by Ellen Wood
“There seems some mistake about this here business, sir,” said Crane, a civil, respectful man, “and Squire Hipgrave have fetched me down along of him, to set it right.”
“The mistake is on your part, not on mine,” haughtily returned Mr. Yorke. “You went by here with your wife last night; she seemed in a fright, and I inquired what was the matter.”
“Yes, sir, my wife was frighted, fancying she saw thieves in the hedges; she haven’t run so fast since her joints got stiff. When you stopped us, sir, and asked, I told you a poor gentleman had just been murdered.” —
Mr. Yorke looked at Squire Hipgrave. “You hear,” said he. “Repeat what you did say to me,” added he to the man.
“That my wife was frighted, and we was making haste home, for a poor gentleman had been found murdered, down yonder, beaten to death. Them was the words, sir, as near as I can remember.”
“Exactly,” said Mr. Yorke.
“But did you say it was Mr. Janson, Crane?” resumed Squire Hipgrave, looking at the man.
“Law no, sir. I couldn’t say it, as I have just told you, for” —
“You did say it was Mr. Janson,” interrupted Mr. Yorke.
“I beg your pardon, sir. I was just a-going to say to you last night that report went as it was a farmer, but you turned short away in-doors, and didn’t wait to hear me; and I and my wife ran home. This morning, when the milk-woman came, she told us about Mr. Janson, that he was murdered, and my wife sat down on a chair — though we never believed it at first — and burst out a-crying; for he was more like a friend to us than a doctor, a-coming up at all weathers to her rheumatiz, and charging us next to nothing. I’m sure, sir, I speak the truth, when I say it was not till this morning we heard about poor Mr. Janson, and that there had been a double murder.”
“A double murder!” echoed Mr. Yorke, his face a mixture of astonishment and perplexity.
“Why, did you not know it?” said Squire Hipgrave. “Young Louth was shot from his horse last evening, and rifled of all he had about him. That was what Crane wished to tell you of: Janson was not murdered — at least, not found — for hours afterwards.”
“And Finch was right, after all, when she said it was a farmer’s son,” interrupted Olivia Hardisty; “though you” — looking at Mr. Yorke— “ridiculed it, and said it was Janson.”
“Yorke, where did you hear about Janson?” demanded Squire Hipgrave. “At the time you appear to have spoken of it, it was not known. In fact, I don’t believe it had happened.”
There was a blank, distressing pause — an awful pause.
“Where did you hear about Janson, I ask?” continued Squire Hipgrave, in a voice that sounded strangely uncompromising and clear.
Still the same ominous pause. Mrs. Yorke struggled for composure, but her breath came gaspingly through her ashy lips. Henry stole round to her side, as if by an uncontrollable impulse, and Olivia Hardisty gazed in open dismay at Mr. Yorke.
“I heard it from Crane,” said Mr. Yorke at length, rousing himself, and speaking in a firm, deliberate tone. “Though it appears to be his purpose to deny it now.”
Crane shook his head and turned to Squire Hipgrave. “The gentleman’s making a great mistake, sir,” he quietly said. “I never mentioned Mr. Janson’s name last night, for he never was in my thoughts; and if anybody had come and told me to guess who was murdered, (besides the farmer,) I should least of all have guessed Mr. Janson. I’m a-going back to my garden, ladies and gentlemen, and if you please to want me again, there I shall be.”
The man, with a civil bow, turned away and went towards his home. Squire Hipgrave was the next to depart. A strange mantle of constraint seemed to have fallen upon them all.
CHAPTER XIV.
Awful Dread.
NEVER had the insignificant village of Offord been so full of stir, excitement, and dread. Two murders in one night! it was enough to put fear into the stoutest heart. At first it was universally assumed that the same parties had been guilty of both, but this impression wore away. Young Mr. Louth had evidently been molested for the purpose of robbery. Not so Mr. Janson, His watch and chain, his pocket-book and purse, each containing money, were all found upon his person, undisturbed — carrying out Mr. Yorke’s assertion that there had been no robbery. How did he know it? began to ask Olivia Hardisty.
Mr, Janson had a habit of going in at the back door of his house, through the garden; it was the quicker mode of entrance, since at the front he had to ring: it was surmised that his assailant must have known of this; have got into the garden, and waited for him. He was probably struck down and stunned, at the moment of entering, and was again beaten about the head one or two blows. The medical men were asked with what sort of instrument. “Was it likely to be a gun?” spoke up somebody, while they were deliberating — the question probably being dictated by the remembrance of the shot which had destroyed the farmer. They replied that they did think it likely to be a gun, as likely, or more likely, than any other blunt weapon; but, if so, they added, the gun had probably been broken by the violence of the blows. The blow which had killed him was an unfortunate one, given underneath the left ear.
The woman-servant’s testimony was as follows: — About six o’clock, (she thought it must have been,) while she was in her kitchen, waiting for her master to come in to tea, she heard a noise in the garden, to which the kitchen looked. This was followed by a groan, by more than one groan, she thought, and she got atop of the ironing board underneath the window, and looked out above the half shutter, but she could see nothing but mist. When asked to describe what sort of noise it was that she had heard, she replied it was a “sudden” noise, a “scuffling” noise. And that was the best explanation that could be obtained from her. There were often drunken folks about on a market night, she said, and she had supposed it might be some going by in the lane, quarrelling with one another; she “didn’t think no worse.” Everything was quiet after that, so far as she heard, except for people coming to the front door inquiring for her master. Five or six times they came; they wanted him to go and see the gentleman who was murdered, young Mr. Louth. At ten o’clock, she went out to lock the back gate, taking a lantern with her, for the lock was small and awkward; and then she came upon her master, lying in the path, dead. And when people flocked up, after she had given the alarm, and came to look at him, they said he must have been dead for some hours. Such was her testimony, given in a plain, straightforward way; she was a simple countrywoman of middle age, Mr. Janson’s only maid-servant. By a somewhat curious coincidence, the surgery boy had had holiday given him that afternoon, and was away.
Squire Hipgrave propagated the unsatisfactory dispute between Mr. Yorke and Crane the gardener. The extraordinary fact that the murder should have been known to either of them at that early hour of the evening struck everybody: upon Mr. Maskell, a keen man of the law, it made a strong impression. Who could have known it, hours before he was found, save those concerned in the deed? argued Mr. Maskell. Very true, said the village, but Crane and his wife are above suspicion, and so — of course — is Mr. Yorke. This must be sifted, concluded Mr. Maskell, and I shall take care that all three are summoned before the coroner.
Ere the day, Friday, was over, the murderers of the farmer were in custody — two men, of whose guilt there was not a shadow of doubt. The spoil taken from Mr. Louth was found upon them, and there were other proofs, which need not be entered into, since that is not the murder with which we are most Concerned. These two men had been seen lurking about the village in the afternoon with another suspicious character — a man named King. It was assumed that this third had also been in the mischief, but at present he could not be found. The murder of Mr. Louth and that of Mr. Janson must have taken place about the same time, rendering it next to an impossibility that the same parties were guilty of both. The inquest was fixed for Monday, the coroner being unable to hold it sooner, and poor Mr. Janson lay in his own house, the outside of which presented a scene of bustle, nig
ht and day, inasmuch as it was regularly besieged by crowds of the curious, who stood there for hours on the stretch, gazing at its closely-curtained windows. Towards evening, on the Saturday, their perseverance was gratifyingly rewarded by witnessing the arrival of Mr. Janson’s mother, who had been summoned from a distance. She took up her abode at the sorrowful house, although several neighbourly offers to receive her were made, and the delighted crowd of stationary gazers was forthwith doubled.
Now the reader cannot fail to perceive that suspicion lay fearfully strong upon Mr. Yorke. His jealousy of his wife and Mr. Janson supplied the motive; a jealousy for which there was no foundation, save in his own distorted mind. Certain attendant circumstances, known to Mrs. Yorke, were fraught with suspicion. His staying out that night, saying he lost his way in the fog, his stealing up-stairs in the dark when he came home, and the complete changing of his clothes, would have been comparatively nothing; but there was his prematurely-proclaimed knowledge of the murder. Mrs. Yorke heard of the opinion, expressed by the surgeons, that a gun had probably been used to inflict the blows, and she shivered as she listened. Did her husband bring home his? She could not tell. Neither could she arrive at any satisfactory conclusion as to the clothes he wore, whether they were put away in concealment, or whether they were amongst those hanging openly in the closet; for Mr. Yorke was an extravagant man in the matter of wearing apparel, and possessed several suits for outdoor sports. The terrible suspicion was eating into her brain. And yet it appeared too monstrous a one to have real foundation.
On the Sunday morning, though Mrs. Yorke rose to breakfast, she excused herself from going to church. She said she was not sufficiently well; perhaps it was no false plea, for she looked very ill. Mr. Yorke went, accompanied by Miss Hardisty and Henry Yorke. When they were gone, Maria entered her bedroom and locked herself in. A desperate determination was on her face, the index to that which had settled on her mind; her dreadful fears, her uncertainties, were hard to bear, day and night they were as one living agony; and now that the house was free from interruption she would search and find, or not find, proofs. The gun. That was the point; had he thrown it away as he came home that night, stained with his crime, or had he brought it home with him and concealed it? A gun appeared as usual in the customary place; but — was it the gun he had taken out with him, or the other one, which he might have reached from his gun-case and put there? The gun-case was fast, and she had no means of ascertaining.
There was an old-fashioned piece of furniture, half bureau, half chest, in the bedroom, black with age, very long and narrow. Mr. Yorke had laughed when this caught his eye on their taking possession of the house. “Why, it’s long enough,” said he, in a joking way, “to put a coffin in.” He had appropriated it to himself for his private use, and this was the plague-spot of dread to Mrs. Yorke; if the gun was in the house concealed, it was there.
She had been to the box of tools, and by dint of exertion she contrived to bring the bureau from the wall. Her intention was to break in the back, satisfy herself, and then replace the furniture. Knock, knock! hammer, hammer! Two servants were at home, the rest at church; Charlotte was in the nursery, the cook in the kitchen. Whether they heard the noise, or, hearing it, what they might think, Mrs. Yorke did not stop to inquire; her resolution was desperate. She persevered, and at length the wood was stove in. Not space enough yet, but she soon made it so.
Alas! she did not require a second glance. On the very top of all, quite at the back, lay the gun, broken. How many pieces she did not count, she could not have touched them for the whole world; they were wet, as if they had been soaked in water for the purpose of washing, and they lay on a suit of wet shooting-clothes; had he got into a pool, as he came home that night, to wash away traces? Probably. Mrs. Yorke staggered away and sat down, pale and sick. Beyond all doubt, her husband was Edward Janson’s murderer.
Again she dragged up her shaking limbs, and, leaving everything as she found it, save for the great hole, pushed the bureau back to its place. The first time her husband opened it, he would see the hole, and detect what she had done. She cared not; henceforth, there was little that she would care for in life. She took up the heavy hammer and the chisel, and was concealing them under her black silk apron, lest she should be met going down-stairs on her way to the tool-box, when a quick knock came to the chamber door right in front of her. It startled her into a scream, which she could not have prevented had her life depended on it.
“Please, ma’am, it’s only me,” said the cook’s voice. And what Mrs. Yorke answered was a mystery to herself, but the servant rejoined —
“It’s a stranger, ma’am, asking to see you directly, and won’t take no denial.”
With a ghastly face and a frame that shook from head to foot, Mrs. Yorke opened one of her drawers, and shut up the hammer and chisel. Then she unlocked the door, and the cook stepped inside.
“It’s a strange lady who wants to see you; she —— Why, ma’am, what’s the matter? Aren’t you well?”
“One of my sick headaches,” murmured Mrs. Yorke. “A visitor, did you say? I am not well enough to see any one. Go and say so.”
“A few minutes’ conversation only,” interrupted a strange voice close at the door; and there stood the visitor, who must have silently followed the servant up-stairs. Her face, stem and pale, bore the remains of severe beauty; and Mrs. Yorke grew sick, as unto death, with undefined fears, for she recognised Mr. Janson’s mother.
She utterly lost her self-possession. She did not say, “Walk down to the drawing-room,” or, “Walk in here;” she only looked up with her ghastly face, the picture of terror and misery. Mrs. Janson stepped in, and closed the bedroom door, fixing her searching eyes full upon Mrs. Yorke.
“I have come to ask you who murdered my son.”
Mrs. Yorke felt as if her brain were turning. There stood his mother, putting that startling question, and there, at her back, were the hidden pieces of — the — gun; there, in another spot, were the hammer and chisel. Ominous witnesses, all.
“Did you kill him?” proceeded Mrs. Janson.
Mrs. Yorke, in her perplexity and confusion, burst into tears. “I kill him!” she uttered— “I set on, and beat a man to death! it would be physically impossible. Why do you come here with so cruel a thought?”
“Ever since I heard the details of the crime yesterday,” continued Mrs. Janson, “my thoughts have never quitted it, no, not for an hour, for my eyes last night were sleepless. I have sought in vain for its motives. All tell me that my son had no enemy here, that he was beloved and respected. To-day I heard that you were living here, and I said to myself, ‘There lies the clue.’ You could not kill him yourself, you say; perhaps not: but you might get it done. Did you?”
Strange to say, Mrs. Yorke endured such words without indignation. Indignation from her! — when the wicked instrument of his death was within a few inches! She answered in a tone of humility, of pitiable depression: —
“You may spare yourself such thoughts. I would have given my own life to save his.”
It may be that her words struck Mrs. Janson as being the words of truth, for her voice lost some of its harshness.
“Years ago you were my son’s bane; you led him on to love you, and then left him for another: what wonder, then, amidst so complete a dearth of motive for others committing the crime, that my thoughts should turn to you?”
“If I did marry another, it was not that I disliked your son,” answered Mrs. Yorke, in a low tone; “it was that circumstances were not favourable to my marrying him. Since we met again, on the occasion of my coming here, we have been excellent friends. Madam, I beg you to understand me — friends; the past was forgotten by both of us; it was never once recalled or alluded to by either; your son has attended my child, and brought him through a dangerous illness. Pray, put away these dreadful ideas,” added Mrs. Yorke, with emotion. “Your son was the last person in the world whom I would have injured.”
“What
makes you look so ill?” demanded Mrs. Janson, abruptly. “It appears like mental illness, not bodily.”
“I have no objection to tell you that I have felt ill ever since the news of the horrible crime was brought to our house — as I should do had its victim been any other friend. And to-day,” she added, with a faint colour at her invention, “I have a sick headache, which kept me from church, and causes me to look as I do now. Believe me, I knew no more of the crime than you did, who were far away.”
“Nor your husband?”
“My husband!” echoed Mrs. Yorke, with well-feigned astonishment. “What motive could my husband have in wishing him ill? Quite the contrary; had I not chosen him, when I could have chosen Mr. Janson?” Ah, poor thing! was it wrong that she should appear thus brave in his defence, guilty though she believed him in her breaking heart? He was her husband; he was the father of her children. Mrs. Janson’s keen eyes were upon her. Could she bear them, and stand the ordeal?
“Mrs. Janson,” said she, risings and assuming a courageous, open tone, “you must search elsewhere for the guilty parties — not in our house.”
Mrs. Janson probably thought so. She likewise rose.
“Years ago, Maria Saxonbury — I beg your pardon, Mrs. Yorke — I told you that should your future existence; be one of retribution, you had richly earned it. Should it have been so, or should it ever become so, you may remember my words.”
Ay, she did remember them; remembered them with an awful shudder. Her future existence! Mrs.
Janson walked to the threshold of the chamber, and turned her gaze full on Maria.
“Then, you can give me no information? No help — no clue?”
“Indeed I cannot. You might as well ask me after the murderers of Mr. Louth,” she added, with desperate energy.