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Stowmarket Mystery, or, a Legacy of Hate

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<h3>Chapter XX</h3> <h2>The Trail</h2> Return to Table of Contents Standing on the steps of the hotel, Brett cast a searching glance along the line of waiting hansoms. He wanted a strong, sure-footed horse, one of those marvellous animals, found only in the streets of London, which trots like a dog, slides down Savoy Street on its hind legs, slips in and out among the traffic like an eel, and covers a steady eight miles an hour for a seemingly indefinite period. “Shall I whistle for a cab, sir?” said the hall-porter. “No. You whistle without discrimination,” replied the barrister. He found the stamp of gee-gee he needed fourth on the rank. “How long has your horse been out of the stable?” he asked the driver. “I’ve just driven him here, sir.” “Is he up to a hard day’s work?” “The best tit in London, sir.” “Pull him up to the pavement.” The man obeyed. Instantly his three predecessors on the rank began a chorus: “‘Ere! Wot th’—” “All right, Jimmy. Wait till—” “Well, I’m—” “What is the matter?” inquired Brett, “You fellows always squeal before you are hurt. Here is a fare each for you,” and he solemnly gave them a shilling a-piece. Even then they were not satisfied. They all objurgated Jimmy for his luck as he drove off. It was an easy matter to find the constable who had been on point duty at the crossing when the “accident” happened. This man produced his note-book containing the number of the Road Car Company’s Camden Town and Victoria ’bus, the driver of which had so cleverly avoided a catastrophe. The policeman knew nothing of events prior to the falling of the horse. There was the usual crowd of hurrying people; the scream of a startled woman; a rush of sightseers; and the rescue of Frazer from beneath the prostrate animal. “Did you chance to notice the destination of the omnibus immediately preceding the Road Car vehicle?” said Brett. “Yes, sir. It was an Atlas.” “Have you noted the exact time the accident occurred?” “Here it is, sir—10.45 a.m.” At Victoria he was lucky in hitting upon the Camden Town ’bus itself, drawn up outside the District Railway Station, waiting its turn to enter the enclosure. The driver was a sharp fellow, and disinclined to answer questions. Brett might be an emissary of the enemy. But a handsome tip and the assurance that a very substantial present would be forwarded to his address by the friends of the gentleman whose life he saved unloosed his tongue. “I never did see anything like it, sir,” he confided. “The road was quite clear, an’ I was bowlin’ along to get the inside berth from a General just behind, when this yer gent was chucked under the ’osses’ ’eds. Bli-me, I would ha’ thort ’e was a suicide if I ’adn’t seed a bloke shove ’im orf the kerb.” “Oh, you saw that, did you?” “Couldn’t ’elp it, sir. I was lookin’ aht for fares. Jack, my mate, sawr it too.” The conductor thus appealed to confirmed the statement. They both described the assailant as very like his would-be victim in size, appearance, and garments. Jack said he could do nothing, because the sudden swerving of the ’bus, the fall of the horse, and the instant gathering of a crowd, prevented him from making the attempt to grab the other man, who vanished, he believed, down Whitehall. “You did not tell the police about the assault?” inquired Brett. “Not me, guv’nor,” said the driver. “The poor chap in the road was not much ’urt. I knew that, though the mob thort ’e was a dead ’un. An’ wot does it mean? A day lost in the polis-court, an’ a day lost on my pay-sheet, too.” “Well,” said Brett, “the twist you gave to the reins this morning meant several days added to your pay-sheet. Would either of you know the man again if you saw him?” This needed reflection. “I wouldn’t swear to ’im,” was the driver’s dictum, “but I would swear to any man bein’ like ’im.” “Same ’ere,” said the conductor. The barrister understood their meaning, which had not the general application implied by the words. He obtained the addresses of both men and left them. His next visit was to an Atlas terminus. Here he had to wait a full hour before the ’bus arrived that had passed Trafalgar Square on a south journey at 10.45. The conductor remembered the sudden stoppage of the Road Car vehicle. “Ran over a man, sir, didn’t it?” he inquired. “Nearly, not quite. Now, I want you to fix your thoughts on the passengers who entered your ’bus at that point. Can you describe them?” The man smiled. “It’s rather a large order, sir,” he said. “I’ve been past there twice since. If it’s anybody you know particular, and you tell me what he was like, I may be able to help you.” Brett would have preferred the conductor’s own unaided statement, but seeing no help for it, he gave the man a detailed description of David Hume, plus the beard. “Has he got black, snaky eyes and high cheek-bones?” the conductor inquired thoughtfully. The barrister had described a fair man, with brown hair; and the question in no way indicated the colour of the Hume-Frazer eyes. Yet the odd combination caught his attention. “Yes,” he said, “that may be the man.” “Well, sir, I didn’t pick him up there, but I dropped him there at nine o’clock. I picked him up at the Elephant, and noticed him particular because he didn’t pay the fare for the whole journey, but took penn’orths.” “I am greatly obliged to you. Would you know him again?” “Among a thousand! He had a funny look, and never spoke. Just shoved a penny out whenever I came on top. Twice I had to refuse it.” “Was he a foreigner?” “Not to my idea. He looked like a Scotchman. Don’t you know him, sir?” “Not yet. I hope to make his acquaintance. Can you remember the ’bus which was in front of you at Whitehall at 10.45?” “Yes; I can tell you that. It was a Monster, Pimlico. The conductor is a friend of mine, named Tomkins. That is the only time I have seen him to-day.” At the Monster, Pimlico, after another delay, Tomkins was produced. Again Brett described David Hume, adorned now with “black, snaky eyes and high cheek-bones.” “Of course,” said Tomkins. “I’ve spotted ’im. ’E came aboard wiv a run just arter a hoss fell in front of the statoo. Gimme a penny, ’e did, an’ jumped orf at the ’Orse Guards without a ticket afore we ’ad gone a ’undred yards. I thort ’e was frightened or dotty, I did. Know ’im agin? Ra—ther. Eyes like gimlets, ’e ’ad.” The barrister regained the seclusion of the hansom. “St John’s Mansions, Kensington,” he said to the driver, and then he curled up on the seat in the most uncomfortable attitude permitted by the construction of the vehicle. On nearing his destination he stopped the cab at a convenient corner. “I want you to wait here for my return,” he told the driver. “How long will you be, sir?” “Not more than fifteen minutes.” “I only asked, sir, because I wanted to know if I had time to give the horse a feed.” Cabby was evidently quite convinced that his eccentric fare was not a bilker. Brett glanced around. In the neighbouring street was a public-house, which possessed what the agents call “a good pull-up trade.” He pointed to it. “I think,” he said, “if you wait there it will be more comfortable for you and equally good for the horse.” The cabby pocketed an interim tip with a grin. “I’ve struck it rich to-day,” he murmured, as he disappeared through a swing door bearing the legend, “Tap,” in huge letters. Meanwhile, Brett sauntered past St. John’s Mansions. Across the road a man was leaning against the railings of a large garden, being deeply immersed in the columns of a sporting paper. The barrister caught his eye and walked on. A minute later Mr. Winter overtook him. “Not a move here all day,” he said in disgust, “except Mrs. Jiro’s appearance with the perambulator. She led me all round Kensington Gardens, and her only business was to air the baby and cram it with sponge-cakes.” “Where is her husband?” “In the house. He hasn’t stirred out since yesterday’s visit to the Museum.” “Who is looking after the place in your absence?” “One of my men has taken a room over the paper shop opposite. He has special charge of the Jap. My second assistant is scraping and varnishing the door of No. 16 flat. He sees every one who enters and leaves the place during the day. If Mrs. Jiro comes out he has to follow her until he sees that I am on the job.” “Good! I want to talk matters over with you. I have a cab waiting in a side street.” “Why, sir, has anything special happened?” A newsboy came running along shouting the late edition of the Evening News. The barrister bought a paper and rapidly glanced through its contents. “Here you are,” he said. “Someone in that office has a good memory.” The item which Brett pointed out to the detective read as follows:— <blockquote> “ACCIDENT IN WHITEHALL. “Mr. Robert Hume-Frazer, residing in one of the great hotels in Northumberland Avenue, was knocked down and nearly run over by an omnibus in Whitehall this morning. The skill of the driver averted a very serious accident. It is supposed that Mr. Hume-Frazer slipped whilst attempting to cross before the policeman on duty at that point stopped the traffic. “The injured gentleman was carried to his hotel, where he is staying with his cousin, Mr. David Hume-Frazer, whose name will be recalled in connection with the famous ‘Stowmarket Mystery’ of last year.” </blockquote> “What does it all mean?” inquired Winter. “It means that you must listen carefully to what I am going to tell you. Here is my cab. Jump in. Driver, I am surprised that a man of your intelligence should waste your money on a public-house cigar. Throw it away. Here is a better one. And now, Victoria Street, sharp.” Winter’s ears were pricked to receive Brett’s intelligence. Beyond a sigh of professional admiration at the result of Brett’s pertinacity with regard to the omnibuses passing through Whitehall at 10.45, he did not interrupt until the barrister had ended. Even then he was silent, so Brett looked at him in surprise, “Well, Winter, what do you think of it?” he said. “Think! I wish I had half your luck, Mr. Brett,” he answered sadly. “How now, you green-eyed monster?” “No. I’m not jealous. You beat me at my own game; I admit it. I would never have thought of going for the ’buses. I suppose you would have interviewed the driver and conductor of every vehicle on that route before you gave in. You didn’t trouble about the hansoms. Hailing a cab was a slow business, and risked subsequent identification. To jump on to a moving ’bus was just the thing. Yes, there is no denying that you are d—d smart.” “Winter, your unreasonable jealousy is making you vulgar.” “Wouldn’t any man swear, sir? Why did I let such a handful as Mrs. Jiro slip through my fingers the other day? Clue! Why, it was a perfect bale of cotton. If I had only followed her instead of that little rat, her husband, we would now know where the third man lives, and have the murderer of Sir Alan under our thumb. It is all my fault, though sometimes I feel inclined to blame the police system—a system that won’t even give us telephones between one station and another. Never mind. Wait till I tackle the next job for the Yard. I’ll show ’em a trick or two.” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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