CHAPTER II
INTRODUCING JASPER SHRIG, A BOW STREET RUNNER
"Ham, Peregrine?"
"Thank you, no, Anthony!" said I, shuddering slightly. "But where are the others? Asleep still?"
"Gone, Perry. At sight of this ham Jerny shied like a wild colt, Devenham moaned, and together they tottered forth into the bleak world. Did you say ham, Perry?"
"I—did—not!"
"Beef then—beef looks excellent! Beef?"
"Horrible!" I exclaimed, turning my back on the breakfast table. "Eat if you can, Tony, but talk you must and shall."
"Of last night, Peregrine?"
"Of Diana. I've scarcely had a word with you since your arrival."
"Which was last night."
"How is she, Anthony? Is she indeed handsomer—lovelier? Did she seem happy? Did she talk about—did she—happen to mention—"
"She did, Perry, talked of you frequently, very much so! Won't you try a cup of coffee and a crust—"
"Tell me how—where you first met her."
"It was at the ambassador's ball and mark you, Perry, there were some uncommonly fine women there, though none of 'em, no, damme, not one to compare with my Loveliness, of course—"
"You mean Barbara?"
"Of course. Well, my boy, we'd made our bow and here was Loveliness worrying in her pretty fashion because my cravat had shifted or some such, and here was I pulling at the thing and saying, 'Yes, dear,' and making it worse when, as the poet says, 'amid this glittering throng of lovely women and gallant men' my charmed eye alighted upon a haughty beauty, a ravishing creature condescending to be worshipped by a crowd of fawning slaves, civilian, soldier and sailor of all stations and ranks, from purple-faced admirals and general officers to pink, downy-whiskered subalterns. 'Egad, Loveliness,' says I, jerking at my cravat, 'what asinine fools brave men and gallant gentlemen can make of themselves for lovely woman—look yonder!' 'Where?' says she. 'There!' says I, 'the dark, dazzling beauty yonder!' So Loveliness looks, and at that very moment Beauty breaks from the abject circle of her fawning slaves and comes running. 'Diana!' cries Loveliness. 'Barbara!' cries Beauty, and they are in each other's arms—and there you are, Perry. Astonishing how they love each other. So when I left to attend this birthday of yours, Loveliness must stay with her Diana—I miss her most damnably!"
"Has she so many admirers?" I sighed.
"Hordes of 'em, Perry! Troops, squadrons, regiments, begad! So has my
Loveliness, for that matter."
"And are you never jealous?"
"Devil a bit, dear fellow. Though," said he, slowly clenching his right hand into a powerful fist and scowling down at it, "given the occasion—I could be, Perry, y-e-s, madly, brutally—I could kill—do murder, I believe. Oh, pshaw! My Barbara is so sweet, so purely a thing of heaven that sometimes I—I hate myself for not having been better—more worthy. Women are so infinitely better than ourselves, or so infinitely—worse. And she sent you a letter—here it is!"
"A letter? Diana? Where?"
"A snack of ham or beef first, Perry, love letters don't go over-well on empty stomachs—" But here I caught the letter from him and sat with it in fingers that shook a little, staring at the superscription.
"Her writing has improved amazingly!" said I.
"Dear fellow," he answered, sharpening the carving knife quite unnecessarily, "go away and read it, seek some quiet spot and leave me to eat in peace."
"Thanks, Tony," said I gratefully, and hastened into the next room forthwith, there to read and re-read the superscription, to commit all those tender follies natural to lovers and finally to break the seal.
DEAR, DEAR MY PEREGRINE: Very soon we shall see each other, and this thought makes me tremble with alternate happiness and dread. Yes, dread, my Peregrine, because these years have changed me in many ways—oh, shall I please you as I am now? Will you love me as you did when I was only your humble Diana of the Silent Places? For Peregrine, you loved me then so very much, so truly and with such wonderful unselfishness that I am afraid you may not love the Diana of to-day quite so well as the Diana of two years ago. But dear Peregrine, know that my heart is quite—quite unchanged; you will always be the one man of all others, the Peregrine whose generous love lifted me high above my girlish dreams but never oh, never any higher than his own heart. So Peregrine, love me when I come back to you or these long two years will have been lived in vain and I shall run away back to the Silent Places and die an old maid. Perhaps I shall seem strange when we meet, but this will only be because I fear you a little and doubt a little how you may feel towards this new Diana—so love me, let me see it in your eyes, hear it in your voice. It is so much easier to write than to say, so I will write it again—Love me, Peregrine, love me because I am yours—now and always.
DIANA.
Having read this letter I laid it down and took from an inner pocket another letter, somewhat worn and frayed by over-much handling, which bore these words, smudged and blotted a little, though written with painful care.
DEAR PERRYGREEN: Your letter has made me cry dredfully. I cannot bear to think of you so lonly because I am lonly to. I cannot bear to think of you on your nees I would rather think of you as I saw you last so brave and determined. Pray for me as I pray for you only don't rite to me or I shall run back to you because I am not very brave and want you so. O dear Perrygreen always love
YOUR DIANA.
"You're looking confoundedly glum, Perry; I hope the billet is quite sufficiently doux?"
"Quite—indeed, quite!" said I, starting out of my reverie. "It is a letter such as only Diana could have written—"
"Then your woe undoubtedly proceeds from stomach; for the emptiness of same I prescribe ham, shall we say mingled—judiciously blended—with beef—"
"Abhorrent thought!" I exclaimed. At this moment, after a discreet knock on the door, my valet Clegg entered.
"Sir," said he in his soft and toneless voice, "the groom is below; shall you ride or drive this morning?"
"Neither!" I answered, whereupon Clegg bowed and withdrew.
"Excellent!" nodded Anthony. "Nothing like walking to make an empty stomach aware of its vacuity. By the way, queer article that Clegg fellow of yours—face like a mask! Where did you pick him up?"
"I don't remember. He had excellent references, I believe. Why do you ask?"
"Fancy I've seen him before. Come, let us adventure forth in search of your appetite."
To us in the hall came Clegg to bring our hats and canes.
"Were you ever in the service of a Captain Danby?" enquired Anthony, his keen gaze on Clegg's impassive face.
"Yes, sir, I was valet to Captain Marmaduke Danby—two years ago."
"I saw you with him once at a small inn called 'The Jolly Waggoner.'"
Clegg bowed deferentially, but when he looked up his pale eyes seemed to glow strangely and his pallid cheek was slightly flushed.
"Yes, sir, Captain Danby sent for me to attend him there—I found him in bed exceedingly—unwell. He was—suffering, sir. He suffered quite a—good deal of—pain, sir—of pain."
Saying which, Clegg bowed us out into the street with a deeper obeisance than usual.
"Strange!" said Anthony, taking my arm. "You have probably forgotten this Danby, the fellow I had the pleasure of thrashing, Perry?"
"I shall never forget how you stood on him and wiped your boots,
Anthony."
"I did chastise him somewhat severely, I remember. But I learned something more of his villainy from Barbara, as we drove away, and I returned next day to give him another dose but found him in bed bandaged like a mummy and this Clegg fellow of yours beside him. I learned afterwards that he was friend to that same scoundrel Barbara's father was forcing the sweet soul to marry, damn him!"
"The world seems full of unhanged villains!" said I, through shut teeth.
"Oh, is it, begad?"
"It is!"
"You're devilish gloomy, Perry."
"I fear I am."
"All stomach, ye know, dear fellow. I've noticed this poor old world is generally blamed most damnably, purely because of the night of the morning after—more especially upon an empty—"
"Don't say it again, Anthony, for heaven's sake!"
"But you're curst gloomy and devilish doleful—"
"Anthony, dear man, while you were snoring blissfully this morning I watched a poor, beautiful young creature dragged out of the river."
"Dead, Perry?"
"Yes. She was probably drowning herself last night while we drank and rioted—poor despairing child!" and here I described the dreadful incident very fully. "You have never met or heard of any one named Haredale, have you, Anthony?" I ended.
"No," he answered, "no! Gad, Perry," he burst out with a vicious twirl of his cane, "there are times when killing is a laudable act!" After this we walked in silence for some time.
"Where are we going?" he questioned suddenly.
Hereupon I glanced up, for I had walked with my gaze bent earthward, and saw that we were close upon the river.
"Since we are here," I answered, "I will show you where it—she lies. It was yonder they found her, and over there, beyond those trees, is a wretched tavern—"
"And on the other side of the hedge, Perry, is a small, unpleasant person who peeps and peers and follows. Let us investigate!"
So saying, Anthony turned suddenly and confronted a small, mean-looking fellow who starting back out of reach, touched a shaggy eyebrow, cringed, and spoke:
"No offence, my lords an' gents—none in th' world, s' help me true!" Having said which, he clapped fingers to mouth and whistled very shrilly. "Not by no means nowise meanin' no offence, my lords," quoth he apologetically, "but dooty is dooty—an' 'ere 'e be!" Glancing whither he pointed, I saw a man approaching, a shortish, broad-shouldered, square-faced, leisurely person in a broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat and full-skirted frieze greatcoat; a man of slow gait and deliberate movement but with a quick and roving eye.
"Th' little 'un's th' gent, guv'nor—'e's th' cove! whispered the mean-looking fellow hoarsely, and now I recognised him as one of the two waterside characters I had met that morning with my uncle Jervas. The man in the frieze coat removed his hat, bobbed round head at Anthony, at me, and spoke, addressing himself to me:
"'T is in ewidence, sir, as you an' another gent 'appened to be a-passin' by when a lately de-funct o' the fe-male persuasion vas took out o' th' river at the hour o' four-two-two pre-cisely, this 'ere werry mornin'. Am I right?"
"That is so," I answered.
"'T is also in ewidence, sir, as you an' your friend 'appening to pass—by chance or de-sign, so werry remarkable early in the mornin', stopped to ob-serve same de-funct party o' the fe-male persuasion. Am I right again?"
"We did."
"'T is furthermore in ewidence, sir, that upon ob-serving corpse, you an' your friend seemed werry much took aback, not to say overcome. Am I—"
"They was, Jarsper, they was—oncommon!" quoth the smaller man hoarsely.
"'Enery, 'old your tongue! Now, sir, am I right or am I not?"
"We were both very naturally shocked," said I.
"Vich feelin's, sir, does you both credit—oceans. But 't is further in ewidence as your friend did commit a assault upon the body o' one Thomas Vokins by means of a cane an' there an' then took, removed, appre'ended or ab-stracted ewidence in the shape o' a piece o' paper as 'ad fell from right 'and o' said corpse. Am I right once more?"
"Not altogether!" said I. "The man wrenched open the dead girl's fingers so brutally that my—companion very properly rapped him with his cane and noticing the piece of paper, ordered the man to give it to him."
"Good—werry good! Now I puts it to you, sir—vere is that piece o' paper?"
"Probably in my companion's possession."
"Good again! An' vere might 'e be?"
"That I decline to tell you!"
"Vy then, sir, dooty bein' dooty, I'll take a valk."
"As you will!" said I. "Come, Anthony!" and turning, we began to retrace our steps. But we had gone but a little way when I faced suddenly about, for the man was plodding at our heels.
"Why the devil do you follow us?" I demanded, greatly exasperated.
"Becos' dooty is dooty, sir, an' dooty demands same," he answered imperturbably.
"Who are you, fellow?"
"Jarsper Shrig, Bow Street officer—werry much at your service, sir!"
"And what do you want of me?"
"A piece o' paper, sir, as ewidence to establish i-dentifi-cation of de-funct young party o' the fe-male persuasion in a case o' murder or feller-de-see—"
Here I turned and walked on again in no little perplexity.
"What am I to do, Anthony?" I muttered.
"Bring the fellow to your chambers, despatch a note to Sir Jervas and leave it to his decision."
So we walked on, perfectly ignoring this very pertinacious Bow Street officer; but I, for one, was not sorry when at last we reached the door of my chambers, and halting, turned to behold the Bow Street officer, who had stopped also and appeared to be lost in contemplation of the adjacent chimney pots. And as he stood thus, I was struck by his air of irreproachable respectability and pervading mildness; despite the formidable knotted stick beneath his arm, he seemed indeed to radiate benevolence from the soles of his stout boots to the crown of his respectable, broad-brimmed hat.
"A re-markable vide-avake young man, yours, sir," said he gently, still apparently lost in contemplation of the chimney pots, "a re-markable vatchful young man an' werry attentive!"
"What do you mean, officer?"
"I mean, sir, as he's opened your door afore you knocked."
Glancing at the door, I saw indeed, to my surprise, that it stood slightly ajar; hereupon I reached out to open it when it swung wide and my man Clegg stood before us.
"I saw you approaching, sir," he exclaimed, bowing us in.
Reaching my small library, the officer seated himself at my invitation and depositing hat and stick very precisely beneath his chair, sat looking more unctuously mild than ever, there was about him a vague suggestion of conventicles, and a holy Sabbatarian calm.
"You said your name was Shrig, I think?" said I.
"Jarsper Shrig, sir, at your sarvice."
"Then perhaps, while I write my letter, you will take a glass of wine,
Mr. Shrig?"
"Sir," he answered, "not beating about no bushes, I vill—Mr.
Werricker, sir."
"You know my name?" I exclaimed a little sharply.
"I dedooce same, sir, from them three letters on your secretary as is a-staring me straight in the face, Mr. Werricker."
"Pray, Anthony, oblige me by ringing the bell!" said I, taking up my pen.
Soft-treading, the discreet Clegg duly brought in decanter and glasses, and Mr. Shrig, watching him pour out the wine, drew from his capacious pocket a little book and opened it, much as though he would have read forth a text of Scripture, but all he said was:
"Thank 'ee, my man!" and then, as the door closed upon the discreetly silent Clegg, "Your 'ealth, gen'elmen!"
The letter to my uncle Jervas being written and despatched, I turned to find Mr. Shrig busied with his little book and a stumpy pencil, much as if he had been composing a sermon or address, while Anthony, lounging upon the settee, watched him with lazy interest.
"A on-commonly taking cove, sir, that young man o' yourn!" said Mr.
Shrig, pocketing book and pencil.
"Not more so than other servants, I believe," I answered.
"And all valets," murmured Anthony, "all valets are predatory by nature, of course—"
"I mean as he's a likely cove. Now, talkin' o' corpses—" began Mr.
Shrig.
"But we are not!" said I.
"Axing your parding, sir, but I am and, perfessionally speakin', never 'ave I seen a prettier corp', than this 'ere young fe-male in question—"
"And your experience in such is vast, I take it?" murmured Anthony.
"None waster, sir! Wast is the werry vord for it."
"Do you think this is a case of suicide or murder?" enquired Anthony.
"Can't say, sir. But somevun's allvays bein' murdered, murderin' or goin' for to murder somevun, somevere or t'other."
"Sounds cheery!" murmured Anthony. "Do you catch many murderers?"
"Pretty fair, sir, pretty fair. I got a special aptitood for it; I can smell murder in the werry air, feel it, taste it—"
"Must be devilish unpleasant!" said Anthony.
"'Tis a nat'ral gift wi' me, sir. Lord love ye, gen'elmen, I can p'int you out a murderer afore the fact's committed—I've got the names o' four on 'em—no, five—wrote down in my little reader, five werry promisin' coves as is doo for the deed at any moment; I'm a vaitin' for 'em to bring it off, sirs. Lord, I'm a vatchin' over 'em like a feyther an' mother rolled into vun, an' v'en they do commit the deed, I shall appre'end 'em red-'anded an' up they'll go."
"Your methods are highly original, Mr. Shrig," said I, "but do they always work correctly?"
"Ever an' always, sir—barrin' accidents. O' course, there's many a promisin' murderer died afore 'e could do the deed, death 'as no more respect for vould-be murderers than for their wictims. But whenever I sees a cove or covess with the true murderer's face, down goes that cove or covess' name in my little reader, an' I vatches an' vaits for 'em to bring it off, werry patient."
"Have you written down the name of Haredale in your little book?" I enquired.
"Haredale, Mr. Werricker, sir? V'y no, I ain't. V'y should I, sir? Vot ha' you to tell me about any party, name o' Haredale?"
"Only that you will find such a name on the piece of paper you are after."
Mr. Shrig's roving eye fixed me for a moment.
"Haredale?" he muttered, shaking his head, "Haredale?"
At this juncture, with a soft knock on the door, Clegg presented himself, bearing the following letter from my uncle.
MY DEAR PEREGRINE: I am grateful for your forethought, but you may suffer the man to visit me, for the law is the law—besides, the man Shrig is an old acquaintance. Moreover I have learned all I desired from the scrap of paper and it is therefore entirely at Mr. Shrig's service. Should you still be suffering from spleen, liver or the blue devils, go for a gallop on your "Wildfire."
With which salutary advice to yourself and good wishes to your friend
Mr. Vere-Manville,
I REST, YOUR AFFECTIONATE UNCLE, JERVAS.
"Mr. Shrig," said I, "you have my uncle's permission to wait upon him at once. Sir Jervas is acquainted with you, it seems?"
"Sir Jervas?" repeated Mr. Shrig, reaching down for hat and knobby stick. "Ackvainted? I should say so, sir! A reg'lar bang-up blood, a downright 'eavy toddler—oh, I know Sir Jervas, ackvainted is the werry i-denti-cal name for it! So, with your permission, sir, I'll be padding on my vay."
"You will find him at his chambers in—"
"St. James's Street, nigh opposite to Vite's, Mr. Werricker, sir. Ah many's the drop o' French brandy, glass o' port or sherry as I've drank to the 'ealth o' your uncle in them werry i-dentical chambers, sir. A gent wi' a werry elegant taste in crime is Sir Jervas. No, don't trouble to come down, sir, your young man shall let me out. A reg'lar treasure that 'ere young man o' yours, Mr. Werricker! Good morning, gen'elmen both, my best respex!"
So saying, Mr. Shrig bobbed his head to us in turn, beamed as it might have been in benediction, and took himself away.