“She however — and I confess my surprise and gratification — desires to accompany me to the Hall this morning, volunteering to take all possible care of the unfortunate man. As she has had much experience in visiting the sick, I fancy that she will render us very valuable assistance in saving his life. Pray let me know if the plan has your approval, as it may be dangerous to lose time. — Yours sincerely,
“AUGUSTIN AMBROSE.”
Mr. Juxon was delighted to find that the difficult task of putting Mrs. Ambrose in possession of the facts of the case had been accomplished in the ordinary, the very ordinary, course of events by her own determination to find out what was to be known. In an hour she might be at Goddard’s bedside, and Mrs. Goddard would be free to see her husband. He despatched a note at once and redoubled his attentions to the sick man whose condition, however, showed no signs of changing.
CHAPTER XXII.
MRS. AMBROSE KEPT her word and arrived with the vicar before nine o’clock, protesting her determination to take care of poor Goddard, so long as he needed any care. Mr. Juxon warned her that John did not know who the man was, and entreated her to be careful of her speech when John was present. There was no reason why John should ever know anything more about it, he said; three could keep a secret, but no one knew whether four could be as discreet.
The squire took Mrs. Ambrose and her husband to Goddard’s room and telling her that Doctor Longstreet was expected in an hour, by which time he himself hoped to have returned, he left the two good people in charge of the sick man and went to see Mrs. Goddard. He sent John a message to the effect that all was well and that he should take some rest while the Ambroses relieved the watch, and having thus disposed his household he went out, bound upon one of the most disagreeable errands he had ever undertaken. But he set his teeth and walked boldly down the park.
At the turn of the avenue he paused, at the spot where Goddard had attacked him. There was nothing to be seen at first, for the road was hard and dry and there was no trace of the scuffle; but as the squire looked about he spied his hat, lying in the ditch, and picked it up. It was heavy with the morning dew and the brim was broken and bent where Goddard’s weapon had struck it. Hard by in a heap of driven oak leaves lay the weapon itself, which Mr. Juxon examined curiously. It was a heavy piece of hewn oak, evidently very old, and at one end a thick iron spike was driven through, the sharp point projecting upon one side and the wrought head upon the other. He turned it over in his hands and realised that he had narrowly escaped his death. Then he laid the hat and the club together and threw a handful of leaves over them, intending to take them to the Hall at a later hour, and he turned to go upon his way towards the cottage. But as he turned he saw two men coming towards him, and now not twenty yards away. His heart sank, for one of the two was Thomas Gall the village constable; the other was a quiet-looking individual with grey whiskers, plainly dressed and unassuming in appearance. Instinctively the squire knew that Gall’s companion must be a detective. He was startled, and taken altogether unawares; but the men were close upon him and there was nothing to be done but to face them boldly.
Gall made his usual half military salute as he came up, and the man in plain clothes raised his hat politely.
“The gentleman from Lunnon, sir,” said Gall by way of introduction, assuming an air of mysterious importance.
“Yes?” said Mr. Juxon interrogatively. “Do you wish to speak to me?”
“The gentleman’s come on business, sir. In point of fact, sir, it’s the case we was speakin’ of lately.”
The squire knew very well what was the matter. Indeed, he had wondered that the detective had not arrived sooner. That did not make it any easier to receive him, however; on the contrary, if he had come on the previous day matters would have been much simpler.
“Very well, Gall,” answered Mr. Juxon. “I am much obliged to you for bringing Mr.—” he paused and looked at the man in plain clothes.
“Booley, sir,” said the detective.
“Thank you — yes — for bringing Mr. Booley so far. You may go home, Gall.
If we need your services we will send to your house.”
“It struck me, sir,” remarked Gall with a bland smile, “as perhaps I might be of use — prefeshnal in fact, sir.”
“I will send for you,” said the detective, shortly. The manners of the rural constabulary had long ceased to amuse him.
Gall departed rather reluctantly, but to make up for being left out of the confidential interview which was to follow, he passed his thumb round his belt and thrust out his portly chest as he marched down the avenue. He subsequently spoke very roughly to a little boy who was driving an old sheep to the butcher’s at the other end of the village.
Mr. Juxon and the detective turned back and walked slowly towards the
Hall.
“Will you be good enough to state exactly what the business is,” said the squire, well knowing that it was best to go straight to the point.
“You are Mr. Juxon, I believe?” inquired Mr. Booley looking at his companion sharply. The squire nodded. “Very good, Mr. Juxon,” continued the official. “I am after a man called Walter Goddard. Do you know anything about him? His wife, Mrs. Mary Goddard, lives in this village.”
“Walter Goddard is at this moment in my house,” said the squire calmly. “I know all about him. He lay in wait for me at this very spot last night and attacked me. My dog pulled him down.”
The detective was somewhat surprised at the intelligence, and at the cool manner in which his companion conveyed it.
“I am very glad to hear that. In that case I will take him at once.”
“I fear that is impossible,” answered the squire. “The man is raving in the delirium of a brain fever. Meanwhile I shall be glad if you will stay in the house, until he is well enough to be moved. The doctor will be here at ten o’clock, and he will give you the details of the case better than I can. It would be quite impossible to take him away at present.”
“May I ask,” inquired Mr. Booley severely, “why you did not inform the local police?”
“Because it would have been useless. If he had escaped after attacking me, I should have done so. But since I caught him, and found him to be very ill — utterly unable to move, I proposed to take charge of him myself. Mrs. Goddard is a friend of mine, and of the vicar, who knows her story perfectly well. To publish the story in the village would be to do her a great injury. Mrs. Ambrose, the vicar’s wife, who is also acquainted with the circumstances, is at this moment taking care of the sick man. I presume that my promise — I am a retired officer of the Navy — and the promise of Mr. Ambrose, the vicar, are sufficient guarantee—”
“Oh, there is no question of guarantee,” said Mr. Booley. “I assure you,
Mr. Juxon, I have no doubt whatever that you have acted for the best.
Can you tell me how long Goddard has been in the neighbourhood?”
The squire told the detective what he knew, taking care not to implicate Mrs. Goddard, even adding with considerable boldness, for he was not positively certain of the statement, that neither she nor any one else had known where the man was hiding. Mr. Booley being sure that Goddard could not escape him, saw that he could claim the reward offered for the capture of the convict. He asked whether he might see him.
“That is doubtful,” said the squire. “When I left him just now he was quite unconscious, but he has lucid moments. To frighten him at such a time might kill him outright.”
“It is very easy for me to say that I am another medical man,” remarked Mr. Booley. “Perhaps I might say it in any case, just to keep the servants quiet. I would like to see Mrs. Goddard, too.”
“That is another matter. She is very nervous. I am going to her house, now, and probably she will come back to the Hall with me. I might perhaps tell her that you are here, but I think it would be likely to shock her very much.”
“Well, well, we will see about it,” answered Mr. Booley. They re
ached the house and the squire ushered the detective into the study, begging him to wait for his return.
It was a new complication, though it had seemed possible enough. But the position was not pleasant. To feel that there was a detective in the house waiting to carry off Goddard, so soon as he should be well enough to be moved, was about as disagreeable as anything well could be. The longer the squire thought of it, the more impossible and at the same time unnecessary it seemed to be to inform Mrs. Goddard of Booley’s arrival. He hastened down the park, feeling that no time must be lost in bringing her to her husband’s bedside.
He found her waiting for him, and was struck by the calmness she displayed. To tell the truth the violence of her emotions had been wholly expended on the previous night and the reaction had brought an intense melancholy quiet, which almost frightened Mr. Juxon. The habit of bearing great anxiety had not been wholly forgotten, for the lesson had been well learned during those terrible days of her husband’s trial, and it was as though his sudden return had revived in her the custom of silent suffering. She hardly spoke, but listened quietly to Mr. Juxon’s account of what had happened.
“You are not hurt?” she asked, almost incredulously. Her eyes rested on her friend’s face with a wistful look.
“No, I assure you, not in the least,” he said. “But your poor husband is very ill — very ill indeed.”
“Tell me,” said she quietly, “is he dead? Are you trying to break it to me?”
“No — no indeed. He is alive — he may even recover. But that is very uncertain. It might be best to wait until the doctor has been again. I will come back and fetch you—”
“Oh, no, I will go at once. I would like to walk. It will do me good.”
So the two set out without further words upon their errand. Mr. Juxon had purposely omitted to speak of Mr. Booley’s arrival. It would be easy, he thought, to prevent them from meeting in the great house.
“Do you know,” said Mary Goddard, as they walked together, “it is very hard to wish that he may recover—” she stopped short.
“Very hard,” answered the squire. “His life must be one of misery, if he lives.”
“Of course you would send him back?” she asked nervously.
“My dear friend, there is no other course open to me. Your own safety requires it.”
“God knows — you would only be doing right,” she said and was silent again. She knew, though the squire did not, what fate awaited Walter Goddard if he were given up to justice. She knew that he had taken life and must pay the penalty. Yet she was very calm; her senses were all dulled and yet her thoughts seemed to be consecutive and rational. She realised fully that the case of life and death was ill balanced; death had it which ever course events might take, and she could not save her husband. She thought of it calmly and calmly hoped that he might die now, in his bed, with her by his side. It was a better fate.
“You say that the doctor thinks he must have been ill some time?” she asked after a time.
“Yes — he was quite sure of it,” answered the squire.
“Perhaps that was why he spoke so roughly to me,” she said in a low voice, as though speaking to herself.
The tears came into the squire’s eyes for sheer pity. Even in this utmost extremity the unhappy woman tried to account for her husband’s rude and cruel speech. Mr. Juxon did not answer but looked away. They passed the spot where the scuffle had occurred on the previous night, but still he said nothing, fearing to disturb her by making his story seem too vividly real.
“Where is he?” she asked as they reached the Hall, looking up at the windows.
“On the other side.”
They went in and mounted the stairs towards the sick man’s chamber. Mr. Juxon went in, leaving Mrs. Goddard outside for a moment. She could hear that hideous rattling monotonous moan, and she trembled from head to foot. Presently Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose came out, looking very grave and passed by her with a look of sympathy.
“Will you come in?” said the squire in a low voice.
Mrs. Goddard entered the room quickly. On seeing her husband, she uttered a low cry and laid her hand upon Mr. Juxon’s arm. For some seconds she stood thus, quite motionless, gazing with intense and sympathetic interest at the sick man’s face. Then she went to his side and laid her hand upon his burning forehead and looked into his eyes.
“Walter! Walter!” she cried. “Don’t you know me? Oh, why does he groan like that? Is he suffering?” she asked turning to Mr. Juxon.
“No — I do not think he suffers much. He is quite unconscious. He is talking all the time but cannot pronounce the words.”
The squire stood at a distance looking on, noting the womanly thoughtfulness Mrs. Goddard displayed as she smoothed her husband’s pillow and tried to settle his head more comfortably upon the bags of ice; and all the while she never took her eyes from Goddard’s face, as though she were fascinated by her own sorrow and his suffering. She moved about the bed with that instinctive understanding of sickness which belongs to delicate women, but her glance never strayed to Mr. Juxon; she seemed forced by a mysterious magnetism to look at Walter and only at him.
“Has he been long like this?” she asked.
“Ever since last night. He called you once — he said, ‘Mary Goddard, let me in!’ And then he said something else — he said — I cannot remember what he said.” Mr. Juxon checked himself, remembering the words John had heard, and of which he only half understood the import. But Mrs. Goddard hardly noticed his reply.
“Will you leave me alone with him?” she said presently. “There is a bell in the room — I could ring if anything — happened,” she added with mournful hesitation.
“Certainly,” answered the squire. “Only, I beg of you my dear friend — do not distress yourself needlessly—”
“Needlessly!” she repeated with a sorrowful smile. “It is all I can do for him — to watch by his side. He will not live — he will not live, I am sure.”
The squire inwardly prayed that she might be right, and left her alone with the sick man. Who, he thought, was better fitted, who had a stronger right to be at his bedside at such a time? If only he might die! For if he lived, how much more terrible would the separation be, when Booley the detective came to conduct him back to his prison! In truth, it would be more terrible even than Mr. Juxon imagined.
Meanwhile he must go and see to the rest of the household. He must speak to John Short; he must see Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose, and he must take precautions against any of them seeing Mr. Booley. This was, he thought, very important, and he resolved to speak with the latter first. John was probably asleep, worn out with the watching of the night.
Mr. Booley sat in the squire’s study where he had been left almost an hour earlier. He had installed himself in a comfortable corner by the fire and was reading the morning paper which he had found unopened upon the table. He seemed thoroughly at home as he sat there, a pair of glasses upon his nose and his feet stretched out towards the flame upon the hearth.
“Thank you, I am doing very well, Mr. Juxon,” he said as the squire entered.
“Oh — I am very glad,” answered Mr. Juxon politely. The information was wholly voluntary as he had not asked any question concerning the detective’s comfort.
“And how is the patient?” inquired Mr. Booley. “Do you think there is any chance of removing him this afternoon?”
“This afternoon?” repeated the squire, in some astonishment. “The man is very ill. It may be weeks before he can be removed.”
“Oh!” ejaculated the other. “I was not aware of that. I cannot possibly stay so long. To-morrow, at the latest, he will have to go.”
“But, my dear sir,” argued Mr. Juxon, “the thing is quite impossible. The doctor can testify to that—”
“We are apt to be our own doctors in these cases,” said Mr. Booley, calmly. “At all events he can be taken as far as the county gaol.”
“Upon my word, it would be murder to think of it
— a man in a brain fever, in a delirium, to be taken over jolting roads — dear me! It is not to be thought of!”
Mr. Booley smiled benignly, for the first time since the squire had made his acquaintance.
“You seem to forget, Mr. Juxon, that my time is very valuable,” he observed.
“Yes — no doubt — but the man’s life, Mr. Booley, is valuable too.”
“Hardly, I should say,” returned the detective coolly. “But since you are so very pressing, I will ask to see the man at once. I can soon tell you whether he will die on the road or not. I have had considerable experience in that line.”
“You shall see him, as soon as the doctor comes,” replied the squire, shocked at the man’s indifference and hardness.
“It certainly cannot hurt him to see me, if he is still unconscious or raving,” objected Mr. Booley.
“He might have a lucid moment just when you are there — the fright would very likely kill him.”
“That would decide the question of moving him,” answered Booley, taking his glasses from his nose, laying down the paper and rising to his feet. “There is clearly some reason why you object to my seeing him now. I would not like to insist, Mr. Juxon, but you must please remember that it may be my duty to do so.”
The squire was beginning to be angry; even his calm temper was not proof against the annoyance caused by Mr. Booley’s appearance at the Hall, but he wisely controlled himself and resorted to other means of persuasion.
“There is a reason, Mr. Booley; indeed there are several very good reasons. One of them is that it might be fatal to frighten the man; another is that at this moment his wife is by his bedside. She has entirely made up her mind that when he is recovered he must return to prison, but at present it would be most unkind to let her know that you are in the house. The shock to her nerves would be terrible.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Booley, “if there is a lady in the case we must make some allowances, I presume. Only, put yourself in my place, Mr. Juxon, put yourself in my place.”
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 187