Run to Earth, Mary Elizabeth Braddon [epub ebook reader .TXT] 📗
- Author: Mary Elizabeth Braddon
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this day when he went to meet Lady Eversleigh.
She held out her hand to him as she crossed the threshold. “I have done
my duty,” he said, in low, earnest tones, “as I am a man of honour and
a soldier, Lady Eversleigh; I have done my duty, miserable as the
result has been.”
“I can believe that,” answered Honoria, gravely. “Your face tells me
there are no good tidings to greet me here. She is not found?”
The captain shook his head sadly.
“And there are no tidings of any kind?—no clue, no trace?”
“None. The constable of this place, and other men from the market-town,
are doing their utmost; but as yet the result has been only new
mystification—new conjecture.”
“No; nor wouldn’t be, if the constables were to have twenty years to do
their work in, instead of three days,” interrupted Mr. Larkspur.
“Perhaps you don’t know what country police-officers are? I do; and if
you expect to find the little lady by their help, you may just as well
look up to the sky yonder, and wait till she drops down from it, for of
the two things that’s by far the most likely. I can believe in
miracles,” added Mr. Larkspur, piously; “but I can’t believe in rural
police-constables.”
The captain looked at the speaker with a bewildered expression, and
Lady Eversleigh hastened to explain the presence of her ally.
“This is Mr. Larkspur, a well-known Bow Street officer,” she said: “and
I rely on his aid to find my precious one. Pray tell me all that has
happened in connection with this event. He is very clever, and he may
strike out some plan of action that will be better than anything which
has yet been attempted.”
They had passed into a small sitting-room, half ante-room, half study,
leading out of the great hall, and here the police-officer seated
himself, as much at home as if he had spent half his life within the
walls of Raynham, and listened quietly while Captain Copplestone gave a
circumstantial account of the child’s disappearance, taking care not to
omit the smallest detail connected with that event.
Mr. Larkspur made occasional pencil-notes in his memorandum-book; but
he did not interrupt the captain’s narration by a single remark.
When all was finished, Lady Eversleigh looked at him with anxious,
inquiring eyes, as if from his lips she expected to receive the
sentence of fate itself.
“Well?” she muttered, breathlessly, “is there any hope? Do you see any
clue?”
“Half a dozen clues,” answered the police-officer, “if they’re properly
handled. The first thing we’ve got to do is to offer a reward for that
silk coverlet that was taken away with the little girl.”
“Why offer a reward for the coverlet?” asked Captain Copplestone.
“Bless your innocent heart!” answered Mr. Larkspur, contemplating the
soldier with a pitying smile; “don’t you see that, if we find the
coverlet, we’re pretty sure to find the child? The man who took her
away made a mistake when he carried off the coverlet with her, unless
he was deep enough to destroy it before he had taken her far. If he
didn’t do that—if he left that silk coverlet behind him anywhere, I
consider his game as good as up. That is just the kind of thing that a
police-officer gets his clue from. There’s been more murders and
burglaries found out from an old coat, or a pair of old shoes, or a
walking-stick, or such like, than you could count in a day. I shan’t
make any stir about the child just yet, my lady: but before forty-eight
hours are over our heads, I’ll have a handbill posted in every town in
England, and an advertisement in every newspaper, offering five pounds
reward for that dark blue silk coverlet you talk of, lined with
crimson.”
“There seems considerable wisdom in the idea,” said the captain,
thoughtfully. “It would never have occurred to me to advertise for the
coverlet.”
“I don’t suppose it would,” answered the great Larkspur, with a slight
touch of sarcasm in his tone. “It has took me a matter of thirty years
to learn my business; and it ain’t to be supposed as my knowledge will
come to other folks natural.”
“You are right, Mr. Larkspur,” replied the captain, smiling at the
police-officer’s air of offended dignity; “and since you seem to be
thoroughly equal to the difficulties of the situation, I think we can
scarcely do better than trust ourselves entirely to your discretion.”
“I don’t think you’ll have any occasion to repent your confidence,”
said Mr. Larkspur. “And now, if I may make so bold as to mention it, I
should be glad to get a morsel of dinner, and a glass of brandy-and-water, cold without; after which I’ll take a turn in the village and
look about me. There may be something to be picked up in that direction
by a man who keeps his eyes and ears open.”
Mr. Larkspur was consigned to the care of the butler, who conducted him
at once to the housekeeper’s room, where that very important person,
Mrs. Smithson, received him with almost regal condescension.
Mrs. Smithson and the butler both would have been very glad to converse
with Mr. Larkspur, and to find out from that gentleman’s conversation
who he was, and all about him; but Mr. Larkspur himself had no
inclination to be communicative. He responded courteously, but briefly,
to all Mrs. Smithson’s civilities; and after eating the best part of a
cold roast chicken, and a pound or so of ham, and drinking about half a
pint of cognac, he left the housekeeper’s room, and retired to an
apartment to which the butler ushered him—a very comfortable little
sitting-room, leading into a small bedchamber, which two rooms were to
be occupied by Mr. Larkspur during his residence at the castle.
Here he employed himself until dark in writing short notes to the chief
police-officers of all the principal towns in England, ordering the
printing and posting of the handbills of which he had spoken to Lady
Eversleigh and the captain. When this was done he put on his hat, and
went out at the great arched gateway of the castle, whence he made his
way to the village street. Here he spent the rest of the evening, and
he made very excellent use of his time, though he passed the greater
part of it in the parlour of the “Hen and Chickens,” drinking very weak
brandy-and-water, and listening to the conversation of the gentry who
patronized that house of entertainment.
Among those gentry was the good-tempered, but somewhat weak-minded,
Matthew Brook, the coachman.
“I’ll tell you what it is, Mat Brook,” said a stout, red-faced
individual, who was butler at one of the mansions in the neighbourhood
of Raynham, “you’ve not been yourself for the last week; not since
little Missy was stolen from the castle yonder. You must have been
uncommonly fond of that child.”
“I was fond of her, bless her dear little heart,” replied Matthew.
But though this assertion, so far as it went, was perfectly true, there
was some slight hesitation in the coachman’s manner of uttering it—a
hesitation which Andrew Larkspur was not slow to perceive.
“And you’ve lost your new friend down at the ‘Cat and Fiddle,’ where
you was beginning to spend more of your evenings than you spent here.
What’s become of that man Maunders—eh, Brook?” asked the butler. “That
was a rather queer thing—his leaving Raynham so suddenly, leaving his
house to take care of itself, or to be taken care of by a stupid
country wench, who doesn’t know her business any more than a cow. Do
you know why he went, or where he’s gone, Mat?”
“Not I,” Mr. Brook answered, rather nervously, and reddening as he
spoke.
The police-officer watched and listened even more intently than before.
The conversation was becoming every moment more interesting for him.
“How should I know where Mr. Maunders has gone?” asked Matthew Brook,
rather peevishly, as he paused from smoking to refill his honest clay
pipe. “How should I know where he’s gone, or how long he means to stay
away? I know nothing of him, except that he seems a jolly, good-hearted
sort of a chap in his own rough-and-ready way. James Harwood brought
him up to the castle one night for a hand at whist and a bit of supper,
and he seemed to take a regular fancy to some of us, and asked us to
take a glass now and then down at his place, which we did; and that’s
all about it; and I don’t mean to stand any more cross-questioning.”
“Why, Brook,” cried his friend, the butler, “what’s come to you? It
isn’t like you to answer any man in that way, least of all such on old
friend as me.”
Mr. Brook took no notice of this reproach. He went on smoking silently.
“I say, Harris,” said the butler, presently, when the landlord of the
“Hen and Chickens” came into the room to attend upon his customers, “do
you know whether the landlord of the ‘Cat and Fiddle’ has come back
yet?”
“No, he ain’t,” answered Mr. Harris; “and folks complain sadly of being
served by that awkward lass he’s left in charge of the house. I’ve had
a many of his old customers come up here for what they want.”
“Does anybody know where he’s gone?”
“That’s as may be,” answered Mr. Harris. “Anyhow, I don’t. Some say
he’s gone to London for a fortnight’s pleasure; but if he has, he’s a
very queer man of business; and it strikes me, when he comes back he
will find his customers all left him.”
“Do you think he’s cut and run?”
“Well, you see, he might be in debt, and want to give his creditors the
slip.”
“But folks down the village say he didn’t owe a five-pound note,”
returned the landlord, who was a great authority with regard to all
local gossip. “It’s rather a queer business altogether, that chap
taking himself off without why or wherefore, and just about the time as
the little girl disappeared from the castle.”
“Why, you don’t think he had anything to do with that, Joe Harris?”
exclaimed the butler.
Andrew Larkspur took occasion to look at Matthew Brook at this moment;
and he saw the coachman’s honest face grow pallid, as if under the
influence of some sudden terror.
“You don’t believe as Maunders had a hand in stealing the child, eh,
Joe Harris?” repeated the butler.
Joe Harris shook his head solemnly.
“I don’t think nothing, and I don’t believe nothing,” he answered, with
a mysterious air. “It ain’t my place to give an opinion upon this here
subjick. It might be said as I was jealous of the landlord of the ‘Cat
and Fiddle,’ and owed him a grudge. All I says is this: it’s a very
queer circumstance as the landlord of the ‘Cat and Fiddle’ should
disappear from the village directly after little Miss Eversleigh
disappeared from the castle. You may put two and two together, and you
may make ‘em into four, if you like,” added Mr. Harris, with profound
solemnity; “or you may leave it alone. That’s your business.”
“I’ll tell you what it is,” said the butler; “I’ve had a chat with old
Mother Smithson since the disappearance of the young lady; and from
what I’ve heard, it’s pretty clear to my mind that business wasn’t
managed by any one outside the castle. It couldn’t be. There was some
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