The Female Detective (24 page)

That night I remained in Little Pocklington in the hope, in which I was so grievously disappointed, of discovering further particulars which the girl might have divulged to her companions. But in the first place Diney had no companions, and in the second all attempts to draw people out, for the case had been copied into that county paper which held sway at Little Pocklington, all attempts signally failed.

Upon my return to Tram, Mrs. Green received me with all the honours, clearly as a person who had visited Mrs. Blotchley, and I noticed that the parlour fire-place was decorated with a new stove-ornament in paper of a fiery and flaring description.

I thanked Mrs. Green, and in answer to that lady's inquiries I was happy to say Mrs. Blotchley was well—except a slight cold. Yes, I had slept there. What did I have for dinner at Mrs. Blotchley's? Well, really I had forgotten. “Dear heart,” said Mrs. Green, “'ow unfortnet.”

After seeing “Diney,” and in coming home by the train (and indeed I can always think well while travelling), I turned over all that I had pinched out of Dinah Yarton in reference to the big box.

Did that box, or did it not, in any way relate to the death?

It was large; it had been carried by two men; and according to Dinah's information it had been removed again from the hall.

At all events I must find out what the box meant.

The whole affair was still so warm—not much more than a fortnight had passed since the occurrence—that I still felt sure all particulars about that date which had been noticed would be remembered.

I set Mrs. Green to work, for nobody could better suit my purpose.

“Mrs. Green, can you find out whether any strange carrier's cart or waggon, containing a very big box, was seen in Tram on the Monday, and the day before young Mr. Petleigh's body was found?”

I saw happiness in Mrs. Green's face; and having thus set her to work, I put myself in the best order, and went up to Petleighcote Hall.

The door was opened (with suspicious slowness) by a servant-woman, who closed it again before she took my message and a card to Mrs. Quinion. The message consisted of a statement that I had come after the character of a servant.

A few moments passed, and I was introduced into the housekeeper's presence.

I found her a calm-looking, fine, portly woman, with much quiet determination in her countenance. She was by no means badly featured.

She was quite self-possessed.

The following conversation took place between us. The reader will see that not the least reference was made by me to the real object of my visit—the prosecution of an inquiry as to the mode by which young Mr. Petleigh had met his death. And if the reader complains that there is much falsity in what I state, I would urge that as evil-doing is a kind of lie levelled at society, if it is to be conquered it must be met on the side of society, through its employes, by similar false action.

Here is the conversation.

“Mrs. Quinion, I believe?”

“Yes, as I am usually termed—but let that pass. You wish to see me?”

“Yes; I have called about the character of a servant.”

“Indeed—who?”

“I was passing through Tram, where I shall remain some days, on my way from town to York, and I thought it would be wise to make a personal inquiry, which I find much the best plan in all affairs relating to my servants.”

“A capital plan; but as you came from town, why did you not apply to the town housekeeper, since I have no doubt you take the young person from the town house?”

“There is the difficulty. I should take the young person, if her character were to answer, from a sort of charity. She has never been in town, and here's my doubt. However, if you give me any hope of the young person—”

“What is her name?”

“Dinah—Dinah—you will allow me to refer to my pocketbook.”

“Don't take that trouble,” said she, and I thought she looked pale; but her pallor might have been owing, I thought at the time, to the deep mourning she was wearing; “you mean Dinah Yarton.”

“Yarton—that is the name. Do you think she will suit?”

“Much depends upon what she is wanted for.”

“An under nurserymaid.”

“Your own family?”

“Oh, dear no—a sister's.”

“In town?”

[She asked this question most calmly.]

“No—abroad.”

“Abroad?” and I remarked that she uttered the word with an energy which, though faint in itself, spoke volumes when compared with her previous serenity.

“Yes,” I said, “my sister's family are about leaving England for Italy, where they will remain for years. Do you think this girl would do?”

“Well—yes. She is not very bright, it is true, but she is wonderfully clean, honest, and extremely fond of children.”

Now, it struck me then and there that the experience of the housekeeper at childless Petleighcote as to Dinah's love of children must have been extremely limited.

“What I most liked in Dinah,” continued Mrs. Quinion, “was her frankness and trustworthiness. There can be no doubt of her gentleness with children.”

“May I ask why you parted with her?”

“She left me of her own free will. We had, two or three weeks since, a very sad affair here. It operated much upon her; she wished to get away from the place; and indeed I was glad she determined to go.”

“Has she good health?”

“Very fair health.”

Not a word about the fits.

It struck me Mrs. Quinion relished the idea of Dinah Yarton's going abroad.

“I think I will recommend her to my sister. She tells me she would have no objection to go abroad.”

“Oh! you have seen her?”

“Yes—the day before yesterday, and before leaving for town, whence I came here. I will recommend the girl. Good morning.”

“Good morning, ma'am; but before you go, will you allow me to take the liberty of asking you, since you are from London, if you can recommend me a town servant, or at all events a young person who comes from a distance. When the family is away I require only one servant here, and I am not able to obtain this one now that the hall has got amongst the scandal-mongers, owing to the catastrophe to which I have already referred. The young person I have with me is intolerable; she has only been here four days, and I am quite sure she must not remain fourteen.”

“Well, I think I can recommend you a young person, strong and willing to please, and who only left my sister's household on the score of followers. Shall I write to my sister's housekeeper and see what is to be done?”

“I should be most obliged,” said Mrs. Quinion; “but where may I address a letter to you in event of my having to write?”

“Oh!” I replied, “I shall remain at Tram quite a week. I have received a telegraphic message which makes my journey to the north needless; and as I have met here in Tram with a person who is a friend of an humble friend of mine, I am in no hurry to quit the place.

“Indeed! may I ask who?”

“Old Mrs. Green, at the corner of the Market Place, and her friend is Mrs. Blotchley of Stokeley.”

“Oh, thank you. I know neither party.”

“I may possibly see you again,” I continued.

“Most obliged,” continued Mrs. Quinion; “shall be most happy.”

“Good morning,”

She returned the salute, and there was an end of the visit.

And then it came about that upon returning to the house of old Mrs. Green, I said in the most innocent manner in the world, and in order to make all my acts and words in the place as consistent as possible, for in a small country town if you do not do your falsehood deftly you will very quickly be discovered—I said to that willing gossip—

“Why, Mrs. Green, I find you are a friend of Mrs. Blotchley of Stokeley!”

“E-es,” she said in a startled manner, “Ise her fren', bless 'ee.”

“And I'm gratified to hear it, for as her friend you are mine, Mrs. Green.”

And here I took her hand.

No wonder after our interview was over that she went out in her best bonnet, though it was only Wednesday. I felt sure it was quite out of honour to Mrs. Blotchley and her friend, who had claimed her friendship, and the history of which she was taking out to tea with her.

Of the interview with Mrs. Green I must say a few words, and in her own expressions.

“Well, Mrs. Green, have you heard of any unusual cart having been seen in Tram on the day before Mr. Petleigh was found dead?”

“Lardy, lardy, e-es,” said Mrs. Green; “but bless 'ee, whaty want to know for?”

“I want to know if it was Mrs. Blotchley's brother's cart, that's all.”

“Des say it war. I've been arl over toon speering aboot that waggoon. I went to Jones the baker, and Willmott, who married Mary Sprinters—which wur on'y fair; the grocer, an' him knowed nought about it; an' the bootcher in froont street, and bootcher in back street; and Mrs. Macnab, her as mangles, and no noos, bless 'ee, not even of Tom Hatt the milkman, but, lardy, lardy! when Ise tarking for a fren' o' my fren's Ise tark till never. 'Twur draper told I arl aboot the ca-art.”

“What?” I said, I am afraid too eagerly for a detective who knew her business thoroughly.

“Why, draper White wur oot for stroll loike, an' looking about past turning to the harl (hall), and then he sees coming aloong a cart him guessed wur coming to him's shop; but, bless 'ee, 'twarnt comin' to his shop at arl!”

“Where was it going?”

“Why the cart turned roight arf to harl, and that moost ha' been wher they cart went to; and, bless 'ee, that's arl.”

Then Mrs. Green, talking like machinery to the very threshold, went, and I guess put on her new bonnet instanter, for she wore it before she went out, and when she brought in my chop and potatoes.

Meanwhile I was ruminating the news of the box, if I may be allowed the figure, and piecing it together.

It was pretty clear to me that a box had been taken to the hall, for the evidence of the girl Dinah and that which Mrs. Green brought together coincided in supporting a supposition to that effect.

The girl said a big box (which must have been large, seeing it took two men to carry it) had been brought to the hall in a large cart on the day previous to the finding of the body.

It was on that day the draper, presumably, had seen a large cart turn out of the main road towards Petleighcote.

Did that cart contain the box the girl Diuah referred to?

If so, had it anything to do with the death?

If so, where was it?

If hidden, who had hidden it?

These were the questions which flooded my mind, and which the reader will see were sufficiently important and equally embarrassing.

The first question to be decided was this,—

Had the big box anything to do with the matter?

I first wrote my letter to head quarters putting things in train to plant one of our people as serving woman at Petleighcote, and then I sallied out to visit Mr. White, the draper.

He was what men would call a “jolly” man, one who took a good deal of gin-and-water, and the world as it came. He was a man to be hail met with the world, but to find it rather a thirsty sphere, and diligently to spirit-and-water that portion of it contained within his own suit of clothes.

He was a man to be rushed at and tilted over with confidence.

“Mr. White,” said I, “I want an umbrella, and also a few words with you.”

“Both, mum,” said he; and I would have bet, for though a woman I am fond of a little wager now and then,—yes, I would have bet that before his fourth sentence he would drop the “mum.”

“Here are what we have in umberellers, mum.”

“Thank you. Do you remember meeting a strange cart on the day, a Monday, before Mr. Petleigh—Petleigh—what was his name?—was found dead outside the hall? I mention that horrid circumstance to recall the day to your mind.”

“Well, yes, I do, mum. I've been hearing of this from Mary Green.”

“What kind of cart was it?”

“Well, mum, it was a wholesale fancy article manufacturer's van.”

“Ah, such as travel from drapers to drapers with samples, and sometimes things for sale.”

“Yes; that were it.”

[He dropped the mum at the fourth sentence.]

“A very large van, in which a man could almost stand upright?”

“A man, my dear!” He was just the kind of man to “my dear” a customer, though by so doing he should offend her for life. “Half-a-dozen of 'em, and filled with boxes of samples, in each of which you might stow away a long—what's the matter, eh? What do you want to find out about the van for, eh?”

“Oh, pray don't ask me, White,” said I, knowing the way to such a man's confidence is the road of familiarity. “Don't, don't inquire what. But tell me, how many men were there on the van?”

“Two, my dear.”

“What were they like?”

“Well, I didn't notice.”

“Did you know them, or either of them?”

“Ha!
I
see,” said White; and I am afraid I allowed him to infer that he had surprised a personal secret. “No; I knew neither of 'em, if
I
know it. Strangers to me. Of course
I
thought they were coming with samples to
my
shop; for I am the only one in the village. But they didn't.”

“No; they went to the hall, I believe?”

“Yes.
I
thought they had turned wrong, and I hollered after them, but it was no use. I wish I could describe them for you, my dear, but I can't. However, I believe they looked like gentlemen. Do you think
that
description will answer?”

“Did they afterwards come into the town, Mr. White?”

“Well, my dear, they did, and baited at the White Horse, and then it was I was so surprised they did not call. And then—in fact, my dear, if you would like to know all—”