The next day Mr. Larkspur spent in the same manner, and returned to the castle late at night, and very much out of sorts. He had of late been spoiled by tolerably easy triumphs, and the experience of failure was very disagreeable to him.
On both evenings he was summoned to Lady Eversleigh’s apartments, and on each occasion declined going. He sent a respectful message, to the effect that he had nothing to communicate to her ladyship, and would not therefore intrude upon her.
But early on the morning after the second day’s wasted labour, the post brought Mr. Larkspur a communication which quite restored him to his accustomed good humour.
It was neither more nor less than a brief epistle from one of the officials of the police-staff at Murford Haven, informing Mr. Larkspur that an old woman had produced the silken coverlet advertised for, and claimed the offered reward.
Mr. Larkspur sent a servant to inquire if Lady Eversleigh would be pleased to favour him with a few minutes’ conversation that morning. The man came back almost immediately with a ready affirmative.
“My lady will be very happy to see Mr. Larkspur.”
“Oh, Mr. Larkspur!” exclaimed Honoria, as the police-officer entered the room, “I am certain you bring me good news; I can see it in your face.”
“Well, yes, my lady; certainly I’ve got a little bit of good news this morning.”
“You have found a clue to my child?”
“I have found out something about the coverlet,” answered Andrew; “and that’s the next best thing, to my mind. That has turned up at Murford Haven, thirty miles from here; though how the man who stole Miss Eversleigh can have got there without leaving a single trace behind him is more than I can understand.”
“At Murford Haven! — my darling has been taken to Murford Haven!” cried Honoria.
“So I conclude, my lady, by the coverlet turning up there,” replied Mr. Larkspur. “I told you the handbills would do the trick. Murford Haven is a large manufacturing town, and the sort of place a man who wanted to keep himself out of sight of the police might be likely enough to choose. Now, with your leave, my lady, I’ll be off to Murford Haven as soon as I can have a post-chaise got ready for me.”
“And I will go with you,” exclaimed Lady Eversleigh; “I shall feel as if I were nearer my child if I go to the town where you hope to find the clue to her hiding-place.”
“I, too, will accompany you,” said Captain Copplestone.
“Begging you pardon, sir,” remonstrated Mr. Larkspur, “if three of us go, and one of those three a lady, we might attract attention, even in such a busy place as Murford Haven. And if those that have got little missy should hear of it, they’d smell a rat. No, my lady, you let me go alone. I’m used to this sort of work, and you ain’t, and the captain ain’t either. I can slip about on the quiet anywhere like an eel; and I’ve got the eye to see whatever is to be seen, and the ear to pick up every syllable that’s to be heard. You trust matters to me, and depend upon it, I’ll do my duty. I’ve got a clue, and a clue is all I ever want. You keep to this spot, my lady, and you, too, captain; for there may come some kind of news in my absence, and you may have to act without me. I shan’t waste time, you may rely upon it; and all you’ve got to do, my lady, is to trust to me, and hope that I shall bring you back good news from Murford Haven.”
Very little more was said, and half an hour after this interview, the police-officer left Raynham in a post-chaise, on the first stage of the journey to Murford Haven.
Words are too weak to describe the sufferings of the mother of the lost child, and of the friends to whom she was hardly less dear. They waited very quietly, with all outward show of calmness, but the pain of suspense was not less keen. They sat silent, unoccupied, counting the hours — the minutes even — during the period which must elapse before the return of the police-officer.
He came earlier than Honoria had dared to expect him, and he brought with him so much comfort that she could almost have fallen on her knees, like Thetis at the feet of Jove, in the extremity of her gratitude for his services.
“I’ve got the coverlet,” said Mr. Larkspur, dragging the little silken covering from his carpet-bag, and displaying it before those to whom it was so familiar. “That’s about the ticket, I think, my lady. Yes, just so. I found a nice old hag waiting to claim her five pounds reward; for, you see, the men at the police-office at Murford Haven contrived to keep her dancing attendance backward and forwards — call again in an hour, and so on — till I was there to cross-question her. A precious deep one she is, too; and a regular jail-bird, I’ll wager. I soon reckoned her up; and I was pretty sure that whatever she knew she’d tell fast enough, if she was only paid her price. So, after a good deal of shilly-shally, and handing her over five-and-twenty pounds in solid cash, and telling her that she’d better beware how she trifled with a gentleman belonging to Bow Street, she consented to tell me all about the little girl. The man that stole little missy had been to her precious hovel, and old Mother Brimstone had found a change of clothes for little missy, in token of which, and on payment of another sovereign, the old harpy gave me little missy’s own clothes; and there they are.”
Hereupon Mr. Larkspur dragged from his capacious carpet-bag the delicate little garments of lawn and lace which had been worn by the cherished heiress of Raynham. Ah! who can describe the anguish of the mother’s heart as she gazed upon those familiar garments, so associated with the form of the lost one?
“Well,” gasped Honoria, “go on, I entreat! She told you the child had been there. But with whom? Did she tell you that?”
“She did,” returned Andrew Larkspur. “She told me that the scoundrel who holds little missy in his keeping is no other than the man suspected of a foul murder — a man I have long been looking for — a man who is well known amongst the criminal classes of London by the name of Black Milsom.”
Black Milsom! the face of Lady Eversleigh, pale before, grew almost ghastly in its pallor, as that hated name sounded in her ears, ominous as a death-knell.
“Black Milsom!” she exclaimed at last. “If my child is in the power of that man, she is, indeed, lost.”
“You know him, my lady?” cried Andrew Larkspur, with surprise. “Ah, I remember, you seemed familiar with the details of the Jernam murder. You know this man, Milsom?”
“I do know him,” answered Honoria, in a tone of utter despair. “Do not ask me where or when that man and I have met. It is enough that I know him. My darling could not be in worse hands.”
“He can have but one motive, and that to extort money,” said Captain Copplestone. “No harm will come to our darling’s precious life. You have reason to rejoice that your child has not fallen into the hands of Sir Reginald Eversleigh.”
“Tell me more,” said Honoria to Mr. Larkspur. “Tell me all you have discovered.”
“All I could discover was that the man Milsom had taken the child to London by a certain coach. I went to the inn from which that particular coach always starts; and here, after much trouble and delay, I was lucky enough to see the guard. From him I derived some valuable information; or perhaps, I ought to say some information that I think may turn up trumps. He perfectly remembered the man Milsom by my description of him, I having got the description from old Mother Brimstone; and he remembered the child, because of her crying a deal, and the passengers pitying her, and being pleased with her pretty looks, and trying to comfort her, and so on. The guard himself took a deal of notice of the child, and thought the man was not much good; and when they got to London, he felt curious like, he said, to know where the two would go, and what would become of them.”
“And did he find out?” gasped Lady Eversleigh.
“As good luck would have it, he did. The man got into a hackney-coach, and the guard heard the driver tell him to go to Ratcliff Highway — that was all.”
“Then I will find him,” exclaimed Honoria, with feverish excitement. “I know the place well — too well! I will go with you to London, Mr. Larkspur, and I myself will help you to find my treasure.”
In the extremity of her excitement she was reckless what secrets she betrayed. She had but one thought, one consideration, and that to her was life or death.
“Don’t question me,” she said to Captain Copplestone, who stared at her in amazement; “my girlhood was spent in a den of thieves — my womanhood has been one long struggle against pitiless enemies. I will fight bravely to the last. And now, in this most bitter trial of my life, the experience of my miserable youth shall serve in the contest with that villain.”
She would brook no delay; she would explain nothing.
“Do not question me,” she repeated. “You have counselled me to trust in the experience of Mr. Larkspur, and I will confide myself to his wisdom; but I must and will accompany him in his search for my child. Let a post-chaise be ordered immediately. Can you dispense with rest, and take a hurried dinner before you start, Mr. Larkspur?” she added, turning to her ally.
“Dispense with rest? Bless your innocent heart, my lady, I don’t know the meaning of rest when I’m in business; and as for dinner, a ham sandwich and a glass of brandy out of a pocket-pistol is as much as I ask for when my blood’s up.” “You shall be richly rewarded for your exertions.”
“Thank you kindly, ma’am. The promise of a reward is very encouraging, of course; but, upon my word, my heart’s more in this business than it ever was before in anything under a murder; and I feel as if it was in me to do wonders.”
No more was said. Andrew Larkspur hurried away to eat as good a dinner as he could get through in ten minutes, and Honoria went to her dressing-room to prepare her............