The Charing Cross Mystery by J. S. Fletcher (book series for 10 year olds TXT) 📕

This was said in a broad North Country accent, in full keeping, thought Hetherwick, with the burly frame of the speaker. But the other man replied in tones that suggested the born Londoner.

“I think I shall be able to recognise it,” he said softly. “I’ve a very clear recollection of the lady, though, to be sure, I only saw her once or twice.”

“Aye, well, a fine-looking woman⁠—and a beauty!⁠—like that’s not soon forgotten,” declared the other. “And nowadays the years don’t seem to make much difference to a woman’s age. Anyway, I knew her!⁠—‘That’s you, my fine madam,’ says I to myself, as soon as ever I unfolded that paper. But, mind you, I kept it to myself! Not a word to my granddaughter, though she was sitting opposite to me when I made the discovery. No⁠—not to anybody!⁠—till tonight. Not the sort of thing to blab about⁠—that!”

“Just so,” said the smaller man. “Of course, you’d remember that I was likely to have some recollection of her and of the circumstances. Odd!⁠—very. And I suppose the next thing is⁠—what are you going to do about it?”

“Oh, well!” replied the big man. “Of course, ten years have elapsed. But as to that, it wouldn’t matter, you know, if twenty years had slipped by. Still⁠—”

At that point he sank his voice to the least of a whisper, bending over to his companion, and Hetherwick heard no more. But it seemed to him that the little man, although he appeared to be listening intently, was, in reality, doing nothing of the sort. His long, stained fingers became more restless than ever; twice, before the train came to Westminster, he pulled out his watch and glanced at it; once, after that, Hetherwick caught the nervous hand again shaking towards the waistcoat pocket. And he got an idea that the man was regarding his big, garrulous companion with curiously furtive glances, as if he were waiting for some vague, yet expected thing, and wondering when it would materialise: there was a covert watchfulness about him, and though he nodded his head from time to time as if in assent to what was being whispered to him, Hetherwick became convinced that he was either abstracted in thought or taking no interest. If eyes and fingers were to be taken as indications, the man’s thoughts were elsewhere.

The train pulled up at Westminster, lingered its half-minute, moved onward again; the big man, still bending down to his companion, went on whispering; now and then, as if he were telling a good story or making a clever point, he chuckled. But suddenly, and without any warning, he paused, coming to a dead, sharp-cut stop in an apparently easy flow of language. He stared wildly around him: Hetherwick caught the flash of his eye as it swept the compartment, and never forgot the look of frightened amazement that he saw in it; it was as if the man had been caught, with lightning-like swiftness, face to face with some awful thing. His left hand shut up, clutching at his breast and throat; the other, releasing the gold-headed cane, shot out as if to ward off a blow. It dropped like lead at his side; the other arm relaxed and fell, limp and nerveless, and before Hetherwick could move, the big, burly figure sank back in its corner and the eyes closed.

Hetherwick jumped from his seat, shouting to the other man.

“Your friend!” he cried. “Look!”

But the other man was looking. He, too, had got to his feet, and he was bending down and stretching out a hand to the big man’s wrist. He muttered something that Hetherwick failed to catch.

“What do you say?” demanded Hetherwick impatiently. “Good heavens!⁠—we must do something! The man’s⁠—what is it? A seizure?”

“A seizure!” answered the other. “Yes⁠—that’s it⁠—a seizure! He’d had one⁠—slight giddiness⁠—just before we got in. A⁠—the train’s stopping, though. Charing Cross? I⁠—I know a doctor close by.”

The train was already pulling up. Hetherwick flung open the dividing door between his compartment and the next⁠—he had seen the conductor down there and he beckoned to him.

“Quick!” he called. “Here!⁠—there’s a man ill⁠—dying, I think! Come here!”

The conductor came⁠—slowly. But when he saw the man in the corner, he made for the outer door and beckoned to men on the platform. A uniformed official ran up and got in.

“What is it?” he asked. “Gentleman in a fit? Who’s with him? Anybody?”

Hetherwick looked round for the man with the stained fingers. But he was already out of the carriage and on the platform and making for the stairs that led to the exit. He flung back a few words, pointing upward at the same time.

“Doctor!⁠—close by!” he shouted. “Back in five minutes!⁠—get him out.”

But already there was a doctor at hand. Before the man with the stained fingers had fairly vanished, other men had come in from the adjoining compartments; one pushed his way to the front.

“I am a medical man,” he said curtly. “Make way, please.”

The other men stood silently watching while the newcomer made a hasty examination of the still figure. He turned sharply.

“This man’s dead!” he said in quick, matter-of-fact tones. “Is anyone with him?”

The train officials glanced at Hetherwick. But Hetherwick shook his head.

“I don’t know him,” he answered. “There was another man with him⁠—they got in together at St. James’s Park. You saw the other man,” he continued, turning to the conductor. “He jumped out as you came in here, and ran up the stairs, saying that he was going for some doctor, close by.”

“I saw him⁠—heard him, too,” assented the conductor. He glanced at the stairs and the exit beyond. “But he ain’t come back,” he added.

“You had better get the man out,” said the doctor. “Bring him in to some place on the platform.”

A station policeman had come up by that time; he and the railwaymen lifted the dead man and carried him across the platform to a waiting-room. Hetherwick, feeling that he would