Read Ebook: Dead Man's Love by Gallon Tom

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Ebook has 424 lines and 25257 words, and 9 pages

"You'd better let me in quietly," I warned him.

"I won't--I won't!" he almost shouted. "I mean to protect myself. And I'll tell you something else, my young friend," he went on, leaning further out of the window, and shaking a fist at me. "I've made up my mind to see you comfortably put away again."

"Indeed?" I retorted, "and how are you going to manage that?"

"I've written to the authorities, telling them that if they come here to-morrow night I can give them a full and true account of a certain convict called Norton Hyde, supposed to be buried in Penthouse Prison, but really very much alive. Put that in your pipe and smoke it! I've cooked your goose, my boy, and I shall sleep peaceful o' nights in future."

He slammed down the window, leaving me standing in the darkness, thinking long thoughts. I saw that it was as hopeless for me to get in here as it had proved to be at the house of Bardolph Just; I went sorrowfully out of the gate, realising that all was over. As I turned into the road, I almost cannoned against a man who seemed to be lounging there. He turned away his face quickly, and although for a moment I had a feeling that it was a face that was familiar to me, the thought merely flitted through my mind for a moment, and was gone as the man lurched away. I saw that he was dressed roughly, like a labouring man.

You may be sure that I did not sleep that night. I paced my room, wondering what I should do; I varied that only by seating myself at the window, and staring out at the sky, telling myself over and over again that all I had striven to do had come to naught. To-morrow the true story would be told to the world; to-morrow Norton Hyde would be a hunted man again, with three or four people interested in his capture, who would know all his movements, and could supply a dozen clues towards finding him. It was impossible for me to do anything to help Debora, because Bardolph Just's house would be one of the first places to be watched, if it came to a hunt for me. I was done.

And then it was that I came to a desperate resolution. I was homeless and hopeless, and I had failed; I determined that I would keep the appointment that night, and would meet those who were to see my uncle. I would give myself up to the authorities, and so end the miserable business by going back to my prison. There was nothing else for it; I felt that it was far better to close the matter once and for all time.

I got to Uncle Zabdiel's house after darkness had set in. Just as I turned into the road leading to it, I saw two men, respectably dressed in dark clothing, and with bowler hats, going along in front of me; my heart gave a little jump, for I thought I knew their errand. They came to the gate in the wall and opened it. I had determined by this time that I would waste no time, and so I came up with them as they passed into the garden. One of them turned and looked at me.

"What do you want, sir?" he asked.

"I've come to see Mr. Blowfield," I replied; for I had made up my mind to see the matter out in my uncle's presence.

The man said nothing, but joined his companion, who was standing before the door of the house, and who had just rung the bell. There was no answer to the summons, and after a time he tugged at the bell-pull again. In moving to do this he made a discovery.

"Why, the door's open," he murmured; then he pushed it, and stepped into the dark hall.

"Hadn't you better call out?" said the other man.

The first man lifted his voice, and called out sharply, "Mr. Blowfield! Mr. Blowfield!"

His voice echoed in a dreary fashion through the house, and seemed to come back at us. The first man had by this time touched a shelf which stood in the hall, and on which was a lamp. Looking about him sharply while he did so, he dexterously got a light and lit the lamp; then, with a glance at his companion, he stepped into the room which was the dining-room. It was empty.

I followed them from that room into the study, which again was empty. Then the first man, still carrying the lamp, after muttering something to his companion which I did not hear, began to ascend the stairs. I was the last of the trio, and I suddenly heard the first man cry out in an excited voice.

"Here, catch hold of this!" he exclaimed, passing the lamp down to the other man. "There's been an accident!"

I pressed forward then, and looked. Lying prone upon the staircase, with his head and shoulders hanging down over the top stairs, lay Uncle Zabdiel. Beside him was a heavy stick--that stick with which he had once threatened me--and his head and face were cruelly beaten in. Whoever had killed him had not been able to bear the sight of him afterwards, for the clothes from his bed had been dragged out of the room and pulled across him.

Uncle Zabdiel's dream had come true.

"THAT'S THE MAN!"

Half-a-dozen surmises seemed to rush through my mind at that first sight of Uncle Zabdiel lying dead. The first--that he had tried to drive too hard a bargain with Bardolph Just, and had been caught in his own net; the next, that that badly-used youth, Andrew Ferkoe, had turned at last and killed his oppressor. I thought, too, that perhaps some poor creature he had driven to desperation, and ground hard in his money mill, had chosen this way to pay his debts.

One of the men ran off in what I thought was an absurd search for a doctor; the other stood waiting, and keeping, as I thought, a watchful eye upon me. In truth, I was not altogether comfortable, for although Uncle Zabdiel's lips were for ever sealed, I thought it possible that he might have made the bare statement that his supposedly-dead nephew was alive, in writing to the authorities. In which case, it might go hard with me that I should be seen in the neighbourhood of the house in which he had been so recently killed, and that house, too, with its front door open. The man had set down the lamp upon the landing, where it lighted up the dead man horribly; he now began to put a few questions to me.

"Had you an appointment with this gentleman?" he asked in a low voice.

"Yes, I had," I answered. "An appointment on a matter of business. I was coming to the house, when I saw you and the other man on your way here. May I ask who you are?" For I thought it better to pretend ignorance, although I knew well that these must be the men for whom Uncle Zabdiel had sent.

"You might have been useful," I added drily. "What should Mr. Blowfield want with you?"

The man looked at me suspiciously, but did not answer. He turned to look at the dead man with a thoughtful frown on his face. "This is the sort of case that absolutely invites murder, in a manner of speaking," he said. "A lonely old man--probably without a soul in the house--pretty well off, I expect; that sort of thing soon gets spread about among the sort of people to whom it's of interest. Of course, I couldn't say off-hand; but I should judge that robbery was the business here, and that whoever did it has had to make a mighty quick exit, or they would scarcely have left the door as we found it. It's been a touch-and-go business, and, as I say, if we had been a little earlier the old gentleman might have been alive to tell us what he wanted to tell us."

Now, although I had been resolute in my determination to end the matter, and to go back to my prison, I found myself thanking my stars that the old gentleman had not been alive to say what he had to say. Not that I should ever have found it in my heart to do him an injury on my own account, and, indeed, I was a little horrified to find him done to death in this fashion; but you must understand how great a relief it was for me.

"Nothing for me to do here," he said quietly. "He's been dead about half an hour--scarcely more, I should think. A weak old man like this wouldn't stand much chance when he came face to face with a strong man armed with that stick. He's had two blows--one clean in front, and the other at the side. He must have died almost on the instant. Anyone suspected?"

The man with the lamp shook his head. "We've only arrived here a matter of minutes ago," he replied, "having been asked by the old gentleman to call here to-night."

"What for?" The doctor, who had risen to his feet, asked the question sharply.

"This Mr. Blowfield," answered the man in a perplexed tone, "has written to Scotland Yard, saying that if someone would call to see him he could give them information concerning a nephew of his--a man called Norton Hyde. This nephew robbed him some time ago, and was sentenced to penal servitude. He escaped, and committed suicide rather than be captured; so that I don't see what the old gentleman could have had to tell us."

I determined that I would strike in boldly for myself; it would seem less suspicious than keeping silence. "Oh, yes!" I exclaimed, a little scornfully, "he's had that idea for a long time--he was always talking about it."

"What idea?" asked the doctor.

"The idea that his nephew was alive," I said. "I daresay you may remember the case of the young man?" I added.

"Perfectly," said the doctor. "I wonder where the old chap got that notion from?"

"We'd better go through the house, and see what has been disturbed," said the first man, moving forward with the lamp. Then suddenly, after a whispered word to his companion, he turned again to me. "Were you a friend of Mr. Blowfield?" he asked, and this time I saw the doctor also looking at me curiously.

"Oh, yes! I knew him well," I answered readily. "Believe me," I said, with a little laugh, "I am quite willing to give you every information in my power concerning myself. My name is John New, and I am lodging quite near here. I have been in the habit of coming backwards and forwards on various occasions; as you know, I came in just behind you to-night."

"That's true enough, sir," said the other man.

Now all this time I had quite forgotten the boy Andrew Ferkoe; and suddenly it leapt into my mind that instead of being in the house, as he should properly have been, we had seen nothing of him. My heart sank at that remembrance, for I liked the boy, and had been sorry to think how badly he was treated. I could sympathise with him more than anyone else could well do, for had I not suffered just as he had suffered, and had not I made shipwreck of my life because of this old man who had gone to his account? I felt certain now in my own mind what had happened; Andrew Ferkoe had turned at last upon his master, and had beaten him to death, and then had fled out of the house.

The man with the lamp turned at the door of a room, and looked back at me over his shoulder. "Did you know anything about his habits, sir?" he asked. "Did he live alone?"

I determined to lie. After all, they might not discover anything about the wretched boy if I held my peace. "Quite alone, I believe," I said. "There was an old woman used to come in to clean house for him, and cook his meals; but only for an hour or two a day."

"Just as I thought: this sort of party absolutely asks to be murdered!" he exclaimed.

We found the place in great disorder. Drawers had been wrenched open, and the contents scattered in all directions; desks forced, and cupboards burst open. So far as we could judge, my Uncle Zabdiel must have been in his bedroom at the time of the attack, and must have heard a noise, and come out, armed with that heavy stick of his. There could not have been any struggle, save in the wrenching away of the stick from his grasp; after that it had been a mere matter of the two blows, as the doctor had suggested. The robbery afterwards had been a hurried business, bunglingly done. The great safe in the corner of the study--that room in which I had toiled so many years--was untouched; and, from what I knew of my uncle and his ideas regarding property, I judged that the murderer had got but little for that risking of his neck. That he had tried to cover up the body from his own sight was obvious, from the fact that he must have gone back into the bedroom, and so have dragged out the bed-clothing to put over his victim.

"We'll go through the rest of the house," said the man; and I suddenly leapt to the remembrance that they must discover Andrew Ferkoe's room, and his bed, and must begin to put awkward questions to me. I was on the point of suggesting that I believed the other rooms to be empty; but, on second thoughts, I felt it best to hold my tongue, and to trust that the boy might yet escape.

So the four of us came to the door of the room, and the man with the lamp unsuspiciously opened it, and went in. He stopped with a gasp, and looked back at us.

"There's someone here!" he whispered. "In bed--and asleep!"

Wonderingly we went forward into the room. The man with the lamp bent over the bed and turned back the clothes. Andrew Ferkoe seemed to rouse himself from sleep, and to stretch his arms; he sat up and yawned at us. For my part, I felt that he rather overdid the thing. His face was white and drawn; but then, it was always that. I confess I was a little contemptuous of the cunning he displayed; I was not quite so sorry for him as I had been. There we stood, grouped about his bed, while he sat up and looked round from one to the other of us.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

The doctor gave a short laugh. "Matter enough!" he ejaculated. "Do you mean to say you've been asleep?"

"Of course," said Andrew Ferkoe. "What else should I go to bed for?"

"Do you mean to tell us that you've heard nothing to-night?" asked the man with the lamp sharply. "No struggling--no crying out?"

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