The Opal Serpent

From the noise she made those without concluded that some terrible crime was taking place within, and redoubled their efforts. Deborah had just time to leap back after a final scream when the door fell flat on the floor, and three policemen sprang into the room with drawn batons and their lights flashing like stars. The lamp was still on the floor shedding its heavy yellow light on the corpse. "Master!" gasped Deborah, pointing a shaking finger. "Dead – the – the cellar – the – " and here she made as to drop. A policeman caught her in his arms, but the woman shook herself free. "I sha'n't faint – no – I sha'n't faint," she gasped, "the cellar – look – look – " She ran forward and raised the head of the dead man. When the officers saw the dangling slack wire disappearing through a hole in the floor they grasped the situation. "The passage outside!" cried Deborah, directing operations; "the trap-door," she ran to it, "fast bolted below, and them murdering people are there."

"How many are there?" asked a policeman, while several officers ran round the back through the side passage.

"Oh, you dratted fool, how should I know!" cried Deborah, fiercely; "there may be one and there may be twenty. Go and catch them – you're paid for it. Send to number twenty Park Street, Bloomsbury, for Bart."

"Who is Bart?"

"Go and fetch him," cried Deborah, furious at this delay; "number twenty Park Street, Bloomsbury. Oh, what a night this is! I'm a-goin' to see Miss Sylvia, who has fainted, and small blame," and she made for the locked door. An officer came after her. "Go away," shrieked Deborah, pushing him back. "I've got next to nothink on, and my pretty is ill. Go away and do your business."

Seeing she was distracted and hardly knew what she was saying, the man drew back, and Deborah ran up the stairs to Sylvia's room, where she found the poor girl still unconscious.

Meanwhile, an Inspector had arrived, and one of the policemen was detailing all that had occurred from the time Deborah had given the alarm at the window. The Inspector listened quietly to everything, and then examined the body. "Strangled with a copper wire," he said, looking up. "Go for a doctor one of you. It goes through the floor," he added, touching the wire which still circled the throat, "and must have been pulled from below. Examine the cellar."

Even as he spoke, and while one zealous officer ran off for a medical man, there was a grating sound and the trap-door was thrown open. A policeman leaped into the shop and saluted when he saw his superior. By this time the gas had been lighted. "We've broken down the back door, sir," said he, "the cellar door – it was locked but not bolted. Nothing in the cellar, everything in order, but that wire," he pointed to the means used for strangling, "dangled from the ceiling and a cross piece of wood is bound to the lower end."

"Who does the shop belong to?"

"Aaron Norman," said the policeman whose beat it was; "he's a second-hand bookseller, a quiet, harmless, timid sort of man."

"Anyone about?"

"No, sir. I passed down Gwynne Street at about a quarter past twelve and all seemed safe. When I come back later – it might have been twenty minutes and more – say twenty-five – I saw the woman who was down here clinging to a window on the first floor, and shouting murder. I gave the summons, sir, and we broke open the door."

Inspector Prince laid down the dead man's head and rose to his feet with a nod. "I'll go upstairs and see the woman," he said; "tell me when the doctor comes."

Upstairs he examined the sitting-room, and lighted the gas therein; then he mounted another storey after looking through the kitchen and dining-room. In a bedroom he found an empty bed, but heard someone talking in a room near at hand. Flinging open the door he heard a shriek, and found himself confronted by Deborah, who had hastily flung on some clothes. "Don't come in," she cried, extending her arm, "for I'm just getting Miss Sylvia round."

"Nonsense," said the Inspector, and pushing her roughly aside he stepped into the room. On the bed lay Sylvia, apparently still unconscious, but as the man looked at her she opened her eyes with a long sigh. Deborah put her arms round the girl and began to talk to her in an endearing way. Shortly Sylvia sat up, bewildered. "What is it?" she asked. Then her eyes fell on the policeman. "Oh, where is my father?"

"He's dead, pretty," said Deborah, fondling her. "Don't take on so."

"Yes – I remember – the body on the floor – the serpent across the mouth – oh – oh!" and she fainted again.

"There!" cried Deborah, with bitter triumph, "see what you've done."

"Come – come," said Inspector Prince, though as gently as possible. "I am in charge of this case. Tell me what has happened."

"If you'd use your blessed eyes you'd see murder has happened," said Miss Junk, savagely. "Let me attend to my pretty."

Just at this moment a tall young man entered the room. It was the doctor. "The policemen said you were up here," he said in a pleasant voice. "I've examined the body, Inspector. The man is quite dead – he has been strangled – and in a cruel manner with that copper wire, which has cut into the throat, to say nothing of this," and the doctor held out the brooch.

"That, drat it!" cried Deborah, vigorously, "it's the cause of it all, I do believe, if I died in saying so," and she began to rub Sylvia's hands vigorously.

"Who is this young lady?" asked the doctor; "another patient?"

"And well she may be," said Miss Junk. "Call yourself a doctor, and don't help me to bring her to."

"Do what you can," said Prince, "and you," he added to Deborah, "come down with me. I wish to ask you a few questions."

Deborah was no fool and saw that the Inspector was determined to make her do what he wanted. Besides, Sylvia was in the hands of the doctor, and Deborah felt that he could do more than she, to bring the poor girl to her senses. After a few parting injunctions she left the room and went downstairs with the Inspector. The police had made no further discovery.

Prince questioned not only the Gwynne Street policeman, who had given his report, but all others who had been in the vicinity. But they could tell him nothing. No one suspicious had been seen leaving Gwynne Street north or south, so, finding he could learn nothing in this direction, Prince turned his attention to the servant. "Now, then, what do you know?" he asked. "Don't say anything likely to incriminate yourself."

"Me!" shouted Deborah, bouncing up with a fiery face. "Don't you be taking away my character. Why, I know no more who have done it than a babe unborn, and that's stupid enough, I 'opes, Mr. Policeman. Ho! indeed, and we pays our taxes to be insulted by you, Mr. Policeman." She was very aggravating, and many a man would have lost his temper. But Inspector Prince was a quiet and self-controlled officer, and knew how to deal with this violent class of women. He simply waited till Deborah had exhausted herself, and then gently asked her a few questions. Finding he was reasonable, Deborah became reasonable on her part, and replied with great intelligence. In a few minutes the Inspector, by handling her deftly, learned all that had taken place on that terrible night, from the time Sylvia had started up in bed at the sound of that far-distant cry of a soul in agony. "And that, from what Miss Sylvia says," ended Deborah, "was just before the church clock struck the hour of twelve."

"You came down a quarter of an hour later?"

"I did, when Miss Sylvia woke me," said Deborah; "she was frightened out of her seven senses, and couldn't get up at once. Yes – it was about twenty minutes after the hour we come down to see – It," and the woman, strong nerved as she was, shuddered.

"Humph," said the Inspector, "the assassin had time to escape."

"Begging your pardon, sir, them, or him, or her, or it as murdered master was below in the cellar when we saw the corp – not that it was what you'd call a corp then."

"Will you say precisely what you mean?"

Deborah did so, and with such wealth of detail that even the hardened Inspector felt the creeps down his official back. There was something terribly merciless about this crime. The man had been bound like a sheep for the slaughter; his mouth had been sealed with the brooch so that he could not cry out, and then in the sight of his child and servant he had been slowly strangled by means of the copper wire which communicated with the cellar. One of the policemen brought up an auger which evidently had been used to bore the hole for the wire to pass through, for the fresh sawdust was still in its whorls. "Who does this belong to?" Prince asked Deborah.

"It's Bart's," said Deborah, staring; "he was using it along with other tools to make some deal boxes for master, who was going away. I expect it was found in the cellar in the tool-box, for Bart allays brought it in tidy-like after he'd done his work in the yard, weather being fine, of course," ended Deborah, sniffing.

"Where is this Bart?"

"In bed like a decent man if he's to be my husband, which he is," said Miss Junk, tartly. "I told one of them idle bobbies to go and fetch him from Bloomsbury."

"One has gone," said another policeman. "Bart Tawsey isn't he?"

"Mr. Bartholemew Tawsey, if you please," said the servant, grandly. "I only hope he'll be here soon to protect me."

"You're quite safe," said Prince, dryly, whereat there was a smile on the faces of his underlings, for Deborah in her disordered dress and with her swollen, flushed, excited face was not comely. "But what about this brooch you say is the cause of it all?"

Deborah dropped with an air of fatigue. "If you kill me I can't talk of it now," she protested. "The brooch belonged to Mr. Paul Beecot."

"And where is he?"

"In the Charing Cross Hospital if you want to know, and as he's engaged to my pretty you needn't think he done it – so there."

"I am accusing no one," said the Inspector, grimly, "but we must get to the bottom of this horrible crime."

"Ah, well you may call it that," wailed Deborah, "with that serping on his poor mouth and him wriggling like an eel to get free. But 'ark, there's my pretty a-calling," and Miss Junk dashed headlong from the shop shouting comfort to Sylvia as she went.

Prince looked at the dead man and at the opal serpent which he held in his hand. "This at one end of the matter, and that at the other. What is the connecting link between this brooch and that corpse?"

CHAPTER VIII

THE VERDICT OF THE JURY

As may be guessed, the murder of Aaron Norman caused a tremendous sensation. One day the name was unknown, the next and it was in the mouths of the millions. The strange circumstances of the crime, the mystery which shrouded it, the abominable cruelty of the serpent brooch having been used to seal the man's lips while he was being slowly strangled, deepened the interest immensely. Here, at last was a murder worthy of Wilkie Collins's or Gaboriau's handling; such a crime as one expected to read of in a novel, but never could hope to hear of in real life. Fact had for once poached on the domains of fiction.

But notwithstanding all the inquiries which were made, and all the vigilance of the police, and all the newspaper articles, and all the theories sent by people who knew nothing whatever of the matter, nothing tangible was discovered likely to lead to a discovery of the assassins or assassin. It was conjectured that two people at least had been concerned in the committal of the crime, as, weak physically though he was, the deceased would surely not have allowed himself to be bound by one person, however strong that person might be. In such a case there would certainly have been a scuffle, and as the daughter of the murdered man heard his cry for help – which was what Sylvia did hear – she would certainly have heard the noise of a rough-and-tumble struggle such as Norman would have made when fighting for his life. But that single muffled cry was all that had been heard, and then probably the brooch had been pinned on the mouth to seal it for ever. Later the man had been slowly strangled, and in the sight of his horrified daughter.

Poor Sylvia received a severe shock after witnessing that awful sight, and was ill for some days. The faithful Deborah attended to her like a slave, and would allow no one, save the doctor, to enter the sick-room. Bart Tawsey, who had been summoned to Gwynne Street from his bed, remained in the empty shop and attended to any domestic duties which Miss Junk required to be performed. She made him cook viands for Sylvia and for herself, and, as he had been trained by her before, to act as an emergency cook, he did credit to her tuition. Also Bart ran messages, saw that the house was well locked and bolted at night, and slept on a hastily-improvised bed under the counter. Even Deborah's strong nerves were shaken by the horrors she had witnessed, and she insisted that Bart should remain to protect her and Sylvia. Bart was not over-strong, but he was wiry, and, moreover, had the courage of a cock sparrow, so while he was guarding the house Deborah had no fears, and could attend altogether to her sick mistress.

One of the first people to call on Miss Norman was a dry, wizen monkey of a man, who announced himself as Jabez Pash, the solicitor of the deceased. He had, so he said, executed Aaron's legal business for years, and knew all his secrets. Yet, when questioned by the police, he could throw no light on the murder. But he knew of something strange connected with the matter, and this he related to the detective who was now in charge of the case.

This officer was a chatty, agreeable, pleasant-faced man, with brown eyes, brown hair and brown skin. Also, to match his face, no doubt, he wore brown clothes, brown boots, a brown hat and a brown tie – in fact, in body, face and hands and dress he was all brown, and this prevalent color produced rather a strange effect. "He must ha' bin dyed," said Miss Junk when she set eyes on him. "But brown is better nor black, Miss Sylvia, though black you'll have to wear for your poor par, as is gone to a better land, let us hope, though there's no knowing."

The brown man, who answered to the name of Hurd, or, as he genially described himself, "Billy" Hurd, saw Mr. Pash, the lawyer, after he had examined everyone he could lay hold of in the hopes of learning something likely to elucidate the mystery. "What do you know of this matter, sir?" asked the brown man, pleasantly.

Pash screwed up his face in a manner worthy of his monkey looks. He would have been an absolute image of one with a few nuts in his cheek, and as he talked in a chattering sort of way, very fast and a trifle incoherent, the resemblance was complete. "I know nothing why my esteemed client should meet with such a death," he said, "but I may mention that on the evening of his death he called round to see me and deposited in my charge four bags of jewels. At least he said they were jewels, for the bags are sealed, and of course I never opened them."

"Can I see those bags?" asked Hurd, amiably.

The legal monkey hopped into the next room and beckoned Hurd to follow. Shortly the two were looking into the interior of a safe wherein reposed four bags of coarse white canvas sealed and tied with stout cords. "The odd thing is," said Mr. Pash, chewing his words, and looking so absurdly like a monkey that the detective felt inclined to call him "Jacko," "that on the morning of the murder, and before I heard anything about it, a stranger came with a note from my esteemed client asking that the bags should be handed over."

"What sort of a man?"

"Well," said Pash, fiddling with his sharp chin, "what you might call a seafaring man. A sailor, maybe, would be the best term. He was stout and red-faced, but with drink rather than with weather, I should think, and he rolled on his bow-legs in a somewhat nautical way."

"What name did he give?" asked Hurd, writing this description rapidly in his note-book.

"None. I asked him who he was, and he told me – with many oaths I regret to say – to mind my own business. He insisted on having the bags to take back to Mr. Norman, but I doubted him – oh, yes," added the lawyer, shrewdly, "I doubted him. Mr. Norman always did his own business, and never, in my experience of him, employed a deputy. I replied to the unknown nautical man – a sailor – as you might say; he certainly smelt of rum, which, as we know, is a nautical drink – well, Mr. Hurd, I replied that I would take the bags round to Mr. Norman myself and at once. This office is in Chancery Lane, as you see, and not far from Gwynne Street, so I started with the bags."

"And with the nautical gentleman?"

"No. He said he would remain behind until I returned, so as to receive my apology when I had seen my esteemed client and become convinced of the nautical gentleman's rectitude. When I reached Gwynne Street I found that Mr. Norman was dead, and at once took the bags back to replace them in this safe, where you now behold them."

"And this sailor?" asked Hurd, eyeing Mr. Pash keenly.

The lawyer sucked in his cheeks and put his feet on the rungs of his chair. "Oh, my clerk tells me he left within five minutes of my departure, saying he could not wait."

"Have you seen him since?"

"I have not seen him since. But I am glad that I saved the property of my client."

"Was Norman rich?"

"Very well off indeed, but he did not make his money out of his book-selling business. In fact," said Pash, putting the tips of his fingers delicately together, "he was rather a good judge of jewels."

"And a pawnbroker," interrupted Hurd, dryly. "I have heard all about that from Bart Tawsey, his shopman. Skip it and go on."

"I can only go on so far as to say that Miss Norman will probably inherit a fortune of five thousand a year, beside the jewels contained in those bags. That is," said Mr. Pash, wisely, "if the jewels be not redeemed by those who pawned them."

"Is there a will?" asked Hurd, rising to take his leave.

Pash screwed up his eyes and inflated his cheeks, and wriggled so much that the detective expected an acrobatic performance, and was disappointed when it did not come off. "I really can't be sure on that point," he said softly. "I have not yet examined the papers contained in the safe of my deceased and esteemed client. He would never allow me to make his will. Leases – yes – he has some house-property – mortgages – yes – investments – yes – he entrusted me with all his business save the important one of making a will. But a great many other people act in the same strange way, though you might not think so, Mr. Hurd. They would never make a lease, or let a house, or buy property, without consulting their legal adviser, yet in the case of wills (most important documents) many prefer to draw them up themselves. Consequently, there is much litigation over wrongly-drawn documents of that nature."

"All the better for you lawyers. Well, I'm off to look for your nautical gentleman."

"Do you think he is guilty?"

"I can't say," said Hurd, smiling, "and I never speak unless I am quite sure of the truth."

"It will be hard to come at, in this case," said the lawyer.

Billy the detective smiled pleasantly and shrugged his brown shoulders. "So hard that it may never be discovered," he said. "You know many mysteries are never solved. I suspect this Gwynne Street crime will be one of them."

Hurd had learned a great deal about the opal brooch from Sylvia and Deborah, and what they told him resulted in his visiting the Charing Cross Hospital to see Paul Beecot. The young man was much worried. His arm was getting better, and the doctors assured him he would be able to leave the hospital in a few days. But he had received a letter from his mother, whom he had informed of his accident. She bewailed his danger, and wrote with many tears – as Paul saw from the blotted state of the letter – that her domestic tyrant would not allow her to come to London to see her wounded darling. This in itself was annoying enough, but Paul was still more irritated and excited by the report of Aaron's terrible death, which he saw in a newspaper. So much had this moved him that he was thrown into a high state of fever, and the doctor refused to allow him to read the papers. Luckily, Paul, for his own sake, had somewhat calmed down when Hurd arrived, so the detective was permitted to see him. He sat by the bedside and told the patient who he was. Beecot looked at him sharply, and then recognized him.

"You are the workman," he said astonished.

"Yes, Mr. Beecot, I am. I hear that you have not taken my warning regarding your friend, Mr. Grexon Hay."

"Ah! Then you knew his name all the time!"

"Of course I did. I merely spoke to you to set you on your guard against him. He'll do you no good."

"But he was at school with me," said Beecot, angrily.

"That doesn't make him any the better companion," replied Hurd; "see here, Mr. Beecot, we can talk of this matter another time. At present, as I am allowed to converse with you only for a short time, I wish to ask you about the opal serpent."

Paul sat up, although Hurd tried to keep him down. "What do you know of that? – why do you come to me?"

"I know very little and want to know more. As I told you, my name is Billy Hurd, and, as I did not tell you, I am the detective whom the Treasury has placed in charge of this case."

"Norman's murder?"

"Yes! Have you read the papers?"

"A few, but not enough. The doctors took them from me and – "

"Gently, Mr. Beecot. Let us talk as little as possible. Where did you get that brooch?"

"Why do you want to know? You don't suspect me, I hope?"

Hurd laughed. "No. You have been in this ward all the time. But as the brooch was used cruelly to seal the dead man's mouth, it seems to me, and to Inspector Prince, that the whole secret of the murder lies in tracing it to its original possessor. Now tell me all about it," said Billy, and spread out his note-book.

"I will if you'll tell me about Miss Norman. I'm engaged to marry her and I hear she is ill."

"Oh, she is much better," said Hurd, pausing pencil in hand, "don't distress yourself. That young lady is all right; and when you marry her you'll marry an heiress, as I learn from the lawyer who does the business of the deceased."

"I don't care about her being the heiress. Will you take a message to her from me?"

"Certainly. What is it?" Hurd spoke quite sympathetically, for even though he was a detective he was a human being with a kindly heart.

"Tell her how sorry I am, and that I'll come and see her as soon as I can leave this confounded hospital. Thanks for your kindness, Mr. Hurd. Now, what do you wish to know? Oh, yes – about the opal serpent, which, as you say, and as I think, seems to be at the bottom of all the trouble. Listen," and Paul detailed all he knew, taking the story up to the time of his accident.

Hurd listened attentively. "Oh," said he, with a world of meaning, "so Mr. Grexon Hay was with you? Hum! Do you suppose he pushed you into the road on purpose?"

"No," said Paul, staring, "I'm sure he didn't. What had he to gain by acting in such a way?"

"Money, you may be sure," said Hurd. "That gentleman never does anything without the hope of a substantial reward. Hush! We'll talk of this when you're better, Mr. Beecot. You say the brooch was lost."

"Yes. It must have slipped out of my pocket when I fell under the wheels of that machine. I believe there were a number of loafers and ragged creatures about, so it is just possible I may hear it has been picked up. I've sent an advertisement to the papers."

Hurd shook his head. "You won't hear," he said. "How can you expect to when you know the brooch was used to seal the dead man's lips?"

"I forgot that," said Paul, faintly. "My memory – "

"Is not so good as it was." Hurd rose. "I'll go, as I see you are exhausted. Good-bye."

"Wait! You'll keep me advised of how the case goes?"

"Certainly, if the doctors will allow me to. Good-bye," and Hurd went away very well satisfied with the information he had obtained.

The clue, as he thought it was, led him to Wargrove, where he obtained useful information from Mr. Beecot, who gave it with a very bad grace, and offered remarks about his son's being mixed up in the case, which made Hurd, who had taken a fancy to the young fellow, protest. From Wargrove, Hurd went to Stowley, in Buckinghamshire, and interviewed the pawnbroker whose assistant had wrongfully sold the brooch to Beecot many years before. There he learned a fact which sent him back to Mr. Jabez Pash in London.