Chapter Twelve. In the House of the Parhams.

That evening, when I returned to Bolton Street, I found Eric awaiting me.

Unseen, he had followed Winsloe to various places during the afternoon, but his movements were in no way suspicious. At Harker’s Hotel he had, it appeared, lost all trace of Sybil, and had probably employed a private detective to watch my movements.

The adjourned inquest had been held at Midhurst, for in the Globe there appeared a four-line paragraph saying that in the case of an unknown man found shot in Charlton Wood, a verdict of wilful murder had been returned, and the matter had been left in the hands of the police. A village tragedy attracts but little notice in London, and all the papers dismissed it in a paragraph of practically the same wording.

That night we dined with two friends at the Trocadero, and next morning I set forth again upon my inquiries, leaving Eric to act as he thought best. My only promise to him was not to go near my pseudo wife.

My first visit was to the pawnbroker’s in the Fulham Road, to whom I presented the vouchers I had found upon the dead man, and received on redeeming them a cheap silver Geneva watch and heavy antique gold ring, in which a single ruby was set.

“You don’t recollect the gentleman who pledged these, I suppose?” I asked of the assistant.

The young man, a smart, shrewd fellow, reflected a moment, and answered,—

“Well, yes, I do remember something of him. We had an argument about the ring. He wanted five pounds on it, and I wouldn’t give it.”

“What kind of fellow was he?” I asked, explaining that I had bought the tickets from a third person.

“Oh, youngish—with a short brown beard. Evidently a gentleman who was hard up. We get lots of them in here.”

A brown beard! Had he shaved and disguised himself before his interview with Tibbie?

“Tall?” I asked.

“No. Not very.”

The description did not answer to that of the dead unknown.

“A stranger?”

“Quite. I’d never seen him before. But the truth is I recollect him because that ruby there is a valuable one. I had my doubts at the moment as to its genuineness, and as there were a lot of people waiting I had no time to examine it. So I lent him only a couple o’ quid on it.”

“Then it’s worth more?”

“Yes. If you bought the ticket cheap you’ve got a bargain. The guv’nor here would give you eighty quid for it, and be pleased.”

I looked at it, and saw that it was a very fine stone. To me it seemed evident that the man who had pawned the watch and ring was not the man who had lost his life in Charlton Wood.

“You think he was a gentleman?”

“Well, he spoke like one, and seemed very much afraid of being seen. He hesitated when I asked him his name, so I wrote down the usual one—Green.”

“And the address?”

“I put that in also.”

So finding I could discover nothing further, I carried away both watch and ring to add to the strange collection of objects which the dead man’s pockets had contained.

Close to the corner of Park Lane I came face to face with Winsloe, dressed sprucely as usual in silk hat and frock coat, and he at once stopped and offered me his hand. Then, after greeting me, he turned on his heel and walked by my side, saying,—

“I’m just strolling back to the Burlington. I’ll come with you.”

“You left the Scarcliffs earlier than you expected, didn’t you?” I remarked.

“Yes. I had some business in town,” was his brief response.

“I see from the papers that they’ve discovered nothing regarding that affair in Charlton Wood.”

“No,” he remarked in a mechanical tone. “And I don’t expect they ever will. The assassin, whoever he was, got away without leaving a trace,” and then he cleverly diverted our conversation into a different channel.

I feared to discuss it further. The man was Sybil’s enemy, and therefore mine. He evidently knew that we had met on that evening of her arrival in London, and was actively at work to trace her.

Indeed, when I afterwards reflected, I saw that in all probability he had watched me that morning, and had purposely encountered me.

To each other we were outwardly still extremely friendly. Indeed I invited him to my rooms that evening to smoke, and he accepted, for he had a motive in so doing, while I, on my part, had resolved to watch him carefully.

I lunched at the Bachelors’, and though anxious to go and see Sybil, I was compelled to content myself with sending her a telegram, saying that I had been ordered by my foreman to go up to Manchester in connection with some new linotype machinery, and must therefore be absent two or three days. I sent the message so that she might show it to Mrs Williams.

Soon after four o’clock I set forth upon another expedition, namely, by train from Victoria to Upper Sydenham Station. The autumn dusk was falling when I turned into Sydenham Hill, the wide winding road of large detached houses leading from Forest Hill up to the Crystal Palace. Essentially the residence of the wealthy City man, and an eminently respectable district, the houses stand in their own grounds with big old trees around, commanding fine views of South London. I was in search of Keymer, and being directed by a postman, found it a little way higher up than the turning known as Rock Hill, a large old-fashioned red brick place, with fine old elms standing in the grounds. An oak fence divided it from the footway, and as I passed I saw that the pink-shaded electric lamps in the drawing-room were alight, while at the grand piano was sitting a neat female figure in black.

A servant in a smart French cap was letting down the Venetian blinds, and as I watched through the gate I saw that the lady had stopped playing and turned upon the stool to speak to her.

At the same instant the figure of a man stole across the room, a tall, shadowy figure, and came up behind the woman, causing her to start from her seat, while at that moment the blind was lowered, and the artistic interior was suddenly shut out from my view.

One thing caused me to remain there in wonder. Perhaps my eyes had deceived me, but I could not help thinking that when that vague male figure crossed the room the woman started up with a look of terror. From where I stood I could not see distinctly, yet I felt certain that the person who had entered was unwelcome and unexpected.

The other blinds had already been lowered, for it was now nearly dark, and beneath the wide portico a light shone above the door. The grounds were well kept, and the greenhouse beside the drawing-room showed careful attention, while on the gravelled drive were the wheel-marks of carriages. Mr John Parham was evidently well off, in all probability a City man, like most of his neighbours. I sauntered past, wondering by what means I could ascertain something about him.

The doleful sound of the muffin-bell rang in the distance, and far up the road I saw the lamplighter going his round, the street lamps springing up from the darkness at regular intervals. I went towards him, and stopping him, made inquiries regarding the tenant of Keymer.

“’E’s a very nice gentleman, sir,” replied the man. “Always gives good Christmas-boxes.”

“Married?”

“Yes, sir. But ’e has no children. They keep a carriage—one o’ them there open ones.”

“Now I want to know something about him,” I said, slipping a coin into the man’s hand. “Do you happen to know anybody who could tell me?”

The man looked at me suspiciously, and asked,—“Pardon me, sir, but you’re a detective, p’r’aps?”

“No,” I laughed. “Not at all. It is merely private curiosity—over—well, over a little matter of business. I’m a business man—not a policeman.”

“Well,” he said, “there’s ’Arry Laking, what keeps the gate of the Crystal Palace grounds in Palace Park Road. ’E’s their cook’s brother. ’E’d tell you something, for ’e often goes there when the family are out.”

“Where’s Palace Park Road?”

“Go up to the front of the Palace and keep round to the left till you come to the gate. It’s almost the other side of the grounds.”

I acted upon his suggestion, and after walking some distance I came to the turnstile in the wall dividing the Palace grounds from the road, and there I found a middle-aged man in uniform idling over the evening paper, for that gate was little used, save by season-ticket holders.

On inquiry I discovered that he was the man of whom I was in search, and after a little judicious greasing of the palm I induced him to tell me what he knew of his sister’s master and mistress.

“Mr Parham is a wholesale jeweller in the city,” he said. “He often goes abroad for weeks at a time to buy. His wife is young, but Annie tells me she leads a very lonely life. They’re a wealthy, but an unhappy pair, that’s my opinion. Yet they know all the best people in Sydenham, and Mr Parham gives grand at-homes and dinner-parties.”

“She’s unhappy, you say,” I ventured, recollecting the curious scene I had witnessed at the instant of lowering the blinds.

“Yes. Annie has overheard their quarrels. The master, she says, has such a hold over the mistress that she dare not call her soul her own. There was a scene between them about three weeks ago. They quarrelled at the dinner-table, and Mrs Parham left the room, went upstairs, wrote a letter and tried to commit suicide by drinking some sublimate. Her maid got hold of the letter, and then succeeded in saving her mistress’s life, for fortunately the solution wasn’t strong enough. But it made her very ill, and she was in bed a week, while her husband took himself off, and never inquired after her. The servants all pity poor little Mrs Parham, and say that her husband’s a brute to her. There was another terrible row once, when her brother called and overheard Mr Parham threaten her in the next room. They say that the two men came to blows, and that he gave Parham a thorough good hiding, which he richly deserved. Mrs Parham’s brother is not a fellow to be trifled with, they say, for Parham had to plead for his life. Afterwards, the beaten dog vowed vengeance, and the poor wife had a terrible time of it.”

“A rather unhappy household,” I remarked.

“Very. Annie tells me a lot. She wouldn’t stay there—nor would any of the servants—only the wages are so good.”

I saw that the man knew more than he cared to divulge. He was no friend of Parham’s, and was certainly on the side of the ill-used wife.

“Is Parham young or old?”

“Not very old—fat, fairish, rather bald, with a round face and a long nose. Mrs Parham is quite young, about twenty-six, and people call her good-lookin’, but myself I’m no judge o’ women. I’ve my missus, and she’s the best-lookin’ of ’em all in my eyes. Of course, Mrs Parham dresses smartly, and drives in a fine carriage. She comes to the Saturday concerts sometimes.”

“You don’t like Parham,” I said. “Come, tell the truth.”

“No, I don’t,” he declared, after a slight hesitation. “He’s a wrong ’un—I know that. Only, of course, that’s strictly between you and me,” he added in confidence.

“I’d like to know your sister,” I said, quite frankly. “I’ll make it worth her while if she’ll ask me in and let me see the house. She might do it when her mistress is out.”

He shook his head dubiously.

“I don’t think she’d let a stranger see inside, sir.”

“Well, there’s no harm in trying. Will you take me and introduce me?” I asked. “Take me this evening. When do you go off duty?”

“In about half an hour.”

“Then we’ll walk down there and call,” I suggested. “Here’s my card,” and I handed him the card of a barrister friend of mine which bore an address in the Temple.

He hesitated, but when he found another half-sovereign in his palm he consented, not, however, without a good deal of curiosity as to my real object.

What he had told me regarding the Parhams, in addition to that strange scene I had witnessed from the roadway, aroused my suspicion. I somehow felt confident that there was some connection between this man who ill-treated his wife so brutally and the unfortunate victim of the tragedy in rural Sussex I waited in a neighbouring bar until Laking came off duty, and then we walked together down Sydenham Hill to the house called Keymer.

My companion entered by the tradesmen’s lych-gate, and going up to the kitchen door, rapped at it, whereupon a big buxom woman in an apron opened it, and recognising him, gasped,—

“Oh! ’Arry, I’m so glad you’ve come! They told you about it, I suppose?”

“About what? I don’t know anything,” he replied, surprised at her white, scared face and the terrified look of one of the maids who stood behind her.

“Then go into the drawin’-room and look! It’s awful. There’s a curse on this ’ouse. Go and see for yourself.”

Startled, he hurried quickly through the kitchen and along the big, well-furnished hall, I following closely behind him, eager and bewildered.

And what we saw was amazing.