HURD'S INFORMATION

For the next day or two Paul was kept closely to work in the office, reading a number of tales which were awaiting his judgment. After hours, he several times tried to see Billy Hurd, but was unable to meet him. He left a note at the Scotland Yard office, asking if Hurd had received his communication regarding Mrs. Krill, and if so, what he proposed to do concerning it. Hurd did not reply to this note, and Paul was growing puzzled over the silence of the detective. At length the answer came, not in writing, but in the person of Hurd himself, who called on Beecot.

The young man had just finished his frugal meal and was settling down to an evening's work when there came a knock to the door. Hurd, dressed in his usual brown suit, presented himself, looking cool and composed. But he was more excited than one would imagine, as Paul saw from the expression of his eyes. The detective accepted a cup of coffee and lighted his pipe. Then he sat down in the arm-chair on the opposite side of the fireplace and prepared to talk. Paul heaped on coals with a lavish hand, little as he could afford this extravagance, as the night was cold and he guessed that Hurd had much to say. So, on the whole, they had a very comfortable and interesting conversation.

"I suppose you are pleased to see me?" asked Hurd, puffing meditatively at his briar.

Paul nodded. "Very glad," he answered, "that is, if you have done anything about Mrs. Krill?"

"Well," drawled the detective, smiling, "I have been investigating that murder case."

"Lady Rachel Sandal's?" said Beecot, eagerly. "Is it really murder?"

"I think so, though some folks think it suicide. Curious you should have stumbled across that young lord," went on Hurd, musingly, "and more curious still that he should have been in the room with Mrs. Krill without recollecting the name. There was a great fuss made about it at the time."

"Oh, I can understand Lord George," said Beecot, promptly. "The murder, if it is one, took place before he was born, and as there seems to have been some scandal in the matter, the family hushed it up. This young fellow probably gathered scraps of information from old servants, but from what he said to me in the cab, I think he knows very little."

"Quite enough to put me on the track of Lemuel Krill's reason for leaving Christchurch."

"Is that the reason?"

"Yes. Twenty-three years ago he left Christchurch at the very time Lady Rachel was murdered in his public-house. Then he disappeared for a time, and turned up a year later in Gwynne Street with a young wife whom he had married in the meantime."

"Sylvia's mother?"

"Exactly. And Miss Norman was born a year later. She's nearly twenty-one, isn't she?"

"Yes. She will be twenty-one in three months."

Hurd nodded gravely. "The time corresponds," said he. "As the crime was committed twenty-three years back and Lord George is only twenty, I can understand how he knows so little about it. But didn't he connect Mrs. Krill with the man who died in Gwynne Street?"

"No. She explained that. The name of Krill appeared only a few times in the papers, and was principally set forth with the portrait, in the hand-bills. I shouldn't think Lord George was the kind of young man to bother about hand-bills."

"All the same, he might have heard talk at his club. Everyone isn't so stupid."

"No. But, at all events, he did not seem to connect Mrs. Krill with the dead man. And even with regard to the death of his aunt, he fancied she might not be the same woman."

"What an ass he must be," said Hurd, contemptuously.

"I don't think he has much brain," confessed Paul, shrugging his shoulders; "but he asked me if I thought Mrs. Krill was the same as the landlady of 'The Red Pig,' and I denied that she was. I don't like telling lies, but in this case I hope the departure from truth will be pardoned."

"You did very right," said the detective. "The fewer people know about these matters the better—especially a chatterbox like this young fool."

"Do you know him?"

"Yes, under the name of the Count de la Tour. But I know of him in another way, which I'll reveal later. Hay is still fleecing him?"

"He is. But Lord George seems to be growing suspicious of Hay," and Paul related the conversation he had with the young man.

Hurd grunted. "I'm sorry," he said. "I want to catch Hay red-handed, and if Lord George grows too clever I may not be able to do so."

"Well," said Paul, rather impatiently, "never mind about that fellow just now, but tell me what you have discovered."

"Oh, a lot of interesting things. When I got your letter, of course I at once connected the opal serpent with Aaron Norman, and his change of name with the murder. I knew that Norman came to Gwynne Street over twenty years ago—that came out in the evidence connected with his death. Therefore, putting two and two together, I searched in the newspapers of that period and found what I wanted."

"A report of the case?"

"Precisely. And after that I hunted up the records at Scotland Yard for further details that were not made public. So I got the whole story together, and I am pretty certain that Aaron Norman, or as he then was, Lemuel Krill, murdered Lady Rachel for the sake of that precious brooch."

"Ah," said Paul, drawing a breath, "now I understand why he fainted when he saw it again. No wonder, considering it was connected in his mind with the death of Lady Rachel."

"Quite so. And no wonder the man kept looking over his shoulder in the expectation of being tapped on the shoulder by a policeman. I don't wonder also that he locked up the house and kept his one eye on the ground, and went to church secretly to pray. What a life he must have led. Upon my soul, bad as the man was, I'm sorry for him."

"So am I," said Paul. "And after all, he is Sylvia's father."

"Poor girl, to have a murderer for a father!"

Beecot turned pale. "I love Sylvia for herself," he said, with an effort, "and if her father had committed twenty murders I would not let her go. But she must never know."

"No," said Hurd, stretching his hand across and giving Paul a friendly grip, "and I knew you'd stick to her. It wouldn't be fair to blame the girl for what her father did before she was born."

"We must keep everything from her, Hurd. I'll marry her and take her abroad sooner than she should learn of this previous murder. But how did it happen?"

"I'll tell you in a few minutes." Hurd rose and began to pace the narrow limits of the attic. "By the way, do you know that Norman was a secret drinker of brandy?"

Paul nodded, and told the detective what he had learned from Mrs. Krill. Hurd was much struck with the intelligence. "I see," said he; "what Mrs. Krill says is quite true. Drink does change the ordinary nature into the opposite. Krill sober was a timid rabbit; Krill drunk was a murderer and a thief. Good lord, and how he drank!"

"How do you know?"

"Well," confessed Hurd, nursing his chin, "Pash and I went to search the Gwynne Street house to find, if possible, the story alluded to in the scrap of paper Deborah Junk found. We couldn't drop across anything of that sort, but in Norman's bedroom, which nobody ever entered, we found brandy bottles by the score. Under the bed, ranged along the walls, filling cupboards, stowed away in boxes. I had the curiosity to count them. Those we found, ran up to five hundred, and Lord knows how many more he must have got rid of when he found the bottles crowding him inconveniently."

"I expect he got drunk every night," said Paul, thinking. "When he locked up Sylvia and Deborah in the upper room—I can understand now why he did so—he could go to the cellar and take possession of the shop key left on the nail by Bart. Then, free from all intrusion, he could drink till reeling. Not that I think he ever did reel," went on Beecot, mindful of what Mrs. Krill had said; "he could stand a lot, and I expect the brandy only converted him into a demon."

"And a clever business man," said Hurd. "You know Aaron Norman was not clever over the books. Bart sold those, but from all accounts he was a Shylock when dealing, after seven o'clock, in the pawnbroking way. I understand now. Sober, he was a timid fool; drunk, he was a bold, clever villain."

"My poor Sylvia, what a father," sighed Paul; "but this crime—"

"I'll tell you about it. Lemuel Krill and his wife kept 'The Red Pig' at Christchurch, a little public house it is, on the outskirts of the town, frequented by farm-laborers and such-like. The business was pretty good, but the couple didn't look to making their fortune. Mrs. Krill was a farmer's daughter."

"A Buckinghamshire farmer," said Paul.

"How do you know? oh!"—on receiving information—"Mrs. Krill told you so? Well, considering the murder of Lady Rachel, she would have done better to hold her tongue and have commenced life with her dead husband's money under a new name. She's a clever woman, too," mused Hurd, "I can't understand her being so unnecessarily frank."

"Never mind, go on," said Paul, impatiently.

Hurd returned to his seat and re-filled his pipe. "Well, then," he continued, "Krill got drunk and gave his wife great trouble. Sometimes he thrashed her and blacked her eyes, and he treated their daughter badly too."

"How old was the daughter?"

"I can't say. Why do you ask?"

"I'll tell you later. Go on, please."

"Well, then, Mrs. Krill always revenged herself on her husband when he was sober and timid, so the couple were evenly matched. Krill was master when drunk, and his wife mistress when he was sober. A kind of see-saw sort of life they must have led."

"Where does Lady Rachel come in?"

"What an impatient chap you are," remonstrated Hurd, in a friendly tone. "I'm coming to that now. Lady Rachel quarrelled with her father over some young artist she wanted to marry. He would not allow the lover to come to the Hall, so Lady Rachel said she would kill herself rather than give him up."

"And she did," said Paul, thinking of the suicide theory.

"There you go again. How am I to tell you all when you interrupt."

"I beg your pardon. I won't do so again."

Hurd nodded smilingly and continued. "One night—it was dark and stormy—Lady Rachel had a row royal with her father. Then she ran out of the Hall saying her father would never see her alive again. She may have intended to commit suicide certainly, or she may have intended to join her lover in London. But whatever she intended to do, the rain cooled her. She staggered into Christchurch and fell down insensible at the door of 'The Red Pig.' Mrs. Krill brought her indoors and laid her on a bed."

"Did she know who the lady was?"

Hurd shook his head. "She said in her evidence that she did not, but living in the neighborhood, she certainly must have seen Lady Rachel sometimes. Krill was drunk as usual. He had been boozing all the day with a skipper of some craft at Southampton. He was good for nothing, so Mrs. Krill did everything. She declares that she went to bed at eleven leaving Lady Rachel sleeping."

"Did Lady Rachel recover her senses?"

"Yes—according to Mrs. Krill—but she refused to say who she was, and merely stated that she would sleep at 'The Red Pig' that night and would go on to London next morning. Mrs. Krill swore that Lady Rachel had no idea of committing suicide. Well, about midnight, Mrs. Krill, who slept in one room with her daughter, was awakened by loud shouts. She sprang to her feet and hurried out, her daughter came also, as she had been awakened and was terrified. Mrs. Krill found that her husband was raving mad with drink and smashing the furniture in the room below. The skipper—"

"What was the skipper's name?"

"Jessop—Jarvey Jessop. Well, he also, rather drunk, was retiring to bed and stumbled by chance into Lady Rachel's room. He found her quite dead and shouted for assistance. The poor lady had a silk handkerchief she wore tied tightly round her throat and fastened to the bedpost. When Jessop saw this, he ran out of the inn in dismay. Mrs. Krill descended to give the alarm to her neighbors, but Krill struck her down, and struck his daughter also, making her mouth bleed. An opal brooch that Lady Rachel wore was missing, but Mrs. Krill only knew of that the next day. She was insensible from the blow given by Krill, and the daughter ran out to get assistance. When the neighbors entered, Krill was gone, and notwithstanding all the search made for him he could not be found."

"And Jessop?"

"He turned up and explained that he had been frightened on finding the woman dead. But the police found him on his craft at Southampton, and he gave evidence. He said that Krill when drunk, and like a demon, as Mrs. Krill told you, had left the room several times. The last time he came back, he and the skipper had a final drink, and then Jessop retired to find—the body. It was supposed by the police that Krill had killed Lady Rachel for the sake of the brooch, which could not be discovered—"

"But the brooch—"

"Hold on. I know what you are about to say. We'll come to that shortly. Let me finish this yarn first. It was also argued that, from Lady Rachel's last words to her father, and from the position of the body—tied by the neck to the bedpost—that she had committed suicide. Mrs. Krill, as I said, declared the deceased lady never mentioned the idea of making away with herself. However, Krill's flight and the chance that, being drunk, he might have strangled the lady for the sake of the brooch while out of the room, made many think he was the culprit, especially as Jessop said that Krill had noticed the brooch and commented on the opals."

"He was a traveller in jewels once, according to his wife."

"Yes, and left that to turn innkeeper. Afterwards he vanished, as I say, and became a pawnbroker in Gwynne Street. Well, the jury at the inquest could not agree. Some thought Lady Rachel had committed suicide, and others that Krill had murdered her. Then the family didn't want a scandal, so in one way and another the matter was hushed up. The jury brought in a verdict of suicide by a majority of one, so you can see how equally they were divided. Lady Rachel's body was laid in the family vault, and nothing more was heard of Lemuel Krill."

"What did Mrs. Krill do?"

"She stopped on at the inn, as she told you. People were sorry for her and helped her, so she did very well. Mother and daughter have lived at 'The Red Pig' all these years, highly respected, until they saw the hand-bills about Krill. Then the money was claimed, but as the circumstance of Lady Rachel's fate was so old, nobody thought of mentioning it till this young lord did so to you, and I—as you see—have hunted out the details."

"What is your opinion, Hurd?" asked Paul, deeply interested.

"Oh, I think Krill murdered the woman and then cut to London. That accounts for his looking over his shoulder, etc., about which we talked."

"But how did he get money to start as a bookseller? Premises are not leased in Gwynne Street for nothing."

"Well, he might have got money on the brooch."

"No. The brooch was pawned by a nautical gentleman." Paul started up. "Captain Jessop, perhaps. You remember?" he said excitedly.

"Ah," said Hurd, puffing his pipe with satisfaction, "I see you understand. I mentioned that about the brooch to hear what you would say. Yes, Jessop must have pawned the brooch at Stowley, and it must have been Jessop who came with the note for the jewels to Pash."

"Ha," said Paul, walking excitedly about the room. "Then it would seem that Jessop and Krill were in league?"

"I think so," said Hurd, staring at the fire. "And yet I am not sure. Jessop may have found that Krill had killed the woman, and then have made him give up the brooch, which he afterwards pawned at Stowley. Though why he should go near Mrs. Krill's old home, I can't understand."

"Is Stowley near her old home?"

"Yes—in Buckinghamshire. However, after pawning the brooch I expect Jessop lost sight of Krill till he must have come across him a few days before the crime. Then he must have made Krill sign the paper ordering the jewels to be given up by Pash, so that he might get money."

"A kind of blackmail in fact."

"Well," said Hurd, doubtfully, "after all, Jessop might have killed Krill himself."

"But how did Jessop get the brooch?"

"Ah, that I can't tell you, unless Norman himself picked it up in the street. We must find these things out. I'm going to Christchurch to make inquiries. I'll let you know what I discover," and Hurd rose.

"One minute," said Paul, hastily. "Do you think Miss Krill is the dead man's child?"

"Of course. She's as like her mother as two peas. Why do you ask?"

Paul detailed what Sylvia and Deborah had said. "So if she is over thirty," said Beecot, "she can't be Krill's child, or else she must have been born before Krill married his wife. In either case, she has no right to the money."

"It's strange," said Hurd, musingly. "I'll have to look into that. Meanwhile, I've got plenty to do."

"There's another thing I have to say."

"You'll confuse me, Beecot. What is it?"

"The sugar and that hawker," and Paul related what Sylvia had said about Thuggism. Hurd sat down and stared. "That must be bosh," he said, looking at the novel, "and yet it's mighty queer. I say," he took the three volumes, "will you lend me these?"

"Yes. Be careful. They are not mine."

"I'll be careful. But I can't dip into them just yet, nor can I go into the Hindoo business, let alone this age of Miss Krill. The first thing I have to do is to go to Christchurch and see—"

"And see if Mrs. Krill was at home on the night of the sixth of July."

Hurd started. "Oh," said he, dryly, "the night the crime was committed, you mean? Well, I didn't intend to look up that point, as I do not see how Mrs. Krill can be implicated. However, I'll take a note of that," and this he did, and then continued. "But I'm anxious to find Jessop. I shouldn't be at all surprised to learn that he committed the double crime."

"The double crime?"

"Yes. He might have strangled Lady Rachel, and twenty years later have killed Krill. I can't be sure, but I think he is the guilty person."

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