The Opal Serpent Part 33

"No. You gave me only a hint when you sent me down. I didn't like to venture on ground I wasn't sure of. I'm more cautious than you."

"Well, I'll tell you everything now," said Hurd, and gave a rapid sketch of what he had learned from the newspapers and the Scotland Yard papers relative to the Sandal affair. Aurora nodded.

"But Matilda Junk said nothing of that. She merely stated that Mr.

Lemuel Krill had gone to London over twenty years ago, and that his wife knew nothing of him until she saw the hand-bills."

"Hum," said Hurd again, as the train slowed down to the Christchurch station, "it seems all fair and above board. What about Jessop?"

"Knowing so little of the Lady Rachel case, I didn't inquire about him,"

said Aurora. "I've told you everything."

"Anyone else stopping at the inn?"

"No. And it's not a bad little place after all. The rooms are clean and the food good and the charges low. I'd rather stop at 'The Red Pig,'

small as it is, than at the big hotel. The curries--oh, they are delightfully hot!" Miss Qian screwed her small face into a smile of ecstasy. "But, then, a native makes them."

Hurd started. "Curries--a native?"

"Yes--a man called Hokar."

"Aurora, that's the man who left the sugar on the counter of Norman's shop. I forgot you don't know about that," and Hurd rapidly told her of the episode.

"It's strange," said Miss Qian, nodding with a faraway look. "It would seem that Mrs. Krill knew of the whereabouts of her husband before she saw the hand-bills."

"And possibly about the murder also," said Hurd.

Brother and sister looked at one another; the case was becoming more and more interesting. Mrs. Krill evidently knew more than she chose to admit. But at this moment the train stopped, and they got out. Hurd took his handbag and walked into the town with his pretty sister tripping beside him. She gave him an additional piece of information before they arrived at "The Red Pig." "This Hokar is not at all popular," she said; "they say he eats cats and dogs. Yes. I've talked to several old women, and they say they lost their animals. One cat was found strangled in the yard, and--"

"Strangled!" interrupted the detective. "Hum, and the man's an Indian, possibly a Thug."

"What's a Thug?" asked Aurora, staring.

Hurd explained. "I ran through the book lent by Beecot last night," he added, "and was so interested I sat up till dawn--"

"You do look chippy," said his sister, candidly, "but from what you say, there are no Thugs living."

"No, the author says so. Still, it's queer, this strangling, and then the cruel way in which the man was murdered. Just what a Hindoo would do. The sugar too--"

"Oh, nonsense! Hokar left the sugar by mistake. If he had intended to murder Norman he wouldn't have given himself away."

"I expect he never thought anyone would guess he was a Thug. The novel is not one usually read nowadays. It was the merest chance that Miss Norman came across it and told Beecot."

"I don't believe in such coincidences," said Aurora, dryly; for in spite of her fluffy, kittenish looks, she was a very practical person. "But here we are at 'The Red Pig.' Nice and comfy, isn't it?"

The inn was certainly very pretty. It stood on the very verge of the town, and beyond stretched fields and hedgerows. The house itself was a white-washed, thatched, rustic cottage, with a badly painted sign of a large red sow. Outside were benches, where topers sat, and the windows were delightfully old-fas.h.i.+oned, diamond-paned cas.e.m.e.nts. Quite a d.i.c.kens inn of the old coaching days was "The Red Pig."

But Hurd gave the pretty, quaint hostel only a pa.s.sing glance. He was staring at a woman who stood in the doorway shading her eyes with the palm of her hand from the setting sun. In her the detective saw the image of Deborah Junk, now Tawsey. She was of the same gigantic build, with the same ruddy face, sharp, black eyes and boisterous manner. But she had not the kindly look of Deborah, and of the two sisters Hurd preferred the one he already knew.

"This is my brother, Miss Junk," said Aurora, marching up to the door; "he will only stay until to-morrow."

"You're welcome, sir," said Matilda in a loud and hearty voice, which reminded the detective more than ever of her sister. "Will you please walk in and 'ave some tea?"

Hurd nodded and repaired to the tiny sitting-room, where he saw the photograph of Hay on the mantelpiece. Aurora, at a hint from her brother, went to her bedroom to change her dress, and Hurd spoke to Matilda, when she brought in the tray. "I know your sister," said he.

Miss Junk nearly dropped the tray. "Lor', now, only think! Why, we ain't wrote to one another for ten years. And I left London eleven years back.

And how is she, sir? and where is she?"

"She is well; she has a laundry in Jubileetown near London, and she is married to a fellow called Bart Tawsey."

"Married!" cried Matilda, setting down the tray and putting her arms akimbo, just like Deborah, "lor', and me still single. But now I've got this 'ouse, and a bit put by, I'll think of gittin' a 'usband. I ain't a-goin' to let Debby crow over me."

"Your sister was in the service of Mr. Norman before she took up the laundry," observed Hurd, pouring out a cup of tea.

"Was she, now? And why did she leave?"

The name of Norman apparently was unknown to Matilda, so Hurd tried the effect of another bombsh.e.l.l. "Her master was murdered under the name of Lemuel Krill."

"Mercy," Matilda dropped into a chair, with a thud which shook the room; "why, that's my ladies' husband and father."

"What ladies?" asked Hurd, pretending ignorance.

"My ladies, Mrs. Krill and Miss Maud. They had this 'ouse, and kep' it for years respectable. I worked for 'em ten, and when my ladies comes in for a forting, for a forting there is, they gave me the goodwill of 'The Red Pig.' To think of Debby being the servant of poor Mr. Krill as was killed. Who killed 'im?"

"Doesn't your mistress know?"

"She," cried Matilda, indignantly, and bouncing up. "Why, she was always a-lookin' for him, not as she loved him over much. And as he is dead, sir, it's no more as what he oughter be, seeing as he killed a poor lady in this very 'ouse. You'll sleep in 'er room to-night," added Matilda, as if that was a pleasure. "Strangled, she was."

"I think I heard of that. But Lady Rachel Sandal committed suicide."

Matilda rubbed her nose, after the Deborah fas.h.i.+on. "Well, sir, my ladies were never sure which it was, and, of course, it was before my time considerable, being more nor twenty year back. But the man as did it is dead, and lef' my ladies his money, as he oughter. An' Miss Maud's a-goin' to marry a real gent"--Matilda glanced at the photograph--"I allays said he wos a gent, bein' so 'aughty like, and wearing evening dress at meals, late."

"Was he ever down here, this gentleman?"

"He's been comin' and goin' fur months, and Miss Maud loves 'im somethin' cruel. But they'll marry now an' be 'appy."

"I suppose your ladies sometimes went to see this gent in town?"

"Meanin' Mr. Hay," said Matilda, artlessly. "Well, sir, they did, one at a time and then together. Missis would go and miss would foller, an'

miss an' missus together would take their joy of the Towers an' shops and Madame Tusord's and sich like, Mr. Hay allays lookin' after 'em."

"Did they ever visit Mr. Hay in July?"

"No, they didn't," snapped Matilda, with a change of tone which did not escape Hurd; "and I don't know, sir, why you arsk them questions."

"My good woman, I ask no questions. If I do, you need not reply. Let us change the subject. My sister tells me you make good curries in this hotel."

"Hokar do, me bein' but a plain cook."