SILAS MONK.
A TALE OF LONDON OLD CITY.
IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER III.
Unless Rachel had reflected, in the midst of her alarm at the absence of her grandfather, that Walter Tiltcroft would be at the counting-house of Armytage and Company at an early hour, there is no saying what steps she might have taken with the hope of gaining some tidings of the old man. If anything had happened, Walter must be the first to bear the news to her. Towards nine o’clock, therefore, her anxiety began to take a different form; she ceased to expect her grandfather’s return, and dreaded the appearance of her lover.
The house was soon put in order; everything about the poor home of Silas Monk looked as neat and clean as usual. Rachel was on the point of taking up her needlework, when a quick step on the pavement under the window attracted her attention. It was Walter Tiltcroft. He followed her into the sitting-room. He was somewhat out of breath; and when Rachel caught sight of his face, she thought she had never seen it so pale. ‘Sit down, Walter,’ said the girl, placing a chair. ‘You have come to tell me something. You have come to tell me’—and here her voice almost failed her—‘you have come to tell me that he is dead.’
‘No. I thought that I should find your grandfather here.’
‘Why, he has not been here the whole night long!’
The young man passed his hand confusedly across his brow. ‘What did I tell you I saw at the office last night?’
‘You told me,’ answered Rachel, ‘that you saw grandfather, through a hole in the shutter, counting handfuls of sovereigns on his desk.’
‘Ah!’ exclaimed Walter, ‘then I cannot have dreamt it. I was the first to enter the office this morning. His room was empty. His ledgers were lying on his desk; the key was in the lock of the large safe, and the door of the safe stood open. But there were no signs of Silas Monk.’
The girl looked at the young man with a scared face. ‘What shall we do, if he is lost?’
Walter rose quickly from his seat. ‘Wait!’ cried he. ‘We shall find him. Mr Armytage has sent for a detective—one, as they say, who can see through a stone wall.’
‘Oh!’ cried the girl, ‘they cannot suspect my grandfather! I shall not rest until you bring him back to me, here, in our old home.’
The young man promised, with earnest looks and words, to do his best; and then hurried away with all possible despatch.
The commotion at the office, which had been going on ever since nine o’clock that morning, was showing no signs of abatement when Walter walked in. The entrance was guarded by two stalwart police-officers, who assisted the young clerk to make his way through a gaping crowd. Rumours had already spread about the city: Silas Monk had ‘gone off,’ some said, with the contents of the great iron safe in the strong-room of Armytage and Company; and the value of the documents which he had purloined was estimated at sums varying from one to ten thousand pounds. Other reports went even further, and declared that Silas, when entering as a clerk into the firm of Armytage and Company, years and years ago, had sold himself to the Evil One; that last night, while the old city clocks were striking twelve, he had received a visit—as did Faust from Mephistopheles—and had been whisked away in the dark.
Walter Tiltcroft found another constable near the stairs. ‘You’re wanted,’ said the officer in a snappish manner. ‘This way.’ The man conducted Walter to the private office of Mr Armytage, the senior partner. Here he left him.
Walter stepped into the room boldly, but with a fast-beating heart. A gentleman with a head as white as snow and with a very stiff manner, was standing on the rug before the fire, as he entered. ‘Do you want me, Mr Armytage?’
The senior partner turned his eyes upon the clerk. ‘Yes, Tiltcroft; I want you.’
Looking round, Walter noticed for the first time that they were not alone. Seated at a table, with his back to the window, so that his face was in shade, was a gentleman, writing quickly with a quill-pen. This gentleman had jet-black hair, cut somewhat short; and there was a tuft of black whisker on a level with each ear. His hat was on the table, and beside the hat was lying a thick oaken stick.
Walter had made this observation in a rapid glance, when Mr Armytage added: ‘What news have you brought from Silas Monk’s house?—Has Silas been there?’
‘No, sir; not for twenty-four hours.’
‘Ah! Now, tell me, were you not the last to leave the office yesterday?’
When Mr Armytage put this question, the noise of the pen suddenly ceased. Was the gentleman with the jet-black hair listening? Walter could not look round, because the senior partner’s eyes were fixed upon him. But he felt inclined to think that the gentleman was listening very attentively, being anxious to record the answer. ‘I was the last, sir, except Silas Monk,’ was Walter’s reply.
The pen gave a short scratch, and stopped.
‘Except Silas, of course,’ said Mr Armytage. ‘Did you, after leaving Silas, go straight home?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Tell me where you did go, will you?’
‘First of all, under the scaffold outside, where I called out, in order to ascertain if the workmen had gone. As I found no one there, I closed the front-door. Then I came back, and sat down in a dark place on the staircase.’
Scratch, scratch, scratch from the quill.
‘On the staircase!’ exclaimed Mr Armytage, with surprise.
‘I wanted to know why Silas Monk never went home when the rest did, because his granddaughter was uneasy about him,’ continued Walter. ‘She told me that it was often close upon midnight before he got home.’
‘Well?’
‘I found out what kept him at the office.’
The senior partner raised his chin, and said encouragingly: ‘Tell us all about it.’
Walter remained silent for a moment, as though collecting his thoughts; then he said: ‘What happened that night at the office, Mr Armytage, is simply this. I had hardly sat down on the staircase when, to my surprise, a workman came out of the yard from his work on the scaffold. I stopped him and questioned him. He told me that he had remained to finish some repairs on the roof, and had not heard me call. I let the man out, and then returned to my place.’
The scratching of the quill began and finished while Walter was speaking. He was about to resume, when the gentleman at the table held up the pen to enforce silence.
‘Mr Armytage,’ said the stranger, ‘ask your clerk if he can tell us, from previous knowledge, anything about this workman.’
The senior partner looked inquiringly at Walter.
‘I’ve known him for years,’ said the young clerk. ‘When a man is wanted to repair anything in the office, we always send for Joe Grimrood.’ While the quill was scratching, the head gave a nod, and the voice exclaimed: ‘Go on!’
Walter then mentioned briefly by what accident he had discovered Silas Monk at his desk with the pile of sovereigns before him; and how, not daring to disturb him, he had gone away convinced that the head-cashier was nothing better than an ‘old miser,’ as he expressed it.
As soon as Walter Tiltcroft had finished his recital, the pen gave a final scratch; then the stranger rose from the table, folded some papers together, placed them in his breast-pocket, and taking up his hat and stick, went out.
When he was gone, the senior partner, still standing on the rug, turned to Walter, and said: ‘Go back to your desk. Do not quit the counting-house to-day; you may be wanted at any moment.’
All day long, Walter sat at his desk waiting, with his eyes constantly bent upon the iron-bound door of the strong-room. Within it, he pictured to himself Silas Monk wrapped in a white shroud lying stretched in death, with his hands crossed, and his head raised upon huge antique ledgers. Presently, Walter even fancied that he heard the sovereigns chinking as they dropped out of the old man’s hands, followed by the sound of shuffling feet; and once, while he was listening, there seemed to issue from this chamber a stifled cry, which filled him with such terror and dismay, that he found it no easy matter to hide his agitation from his fellow-clerks, who would have laughed at him, if they had had the slightest suspicion that he was occupying his time in such an unprofitable manner, while they were as busily engaged with the affairs of Armytage and Company as if Silas Monk had never been born.
While these fancies were still troubling Walter Tiltcroft’s brain, he was sent for by the senior partner. ‘Read that,’ said Mr Armytage, pointing to a paper on his table as the young man entered the room. ‘It is a telegram from Fenwick the detective.’ It ran as follows:
‘Send Tiltcroft alone to Limehouse Police Station.’
Walter looked at the senior partner for instructions. ‘Go!’ cried Mr Armytage with promptness—‘go, without a moment’s delay!’
The young man started off as quickly as his legs would carry him for the railway terminus near Fenchurch Street. What an inexpressible relief to escape from his ghostly fantasy regarding the old strong-room, and to feel that he was at last beginning to take an active and important part in the search for Silas Monk!
The train presently arrived at Limehouse. Walter leaped out and made his way with all speed to the police station. He inquired for the detective of the first constable he saw, standing, as though on guard, at the open doorway.
‘What name?’
‘Tiltcroft.’
The constable gave a short comprehensive nod; then he looked into the office, and jerked his head significantly at another constable who was seated at a desk. This man quickly disappeared into an inner room.
‘Walk in,’ said the custodian at the doorway, ‘and wait.’
Walter walked in, and waited for what seemed an interminable time. But Fenwick made his appearance at last, walking briskly up to the young clerk and touching him on the shoulder with the knob of his stick. ‘It’s a matter of identification,’ said he mysteriously; ‘come along.’ He settled his hat on with the brim touching his black eyebrows, and led the way into the street. Walter followed. They walked along through well-lighted thoroughfares, up narrow passages and down dark lanes, until they came suddenly upon a timber-yard with the river flowing beyond. At this point the detective stopped and gave a low whistle. This signal was immediately followed by the sound of oars; and the dark outline of a boat gliding forward, grew dimly visible out of the obscurity, below the spot where Fenwick and the young clerk stood. Some one in the boat directed the rays of a lantern mainly upon their feet, revealing steep wooden steps.
‘Follow me!’ cried the detective.
As they went down step by step to the water’s edge, the rays of the lantern descended, dropping always a few inches in advance to guide them, until they were safely shipped, when the lantern was suddenly suppressed, and the boat was jerked cautiously out into the river by a figure near the bow, handling shadowy oars.
Towards what seemed the centre of the stream there was a light shining so high above them that it appeared, until they drew nearer, like a solitary star in the dark sky. But the black bulk of a ship’s stern presently coming in sight, it was apparent that the light belonged to a large vessel lying at anchor in the river. Under the shadow of this vessel—if further shadow were possible in this deep darkness—the boat pulled up, and the lantern was again produced. ‘I’ll go first, my lad,’ said Fenwick, touching Walter on the shoulder again with his stick. ‘Keep close.’
This time the rays from the lantern ascended, rising on a level with the men’s heads as they went up the ship’s side. As soon as they reached the deck, the rays again vanished.
‘We will now proceed to business,’ said the detective.
‘Ay, ay, sir,’ cried a sailor who had stepped forward to receive the visitors. ‘Your men are waiting below.’
‘Then lead the way.’
Walter, wondering what this mystification meant, followed close upon the heels of Fenwick and the sailor. A few steps brought them to what was obviously the entrance to the steerage, for it had the dingy appearance common to that part of a passenger-ship.
‘Are the emigrants below?’ asked the detective.
‘Ay, ay,’ replied the sailor—‘fast asleep.’
‘So much the better,’ remarked Fenwick. Then he added, with a glance at Walter: ‘Now for the identification.’
The sailor led the way down to heaps of human beings lying huddled together not unlike sheep, with their heads against boxes, or upon canvas bags, or packages covered with tarpaulin. The air was warm and oppressive; and the men, women, and children who were packed in this place had a uniform expression of weariness on their faces, as though they were resigned to all the perils and dangers that could be encountered upon a long voyage.
‘When do you weigh anchor?’ asked the detective.
‘At daybreak,’ answered the sailor.
‘Ah! a little sea-air won’t be amiss,’ remarked Fenwick, looking about him thoughtfully.—‘Now, let me see.’ He peered into the faces with his quick keen eyes, leaning his chin the while upon the knob of his stick. Presently he cocked an eye at Tiltcroft, and said: ‘See any one you recognise?’
Walter threw a swift glance around him. Most of the faces were thin and pale, and there were several eyes staring at him and his companion; but many eyes were closed in sleep; among these he saw a half-hidden face which he seemed to know, yet for the moment could not recall; but the recollection quickly flashed upon him.
The detective, watching his expression, saw the change; and following the direction in which Walter was staring in blank surprise, perceived that the object in which he appeared to take such a sudden interest was a large, muscular person, wrapped in a thick pea-jacket, with his head upon his arm, and his arm resting upon a sea-chest, which was corded with a thick rope. The man was fast asleep, and on his head was a mangy-looking skin-cap, pulled down to his eyebrows.
‘Well,’ said the detective, glancing from this man into Walter’s face; ‘who is he?’
‘Joe Grimrood!’ cried Walter.
It would seem as though the man had heard the mention of his name; for, as Walter pronounced it, he frowned, and opening his eyes slowly, looked up askance, like an angry dog.
‘Get up!’ said the detective, giving the man a playful thrust in the ribs; ‘you’re wanted.’
Joe Grimrood showed his teeth, and started, as though about to spring upon Fenwick. But on reflection, he appeared to think better of it, and simply growled.
Fenwick turned to the sailor, and said, pointing to the chest against which Joe Grimrood still leaned, ‘Uncord that box. And if,’ he added—‘if that man moves or utters a word, bind him down hands and feet with the rope. Do you understand?’
‘Ay, ay, sir,’ cried the sailor, with a grin on his honest-looking face. With all the dexterity of a practised ‘tar,’ the sailor removed the cord from the chest; then he glanced at the detective for further instructions.
‘Open it!’ cried Fenwick.
At these words, Joe Grimrood, who sat with his back against the iron pillar and his arms crossed defiantly, showed signs of rebellion in his small glittering eyes. But a glance from Fenwick quelled him.
When the chest was opened, a quantity of old clothes was discovered. ‘Make a careful search,’ said the detective. ‘If you find nothing more valuable than old clothes in that box, I shall be greatly surprised.’
Something far more valuable, sure enough, soon came to light. One after another the sailor brought out fat little bags, which, being shaken, gave forth a pleasant ring not unlike the chink of gold.
Fenwick presently, after opening one of these bags, held it up before Joe Grimrood’s eyes, tauntingly. ‘You’re a nice emigrant, ain’t you? Why, a man of your wealth ought to be a first-class passenger, not a steerage. How did you manage to accumulate such a heap of gold?’
Joe Grimrood gave another growl, and replied: ‘Let me alone. I’m an honest workman. Mr Tiltcroft there will tell you if I’m not; asking his pardon.’
‘That’s no answer. How do you come by all this gold?’
‘By the sweat of my brow,’ answered the man, with the perspiration rolling down his face. ‘So help me. By the sweat of my brow.’
‘That will do,’ continued the detective. ‘Take my advice, and don’t say another word.—Come, Tiltcroft. The sooner we get back to the city the better. There is work to be done there to-night.’ With these words, Fenwick beckoned to two constables. These men, at a sign from the detective, seized Joe Grimrood and handcuffed him before he had time to suspect their intention. Meanwhile, the sailor had packed up the box, gold and all, and had corded it down as quickly as he had uncorded it.
The constables went first, with Joe Grimrood between them. The man showed no resistance. Behind him followed the sailor with the valuable chest. The detective and Tiltcroft brought up the rear. The boat which had brought Walter and his companions alongside the emigrant ship was still waiting under the bow when they came on deck. In a few minutes, without noise or confusion, they were once more in their places, with the chest and Joe Grimrood—still between the two constables—by way of additional freight. Once more the boat moved across the dark river and carried them to the shore.
Having deposited Joe Grimrood and his luggage at the police station, the detective turned to Walter and said: ‘Now, my lad, let us be off. This business in the city is pressing. Every moment is precious; it’s a matter of life and death.’