speech. As far as Bourne himself
was concerned he cordially hated the woman whom he had sworn at the
altar to cherish and protect. If any one had come to his bedside with
the news of her death they would have been greeted as a messenger
bearing glad tidings, but no one had come with such welcome
intelligence, and Bourne slept peacefully, albeit his slumbers were
now and then disturbed by strange, uncouth, and fantastic visions.
What greater misery can by possibility fall upon any one than being
compelled to live with a person whose presence is repugnant and
abhorrent, yet the man and woman――the doctor and his wife――had
submitted to this torment for years.
He never loved the woman he had espoused, but in the earlier portion
of the period of his intimacy with her――and, indeed, for the first
year or two of his married life――he had liked her. Had this not been
the case, he would never have made her his wife, but the liking no
longer existed. It was succeeded by a deadly and rancorous hate, which
of late had become intensified.
When he saw her on the following morning, he maintained a dignified
silence, and the miserable pair did not exchange a word. Whatever it
was necessary to say was conveyed through the medium of Amy, the
servant girl, a faithful little maid, who was very well used to these
scenes. She liked her mistress, but had no very great predilection for
the doctor.
Bourne was from home the greater part of the following day. He came in
shortly before seven o’clock in the evening, and betook himself to his
surgery.
At twenty minutes after eight he heard a loud rap at the front door.
He started, and listened. He heard the well-known voice of Shearman,
who was speaking to the servant.
There was no mistaking it for the voice of the detective, who had an
American twang, and was altogether dissimilar to any of the other
visitors to the doctor’s residence.
“Show the gentleman in here,” said Bourne to Amy, when he was informed
by the girl that the American was in the passage.
Mr. Shearman entered the surgery in an easy, self-satisfied sort of
manner; he was smoking a cigar, which he at once took out of his mouth
and placed on the mantelpiece.
“Pardon me, doctor, I forgot for the moment that the Virginian weed
might be objectionable to gentlemen of your profession.”
“By no means; I am a smoker myself, and have no kind of objection to
the fumes of tobacco. Pray continue your smoking. I shall in all
probability join you shortly.”
“Oh, well, if you’ve no objection.”
“None in the least. Pray do not stand upon ceremony, my friend.”
Mr. Shearman took up his cigar, the end of which he replaced between
his lips.
“So you are pretty punctual, it would appear,” observed his companion.
“Ya’s; always make it a rule to be up to time, if it is possible.”
The doctor placed a chair for his visitor.
“Oh, thank you――much obliged, I’m sure.”
He seated himself, and stretched out his long thin legs with the
utmost complacency.
The doctor looked at him inquiringly, but his countenance gave no
indication of either pleasure or anger; it was a perfect blank.
“Wrench said you had something to communicate to me. I assume that his
statement is correct.”
“Perfectly correct; but you are not in any hurry――that is, I ’spose
you’ve got an hour or two to spare?”
“Certainly; I am quite at your service.”
“Ah, that’s well, because it’s a matter which will require some little
time. I don’t like to jump at conclusions, doctor; I like to take
matters in regular order. You understand?”
“At present I do not understand the nature of your business, but I
dare say I shall do so in the due course of time.”
“There is not the least doubt of that,” remarked Shearman, sending out
several blue wreaths of smoke from his Havanna.
“That is well,” observed Bourne.
“You know, or at least you can imagine, that every man has his own way
of going about business. I have mine, and if you please I will begin
at the beginning. The tale I have to tell you is a little singular,
and I think there is an air of romance about it, considering all the
circumstances of the case; but I deem it but fair and just that you
should be put in full possession of all the particulars. It may be
better for you.”
“For me?”
“Well, for me, for you, for everybody. That’s my view of the matter. I
may be mistaken, but I think I am not.”
“It is not for me to dictate, Mr. Shearman, or even to suggest; I am
here to listen.”
“Hadn’t you better light up?” said the detective, offering his
cigar-case to the other.
“Yes, perhaps it would be as well.”
The doctor drew forth a cigar, which he lighted.
“Now we are on equal terms,” observed Shearman, with a laugh.
“Confound the man!” muttered the doctor. “When is he going to begin?”
He had not long to wait.
“You see, doctor, I must take you over to the United States, for
that’s where great part, and, I may say, the most important part, of
the events I have to describe took place.”
“Oh, indeed. In the United States, eh?”
“Ye-es,” drawled the American. “Wall, some years ago there resided at
Baltimore a gentleman of the name of Leaven.”
The doctor started, and gasped out――“Yes. Well, what of him?”
“He was a planter, tolerably well to do. He had a daughter, whose
baptismal name was Clara. She was a wild, hair-brained, giddy little
flirt, I’ve been told, but that’s not much to the purpose. Mr. Leaven
had the misfortune to lose his wife before his daughter Clara was
fifteen years of age, and, as a matter of course, the loss was a
severe one, as far as the gal herself was concerned, for she was
deprived of a mother’s care just at the time when she most needed it.
However, misfortunes of this kind are inevitable, and cannot be
averted. In addition to his daughter, the planter had two sons, who
were, however, younger than the gal. They were a little wayward and
self-willed. But the planter loved his children so much that he was
blind to their faults or foibles――for to speak the truth, if I am to
judge from what I’ve been told, neither the boys nor the gal had
anything much the matter with them――certainly nothing very serious;
but you follow me, I hope,” suddenly ejaculated Shearman.
“I beg your pardon, but I don’t quite understand your question,”
observed Bourne.
“Oh, don’t you? You follow me――that is, you understand the narrative
as far as I’ve gone.”
“I should indeed be a dunce if I could not do that.”
“Ah, ’xactly, that’s all right then. Where was I? Oh, the sons and the
daughter. Wall, matters went on right enough for some considerable
time after the old lady’s death. She was not very old by the way, but
I call her so to distinguish her from the younger members of the
family. I say matters went on all right enough for some time. Clara
Leaven had her admirers, with whom she flirted to her heart’s content.
One of these was a Britisher, who was very persistent in his
attentions to the young gal. Wall, ye see, the planter, for some
reason or another, didn’t like this gentleman――perhaps the reason for
this was his being a Britisher, for prejudice does run high with some.
Anyway he did not approve of him as a suitor to his daughter’s hand.”
“The old story, I suppose,” observed the doctor, with a sickly smile.
“A hard-hearted parent and a self-willed, disobedient child.”
“I s’pose we may call it the old story,” returned the detective. “She
was a little fool――that’s what she was; but it is not much use
dwelling upon that now. She gave the Britisher encouragement, and I
suppose she fell madly in love with him. That’s what I’ve been told.
Her father, when he discoverd the state of her mind towards him,
became furious. He threatened to lock her up, to take her life, if she
acted in disobedience to his expressed commands. If his daughter was a
little fool he was a big one, for that was not the way to quench the
flame which had been kindled. Women, and gals in particular, are so
perverse that by opposing them in affairs of this sort you clench the
nail more securely――on the other side.”
“Really, Mr. Shearman, I do hope you have not come hither for the
purpose of reciting a love story to a hackneyed man of the world like
myself. If it concerned me――――”
“If!” cried the detective. “There’s the point, which I hope to arrive
at in good time.”
“Oh, well, that being the case, I have no other alternative than to
complacently listen.”
“I think you’d better hear me out, doctor――indeed I do. Wall, as I was
saying, Leaven led the gal a devil of a life. He wasn’t altogether a
tyrant or anything of that sort, but he was impetuous, and liked to
have his own way. He did his level best to corner the Britisher, who,
however, in the end proved too much for him. A parent hasn’t much
chance against a favourite lover of his daughter, and so Leaven found
out. As to giving his consent, that was altogether out of the
question――not to be thought of for a moment. What was to be done under
the circumstances? The old expedient――an elopement. Clara Leaven was
under the delusion that her parent would forgive her, and matters
would be made up after the marriage, so she consented to fly with the
Britisher.”
“And pray, Mr. Shearman, what was the name of the ‘Britisher,’ as you
are pleased to call him?”
“His name?” cried the detective, “oh, Wagstaff. Doctor Wagstaff he
called himself.”
Bourne’s countenance became of an ashen hue.
Mr. Shearman relighted his cigar, which had gone out during the
recital, and puffed away vigorously.
“I am burning him all on one side, doctor. Gone out, and a relighted
weed is always a bit obstinate.”
“Take another. You won’t do much good with that.”
“I will take another.”
Mr. Shearman threw the half-smoked cigar behind the fire, and then
re-commenced his narrative.
“Yes,” he said, “the Britisher’s name was Wagstaff. He was an artful
cuss as ever stepped in shoe leather, so I’ve been told. He planned
and carried out the elopement, the gal of course assisted him, the two
were married and settled in Texas. After the lapse of a short time
Clara Leaven wrote to her father to beg his forgiveness. He forwarded
her some money, but informed her that he would not consent to receive
her husband upon any conditions whatever. He was firm and staunch in
that resolution, and his sons could not turn him. So there was no help
for it. The young and loving pair had to shift for themselves, but in
justice to the planter it must be said that he sent his daughter
several sums of money, stating at the same time that nothing would
please him better than to have her back, but it must be without her
husband. Wall, you see, doctor, the gal clung to her partner even as
the ivy clings to the ruined wall. She would not return home, although
it was said that she had by no means a bed of roses in Texas. To make
use of a common phrase, she found out in the due course of time that
she had outlived his liking, but she never told anybody this but one
person.”
“And who might that be?” inquired Bourne.
“That was a young black gal, who had left the plantation to follow her
mistress, whom she accompanied in her flight. She made a confidante of
her sable companion, who was a liberated slave, and ‘Tilda,’ as she
was called, was in possession of all her secrets.”
“Your story is doubtless very entertaining, sir,” observed the doctor;
“but, for the life of me, I cannot see how it can in any way concern
me.”
“I hope to arrive at that point presently,” returned Mr. Shearman.
“Do, pray, permit me to deal with the case in my own way.”
“Oh, certainly――I will not interfere with you.”
“So the happy pair lived in Texas for some months――over a year, or it
might be a year and a half. Before the expiration of that time Mr.
Leaven died somewhat suddenly from disease of the heart. The land and
stock were sold under the hammer, in accordance to the will he had
left. The bulk of the proceeds was left to the sons; some few
hundreds――I don’t know precisely how many――being Clara Wagstaff’s
share. Shortly after the demise of her father Clara grew suddenly
sick. The circumstance was a little singular, but it is not more
strange than many others one hears of of a similar character. Well, to
cut a long story short, the young wife died. The cause of death was
not clearly established, but the doctor who attended her in her last
hours gave the requisite certificate, and she was buried.”
Mr. Shearman at this point of the narrative paused.
“Very sad――a very sad story,” ejaculated Bourne, casting his eyes up
to the ceiling.
“Ya’as, most melancholy, aint it?” said his companion.
“Very much so, indeed. And the husband――――”
“Oh, wall, he had, of course, the money left to his wife. It wasn’t a
great deal, I believe, but it sufficed him to run the rig in Texas for
many months. He led a life of pleasure, and “blewed” the greater part
of the money. Then he sloped, and returned to the old country――so
people say; anyway, he was not heard any more of in the ‘States.’”
“Not heard of, eh?”
“No. To make use of a nautical phrase, he slipped his moorings, and
was not seen any more.”
“Perhaps he’s dead?”
“And perhaps he aint,” said Mr. Shearman. “That all depends. You see,
I have paid a visit to this country for the purpose of finding him
out.”
“Oh, indeed! I hope you may be successful.”
“Tha――ank you.” Mr. Shearman rolled the end of his cigar in his mouth.
“I think I shall go away wiser than I came, but that don’t matter.”
“And what do you want to ‘find out’――this man, Wagster, did you say?”
“Wagstaff.”
“Ah, just so. What do you want to find this Wagstaff out for, then?”
“We must not jump at conclusions,” returned Mr. Shearman; “that would
never do. You have as yet only heard part of my story.”
“True, I am most anxious to hear the conclusion.”
“Aire you? Wall, then, you shall. You must know that after the
planter’s death the war between the Federals and the Confederates took
place. The North and South went at it like hammer and tongs. Both the
young Leavens were engaged throughout the terrible and sanguinary war.
The Southerns had a hard time of it, but they fought for their homes
like lions, and the odds were against them, and, despite their valour
and heroism, they were whipped in the end. I guessed they would, but
they were brave fellows, and deserved a better fate.”
“Oh, I know all about the war to which you refer.”
“No doubt. Well, I’m only mentioning it to account for the occupation
of the two Leavens. One, the youngest, fell on the field of battle,
the other is now a farmer in South Carolina. Ye must understand that
he never knew the whole particulars concerning his sister’s sudden
and, I may add, mysterious death.”
“Mysterious!” exclaimed Bourne, suddenly.
“Ya-as, it was a bit mysterious.”
“Was it?”
“Ya-as.”
“How so?”
“I’ll tell you. As I before observed, Silas Leaven settled in South
Carolina. Shortly after his arrival there he began to reflect
seriously upon the sudden death of his sister. It may appear strange
that he should let so many years pass over without troubling himself
to make any inquiries, but the fact is he didn’t suspect anything was
amiss, and took it for granted that she had died of a broken heart. In
South Carolina he met with some persons who hailed from Texas, who
resided there when Mr. and Mrs. Wagstaff were there. Wall, they told
Silas a lot of things about the young people, which greatly surprised
him. They hinted at foul play, and said that the ill-fated Clara had
been poisoned.”
“Poisoned!” exclaimed Bourne, in an evident state of trepidation.
“Gracious Heaven! I hope there was no ground for any such statement.”
“I am pretty sure there was. Wall, you see, when Silas Leaven heard
all these things it occurred to him that he had better try and find
the girl Tilda in the first place, and after that he might make
further inquiries.”
“And did he find her?”
“Oh, ya-as, he found her. She was at work on a plantation a good many
miles from his own, it is true, but he found her nevertheless, and
engaged her as a help on his own farm, for she was a faithful,
hardworking darkie. She told him a lot more.”
“What did she tell him then?”
“Ah, she up and told him as plain as the letter O that she believed
her dear young mistress was done away with.”
“Oh! it’s not at all likely upon the very face of it. Calumnies――all
calumnies.”
“Wait a bit, doctor. The case was placed in my hands, and I need not
tell you that I did not let it go to sleep. It had been slumbering for
a good many years, but when I had hold of it I was not disposed to let
it rest.”
“Quite right. What did you do then?”
“I got an order to exhume the body, so that a post-mortem might be
made, and an inquest held.”
“Excellent device. Nothing could be better.”
“A good move――wasn’t it?”
“Oh, dear me, yes, most admirable.”
“I thought you would say so.”
“And so a post-mortem was made?”
“It was.”
“With what result?”
“It was clearly established, beyond all cavil, that the ill fated
young woman had died from the effects of a mineral poison.”
When Mr. Shearman uttered these last words, he regarded his companion
with a searching glance.
The doctor quailed before the piercing eyes of the detective. In
appearance his face resembled that of a corpse rather than that of a
living being.
He endeavoured to muster up an air of intrepidity to his brow, but it
was plainly perceptible that he was a prey to a deadly and sickening
fear.
Shearman affected not to see this, but it did not escape his notice.
“The poor creature died by poison――did she?” said Bourne, after a
pause.
“Yes, doctor, that has been clearly demonstrated.”
“Was it a case of suicide, then?”
“No, murder!” exclaimed the detective, sententiously.
“And whom do you suspect?”
“Her husband.”
“Mr. Wagstaff?”
“He went by the name of Wagstaff when in the States, but we concluded
that he would not be fool enough to pass under the same name here, and
I believe the presumption is a correct one.”
“Ah!” ejaculated the doctor, gasping for breath, “you astonish me.”
“I thought I should. Now do you want to know in what way this story
concerns you?”
“Sir――Mr. Shearman――what can you possibly mean?”
“I always like to do things in a straightforward, upright sort of way.
Before coming to that part of the evidence which so seriously affects
you, I have deemed it advisable to put you in possession of those
facts which lead up to the main issue. This is but fair to a suspected
person, and one I invariably adopt when circumstances will admit of my
so doing.”
“You are still speaking in enigmas. I again ask in what way does the
case concern me?”
“I don’t want to ask you any questions, Doctor Bourne,” said the
American. “I should not be justified in doing so, and I may observe
that I don’t want you to make any statement. It would not be advisable
for you to do so, since you might criminate yourself.”
“Criminate myself, sir!” cried the doctor, rising suddenly, and
regarding the speaker with an eye of flame. “Are you mad?”
“I hope not. Let me come at once to the point. We have reason to
believe that Dr. Wagstaff, of Texas, and Doctor Bourne, of London, are
one and the same person.”
“Gracious Heaven! what do I hear?” ejaculated the miserable man. “Me
accused of a heinous crime of this nature! It is monstrous,
scandalous, and most improbable.”
“Well, doctor, I hope you may be able to prove your innocence, but I
have a duty to perform, and, unpleasant one as it may be, I have no
other alternative than to execute it.”
“Mr. Shearman,” said Bourne, in a whining tone, “surely you are not
serious?”
“Ah, but I am. I’ve my own way of doing business. It’s different,
perhaps, to the ways of detectives of this country, and I must inform
you that I hold in my possession a warrant for your apprehension upon
the charge of wilfully murdering Clara Wagstaff.”
“But I am not Wagstaff, Shearman; you are mistaken. I swear you are
mistaken.”
“Don’t swear, doctor; you will not be benefitted by so doing. There is
no help for it; you will have to meet the charge.”
Bourne looked down upon the floor in all but hopeless despair.
He remained silent for a brief period; then, as if suddenly something
had occurred to him, he raised his head, and glancing at his
companion, said in a conciliatory tone――
“Let us arrange this matter, Mr. Shearman. Give me a little time, and
I shall then be in a position to prove my innocence. As far as
recompense is concerned, you had better name your own terms.”
“I never accepted a bribe from any man,” said Shearman, indignantly,
“and it is not likely I should do so now. You are my prisoner!”
“My God, this is indeed horrible!” exclaimed the conscious-stricken
man, falling into a chair in a perfect state of prostration.
“I cannot help you, doctor, but you had better meet the charge like a
man. It is of no use attempting to shirk it; the matter has gone too
far for that, and the weight of evidence too strong.”
“Too strong――eh!” said the doctor, looking up.
“I fancy so; but, of course, I may be mistaken.”
“But I tell you again I am not the man. I never passed under the name
of Wagstaff――never in my life. What proof have you of it?”
“That you will hear when the first examination takes place.”
“And when will that be?”
“To-morrow, I believe.”
“This is a false and malicious charge got up to ruin me.”