The Millionaire Mystery

‘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 praeterea 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 favourably. 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-grey 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? Anyway, 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.