by Ellen Wood
Thus matters went on for a few days. But the rumours did not die away: on the contrary, they gathered strength and plausibility. Things were in a most uncomfortable state at the Hold: the family were tortured by dread and doubt they dared not give utterance to, and strove to hide; the very servants went about with silent footsteps, casting covert glances at their master from dark corners, and avoiding a direct meeting with him. Mr. Chattaway could not help seeing all this, and it did not tend to give him equanimity.
The only thing that could clear up this miserable doubt was to find Rupert. But Rupert was not found. Friends and foes, police and public, put out their best endeavours to accomplish it; but no more trace could be discovered of Rupert than if he had never existed — or than if, as many openly said, he were buried in some quiet corner of Mr. Chattaway’s grounds. To do Mr. Chattaway justice, he appeared the most anxious of any for Rupert’s discovery: not with a view to clearing himself from suspicion; that he trampled under foot, as it were; but that Rupert might be brought to justice for burning the ricks.
Perhaps Mr. Chattaway’s enemies may be pardoned for their doubts. It cannot be denied that there were apparent grounds for them: many a man has been officially accused of murder upon less. There was the well-known ill-feeling which had long existed on Mr. Chattaway’s part towards Rupert; there was the dread of being displaced by him, which had latterly arisen through the visit of Mr. Daw; there was the sore feeling excited on both sides by the business of the rick-yard and the subsequent examination; there was the night contest spoken of by Jim Sanders, which Mr. Chattaway did not deny; there were the scratches and bruises visible on that gentleman’s face; and there was the total disappearance of Rupert. People could remember the blank look which had passed over Mr. Chattaway’s countenance when Rupert ran into the circle gathered round the pit at Blackstone. “He’d ha’ bin glad that he were dead,” they had murmured then, one to another. “And happen he have put him out o’ the way,” they murmured now.
Perhaps they did not all go so far as to suspect Mr. Chattaway of the crime of premeditated murder: he might have killed him wilfully in the passion of the moment; or killed him accidentally by an unlucky blow that had done its work more effectually than he had intended. The fruitless search was no barrier to these doubts; murdered men had been hidden away before, and would be again.
I have not yet mentioned the last point of suspicion, but it was one much dwelt upon — the late return of Mr. Chattaway to his home on the night in question. The servants had not failed to talk of this, and the enemies outside took it up and discussed it eagerly. It was most unusual for Mr. Chattaway to be away from home at night. Unsociable by nature, and a man whose company was not sought by his neighbours — for they disliked him — it was a rare thing for Mr. Chattaway to spend his evenings out. He attended evening parties now and then in the company of his wife and Miss Trevlyn, but not once a year was he invited out alone. His absence therefore on this night, coupled with his late entrance, close upon midnight, was the more remarkable. Where had he been until that hour? Everyone wondered: everyone asked it. Mr. Chattaway carelessly answered his wife and Miss Diana that he had been on business at Barbrook, but condescended to give no reply whatever to any other living mortal amongst the questioners.
As the days went on without news of Rupert, Mr. Chattaway expressed a conviction that he had made his way to Mr. Daw, and was being sheltered there. A most unsatisfactory conviction, if he really and genuinely believed it. With those two hatching plots against him, he could never know a moment’s peace. He was most explosive against Rupert; at home and abroad he never ceased to utter threats of prosecution for the crime of which he had been guilty. He rode every other day to the station, worrying Bowen, asking whether any traces had turned up: urged — this was in the first day or so of the disappearance — that houses and cottages should be searched. Bowen quite laughed at the suggestion. If Mr. Chattaway had reason to suspect any particular house or cottage, they might perhaps go the length of getting a search warrant; but to enter dwellings indiscriminately would be an intolerable and unjustifiable procedure.
Mr. Chattaway was unable to say that he had especial cause to suspect any house or cottage: unless, he added in his temper, it might be Trevlyn Farm. Jim Sanders had, it appeared, hidden there in an outbuilding: why not Rupert Trevlyn? But Bowen saw and knew that Mr. Chattaway had only spoken in exasperation. Trevlyn Farm was not more likely to conceal Rupert Trevlyn than any other house of its standing — in fact less; for Mrs. Ryle would not have permitted it. Her dislike to any sort of underhand dealing was so great, that she would not have concealed Rupert, or countenanced his being concealed, had it been to save him from hanging. In that she resembled Miss Diana Trevlyn. Miss Diana would have spent her last shilling nobly to defend Rupert on his trial — had it come to a trial — but ignominiously conceal him from the reach of the law, that she would never have done. Chattaway’s remark travelled to George Ryle: George happened to meet Bowen the same day, not an hour after, and spoke of it. He told Bowen that the bare idea of Rupert’s being concealed on their premises was absurd, and added, on his word of honour, not only that he did not know where Rupert was, but where he was likely to be: the thing was to him a complete mystery. Bowen nodded. In Bowen’s opinion the idea of his being concealed in any house was all moonshine.
The days went on and on, and it did appear very mysterious where Rupert could be, or what his fate. His clothes, his effects, remained unclaimed at Trevlyn Hold. When Mrs. Chattaway came unexpectedly upon anything that had belonged to him, she turned sick with the fears that darted across her heart. A faint hope arose within her at times that Rupert had gone, as Mr. Chattaway loudly, and perhaps others more secretly, surmised, to Mr. Daw in his far-off home, but it was rejected the next moment. She knew, none better, that Rupert had no means to take him there. Oh, how often did she wish, in her heart of hearts, that they had never usurped Trevlyn Hold! It seemed they were beginning to reap all the bitter fruits, which had been so long ripening.
But this supposition was soon to be set aside. Two letters arrived from Mr. Daw: one to Mr. Freeman, the other to Rupert himself; and they completely did away with the idea that Rupert Trevlyn had found his way to the Pyrenees.
It appeared that Rupert had written an account to Mr. Daw of these unhappy circumstances; his setting the rick on fire in his passion, and his arrest. He had written it on the evening of the day he was discharged from custody. And by the contents of his letter, it was evident that he then contemplated returning to the Hold.
“These letters from Mr. Daw settle the question: Rupert has not gone there,” observed Mr. Freeman. “But they only make the mystery greater.”
Yes, they did. And the news went forth to the neighbourhood that Rupert Trevlyn had written a letter subsequent to the examination at Barmester, wherein he stated that he was going straight home to the Hold. Gossip never loses in the carrying, you know.
Jim Sanders, who was discharged and at work again, became quite the lion of the day. He had never been made so much of in his life. Tea here, supper there, ale everywhere. Everyone was asking Jim the particulars of that later night, and Jim, nothing loth, gave them, with the addition of his own comments.
And the days went on, and the ferment and the doubts increased.
CHAPTER XLV
AN APPLICATION
The ferment increased. The arguments in the neighbourhood were worthy of being listened to, if only from a logical point of view. If Rupert Trevlyn had stated that he was going back to the Hold after the proceedings at Barmester; and if Rupert Trevlyn never reached the Hold, clearly Mr. Chattaway had killed and buried him. Absurd as the deduction may be from a dispassionate point of view, to those excited gentry it appeared not only a feasible but a certain conclusion. The thing could not rest; interviews were held with Mr. Peterby, who was supposed to be the only person able to take up the matter on the part of the missing and ill-used Rupert; and that gentleman bestirred himself
to make secret inquiries.
One dark night, between eight and nine, the inmates of the lodge were disturbed by a loud imperative knocking at their door. Ann Canham — trying her poor eyes over some dark sewing by the light of the solitary candle — started from her chair, and remarked that her heart had leaped into her mouth.
Which may have been a reason, possibly, for standing still, face and hands uplifted in consternation, instead of answering the knock. It was repeated more imperatively.
Old Canham turned his head and looked at her, as he smoked his last evening pipe over the fire. “Thee must open it, Ann.”
Seeing no help for it, she went meekly to the door, wringing her hands. What she feared was best known to herself; but in point of fact, since Bowen, the superintendent, had pounced upon her a few days before, as she was going past the police-station, handed her inside, and put her through sundry questions as we put a boy through his catechism, she had lived in a state of tremor. She may have concluded it was Bowen now, with the fellow handcuffs to those which had adorned Jim Sanders.
It proved to be Mr. Peterby. Ann looked surprised, but lost three parts of her fear. Dropping her humble curtsey, she was about to ask his pleasure, when he brushed past her without ceremony, and stepped into the kitchen.
“Shut the door,” were his first words to her. “How are you, Canham?”
Mark had risen, and stood with doubtful gaze, wondering, no doubt, what the visit could mean. “I be but middlin’, sir,” he answered, putting his pipe in the corner of the hearth. “We ain’t none of us too well, I reckon, with this uncertainty hanging over our minds, as to poor Master Rupert.”
“It is the business I have come about. Sit down, Ann,” Mr. Peterby added, settling himself on the bench opposite Mark. “I want to ask you a few questions.”
“Yes, sir,” she meekly answered. But her hands shook, and she nearly dropped the work she had taken up.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” cried Mr. Peterby, noticing the emotion. “I am not going to accuse you of putting him out of sight, as it seems busy tongues are accusing somebody else. On the night the encounter took place between Mr. Chattaway and Rupert Trevlyn, you were passing near the spot, I believe. You must tell me all you saw. First of all, as I am told, you encountered Rupert.”
Ann Canham raised her shaking hand to her brow. Mr. Peterby had begun his questioning in a hard, matter-of-fact tone, as if he were examining a witness in court, and it did not tend to reassure her. Ann was often laughed at for her timidity. She gave him the account of her interview with Rupert as correctly as she could remember it.
“He said nothing of his intention of going off anywhere?” asked Mr. Peterby, when she had finished.
“Not a word, sir. He said he had nowhere to go to; if he went to the Hold, Mr. Chattaway might be for horsewhipping him again. He thought he should lie under the trees till morning.”
“Did you leave him there?”
“I left him sitting on the stile, sir, eating the bread. He had complained of hunger, and I got him to take a part of a cake Mrs. Freeman had given me for my father.”
“You told Bowen, the superintendent of the police-station, that you asked him to take refuge in the lodge for the night?”
“Yes, sir,” after a slight pause. “Mr. Bowen put a heap of questions to me, and what with being confused, and the fright of his calling me into the place, I didn’t well know what I said to him.”
“But you did ask Rupert Trevlyn?”
“I asked him if he’d be pleased to take shelter in the lodge till the morning, as he seemed to have nowhere to go to. But he spoke out quite sharp, at my asking it, and said, did I think he wanted to get me and father into trouble with Mr. Chattaway? So I went away, leaving him there.”
“Well, now, just tell me whom you met afterwards.”
“I hadn’t got above three-parts up the field, sir, when I met Mr. Chattaway. I stood off the narrow path to let him pass, and wished him good night, but he didn’t answer me: he went on. Just as I came close to the road-stile, I see Jim Sanders coming over it, so I asked him where he had been, and how he had got back again, having heard he’d not been found all day, and he answered rather impertinently that he’d been up in the moon. The moon was uncommon bright that night, sir,” she simply added.
“Was that all Jim Sanders said?”
“Yes, sir, every word. He went on down the path as if he was in a hurry.”
“In the direction Mr. Chattaway had taken?”
“The very same. There is but that one path, sir.”
“And that was the last you saw of them?”
Ann Canham stopped to snuff the candle before she answered. “That was all, sir. I was hastening to get back to father, knowing he’d be wanting me, for I was late. Mr. Bowen kep’ on telling me it was strange I heard nothing of the encounter, but I never did. I must ha’ been out of the field long before Mr. Chattaway could get up to Master Rupert.”
“Pity but you had waited and gone back,” observed Mr. Peterby, musingly. “It might have prevented what occurred.”
“Pity, perhaps, but I had, sir. It never entered my head that anything bad would come of their meeting. Since, after I came to know what did happen, I wondered I had not thought of it. But if I had, sir, I shouldn’t have dared go back after Mr. Chattaway. It wouldn’t have been my place.”
Mr. Peterby sat looking at Ann, as she imagined. In point of fact he was so buried in thought as to see nothing. He rose from the settle. “And this is all you know about it! Well, it amounts to nothing beyond establishing the fact that all three — Rupert Trevlyn, Mr. Chattaway, and the boy — were on the spot at that time. Good night, Canham. I hope your rheumatism will get easier.”
Ann Canham opened the door, and wished him good night. When he was fairly gone she slipped the bolt, and stood with her back against it, to recover her equanimity.
“Father, my heart was in my mouth all the time he was here,” she repeated. “I be all of a twitter.”
“More stupid you!” was the sympathising answer of old Canham.
The public ferment, I say, did not lessen, and the matter was at length carried before the magistrates; so far as that the advice of one of them was asked by Mr. Peterby. It happened that Mr. Chattaway had gone this very day to Barmester. He was standing at the entrance to the inn-yard where he generally put up, when his solicitor, Flood, approached, evidently in a state of excitement.
“What a mercy I found you!” he exclaimed, quite out of breath. “Jackson told me you were in town. Come along!”
“Why, what’s the matter?” asked Chattaway.
“Matter? There’s matter enough. Peterby’s before the magistrates at this very moment preferring a charge against you for having murdered Rupert Trevlyn. I got word of it in the oddest manner, and — —”
“What do you say?” interrupted Chattaway, his face blazing, as he stood stock still, and refused to stir another step without an answer.
“Come along, I say. There’s some application being made to the magistrates about you, and my advice is —— Mr. Chattaway,” added the lawyer, in a deeper, almost an agitated tone, as he abruptly broke off his words, “I assume that you are innocent of this. You are?”
“Before Heaven, I am innocent!” thundered Chattaway. “What do you mean, Flood?”
“Then make haste. My advice to you is, go right into the midst of it, and confront Peterby. Don’t let the magistrates hear only one side of the question. Make your explanation and set these nasty rumours at rest. It is what you ought to have done at first.”
Apparently eager as himself now, Mr. Chattaway strode along. They found on reaching the courts that some trifling cause was being heard by the magistrates, nothing at all connected with Mr. Chattaway. But the explanation was forthcoming, Mr. Peterby was in a private room with one of the Bench only — a Captain Mynn. With scant ceremony the interview was broken in upon by the intruders.
There was no formal complaint
being made, no accusation lodged, or warrant applied for. Mr. Peterby, who was on terms of intimacy with Captain Mynn, was laying the case before him unofficially, and asking his advice as a friend. A short explanation on either side ensued, and Mr. Peterby turned to Mr. Chattaway.
“This has been forced upon me,” he said. “For days and days past I have been urged to apply for a warrant against you, and have declined. But public opinion is becoming so urgent, that if I don’t act it will be taken out of my hands, and given to those who have less scruple than I. Therefore I resolved to adopt a medium course; and came here asking Captain Mynn’s opinion as a friend — not as a magistrate — whether I should have sufficient grounds for acting. For myself, I honestly confess I think them very slight; and assure you, Mr. Chattaway, that I am no enemy of yours, although it may look like it at this moment.”
“By whom have you been urged to this?” coldly asked Mr. Chattaway.
“By more than I should care to name: the public, to give them a collective term. But how you obtained cognisance of my being here, I can’t make out,” he added, turning to Mr. Flood. “Not a soul knew I was coming.”
“As we have met here, we had better have it out,” was Mr. Flood’s indirect answer. “It is my advice to Mr. Chattaway, and he wishes it. If Captain Mynn hears your side unofficially he must, in justice, hear ours. That’s fair, all the world over.”
It was, doubtless, a very unusual, perhaps unorthodox, mode of proceeding; but things far more unorthodox than that are done in local courts every day. Captain Mynn knew all the doubts and rumours just as well as Mr. Peterby could state them, but he listened attentively, as in duty bound. Mr. Chattaway did not deny the encounter with Rupert: never had denied it. He acknowledged they were neither of them very cool; Rupert was the first to strike, and Rupert fell or was knocked down. Immediately upon that, he, Chattaway, heard a sound, went to see what it was, and found they had had an eavesdropper, who was then making off across the field, on the other side of the grove. Chattaway, angry at the fact, gave pursuit, in the hope of identifying the intruder (whom he had since discovered to be Jim Sanders), but was unable to catch him. When he got back to the spot, Rupert was gone.