The old lady fired up at this, and declared that she didn’t care a jot about what the “common people” said. Her niece was superior to all of them, and she would “have the law on any one who spoke ill of Hester.”
“But there is one thing, Mrs. Hislop,” I replied, “that ought to be set at rest. It is rumoured—in fact, something more than rumoured—that your niece and the late Mr. Charnworth were on terms of intimacy, which, to say the least, if it is true, was imprudent for a girl in her position.”
“Them what told you that,” exclaimed the old woman, “is like the adders the woodmen get in Delamere forest: they’re full of poison. Mr. Charnworth courted the girl fair and square, and led her to believe he would marry her. But, of course, he had to do the thing in secret. Some folk will talk so, and if it had been known that a gentleman like Mr. Charnworth was coming after a girl in Hester’s position, all sorts of things would have been said.”
“Did she believe that he was serious in his intentions towards her?”
“Of course she did.”
“Why was the match broken off?”
“Because he died.”
“Then do you mean to tell me seriously, Mrs. Hislop, that Mr. Charnworth, had he lived, would have married your niece?”
“Yes, I believe he would.”
“Was he the only lover the girl had?”
“Oh dear no. She used to carry on with a man named Job Panton. But, though they were engaged to be married, she didn’t like him much, and threw him up for Mr. Charnworth.”
“Did she ever flirt with young Mr. Trankler?”
“I don’t know about flirting; but he called here now and again, and made her some presents. You see, Hester is a superior sort of girl, and I don’t wonder at gentlefolk liking her.”
“Just so,” I replied; “beauty attracts peasant and lord alike. But you will understand that it is to Hester’s interest that there should be no concealment—no mystery; and I advise that she return here, for her very presence would tend to silence the tongue of scandal. By the way, where is she?”
“She’s staying in Manchester with a relative, a cousin of hers, named Jessie Turner.”
“Is Jessie Turner a married woman?”
“Oh yes: well, that is, she has been married; but she’s a widow now, and has two little children. She is very fond of Hester, who often goes to her.”
Having obtained Jessie Turner’s address in Manchester, I left Mrs. Hislop, feeling somehow as if I had got the key of the problem, and a day or two later I called on Mrs. Jessie Turner, who resided in a small house, situated in Tamworth Street, Hulme, Manchester.
She was a young woman, not more than thirty years of age, somewhat coarse, and vulgar-looking in appearance, and with an unpleasant, self-assertive manner. There was a great contrast between her and her cousin, Hester Downie, who was a remarkably attractive and pretty girl, with quite a classical figure, and a childish, winning way, but a painful want of education which made itself very manifest when she spoke; and a harsh, unmusical voice detracted a good deal from her winsomeness, while in everything she did, and almost everything she said, she revealed that vanity was her besetting sin.
I formed my estimate at once of this young woman indeed, of both of them. Hester seemed to me to be shallow, vain, thoughtless, giddy; and her companion, artful, cunning, and heartless.
“I want you, Miss Downie,” I began, “to tell me truthfully the story of your connection, firstly, with Job Panton; secondly, with Mr. Charnworth; thirdly, with Mr. Trankler.”
This request caused the girl to fall into a condition of amazement and confusion, for I had not stated what the nature of my business was, and, of course, she was unprepared for the question.
“What should I tell you my business for?” she cried snappishly, and growing very red in the face.
“You are aware,” I remarked, “that both Mr. Charnworth and Mr. Trankler are dead?”
“Of course I am.”
“Have you any idea how they came by their death?”
“Not the slightest.”
“Will you be surprised to hear that some very hard things are being said about you?”
“About me!” she exclaimed, in amazement.
“Yes.”
“Why about me?”
“Well, your disappearance from your home, for one thing.”
She threw up her hands and uttered a cry of distress and horror, while sudden paleness took the place of the red flush that had dyed her cheeks. Then she burst into almost hysterical weeping, and sobbed out:
“I declare it’s awful. To think that I cannot do anything or go away when I like without all the old cats in the place trying to blacken my character! It’s a pity that people won’t mind their own business, and not go out of the way to talk about that which doesn’t concern them.”
“But, you see, Miss Downie, it’s the way of the world,” I answered, with a desire to soothe her; “one mustn’t be too thin-skinned. Human nature is essentially spiteful. However, to return to the subject, you will see, perhaps, the importance of answering my questions. The circumstances of Charnworth’s and Trankler’s deaths are being closely inquired into, and I am sure you wouldn’t like it to be thought that you were withholding information which, in the interest of law and justice, might be valuable.”
“Certainly not,” she replied, suppressing a sob. “But I have nothing to tell you.”
“But you knew the three men I have mentioned.”
“Of course I did, but Job Panton is an ass. I never, could bear him.”
“He was your sweetheart, though, was he not?”
“He used to come fooling about, and declared that he couldn’t live without me.”
“Did you never give him encouragement?”
“I suppose every girl makes a fool of herself sometimes.”
“Then you did allow him to sweetheart you?”
“If you like to call it sweethearting you can,” she answered, with a toss of her pretty head. “I did walk out with him sometimes. But I didn’t care much for him. You see, he wasn’t my sort at all.”
“In what way?”
“Well, surely I couldn’t be expected to marry a gamekeeper, could I?”
“He is a gamekeeper, then?”
“Yes.”
“In whose employ is he?”
“Lord Belmere’s.”
“Was he much disappointed when he found that you would have nothing to do with him?”
“I really don’t know. I didn’t trouble myself about him,” she answered, with a coquettish heartlessness.
“Did you do any sweethearting with Mr. Trankler?”
“No, of course not. He used to be very civil to me, and talk to me when he met me.”
“Did you ever walk out with him?”
The question brought the colour back to her face, and her manner grew confused again,
“Once or twice I met him by accident, and he strolled along the road with me—that’s all.”
This answer was not a truthful one. Of that I was convinced by her very manner. But I did not betray my mistrust or doubts. I did not think there was any purpose to be served in so doing. So far the object of my visit was accomplished, and as Miss Downie seemed disposed to resent any further. questioning, I thought it was advisable to bring the interview to a close; but before doing so, I said:
“I have one more question to ask you, Miss Downie. Permit me to preface it, however, by saying I am afraid that, up to this point, you have failed to appreciate the situation, or grasp the seriousness of the position in which you are placed. Let me, therefore, put it before you in a somewhat more graphic way. Two men—gentlemen of good social position with whom you seem to have been well acquainted, and whose attentions you encouraged—pray do not look at me so angrily as that; I mean what I say. I repeat that you encouraged their attentions, otherwise they would not have gone after you.” Here Miss Downie’s nerves gave way again, and she broke into a fit of weeping, an
d, holding her handkerchief to her eyes, she exclaimed with almost passionate bitterness:
“Well, whatever I did, I was egged on to do it by my cousin, Jessie Turner. She always said I was a fool not to aim at high game.”
“And so you followed her promptings, and really thought that you might have made a match with Mr. Charnworth; but, he having died, you turned your thoughts to young Trankler.” She did not reply, but sobbed behind her handkerchief. So I proceeded. “Now the final question I want to ask you is this: Have you ever had anyone who has made serious love to you but Job Panton?”
“Mr. Charnworth made love to me,” she sobbed out.
“He flirted with you,” I suggested.
“No; he made love to me,” she persisted. “He promised to marry me.”
“And you believed him?”
“Of course I did.”
“Did Trankler promise to marry you?”
“No.”
“Then I must repeat the question, but will add Mr. Charnworth’s name. Besides him and Panton, is there anyone else in existence who has courted you in the hope that you would become his wife?”
“No—no one,” she mumbled in a broken voice.
As I took my departure I felt that I had gathered up a good many threads, though they wanted arranging, and, so to speak, classifying; that done, they would probably give me the clue I was seeking. One thing was clear, Miss Downie was a weak-headed, giddy, flighty girl, incapable, as it seemed to me, of seriously reflecting on anything. Her cousin was crafty and shallow, and a dangerous companion for Downie, who was sure to be influenced and led by a creature like Jessie Turner. But, let it not be inferred from these remarks that I had any suspicion that either of the two women had in any way been accessory to the crime, for crime I was convinced it was. Trankler and Charnworth had been murdered, but by whom I was not prepared to even hint at at that stage of the proceedings. The two unfortunate gentlemen had, beyond all possibility of doubt, both been attracted by the girl’s exceptionally good looks, and they had amused themselves with her. This fact suggested at once the question, was Charnworth in the habit of seeing her before Trankler made her acquaintance? Now, if my theory of the crime was correct, it could be asserted with positive certainty, that Charnworth was the girl’s lover before Trankler. Of course it was almost a foregone conclusion that Trankler must have been aware of her existence for along time. The place, be it remembered, was small; she, in her way, was a sort of local celebrity, and it was hardly likely that young Trankler was ignorant of some of the village gossip in which she figured. But, assuming that he was, he was well acquainted with Charnworth, who was looked upon in the neighbourhood as “a gay dog”. The female conquests of such men are often matters of notoriety; though, even if that was not the case, it was likely enough that Charnworth may have discussed Miss Downie in Trankler’s presence. Some men—especially those of Charnworth’s characteristics—are much given to boasting of their flirtations, and Charnworth may have been rather prow of his ascendency over the simple village beauty. Of course, all this, it will be said, was mere theorizing. So it was; but it will presently be seen how it squared in with the general theory of the whole affair, which I had worked out after much pondering, and a careful weighing and nice adjustment of all the evidence, such as it was, I had been able to gather together, and the various parts which were necessary before the puzzle could be put together.
It was immaterial, however, whether Trankler did or did not know Hester Downie before or at the same time as Charnworth. A point that was not difficult to determine was this—he did not make himself conspicuous as her admirer until after his friend’s death, probably not until some time afterwards. Otherwise, how came it about that the slayer of Charnworth waited two years before he took the life of young Trankler? The reader will gather from this remark how my thoughts ran at that time. Firstly, I was clearly of opinion that both men had been murdered. Secondly, the murder in each case was the outcome of jealousy. Thirdly, the murderer must, as a logical sequence, have been a rejected suitor. This would point necessarily to Job Panton as the criminal, assuming my information was right that the girl had not had any other lover. But against that theory this very strong argument could be used: By what extraordinary and secret means—means that had baffled all the science of the district—had Job Panton, who occupied the position of a gamekeeper, been able to do away with his victims, and bring about death so horrible and so sudden as to make one shudder to think of it? Herein was displayed a devilishness of cunning, and a knowledge which it was difficult to conceive that an ignorant and untravelled man was likely to be in possession of. Logic, deduction, and all the circumstances of the case were opposed to the idea of Panton being the murderer at the first blush; and yet, so far as I had gone, I had been irresistibly drawn towards the conclusion that Panton was either directly or indirectly responsible for the death of the two gentlemen. But, in order to know something more of the man whom I suspected, I disguised myself as a travelling showman on the look-out for a good pitch for my show, and I took up my quarters for a day or two at a rustic inn just on the skirts of Knutsford, and known as the Woodman. I had previously ascertained that this inn was a favourite resort of the gamekeepers for miles round about, and Job Panton was to be found there almost nightly.
In a short time I had made his acquaintance. He was a young, big-limbed, powerful man, of a pronounced rustic type. He had the face of a gipsy—swarthy and dark, with keen, small black eyes, and a mass of black curly hair, and in his ears he wore tiny, plain gold rings. Singularly enough his expression was most intelligent; but allied with—as it seemed to me—a certain suggestiveness of latent ferocity. That is to say, I imagined him liable to outbursts of temper and passion, during which he might be capable of anything. As it was, then, he seemed to me subdued, somewhat sullen, and averse to conversation. He smoked heavily, and I soon found that he guzzled beer at a terrible rate. He had received, for a man in his position, a tolerably good education. By that I mean he could write a fair hand, he read well, and had something more than a smattering of arithmetic. I was told also that he was exceedingly skilful with carpenter’s tools, although he had had no training that way; he also understood something about plants, while he was considered an authority on the habit, and everything appertaining to game. The same informant thought to still further enlighten me by adding:
“Poor Job beän’t the chap he wur a year or more ago. His gal cut un, and that kind a took a hold on un. He doän’t say much; but it wur a terrible blow, it wur.”
“How was it his girl cut him?” I asked.
“Well, you see, maäster, it wur this way; she thought hersel’ a bit too high for un. Mind you, I bäan’t a saying as she wur; but when a gel thinks hersel’ above a chap, it’s no use talking to her.”
“What was the girl’s name?”
“They call her Downie. Her father was a miller here in Knutsford, but his gal had too big notions of hersel’; and she chucked poor Job Panton overboard, and they do say as how she took on wi’ Meäster Charnworth and also wi’ Meäster Trankler. I doän’t know nowt for certain myself, but there wursome rum kind o’ talk going about. Leastwise, I know that job took it badly, and he ain’t been the same kind o’ chap since. But there, what’s the use of a braking one’s ‘art about a gal? Gals is a queer lot, I tell you. My old grandfaither used to say, ‘Women folk be curious folk. They be necessary evils, they be, and pleasant enough in their way, but a chap mustn’t let ’em get the upper hand. They’re like harses, they be, and if you want to manage ’em, you must show ’em you’re their meäster.’”
The garrulous gentleman who entertained me thus with his views on women, was a tough, sinewy, weather-tanned old codger, who had lived the allotted span according to the psalmist, but who seemed destined to tread the earth for a long time still; for his seventy years had neither bowed nor shrunk him. His chatter was interesting to me because it served to prove what I already suspected, which was that Job Panton had
taken his jilting very seriously indeed. Job was by no means a communicative fellow. As a matter of fact, it was difficult to draw him out on any subject; and though I should have liked to have heard his views about Hester Downie, I did not feel warranted in tapping him straight off. I very speedily discovered, however, that his weakness was beer. His capacity for it seemed immeasurable. He soaked himself with it; but when he reached the muddled stage, there was a tendency on his part to be more loquacious, and, taking advantage at last of one of these opportunities, I asked him one night if he had travelled. The question was an exceedingly pertinent one to my theory, and I felt that to a large extent the theory I had worked out depended upon the answers he gave. He turned his beady eyes upon me, and said, with a sort of sardonic grin—
“Yes, I’ve travelled a bit in my, time, meäster. I’ve been to Manchester often, and I once tramped all the way to Edinburgh. I had to rough it, I tell thee.”
“Yes, I dare say,” I answered. “But what I mean is, have you ever been abroad? Have you ever been to sea?”
“No, meäster, not me.”
“You’ve been in foreign countries?”
“No. I’ve never been out of this one. England was good enough for me. But I would like to go away now to Australia, or some of those places.”
Why?”
“Well, meäster, I have my own reasons.”
“Doubtless,” I said, “and no doubt very sound reasons.”
The Victorian Mystery Megapack: 27 Classic Mystery Tales Page 57