Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Seven.
A Man Who Thinks It Murder.
Had Gwendoline Wynn been a poor cottage girl, instead of a rich young lady—owner of estates—the world would soon have ceased to think of her. As it is most people have settled down to the belief that she has simply been the victim of a misadventure, her death due to accident.
Only a few have other thoughts, but none that she has committed suicide. The theory of felo de se is not entertained, because not entertainable. For, in addition to the testimony taken at the Coroner’s inquest, other facts came out in examination by the magistrates, showing there was no adequate reason why she should put an end to her life. A lover’s quarrel of a night’s, still less an hour’s duration, could not so result. And that there was nothing beyond this Miss Linton is able to say assuredly. Still more Eleanor Lees, who, by confidences exchanged, and mutually imparted, was perfectly au fait to the feelings of her relative and friend—knew her hopes, and her fears, and that among the last there was none to justify the deed of despair. Doubts now and then, for when and where is love without them; but with Gwen Wynn slight, evanescent as the clouds in a summer sky. She was satisfied that Vivian Ryecroft loved her, as that she herself lived. How could it be otherwise? and her behaviour on the night of the ball was only a transient spite which would have passed off soon as the excitement was over, and calm reflection returned. Altogether impossible she could have given way to it so far as in wilful rage to take the last leap into eternity. More likely standing on the cliff’s edge, anxiously straining her eyes after the boat which was bearing him away in anger, her foot slipped upon the rock, and she fell over into the flood.
So argues Eleanor Lees, and such is the almost universal belief at the close of the inquest, and for some time after. And if not self-destruction, no more could it be murder with a view to robbery.
The valuable effects left untouched upon her person forbade supposition of that. If murder, the motive must have been other than the possession of a few hundred pounds’ worth of jewellery. So reasons the world at large, naturally enough.
For all, there are a few who still cling to a suspicion of there having been foul play; but not now with any reference to Captain Ryecroft. Nor are they the same who had suspected him. Those yet doubting the accidental death are the intimate friends of the Wynn family, who knew of its affairs relating to the property with the conditions on which the Llangorren estates were held. Up to this time only a limited number of individuals has been aware of their descent to Lewin Murdock. And when at length this fact comes out, and still more emphatically by the gentleman himself taking possession of them, the thoughts of the people revert to the mystery of Miss Wynn’s death, so unsatisfactory cleared up at the Coroner’s inquest.
Still the suspicions thus newly aroused, and pointing in another quarter, are confined to those acquainted with the character of the new man suspected. Nor are they many. Beyond the obscure corner of Bugg’s Ferry there are few who have ever heard of, still fewer ever seen him. Outside the pale of “society,” with most part of his life passed abroad, he is a stranger, not only to the gentry of the neighbourhood, but most of the common people as well. Jack Wingate chanced to have heard of him by reason of his proximity to Bugg’s Ferry, and his own necessity for oft going there. But possibly as much on the account of the intimate relations existing between the owner of Glyngog House and Coracle Dick.
Others less interested know little of either individual, and when it is told that a Mr Lewin Murdock has succeeded to the estates of Llangorren—at the same time it becoming known that he is the cousin of her whom death has deprived of them—to the general public the succession seems natural enough; since it has been long understood that the lady had no nearer relative.
Therefore, only the few intimately familiar with the facts relating to the reversion of the property held fast to the suspicion thus excited. But as no word came out, either at the inquest or elsewhere, and nothing has since arisen to justify it, they also begin to share the universal belief, that for the death of Gwendoline Wynn nobody is to blame.
Even George Shenstone, sorely grieving, accepts it thus. Of unsuspicious nature—incapable of believing in a crime so terrible—a deed so dark, as that would infer—he cannot suppose that the gentleman now his nearest neighbour—for the lands of Llangorren adjoin those of his father—has come into possession of them by such foul means as murder.
His father may think differently, he knowing more of Lewin Murdock. Not much of his late life, but his earlier, with its surroundings and antecedents. Still Sir George is silent, whatever his thoughts. It is not a subject to be lightly spoken of, or rashly commented upon.
There is one who, more than any other, reflects upon the sad fate of her whom he had so fondly loved, and differing from the rest as to how she came to her death—this one is Captain Ryecroft. He, too, might have yielded to the popular impression of its having been accidental, but for certain circumstances that have come to his knowledge, and which he has yet kept to himself. He had not forgotten what was, at an early period, communicated to him by the waterman Wingate, about the odd-looking old house up the glen; nor yet the uneasy manner of Gwendoline Wynn, when once in conversation with her he referred to the place and its occupier. This, with Jack’s original story, and other details added, besides incidents that have since transpired, are recalled to him vividly on hearing that the owner of Glyngog has also become owner of Llangorren.
It is some time before this news reaches him. For just after the inquest an important matter had arisen affecting some property of his own, which required his presence in Dublin—there for days detaining him. Having settled it, he has returned to the same town and hotel where he had been the summer sojourning. Nor came he back on errand aimless, but with a purpose. Ill-satisfied with the finding of the Coroner’s jury, he is determined to investigate the affair in his own way.
Accident he does not believe in—least of all, that the lady having made a false step, had fallen over the cliff. When he last saw her she was inside the pavilion, leaning over the baluster rail, breast high; protected by it. If gazing after him and his boat, the position gave her as good a view as she could have. Why should she have gone outside? And the cry heard so soon after? It was not like that of one falling, and so far. In descent it would have been repeated, which it was not!
Of suicide he has never entertained a thought—above all, for the reason suggested—jealousy of himself. How could he, while so keenly suffering it for her! No, it could not be that; nor suicide from any cause.
The more he ponders upon it, the surer grows he that Gwendoline Wynn has been the victim of a villainous murder. And it is for this reason he has returned to the Wye, first to satisfy himself of the fact; then, if possible, to find the perpetrator, and bring him to justice.
As no robber has done the drowning, conjecture is narrowed to a point; his suspicions finally becoming fixed on Lewin Murdock.
He may be mistaken, but will not surrender them until he find evidence of their being erroneous, or proof that they are correct. And to obtain it he will devote, if need be, all the rest of his days, with the remainder of his fortune. For what are either now to him? In life he has had but one love, real, and reaching the height of a passion. She who inspired it is now sleeping her last sleep—lying cold in her tomb—his love and memory of her alone remaining warm.
His grief has been great, but its first wild throes have passed and he can reflect calmly—more carefully consider, what he should do. From the first some thoughts about Murdock were in his mind; still only vague. Now, on returning to Herefordshire, and hearing what has happened meanwhile—for during his absence there has been a removal from Glyngog to Llangorren—the occurrence, so suggestive, restores his former train of reflection, placing things in a clearer light.
As the hunter, hitherto pursuing upon a cold trail, is excited by finding the slot fresher, so he. And so will he follow it to the end—the last trace or sign. For no game, however grand—elephant, lion, or tiger—could attract like that he believes himself to be after—a human tiger—a murderer.
End of Volume Two.
Volume Three—Chapter One.
Once more upon the River.
Nowhere in England, perhaps nowhere in Europe, is the autumnal foliage more charmingly tinted than on the banks of the Wye, where it runs through the shire of Hereford. There Vaga threads her way amid woods that appear painted, and in colours almost as vivid as those of the famed American forests. The beech, instead of, as elsewhere, dying off dull bistre, takes a tint of bright amber; the chestnut turns translucent lemon; the oak leaves show rose-colours along their edges, and the wych-hazel coral red by its umbels of thickly clustering fruit. Here and there along the high-pitched hill sides flecks of crimson proclaim the wild cherry, spots of hoar white bespeak the climbing clematis, scarlet the holly with its wax-like berries, and maroon red the hawthorn; while interspersed and contrasting are dashes of green in all its varied shades, where yews, junipers, gorse, ivy, and other indigenous evergreens display their living verdure throughout all the year, daring winter’s frosts, and defying its snows.
It is autumn now, and the woods of the Wye have donned its dress; no livery of faded green, nor sombre russet, but a robe of gaudiest sheen, its hues scarlet, crimson, green, and golden. Brown October elsewhere, is brilliant here; and though leaves have fallen, and are falling, the sight suggests no thought of decay, nor brings sadness to the heart of the beholder. Instead, the gaudy tapestry hanging from the trees, and the gay-coloured carpet spread underneath, but gladden it. Still further is it rejoiced by sounds heard. For the woods of Wyeside are not voiceless, even in winter. Within them the birds ever sing, and although their autumn concert may not equal that of spring,—lacking its leading tenor, the nightingale—still is it alike vociferous and alike splendidly attuned. Bold as ever is the flageolet note of the blackbird; not less loud and sweet the carol of his shyer cousin the thrush; as erst soft and tender the cooing of the cushat; and with mirth unabated the cackle of the green woodpecker, as with long tongue, prehensile as human hand, it penetrates the ant-hive in search of its insect prey.
October it is; and where the Wye’s silver stream, like a grand glistening snake, meanders amid these woods of golden hue and glorious song, a small row-boat is seen dropping downward. There are two men in it; one rowing, the other seated in the stern sheets, steering. The same individuals have been observed before in like relative position and similarly occupied. For he at the oars is Jack Wingate, the steerer Captain Ryecroft.
Little thought the young waterman, when that “big gift”—the ten pound bank-note—was thrust into his palm, he would so soon again have the generous donor for a fare.
He has him now, without knowing why, or inquiring. Too glad once more to sit on his boat’s thwarts, vis-à-vis with the Captain, it would ill become him to be inquisitive. Besides, there is a feeling of solemnity in their thus again being together, with sadness pervading the thoughts of both, and holding speech in restraint. All he knows is that his old fare has hired him for a row down the river, but bent on no fishing business. For it is twilight. His excursion has a different object; but what the boatman cannot tell. No inference could be drawn from the laconic order he received at embarking.
“Row me down the river, Jack!” distance and all else left undefined.
And down Jack is rowing him in regular measured stroke, no words passing between them. Both are silent, as though listening to the plash of the oar-blades, or the roundelay of late singing birds on the river’s bank.
Yet neither of these sounds has place in their thoughts; instead, only the memory of one different and less pleasant. For they are thinking of cries—shrieks heard by them not so long ago, and still too fresh in their memory.
Ryecroft is the first to break silence, saying,—
“This must be about the place where we heard it.”
Although not a word has been said of what the “it” is, and the remark seems made in soliloquy rather than as an interrogation, Wingate well knows what is meant, as shown by his rejoinder:—
“It’s the very spot, Captain.”
“Ah! you know it?”
“I do—am sure. You see that big poplar standing on the bank there?”
“Yes; well?”
“We wor just abreast o’ it when ye bid me hold way. In course we must a heard the screech just then.”
“Hold way now! Pull back a length or two. Steady her. Keep opposite the tree!”
The boatman obeys; first pulling the back stroke, then staying his craft against the current.
Once more relapsing into silence, Ryecroft sends his gaze down stream, as though noting the distance to Llangorren Court, whose chimneys are visible in the moonlight now on. Then, as if satisfied with some mental observation, he directs the other to row off. But as the kiosk-like structure comes within sight, he orders another pause, while making a minute survey of the summer-house, and the stretch of water between. Part of this is the main channel of the river, the other portion being the narrow way behind the eyot; on approaching which the pavilion is again lost to view, hidden by a tope of tall trees. But once within the bye-way it can be again sighted; and when near the entrance to this the waterman gets the word to pull into it.
He is somewhat surprised at receiving this direction. It is the way to Llangorren Court, by the boat-stair, and he knows the people now living there are not friends of his fare—not even acquaintances, so far as he has heard. Surely the Captain is not going to call on Mr Lewin Murdock—in amicable intercourse?
So queries Jack Wingate, but only of himself, and without receiving answer. One way or other he will soon get it; and thus consoling himself, he rows on into the narrower channel.
Not much farther before getting convinced that the Captain has no intention of making a call at the Court, nor is the Mary to enter that little dock, where more than once she has lain moored beside the Gwendoline. When opposite the summer-house he is once more commanded to bring to, with the intimation added:
“I’m not going any farther, Jack.”
Jack ceases stroke, and again holds the skiff so as to hinder it from drifting.
Ryecroft sits with eyes turned towards the cliff, taking in its façade from base to summit, as though engaged in a geological study, or trigonometrical calculation.
The waterman, for a while wondering what it is all about, soon begins to have a glimmer of comprehension. It is clearer when he is directed to scull the boat up into the little cove where the body was found. Soon as he has her steadied inside it, close up against the cliff’s base, Ryecroft draws out a small lamp, and lights it. He then rises to his feet, and leaning forward, lays hold of a projecting point of rock. On that resting his hand, he continues for some time regarding the scratches on its surface, supposed to have been made by the feet of the drowned lady in her downward descent. Where he stands they are close to his eyes, and he can trace them from commencement to termination. And so doing, a shadow of doubt is seen to steal over his face, as though he doubted the finding of the Coroner’s jury, and the belief of every one that Gwendoline Wynn had there fallen over.
Bending lower, and examining the broken branches of the juniper, he doubts no more, but is sure—convinced of the contrary!
Jack Wingate sees him start back with a strange surprised look, at the same time exclaiming,—
“I thought as much! No accident!—no suicide—murdered!”
Still wondering, the waterman asks no questions. Whatever it may mean, he expects to be told in time, and is therefore patient.
His patience is not tried by having to stay much longer there. Only a few moments more, during which Ryecroft bends over the boat’s side, takes the juniper twigs in his hand, one after the other, raises them up as they were before being broken, then lets them gently down again!
To his companion he says nothing to explain this apparently eccentric manipulation, leaving Jack to guesses. Only when it is over, and he is apparently satisfied, or with observation exhausted, giving the order,—
“Way, Wingate! Row back—up the river!”
With alacrity the waterman obeys; but too glad to get out of that shadowy passage. For a weird feeling is upon him, as he remembers how there the screech owls mournfully cried, as if to make him sadder when thinking of his own lost love.
Moving out into the main channel and on up stream, Ryecroft is once more silent and musing. But on reaching the place from which the pavilion can be again sighted, he turns round on the thwart and looks back. It startles him to see a form under the shadow of its roof—a woman!—how different from that he last saw there! The ex-cocotte of Paris—faded flower of the Jardin Mabille—has replaced the fresh beautiful blossom of Wyeside—blighted in its bloom!
Volume Three—Chapter Two.
The Crushed Juniper.
Notwithstanding the caution with which Captain Ryecroft made his reconnaissance, it was nevertheless observed. And from beginning to end. Before his boat drew near the end of the eyot, above the place where for the second time it had stopped, it came under the eye of a man who chanced to be standing on the cliff by the side of the summer-house.
That he was there by accident, or at all events not looking out for a boat could be told by his behaviour on first sighting this; neither by change of attitude nor glance of eye evincing any interest in it. His reflection is—
“Some fellows after salmon, I suppose. Have been up to that famous catching place by the Ferry, and are on the way home downward—to Rock Weir, no doubt? Ha!”
The ejaculation is drawn from him by seeing the boat come to a stop, and remain stationary in the middle of the stream.
“What’s that for?” he asks himself, now more carefully examining the craft.
It is still full four hundred yards from him, but the moonlight being in his favour he makes it out to be a pair-oared skiff with two men in it.
“They don’t seem to be dropping a net,” he observes, “nor engaged about anything. That’s odd!”
Before they came to a stop he heard a murmur of voices, as of speech, a few words, exchanged between them, but too distant for him to distinguish what they had said. Now they are silent, sitting without stir; only a slight movement in the arms of the oarsman to keep the boat in its place.
All this seems strange to him observing: not less when a flood of moonlight brighter than usual falls over the boat, and he can tell by the attitude of the man in the stern, with face turned upward, that he is regarding the structure on the cliff.
He is not himself standing beside it now. Soon as becoming interested by the behaviour of the men in the boat, from its seeming eccentricity, he had glided back behind a bush, and there now crouches, an instinct prompting him to conceal himself.
Soon after he sees the boat moving on, and then for a few seconds it is out of sight, again coming under his view near the upper end of the islet, evidently setting in for the old channel. And while he watches, it enters!
As this is a sort of private way, the eyot itself being an adjunct of the ornamental grounds of Llangorren, he wonders whose boat it can be, and what its business there. By the backwash it must be making for the dock and stair; the men in it, or one of them, for the Court.
While still surprisedly conjecturing, his ears admonish him that the oars are at rest, and another stoppage has taken place. He cannot see the skiff now, as the high bank hinders. Besides, the narrow passage is arcaded over by trees still in thick foliage; and, though the moon is shining brightly above, scarce a ray reaches the surface of the water. But an occasional creak of an oar in its rowlock, and some words spoken in low tone—so low he cannot make them out—tell him that the stoppage is directly opposite the spot where he is crouching—as predatory animal in wait for its prey.
What was at first mere curiosity, and then matter of but slight surprise, is now an object of keen solicitude. For of all places in the world, to him there is none invested with greater interest than that where the boat has been brought to. Why has it stopped there? Why is it staying? For he can tell it is by the silence continuing. Above all, who are the men in it?
He asks these questions of himself, but does not stay to reason out the answers. He will best get them by his eyes; and to obtain sight of the skiff and its occupants, he glides a little way along the cliff, looking out for a convenient spot. Finding one, he drops first to his knees, then upon all fours, and crawls out to its edge. Craning his head over, but cautiously, and with a care it shall be under cover of some fern leaves, he has a view of the water below, with the boat on it—only indistinct on account of the obscurity. He can make out the figures of the two men, though not their faces, nor anything by which he may identify them—if already known. But he sees that which helps to a conjecture, at the same sharpening his apprehensions. The boat once more in motion, not moving off, but up into the little cove, where a dead body late lay! Then, as one of the men strikes a match and sets light to a lamp, lighting up his own face with that of the other opposite, he on the bank above at length recognises both.
But it is no longer a surprise to him. The presence of the skiff there, the movements of the men in it—like his own, evidently under restraint and stealthy—have prepared him for seeing whom he now sees—Captain Ryecroft and the waterman Wingate.
Still he cannot think of what they are after, though he has his suspicions; the place, with something only known to himself, suggesting them—conjecture at first soon becoming certainty, as he sees the ex-officer of Hussars rise to his feet, hold his lamp close to the cliff’s face, and inspect the abrasions on the rock!
He is not more certain, but only more apprehensive, when the crushed juniper twigs are taken in hand, examined, and let go again. For he has by this divined the object of it all.
If any doubt lingered, it is set at rest by the exclamatory words following, which, though but muttered, reach him on the cliff above, heard clear enough—
“No accident—no suicide—murdered!” They carry tremor to his heart, making him feel as a fox that hears the tongue of hound on its track. Still distant, but for all causing it fear, and driving it to think of subterfuge.
And of this thinks he, as he lies with his face among the ferns; ponders upon it till the boat has passed back up the dark passage out into the river, and he hears the last light dipping of its oars in the far distance.
He even forgets a woman, for whom he was waiting at the summer-house, and who there without finding him has flitted off again.
At length rising to his feet, and going a little way, he too gets into a boat—one he finds, with oars aboard, down in the dock. It is not the Gwendoline—she is gone.
Seating himself on the mid thwart, he takes up the oars, and pulls towards the place lately occupied by the skiff of the waterman. When inside the cove he lights a match, and holds it close to the face of the rock where Ryecroft held his lamp. It burns out and he draws a second across the sand paper; this to show him the broken branches of the juniper, which he also takes in hand and examines. Soon also dropping them, with a look of surprise, followed by the exclamatory phrases—
“Prodigiously strange! I see his drift now. Cunning fellow! On the track he has discovered the trick, and ’twill need another trick to throw him off it. This bush must be uprooted—destroyed.”
He is in the act of grasping the juniper to pluck it out by the roots. A dwarf thing, this could be easily done. But a thought stays him—another precautionary forecast, as evinced by his words—
“That won’t do.”
After repeating them, he drops back on the boat’s thwart, and sits for a while considering, with eyes turned toward the cliff, ranging it up and down.
“Ah!” he exclaims at length, “the very thing; as if the devil himself had fixed it for me! That will do; smash the bush to atoms—blot out everything, as if an earthquake had gone over Llangorren.”
While thus oddly soliloquising, his eyes are still turned upward, apparently regarding a ledge which, almost loose as a boulder, projects from the bank above. It is directly over the juniper, and if detached from its bed, as it easily might be, would go crashing down, carrying the bush with it.
And that same night it does go down. When the morning sun lights up the cliff, there is seen a breakage upon its face just underneath the summer-house. Of course, a landslip, caused by the late rains acting on the decomposed sandstone. But the juniper bush is no longer there; it is gone, root and branch!
Volume Three—Chapter Three.
Reasoning by Analysis.
Captain Ryecroft’s start at seeing: a woman within the pavilion was less from surprise than an emotion due to memory. When he last saw his betrothed alive it was in that same place, and almost in a similar attitude—leaning over the baluster rail. Besides, many other souvenirs cling around the spot, which the sight vividly recalls; and so painfully that he at once turns his eyes away from it, nor again looks back. He has an idea who the woman is, though personally knowing her not, nor ever having seen her.
The incident agitates him a little; but he is soon calm again, and for some time after sits silent; in no dreamy reverie, but actively cogitating, though not of it or her. His thoughts are occupied with a discovery he has made in his exploration just ended. An important one, bearing on the suspicion he had conceived, almost proving it correct. Of all the facts that came before the coroner and his jury, none more impressed them, nor perhaps so much influenced their finding, as the tale-telling traces upon the face of the cliff. Nor did they arrive at their conclusion with any undue haste or light deliberation. Before deciding they had taken boat, and from below more minutely inspected them. But with their first impression unaltered—or only strengthened—that the abrasions on the soft sandstone rock were made by a falling body, and the bush borne down by the same. And what but the body of Gwendoline Wynn? Living or dead, springing off, or pitched over, they could not determine. Hence the ambiguity of their verdict.
Very different the result reached by Captain Ryecroft after viewing the same. In his Indian campaigns the ex-cavalry officer, belonging to the “Light,” had his share of scouting experience. It enables him to read “sign” with the skill of trapper or prairie hunter; and on the moment his lamp threw its light against the cliff’s face, he knew the scratches were not caused by anything that came down, since they had been made from below! And by some blunt instrument, as the blade of a boat oar. Then the branches of the juniper. Soon as getting his eyes close to them, he saw they had been broken inward, their drooping tops turned toward the cliff, not from it! A falling body would have bent them in an opposite direction, and the fracture been from the upper and inner side! Everything indicated their having been crushed from below; not by the same boat’s oar, but likely enough by the hands that held it!
It was on reaching this conclusion that Captain Ryecroft gave involuntary utterance to the exclamatory words heard by him lying flat among the ferns above, the last one sending a thrill of fear through his heart.
And upon it the ex-officer of Hussars is still reflecting as he returns up stream.
Since the command given to Wingate to row him back, he has not spoken, not even to make remark about that suggestive thing seen in the summer-house above—though the other has observed it also. Facing that way, the waterman has his eyes on it for a longer time. But the bearing of the Captain admonishes him that he is not to speak till spoken to; and he silently tugs at his oars, leaving the other to his reflections.
These are: that Gwendoline Wynn has been surely assassinated: though not by being thrown over the cliff. Possibly not drowned at all, but her body dropped into the water where found—conveyed thither after life was extinct! The scoring of the rock and the snapping of the twigs, all that done to mislead; as it had misled everybody but himself. To him it has brought conviction that there has been a deed of blood—done by the hand of another. “No accident—no suicide—murdered!”
He is not questioning the fact, nor speculating upon the motive now. The last has been already revolved in his mind, and is clear as daylight. To such a man as he has heard Lewin Murdock to be, an estate worth 10,000 pounds a-year would tempt to crime, even the capital one, which certainly he has committed. Ryecroft only thinks of how he can prove its committal—bring the deed of guilt home to the guilty one. It may be difficult, impossible; but he will do his best.
Embarked in the enterprise, he is considering what will be the best course to pursue—pondering upon it. He is not the man to act rashly at any time, but in a matter of such moment caution is especially called for. He is already on the track of a criminal who has displayed no ordinary cunning, as proved by that misguiding sign. A false move made, or word spoken in careless confidence, by exposing his purpose, may defeat it. For this reason he has hitherto kept his intention to himself; not having given a hint of it to any one.
From Jack Wingate it cannot be longer withheld, nor does he wish to withhold it. Instead, he will take him into his confidence, knowing he can do so with safety. That the young waterman is no prating fellow he has already had proof, while of his loyalty he never doubted.
First, to find out what Jack’s own thoughts are about the whole thing. For since their last being in a boat together, on that fatal night, little speech has passed between them. Only a few words on the day of the inquest; when Captain Ryecroft himself was too excited to converse calmly, and before the dark suspicion had taken substantial shape in his mind.
Once more opposite the poplar he directs the skiff to be brought to. Which done, he sits just as when that sound startled him on return from the ball; apparently thinking of it, as in reality he is.
For a minute or so he is silent; and one might suppose he listened, expecting to hear it again. But no; he is only, as on the way down, making note of the distance to the Llangorren grounds. The summer-house he cannot now see, but judges the spot where it stands by some tall trees he knows to be beside it.
The waterman observing him, is not surprised when at length asked the question,—“Don’t you believe, Wingate, the cry came from above—I mean from the top of the cliff?”
“I’m a’most sure it did. I thought at the time it comed from higher ground still—the house itself. You remember my sayin’ so, Captain; and that I took it to be some o’ the sarvint girls shoutin’ up there?”
“I do remember—you did. It was not, alas! But their mistress.”
“Yes; she for sartin, poor young lady! We now know that.”
“Think back, Jack! Recall it to your mind; the tone, the length of time it lasted—everything. Can you?”
“I can, an’ do. I could all but fancy I hear it now!”
“Well; did it strike you as a cry that would come from one falling over the cliff—by accident or otherwise?”
“It didn’t; an’ I don’t yet believe it wor—accydent or no accydent.”
“No! What are your reasons for doubting it?”
“Why, if it had been a woman eyther fallin’ over or flung, she’d a gied tongue a second time—aye, a good many times—’fore getting silenced. It must a been into the water; an’ people don’t drown at the first goin’ down. She’d a riz to the surface once, if not twice; an’ screeched sure. We couldn’t a helped hearin’ it. Ye remember, Captain, ’twor dead calm for a spell, just precedin’ the thunderstorm. When that cry come ye might a heerd the leap o’ a trout a quarter mile off. But it worn’t repeated—not so much as a mutter.”
“Quite true. But what do you conclude from its not having been?”
“That she who gied the shriek wor in the grasp o’ somebody when she did it, an’ wor silenced instant by bein’ choked or smothered; same as they say’s done by them scoundrels called garotters.”
“You said nothing of this at the inquest?”
“No, I didn’t; for several reasons. One, I wor so took by surprise, just home, an’ hearin’ what had happened. Besides, the crowner didn’t question me on my feelins—only about the facts o’ the case. I answered all his questions, clear as I could remember, an’ far’s I then understood things. But not as I understand them now.”
“Ah! You have learnt something since?”
“Not a thing, Captain. Only what I’ve been thinkin’ o’—by rememberin’ a circumstance I’d forgot.”
“What?”
“Well; whiles I wor sittin’ in the skiff that night, waitin’ for you to come, I heerd a sound different from the hootin’ o’ them owls.”
“Indeed! What sort of sound?”
“The plashing o’ oars. There wor sartin another boat about there, besides this one.”
“In what direction did you hear them?”
“From above. It must ha’ been that way. If’t had been a boat gone up from below, I’d ha’ noticed the stroke again, across the strip o’ island. But I didn’t.”
“The same if one had passed on down.”
“Just so; an’ for that reason I now believe it wor comin’ down, an’ stopped; somewhere just outside the backwash.”
An item of intelligence new to the Captain, as it is significant. He recalls the hour—between two and three o’clock in the morning. What boat could have been there but his own? And if other, what its business?
“You’re quite sure there was a boat, Wingate?” he asks, after a pause.
“The oars o’ one—that I’m quite sure o’. An’ where there’s smoke fire can’t be far off. Yes, Captain, there wor a boat about there. I’m willin’ to swear to it.”
“Have you any idea whose?”
“Well, no; only some conjecters. First hearin’ the oar, I wor under the idea it might be Dick Dempsey, out salmon stealin’. But at the second plunge I could tell it wor no paddle, but a pair of regular oars. They gied but two or three strokes, an’ then stopped suddintly; not as though the boat had been rowed back, but brought up against the bank, an’ there layed.”
“You don’t think it was Dick and his coracle, then?”
“I’m sure it worn’t the coracle, but ain’t so sure about its not bein’ him. ’Stead, from what happened that night, an’s been a’ happenin’ ever since, I b’lieve he wor one o’ the men in that boat.”
“You think there were others?”
“I do—leastways suspect it.”
“And who do you suspect besides?”
“For one, him as used live up there, but’s now livin’ in Llangorren.”
They have long since parted from the place where they made stop opposite the poplar, and are now abreast the Cuckoo’s Glen, going on. It is to Glyngog House Wingate alludes, visible up the ravine, the moon gleaming upon its piebald walls and lightless windows—for it is untenanted.
“You mean Mr Murdock?”
“The same, Captain. Though he worn’t at the ball, as I’ve heerd say—and might a’ know’d without tellin’—I’ve got an idea he beant far off when ’twor breakin’ up. An’ there wor another there, too, beside Dick Dempsey.”
“A third! Who?”
“He as lives a bit further above.”
“You mean—?”
“The French priest. Them three ain’t often far apart; an’ if I beant astray in my recknin’, they were mighty close thegither that same night, an’ nigh Llangorren Court. They’re all in, or about, it now—the precious tribang—an’ I’d bet big they’ve got foot in there by the foulest o’ foul play. Yes, Captain; sure as we be sittin’ in this boat, she as owned the place ha’ been murdered—the men as done it bein’ Lewin Murdock, Dick Dempsey, and the Roman priest o’ Rogues!”
Volume Three—Chapter Four.
A Suspicious Craft.
To the waterman’s unreserved statement of facts and suspicions, Captain Ryecroft makes no rejoinder. The last are in exact consonance with his own already conceived, the first alone new to him.
And on the first he now fixes his thoughts, directing them to that particular one of a boat being in the neighbourhood of the Llangorren grounds about the time he was leaving them. For it, too, has a certain correspondence with something on the same night observed by himself—a circumstance he had forgotten, or ceased to think of; but now recalled with vivid distinctness. All the more as he listens to the conjectures of Wingate—about three men having been in that boat, and whom he supposed them to be.
The number is significant as corresponding with what occurred to himself. The time as well; since, but a few hours before, he also had his attention drawn to a boat, under circumstances somewhat mysterious. The place was different; for all not to contradict the supposition of the waterman—rather confirming it.
On his way to the Court—his black dress kerseymere protected by India-rubber overalls—Ryecroft, as known, had ridden to Wingate’s house, and was thence rowed to Llangorren. His going to a ball by boat, instead of carriage or hotel hackney, was not for the sake of convenience, nor yet due to eccentricity. The prospect of a private interview with his betrothed at parting, as on former occasions expected to be pleasant, was his ruling motive for this arrangement. Besides, his calls at the Court were usually made in the same way; his custom being to ride as far as the Wingate cottage, leave his roadster there, and thence take the skiff. Between his town and the waterman’s house there is a choice of routes, the main country road keeping well away from the river, and a narrower one which follows the trend of the stream along its edge where practicable, but also here and there thrown off by meadows subject to inundations, or steep spurs of the parallel ridges. This, an ancient trackway now little used, was the route Captain Ryecroft had been accustomed to take on his way to Wingate’s cottage, not from its being shorter or better, but for the scenery, which far excelling that of the other, equals any upon the Wyeside. In addition, the very loneliness of the road had its charm for him; since only at rare intervals is house seen by its side, and rarer still living creature encountered upon it. Even where it passes Rugg’s Ferry, there intersecting the ford road, the same solitude characterises it. For this quaint conglomeration of dwellings is on the opposite side of the stream; all save the chapel, and the priest’s house, standing some distance back from the bank, and screened by a spinney of trees.
With the topography of this plan he is quite familiar; and now to-night it is vividly recalled to his mind by what the waterman has told him. For on that other night, so sadly remembered, as he was riding past Rugg’s, he saw the boat thus brought back to his recollection. He had got a little beyond the crossing of the Ford road, where it leads out from the river—himself on the other going downwards—when his attention was drawn to a dark object against the bank on the opposite side of the stream. The sky at the time moonless he might not have noticed it, but for other dark objects seen in motion beside it—the thing itself being stationary. Despite the obscurity he could make them out to be men, busied around a boat. Something in their movements, which seemed made in a stealthy manner—too cautious for honesty—prompted him to pull up, and sit in his saddle observing them. He had himself no need to take precautions for concealment; the road at this point passing under old oaks, whose umbrageous branches; arcading over, shadowed the causeway, making it dark around as the interior of a cavern.
Nor was he called upon to stay long there—only a few seconds after drawing bridle—just time enough for him to count the men, and see there were three of them—when they stepped over the sides of the boat, pushed her out from the bank, and rowed off down the river.
Even then he fancied there was something surreptitious in their proceedings; for the oars, instead of rattling in their rowlocks made scarce any noise, while their dip was barely audible, though so near.
Soon both boat and those on board were out of his sight, and the slight sound made by them beyond his hearing. Had the road kept along the river’s bank he would have followed, and further watched them; but just below Rugg’s it is carried off across a ridge, with steep pitch; and while ascending this, he ceased to think of them.
He might not have thought of them at all, had they made their embarkation at the ordinary landing-place, by the ford and ferry. There such a sight would have been nothing unusual, nor a circumstance to excite curiosity. But the boat, when he first observed it, was lying below—up against the bank by the chapel ground, across which the men must have come.
Recalling all this, with what Jack Wingate has just told him, connecting events together, and making comparison of time, place, and other circumstances, he thus interrogatively reflects:
“Might not that boat have been the same whose oars Jack heard down below? And the men in it those whose names he has mentioned? Three of them—that at least in curious correspondence! But the time? About nine, or a little after, as I passed Rugg’s Ferry. That appears too early for the after event? No! They may have had other arrangements to make before proceeding to their murderous work. Odd, though, their knowing she would be out there. But they need not have known that—likely did not. More like they meant to enter the house, after every one had gone away, and there do the deed. A night different from the common, everything in confusion, the servants sleeping sounder than usual from having indulged in drink—some of them overcome by it, as I saw myself before leaving. Yes; it’s quite probable the assassins took all that into consideration—surprised, no doubt, to find their victim so convenient—in fact, as if she had come forth to receive them! Poor girl!”
All this chapter of conjectures has been to himself, and in sombre silence; at length broken by the voice of his boatman, saying—
“You’ve come afoot, Captain; an’ it be a longish walk to the town, most o’ the road muddy. Ye’ll let me row you up the river—leastways for a couple o’ miles further? Then ye can take the footpath through Powell’s meadows.”
Roused as from a reverie, the Captain looking out, sees they are nearly up to the boatman’s cottage, which accounts for the proposal thus made. After a little reflection he says in reply:—
“Well, Jack; if it wasn’t that I dislike over-working you—”
“Don’t mention it!” interrupts Jack, “I’ll be only too pleased to take you all the way to the town itself, if ye say the word. It a’nt so late yet, but to leave me plenty of time. Besides, I’ve got to go up to the Ferry anyhow, to get some grocery for mother. I may as well do it in the boat—’deed better than dragglin’ along them roughish roads.”
“In that case I consent. But you must let me take the oars.”
“No, Captain. I’d prefer workin’ ’em myself; if it be all the same to you.”
The Captain does not insist, for in truth he would rather remain at the tiller. Not because he is indisposed for a spell of pulling. Nor is it from disinclination to walk, that he has so readily accepted the waterman’s offer. After reflecting, he would have asked the favour so courteously extended. And for a reason having nothing to do with convenience, for the fear of fatigue; but a purpose which has just shaped itself in his thoughts, suggested by the mention of the Ferry.
It is that he may consider this—be left free to follow the train of conjecture which the incident has interrupted—he yields to the boatman’s wishes, and keeps his seat in the stern.
By a fresh spurt the Mary is carried beyond her mooring-place; as she passes it her owner for an instant feathering his oars and holding up his hat. It is a signal to one he sees there, standing outside in the moonlight—his mother.
Volume Three—Chapter Five.
Maternal Solicitude.
“The poor lad! His heart be sore sad; at times most nigh breakin’! That’s plain—spite o’ all he try hide it.”
It is the Widow Wingate, who thus compassionately reflects—the subject her son.
She is alone within her cottage, the waterman being away with his boat. Captain Ryecroft has taken him down the river. It is on this nocturnal exploration, when the cliff at Llangorren is inspected by lamplight.
But she knows neither the purpose nor the place, any more than did Jack himself at starting. A little before sunset, the Captain came to the house, afoot and unexpectedly; called her son out, spoke a few words to him, when they started away in the skiff. She saw they went down stream—that is all.
She was some little surprised, though; not at the direction taken, but the time of setting out. Had Llangorren been still in possession of the young lady, of whom her son has often spoken to her, she would have thought nothing strange of it. But in view of the late sad occurrence at the Court, with the change of proprietorship consequent—about all of which she has been made aware—she knows the Captain cannot be bound thither, and therefore wonders whither. Surely, not a pleasure excursion, at such an unreasonable hour—night just drawing down?
She would have asked, but had no opportunity. Her son, summoned out of the house, did not re-enter; his oars were in the boat, having just come off a job; and the Captain appeared to be in haste. Hence, Jack’s going off, without, as he usually does, telling his mother the why and the where.
It is not this that is now fidgeting her. She is far from being of an inquisitive turn—least of all with her son—and never seeks to pry into his secrets. She knows his sterling integrity, and can trust him. Besides, she is aware that he is of a nature somewhat uncommunicative, especially upon matters that concern himself, and above all when he has a trouble on his mind—in short, one who keeps his sorrows locked up in his breast, as though preferring to suffer in silence.
And just this it is she is now bemoaning. She observes how he is suffering, and has been, ever since that hour when a farm labourer from Abergann brought him tidings of Mary Morgan’s fatal mishap.
Of course she, his mother, expected him to grieve wildly and deeply, as he did; but not deeply so long. Many days have passed since that dark one; but since, she has not seen him smile—not once! She begins to fear his sorrow may never know an end. She has heard of broken hearts—his may be one. Not strange her solicitude.
“What make it worse,” she says, continuing her soliloquy, “he keep thinkin’ that he hae been partways to blame for the poor girl’s death, by makin’ her come out to meet him!”—Jack has told his mother of the interview under the big elm, all about it from beginning to end.—“That hadn’t a thing to do wi’ it. What happened wor ordained, long afore she left the house. When I dreamed that dream ’bout the corpse candle, I feeled most sure somethin’ would come o’t; but then seein’ it go up the meadows, I wor’ althegither convinced. When it burn no human creetur’ ha’ lit it; an’ none can put it out, till the doomed one be laid in the grave. Who could ’a carried it across the river—that night especial, wi’ a flood lippin’ full up to the banks? No mortal man, nor woman neyther!”
As a native of Pembrokeshire, in whose treeless valleys the ignis fatuus is oft seen, and on its dangerous coast cliffs, in times past, too oft the lanthorn of the smuggler, with the “stalking horse” of the inhuman wrecker, Mrs Wingate’s dream of the canwyll corph was natural enough—a legendary reflection from tales told her in childhood, and wild songs chaunted over her cradle.
But her waking vision, of a light borne up the river bottom, was a phenomenon yet more natural; since in truth was it a real light, that of a lamp, carried in the hands of a man with a coracle on his back, which accounts for its passing over the stream. And the man was Richard Dempsey, who below had ferried Father Rogier across on his way to the farm of Abergann, where the latter intended remaining all night. The priest in his peregrinations, often nocturnal, accustomed to take a lamp along, had it with him on that night, having lit it before entering the coracle. But with the difficulty of balancing himself in the crank little craft he had set it down under the thwart, and at landing forgotten all about it. Thence the poacher, detained beyond time in reference to an appointment he meant being present at, had taken the shortest cut up the river bottom to Rugg’s Ferry. This carried him twice across the stream, where it bends by the waterman’s cottage; his coracle, easily launched and lifted out, enabling him to pass straight over and on, in his haste not staying to extinguish the lamp, nor even thinking of it.
Not so much wonder, then, in Mrs Wingate believing she saw the canwyll corph. No more that she believes it still, but less, in view of what has since come to pass; as she supposes, but the inexorable fiat of fate.
“Yes!” she exclaims, proceeding with her soliloquy; “I knowed it would come! Ah, me! it have come. Poor thing! I hadn’t no great knowledge of her myself; but sure she wor a good girl, or my son couldn’t a been so fond o’ her. If she’d had badness in her, Jack wouldn’t greet and grieve as he be doin’ now.”
Though right in the premises—for Mary Morgan was a good girl—Mrs Wingate is unfortunately wrong in her deductions. But, fortunately for her peace of mind, she is so. It is some consolation to her to think that she whom her son loved, and for whom he so sorrows, was worthy of his love as his sorrow.
It is wearing late, the sun having long since set; and still wondering why they went down the river, she steps outside to see if there he any sign of them returning. From the cottage but little can be seen of the stream, by reason of its tortuous course; only a short reach on either side, above and below.
Placing herself to command a view of the latter, she stands gazing down it. In addition to maternal solicitude, she feels anxiety of another and less emotional nature. Her tea-caddy is empty, the sugar all expended, and other household things deficient. Jack was just about starting off for the Ferry to replace them when the Captain came. Now it is a question whether he will be home in time to reach Rugg’s before the shop closes. If not, there will be a scant supper for him, and he must grope his way lightless to bed; for among the spent commodities were candles, the last one having been burnt out. In the widow Wingate’s life candles seem to play an important part!
However, from all anxieties on this score she is at length and ere long relieved; her mind set at rest by a sound heard on the tranquil air of the night, the dip of a boat’s oars, distant but recognisable. Often before listening for the same, she instinctively knows them to be in the hands of her son. For Jack rows with a stroke no waterman on the Wye has but he—none equalling it in timbre and regularity. His mother can tell it, as a hen the chirp of her own chick, or a ewe the bleat of its lamb.
That it is his stroke she has soon other evidence than her ears. In a few seconds after hearing the oars she sees them, their wet blades glistening in the moonlight, the boat between.
And now she only waits for it to be pulled up and into the wash—its docking place; when Jack will tell her where they have been, and what for; perhaps, too, the Captain will come inside the cottage and speak a friendly word with her, as he has frequently done.
While thus pleasantly anticipating, she has a disappointment. The skiff is passing onward—proceeding up the river! But she is comforted by seeing a hat held aloft—the salute telling her she is herself seen; and that Jack has some good reason for the prolongation of the voyage. It will no doubt terminate at the Ferry, where he will get the candles and comestibles, saving him a second journey thither, and so killing two birds with one stone.
Contenting herself with this construction of it, she returns inside the house, touches up the faggots on the fire, and by their cheerful blaze thinks no longer of candles, or any other light—forgetting even the canwyll corph.