It was almost a skeleton-hand; but the black and rotting flesh still clung to it, and the fibres were not so far decomposed as to cease to hold the joints of the fingers together.
Seizing the dog in his arms, the man tore the little animal away from the spot where so appalling a spectacle appeared; and, without farther hesitation, he hurried to the Hall. Having found his way to the servants’ offices, he communicated his discovery to the old gardener and to the servants who had accompanied Egerton’s party to the mansion. The first impulse of Abraham Squiggs was to hurry up stairs and alarm the guests with the strange news thus brought; but Lord Dunstable’s lacquey suggested the impropriety of disturbing the company and proposed that the spot should be first examined by means of mattocks and spades.
This plan was immediately assented to: and, the gardener having procured the implements required, the owner of the dog hastened to lead the way to the place where the human hand appeared above the ground. Mrs. Squiggs protested against being left behind: she was accordingly allowed to form one of the party.
On reaching the spot, the news which the stranger had imparted were found to be correct; and the exposed member was viewed with looks of horror and alarm.
“Some foul deed has been committed,” said the stranger; “but I have always heard and read that God will sooner or later bring murder to light.”
“Ah! and that’s true enow, I’ll warrant!” exclaimed the old gardener. “The body which that hand belongs to, was no doubt buried deep; but the rains overflowed yonder pond, and the water made itself a way along here, you see—so that it has hollered the earth out several foot.”
“Well—it’s of no use talking,” said the stranger: “but make haste and dig down here, old gentleman—so that we may see whether the hand has an arm, and the arm a body.”
The gardener took the spade, and set to work; but he trembled so violently that he was unable to proceed for many minutes. The stranger accordingly snatched the spade from his hands, and addressed himself resolutely to the task.
While he was thus employed, the others stood by in profound silence; but the dog ran in a timid manner round the spot, sometimes barking—then whining mournfully.
His master worked speedily, but carefully; and as each shovel-full of earth was thrown up, and as the proofs that an entire human body lay beneath became every instant more apparent, the spectators exchanged glances of augmenting horror.
But when at length the entire form of a human being was laid bare scarcely two feet below the bottom of the hollow,—when their eyes fell upon the blackened flesh of the decomposing head, the features of which were no longer traceable,—and when the rotting remnants of attire showed that the being who had there found a grave was of the female sex, a cry burst simultaneously from every lip.
“Here’s work for the Coroner, at all events,” observed the stranger, after a long pause. “We must move the body to the big house there—”
“Move the body to the Hall!” cried the old gardener and his wife, in the same breath, and both looking aghast at this announcement.
“Yes—most certainly,” answered the stranger. “Would you leave a Christian—as I hope that poor woman was—to be devoured by rats and other vermin? I might have done so once: but, thank God! I have become a better man since then. Howsomever, get us a plank or two, old gentleman; and we’ll do our duty in a proper manner.”
The gardener retraced his way, in a sulky mood, and with much mumbling to himself, to the Hall, and presently returned with a couple of planks and two stout pieces of wood to serve as cross-beams to form the bier. The corpse was then carefully placed upon the planks, but not without great risk of its falling to pieces while being thus moved; and, the bier having been hoisted on the shoulders of the stranger, Dunstable’s lacquey, the seedy coach-man, and Colonel Cholmondeley’s groom, the procession moved towards the Hall, the gardener and his wife at the head.
But when the party arrived, with its appalling burden, near the mansion, the old man and woman began to exchange hasty whispers together.
“What is the matter now?” asked the stranger.
“Why, sir,” replied the gardener, in a hesitating manner, “me and my wife has been a-thinking together that it would be as well to put the remains of that poor creetur as far from our own rooms as possible: ’cos what with a sperret here and a dead body there——”
“Well, well—old man,” interrupted the stranger, impatiently; “this load is heavy, and I for one shall be glad to put it down somewhere. So leave off chattering uselessly—and tell us in a word what you do mean.”
“To be sure,” returned the gardener: “this way—this way.”
And, as he spoke, he opened a small door at the southern end of the building, by means of a key which he selected from a bunch hanging beneath his apron.
“We never can get up that staircase, old gentleman,” said the stranger, plunging his glances through the door-way.
“It’s easier than you think—the stairs isn’t so steep as they seem,” returned the gardener; “and what’s more,” he added, doggedly, “you may either bring your burden this way, or leave it in the open air altogether.”
“To be sure,” chimed in the old woman: “if you don’t choose to put the body in the very farthermost room from our end of the building, you may take it back again; and them stairs leads to the room that is farthermost off.”
The stranger, who was a willing, good-natured man, and who seemed to study only how he should best perform a Christian duty, offered no farther remonstrance; but, respecting the prejudices of the old people, succeeded, by the aid of his co-operators, in conveying the bier up the staircase. On reaching the landing, the gardener opened the door of a room the shutters of which were closed; but through the chinks there streamed sufficient light to show that the apartment was a bed-chamber.
“Put it down there—on the carpet,” said the gardener, who was anxious to terminate a proceeding by no means agreeable to him.
The bier was conveyed into the room, and placed upon the floor.
At that moment—while the gardener and his wife remained standing in the passage—the old man suddenly caught hold of the woman’s arm with a convulsive grasp, and whispered in a hasty and hollow tone, “Hark! there’s a footstep!”
“Yes—I hear it too!” returned his wife, in a scarcely audible tone: and, through very fright, she repeated, “There—there—there!” as often as the footstep fell—or seemed to fall—upon her ears.
“At the end of the passage——” murmured the gardener.
“Do you see any thing?” asked his wife, clinging to him.
“No—but it’s certain to be the sperret,” returned the man.
And they leant on each other for support.
At the next moment the four men came from the interior of the room where they had deposited the corpse; and the two old people began to breathe more freely.
The gardener hurried his wife and companions down the narrow staircase, and pushed them all hastily from the threshold of the little door, which he carefully locked behind him.
Then, having given the stranger a surly kind of invitation to step in and refresh himself, he led the way to the offices at the opposite extremity of the building.
But scarcely had the party gained the servants’ hall, when the old gardener, whose mind was powerfully excited by all that had just occurred, hastened abruptly away; and, rushing up the great staircase, he burst into the drawing-room, exclaiming, ‘”A corpse! a corpse!”
CHAPTER CCXLVII.
THE STRANGER WHO DISCOVERED THE CORPSE.
Perhaps there is no other cry in the world, save that of “Fire!” more calculated to spread terror and dismay, when falling suddenly and unexpectedly upon the ears of a party of revellers, than that of “A corpse! a corpse!”
Before a single question can be put, or a word of explanation be given, each one who hears that ominous announcement revolves a thousand dread conjectures in his mind: for although that cry might in reality herald nothing more appalling than a case of sudden death from natural causes, yet the imagination instinctively associates it with the foulest deed of treachery and murder.
Such was the case in the present instance.
The entire party started from their seats; and the smiles that were a moment before upon their countenances gave place to looks of profound horror and intense curiosity.
The feelings thus denoted did not experience any mitigation from the inquiring glances that were cast towards the gardener; for the entire appearance of the old man was far more calculated to augment than diminish the alarm which his strange cry had originated. His eyes rolled wildly in their sockets—his quivering lips were livid—his frame seemed to be influenced by one continuous shudder, and his breath came with difficulty.
In fact, the mysterious sounds of footsteps in the passage had worked up his feelings, already greatly moved by the discovery and exhumation of the rotting carcass of a female, to a degree of excitement doubly painful to behold in one so bowed with the weight of years as he; and he sank into a seat, as we have before said, in a state of almost complete exhaustion.
The wine that Egerton compelled him to swallow partially restored him; and in the course of a few minutes he was enabled to relate the particulars which we have succinctly placed before the reader.
The ladies were cruelly shocked by the narrative that thus met their eyes; and they one and all declared that nothing should ever again induce them to visit a place into possession of which their relative seemed to have entered under the most inauspicious circumstances. They also requested to be taken back to London with the least possible delay; and Sir Rupert Harborough, with his friend Chichester, hastened to give the servants orders to get the vehicles ready.
Mrs. Bustard and her daughters retired into an ante-room to put on their bonnets and shawls: Egerton, Dunstable, Cholmondeley, and Tedworth Jones remained standing round the chair on which the old gardener was still seated.
“This is a most extraordinary thing,” said Dunstable, after a pause, during which he had reflected profoundly: then, addressing himself to his friend the Colonel, he asked in a serious tone, “Does not the strange discovery just made remind you of something that I mentioned to you nearly two years ago?”
“I recollect!” cried the Colonel: “you allude to the mysterious disappearance of Lydia Hutchinson.”
“I do,” answered the nobleman. “That event occurred while I was lying wounded in this house.”
“Ah! I heerd of it, to be sure!” said the gardener. “But I was down in the country when all them things took place—I was there for some months. Do you think——”
“No—it could not be!” interrupted Dunstable: “for it was well known at the time that Lydia decamped with Lady Ravensworth’s jewel-box.”
Colonel Cholmondeley turned away, and said nothing: he remembered the evidences of desperate enmity between Adeline and Lydia, which had come within his own cognisance; and a vague—a very vague, distant, and undefined suspicion that the corpse just discovered might indeed be that of Lydia Hutchinson, entered his mind. But he speedily banished it: for the idea that Lady Ravensworth could have had any thing to do with the murder of Lydia did not seem tenable for a moment.
“As your lordship says,” observed the old gardener, after a long pause, and now addressing himself to Dunstable, “it can’t have any thing to do with that young ’ooman who was here a few weeks as my lady’s maid—’cos it’s well knowed that she bolted off with the jewel-casket, as your lordship says.”
Here Cholmondeley advanced towards Dunstable, took him by the arm, and, leading him aside, said in a hasty whisper, “Let us leave this matter where it is. Should the body just discovered be really that of Lydia Hutchinson, who disappeared so strangely, it would be very annoying for us to have to explain to a Coroner’s jury all we know about her and Lady Ravensworth.”
“Truly so,” answered Dunstable. “And, after all, it is no affair of ours.”
This understanding being arrived at, the nobleman and his friend returned to the table, where they helped themselves to some champagne to allay, as they said, the disagreeable sensations produced by the sudden interruption which their mirth had experienced.
The day seemed to be marked out by destiny as one on which various adventures were to occur in respect to the excursion party to Ravensworth Hall.
It will be remembered that Sir Rupert Harborough and Chichester had left the drawing-room for the purpose of seeing the vehicles got ready with the least possible delay.
The two friends—whom the associated roguery of many years had rendered as intimate as even brothers could be—proceeded down stairs, and, after some little trouble, found their way to the servants’ offices. Guided by a sound of voices, they threaded a passage, and at length found themselves on the threshold of the room where the gardener’s wife, the stranger who had first discovered the body, the seedy coachman, the lacquey, and the groom, were still discussing the incident that had so recently occurred.
But the moment that the two gentlemen appeared at the door, the stranger started from his seat, exclaiming in a loud tone, “Well met, I declare! You’re the very identical men I’ve long been wanting to see!”
And, putting his arms akimbo, he advanced towards them in a manner which appeared extremely free and independent in the eyes of the lacqueys.
“Ah! my good friend Talbot!” cried the baronet, for a moment thrown off his guard, but speedily recovering himself: “upon my honour I am delighted to see you!”
“So am I—quite charmed to find you looking so well!” exclaimed Chichester.
“No thanks to either of you, howsomever,” said the individual thus addressed, and without appearing to notice the hands that were extended to him. “But you know as well as I do that my name isn’t Talbot at all; it’s Bill Pocock—and, I may add, too, without telling a lie, that it’s now honest Bill Pocock.”
“Well, my dear Pocock,” exclaimed Chichester, with a glance that implored his forbearance, “I am really quite happy to see you. But we will step out into the garden, and just talk over a few little matters——”
“Oh! gentlemen,” said the gardener’s wife, coming forward, “you’re quite welcome to step into our little parlour t’other side of the passage—if so be you have any thing private to talk about.”
“Thank you—that will exactly suit us,” returned Chichester, hastily: and, taking Pocock’s arm, he drew him into the room thus offered for their privacy.
The baronet remained behind for a few moments, to give the necessary instructions to the servants relative to preparing the vehicle; and, this being done, he rejoined Chichester and Pocock.
When the trio were thus assembled in the gardener’s little parlour, Pocock said, “So I find you two chaps still pursuing the old game. Got in with a young cit named Egerton—and all his relations—eh? Pretty goings on, I’ve no doubt.”
“Only just in a friendly way, my dear fellow,” exclaimed Chichester. “But you stated that you had been looking for me and Harborough for a long time?”
“Yes—I was anxious enough to see you both,” returned Pocock: “and I’ll tell you the reason why. You remember that night—some few years ago—when you two got such a precious wolloping at the Dark House in Brick Lane, Spitalfields?”
“Well—well,” said the baronet: “go on.”
“Oh! I see you haven’t forgot it! You also know that on that same night the very young man whom we all ruined, was present—I mean Richard Markham.”
“Yes—to be sure. But what of that?” demanded Chichester.
“Why—I gave him a paper, drawed up and signed
by myself—plain William Pocock, and none of your aristocratic Talbots.”
“And that paper?” said the baronet, anxiously.
“Contained a complete confession of the whole business that brought him into trouble,” continued Pocock. “But he pledged himself not to use it to my prejudice; and that’s the reason why you never heard of it in a legal way. On that same occasion he put a fifty-pound note into my hand, saying, ‘Accept this as a token of my gratitude and a proof of my forgiveness; and endeavour to enter an honest path. Should you ever require a friend, do not hesitate to apply to me.’—Those was his words; and they made a deep impression on me. Yes—gentlemen, and I did enter an honest path,” continued Pocock, proudly: “and that money prospered me. I returned to my old business as an engraver—I left off going to public-houses—I worked hard, and redeemed my character with my old employers. Since that night at the Dark House all has gone well with me. I have never applied to my benefactor—because I have never required a friend. But I have prayed for him morning and evening—yes, gentlemen, prayed! I know that this may sound strange in your ears: it is nevertheless true—and I am not ashamed to own it. And while that faultless young man was pursuing his glorious career in a foreign land, there was an obscure but grateful individual in London who wept over his first reverses, but who laughed, and sang, and danced for joy when the newspapers brought the tidings of his great battles. And that individual was myself: for he was my saviour—my guardian angel—my benefactor! Instead of heaping curses upon me, he had spoken kind words of forgiveness and encouragement: instead of spurning me from his presence, he had given me money, and told me to look upon him as my friend! My God! such a man as that can save more souls and redeem more sinners than all the Bishops that ever wore lawn sleeves! I adore his very name—I worship him—I am as proud of his greatness as if he was my own son; and all Prince though he now is, did it depend upon me, he should wear a crown.”
The Mysteries of London, Vol. II [Unabridged & Illustrated] (Valancourt Classics) Page 123