The Greatest Thrillers of Fergus Hume. Fergus Hume
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pals. In the meantime, Mrs Pansey was persecuting his wife, a meek, nervous little woman, who was propped up with pillows in a large bed, and seemed to be quite overwhelmed by the honour of Mrs Pansey’s call.
‘So you are weak in the back, are you?’ said the visitor, in loud tones. ‘If you are, what right have you to marry and bring feeble children into the world?’
‘Bell isn’t feeble,’ said Mrs Mosk, weakly. ‘She’s a fine set-up gal.’
‘Set-up and stuck-up,’ retorted Mrs Pansey. ‘I tell you what, my good woman, you ought to be downstairs looking after her.’
‘Lord! mum, there ain’t nothing wrong, I do devoutly hope.’
‘Nothing as yet; but you shouldn’t have young gentlemen about the place.’
‘I can’t help it, mum,’ said Mrs Mosk, beginning to cry. ‘I’m sure we must earn our living somehow. This is an ‘otel, isn’t it? and Mosk’s a pop’lar character, ain’t he? I’m sure it’s hard enough to make ends meet as it is; we owe rent for half a year and can’t pay—and won’t pay,’ wailed Mrs Mosk, ‘unless my ‘usband comes ‘ome on Skinflint.’
‘Comes home on Skinflint, woman, what do you mean?’
‘Skinflint’s a ‘orse, mum, as Mosk ‘ave put his shirt on.’
Mrs Pansey wagged her plumes and groaned. ‘I’m sadly afraid your husband is a son of perdition, Mrs Mosk. Put his shirt on Skinflint, indeed!’
‘He’s a good man to me, anyhow,’ cried Mrs Mosk, plucking up spirit.
‘Drink and betting,’ continued Mrs Pansey, pretending not to hear this feeble defiance. ‘What can we expect from a man who drinks and bets?’
‘And associates with bad characters,’ put in Cargrim, seizing his chance.
‘That he don’t, sir,’ said Mrs Mosk, with energy. ‘May I beg of you to put a name to one of ‘em?’
‘Jentham,’ said the chaplain, softly. ‘Who is Jentham, Mrs Mosk?’
‘I know no more nor a babe unborn, sir. He’s bin ‘ere two weeks, and I did see him twice afore my back got so bad as to force me to bed. But I don’t see why you calls him bad, sir. He pays his way.’
‘Oh,’ groaned Mrs Pansey, ‘is it the chief end of man to pay his way?’
‘It is with us, mum,’ retorted Mrs Mosk, meekly; ‘there ain’t no denying of it. And Mr Jentham do pay proper though he is a gipsy.’
‘He’s a gipsy, is he?’ said Cargrim, alertly.
‘So he says, sir; and I knows as he goes sometimes to that camp of gipsies on Southberry Heath.’
‘Where does he get his money from?’
‘Better not inquire into that, Mr Cargrim,’ said Mrs Pansey, with a sniff.
‘Oh, Mr Jentham’s honest, I’m sure, mum. He’s bin at the gold diggin’s and ‘ave made a trifle of money. Indeed, I don’t know where he ain’t been, sir. The four pints of the compass is all plain sailing to ‘im; and his ‘airbreadth escapes is too h’awful. I shivers and shudders when I ‘ears ‘em.’
‘What is he doing here?’
‘He’s on business; but I don’t know what kind. Oh, he knows ‘ow to ‘old ‘is tongue, does Jentham.’
‘He is a gipsy, he consorts with gipsies, he has money, and no one knows where he comes from,’ summed up Cargrim. ‘I think, Mrs Pansey, we may regard this man as a dangerous character.’
‘I shouldn’t be surprised to hear he was an Anarchist,’ said Mrs Pansey, who knew nothing about the man. ‘Well, Mrs Mosk, I hope we’ve cheered you up. I’ll go now. Read this tract,’ bestowing a grimy little pamphlet, ‘and don’t see too much of Mr Pendle.’
‘But he comforts me,’ said poor Mrs Mosk; ‘he reads beautiful.’
Mrs Pansey grunted. Bold as she was she did not like to speak quite plainly to the woman, as too free speech might inculpate Gabriel and bring the bishop to the rescue. Besides, Mrs Pansey had no evidence to bring forward to prove that Gabriel was in love with Bell Mosk. Therefore she said nothing, but, like the mariner’s parrot, thought the more. Shaking out her dark skirts she rose to go, with another grunt full of unspoken suspicions.
‘Good-day, Mrs Mosk,’ said she, pausing at the door. ‘When you are low-spirited send for me to cheer you up.’
Mrs Mosk attempted a curtsey in bed, which was a failure owing to her sitting position; but Mrs Pansey did not see the attempt, as she was already half-way down the stairs, followed by Cargrim. The chaplain had learned a trifle more about the mysterious Jentham and was quite satisfied with his visit; but he was more puzzled than ever. A tramp, a gipsy, an adventurer—what had such a creature in common with Bishop Pendle? To Mr Cargrim’s eye the affair of the visit began to assume the proportions of a criminal case. But all the information he had gathered proved nothing, so it only remained to wait for the bishop’s return and see what discoveries he could make in that direction. If Jentham’s name was in the cheque-book the chaplain would be satisfied that there was an understanding between the pair; and then his next move would be to learn what the understanding was. When he discovered that, he had no doubt but that he would have Dr Pendle under his thumb, which would be a good thing for Mr Cargrim and an unpleasant position for the bishop.
Mrs Pansey stalked down to the bar, and seeing Bell therein, silently placed a little tract on the counter. No sooner had she left the house than Bell snatched up the tract, and rushing to the door flung it after the good lady.
‘You need it more than I do,’ she cried, and bounced into the house again.
It was with a quiver of rage that Mrs Pansey turned to the chaplain. She was almost past speech, but with some difficulty and much choking managed to convey her feelings in two words.
‘The creature!’ gasped Mrs Pansey, and shook her skirts as if to rid herself of some taint contracted at The Derby Winner.
Chapter VIII.
On Saturday Night
The bishop returned on Saturday morning instead of on Friday night as arranged, and was much more cheerful than when he left, a state of mind which irritated Cargrim in no small degree, and also perplexed him not a little. If Dr Pendle’s connection with Jentham was dangerous he should still be ill at ease and anxious, instead of which he was almost his old genial self when he joined his wife and Lucy at their afternoon tea. Sir Harry was not present, but Mr Cargrim supplied his place, an exchange which was not at all to Lucy’s mind. The Pendles treated the chaplain always with a certain reserve, and the only person who really thought him the good young man he appeared to be, was the bishop’s wife. But kindly Mrs Pendle was the most innocent of mortals, and all geese were swans to her. She had not the necessary faculty of seeing through a brick wall with which nature had gifted Mrs Pansey in so extraordinary a degree.
As a rule, Mr Cargrim did not come to afternoon tea, but on this occasion he presented himself; ostensibly to welcome back his patron, in reality to watch him. Also he was determined, at the very first opportunity, to introduce the name of Jentham and observe what effect it had on the bishop. With these little plans in his mind the chaplain crept about the tea-table like a tame cat, and handed round cake and bread with his most winning smile. His pale face was even more inexpressive than usual, and none could have guessed, from outward appearance, his malicious intents—least of all the trio he was with. They were too upright themselves to suspect evil in others.
‘I am so glad to see you are better, bishop,’ said Mrs Pendle,