The Green Mummy
“Yes, sir,” said the girl, honestly enough. “I have told you everything
that happened on that night. Next morning--” She hesitated.
“Well, what about next morning?”
“Mr. Bolton had locked his door. I know that, because a few minutes
after eight on the night before, not knowing he had retired. I tried to
enter the room and make ready the bed for the night. He sang out through
the door--which was locked, for I tried it--that he was in bed. That was
a lie also, as after nine I saw him talking to the woman at the window.”
“You previously said an old woman,” said the Coroner, referring to his
notes. “How do you know she was old?”
“I can't say if she was old or young,” said the witness candidly; “it's
only a manner of speaking. She had a dark shawl over her head and a dark
dress. I couldn't say if she was old or young, fair or dark, stout or
lean, tall or short. The night was dark.”
The Coroner referred to the plan.
“There is a gas-lamp near the window of the bedroom. Did you not see her
in that light?”
“Oh, yes, sir; but just for a moment. I took very little notice. Had I
known that the gentleman was to be murdered, I should have taken a great
deal of notice.”
“Well, about this locked door?”
“It was locked over-night, sir, but when I went next morning, it was
not locked. I knocked and knocked, but could get no answer. As it was
eleven, I thought the gentleman was sleeping very long, so I tried to
open the door. It was not locked, as I say--but,” added witness with
emphasis, “the window was snibbed and the blind was down.”
“That is natural enough,” said the Coroner. “Mr. Bolton, after his
interview with the woman, would of course snib the window, and pull down
the blind. When he went away next morning he would unlock the door.”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but, as we know, he didn't go away next
morning, being in the packing case, nailed down.”
The Coroner could have kicked himself for the very natural mistake
he had made, for he saw a derisive grin on the faces around him, and
particularly on that of Inspector Date.
“Then the assassin must have gone out by the door,” he said weakly.
“Then I don't know how he got out,” cried Eliza Flight, “for I was up at
six and the front and back doors of the hotel were locked. And after six
I was about in passages and rooms doing my work, and master and missus
and others were all over the place. How could the murderer walk out,
sir, without some of us seeing him?”
“Perhaps you did, and took no notice?”
“Oh, sir, if a stranger was around we should all have taken notice.”
This concluded the evidence, which was meagre enough. Widow Anne was
indeed recalled to see if Miss Flight could identify her as the woman
who, had been talking to Bolton, but witness failed to recognize her,
and the widow herself proved, by means of three friends, that she had
been imbibing gin at home on the night and at the hour in question.
Also, there was no evidence to connect this unknown woman with the
murder, and no sound--according to the unanimous testimony of the
inmates of the Sailor's Rest--had been heard in the bedroom of Bolton.
Yet, as the Coroner observed, there must have been some knocking and
hammering and ripping going on. But of this nothing could be proved,
and although several witnesses were examined again, not one could throw
light on the mystery. Under these circumstances the jury could only
bring in a verdict of wilful murder against some person or persons
unknown, which was done. And it may be mentioned that the cord with
which Bolton had been strangled was identified by the landlord and the
chamber-maid as belonging to the blind of the bedroom window.
“Well,” said Hope, when the inquest was over, “so nothing can be proved
against anyone. What is to be done next?”
“I'll tell you after I have seen Random,” said the Professor curtly.
CHAPTER VII. THE CAPTAIN OF THE DIVER
The day after the inquest, Sidney Bolton's body was buried in Gartley
churchyard. Owing to the nature of the death, and the publicity given
to the murder by the press, a great concourse of people assembled to
witness the interment, and there was an impressive silence when the
corpse was committed to the grave. Afterwards, as was natural, much
discussion followed on the verdict at the inquest. It was the
common opinion that the jury could have brought in no other verdict,
considering the nature of the evidence supplied; but many people
declared that Captain Hervey of The Diver should have been called. If
the deceased had enemies, said these wiseacres, it was probable that he
would have talked about them to the skipper. But they forgot that the
witnesses called at the inquest, including the mother of the dead man,
had insisted that Bolton had no enemies, so it is difficult to see what
they expected Captain Hervey to say.
After the funeral, the journals made but few remarks about the mystery.
Every now and then it was hinted that a clue had been found, and that
the police would sooner or later track down the criminal. But all this
loose chatter came to nothing, and as the days went by, the public--in
London, at all events--lost interest in the case. The enterprising
weekly paper that had offered the furnished house and the life income
to the person who found the assassin received an intimation from
the Government that such a lottery could not be allowed. The paper,
therefore, returned to Limericks, and the amateur detectives, like so
many Othellos, found their occupation gone. Then a political crisis took
place in the far East, and the fickle public relegated the murder
of Bolton to the list of undiscovered crimes. Even the Scotland Yard
detectives, failing to find a clue, lost interest in the matter, and it
seemed as though the mystery of Bolton's death would not be solved until
the Day of Judgment.
In the village, however, people still continued to be keenly interested,
since Bolton was one of themselves, and, moreover, Widow Anne kept up a
perpetual outcry about her murdered boy. She had lost the small weekly
sum which Sidney had allowed her out of his wages, so the neighbors, the
gentry of the surrounding country, and the officers at the Fort sent
her ample washing to do. Widow Anne in a few weeks had quite a large
business, considering the size of the village, and philosophically
observed to a neighbor that “It was an ill wind which blew no one any
good,” adding also that Sidney was more good to her dead than alive. But
even in Gartley the villagers grew weary of discussing a mystery which
could never be solved, and so the case became rarely talked about. In
these days of bustle and worry and competition, it is wonderful how
people forget even important events. If a blue sun arose to lighten
the world instead of a yellow one, after nine days of wonder, man would
settle down quite comfortably to a cerulean existence. Such is the
wonderful adaptability of humanity.
Professor Braddock was less forgetful, as he always bore in mind the
loss of his mummy, and constantly thought of schemes whereby he could
trap the assassin of his late secretary. Not that he cared for the dead
in any way, save from a strictly business point of view, but the capture
of the criminal meant the restitution of the mummy, and--as Braddock
told everyone with whom he came in contact--he was determined to regain
possession of his treasure. He went himself to the Sailor's Rest, and
drove the landlord and his servants wild by asking tart questions and
storming when a satisfactory answer could not be supplied. Quass
was glad when he saw the plump back of the cross little man, who so
pertinaciously followed what everyone else had abandoned.
“Life was too short,” grumbled Quass, “to be bothered in that way.”
The wooing of Archie and Lucy went on smoothly, and the Professor showed
no sign of wishing to break the engagement. But Hope, as he confided
to Lucy, was somewhat worried, as his pauper uncle, on an insufficient
borrowed capital, had begun to speculate in South African mines, and it
was probable that he would lose all his money. In that case Hope fancied
he would be once more called upon to make good the avuncular loss, and
so the marriage would have to be postponed. But it so happened that the
pauper uncle made some lucky speculative shots and acquired money, which
he promptly reinvested in new mines of the wildcat description. Still,
for the moment all was well, and the lovers had a few halcyon days of
peace and happiness.
Then came a bolt from the blue in the person of Captain Hervey, who
called a fortnight after the funeral to see the Professor. The skipper
was a tall, slim man, lean as a fasting friar, and hard as nails, with
closely clipped red hair, mustache of the same aggressive hue, and
an American goatee. He spoke with a Yankee accent, and in a truculent
manner, sufficiently annoying to the fiery Professor. When he met
Braddock in the museum, the two became enemies at the first glance, and
because both were bad-tempered and obstinate, took an instant dislike to
one another. Like did not draw to like in this instance.
“What do you want to see me about?” asked Braddock crossly. He had
been summoned by Cockatoo from the perusal of a new papyrus to see his
visitor, and consequently was not in the best of tempers.
“I've jes' blew in fur a trifle of chin-music,” replied Hervey with an
emphatic U.S.A. accent.
“I'm busy: get out,” was the uncomplimentary reply.
Hervey took a chair and, stretching his lengthy legs, produced a black
cheroot, as long and lean as himself.
“If you were in the States, Professor, I'd draw a bead on you for that
style of lingo. I'm not taking any. See!” and he lighted up.
“You're the captain of 'The Diver'?”
“That's so; I was, that is. Now, I've shifted to a dandy wind-jammer of
sorts that can run rings round the old barky. I surmise I'm off for the
South Seas, pearl-fishing, in three months. I'll take that Kanaka along
with me, if y'like, Professor,” and he cast a side glance at Cockatoo,
who was squatting on his hams as usual, polishing a blue enameled jar
from a Theban tomb.
“I require the services of the man,” said Braddock stiffly. “As to you,
sir: you've been paid for your business in connection with Bolton's
passage and the shipment of my mummy, so there is no more to be said.”
“Heaps more! heaps, you bet,” remarked the man of the sea placidly, and
controlling a temper which in less civilized parts would have led him to
wipe the floor with the plump scientist. “My owners were paid fur that
racket: not me. No, sir. So I've paddled into this port to see if I can
rake in a few dollars on my own.”
“I've no dollars to give you--in charity, that is.”
“Huh! An' who asked charity, you bald-headed jelly-bag?”
Braddock grew scarlet with fury. “If you speak to me like that, you
ruffian, I'll throw you out.”
“What?--you?”
“Yes, me,” and the Professor stood on tip-toe, like the bantam he was.
“You make me smile, and likewise tired,” murmured Hervey, admiring the
little man's pluck. “See here, Professor, touching that mummy?”
“My mummy: my green mummy. What about it?” Braddock rose to the fly
thrown by this skilful angler.
“That's so. What will you shell out if I pass along that corpse?”
“Ah!” The Professor again stood on tip-toe, gasping and purple in the
face. He almost squeaked in the extremity of his anger. “I knew it.”
“Knew what?” demanded the skipper, genuinely surprised.
“I knew that you had stolen my mummy. Yes, you needn't deny it. Bolton,
like the silly fool he was, told you how valuable the mummy was, and you
strangled the poor devil to get my property.”
“Go slow,” said the captain, in no wise perturbed by this accusation.
“I would have you remember that at the inquest it was stated that the