AFTER THE DEED――THE SALE BY AUCTION――MRS. BOURNE PAYS A VISIT TO MR.
THOMPSON.
The news of Doctor Bourne’s sudden departure from the world, together
with the manner of his death, spread like wildfire. It was in every
person’s mouth. Would-be wiseacres shook their heads and said “it was
no more than they expected.” Rich dowagers and antiquated maiden
ladies said it was very shocking, and that the poor dear man had been
persecuted by a lot of good-for-nothing Americans who were envious of
his position and fair fame.
Everybody had something to say upon the subject――the diversity of
opinion was most remarkable.
Meanwhile the dead body of the doctor remained in the chair, in
precisely the same position in which it had been found, till the day
appointed for the coroner’s inquest.
The inmates of the house and Doctor Garnet were of course the chief
witnesses. A feeble attempt was made to prove that death resulted from
disease of the heart. There was, as usual, a great deal of
hair-splitting, and the medical evidence was contradictory. But the
facts were so clearly manifested that after a short deliberation the
jury returned a verdict “that the deceased died from the effects of
prussic acid, taken while labouring under a fit of temporary
insanity.”
Everybody appeared to be satisfied with the verdict, and the last
remains of the doctor were interred with great pomp and ceremony. Upon
the cavalcade reaching the grave many hundreds of persons were to be
seen awaiting the arrival of the hearse.
To say that there was not a dry eye in the assembly would be but to
make use of a newspaper reporter’s stereotyped phrase.
As far as grief was concerned there was but little, if any at all, but
there was a vast amount of curiosity, and it was this that had drawn
the people to the spot.
Strange to say Doctor Bourne, to the surprise of everybody, and to his
wife in particular, died intestate; Mrs. Bourne, therefore, took out
letters of administration.
As may readily be imagined she was not permitted to have it all her
own way――the doctor’s relatives stepped forward to have a wrangle over
the effects.
He died worth a great deal more than was supposed, and the widow’s
share of the property was quite sufficient to maintain her handsomely;
so that after all the American plotters, as they were termed by some,
had really done her a very great service.
She was released from a thraldom which had daily become more and more
painful, and she was rendered independent for the remainder of her
life――proving the old adage, “that no evil occurs but some good comes
from it.”
It was necessary for the better distribution of the property that the
furniture and personal property of the doctor should be disposed of,
and consequently a public sale took place. Everything was brought
under the hammer.
The number of curiosity hunters and sightseers who flocked to the
house during the three days appointed for the sale was prodigious.
Every class of the community seemed to be represented on this
occasion, Jews and brokers being, as usual, the most prominent.
Some of the articles fetched fancy prices, while others went at sums
considerably below their value.
The aristocratic and more wealthy class of bidders went in for the
pictures and articles of virtu.
The reader will perhaps be in no way surprised to learn that Charles
Peace attended the sale. He purchased a violin.
Bourne had at one time taken lessons of an eminent professor of that
instrument, and in early life had amused himself during his leisure
hours in practising, but he never made much of a hand at fiddling.
However, his violin was sufficiently good in tone and quality to tempt
our hero to bid for it, and he became the purchaser at a ridiculously
low sum.
Peace had always a penchant for visiting places of public resort, and
the probability is that he was attracted to the sale by the
circumstances connected with the dead man.
He knew that Bourne had been accused of murder――this fact in itself
was quite sufficient to excite the curiosity of Charles Peace.
There was, it must be admitted, something like a grim jest in a
murderer purchasing a murderer’s musical instrument at a public sale.
Rawton, or Bandy-legged Bill, as he was more frequently termed, kept
his word; he never again paid a visit to Mrs. Bourne. He had not been
seen or heard of by any of the detectives since he had effected his
escape.
Mrs. Bourne very much regretted not having had any tidings of him.
She did not wish him to be captured――far from that, but he had behaved
so well to her that she was desirous of forwarding him some money as a
recompense for his exertions on behalf of herself.
Bill, however, contrived to remain perdu, and the doctor’s widow had
lost all trace of him.
She was the more concerned about this since she was about to leave the
house she at present occupied, and then there would be but little
chance of her ever again communicating with the gipsy.
This reflection seemed to have a depressing effect upon her, for it
occurred to her that perhaps Bill had been captured and cast into
prison without her knowledge, and when the thought crossed her mind
she was more than ever deeply concerned about him.
The servant girl Amy, who happened to be looking out of the window
watching the throngs of persons going in and out of the house, cried
out in a surprised tone――
“Well, I declare, if there isn’t the man who brought the letter to you
just gone in!”
“What man, and what letter do you allude to?”
“Why, that impudent forward man who brought a letter from Mr. Dorton
or Rawton. I don’t know his right name.”
“Gone inside, did you say?”
“Yes, ma’m.”
Mrs. Bourne reflected for a few moments, and then said――
“I wish you would go downstairs and see if you can find him. Do go at
once, there’s a good girl――it is rather important.”
“And if I do find him?”
“Oh true, if you do, I never thought of that. Well, you can ask him
for the address of Mr. Rawton.”
Amy was under the impression at the time that the man would not give
the required address, but she said nothing.
Her mistress again urged her to go downstairs, and she obeyed.
The sale-room was thronged with visitors, who chaffed and bantered
each other, to say nothing of the auctioneer, to their heart’s
content. At a public sale all restraint is thrown off, and people say
and do what they please.
Amy, who was a remarkably pretty girl, had to run the fire of a series
of observations, which doubtless were meant to be flattering and
complimentary, but which were, however, very distasteful to her.
Presently she caught sight of the person whom she was seeking.
This was Cooney, who had just dropped in to see if he could get a job
to do in the way of porterage, and if, at the same time, he could pick
anything up, it would suit him better.
The girl beckoned to him, and he came forward out of the crowd.
“What, my charmer!” he ejaculated. “I said as how you’d think better
of me as time went on. Well, I’m jolly glad to see you――and how’s the
missus?”
“Come this way,” said Amy, drawing him towards the passage.
“Vell, what is it?” inquired Cooney, who now began to be a little
alarmed. “Out wi’ it. Let us know the whole and true particulars.”
“I wish you’d hold your tongue, you fool,” said Amy. “You’ve a great
deal too much to say. Listen to me for a moment, if you please.”
“Vell, aint I a-listenin’ to your sweet voice?――In course I am. I like
to hear you speak.”
“Can you give me the address of Mr. Rawton?”
Cooney gave a prolonged “Ah!” and looked puzzled.
“Don’t you hear? I want Mr. Rawton’s address.”
“Do you?”
“Yes――at least missus does. She sent me down for it.”
“Vell, you see, my pretty pet, I can’t give it.”
“And why not?”
“For a good reason――he aint got no address.”
“But you know where to find him, I dare say?”
“Yes, I might find him, but he won’t come here any more.”
“Wait till I have asked missus.”
“Wait where?”
“Here, or in the sale-room, anywhere you choose, but don’t go away
till I come downstairs.”
“I won’t.”
Amy tripped upstairs and told her all that had passed between herself
and Cooney.
“Ah, no, he won’t give the address――of course not. We can’t hardly
expect him to do so; Rawton is at hide and seek. There is but one way
to get over the difficulty. I will write a letter and this he will
deliver to Mr. Rawton.”
She sat down and penned a hasty epistle to Bandy-legged Bill.
“There,” she said, handing it to Amy, “give him that and tell him to
deliver it to the party to whom it is addressed. But stay, better give
him something for the favour. Here is half-a-sovereign, slip that into
his hand when you give him the letter.”
“I think he’s a sort of a man who is quite open to receive a bribe,”
cried Amy, bursting out into a laugh, as she descended the stairs once
more.
“Oh, gi’ him this――eh?” said Cooney. “Right you are, Mary. It shall be
done, and no flies. What! half a quid. S’help me bob, I wish I could
find a few more of your sort. Your missus is a stunner, and no
mistake.”
“Do hold your tongue, you donkey.”
“Vell, I’m blest. Don’t like to hear a cove speak――don’t yer?”
“I don’t care about listening to your conversation.”
“Why, what’s the matter with it?”
“It doesn’t please me――that’s all. You have a deal too much to say.”
“All right, darling, then. I’ll remain mum. So I’m to give this to
Bill?”
“You are to deliver it into the hands of Mr. Rawton.”
“And bring an answer?”
“Yes, if you can, that will be all the better, but we leave here the
day after to-morrow――remember that.”
“I’ll be here afore you leave, please the pigs!” cried Cooney, as he
left.
“What a common brute!” exclaimed Amy, after he had left. “He is a
coarse common sort of man, but I suppose he will keep his word――at
least, I hope so, for missus seems to be very anxious about Rawton for
some reason or another, which I can’t quite make out.”
Cooney was sufficiently faithful to his pal the gipsy not to let
anybody know his hiding-place; but he had very little difficulty in
delivering the letter to its rightful owner on the evening of the day
upon which it had been placed in his hands by the girl, Amy, whom he
still declared to be the most aggravating, charming creature he had
ever set eyes upon.
On the following day he returned with an answer to the epistle which
had been entrusted to his care.
“I’m here again,” said he to Amy, when she opened the door; “I can’t
keep away from you. You’re in my thoughts by day and by night; I can’t
sleep for thinking of you.”
“I don’t intend to listen to any more of your nonsense, you impudent
vulgar fellow,” returned the girl, in an angry tone, “and so you’d
better conduct yourself in a more becoming manner. If you don’t, I
shall have to tell my mistress, who, I am sure, will forbid you coming
again to this house.”
“What for? I aint said or done nothing that any one can complain of.
Here’s a jolly sell. Well, I’m blowed.”
“Silence, let me have no more of this. Have you got an answer?”
“Well, in course I have, but you won’t give a cove time. I never seed
such a pretty little tartar in all my born days.”
“Give me the answer if you’ve got one.”
“Didn’t I tell you I had? Here it is. Am I to wait outside or come
in?”
“Oh come in,” cried Amy, in a pet, slamming the door violently. “I
shall be glad when we are rid of you.”
She went into the parlour.
“Ah, I aint fortunate wi’ women or gals, never was,” murmured Cooney,
looking meditatively at the hall clock. “Charles Peace is the man for
that sort of business. He’d make any on ’em b’lieve black was white if
he’d a mind to. Howsomever, it don’t much matter, I s’pose. They’ve
been a deal of trouble to Charlie――that’s sartin sure.”
Amy returned, gave Cooney two half-crowns for his trouble, and told
him to be off.
“You’re in a jolly hurry to get rid of me,” said he. “I’ll give ye the
two half bulls if you’ll――――”
“Well, what?”
“Let me have one kiss.”
“Get out, you wretch. If you don’t――Well, there’s a detective in the
back parlour.”
“Oh, crikey!” exclaimed Cooney. “I’ll step it if you please, my dear,
but you might――――”
“Hush!” cried the girl, “he’ll hear,” and she pointed significantly to
the door of the back parlour.
She found this ruse a most admirable and efficacious one, for Cooney
hesitated no longer. He as noiselessly as possible passed out of the
house, and was lost to sight in an incredibly short space of time.
Amy laughed.
There was no detective in the house, but she had got rid of a
troublesome customer by the mere mention of such a personage.
The contents of the letter which Mrs. Bourne received from Rawton
proved to be sufficiently satisfactory to that lady. The epistle was a
brief one.
The gipsy congratulated her upon being rid of what he chose to term a
tyrannical and worthless husband, and at the same time he said he did
not require a recompense or even thanks for whatever he had done for
her.
It was enough for him to know that she was relieved from an oppressive
thraldom, that she was now her own mistress, and that he had been of
some little service to her, or at any rate what he had done was with
the view of rendering her a service.
That, however, was all over now, and he bade her a final farewell, but
as the chances were that she would not be contented without knowing
where to address him, he informed her that any letter forwarded to Mr.
Thompson, Evelina-road, Peckham, would be sure to reach him; the said
Mr. Thompson being an old friend of his would be sure to know where to
find him.
So far the letter from Rawton was explicit enough, and Mrs. Bourne
felt that all communication was not cut off from herself and the man
to whom she owed a deep debt of gratitude.
“Poor fellow,” she ejaculated, “he’s self-sacrificing and magnanimous
enough. His conduct to me is, I presume, the one bright spot on his
character――perhaps the only one, for it is evident enough that for
years he has been leading a lawless and depraved life. Dear me! but
this is all very terrible. I do not desire, however, to see him again,
and shall, therefore, as far as that is concerned, take him at his
word; but, this Mr. Thompson, I wonder who he can be――some worthless
character I suppose. Well, I can leave him a cheque or bank-note
enclosed in a letter addressed to Rawton. Yes, that will be my best
course.”
When the sale was over and the goods removed, Mrs. Bourne took
furnished lodgings in Somerset-street, Portman-square.
As yet she had not determined her course of action.
She thought of taking up her residence in Paris for awhile.
She spoke French fluently, and understood something of German.
Indeed, she was what is called an accomplished woman, who shone in
society as a sort of star.
She was a good musician, an excellent singer, and, as we have already
signified, had at one time been an actress of no inconsiderable merit.
But with Dr. Bourne she had been buried as far as the external world
was concerned. She was so depressed, so miserable, that she had not
the heart to go into society to the extent she had done before her
fatal marriage.
After her husband’s death she was sought after and patronised by the
upper classes in a way that not only astonished her but numbers of
others besides.
In fact she was more popular than ever. Although the bloom on the
peach had long since disappeared, and the springtime of her life had
passed away, she was still a beautiful woman, and was capable of
making herself very agreeable in society.
In addition to all this there was a halo of romance cast upon her――her
career had been a most remarkable one――that was pretty generally
admitted, but the culminating point was reached when her husband was
accused of a murder committed years before his marriage with Hester
Teige.
Mr. Shearman and his confederates were miserably disappointed when
they heard of Doctor Bourne’s suicide.
No end of trouble and money had been expended in getting up the case
against the guilty doctor; and it certainly was very mortifying to the
American detective to find himself “cornered,” as he termed it, by
that “artful cuss.”
Mr. Shearman was baulked just as his prey was about to fall into his
hands.
It would have been quite a triumph for him to have escorted Bourne to
the States, proved his guilt, and had him executed.
However, as he could not pot his man, he contented himself while in
this country in seeing all the sights he possibly could in the great
metropolis, and these, as the reader can imagine, were not a few.
Mrs. Bourne looked very well in her widow’s weeds, which, however, she
purposed throwing off as early as custom and the usages of society
would admit.
She had not been very long in her new quarters before she determined
upon paying a visit to Rawton’s friend, her object being to leave a
sum of money for the gipsy with Mr. Thompson.
The doctor’s two vehicles, together with the horses, had been sold,
but his widow had purchased a neat unostentatious-looking brougham for
her own use. She had been so long accustomed to a carriage that from
force of habit she felt constrained to have one.
She had taken with her into her lodgings in Somerset-street her maid
Amy, who was a faithful girl and devotedly attached to her mistress.
The brougham was ordered, and as the doctor’s widow did not care to
wait upon a stranger without a companion, she took Amy with her.
Peace’s house in the Evelina-road was a decent, respectable-looking
habitation enough, but in its external appearance it certainly could
not be described as aristocratic-looking. Its general appearance is
doubtless familiar to many of my readers from the representations of
it which have appeared in several of the illustrated papers at the
time of Peace’s arrest for the attempted murder of police-constable
Robinson.
Anyway, it was a far better sort of habitation than Mrs. Bourne had
expected to see, for she was under the impression that Rawton’s
friends must be of the very lowest class.
Mrs. Thompson opened the door, and to Mrs. Bourne’s inquiry as to
whether Mr. Thompson was within, she was answered in the affirmative.
She was shown into an elegantly furnished parlour, and saw there an
old gentleman looking over a draft which he had before him, stretched
out on the table.
Upon the widow’s entrance he looked up from the chart or draft, and
made a sort of bow, which the widow returned.
“Pardon my intruding upon you, sir,” said Mrs. Bourne. “You are Mr.
Thompson, I presume.”
“Yes, madam,” said Peace, “Pray be seated.”
“You are a friend of Mr. Rawton’s, I believe.”
“Eh――of who did you say?”
“Mr. William Rawton, or Bill Rawton, as he is more familiarly termed.”
“Oh, certainly, yes, I know Bill Rawton perfectly well, but he is
certainly not in London just now――is far away, I believe. What might
you want with him?” inquired Peace or rather Thompson, with a
suspicious look.
“I have no desire to see him, Mr. Thompson, but he has rendered me a
service, and I am desirous of offering him some recompense for the
same.”
“Oh, I see; that’s a different matter altogether. It will be very
acceptable to him, I have no doubt.”
“You’ve got a grand work here, sir,” said Mrs. Bourne, glancing at the
paper on the table. “You are in the engineering line, I suppose?”
“Well, I do a little in that way; this is a draft of an invention a
neighbour of mine and myself are about to patent.”
“I hope it may prove successful and lucrative,” said the widow.
“I hope so, I’m sure, for his sake. Luckily for me, I don’t depend
upon those sort of things. I am possessed of independent means.”
He spoke so confidently, and was withal so plausible and urbane in his
manner, that Mrs. Bourne was rather taken with him than otherwise.
“Well, as I was observing, Mr. Thompson,” said the widow, “I have no
desire to see Rawton, but he has informed me by letter that anything I
might leave for him with you would be sure to fall into his hands. Is
that correct?”
“Perfectly correct. I will undertake to give him anything you may
entrust to my care.”
“I am greatly obliged, I’m sure.”
Mrs. Bourne took from her pocket a large-sized envelope, containing
two ten pound notes and a slip of paper with a line or two written
thereon, saying who had sent them. The envelope was addressed to――
“Mr. William Rawton, care of Mr. Thompson.”
“Will you be good enough to give your friend Rawton this?” said the
widow.
“Certainly, with the greatest of pleasure. And to say who it comes
from?”
[Sidenote: No. 54.]
[Illustration: PEACE JUMPS INTO HIS PONY TRAP.]
“I have signified that inside――from Mrs. Bourne.”
“Dear me!” exclaimed Peace. “Not the widow of Dr. Bourne, at whose
house a sale has recently taken place?”
“The very same; I am the lady.”
“How very remarkable.”
“Indeed――in what way?”
“I attended the sale merely as a matter of curiosity――that is all. I
purchased a violin, which I presume was the property of the deceased
gentleman.”
Peace went to a side table and produced the violin.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Bourne, “that belonged to my husband. You play, I
presume?”
“Yes, a little.”
“Dear me, what a singular circumstance! Are you pleased with your
bargain?”
“Not a bad instrument,” said Peace, carelessly; “it has a mellow, rich
tone.”
He drew the bow across the strings and ran through a scale or so.
“You know how to handle the instrument, I can see that,” said Mrs.
Bourne; “dear me, I should have supposed you to be a professional.”
“I have played in public,” observed our hero.
“So I should imagine; I am a devotee to music, Mr. Thompson.”
Peace, or rather Thompson, pointed to the piano in his room, and said
“Do you do anything in that line?”
“I used to play very often, but am now out of practice. Indeed, I have
not taken much interest in music of late years.”
“That is no reason for you not doing so now. See, I have here a
charming piece set for the violin and piano. Will you accompany me?”
“I’ll do my best,” said Mrs. Bourne, who believed at the time that she
had met with a kindred spirit.
She sat down at the instrument, and very soon convinced Mr. Thompson
that she was an accomplished musician.
They played a duet together. Mr. Thompson did his best, and the piece,
it is needless to say, was most charmingly rendered.
“It is not often,” observed Mr. Thompson, “that I meet with such an
admirable executant. Really, madam, your style is most admirable, and
merits the warmest commendation.”
“Ah, sir, you flatter; I am out of practice.”
“I should hardly have supposed so. However, we will, if you please,
try another.”
“I am a little nervous,” suggested the lady.
“Oh, but you must get over that. Remember we are not playing before an
audience, only to amuse ourselves.”
Mrs. Bourne thought he was a very nice old gentleman, quiet,
unobtrusive, and well-behaved.
As we have before intimated, Charles Peace was a most plausible man,
and could deceive the most wary person in the world.
Another duet was gone through with even greater success than the
first, and the girl, Amy, who was waiting for Mrs. Bourne in the
brougham, wondered what was detaining her mistress. She heard the
sounds of music, and was under the impression that the doctor’s widow
was taking a lesson of some well-known professor.
After the second duet was over, Mrs. Bourne rose from the music-stool
on which she had been seated, and said――
“You must now excuse me, Mr. Thompson. My brougham is waiting, and I
have several calls to make, and therefore I must, however reluctantly
it may be, wish you good morning.”
“I am sure I have been most delighted with this short visit, and only
wish it could be protracted; but I will not seek to detain you.”
“You will remember the letter I have given you for Mr. Rawton?”
“Most certainly I will; it shall be delivered into his hands upon the
very first opportunity.”
“Thank you very much.”
Peace saw his aristocratic visitor to the door; she entered her
brougham, waved her hand to the gentleman of independent means and
musical proclivities, and the vehicle was driven off.
“I thought you were having a lesson, ma’am,” said Amy, after they had
got out of the Evelina-road. “I’m sure it sounded beautiful.”
“Oh, dear me, no, you silly girl. A lesson, indeed! Only just trying a
new piece of music over, that’s all. Mr. Thompson is such a nice,
genial old gentleman; quite a fatherly man, and I should say he is a
most respectable person.”
“Is he a professor of music?”
“Oh dear, no――nothing of the sort. He has played in public, though. So
he told me.”
“I hope you have not lost your heart,” cried Amy, bursting out into a
merry laugh.
“Hush, don’t be so ridiculous! What can you be thinking about? Lost my
heart, indeed. I should hope not. He may be very nice in his way, but
he’s not a sort of man I am likely to fall in love with.”
“No, he’s not particularly handsome――is he?”
“You mind your own business, girl, and don’t be so demonstrative or
talkative.”
Amy said no more――she felt that she had already said more than enough.
The vehicle was driven rapidly along, and in the due course of time
the doctor’s widow reached her house.
She threw off her travelling costume, and arranged herself in an
exquisitely and faultlessly-made dress. She was about to receive
visitors. Throngs of persons now flocked to her house; indeed, she was
quite the rage for a brief period, and people who before had taken but
little notice of her, all of a sudden demonstrated a feeling of
friendship, or it might be attachment, which, to say the least of it,
was most remarkable.
She was a woman, however, who had a pretty good knowledge of the
world, and the people who lived in it, and could gauge with a
tolerable degree of accuracy the amount of sincerity of those who all
of a sudden professed to be her friends.
She had had at all times an extensive circle of acquaintances. From
the very nature of her position, this could not be otherwise, for
although she had not been recognised or patronised by the extremely
discreet and virtuous of the upper classes, she had been received as a
guest by some of the most wealthy and aristocratic persons in the
land; the union with the doctor silenced in a great measure the
rumours as to her antecedents. She cared but little for the opinion of
the world. Indeed, she had been lectured by her former protectors to
contemn it, but deep down in the bottom of her heart lurked sad and
bitter recollections, which she could not smother; but despite all
this she looked hopefully to the future.
She had always been a well-conducted, lady-like woman, and never
indulged in coarse inuendoes or vulgar display. Error had been in a
great measure forced upon her; and considering how she had been petted
and sought after, it is a matter of surprise that she contrived to
remain so quiet and unobtrusive in her ways and habits.