The Massingham affair
Page 11
"You mean you remember me?"
" 'Course I do, sir. There was you and Mr Rees—that was the old gentleman—and a young gentleman in a wig."
"Mr Gilmore."
"I remember all right," she said. "You done your best, all of you. We all done our best."
"The coat," he reminded her gently, touched by her acceptance of him.
"The coat, sir?"
"Yes, listen: I think I know how it happened that you burnt it and never told the court. You knew that Mick had been poaching."
"He telt me, sir."
"So that when the Police came you all thought they wanted him for poaching?"
"That we did, sir. They telt us nothing."
"And did the coat have blood on it?" He saw her trusting smile turn suddenly cold, as though she had glimpsed an enemy and not the friend of Kelly's he had pretended to be. "I meant rabbit's blood of course," he added quickly.
"Don't know, sir."
He shook his head, trying his best to reassure her. "I'm afraid you must have misunderstood me, Amy. Don't you see that if you thought they wanted him for poaching, and you found rabbit's blood on the coat and perhaps rabbit's fur in the pockets, that explains why you burnt it and gave the Police the other jacket? You must see that."
95
THE MASSINGHAM AFFAIR
"Should I, sir?"
"And that in turn explains why you couldn't risk telling the court the truth of what you'd done. It would have looked as though you'd burnt it because you thought that Mr Verney's blood was on it or something to connect the coat with Massingham. Don't you see that it explains it all?"
Above the gusts of wind that buffeted the house he thought he heard again the sound of stealthy movement near the back door, something like the raising of a latch, and this time she seemed to have heard it too. She was glancing around her with the closed, hunted look that he remembered from the Moot Hall, but whether there really had been someone in the house who had now gone or whether it was him she feared, the hidden enemy who had tried to trap her and Kelly with fair words as they had trapped her long ago with their scrap of paper, that iniquitous lying scrap of paper, he could not tell. He only knew that she had closed up against him. Only at the door, as he was going out into Clay Yard, did it seem to him that her attitude had changed again and that there was something she wanted to tell him, something urgent that concerned him and perhaps the present more than the past. But though he waited she said nothing, and he decided he must have been wrong.
Outside it was a wild night but the visibility was good. He had just turned into Pelegate when he heard footsteps ahead and in a patch of lamplight saw the hurrying figure of a man. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but the distance was too great for him to be sure. He met no one else on the way home.
VIII
The following afternoon, while he was still puzzling over the problem of Amy and the affair of Piggott's coat, he got word that Sugden's condition had worsened and that Mr Lumley was proposing to make an emergency call that night with food and medicines.
Most desirable. You can ceitainly count on me. Will be with you at the Vicarage at six.
he scribbled on a sheet of office paper and sent Spinks off with it at once. It was always as well to present his ally with a fail accompli or something that looked like one on such occasions, where otherwise
he might go rushing off on his own, forgetful of the gentleman's agreement between them.
He expected some resistance, after what the Vicar had said on the subject of dying declarations. But when at six precisely he rang the Vicarage bell and was shown into the study he found Mr Lum-ley in one of his most practical moods. "You can help with the parcels," were the words that greeted him.
There were a great number of them. Deeply laden, carrying amongst other impedimenta an oil stove which the Vicar continued to insist was portable, they set off along Gilesgate for the tenement in Bewley Street. Near its door they met two figures hurrying down the hill towards them—a man and a woman remarkably like Miss Kelly and her fiance Longford, thought Justin, who called out a greeting to them as they passed in the gloom. He got no answer. There was no wind, but it was bitterly cold, and there was no fire in the room where Sugden lay in the double bed with an old quilt drawn up around his scrawny neck. From the other bed the eyes of the children followed them as they came in—the elder girl's bright with fever, bright as Sugden's own—and behind them hovered the figure of a woman dimly seen in the shadows. The man's face was like parchment, a muddy yellow with a scurf of grey bristles; the hands scaly and dry, gripping the coverlet; the mouth open to show broken and discoloured teeth. Justin found himself observing this quite clinically. His compassion was not an inexhaustible well like Mr Lumley's, and though he was sorry for what he saw lying on the bed, his thoughts were with the innocent and with the child Mary a few yards to his left, whose shallow breathing alarmed him far more.
"Now, George, I've news for you," came the Vicar's comforting voice at his ear. "I'm bringing a doctor for you and the little girl, and he'll be coming tonight. You won't be stubborn about it, I'm sure."
"You shouldn't have done it, sir."
"But I have. I know your good wife will see it my way, won't you, Martha?"
"So I will, sir," a small frightened voice responded.
"There you are, George! You surely know better than to quarrel with both of us at once. Besides, we must think of Mary. And you are to have no qualm about payment or anything of the kind, for that will be attended to. Would you care for a little broth? Martha will light the stove. It can't do you any harm if you fancy it."
The Vicar had already begun to unpack his bag, which was seen
97
THE MASSINGHAM AFFAIR
to contain a variety of articles including three balloons which he solemnly inflated in front of the children's eyes. There was also a bracelet for the further beautification of the doll Carmen, and this the Vicar put in place, having carefully lifted the glass dome under which she lived. He had some difficulty in fastening it and had to call on Mrs Sugden, perhaps for some other purpose also, for Justin heard the anxious murmur of their voices across the room. Glancing down, he saw Sugden's eyes watching him, but whether their expression was of encouragement or fear or some other emotion, he could not tell.
"So you came back, sir?"
Justin replied drily: "As you see."
"It were good of you, sir. Don't know what I done to deserve it, I'm sure. The Vicar—he's a good friend to me, sir, and always has been. He'll say a good word over me when the time comes."
"Should you be talking so much?"
"But you'll be wantin' me to talk, isn't that it? You'll be wantin' it. That's funny that is, sir."
It seemed to Justin that he had at last identified the expression in the eyes, and for so sick a man it was a remarkably ironical one. But at that moment a fit of coughing racked the invalid.
"What's the matter, George?" enquired the Vicar, arriving hot foot at the bedside with a bottle and a spoon which Martha had given him.
"Nothin', sir. Me and Mr Derry's been havin' a little chat like."
"You'd do better to conserve your strength."
"So the gentleman was sayin', but it's all right, sir, I likes company. It was kind bringin' the balloons. You've always been kind, sir."
The Vicar clearly did not know how to reply to this and silence fell, shattered by a sudden banging sound from downstairs and voices raised in dispute.
"You might give them to the bairns, sir," Sugden said, propping himself up on one elbow.
"Isn't it rather late? I don't want to excite them, as I know Martha will agree. They shall have them in the morning. And you yourself can do the honours."
"If I'm here."
"Of course you'll be here," declared the Vicar in a voice that had become decidedly testy, for he was an ardent disciple of Self Help
and did not exempt even the dying from keeping cheerful about their prosp
ects. "We'll soon have you up and about. You take a little of this medicine for your cough, and Martha shall make the broth, and when the doctor comes he'll bless me for sure for bringing him out to you on a night like this. That's more like it"—for the ghost of a smile had appeared on the man's gaunt and hollow face. "I never saw such a patient in all my born days—up one minute and down the next. And talkative too."
"You like a good crack yourself, Vicar."
"So I do. It's my job, isn't it? How would it be if I just stood around and gouped at you? You're not all that handsome, eh, Martha?"
She had come to the bedside and Justin saw her properly for the first time: a small woman with a look of defeat about her, as though she had long ceased to hope for anything.
"Martha knows better than that," the Vicar said, seeing that she was not going to respond. "And so should you, George Sugden. Not be here indeed! If I'd thought you'd talk that way, bless me if I'd have come. Is that broth ready yet?"
"Be a while yet, sir."
"We'll get it into him and then he can sleep till the doctor comes."
"When you've asked me the questions like," said George.
"What questions?"
Justin found it hard not to smile, the Vicar's voice had sounded so surprised and indignant at the idea that anyone should think him capable of baiting a trap with gifts or fair words. Certainly if he was manoeuvring his quarry into the right frame of mind for confession he was doing it by instinct and not with any conscious intention; but then perhaps he was not manoeuvring at all but had merely been overcome by his scruples, as seemed to happen fairly regularly. Justin waited and wondered which way the cat would jump. He soon knew.
"I'll not ask you any questions, George. My concern is that you should get well. But of course if you were feeling that you wanted to say something to me. . . ."
"And to this gentleman?" Sugden said.
"And to Mr Derry, of course."
"I thought that might be it, sir. I telt him it were funny like: he'll see it one day, sir."
99
THE MASSINGHAM AFFAIR
He had closed his eyes, and Justin, glancing across at Ins friend, saw the quick shake of the head, like a signal of disengagement.
"George," said the Vicar.
The shutters of the eyelids came slowly up and Justin found that it was at him that the man was looking, with a strange and questioning alertness.
"George, can you hear me?"
"Yes, sir"—but he had not turned his head.
"You are to rest. Mr Derry is going now, and I will go too if that is what you want. I'd like to stay. I'll ask you no questions, and you shall say nothing unless you wish, and I will take nothing down. It shall be between us and God who made us."
'Damned if I go!' thought Justin rebelliously at these words. If he could still recognise the Vicar's innate goodness of heart, this latest expression of it struck him as sanctimonious nonsense, and unfair nonsense too, which took no account of Justice or the claims of the living. He was still feeling indignant about it when Sugden spoke.
"What was that?" demanded the Vicar sharply, for he had turned away from the bedside.
"I said I wanted to tell you about it. It's on my conscience, sir, and has been these years now. I can't forget it. I'd like to confess, sir. If I should die . . ."
At the word 'confess' an expression of radiant and tender joy had passed across the Vicar's face, but that he was simultaneously aware of the practical issues involved was made clear by the little gesture he made to his ally, as though inviting him to advance the legal battalions into the fray, and by the very words he uttered: "Thank God for it! And here's Mr Derry to get it down."
"I'd like to have it wrote, sir, and yet I durstn't," Sugden said.
"Come now!"
"I just durstn't. This other man, sir. . . ."
"You don't need to give his name."
"He'd find out, wouldn't he?" Sugden had struggled up in bed, so that Justin was reminded of an illustration of a death-bed scene from Dickens that had greatly impressed him as a boy. "How'd we keep it from him, sir?"
"He'd not harm you."
"He'd kill me. You don't know him, sir. I just durstn't."
And then, when Justin thought all was lost, it began, and he was
writing hard on the folio sheets in the candlelight, while the children stirred restlessly and the paraffin stove hissed in the corner.
IX
I, George Sugden, being of sound mind, make the following statement of my own free will without fear or favour, declaring it to be true:
On the night of the 6th/7th February 1891 I and another man went poaching in Hirsley Wood. There was no game to be had, so, being in the neighbourhood of Massingham, it was agreed between us that we should break into Mr Verney's and see what we could get.
We went to the window on the west side and opened it. The other man went in first. There was a lady's small gold watch on a kind of tripod on the mantelpiece. It had a gold chain with a seal at the end of it shaped like a bird, an eagle with its wings spread and a red stone like a ruby in its claws. The other man took them and put them in his pocket. The room was pretty full of furniture, and there was a table in the middle of it; at least it appeared like a table by the light of the candle we had lighted. On the other side of the room there was a desk and another table with drawers in it. I remember the other man ransacked the drawers. He opened the desk, which was locked, and turned all the papers out. The papers in the desk seemed to be letters and suchlike and all we got were a few coppers.
The other man then tried the door and found it locked. I saw him put something in it, like a chisel, and at last he managed to force the lock. We got into a passage and tried another door. The foot of the stairs was opposite this door, and when standing in the room you can see up the stairs for some distance.
We had got into the room, leaving the door open behind us, when I noticed a light on the stairs. It was a candle, I think. I noticed it was carried by Mr Verney. The other man was alongside me, having the gun in one hand and a candle in the other. I whispered to the man to get out of the house as quickly as we could; but he said afterwards he misunderstood me. He said he thought I told him to fire and frighten the old man. He put the muzzle of die gun through the door and it went off. It kind of exploded. I made off for the other room by which we got into the house. Just as I got into the passage I met a man and a woman just beside the door. The woman caught me by the head with both her hands but she could not keep hold, my hair was so short.
I easily got away from her. I got out through the window and made down to the burn over a little wooden bridge, then bounded across the
THE MASSINGHAM AFFAIR
road in three or four strides on to the heather till I got to the Three Linns. I kept to the moor all the way, and so to Smedwick about three o'clock.
I saw the other man next day. I asked him about a chisel the papers said he had found and he said he must have accidentally left it there. He told me afterwards that he had taken the watch to Belcastle but could neither sell it nor pawn it and at last he had thrown it off the bridge. This may be true. I never knew what came of the chain and eagle seal.
All the above is true to my knowledge.
(signed) George Sugden
"If only you weren't so busy, dearest," Flo complained from the chesterfield which was gay with a spectrum of threads of coloured silk. "Do you know you've hardly spoken a word to me all evening?"
"Haven't I? I'm sorry."
"Is your work so pressing? I mean, I don't want to interrupt you if it is. You must tell me."
"It's work, that's all."
"But you seem so intent on it: I declare I hardly dare to speak to you: indeed it is becoming quite a habit. You have not been very approachable or even agreeable lately, Justin."
"I'm sorry."
She glanced fondly up at him over the spectacles she wore for her embroidery. "What is it, dearest? Don't think I'm prying. But something is tr
oubling you."
"Perhaps."
"I know you can't confide in me, which makes me feel so useless. If only I could help you. You have so little time to spare and I have so much, though of course there is the house to look after and the sewing for dear Mr Lumley, who is always so full of great schemes for everyone. If only women weren't so useless."
"No one could possibly say that of you, Flo," he assured her, one eye on Sugden's statement which he had spread out on a reading-rest across his knees.
"A compliment, I do declare! I have extracted that from you at least: you have not quite forgotten how to be gallant. I must tell Georgina. When did you see her last?"
"Last week," he said. "I think it was Tuesday."
"You think!" She was properly scandalised. "There is notlring gallant about that. Really you are becoming too casual and it simply
will not do. You should be ashamed of yourself. The truth is that you are working much too hard. Isn't it true that he works too hard and brings far too much home at night?" she demanded of Mamie, who had paraded into the room in a new dress of magenta and gold bombazine which she and her dressmaker had created for the general confounding and ravishment of suitors.
"He behaves detestably," Mamie said, whirling up behind him and enclosing the top half of him in a close and fond embrace. "Who's I-George-Sugden-being-of-sound-mind?" she enquired, peering over him. She had none of Flo's inhibitions and was always eager to discover what she could about his mysterious goings-on. "Is that wee Geordie Sugden?"
He struggled free—not without difficulty, for she was a vigorous girl—and got hold of the statement which she had all but snatched from him.
"Really, Mamie!" Flo exclaimed from the chesterfield, but her eyes were bright and she had quite forgotten her embroider}'. "It's his work, you know."
"Yes, the provoking thing, always making mysteries. Is wee Geordie a client?"
"That's none of your business," he replied severely, smoothing the pages which had got decidedly crumpled in the struggle. "What do you know of Sugden anyway?"
"That he's a poacher: one of the best in Smedwick."
"Best! My dear!" wailed Flo.
"Well, he is. Bill says so. He was on Bill's land one night and they had a rare old game going after him, dodging from tree to tree, but he got away. He's artful, Bill says. An artful dodger. Is he a client?"