A TERRIBLE NIGHT

"Go back!—go back, my precious!" cried Deborah, her first thought being how to spare Sylvia the sight.

But the girl, remembering that agonized cry which had awakened her, faint and far away as it sounded, pushed past the servant and ran into the middle of the shop. The lamp, held high by Deborah over her head, cast a bright circle of light on the floor, and in the middle of this Sylvia saw her father breathing heavily. His hands were bound behind his back in a painful way, his feet were tightly fastened, and his head seemed to be attached to the floor. At least, when the body (as it seemed from its stillness) suddenly writhed, it rolled to one side, but the head remained almost motionless. The two women hung back, clutching each other's hands, and were almost too horrified to move at the sight. "Look! Look!" cried Sylvia, gasping, "the mouth!" Deborah looked and gave a moan. Aaron's mouth was rigidly closed under a glittering jewel. Deborah bent down, still moaning, so great did the horror of the thing paralyse her speech, and saw the lights flash back from many diamonds: she saw bluish gleams and then a red sparkle like the ray of the setting sun. It was the opal serpent brooch, and Aaron's lips were fastened together with the stout pin. On his mouth and across his agonised face in which the one eye gleamed with terrific meaning the jewelled serpent seemed to writhe.

"Oh, poor soul!" cried Deborah, falling on her knees with the lamp still held above her head. "Sylvia see—"

The girl gasped again, and impulsively knelt also, trying with nerveless fingers to unfasten the cruel pin which sealed the man's lips. He still lived, for they heard him breathing and saw the gleaming eye: but even as they looked the face grew black: the eye opened and closed convulsively. Deborah set down the lamp and tried to raise the head. She could not lift it from the floor. Then the bound feet swung in the air and fell again with a dull thud. The eye remained wide open, staring in a glassy, manner: the breathing had stopped: and the body was motionless. "He's dead," said Deborah, leaping to her feet and catching away the girl. "Help! Help!"

Her loud voice rang fiercely through the empty shop and echoed round and round. But there came no answering cry. Not a sound could be heard in the street. On the bare floor was the lamp shining on that dreadful sight: the body with sealed lips, and the glittering jewel, and leaning against the wall were the two women, Deborah staring at her dead master, but with Sylvia's eyes pressed against her bosom so that she might not witness the horror. And the stillness deepened weirdly every moment.

Sylvia tried to move her head, but Deborah pressed it closer to her breast. "Don't, my pretty—don't," she whispered harshly.

"I must—I—ah!" the girl freed her head from those kind arms with a wrench, and looked at the gruesome sight. She staggered forward a few steps, and then fell back. Deborah received her in her arms, and, thankful that Sylvia had fainted, carried her up the stairs to lay the unconscious girl on her own bed. Then she descended rapidly, locked the door leading from the shop to the stairs, and again looked at the body. The time she had been away was about seven or eight minutes, and the body still remained with the one open eye staring meaninglessly at the ceiling. Deborah, drawn by fascination like a bird by a serpent, crept forward and touched the head. It moved, and she again tried to lift it. This time she found she could do so. The head she lifted against her breast, and then laid it down with horror when she found the bosom of her nightgown was stained with blood. Pulling her wits together, for she felt that she needed them every one, she examined the head and neck. To her horror she found round the throat a strong thin copper wire, which disappeared through a hole in the floor. Apparently this had been pulled so tightly as to keep the head down and to choke the old man, and so cruelly as to cut deeply into the flesh. With a moan of horror Deborah dropped the head and ran to the trap-door in the corner. If anywhere, those who had murdered Aaron Norman were lurking in the cellar. But the trap-door would not open, and then she remembered that it was closed by a bolt underneath. She could not reach the midnight assassin that way.

"The front door," she gasped, and ran to unbolt it. The bolts were easily removed, but the door was also locked, and Aaron usually had the key deposited nightly in the cellar by Bart. Repugnant as it was for her to approach the dead body, Deborah again went forward and felt in the pockets and loose clothing. The man was completely dressed, even to an overcoat which he wore. But she could not find the key and wondered what she was to do. Probably the key had been hung up in the cellar as usual. Necessity being the mother of invention, she remembered that the window-glass was fragile, and ran up in the hope of breaking through. But the stout shutters were up, so Deborah found that she was sealed in the house. Almost in a state of distraction, for by this time her nerve had given way, she unlocked the door to the stairs and ran up three steps at a time to the sitting-room. Here she opened the window and scrambled out on to the ledge among Sylvia's flower-pots. Just as she was wondering how she could get down, the measured tread of a policeman was heard, and by craning her neck Deborah saw him coming leisurely along the street, swinging his dark lantern on the windows and doors. It was a moonlight night and the street was extraordinarily well lighted as the moon shone straightly between the houses. Gathering her strength for a last effort, Deborah yelled as only she could yell, and saw the startled officer spinning round, looking up and down and sideways to see where the shrieks came from. "Up—up—oh, look up, you fool!" screamed Deborah. "Murder—oh, murder! Burst in the door, call the police, drat you! Help!—help!"

By this time she was the centre of a circle of bright light, for the policeman had located her, and his lantern was flashing on her white nightgown as she clung to the window-sill.

"What are you making that noise for?" called up the officer, gruffly.

"Murder, you fool!" screamed Deborah. "Master's murdered. Number forty-five—the door's locked—break it open. Police!—police!"

Before she finished the sentence the officer blew his whistle shrilly and ran to the door of the shop, against which he placed his shoulder. Deborah climbed in again by the window, and ran down again, but even then, in her excitement and horror, she did not forget to lock the door leading to the stairs, so that Sylvia might not be disturbed. As she descended she flung a thick shawl over her shoulders, which she had caught up when leaving her room, though for the rest she had nothing on but a nightgown. But the poor woman was too terrified to be troubled by any scruples at the moment, and reached the shop to hear heavy blows on the door. Between the thuds Deborah could hear footsteps running inward from every quarter. "I ain't got the key!" she shrieked through the keyhole; "break in the door, drat you! Murder!—murder!"

From the noise she made those without concluded that some terrible crime was taking place within, and redoubled their efforts. Deborah had just time to leap back after a final scream when the door fell flat on the floor, and three policemen sprang into the room with drawn batons and their lights flashing like stars. The lamp was still on the floor shedding its heavy yellow light on the corpse. "Master!" gasped Deborah, pointing a shaking finger. "Dead—the—the cellar—the—" and here she made as to drop. A policeman caught her in his arms, but the woman shook herself free. "I sha'n't faint—no—I sha'n't faint," she gasped, "the cellar—look—look—" She ran forward and raised the head of the dead man. When the officers saw the dangling slack wire disappearing through a hole in the floor they grasped the situation. "The passage outside!" cried Deborah, directing operations; "the trap-door," she ran to it, "fast bolted below, and them murdering people are there."

"How many are there?" asked a policeman, while several officers ran round the back through the side passage.

"Oh, you dratted fool, how should I know!" cried Deborah, fiercely; "there may be one and there may be twenty. Go and catch them—you're paid for it. Send to number twenty Park Street, Bloomsbury, for Bart."

"Who is Bart?"

"Go and fetch him," cried Deborah, furious at this delay; "number twenty Park Street, Bloomsbury. Oh, what a night this is! I'm a-goin' to see Miss Sylvia, who has fainted, and small blame," and she made for the locked door. An officer came after her. "Go away," shrieked Deborah, pushing him back. "I've got next to nothink on, and my pretty is ill. Go away and do your business."

Seeing she was distracted and hardly knew what she was saying, the man drew back, and Deborah ran up the stairs to Sylvia's room, where she found the poor girl still unconscious.

Meanwhile, an Inspector had arrived, and one of the policemen was detailing all that had occurred from the time Deborah had given the alarm at the window. The Inspector listened quietly to everything, and then examined the body. "Strangled with a copper wire," he said, looking up. "Go for a doctor one of you. It goes through the floor," he added, touching the wire which still circled the throat, "and must have been pulled from below. Examine the cellar."

Even as he spoke, and while one zealous officer ran off for a medical man, there was a grating sound and the trap-door was thrown open. A policeman leaped into the shop and saluted when he saw his superior. By this time the gas had been lighted. "We've broken down the back door, sir," said he, "the cellar door—it was locked but not bolted. Nothing in the cellar, everything in order, but that wire," he pointed to the means used for strangling, "dangled from the ceiling and a cross piece of wood is bound to the lower end."

"Who does the shop belong to?"

"Aaron Norman," said the policeman whose beat it was; "he's a second-hand bookseller, a quiet, harmless, timid sort of man."

"Anyone about?"

"No, sir. I passed down Gwynne Street at about a quarter past twelve and all seemed safe. When I come back later—it might have been twenty minutes and more—say twenty-five—I saw the woman who was down here clinging to a window on the first floor, and shouting murder. I gave the summons, sir, and we broke open the door."

Inspector Prince laid down the dead man's head and rose to his feet with a nod. "I'll go upstairs and see the woman," he said; "tell me when the doctor comes."

Upstairs he examined the sitting-room, and lighted the gas therein; then he mounted another storey after looking through the kitchen and dining-room. In a bedroom he found an empty bed, but heard someone talking in a room near at hand. Flinging open the door he heard a shriek, and found himself confronted by Deborah, who had hastily flung on some clothes. "Don't come in," she cried, extending her arm, "for I'm just getting Miss Sylvia round."

"Nonsense," said the Inspector, and pushing her roughly aside he stepped into the room. On the bed lay Sylvia, apparently still unconscious, but as the man looked at her she opened her eyes with a long sigh. Deborah put her arms round the girl and began to talk to her in an endearing way. Shortly Sylvia sat up, bewildered. "What is it?" she asked. Then her eyes fell on the policeman. "Oh, where is my father?"

"He's dead, pretty," said Deborah, fondling her. "Don't take on so."

"Yes—I remember—the body on the floor—the serpent across the mouth—oh—oh!" and she fainted again.

"There!" cried Deborah, with bitter triumph, "see what you've done."

"Come—come," said Inspector Prince, though as gently as possible. "I am in charge of this case. Tell me what has happened."

"If you'd use your blessed eyes you'd see murder has happened," said Miss Junk, savagely. "Let me attend to my pretty."

Just at this moment a tall young man entered the room. It was the doctor. "The policemen said you were up here," he said in a pleasant voice. "I've examined the body, Inspector. The man is quite dead—he has been strangled—and in a cruel manner with that copper wire, which has cut into the throat, to say nothing of this," and the doctor held out the brooch.

"That, drat it!" cried Deborah, vigorously, "it's the cause of it all, I do believe, if I died in saying so," and she began to rub Sylvia's hands vigorously.

"Who is this young lady?" asked the doctor; "another patient?"

"And well she may be," said Miss Junk. "Call yourself a doctor, and don't help me to bring her to."

"Do what you can," said Prince, "and you," he added to Deborah, "come down with me. I wish to ask you a few questions."

Deborah was no fool and saw that the Inspector was determined to make her do what he wanted. Besides, Sylvia was in the hands of the doctor, and Deborah felt that he could do more than she, to bring the poor girl to her senses. After a few parting injunctions she left the room and went downstairs with the Inspector. The police had made no further discovery.

Prince questioned not only the Gwynne Street policeman, who had given his report, but all others who had been in the vicinity. But they could tell him nothing. No one suspicious had been seen leaving Gwynne Street north or south, so, finding he could learn nothing in this direction, Prince turned his attention to the servant. "Now, then, what do you know?" he asked. "Don't say anything likely to incriminate yourself."

"Me!" shouted Deborah, bouncing up with a fiery face. "Don't you be taking away my character. Why, I know no more who have done it than a babe unborn, and that's stupid enough, I 'opes, Mr. Policeman. Ho! indeed, and we pays our taxes to be insulted by you, Mr. Policeman." She was very aggravating, and many a man would have lost his temper. But Inspector Prince was a quiet and self-controlled officer, and knew how to deal with this violent class of women. He simply waited till Deborah had exhausted herself, and then gently asked her a few questions. Finding he was reasonable, Deborah became reasonable on her part, and replied with great intelligence. In a few minutes the Inspector, by handling her deftly, learned all that had taken place on that terrible night, from the time Sylvia had started up in bed at the sound of that far-distant cry of a soul in agony. "And that, from what Miss Sylvia says," ended Deborah, "was just before the church clock struck the hour of twelve."

"You came down a quarter of an hour later?"

"I did, when Miss Sylvia woke me," said Deborah; "she was frightened out of her seven senses, and couldn't get up at once. Yes—it was about twenty minutes after the hour we come down to see—It," and the woman, strong nerved as she was, shuddered.

"Humph," said the Inspector, "the assassin had time to escape."

"Begging your pardon, sir, them, or him, or her, or it as murdered master was below in the cellar when we saw the corp—not that it was what you'd call a corp then."

"Will you say precisely what you mean?"

Deborah did so, and with such wealth of detail that even the hardened Inspector felt the creeps down his official back. There was something terribly merciless about this crime. The man had been bound like a sheep for the slaughter; his mouth had been sealed with the brooch so that he could not cry out, and then in the sight of his child and servant he had been slowly strangled by means of the copper wire which communicated with the cellar. One of the policemen brought up an auger which evidently had been used to bore the hole for the wire to pass through, for the fresh sawdust was still in its whorls. "Who does this belong to?" Prince asked Deborah.

"It's Bart's," said Deborah, staring; "he was using it along with other tools to make some deal boxes for master, who was going away. I expect it was found in the cellar in the tool-box, for Bart allays brought it in tidy-like after he'd done his work in the yard, weather being fine, of course," ended Deborah, sniffing.

"Where is this Bart?"

"In bed like a decent man if he's to be my husband, which he is," said Miss Junk, tartly. "I told one of them idle bobbies to go and fetch him from Bloomsbury."

"One has gone," said another policeman. "Bart Tawsey isn't he?"

"Mr. Bartholemew Tawsey, if you please," said the servant, grandly. "I only hope he'll be here soon to protect me."

"You're quite safe," said Prince, dryly, whereat there was a smile on the faces of his underlings, for Deborah in her disordered dress and with her swollen, flushed, excited face was not comely. "But what about this brooch you say is the cause of it all?"

Deborah dropped with an air of fatigue. "If you kill me I can't talk of it now," she protested. "The brooch belonged to Mr. Paul Beecot."

"And where is he?"

"In the Charing Cross Hospital if you want to know, and as he's engaged to my pretty you needn't think he done it—so there."

"I am accusing no one," said the Inspector, grimly, "but we must get to the bottom of this horrible crime."

"Ah, well you may call it that," wailed Deborah, "with that serping on his poor mouth and him wriggling like an eel to get free. But 'ark, there's my pretty a-calling," and Miss Junk dashed headlong from the shop shouting comfort to Sylvia as she went.

Prince looked at the dead man and at the opal serpent which he held in his hand. "This at one end of the matter, and that at the other. What is the connecting link between this brooch and that corpse?"

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