The Mystery of a Hansom Cab (14 page)

‘The woman seems ill,' said Calton, casting a shuddering glance at the stretcher.

‘So she are, damn her,' growled Mother Guttersnipe, angrily. ‘She ought to be in Yarrer Bend, she ought, instead of stoppin' 'ere an' singin' them beastly things, which makes my blood run cold. Just 'ear 'er,' she said, viciously, as the sick woman broke out once more—

Oh, little did my mither think,

When first she cradled me;

I'd die sa far awa' fra home,

Upon the gallows tree.

‘Yah!' said the old woman, hastily, drinking some more gin out of the cup. ‘She's allay's a-talkin' of dyin' an' gallers, as if they were nice things to jawr about.'

‘Who was that woman who died here three or four weeks ago?' asked Kilsip, sharply.

‘'Ow the 'ell should I know,' retorted Mother Guttersnipe, sullenly. ‘I didn't kill 'er did I? It were the brandy she drank, she was allays, drinkin' cuss 'er.'

‘Do you remember the night she died?'

‘No, I don't,' answered the beldame, frankly. ‘I were drunk—blind, bloomin', blazin' drunk—s'elp me Gawd.'

‘You're always drunk,' said Kilsip.

‘What if I am?' snarled the woman, seizing her bottle. ‘You don't pay fur. it. Yes, I'm drunk. I'm allays drunk. I was drunk last night, an' the night before, an' I'm a-goin' to git drunk tonight,' with an expressive look at the bottle, ‘an' tomorrow night, an' I'll keep it up till I'm rottin' in the grave, blarst an' cuss ye.'

Calton shuddered, so full of hatred and suppressed
malignity was her voice, but the detective merely shrugged his shoulders.

‘More fool you,' he said, briefly. ‘Come now, on the night the “Queen,” as you call her, died, there was a gentleman came to see her?'

‘So she said,' retorted Mother Guttersnipe, ‘but, lor', I dunno anythin', I were drunk.'

‘Who said—the “Queen”?'

‘No, my gran'-darter Sal, the “Queen” sent 'er to fetch the toff to see 'er cut 'er lucky, wanted 'im to look at 'is work, I 'spose cuss 'im, and Sal prigged some paper from my box,' she shrieked, indignantly. ‘Prigged it w'en I were too drunk to stop 'er.'

The detective glanced at Calton, who nodded to him with a gratified expression on his face. They were right as to the paper having been stolen from the villa, at Toorak.

‘You did not see the gentleman who came?' said Kilsip, turning again to the old hag.

‘Not I, cuss you,' she retorted, politely. ‘'E came about 'arf past one in the morning, an' you don't expects we can stop up all night, blarst ye.'

‘Half past one o'clock,' repeated Calton, quickly. ‘The very time. Is this true?'

‘Wish I may die if it ain't,' said Mother Guttersnipe, graciously. ‘My gran'-darter Sal kin tell ye.'

‘Where is she?' asked Kilsip, sharply.

At this, the old woman threw back her head and
howled in a dismal manner.

‘She's 'ooked it,' she wailed, drumming on the ground with her feet. ‘Gon' an' left 'er pore old gran' an' joined the Army, cuss 'em, a-comin' round an' a-spilin' business.'

Here the woman on the bed broke out again—

Since the flowers o' the forest are a' wed awa'.

‘Fur Gawd's sake 'old yer jawr,' yelled Mother Guttersnipe, rising, and making a dart at the bed. ‘I'll choke the life out of ye, s'elp me. D'y want me to murder ye, singin' 'em blarsted funeral things?'

Meanwhile, the detective was talking rapidly to Mr Calton.

‘The only person who can prove Mr Fitzgerald was here between one and two o'clock,' he said, quickly, ‘is Sal Rawlins, as everyone else seems to have been drunk or asleep. As she has joined the Salvation Army, I'll go to the barracks the first thing in the morning and look for her.'

‘I hope you'll find her,' answered Calton, drawing a long breath. ‘A man's life hangs on her evidence.'

They turned to go, Calton having first given Mother Guttersnipe some loose silver, which she seized on with an avaricious clutch.

‘You'll drink it, I suppose,' said the barrister, shrinking back from her.

‘Werry likely,' retorted the hag, with a repulsive grin, tying the money up in a piece of her dress, which she tore off for the purpose. ‘I'm a forting to the public 'ouse, I am, an' it's the on'y pleasure I 'ave in my life, cuss it.'

The sight of money had a genial effect on her nature, for she held the candle at the head of the stairs as they went down, so that they would not break their heads. As they arrived safely, they saw the light vanish, and heard the sick woman singing, ‘The Last Rose of Summer,' and then a volley of curses from Mother Guttersnipe.

The street door was open, and after groping their way along the dark passage, with its pitfalls, they found themselves in the open street.

‘Thank heaven,' said Calton, taking off his hat, and drawing a long breath. ‘Thank heaven we are safely out of that den.'

‘At all events, our journey has not been wasted,' said the detective, as they walked along. ‘We've found out where Mr Fitzgerald was the night of the murder, so he will be safe.'

‘That depends upon Sal Rawlins,' answered Calton, gravely, ‘but, come, let us have a glass of brandy, for I feel quite ill after my experience of low life.'

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

MISSING

The next day Kilsip called at Calton's office late in the afternoon, and found the lawyer eagerly expecting him. The detective's face, however, looked rather dismal, and Calton was not reassured by its expression.

‘Well!' he said impatiently, when Kilsip had closed the door and taken his seat, ‘Where is she?'

‘That's just what I want to know,' answered the detective, coolly. ‘I went to the Salvation Army headquarters and made enquiries about her. It appears that she had been in the army as an hallelujah lass, but got tired of it in a week, and went off with a friend of hers to Sydney. She carried on her old life of dissipation, but ultimately her friend got sick of her, and the last thing
they heard about her was that she had taken up with a Chinaman in one of the Sydney slums. I telegraphed at once to Sydney, and got a reply that there was no person of the name of Sal Rawlins known to the Sydney police, but they said they would make enquiries, and let me know the result.'

‘Ah! she has no doubt changed her name,' said Calton, thoughtfully stroking his chin. ‘I wonder what for?'

‘Wanted to get rid of the Army, I expect,' answered Kilsip, dryly. ‘The straying lamb did not care about being hunted back to the fold.'

‘And when did she join the Army?'

‘The very day after the murder.'

‘Rather sudden conversion.'

‘Yes, but she said the death of the woman on Thursday night had so startled her, that she went straight off to the Army to get her religion properly fixed up.'

‘The effects of fright no doubt,' said Calton, dryly. ‘I've met a good many examples of these sudden conversions, but they never last long as a rule—it's a case of the devil was sick, the devil a monk would be, more than anything else. Good-looking?'

‘So-so, I believe,' replied Kilsip, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Very ignorant—could neither read nor write.'

‘That accounts for her not asking for Fitzgerald when she called at the club—she probably did not know whom she had been sent for. It will resolve itself
into a question of identification, I expect. However, if the police can't find her, we will put an advertisement in the papers offering a reward, and send out handbills to the same effect. She must be found. Brian Fitzgerald's life hangs on a thread, and that thread is Sal Rawlins.'

‘Yes,' assented Kilsip, rubbing his hands together. ‘Even if Mr Fitzgerald acknowledges that he was at Mother Guttersnipe's on the night in question, she will have to prove that he was there, as no one else saw him.'

‘Are you sure of that?'

‘As sure as anyone can be in such a case—it was a late hour when he came, and everyone seems to have been asleep except the dying woman and Sal, and as one is dead, the other is the only person who can prove that he was there at the time when the murder was being committed in the hansom.'

‘And Mother Guttersnipe?'

‘Was drunk as she acknowledged last night. She thought that if a gentleman did call, it must have been the other one.'

‘The other one,' repeated Calton in a puzzled voice. ‘What other one?'

‘Oliver Whyte.'

Calton arose from his seat with a blank air of astonishment. ‘Oliver Whyte,' he said, as soon as he could find his voice. ‘Was he in the habit of going there?'

Kilsip curled himself up in his seat like a sleek cat,
and pushing forward his head till his nose looked like the beak of a bird of prey, looked keenly at Calton.

‘Look here, sir,' he said in his low, purring voice, ‘there's a good deal in this case which don't seem plain—in fact, the further we go into it, the more mixed up it seems to get. I went to see Mother Guttersnipe this morning, and she told me that Whyte had visited the “Queen” several times while she lay ill, and seemed to be pretty well acquainted with her.'

‘But who the devil is this woman they call the “Queen”?' said Calton irritably. ‘She seems to be at the bottom of the whole affair—every path we take leads to her.'

‘I know hardly anything about her,' replied Kilsip, ‘except that she was a good-looking woman, of about forty-nine—she came out from England to Sydney a few months ago, then on to here—how she got to Mother Guttersnipe's I can't find out, though I've tried to pump that old woman, but she's as close as wax, and it's my belief she knows more about this dead woman than she chooses to tell.'

‘But what could she have told Fitzgerald, to make him act in this silly manner—a stranger who comes from England and dies in a Melbourne slum, can't possibly know anything about Miss Frettlby.'

‘Not unless Miss Frettlby was secretly married to Whyte,' suggested Kilsip, ‘and the “Queen” knew it.'

‘Nonsense,' retorted Calton sharply. ‘Why, she
hated him and loves Fitzgerald; besides, why on earth should she marry secretly, and make a confident of a woman in one of the lowest parts of Melbourne? At one time her father wanted her to marry Whyte, but she made such strong opposition, that he eventually gave his consent to her engagement with Fitzgerald.'

‘And Whyte?'

‘Oh, he had a row with Mr Frettlby, and left the house in a rage—he was murdered the same night, for the sake of some papers he carried.'

‘Oh, that's Gorby's idea,' said Kilsip scornfully, with a vicious snarl.

‘And it's mine, too,' answered Calton, firmly. ‘Whyte had some valuable papers, which he always carried about with him. The woman who died evidently told Fitzgerald that he did, as I gathered as much from an accidental admission he made.'

Kilsip looked puzzled.

‘I must confess that it is a riddle,' he said, at length; ‘but if Mr Fitzgerald would only speak, it would clear everything up.'

‘What about who murdered Whyte?'

‘Well, it might not go so far as that, but it might supply the motive for the crime.'

‘I dare say you are right,' answered Calton, thoughtfully, as the detective rose and put on his hat. ‘But it's no use. Fitzgerald, for some reason or another, has evidently made up his mind not to speak, so our
only hope in saving him lies in finding this girl.'

‘If she's anywhere in Australia you may be sure she'll be found,' answered Kilsip, confidently, as he took his departure. ‘Australia isn't so overcrowded as all that.'

If Sal Rawlins was in Australia, she certainly must have been in some remote spot, for in spite of all efforts she could not be found anywhere. Whether she was alive or dead was an open question, for she seemed to have vanished as completely as if the earth had swallowed her up. The last seen of her was in a Sydney den, with a Chinaman, whom she afterwards left, and since then had neither been seen nor heard of. Notices were put in the papers, both in Australia and New Zealand, offering large rewards for her discovery, but nothing came of them. As she was unable to read herself, she would, of course, be ignorant that she was wanted, and if, as Calton had surmised, she had changed her name, no one else would tell her about it, unless she happened to hear it by chance. Altogether it seemed as if there was no hope except the forlorn one of Sal turning up of her own accord. If she came back to Melbourne she would be certain to go to her grandmother's place, as she had no motive in keeping away from it; so Kilsip kept a sharp watch on the house, much to Mrs Rawlins' disgust, for, with true English pride, she objected to this system of espionage.

‘Blarst 'im,' she croaked over her evening drink,
to an old crone as withered and evil looking as herself. ‘Why, in Gawd's name, can't 'e stop in 'is own bloomin' 'ouse, an' leave mine alone—a-coming round 'ere a-pokin' and pryin' and a-perwenting people from earnin' their livin' an' a-gittin' drunk w'en they ain't well, cuss 'im.'

‘What do 'e want?' asked her friend, rubbing her weak old knees.

‘Wants, cuss 'im—'e wants 'is damned throat cut,' said Mother Guttersnipe, viciously. ‘An' s'elp me Gawd I'll do for 'im some night w'en 'e's a-watchin' round 'ere as if it were Pentridge—'e can git what he can out of that whelp as ran away, cuss 'er; but I knows suthin' 'e don't know—blarst 'im.' She ended with a senile laugh, and her companion having taken advantage of the long speech to drink some gin out of the broken cup, Mother Guttersnipe seized the unfortunate old creature by the hair, and in spite of her feeble cries, banged her head against the wall.

‘I'll have the perlice in at yer,' whimpered the assaulted one, as she tottered as quickly away as her rheumatics would let her. ‘See if I don't.'

‘Go to 'ell,' retorted Mother Guttersnipe, indifferently, as she filled herself a fresh cup. ‘You come a-falutin' round 'ere agin prigin' my drinks, cuss you, an' I'll cut yer throat an' wring yer wicked old 'ead orf, blarst you.'

The other gave a howl of dismay at hearing this pleasant proposal to end her, and tottered out as quickly
as possible, leaving Mother Guttersnipe in undisputed possession of the field.

Meanwhile Calton had seen Brian several times, and used every argument in his power to get him to tell everything, but he maintained an obstinate silence, or merely answered, ‘It would only break her heart.'

He admitted to Calton, after a good deal of questioning, that he had been at Mother Guttersnipe's on the night of the murder. After he had left Whyte by the corner of the Scotch Church, as the cabman, Royston, had stated, he had gone along Russell Street, and met Sal Rawlins near the Unicorn Hotel. She had taken him to Mother Guttersnipe's, where he had seen the dying woman, who had told him something he could not reveal.

‘Well,' said Mr Calton, after hearing the admission, ‘you might have saved us all this trouble by admitting this before, and yet kept your secret, whatever it may be. Had you done so, we might have got a hold of Sal Rawlins before she left Melbourne; but now it's only a chance whether she turns up or not.'

Brian did not answer this, and, in fact, hardly seemed to be thinking of what the lawyer was saying; but just as Calton was leaving he asked—

‘How is Madge?'

‘How can you expect her to be?' said Calton, turning angrily on him. ‘She is very ill, owing to the
worry she has been in over this affair.'

‘My darling! My darling!' cried Brian, in agony, clasping his hands above his head. ‘I only did it to save you.'

Calton approached him, and laid his hand lightly on his shoulder.

‘My dear fellow,' he said, gravely, ‘the confidences between lawyer and client are as sacred as those between priest and penitent. You must tell me this secret which concerns Miss Frettlby so deeply.'

‘No,' said Brian, firmly, ‘I will never reveal what that cursed woman told me. When I would not tell you before, in order to save my life, it is not likely I am going to do so now, when I have nothing to gain and everything to lose by telling it.'

‘I will never ask you again,' said Calton, rather annoyed, as he walked to the door. ‘And as to this accusation of murder, if I can find this girl you are safe.'

When the lawyer left the gaol he went to the detective office to see Kilsip, and ascertain if there was any news of Sal Rawlins; but, as usual, there was none.

‘It is fighting against Fate,' he said, sadly, as he went away; ‘his life hangs on a mere chance.'

The trial was fixed to come off in September, and of course there was great excitement in Melbourne over the matter. Great, therefore, was the disappointment when it was discovered that the prisoner's counsel had applied for an adjournment of the trial till October, on
the ground that an important witness for the defence could not be found.

To Brian himself the suspense was intolerable; but he had great faith in Calton, and best of all, the lawyer brought him a little note from Madge with the one word, ‘Courage.'