Dead Men's Money Page 17

  CHAPTER XVII

  THE IRISH HOUSEKEEPER

  I was a good deal surprised that Mr. Lindsey should be--apparently--soanxious to interview Crone's housekeeper, and I said as much. He turnedon me sharply, with a knowing look.

  "Didn't you hear what the woman was saying when we came across her thereoutside the police-station?" he exclaimed. "She was saying that Crone hadsaid to her that there was some man who would give his two eyes to beseeing his corpse! Crone's been telling her something. And I'm soconvinced that that man in the cells yonder has told us the truth, asregards himself, that I'm going to find out what Crone did tell her. Whois there--who could there be that wanted to see Crone's dead body? Let'stry to find that out."

  I made no answer--but I was beginning to think; and to wonder, too, in avague, not very pleasant fashion. Was this--was Crone's death, murder,whatever it was--at all connected with the previous affair of Phillips?Had Crone told me the truth that night I went to buy the stuff for TomDunlop's rabbit-hutches? or had he kept something back? And while I wasreflecting on these points, Mr. Lindsey began talking again.

  "I watched that man closely when he was giving me his account of whathappened," he said, "and, as I said just now, I believe he told us thetruth. Whoever it was that did Crone to death, he's not in that cell,Hugh, my lad; and, unless I'm much mistaken, all this is of a piece withPhillips's murder. But let's hear what this Irishwoman has to say."

  Crone's cottage was a mean, miserable shanty sort of place down a narrowalley in a poor part of the town. When we reached its door there was agroup of women and children round it, all agog with excitement. But thedoor itself was closed, and it was not opened to us until Nance Maguire'sface had appeared at the bit of a window, and Nance had assured herselfof the identity of her visitors. And when she had let us in, she shut thedoor once more and slipped a bolt into its socket.

  "I an't said a word, your honour," said she, "since your honour told menot to, though them outside is sharp on me to tell 'em this and that. AndI wouldn't have said what I did up yonder had I known your honour wouldbe for supporting me. I was feeling there wasn't a soul in the placewould see justice done for him that's gone--the poor, good man!"

  "If you want justice, my good woman," remarked Mr. Lindsey, "keep yourtongue quiet, and don't talk to your neighbours, nor to the police--justkeep anything you know till I tell you to let it out. Now, then, what'sthis you were saying?--that Crone told you there was a man in the placewould give his two eyes to see him a corpse?"

  "Them very words, your honour; and not once nor twice, but a good manytimes did he say it," replied the woman. "It was a sort of hint he wasgiving me, your honour--he had that way of speaking."

  "Since when did he give you such hints?" asked Mr. Lindsey. "Was itonly lately?"

  "It was since that other bloody murder, your honour," said Nance Maguire."Only since then. He would talk of it as we sat over the fire there atnights. 'There's murder in the air,' says he. 'Bloody murder is allaround us!' he says. 'And it's myself will have to pick my stepscareful,' he says, 'for there's him about would give his two eyes to seeme a stark and staring corpse,' he says. 'Me knowing,' he says, 'morethan you'd give me credit for,' says he. And not another word than themcould I get out of him, your honour."

  "He never told you who the man was that he had his fears of?" inquiredMr. Lindsey.

  "He did not, then, your honour," replied Nance. "He was a close man, andyou wouldn't be getting more out of him than he liked to tell."

  "Now, then, just tell me the truth about a thing or two," said Mr.Lindsey. "Crone used to be out at nights now and then, didn't he?"

  "Indeed, then, he did so, your honour," she answered readily. "'Tis true,he would be out at nights, now and again."

  "Poaching, as a matter of fact," suggested Mr. Lindsey.

  "And that's the truth, your honour," she assented. "He was a clever handwith the rabbits."

  "Aye; but did he never bring home a salmon, now?" asked Mr. Lindsey."Come, out with it."

  "I'll not deny that, neither, your honour," admitted the woman. "He wasclever at that too."

  "Well, now, about that night when he was supposed to be killed,"continued Mr. Lindsey; "that's Tuesday last--this being Thursday. Did heever come home that evening from his shop?"

  I had been listening silently all this time, and I listened withredoubled attention for the woman's answer to the last question. It wason the Tuesday evening, about nine o'clock, that I had had my talk withCrone, and I was anxious to know what happened after that. And NanceMaguire replied readily enough--it was evident her memory was clear onthese events.

  "He did not, then," she said. "He was in here having his tea at sixo'clock that evening, and he went away to the shop when he'd had it, andI never put my eyes on him again, alive, your honour. He was never homethat night, and he didn't come to his breakfast next morning, and hewasn't at the shop--and I never heard this or that of him till they comeand tell me the bad news."

  I knew then what must have happened. After I had left him, Crone had goneaway up the river towards Tillmouth--he had a crazy old bicycle that herode about on. And most people, having heard Nance Maguire's admissions,would have said that he had gone poaching. But I was not so sure of that.I was beginning to suspect that Crone had played some game with me, andhad not told me anything like the truth during our conversation. Therehad been more within his knowledge than he had let out--but what was it?And I could not help feeling that his object in setting off in thatdirection, immediately after I had left him, might have been, notpoaching, but somebody to whom he wished to communicate the result of histalk with me. And, in that case, who was the somebody?

  But just then I had to leave my own thoughts and speculations alone, andto attend to what was going on between my principal and Nance Maguire.Mr. Lindsey, however, appeared to be satisfied with what he had heard. Hegave the woman some further advice about keeping her tongue still, toldher what to do as regards Crone's effects, and left the cottage. And whenwe were out in the main street again on our way back to the office heturned to me with a look of decision.

  "I've come to a definite theory about this affair, Hugh," he said. "AndI'll lay a fiver to a farthing that it's the right one!"

  "Yes, Mr. Lindsey?" said I, keenly interested at hearing that.

  "Crone knew who killed Phillips," he said. "And the man who killedPhillips killed Crone, too, because Crone knew! That's been the way ofit, my lad! And now, then, who's the man?"

  I could make no reply to such a question, and presently he wenton--talking as much to himself, I think, as to me.

  "I wish I knew certain things!" he muttered. "I wish I knew what Phillipsand Gilverthwaite came here for. I wish I knew if Gilverthwaite ever hadany secret dealings with Crone. I wish--I do wish!--I knew if there hasbeen--if there is--a third man in this Phillips-Gilverthwaite affair whohas managed, and is managing, to keep himself in the background.But--I'll stake my professional reputation on one thing--whoever killedPhillips, killed Abel Crone! It's all of a piece."

  Now, of course I know now--have known for many a year--that it was atthis exact juncture that I made a fatal, a reprehensible mistake in myshare of all this business. It was there, at that exact point, that Iought to have made a clean breast to Mr. Lindsey of everything that Iknew. I ought to have told him, there and then, of what I had seen at thecross-roads that night of the murder of Phillips; and of my conversationabout that with Abel Crone at his shop; and of my visit to Sir GilbertCarstairs at Hathercleugh House. Had I done so, matters would have becomesimplified, and much more horror and trouble avoided, for Mr. Lindsey wasjust then at the beginning of a straight track and my silence turned himaway from it, to get into more twisted and obscure ones. But--I saidnothing. And why? The answer is simple, and there's the excuse of humannature in it--I was so much filled with the grand prospects of mystewardship, and of all it would bring me, and was so highly pleased withSir Gilbert Carstairs for his advancement of my fortunes, that--here'sthe plai
n truth--I could not bring myself to think of, or bother with,anything else. Up to then, of course, I had not said a word to my motheror to Maisie Dunlop of the stewardship--I was impatient to tell both. SoI held my peace and said nothing to Mr. Lindsey--and presently the officework for the day was over and I was free to race home with my grand news.Is it likely that with such news as that I would be troubling my head anylonger about other folks' lives and deaths?

  That, I suppose, was the most important evening I had ever spent in mylife. To begin with, I felt as if I had suddenly become older, andbigger, and much more important. I became inclined to adopt magisterialairs to my mother and my sweetheart, laying down the law to them as tothe future in a fashion which made Maisie poke fun at me for a crowingcockerel. It was only natural that I should suffer a little from swelledhead that night--I should not have been human otherwise. But AndrewDunlop took the conceit out of me with a vengeance when Maisie and I toldhim the news, and I explained everything to him in his back-parlour. Hewas at times a man of many words, and at times a man of few words--andwhen he said little, he meant most.

  "Aye!" said he. "Well, that's a fine prospect, Hugh, my man, and I wishyou well in it. But there'll be no talk of any wedding for two years--soget that notion out of your heads, both of you! In two years you'll justhave got settled to your new job, and you'll be finding out how you suityour master and how he suits you--we'll get the preliminaries over, andsee how things promise in that time. And we'll see, too, how much moneyyou've saved out of your salary, my man--so you'll just not hear thewedding-bells calling for a couple of twelvemonths, and'll behaveyourselves like good children in the meanwhile. There's a deal of thingsmay happen in two years, I'm thinking."

  He might have added that a deal of things may happen in two weeks--and,indeed, he would have had good reason for adding it, could he have lookeda few days ahead.