Part 15

The return to Mr Stafford’s house was not quite such a triumphal procession as M^cSweeny had expected, and when there he had nothing but utter failure to recount. He went over the whole house, and questioned the other servants, with a like result. He was not a step nearer the solution than when he began. There remained then but one slender hope—that the thief might attempt to dispose of the jewels, so M^cSweeny finished his work by taking a minute description of these valuables, and having them inserted in our printed lists sent round to all dealers and pawnbrokers. A tour round the most of these produced no better result. No one had offered such articles either for sale or pledge. At the end of a week, when I was beginning to “hirple” about again, we were in one of these dealers’ places, when I suggested that the description of the jewels was rather vague for the pawnbrokers, and that we might go along to the jeweller who had sold them to Mr Stafford, and have it made fuller and more complete. A reference to the scribbles which M^cSweeny called notes revealed the fact that no such name was recorded. I sent M^cSweeny out to the South Side to have the omission rectified, not being able to walk as far myself, and on his return learned that Mr Stafford had had some difficulty in remembering the name himself. However, on M^cSweeny naming two or three of the principal ones in Princes Street, he at length spotted one as the right one. In the evening I chanced to be in Princes Street, and went into the shop to get the description. To my surprise, the jeweller and all his assistants declared that no such purchase had been made in the shop. Back I sent M^cSweeny to Mr Stafford, when that gentleman at once smiled out knowingly, and said—

“I think I understand that statement of the jeweller. It is all a plot between him and my servants—he is to swear that he never sold them, and they are to declare that they never took them. The jeweller will thus get them back, and they will divide the spoil.”

M^cSweeny scratched his red pow, looked up at the ceiling, and then down at the carpet, and finally confessed that he did not exactly catch the drift of the gentleman’s reasoning.

“I will explain—I will confide in you as a friend,” said Mr Stafford, waxing warm. “I am a lonely man, without wife or children to look after my interests and protect me from designing persons. The consequence is that I am continually being persecuted, robbed, and cheated. One of my acquaintances, whom I never injured by thought or deed, carried this torture to such an extent that I was forced to leave the city.”

“Could you not have got the protection of the police?” suggested M^cSweeny.

“Useless. How could I prove the persecution? I fled to London; the wretch followed me there; I took the first train from the place; it landed me at one of their pleasure gardens—the grounds of the Crystal Palace, I think. I enjoyed myself there; when all at once my fiend—my tormentor—as I must call him—appeared before me. I ran from the spot; a balloon was just starting; I leaped in, cut the rope, and shot up into the air, laughing in triumph at the chagrin of my persecutor.”

“That was a neat escape,” observed M^cSweeny; “but how did ye get down again?”

“The most awful part of the adventure was to come,” pursued Mr Stafford. “When I had got up a certain distance I got freezing cold, and thought to warm myself with a smoke. In striking a light some of the gas escaping from the balloon must have touched and exploded, for the next moment the whole thing was in shreds and flames, and I was flying towards earth with the speed of a cannon ball.”

“And ye was kilt? Smashed to atoms?” exclaimed M^cSweeny in earnest horror, with his hands raised, and his eyes almost starting from their sockets.

“No; fortunately I fell into the water, and, being an excellent swimmer, I managed to save myself. I returned to Edinburgh, but my tormentor was soon upon my track again, and even yet he continues his persecutions upon every occasion when there is no chance of being seen. Possibly he is at the bottom of this mysterious robbery.”

M^cSweeny asked the name of this persecutor, and after a good deal of demur on the part of Mr Stafford, the name was given, when it proved to be that of an eminent professor, as renowned for his learning as for his goodness. M^cSweeny was a good deal staggered, but took leave, saying he would make inquiry into the matter, and see that Mr Stafford was annoyed no longer.

When he came to me with his report I laughed outright, and said—

“Why, the man’s mad! I wonder you did not see it in him before.”

“What man? The Professor?” inquired M^cSweeny, with great simplicity.

“No, this Mr Stafford.”

M^cSweeny would not believe it, and I suggested that we should ascertain if he had really drawn £200 from the bank on the day of the alleged purchase of the jewels. I did not believe that he had, but was surprised at the bank to find that he had really drawn that sum. We then went over every jeweller’s in Princes Street, but could not discover one who had sold to any one on that day the jewels described as stolen so magically. After thinking over these discoveries for a little, I formed in my mind a theory, which proved pretty sound in the end, and which I proceeded to test, by going out to Mr Stafford’s house in company with M^cSweeny, and having a talk with that gentleman upon general topics. When done, I felt slightly disappointed. I could find no trace of insanity about the man, but then I ought to have remembered that my profession is not to detect lunacy, but thieves. Still, acting on my theory, I requested permission, and Mr Stafford’s assistance, to search the whole house. This was given with the greatest alacrity. We went over every room and closet, but Mr Stafford’s study, without discovering anything. Then we came to that room, and I promptly asked for his keys. The request appeared to stagger him, but was granted, and I turned out all the drawers in his writing-table. At the bottom of one of them was an envelope or thick packet, which I took up, but which he as hastily tried to take from me, saying—

“That’s only some bank notes—some money of mine.”

Very impolitely, as it may seem, I retained the envelope, turned out the contents, and found, on counting the notes, that they amounted to £200 exactly. I then handed them to the owner without a comment, and searched no more. With a shrewd suspicion of what I might expect, I went to the Professor whom Mr Stafford had named as his persecutor, and from him learned Mr Stafford had, on a former occasion, been unfortunate enough to injure his brain by over-study, and was by the Professor’s advice removed to an asylum for the insane. That gentleman, who evinced the liveliest friendship for Mr Stafford, agreed to see his friend at once, and report on his mental condition. The result was, that Mr Stafford was proved to be not exactly insane, but in a condition of mental derangement which threatened to become more pronounced, and it was decided that he had better have an experienced attendant from one of the asylums. This was arranged quietly, and with very little demur on the part of the patient, but his condition became more grave, and eventually he had to be removed to an asylum, in which, with one brief interval, he has remained ever since. His mind, however, has taken firm hold of the story of the magic jewels, and the development which that incident has now assumed is that I, the writer of these sketches, was the robber of the jewels, and that, in fear of detection, I smuggled the money I had received for them into his drawer. He also asserts that I declared him insane only to protect myself from the consequences of the crime, and that if I could be removed from power his liberation would at once follow. Poor, suffering humanity! who shall minister to a mind diseased?

BENJIE BLUNT’S CLEVER ALIBI.

How Benjie Blunt came to get his name I never could discover—possibly it was prompted by the law of contrariety, because Benjie was so sharp. His real name had not the remotest resemblance to this, but as he refused to answer to that, he was always put down in the prison books as Benjamin Blunt.

Benjie’s vanity was much greater than his acquisitiveness. He liked to boast of the feats he had done, hence the cases in which he was mixed up generally showed a superlative degree of ingenuity and cunning, however small the stake. I do not find, however, that Benjie’s cleverness produced any marked diminution in the number of his convictions—indeed, it was the grave length of that list which prompted him to make such elaborate preparations in the following case.

Close to the Meadows, and before that quarter was so much built upon, there was a cottage occupied by an old army surgeon, whom I may name Dr Temple, and his servant, Peggy Reid. This gentleman was a bachelor, and somewhat eccentric, and, as he had spent the most of his life in India, he was supposed to be very rich. Dr Temple was as exact and punctual in his habits and engagements as if he had been still in the army. Everything went on like clock-work in his snug little home, and if a servant did not please him in that respect, he discharged her on the spot. One of his habits was to spend every Thursday evening at a friend’s house, leaving his own house at seven o’clock, and returning at half-past ten. His house was full of Indian curiosities and nicknacks, but most of them were of a kind which could not have been readily turned into money. The cottage had a little garden in front, railed in, and had also a space at one end, in which stood a coal cellar, a wash-house, and an empty dog kennel.

A working joiner happened to be passing this cottage about nine o’clock on a Thursday night, and, glancing up towards the front door, was surprised not so much at seeing it standing half-open as at noticing something like a human foot and the skirt of a dress lying motionless on the lobby floor. There was a light in the lobby, and the inner glass door was also ajar. The man stopped and stared, wondering whether it was not some servant busy scrubbing the floor, and lying on her side to reach some corner scarcely accessible. But the foot did not move, and as the place was lonely and dark, the man suspected something was wrong, looked round for a policeman in vain, and then pushed open the gate and advanced towards the strange object. He found Dr Temple’s servant, Peggy Reid, lying on the lobby floor behind the outer door quite insensible. At first the man thought she had been knocked down, and so stunned, but seeing no traces of a blow, and finding that she breathed calmly and regularly, he came to the conclusion that she was drunk, and vainly tried to arouse her by shaking her and propping her up on a lobby chair. As she gave but faint signs of awaking, he then tried to call the assistance of the household by ringing the bell, and, getting no response, concluded that the house was empty, and went in search of a policeman. At the Middle Walk he was fortunate enough to catch the glare of a policeman’s lantern, and soon had the man informed of the strange discovery. They went back together to the cottage, and found the servant girl still sitting in the lobby, and looking stupid and confused.

“A man rang the bell and said the doctor sent him for his stick,” she feebly explained in reply to the policeman’s questions. “Then he shoved himself in and held something to my mouth, and everything grew dark.”

“Chloroform,” said the policeman shortly. “The house has been robbed, I’ll swear. Let’s look through it and see.”

With some assistance Peggy was able to get on her feet and lead them through the house. A great deal of damage had been done; ornaments and curiosities smashed and tossed down in sheer wantonness or anger, but not much of value taken. Some silver ornaments and jewellery, and an old-fashioned gold watch, were all that the servant could say positively were gone; but it turned out afterwards that a considerable sum of money in gold and bank notes had been taken besides these valuables. An Indian casket of carved wood, ornamented with ivory, was also missed on the day following. It was not worth sixpence to any one but the owner, and why it had been taken was a mystery to all.

While this discovery was being made, or possibly a short time before, a curious arrest was being made in the High Street, which, as everyone knows, is about seven minutes’ walk from the Meadows. Benjie Blunt had made his appearance in the High Street, not far from the Central Station, uproariously drunk and apparently reckless of all consequences. He staggered about, shouting out sundry sounds which were supposed to represent a song, he insulted everyone within his reach, and, finally, in making a mad grasp at some of the tormenting gamins clustered about him, he fell forward on his face, and was so overcome that he could not get up again. A crowd cannot gather in the High Street at any time without almost instantly attracting our attention. The man on the beat was soon at Benjie’s side, and on telling him to get up was rewarded with a kick on the shin bone. Another man had to be summoned, and between them, with the greatest difficulty, they managed to carry the limp and drooping figure of Benjie into the station, by which time that worthy was quite incapable of speech, and was locked in a cell to sober at leisure. Benjie passed the night in a profound slumber, and was next morning placed at the bar of the Police Court, and fined in five shillings, or seven days. When had a professional thief five shillings to spare? or the inclination to part with the sum, unless he had urgent and profitable work awaiting him outside?

Benjie declared himself bankrupt, and made a pathetic appeal to the Sheriff to be let off “just this once,” and was then hustled out and taken to the cells, no more depressed than if he had been starting for a week’s holidays. Indeed, from the manner in which he thrust his tongue into his cheek, and bestowed on me an impudent wink as he was led off, it struck me that Benjie was highly delighted with himself or his oratorical display. I failed to see any cleverness in it; I was to think differently later on.

I had been out at Dr Temple’s cottage not an hour after the discovery; and as I found the servant perfectly recovered, and with not a scratch to show as the result of the attack, I rashly concluded that she herself was the thief, with or without an accomplice. My idea was that the lying in the lobby with the door open and apparently insensible was a mere feint to throw suspicion off herself while her companion escaped with the booty. My only wonder was that she had not been found bound and gagged as well, and it was that omission which made me wonder if she had done the whole thing single handed. With this thought uppermost I searched the whole cottage and garden very carefully, expecting to find the plunder there buried or hidden. The dog kennel already noticed stood on feet, and was about four inches off the ground, and it seems strange to me now that I did not have it moved or looked below. However, the oversight—which I actually made—mattered little, for at that time the plunder was not there. I merely mention the fact to show what a narrow escape the girl made, for had the stolen things been got there she would certainly have been arrested; and that they were not there found was not through any planning or skill of the thief. That which complicated the case to all concerned proved a blessing to the servant girl.

Peggy Reid, when questioned by me, asserted her belief that she would know the man again who had held the handkerchief over her mouth and nostrils, and stated that she had noticed a man resembling him hanging about the place, and passing and repassing some days before. I had no faith in her ability to do so, for at that time I strongly suspected herself, but I made a raid among “my bairns,” and picked up two fellows, who were shown to her without success.

She was positive that neither of them was the man, and they were liberated. If Benjie Blunt had been at liberty I might have thought of him, but at that time he was demurely picking oakum in Calton Jail to wile away the tedium of his sentence of seven days. He had been carried into the Central Office, dead drunk, an hour before the robbery was reported, and what could be more satisfactory to us? Candidly, the thought of Benjie in connection with the singular and daring robbery never once rose in my mind.

Failing with the two first arrests, I kept my eyes open for the spending of the money which had been the chief part of the plunder. A flutter of interest quivers through the whole thieving community the moment a big haul is taken by any of their number. It will not hide; you see it in their faces, in their manner, in their gorging and drinking, and in a certain indescribable furtive uneasiness and excitement which they show when visited and questioned.

The only one whom I found to be unusually flush of money was a man named Pat Corkling, better known as “Pauley.” Pauley was more a beggar and tramp than a thief, and had got his nickname by evading hard labour during a sentence for vagrancy by pretending that he had a “pauley,” or paralysed, right hand. Pauley, then, was spending money freely, and yet always too drunk to go out begging. I therefore removed him to the Central, and had him searched.

We found more money on him than he could account for, but none of it could be identified, and Peggy Reid, on being shown Pauley, declared most positively that he was not the man.

Pauley was therefore released, and went away triumphant, with the money in his pocket, to resume his drinking and gorging.

At this stage of the affair there occurred a most singular and unaccountable event. Benjie Blunt was set at liberty, having duly served his term of seven days, and that very night the policeman Bain, on the beat past Dr Temple’s cottage, was suddenly attacked in a ferocious manner by a man who ran off the moment the assault was made. Since the discovery of the robbery Bain had been ordered, with Dr Temple’s permission, to enter the garden by the gate during the night, and make the circuit of the cottage to see that all was secure. He had done so on that occasion, and was scarcely out of the garden when a powerful hand drove the hat over his eyes, while a powerful foot administered a vicious kick to the small of his back. While he was dropping to the ground in agony a voice growled out something to the effect that he was to “take that you thief!” Bain managed to spring his rattle; but when he scrambled to his feet again he found himself alone, the nimble assailant having flown like the wind. No arrest was made, though Bain had to get a substitute for the rest of the night, and go home to bed.

Next day, as if to add to the complications, a note was handed into the Office addressed to me, with twopence of deficient postage to pay, and which ran thus—

“A blake Sheep. yul finde the rober of mr temples is thee Peg on the bete. serche him an his howse an yul see. giv him 10 yers the vilin.”

The most of this precious epistle was written in a species of half-text, which did not seem altogether unfamiliar to me. So impressed was I with the idea that I went over to the prison and had a look at the copy-books of most of those in the school or who had been in it lately. I did not come on any resembling it, and it was not till Benjie Blunt came up to me on the street a few days later that the possible connection between him and the curious writing flashed upon my mind.

“Now, I remember—Benjie used to write a hand something like that,” was my thought when he addressed me, and I fully expected that Benjie’s first words to me would have a reference to the policeman Bain, a most sterling and tried man, in whom we had implicit confidence.

Benjie took a long time to work round to the subject uppermost on his mind, but at length he said—

“I know you’re always on the look-out for hints, and you’re so kind and attentive when I’m in you’re hands that I couldn’t help coming to you with what I’ve found out.”

I grinned unfeelingly into his solemnly puckered-up face.

“O Benjie, try that on somebody else,” I rejoined, with a look which must have convinced him that I was wide awake to his clumsy flattery. “Out with what you’ve to say; I’ll find out your motive afterwards, if it’s of any importance.”

“What’s it worth to put the thief in your hands?” he asked with cunning look, which could not possibly be described on paper.

“It’s worth about as much as the thief or yourself—nothing,” I calmly answered.

Ah, well, he was sorry for that, but he was still anxious to help us—virtuous Benjie!—and would not mind doing a good action for once.

“You know Pat Corkling? Pauley, they call him,” he continued.

“Why! is he the man?” I cried in surprise. “I had a letter accusing Bain, the policeman on the beat, of the crime, and I strongly suspect, Benjie, that that letter came from _you_.”

Oh, no, it was quite a mistake. Benjie protested strongly—a trifle too strongly—that he had never written such a letter in his life; and I immediately concluded that he had written that letter, but was puzzled to think why he should now come to me accusing Pauley.

“How do you know that Pauley did the job?” I asked, when Benjie had done protesting.

“I didn’t say he did, and I’m not going to say it. I’m not to appear as a witness in the case at all, mind—that must be the agreement, or I tell nothing.”

“All right; I agree to that; go ahead with your story—I daresay it’s a lie from beginning to end, so it doesn’t matter much.”

Benjie smiled delightedly at the compliment, and proceeded—

“When I got out of quod and heerd of the thing—which had been done when I was in—I had a idee that the peg was the man that did it, just like the man, whoever he was, that wrote to you,” demurely observed Benjie. “Pegs is an awful bad lot—except you, of course—oh, honour bright, except you,” he added, catching himself up barely in time. “But then I found out that Pauley had been flush of money for near a week, and I took to watching him. I didn’t get much out of him, for he’s fly, I tell you.”

“That’s a great compliment from you, Benjie—what a pity he can’t hear it,” I remarked.

“But there was some Indian ornaments took, wasn’t there?” Benjie added, suddenly coming to the point, and looking innocently anxious for enlightenment.

“Yes.”

“Well, I saw Bell Corkling with one of them—at least I think it would be one of them—a silver thing, made like a butterfly—and I heerd that others saw her with more, which she had put away in a safe place. O Jamie! ye had Pauley up on suspicion—why didn’t you keep him while you had him?”

“That’s a mistake which may be easily rectified, if we can find any of the things in their possession.”

“Trust you for that, Jamie,” said Benjie, in servile admiration, at the same time giving me a poke in the ribs for which I did not thank him. “And, mind, be awful suspicious of him if he tries to prove a _nalibi_, as they call it,” he added, with careful concern. “He’s an awful liar, and could get others to swear anything.”

“Ah! he’s not alone in the world in that respect, Benjie,” I significantly rejoined, “and has no chance to be till the hangman gets you.”

Benjie gracefully acknowledged the compliment, and, after some more advice and instruction, left me.