Run to Earth by Mary Elizabeth Braddon (ready player one ebook TXT) 📕

Early on the morning after her arrival in London, Honoria Eversleigh,

otherwise Mrs. Eden, went in a cab to the office of an individual

called Andrew Larkspur, who occupied dingy chambers in Lyon’s Inn.

The science of the detective officer had not, at that time, reached its

present state of perfection; but even then there were men who devoted

their lives to the work of private investigations, and the elucidation

of the strange secrets and mysteries of social life.

Such a man was Andrew Larkspur, late Bow Street runner, now hanger-on

of the new detective police. He was renowned for his skill in the

prosecution of secret service; and it was rumoured that he had amassed

a considerable fortune by his mysterious employment.

He was not a man who openly sought employers. His services were in

great request among a certain set of people, and he had little idle

time on his hands. His name was painted in dirty white letters on the

black door of his dingy chambers on a fourth story. On this door he

called himself, “Andrew Larkspur, Commission Agent.”

It will be seen by-and-by how Honoria Eversleigh had become acquainted

with the fact of this man’s existence.

She went alone to seek an interview with him. She had found herself

compelled to confide in Jane Payland to a very considerable extent; but

she did not tell that attendant more than she was obliged to tell of

the dark business which had brought her to London.

She was fortunate enough to find Mr. Andrew Larkspur alone, and

disengaged. He was a little, sandy-haired man, of some sixty years of

age, spare and wizened, with a sharp nose, like a beak, and thin, long

arms, ending in large, claw-like hands, that were like the talons of a

bird of prey. Altogether, Mr. Lark spur had very much of the aspect of

an elderly vulture which had undergone partial transformation into a

human being.

Honoria was in no way repelled by the aspect of this man. She saw that

he was clever; and fancied him the kind of person who would be likely

to serve her faithfully.

“I have been informed that you are skilled in the prosecution of secret

investigations,” she said; “and I wish to secure your services

immediately. Are you at liberty to devote yourself to the task I wish

to be performed by you?”

Mr. Larkspur was a man who rarely answered even the simplest question

until he had turned the subject over in his mind, and carefully studied

every word that had been said to him.

He was a man who made caution the ruling principle of his life, and he

looked at every creature he encountered in the course of his career as

an individual more or less likely to take him in.

The boast of Mr. Larkspur was, that he never had been taken in.

“I’ve been very near it more than once,” he said to his particular

friends, when he unbent so far as to be confidential.

“I’ve had some very narrow escapes of being taken in and done for as

neatly as you please. There are some artful dodgers, whose artful

dodging the oldest hand can scarcely guard against; but I’m proud to

say not one of those artful dodgers has ever yet been able to get the

better of me. Perhaps my time is to come, and I shall be bamboozled in

my old age.”

Before replying to Honoria’s inquiry, Andrew Larkspur studied her from

head to foot, with eyes whose sharp scrutiny would have been very

unpleasant to anyone who had occasion for concealment.

The result of the scrutiny seemed to be tolerably satisfactory, for Mr.

Larkspur at last replied to his visitor’s question in a tone which for

him was extremely gracious.

“You want to know whether you can engage my services,” he said; “that

depends upon circumstances.”

“Upon what circumstances?”

“Whether you will be able to pay me. My hands are very full just now,

and I’ve about as much business as I can possibly get through.”

“I shall want you to abandon all such business, and to devote yourself

exclusively to my service,” said Honoria.

“The deuce you will!” exclaimed Mr. Larkspur. “Do you happen to know

what my time is worth?”

Mr. Larkspur looked positively outraged by the idea that any one could

suppose they could secure a monopoly of his valuable services.

“That is a question with which I have no concern,” answered Honoria,

coolly. “The work which I require you to do will most likely occupy all

your time, and entirely absorb your attention. I am quite prepared to

pay you liberally for your services, and I shall leave you to name your

own terms. I shall rely on your honour as a man of business that those

terms will not be exorbitant, and I shall accede to them without

further question.”

“Humph!” muttered the suspicious Andrew. “Do you know, ma’am, that

sounds almost too liberal? I’m an old stager, ma’am, and have seen a

good deal of life, and I have generally found that people who are ready

to promise so much beforehand, are apt not to give anything when their

work has been done.”

“The fact that you have been cheated by swindlers is no reason why

should insult me,” answered Honoria. “I wished to secure your services;

but I cannot continue an interview in which I find my offers met by

insolent objections. There are, no doubt, other people in London who

can assist me in the business I have in hand. I will wish you good

morning.”

She rose, and was about to leave the room. Mr. Larkspur began to think

that he had been rather too cautious; and that perhaps, this plainly-attired lady might be a very good customer.

“You must excuse me, ma’am,” he said, “if I’m rather a suspicious old

chap. You see, it’s the nature of my business to make a man suspicious.

If you can pay me for my time, I shall be willing to devote myself to

your service; for I’d much rather give my whole mind to one business,

than have ever so many odds and ends of affairs jostling each other in

my brain. But the fact of it is, ladies very seldom have any idea what

business is: however clever they may be in other matters—playing the

piano, working bead-mats and worsted slippers, and such like. Now, I

dare say you’ll open your eyes uncommon wide when I tell you that my

business is worth nigh upon sixteen pound a week to me, taking good

with bad; and though you mayn’t be aware of it, ma’am, having, no

doubt, given your mind exclusive to Berlin wool, and such like, sixteen

pound a week is eight hundred a year.”

Mr. Larkspur, though not much given to surprise, was somewhat

astonished to perceive that his lady-visitor did not open her eyes any

wider on receiving this intelligence.

“If you have earned eight hundred a year by your profession,” she

returned, quietly, “I will give you twenty pounds a week for your

exclusive services, and that will be a thousand and forty pounds a

year.”

This time, Andrew Larkspur was still more surprised, though he was so

completely master of himself as to conceal the smallest evidence of his

astonishment.

Here was a woman who had not devoted her mind to Berlin wool-work, and

whose arithmetic was irreproachable!

“Humph!” he muttered, too cautious to betray any appearance of

eagerness to accept an advantageous offer. “A thousand a year is very

well in its way; but how long is it to last? If I turn my back upon

this business here, it’ll all tumble to pieces, and then, where shall I

be when you have done with me?”

“I will engage you for one year, certain.”

“That won’t do, ma’am; you must make it three years, certain.”

“Very well; I am willing to do that,” answered Honoria. “I shall, in

all probability, require your services for three years.”

Mr. Larkspur regretted that he had not asked for an engagement of six

years.

“Do you agree to those terms?” asked Honoria.

“Yes,” answered the detective, with well-assumed indifference; “I

suppose I may as well accept those terms, though I dare say I might

make more money by leaving myself free to give my attention to anything

that might turn up. And now, how am I to be paid? You see, you’re quite

a stranger to me.”

“I am aware of that, and I do not ask you to trust me,” replied

Honoria. “I will pay you eighty pounds a month.”

“Eighty pounds a month of four weeks,” interposed the cautious

Larkspur; “eighty pounds for the lunar month. That makes a difference,

you know, and it’s just as well to be particular.”

“Certainly!” answered Lady Eversleigh, with a half-contemptuous smile.

“You shall not be cheated. You shall receive your payment monthly, in

advance; and if you require security for the future, I can refer you to

my bankers. My name is Mrs. Eden—Harriet Eden, and I bank with Messrs.

Coutts.”

The detective rubbed his hands with a air of gratification.

“Nothing could be more straightforward and business-like,” he said.

“And when shall you require my services, Mrs. Eden?”

“Immediately. There is an apartment vacant in the house in which I

lodge. I should wish you to occupy that apartment, as you would thus be

always at hand when I had any communication to make to you. Would that

be possible?”

“Well, yes, ma’am, it would certainly be possible,” replied Mr.

Larkspur, after the usual pause for reflection; “but I’m afraid I

should be obliged to make that an extra.”

“You shall be paid whatever you require.”

“Thank you, ma’am. You see, when a person of my age has been accustomed

to live in one place for a long time, it goes against him to change his

habits. However, to oblige you, I’ll get together my little traps, and

shift my quarter to the lodging you speak of.”

“Good. The house in question is No. 90, Percy Street, Tottenham Court

Road.”

Mr. Larkspur was surprised to find that a lady who could afford to

offer him more than a thousand a year, was nevertheless contented to

live in such a middle-class situation as Percy Street.

“Can you go to the new lodging to-morrow?” asked Honoria.

“Well, no, ma’am; you must give me a week, if you please. I must wind

up some of the affairs I have been working upon, you see, and hand over

my clients to other people; and I must set my books in order. I’ve a

few very profitable affairs in hand, I assure you. There’s one which

might have turned out a great prize, if I had been only able to carry

it through. But those sort of things all depend on time, you see,

ma’am. They’re very slow. I have been about this one, off and on, for

over three years; and very little has come of it yet.”

The detective was turning over one of his books mechanically as he said

this. It was a large ledger, filled with entries, in a queer, cramped

handwriting, dotted about, here and there, with mysterious marks in red

and blue ink. Mr. Larkspur stopped suddenly, as he turned the leaves,

his attention arrested by one particular page.

“Here it is,” he said; “the very business I was speaking of. Five

hundred pounds for the discovery of the murderer, or murderers, of

Valentine Jernam, captain and owner of the ‘Pizarro’, whose body was

found in the