‘I beg pardon, gentlemen — will you drink some wine?’
‘I thank you, no, Sir. You’ll be good enough to give me those keys’ (to the housekeeper).
‘Give them — certainly,’ said Dangerfield.
‘Which of them opens the chest of drawers in your master’s bedchamber facing the window?’ He glanced at Dangerfield, and thought that he was smiling wider, and his jaws looked hollower, as he repeated —
‘If she does not know it, I’ll be happy to show it you.’
With a surly nod, Mr. Lowe requited the prisoner’s urbanity, and followed Mrs. Jukes into her master’s bedchamber; there was an oldfashioned oak chest of drawers facing the window.
‘Where’s Captain Cluffe?’ enquired Lowe.
‘He stopped at his lodgings, on the way,’ answered the man; ‘and said he’d be after us in five minutes.’
‘Well, be good enough, Madam, to show me the key of these drawers.’
So he opened the drawers in succession, beginning at the top, and searching each carefully, running his fingers along the inner edges, and holding the candle very close, and grunting his disappointment as he closed and locked each in its order.
In the mean time, Doctor Toole was ushered into the little parlour, where sat the disabled master of the Brass Castle. The fussy little mediciner showed in his pale, stern countenance, a sense of the shocking reverse and transformation which the great man of the village had sustained.
‘A rather odd situation you find me in, Doctor Toole,’ said white Mr. Dangerfield, in his usual harsh tones, but with a cold moisture shining on his face; ‘under duresse, Sir, in my own parlour, charged with murdering a gentleman whom I have spent five hundred guineas to bring to speech and life, and myself half murdered by a justice of the peace and his discriminating followers, ha, ha, ha! I’m suffering a little pain, Sir; will you be so good as to lend me your assistance?’
Toole proceeded to his task much more silently than was his wont, and stealing, from time to time, a glance at his noticeable patient with the wild gray eyes, as people peep curiously at what is terrible and repulsive.
‘’Tis broken, of course,’ said Dangerfield.
‘Why, yes, Sir,’ answered Toole; ‘the upper arm — a bullet, Sir. H’m, ha — yes; it lies only under the skin, Sir.’
And with a touch of the sharp steel it dropped into the doctor’s fingers, and lay on a bloody bit of lint on the table by the wine-glasses. Toole applied his sticking-plaster, and extemporised a set of splints, and had the terrified cook at his elbow tearing up one of her master’s shirts into strips for bandages; and so went on neatly and rapidly with his shifty task.
In the mean time, Cluffe had arrived. He was a little bit huffed and grand at being nailed as an evidence, upon a few words carelessly, or, if you will, confidentially dropped at his own mess-table, where Lowe chanced to be a guest; and certainly with no suspicion that his little story could in any way be made to elucidate the mystery of Sturk’s murder. He would not have minded, perhaps, so much, had it not been that it brought to light and memory again the confounded ducking sustained by him and Puddock, and which, as an officer and a very fine fellow, he could not but be conscious was altogether an undignified reminiscence.
‘Yes, the drawers were there, he supposed; those were the very ones; he stooped but little; it must have been the top one, or the next to it. The thing was about as long as a drumstick, like a piece of whip handle, with a spring in it; it bent this way and that, as he dried it in the towel, and at the butt it was ribbed round and round with metal rings — devilish heavy.’
So they examined the drawers again, took everything out of them, and Captain Cluffe, not thinking it a soldier-like occupation, tacitly declined being present at it, and, turning on his heel, stalked out of the room.
‘What’s become of it, Ma’am?’ said Lowe, suddenly and sternly, turning upon Mrs. Jukes, and fixing his eyes on hers. There was no guilty knowledge there.
‘He never had any such thing that I know of,’ she answered stoutly; ‘and nothing could be hid from me in these drawers, Sir; for I had the key, except when it lay in the lock, and it must ha’ been his horsewhip; it has some rings like of leather round it, and he used to lay it on these drawers.’
Cluffe was, perhaps, a little bit stupid, and Lowe knew it; but it was the weakness of that good magistrate to discover in a witness for the crown many mental and moral attributes which he would have failed to recognise in him had he appeared for the prisoner.
‘And where’s that whip, now?’ demanded Lowe.
‘By the hall-door, with his riding-coat, Sir,’ answered the bewildered housekeeper.
‘Go on, if you please, Ma’am, and let me see it.’
So to the hall they went, and there, lying across the pegs from which Mr. Dangerfield’s surtout and riding-coat depended, there certainly was a whip with the butt fashioned very much in the shape described by Captain Cluffe; but alas, no weapon — a mere toy — leather and cat-gut.
Lowe took it in his hand, and weighing it with a look of disgust and disappointment, asked rather impatiently —
‘Where’s Captain Cluffe?’
The captain had gone away.
‘Very well, I see,’ said Lowe, replacing the whip; ‘that will do. The hound!’
Mr. Lowe now reentered the little parlour, where the incongruous crowd, lighted up with Mr. Dangerfield’s wax lights, and several kitchen candles flaring in greasy brass sticks, were assisting at the treatment of the master of the castle and the wounded constables.
‘Well, Sir,’ said Mr. Dangerfield, standing erect, with his coat sleeve slit, and his arm braced up in splints, stiff and helpless in a sling, and a blot of blood in his shirt sleeve, contrasting with the white intense smirk of menace upon his face; ‘if you have quite done with my linen and my housekeeper, Sir, I’m ready to accompany you under protest, as I’ve already said, wherever you design to convey my mangled person. I charge you, Sir, with the safety of my papers and my other property which you constrain me to abandon in this house; and I think you’ll rue this night’s work to the latest hour of your existence.’
‘I’ve done, and will do my duty, Sir,’ replied Lowe, with dry decision.
‘You’ve committed a d —— d outrage; duty? ha, ha, ha!’
‘The coach is at the door, hey?’ asked Lowe
‘I say, Sir,’ continued Dangerfield, with a wolfish glare, and speaking in something like a suppressed shriek, ‘you shall hear my warning and my protest, although it should occupy the unreasonable period of two whole minutes of your precious time. You half murder, and then arrest me for the offence of another man, and under the name of a man who has been dead and buried full twenty years. I can prove it; the eminent London house of Elrington Brothers can prove it; the handwriting of the late Sir Philip Drayton, Baronet, of Drayton Hall, and of two other respectable witnesses to a formal document, can prove it; dead and rotten — dust, Sir. And in your stupid arrogance, you blundering Irishman, you dare to libel me — your superior in everything — with his villainous name, and the imputation of his crimes — to violate my house at the dead of night — to pistol me upon my own floor — and to carry me off by force, as you purpose, to a common gaol. Kill Dr. Sturk, indeed! Are you mad, Sir? I who offered a fee of five hundred guineas even to bring him to speech! I who took the best medical advice in London on his behalf; I who have been his friend only too much with my Lord Castlemallard, and who, to stay his creditors, and enable his family to procure for him the best medical attendance, and to afford him, in short, the best chance of recovery and life, have, where you neither lent or bestowed a shilling — poured out my money as profusely as you, Sir, have poured out my blood, every drop of which, Sir, shall cost you a slice of your estate. But even without Sturk’s speaking one word, I’ve evidence which escaped you, conceited blockhead, and which, though the witness is as mad almost as yourself, will yet be enough to direct the hand of justice to the right man. There is
a Charles, Sir, whom all suspect, who awaits trial, judgment, and death in this case, the wretched Charles Nutter of the Mills, Sir, whose motive is patent, and on whose proceedings a light will, I believe, be thrown by the evidence of Zekiel Irons, whatever that evidence may be worth.’
‘I don’t care to tell you, Sir, that ’tis partly on the evidence of that same Zekiel Irons that I’ve arrested you,’ said Mr. Justice Lowe.
‘Zekiel Irons, me! What Zekiel Irons charge me with the crime which he was here, not two hours since, fastening on oath upon Charles Nutter! Why, Sir, he asked me to bring him to your residence in the morning, that he might swear to the information which he repeated in my presence, and of which there’s a note in that desk. ‘Pon my life, Sir, ’tis an agreeable society, this; bedlam broke loose — the mad directing the mad, and both falling foul of the sane. One word from Doctor Sturk, Sir, will blast you, so soon as, please Heaven, he shall speak.’
‘He has spoken, Sir,’ replied Lowe, whose angry passions were roused by the insults of Dangerfield, and who had, for the moment, lost his customary caution.
‘Ha!’ cried Dangerfield, with a sort of gasp, and a violent smirk, the joyousness of which was, however, counteracted by a lurid scowl and a wonderful livid glare in his wild eyes; ‘ha! he has? Bravo, Sir, bravissimo!’ and he smirked wider and wider, and beat his uninjured hand upon the table, like a man applauding the denouement of a play. ‘Well, Sir; and notwithstanding his declaration, you arrest me upon the monstrous assertion of a crazy clerk, you consummate blockhead!’
‘‘Twon’t do, Sir, you sha’n’t sting me by insult into passion; nor frighten me by big words and big looks into hesitation. My duty’s clear, and be the consequences what they may, I’ll carry the matter through.’
‘Frighten you! ha, ha, ha!’ and Dangerfield glared at his bloody shirtsleeve, and laughed a chilly sneer; ‘no, Sir, but I’ll punish you, with Doctor Sturk’s declaration against the babble of poor Zekiel Irons. I’ll quickly close your mouth.’
‘Sir, I never made it a practice yet to hide evidence from a prisoner. Why should I desire to put you out of the world, if you’re innocent? Doctor Sturk, Sir, has denounced you distinctly upon oath. Charles Archer, going by the name of Paul Dangerfield, and residing in this house, called the “Brass Castle,” as the person who attempted to murder him in the Butcher’s Wood.’
‘What, Sir? Doctor Sturk denounce me! Fore heaven, Sir — it seems to me you’ve all lost your wits. Doctor Sturk! — ? Doctor Sturk charge me with having assaulted him! why — curse it, Sir — it can’t possibly be — you can’t believe it; and, if he said it, the man’s raving still.’
‘He has said it, Sir.’
‘Then, Sir, in the devil’s name, didn’t it strike you as going rather fast to shoot me on my own hearthstone — me, knowing all you do about me — with no better warrant than the talk of a man with a shattered brain, awakening from a lethargy of months? Sir, though the laws afford no punishment exemplary enough for such atrocious precipitation, I promise you I’ll exact the last penalty they provide; and now, Sir, take me where you will; I can’t resist. Having shot me, do what you may to interrupt my business; to lose my papers and accounts; to prevent my recovery, and to blast my reputation — Sir, I shall have compensation for all.’
So saying, Dangerfield, with his left hand, clapt his cocked hat on, and with a ghastly smile nodded a farewell to Mrs. Jukes, who, sobbing plentifully, had placed his white surtout, cloakwise over his shoulders, buttoning it about his throat. The hall-door stood open; the candles flared in the night air, and with the jaunty, resolute step of a man marching to victory and revenge, he walked out, and lightly mounted to his place. She saw the constables get in, and one glimpse more of the white grim face she knew so well, the defiant smirk, the bloodstained shirtsleeve, and the coach-door shut. At the crack of the whip and the driver’s voice, the horses scrambled into motion, the wheels revolved, and the master of the Brass Castle and the equipage glided away like a magic lantern group, from before the eyes and the candle of the weeping Mrs. Jukes.
CHAPTER XCIII.
IN WHICH DOCTOR TOOLE AND DIRTY DAVY CONFER IN THE BLUE-ROOM.
The coach rumbled along toward Dublin at a leisurely jog. Notwithstanding the firm front Mr. Lowe had presented, Dangerfield’s harangue had affected him unpleasantly. Cluffe’s little bit of information respecting the instrument he had seen the prisoner lay up in his drawer on the night of the murder, and which corresponded in description with the wounds traced upon Sturk’s skull, seemed to have failed. The handle of Dangerfield’s harmless horsewhip, his mind misgave him, was all that would come of that piece of evidence; and it was impossible to say there might not be something in all that Dangerfield had uttered. Is it a magnetic force, or a high histrionic vein in some men, that makes them so persuasive and overpowering, and their passion so formidable? But, with Dangerfield’s presence, the effect of his plausibilities and his defiance passed away. The pointed and consistent evidence of Sturk, perfectly clear as he was upon every topic he mentioned, and the corroborative testimony of Irons, equally distinct and damning — the whole case blurred and disjointed, and for a moment grown unpleasantly hazy and uncertain in the presence of that white sorcerer, readjusted itself now that he was gone, and came out in iron and compact relief — impregnable.
‘Run boys, one of you, and open the gate of the Mills,’ said Lowe, whose benevolence, such as it was, expanded in his intense feeling of relief. ‘‘Twill be good news for poor Mistress Nutter. She’ll see her husband in the morning.’
So he rode up to the Mills, and knocked his alarm, as we have seen and heard, and there told his tidings to poor Sally Nutter, vastly to the relief of Mistress Matchwell, the Blind Fiddler, and even of the sage, Dirt Davy; for there are persons upon the earth to whom a sudden summons of any sort always sounds like a call to judgment, and who, in any such ambiguous case, fill up the moments of suspense with wild conjecture, and a ghastly summing-up against themselves; can it be this — or that — or the other old, buried, distant villainy, that comes back to take me by the throat?
Having told his good news in a few dry words to Mrs. Sally, Mr. Lowe superadded a caution to the dark lady down stairs, in the face of which she, being quite reassured by this time, grinned and snapped her fingers, and in terms defied, and even cursed the tall magistrate without rising from the chair in which she had reestablished herself in the parlour. He mounted his hunter again, and followed the coach at a pace which promised soon to bring him up with that lumbering conveyance; for Mr. Lowe was one of those public officers who love their work, and the tenant of the Brass Castle was no common prisoner, and well worth seeing, though at some inconvenience, safely into his new lodging.
Next morning, you may be sure, the news was all over the town of Chapelizod. All sorts of cross rumours and wild canards, of course, were on the wind, and every new fact or fib borne to the doorstep with the fresh eggs, or the morning’s milk and butter, was carried by the eager servant into the parlour, and swallowed down with their toast and tea by the staring company.
Upon one point all were agreed: Mr. Paul Dangerfield lay in the county gaol, on a charge of having assaulted Dr. Sturk with intent to kill him. The women blessed themselves, and turned pale. The men looked queer when they met one another. It was altogether so astounding — Mr. Dangerfield was so rich — so eminent — so moral — so charitable — so above temptation. It had come out that he had committed, some said three, others as many as fifteen secret murders. All the time that the neighbours had looked on his white head in church as the very standard of probity, and all the prudential virtues rewarded, they were admiring and honouring a masked assassin. They had been bringing into their homes and families an undivulged and terrible monster. The wher-wolf had walked the homely streets of their village. The ghoul, unrecognised, had prowled among the graves of their churchyard. One of their fairest princesses, the lady of Belmont, had been on the point of being sacrificed to a vampire
. Horror, curiosity, and amazement, were everywhere.
Charles Nutter, it was rumoured, was to be discharged on bail early, and it was mooted in the club that a deputation of the neighbours should ride out to meet him at the boundaries of Chapelizod, welcome him there with an address, and accompany him to the Mills as a guard of honour; but cooler heads remembered the threatening and unsettled state of things at that domicile, and thought that Nutter would, all things considered, like a quiet return best; which view of the affair was, ultimately, acquiesced in.
For Mary Matchwell, at the Mills, the tidings which had thrown the town into commotion had but a solitary and a selfish interest. She was glad that Nutter was exculpated. She had no desire that the king should take his worldly goods to which she intended helping herself: otherwise he might hang or drown for ought she cared. Dirty Davy, too, who had quaked about his costs, was greatly relieved by the turn which things had taken; and the plain truth was that, notwithstanding his escape from the halter, things looked very black and awful for Charles Nutter and his poor little wife, Sally.
Doctor Toole, at halfpast nine, was entertaining two or three of the neighbours, chiefly in oracular whispers, by the fire in the great parlour of the Phœnix, when he was interrupted by Larry, the waiter, with —
‘Your horse is at the door, docther’ (Toole was going into town, but was first to keep an appointment at Doctor Sturk’s with Mr. Lowe), ‘and,’ continued Larry, ‘there’s a fat gentleman in the blue room wants to see you, if you plase.’
‘Hey? — ho! let’s see then,’ said little Toole, bustling forth with an important air. ‘The blue room, hey?’
When he opened the door of that small apartment there stood a stout, corpulent, rather seedy and dusty personage, at the window, looking out and whistling with his hat on. He turned lazily about as Toole entered, and displayed the fat and forbidding face of Dirty Davy.
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 153