Of all the domestics turned adrift from Llangorren one alone interests us—Joseph Preece—“Old Joe,” as his young mistress used familiarly to call him.
As Jack Wingate has made his mother aware, Joe has moved into the house formerly inhabited by Coracle Dick; so far changing places with the poacher, who now occupies the lodge in which the old man ere while lived as one of the retainers of the Wynn family.
Beyond this the exchange has not extended. Richard Dempsey, under the new régime at Llangorren, has been promoted to higher office than was ever held by Joseph Preece; who, on the other hand, has neither turned poacher, nor intends doing so. Instead, the versatile Joseph, as if to keep up his character for versatility, has taken to a new calling altogether—that of basket-making, with the construction of bird-cages and other kinds of wicker-work. Rather is it the resumption of an old business to which he had been brought up, but abandoned long years agone on entering the service of Squire Wynn. Having considerable skill in this textile trade, he hopes in his old age to make it maintain him. Only in part; for, thanks to the generosity of his former master, and more still that of his late mistress, Joe has laid by a little pecunium, nearly enough for his needs; so that, in truth, he has taken to the wicker-working less from necessity than for the sake of having something to do. The old man of many métiers has never led an idle life, and dislikes leading it.
Is is not by any accident he has drifted into the domicile late in the occupation of Dick Dempsey, though Dick had nothing to do with it. The poacher himself was but a week-to-week tenant, and of course cleared out soon as obtaining his promotion. Then, the place being to let, at a low rent, the ex-Charon saw it would suit him; all the better because of a “withey bed” belonging to the same landlord, which was to let at the same time. This last being at the mouth of the dingle in which the solitary dwelling stands—and promising a convenient supply of the raw material for his projected manufacture—he has taken a lease of it along with the house.
Under his predecessor the premises having fallen into dilapidation—almost ruin—the old boatman had a bargain of them, on condition of his doing the repairs. He has done them; made the roof water-tight; given the walls a coat of plaster and whitewash; laid a new floor—in short, rendered the house habitable, and fairly comfortable.
Among other improvements he has partitioned off a second sleeping apartment, and not only plastered but papered it. More still, neatly and tastefully furnished it; the furniture consisting of an iron bedstead, painted emerald green, with brass knobs; a new washstand, and dressing table with mahogany framed glass on top, three cane chairs, a towel horse, and other etceteras.
For himself? No; he has a bedroom besides. And this, by the style of the plenishing, is evidently intended for one of the fair sex. Indeed, one has already taken possession of it, as evinced by some female apparel, suspended upon pegs against the wall; a pincushion, with a brooch in it, on the dressing table; bracelets and a necklace besides, with two or three scent bottles, and several other toilet trifles scattered about in front of the framed glass. They cannot be the belongings of “Old Joe’s” wife, nor yet his daughter; for among the many parts he has played in life, that of Benedict has not been. A bachelor he is, and a bachelor he intends staying to the end of the chapter.
Who, then, is the owner of the brooch, bracelets, and other bijouterie? In a word, his niece—a slip of a girl who was under-housemaid at Llangorren; like himself, set at large, and now transformed into a full-fledged housekeeper—his own. But before entering on parlour duties at the Court, she had seen service in the kitchen, under the cook; and some culinary skill, then and there acquired, now stands her old uncle in stead. By her deft manipulation, stewed rabbit becomes as jugged hare, so that it would be difficult to tell the difference; while she has at her fingers’ ends many other feats of the cuisine that give him gratification. The old servitor of Squire Wynn is in his way a gourmet, and has a tooth for toothsome things.
His accomplished niece, with somewhat of his own cleverness, bears the pretty name of Amy—Amy Preece, for she is his brother’s child. And she is pretty as her name, a bright blooming girl, rose-cheeked, with form well-rounded, and flesh firm as a Ribston pippin. Her cheerful countenance lights up the kitchen late shadowed by the presence and dark scowling features of Coracle Dick—brightens it even more than the brand-new tin-ware or the whitewash upon its walls.
Old Joe rejoices; and if he have a regret, it is that he had not long ago taken up housekeeping for himself. But this thought suggests another contradicting it. How could he while his young mistress lived? She so much beloved by him, whose many beneficences have made him, as he is, independent for the rest of his days, never more to be harassed by care or distressed by toil, one of her latest largesses, the very last, being to bestow upon him the pretty pleasure craft bearing her own name. This she had actually done on the morning of that day, the twenty-first anniversary of her birth, as it was the last of her life; thus by an act of grand generosity commemorating two events so strangely, terribly, in contrast! And as though some presentiment forewarned her of her own sad fate, so soon to follow, she had secured the gift by a scrap of writing; thus at the change in the Llangorren household enabling its old boatman to claim the boat, and obtain it too. It is now lying just below, at the brook’s mouth by the withey bed, where Joe has made a mooring-place for it. The handsome thing would fetch 50 pounds; and many a Wye waterman would give his year’s earnings to possess it. Indeed, more than one has been after it, using arguments to induce its owner to dispose of it—pointing out how idle of him to keep a craft so little suited to his present calling!
All in vain. Old Joe would sooner sell his last shirt, or the newly-bought furniture of his house—sooner go begging—than part with that boat. It oft bore him beside his late mistress, so much lamented; it will still bear him lamenting her—aye for the rest of his life. If he has lost the lady he will cling to the souvenir, which carries her honoured name!
But, however, faithful the old family retainer, and affectionate in his memories, he does not let their sadness overpower him, nor always give way to the same. Only at times when something turns up more vividly than usual recalling Gwendoline Wynn to remembrance. On other and ordinary occasions he is cheerful enough, this being his natural habit. And never more than on a certain night shortly after that of his chance encounter with Jack Wingate, when both were a shopping at Rugg’s Ferry. For there and then, in addition to the multifarious news imparted to the young waterman, he gave the latter an invitation to visit him in his new home; which was gladly and off-hand accepted.
“A bit o’ supper and a drop o’ somethin’ to send it down,” were the old boatman’s words specifying the entertainment.
The night has come round, and the “bit o’ supper” is being prepared by Amy, who is acting as though she was never more called upon to practise the culinary art; and, according to her own way of thinking, she never has been. For, to let out a little secret, the French lady’s-maid was not the only feminine at Llangorren Court who had cast admiring eyes on the handsome boatman who came there rowing Captain Ryecroft. Raising the curtain still higher, Amy Preece’s position is exposed; she, too, having been caught in that same net, spread for neither.
Not strange then, but altogether natural. She is now exerting herself to cook a supper that will give gratification to the expected guest. She would work her fingers off for Jack Wingate.
Possibly the uncle may have some suspicion of why she is moving about so alertly, and besides looking so pleased like. If not a suspicion, he has a wish and a hope. Nothing in life, now, would be so much to his mind as to see his niece married to the man he has invited to visit him. For never in all his life has old Joe met one he so greatly cottons to. His intercourse with the young waterman, though scarce six months old, seems as if it had been of twice as many years; so friendly and pleasant, he not only wants it continued, but wishes it to become nearer and dearer. If his niece be baiting a trap in the cooking of the supper, he has himself set that trap by the “invite” he gave to the expected guest.
A gentle tapping at the door tells him the trigger is touched; and, responding to the signal, he calls out—
“That you, Jack Wingate? O’ course it be. Come in!”
And in Jack Wingate comes.
Stepping over the threshold, the young waterman is warmly received by his older brother of the oar, and blushingly by the girl, whose cheeks are already of a high colour, caught from the fire over which she has been stooping.
Old Joe, seated in the chimney corner, in a huge wicker chair of his own construction, motions Jack to another opposite, leaving the space in front clear for Amy to carry on her culinary operations. There are still a few touches to be added—a sauce to be concocted—before the supper can be served; and she is concocting it.
Host and guest converse without heeding her, chiefly on topics relating to the bore of the river, about which old Joe is an oracle. As the other, too, has spent all his days on Vaga’s banks; but there have been more of them, and he longer resident in that particular neighbourhood. It is too early to enter upon subjects of a more serious nature, though a word now and then slips in about the late occurrence at Llangorren, still wrapped in mystery. If they bring shadows over the brow of the old boatman, these pass off, as he surveys the table which his niece has tastefully decorated with fruits and late autumn flowers. It reminds him of many a pleasant Christmas night in the grand servants’ hall at the Court, under holly and mistletoe, besides bowls of steaming punch and dishes of blazing snapdragon.
His guest knows something of that same hall; but cares not to recall its memories. Better likes he the bright room he is now seated in. Within the radiant circle of its fire, and the other pleasant surroundings, he is for the time cheerful—almost himself again. His mother told him it was not good to be for ever grieving—not righteous, but sinful. And now, as he watches the graceful creature moving about, actively engaged—and all on his account—he begins to think there may be truth in what she said. At all events his grief is more bearable than it has been for long days past. Not that he is untrue to the memory of Mary Morgan. Far from it. His feelings are but natural, inevitable. With that fair presence flitting before his eyes, he would not be man if it failed in some way to impress him.
But his feelings for Amy Preece do not go beyond the bounds of respectful admiration. Still is it an admiration that may become warmer, gathering strength as time goes on. It even does somewhat on this same night; for, in truth the girl’s beauty is a thing which cannot be glanced at without a wish to gaze upon it again. And she possesses something more than beauty—a gift not quite so rare, but perhaps as much prized by Jack Wingate—modesty. He has noted her shy, almost timid mien, ere now; for it is not the first time he has been in her company—contrasted it with the bold advances made to him by her former fellow-servant at the Court—Clarisse. And now, again, he observes the same bearing, as she moves about through that cheery place, in the light of glowing coals—best from the Forest of Dean.
And he thinks of it while seated at the supper table; she at its head, vis-à-vis to her uncle, and distributing the viands. These are no damper to his admiration of her, since the dishes she has prepared are of the daintiest. He has not been accustomed to eat such a meal, for his mother could not cook it; while, as already said, Amy is something of an artiste de cuisine. An excellent wife she would make, all things considered; and possibly at a later period, Jack Wingate might catch himself so reflecting. But not now; not to-night. Such a thought is not in his mind; could not be, with that sadder thought still overshadowing.
The conversation at the table is mostly between the uncle and himself, the niece only now and then putting in a word; and the subjects are still of a general character, in the main relating to boats and their management.
It continues so till the supper things have been cleared off; and in their place appear a decanter of spirits, a basin of lump sugar, and a jug of hot water, with a couple of tumblers containing spoons. Amy knows her uncle’s weakness—which is a whisky toddy before going to bed; for it is the “barley bree” that sparkles in the decanter; and also aware that to-night he will indulge in more than one, she sets the kettle on its trivet against the bars of the grate.
As the hour has now waxed late, and the host is evidently longing for a more confidential chat with his guest, she asks if there is anything more likely to be wanted.
Answered in the negative, she bids both “Good night,” withdraws to the little chamber so prettily decorated for her, and goes to her bed.
But not immediately to fall asleep. Instead she lies awake thinking of Jack Wingate, whose voice, like a distant murmur, she can now and then hear. The French femme de chambre would have had her cheek at the keyhole, to catch what he might say. Not so the young English girl, brought up in a very different school; and if she lies awake, it is from no prying curiosity, but kept so by a nobler sentiment.
On the instant of her withdrawal, old Joe, who has been some time showing in a fidget for it, hitches his chair closer to the table, desiring his guest to do the same; and the whisky punches having been already prepared, they also bring their glasses together.
“Yer good health, Jack.”
“Same to yerself, Joe.”
After this exchange the ex-Charon, no longer constrained by the presence of a third party, launches out into a dialogue altogether different from that hitherto held between them—the subject being the late tenant of the house in which they are hobnobbing.
“Queer sort o’ chap, that Coracle Dick! an’t he, Jack?”
“Course he be. But why do ye ask? You knowed him afore, well enough.”
“Not so well’s now. He never comed about the Court, ’ceptin’ once when fetched there—afore the old Squire on a poachin’ case. Lor! what a change! He now head keeper o’ the estate.”
“Ye say ye know him better than ye did? Ha’ ye larned anythin’ ’bout him o’ late?”
“That hae I; an’ a goodish deal too. More’n one thing as seems kewrous.”
“If ye don’t object tellin’ me, I’d like to hear what they be.”
“Well, one are, that Dick Dempsey ha’ been in the practice of somethin’ besides poachin’.”
“That an’t no news to me, I ha’ long suspected him o’ doin’s worse than that.”
“Amongst them did ye include forgin’?”
“No; because I never thought o’ it. But I believe him to be capable o’ it, or anything else. What makes ye think he a’ been a forger?”
“Well, I won’t say forger, for he mayn’t a made the things. But for sure he ha’ been engaged in passin’ them off.”
“Passin’ what off!”
“Them!” rejoins Joe, drawing a little canvas bag out of his pocket, and spilling its contents upon the table—over a score of coins to all appearance half-crown pieces.
“Counterfeits—every one o’ ’em!” he adds, as the other sits staring at them in surprise.
“Where did you find them?” asks Jack.
“In the corner o’ an old cubbord. Furbishin’ up the place, I comed across them—besides a goodish grist o’ other kewrosities. What would ye think o’ my predecessor here bein’ a burglar as well as smasher?”
“I wouldn’t think that noways strange neyther. As I’ve sayed already, I b’lieve Dick Dempsey to be a man who’d not mind takin’ a hand at any mortal thing, howsomever bad. Burglary, or even worse, if it wor made worth his while. But what led ye to think he ha’ been also in the housebreaking line?”
“These!” answers the old boatman, producing another and larger bag, the more ponderous contents of which he spills out on the floor, not the table; as he does so exclaiming, “Theere be a lot o’ oddities! A complete set o’ burglar’s tools—far as I can understand them.”
And so are they, jemmies, cold chisels, skeleton keys—in short, every implement of the cracksman’s calling.
“And ye found them in the cubbert too?”
“No, not there, nor yet inside; but on the premises. The big bag, wi’ its contents, wor crammed up into a hole in the rocks—the clift at the back o’ the house.”
“Odd, all o’ it! An’ the oddest his leavin’ such things behind—to tell the tale o’ his guilty doin’s; I suppose bein’ full o’ his new fortunes, he’s forgot all about them.”
“But ye han’t waited for me to gie the whole o’ the cat’logue. There be somethin’ more to come.”
“What more?” asks the young waterman, suprisedly, and with renewed interest.
“A thing as seems kewrouser than all the rest. I can draw conclusions from the counterfeet coins, an’ the house-breakin’ implements; but the other beats me dead down, an’ I don’t know what to make o’t. Maybe you can tell. I foun’ it stuck up the same hole in the rocks, wi’ a stone in front exact fittin’ to an’ fillin’ its mouth.”
While speaking, he draws open a chest, and takes from it a bundle of some white stuff—apparently linen—loosely rolled. Unfolding, and holding it up to the light, he adds:—
“Theer be the eydentical article!”
No wonder he thought the thing strange, found where he had found it. For it is a shroud! White, with a cross and two letters in red stitched upon that part which, were it upon a body, both cross and lettering would lie over the breast!
“O God!” cries Jack Wingate, as his eyes rest upon the symbol. “That’s the shroud Mary Morgan wor buried in! I can swear to ’t. I seed her mother stitch on that cross an’ them letters—the ineetials o’ her name. An’ I seed it on herself in the coffin ’fore’t wor closed. Heaven o’ mercy! what do it mean?”
Amy Preece, lying awake in her bed, hears Jack Wingate’s voice excitedly exclaiming, and wonders what that means. But she is not told; nor learns she aught of a conversation which succeeds in more subdued tone; prolonged to a much later hour—even into morning. For before the two men part they mature a plan for ascertaining why that ghostly thing is still above ground instead of in the grave, where the body it covered is coldly sleeping!
What with the high hills that shut in the valley of the Wye, and the hanging woods that clothe their steep slopes, the nights there are often so dark as to justify the familiar saying, “You couldn’t see your hand before you.” I have been out on some, when a white kerchief held within three feet of the eye was absolutely invisible; and it required a skilful Jehu, with best patent lamps, to keep carriage wheels upon the causeway of the road.
Such a night has drawn down over Rugg’s Ferry, shrouding the place in impenetrable gloom. Situated in a concavity—as it were, at the bottom of an extinct volcanic crater—the obscurity is deeper than elsewhere; to-night alike covering the Welsh Harp, detached dwelling houses, chapel, and burying-ground, as with a pall. Not a ray of light scintillates anywhere; for the hour is after midnight, and everybody has retired to rest; the weak glimmer of candles from cottage windows, as the stronger glare through those of the hotel-tavern, no longer to be seen. In the last every lamp is extinguished, its latest-sitting guest—if it have any guest—having gone to bed.
Some of the poachers and night-netters may be astir. If so they are abroad, and not about the place, since it is just at such hours they are away from it.
For all, two men are near by, seemingly moving with as much stealth as any trespassers after fish or game, and with even more mystery in their movements. The place occupied by them is the shadowed corner under the wall of the chapel cemetery, where Captain Ryecroft saw three men embarking on a boat. These are also in a boat; but not one in the act of rowing off from the river’s edge; instead, just being brought into it.
Soon as its cutwater strikes against the bank, one of the men, rising to his feet, leaps out upon the land, and attaches the painter to a sapling, by giving it two or three turns around the stem. Then facing back towards the boat, he says:—
“Hand me them things; an’ look out not to let ’em rattle!”
“Ye need ha’ no fear ’bout that,” rejoins the other, who has now unshipped the oars, and stowed them fore and aft along the thwarts, they not being the things asked for. Then, stooping down, he lifts something out of the boat’s bottom, and passes it over the side, repeating the movement three or four times. The things thus transferred from one to the other are handled by both as delicately, as though they were pheasant’s or plover’s eggs, instead of what they are—an ordinary set of grave-digger’s tools—spade, shovel, and mattock. There is, besides, a bundle of something soft, which, as there is no danger of its making noise, is tossed up to the top of the bank.
He who has flung follows it; and the two gathering up the hardware, after some words exchanged in muttered tone, mount over the cemetery wall. The younger first leaps it, stretching back, and giving a hand to the other—an old man, who finds some difficulty in the ascent.
Inside the sacred precincts they pause; partly to apportion the tools, but as much to make sure that they have not hitherto been heard. Seen, they could not be, before or now.
Becoming satisfied that the coast is clear, the younger man says in a whisper—
“It be all right, I think. Every livin’ sinner—an’ there be a good wheen o’ that stripe ’bout here—have gone to bed. As for him, blackest o’ the lot, who lives in the house adjoinin’, ain’t like he’s at home. Good as sure down at Llangorren Court, where just now he finds quarters more comfortable. We hain’t nothin’ to fear, I take it. Let’s on to the place. You lay hold o’ my skirt, and I’ll gie ye the lead. I know the way, every inch o’ it.”
Saying which he moves off, the other doing as directed, and following step for step.
A few paces further, and they arrive at a grave; beside which they again make stop. In daylight it would show recently made, though not altogether new. A month, or so, since the turf had been smoothed over it.
The men are now about to disturb it, as evinced by their movements and the implements brought along. But, before going further in their design—body-snatching, or whatever it be—both drop down upon their knees, and again listen intently, as though still in some fear of being interrupted.
Not a sound is heard save the wind, as it sweeps in mournful cadence through the trees along the hill slopes, and nearer below, the rippling of the river.
At length, convinced they have the cemetery to themselves, they proceed to their work, which begins by their spreading out a sheet on the grass close to and alongside the grave—a trick of body-stealers—so as to leave no traces of their theft. That done, they take up the sods with their hands, carefully, one after another; and, with like care, lay them down upon the sheet, the grass sides underneath. Then, seizing hold of the tools—spade and shovel—they proceed to scoop out the earth, placing it in a heap beside.
They have no need to make use of the mattock; the soil is loose, and lifts easily. Nor is their task as excavators of long continuance—even shorter than they anticipated. Within less than eighteen inches of the surface their tools come in contact with a harder substance, which they can tell to be timber—the lid of a coffin.
Soon as striking it, the younger faces round to his companion, saying—
“I tolt ye so—listen!”
With the spade’s point he again gives the coffin a tap. It returns a hollow sound—too hollow for aught to be inside it!
“No body in there!” he adds.
“Hadn’t we better keep on, an’ make sure?” suggests the other.
“Sartint we had—an’ will.”
Once more they commence shovelling out the earth, and continue till it is all cleared from the coffin. Then, inserting the blade of the mattock under the edge of the lid, they raise it up; for it is not screwed down, only laid on loosely—the screws all drawn and gone!
Flinging himself on his face, and reaching forward, the younger man gropes inside the coffin—not expecting to feel any body there, but mechanically, and to see if there be aught else.
There is nothing—only emptiness. The house of the dead is untenanted—its tenant has been taken away!
“I know’d it!” he exclaims, drawing back. “I know’d my poor Mary wor no longer here!”
It is no body-snatcher who speaks thus, but Jack Wingate, his companion being Joseph Preece.
After which, the young waterman says not another word in reference to the discovery they have both made. He is less sad than thoughtful now. But he keeps his thoughts to himself, an occasional whisper to his companion being merely by way of direction, as they replace the lid upon the coffin, cover all up as before, shake in the last fragments of loose earth from the sheet, and restore the grave turf—adjusting the sods with as much exactitude, as though they were laying tesselated tiles!
Then, taking up their tools, they glide back to the boat, step into it, and shove off.
On return down stream they reflect in different ways; the old boatman of Llangorren still thinking it but a case of body-snatching, done by Coracle Dick, for the doctors—with a view to earning a dishonest penny.
Far otherwise the thoughts of Jack Wingate. He thinks, nay hopes—almost happily believes—that the body exhumed was not dead—never has been—but that Mary Morgan still lives, breathes, and has being!
“Drowned? No! Dead before she ever went under the water. Murdered, beyond the shadow of a doubt.”
It is Captain Ryecroft who thus emphatically affirms. And to himself, being alone, within his room in the Wyeside Hotel; for he is still in Herefordshire.
More in conjecture, he proceeds—“They first smothered, I suppose, or in some way rendered her insensible; then carried her to the place and dropped her in, leaving the water to complete their diabolical work? A double death as it were; though she may not have suffered its agonies twice. Poor girl! I hope not.”
In prosecuting the inquiry to which he has devoted himself, beyond certain unavoidable communications with Jack Wingate, he has not taken any one into his confidence. This partly from having no intimate acquaintances in the neighbourhood, but more because he fears the betrayal of his purpose. It is not ripe for public exposure, far less bringing before a court of justice. Indeed, he could not yet shape an accusation against any one, all that he has learnt new serving only to satisfy him that his original suspicions were correct; which it has done, as shown by his soliloquy.
He has since made a second boat excursion down the bye-channel—made it in the day time, to assure himself there was no mistake in his observations under the light of the lamp. It was for this he had bespoken Wingate’s skiff for the following day; for certain reasons reaching Llangorren at the earliest hour of dawn. There and then to see what surprised him quite as much as the unexpected discovery of the night before—a grand breakage from the brow of the cliff. But not any more misleading him. If the first “sign” observed there failed to blind him, so does that which has obliterated it. No natural rock-slide, was the conclusion he came to, soon as setting eyes upon it; but the work of human hands! And within the hour, as he could see by the clods of loosened earth still dropping down and making muddy the water underneath; while bubbles were ascending from the detached boulder lying invisible below!
Had he been there only a few minutes earlier, himself invisible, he would have seen a man upon the cliff’s crest, busy with a crowbar, levering the rock from its bed, and tilting it over—then carefully removing the marks of the iron implement, as also his own footprints!
That man saw him through the blue-grey dawn, in his skiff coming down the river; just as on the preceding night under the light of the moon. For he thus early astir and occupied in a task as that of Sysiphus, was no other than Father Rogier.
The priest had barely time to retreat and conceal himself, as the boat drew down to the eyot. Not this time crouching among the ferns; but behind some evergreens, at a farther and safer distance. Still near enough for him to observe the other’s look of blank astonishment on beholding the débacle, and note the expression change to one of significant intelligence as he continued gazing at it.
“Un limier veritable! A hound that has scented blood, and’s determined to follow it up, till he find the body whence it flowed. Aha! The game must be got out of his way. Llangorren will have to change owners once again, and the sooner the better.”
At the very moment these thoughts were passing through the mind of Gregoire Rogier, the “veritable bloodhound” was mentally repeating the same words he had used on the night before: “No accident—no suicide—murdered!” adding, as his eyes ranged over the surface of red sandstone, so altered in appearance, “This makes me all the more sure of it. Miserable trick! Not much Mr Lewin Murdock will gain by it.”
So thought he then. But now, days after, though still believing Murdock to be the murderer, he thinks differently about the “trick.” For the evidence afforded by the former traces, though slight, and pointing to no one in particular, was, nevertheless, a substantial indication of guilt against somebody; and these being blotted out, there is but his own testimony of their having ever existed. Though himself convinced that Gwendoline Wynn has been assassinated, he cannot see his way to convince others—much less a legal tribunal. He is still far from being in a position openly to accuse, or even name the criminals who ought to be arraigned.
He now knows there are more than one, or so supposes; still believing that Murdock has been the principal actor in the tragedy; though others besides have borne part in it.
“The man’s wife must know all about it?” he says, going on in conjectural chain; “and that French priest—he probably the instigator of it? Aye! possibly had a hand in the deed itself? There have been such cases recorded—many of them. Exercising great authority at Llangorren—as Jack has learned from his friend Joe—there commanding everybody and everything! And the fellow Dempsey—poacher, and what not—he, too, become an important personage about the place! Why all this? Only intelligible on the supposition that they have had to do with a death by which they have been all benefited. Yes; all four acting conjointly have brought it about!
“And how am I to bring it home to them? ’Twill be difficult, indeed, if at all possible. Even that slight sign destined has increased the difficulty.
“No use taking the ‘great unpaid’ into my confidence, nor yet the sharper stipendiaries. To submit my plans to either magistrate or policeman might be but to defeat them. ’Twould only raise a hue and cry, putting the guilty ones on their guard. That isn’t the way—will not do!
“And yet I must have some one to assist me. For there is truth in the old saw ‘Two heads better than one.’ Wingate is good enough in his way, and willing, but he can’t help me in mine. I want a man of my own class; one who—stay! George Shenstone? No! The young fellow is true as steel and brave as a lion, but—well, lacking brains. I could trust his heart, not his head. Where is he who has both to be relied upon? Ha! Mahon! The man—the very man! Experienced in the world’s wickedness, courageous, cool—except when he gets his Irish blood up against the Sassenachs—above all devoted to me, as I know; has never forgotten that little service I did him at Delhi. And he has nothing to do—plenty of time at his disposal. Yes; the Major’s my man!
“Shall I write and ask him to come over here. On second thoughts, No! Better for me to go thither; see him first, and explain all the circumstances. To Boulogne and back’s but a matter of forty-eight hours, and a day or two can’t make much difference in an affair like this. The scent’s cold as it can be, and may be taken up weeks hence as well as now. If we ever succeed in finding evidence of their guilt it will, no doubt, be mainly of the circumstantial sort; and much will depend on the character of the individuals accused. Now I think of it, something may be learnt about them in Boulogne itself; or at all events of the priest. Since I’ve had a good look at his forbidding face, I feel certain it’s the same I saw inside the doorway of that convent. If not, there are two of the sacerdotal tribe so like it would be a toss up which is one and which t’other.
“In any case there can be no harm in my making a scout across to Boulogne, and instituting inquiries about him. Mahon’s sister being at school in the establishment will enable us to ascertain whether a priest named Rogier holds relations with it, and we may learn something of the repute he bears. Perchance, also, a trifle concerning Mr and Mrs Lewin Murdock. It appears that both husband and wife are well known at Homburg, Baden, and other like resorts. Gaming, if not game, birds, in some of their migratory flights they have made short sojourn at the French seaport, to get their hands in for those grander Hells beyond. I’ll go over to Boulogne!”
A knock at the door. On the permission to enter, called out, a hotel porter presents himself. “Well?”
“Your waterman, sir, Wingate, says he’d like to see you, if convenient?”
“Tell him to step up!”
“What can Jack be coming after? Anyhow I’m glad he has come. ’Twill save me the trouble of sending for him; as I’d better settle his account before starting off.” (Jack has a new score against the Captain for boat hire, his services having been retained, exclusively, for some length of time past.) “Besides there’s something I wish to say—a long chapter of instructions to leave with him. Come in, Jack!”
This, as a shuffling in the corridor outside, tells that the waterman is wiping his feet on the door mat.
The door opening, displays him; but with an expression on his countenance very different from that of a man coming to dun for wages due. More like one entering to announce a death, or some event which greatly agitates him.
“What is it?” asks the Captain, observing his distraught manner.
“Somethin’ queer, sir; very queer indeed.”
“Ah! Let me hear it!” demands Ryecroft, with an air of eagerness, thinking it relates to himself and the matter engrossing his mind.
“I will, Captain. But it’ll take time in the tellin’.”
“Take as much as you like. I’m at your service. Be seated.”
Jack clutches hold of a chair, and draws it up close to where the Captain is sitting—by a table. Then glancing over his shoulder, and all round the room, to assure himself there is no one within earshot, he says, in grave, solemn voice:
“I do believe, Captain, she be still alive!”
Impossible to depict the expression on Vivian Ryecroft’s face, as the words of the waterman fall upon his ear. It is more than surprise—more than astonishment—intensely interrogative, as though some secret hope once entertained, but long gone out of his heart, had suddenly returned to it.
“Still alive!” he exclaims, springing to his feet, and almost upsetting the table. “Alive!” he mechanically repeats. “What do you mean, Wingate? And who?”
“My poor girl, Captain. You know.”
“His girl, not mine! Mary Morgan, not Gwendoline Wynn!” reflects Ryecroft within himself, dropping back upon his chair as one stunned by a blow.
“I’m almost sure she be still livin’,” continues the waterman, in wonder at the emotion his words have called up, though little suspecting why.
Controlling it, the other asks, with diminished interest, still earnestly:—
“What leads you to think that way, Wingate? Have you a reason?”
“Yes, have I; more’n one. It’s about that I ha’ come to consult ye.”
“You’ve come to astonish me! But proceed!”
“Well, sir, as I ha’ sayed, it’ll take a good bit o’ tellin’, and a lot o’ explanation beside. But since ye’ve signified I’m free to your time, I’ll try and make the story short’s I can.”
“Don’t curtail it in any way. I wish to hear all!”
The waterman thus allowed latitude, launches forth into a full account of his own life—those chapters of it relating to his courtship of, and betrothal to, Mary Morgan. He tells of the opposition made by her mother, the rivalry of Coracle Dick, and the sinister interference of Father Rogier. In addition, the details of that meeting of the lovers under the elm—their last—and the sad episode soon after succeeding.
Something of all this Ryecroft has heard before, and part of it suspected. What he now hears new to him is the account of a scene in the farm-house of Abergann, while Mary Morgan lay in the chamber of death, with a series of incidents that came under the observation of her sorrowing lover. The first, his seeing a shroud being made by the girl’s mother, white, with a red cross, and the initial letters of her name braided over the breast: the same soon afterwards appearing upon the corpse. Then the strange behaviour of Father Rogier on the day of the funeral; the look with which he stood regarding the girl’s face as she lay in her coffin; his abrupt exit out of the room; as afterwards his hurried departure from the side of the grave before it was finally closed up—a haste noticed by others as well as Jack Wingate.
“But what do you make of all that?” asks Ryecroft, the narrator having paused to gather himself for other, and still stranger revelations. “How can it give you a belief in the girl being still alive? Quite its contrary, I should say.”
“Stay, Captain! There be more to come.”
The Captain does stay, listening on. To hear the story of the planted and plucked up flower; of another and later visit made by Wingate to the cemetery in daylight, then seeing what led him to suspect, that not only had the plant been destroyed, but all the turf on the grave disturbed! He speaks of his astonishment at this, with his perplexity. Then goes on to give account of the evening spent with Joseph Preece in his new home; of the waifs and strays there shown him; the counterfeit coins, burglars’ tools, and finally the shroud—that grim remembrancer, which he recognised at sight!
His narrative concludes with his action taken after, assisted by the old boatman.
“Last night,” he says, proceeding with the relation, “or I ought to say this same mornin’—for ’twar after midnight hour—Joe an’ myself took the skiff, an’ stole up to the chapel graveyard; where we opened her grave, an’ foun’ the coffin empty! Now, Captain, what do ye think o’ the whole thing?”
“On my word, I hardly know what to think of it. Mystery seems the measure of the time! This you tell me of is strange—if not stranger than any! What are your own thoughts about it, Jack?”
“Well, as I’ve already sayed, my thoughts be, an’ my hopes, that Mary’s still in the land o’ the livin’.”
“I hope she is.”
The tone of Ryecroft’s rejoinder tells of his incredulity, further manifested by his questions following.
“But you saw her in her coffin? Waked for two days, as I understood you; then laid in her grave? How could she have lived throughout all that? Surely she was dead!”
“So I thought at the time, but don’t now.”
“My good fellow, I fear you are deceiving yourself. I’m sorry having to think so. Why the body has been taken up again is of itself a sufficient puzzle; but alive—that seems physically impossible!”
“Well, Captain, it’s just about the possibility of the thing I come to ask your opinion; thinkin’ ye’d be acquainted wi’ the article itself.”
“What article?”
“The new medicine; it as go by the name o’ chloryform.”
“Ha! you have a suspicion—”
“That she ha’ been chloryformed, an’ so kep’ asleep—to be waked up when they wanted her. I’ve heerd say, they can do such things.”
“But then she was drowned also? Fell from a foot plank, you told me? And was in the water some time?”
“I don’t believe it, a bit. It be true enough she got somehow into the water, an’ wor took out insensible, or rather drifted out o’ herself, on the bank just below, at the mouth o’ the brook. But that wor short after, an’ she might still a’ ben alive not with standin’. My notion be, that the priest had first put the chloryform into her, or did it then, an’ knew all along she warn’t dead, nohow.”
“My dear Jack, the thing cannot be possible. Even if it were, you seem to forget that her mother, father—all of them—must have been cognisant of these facts—if facts?”
“I don’t forget it, Captain. ’Stead I believe they all wor cognisant o’ them—leastways, the mother.”
“But why should she assist in such a dangerous deception—at risk of her daughter’s life?”
“That’s easy answered. She did it partly o’ herself; but more at the biddin’ o’ the priest, whom she daren’t disobey—the weak-minded creature most o’ her time given up to sayin’ prayers and paternosters. They all knowed the girl loved me, and wor sure to be my wife, whatever they might say or do against it. Wi’ her willing I could a’ defied the whole lot o’ them. Bein’ aware o’ that their only chance wor to get her out o’ my way by some trick—as they ha’ indeed got her. Ye may think it strange their takin’ all that trouble; but if ye’d seen her ye wouldn’t. There worn’t on all Wyeside so good lookin’ a girl!”
Ryecroft again looks incredulous; not smilingly, but with a sad cast of countenance.
Despite its improbability, however, he begins to think there may be some truth in what the waterman says—Jack’s earnest convictions sympathetically impressing him.
“And supposing her to be alive,” he asks, “where do you think she is now? Have you any idea?”
“I have—leastways a notion.”
“Where?”
“Over the water—in France—the town o’ Bolone.”
“Boulogne!” exclaims the Captain, with a start. “What makes you suppose she is there?”
“Something, sir, I han’t yet spoke to ye about. I’d a’most forgot the thing, an’ might never a thought o’t again, but for what ha’ happened since. Ye’ll remember the night we come up from the ball, my tellin’ ye I had an engagement the next day to take the young Powells down the river?”
“I remember it perfectly.”
“Well; I took them, as agreed; an’ that day we went down’s fur’s Chepstow. But they wor bound for the Severn side a duck shootin’; and next mornin’ we started early, afore daybreak. As we were passin’ the wharf below Chepstow Bridge, where there wor several craft lyin’ in, I noticed one sloop-rigged ridin’ at anchor a bit out from the rest, as if about clearin’ to put to sea. By the light o’ a lamp as hung over the taffrail, I read the name on her starn, showin’ she wor French, an’ belonged to Bolone. I shouldn’t ha’ thought that anythin’ odd, as there be many foreign craft o’ the smaller kind puts in at Chepstow. But what did appear odd, an’ gied me a start too, wor my seein’ a boat by the sloop’s side wi’ a man in it, who I could a’most sweared wor the Rogue’s Ferry priest. There wor others in the boat besides, an’ they appeared to be gettin’ some sort o’ bundle out o’ it, an’ takin’ it up the man-ropes, aboard o’ the sloop. But I didn’t see any more, as we soon passed out o’ sight, goin’ on down. Now, Captain, it’s my firm belief that man must ha’ been the priest, and that thing, I supposed to be a bundle o’ marchandise, neyther more nor less than the body o’ Mary Morgan—not dead, but livin’!”
“You astound me, Wingate! Certainly a most singular circumstance! Coincidence too! Boulogne—Boulogne!”
“Yes, Captain; by the letterin’ on her starn the sloop must ha’ belonged there; an’ I’m goin’ there myself.”
“I too, Jack! We shall go together!”
“He’s gone away—given it up! Be glad, madame!”
Father Rogier so speaks on entering the drawing-room of Llangorren Court, where Mrs Murdock is seated.
“What, Gregoire?”—were her husband present it would be “Père;” but she is alone—“Who’s gone away? And why am I to rejoice?”
“Le Capitaine.”
“Ha!” she ejaculates, with a pleased look, showing that the two words have answered all her questions in one.
“Are you sure of it? The news seems too good for truth.”
“It’s true, nevertheless; so far as his having gone away. Whether to stay away is another matter. We must hope he will.”
“I hope it with all my heart.”
“And well you may, madame; as I myself. We had more to fear from that chien de chasse than all the rest of the pack—ay, have still, unless he’s found the scent too cold, and in despair abandoned the pursuit; which I fancy he has, thrown off by that little rock-slide. A lucky chance my having caught him at his reconnaissance; and rather a clever bit of strategy so to baffle him! Wasn’t it, chérie?”
“Superb! The whole thing from beginning to end! You’ve proved yourself a wonderful man, Gregoire Rogier.”
“And I hope worthy of Olympe Renault?”
“You have.”
“Merci! So far that’s satisfactory; and your slave feels he has not been toiling in vain. But there’s a good deal more to be done before we can take our ship safe into port. And it must be done quickly, too. I pine to cast off this priestly garb—in which I’ve been so long miserably masquerading—and enter into the real enjoyments of life. But there’s another, and more potent reason, for using despatch; breakers around us, on which we may be wrecked, ruined any day—any hour. Le Capitaine Ryecroft was not, or is not, the only one.”
“Richard—le braconnier—you’re thinking of?”
“No, no, no! Of him we needn’t have the slightest fear. I hold his lips sealed, by a rope around his neck; whose noose I can draw tight at the shortest notice. I am far more apprehensive of Monsieur, votre mari!”
“In what way?”
“More than one; but for one, his tongue. There’s no knowing what a drunken man may do or say in his cups; and Monsieur Murdock is hardly ever out of them. Suppose he gets to babbling, and lets drop something about—well, I needn’t say what. There’s still suspicion abroad—plenty of it,—and like a spark applied to tinder, a word would set it ablaze.”
“C’est vrai!”
“Fortunately, Mademoiselle had no very near relatives of the male sex, nor any one much interested in her fate, save the fiancé and the other lover—the rustic and rejected one—Shenstone fils. Of him we need take no account. Even if suspicious, he hasn’t the craft to unravel a clue so cunningly rolled as ours; and for the ancien hussard, let us hope he has yielded to despair, and gone back whence he came. Luck too, in his having no intimacies here, or I believe anywhere in the shire of Hereford. Had it been otherwise, we might not so easily have got disembarrassed of him.”
“And you do think he has gone for good?”
“I do; at least it would seem so. On his second return to the hotel—in haste as it was—he had little luggage; and that he has all taken away with him. So I learnt from one of the hotel people, who professes our faith. Further, at the railway station, that he took ticket for London. Of course that means nothing. He may be en route for anywhere beyond—round the globe, if he feel inclined to circumnavigation. And I shall be delighted if he do.”
He would not be much delighted had he heard at the railway station of what actually occurred—that in getting his ticket Captain Ryecroft had inquired whether he could not be booked through for Boulogne. Still less might Father Rogier have felt gratification to know, that there were two tickets taken for London; a first-class for the Captain himself, and a second for the waterman Wingate—travelling together, though in separate carriages, as befitted their different rank in life.
Having heard nothing of this, the sham priest—as he has now acknowledged himself—is jubilant at the thought that another hostile pawn in the game he has been so skilfully playing has disappeared from the chess-board. In short, all have been knocked over, queen, bishops, knights, and castles. Alone the king stands, he tottering; for Lewin Murdock is fast drinking himself to death. It is of him the priest speaks as king:—
“Has he signed the will?”
“Oui.”
“When?”
“This morning, before he went out. The lawyer who drew it up came, with his clerk to witness—”
“I know all that,” interrupts the priest, “as I should, having sent them. Let me have a look at the document. You have it in the house, I hope?”
“In my hand,” she answers, diving into a drawer of the table by which she sits, and drawing forth a folded sheet of parchment; “Le voilà!”
She spreads it out, not to read what is written upon it, only to look at the signatures, and see they are right. Well knows he every word of that will, he himself having dictated it. A testament made by Lewin Murdock, which, at his death, leaves the Llangorren estate—as sole owner and last in tail he having the right so to dispose of it—to his wife Olympe—née Renault—for her life; then to his children, should there be any surviving; failing such, to Gregoire Rogier, Priest of the Roman Catholic Church; and in the event of his demise preceding that of the other heirs hereinbefore mentioned, the estate, or what remains of it, to become the property of the Convent of —, Boulogne-sur-mer, France.
“For that last clause, which is yours, Gregoire, the nuns of Boulogne should be grateful to you, or at all events, the abbess, Lady Superior, or whatever she’s called.”
“So she will,” he rejoins with a dry laugh, “when she gets the property so conveyed. Unfortunately for her the reversion is rather distant, and having to pass through so many hands there may be no great deal left of it, on coming into hers. Nay!” he adds in exclamation, his jocular tone suddenly changing to the serious, “if some step be not taken to put a stop to what’s going on, there won’t be much of the Llangorren estate left for any one—not even for yourself, madame. Under the fingers of Monsieur, with the cards in them, it’s being melted down as snow on the sunny side of a hill. Even at this self-same moment it may be going off in large slices—avalanches!”
“Mon Dieu!” she exclaims, with an alarmed air, quite comprehending the danger thus figuratively portrayed.
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” he continues, “if to-day he were made a thousand pounds the poorer. When I left the Ferry he was in the Welsh Harp, as I was told, tossing sovereigns upon its bar counter, ‘Heads and tails, who wins?’ Not he, you may be sure. No doubt he’s now at a gaming-table inside, engaged with that gang of sharpers who have lately got around him, staking large sums on every turn of the cards—Jews’ eyes, ponies, and monkeys, as these chevaliers d’industrie facetiously term their money. If we don’t bring all this to a termination, that will you have in your hand won’t be worth the price of the parchment it’s written upon. Comprenez-vous, chérie?”
“Parfaitement! But how is it to be brought to a termination. For myself I haven’t an idea. Has any occurred to you, Gregoire?”
As the ex-courtesan asks the question, she leans across the little table, and looks the false priest straight in the face. He knows the bent of her inquiry, told it by the tone and manner in which it has been put—both significant of something more than the words might otherwise convey. Still he does not answer it directly. Even between these two fiends in human form, despite their mutual understanding of each other’s wickedness, and the little reason either has for concealing it, there is a sort of intuitive reticence upon the matter which is in the minds of both. For it is murder—the murder of Lewin Murdock!
“Le pauvre homme!” ejaculates the man, with a pretence at compassionating, under the circumstances ludicrous. “The cognac is killin’ him, not by inches, but ells; and I don’t believe he can last much longer. It seems but a question of weeks; may be only days. Thanks to the school in which I was trained, I have sufficient medical knowledge to prognosticate that.”
A gleam as of delight passes over the face of the woman—an expression almost demoniacal; for it is a wife hearing this about her husband!
“You think only days?” she asks, with an eagerness as if apprehensive about that husband’s health. But the tone tells different, as the hungry look in her eye while awaiting the answer. Both proclaim she wishes it in the affirmative; as it is.
“Only days!” he says, as if his voice were an echo. “Still days count in a thing of this kind—aye, even hours. Who knows but that in a fit of drunken bravado he may stake the whole estate on a single turn of cards or cast of dice? Others have done the like before now—gentlemen grander than he, with titles to their names—rich in one hour, beggars in the next. I can remember more than one.”
“Ah! so can I.”
“Englishmen, too; who usually wind up such matters by putting a pistol to their heads, and blowing out their brains. True, Monsieur hasn’t any much to blow out; but that isn’t a question which affects us—myself as well as you. I’ve risked everything—reputation, which I care least about, if the affair can be brought to a proper conclusion; but should it fail, then—I need not tell you. What we’ve done, if known, would soon make us acquainted with the inside of an English gaol. Monsieur, throwing away his money in this reckless fashion must be restrained, or he’ll bring ruin to all of us. Therefore some steps must be taken to restrain him, and promptly.”
“Vraiment! I ask you again—have you thought of anything, Gregoire?”
He does not make immediate answer, but seems to ponder over, or hang back upon it. When at length given it is itself an interrogation, apparently unconnected with what they have been speaking about.
“Would it greatly surprise you, if to-night your husband didn’t come home to you?”
“Certainly not—in the least. Why should it? It wouldn’t be the first time by scores—hundreds—for him to stay all night away from me. Aye, and at that same Welsh Harp, too—many’s the night.”
“To your great annoyance, no doubt; if it did not make you dreadfully jealous?”
She breaks out into a laugh, hollow and heartless, as was ever heard in an allée of the Jardin Mabille. When it is ended she adds gravely:—
“The time was when he might have made me so; I may as well admit that. Not now, as you know, Gregoire. Now, instead of feeling annoyed by it, I’d only be too glad to think I should never see his face again. Le brute ivrogne!”
To this monstrous declaration Rogier laconically rejoins:—
“You may not.” Then placing his lips close to her ear, he adds in a whisper, “If all prosper, as planned, you will not!”
She neither starts, nor seeks to inquire further. She knows he has conceived some scheme to disembarrass her of a husband, she no longer care? for, to both become inconvenient. And from what has gone before, she can rely on Rogier with its execution.