Chapter 4

The Evidence of the Chemist's Assistant

Ironfields is not a pretty place; not even its warmest admirer could say it was pretty, but then its warmest admirer would not want to say anything of the kind. Well drained, well laid out, well lighted, it could--according to the minds of its inhabitants--easily dispense with such mere prettiness or picturesqueness as crooked-streeted, gable-mansioned towns, dating from the Middle Ages, could boast of. Poor things, those sleepy cathedral towns, beautified by the hand of Time--poor things indeed compared with vast Ironfields, the outcome of a manufacturing century and a utilitarian race! Ironfields with its lines of ugly model houses, its broad, treeless streets, its muddy river flowing under a hideous railway bridge, its mighty foundries with their tall chimneys that belched forth smoke in the daytime, and fire at night, and its ceaseless clamour that roared up to the smoke-hidden sky six days in the week.

The inhabitants were a race of Cyclops. Rough, swarthy men of herculean build, scant of speech and of courtesy, worn-looking women, with vinegary faces peering sharply at every one from under the shawls they wore on their tousled heads, and tribes of squalling brats, with just enough clothes for decency, grimy with the smoky, sooty atmosphere, looking like legions of small devils as they played in the barren streets, piercing the deafening clamour with their shrill, unchildlike voices. A manufacturing town, inhabited by humanity with no idea of beauty, with no desire beyond an increase of weekly wage, or an extra drink at the public-house. Humanity with a hard, unlovely religion expounded in hideous little chapels by fervid preachers of severe principles. A glorious triumph of our highest civilisation, this matter-of-fact city, with its creed of work, work, work, and its eyes constantly on the sordid things of this earth, and never raised to the blue sky of heaven. A glorious triumph indeed--for the capitalists.

When it rained--which it did frequently--Ironfields was sloppy, and when Ironfields was sloppy it was detestable; for the rain coming down through the smoky cloud that constantly lowered over the town, made everything, if possible, more grimy than before. But Ironfields was quite content; it was a name of note in commercial circles, and its products went forth to the four quarters of the world, bringing back in exchange plenty of money, of which a great deal found its way into the pockets of the master, and very little into those of the man.

The country around was not pretty. Nature, with that black, ugly, clamorous city constantly before her eyes, lost heart in her work, and did not attempt to place beauties before the eyes of people who did not know anything about beauty, and would have thought it a very useless thing if they had. So the fields lying round Ironfields were only a shade better than the city itself, for the shadow of smoke lay over everything, and where sunshine is not, cheerfulness is wanting.

On one side of Ironfields, however, Nature had made a feeble attempt to assert herself, but then it was in a queer little village which had been the germ from whence arose this noisy town. In the old days the queer little village had stood amid green fields beside a sparkling river; but now the fields had disappeared, the sparkling river had turned to a dull, muddy stream, and the little village was improved out of all recognition. Like Frankenstein, it had created a monster which dominated it entirely, which took away even its name and reduced it from a quaint, pretty place, redolent of pastoral joys, to a dull little suburb, mostly inhabited by poor people. True, beyond stood the mansions of the Ironfields millionaires, glaring and unpicturesque, in equally glaring gardens laid out with mathematical accuracy; but the upper ten merely drove through the village on their way to these Brummagem palaces, and did not acknowledge its existence in any way. Yet a good many of their progenitors had lived in the dull suburb before Ironfields was Ironfields, but they forgot all about that in the enjoyment of their new-found splendours, and the miserable village was now a kind of poor relation, unrecognised, uncared for, and very much despised.

In the principal street, narrow and winding, with old houses on either side, standing like dismal ghosts of the past, was the chemist's shop, a brand-new place, with plate-glass windows, and the name, "Wosk & Co.," in bright gold letters on a bright blue ground. Behind the plate-glass windows appeared huge bottles containing liquids red, and yellow, and green in colour, which threw demoniacal reflections on the faces of passers-by at night, when the gas flared behind them. All kinds of patent medicines were there displayed to the best advantage; bottles of tooth-brushes, cakes of Pears' soap, phials of queer shape and wondrous virtue, sponges, jars of leeches, queer-looking pipes compounded of glass and india-rubber tubing, packets of fly-exterminators, and various other strange things pertaining to the trade, all calling attention to their various excellencies in neat little printed leaflets scattered promiscuously throughout.

Within, a shining counter of mahogany laden with cures for the various ills which flesh is heir to; and at the far end, a neat little glass screen with a gas-jet on top, above which could be seen the gray-black head of Mr. Wosk and the smooth red head of Mr. Wosk's assistant.

Mr. Wosk (who was also the Co.) was a slender, serious man, always clothed in black, with a sedate, black-bearded countenance, a habit of washing his hands with invisible soap and water, and a rasping little cough, which he introduced into his conversation at inopportune moments. He would have made an excellent undertaker, an ideal mute, for his cast of countenance was undeniably mournful, but Fate had fitted this round peg of an undertaker into the square hole of a chemist in a fit of perverse anger. He bore up, however, against his uncongenial situation with dreary resignation, and dispensed his own medicines with an air of saying, "I hope it will do you good, but I'm afraid it won't." He was the pillar of the Church in a small way, and stole round the chapel on Sundays with the plate in a melancholy fashion, as if he was asking some good Christian to put some food on the plate and despaired of getting it. Ebenezer was his name, and his wife, an acidulated lady of uncertain age, ruled him with a rod of iron, perhaps from the fact that she had no children over whom to domineer.

Mrs. Wosk, however, could not rule the assistant, much as she desired to do so. Not that he made any show of opposition, but always twisted this way and turned that in an eel-like fashion until she did not know quite where to have him. In fact, the assistant ruled Mrs. Wosk (of which rule she had a kind of uneasy consciousness), and as Mrs. Wosk ruled Mr. Wosk, including the Co., M. Jules Guinaud may have been said to have ruled the whole household.

A hard name to pronounce, especially in Ironfields, where French was in the main an unknown tongue, so suburban Ironfields, by common consent, forgot the surname of the assistant, and called him, in friendly fashion, Munseer Joolees, by which appellation he was known for a considerable time. Mrs. Wosk, however, who meddled a good deal with the shop and saw a good deal of the assistant, being learned in Biblical lore (as the wife of a deacon should be), found a certain resemblance suggested by the name and appearance of the assistant between Munseer Joolees and Judas Iscariot, whereupon, with virulent wit, she christened him by the latter name, and Monsieur Joolees became widely known as Monsieur Judas, which name pleased the Ironfields worthies, being easy to pronounce and containing a certain epigrammatic flavour.

The name suited him, too, this slender, undersized man with the stealthy step of a cat; the unsteady greenish eyes that appeared to see nothing, yet took in everything; the smooth, shining red hair plastered tightly down on his egg-shaped skull; and the delicate, pink and white-complexioned, hairless face that bore the impress of a kind of evil beauty--yes, the name suited him admirably, and as he took no exception to it, being in suburban Ironfields opinion an atheist, and therefore ignorant of the Biblical significance of the title, nobody thought of addressing him by any other.

He spoke English moderately well, in a soft, sibilant voice with a foreign accent, and sometimes used French words, which were Greek to all around him. Expressive, too, in a pantomimic way, with his habit of shrugging his sloping shoulders, his method of waving his slim white hands when in conversation, and a certain talent in using his eyes to convey his meaning. Lids drooping downwards, "I listen humbly to your words of wisdom, monsieur." Suddenly raising them so as to display full optic, "Yes, you may look at me; I am a most guileless person." Narrowing to a mere slit, like the pupil of a cat's eye, "Beware, I am dangerous," and so forth, all of which, in conjunction with the aforesaid shrugs and pantomimic action of his hands, made the conversation of Monsieur Judas very intelligible indeed, in spite of his foreign accent and French observations.

It was raining on this particular morning--seasonable weather, of course; but as far as rain went, all the months were the same in Ironfields, and a thick, black fog pervaded the atmosphere. A cold, clammy fog, with a sooty flavour, that crept slowly through the streets and into the houses, like a wounded snake dragging itself along. Here and there pedestrians looming large in the opaque cloud like gigantic apparitions, gas-lamps flaring drearily in the thick air, cabs and carts and carriages all moving cautiously along like endless funerals. And only two o'clock in the afternoon. Surely the darkness which spread over the land of Egypt could be no worse than this; nay, perhaps it was better, Egypt being tropical and lacking the chill, unwholesome moisture which permeated the air, wrapping the dingy houses, the noisy foundries, and the cheerless streets in a dull, sodden pall.

Gas glared in the shop of Wosk & Co., behind the glass doors, which kept out as much of the fog as they were able--gas which gave forth a dim, yellow light to Mr. Wosk behind the screen, looking over prescriptions, and to Monsieur Judas at the counter making up neat packages of medicine bottles. At the little window at the back which looked into the Wosk dwelling-house, an occasional vision of Mrs. Wosk's head appeared like that of a cross cherub, keeping her eye on chemist and assistant.

"Bur-r-r," says Monsieur Judas, blowing on his lean fingers, "it is to me the most coldness of times. Aha! le brouillard! it makes itself to be all the places to-day."

"Seasonable, seasonable!" murmurs Mr. Wosk, washing his hands in a contemplative fashion. "Good for--ahem!--good for business--that is, business in our line--ahem!"

"Eh, Monsieur Vosks! mais oui, mon ami," answered the Frenchman, raising his eyebrows, "and for de--what you call de coffins man. L'homme des funerailles."

"That, ahem!" said Mr. Wosk, with his rasping cough, "is what we must try and prevent. The undertaker--not coffins man, Monsieur Judas, that is not--ahem--correct Anglo-Saxon--is the last, the very last resource of a sick man. Prevention--ahem--in the person of ourselves is better than--ahem--dear me--I don't think the remark is app--ahem--applicable."

At this moment the glass doors opened to admit a stranger, enveloped in a comfortable fur coat, and also gave admission to a cloud of fog that had been waiting for the opportunity for some time. The stranger made his appearance like a Homeric deity, in a cloudy fashion, and when the attendant fog dispersed, Monsieur Judas (inquisitive) and Mr. Wosk (mournfully indifferent) saw that he was a keen-faced young gentleman with a sharp, decisive manner.

"Wosk & Co., eh!" queried the stranger, who was none other than Mr. Octavius Fanks.

"Yes, sir," said Mr. Wosk, advancing, "the name--ahem--my name, sir, is in front of the--the shop, sir."

"So is the fog," replied the detective, drily, leaning over the counter. "I could hardly see the shop, much less the name."

"De fog is still heavier, monsieur?" said Judas, taking in the appearance of Mr. Fanks in a comprehensive fashion.

Octavius swung sharply round at the sound of the foreign voice, and instantly took an intuitive dislike to the appearance of the red-haired young man.

"Oui," he replied, looking at him sharply; "n'êtes-vous pas Français?"

"Monsieur a beaucoup de pénétration," said Judas, startled at hearing his own tongue.

His eyes had narrowed into those dangerous slits which betokened that he was on his guard against this clever--too clever Englishman. The two men looked at one another steadily for a moment, and two ideas flashed rapidly through their respective minds.

The Fanks idea, suggested by the suspicious appearance (to a detective) of Monsieur Judas:

"This man has a past, and is always on his guard."

The Guinaud idea, inspired by a naturally suspicious nature:

"This Englishman is a possible enemy. I must be careful."

There was really no ground for such uncomplimentary ideas on the part of these two men who now met for the first time, except that instinctive repulsion which springs from the collision of two natures antipathetic to one another.

Mr. Wosk, being warned by the apparition of Mrs. Wosk's head at the little window that he was wasting time, addressed himself at once to his customer in a business fashion:

"What can I do for you, sir?"

Octavius withdrew his eyes from the face of the assistant, and producing a pill-box, laid it down on the counter before Mr. Wosk.

"I want to know the name of the gentleman for whom you made up these pills."

"Rather difficult to say, sir," said Mr. Wosk, taking up the box; "we make up so many boxes like this."

"They were made up for a gentleman who left Ironfields shortly afterwards."

The chemist, never very clear-headed at any time, looked perfectly bewildered at being called upon to make such a sudden explanation, and turned helplessly to his assistant, who stood working at his medicine bottles with downcast eyes.

"I'm afraid--ahem--really, my memory is so bad," he faltered, childishly; "well, I scarcely--ahem--but I think Monsieur Judas will be able to tell you all about it. I have the--ahem--I have the fullest confidence in Monsieur Judas."

"It's more than I should have," thought Fanks, as the assistant silently took the pill-box from his master and opened it.

"Eight pilules," he said, counting them.

"Yes, eight pills," replied Fanks, taking a seat by the counter, "but, of course, when you made up the prescription there must have been more."

"De monsieur weeth de pilules did he geeve dem to monsieur?"

"No; I want to know the gentleman's name."

"An' for wy, monsieur?"

"Never you mind," retorted Octavius, coolly; "you do what you're asked, my good fellow."

The "good fellow" gave Mr. Fanks an ugly look; but in another moment was bland and smiling as ever. Mr. Wosk (beckoned by the cherub's head) had gone into the back premises, so the two men were quite alone, of which circumstance Mr. Fanks took advantage by speaking to Monsieur Judas in French, in order to understand him better.

Translated, the conversation (guarded on both sides by mutual suspicion) was as follows:

"Will monsieur permit me to ask him a few questions? Otherwise," said Judas, with a shrug, "I cannot hope to find the name monsieur requires."

"Ask whatever questions you like."

"Does monsieur know when the gentleman left this town?"

Mr. Fanks made a rapid calculation, and answered promptly: "I'm not quite sure; after the 6th and before the 13th of the present month. But your best plan will be to go back from the 13th of November."

"Certainly, monsieur."

Judas disappeared behind the neat screen, and rapidly turned up the order book beginning with the 13th of November, as directed.

"They are tonic pills, I see, monsieur," he called out.

"Yes, it is marked on the box."

In another moment Fanks heard an exclamation of surprise behind the screen, and shortly afterwards Monsieur Judas emerged, carrying the order book with him. He was visibly agitated, and his lean hands trembled as he placed the book on the counter.

"What is the matter?" asked Fanks, suspiciously, rising to his feet.

"I will explain to monsieur later on," said Judas, with a sickly smile. "At present, however, here is what you want. These pills were made up for Monsieur Sebastian Melstane."

"Sebastian Melstane," muttered Fanks, thoughtfully. "Oh, that was his name."

"Yes, Sebastian Melstane," said Judas, slowly. "He bought these pills on the 11th of November, and went down to Jarlchester the next day."

"How do you know he went to Jarlchester?" asked Fanks, considerably startled.

"Because I know Sebastian Melstane, monsieur. We lodged at the same pension. He makes me the confidence that he was going to that place, and, I believe, took these pills with him. Now you have the box, but my friend, where is he?"

Monsieur Judas threw out his hands with a fine dramatic gesture, and fixed his crafty eyes on the impassive face of the detective.

"Do you read the papers?" asked Octavius, with great deliberation.

"Yes; but I read English so bad."

"Get some one to translate for you, then," said Fanks, coolly, "and you will see that an unknown man committed suicide at Jarlchester. That man was Sebastian Melstane."

"Gave himself the death?"

"Yes; read the papers. By the way, Monsieur Judas that is your name, I believe--as you knew Sebastian Melstane, I may want to ask you some questions about him."

Monsieur Judas pulled out a card with some writing on it and handed it to Fanks with a flourish.

"My name, monsieur--my habitation, monsieur! If monsieur will do me the honour to call at my pension, I will tell him whatever he desires to know."

"Humph! I'm afraid that's beyond your power, M. Guinaud," replied Fanks, glancing at the card. "However, I'll call round this evening at eight o'clock; but at present I want to know about these pills."

"They were bought by my friend on the 11th," said Judas, showing the entry. "Behold, monsieur, the book speaks it."

"Who signed the prescription?"

"A doctor, monsieur, a doctor. I cannot say the name, it is hard for my tongue; but, monsieur"--struck with a sudden idea--"you shall see his own writing."

Once more he vanished behind the screen, and shortly afterwards reappeared with a sheet of note-paper, which he placed before Octavius.

"There it is, monsieur."

Fanks took up the paper, and read as follows:

R. Acid. Arsen. g i. Pulv. Glycyrrh. gr. xv. Ext. Glycyrrh. gr. xxx. Misce et divide in pilule. No. XII. Sig. Tonic pills. One to be taken before retiring nightly. Jacob Japix, M.D.

"I see you made up twelve pills," said Fanks, after he had perused this document.

"Yes, monsieur, twelve pills. It is the usual number." Octavius looked thoughtful for a moment, then, turning his back on the assistant, walked to the door, where he stood gazing out at the fog, and thinking deeply in this fashion: "There were twelve pills in the box when Melstane bought it on the 11th of this month. According to his statement to Miss Chickles he took a tonic pill regularly every night. On the 11th, therefore, he took one. Left Ironfields on the 12th, and must have slept in London, as the journey is so long. There he took another pill; and at Jarlchester, on the 13th, he took a third. Dr. Drewey analysed three pills, so that's six accounted for out of the twelve. Exactly half, so there ought only to be six left. But there are eight in the box now. Good Heavens! what is the meaning of those two extra pills?"

Turning sharply round, he walked back to the counter.

"Are you sure you are not making a mistake?" he said, quickly; "you must have made up fourteen pills."

"But, monsieur, behold!" said Judas, pointing to the prescription, "No. XII."

"Yes, that's twelve, sure enough," observed Fanks, trying to appear calm, but feeling excited at the thought that he had stumbled on some tangible evidence at last.

"Did you make up the pills?"

"Yes, I myself, monsieur."

"And you are sure you only made up twelve?"

"On my word of honour, monsieur," said Judas, opening his eyes with their guileless look; "but I do not ask monsieur to believe me if he has doubt. Eh, my faith, no! Monsieur my master also counted the pills."

"That is the custom, I believe," said Mr. Fanks, thoughtfully, "a kind of check."

"But certainly, monsieur, without doubt."

At this moment, as if he knew his presence was required, Mr. Wosk walked into the shop, whereupon Monsieur Judas at once explained the matter to him.

"My assistant is--ahem--correct," said Mr. Wosk, sadly, as if he rather regretted it than otherwise. "I remember Mr. Melstane's tonic pills, and I--ahem--did count them. There were--ahem--twelve."

"You are sure?"

"I am certain."

"An' I to myself can assure it," remarked Judas, in English; "but if monsieur would make to himself visits at monsieur le docteur, he could know exactly of the numbers. Eh bien. Je le crois."

"Where does Dr. Japix live?" asked Fanks, picking up the pill-box and putting it in his pocket. "I will call round and see him."

Mr. Wosk wrote out the address and handed it to the detective with a bow.

"There's nothing wrong with the--ahem--medicine, I trust," he said, nervously. "I am--ahem--most careful, and my assistant, Monsieur Judas, is much to be--ahem--trusted."

"I don't know if anything's wrong with these pills," said Octavius, touching his breast coat-pocket, "but you know the saying, 'There is more in this than meets the eye.' Shakespeare, you observe. Wonderful man--appropriate remark for everything. Monsieur Guinaud, I will see you to-night. Mr. Wosk, to-morrow expect me about these pills. Good afternoon."

When he had vanished into the fog, which he did as soon as he went outside, Mr. Wosk turned to his assistant with some alarm.

"I trust, Monsieur Judas, that the pills--the pills--"

"They are in themselves qui' right. Eh! oh, yes," replied Monsieur Judas, letting his eyelids droop over his eyes. "To-morrow I to you will speke of dis--dis--eh! le mystère--vous savez, monsieur. Le Mystère Jarlcesterre."

"That thing in the paper," cried Mr. Wosk, aghast. "Why--ahem--what has it got to do--ahem--with us?"

Monsieur Judas shrugged his shoulders, spread out his hands with a deprecating gesture, and spoke slowly:

"Eh, le voila! I myself am no good to rread les journaux anglais--les feuilletons. If you so kine vil be to me, monsieur, an' rread de Mystère Jarleesterre, I vil to you explin moch, eh! Il est bien entendu."

"But what has the Jarlchester Mystery got to do with us?" repeated Mr. Wosk, helplessly, like a large child.

"Eh, mon ami, qui sait?" replied Monsieur Judas, enraged at his master's stupidity. "De man dead is he who took ze pilules."

"Sebastian Melstane!" cried Mr. Wosk, thunder-struck.

"Oui, c'est le nom!"

And Monsieur Judas narrowed his eyes, spread out his lean hands, and smiled complacently at the look of horror on the face of Mr. Wosk.