The Stowmarket Mystery, Louis Tracy [best romance novels of all time .txt] 📗

cried the barrister, “An Englishman, in his sound mind, always starts with the state of the weather.”

“I am sound enough, thank goodness, but I had a very close shave. Don’t laugh, Davie. My ribs are sore. As the ladies decided not to go out until the weather took up, Davie said he would keep them company whilst I seized the opportunity to visit a tailor. I left the hotel and walked quickly to the corner of Whitehall. It was hardly worth while taking a cab to Bond Street, and I intended to cross in front of King Charles’s statue. It is an awkward place, and a lot of ’buses, cabs, and vans were bowling along downhill from the Strand and St. Martin’s Church. I waited a moment on the kerbstone, watching for a favourable opportunity, when suddenly I was pitched head foremost in front of a passing ’bus. My escape from instant death was solely due to the splendid way in which the driver handled his horses and applied his brake. The near horse was swung round so sharp that he fell and landed almost, not quite, on the top of me. I could feel his hot, reeking body against my face, and although the greater part of his impact was borne by the road, I got enough to knock the breath out of me. You will see by the state of my clothes in the other room how I was flattened in the mud. By the way, Davie, it is your suit.”

Helen choked back something she was going to say, and Frazer continued:

“A policeman pulled me from under the horse, and I kept my senses sufficiently to note how the near front wheel had gouged a channel in the mud within an inch or so of my head. It went over my hat. Where is it?”

Hume ran into the bedroom, and returned with a bowler hat torn to shreds.

“There you are,” said Robert coolly, “Fancy my head in that condition.”

“You used the word ‘pitched.’ Do you mean that someone cannoned against you?”

“Not a bit of it. It was no accident of a hurrying man blindly following an umbrella. I have been a sailor, Mr. Brett, and am accustomed to maintaining my balance in a sudden lurch. I do it intuitively. It is as much a part of my second self as using my eyes or ears with unconscious accuracy. Some man—a big, powerful man—designedly threw me down, and did so very scientifically, first pressing his knee against the tendons of my left leg, and then using his elbow. Not one in a thousand Londoners would know the trick.”

“You are a first-rate witness. Pray go on,” said Brett.

“Being a sailor, however, I did manage to twist round slightly as I fell, and I’m blessed if I didn’t think it was Davie here who did it.”

The barrister’s keen face lighted curiously. The others, closely watching him, afterwards agreed that he reminded them of a greyhound straining after a luckless hare.

“That seems to interest you, Mr. Brett,” said Frazer. “I assure you the momentary impression was very distinct. My assailant was dressed like Davie, too, in dark blue serge, and wore a beard. For the moment I forgot that Davie had visited the barber this morning, and I blurted out something when he met me being carried in through the hall.”

“Yes,” exclaimed Hume. “You said: ‘Davie, why did you try to murder me?’ I was sure you were delirious, as I had not left Nellie and Margaret for an instant since you went out.”

“That is so,” cried Helen.

Margaret uttered no word. She sat, with hands clasped, and pale, set face, watching her cousin as if his story had a mesmeric effect.

“I’m awfully sorry,” said Frazer penitently. “I knew at once I was a fool, but you see, old chap, I remembered you best as I had seen you during the previous twenty-four hours, and not as you looked at breakfast this morning. Do forgive me.”

But Brett broke in impatiently:

“My dear fellow, your natural mistake is the most important thing that has happened since your cousin Alan met his death. The man who attacked you mistook you, in turn, for David. He will try again. I wonder if your accident will be reported in the papers?”

“Yes,” said Hume. “A youngster came to me, inquired all about Robert, and seemed to be quite sorry he was not mangled.”

“Then it will be your affair next time. Keep a close look-out whenever you are alone. If anyone resembling yourself lays a hand on you, try and detain him at all costs.”

“Mr. Brett!” shrieked Helen, “you surely cannot mean it.”

His enthusiasm had caused him to ignore her presence. For the next five minutes he was earnestly engaged in explaining away his uncanny request.

Chapter XX The Trail

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Standing on the steps of the hotel, Brett cast a searching glance along the line of waiting hansoms. He wanted a strong, sure-footed horse, one of those marvellous animals, found only in the streets of London, which trots like a dog, slides down Savoy Street on its hind legs, slips in and out among the traffic like an eel, and covers a steady eight miles an hour for a seemingly indefinite period.

“Shall I whistle for a cab, sir?” said the hall-porter.

“No. You whistle without discrimination,” replied the barrister.

He found the stamp of gee-gee he needed fourth on the rank.

“How long has your horse been out of the stable?” he asked the driver.

“I’ve just driven him here, sir.”

“Is he up to a hard day’s work?”

“The best tit in London, sir.”

“Pull him up to the pavement.”

The man obeyed. Instantly his three predecessors on the rank began a chorus:

“‘Ere! Wot th’—”

“All right, Jimmy. Wait till—”

“Well, I’m—”

“What is the matter?” inquired Brett, “You fellows always squeal before you are hurt. Here is a fare each for you,” and he solemnly gave them a shilling a-piece.

Even then they were not satisfied. They all objurgated Jimmy for his luck as he drove off.

It was an easy matter to find the constable who had been on point duty at the crossing when the “accident” happened. This man produced his note-book containing the number of the Road Car Company’s Camden Town and Victoria ’bus, the driver of which had so cleverly avoided a catastrophe. The policeman knew nothing of events prior to the falling of the horse. There was the usual crowd of hurrying people; the scream of a startled woman; a rush of sightseers; and the rescue of Frazer from beneath the prostrate animal.

“Did you chance to notice the destination of the omnibus immediately preceding the Road Car vehicle?” said Brett.

“Yes, sir. It was an Atlas.”

“Have you noted the exact time the accident occurred?”

“Here it is, sir—10.45 a.m.”

At Victoria he was lucky in hitting upon the Camden Town ’bus itself, drawn up outside the District Railway Station, waiting its turn to enter the enclosure.

The driver was a sharp fellow, and disinclined to answer questions. Brett might be an emissary of the enemy. But a handsome tip and the assurance that a very substantial present would be forwarded to his address by the friends of the gentleman whose life he saved unloosed his tongue.

“I never did see anything like it, sir,” he confided. “The road was quite clear, an’ I was bowlin’ along to get the inside berth from a General just behind, when this yer gent was chucked under the ’osses’ ’eds. Bli-me, I would ha’ thort ’e was a suicide if I ’adn’t seed a bloke shove ’im orf the kerb.”

“Oh, you saw that, did you?”

“Couldn’t ’elp it, sir. I was lookin’ aht for fares. Jack, my mate, sawr it too.”

The conductor thus appealed to confirmed the statement. They both described the assailant as very like his would-be victim in size, appearance, and garments.

Jack said he could do nothing, because the sudden swerving of the ’bus, the fall of the horse, and the instant gathering of a crowd, prevented him from making the attempt to grab the other man, who vanished, he believed, down Whitehall.

“You did not tell the police about the assault?” inquired Brett.

“Not me, guv’nor,” said the driver. “The poor chap in the road was not much ’urt. I knew that, though the mob thort ’e was a dead ’un. An’ wot does it mean? A day lost in the polis-court, an’ a day lost on my pay-sheet, too.”

“Well,” said Brett, “the twist you gave to the reins this morning meant several days added to your pay-sheet. Would either of you know the man again if you saw him?”

This needed reflection.

“I wouldn’t swear to ’im,” was the driver’s dictum, “but I would swear to any man bein’ like ’im.”

“Same ’ere,” said the conductor.

The barrister understood their meaning, which had not the general application implied by the words. He obtained the addresses of both men and left them.

His next visit was to an Atlas terminus. Here he had to wait a full hour before the ’bus arrived that had passed Trafalgar Square on a south journey at 10.45.

The conductor remembered the sudden stoppage of the Road Car vehicle.

“Ran over a man, sir, didn’t it?” he inquired.

“Nearly, not quite. Now, I want you to fix your thoughts on the passengers who entered your ’bus at that point. Can you describe them?”

The man smiled.

“It’s rather a large order, sir,” he said. “I’ve been past there twice since. If it’s anybody you know particular, and you tell me what he was like, I may be able to help you.”

Brett would have preferred the conductor’s own unaided statement, but seeing no help for it, he gave the man a detailed description of David Hume, plus the beard.

“Has he got black, snaky eyes and high cheek-bones?” the conductor inquired thoughtfully.

The barrister had described a fair man, with brown hair; and the question in no way indicated the colour of the Hume-Frazer eyes. Yet the odd combination caught his attention.

“Yes,” he said, “that may be the man.”

“Well, sir, I didn’t pick him up there, but I dropped him there at nine o’clock. I picked him up at the Elephant, and noticed him particular because he didn’t pay the fare for the whole journey, but took penn’orths.”

“I am greatly obliged to you. Would you know him again?”

“Among a thousand! He had a funny look, and never spoke. Just shoved a penny out whenever I came on top. Twice I had to refuse it.”

“Was he a foreigner?”

“Not to my idea. He looked like a Scotchman. Don’t you know him, sir?”

“Not yet. I hope to make his acquaintance. Can you remember the ’bus which was in front of you at Whitehall at 10.45?”

“Yes; I can tell you that. It was a Monster, Pimlico. The conductor is a friend of mine, named Tomkins. That is the only time I have seen him to-day.”

At the Monster, Pimlico, after another delay, Tomkins was produced. Again Brett described David Hume, adorned now with “black, snaky eyes and high cheek-bones.”

“Of course,” said Tomkins. “I’ve spotted ’im. ’E came aboard wiv a run just arter a hoss fell in front of the statoo. Gimme a penny, ’e did, an’ jumped orf at the ’Orse Guards without a ticket afore we ’ad gone a ’undred yards. I thort ’e was frightened or dotty, I did. Know ’im agin? Ra—ther. Eyes like gimlets, ’e ’ad.”

The barrister regained the seclusion of the hansom.

“St John’s Mansions, Kensington,” he said to the driver, and then he curled up on the seat in the most uncomfortable attitude permitted by the construction of the vehicle.

On nearing his destination he stopped the cab at a convenient corner.

“I want you to wait here for my return,” he told the driver.

“How long will you be, sir?”

“Not more than fifteen minutes.”

“I only asked, sir, because I wanted to know if I had time to give the horse a feed.”

Cabby was evidently quite convinced that his eccentric fare was not a bilker.

Brett glanced around. In the neighbouring street was a public-house, which possessed what