The Whispering Lane/Chapter 16

was Aileen who took charge of the situation. She and her lover between them half led, half carried the fainting lad to the inn, with the dog limping painfully behind. Both Jimmy and the Airedale were thoroughly worn-out, having evidently been travelling at top-speed for endless miles. And maybe, from distant Fryfeld, as might be surmised from the mention of Jenny Walton. Dick was on fire to learn how the boy had come into contact with Miss Danby’s servant and why he coupled her name with those of Bill Tyson and Old Wung. Inspector Trant, whom the two met in the village street, was no less clamorous for information; and Webb, receiving them at The Pink Cow, demanded immediate explanations about his stolen dog. But Aileen suppressed the three, authoritatively. “Jimmy isn’t fit to talk!” she declared, resolutely, and Mrs. Webb, with murmuring sympathy, supported her in this decision.

So the two wise women shut out the excited men, compelled their patient to eat a good meal, and conducted him upstairs to a comfortable bed with orders to lie down and sleep throughout the afternoon. Then they descended to defy interference on the part of the anxious inquirers, who resented any delay at so critical a moment. Mrs. Webb was particularly sharp with her husband, who harped peevishly on the exhausted condition of his prize Airedale.

“Oh, bother the dog, Alf. Food and drink and rest will put him right.”

“Jimmy took him away without my permission.”

“Well, he’s taken him out before for runs with your permission. Jimmy’s an honest lad, and you’re a zany. Get along with you. Oh these men, these men, Miss More,” mourned the landlady to Aileen, “however would the sillies get on without us sensible women,” and she chased her grumbling husband out of the parlour, laughing at his protestations.

“When will that boy be able to talk?” asked the Inspector, when left alone with Dick and the girl.

“As soon as he wakens of his own accord,” she rejoined promptly. “You wish him to describe his doings clearly, don’t you? Well, how can he do so until he recovers his strength?”

Trant laughed approvingly. “Oh I think you have acted rightly; albeit somewhat authoritatively, Aileen. But every moment is of value.”

“The more haste the less speed,” retorted Miss More, spiritedly. “I daresay Jimmy will come down, clothed and in his right mind, about four or five o’clock. Meanwhile, Dick and I have plenty to tell you. Your time won’t be wasted.”

“One moment!” the officer pulled out his note-book and flipped over a dozen leaves or so, until he found what he wanted. “That boy mentioned the name of Bill Tyson when he met you, Mr. Hustings,” he said, ponderingly. “Here I find a statement you made saying that he is the Walton girl’s lover.”

Dick nodded. “He got two years for burglary. Jenny told us that, but did not let us know that Slanton was the accuser. Bender found out that Tyson broke into Slanton’s Hampstead cottage.”

This time the Inspector nodded and turned over a few more leaves. “Old Wung—the Walton girl mentioned that as the place Slanton frequented.”

“Yes. And Jenny herself, Tyson and Wu Ti all went there. I wish I had asked the girl for its whereabouts.”

“Don’t worry over that, Mr. Hustings,” said Trant, dryly, putting away his note-book, “Old Wung’s den has been located, and the police are watching there for the return of Wu Ti. I wonder if Tyson has gone there too?”

“But he’s in prison,” said Aileen, with a start.

“I rather guess from Jimmy’s mention of his name, that he’s broken prison. However, I’ll soon make sure of that,” and Trant rose to depart.

“Don’t go,” implored Aileen, hurriedly, “I want to tell you of my father.”

“Your father—my good friend!” Trant’s face lighted up with genuine pleasure, “Have you heard from him again? Has he left Paris for London?”

“No,” said Dick, dryly, “he has left London for Wessbury.”

“Really. I am delighted. He has come to see you, Aileen, I expect. But how did he find out that you were here?”

“He did not find me, I found him,” said the girl, awkwardly, “at the bungalow.”

“Oh, indeed. Then he knows Mr. Chane.”

“He is Mr. Chane.”

“What! What! What!” stuttered the Inspector, scarcely believing his ears, and sat down again, with astonishment written largely on his face, “Impossible, oh quite impossible. I would have recognized him last night.”

“You wouldn’t recognize him in broad daylight,” sighed Aileen.

“All the same, Trant, you suggested that there was something familiar about the so-called Chane, when you met him,” observed Dick, recalling to the man’s mind the previous night’s conversation in the parlour.

“So I did: so I did. Chane! Good Lord! Why has your father changed his name?”

Aileen told him, with the assistance of Dick, and between them they acquainted the officer with the dismal history of More, from start to finish. He listened in sympathetic silence. “Oh my poor, poor friend. How he must have suffered: how he must be still suffering. I shall call and see him. As he was good to me, I must be good to him. And Rackham! H’m!” his tone changed, as he pinched his chin perplexedly, “it seems to me that he knows more about this Slanton than he will let out.”

“I don’t think so,” protested Hustings, hastily, “he hated the man so thoroughly that he told everything he could to his discredit.”

“Well, then, he can repeat the same to me. He saw, by his own confession, a great deal of Slanton when in the base-hospital, and may give me some useful hints.” The Inspector rose again and walked to the door. “I’ll go to the bungalow this evening. Meanwhile I am going to Chelmsford, to telephone Scotland Yard and learn if Tyson has broken prison. Expect me back at four o’clock, and please see that Jimmy Took is up and about to explain his absence,” he opened the door to go out, then paused suddenly and turned to ask a question, looking greatly puzzled, “I don’t know why it should come into my head, but describe Rackham’s looks to me.”

Equally surprised, Dick hastily sketched the man’s appearance, laying stress on the scarred face, “Although I don’t know why you asked,” said Dick.

“Nor do I,” confessed Trant with a shrug. “I said as much!” and forthwith departed, leaving Hustings looking queerly at Aileen.

“Upon my word, I believe that Slanton is looking after this business from the other side, as Mrs. Grutch asserted,” he remarked, slowly, “the word ‘Whispering’ dinned into my ears, and now Trant’s apparently foolish question. He can’t suspect Rackham, who has nothing to do with the matter. Yet he asks”

“Oh, Dick, what is the use of worrying over such things,” interrupted Aileen, wearily, “I’m too tired to argue. Besides it’s silly.”

The lawyer was of a different opinion, but said no more. All the same the oddity of the incident dwelt in his mind. The rest of the afternoon passed quietly, with an inspection of the Airedale, now recovering, a sauntering walk in and out and round about the picturesque village, and a return to the inn for tea and toast, and congratulations to Jimmy on his recovery. “You have pulled round wonderfully, youngster,” Dick told him, while the boy devoured several rounds of buttered toast, and drank several cups of tea.

“Sleep always fills me up with strength,” said Jimmy, smilling [sic] gratefully at Aileen, “and it’s thanks to Miss More that I got the sleep. I was dog tired, as I told my father.”

“Have you seen him?”

“Yes, Miss More, Mrs. Webb sent for him and he came up to the bedroom. I was just opening my eyes—about three o’clock, it was—so he sat himself down on my bed, and I told him all my adventures.”

“Now you must tell them to us!” Aileen smiled on the handsome lad, to whom she had taken a fancy, which was, needless to say, heartily reciprocated.

“When the Inspector comes, Miss More,” declared Jimmy, firmly: for not even the cajoling of lovely woman could move his singularly obstinate mind. “I don’t want to waste words in repeating things for the third time.”

“Trant will be here soon,” observed Dick, glancing at Aileen for permission to smoke. “Mrs. Webb told me that he had returned from Chelmsford,” and, even as he spoke the officer made his appearance, looking decidedly grim. “Eh! What is it?” queried Dick, hastily, when noting the expression.

“I’ll tell you when I have heard this youngster’s story.”

“Some tea, Mr. Trant?” Aileen half arose to ring the bell for a fresh pot.

“No thank you, my dear,” replied the Inspector, seating himself so as to command an uninterrupted view of Jimmy’s face. “Now then, boy?”

“It’s this way, sir. I always had an idea that Mrs. Jerr and Wu Ti were up to something. When Mr. Hustings told me about the murder, I was sure.”

“Upon what grounds?”

“My finding of the swastika scarf-pin, for one thing. Also!” confessed Jimmy, guardedly, “I worked in the old lady’s garden for some time, and, although there was nothing I could put a name to, somehow an air of mystery hung about that bungalow.”

“Your imagination!” hinted the Inspector, dubiously.

The youth smiled, slyly. “Might have been, sir, and perhaps it was that which made Mrs. Jerr dismiss me as a meddlesome brat. I was too inquisitive for her liking. Anyhow my imagination led me to watch the pair. After Mr. Hustings paid his visit, I thought that, if my ideas were worth anything, it would frighten them into taking French leave. And then—do you remember my going home to get my bag and things when you agreed to take me with you?” he asked, turning towards Dick.

“Yes! And I remember also that you were a confoundedly long time away.”

“I had to go to the chemist to get some aniseed,” confessed Jimmy, simply.

“What on earth for?”

“To lay a trail. I guessed that if my suspicions were correct, the two would not risk taking the bus or train, as both would be too public, if secrecy was their object. Everyone in the village knows that Wu Ti often took the old lady out for an airing in the side-car of his motor-cycle, so I felt certain that it would be used as the best means of escape. Knowing where it was stored, I crept into the coal-shed at the back of the bungalow and sprinkled the wheels thoroughly with aniseed.”

“You had Mr. Webb’s dog in your mind!” cried Aileen, admiringly.

“Yes, Miss More. Todgers and I are old friends. I knew that most dogs, let alone Todgers with his keen nose, would follow so strong a scent. My only fear was that it mightn’t last long enough. And for that reason”—he nodded to Trant—“I wanted you to come straight down to Wessbury. When you did come later, and sent me home, I thought, during the night, that I would test the trail. Just before six o’clock in the morning I collared the dog and laid him on the scent.”

“Did he pick it up?” asked Trant, mortified to be reminded of his dilatoriness, but unable to refrain from approval.

“Like a bird!” cried Jimmy, metaphorically incorrect, but mightily enthusiastic. “I held Todgers in leash and he led me along the waggon-road across the common. Then, some miles away, the trail passed over the highway and went down a lane. I knew the lay of the land by that time.”

“How did you know?”

“I had a road-map, and the highway gave me my bearings.”

“Good lad!” cried Dick, delightedly, “you thought of everything.”

“Not of food, sir,” said the boy, ruefully. “I forgot to take some with me in my hurry, and was mighty hungry I can tell you.”

“No wonder you were worn-out when you got back,” commented Aileen, tartly. “Why didn’t you get food in the first village you came to?”

“I didn’t dare to leave the trail, Miss More. I knew that the scent was light enough as it was, and mightn’t lie much longer. No, I hung on for miles and miles. It led me—the trail I mean—along all kinds of crooked ways: round ponds, through plantations, up hill paths and down them, always avoiding the main road.”

“Natural enough,” observed Trant, nodding, “I expect Wu Ti guessed that the sight of a pig-tailed Chinaman riding a bike with an old lady long-side him, would lead to them being easily traced.”

“It would,” agreed Jimmy, dryly, “but I rather think, sir, that Wu Ti put on European clothes for the journey.”

“What makes you think that?”

“My common-sense tells me so. Also I didn’t find—but there,” Jimmy pulled himself up sharply, “I’m rushing on too far ahead. I was all day trailing my birds, and finally Todgers, somewhere about sundown, led me into an isolated little wood. There the trail ended.”

“And you found Mrs. Jerr and” began Aileen, breathlessly.

Jimmy cut her short. “I found neither. The trail ended in an open glade, in the middle of this wood. As the sunset was strongly red and flaming right in through the trees, I saw everything clearly.”

“What did you see?” asked Trant, eagerly.

“The motor-cycle-side-car wheel-marks on the brink of a pool. I tied Todgers to a tree, took off my clothes and dived. Then”—Jimmy chuckled—“I found what I wanted. The machine lies at the bottom of that pool.”

“No!” Dick was hugely pleased at the success of his protégé.

“Oh, it’s there, right enough sir, as Inspector Trant can see for himself when I lead him to the place. The wheel-marks are plainly to be seen in the mud on the margin of the pool. Besides, I found it in the water.”

“I’ll see about the matter immediately,” said Trant, patting the boy’s shoulder appreciatively, “but go on—go on. What did you do next?”

“Dressed myself and began to hunt the wood, Todgers helping. The two had skipped, which was lucky for me, as I expect they’d have given me a hot time,” said the boy with an uneasy grin. “I didn’t find them, but I nosed out, or rather the dog did, a bundle of clothes shoved away in a briar-thicket.”

“I know,” Aileen jumped immediately to conclusions, “Wu Ti’s clothes.”

“No, Miss, Mrs. Jerr’s clothes. And now you can see, gentlemen, why I believe that Wu Ti left the bungalow in European togs. If he had worn his Chinese dress he’d have got rid of it in the wood.”

“But why did Mrs. Jerr change?” queried Dick, puzzled.

“Oh that is not a difficult question to answer,” said the officer, “she assumed another disguise—perhaps that of a boy.”

“Impossible. An old woman of seventy.”

“I rather suspect, from what we are learning, that Mrs. Jerr is less old than she made herself out to be, Mr. Hustings. Anyhow, whatever may be her disguise, we can hunt for the Chinaman. He is sure to be with him. Did you bring back Mrs. Jerr’s clothes?” he asked Jimmy.

“No!” replied that youth, dryly, “I hadn’t a chance.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean Bill Tyson is wearing them.”

“Good Lord,” Trant pinched his chin, furiously. “I learned at Chelmsford that he had escaped. How the devil did he get down into these parts, and why?”

“I can’t answer the first question, but I can the last, if you’ll give me a moment or so to speak,” snapped the youth, made irritable by his still exhausted condition.

“Go on—go on,” Trant humoured him affably, “I am all attention.”

“I heard the noise of someone rustling through the undergrowth," continued Jimmy, wearily. “At once I fancied that Mrs. Jerr and her Chinese devil were coming back. I made myself scarce as you may guess, by hiding along with Todgers in the middle of the briar thicket. Todgers held his tongue. Never a whimper out of Todgers; oh he’s a jewel of a dog, is Todgers. I used my eyes and saw a short, broadly built man push into the glade. He’d a bristly black beard, an old cap pulled down over his head and wore a ragged suit of clothes, mouldy with age.”

“Must have got those off a scarecrow,” muttered the Inspector, “that is, if the man you saw is Bill Tyson.”

“Oh he’s Bill Tyson all right, although I didn’t know it at the moment. He looked about for a few minutes and then sat down to eat some bread and cheese. I can tell you,” said the boy, plaintively, “that the sight of food made me jolly envious. Lord, how hungry I felt. Anyhow, this tramp ate up every crumb, the greedy pig, and then took a drink from the pool. I thought he intended to stop there for the night, but he lighted a filthy black clay pipe and began to move away. All at once his eyes fell on Mrs. Jerr’s clothes scattered about, just as I’d pulled them out of the bundle. He swore horribly and began to run round in a blue funk, peering here, there and everywhere.”

“He had every reason to be in a blue funk,” muttered Trent again, “the hue and cry is out for Bill Tyson.”

“Well I didn’t know anything about Bill Tyson at the time. I only thought that the man was a gypsy-tramp, and wondered why he was cutting up rough. Anyhow, to make a long story short—for I am tired—this tramp put on the old lady’s clothes. Yes. Petticoats, bodice, shawl, bonnet and all—even to her black veil—which last he needed badly enough to hide his bristly beard. Oh he looked quite the lady when he sailed out of the wood,” grinned Jimmy.

“And you?”—the listeners held their breath, so intense was their interest.

“Well, I wasn’t going to lose those clothes, so I held Todgers in leash again, and followed at a safe distance. After a time, although it was twilight, the country seemed somehow familiar to me. Then I remembered, Inspector, that you motored round by Fryfeld when you brought me down here.”

“Fryfeld—were you near Fryfeld?” asked Trant, agreeing with a nod.

“Three or four miles from Fryfeld; but I am quick at remembering places and one thing and another gave me the idea where I was. The tramp went straight there, and although it was growing rapidly dark, Todgers kept track of him: as a dog could where a man couldn’t. He skirted the village and went round about to Miss Danby’s cottage.”

“How did you know it was Miss Danby’s cottage?” asked Aileen, puzzled by all this accuracy of detail.

“Inspector Trant pointed it out to me when we passed through Fryfeld on our way here,” said the boy, smartly; “dark as it was I knew the place at once. I saw the man go to the back door and heard him knock. Then when a woman opened the door, and the light came streaming out, I knew who they were. Not by the light, but what they said. He cried, ‘Jenny,’ and she said, ‘Bill Tyson.’ Then she dragged him into the house and shut the door.”

Jimmy stopped for breath, but Trant urged him to continue. “Don’t stop at the most interesting part, boy.”

“Let me get my breath,” protested the youth, half laughing and half angry. “I do feel jolly tired. Well, I sneaked up to listen, as, remembering all that had been told me, I knew Bill Tyson was Jenny’s lover.”

“That’s why he came down to Essex,” said Aileen, “but how did he induce Jenny to go away with him?”

“He didn’t, Miss More: it was Jenny who got him to go with her. I could hear more or less plainly what the two were talking about, as I was near the window, and they didn’t lower their voices. She asked him how he escaped, and he told her that he’d chucked himself out of the train.”

“Yes!” said Trant, admiringly, “a smart and daring chap is Tyson. He was taken from Pentonville to give evidence against a pal at Colchester, and on the way he stunned the warder in charge, and threw himself out of the railway carriage. Luckily for him the train was slowing down to a local station at the time, so he wasn’t killed.”

“Only bruised a bit, as he told Jenny,” continued the boy, “he then cut across country, making for Fryfeld, and stole the clothes off a scarecrow; stole food also, and tobacco, by breaking into a village shop on the way. Jenny told him it wasn’t safe for him to remain in the cottage as it was being watched.”

“Kemp!” grunted the Inspector, nodding, “he doesn’t seem to have done his duty.”

Jimmy went on with his interesting story: “Jenny suggested that she and Bill should go to Old Wung’s den, and see if he couldn’t get them both out of the country. Tyson agreed, so after a time they came out, and sneaked by by-paths to take the London train at Cornby.”

“Why didn’t you follow them?” questioned Dick, sharply.

“Because I wasn’t sure of myself, and also wanted to give the Inspector here the credit of capturing the lot. I believed not only Jenny Walton and Bill Tyson will be found in Old Wung’s place, but Mrs. Jerr and Wu Ti.”

Trant shook the boy’s hand warmly. “Good lad! good lad. But if Wu Ti has discarded his Chinese dress he won’t risk going to Wung’s den, knowing that he may be searched for amongst his countrymen.”

“Oh, he’ll go there, sir—if only to smoke opium.”

Dick looked up. “Would a respectable old lady like Mrs. Jerr go also?”

“Is she respectable?” queried Jimmy, meaningly. “I think when we learn who Mrs. Jerr really is, we won’t find her so respectable as you think.”

“Eh—what—what—what?” Trant jumped up in a nervous hurry.

“My imagination again, sir,” said Jimmy, dryly: the accusation had rankled, “but it wouldn’t be a bad idea to test its truth or falsity by going to Whitechapel,” and he chuckled mischievously.

“I can’t think that Tyson would risk going there—into the lion’s jaw.”

“I have heard,” observed the youth, sententiously, “that the only way to avoid danger is to walk right into it.”

“I hope you are right,” muttered the officer, “I’ll visit Wung to-morrow; but to-night I must see Mr. Chane—I mean Mr. More—about Rackham. He’s gone to Town.”

“How do you know that, Trant?”

“I saw him boarding a train at Chelmsford and recognized him by the scar you described, Mr. Hustings. He was off before I could question him. Pity, as it’s time lost. I want to know of Slanton’s doings in France. Somehow I think that the truth of all these matters is to be found there.”

He was turning to go when Mrs. Webb bustled into the room with a post-card. “For you, Miss,” she said, handing it to Aileen, “it arrived by the second morning post, and went clean out of my head. Sorry, Miss.” Aileen read the card as Mrs. Webb bustled out again—read it slowly, as both the writing and the spelling were execrable. “From Jenny,” she said, and read it out. It was brief and to the point:

“Dere Mis, Ailin,” wrote Jenny laboriously, “Bil hev kom, for me, and i am gowin witth Bil. Ef ther’s troubble, i kan ’elp, es i ses. Putt the troubble in the nospipirs, and i shell twigg. Yor Afextonite Jenny.”

“What’s the address,” Trant took the card, “none—post-mark—Whitechapel—dated yesterday. Oh she’s gone to Wung’s crib sure enough. Tyson with her, I’ll bet. Mr. Hustings, we’ll visit that place to-night.”

“Cheerio!” cried Jimmy, who had picked up that word from a soldier, “me too.”