Run to Earth - Mary Elizabeth Braddon (ebook reader .txt) 📗

had never felt so heart-piercing a pang as that which he endured

this day when he went to meet Lady Eversleigh.

 

She held out her hand to him as she crossed the threshold. “I have done

my duty,” he said, in low, earnest tones, “as I am a man of honour and

a soldier, Lady Eversleigh; I have done my duty, miserable as the

result has been.”

 

“I can believe that,” answered Honoria, gravely. “Your face tells me

there are no good tidings to greet me here. She is not found?”

 

The captain shook his head sadly.

 

“And there are no tidings of any kind?—no clue, no trace?”

 

“None. The constable of this place, and other men from the market-town,

are doing their utmost; but as yet the result has been only new

mystification—new conjecture.”

 

“No; nor wouldn’t be, if the constables were to have twenty years to do

their work in, instead of three days,” interrupted Mr. Larkspur.

“Perhaps you don’t know what country police-officers are? I do; and if

you expect to find the little lady by their help, you may just as well

look up to the sky yonder, and wait till she drops down from it, for of

the two things that’s by far the most likely. I can believe in

miracles,” added Mr. Larkspur, piously; “but I can’t believe in rural

police-constables.”

 

The captain looked at the speaker with a bewildered expression, and

Lady Eversleigh hastened to explain the presence of her ally.

 

“This is Mr. Larkspur, a well-known Bow Street officer,” she said: “and

I rely on his aid to find my precious one. Pray tell me all that has

happened in connection with this event. He is very clever, and he may

strike out some plan of action that will be better than anything which

has yet been attempted.”

 

They had passed into a small sitting-room, half ante-room, half study,

leading out of the great hall, and here the police-officer seated

himself, as much at home as if he had spent half his life within the

walls of Raynham, and listened quietly while Captain Copplestone gave a

circumstantial account of the child’s disappearance, taking care not to

omit the smallest detail connected with that event.

 

Mr. Larkspur made occasional pencil-notes in his memorandum-book; but

he did not interrupt the captain’s narration by a single remark.

 

When all was finished, Lady Eversleigh looked at him with anxious,

inquiring eyes, as if from his lips she expected to receive the

sentence of fate itself.

 

“Well?” she muttered, breathlessly, “is there any hope? Do you see any

clue?”

 

“Half a dozen clues,” answered the police-officer, “if they’re properly

handled. The first thing we’ve got to do is to offer a reward for that

silk coverlet that was taken away with the little girl.”

 

“Why offer a reward for the coverlet?” asked Captain Copplestone.

 

“Bless your innocent heart!” answered Mr. Larkspur, contemplating the

soldier with a pitying smile; “don’t you see that, if we find the

coverlet, we’re pretty sure to find the child? The man who took her

away made a mistake when he carried off the coverlet with her, unless

he was deep enough to destroy it before he had taken her far. If he

didn’t do that—if he left that silk coverlet behind him anywhere, I

consider his game as good as up. That is just the kind of thing that a

police-officer gets his clue from. There’s been more murders and

burglaries found out from an old coat, or a pair of old shoes, or a

walking-stick, or such like, than you could count in a day. I shan’t

make any stir about the child just yet, my lady: but before forty-eight

hours are over our heads, I’ll have a handbill posted in every town in

England, and an advertisement in every newspaper, offering five pounds

reward for that dark blue silk coverlet you talk of, lined with

crimson.”

 

“There seems considerable wisdom in the idea,” said the captain,

thoughtfully. “It would never have occurred to me to advertise for the

coverlet.”

 

“I don’t suppose it would,” answered the great Larkspur, with a slight

touch of sarcasm in his tone. “It has took me a matter of thirty years

to learn my business; and it ain’t to be supposed as my knowledge will

come to other folks natural.”

 

“You are right, Mr. Larkspur,” replied the captain, smiling at the

police-officer’s air of offended dignity; “and since you seem to be

thoroughly equal to the difficulties of the situation, I think we can

scarcely do better than trust ourselves entirely to your discretion.”

 

“I don’t think you’ll have any occasion to repent your confidence,”

said Mr. Larkspur. “And now, if I may make so bold as to mention it, I

should be glad to get a morsel of dinner, and a glass of brandy-and-water, cold without; after which I’ll take a turn in the village and

look about me. There may be something to be picked up in that direction

by a man who keeps his eyes and ears open.”

 

Mr. Larkspur was consigned to the care of the butler, who conducted him

at once to the housekeeper’s room, where that very important person,

Mrs. Smithson, received him with almost regal condescension.

 

Mrs. Smithson and the butler both would have been very glad to converse

with Mr. Larkspur, and to find out from that gentleman’s conversation

who he was, and all about him; but Mr. Larkspur himself had no

inclination to be communicative. He responded courteously, but briefly,

to all Mrs. Smithson’s civilities; and after eating the best part of a

cold roast chicken, and a pound or so of ham, and drinking about half a

pint of cognac, he left the housekeeper’s room, and retired to an

apartment to which the butler ushered him—a very comfortable little

sitting-room, leading into a small bedchamber, which two rooms were to

be occupied by Mr. Larkspur during his residence at the castle.

 

Here he employed himself until dark in writing short notes to the chief

police-officers of all the principal towns in England, ordering the

printing and posting of the handbills of which he had spoken to Lady

Eversleigh and the captain. When this was done he put on his hat, and

went out at the great arched gateway of the castle, whence he made his

way to the village street. Here he spent the rest of the evening, and

he made very excellent use of his time, though he passed the greater

part of it in the parlour of the “Hen and Chickens,” drinking very weak

brandy-and-water, and listening to the conversation of the gentry who

patronized that house of entertainment.

 

Among those gentry was the good-tempered, but somewhat weak-minded,

Matthew Brook, the coachman.

 

“I’ll tell you what it is, Mat Brook,” said a stout, red-faced

individual, who was butler at one of the mansions in the neighbourhood

of Raynham, “you’ve not been yourself for the last week; not since

little Missy was stolen from the castle yonder. You must have been

uncommonly fond of that child.”

 

“I was fond of her, bless her dear little heart,” replied Matthew.

 

But though this assertion, so far as it went, was perfectly true, there

was some slight hesitation in the coachman’s manner of uttering it—a

hesitation which Andrew Larkspur was not slow to perceive.

 

“And you’ve lost your new friend down at the ‘Cat and Fiddle,’ where

you was beginning to spend more of your evenings than you spent here.

What’s become of that man Maunders—eh, Brook?” asked the butler. “That

was a rather queer thing—his leaving Raynham so suddenly, leaving his

house to take care of itself, or to be taken care of by a stupid

country wench, who doesn’t know her business any more than a cow. Do

you know why he went, or where he’s gone, Mat?”

 

“Not I,” Mr. Brook answered, rather nervously, and reddening as he

spoke.

 

The police-officer watched and listened even more intently than before.

The conversation was becoming every moment more interesting for him.

 

“How should I know where Mr. Maunders has gone?” asked Matthew Brook,

rather peevishly, as he paused from smoking to refill his honest clay

pipe. “How should I know where he’s gone, or how long he means to stay

away? I know nothing of him, except that he seems a jolly, good-hearted

sort of a chap in his own rough-and-ready way. James Harwood brought

him up to the castle one night for a hand at whist and a bit of supper,

and he seemed to take a regular fancy to some of us, and asked us to

take a glass now and then down at his place, which we did; and that’s

all about it; and I don’t mean to stand any more cross-questioning.”

 

“Why, Brook,” cried his friend, the butler, “what’s come to you? It

isn’t like you to answer any man in that way, least of all such on old

friend as me.”

 

Mr. Brook took no notice of this reproach. He went on smoking silently.

 

“I say, Harris,” said the butler, presently, when the landlord of the

“Hen and Chickens” came into the room to attend upon his customers, “do

you know whether the landlord of the ‘Cat and Fiddle’ has come back

yet?”

 

“No, he ain’t,” answered Mr. Harris; “and folks complain sadly of being

served by that awkward lass he’s left in charge of the house. I’ve had

a many of his old customers come up here for what they want.”

 

“Does anybody know where he’s gone?”

 

“That’s as may be,” answered Mr. Harris. “Anyhow, I don’t. Some say

he’s gone to London for a fortnight’s pleasure; but if he has, he’s a

very queer man of business; and it strikes me, when he comes back he

will find his customers all left him.”

 

“Do you think he’s cut and run?”

 

“Well, you see, he might be in debt, and want to give his creditors the

slip.”

 

“But folks down the village say he didn’t owe a five-pound note,”

returned the landlord, who was a great authority with regard to all

local gossip. “It’s rather a queer business altogether, that chap

taking himself off without why or wherefore, and just about the time as

the little girl disappeared from the castle.”

 

“Why, you don’t think he had anything to do with that, Joe Harris?”

exclaimed the butler.

 

Andrew Larkspur took occasion to look at Matthew Brook at this moment;

and he saw the coachman’s honest face grow pallid, as if under the

influence of some sudden terror.

 

“You don’t believe as Maunders had a hand in stealing the child, eh,

Joe Harris?” repeated the butler.

 

Joe Harris shook his head solemnly.

 

“I don’t think nothing, and I don’t believe nothing,” he answered, with

a mysterious air. “It ain’t my place to give an opinion upon this here

subjick. It might be said as I was jealous of the landlord of the ‘Cat

and Fiddle,’ and owed him a grudge. All I says is this: it’s a very

queer circumstance as the landlord of the ‘Cat and Fiddle’ should

disappear from the village directly after little Miss Eversleigh

disappeared from the castle. You may put two and two together, and you

may make ‘em into four, if you like,” added Mr. Harris, with profound

solemnity; “or you may leave it alone. That’s your business.”

 

“I’ll tell you what it is,” said the butler; “I’ve had a chat with old

Mother Smithson since the disappearance of the young lady; and from

what I’ve heard, it’s pretty clear to my mind that business wasn’t

managed by any one outside the castle. It couldn’t be. There was some