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Stowmarket Mystery, or, a Legacy of Hate

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<h3>Chapter XXIV</h3> <h2>The Meeting</h2> Return to Table of Contents “There!” he said to himself, as he passed downstairs, “I am just as big a fool as she is. She followed me to make a clean breast of everything, and I send her back with a request to keep her lips sealed. Yet I am angry with her for the risk she is taking!” He reached the hall and was about to cross the foyer when he caught the words, “Gentleman thrown out of a cab,” uttered by a handsome girl, cheaply but gaudily attired, who was making some inquiry at the bureau. He stopped and searched for a match. Then he became interested in the latest news, pinned in strips on the baize-covered board of a “ticker.” The girl explained to an official that she had witnessed an accident that evening. She was told that a gentleman who lived in the hotel was hurt. Was he seriously injured? The hotel man, from long practice, was enabled to sum up such inquirers rapidly. “Do you know the gentleman?” he inquired. “No—that is, slightly.” “Well, madam, if you give me your card I will send it to his friends. They will give you all necessary information.” She became confused. She was not accustomed to the quiet elegance of a great hotel. The men in evening dress, the gorgeously attired ladies passing to elevator or drawing-room, seemed to be listening to her. Why did the bureau keeper speak so loudly? Then the assurance of the Cockney came to her aid. “I don’t see why there should be such a fuss about nothing,” she said. “I don’t know his people. I saw the gentleman pitched out of a cab and was sorry for him, so I just called to ask how he was.” She angrily tossed her head, and stared insolently at an old lady who came to inquire if there were any letters for the Countess of Skerry and Ness. “No letters, your ladyship,” said the man. “And you, miss, must either send a personal message or see the manager.” The young woman bounced out in a fury, and Brett followed her, silently thanking the favouring planets which had sent him down the stairs at the very moment when the girl was proffering her request to the clerk. Fortunately, the weather was better now. There was a clear sky overhead, and the streets looked quite cheerful after the steady downpour, London’s myriad lamps being reflected in glistening zigzags across the wet pavement. The girl did not head towards the busy Strand, but walked direct to Charing Cross station on the District Railway. The barrister thought she intended to go somewhere by train. He quickened his pace in order to be able to rapidly obtain a ticket and thus keep up with her. Herein he was lucky. To his surprise, she passed out of the station on the embankment side. He followed, and nowhere could he see her. Then he remembered the steps leading to the footpath along the Hungerford Bridge. Running up these steps he soon caught sight of the young woman, who was walking rapidly towards Waterloo. A man of the artisan class stared at her as she passed, and said something to her. She turned fiercely. “Do you want a swipe on the jaw?” she demanded. No, he did not. What had he done, he would like to know. “You mind your own business,” she said. “Where am I goin’, indeed. What’s it got to do with you?” The episode was valuable to the listening barrister. It classified the anxious inquirer after Hume’s health. Her abashed admirer hung back, and the girl resumed her onward progress. The man was conscious that the gentleman behind him must have heard what passed. He endeavoured to justify himself. “She’s pretty O.T., she is,” he grinned. “Do you know her?” said Brett. “I know her by sight. Seen her in the York now an’ then.” “She can evidently take care of herself.” “Ra—ther. Don’t you so much as look at her, mister, or off goes your topper into the river. She’s in a bad temper to-night.” Brett laughed and walked ahead. On reaching the Surrey side the girl made for the Waterloo Road. There she mounted on top of a ’bus. The barrister went inside. He thought of the “man with black, snaky eyes,” who “took penn’orths” all the way from the Elephant to Whitehall. And now he, Brett, took a penn’orth to the Elephant. The ’bus reached that famous centre of humanity, passing thence through Newington Butts to the Kennington Park Road. In the latter thoroughfare the girl skipped down from the roof, and disdaining the conductor’s offer to stop, swung herself lightly to the ground. The barrister followed, and soon found himself tracking her along a curved street of dingy houses. Into one of these she vanished. It chanced to be opposite a gas-lamp, and as he walked past he made out the number—37. Externally it was exactly like its neighbours, dull, soiled, pinched, old curtains, worn blinds, blistered paint. He knew that if he walked inside he would tread on a strip of oilcloth, once gay in red and yellow squares, but now worn to a dirty grey uniformity. In the “hall” he would encounter a rickety hat-stand faced by an ancient print entitled “Idle Hours,” and depicting two ladies, reclining on rocks, attired in tremendous skirts, tight jackets, and diminutive straw hats perched between their forehead and chignons—in the middle distance a fat urchin, all hat and frills, staring stupidly at the ocean. In the front sitting-room he would encounter horse-hair chairs, frayed carpet, and more early Victorian prints; in the back sitting-room more frayed carpet, more prints, and possibly a bed. Nothing very mysterious or awe-inspiring about 37 Middle Street, yet the barrister was loth to leave the place. The scent of the chase was in his nostrils. He had “found.” He was tempted to boldly approach and frame some excuse—a hunt for lodgings, an inquiry for a missing friend, anything to gain admittance and learn something, however meagre in result, of the occupants. He reviewed the facts calmly. To attempt, at such an hour, to glean information from the sharp-tongued young person who had just admitted herself with a latchkey, was to court failure and suspicion. He must bide his time. Winter was an adept in ferreting out facts concerning these localities and their denizens. To Winter the inquiry must be left. He stopped at the further end of the street, lit a cigar, and walked back. He had again passed No. 37, giving a casual glance to the second floor front window, in which a light illumined the blind, when he became aware that a man was approaching from the Kennington Park Road. Otherwise the street was empty. The lamp opposite No. 37 did not throw its beams far into the gloom, but the advancing figure instantly enlisted Brett’s attention. The man was tall and strongly built. He moved with the ease of an athlete. He walked with a long, swinging stride, yet carried himself erect He was attired in a navy blue serge suit and a bowler hat. The two were rapidly nearing each other. At ten yards’ distance Brett knew that the other man was he whom he sought, the murderer of Sir Alan Hume-Frazer, the human ogre whose mission on earth seemed to be the extinction of all who bore that fated name. It is idle to deny that Brett was startled by this unexpected rencontre. Not until he made the discovery did he remember that he was carrying the stick rescued from the mud of Northumberland Avenue. The knowledge gave him an additional thrill. Though he could be cool enough in exciting circumstances, though his quiet courage had more than once saved his life in moments of extreme peril, though physically he was more than able to hold his own with, say, the average professional boxer, he fully understood that the individual now about to pass within a stride could kill him with ridiculous ease. Would this dangerous personage recognise his own stick?—that was the question. If he did, Brett could already see himself describing a parabola in the air, could hear his skull crashing against the pavement. He even went so far as to sit with the coroner’s jury and bring in a verdict of “Accidental Death.” In no sense did Brett exaggerate the risk he encountered. The individual who could stab Sir Alan to death with a knife like a toy, hurl a stalwart sailor into the middle of a street without perceptible effort, and bring down a horse and cab at the precise instant and in the exact spot determined upon after a second’s thought, was no ordinary opponent. Their eyes met. Truly a fiendish-looking Hume-Frazer, a Satanic impersonation of a fine human type. For the first and only time in his life Brett regretted that he did not carry a revolver when engaged in his semi-professional affairs. The barrister, be it stated, wore the conventional frock-coat and tall hat of society. His was a face once seen not easily forgotten, the outlines classic and finely chiselled, the habitual expression thoughtful, preoccupied, the prevalent idea conveyed being tenacious strength. Quite an unusual person in Middle Street, Kennington. They passed. Brett swung the stick carelessly in his left hand, but not so carelessly that on the least sign of a hostile movement he would be unable to dash it viciously at his possible adversary’s eyes. He remembered the advice of an old cavalry officer: “Always give ’em the point between the eyes. They come head first, and you reach ’em at the earliest moment.” Nevertheless, he experienced a quick quiver down his spine when the other man deliberately stopped and looked after him. He did not turn his head, but he could “feel” that vicious glance travelling over him, could hear the unspoken question: “Now, I wonder who you are, and what you want here?” He staggered slightly, recovered his balance, and went on. It was a masterpiece of suggestiveness, not overdone, a mere wink of intoxication, as it were. It sufficed. Such an explanation accounts for many things in London. The watcher resumed his interrupted progress. Brett crossed the street and deliberately knocked at the door of a house in which the ground floor was illuminated. Someone peeped through a blind, the door opened as far as a rattling chain would permit. “Good evening,” said Brett. “What do you want?” demanded a suspicious woman. “Mr. Smith—Mr. Horatio Smith.” “He doesn’t live here.” “Dear me! Isn’t this 76 Middle Street?” “Yes; all the same, there’s no Smiths here.” The door slammed; but the barrister had attained his object. The other man had entered No. 37. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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