The old woman opened at once. Once again, Steve could not hear what was said very clearly, and that which he did hear confused him. But he saw the woman come out into the drive, and point across the park. The stranger walked off rapidly in the direction that the rider had taken.
Steve was feeling both thirst and hunger, but he still waited. Everything which he observed increased his curiosity and his conviction that he was at the centre of the mystery, though he could not read it. His somewhat nomadic ancestors had been accustomed to such observations, and had learnt that knowledge may be power also. To know the date on which a woman did her week’s washing might avert the danger of having to hang about, and excite suspicion, before the moment when you would strip the line.
He had not to wait much longer before he saw a group returning across the park in an evident amity. The man carried a child. There was a second woman. Steve showed his quickness of eye when he decided that it was the one of whom he had caught so short a glimpse upon the Larkshill Road. And she had carried a child, which was probably the same that the man was carrying now.
As they disappeared into the lodge, Steve began to piece matters together more successfully than he had done before. He remembered a vague tale he had heard, just as Tom’s party were setting out, that some of them had promised to help him search for the missing husband of the woman that he had been keeping here. It had sounded a silly tale, and as such he had put it out of his mind. But now it returned. Here plainly enough was the missing husband, the father who had regained his children. The other woman was with him in some capacity less easy to understand.
He decided that Tom had returned with new allies, to whom these people belonged, and that Cooper had been defeated in consequence.
He had learnt sufficient, and could go home in peace. Yet he delayed. It would soon be twilight. He did not suppose, even under existing conditions, that three adults and two children would stay all night in that tiny lodge. If he should wait and follow, he might still remain at the centre of knowledge. But the course of another hour, during which nothing happened, except that afternoon had passed into evening, had disposed him to wait no longer, when Tom came across the road, and entered by the gates, which had been left unlocked. He went straight into the lodge. He had come, Steve observed, by the field-path which led directly from Stacey Dobson’s place on the road to Cowley Thorn.
Steve waited a few minutes longer, but no one came out, and though he still did not suppose that they would all remain there for the night, he did what a wiser man would have done much earlier—he went home.
He had learnt a good deal by the medium of his eyes, but he realized that his ears could now continue the inquiry to better purpose. He concluded that Tom and his party had returned, and that his previous surmises had not been far from the truth. But such conjectures, however accurate, left much to be explained, many details to be discovered. He went back to the railway camp, where he expected to learn them.
Chapter Forty-One
Monty Beeston sat on his accustomed bucket, but with more than usual regard for the ease of his body. He had pulled out much hay from his lair beneath the goods van. It covered the bucket, and was stuffed behind it, and before the wheel of the van against which he was leaning. For Monty, though very happy, was very tired. Every bone ached, and he could imagine the size of the blisters upon his feet without the ordeal of inspection. He had experienced the toils of war, and he claimed a full share of its glories.
His bill-hook lay beside him, and his revolver butt stuck out prominently from his hip-pocket. Was it necessary to say that it had not been fired for reasons which it would be indiscreet to mention? Was it necessary to say that the bill-hook had been occupied upon no greater object than the division of a dead pig? Had it not been carried boldly enough into the tunnel darkness? Could it do execution where there had been no one left to slaughter on its arrival?
Had it not been thrust out manfully at the horsemen who had ridden down the Sterrington hill, and would it not have been effectual to bring at least one of them to the ground, but for the fact that it was less than twelve feet long? Was that Monty’s fault? (It was quite heavy enough as it was for a hot day.) Monty had done his part, and his feet confessed it.
There had been—alas!—no beer to rejoice his return, for that which had been found in Bellamy’s cart had been consumed last night; but a large jug of milk stood on the sleeper beside him, a tribute from those whose curiosity he had gratified.
He thought that he was tired of talking, but when Steve strolled up, having been previously repulsed by Will Carless with a turned shoulder and a muttered oath (the cause of which he had guessed very easily), and began to question him in his quiet drawl, he found that it was still a pleasure to answer. He even offered the remainder of the milk (having already drunk to the limit of his own capacity) to so satisfactory a listener.
“Settled Bellamy?” Steve inquired.
“No,” said Monty, “the new captain done that. Him and his gal. Fine gal her be.” He spoke as one who encounters an improbability, but is constrained by truth to admit it.
“The new captain?” said Steve.
“Yes, we’ve got a real boss now. Captain Webster. Captain Martin Webster.”
“You mean he’d killed Bellamy before you got there? How many has he got?”
Steve imagined a numerically superior body that Tom had encountered after it had executed its own vengeance upon Bellamy’s gang, and to whom he had been forced to yield, upon such terms as he could obtain.
“There’s none but him and the gal,” said Monty. “They was in the long tunnel, down the line. They killed Bellamy when he went in to fetch them out. And Smith. And Donavan. And Reddy Teller. And a lot more. Then we come up, and finish it off. Bill Horton’s dead. Navvy Barnes killed him. And Roberts. Roberts shot Navvy.”
“Ellis Roberts dead?” asked Steve, to whom the rapid list of fatalities was somewhat bewildering.
“Yes,” said Monty, “Navvy knocked his ribs in with a spade, after he’d shot him. So Ellis said…. Harry Swain’s hurt, and Andrews, and Ted Wrench, and Tedman—Bob Stiles knifed him over the stuff. That’s about all.” His voice had a note which was almost regretful, as though he feared that the list of fatalities might seem inadequate. “Bellamy’s lot’s done in, all except Hodder and Timms, and an old woman, that’s brought back.”
“What about Cooper’s?” asked Steve.
“Ran like rabbits,” said Monty. “Just ran. Some’s pris’ners. Some’s dead. Some’s gone…. Cooper got off,” he concluded, with a regretful homage to a truth which could not be permanently avoided.
“I know some’s dead,” said Steve. “I’ve seen Rentoul and Bryan.”
This was news to Monty. He inquired eagerly for details, which Steve gave very willingly, though with his usual slowness.
But it was difficult to get any clear impression from Monty’s narrative. He was not false to the facts as he knew them. He did not even exaggerate. But he was picturesque. He saw the high lights only. He had a journalistic mind. We may learn more if we listen to Tom Aldworth, who is back at the camp at last, and is telling Muriel of the crowded incidents of the last two days, and of the perplexity which now confronts him.
Chapter Forty-Two
“Yes,” said Muriel, “I should like to know what’s happened, if you’ve time to tell me.”
“I want to tell you,” Tom answered, “and I want your advice, though I don’t see how anyone’s can be any use. It’s just waiting to see what happens.”
“Is it true,” Muriel interposed, “that Ellis Roberts is dead?”
This brought Tom to a definite explanation, and reminded him of something outside his own preoccupations.
“Yes, that’s true, and I’m very sorry it is. He was too good to lose…. I suppose Madge will go to Jack now.”
“Jack’s been very good about Madge. What happened?”
“Well, we came straight on Bellamy’s lot. There was no difficu
lty about that. They hadn’t moved much from where Jack and Bill found them. But there was fighting going on, and we thought they had fallen out among themselves, which was likely enough. We never got out of that idea till the very end, and it nearly made more mess than there is now.
“I don’t suppose you know, but there’s a long tunnel on the line near there, and we found some of Bellamy’s gang at one end, and some at the other, firing into it. It was plain enough that they were fighting with some inside, but we couldn’t tell who, nor what it was about.
“I asked Ellis to take as many of the boys as he liked, and set about the men at the farther end of the tunnel. There were only five or six, and I thought if we caught one we could find out what was happening. It was there that we got most of the damage. There was that brute Navvy Barnes, Martha Barnes’s brother-in-law. He killed Bill Horton with a spade before Ellis shot him, and got Ellis himself in the ribs with his last blow. Ellis didn’t seem to be so much hurt, and he came back to us with Hodder, that he’d caught as I’d asked him, and left the boys there to hold that end of the tunnel, but he was dead before morning.
“I tried to get the truth out of Hodder, as to what the fighting was all about, but he didn’t tell the tale straight, or I wasn’t quick to take it the right way, and we still thought they were quarrelling among themselves, and I got Jack to take Ellis’s place in charge of the farther end that we’d captured, and Reddy Teller’d gone in at mine, and I took the boys in after him to end it.
“We found a mix-up fight going on, and we took them in the rear, and they ran, what was left of them, past a trolley that stood on the line—a flat trolley, one of those the repairing gangs used to use for themselves and their tools—and there was a man and woman lying down on it, and firing right and left. I called out to settle the man, but not to hurt the woman, and the man spoke to me, just quiet and clear as I said it, ‘I didn’t think you’d shoot me, Tom,’ and I knew who it was in a second, though I couldn’t have guessed in the bad light, and him so altered, and I knocked up Jack’s rifle just in time.”
“I suppose that was Martin Webster?”
“Yes, it was him sure enough. And the words brought it all back, when I was tried for shooting a man, and thought I should hang for sure, and he got me off. That’s how he is. Quiet, and quick, and always the right word, and yet not hurrying….”
Tom stopped, as though he felt some difficulty in continuing his narrative, or his mind were on the past scene that was brought back to him so vividly, and Muriel said, “How does Cooper come into it?”
“I don’t know that,” said Tom. “I mean, I don’t know how he heard we’d gone off, unless Butcher ratted, and I can’t see why he should; but Davy Barnes met us as we were hurrying back, and he took us across the country to cut Cooper off at Sterrington.…”
“Who’s he? Davy?”
“No, of course. Mr. Webster. I didn’t tell you we’d asked him to take command. He’s a better man than we’ve got here, and he showed it then. He saw the only chance there was, and he didn’t lose any time talking. We almost failed, as it was. Cooper got through, and most of his men, but we knocked out two or three, and captured one, and some horses. We got Betsy Parkin back, and Tilley—Goodwin’s Tilley, I mean. They only got off with Nance Weston, and she’s no loss.”
Muriel did not argue that. She said, “Had they done much harm in Cowley Thorn? They didn’t come through Larkshill, nor here.”
“No. We think they must have guessed we were nearly back, and got scared. Though we can’t tell how they heard. They shot Stacey Dobson. He wouldn’t bolt with Phillips and Betty. I don’t know why they did that. The Captain’s got his house now. It’s the best there is, and it’s only right he should have it.”
“The Captain?”
“Yes. I mean Mr. Webster. It’s what we’re all calling him now…. We asked him to take it on, and he said no, unless we gave him a free hand to do just what he liked with everything, and we’d sign to that, and we talked it over, and all signed. It seems to give things a chance, anyway. And we’ve promised to stand by him, and make the others do the same, or turn them out if they won’t.”
He fell silent again, and Muriel saw that there was still something left unsaid. She remembered that he had made no further mention of the woman who had been with Martin in the tunnel.
She said, “Was he really alone? I thought you must have had a good deal of support from somewhere to make Cooper run, as they say he did. They say he had sixty men.”
“Sixty? Well, he didn’t. Nor twenty, when we saw him. That’s just talk. I don’t think he could have brought all the men that went off with him. It was just meant for a quick raid, to do what damage he could. He seems to have got horses for the lot, and taught them how to ride, and I suppose he thought that made it easy.… And so it did, near enough.”
“But you said there was a woman with Mr. Webster. Did she come back with you?”
“Yes—at least, not all the way. When we turned off to cut across Cooper’s way home she came straight on to the lodge. I suppose the Captain was anxious about his wife, and….”
“Not alone?”
“Yes—no—at least, she came on Davy’s bike. I don’t know how far. Then she got one of Cooper’s horses. She’s not like any of the women here. She can ride, and shoot straight. I think it was she who killed Bellamy. They’d killed half a dozen, more or less, when we came up….”
“What were they fighting about?”
“Oh, just the usual thing. Bellamy’d caught her, and she’d escaped, and he tried to get her again, and kill Mr. Webster, and she reckoned she was his wife.”
“Martin Webster’s wife?”
“Yes. Of course, he didn’t know that his wife was alive. He’s gone back to her now.”
That seemed natural enough. But there were points in the tale that puzzled Muriel, and she felt that there were things on Tom’s mind that were still unspoken.
She said, “If Mr. Webster’s gone back to his wife, where is she now—the other woman? You don’t give her a name.”
“Oh, her name’s Claire something. I don’t know any more. She signed with the rest when we all signed, but she put Claire Webster. She said that was her name now.”
“But she didn’t know then that his wife was living?”
“Yes, she did. That’s just it. They both knew. And I asked the Captain what he meant to do, and he wouldn’t say. They both knew, and I suppose they talked it over, and they’re no worse friends; but when I asked the Captain what he intended to do, he wouldn’t say anything, except that the women must decide, and that that was my own law.
“So I thought he meant to stick to Claire, and might leave Helen to me. He can’t want both.
“And then there came this news about Cooper, and Claire says at once, ‘Shall I go to see that your wife’s safe?’ or something like that, and he looks glad, and off she goes—and it’s lucky she did.
“It seems Cooper had sent two men to the lodge, and they’d made off with Mrs. Webster and the children—I suppose he thought they were mine, and meant to do me a bad turn—and Claire rode after them, and got them back, I don’t just know how, but I know she shot Bryan dead in the lane.”
“You haven’t told me where she is now.”
“That’s the queerest part of it all. When I’d arranged about Dobson’s house, I went straight to the lodge, and there they all were together, as friendly as could be. I suppose they haven’t told Mrs. Webster anything, though I can’t even tell that for certain. And then the question came up, who should go, and who should stay, and was it safe to take the children so late, and Claire said she’d stay with them, and the Captain said yes, that was the best way, and we went off, he and Mrs. Webster, and me to show them the road, and she stayed there with the children.”
“Well, that seems plain enough.”
“Yes, it may, but it isn’t. Or why don’t they say so, plain out? I asked the Captain if he meant to give Claire up, now he’d g
ot his wife back, and he wouldn’t say. And she doesn’t act like he’s giving her up either, and yet—well, I can’t make it out either way.”
Muriel said, “I can’t quite see what’s worrying you about that. I know you hoped for something different, if the Captain, as you call him, hadn’t been living. But he is, and he’s gone back to his wife, and surely that’s final.
“I’m sorry about the other one, but it’s a matter between themselves, and they seem to have decided it in the right way.”
“It isn’t only between themselves,” Tom answered. “If he’s gone back to his wife, it leaves Claire free for someone, and every one understood that Claire was his wife, and now they find he’s got another, they want to know where they are. They’ve mostly seen her now, and she’s one that most would be glad to get. There was a lot of talk as I came back through Larkshill. Even Butcher’s on to her. He saw her ride through Larkshill, and he said it was about time he had a pick. He thinks he can buy anything that he wants.”
“Well,” said Muriel, “I suppose your new law will settle that. She can make her own choice.”
“Yes, if she means to,” he answered, doubtfully. He had seen something of Claire Arlington (or Webster), and he could not easily think of her as allying herself with any of the men who were still unmated round them. “Yes, if that’s what she means—and if it’s the law tomorrow. But the Captain’s to make his own now.… And I’ve promised to get the others to agree to that, and I’ll do what I said. But he can’t want to have both. If he doesn’t want to give Claire up—” He left the sentence unfinished, and went off without apology, leaving Muriel to climb into her own apartment by such light as the moon supplied, and to the sound of Monty snoring in the mouth of his lair, about ten yards away.
Muriel lay down, but the problem which Tom had presented did not leave her mind. She was sorry for Tom. She saw that he still had a doubtful hope that Martin might prefer the new love to the old if a choice were forced upon him, as it seemed that it must be. In that case, Tom’s claim to Helen would be a strong one. But in the alternative, he appeared to have no more claim upon Claire, even should he have any wish to urge it, than anyone else in the camp.
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