CHAPTER VIII
THE PANIC OF A CARPET MANUFACTURER
In the spacious library of Mr. Jasper Jarman's house, "Holmstrand," in a respectable suburb of Kidderminster, the wealthy carpet manufacturer was sitting at his ease. On a tiny table drawn up to the fire stood a silver coffee service and a small decanter of brandy. Across his knee lay the unopened copy of the Midland Echo which had just been delivered.
Indifferently he took it up and turned to the market reports, reading the comments from the London correspondent through carefully. Then he read half a report of a divorce case, then—he read the paragraph that had caused his nephew by marriage to laugh for ten minutes in the Union Hotel at Penzance.
But the news that the flower of Scotland Yard were following up with a keen interest the movements of himself, Jasper Jarman, and his wife since their eventful departure from Adderbury Cottage was not calculated to draw a like explosion of mirth from the elderly gentleman taking his after-dinner ease in his library at "Holmstrand." Perhaps Mr. Jasper Jarman was deficient in his sense of humour.
He skimmed through the account hurriedly, then starting up from his leather arm-chair he walked to the door and turned the key. For some reason for which he would have found it difficult to account he walked on tiptoe. Then he took the paper, and standing under the cluster of electric bulbs that hung from the centre of the ceiling, he read the report again, carefully this time, assimilating every point.
Then he put the Midland Echo on the fire and watched it crumble away into ashes, continuing to stand there upon the hearthrug deep in thought.
There were many aspects of the position in which he found himself that he alone could see. At first it seemed best to him that he should go to the police and explain to them fully the part he had taken in the affair. But then it was hardly creditable for him to associate himself in so scandalous a matter or to admit such a person as Edward Povey, who to his mind was clearly a guilty person, as a relative. Besides, his story might not be believed.
Inspector Melton, too, would make it as hot as he could for him. He was not likely to forget that Councillor Jarman had voted against the proposed increase of salary for the hard-worked police official. He grew cold and hot by turns, too, as he thought of the handle he was giving to his opponent in the forthcoming parliamentary election, in which he, Jasper Jarman, had been persuaded to stand in the interests of Free Trade.
He remembered with a pang the affair of a fire which had taken place at his warehouse a year since. The insurance company involved had been introduced to him by his nephew, and had been curiously unenthusiastic in settling his claim.
To be mixed up in any police court affair with Povey would be to open the question again. The company had been hard hit and had refused to renew his policy, and Jasper felt sure they would not let pass any chance to get even with him.
There were also some things in the past life of the carpet manufacturer which caused him to shun any chance of cross-examination. There was a man who had invented a new shuttle (a machine from which Jasper had made thousands), who was now living in poverty in the slums of Kidderminster, swearing revenge against the man who had sucked his brain and reaped the reward of his labours.
The more he thought, the more a blind and unreasoning panic seized the soul of the carpet manufacturer. Any connection with Povey would cause much dirty water to be stirred up. Better far, he told himself, to leave the country until the affair had blown over or had been satisfactorily explained. He would have it given out that his health had broken down.
He took an "ABC Guide" from the top of a revolving bookcase and opened it at random: Draycot (Derby)—Draycot (Somerset)—Drayton (Norfolk)—147-½ miles from King's Cross—Population 486—Ah! that ought to suit in the mean time. He moved cautiously to the door. For a moment he stood in an attitude of listening, then unlocked it. The whole framework of nerve which had made Jasper Jarman what he was, seemed to break and crumble away before the panic which had seized him.
On second thoughts, however, perhaps it were better to bury himself in the heart of London, in the network of the metropolis where it is so easy to lie hidden. He wrote a letter to his wife, who was spending a few days in Birmingham, telling her the fiction of his health, then he rang the bell for the servant.
As the man entered the room and stood awaiting his orders, his master scanned him narrowly. The man seemed quite normal.
Jasper, controlling his voice with an effort, ordered the car to be brought round for him in a quarter of an hour, and after the man had left the room, he took a bunch of keys, and, selecting one, opened a drawer in his bureau. From it he took a small fortune in notes and gold, and going to his bedroom he changed his evening clothes for a blue serge suit and put on a heavy travelling ulster. As he made his way down-stairs he heard the throbbing of the engine at the door.
At half-past eight that evening Jasper Jarman slid out of Kidderminster in his Napier car, and in a wonderfully short space of time pulled up at the Warwick Arms Hotel at Warwick. Here he dismissed the car, and after a light supper took train to London.
From a paper he bought at Euston he learnt nothing further relating to his case, but after a day or two spent in London, he read the tidings that his identity had been established, and that an officer who had been dispatched to interview him, not finding him at his house, had applied for a warrant for his apprehension.
On the shattered brain of the poor man this news had a terrible effect. He saw at once that his flight would be looked upon as a sign of his guilt, and he racked his brain for the name of some country where the laws of extradition were lax. The Argentine rose to his mind, but he had no idea of going so far from England unless it were absolutely necessary. He preferred somewhere where the living would be more or less civilized and where he could be handy for return when circumstances permitted.
Spain he had heard of, but that was some time ago and there might be new laws now. Then the fate that has the moving of the pieces in life's chessboard whispered in his ear—San Pietro.
Even at this late hour he told himself that it were better for him to face the music, but the good common sense of Stone-wall Jarman was in a state of complete disorganization, and to his panic-distorted brain flight seemed the only thing possible.
His wife would be interrogated, but he was convinced that the machinery of the law could not touch her. For himself, on the other hand, there was a definite issue: if he returned it would be undoubtedly to stand his trial, and he knew what that meant even if he was acquitted, which he was not at all sure would be the case. In any event he said he would be ruined beyond redemption, and his reputation would become the legitimate sport of his many enemies, political and social, in Kidderminster. The fact would remain that he, Jasper Jarman, had stood in the dock beside a man like Povey, who had claimed him as a relative! Far rather would he spend the rest of his days in exile; it would mean leaving the country in any case, and by doing it now he would escape the ordeal that he feared. "DO IT NOW"—that's what was on a little printed card in his office—and he had made it his motto.
Again, how could he hope to explain his hurried and agitated flight from Adderbury Cottage, taking place as it did immediately after the publication in the Evening News of Kyser's death? People would never believe the evidence of the bad drainage if Povey liked to deny it—as he doubtless would. Edward Povey to Jasper's mind was a guilty man, and he attributed to him all the motives and actions of the most hardened of criminals; he would only be too glad to whitewash himself at the expense of his uncle.
The morning after Mr. Jarman's arrival in London, he had called on his bank and drawn a considerable sum of money in cash. It was not without fear and trepidation that he had done this, but he had told himself that it was then or never, and the hue and cry had not really begun. The manager had met him, and there was no suspicion in his manner. This important point settled, Jasper Jarman had made all haste to shake the dust of his native country from the soles of his "sensible shape" boots.
It was a dull, dripping evening when the carpet manufacturer stood on Paddington platform, waiting for the through express for Cardiff. He was rather a different man to the Jasper Jarman who had only a few nights previously been reading in his library at "Holmstrand." He had shaved off his moustache and side-whiskers, and his iron-grey hair he had attempted to dye black, in which endeavour he had been successful—in patches—and to hide this piebald appearance he had taken to a larger brimmed soft hat. He was buttoned up to the chin in his heavy ulster, and a muffler covered his mouth. He looked for all the world what he was—a disguised man. Had there been a detective watching for him on that train—which there was not—Jasper would have been the first man to merit his attention. His manner, too, was furtive and full of suspicion as he glanced from under the brim of his hat at each passer-by.
He had the carriage to himself, and he gave a sigh of relief as the train slid out of the station on its non-stop run to the western seaport.
With an excess of cunning he disposed of his broad-brimmed hat, by dropping it out of the window as the train crawled through the Severn Tunnel, replacing it with a cloth travelling hat, which he took from his bag.
It was past eleven when he arrived, and the hotel clerk looked curiously at the figure in the ulster who asked for a room. Remembering the looks which the Paddington passengers had given him, he resolved upon a further modification in his attire, and the man who for the next few days lounged about the Bute Dock on the look-out for an unassuming-looking boat to take him as near San Pietro as possible was by no means such a conspicuous figure.
He was successful, after many days, in bribing a passage to Bilbao on a tramp steamer that was about to leave, and without loss of time Jasper transferred his portmanteau, his ulster, and himself on board.
*****
And so it came about that at the same time that Edward Povey Sydney was travelling in luxury with his two lady companions between Calais and Paris (which latter city had been decided upon as the first stopping-place in their journey), his unfortunate relative by marriage was passing the great red light on the Scilly Isles in a rousing south-wester, a gale which sported with the poor little Bella as with a cork.
Thus does necessity play games with the best of us, even with Jasper Jarman, who, poor fellow, could not cross the straits of Dover without the most acute bodily suffering.