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Stowmarket Mystery, or, a Legacy of Hate

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<h3>Chapter XVIII</h3> <h2>Further Complications</h2> Return to Table of Contents Brett devoted half an hour to Frazer’s business affairs next morning. David was present, and the result of the conclave is shown by the following excerpt from a letter the barrister sent by them to Mrs. Capella, incidentally excusing his personal attendance at the Hall: <blockquote> “In my opinion, your cousin David and you should guarantee the payment of the land-tax on Mr. Frazer’s estate—£650 per annum—for five years. You should give him a reasonable sum to rehabilitate his wardrobe and pay the few small debts he has contracted, besides allowing him a weekly stipend to enable him to live properly for another year. I will place him in touch with sound financial people, who will exploit his estate if they think the prospects are good, and you can co-operate in the scheme, if you are so advised by your solicitors, with whom the financiers I recommend will carry weight. Failing support in England, Mr. Frazer says he can make his own way in the Argentine if helped in the manner I suggest.” </blockquote> He explained to the two young men that his movements that day would be uncertain. If the ladies still adhered to their resolve to proceed to London forthwith, the whole party would stay at the same hotel. In that event they should send a telegram to his Victoria Street chambers, and he would dine with them. Otherwise they must advise him of their whereabouts. Left to himself, he curled up in an arm-chair, knotting legs and arms in the most uncomfortable manner, and rendering it necessary to crane his neck before he could remove a cigar from his lips. In such posture, alternated with rapid walking about the room, he could think best. The waiter, not knowing that the barrister had remained in the hotel, came in to see what trifles might be strewed about table or mantelpiece in the shape of loose “smokes” or broken hundreds of cigarettes. Like most people, his eyes could only observe the expected, the normal. No one was standing or sitting in the usual way—therefore the room was empty. A box of Brett’s Turkish cigarettes was lying temptingly open. He advanced. “Touch those, and I slay you,” snapped Brett. “Your miserable life is not worth one of them.” The man jumped as if he had been fired at. The barrister, coiled up like a boa-constrictor, glared at him in mock fury. “I beg pardon, sir,” he blurted out, “I didn’t know you was in.” “Evidently. A more expert scoundrel would have stolen them under my very nose. You are a bungler.” “I really wasn’t goin’ to take any, sir—just put them away, that is all.” “In that packet,” said Brett, “there are eighty-seven cigarettes. I count them, because each one is an epoch. I don’t count the cigars in the sideboard.” “I prefer cigars,” grinned the waiter. “So I see. You have two of the landlord’s best ‘sixpences’ in the left pocket of your waistcoat at this moment.” “Well, if you ain’t a fair scorcher,” the man gasped. “What, you rascal, would you call me names?” Brett writhed convulsively, and the waiter backed towards the door. “No, sir, I was callin’ no names. We don’t get too many perks—we waiters don’t, sir. I was out of bed until one o’clock and up again at six. That’s wot I call hard work, sir.” “It is outrageous. Take five cigars.” “Thank you kindly, sir.” “What kept you up till one o’clock?” “Gossip, sir—just silly gossip. All about Mrs. Capella, an’ Beechcroft, an’ I don’t know wot” “Indeed, and who was so interested in these topics as to spoil your beauty sleep?” “The new gentleman, who is so like Mr. David.” “How very interesting,” said the barrister, who certainly did not expect this revelation. “It seemed to be interesting to ’im, sir. You see, the ’ouse is pretty full, and when you brought ’im ’ere last night, sir, the bookkeeper gev’ ’im the room next to mine. Last thing, I fetched the gentleman a Scotch an’ soda an’ a cigar. ’E said ’e couldn’t sleep, and ’e was lookin’ at a fotygraf. I caught a squint at it, an’ I sez, ‘Beg parding, sir, but ain’t that Mrs. Capella—Miss Margaret as used to be?’ That started ’im.” “You surprise me.” “And the gentleman surprised me,” confided the waiter, whose greatest conversational effects were produced by quickly adapting remarks made to him. “P’r’aps you are not aware, sir, that the lady’s Eye-talian ’usbin’ ain’t no good?” “I have heard something of the sort.” “Then you’ve heard something right, sir. They do say as ’ow ’e beats her.” “The scoundrel!” “Scoundrel! You should ’ave seen No. 18 last night when I tole ’im that. My conscience! ’E went on awful, ’e did. ’E seemed to be mad about Mrs. Capella.” “He is her cousin.” “Cousin! That won’t wash, sir, beggin’ your pardon. You an’ me knows better than that” “I tell you again he is her cousin.” The waiter absent-mindedly dusted the back of a chair. “Well, sir, it isn’t for the likes of me to be contradictious, but I’ve got two sisters an’ ’arf-a-dozen cousins, an’ I don’t go kissin’ their pictures an’ swearin’ to ’ave it out with their ’usbin’s.” “Oh, come now. You are romancing.” “Not a bit, sir. When I went to my room I—er—’eard ’im.” “Is there a wooden partition between No. 18 and your room?” “Yes, sir.” “And cracks—large ones?” “Yes, sir. But why you should—oh, I see! Excuse me, sir; I thought I ’eard a bell.” The waiter hurried off, and Brett unwound himself. “So Robert is in love with Margaret,” he said, laughing unmirthfully. “Was there ever such a tangle! If I indulge in a violent flirtation with Miss Layton, and I persuade Winter to ogle Mrs. Jiro, the affair should be artistically complete.” The conceit brought Ipswich to his mind. He was convinced that the main line of inquiry lay in the direction of Mr. Numagawa Jiro and the curious masquerading of his colossal spouse. He had vaguely intended to visit the local police. Now he made up his mind to go to Ipswich and thence to London. Further delay at Stowmarket was useless. Before his train quitted the station he made matters right with the stationmaster by explaining to him the identity of the two men who had attracted his attention the previous evening. Somehow, the barrister imagined that the third visitant of that fateful New Year’s Eve two years ago would not trouble the neighbourhood again. Herein he was mistaken. At the county town he experienced little difficulty in learning the antecedents of Mrs. Numagawa Jiro. In the first hotel he entered he found a young lady behind the bar who was not only well acquainted with Mrs. Jiro, but remembered the circumstances of the courtship. “The fact is,” she explained, “there are a lot of silly girls about who think every man with a dark skin is a prince in his own country if only he wears a silk hat and patent leather boots.” “Is that all?” said Brett. “All what?” cried the girl. “Oh, don’t be stupid! I mean when they are well dressed. Princess, indeed! Catch me marrying a nigger.” “But Japanese are not niggers.” “Well, they’re not my sort, anyhow. And fancy a great gawk like Flossie Bird taking on with a little man who doesn’t reach up to her elbow. It was simply ridiculous. What did you say her name is now?” He gave the required information, and went on: “Had Mr. Jiro any other friends in Ipswich to your knowledge?” “He didn’t know a soul. He was here for the Assizes, about some case, I think. Oh, I remember—the ‘Stowmarket Mystery’—and he stayed at the hotel where Flossie was engaged. How she ever came to take notice of him, I can’t imagine. She was a queer sort of girl—used to wear bloomers, and get off her bike to clout the small boys who chi-iked at her.” “Do her people live here?” “Yes, and a rare old row they made about her marriage—for she is married, I will say that for her. But why are you so interested in her?” The fair Hebe glanced in a mirror to confirm her personal opinion that there were much nicer girls than Flossie Bird left in Ipswich. “Not in her,” said Brett; “in the example she set.” “What do you mean?” “If a little Japanese can come to this town and carry off a lady of her size and appearance, what may not a six-foot Englishman hope to accomplish?” “Oh, go on!” He took her advice, and went on to the hotel patronised by Mr. Jiro during his visit to Ipswich. The landlord readily showed him the register for the Assize week. Most of the guests were barristers and solicitors, many of them known personally to Brett. None of the other names struck him as important, though he noted a few who arrived on the same day as the Japanese, “Mr. Okasaki.” He took the next train to London, and reached Victoria Street, to find Mr. Winter awaiting him, and carefully nursing a brown paper parcel. “I got your wire, Mr. Brett,” he explained, “and this morning after Mr. Jiro went out alone—” “Where did he go to?” “The British Museum.” “What on earth was he doing there?” “Examining manuscripts, my assistant told me. He was particularly interested in—let me see—it is written on a bit of paper. Here it is, the ‘Nihon Guai Shi,’ the ‘External History of Japan,’ compiled by Rai Sanyo, between 1806 and 1827, containing a history of each of the military families. That is all Greek to me, but my man got the librarian to jot it down for him.” “Your man has brains. What were you going to say when I interrupted you?” “Only this. No fat companion appeared to day, so I called at No. 17 St. John’s Mansions in my favourite character as an old clo’ man.” The barrister expressed extravagant admiration in dumb show, but this did not deceive the detective, who, for some reason, was downcast. “I saw Mrs. Jiro, and knew in an instant that she was the stout gentleman who left her husband at Piccadilly Circus yesterday. I was that annoyed I could hardly do a deal. However, here they are.” He began to unfasten the string which fastened the brown paper parcel. “Here are what?” cried Brett. “Mrs. Jiro’s coat, and trousers, and waistcoat,” replied Winter desperately. “She doesn’t want ’em any more; sold ’em for a song—glad to be rid of ’em, in fact.” He unfolded a suit of huge dimensions, surveying each garment ruefully, as though reproaching it personally for the manner in which it had deceived him. Then Brett sat down and enjoyed a burst of Homeric laughter. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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