The Whispering Lane/Chapter 12
CHAPTER XII
THE UNFORESEEN
Detective-Inspector Trant sat at his office desk, scribbling on the blotting-paper—scribbling aimless lines and circles, crosses and triangles, with monotonous persistence. Subconsciously he was an ideographist—a prehistoric throw-back—accustomed to represent his ideas, absent-mindedly, by symbols; and these vague figures he was setting down interpreted, only too truly, his chaotic state of mind. Formerly convinced on the strongest of evidence that Edith Danby was guilty, he was now much less positive: and, being an excessively just man, the doubt troubled him greatly. He wished to be absolutely sure that he was right, yet somehow felt that he was wrong, although where and how he could not imagine. It was the attitude of the accused woman which muddled his thoughts so grievously.
She was sick—so sick, that an order had been given to remove her to the Tarhaven Infirmary, where she now lay decaying into nothingness. The divisional-surgeon had reported two days previously that the prisoner was suffering from a particularly malignant form of cancer, which at any time might result in death. This being so, it was impossible to bring her before the magistrate, urgent as was the need. Therefore her appearance in court was postponed indefinitely, since the surgeon was doubtful if she would ever recover sufficiently to face the ordeal. It would seem that God was to be her judge, not Man.
But all this did not trouble Trant so much as the woman’s continued insistence upon her innocence. While she had a chance of living he could well understand any denial likely to set her free. But, doomed as she was by a higher tribunal to a worse death than by hanging, it was difficult to comprehend why she should still refuse to acknowledge her guilt. Of course, she might be thinking of her post-mortem reputation. But, having no ascertainable relatives likely to suffer from the disgrace of her being hanged, this was scarcely a feasible explanation. Altogether the Inspector was woefully puzzled. If Miss Danby was innocent, who was the guilty party? No one could answer this vexed question—not even Trant, acquainted though he was, so far, with the ins and offs of the case. And it was just that “so far” which baffled him, and caused his unrest. He knew much, but not all. Of that he felt assured. The poor man was a modern Aristides on the horns of a dilemma.
Being in this uncomfortable frame of mind it may be guessed how heartily he welcomed the return of Hustings. That young gentleman suddenly appeared at the office door with a handsome lad looking over his shoulder.
“Here I am, Inspector!” said Dick, briskly, “and this is Jimmy Took.”
Masking his troublesome thoughts by assuming a severe official expression, Trant received the two in the traditional red-tape style. “I am afraid I cannot give you much time,” he said, gravely nodding that they should be seated. “I am overwhelmed with work.”
“You will be still more overwhelmed when you hear what I have discovered.”
“Oh,” Trant swung his chair round to face the speaker, looking both eager and relieved, “so it wasn’t a wild goose chase, altogether?”
“It wasn’t a wild goose chase in any way,” responded Dick grimly. “I have just returned from Wessbury, where I passed the night.”
“Wessbury?”
“It’s an unconsidered village, near Chelmsford, eighteen odd miles from here.”
“And this lad?” Trant eyed the slim, bright-eyed boy critically.
“He’s a native of Wessbury. Father, once schoolmaster, now sexton—having come down in the world.”
“Why have you brought him to see me?”
“Inspector Trant,” said Hustings, with twinkling eyes, “allow me to introduce to you the future Sherlock Holmes of the C.I.D.”
“If my luck holds,” murmured Jimmy, who was taking in his surroundings swiftly and sorting them into the pigeon-holes of his clever brain.
“Oh, it will hold right enough,” said Dick catching the words, “you’re much too good to lose, youngster. Now then, Mr. Trant, before I tell, you tell.”
The Inspector did not quite approve of this settling of the situation, but as Hustings was evidently bringing important news, sorely needed at the moment, he humoured him. “There is little to tell, save that Miss Danby’s appearance before the magistrate has been postponed, sine die.”
“Eh—how’s that?”
“She is in the infirmary, suffering from cancer. The doctors are doubtful if she will ever recover.”
“Poor soul. She told me of her disease, but I did not think it was so bad as all that. I hope to clear her character before she goes west. That will, maybe, cheer her last hours.”
“Can you prove her innocence?” asked Trant, dubiously.
“I’ll leave you to judge, when I relate my doings. Meanwhile, Aileen?”
“She is still at the cottage with Jenny watching over her. Worried, naturally, but quite well. I have permitted her to see Miss Danby.”
“Good man!” Dick drew a breath of relief now that he knew Aileen was safe.
“Your news—your news!” Trant was on tenterhooks.
“Ah, yes. Help me, Jimmy: fill in my gaps,” and Hustings fully explained his doings during the last few days, the boy putting in a word here and there. At the end of a meticulous narrative, the latter produced the scarf-pin. “So now you know,” finished Dick, breathlessly, “and I hope you’ll let me smoke.”
“Smoke away,” nodded Trant, looking at the turquoise swastika lying in the palm of his hand. “H’m! Did Slanton always wear this?”
“So Aileen says. He told her it brought him luck and kept him safe.”
“It did neither on the night he was murdered,” commented the Inspector, grimly, and stowed away the scarf-pin in a convenient drawer, “but if Aileen is sure of her facts, this is positive evidence that Slanton was in Wessbury, drawn hither, it would seem, by his desire to investigate this ghost-business. You have gone far afield to find evidence, Mr. Hustings.”
“With success, you will perceive,” said Dick, dryly, “and Jimmy here can supplement the evidence of that swastika-pin. He saw Slanton.”
“In Wessbury?” Trant stared at the boy, “How do you know that the man you saw was Dr. Slanton, and where did you see him?”
“He arrived by the seven o’clock bus from Chelmsford, sir, and I recognized him, when Mr. Hustings showed me his photograph.”
“Which I now return to you,” said Dick, passing along the article, “and the night when you saw him, Jimmy?”
“The sixth of October.”
“But his body was found here on the seventh of October,” said Trant, pinching his chin, perplexedly. “How could the man have got to Fryfield?”
“I can’t tell you, sir,” admitted the youth, candidly, “I can only say that he did not return to Chelmsford by the bus.”
“How do you know?”
“I watched him. You see, sir,” went on Jimmy, deliberately, “there were heaps of these ghost-hunters coming to Wessbury for the past few months, and I used to guide some of them to the lane, so I got into the habit of watching the bus. Some came and went the same evening; others stopped all night, either at the inn, or in someone’s house. I saw Dr. Slanton come,” ended the boy, emphatically, “but I did not see him go”
“He remained in Wessbury!” suggested the Inspector.
Jimmy shook his head, “I asked at every house, after I picked up that scarf-pin, if he stayed in any one of them. But—no,” and again he shook his head.
“Did you guide Slanton to the lane?”
“No, sir. I only give my services when they are asked. As Dr. Slanton did not speak to me, but to the bus-conductor, when he inquired the way, I did not pay much attention to him. Only when I picked up the scarf-pin did I think that something might be wrong.”
“Why did you think so?” argued the officer, sharply, and not approving of the lad’s aggressive confidence.
“Because I noticed the queer shape of the pin, when he wore it in his necktie, and naturally wondered how he came to lose it where it was found. He went through the village about seven o’clock, and down The Whispering Lane. But he never came back. I watched every bus,” asseverated Jimmy, “but Dr. Slanton did not return in any one of them.”
“He might have walked to the Chelmsford railway station?”
“Three miles, sir. Why should he have walked?”
“H’m!” Trant packed away the photograph, long-side the scarf-pin, “You have a very suspicious nature, young fellow.”
Jimmy laughed and coloured, “I think it is inborn, sir. I am always trying to learn the why and wherefore of things.”
“Oh!” commented Trant, cynically, “and you have found?”
“Many things, which I prefer to keep to myself just now,” returned the youth with a composed air.
“You must tell me everything,” commanded the Inspector, assuming his most formidable official frown.
This did not intimidate Jimmy, who merely smiled amiably, “I can’t make four, out of two and two as yet, sir. When I do I’ll speak.”
“He won’t go past that,” put in Hustings, with a shrug, “the young rascal has something up his sleeve.”
“Then why not tell it?” demanded Trant, angrily.
“For this reason!” Jimmy was firmly respectful, “I wish to become a detective.”
“Pooh! You have been reading shilling shockers, my good boy.”
“My favourite literature, sir. They are concerned with mysteries, and I am a lover of mysteries. And,” continued Jimmy in animated tones, “when I get a chance of solving a real-life mystery I don’t want to lose it.”
“Very natural, Master Took. But only by telling me everything can you get it.”
“I have told you all the facts, so far as I am acquainted with the facts. But what I deduce from them I tell no one, until I have satisfied myself that such deductions are correct.”
“Rubbish!” Trant was as perplexed by this unusual character as Hustings had been. “What can an inexperienced baby like you do in a matter which is puzzling older and wiser heads?”
Jimmy smiled slyly. “Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings”
“Pish!” the Inspector considered Dick’s report and the boy’s obstinacy for a moment or so, “I’ll go thus far,” he said at length, addressing the latter, “you can come down with me to Wessbury and help with your local knowledge. This Whispering Lane the turquoise scarf-pin dropped near it—Mrs. Jerr and her Chinese servant. Yes, you will be useful to me in Wessbury.”
“Will you give me a free hand, sir?”
“Well—er—yes, within limitations. You are smart enough in your own conceit and may stumble upon something helpful.”
“When will you go to Wessbury, sir?” inquired Jimmy anxiously.
“To-morrow evening. I can’t get away before then. We can motor from here.”
“If I may offer an opinion, sir, I should go down to-day.”
“Impossible! Impossible!”
“Or at least,” continued the youth smoothly, as if there had been no interruption, “wire to the Wessbury policeman—Jinks is his name—to keep an eye on Wu Ti and Mrs. Jerr.”
“And so arouse their suspicions, when they learn—as they may learn—that they are being watched,” said Trant, derisively, “no! no! I’ll take them by surprise, before they have time to concoct explanations. That is if there are any required. From what you and Mr. Hustings have told me, I see nothing suspicious in the couple.”
“Neither do I,” chimed in Dick, suddenly, “all the same I am suspicious. I have what the Americans call—a hunch.”
“Like your Whispering word hunch,” said Trant, lightly.
“Yes, and that proved to be helpful,” retorted Dick, nettled. “It led me to Wessbury, where we have found evidence connecting that place with Fryfeld. Oh, Mrs. Jerr seemed to be fair and honest, I don’t deny. But Wu Ti going down the lane when I was engaged with her—Jimmy finding the scarf-pin near the bungalow! Eh, Inspector?”
“I’ll look into those matters when I go to the place,” snapped Trant, tartly.
“If there is anyone in the place to tell you,” breathed the boy, meaningly.
“What’s that?” Trant turned on him, sharply and angrily.
“This! In my opinion Mrs. Jerr and Wu Ti are going to run away.”
“Next week, Jimmy,” put in the lawyer, “Mrs. Jerr said as much. And it is no running away, but a calculated and foreseen removal.”
“Well,” said Jimmy, with a humility which thinly disguised sarcasm, “in the presence of older and wiser heads I must hold my tongue. But, if I had this case in hand, I shouldn’t lose four and twenty precious hours.”
“You’d do a lot I have no doubt,” remarked Trant, rising to intimate that the interview was ended, and placed his hands on the youth’s shoulders, “See here young fellow, I have spoken to you more sharply than was needful, for this matter is bothering me considerably. But I think you’re a clever boy, and if you can help me with your young wits, as I think you can, why then, your foot is on the first rung of the ladder leading to the heights of your ambition. See!” and he gave Jimmy a friendly shake, whereat the lad flushed with pleasure. He had his secret doubts as to Trant’s perfection in detective doings, but all the same the officer was a personage, and praise from him was something to be appreciated.
When in the street Dick turned to his young friend, “Well, Jimmy, will you come to Fryfeld as my guest for the night, or will you stay in Tarhaven?”
“I’ll stay here, sir, if you don’t mind. There’s lots to be seen.”
“And lots of temptations to be led into,” said Dick, smiling, for he had no fear of the boy getting into trouble, shrewd as he was in spite of his youth. “Well, then, here are five pounds to see you through.”
“Thank you, sir.” Jimmy accepted the treasury notes gravely. “I’ll repay you out of my first fees as a detective. Are you coming with the Inspector and me to-morrow, sir?”
“No. My presence is not necessary. If it is, wire me to my office,” Dick gave the boy a card with the Lincoln’s Inn address of his firm. “Put your best foot foremost, Jimmy. Now’s your chance to gain your ends. Don’t lose it.”
“Not me, sir,” said the boy with a grim look, astonishing on so youthful a face, and he swung away into the crowded High Street, as if he had been used to the hustle and bustle all his limited life.
“There goes a lusus natureæ!” thought the solicitor, with a yawn, for the long journey and the long inter view of the day had wearied him. Then he hired a taxi to take him home.
Followed a sleep, a bath, a change of clothes, and later, an evening visit to the cottage. Aileen received him in the stuffy parlour, with a tired face and listless movements, but she brightened and strengthened when her visitor was ushered in by Jenny Walton. “Oh, I am glad to see you, Dick. I have been counting the hours for your coming,” she grasped both his hands, looking anxiously into his face. “Have you found out anything—is Edith safe—who is guilty—why was Dr. Slanton murdered?—and—and”—she stopped, panting.
Dick loosened his hands gently and placed her in an arm-chair. “One question at a time, dear. Don’t get too excited, and waste what strength you have, which is less than I could wish,” and in his turn he looked anxious.
“It’s Edith,” wailed the girl, the bright colour of her welcome dying out of her cheeks. “I have seen her and she is—she is—dying.”
“Yes. I know,” Dick patted her shoulder gently. “Trant told me and, indeed, Miss Danby told me herself when I saw her last.”
“Why didn’t you let me know about the cancer?” cried Aileen, passionately.
“I didn’t wish to worry you. Besides I never for a moment thought that she was ill enough to be removed to the infirmary.”
“You should have told me. Worry! Nothing is a worry that I can do for Edith, as she is the best friend I have in the world.”
“What about me?” Dick was distressed by this exclusion of himself.
“Oh, you. I love you as you well know, for this is no time to pretend. But I love Edith also, in a different way.”
“Then there is your father—if he is alive?”
“Oh my father, my father!” Aileen spoke impetuously, bitterly, “Yes, he is alive, Dick. Since you have been away a letter has come from him.”
“A letter!” Hustings was astonished, so unexpected was the information.
The girl nodded. “Written from Paris, saying that he had arrived there from Germany, where he had been in prison, and that he would see me soon. It was a cold, business-like letter, just the kind my father would write.”
“But I thought that he was”
“Oh, there, there. Let us talk of something else—what have you been doing for instance? Later—in a day or so, I’ll tell you all about my father.”
Dick looked puzzled. He had always believed that Aileen and her missing father were tenderly attached to one another. From the chilly way in which she referred to the reappearance of her missing parent, it would seem that such was not the case. Although anxious to learn more, the young man refrained from questions, since the girl obviously withheld her confidence. “I can wait!” said Dick, briefly, but feeling keenly the cold-shouldering of this reticence.
Aileen nodded her relief, and pressed for explanations of his doings. “I do hope you have discovered something helpful,” she said, pitifully earnest.
Sympathizing deeply with her anxiety, Hustings plunged into the middle of things; forthwith, repeating word for word his report to the Inspector. Aileen listened silently throughout, only showing her appreciation of his energy by occasional nods and glances. When he ended by describing how Jimmy had melted away into the Tarhaven population, the girl drew a long breath. “I wish you had brought that boy over with you, Dick. I should like to ask questions.”
“I doubt if he would answer any. Jimmy has a shrewd brain and a strong will of his own. Wild horses won’t drag the truth out of him until he makes up his obstinate mind to speak freely.”
“Do you think that he knows the truth?”
“I can’t offer an opinion. He may have a bee in his bonnet, or there may be method in his madness. Jimmy keeps himself to himself, very thoroughly.”
“What do you think, Dick?”
“I think that we are blundering about in the dark, and until we see light, will continue to blunder. Undoubtedly Slanton was in Wessbury on the sixth of October, and on the seventh was found dead in the wood outside, eighteen miles from that village. And with the return half of a Cornby to London ticket in his pocket. Make what you can out of that.”
“Do you believe that Mrs. Jerr has anything to do with the matter?”
“On the face of things-as-they-are, it would seem not. Yet Wu Ti is her servant, and Wu Ti—according to Jenny—haunts Old Wung’s dug-out. Moreover the girl more than hinted that Wu Ti was Slanton’s enemy.”
“And murdered him!” asserted the feminine in Aileen, jumping to conclusions.
“If so,” argued the slower masculine nature, “why did he not strangle the man in Wessbury? You forget that Slanton was alive when Miss Danby found him.”
“Wu Ti may have brought him here and killed him, after Edith ran away.”
“But why—why—why in the name of the high gods?” wailed Dick, clutching his whirling head.
“He wished to implicate Edith.”
“That the assassin desired to do so is clear enough. But Wu Ti? So far as we are aware, Miss Danby does not know the creature.”
“She knew Dr. Slanton and he knew Wu Ti,” persisted Aileen, holding to her theory, “and if Edith would only tell me”
“There you are,” interrupted Hustings, testily, “I think, and I have always thought from the first, that Miss Danby can hand us the key to the riddle. But she won’t, for some inexplicable reason: not even to save her life.”
“Possible death by being hanged; certain death from cancer. What chance has she, poor darling?” said Aileen sadly. “And I think”
Hustings could not endure the ever-circling arguments any longer, and rose in a hurry. “Don’t think, my dear girl. Thinking on insufficient premises only muddles things, more and more. Better wait for the return of Trant and Jimmy from Wessbury with further information.”
“But if they find nothing?” Aileen rose also and despairingly.
“They are bound to find something. Slanton’s death is connected with Wessbury—with that Whispering Lane business, I fancy. When the mystery of that is solved—and it is a mystery from my own hearing—then the truth will come to light. Meanwhile”—Dick picked up his overcoat and cap, tumultuously. “I’m going home to soak myself in ten hours of sleep. You do the same.”
“I can’t sleep with all this on my mind. How can you think so?”
“My dear!” Dick, taking her gently by the shoulders, looked with tenderness into her sad and tearful eyes, “you must make an effort to sleep. Only by keeping your health and your self-control can you help your friend. And—and” he gulped, pushed the girl roughly from him and made for the door.
Aileen followed him with a bewildered cry. “Dick! Dick! Dick!”
“To-morrow—I’ll come again to-morrow,” mumbled the flying lover, and fairly ran away from this too perilous neighbourhood. Another moment of dalliance, and he would most surely have swept her into his arms for endless kisses. “I am only flesh and blood,” groaned Dick striding homeward. “Why can’t she remember that, hang her—I mean bless her, bless her. Oh, damn!”
Hustings did not visit the cottage next day as promised. To love a girl and yet keep at arm’s length from the girl was much too tantalizing a situation for so hot-blooded a young man. He wrote a note, apologizing for his flight on the plea of over-anxiety for his client, and said that he would come again when possessed of fresh information. Then he went up, as usual, to his office, cursing the world at large and his own luck in particular, to devote himself to dry-as-dust work, in the hope of subduing the torments of unfulfilled passion. And so determined was he to keep all unruly feelings well under control, until all barriers were removed, that he lingered at his desk long after the clerks had departed. This honesty of purpose turned out to be for the best, else he would not have received an important telegram until the following morning. Just as he was switching off the lights, somewhere about eight o’clock, the wire arrived. It was concise, and very much to the point, running thus: “They have cleared out. What did I say? Jimmy.”