Henry Dunbar (Mystery Classics Series). Mary Elizabeth Braddon
who Joseph Wilmot was, and in what relation he stood towards him.
“I don’t suppose there is any real cause for anxiety,” the banker said, in conclusion; “Wilmot owned to me that he had not been leading a sober life of late years. He may have dropped into some roadside public-house and be sitting boozing amongst a lot of country fellows at this moment. It’s really too bad of him.”
The landlord shook his head.
“It is, indeed, sir; but I hope you won’t wait dinner any longer, sir?”
“No, no; you can send up the dinner. I’m afraid I shall scarcely do justice to your cook’s achievements, for I took a very substantial luncheon at Southampton.”
The landlord brought in the silver soup-tureen with his own hands, and uncorked a bottle of still hock, which Mr. Dunbar had selected from the wine-list. There was something in the banker’s manner that declared him to be a person of no small importance; and the proprietor of the George wished to do him honour.
Mr. Dunbar had spoken the truth as to his appetite for his dinner. He took a few spoonfuls of soup, he ate two or three mouthfuls of fish, and then pushed away his plate.
“It’s no use,” he said, rising suddenly, and walking to the window; “I am really uneasy about this fellow’s absence.”
He walked up and down the room two or three times, and then walked back to the open window. The August night was hot and still; the shadows of the queer old gabled roofs were sharply defined upon the moonlit pavement. The quaint cross, the low stone colonnade, the solemn towers of the cathedral, gave an ancient aspect to the quiet city.
The cathedral clock chimed the half-hour after nine while Mr. Dunbar stood at the open window looking out into the street.
“I shall sleep here to-night,” he said presently, without turning to look at the landlord, who was standing behind him. “I shall not leave Winchester without this fellow Wilmot. It is really too bad of him to treat me in this manner. It is really very much too bad of him, taking into consideration the position in which he stands towards me.”
The banker spoke with the offended tone of a proud and selfish man, who feels that he has been outraged by his inferior. The landlord of the George murmured a few stereotyped phrases, expressive of his sympathy with the wrongs of Henry Dunbar, and his entire reprobation of the missing man’s conduct.
“No, I shall not go to London to-night,” Mr. Dunbar said; “though my daughter, my only child, whom I have not seen for sixteen years, is waiting for me at my town house. I shall not leave Winchester without Joseph Wilmot.”
“I’m sure it’s very good of you, sir,” the landlord murmured; “it’s very kind of you to think so much of this — ahem — person.”
He had hesitated a little before the last word; for although Mr. Dunbar spoke of Joseph Wilmot as his inferior and dependant, the landlord of the George remembered that the missing man had looked quite as much a gentleman as his companion.
The landlord still lingered in attendance upon Mr. Dunbar. The dishes upon the table were still hidden under the glistening silver covers.
Surely such an unsatisfactory dinner had never before been served at the George Hotel.
“I am getting seriously uncomfortable about this man,” Mr. Dunbar exclaimed at last. “Can you send a messenger to the Ferns, to ask if he has been seen there?”
“Certainly, sir. One of the lads in the stable shall get a horse ready, and ride over there directly. Will you write a note to Mrs. Marston, sir?”
“A note? No. Mrs. Marston is a stranger to me. My old friend Michael Marston did not marry until after I left England. A message will do just as well. The lad has only to ask if any messenger from Mr. Dunbar has called at the Ferns; and if so, at what time he was there, and at what hour he left. That’s all I want to know. Which way will the boy go; through the meadows, or by the high road?”
“By the high road, sir; there’s only a footpath across the meadows. The shortest way to the Ferns is the pathway through the grove between here and St. Cross; but you can only walk that way, for there’s gates and stiles, and such like.”
“Yes, I know; it was there I parted from my servant — from this man Wilmot.”
“It’s a pretty spot, sir, but very lonely at night; lonely enough in the day, for the matter of that.”
“Yes, it seems so. Send your messenger off at once, there’s a good fellow. Joseph Wilmot may be sitting drinking in the servants’ hall at the Ferns.”
The landlord went away to do his guest’s bidding.
Mr. Dunbar flung himself into a low easy-chair, and took up a newspaper. But he did not read a line upon the page before him. He was in that unsettled frame of mind which is common to the least nervous persons when they are kept waiting, kept in suspense by some unaccountable event. The absence of Joseph Wilmot became every moment more unaccountable: and his old master made no attempt to conceal his uneasiness. The newspaper dropped out of his hand: and he sat with his face turned towards the door: listening.
He sat thus for more than an hour, and at the end of that time the landlord came to him.
“Well?” exclaimed Henry Dunbar.
“The lad has come back, sir. No messenger from you or any one else has called at the Ferns this afternoon.”
Mr. Dunbar started suddenly to his feet, and stared at the landlord. He paused for a few moments, watching the man’s face with a thoughtful countenance. Then he said, slowly and deliberately —
“I am afraid that something has happened.”
The landlord fidgeted with his ponderous watch-chain, and shrugged his shoulders with a dubious gesture.
“Well, it is strange, sir, to say the least of it. But you don’t think that ——”
He looked at Henry Dunbar as if scarcely knowing how to finish his sentence.
“I don’t know what to think,” exclaimed the banker. “Remember, I am almost as much a stranger in this country as if I had never set foot on British soil before to-day. This man may have played me a trick, and gone off for some purpose of his own, though I don’t know what purpose. He could have best served his own interests by staying with me. On the other hand, something may have happened to him. And yet what can have happened to him?”
The landlord suggested that the missing man might have fallen down in a fit, or might have loitered somewhere or other until after dark, and then lost his way, and wandered into a mill-stream. There was many a deep bit of water between Winchester Cathedral and the Ferns, the landlord said.
“Let a search be made at daybreak to-morrow morning,” exclaimed Mr. Dunbar. “I don’t care what it costs me, but I am determined this business shall be cleared up before I leave Winchester. Let every inch of ground between this and the Ferns be searched at daybreak to-morrow morning; let ——”
He did not finish the sentence, for there was a sudden clamour of voices, and trampling, and hubbub in the hall below. The landlord opened the door, and went out upon the broad landing-place, followed by Mr. Dunbar.
The hall below was crowded by the servants of the place, and by eager strangers who had pressed in from outside; and the two men standing at the top of the stairs heard a hoarse murmur; which seemed all in one voice, though it was in reality a blending of many voices; and which grew louder and louder, until it swelled into the awful word “Murder!”
Henry Dunbar heard it and understood it, for his handsome face grew of a bluish white, like snow in the moonlight, and he leaned his hand upon the oaken balustrade.
The landlord passed his guest, and ran down the stairs. It was no time for ceremony.
He came back again in less than five minutes, looking almost as pale as Mr. Dunbar.
“I’m