Delphi Complete Works of Arthur Morrison

by Arthur Morrison

  “’Tis a wonnerful stick,” remarked the docile Banham, examining it as though it were not as familiar in his eyes as Abel Pennyfather himself. “A wonnerful stick, sarten to say. An’ nothen but a rank oad thistle, sez you! Well, well.”

  “The games I had with that stick!” Abel pursued, with a chuckle. “Drove poor oad Bob Wilker hafe shanny. ‘Good mornin’, Master Wilker,’ sez I ‘How d’ ye like my warlkin’ stick? Fine bit o’ timber, ben’t it? Much obliged t’ ye for it. Master Wilker. Got it out o’ a wheat fiel’ o’ yourn, an’ left plenty more behine. Why doan’t you grow warlkin’ sticks for reg’lar crop?’ Lord! that mad he were!”

  “He were a rum’un, oad Wilker,” Prentice said soberly, refilling his pipe. “Farmed slovenly an’ farmed mean, an’ thote to make it pay by bein’ meaner. Remember the fanteeg with the gleaners?”

  “Woon’t hev’em, would he?”

  “Got a-hossback, with a rope to the saddle, him an’ his hossman, both a-hossback, one each end o’ the rope. Gallopped over a fiel’, so’s to loop up arl the gleaners an’ sweep’em away. Gleaners got on a bank an’ broke his ja’ with a brickbat. Rope caught a woman, hulled her over an’ putt out her shoulder, and she summonsed him an’ made him pay. He went in to tie up his ja’, an’ the gleaners they went off with fower traves o’ wheat. Cost him three years’ gleanin’s, that did.”

  “Well,” Pennyfather proclaimed, “he den’t know how to farm, he den’t. Farmin’ mean doan’t do — not in Essex. Now look at me. I’ll just tell ‘ee. When a man comes—”

  There was a wrenching, first one way and then the other, at the door handle, ere the door opened, and a red, vacant face appeared above a dirty smock frock and below a very bad hat. “Master Pennyfaa’?” said the face interrogatively: for Abel was behind the door.

  “Ees?” Pennyfather turned about in his chair and faced the new-comer. “What is’t now, Jarge Crick?”

  “They cows be driv’ in by the new boy, and Missis she says there be but fowerteen in cow’us.”

  “Fowerteen? Where be t’ other then?”

  “Missus say it be oad Molly.”

  “Where be’t, joulterhead?”

  “She maake count it strayed down on to marshes. Boy went and found gate oppen.”

  “An’ why den’t he go an’ find her?” Abel demanded with rising wrath.

  “’Tis dark, an’ he be feared.”

  “Feared! Feared o’ what? Why den’t ye go yerself, ‘stead o’ comin’ jahin’ here? Yow ben’t feared, too, be yow?”

  “Yow be mindful of the White Lady down by the castle, Jarge,” put in Dan Fisk, with a malicious squint. “Ay, and the Black Man, too, and the witches that do live thereby.”

  “‘Haps oad Molly won’t take no ill a warm night, master,” Jarge hinted uneasily, fidgeting with the door-knob, “an’ ’tis hard to find a beast in the dark.”

  “Take no ill! Why she’ll go a-eatin’ that oad cowbane arl night an’ pizen herself! They squelchy places be full of it. Doan’t ‘ee be a fool, Jarge Crick. Take yow a lantern, an’ go arter her, quick an’ sharp. Go on!”

  Jarge Crick, with no extravagant signs of enthusiasm, slowly withdrew, and pulled the door behind him.

  “It do beat me,” commented Abel Pennyfather, when he was gone, “to see the timmersome fancies o’ folk hereabout. Ghosts, an’ witches, an’ White Ladies, an’ Black Men, an’ what not, an’ everybody feared to go nigh the castle arter dark, an’ Cunnin’ Murr’ll there makin’ his livin’ of it.”

  Banham shuffled uneasily, and Prentice said, “Cunnin’ Murr’ll’s a knowledgeable man, howsomedever.”

  “An’ I do seem to remember,” remarked Dan Fisk abstractedly, “I do seem to remember somebody carlin’ in Cunnin’ Murr’ll to a sick cow — though whether ‘twere oad Molly or one o’ the oathers I dunno.”

  “Cow doctorin’s one thing,” retorted Abel, reddening and puffing his cheeks, “an’ ghosts an’ goblins is anoather. I doan’t deny as Murr’ll be a scholard, an’ I’ve had him to cure cows an’ pigs, an’ I’d hev him agin; an’ I’d hev him for a human ague or what not. But ghosts an’ witches — bah! I doan’t give that for arl of ‘em!” And he snapped his fingers.

  “Murr’ll be a wonnerful man with warts,” said Prentice. “Looks at ‘em an’ they be gone in the mornin’. Sometimes doan’t even look at ‘em.”

  “Ah!” said another, “an’ things stole! ’Tis known how gifted he be with they. Remember Dicky Wicks, as went to sleep in the tap-room at the Crown an’ got his puss stole? Well there were twelve shillin’ in the puss, an’ he went to Murr’ll, an’ Murr’ll he took it down ‘zact, when he went in an’ when he woke up, an’ who were there, and what the puss were like, an’ what not. So, sez Murr’ll, ‘If I get it back for yow ‘ool yow promise not to persecute—’”

  “Prosecute,” Prentice hinted.

  “So I said — persecute. ‘If I get it back for yow,’ sez Murr’ll, ‘‘ool yow promise not to persecute, supposin’ yow larn who be the thief?’ So Dicky Wicks promised, an’ sez Murr’ll,’ Putt a pot or a mug on your doorstep overnight, an’ look in it in the mornin.’’ So Dicky Wicks putts out the mug, an’ in the mornin’ he comes an’ looks at it, an’ there be nothen there—”

  “Ha! ha!” roared Abel Pennyfather. “Might ha’ ‘spected as much. Nothen there!”

  “Nothen there the fust mornin’, as I said. But sez Murr’ll, ‘Putt it out agin,’ an’ he did; an’ nex’ mornin’ there be the puss in the mug complete, just as ‘twere lost, with the twelve shillin’ in it, the very same coins as were there when he lost it — leas’ ways he coon’t swear to ‘em, but he thote most on ‘em were.”

  “Ay, ’tis wonderful doin’s, sarten to say,” Banham said musingly, with a slow shake of the head. “An’ him with such a mort o’ trades, too. Readin’ arl sort o’ things — the stars, an’ Greek, an’ moles an’ what not, an’ herbs and cures, an’ surveyin’.”

  “Ah, an’ wonnerful visions o’ prophecy in a pail, they do say. Why, that Mrs Mead as is now, when her fust husban’ went away an’ weren’t heard of ever agin, she den’t know whether she might marry agin lawful or not, till she went to Cunnin’ Murr’ll an’ looked in the pail o’ watter an’ there see a funeral a-goin’ into a chu’chyard. Den’t know what to do, not till then, she den’t.”

  “’Tis no denyin’ he be a man o’ great powers,” said Prentice, with judicial calm.

  “An’ how he go about at night! He’ve been seen at sputs miles apart at the same time, often. He go out most o’ dark nights, when oather folk be timmersome, an’ he go anywhere — white ladies or sparrits give him no fear.”

  Abel Pennyfather snorted. “Give him no fear!” he repeated scornfully. “An’ who do fear ‘em, eh? Who do fear ‘em?”

  “Some do, sarten to say,” Banham replied mildly. “’Tis not given to arl folk to meet such with galliant defiance like yourn, Master Pennyfather.”

  “Pooh, pooh!” said Abel Pennyfather.

  There was a gallop and a bounce outside, and something struck the door with a clatter. Once more it opened, and Jarge Crick, his face red no longer, but dirty white, like putty, stood and gasped for breath, an extinguished horn lantern hanging from one finger and smelling horribly.

  “Why, Jarge!” cried Dan Fisk. “Been a-ghost seein’? What ha’ yow done with oad Molly?”

  “Marshes — castle — ghostes — I see ‘em — witches — arl on ‘em — G’Lor!” Jarge Crick laid hold of a chair-back and panted afresh, his eyes rolling wildly.

  “What ha’ ye seen, ye great fool?” Pennyfather demanded angrily. “Get your breath an’ tell plain. Sit down, then. Where’s the cow?”

  Jarge Crick fell into the chair he had been leaning on, staring and panting still, for he had run half a mile up hill at his hardest.

  “Where’s the cow?” asked Abel Pennyfather again, with increasing wrath.

  Jarge shook his head, and glanced nervously over his shoulde
r. “Han’t — sin her,” he said, “Arl marshes — an’ Castle Hill — devil-rid an’ harnted!”

  “Harnted be gormed! What’s gastered ye?”

  “I see the Black Man, an’ witches, an’ ghostes, an’ bosses like the Book o’ Revelations!”

  Banham, whose eyes and mouth had remained steadily open since Jarge came in, here murmured: “Yow doan’t say’t! Ghostes an’ hosses like Revelations!”

  “When I’d a-got down jist over the marsh,” Jarge Crick went on, growing less breathless and more coherent, “I went by the cliff-side a-sayin’ over prayers to meself, as is fit for times o’ great per’l, an’ I see frightful shadders movin’ on Castle Hill.”

  “’Tis cloudy an’ moonlight by turns,” said Pennyfather testily, “an’ shadders be nat’ral.”

  “An’ the nearer I kim the more I beared sighs an’ moans an’ dolourin’ noises ‘pon the hillside.”

  “’Tis a steady wind from the sea, an’ yow hear it in the trees an’ copses.”

  “But I hearted up strong, for I see a beast on the hill as the moon kim out, an’ even a cow be comp’ny to a man in sich deadly places; an’ I went forrard in prayer an’ tremblin’. But the moon went in agin, an’ no beast could I see, though I were a-nigh where it ote to be. An’ then there kim a mortal loud bang, an’ I drops down to hidin’ in a bush.”

  Abel Pennyfather offered no explanation of the bang, and the rest only gaped and listened.

  “Scace was one bang but there kim anoather, an’ I dussen’t look up. But when no oather bang den’t come I hearted an’ peeped, an’ cuther! There goed a ghostly pale hoss, an’ there goed a black hoss an’ more down the hill, arl shadder an’ sparrit an’ breathin’ fire and brimstone, an’ black shadders o’ creeping ghostes at their halters. I coon’t stand nor run — not nohow. An’ I looked up the hill, an’ there I see the Black Man, true as print. A gashly great black tarl man, with eyes o’ flamin’ fire, stannin’ by the tower, an’ gazin’ terr’ble down on the shadders an’ sparrits, till I a’mos’ swounded. An’ when I looked agin he were gone — gone like smoke. I crarled round behin’ the bushes till I kim near by the lane end, an’ then there were v’ices — v’ices with words I coon’t unnerstand, nor no Christen man either, up on the hill. So I looks agen an’ ‘twere two women right atop — stretching out their hands over the gashly place an’ sayin’ their words; an’ I’ll swear it solemn, ‘pon Bible oath, for once I see ‘em clear, ‘twere Mrs Mart’n, the witch, an’ the gal her niece!”

  Wide eyes and wide mouths moved not, but from the latter there was an escape of breath like wind from a noisy bellows, and Banham gurgled hoarsely: “Witches’ meet’n’, sarten!”

  “An’ with that I gets my senses back, an’ being at the lane end I ‘oon’t look no moer, but let go arl an’ runned.”

  “Pity yow don’t get your senses back ‘fore yow started out,” sneered Abel Pennyfather. “Yow go out arter my cow, an’ yow come back with a silly mawther’s yarn like that, an’ leave the cow to pizen herself an’ get lost! Go yow back, Jarge Crick, an’ find my cow. Go on!”

  “Go back!” ejaculated Jarge, his returning colour checking at the thought. “Not me!”

  “I tell yow to ‘bey my orders!” pursued his master, with an angry thump on the table. “Go an’ bring in that cow, an’ let’s hear no more o’ yar gammick, else find anoather place!”

  Jarge rose to his feet, but shook his head steadily. “Not me, master,” he said. “I’ve sin it an’ yow han’t. I’d sooner a-lose me place fowerty times. Yow go an’ fetch her yourself, Master Pennyfaa’, if yow ben’t afeared. I am.” And Jarge Crick, sidling and shaking his head, carried his tale and his lantern out into the tap-room.

  For a few minutes there was silence, save for certain grunts and snorts of disgust from Abel Pennyfather, and then Dan Fisk said, with his odd squint: “Hedn’ yow better see about oad Molly ‘fore she gets strayed too fur?”

  “Dang the cow, no. She woan’t take no harm.”

  “But there be a mort o’ cowbane in the squelchy places, Master Pennyfather.”

  “Cowbane be danged. If she’ll take it I count she’s took it by this time, an’ anyhow yow can’t see a cow on a marsh on a night like this, an’ — but there — none of ye be drinkin’! Doan’t sit with empty pots, neighbours! What’ll ye arl take?”

  XIII. — A TALE OF TUBS

  WHEN Mr Cloyse’s stolid face told a tale of alarm to the scarce more wooden door that shut out Cunning Murrell, there was good reason. For in truth he realised that this inconvenient meddler had surprised an important business secret. Suddenly confronted with the fact at the interview, he had no choice but to defend himself, for the time at least, by the mask of total ignorance, indifference, and denial that so well became him. But useful as this defence was, and effectual as it had proved in staving off Murrell’s interference for the moment, it had its faults. For one, he could make no fishing inquiries without marring its effect. So that Murrell had gone off without betraying in any way the extent of his real knowledge save in one particular, and that misleading. For Cloyse judged from the answer to the one question he ventured, that his “partner” must be gone back to Sheppy, as he had already supposed; and this was a mistake.

  Now the facts stood thus. Mr Simon Cloyse, ever alert to add another hundred pounds, or even a hundred pence, to the hoard of his lifetime of astute and various traffic, had seen the opportunity for such a stroke of business as had suggested itself to Prentice, and had seen it long before the notion had occurred to that easy-going oldster himself; and when, after the adventure of the blue light on Southchurch cliffs, Dove and Prentice had exchanged winks and hints as to his finger being in the affair, they made the shrewdest guess of their lives. Albeit they kept their surmise to themselves, and not a soul in Leigh suspected, for the very natural reason that comparison of notes had made it certain that not a man along the coast, from Bemfleet to Shoebury, had been “out” that night; and goods could not be run without a crew. But as a matter of fact Sim Cloyse had taken the added precaution to employ a Kentish crew; or, rather, Golden Adams had employed the Kentish crew on Cloyse’s stipulation. There was every advantage in the arrangement; for Golden Adams was an old hand, and though he was now living in Sheppy, the Essex coast was familiar to him foot by foot. And both he and his crew coming from Kent there would be no suspicious fore-moves on the Essex side to set the coastguard alert, nor any after-gossip in the neighbourhood to betray the operation.

  Golden Adams was not only the most likely man for the job, but there was a certain matter of ancient debt between them, and Sim Cloyse, with native sagacity, had little doubt that by observing a wise reticence as to this matter until the stroke of business was successfully completed, and then bringing it into the final balancing of accounts, he would be able to keep the profits of the venture where he preferred them to be — in his own pocket.

  With these views he settled his partnership with Golden Adams in this wise: Cloyse was to supply capital and pay expenses; Adams was to find the crew and do the work; and the resulting profits were to be divided equally. Nothing could seem fairer on the face of it, as is the fashion of half-profit agreements of many sorts; but in this, as in some of the others, the capitalist was aware of certain private expedients whereby his own share might be augmented without notice to the other side, and this wholly independent of the debt aforementioned. For the selling would be in his hands and the selling would be a transaction of secrecy; and the expenses, after the landing of the cargo, could be put at anything he pleased.

  The run was to be an uncommon one in another respect. It was neither to be a direct run, in which the cargo would be taken on shore and carried instantly inland, nor were the goods to be sunk off shore, there to await a timely opportunity of removal. They were to be landed and carried just so far as a convenient hiding-place, and no farther; and there they were to lie for a week or two, till the affair — if there had been rumour — had blown over, and
then Cloyse would provide means for carrying them inland. Cloyse and his son prepared the hiding-place with much secrecy, by the easy process of loosening a number of stones that blocked the fore part of one of the cellar-chambers of Hadleigh Castle. The place was perfect for its purpose. The cargo could be carried there direct from an easy landing-place without traversing a yard of public road or passing any habitation; the entrance to the cell once reblocked, the “stuff” might remain for any length of time undisturbed; and the spot was close by the end of the quiet narrow lane leading up to Hadleigh, by which way the final removal would be made.

  Everything went very well on the night after Hadleigh Fair. The trick to draw off the coastguard succeeded completely, and a hundred tubs were run across Casey Marsh and safely packed away long ere the patrols had begun to return. But on the very next day Golden Adams began to be a nuisance. He was in low water, it seemed, and he wanted an advance on account of his share of the profits. It was in vain that Cloyse pointed out that there were no profits as yet, nor could be till the tubs were inland, and sold. Golden Adams, who had a blunt way of saying disagreeable things, pointed out that by that time Cloyse would be in a position to repudiate his liability altogether; and he insisted on a payment on account as guarantee of faith. To this Cloyse opposed the objection that he had not a penny of ready money in the world, having ventured it all in the cargo; a statement which Adams made no bones of calling a lie. So the thing stood at deadlock. It appeared to Cloyse that all the advantages were on his side, since it would be out of the question for Adams to dispose of any of the secreted liquor on his own account; for that were a transaction needing special knowledge and connections, which Adams had no acquaintance with; and moreover, some advance of money would be needed for transport and reducing — for the spirit was far above proof. So that old Sim Cloyse bore his partner’s angry departure with serenity, quiet in his resolve to wait his own convenience, dispose of the goods at his own opportunity, and deal with the proceeds at his own discretion.