The Beetle (36 page)

Lessingham caught me by the sleeve.

'Mr Champnell, tell me your theory.'

'I will, a little later. Of course it may be altogether wrong;—
though I fancy it is not; I will explain my reasons when we come
to talk of it. But, at present, there are things which must be
done.'

'I vote for tearing up every board in the house!' cried Sydney.
'And for pulling the whole infernal place to pieces. It's a
conjurer's den.—I shouldn't be surprised if cabby's old gent is
staring at us all the while from some peephole of his own.'

We examined the entire house, methodically, so far as we were
able, inch by inch. Not another board proved loose,—to lift those
which were nailed down required tools, and those we were without.
We sounded all the walls,—with the exception of the party walls
they were the usual lath and plaster constructions, and showed no
signs of having been tampered with. The ceilings were intact; if
anything was concealed in them it must have been there some time,
—the cement was old and dirty. We took the closet to pieces;
examined the chimneys; peered into the kitchen oven and the
copper;—in short, we pried into everything which, with the
limited means at our disposal, could be pried into,—without
result. At the end we found ourselves dusty, dirty, and
discomfited. The cabman's 'old gent' remained as much a mystery as
ever, and no further trace had been discovered of Miss Lindon.

Atherton made no effort to disguise his chagrin.

'Now what's to be done? There seems to be just nothing in the
place at all, and yet that there is, and that it's the key to the
whole confounded business I should be disposed to swear.'

'In that case I would suggest that you should stay and look for
it. The cabman can go and look for the requisite tools, or a
workman to assist you, if you like. For my part it appears to me
that evidence of another sort is, for the moment, of paramount
importance; and I propose to commence my search for it by making a
call at the house which is over the way.'

I had observed, on our arrival, that the road only contained two
houses which were in anything like a finished state,—that which
we were in, and another, some fifty or sixty yards further down,
on the opposite side. It was to this I referred. The twain
immediately proffered their companionship.

'I will come with you,' said Mr Lessingham.

'And I,' echoed Sydney. 'We'll leave this sweet homestead in
charge of the cabman,—I'll pull it to pieces afterwards.' He went
out and spoke to the driver. 'Cabby, we're going to pay a visit to
the little crib over there,—you keep an eye on this one. And if
you see a sign of anyone being about the place,—living, or dead,
or anyhow—you give me a yell. I shall be on the lookout, and I'll
be with you before you can say Jack Robinson.'

'You bet I'll yell,—I'll raise the hair right off you.' The
fellow grinned. 'But I don't know if you gents are hiring me by
the day,—I want to change my horse; he ought to have been in his
stable a couple of hours ago.'

'Never mind your horse,—let him rest a couple of hours extra to-
morrow to make up for those he has lost to-day. I'll take care you
don't lose anything by this little job,—or your horse either.—By
the way, look here,—this will be better than yelling.'

Taking a revolver out of his trousers' pocket he handed it up to
the grinning driver.

'If that old gent of yours does appear, you have a pop at him,—I
shall hear that easier than a yell. You can put a bullet through
him if you like,—I give you my word it won't be murder.'

'I don't care if it is,' declared the cabman, handling the weapon
like one who was familiar with arms of precision. 'I used to fancy
my revolver shooting when I was with the colours, and if I do get
a chance I'll put a shot through the old hunks, if only to prove
to you that I'm no liar.'

Whether the man was in earnest or not I could not tell,—nor
whether Atherton meant what he said in answer.

'If you shoot him I'll give you fifty pounds.'

'All right!' The driver laughed. 'I'll do my best to earn that
fifty!'

That the house over the way was tenanted was plain to all the
world,—at least one occupant sat gazing through the window of the
first floor front room. An old woman in a cap,—one of those large
old-fashioned caps which our grandmothers used to wear, tied with
strings under the chin. It was a bow window, and as she was seated
in the bay looking right in our direction she could hardly have
failed to see us as we advanced,—indeed she continued to stare at
us all the while with placid calmness. Yet I knocked once, twice,
and yet again without the slightest notice being taken of my
summons.

Sydney gave expression to his impatience in his own peculiar vein.

'Knockers in this part of the world seem intended for ornament
only,—nobody seems to pay any attention to them when they're
used. The old lady upstairs must be either deaf or dotty.' He went
out into the road to see if she still was there. 'She's looking at
me as calmly as you please,—what does she think we're doing here,
I wonder; playing a tune on her front door by way of a little
amusement?—Madam!' He took off his hat and waved it to her.
'Madam! might I observe that if you won't condescend to notice
that we're here your front door will run the risk of being
severely injured!—She don't care for me any more than if I was
nothing at all,—sound another tattoo upon that knocker. Perhaps
she's so deaf that nothing short of a cataclysmal uproar will
reach her auditory nerves.'

She immediately proved, however, that she was nothing of the sort.
Hardly had the sounds of my further knocking died away than,
throwing up the window, she thrust out her head and addressed me
in a fashion which, under the circumstances, was as unexpected as
it was uncalled for.

'Now, young man, you needn't be in such a hurry!'

Sydney explained.

'Pardon me, madam, it's not so much a hurry we're in as pressed
for time,—this is a matter of life and death.'

She turned her attention to Sydney,—speaking with a frankness for
which, I imagine, he was unprepared.

'I don't want none of your imperence, young man. I've seen you
before,—you've been hanging about here the whole day long!—and I
don't like the looks of you, and so I'll let you know. That's my
front door, and that's my knocker,—I'll come down and open when I
like, but I'm not going to be hurried, and if the knocker's so
much as touched again, I won't come down at all.'

She closed the window with a bang. Sydney seemed divided between
mirth and indignation.

'That's a nice old lady, on my honour,—one of the good old crusty
sort. Agreeable characters this neighbourhood seems to grow,—a
sojourn hereabouts should do one good. Unfortunately I don't feel
disposed just now to stand and kick my heels in the road.' Again
saluting the old dame by raising his hat he shouted to her at the
top of his voice. 'Madam, I beg ten thousand pardons for troubling
you, but this is a matter in which every second is of vital
importance,—would you allow me to ask you one or two questions?'

Up went the window; out came the old lady's head.

'Now, young man, you needn't put yourself out to holler at me,—I
won't be hollered at! I'll come down and open that door in five
minutes by the clock on my mantelpiece, and not a moment before.'

The fiat delivered, down came the window. Sydney looked rueful,—
he consulted his watch.

'I don't know what you think, Champnell, but I really doubt if
this comfortable creature can tell us anything worth waiting
another five minutes to hear. We mustn't let the grass grow under
our feet, and time is getting on.'

I was of a different opinion,—and said so.

'I'm afraid, Atherton, that I can't agree with you. She seems to
have noticed you hanging about all day; and it is at least
possible that she has noticed a good deal which would be well
worth our hearing. What more promising witness are we likely to
find?—her house is the only one which overlooks the one we have
just quitted. I am of opinion that it may not only prove well
worth our while to wait five minutes, but also that it would be as
well, if possible, not to offend her by the way. She's not likely
to afford us the information we require if you do.'

'Good. If that's what you think I'm sure I'm willing to wait,—
only it's to be hoped that that clock upon her mantelpiece moves
quicker than its mistress.'

Presently, when about a minute had gone, he called to the cabman.

'Seen a sign of anything?'

The cabman shouted back.

'Ne'er a sign,—you'll hear a sound of popguns when I do.'

Those five minutes did seem long ones. But at last Sydney, from
his post of vantage in the road, informed us that the old lady was
moving.

'She's getting up;—she's leaving the window;—let's hope to
goodness she's coming down to open the door. That's been the
longest five minutes I've known.'

I could hear uncertain footsteps descending the stairs. They came
along the passage. The door was opened—'on the chain.' The old
lady peered at us through an aperture of about six inches.

'I don't know what you young men think you're after, but have all
three of you in my house I won't. I'll have him and you'—a skinny
finger was pointed to Lessingham and me; then it was directed
towards Atherton—'but have him I won't. So if it's anything
particular you want to say to me, you'll just tell him to go
away.'

On hearing this Sydney's humility was abject. His hat was in his
hand,—he bent himself double.

'Suffer me to make you a million apologies, madam, if I have in
any way offended you; nothing, I assure you, could have been
farther from my intention, or from my thoughts.'

'I don't want none of your apologies, and I don't want none of you
neither; I don't like the looks of you, and so I tell you. Before
I let anybody into my house you'll have to sling your hook.'

The door was banged in our faces. I turned to Sydney.

'The sooner you go the better it will be for us. You can wait for
us over the way.'

He shrugged his shoulders, and groaned,—half in jest, half in
earnest.

'If I must I suppose I must,—it's the first time I've been
refused admittance to a lady's house in all my life! What have I
done to deserve this thing?—If you keep me waiting long I'll tear
that infernal den to pieces!'

He sauntered across the road, viciously kicking the stones as he
went. The door reopened.

'Has that other young man gone?'

'He has.'

'Then now I'll let you in. Have him inside my house I won't.'

The chain was removed. Lessingham and I entered. Then the door was
refastened and the chain replaced. Our hostess showed us into the
front room on the ground floor; it was sparsely furnished and not
too clean,—but there were chairs enough for us to sit upon; which
she insisted on our occupying.

'Sit down, do,—I can't abide to see folks standing; it gives me
the fidgets.'

So soon as we were seated, without any overture on our parts she
plunged in medias res.

'I know what it is you've come about,—I know! You want me to tell
you who it is as lives in the house over the road. Well, I can
tell you,—and I dare bet a shilling that I'm about the only one
who can.'

I inclined my head.

'Indeed. Is that so, madam?'

She was huffed at once.

'Don't madam me,—I can't bear none of your lip service. I'm a
plain-spoken woman, that's what I am, and I like other people's
tongues to be as plain as mine. My name's Miss Louisa Coleman; but
I'm generally called Miss Coleman,—I'm only called Louisa by my
relatives.'

Since she was apparently between seventy and eighty—and looked
every year of her apparent age—I deemed that possible. Miss
Coleman was evidently a character. If one was desirous of getting
information out of her it would be necessary to allow her to
impart it in her own manner,—to endeavour to induce her to impart
it in anybody else's would be time clean wasted. We had Sydney's
fate before our eyes.

She started with a sort of roundabout preamble.

'This property is mine; it was left me by my uncle, the late
George Henry Jobson,—he's buried in Hammersmith Cemetery just
over the way,—he left me the whole of it. It's one of the finest
building sites near London, and it increases in value every year,
and I'm not going to let it for another twenty, by which time the
value will have more than trebled,—so if that is what you've come
about, as heaps of people do, you might have saved yourselves the
trouble. I keep the boards standing, just to let people know that
the ground is to let,—though, as I say, it won't be for another
twenty years, when it'll be for the erection of high-class
mansions only, same as there is in Grosvenor Square,—no shops or
public houses, and none of your shanties. I live in this place
just to keep an eye upon the property,—and as for the house over
the way, I've never tried to let it, and it never has been let,
not until a month ago, when, one morning, I had this letter. You
can see it if you like.'

She handed me a greasy envelope which she ferreted out of a
capacious pocket which was suspended from her waist, and which she
had to lift up her skirt to reach. The envelope was addressed, in
unformed characters, 'Miss Louisa Coleman, The Rhododendrons,
Convolvulus Avenue, High Oaks Park, West Kensington.'—I felt, if
the writer had not been of a humorous turn of mind, and drawn on
his imagination, and this really was the lady's correct address,
then there must be something in a name.

The letter within was written in the same straggling,
characterless caligraphy,—I should have said, had I been asked
offhand, that the whole thing was the composition of a servant
girl. The composition was about on a par with the writing.