Chapter Twenty.
Samuel Shuckleford finds Virtue its own Reward.
It was just as well for Horace’s peace of mind, during his time of anxious watching, that two short paragraphs in the morning papers of the following day escaped his observation.
“At — police-court yesterday, two men named Medlock and Shanklin were brought before the magistrate on various charges of fraud connected with sham companies in different parts of the country. After some formal evidence they were remanded for a week, bail being refused.”
“A youth named Reginald was yesterday charged at Liverpool with conspiracy to defraud by means of fictitious circulars addressed in the name of a trading company. He was remanded for three days without bail, pending inquiries.”
It so happened that it fell to Booms’s lot to cut the latter paragraph out. And as he was barely aware of the existence of Cruden’s brother, and in no case would have recognised him by his assumed name, the news, even if he read it, could have conveyed no intelligence to his mind.
Horace certainly did not read it. Even when he had nothing better to do, he always regarded newspapers as a discipline not to be meddled with out of office hours. And just now, with his mother lying in a critical condition, and with no news day after day of Reginald, he had more serious food for reflection than the idle gossip of a newspaper.
The only other person in London whom the news could have interested was Samuel Shuckleford. But as he was that morning riding blithely in the train to Liverpool, reading the Law Times, and flattering himself he would soon make the public “sit up” to a recognition of his astuteness, he saw nothing of them.
He found himself on the Liverpool platform just where, scarcely three months ago, Reginald had found himself that dreary afternoon of his arrival. But, unlike Reginald, it cost the young ornament of the law not a moment’s hesitation as to whether he should take a cab or not to his destination. If only the cabman knew whom he had the honour to carry, how he would touch up his horse!
“Shy Street. Put me down at the corner,” said Samuel, swinging himself into the hansom.
So this was Liverpool. He had never been there before, and consequently it was not to be wondered at that the crowds jostling by on the pavement, without so much as a glance in his direction, neither knew him nor had heard of him. He could forgive them, and smiled to think how different it would be in a few days, when all the world would point at him as he drove back to the station, and say,—
“There goes Shuckleford, the clever lawyer, who first exposed the Select Agency Corporation, don’t you know?”
Don’t you know? What a question to ask respecting S.S.!
At the corner of Shy Street he alighted, and sauntered gently down the street, keeping a sharp look-out on both sides of him, without appearing to regard anything but the pavement.
Humph! The odd numbers were on the left side, so S.S. would walk on the right, and get a good survey of Number 13 from a modest distance.
What, thought he, would the precious Cruden Reginald (ha! ha!) think if he knew who was walking down the other side of the road?
Ah! he was getting near it now. Here was 17, a baker’s; 15, a greengrocer’s; and 13—eh? a chemist’s? Ah, yes, he noticed that the first floors of all the shops were let for offices, and the first floor of the chemist’s shop was the place he wanted.
He could see through the grimy window the top rail of a chair-back and the corner of a table, on which stood an inkpot and a tattered directory. No occupant of the room was visible; doubtless he found it prudent to keep away from the window; or he might possibly have seen the figure of S.S. advancing down the street.
Samuel crossed over. No name was on the chemist’s side-door, but it stood ajar, and he pushed it open and peered up the gloomy staircase. There was a name on the door at the top, so he crept stealthily up the stairs to decipher the word “Medlock” in dim characters on the plate.
“Medlock!” Ho! ho! He was getting warm now. Not only was his man going about with his own name turned inside out, but he had the effrontery to stick up the name of one of his own directors on his door!
Samuel knew Mr Medlock—whom didn’t he know? He had been introduced to him by Durfy, and had supped with him once at the Shades. A nice, pleasant-spoken gentleman, who had made some very complimentary little speeches about Samuel in Samuel’s own hearing. This was the man whose name Cruden had borrowed for his door-plate, in the hope of further mystifying the public as to his own personality!
Ah! ah! He might mystify the public, but there was one whose initials were S.S. whom it would need a cleverer cheat than Cruden Reginald, Esquire, to mystify!
He listened for a moment at the door, and, hearing no sound, made bold to enter. Had Reginald been in, he was prepared to represent that, being on a chance visit to Liverpool, he had been unable to pass the door of an old neighbour without giving him a friendly call.
But he was not put to this shift, for the room was empty. “Gone out to his dinner, I suppose,” said Sam to himself. “Well, I’ll take a good look round while I am here.”
Which he proceeded to do, much to his own satisfaction, but very little to his information, for scarcely a torn-up envelope was to be found to reward the spy for his trouble. The only thing that did attract his attention as likely to be remotely useful was a fragment of a pink paper with the letters “gerskin” on it—a relic Love would have recognised as part of the cover of an old favourite, but which to the inquiring mind of the lawyer appeared to be a document worth impounding in the interests of justice.
As nobody appeared after the lapse of half an hour, Samuel considered his time was being wasted, and therefore withdrew. He looked into the chemist’s shop as he went down, but the chemist was not at home; so he strolled into the greengrocer’s next door, and bought an orange, which he proceeded to consume, making himself meanwhile cunningly agreeable to the lady who presided over the establishment.
“Fine Christmas weather,” said he, looking up in the middle of a prolonged suck.
“Yes,” said the lady.
“Plenty of customers?”
She shrugged her shoulders. Sam might interpret that as he liked.
“I suppose you supply the Corporation next door?” said Sam, digging his countenance once more into the orange.
“Eh?” said the lady.
“The—what’s-his-name?—Mr Reginald—I suppose he deals with you?”
“He did, if you want to know.”
“I thought so—a friend of mine, you know.”
“Oh, is he?” said the lady, finding words at last, and bridling up in a way that astonished her cross-examiner; “then the sooner you go and walk off after him the better!”
“Oh, very well,” said Sam. “He’s not at home just now, though.”
“Oh, ain’t he?” said the woman, “that’s funny!”
“Why, what do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing—what should I? If you’re a friend of his, you’d better take yourself off! That’s what I mean.”
“All right; no offence, old lady. Perhaps he’s come in by this time.”
The lady laughed disagreeably. The Corporation had bought coals of her three months ago.
Samuel returned to the office, but it was as deserted as ever. He therefore resolved to try what his blandishments could do with the chemist’s boy downstairs in the way of obtaining information.
That young gentleman, as the reader will remember, had been a bosom friend of Love in his day, and was animated to some extent by the spirit of his comrade.
“Hullo, my man!” said Sam, walking into the shop. “Governor’s out, then?”
“Yus.”
“Got any lollipops in those bottles?”
“Yus.”
“Any brandy-balls?”
“No.”
“Any acid-drops?”
“Yus.”
“I’ll take a penn’orth, then. I suppose you don’t know when the gentleman upstairs will be back?”
The boy stopped short in his occupation and stared at Sam.
“What gentleman?” he asked.
“Mr Medlock, is it? or Reginald, or some name like that?”
“Oh yus, I do!” said the boy, with a grin.
“When?”
“Six months all but a day. That’s what I reckon.”
“Six months! Has he gone away, then?”
“Oh no—he was took off.”
“Took off—you don’t mean to say he’s dead?”
“Oh, ain’t you a rum ’un! As if you didn’t know he’s been beaked.”
“Beaked! what’s that?”
The boy looked disgusted at the fellow’s obtuseness.
“’Ad up in the p’lice-court, of course. What else could I mean?”
Samuel jumped off his stool as if he had been electrified.
“What do you say?” said he, gaping wildly at the boy.
“Go on; if you’re deaf, it’s no use talkin’ to you. He’s been up in the p’lice-court,” said he, raising his voice to a shout. “Yesterday—there you are—and there’s your drops, and you ain’t give me the penny for them.”
Samuel threw down the penny, and, too excited to take up the drops, dashed out into the street.
What! yesterday—while he was lounging about town, fancying he had the game all to himself. Was ever luck like his?
He rushed to a shop and bought a morning paper. There, sure enough, was a short notice of yesterday’s proceedings, and you might have knocked S.S. down with a feather as he read it.
“Anyhow,” said he to himself, crumpling up the paper in sheer vexation, “they won’t be able to do without me, I’ll take care of that. I can tell them all about it—but catch me doing it now, the snobs, unless they’re civil.”
With which valiant determination he swung himself into another cab, and ordered the man to drive to the head police-station.
The inspector was not in, but his second-in-command was, and to him, much against his will, Samuel had to explain his business.
“Well, what do you know about the prisoner?” asked the official.
“Oh, plenty. You’d better subpoena me for the next examination,” said Sam.
The sub-inspector smiled.
“You’re like all the rest of them,” he said, “think you know all about it. Come, let’s hear what you’ve got to say, young fellow; there’s plenty of work to be done here, I can tell you, without dawdling our time.”
“Thank you,” said Sam, “I’d sooner tell the magistrate.”
“Go and tell the magistrate then!” shouted the official, “and don’t stay blocking up the room here.”
This was not what Samuel expected. There was little chance of the magistrate being more impressed with his importance than a sub-inspector. So he felt the only thing for it was to bring himself to the unpleasant task of showing his cards after all.
“The fact is—” he began.
“If you’re going to say what you know about the case, I’ll listen to you,” said the sub-inspector, interrupting him, “if not, go and talk in the street.”
“I am going to say what I know,” said the crestfallen Sam.
“Very well. It’s a pity you couldn’t do it at first,” said the official, getting up and standing with his back turned, warming his hands at the fire.
Under these depressing circumstances Samuel began his story, showing his weakest cards first, and saving up his trumps as long as he could. The sub-inspector listened to him impassively, rubbing his hands, and warming first one toe and then the other in the fender.
At length it was all finished, and he turned round.
“That’s all you know?”
“Yes—at present—I expect to discover more, though, in a day or two.”
“Just write your name and address on one of those envelopes,” said the sub-inspector, pointing to a stationery case on his table.
Sam obeyed, and handed the address to the official.
“Very well,” said the latter, folding the paper up without looking at it, and putting it into his waistcoat pocket, “if we want you, we’ll fetch you.”
“I suppose I had better put my statement down in writing?” said Samuel, making a last effort at pomposity.
“Can if you like,” said the sub-inspector, yawning, “when you’ve nothing else to do.”
And he ended the conference by calling to a constable outside to tell 190 C he might come in.
Grievously crestfallen, Samuel withdrew, bemoaning the hour when he first heard the name of Cruden, and was fool enough to dirty his hands with a “big job.” What else was he to expect when once these official snobs took a thing up? Of course they would put every obstacle and humiliation in the way of an outsider that jealousy could suggest. He had very little doubt that this sub-inspector, the moment his back was turned, would sit down and make notes of his information, and then take all the credit of it to himself. Never mind, they were bound to want him when the trial came on, and wouldn’t he just show up their tricks! Oh no! S.S. wasn’t going to be flouted and snubbed for nothing, he could tell them, and so they’d discover.
It was no use staying in Liverpool, that was clear. The Liverpool police should have the pleasure of fetching him all the way from London when they wanted him; and possibly, with Durfy’s aid, he might succeed in getting hold of another trump-card meanwhile to turn up when they least expected it.
The journey south next day was less blithe and less occupied with the Law Times than the journey north had been. But as he got farther away from inhospitable Liverpool his spirits revived, and before London was reached he was once more in imagination “the clever lawyer, Shuckleford, don’t you know, who gave the Liverpool police a slap in the face over that Agency Corporation business, don’t you know.”
Two “don’t you knows” this time!
On reaching home, any natural joy he might be expected to feel on being restored to the bosom of his family was damped by the discovery that his mother was that very moment in next door relieving guard with Miss Crisp at the bedside of Mrs Cruden.
“What business has she to do it when I told her not?” demanded Sam wrathfully of his sister.
“She’s not bound to obey you,” said Jemima; “she’s your mother.”
“She is. And a nice respectable mother, too, to go mixing with a lot of low, swindling jail-birds! It’s sickening!”
“You’ve no right to talk like that, Sam,” said Jemima, flushing up; “they’re as honest as you are—more so, perhaps. There!”
“Go it; say on,” said Samuel. “All I can tell you is, if you don’t both of you turn the Cruden lot up, I’ll go and live in lodgings by myself.”
“Why should we turn them or anybody up for you, I should like to know?” said Jemima, with a toss of her head. “What have they done to you?”
“You’re an idiot,” said Sam, “or you wouldn’t talk bosh. Your dear Reginald—”
“Well, what about him?” said Jemima, her trembling lip betraying the inward flutter with which she heard the name.
“How would you like to know your precious Reginald was this moment in prison?”
“What!” shrieked Jemima, with a clutch at her brother’s arm.
He was glad to see there was some one he could make “sit up,” and replied, with brutal directness,—
“Yes—in prison, I tell you; charged with swindling and theft ever since he set foot in Liverpool. There, if that’s not reason enough for turning them up, I give you up. You can tell mother so, and say I’m down at the club, and she’d better leave supper up for me; do you hear?”
Jemima did not hear. She sat rocking herself in her chair, and sobbing as if her heart would break. Vulgar young person as she was, she had a heart, and, quite apart from everything else, the thought of the calamity which had befallen the fatherless family was in itself enough to move her deep pity; but when to that was added her own strange but constant affection for Reginald himself, despite all his aversion to her, it was a blow that fell heavily upon her.
She would not believe Reginald was guilty of the odious crimes Sam had so glibly catalogued; but guilty or not guilty, he was in prison, and it is only due to the honest, warm-hearted Jemima to say that she wished a hundred times that wretched evening that she could be in his place.
But could nothing be done? She knew it was no use trying to extract any more particulars from Samuel. As it was, she guessed only too truly that he would be raging with himself for telling her so much. Her mother could do nothing. She would probably fly with the news to Mrs Cruden’s bedside, and possibly kill her outright.
Horace! She might tell him, but she was afraid. The news would fall on him like a thunderbolt, and she dreaded being the person to inflict the blow. Yet he ought to knew, even if it doubled his misery and ended in no good to Reginald. Suppose she wrote to him.
At that moment a knock came at the door, followed by the entrance of Booms in all the gorgeousness of his evening costume. He frequently dropped in like this, especially since Mrs Cruden’s illness, to hear how she was, and to inquire after Miss Crisp; and this was his errand this evening.
“No better, I suppose?” said he, dolefully, sitting down very slowly by reason of the tightness of his garments.
“Yes, the doctor says she’s better; a little, a very little,” said Jemima.
“And she, of course she’s quite knocked up?” said he, with a groan.
“No. Miss Crisp’s taking a nap, that’s all; and mother’s keeping watch next door.”
Booms sat very uncomfortably, not knowing what fresh topic to discourse on. But an inspiration seized him presently.
“Oh, I see you’re crying,” he said. “You’re in trouble, too.”
“So I am,” said Jemima.
“Something I’ve done, I suppose?” said Booms.
“No, it isn’t. It’s about—about the Crudens.”
“Oh, of course. What about them?”
“Well, isn’t it bad enough they have this dreadful trouble?” said Jemima; “but it isn’t half the trouble they really are in.”
“You know I can’t understand what you mean when you talk like that,” said Booms.
“Will you promise, if I tell you, to keep it a secret?”
“Oh, of course. I hate secrets, but go on.”
“Oh, Mr Booms, Mr Reginald is in prison at Liverpool, on a charge—a false charge, I’m certain—of fraud. Isn’t it dreadful? And Mr Horace ought to know of it. Could you break it to him?”
“How can I keep it a secret and break it to him?” said Mr Booms, in a pained tone. “Oh yes, I’ll try, if you like.”
“Oh, thank you. Do it very gently, and be sure not to let my mother, or his, or anybody else hear of it, won’t you?”
“I’ll try. Of course every one will put all the blame on me if it does spread.”
“No, I won’t. Do it first thing to-morrow, won’t you, Mr Booms?”
“Oh yes”; and then, as if determined to be in time for the interview, he added, “I’d better go now.”
And he departed very like a man walking to the gallows.
Shuckleford returned at midnight, and found the supper waiting for him, but, to his relief, neither of the ladies.
He wrote the following short note before he partook of his evening meal:—
“Dear D.,—Come round first thing in the morning. The police have dished us for once, but we’ll be quits with them if we put our heads together. Be sure and come. Yours, S. S.”
After having posted this eloquent epistle with his own hand at the pillar-box he returned to his supper, and then went, somewhat dejected, to bed.