one of the things that used to make me the most nervous when we first took to hotel-keeping was not knowing what sort of people you’d got sleeping under your roof. anybody that’s got a portmanteau can come and stay at an hotel or an inn, and how are you to know who and what they are? they may be murderers, hiding from justice; they may be thieves or burglars; and they may be very respectable people; but, unless they’re old customers, you must take them on trust. it’s not a bit of good saying you can judge by appearances, because you can’t. the most gentlemanly and good-natured-looking man that ever stopped at our house gave us a cheque for his bill, and the cheque was never paid, and turned out to be one he’d helped himself to out of somebody else’s cheque-book; and, worse than that, when he left he took a good deal more away in his portmanteau than he brought with him, and one thing was a beautiful new suit belonging to a young gentleman staying in the house, which we had to make good. it worried me terribly when we found out that we’d had a regular hotel thief stopping with us, i can tell you; and, after we found it out, i was all of a tremble for days, expecting every minute something more to be found missing.
fortunately, the suit, and a scarf-pin of harry’s, and a silver-mounted walking-stick were all he went off with, so far as we ever discovered. perhaps he didn’t have a chance of getting anything else, and was satisfied with what he did get, and letting us in for ￡7 15s. he wanted to draw{211} the cheque for ten pounds and have the change, i remember; but i said “no” to that, and very glad i was afterwards that i did. it was a lesson to us, not getting the cheque paid. and after that we had a notice printed across all our billheads, “no cheques taken,” like most hotel-keepers do now. some of them have a very nice collection of unpaid cheques, which they keep as curiosities.
having been “done,” as harry calls it, once or twice, made us more careful, and so young fellows without much luggage that we didn’t know anything about, when they began to live extravagantly, having champagne, and all that sort of thing, and staying for more than a day, we generally kept an eye on.
when they were out, we used to go up to their rooms and just have a look round and see if they’d got much clothes with them, because the portmanteau is nothing to go by. it may be stuffed full of old books and newspapers.
it was just while we were extra suspicious through having been swindled and robbed by the man i’ve just told you about, that two gentlemen with two small portmanteaus came in one evening by the last train, and wanted two bedrooms and a sitting-room.
they were about thirty-five years old, i should say, by the look of them. one was tall and thin, and the other was short and stout. they certainly looked respectable, and were well dressed; but they talked in rather a curious way to each other, using words that neither harry nor i could understand, and that made us a little suspicious, and so we kept a sort of watch on them, and kept our ears open, too, as, of course, we had a right to do, seeing we had not only the reputation of the house to look after, but also the comfort and the property of the other customers.
i showed them their bedrooms, and, as it was late, i said, “i suppose, gentlemen, you won’t want a fire lighted in the sitting-room this evening?”
what made me say that was, it was past eleven, and, of course, i expected they would take their candles and go to bed.
the tall one said, “oh yes, we do; we’re rather late birds.{212}”
“that’s a nice thing,” i said to myself. “they’ll want the gas on half the night, and somebody will have to sit up and turn it off.”
however, i said nothing to them, but rang the bell, and had the fire lighted, and the gas lighted, and their portmanteaus carried upstairs.
they both pulled their chairs up to the fire, and the short gentleman lit a pipe.
“aren’t you going to smoke?” he said to the tall gentleman.
“i don’t know,” said the tall gentleman; “a cigar always makes me queer.” then he turned to me, and said, “have you got any very mild cigars?”
“yes, sir,” i said; “i think so. is there anything else you want?”
“what shall i have?” said the stout gentleman. “can i have a cup of tea?”
i looked at him. it was past eleven o’clock, and we were just on closing up everything, and the fire was out in the kitchen.
“well, sir,” i said; “if you particularly wish it—but——”
“oh, don’t trouble,” he said. “of course, we’re in the country. i forgot. bring me a whiskey-and-seltzer.”
“yes, sir; and what will you have, sir?” i said, turning to the long gentleman.
the long gentleman, if he was a minute making up his mind he was ten. first he thought he’d have whiskey, and then he said whiskey made him bilious; then he thought he’d have a brandy-and-soda; and then he thought he’d have a plain lemonade.
“you couldn’t make my friend a basin of gruel, could you?” said the stout gentleman; “he’s very delicate.”
of course i took him seriously, so i said, “well, sir, the cook’s gone to bed; but——”
“oh, don’t pay any attention to what he says,” says the tall gentleman; “he’s a lunatic. bring me—let’s see—lemonade’s such cold stuff this weather—i think i’ll have a port-wine negus.”
i was very glad to get the order and get out of the room, for i thought they were going to keep me there half an hour.{213}
when i got downstairs, i said to harry, “i can’t make those two men out quite, and i’m not sure i like them.”
“oh,” said harry, “i dare say they’re all right. i’ll take their measure to-morrow.”
i took up the cigar, and the whiskey-and-seltzer, and the port-wine negus, and put them down, and was just saying good night when the tall gentleman called me back.
“you’ve put nutmeg in this wine?” he said.
“yes, sir, it’s usual to put nutmeg in negus.”
“i’m very sorry, but i can’t take nutmeg—it makes me bilious. i think i’ll have a bottle of lemonade, after all.”
“bring him six of cod-liver oil hot, and a mustard-plaster,” said the stout gentleman.
the tall gentleman certainly looked rather delicate. he had a very fair face, and a lot of very fair hair, and there was a generally languid appearance about him.
“i can make you a mustard-plaster, sir,” i said, “if you would really like one.”
“don’t you mind him,” said the tall gentleman; “he’s only trying to be funny.”
all this time he was pinching the cigar, and looking at it as though it were some nasty medicine.
“i’m afraid this is too strong for me,” he said. “haven’t you anything milder?”
“bring him a halfpenny sweetstuff one,” said the stout gentleman.
i took the negus and the cigar downstairs, and i said to harry, “i shan’t go up again. those two men are lunatics, i believe. they want lemonade and a halfpenny sweetstuff cigar now.”
harry laughed, and said, “go on—they’re chaffing you.”
“well, i’m not going to be chaffed,” i said. so i called jane, the waitress, who was just going to bed, poor girl, having to be up at six in the morning, and i said, “jane, you must wait on no. 16, please.” and i gave her the lemonade.
she went up, and she was gone quite ten minutes. when she came down, i said, “jane, whatever made you so long?”
“oh, ma’am,” she said, “they’ve been asking me such things!{214}”
“what have they been asking you, jane?” i said, getting alarmed; for i was more than ever convinced the two men weren’t quite right.
“they’ve been asking me if ever there was a murder here, ma’am, and if there isn’t a silent pool in the wood where a body’s been found. and the stout gentleman says that the tall gentleman is mad, and he’s his keeper.”
“i knew it,” i screamed. and then i said, “harry, i’m not going to bed to-night with a lunatic in the house. you must go upstairs and tell them to go. we are not licensed to receive lunatics, and i won’t have it.”
“nonsense!” said harry. “it’s only their nonsense. they’ve been chaffing jane, that’s all. don’t be a goose.”
“well,” i said, “i shall ask them to-morrow to go somewhere else.”
“let’s wait till to-morrow, then,” said harry. “we’ve no reasonable excuse for turning them out at this hour of the night. let’s go to bed.”
“very well,” i said. “jane, take the candles into no. 16, and turn out the gas.”
jane took the candles, and presently she came down and said, “please, ma’am, the gentlemen say they’ll turn out the gas themselves.”
“very well,” i said. “then, harry, you’ll have to sit up, for i’m not going to leave the house at the mercy of these two fellows. they’ll go to bed and leave the gas full on, or turn it off and turn it on again, and there’ll be an escape, and we shall all be blown up, or some fine thing.”
“all right, my dear; anything to please you. i don’t mind sitting up,” said harry; “only don’t fidget yourself so, for goodness’ sake, or you’ll be ill.”
i said i shouldn’t fidget if he sat up, and i went to bed; but i was awfully wild, because we didn’t want that sort of people at our quiet little place. it was very good of harry to sit up, and he certainly is very kind and considerate, and i dare say i was fidgety and nervous; but i hadn’t been very well, and the least thing upset me. the doctor said it was “nerves,” and i suppose that was what it was. i had had a bad illness, and that had left me low, and the least thing upset me. i think i told you at the{215} time harry wanted me to go away to the seaside and get better; but i wouldn’t do that, for i should have been fidgeting all day and all night, lest something should go wrong while i was away.
i went to bed, leaving harry in the bar-parlour smoking his pipe, and reading the newspaper; and after a bit, i fell fast asleep.
when i woke up it was just getting light. i turned to look for harry. he wasn’t in bed.
i went hot and cold all over.
“harry!” i called out.
there was no answer.
i jumped out of bed and looked at my watch by the window. it was five o’clock in the morning.
“oh,” i said, “this is wicked—this is infamous. the idea of those fellows sitting burning the gas till this time in the morning in a respectable house, and my great gaby of a husband not going up and telling them of it.”
i hurried on some of my things, and went down the stairs.
i had to pass no. 16. the door was wide open and the gas was out.
whatever could it mean?
a terrible thought flashed through my brain.
they had murdered harry, robbed the house, and decamped.
how i got down to the bar-parlour i don’t know. terror gave me strength.
directly i got to the door i saw the gas was still on there. i pushed the door open and ran in, and there was harry fast asleep in the arm-chair, with the newspaper in his lap and his pipe dropped out of his mouth and lying on the hearthrug.
“harry!” i said, seizing him by the arm—“harry!”
he started and opened his eyes. “hullo,” he said, “what’s the matter?”
“what’s the matter!” i said. “why, it’s five o’clock in the morning, and you’ve given me my death of fright.”
he was flabbergasted when he found out what time it was, and he said he supposed he must have dropped off sound asleep.{216}
there wasn’t much suppose about it!
a nice thing, wasn’t it, to leave him to look after those two fellows, and put the gas out for safety? and then for them to put their gas out themselves, and him to go to sleep with his burning, and drop his lighted pipe on the hearthrug.
it’s a mercy we weren’t all burned alive in our beds.
* * * * *
what with the fright and the broken rest, i wasn’t at all well next day, and i dare say i was a little disagreeable. i know i began at harry about those two gentlemen, and what we were going to do.
they didn’t get up till nearly ten, and it was past eleven before they’d done breakfast. i went into the sitting-room to ask about dinner; but really to have another look at them.
they didn’t look anything very dreadful in the daylight, and they were certainly very pleasant with me, though a bit more jokey than i felt inclined for.
they said they’d have dinner at five o’clock; and then they asked me all about the village and the neighbourhood, and they were on again about that silent pool. there had been a murder committed there years and years ago, and they must have heard about it somehow, for they asked me all about it, and i told them the story as well as i could remember it.
there was a young woman, the daughter of a farmer, who lived near the wood, and she was engaged to be married to a young fellow who was a farmer’s son. but it seems that she had been carrying on with a young gentleman of quality, who lived in a fine mansion some miles away. the young farmer had his suspicions, and watched her, and one moonlight night he saw her go out, and meet her gentleman lover in the wood near this pool. the lovers parted at the pool, after a very stormy scene, the poor girl saying that he had broken her heart, and that she would drown herself. an old man, a farm labourer, who was going through the wood, heard the girl say that she would drown herself. he didn’t see her, he only heard those words.
the next morning the poor girl was found lying drowned{217} in the pool, and it was supposed to be suicide. the old man’s evidence of what he had heard, and something that the doctor said at the inquest, made it quite clear why the poor thing should have done so. but after the inquest was over and it had been brought in suicide, the rumour got about that it wasn’t a suicide after all, but a murder. some people said that the young farmer had pushed her in, in a mad fit of jealousy and revenge, and others that the young gentleman had done it, because the poor girl had threatened to tell everything, and make a scandal; and it seems he was dreadfully in debt, and engaged to be married to a very rich young lady.
the rumour got so strong, and such a lot of evidence kept being found out by the girl’s father, that the young gentleman was arrested—arrested on the very morning that he was to have been married—and was charged with the murder. the pool had been dragged, and at the bottom of the pool was found, among other things, a piece of linen, with a small diamond pin still in it. it was in the days when gentlemen wore frill shirts, with a diamond pin in them—sometimes one pin and a little chain, and a smaller pin attached to that. i dare say you remember them, because it is not so long ago that some old-fashioned gentlemen wore them still. it was said that this belonged to the man who had pushed the poor girl in—that there had been a struggle, and she had clung to him, and the shirt-front had been torn away, and the girl had gone into the pool with it in her hand, and opening her hands struggling in the water, it had gone to the bottom.
at the trial, when the gentleman’s servants were examined, it was proved that he had come home that night very excited, and one of them had noticed that he wore his coat buttoned over his chest, and it was found out that a pin, which he was known to have had, had not been seen since—that he could not produce it, though he swore he was innocent.
he was committed for trial, i think—at any rate, after the examination before the magistrates there was another grand trial at the assizes, and everybody thought he would be found guilty, when suddenly the young farmer came into the court, and made a tremendous sensation by{218} saying that he had murdered the girl himself, in a fit of passion.
he had overheard the conversation between the lovers, and he had sprung out on them, and attacked the young gentleman. the poor girl had clung to him to protect him, badly as he had used her, and that was how the piece of shirt and the diamond pin came away in her hand. the young gentleman, who was a coward, or he could never have treated a trusting girl as he did, slunk away, for the farmer threatened he would kill him like a dog if he did not. and as soon as he was gone, leaving the girl half-fainting, the young farmer turned on her, and she answered him, and said she hated him, and upbraided him for attacking the man she loved; and this made him so mad that he pushed her into the pool, and she was drowned.
i couldn’t tell the gentlemen all the details, because i didn’t know them, but that was the story as i had heard it. the young farmer was put in the dock in the place of the young gentleman, and was found guilty, and sentenced to be hanged; but he managed to hang himself in his cell before the day of execution. the young gentleman lost his rich bride, and went away abroad, and they say that he was stabbed soon afterwards in a row in a low gambling-house, which was a terrible tragedy, and three young lives lost because a man was wicked and a woman was weak; but i suppose there will be tragedies of that sort as long as the world lasts.
the gentlemen seemed very interested in what i told them, and i began to think better of them, because it is always nice to tell a story to intelligent people, and to see that you have made an impression.
after breakfast, they asked me to direct them to the pool in the wood, and they went off there, and didn’t come back till dinner-time.
when they came in i asked them if they had seen the pool.
“yes,” said the tall gentleman; “it is a lovely place for a murder.”
“a lovely place for a murder,” i thought to myself. “that’s a nice way to talk certainly;” but i was wanted in the bar, and we didn’t have any more conversation.{219}
that evening harry had gone upstairs into one of the rooms that was being repapered, and when he came down he looked very serious.
“what’s the matter?” i said.
“well,” he said, “i was passing no. 16, and, hearing them talking rather loud, i stopped for a minute, not exactly to listen; but i couldn’t help hearing what they said, and i heard something that’s rather worried me.”
“what is it?” i said. “you’d better tell me, or i shall think all manner of things.”
i had to press him; but he told me at last.
“i heard one say to the other,” he said, “that he thought they couldn’t do better than get the girl to that pool, and then have her pushed in.”
“‘yes,’ said the other; ‘but who is to do it?’
“‘why, james maitland,’ said the other.
“‘but suppose she screamed—wouldn’t her screams be heard? and if her screams were heard, everybody would know it wasn’t suicide.’
“‘no,’ said the other, ‘there are no houses near. this other girl was murdered there, and everybody thought it was suicide.’
“there was silence for a minute, and then the other (the short one, i think, by his voice) said, ‘let’s do it.’”
“oh, harry!” i said, “how awful!”
“we must keep our heads,” said harry, “and not let them think we’ve heard anything.”
“did you hear any more?”
“yes, i heard the long one say that they’d better go up to the pool to-night, so as to see how it looked in the dark, and then they would be able to arrange all the details.”
“harry,” i said, “not another moment do i rest in this house, with two men plotting murder in it. go and tell them that we know all, and order them off the premises.”
harry thought a minute, and then he said—
“no; we’ve got no proof yet. i’d better go and put the matter in the hands of the police.”
“yes; go at once,” i said.
harry went up to the station and told his story to the inspector, and the inspector said we had better not say{220} anything to the two men, but have them watched. he said they wouldn’t know him, so he’d put on plain clothes and do the job himself; he didn’t care to trust it to jones, as jones was a bit of a fool. you remember jones—he was the policeman that dashing dick had such a game with, with the empty revolver.
i said to harry, “well, if he doesn’t arrest them to-night, they don’t come back here. i’ve made up my mind to that.”
the inspector came down to our house soon afterwards in plain clothes, and sat in our bar-parlour. harry persuaded him to let him go with him to the wood, and he promised he should, if he’d be careful.
about seven o’clock, the two fellows went out, and as soon as they’d gone the inspector and harry went off, and took a short cut, so as to get to the pool first and conceal themselves.
harry told me all about what happened afterwards.
they concealed themselves behind a clump of trees near the pool, and presently those two fellows came along talking earnestly together.
when they got to the pool they were silent for a bit, and walked all round it, looking at the ground.
“this’ll be the place,” said the tall one presently; “this mound gives a man a good foothold, and he can throw the girl in instead of pushing her.”
“yes,” said the other. “james maitland mustn’t make the appointment with the girl here, but in the wood, and then they can walk this way. he’ll start quarrelling with her here, and then he can throw her in.”
“where’s he to go to when he’s done it? run away?”
“no; stop and brazen it out. nobody will see him or the girl together. we can arrange that, and the suspicion is sure to fall on the other fellow, because of what’s already passed between him and norah. besides,” said the short fellow, “who’s going to accuse maitland? nobody knows that he’s mixed up with the girl.”
the tall fellow thought a bit.
“yes,” he said, “i think that’ll be the best. i don’t see how we can get rid of the girl in any better way than that. if she was shot or stabbed, nobody could set up the theory{221} of suicide; but if she’s found drowned, of course there’ll be nothing to prove that she didn’t go in of her own accord.”
when harry got to that, i said, “oh, harry, it makes one’s blood run cold to think of the villains coolly plotting to murder a young girl like that!”
“yes,” he said, “it made me feel creepy, and the inspector said, ‘i think i’ll collar them now. we’ve heard enough. if we let it go on they may make up their minds to have this poor girl murdered somewhere else, and then we may be too late.’
“he was just about to spring out and collar them, when the short fellow said to the long fellow, ‘one minute, my boy. i’ve got a magnificent idea. there’ll be an inquest. can’t we make the comic man foreman of the jury? i can see a splendid scene—the comic man rubbing it into the villain and getting roars of laughter.’”
“what!” i exclaimed. “a comic man on a jury!”
“don’t you see, little woman,” said harry, “what it all meant? the inspector did in a minute. these gentlemen aren’t murderers. they’ve come down here to write a play, and they’re going to make the silent pool their big sensation scene.”
* * * * *
i didn’t take it all in for a minute; but when i did i laughed till i cried. everything was explained at once. but how on earth were we to know that those two eccentric gentlemen were play-writers, and that they had come down to our inn so as to study the silent pool as a sensation scene for a drama.
i wasn’t a bit afraid of them after that, and i let them turn their own gas out at all hours of the night, for they generally sat and wrote till the small hours, and a nice noise they made sometimes, shouting at each other—“trying the dialogue,” they called it. they stayed with us nearly a fortnight, and we got to like them very much. harry called them mr. lampost and mr. waterbutt; but, of course, not to their faces. they used to come into our parlour and tell us funny stories, and we were quite sorry when they went. they told us what they were doing at last, when they found we could be trusted, and they had a{222} gentleman down from london, who was going to paint the scene.
when the play was brought out, harry and i had two beautiful seats sent us to go and see it, and we enjoyed it tremendously. the silent pool was as real as though it had come from our wood; and there was the murder and everything. and fancy our thinking that two play-writers were two murderers! how they would have laughed if they had known! i noticed two or three little things in the play that they had picked up in our place; and one room in one of the acts was our bar-parlour exactly.
when i saw it, i said, “oh, harry, i do believe they’ve put us in it!”—and it was quite a relief when the landlady came on and wasn’t me at all, but a comic old lady who made everybody scream every time she opened her mouth.
mr. lampost and mr. waterbutt promised us that when they were writing another play they would come and stay with us again, and i hope they will. whenever i hear their play spoken about i always say, “ah, that play was written in our house.” but i never say that we thought they were murderers, and had them watched by the police.
one thing i was very thankful for, and that is that mr. wilkins didn’t get hold of them to tell them about the murder in the silent pool. if he had, he’d have gone about and told everybody that he’d collaborated in the drama.
as it is, if anybody could claim the credit of having had a hand in it, it was not mr. wilkins, but me.
* * * * *
good gracious me! isn’t supper ready? hasn’t cook got a fit? doesn’t harry want the key of the cash-box? has nothing gone wrong downstairs or upstairs? wonders will never cease! i’ve actually been able to finish my “memoir” of mr. lampost and mr. waterbutt, and their visit to the ‘stretford arms,’ without anybody knocking at the door, and saying, “please, ma’am, you’re wanted.” thank goodness!
