CHAPTER XVIII.

ON THE TWENTY-FIRST OF JUNE.

Up to the present time the visit of Fanks to Taxton-on-Thames had been a complete failure. He had been thwarted by Hersham; he more than suspected that he had been tricked by Anne; and he saw no means of obtaining any information likely to lead to the elucidation of the mystery which enveloped the death of Sir Gregory Fellenger. It was in very low spirits that the detective returned to the Royal Arms, and after a good dinner, which somewhat cheered him, he sat down with a pipe to consider what he should do next.

He had no hope of obtaining any information from Hersham or Anne Colmer, as for some reason or another each of them declined to speak. Fanks thought they could put him on the right track if they pleased; but he saw no means by which he could force them to speak openly. In spite of his threats he could arrest neither of them, as he had not sufficient evidence to do so. Unable, therefore, to force or to flatter them into plain speaking, he was completely baffled in his efforts to solve the enigma in this direction. For the time being he was at a standstill.

In this dilemma he left the decision regarding his future movements to "chance," and, in the expectation of hearing something of value to his plans, he strolled into the tap-room of the hotel. Here he hoped to find the village gossips, and to gather from their idle talk information concerning Sir Louis Fellenger, Dr. Binjoy, and the negro servant. However, there was no one in the room save a bent and crooked old man, with a pair of keen eyes. He was seated in a corner of the settle, with a tankard of beer before him; and with garrulous complacency he introduced himself as Simeon Wagg, the parish clerk of Taxton-on-Thames. He had a long tongue and a fund of gossip at his disposal; and he was ready to afford Fanks all the information in his power about the parish and its inhabitants.

"I hev more edication than the most folk about here," piped this ancient. "Theer ain't much as I don't know if I do so choose. Thirty year, sir, hey I bin official in this yer church an' village; and I've buried an' married an' christened wi' five passons. They come, they go; but old Simeon he staay like t' church itself. He! he! he!"

"I suppose you know Sir Louis Fellenger?"

"I knaw Mr. Louis Fellenger," corrected the aged gossip. "He warn't no barrownit when I seed him. Now he hev gone inter th' 'Ouse of Lors, es I hev heard. But he was in the third 'ouse es you go down by Fox's Farm. Aw, yis, I knaws him; sold hisself to Ould Scratch, he did."

"What do you mean, Mr. Wagg?"

"Whoy, this ere Mister Fellenger he was a-pothicary an' a chimist, an' he raised the 'nemy of mankin', as the saaying goes. An' they do saay es the black maan wor a devil, from all of which Good Loord deliv'r us, es I ses i' t' church."

"Did you know Dr. Binjoy?"

"Aye! He were laarge an' beer-baarel like; aw, vis, an' the woords he sid, passon culdn't spake like he. He wint awaay wi' Mister Fellenger t' be a barrownit, es I hey heaard tell."

"Did the negro servant go with them?"

"Aw, no. T' blaack devil he was turned out o' doors on t' twenty first, he was. I know t' toime, I do, 'cause blaack maan he nearly run me over on his bikikle, he did."

Fanks pricked up his ears at this. It was on the twenty-first that the murder had been committed in London. He addressed himself with renewed attention to the task of extracting information from this piece of antiquity.

"How was it that the negro nearly ran over you on his bicycle?"

"Naow, I'll jes' tell ye, I will," said Simeon, settling himself for a long story. "This yere blaack maan--Caesar is his name--he worn a grean coat wi' brass buttons, he did. I knawed him in t' dark by that coat, I did."

"Was it in the dark that he ran over you?" asked Fanks.

"Aye; it jes' were, Mister. I was on t' Lunon Roaad, I was; about nine, es I cud tell by t' striking clock fro' t' church. An' this yere blaack maan he coom along, he did, on t' divil machine, an' he laaid me flaat on my back, he did; an' I bean't so yooung es I was, Mister. I shoated to he, but he niver saaid nothing, he didn't. He run on an' left me lying on my baack in t' durt, he did. I were main aangry, I were."

"I don't wonder at it, Mr. Wagg," said Fanks, amiably. "But how did you know it was the negro Caesar?"

"I seed his groan coaat, I tell 'ee; his face were muffled oop-like, but his coaat were plaain in t' gaas lamp, it were. I hev seen t' coaat heaps of times, I hev. An' t' nex' day he were sent away, he were."

This story made Fanks wonder if Caesar had been up to town on the twenty-first. A negro had committed the murder in Tooley's Alley between six and seven. So if he returned to Taxton-on-Thames on a bicycle there was plenty of time for him to come down before nine o'clock, or, as the old man said, after nine o'clock. A good wheelman could easily cover the distance between London and Taxton-on-Thames in two hours. Again, Mrs. Boazoph had sworn that the murderer had been arrayed in a green coat with brass buttons; and this description matched that of the negro who had so nearly run over Wagg on the London Road. Time and date corresponded; and then the negro had been dismissed the next day--he had been smuggled out of the way by his master. On the whole, Fanks thought that matters looked rather black against the stout doctor. He proceeded with his enquiries.

"Did Dr. Binjoy discharge his servant, or did Sir Louis?"

"Weel theer naow," said the aged one, taking the pipe out of his mouth, "blamed if I knaw who did give him t' kickout. Muster Fellenger, he were ill, he were, an' hed bin fur weeks; t' doctor he was wi' him, he was, an' I niver saaw one of 'en--an' naw one else es I heerd of did, fur daays an' daays. But Missus Jerusalem, she es is t' housekeeper t' Muster Fellenger, she said es haow Caesar hed bin turned awaay. He got off fro' t' village, he did; an' I niver see'd him since, I didn't. Then t' cousin of Muster Louis died, he did; an' Muster Fellenger he went awaay wi' doctor to be barrownit, he did."

"You don't think that Dr. Binjoy was up in London on the night you met Caesar on the bicycle?"

"Noa, sir, I doan't. Whoy Muster Fellenger he were ill, he were; an' t' doctor he kep in t' sick room, he did. No one iver saaw him for daays, they didn't."

From this information, it seemed to Fanks as though there were an understanding between Sir Louis and the doctor. This old creature who represented the village opinion was quite sure that Dr. Binjoy had been in attendance on Fellenger on the night of the twenty-first. Yet Fanks knew by personal observation that Binjoy, under the name of Renshaw, had been in Tooley's Alley. He would not have returned to Taxton-on-Thames on that night, as the house in Great Auk Street had been watched. And yet Fanks had proved beyond all doubt that Renshaw and Binjoy were one and the same person. Was it possible that Sir Louis was telling a lie to screen Binjoy from the consequences of his being in town; and was it possible that the two had employed the negro, Caesar, to commit the crime, and then had smuggled him out of the way--say to Bombay--so that he should not betray them. In a word, were Fellenger and Binjoy guilty of the murder of the cousin of the former? It seemed impossible; and yet, as Sir Louis was employing Fanks to hunt down the assassin, it was hard to believe. The conversation of Simeon Wagg only introduced a new perplexity into this perplexing case.

There was nothing more to be got out of the old clerk; so Fanks retired to bed in a very melancholy frame of mind. He did not know which way to move in the midst of such contradictory information. The night brought counsel; and the next morning Fanks arose with a definite object. He would return to town and advertise for the negro. Caesar must have left his bicycle somewhere, so if he advertised for a negro in a green coat with brass buttons, he might find out something. Those with whom the bicycle had been left would be able to give a description of the negro who had arrived and departed with it; and so Fanks hoped to learn if the black murderer of Tooley's Alley was the same as the servant Caesar of Dr. Binjoy. Regarding the shielding of the doctor by Louis Fellenger, the detective resolved to leave that question until he went to Mere Hall and saw the two men together.

"I am afraid that Crate will have to go to Bombay, after all," said Fanks to himself as he left the hotel.

He did not go at once to town, as he wished to see both Hersham and Anne Colmer; also he was desirous of having an interview with the mother. Half-way down the street he met with the journalist, who saluted him in rather a sullen fashion.

"I was just about to call on you," said Hersham. "I wish to go to town by the midday train, if you have no objection."

"You can go as soon as you please," retorted Fanks, "you are not so much good to me that I care to keep you here."

"You need not make yourself so infernally disagreeable, Fanks," said the young man, tartly. "I have told you all I know, and so has Miss Colmer."

"As to that, I have my own opinion, Hersham. I certainly think that you and she have a secret between you which you will not share with me."

"It does not concern you."

"Ah, you have a secret, then?"

"Yes, I have, but it is private business, and has nothing to do with the death of that titled scoundrel."

"I should like to judge of that for myself," said Fanks, coldly. "However, I daresay I'll find out all I wish to know without your assistance."

Hersham came forward, and laid his hand on the arm of the detective. "I say, Fanks," he observed, earnestly, "I know I'm not treating you well, but you must make allowances for the natural fear I feel at being brought into contact with the law. I know something; and I should like to tell it to you, but I can't make up my mind to do so--yet. Still, I give you my word of honour that if you ask me again next week I shall tell you all; I shall place my life and liberty in your hands."

"Good heavens, man!" cried the startled Fanks. "You don't mean to say that you are concerned in the murder?"

"No, I am not, but when I tell you all, you will see why I did not speak before. Give me a week to make up my mind."

"I'll give you the week," said the detective, briefly, and without further speech, Hersham took his leave in an abrupt manner, evidently relieved to be so dismissed.

On presenting himself at Briar Cottage, Fanks was at once admitted, and was shown by the servant--a neat-handed Phyllis--into a different sitting-room from the one he had seen before. In a large chair by the window which looked out on the garden, an old lady was seated. She was dressed completely in white; and the lower part of her body was swathed in a shawl of Chinese crape. Her face was pale and careworn, and her eyes were red-rimmed as from constant crying. An open Bible lay on her lap, and from this she raised her eyes as Fanks entered. He had little hesitation in guessing that this was Mrs. Colmer, the paralytic mother of the living Anne and the dead Emma.

"You must excuse my rising to receive you," she said in a low and sweet voice, "but I am unable to move hand or foot. Doubtless, my daughter has told you of my affliction. My daughter will see you presently."

Fanks bowed, and there was a silence between them for a few moments. He glanced round the neatly furnished room; at the pictures and photographs; but among them all he could not see one of the dead Emma.

At the elbow of Mrs. Colmer, on a small table, stood a pile of photographs, at which she had evidently been looking prior to his entrance, and Fanks surmised that a portrait of Emma might be there. He was anxious to discover one, if possible, as Anne had denied that there was a photograph of her sister in existence save the one which she had sought at Sir Gregory's chambers. Fanks thought that if he could find another in the pile at Mrs. Colmer's elbow he would be able to convict Anne out of her own mouth, and expose the falsity of the motive she gave for her visit. He cast about for some means whereby to accomplish his purpose.

"You will excuse me, Mrs. Colmer," he said, rising from his seat, "but that is an excellent picture of the Bay of Naples."

He had crossed over to the other side of the room to look at the picture, and so found himself standing by the small table which held the sundry pictures. In turning away he pretended to stumble, and so knocked over the table and photographs.

"Thousand apologies," said Fanks, in confusion, stooping to pick them up.

He looked in vain for the face he sought; but he made a discovery which startled him not a little. The last photograph which he picked up off the carpet was one of--Mrs. Boazoph.