The Wooden Hand
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"Just so," said Horace quickly, thinking this a good excuse; "you engineer us along, sonny, and we'll give you a shilling."
"A bob? – that's good enough," said the urchin, and scampered down a back street so quickly that they had some difficulty in keeping up with him. Later on, when they caught him at the end of a cul-de-sac., Allen gripped the guide by his wet shoulder. "Do you know a boy called Butsey?"
"Oh my eyes and ears, don't I just? Why, he's Father Don's pet. But he's in disgrace now."
"Why?" asked Horace coolly.
"Father Don sent him down the country, and he didn't turn up at the hour he was told to. He's been whacked and put on bread and water," said the brat, grinning, "worse luck for Father Don. Butsey'll put a knife into him for that."
"Good," whispered Allen to the American as they went on in the darkness. "Butsey will have a grudge against Father Don, and will be all the more ready to tell."
"Humph! I'm not so sure. There's honour amongst thieves."
They had no further time for conversation, for the guide turned down a narrow lane leading off the cul-de-sac., and knocked at the door of a ruined house with broken windows. A shrill voice inside asked who was there.
"Swell mobsmen with swag for the patrico," said the guide, whistling shrilly. "Show us a light."
The door opened, and a small pinched-looking girl appeared with a candle. She examined the two men and then admitted them. When they ventured within, she shut the door, which seemed to be very strong. But Horace noticed a door on the left of the passage leading into an empty room. He knew that one of the broken windows set in the street wall gave light to this room, and resolved to make it a line of retreat should they be too hardly pressed. Meantime the boy and girl led the way along the passage and towards a trap-door. Here, steps leading downward brought them to a large cellar filled with ragged people of both sexes. There was a fire in a large chimney, which seemed to have been constructed to roast an ox, and round this they sat, their damp garments steaming in the heat. A curtain portioned off a corner of the cellar, and when the strangers entered two shrill voices were heard talking together angrily. But the thieves around paid no attention.
"Red Jerry," said Horace, touching Allen's arm, and he pointed to a truculent-looking ruffian, almost as big as himself, who was lying on a bed composed of old newspapers and day-bills. He seemed to be drunk, for he breathed heavily and his pipe had fallen from his fevered lips. "Nice man to tackle," muttered Horace.
"Come along," said the guide, tugging at Allen's hand. "Father Don's got some one in there, but he'll see you. What's the swag-silver?"
"Never you mind," said Horace; "you find Butsey and I'll make it worth your while."
"Give us a sov. and I'll do it," said the brat. "I'm Billy, and fly at that."
"Good. A sov. you shall have."
The boy whistled again and some of the thieves cursed him. He then pushed Horace towards the ragged curtain behind which the shrill voices sounded, and vanished. The two were now fully committed to the adventure.
Curiously enough, the ruffians in the cellar did not take much notice of the strangers. Perhaps they were afraid of Father Don, seeing that the two came to dispose of swag, and at all events they apparently thought that Father Don could protect himself. Meanwhile the keen ears of Horace heard a deeper voice, something like a man's, mingling with the shrill ones of the other speakers. Without a moment's hesitation, and anxious to get the business over, the big American dragged aside the curtain and entered.
Allen and he found themselves before a narrow door. On entering this, for it was open, they saw an old man with a white beard sitting at a small table with papers before him. Near, was a small sharp-faced man, and at the end of the table sat a woman dressed in black.
"It won't do, Father Don," the woman was saying in deep tones; "you told that brat to rob me. Give it up, I tell you."
"Give up what?" asked Father Don sharply. "How can I give up anything, when I don't know what it is?"
"Butsey knows," said the woman. "Where is he?"
"On bread and water in the attic," said the small man with a shrill laugh; "he's having his pride brought down."
"You'd better take care of Butsey," said the woman drily, "or he'll sell you."
"Let him try," snarled the benevolent-looking old gentleman. "Red Jerry's his father and will break his back."
This much the two gentlemen heard, and it was then that the American appeared in the narrow doorway. The woman started and looked at him. He eyed her in turn and saw a fine-looking creature with dark eyes, and of a full voluptuous beauty hardly concealed by the plain dark robes she wore. Allen glanced over Parkins's shoulder and uttered an ejaculation. "Why, Miss Lorry," he said.
The woman started and rose quickly, overturning the table. The small lamp on it, fell and went out. There were a few curses from Father Don and a shrill expostulation from the small man. In the hot darkness a dress brushed past the two men who were now in the room, and a strong perfume saluted their nostrils. Horace could have stopped Miss Lorry from going, but he had no reason to do so, and she slipped out while Father Don was groping for the lamp, and the other man struck a match. As the blue flare spurted up, the man saw the two who had entered. "What's this?" he cried with an oath, which it is not necessary to set down; "who are you?"
"We've come about business," said Horace; "don't you move till the old man's got the lamp alight, or you'll get hurt."
"It's the 'tecs," said Father Don savagely.
"I guess not. We've come to do business."
This remark seemed to stimulate the curiosity of the two men, and they refrained from a shout which would have brought in all the riff-raff without. Allen congratulated himself, that Parkins had roused this curiosity. He had no desire to fight in a dark cellar with his back to the wall against a score of ruffians. In a few minutes the lamp was lighted. "Turn it up, Foxy," said Father Don; "and now, gentlemen," he added politely, "how did you get here?"
"A boy called Billy brought us," said Allen stepping forward. "I fear we've frightened the lady away."
"Let her go, the jade," said Foxy shrilly; "there would have been a heap of trouble if she'd remained," and he confirmed this speech with several oaths.
Father Don did not swear. He spoke in a clear, refined, and educated voice, and apparently was a well-educated man who had fallen into the depths through some rascality. But his face looked most benevolent, and no one would have suspected him of being a ruffian of the worst. He eyed Allen piercingly, and also his companion. "Well, gentlemen," he asked quietly, "and what can I do for you?" Horace sat down heavily and pulled out his pipe. "We may as well talk comfortably," he said. "Sit down, Hill."
"Hill?" said Father Don with a start, while Foxy opened his small eyes-"not of Wargrove?"
"The same," said Allen quietly. "How do you know me?"
"I know a good many things," said Father Don calmly.
"Do you know who shot Strode?"
Foxy rose as though moved by a spring. "You're on that lay, are you?" said he shrilly; "then you've come to the wrong shop."
"Oh, I guess not, said Horace lazily-to the right shop. You see, Mister," he went on to the elder ruffian, "we want that wooden hand."
"What wooden hand?" asked Father Don. "If you mean-"
"Yes, I do mean that," said Allen quickly; "you brought it to Mr. Mask to get the money."
"Did I?" said Father Don coolly and eyeing the young man; "well, maybe I did. But I didn't take it from the dead?"
Allen coloured. "Merry took it," he said.
"Oh no, he didn't," sneered Foxy. "Merry got it from Butsey, who dug it up after it had been planted by-"
"Stop," said Allen, rising. "Father Don," he added, turning to the old man, "you seem to be a gentleman-"
"I was once. But what's that got to do with this?"
"Stop this man," he pointed to Foxy, "from mentioning names."
"I'll stop everything, if you'll tell us where the diamonds are to be found," said Father Don.
"I don't know what you mean," said Allen.
"Oh yes, you do. You know everything about this case, and you've come here to get the hand. Well then, you won't. Only while I hold that hand can I get the diamonds."
"Where will you get them?"
"That's what I want you to tell me."
"I guess Red Jerry knows," said Horace sharply; "he took the diamonds from the dead body of the man he shot."
"Meaning Strode," said Foxy, with a glance at Father Don.
"Jerry didn't shoot him," said that venerable fraud.
"I surmise he did," said Parkins. "Ask him in."
"How do you know about Jerry?" asked Father Don uneasily.
"I sailed along o' him, and saved him from being lynched as a horse-thief. If you won't call him in, I'll do so myself."
"Hold your tongue," said Father Don, rising and looking very benevolent, "you take too much upon yourself. I'm king here, and if I say the word neither of you will go out alive."
"Oh, I guess so," said Horace coolly, "we don't come unprepared," and in a moment he swung out his Derringer. "Sit still, Father Christmas," said Parkins, levelling this, "or you'll get hurt."
Seeing Parkins's action, Allen produced his weapon and covered Foxy, so there sat the kings of the castle, within hail of their ruffianly crew, unable to call for assistance.
"And now we'll call in Jerry," said Allen coolly. "Sing out, Parkins."
But before the big American could raise a shout there was a sudden noise outside. A shrill voice was heard crying that the police were coming, and then ensued a babel. Father Don seized the opportunity when Parkins's eye was wavering to knock the revolver out of his hand. The American thereupon made a clutch at his throat, while Allen tripped Foxy up. A small boy dashed into the room. He was white-faced, stunted, red-haired, and had but one eye. At once he made for Parkins, squealing for the police. When he got a grip of Horace's hand he dropped his voice:
"Ketch t'other cove's hand, and mine," said the boy, and then with a dexterous movement overturned the table, whereby the lamp went out again for the second time. Parkins seized the situation at once, and while Father Don, suddenly released, scrambled on the floor, and made use for the first time of bad language, he grabbed Allen's hand and dragged him toward the door. Horace in his turn was being drawn swiftly along by the small boy. The outer cellar was filled with a mass of screaming, squalling, swearing humanity, all on the alert for the advent of the police. The boy drew the two men through the crowd, which did not know whence to expect the danger. Horace hurled his way through the mob by main strength, and Allen followed in his devastating wake. Shortly, they reached the trap-door, and ran along the passage. The boy pulled them into the side-room Horace had noted when he came to the den.
"Break the winder," said the boy to Parkins.
The American did not need further instructions, and wrapping his coat round his arm he smashed the frail glass. From below came confusedly the noise of the startled thieves. But Horace first, Allen next, and the boy last, dropped on to the pavement. Then another lad appeared, and all four darted up the street. In ten minutes they found themselves blown but safe, in the chief thoroughfare and not far from a policeman, who looked suspiciously at them.
"There," said the last-joined boy, "you're saif. Butsey saived y'."
"Butsey?" said Allen, looking at the stunted, one-eyed lad.
"That's me," said Butsey with a grin; "y'were near being scragged by th' ole man. If y'd called Red Jerry, he'd ha' done fur y'. Miss Lorry told me t'get you out, and I've done it."
"But I reckon the old Father Christmas told us you were locked up."
"Was," said Butsey laconically; "in th' attic-bread an' water. I ain't goin' to work fur sich a lot any more, so I dropped out of th' winder, and climbed the roof-down the spout. In the street I met Miss Lorry-she told me there was fightin' below, so'-he winked.
"Then there was no police?" said Allen, admiring the boy's cleverness.
"Not much. But they're allays expecting of th' peelers," said Butsey coolly; "'twasn't difficult to get 'em rizzed with fright. But you look here, Misters, you clear out now, or they'll be after you."
"You come also, Butsey."
"Not me. I'm agoin' to doss along o' Billy here. I'll come an' see you at Wargrove and bring the wooden hand with me."
"What," said Allen, "do you know-?"
"I knows a lot, an' I'm going to split," said Butsey. "Give us a bob"; and when Allen tossed him one, he spat on it for luck. "See y' m' own time," said Butsey. "I'm goin' to turn respectable an' split. Th' ole man ain't goin' to shut me up for nix. 'Night," and catching his companion's arm, both boys ran off into the darkness.
CHAPTER XIX
MRS. MERRY'S VISITORS
The visit to the den was certainly a fiasco. Those who had ventured into those depths, had, on the face of it, gained nothing. What would have happened had not Butsey raised the false alarm it is impossible to say. According to the boy, Jerry would have turned disagreeable, and probably there would have been a free fight. As it was, Allen and Horace came back without having achieved their object. They were as far as ever from the discovery of the truth.
"And yet, I don't know," said Allen hopefully, "somehow I feel inclined to trust Butsey. He's got some scheme in his head."
"Huh," said Horace heavily, "y' can't trust a boy like that. He's got his monkey up because the old man dropped on him, but like as not, he'll change his tune and go back. Father Don 'ull make things square. He can't afford to lose a promising young prig like Butsey."
"I believe the boy will come to Wargrove as he said," insisted Allen.
"In that case I guess we'd better go down too. Would you mind putting me up for a few days?"
"I'll be glad, and I don't think my father will object. It is just as well you should see him."
"That's why I want to come down," said Parkins cheerfully; "y'see, Hill, the business has to be worked out somehow. I think your father's got a crazy fit, and there isn't anything he's got to be afraid of. But he's shivering about some one, and who that some one is, we must learn. Better we should sift the matter ourselves than let the police handle it."
Allen turned pale. "God forbid," said he; "I want the authorities kept away."
So Allen wrote a letter to his father, asking if he could bring down Parkins for a few days. The reply, strange to say, came from Mrs. Hill, and the reading of it afforded Allen some thought.
"There is no need to ask your father anything," she wrote, "he has given everything into my hands, even to the money. What the reason is I can't say, as he refuses to speak. He seems very much afraid, and remains in his own rooms-the Japanese apartments. Mr. Mask also refused to speak, saying my husband would tell me himself if he felt inclined, but I can learn nothing. I am glad you are coming back, Allen, as I am seriously anxious. Of course you can bring Mr. Parkins. The house is large and he will not need to go near your father, though, it may be, the sight of a new face would do your father good. At all events come down and let us talk over things."
So Allen and Horace went to Westhaven and drove over to Wargrove. On the way Allen stopped the brougham, which was driven by Harry Jacobs, and took Horace to the Red Deeps to see the spot where the murder had been committed. When they got back-as the day was wet-their boots were covered with the red mud of the place. Jacobs saw this, and begged to speak to Allen before he got in.
"I say, Mr. Allen," he whispered, so that Parkins, now in the brougham, should not hear, "do you remember when I drove you to Misery Castle I said I'd tell you something?"
"Yes. What is it?"
"Well, you know I clean the boots, sir? Well, master's boots were covered with that red mud, on the day after-"
"I know all about that," interrupted Allen, feeling his blood run cold as he thought what trouble might come through the boy's chatter; "my father explained. You need not mention it."
"No, sir," said Jacobs obediently enough. He was devoted to Allen, for a queer reason that Allen had once thrashed him for being impertinent. There was no danger that he would say anything, but on the way to Wargrove the groom wondered if his master had anything to do with the commission of the crime. Only in the direction of the Red Deeps could such mud be found, and Jacobs had no doubt but that Mr. Hill senior had been to the place.
When they arrived at "The Arabian Nights" Mr. Hill at first refused to see Allen, but consented to do so later. When the young man entered the Japanese rooms, he was alarmed to see how ill his father looked. The man was wasting to skin and bone, his face was as white as death, and he started nervously at every noise.
"You must see Dr. Grace," said Allen.
"No," said Hill, "I won't-I shan't-I can't. How can you ask me to see any one when I'm in such danger?"
"You're in no danger here," said his son soothingly.
"So your mother says, and I can trust her. Let me keep to my own rooms, Allen, and leave me alone."
"You don't mind Parkins being in the house?"
"Why should I? – the house has nothing to do with me. I have given everything over to your mother's care. Mask has drawn up my will-it is signed and sealed, and he has it. Everything has been left to your mother. I left nothing to you," he added maliciously.
"I don't want anything, so long as my mother is safe."
"She is safe," said his father gloomily, "but am I? They'll find me out and kill me-"
"Who will?" asked Allen sharply.
"Don't speak like that-your voice goes through my head. Go away and amuse your friend. Your mother is mistress here-I am nothing, I only want my bite and sup-leave me alone-oh, how weary I am!"
So the miserable man maundered on. He had quite lost his affectations and looked worn out. He mostly lay on the sofa all day, and for the rest of the time he paced the room ceaselessly. Seeing him in this state Allen sought his mother.
"Something must be done," he said.
"What can be done?" said Mrs. Hill, who looked firmer than ever. "He seems to be afraid of something. What it is I don't know-the illness is mental, and you can't minister to a mind diseased. Perhaps you can tell me what this all means, Allen."
"I'll tell you what I know," said Allen wearily, for the anxiety was wearing out his nerves, and he thereupon related all that had taken place since he left Wargrove. Mrs. Hill listened in silence.
"Of course, unless your father speaks we can do nothing," she said at last; "do you think he is in his right mind, Allen?"
"No. He has always been eccentric," said the son, "and now, as he is growing old he is becoming irresponsible. I am glad he has given everything over to you, mother, and has made his will."
"Mr. Mask induced him to do that," said Mrs. Hill thankfully; "if he had remained obstinately fixed about the money I don't know what I should have done. But now that everything is in my hands I can manage him better. Let him stay in his rooms and amuse himself, Allen. If it is necessary that he should see the doctor I shall insist on his doing so. But at present I think it is best to leave him alone."
"Well, mother, perhaps you are right. And in any case Parkins and I will not trouble him or you much. I'll introduce him to Mrs. Palmer, and she'll take him off our hands."
"Of course she will," said Mrs. Hill rather scornfully; "the woman's a born flirt. So you don't know yet who killed Eva's father, Allen?"
"No," said he, shaking his head. "I must see Eva and tell her of my bad fortune."
No more was said at the time, and life went on fairly well in the house. Under Mrs. Hill's firm sway the management of domestic affairs was much improved, and the servants were satisfied, which they had never been, when Lawrence Hill was sole master. Parkins was much liked by Mrs. Hill, and easily understood that Mr. Hill, being an invalid, could not see him. She put it this way to save her husband's credit. She was always attending to him, and he clung to her like a frightened child to its mother. There was no doubt that the fright over the parcel had weakened a mind never very strong.
Allen and Parkins walked, rode, golfed on the Shanton Links, and paid frequent visits to Mrs. Palmer's place. Allen took the American there within a couple of days of his return, and the widow forthwith admired Parkins. "A charming giant," she described him, and Horace reciprocated. "I like her no end," he confided to Allen; "she's a clipper. Just the wife for me."
Eva laughed when Allen told her this, and remarked that if things went on as they were doing there was every chance that Mrs. Palmer would lose her heart.
"But that's ridiculous, Eva," said Allen, "they have known each other only five days."
"Well, we fell in love in five minutes," said Eva, smiling, which provocative remark led to an exchange of kisses.
The two were seated in the drawing-room of the villa. They had enjoyed a very good dinner, and had now split into couples. Allen and Eva remained in the drawing-room near the fire, while Parkins and Mrs. Palmer played billiards. It was a chill, raw evening, but the room looked bright and cheerful. The lovers were very happy being together again, and especially at having an hour to themselves. Mrs. Palmer was rather exacting, and rarely let Eva out of her sight.
"But she is really kind," said Eva, turning her calm face to Allen; "no one could be kinder."
"Except me, I hope," said Allen, crossing the hearth-rug and seating himself by her side. "I want to speak seriously, Eva."
"Oh dear," she said in dismay; "is it about our marriage?"
"Yes. I have arranged the money business with Horace Parkins, and it is necessary I should go to South America as soon as possible. If I don't, the mine may be sold to some one else."
"But can't Mr. Mark Parkins buy it?"
"Well, he could, but Horace wants to go out, so as to be on the spot, and I must go with him. It's my one chance of making a fortune, for the mine is sure to turn out a great success. As I want to marry you, Eva, I must make money. There's no chance, so far as I can see, of your getting that forty thousand pounds Lord Saltars spoke of."
"Then you really think, Allen, that there is money?"
"I am certain of it-in the form of diamonds. But we'll talk of that later. Meantime I want to say that, as you wish it, we'll put off our marriage for a year. You can stay here with Mrs. Palmer, and I'll go next month to South America with Horace Parkins."
"But what about my father's death?"
"I hope that we'll learn the truth within the next three weeks," said Allen. "Everything turns on this boy Butsey. He knows the truth."
"But will he tell it?"
"I think he will. The lad is clever but venomous. The way in which he has been treated by his father and Don has made him bitter against them. Also, after the false alarm he gave the other night to get Parkins and me out of the mess, he can't very well go back to that place. The old man would murder him; and I don't fancy the poor little wretch would receive much sympathy from his father."
"What do you think of him, Allen?"
"My dear, I don't know enough about him to speak freely. From what the philanthropist in Whitechapel says, I think the boy is very clever, and that his talents might be made use of. He is abominably treated by the brutes he lives with-why, his eye was put out by his father. But the boy has turned on the gang. He burnt his boats when he raised that alarm, and I am quite sure in his own time, he will come down here and turn King's evidence."
"About what?"
"About the murder. The boy knows the truth. It's my opinion that Red Jerry killed your father, Eva."
"How do you make that out?" she asked anxiously.
"Well, Red Jerry knew of your father in Africa and knew that he was buying diamonds." Allen suppressed the fact of Strode's being an I. D. B. "He followed him home in the Dunoon Castle., and then went to tell Foxy and Father Don at Whitechapel. They came down to Westhaven and tracked your father to the Red Deeps, and there shot him. I can't understand why they did not take the wooden hand then, though."