Volume Three—Chapter Three.
After the Search.
Upon several occasions when Monsieur Canau saw Patty home to the pleasant manufacturing shades of Duplex Street, he sought to open up this affair with Jared Pellet, so as to hear his opinion upon the subject; but it was only to find Jared dull and abstracted, and ready to return monosyllabic answers to all that was said. Twice over he had called too, bringing with him his violin; but upon those occasions weary-looking Tim Ruggles had been there, and no music had followed—no Mozart, not even one of Corelli’s old sad-toned minor trios, with movements named after the dances of our forefathers, corantos and sarabands; funeral marches they ought rather to have been, unless it is that music grows mellow and sad-hued with age, changing even after the fashion of wine.
Monsieur Canau used to divine that there was trouble afloat, and refrained from hinting at the object of his visits, contenting himself with buying a couple of Jared’s atrocious Roman strings, and then coming away.
“They have a bébé there,” muttered Canau, “that is like a music-box; and I think they wind him up every night just before I go, for he is always cry.”
It was as patent to Monsieur Canau as to D. Wragg that the Brownjohn Street house was under police surveillance, for there was often some stranger to be seen loitering about, one very ordinary-looking individual, trying very hard not to seem as if watching the former as he went out.
But D. Wragg was not deceived in the slightest degree, for beside his great experience of ‘natur,’ he had attempted to acquire something of art—to wit, police art—enough to enable him to point out, with the accompaniment of a peculiar wink, the plain-clothes officer to his French lodger, who had, however, only replied by a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders, and a look in another direction.
But D. Wragg did not look another way, evidently bent upon wearing the aspect of utter defiance of the law. He stood now at his shop-door fiercely smoking, giving himself twitches and jerks that quite scared such of his stock-in-trade as were in close proximity, and sent his dogs shrinking back, snapping and snarling, whenever he turned their way.
Mr John Screwby and he had encountered more than once—the former gentleman making a practice of insulting the dealer; and, as if out of revenge for his non-success in obtaining the two hundred pounds reward,—staring up at the front of the house, or making believe, with a grin, to peer down into the cellar,—movements which made D. Wragg, under the idea that he was gnashing his teeth like an ordinary mortal, snap and snarl like a flea-bitten terrier.
Upon this day, it was fated that, as soon as Monsieur Canau was out of sight, Mr John Screwby should appear loafing along the opposite side of the road, so far from upright in his conduct, that he rubbed his right shoulder here and there against wall and window-frame as he passed. His cap was drawn down over his ears, a piece of straw in his mouth, and his hands right above the wrists in his pockets, and their owner staring heavily here and there after something fresh, till he came in sight of D. Wragg. Now he grinned spitefully, and, walking slowly on, stopped at last opposite the dealer’s house, to stare heavily up at the attic windows, shading his eyes, leaning a little on this side and a little on that, as if eagerly searching for something to be seen. Then, according to custom, he crossed the road to gaze for a moment through the cellar-grating, holding one hand to his ear as if listening attentively; and then fixing his eyes upon the dirty sash of the window seen through the grating, he began to walk slowly backwards and forwards, totally ignoring the presence of D. Wragg the while.
“There’ll be a row directly, Mr Jack Screwby,” said the dealer, with a sharp snarl, as he stood watching his enemy’s actions.
Mr Screwby took not the slightest notice of the speaker, only stopped short as if he had caught a glimpse of something.
“I wonder wot they’ve done with the pore chap!” he said at last, in quite a loud voice. “I shouldn’t be a bit s’prised if they’ve berried ’im in the kitchin.”
“If I could have my way with you, young fellow, I’d serve you out for this!” said D. Wragg, shaking his fist, to the great amusement of a small crowd fast collecting.
“What ’ud you do with me, eh?” said Screwby, with a grin. “Burke me, like the pore chap as come arter his dorg, eh?”
“You wouldn’t dare to talk like that there, Jack Screwby, if I was a man of your own size and age,” said D. Wragg, viciously.
“P’raps I should—p’raps I shouldn’t,” sneered Screwby. “But how about the pore young man?”
D. Wragg made a terrier-like movement, as if about to rush at a bull-dog, to the great delight of the crowd, especially as at that moment the thick new boot, freshly completed by Mr Purkis, caught in the grating, and D. Wragg nearly fell.
“Don’t let him come a-nigh you,” said Screwby, grinning, “or he’ll serve you same as he did the pore young man.”
Here there was another shout, and the popular feeling seemed to be growing so strong, that, raging within himself, D. Wragg began to think it would be prudent to retreat, and he did so, followed by a loud jeering laugh.
But even now he was not to have peace, for he had hardly reached the sanctuary of his own room before a couple of small boys, probably incited thereto by Mr John Screwby, thrust their heads in at the shop-door, to roar, at the utmost pitch of their shrill treble—
“Who burked the boy?” fleeing the next moment as if for their very lives, on hearing the scraping of the dealer’s chair.
This is merely a sample of the unpleasantness that the little dealer was called upon to bear; for Mr Screwby was exceedingly bitter against the house of Wragg, inasmuch as there had been no discovery made—not even the trace or tiny ravelling of a thread sufficient to commence a clue; and what was more, Sergeant Falkner had strongly negatived the necessity for rewarding him, even in the slightest degree—though, unseen by the police, Clayton had slipped a sovereign into the man’s hand.
But what was a sovereign as compared with the golden heap that two hundred would have made? And then what things it would have bought! Mr John Screwby had already gloated over several articles—notably a brown fur cap, dyed catskin, which he coveted hugely; but now the whole of his air-built castle was swept away; and to make matters ten times worse, he had been requested by the sergeant not to show himself anywhere near a certain number in Regent Street any more.
This last was rather a serious command, for it was indeed a special order, although couched in the form of a request. To a gentleman in Mr Screwby’s circumstances, matters might turn out very unpleasantly if he slighted the sergeant’s impressive words.
Under these circumstances, though not caring a jot for the fate of Lionel Redgrave, Mr John Screwby, failing money, determined to have the full measure of his revenge, brimming over, if it were possible, and therefore he joined himself heart and soul to the party whose every effort was directed towards the elucidation of the mystery which had prostrated Sir Francis. For after striving most manfully to fight against bodily weakness, the old baronet lay at his son’s chambers in a state upon which the medical men consulted declined to give a decided opinion.
To a bystander Sir Francis seemed weak and perfectly helpless, but a few words relating to information would galvanise him into life once more; and so it was that one afternoon, when a rough, waterside-looking fellow presented himself, Sir Francis immediately ordered him to be shown up.