II
It was a letter that destroyed his peace of mind. He had soon seen that he could not cut himself off entirely from the folk at home. They must know where to find him, for though they might think they were better off without him, be glad to see the last of him, still there they were, his wife and his son, and if anything happened to them, they would want to let him know and he would want to know. There was also the question of Lily‚Äôs letters. It took over a fortnight for a letter to find its way to her out there in Canada, and more than another fortnight for a reply to come back; in fact, you could reckon it six weeks, there and back, even if she replied almost at once. He had‚ÅÝ‚Äîas he said‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äústudied this‚Äù when first he joined the troupe. He could write to her as usual, and indeed he intended to write more often now that he had so much to tell her. But how was she going to reply? He could not give her his address six or seven or eight weeks ahead, for he would not always know where they would be then. He saw that she would have to write to him at 51 Ogden Street, Bruddersford, as before, and the letters would have to be sent on to him by his wife or (and that was more likely) by Leonard. All he had to do was to let them know at home where he would be the next week, and he could always find that out. He asked Joe about this, and discovered from him that all that was necessary was to give the name of the troupe, the hall, and the town: Mr.¬ÝJ. Oakroyd, the Good Companions, Pier Pavilion, Sandybay‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat is how you did it, and that is what he sent home, the week before at Dotworth, together with a short letter saying that he had got a job with some pierrots and telling them to send on Lily‚Äôs letters. And he had written again, giving them his Winstead address, before a reply came.
It was on Thursday afternoon that he found a letter waiting for him at the Pavilion. He hurried away with it to a quiet corner and was delighted to discover that it contained a letter from Lily. But she did not say much. It was still very hot out there; she was all right but taking it easy because of the baby that was coming, which she was sure was a boy; and her husband, Jack Clough, was working very hard and looked like getting a rise very soon; and they sent their love to all. When he had read this letter through a second time, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd began to feel miserable. It brought Lily back so sharply to his mind, which could not hold a clear image of her face nor hear her voice distinctly yet was most vividly, poignantly conscious of her. The letter did this, yet at the same time it made painfully plain the distance between them. There she was, but this was all she could say. Tomorrow he would sit down, sucking away at his moustache, pressing so hard on his pen that it spluttered ink on the paper, in an agony of endeavour to tell her something of what he felt and thought, and he would say little more. If only she was here, listening to him, or he was there, looking at her! Not a word yet about him going out there. He folded the letter with mournful care and put it in his inside pocket.
Something had been sent with it. He glanced down at the name at the bottom of the scrawl. It was a short letter from Leonard. He cast a rather negligent eye over it. He was not very interested in what Leonard had to say. But when he had gone through it once, he drew in his breath sharply, pushed his cap to the very back of his head, and began all over again, this time attending carefully to every single word. And this is what he read:
Dear Father,
We got your letter and I am sending you a letter which came from our Lily. I am having to write because Ma says she will not write because she is too ashamed for you and will not trust herself she says to say a word to you. What have you done, you must have done something because after you had gone a few days a bobby called one night and asked about you and where you were. We could not say we said. And that is not the end of it, Mrs.¬ÝSugden told Ma the police had been watching the house and Joe Flather told me they had been to Higdens and asking at the club. So you had best keep away from here and keep out of the way or try a disguise or they will get you. Albert Tuggridge says it is too risky writing, they can open all letters and track you down that way but I am risking it though we are not telling anybody where you are. Ma is disgusted but I must say it is a bit of excitement and agree with Albert that if you have done anything you must have been the tool of others and been used by a gang of crooks. We were surprised you had got a job with some pierots and think you ought to watch out there. United lost again, what a team. I have been moved up to fourth chair at Gregsons allready.
After he had read it a third time, he tore it up and, still clutching the fragments, crept quietly out of his corner, a hunted man.
For the rest of that day, he thought about that letter‚ÅÝ‚Äîa policeman calling at 51 Ogden Street; police watching the house; police inquiring at Higden‚Äôs; police going along to the Club‚ÅÝ‚Äîand the more he thought about it, the more uneasy he became. ‚ÄúNay, but I‚Äôve done nowt,‚Äù he kept telling himself; but that had no effect. He had been so busy and happy in his new job that he had almost forgotten the astonishing series of events that had taken him to Rawsley, or at least he only remembered them as episodes in a tale he had to tell. But now they returned to arrange themselves in a sinister sequence. There was the money that drunken sportsman, George, had said he had had stolen from him. The police had announced that they had a clue, a valuable clue. That very day he had quarrelled with his firm and quarrelled with his union, had torn up his insurance card (the act of a desperate man), and had run away. And that was not all. There was that lorry, loaded with stolen pieces, that he had travelled down on: the police had been after that. And those two fellows, Nobby and Fred, and that horrible fat woman, Big Annie, all of them ready, no doubt, to swear his life away. Even then he had not finished. There was that row at Ribsden Fair, the policeman who had wanted to see his licence, the flight and all the rest of it; he had been in that, and the policeman had had a good look at him. Why, everywhere he had been, he had been mixed up in something that was against the law, at every single step on the road! That fellow who kept the dining-room where he had had to leave a chisel. Poppleby his name was, that fellow would remember him and would give information as fast as it was wanted‚ÅÝ‚Äîtaking the ‚Äúyuman line‚Äù as usual, the big, pasty-faced mess! Looking back, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd saw these hostile witnesses springing up all along the line of his travels. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve done nowt,‚Äù he concluded mournfully, ‚Äúbut I haven‚Äôt a leg to stand on.‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd was a respectable workingman, not a member of the criminal classes, and therefore he did not regard the police as his natural enemies. On the other hand, his social level was not that of those comfortable and well-dressed persons who think of the police purely and simply as their protectors, who see them as so many stalwart, kindly, humorous, obliging fellows, all with big hearts of gold beneath their blue tunics. He and his friends in Bruddersford had no quarrel with the police but neither had they any tenderness for them. Their attitude was one of wary neutrality. A bobby was all right in his place, though he had a nasty trick of not keeping in his place. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd in his time had known several policemen, had exchanged half-pints of ale and remarks about football with them, and had found them good, bad, and indifferent, like other people. Of their superiors‚ÅÝ‚Äîsergeants and inspectors and that lot‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe was rather suspicious, believing that they were rather too fond of having ‚Äúcases‚Äù to be entirely just men or desirable companions. And of the Law itself, with all its mysterious routine and artful tricks, he had a real horror. ‚ÄúYou keep out, mate,‚Äù he had heard many a time, had repeated himself more than once. Neither he nor any of his friends was one of your born lawyers, a type known to every ship, every regiment, every factory, and not popular, the kind of men who always have their ‚Äúrights‚Äù off by heart, know exactly what you can‚Äôt be made to do, and positively welcome the chance of standing up in a court of law. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd knew very well that he was innocent, except in that matter of the insurance card, but he was ready to go to considerable lengths in order not to be compelled to prove his innocence. The idea of establishing his innocence and putting himself right with the authorities never once occurred to him; if the police were looking for him, then it was his business to keep out of their way; and if there are any persons to whom this attitude seems incomprehensible, then they simply do not understand Mr.¬ÝOakroyd or anybody else in Ogden Street, Bruddersford.
The only satisfaction Mr.¬ÝOakroyd had was the gloomy one of knowing now exactly where the catch was. By the next day, after much troubled reflection, he felt a hunted and haunted man. He had never noticed any policeman before in Sandybay, but now they seemed to spring up round every corner. He walked past them with his heart pounding away, and their suspicious eyes seemed to be digging in his back. And something was always turning up to remind him of his horrible position. Thus, in the afternoon, the Pavilion attendant, Curtis, the man with one eye and the long melancholy face, had to begin chattering.
“I see in the paper,” said Curtis, “where they’ve got that feller that did the big jewel robbery in the West End.”
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd grunted.
‚ÄúMade no mistake, got him fair and square,‚Äù he continued with enthusiasm. ‚ÄúThey only wanted a bit of time, that‚Äôs all. Now, he‚Äôll get a bit of time.‚Äù And Curtis, who seemed to have found a subject that released him from his usual melancholy, laughed at his own pleasant wit. ‚ÄúFellers say to me, ‚ÄòOh, they‚Äôll never get him,‚Äô but I‚Äôve said all along, ‚ÄòYou wait and see, chum. Give ‚Äôem time.‚Äô What d‚Äôyou say, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd?‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd only grunted again. He looked at his companion with shrinking distaste. One eye was lighted up and seemed to rove all over him maliciously, while the other, the glass one, was fixed on his face in a cold dead stare. The effect was most sinister.
‚ÄúPeople can say what they like about the police,‚Äù Curtis went on, ‚Äúbut I know a bit about ‚Äôem and I like to foiler these cases, and the conkerlusion I‚Äôve come to is just this, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd: Give the police time and they never miss their man.‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd merely made a clicking sound with his tongue and stared about him.
“Never miss their man,” the other repeated emphatically, at the same time tapping his listener on the arm.
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd drew back sharply. ‚ÄúAr d‚Äôyer mean ‚ÄòNever miss their man‚Äô?‚Äù he said irritably.
‚ÄúThe feller they want they find,‚Äù said Curtis. ‚ÄúIt may not be this week. It may not be next week. But sooner or later‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîand here he held out a large and dirty hand, then suddenly closed it‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúgot him!‚Äù After this dramatic conclusion, he looked at Mr.¬ÝOakroyd triumphantly out of his one eye.
‚ÄúNowt o‚Äô t‚Äôsort!‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝOakroyd angrily. ‚ÄúIf you ask me, they miss as monny as they catch.‚Äù
Curtis shook his head and smiled pityingly. “That’s what a lot o’ people think, but they don’t know. It’s organization that does it. Organization, that’s it.”
‚ÄúIt‚Äôs all me eye,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd.
‚ÄúNo, chum, it‚Äôs all their eye.‚Äù And Curtis laughed again, and was so irritating that Mr.¬ÝOakroyd told himself he would like to give him ‚Äúa bat on t‚Äôlug.‚Äù
‚ÄúFriend of mine‚Äôs got a brother-in-law in the Metrotropilitan‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou know, up in London, proper Scotland Yard man. You ought to hear the tales he tells. Not a dog‚Äôs chance, they haven‚Äôt got, these fellers that‚Äôs wanted.‚Äù
‚ÄúAll me eye and Betty Martin!‚Äù muttered Mr.¬ÝOakroyd.
‚ÄúWhat with photographs and fingerprints and telegraphs and wireless and flying squads!‚Äù cried Curtis ecstatically. ‚ÄúNot a dog‚Äôs chance! They give ‚Äôem a bit of rope and then‚ÅÝ‚Äîgot him!‚Äù
‚ÄúAy, you did that afore!‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd sneered. He was now thoroughly exasperated. ‚ÄúWhat do you want to keep doing that for? It looks so daft. Got him, got him! You look as if you‚Äôre trying to catch bluebottles.‚Äù
“I was just illustrating, so to speak, the way they can do it,” said Curtis meekly.
‚ÄúWell, what‚Äôs it got to do wi‚Äô you?‚Äù demanded Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúOnnybody ‚Äôud think to hear you talk they were makking you t‚Äôchief constable o‚Äô town‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“All right, all right, chum. What’s the matter with you?”
‚ÄúNowt‚Äôs matter wi‚Äô me,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, ‚Äúonly don‚Äôt keep on about it like that. You‚Äôve told me. Well, let it drop, mate. I don‚Äôt like to hear a man going on i‚Äô that fashion. Like a dam‚Äô bloodhound! They‚Äôve done nowt to you.‚Äù
‚ÄúAr, you‚Äôre too softhearted, that‚Äôs it, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd,‚Äù said Curtis, looking rather relieved. ‚ÄúIt does you credit in a way, but believe me, you can‚Äôt afford it, not in these times. These fellers is best out of the way. I like to see ‚Äôem getting under lock and key.‚Äù
‚ÄúI think yond‚Äôs Mr.¬ÝPorson,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd and so put an end to this unpleasant conversation. He took care to have no more little chats with Curtis after that. But now, any out-of-the-way incident began to look sinister. Things that would normally have excited his curiosity and given him the chance of indulging in the most delightful speculations, now made him all the more uneasy and secretive. There was, for example, that little talk he had with the chauffeur outside the Pavilion on Saturday afternoon, when he was helping with the extra chairs. Between two loads, when there was nothing to do, this chauffeur strolled up to him. He was a soldierly-looking chap in a fine blue uniform.
“Hope you don’t mind me asking,” he said, “but haven’t you something to do with this troupe, the Good Companions?”
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs right,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, with a touch of pride. ‚ÄúIf you want to knaw, I‚Äôm t‚Äôstage carpenter and property man for ‚Äôem.‚Äù He looked at the man. ‚ÄúAnd I‚Äôve seen you about t‚Äôplace somewhere, I‚Äôm thinking.‚Äù
‚ÄúBig blue Daimler,‚Äù said the chauffeur. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôll have seen it in the town. We‚Äôre staying at the Great Eastern Hotel, on the front there. We‚Äôve seen this show twice, and when I say ‚Äòwe,‚Äô I mean the missis‚ÅÝ‚Äînot the wife, you know; she‚Äôs at home‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe Daimler‚Äôs missis. I‚Äôve seen it once too. We‚Äôre coming again tonight. It‚Äôs a good show.‚Äù
“You won’t find a better, mate.”
“That is so. And it’s not being patronized as it oughter be. Have a fag?”
“Nay, I nivver touch fags. I’m a pipe man missen.”
The chauffeur lit his cigarette and gave Mr.¬ÝOakroyd a companionable nod or two. ‚ÄúWell, you‚Äôre like me, I expect. One place today and another tomorrow.‚Äù
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs it,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, who liked this sort of talk. ‚ÄúWe‚Äôre allus on t‚Äôroad. Packing up again tomorn.‚Äù
“And where is it this time?” asked the chauffeur, with a casual air that seemed a bit overdone.
‚ÄúPlace called Winstead next week,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd replied, with all the nonchalance of a man who is ready to go anywhere at a moment‚Äôs notice.
“Winstead, eh? Lemme see, that’s a smallish town, sort of market town, in Northampton or Bedfordshire, isn’t it?”
‚ÄúNay, I don‚Äôt fairly knaw,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd admitted, still quite at ease. ‚ÄúTo tell truth, I‚Äôve nivver set eyes on t‚Äôplace.‚Äù
“And where after that?” the other pursued.
“Nah then, I’ll ha’ to think a bit. Is there a place called Haxby?”
“There is. It’s Coventry way. Is that it?”
“It might be. I’ve heard ’em say summat about Haxby.”
The chauffeur examined his cigarette. “And then where?” he asked.
‚ÄúWell, there wor some talk about Middleford,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd admitted, ‚Äúbut that might be t‚Äôweek after or it might be monny a week after for all I knaw.‚Äù
“You couldn’t get to know, I suppose, and give me a sort of a list?”
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd stared. Then his easy friendly manner suddenly disappeared. ‚ÄúHere, what‚Äôs the idear?‚Äù he demanded. ‚ÄúWhat‚Äôs it matter to you where we‚Äôre going?‚Äù
“I just wondered, that’s all,” said the chauffeur, looking rather surprised. “No harm in asking, is there?”
‚ÄúThere might not be and then again there might,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, eyeing him suspiciously. ‚ÄúBut I can‚Äôt see what it‚Äôs got to do wi‚Äô you, Mister. It‚Äôs not all plain sailing i‚Äô this business. Yer nivver knaw who you‚Äôre talking to,‚Äù he observed severely.
“That is so,” said the chauffeur.
“A chap i’ my position has to be careful. I can’t say what I like to onnybody as comes up and asks. There’s wheels within wheels,” he added mysteriously.
“Well, if you want to know why I’m asking,” said the chauffeur, suddenly confidential, “I’ll tell you, though I’m not supposed to. It’s the missis that wants to know.”
‚ÄúThe missis!‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, staring.
“Lady I’m working for,” explained the other, with a grin. “If you ask me, she’s taken a fancy to this troupe of yours. She’s always taking a fancy to something. Too much money and not enough to do, that’s her trouble. Widow, y’know, and rolling in money. And this morning she asked me to come and find out where you people was going to. Wants to come and have another look at you, though she didn’t say so. So there you have it.”
‚ÄúAy,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd reflectively.
“And you can’t tell me any more?”
“That I can’t.”
“All right. No harm done, is there?” The chauffeur gave him a nod, rather a contemptuous nod. “So long!” And off he went.
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd rubbed his chin and watched the retreating figure. ‚ÄúNay, lad,‚Äù he told it, ‚Äútha‚Äôs coming it a bit too thick. Missis wants to knaw! Missis nowt!‚Äù He did not believe this fantastic story, and still felt uneasy and suspicious, and therefore took care not to mention this encounter to any of the party. Perhaps if he had mentioned it, some of them might not have been so puzzled by the arrival of that bouquet for Mr.¬ÝJerry Jerningham and by several other incidents that occurred later.
That last performance at Sandybay, as we know already, was a Night, and Mr.¬ÝOakroyd enjoyed it as much as any of the others. Their triumph was his triumph. His broad face beamed in the wings throughout the show, and was so ruddy and shining that it looked‚ÅÝ‚Äîas somebody said‚ÅÝ‚Äîlike an extra spotlight. But when it was over, when the last applauder had gone and all the props were put away, he saw the shadow creeping over him again. And was there ever such luck! There he was, as snugly suited as any man in England‚ÅÝ‚Äîand yet, Wanted. At any minute they might say ‚ÄúGot him!‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîand then where was he? Worse off than he was before. It made him sweat to think of it. ‚ÄúDone nowt,‚Äù he said again, very bitterly this time, ‚Äúbut not a leg to stand on!‚Äù
‚ÄúNow, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd,‚Äù cried Miss Trant gaily when they were all standing at the Pier entrance, ‚Äúyou must decide. Will you go in the car again, or would you rather go by train this time? Which do you think is the more romantic? I know you‚Äôre a romantic person‚ÅÝ‚Äîlike me.‚Äù
And then he had to think quickly, desperately. Which was the safer? That was the point. He saw himself being collared in a station. He saw himself being hauled out of the car. “Nay, I don’t fairly knaw,” he stammered. “I mun think a minute, Miss Trant.”
“He’s spoilt, that’s what he is,” said Susie. “But that’s because he’s our little mascot, aren’t ta, lad?”
‚ÄúOwd thi tongue, lass,‚Äù cried Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúI‚Äôll go i‚Äô t‚Äôcar, thank yer, Miss Trant.‚Äù Yes, the car would be safer. And he was not going to leave it at that. He would show them.
When he met Miss Trant the next morning he was very self-conscious, but she was too busy to notice that or anything else about him. ‚ÄúGood morning, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd,‚Äù she said. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôre in good time.‚Äù
His face fell. A casual glance, and she had recognized him. But then, of course, she was expecting him. Then Susie joined them. There was usually a second person taken in the car, but never more than two because they carried as much luggage as possible. He greeted Susie with a sheepish grin.
“Hello, hello!” she cried. “What’s this? Look, Miss Trant. Do you see what he’s done?”
Miss Trant smilingly examined him. “You do look a little different,” she said.
“He’s shaved his moustache off,” cried Susie.
“So he has,” said Miss Trant.
“He’s tired of being behind the scenes. Is that it, Jess? Or did you leave it with your landlady as a little souvenir?”
“Don’t be disgusting, Susie,” cried Miss Trant.
‚ÄúI‚Äôll bet it makes me look different,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd fingering his upper lip. ‚ÄúAllus does, shaving off a moustache.‚Äù
“It doesn’t much, you know,” Miss Trant told him.
“It’s just the same sweet face from Shuddersford,” Susie assured him.
His heart sank. It looked as if he had given himself a stiff and raw upper lip for nothing. “But don’t you see owt else different?” he inquired, rather wistfully.
They both looked again. This time Miss Trant was first. ‚ÄúI know,‚Äù she cried. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôve got a new cap, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd.‚Äù
“It looks the same to me, about two sizes too small,” said Susie.
“No, the other one was brown,” said Miss Trant.
‚ÄúI believe it was,‚Äù cried Susie. ‚ÄúAnd this is grey. I remember now. The old one was what they‚Äôd call in Yorkshire a mucky brown, in fact it was a mucky old cap. You can see he wants to be an actor now‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhat with being clean-shaven and going in for being dressy like that.‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd grinned nervously, and pushed the cap back a little, for being the same size as the other, that is, too small, it went sliding back equally well. But though he grinned, he was at heart very disappointed indeed. For one wild moment, after he had shaved that morning, he had had a vision of Miss Trant and Susie looking at him as he came up and wondering who it was. ‚ÄúAnd half a crown gone on a cap an‚Äô all,‚Äù he told himself, ‚Äúand I liked t‚Äôowd un. Seems to me I‚Äôll ha‚Äô to grow a beard and wear a big trilby if I‚Äôm to disguise mysen. This is a hopeless case.‚Äù And he had already written to Ogden Street to say he would be in Winstead this coming week. If the police had got hold of that letter, it might be all up with him. He did not look forward at all to Winstead.