The Glass Dagger,

Southern Cross, Volume 7, Issue 26, 8 October 1898, Page 13

The Glass Dagger,

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRAH GEMEHT

COPYRIGHT.

“SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS

CHAPTERS I. & ll.—Duncan Brett, Commander, R.N., relates how, leaving the house of his lover, he stumbles across the dead body of a woman murdered by a man who was standidg over her with a glass dagger. His name was George Fenton, and he was brother to the woman Duncan loved. As he was examining the body, a seedy-looking man, who gave the name of Dr Fitzgerald, came up, and attempted to steel the dead woman’s watch. This he prevented and struck him, and in revenge the so-called doctor denounced him to the police as the murderer. He was arrested, but on further ■enquiries he was liberated. CHAPTER lll.— The chasing op George Fenton. This is the story of what George Fenton did after he left me with the corpse in Back Saville Street that awful night. I learnt it chiefly from the account which the papers gave of the shase by the police, but some of the details were told me afterwards by Fenton himself. After be ran out of my sight he had not sufficient presence of mind to slacken his pace, and the inevitable result was that he attracted the particular attention of the people he met. His hat had fallen off, his coat, which was flying open, disclosed his evening dress. In his hand he still held the hilt of the dagger, while his drawn, white face betrayed the mental agony he was undergoing. Even in Mayfair at that late hour of the night such a figure rushing along the street could hardly escape exciting interest. Who first started the chase is immaterial—probably some loafer of the pavement —but very soon a crowd of respectable dimensions followed upon his heels with cries of ‘ Stop, thief !’ Their shouts at first fell upon deaf ears, but finally, as they gained upon him, Fenton became aware of his pursuers. He now seems to have f remembered the remnant of the dagger which he still carried, and he tried to get rid of it. Seeing a wall at his side, he hurled the hilt over the coping, hoping to lose it on the other side; but he aimed too low, and it fell at the feet of his foremost pursuer, who stooped down to see what it was. This put a moment’s .pause into the pursuit, and that moment gave Fenton his chance. He fled as if the furies of hell were after him—as luck would have it, ran into no one ; and after endless doubling, and redoubling, at length found himself in Oxford-street, hatless, breathless, quivering with excitement, but for the moment safe from pursuit. Seeing an omnibus passing by, he , jumped upon it without noting or caring for its destination. There was barely room for him on the footboard, and his neighbour strongly objected to being crushed. ‘lf I was you, guvn’r,’ said he ‘I should wait for toe next ’un. Ten ter one it’ll bring yer bloomin’ tile along with it.’ Only then was Fenton aware that his hat was missing. If he wished to escape notice it was evident he must get hold of another, and that at once, so he immediately entered into negotiations with the speaker. ‘Do yer think I’m a-going to get a missing word of a cold for a bloke like you ? Hot if I knows it.’ ‘ 1 suppose even jmur hat has its price ?’ said Fenton. ‘ Hot being a dookal coronet, it hain't. Do you think as ’ow I’d be seen in the streets o’ London without a tile ? I’ve a reputyrion to loose if you ’avent.’ ‘ What do you say to five shillings for it ?’ asked Fenton, persuaswely. ‘ Five bob fer my billycock ! Five bob fer Linken and Bennik’s hexeri bishon prodoose ! You must tyke me

BY WEATHERLY GHESNEY, Author of “The Fate of Captain Petton,” Engaged to Both.” “ The Death Ring,” &c., &c.

‘ Seven-and-a-tanner. Well, that’s more reasonable. It ’ud be a pity fer you to tyke cold, a nice young man like you, with a future afore yer. Seven and six dees it. But what about the feather P I’ve tyken a likin’ to that pycock’s ploome. I sits and watches it fer hours on wet Sundays. It seems to sorter remind me of the rynebows I used to see when I was young and unspotted from the world.’

‘ You can keep your feather,’ said Fenton, and put on the greasy hat.

At the Marble Arch the destination of the ’bus was called out :

It was upon the stroke of twelve when he reached the junction, and he found to his great joy that the night express would pass through in a few minutes. Where was he to go P At first he thought of booking to Scotland ; but his slender resources decided him in favour of Manchester. Punctually at twelve minutes past twelve the train drew up alongside the platform, and to Fenton it seemed a perfect haven of refuge. He tried to find an empty compartment, but failed to do so, and at last entered one with a solitary inmate. This one looked at him with sleepy interest as he came in, which was increased when Fenton took off his dripping coat, and thereby disclosed his evening dress. For some time he eyed him curiously, and then he said in broadest Yorkshire : ‘ Tha’s been tu an evening party, young feller ?’ Fenton nodded assent, too worn out to dispute the point. ‘ Thear’s a sight of parties on just nar, I’ll be bahnd p’ Fenton groaned inwardly. He was evidently imprisoned for the night with a loquacious Tyke. ‘ Yes, there’s generally something

for a bloomin flat ! Yer can ’ave the feather in it fer that precise sum if yer want. There’s a good deal of warmth in a pycock’s feather, although yer mightn’t think it.’ ‘ Seven-and-six ?’

‘ R’yT Oak ! R’yT Oak ! Crown Harlesden !’ Fenton now had time to consider his plans. He felt in his pockets and found he had still a couple of sovereings and a few coppers. It hardly seemed enough to conduct a successful flight from the arms of the law, but it would at any rate see him clear of the metropolis before the hue and cry was raised, if he took train at once. At Paddington he almost got down, but for one reason or another he decided in favour of Willesden Junction. The rain was now falling heavily, and the fugitive was by this time pretty well drenched, but fearing to come across some one who knew him, he dared not take an inside seat. There he sat in the pouring rain, despite the invitations of the conductor, the one solitary passenger on the roof. How he cursed the slow progress of the vehicle ! Some imp of mischief seemed to be playing the fool with them, and it seemed as though they never would arrive in safety at their destination. At Westbourne Grove they grazed a lamp post, and the frightened horses attempted a bolt ; higher up they almost ran over a gentleman returning unsteadily from a temperance demonstration ; and finally one horse came down on the slippery road. They walked past Kensal Green Cemetery as if they were taking part in a funeral, but driuer and horses plucked up courage as they neared port, and they drew up at the Crown at a smart trot. Here Fenton incautiously asked the conductor the way to the railway station.

j of that sort on in town,’ he assented politely. ‘ Weil, I likes to go* somewhere ' where one’s clothes doan’t matter. [ Give me t’ waxwork show or t’ Bloody Tower.’ Fenton didn’t reply, but nothing disconcerted, his companion went on : ‘ Not as I’ve been to shows this time. I’ve seed ’em all afore. I’ve been on bizness.’ Fenton nodded wearily. ‘ Tha doesn’t mind ma smoaking, do ye F’ said the other, palling oat a cigar of doubtful aspect. ‘ Not at all,’ said Fenton, hoping this would keep his companion quiet. ‘ Maybe you’d like a smoak yersen ?’ said the Yorkshireman, who was generously disposed. ‘ Thanks, no,’ said Fenton. ‘ I’m

not much of a smoker.’ ‘ That’s reet. A young feller should reserve his strength so as he can enjoy his smoak when his trouble comes ; ’ and pleased with this philosophic sentiment the old fellow puffed away at his rank cigar. There was a pause of a few minutes, and Fenton hoped his companion was now fully engrossed with his cigar and his troubles. But he was mistaken. The hearty voice went on ; ‘Yes, I’ve been up to Lunnon on bizness very pertikeler bizness. Ah’ll tell ye all about it, as ye seem interested.’ And he did tell, and his voice buzzed in Fenton’s ear in harmony with the rattling of the wheels and the roar of the train. On, on the voice went, with neverending energy, but Fenton’s thoughts were elsewhere. He was wet through to the skin, he was shivering with cold ; he was utterly miserable, both in mind and body. Was there in all London that night a more wretched man than he P The thought was simply overwhelming, that he, George Fenton, was a fugitive— that he would be wanted by the police on the morrow for the murder of a woman. A cold sweat stood upon his brow, and an involuntary groan broke from his lips. Even the self-absorbed Yorkshireman noticed his companion’s distress, and broke off his epic in compassion. ‘ Young feller,’ said he, solemnly, ‘ ye’re wet through to the skin.’ Fenton did not deny it. ‘ See ’ere,’ said the other, getting up and inspecting his own wraps. ‘ Just ye put on this ’ere watterproof. It’ll keep ye warm ovverneet. It’s downright daft of ye travelling in nowt but gimcracks like them, as wouldn't turn a summer shower.’ Fenton thanked him warmly, and was glad enough to don the proffered article. He buried his chin deep in the capacious collar and pretended to sleep. The cigar had now gone out, and the smoker was yawning ; in another ten minutes resounding snores proclaimed his reception in the arms of Morpheus. •In vain did Fenton try to follow his companion into oblivion. Sleep refused to come. For a few minutes he fell into a fitful slumber, but his brain refused to rest. Again he stood over the’dead body of the woman he loved ; again he saw her pale, drawn face and the horrible dagger in her

heart ; again Brett confronted him, and once more he was chased down the street by a howling crowd. Quick, down there or he would be caught! faster, faster ! Oh, God! they are' gaining on him ! and with a cry of terror he awoke, trembling from head

to foot. Thank Heaven, it was only a horrible dream ; he was safe as yet. And so that interminable night wore on. It was not till the grey morning came in through the carriage windows that the thought flashed across him for the first time, ‘ Why am 1 rnnning away P’ Brett alone had seen him, and he knew he was safe with Brett. No, Duncan would not betray him. Had he been recognised in the chase that followed p Hardly likely. Then he was safe. Why run away ? If a ghost of a suspicion lodged against him he was only accentuating it by absenting himself. He ought never

to have left town. De Vere Gardens was the safest place for him. What a’ fool he had been to rush madly away in this absurd fashion ! Bat even now was it too late to return P There were quick trains up from Manchester. He could be back by noon, and it would be easy to account for his absence—such occurrences were not infrequent. At Manchester, at any rate, lie could buy an early paper and be guided by the report of the murder, which would by this time be telegraphed to every quarter of the globe. These thoughts brought him some comfort, and, at last, when the sky was. turning to crimson, George Fenton sank into a deep sleep. ‘ How, lad, here we I?e at Manchester. Up ye get.’ Fenton rubbed his eyes acd stared round him dazedly, and struggled to his feet.

‘ Thank you very much for your macintosh,’ he said to the Yorkshireman. ‘ I don’t know what I should have done without it.’

He bade the kind fellow good-bye and struggled into his eoddened overcoat, and now sallied forth into the streets of Cottonopolis. It was now past six o’clock, and he soon got hold of a newspaper, which he opened with palpitating heart. ‘ Great Heavens !’ he cried, as his eye found the column he wanted. There, in large capitals, stared him in the face—

HORRIBLE MURDER IH MAYFAIR.

ARREST OF A IST AVAL OFFICER. . His blood ran cold as he read the last line, for he afonce grasped that if Brett had been arrested, owing to some absurd blunder on the part of the police, in order perhaps to save his own life, he would be bound to reveal all he' know of the murder. He read through the account that followed, bat that gave him little further information. There was simply the particulars of the finding of the body, Brett’s arrest, with the subsequent trouble, and the conveyance of him and the corpse to the police-station. The paper fell from Fenton’s hand in dismay. How, at any rate, it would be simple folly on his part to return before he knew that no suspicion rested upon him. la the meantime he ought to make his own position as secure as possible by further movements. He crossed over to the Exchange Station and looked at the list of departures. At seven o’clock a train would leave for Leeds, and by this train Fenton decided to travel. At nine o’clock he stepped out on the Leeds platform. His first act was to get refreshments ; for be had tasted nothing for twelve hours, and was, moreover, suffering acutely as the result of wearing his wet clothing. He was ravenously hungry, and he made a. substantial meal. Once more the blood seemed to course in his veins and his courage revived. For a long time he sat over his breakfast deliberating on his next move, which he at length decided must be to get rid of his dress clothes. If suspicion had fallen upon him, these would no doubt be an important link in his detection ; and it seemed more risky to continue wearing them than to dispose of them. He spent the greater part of the morning wandering up and down the city befere he found a shop likely for his purpose. At last he entered one, and asked the Jew behind the counter what he would give for the suit he was wearing. ‘ Dress shoots are nodings moosh ia my line, and shtill less so ven day are sboiled mit mud and wed. De glosh on dis shoot is de.barded for ever, and my fr’eu’s only wants gloshy dress shoots.’ Gloss or no gloss, Fenton explained, he must tyave it exchanged for aa everyday rig.-out. ‘My fr’en’, if it is an exchange yon vants, perhaps I can do soraeshing for you. I dort it was monish vat you vanted. See here ; dis is a vine ding in shocks. You could blay shesa or dravts on de design ven you was

dat vay inclined.’ Fenton explained he did not feel at all that way inclined ; he wanted something not so pronounced. ‘ I see nodmg wrong mit de bronunciation. Berabs it is a goleblack shoot you vants, mid vich to attend your own vuneral.’ After much parleying and haggling Fenton was at last fitted out in the cast-off Sunday best of some presumably worthy Leeds weaver, and he left Israel lamenting the inequality of the exchange. Then he went to a barber’s and had his moustache shaved. By this time the early editions of the evening papers were out, and Fenton eagerly scanned a copy of the ‘ Evening Post.’ HORRIBLE TRAGEDY IN MAYFAIR. THE MURDERER AT LARGE met his eyes, and with trembling heart he read of ‘ the release of the naval officer ’ and of the chase after himself the previous night, the discovery of the hilt of the dagger, and oh, God! of his own departure to Manchester from Willesden Junction. Then followed a description of himself : ‘ Dark, about five feet nine in height, well built, brown eyes and dark moustache, about thirty years of age ; at the time was using evening dress clothes, a light overcoat, and a bowler hat.’ Fenton’s head whirled as he read these lines, and he looked round in terror, half-expecting to see someone already identifying him, despite his having disposed of some of the damning details. They were on his track, and at any moment he might be arrested. He must be off again, and that immediately. Once more he must take train in the hopes of baffling his pursuers. He” walked into Wellington station, and found that a train started in a few minutes for Skipton. He bought a ticket furtively, dully wondering why the clerk did not eye him suspiciously.

He was at Skipton within th e hour. What was he to do now ? He had something less than a sovereign in his pocket, so he could not afford another journey by train. Besides, he must shun the haunts of newsreaders ; the country would be the best place for him now. He was almost at his wits’ end, but he pulled himself together, went into a publichouse, and called for some brandy. This put enough Dutch courage into his soul to enable him to inquire about the surrounding country from a garrulous bar-ranger. As a result of his inquiries he determined to take to the Cracoe road, hoping to reach Grassington and the scattered villages beyond, where newspapers were tew and the population illiterate. Then he set out. The brandy saw him through a mile or two, but the excitement was telling upon him, and his bodily pain was increasing, and soon he could scarcely crawl along. He rested many a time and oft by the way, and it was dark when the glimmer of the lights of Rylstone village met his eyes. Here he determined to pass the night; he could go no further. He did not dare to put up at any public-house for fear of ultimate discovery, so he cast about him for a roof for shelter. By the moonlight he espied an old shed alongside some stabling, and thither he repaired. Not having strength enough to search for litter for, a bed, he threw himself down on the ground and fell into a broken sleep. He awoke in the early morning with pains and aches shooting all over his body, but with mind clear enough to appreciate the exigencies of the situation. He must be up and away before the sleuth hounds could scent him. He dragged his unwilling limbs out of the shed and gained the highway. But now the want of food was beginning to tell heavily upon him, and his legs almost refused to move. Long before he reached Cracoe he was overtaken by a coal cart. He bailed the driver, and t asked, for a lift. The man looked at |

,f him doubtfully, but the offer of coin produced the desired effect. Lying full length on a sack on the top of the coals, Fenton spent the next hours in a dazed, witless condition. The | driver’s destination was Kilnsey, and there his fare was turned adrift. Here Fenton determined to have something to eat, for without food he felt it would be impossible to go further. He staggered into the village inn, which stood invitingly near. Suddenly a look of terror overspread his face, and he turned sharply off the main road. He had seen a policeman enter. A policeman in that old-world place ! What was he doing there ? To his distorted vision the man was already making enquiries of the innkeeper, and the carter would be there in a minute to add his link to the chain of evidence that was gradually being forged around him. Fear galvanised his stiffened limbs into action, and down that lonely lane Fenton pelted with blind hurry, whither he knew not nor cared. The spurt did not last long, and he soon dropped into his old shamble. To make things worse, the rain, which had been threatening all day, now came down in torrents, and the need of some place of cover grew imperative. There was a, haystack near — the only hope of shelter in that bleak, inhospitable landscape ; but before he could even reach what refuge that afforded, the pitiless rain had drenched him to the marrow. The whole of that wretched afternoon Fenton sheltered there, sometimes dozing, more often terribly wide awake, wet, cold and hungry. When dusk came he ventured forth again in quest of food and lodging, which he must have if he wished to keep mind and body together. He struggled on for a couple of hours, covering little ground, although straining every nerve. There were lights of a homestead in the distance, for which he made without even attempting to concoct a likely tale to account for his appearance. But Fate was dead against him. The rain had ceased

now, but it had left the ground thick with slush, through which the weary fugitive struggled like a drunken man. The lights he was making for seemed to recede like will-o’-the-wisps, and Fenton grew dimly conscious he could not reach them. There was no other building at hand, no roof to shelter him, but he could go no further. His legs refused to move, his head was bursting, and with a cry of awful helplessness and despair he sank down upon the clammy ground, at last unconscious of all his woes. It was two days afterwards when Fenton regained consciousness. When he opened his eyes he was in a strange bedroom. He gave a feeble cry of surprise, and, as if in response, an old dame appeared at the bottom of the bed. ‘ Thank God, ye’ve come round afc last. 1 thought it wer’ all up wi’ ye once. But doan’t ye talk now. Just ye drink this and goa to sleep. T* maister will tell ye all about it when ’e comes ’oam.’ With a sigh of contentment Fenton did as he was told. When next he opened his eyes they fell upon a familiar form. There by bis bedside was the burly farmer who had travelled with him from Willesden ! Fenton could not repress a cry of astonishment. The farmer seemed to enjoy his surprise. ‘ Ay, lad, it’s one of the curiosesfc things I ivver ’eard of. I said ‘ Goodbye ’ to ye at Manchester, and nivver thowt of seeing ye agin, and two days arterwards 1 rinds ye in my three-acre pasture in a pretty fever. I knewd ye at* onct, although ye’d changed yer togs and shaved yer mustash. Ye’ve been in trouble, lad ; I could tell fro* yer ravings. But nivver raoind. Ho one’s heard ’em but me and t’ missis, ’cept our Jea.mes, who helped to carry ye in ; and I’ve squared Jeames not to let on.’ ‘ What did I say ?’ anxiously asked Fenton. ‘Ye talked a strange lot o’ stuff.

lad, abaht a girl—(shear’s generally a ■woman at the bottom o’ moast things ; and ye seemed to be terribly fond o’ this ’nn. And then ye called out ‘ Murder ! ’ —ay, ‘ Murder ! ’ and spoke of a glass dagger, or some such silliness. Then ye seemed to be running away, and it was as much as the three of us could do to hod ye in the bed.’ Fenton started up excitedly. * Good God ! ’ he cried, ‘ I am lost! ‘ Lay ye down agin, lad,’ said the farmer, pushing him back with rough gentleness. 4 Whativver ye’ve done, I’ll not be the man to give ye away. I had a lad o’ my own once, and I reckon ye’re some mother s son. Fenton grasped the farmer s hand in dumb thankfulness. ‘ Nay, nay, lad—it’s nowt. Ye must go to sleep now, and think ye’re in yer own bed at ’oam.’ But even as the farmer spoke there was a sound of tramping feet, and a voice thick with drink was heard piotesting. ‘ Noa, noa, Ward, I didn’t tell ye owt. Tak’ yerself off before t’ maister comes. •Don’t be a fool, James. I must go upstairs and look at him,’ said an, authoritative voice. The farmer started towards the door, but before he reached it the big form of a policeman was in the room. He gave a quick glance at the man on the bed, and then said, with bustling importance : ‘ George Fenton, I arrest you for the murder of Harriet Staples ! ’ (To be continued.)