Henry Dunbar (Mystery Classics Series). Mary Elizabeth BraddonЧитать онлайн книгу.
and a bunch of keys in the waistcoat-pocket, and a well-worn leather-covered memorandum-book in the breast-pocket of the old-fashioned coat.
Joseph took these things into the sitting-room, closed the door between the two apartments, and then rang for lights.
The chambermaid who brought the candles asked if he had dined.
“Yes,” he said, “I dined five hours ago. Bring me some brandy.”
The girl brought a small decanter of spirit and a wine-glass, set them on the table, and left the room. Joseph Wilmot followed her to the door, and turned the key in the lock.
“I don’t want any intruders,” he muttered; “these country people are always inquisitive.”
He seated himself at the table, poured out a glass of brandy, drank it, and then drew one of the candles towards him.
He had put the money, the keys, and the memorandum-book, in one of his own pockets. He took out the memorandum-book first, and examined it. There were five Bank of England notes for five pounds each in one of the pockets, and a letter in the other.
The letter was directed to Henry Dunbar, and sealed with the official seal of the banking-house. The name of Stephen Balderby was written on the left-hand lower corner of the envelope.
“So, so,” whispered Joseph Wilmot, “this is the junior partner’s letter of welcome to his chief. I’ll take care of that.”
He replaced the letter in the pocket of the memorandum-book, and then looked at the pencil entries on the different pages.
The last entry was the only memorandum that had any interest for him.
It consisted of these few words —
“H.D., expected to arrive at Southampton Docks on or about the 19th inst., per steamer Electra; will be met by Miss Laura D. at Portland Place.“
“Who’s Laura D.?” mused the spy, as he closed the memorandum-book. “His daughter, I suppose. I remember seeing his marriage in the papers, twenty years ago. He married well, of course. Fortune made everything smooth for him. He married a lady of rank. Curse him!”
Joseph Wilmot sat for some time with his arms folded upon the table before him, brooding, brooding, brooding; with a sinister smile upon his lips, and an ominous light in his eyes.
A dangerous man always — a dangerous man when he was loud, reckless, brutal, violent: but most of all dangerous when he was most quiet.
By-and-by he took the bunch of keys from his pocket, knelt down before the portmanteau, and examined its contents.
There was very little to reward his scrutiny — only a suit of clothes, a couple of clean shirts, and the necessaries of the clerk’s simple toilet. The carpet-bag contained a pair of boots, a hat-brush, a night-shirt, and a faded old chintz dressing-gown.
Joseph Wilmot rose from his knees after examining these things, and softly opened the door between the two rooms. There had been no change in the sick chamber. The nurse still sat by the head of the bed. She looked round at Joseph, as he opened the door.
“No change, I suppose?” he said.
“No, sir; none.”
“I am going out for a stroll, presently. I shall be in again in an hour’s time.”
He shut the door again, but he did not go out immediately. He knelt down once more by the side of the portmanteau, and tore off the label with his brother’s name upon it. He tore a similar label off the carpet-bag, taking care that no vestige of the clerk’s name was left behind.
When he had done this, and thrust the torn labels into his pocket, he began to walk up and down the room, softly, with his arms folded upon his breast.
“The Electra, is expected to arrive on the nineteenth,” he said, in a low, thoughtful voice, “on or about the nineteenth. She may arrive either before or after. To-morrow will be the seventeenth. If Sampson dies, there will be an inquest, no doubt: a post-mortem examination, perhaps: and I shall be detained till all that is over. I shall be detained two or three days at least: and in the mean time Henry Dunbar may arrive at Southampton, hurry on to London, and I may miss the one chance of meeting that man face to face. I won’t be balked of this meeting — I won’t be balked. Why should I stop here to watch by an unconscious man’s death-bed? No! Fate has thrown Henry Dunbar once more across my pathway: and I won’t throw my chance away.”
He took up his hat — a battered, shabby-looking white hat, which harmonized well with his vagabond appearance — and went out, after stopping for a minute at the bar to tell the landlord that he would be back in an hour’s time.
He went straight to the railway station, and made inquiries as to the trains.
Chapter 5
Sinking the Past.
The train from London to Southampton was due in an hour. The clerk who gave Joseph Wilmot this information asked him how his brother was getting on.
“He is much better,” Joseph answered. “I am going on to Southampton to execute some important business he was to have done there. I shall come back early to-morrow morning.”
He walked into the waiting-room, and stopped there, seated in the same attitude the whole time: never stirring, never lifting his head from his breast: always brooding, brooding, brooding: as he had brooded in the railway carriage, as he had brooded in the little parlour of the inn. He took his ticket for Southampton as soon as the office was open, and then stood on the platform, where there were two or three stragglers, waiting for the train to come up.
It came at last. Joseph Wilmot sprang into a second-class carriage, took his seat in the corner, with his hat slouched over his eyes, which were almost hidden by its dilapidated brim.
It was late when he reached Southampton; but he seemed to be acquainted with the town, and he walked straight to a small public-house by the river-side, almost hidden under the shadow of the town wall.
Here he got a bed, and here he ascertained that the Electra had not yet arrived.
He ate his supper in his own room, though he was requested to take it in the public apartment. He seemed to shrink from meeting any one, or talking to any one; and still brooded over his own black thoughts: as he had brooded at the railway station, in the parlour of the Basingstoke inn, in the carriage with his brother Sampson.
Whatever his thoughts were, they absorbed him so entirely that he seemed like a man who walks in his sleep, doing everything mechanically, and without knowing what he does.
But for all this he was active, for he rose very early the next morning. He had not had an hour’s sleep throughout the night, but had lain in every variety of restless attitude, tossing first on this side and then on that: always thinking, thinking, thinking, till the action of his brain became as mechanical as that of any other machine, and went on in spite of himself.
He went downstairs, paid the money for his supper and night’s lodging to a sleepy servant-girl, and left the house as the church-clock in an old-fashioned square hard by struck eight.
He walked straight to the High Street, and entered the shop of a tailor and general outfitter. It was a stylish establishment, and there was a languid young man taking down the shutters, who appeared to be the only person on the establishment just at present.
He looked superciliously enough at Joseph Wilmot, eyeing him lazily from head to foot, and yawning as he did so.
“You’d better make yourself scarce,” he said; “our principal never gives anything to tramps.”
“Your principal may give or keep what he likes,” Joseph answered, carelessly; “I can pay for what I want. Call your