THE EMPTY ROOM
The constable tumbled rather than walked into the room. His hands and clothes were begrimed and black; his hat was crushed and shapeless; his fat, rosy cheeks were streaked with irregular patterns where his fingers had rubbed.
Susan Gollop stood with arms akimbo, grimly eyeing the returned wanderer.
“Well, if you’re not a pretty object!” she said severely; but her lips were trembling a little. “There! Fetch a basin of water, Lucy, and the pummy stone, and there’s a dirty towel on the rack.”
Dick Gollop plumped heavily into a chair.
“I’m dead beat, missus,” he murmured. “Give us a drink.”
Martin handed him a mug, and he took a deep draught.
“What a Sunday!” he exclaimed. “Fire and brimstone! The everlasting fire! And the Lord Mayor’s just as silly as any common man. My throat’s as dry as a bone. Another drink, lad.”
“Don’t you talk lightly of the Lord Mayor, my man,” said his wife reproachfully.
“Pish! He’s scared out of his wits, no good at all. The King’s the man for my money. ’Twas he sent orders to pull down houses so’s the fire wouldn’t have nothing to feed on; but bless me! the Lord Mayor goes up and down wringing his hands and crying, ‘What can I do?’ But I’m dead beat, I say: all day and all night at it; I’ll drop asleep where I sit.”
“Pardon,” said the Frenchman’s voice in the doorway. “You are of return. Tell me, I pray, the house: is it safe?”
“Don’t worrit about the house, Mounseer,” said Gollop. “There’s more call to worrit about yourself. Keep below deck, that’s my advice to you. The people are raging about all foreigners, specially French and Dutch, and if they catch you in the street, ten to one they’ll do you a mischief. I saw a Frenchman nearly torn limb from limb by a parcel of women because he was carrying fire-balls, they said. Turned out to be tennis-balls; that’s their ignorance. Don’t go out, Mounseer: what you can’t help, make the best of.”
The Frenchman smiled and thanked him, and returned to his own apartment.
“You’re sure we’re safe, Gollop?” said Susan. “We can go to sleep in our beds?”
“Sure I’m going to sleep in mine,” answered Gollop. “One more drink, then——”
“If you’re so sure, why’s that Mr. Seymour so frightened, then? He’s been going in and out all day; men have been traipsing up and down, carrying out boxes and parcels and things. He’s not so sure, seemingly.”
The mention of Mr. Seymour reminded Martin of the button.
“I say, Susan,” he said, “where’s that button you found in the cupboard?”
“Bless the boy! What’s buttons to do with it? It’s on the mantelshelf, if you must know.”
Martin reached it down, examined it, and in a moment exclaimed:
“This is Mr. Seymour’s. His top button is missing. I saw him as he came in.”
“Well!” said Susan.
“Gundra must have torn it off. It was Mr. Seymour spirited him away.”
“Did you ever! You hear that, Gollop?”
“Eh? What?” said Gollop, who was beginning to doze in his chair.
“That Indian boy was carried off in the night, and ’twas Mr. Seymour done it. Poor little wretch! That’s kidnapping. You can’t go to sleep yet: what’s your precious law say to that?”
“The law says,” muttered Gollop drowsily, “what you can’t help, make——”
“Listen to me,” said his wife, shaking him. “You’ll just go upstairs at once with this button and show it to that Seymour, and ask him what he means by——”
“Avast there, woman!” cried the constable, heaving himself out of his chair. “I’ll sheer off to my bed and nowhere else, not for all the laws in the kingdom. Talk of buttons and nigger boys when all the world is afire! I’m dead-beat, I say, and I’ll turn in this minute.”
He lurched away into the bedroom and shut the door with a bang.
Susan looked at the door as if in a mind to follow her husband and drag him back. Then her face softened.
“Poor dear!” she said. “He’s that tired I never did see, and when a man’s tired let him be, that’s what I say. But that there Seymour!” Her lips shut tight. “Gollop can’t go, so I’ll go myself.”
“He won’t tell you anything,” said Martin.
“Maybe he will, maybe he won’t. But I’ll not rest till I know what he’s done with that poor shrimp of a blackamoor. And if he won’t tell, leastways I’ll show him the button, and ask whether he owns it, and I warrant I’ll tell by the look on his face whether he’s a villain or not.”
“I’ll go with you—light you upstairs,” said Martin, taking a candle from the table.
“Go to bed, Lucy,” said Susan. “You are over-late already.”
“I want to know about the Indian boy,” said Lucy.
“Now, don’t make me cross. Go to bed at once; you shall hear all about it in the morning.”
Smoothing her apron and setting her cap straight, Mrs. Gollop marched out of the room, Martin following with the candle.
“I’ll talk to him!” said the angry woman, as she began to climb the stairs. “I’ll teach him to come stealing down in the dead of night and poking his nose into the rooms of honest people! I’ll give him a piece of my mind, and his ears will be all of a tingle before he’s done with Susan Gollop!”
Martin noticed with amusement that the higher she got the lower fell the tone of her voice, until by the time she reached Mr. Seymour’s door and knocked, and asked, “Can I speak to you, sir?” her voice was as mild as the cooing of a dove.
There was no answer. She knocked again.
“Mr. Seymour, sir!”
There was still no answer. She waited a moment or two, then summoned up her resolution and turned the handle. To her surprise the door opened. The room was dark.
“Show me a light,” she whispered.
Martin, with the candle, stepped in front of her. A glance showed that the room was empty, except of the furniture and a quantity of litter on the floor.
“Well, I declare!” Susan cried, in loud indignation. “He’s gone, and took all his belongings. There’s a coward for you!”
Among the litter there were a few pieces of paper, suggesting that Mr. Seymour had torn up old letters before he left. Martin, all his suspicions revived, had the curiosity to collect these scraps.
“We can do nothing more,” he said. “I’d like to look at these bits of paper carefully downstairs.”
“They’re just love-letters or other rubbidge,” scoffed Mrs. Gollop, “and I’ve come up all these stairs for nothing at all!”
But half an hour later Martin, poring over the papers spread before him on the table by the light of two candles, was inclined to think that the journey had not been in vain. He had put together a number of scraps that appeared to be all in the same handwriting, and by shifting their positions until the torn edges fitted together he had composed a sentence or two that clearly formed part of a letter. What he read was as follows:
. . . . Maria sails on Tuesday. All cargo must be stowed by Monday. Tell W. S. that I do not communicate with him direct, for reasons which . . .
There was no more. Martin was at no loss to understand that the vessel sailing on Tuesday was the Santa Maria; nor was it long before he came to another conclusion. W. S. were the initials of his old employer, William Slocum.