Stolen Idols
Page 29
CHAPTER XII
"Things do be happening round about here, for sure," Mr. Pank remarked,as he moved down the whisky bottle from its shelf. "What it all may leadto is more than a body can say, but I don't like the look of it, Mr.Craske."
The grocer added less than his usual modicum of water to his whisky. Hisaspect was gloomy. So also were the aspects of Mr. Franks, the butcher,who had strolled across for news, and Walter Beavens, the wheelwright,who had come on a similar errand.
"It's almost as bad," Mr. Craske declared, "as the week after themurder. Every one went about then, as it were, on tiptoe. Now thisburglary, taken by itself, ain't anything to make special mention of.Why, Mr. Johnson himself, he was in the morning after it happened, andhe treated it mostly as a joke."
"It's my belief," Mr. Pank pronounced, "that there's something moreserious brewing. There's Inspector Cloutson come to stop in the village.There's Major Holmes, the Chief Constable, up and down from the Hall allday. There's Mr. Johnson, he don't come near any more. Mr. Fielding--himwe took for a schoolmaster and whom they do say was a kind ofdetective--he ain't been in. And Mr. Rawson--why, no one ain't seen himfor four days. We shall have news before long, and bad news, I'm afraidit may be."
"There's wild talk going about," Mr. Craske sighed, "and what it maymean, no one can say for sure, but what I do say is, reason is reason,and is it likely that any one here could have a grudge against a poorold harmless fellow like Mr. Endacott? All this talk of Images andChinese documents and suchlike seems as though it had come out of thepages of one of these serial novels as folks read in the newspapers. Idon't take no stock of such stuff."
Mr. Franks pushed his tankard across to be refilled.
"There's one bit of bad news, at any rate, may be sprung upon us at anymoment," he said. "They do say that every servant in the Hall had amonth's notice yesterday. I heard that from Miss Shane, thehousekeeper's niece."
The landlord shook his head gloomily.
"Things do seem to be pointing that way," he admitted, "and Mr. Rawsonkeeping away and all. If so be that it's true, it will be a sad loss.The Squire be a proud man in his way, but he be a true gentleman, and sobe Mr. Henry, and a more popular young gent than Mr. Gregory has neverbeen known in the county. It's a wonderful property to have to give up."
"We'll get some one here, I suppose," Mr. Craske predictedpessimistically, "who's made pots of money by being careful, and goes onsaving pots the same way. Some of those big houses, the way they do gothrough their books and talk about the Stores to you! Why, here's Mr.Rawson."
The butler entered, solemn, ponderous and dignified as ever. He raisedhis black bowler hat in acknowledgment of the greetings which assailedhim from all sides and sank slowly into a chair.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen," he said. "Mr. Pank, I'll take double myusual quantity of Scotch whisky."
"With me, Mr. Rawson," the grocer insisted. "We've missed you the lastfew days."
Rawson sighed.
"I felt too worried in my mind for company," he confessed. "It's nosecret to you all, so why should I act mysterious about it. There'sskeery doings at the Hall."
There was a little rustle of interest. Rawson, disposed for gossip,waited until his drink was placed in his hand and solemnly pledged itsdonor.
"To begin with," he confided, "it's no secret now that we're in trouble.We may have acted foolish," he went on. "Nothing, of course, can be saidfor seventy thousand pounds lost at Newmarket, and a trifle more thanthat last year. Foolish we may have been, but the gentry have always hadtheir weaknesses. The hounds have cost us a cool eight thousand a yearfor the last five years, and subscriptions getting less all the time.Then the taxes. It seems whatever sort of government we get these daysthey want your money--fingers all itching for it. Get you all ways!Income Tax and Land Tax--why, it's a wonder they don't grab the breathout of your body. It's the first time such a thing's happened to me inmy career, but last night--you'll believe me, gentlemen--I had mynotice."
There was a murmur of sympathy. Rawson raised his glass and drank.
"It was Mr. Henry, as usual, who had to tackle the job," he continued."He sent for us one by one to his study, where he sat as prim and formalas ever, with all his catalogues around and his books of reference.'Rawson,' he said, 'you have been an excellent servant, but conditionsrender it necessary for my brother and me to close this house for thepresent. We are, in fact, ceasing to keep an establishment. I amcompelled, therefore, to ask you to accept a month's notice.' All veryproper and regular, gentlemen, but I could see that Mr. Henry werefeeling it. Mrs. Shane came out all crying. I seen him afterwards,though, and he were just the same as usual, except that his face were aswhite as parchment."
"It do be a sad loss for all," Mr. Pank declared. "There's no word ofanything but good in these parts for any of them--for the Squire, or Mr.Henry, or Mr. Gregory either."
"As though this weren't trouble enough," Rawson proceeded portentously,"there's all sorts of mysterious doings and rumours afloat, about enoughto drive a body crazy. You mind the young man Fielding, who calledhimself a retired schoolmaster and sat in the corner pretending to makeflies?"
"The hypocrite!" Mr. Craske exclaimed.
"A detective, that's what he was," Rawson went on. "Not a policedetective, you understand, but one of them that goes about spying for aliving. Now he is up and swore that the night of the burglary he seensome one leave the Hall by the oak library, which is Mr. Gregory'sprivate way almost, twenty minutes or half an hour before the burglarywere committed."
There was a little buzz of exclamations and remarks, a general feelingof indignation against the pseudo-schoolmaster.
"If he were one of these paid spies," Mr. Craske enquired, "who werepaying him?"
"That I can't say for sure," the butler acknowledged, "but I have mysuspicions--very grave suspicions too."
"And whom might you be fancying to be the man, Mr. Rawson?" one of thelittle group asked.
"Him as has taken the Great House--Mr. Johnson, by name," was theinjured reply. "We've had him up to lunch too, and treated him, as itwere, beyond his station. I'm glad to find he's not here to-day,gentlemen. There's a word or two I might have had to say to him."
"It do seem most mysterious," the innkeeper declared. "What do yousuppose this Mr. Johnson has got to do with it all, Mr. Rawson, thathe's putting his oar in?"
"Mr. Johnson," the butler announced, "has come to these parts underfalse pretences. There's many has wondered why he settled here and manyasked him the question, and all the time he answered innocent like thathe just wanted the country and the house suited him, and so on. Do youmind--all on you--when he pretended to be surprised about the murder? Heknew about it all the time. He was Mr. Endacott's partner out somewherein foreign parts, and he settled down here in a mischievous kind of wayto make trouble and disturbance amongst his betters."
"Well, I never!" Mr. Pank exclaimed. "A pleasanter-spoken body nevercame in the place or a more harmless looking. There's nothing fresh, isthere, Mr. Rawson, about the murder?"
"God knows!" was the butler's ponderous pronouncement. "There's strangethings all around us, and what they may mean or where they may lead towe none of us can tell, at this present moment."
"There is Mr. Johnson," the grocer exclaimed, looking out over themuslin blinds, "and Inspector Cloutson with him. Look at 'em walkingtogether, so confidential like."
"I'd like to know what they're saying," Mr. Craske confessed. "Headsalmost touching, as you might say. And did you see the Inspector turnaround and look across towards the Hall?"
The two men halted outside the postern gate. Presently they separated,and, with a brief nod, Mr. Johnson entered his own domain, whilstInspector Cloutson turned and made his way back towards the policestation. The little company watched Mr. Johnson's retiring figure asthey had once watched his progress down the village street on the day ofhis first visit.
"In my opinion," Rawson declared emphatically, "that's the
man who'sbrought most of the mischief into this neighbourhood. I'm not one towish any of my neighbours harm, but if the chap who broke into the GreatHouse the other night had been of my way of thinking, he'd have givenhim one which would have kept him quiet for a bit longer than this."
* * * * *
Mr. Johnson moved rather wearily to his favourite seat under the cedartree, and sat there for several minutes in tired contemplation. He awokefrom a fit of brooding to find Katherine Besant crossing the lawntowards him. She was bareheaded and it was obvious that she had beenrunning. He rose to his feet..
"Come and sit down," he begged.
"I can't stop," she answered. "I just came in. I wanted to have a wordor two with you."
He took her hands in his and looked at her steadily. She was a littleflushed with her hurrying, but it struck him that her hair was morecarefully arranged and that her linen frock, simple though its fashion,was becoming. The slight eagerness in her manner, communicated also toher expression, gave her an air of greater life and vivacity.
"Mr. Johnson," she exclaimed, "I really can't stop. I don't know whenMadame may want me. But what does it all mean? Every one seems wildlyunhappy, and it all seems to centre round you. What are you doing toeverybody? You were so kind to me."
"My dear," he replied gently, "it would take a long time to explain.Very soon you will know everything."
"But the everything that I am to know seems as though it were going tobe horrible!" she cried. "Madame looks as if she were about to die everymoment. Sir Bertram rode away from seeing her this morning looking likea ghost. They say that Mr. Gregory left last night for abroad. MissEndacott sent three notes to him yesterday. I know that she wanted himto come to see her. He wouldn't. And the place seems full--full ofphosphorescence. It's like a pause before a thunder storm. No one seemsto know quite what to expect. Is it you who have been stirring up allthis trouble?"
He shook his head.
"The trouble, such as it is," he assured her solemnly, "was caused bythose who must suffer for it."
"Who are they?" she demanded.
He pointed over his shoulder towards the Hall.
"The Ballastons," he answered.
"But what have they done?"
He shook his head.
"Don't ask me too much," he begged. "It's an ugly story, and you'll knowit soon enough. Only, believe me, it isn't I who am bringing it allabout."
"But you could stop it," she expostulated.
"Nothing in the world could stop it," he answered. "I don't look like asuperstitious man, do I, Miss Besant?"
"I shouldn't have said so," she admitted.
"I have this belief, though," he went on, "which you may callsuperstitious, or you may not. There are some things which a man whomeddles with must suffer for. I have seen it in my younger days inEgypt, and I have seen it also in China. I have seen a man who posed asa great savant and Egyptologist destroy a sacred tomb. The newspapers ofthe world were filled with accounts of the treasure he discovered. Hedied within a few months, and to this day no one knows how. And thentell me this, by what right does a young man like Gregory Ballaston,simply because he has courage and enterprise, and because he is facedwith ruin, dare to come out to a strange country, break into a sacredtemple and rob it? Well, he found no treasure, but for the evil whichhas come because of his wrong-doing, you must not blame me who point thefinger to his guilt. You must blame something which neither you nor Ifully understand, but which is working for a punishment just as surely."
"But you don't think," she faltered, "you can't believe, that GregoryBallaston killed Mr. Endacott."
"The law will have to decide that," he answered gravely.
She sat for several moments, pensive and still. Then she rose to herfeet.
"I think it is all very horrible," she sighed.
"Life has its grim and terrible side," he declared, "but underlying itall there is a sense of justice which has made us humans frame laws andinstitute a code of punishment. The instinct to do this and abide by theresults is a part of nature itself. No one really escapes theconsequences of ill-doing. Will you promise me one thing, Miss Besant?"
She had been in the act of turning away. She paused.
"Everything may be changed here in a few days," he went on, "and, ofcourse, I may be pretty unpopular. Will you promise me that you will notgo away without seeing me?"
She hesitated for a moment. Then she gave him her hand quickly. To hissurprise there were tears in her eyes.
"I promise," she said. "You have been kind to me, at any rate. You arethe first person who has been really kind to me for years."
She moved away too quickly for him to detain her. Mr. Johnson returnedslowly to the house, over which the shadow of tragedy seemed once moreto be brooding.