CHAPTER II. THE HUT ON THE HEATH

"I'm glad it's all over," said the footman, waving a cigar stolen from the box of his master. "Funerals don't suit me."

"Yet we must all 'ave one of our own some day," said the cook, who was plainly under the influence of gin; "an' that pore Miss Sophy--me 'art bleeds for 'er!"

"An' she with 'er millions," growled a red-faced coachman. "Wot rot!"

"Come now, John, you know Miss Sophy was fond of her father"--this from a sprightly housemaid, who was trimming a hat.

"I dunno why," said John. "Master was as cold as ice, an' as silent as 'arf a dozen graves."

The scullery-maid shuddered, and spread out her grimy hands.

"Oh, Mr. John, don't talk of graves, please! I've 'ad the nightmare over 'em."

"Don't put on airs an' make out as 'ow you've got nerves, Cammelliar," put in the cook tearfully. "It's me as 'as 'em--I've a bundle of 'em--real shivers. Ah, well! we're cut down like green bay-trees, to be sure. Pass that bottle, Mr. Thomas."

This discussion took place in the kitchen of the Moat House. The heiress and Miss Parsh, the housekeeper, had departed for the seaside immediately after the funeral, and in the absence of control, the domestics were making merry. To be sure, Mr. Marlow's old and trusted servant, Joe Brill, had been told off to keep them in order, but just at present his grief was greater than his sense of duty. He was busy now sorting papers in the library--hence the domestic chaos.

It was, in truth, a cheerful kitchen, more especially at the present moment, with the noonday sun streaming in through the open casements. A vast apartment with a vast fireplace of the baronial hall kind; brown oaken walls and raftered roof; snow-white dresser and huge deal table, and a floor of shining white tiles.

There was a moment's silence after the last unanswerable observation of the cook. It was broken by a voice at the open door--a voice which boomed like the drone of a bumble-bee.

"Peace be unto this house," said the voice richly, "and plenty be its portion."

The women screeched, the men swore--since the funeral their nerves had not been quite in order--and all eyes turned towards the door. There, in the hot sunshine, stood an enormously fat old man, clothed in black, and perspiring profusely. It was, in fact, none other than Cicero Gramp, come in the guise of Autolycus to pick up news and unconsidered trifles. He smiled benignly, and raised his fat hand.

"Peace, maid-servants and men-servants," said he, after the manner of Chadband. "There is no need for alarm. I am a stranger, and you must take me in."

"Who the devil are you?" queried the coachman.

"We want no tramps here," growled the footman.

"I am no tramp," said Cicero mildly, stepping into the kitchen. "I am a professor of elocution and eloquence, and a friend of your late master's. He went up in the world, I dropped down. Now I come to him for assistance, and I find him occupying the narrow house; yes, my friends, Dick Marlow is as low as the worms whose prey he soon will be. Pax vobiscum!"

"Calls master 'Dick,'" said the footman.

"Sez 'e's an old friend," murmured the cook.

They looked at each other, and the thought in every mind was the same. The servants were one and all anxious to hear the genesis of their late master, who had dropped into the Moat House, as from the skies, some five years before. Mrs. Crammer, the cook, rose to the occasion with a curtsy.

"I'm sure, sir, I'm sorry the master ain't here to see you," she said, polishing a chair with her apron. "But as you says--or as I take it you means--'e's gone where we must all go. Take a seat, sir, and I'll tell Joe, who's in the library."

"Joe--my old friend Joe!" said Cicero, sitting down like a mountain. "Ah! the faithful fellow!"

This random remark brought forth information, which was Cicero's intention in making it.

"Faithful!" growled the coachman, "an' why not? Joe Brill was paid higher nor any of us, he was; just as of living all his life with an iceberg deserved it!"

"Poor Dick was an iceberg!" sighed Cicero pensively. "A cold, secretive man."

"Ah!" said Mrs. Crammer, wiping her eye, "you may well say that. He 'ad secrets, I'm sure, and guilty ones, too!"

"We all have our skeletons, ma'am. But would you mind giving me something to eat and to drink? for I have walked a long way. I am too poor," said Cicero, with a sweet smile, "to ride, as in the days of my infancy, but spero meliora."

"Talking about skeletons, sir," said the footman when Mr. Gramp's jaws were fully occupied, "what about the master's?"

"Ah!" said Gramp profoundly. "What indeed!"

"But whatever it is, it has to do with the West Indies," said the man.

"Lor'!" exclaimed the housemaid, "and how do you know that, Mr. Thomas?"

"From observation, Jane, my dear," Thomas smiled loftily. "A week or two afore master had the fit as took him, I brought in a letter with the West Indy stamp. He turned white as chalk when he saw it, and tore it open afore I could get out of the room. I 'ad to fetch a glass of whisky. He was struck all of a 'eap--gaspin', faintin', and cussin' orful."

"Did he show it to Miss Sophy?" asked Mrs. Crammer.

"Not as I knows of. He kept his business to hisself," replied Thomas.

Gramp was taking in all this with greedy ear's.

"Ha!" he said, "when you took in the letter, might you have looked at the postmark, my friend?"

With an access of color, the footman admitted that he had been curious enough to do so.

"And the postmark was Kingston, Jamaica," said he.

"It recalls my youth," said Cicero. "Ah! they were happy, happy days!"

"What was Mr. Marlow, sir?"

"A planter of--of--rice," hazarded Gramp. He knew that there were planters in the West Indies, but he was not quite sure what it was they planted. "Rice--acres of it!"

"Well, he didn't make his money out of that, sir," growled the coachman.

"No, he did not," admitted the professor of elocution. "He acquired his millions in Mashonaland--the Ophir of the Jews."

This last piece of knowledge had been acquired from Slack, the schoolmaster.

"He was precious careful not to part with none of it," said the footman.

"Except to Dr. Warrender," said the cook. "The doctor was always screwing money out of him. Not that it was so much 'im as 'is wife. I can't abear that doctor's wife--a stuck-up peacock, I call her. She fairly ruined her husband in clothes. Miss Sophy didn't like her, neither."

"Dick's child!" cried Gramp, who had by this time procured a cigar from the footman. "Ah! is little Sophy still alive?"

He lighted the cigar and puffed luxuriously.

"Still alive!" echoed Mrs. Crammer, "and as pretty as a picture. Dark 'air, dark eyes--not a bit like 'er father."

"No," said Cicero, grasping the idea. "Dick was fair when we were boys. I heard rumors that little Sophy was engaged--let me see--to a Mr. Thorold."

"Alan Thorold, Esquire," corrected the coachman gruffly; "one of the oldest families hereabouts, as lives at the Abbey farm. He's gone with her to the seaside."

"To the seaside? Not to Brighton?"

"Nothin' of the sort--to Bournemouth, if you know where that is."

"I know some things, my friend," said Cicero mildly. "It was Bournemouth I meant--not unlike Brighton, I think, since both names begin with a B. I know that Miss Marlow--dear little Sophy!--is staying at the Imperial Hotel, Bournemouth."

"You're just wrong!" cried Thomas, falling into the trap; "she is at the Soudan Hotel. I've got the address to send on letters."

"Can I take them?" asked Gramp, rising. "I am going to Bournemouth to see little Sophy and Mr. Thorold. I shall tell them of your hospitality."

Before the footman could reply to this generous offer, the page-boy of the establishment darted in much excited.

"Oh, here's a go!" he exclaimed. "Dr. Warrender's run away, an' the Quiet Gentleman's followed!"

"Wot d'ye mean, Billy?"

"Wot I say. The doctor ain't bin 'ome all night, nor all mornin', an' Mrs. Warrender's in hysterics over him. Their 'ousemaid I met shoppin' tole me."

The servants looked at one another. Here was more trouble, more excitement.

"And the Quiet Gentleman?" asked the cook with ghoulish interest.

"He's gone, too. Went out larst night, an' never come back. Mrs. Marry thinks he's bin murdered."

There was a babel of voices and cries, but after a moment quiet was restored. Then Cicero placed his hand on the boy's head.

"My boy," he said pompously, "who is the Quiet Gentleman? Let us be clear upon the point of the Quiet Gentleman."

"Don't you know, sir?" put in the eager cook. "He's a mystery, 'aving bin staying at Mrs. Marry's cottage, she a lone widder taking in boarders."

"I'll give a week's notice!" sobbed the scullery-maid. "These crimes is too much for me."

"I didn't say the Quiet Gentleman 'ad been murdered," said Billy, the page; "but Mrs. Marry only thinks so, cos 'e ain't come 'ome.'

"As like as not he's cold and stiff in some lonely grave!" groaned Mrs. Crammer hopefully.

"The Quiet Gentleman," said Cicero, bent upon acquiring further information--"tall, yellow-bearded, with a high forehead and a bald head?"

"Well, I never, sir!" cried Jane, the housemaid. "If you ain't describing Dr. Warrender! Did you know him, sir?"

Cicero was quite equal to the occasion.

"I knew him professionally. He attended me for a relaxed throat. I was vox et pr?terea nihil until he cured me. But what was this mysterious gentleman like? Short, eh?"

"No; tall and thin, with a stoop. Long white hair, longer beard and black eyes like gimblets," gabbled the cook. "I met 'im arter dark one evenin', and I declare as 'is eyes were glow-worms. Ugh! They looked me through and through. I've never bin the same woman since."

At this moment a raucous voice came from the inner doorway.

"What the devil's all this?" was the polite question.

Cicero turned, and saw a heavily-built man surveying the company in general, and himself in particular, anything but favorably. His face was a mahogany hue, and he had a veritable tangle of whiskers and hair. The whole cut of the man was distinctly nautical, his trousers being of the dungaree, and his pea-jacket plentifully sprinkled with brass buttons. In his ears he wore rings of gold, and his clenched fists hung by his side as though eager for any emergency, and "the sooner the better." That was how he impressed Cicero, who, in nowise fancying the expression on his face, edged towards the door.

"Oh, Joe!" shrieked the cook, "wot a turn you give me! an' sich news as we've 'ad!"

"News!" said Joe uneasily, his eyes still on Cicero.

"Mrs. Warrender's lost her husband, and the Quiet Gentleman's disappeared mysterious!"

"Rubbish! Get to your work, all of you!"

So saying, Joe drove the frightened crowd hither and thither to their respective duties, and Cicero, somewhat to his dismay, found himself alone with the buccaneer, as he had inwardly dubbed the newcomer.

"Who the devil are you?" asked Joe, advancing.

"Fellow," replied Cicero, getting into the doorway, "I am a friend of your late master. Cicero Gramp is my name. I came here to see Dick Marlow, but I find he's gone aloft."

Joe turned pale, even through his tan.

"A friend of Mr. Marlow," he repeated hoarsely. "That's a lie! I've been with him these thirty years, and I never saw you!"

"Not in Jamaica?" inquired Cicero sweetly.

"Jamaica? What do you mean?"

"What I wrote in that letter your master received before he died."

"Oh, you liar! I know the man who wrote it." Joe clenched his fists more tightly and swung forward. "You're a rank impostor, and I'll hand you over to the police, lest I smash you completely!"

Cicero saw he had made a mistake, but he did not flinch. Hardihood alone could carry him through now.

"Do," he said. "I'm particularly anxious to see the police, Mr. Joe Brill."

"Who are you, in Heaven's name?" shouted Joe, much agitated. "Do you come from him?"

"Perhaps I do," answered Cicero, wondering to whom the "him" might now refer.

"Then go back and tell him he's too late--too late, curse him! and you too, you lubber!"

"Very good." Cicero stepped out into the hot sunshine. "I'll deliver your message--for a sovereign."

Joe Brill tugged at his whiskers, and cast an uneasy glance around. Evidently, he was by no means astute, and the present situation was rather too much for him. His sole idea, for some reason best known to himself, was to get rid of Cicero. With a groan, he plunged his huge fist into his pocket and pulled out a gold coin.

"Here, take it and go to hell!" he said, throwing it to Cicero.

"Mariner, fata obstant," rolled Gramp in his deep voice.

Then he strode haughtily away. He looked round as he turned the corner of the house, and saw Joe clutching his iron-gray locks, still at the kitchen door.

So with a guinea in his pocket and a certain amount of knowledge which he hoped would bring him many more, Cicero departed, considerable uplifted. At the village grocery he bought bread, meat and a bottle of whisky, then he proceeded to shake the dust of Heathton off his feet. As he stepped out on to the moor he recalled the Latin words he had used, and he shuddered.

"Why did I say that?" he murmured. "The words came into my head somehow. Just when Joe was talking of my employer, too! Who is my employer? What has he to do with all this? I'm all in the dark! So Dr. Warrender's gone, and the Quiet Gentleman too. It must have been Dr. Warrender who helped to steal Marlow's body. The description tallies exactly--tall, fair beard and bald. I wonder if t'other chap was the Quiet Gentleman? And what on earth could they want with the body? Any way, the body's gone, and, as it's a millionaire corpse, I'll have some of its money or I'm a Dutchman!"

He stopped and placed his hand to his head.

"Bournemouth, Bournemouth!" he muttered. "Ah, that's it--the Soudan Hotel, Bournemouth!"

It was now the middle of the afternoon, and, as he plodded on, the moor glowed like a furnace. No vestige of shade was there beneath which to rest, not even a tree or a bush. Then, a short distance up the road, he espied a hut. It seemed to be in ruins. It was a shepherd's hut, no doubt. The grass roof was torn, the door was broken, though closed, and the mud walls were crumbling. Impatient of any obstacle, he shoved his back against it and burst it open. It had been fastened with a piece of rope. He fell in, headlong almost. But the gloom was grateful to him, though for the moment he could see but little.

When his eyes had become more accustomed to the half-light, the first object upon which they fell was a stiff human form stretched on the mud floor--a body with a handkerchief over the face. Yelling with terror, Cicero hurled himself out again.

"Marlow's body!" he gasped. "They've put it here!"

With feverish haste he produced a corkscrew knife, and opened his whisky bottle. A fiery draught gave him courage. He ventured back into the hut and knelt down beside the body. Over the heart gaped an ugly wound, and the clothes were caked with blood. He gasped again.

"No fit this, but murder! Stabbed to the heart! And Joe--what does Joe know about this--and my employer? Lord!"

He snatched the handkerchief from the face, and fell back on his knees with another cry, this time of wonderment rather than of terror. He beheld the dead man's fair beard and bald head.

"Dr. Warrender! And he was alive last night! This is murder indeed!"

Then his nerves gave way utterly, and he began to cry like a frightened child.

"Murder! Wilful and horrible murder!" wept the professor of elocution and eloquence.