The Jewelled Snuff Box (2 page)

When she had heard them out in a silence that boded no good, the landlady gave them to understand that they must not expect too high a standard of hospitality at The Three Tuns. She pointed out forcibly that there were only two vacant bedchambers at the inn, and those but small. Moreover, she had not been prepared to find supper for ten extra persons, and all the serving-maids but one had gone home early because of the weather. When she was made to understand that she was also expected to accommodate an unconscious man who had been found by the wayside, her indignation waxed so strong that it drew Jane forth from the coffee-room.

“I’ll have no such person in here!” exclaimed the landlady emphatically. “Most like he was blind drunk, and fell off his horse on the way home!”

“Nay, now, ma’am,” replied the coachman, as though he were gentling a restive mare, “I tell you the poor fellow’s been set on and robbed. All his pockets turned out as clean as a whistle — not a penny piece could we find on him, nor so much as a letter.”

“And if that’s the case, how am I to be paid for my trouble, I’d like to know?” asked the irate landlady.

“Why, ’e’s a man of consequence, as anyone may see from his clothes,” replied the man, nothing daunted. “When he comes to ’e’ll give you ’is name, and all will be well, you’ll see.”

“I certainly hope so,” retorted the she-dragon, with a toss of her head. She did not sound convinced.

“You surely cannot mean to refuse shelter to an unconscious man?” asked Jane incredulously. “As far as the account is concerned, I can assure you that you need have no fears; this box was found close by his side. You may see for yourself that it is very valuable.”

She had drawn the snuff box from her reticule as she spoke, and now placed it in the woman’s hand. The landlady, who had been surveying Jane contemptuously with arms akimbo while she listened impatiently to her, hastened to take the box, and studied it attentively. Her sharp face cleared.

“Ay, this’ll be worth a pretty penny, right enough. Those are rubies and emeralds, I reckon. I don’t know as ’ow you’re the best person to have a charge of it, a valuable piece like that.”

Miss Spencer’s shabby figure seemed to grow inches taller at this remark; but she made no reply, contenting herself with a speaking glance.

“No offence meant, I’m sure!” said the landlady hastily, handing back the box. “Very well then, you may bring him in. Best put ’im on the sofa in the parlour till he comes round — it’ll be quieter in there. But it’s to be hoped ’e needs no nursing, for I shan’t have time to see to it, and so I tell you?”

“Is there any chance of getting a doctor to him?” asked Jane.

The woman shook her head. “Nearest one’s five miles away, and even if anyone could get through to him, he wouldn’t turn out on a night like this, not for King George hisself! Still, the man bain’t wounded, so they say; very like he’ll come to in a bit, and be none the worse. And now I must bustle about a bit — all them beds to see to, and a meal to be got!”

Muttering to herself, she made off down the passage in the direction of the kitchen.

The coachman and the guard called the farmer out of the coffee-room to assist them in conveying the injured man within doors. Jane lingered uncertainly in the hall. She had the habit of making herself useful, and though there seemed little she could do in this instance, she was willing to help if she had it in her power.

The men soon returned with their burden, puffing a little under his weight. The party left the fire in the coffee-room for a moment to gaze curiously at the unconscious man.

“Big feller, bain’t he?” cackled the old woman. “Nigh on six feet, I’ll be bound.”

“ ’E looks a well-breeched cove,” remarked one of the outside passengers. “Enough capes on his greatcoat for a Mail coachman!”

The others laughed at this, for the dandyism of the drivers of His Majesty’s Mail coaches was notorious.

“You bringin’ ’im in here, friend?” asked one of the other men, making way for the bearers to enter.

“No, no, don’t put yourselves about,” answered the coachman. “The landlady’s orders was to put ’im in the parlour — best obey the missus, eh?”

The men guffawed, and drifted back to the fire, where the old woman and Matilda had returned some minutes since.

Jane alone followed the men into the parlour, and watched while they deposited the unconscious man gently on the sofa by the fire. This done, they stood looking down at him for a moment.

“Wonder who he is?” said the farmer.

The coachman scratched his head. “No knowing. That chap was right when he said that he was a well-breeched ’un, though. Look at that silk westkit; his coat’s made from a rare bit o’ cloth, too, and as for his boots — I reckin it took more than blacking to put a shine like that on ’em!”

The others agreed.

“What’s to be done with ’un?” asked the farmer. “P’raps a nip o’ brandy might bring ’un to. I disremember when I’ve seen a cove so flat out with nobbut a bump on the ’ead.”

“No,” interposed Jane quickly, with all the firmness at her command. “Not spirits, I beg! There is no saying what internal injuries he may have. Perhaps we may judge better of that when he recovers consciousness. I think it may possibly be of some benefit to bathe his head, however. I’ll see what can be done.”

She quitted the room to brave the terrors of requesting the landlady to supply her with a basin and linen for this purpose. It seemed that no one else was prepared to bother themselves any further with the sufferer. The rest of the party were toasting themselves round the fire and awaiting their supper; the farmer joined them, after remarking that no doubt the poor fellow would do well enough presently. The coachman and guard had already left the room to see to the stabling of the horses, so that when Jane finally returned to the parlour bearing the articles she had gone in search of, she found the injured man alone in the room.

While she was performing her office of mercy, she had the opportunity to study him at leisure. He was a man of not more than seven and twenty, she decided, though perhaps in his present state he might look younger than was actually the fact. In some vague way, he reminded her of her father; was it that the colouring was the same, or was it the slightly aquiline sweep of the nose, and the heavy black brows? A lock of thick, dark hair fell across the wet cloth which she had placed on his forehead. His face was pale, and wore the helpless, appealing look of a sleeping child. Jane’s heart stirred with compassion.

Even as she looked down at him, he opened blank, uncomprehending eyes.

“Do you feel better now?” she asked softly.

He continued to stare at her in silence, as though he had not heard. She had quite decided that he was not sufficiently conscious to understand her, when a reply came falteringly from his lips.

“I feel vilely!”

The words came up to her as though from the bottom of a well.

“Is it your head?”

He tried to nod, and winced at the effort. The eyes cleared a little.

“Where am I?”

Jane took the cloth from his head, and wrung it out again in the basin before replying.

“You are at an inn upon the road to Dartford,” she said quietly, replacing the cloth on his forehead. “You have had an accident. But it is better that you do not trouble yourself over that just now. Try to sleep. Are you thirsty?”

Once again the faint motion of assent. Jane raised his head slightly, and held a tankard of water to his lips. He drank deeply.

The eyes filmed over again as she gently lowered his head. For a moment, he kept them fixed on the fire in an unseeing start; then the lids flickered, drooped, and remained shut.

For some time afterwards, Jane stood there, looking down at him without moving. After a while, she noticed his chest rising and falling in an easy rhythm, and realised that he slept.

Chapter II. Dilemma At Daybreak

THE HARSH rattle of curtain rings recalled Jane from slumber. She opened her eyes, and for a moment or two could not recollect where she was. Her body felt cramped and uncomfortable. She looked about her, and saw that she was in an armchair in the coffee-room of the inn. The cheerful fire of the previous night had degenerated into a powdery mass of grey-white ash, and the room was cold. A pale grey light filtered in through the window.

She shivered, and her eye fell upon a dark figure outlined against the window.

“In God’s name where is this place? What am I doing here?”

The voice was deep, pleasantly modulated, though somewhat imperious in its anxiety.

She peered again, recognising the unknown man who had been rescued on the preceding evening. She pushed herself upright in her chair, wincing as the blood returned to her cramped limbs.

“This is an inn upon the road to Dartford,” she replied, “by name The Three Tuns.”

He came nearer, looking down at her with his heavy dark brows drawn down in a perplexed frown.

“But what am I doing in an inn on the road to Dartford?”

“You have had an accident, sir,” said Jane, rising stiffly. “You were found by the roadside yesterday evening, and brought here.”

“An accident?”

His tone was incredulous. Jane surmised that he must still be suffering some shock, and spoke in a calm, matter of fact way, hoping to allay his natural alarm.

“We judged that you had been set upon and robbed; we could find no papers or other possessions upon you, and you were unconscious. There was no sign of injury, however, except for a great bruise on your head.”

“My head! So that is why it feels sore this morning!”

He grimaced ruefully as he fingered the bruise. It had diminished somewhat overnight, but what it had lost in size it had gained in colour.

“It was not possible to bring a doctor to you, owing to the snow. I trust you have taken no lasting hurt, sir. How do you find yourself this morning?”

“Oh, I am well enough, I thank you, though a trifle sharp-set, I must confess.”

“That is understandable,” said Jane. “To my certain knowledge, you’ve not broken your fast for twelve hours. I’ll go and see if there is anyone astir to provide you with breakfast.”

She turned towards the door, but he put out a hand to detain her.

“No, stay: that can wait. There are things I must know, first.”

She paused, and stood waiting for him to continue. He seemed in no hurry to begin, brooding with down-drawn brows and a worried expression.

“You are no servant,” he said at last, looking up quickly. “Finding you here, I thought you must be; but your voice and manner —”

“I am one of a party of stage passengers who were obliged to put up here for the night because of the severe weather. It was we who found you by the wayside.”

“The common stage? You?”

Abstraction, perhaps, made him less tactful than he would otherwise have been. The dim light covered Jane’s slight embarrassment.

“It is my usual mode of travel,” she answered simply. He made no reply. When he spoke again, it was on a different subject.

“Are there no beds in this inn? How comes it that I awake to find myself on a sofa in what I suppose must be the parlour, and I find you taking your repose in a chair? ’Pon my soul, mine host must have a very poor notion of hospitality! Wait until I see the fellow!”

“It was very difficult for the landlady,” replied Jane. “This is only a small wayside inn, you see, not a regular posting house. There are but two bedchambers, and we were eight persons on the stage coach, excluding the driver and guard. You were brought in unconscious, as I said, and lain upon the sofa. Later, you recovered consciousness, and immediately fell into a deep, health-giving sleep. I thought it best — that is, we did not care to disturb you.”

“And you?”

Jane hesitated. “I do not care for sharing a bedchamber with females unknown to me. I chose to remain in here.”

He gave her a shrewd look.

“There was a basin of water and linen by my side when I woke,” he said. “I collect that someone had been bathing my head.”

“Well, yes,” admitted Jane diffidently. “The landlady was very occupied in the kitchen — I offered my services.”

“And then remained here all night in case I should have need of your nursing?” he asked shrewdly.

She nodded. “That did come into it. But indeed, I have the strongest dislike of shared rooms.”

A brief smile lightened his sombre face.

“You do not choose to admit it, but I see that I am in your debt. I am very grateful, madam.”

She forced a little laugh; she was unused to gratitude, and it embarrassed her.

“It was nothing sir. Anyone might have done as much.”

“But no one else did. Moreover, you have sacrificed your night’s rest for me. May I not know to whom I owe so much?”

Jane’s discomfiture increased, and she avoided his glance.

“My name is Jane Spencer, sir.”

He bowed, but to her surprise offered no name in exchange for hers. He fell silent. The keen, alert look left his eyes, and his dark brows came down in a heavy, brooding frown.

Jane saw that he had for the moment forgotten her presence, and she rose quietly with the intention of seeing if there was anyone yet astir in the kitchen. Outside the window, the light was strengthening. The kitchenmaid, at all events, must soon be up and doing.

She was almost to the door when he seemed to become aware of her again. She halted as he spoke.

“This is an odd tale!” he burst out. “For the life of me, I cannot understand it! I have no recollection of being upon the Dartford road, nor of anything that happened there to put me in the sorry plight in which you found me.”

“That isn’t surprising, sir,” replied Jane, reasonably. “You have suffered a shock, and must expect to be in some mental confusion just at first.”

“Yes, but —”

He broke off, pondering.

“Where is this place — the spot where you found me, I mean?”

“I should say it was some two hundred yards distant from this inn,” replied Jane. “It was halfway up the hill which leads here.”

She shivered a little, recalling her fright of yesterday. The man did not notice, too taken up with his own thoughts, which did not seem to be of the happiest.

“That seems an odd spot for a highwayman to choose,” he said, frowning again. “Unless, of course, the people here are in league with him.”

“Exactly the opinion of the guard of my stage!” exclaimed Jane. “That is to say, he thought it an odd place for a highwayman to lurk. He mentioned no suspicion of the other matter.”

“What is your opinion?”

Jane frowned, considering.

“I do not credit it,” she said, at last. “After all, I have been here at hand all night, and have heard nothing untoward. Surely these gentry come and go at night?”

He nodded. “One supposes so. Well, we must keep our eyes peeled for any indication of that sort. But I cannot hope to achieve much in the way of detection while I am in the dark as to what really happened to me.”

He relapsed into thought once more.

“Was there any conveyance — or a horse — found by me?” he asked suddenly.

Jane shook her head.

“Nothing? Then I must have been on foot.” He turned this over in his mind for a few minutes, then exclaimed, “On foot! And in such weather! I could not have come far.”

She stared at him. “But surely —”

“Tell me, Miss Spencer,” he interposed, ignoring her interjection, “did the people here appear to know me?”

“Know you?” asked Jane, puzzled. “No, they had no notion who you could be. In fact —”

She had been about to say that the landlady was reluctant to admit him, but changed her mind in time. Such news would not make pleasant hearing, and could serve no useful purpose.

He did not notice her unfinished speech, but lapsed into a fit of abstraction. A long silence fell over the room, broken only by the ticking of the clock on the mantelshelf. Jane lingered uncertainly by the door, not knowing whether to go or stay. At length, she crossed over to the window to look out. It was no longer snowing, and a pale sun was struggling to pierce the watery sky.

“I believe it has begun to thaw in the night,” said Jane, with a desire to make conversation. From the expression on the man’s face, she feared that his thoughts could not be pleasant company. “I do hope it may be so; we cannot look to find much comfort here, and, to speak the truth, the landlady’s manner left much to be desired.”

He made no answer.

“I suppose you may at least be able to hire a horse here,” she continued, in an attempt to draw him out of his abstraction. “Have you far to go to your home, sir?”

“I do not know,” he answered, in a tone of great despondency.

She turned and looked at him in surprise. All at once, he went striding restlessly up and down the room.

“That is what I have been trying to find out all this time!” he said, with a wild look. “I have been trying to remember — remember where I live, where I was going, what happened. I find that I can recollect none of these things, not even —”

He broke off, and clapped his hands to his head.

“Good God, it isn’t possible!”

She was a little alarmed by his manner, but tried to keep her voice even as she asked, “What is not possible, sir?”

He wheeled on her, his face haggard.

“Such things cannot happen! Indeed, if I tell you, you will think me mad!”

He paused, and made a visible effort to control himself. When he spoke again his tone was quieter.

“Miss Spencer, I cannot even remember my own name.”