The Wooden Hand
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"This bullet caused the death?" asked the coroner.
"Certainly. It passed through the heart. I expect the assassin fired twice, and missing his victim at the first shot fired again with a surer aim. From the nature of the wound in the arm, gentlemen," added Grace, "I am inclined to think that the deceased had his back to the assassin. The first bullet-the lost one, mind-skimmed along the flesh of the arm. The pain would make the deceased turn sharply to face the assassin, whereupon the second shot was fired and passed through the heart. I think, from the condition of the body, that the murder was committed at nine o'clock on Wednesday night. Mr. Strode may have gone to the Red Deeps to meet the assassin and thus have-"
"This isn't evidence," interrupted the coroner abruptly; "you can sit down, Dr. Grace."
This the doctor did, rather annoyed, for he was fond of hearing himself chatter. The three labourers, Arnold, Wake, and Jacobs, followed, and stated that they went to the Red Deeps to get a drink from the spring. It was about half-past ten when they found the body. It was lying near the spring, face downwards. They took it up and from a card learned it was that of Mr. Strode. Then they took it to the cottage and went home.
"Why didn't you inform the police?" a juryman asked Jacobs.
The big man scratched his head and looked sheepish. "Well, you see, sir, policeman Wasp's a sharp one, he is, and like as not he'd have thought we'd killed the gent. We all three thought as we'd wait till we could see some other gentleman like yourself."
There was a smile at this, and Wasp grew redder than he was. "A trifle too much zeal on the part of policeman Wasp," said the coroner drily, "but you should have given notice. You carried the body home between you, I suppose?"
"Yes. There was Arnold, myself, and Wake-then there was the boy," added the witness with hesitation.
"Boy?" questioned the coroner sharply, "what boy?"
Jacobs scratched his head again. "I dunno, sir. A boy joined us on the edge of the common near Wargrove, and, boy-like, when he saw we'd a corpse he follered. When we dropped the body at the door of Misery Castle" – the name of Mrs. Merry's abode provoked a smile-"the boy said as he'd knock. He knocked five times."
"Why five times?" questioned a juryman, while Eva started.
"I can't say, sir. But knock five times he did, and then ran away."
"What kind of a boy was he?"
"Just an ordinary boy, sir," grunted the witness, save that he seemed sharp. "He'd a white face and a lot of red hair-"
"Lor!" cried Mrs. Merry, interrupting the proceedings, "it's Butsey."
"Do you know the boy?" asked the coroner. "Come and give your evidence, Mrs. Merry."
The old woman, much excited, kissed the book. "Know the boy?" she said in her doleful voice. "Lord bless you, Mr. Shakerley, that being your name, sir, I don't know the boy from a partridge. But on Friday morning he came to me, and told me as Cain-my boy, gentlemen, and a wicked boy at that-would come and see me Saturday. As Cain was in the house, gentlemen, leastways as I'd sent him for a glove for the wooden hand of the corp, the boy-Butsey, he said his name was-told a lie, which don't astonish me, seeing what boys are. I think he was a London boy, being sharp and ragged. But he just told the lie, and before I could clout his head for falsehoods, he skipped away."
"Have you seen him since?"
"No, I ain't," said Mrs. Merry, "and when I do I'll clout him, I will."
"Does your son know him?"
"That he don't. For I asked Cain why he told the boy to speak such a falsehood seeing there was no need. But Cain said he'd told no one to say as he was coming, and that he intended to see me Friday and not Saturday, as that lying boy spoke."
Here Inspector Garrit rose, and begged that Miss Strode might be called, as she could tell something, bearing on the boy. Eva looked somewhat astonished, as she had not seen Butsey. However, she was sworn and duly gave her evidence.
"My father came home from South Africa over a week ago in the Dunoon Castle.. He wrote to me from Southampton saying he would be down. He then went to London and stopped there a week. He did not write from London, but sent two telegrams."
"Two telegrams," said the coroner. "One on Wednesday-"
"Yes," said the witness, "and one on Thursday night."
"But that's impossible. He was dead then, according to the medical evidence."
"That's what I cannot understand," said Eva, glancing at the Inspector. "I expected him on Thursday night at eight and had dinner ready for him. After waiting till after nine I was about to go to bed when a telegraph messenger arrived. He gave me the wire and said it arrived at four, and should have been sent then. It was from my father, saying he had postponed his departure till the next day, Friday. I thought it was all right and went to bed. About twelve I was awakened by the five knocks of my dream-"
"What do you mean by your dream, Miss Strode?"
Eva related her dream, which caused much excitement. "And the five knocks came. Four soft and one hard," she went on. "I sprang out of bed, and ran into the passage. Mrs. Merry met me with the news that my father had been brought home dead. Then I attended to the body, while Mrs. Merry told Jackson, who went to see Mr. Wasp."
"What did you do with the wire?" asked the coroner, looking perplexed at this strange contradictory evidence, as he well might.
"I gave it to Inspector Garrit."
"Here it is," said the inspector producing it; "when I was in town, I went to the office whence this had been sent. It was the St. James's Street office where the other wire had been sent from. I learnt from a smart operator that the telegram had been brought in by a ragged, red-haired boy-"
"Butsey," cried Mrs. Merry, folding her shawl tightly round her lean form.
"Yes," said Garrit, nodding, "apparently it is the same boy who joined the three men when they carried the body home, and knocked five times."
"And the same boy as told me a lie about Cain," cried Mrs. Merry; "what do you make of it all, gentlemen?"
Mrs. Merry was rebuked, but the jury and coroner looked puzzled. They could make nothing of it. Inquiry showed that Butsey had vanished from the neighbourhood. Wasp deposed to having seen the lad. "Ragged and white-faced and red-haired he was," said Wasp, "with a wicked eye-"
"Wicked eyes," corrected the coroner.
"Eye," snapped Wasp respectfully, "he'd only one eye, but 'twas bright and wicked enough to be two. I asked him-on the Westhaven road-what he was doing there, as we didn't like vagrants. He said he'd come from London to Westhaven with a Sunday school treat. I gave him a talking to, and he ran away in the direction of Westhaven. Oh, sir," added Wasp, obviously annoyed, "if I'd only known about the knocking, and the lying to Mrs. Merry, and the telegram, I'd have taken him in charge."
"Well, you couldn't help it, knowing no reason why the lad should be detained," said the coroner; "but search for him, Wasp."
"At Westhaven? I will, sir. And I'll see about the Sunday school too. He'd be known to the teachers."
Mrs. Merry snorted. "That's another lie. I don't believe the brat has anything to do with Sunday schools, begging your pardon, Mr. Shakerley. He's a liar, and I don't believe his name's Butsey at all."
"Well, well," said the coroner impatiently, "let us get on with the inquest. What further evidence have you, inspector?"
"I have to speak," said Mr. Mask rising and looking more yellow and prim than ever as he took the oath. "I am Mr. Strode's legal adviser. He came to see me two or three times while he was in town. He stated that he was going down to Wargrove."
"On what day did he say?"
"On no particular day. He said he would be going down some time, but he was in no hurry."
"Didn't he tell you he was going down on Thursday?"
"No. He never named the day."
"Had he any idea of meeting with a violent death?"
"If he had, he certainly would not have come," said Mask grimly; "my late client had a very good idea of looking after his own skin. But he certainly hinted that he was in danger."
"Explain yourself."
"He said that if he couldn't come himself to see me again he would send his wooden hand."
The coroner looked puzzled. "What do you mean?"
"Mr. Strode," said Mask primly, "talked to me about some money he wished to place in my keeping. I was to give it back to him personally, or when he sent the wooden hand. I understood from what he hinted that there was a chance he might get into trouble. But he explained nothing. He always spoke little and to the point."
"And have you got this money?"
"No. Mr. Strode didn't leave it with me."
"Then why did he remark about his wooden hand?"
"I expect he intended to leave the money with me when he returned from Wargrove. So it would seem that he did not expect anything to happen to him on his visit to his native place. If he had expected a tragedy, he would have left the money; and the wooden hand would have been the token for me to give it."
"To whom, sir?"
"To the person who brought the wooden hand."
"And has it been brought?"
"No. But I understand from Inspector Garrit that the hand has been stolen."
"Dear me-dear me." Mr. Shakerley rubbed his bald head irritably. "This case is most perplexing. Who stole the hand?"
Mr. Hill came forward at this point and related how he had gone into the death chamber to find the hand gone. Eva detailed how she had seen the hand still attached to the arm at dawn, and Mrs. Merry deposed that she saw the hand with the body at nine o'clock. These witnesses were exhaustively examined, but nothing further could be learned. Mr. Strode had been shot through the heart, and the wooden hand had been stolen. But who had shot him, or who had stolen the hand, could not be discovered.
The coroner did his best to bring out further evidence: but neither Wasp nor Garrit could supply any more witnesses. The further the case was gone into, the more mysterious did it seem. The money of the deceased was untouched, so robbery could not have been the motive for the commission of the crime. Finally, after a vain endeavour to penetrate the mystery, the jury brought in a verdict of "Wilful murder against some person or persons unknown."
CHAPTER VIII
A NEW LIFE
Nothing new was discovered after the inquest, although all inquiries were made. Butsey had vanished. He was traced to Westhaven after his interview with Wasp, and from that place had taken the train to London. But after landing at Liverpool Street Station, he disappeared into the world of humanity, and not even the efforts of the London police could bring him to light. No weapon had been found near the Red Deeps spring, nor could any footmarks be discerned likely to lead to a detection of the assassin. Mr. Strode had been shot by some unknown person, and it seemed as though the affair would have to be relegated to the list of mysterious crimes. Perhaps the absence of a reward had something to do with the inactivity displayed by Garrit and Wasp.
But how could a reward be offered when Eva had no money? After the funeral, and when the dead man had been bestowed in the Strode vault under St. Peter's Church, the lawyer called to see the girl. He told her coldly, and without displaying any sympathy, that her father had left no money in his hands, and that he could do nothing for her. Eva, having been brought up in idleness, was alarmed at the prospect before her. She did not know what to do.
"I must earn my bread in some way," she said to Mrs. Merry a week later, when consulting about ways and means. "I can't be a burden on you, Nanny."
"Deary," said the old woman, taking the girl's hand within her withered claws, "you ain't no burden, whatever you may say. You stay along with your old nurse, who loves you, an' who has fifty pound a year, to say nothing of the castle and the land."
"But, Nanny, I can't stay on here for ever."
"And you won't, with that beauty," said Mrs. Merry sturdily, "bless you, deary, Mr. Allen will marry you straight off if you'll only say the word; I saw him in the village this very day, his foot being nearly well. To be sure he was with his jelly-fish of a pa; but I took it kind of him that he stopped and spoke to me. He wants to marry you out of hand, Miss Eva."
"I know," said the girl flushing; "I never doubted Allen's love. He has asked me several times since the funeral to become his wife. But my poor father-"
"Poor father!" echoed Mrs. Merry in tones of contempt; "well, as he was your pa after all, there ain't nothing to be said, whatever you may think, Miss Eva. But he was a bad lot."
"Mrs. Merry, he's dead," said Eva rebukingly. The old woman rubbed her hands and tucked them under her apron. "I know that," said she with bright eyes, "and put 'longside that suffering saint your dear ma: but their souls won't be together whatever you may say, deary. Well, I'll say no more. Bad he was, and a bad end he come to. I don't weep for him," added Mrs. Merry viciously; "no more nor I'd weep for Giles if he was laid out, and a nasty corp he'd make."
Eva shuddered. "Don't speak like that."
"Well then, deary, I won't, me not being wishful to make your young blood run cold. But as to what you'll do, I'll just tell you what I've thought of, lying awake. There's the empty room across the passage waiting for a lodger; then the cow's milk can be sold, and there's garden stuff by the bushel for sale. I might let out the meadow as a grazing ground, too," said Mrs. Merry, rubbing her nose thoughtfully, "but that the cow's as greedy a cow as I ever set eyes on, an' I've had to do with 'em all my born days, Miss Eva. All this, rent free, my dear, and fifty pounds in cash. You'll be as happy as a queen living here, singing like a bee. And then when the year's mourning is over-not as he deserves it-you'll marry Mr. Allen and all will be gay."
"Dear Nanny," said the girl, throwing her arms round the old woman's neck, "how good you are. But, indeed I can't."
"Then you must marry Mr. Allen straight away."
"I can't do that either. I must earn my bread."
"What," screeched Mrs. Merry, "and you a born lady! Never; that saint would turn in her grave-and I wonder she don't, seeing she's laid 'longside him as tortured her when alive. There's your titles, of course, Lord Ipsen and his son."
"I wouldn't take a penny from them," said Eva colouring. "They never took any notice of me when my father was alive, and-"
"He didn't get on well with 'em," cried Mrs. Merry; "and who did he get on with, I ask you, deary? There's Lady Ipsen-she would have made much of you, but for him."
"I don't like Lady Ipsen, Nanny. She called here, if you remember, when my mother was alive. I'm not going to be patronised by her."
"Ah, Miss Eva," said the old dame admiringly, "it's a fine, bright, hardy spirit of your own as you've got. Lady Ipsen is as old as I am, and makes herself up young with paint and them things. But she has a heart. When she learned of your poverty-"
Eva sprang to her feet. "No! no! no!" she cried vehemently, "never mention her to me again. I would not go to my mother's family for bread if I was starving. What I eat, I'll earn."
"Tell Mr. Allen so," said Mrs. Merry, peering out of the window; "here he comes. His foot 'ull get worse, if he walk so fast," she added, with her usual pessimism.
Allen did not wait to enter in by the door, but paused at the open window before which Eva was standing. He looked ill and white and worried, but his foot was better, though even now, he had to use a stick, and walked slowly. "You should not have come out to-day," said Eva, shaking her finger at him.
"As Mrs. Mountain would not go to Mr. Mahomet," said Allen, trying to smile, "Mr. Mahomet had to come to Mrs. Mountain. Wait till I come in, Eva," and he disappeared.
The girl busied herself in arranging an arm-chair with cushions, and made her lover sit down when he was in the room. "There! you're more comfortable." She sat down beside him. "I'll get you a cup of tea."
"Don't bother," murmured Allen, closing his eyes.
"It's no bother. In any case tea will have to be brought in. Mrs. Palmer is coming to see me soon. She wants to talk to me."
"What about?"
"I can't say; but she asked me particularly to be at home to-day. We can have our talk first, though. Do smoke, Allen."
"No. I don't feel inclined to smoke."
"Will you have some fruit?"
"No, thank you," he said, so listlessly that Eva looked at him in alarm. She noted how thin his face was, and how he had lost his colour.
"You do look ill, Allen."
He smiled faintly. "The foot has pulled me down."
"Are you sure it's only the foot?" she inquired, puzzled.
"What else should it be?" asked Allen quietly; "you see I'm so used to being in the open air, that a few days within doors, soon takes my colour away. But my foot is nearly well. I'll soon be myself again. But, Eva," he took her hand, "do you know why I come."
"Yes," she said looking away, "to ask me again to be your wife."
"You have guessed it the first time," replied Allen, trying to be jocular; "this is the third time of asking. Come, Eva," he added coaxingly, "have you considered what I said?"
"You want me to marry you at once," she murmured.
"Next week, if possible. Then I can take you with me to South America, and we can start a new life, far away from these old vexations. Come, Eva. Near the mine, where I and Parkins are working, there's a sleepy old Spanish town where I can buy the most delightful house. The climate is glorious, and we would be so happy. You'll soon pick up the language."
"But why do you want me to leave England, Allen?"
Hill turned away his head as he answered. "I haven't enough money to keep you here in a proper position," he said quietly. "My father allows me nothing, and will allow me nothing. I have to earn my own bread, Eva, and to do so, have to live for the time being in South America. I used to think it exile, but with you by my side, dearest, it will be paradise. I want to marry you: my mother is eager to welcome you as her daughter, and-"
"And your father," said Eva, seeing he halted. Allen made a gesture of indifference. "My father doesn't care one way or the other, darling. You should know my father by this time. He is wrapped up in himself. Egotism is a disease with him." Eva twisted her hands together and frowned. "Allen, I really can't marry you," she said decisively; "think how my father was murdered!"
"What has that to do with it?" demanded Allen almost fiercely.
"Dear, how you frighten me. There's no need to scowl in that way. You have a temper, Allen, I can see."
"It shall never be shown to you," he said fondly. "Come, Eva."
But she still shook her head. "Allen, I had small cause to love my father, as you know. Still, he has been foully murdered: I have made up my mind to find out who killed him before I marry."
Allen rose in spite of his weak ankle and flung away her hand. "Oh, Eva," he said roughly, "is that all you care for me? My happiness is to be settled in this vague way-"
"Vague way-?"
"Certainly!" cried Hill excitedly; "you may never learn who killed your father. There's not a scrap of evidence to show who shot him."
"I may find Butsey," said Eva, looking obstinate.
"You'll never find him; and even if you do, how do we know that he can tell?"
"I am certain that he can tell much," said Miss Strode determinedly. "Think, Allen. He sent the telegram probably by order of my father's enemy. He came suddenly on those men at midnight when they were carrying the body. What was a child like that doing out so late, if he wasn't put up to mischief by some other person? And he knocked as happened in my dream, remember," she said, sinking her voice; "and then he came here with a lying message on the very day my father's wooden hand was stolen."
"Do you think he stole it?"
"Yes, I do; though why he should behave so I can't say. But I am quite sure that Butsey is acting on behalf of some other person-probably the man who killed my father."
Allen shrugged his shoulders frowningly. "Perhaps Butsey killed Mr. Strode himself," he said; "he has all the precocity of a criminal."
"We might even learn that," replied Eva, annoyed by Allen's tone; "but I am quite bent on searching for this boy and of learning who killed my father and why he was killed."
"How will you set about it?" asked Allen sullenly.
"I don't know. I have no money and no influence, and I am only a girl. But I'll learn the truth somehow."
Hill walked up and down the little room with a slight limp, though his foot was much better and gave him no pain. He was annoyed that Eva should be so bent on avenging the murder of her father, for he quite agreed with Mrs. Merry that the man was not worth it. But he knew that Eva had a mulish vein in her nature, and from the look on her face and from the hard tones of her voice, he was sure she would not be easily turned from her design. For a few minutes he thought in silence, Eva watching him intently. Then he turned suddenly: "Eva, my dear," he said, holding out his hands, "since you are so bent upon learning the truth leave it in my hands. I'll be better able to see about the matter than you. And if I find out who killed your father-"
"I'll marry you at once!" she cried, and threw herself into his arms.
"I hope so," said Allen in a choked voice. "I'll do my best, Eva; no man can do more. But if I fail, you must marry me. Here, I'll make a bargain with you. If I can't find the assassin within a year, will you give over this idea and become my wife?"
"Yes," said Eva frankly; "but I am certain that the man will be found through that boy Butsey."
"He has to be found first," said Allen with a sigh, "and that is no easy task. Well, Eva, I'll settle my affairs and start on this search."
"Your affairs!" said Eva in a tone of surprise.
"Ah," said the young man smiling, "you have seen me idle for so long that you think I have nothing to do. But I have to get back soon to Bolivia. My friend Parkins and I are working an old silver mine for a Spanish Don. But we discovered another and richer mine shown to me by an Indian. I believe it was worked hundreds of years ago by the Inca kings. Parkins and I can buy it, but we have not the money. I came home to see if my father would help me. But I might have spared myself the trouble: he refused at once. Since then I have been trying all these months to find a capitalist, but as yet I have not been successful. But I'll get him soon, and then Parkins and I will buy the mine, and make our fortunes. I wish you'd give up this wild goose chase after your father's murderer, and let us go to Bolivia."
"No," said Eva, "I must learn the truth. I would never be happy if I died without knowing who killed my father, and why he was killed."
"Well, then, I'll do my best. I have written to Parkins asking him to give me another six months to find a capitalist, and I shall have to take rooms in London. While there I'll look at the same time for Butsey, and perhaps may learn the truth. But if I don't-"
"I'll marry you, if you don't find the assassin in a year," said Eva embracing him. "Ah, Allen, don't look so angry. I don't want you to search all your life: but one year-twelve months-"
"Then it's a bargain," said Allen kissing her: "and, by the way, I shall have the assistance of Parkins's brother."
"Who is he?" asked Eva; "I don't want every one to-"
"Oh, that's all right. Parkins tells me his brother is shrewd and clever. I may as well have his assistance. Besides, I got a letter from Horace Parkins-that's the brother, for my man is called Mark-and he is in town now. He has just come from South Africa, so he may know of your father's doings there."
"Oh," Eva looked excited, "and he may be able to say who killed him!"
Allen shrugged his shoulders. "I don't say that. Your father may have had enemies in England as well as in Africa. But we'll see. I have never met Horace Parkins, but if he's as good a fellow as his brother Mark, my chum and partner, he'll do all he can to help me."
"I am sure you will succeed, Allen," cried Eva joyfully; "look how things are fitting in. Mr. Parkins, coming from Africa, is just the person to know about my father."