Артур Конан Дойл
The Doings of Raffles Haw
CHAPTER I. A DOUBLE ENIGMA
“I’m afraid that he won’t come,” said Laura McIntyre, in a disconsolate voice.
“Why not?”
“Oh, look at the weather; it is something too awful.”
As she spoke a whirl of snow beat with a muffled patter against the cosy red-curtained window, while a long blast of wind shrieked and whistled through the branches of the great white-limbed elms which skirted the garden.
Robert McIntyre rose from the sketch upon which he had been working, and taking one of the lamps in his hand peered out into the darkness. The long skeleton limbs of the bare trees tossed and quivered dimly amid the whirling drift. His sister sat by the fire, her fancy-work in her lap, and looked up at her brothers profile which showed against the brilliant yellow light. It was a handsome face, young and fair and clear cut, with wavy brown hair combed backwards and rippling down into that outward curve at the ends which one associates with the artistic temperament. There was refinement too in his slightly puckered eyes, his dainty gold-rimmed pince-nez glasses, and in the black velveteen coat which caught the light so richly upon its shoulder. In his mouth only there was something – a suspicion of coarseness, a possibility of weakness – which in the eyes of some, and of his sister among them, marred the grace and beauty of his features. Yet, as he was wont himself to say, when one thinks that each poor mortal is heir to a legacy of every evil trait or bodily taint of so vast a line of ancestors, lucky indeed is the man who does not find that Nature has scored up some long-owing family debt upon his features.
And indeed in this case the remorseless creditor had gone so far as to exact a claim from the lady also, though in her case the extreme beauty of the upper part of the face drew the eye away from any weakness which might be found in the lower. She was darker than her brother – so dark that her heavily coiled hair seemed to be black until the light shone slantwise across it. The delicate, half-petulant features, the finely traced brows, and the thoughtful, humorous eyes were all perfect in their way, and yet the combination left something to be desired. There was a vague sense of a flaw somewhere, in feature or in expression, which resolved itself, when analysed, into a slight out-turning and droop of the lower lip; small indeed, and yet pronounced enough to turn what would have been a beautiful face into a merely pretty one. Very despondent and somewhat cross she looked as she leaned back in the armchair, the tangle of bright-coloured silks and of drab holland upon her lap, her hands clasped behind her head, with her snowy forearms and little pink elbows projecting on either side.
“I know he won’t come,” she repeated.
“Nonsense, Laura! Of course he’ll come. A sailor and afraid of the weather!”
“Ha!” She raised her finger, and a smile of triumph played over her face, only to die away again into a blank look of disappointment. “It is only papa,” she murmured.
A shuffling step was heard in the hall, and a little peaky man, with his slippers very much down at the heels, came shambling into the room. Mr. McIntyre, sen., was pale and furtive-looking, with a thin straggling red beard shot with grey, and a sunken downcast face. Ill-fortune and ill-health had both left their marks upon him. Ten years before he had been one of the largest and richest gunmakers in Birmingham, but a long run of commercial bad luck had sapped his great fortune, and had finally driven him into the Bankruptcy Court. The death of his wife on the very day of his insolvency had filled his cup of sorrow, and he had gone about since with a stunned, half-dazed expression upon his weak pallid face which spoke of a mind unhinged. So complete had been his downfall that the family would have been reduced to absolute poverty were it not for a small legacy of two-hundred a year which both the children had received from one of their uncles upon the mother’s side who had amassed a fortune in Australia. By combining their incomes, and by taking a house in the quiet country district of Tamfield, some fourteen miles from the great Midland city, they were still able to live with some approach to comfort. The change, however, was a bitter one to all – to Robert, who had to forego the luxuries dear to his artistic temperament, and to think of turning what had been merely an overruling hobby into a means of earning a living; and even more to Laura, who winced before the pity of her old friends, and found the lanes and fields of Tamfield intolerably dull after the life and bustle of Edgbaston. Their discomfort was aggravated by the conduct of their father, whose life now was one long wail over his misfortunes, and who alternately sought comfort in the Prayer-book and in the decanter for the ills which had befallen him.
To Laura, however, Tamfield presented one attraction, which was now about to be taken from her. Their choice of the little country hamlet as their residence had been determined by the fact of their old friend, the Reverend John Spurling, having been nominated as the vicar. Hector Spurling, the elder son, two months Laura’s senior, had been engaged to her for some years, and was, indeed, upon the point of marrying her when the sudden financial crash had disarranged their plans. A sub-lieutenant in the Navy, he was home on leave at present, and hardly an evening passed without his making his way from the Vicarage to Elmdene, where the McIntyres resided. To-day, however, a note had reached them to the effect that he had been suddenly ordered on duty, and that he must rejoin his ship at Portsmouth by the next evening. He would look in, were it but for half-an-hour, to bid them adieu.
“Why, where’s Hector?” asked Mr. McIntyre, blinking round from side to side.
“He’s not come, father. How could you expect him to come on such a night as this? Why, there must be two feet of snow in the glebe field.”
“Not come, eh?” croaked the old man, throwing himself down upon the sofa. “Well, well, it only wants him and his father to throw us over, and the thing will be complete.”
“How can you even hint at such a thing, father?” cried Laura indignantly. “They have been as true as steel. What would they think if they heard you.”
“I think, Robert,” he said, disregarding his daughter’s protest, “that I will have a drop, just the very smallest possible drop, of brandy. A mere thimbleful will do; but I rather think I have caught cold during the snowstorm to-day.”
Robert went on sketching stolidly in his folding book, but Laura looked up from her work.
“I’m afraid there is nothing in the house, father,” she said.
“Laura! Laura!” He shook his head as one more in sorrow than in anger. “You are no longer a girl, Laura; you are a woman, the manager of a household, Laura. We trust in you. We look entirely towards you. And yet you leave your poor brother Robert without any brandy, to say nothing of me, your father. Good heavens, Laura! what would your mother have said? Think of accidents, think of sudden illness, think of apoplectic fits, Laura. It is a very grave res – a very grave response – a very great risk that you run.”
“I hardly touch the stuff,” said Robert curtly; “Laura need not provide any for me.”
“As a medicine it is invaluable, Robert. To be used, you understand, and not to be abused. That’s the whole secret of it. But I’ll step down to the Three Pigeons for half an hour.”
“My dear father,” cried the young man “you surely are not going out upon such a night. If you must have brandy could I not send Sarah for some? Please let me send Sarah; or I would go myself, or – ”
Pip! came a little paper pellet from his sister’s chair on to the sketch-book in front of him! He unrolled it and held it to the light.
“For Heaven’s sake let him go!” was scrawled across it.
“Well, in any case, wrap yourself up warm,” he continued, laying bare his sudden change of front with a masculine clumsiness which horrified his sister. “Perhaps it is not so cold as it looks. You can’t lose your way, that is one blessing. And it is not more than a hundred yards.”
With many mumbles and grumbles at his daughter’s want of foresight, old McIntyre struggled into his great-coat and wrapped his scarf round his long thin throat. A sharp gust of cold wind made the lamps flicker as he threw open the hall-door. His two children listened to the dull fall of his footsteps as he slowly picked out the winding garden path.
“He gets worse – he becomes intolerable,” said Robert at last. “We should not have let him out; he may make a public exhibition of himself.”
“But it’s Hector’s last night,” pleaded Laura. “It would be dreadful if they met and he noticed anything. That was why I wished him to go.”
“Then you were only just in time,” remarked her brother, “for I hear the gate go, and – yes, you see.”
As he spoke a cheery hail came from outside, with a sharp rat-tat at the window. Robert stepped out and threw open the door to admit a tall young man, whose black frieze jacket was all mottled and glistening with snow crystals. Laughing loudly he shook himself like a Newfoundland dog, and kicked the snow from his boots before entering the little lamplit room.
Hector Spurling’s profession was written in every line of his face. The clean-shaven lip and chin, the little fringe of side whisker, the straight decisive mouth, and the hard weather-tanned cheeks all spoke of the Royal Navy. Fifty such faces may be seen any night of the year round the mess-table of the Royal Naval College in Portsmouth Dockyard – faces which bear a closer resemblance to each other than brother does commonly to brother. They are all cast in a common mould, the products of a system which teaches early self-reliance, hardihood, and manliness – a fine type upon the whole; less refined and less intellectual, perhaps, than their brothers of the land, but full of truth and energy and heroism. In figure he was straight, tall, and well-knit, with keen grey eyes, and the sharp prompt manner of a man who has been accustomed both to command and to obey.
“You had my note?” he said, as he entered the room. “I have to go again, Laura. Isn’t it a bore? Old Smithers is short-handed, and wants me back at once.” He sat down by the girl, and put his brown hand across her white one. “It won’t be a very large order this time,” he continued. “It’s the flying squadron business – Madeira, Gibraltar, Lisbon, and home. I shouldn’t wonder if we were back in March.”
“It seems only the other day that you landed.” she answered.
“Poor little girl! But it won’t be long. Mind you take good care of her, Robert when I am gone. And when I come again, Laura, it will be the last time mind! Hang the money! There are plenty who manage on less. We need not have a house. Why should we? You can get very nice rooms in Southsea at 2 pounds a week. McDougall, our paymaster, has just married, and he only gives thirty shillings. You would not be afraid, Laura?”
“No, indeed.”
“The dear old governor is so awfully cautious. Wait, wait, wait, that’s always his cry. I tell him that he ought to have been in the Government Heavy Ordnance Department. But I’ll speak to him tonight. I’ll talk him round. See if I don’t. And you must speak to your own governor. Robert here will back you up. And here are the ports and the dates that we are due at each. Mind that you have a letter waiting for me at every one.”
He took a slip of paper from the side pocket of his coat, but, instead of handing it to the young lady, he remained staring at it with the utmost astonishment upon his face.
“Well, I never!” he exclaimed. “Look here, Robert; what do you call this?”
“Hold it to the light. Why, it’s a fifty-pound Bank of England note. Nothing remarkable about it that I can see.”
“On the contrary. It’s the queerest thing that ever happened to me. I can’t make head or tail of it.”
“Come, then, Hector,” cried Miss McIntyre with a challenge in her eyes. “Something very queer happened to me also to-day. I’ll bet a pair of gloves that my adventure was more out of the common than yours, though I have nothing so nice to show at the end of it.”
“Come, I’ll take that, and Robert here shall be the judge.”
“State your cases.” The young artist shut up his sketch-book, and rested his head upon his hands with a face of mock solemnity. “Ladies first! Go along Laura, though I think I know something of your adventure already.”
“It was this morning, Hector,” she said. “Oh, by the way, the story will make you wild. I had forgotten that. However, you mustn’t mind, because, really, the poor fellow was perfectly mad.”
“What on earth was it?” asked the young officer, his eyes travelling from the bank-note to his fiancee.
“Oh, it was harmless enough, and yet you will confess it was very queer. I had gone out for a walk, but as the snow began to fall I took shelter under the shed which the workmen have built at the near end of the great new house. The men have gone, you know, and the owner is supposed to be coming to-morrow, but the shed is still standing. I was sitting there upon a packing-case when a man came down the road and stopped under the same shelter. He was a quiet, pale-faced man, very tall and thin, not much more than thirty, I should think, poorly dressed, but with the look and bearing of a gentleman. He asked me one or two questions about the village and the people, which, of course, I answered, until at last we found ourselves chatting away in the pleasantest and easiest fashion about all sorts of things. The time passed so quickly that I forgot all about the snow until he drew my attention to its having stopped for the moment. Then, just as I was turning to go, what in the world do you suppose that he did? He took a step towards me, looked in a sad pensive way into my face, and said: `I wonder whether you could care for me if I were without a penny.’ Wasn’t it strange? I was so frightened that I whisked out of the shed, and was off down the road before he could add another word. But really, Hector, you need not look so black, for when I look back at it I can quite see from his tone and manner that he meant no harm. He was thinking aloud, without the least intention of being offensive. I am convinced that the poor fellow was mad.”
“Hum! There was some method in his madness, it seems to me,” remarked her brother.
“There would have been some method in my kicking,” said the lieutenant savagely. “I never heard of a more outrageous thing in my life.”
“Now, I said that you would be wild!” She laid her white hand upon the sleeve of his rough frieze jacket. “It was nothing. I shall never see the poor fellow again. He was evidently a stranger to this part of the country. But that was my little adventure. Now let us have yours.”
The young man crackled the bank-note between his fingers and thumb, while he passed his other hand over his hair with the action of a man who strives to collect himself.
“It is some ridiculous mistake,” he said. “I must try and set it right. Yet I don’t know how to set about it either. I was going down to the village from the Vicarage just after dusk when I found a fellow in a trap who had got himself into broken water. One wheel had sunk into the edge of the ditch which had been hidden by the snow, and the whole thing was high and dry, with a list to starboard enough to slide him out of his seat. I lent a hand, of course, and soon had the wheel in the road again. It was quite dark, and I fancy that the fellow thought that I was a bumpkin, for we did not exchange five words. As he drove off he shoved this into my hand. It is the merest chance that I did not chuck it away, for, feeling that it was a crumpled piece of paper, I imagined that it must be a tradesman’s advertisement or something of the kind. However, as luck would have it, I put it in my pocket, and there I found it when I looked for the dates of our cruise. Now you know as much of the matter as I do.”
Brother and sister stared at the black and white crinkled note with astonishment upon their faces.
“Why, your unknown traveller must have been Monte Cristo, or Rothschild at the least!” said Robert. “I am bound to say, Laura, that I think you have lost your bet.”
“Oh, I am quite content to lose it. I never heard of such a piece of luck. What a perfectly delightful man this must be to know.”
“But I can’t take his money,” said Hector Spurling, looking somewhat ruefully at the note. “A little prize-money is all very well in its way, but a Johnny must draw the line somewhere. Besides it must have been a mistake. And yet he meant to give me something big, for he could not mistake a note for a coin. I suppose I must advertise for the fellow.”
“It seems a pity too,” remarked Robert. “I must say that I don’t quite see it in the same light that you do.”
“Indeed I think that you are very Quixotic, Hector,” said Laura McIntyre. “Why should you not accept it in the spirit in which it was meant? You did this stranger a service – perhaps a greater service than you know of – and he meant this as a little memento of the occasion. I do not see that there is any possible reason against your keeping it.”
“Oh, come!” said the young sailor, with an embarrassed laugh, “it is not quite the thing – not the sort of story one would care to tell at mess.”
“In any case you are off to-morrow morning,” observed Robert. “You have no time to make inquiries about the mysterious Croesus. You must really make the best of it.”
“Well, look here, Laura, you put it in your work-basket,” cried Hector Spurling. “You shall be my banker, and if the rightful owner turns up then I can refer him to you. If not, I suppose we must look on it as a kind of salvage-money, though I am bound to say I don’t feel entirely comfortable about it.” He rose to his feet, and threw the note down into the brown basket of coloured wools which stood beside her. “Now, Laura, I must up anchor, for I promised the governor to be back by nine. It won’t be long this time, dear, and it shall be the last. Good-bye, Robert! Good luck!”
“Good-bye, Hector! Bon voyage!”
The young artist remained by the table, while his sister followed her lover to the door. In the dim light of the hall he could see their figures and overhear their words.
“Next time, little girl?”
“Next time be it, Hector.”
“And nothing can part us?”
“Nothing.”
“In the whole world?”
“Nothing.”
Robert discreetly closed the door. A moment later a thud from without, and the quick footsteps crunching on the snow told him that their visitor had departed.
CHAPTER II. THE TENANT OF THE NEW HALL
The snow had ceased to fall, but for a week a hard frost had held the country side in its iron grip. The roads rang under the horses’ hoofs, and every wayside ditch and runlet was a street of ice. Over the long undulating landscape the red brick houses peeped out warmly against the spotless background, and the lines of grey smoke streamed straight up into the windless air. The sky was of the lightest palest blue, and the morning sun, shining through the distant fog-wreaths of Birmingham, struck a subdued glow from the broad-spread snow fields which might have gladdened the eyes of an artist.
It did gladden the heart of one who viewed it that morning from the summit of the gently-curving Tamfield Hill Robert McIntyre stood with his elbows upon a gate-rail, his Tam-o’-Shanter hat over his eyes, and a short briar-root pipe in his mouth, looking slowly about him, with the absorbed air of one who breathes his fill of Nature. Beneath him to the north lay the village of Tamfield, red walls, grey roofs, and a scattered bristle of dark trees, with his own little Elmdene nestling back from the broad, white winding Birmingham Road. At the other side, as he slowly faced round, lay a vast stone building, white and clear-cut, fresh from the builders’ hands. A great tower shot up from one corner of it, and a hundred windows twinkled ruddily in the light of the morning sun. A little distance from it stood a second small square low-lying structure, with a tall chimney rising from the midst of it, rolling out a long plume of smoke into the frosty air. The whole vast structure stood within its own grounds, enclosed by a stately park wall, and surrounded by what would in time be an extensive plantation of fir-trees. By the lodge gates a vast pile of debris, with lines of sheds for workmen, and huge heaps of planks from scaffoldings, all proclaimed that the work had only just been brought to an end.
Robert McIntyre looked down with curious eyes at the broad-spread building. It had long been a mystery and a subject of gossip for the whole country side. Hardly a year had elapsed since the rumour had first gone about that a millionaire had bought a tract of land, and that it was his intention to build a country seat upon it. Since then the work had been pushed on night and day, until now it was finished to the last detail in a shorter time than it takes to build many a six-roomed cottage. Every morning two long special trains had arrived from Birmingham, carrying down a great army of labourers, who were relieved in the evening by a fresh gang, who carried on their task under the rays of twelve enormous electric lights. The number of workmen appeared to be only limited by the space into which they could be fitted. Great lines of waggons conveyed the white Portland stone from the depot by the station. Hundreds of busy toilers handed it over, shaped and squared, to the actual masons, who swung it up with steam cranes on to the growing walls, where it was instantly fitted and mortared by their companions. Day by day the house shot higher, while pillar and cornice and carving seemed to bud out from it as if by magic. Nor was the work confined to the main building. A large separate structure sprang up at the same time, and there came gangs of pale-faced men from London with much extraordinary machinery, vast cylinders, wheels and wires, which they fitted up in this outlying building. The great chimney which rose from the centre of it, combined with these strange furnishings, seemed to mean that it was reserved as a factory or place of business, for it was rumoured that this rich man’s hobby was the same as a poor man’s necessity, and that he was fond of working with his own hands amid chemicals and furnaces. Scarce, too, was the second storey begun ere the wood-workers and plumbers and furnishers were busy beneath, carrying out a thousand strange and costly schemes for the greater comfort and convenience of the owner. Singular stories were told all round the country, and even in Birmingham itself, of the extraordinary luxury and the absolute disregard for money which marked all these arrangements. No sum appeared to be too great to spend upon the smallest detail which might do away with or lessen any of the petty inconveniences of life. Waggons and waggons of the richest furniture had passed through the village between lines of staring villagers. Costly skins, glossy carpets, rich rugs, ivory, and ebony, and metal; every glimpse into these storehouses of treasure had given rise to some new legend. And finally, when all had been arranged, there had come a staff of forty servants, who heralded the approach of the owner, Mr. Raffles Haw himself.
It was no wonder, then, that it was with considerable curiosity that Robert McIntyre looked down at the great house, and marked the smoking chimneys, the curtained windows, and the other signs which showed that its tenant had arrived. A vast area of greenhouses gleamed like a lake on the further side, and beyond were the long lines of stables and outhouses. Fifty horses had passed through Tamfield the week before, so that, large as were the preparations, they were not more than would be needed. Who and what could this man be who spent his money with so lavish a hand? His name was unknown. Birmingham was as ignorant as Tamfield as to his origin or the sources of his wealth. Robert McIntyre brooded languidly over the problem as he leaned against the gate, puffing his blue clouds of bird’s-eye into the crisp, still air.
Suddenly his eye caught a dark figure emerging from the Avenue gates and striding up the winding road. A few minutes brought him near enough to show a familiar face looking over the stiff collar and from under the soft black hat of an English clergyman.
“Good-morning, Mr. Spurling.”
“Ah, good-morning, Robert. How are you? Are you coming my way? How slippery the roads are!”
His round, kindly face was beaming with good nature, and he took little jumps as he walked, like a man who can hardly contain himself for pleasure.
“Have you heard from Hector?”
“Oh, yes. He went off all right last Wednesday from Spithead, and he will write from Madeira. But you generally have later news at Elmdene than I have.”
“I don’t know whether Laura has heard. Have you been up to see the new comer?”
“Yes; I have just left him.”
“Is he a married man – this Mr. Raffles Haw?”
“No, he is a bachelor. He does not seem to have any relations either, as far as I could learn. He lives alone, amid his huge staff of servants. It is a most remarkable establishment. It made me think of the Arabian Nights.”
“And the man? What is he like?”
“He is an angel – a positive angel. I never heard or read of such kindness in my life. He has made me a happy man.”
The clergyman’s eyes sparkled with emotion, and he blew his nose loudly in his big red handkerchief.
Robert McIntyre looked at him in surprise.
“I am delighted to hear it,” he said. “May I ask what he has done?”
“I went up to him by appointment this morning. I had written asking him if I might call. I spoke to him of the parish and its needs, of my long struggle to restore the south side of the church, and of our efforts to help my poor parishioners during this hard weather. While I spoke he said not a word, but sat with a vacant face, as though he were not listening to me. When I had finished he took up his pen. ‘How much will it take to do the church?’ he asked. ‘A thousand pounds,’ I answered; ‘but we have already raised three hundred among ourselves. The Squire has very handsomely given fifty pounds.’ ‘Well,’ said he, ‘how about the poor folk? How many families are there?’ ‘About three hundred,’ I answered. ‘And coals, I believe, are at about a pound a ton’, said he. ‘Three tons ought to see them through the rest of the winter. Then you can get a very fair pair of blankets for two pounds. That would make five pounds per family, and seven hundred for the church.’ He dipped his pen in the ink, and, as I am a living man, Robert, he wrote me a cheque then and there for two thousand two hundred pounds. I don’t know what I said; I felt like a fool; I could not stammer out words with which to thank him. All my troubles have been taken from my shoulders in an instant, and indeed, Robert, I can hardly realise it.”
“He must be a most charitable man.”
“Extraordinarily so. And so unpretending. One would think that it was I who was doing the favour and he who was the beggar. I thought of that passage about making the heart of the widow sing for joy. He made my heart sing for joy, I can tell you. Are you coming up to the Vicarage?”
“No, thank you, Mr. Spurling. I must go home and get to work on my new picture. It’s a five-foot canvas – the landing of the Romans in Kent. I must have another try for the Academy. Good-morning.”
He raised his hat and continued down the road, while the vicar turned off into the path which led to his home.
Robert McIntyre had converted a large bare room in the upper storey of Elmdene into a studio, and thither he retreated after lunch. It was as well that he should have some little den of his own, for his father would talk of little save of his ledgers and accounts, while Laura had become peevish and querulous since the one tie which held her to Tamfield had been removed. The chamber was a bare and bleak one, un-papered and un-carpeted, but a good fire sparkled in the grate, and two large windows gave him the needful light. His easel stood in the centre, with the great canvas balanced across it, while against the walls there leaned his two last attempts, “The Murder of Thomas of Canterbury” and “The Signing of Magna Charta.” Robert had a weakness for large subjects and broad effects. If his ambition was greater than his skill, he had still all the love of his art and the patience under discouragement which are the stuff out of which successful painters are made. Twice his brace of pictures had journeyed to town, and twice they had come back to him, until the finely gilded frames which had made such a call upon his purse began to show signs of these varied adventures. Yet, in spite of their depressing company, Robert turned to his fresh work with all the enthusiasm which a conviction of ultimate success can inspire.
But he could not work that afternoon.
In vain he dashed in his background and outlined the long curves of the Roman galleys. Do what he would, his mind would still wander from his work to dwell upon his conversation with the vicar in the morning. His imagination was fascinated by the idea of this strange man living alone amid a crowd, and yet wielding such a power that with one dash of his pen he could change sorrow into joy, and transform the condition of a whole parish. The incident of the fifty-pound note came back to his mind. It must surely have been Raffles Haw with whom Hector Spurling had come in contact. There could not be two men in one parish to whom so large a sum was of so small an account as to be thrown to a bystander in return for a trifling piece of assistance. Of course, it must have been Raffles Haw. And his sister had the note, with instructions to return it to the owner, could he be found. He threw aside his palette, and descending into the sitting-room he told Laura and his father of his morning’s interview with the vicar, and of his conviction that this was the man of whom Hector was in quest.
