In the Shadow of Agatha Christie Page 8

  Perhaps it was in order that Mr. Furbush might never be convicted of compounding a felony!

  * The fashionable elite.

  † It was said that the touch of the spear of the angel Ithuriel would reveal any deceit.

  Ellen (Mrs. Henry) Wood (1814–1887) published over 100 stories before her first novel, Danesbury House, appeared, in 1860, the same year that Mary Elizabeth Braddon’s first novel appeared. Both became enormously popular; Wood’s next novel, East Lynne (1860–1861), a tale of crime and a seductive heroine, made her reputation. Many more tales of detection followed, but her crowning achievement was the creation of Johnny Ludlow, a young man with a detective’s eye, who appeared in a series of tales from 1868 to 1891 that spanned six volumes. Her work has been hailed as the bridge from the sterility of Poe’s Dupin to the flawed but fascinating Sherlock Holmes. The following story, collected in the third volume of “Johnny Ludlow” tales, first appeared in The Argosy (UK) for December 1873.

  MRS. TODHETLEY’S EARRINGS

  ELLEN WOOD

  Again we had been spending the Christmas at Crabb Cot. It was January weather, cold and bright, the sun above and the white snow on the ground. Mrs. Todhetley had been over to Timberdale Court, to the christening of Robert and Jane Ashton’s baby: a year had gone by since their marriage. The mater went to represent Mrs. Coney, who was godmother. Jane was not strong enough to sit out a christening dinner, and that was to be given later. After some mid-day feasting, the party dispersed.

  I went out to help Mrs. Todhetley from the carriage when she got back. The Squire was at Pershore for the day. It was only three o’clock, and the sun quite warm in spite of the snow.

  “It is so fine, Johnny, that I think I’ll walk to the school,” she said, as she stepped down. “It may not be like this tomorrow, and I must see about those shirts.”

  The parish school was making Tod a set of new shirts; and some bother had arisen about them. Orders had been given for large plaits in front, when Tod suddenly announced that he would have the plaits small.

  “Only—Can I go as I am?” cried Mrs. Todhetley, suddenly stopping in indecision, as she remembered her fine clothes: a silver-grey gown that shone like silver, white shawl of china crape, and befeathered bonnet.

  “Why, yes, of course you can go as you are, good mother. And look all the nicer for it.”

  “I fear the children will stare! But then—if the shirts get made wrong! Well, will you go with me, Johnny?”

  We reached the schoolhouse, I waiting outside while she went in. It was during that time of strike that I have told of before, when Eliza Hoar died of it. The strike was in full swing still; the men looked discontented, the women miserable, the children pinched.

  “I don’t know what in the world Joseph will say!” cried Mrs. Todhetley, as we were walking back. “Two of the shirts are finished with the large plaits. I ought to have seen about it earlier; but I did not think they would begin them quite so soon. We’ll just step into Mrs. Coney’s, Johnny, as we go home. I must tell her about the christening.”

  For Mrs. Coney was a prisoner from an attack of rheumatism. It had kept her from the festivity. She was asleep, however, when we got in: and Mr. Coney thought she had better not be disturbed, even for the news of the little grandson’s christening, as she had lain awake all the past night in pain; so we left again.

  “Why, Johnny! Who’s that?”

  Leaning against the gate of our house, in the red light of the setting sun, was an elderly woman, dark as a gipsy.

  “A tramp,” I whispered, noticing her poor clothes.

  “Do you want anything, my good woman?” asked Mrs. Todhetley.

  She was half kneeling in the snow, and lifted her face at the words: a sickly face, that somehow I liked now I saw it closer. Her tale was this. She had set out from her home, three miles off, to walk to Worcester, word having been sent her that her daughter, who was in service there, had met with an accident. She had not been strong of late, and a faintness came over her as she was passing the gate. But for leaning on it she must have fallen.

  “You should go by train: you should not walk,” said Mrs. Todhetley.

  “I had not the money just by me, ma’am,” she answered. “It ’ud cost two shillings or half-a-crown. My daughter sent word I was to take the train and she’d pay for it: but she did not send the money, and I’d not got it just handy.”

  “You live at Islip, you say. What is your name?”

  “Nutt’n, ma’am,” said the woman, in the local dialect. Which name I interpreted into Nutten; but Mrs. Todhetley thought she said Nutt.

  “I think you are telling me the truth,” said the mater, some hesitation in her voice, though. “If I were assured of it I would advance you half-a-crown for the journey.”

  “The good Lord above us knows that I’m telling it,” returned the woman earnestly, turning her face full to the glow of the sun. “It’s more than I could expect you to do, ma’am, and me a stranger; but I’d repay it faithfully.”

  Well, the upshot was that she got the half-crown lent her; and I ran in for a drop of warm ale. Molly shrieked out at me for it, refusing to believe that the mistress gave any such order, and saying she was not going to warm ale for parish tramps. So I got the ale and the tin, and warmed it myself. The woman was very grateful, drank it, and disappeared.

  “Joseph, I am so very sorry! They have made two of your shirts, and the plaits are the large ones you say you don’t like.”

  “Then they’ll just unmake them,” retorted Tod, in a temper.

  We were sitting round the table at tea, Mrs. Todhetley having ordered some tea to be made while she went upstairs. She came down without her bonnet, and had changed her best gown for the one she mostly wore at home: it had two shades in it, and shone like the copper teakettle. The Squire was not expected home yet, and we were to dine an hour later than usual.

  “That Miss Timmens is not worth her salt,” fired Tod, helping himself to some thin bread-and-butter. “What business has she to go and make my shirts wrong?”

  “I fear the fault lies with me, Joseph, not with Miss Timmens. I had given her the pattern shirt, which has large plaits, you know, before you said you would prefer—Oh, we hardly want the lamp yet, Thomas!” broke off the mater, as old Thomas came in with the lighted lamp.

  “I’m sure we do, then,” cried Tod. “I can’t see which side’s butter and which bread.”

  “And I, not thinking Miss Timmens would put them in hand at once, did not send to her as soon as you spoke, Joseph,” went on the mater, as Thomas settled the lamp on the table. “I am very sorry, my dear; but it is only two. The rest shall be done as you wish.”

  Something, apart from the shirts, had put Tod out. I had seen it as soon as we got in. For one thing, he had meant to go to Pershore: and the pater, not knowing it, started without him.

  “Let them unmake the two,” growled Tod.

  “But it would be a great pity, Joseph. They are very nicely done; the stitching’s beautiful. I really don’t think it will signify.”

  “You don’t, perhaps. You may like odd things. A pig with one ear, for example.”

  “A what, Joseph?” she asked, not catching the last simile.

  “I said a pig with one ear. No doubt you do like it. You are looking like one now, ma’am.”

  The words made me gaze at Mrs. Todhetley, for the tone bore some personal meaning, and then I saw what Tod meant: an earring was absent. The lamp-light shone on the flashing diamonds, the bright pink topaz of the one earring; but the other ear was bare and empty.

  “You have lost one of your earrings, mother!”

  She put her hands to her ears, and started up in alarm. These earrings were very valuable: they had been left to her, when she was a child, in some old lady’s will, and constituted her chief possession in jewellery worth boasting of. Not once in a twelvemonth did she venture to put them on; but she had got them out today for the christening.

  Whether it wa
s that I had gazed at the earrings when I was a little fellow and sat in her lap, I don’t know; but I never saw any that I liked so well. The pink topaz was in a long drop, the slender rim of gold that encircled it being set with diamonds. Mrs. Todhetley said they were worth fifty guineas: and perhaps they were. The glittering white of the diamonds round the pink was beautiful to look upon.

  The house went into a commotion. Mrs. Todhetley made for her bedroom, to see whether the earring had dropped on the floor or was lodging inside her bonnet. She shook out her grey dress, hoping it had fallen amidst the folds. Hannah searched the stairs, candle in hand; the two children were made to stand in corners for fear they should tread on it. But the search came to nothing. It seemed clear enough that the earring was not in the house.

  “Did you notice, Johnny, whether I had them both in my ears when we went to the school?” the mater asked.

  No, I did not. I had seen them sparkling when she got out of the carriage, but had not noticed them after.

  I went out to search the gardenpath that she had traversed, and the road over to the Coneys’ farm. Tod helped me, forgetting his shirts and his temper. Old Coney said he remarked the earrings while Mrs. Todhetley was talking to him, and thought how beautiful they were. That is, he had remarked one of them; he was sure of that; and he thought if the other had been missing, its absence would have struck him. But that was just saying nothing; for he could not be certain that both were there.

  “You may hunt till tomorrow morning, and get ten lanterns to it,” cried Molly, in her tart way, meeting us by the baytree, as we went stooping up the path again: “but you’ll be none the nearer finding it. That tramp got’s the earring, Master Joe.”

  “What tramp?” demanded Tod, straightening himself.

  “A tramp that Master Johnny there must needs give hot ale to,” returned Molly. “I know what them tramps are worth. They’d pull rings out of ears with their own fingers, give ’em the chance: and perhaps this woman did, without the missis seeing her.”

  Tod turned to me for an explanation. I gave it, and he burst into a derisive laugh, meant for me and the mater. “To think we could be taken in by such a tale as that!” he cried: “we should never see tramp, or half-crown, or perhaps the earring again.”

  The Squire came home in the midst of the stir. He blustered a little, partly at the loss, chiefly at the encouragement of tramps, calling it astounding folly. Ordering Thomas to bring a lantern, he went stooping his old back down the path, and across to Coney’s and back again; not believing any one had searched properly, and finally kicking the snow about.

  “It’s a pity this here snow’s on the ground, sir,” cried Thomas. “A little thing like an earring might easily slip into it in falling.”

  “Not a bit of it,” growled the Squire. “That tramp has got the earring.”

  “I don’t believe the tramp has,” I stoutly said. “I don’t think she was a tramp at all: and she seemed honest. I liked her face.”

  “There goes Johnny with his ‘faces’ again!” said the Squire, in laughing mockery; and Tod echoed it.

  “It’s a good thing you don’t have to buy folks by their faces, Johnny; you’d get finely sold sometimes.”

  “And she had a true voice,” I persisted, not choosing to be put down, also thinking it right to assert what was my conviction. “A voice you might trust without as much as looking at herself.”

  Well, the earring was not to be found; though the search continued more or less till bedtime, for every other minute somebody would be looking again on the carpets.

  “It is not so much for the value I regret it,” spoke Mrs. Todhetley, the tears rising in her meek eyes, “as for the old associations connected with it. I never had the earrings out but they brought back to me the remembrance of my girlhood’s home.”

  Early in the morning I ran down to the schoolhouse. More snow had fallen in the night. The children were flocking in. Miss Timmens had not noticed the earrings at all, but several of the girls said they had. Strange to say, though, most of them could not say for certain whether they saw both the earrings: they thought they did; but there it ended. Just like old Coney!

  “I am sure both of them were there,” spoke up a nice, clean little girl, from a back form.

  “What’s that, Fanny Fairfax?” cried Miss Timmens, in her quick way. “Stand up. How are you sure of it?”

  “Please governess, I saw them both,” was the answer; and the child blushed like a peony as she stood up above the others and said it.

  “Are you sure you did?”

  “Yes, I’m quite sure, please, governess. I was looking which o’ the two shined the most. ’Twas when the lady was stooping over the shirt, and the sun came in at the window.”

  “What did they look like?” asked Miss Timmens.

  “They looked—” and there the young speaker came to a standstill.

  “Come, Fanny Fairfax!” cried Miss Timmens, sharply. “What d’you stop for? I ask you what the earrings looked like. You must be able to tell if you saw them.”

  “They were red, please, governess, and had shining things round them like the ice when it glitters.”

  “She’s right, Master Johnny,” nodded Miss Timmens to me: “and she’s a very correct child in general. I think she must have seen both of them.”

  I ran home with the news. They were at breakfast still.

  “What a set of muffs the children must be, not to have taken better notice!” cried Tod. “Why, when I saw only the one earring in, it struck my eye at once.”

  “And for that reason it is almost sure that both of them were in at the schoolhouse,” I rejoined. “The children did not particularly observe the two, but they would have remarked it directly had only one been in. Old Coney said the same.”

  “Ay: it’s that tramp that has got it,” said the Squire. “While your mother was talking to her, it must have slipped out of the ear, and she managed to secure it. Those tramps lay their hands on anything; nothing comes amiss to them; they are as bad as gipsies. I dare say this was a gipsy—dark as she was. I’ll be off to Worcester and see the police: we’ll soon have her found. You had better come with me, Johnny; you’ll be able to describe her.”

  We went off without delay, caught a passing train, and were soon at Worcester and at the police station. The Squire asked for Sergeant Cripp: who came to him, and prepared to listen to his tale.

  He began it in his impulsive way; saying outright that the earring had been stolen by a gipsy-tramp. I tried to say that it might have been only lost, but the pater scoffed at that, and told me to hold my tongue.

  “And now, Cripp, what’s to be done?” he demanded, not having given the sergeant an opportunity to put in a word edgeways. “We must get the earring back; it is of value, and much prized, apart from that, by Mrs. Todhetley. The woman must be found, you know.”

  “Yes, she must be found, agreed the sergeant. Can you give me a description of her?”

  “Johnny—this young gentleman can,” said the Squire, rubbing his brow with his yellow silk handkerchief, for he had put himself into a heat, in spite of the frosty atmosphere that surrounded us. “He was with Mrs. Todhetley when she talked to the woman.”

  “A thin woman of middle height, stooped a good deal, face pale and quiet, wrinkles on it, brown eyes,” wrote the sergeant, taking down what I said. “Black poke bonnet, clean cap border, old red woollen shawl with the fringe torn off in places. Can’t remember gown: except that it was dark and shabby.”

  “And, of course, sir, you’ve no clue to her name?” cried the sergeant, looking at me.

  “Yes: she said it was Nutten—as I understood it; but Mrs. Todhetley thought she said Nutt.” And I went on to relate the tale the woman told. Sergeant Cripp’s lips extended themselves in a silent smile.

  “It was well got up, that tale,” said he, when I finished. “Just the thing to win over a warm-hearted lady.”

  “But she could not have halted at the gate, expecting to
steal the earring?”

  “Of course not. She was prowling about to see what she could steal, perhaps watching her opportunity to get into the house. The earring fell in her way, a more valuable prize than she expected, and she made off with it.”

  “You’ll be able to hunt her up if she’s in Worcester, Cripp,” put in the pater. “Don’t lose time.”

  “If she’s in Worcester,” returned Mr. Cripp, with emphasis. “She’s about as likely to be in Worcester, Squire Todhetley, as I am to be at this present minute in Brummagem,” he familiarly added. “After saying she was coming to Worcester, she’d strike off in the most opposite direction to it.”

  “Where on earth are we to look for her, then?” asked the pater, in commotion.

  “Leave it to us, Squire. We’ll try and track her. And—I hope—get back the earring.”

  “And about the advertisement for the newspapers, Cripp? We ought to put one in.”

  Sergeant Cripp twirled the pen in his fingers while he reflected. “I think, sir, we will let the advertisement alone for a day or two,” he presently said. “Sometimes these advertisements do more harm than good: they put thieves on their guard.”

  “Do they? Well, I suppose they do.”

  “If the earring had been simply lost, then I should send an advertisement to the papers at once. But if it has been stolen by this tramp, and you appear to consider that point pretty conclusive—”

  “Oh, quite conclusive,” interrupted the pater. “She has that earring as sure as this is an umbrella in Johnny Ludlow’s hand. Had it been dropped anywhere on the ground, we must have found it.”

  “Then we won’t advertise it. At least not in tomorrow’s papers,” concluded Sergeant Cripp. And telling us to leave the matter entirely in his hands, he showed us out.

  The Squire went up the street with his hands in his pockets, looking rather glum.