CHAPTER XXXIV
MR. PELHAM MAKES HIS APPEARANCE ONCE MORE
MY DEAR LOVE, – My note written last night was short, because I had scarcely anything to say, and I postponed what I had to tell until to-night. Mrs. Holdfast did not detain Fanny long yesterday. She asked but one question, which, if the little girl had not been prepared to answer, would have removed Fanny from the game, and increased the difficulties of our task. In the story Fanny invented for the mystification of Mrs. Holdfast I saw one great danger. Mrs. Holdfast is not playing alone; there is a master mind behind her. Who that master mind is it was necessary for me to discover, and I have made the discovery. I shall not be surprised if, in the letter I shall write to you to-morrow night I am able to tell you something of the very greatest moment.
Fanny’s danger was this: She had told a clever story; had invented a sister, and had furnished a tolerably fair excuse for forcing herself upon a lady of Mrs. Holdfast’s position. But she had spoken of herself and her sister living in lodgings in London. If there is one thing Mrs. Holdfast desires at present to avoid it is the slightest chance of anything coming before the public which would tend to prove that she and Grace who destroyed Sydney Campbell are one and the same person. Perhaps the only person who, in an indirect way, is aware of this fact (that is, to Mrs. Holdfast’s knowledge) is Fanny. Here was a risk; and between Fanny’s first and second visit to Mrs. Holdfast, the suggestion had in some way arisen that the little girl might have been instructed in her part by an unseen enemy. It was necessary, therefore, to test the truth of Fanny’s story, and there was only one point which could be seized upon. In what street in London, in what house, did Fanny and her sister live before the sister ran away? This occurred to my sharp mind before it had been suggested to Mrs. Holdfast, and I determined to manufacture evidence. I enlisted Mrs. Preedy on my side. I bought her a new gown, a cloak, and a hat, and I made her a present of them. Then, having entirely won her heart – she told me that she looked upon me as a daughter – I cautiously imparted to her what I wanted her to do for me. It appeared that nothing was easier. For a few shillings a friend of Mrs. Preedy, living half a mile from Great Porter Square, undertook, in case a lady called to ask there, to give certain answers to certain questions about two lodgers, one called Nelly and the other Dot. The lesson was a simple one, and was easily learned. Armed with the address, Fanny went to Mrs. Holdfast, according to appointment. I may inform you that I am placing fuller reliance than ever upon little Fanny, and that I have related to her a great deal of Grace’s life in Oxford, which, in case of need, she can turn to useful account. As I anticipated, Mrs. Holdfast asked Fanny in what house she and her sister lived in London. Without hesitation, Fanny gave the address of Mrs. Preedy’s friend, and Mrs. Holdfast dismissed her, desiring her to call again on the following day – this morning. I ascertained to-day that Mrs. Holdfast called at the address, and received the answers prepared for her.
I must tell you what Mrs. Preedy said to me during the evening.
“My dear, you are not what you pretend to be.”
I gave her a spirited answer, knowing by this time how to manage her.
“You are a clever woman,” I replied, looking at her admiringly; “you have guessed my secret; not one in a thousand would have done it. I am not a servant-of-all-work, and I came here to be out of the way, let me say, of my young man. Well now, there’s no harm in that, is there?”
“Not a bit of harm,” she said. “But what is it all about?”
“I can’t tell you just now,” I said. “You may be certain of one thing. If things go on as they’ve been going on lately, you will be none the worse off for it. If I don’t go into partnership with you, I shall make you a very handsome present, and I shan’t ask you for any wages. I have broken a lot of things since I’ve been here, but I’ve bought new ones in their place. Mrs. Preedy, you leave everything to me, and I will show you that Becky can be grateful.”
“Well, my dear,” said Mrs. Preedy, “so long as there’s no harm done, I don’t mind. You’re a good sort, and I dare say have seen a lot of trouble. So have I. Women are born to be imposed upon.”
“Does our young man lodger pay his rent regularly?” I asked, pretending to know nothing.
“My dear,” said Mrs. Preedy, sadly, “since he has lived here I haven’t seen the colour of his money.”
“Now,” I said, smiling, “suppose I pay it for him. Not for his sake – for yours. I’m not sweet on him, though he pretends to be on me. It’s a shame that you should be taken in by a foreign gentleman like him – you can’t afford it.”
I found out how many weeks’ rent he owed, and I paid it. I don’t think anything is wanting to complete the conquest of my mistress’s heart. You see I am spending some of the money you gave me; I couldn’t get along without it.
To-day Mrs. Holdfast received Fanny very graciously, called her a nice little thing, said she was growing quite fond of her, and was almost inclined to take her into the house to live with her.
“Oh, how I wish you would!” cried Fanny.
However, it appears that at present Mrs. Holdfast, even if she is in earnest, cannot take Fanny into her house. If it were done Fanny would find a way to communicate with me, and tell me all that is going on.
Mrs. Holdfast expressed great curiosity about Fanny’s sister, and asked the child whether Nelly did not give her an address to write to.
“O, yes,” said Fanny, prepared for any emergency; “Nelly’s gone to Paris. She said I might write to her at the post-office there.”
What does Mrs. Holdfast do but write a letter to Fanny’s sister, and address it to the Poste Restante, Paris. She did not give the letter to Fanny to post. What is in the letter? Nothing important, perhaps, but written in the endeavour to more completely verify the truth of Fanny’s story. Or perhaps Mrs. Holdfast really knew some actresses in the country, and is anxious to ascertain if Nelly is one of her old acquaintances.
Now I will tell you something more important.
“You are a shrewd little thing,” said Mrs. Holdfast to Fanny; “I have a good mind, although I can’t let you sleep in the house, to take you into my service.”
“O, do, ma’am, do!” cried Fanny.
“Well, I’ll try you. But mind – you must keep my secrets. Do you know any person in London besides me?”
“Not a blessed soul!” replied Fanny. “And I’ll keep your secrets – you try me. O, I don’t believe there’s a kinder lady in the world than you are!”
“She’s an artful one,” said Fanny to me, as she gave me the particulars of this conversation, “but I’m an artfuller!”
Mrs. Holdfast is so extraordinarily vain that even this deserted child’s praise was agreeable to her.
“Be true to me,” said Mrs. Holdfast, “and I’ll make a lady of you. Are you fond of babies?”
To which Fanny replied that she doted on them. Mrs. Holdfast rang a bell, and desired the maid who answered it to take Fanny into the nursery.
“I’ll come up to you presently,” said Mrs. Holdfast.
Fanny went into the nursery, where she saw what she describes as the loveliest baby in the world, all dressed in laces and silks, “more like a beautiful wax doll,” said Fanny, “than anything else.” It was Mrs. Holdfast’s baby, the maid told Fanny, and her mistress doted on it.
“I’ve seen a good many babies and a good many mothers,” said the maid, “but I never saw a mother as fond of a baby as Mrs. Holdfast is of hers.”
Fanny’s account agrees with the maid’s words. When Mrs. Holdfast came into the nursery, and took her baby, and sat in a rocking chair, singing to the child, Fanny said it was very hard to believe that a woman like that could do anything wrong. If Fanny were not truthful and faithful to me, and would rather have her tongue cut out than deceive me, I should receive her version of this wonderful mother’s love with a great deal of suspicion. But there can be no doubt of its truth. I remember that the Reporter of the Evening Moon spoke of this, and that it won his admiration, as it could not fail to win the admiration of any person who did not know how wicked is the heart that beats in Mrs. Holdfast’s bosom. Can you reconcile it with your knowledge of her? I cannot. It does not raise the character of the woman in my eyes; it debases it.
In the nursery Mrs. Holdfast gave Fanny a letter, with instructions to deliver it to the gentleman in person, and to wait for an answer.
My dear, this letter was addressed “Mr. Pelham, 147, Buckingham Palace Road.”
Here at once is established the fact of the continuance of the intimacy between Mr. Pelham and Mrs. Holdfast. Is it possible that your father, after you left the country, discovered that his wife was deceiving him, and flew from the shame of her presence? It must be so. What, then, took place between husband and wife, and to whose advantage would it be that he should be made to disappear? I shudder to contemplate the answer. I can find but one; it is horrible to think of.
Fanny received the letter without remark, and went to the address in Buckingham Palace Road. Mr. Pelham was in, and Fanny was desired to walk up-stairs. There, in a handsomely-furnished room, she saw Mr. Pelham, lounging on a sofa, smoking and drinking. “A regular swell,” said Fanny. He tore the letter open, and tossed it away passionately, without reading it.
“You haven’t taken anything out of it?” he cried to Fanny.
“Oh, no, sir,” replied Fanny, “it’s just as Mrs. Holdfast gave it to me. I was to wait for an answer.”
Fanny says he looked as savage as if he had expected to find the envelope full of money, and didn’t find a penny. He drew the letter to him and read it; then rose, and took some paper from a desk, scribbled an answer, which he put carelessly into an envelope and threw over to Fanny, saying, “Give her that!” Fanny states that he is not an agreeable-looking gentleman, and that there is something about him that reminds her of – but here Fanny stopped, and would not finish what she intended to say. She roused my curiosity, but she would not satisfy it.
“Wait a bit,” she said. “I’ve got an idea in my head. If it’s a right one I shall astonish you. If it ain’t, it would be foolish to speak about it.”
I could get nothing more than this out of her, and I let the subject drop, but there is evidently something very weighty on her mind.
She hurried into the street with Mr. Pelham’s answer to Mrs. Holdfast’s note, and getting into a quiet nook, where she was free from observation, asked a girl to read it to her. Mr. Pelham had scarcely wetted the gum, and the envelope was easily unfastened. Fanny endeavoured to commit the letter to memory, but she failed; the girl who read it to her could not quite make out the words. The letter contained a demand for money, and Mr. Pelham said in it that before the week was out he must have a cheque for five hundred pounds. One remark Fanny perfectly remembered. “If you are going to turn niggardly and stingy,” wrote Mr. Pelham, “I shall have to keep the purse myself. Don’t forget that the money is as much mine as yours, more mine than yours indeed, and that I could ruin you with one word.”
Fanny says that when Mrs. Holdfast read the letter (which she delivered properly fastened) and came to those words – of course Fanny could only guess that – Mrs. Holdfast said aloud:
“And yourself, too, Pelham. It would go harder with you than with me.”
For a moment – only for a single moment, as I gather from Fanny – Mrs. Holdfast’s face grew haggard, but she became gay again instantly, and began to sing and talk lightly. Can such a nature as hers really feel?
Again, for the second time this week, Richard Manx has not come to his room in Great Porter Square. I make sure of this by putting the chain on the street door after mid-night. I attach importance to the slightest circumstance now, and do not allow anything to escape me. Do not for a moment let your courage and your hopefulness fail you. We have not yet obtained a tangible link to start from, but it appears to me as if events were coming closer; something will come to light presently which will assist in the discovery of your father’s murderer. You are never absent from my thoughts; you are for ever in my heart. I am yours till death.
CHAPTER XXXV
FANNY DISCOVERS WHO RICHARD MANX IS
MY DARLING – What has occurred to-day must be related with calmness, although my mind is in a whirl of excitement. The presentiment I felt last night that we were on the threshold of an important discovery has come true. A discovery has been made which neither you nor I could ever have dreamt of, and we have to thank Fanny for it. How wonderfully all the circumstances of life seem to be woven into one another! Little did I think, when I first met the poor, hungry little girl, and was kind to her, that she would repay me as she has repaid me, and that we should owe to her, perhaps, the happiness of our lives. I may be mistaken; I may be speaking more out of my heart than my head, more out of my hopes than my reason. But surely what Fanny has discovered will lead to a discovery of greater moment. It is, as yet, the most important link in the chain. We must consider what is best to be done. At noon, Fanny said to me:
“I want a holiday; I’ve got something to do.”
She spoke abruptly, and with great earnestness.
“You don’t intend to run away from me, Fanny,” I said, and immediately repented my words, for Fanny seized my hands, and kissed them, with tears running down her face.
“Run away from you!” she cried. “Never – never – never! How could you think it of me. I would die for you – indeed, indeed I would!”
I quieted her, trying to excuse myself by saying that it was only because she was keeping something secret from me that the words escaped me.
“But I’m doing it for you,” she said. “To-night I’ll tell you everything.”
Now, read how Fanny passed the day. I will relate it as nearly as possible out of her lips.
“When I went into Mr. Pelham’s room, yesterday,” she said, “in Buckingham Palace Road, I didn’t suspect anything at first. I didn’t like his looks, but that was nothing. There are lots of people I don’t like the looks of. I remained there while he threw away the letter, and while he drank and smoked. He was drinking wine, and he emptied three glasses one after another. It wasn’t till he got up and went to his desk that I noticed something – a twitch of his left shoulder upwards, just as a man does when he shrugs his shoulders. But Mr. Pelham did not shrug his two shoulders, he shrugged one – the left one. I only knew one other man who did with his left shoulder what Mr. Pelham did, and I thought it funny. While he was writing his letter he threw away his cigar, and took a cigarette, and the way he put it into his mouth and rolled it between his lips was just the same as the other man who twitched his shoulder as Mr. Pelham did. Well, as I walked back to Mrs. Holdfast’s house, I seemed to see the two men – Mr. Pelham and the other, shrugging their left shoulders, and rolling their cigarettes in their mouths, and what they did was as like as two peas, though they were two different men, though one was poor and the other rich. I couldn’t help calling myself a little fool when the idea came to me that they were not different men at all, and I said to myself, ‘What do they mean by it? No good, that’s certain.’ So I made up my mind to do something, and I did it to-day.
“First, there was Richard Manx. I watched him out of the house. He came down from his garret a little after twelve; I stood in the dark passage, and watched him coming downstairs; he seemed to be out of temper, and he gave the wall a great blow with his hand. I think he would have liked to hear it cry out, so that he might be sure he had hurt it. I thought I shouldn’t like him to strike me in that way – but I don’t suppose he would if any one was looking. He would have hit me as he hit the wall, if he had known what I was up to – that is, if nobody was near.
“He went out of the house, closing the street door, O, so quietly behind him. Have you noticed how quietly he does everything? He walks like a cat – well, so can other people. I waited a minute after he closed the street door, and then I slipped out after him. I looked all ways, and I saw him just turning out of the Square into Great King Street. I soon turned the corner too, and there I was walking behind him on the other side of the way, with my eyes glued to him. Well, as good as glued. I can walk a long way behind a person, and never lose sight of him, my eyes are so sharp, and I didn’t lose sight of Mr. Richard Manx, as he calls himself. He walked Lambeth way, and I noticed that he was looking about in the funniest manner, as though he was afraid he was being watched. The farther he got from Great Porter Square the more he looked about him; but no one took any notice of him – only me. Well, he went down a street where half the houses were shops and half not, and at the corner of the street was a coffee-shop. There were two doors facing him, one going into the shop where people are served, and the other going into a passage, very narrow and very dark. A little way up this passage was a door, which pushed open. Mr. Manx, after looking about him more than ever, went into the narrow dark passage, and pushed open the door.
“What I had to do now was to wait until he came out, and to dodge about so that I shouldn’t be seen or caught watching for something I didn’t know what. It was a hard job, as hard a job as ever I was at, and it was all that I could do to keep people from watching me. I waited an hour, and another hour, and another hour, and Mr. Manx never came out of the coffee shop. I was regularly puzzled, and tired, and bothered. But I didn’t know what a little fool I was till after waiting for at least four hours I found out that the coffee shop had two more doors on the side facing the other street; doors just like the others, one going into the shop, and the other into a narrow dark passage. When I found that out I thought that Mr. Manx must have gone in at one door in one street and come out at the other door in the other street, and I was regularly vexed with myself. But that didn’t help me, and I walked away from Lambeth towards Buckingham Palace Road. I wanted to see with my own eyes if Mr. Pelham was at home. He was; I saw him stand for a minute at the window of his room on the front floor. Then I set to watching him. I wanted to find out where he was going to, and what he was up to. I suppose it was seven o’clock, and dark, before he came out. He walked till he met a cab, and as he got in I heard him give the direction of Mrs. Holdfast’s house. That was enough for me; I followed him there, my feet ready to drop off, I was that tired. But I wasn’t going to give up the job. No one came out of Mrs. Holdfast’s house till nine o’clock struck; then the street door was opened, and Mr. Pelham walked into the street. He stood still a little, and I thought to myself he is thinking whether he shall take a cab. He didn’t take one till he was half-a-mile from Mrs. Holdfast’s house. I ran all the way after it. It was a good job for me that the cab was a four-wheeler, and that it went along slow, for running so hard set my heart beating to that extent that I thought it would jump out of my body. I scarcely knew where we were going, the night was that dark, but I knew it was not in the direction of Buckingham Palace Road. Mr. Pelham rode about a mile, then called out to the cabby, and jumped on to the pavement. He paid the man, and the cab drove away, and then Mr. Pelham walked slowly towards Lambeth, looking about him, although the night was so dark, in exactly the same way as Mr. Manx had done when I followed him from Great Porter Square. I had been on my feet all the day, and had walked miles and miles, and I hadn’t had a bit of bread in my mouth since breakfast – but when I was certain that Mr. Pelham was walking to Lambeth I didn’t feel hungry or tired. I said to myself, ‘Fanny, your idea was right; but what does it all mean?’ Well, I couldn’t settle that; all I had to settle was that the two men who shrugged their left shoulders, and who rolled their cigarettes in their mouths in the way I had noticed, were not two men at all, but the same man, living in one place as a gentleman and an Englishman, and in another as a poor foreigner without a shilling. So I was not at all surprised to see Mr. Pelham, dressed like a swell, stop at the coffee shop at which Mr. Manx had stopped, and push through the dark passage by the door I had not noticed when I was waiting in the street this morning for Mr. Manx, and I wasn’t at all surprised that Mr. Pelham didn’t come out again. The man who came was the man I wanted, and I followed him home here to Great Porter Square, and he is in the house now.” And here Fanny concluded the account of her day’s adventures by asking, “Who came in five minutes before I did?”
“Richard Manx,” I replied.
“It’s all one,” said Fanny, triumphantly; “Richard Manx is Mr. Pelham. There’s no difference between them, except that one wears a wig, and paints his face, and talks like a foreigner, and that the other lives in a fine house, and drinks wine, and dresses like a gentleman. That was my idea last night. That was what I had to do when I asked you this morning to let me go for the day. There’s something in it; I don’t know what – that’s for you to find out. Are you pleased with me?”
I pressed the faithful child in my arms, and she gave a sigh and fainted. She was so eager to tell me of her discovery, and I was so anxious to hear it, that we both forgot that for fifteen hours not a morsel of food had passed her lips.