The Whispering Lane/Chapter 11

quite sixty seconds Hustings continued to stare, not so much at the blue blouse, white trousers and padded shoes of Wu Ti, as at the extraordinary movement of his jaw, which went on clicking wordlessly, like that of a snapping dog. Finally it stopped to reveal a tight-lipped mouth, grimly reticent.

“Mrs. Jerr!” explained Dick, as the man asked a question with his oblique Mongolian eyes. “I wish to see her—about the ghost,” he added, carefully.

Apparently Wu Ti was accustomed to such an inquiry made by belated visitors, for he silently admitted the new-comer, conducting him along a narrow passage, and as silently ushered him into an overheated, glaringly-lighted sitting-room. It was almost as crowded with shabby mid-Victorian furniture as Miss Danby’s stuffy parlour in the Fryfeld cottage, and, in addition to the illumination of a huge fire, there were at least seven lamps on brackets and tables and pedestals, burning brightly. Coming from the Far East, it was evident that Mrs. Jerr could not dispense with its heat and light, so adopted artificial means to supply the deficiencies of the English climate. She was seated close to the fire, in a deep arm-chair, knitting steadily, and looked up at her visitor through large horn-rimmed spectacles. “Another,” said Mrs. Jerr, in a quiet, rather husky, but composed voice, “day and night they come. It is just as well that I have made up my mind to move.”

“You are going away?” asked Hustings, probing for information.

“I said that I had made up my mind to move,” she replied, with a glance at his muddy boots and damp overcoat, “come nearer the fire and dry yourself.”

“I must apologize for my late visit and for my disreputable appearance. But I will not come nearer the fire, thank you. This room is”

“They all say that,” interrupted Mrs. Jerr, anticipating his remark, “but if you had lived in Hong-Kong as long as I have you would understand how I am chilled by my native climate. And Wu Ti—poor creature, he feels the cold even more than I do!” Then abruptly she asked, “Glass of wine, Mr. Whatever-your-name-is—piece of cake—cigarette—cigar?”

“Pipe only, if you don’t object to smoking,” said Dick, producing his briar and wondering if Mrs. Jerr was as lavishly hospitable to all her visitors as to him.

“My name is Hustings—Richard Hustings. I am a solicitor.”

“And a Spiritualist,” murmured the old lady, softly.

“By no means, I”

“Wait!” broke in Mrs. Jerr in her leisurely way, “I have to count stitches.”

While she was doing so, Dick, ostensibly loading his pipe, surveyed her very keenly from under drooping eyelids. Sunken as she was in the deep arm-chair he could see little of her, but she appeared to be a barrel shaped female, short and monstrously stout. Her face, what he could discern under the huge horn-rimmed spectacles, was nearly as small as that of Mrs. Grutch, but she possessed a truly surprising quantity of silvery hair, scarcely hidden by a lavender-ribboned lace cap with lengthy strings of the same hue. And this colour was also repeated in her voluminous silk dress; a fleecy shawl over her. heavy shoulders and a pair of shapeless woollen slippers completing her attire. Altogether, thought Dick, a harmless, tidy, somewhat eccentric old lady, who could not possibly have anything to do with the haunted lane. He judged her to be over seventy years of age, although, in speech at least, she was uncommonly vigorous for one who had passed the three score and ten limit. He felt that he was insulting her by his suspicions, yet stayed where he was to ask such questions as would wholly allay these. Then he became aware that Mrs. Jerr, assiduously counting stitches, was watching him stealthily. Immediately the young man saw something sinister in her homely looks. Mrs. Jerr had made a mistake in her work.

She appeared to be unaware of her error. “Yes, Mr. Hustings. You were saying?”

“That I am not a Spiritualist,” replied Dick, speaking as composedly as she had done, “but a client of mine is deeply interested in this Whispering Lane phenomenon, and requested me to investigate.”

“Strange that your client should consult a solicitor about such a thing,” observed Mrs. Jerr, shrewdly.

“Not so strange as you may think,” rejoined Dick, promptly, “it is better to have a sceptical investigator than a biased psychic lunatic.”

“And you, I take it, are a sceptic, Mr. Hustings?”

“Very much a sceptic. I believe that there is a physical explanation of this so-called super-physical business.”

“I wish you could give it to me then,” said the old lady, eagerly. “I want to be left in peace.”

“But you are going away you told me.”

“I am. What with the Voice and the many silly fools who come here at all times to question me about the Voice—as if I knew anything—I am quite tired of the whole business. As an old woman I want that rest I am not likely to get in Wessbury.”

“You have heard the Voice?”

“Well—er—yes,” admitted Mrs. Jerr reluctantly. “Of course, being a Bible Christian, I don’t believe that the dead return. Still I heard a voice purporting to be that poor creature, Mrs. Brine, crying for her husband, both in the lane and in this house.”

“In the house? Did it—this supposititious ghost I mean—use the same words?”

Mrs. Jerr nodded. “But they were not so clear in the house as in the lane.”

“How do you account for it?”

“I don’t account for it. I have more to do at my time of life than to meddle with such nonsense.”

“Do you think it is nonsense?”

“I call it nonsense, anyhow, Mr. Hustings. The thing is there, without doubt, and so far no one has explained its meaning reasonably.”

“Is there an explanation?”

“How do I know?” demanded the old lady, wrathfully. “What a lot of questions you ask. I am tired of people always harping on the subject.”

“Forgive me. But I wish to”

“Satisfy that client of yours,” finished Mrs. Jerr, meaningly. “Well then, tell your client to take this bungalow from Mr. Chane when I leave it, and then your client will know all that I, or anyone else, knows. I am going away next week, or the week afterwards at the latest.”

“My client is a lady,” ventured Dick, cautiously feeling his way.

“Well?” inquired Mrs. Jerr, shortly.

“A man who wishes to marry her is also interested in this business.”

“Well?”

“He said something about coming down here to search into the matter.”

“Like the other fools. Yes?”

“I thought he might have called to see you as I am doing?”

“Oh, then he did come down, did he?” Mrs. Jerr continued to knit composedly. “Ah, well, he might have called or he might not. I see dozens of these nuisances, and no offence to you, Mr. Hustings.”

“I can understand how you feel worried, Mrs. Jerr. But this Dr. Slanton”

The old lady’s needles suddenly stopped clicking, and she dropped her work with a sudden start.

“Slanton? The man who has been murdered by that woman Danby in some Essex village?”

“Fryfeld! Yes! But she did not murder him.”

“Judging from the report of the inquest proceedings in the newspapers, it looks very like it,” Mrs. Jerr resumed her knitting and glanced keenly at the man. “What is the real object of your visit to me?” she asked sharply.

“I have explained.”

“Quite so. But have you explained truly? You spoke of this man in the present tense, as being engaged to Miss Danby: as saying that he intended to come down here to look into the Whispering Lane mystery. Yet you know, and you know that from my reading of the newspapers I must know, he is dead. Why all this camouflage?”

Dick saw that the old lady was too clever to accept his decidedly twisted explanations, so blurted out the naked truth. “I am Miss Danby’s solicitor, and came down to look for evidence in her favour.”

‘That’s better! But why look for evidence in a place miles away from the scene of the crime?”

The lawyer reflected for a few minutes, wondering whether to be frank or reticent. He decided to take the former course, as what he knew now would be known to everyone when Miss Danby was brought before the magistrate. “Before his death in the wood Dr. Slanton used the word ‘Whispering.’ From inquiries I learned that he was a spiritualist, and that this phenomenon was exciting interest in spiritualistic circles. He told a lady who is a medium that he would come down here and investigate.”

Mrs. Jerr nodded her satisfaction at this honest speaking, and knitted on calmly. “But—I understood from the newspaper report that Dr. Slanton was found dead in the ground of that woman Danby’s cottage?”

“So it was stated at the inquest. But afterwards Miss Danby told me that he became conscious for a moment—sufficiently so to utter the word.”

“And then she strangled him.”

“No!” declared Dick, positively, “she became afraid and ran away.”

“So that is the woman Danby’s story. Very much in her favour when told by herself. I congratulate you, Mr. Hustings, upon the clever way in which you have linked up Fryfeld with Wessbury. But I don’t see what such linking up has to do with the murder.”

“I fancy it has more to do with the murder than would appear,” said Hustings, in a dry tone, “this Whispering Lane business was in Dr. Slanton’s thought almost the moment before he died.”

“That doesn’t prove the woman Danby’s innocence.”

“To my mind it proves that Slanton was here some time or another.”

“Maybe! I don’t deny that. But he was murdered in Fryfeld, not in Wessbury.”

“It seems like it!” said Dick, with significant emphasis.

Mrs. Jerr peered at him searchingly through her huge spectacles, “I can’t say that I follow your reasoning,” she remarked after a pause, “however, it is your own affair and I can only hope that you will prove this wretched woman’s innocence.”

“I may be able to if you will help me.”

“Help you, man! How can I help you?” Mrs. Jerr stopped knitting and glared her utter astonishment.

“By telling me if Slanton came down here,” and while saying this Dick produced the patched photograph from his pocket. “Do you know that face?”

The old lady took the photograph, studied it closely then handed it back with a shake of her head. “No! If Dr. Slanton—I suppose this is a photograph of Dr. Slanton—came to the lane, he never came here. Yet one moment. Pull the bell,” she pointed to a thick silk cord dangling on Dick’s side of the fire-place. “Wu Ti may have seen him. Wu Ti sees many people I don’t.”

“What does Wu Ti think of the business?” asked Dick, pulling the cord.

“He thinks nothing about it, so far as I know. He is a very reticent person, is Wu Ti, and keeps his thoughts to himself like most of his countrymen.”

Hustings nodded. This description coincided with his rapid judgment of the Chinaman. “What’s the matter with his jaw?” he asked suddenly.

Mrs. Jerr laughed in her quiet way. “You noticed that. Poor Wu Ti. It’s a nervous affection connected with some ear-trouble. He is often-times unconscious that his jaw works up and down in that weird way. Sometimes he is, and then, of course, he checks himself.”

“It’s not a mere habit then?”

“Oh no. Something quite beyond his control.”

Just as his mistress finished explaining Wu Ti’s ailment, the man himself glided into the room as silently as a shadow, and stood waiting orders, with his hands muffled in the long sleeves of his blouse. “Show him the photograph and ask him the question,” commanded Mrs. Jerr, serenely.

Dick did both, but Wu Ti shook his head after a keen glance at the face of the dead man. “You might not have seen him in this house,” urged Dick, disappointed, “but in the lane—in the village?”

“No! Me no see!”

“Are you quite sure?” inquired the old lady sharply.

“Me no see,” repeated Wu Ti, phlegmatically.

“Thank you,” said Hustings, despondingly, restoring the photograph to his pocket, “it seems to me that I am on a wild goose chase.”

“Hope for the best, Mr. Hustings,” said Mrs. Jerr, kindly, “there may be something in your idea after all. I am sorry that I cannot help you. Excuse my not rising to say good-bye. Rheumatism, you know. I am a great sufferer.”

“Please don’t apologize,” said Dick, accepting his dismissal, “it is I who should do that, for visiting you at so late an hour. I am obliged to you for your courtesy. By the way,” he took out his note-book and pencil, “give me your future address.”

“What for?” asked Mrs. Jerr, sharply.

“I may wish to see you again.”

“There is no need. I cannot tell you anything more than I have told you. Still you can have my address. Why not? Until I find a new house, I shall stay at a London hotel. Let me see! Oh, write to my Bank—The Empire Bank”—and she gave a number and a street in the City, which Dick noted down—“anything I can do will be done willingly. Wu Ti!”

In answer to her signal the Chinaman glided forward to throw open the door towards which Hustings moved, after bowing his farewell. Just as he was about to leave the room, Mrs. Jerr called a halt. “That young girl who gave evidence at the inquest.”

“Miss Aileen More?”

“Yes! I think that is the name. Is she mixed up in this business?”

“No!” shouted Dick, furiously, and his eyes blazed.

“Ah!” said the old lady, complacently, “you need tell me no more, young man. I can guess that she is a pretty girl with whom you are in love.”

“I am engaged to marry Miss More,” he rejoined, shortly; both amazed and annoyed that this clever should gage his feelings so accurately.

“Good! Then be advised, and whether that woman Danby is innocent or guilty—and I think from the reported evidence she is the last, myself—get her out of such bad company.”

“Miss Danby is Miss More’s best friend,” rebuked Dick, stiffly.

“The Lord help her then,” retorted Mrs. Jerr, piously, “it’s a mercy she has a decent lad like yourself to protect her!” and with a gracious nod she signified that the interview was over.

Silently and softly Wu Ti guided the visitor to the door, down the neat garden path, and so far as the gate set in the gleaming white-painted fence. Dick walked out of the moonlight into the shadow of the lane and turned his head to see Wu Ti gliding back into the house. This disappointed him, as he had expected the man to watch him, although he could give no reason for such expectation. Both the Easterner and his mistress seemed to be fair and honest, concealing nothing, admitting everything with almost aggressive frankness.

Yet Dick mistrusted both. Why, it was impossible for him to say. Nevertheless a vague suspicion persistently haunted his mind, that beneath the surface of things-as-they-appeared to be, lurked sinister things-as-they-really-were, which needed to be dragged from the depths if Edith Danby was to be saved. Wessbury and Fryfeld, distant as they were one from the other, were plainly connected by the word “Whispering.” He had proved that conclusively: but he had yet to prove the why and the wherefore of the connection.

“I thought you were never coming,” drawled Jimmy Took, rising from the tree-trunk when Dick reached him, “found out anything, sir?”

“No! Mrs. Jerr can’t explain this ghostly voice. Did you hear it again?”

“Only once after you left me,” explained the boy, as the two climbed the slope to regain the village. “Wu Ti must have been disappointed,” he added with a sly glance at his companion, visible enough in the bright moonlight.

“Wu Ti!” Hustings started and glanced round, inquisitively, “what about him?”

Jimmy answered the question by asking another. “Was he with you all the time you were with Mrs. Jerr?”

“No. He came in for five minutes only, when our conversation was ending.”

“Ah!” The lad drew a deep breath of satisfaction, “then it was Wu Ti who came down the lane.”

“Down the lane? What was he doing?”

“I can’t tell you. But shortly after you left me I heard someone squelching through the mud—coming from the direction of the bungalow. I thought it was you coming back, and like a fool I jumped up. The squelching stopped, and I saw a dark figure, far up the slope, dimly, of course, as there were so many shadows. When I heard the footsteps again the squelching was dying away.”

“And you think the man was Wu Ti?”

“Who else could it have been, sir? None of the Wessbury folk come here after darkness falls. And if the man had been another ghost-hunter he would have walked up to me to ask questions. It was Wu Ti sure enough. And I would like to know, as you would like to know, what Wu Ti was doing in the lane.”

Dick nodded approvingly. “Wu Ti! Ha!” and he also drew a long breath of satisfaction. “Quite so. I don’t trust Wu Ti—I don’t trust Mrs. Jerr.”

“And,” chimed in Jimmy, softly, “you don’t trust me.”

“So far as it is necessary, I do,” snapped out Hustings, gruffly.

“No, sir. So far as you think it is necessary you do: and that means something more cautious. But, here we are at The Pink Cow,” said Jimmy, stopping before the barred and bolted inn with its one glimmering window. “Late as it is I’ll come in to explain myself. It’s worth your while to hear me,” he added quickly, when Dick, worn out with his searchings, hesitated to agree.

“Come in then,” invited the lawyer after reflection, and when the yawning landlord answered his rappings, told him that he would keep Jimmy in the parlour for some twenty minutes or so. “I can let him out myself, Webb.”

Quite agreeable to this assumption of authority by an ex-officer, Webb asked one question only, before retiring, “Did you hear the voices, sir?”

“Three times! Good-night! Come along, Jimmy!”

When in the sitting-room, Dick turned up the lamp, flung off his top-coat, and sat down to question his guest. “Well, what is it?”

“I shall put the thing in a nutshell, sir. Take me away with you.”

“What?” Hustings stared at this abrupt demand, which sounded like a command.

“I am tired of this back-water village, filled with stupid people,” cried Jimmy, passionately, “take me into wider surroundings where I can get a chance of using my brains. I know you can help me. And,” ended the boy, emphatically, “I am quite sure that I can help you.”

“How can you help me?” Dick watched the eager face, aglow with feeling.

“Oh, the mouse can help the lion, sir. We have Æsop’s authority for that. Just you trust me with the real reason why you have come to Wessbury.”

The boy’s perception was so uncanny that Dick was fairly taken aback. Still he deemed it wise to be cautious. “I gave my reason to Mr. and Mrs. Webb.”

“You gave a reason, sir. Mr. Webb told me that you said a client of yours wanted to learn all about The Whispering Lane. But your real reason. Tell me.

“Why should I,” denied Hustings, frowning at the lad’s persistence.

“Because I can help you. And if I do, will you give me a chance to better myself? You can do so, if you will do so.”

Dick reflected. He was more and more attracted by the boy’s dogged determination to obtain a place for himself in the sun. “I promise to help you.”

Jimmy leaned forward with sparkling eyes, caught the older man’s hand and shook it warmly. “Thank you, thank you. And perhaps I can guess the reason you hesitate to tell me. It concerns your client?”

“Go on,” Dick nodded, wishing to exploit the boy’s sharp wits.

“Your client is a man?”

Hustings remembered that he had told Webb otherwise. “Let us say it is a man.”

“And he is missing. Perhaps,” the boy’s voice became a mere thread of sound, “perhaps he is dead.”

Dick jumped up alive with curiosity. “Go on, go on, yes, he is dead.”

“I thought so. And he was murdered hereabouts.”

“Wrong. He was murdered at Fryfeld.”

“The Slanton murder.” Jimmy jumped up in his turn. “I wondered if it might be so, but wasn’t sure. And this man, Slanton, wore—wore”—Jimmy clawed Dick’s arm, tremendously excited—“an oddly-shaped scarf-pin.”

“Yes! Yes! The swastika, made of gold set with turquoise-stones.”

The boy fumbled in his pocket and brought out an object, hurriedly, “I found that near Mrs. Jerr’s bungalow.”

In the palm of his hand lay the turquoise swastika pin.