The Lust of Hate, Guy Newell Boothby [essential books to read .txt] 📗
- Author: Guy Newell Boothby
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Teneriffe on the way. The steerage fare was fifteen pounds, and it
was by this class I determined to travel. My mind once made up, the
next thing to decide was how to reach Southampton without incurring
suspicion. To catch the boat this could only be done by rail, and to
further increase my store of knowledge I had again to borrow from the
proprietor of the restaurant. From the tune table he lent me I found
that a train left Waterloo every morning at six o’clock, which would
get me to the docks before nine o’clock, thus allowing me two full
hours in which to make my preparations and to get on board in
comfortable time; that is, supposing she sailed at the hour stated.
But I had still three hours to put in in London before the train
would start, and how to occupy them without running any risk I could
not tell. It was quite impossible for me to remain where I was, and
yet to go out and walk about the streets would be dangerous in the
extreme. In that time Nikola might get hold of me again, and I
believe I dreaded that more than even falling into the clutches of
the law. Suddenly I was struck by what seemed a splendid idea. What
if I walked out of London to some station along the line where the
train would pick me up? In that case no one would be able to remember
seeing me start from Waterloo, and I should be believed to be still
in London. The thought was no sooner born in my brain than I picked
up my hat and prepared to be off.
When I paid at the counter for my meal, and also for the note
paper with which the proprietor had obliged me, I strode out of the
restaurant and down the street into the Strand again. Surbiton, I
reflected, was twelve miles from Waterloo, and, besides being quiet,
it was also one of the places at which I had noticed that the train
was advertised to call. I had almost three hours before me in which
to do the distance, and if I walked at the rate of five miles an hour
it was evident I should accomplish it with ease. To Surbiton,
therefore, I would go.
Having made my way back to Charing Cross, I passed down Whitehall
and over Westminster Bridge to the Lambeth Palace Road. Under the
influence of my new excitement I felt easier in my mind than I had
been since I made my awful discovery three hours before, but still
not easy enough to be able to pass a policeman without a shudder.
Strangely enough, considering that I had had no sleep at all, and had
been moving about all night, I was not conscious of the least
fatigue, but strode along the pavement at a swinging pace, probably
doing more than I had intended when I had first set out. The snow had
ceased, but a nasty fog was rising from the river to take its place.
I pictured the state of London when day should break, and devoutly
thanked Heaven that I should be well out of it by that time. I could
imagine the newsboys running about the streets with cries of “Another
‘orrible murder! A millionaire the victim.” I seemed to see the
boards stuck before shop doors with the same ghastly headline, and I
could realise the consternation of the town, when it awoke to find
the mysterious assassin still at work in its midst. Then would follow
the inquest. The porter at the Monolith Club would be called upon to
give evidence, and would affirm that he had seen the deceased
gentleman step into a smart hansom, driven by a cabman dressed in an
oilskin cape and a sou’wester, and would probably remember having
noticed that the cabby was a gruff fellow with a bushy, black beard.
The next witnesses would be the finders of the body, and after that
the same verdict would be returned—“Wilful murder against some
person or persons unknown”—as had been given in the previous
cases.
If only Nikola remained faithful to me I should probably have time
to get out of England before the police could stop me, and, once
among the miners of the Band, I should be able to arrange matters in
such a way that recognition would be almost an impossibility. With a
sigh of relief at this comfortable thought, I pushed on a little
faster along the Wandsworth Road until I reached Clapham Junction
Station. As I did so I looked at my watch. It was just a quarter to
four, and already the footpaths were becoming dotted with
pedestrians.
Leaving Clapham Junction behind me, I passed along the Lavender
Hill Road, through Wandsworth, and struck out along the road to West
Hill, then across Putney Heath, through Kingston Vale, and so into
Kingston. From that quaint old riverside town to Surbiton is but a
step, and exactly as the church clocks in the latter place were
chiming a quarter to six, I stood on the platform of the railway
station prepared to board my train when it should come in sight. The
last four miles had been done at a fast pace, and by the time I had
taken my ticket I was completely worn out. My anxiety was so keen
that I could not sit down, but waited until I should be safely on
board the train. The cries of the newsboys seemed still to be ringing
in my ears—“Another ‘orrible murder! Discovery of the body of a
famous millionaire!”
To while away the time I went out of the station again and
explored the deserted streets, passing houses in which the owners
still lay fast asleep, little dreaming of the miserable man who was
tramping along in the cold outside. A biting north wind blew over the
snow, and chilled me to the marrow. The leaden hand of despair was
pressing hard upon my heart, and when I looked at the rows of trim,
matter-of-fact residences on either side of me, and thought of
the gulf that separated their inmates from myself, I groaned aloud in
abject misery.
At five minutes to the hour I returned to the station, and, just
as I reached it, punctual almost to the tick of the clock, the train
made its appearance round the bend of the line. With the solitary
exception of an old man I was the only passenger from this station;
and, as soon as I had discovered an empty third-class compartment, I
got in and stowed myself away in a corner. Almost before the train
was out of the station I was fast asleep, dreaming of Nikola and of
the horrible events of the night just past. Once more I drove the cab
along the snow-covered streets; once more that strange woman’s face
rose before me in warning; and once more I descended from my seat to
make the horrible discovery that my enemy was dead. In my agony I
must have shrieked aloud, for the noise I made woke me up. An elderly
man, possibly a successful country butcher from his appearance, who
must have got in at some station we had stopped at while I slept, was
sitting in the corner opposite, watching me.
“You have been having a pretty bad nightmare these last few
minutes, I should say, mister,” he observed, with a smile. “I was
just going to give you a shake up when you woke yourself by screaming
out like that.”
An awful fear came over me. Was it possible that in my sleep I had
revealed my secret?
“I am sorry I disturbed you,” I said, faintly, “but I am subject
to bad dreams. Have I been talking very much?”
“Not so far as I’ve heard,” he answered; “but you’ve been moaning
and groaning as if you’d got something on your mind that you wanted
to tell pretty bad.”
“I’ve just got over a severe illness,” I replied, relieved beyond
measure to hear that I had kept my dreadful secret to myself, “and I
suppose that accounts for the uneasy way in which I sleep.”
My companion looked at me rather searchingly for a few seconds,
and then began to fumble in his greatcoat pocket for something.
Presently he produced a large spirit flask.
“Let me give you a drop of whiskey,” he said, kindly. “It will
cheer you up, and you look as if you want it right down bad.”
He poured about half a wineglassful into the little nickel-plated
cup that fitted the bottom of the flask, and handed it to me. I
thanked him sincerely, and tossed it off at one gulp. It was neat
spirit, and ran through my veins like so much fire. Though it burnt
my throat pretty severely, it did me a world of good, and in a few
moments I was sufficiently recovered to talk reasonably enough.
At nine o’clock almost to the minute we drew up at Southampton Docks,
and then, bidding my fellow passenger good morning, I quickly quitted
the station. Before I left London I had carefully noted the address of
the steamship company’s agents, and, having ascertained the direction of
their office, I made my way towards it. Early as was the hour I found it
open, and upon being interrogated by the clerk behind the counter,
stated my desire to book as steerage passenger for Cape Town by the
steamer Fiji Princess, which they advertised as leaving the docks that
day. The clerk looked at me with some surprise when I said “steerage,”
but, whatever he may have thought, he offered no comment upon it.
“What is your name?” he inquired, dipping his pen in the ink.
I had anticipated this question, and replied “George Wrexford” as
promptly as if it had really been my patronymic.
Having paid the amount demanded, and received my ticket in
exchange, I asked what time it would be necessary for me to be on
board.
“Half-past ten without fail,” he answered. “She will cast off
punctually at eleven; and I give you fair warning Captain Hawkins
does not wait for anything or anybody.”
I thanked him for his courtesy and left the office, buttoning up
my ticket in my pocket as I went down the steps. In four hours at
most, all being well, I should be safely out of England; and, for a
little while, a free man. By half-past nine I had purchased a small
outfit, and also the few odds and ends—such as bedding and mess
utensils—that I should require on the voyage. This done I hunted
about till I found a small restaurant, again in a back street, which
I entered and ordered breakfast. As soon as I smelt the cooking I
found that I was ravenous, and twice I had to call for more before my
hunger was satsfied.”
Towards the end of my meal a paper boy put in an appearance, and
my heart well-nigh stopped when I heard the girl beyond the counter
enquire if there was “any startling news this morning.”
“‘Nother terrible murder in London,” answered the lad with
fiendish glibness; and as he spoke my overtaxed strength gave way,
and I fell back in my chair in a dead faint.
I suppose for a few moments I must have quite lost consciousness,
for I can recollect nothing until I opened my eyes and found a small
crowd collected round me, somebody sponging my forehead, and two
people chafing my hands.
“How do you feel now?” enquired the nervous little man who had
first come to my assistance.
“Better, thank you,” I replied, at the same time endeavouring
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