The Penguin Book of Victorian Women in Crime

by Michael Sims

  I determined to see the girl at once; that is, after I had had a night’s rest. And therefore next morning, after carefully seeing my box and bag were locked, I made a quick breakfast, and sallied out. Reaching the station, there was Mrs. Green. She had obviously got the start of me by crossing Goose Green fields, as in fact she told me.

  She said she thought I must have dropped that, and had come to see.

  “That” was a purse so old that it was a curiosity.

  “Bless ’ee!” she says, “isn’t yourn? Odd, beant it? But, bless ’ee! ye’ll have to wait an hour for a train. There beant a train to anywhere for arl an hour.”

  “Then I’ll take a walk,” said I.

  “Shall I come, and tark pleasant to ’ee?” asked Mrs. Green.

  “No,” I replied; “I’ve some business to transact.”

  I had an hour to spare, and remembering that I had seen the things at Higgins’s by a failing evening light, I thought I would again visit that worthy, and make a second inspection.

  It was perhaps well I did so.

  Not that I discovered anything of further importance, but the atom of novelty of which I made myself master, helped to confirm me in my belief that the deceased had visited a young woman, probably a lady, a very short time before his death.

  Higgins, a saddler by trade, was not at all delighted at my reappearance, and really I was afraid I should have to state what I was in order to get my way, and then civilly bully him into secrecy. But happily his belief in me as a mild mad woman overcame his surliness, and so with the help of a few more shillings I examined once more the clothes found on the unfortunate young squire.

  And now, in the full blazing spring morning sunlight, I saw what had missed my view on the previous evening. This was nothing less than a bright crimson scrap of silk braid, such as ladies use in prosecuting their embroidery studies.

  This bit of braid had been wound round and round a breast button, and then tied in a natty bow at the top.

  “She is a lady,” I thought; “and she was resting her head against his breast when she tied that bit of braid there. She is innocent, I should think, or she never would have done such a childish action as that.”

  Higgins put away the dead youth’s clothes with a discontented air.

  “Look ye yere—do ’ee think ye’l want ’em wuncet more?”

  “No.”

  “Wull, if ’ee do, ’ee wunt have ’un.”

  “Oh, very well,” I said, and went back to the station.

  Of course there was Mrs. Green on the watch, though in the morning I had seen about the house symptoms of the day being devoted to what I have heard comic Londoners describe as “a water party”—in other words, a grand wash.

  That wash Mrs. Green had deserted.

  “Bless ’ee, I’m waitin’ for a dear fren’!”

  “Oh, indeed, Mrs. Green.”

  “Shall I take ticket for ’ee, dear?”

  “Yes, if you like. Take it for Stokeley,” said I.

  “Four mile away,” says Mrs. Green. “I’ve got a fren’ at Stokeley. I wounds if your fren’ be my fren’! Who be your fren’, bless ’ee?”

  “Mrs. Blotchley.”

  “What, her as lives near th’ peump?” (pump)

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, I don’t know she.”

  It seemed to me Mrs. Green was awed—I never learnt by what, because as I never knew Mrs. Blotchley, and dropped upon her name by chance, and indeed never visited Stokeley, why Green had all the benefit of the discovery.

  “And, Mrs. Green, if I am not home by nine, do not sit up for me.”

  “Oh!—goin’ maybe to sleep at her hoose?”

  “Very likely.”

  “Oh!”

  And as Mrs. Green here dropped me a curtsey I have remained under the impression that Mrs. B. was a lady of consequence whose grandeur Mrs. Green saw reflected upon me.

  I have no doubt the information she put at once in circulation helped to screen the actual purpose for which I had arrived at Tram from leaking out.

  When the train reached Stokeley I procured another ticket on to Little Pocklington, and reached that town about two in the afternoon. It was not more than sixty miles from Tram.

  The father of this Dinah Yarton was one of those small few-acre farmers who throughout the country are gradually but as certainly vanishing.

  I may perhaps at once say that the poor girl Dinah had no less than three fits over the cross-examination to which I submitted her, and here (to the honour of rustic human nature) let it be recorded that actually I had to use my last resource, and show myself to be a police officer, by the production of my warrant in the presence of the Little Pocklington constable, who was brought into the affair, before I could overcome the objections of the girl’s father. He with much justifiable reason urged that the “darned” business had already half-killed his wench, and he would be “darned” if I should altogether send her out of the “warld.”

  As I have said, the unhappy girl had three fits, and I have no doubt the family were heartily glad when I had turned my back upon the premises.

  The unhappy young woman had to make twenty struggles before she could find one reply.

  Here I need not repeat her evidence to that point past which it was not carried when she stood before the coroner and jury, but I will commence from that point.

  “Dinah,” I inquired in a quiet tone, and I believe the fussiness betrayed by the girl’s mother tended as much to the fits as the girl’s own nervousness—“Dinah, what was all that about the big box?”

  “Darn the box,” said the mother.

  And here it was that the unfortunate girl took her second fit.

  “There, she’s killed my Dinah now,” said the old woman, and it must be confessed Dinah was horribly convulsed, and indeed looked frightful in the extreme. The poor creature was quite an hour fighting with the fit, and when she came to and opened her eyes, the first object they met made her shut them again, for that object was myself.

  However, I had my duty to perform, and therein lies the excuse for my torture.

  “What—oh—o-o-oh wha-at did thee say?”

  “What about the big box?”

  “Doa noa.” [This was the mode in those part of saying “I do not know.”]

  “Where was it?”

  “In th’ hall.”

  “Where did it come from?”

  “Doa noa.”

  “How long had it been there?”

  “Sin’ the day afore.”

  “Who brought it?”

  “Doa noa.”

  “Was it a man?”

  “Noa.”

  “What then?”

  “Two men.”

  “How did they come?”

  “They coomed in a great big waggoon.”

  “And did they bring the box in the waggon?”

  “Yoa.” [This already I knew meant “Yes.”]

  “And they left the box at the hall?”

  “Yoa.”

  “What then?”

  “Whoa?” [This I guessed meant “What.”]

  “What did they say?”

  “Zed box wur for squoire.”

  “Did they both carry it?”

  “Yoa.”

  “How?”

  “Carefool loike.” [Here there were symptoms of another convulsion.]

  “What became of the big box?”

  “Doa noa.”

  “Did they come for it again?”

  “Doa noa.”

  “Is it there now?”

  “Noa.”

  “Then it went away again?”

  “Yoa.”

  “You did not see it taken away?”

  “Noa.”

  “Then how do you know it is not there now?”

  “Doa noa.”

  “But you say it is not at the hall—how do you know that?”

  “Mrs. Quanyan (Quinion) told I men had been for it.”

  “When was that?”
/>
  “After I’d been garne to bed.”

  “Was it there the next morning?”

  “Whoa?”

  “Was it there the morning when they found the young squire dead outside the door?”

  And now “Diney,” as her mother called her, plunged into the third fit, and in the early throes of that convulsion I was forced to leave her, for her father, an honest fellow, told me to leave his house, “arficer or no arficer,” and that if I did not do so he would give me what he called a “sta-a-art.”

  Under the circumstances I thought that perhaps it was wise to go, and did depart accordingly.

  That night I remained in Little Pocklington in the hope, in which I was so grievously disappointed, of discovering further particulars which the girl might have divulged to her companions. But in the first place Diney had no companions, and in the second all attempts to draw people out, for the case had been copied into that county paper which held sway at Little Pocklington, all attempts signally failed.

  Upon my return to Tram, Mrs. Green received me with all the honours, clearly as a person who had visited Mrs. Blotchley, and I noticed that the parlour fire-place was decorated with a new stove-ornament in paper of a fiery and flaring description.

  I thanked Mrs. Green, and in answer to that lady’s inquiries I was happy to say Mrs. Blotchley was well—except a slight cold. Yes, I had slept there. What did I have for dinner at Mrs. Blotchley’s? Well, really I had forgotten. “Dear heart,” said Mrs. Green, “’ow unfortnet.”

  After seeing “Diney,” and in coming home by the train (and indeed I can always think well while travelling), I turned over all that I had pinched out of Dinah Yarton in reference to the big box.

  Did that box, or did it not, in any way relate to the death?

  It was large; it had been carried by two men; and according to Dinah’s information it had been removed again from the hall.

  At all events I must find out what the box meant.

  The whole affair was still so warm—not much more than a fortnight had passed since the occurrence—that I still felt sure all particulars about that date which had been noticed would be remembered.

  I set Mrs. Green to work, for nobody could better suit my purpose.

  “Mrs. Green, can you find out whether any strange carrier’s cart or waggon, containing a very big box, was seen in Tram on the Monday, and the day before young Mr. Petleigh’s body was found?”

  I saw happiness in Mrs. Green’s face; and having thus set her to work, I put myself in the best order, and went up to Petleighcote Hall.

  The door was opened (with suspicious slowness) by a servant-woman, who closed it again before she took my message and a card to Mrs. Quinion. The message consisted of a statement that I had come after the character of a servant.

  A few moments passed, and I was introduced into the housekeeper’s presence.

  I found her a calm-looking, fine, portly woman, with much quiet determination in her countenance. She was by no means badly featured.

  She was quite self-possessed.

  The following conversation took place between us. The reader will see that not the least reference was made by me to the real object of my visit—the prosecution of an inquiry as to the mode by which young Mr. Petleigh had met his death. And if the reader complains that there is much falsity in what I state, I would urge that as evil-doing is a kind of lie levelled at society, if it is to be conquered it must be met on the side of society, through its employés, by similar false action.

  Here is the conversation.

  “Mrs. Quinion, I believe?”

  “Yes, as I am usually termed—but let that pass. You wish to see me?”

  “Yes; I have called about the character of a servant.”

  “Indeed—who?”

  “I was passing through Tram, where I shall remain some days, on my way from town to York, and I thought it would be wise to make a personal inquiry, which I find much the best plan in all affairs relating to my servants.”

  “A capital plan; but as you came from town, why did you not apply to the town housekeeper, since I have no doubt you take the young person from the town house?”

  “There is the difficulty. I should take the young person, if her character were to answer, from a sort of charity. She has never been in town, and here’s my doubt. However, if you give me any hope of the young person—”

  “What is her name?”

  “Dinah—Dinah—you will allow me to refer to my pocket-book.”

  “Don’t take that trouble,” said she, and I thought she looked pale; but her pallor might have been owing, I thought at the time, to the deep mourning she was wearing; “you mean Dinah Yarton.”

  “Yarton—that is the name. Do you think she will suit?”

  “Much depends upon what she is wanted for.”

  “An under nurserymaid.”

  “Your own family?”

  “Oh, dear no—a sister’s.”

  “In town?”

  [She asked this question most calmly.]

  “No—abroad.”

  “Abroad?” and I remarked that she uttered the word with an energy which, though faint in itself, spoke volumes when compared with her previous serenity.

  “Yes,” I said, “my sister’s family are about leaving England for Italy, where they will remain for years. Do you think this girl would do?”

  “Well—yes. She is not very bright, it is true, but she is wonderfully clean, honest, and extremely fond of children.”

  Now, it struck me then and there that the experience of the housekeeper at childless Petleighcote as to Dinah’s love of children must have been extremely limited.

  “What I most liked in Dinah,” continued Mrs. Quinion, “was her frankness and trustworthiness. There can be no doubt of her gentleness with children.”

  “May I ask why you parted with her?”

  “She left me of her own free will. We had, two or three weeks since, a very sad affair here. It operated much upon her; she wished to get away from the place; and indeed I was glad she determined to go.”

  “Has she good health?”

  “Very fair health.”

  Not a word about the fits.

  It struck me Mrs. Qunion relished the idea of Dinah Yarton’s going abroad.

  “I think I will recommend her to my sister. She tells me she would have no objection to go abroad.”

  “Oh! you have seen her?”

  “Yes—the day before yesterday, and before leaving for town, whence I came here. I will recommend the girl. Good morning.”

  “Good morning, ma’am; but before you go, will you allow me to take the liberty of asking you, since you are from London, if you can recommend me a town servant, or at all events a young person who comes from a distance. When the family is away I require only one servant here, and I am not able to obtain this one now that the hall has got amongst the scandal-mongers, owing to the catastrophe to which I have already referred. The young person I have with me is intolerable; she has only been here four days, and I am quite sure she must not remain fourteen.”

  “Well, I think I can recommend you a young person, strong and willing to please, and who only left my sister’s household on the score of followers. Shall I write to my sister’s housekeeper and see what is to be done?”

  “I should be most obliged,” said Mrs. Quinion; “but where may I address a letter to you in event of my having to write?”

  “Oh!” I replied, “I shall remain at Tram quite a week. I have received a telegraphic message which makes my journey to the north needless; and as I have met here in Tram with a person who is a friend of an humble friend of mine, I am in no hurry to quit the place.”

  “Indeed! may I ask who?”

  “Old Mrs. Green, at the corner of the Market Place, and her friend is Mrs. Blotchley of Stokeley.”

  “Oh, thank you. I know neither party.”

  “I may possibly see you again,” I continued.

  “Most obliged,”
continued Mrs. Quinion; “shall be most happy.”

  “Good morning.”

  She returned the salute, and there was an end of the visit.

  And then it came about that upon returning to the house of old Mrs. Green, I said in the most innocent manner in the world, and in order to make all my acts and words in the place as consistent as possible, for in a small country town if you do not do your falsehood deftly you will very quickly be discovered—I said to that willing gossip——

  “Why, Mrs. Green, I find you are a friend of Mrs. Blotchley of Stokeley!”

  “E-es,” she said in a startled manner, “Ise her fren’, bless ’ee.”

  “And I’m gratified to hear it, for as her friend you are mine, Mrs. Green.”

  And here I took her hand.

  No wonder after our interview was over that she went out in her best bonnet, though it was only Wednesday. I felt sure it was quite out of honour to Mrs. Blotchley and her friend, who had claimed her friendship, and the history of which she was taking out to tea with her.

  Of the interview with Mrs. Green I must say a few words, and in her own expressions.

  “Well, Mrs. Green, have you heard of any unusual cart having been seen in Tram on the day before Mr. Petleigh was found dead?”

  “Lardy, lardy, e-es,” said Mrs. Green; “but bless ’ee, whaty want to know for?”

  “I want to know if it was Mrs. Blotchley’s brother’s cart, that’s all.”

  “Des say it war. I’ve been arl over toon speering aboot that waggoon. I went to Jones the baker, and Willmott, who married Mary Sprinters—which wur on’y fair; the grocer, an’ him knowed nought about it; an’ the bootcher in froont street, and bootcher in back street; and Mrs. Macnab, her as mangles, and no noos, bless’ee, not even of Tom Hatt the milkman, but, lardy, lardy! when Ise tarking for a fren’ o’ my fren’s Ise tark till never. ’Twur draper told I arl aboot the ca-art.”

  “What?” I said, I am afraid too eagerly for a detective who knew her business thoroughly.

  “Why, draper White wur oot for stroll loike, an’ looking about past turning to the harl (hall), and then he sees coming aloong a cart him guessed wur coming to him’s shop; but, bless ’ee, ’twarnt comin’ to his shop at ARL!”

  “Where was it going?”

  “Why the cart turned right arf to harl, and that moost ha’ been wher they cart went to; and, bless ’ee, that’s arl.”