The Greatest Murder Mysteries of Mary Elizabeth Braddon. Mary Elizabeth Braddon
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hands by way of a full-stop, and went on with his manual recital.
“For why?” said the fingers, interrogatively, “for why did I think as this ’ere gent was no good for this ’ere murder; for why did I think them chaps at Slopperton had got on the wrong scent? Because he was cheeky? Lor’ bless your precious eyes, miss” (by way of gallantry he addresses himself here to Isabel), “not a bit of it! When a cove goes and cuts another cove’s throat off-hand, it ain’t likely he ain’t prepared to cheek a police-officer. But when I reckoned up this young gent’s face, what was it I see? Why, as plain as I see his nose and his moustachios—and he ain’t bad off for neither of them,” said the fingers, parenthetically—“I see that he hadn’t done it. Now, a cove what’s screwed up to face a judge and jury, maybe can face ’em, and never change a line of his mug; but there isn’t a cove as lives as can stand that first tap of a detective’s hand upon his shoulder as tells him, plain as words, ‘The game is up.’ The best of ’em, and the pluckiest of ’em, drops under that. If they keeps the colour in their face—which some of ’em has got the power to do, and none as never tried it on can guess the pain—if they can do that ’ere, the perspiration breaks out wet and cold upon their for’eds, and that blows ’em. But this young gent—he was took aback, he was surprised, and he was riled, and used bad language; but his colour never changed, and he wasn’t once knocked over till Jinks, unbusiness-like, told him of his uncle’s murder, when he turned as white as that ’ere ’ed of Bon-er-part.” Mr. Peters, for want of a better comparison, glanced in the direction of a bust of the victor of Marengo, which, what with tobacco-smoke and a ferocious pair of burnt cork moustachios, was by no means the whitest object in creation.
“Now, what a detective officer’s good at, if he’s worth his salt, is this ’ere: when he sees two here and another two there, he can put ’em together, though they might be a mile apart to anybody not up to the trade, and make ’em into four. So, thinks I, the gent isn’t took aback at bein’ arrested; but he is took aback when he hears as how his uncle’s murdered. Now, if he’d committed the murder, he’d know of it; and he might sham surprise, but he wouldn’t be surprised; and this young gent was knocked all of a heap as genuine as—” Mr. Peters’s ideas still revert to the bust of Napoleon—“as ever that ’ere forring cove was, when he sees his old guard scrunched up small at the battle of Waterloo.”
“Heaven knows, Peters,” said Richard, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and looking up from his stooping position over the fire, “Heaven knows you were right; I did feel my heart turn cold when I heard of that good man’s death.”
“Well, that they’d got the wrong un I saw was as clear as daylight—but where was the right un? That was the question. Whoever committed the murder did it for the money in that ’ere cabinet: and sold agen they was, whoever they was, and didn’t get the money. Who was in the house? This young gent’s mother and the servant. I was nobody in the Gardenford force, and I was less than nobody at Slopperton; so get into that house at the Black Mill I couldn’t. This young gent was walked off to jail and I was sent about my business—my orders bein’ to be back in Gardenford that evenin’, leavin’ Slopperton by the three-thirty train. Well, I was a little cut up about this young gent; for I seed that the case was dead agen him; the money in his pocket—the blood on his sleeve—a cock-and-a-bull story of a letter of introduction, and a very evident attempt at a bolt—only enough to hang him, that’s all; and, for all that, I had a inward conwiction that he was as hinnercent of the murder as that ’ere plaster-of-Paris stattur.” Mr. Peters goes regularly to the bust for comparisons, by way of saving time and trouble in casting about for fresh ones.
“But my orders,” continued the fingers, “was positive, so I goes down to the station to start by the three-thirty; and as I walks into the station-yard, I hears the whistle, and sees the train go. I was too late; and as the next train didn’t start for near upon three hours, I thought I’d take a stroll and ’av a look at the beauties of Slopperton. Well, I strolls on, promiscuous like, till I comes to the side of a jolly dirty-looking river; and as by this time I feels a little dry, I walks on, lookin’ about for a public; but ne’er a one do I see, till I almost tumbles into a dingy little place, as looked as if it did about half-a-pint a-day reg’lar, when business was brisk. But in I walks, past the bar; and straight afore me I sees a door as leads into the parlour. The passage was jolly dark; and this ’ere door was ajar; and inside I hears voices. Well, you see, business is business, and pleasure is pleasure; but when a cove takes a pleasure in his business, he gets a way of lettin’ his business habits come out unbeknownst when he’s takin’ his pleasure: so I listens. Now, the voice I heerd fust was a man’s voice; and, though the place was a sort of crib such as nobody but navvies or such-like would be in the habit of going to, this ’ere was the voice of a gentleman. I can’t say as I ever paid much attention to grammar myself, though I daresay it’s very pleasant and amusin’ when you enter into it; but, for all that, I’d knocked about in the world long enough to know a gent’s way of speakin’ from a navvy’s, as well as I know’d one tune on the accordion from another tune. It was a nice, soft-spoken voice too, and quite melodious and pleasant to listen to; but it was a-sayin’ some of the cruelest and hardest words as ever was spoke to a woman yet by any creature with the cheek to call hisself a man. You’re not much good, my friend, says I, with your lardy-dardy ways and your cold-blooded words, whoever you are. You’re a thin chap, with light hair and white hands, I know, though I’ve never seen you; and there’s very little in the way of wickedness that you wouldn’t be up to on a push. Now, just as I was a-thinkin’ this, he said somethin’ that sent the blood up into my face as hot as fire—‘I expected a sum of money, and I’ve been disappointed of it,’ he said; and before the girl he was a-talkin’ to could open her lips, he caught her up sudden—‘Never you mind how,’ he says, ‘never you mind how.’
“He expected a sum of money, and he’d been disappointed of it! So had the man who had murdered this young gent’s uncle.
“Not much in this, perhaps. But why was he so frightened at the thoughts of her asking him how he expected the money, and how he’d bin disappointed? There it got fishy. At any rate, says I to myself, I’ll have a look at you, my friend; so in I walks, very quiet and quite unbeknownst. He was a-sittin’ with his back to the door, and the young woman he was a-talkin’ to was standin’ lookin’ out of the winder; so neither of ’em saw me. He was buildin’ up some cards into a ’ouse, and had got ’em up very high, when I laid my hand upon his shoulder sudden. He turned round and looked at me.” Mr. Peters here paused, and looked round at the little group, who sat watching his fingers with breathless attention. He had evidently come to a point in his narrative.
“Now, what did I see in his face when he looked at me? Why, the very same look that I missed in the face of this young gent when Jinks took him in the mornin’. The very same look that I’d seen in a many faces, and never know’d it differ, whether it came one way or another, always bein’ the same look at bottom—the look of a man as is guilty of what will hang him and thinks that he’s found out. But as you can’t give looks in as evidence, this wasn’t no good in a practical way; but I says to myself, if ever there was anything certain in this world since it was begun, I’ve come across the right un: so I sits down and takes up a newspaper. I signified to him that I was dumb, and he took it for granted that I was deaf as well—which was one of those stupid mistakes your clever chaps sometimes fall into—so he went on a-talking to the girl.
“Well, it was a old story enough, what him and the girl was talkin’ of; but every word he said made him out a more cold-blooded villain than the last.
“Presently he offered her some money—four sovereigns. She served him as he ought to have been served, and threw them every one slap in his face. One cut him over the eye; and I was glad of it. ‘You’re marked, my man,’ thinks I, ‘and nothin’ could be handier agen I want you.’ He picked up three of the sovereigns, but for all he could do he couldn’t find the fourth. So he had the cut (which was a jolly deep un) plastered up, and he went away. She stared at the river uncommon hard, and then she went away. Now I didn’t much like the look she gave the river, so as I had about half an hour to spare before the train started, I followed her. I think she knew it;