The Greatest Works of Fergus Hume - 22 Mystery Novels in One Edition. Fergus Hume

      Here was another facer for Slivers—as it could not have been Pierre.

      ‘Did he go to bed?’

      ‘Straight.’

      ‘And did not leave the house again?’

      ‘Of course not,’ retorted Miss Twexby, impatiently; ‘do you think I’m a fool—no one goes either in or out of this house without my knowing it. The dumb devil went to bed at half-past nine, and Mr Vandeloup at half-past twelve, and they neither of them came out of their rooms till next morning.’

      ‘How do you know Vandeloup was in at twelve?’ asked Slivers, still unconvinced.

      ‘Drat the man, what’s he worryin’ about?’ rejoined Miss Twexby, snappishly; ‘I let him in myself.’

      This clearly closed the subject, and Slivers arose to his feet in great disgust, upsetting Billy on to the floor.

      ‘Devil!’ shrieked Billy, as he dropped. ‘Oh, my precious mother. Devil—devil—devil—you’re a liar—you’re a liar—Bendigo and Ballarat—Ballarat and Bendigo—Pickles!’

      Having thus run through a portion of his vocabulary, he subsided into silence, and let Slivers pick him up in order to go home.

      ‘A nice pair you are,’ muttered Martha, grimly, looking at them. ‘I wish I had the thrashing of you. Won’t you stay and see par?’ she called out as Slivers departed.

      ‘I’ll come to-morrow,’ answered Slivers, angrily, for he felt very much out of temper; then, in a lower voice, he observed to himself, ‘I’d like to put that jade in a teacup and crush her.’

      He stumped home in silence, thinking all the time; and it was only when he arrived back in his office that he gave utterance to his thoughts.

      ‘It couldn’t have been either of the Frenchmen,’ he said, lighting his pipe. ‘She must have done it herself.’

Chapter XVI.

       Mcintosh Speaks His Mind

       Table of Contents

      It was some time before Mrs Villiers recovered from the shock caused by her encounter with her husband. The blow he had struck her on the side of the head turned out to be more serious than was at first anticipated, and Selina deemed it advisable that a doctor should be called in. So Archie went into Ballarat, and returned to the Pactolus with Dr Gollipeck, an eccentric medical practitioner, whose peculiarities were the talk of the city.

      Dr Gollipeck was tall and lank, with an unfinished look about him, as if Nature in some sudden freak had seized an incomplete skeleton from a museum and hastily covered it with parchment. He dressed in rusty black, wore dingy cotton gloves, carried a large white umbrella, and surveyed the world through the medium of a pair of huge spectacles. His clothes were constantly coming undone, as he scorned the use of buttons, and preferred pins, which were always scratching his hands. He spoke very little, and was engaged in composing an erudite work on ‘The Art of Poisoning, from Borgia to Brinvilliers’.

      Selina was not at all impressed with his appearance, and mentally decided that a good wash and a few buttons would improve him wonderfully. Dr Gollipeck, however, soon verified the adage that appearances are deceptive—as Selina afterwards remarked to Archie—by bringing Madame Midas back to health in a wonderfully short space of time. She was now convalescent, and, seated in the arm-chair by the window, looked dreamily at the landscape. She was thinking of her husband, and in what manner he would annoy her next; but she half thought—and the wish was father to the half thought—that having got the nugget he would now leave her alone.

      She knew that he had not been in Ballarat since that fatal night when he had attacked her, but imagined that he was merely hiding till such time as the storm should blow over and he could enjoy his ill-gotten gains in safety. The letter asking him to give up the nugget and ordering him to leave the district under threat of prosecution had been sent to his lodgings, but was still lying there unopened. The letters accumulated into quite a little pile as weeks rolled on, yet Mr Villiers, if he was alive, made no sign, and if he was dead, no traces had been found of his body. McIntosh and Slivers had both seen the police about the affair, one in order to recover the nugget, the other actuated by bitter enmity against Madame Midas. To Slivers’ hints, that perhaps Villiers’ wife knew more than she chose to tell, the police turned a deaf ear, as they assured Slivers that they had made inquiries, and on the authority of Selina and McIntosh could safely say that Madame Midas had been home that night at half-past nine o’clock, whereas Villiers was still alive in Ballarat—as could be proved by the evidence of Mr Jarper—at two o’clock in the morning. So, foiled on every side in his endeavours to implicate Mrs Villiers in her husband’s disappearance, Slivers retired to his office, and, assisted by his ungodly cockatoo, passed many hours in swearing at his bad luck and in cursing the absent Villiers.

      As to M. Vandeloup, he was indefatigable in his efforts to find Villiers, for, as he very truly said, he could never repay Madame Midas sufficiently for her kindness to him, and he wanted to do all in his power to punish her cruel husband. But in spite of all this seeking, the whereabouts of Mr Randolph Villiers remained undiscovered, and at last, in despair, everyone gave up looking. Villiers had disappeared entirely, and had taken the nugget with him, so where he was and what he was doing remained a mystery.

      One result of Madame’s illness was that M. Vandeloup had met Dr Gollipeck, and the two, though apparently dissimilar in both character and appearance, had been attracted to one another by a liking which they had in common. This was the study of toxicology, a science at which the eccentric old man had spent a lifetime. He found in Vandeloup a congenial spirit, for the young Frenchman had a wonderful liking for the uncanny subject; but there was a difference in the aims of both men, Gollipeck being drawn to the study of poisons from a pure love of the subject, whereas Vandeloup wanted to find out the secrets of toxicology for his own ends, which were anything but disinterested.

      Wearied of the dull routine of the office work, Vandeloup was taking a walk in the meadows which surrounded the Pactolus, when he saw Dr Gollipeck shuffling along the dusty white road from the railway station.

      ‘Good day, Monsieur le Medecin,’ said Vandeloup, gaily, as he came up to the old man; ‘are you going to see our mutual friend?’

      Gollipeck, ever sparing of words, nodded in reply, and trudged on in silence, but the Frenchmen, being used to the eccentricities of his companion, was in nowise offended at his silence, but went on talking in an animated manner.

      ‘Ah, my dear friend,’ he said, pushing his straw hat back on his fair head; ‘how goes on the great work?’

      ‘Capitally,’ returned the doctor, with a complacent smile; ‘just finished “Catherine de Medici”—wonderful woman, sir—quite a mistress of the art of poisoning.’

      ‘Humph,’ returned Vandeloup, thoughtfully, lighting a cigarette, ‘I do not agree with you there; it was her so-called astrologer, Ruggieri, who prepared all her potions. Catherine certainly had the power, but Ruggieri possessed the science—a very fair division of labour for getting rid of people, I must say—but what have you got there?’ nodding towards a large book which Gollipeck carried under his arm.

      ‘For you,’ answered the other, taking the book slowly from under his arm, and thereby causing another button to fly off, ‘quite new,—work on toxicology.’

      ‘Thank you,’ said Vandeloup, taking the heavy volume and looking at the title; ‘French, I see! I’m sure it will be pleasant reading.’

      The title of the book was ‘Les Empoisonneurs d’Aujourd’hui, par MM. Prevol et Lebrun’, and it had only been published the previous year; so as he turned over the leaves carelessly, M. Vandeloup caught sight of a name which he knew. He smiled a little, and closing the book put it under his arm, while he turned smilingly towards his companion, whom he found looking