CHAPTER VIII.
BRIAN TAKES A WALK AND A DRIVE.
When the gentlemen entered the drawing-room a young lady was engaged in playing one of those detestable pieces of music called Morceau de Salon, in which an unoffending air is taken and variations embroidered on it till it becomes a perfect agony to distinguish the tune amid the perpetual rattle of quavers and demi-semi-quavers. The air in this case was "Over the Garden Wall," with variations by Signor Thumpanini, and the young lady who played it was a pupil of that celebrated Italian musician. When the male portion of the guests entered the air was being played in the bass with a great deal of power (that is, the loud pedal was down), and with a perpetual rattle of treble notes trying with all their shrill power to drown the tune.
"Gad! it's getting over the garden wall in a hailstorm," said Felix, as he strolled over to the piano, for he saw that the musician was Dora Featherweight, an heiress to whom he was then paying attention, in the hopes that she might be induced to take the name of Rolleston, together with the present owner of the same. So, when the fair Dora had paralyzed her audience with one final bang and rattle, as if the gentleman going over the garden wall had tumbled into the cucumber-frame, Felix was loud in his expressions of delight.
"Such power, you know, Miss Featherweight," he said, sinking into a chair, and mentally wondering if any of the piano strings had given way at that last crash. "You put your heart into it—and all your muscle, too, by gad," he added mentally.
"It's nothing but practice," answered Miss Featherweight, with a modest blush; "I am at the piano four hours every day."
"Oh, Lord," groaned Felix, "what a time the family must have of it;" but he kept this remark to himself, and, screwing his eye-glass into his left organ of vision, merely ejaculated, "Lucky piano!"
Miss Featherweight, not being able to think of any answer to this, looked down and blushed, while the ingenious Felix looked up and sighed.
Madge and Brian were in one corner of the room, talking together about Whyte's death.
"I never did like him," she said, "but it was horrible to think of him dying like that."
"I don't know," answered Brian, gloomily; "from all I can hear, chloroform is a very easy death."
"Death can never be easy," replied Madge, "especially to a young man so full of health and spirits as Mr. Whyte was."
"I believe you are sorry he's dead," said Brian, jealously.
"Aren't you?" she asked, in some surprise.
"De mortius nil nisi bonum," quoted Fitzgerald; "but as I detested him when alive, you can't expect me to regret his end."
Madge did not answer him, but glanced quickly at his face, and for the first time it struck her that he looked ill.
"What is the matter with you, dear?" she asked, placing her hand on his arm. "You are not looking well."
"Nothing—nothing," he answered hurriedly. "I've been a little worried about business lately—but come," he said, rising, "let us go outside, for I see your father has got that girl with the steam-whistle voice to sing."
The girl with the steamwhistle voice was Julia Featherweight, the sister of Rolleston's inamorata, and Madge stifled a laugh as she went out on to the verandah with Fitzgerald.
"What a shame of you," she said, bursting into a laugh, when they were safely outside; "she's been taught by the best masters."
"How I pity them," retorted Brian, grimly, as Julia wailed out, "Meet me once again," with an ear-piercing shrillness. "I'd much rather listen to our ancestral Banshee, and as to meet her again, one interview would be more than enough."
Madge did not answer, but leaning lightly over the high rail of the verandah looked out into the beautiful moonlight night. There were a number of people passing along the Esplanade, some of whom stopped and listened to Julia's shrill notes, which being mellowed by distance, must have sounded rather nice. One man in particular seemed to have taste for music, for he persistently stared over the fence at the house. Brian and Madge talked of all sorts of things, but every time Madge looked up she saw the man watching the house.
"What does that man want, Brian?" she asked.
"What man?" asked Brian, starting. "Oh," he went on indifferently, as the man moved away from the gate and crossed the road on to the footpath, "he's taken up with the music, I suppose; that's all."
Madge did not say anything, but could not help thinking there was more in it than the music. Presently Julia ceased, and she proposed to go in.
"Why?" asked Brian, who was lying back in a comfortable seat, smoking a cigarette, "It's nice enough here."
"I must attend to my guests," she answered, rising. "You stop here and finish your cigarette," and with a gay laugh she flitted into the house like a shadow.
Brian sat and smoked, staring out into the moonlight meanwhile. Yes, the man was certainly watching the house, for he sat on one of the seats, and kept his eyes fixed on the brilliantly-lighted windows. Brian threw away his cigarette and shivered slightly.
"Could anyone have seen me?" he muttered, rising uneasily. "Pshaw, of course not, and the cabman would never recognise me again. Curse Whyte, I wish I'd never set eyes upon him."
He gave one glance at the dark figure on the seat, and then, with a shiver, passed into the warm, well-lighted room. He did not feel easy in his mind, and he would have felt still less so had he known that the man on the seat was one of the cleverest of the Melbourne detectives.
Mr. Gorby had been watching the Frettlby mansion the whole evening, and was getting rather annoyed. Moreland did not know where Fitzgerald lived, and as the detective wanted to find out, he determined to watch Brian's movements and trace him home.
"If he's that pretty girl's lover, I'll wait till he leaves the house," argued Mr. Gorby to himself, when he first took his seat on the Esplanade. "He won't stay long away from her, and once he leaves the house, I'll follow him up till I find out where he lives."
When Brian made his appearance early in the evening on his way to Mark Frettlby's mansion, he was in evening dress, with a light coat over it, and also had on a soft hat.
"Well, I'm dashed!" ejaculated Mr. Gorby, when he saw Fitzgerald disappear; "if he isn't a fool I don't know who is, to go about in the very clothes he wore when he polished Whyte off, and think he won't be recognized. Melbourne ain't Paris or London, that he can afford to be so careless, and when I put the darbies on him he will be astonished. Ah, well," he went on, lighting his pipe and taking a seat on the Esplanade, "I suppose I'll have to wait here till he comes out."
Mr. Gorby's patience was pretty severely tried, for hour after hour passed, and no one appeared. He smoked several pipes, and watched the people strolling along in the soft silver moonlight. A bevy of girls passed by with their arms round one another's waists, and were giggling to one another. Then a young man and woman came walking slowly along, evidently lovers, for they sat down by Mr. Gorby and looked hard at him, just to hint that he need not stay. But the detective took no notice of their appealing glances, but kept his eyes steadily on the great house opposite to him; so the lovers took themselves off with a very bad grace. Then he saw Madge and Brian come out on to the verandah, and heard Miss Featherweight's shrill voice singing, which sounded weird and unearthly in the stillness of the night. He saw Madge go in, and then Brian, the latter turning and staring at him for a minute or so.
"Ah!" said Gorby to himself, re-lighting his pipe, "your conscience is a-smiting you, is it? wait till you're in gaol."
Then the guests came out of the house and disappeared one by one, black figures in the moonlight, after kisses and handshaking. Shortly afterwards Brian came down the path with Frettlby by his side, and Madge hanging on to her father's arm. Frettlby opened the gate, and held out his hand.
"Good night, Fitzgerald," he said in a hearty voice; "come down soon again."
"Good-night, Brian, dearest," said Madge, kissing him, "and don't forget to-morrow."
Then father and daughter closed the gate, leaving Brian outside, and walked back to the house.
"Ah!" said Mr. Gorby to himself, "if you only knew what I know, you wouldn't be so precious kind to him."
Brian walked, strolled along the Esplanade, and then crossing over, passed by Gorby and walked on till he was opposite the Esplanade Hotel. Then he leaned his arms on the fence, and, taking off his hat, enjoyed the calm beauty of the hour.
"What a good-looking fellow," murmured Mr. Gorby, in a regretful tone. "I can hardly believe it of him, but the proofs are too clear."
Such a still night, not a breath of wind stirring, for the breeze had long since died away, and Brian could see the white waves breaking on the yellow sands, the long narrow pier running out like a black thread into the sheet of gleaming silver, and away in the distance the long line of the Williamstown lights like a fairy illumination. Over all this fantastic scene of land and water was a sky such as Dore loved—great heavy masses of rain clouds heaped one on top of the other like the rocks the Titans piled to reach Olympus. Then a break in the white woof, and a bit of dark blue sky could be seen glittering with stars, in the midst of which sailed the serene moon shedding down her cold light on the fantastical cloudland beneath, and giving to every one a silver lining. Such a weird bizarre sort of sky that Brian gazed up at it for several minutes, admiring the wonderful beauty of the broken masses of light and shadow, much to the annoyance of Mr. Gorby, who had no eye for the picturesque. At last with a sigh, Mr. Fitzgerald withdrew his eyes from the contemplation of the marvelous, and, lighting a cigarette, walked down the steps on to the pier.
"Suicide, is it?" muttered Mr. Gorby to himself, as he saw the tall, black figure striding resolutely on, a long way ahead. "Not if I can help it." So he lighted his pipe, and strolled down the pier in an apparently aimless manner.
He found Brian leaning over the parapet at the end of the pier, and looking at the glittering waters beneath, which kept rising and falling in a dreamy rhythm, that soothed and charmed the ear. "Poor girl! poor girl!" the detective heard him mutter as he came up. "If she only knew all! If she——"
At this moment he heard the approaching step, and turned round sharply. The detective saw that his face was ghastly pale in the moonlight, and his brows wrinkled angrily.
"What the devil do you want?" he burst out, as Gorby paused. "What do you mean by following me all over the place?"
"Saw me watching the house," said Gorby to himself. "I'm not following you, sir," he said, aloud. "I suppose the pier ain't private property. I only came down here for a breath of fresh air."
Fitzgerald did not answer, but turned sharply on his heel, and walked quickly up the pier, leaving Gorby staring after him.
"He's getting frightened," soliloquized the detective to himself, as he strolled easily along, keeping the black figure in front well in view. "I'll have to keep a sharp eye on him or he'll be clearing out of Victoria."
Brian walked quickly up to the St. Kilda station, for on looking at his watch he found that he would just have time to catch the last train. He arrived a few minutes before it started, so, getting into the smoking carriage at the near end of the platform, he lit a cigarette, and leaning back in his seat, watched late comers hurrying into the station. Just as the last bell rang he saw a man rush along, who seemed likely to miss the train. It was the same man who had been watching him the whole evening, and Brian felt confident that he was following him. He comforted himself, however, with the thought that this pertinacious follower would lose the train, and, being in the last carriage himself, he kept a look out along the platform, expecting to see his friend of the Esplanade standing dissappointed on it. There was no appearance of him, however, so Brian, sinking back into his seat, cursed his ill-luck in not having shaken off this man who kept him under such strict surveillance.
"D—— him!" he muttered softly. "I expect he will follow me to East Melbourne, and find out where I live, but he shan't if I can help it."
There was no one in the carriage except himself, on which he felt a sense of relief, for he was in that humor which comes on men sometimes of talking to himself.
"Murdered in a cab," he said, lighting a fresh cigarette, and blowing a cloud of smoke. "A romance in real life, which beats Miss Braddon hollow. There is one thing certain, he won't come between Madge and me again. Poor Madge!" with an impatient sigh. "If she only knew all, there would not be much chance of our marriage; but she can never find out, and I don't suppose anyone else ever will."
Here a sudden thought struck him, and rising out of his seat, he walked to the other end of the carriage, and threw himself on the cushions, as if desirous of escape from himself.
"What grounds can that man have for suspecting me?" he said aloud. "No one knows that I was with Whyte on that night, and the police can't possibly bring forward any evidence to show that I was. Pshaw!" he went on, impatiently buttoning up his coat. "I am like a child, afraid of my shadow—the fellow on the pier is only some one out for a breath of fresh air, as he said himself—I am quite safe."
All the same he did not feel easy in his mind, and when the train arrived at the Melbourne station he stepped out on to the platform with a shiver and a quick look round, as if he expected to feel the detective's hand on his shoulder. He saw no one, however, at all like the man he had met on the St. Kilda pier, and with a sigh of relief left the station. Mr. Gorby, however, was on the watch, and followed him at a safe distance along the platform. Brian left the station and walked slowly along Flinders Street, apparently in deep thought. When he got to Russell Street he turned up there, and did not stop till he came close to the Burke and Wills' monument, in the very place where the cab had stopped on the night of Whyte's murder.
"Ah!" said the detective to himself, as he stood in the shadow on the opposite side of the street. "You're going to have a look at it, are you?—I wouldn't, if I were you—it's dangerous."
Fitzgerald stood for a few minutes at the corner, and then walked up Collins Street. When he got to the cabstand, opposite the Melbourne Club, still suspecting he was followed, he hailed a hansom, and drove away in the direction of Spring Street. Gorby was rather perplexed at this sudden move, but without delay he hailed another cab, and told the driver to follow the first till it stopped.
"Two can play at that game," he said, settling himself back in his cab, "and I'll get the better of you, clever as you are—and you are clever," he went on in a tone of admiration, as he looked round the luxurious hansom, "to choose such a convenient place for a murder; no disturbance and plenty of time for escape after you had finished; it's a pleasure going after a chap like you, instead of men who tumble down like ripe fruit, and ain't got any brains to keep their crime quiet."
While the detective thus soliloquized, his cab, following on the trail of the other, had turned down Spring Street, and was being driven rapidly along the Wellington Parade, in the direction of East Melbourne. It then turned up Powlett Street, at which Mr. Gorby exulted.
"Ain't so clever as I thought," he said to himself. "Shows his nest right off, without any attempt to hide it."
The detective, however, had reckoned without his host, for the cab in front kept driving on, through an interminable maze of streets, until it seemed as if Brian was determined never to stop the whole night.
"Look 'ere, sir!" cried Gorby's cabman, looking through his trap-door in the roof of the hansom, "'ow long's this 'ere game a-goin' to larst? My 'oss is knocked up, 'e is, and 'is blessed old legs a-givin' away under 'im!"
"Go on! go on!" answered the detective, impatiently; "I'll pay you well!"
The cabman's spirits were raised by this, and by dint of coaxing and a liberal use of the silk, he managed to get his jaded horse up to a pretty good pace. They were in Fitzroy by this time, and then both cabs turned out of Gertrude Street into Nicholson Street, thence passed on to Evelyn Street and along Spring Street, until Brian's cab stopped at the corner of Collins Street, and Gorby saw him alight and dismiss his cabman. He then walked down the street and disappeared into the Treasury Gardens.
"Confound it," said the detective, as he got out and paid his fare, which was not by any means a light one, but over which he had no time to argue, "we've come in a circle, and I do believe he lives in Powlett Street after all."
He went into the Gardens, and saw Brian some distance ahead of him, walking rapidly. It was bright moonlight, and he could easily distinguish Fitzgerald by his lightcoat. He went along the noble avenue of Elms, which were in their winter dress, and the moon shining through their branches wrought fantastic tracery on the smooth asphalt beneath. And on either side Gorby could see the dim white forms of the old Greek gods and goddesses—Venus Victrix, with the apple in her hand (which Mr. Gorby, in his happy ignorance of heathen mythology, took for Eve offering Adam the forbidden fruit); Diana, with the hound at her feet, and Bacchus and Ariadne (which the detective imagined were the Babes in the Wood). He knew that each of the statues had queer names, but thought that they were merely allegorical.
Passing over the bridge, with the water rippling quietly underneath, Brian went up the smooth yellow path to where the statue of Hebe, holding the cup, seems instinct with life, and almost stepping off the pedestal, and turning down the path to the right, he left the garden by the end gate, near which stands the statue of the Dancing Faun, with the great bush of scarlet geranium burning like an alter before it. Then he went along the Wellington Parade, and turned up Powlett Street, where he stopped at a house near Cairns' Memorial Church, much to Mr. Gorby's relief, who, being like Hamlet, "fat and scant of breath," found himself rather exhausted. He kept well in the shadow, however, and saw Fitzgerald give one final look around before he disappeared into the house. Then Mr. Gorby, like the Robber Captain in Ali Baba, took careful stock of the house, and fixed its locality and appearance well in his mind, as he intended to call at it on the morrow.
"What I'm going to do," he said, as he walked slowly back to Melbourne, "is to see his landlady when he's out, and find out what time he came in on the night of the murder. If it fits into the time he got out of Rankin's cab I'll get out a warrant, and arrest him straight off."