CRAWFORD'S INVESTIGATIONS.
William Crawford ascended the lane until he reached the high road;
then, turning sharply to the left, he went at a more leisurely pace
towards the Welford Bridge.
He kept his eyes fixed ahead, and in every action of his body there
was that vital alertness which characterised him in motion and even in
repose. This alertness was more noticeable now than it had been
before. Frequently, when he put down his foot in walking, he seemed
dissatisfied with the ground upon which it had alighted, and shifted
the foot slightly, but briskly and decisively, while resting on it,
and stepping out with the other leg. He touched one thigh sharply with
one hand, then the other thigh with the other hand, as though to
assure himself that his hands and legs were within call, should he
need their services for some purpose besides that upon which they were
now employed. He rapped his chest with his fist, and thrust his thumb
and forefinger into his waistcoat pocket and brought forth nothing. In
another man this would be called nervous excitement, but in William
Crawford it did not arise from any unusual perturbation, but was the
result of unutilised energy.
As he approached the bridge his pace fell to a saunter. He subdued his
restlessness or manifestations of repressed activity. Nothing but his
eyes showed extraordinary alertness, and they were fixed dead ahead.
The houses on his left prevented his seeing the tow-path, and the
humpbacked bridge prevented his seeing where the approach from the
toll-house joined the main road.
On the bridge lounged a group of loungers similar to that of the
evening before. When Crawford had got over the middle of the bridge,
and the road began to dip westward, he approached the parapet and
looked up the canal. The long straight line ran off in the distance to
a vanishing point, seeming to rise as it receded, but not a soul was
visible from the spot at which he stood to the point at which the path
disappeared.
Red Jim sidled up to where the stranger had paused, and after drawing
the back of his hand across his mouth, by way of purifying himself
before speaking to a man of property, said deferentially:
"Good-evening, guv'nor."
"Good-evening," said Crawford briskly, sharply, in a tone which
implied he would stand no familiarity or nonsense.
Red Jim pushed his hat over his eyes in token of acknowledging a
rebuff; but he remained where he was in token of cherishing hope of a
job, or anyway of money.
Crawford took a few paces further down the slope of the bridge. He did
not care to speak in the hearing of all these men. Then he beckoned to
Red Jim. The man came to him with alacrity.
"How long have you been here this evening?"
"Most of the evening. I'm out of work."
"You have been here half-an-hour?"
"Yes. A good bit more."
"Have you seen any one pass along the tow-path this way (pointing) in
the last half-an-hour?"
"No."
"Did you see any one come along the path in that time?"
"Ay, I did."
Crawford paused a moment in thought. He laughed and said, "I have a
little bet on. I betted that a man did come along the tow-path, but
did not come off it at the bridge here. I was looking out of a window
and saw him. My friend said it was impossible, as the man otherwise
must go into the canal."
It was plain Crawford did not appear anxious about the man himself. It
was only about the wager he cared.
"The man went across the canal."
"Across the canal!" cried Crawford in astonishment. "Do you mean over
the bridge?"
"No."
"Then how did he get across the canal?"
"How much have you on it?" asked Red Jim. He was afraid his own
interests might suffer if he gave all the information he possessed
before making terms.
"Confound you! what is that to you?" cried Crawford angrily.
"Well, then, I'll tell you how he went across," said Red Jim, looking
up straight over his head at the sky.
"How did he get over?" cried the other impatiently, as Jim showed no
sign of speaking.
"He flew," said Jim, suddenly dropping his full prominent blue eyes on
Crawford. "He flew, that's the way he got across the canal." And,
thrusting his hands deep into his wide-opened trousers pockets, he
began moving slowly away.
For a moment Crawford looked as if he could kill Ford. Then, with a
sudden quick laugh, he said:
"Oh, I understand; I will make it worth a tanner for you."
Red Jim was back by his side in a moment. He stretched out his arm,
and, pointing towards the tail of the island, said:
"Do you see that floating stage?"
"Floating stage? No. What is a floating stage?"
"Two long pieces of timber with planks across. Don't you see it at the
tail of Boland's Ait?"
"Yes, I do."
"Well, that's the way he got over. That was drawn by a chain across
the canal to the tow-path. He got on it and then drew it back to the
Ait, do you see? So you've won your money, guv'nor."
Crawford's face grew darker and darker, as the explanation proceeded.
He handed Jim the promised coin in silence, turned back upon the way
he had come, and began retracing his steps at a quick rate. His eyes
winked rapidly, and he muttered curses as he walked.
"Can it be--can it possibly be that Philip Ray is my next-door
neighbour? Incredible! And yet that was Philip Ray, as sure as I am
alive, and he went to this island! Can this Robinson Crusoe be Philip
Ray? If so, I cannot keep on here. I must find some other place for
my--business. This is not exactly Camberwell, and I heard Ray lives in
Camberwell; but this is very near it--very near Camberwell!"
When he reached Crawford Street he diminished his speed. It was plain
he did not want to seem in a hurry. As soon as he gained the house he
ascended the stairs at once to his own room. He closed the door, and
began walking up and down, hastily muttering unconnected words. After
a while he went to the window and looked out on Boland's Ait with an
expression in which hatred and fear were blended.
The buildings on the island consisted of an old sawmill, from which
the machinery had been removed, now falling into ruin; a couple of
dilapidated sheds, with tarred wooden roofs; a yard in which once the
timber had been piled in stacks higher than the engine-house itself;
and a small four-roomed house, formerly used as the dwelling-place of
the foreman. These buildings and the wall of the yard rose between
Crawford and the tow-path. The island itself was on a level with the
ground on which Crawford's House stood; and William Crawford's
sitting-room, being on the first floor, did not overpeer even the wall
of the yard: hence the view of the tow-path was cut off except at the
head and the tail of Boland's Ait.
William Crawford bit his under lip and gnawed the knuckle of his left
forefinger, and plucked at his shaven cheek and upper lip as though at
whiskers and moustache. At last he dropped his hand, and remained
motionless, as though an idea had struck him and he was considering
it. Suddenly he raised his head like one who has made up his mind, and
walked with a quick step to the door, and, opening it, went out on the
landing. He leaned over the balustrade and called out:
"Mrs. Grainger, will you come up, please? I want to speak to you for a
minute."
Mrs. Grainger hastened from the kitchen. She had the sleeves of her
washed-out lilac cotton dress rolled up above her arms, and an
enormous apron, once white, now mottled and piebald with innumerable
marks and stains.
"Will you sit down a moment?" Crawford said, pointing to a chair. He
walked up and down the room during the interview.
Mrs. Grainger sat down and threw her apron over to her left side, by
way of qualifying herself for the honour of a seat in Mr. Crawford's
room and in Mr. Crawford's presence.
"Miss Layard told me last evening some interesting facts you mentioned
to her about a--gentleman who lives on this island here in the canal."
"Yes, sir. A Mr. Bramwell, who lives all alone on Boland's Ait."
"Exactly. Do you know anything about him? The case is so remarkable, I
am interested in it merely out of curiosity."
"I know, sir; and he is a curiosity, certainly," said Mrs. Grainger,
settling herself firmly on her chair, and arranging her mind as well
as her body for a good long chat, for every minute devoted to which
she would be receiving her pay.
Crawford caught the import of her gesture and said sharply:
"I do not wish to keep you long, Mrs. Grainger; I have only a few
questions to ask, and then you may leave me."
"Yes, sir," said the charwoman, instantly sitting upright and on her
dignity.
"Have you ever seen this strange man?"
"Only twice."
"Would you know him again if you saw him?"
"O, yes, sir, I should know him anywhere."
"Tell me what he is like."
"Quite the gentleman, sir, he looks, but seems to be poor, or he
wouldn't live in such a place all by himself and wear such poor
clothes."
"His clothes are poor, then?"
"Very. But not so much poor as worn shabby, sir."
"Ah," said Crawford thoughtfully. (He had not been near enough to that
man on the tow-path to tell whether his clothes were greatly the worse
of wear or not.) "Is he dark or light?"
"Dark. Very dark. His hair is jet-black, sir. I was as close to him on
Welford Road as I am to you now."
Philip Ray was dark. "Did you notice anything remarkable about him?"
"Well, as I said, he is very dark, and he has no colour in his cheek."
"H'm!" said Crawford in a dissatisfied tone. Ray had no colour in his
cheek. "Did you remark anything peculiar in his walk?" No one could
fail to observe the way in which Ray swung his hands.
"No, I did not."
Crawford drew up in front of the woman, and stood gnawing his knuckle
for a few seconds. Then he resumed his pacing up and down.
"Was the gentleman walking fast at the time?"
"No."
Philip Ray, when alone, always went at an unusually rapid pace. He was
a man quick in everything: quick in speech, in the movements of his
limbs, quickest of all and most enduring also in his love and--anger.
"Is he a tall man?"
"No."
"What!" cried he in astonishment, drawing up again in front of the
charwoman, now somewhat cowed by Crawford's abrupt, and vigorous, and
abstracted manner. "Don't you call six feet a tall man? Have you lived
among Patagonians all your life?"
"No, sir; I can't say I ever lived with any people of that name," she
said, bridling a little. She did not understand being spoken to by any
one in that peremptory and belittling way, and if all came to all it
wasn't the rich Mr. Crawford who paid her and supplied the food she
had eaten, but poor Mr. Layard, who gave himself no airs, but was
always a pleasant gentleman, though he was not in the counting-house
of the great Welford Gas Company, but in the works, where her own
husband was employed.
"Why, don't you consider a man four inches taller than I a tall man?"
cried Crawford, drawing brows down over his quick furtive eyes, and
looking at the woman as if he was reproaching her with having
committed a heinous crime.
"Four inches taller than you!" said the woman with scornful asperity.
"I never said he was four inches taller than you, sir. He isn't four
inches taller than you, Mr. Crawford."
"He is."
"Excuse me, sir; if you tell me so, of course I have nothing more to
say," said Mrs. Grainger, rising with severity and dignity. "The
gentleman that lives on Poland's Ait is a _shorter_ man than you,
sir."
"Are you sure?" said Crawford, standing for the third time in front of
the woman.
"Quite certain."
"_Shorter_ than I?" said he, in a tone of abstraction, as he gnawed
his knuckles, unconscious of her presence--"_shorter_ than I?" he
repeated, lost in thought. "Then he can't be Philip Ray," he cried in
a tone of relief. The words were uttered, not for Mrs. Grainger's
hearing, but for his own. He wanted to have this pleasant assurance in
his ear as well as in his mind.
"I never said he was, sir; I said he was Mr. Bramwell--Mr. Francis
Bramwell," said Mrs. Grainger, making a mock courtesy and moving
towards the door.
With a start Crawford awoke from his abstraction to the fact of her
presence. "Bless my soul! but of course you didn't! Of course you
didn't! You never said anything of the kind! You never said anything
of any kind! Ha, ha, ha, ha!" He laughed his short and not pleasant
laugh, and held the door open for Mrs. Grainger.
When she was gone he walked up and down the room for some time in deep
cogitation. Then he went to the window and looked out on the scene,
now darkening for the short night. His eyes rested on Boland's Ait,
and he muttered below his breath:
"Whoever my next-door neighbour may be, it is not Philip Ray, and I am
not afraid of any one else on earth. But who is this Francis Bramwell
that Philip Ray visits? Who can he be?" Crawford paused awhile, and
then said impatiently as he turned away from the window, "Bah, what do
I care who it is? I fear no one but Philip Ray."