Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  “Well, I met her at the top o’ the field as I was turning into ‘t. That were but a few minutes afore. She’d been to work at the parson’s, she said. I say, mother, you don’t think they’ll come after me here?” he questioned, his tone full of doubt.

  “They did come after ye, to some purpose,” wrathfully responded Mrs. Sanders. “My belief is you’ve come home with your head turned. I’d like to know where you’ve been hiding.”

  “I’ve been nowhere but up in the tallet at master’s,” replied Jim. “I crep’ in there last night, dead tired, and never woke this morning. Hay do make one sleep; it’s warmer than bed.”

  We need not follow the interview any further. At the close of the night she knew little more than she had known at its commencement beyond the assertion that Rupert Trevlyn was killed. Jim went off in the morning to his work as usual, and she resumed her labours of the day before. Nora had scarcely shown her wisdom in releasing Jim so quickly; but it may be that to keep him longer concealed in the “tallet” was next door to impossible.

  Mrs. Sanders was interrupted in her work by George Ryle. She smoothed down the coarse towel pinned before her, and put her untidy hair behind her ears as her master entered. He questioned her as to the report which had been traced to her, and she disclosed what she had heard from Jim. Not much in itself, but it wore an air of mystery George could not understand and did not like. He left her to go in search of Jim.

  But another, as we have heard, had taken precedence of him in searching for that gentleman — Policeman Dumps. Mr. Dumps found him in the out-buildings at Trevlyn Farm, working as unconcernedly as though nothing had happened. The man’s first move, fearing perhaps a second escape, was to clap a pair of handcuffs on him.

  “There, you young reptile! You’ll go off again, will you, after committing murder!”

  Now, in point of fact, Mr. Dumps had really no particular reason for using the word. He only intended to imply that Mr. Jim’s general delinquency deserved a strong name. Jim took it in a different light.

  “It wasn’t me murdered him!” he said, terrified almost out of his life at the handcuffs. “I only see it done. Why should I murder him, Mr. Dumps?”

  “Who’s talking about murder?” cynically returned Dumps, forgetting probably that he had used the word. “The setting of the rick-yard on fire was enough for you, warn’t it, without anything else added on to it?”

  “Oh, you mean the fire,” said Jim, considerably relieved. “I didn’t do that, neither, and there’ll be plenty to prove it. I thought you meant the murder.”

  Dumps surveyed his charge critically, uncertain what to make of him. He proceeded to questioning; setting about it in an artistic manner that was perhaps characteristic of his calling.

  “Which murder might be you meaning of, pray?”

  “Mr. Rupert’s.”

  “Mr. —— What be you talking of?” uttered Dumps, staring at Jim in the utmost astonishment.

  And now Jim Sanders found he had been caught in a trap, one not expressly laid for him. He could have bitten his tongue out with vexation. That the death of Rupert Trevlyn would become public property, he had never doubted, but he had intended to remain silent upon the subject.

  It was too late to retract now, and he must make the best of it, and put up with the consequences.

  “Who says Mr. Rupert’s murdered?” persisted Dumps.

  “So he is,” sullenly answered Jim. “But I didn’t do it.”

  Mr. Dumps’s rejoinder was to seize Jim by the collar, and march him off in the direction of the station as fast as he could walk. The farming men, who had been collecting since the policeman’s arrival, followed to the fold-yard gate, and stood staring, supposing he was taken on suspicion of having caused the fire. Nora, shut up in her dairy, had seen nothing, or there’s no knowing but she might have flown out to the rescue.

  Not another word was spoken; indeed the pace at which Mr. Dumps chose to walk prevented it. When they reached the station, Mr. Chattaway was talking to Bowen. Jim went into a shivering fit at the sight of Chattaway, and strove to hide behind Policeman Dumps.

  “So you have turned up!” exclaimed Bowen. “And now, where did you get to yesterday?”

  Jim did not answer; he appeared to wish to avoid Mr. Chattaway, and trembled visibly. Bowen was on the point of inquiring what made him quake in that fashion, when Mr. Chattaway’s voice broke in like a peal of thunder.

  “How dared you be guilty of suppressing evidence? How dared you run away?”

  Bowen turned the boy round to face him. “Just state where you got to, Jim Sanders.”

  “I didn’t run away,” replied Jim. “I lay down in the tallet at the farm atop o’ the hay, and never woke all day yesterday. Miss Dickson can say I was there, for she come and found me there at night, and sent me off. There warn’t no cause for me to run away,” he somewhat fractiously repeated, as if weary of having to harp upon the same string. “It wasn’t me that fired the rick.”

  “But you saw it fired?” cried Mr. Chattaway.

  Jim stole round, so as to put Dumps between him and the questioner. Mr. Bowen brought him to again. “There’s no need to dodge about like that,” cried he, repeating Jim’s words. “Just speak up the truth; but you are not forced to say anything to criminate yourself.”

  “I can tell ‘em,” thought Jim to himself; “it won’t hurt him, now he’s dead. It was Mr. Rupert,” he said aloud. “After he got the horsewhipping, he caught up the torch and pushed it into one o’ the ricks; and that’s as true as I be living.”

  “You saw him do this?”

  “I was watching all the while, round the pales. He seemed like one a’most mad, and it frighted me. I pulled the burning hay out o’ the rick, and thought I pulled it all out, but suppose a spark must ha’ stopped in. I was frighted worse afterwards when the flames burst out, and I ran off for the engines. I telled Mr. Apperley I’d been for ’em when I met him at night.”

  The boy’s earnest tones and honest eyes, lifted to Bowen’s, convinced that experienced officer that it was the truth. But he chose to gaze implacably at the culprit, never relaxing his sternness of voice.

  “Then what made you go and hide yourself? Out with the truth!”

  Jim’s eyes fell now. “I was tired to death,” he said, “and crep’ up into the tallet at master’s, and went to sleep. And I never woke in the morning, when I ought to ha’ woke.”

  This was so far probable that it might be true. But before Bowen could go on questioning he was interrupted by Mr. Chattaway.

  “He has confessed sufficient, Bowen — it was Rupert Trevlyn. But he deserves punishment for the trouble he has put everyone to; and there must be a fresh examination. Keep him safely here, and take care he’s not tampered with. I am obliged to go to Blackstone to-day, but the hearing can take place to-morrow, if you’ll apprise the magistrates. And — Bowen — mind you accomplish that other matter to-day that I have charged you with.”

  The last sentence, spoken emphatically and slowly, Mr. Chattaway turned round to deliver as he was going out. Bowen nodded in acquiescence; and Chattaway mounted his horse and rode off in the direction of Blackstone.

  Jim Sanders, looking the picture of misery in his handcuffs, stood awkwardly in a corner of the room; it was a square room with a boarded floor; and a railed-off desk. Bowen had gone within these rails as Mr. Chattaway departed, and was busy writing a few detached words or sentences, that looked like memoranda. Dumps was gazing after the retreating figure of Mr. Chattaway.

  “Call Chigwell,” said Bowen, glancing at the small door which led into the inner premises. “There’s work for both of you to-day.”

  But before Dumps could do this, he was half-knocked over by some one entering. It was George Ryle. He took in a view of affairs at a glance: Bowen writing; Dumps doing nothing; Mr. Jim Sanders handcuffed.

  “So you have come to grief?” said George to the latter. “You are just the man I wanted, Jim. Bowen,” he added, going
within the railings and lowering his voice, “have you heard this report about Rupert Trevlyn?”

  “I have heard he is probably off, sir,” was Bowen’s answer. “Two of the men are going out now to look after him. Mr. Chattaway has signed a warrant for his apprehension.”

  George paused. “There is a report that he is dead,” he resumed.

  “Dead!” echoed Bowen, aghast. “Rupert Trevlyn dead! Who says it?”

  George looked round at Jim. The boy stood white and shivery; but before any questions could be asked, Dumps came forward and spoke.

  “He was talking of that,” he said to Bowen, indicating Jim. “When I clapped the handcuffs on him, he turned scared, and began denying it was him that did the murder. I asked him what he meant, and who was murdered, and he said it was Mr. Rupert Trevlyn.”

  Bowen looked thunderstruck, little as it is in the way of police officers to show emotion of any kind. “What grounds has he for saying that?” he exclaimed, gazing keenly at Jim. “Mr. Ryle, where did you hear the report?”

  “I heard it just now at Trevlyn Hold. It would have alarmed them very much had they believed it. Mr. Chattaway was away, and Miss Trevlyn requested me to inquire into it, and bring back news — as she assumed I should — of its absurdity. I believe we must go to Jim for information,” added George, “for I have traced the report to him.”

  Bowen beckoned Jim within the railings; where there was just sufficient space for the three. Dumps stood outside, leaning on the bars. “Have you been doing mischief to Mr. Rupert Trevlyn?” asked the superintendent.

  “Me!” echoed Jim — and it was evident that his astonishment was genuine. “I wouldn’t have hurt a hair of his head,” he added, bursting into tears. “I couldn’t sleep for vexing over it. It wasn’t me.”

  Bowen quietly took off the handcuffs, and laid them on the desk. “There,” said he, in a kindlier tone; “now you can talk at your ease. Let us hear about this.”

  “I’m afeard, sir,” responded Jim.

  “There’s nothing to be afeard of, if you are innocent. Do you know of any ill having happened to Mr. Rupert Trevlyn?”

  “I know he’s dead,” answered Jim. “They blowed me up for saying it was him set the rick a-fire, and I was sorry I had said it; but now he’s gone, it don’t matter, and I can say still that it was him fired it.”

  “Who blew you up?”

  “Some on ‘em,” answered Jim, doing his best to evade the question.

  “Well, what is this about Mr. Rupert? If you are afraid to tell me, tell your master there,” suggested Bowen. “I’m sure he is a kind master to you; all the parish knows that.”

  “It must be told, Jim,” said George Ryle, impressively, as he laid his hand upon the boy’s shoulder. “What are you afraid of?”

  “Mr. Chattaway might kill me for telling, sir,” said unwilling Jim.

  “Nonsense! Mr. Chattaway would be as anxious to know the truth as we are.”

  “But if it was him did it?” whispered Jim, glancing fearfully round the whitewashed walls of the room, as he had glanced around those of his mother’s cottage.

  A blank pause. Mr. Bowen looked at George, whose face had turned hectic with the surprise, the dread the words had brought. “You must speak out, Jim,” was all he said.

  “It was in the little grove last night,” rejoined the boy. “I was running home after Nora Dickson turned me out o’ the tallet, and when I got up to ’em they was having words — —”

  “Who were having words?”

  “Mr. Chattaway and Master Rupert. I was scared, and crep’ in amid the trees, and they never saw me. And then I heard blows, and I looked out and saw Mr. Rupert struck down to the earth, and he fell as one who hasn’t got no life in him, and I knew he was dead.”

  “And what happened next?” asked Bowen.

  “I don’t know, sir. I come off then, and got into mother’s. I didn’t dare tell her it was Chattaway killed him. I wouldn’t tell now, only you force me.”

  Bowen was revolving things in his mind, this and that. “Not five minutes ago Chattaway gave me orders to have Rupert Trevlyn searched for and taken up to-day,” he muttered, more to himself than to George Ryle. “He knew he was skulking somewhere in the neighbourhood, he said; skulking, that was the word. I don’t know what to think of this.”

  Neither did his hearers know, Mr. Jim Sanders possibly excepted. “I wonder,” slowly resumed Bowen, a curious light coming into his eyes, “what brought those scratches on the face of Mr. Chattaway?”

  CHAPTER XLIV

  FERMENT

  Strange rumours were abroad in the neighbourhood of Trevlyn Hold, and the excitement increased hourly. Mr. Chattaway had murdered Rupert Trevlyn — so ran the gossip — and Jim Sanders was in custody. Before the night of the day on which you saw Jim in the police-station, these reports, with many wild and almost impossible additions, were current, and spreading largely.

  With the exception of the accusation made by Jim Sanders, the only corroboration to the tale appeared to rest in the fact that Rupert Trevlyn was not to be found. Dumps and his brother-constable scoured the locality high and low, and could find no traces of him. Sober lookers-on (but it is rare to find them in times of great excitement) regarded this as a favourable fact. Had Rupert really been murdered, or even accidentally killed by a chance blow from Mr. Chattaway, surely his body would be forthcoming to confirm the tale. But there were not wanting others who believed, and did not shrink from the avowal, that Mr. Chattaway was quite capable of suppressing all signs of the affray, including the dead body itself; though by what sleight-of-hand the act could have been accomplished seemed likely to remain a mystery.

  Before Mr. Chattaway got home from Blackstone in the evening, all the rumours, good and bad, were known at Trevlyn Hold.

  Mr. Chattaway was not unprepared to find this the case. In returning, he had turned his horse to the police-station, and reined in. Bowen, who saw him, came out.

  “Has he been taken?” demanded Mr. Chattaway.

  He put the question in an earnest tone, some impatience dashed with it, that was apparently genuine. “No, he has not,” replied Bowen, stroking his chin, taking note of Mr. Chattaway’s face. “Dumps and Chigwell have been at it all day; are at it still; but as yet without result.”

  “Then they are laggards at their work!” retorted Mr. Chattaway, his countenance darkening. “He was wandering about the place last night, and is sure to be not far off it to-day. By Heaven, he shall be unearthed! If there’s any screening going on, as I know there was yesterday with regard to Jim Sanders, I’ll have the actors brought to justice!”

  Bowen came out of a reverie. “Would you be so good as to step inside for a few minutes, Mr. Chattaway? I have a word to say to you.”

  Mr. Chattaway got off his horse, hooked the bridle to the rails, as he had hooked it in the morning, and followed Bowen. The man saw that the doors were closed, and then spoke.

  “There’s a tale flying about, Mr. Chattaway, that Rupert Trevlyn has come to some harm. Do you know anything of it?”

  “Not I,” slightingly answered Mr. Chattaway. “What harm should come to him?”

  “It is said that you and he met last night, had some sort of encounter by moonlight, and that Rupert was — in short, that some violence was done him.”

  For a full minute they remained looking at each other. The policeman appeared intent on biting the feathers of his pen; in reality, he was studying the face of Mr. Chattaway with a critical acumen his apparently careless demeanour imparted little idea of. He saw the blood mount under the dark skin; he saw the eye lighten with emotion: but the emotion was more like that called forth by anger than guilt. At least, so the police officer judged; and habit had rendered him a pretty correct observer. Mr. Chattaway was the first to speak.

  “How do you know anything of the sort took place? — any interview?”

  “It was watched — that is, accidentally seen. A person was passing at the time, and has me
ntioned it to-day.”

  “Who was the person?”

  Bowen did not reply to the question. The omission may have been accidental, since he was hastening to put one on his own account.

  “Do you deny this, Mr. Chattaway?”

  “No. I wish I had the opportunity of acknowledging it to Mr. Rupert Trevlyn in the manner he deserves,” continued Mr. Chattaway, in what looked like a blaze of anger.

  “It is said that after the — the encounter, Rupert Trevlyn was left as one dead,” cautiously resumed Bowen.

  “Psha!” was the scornful retort. “Dead! He got up and ran away.”

  A very different account from that of Jim Sanders. Bowen was silent for a minute, endeavouring, most likely, to reconcile the two. “Have you any objection to state what took place, sir?”

  “I don’t know that I have,” was the reply, somewhat sullenly delivered. “But I can’t see what business it is of yours.”

  “People are taking up odd notions about it,” said Bowen.

  “People be hanged! It’s no concern of theirs.”

  “But if they come to me and oblige me to make it my concern?” returned the officer, in significant tones. “If it’s all fair and above-board, you had better tell me, Mr. Chattaway. If it’s not, perhaps the less you say the better.”

  It was a hint not calculated to conciliate a chafed spirit, and Mr. Chattaway resented it. “How dare you presume to throw out insinuations to me?” he cried, snatching his riding-whip off the desk, where he had laid it, and stalking towards the door. “I’ll tell you nothing; and you may make the best and the worst of it. Find Rupert Trevlyn, if you must know, and get it out of him. I ask you who has been spreading the rumour that I met Rupert Trevlyn last night?”

  Bowen saw no reason why he should not disclose it. “Jim Sanders,” he replied.

  “Psha!” contemptuously ejaculated Mr. Chattaway: and he mounted his horse and rode away.

  So that after this colloquy, Chattaway was in a degree prepared to find unpleasant rumours had reached the Hold. When he entered he could not avoid seeing the shrinking, timid looks cast on him by his children; the haughty, questioning face of Miss Diana; the horror in that of Mrs. Chattaway. He took the same sullen, defiant tone with them that he had taken with Bowen, denying the thing by implication more than by direct assertions. He asked them all whether they had gone out of their minds, that they should listen to senseless tales; and threatened the most dire revenge against Rupert when he was found.