AT CHRISTCHURCH, HANTS

The next afternoon Hurd was on his way to the former abode of Mrs. Krill. During the journey he glanced at his notes and arranged what inquiries he should make. It struck him as strange that Mrs. Krill should have told Paul of her association with "The Red Pig," considering the reputation of the place, in connection with Lady Rachel Sandal's murder—or suicide. It would have been better had Mrs. Krill changed her name by letters patent and have started a new life on her dead husband's money. The detective could not understand the reason for this unnecessary frankness.

Before leaving town he took the precaution to call on Pash and note down a description of the sailor—presumably Jessop—who had tried to obtain possession of the jewels on the morning after the crime had been committed in Gwynne Street. He learned that the man (who had given no name) was tall and stout, with the flushed skin of a habitual drinker of strong waters, and reddish hair mixed with grey. He also had a scar running from his right temple to his mouth, and although this was partly concealed by a beard, yet it was distinctly visible. The man was dressed in blue serge, carried his large hands slightly clenched, and rolled in his gait. Hurd noted these things down, and had little doubt but what he would recognize the man if he came across him. Connecting him with the individual who had pawned the brooch at Stowley, Hurd fancied he might be Jessop. He resolved to look for him in Southampton, as, judging from the evidence given at the inquest on Lady Rachel's remains, that was the port of call for the mariner.

At the station immediately before that of Christchurch, Hurd glanced at a telegram which he produced out of his pocket-book, and then leaned out of the carriage window. A pretty, daintily-dressed little woman saw him and at once entered the carriage with a gay laugh. She was Miss Aurora Qian, and Paul would have been considerably astonished had he overheard her conversation with Mr. Hurd. But the detective and the actress had the compartment to themselves, and talked freely.

"It's the safest place to talk in," explained Miss Qian, producing a bag of chocolate and eating during the conversation. "Of course, I told the landlady at 'The Red Pig' that my brother was coming down, so we can go there right enough. But walls have ears. I don't think railway carriages have, though, and we have much to say, Billy."

"Have you found out anything, Aurora?" asked Hurd.

Miss Qian nodded. "A great deal considering I have been in the place only twenty-four hours. It's a good thing I'm out of an engagement, Billy, or I shouldn't have time to leave London or to look after that man Hay. I am a good sister."

"Well, you are. But there's money in the business also. If I can get that thousand pounds, you'll have your share."

"I know you'll treat me straight, Billy," said the actress, with much satisfaction. "I always say that my brother is as square a man as I know."

"The deuce you do," said Hurd, rather vexed. "I hope you don't go telling everyone that I am your brother, Aurora?"

"Only one or two special friends—not Hay, you may be sure. Nor does that nice Mr. Beecot know that we are brother and sister."

"You'd best keep it dark, and say nothing, Aurora. It's just as well you left the private detective business and went on the stage. You talk too much."

"Oh, no, I don't," retorted Miss Qian, eating a sweet. "Don't be nasty, Billy, or I'll tell you nothing."

Her brother shrugged his shoulders. He was very fond of Aurora, but he saw her many faults, and she certainly had too long a tongue for one engaged in private matters. "What about Hay?" he asked.

Aurora raised her eyes. "I thought you wanted to know of my discoveries at Christchurch," she said, pouting.

"Well, I do. But Hay?—"

"Oh, he's all right. He's going to marry Miss Krill and her money, and is getting cash together by fleecing young Sandal. That fool will play, and keeps losing his money, although I've warned him."

"Then don't warn him. I wish to catch Hay red-handed."

"Ah," Miss Qian nodded, "you may catch him red-handed in a worse matter than gambling."

"Aurora, you don't mean to say he has anything to do with the murder of Aaron Norman?"

"Well, I don't go so far as to say that, Billy. But when I got settled in the private sitting-room of 'The Red Pig' on the plea that I had come down for a change of air, and expected my brother—"

"Which you do without any lies."

"Yes, that's all right, Billy," she said impatiently. "Well, the first thing I clapped eyes on was a portrait of Grexon Hay in a silver frame on the mantelpiece."

"Hum," said Hurd, nursing his chin in his hand, "he may have given that to Miss Krill during the engagement."

"I daresay," rejoined the actress, tartly, "for he has been engaged for many a long day—say two years."

"I thought so," said Hurd, triumphantly. "I always fancied the meeting at Pash's office was a got-up thing."

"What made you think so?"

"Because, when disguised as the Count de la Tour, I overheard Hay address Miss Krill as Maud, and it was the first time she and her mother came to his rooms. Sandal was there, and gambling went on as usual. I lost money myself," said Hurd, with a grimace, "in order to make Hay think I was another pigeon to pluck. But the mention of the Christian name on so short an acquaintance showed me that Hay and Miss Krill had met before. I expect the meeting at Pash's office was a got-up game."

"You said that before, Billy. How you repeat yourself! Yes. There's an inscription on the portrait—'From Grexon to Maud with much love'—sweet, isn't it? when you think what an icicle the man is. There is also a date—two years ago the photograph was given. I admired the photograph and asked the landlady who was the swell."

"What's the landlady's name?"

"Matilda Junk."

Hurd almost jumped from his seat. "That's queer," he said, "the woman who is devoted to Miss Norman and who nursed her since she was a baby is called Deborah Junk."

"I know that," said Aurora, "I'm not quite a fool, Billy. I mentioned Deborah Junk, whom I saw at the inquest on Norman's body. The landlady said she was her sister, but she had not heard of her for ages. And this Matilda is just like Deborah in looks—a large Dutch doll with beady eyes and a badly painted face."

"Well, that's a point," said Hurd, making a note. "What did she say about the photograph?"

"Oh, that it was one of Mr. Hay who was Miss Krill's young man, and that they had been engaged for two years—"

"Matilda seems to be a chatterbox."

"She is. I got a lot out of her."

"Then there can be nothing to conceal on the part of Mrs. Krill?"

"Well," said Aurora, throwing the empty sweetmeat bag out of the window and brushing her lap, "so far as I can discover, Mrs. Krill is a perfectly respectable person, and has lived for thirty years as the landlady of 'The Red Pig.' Matilda acknowledged that her mistress had inherited the money of Lemuel Krill, and Matilda knows all about the murder."

"Matilda is wrong," said the detective, dryly; "Miss Krill gets the money."

Aurora smiled. "From what I heard, Miss Krill has to do what her mother tells her. She's nobody and her mother is all the world. Matilda confessed that her mistress had behaved very well to her. When the money came, she gave up 'The Red Pig' to Matilda Junk, who is now the landlady."

"With a proviso she should hold her tongue."

"No. Mrs. Krill, so far as I can learn, has nothing to conceal. Even if it becomes known in London that she was the landlady of a small pub, I don't think it will matter."

"Did you ask questions about Lady Rachel's murder?"

"No. You gave me only a hint when you sent me down. I didn't like to venture on ground I wasn't sure of. I'm more cautious than you."

"Well, I'll tell you everything now," said Hurd, and gave a rapid sketch of what he had learned from the newspapers and the Scotland Yard papers relative to the Sandal affair. Aurora nodded.

"But Matilda Junk said nothing of that. She merely stated that Mr. Lemuel Krill had gone to London over twenty years ago, and that his wife knew nothing of him until she saw the hand-bills."

"Hum," said Hurd again, as the train slowed down to the Christchurch station, "it seems all fair and above board. What about Jessop?"

"Knowing so little of the Lady Rachel case, I didn't inquire about him," said Aurora. "I've told you everything."

"Anyone else stopping at the inn?"

"No. And it's not a bad little place after all. The rooms are clean and the food good and the charges low. I'd rather stop at 'The Red Pig,' small as it is, than at the big hotel. The curries—oh, they are delightfully hot!" Miss Qian screwed her small face into a smile of ecstasy. "But, then, a native makes them."

Hurd started. "Curries—a native?"

"Yes—a man called Hokar."

"Aurora, that's the man who left the sugar on the counter of Norman's shop. I forgot you don't know about that," and Hurd rapidly told her of the episode.

"It's strange," said Miss Qian, nodding with a faraway look. "It would seem that Mrs. Krill knew of the whereabouts of her husband before she saw the hand-bills."

"And possibly about the murder also," said Hurd.

Brother and sister looked at one another; the case was becoming more and more interesting. Mrs. Krill evidently knew more than she chose to admit. But at this moment the train stopped, and they got out. Hurd took his handbag and walked into the town with his pretty sister tripping beside him. She gave him an additional piece of information before they arrived at "The Red Pig." "This Hokar is not at all popular," she said; "they say he eats cats and dogs. Yes. I've talked to several old women, and they say they lost their animals. One cat was found strangled in the yard, and—"

"Strangled!" interrupted the detective. "Hum, and the man's an Indian, possibly a Thug."

"What's a Thug?" asked Aurora, staring.

Hurd explained. "I ran through the book lent by Beecot last night," he added, "and was so interested I sat up till dawn—"

"You do look chippy," said his sister, candidly, "but from what you say, there are no Thugs living."

"No, the author says so. Still, it's queer, this strangling, and then the cruel way in which the man was murdered. Just what a Hindoo would do. The sugar too—"

"Oh, nonsense! Hokar left the sugar by mistake. If he had intended to murder Norman he wouldn't have given himself away."

"I expect he never thought anyone would guess he was a Thug. The novel is not one usually read nowadays. It was the merest chance that Miss Norman came across it and told Beecot."

"I don't believe in such coincidences," said Aurora, dryly; for in spite of her fluffy, kittenish looks, she was a very practical person. "But here we are at 'The Red Pig.' Nice and comfy, isn't it?"

The inn was certainly very pretty. It stood on the very verge of the town, and beyond stretched fields and hedgerows. The house itself was a white-washed, thatched, rustic cottage, with a badly painted sign of a large red sow. Outside were benches, where topers sat, and the windows were delightfully old-fashioned, diamond-paned casements. Quite a Dickens inn of the old coaching days was "The Red Pig."

But Hurd gave the pretty, quaint hostel only a passing glance. He was staring at a woman who stood in the doorway shading her eyes with the palm of her hand from the setting sun. In her the detective saw the image of Deborah Junk, now Tawsey. She was of the same gigantic build, with the same ruddy face, sharp, black eyes and boisterous manner. But she had not the kindly look of Deborah, and of the two sisters Hurd preferred the one he already knew.

"This is my brother, Miss Junk," said Aurora, marching up to the door; "he will only stay until to-morrow."

"You're welcome, sir," said Matilda in a loud and hearty voice, which reminded the detective more than ever of her sister. "Will you please walk in and 'ave some tea?"

Hurd nodded and repaired to the tiny sitting-room, where he saw the photograph of Hay on the mantelpiece. Aurora, at a hint from her brother, went to her bedroom to change her dress, and Hurd spoke to Matilda, when she brought in the tray. "I know your sister," said he.

Miss Junk nearly dropped the tray. "Lor', now, only think! Why, we ain't wrote to one another for ten years. And I left London eleven years back. And how is she, sir? and where is she?"

"She is well; she has a laundry in Jubileetown near London, and she is married to a fellow called Bart Tawsey."

"Married!" cried Matilda, setting down the tray and putting her arms akimbo, just like Deborah, "lor', and me still single. But now I've got this 'ouse, and a bit put by, I'll think of gittin' a 'usband. I ain't a-goin' to let Debby crow over me."

"Your sister was in the service of Mr. Norman before she took up the laundry," observed Hurd, pouring out a cup of tea.

"Was she, now? And why did she leave?"

The name of Norman apparently was unknown to Matilda, so Hurd tried the effect of another bombshell. "Her master was murdered under the name of Lemuel Krill."

"Mercy," Matilda dropped into a chair, with a thud which shook the room; "why, that's my ladies' husband and father."

"What ladies?" asked Hurd, pretending ignorance.

"My ladies, Mrs. Krill and Miss Maud. They had this 'ouse, and kep' it for years respectable. I worked for 'em ten, and when my ladies comes in for a forting, for a forting there is, they gave me the goodwill of 'The Red Pig.' To think of Debby being the servant of poor Mr. Krill as was killed. Who killed 'im?"

"Doesn't your mistress know?"

"She," cried Matilda, indignantly, and bouncing up. "Why, she was always a-lookin' for him, not as she loved him over much. And as he is dead, sir, it's no more as what he oughter be, seeing as he killed a poor lady in this very 'ouse. You'll sleep in 'er room to-night," added Matilda, as if that was a pleasure. "Strangled, she was."

"I think I heard of that. But Lady Rachel Sandal committed suicide."

Matilda rubbed her nose, after the Deborah fashion. "Well, sir, my ladies were never sure which it was, and, of course, it was before my time considerable, being more nor twenty year back. But the man as did it is dead, and lef' my ladies his money, as he oughter. An' Miss Maud's a-goin' to marry a real gent"—Matilda glanced at the photograph—"I allays said he wos a gent, bein' so 'aughty like, and wearing evening dress at meals, late."

"Was he ever down here, this gentleman?"

"He's been comin' and goin' fur months, and Miss Maud loves 'im somethin' cruel. But they'll marry now an' be 'appy."

"I suppose your ladies sometimes went to see this gent in town?"

"Meanin' Mr. Hay," said Matilda, artlessly. "Well, sir, they did, one at a time and then together. Missis would go and miss would foller, an' miss an' missus together would take their joy of the Towers an' shops and Madame Tusord's and sich like, Mr. Hay allays lookin' after 'em."

"Did they ever visit Mr. Hay in July?"

"No, they didn't," snapped Matilda, with a change of tone which did not escape Hurd; "and I don't know, sir, why you arsk them questions."

"My good woman, I ask no questions. If I do, you need not reply. Let us change the subject. My sister tells me you make good curries in this hotel."

"Hokar do, me bein' but a plain cook."

"Oh! He's an Indian?"

"Yes, he is, sir. A pore Indian castaway as missus took up with when he come here drenched with rain and weary. Ah, missus was allays good and kind and Christian-like."

Privately Hurd thought this description did not apply very well to the lady in question, but he was careful not to arouse Matilda's suspicions again by contradicting her. He pretended to joke. "I wonder you don't marry this Indian, and keep him here always to make the curries I have heard of."

"Me marry a black!" cried Matilda, tossing her rough head. "Well, sir, I never," her breath failed her, "an' him goin' about the country."

"What do you mean by that?"

"What I say," said Miss Junk; "he'll stop here, Christian-like, for days, and then go orf to sell things as a 'awker. My par was a 'awker, sir, but a white, white man of the finest."

Hurd was about to ask another question when a husky voice was heard singing somewhat out of tune. "What's that?" asked Hurd, irritably.

"Lor', sir, wot nervses you 'ave. 'Tis only Cap'n Jessop makin' hisself 'appy-like."

"Captain Jessop," Hurd laughed. He had run down his man at last.

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