Extracts from a Detective's Note-Book
"Can't make Axton out . . . Most curious conversation—inquisitive on my part, evasive on his . . . He told me two lies . . . In fact, during the whole conversation he seemed to be on his guard. . . . I don't like the look of things . . . I have no right to pry into Axton's affairs, but I can't understand his denials—denials which I could tell from his manner were false . . . Queer thing about Ironfields . . . The dead man came from Ironfields . . . Miss Varlins lives at Ironfields . . . Qy. Can there be any connection between the deceased and Miss Varlins? . . . Impossible, and yet it's very strange . . . I don't like that open door either . . . That is extraordinary . . . Then the letter written by the deceased . . . I asked at the post office here about it . . . They could tell me nothing . . . I wonder to whom that letter was sent? . . . I think it's the key to the whole affair . . . Can Roger Axton be keeping anything from me? . . . Did he know the dead man? . . . I am afraid to answer these questions . . . Well, I'll go down to Ironfields and find out all about the dead man . . . Perhaps my inquiries will lead me to Miss Varlins . . . But no, there can be no connection, and yet I doubt Roger . . . I mistrust him . . . I don't like his manner . . . his evasive replies . . . And then he's connected with Miss Varlins—she is connected with Ironfields . . . That is connected with the deceased . . . All links in a chain . . . Most extraordinary.
"Mem.—To go at once to Ironfields."
[Chapter 4]
The Evidence of the Chemist's Assistant
Ironfields is not a pretty place; not even its warmest admirer could say it was pretty, but then its warmest admirer would not want to say anything of the kind. Well drained, well laid out, well lighted, it could—according to the minds of its inhabitants—easily dispense with such mere prettiness or picturesqueness as crooked-streeted, gable-mansioned towns, dating from the Middle Ages, could boast of. Poor things, those sleepy cathedral towns, beautified by the hand of Time—poor things indeed compared with vast Ironfields, the outcome of a manufacturing century and a utilitarian race! Ironfields with its lines of ugly model houses, its broad, treeless streets, its muddy river flowing under a hideous railway bridge, its mighty foundries with their tall chimneys that belched forth smoke in the daytime, and fire at night, and its ceaseless clamour that roared up to the smoke-hidden sky six days in the week.
The inhabitants were a race of Cyclops. Rough, swarthy men of herculean build, scant of speech and of courtesy, worn-looking women, with vinegary faces peering sharply at every one from under the shawls they wore on their tousled heads, and tribes of squalling brats, with just enough clothes for decency, grimy with the smoky, sooty atmosphere, looking like legions of small devils as they played in the barren streets, piercing the deafening clamour with their shrill, unchildlike voices. A manufacturing town, inhabited by humanity with no idea of beauty, with no desire beyond an increase of weekly wage, or an extra drink at the public-house. Humanity with a hard, unlovely religion expounded in hideous little chapels by fervid preachers of severe principles. A glorious triumph of our highest civilisation, this matter-of-fact city, with its creed of work, work, work, and its eyes constantly on the sordid things of this earth, and never raised to the blue sky of heaven. A glorious triumph indeed—for the capitalists.
When it rained—which it did frequently—Ironfields was sloppy, and when Ironfields was sloppy it was detestable; for the rain coming down through the smoky cloud that constantly lowered over the town, made everything, if possible, more grimy than before. But Ironfields was quite content; it was a name of note in commercial circles, and its products went forth to the four quarters of the world, bringing back in exchange plenty of money, of which a great deal found its way into the pockets of the master, and very little into those of the man.
The country around was not pretty. Nature, with that black, ugly, clamorous city constantly before her eyes, lost heart in her work, and did not attempt to place beauties before the eyes of people who did not know anything about beauty, and would have thought it a very useless thing if they had. So the fields lying round Ironfields were only a shade better than the city itself, for the shadow of smoke lay over everything, and where sunshine is not, cheerfulness is wanting.
On one side of Ironfields, however, Nature had made a feeble attempt to assert herself, but then it was in a queer little village which had been the germ from whence arose this noisy town. In the old days the queer little village had stood amid green fields beside a sparkling river; but now the fields had disappeared, the sparkling river had turned to a dull, muddy stream, and the little village was improved out of all recognition. Like Frankenstein, it had created a monster which dominated it entirely, which took away even its name and reduced it from a quaint, pretty place, redolent of pastoral joys, to a dull little suburb, mostly inhabited by poor people. True, beyond stood the mansions of the Ironfields millionaires, glaring and unpicturesque, in equally glaring gardens laid out with mathematical accuracy; but the upper ten merely drove through the village on their way to these Brummagem palaces, and did not acknowledge its existence in any way. Yet a good many of their progenitors had lived in the dull suburb before Ironfields was Ironfields, but they forgot all about that in the enjoyment of their new-found splendours, and the miserable village was now a kind of poor relation, unrecognised, uncared for, and very much despised.
In the principal street, narrow and winding, with old houses on either side, standing like dismal ghosts of the past, was the chemist's shop, a brand-new place, with plate-glass windows, and the name, "Wosk & Co.," in bright gold letters on a bright blue ground. Behind the plate-glass windows appeared huge bottles containing liquids red, and yellow, and green in colour, which threw demoniacal reflections on the faces of passers-by at night, when the gas flared behind them. All kinds of patent medicines were there displayed to the best advantage; bottles of tooth-brushes, cakes of Pears' soap, phials of queer shape and wondrous virtue, sponges, jars of leeches, queer-looking pipes compounded of glass and india-rubber tubing, packets of fly-exterminators, and various other strange things pertaining to the trade, all calling attention to their various excellencies in neat little printed leaflets scattered promiscuously throughout.
Within, a shining counter of mahogany laden with cures for the various ills which flesh is heir to; and at the far end, a neat little glass screen with a gas-jet on top, above which could be seen the gray-black head of Mr. Wosk and the smooth red head of Mr. Wosk's assistant.
Mr. Wosk (who was also the Co.) was a slender, serious man, always clothed in black, with a sedate, black-bearded countenance, a habit of washing his hands with invisible soap and water, and a rasping little cough, which he introduced into his conversation at inopportune moments. He would have made an excellent undertaker, an ideal mute, for his cast of countenance was undeniably mournful, but Fate had fitted this round peg of an undertaker into the square hole of a chemist in a fit of perverse anger. He bore up, however, against his uncongenial situation with dreary resignation, and dispensed his own medicines with an air of saying, "I hope it will do you good, but I'm afraid it won't." He was the pillar of the Church in a small way, and stole round the chapel on Sundays with the plate in a melancholy fashion, as if he was asking some good Christian to put some food on the plate and despaired of getting it. Ebenezer was his name, and his wife, an acidulated lady of uncertain age, ruled him with a rod of iron, perhaps from the fact that she had no children over whom to domineer.
Mrs. Wosk, however, could not rule the assistant, much as she desired to do so. Not that he made any show of opposition, but always twisted this way and turned that in an eel-like fashion until she did not know quite where to have him. In fact, the assistant ruled Mrs. Wosk (of which rule she had a kind of uneasy consciousness), and as Mrs. Wosk ruled Mr. Wosk, including the Co., M. Jules Guinaud may have been said to have ruled the whole household.
A hard name to pronounce, especially in Ironfields, where French was in the main an unknown tongue, so suburban Ironfields, by common consent, forgot the surname of the assistant, and called him, in friendly fashion, Munseer Joolees, by which appellation he was known for a considerable time. Mrs. Wosk, however, who meddled a good deal with the shop and saw a good deal of the assistant, being learned in Biblical lore (as the wife of a deacon should be), found a certain resemblance suggested by the name and appearance of the assistant between Munseer Joolees and Judas Iscariot, whereupon, with virulent wit, she christened him by the latter name, and Monsieur Joolees became widely known as Monsieur Judas, which name pleased the Ironfields worthies, being easy to pronounce and containing a certain epigrammatic flavour.
The name suited him, too, this slender, undersized man with the stealthy step of a cat; the unsteady greenish eyes that appeared to see nothing, yet took in everything; the smooth, shining red hair plastered tightly down on his egg-shaped skull; and the delicate, pink and white-complexioned, hairless face that bore the impress of a kind of evil beauty—yes, the name suited him admirably, and as he took no exception to it, being in suburban Ironfields opinion an atheist, and therefore ignorant of the Biblical significance of the title, nobody thought of addressing him by any other.
He spoke English moderately well, in a soft, sibilant voice with a foreign accent, and sometimes used French words, which were Greek to all around him. Expressive, too, in a pantomimic way, with his habit of shrugging his sloping shoulders, his method of waving his slim white hands when in conversation, and a certain talent in using his eyes to convey his meaning. Lids drooping downwards, "I listen humbly to your words of wisdom, monsieur." Suddenly raising them so as to display full optic, "Yes, you may look at me; I am a most guileless person." Narrowing to a mere slit, like the pupil of a cat's eye, "Beware, I am dangerous," and so forth, all of which, in conjunction with the aforesaid shrugs and pantomimic action of his hands, made the conversation of Monsieur Judas very intelligible indeed, in spite of his foreign accent and French observations.
It was raining on this particular morning—seasonable weather, of course; but as far as rain went, all the months were the same in Ironfields, and a thick, black fog pervaded the atmosphere. A cold, clammy fog, with a sooty flavour, that crept slowly through the streets and into the houses, like a wounded snake dragging itself along. Here and there pedestrians looming large in the opaque cloud like gigantic apparitions, gas-lamps flaring drearily in the thick air, cabs and carts and carriages all moving cautiously along like endless funerals. And only two o'clock in the afternoon. Surely the darkness which spread over the land of Egypt could be no worse than this; nay, perhaps it was better, Egypt being tropical and lacking the chill, unwholesome moisture which permeated the air, wrapping the dingy houses, the noisy foundries, and the cheerless streets in a dull, sodden pall.
Gas glared in the shop of Wosk & Co., behind the glass doors, which kept out as much of the fog as they were able—gas which gave forth a dim, yellow light to Mr. Wosk behind the screen, looking over prescriptions, and to Monsieur Judas at the counter making up neat packages of medicine bottles. At the little window at the back which looked into the Wosk dwelling-house, an occasional vision of Mrs. Wosk's head appeared like that of a cross cherub, keeping her eye on chemist and assistant.
"Bur-r-r," says Monsieur Judas, blowing on his lean fingers, "it is to me the most coldness of times. Aha! le brouillard! it makes itself to be all the places to-day."
"Seasonable, seasonable!" murmurs Mr. Wosk, washing his hands in a contemplative fashion. "Good for—ahem!—good for business—that is, business in our line—ahem!"
"Eh, Monsieur Vosks! mais oui, mon ami," answered the Frenchman, raising his eyebrows, "and for de—what you call de coffins man. L'homme des funerailles."
"That, ahem!" said Mr. Wosk, with his rasping cough, "is what we must try and prevent. The undertaker—not coffins man, Monsieur Judas, that is not—ahem—correct Anglo-Saxon—is the last, the very last resource of a sick man. Prevention—ahem—in the person of ourselves is better than—ahem—dear me—I don't think the remark is app—ahem—applicable."
At this moment the glass doors opened to admit a stranger, enveloped in a comfortable fur coat, and also gave admission to a cloud of fog that had been waiting for the opportunity for some time. The stranger made his appearance like a Homeric deity, in a cloudy fashion, and when the attendant fog dispersed, Monsieur Judas (inquisitive) and Mr. Wosk (mournfully indifferent) saw that he was a keen-faced young gentleman with a sharp, decisive manner.
"Wosk & Co., eh!" queried the stranger, who was none other than Mr. Octavius Fanks.
"Yes, sir," said Mr. Wosk, advancing, "the name—ahem—my name, sir, is in front of the—the shop, sir."
"So is the fog," replied the detective, drily, leaning over the counter. "I could hardly see the shop, much less the name."
"De fog is still heavier, monsieur?" said Judas, taking in the appearance of Mr. Fanks in a comprehensive fashion.
Octavius swung sharply round at the sound of the foreign voice, and instantly took an intuitive dislike to the appearance of the red-haired young man.
"Oui," he replied, looking at him sharply; "n'êtes-vous pas Français?"
"Monsieur a beaucoup de pénétration," said Judas, startled at hearing his own tongue.
His eyes had narrowed into those dangerous slits which betokened that he was on his guard against this clever—too clever Englishman. The two men looked at one another steadily for a moment, and two ideas flashed rapidly through their respective minds.
The Fanks idea, suggested by the suspicious appearance (to a detective) of Monsieur Judas:
"This man has a past, and is always on his guard."
The Guinaud idea, inspired by a naturally suspicious nature:
"This Englishman is a possible enemy. I must be careful."
There was really no ground for such uncomplimentary ideas on the part of these two men who now met for the first time, except that instinctive repulsion which springs from the collision of two natures antipathetic to one another.
Mr. Wosk, being warned by the apparition of Mrs. Wosk's head at the little window that he was wasting time, addressed himself at once to his customer in a business fashion:
"What can I do for you, sir?"
Octavius withdrew his eyes from the face of the assistant, and producing a pill-box, laid it down on the counter before Mr. Wosk.
"I want to know the name of the gentleman for whom you made up these pills."
"Rather difficult to say, sir," said Mr. Wosk, taking up the box; "we make up so many boxes like this."
"They were made up for a gentleman who left Ironfields shortly afterwards."
The chemist, never very clear-headed at any time, looked perfectly bewildered at being called upon to make such a sudden explanation, and turned helplessly to his assistant, who stood working at his medicine bottles with downcast eyes.
"I'm afraid—ahem—really, my memory is so bad," he faltered, childishly; "well, I scarcely—ahem—but I think Monsieur Judas will be able to tell you all about it. I have the—ahem—I have the fullest confidence in Monsieur Judas."
"It's more than I should have," thought Fanks, as the assistant silently took the pill-box from his master and opened it.
"Eight pilules," he said, counting them.
"Yes, eight pills," replied Fanks, taking a seat by the counter, "but, of course, when you made up the prescription there must have been more."
"De monsieur weeth de pilules did he geeve dem to monsieur?"
"No; I want to know the gentleman's name."
"An' for wy, monsieur?"
"Never you mind," retorted Octavius, coolly; "you do what you're asked, my good fellow."
The "good fellow" gave Mr. Fanks an ugly look; but in another moment was bland and smiling as ever. Mr. Wosk (beckoned by the cherub's head) had gone into the back premises, so the two men were quite alone, of which circumstance Mr. Fanks took advantage by speaking to Monsieur Judas in French, in order to understand him better.
Translated, the conversation (guarded on both sides by mutual suspicion) was as follows:
"Will monsieur permit me to ask him a few questions? Otherwise," said Judas, with a shrug, "I cannot hope to find the name monsieur requires."
"Ask whatever questions you like."
"Does monsieur know when the gentleman left this town?"
Mr. Fanks made a rapid calculation, and answered promptly: "I'm not quite sure; after the 6th and before the 13th of the present month. But your best plan will be to go back from the 13th of November."
"Certainly, monsieur."
Judas disappeared behind the neat screen, and rapidly turned up the order book beginning with the 13th of November, as directed.
"They are tonic pills, I see, monsieur," he called out.
"Yes, it is marked on the box."
In another moment Fanks heard an exclamation of surprise behind the screen, and shortly afterwards Monsieur Judas emerged, carrying the order book with him. He was visibly agitated, and his lean hands trembled as he placed the book on the counter.
"What is the matter?" asked Fanks, suspiciously, rising to his feet.
"I will explain to monsieur later on," said Judas, with a sickly smile. "At present, however, here is what you want. These pills were made up for Monsieur Sebastian Melstane."
"Sebastian Melstane," muttered Fanks, thoughtfully. "Oh, that was his name."
"Yes, Sebastian Melstane," said Judas, slowly. "He bought these pills on the 11th of November, and went down to Jarlchester the next day."
"How do you know he went to Jarlchester?" asked Fanks, considerably startled.
"Because I know Sebastian Melstane, monsieur. We lodged at the same pension. He makes me the confidence that he was going to that place, and, I believe, took these pills with him. Now you have the box, but my friend, where is he?"
Monsieur Judas threw out his hands with a fine dramatic gesture, and fixed his crafty eyes on the impassive face of the detective.
"Do you read the papers?" asked Octavius, with great deliberation.
"Yes; but I read English so bad."
"Get some one to translate for you, then," said Fanks, coolly, "and you will see that an unknown man committed suicide at Jarlchester. That man was Sebastian Melstane."
"Gave himself the death?"
"Yes; read the papers. By the way, Monsieur Judas that is your name, I believe—as you knew Sebastian Melstane, I may want to ask you some questions about him."
Monsieur Judas pulled out a card with some writing on it and handed it to Fanks with a flourish.
"My name, monsieur—my habitation, monsieur! If monsieur will do me the honour to call at my pension, I will tell him whatever he desires to know."
"Humph! I'm afraid that's beyond your power, M. Guinaud," replied Fanks, glancing at the card. "However, I'll call round this evening at eight o'clock; but at present I want to know about these pills."
"They were bought by my friend on the 11th," said Judas, showing the entry. "Behold, monsieur, the book speaks it."
"Who signed the prescription?"
"A doctor, monsieur, a doctor. I cannot say the name, it is hard for my tongue; but, monsieur"—struck with a sudden idea—"you shall see his own writing."
Once more he vanished behind the screen, and shortly afterwards reappeared with a sheet of note-paper, which he placed before Octavius.
"There it is, monsieur."
Fanks took up the paper, and read as follows:
R. Acid. Arsen. gi.
Pulv. Glycyrrh. gr. xv.
Ext. Glycyrrh. gr. xxx.
Misce et divide in pilule.
No. XII.
Sig. Tonic pills.
One to be taken before retiring nightly.
Jacob Japix, M.D.
"I see you made up twelve pills," said Fanks, after he had perused this document.
"Yes, monsieur, twelve pills. It is the usual number." Octavius looked thoughtful for a moment, then, turning his back on the assistant, walked to the door, where he stood gazing out at the fog, and thinking deeply in this fashion: "There were twelve pills in the box when Melstane bought it on the 11th of this month. According to his statement to Miss Chickles he took a tonic pill regularly every night. On the 11th, therefore, he took one. Left Ironfields on the 12th, and must have slept in London, as the journey is so long. There he took another pill; and at Jarlchester, on the 13th, he took a third. Dr. Drewey analysed three pills, so that's six accounted for out of the twelve. Exactly half, so there ought only to be six left. But there are eight in the box now. Good Heavens! what is the meaning of those two extra pills?"
Turning sharply round, he walked back to the counter.
"Are you sure you are not making a mistake?" he said, quickly; "you must have made up fourteen pills."
"But, monsieur, behold!" said Judas, pointing to the prescription, "No. XII."
"Yes, that's twelve, sure enough," observed Fanks, trying to appear calm, but feeling excited at the thought that he had stumbled on some tangible evidence at last.
"Did you make up the pills?"
"Yes, I myself, monsieur."
"And you are sure you only made up twelve?"
"On my word of honour, monsieur," said Judas, opening his eyes with their guileless look; "but I do not ask monsieur to believe me if he has doubt. Eh, my faith, no! Monsieur my master also counted the pills."
"That is the custom, I believe," said Mr. Fanks, thoughtfully, "a kind of check."
"But certainly, monsieur, without doubt."
At this moment, as if he knew his presence was required, Mr. Wosk walked into the shop, whereupon Monsieur Judas at once explained the matter to him.
"My assistant is—ahem—correct," said Mr. Wosk, sadly, as if he rather regretted it than otherwise. "I remember Mr. Melstane's tonic pills, and I—ahem—did count them. There were—ahem—twelve."
"You are sure?"
"I am certain."
"An' I to myself can assure it," remarked Judas, in English; "but if monsieur would make to himself visits at monsieur le docteur, he could know exactly of the numbers. Eh bien. Je le crois."
"Where does Dr. Japix live?" asked Fanks, picking up the pill-box and putting it in his pocket. "I will call round and see him."
Mr. Wosk wrote out the address and handed it to the detective with a bow.
"There's nothing wrong with the—ahem—medicine, I trust," he said, nervously. "I am—ahem—most careful, and my assistant, Monsieur Judas, is much to be—ahem—trusted."
"I don't know if anything's wrong with these pills," said Octavius, touching his breast coat-pocket, "but you know the saying, 'There is more in this than meets the eye.' Shakespeare, you observe. Wonderful man—appropriate remark for everything. Monsieur Guinaud, I will see you to-night. Mr. Wosk, to-morrow expect me about these pills. Good afternoon."
When he had vanished into the fog, which he did as soon as he went outside, Mr. Wosk turned to his assistant with some alarm.
"I trust, Monsieur Judas, that the pills—the pills—"
"They are in themselves qui' right. Eh! oh, yes," replied Monsieur Judas, letting his eyelids droop over his eyes. "To-morrow I to you will speke of dis—dis—eh! le mystère—vous savez, monsieur. Le Mystère Jarlcesterre."
"That thing in the paper," cried Mr. Wosk, aghast. "Why—ahem—what has it got to do—ahem—with us?"
Monsieur Judas shrugged his shoulders, spread out his hands with a deprecating gesture, and spoke slowly:
"Eh, le voila! I myself am no good to rread les journaux anglais—les feuilletons. If you so kine vil be to me, monsieur, an' rread de Mystère Jarleesterre, I vil to you explin moch, eh! Il est bien entendu."
"But what has the Jarlchester Mystery got to do with us?" repeated Mr. Wosk, helplessly, like a large child.
"Eh, mon ami, qui sait?" replied Monsieur Judas, enraged at his master's stupidity. "De man dead is he who took ze pilules."
"Sebastian Melstane!" cried Mr. Wosk, thunder-struck.
"Oui, c'est le nom!"
And Monsieur Judas narrowed his eyes, spread out his lean hands, and smiled complacently at the look of horror on the face of Mr. Wosk.
[Chapter 5]
Dr. Japix Speaks
Octavius Fanks had no difficulty in finding the residence of Dr. Jacob Japix, for that kind-hearted gentleman was well known in Ironfields, not alone in the village suburb, but throughout the great city itself, where his beaming face, his cheery words, and his open hand were much appreciated, especially in the quarters of the poor. Not a professional philanthropist, this large man with the large heart, for he laboured among poverty and vice from an innate desire to do good, and not from any hope that his works would be blazoned forth in the papers. He had no wife, no family, no relations, so he devoted his money, his time, and his talents to the service of paupers who could not afford to give anything in return except gratitude, and did not always give even that.
Of course, he had rich patients also. Oh, yes! many rich people came to Jacob Japix to be cured, and generally went away satisfied, for he was a clever physician, having the eye of a hawk and the intuition of a Galen for all kinds of mysterious diseases. But the money which the rich took from the poor in the way of scant payment for labour done went back to the pockets of the poor via Dr. Japix, so he illustrated in his own small way the law of compensation.
Mr. Fanks knew this doctor very well, having met him in connection with a celebrated poisoning case at Manchester, where he had attended as a witness in the character of an expert. Octavius, therefore, was very much delighted at chance having thrown Japix in his way for this special affair, as he was beginning to be troubled with vague fears the existence of which he persistently refused to acknowledge to himself.
Dr. Japix, being a big man, inhabited a big house just on the outskirts of the town, and on ringing a noisy bell, Octavius was admitted by a big footman, who said, in a big voice, that the Doctor was engaged at present, but would be at liberty soon. And soon it was, for just as the big footman was about to show Fanks into the waiting-room—on the right—a party of three (two ladies and one gentleman), accompanied by Japix, emerged from a door on the left.
One lady was tall, dark, and stately, with a serious cast of countenance; the other, small, fair, and vivacious, a veritable fairy, all sparkle and sunshine; and the gentleman was a long, lean man with a saturnine expression, not by any means prepossessing. Burly Dr. Japix with his big frame, his big voice, and his big laugh, accompanied the trio to the door, talking in a subdued roar the whole time.
"We'll set him up—set him up, Miss Florry, never fear—nerves—pooh! ha! ha! ha! nerves in a bridegroom. Who ever heard of such a thing?"
"Ah, but you see you're a bachelor," said the golden-haired fairy, gaily; "a horrid old bachelor, who doesn't know anything except how to give people nasty medicine."
"Hey! now, ha! ha! that's too bad. I always make your medicine nice. Wait till you're a matron, I'll make it nasty."
"When I'm a matron," said Miss Florry, demurely, "I'll take no medicine except Spolger's Soother," at which speech the Doctor laughed, the lean man scowled, and the two ladies attended by the scowl, departed, while the Doctor turned to greet his new visitor.
"Well, sir—well, sir—ha! may I be condemned to live on my own physic if it isn't M. Vidocq."
"Eh, my dear Doctor, me voici. Dumas, my dear physician; you've read 'The Three Musqueteers,' of course."
"Ha! ha! if you start quoting already," roared Japix, rolling ponderously into his study, followed by Fanks, "I give in at once; your memory, Mr. Thief-catcher, is cast-iron, and mine isn't. So I surrender at discretion. Now I'll be bound," continued the Doctor, waggishly, sitting in his huge chair, "you don't know where the quotation comes from."
"I don't," replied Fanks, after a moment's thought, sitting down; "you score one, my dear Doctor. By the way, don't call me Thief-catcher."
"Certainly not, Jonathan Wild."
"Nor that either."
"Why not, M. Fouche?"
"The third is the worst of all. At present I'm nothing but Mr. Rixton—my own name, Dr. Japix, as I told you."
"And Octavius Fanks?"
"Is in the Seventh Circle of Hell—at the back of the North Wind—in Nubibus—anywhere except where Mr. Rixton is."
"Ha! ha! hey! You're down here on business!"
"Private business."
"Ho! ho! and her name?"
"Mary Anne. She's a housemaid, and I love her, oh, I love her, and her heart I would discover! Pish! pshaw! 'Hence, vain deluding joys.' Milton, my dear Doctor! his best poem. But really, I want to be serious."
"Be serious, by all means," said Japix, complacently; "business first, pleasure afterwards. Dine with me to-night!"
"No, I've got an engagement. Say seven to-morrow, and I accept."
"'When found make a note of,'" remarked the Doctor, and scribbled a few lines in his memoranda-book. "Eh! Author?"
"Dickens' Captain Cuttle."
"Very good—go up top."
"Are you going to be serious?" said Fanks, in despair.
"My dear Rixton, I am serious," replied Dr. Japix, composing his features; "proceed!"
"First, who were the people who left as I came in?"
"Now what the deuce do you want to know that for?" said Japix, looking puzzled.
"Because I think one lady is Miss Judith Varlins, and the other Miss Florry Marson."
"Correct so far; but how the—"
"And the gentleman's name, Japix? The lean, lank man that looks like the Ancient Mariner in his shore clothes."
"Jackson Spolger, a patent medicine millionaire. Inherited it from Papa Spolger. Large fortune, disagreeable man, engaged to marry Miss Marson."
"Biography in a nutshell," said Fanks, calmly; "but surely not engaged."
"Why not? Are you in love with her yourself?"
"No; but I thought Sebastian Melstane—"
Dr. Japix uttered an ejaculation not complimentary to Mr. Melstane, and turned fiercely on Fanks.
"Sebastian Melstane be—"
"Don't," interrupted Octavius, holding up a warning hand; "perhaps he is already."
"What do you mean?"
"He is dead."
"Dead!"
"Yes; haven't you read the Jarlchester Mystery?"
"That suicide business. Of course; but I did not think—"
"The dead man was Melstane. Neither did I until an hour ago."
"How did you find out?" asked Japix, gravely.
"By means of this," answered Fanks, placing the pill-box on the table.
"Tonic pills," read Dr. Japix, wonderingly, "eh! Oh, yes, of course; I prescribed tonic pills for Melstane's nerves. But I don't see how you found out his name by this, nor how you connect the name of that scamp Melstane with the man who died at Jarlchester."
"Was Melstane a scamp?"
"Out and out," said Japix, emphatically.
"He must have been bad if you speak ill of him," observed Fanks, reflectively; "kind of man to have enemies, I suppose?"
"I should say plenty."
"Humph! I dare say."
"Dare say what? Talk about the Jarlchester Mystery, what are you?"
"A mystery also, eh, Doctor?" said Fanks, with a smile. "Well, I won't give you the trouble of guessing me. I'll explain myself."
The Doctor settled himself in his large chair, placed his large hands on each of his large knees, and observed in his large voice:
"Now then!"
Whereupon Octavius told him his experience during the Jarlchester inquest, suppressed the conversation and the name of Roger Axton, and finished up by describing how he had discovered the dead man's name from Wosk & Co.
"So you see, Japix," said the detective, decisively, "I saw your name on the prescription, and came at once to see you, as I want you to analyse these eight pills. According to your prescription, according to Mr. Wosk, according to the assistant, twelve pills were made up and delivered to Melstane. I can account for half of the twelve, so that ought to leave six; but in that box you will find eight. Now that is not right!"
"Certainly not!" remarked the Doctor, gravely regarding the pills; "six from twelve do not leave eight—at least, not by the rules of any arithmetic I'm acquainted with."
"So there are two extra pills."
"So I see! Two extra pills not made up by Wosk & Co."
"Now the question is," said Fanks, seriously, laying his hand on one of the Doctor's large knees, "the question is: What do those two extra pills mean?"
The Doctor said nothing, but looked inquiringly at the pill-box, as if he expected it to answer.
"I own," resumed Fanks, leaning back in his chair, "I own that I was half inclined to agree with the verdict of the jurors; it looked like suicide, but I had a kind of uneasy feeling that looks in this case were deceptive, so I thought I would like to know the name of the dead man, in order to find out if there was anything in his past life likely to lead him to self-destruction. I found the name, as I have told you, and I also discovered that there are two extra pills in that box, which have been added after it left the hands of Wosk & Co.—you understand."
"Perfectly."
"Now, those pills cannot have been added by Melstane, as he had no reason to do so. Twelve pills are enough for a man even with nerves, so why should he make those twelve into fourteen?"
"Ah, why, indeed?" said Japix, ponderously. "And your theory?"
"Is simply this. You say Melstane was a scamp; naturally he must have had enemies. Now I firmly believe that the two extra pills contain poison—say morphia, of which Melstane died—and they were placed in the box surreptitiously by one of his enemies."
"Natural enough."
"Melstane," continued Fanks, impressively, leaning forward, "took one of those extra pills, according to his usual custom, before going to bed, quite innocent of doing himself any harm. In the morning Melstane is found dead, and there is no evidence to show how he came by his death."
"Horrible! Horrible!"
"But observe," said Fanks, emphasizing his remarks with his forefinger, "observe how 'vaulting ambition o'er-leaps itself.' Again our divine William, Doctor. In other words, observe how the anxiety of the murderer to ensure the death of his victim has led to a danger of his own discovery. If he—I allude to the murderer—had put in one pill, making thirteen—which would have been a lucky number for our undiscovered criminal—the victim would have taken it, and absolutely no trace could have been discovered. Unluckily, however, for the criminal, he, afraid one morphia pill may not effectively do the work, puts in two morphia pills. Result, Sebastian Melstane, in perfect innocence, takes one and dies. The other pill—damning evidence, my dear Doctor—is one of the eight in that box, and I want you to analyse the whole eight pills in order to find that special one."
"And suppose I don't find it?" said Japix, putting the box on the table.
"In that case my theory falls to the ground, and Sebastian Melstane's death will remain a mystery to all men. But as sure as I sit here, Dr. Japix, you will find a deadly morphia pill among those seven harmless tonic pills."
"Your theory," remarked Japix, heavily, "is remarkably ingenious, and may—mind you, I don't say it is—but may be correct. I will analyse these pills, and let you know the result to-morrow. If I find here," said the Doctor, laying one massive hand on the pill-box, "if I find here a morphia pill, it will establish your theory in a certain sense."
"I think it will establish my theory in every sense," retorted Fanks, impetuously.
Dr. Japix shook his large head slowly, and delivered himself oracularly:
"Let us not," he said, looking at Fanks from under his shaggy eyebrows, "let us not jump to conclusions. I may find a morphia pill, but harmless."
"Deadly."
"Possibly harmless," said Japix, firmly.
"Probably deadly," rejoined Octavius, stubbornly.
"If deadly," continued the Doctor, quietly, "I grant your theory is a correct one, and that Sebastian Melstane met his death at the hands of the person who put those two extra pills in the box. If harmless, however," said Japix, raising his voice, "it establishes nothing. Melstane may have suffered from sleeplessness. Seeing his nerves were all wrong, I should say it was very probable he did, and taken morphia pills—purchased from, perhaps, a London chemist—in order to get a good night's rest."
"But why two morphia pills?" objected Octavius, earnestly. "Chemists don't sell morphia pills in twos."
"Your objection, sir, is not without some merit," said Japix, approvingly. "Still these two pills may have been the balance of another box, and placed in this one so as to obviate the trouble of carrying two boxes."
"Possible, certainly, but not probable. No, no, my dear Doctor, you need not try to upset my theory. Wait till you analyse those pills."
"I shall do so to-night, and to-morrow you will have my answer."
"I suppose you didn't give Melstane any morphia pills?" said Fanks, as he arose to take his leave.
"No; I don't believe in morphia pills for sleepless people, except in extreme cases. I generally give chloral, as I did to Mr. Jackson Spolger to-day."
"Oh, the Ancient Mariner," said Octavius, carelessly. "Does he suffer from sleeplessness?"
"Yes; on account of his approaching marriage, I presume."
"With Miss Marson?"
"Exactly."
"By the way," observed Fanks, suddenly, "was she not engaged to Melstane?"
"No, not engaged exactly," replied Japix, thoughtfully; "but she was in love with him. Strange how women adore scamps. But it's a long story, my dear Rixton. To-morrow night, when we both dine, across the walnuts and the wine, I'll tell to thee the tale divine. Ha, ha! you see I'm a poet, eh?"
"Yes, and a plagiarist also. The second line is Tennyson."
"Really, Mr. Bucket—Dickens, you observe—you're as sharp after a rhyme, as after a thief. With your active brain, I wonder you don't suffer from insomnia."
"When I do I'll come to you for morphia pills," said Octavius, laughing: "not the sort in that box, though. I don't want to die yet."
"I don't believe in morphia pills," remarked Japix, rising to accompany his guest to the door. "I never prescribe them. Oh, yes, by the way, I did prescribe some for a Mr. Axton."
Octavius, who was going out of the door, turned suddenly round with a cry of horror.
"Roger Axton!"
"Yes; do you know him? Why, good gracious, what's the matter?"
For Octavius Fanks, trembling in every limb, had sunk into a chair near the door.
"Are you ill? Are you ill?" roared the Doctor, anxiously. "Here, let me get you some brandy."
"No, no!" said Fanks, recovering himself with a great effort, though his face was as pale as death. "I'm all right. I—I used to know Roger Axton, and the name startled me."
"Unpleasant associations," growled Japix, rubbing his large head in a vexed manner. "I hope not—dear, dear—I trust not. I liked the young fellow. A good lad—a very good lad."
Fanks at once hastened to dispel the Doctor's distrust.
"No! nothing unpleasant," he said, hurriedly: "he was my schoolfellow, and I haven't seen him for ten years."
Not a word about the meeting at Jarlchester, even to genial Dr. Japix, for the vague fears which had haunted the detective's mind were now taking a terrible shape—terrible to himself, more terrible to Roger Axton.
"I did not know Axton had been at Ironfields," he said at length, in a hesitating manner.
"Oh, yes, bless you! he was here for some time," cried Japix, cheerily; "I saw a good deal of him."
"What was his reason for staying down here?"
"Aha, aha!" thundered Japix, roguishly, "eh! you saw the reason leave my house to-day. A dark, queenly reason, and as good as gold."
"You allude to Miss Varlins."
"Of course. Ho! ho! 'Love's young dream.' Tommy Moore's remark, eh! 'Nothing half so sweet in life.' No doubt. I have no practical experience of it myself, being a bachelor; but Axton! ah! he thought Moore was right, I'll swear, when he was beside Judith Varlins."
Every word that dropped from the good Doctor's lips seemed to add to that hideous terror in the detective's mind, and he could hardly frame his next question, so paralysed he was by the fearful possibility of "what might be."
"I suppose she loves him?"
"Dear, dear! Now that's exactly what I don't know," said Japix, in a vexed tone; "she does and she doesn't. I was afraid she loved Mr. Scamp Melstane, you know. Women are riddles, eh—yes, worse than the Sphinx. She was with him a good deal, she wrote him letters and all that sort of thing, but it might have been friendship. I don't understand women, you see, I'm a bachelor."
This last speech of the Doctor's seemed too much for Octavius, and he felt anxious to get outside even into the fog and rain in order to breathe. He was so confused by what he had heard that he was afraid to open his lips, lest some word detrimental to his old schoolfellow should escape them. Hastily shaking the Doctor by the hand, he made a hurried promise to see him on the morrow.
"Fog and rain," roared the physician, as Octavius stepped outside; "must expect that now. Eh! ha! ho! ha! November smiles and November tears—principally tears. Yes. Don't forget to-morrow night—the pills—certainly. I will remember. Good-bye. Keep your feet dry. Warm feet and good repose, slam the door on the doctor's nose."
And Japix illustrated his little rhyme by slamming his own door, behind which his big voice could still be heard like distant thunder.
In the fog, in the rain, in the darkness, Octavius Fanks, stopping by a lighted shop-window, pulled out his pocket-book and looked at the memorandum—in shorthand—he had made of his conversation with Roger Axton.
In another moment he had restored the book to its former place, and from his lips there came a low cry of anguish:
"Oh, my old schoolfellow, has it come to this?"