The Man who Disappeared. A Lancashire story

Chapter I

'Well, Reuben, you're loaded.' This was said jestingly. ' Eh, policeman, you're just the mon I want,' was the reply, delivered with some heat. The second speaker held out an armful of ragged clothes. ' Just look at 'em,' he added. The two men, coming from different directions, had met at the corner of Quarry Lane. The first speaker was John Single ton, the village policeman, a jovial, humor ous soul. The one with the clothes was Reuben Laycock, a packer at the neigh bouring factory. The policeman made a pretended in spection. ' They look like clothes,' he said humor ously. ' But they're not o'er-clean, nor yet o'er-new. Are you goin' into th' rag and bone business ?' Reuben disregarded the question. ' They're not o'er-clean,' he responded vehemently. ' You're right theer. Pah !' He threw the clothes to the ground and kicked them. ' They'd not do badly for a scarecrow,' said the policeman. ' Maybe, they'd suit a tramp, if he were not o'er and above particler.

But wherever did you pick 'em up ?' ' Ah, that's the p'int ! It's some'at in your line, too. Guess how I got hold on em. ' I couldn't, Reuben. I haven't a notion.' ' Do you happen to have heerd, then, of anybody as has had a suit of clothes stolen lately — a good suit ? Yesterday or this morning, most likely.' P.C. Singleton looked wise and con sidered deeply for a half-minute. ' No, I connot say as I do. If there has been a suit stolen, it hasn't come to my ears yet.' ' There has been a suit stolen,' Reuben averred. ' Take my word for that. And near by, too. I'll tell you why I say so. As I were coming along just now by th' Quarry Plantation, I seed a chap half dressed among the trees. I watched him a bit. I seed him pull th' rest of his clothes off — his own clothes, mind you — and put on some others as were lyin' on th' ground.

He were a stranger to me, and seemed dirty — a tramp, I should think. I noticed as the clothes he put on were better than th' clothes he pulled off. I thought he was up to some mank or other, so after a bit I jumped o'er the rails, and fetched up a shout, and made as if I were goin' to collar him. I never, in all my days, seed a chap in sich a hurry to get away. He hardly stopped to look at me, but put th' rest of his new togs under his arm and took off. He could run, too. He soon left me behind.' ' And so you lost him ?' ' Aye, 1 lost him. In fact, I didn't run very far. Running doesn't agree wi' my constitution. But I went back to where he'd been dressin', and picked up his old things, and brought 'em with me. And now, I think you'd better take charge on em. The policeman picked them up, gin gerly enough, as they were certainly not inviting.

He seemed to recognize them. He spread them out on an adjacent hedge, to see them better. His fancy then became assurance. ' What sort of a chap was this tramp r Had he a great quantity of black hair on his yed ?' ' That he had. You've seen him, belike ?' ' Aye. I think it's the same mon. He's been hangin' round Milcote for two days now.' ' H'm !' said Reuben. ' I suppose you've no idea, have you, where's he's stolen those other things from ?' ' Not at present,' said the policeman. ' No, not at present. But I've no doubt I soon shall have. He must have getten 'em from somewheer close by. I seed him so late as last night, just afore dark, and he were carryin' nothing then except a thorn stick as he'd cut out of the hedge some wheer. He must have stolen 'em from somebody in Milcote.' The constable proceeded to examine the pockets of the garments.

In these re ceptacles, he found — along with crumbs, bits of string, and the like — a dirty clay pipe, a small quantity of pigtail tobacco, a large-sized clasp-knife, and some bread and beef wrapped in a newspaper. In addition, there was eightpence in coppers — five pennies and six halfpennies. ' Aha ! He must have been in a hurry,' the policeman observed. ' Hadn't time to clear his pockets out.' ' It seems not.' ' It's a sure sign there's some'at wrong with him,' the guardian of the peace con cluded sagely. The latter then picked up the garments and took them to the Police Station, Reuben Laycock going with him. To the sergeant in charge at the station the latter gave some further particulars. ' He went off right through the Planta tion — towards Gulby Junction. No doubt he's somewheer among the fields down that way yet.

He were a tallish mon, and held hissel' up, as if he'd been a soldier. The new trousers he put on were pepperand-salty. I couldn't see the coat properly, as he hadn't it on, but it looked dark and bluish.' The sergeant complimented Reuben on his behaviour, said he would put his men in motion, and that he was confident they would soon be able to lay hands on the tramp. As for the no doubt stolen clothes, nobody had yet complained of such a theft. The day was Monday. It was a holi day in Milcote, in consequence of the races at Gulby, three miles away. Many of the good village folks were taking advantage of the cessation of labour to spend a few hours at the seaside. Others of them were going to the aforesaid races ; others, again, and these perhaps the majority, intended to use the interval simply as a day of rest.

Reuben was one of the latter. He had planned to lounge the day away, merely varying its monotony with chats and visits. From the police-station he went on to see his sister Mary, now Mrs. Massey. She lived at No. 7, Spinner's Row, not a great way from the point where he had en countered the constable. Old Mrs. Pimblett, a veteran gossip, was lounging in her doorway at No. 1. Reuben said ' Good-morning ' to her, and she responded by asking bim if he had any news. ' Not much,' he said cheerily, ' unless you happen to know who's lost a suit or clothes.' ' Lost 'em — how ?' ' Had 'em stolen by a tramp.' Mrs. Pimblett shook her head. ' I don't know anythin' about it. What sort of clothes were they ?' Reuben described them. The old woman thereupon lifted up her hands in amazement. ' Why, those are just what Jim Massey 's been lately wearin' — your sister's husband !

I seed him in 'em no longer since than yesterday.' Her remark quickened Reuben's memory. ' Now you've mentioned it,' he said, ' I remember having seen him wearing similar clothes myself. But I can hardly fancy as Jim's got togs enough to have a suit stolen.' There was a certain animus in the con cluding remark which attracted Mrs. Pimblett's attention. ' You never liked him, did you ?' she observed. ' Although he is your brother in-law.' ' I never did,' said Reuben. ' And you're not alone in that,' Mrs. Pimblett pursued. ' He's a queer un, at the best of times, and like nobody else. But his affairs have been looking up of late. Have you been to see him lately ?' ' No, I haven't. Not for weeks.' ' I'd advise you to go, then,' Mrs. Pim blett said. ' There's a report that he's made a lot of money these last few weeks.

Some machine or other as he's invented — so I'm told.' ' I haven't heard of that,' said Reuben. ' I was told it were a big sum — hundreds and hundreds. You'd better go and look him up.' ' If that's the case,' said Reuben, ' I better had.' At this juncture Mrs. Pimblett's husband, a bent, crotchety, rheumaticky old man, hobbled out and joined the pair. ' He's a strange man, is Jim Massey,' Pimblett said. ' I say it to your face, Reuben, though he is a relation o' yours.' ' You're not far wrong,' Reuben ad mitted. ' I reckon you don't know the last thing he's been up to. Do you, now ?' ' I don't think I do. What is it ?' ' He were seen in Blackport last week end but one — I will not tell you who bv, but you know the mon as seed him. He were dressed up to th' eyes, and were walkin' about theer with a finely-dressed woman — not your sister Mary, understand.

Now, what do you think of that ?' Reuben smiled sarcastically. ' I'll believe it when I see it — not afore. Jim may be a bit of a crank, but he's not that sort.' ' I had it,' Pimblett protested, ' from the lips of the mon as seed 'em. Hadn't we ?' Mrs. Pimblett confirmed the statement. ' Who was this chap as seed him ?' Reuben asked, a little impressed. Pimblett drew back mentally. ' Ah, that I cannot tell you. It were told me as a secret.' ' What's the good of talking, then ?' said Reuben resentfully. ' I wouldn't tell half a tale, if I were you. I'd tell it all or none.' ' Well, well !' retorted Pimblett. ' I only spoke to you about it out of goodwill. I thought you might like to know, that's all.' Grumblingly, Reuben left the pair and walked on to No. 7 — his sister's house. Here a fresh surprise awaited him. ' You haven't seen Jim anywhere, have you ?' was his greeting from his sister. ' No, I haven't. Is he away ?' ' He's not here,' Mary retorted pet tishly. ' I don't know what's become of him.' ' Why, why — how's that ?' ' He got up some time this mornin' — before I was awake — and went off.

And he hasn't troubled to come back — that's how it is.' ' Oho ! that's a queer way of behavin'. And he didn't say anythin' last night ?' ' Not a word.' ' He's happen taken it into his head to join this cheap trip to Blackport. One started from Gulby Junction just after seven.' ' I thought of that,' said Mary. ' But on lookin' round I found he'd only his week-day clothes on. And, besides, he's only a soft cap on his head.' < H'm ! He'd hardly go off to Black port in that get-up, would he ?' ' He's not gone to Blackport — there's no chance of that. But it's a puzzler where he has gone, and what he's doin' with himsel' all this time.' ' You haven't a notion, have you ?' ' I haven't a shadow of one,' said Mary irritably. ' I think he's treatin' me dis gracefully — goin' away and stayin' away like this.' Mary was upset, and not without reason.

Her spouse was certainly behaving with little consideration. The breakfast cups and plates still stood upon the table, apparently unused. She said she had no heart to eat till Jim returned. Out of kindness, Reuben said nothing to his sister about the Blackport story, nor yet about his adventure with the tramp. A casual question, though, elicited the fact that the clothes Jim had gone out in were the very garments which Mrs. Pimblett had alluded to as being like the suit in the tramp's possession. This, of course, disposed of the fancy that the clothes had been stolen from Jim. Under the pretext of going in search of the missing husband, Reuben soon took leave of his sister, who was too flurried and put about to make pleasant com pany. He strolled leisurely down Quarry Lane, stopping now and then to speak to some acquaintance.

His inquiries after Jim bore no fruit ; no one had seen the wanderer. His way took him past the Quarry Pit — a pond, or tiny lake, wherein various youngsters were disporting themselves — and through the plantation in which he had surprised the tramp. Beyond this, a pathway led through fields, across a picturesque hollow where cows were feeding, and up a slope which was sparsely dotted with trees. Then came the Gulby high road, and half a mile down the latter, towards the left, lay Gulby village. Reuben went slowly on, lost in thought. He was recalled to attention, though, soon after he had gained the high road, by seeing a man, handcuffed, walking along by a policeman's side. He rubbed his eyes, and looked again. The prisoner was his tramp of the morning. Reuben increased his pace, and soon overtook the pair. ' So you've got him, John,' he re marked.

The tramp looked narrowly at Reuben, and, recognizing him, showed passing signs of apprehension. ' Aye,' the policeman replied. ' I knowed he couldn't get far.' ' Well, have you found out whose clothes they were ?' ' Not yet,' said the policeman. ' But we shall do — we shall do. Trust us for that.' ' What does he say for hisses ?' ' He says a gentleman met him on th' edge of tbe wood and gave 'em to him. Likely tale, isn't it ?' ' Vast likely.' The tramp, who had been listening intently to this conversation, seemed much relieved. He vented his feelings, now, by whistling a few bars of a popular tune. Reuben, meanwhile, had inspected the man's clothes, and noticed with astonish ment that they were strangely like his brother-in-law's. Could they be Jim's, after all ? He felt increasingly curious to get to the bottom of the matter. ' I'd like to ax him a question or two,' he whispered to Singleton confidentially.

The policeman frowned. It was against the law. Reuben whispered a few words in his ear, whereupon he looked amazed and incredulous. ' They can't be his,' Singleton replied. ' They look like 'em,' Reuben asserted stoutly. The policeman allowed himself to be half convinced. ' Well, you certainly ought to know,' he said, ' if anybody does.' ' You'd better let me speak to him,' Reuben pursued insinuatingly. The policeman knitted his brow. ' It's again' the rules,' he said. ' How ever, I'll do it for once. You go on in front wi' the prisoner, and I'll walk just behind you. I don't want to hear what he says.' Reuben promptly availed himself of the permission. The tramp regarded the manœuvre suspiciously, and prepared to foil it, in case it boded ill to himself. * You told the policeman as a gentleman giv' you these clothes,' Reuben said. ' What sort of a mon were he ?' The tramp scrutinized his questioner closely. ' Well, he had two legs and two arms ' he began.

Reuben stopped him. ' Be serious, mon,' he said. ' I'm not askin' the question because I want to injure you. On the contrary.' ' He were a tall mon — nearly as tall as I am. And he had light-coloured hair and a light moustache.' ' Beard ?' Reuben asked. 'No.' ' Were he fat or thin ?' ' Midways — a bit lean, if anythin'.' ' And you say he gave 'era you ? How come he to have clothes to give away?' The tramp seemed now to have quite recovered his ease. ' That I can't tell you. When I met him, he were walkin' along very fast, dressed up in fine togs, and carryin' these across his arm. It's my belief he were up to no good. He'd been changin' his togs for some reason — I don't know what. But that had nothing to do wi' me, had it ? It's not likely I should refuse good clothes because of that.' ■ And he offered these clothes to you ?' ' That he did.

He seed as I were all in rags, and he stopped and said to me, " Would you like some good clothes ?" And I said, " For nothin' ?" And he said, " Yes." And I said, " Rayther !" And then he giv' me the clothes, and advised me to get away from Milcote as fast as I could, I were goin' to ask him why, but he wouldn't stop to hear me.' ' H'm ! You say he were well dressed?' ' A reg'lar swell — just like what you see on th' Exchange at Manchester.' ' And which way did he go ?' ' Toward Gulby. I expect he were goin' to the station.' Reuben sought to know no more. Ingenuously or not, the tramp had described his missing brother-in-law with a fair amount of correctness. Height, bulk, complexion — all tallied. There must, consequently, be some foundation for the story. But the fine clothes, the hurrying away, the gift to the tramp, the general air of mystery — these puzzled him.

What, in the name of all that was rational, was the explanation ? At the Police Station, whither Reuben accompanied the pair, the tramp was searched. In his pockets were found : 24s. jd. in money. A handkerchief (unmarked). A small book entitled ' The Care of the Body.' A leather case containing letters and other documents. A sporting knife with numerous blades, and three small keys fastened together by a thong. Scarcely what one would expect to find in a tramp's possession! A letter in the leather case had at its foot ' Mr. J. Massey,' as the name of the man to whom it was sent. Other documents had evidently belonged to the same person. Now the tramp's name, on his own showing, was Joseph Smith, and he admitted that all the articles found in the pockets were there when he received the clothes.

The identification of the latter as Jim Massey's property was, therefore, fairly complete. The finishing touch was supplied by Reuben's recognition of tbe handwriting on one of the papers as that of his vagrant relative. ' Has Jim been seen ?' asked the ser geant, addressing Singleton. ' No, not yet. The fact is, he's missing. Went off the first thing this mornin', and hasn't been seen since.' ' Nothing wrong, is there ?' ' No, no. Bit of a mank of his. He's a queer chap, you know — like nobody else. He'll turn up to-night or to-morrow, and then I'll question him.' 'All right. We'll keep the prisoner meanwhile.' Without further ceremony, the tramp was marched off to a cell.

Chapter II

The excursion train for Blackport started from Gulby Junction at 7.10 in the morning, and made only one stop — at Widdon — on the way. A certain Milcote man, one George Isherwood (among many others) boarded the train at the former station. At Widdon, George was joined by his brother Ralph, a former Milcote man, and known to most of the ex cursionists. ' Well, how's things ?' asked the latter briskly, on seating himself in the compart ment. ' Oh, just middlin',' George replied. ' Only middlin' ? Anythin' goin' on in Milcote ?' ' Nothin' much. Gulby Races are on. Of course you know that.' ' H'm ! What was this bit of news you had to tell me ? Must be something special, judgin' by the way you hinted at it in your letter.' ' Aha !' George laughed softly. ' It is some'at special. It'll do you good to hear it.' ' Well, let's hear it, then.

Out with it.' ' It's about some'at as happened last Saturday week at Blackport.' ' Ah ! You were there, then ?' ' Aye. I had no work that day, so I went off to Blackport. And what do you think I seed there ?' ' Give it up. What was it ?' ' One of our Milcote friends — somebody you know — acting a new part.' 'Oh !' ' I was walking along the Promenade, on the shop side— that quiet end of it near the Hospital — and all at once I seed somebody in front of me as I thowt I knowed. I hurried up a bit, and got near him. He were very smartly dressed, and had a woman hangin' on his arm in a very loving fashion. She was smartly dressed, too, but I didn't know her.' ' Well ?' ' Well, I walked close behind 'em a bit, and satisfied myself I was right. Then I walked faster still, and passed 'em. I passed th' mon quite close, as close as I am now to you.

I took a good look at him from the side, and coughed to attract his attention. Now — who do you think it was ?' ' I've no idea.' ' I'll tell you. You'd never guess. It was Jim Massey.' < Never !' ' It was, true as I'm here. I could hardly believe my own eyes, but there was no mistaking him.' ' Well — and the woman ?' ' Ah ! that I can't tell yo'.' ' It were not Mary ?' ' It were not Mary.' ' By-y golly ! That's a new line of busi ness for Jim.' ' Isn't it ?' ' Who'd have thought it ? And him so taken up with his patents, and his inventions, and his book-reading, and all that ! No, no ; you must have been mistaken, George, for once.' * It's God's truth. I wasn't. I'd swear my oath it was him.' ' So this is what his visits to Manchester meant — as he said was on account of his patents, and what not !

Well ! I've no occasion to like the mon, as you know, but I can hardly credit this about him, for all that. I should have thought he were the very last mon in the world to run about after strange women.' ' So should I — so should I.' A few minutes of silent reverie succeeded. Then Ralph roused himself to get a little more information. ' And after you'd seen the mon, and made yoursel' known to him, what did he do, belike ?' ' That's the queerest part of it — queerer than anything else. He seed me plainly — as plainly as I seed him. And he seed as I recognized him — I left him in no doubt on that score. But he made no sign at all in return.' ' Goodness !' ' I stared hard at him, I coughed as I passed him, and I winked when his eyes met mine. And, after all that, he only stared back at me as if I were a stranger he'd never met afore.' ' Didn't he seem ta'en aback, then ?

One 'd think so.' ' One would, certainly. But he didn't, not the least bit. In fact, at first I made sure I'd made a mistake. I thought he must be a stranger, as happened by chance to be very much like Jim. I dropped behind, and thought it o'er again. But no, there was no mistake. It was Jim hissel', or else his ghost. It was not a stranger.' ' Well — how did it finish ?' ' Well, they walked backwards and forwards for some time, keeping quite near to th' Hospital ; and I kept on watching 'em — or, rather, watching him. I didn't care about her. Last of all, I walked towards 'em, and met him face to face. I looked him straight in the eyes, and he looked back at me. But there was ne'er a sign of knowin' me on his face. Talk about acting ! I ne'er met anybody as could act a part like that.' ' And it was Jim ?' ' Yes, it was Jim, sure enough.

I'd no doubt that time, though really his innocent look would have floored a detective. He pulled a face at me — quite like a gentle man, mind you — he acted up to his clothes in everythin'. I pulled one back at him, but it were no use. He wouldn't let on as he knowed me. And so I came away and left 'em.' ' Is that all ?' ' Well, no ; but there's not much more to tell. Half an hour later I seed 'em coming along toward the pier. There was a crowd on the sands, opposite the Bellevue Hotel — a Punch and Judy show were going on. There they separated. She left him, and went back toward the Hos pital way. He waited a bit, and then went on by hissel' toward the Botanic Gardens. And that was the last I seed of oather [either].' By this time the train had reached Blackport, and drawn up at the platform.

The brothers descended, and went with the crowd of excursionists up West Street, towards the sea-front. Once there, they loitered about awhile. Then Ralph pro posed that they should go northward along the sands, in the direction of the Hospital. This was the least frequented and least developed end of the town. Scattered houses and half-finished blocks adorned the promenade. Behind were brickfields, grass-grown roads without any houses in them, and vacant building plots which as yet had not attracted the eyes of pur chasers. All was desolate, cheerless and unfinished. ' They didn't choose their place badly, did they ?' Ralph remarked. ' No. It was about as good a place as they could have found anywheer.' ' Have you talked about this at all — in Milcote, I mean ?' * Very little. I told one or two, as a dead secret ; but it's pretty sure to get abroad in time.' ' H'm !

I'm sorry for Mary. It'll hurt her badly.' ' Why should you be sorry ? She didn't use you very well.' ' No, she didn't. I used to feel very sore again' her — in fact, I do yet, a bit. But, all the same, I feel sorry as she should be sarved like this.' ' It's rather funny, when you come to think, isn't it ? Here's Mary — she throws you o'er, and takes up with Jim ; and Jim, in turn, throws her o'er, and takes up with somebody else. Her fine mon has paid her out for desavin' [deceiving] yo' — hasn't he, eh ?' ' Aye,' said Ralph. ' I reckon that's about it.' The jilted man, though, spoke sadly, as if he derived no pleasure from this last re adjustment of affairs. The brothers walked up to the new Hospital (of which Blackport was im mensely proud), and then walked back towards the pier. They continually passed acquaintances who had come, like them selves, for a little change, and were nod ding to or greeting someone every half minute.

For the day, Milcote and Gulby were decidedly in possession of the town. They paid their twopences and went on the pier. It was the same even here. Milcote, Milcote everywhere. They were joined by friends, and soon formed, in their procession towards the pier-head, quite a large party. One of the con stituent atoms, who had already been to the farther end of the long structure, and who seemed to be glowing with suppressed glee because of something, sidled up to Ralph Isherwood and whispered a few words in his ear. Ralph was startled into sudden attention. ' You don't say so !' he replied. ' But I do. Seeing's believing, I reckon. Leastways, it is so with me.' ' God in heaven ! I say, George, come here.' George came to his brother's side, and the intelligence was communicated. Amazement was depicted on George's face as he listened.

He threw up his hands with a helpless gesture. ' The mon must be mad ! There's no two ways about it. Right before every body, too — and, above all, on a day like this, when there are hundreds and hun dreds here as knows him !' ' He can't be quite right. ' He looks right enough,' the informant chimed in. ' You'd say so, if you seed him. He's more of a swell than Major Bingham, and I should say from his looks as he's enjoying hissel' wonderfully.' George and Ralph drew aside, and con sulted in an undertone. ' This is getting serious. Shall we go and speak to him ?' ' Happen we'd better.' ' For Mary's sake.' ' That's it. For her sake — not for his.' ' He'll be the talk o' the village as it is. It's sure to get out. ' We connot help that now. All we can do is to stop his little game here.' 'And make him a bit shamed of hissel'.' ' I'll be bound as this woman doesn't know he's a married mon.' ' She soon shall know.' ' She ought to.' Unfortunately, at this point the news became public propertv.

The man who had seen Jim Massey with the smartly dressed lady told another, in confidence ; and the other, tickled with the joke, shouted it out to all the company. The consequence was that in half a minute the seven or eight Milcote men were tearing away, as fast as they could go, towards the end of the pier. It was there, in a little tea-room, that Jim had been seen. ' It's all up wi' Jim now,' George observed. 'Yes ; he's done this once too often.' Ready, though, as the men were to take up the pursuit, they developed distinct signs of sheepishness when the quarry came in view. They went as far as the door of the restaurant, and there stopped. ' I can see him,' said one. ' He's in that far corner — right in the dark.' ' Go along in, chaps. What are you waitin' for ?' said another ; who, however, lingered on the threshold himself. ' By gum, but isn't he a swell !' 'Aye; and her, too.' ' I wonder wheer he got that gold watch-chain from !