The Female Detective (8 page)

At the end of that week I had my plans set out, and I left Shirley House with some downheartedness, thoroughly well knowing that the next time I entered the place it would be in my true character.

Within six hours from saying “good evening” to Miss Shedleigh I was at Brighton, and in presence of Sir Nathaniel Shirley.

I had sent up word that a person of the name of Gladden (that is the name I assume most frequently while in my business) wanted to see him, and I am bound to say that the answer I heard him send down was anything but complimentary.

I was not baffled of course.

I sent up a card on which I had written “Shirley House business.”

“Tell her to come up,” I heard him say.

And up “she” went.

From the moment I saw him I didn't like him. In outward appearance a gentleman beyond any doubt. But he belonged to a class of men, I could see at a glance, who never say a rude thing to your face, and never think a kind one either before your countenance or behind your back.

Self!—you could see that in every feature. Gentlemanly selfishness, no doubt; yet nevertheless perfect greed notwithstanding. With some people it calls for far less an effort to be civil than brutal, as conversely many a harsh speaking man has a heart as tender as that of a good woman.

“What do you want?” he said, in a civil tone, as I entered the room, but not looking towards me.

“To see you,” I said, in as civil a tone as I could adopt, and shutting the door as I spoke.

He looked at me quickly. He had those shifting eyes which can look at no one or thing for five seconds together. I have often wondered if such people can even look steadily at their own reflections from a glass.

“Who are you, pray?”

“I am a detective,” said I.

I saw him visibly shrink in his chair. Woman as I was, I suppose he thought I was a man in that disguise.

He recovered himself in a moment, but I noticed that the skin about his lips went black, and that the lips themselves became of a muddy white.

“Indeed,” he said; and by the time he spoke he was, as to his words, quite collected.

Have I said he was about fifty? He was near that age. His hair was thin, and turning grey, but he brought it over his forehead nattily, and curled it effectively. He dressed very young, and in the latest fashion.

“I have come,” I said, “to give you some information.”

“Go on.”

“When Mrs. Shedleigh died, she left a daughter.”

“Go on.”

I knew by the tone of the words, though they were said with great good breeding, that he was already bored.

“At least,” I continued, “it was supposed she died, leaving a daughter.”

He was about to start, but he thought a great deal better of it, and remained quiet. I saw, however, that the darkness about his lips increased.

“In fact,” I continued, “she did not leave a daughter.”

By this time he had quite conquered his agitation, and I am prepared to declare that till the remainder of our interview he never betrayed the least emotion. Whether this callousness was the result of disease or determination I have never been able to decide.

“What did she leave?” he asked.

“No children whatever.”

“Ho!—then you mean to say that the Shirley property is mine?”

“Yes.”

He turned in his chair, and looked hard at me. I saw he was used to such battles as had experienced him in gaining victories.

“And you know all about it?”

“All about it.”

“Why do you come to me?”

“Because you are the proper person to come to.”

“Why haven't you gone to them?”

“Who do you mean?” I asked.

“The Shedleighs,” he replied.

“I have just left Shirley House,” was my answer.

“I thought so,” he added, dropping back in his chair; and harsh as this answer may appear, I can assure the reader it was uttered in the softest tones.

“Why,” I urged, “how could I have learnt the particulars of this business without going to the house?”

“How much?” he asked, speaking as civilly as ever.

“How much?”

“Yes,” he continued, “how much? I suppose, my dear creature—for I accept what you say, and agree that you really are a detective—I suppose you will make your market between me and those Shedleigh people. You have been to them, and now you come to me. How much? I dare say we can manage it. I suppose you will want it in writing?”

“You mean, Sir Nathaniel, what reward do I expect for the information?”

“That's it, my dear creature—how, much? and let me know at once. I suppose I should have to pay more than the Shedleighs if your news is true.”

“I beg your pardon,” I replied; “but the Shedleighs know nothing at all about the discovery I have made, and I have come to you at once—I have only known the truth of this matter less than a couple of weeks.”

This was strictly the truth.

“Ha! I see; you are going to them after leaving me. I don't blame you—rather admire you, in fact. Decided clever woman, if you can carry the affair through. Come, whatever they offer to you to keep the discovery dark I'll pay you double to make it as clear as you can against them—what do you say to that?”

“Excuse me,” I said, and I am bound to admit I already felt as though I should like to get out into the fresh sea air once more; “but I do not care to make money for this work.”

He turned and looked at me without any excitement, but with an expression on his face which clearly meant—“Is she a fool, or is she fooling me?”

“All I should require,” said I, “would be the return of the money I have laid out, and payment for my time at the ordinary pay I receive from the Government.”

“Ha!—exactly,” he replied—the expression of his face had changed the moment I began to speak of my reimbursements—“you must have the money you have laid out returned to you, with interest. But first, my dear creature, prove to me that you are really speaking reasonably.”

“I shall have to go into long particulars,” I said.

He looked calmly at me; then he said—

“You will not perhaps mind much if I smoke, will you?”

“No,” I replied, wishing myself, still more heartily, in the fresh air; for I remember it struck me that I was speaking to a being neither alive nor dead, to a kind of man who was neither fit for the grave nor the world. I think I never approached such a passionless human being.

However, it was my business to tell him of his good fortune, if indeed all kinds of fortune were not the same to him.

I began the case exactly as it occurred to me, commencing with the cabman, Flemps, and so working to the culminating point in the evidence of the medical student, George Geffins.

The only interruption he made was to ask the addresses of the cabman and the student. After writing down each, he said, “Yes!” and again became perfectly motionless.

“You know now as much as I do,” I said, at last.

And I am willing to admit that I was heartily sick of my man. I apprehend I felt that kind of disappointment and ashamed anger which a man would experience who found that the answer to his offer of marriage was a blank stare.

“I suppose I can do nothing till Monday?”

“What?” I asked.

It will be remembered it was late on Saturday night.

“Nothing till Monday?”

“May I ask, Sir Nathaniel,” said I, “what you intend to do on Monday?”

“Why I suppose, give them into custody.”

“Custody?” I asked.

“Of course; what else is there to do? They have been robbing me for five years, and these people deserve to be punished. What else can I do than give them into custody?”

For a moment, it need hardly be said, it was a difficulty for me to find any reply. At last I said—

“No, Sir Nathaniel, the Shedleighs will not have robbed you, because you will recall that I have told you Mr. Shedleigh has not touched any of the income arising from the Shirley estates.”

“But I am not to know that. Much better give them into custody, detective, and see what comes of it.”

I confess I never had anticipated any conduct approaching such cool, business-like mercilessness as this. I had designed a dozen ways of setting to work in this matter during the week, each more considerate than the previous mode as those seven days came to a termination — not one of them approached the idea of giving Mr. and Miss Shedleigh into custody.

“I do not think I would, Sir Nathaniel; much better think it over,” I replied.

“Can't see what there is to think over,” said the baronet. “They've robbed me, and therefore the only thing to do is—give them into custody.”

“You had better sleep on it, sir,” said I. “I'll see you on Monday morning, if you please.”

“Why not to-morrow?” he asked; “why not go up to-morrow and give them both into custody? I certainly shall.”

“Thank you, Sir Nathaniel,” said I, and I fancy I spoke a little resentfully; “I do not care to do anything but rest to-morrow, and I am quite sure that the business is not very pressing.”

“Not pressing, when they have been robbing me? What nonsense you are talking, my dear creature. Well, if you like, Monday,” he said, after he had gone to the window and looked out at the night. “It will be fine to-morrow, and I may as well have the day here as not. Good night, detective.”

“Good night.”

“Here, ma'am, though, you have not given me your address.”

I gave him a card, but not one word. I believe in my own mind I was beginning to quarrel with him.

“This is your right card, I suppose, ma'am?”

“Of course it is!”

“And you're not fooling me, my dear creature!”

“No; what could I gain by fooling you?”

This answer appeared to satisfy him.

“Where are you stopping in Brighton, detective?”

I gave him the name of a little public-house in the town at which I had rested on several occasions.

“Good night,” I said, going towards the door.

Something I suppose in the tone struck even his dull senses.

“If you want any money, or that sort of thing,” said he, “I can let you have some.” The most positive expression I had yet seen on his face I had now the power of remarking. “I'm not a rich man, you can pull along till to-morrow with—”

And here, with some exertion of a slow will, he took half-a-sovereign out of his porte-monnaie.

I had brought him news which was to put some thousands a year in his pocket.

“No, thank you,” I said, hurriedly, and thereupon I left the room.

I did not directly go to the little house I have mentioned.

I crossed the parade, and began traversing the cliff walk.

To those who have walked on a summer moonlight night high up on the Brighton cliff, with the light wind whispering as it courses by, the soft sea kissing the rattling shingle beneath, I have no need to tell how all those natural, gentle sounds increased, and at the same time saddened, the mental pain I was suffering.

He had not uttered a word of thanks—he had not shown a spark of gratitude for his good fortune. Mind, I was not wounded in my vanity by the omission of any expression of gratitude to me, but I was pained that he showed no gratitude whatever. His good fortune came, and he took it as a right. I know that I could not avoid associating him with a certain monkey I had seen at the Zoological Gardens. This animal—and I watched him for an hour during that holiday of mine—stood still, holding out his hand without appearing to think of what he was doing, and when anything was put in his palm, he closed his fingers upon it, shoved the goody in his mouth, and without looking at the donor, or without testifying any knowledge of the gift, again he dropped his hand out between the bars of his cage. He took what came—what more could be wanted of him?

I had done my duty as an honest detective, and I was, as I do not mind confessing, since I am out of the business, sorry I had completed it.

Let me add here, at once, since I have said I have retired from the practice of detection, that I did not effect that retirement on the money I made in that profession. I had a small income left me, which of course now I enjoy. Detectives rarely make fortunes.

When I reached the little inn to which I have already twice referred, I made inquiries touching Sir Nathaniel Shirley, and I need not say I heard no good of him. I do not assert that I discovered any positive harm concerning him, but people spoke of him with a kind of reserve, as though their sense of justice and their prejudices were pulling different ways. What, however, I did ascertain certainly agreed with the man. He had a good income, yet he was rarely out of debt. I could understand that. He never could refuse himself what that personage desired to possess; and, though he spent all his income, no one could say who was the better for it. He always had his worth for his money, and the impression appeared to be that he rarely lost in the game of life. Unquestionably, from what I heard, he was frequently made to pay very dear where he had to pay beforehand for his pleasure—but he had it. No one could give him a good word, yet at the same time not a witness was to be found who could pronounce upon him a downright bad verdict.

I am accustomed to fall asleep the moment I get to bed, being healthy, and, as the world goes, honest and clear in my conscience. But that night I could not fall off.

The idea of Sir Nathaniel going up to town and arresting the brother and sister, just after the manner of a machine, kept me hopelessly awake. I felt it was no use appealing to his mercy—I might just as well have harangued the steam hammer in Woolwich Dockyard.

It was a nightmare of itself to imagine Mr. Shedleigh taken away from his good work of trying to make the abundant earth more fruitful—to conceive of Miss Shedleigh divorced from her poor, from her lady-life, and locked up in a prison cell.