The haunted house
publication. She saw him register the scene; she accompanied him
without shame to the lodge gate, and then in a moment of inspiration
she made a suggestion consonant with her means, ill-fitted to her
condition.
“D’you know what edition of your two-cent’ll carry the picture of
Rackham Catchings? Have ye’ seen the story that’s to flare it?”
He had seen the story. It had gone up straight to London—from Lord
Hambourne. As to the edition, it would be the lunch-time edition at
the latest; he could swear to that—now that she had so kindly seen him
through.
Bo decided at once, risking a rebuff, and, as you may expect, not in
danger of receiving one. She did not pull out a single pound note, as
a less efficient person would have done; she put the whole leather
case—scented—quietly into his hand, whence it slipped into his pocket
under his eyes.
“I know what’s in there, Bud,” she said. “And there’ll be as much
again for you when I see it in that edition. It sure must go in. D’you
get me? But who’m I to send it to? What’s your name?”
In an accent not unlike her own the mysterious stranger answered:
“My name? Nothing! Just you put ‘Columbus’ on the envelope, and the
Baron’ll see it won’t miss me.”
They nodded cheerfully to each other. And _that_ was all settled.
Indeed, upon the morrow, after the story had ended and Bo could make
sure that her bargain had been observed, she (a woman who knew exactly
how much she had in that leather wallet at any one time) put into an
envelope the exact equivalent, and, keeping her word, delivered it with
her own hands, sealed up, at Lord Toronto’s hideous building off Fleet
Street, addressed only “Columbus,” demanding no receipt and leaving no
name.
Nor can I deny that Columbus well earned this treble stream of gold,
the first from his vulgar master, the second and the third from Bo.
The picture of Rackham Catchings came out enormous on the front page of
_The Howl_: they had the exclusive story; they had the exclusive snaps;
and an admirable caption designed by the Editor himself, a Mr. Emston,
who had been Emstein somewhere in America years ago. That caption ran:
ELIZABETHAN SPECTRE APPEARS IN
ANCIENT MANOR HOUSE.
SEEN BY ALL.
CONCLUSIVE PROOF BY OXFORD PROFESSOR OF
PSYCHOLOGY.
PROMINENT PEER PROSTRATED.
On the picture a large black cross deeply marked over poor Mrs. Maple’s
bathroom window, and having a gigantic arrow pointing at it, was
labelled:
ANCIENT MONASTIC CHAPEL WHERE GHOST
APPEARED.
And underneath all this, in somewhat smaller letters:
_Opinions of our Readers._
which last were a number of letters dated from all parts of London,
signed by various names, and written somewhat hurriedly by the
sub-editor’s son, who was trying his hand as apprentice serf to Lord
Toronto.
It would be all over London by one o’clock and the market for Rackham
ruined.
CHAPTER XVI
Bo, returning into the house, met Betsy Broom. Betsy had not yet
recovered from her shock (remember that the morning was still very
young), she had but that moment left the Professor’s presence. She gave
another little shriek, and was prepared to do another Cinquevalli trick
with the dustpan and broom, when Bo dominated her.
“Doan be a li’l fool!” said Bo, pulling her up. “What’s a-matter with
ye? Scared?”
“Oh, ma’am! Oh, miss! I thought it was IM again. There! I’m that dazed.
I thought ’is lordship was IM I did, when I found ’im telephoning. I’m
not meself.”
Bo pounced on the strategic point.
“Which lordship?” she said.
“Lord ’Ambourne, miss. ’E were telephoning all about it” (for thus did
Betsy earn the heavy bribe she had received to remain silent).
“Oh, he was, was he?” said Bo grimly.
She remembered Lord Hambourne’s notorious connection with _The Howl_,
and how that other eminent peer and colleague, Lord Toronto, was his
paymaster.
“Thank you, Betsy,” she said. She had given away her wallet in a fine
gesture—as the newspapers have it; but she felt in the pocket of the
little garden coat she was wearing, to shield her from the cold of that
morning. She seemed to remember there was something there. And so there
was. And she pulled out yet another crumpled ten-shilling note.
Betsy took it gratefully, and curtseyed.
“Oh, thank you, ma’am—miss, I mean!” she said. There entered into
Betsy’s young life for the first and the last time an experience of
that operation which politicians, share-shufflers, black-mailers, and
other candidates for the House of Lords know in their own peculiar
language as the “Double Cross.” She had had her palm greased by both
sides. Alas! poor innocent child, she went away none the wiser! She
made no use of it. With a little more opportunity she might have been
in the Cabinet; for such accidents of special knowledge and special
payment lead anywhere nowadays.
* * * * *
Remember, my sweet reader, that this book is written in 1927. What
Bo did next never would have been done in 1917. And in 1907 it would
have meant what they called in the horrible jargon of their day (still
retained by Lord Hambourne) “social ostracism.” And in 1897 (but
there I am back in my boyhood) it would have been, in the still more
horrible jargon of _their_ day, “unthinkable.”
She went straight up to the passage on the first floor. She waited a
moment, listening keenly—and hearing nothing—outside the patient’s
room. She went on ten yards, and whispered through the keyhole of
the room where John had just, after hours of struggle, begun to feel
drowsy. She dared not knock.
“Dog-Man,” was the undertone, “come out.”
“What? What? What?” said John loudly, starting up.
“Hush!” she whispered again through the keyhole, “come out.”
He staggered out, with his fatigue full upon him, and it crossed Bo’s
mind for a moment that he was, if possible, on such an occasion less of
a god. A young beard had begun; his eyes were drooping; and the corners
of his mouth showed strain. But she was loyal, and saw him as he was
really, the divine Jacko, even through this disguise. She put her
finger to her lip, as she had during the conspiracy of the day before,
and led him tip-toe along the thick carpet to her own room in the other
wing.
There she sat him down.
“Jacko,” she said, “listen to me. An’ get your piece word-perfect. I’m
telling you. You see there’s going to be a break-up?”
“Oh, yes,” said John.
“We’ve won, haven’t we?”
“So far.... I wish, Bo, that I hadn’t....”
“Pack that away into your old kit-bag. As you say—so far. Now ye’ve
got to hear the rest. Fat Matt’s gotten an ambulance from London.
It’ll buzz up here at nine. Then there’ll be the great retreat, an’
the Thunder of the Captains, an’ the Shouting ... as it says in the
Good Book. Then Aunt Hilda’ll be all alone, and jest wanderin’ around.
That’s the time to play the card.”
“What card?” asked John.
“I’m telling you,” answered Bo. “Hambone’s ’phoned _The Howl_. The
help told me all about it. She heard him. Told them over the wire. And
they’ve had a picture-man down here snapping the place already. It’ll
be all over London, Jacko. And what’s Aunt Hilda to do then?”
“Yes, but what am _I_ to do?” said John.
“What you’re to do, Bone-head, is to walk in and win. There’s no
selling the place for her now. And if she’s still steely-hearted, work
her with your Voice.”
“I don’t see how I could haunt Aunt Hilda in broad daylight.”
“No matter. The Lord will find a way. Only follow up, Jacko; follow up.
Have you got the carbons of those letters here?”
“Yes, in my pocket. She has the originals.”
“Well, tell her _The Howl’s_ got the story. Rattle her more, someway.
Then she’ll sign.”
“You think she will?” said John doubtfully.
Bo nodded with decision.
“Trust the Young Heiress,” she said. “The child has never failed.”
But even as she spoke there was commotion on the gravel beneath the
window. It was the ambulance from London, and the whole house was astir.
The lovers slipped downstairs by the back staircase, reached the hall,
and all the turmoil was upon them.
Down the main stairs, moving like funeral bearers under a coffin,
staggered sundry males—the driver of the ambulance, his assistant, the
footman, the atheist Gaul—even the local doctor lent a hand. While the
Specialist from London waddled slowly sideways, downwards, next to the
banisters, by way of inept superintendence: for he got the biggest fee.
On the stretcher under which they staggered lay the unfortunate First
Baron Mere de Beaurivage, still muttering, still raving.
Bringing up the rear from the head of the stairs and commanding all
things, his spouse, Presiding Goddess, herself storming, dominated the
storm.
“Ow, tike ’im gently!” she cried. “Treat him tender! ’Andle ’im
like a child!” But even as she spoke the sufferer rent the air with
“A-r-r-r-h!”
“Don’t jerk ’im, pore lamb!” the peeress went on—the procession had
allowed her to gain three steps downwards. “Don’t jerk ’im, whatever
yer do! Don’t give him a Hoick! Keep his ’ed up, pore dear! Keep the
blood from a-flowing to ’is ’ed!”
The foremost of the bearers had reached the bottom stair, Amathea,
presiding from above, was half-way down, the doors were fully open,
Corton was flinging wide the entry to the ambulance, when poor Hilda
Maple, a wreck from lack of sleep and all the attention which women of
her age need before they can appear before human kind, made the error
of attempting a pacification.
“Amathea,” she bleated, “_dearest_ Amathea!...”
But her adversary blazed out in terrible wrath.
“You shet yer ’ed!” she yelled, without reserve. “It’s you did all the
’arm, it is!” Then to the procession. “Ow, ’andle him gentler, ’ear him
groan—ow!” Then to her hostess, “Look on wot yer done!”
“I don’t see what I’ve done,” began Mrs. Maple, but Amathea interrupted
her again.
“Yer down’t see?” she cried madly. “Yer down’t see orl the ’arm yer’ve
done with yer Demonds and yer Obgoblings and yer lying laow an’ tryin’
to pass off this ’ouse on us an’ orl?”
“Amathea ...” began Mrs. Maple again.
“Don’t you Amathea me, Mrs. Miple!” shouted the peeress, with all the
subtle charm of Aristocracy, as she crashed one hand on a table still
sordid with last night’s glasses, and stretched the other in wild
denunciation. “Don’t you Amathea me! I wish yer’d never been born, nor
I to meet yer! With yer ’umbug and yer lies and yer Black Devil, and
all! Yus, and ’id and concealed from our eyes! But I’ll let yer know!
I’ve priced yer! Yer profiteeress!”
Poor Hilda tried to stem the torrent, but the peeress’s voice filled
all heaven, and if its owner had had anything to throw she would have
thrown it.
“Down’t yer mike answer to me, Ilda Miple! I’m Mattie Huggins, I am,
and I’d have yer to know that I could take on a dozen of yer! Any dy of
the week!”
She put her right arm akimbo and snapped the fingers of her left hand
finely in the air, “That for yer damn Rackham Catchings!” She put her
left arm akimbo and snapped the fingers of her right hand with still
nobler violence, “That for yer old Drury Lane stige barn!” She put both
arms akimbo and leant forward over the end of the banisters shouting
with titanic power, “Burn it down for the insurance, you bitch! Burn it
an’ keep quiet! For yer’ll never get a penny out of hus! And so I tells
yer strite!”
Her face was crimson, panting and sweating; her voice almost exhausted.