Part 35 (1/2)
I could think of nothing else which required my immediate attention, so going into my bedroom I proceeded to pack up my belongings. I put in everything I possessed with the exception of Savaroff's discarded garments, for although I was keeping on the rooms I had no very robust faith in my prospects of ever returning to them. Then, ringing the bell, I despatched Gertrude to fetch me a taxi, while I settled up my bill with Mrs. Oldbury.
”An' seem' you've taken on the rooms, sir,” observed that lady, ”I 'opes it's to be a case of 'say orrivar an' not good-bye.'”
”I hope it is, Mrs. Oldbury,” I replied. ”I shall come back if I possibly can, but one never knows what may happen in life.”
She shook her head sombrely. ”Ah, you're right there, sir. An' curious enough that's the very identical remark my late 'usband was ser fond o' makin'. I remember 'is sayin' it to me the very night before 'e was knocked down by a bus. Knocked down in Westminister 'e was, and runned over the body by both 'ind wheels. 'E never got over it--not as you might say reely got over it. If ever 'e ate cheese after that it always give 'im a pain in 'is stomick.”
An apropos remark about ”come wheel come woe” flashed into my mind, but before I could frame it in properly sympathetic language, a taxi drew up at the door with Gertie 'Uggins installed in state alongside the driver.
Both she and Mrs. Oldbury stood on the step, and waved farewell to me as I drove down the street. I was quite sorry to leave them. I felt that they both liked me in their respective ways, and my present list of amiably disposed acquaintances was so small that I objected to curtailing it by the most humble member.
All the way to Tilbury I occupied myself with the hackneyed but engrossing pursuit of pondering over my affairs. Apart from my own private interest in the matter, which after all was a fairly poignant one, the mysterious adventure in which I was involved filled me with a profound curiosity. Latimer's dramatic re-entry on to the scene had thrown an even more sinister complexion over the whole business than it boasted before, and, like a man struggling with a jig-saw problem, I tried vainly to fit together the various pieces into some sort of possible solution.
I was still engaged in this interesting occupation when the train ran into Tilbury station. Without waiting for a porter I collected my various belongings, and stepped out on to the platform.
McMurtrie had told me in his letter that he would arrange for some one to meet me; and looking round I caught sight of a burly red-faced gentleman in a tight jacket and a battered straw hat, sullenly eyeing the various pa.s.sengers who had alighted. I walked straight up to him.
”Are you waiting for me--Mr. James Nicholson?” I asked.
He looked me up and down in a kind of familiar fas.h.i.+on that distinctly failed to appeal to me.
”That's right,” he said. Then as a sort of afterthought he added, ”I gotter trap outside.”
”Have you?” I said. ”I've got a couple of bags inside, so you'd better come and catch hold of one of them.”
His unpleasantly red face grew even redder, and for a moment he seemed to meditate some spirited answer. Then apparently he thought better of it, and slouching after me up the platform, possessed himself of the larger and heavier of my two bags, which I had carefully left for him.
The trap proved to be a ramshackle affair with an ill-kept but powerful-looking horse between the shafts. I climbed up, and as I took my seat I observed to my companion that I wished first of all to call at the post-office.
”I dunno nothin' 'bout that,” he grunted, flicking his whip. ”My orders was to drive you to Warren's Copse.”
”I don't care in the least what your orders were,” I answered. ”You can either go to the post-office or else you can go to the Devil.
There are plenty of other traps in Tilbury.”
He was evidently unused to this crisp style of dialogue, for after glaring at me for a moment in a sort of apoplectic amazement he jerked his horse round and proceeded slowly down the street.
”'Ave it yer own way,” he muttered.
”I intend to,” I said cheerfully.
We pulled up at the post-office, a large red-brick building in the main street, and leaving my disgruntled friend sitting in the trap, I jumped out and pushed open the swing door. Except for an intelligent-looking clerk behind the counter the place was empty.
”Good-morning,” I said. ”I wonder if you could help me out of a slight difficulty about my letters?”
”What sort of a difficulty?” he inquired civilly.
”Well, for the next week or two,” I said, ”I shall be living in a little hut on the marshes about two miles to the east from here, and quite close to the sea-wall. I am making a few chemical experiments in connection with photography” (a most useful lie this), ”and I've told my friends to write or send telegrams here--to the post-office. I wondered, if anything should come for me, whether you had a special messenger or any one who could bring it over. I would be delighted to pay him his proper fee and give him something extra for his trouble.
My name is Nicholson--Mr. James Nicholson.”
The man hesitated for a moment. ”I don't think there will be any difficulty about that--not if you leave written instructions. I shall have to ask the postmaster when he comes in, but I'm pretty certain it will be all right.”