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Stowmarket Mystery, or, a Legacy of Hate

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<h3>Chapter XXVIII</h3> <h2>Mr. and Mrs. Jiro</h2> Return to Table of Contents Chance, at times, tangles the threads on which human lives depend, and creates such a net of knots and meshes that intelligent foresight is rendered powerless, and plans that ought to succeed are doomed to utter failure. It was so during the three days succeeding Capella’s return from Italy. Reviewing events in the lights of accomplished facts, Brett subsequently saw many opportunities where his intervention would have altered the fortunes of the men and women in whom he had become so interested. Although he endeavoured to keep control of circumstances, it was impossible to predict with certainty the manner in which the fifth act of this tragedy in real life would unfold itself. Would he have ordered things differently had he possessed the power? He never knew. It was a question he refused to discuss with Winter long after everybody was comfortably married or buried, as the case might be. To divide labour and responsibility, he apportioned Ooma and his surroundings to Winter, Capella to Holden. The strict supervision maintained over the Jiro family was relaxed. Brett proposed dealing with them summarily and in person. Holden had barely concluded his remarkable narrative when Hume’s reply came from Whitby, giving the address of the hotel where Fergusson resided. Brett went there at once, and found the old butler on the point of retiring for the night. Fergusson was at first disinclined to commit himself to definite statements. With characteristic Scottish caution, he would neither say “yes” nor “no” until the barrister reminded him that he was not acting in his young master’s interests by being so reticent. “Weel, sir, I’m an auld man, and mebbe a bit haverin’ in my judgment. Just ask me what ye wull, an’ I’ll dae my best to answer ye,” was the butler’s ultimate concession. “You remember the day of the murder?” “Shall I ever forget it?” “Before Mr. David Hume-Fraser arrived at Beechcroft from London, had any other visitors seen Sir Alan?” This was a poser. No form of ambiguity known to Fergusson would serve to extricate him from a direct reply. “Ay, Mr. Brett,” came his reply at last. “One I can swear to.” “That was Mr. Robert Hume-Fraser, who met him in the park, and walked with him there about three to four o’clock in the afternoon. Were there others whom you cannot swear to?” The butler darted a quick glance at the other. “Ye ken, sir,” he said, “that the Hume-Frazers are mixed up wi’ an auld Scoatch hoose?” “Yes.” “Weel, sir, there’s things that happen in this world which no man can explain. Five are dead, and five had to die by violent means. Who arranged that?” “Neither you nor I can tell.” “That’s right, sir. I know that Mr. David or Mr. Robert never lifted a hand against their cousin, yet, unless the Lord blinded my auld een, I saw ane or ither in the avenue when I tried to lift Sir Alan frae the groond.” “You said nothing of this at the time?” “Would ye hae me speak o’ wraiths to a Suffolk jury, Mr. Brett? I saw no mortal man. ’Twas a ghaist for sure, an’ if I had gone into the box to talk of such things they wad hae discredited my evidence about Mr. David. I might hae hanged him instead o’ savin’ him.” “Suppose I tell you that the man you saw was no ghost, but real flesh and blood, a Japanese descendant of the David Hume who fought and killed the first Sir Alan in 1763, what would you say?” “I would say, sir, that it had to be, were it ever so strange.” “Have you ever, in gossip about family records, heard anything of the fate of the David Hume I have just mentioned.” “Only this, sir. My people have lived on the Highland estate longer than any Hume-Frazer of them a’. My father remembered his grandfather sayin’ that a man who was in India wi’ Clive met Mr. Hume in Calcutta. There was fightin’ agin’ the French, an’ Mr. Hume would neither strike a blow for King George nor draw a sword for the French, so he sailed away to the East in a Dutch ship, and he was never heard of afterwards.” This was a most important confirmation of the theory evolved by the barrister. For the rest, Fergusson’s reminiscences were useless. Next morning Brett went to Somerset House to consult the will in which Margaret’s father left her £1,000 a year. Her brother died intestate. As he expected, the document was phrased adroitly. It read: “I give and bequeath to Margaret Hume-Frazer, who has elected to desert the home provided for her, the sum of—” etc., etc. The fact that she was, in the eyes of the law, an illegitimate child could not invalidate this bequest. For the rest, he imagined that when her brother died so unexpectedly, no one ever dreamed of inquiring into the well-intentioned fraud perpetrated by Lady Hume-Frazer and her husband. Margaret was unquestionably accepted as the heiress to her brother’s property, the estate being unentailed. Then he drove to 17 St. John’s Mansions, Kensington, where Mr. and Mrs. Jiro were “at home.” They received him in the tiny drawing-room, and the lady’s manner betokened some degree of nervousness, which she vainly endeavoured to conceal by a pretence of bland curiosity as to the object of the barrister’s visit. Not so Numagawa, whose sharp ferret eyes snapped with anxiety. Brett left them under no doubt from the commencement. He addressed his remarks wholly to the Japanese. “You have an acquaintance—perhaps I should say a confederate—residing at No. 37 Middle Street, Kennington—” he began. “I do not understand,” broke in Jiro, whose sallow face crinkled like a withered apple in the effort to display non-comprehension. “Oh yes, you do. The man’s name is Ooma. He is a tall, strongly-built native of Japan. He sent you to Ipswich to watch the trial of Mr. David Hume-Frazer for the murder of his cousin. He got you to write the post-card to Scotland Yard on the type-writer which you disposed of the day after my visit here. You recognised the motto of his house in the design which I showed you, and which was borne on the blade of the Ko-Katana. For some reason which I cannot fathom, unless you are his accomplice, you made your wife dress in male attire and go to warn him that some person was on his track. You see I know everything.” As each sentence of this indictment proceeded it was pitiable to watch the faces of the couple. Jiro became a grotesque, fit to adorn the ugliest of Satsuma plaques. Mrs. Jiro visibly swelled with agitation. Brett felt that she was too full, and would overflow with tears in an instant. “This is vely bad!” gasped Jiro. “Oh, Nummie dear, have we been doing wrong?” moaned his spouse. The barrister determined to frighten them thoroughly. “It is a grave question with the authorities whether they should not arrest you instantly,” he said. “On what charge?” cried Jiro. “On a charge of complicity after the act in relation to the murder of Sir Alan Hume-Frazer. Your accomplice, Ooma, is the murderer.” “What!” shrieked Mrs. Jiro, flouncing on to her knees and breaking forth into piteous sobs. “Oh, my precious infant! Oh, my darling Nummie! Will they part us from our babe?” The door opened, and a frowsy head appeared. “Did you call, mum?” inquired the small maid-servant. “Get out!” shouted Brett; and the door slammed. “Mr. Blett,” whimpered the Japanese, “I did not do this thing. I am innocent. I knew nothing about it until—until—” “You verified the motto on the blade by consulting the ‘Nihon Suai Shi’ in the British Museum.” This shot floored Jiro metaphorically, and his wife literally, for she sank into a heap. “He knows everything, Nummie,” she cried. “Evelything!” repeated her husband. “Then tell him the rest!”. (Yet she was born in Suffolk.) Brett scowled terribly as a subterfuge for laughter. “Tell me,” he said, “why you helped this amazing scoundrel?” “I did not help,” squeaked Jiro, his voice becoming shrill with excitement and fear. “He was my fliend. He is a Samurai of Japan. We met in Okasaki, and again in London. I came to England long after the clime you talk of. He told me these Flazel people were bad people, who had lobbed his father in the old days. He wanted them to be all hanged, then he would get money. He said they might watch him and get him sent back to Japan, where he belongs to a political palty who are always beheaded when they are caught. So when you come, I think, ‘Hello, he wants to find Ooma!’ I lite Ooma a letter, and he lite me to send Mrs. Jilo, dlessed in man’s clothes, to tell him evelything. I did that to save my fliend.” “Have you Ooma’s letter?” “Yes; hele it is.” He took a document from a drawer, and Brett saw at a glance that Jiro’s statement was correct. “You appear to have acted as his tool throughout,” was his scornful comment. “But, Mr. Brett,” sobbed the stout lady, “I ought to say that when I—when I—put on those things—and met Mr. Ooma, I disobeyed my husband in one matter. I—liked you—and was afraid of Mr. Ooma, so instead of describing you to him I described Mr. Hume-Frazer from what my husband told me of his appearance in the dock. He was the first man I could think of, and it seemed to be best, as the quarrel was between them. Only—I gave him—a beard and moustache, so as to puzzle him more. Didn’t I, Nummie? I told you when I came home.” So Mrs. Jiro’s unconscious device had undoubtedly saved Brett from a murderous attack, and Ooma had probably seen him leave the Northumberland Avenue Hotel more than once whilst waiting to waylay David Hume. Hence, too, the partial recognition by Ooma when they met by night in Middle Street. The barrister could not help being milder in tone as he said: “I believe you are both telling the truth. But this is a very serious matter. You must never again communicate with Ooma in any way. Avoid him as you would shun the plague, for within three or four days he will be in gaol, and you will be called upon to give evidence against him.” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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