Chirk swallowed audibly, and said in a rough voice: “Where did they put him? We got to find him, Soldier!”
“Follow the bloodstains,” John replied, rising and moving forward, his eyes fixed to the ground. “He bled a great deal, Chirk. There was a sticky pool of it where I laid my hand. This looks like some more of it.” He stooped again. “Yes. And here!”
“Going towards that other passage you saw,” Chirk said. “I’m for trying that way: they wouldn’t have left him here, and the chests being here no one had any call to go farther.”
He walked forward, and his lantern presently found the hole in the rock. It was narrow, and low; more blood was to be detected there; and after one look at it, Chirk went on, John following him.
The passage was only a few feet long; it opened into a far broader and loftier passage, colder than all the rest, and with water dripping from the rock. Chirk stopped short, exclaiming: “There is a river, and we’ve come to it! Lord, I never saw the like of it! Look at it coming out of that tunnel in the rock! It’s quite shallow, though. Do you tell me a little stream like this can flood the whole place?”
“Yes, when the water rises. Look at the slime on the walls! It goes up as far as you can see.” John began to walk along the passage, beside the stream. It plunged into the rock again some fifty yards on, where the passage came to an end, blocked by a mass of loose rocks and rubble, which showed where a part of the roof had fallen in. John set his lantern down, and, his face very grim, began to remove the stones and the boulders from the pile. Chirk came to join him, and in silence followed his example. A choking sound broke from him suddenly, and he sprang back, shuddering. A hand was protruding from amongst fragments of rock, piled up in a rough cairn. In another minute John had uncovered the upper half of a man’s body. He picked up the lantern and held it above the body. “Well? Is this Brean?”
Chirk nodded, his eyes on an ugly gash where the neck joined the shoulder. “Knifed!” he said unsteadily. “His hand—Soldier, it was like a slab of ice, and wet—slimy wet!”
“Do you wonder at it, in this temperature? I don’t know how long a body might remain here without rotting: some time, I daresay. That’s just as well, for Stogumber must see this! Help me to cover it again! This is what Henry found—and it’s my belief he didn’t know Brean had been murdered, but suspected it, and came because he suspected it.”
“If Coate did this—”
“Either he, or his man, Gunn. He must have had some inkling of what Brean meant to do. He may even have been watching him at night. It seems certain he followed him here.”
“I don’t hold with Brean trying to diddle him, but he didn’t have to murder him!” Chirk said, with suppressed violence. “He’s got pistols, no question! He could have held Ned up easy enough! What does he want to stick a damned chive into him for?”
“I should imagine that once he knew Brean was unsafe he meant to kill him. He may have mistrusted his aim in this poor light, and so preferred to use a knife. He seems partial to knives. If it hadn’t been for you, I suppose Stogumber’s body would have been brought here as well.”
He straightened himself, and went to wash his hands in the stream. The icy coldness of the water numbed his fingers; he wiped them dry on his handkerchief, rubbed them briskly to restore the circulation, and said: “It’s time we were going. We have still to cord up that chest again.”
“I’m agreeable,” Chirk said shortly.
As they tied the last knot presently, he said: “What’s to be done with Benny, poor little brat?”
“I’ll take care of that.”
“You ain’t going to tell him—what we found there,” Chirk said, with a jerk of his thumb.
“Of course not. I shan’t tell him anything yet. Later, he must know that his father’s dead, but I don’t think he’ll grieve much. There, that’s done! Let us be off!”
The return journey to the mouth of the cavern was accomplished without very much difficulty. The mist had cleared away, but there was no one in sight. They secured the fence again, replaced the gorse bushes, and went away to where they had tethered the horses.
“I’ll brush now,” Chirk said. “I’ll come to the tollhouse tonight, though. You know my signal! If all’s bowman, open the kitchen-door; if there’s any stranger with you, leave it shut!”
“Where can I find you, if I should need you quickly?” John asked, a detaining hand on the mare’s bridle.
Chirk looked down at him with a faint smile. “So now you’ve got to know the case where I rack up, have you, Soldier? And what’s the cove as owns it going to say to that?”
“Nothing, when you tell him I shan’t squeak beef on him,” returned John.
“A gentleman like you hasn’t got any business to go to flash kens, nor to hobnob with bridle-culls neither!” said Chirk severely. “If find me you must, take the Ecclesfield road out o’ Sheffield, till you come to a boozing-ken called the Ram’s Head, and say to the buffer, The Whit be burnt!”
“Much obliged to you! I won’t forget!”
“I don’t know as I’m so very pleased to know that!” retorted Chirk. He wheeled Mollie round, and said over his shoulder: “And whatever you do, don’t call for a glass of beer! Arms and legs is all they keep there—no body!”
Chapter 13
FINDING that Ben’s services were not required, that day, either by the innkeeper or by Huggate, John left him in charge of the pike, midway through the morning, and walked down the road to the village. He was desirous of obtaining news of Gabriel Stogumber; and it was with satisfaction that he learned from Sopworthy that that sturdy gentleman was keeping his bed.
“It’s a queer set-out, so it is!” said the landlord, pushing a tankard of his nappy ale towards the Captain. “He tells me as he was pounced on last night by a couple o’ foot-scamperers, but whatever would such be hopeful of prigging on this road? That’s what has me fair humdudgeoned! The like has never happened, not in all the years I’ve lived here!” He perceived a splash of spilt ale on the counter, and wiped it carefully. “Asked me all manner of questions about you, he did, Mr. Staple. ’Course, there was naught I could tell him, excepting you was a kinsman of Brean’s—which I done! But what I would like to know, sir,—me being a man as likes to keep on the windy side o’ the law—what kind of a queer cove is this Stogumber?”
The Captain was spared the necessity of answering this question by the sudden irruption into the tap of Mr. Nathaniel Coate, who had ridden into Crowford from the Manor, and now stormed into the Blue Boar, demanding the landlord in stentorian accents. His fancy had prompted him to sport a striped toilinette waistcoat under a coat of corbeau-cloth, and this combination, worn, as it was, with breeches of Angola cloth and hunting-boots with white tops, so powerfully affected the Captain that for a full minute he sat with his tankard halfway to his mouth, and his gaze riveted upon the astonishing vision. He felt stunned, and looked quite as stupid as he would have wished. Mr. Coate, who had looked rather narrowly at him, upon first entering the tap, seemed to be reassured by the fixed stare. “Well, hempseed!” he said. “Take care your eyes don’t fall out of their sockets! Did you never see a gentleman before?”
“I never see a gentleman like you afore,” drawled the Captain. He shook his head, and took a pull at his ale. “As fine as fivepence, you be!” he said, in the tone of one who had beheld a marvel.
Mr. Coate turned a contemptuous shoulder to him, and addressed himself to the landlord. “What a clodpole! I suppose that in these benighted parts you never see anyone who is up to the knocker!”
The landlord, who had listened with a wooden countenance to the Captain’s sudden illiteracy, followed a lead of which he heartily approved, and replied: “No, sir. Never! I disremember when I saw Squire himself in such toggery. Slap up to the echo, I make no doubt! And what can I do for you, sir?”
Mr. Coate eyed him a little suspiciously, but his hard scrutiny was met with such a bland look of incomprehension that it was im
possible to suspect Sopworthy of malice. He gave one of his rough laughs, and said: “Damme if I was ever in such a backward place! What you can do for me, fellow, is to direct me to the nearest constable! By God, a pretty state of affairs when a gentleman can’t step out to blow a cloud, and to stretch his legs, without being attacked by armed ruffians! Ay, you may stare!” He wheeled about, stabbing a finger at John. “You, there, rustic! You’re the gatekeeper, ain’t you? Who passed the pike last night?”
John shook his head. “Didn’t see no armed ruffians,” he said.
“Where was you attacked, sir?” asked Sopworthy, staring.
“Why, at the very gate of the Manor! I’m a handy man with my fives, but if my man hadn’t come along when he did I might have lost more than my watch and my fobs—ay, and sustained worse injury than a blow on the head which had almost knocked the wits out of me! One of the rascals set upon me from behind: it would have gone hard with him had he faced me, I can tell you!” He continued in this strain for several minutes, while the Captain, his countenance still schooled to an expression of open-mouthed vacuity, studied him carefully.
To anyone who knew the world it was not difficult to recognize the order from which he sprang. Men very like him were to be met with in any large city, obtaining footholds on the fringes of Society, and earning a tolerable livelihood by decoying gullible young gentlemen of fortune to gaming hells, or introducing them to horse-dealers who might be depended upon to sell them, at fabulous prices, showy looking animals which, instead of being the sweet-goers or beautiful steppers which these Captain Sharps swore them to be, turned out to be confirmed limpers or incurable millers.
Such persons were nearly always knowledgeable in all matters of sport, bruising riders and expert dragsmen, and able to give good accounts of themselves in the boxing-ring, for these were accomplishments certain to make a good impression on their prospective victims. They knew as well how to toad-eat as to bully; and since they were almost invariably furnished with reliable racing-tips to impart to patrons, and could be relied upon to discover a really prime hunter, for a valued patron, and to acquire the animal for a ridiculously low price, it was seldom that they failed to attach themselves to several members of the ton who tolerated them for the sake of these useful attributes.
To this confraternity, John judged, Mr. Coate unquestionably belonged; but there hung about him an indefinable suggestion of force not usually found in the hangers-on of Society. That he was ruthless, John already knew; that he had a brazen courage, he now acknowledged. His policy was declared: the knowledge that a law-officer was on his trail would not frighten him into abandoning his schemes. Since his attempt to dispose of Stogumber had failed, he had adopted a line of conduct which, while it was unlikely to deceive Stogumber, would be hard to counter.
It soon appeared, from the information he was pouring out with such seeming carelessness, that he had whisked Gunn out of the way. He described the man as having sustained injuries which made it impossible for him to fulfill his duties; said with a crack of scornful laughter that he was blue-devilled with fright; and added that he had packed him off to Sheffield, with instructions to return to London by the stage-coach. “For I’d as lief have no servant as a bleater that thinks every bush a bogle, as the saying is!”
The Captain, having learnt enough, did not linger in the Blue Boar, but paid his shot, and slouched off, leaving the landlord to explain to Coate that if he desired to enlist the services of a constable he must ride to Tideswell—a piece of intelligence which provoked him to break into a fury of objurgation, and a declaration that he would be damned if he would put himself to so much trouble only to seek out some gapeseed who, he dared swear, would be of no more use than a month-old baby.
From the circumstance of his having got rid of Gunn, the Captain, so much more acute than he had given Coate reason to suppose, strongly suspected that it must have been Gunn who had recognized in Stogumber a Bow Street Runner. It seemed probable, therefore, that it was Gunn, and not his master, who was known to the officers of the law. Bold Coate might be, but he was not a fool, and for a man previously convicted of crime to remain openly at Kellands, once his presence there had been discovered by the Runner, would have been an act almost lunatic in its foolhardiness.
The Captain reached the toll-house again to find that Joseph Lydd had ridden from the Manor with a scribbled note from Nell. As he broke the wafer that sealed it, he said: “Lead the cob into the garden, out of sight: Coate is in the village, and will be returning, I fancy, at any minute.”
Joseph unhitched the cob’s bridle from the gate post, but said: “Is that where he is? I thought he was off to Tideswell to fetch the constable!”
“Not he!”
“Well, it wouldn’t do him no good if he did go there,” observed Joseph. “He says he was set on last night by a pair o’ foot-pads. I never heard the like, not on this road, but he swears his watch was snatched from him, and as for Gunn, which Coate says fought off these foot-pads, lord! he looks like a strained hair in a can! I don’t know whether it was foot-pads which gave it to him, but he’s had a proper melting, that’s sure! One of his knees is swole up like a bolster, and he can’t hardly walk on it, and he’s took a crack on the noddle that’s made him as dizzy as a goose. Mr. Henry’s man was told off to drive him to Sheffield this morning, so that’s a good riddance. I’d as lief it had been Coate—though there’s small choice in rotten apples!”
He then led the cob round the toll-house to the gate into the garden, and the Captain was left to read his letter. It was not long, and it gave him the impression that it had been written in a brave attempt to convince him that nothing had happened at Kellands to cause him to feel uneasiness. Nell was anxious, she assured him, only about her grandfather. Something which Henry had said to him had affected him profoundly; Winkfield had found him striving to heave himself to his feet; he had collapsed; and the doctor, summoned instantly, said that he had suffered a second stroke, not as severe as the first, but from which it was doubtful that he would recover. He was confined now to his bed, but he seemed to be unable to rest. Nell’s dear John would understand that she must not go out of reach: no one could tell when she might be summoned to her grandfather’s room for the last time.
Thrusting the single sheet of paper into the pocket of his leathers, John strode through the toll-house to the garden, where he found Ben being given a lesson in horse-manage. He dismissed him curtly, telling him to go back to the gate. Ben, who thought that he had been on duty for long enough, cast him a darkling look, and went off with a lagging step, and an audible sniff.
“He’ll make a likely lad in the stables,” remarked Joseph. “Given he gets the chance, that is. I’ve told Brean so afore now.”
“Yes, perhaps. Joseph, what is happening up at the Manor? Never mind what your mistress told you to say to me! I want the truth!”
“Squire’s mortal bad,” Joseph replied. “What’s more, he ain’t dying easy. He’s worriting and worriting, and whether it’s on account of Mr. Henry, or something as he’s expecting his lawyer to send him from London, Mr. Winkfield don’t know. Maybe it’s his Will. He would have me ride to Sheffield to meet the mail yesterday afternoon, though me and Mr. Winkfield knew there wouldn’t be nothing on it, ’cos there wasn’t time enough, seeing when it was I carried his letter to the mail. He don’t seem to be able to reckon the days no more, though he ain’t dicked in the nob—far from it! I’m to go again this afternoon, and I hopes to God there’ll be an express packet for him!”
“Miss Nell has told me that the Squire is dying. What she has not told me is what those two hell-born rogues are doing!”
“Now, there’s no call for you to fly into your high ropes, gov’nor! Barring Mr. Henry’s took to his bed, as blue as megrim, they ain’t doing nothing. Nor they won’t, not while Squire’s above ground, and all of us still at the Manor. It’s when Squire’s dead and buried that the mischief will begin, by what Mr. Huby managed to hear Coate sa
ying to Mr. Henry last night. He’s a cunning old Trojan, Mr. Huby is! He saw Coate go up to Mr. Henry’s room, and he hopped up after him, as spry as a two-year old, and slipped into the room alongside Mr. Henry’s. There’s a powder-closet between the two of ’em, and into it he creeps, all amongst Mr. Henry’s fine coats, which is hung up in it, and sets his ear to the door into Mr. Henry’s room.”
“What did he contrive to hear?” John asked quickly.
“Why, he says as Coate was in a rare tweak with Mr. Henry, calling him a paper-skulled gabster, and cursing him something wicked for having gone next or nigh Squire. ‘Didn’t I tell you I wouldn’t have no trouble made, you mouth?’ he says. Then Mr. Henry says something as Mr. Huby couldn’t hear, and Coate says, ‘Wait till he’s snuffed it, and the game’s our own!’ he says. ‘You’ll send these damned servants packing, the whole curst set of insolent dotards!’—meaning Mr. Huby, and Mr. Winkfield, and me. ‘You won’t have no trouble over that,’ he says, ‘for they wouldn’t work for you, Henry, not if you was to offer ’em a fortune for to do it!’ Which is true as death,” said Joseph meditatively. “Myself, I’d as soon drive a hack—or worse!”
“Yes, and then?”
“Well, then Mr. Huby heard Mr. Henry say, screeching like he was in a fury, yet scared too, ‘And what about my cousin?’ Coate, he cursed him some more for not keeping his voice down, and he says, ‘I’ll have to marry the girl, and, damme,’ he says, ‘I’ve a mind to, for I’ll swear she’s a piece as is worth taming!’ Which fairly made Mr. Huby’s blood boil, but there was worse to come. Ay! For Mr. Henry says as Miss Nell wouldn’t have Coate, and Coate, he laughs, and says, ‘Trust me, she’ll be glad to have me! And once I’ve got her to wife,’ he says, ‘there ain’t nothing to be afraid of, ’cos I’ll school her to keep her chaffer close, don’t doubt me! And once you’re master here,’ he says, ‘me and she will stay long of you, and no one won’t think it queer; and when they’ve called the hounds off, there’s a fortune waiting for us!’ Then Mr. Huby heard a board creak, like Coate had got up out of his chair so he crept away, soft-like. And pitiful it was to see him, when he told Mr. Winkfield and me what had passed! Fair napping his bib, he was, to think his strength was gone from him, and he couldn’t give Coate a leveller, let alone choke the puff out of him, which he was wishful to do!”
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