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The Secret Passage

F >> Fergus Hume >> The Secret Passage



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THE SECRET PASSAGE by Fergus Hume



CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. THE COTTAGE

II. THE CRIME

III. A MYSTERIOUS DEATH

IV. DETAILS

V. LORD CARANBY'S ROMANCE

VI. A PERPLEXING CASE

VII. THE DETECTIVE

VIII. THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE

IX. ANOTHER MYSTERY

X. THE PARLOR-MAID'S STORY

XI. ON THE TRACK

XII. JENNINGS ASKS QUESTIONS

XIII. JULIET AT BAY

XIV. MRS. OCTAGON EXPLAINS

XV. A DANGEROUS ADMISSION

XVI. JULIET'S STORY

XVII. JULIET'S STORY CONTINUED

XVIII. THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS

XIX. SUSAN'S DISCOVERY

XX. BASIL

XXI. AN EXPERIMENT

XXII. THE SECRET ENTRANCE

XXIII. A SCAMP'S HISTORY

XXIV. REVENGE

XXV. NEMESIS

XXVI. CUTHBERT'S ENEMY






THE SECRET PASSAGE




CHAPTER I

THE COTTAGE


"What IS your name?"

"Susan Grant, Miss Loach."

"Call me ma'am. I am Miss Loach only to my equals. Your
age?"

"Twenty-five, ma'am."

"Do you know your work as parlor-maid thoroughly?"

"Yes, ma'am. I was two years in one place and six months in
another, ma'am. Here are my characters from both places,
ma'am."

As the girl spoke she laid two papers before the sharp old
lady who questioned her. But Miss Loach did not look at them
immediately. She examined the applicant with such close
attention that a faint color tinted the girl's cheeks and she
dropped her eyes. But, in her turn, by stealthy glances,
Susan Grant tactfully managed to acquaint herself with the
looks of her possible mistress. The thoughts of each woman
ran as follows,--

Miss Loach to herself. "Humph! Plain-looking, sallow skin,
rather fine eyes and a slack mouth. Not badly dressed for a
servant, and displays some taste. She might turn my old
dresses at a pinch. Sad expression, as though she had
something on her mind. Honest-looking, but I think a trifle
inquisitive, seeing how she examined the room and is stealing
glances at me. Talks sufficiently, but in a low voice.
Fairly intelligent, but not too much so. Might be secretive.
Humph!"

The thoughts of Susan Grant. "Handsome old lady, probably
nearly sixty. Funny dress for ten o'clock in the morning.
She must be rich, to wear purple silk and old lace and lovely
rings at this hour. A hard mouth, thin nose, very white hair
and very black eyebrows. Got a temper I should say, and is
likely to prove an exacting mistress. But I want a quiet
home, and the salary is good. I'll try it, if she'll take
me."

Had either mistress or maid known of each other's thoughts, a
conclusion to do business might not have been arrived at. As
it was, Miss Loach, after a few more questions, appeared
satisfied. All the time she kept a pair of very black eyes
piercingly fixed on the girl's face, as though she would read
her very soul. But Susan had nothing to conceal, so far as
Miss Loach could gather, so in the end she resolved to engage
her.

"I think you'll do," she said nodding, and poking up the fire,
with a shiver, although the month was June. "The situation is
a quiet one. I hope you have no followers."

"No, ma'am," said Susan and flushed crimson.

"Ha!" thought Miss Loach, "she has been in love--jilted
probably. All the better, as she won't bring any young men
about my quiet house."

"Will you not read my characters, ma'am?"

Miss Loach pushed the two papers towards the applicant. "I
judge for myself," said she calmly. "Most characters I read
are full of lies. Your looks are enough for me. Where were
you last?"

"With a Spanish lady, ma'am!"

"A Spanish lady!" Miss Loach dropped the poker she was
holding, with a clatter, and frowned so deeply that her black
eyebrows met over her high nose. "And her name?"

"Senora Gredos, ma'am!"

The eyes of the old maid glittered, and she made a clutch at
her breast as though the reply had taken away her breath.
"Why did you leave?" she asked, regaining her composure.

Susan looked uncomfortable. "I thought the house was too gay,
ma'am."

"What do you mean by that? Can any house be too gay for a
girl of your years?"

"I have been well brought up, ma'am," said Susan quietly; "and
my religious principles are dear to me. Although she is an
invalid, ma'am, Senora Gredos was very gay. Many people came
to her house and played cards, even on Sunday," added Susan
under her breath. But low as she spoke, Miss Loach heard.

"I have whist parties here frequently," she said drily;
"nearly every evening four friends of mine call to play. Have
you any objection to enter my service on that account?"

"Oh, no, ma'am. I don't mind a game of cards. I play
'Patience' myself when alone. I mean gambling--there was a
lot of money lost and won at Senora Gredos' house!"

"Yet she is an invalid I think you said?"

"Yes, ma'am. She was a dancer, I believe, and fell in some
way, so as to break her leg or hurt her back. She has been
lying on a couch for two years unable to move. Yet she has
herself wheeled into the drawing-room and watches the
gentlemen play cards. She plays herself sometimes!"

Miss Loach again directed one of her piercing looks at the
pale face of the girl. "You are too inquisitive and too
talkative," she said suddenly, "therefore you won't suit me.
Good-day."

Susan was quite taken aback. "Oh, ma'am, I hope I've said
nothing wrong. I only answered your questions."

"You evidently take note of everything you see, and talk about
it."

"No, ma'am," said the girl earnestly. "I really hold my
tongue."

"When it suits you," retorted Miss Loach. "Hold it now and
let me think!"

While Miss Loach, staring frowningly into the fire, debated
inwardly as to the advisability of engaging the girl, Susan
looked timidly round the room. Curiously enough, it was
placed in the basement of the cottage, and was therefore below
the level of the garden. Two fairly large windows looked on
to the area, which had been roofed with glass and turned into
a conservatory. Here appeared scarlet geraniums and other
bright-hued flowers, interspersed with ferns and delicate
grasses. Owing to the position of the room and the presence
of the glass roof, only a subdued light filtered into the
place, but, as the day was brilliant with sunshine, the
apartment was fairly well illuminated. Still, on a cloudy
day, Susan could imagine how dull it would be. In winter time
the room must be perfectly dark.

It was luxuriously furnished, in red and gold. The carpet and
curtains were of bright scarlet, threaded with gold. The
furniture, strangely enough, was of white polished wood
upholstered in crimson satin fringed with gold. There were
many pictures in large gilded frames and many mirrors
similarly encircled with gilded wood. The grate, fender and
fire-irons were of polished brass, and round the walls were
numerous electric lamps with yellow shades. The whole room
represented a bizarre appearance, flamboyant and rather
tropical in looks. Apparently Miss Loach was fond of vivid
colors. There was no piano, nor were there books or papers,
and the only evidence as to how Miss Loach passed her time
revealed itself in a work-basket and a pack of cards. Yet, at
her age, Susan thought that needlework would be rather trying,
even though she wore no glasses and her eyes seemed bright and
keen. She was an odd old lady and appeared to be rich. "I'll
engage you," said Miss Loach abruptly; "get your box and be
here before five o'clock this afternoon. I am expecting some
friends at eight o'clock. You must be ready to admit them.
Now go!"

"But, ma'am, I--"

"In this house," interrupted Miss Loach imperiously, "no one
speaks to me, unless spoken to by me. You understand!"

"Yes, ma'am," replied Susan timidly, and obeyed the finger
which pointed to the door. Miss Loach listened to the girl's
footsteps on the stairs, and sat down when she heard the front
door close. But she was up again almost in a moment and
pacing the room. Apparently the conversation with Susan Grant
afforded her food for reflection. And not very palatable food
either, judging from her expression.

The newly-engaged servant returned that same afternoon to the
suburban station, which tapped the district of Rexton. A
trunk, a bandbox and a bag formed her humble belongings, and
she arranged with a porter that these should be wheeled in a
barrow to Rose Cottage, as Miss Loach's abode was primly
called. Having come to terms, Susan left the station and set
out to walk to the place. Apart from the fact that she saved
a cab fare, she wished to obtain some idea of her
surroundings, and therefore did not hurry herself.

It was a bright June day with a warm green earth basking under
a blue and cloudless sky. But even the sunshine could not
render Rexton beautiful. It stretched out on all sides from
the station new and raw. The roads were finished, with
asphalt footpaths and stone curbing, the lamp-posts had
apparently only been lately erected, and lines of white fences
divided the roads from gardens yet in their infancy. Fronting
these were damp-looking red brick villas, belonging to small
clerks and petty tradesmen. Down one street was a row of
shops filled with the necessaries of civilization; and round
the corner, an aggressively new church of yellow brick with a
tin roof and a wooden steeple stood in the middle of an
untilled space. At the end of one street a glimpse could be
caught of the waste country beyond, not yet claimed by the
ferry-builder. A railway embankment bulked against the
horizon, and closed the view in an unsightly manner. Rexton
was as ugly as it was new.

Losing her way, Susan came to the ragged fringe of country
environing the new suburb, and paused there, to take in her
surroundings. Across the fields to the left she saw an
unfinished mansion, large and stately, rising amidst a forest
of pines. This was girdled by a high brick wall which looked
older than the suburb itself. Remembering that she had seen
this house behind the cottage of Miss Loach, the girl used it
as a landmark, and turning down a side street managed to find
the top of a crooked lane at the bottom of which Rose Cottage
was situated. This lane showed by its very crookedness that
it belonged to the ancient civilization of the district. Here
were no paths, no lamps, no aggressively new fences and raw
brick houses. Susan, stepping down the slight incline, passed
into quite an old world, smacking of the Georgian times,
leisurely and quaint. On either side of the lane,
old-fashioned cottages, with whitewash walls and thatched
roofs, stood amidst gardens filled with unclipped greenery and
homely flowers. Quickset hedges, ragged and untrimmed,
divided these from the roadway, and to add to the rural look
one garden possessed straw bee-hives. Here and there rose
ancient elm-trees and grass grew in the roadway. It was a
blind lane and terminated in a hedge, which bordered a field
of corn. To the left was a narrow path running between hedges
past the cottages and into the country.

Miss Loach's house was a mixture of old and new. Formerly it
had been an unpretentious cottage like the others, but she had
added a new wing of red brick built in the most approved style
of the jerry-builder, and looking like the villas in the more
modern parts of Rexton. The crabbed age and the uncultured
youth of the old and new portions, planted together cheek by
jowl, appeared like ill-coupled clogs and quite out of
harmony. The thatched and tiled roofs did not seem meet
neighbors, and the whitewash walls of the old-world cottage
looked dingy beside the glaring redness of the new villa. The
front door in the new part was reached by a flight of dazzling
white steps. From this, a veranda ran across the front of the
cottage, its rustic posts supporting rose-trees and ivy. On
the cottage side appeared an old garden, but the new wing was
surrounded by lawns and decorated with carpet bedding. A
gravel walk divided the old from the new, and intersected the
garden. At the back, Susan noted again the high brick wall
surrounding the half-completed mansion. Above this rose tall
trees, and the wall itself was overgrown with ivy. It
apparently was old and concealed an unfinished palace of the
sleeping beauty, so ragged and wild appeared the growth which
peeped over the guardian wall.

With a quickness of perception unusual in her class, Susan
took all this in, then rang the bell. There was no back door,
so far as she could see, and she thought it best to enter as
she had done in the morning. But the large fat woman who
opened the door gave her to understand that she had taken a
liberty.

"Of course this morning and before engaging, you were a lady,"
said the cook, hustling the girl into the hall, "but now being
the housemaid, Miss Loach won't be pleased at your touching
the front bell."

"I did not see any other entrance," protested Susan.

"Ah," said the cook, leading the way down a few steps into the
thatched cottage, which, it appeared was the servants' quarters,
"you looked down the area as is natural-like. But there ain't
none, it being a conservitery!"

"Why does Miss Loach live in the basement?" asked Susan, on
being shown into a comfortable room which answered the purpose
of a servants' hall.

The cook resented this question. "Ah!" said she with a snort,
"and why does a miller wear a white 'at, Miss Grant, that
being your name I take it. Don't you ask no questions but if
you must know, Miss Loach have weak eyes and don't like glare.
She lives like a rabbit in a burrow, and though the rooms on
the ground floor are sich as the King might in'abit, she don't
come up often save to eat. She lives in the basement room
where you saw her, Miss Grant, and she sleeps in the room orf.
When she eats, the dining-room above is at her service. An' I
don't see why she shouldn't," snorted the cook.

"I don't mean any--"

"No offence being given none is taken," interrupted cook, who
seemed fond of hearing her own wheezy voice. "Emily Pill's my
name, and I ain't ashamed of it, me having been cook to Miss
Loach for years an' years and years. But if you had wished to
behave like a servant, as you are," added she with emphasis,
"why didn't you run round by the veranda and so get to the
back where the kitchen is. But you're one of the new class of
servants, Miss Grant, 'aughty and upsetting."

"I know my place," said Susan, taking off her hat.

"And I know mine," said Emily Pill, "me being cook and
consequently the mistress of this servants' 'all. An' I'm an
old-fashioned servant myself, plain in my 'abits and dress."
This with a disparaging look at the rather smart costume of
the newly-arrived housemaid. "I don't 'old with cockes
feathers and fal-de-dals on 'umble folk myself, not but what I
could afford 'em if I liked, being of saving 'abits and a
receiver of good wages. But I'm a friendly pusson and not
'ard on a good-lookin' gal, not that you are what I call
'andsome."

Susan seated beside the table, looked weary and forlorn, and
the good-natured heart of the cook was touched, especially
when Susan requested her to refrain from the stiff name of
Miss Grant.

"You an' me will be good friends, I've no doubt," said Emily,
"an' you can call me Mrs. Pill, that being the name of my late
'usband, who died of gin in excess. The other servants is
housemaid and page, though to be sure he's more of a
man-of-all-work, being forty if he's a day, and likewise
coachman, when he drives out Miss Loach in her donkey
carriage. Thomas is his name, my love." The cook was rapidly
becoming more and more friendly, "and the housemaid is called
Geraldine, for which 'eaven forgives her parents, she bein'
spotty and un'ealthy and by no means a Bow-Bell's 'eroine,
which 'er name makes you think of. But there's a dear, I'm
talking brilliant, when you're dying for a cup of tea, and
need to get your box unpacked, by which I mean that I sees the
porter with the barrer."

The newly-arrived parlor-maid was pleased by this friendly if
ungrammatical reception, and thought she would like the cook
in spite of her somewhat tiresome tongue. For the next hour
she was unpacking her box and arranging a pleasant little room
at the back. She shared this with the spotty Geraldine, who
seemed to be a good-natured girl. Apparently Miss Loach
looked after her servants and made them comfortable. Thomas
proved to be amiable if somewhat stupid, and welcomed Susan to
tea affably but with sheepish looks. As the servants seemed
pleasant, the house comfortable, and as the salary was
excellent, Susan concluded that she had--as the saying is--
fallen on her feet.

The quartette had tea in the servants' hall, and there was
plenty of well-cooked if plain victuals. Miss Loach dined at
half-past six and Susan assumed her dress and cap. She laid
the table in a handsome dining-room, equally as garish in
color as the apartment below. The table appointments were
elegant, and Mrs. Pill served a nice little meal to which Miss
Loach did full justice. She wore the same purple dress, but
with the addition of more jewellery. Her sharp eyes followed
Susan about the room as she waited, and at the end of the
dinner she made her first observation. "You know your work I
see," she said. "I hope you will be happy here!"

"I think I will, ma'am," said Susan, with a faint sigh.

"You have had trouble?" asked Miss Loach quickly.

"Yes, ma'am!"

"You must tell me about it to-morrow," said the old lady
rising. "I like to gain the confidence of my servants. Now
bring my coffee to the room below. At eight, three people
will arrive--a lady and two gentlemen. You will show them
into the sitting-room and put out the card-table. Then you
can go to the kitchen and wait till I ring. Be sure you don't
come till I do ring," and Miss Loach emphasized this last
order with a flash of her brilliant eyes.

Susan took the coffee to the sitting-room in the basement and
then cleared the table. Shortly before eight o'clock there
was a ring at the front door. She opened it to a tall lady,
with gray hair, who leaned on an ebony cane. With her were
two men, one a rather rough foolish-looking fellow, and the
other tall, dark, and well-dressed in an evening suit. A
carriage was just driving away from the gate. As the tall
lady entered, a breath of strong perfume saluted Susan's
nostrils. The girl started and peered into the visitor's
face. When she returned to the kitchen her own was as white
as chalk.




CHAPTER II

THE CRIME


The kitchen was rather spacious, and as neat and clean as the
busy hands of Mrs. Pill could make it. An excellent range
polished to excess occupied one end of the room; a dresser
with blue and white china adorned the other. On the outside
wall copper pots and pans, glittering redly in the firelight,
were ranged in a shining row. Opposite this wall, a door led
into the interior of the house, and in it was the outer
entrance. A large deal table stood in the center of the room,
and at this with their chairs drawn up, Geraldine and the cook
worked. The former was trimming a picture-hat of the cheapest
and most flamboyant style, and the latter darned a coarse
white stocking intended for her own use. By the fire sat
Thomas, fair-haired and stupid in looks, who read tit-bits
from the Daily Mail for the delectation of Mrs. Pill and
Geraldine.

"Gracious 'eavens, Susan," cried the cook, when Susan
returned, after admitting the visitors, "whatever's come to
you?"

"I've had a turn," said Susan faintly, sitting by the fire and
rubbing her white cheeks.

At once Mrs. Pill was alive with curiosity. She questioned
the new parlor-maid closely, but was unable to extract
information. Susan simply said that she had a weak heart, and
set down her wan appearance to the heat. "An' on that
accounts you sits by the fire," said Mrs. Pill scathingly.
"You're one of the secret ones you are. Well, it ain't no
business of mine, thank 'eaven, me being above board in
everythink. I 'spose the usual lot arrived, Susan?"

"Two gentlemen and a lady," replied Susan, glad to see that
the cooks thoughts were turning in another direction.

"Gentlemen!" snorted Mrs. Pill, "that Clancy one ain't. Why
the missus should hobnob with sich as he, I don't know nohow."

"Ah, but the other's a real masher," chimed in Geraldine,
looking up from her millinery; "such black eyes, that go
through you like a gimlet, and such a lovely moustache. He
dresses elegant too."

"Being Miss Loach's lawyer, he have a right to dress well,"
said Mrs. Pill, rubbing her nose with the stocking, "and Mr.
Clancy, I thinks, is someone Mr. Jarvey Hale's helpin', he
being good and kind."

Here Geraldine gave unexpected information.

"He's a client of Mr. Hale's," she said indistinctly, with her
mouth full of pins, "and has come in for a lot of money. Mr.
Hale's introducing him into good society, to make a gent of
him."

"Silk purses can't be made out of sows' ears," growled the
cook, "an' who told you all this Geraldine?"

"Miss Loach herself, at different times."

Susan thought it was strange that a lady should gossip to this
extent with her housemaid, but she did not take much interest
in the conversation, being occupied with her own sad thoughts.
But the next remark of Geraldine made her start. "Mr. Clancy's
father was a carpenter," said the girl.

"My father was a carpenter," remarked Susan, sadly.

"Ah," cried Mrs. Pill with alacrity, "now you're speaking
sense. Ain't he alive?"

"No. He was poisoned!"

The three servants, having the love of horrors peculiar to the
lower classes, looked up with interest. "Lor!" said Thomas,
speaking for the first time and in a thick voice, "who
poisoned him?"

"No one knows. He died five years ago, and left mother with
me and four little brothers to bring up. They're all doing
well now, though, and I help mother, as they do. They didn't
want me to go out to service, you know," added Susan, warming
on finding sympathetic listeners. "I could have stopped at
home with mother in Stepney, but I did not want to be idle,
and took a situation with a widow lady at Hampstead. I
stopped there a year. Then she died and I went as parlor-maid
to a Senora Gredos. I was only there six months," and she
sighed.

"Why did you leave?" asked Geraldine.

Susan grew red. "I wished for a change," she said curtly.

But the housemaid did not believe her. She was a sharp girl
and her feelings were not refined. "It's just like these men--"

"I said nothing about men," interrupted Susan, sharply.

"Well, then, a man. You've been in love, Susan, and--"

"No. I am not in love," and Susan colored more than ever.

"Why, it's as plain as cook that you are, now," tittered
Geraldine.

"Hold your noise and leave the gal be," said Mrs. Pill,
offended by the allusion to her looks, "if she's in love she
ain't married, and no more she ought to be; if she'd had a
husband like mine, who drank every day in the week and lived
on my earnings. He's dead now, an' I gave 'im a 'andsome
tombstone with the text: 'Go thou and do likewise' on it,
being a short remark, lead letterin' being expensive. Ah
well, as I allays say, 'Flesh is grass with us all.'"

While the cook maundered on Thomas sat with his dull eyes
fixed on the flushed face of Susan. "What about the poisoning?"
he demanded.

"It was this way," said Susan. "Father was working at some
house in these parts--"

"What! Down here?"

"Yes, at Rexton, which was then just rising into notice as a
place for gentlefolks. He had just finished with a house when
he came home one day with his wages. He was taken ill and
died. The doctor said he had taken poison, and he died of it.
Arsenic it was," explained Susan to her horrified audience.

"But why did he poison himself?" asked Geraldine.

"I don't know: no one knew. He was gettin' good wages, and
said he would make us all rich."

"Ah," chimed in Thomas suddenly, "in what way, Susan?"

"He had a scheme to make our fortunes. What it was, I don't
know. But he said he would soon be worth plenty of money.
Mother thought someone must have poisoned him, but she could
not find out. As we had a lot of trouble then, it was thought
father had killed himself to escape it, but I know better. If
he had lived, we should have been rich. He was on an extra
job down here," she ended.

"What was the extra job?" asked Thomas curiously.

Susan shook her head. "Mother never found out. She went to
the house he worked on, which is near the station. They said
father always went away for three hours every afternoon by an
arrangement with the foreman. Where he went, no one knew. He
came straight from this extra job home and died of poison.
Mother thought," added Susan, looking round cautiously, "that
someone must have had a wish to get rid of father, he knowing
too much."

"Too much of what, my gal?" asked Mrs. Pill, with open mouth.

"Ah! That's what I'd like to find out," said Susan
garrulously, "but nothing was ever known, and father was
buried as a suicide. Then mother, having me and my four
brothers, married again, and I took the name of her new
husband."

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