Reginald Cruden, Talbot Baines Reed [best black authors txt] 📗

“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.