The trail of the serpent
everybody had proposed everybody else--and then, some one suggesting a
quiet song, everybody sang.
Now, as the demand for a song from each member of the festive band
was of so noisy and imperative a nature that a refusal was not only
a moral, but a physical impossibility, it would be unbecoming to
remark that the melody and harmony of the evening were, at best,
fluctuating. Annie Laurie was evidently a young lady of an undecided
mind, and wandered in a pleasing manner from C into D, and from D into
E, and then back again with laudable dexterity to C, for the finish.
The gentleman whose heart was bowed down in the key of G might have
rendered his performance more effective, had he given his statement of
that affliction entirely in one key; and another gentleman, who sang a
comic song of seventeen eight-line verses, with four lines of chorus to
every verse, would have done better if he had confined himself to his
original plan of singing superhumanly flat, instead of varying it, as
he occasionally did, by ringing preternaturally sharp. Of course it is
an understood thing, that in a chorus, every singer should choose his
own key, or where is the liberty of the subject?--so _that_ need
not be alluded to. But all this is over; and the guests of Mr. Hemmar
have risen to depart, and have found the act of rising to depart by no
means the trifle they thought it. It is very hard, of course, in such
an atmosphere of tobacco, to find the door; and that, no doubt, is the
reason why so many gentlemen seek for it in the wrong direction, and
buffet insanely with their arms against the wall, in search of that
orifice.
Now, there are two gentlemen in whom Mr. Hemmar’s neat wines have
developed a friendship of the warmest description. Those two gentlemen
are none other than the two master-spirits of the evening, the
Left-handed Smasher and Brandolph of the Brand--who, by the bye, in
private life, is known as Augustus de Clifford. His name is not written
thus in the register of his baptism. On that malicious document he is
described as William Watson; but to his friends and the public he has
for fifteen years been admired and beloved as the great De Clifford,
although often familiarly called Brandolph, in delicate allusion to his
greatest character.
Now, Brandolph is positively convinced that the Smasher is not in a
fit state to go home alone, and the Smasher is equally assured that
Brandolph will do himself a mischief unless he is watched; so Brandolph
is going to see the Smasher home to his hotel, which is a considerable
distance from the Gloves Tavern; and then the Smasher is coming back
again to see Brandolph to his lodgings, which are next door but two to
the Gloves Tavern. So, after having bade good night to every one else,
in some instances with tears, and always with an affectionate pathos
verging upon tears, Brandolph flings on his loose overcoat, just as
Manfred might have flung on his cloak prior to making a morning call
upon the witch of the Alps, and the Smasher twists about five yards of
parti-coloured woollen raiment, which he calls a comforter, round his
neck, and they sally forth.
A glorious autumn night; the full moon high in the heavens, with a tiny
star following in her wake like a well-bred tuft-hunter, and all the
other stars keeping their distance, as if they had retired to their own
“grounds,” as the French say, and were at variance with their queen
on some matter connected with taxes. A glorious night; as light as
day--nay, almost lighter; for it is a light which will bear looking
at, and which does not dazzle our eyes as the sun does, when we are
presumptuous enough to elevate our absurdly infinitesimal optics to his
sublimity. Not a speck on the Liverpool pavement, not a dog asleep on
the doorstep, or a dissipated cat sneaking home down an area, but is
as visible as in the broad glare of noon. “Such a night as this” was
almost too much for Lara, and Brandolph of the Brand grows sentimental.
“You wouldn’t think,” he murmurs, abstractedly, gazing at the moon, as
he and the Smasher meander arm-in-arm over the pavement; “you wouldn’t
think she hadn’t an atmosphere, would you? A man might build a theatre
there, and he might get his company up in balloons; but I question
if it would pay, on account of that trivial want--she hasn’t got an
atmosphere.”
“Hasn’t she?” said the Smasher, who certainly, if anything, had, in
the matter of sobriety, the advantage of the tragedian. “You’ll have
a black eye though, if you don’t steer clear of that ’ere lamp-post
you’re makin’ for. I never did see such a cove,” he added; “with his
_h_atmospheres, and his moons, and his b’loons, one would think
he’d never had a glass or two of wine before.”
Now, to reach the hotel which the left-handed one honoured by his
presence, it was necessary to pass the quay; and the sight of the water
and the shipping reposing in the stillness under the light of the moon,
again awakened all the poetry in the nature of the romantic Brandolph.
“It is beautiful!” he said, taking his pet position, and waving his arm
in the orthodox circle, prior to pointing to the scene before him. “It
is peaceful: it is we who are the blots upon the beauty of the earth.
Oh, why--why are we false to the beautiful and heroic, as the author of
the Lady of Lyons would observe? Why are we false to the true? Why do
we drink too much and see double? Standing amidst the supreme silences,
with breathless creation listening to our words, we look up to the
stars that looked down upon the philosopher of the cave; and we feel
that we have retrograded.” Here the eminent tragedian gave a lurch, and
seated himself with some violence and precipitation on the kerbstone.
“We feel,” he repeated, “that we have retrograded. It is a pity!”
“Now, who’s to pick him up?” inquired the Smasher, looking round in
silent appeal to the lamp-posts about him. “Who’s to pick him up?
I can’t; and if he sleeps here he’ll very likely get cold. Get up,
you snivelling fool, can’t you?” he said, with some asperity, to the
descendant of Thespis, who, after weeping piteously, was drying his
eyes with an announce bill of the “Tyrant of the Ganges,” and by
no means improving his personal appearance with the red and black
printer’s ink thereof.
How mine host of the Cheerful Cherokee would ever have extricated his
companion from this degraded position, without the timely intervention
of others, is not to be said; for at this very moment the Smasher
beheld a gentleman alight from a cab at a little distance from where he
stood, ask two or three questions of the cabman, pay and dismiss him,
and then walk on in the direction of some steps that led to the water.
This gentleman wore his hat very much slouched over his face; he was
wrapped in a heavy loose coat, that entirely concealed his figure, and
evidently carried a parcel of some kind under his left arm.
“Hi!” said the Smasher, as the pedestrian approached; “Hi, you there!
Give us a hand, will you?”
The gentleman addressed as “you there” took not the slightest notice of
this appeal, except, indeed, that he quickened his pace considerably,
and tried to pass the left-handed one.
“No, you don’t,” said our pugilistic friend; “the cove as refuses to
pick up the man that’s down is a blot upon the English character,
and the sooner he’s scratched out the better;” wherewith the Smasher
squared his fists and placed himself directly in the path of the
gentleman with the slouched hat.
“I tell you what it is, my good fellow,” said this individual, “you may
pick up your drunken friend yourself, or you may wait the advent of
the next policeman, who will do the public a service by conveying you
both to the station-house, where you may finish the evening in your own
highly-intellectual manner. But perhaps you will be good enough to let
me pass, for I’m in a hurry! You see that American vessel yonder--she’s
dropped down the river to wait for the wind; the breeze is springing
up as fast as it can, and she may set sail as it is before I can reach
her; so, if you want to earn a sovereign, come and see if you can help
me in arousing a waterman and getting off to her?”
“Oh, you are off to America, are you?” said the Smasher, thoughtfully.
“Blow that ’ere wine of Hemmar’s! I ought to know the cut of your
figure-head. I’ve seen you before--I’ve seen you somewheres before,
though where that somewheres was, spiflicate me if I can call to mind!
Come, lend a hand with this ’ere friend o’ mine, and I’ll lend you a
hand with the boatman.”
“D--n your friend,” said the other, savagely; “let me pass, will you,
you drunken fool?”
This was quite enough for the Smasher, who was just in that agreeable
frame of mind attendant on the consumption of strong waters, in which
the jaundiced eye is apt to behold an enemy even in a friend, and the
equally prejudiced ear is ready to hear an insult in the most civil
address.
“Come on, then,” said he; and putting himself in a scientific attitude,
he dodged from side to side two or three times, as if setting to his
partner in a quadrille, and then, with a movement rapid as lightning,
went in with his left fist, and planted a species of postman’s knock
exactly between the eyes of the stranger, who fell to the ground as an
ox falls under the hand of an accomplished butcher.
It is needless to say that, in falling, his hat fell off, and as he lay
senseless on the pavement, the moonlight on his face revealed every
feature as distinctly as in the broadest day.
The Smasher knelt down by his side, looked at him attentively for a few
moments, and then gave a long, low whistle.
“Under the circumstances,” he said, “perhaps I couldn’t have done a
better thing than this ’ere I’ve done promiscuous. He won’t go to
America by that vessel at any rate; so if I telegraph to the Cherokees,
maybe they will be glad to hear what he’s up to down here. Come along,”
continued the sobered Smasher, hauling up Mr. De Clifford by the
collar, as ruthlessly as if he had been a sack of coal; “I think I
hear the footsteps of a Bobby a-coming this way, so we’d better make
ourselves scarce before we’re asked any questions.”
“If,” said the distinguished Brandolph, still shedding tears, “if
the town of Liverpool was conducted after the manner of the Republic
of Plato, there wouldn’t be any policemen. But, as I said before, we
have retrograded. Take care of the posts,” he added plaintively. “It
is marvellous the effect a few glasses of light wine have upon some
people’s legs; while others, on the contrary----” here he slid again to
the ground, and this time eluded all the Smasher’s endeavours to pick
him up.
“You had better let me be,” he murmured. “It is hard, but it is clean
and comfortable. Bring me my boots and hot water at nine o’clock; I’ve
an early rehearsal of ‘The Tyrant.’ Go home quietly, my dear friend,
and don’t take anything more to drink, for your head is evidently not a
strong one. Good night.”
“Here’s a situation!” said the Smasher. “I can’t dance attendance on
him any more, for I must run round to the telegraph office and see if
it’s open, that I may send Mr. Marwood word about this night’s work.
The Count de Marolles is safe enough for a day or two, anyhow; for I
have set a mark upon him that he won’t rub off just yet, clever as he
is.”
CHAPTER IV.
WHAT THEY FIND IN THE ROOM IN WHICH THE MURDER WAS COMMITTED.
AT the time that the arrest of the Count de Marolles was taking
place, Mr. Joseph Peters was absent from London, being employed
upon some mission of a delicate and secret nature in the town of
Slopperton-on-the-Sloshy.
Slopperton is very little changed since the murder at the Black Mill
set every tongue going upon its nine-days wonder. There may be a few