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Stowmarket Mystery, or, a Legacy of Hate

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<h3>Chapter XXVI</h3> <h2>Mr. Ooma</h2> Return to Table of Contents He kept his word. Early next morning, after despatching a message to David Hume, and receiving an answer—an acknowledgment of his address in case of need—he took train to London-by-the-Sea, and for thirty-six hours flung mysteries and intrigues to the winds. He came back prepared for the approaching climax. In such matters he was a human barometer. The affairs of the family in whose interests he had become so suddenly involved were rapidly reaching an acute stage. Something must happen soon, and that something would probably have tremendous and far-reaching consequences. Capella and his companions, known and unknown, would reach London at 7.30 p.m. It pleased Brett to time his homeward journey so that he would speed in the same direction, but arrive before them. In these trivial matters he owned to a boyish enthusiasm. It stimulated him to “beat the other man,” even if he only called upon the London, Brighton, and South Coast line to conquer a weak opponent like the South-Eastern. At his flat were several letters and telegrams. Mrs. Capella wrote: <blockquote> “I have seriously considered your last words to me. It is hard for a woman, the victim of circumstances, and deprived of her husband’s support at a most trying and critical period, to know how to act for the best. You said you wished your hands to be left unfettered. Well, be it so. You will encounter no hindrance from me. I pray for your success, and can only hope that in bringing happiness to others you will secure peace for me.” </blockquote> “Poor woman!” he murmured. “She still trusts to chance to save her. Whom does she dread? Not her husband. Each day that passes she must despise him the more. Does she know that Robert loves her? Is she afraid that he will despise her? Really, a collision in which Capella was the only victim would be a perfect godsend.” David telegraphed the safe arrival of the party at a Whitby hotel. “We have seen nothing more of our Northumberland Avenue acquaintance,” he added. Holden, too, cabled from Paris, announcing progress. The remainder of the correspondence referred to other matters and social engagements, all which latter fixtures the barrister had summarily broken. Winter was announced. His face heralded important tidings. “Well, how goes the ratiocinative process?’ was Brett’s greeting. “I don’t know him,” said the detective. “But I do happen to know most of the private inquiry agents in London, and one of ’em is going strong in Middle Street. He’s watching Mr. Ooma for all he’s worth.” “Mr. Whom-a?” “I’m not joking, Mr. Brett. That is the name of the mysterious gent in No. 37—Ooma, no initials. Anyhow, that is the name he gives to the landlady, and her daughter—the girl you followed from the hotel—tells all her friends that when he gets his rights he will marry her and make her a princess.” “Ooma—a princess,” repeated Brett. “Such is the yarn in Kennington circles. I obeyed orders absolutely. I and my mate took turn about in the lodgings we hired, where we are supposed to be inventors. My pal has a mechanical twist. He puts together a small electric machine during his spell, and I take it to pieces in mine. Yesterday my landlady was in the room, and Ooma looked out of the opposite window. Then she told me the whole story.” “Go on—do!” “Mr. Ooma is evidently puzzled to learn what has become of the Hume-Frazers and Mrs. Capella.” “Why do you bring in her name?” “Because it leads to the second part of my story. Someone—Capella or his solicitors, I expect—instructed Messrs. Matchem and Smith, private detectives, to keep a close eye on the lady. Their man is an ex-police constable, a former subordinate of mine who was fined for taking a drink when he ought not to. Of course, I knew him and he knew me, so I hadn’t much trouble in getting it out of him.” The speaker paused with due dramatic effect. “Got what out of him?” cried Brett impatiently. “And don’t puff your cheeks in that way. Remember the terrible fate of the frog who would be a bull.” “There’s neither frogs nor bulls in this business,” retorted Winter, calm in the consciousness of his coming revelation. “Mrs. Capella did go to Middle Street that night. She drove there in a hansom, had a long talk with Ooma, and nearly drove Miss Dew crazy with jealousy.” “We guessed that already. Miss Dew is the prospective princess, I presume?” “Yes. She has been twice to the hotel since, trying to find out where the party went to.” “Next?” “Ooma has plenty of money, and now for my prize packet—he is a Jap!” “Impossible!” “This time you are wrong, Mr. Brett. You have only seen him once. You were full of his remarkable likeness to the Hume-Frazers. It is startling, I admit, and at night-time no man living could avoid the mistake. But I tell you he is a Jap. He met Jiro yesterday, and they walked in Kensington Palace Gardens. They talked Japanese all the time. My mate heard them. He distinctly caught the word ‘Okasaki’ more than once. He managed to shadow them very neatly by hiring a bath-chair and telling the attendant to come near to the pair every time there was a chance. More than that, when you know it, you can see the Japanese eyes, skin, and mouth. It is the grafting of the Jap on the European model that gives him the likeness to—well, to the party you mentioned the other day.” “The devil!” exclaimed Brett. “That’s him!” It was useless to explain that the exclamation was one of amazement. The barrister began to roam about the apartment, frowning with the intensity of his thoughts. Once he confronted Winter. “Are you sure of this?” he demanded. “So sure that were it not for your positive instructions, Mr. Ooma would now be in Holloway, awaiting his trial on a charge of murder. Look at the facts. ‘Rabbit Jack’ can identify him. He knew how to use the Ko-Katana. He knew the Japanese tricks of wrestling, which enabled him to make those two clever attacks on the two cousins. He has some power over Mrs. Capella, which brings her to him at eleven at night in a distant quarter of London. He made Jiro write the typed letter in my possession. He sent Jiro to Ipswich to attend Mr. David’s second trial when the first missed fire. I can string Mr. Ooma on that little lot.” “Winter,” said Brett sternly, “you make me tired. Have all these stunning items of intelligence invaded your intellect only since you went to Middle Street?” “No, not exactly, Mr. Brett. I must admit that each one of them is your discovery, except the fact that he is a Jap—always excepting that—but yesterday I strung them together, so to speak.” “Ending your task by stringing Ooma, in imagination. I allow you full credit for your sensational development—always excepting this, that I sent you to Middle Street. Why did he kill Sir Alan? How does his Japanese nationality elucidate an utterly useless and purposeless murder?” “I don’t know, Mr. Brett.” “Unless I am much mistaken, you will learn to-night. Holden is nearly due.” The barrister resumed his stalk round the room. In another minute he stopped to glance at his watch. “Half-past seven,” he murmured. “Just time to get a message through to Whitby, and perhaps a reply.” He wrote a telegram to Hume: “Where is Fergusson? I want to see him.” “What has Fergusson got to do with the business?” asked the detective. “Probably nothing. But he is the oldest available repository of the family secrets. His master has told him to be explicit with me. By questioning him, I may solve the riddle presented by Mr. Ooma. Does the name suggest nothing to you, Winter?” “It has a Japanese ring about it.” “Nothing Scotch? Isn’t it like Hume, for instance?” “By Jove! I never thought of that. Well, there, I give in. Ooma! Dash my buttons, that beats cock-fighting!” The barrister paid no heed to Winter’s fall from self-importance. He pondered deeply on the queer twist given to events by the detective’s statement. At last he took a volume from his book-case. “Do you remember what I told you about Japanese names?” he said. “I described to you, for instance, what strange mutations your surname would undergo were you born in the Far East.” “Yes; I would be called Spring, Summer, etc, according to my growth.” “Then listen to this,” and he read the following extract from that excellent work, “The Mikado’s Empire,” by W.E. Griffis: “It has, until recently, in Japan been the custom for every Samurai to be named differently in babyhood, boyhood, manhood, or promotion, change of life, or residence, in commemoration of certain events, or on account of a vow, or from mere whim.” “What a place for aliases!” interpolated the professional. “At the birth of a famous warrior,” went on Brett, “his mother, having dreamed that she conceived by the sun, called him Hiyoshi Maro (good sun). Others dubbed him Ko Chiku (small boy), and afterward Saru Watsu (monkey-pine).” He closed the volume. “This gentleman has twenty other names,” he added; “but the foregoing list will suffice. Doesn’t it strike you as odd that the man who struck down the fifth Hume-Frazer baronet on the spot so fatal to his four predecessors, should bring from a country given to such name-changes a cognomen that irresistibly recalls the original enemy of the family, David Hume?” “It is odd,” asserted Winter. Someone rang, and was admitted. “Mr. Holden,” announced Smith. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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