It was a heavy, humid, and gloomy summer evening. The clouds, which had been threatening all day, had spread into a dense, sluggish mass of vapour. Large drops of rain were already falling, and everything seemed to foretell a violent thunderstorm. It was at this moment that Mr. and Mrs. Bumble turned out of the main street and directed their course towards a scattered colony of ruined houses. This area, located about a mile and a half away, was built on a low, unhealthy swamp bordering the river.
They were both wrapped in old, shabby outer garments, which served the double purpose of protecting them from the rain and shielding them from observation. The husband carried a lantern, which was not yet lit, and trudged a few paces ahead. The path was muddy, and he seemed to be leading the way so that his wife might benefit from stepping in his heavy footprints. They walked in profound silence. Every now and then, Mr. Bumble slowed his pace and turned his head to ensure his wife was following; discovering that she was close at his heels, he would then increase his speed toward their destination.
The neighbourhood was notorious, known as a place where only criminals and ruffians lived. Under the pretence of earning an honest living, these inhabitants actually survived on theft and crime. The area was a collection of mere hovels—some hastily built with loose bricks, others made of old, rotting ship timber. They were jumbled together without any order, mostly positioned just a few feet from the riverbank. A few leaky boats were drawn up on the mud, tied to a low wall, along with an occasional oar or coil of rope. At first, these items suggested that the residents worked on the water; however, a quick look at the broken and useless condition of these objects would lead any observer to conclude that they were kept there merely for the sake of appearances.
In the heart of this cluster of huts, overhanging the river, stood a large, decaying building that had once been a factory. In its better days, it had likely provided work for the entire neighbourhood. Now, however, it had fallen into ruin. Rats, woodworms, and the constant dampness had rotted the wooden pillars on which it stood. A significant portion of the building had already collapsed into the water, while the rest leaned precariously over the dark stream, as if waiting for the right moment to follow.
The couple paused before this ruinous structure just as a distant peal of thunder echoed through the air and the rain began to pour down violently.
"The place should be somewhere around here," said Bumble, consulting the scrap of paper he held in his hand.
"Hallo there!" cried a voice from above.
Mr. Bumble raised his head and spotted a man looking out of a door on the second floor.
"Stand still a minute," the voice called down. "I’ll be with you shortly." The head disappeared, and the door closed.
"Is that the man?" asked Mr. Bumble’s wife.
Mr. Bumble nodded.
"Then remember what I told you," said the matron. "Be careful to say as little as possible, or you’ll give us away immediately."
Mr. Bumble, who was looking at the building with a very miserable expression, seemed about to suggest that they turn back. However, he was interrupted by the appearance of Monks, who opened a small door near them and beckoned them inside.
"Come in!" he cried impatiently, stamping his foot. "Don’t keep me waiting here!"
The woman, who had hesitated at first, walked boldly in. Mr. Bumble, who was either too ashamed or too afraid to stay behind, followed her. He was clearly very uncomfortable and lacked the remarkable dignity that was usually his defining characteristic.
"What on earth made you stand there lingering in the wet?" Monks asked, turning to Bumble after bolting the door behind them.
"We—we were only cooling ourselves," stammered Bumble, looking nervously around the dark space.
"Cooling yourselves!" Monks retorted. "Not all the rain that ever fell could put out the fire that a man can carry inside him. You won't find it that easy to cool yourself, believe me!"
After this unpleasant remark, Monks turned abruptly toward the matron and stared at her so intensely that even she, who was not easily frightened, felt compelled to look down at the ground.
"This is the woman, is it?" Monks demanded.
"Yes, this is the woman," replied Mr. Bumble, remembering his wife’s warning.
"I suppose you think women can never keep secrets?" the matron interrupted, meeting Monks’s searching look with her own.
"I know they will always keep one secret until it is discovered," said Monks.
"And what might that be?" she asked.
"The loss of their own reputation," replied Monks. "So, by that logic, if a woman is part of a secret that might lead to her being hanged or imprisoned, I’m not afraid of her telling anyone! Do you understand, mistress?"
"No," the matron replied, her face turning slightly red.
"Of course you don't!" said Monks. "How could you?"
He gave them a look that was somewhere between a smile and a frown and signalled for them to follow. He led them across the large, low-roofed room toward a steep wooden ladder. As he was about to climb it, a bright flash of lightning illuminated the space, followed by a thunderclap that shook the entire building.
"Hear that!" he cried, shrinking back in fear. "It sounds as if it’s echoing through a thousand caverns. I hate that sound!"
He remained silent for a few moments, covering his face. When he finally moved his hands, Mr. Bumble was horrified to see that Monks’s face was distorted and discoloured.
"I have these fits from time to time," Monks said, noticing Bumble’s alarm. "The thunder sometimes triggers them. Don’t worry about it; it’s over for now."
He led them up the ladder. In the room above, he hastily closed the window shutters and lowered a lantern that hung from a rope and pulley. Its dim light fell upon an old table and three chairs.
"Now," said Monks, as they sat down, "the sooner we get to business, the better. Does the woman know why she is here?"
The question was directed at Bumble, but his wife answered for him, stating that she was perfectly aware of the situation.
"He is right in saying that you were with that old woman the night she died," Monks said, "and that she told you something—"
"About the mother of the boy you mentioned last night," the matron interrupted. "Yes."
"The first question is: what was the nature of her story?" said Monks.
"That is actually the second question," the woman replied calmly. "The first is: what is the information worth?"
"Who can say what it’s worth without knowing what it is?" asked Monks.
"I am sure nobody knows its value better than you," Mrs. Bumble answered. As her husband could have confirmed, she was a woman of great spirit.
"I see," said Monks significantly. "So, there is something of value to be gained?"
"Perhaps," she replied.
"Something that was taken from her? Something she wore?" Monks asked eagerly.
"You had better make an offer," Mrs. Bumble interrupted. "I have heard enough to be sure that you are the person I should be talking to."
Mr. Bumble, who had not been told the secret by his wife, listened to this conversation with his neck stretched forward and his eyes wide with astonishment. His surprise grew even greater when Monks sternly asked what price she wanted for the secret.
"What is it worth to you?" the woman asked, as composed as before.
"It might be nothing; it might be twenty pounds," replied Monks. "Tell me your price."
"Add five pounds to that sum. Give me twenty-five pounds in gold," the woman said, "and I’ll tell you everything I know. Not a word before then."
"Twenty-five pounds!" Monks exclaimed, stepping back.
"I spoke clearly enough," Mrs. Bumble replied. "It’s not a large sum."
"It’s a large sum for a small secret that might be worthless!" Monks cried. "And it has been hidden for twelve years!"
"Such secrets are like good wine," the matron answered. "They often double in value over time. And as for being hidden—some things stay hidden for millions of years, yet they are eventually told!"
"What if I pay you and it’s for nothing?" Monks asked, hesitating.
"You could easily take the money back," the matron replied. "I am only a woman, alone and unprotected."
"Not alone, my dear, and certainly not unprotected!" Mr. Bumble added, his voice trembling with fear. "I am here, my dear. Besides, Mr. Monks is too much of a gentleman to be violent towards parochial officials. He knows I am not a young man, but he has surely heard that I am a very determined officer with uncommon strength if I am provoked. I only need a little provoking, that’s all."
As he spoke, Bumble made a pathetic attempt to grip his lantern firmly. However, his terrified expression showed that he was far from ready for a fight—unless, of course, it was against a poor pauper.
"You are a fool," said Mrs. Bumble. "Hold your tongue."
"He should have cut his tongue out before coming here if he can’t speak more quietly," Monks said grimly. "So, he’s your husband, is he?"
"He is," the matron replied with a short laugh.
"I thought so," Monks said, noticing the angry look she gave her husband. "In that case, I have no problem dealing with you both, as I see there is only one will between you. I am serious. Look here!"
He reached into his pocket, produced a canvas bag, and counted twenty-five gold coins onto the table. He pushed them toward the woman.
"Now," he said, "take them. And once this thunder has passed, let’s hear your story."
The thunder, which now seemed to break directly over their heads, finally subsided. Monks leaned forward to listen. The three faces were nearly touching in the dim light of the lantern; the men were eager to hear, and the woman whispered to ensure she was not overheard by anyone outside. In the darkness of the ruin, they looked pale and ghostly.
"When that woman, old Sally, died," the matron began, "she and I were alone."
"Was there no one else?" Monks whispered. "No other sick person who might have understood?"
"Not a soul," the woman replied. "I was the only one there when she died."
"Good," said Monks. "Go on."
"She spoke of a young woman," the matron continued, "who had given birth to a child years before in that same bed."
"Yes?" said Monks, his lip trembling. "How strange things turn out!"
"The child was the boy you mentioned last night," the matron said, nodding toward her husband. "This nurse had robbed the mother."
"While she was alive?" Monks asked.
"As she died," the woman replied with a shudder. "She stole from the body something the dying mother had begged her to keep for the sake of the child."
"Did she sell it?" Monks asked with desperate intensity. "Where? When? To whom?"
"She was trying to tell me, but she died before she could finish," said the matron.
"Without saying more?" Monks cried furiously. "You’re lying! I’ll kill you both if you don’t tell me the rest!"
"She didn't say another word," the woman replied, appearing completely unmoved by his violence. "But she was clutching my gown with one hand. When I realised she was dead and forced her hand open, I found a scrap of dirty paper."
"Which contained what?" Monks asked, leaning forward.
"Nothing," the woman replied. "It was a pawnbroker's ticket."
"For what?"
"I’ll tell you in a moment," she said. "I believe she had kept the item for a long time, hoping to sell it for a high price. Eventually, she pawned it, but she had saved enough money to pay the interest every year so that it wouldn't be lost forever. She died with that tattered paper in her hand. The time was about to run out, so I went and redeemed the item myself."
"Where is it now?" Monks asked quickly.
"Right here," the woman replied. She threw a small leather bag onto the table. Monks grabbed it and tore it open with trembling hands. Inside was a small gold locket containing two locks of hair and a plain gold wedding ring.
"The name 'Agnes' is engraved on the inside," the woman said. "There is a space for a surname, followed by a date from the year before the child was born."
"And is this all?" Monks asked, after examining the items closely.
"Everything," she replied.
Mr. Bumble breathed a sigh of relief, glad that the story was over and his wife had kept the money. He finally gathered the courage to wipe the sweat from his face.
"I don't know the whole story, only what I can guess," Mrs. Bumble said to Monks after a brief silence. "And I don't want to know more; it’s safer that way. But may I ask two questions?"
"You may ask," Monks said, "but I might not answer."
"What do you intend to do with these items? Can they be used against me?"
"Never," Monks replied. "Nor against me. Look at this! But don’t move a step closer, or your life won't be worth anything."
Suddenly, he pushed the table aside and pulled an iron ring in the floorboards. A large trap-door swung open at Mr. Bumble’s feet, causing him to jump back in terror.
"Look down," said Monks, lowering the lantern into the dark opening. "Don’t be afraid. If I wanted to kill you, I could have dropped you through while you were sitting there."
The matron and Bumble looked over the edge. Below them, the river—swollen by the heavy rain—was rushing rapidly past, splashing against the slimy wooden piles.
"If you threw a body down there, where would it be by tomorrow morning?" Monks asked, swinging the lantern over the water.
"Twelve miles downstream, and torn to pieces," Bumble replied, shivering.
Monks took the small packet from his pocket and tied it to a heavy lead weight. He dropped it into the stream. It fell straight into the water with a small splash and vanished instantly.
The three of them looked at each other, feeling as if a great weight had been lifted.
"There!" said Monks, closing the trap-door with a heavy thud. "If the sea ever gives up its dead, it can keep its gold and silver—and that trash with it. Our business is finished."
"Indeed," Mr. Bumble agreed eagerly.
"You’ll keep quiet about this, won't you?" Monks said with a threatening look. "I’m not worried about your wife."
"You can depend on me, young man," Bumble answered, bowing politely as he moved toward the ladder. "For everyone’s sake, especially my own."
"I’m glad to hear it," Monks remarked. "Light your lantern and get out of here as fast as you can."
Bumble lit his lantern and hurried down the ladder, followed by his wife. Monks stayed behind for a moment, listening to the rain and the rushing water, before following them. They crossed the lower room cautiously. Monks jumped at every shadow, while Bumble walked with surprisingly light steps, nervously looking for other hidden trap-doors. Monks quietly unlocked the gate and, with a brief nod, the couple stepped out into the wet darkness.
As soon as they were gone, Monks—who clearly hated being alone—called for a boy who had been hiding below. Ordering the boy to lead the way with a light, he returned to the upper room.