The Lust of Hate by Guy Newell Boothby (digital book reader txt) 📕

Teneriffe on the way. The steerage fare was fifteen pounds, and it

was by this class I determined to travel. My mind once made up, the

next thing to decide was how to reach Southampton without incurring

suspicion. To catch the boat this could only be done by rail, and to

further increase my store of knowledge I had again to borrow from the

proprietor of the restaurant. From the tune table he lent me I found

that a train left Waterloo every morning at six o’clock, which would

get me to the docks before nine o’clock, thus allowing me two full

hours in which to make my preparations and to get on board in

comfortable time; that is, supposing she sailed at the hour stated.

But I had still three hours to put in in London before the train

would start, and how to occupy them without running any risk I could

not tell. It was quite impossible for me to remain where I was, and

yet to go out and walk about the streets would be dangerous in the

extreme. In that time Nikola might get hold of me again, and I

believe I dreaded that more than even falling into the clutches of

the law. Suddenly I was struck by what seemed a splendid idea. What

if I walked out of London to some station along the line where the

train would pick me up? In that case no one would be able to remember

seeing me start from Waterloo, and I should be believed to be still

in London. The thought was no sooner born in my brain than I picked

up my hat and prepared to be off.

When I paid at the counter for my meal, and also for the note

paper with which the proprietor had obliged me, I strode out of the

restaurant and down the street into the Strand again. Surbiton, I

reflected, was twelve miles from Waterloo, and, besides being quiet,

it was also one of the places at which I had noticed that the train

was advertised to call. I had almost three hours before me in which

to do the distance, and if I walked at the rate of five miles an hour

it was evident I should accomplish it with ease. To Surbiton,

therefore, I would go.

Having made my way back to Charing Cross, I passed down Whitehall

and over Westminster Bridge to the Lambeth Palace Road. Under the

influence of my new excitement I felt easier in my mind than I had

been since I made my awful discovery three hours before, but still

not easy enough to be able to pass a policeman without a shudder.

Strangely enough, considering that I had had no sleep at all, and had

been moving about all night, I was not conscious of the least

fatigue, but strode along the pavement at a swinging pace, probably

doing more than I had intended when I had first set out. The snow had

ceased, but a nasty fog was rising from the river to take its place.

I pictured the state of London when day should break, and devoutly

thanked Heaven that I should be well out of it by that time. I could

imagine the newsboys running about the streets with cries of “Another

‘orrible murder! A millionaire the victim.” I seemed to see the

boards stuck before shop doors with the same ghastly headline, and I

could realise the consternation of the town, when it awoke to find

the mysterious assassin still at work in its midst. Then would follow

the inquest. The porter at the Monolith Club would be called upon to

give evidence, and would affirm that he had seen the deceased

gentleman step into a smart hansom, driven by a cabman dressed in an

oilskin cape and a sou’wester, and would probably remember having

noticed that the cabby was a gruff fellow with a bushy, black beard.

The next witnesses would be the finders of the body, and after that

the same verdict would be returned—“Wilful murder against some

person or persons unknown”—as had been given in the previous

cases.

If only Nikola remained faithful to me I should probably have time

to get out of England before the police could stop me, and, once

among the miners of the Band, I should be able to arrange matters in

such a way that recognition would be almost an impossibility. With a

sigh of relief at this comfortable thought, I pushed on a little

faster along the Wandsworth Road until I reached Clapham Junction

Station. As I did so I looked at my watch. It was just a quarter to

four, and already the footpaths were becoming dotted with

pedestrians.

Leaving Clapham Junction behind me, I passed along the Lavender

Hill Road, through Wandsworth, and struck out along the road to West

Hill, then across Putney Heath, through Kingston Vale, and so into

Kingston. From that quaint old riverside town to Surbiton is but a

step, and exactly as the church clocks in the latter place were

chiming a quarter to six, I stood on the platform of the railway

station prepared to board my train when it should come in sight. The

last four miles had been done at a fast pace, and by the time I had

taken my ticket I was completely worn out. My anxiety was so keen

that I could not sit down, but waited until I should be safely on

board the train. The cries of the newsboys seemed still to be ringing

in my ears—“Another ‘orrible murder! Discovery of the body of a

famous millionaire!”

To while away the time I went out of the station again and

explored the deserted streets, passing houses in which the owners

still lay fast asleep, little dreaming of the miserable man who was

tramping along in the cold outside. A biting north wind blew over the

snow, and chilled me to the marrow. The leaden hand of despair was

pressing hard upon my heart, and when I looked at the rows of trim,

matter-of-fact residences on either side of me, and thought of

the gulf that separated their inmates from myself, I groaned aloud in

abject misery.

At five minutes to the hour I returned to the station, and, just

as I reached it, punctual almost to the tick of the clock, the train

made its appearance round the bend of the line. With the solitary

exception of an old man I was the only passenger from this station;

and, as soon as I had discovered an empty third-class compartment, I

got in and stowed myself away in a corner. Almost before the train

was out of the station I was fast asleep, dreaming of Nikola and of

the horrible events of the night just past. Once more I drove the cab

along the snow-covered streets; once more that strange woman’s face

rose before me in warning; and once more I descended from my seat to

make the horrible discovery that my enemy was dead. In my agony I

must have shrieked aloud, for the noise I made woke me up. An elderly

man, possibly a successful country butcher from his appearance, who

must have got in at some station we had stopped at while I slept, was

sitting in the corner opposite, watching me.

“You have been having a pretty bad nightmare these last few

minutes, I should say, mister,” he observed, with a smile. “I was

just going to give you a shake up when you woke yourself by screaming

out like that.”

An awful fear came over me. Was it possible that in my sleep I had

revealed my secret?

“I am sorry I disturbed you,” I said, faintly, “but I am subject

to bad dreams. Have I been talking very much?”

“Not so far as I’ve heard,” he answered; “but you’ve been moaning

and groaning as if you’d got something on your mind that you wanted

to tell pretty bad.”

“I’ve just got over a severe illness,” I replied, relieved beyond

measure to hear that I had kept my dreadful secret to myself, “and I

suppose that accounts for the uneasy way in which I sleep.”

My companion looked at me rather searchingly for a few seconds,

and then began to fumble in his greatcoat pocket for something.

Presently he produced a large spirit flask.

“Let me give you a drop of whiskey,” he said, kindly. “It will

cheer you up, and you look as if you want it right down bad.”

He poured about half a wineglassful into the little nickel-plated

cup that fitted the bottom of the flask, and handed it to me. I

thanked him sincerely, and tossed it off at one gulp. It was neat

spirit, and ran through my veins like so much fire. Though it burnt

my throat pretty severely, it did me a world of good, and in a few

moments I was sufficiently recovered to talk reasonably enough.

At nine o’clock almost to the minute we drew up at Southampton Docks,

and then, bidding my fellow passenger good morning, I quickly quitted

the station. Before I left London I had carefully noted the address of

the steamship company’s agents, and, having ascertained the direction of

their office, I made my way towards it. Early as was the hour I found it

open, and upon being interrogated by the clerk behind the counter,

stated my desire to book as steerage passenger for Cape Town by the

steamer Fiji Princess, which they advertised as leaving the docks that

day. The clerk looked at me with some surprise when I said “steerage,”

but, whatever he may have thought, he offered no comment upon it.

“What is your name?” he inquired, dipping his pen in the ink.

I had anticipated this question, and replied “George Wrexford” as

promptly as if it had really been my patronymic.

Having paid the amount demanded, and received my ticket in

exchange, I asked what time it would be necessary for me to be on

board.

“Half-past ten without fail,” he answered. “She will cast off

punctually at eleven; and I give you fair warning Captain Hawkins

does not wait for anything or anybody.”

I thanked him for his courtesy and left the office, buttoning up

my ticket in my pocket as I went down the steps. In four hours at

most, all being well, I should be safely out of England; and, for a

little while, a free man. By half-past nine I had purchased a small

outfit, and also the few odds and ends—such as bedding and mess

utensils—that I should require on the voyage. This done I hunted

about till I found a small restaurant, again in a back street, which

I entered and ordered breakfast. As soon as I smelt the cooking I

found that I was ravenous, and twice I had to call for more before my

hunger was satsfied.”

Towards the end of my meal a paper boy put in an appearance, and

my heart well-nigh stopped when I heard the girl beyond the counter

enquire if there was “any startling news this morning.”

“‘Nother terrible murder in London,” answered the lad with

fiendish glibness; and as he spoke my overtaxed strength gave way,

and I fell back in my chair in a dead faint.

I suppose for a few moments I must have quite lost consciousness,

for I can recollect nothing until I opened my eyes and found a small

crowd collected round me, somebody sponging my forehead, and two

people chafing my hands.

“How do you feel now?” enquired the nervous little man who had

first come to my assistance.

“Better, thank you,” I replied, at the same time endeavouring